Kiowa White Moon
Jeanie Johnson
This book is a work of fiction, based on Indian history. All characters, except for historical Indians, or known people of that era, are out of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is mere coincidence.
All historical accounts concerning the government and the Indians are true.
Copyright 2016
All rights reserved.
Jeanie Johnson
Kiowa White Moon
Prologue
1851
The great sky blanket was dark and clear, allowing the evening star, known as the protector of the fields and planting, to march its way across the heavens, in perfect view. It made its trek, along with all the other sky-men who started out from their heavenly lodges, to travel their journey across the Southern Texas sky. The land the sky-men looked down on was more commonly known as ‘Indian Territory’ to the whites. However, all Red Men believed the land belonged to the Great Grandfather of the heavens, and man merely dwelled on Mother Earth, who cradled them in her nature’s embrace.
Now at this time, the Kiowa, with many other tribes, whether enemy or friend, did not have a lot of friction with the white people, who were slowly pushing westward. As long as the tribes remained in the territory they had always considered their home, and the whites agreed to skirt around, when passing through that area, there was little trouble.
Therefore, all was peaceful, as the Kiowa gathered, the way they did most evenings, sharing stories and telling the never-ending history of their tribe to the young new members of the village. These youthful Kiowa spirits would carry the history of their people in their hearts, and share it with their own children. Then the past could carry into the present, in order for future generations to learn the ways of life.
Muraco, meaning White Moon, leaned back against a log, peering through half-closed ten-year-old eyes, watching as the central fire danced its light across the face of the storyteller. It was a story Muraco had heard many times before, but he never tired of listening to it. It was the story of Islandman and how he lost his place as the principal chief of the Kiowa tribe; how Dohasan, or Little Mountain, became the new principal chief.
The firelight, from the wavering flame, plunged dark shadows into the furrows of the weathered face of the story teller and then shifted, animating the aged face uncannily. It made him almost appear as a spirit from the past, bringing tales of events that quickened the breaths and widened the eyes of the listeners. Muraco watched spellbound, as he always had when experiencing stories from the past.
The fire gave a cracking background sound and small sparks drifted up in their attempt to join those sky-men in the heavens. The sharp screech of an owl pierced through and added its own effects to the story, as though it wanted to share in telling the tale. The story was only eighteen years old and Dohasan was still the Main Chief of the Kiowa.
The year the story took place, in white-man-days, was 1833. The resounding resonance of the musical sounding voice filled Muraco’s being, relating the story with the same enthusiasm as the first time ever told.
It was the beginning of the spring moon, called Pai Aganti… the time of hot weather soon… The Kiowa was a small tribe, about one finger of two hands, compared to the Comanche or other tribes within the area, the storyteller related.
But we possessed a full measure of the horseback panache, and strong fighting spirit. It was a time of unparallel turbulence, where unknown forces could come out of unexpected places to challenge the leaders of our tribe. It could easily threaten the very existence of the Kiowa, if not handled correctly.
That spring, our world was still wild, free and vast. We ranged from the north of Arkansas River to south of the Red. The white man had their own name for our land. They called it Texas, Kansas, New Mexico, and Colorado. We had come together at the very heart of our land, amid the timber-clad granite knobs of Wichita Mountains.
Buffalo hide teepees were sprawled along the banks of Rainy Mountain Creek. as far as the eye could see. It was named that because a cloudburst occurred nearly every time we pitched our camp there. In the valley nearby, antelope and buffalo grazed among patches of red, brown and gold wild flowers, called gaillardia, or Indian blankets.
Our camp basked in a feeling of well-being, knowing Mother Earth provided everything for us that we needed. All the small tribes had come together to reunite with friends. Women were cooking meat in brass buckets we had gotten from the Pawnees of the north, who in turn, had gotten them from the white traders.
Old men sat in the sunshine and smoked their long pipes. The aroma of tobacco leaves and bark, called kinnikinick, filled the air. One person among the retired warriors was the keeper of the sacred medicine idol, the Taime, used in the sun-dance ritual.
Earlier that day, all the young fighting age men rode off to raid against the Utes, who lay to the northwest. The war party intended to return with scalps, horses and other plunder in time for the sun-dance. While they were gone, the rest of the tribe would remain close to our campsite, only moving a few miles in either direction, in order to find fresh grazing and hunting.
Islandman, was the Main Chief, over the village, and he was the one we all relied on to keep us safe, and make what decisions would be best for the whole tribe.
While we waited for the war-party to return, a small group of hunters went out to seek the buffalo to the north. They came across the remains of a buffalo with an arrow sunk deep in its flesh. It was not one of our arrows, but one whose shaft bore the markings of the Osages, one of our long-time enemies.
The hunters galloped back to warn Islandman, wondering what they should do, since the warriors were not at camp. Islandman posted sentries and ordered the building of adobe breastworks for defense.
Days passed, and no attack came. Finally, we began to breath more easily. We decided it must have only been a small handful of Osage hunters, who had killed the buffalo, and they were not going to ride down upon our camp while the warriors were away.
By that time, the grass near our camp had been consumed by our mounts, and it was necessary to move on. Islandman took counsel with those leaders, who had not gone off with the raiding party, and they decided it would be safe to split up into several smaller groups.
The buffalo hunters headed out again, while another group went to a range of wild horses, where they would hobble our brood mares in the path of stallions too wild to capture, to add to the hardiness of our horses.
Island man took another group of old men and women, along with young mothers and children, through a mountain gap to a green valley on Otter Creek.
After the camp had been pitched at the new sight, some young maidens of the camp, went down to the creek for water. As they cupped their hands to drink from the still pool, a pebble dropped from the rocks above. They looked up; no one was there. When the ripples of the pool smoothed away, a young maiden bending over the water saw, to her horror, not only her own reflection but also the wavering image of a strange warrior.
She was a well trained young girl, and tried to act as though nothing was amiss. She grabbed the hands of her friends and headed back to camp, acting unaware that they were in great danger.
Once they arrived at camp, the girls spread the alarm. Islandman and the other old men of the camp merely smiled and dismissed the story as a prank played by some of the boys to tease the girls and cause them alarm, after the scare they had experienced caused by the Osage arrow.
The next morning, a youth left the camp to take his family’s ponies to pasture. Something moved behind a rock. His eyes followed the movement into the gloom. He was shocked to discover the shaved head of an Osage. He ran back, screaming, to wake the others.
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But it was too late. As our people stumbled from their teepees, they discovered the camp was already over run by Osages. “To the rocks! To the rocks!” Islandman yelled as he, himself, ran in that direction. Our panic-stricken people tried to follow. Some ran headlong into our enemy, who slashed and stabbed them with long knives, mercilessly ripping the throats of young and old. While there were some acts of bravery, trying to fight back against the enemy, it was to no avail.
The keeper of the Taime was so frightened, he scurried for safety, leaving the sacred idol tied to a teepee pole. His wife tried to rescue it and was butchered. Sensing its value, the Osage tore the Taime from her dying hands.
Without their warriors, or the effective leadership of a true Main Chief, the Kiowa fell in defeat. While many women and children were slaughtered, only five of our men lost their lives. Islandman escaped with a minor wound. Not a single one of the Osage were killed. The shame was upon Islandman, since this was the camp of the Kiowa’s Main Chief, which should have been safer than any other.
When the killing was finished, the Osages cut off the heads of the dead and placed them in our own brass cooking buckets. They carefully arranged the buckets in rows amidst the devastation of the camp, and left them there as a greeting for the return of our warriors. After that, they fired the teepees and left, taking the Taime and two captive children.
Our fighting men came back from the land of the Utes expecting a joyous reception, for they had fared well. Instead, they were met with a scene of unbridled grief. Women were mourning the dead by slashing their faces and bodies, until the blood flowed as it had on the day of the massacre. The grim faces of every man could be read. They all believed that Islandman was not worthy of being their Main Chief. A council would be held to choose a new chief.
The camp crier called every man who had any importance in our tribe, whether he was a orator, warrior, hunter or healer. They were to come together around a fire, smoke the ceremonial pipe, sit in silence and prepare to discuss why a new leader was needed.
Islandman had failed utterly in his responsibility to our entire tribe. He had exercised poor judgment by allowing the tribe to split up, when Osages were known to be in the area. Then, worse of all, when the attack came, he did not stand bravely to defend his people, in order to inspire others. Instead, he ran and hid to escape the slaughter, taking most of the men with him, leaving the old and the women and children unprotected.
This was a lesson to all good Kiowa, that it is the duty for every man to place the welfare of his tribe above their own lives, and all else.
Once the decision was made, the council spoke of Islandman no more. There would be no punishment, except for the fact that he would become like every other member of our tribe that held no important position. He had lost face, and would be ignored. He would never be able to put his ideas forth, or be of influence to any decisions made in the future.
Now it was time to choose a new leader, who would defend our tribe, and protect it, making wise choices when the time came.
Each man who wished to take this position could speak, and offer up his worthiness to lead the tribe. Everyone was heard and listened to politely, for as long as he wished to speak. The old men spoke first, and then every young warrior, after his elders spoke, would be given permission to speak. No one was interrupted, and no one was permitted to leave, until all had a chance to voice their qualifications to take over the Main Chief’s position, and the session declared recessed. This was the custom, and custom could not be broken.
Even though one of the council members had suffered a severe nosebleed, he was not excused, and had to remain, choking down blood, until the meeting was over.
A new leader must possess many character traits, worthy of being the Main Chief. He must have outstanding accomplishments in war, even though once he became the leader, he would no longer lead a war party, but set the example of courage, if war was brought upon his people. He must have a compelling personality, which drew others to him and inspired their loyalty and respect. Respect is the sole source of power, and to gain respect a man must not only be of great wealth, having many horses, but he must have demonstrated his generosity by giving feasts and providing food, horses and buffalo hides to those who are less fortunate than he is.
A true leader must be energetic, even tempered, receptive to the opinions of others, deliberate in reaching judgments and gifted with an eloquent tongue. These traits are important in carrying out his duties. He would be responsible as a spokesman when meeting with other tribes, making hunting assignments, mediating disputes, and encouraging unity among his people.
After hearing all who stepped forward, the council agreed that Little Mountain, had all the qualities in abundance. Therefore, he became the new chief of our tribe. He is still the worthy chief of the Kiowa, and we hope he will rule over our people over many years to come.
White Moon was proud to be a Kiowa. Someday, he hoped to achieve the position as the chief, whether it be over hunting, war, or a whole tribe. He was determined to show his bravery in every way, the same as Little Mountain had.
The group began to disperse and go their separate ways. White Moon felt a hand upon his shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of that great leader. Little Mountain was his uncle, which was all the more reason to become just like him.
The handsome face of White Moon’s uncle smiled broadly. “I hope you don’t believe all the wild tales they speak about me,” he said humbly, for a chief must also be humble about his acts of bravery. “They will make me out to be a God, if they are not careful,” he laughed.
White Moon laughed with him, as he followed his uncle back toward his own teepee, where his parents were waiting for him.
CHAPTER ONE
1864
They call it ‘Yellow Fever’. It is like a disease that spreads like wildfire, once it starts, and it seems nothing can satisfy it, except acquiring that yellow Gold, either found in the streams, or dug from the mountains. In 1858 everyone got bit by that Yellow Fever bug, when Pikes Peek Colorado produced a vein of gold that made a sane man go crazy. Everyone from the east started pouring in the direction of that shinny promise, following the Sana Fe Trail. They bravely crossed over Indian territory, heedless of the dangers, as over 100,000 Americans flooded in the direction of Denver, prodded on by the overwhelming Yellow Fever that controlled their destiny.
We took the Mountain Route known as the ‘Long Route’ of the Santa Fe Trail, which was used for carrying goods into Santa Fe. It was 230 miles of unprotected campsites between Fort Larned and Fort Lyon in Colorado. It followed the Arkansas River into Colorado before turning south to Santa Fe, but the gold hunters would go on up to Denver, instead.
The trail took us over mountains and down into valleys, and was harder to travel than the shorter, lower trail. Even though that trail was shorter and over flat ground, there was very little water to be had. It was dry and sandy, and there were more threats of the Indians attacking the wagons passing through.
My father, Matthew Andrews was among the gold hunters turning up towards Denver and we, like all the others, tramped through the land, oblivious of the damage the wheels of our wagons caused to fertile Indian pasture. We thought nothing of shooting buffalo, antelope, and other ‘Indian game’ to fill our pots for supper. We cut trees for firewood, some wasted, when it was too cumbersome to load and take with us. After all, there were so many more trees ahead that we could use, if we needed it. And all the vast pastureland could easily feed the herds of cattle and horses that came along with those people heading west. It was no wonder, the Indians started to take offense at our disregard of their Earth Mother and our unwelcome use of their rangeland and hunting grounds.
When our family, consisting of my Mother, father, myself, and two younger brothers along with one younger sister, headed for that promise, tales of Indian attacks were the normal exchange and worry, when crossing the plains. We were lucky, I guess, because our whole way, I never saw an Indian
one.
We never made it to that golden promise, that called from the mountains of Denver, though. Instead, we found that promise, a little sooner than expected. Mother had taken ill, and my father found it prudent to stop along the way, until she got better. So we fell out of the group, we were a part of, and set up camp by a dancing stream, that forked off of the Arkansas river we had been following. It was sheltered by shady trees with lacy leaves and graced by picturesque hills in the distance.
We had only meant to remain a few days, but then my mother took a turn for the worse. Father was bringing water for the evening meal, but when he placed the sloshing bucket at my feet, he took my shoulders in his hands, pulled me to him and gave me a tight hug. When he was through hugging me, he held me steady, not saying a word. He merely held his hand out, and opened his palm. “We are saved, Constance, girl. The Lord has seen fit to reward us in our sorrow.”
I looked down at his open palm, and there were three small yellow stones, resting in his calloused hand. “You know what that is?” he asked. I shook my head no. “That’s gold, Connie! Pure gold, and there is more in that stream there. No use going all the way to Denver when we have gold right here under our noses. We’re going to stay in this spot, build our farm, and as far as anyone knows, we decided to try our hand at farming instead of mining. No one else will ever suspect we found gold, and try to steal our claim.”
The gleam in my father’s eye caught hold, and I too started to feel lighthearted, because we did not have to travel any further. Only we would be out here alone, with no neighbors, and no telling where the closest town was. Of course, even if I thought to balk about it, it wouldn’t have done any good. Father had found what he was looking for, and he was not going to move an inch farther.
Our joy was short lived, when my mother passed away the next day, which gave us all the more reason to remain. My father refused to leave her grave behind, so we were going to make this little valley near the stream our home, whether we had permission or not. After all, no one owned this land. It was part of the United States territory, called Kansas, named after the Kansas river, which in turn was named after the Kaw, or Kansas Indians, which meant ‘people of the south wind’.
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