Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  Zimmermann snuffed out his cigar in a fine painted ashtray. It was a costly cigar, and he’d barely smoked a third of it. Mrs. Fringer returned to freshen everyone’s coffee. When she swept out in a whirl of bustle and lace, Zimmermann said thoughtfully, “But what about the hide men? If they stay around, and all the Texans come, that doubles our problems.”

  “Some of the hide men are fine people,” McLendon said.

  “Even so,” Zimmermann said dismissively. He clearly considered McLendon to be both insolent and insignificant. “Herman, another cigar?”

  Fringer handed over a cigar and offered a light. “Well, Fred, I don’t think you have much to worry about. As I understand it, come spring, young Billy Dixon plans to lead all the hide men south to hunt what’s left of the herd down there. Those hunters need hides, and if there are none to be had here, then they’ll follow the buffalo.”

  “Don’t dismiss them from sight and mind too quickly, Herman,” Hanrahan said. “We’ve got some prominent people in town who’ve made their fortunes buying the hides from the hunters, then shipping and selling them back east. Charlie Rath, those folks. If Billy and the hide men hunt to the far south, they’ll still have to sell the hides somewhere. Maybe freight them back here by wagon.”

  “As though the Indians will let them,” Zimmermann said. “As soon as they’re anywhere near the Canadian, the Comanche will have their hair. Well, no great loss. Texans buy hardware and guns too.”

  McLendon was pleased to see Hanrahan bristle. “Yes, Fred, you’ll continue to make your pile.”

  “As will you. The Texans will get drunk in your saloon and sleep with your whores.”

  Fringer said soothingly, “Let’s not get our backs up with each other. What we want is what’s best for Dodge. What I’m thinking is, let’s soon put together a schedule to get the town incorporated, get a tax plan in place so we can raise money to hire lawmen and a schoolteacher. Prepare for progress. Now, who wants to follow up this coffee with some really fine brandy?”

  • • •

  AFTERWARD, HANRAHAN ASKED McLendon to walk with him back to his saloon. “Let’s top off the evening with a beer.” Because it was so loud in the main room of the saloon, they took their brimming mugs back to Hanrahan’s small office. He gestured for McLendon to take a seat—the chair, though comfortable, wasn’t overstuffed like the one in Herman Fringer’s sitting room—and took a long sip of beer.

  “If you’re going to make your way up in the world, you need to mind your tone a bit around the men who can be of some assistance to you,” Hanrahan said. “The way you talked to Fred Zimmermann, why, I half expected Herman Fringer would ask you to leave his house.”

  “I know.” McLendon set his beer mug on the corner of Hanrahan’s desk. He’d already had brandy at Fringer’s, and since the drunken debacle with Doc Holliday in Fort Griffin he’d made it a rule to stop after one drink. He’d only accepted the beer from Hanrahan to be polite. “And it’s usually my way to get along with everybody if I can. It was just how Zimmermann talked about Billy and the hide men. Without them, he’d be just another German peddler.”

  Hanrahan nodded. “But what you need to remember is, the hide men are to Fred what the buffalo are to the hide men: the means to make his living. And he and Herman are right—the buffalo are mostly gone from around here, which means at some point soon the hide men will be too. It’s good luck that we’re in the right place to change over from a buffalo to a cow town.”

  “But back at Fringer’s, you talked about Billy and the boys hunting to the south, then bringing the hides back here to sell. That’ll keep Dodge in the hide business.”

  Hanrahan drank more beer. An intelligent-looking gray-haired man with deep-set eyes, he had a way of staring up at the ceiling or over a companion’s shoulder as he talked. Now he contemplated his dripping mug and mused, “I was being optimistic. Even if Billy does go down south come spring and the buffalo are really there in sufficient number, it’s still a long shot that it’ll be worth his while. There’s just so much risk.”

  “From the Indians, you mean.”

  “No, not really. I think the Indians are mostly done for. They’re scattered and starving, Comanche and Kiowa and Cheyenne alike. When they do try to ride out and raid, Mackenzie’s got his cavalry all over them. From what I’ve heard, war parties just got whipped twice down Texas and Mexico way. Bill Martin and his boys have been south raiding Comanche horse herds, and Bill says that the Co-manch couldn’t do a damned thing about it. He’s going after Cheyenne horses next. No, if Billy Dixon puts together a large enough crew—fifty or sixty men, let’s say—I doubt that the Indians will be a factor. It’s the logistics that could do him in.”

  Hanrahan explained that the hide men required “quick turnaround” on their hides. “The way it’s been, they’ve set up in camps mostly a day’s ride or less from Dodge. They kill their buffs, get their skins, dry them for a bit, load ’em on wagons, and sell them in town right away. Then they use that money to pay their crews and buy their food and ammunition. Down south by the Canadian, they’re, what, a hundred twenty or a hundred fifty miles from Dodge, the closest hide market. How do they get those hides back here? It’ll take a week by wagon at least. And meanwhile, what do they do for bullets? If their horses throw shoes, how do they get them reshod? Hell, what do they do at night when they want a drink? No, any attempt to establish a base camp down there will be a near-insurmountable challenge, and the Indians are the least of it.”

  “Will you advise Billy not to go?”

  “On the contrary, if he’ll have me, I’m going to go with him.”

  That caught McLendon by surprise. “You? Why? You’ve already got everything you want. The saloon, plenty of money, and, hell, you’re even a member of the state legislature. You could be Kansas governor someday. Why would you want to go out and live rough in Indian country?”

  “That’s it exactly. You know, I came out here from Pennsylvania because I wanted some adventure. And I got it, and I enjoyed it. Did my share of hunting, had some business dealings, and made my share, got into politics a little. Me and Mose Waters opened this place in Dodge and it’s done well. Many of those cowmen from Texas will surely take their nightly pleasures here. But I’ve got the urge to go out and start over. That’s why I thought of you. Say, I hope you don’t mind my just assuming you’d come work for me.”

  “Not at all,” McLendon said. “It’s nice to have someone looking out for my best interests.”

  “In this case, I’m looking out for mine too. I head south with Billy and the boys, you stay here and keep track of how Mose is doing, keep in touch with me about that.”

  McLendon said warily, “Are you asking me to be a stooge? A spy?” He’d heard that request before from other rich men and once, to his eternal regret, he’d agreed.

  Hanrahan shook his head. “No, not at all. Mose is my partner and also my friend. It’s just that he’s not always a good organizer. It’s true that I take my investments seriously. My goal is profit. But I do nothing underhanded. Look, I know you hate picking around for buffalo bones. I don’t need to know anything about your past to know that you’re above that. Helping run a respectable saloon and billiard hall—and despite Fred Zimmermann’s slurs, it’s respectable—will get you up on a better path. Just help Mose in whatever ways that you can.”

  “I’m relieved to hear what you require. But honesty compels me to say that I don’t intend to linger in Dodge City any longer than necessary. I just want to make enough money to get myself off to California and take my chances there. I guess what I mean to say is, I want to be in charge of my own life for a change. I don’t know that I ever really have been before.”

  Hanrahan drank some beer. “I know the feeling. I’m not asking you to stay long. For all I know, I’ll like it down in Indian country so much that I’ll sell Mose my share of the saloon and leave Dodge and Kansas behin
d forever. But while I get that figured out, I’d feel better with you on the job here. Come to work for me in the spring, whenever Billy sets out south and I’m in his party. Then give me three or four months of work after that. That will allow me time to decide whether I want to divest my Dodge business or not. Let’s say I’ll pay you thirty-five dollars a week. If you’re careful with the money, avoid gambling and expensive meals and so on, by the end of the summer you’d have sufficient funds for a train ticket to California, with enough left to tide you over there until you find desirable employment. I know some businesspeople in San Francisco and San Bernardino and could recommend you to them. So this plan would benefit us both.”

  “It’s more than I could have hoped for. Thank you, Jim.”

  “Ah, what the hell. This arrangement takes a load off my mind. My only concern now is, you’ll be overcome by the temptation of adventure, too, and decide to head south with Billy yourself.”

  McLendon laughed. “No, adventure in Indian country is the absolute last thing I want. Billy couldn’t make me come along if he held a gun to my head.”

  “Well, then, drink down the beer that you’ve so far left untouched. This has turned into a celebration.”

  McLendon drank the beer, politely refused another, and whistled on his walk back to the boardinghouse. It still took him a long time to fall asleep, but for the first time since he escaped Killer Boots back in Glorious, he felt slightly optimistic.

  NINE

  It was sleeting on the morning when Isatai finally addressed the camp. The weather perfectly matched the miserable mood of the Quahadi villagers. They were still in mourning for the warriors lost on the recent raids. Even in their tipis, everyone was cold because the winds howling in from the north were particularly bitter. They were hungry. Their stomachs hurt from being so empty. No game had been seen, let alone successfully hunted, for days. Quanah knew conditions could not be more perfect for the spirit of Buffalo Hump to communicate with the Quahadi.

  Before notifying the villagers, Quanah brought Isatai to his tipi and adorned him with his own finest array—the thick wool uniform shirt taken from a cavalry officer Quanah slew in pitched battle, a delicate shawl torn from the shoulders of a sobbing white woman Quanah raped and killed, and a buffalo horn war bonnet decorated with strands of the same white woman’s long, flowing blond scalp. Quanah also applied wide stripes of black paint to Isatai’s chubby cheeks and down the bridge of his bulbous nose. Wickeah, like other village wives, concocted war paint for her husband. She mixed the juice of dark berries with ground charcoal and bits of clay, adding a little animal fat for binding. When Quanah was finished adorning Isatai’s face with the thick paint, the fat man looked magnificent. He admired himself in a mirror Quanah had obtained from a Comanchero trader as part of a swap for a Mexican child.

  “Buffalo Hump is pleased, Quanah,” Isatai said. “You are presenting his messenger properly.”

  Quanah tried not to scowl. It irked him whenever Isatai treated him as a subordinate, but it was a role he was occasionally obligated to play. He needed Isatai feeling pleased and cooperative.

  “You remember all that the spirit wants you to say?” he asked.

  “Of course. His message has been blown into my heart.”

  “Well, then, prepare yourself. I’ll summon the villagers.”

  Isatai closed his eyes and began to hum, an irritating habit he’d recently adopted. Quanah sighed and left the tipi. His wife, Wickeah, was outside shivering. He’d sent her to stand there while he dressed Isatai. Wickeah was smart for a woman, and Quanah thought she might see through his scheme if she heard him coaching Isatai. It never occurred to him to discuss it with her. Among the People, men never shared their war plans with women.

  “Can I come inside now?” she asked. Glittering bits of ice formed a light coating on her dark hair and the blanket she held tightly wrapped around her.

  “No, you must help me tell everyone that the spirits sent messages to Isatai again, and now we must all gather to hear him speak to us.”

  Wickeah shivered. “Can’t it wait until this storm is over?”

  “The spirits choose the time, not us. Help me gather the village.”

  Soon almost everyone in camp clustered in front of Quanah’s tipi. Some of the more sickly old people remained in their own tipis, and a few others made it clear that they had no interest in spirits or Isatai. But it was still a substantial crowd, nearly two hundred. After their losses on the recent raids, though, only about sixty were men of fighting age. Everyone looked raggedy, wrapped in whatever robes and blankets they had and suffering from cold and hunger. Some of the men wore bonnets stripped from dead white women; these were always favorite headgear during inclement weather, especially the ones with ribbons that tied under the chin.

  “Get ready to listen,” Quanah instructed. “I’ll bring out the Messenger of the Spirits.” He ducked inside the tipi and found Isatai still close-eyed and humming.

  “They’re waiting,” Quanah said. “Come out and speak to them.”

  Isatai hummed for a long moment more before he opened one eye and peered at Quanah. “Wait a little. Buffalo Hump has one more thing to tell me.”

  “Buffalo Hump has already told you all you need to know. Come outside.”

  Isatai said firmly, “The spirits lead me, not you. Wait.” He closed his eyes and hummed some more while Quanah fumed. He could hear the crowd outside muttering, wanting to hear what the spirits had to say, but wanting to return to the shelter of their tipis too.

  Finally Isatai stopped humming. He said to Quanah, “I need a pouch. Have you got one?”

  Quanah rummaged around and found a bag made from a buffalo stomach. It had long straps fashioned from hide. “Will this do?”

  Isatai took the pouch and arranged the straps over his shoulder. “It will do. Now give me some ammunition.”

  Quanah hesitated. Ammunition was so hard to come by. “For my rifle or the small gun?”

  “Either, both, it doesn’t matter. Just ammunition.” When Quanah reluctantly handed him a half-dozen shells, Isatai said that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t satisfied until Quanah had given him more than fifty cartridges, almost all that he had. Isatai stuffed the shells in the pouch and said, “All right. Now I’m ready.”

  Quanah pushed the tipi flap aside and led Isatai out into the cold wind and sleet. The crowd sighed at the sight of the fat man in his fine regalia.

  “Hear the words of the spirits!” Quanah commanded, and stepped to the side, hoping desperately that Isatai would speak the words that he was supposed to and not improvise.

  Isatai spread his arms wide and threw back his head so that he looked up into the falling sleet. “The spirits blow into my heart,” he proclaimed. “I feel their thoughts, I understand their commands. One spirit in particular, a great, great spirit, has come back to guide us, to tell us how the People may become powerful again.” Isatai looked and sounded impressive.

  “Who is this spirit?” he asked his audience. “Do you want to know his name? Shall I tell you?”

  “Yes!” someone shouted, then someone else cried out “Yes!” and suddenly the villagers forgot the cold and hunger and lost warriors and everyone chanted “Yes” in unison, faintly at first and then in stronger voices until the whole crowd was roaring.

  Isatai let them roar, let them beg him to tell. Finally he raised his arms again and they fell silent, waiting anxiously; the tension grew so great that Quanah almost screamed at Isatai to get on with it, but managed to restrain himself.

  “All right,” Isatai said, dropping his voice to a near whisper. Everyone leaned forward, determined not to miss a word. Now Quanah recognized the public pacing of a master—Isatai had gifts of showmanship far beyond Quanah’s own.

  “The spirit speaking through me is—” Isatai hesitated again, then shouted the words: “Buffalo Hump!”

 
Everyone began to howl—not in derision, as Quanah had feared, but in jubilation. Everyone knew and revered the legend of Buffalo Hump, how he’d gathered the largest band of warriors in the history of the People, and for a time drove the white men into the sea. If Buffalo Hump had chosen this man and their village to hear a message, then it must be an important one.

  “What does Buffalo Hump want to tell us?” Quanah cried, the prompt that he and Isatai had agreed on back in the tipi.

  Thankfully, the fat man responded as planned. “Buffalo Hump wants us to follow his example. He says that it is time to gather a great fighting force and once again drive the white people away, this time forever. It can be done, Buffalo Hump says. Through my mouth, shall he tell you how?”

  “Yes!”

  Say the words as we planned them, Quanah thought. Just those words. For all the fat man’s theatricality, he didn’t think Isatai was intelligent enough to improvise effectively.

  “Buffalo Hump was the wisest warrior ever among the People,” Isatai said, and the crowd listened raptly. “He saw that only the greatest force would make the whites run away and stay away. One warrior from among the People can defeat a hundred whites, but always there are more of them: they are like the ants and the flies. But all the warriors of the People, united from each of our camps and fighting together—this is a force that cannot be resisted, especially if we bring with us to the fight some others, the Cheyenne and the Kiowa and maybe the Arapaho, fighting as we tell them to, fighting as we do, with fury and skill.”

  Many in the crowd cheered. This was their vision of the People, powerful and controlling. The world bent to the People’s will, as it should be. In their excitement they forgot about the sleet, the cold wind, and the rumbling of their empty bellies.