That was four years ago, during my sixteenth year. I was the oldest, and after my mother died, I was designated to take over caring for the family.
Life had not been easy over those four years, as we struggled to build our farmhouse, grow our crops, raise cattle, pigs, chickens, and whatever else we needed to stay alive. Between the gold and our farm produce, we managed out a decent living.
The Civil War had been raging on the other side of the states, which took most of the men posted at various forts in the area, away to fight the war. Therefore, the Indians took advantage of the situation, raiding ranches, and attacking supply wagons, on the way to Santa Fe.
We counted ourselves lucky to have been passed over by the heathens. Now that the war had ended, the military was coming back. They were determined to rid the area of Indians who felt they had the right to attack anyone passing near Indian territory.
Rumor had it; the military was electing the help of the famed trapper-scout Colonel Kit Carson to put an end to the Indian raiders, since now there were more men to back up a military attack.
Even so, that was the least of my worries. What was happening with the Indians and the army did not touch us, since our farm was nestled in a remote area, where Indians obviously didn’t bother to investigate. Or perhaps, they just didn’t know we were even living there, or maybe they didn’t care.
Father was getting ready to go in for supplies, which could take a couple of weeks or more, and probably longer. He was going on to Dodge to have a buggy built, so our wagon would not be our only means of transportation. I was excited about getting a new buggy, but his leaving meant I would be left in charge for no telling how long. However, I was used to the responsibility. I just didn’t like the thought of not having any contact with our father while he was away, and not knowing exactly when he would return.
“Don’t look so down-trodden, Connie-girl,” my father encouraged, as I stood looking helplessly up at him, mounted in the wagon, his face shaded by the battered hat that he wore. “I’ll be back in no time, with a new buggy to boot. I have another surprise I’ll be bringing back, so you just hold tight. You’ll do just fine while I am away, but you need to keep a close eye on Buttercup, since she should be dropping a calf soon.”
I was wondering how he was going to bring the wagon full of supplies and a buggy back at the same time. I didn’t ask him, though. I figured he would just hire someone to bring the buggy out, once it was built. I also figured the surprise he was bringing back was probably a bolt of material for me to make a new dress for both Darie and myself.
He gave a click of his tongue, and the stout horses, Buck and Bell, gave a toss of their heads, throwing flowing mane in all directions. The horses were not only used for pulling the wagon, but also for pulling a plow. They picked up their well-shaped hooves, tugging forward, first at a walk and then at a trot.
I placed my hand over my eyes as I watched our father depart. Emmet, Darie, and Nigel, all stood beside me, waving as the wagon followed the well-worn path that led to the main trail, back towards civilization, a place neither, I nor my brothers and sister had seen in a long time.
We received few visitors. Sometimes the regular supply wagons, that brought goods out from Missouri to Santa Fe, dropped off our mail, but they never came to the farm proper. Father had fashioned a box along the trail five miles away, where the mail would be left, and we would check it, when we knew the supply wagons would be traveling through. Because of the war, and the Indian raids, supplies were hard to come by, lately.
We usually received mail from my Aunt Sally, who was my father’s younger sister. She and Uncle Ted, remained in Missouri, because Uncle Ted had a supply depot there, which was making good money, seeing as how everyone was heading west and needed supplies. Other than that, my father would receive a few letters, either from business dealings, or people he met when he traveled to get supplies over the years.
My life was filled with working the farm with my brothers and sister, since father was usually panning gold, which seemed to be dwindling lately. I was past a marrying age, and since there were few men in the area to meet, I figured I would be living on the farm forever, long after my father had died.
I was used to the hard work, and Emmet, who was two years younger than myself, did most of the heavy work. Darie, now fifteen years old, was starting to do most of the cooking, and Nigel helped Emmet in the fields. Nigel was tall for his age, and looked a lot older than his twelve years.
We cared well for our farm because I made sure everything was run proper. That way, father could be free to work the stream and keep all the accounts straight, necessary for financing the farm to keep us alive.
“No use standing around,” I said at last. “There’s work to be done, so we better get to it.”
Emmet shrugged. It was harvest season, which meant there would be a lot to do, and then later food to preserve. He and Nigel headed out to the cornfield, and Darie went in the house, to finish straighten things up after breakfast.
“I’m heading out to the pasture to check up on Buttercup,” I informed them, and headed toward the direction of the lower pasture, which ran along a ridge of hills, that circled it in.
I enjoyed walking through the tall grass that caught at my skirt, as I swished through the ankle high strands. Wild flowers, we called Indian blanket, were running riot in every direction. The sky looked clear, with a few fluffy white clouds suspended above, sometimes crossing over the sun, causing shadows to fall about me. It relieved me from the heat of the day, when they shaded me from the sun.
The movement of the clouds over the sun caused breezes to whip up and swirl about in the grass, leaning it one-way, and then the other. I looked in all directions for Buttercup, but could not see her. The grass was not high enough to hide her, if she was lying down with a new calf, so I continued to tramp through the field, going towards the surrounding hillside.
I knew of small caves at the base of those hills, which would be a perfect place for Buttercup to try to hold up in to have her calf, if that was what she was up to. I headed toward the caves. The caves were sheltered by bushes, and the larger one had a tree nearby. As I approached the larger cave, I thought I saw something moving near the tree. It looked like an animal, and I assumed it must be Buttercup.
“Come on, Buttercup,” I called as I approached.
I could hear her mooing, so I was certain it must be her.
“Time to come to the barn, if you want to be having a calf today,” I murmured, as I got closer.
When I reached the tree, I was alarmed to discover it was not Buttercup, after all, even though I could still hear her bellowing in the distance. What I had discovered was a lone horse. What shocked me, was I knew exactly who the horse belonged to. It was an Indian pony!
The beautiful white horse, was dressed up in Indian paintings on its hide, and a feather, attached to its mane, wavered in the breeze, twisting and turning like a caught bird. My approach did not alarm the horse, and it stood still at the mouth of the cave, its ears pricked in the direction of the cave. I realized it was listening to Buttercup, who must have entered the cave to have her calf, but what was the horse doing here?
I was torn between running back to the house, and needing to check up on Buttercup, whom I was sure was inside the cave giving birth. As I got closer, I noticed more than just painted symbols on the hide of the strange Indian pony. There was a dark-red mark, that saturated the horse’s neck and withers. I reached out and touched the red splotch, because it did not seem part of the decoration, and my fingers drew back as the sticky texture told me what it was. I looked at my fingers. I saw they were covered with blood.
My breath caught in my throat, and I jumped back from the horse. Who had ever been riding the horse had been bleeding, but now there was no one in any direction, that I could see. Perhaps the Indian riding the horse had fallen off long before, and the horse just wandered up to this pasture, for some reason.
My attention turned
toward the cave again, because I could hear Buttercup. If there was an Indian that belonged with this horse, he was most likely wounded. I didn’t know if that made him more threatening or less threatening. I touched the revolver, through the material of my skirt pocket, that I carried with me in case of snakes, or predators stalking our animals, that needed to be dealt with. Instinctively, I put my hand in my pocket to feel the cold steel against my fingers, to reassure myself of my ability to defend myself, if I had to. Then I cautiously walked through the opening to the cave.
The coolness of the shelter hit me pleasantly, as I entered, retreating from the rays of the hot sun. I stood still, letting my eyes get accustomed to the dark interior, as I scanned the space for any sign of Buttercup. I could hear her breathing hard. An occasional short bawl, told me she was in the cave. She must be further back, though, because I couldn’t see her from my vantage point, so I hesitantly stepped farther into the dim hollow.
“Buttercup?” My single word echoed against the walls of the cave, in an eerie return. “Where are you, Buttercup?” My voice sounded impatient, as I took another step forward, focusing on every shape, looking for any small movement that would indicate Buttercup was present.
Then I heard her bellow again, this time louder and longer, so I knew she wasn’t very faraway, and probably pushing the calf out, with that long lament. A few steps farther, and I reached her. I was right. She had given birth, and was now licking at the newborn.
Witnessing the event, made me forget my caution in entering the cave. I was intent on attending to Buttercup and her calf. As soon as it could stand and nurse for a bit, I would put it over my shoulders and carry it home. The exciting new life, and an addition to our stock, were the primary emotions I felt at the moment.
As I stood there, looking down on the scene, my eyes fully accustomed to the dim light of the cave by now, I heard another sound. It was not an animal. It was distinctly more human. It sounded like a low groan, which made a shiver leap up my spine. I slowly turned toward the sound, preparing myself to bolt from the cave, as I fingered my gun in my pocket again.
Not far from where I was standing, I could barely make out the shape of a man, lying in a ball. There was no mistaking that it was an Indian. His dress and long braided hair made it evident. His head slowly turned, and our eyes met, causing me to grip my gun all the tighter, catching my breath in fright.
He said something low in his throat. I couldn’t understand what he had said, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. I could see where blood soaked his buckskin shirt. He said the words again, and then his eyes closed. I could tell he was not a threat to me, and my hand loosened on the gun, as I removed my hand from my pocket. He was wounded, and in pain. I threw all caution to the wind, as I knelt down beside him.
CHAPTER TWO
1864
White Moon sat on his trusted pony, he called Helaku, meaning ‘Sunny Day’, looking out over the vast countryside in the distance. He could barely see the dust created by a long train of wagons, bringing more white men…Thaw-koye-khee… to the region. Thaw-koye-khee meant man with large ears.
It was late in the season, and the temptation of organizing a raiding party to ride down upon the group, flitted through Muraco’s head. However, it was fall…Paw own gyah…when all the sap comes down…, and most of the tribes in the area were heading toward the river camp, where they would remain over the winter, known as Sah aim.
Wintertime was a time to rest from wars, and raids, to shelter during the harsh weather, until the spring,…Aw-say…budding of foliage… when the buffalo would return, and the spring hunt would begin. Besides, their store of goods was full from all their previous raids on the white travelers who trespassed upon their land.
The sun glinted against the round silver pieces, which had been taken from an earlier raid of white man’s goods, and fashioned into a belt, at Muraco’s waist. The belt ends jangled against each other, with the movement of Helaku, as his mount pranced in place, eager to be on his way. Muraco didn’t know what the round silver pieces were, but they made beautiful jewelry, for the Kiowa to wear.
Muraco did not feel bad about taking goods from the white people who passed over their land. He considered it payment for all the damage the wagon trains created across Earth Mother. There had been overkill of their game and wasting the meat, cropping of their grasslands by the cattle pulling the wagons and by the horses the men rode, or felling of trees along the way, used for firewood.
Muraco knew the history of the disagreement between Little Mountain, and the leaders of the ever-encroaching Thaw-koye-khee. He, like many others of the tribe, were informed of how the Kiowa had been promised one thing, but given another.
Shortly after Dohasan became chief of the Kiowa, a force of dragoons, led by someone called Colonel Henry Dodge, rode through the lands of the Kiowas, Comanches, Cherokees, Creeks, Osages and Wichitas, offering friendship to the leaders of each tribe. The meeting took place in a Wichita village. The Colonel indicated that he wanted to make lasting peace in order to stop the Indians from attacking their supply wagons.
Dohasan greeted the strangers with affable dignity. Although he had never before encountered American troops and considered them decidedly bizarre in appearance, he was prepared to deal with them as he would with a peaceful delegation from a neighboring tribe.
In the grand council, the colonel offered the Kiowas generous trading privileges in return for the safe passage of citizens traveling across the Santa Fe Trail. To Dohasan’s surprise, the white solider brought with him one of the Kiowa girls who had been taken by the Osage, during the slaughter of the Kiowa’s tribe, which caused Little Mountain to take over Islandman’s rule. The colonel said he was returning her to Dohasan to show his goodwill. It seemed the Osage was willing to help the White Man by returning the girl, since they had been offered a ransomed by Colonel Dodge. It was Colonel Dodge’s intent to procure something the Kiowa would value, so he could persuade Dohasan to stop his raiding.
Little Mountain was extremely gratified. “White men and brethren,” he said, “this day is the most interesting period of our existence. The Great Spirit has caused a light to shine all around us so that we can see each other. The Great Spirit has sent us to see these white men and brothers. Kiowas, take them by the hand and use them well. They are your friends; they have brought home your lost relation.”
In brotherhood and trust, Colonel Dodge persuaded Little Mountain and fourteen other Kiowa Chiefs to accompany the dragoon force to Fort Gibson, 200 miles to the east. There, the Kiowas received presents of food and clothing. Dohasan agreed to cease attacking along the Santa Fe Trail. They even made peace with the Osage, by exchanging a fine Kiowa horse for the sacred Taime.
The Kiowas were men of their word. They kept their part of the bargain. Even though there were times they would take their raiding parties to Texas and harass the ranchers there, who kept thrusting their way up into Kiowa-Comanche territory. But that was not the Santa Fe Trail.
For many seasons, the supply wagons were permitted to cross unhampered. Then there came many more whites heading toward a place called California, where the yellow stones were discovered. Seemingly endless trains of covered wagons came rolling across the Kiowa range, bringing a devastating sickness called cholera and laying waste the grasslands alongside the Santa Fe Trail.
Then, several seasons later, another rush of people came through in a stampede to claim the yellow rocks up in the higher lands. The people swarmed, unchecked, across the Kiowa’s hunting grounds, despoiling the Earth Mother with recklessness that the Indians found appalling.
The Kiowas, enraged by the intrusion and devastation, began to fall upon the settlers and travelers alike. At a Kiowa encampment on the Arkansas River, a government-appointed Indian agent named Robert Miller, delivered a warning to Little Mountain. Unless the Kiowas and their allies ceased their attacks on white people, he threatened the government would send troops to punish them.
Never
theless, the Kiowas had been promised that if they allowed the supply wagons to travel through unharmed, that the rest of their hunting ground would be allotted them without disturbance. Now the Americans were using Kiowa land to hunt on or farm on, not to mention traveling through in a constant parade of wagon-train, after wagon-train, bringing never-ending easterners to the west. As far as Little Mountain was concerned, Colonel Dodge had not kept his side of the bargain.
For the first time, Little Mountain spoke hostile words to the White official. He said scornfully, “The White Chief is a fool. He is a coward. When my young men, to keep their women and children from starving, take a cup of sugar or coffee from the white men passing through our country, killing and driving away the buffalo, the White Chief is angry and threatens to send his soldiers. I have looked for them a longtime, but they have not come. His heart is a woman’s. I have spoken!”
The Kiowas continued to raid and kill and attack any wagon trains, or supply trains that dared pass onto their land, trying to secure what they believed, rightfully, belonged to them. Dohasan believed that eventually, the white people would give up their need to move west, and leave the Indians to their land, the way they should have done from the beginning.
Muraco turned Helaku back down the hill. The white man’s wagons would not get attacked this day. He headed down towards the river where they would set up winter camp, and wait until spring before any more raiding would take place. Perhaps by then, the white travelers would stop invading Indian territory altogether. The wagon trains and supply wagons had already started waning, because of the dangers of crossing into Indian land, so possibly they already had learned their lesson, White Moon thought satisfactorily to himself.
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