Porcupine continued. “My friend’s father buried his son as only a Shahiyena father could treat his warrior son.”
“You told me. But why did you follow him?”
“I followed, afraid of what a white man might do to the body of my best friend.” He bowed his head. “Soon I was sorry that I had doubted the father of High-Backed Bull.”
“This is why you took the horse medicine from the pony Rising Fire killed by our son’s resting place?”
“Yes. And I kept it all these years, wanting to bring it to you—but not knowing what to say to you.”
“You have been here many times since my son was killed. And still you did not give it to me—even when Pipe Woman took her things and rode off to the north with you!” The anger and sadness rumbled through her belly.
With a wag of his head Porcupine answered, “Only because I selfishly wanted to keep Bull with me—not wanting to give him back to you. Not just yet. If I kept something special of him—something of his love for ponies and the special way the animals loved him back—then maybe I could in some way keep Bull alive.”
“If you remember him, he will always be alive in your heart.”
“Yes, Shell Woman.” He stared off into the darkening sky to the east. Perhaps conjuring up those places whence the enemy came. “Bull died hating the white man.”
“No, Porcupine. My son died only because he hated the white man in himself.”
He seemed to contemplate on that, then bent and came through the corral poles to stand beside her. “Perhaps you are right. Many times Bull told me he would rather die than father any children who would carry the white man’s blood in his veins. He vowed he would never marry, never have a child of his own. To do so, he said, would be to stop cursing the man who was his father. To have his own child would be to accept his own legacy.”
“Then, tell me—is it true you did not send the pony to me with my husband?”
He shook his head and looked directly at the woman beside the pole corral in the growing darkness.
“No.”
“But it is one of your ponies, is it not?”
“No, Shell Woman. It belonged to High-Backed Bull.”
“I don’t … understand. The one Rising Fire says he killed beside the resting place—”
“Was a favorite of your son’s.”
She gazed at the strawberry roan, its thick winter coat a dark umber against the snowy ground and white-shawled tree branches illuminated with the dim starshine come of a winter evening.
“And this red one … if not yours—why did my husband bring it to the mother of High-Backed Bull?”
“This one,” Porcupine explained softly, “he is the animal Bull always rode into battle against the white man.”
*Yellowstone River
31
February 1874
TO SOME THIS was the Moon of Popping Trees. To those Lakota and Cheyenne who stalked the northern plains.
But down here in the panhandle country where the southern tribes had for generations followed the migrations of the buffalo, Jonah figured they would call it something on the order of the freeze-up moon. Lord, was it cold. And it didn’t take a farmer to know a brutal winter always made for one miserable summer. Jonah was too frozen, and summer was still too far away for him really to dread July and August on the southern plains, anyway.
Last summer had grown old as the two horsemen marched north from Fort Concho, stopping to ask for any fragment of news at Fort Griffin on the Brazos. The most he could muster of any word was that up at the Fort Sill Agency, where some of the Comanche were watched, might be a place a man could start. Stories always ran free about the Comanche, stories that the army had more reports of white children among the wild tribes than you could shake a stick at. Stories, that is. Lots of goddamned stories.
Autumn was seeping down the central plains, coming in its relentless crawl to mark the end of another season, working its way across the Arkansas and Cimarron, on over the Canadian and then to the Red River by the time they heaved away from Fort Richardson and headed north to Indian Territory carrying Colonel Ranald Mackenzie’s handwritten pass for Two Sleep.
“It wouldn’t do for an Indian to be caught wandering around off his reservation in this part of the country,” the commanding officer of the Fourth U.S. Cavalry had said to Hook. “A Shoshone at that.”
“But this ain’t Snake country, Colonel.”
Mackenzie’s brow had wrinkled. “To most folks in Texas, Mr. Hook—an Injun is an Injun. And if an Injun isn’t on his reservation … he’s fair game. Take my pass for your friend here, with my hope that it will serve you well. I commend you to your good sense, and may God bless your search. Watch your backtrail.”
The hardwoods had been illuminated with autumn’s fire by the time Jonah and Two Sleep crossed the Red River into Indian Territory. That first night back in that country Jonah spoke of tracking the Mormons into the land of the Creek.
“Sixty-six was it?” Hook asked himself thoughtfully. “Or was it sixty-seven?” He had wagged his head. “The Creeks were a good people—farmers, raised some horses too. I had my cousin at my side. Artus.”
For a long time he was deep in himself, mucking around in the memories of those first bygone days spent searching for family, on the trail of blood kin. Better it was to have blood kin beside you when you set upon that trail.
Cousin Artus, who came home to Missouri from the war to find his mother already in the grave while he was off fighting Yankees. Soon to put his father in the ground beside her final resting place. When Jonah showed up to discover his family took and his place gone to ruin—why, it became clear neither of them had anything better than to leave behind all their loss and say farewell to that Missouri valley.
Following the recollections of old man Boatwright, the one the Mormons had tortured, Jonah and Artus tramped west into the land of the Creek before Usher’s trail went cold. They moseyed north out of Indian Territory and found work supplying buffalo for the railroad crews laying ties and track along the Smoky Hill in Kansas. When Jonah later went to work as a scout for the army, cousin Artus was left behind to continue working for the westbound railroad.
Jonah had often joked how safe Artus had it—while Jonah seemed to be riding out there on the point, pushing his luck at the head of soldier columns searching for the warrior bands.
Still, it was the railroad and the great smoking horse that drew much of the red fury back then, the way the high points in country like this would draw the most lightning strikes.
There by that fire, his first night back in Indian Territory, shivering from the cold autumn wind gnashing its teeth at his back, Jonah remembered how he first saw the scene of the derailment—how the crumpled cars lay askew on both sides of the twisted track like a child’s toys. At first glimpse from that distance the cars seemed like something he had of a time carved for Jeremiah and little Zeke.
Trying his best to control his panic as he drove his horse into a gallop along the ravaged rail bed, Jonah had eventually stood over the second bloated, burned body, thinking it had to be his cousin. When he had tried to turn the blackened body over, the swollen skin burst with a sickening hiss, releasing a horrid gas that made Jonah stumble back from the corpse. After losing what breakfast he had left in his belly, Hook had turned back to what remained of his cousin after the warriors got done with the railroad men.
He had wished he remembered more of the words he should have said over the shallow grave he dug there beside the twisted tracks. Words of love and forgiveness and everlasting peace. But in the past seven years since his cousin’s death, Jonah had come to realize all the more that he knew very, very little of love and forgiveness. And had long ago come to the conclusion he would likely never know a damned thing of everlasting peace.
Pushing on into autumn Jonah and Two Sleep had reached Fort Sill. They spent time among the bands gathered at the Kiowa and Comanche agency. Talking with Indian agent James Haworth, they picked the man’s brain f
or all that Jonah hoped to learn. In the end they saw a handful of white children waiting to be claimed, were shown crinkled daguerreotypes of others—pictures that had been taken by a photographer out of Topeka, photographs to be circulated among the forts and towns of Kansas in hopes that relatives might come to claim these orphans of the Indian war.
As much as Jonah wanted any of those boys to be his, as much as he strained and squinted, trying to make those dim, sepia-toned tintypes into something he might recognize, he finally had to admit he had come up with a busted flush again. What hurt even more was his growing fear that in the end he would never recognize his grown-up boys, even if by that unadulterated God-ordained miracle he ever came across Jeremiah and Ezekiel.
In taking his leave from the Kiowa-Comanche agency, Jonah stopped for a moment with Haworth outside the door of the small clapboard shack topped by a hip roof that served as the agent’s office. A few yards away on a patch of bare ground, a young man was using a long branch to pick up dirty, greasy clothing. Those worn and torn garments were fed to a smoky fire, one at a time. Jonah watched as britches and shirts, pantaloons and dresses, coats and even Indian clothing, were fed onto the smoldering, smoky flames.
“What’s he doing?” Hook asked Haworth.
“The children’s clothes.”
“You burn what they got to wear?”
“We give the recaptured children a bath, cut their hair, and purge them of the body lice before we give them new clothes donated by Friends back east.”
Hook’s eyes narrowed as he turned away from the fire. “Your work should give you satisfaction, Mr. Haworth. What you do makes these poor children white again.”
The agent wagged his head. “Not so simple as that, Mr. Hook. Some of these young wretches will live with their horrors the balance of their natural lives.”
“And the rest?”
He tried a smile. “They’ll do fine. Just a matter of getting them back to their own people.”
Jonah turned his back on the fire and asked, “How about a child, took when he was five or six?”
Haworth tried to put a cheerful face on it, but it turned out to be nothing more than a wan smile. “Who is to say?” And he shrugged.
“No,” Jonah forced the question. “I want to know. What are the chances?”
The agent’s face went as gray as old oatmeal. “Perhaps that child will heal in time. Any younger, a child—well, it depends on how long the child is held by his captors. Still …”
“Still … what, Mr. Haworth?”
“Any younger than that, Mr. Hook—truth is, I’m afraid there is little hope of fully recovering the child to a life among a God-fearing white culture.”
He turned back to watch the fire, watch the smudge of smoke rise among the trees losing their autumn-tinged leaves that chilly afternoon. Finally he asked, “So where does a man go from here?”
“You might move north. To Anadarko on the Washita. If you find no help there, you can check with John Miles, agent at the Darlington Agency up on the Canadian.”
“What tribe?”
“Cheyenne, Mr. Hook.”
“I know something of the Cheyenne,” he replied too quietly, two fingers brushing the long scar at his hairline where a warrior’s bullet had grazed him seven long years gone. Then he stared directly at the agent, saying, “These Indians will never make farmers, Mr. Haworth. Scratching at the ground is something for the white man who wants to dig like a burrow mouse.”
“I must still try, Mr. Hook. Like you, I must keep on trying.” Haworth held out his hand, hope in his eyes. “I wish you God’s speed in your search.”
Perhaps it would have been better if they had never tried Anadarko and Darlington. About that time another Christmas passed and with it his unenthusiastic greeting of another new year. Just a waste of time. Slowly they made their way through each camp dotting the two agencies, looking, talking in sign with those who would talk. For the most part, the old men stood around their lodges as Jonah and Two Sleep came through, old men who talked in furtive whispers with their heads bent together. Jonah thought of those on the free prairies to the north when he looked at these beaten people. These old warriors so much like gaunt prairie wolves caught and trapped in this cage—grown suspicious, cautious, anxious, and frightened of the white man who holds their spirits prisoner. Yet saddest of all were the starving, sunken-cheeked children peering up at the two horsemen, each one in his ill-fitted, cast-off clothing from a benevolent white society back east.
He talked as best he could with the old men who did not turn away when he made sign, asking them about two boys—one who soon would be fifteen, and the other seventeen. And as he talked with the old warriors gathered around smudgy fires on those cold early-winter days, a piece of Jonah’s mind snagged on a thought the way a man’s coat might catch on a nail worked loose from barn wood by the torment of the wind: these were no longer boys he was looking for. They were young men now. Going on a dozen years since he walked away down that narrow, rutted lane, stopping to turn one last time and wave back at those three children and their mother, before he marched off to fight the war. A war he had yet to come home from.
He hated these Cheyenne and Kiowa, hated them even more for what they kept hidden behind their unmoving, gaunt faces and the hollow looks in their black, sunken eyes. Hated them for ever riding with the Comanche. He hated them most for giving up and coming in to feed their families on the infested flour and moldy salt pork now that the buffalo were disappearing from the southern plains. In those cloudy, angry eyes and sullen faces Jonah caught a glimpse of himself—like dark light sliding off a broken shard of mirror.
In their eyes he saw the hopelessness that grew daily inside his own breast. Their hopelessness now become a way of life. His, a hopelessness for two boys and their mother. In reality no less a way of life for Jonah Hook.
In late January he raked off his chips and turned their trail south once more, back across the Red River to Fort Richardson. From there he planned to strike out to the northwest, pointing into the deepest reaches of the Llano Estacado. A land where the trickles of rainfall grew and gathered into creeks and streams and then the meandering forks of the great rivers like the spreading of a great many-fingered hand. Among those canyons and austere, sere-colored bluffs Jonah Hook decided he would stake himself one last turn of the cards.
And came up with a hand that would not force him to fold.
“You a resident of the state of Texas?”
Hook looked at the tall, skeletal old man who had asked him the question. The skin fell in folds over the gaunt cheeks, dark rings of sleeplessness gouging liver-colored pockets below the eyes lit with some distant, yet bright inquisitional fire. His white mustache and much of his chin whiskers were yellow, stained with dribbles of tobacco juice. His clothes seemed of the wrong size, too big for the bony frame—yet there was a sinewy strength and assurance about the elder one, something that gave an intangible bulk to his otherwise wispy stance: that aura of rock-solid resolution there in the jut of his jaw, that and the butt of the big Walker Colt’s pistol that rode in front of the man’s left hip as if it hung there from birth.
“Missouri.”
“If I get this right—you’re telling us you’d join up just to hunt Comanche?” asked the second man at the table, a civilian as well.
He was younger than the first, clean-shaven except for the bushy black mustache that fell from the severe crimp of his face to hide his lower lip. The tip of his tongue repeatedly combed the long brush aside as the man gave voice to the deep concerns seen in his blue eyes. They were as blue as a good trout hole, all tracked up with crinkles that made him seem real sociable.
“I would. You’re hunting Comanche I was told.”
The younger of the two flicked his trout-hole eyes at his partner. “This company is commissioned to keep the peace, Mr. Hook. We don’t set out a’purpose to hunt down Comanche. If they are raiders—we’ll follow their trail wherever it leads.”
“Out there,” Jonah asked, pointing. “To the Staked Plain.”
The old man nodded his gray head, his face so old and creased, it looked like a frost-bitten apple. “We go to that savage land on the trail of the heathens, and snag the feet of murderers if God so wills it.”
“Then I want to join.”
The younger one quickly eyed Two Sleep. “I’m not so sure we can use you.”
“But you said you needed men—any man who could use a gun.”
The civilian nodded, his blue eyes squinted as if they perpetually squinted against the high plains sun and wind. “True, that’s what I said and I stand by it. I must recruit where I can, Mr. Hook. If that means to take our fighters from the watering holes and the knocking shops here across the way from Fort Richardson, so be it.”
“Poxy sluts,” the old man grumbled miserably, “sluts what don’t know nothing but how to prop a man up for minutes at a time.”
The younger one stared at Two Sleep, as if studying the Indian. “Deacon—we’ll recruit where we can.”
“Told you—I want to join,” Jonah repeated.
“And the Indian?” asked the younger, eyeing Two Sleep again.
“He’ll ride with me.”
Leaning back with a sigh, the bushy mustache said, “We are a paramilitary organization, sir. Men who have volunteered to undertake great privations to protect their families and homelands against outlaws of all color. And frankly—a lot of that job right now requires us to kill Indians. Your friend here, he’s a …”
“Shoshone.”
He cleared his throat diplomatically. “I’m concerned that he might be mistaken for the enemy in the heat of battle.” Jonah wagged his head, spreading both his hands on the small cafe table where he sat with the two white men. The winter sun was sinking fast on the small town of Jacksboro, a frontier settlement erected not far from Fort Richardson, state of Texas. It was to this smoky café that Hook had been told he might come to meet men who best knew the Staked Plain. Men who knew the Comanche, knew where the warrior bands might be hiding.
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