by Jeff Guinn
“Buffalo Hump says what was done once can be done again. Now is the right time, when our white enemy thinks we are weak and defeated. He says, ‘Let this be the time.’ When the weather warms and the whites think they are finally safe from us, we strike in a memorable way. Buffalo Hump says to gather the People together in one place and then let the warriors together choose where this fight will be. Through me, Buffalo Hump will guide us. And the People will walk proud and strong once again.”
Perfect, thought Quanah. Now stop.
The villagers shouted with joy and kept shouting. Isatai pushed his arms toward them, palms out in a gesture of benediction.
“Go back to the warmth of your tipis, and soon Buffalo Hump’s spirit will return with instructions,” Isatai said. “Buffalo Hump watches over us, he blesses us with his wisdom.” Smiling triumphantly, the fat man turned to go back into Quanah’s tipi, and that was when old Bull Bear’s voice rang out.
“How can you be sure that your spirit is Buffalo Hump?” he demanded. “Did he tell his name to you in the same way that a living man would?”
The crowd went silent. Isatai turned slowly toward Bull Bear. His forehead was knotted and he was clearly deciding how to respond.
“When the spirits blow into your heart, you know them, you know who they are,” Isatai finally said.
Bull Bear pushed forward so that he and the fat man were face-to-face.
“Then why didn’t you know it was Buffalo Hump that first time, when you said that the spirits brought you up into the air among them?” Now the crowd was making noise again. It was a low murmur that made Quanah uneasy. Bull Bear was always fearsome in argument, and Quanah didn’t think Isatai could stand up to him.
“It’s not for any of the rest of us to challenge Isatai,” Quanah said, moving to stand between the self-proclaimed messenger and Bull Bear. “He knows it’s Buffalo Hump now because this is when the spirit chose to reveal that to him.”
“Ah, we have an explanation from Quanah,” Bull Bear said. “Of course, he likes this message from Buffalo Hump. It is exactly the same as what Quanah has been suggesting for quite some time—we must join all the warriors of all the camps together and make one big attack on the white men. No one wanted to listen to Quanah. How convenient for him that now Isatai delivers the same message from a famous spirit. Are you sure you’re delivering a message from Buffalo Hump, Isatai? Could it really be from Quanah instead?”
Isatai looked indignant. Before he could respond to Bull Bear, Quanah said, “I was gone from camp when Isatai first talked to the spirits, Bull Bear. You know that. Like everyone else, I wanted to know what they said to him. Because Isatai is so clearly a Spirit Messenger, I have humbled myself to him, assisting him in small ways, helping him with daily tasks so he has more time to think about what the spirits say to him.”
There were murmurs of assent. Even though they respected his fighting skills, many in the Quahadi camp liked the idea of proud, half-breed Quanah being humbled.
“I did not know what spirits spoke to Isatai,” Quanah continued. “That it is Buffalo Hump, and that he guides us to a certain path, is nothing to do with me. I’m glad about his message, but I’m not bragging that it’s the same thing I’ve been telling you.” He turned and addressed the crowd: “Am I bragging? Did I say anything of the sort before Bull Bear rudely challenged the wisdom of the spirits?”
Bull Bear briefly looked rattled. Then he recovered himself and said, “Maybe it’s spirit wisdom, and maybe it’s not. When Buffalo Hump did this thing in his own life, he won battles for a while and then the white soldiers caught his big war party and drove them away, killing many fleeing warriors. Why would anything be different this time?”
Quanah, who knew the People’s history as well as anyone, said, “Buffalo Hump’s great attack failed because too many of the men fighting with him began going back to the old ways before the whites were completely driven away. They thought too much about taking trophies and counting their coups. Because of what happened, what he experienced, Buffalo Hump’s spirit will keep us from making the same mistakes.”
“And there was another time, perhaps ten full turns of the seasons ago,” Bull Bear said. “Many Kiowa joined warriors of the People to fight soldiers at a place by the wide river where white houses had been built with stones made of mud. But the soldiers, who were fewer in number, killed many of us and escaped with their hair. What says Buffalo Hump about that?”
Quanah remembered the fight well. He’d been a very young man then, relegated to minor tasks by the older, more experienced warriors. “You say this like we were defeated in that fight. It was the white soldiers who ran. And the only reason they escaped was that they brought with them the very big guns on wheels. They used them to make some lucky shots. But with the spirit of Buffalo Hump guiding us, we’ll have the luck this time.”
“You’re a clever fellow, Quanah,” said Bull Bear. The older man turned back toward Isatai. “Let me ask this, then, of the distinguished messenger. Isatai, you say that Buffalo Hump commands us to raise the largest war party possible and make a big attack in some memorable way. One of those white soldier camps with high wooden walls, maybe. But lances can’t penetrate those walls, or arrows, either. We’ll need to use rifles, which means we’ll need bullets. Where will we get all of the ammunition? Will Buffalo Hump’s spirit make bullets grow on bushes?”
It was a valid point, and Quanah didn’t know how to respond. But, to Quanah’s amazement, Isatai did.
“We’ll have all the bullets that we need, Bull Bear. Buffalo Hump’s spirit has granted me certain powers.”
No, Quanah thought. That’s the wrong thing to say. Isatai was going to ruin everything.
“Powers?” Bull Bear scoffed. “What, the power to eat more than normal men?”
Isatai pulled his shoulders back and stood very straight. Somehow it seemed to Quanah, who was standing next to him, that the fat man was suddenly several inches taller, and when he spoke his voice was deeper, more resonant.
“Hear me!” he commanded, and some in the crowd gasped. “I have the message from Buffalo Hump’s spirit, and also as his gift to the People I have magic too. Whenever we go into this battle, I will make it so that the bullets of the white men’s guns pass right through our bodies without doing us any harm. And when bullets are needed for our guns, I will supply them; I will vomit them up like this!”
Isatai plunged his hand into the pouch at his side and extracted some of the bullets that Quanah had given him earlier. He jammed them in his mouth, then spat them at the crowd. He reached into the pouch again, took more bullets, and tossed them up into the air so that they came down on the heads of his audience. The dramatic gesture had an astonishing effect. Though anyone could clearly see what Isatai had done and where he’d gotten the bullets, a woman still cried out, “It’s true! He vomits them up!” and that was when Quanah understood for the first time how truly desperate the Quahadi were, if they took such things for miracles. People see what they want to, he thought. In better days they would have jeered, but right now they believe. The Quahadi shouted praise for Isatai and allegiance to the spirit of Buffalo Hump. Even Bull Bear was abashed.
“I have my answer,” he said, and stood quietly while Isatai blessed the villagers on behalf of the spirit of Buffalo Hump.
“Soon I’ll go to visit the other camps of the People to take them the words of Buffalo Hump,” Isatai announced. “Quanah will come with me. Be strong and happy while we’re gone. Soon the great times will return. If we heed his words, if we accept his guidance, this is what the spirit of Buffalo Hump has promised.”
Back inside his tent, Quanah said to Isatai, “They called what you did a miracle.”
“Just so,” said Isatai, admiring himself again in the mirror.
“That was a smart thing you did with the bullets. You were prepared if you were asked a question like Bull
Bear’s.”
Isatai smiled and patted Quanah on the shoulder. “And why was I prepared? Because the spirit of Buffalo Hump alerted me just before I left your tipi.”
• • •
FOR THE REST OF THE WINTER, Isatai and Quanah went to the other camps of the People, which were scattered about. They visited the main villages of the Penateka, or Honey Eaters; the Nokoni, or Wanderers; the Kotsoteka, or Buffalo Eaters; and the Yamparika, or Root Eaters, as well as some smaller camps. They even sneaked onto the land set aside by the whites as a Comanche reservation and talked to those living there. Not long before, Quanah had been rebuffed in every place, but now he was welcomed, although as Isatai’s assistant. Everywhere they went, all their tribesmen had already heard about Isatai and the spirit of Buffalo Hump and the miracle of the vomited-up bullets. This didn’t mean that there was universal acceptance of the plan to form a great war party and strike at the whites with unprecedented force. Some of the People couldn’t decide, and others still preferred the old ways of small raids. But many warriors pledged to participate in the coming fight—in all, counting fifty or so from among the Quahadi, Quanah thought that the People might muster almost two hundred men to take into battle, more if some of the undecideds eventually chose to participate. It was an impressive number, but not enough.
“We need twice that many, maybe more,” Quanah said as he and Isatai turned their horses back toward the Quahadi camp. “We’ll have to go to the Kiowa and the Cheyenne next, and after that the Arapaho if we still need others. I hope we don’t have to ask the Arapaho. They talk so much, the white men would hear all about it and be waiting for us.”
“We’ll have all the warriors that are necessary, and whatever white men we attack will be surprised,” Isatai said confidently. “Buffalo Hump has promised it.”
“You’ve heard from him again?” Quanah asked. He wasn’t certain how much Isatai believed.
“His spirit is always with me now,” Isatai said. “You worry too much, Quanah. Soon you’ll have your great battle and all of the glory that you want so much.”
“I don’t care about glory,” Quanah protested. “I just want to save our people, help us keep living in the way that we choose, and not bow down to the whites. Did you look inside the tipis of the ones living on agency land? Instead of lances and rifles, they have tools. The white man is making them into farmers. Farmers! It’s shameful.”
“Soon for the People there will be no shame, only glory,” Isatai said. He took out a corn cake and ate it as he rode. The grinding of Isatai’s teeth on the food reminded Quanah of a horse chewing up particularly thick grass. If anything, the fat man had gained weight since assuming the mantle of Spirit Messenger. Even though food was scarce in all of the camps that they’d just visited, everyone vied to bring treats to Isatai the Spirit Messenger, and he graciously ate all that he was offered. “You need to trust the spirits, Quanah. You need to trust me.”
Quanah was taken aback by Isatai’s self-assurance, which was so different from his old, transparently boastful ways. Sometimes he felt like things were going according to Isatai’s plan rather than his. “You’re a changed man, Isatai,” Quanah admitted.
“Because the spirits have changed me.” Isatai gobbled the last bite of corn cake, licked the crumbs from his fingers, then half closed his eyes as he rode and began humming.
TEN
Cash McLendon hoped that in the New Year the general mood in Dodge City might improve, but it didn’t. Somehow the drunks seemed drunker, the fights more vicious, and the days so cold as to defy any eventual end to winter.
McLendon himself couldn’t wait until spring, when at some point Billy Dixon’s hunting party would depart for Indian Territory and his own days of scrounging a living with buffalo bones finally ended. The job Jim Hanrahan promised would be a good one, better suited for a man of McLendon’s civilized nature than grubbing around the countryside, keeping one eye out for dead, rotting buffalo and the other for Indians. With steady income in his future, McLendon was able to plan a budget for the first time in the two years since he’d fled St. Louis. Eight or nine months more in Dodge, ten at most, and he’d have enough saved for travel to California and to tide him over for his first few months there besides. After so much time improvising his life on the run, McLendon took comfort in having a set plan. Nothing could disrupt it.
And then something did.
• • •
ONE NIGHT IN EARLY JANUARY, Bat Masterson was in a rotten mood. Despite his typical sunny ways, he was occasionally prone to sulks. He’d curl up on his cot in the Olds boardinghouse, turn his back on McLendon, and write furiously in his notebook. When his friend and roommate got this way, McLendon had learned to leave Bat alone and go out for a while. The weather was nasty and there were several fights going on in the Dodge streets, so he wandered over to the Hanrahan and Water’s saloon. Billy and some of the other hide men were off at a table in a corner. McLendon was on his way to join them when he heard someone calling his name from a table by the bar. He looked and saw a man waving. There was something very familiar about the fellow, who wore a bowler hat, checked suit and vest. He was still trying to place him when the man said, “McLendon? Cash McLendon? I’m William Clark LeMond—remember me?” And then McLendon did. Nearly two years earlier, he’d shared a decrepit stage with LeMond on a dusty trip from Florence to Glorious. As he now recalled, LeMond was a drummer who traveled Arizona Territory trying to place scented soaps in dry goods stores and other shops.
“Good to see you, Mr. LeMond,” he replied, and the salesman gestured for him to sit down.
“Let me buy you a beer or something stronger,” LeMond said. After McLendon requested beer, the drummer asked what he was doing in Dodge. Choosing his words carefully, McLendon explained that he’d left Glorious in late summer 1872 to seek his fortune elsewhere and, after one or two stops in Texas, found himself in Dodge for a while.
“Very soon, I’ll be helping operate this saloon for a bit,” he said. “But I’ve had enough of the frontier life, and intend soon to make my way to the Pacific coast. And what of you? I thought Arizona was your sales territory.”
“It was, but then I heard tell of these great Texas cattle drives coming all the way up to Kansas. That means much higher commissions are possible here.”
“And why is that?”
“You get your Texan cow herders up here in Kansas all ready for fun, the one thing they want before whiskey and whores is a good bath to get the trail dust off,” LeMond said, polishing off a Jim Beam bourbon neat and signaling for another. “Those drovers want a bit of luxury after their arduous trek, and lemon-scented soap is just the thing. Two months ago I came from Arizona Territory to Kansas. So far I’ve been mostly doing business in Wichita, but my sources inform me that presently the tick line will move west, and then the Texas herds will be coming to Dodge. So here I am, ready to place my products in local hotels and shops.”
“Start with the Dodge House,” McLendon suggested. “It has high-class pretensions and is considered the best of the town hotels.”
“Ah, these hotels out in the middle of nowhere,” LeMond mused. “Remember back in Glorious, Major Mulkins and his so-called Elite Hotel? He was so proud of its few glass windows. Decent fellow, the major. I always liked him.”
“He was my friend too.”
“You know, I saw him again just before I departed Arizona Territory. He’s in a town called Mountain View now, maybe twenty miles east of where Glorious used to be.”
McLendon had been contemplating the beer in his mug; now his head snapped up. “Used to be? What do you mean?”
“Ah, you left before the big fight and don’t know what happened after.”
“Tell me,” McLendon urged. “Whatever you know—don’t leave anything out.”
In late July or maybe August of 1872, LeMond said, there was an Apache raid on Glorious. “I learne
d after the fact that there’d been some warning that one was coming. Just the day before the attack, the Army came in and evacuated most of the residents. Some, though, refused to leave. According to Major Mulkins, it was him; Crazy George Mitchell and Mary Somebody, the couple who ran the Owaysis Saloon; and Joe Saint. You remember him? The skinny town sheriff. Also a dozen or so prospectors and that rich rancher, Collin MacPherson, plus his gunslinging vaqueros. The major said that Mr. MacPherson believed his gun hands could withstand the Apache attack, but he was mistaken. Many died. Be glad you weren’t there.”
McLendon nodded. In fact, he had been there, and experienced a night of death and near-unimaginable horror. Determined to own all the businesses in Glorious and prosper in the wake of silver strikes, MacPherson, using his hired assassins, staged the raid to kill off competitors and take over the town. Thankfully, Gabrielle had reluctantly evacuated with the Army and wasn’t present when MacPherson’s vaqueros systematically cut down the prospectors and came close to killing McLendon, Major Mulkins, Crazy George, Mary Somebody and Joe Saint—only the unexpected appearance of Killer Boots prevented their murders, and Saint’s quick thinking allowed McLendon to subsequently escape the clutches of the fearsome nemesis who’d tracked him to Glorious from St. Louis. McLendon still trembled at the memory.
“You make it sound as though Glorious is gone,” he said. “Vanished from the face of the earth.”
“That’s just what happened. A few days after the Apache raid, most of the people came back, but there was no more silver found and the surviving prospectors drifted on. Then there was a solid strike on the other side of the Pinal Mountains, the east side, then another and another in almost the same spot—just loads of silver. So a new town named Mountain View started up there, and unlike Glorious, it was solid from the beginning. Mines got set up and the place has just flourished since. It didn’t help Mr. MacPherson. His property next to Glorious was suddenly worthless, and all the ranchland around Mountain View was bought up before he could get any. His reputation was somewhat stained as well. There were rumors that he’d maybe bribed the Apache to attack Glorious for some reason. Nothing of the sort was ever proven, of course. In any event, he’s since pulled up stakes and gone elsewhere—the Dakotas, I think, or maybe Washington Territory. I don’t know what became of ol’ Crazy George and Mary Somebody. Major Mulkins is managing a hotel in Mountain View, though. A very nice hotel. It’s called the White Horse and does lots of business. Someone else owns it, but the Major runs it. I had some drinks with the Major there in Mountain View just before I departed Arizona Territory for Kansas.”