Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  For several long moments, the Indians and white men stood watching each other. Then, at an almost stately pace, the Indians walked toward the wagons. McLendon was mesmerized. These wild Indians were real human beings; he could see drops of sweat on their brows.

  Billy, Bermuda Carlyle, Jim Hanrahan, and Fred Leonard walked out a few paces to meet them. One of the Indians said something—to McLendon, it sounded more like guttural grunting than actual words. Billy spread his arms in a universal signal: I don’t understand. The Indian nodded as though this was the response that he expected. He gestured toward the wagons.

  “Them’s Kioway,” whispered Old Man Keeler, who was standing near McLendon and Masterson. “You can tell from the hair, all cut on one side and long on t’other. Nasty pieces a work.”

  Billy extended a hand toward the Indians, palm up: Wait here. He walked to a wagon, rummaged in the bed, and extracted some small packets of coffee and sugar. The Indians waited; McLendon could see them glancing up and down the line of wagons and riders.

  “Shit, Billy, the sonsabitches are counting our guns,” a teamster hissed.

  “Be glad that they are,” Billy said quietly. “Now they can pass the word among their people that we’re too well armed to attack.” He went back to the Indians and gave the sacks to the one who seemed to be the leader. Then he gestured: Go away. With considerable dignity, the Indians turned and led their horses back toward the ridge where they had first appeared. Then they dropped the reins of their horses. For one panic-stricken moment, McLendon thought they were reaching for their bows to shoot, but instead they turned their backs, yanked down their breechclouts, and exposed their buttocks to the white audience. Then, uttering derisive shrieks, they disappeared down the far side of the ridge. Most of the expedition members couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Cheeky bastards,” Bat cracked, and that evoked a second round of laughter.

  • • •

  ON THE FIFTH DAY they reached the mouth of Palo Duro Creek. The land was harsh now; there were steep slopes instead of gentle hills, and precipitous canyons rather than gracefully curved arroyos. Billy said that they were very near where he’d seen the sign of all the buffalo during his winter scouting expedition. “Tomorrow, Monday at the latest, we’ll strike the Canadian and find ourselves just the right place to roost.” McLendon was glad to hear it. His ass ached from the hard wagon bench, and as much as he liked Mirkle Jones, the teamster from Louisiana was too hard to understand when he talked. McLendon was used to Bat Masterson’s more comprehensible yammering. Still, Jones was a generous traveling companion, sharing with McLendon little snacks he had tucked away in his wagon bed. McLendon especially appreciated the gift of hard candies to suck. That was a much better-tasting way to alleviate thirst than gulping down brackish canteen water.

  Besides serving as a landmark that the trip was almost over, everyone was glad to arrive at the creek because it was surrounded with high green grass. As a result of the harsh winter and intemperate spring heat, much of the grassland they’d crossed so far was stunted and sparse. The saddle horses, pack animals, and wagon teams hadn’t grazed well. Now there would be an opportunity to crop their fill, giving them plenty of strength for the final leg of the expedition. The animals sensed the bounty ahead; their nostrils flared and they surged forward.

  Billy asked Bermuda Carlyle and Jim Hanrahan to ride ahead and pick a prime campsite by the river. They came back with disturbing news.

  “Somebody’s already got a camp in place,” Hanrahan said. “If you look close over there, you can just see a thread of smoke from a small fire. We heard some ponies whickering.”

  “Indians?” Billy asked.

  “We didn’t go close enough to see. Thought we’d come back, tell you, then maybe go forward again with a few more guns, just in case.”

  Billy pulled his Sharps “Big Fifty” from the scabbard on his saddle. “All right, then. Brick Bond, Mike McCabe, get your guns and come with Bermuda, Jim, and me. Ever’body else, stay back. You hear shooting, come on fast, but remember to leave behind enough men to guard the wagons.”

  Bat said, “Billy, I’m coming too. I want some action.”

  “It’s your hair,” Billy said. “And if it’s Indians and trouble starts, don’t go using me for cover.”

  The six men rode toward the river, then eased down a slope and were lost to sight. McLendon waited nervously, expecting to hear gunshots. After ten minutes, Masterson came racing back.

  “Everyone come on to the river!” he cried. “It’s the Cator brothers—they’re camped on the water!”

  Bat rode beside Mirkle Jones’s wagon as it lurched forward. “The Cators are hide men who came over from England,” he explained to McLendon. “Jim and Bob are fine fellows, crack shots and the canniest of frontiersmen. Turns out they made winter camp all the way down here, so they’re well versed on the area. We’ll have ourselves a fine time with them tonight.”

  McLendon found the Cators to be especially congenial. Both had long dark beards that tapered to points just above their waists. Their camp by the creek consisted of a half-dozen tents for the brothers and their ten-man crew. Over mugs of tea, Jim and Bob explained that they chose to winter so far from civilization because the Indians had apparently abandoned the area.

  “It seems that the majority of red fellows are drifting somewhat north and east, toward the reservations set aside for them,” Jim Cator said in an English accent that fell pleasantly on McLendon’s ear. “The Army under Mackenzie must be wearing them down. You say that a few Kiowa came begging a few days back—well, that’s what those remaining must be reduced to. We’ve camped out here and ranged where we pleased, and never once have we suffered any attacks. As soon as the great herd arrives, which might be anytime now, what with this early heat, it’s clear sailing for a fine season of shooting and skinning, with great profits for all.”

  Hearing that was a tremendous relief. The Cator brothers were veteran hide men. When they downplayed any Indian threat, they could be trusted.

  “You and Bob ought to come with us,” Billy suggested. “It’s our intention to set up somewhere near the Canadian and build a considerable camp. We’ll have every amenity, and merchants who’ll buy your hides on the spot. And, of course, there will be so many guns behind stout walls that the Indians will leave us alone.”

  “With respect, Billy, that sounds a little too crowded,” Bob Cator said. He was heavier than his brother and had a longer beard. “But we certainly wish you well, and promise to drop in to your new settlement from time to time.”

  “Do that. You can sell your hides to A. C. Myers, who’s opening a store wherever we light, and enjoy drinks from the bar of our mutual friend Jim Hanrahan.”

  Hanrahan clapped Bob Cator on the shoulder and said, “In honor of this meeting, I think I’ll just bring out a few bottles right now. Let’s have a drink all around, and then some entertainment.”

  The singing and dancing lasted long into the night. At one point, Bat insisted that McLendon stand up and sing. “It’s your turn, C.M. Give us your finest tune.”

  “Bat, you don’t want to hear me sing.”

  “Oh, but I do. Everybody does. Get up and provide some entertainment. It’s required, if you truly wish to be one of the boys.”

  McLendon looked hopefully at Billy, but Dixon was deep in conversation with Jim Cator. “This is a mistake, Bat. I’m the worst singer in the world.”

  “Sing, damn it. Mirkle Jones has his fiddle at the ready.”

  “Wachu sangin’?” Mirkle asked.

  McLendon tried to think of a song, any song, that he knew the words to. There was one . . .

  “‘Buffalo Gals,’ I guess,” he said. Jones nodded enthusiastically and set his bow on the fiddle strings. Taking a deep breath, McLendon sang.

  “Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?
Buffalo gals, won’t you—” and then he stopped. All around the campfire, men stared at him with expressions of pain and even horror. “I said I couldn’t sing,” he said defensively.

  “You’re a truthful man,” Bat said.

  “So do I have to finish my song?”

  “We’d all rather you didn’t, C.M.,” Billy said. “I believe that, from now on, you can remain part of the audience.”

  Mirkle Jones resumed playing “Buffalo Gals.” Somebody else stood up to sing. McLendon slumped down next to Billy. “At least I tried.”

  “Yes, you did. And now, never sing again.”

  On Sunday, they were deep in the Texas Panhandle and reached the South Canadian River. It was wider and deeper than the Arkansas and Cimarron. McLendon thought that they would make permanent camp on its bank, but Billy said no, what they needed was a place with streams of clean water and good grazing—maybe a valley if they could find one—with sufficient trees to provide lumber for building.

  “When the herd arrives, it’ll move parallel to the river,” Billy said. “We can’t have the skinned bodies turning rotten right where we sleep and get our drinking water. We’d all get sick. We’ll rest here tonight, and tomorrow I’m sure we’ll find a suitable site.”

  • • •

  EVERYONE WAS UP EARLY and eager to go. The end of the trip was imminent. No one lingered over coffee and breakfast biscuits. Billy led the way along the creek bed, following its bends and turns. McLendon didn’t see the sense of it. There were plenty of inviting hills nearby; surely some of them surrounded valleys containing the kind of stopping place required. When they made a brief stop to water the animals, McLendon asked Bermuda Carlyle where in the hell they were going.

  “Oh, Billy’s got a spot in mind,” Carlyle said. He reeked of the cheap plug tobacco that he chewed constantly. His teeth and shirtfront were stained with brown juice. “You’re about to learn a little history.” McLendon was intrigued, but Carlyle wouldn’t say more.

  After almost a dozen miles, Billy stopped and gestured toward a flat plain dotted with what seemed to be the ruins of low walls. “There you are, boys. Go take a good look.”

  The walls were weathered brick, formed from some sort of clay. They were very old and some were crumbling at the edges. McLendon guessed that they were all that remained of about a dozen buildings.

  “Adobe Walls, this place was called,” Carlyle told him. “Built some forty years ago by men who thought they’d set up a trading post for white hunters and Indians. Didn’t work out that way, of course. Owners got run off by the savages and then, ten years ago, Kit Carson and an Army bunch had a considerable clash here with about a thousand or more Co-manch and Kioways, the biggest war party just about ever, I expect. The Army boys took cover behind these walls as the Indians swarmed at ’em. Lucky for the soldiers, Carson had insisted that they bring four howitzers with them. It was enough firepower to hold off the Indians until nightfall, and then Carson and the soldiers escaped under cover of dark. The Battle of Adobe Walls—I doubt that there’ll ever be another fight like it. All those Indians, and so few white men up against them. But the soldiers fought smarter, and so they survived.”

  Several men had grabbed shovels from wagon beds while Carlyle was talking. As soon as he stopped, they began digging frantically around the base of the surviving walls. “What are they doing?” McLendon asked.

  Carlyle sent a lazy arc of tobacco juice in the direction of the diggers. “Oh, there’s said to be some kind of treasure buried here. Not so, of course. But some will believe anything.”

  McLendon walked over to Billy. “Is this where we’re going to make permanent camp?”

  “I’d like to, if nothing else than to honor old Kit Carson. But look around—still no decent grazing. I think we’re close to the right place, though.”

  Billy called everyone together. “For the moment, let’s keep all the wagons and livestock right here,” he said. “What I’d like is, let’s have some scouts, maybe three or four to the bunch, spread out and take a long look around, maybe to the north a bit. There seem to be some streams running off that way. Remember, we want grass and some timber as well as water. We’ve come so far, let’s be certain to pick just the right place.”

  Riders set off, Bat Masterson among them. The teamsters fed their animals oats from barrels. Some of the men kept digging; no one found treasure. After a few hours, the scouts began drifting back. One bunch, led by Billy’s head skinner Mike McCabe, was excited. They swore that they’d found the perfect spot not a mile and a half away. Their enthusiasm was contagious. Everyone wanted to go and see. Billy passed the word to get ready to move, and after a hasty lunch of jerky and canteen water, the caravan set out. They passed through some low hills, topped a rise, and there, ahead of them, was a lovely long meadow framed by higher hills and, off to the north, a flat-topped mesa. A rippling stream helped form a natural boundary to the north and west. There was another to the south, and along the banks of the streams grew clusters of trees. Even McLendon could tell it was an idyllic spot. Some of the men cheered. Billy, grinning so hard that it seemed his face might split, announced what everyone knew already.

  “We’ve arrived, boys!” he shouted. “Look around at your new home.”

  “What shall we call it, Billy?” someone asked.

  “I have just the name,” Billy said. “Let’s show our respect for the ones who came before us and tried to settle in not a mile from here. In their memory, I say welcome to the new Adobe Walls, and may our luck be better than theirs.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Quanah was arguing with Wickeah when the Kiowa rode into the Quahadi camp and stood outside Quanah’s tipi, calling for him to come out and talk with them. He was grateful for the interruption. The argument was a foolish one and entirely the fault of his wife. Wickeah always expected a great deal of Quanah’s time and attention, so she bitterly resented his trips from the village with Isatai. Ever since he’d returned from the visit to the Cheyenne camp, she’d been particularly irritable, claiming that he never thought about her anymore. It was true that he was constantly preoccupied. He had to think of some way to make the Kiowa and Cheyenne believe that if they fought together with the People and drove off the whites, then afterward they would be considered equals. And, as well, Isatai was a constant concern. The fat man truly believed that he was the spokesman of the spirits, and was liable to say foolish things if Quanah wasn’t constantly on hand to stop him. In particular, he kept insisting that no one kill any skunks, because skunks were precious to the spirits. Such prattling detracted from the dignified Spirit Messenger pose that Quanah wanted Isatai to maintain in public. If he gabbled about skunks too much, everyone might be reminded why Isatai had once been the camp laughingstock.

  Collectively, these concerns were already too much for anyone but the strongest man to bear, and Quanah was doing his best. How dare Wickeah add to his burdens? Maybe he often did imagine himself with Mochi instead of Wickeah when they coupled in their blankets, and perhaps he seldom spoke to her anymore because he was so worn down from his other responsibilities. She was his wife and should sympathize. He told Wickeah that it was her obligation to make him feel better, not worse. But she turned that around and insisted that husbands had to make their wives happy too. She was loudly insisting on this when the Kiowa arrived.

  Quanah called to them, “I’ll be right there.” Though he had no idea what they wanted, he was relieved to have an excuse to escape Wickeah. She was a very stubborn woman and could argue for hours when given the opportunity, especially since she knew her husband was tenderhearted and would never beat her.

  “Let the Kiowa wait,” she snapped. “Put your wife first for a change.”

  “Enough,” Quanah said, trying to sound commanding. Wickeah, fists jammed on her hips, glared as he ducked down through the tipi’s entrance flap.

  Five Kiowa awaited Quanah. He recogn
ized one of them. Iseeo was a hotheaded young warrior who often counted impressive coup in battle. “Welcome,” Quanah said. “Do you bring a message from your chief, Lone Wolf? Are you ready to join us in the great fight to come?”

  “No, we have news of white hunters who have come into our land,” Iseeo said. “We thought we should inform the Comanche’s Spirit Messenger at once, and learn his thoughts about it.”

  “He’s communicating with the spirits right now,” Quanah said carefully. In fact, he felt sure that Isatai was either gorging himself on food brought to him by camp admirers or else asleep. But the Kiowa didn’t need to know that. “You and I can talk about this, Iseeo. You others, if you’ll go inside my tipi, my wife will have food for you.” This was common courtesy, and an easy offer for Quanah to make. No matter how angry she might be with her husband, Wickeah was always a gracious hostess who would find something to serve guests.

  Quanah and Iseeo wandered out of camp toward the Quahadi horse herd. “So what is there to tell about these white hunters?” Quanah asked. “It’s no surprise that some have come down here. With the cold season over and the buffalo on their way, what did you expect? Don’t you think we have more important concerns?”

  “These hunters are different,” Iseeo said. “We first saw them five days ago, coming south. There were many of them, ten times at least the number of fingers on your hands, and almost that many wagons. Next to the soldiers following Bad Hand into battle, I have never seen so many white men riding together. My four friends and I went right up to them and let them think we wanted gifts, which they gave us. What they call coffee, and also the sweet white powder. And that was when we counted them, and saw their guns.”

  “These were good guns?” Quanah asked, thinking of the old, battered weapons carried by the three hunters he’d recently killed.

  “Yes,” Iseeo said grimly. “They were the new long guns that shoot straight and far. All of them had those, or at least the small guns they carry on their belts. And in the wagons—every kind of food, and all sorts of other things.”