by Jeff Guinn
“I feel that the spirit of Buffalo Hump wants me to speak now.”
“Buffalo Hump and all the other spirits understand the way living people are. Naturally a holy man like you doesn’t have the same lowly desires and faults as the rest of us. Our ears need time to get ready to hear. I want to learn Buffalo Hump’s message very much; it’s hard for me to ask you to wait. Just two days, maybe three.”
Isatai was pleased to be referred to as a holy man. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll go sit awhile and consider this.” A few hours later he informed Quanah that Buffalo Hump did, in fact, want him to wait a little longer.
“I’ll stay in camp rather than go out to hunt,” Quanah said. “That way, when you tell me the time is right, I can gather everyone to come sit at your feet and drink in your wisdom.”
The first hard snow fell that night, and the village awoke to high winds that drove them back into their tipis, where they wrapped themselves up in whatever blankets and fur robes they had and shivered around low fires. They ate sparingly from small stores of food and passed the time wondering when Isatai would next reveal more thoughts of the spirits. Nothing could have suited Quanah better. It would take several days, he thought, for the storm to pass. When it did, when everyone came outside again, when the sense of anticipation was almost unbearable, then it would be time for Isatai to speak.
But on the third morning when the sun came back out and the birds chirped greetings, just before Quanah could gather a crowd and fetch Isatai to address it, the rumble of hoofbeats was heard coming from the southeast. The riders were other Indians; the Quahadis knew this because unshod hooves made a thudding sort of clatter on hard winter ground instead of the clanging of Army steeds with horseshoes.
“It’s some Kiowa,” a man shouted. “I see Long Branches, Lone Wolf’s nephew.” Lone Wolf was the chief among those Kiowa who remained off the white man’s reservation. Long Branches, named for the astonishing length of his arms and legs, was considered a good fighter by the Comanche—a considerable compliment, since it was understood by everyone that Comanche were the finest fighters of all.
Long Branches and eight other Kiowa men rode into the Quahadi camp and dismounted. They exchanged greetings and asked to speak to the men of the village.
“What’s this?” Isatai whined to Quanah, who had just come to the fat man’s tipi to tell him that it was finally time to deliver the latest spirit news.
“We have to wait and see,” Quanah muttered. He and Isatai joined the crowd gathering around Long Branches and his men.
Long Branches smiled and said, “It’s a pleasure to be here among all the great warriors. I have a thought to share. Like you, our people have been cold and hungry. I believe it’s time to go out and raid, to bring back horses and maybe guns and blankets and some scalps to decorate our tipis with. I want to do it the old honorable way, riding down among the Mexicans and taking what we please. There are nine of us ready to go. Will any men from this camp join us?”
This was the traditional means of raising a war party from among the People. One warrior developed a plan and invited others to participate. If enough were interested, they rode off with him. If his proposal didn’t elicit sufficient interest, he stopped talking about it. Previously it had not been necessary for a man to try to raise a war band outside his own village, but in recent times the various Indian tribes had been so decimated that few camps had sufficient numbers to form complete war parties. Still, Long Branches was taking a chance coming among the Quahadi for recruits. The People were proud of their fighting preeminence. It was understood by the Kiowa and the Cheyenne and the Arapaho that they only lived in the same general vicinity because the People chose to allow it. Any tribes they didn’t care to tolerate—the Apaches and the Tonkawa, especially—were driven off to territory that the People didn’t want for themselves. It was considered proper for warriors from among the People to come to the Kiowa and the other, lesser tribes to fill out raiding parties, not vice versa.
Long Branches understood this, so his next words were placating. “I’m here because you are the best fighters of all. With you along, I know the raid will be a success. There must be some men among you who are tired of sitting in the cold. Come and teach us how to fight.”
There were murmurs of approval. A half-dozen Quahadi warriors went off to their tipis to fetch their rifles and quivers. Quanah wasn’t among them. He remained standing with Isatai in front of the fat man’s tipi. Long Branches, scanning his remaining listeners, spotted him there.
“Quanah!” he called out. “Surely you will ride with us. This camp’s greatest warrior would enjoy a good fight with the Mexicans.”
“This is the wrong way to do it,” Quanah said. “You’ll have, what, maybe fifteen men? Yes, you may steal some horses, scalp a few Mexicans, but what if you’re trapped somewhere? There won’t be enough of you to fight your way out, and if you try to run, they’ll still get some of you. Even if you get away clean, what is accomplished? A few more horses in your camp won’t change anything. The whites will still be coming into our land.”
Long Branches didn’t want to risk Quanah’s wrath. “I honor your words, but I don’t agree with them. We need to raid. It’s the real joy in life.”
“The real joy is in driving away our enemies for good. Wait awhile, maybe a way will be revealed to do that.”
“I’m tired of waiting. I want to fight. Who else among the Quahadi feels that way?”
Ultimately, fourteen warriors, almost a fifth of the Quahadi camp’s fighting men, rode off with Long Branches and the other eight Kiowa. To Quanah, that was bad enough, but almost as soon as Long Branches’ raiding party disappeared over the stark winter horizon, a dozen young men who hadn’t gone with him began preparing a war party of their own. Their leader was Cloudy, Quanah’s nephew.
“We need you to come with us, Uncle,” he told Quanah. “We’re not going all the way to Mexico, just down far enough to find some whites to kill. We haven’t counted coup for too long.” Counting coup was the People’s way of measuring the greatest acts of bravery. Warriors came close enough to their enemies to touch them, then whirled away before they could be brought down.
“If you wanted to be in a war party, why didn’t you go with Long Branches?” Quanah demanded, sounding and feeling sour. Now, instead of anticipating Isatai’s next messages from the spirits, the whole camp was talking about raiding.
“Ah, I’d never ride under the leadership of a Kiowa. Come south with us. It was my idea, but you can lead. We’ll bring back many horses and scalps.”
“I understand how much a young man like you wants to fight, but you need to think on this. I hear that Bad Hand is lurking just above Mexico. If you encounter him, it will go badly for you.” Bad Hand was the name that the People had given to Ranald Mackenzie, a wily Army colonel who had lost several fingers during the Civil War. Quanah himself had survived several fights with Bad Hand and his troops, and even won a few, but they had been near things. Unlike other white officers, Bad Hand tried hard to think like the People and anticipate what they would do next. His troops were guided by crack Indian scouts, Tonkawa and Black Seminole. Once Bad Hand was on your trail, it was hard to shake him, and when he caught you, he was lethal.
“Bad Hand won’t know we’re near. We’ll ride too fast.”
Quanah shook his head. “You’d be wise to stay here, just for the present. The spirits have been talking to Isatai again. Soon he’ll reveal their plan for the People. I believe that there will be fighting and a lot of it, just in a different way. We’ll need you and all our other young men. We can’t afford to lose you on foolish raids that accomplish nothing.”
“This raid will bring us honor, and spirits talk in their own good time. For all we know, Isatai won’t have anything to tell us until we’re back with scalps and horses. Maybe some white or Mexican women too. Come with us, Uncle. You know how you love a goo
d fight.”
“I can’t change your mind? All right, then. Go do what you think you must, but if you see Bad Hand down there, turn and run.”
Cloudy grinned. “As you know better than anyone, enemies run from the People. I’ll bring you back a fine horse as a gift.”
Cloudy’s raiding party left the next morning, whooping with anticipation. As soon as they were gone, Quanah went to see Isatai, who was in his tipi fussing with his hair, trying to get the long braids even. Though animal fat was particularly prized during these hard winter months for its nutritional value, Isatai nonetheless rubbed a chunk on the braids to make them shiny.
“I’m about to speak, Quanah. Announce it to the village.”
Quanah laid a restraining hand on Isatai’s shoulder.
“You need to wait again. All anyone can talk about now are the raiding parties. We need to see what happens to them. Until then, no one is ready to listen to you or the spirits.”
Isatai was offended. He drew back his head and regarded Quanah balefully.
“I speak for Buffalo Hump. Of course everyone will listen.”
“They won’t. They’re not wise like you. All they can think about is what’s happening now, not what the spirits have to say about the future. You don’t want to waste your words, Isatai. People listen best to the spirits when they know that they need them.”
“Buffalo Hump commands me to speak.”
“Buffalo Hump has chosen you because of your wisdom. If he’d picked someone like me, I’d be foolish and proud and blurt out everything whether or not there were ears ready to hear. You’re smarter than that.”
“Perhaps,” Isatai said grudgingly. “I suppose I should wait until our young men return?”
“You’re correct. I trust and accept your judgment. Eager as I am to hear you speak the spirit’s words, I’ll make myself wait until then.”
• • •
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, Quanah felt torn. As a proud Quahadi, he naturally wanted the two war parties to have great success. But if they did, if they returned with many horses and scalps and perhaps some captives, the camp was much less likely to embrace the idea of assembling a single massive fighting force against the whites, even if the spirit of Buffalo Hump urged them to do it. And in that case the time Quanah had invested in Isatai would be wasted. For now, all he could do was wait like everyone else to see what happened to the raiders led by Long Branches and Cloudy. He hoped that Isatai would be able to keep his mouth shut until then.
SIX
Billy Dixon and his scout crew got back to Dodge City a week before Christmas. As with everything else in his life, Billy kept the return low-key. He showed up that night in Jim Hanrahan’s saloon and sat quietly in a corner, sipping whiskey for two bits a shot and watching the billiard matches in progress. As always, his red setter bitch Fannie lay by his feet. She was a nervous dog, unlike the rest of the aggressive Dodge pack that roamed the town’s dirt streets growling and fighting among themselves. Fannie stuck close to Billy, who often crooned to her in a soft voice that would have invited ridicule for any of the other hide men demonstrating such tenderness. But nobody ever ragged on Billy about it, because for all his quiet ways he was the toughest among them. None of them could have explained precisely why that was common knowledge, but everyone understood it all the same.
Dodge City being a gossipy place, it was soon known that Billy was back and drinking in Hanrahan’s. The minute Bat Masterson heard he hustled right over, pausing only to fetch Cash McLendon from their room at the Olds boardinghouse. McLendon didn’t want to come. He told Bat that Billy probably just wanted to have a few drinks in peace; when he was ready, he’d get everyone together and talk about his trip south. But Masterson wouldn’t wait.
“The sooner we know Billy’s plans, the sooner we can get ourselves right in the middle of them. Haul your ass off that cot, C.M. For all we know, there are fifty others ahead of us, bearding Billy in that saloon and convincing him to take them along when he goes south for his big hunt. We don’t hurry, we could lose any chance of places.”
“I’ve told you, I doubt I’ll go along with Billy even if I’m invited,” McLendon said wearily. “Bat, don’t you ever listen to what I’m saying to you?”
“I listen, but I don’t credit a lot of what I hear. No man in his right mind would refuse the honor of hunting with Billy Dixon. Now, pull on your boots and we’ll be going.”
McLendon reached down for the boots. He knew there was no discouraging Bat; his friend would just keep haranguing him until he gave in.
When they got to Hanrahan’s, a few others had already joined Billy at his table. They were all hide men, with hair down to their shoulders as a symbol of their profession. Bat’s hair was just as long; McLendon’s was somewhat shorter because he found long hair too difficult to keep clean.
“Well, looky here,” Masterson cried. “We got Heath Lee, Crash Reed, Bermuda Carlyle, Fred Leonard, and Christopher Johnson all in one distinguished group, and who’s that stranger among them? Why, can it be the long-absent Mr. Billy Dixon?”
“Sit down, Masterson,” Billy said. “And hello, C.M. I hope you’re well.”
“I am, thank you, and hope you’re the same.”
“Enough of the social chitchat,” Bat said. “What did you find down south, Billy?”
Dixon heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Typical of young Bat Masterson, interrupting when the grown-ups are talking. I pray that he soon grows out of such rude habits.” At twenty-four, Billy was only four years older than Bat, but in terms of maturity there was little comparison. Bat huffed to indicate that he was offended, then shut up. The others were content to let Billy choose the time when he’d get to the important subject, and for a time the talk at the table concerned mundane local matters. Another restaurant was about to open, this one featuring French cuisine. The Chinese laundry had started charging a dime a shirt, up from seven cents. The first shipment of the new Colt .45s, popularly known as “Peacemakers,” had just reached F. C. Zimmermann’s hardware store, and everybody would have to have one. Some of the saloon’s women, Tucson Ingrid and Wendy Erica and Hope R. (no further last name known) and Anne Louise, came over to the table to see if any of the gentlemen wanted to dance or maybe something else. Everyone politely declined; they were waiting for Billy to open up about his scout. Bat told the ladies to stay patient: in a while he’d be glad to come and excite them with his company. Heath Lee reached over and lightly smacked the back of Bat’s head.
“I’m a gentleman from Virginia and expect white females of every sort to be treated with respect, Masterson,” he said. “Mind your tongue around them.”
“It’s a hard thing to have to watch every word,” Bat whined, rubbing the spot where he’d been struck.
“Then try saying fewer of them,” Billy suggested. “Well, I suppose Masterson’s been patient long enough. I don’t want to have too much conversation concerning this yet. The thing of it is, the buffalo really have shifted south in great numbers. We found considerable sign near the Canadian River. I don’t doubt hunting down there this summer would far exceed what’s left up here. But you all know the problems with that, starting with the Indians.”
Everyone nodded. The Cheyenne, the Kiowa, and the Arapaho were ready to annihilate any white hunters who trespassed on what they considered their land—and even so, they were collectively of less concern than the Comanche, who even the most religious among the hide men feared more than Satan himself.
“The son-of-a-bitching treaty favors Indians over white men,” Fred Leonard complained. “The Army says we can’t go down past the Arkansas, and the Indians come above it all the time. Like a few months back when they got that teenage boy Jacob Dilsey right near here, scalped him and cut off his arms and legs besides. Where was the goddamn Army then?”
“I don’t think there’s much Army presence along the treaty line anymor
e,” Billy said. “There was no sign of them. I understand most have been pulled out, sent down to South Texas to fight the Indians raiding there. If we mount a large-scale hunt, I don’t think the Army will be a problem.”
“And it won’t,” declared a man who walked up to the table.
“Mr. Mooar,” said Bermuda Carlyle, putting sarcastic emphasis on “Mr.” “Of course you would be coming around, thinking your opinion would be needed or even wanted.”
Josiah Wright Mooar was a rangy native of Vermont who found himself in Kansas just as buffalo hides became invaluable as sources of machine belts in the East and in Europe. Outfitting himself with the best guns, horses, and camp crews, he was among the first hide men to decimate the Dodge area herd. In the process he made a lot of money, and the other hide men had to acknowledge both his shooting prowess and business acumen—Mooar was always able to negotiate the best prices for his skins. But he was also given to bragging, and always assumed he was smarter, and better, than the rest. Mooar was the only hide man to consider himself as good a shot as or even a superior marksman to Billy Dixon. In town he wore gabardine trousers while the other hunters stuck to denim jeans and overalls, and on summer nights in the Dodge City saloons he claimed daily buffalo kill figures that the rest of the hide men felt sure were impossibly high.
Mooar ignored Carlisle and addressed the group as a whole. “I’m certain Billy Dixon here is regaling you with stories of his little trip south,” he said, his clipped Yankee accent just as annoying to the men at the table as his condescending tone. “As all of you may know, it lagged behind my own excursion down in that direction. But I’m glad Billy finally found the sand to make the trip and see for himself.”