Come Sundown

by Mike Blakely

  “I will try,” I said.

  “Do not try! Do. Know in your heart that you can hear the voices of the living things.”

  I turned to the nearest plant—a willow tree. I already knew that the willow had many uses to the Indians. Like the yucca, a cord could be twisted and woven from strips of bark; children made whistles from tubes of bark carefully slipped off a stem; the inner bark was dried and ground into a flour; crushed roots were soaked in water and grease by vain warriors to prevent dandruff; tender willow leaves were used as a poultice on wounds and cuts. And as I placed my palm gently around a branch and let my thumb fall seductively into a fork of the branch, I faintly heard the willow speaking to my heart, trying to heal me and all of humanity with ancient medicine. It was confusing, for the willow seemed to have much medicine to offer. The voice of the tree buzzed like a beehive and mumbled like a friend trying to speak to me through a roaring wind. I could not quite make out what she was trying to say. Then, a word or two came clear, but not so much a spoken word as an unpainted portrait of an idea.

  My root, steeped in water, renders a cure for internal bleeding, and choking in the throat. My bark, made into a tea, relieves pain that comes with urination.

  I wondered in amazement if I had really heard this, or if my mind had just concocted something out of desperation. I turned to the medicine man to tell him what I had heard, but I could tell by the pleased look on his face that he already knew. Just then, a boy’s voice shouted from the village strung out along three miles of Bent’s Creek, Adobe Creek, and the Canadian River. The boy was the camp crier, sent to spread the news of some important event. We were near enough to hear the boy shouting, but too far to understand his words.

  “We must go back to the lodges,” Burnt Belly said. “Something is happening.”

  WESTERLY AND I had been in camp with Kills Something’s band of Quahadi Comanche for five months now. The trade for horses had proven highly profitable, for the Comanches were raiding a frontier the Confederacy could not protect, driving away thousands of fine mounts. Westerly and I would gather the horses here, and wait for the next trade caravan from William’s stockade to bring things the Indians wanted in trade for the horses. In this way, horses from Confederate Texas became Union remounts.

  Westerly and I lived in a cozy tipi that we had raised near Kills Something’s lodge. We were completely satisfied with working the horses by day, reading to each other by firelight, and making love in our lodge after dark. She had become the perfect mate, partner, and lover, and I could only congratulate myself for having the good sense to take her for my wife, against the advice of my mentors in the Indian trade. I fell more in love with her every day.

  In my spare time, I had begun to take some lessons from Burnt Belly on medicinal uses for plants, but the studies were difficult because the old man wouldn’t just teach me. He said the plants themselves would teach me, and constantly urged me to seek some kind of mystic level of wisdom I scarcely knew how to achieve. It seemed that I had discovered something important with the willow tree just now, only to be interrupted by the boy shouting in the village.

  The old man and I walked out of the woods to the prairie that served as our campground, and saw what had caused the commotion. John Prowers had arrived with another string of trade wagons from William’s stockade. Three canvas-covered Studebaker prairie schooners were sliding and crunching their way down into the Canadian Breaks a mile to the north, followed by a larger Conestoga pulled by six fine mules. Burnt Belly stopped and squinted at the sight, as I went over to Westerly who was waiting for me at our lodge door, a beautiful smile on her face. Her sister was coming, and we would enjoy brisk bouts of commerce for the next several days. I came to her and took her by the hand.

  “I know you have missed your sister.”

  “Yes, I have,” she admitted. She gently squeezed my hand and gave me a beautiful smile. Then she turned her eyes to the wagons that came lumbering toward camp behind teams of tired mules.

  The appearance of the wagons and the announcement of the camp crier had stirred the peaceful village of hide lodges into an anthill of activity. Women dropped their chores and grabbed their children to greet the wagons. Old men who had been napping or making weapons emerged from their lodges. Warriors working with horses, and boys tending herds, galloped to the north to salute the trade wagons and all the good things they carried.

  “Look!” Burnt Belly said, from where he had stopped to watch the arrival. “That boy rides with the speed of an antelope!”

  I followed the medicine man’s eyes to find the horse that streaked fastest across the grassy prairie toward the wagons. For a moment, the rider and mount disappeared behind the ruins of old Fort Adobe, then reappeared on the other side, seeming to have gained even more speed. The pony was a shiny black with a flowing tail and a mane that must have brushed the boy’s face in the wind. Even at this distance of a half-mile or more, I knew the rider was Quanah, the Fragrant One, son of the great Chief Peta Nocona and the white woman, Cynthia Ann Parker.

  Quanah was fourteen now, and on the verge of manhood by Comanche standards. His first raid would soon come, and by the looks of the way he rode, he was ready. Mind you, I myself could ride in those days. I could hold my own against most of the warriors in races and feats of equestrian skill, for I had trained with them as an adopted member of Kills Something’s band. So for a rider to fill me with awe was rare. Quanah, even as a boy, was such a rider.

  As he charged toward the wagons, he threw himself first to one side of the horse, then the other. He whirled and sat the thundering black steed backward, his arms raised, his voice yelling, “Yee-yee-yee-yee!” loud enough to be heard all over the valley. He faced forward again and circled the first wagon at a speed that seemed impossible for a horse making such a tight circle. The antics of the horse and rider enlivened the mule teams, increasing the grind and rattle of the big wagons. They trundled to the north edge of camp and drew to a stop, with Quanah and other boys circling on fleet ponies.

  Westerly ran to meet her sister, and I walked to the lead wagon, driven by John Prowers.

  “How’do, Greenwood?”

  “Fine, John. You?”

  “Got here with my hair.” John watched Quanah ride away with the speed of a hawk. “Who is that kid on that black pony?”

  “Chief Peta Nocona’s son. His name’s Quanah.”

  “The one that’s half white?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Some rider. Even for a Comanche.” John climbed down from the wagon, clearly relieved to have his feet on solid ground. He pushed at the small of his back. “How’s the mood here?”

  “Good. The whiskey’s all gone. I don’t expect any trouble. How are things back at William’s stockade?”

  John frowned. “The wagons came from St. Louis. Word has it that William’s boys, George and Charles, have joined the Confederacy.”

  “Charles?” I said, remembering the little boy who had once ambushed me with a toy arrow. “He can’t be more than fourteen.”

  “Lied about his age.”

  “Good Lord,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, William’s worried plumb silly. I’ve got a letter for you.” He reached into a vest pocket and produced an envelope folded twice to fit into the pocket. “I was told to protect this with my life, and burn it if I couldn’t get it to you on time.”

  I unfolded the letter and saw Kit Carson’s name on it. Back at Boggsville, I had begun to teach Kit to read and write, but I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope as his. He had apparently gotten some soldier or clerk to pen this letter for him. I tore open the envelope and read the missive. It was rather formal, as I might have expected, having been dictated to a scribe. The gist of it was that Kit was practically begging me to join him with the New Mexico volunteers as a scout, scribe, and courier.

  The great Kit Carson was calling me to arms. What man could refuse such a charge? My eyes stared at the page I had already read. I fel
t filled with everything from pride to sorrow. I looked up, straight into Westerly’s eyes, though she stood some distance away at the next wagon with her sister. The smile melted from her face, and sadness filled her eyes. She sighed and forced herself to smile at me as if to say she understood. Then her eyes looked downward as she pretended to listen to some story Amache was telling, though the joy of her sister’s arrival had drained from her heart.

  The irony scalded. The very paper upon which the letter had been written seemed to strike my fingertips with lightning that jolted my soul like the bolt that had scarred Burnt Belly years ago. These consonants and vowels, verbs and nouns, sentences and paragraphs, the very things that had brought Westerly and me together, were now calling me away to war in a letter from an illiterate man.

  Twenty-One

  October 20, 1861

  Lt. Col. Christopher Carson

  First New Mexico Volunteers

  Fort Union, Territory of New Mexico

  To: Mr. H. Greenwood, esq.

  Dear Mr. Greenwood,

  Duty calls. Our honor and courage, our love of country, and our loyalty to the flag beckon us into the fray. A glorious struggle lies before us.

  Our distant sources in Texas inform us that the erstwhile Maj. H. H. Sibley, United States Army, now commissioned Brigadier General H. H. Sibley by the Army of the Confederate States of America, is raising, equipping, and drilling an army in San Antonio, Texas. The purpose and aim of this army, according to our intelligence, is to invade New Mexico and Colorado, secure the gold and silver fields for Confederate exploitation, and conquer California, providing the secessionist government with the California gold fields and western ports.

  In advance of Sibley’s Brigade, Rebel Col. J. R. Baylor has already invaded the Mesilla Valley from the south and taken Fort Fillmore. It is possible that the Mexican states of Chihuahua and Sonora may be persuaded to join the Confederacy.

  The war has come to our country, Mr. Greenwood. Liberty is at stake. The secessionists must not achieve their goal of conquering the southwest. I call upon your devotion to freedom and your duty to your government. I need the services of a scout and courier. There are few here that know the country like you, Mr. Greenwood, and none that I trust more.

  I urge you to ride immediately for Fort Craig, where our army will soon amass to repulse the invaders from Texas. I appeal to you as my friend. I need your help. Please come.

  Yours truly,

  Lt. Col. Christopher Carson

  First New Mexico Volunteers

  P.S., I am blessed once again. Charles Carson was born to me and Josepha just days ago in Taos.

  That letter from Kit worked a curiously profound effect on me. He was calling me to defend a country I did not even claim. I still thought of myself as a fugitive from France; a man with no country, other than my adopted Comancheria. True, I had served the U.S. Army as a spy, scout, and courier in the Mexican War. True, I had ties to New Mexico, which had remained loyal to the Union, and, yes, she was being invaded by an enemy. Still, I did not consider myself a legal citizen and would never have thought of voting.

  I did not go once again to war in pursuit of some lofty ideal or glorious call to sacrifice. I went because Kit Carson was my friend and he had called for my help. Time was, I had called for Kit’s aid, and he had come. The moment to settle up had arrived. Kit must have known this when he dictated the letter. Why else would he appeal to my friendship, then add that personal postscript about his new son. He may as well have written, You must come help me protect my wife and children from the invaders.

  My honeymoon was over. I left the trading at Adobe Walls to John Prowers. Westerly would return to Boggsville with Amache and John. Westerly understood. A Cheyenne woman took pride in a husband who rode away to seek honors in battle. Our last night together was at once sad and wonderful. She drifted away in my arms, but I could not sleep. I held her, and thought about the beautiful warmth of her body. In the middle of the night she rolled away from me. I touched her hair so as not to wake her, and took my leave. In the moonlight that poured in through the vent hole of the lodge, I wrote a love letter to her in Spanish, saying I would miss her, but that I would think of her every day while I was away, and then return to her embrace as soon as I could.

  I cinched my Mexican saddle on a good horse and rode for Fort Craig.

  Twenty-Two

  CHRISTMAS DAY, 1861

  I caught up to Kit in Albuquerque, New Mexico, awaiting orders for his volunteers to march south to repel the Texans. A soldier pointed out his adobe house to me, and I rode wearily after the grueling miles from Adobe Walls to meet with my old friend. Approaching his house, I saw Kit burst out through the front door with a Navaho blanket over his shoulders. A bunch of children came clambering after him, tugging at his sleeves and coattails, giggling and squealing with joy. There were seven of them. Four were his own, and the other three were either playmates of the Carson children, or orphans Kit and Josepha had adopted. They ranged in age from ten to two. Josepha came outside after them, holding her baby in her arms, her face beaming with joy at having Kit home for a while. Some eighteen years younger than Kit, Josepha still appeared the radiant young Spanish beauty who had stood loyally by her husband for over a decade and a half.

  I reined in my pony to watch, as Kit took the blanket from his shoulders and spread it on the dusty ground. Now he made his children line up along one edge of the blanket and stand at attention like soldiers. Kit lay down on the blanket, his children staring down at him, anxious and excited. “Listo …” he said, telling them to get ready in Spanish. “Go!”

  The children pounced on their father like vultures on a corpse and began rifling through the pockets of his coat and his trousers, as Josepha laughed and Kit groaned in fake agony. The children mined all manner of Christmas candy, trinkets, and toys from Kit’s pockets, giggling with delight as they found their surprises. Finally, they withdrew from the field of conquest, comparing their winnings—except for five-year-old Christopher, who straddled Kit’s torso as if he were a horse, and tasted a peppermint candy cane.

  Kit sat up and hugged the little boy, smiling even as he winced against the pain in his troublesome left shoulder. The boy ran away to play with his siblings, and Kit laboriously rose from the blanket, rubbing the shoulder that galled him so these days. He happened to look my way about that time, and his eyes grew large with surprise as he recognized me astride my mount.

  “Chepita!” he said to his wife, for that is what he always called her. He pointed at me. “Mira!”

  Josepha gasped with joy and handed the baby to Kit. She ran from the front door to greet me, wrapping the rebozo tighter around her shoulders against the December chill. I dismounted and led my horse toward her. We were like brother and sister, and her embrace melted the miles of cold camps lingering in my bones.

  Josepha led me by the hand toward the house. Kit had his eldest son, William, take my horse away. Putting their arms around my shoulders, one to each side, the couple beamed at me and led me to the door, the younger children trailing behind. “Kid, there will be no talk of war today,” Colonel Carson ordered. “This is Christmas. You’ll feast with us and rest your carcass.”

  They began lavishing me with a variety of leftover victuals, and we talked about friends, but as promised, we made no mention of war. After young William Carson came back from caring for my horse, Kit whispered something to him and sent him outside again on some mission. It was an hour or so later that the boy showed up, and with him two familiar faces entered the little adobe serving as the Carsons’ temporary home. The first face belonged to my old friend Blue Wiggins. The second I scarcely recognized, for the boyish visage of Toribio Trevino—the former captive whom I had ransomed from the Comanches years before—had grown into young manhood.

  “Hola, Mucho,” he said. Short for my Comanche name, Mucho Hombre—Plenty Man. There were more handshakes and abrazos among us than we could notch on a tally stick, and we spent the r
est of the day telling one another of our travels and exploits. Blue had been back to California several times and had given up gambling. He had bought some land and was trying to make a living farming and raising stock. Toribio’s people had never been located in Mexico, so he had continued to live on Lucien Maxwell’s ranch and had become a skilled vaquero in recent years. Both Blue and Toribio had joined Kit’s company of New Mexico Volunteers. I told of my wanderings among the Indians, but we still refrained from war talk at Kit’s insistence.

  “There’s another old acquaintance of ours among the volunteers,” Blue said.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “That gambler. Luther Sheffield. He’s with Pino’s company—the Second New Mexico.”

  My mouth dropped. “Does he remember you?”

  “I’ll say he does. Pulled a gun on me the instant he saw me.”

  Kit chuckled. “You boys should know better than to make enemies of gamblers and the like. There’s nothin’ like a good game of seven-up with your friends, but you all should know to stay out of them gamblin’ dens.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said to Kit, then turned back to Blue. “How did you keep from getting shot?”

  “I was with a bunch of our boys, and when Sheffield pulled the pistol, they jumped on him and took it away from him. He was pretty riled. Said he’d kill me sure before it was all over.”

  “I don’t guess he’ll be too happy to see me, either, will he?”

  “Your name came up. John Hatcher’s, too. Luther’s got a good memory.”

  “Where is John Hatcher these days?”

  “He tried to make a farm out of some land out on the Rayado. Got a corn crop in, but a grizzly bear come through in the night and ate just about his whole field. Stomped down what he didn’t eat. So John built him a platform out in the cornfield and slept up there every night till that griz come back. Shot him dead. Big ol’ boar. After that, John took bear huntin’ fever and went on the warpath for griz. Claimed he’d rid the whole territory of ’em.”