Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  “Quiet, Maurice,” Isaac commanded, and the dog backed away. The taller Scheidler brother rubbed his eyes. “Boys, what brings you around so early in the day? Shorty and me always find it difficult to wake up.”

  “We want to talk with your brother,” Bat said. “Shorty, are you feeling at all sociable this morning?”

  “God, no,” the younger Scheidler moaned. “How much whiskey did we get on the outside of last night?”

  “A considerable amount is what I recall,” Bat said. “Which, of course, led to some regrettable events. C.M. and I are wondering as to your recollection of them, and your current disposition in regards to us.”

  “Ah,” Shorty said. He thought for a moment. “I’ve got the damndest lump on the side of my head, McLendon. It was impolite of you to smash me with that rifle butt.”

  McLendon almost pointed out that it was much worse to beat and rape women, but thought better of it. Bat was right. What was done was done, and now it was important to avoid any additional trouble. “I’m sorry for that. If it helps, this apology is particularly painful as a result of your blows to my mouth.”

  Shorty leaned down from the wagon bed and inspected McLendon’s puffy split lip. “Well, I’m glad to see I got in a lick or two of my own. After all, it was only a squaw. Do you admit that now?”

  McLendon nodded because he couldn’t choke out words.

  Shorty smiled. “All right, then I’m regretful too. When I take a few glasses, it’s my tendency to become irritable. Pals again, fellows?” He reached out and shook McLendon’s and Masterson’s hands in turn.

  “Well, if that’s settled, let’s all go back to sleep,” Bat suggested. The Scheidlers rolled back up in their blankets in the wagon bed; Maurice whined mournfully as McLendon followed Masterson away. Bat went back to sleep, but McLendon knew that he couldn’t. He wandered over to Myers and Leonard’s, where Old Man Keeler fixed him a breakfast of coffee and bacon. His split lip stung as he chewed and swallowed.

  • • •

  THE DAY QUICKLY TURNED uncomfortably warm. By the time everyone was up, the slightest movement brought perspiration. But the camp mood was good. Everyone was ready for the next big stage of the summer. Both stores did brisk business as the hunters and their crews stocked up on ammunition and other supplies. They stacked these things in corners and along the store walls, everybody knowing where his pile was and each respecting the property of the others. There was a great deal of excited conversation. Everyone seemed glad that there was a plan in place, one that virtually guaranteed both profit and personal safety. Despite his throbbing head and lip, McLendon got caught up in the camaraderie, only stepping back from the chatter and laughter when others made reference to the squaw they’d diddled the previous night.

  Around noon, Jim Hanrahan announced that he’d found some weaknesses in the sod roof over his saloon. He could see daylight through parts of it, he complained, because there wasn’t enough dirt on top. Oscar Shepherd and Mike Welsh, who worked in the saloon, began digging a fresh supply, and Hanrahan promised two bottles of beer to anyone who’d help with the repairs. Billy Ogg and Jim McKinley took him up on it. With his headache easing, McLendon helped, too, though he intended to pass on the beer.

  The work was harder than McLendon had anticipated. Not just any dirt would do for the roof. Hanrahan wanted the dark, denser earth near the banks of the creek. Shepherd and Welsh dug it up, and McLendon was given the task of hauling the dirt in a wheelbarrow from the creek bank to Hanrahan’s saloon, where he dumped the load on the ground. Ogg and McKinley filled buckets and clambered up a ladder to the roof, where they painstakingly spread the dirt from one side to the other in a thick layer. Each bucket covered only a foot or two, and it was a long roof, so McLendon had to make many trips back and forth. The wheel on the front of the barrow was wobbly and it was hard to push the contraption in a straight line, which added to the chore. It was mid-afternoon before Hanrahan pronounced himself satisfied.

  “There’s a good two feet of protection on there, a considerable improvement,” he said.

  Billy Tyler, a veteran teamster, asked if maybe there wasn’t too much roof dirt now. “The weight of it might split the ridgepole,” he said. “That happens, the whole roof could cave in and kill everybody inside.”

  “Oh, the ridgepole is good, stout cottonwood,” Hanrahan said. “It will hold almost infinite weight, so there’s no danger of collapse.”

  • • •

  MCLENDON SPENT the rest of the afternoon helping Billy Dixon with the horses. All of them needed to be curried and have their hooves checked. A few needed to be reshod, and Tom O’Keefe took care of that. The blacksmith had dozens of shoes ready for use, but had to fit them to the hooves of individual horses. Like humans, their feet varied in size. It was critical for hoof and shoe to size up perfectly; an ill-fitting shoe might soon come loose, or else pebbles or thorns might work in between shoe and hoof, laming the horse. So, with each animal, O’Keefe measured hoof against shoe, then briefly returned the shoe to the fire until it was heated enough to tap into a shape that perfectly matched the hoof of the horse. Shoeing each animal took a half hour or more, which was why O’Keefe charged a dollar per horse’s leg. The sound of iron being pounded reverberated all day from his boxy blacksmith shop.

  As he and Billy worked and made cordial conversation, McLendon thought that his boss seemed preoccupied. Finally in the late afternoon, when all the Dixon crew horses were ready to go, he asked Billy what was bothering him.

  “Oh, I just have this sense,” Billy said. His red setter, Fannie, lay on her back beside him, grunting with pleasure as Billy scratched her belly. “The Indian girl last night. I know there are always some squaws out on their own for whatever reason, but those women usually look a lot more badly used than that one did. Her ribs weren’t poking out from starvation, and in an odd sort of way she seemed pretty. I know we didn’t find any other Indians out there when we went looking, but still.” He switched his scratching from Fannie’s belly to behind her ears, and she liked that too. “Tonight we better set up a strong guard, just in case. And when we set out in the morning, we should be especially watchful. There was just something odd about a squaw showing up like that.”

  “None of the other boys seemed to think so.”

  “Those I’ve mentioned it to have pronounced me overcautious, but where that woman is concerned, they’re still thinking with their dangles. By the by, I heard about you and Shorty scrapping. Bat mentioned it. You were correct in making things right with Shorty this morning, but you were also right taking him on last night. You’re a good fellow, Cash McLendon.”

  “Thanks,” McLendon said, wondering if Billy would still feel that way when he quit the crew in a few more weeks. Of course, he could still choose to stay for the entire summer, but winning back Gabrielle trumped loyalty to Billy Dixon.

  • • •

  JUST BEFORE DUSK, many of the men took their horses out of the picket corral and tethered them just outside of camp where the grass grew thickest. The horses could comfortably graze all night, which meant that in the morning the expedition would not be delayed while the animals were fed oats.

  There was less drinking that night. Everybody wanted a clear head in the morning. But there was still some beer consumed. Around midnight, almost everyone went off to sleep. Most chose to curl up outside. It was a fearfully hot night. All the doors of the camp buildings were left wide-open to the slight breeze, but it was still stifling inside. Billy asked a few of the most veteran frontiersmen to stand guard, and in particular to watch the tree line along the creek, where Billy said any Indians were most likely to launch an attack. Bermuda Carlyle, Mike McCabe, and Dutch Henry said they would. Billy said that of course he’d join them, but Carlyle told Billy to try and get a good night’s sleep instead.

  “You’re the leader here,” Carlyle said. “We’ll need you fresh in the morning t
o make sure things get off as they should.”

  With the exception of the guards, the last four up were Billy Dixon, McLendon, and the Scheidler brothers. When Isaac and Shorty said they were off to sleep in their wagon, Billy suggested that they first move it farther into camp, maybe down in front of the saloon.

  “In the event of attack, you’d likely be too exposed in your present position,” Billy said.

  Isaac was inclined to agree, but Shorty argued that it was late, he was tired from loading supplies into the wagon—cases of canned goods, sacks of dried fruit, other food for the morning expedition—and besides, there were lookouts who’d give plenty of warning if any Indians approached. Isaac said that made sense, and the brothers trooped off. Maurice loped between them, apparently preferring rest to another assault on McLendon’s leg.

  “Fannie and me are going to sleep beside my wagon outside Hanrahan’s,” Billy said to McLendon. “Join us?”

  “I think that I will. My rifle’s still inside the saloon, though.”

  “It’ll keep there until morning. Keep your Colt close to hand, just in case. Meanwhile, you go on ahead, I’m going to go get my favorite saddle horse and tether it to the wagon. That way I’ll be ready to mount up at very first light.”

  “I’ll go with you,” McLendon said, and they made their way to the corral. Fannie trotted alongside. Billy found his mount and led it back toward the wagon.

  “Back in Texas, they call this a Comanche Moon,” he said, pointing up into the night sky. “Full moon, that’s when the Co-manch generally attack. I suspect that’s another reason I feel uneasy.”

  Despite the heat, McLendon shivered.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Several scouts rode ahead of the war party. Besides the white men that they intended to attack at the meadow camp, there were also scattered smaller groups of white hunters in the area. The plan was to fall on these groups if they encountered them, taking care to see that none escaped to warn the camp in the meadow. But all they saw was a herd of several dozen buffalo that had strayed far from the main herd. Quanah and Gray Beard exchanged glances, and when Quanah nodded, Gray Beard sent Medicine Water and the other dog soldiers off to kill some. It was late afternoon and a good time to stop and eat fresh meat.

  Within minutes, the dog soldiers had most of the buffalo dead on the ground before them, all of the beasts taken down with arrows and lances so that the sound of gunfire would not alert any white men in the area to the war party’s presence. Usually it was the job of women to skin and gut the buffalo, then cut up and cook the meat. Mochi was the only woman in the band. She helped kill the buffalo and did some of the butchering, too, joined by the other dog soldiers. In time of war, it was not shameful for men to help with such tasks. Some of the People and Kiowa built cooking fires. Since every scrap of edible buffalo flesh was used, including the livers and hearts, there was enough meat for all to eat their fill. Afterward Quanah, Lone Wolf, Gray Beard, and Medicine Water told their tribesmen to rest. They were not far away from the meadow camp and there was a while to wait before making a dawn attack.

  “We don’t want to get too close, then ask our young men to wait,” Lone Wolf cautioned. “Their blood is up and they’ll want to fight as soon as they see the huts of the white hunters.”

  “We’ll stay here until the moon is high,” Quanah said. “That way everyone will be rested.”

  The warriors prepared for battle in different ways. Veterans of many fights carefully inspected their weapons, testing bowstrings for tautness, arrow fletchings for stability, and knife blades for keenness. They counted their bullets to know for certain how many shots they had. Once this was done, they calmly sat and smoked and talked quietly among themselves. Younger men who were mostly still untested in war checked their weapons, too, and then paced nervously or stared hard at the horizon, willing themselves to be brave and bring honor to themselves in the hours ahead. Mostly the People, Kiowa, and Cheyenne stayed with their own—gaps opened between the groups of tribesmen, which was to be expected, since their customs were so different. But Gray Beard motioned for Quanah to walk with him a little, away from the others so that no one would overhear.

  “You’ve done well, Quanah,” he said. “You understand what a leader must do, using others.”

  Quanah’s eyes narrowed. He said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I understand it all,” Gray Beard said. “You saw that the only chance to make the whites leave us alone was to fight them a different way. Even though the People don’t believe any other tribe is their equal, you came to us and the Kiowa anyway because you needed our help. When the Comanche don’t need us anymore, you’ll fight us or ignore us, whatever you decide. But for now you call us your friends.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s all right. We want to chase away the white men too. For now, they’re the enemy. We’ll worry about everything else later. You were very persuasive. If we didn’t know the Comanche so well, we might have believed you. Maybe the Kiowa did. But not the Cheyenne.”

  Quanah swallowed hard. “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you. The whites are the enemy of us all. We can fight among ourselves again after we drive them away. Meanwhile, those of us who know better will pretend just like you that we believe in your fat prophet and all his talk about spirits and magic. Look at him there.”

  Quanah looked. Isatai was sitting apart even from the warriors of the People. His eyes were closed and he was humming so loudly that Quanah and Lone Wolf could hear him even though they were many paces away.

  “You used his foolishness to make everyone do what you wanted,” Gray Beard said. “I approve. If this attack fails, he’ll be blamed instead of you. Everyone will say it was his magic that was wrong, not Quanah. He’ll be killed or driven away and you will still be respected, still be a leader. Very, very good.”

  “The attack won’t fail,” Quanah said. “There are too many of us and the white hunters are going to be surprised.”

  Gray Beard patted the younger man on the shoulder. “I think so too. And, of course, we both know that winning tomorrow won’t be enough. We’ll kill all of them and take their guns, but that won’t scare away the rest of the whites. You think that, after winning this fight, the warriors will be so happy that they’ll agree when you say we need to make another attack somewhere else. And if we do that and win again, and then two or three more times after that, maybe the whites really will go away. That’s your real idea, the one you haven’t told anyone else.”

  Quanah couldn’t help smiling. “Next time, I think maybe we will fight whites near an Army camp. We’ll kill the people and the soldiers who come to save them. There’s a place to the north. The whites call it Dodge. You understand what I’m doing, Gray Beard, and that you help the Cheyenne when you help me. You’re a smart man.”

  “Leaders must be, and maybe after this everyone will call you a great leader. Now let’s go back to the others.”

  • • •

  WHEN NIGHT FELL, there were more preparations. Almost everyone had put on paint before leaving the main village, but now they daubed on more. Warriors among the People traditionally coated every inch of exposed skin with black paint, which they believed intimidated their enemies. Isatai didn’t put on any paint. He said that the spirits wanted him to do this just before the fight began. The Kiowa and Cheyenne adorned themselves in brighter colors, mostly blues and some red. But Bear Mountain, the hulking Kiowa, shocked everyone by completely covering himself with black paint.

  “I do this in honor of our Comanche brothers,” he announced. “And I also want to honor our great chief, Satanta, who will be with us in this battle but won’t fight himself. Satanta has given me his metal horn to blow into during the fight, the one that he took many years ago from a white soldier. When you hear the noise from this horn, fight even harder.” There were whoops of approval.<
br />
  “The Cheyenne have a gift for our friend Quanah,” Gray Beard said. “The honesty in his voice when he told us that the Comanche now think the Cheyenne are their equals has touched our hearts. So we give him this to wear in the fight.” Medicine Water and Mochi came forward carrying a long, many-feathered headdress just like the ones worn by Cheyenne chiefs.

  “Put it on,” Mochi said. Quanah did. He didn’t want to fight while wearing such a cumbersome thing, but there was nothing to do but smile and thank Gray Beard for the present.

  • • •

  WHEN THE NIGHT was at its darkest and the full moon was high enough, they rode on again in formation, four abreast, with the Cheyenne leading, then the People, and the Kiowa last. Quanah and Lone Wolf rode in front with the Cheyenne chiefs. There was some whispering in the ranks, but mostly everyone was quiet, thinking of the fight ahead. Almost immediately they entered some low hills and followed the river cutting through them. As they did, there was some rustling in the grass and brush and small nocturnal creatures fled. Some skunks scurried right in front of the riders. Several of the young Cheyenne braves near the front of the procession laughed and loosed arrows. They were very nervous, and shooting at these animals seemed a good way to relieve some of the tension.

  Almost immediately, there was a loud howl. Isatai had been riding with the rest of the People, but now he rushed forward.

  “What have they done?” he cried. “What have they done?” He dropped clumsily off his horse and bent down in the grass. Quanah, Gray Beard, Medicine Water, and Mochi rushed to see what had disturbed him so.