Tree Bender was too embarrassed to talk, so Striker began. “We were down on the river flat, butchering the deer that Tree Bender dropped. The first enemy stood up on the bank above us, and said something. He held his rifle over his head.”
“With both hands? Like this?” Weasel demonstrated with his Hall carbine. “That means ‘parley.’”
“Yes, Weasel. There were others, I don’t know how many, maybe five or six, but we could not see them. Yet.”
“And how did this fighter look, and how did he sneak up on you?”
Tree Bender, even more embarrassed, responded. “We were making noise, happy for the good raid, happy for the kill. We were in our land, this side of the river.”
“You thought you were safe. Good lessons are often expensive.”
“Yes, Grandfather.” He held up his bandaged arm, and gave the older men a rueful smile. “The first fighter was not white. I think maybe a Cherokee, and he wore a gray uniform, with a yellow marks, some stripes like a tipi on his arms, but upside down.”
“Gray. Not Blue. You are sure?” There was much muttering around the fire.
Tree Bender nodded, and Striker spoke. “He’s right. Squirrel Killer was surprised and shot two arrows at the Gray Man very fast. He shot off his hat and hit him in the arm. The enemy fired one shot, then ran away. I think he killed Squirrel Killer.”
“Yes. I looked at Squirrel Killer before we left, and he was gone. But the Gray Man didn’t run far. He joined some other men behind a rock log, and they poured heavy gunfire at us. That’s when I was hit.”
“And then some more fighters came,” added Striker. “One was a giant Black Man. He had a short rifle that fired many times, without reloading. And at least one more Gray Man. I think he had a Sharps. He killed Black Feather.”
“You know this to be true? I would not like to think my son was left wounded.” Spotted Pony spoke for the first time. He was a famous fighter but had been crippled in the attack at Sand Creek the year before.
“He was aiming his arrow at Black Man, and the second Gray Man shot him in the head. He did not suffer.” Tree Bender nodded agreement, and Spotted Pony grunted thanks for the assurance. “And then we ran away.”
“And left three ponies and two dead men,” said Weasel.
Striker stared at him, eye to eye. “They had guns. We did not. I think there were more of them than us. I think they wanted to talk, and we made them angry.”
Black Kettle struggled to his feet. “Enough. I have decided, for me. I believe these were Stand Watie’s men, the Gray Cherokee Riders. He has never attacked us, though he could roll over us like a flood. He has more men than there are trees along this river. I think that, in the morning, we should send riders to try to make peace. Just say our young men were startled, and thought the Gray Men wanted their deer. And we should move the camp tomorrow farther away from Stand Watie’s hunting grounds, to the Lodge Pole River, toward the setting sun. That’s what I think. And you young men, you go back and bring us the bodies of those two boys.”
***
The Cherokee Scouts moved out about 0400 hours, with Bear leading. An hour later, Bear found Sergeant Strong Branch in the rocky stand of trees they’d agreed upon, and the little army dismounted and moved forward, leaving one man from every five as horse holders. They moved to a low ridge above the camp, where they spread out and lay down on the reverse slope to wait for sunrise.
Lieutenant Ridges sent Dobey, Melton, Bear and two Cherokees with Paterson revolving carbines on their horses to the right of the line, near the river. They were to take the Cheyenne under enfilading fire if they charged the Cherokee line.
At the first green flash of daybreak, Ridges and his flag bearer mounted and rode into view on the ridge line, and his thirty-five riflemen silently stood up. As he raised his weapon overhead, so did his men, and Dobey with his four riders trotted out and lifted theirs, too. It was almost a minute before they were noticed.
An old Osage woman, a slave sent to re-kindle the cook fire was first. She noticed a dog growling, and turned to find why. Staring into the rising sun, it took another ten seconds for her sleep-numbed brain to register what she was looking at: a two hundred yard long line of gray-clad men, holding rifles over their heads. She screamed, turned, stepped in the fire, and screamed again. The village erupted like a kicked anthill.
Fortunately for all, Black Kettle himself was the second person in the village to see the Cherokees. Up early to make water, he had just stepped out of his tipi when the woman screamed. As his warriors boiled out of their tipis, he was already shouting, “Do not shoot! Do not fire! Tell everyone! No shooting!” Others picked up the call, and soon a line of seventy armed men stood behind Black Kettle as he waved a white flag on a pole.
Another ten Cheyenne mounted and faced Dobey’s mounted party. They put on a small sideshow, pirouetting their ponies, doing bounding dismounts and remounts, and flourishing their weapons.
“Damn good horsemen,” observed Jimmy Melton.
At that moment, Big William lumbered up bareback on a mule with a rope harness. He pulled up beside Melton.
“Look like you’s outnumbered, Boss,” William gave Melton his biggest smile.
“Thought I tole you to stay with the wagons.”
“Yassuh. But Miz Marie-Louise, she walked up top and looked down to here. Then she came back and said, ‘You take your black ass and that Avenging Angel,’” Big William patted the Colt shotgun, “`and go help Bear and Boss Melton.’ That’s what she said.”
Melton actually blushed. It was somehow frightening.
Lieutenant Jimmy Ridges rode forward thirty yards and shouted in Cherokee, “I come from my Uncle, Chief Stand Watie, to talk to Black Kettle.” The flag-bearer rode out with him; he was an old Creek named Speak Easy, who could converse in all the dialects of the Southern Plains. He repeated everything in Cheyenne.
A handsome black-haired warrior of maybe sixty years stepped forward. “I am Black Kettle. My Chiefs and I have talked, and thought you might be coming. How is Chief Watie?”
“He is well, thank you, Chief. He is still undefeated. I have two of your warriors, who died when they attacked my men, a half day’s ride down river.” He lowered his carbine, and signaled Buck and Jumper forward. “I am returning them to you, with their horses. I would have brought their deer, but a bear took it away. Can we lower our guns, and have a smoke?”
***
As Ridges, Dobey and Melton joined Black Kettle’s parley, the Cherokee scouts formed a defensive perimeter on the ridge line around the wagons. Fires were started, and breakfast served.
Doc picked up a canteen that had been emptied to make coffee. “William, you fill that with coffee, and I’ll walk it down with some cups for the captain and that God-da…that damned Cossack Melton.”
“’Speck that they could use some. I’ll walk with you,” Bear finished a corn dodger and picked up his Spencer.
“Thank you. But why don’t you give that repeater to Buck here, in case we have to run back up this hill? Borrow Big William’s Colt scattergun instead. I believe it would serve better down there, in those close quarters.”
“Good. You think good, Doctor John. Are we taking your medicine bag, too? I think we hit some more of them.”
“Yes. Good thinking yourself. If you sling that shotgun, they might not think you’re the Archangel coming for them, and you can carry my bag.”
As they walked up to the conference fire, Speak Easy stopped talking and looked at them expectantly. Bear said, “Go ‘head on. We just bringing some coffee to the bosses here.”
Speak Easy explained that many white men had to have the ‘black water’ to wake up, which drew some laughter. He then asked Dobey to explain where they were going.
“There’s a ford, on this river, the Canadian. Used to be a small fort there. Some call it Canadian Ford, some Canadian Fort. It’s on a trail coming from the north, off the Santa Fe Trail.”
Weasel said, “There i
s a trading post there. Old white woman and a crippled man run it. We trade with ‘em some. They’re honest.”
“That’s probably my mother and brother. Wonder what happened to my step dad? Anyhow, we’re going to help them, make the business bigger, now the war’s over. I hope you’ll keep trading there. We’ll want horses, skins, salt. You’ll have to tell us what you want.”
When translated, Dobey’s simple statement left the conference in shambles for ten minutes. These were staggering facts. The war was over. Who had won? Were the blue coats gone for good? Did this mean more white men? Fewer? More would be good for trade, since there were plenty of buffalo just to the west. Maybe the whites would all go on to Santa Fe, and fight the Apaches. Or the Mexicans, again. What’s a step dad?
At a break in the questioning, Dobey and Melton thanked Bear for the coffee, and were told it had been the Doc’s idea. Melton looked at him hard, and said, “Well. You ain’t half bad, for a Goddamned bald old drunk.”
“Best not let Junebug hear that language. She might cut you.” He looked back to Dobey and Lieutenant Ridges. “Speaking of cutting. Shall I offer my services, or will that offend?”
Ridges nodded to Speak Easy, who had heard the exchange. In Cheyenne, Speak Easy said, “That older one who looks like he’s been scalped, he’s our medicine man. He doesn’t wish to offend your medicine men, but if they need help because of this fight, Lieutenant Ridges offers it. His specialties are teeth and venereal disease.”
Chaos reigned again. One warrior stood and exposed his infected member, while others crowded in to show Dr. Thomason their teeth. An English-speaking captive was found to translate, and Doc was led away to hold sick-call elsewhere. Melton signaled Bear to go with him.
Finally, Black Kettle knocked the ashes out of his pipe and stood. “Well, I am pleased that Chief Stand Watie does not choose to go on the warpath against us over this misunderstanding. We have always been friends. And you have honored us by bringing us the bodies of our dead warriors, who started this, and their horses. And you didn’t let that bear eat them. I’m going to give you four fresh horses, for your Chief. And I’m going to move toward the headwaters of the Lodge Pole, nearer to Canadian Fort, so that we may trade with your friends here, and maybe look over them for you. If your Chief Watie would like that.”
“He would consider that a most important gift.”
“We will move today. You may ride with us, so there’ll be no more trouble with other Dog Soldier camps in these grasslands.”
Dobey’s group returned to the Confederate perimeter and were astounded at the speed with which the Cheyenne camp was dismantled. In less than an hour, the lead travois headed west, and one hour later the campsite was lost in the haze behind them; a haze caused by the movement of hundreds of Cheyenne horses, which had been kept out of sight, up river.
At noon of the second day, Black Kettle rode up to Dobey and Jimmy Ridges. “South, there, one half day’s ride, is the Lodge Pole River. We go there. For you, that post is two more days slow riding up this river. Ridges, if you wish now to go back to Watie’s camp, I will send Dog Soldiers to escort your friends to the post.”
“Thank you, Chief. My uncle said to take them there, so I will. But I will tell him of your generosity, your hospitality, when I give him the horses. I wish you good hunting.”
Chapter Forty-four
The Texas Panhandle was almost always hot in June, but this was unbearable, and not yet seven in the morning. No wonder the corn had died.
Annette Walls Balliett felt every one of her forty-five years, as she headed back from the outhouse. Her joints ached, her back hurt, reading gave her a headache. Though she didn’t drink, having lived with the side effects of alcohol forever, there were times like this morning when she almost wanted a stout one.
She didn’t stock the demon rum, though. That was a sure way to speed your trip to your reward. Indians who traded honestly with you would kill you for the stuff. Soldiers or Mexicans or drifters, nice as you please sober, would tear a place up, shoot you dead or worse, and feel bad about it later, if they even remembered it. Nosir. She hadn’t survived thirty years out here, two dead husbands, one crippled son and one probably dead in the war, just to piss it away for some quick profits on liquor sales. Though God only knew what they’d do if things didn’t get better soon. Never mind soon—it was already too late.
The U.S. Army kept a small camp here, off and on, in the ‘50s, though it never earned the name “fort” that folks allowed it now. They left for good in ’61, and things went downhill from there.
Her first husband was a hard-drinking, hard-fighting, lovable Irish first sergeant, ‘Big Mac’ Walls. He was killed by Kiowas in ’52, in Colorado, near Fort Motte. Left with a daughter and two young boys, Thomas and Thadeus, and forced to leave her quarters, she was saved by the post sutler, who’d been smitten with her for two years. She and the children moved in, and Timothy Balliett was more than a Godsend.
Balliett, the son of an Irish Army brat and a French trader, grew up in a trading post in the Territory, before enlisting for the Mexican War in ’48. Medically discharged in 1849 with a mangled hand and leg, he returned “to the trade,” became the sutler at Fort Motte in 1850, and fell in love. Thirty-year-old Annette Walls was in love as well—with her husband. When he was killed, Three Fingers Balliett finally had his chance. Never very handsome, he was quick-witted and hard-working. He became a good second father to the boys.
It was in his trading post at Fort Motte in the winter of ’53 that they withstood the great Kiowa raid. Tad’s leg was smashed, but he, young Thomas, Annette, and Balliett killed a bunch of warriors before the Kiowa withdrew. Some of them had been killed by gunfire from the barracks, seventy yards away, but the fort’s commander gave them credit for at least nine.
For his “conspicuous bravery,” young Thomas was also recommended for West Point by the major commanding the fort, who may have been influenced by the fact that Tom’s father died taking a lance meant for him. The major was a lean intelligent German named Hamburger. Tom thought that Major Hamburger had hung the moon.
When Fort Motte was abandoned in ’58, Balliett decided that Canadian Fort was an ideal site for a trading post, and moved the family there, minus their West Point cadet. They built a sturdy adobe store which doubled as their home, then added a corral and barn. They slowly built up a decent business in horses and buffalo hides, and Balliett hired a young Mexican vaquero, Tomaso, to find and break horses for sale to the hunters and army.
With the secession of Texas from the Union, the bluecoats left in ’61. Worried about a pick-up in activity from the Comanche to their west, Balliett, Tad, and Tomaso dug a deep trench from the store to the barn, and hid two shotguns and ammunition out there, in case an Indian raid caught them away from the store. The real trouble didn’t come from that quarter.
In ’63 a small patrol of bluecoat Colorado Volunteers rode in one afternoon, asked after Rebels and Indians, then proceeded to get drunk. One of them baited Tomaso as a “Greaser,” and Balliett told them to pay up and move on. As the soldiers mounted up, one said, “I ain’t being ordered to leave over no damn Mexican,” and shot Tomaso. Balliett rushed the killer with an axe, but was shot down by the others. Tad bolted the doors, and he and his mother scuttled through the trench to the barn. The soldiers emptied their pistols through the store windows, and finally rode away. Balliett and Tomaso both died that night.
That was over two years ago. They had been in survival mode since then, as most folks were on the frontier. A year ago, Tomaso’s family came north looking for him. Ignacio Gomez had already lost four sons and most recently, his wife. With two daughters, Carmela, fifteen, and Manuela, twelve, he pegged his last hopes on his last son. The news of Tomaso’s murder almost killed him.
Annette and Tad were as gentle as they could be, but Ignacio could not, would not comprehend until they took him to the grave. There, his face contorted, he grabbed his left arm, and collapsed. Annett
e finally revived him, but he remained partially paralyzed.
The Gomez family brought two pigs and a goat with them, and there was some seed corn in the two-wheeled dogcart, pulled by a burro. Every little bit helped.
The girls could cook, tend the garden, and fetch water, so Annette employed them in the kitchen, and Tad and Ignacio added a covered porch with tables for serving food. When that was finished, Ignacio showed Tad how to add a smithy to their enterprise, and then became the only one-armed blacksmith within a hundred miles. Six months later, Tad took Carmela as his wife. She was the one bright light in his meager existence.
Balliett’s Post was now a full-service establishment. There was a restaurant, gunpowder, lead, meat, hides, limited clothing, condiments, tobacco, coffee, lots of beans, horses, horseshoes, wagon wheel rims and repairs, a mail drop. All it lacked were liquor, whores, medical care, regular paying customers, rainfall, and safety. Some of that just had to change. The war had stopped virtually all traffic to and from the Santa Fe Trail.
As Annette approached the store, she made the decision she had dreaded facing for years. They would leave.
Inside, her little family moved lethargically to put together another breakfast. She clapped her hands and said, “Listen up. There’s gonna be a change. We’re finished here. We’re heading south and east, soon as we load up. Maybe Fort Worth, I don’t know. I just know it ain’t no good like it is.”
***
Three hours later, the wagon was loaded, as well as the dogcart. Annette took a last look around. “Nacio, get your burro watered and hooked up, then help Tad with the mules. I’ve got to leave another note.”
Ignacio stared past her out the open door, then pointed. “Comanches.”
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