by Mike Blakely
Now my knees buckled and I sat on the ground, leaning against the pitiful modicum of protection the tightly woven picket fence afforded a garden that was sure to be decimated by raccoons and black bears on one of those nights when the guard dogs fell into insensible sleep. That garden didn’t belong here any more than I did. I cradled my head in my hands and fought back the urge to weep. I would not take up a campaign against my own adopted people. Yet I could not bear to think of deafening my ears to the pleas of one of the finest friends and bravest men I would ever know.
I heard an armload of firewood rattle on the pile and looked up through the open gap in the garden fence to see Westerly near our lodge. She felt me watching, and her eyes swept her surroundings until she spotted me through the gap I had left open. Though I tried to pull myself to my feet in time, she knew something was wrong at a glance. I believe she even knew what was wrong. She stood there for a while, staring sadly at me. Then she smiled, and strolled toward me.
I met her at the gap and handed her the letter from Kit. Her brow furrowed a little, and she blinked and even smiled at the attempts at spelling. Westerly herself had become nearly flawless at spelling and grammar in Spanish and English, and daily harangued me to teach her more French. She finished the letter and looked up at me.
“He should spend more time learning to spell and less time listening to General Carleton,” she said. She giggled at this, trying to prevent my mood from plunging into depths of hopelessness as it was wont to do.
“What am I to tell him?” I asked, unable to join her in her amusement.
She took my arm and led me out of the garden. “You will know. Your heart is good and it will always guide you if you listen to it.” She stopped suddenly, and turned toward me. “Perhaps you should talk to Owl Man.”
A bright spot appeared in my vision of a future that had gone dark the moment I touched that letter. I nodded. Yes, William. William Bent. Owl Man, the wise one. Perhaps William would know what to do.
WILLIAM AND I sat at his desk at the cabin inside Bent’s Stockade. He had lighted a lantern and now pulled on a pair of spectacles. He read the letter. He sat back and frowned as he pulled off the spectacles, his droll and weathered face revealing decades of struggle and toil. Then, out of nowhere, he laughed and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve actually taught that old voyageur how to read and write at his age—our age.”
“You’re only fifty-five,” I said. “Born the same year as Kit, right?”
“Sure, but we started grousin’ about gettin’ old twenty years ago. I never dreamed Kit would learn his letters back then. Not that he’s learned it all, judging by this letter, but no more than I put pen to paper these days, I doubt I could beat him in a spelling bee.”
“He could have dictated it to his adjutant,” I remarked.
William grew pensive and folded the letter. “No, he could not have, Mr. Greenwood. Not this letter. He’s convinced himself that he needs you bad, and that puts quite a burden on your shoulders, doesn’t it?”
I nodded.
He handed the letter back to me. “We might have seen this coming.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“You might have gone into hiding, but that would not have suited you long.” He put an elbow on his writing desk and lowered his brow into his hand. He rubbed his temples, then slowly lifted his face, letting that roughened palm stroke his deeply etched visage until his chin came to rest on his knuckles. “He left you some room to maneuver.”
“Sir?”
William pointed at the letter. “Kit’s always been a man to think and choose his words carefully. The letter says he fears a campaign against the Comanches may be coming. That means it’s not what he wants. And he asks only for your advice and assistance. He’s not ordering you to take to the trail as his scout, and I don’t think he ever would, though he might ask you to, if it came to that.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“I know you couldn’t. Kit suspects it, too, and he wouldn’t fault you for refusing, but you’d better be prepared for him to ask you.”
I shuffled my feet and shifted in my chair. “So you think I should go to Santa Fe and meet with him?”
He glared at me. “What else? You have no choice. You’re in the middle of this.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “How the hell did I let that happen?”
William looked at me, bewildered. He scoffed. “You found a home out there on the Canadian. I don’t even know why you’re here now. Avoiding your responsibility to your home place, maybe—I don’t know. You’re so clearly suited to that place, and it to you … You don’t see that, Mr. Greenwood? After all these years?”
I felt quite ashamed, sitting there under the glare of a better man—a man I should have been trying to emulate all along, instead of getting embroiled in wars between white men or planting my garden in the wrong place. This was William’s range, and he had served it as steward and sage for well onto forty years, keeping what peace he could in troubled times, fighting with his wits—and with his weapons when diplomacy failed. I might have been trying to accomplish the same on the Crossing of the Canadian where the adobe walls built by my own hand slowly crumbled into ruin. I was already in hiding—avoiding my responsibility to my Comanche brothers and sisters. I should have been hoofing the trails from Adobe Walls to Santa Fe for months, desperately seeking a solution to the conflict that now seemed too near to stop.
I mustered some gall and looked up at William. “What could I possibly accomplish in Santa Fe now?”
“You could try to stop the campaign.”
“I’ve met with General Carleton before. He doesn’t believe in smoking the pipe with Indians.”
“I said you could try. You’ve got to do something. You’ve been sent here.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure what he meant. “Sir?”
“I never quite understood why you came to the frontier from wherever you came from, Mr. Greenwood, but it’s never been my place to ask. You could have accomplished anything you wanted back in some civilized country. You’re a man of intelligence and learning. You’re honest and you want to do what’s right. You could have gone anywhere and done anything, but you ended up here. I bet you don’t even know why. Something, somewhere, lured you to this place—or more exactly to that place you love out there on the wild Canadian. You may never know why, but you’re supposed to be here. You’ve got the brains and the heart and the will to serve your home place and your people, so use them.”
I sighed deeply and felt a great power engulf me, as if I had been sucked up into a thundercloud to absorb all the energies of its winds and lightning bolts. For too many years, I had merely played at solving the problems of Comancheria. I had occasionally voiced my opinion in the council lodge. I had casually met with military and government officials on behalf of the Comanches, but only at my convenience. Never had I committed to apply all my energies and talents to the cause of avoiding a Comanche war and securing a permanently recognized nation for my adopted people. I had failed miserably, and had perhaps waited too long to accomplish anything now, but I knew I must try anyway. The power of the mystic Thunderbird beat heavily in my chest.
Forty-Two
I made Santa Fe in four and a half days. That amounts to about sixty miles a day on horseback over mountains and rough country. That sounds incredible even to the best cowboys today, but I had honed my riding skills among Comanches, and I knew where to find fresh horses along the way at the ranches of friends.
I carried with me all the cash I had on hand at Boggsville—some three hundred dollars. In addition to that, I dug up a cache of four hundred thirty-five dollars in gold coin that I had buried some years before above Taos after returning from a successful mule-trading venture to Missouri. I also counted on later gathering over two thousand dollars that I had been keeping at Maxwell’s Ranch for over a decade. I was prepared to spend all of my money now, in the form of bribes or gifts—whatever
it took to avoid a campaign against the Comanches the likes of which had defeated the Mescaleros and the Navahos and sent them to the squalor and hellish internment of Fort Sumner and the Bosque Redondo.
Arriving at Santa Fe, I took a room at La Fonda, shaved, and had a bath. That very afternoon, just before the shops closed, I bought some attire befitting a frontier diplomat, and went to bed, having slept very little on the trail. I didn’t sleep much that night, either, but three hours a night is typical for me when the moon is waning, and I felt refreshed the next day.
I began gathering information. I spoke with Comancheros who had recently been out among the Comanches and Kiowas and I learned the locations and attitudes of as many bands of Indians as I could. I spoke with friends of mine who were officers in the volunteer army and tried to judge the overall attitude of the military toward a Comanche/Kiowa campaign. I found out that General Carleton intended to recruit Mescalero Apaches and Navahos to act as guides and scouts for the coming campaign. That failing, he intended to recruit Ute warriors. This I had expected. Kit had employed Utes to defeat the Navahos, and General Carleton believed in constantly pitting Indian tribes against one another to prevent them from uniting for an all-out war on whites.
While learning what I could about the attitude of the army, I also evaluated the military’s ability to mount a campaign out on the distant plains. I collected intelligence about available stockpiles of weapons and ammunition and supplies that would be needed to support a regiment moving against the Indians. I looked over the condition of riding stock and wagons, and judged the morale of the volunteer troops themselves. I felt like a spy again—like when I went to San Antonio to observe and infiltrate the Confederate Army. Only this time I was spying on the U.S. Army for the benefit of the Comanche/Kiowa alliance. I was a turncoat, and that amused me greatly.
My third day in Santa Fe, I happened to run into the Indian agent for the Comanches, Martin Stocker. His agency headquartered at Maxwell’s Ranch, but he had come to town to meet with General Carleton to discuss the Comanche situation. Stocker was a middle-aged man who had spent much of his life in government service. He spoke some Spanish, but no Comanche. Nevertheless, he was a good man and was serious about his job as Comanche Indian agent. We had met before at Maxwell’s Ranch, but Stocker didn’t even recognize me shaven, and in store-bought clothes. When he remembered who I was, he asked me to join him for lunch. We went to a place the Mexicans frequented so we would not be bothered by eavesdroppers.
“Did his highness, the general, summon you to town for a royal audience, as well?” he asked, just before shoveling a large portion of enchiladas into his mouth.
I smirked at his sarcasm. “No, Kit asked me to come.”
He nodded as he chewed and swallowed. “So Kit’s going to be sent out to round up the Comanches like he did the Mescaleros and the Navahos.”
“I don’t know that for sure, but it seems possible, unless the campaign can be avoided.”
He gestured at me with his fork. “Listen, Mr. Greenwood, I’ll do all I can to keep this campaign from happening. I could use your help. The better course of action would be to send a peace delegation into Comancheria.”
“I agree,” I said, savoring the taste of a beefsteak that had been pounded thin, grilled, and covered with a fiery sauce made of tomatoes, onions, and hot peppers. “If you can convince General Carleton of that, I will volunteer to guide the delegation onto the plains.”
He grunted his approval as his eyes watered. Sweat was dotting his forehead. The ability to enjoy real Mexican food took some time to acquire for most Anglos. Stocker was no native here, but he was trying to adapt. He swallowed, bolted a glass of water, and took a huge bite from a tortilla, knowing the tortilla would cool his burning mouth more so than the water. “It’s more likely,” he finally said, “that they’ll ask you to guide a war party.”
“That I cannot do.”
He looked at my face for a long moment, as if to judge my sincerity. Then he grunted and risked another fiery mouthful. Stocker asked me a lot of questions about the Comanches I had lived with. I avoided answering in too much detail and claimed that I had not been among the Indians very long, and not very recently, either. I considered Stocker an ally in my campaign to avoid a campaign, but I still did not want to give him too much specific information that he might eventually pass on to military authorities. I think he sensed my reluctance to cooperate fully, for he gave me a strange look, grinned, and ceased his interrogation. “Perhaps it is better that I don’t know everything about my charges at this point,” he said.
I shrugged.
“There’s going to be a meeting with General Carleton tomorrow morning at headquarters. I would like for you to come. I need some support for the cause of peace.”
I nodded. “I will be there. That’s why I came to town.”
COLONEL CHRISTOPHER CARSON arrived in town that afternoon, having come down from Taos where he had spent a few days with his family. Kit never attempted to make anything of an entrance wherever he went, but the town was buzzing with the news of his arrival by the time Martin Stocker and I stepped out onto the street from inside the cafe. I walked to the plaza that stood south of the main entrance to the old Palace of the Governors, where General Carleton made his headquarters. I knew Kit would be quartering there. I sat on the dirt of the plaza grounds, leaning against a tree for almost two hours, just watching, gathering my thoughts and my resolve, and enjoying the beautiful September afternoon.
Finally, I saw Kit step through the adobe portal of the palace. The military authorities had attempted to Americanize the look of the centuries-old Palace of the Governors by tacking up a long porch roof along the entire front of the building. There Kit stood under that shingled awning. He was looking old. His grizzled face seemed drawn, his eyes sunken. He carried his left shoulder slightly forward because of that fall in the mountains, four years ago. He stood with his feet set wide apart, still standing firm. His pale eyes darted attentively here and there about the plaza, and he seemed to be searching for something—maybe my arrival, I thought, flattering myself. He had taken to growing his hair long. Though thinning with age, it brushed his shoulders in a rare display of flamboyance that in reality was probably nothing more than an aversion to sitting still in a barber’s chair and being lauded for his conquests and begged for stories of the Indian wars. His eyes were just about to locate me when someone recognized him and grabbed his hand to shake it. The next thing I knew, there were three or four, then half a dozen, then ten men and boys gathered around the great Kit Carson, slapping his back and shaking his hand. He bore it as long as he could, then begged his leave and slipped back into the sanctuary of the palace.
I REPORTED TO Military Headquarters of the Department of New Mexico early the next morning. I found Kit standing in the courtyard of the palace with a cup of coffee in his hand, talking to General James Henry Carleton himself. The two men had campaigned against Indians together when Kit scouted for the then-Major Carleton in the First Dragoons. Carleton was fifty years old now, Kit fifty-five. They were both small of stature, but tough as tempered steel. They were brothers in the Masonic Lodge.
Other than that, Kit and Carleton seemed to have little in common. Kit was frontier born and raised, schooled in the wilderness. Carleton was from Maine, raised a Christian and a gentleman, educated in classrooms and taught to excel at everything he took on. Carleton had proven himself a valiant soldier at Buena Vista in the Mexican War, and in numerous campaigns against the Indians. He was tough and relentless. He believed God had sent him to the frontier to tame the heathen Red Man.
Kit saw me and came to shake my hand, then wrapped his arms around me in a back-slapping abrazo. “I scarcely recognized you in store-bought clothes,” he said. “How’s that little squaw wife of yours?”
We talked and laughed together until the general stepped nearly between us as if annoyed at being ignored. “What brings you here, Mr. Greenwood?”
“Kit
wrote, requesting I come.”
The general’s eyes darted between Kit and me. “How did you know to be here this morning? You’ve obviously just now seen Kit for the first time in a great while. I just scheduled this meeting yesterday.”
“I had lunch with Martin Stocker yesterday. He told me about the meeting.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kid Greenwood knows the Comanches, Jim. He’s traded with them for years, and has lived in their camps. That’s why I asked him to come.”
The general nodded. “I’m aware of all that. Very well, you may stay, Greenwood.” He pulled a watch from his pocket and frowned at it. About that time, Martin Stocker walked briskly into the courtyard. “Mr. Stocker, you are almost late,” Carleton scolded. “Come into my office, gentlemen.”
We filed into a cool adobe room where we found a table spread with woefully incomplete maps of Comancheria. We pulled up chairs and sat down as the general offered coffee, which all of us declined. Carleton lit a coal-oil lamp, then sat.
“You know why you’re here,” he began. “The time has come for our government to deal with the Comanche and Kiowa problem. The Kiowas have been making raids on the Santa Fe Trail for months. Now, it seems, their allies, the Comanches, have joined in the mischief with that raid down at Cimarron Springs.”
“Begging your pardon, General,” said Agent Stocker, “but I have had no confirmation that those Indians were positively identified as Comanche.”
“They wore buffalo horn headdresses and carried long lances. And the riding skills were those of Comanches. They used their horses as shields at a full gallop. That’s Comanche.”
“Assuming the reports are accurate,” Stocker said, “the raid amounts to a crime against the citizenry, not an act of war. There is no evidence to suggest that the entire Comanche nation has become hostile.”
