Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  What about Gabrielle? McLendon desperately wanted to know. But he was afraid that if he asked directly, LeMond might give him news that he didn’t want to hear. “Any idea of what happened to other Glorious refugees?”

  “You might recall there were some Chinese, but after the evacuation they never returned. Don’t know that anyone knows what became of them, where they went after that. And, of course, them being of that race, no white person would care.”

  McLendon didn’t respond, because he had great respect for the Chinese he’d met in Glorious, and hoped very much that they were prospering somewhere.

  “Well, Joe Saint, the one who used to be the town sheriff?” LeMond continued. “He’s living in Mountain View, too, though he doesn’t serve anymore as a lawman. He teaches there. They’ve got a school of sorts, one room and kids of all ages. Seems Joe was a schoolteacher back east before he came out to the territories.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  LeMond smiled. “I know who you really want to hear about. I recall you came to Glorious in the first place because you were looking to rekindle your romance with Miss Gabrielle Tirrito. But she had formed a relationship with Sheriff Saint. Well, she’s in Mountain View too. Works at the same hotel, the White Horse, as Major Mulkins, where she runs the front desk and directs the custodial staff. She and her daddy had that dry goods shop in Glorious, of course, but he’s gotten sicker and can’t do much anymore. And here’s the interesting part. Back in Glorious, especially after she spurned you, everybody figured she would soon marry Joe Saint. But here it’s, what, a year and a half or more gone, they’re both in Mountain View, and still no wedding.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have this from Major Mulkins, who, as you remember, didn’t mind passing along a bit of gossip. Joe Saint still pays court to Miss Gabrielle, he truly wants to marry her, and she keeps putting him off. The Major couldn’t say why.”

  “Really?” McLendon had trouble choking out the single word.

  “So it seems. You know, you might still be in with a chance if she weren’t in Mountain View and you all the way out here in Dodge City, Kansas. The Major suspects that Mr. Saint will wear her down eventually. But it hasn’t happened yet. Now, what do you think of that, McLendon? Wait—where are you going?”

  • • •

  AS HE HURRIED BACK to his room at the Olds boardinghouse, McLendon considered his options. He loved Gabrielle as much as ever, and simply letting matters play out between her and Joe Saint was no longer acceptable. If she hadn’t married Joe Saint yet, maybe it was because she’d finally realized that she loved McLendon more. He had to make another try for Gabrielle. But how?

  McLendon’s first impulse was to leave for Mountain View immediately, his obligation to Jim Hanrahan be damned. Despite his impatience, it wouldn’t be a quick trip. There were two choices. He could spend long weeks riding horses and, later, mules that could handle the rough ascent to the Arizona Territory high desert, or else take the train to Kansas City, then transfer to another train heading west to Denver. From there he’d have to go by stage, Denver to Tucson, Tucson to Florence, Florence to Mountain View. He didn’t know Mountain View’s exact location, but LeMond said it was on the other side of the Pinal Mountains from where Glorious used to be, and there had been daily stage service between Glorious and Florence. Factoring in train and stage transfers and inevitable delays for mechanical failures and weather, the trip would take at least ten days, maybe two weeks or more. But money was an issue.

  McLendon had about $110 saved, possibly enough for train and stage fare. But he’d arrive in Mountain View flat broke, and when he got there he wanted to focus his complete attention on Gabrielle and not waste valuable time doing odd jobs for room and board. But if he waited any longer, working in Dodge City until he had enough to cover living expenses as well as travel to Mountain View, in the interim Joe Saint might very well talk Gabrielle into marriage. Saint, McLendon ruefully recalled, was a man whose innocuous appearance belied a sharp, calculating intellect. Gabrielle, not without cause, considered him a better person than McLendon. But he’d changed; surely if he saw her again, he could convince her of that. Yet even then, if she agreed to come away with him this time, he’d still need a lot more money for train fare to California for two, or for three if her father came with them. And then living expenses for three while he looked for a job. . . . Of course, he could find work in Mountain View for a while. But he certainly wouldn’t find a job there that paid the same thirty-five dollars a week that Jim Hanrahan had promised him in Dodge. Still, he had to go, and right away. It was Gabrielle. He’d take the train and figure out the rest of the money issues when he had to.

  McLendon charged into his room at the boardinghouse. Bat was gone; he’d probably shaken off his sulk and headed to Tom Sherman’s place for beer and dances with whores. So he couldn’t tell Bat good-bye—well, too bad.

  He began jamming clothes in his valise, then stopped with a shirt halfway packed. Once before he’d tried shocking Gabrielle by turning up unexpectedly, but when he surprised her in Glorious she tried sending him on his way. Maybe this time it would be better to give her some warning. A letter, maybe. He would send her a letter at the White Horse Hotel in Mountain View, where she worked, telling her that he was going to come, and why. Meanwhile, he’d work as planned for Hanrahan and Waters, saving the money he—they, hopefully—would need in California.

  Bat might be out, but he’d left his notebook on his cot. McLendon tore a blank page loose. Then he took a pencil and, resting the paper on the rickety dresser, began writing. It wasn’t easy. When he and Gabrielle met back in St. Louis, McLendon, who’d been orphaned early and never attended a single day of school, was completely illiterate. Gabrielle taught him to read, which he grew to love, and to write, which he didn’t care for at all. He had trouble expressing his thoughts in print. His communication skill remained exclusively oral; McLendon had a talent for talking people into things with spoken rather than written words. In particular, his spelling was spotty. Sighing, squinting in the limited light provided by the kerosene lantern, he tried to make his best case to the woman he loved.

  January 1874

  Dearest Gabrielle:

  I am in Dodge City, Kansas, and have word of you from William Clark Leemond, the salesman of soap. He tells me you live in a place called Mountain View now, still in Arizona Territory but on the other side of the mountains from where Glorious was. He also says your father is sick and I am sorry for that, I hope he is better soon.

  Since I left Glorious I have been in Texas and now Kansas still with hopes of getting to Californeya soon. Mister Leemond says that you have not married Joe Saint yet. This is very happy news for me. I still think of you all the time and am sorry for what I did to you back in Saint Louis. I want to come see you and tell you again that I love you and want to marry you. I am still trying to be a better man, the kind you dezerve. I will come as soon as I save enough money to take you to Californeya with me and your father also if he would like to come. I will take care of him and you there, I promise. You know I don’t write nearly as well as I talk or read, if you marry me you could help me learn to write better. I would like that so much. You used to laugh at my poor spelling, and you are so pretty when you laugh.

  I am coming to Mountain View no matter what and hope it will not be very long, by the end of fall maybe. I have a good job promised here and will save every pennie. I will come as soon as I can. No matter how long it takes I will come, don’t marry Joe Saint until I can talk to you again face to face. It’s not that I hate Joe but I love you and can make you happier than he can. Don’t say no right away, wait and see me first. Meantime if you want to write to me you can, care of Hanrahan and Waters, Dodge City Kansas. Pleaze dont tell that to anyone else. I dont want Killer Boots to find out, though I hope he isnt after me all the time anymore and I think we would be safe now in Californeya. Well I guess you can tell Joe Saint, y
ou are truthfull and may want him to know that I am coming. But if you do I hope you tell him to keep where I am secret to.

  I love you

  Cash McLendon

  The next morning, McLendon took the letter to A. C. Myers’s Pioneer Store. He bought and addressed an envelope to Miss Gabrielle Tirrito in care of the White Horse Hotel, Mountain View, Arizona Territory, then sealed the letter in it and gave the envelope to a store clerk who served as the town postmaster. He paid three cents postage, plus another dime in return for the clerk’s promise to personally see that the letter went out on the noon train. It would take at least two weeks to reach Gabrielle, the clerk noted, but in McLendon’s quest to win her back, every hour counted. Then McLendon sat on the windswept Dodge City sidewalk, leaning back against the wood frame wall of the store, trying to calculate how many months it would take before he saved enough to go to Gabrielle in Mountain View. Even if he ate only one meal a day, he couldn’t see any way to do it in less than ten.

  ELEVEN

  The main Kiowa camp was north of the Quahadi village, high up in what the whites called the Texas Panhandle. As they rode there, Quanah cautioned Isatai about Kiowa customs.

  “They have a chief, Lone Wolf, who leads them, and also a medicine man they believe has great power to prophesy. We, of course, are of the People and in all things know better than they do, but we must appear respectful.”

  “Their medicine man is a fool,” Isatai scoffed. “I hear that he claims to talk to animals both living and dead. That’s how he says he gets messages. Buffalo Hump says that this Kiowa faker should tremble before me.”

  “I’m sure Buffalo Hump is wiser than that,” Quanah said. “He knows we need the Kiowa to cooperate with his great plan to drive away the whites.”

  Isatai’s eyes narrowed. “Remember that Buffalo Hump speaks through me, not you. Don’t presume to tell me what he knows.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Quanah said. He had resigned himself to Isatai’s pomposity. “But when we reach the Kiowa camp, perhaps it would be best for you to stand quietly and impress them with the power of the spirits. I’ll explain everything to Lone Wolf. If you talk much, they might be so afraid of Buffalo Hump—and, of course, of you—that their ears would not listen properly.”

  Isatai grunted in agreement. “But I’ll correct you if you say anything wrong.”

  There was birdsong; the end of winter had arrived. It was still quite cool in the mornings and evenings, but in early afternoon Quanah and Isatai felt comfortable in shirts without blankets or fur robes wrapped around their shoulders. Some green shoots had popped out in valleys and along the tops of rolling hills. A few rabbits skittered in the brush, but no snakes slithered there. It was still too chilly for them to emerge from their snug winter holes.

  As Quanah and Isatai approached the Kiowa village, they heard laughter and singing. Everyone was outside enjoying the weak sunshine.

  Isatai sniffed the air. “They’re roasting meat, probably deer, since it’s still too early for the buffalo. I hope that they invite us to eat with them.”

  The Kiowa camp was much more colorful than the Quahadi’s. The people living there wore breechclouts and dresses dyed rich browns and crimson with berry juice. Their buffalo-hide tipis were decorated with many designs rendered in yellows and blues. Besides the usual clays and berry juices, the ingredients of their paint also included moss, pollen, and buffalo fat, all of which contributed brighter pigmentation. Kiowa men wore these same paints into battle. Warriors among the People would have considered such garishness weak and effeminate, but the Kiowa did not.

  It was easy for visitors to identify the dwelling of the chief, whose tipi was adorned with the most pictures of all. Quanah and Isatai rode straight to it. They dismounted and handed their horses over to an old woman who led the animals off to graze. Lone Wolf emerged from his tipi. He was impressive looking, like many Kiowa men taller than the average warrior among the People, but still a bit shorter than Quanah. His hair was cut in the traditional Kiowa manner, short on the right side to display bone pendants dangling from his ear, and long on the left side. The long hair was twisted into an intricate braid.

  “We welcome our visitors,” he said courteously. “Come in and smoke.” Quanah followed him into the tent, taking care to let Isatai enter first. The portly Spirit Messenger glanced around the interior, taking in the thick robes arranged around a low fire, and various weapons stacked against the sides of the tipi. War shields hung from loops on poles, and caches of dried food, some stored in captured white Army packs, were stacked off to one side. Isatai sniffed, dropped down cross-legged on the finest robe, closed his eyes, and hummed.

  Quanah said quickly, “That’s Isatai’s way. He does that so he can hear the spirits.”

  “He’s making so much noise himself, I wonder that he can hear them at all,” Lone Wolf said. “Well, we’ve heard about his great magic. Such special people often have strange ways about them.” He sat on a robe opposite Isatai and gestured for Quanah to sit beside him. There was rustling outside, and two more men entered the tent.

  “I’ve asked them to join us,” Lone Wolf said. He gestured toward a short man wearing a headdress and shirt decorated with owl feathers. “This is Mamanti, our medicine man.” Mamanti nodded to Quanah, then fixed his eyes on Isatai, who paid no attention to the newcomers. His eyes remained closed and he continued humming. Lone Wolf pointed to the other man and said, “This is Satanta,” and even though Quanah considered himself the greatest of all warriors, he was still impressed. Satanta was legendary; he’d fought the whites for many years, plaguing soldiers and settlers alike. He was also famous for his oratory, and for the Army bugle he blew when leading his warriors in battle. The bugle notes often confused the white soldiers and contributed to Kiowa victories. For a while he’d made peace and tried to follow the white man’s way, only to be betrayed and sent off to one of their prisons in Texas. Lone Wolf, leading a Kiowa delegation to meet with the Great Father Grant in Washington, promised to ask the rest of his people to lay down their weapons if Satanta was released. Of course, Lone Wolf meant only that they would stop fighting for a little while, though maybe Grant didn’t understand that. Still, he let Satanta go.

  “It’s good to see you back in your own land,” Quanah said politely. He studied Satanta carefully, trying to discern what made him such a great fighter. Satanta stared back. His forehead was narrow and his jawline was wide, making his face the image of a triangle with a wide base.

  “My heart never left, just my body,” he said.

  “Because he promised the whites to never fight them again, Satanta joins us to listen and give counsel only,” Lone Wolf explained.

  “Of course,” Quanah said, but he immediately felt less respect for the old Kiowa. In the same position, Quanah would have gleefully promised the whites anything, then reneged the moment he was out of their clutches and back among the People. It was all right to lie to whites, because white people lied all of the time. They couldn’t help it because that was their nature.

  “Let’s smoke, and then you can tell me what you want of us,” Lone Wolf suggested. They passed the pipe around, each man taking a few ceremonial puffs except for Isatai, who sat closed-eyed and humming as though he were the only one in the tipi. Mamanti, the Kiowa medicine man, smoked in his turn but never took his eyes off Isatai, obviously trying to take the measure of a rival shaman.

  When the smoking was done, Quanah spoke. He explained how the spirit of Buffalo Hump had communicated through Isatai that it was time for a great action to drive the whites out of Indian land. The old ways of small, unconnected raids no longer worked. A collaborative effort between the People, the Kiowa, the Cheyenne, and perhaps the Arapaho would convince all the soldiers and settlers to leave for good. The magic granted to Isatai by Buffalo Hump would render white bullets useless in the battle. A rout would ensue, and afterward the Indians would live
uninterrupted by white intrusion. It would be a victory for all.

  Lone Wolf and Satanta listened carefully. Neither interrupted with questions or observations, and for several moments after Quanah was finished the only sound inside the tipi was Isatai’s incessant humming. Finally Lone Wolf asked, “Does your medicine man have anything to add?”

  Without opening his eyes, Isatai murmured, “I’m not a medicine man. I’m a Spirit Messenger and I have magic.”

  Lone Wolf exchanged glances with Satanta and said, “We’ve heard about that. I’m told that once you seemed to vomit up ammunition. Can you do that now for us?”

  Quanah nervously tried to think of how to respond, but before he could Isatai opened his eyes and said calmly, “The magic must be saved for when it is really needed.”

  Mamanti made a cawing, insulting sound, but Lone Wolf said politely, “You know best about such things. I think Satanta wants to say something.”

  The renowned Kiowa rolled the end of his long braid in his fingertips for a moment, then stared hard at Quanah. The gray-eyed Quahadi was hard pressed not to blink. He did his best to calmly gaze back. Finally Satanta said, “It’s interesting that two Comanche come with this request for the Kiowa to fight alongside their warriors. I’m an old man, Quanah. I’ve known the Comanche since your father’s time and long before that. You call yourselves the People, as though no one else is a human being. Comanche always believe that they are the best fighters, that they don’t need anyone’s help. You trade with us, but from the earliest time any Kiowa can remember, you made it plain that we live here only because you let us. You drove away the Apache; they went west to live in the dirt and dung where of course they, being too bandy-legged and untrustworthy, belong. You fought the Tonkawa and they ran away to serve the white men. If we try this thing that your medicine man’s spirits suggest, one great battle instead of many small ones, and it works—if we join you and the whites are driven away forever—how do we know, once they’re gone, that you won’t turn on us next? Isn’t that the Comanche way, to always find someone to fight?”