Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  On the third, fourth, and fifth day, the warriors danced. The interior of the lodge with the tall skull-topped pole in the center was swept clean, and then the old men from all three tribes entered, sat along the walls, and pounded drums in a simple, hypnotic rhythm. Women and children surrounded the structure, waiting outside while all the men of fighting age went in. None had eaten since the night before, and now all would continue to fast and dance until they collapsed. When they did, they hoped that the spirits would favor them with visions. Whatever they saw in these virtual trances would be indications of the future.

  Almost seven hundred men danced, all of them naked except for breechclouts. The lodge was massive but they were still packed tight. They moved as best they could. The air was hot and soon thick with the smell of sweat. Even a well-fed man standing still would soon have felt faint. The old men with the drums took turns playing, going outside for fresh air and food whenever they felt the need. The dancers swayed and chanted, and by the end of the first afternoon the first ones began passing out. When they collapsed, some of the drummers put down their instruments and dragged the fallen dancers outside, where they were left to lie there and twitch. There was no honor in falling down so soon—everyone knew the best, truest visions were reserved by the spirits for the dancers who lasted longest. The families of these first collapsed men felt a degree of shame.

  Inside the lodge, space was created each time someone fainted and was carried out, but still conditions worsened. The dancers weren’t willing to stop for a few moments and go outside to relieve themselves, so they pissed where they were and the stench of urine mingled with the stink of sweat. A few of them shit, too, and that smell was added to the unsettling mix. By the end of the first day almost half of the original dancers were gone. Those who remained were determined to keep going on. Now they had more room to move, but they conserved their energy and didn’t indulge in wild gyrations.

  When morning came, light filtered in through wall cracks and it was possible to see one another in the remaining gloom. Quanah, willing himself to keep dancing, noticed Medicine Water swaying nearby. It was permissible for the dancers to talk quietly among themselves, so he inched over and said, “It’s hard going.”

  Medicine Water muttered, “Of course. The spirits reward us for it.”

  “I thought your wife would dance too. Isn’t she a full Cheyenne warrior?”

  “You Comanche aren’t letting your women dance. We’re honoring your customs.”

  “So she won’t fight in the great battle, either?”

  “That’s different. In battle, we will honor our own ways.”

  When the second day was over, only a few dozen men were still dancing. Quanah remained among them, but he was fading fast. Though his competitive instinct demanded that he be the last one standing, the combination of hunger and fatigue was too much. By mid-morning he was overcome by dizziness and dropped to his knees. Two of the old men grabbed his arms and dragged him outside. He sprawled on the ground and took deep, rasping breaths of fresh air. He wanted a vision, felt that he deserved a vision, but nothing came. He lay there awhile and then Wickeah dropped to her knees by his side and gave him water from a clay pot. Quanah gulped it and rested his head in her lap.

  “You danced a long time,” Wickeah said. “You were the last of the People in there. I’m proud of you.”

  “Just Kiowa and Cheyenne left?” Quanah moaned.

  “We have more practice.” Quanah looked up over Wickeah’s shoulder and saw Mochi standing there. “You did very well, for a Comanche.”

  “You didn’t dance,” Quanah said.

  “No, because Comanche don’t respect their women enough to let them do such things. While we’re here, we must follow your foolish rules. But if I had danced, I would have lasted longer than you. Meanwhile, my husband, Medicine Water, is still in there. I think he will be the final dancer.”

  Mochi turned and walked back toward the lodge. Wickeah glared at her back and hissed, “Witch.”

  Medicine Water was one of the final four dancers, but in the end Iseeo of the Kiowa danced alone. He kept on into late afternoon, lasting almost three full days before he finally toppled over. When he did, he was carried out more tenderly than any of the others, and lay twitching for some time while everyone else looked on. Finally Iseeo sat up and croaked a request for water. After he drank, he got to his feet with some difficulty.

  “The spirits came to me,” Iseeo said. “Because they want us to obey Isatai the Comanche Spirit Messenger, they granted me this vision. I was among so many warriors that I could not count them, and then there was a camp of white men with very long hair. We flowed over this camp like water over the banks of a stream, and after we passed, all the long-haired white men lay dead and not one of us attacking was even wounded. It was the finest of all victories.”

  The crowd murmured approval. Then Otter Belt and White Wolf said that everyone should go back to their tipis. All the dancers should rest. When it was full dark, there would be one more feast. Just before the five-day sun dance ceremonies concluded it would be time to talk about the great attack to come.

  • • •

  IN THEIR TIPI, Wickeah fed Quanah strong broth and complained about the rude Cheyenne woman. “She should be beaten for her insulting words. If there had been a stick nearby, I would have done it myself.”

  “It was good that you didn’t try. Among the Cheyenne she is considered a great warrior.”

  Wickeah sniffed. “Any woman of the People can beat two Cheyenne women at a time. She thinks she’s a man, and in some ways she looks like one.”

  Quanah almost said that, no, Mochi didn’t look anything like a man, but thought better of it. After he finished his broth he felt well enough to go see Isatai in his tipi. The fat man was preparing for his special moment and Quanah wanted to be certain that he was ready.

  “Yes, I’m going to say the thing about the camp of the white hunters. We’ve talked about this many times.”

  “Remember not to say it until I speak about Bad Hand. That is your signal.”

  Isatai raised his eyebrows. “It is unless the spirits say otherwise.”

  “Just do as we discussed. Please. The others have to think that it is their idea, not mine.”

  “Why must it be the white hunters?”

  “The spirits give us commands and we must decide the best way to obey,” Quanah said. “The land rightfully ours is vast, but there is only one large settlement of whites in it, and that is where those hunters are camped. Bad Hand has most of his soldiers down near Mexico. It would mean nothing if we attacked a fort with very few white soldiers in it. If we kill all of the white hunters at their camp, maybe Bad Hand and the rest of his people will stay away from here. I don’t care where else the whites want to be, as long as they leave us and our land alone.”

  Isatai yawned. “Maybe you think too much. Now, why don’t you look outside for me? It’s just getting dark. Is the fire star still up there?”

  Quanah looked and came back into the tipi. “It’s there. Everyone is getting used to it, I think.”

  “They’d better look now, because very soon it will be gone.”

  • • •

  THE MEN OF ALL THREE TRIBES gathered back in the medicine lodge. After the defections of the first night, and with some too weakened by the sun dance experience to leave their blankets, about six hundred remained. Quanah noticed that now Mochi was among the Cheyenne warriors. The entrance had been left open so that the air inside would clear, but there were lingering smells. The chiefs and leaders sat close to the fire and smoked pipes while the other men gathered behind them. After a while Isatai came in, again painted yellow and blue and wearing his bonnet of scalps.

  “The spirits have spoken and we’ve listened,” he said. “We’ve had the sun dance and even a star on fire.”

  “Which is still there,” Lon
e Wolf said pointedly.

  “Only for a short while longer. Right now we must prove to the spirits that we’re going to act. All three of our tribes will unite and make a great attack that drives away the white men. The People are ready for this. Are the Cheyenne and Kiowa agreed?”

  Gray Beard, Stone Calf, Whirlwind, and Medicine Water all nodded.

  “We are with you,” Medicine Water said.

  “And the Kiowa?” Isatai asked.

  “This was a good sun dance,” Lone Wolf said. “But we still aren’t sure. The fire star concerns us. There has never been one like it in memory. We think we’ll go back to our main camp, where our medicine man Mamanti chose to stay instead of coming here. We want to ask Mamanti what he thinks about the fire star.”

  Quanah suppressed a groan. He knew Mamanti, who hated Isatai, would insist that the star was a sign for the Kiowa not to join the alliance. “That will take too long, and also insult the spirits,” he said.

  Lone Wolf waved his hand dismissingly in Quanah’s direction. “You’re a warrior, not a Spirit Messenger, or medicine man.”

  “So only the fire star prevents your agreement?” Isatai asked. When the Kiowa chief nodded, Isatai stood up and said, “Then let’s go outside.” He led the way, and when they were all standing among the women and children, Isatai pointed up.

  “There is the fire star,” he declared. “Look—do you see it?”

  “Of course we do,” Lone Wolf snapped. “This is five nights that it’s burned.”

  “And what did I say of the fifth night?” Isatai asked.

  “That it would be gone, but there it still is.”

  “Yes. There it is.” Isatai threw back his head, spread out his arms, and began to hum. He hummed louder and louder and then his body began to shake and everyone stared at him in wonder, even Quanah. Every eye was on the fat man. Then, suddenly, Isatai raised his right arm, pointed dramatically toward the sky, and shouted, “Look!”

  They did, and as they watched, the fire star vanished.

  “As the spirits promised,” Isatai said solemnly. “Now, all warriors come back inside.”

  Everyone was staggered, especially Quanah. He told himself that it was just incredible luck, that there were no such things as genuine signs from the spirits. But the disappearance of the fire star was such a perfectly timed coincidence that he couldn’t help wondering. He’d heard about the white man’s Christian religion. Its single god mostly told them what they were not allowed to do. Indian faith was better because it offered so many possibilities instead.

  When the tribal leaders were around the fire again, their followers grouped behind them, Isatai asked Lone Wolf and Satanta with great courtesy, “Are you with us?”

  “Yes,” Satanta said, and Lone Wolf added, “The spirits are indeed with you, with us.”

  “They are,” Isatai agreed. “Now we must ask the spirits for more guidance. We will make a great attack. But where?”

  That was Quanah’s cue. “It must be a place all the whites know about. Not a little camp. I think maybe we should go see where Bad Hand is, which white man’s fort he and his soldiers live in right now, and attack him there. A big victory over Bad Hand with many dead soldiers—that would scare away the whites. Let’s surprise Bad Hand.”

  For a moment everyone talked at once. There was significant support for choosing Bad Hand. All the warriors respected him—many feared him, though they would never say so—and it was true that if he and his soldiers were wiped out, the other whites would be very afraid.

  Then Isatai spoke again. “The spirits are telling me that they don’t agree with you, Quanah. Bad Hand may have his soldiers divided so that they are in several places, all of them far away. The spirits want something different. Think: Where, closer to our land, is there a large group of white men all together?”

  “There is one not far from the place of the strange walls,” Otter Belt said.

  “I saw them as they came,” Iseeo said. He was not a Kiowa chief, so he had to push his way into the circle by the fire. “There were a hundred of them, maybe more, the white hunters with the long hair. I think that’s what my vision means. I saw us killing white men with long hair. We should attack their camp.”

  “Wait,” Quanah said. “Lone Wolf, Bad Hand’s soldiers killed your son. If we lead this war party down to where they are near Mexico, we can have revenge.”

  The Kiowa chief thought for a moment. “I would like to see Bad Hand dead and my son avenged, but I think he would have all his soldiers spread out in many places and it would be hard to catch them all together.”

  “Yes, that would be hard, and the white camp is also much closer,” Quanah agreed. “Still, are these long-haired white hunters the right ones to attack? I’m not sure.”

  “The spirits are sure, Quanah,” Iseeo insisted. “Think about it, these hunters coming here to kill all the remaining buffalo, which is an insult to us all, and now I’ve also had my vision.”

  “Well,” Quanah said doubtfully, “I thought you said these hunters had many guns.”

  Isatai said, “The spirits say not to worry about that, Quanah. They are giving me magic. Here are the things I will do. First, I will make it so that when we attack, all of the white hunters will be asleep and we’ll take them by surprise. The spirits don’t care about how many guns they have. If any are awake and shoot at us, I will bless all of your bodies with magic so their bullets cannot harm you. Finally, if we need to shoot a lot, I will belch up ammunition. Kiowa and Cheyenne friends, ask among the Quahadis here. They have seen me do this.”

  Quanah thought, They saw what they wanted to see. All his skepticism about spirits and signs came flooding back. Still, he spoke in support of Isatai’s contrived miracle. “It’s true, Isatai vomited forth bullets.” He paused, then said, trying to sound grudging, “All right. I suppose I must submit to the wisdom of the spirits and to the judgment of everyone else here. We will kill all of the hunters and that will chase away the rest of the white men.”

  Everyone was excited, and there were shouts of “When? When do we fight?”

  “I’ll ask the spirits,” Isatai said. He closed his eyes and hummed while everyone else waited. After a moment he smiled broadly and said, “The last full moon is just past. We must prepare, and we will make this fight with the hunters on the next one.”

  “Agreed, then,” said Gray Beard of the Cheyenne, and all of the men in the lodge cheered.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When Billy and his scouting party announced the good news, the mood of the Adobe Walls camp instantly transformed from torpor to frenzy. The hide men summoned their crews, telling them to hurry and grab their gear so that they could stake out the best possible shooting sites along the line that the great herd was expected to follow as it made its slow, majestic way through the area. It seemed to McLendon that any sense of camaraderie had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of cutthroat competition. Just as in Dodge, the philosophy of the buffalo hunters was every man for himself. Brick Bond even announced that he and his men were leaving camp for good—they’d ride a day or two east and commence shooting that much sooner. When they had a few wagonloads of hides, they’d freight those back to Adobe Walls and sell them to Myers and Leonard. The Bond teamsters would use some of that money to buy supplies and ammunition.

  “I’m personally shut of this boring place,” Bond declared. “I’ll send my crew in here to sell our hides, but when next you see me, Billy Dixon, it’ll be back in a Dodge City saloon this winter with a plump whore on each side and a third on my lap.”

  “Don’t do that,” Billy pleaded. “You know our plan for the camp. Everybody goes out to shoot during the day and comes back here at night. That provides security against Indian attack.”

  “To hell with the Indians. There ain’t been any savages seen of late, and if some do intrude on my hunt, I’ll blow them away like buf
falo. Now, stand aside.”

  Bond wasn’t the only separatist. Dutch Henry Borne took his crew east, too, as did Sam Smith and Jim McKinley. When they did, members of Billy’s own crew began to fret.

  “As we sit here twiddling thumbs and waiting on the appearance of the herd, them others is out shooting and skinning already,” Mike McCabe said. “Billy, we got to get out there too. We lose money every hour that we delay.”

  Billy gave in. He told McCabe, Frenchy, Charley Armitage, Bat, and McLendon to pack their gear. After promising Jim Hanrahan and Fred Leonard that they’d return in a few days, he led his crew east for about ten miles, following the twists and turns of the Canadian. Billy, Charley, and Masterson were on horseback. McLendon and Frenchy took an empty wagon. When they found a promising spot, Billy said to set up camp. That took several hours. It was easy to pitch tents about a mile from the sloping hill that Billy intended to use as a shooting perch, but there was also a latrine to dig and space to be cleared for pegging and drying hides. Frenchy wanted a fire pit so he could slow-cook meat, and McLendon had to help dig that. By the time they were done, it was almost dark.

  “Reckon the buffs will reach here tomorrow, Billy?” Bat asked as the six men reclined around the campfire drinking coffee.

  “I expect so, probably before noon,” Billy said. “I think I heard some reports not that far east of here—probably Brick Bond or one of the others taking their first turns.”