Come Sundown

by Mike Blakely

  When I approached the fire, John Prowers grabbed the tail of the calf, and Charlie Rict grabbed the rope leading to my saddle horn. By pulling in opposite directions, they flipped the two-hundred-pound victim onto his right side. Charlie Rict knelt on the frightened calf’s neck and shoulder and pulled up on the left foreleg to hold the beast flat. At the same time, John sat on the ground behind the calf, forced the right hind leg forward with his boot and pulled the other hind leg back with his hands, tossing my loop aside as he did so.

  With the squirming bull calf constrained, Robert Bent applied the hot iron on the shoulder, pulling the brand away as the calf thrashed in pain, so the mark wouldn’t smear, then reapplying the glowing brand. The odor of burning hair and flesh assaulted my nostrils the way the poor beast’s bellowing belabored my ears, but this was business and the calf had to be claimed. Now Tom Boggs moved in with a sharp knife to crop the left ear and notch the right, carelessly tossing the pieces he had cut away to be scavenged by coyotes later. Next, he moved toward the testicles with the bloody blade.

  “Don’t cut this one,” John said. “I’m keeping him.” John nodded at Charlie Rict and they both released the calf at the same time. As John turned loose the calf’s hind legs, the two-hundred-pound bull thanked him by kicking him hard in the chest as he sprang from the ground. Tom Boggs laughed—he could tell that John had not been seriously injured. I chuckled along as I coiled my reata.

  “You little son of a bitch!” John yelled as he stood, rubbing his chest. “After all I’ve done for you!”

  “Could have been worse,” Tom said. “Could have been your teeth.”

  “Could have been worse for him. Could have been his balls.” He looked into his shirt where the hooves had skinned him. “We need to go down to Maxwell’s Ranch and steal us some Mexicans for this kind of work.”

  “We’ve got Orn’ry, there. He ropes as good as any Mexican Maxwell’s got.”

  “He don’t count. He’s usually out there skinning white buffalos and such. We need some permanent Mexicans around here. And something other than these shorthorns for them to gather.”

  “They look good,” Tom said. “They’ve fared better than I ever thought an American beef would.”

  John shook his head. “When the war’s over, I’m gonna find me some Kurries.”

  “Some what?” Robert Bent said.

  “Kurry cattle, from Ireland,” I explained.

  John gestured at me. “Maybe some Black Angus from Scotland.” I had suggested the possibility of importing breeds that thrived in the Highlands of the British Isles, hoping their characteristics might prove equally well suited to life on the high plains. My brother-in-law liked the idea.

  “I’m betting the Herefords will do as well as any,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll see in good time.”

  The men kicked some dirt onto the coals of the branding fire and got mounted. We had been out three days, gathering these cattle and camping on the plains at night. I had spared Major any of the hard chasing and had only used him to rope and drag calves. He was fourteen years old now, still sound, and vastly experienced in many types of human enterprises. He really seemed to enjoy this business of herding cattle, and would watch a herd as if eager for some half-wild brute to just try breaking free.

  By whistling and shouting, we started our branded cattle moving lazily toward William’s stockade, but they seemed in no hurry to get there, and daylight would not wait on our arrival. Once there, we would pen the herd and rest easy for a night. Tomorrow we would sort the cattle, turning the keepers loose on the open range, and herding the market beeves to Fort Lyon. There, the army would buy most of them to feed to soldiers, and the Indian agency would purchase the rest to issue as rations to friendly Indians.

  So with three days’ worth of dirt and sweat clinging to us, we pushed the cattle homeward, content with our success. I was wishing the beeves would move along a little faster when I heard John Prowers shout back at me from the front of the herd: “Orn’ry, ride that paint up here and give ’em something to look at.”

  Major had a wide white butt that would attract the attention of the dumb beasts, give them something on which to focus, and encourage them to follow. As the sun sank behind us and my stomach started to growl, I loped forward along the left flank of the herd.

  It was then that I happened to spot a large group of riders on a ridge ahead and to the left of us. I slowed to a walk as I caught up to Westerly, who had been tending the flank in front of me. “Do you see them?” I asked.

  “Yes, I just noticed them.”

  “Can you tell who they might be?”

  “Indians wouldn’t show themselves out in the open that way.”

  “They must be white.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “That would be my guess. I’m going to ask John if he wants me to ride ahead to see about them.”

  “Be careful.”

  I smiled and loped Major forward to lead the herd and to talk with John. I pointed out the riders. He hadn’t seen them yet, for he had been concentrating on getting the herd to follow him. We contemplated who the horsemen might be for a while. We decided to continue on our way, which would take us about a mile to the south of the party on the hill. At twenty-six, John was ten years younger than me, but these were mostly his cattle, so I considered him in charge of this operation. Besides, he had years of experience on the frontier working for William Bent, and typically made good decisions.

  We rode for almost half an hour, the herd assuming a proper pace, when we noticed some riders coming at us at a canter from the larger party. As they neared, I noticed that the leader of the party rode head and shoulders above his companions—a big man on a huge horse. The glint of metal on his blue tunic identified him as an officer of the U.S. Army. The party rode toward a point in front of our herd, as if they meant to halt our progress.

  “You want me to ride out and meet them, John?”

  “Let’s both go.” He signaled for William and R. M. to take our places on the point. The two of us loped to meet the approaching men. As we came nearer, I recognized the army officer.

  “That’s John Chivington.”

  My brother-in-law answered with a groan.

  John M. Chivington, the Fighting Parson, the self-proclaimed hero of Glorieta Pass, had gone on to achieve the rank of colonel, and now commanded the Colorado volunteers. I knew all this from newspapers and word of mouth. His arrogance and ambition, I had been told, had grown beyond his elevation in rank.

  We watched as the party of eleven riders slowed, engulfed by the dust they had kicked up. I knew these men were probably from the Third Colorado Cavalry—the “Hundred-Dazers” as they were called, for most had recently signed on for one-hundred-day enlistments, as if the Indian problem could be solved in a single season. They looked as tough as any bunch of men I had ever seen—most were out-of-work miners and bullwhackers and such. Not one wore a uniform. They dressed in store-bought or handmade garb ranging from buckskins to broadcloth. None had been shaved or shorn in weeks. Their weaponry were plentiful and plainly displayed.

  John raised his hand as a greeting.

  “Halt there!” Chivington shouted, though we had already stopped to wait for him.

  “Hello, Colonel Chivington,” John said.

  “Do I know you?” His soldiers made a half-circle around us.

  “We met just the once, down at William Bent’s Stockade.”

  “Can’t say as I remember.” The booming projection of his voice strained my ear. He looked at me. “But I remember you, all right,” he said, smiling uncomfortably. Chivington had done some boasting about Glorieta Pass, but he never voluntarily admitted that he had fought the whole battle from the safety of the bluff overlooking the Texas supply camp. He knew that I knew. “Mr. Green?”

  “Greenwood.”

  “Of course. I see you made it safely off Glorieta Mesa.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you men doi
ng out here?”

  John glanced at me and answered by jutting his thumb behind him toward the herd.

  “I can see cattle. Where are you going with them?”

  “Bent’s Stockade.”

  “Why?”

  John sighed. He clearly did not like being interrogated. “I have a contract to supply beef to Fort Lyon.”

  The colonel leaned back in his saddle and smiled. “Well, praise the Lord. That’s mighty fine. You boys seen any Indians?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Indian sign?”

  “Nope,” John said.

  “You’d better watch your scalps out here.”

  “We’re on good terms with the Indians.”

  Chivington chuckled, and few of his men joined him. “The only Indian on good terms with me is one with a bullet through his skull. Why aren’t you men riding with us? Are you Rebel sympathizers as well as Indian lovers?”

  “I haven’t seen any Rebels around here to sympathize with,” John replied.

  “No, because me and my boys from the First turned them back at Glorieta Pass.” Chivington offered an obligatory gesture in my direction, as if swatting a fly away. “Greenwood, here, helped.”

  All this time, the herd had been coming up behind us, and now Chivington got a closer look at our wrangling crew. “What in the name of … Those are Indians!”

  “That’s my wife,” John said, his voice a plain warning. He pointed toward Amache.

  I pointed toward Westerly. “And mine.”

  Chivington grunted and spat on the ground. “Squaw men. Apparently you haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?” John demanded.

  “By order of Governor Evans and General Blunt all Indians who don’t want to be considered hostile—and as such treated as enemies—must report to the Sand Creek reservation.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” John said.

  “I highly recommend that you do more than take it under advisement. If you are found harboring hostiles, you’ll be arrested.”

  “What authority do you have to arrest me for living in my own house with my own wife?”

  Chivington tapped the eagle insignia on his shoulder. “This authority. If your wife is Indian, she must report to the reservation.”

  Now John was getting angry. He had lived on these ranges much longer than the colonel and didn’t appreciate being bossed around in his own home country. “That’s a load of shit, Colonel. My wife lives with me, and you will pay hell arresting me for that. I’ll have a letter to the governor penned before my lamp goes out tonight, and we will just see about your authority.”

  “Easy, John,” I said under my breath. I looked back toward the herd and saw William Bent trotting toward us. This gave me some relief, for no one was more highly respected than William in the whole Arkansas River Valley, and he had a knack for calming tense situations.

  “Yes, you’d better listen to your friend and go easy, Mr. Powers.”

  “That’s Prowers.”

  “I don’t care what your name is.”

  Before John could reply, William Bent rode within earshot and said, “Hello, Colonel. Is there any trouble?”

  Chivington recognized William and seemed to cough up a great deal of the sand he had had in his craw. “There will be, if these squaw men don’t send their Indian wives to the reservation. Governor Evans ordered it.”

  William looked over the faces of the cavalry men with his calm gray eyes. “Well, now, Colonel, my wife is Cheyenne, too, you know.” He chuckled a little. “I guess you could say I’m an old Indian fighter—my wife’s an old Indian.”

  The Hundred-Dazers laughed.

  “But she’s no threat to anybody other than me. Same can be said of these boys’ wives. I promise you we’ll take their war axes away from them and give them washboards.”

  Again, the volunteers chuckled.

  Chivington mustered his gall. “Rules are rules. Next time we pass by your stockade, all the Indians had better have reported to the reservation given to them in the treaty of 1861. I’d escort them there now, but I’ve got worse hostiles to hunt.”

  William did not flinch. “I’ll take it up with Major Anthony at the fort when we deliver the cattle.”

  Again, Chivington tapped his shoulder. “I outrank Major Anthony.”

  “You’ve got fancier jewelry on your shoulder—I’ll grant you that—but Major Anthony is regular army. I’m sure he’ll grant exceptions to the rules.”

  “I wouldn’t chance it, but it’s up to you. We can deal with it next time we meet. For now I’m ordering you to send all Indians on your property to the reservation. I don’t care who they’re married to or by what kind of heathen ceremony.”

  William shrugged—a marvelously insolent gesture of complete unconcern.

  “Now, since those are army beeves, I’ll take one for my boys.”

  “The hell you will,” John said. “It doesn’t work that way. I supply the fort. The fort supplies you.”

  “I’m cutting out the middle man.” He grinned and turned to the man at his right. “Sergeant, pick a fat one.”

  The un-uniformed sergeant smiled and spurred his mount, but John cut him off. “You don’t pick them, I do!” he said. “These cattle are private property. I pick the ones I choose to sell to the army and it damned sure won’t be the fattest. I’m trying to build a herd here.”

  “There’s a war on,” Chivington said, his sanctimonious voice a condemnation. “Soldiers must eat.” He gestured to his sergeant again, but William joined John in blocking the way.

  “Hold on, now!” William shouted. “We can work this out! Colonel, I know you need meat for your men, but Mr. Prowers needs compensation for his investment. He’s gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to establish this herd here so that the army can feed its troops. Now, if you’ll produce a voucher, I’m sure we can cut out one of the market steers for you. There’s one that’s been limping along behind and slowing us down anyway, John. I’ll see to it that Colonel Chivington’s voucher is honored at Fort Lyon if you and Mr. Greenwood will go cut that steer from the herd.”

  John sighed, but offered no complaint.

  Chivington frowned. “Sergeant, ride back and tell the lieutenant to write me out a voucher for one beef.”

  William looked at me and John. “Well, go on,” he ordered, glancing toward the sun, “the day’s wasting.”

  By the time we got the steer away from the rest of the herd, William had the voucher in his hand and the conflict seemed to have been resolved. Then Chivington led his men in a cavalry charge on that lame steer and began shooting at it just as they passed by the left flank of our herd. The shorthorns bolted and broke past the flank riders on the right. They ran for almost four miles before we could overtake them and turn the miniature stampede. I have never in my life heard such cussing as when John Prowers expressed his opinion of the infuriating Colonel Chivington through the settling dust of the Colorado high plains.

  Forty-One

  The letter arrived at Boggsville on September 3, 1864. My heart plunged as if into a cavern when I touched it—even before I saw the handwriting on the sealed envelope. You must remember that Burnt Belly had taught me to hear the voices of living things, and the paper in my hand had once been part of a tree, with perhaps some wool or cotton fibers added to it—all materials from plants or animals that even through the transmogrification of the pulp mill could still communicate feeling to me. This missive portended ominous doings.

  I took the letter from the army private who had delivered it from Fort Lyon, and turned it over to see Kit’s handwriting. I had to smile a little, even through my dread of what intelligence Kit’s hand might impart. He had learned his letters with remarkable fluidity for one who had started so late in life to read and write. I leaned on the handle of the hoe I had been using to weed my vegetable garden against the almost-varmint-proof, rawhide-and-picket fence I had built around the garden patch, and took the envelope in bot
h hands.

  “There’s lunch up at the trading post,” I said to the courier, pointing the way for him. He smiled and rode toward the towering cottonwoods of Boggsville.

  I tore open the wax-sealed envelope and removed a single sheaf of parchment—Kit’s personal stationery as opposed to government stock. The letter written upon it was also in Kit’s own hand, lending the impression that this was a plea too personal to communicate through an adjutant.

  Fort Sumner, N. Mex. Awgus 22, 1864

  Honoré Greenwood, Esq.

  Mr. Greenwood:

  Things are not awl good here. The crops did not make on account of worms and bugs. Awl the fire wood has got burnt and the Indians dig roots to cook weevily korn. They dont cook it good enuff and it makes them sik as dawgs. But thare are other matters for me to attin to now and ergently I ask yore help.

  About Awgus 10, some Comanchies attackt lower Cimarron Springs, kilt five white men and run off oxin from a waggen train. Gen. Carleton has got awl het up about it and wants the Indians punisht. I fear a campane aginst the Comanchies is upon us. I will need yore advise and assistans. Will you come to Santa Fe upon gitting this letter?

  I remane, your faithful frend and companyon,

  Col. C. Carson, 1st N.M. Vols.

  P S I am awful sorry for my bad spellin

  A moment of panic overwhelmed me and I wondered why I had not faced up to this impending reality before now. The news of the Cimarron Springs killings had reached Boggsville nineteen days ago, giving me plenty of time to react. Yet I had failed to do anything about it. I should have prepared. I should not have been hoeing a goddamn fenced-in garden where a letter from Kit might find me. I should have been so deep inside the middle of Comancheria, or so far out on the plains among Westerly’s people, that no written plea could ever have fallen under my gaze. The paper crumpled in my grasp and I flung my hoe violently into the ripening stalks of corn. I should have been … What? Hiding from the inevitable?