Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  “Look!” Isatai squealed, pulling back tufts of grass. In the light of the full moon, they saw a skunk skewered by two arrows. It was clearly dead. The fat Spirit Messenger shouted, “The spirits said that skunks were holy! Now you fools have killed one, and the spirits will be angry. Whose arrows did this thing?”

  No one stepped forward.

  “Tell me!” Isatai raged. “Maybe if we kill you in your turn, the spirits will forgive the rest of us. Tell me! Tell me!”

  “Do something,” Gray Beard hissed to Quanah. All Quanah could think of was to wrap his arms around Isatai and drag him away. Isatai struggled and it was hard for Quanah to get a good grip, but he managed to haul the Spirit Messenger away, whispering that he must be quiet, he was ruining everything.

  “We’re ruined, but it’s not my fault,” Isatai moaned. “I told everyone that skunks were sacred, I told them.” He began to cry, great heaving sobs. Quanah was appalled.

  “Stop this, stop it now,” he commanded, but Isatai kept crying. Quanah looked past the fat man and saw that many members of the war party were staring. Mochi’s lip curled in disgust. She whispered something to her husband, Medicine Water, who nodded. Quanah knew he had to get Isatai under control.

  “Enough,” Quanah hissed in the fat man’s ear. “We’re close to the white camp now. We need to keep going. And after we kill everyone there, it will be clear that your own magic is so strong that it can overcome anything, even this. The spirits love you. They’re still with you. Don’t you feel it, Isatai? Stop crying and be strong the way that the spirits want.”

  Isatai sniffed and wiped his eyes. After a moment he said, “Maybe so. But whoever killed the skunk must go.”

  Quanah consulted with Gray Beard, who beckoned Medicine Water. Medicine Water and his dog soldiers walked briskly into the ranks of the Cheyenne. Moments later, three young braves rode away north.

  “They’re gone, Isatai,” Quanah said. “It’s time for us to ride on.”

  “First I must bury the skunk,” said the fat Spirit Messenger, and everyone had to wait while he did, and also while he offered an interminable prayer. Then he said gravely, “I believe that the spirits are satisfied. Buffalo Hump tells me so.” By the time they resumed riding, Quanah knew they would have to move fast in order to make their attack just before dawn. He sent scouts ahead. Soon they rode back and reported that they’d gone into the brush along the creek leading to the meadow and observed no guards posted there or anywhere else. Most of the whites seemed to be asleep out on the ground in front of their huts, ready to be surprised and slaughtered.

  THIRTY

  When the sharp crack broke the night stillness, everyone at Adobe Walls was startled awake. The immediate impression was that they were under attack. Stumbling out of their blankets, the men fumbled for guns and looked frantically out into the dark, trying to identify assailants. But beyond the single loud report, there was no noise other than the soft hooting of owls in the trees along the creek.

  “Be watchful, boys,” Billy Dixon ordered, his voice thick with sleep. “C.M. and I will go out and confer with the guards.”

  McLendon wasn’t pleased. Wakened from his own light doze by the sound, the last thing that he wanted was to go off into the brush where, for all he knew, Indians might be waiting. But he couldn’t think of how he might avoid going with Billy without looking like a coward, so he followed him toward the creek.

  “Hello the guard,” Billy called softly. “What’s the situation?”

  Mike McCabe stepped out of the trees, startling McLendon. He automatically dropped his hand to his Colt.

  “Keep that in its holster,” McCabe snapped. “Billy, Dutch Henry, and Bermuda are out circling the meadow. I’ve followed the river back a ways and didn’t find anything. Whatever that noise was, it didn’t come from here.”

  Moments later, Carlyle and Dutch Henry returned. They hadn’t seen anything, either.

  “Then what the hell—” Billy said, breaking off as they heard shouts from back at the camp. “Let’s go see what that commotion’s about.” Along with McLendon and the three guards, he hurried back.

  Everyone was gathered in front of the saloon, where Jim Hanrahan looked sheepish in the light of the lantern he held.

  “Well, boys, I’m put in my place,” he said. “Billy Tyler is a smarter man than me. He said that too much dirt was put on the roof yesterday, and predicted the ridgepole would crack. Now it has. Everything in my saloon is in danger of imminent burial.”

  “So that was the noise?” Andy Johnson asked. “We weren’t being fired upon?”

  Old Man Keeler said, “Cottonwood is of a stout nature, so when it breaks, it makes a noisy job of it. So it’s a false alarm. We can all go back to sleep, since it’s but two in the morning by my pocket watch.”

  “Now, hold there,” Hanrahan said as the other men began to move away. “There’s the matter of saving my saloon.”

  “No, it’s a matter of getting our rest,” Charley Armitage said. “This is bad luck for you, Jimmy, and you have my sympathy. But many of us are moving out tomorrow, and need all the shut-eye we can get.”

  “Charley, I thought you a wiser man than this,” Hanrahan said. “Sure, tomorrow some of you go on your way for a while, but then you’ll be coming back here with hides, and when you do, you’ll be wanting drinks. If this saloon and every bottle in it is deep beneath a mountain of dirt, all you’ll find to wet your whistles will be creek water. Are you really wanting that? Take an hour now and help me get this ridgepole propped up. Nobody’s asking you to sacrifice an entire night’s sleep. It’ll be easy work, and I’ll stand drinks for every man who joins in. The good stuff, mind, the very best bourbon.”

  The offer lured a few helpers—Jim McKinley, Frenchy, Bat, Hiram Watson, and Billy Ogg. McLendon was certain that he wouldn’t go back to sleep, so he pitched in too. Oscar Shepherd and Mike Welsh worked for Hanrahan in the saloon, so they had no choice. The work wasn’t easy. They had to take lanterns out to the cottonwood grove along the creek, cutting and trimming logs by lantern light. Then they had to carry the logs inside the saloon and use them to prop up the ridgepole. That proved difficult, because, no matter how hard they tried, it was impossible to tell the exact spot in the ridgepole where it was cracked. Finally they braced almost every inch of it with new poles anchored in the saloon floor just behind the bar. Shepherd, Hanrahan’s bartender, complained that this wouldn’t leave enough room for him to move around comfortably as he mixed drinks, but the others shushed him, because they were tired and wanted the free liquor that Hanrahan had promised. Shepherd poured generous drinks, and as he sipped his, McLendon heard Billy Dixon arguing with Dutch Henry just outside the saloon.

  “You guards need to get back by the tree line along the river,” Billy said. “I told you, that’s the way an attack would come.”

  “It’s just turned three-thirty, Billy, and daylight’s not so far away. And I told you that after the cracking woke us up, we patrolled the entire area. There are no Indians to be found. We’re going to grab an hour’s sleep.”

  Billy shook his head as Dutch Henry wandered off toward the Myers and Leonard’s store, apparently planning to sleep just outside it. When McLendon joined him, Billy said, “I’m still uneasy. I wish it were already daylight.”

  “I guess that I could stand lookout if needed,” McLendon offered, hoping that Billy wouldn’t take him up on it.

  “No, Dutch Henry’s probably right. If any Indians with violent intentions were near, they’d probably be in place by now and our scouts would have sniffed them out. What I’ll do, in your company if you’re willing, is just kind of stay alert right here. I see Hanrahan and Ogg are remaining on their feet too. Let’s have a drop of bitters and some conversation with them so as to avoid drowsiness, and then we can begin rousing the others as soon as there’s the slightest speck of dawn on the horizon.”

&n
bsp; Like most of the others, Billy was convinced that bitters were a much more healthful drink than beer or whiskey. McLendon had his doubts. To him, the alcohol content of bitters was every bit as potent as liquor. But he sipped a glassful anyway and listened while Billy, Ogg, and Hanrahan talked about the expedition. They were optimistic in the extreme. There were still plenty of buffalo to the west and north of Adobe Walls, and even after another six weeks or so of hard hunting there should still be enough left to provide for a good season in summer 1875.

  “Which means we should keep this camp open through the winter,” Hanrahan said. “Charlie Rath will agree. Between us, we should have enough men to defend it if need be. You and your crew ought to winter here, Billy.”

  “I doubt that they’d be willing. They’ll prefer Dodge City and its whores as they pass the cold months.”

  “We might bring some whores here,” Hanrahan said thoughtfully. “Would that keep you content on these premises, McLendon?”

  Billy answered for him. “At the end of this season, C.M.’s departing for Arizona Territory and a woman there. We see him again, I suspect it will be as a married man who’s too true to dally with whores. He’s proven himself to be a good man, one of the decentest I know.”

  “That so?” Hanrahan asked, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t interested in further discussion of McLendon’s character. McLendon understood. If he was leaving soon, then he was of no further use to Jim Hanrahan, and so Jim couldn’t care less about him. Rich men were all the same. Still, it warmed McLendon’s heart to hear himself praised. There had been few such compliments in his all-too-checkered past.

  “I believe I see some red sky to the east,” Ogg said. “Might it be time to start rousing the boys?”

  “Oh, they can sleep a few minutes more,” Billy said. “You and me and C.M. can go collect the horses staked out near the creek. We’ll bring those in, then sound the wake-up call. It seems likely to be a peaceful morning, the heat notwithstanding.”

  Billy, Ogg, and McLendon stepped outside. Billy was right: it was already quite warm and there was still no breeze. All along the fronts of the stores and blacksmith shop, men lay snoring. There was just enough light from the full moon to silhouette the high stack of buffalo hides between the blacksmith’s shop and the picket corral. Some quarter mile away, one of the tethered horses whickered, and McLendon thought it was a pleasant sound.

  “I need to stop at the wagon and collect my Sharps,” Billy said. McLendon went with him, and Fannie romped alongside. After they’d fetched the rifle, Ogg was about a hundred yards in front of them as they walked out of camp toward the grazing horses. On the way, they passed the wagon where the Scheidler brothers and their dog were sleeping under a tarp despite the heat. As Billy Dixon had suggested, it was a peaceful morning.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Since he was most familiar with the route, Quanah led the war party on its final ride along the river to the white hunters’ camp. He followed the creek branching off from the river, and guided the others southeast using the trees and brush along its banks as a screen to avoid detection. There was no talking now. Everyone was anticipating the fight. Quanah insisted that Isatai ride beside him, so that he could cut off the fat Spirit Messenger if he lost control again and began sobbing or babbling.

  Bus Isatai was quiet, too, until they reached the edge of the meadow and in the moonlight could just make out the huts of the white hunters. Then he whispered to Quanah, “It is time to make my magic.”

  “You already have,” Quanah said. “You’ve prayed that all the whites will be asleep when we attack. Even if they aren’t, you’ve also made magic so their bullets will pass through us without doing harm.”

  “The spirits still require ceremony,” Isatai insisted, and, sighing, Quanah directed the warriors to a place where the high bluff was between them and the white camp.

  “Isatai will make magic,” he announced, and quietly cautioned the fat man, “Nothing else about skunks.”

  “I leave for a moment to speak to the spirits,” Isatai commanded. “Wait for me to return.” He rode off into the darkness and out of sight. Quanah quietly fumed. It was almost dawn, and the men, especially the young braves, were ready to fight. Then Isatai rode back and all of the warriors gasped.

  The Spirit Messenger had stripped naked and now wore only a hat fashioned from sage stems, which were believed to bring wisdom and good luck. He and his horse were both completely yellow; the moonlight reflected off the fresh paint. Isatai’s belly and genitals flopped as he got down off his mount and spread his arms wide. He was an impressive though not at all attractive sight.

  “The spirits, especially Buffalo Hump, have brought us here,” he said, and Quanah worried that the sound of Isatai’s voice might drift down and warn the hunters. “This is a time of great magic. Here is a pot of yellow paint. Everyone come and dip in a finger, then rub the paint over your heart. This will make any bullets from the whites pass right through your body without injury to you. Of course, the white men will probably not fire a single shot, since my magic will make them sleep as you ride up.”

  While some of the warriors formed a line and took turns dipping fingers into the yellow paint, others didn’t do as Isatai had told them until, in response to a gesture from Gray Beard, Medicine Water and the dog soldiers herded the stragglers along to obey. When everyone had marked themselves with an extra dot of yellow, Isatai blessed them in the name of the spirits and told them to fight well.

  By prearrangement, some of the youngest, untested warriors from among the People escorted Isatai and Satanta to the top of the bluff, where they would watch the fight as nonparticipants. The youngsters reluctantly agreed to stay and guard them. They wanted to participate in the battle, but Quanah promised that afterward they would be honored as much as the men who actually fought. As he followed them, Isatai called back, “Remember—they will all be asleep, like the spirits promised. All of them.”

  “Say your final words,” Lone Wolf suggested to Quanah, who offered a general battle plan. With three different tribes participating, it was impossible to attempt anything complicated. So everyone would assemble and, at Quanah’s signal, charge around the end of the tree line and into the meadow, spreading out to form a long line with the Kiowa on one wing, the Cheyenne on the other, and the People in the center. Quanah would ride just in front—not as any statement of superiority, he was careful to note, but simply to focus the attack. They would kill all the white men sleeping on the ground and then quickly rush in through the open doors of the huts to finish off anyone inside. It would not take long.

  “Don’t waste bullets,” Quanah cautioned. “Kill with arrows and lances and knives if you can. After the fight there will be many new guns and too many bullets to count. But no shooting now.”

  “Why not?” someone asked. “If we run out of bullets, your Spirit Messenger can belch up some more.”

  “We should save all the magic that we can,” Quanah said hastily. “Anything else?”

  “Remember to listen for my horn,” Bear Mountain said. “I will make it sing loud.”

  Mochi stepped up and tapped Quanah on the chest. “You said that I could ride in front with you.”

  “Yes. Let’s go. Everyone remain quiet until I begin the charge.” Medicine Water beamed with pride as he watched his warrior wife take her place of honor.

  With Quanah and Mochi in the lead, the war party moved to the edge of the trees on the creek bank. The early moments of dawn provided a pinkish tinge in the sky to the east. It was finally time. Quanah raised his arm and shook his lance above his head. He led the way as they splashed across the creek, and the first exultant war cries echoed across the valley.

  THIRTY-TWO

  As he walked alongside Billy Dixon on the way to where the horses grazed, McLendon lost himself in pleasant daydreams about his impending reunion with Gabrielle. When he’d tracked her to Glo
rious, she hadn’t known he was coming, and her greeting was chilly. This time she was expecting him. He could count on at least a warm hug, maybe even a kiss, and after that kiss—

  Billy grabbed McLendon’s arm, interrupting the enjoyable fantasy. He pointed toward the tree line to the right. “Look there.”

  McLendon looked. A line of something emerged from the trees, and at the same time he saw it he felt the ground tremble because there were many things—hooves?—thudding against it. From the corner of his eye McLendon seemed to glimpse Billy Ogg stopping, staring in the same direction, then whirling and running back toward camp. Why?

  “Indians!” Ogg shrieked, and Dixon hollered, “We’re under attack!” He yanked on McLendon’s sleeve. “Run!”

  But McLendon hesitated, mesmerized by what was approaching so fast—what looked like an expanding line separating into tightly packed but individual parts, and, yes, those parts were Indians, many, many Indians, all of them painted and feather-bedecked and screaming and waving weapons, rifles of every variety as well as spears. McLendon would not have imagined that spears could look so menacing. He found himself trying to count the Indians—one, two, three, four—and then came the horrifying sense that he might not know a number high enough.

  “Run, you fool!” Dixon shouted again. When McLendon still didn’t move, Billy yanked his Sharps .44 to his shoulder and snapped a shot at the approaching horde. Then, with a final pleading glance at McLendon, he turned and ran himself, heading to the buildings behind them. McLendon noticed Billy’s dog, Fannie, run off in a different direction into the brush, and realized that he had to run, too, but for some reason his legs were suddenly rubbery and not willing to cooperate. McLendon managed a slight lurch, a minuscule movement toward camp, and Billy Ogg dashed past. He paid no attention to McLendon; his eyes were wide and white-rimmed with panic, and spit flew from his mouth and he wheezed as he ran.