Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  Gray Beard and Whirlwind rode at the head of the Cheyenne procession. Quanah was surprised to see that their medicine man, Mamanti, had made the trip too. Mamanti and Isatai eyed each other warily as Quanah made a short speech of welcome.

  “We’re ready to fight,” Gray Beard said. “Are the whites still in their great camp?”

  “At night they are,” Quanah said. He surreptitiously scanned the Cheyenne, hoping for a glimpse of Mochi, but apparently she was somewhere at the back of the group with the other women. Her husband, Medicine Water, though, was prominent in the first ranks, riding with the rest of the fierce-looking dog soldiers. “We’re happy to see our Cheyenne friends.”

  “I heard you had some trouble with the Kiowa,” Gray Beard said. “Don’t look surprised. We’ve been watching. We wondered if all the remaining whites might have run away after the Kiowa killed some of them. You should have kept the Kiowa away from the white hunters, Quanah. They could have ruined everything.”

  “I did what I could. It doesn’t matter now. The whites are still there.”

  • • •

  THAT NIGHT the People, the Cheyenne, and the Kiowa enjoyed a feast. They ate great quantities of buffalo—the whites weren’t the only ones enjoying fine hunting—and especially enjoyed cracking and sucking clean the marrow bones. Afterward, chiefs and war leaders from all three tribes gathered to discuss the coming fight. Isatai and Mamanti were there too.

  “In two more nights it will be the full moon,” Quanah said. “We’ll take the warriors down to a good place by the wide river, and there we’ll prepare, then, when all is ready, ride quietly along a creek that runs into the meadow where the white camp is. It will be easy to conceal ourselves in the trees and brush on its banks. That will bring us very close, and then we’ll surprise and kill their guards. Just at sunrise, we attack.”

  “Before the attack, I will say words and my magic will make sure all the white men are asleep,” Isatai said. “There is no magic so great as spirit magic. It is stronger than the weak powers of those who talk to dead owls.” He glared at Mamanti, who glowered back.

  “Yes, the magic will be important,” Quanah said hastily. He feared that any squabbling between Isatai and Mamanti would distract from making battle plans. “I thought that tomorrow a few of us might ride down toward the white camp to scout it one last time.”

  The scouting party included Quanah, Lone Wolf and Iseeo of the Kiowa, and Medicine Water of the Cheyenne. To Quanah’s delight, as they were leaving, Mochi ran up and insisted on coming too.

  “We’re going to kill many white men,” she said. “My knife is very sharp.”

  “Mochi likes to use her knife on white men,” Medicine Water said. “That way she can look into their eyes as they die.”

  The five Indians rode south much of the day, taking care to approach the meadow after dark. Quanah knew the way well. He pointed out various landmarks, especially the high bluff north of the white camp, a fine vantage point. When they reached the creek that flowed just above the camp, they tethered their horses and walked the last mile. Easing their way up the side of the bluff, they crawled on their bellies along its flat top until they reached the edge and could look down into the camp. Since the moon was almost full, it offered some illumination on the buildings below—a big grass-and-mud one with a picket corral was closest to the creek, and then a small picket structure, another of sod, and finally a second picket building. There were lights in all of them. The sharp sound of metal banging on metal came from the small picket building, and raucous male conversation and laughter emanated from the others.

  “The white men are happy,” Lone Wolf observed to Quanah. “They aren’t mourning their dead anymore.”

  “Soon they’ll be dead themselves,” Mochi gloated. Her voice, so close to his ear, made Quanah start; she had moved very silently to his side. “I want to do it now. It will be very hard to wait another day and night.”

  “Patience,” Medicine Water said. “This looks like a good place to fight.” But after a moment he said, “There’s something wrong down there. Do the rest of you see it?”

  “Yes,” Quanah said. “Where are their guards?”

  “Did they never have any here?” Medicine Water asked.

  “After the Kiowa killings they did, always one at each end of the meadow and also one or two who walked from one end to the other. I have watched here on four other nights, and it was always the same.”

  “Isn’t this a good thing?” Iseeo asked. “We can surprise the white hunters more easily now, since they’re fools and no longer keeping watch.”

  “Maybe they still have guards and we just can’t see them,” Lone Wolf suggested. “They could be hiding themselves in new places. I’ve known white men to dig holes in the ground and pull branches on top.”

  Medicine Water said he and Mochi would creep down into the meadow to look around. The others should stay on top of the bluff. Quanah said he would come with them, but Mochi told him that they would be fine by themselves. Quanah and the two Kiowa listened to the white men whooping it up down below while they waited. Finally, Mochi and Medicine Water returned.

  “I’m sure that there are no guards,” Medicine Water said. “We looked carefully and would not have missed them.”

  Iseeo was pleased, but Lone Wolf expressed concern.

  “I have little respect for the whites, but I can’t believe that they would not have someone watching. Maybe this is a trick. They guessed we’re going to attack, and they want us to believe they are not prepared.”

  “This is possible,” Medicine Water said. “Quanah, how many of the white hunters are left down there?”

  “I think maybe three times my fingers, or four if some more came in while I was away greeting you. Not enough to fight all the warriors we’ll have with us.”

  “That closest hut is very big,” Medicine Water said. “Lots of white men with good guns could be hiding in there. You’re right, they could have come when you weren’t here to see them. There could be more than you know about—many more. If there are twice as many as you think, and they all have good guns and they’re not asleep like your Spirit Messenger promises, then it will be a harder fight than you promised.”

  Quanah said crossly, “I think that these hunters are just stupid people and no longer think that they need guards.”

  “Maybe. But until we know how many white men with guns are down there, the Cheyenne will wait to fight.”

  Quanah felt a surge of panic. His plan was in jeopardy. “But you’ve come here. The Kiowa are ready, and the People too. We’re going to have a great victory and drive away the white men forever. The spirits are guiding us.”

  “Unless we can count the white men, the spirits will have to guide the Kiowa and Comanche without the Cheyenne,” Medicine Water said.

  “What do you want me to do, walk down there among them?” Quanah asked. “Should I go in all those huts and ask them to stay still while I do?”

  “Wait until morning,” Lone Wolf suggested. “When the sun is up, maybe any white men who are hiding inside will come out.”

  “Maybe they won’t,” Medicine Water said. “If they’re trying to trick us, and if they think that we’re watching, they’ll keep hidden.”

  “What, then?” Quanah asked. “Are the rest of us supposed to walk away like the Cheyenne?”

  “If the Cheyenne don’t fight, then the Kiowa may not,” Lone Wolf said. “I think we need to ride back so I can talk about this with my people.”

  “No one has to walk away,” Mochi said. Quanah had forgotten about her. Now she pulled at her husband’s shoulder and said to Medicine Water, “Come with me.” They withdrew to the back of the bluff and talked quietly. It seemed to Quanah, as he anxiously watched and tried unsuccessfully to hear what they were saying, that Mochi was trying to convince Medicine Water of something. Finally, he shrugged,
and they came back to where Quanah, Lone Wolf, and Iseeo waited.

  “I need to go to the stream,” she said. They followed her down the side of the bluff. When they reached the creek, Mochi did a curious thing. She cupped water in her hands and dripped it on herself, taking care not to make any splashing sounds. Then, when her hair, exposed skin, and deerskin dress were wet, she rolled on the ground, splotching herself with the resulting mud. When she was done, she walked to her husband and told Medicine Water, “Tear it.” He made rips in the sleeves and along the hem of her dress. “Do I look all right?” she asked him. Medicine Water wet his own hand in the river, scooped up some dirt, and wiped the moist sludge on her face and hair.

  “Yes, now,” he said. There was sadness in his voice.

  “I’m going to count the white men,” Mochi told the others. “You better hide, because when they see me, they may come looking for more of us.” She embraced Medicine Water, pushed her way through the brush along the river, and walked toward the buildings in the meadow.

  TWENTY-SIX

  On the night of June twenty-fifth, most of the men in Adobe Walls got drunk to some degree. Earlier that day, Billy Dixon and Jim Hanrahan had called everyone into the saloon to make an announcement.

  “The main part of the herd is above and west of us now,” Billy said. “We’ve had a bad patch and lost some friends, but in general the hunting has been good, the best in more than a year. We’re all making money. Now we got to think ahead a little. Going out in one big group has worked well. There’s been no further sign of Indians. So maybe it’s time to stop this going out and coming back in on the same day. Repeated trips cut down on shooting time.”

  Billy suggested that all the remaining hunters and their crews buy supplies for a month and follow the herd north and west, making temporary camps as they went along. The teamsters would come as well. In two weeks their wagons would bring the hides back to Adobe Walls, where the merchants and their staffs kept the stores and blacksmith shop in operation. Fred Leonard would purchase the hides, crediting each hunting crew for its share. Then the teamsters would haul the hides back to Dodge, drop them off at the railroad for shipment east, and return west to wherever the hunters were. Because the merchants would still be in place at Adobe Walls, the teamsters would stop there on the way back and pick up additional supplies for the crews. In two more weeks the cycle would be repeated. After that, the herd would probably turn back toward the east, and they’d kill all of the buffalo that they could before fall turned into winter and hunting season ended. Then everyone would close up Adobe Walls, return to Dodge City, and enjoy a comfortable winter spending their hard-earned money.

  “This makes all the sense in the world,” Hanrahan added. “We’re all businessmen here, and smart businessmen look for ways to maximize profit. We do it the way Billy just described, and everyone’s pockets will be overflowing, because you’ll always be right where the buffalo are.”

  “Jim, I agree that you and Fred Leonard and the other shop men will have overflowing pockets, but the rest of us still haven’t seen an actual coin,” Bermuda Carlyle said. “I think I speak for at least a few of the others when I say that there remain hard feelings about Fred’s actions following the attacks. He acted like our credit with his store mattered for nothing. How can we be sure that while we’re out in the wilds for all this time, he won’t one day just skedaddle away with his ledgers and leave us empty-handed?”

  “Why, I’d never—” Leonard said.

  Carlyle snapped, “Yes, you would,” and took a threatening step toward him.

  Billy stepped between them. “I had my own hard feelings with Fred about this, and we’ve come to a satisfactory agreement. After we head out—I think we’ll need tomorrow to prepare; let’s go on the twenty-seventh—Fred will travel back to Dodge with the teamsters and the first load of skins under the new arrangement. He’s going to go to the bank there and withdraw in cash all that’s owed to everyone, then bring it back here to Adobe Walls. This means that, by the middle of July, any man who wishes can demand in cash all that he’s got coming. Will that provide you with sufficient peace of mind?”

  “It will,” Carlyle said. “I’ll rest easy on it now.”

  McLendon’s heart gave a happy lurch. In mid-July he could quit Billy’s crew, collect his earnings in cash from Fred Leonard—about five hundred dollars, he estimated—join the teamsters on their next trip to Dodge City, and then make his way to Mountain View and Gabrielle.

  “Good thinking, Billy,” he yelled. “A fine solution!” McLendon’s pleasure didn’t extend to joining in the general rush to the bar to purchase celebratory drinks. He needed every cent to finance his trip to Arizona Territory and, hopefully, two fares to California after that. As McLendon watched the crowd descend on bartender Oscar Shepherd, he heard sniffling behind him. Hannah Olds was weeping into a linen handkerchief.

  “Why, what is it, Mrs. Olds?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s just that I’d hoped Mr. Dixon would say we’re closing up this dreadful place now and going back home. My husband, William, is feeling even more poorly, and I haven’t slept soundly since those men were butchered by the savages. This is no fit place for decent people, Mr. McLendon. There’s the smell of death to it.”

  McLendon patted her bony shoulder. “That’s just the smell of hides. The stacks outside are easily fifty feet high, and the wind is blowing the stink in this direction. Don’t despair. You heard Billy—in a matter of months you’ll be back in Dodge.”

  Mrs. Olds dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’m not so sure. This is an evil place. Well, these men may want some supper. I’d best get back to my kitchen.”

  • • •

  A FEW OF THEM did buy supper for a dollar a plate. Despite her fatalistic mood, Mrs. Olds prepared a savory venison stew and hot, flaky biscuits. But most of the men wanted to drink. It was a relief to have a new plan, one that not only made sense but provided a time frame for leaving Adobe Walls for good. No one had really felt comfortable there since the raids on the outlying camps. Jim Hanrahan told Oscar Shepherd to pour with a liberal hand. By midnight almost every man in camp was at least tipsy, and a few were stumbling drunk. The only completely sober ones were William Olds, who’d long been in bed, and McLendon, who asked Billy Dixon, “Who’s supposed to be out on guard tonight?”

  Billy rarely took more than a few drinks, but tonight was an exception. After thinking for a moment, he replied, “I guess Masterson and Shorty Scheidler. You see them around?”

  Bat and Shorty were seated at a table in the far corner of the saloon, passing a bottle back and forth. There was only about an inch of whiskey left in it.

  “You two need to go out and stand watch,” McLendon said. “Let me take that bottle back to Oscar.”

  Bat jerked the bottle out of McLendon’s reach. “Don’t be interrupting us, C.M. Me and Shorty are discussing opening our own whorehouse back in Dodge.”

  “So we never have to do without women again,” Shorty said. “My pecker’s so itchy, I can’t hardly think straight.” He took the bottle from Bat and drained it.

  “I doubt it’s your pecker that’s got you in this present condition,” McLendon said. “How can you two be watchful, drunk as you are?”

  “Well, we can’t,” Bat said. “Go tell Billy that we’re indisposed.” He pronounced it “indishposhed.”

  McLendon saw that Bat’s eyes were glazed. Shorty’s weren’t. They burned with glassy intensity. Liquor turned Bat clownish, but Shorty, McLendon realized, was a mean drunk. “You two sit there,” he said. “I’ll go speak to Billy.”

  To McLendon’s surprise, Billy wasn’t concerned. “Ah, well, it’s a party tonight. I expect that we’re okay unguarded. There’s been no sign of Indians. Let Shorty and Bat have their fun. In a little while, maybe you and I can go out and take a look. Meanwhile, have a drink.”

  “Thanks anyway.
”

  “You’re trying to save all your money to go see that girl in Arizona. Have something anyway. I’m buying.”

  McLendon saw no reason to refuse Billy’s generosity. He had a beer, and then another. They tasted good and Billy was willing to continue treating him. After a while he got caught up in the general hilarity. When some of them started singing “Buffalo Gals,” he sang, too, and then joined in the general merriment at how terrible he sounded. It occurred to him that these were fine people—even Shorty Scheidler, who kept drinking hard and looking meaner. If he hadn’t had to rush off soon to Gabrielle, he might have been glad to remain in their company.

  • • •

  SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, Billy Tyler went outside to take a piss. A few minutes later, he stuck his head back inside the saloon door and yelped, “Looky here! See what we got ourselves!” Then he hauled in a cringing Indian woman, dragging her by the arm. She was crusted with filth and wore a ragged deerskin dress. Most of the men got up, clustered around her, and leered.

  “The rest of you can look all you like, but I’m going first,” Bat Masterson announced. He was unsteady as he stepped forward and reached for the woman’s arm.

  Tyler tugged her back. “I’m the one that found her, Masterson. You can damn well wait.”

  The Indian woman shrank away. Her head was bowed, and McLendon, watching from the fringe of the crowd, saw that there was a long scar on her neck. “Billy, what is this?” he asked Dixon. “They can’t do what it looks like they’re about to.”

  “It’s going to happen,” Billy said. “Stray squaw comes up on a camp like this, it means she’s hungry and wants a handout after ever’body’s done screwing her.”

  “It’s not right. If she’s hungry, let’s just give her some food.”

  Billy looked past McLendon to where Masterson, Tyler, and now Mike McCabe were squabbling over the first turn. “It wouldn’t do to deny the boys, C.M. This is just the way it is. She knew what was going to happen when she came here. What worries me more, she might not be all alone. Come on, you and me’ll go out and take a look.”