by Mike Blakely
Carleton snorted. “Comanche is synonymous with hostile. Literally. What does ‘Comanche’ mean, Kit?”
“It’s Ute for ‘our enemies,’” Kit replied.
“There you have it,” Carleton said.
“The ancient enemies of the Utes do not necessarily have to become the enemies of the American people.”
“They have attacked an American settlement and killed American citizens.”
“Not as a nation. Those were the actions of a few renegades who should be hunted down and brought to justice.”
“That is exactly what I mean to do,” the general announced. “They will be hunted down. They and any Indian who harbors them must be taught a lesson.”
Stocker’s face was turning red. “General, there is no reason to go to war with the Comanches. The best course of action would be to send a peace delegation into Comanche country and treat with them. They should be required to give up their captives and turn over the renegades who have engaged in raids. Then they should be provided with presents and rations, and shown the road to peace.”
“Presents!” Carleton roared.
“Yes. Just as William Bent has been authorized to grant presents and rations to the Cheyennes and the Arapahos.”
“William Bent does not operate under the jurisdiction of the Department of New Mexico. If he did, he would not be giving presents to the Indians.”
“Mr. Greenwood has offered to guide a peace delegation out onto the plains,” Stocker said.
The general glared at me. “Is that so, Mr. Greenwood?”
“If you will allow me an observation,” I answered. “I have spent some time in Comanche camps, trading for horses and buffalo robes. They do not want war with Americans. They are too busy raiding Texas to give a hoot about New Mexico. Since the war began they have reclaimed hundreds of miles of the frontier in Texas. As such, they are fierce enemies of the Confederacy, and therefore allies to America. I agree with Agent Stocker. The American government should seek a treaty with them and keep them pitted against the Texans.”
General Carleton stood silent for a moment, actually considering my point. “That is an argument worthy of consideration,” he said. “However, I believe the war against the Confederacy will soon be over. The Rebels cannot hold out much longer. Texas will soon fall under the Stars and Stripes again. When that happens, we will again inherit the war against the Comanches. To treat with them now only to turn on them then would not be honorable. The only course is to mount a punitive campaign against them. We have proven this course of action against the Mescalero Apaches and against the Navahos. Both tribes have been subdued, and reports of their murders and rapes and thefts have virtually vanished. That is the way to achieve peace with the Indians. Whip them soundly and start them on the road to Christianity and civilization. And that is what I intend to do.” He pounded his fist on the table with each “that,” leaving no room for negotiation.
“Sir,” I said, “with all due respect for the military leadership you and Colonel Carson have proven to possess, the Comanches will not be defeated as easily as the Navahos and the Mescaleros.”
Carleton smiled. “Now we’re getting down to some important business. Explain your statement.”
“The Comanches don’t grow crops. They don’t have vast orchards or pumpkin fields for Kit’s troops to destroy. You might surprise them and run them out of one of their camps and capture and burn their lodges and all their accoutrements only to learn that they have made new lodges and weapons within a matter of days. Their country is vast and uncharted. Their commissary is the buffalo and the deer, and they know where to find the herds and how to subsist on rabbits and rats on the way to the herds. Their tactics of evasion and escape are unparalleled. And all this is to say nothing of their fighting skills, which are unconventional and extraordinary.”
“I admire your respect for the enemy, Mr. Greenwood. But they can be routed. The Texans proved that at the battle of Pease River.”
“The Texans are braggarts. That was not a battle. It was a massacre of women and children and Mexican slaves. There were no warriors present in that camp.”
“You’re mistaken. I’ve read the reports. Chief Peta Nocona was killed.”
“I am not mistaken, sir. I was in that camp. I witnessed the slaughter. The man Sul Ross claimed was Peta Nocona was actually Peta’s Mexican slave—a captive. Peta Nocona died less than a year ago, of an infected wound received in a fight against Utes.”
The general looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Even assuming you are correct, it changes nothing. The Comanches are raiding with the Kiowas and they must be punished. I will not entertain fanciful notions that they are somehow invulnerable to attack. If they prove more difficult to subdue than other tribes, so be it. Colonel Carson knows the Comanches every bit as well as you do, Mr. Greenwood, and he will adjust his tactics and keep after the scoundrels until victory is achieved and the Comanche menace has been removed. That is what we are here to discuss.”
Agent Stocker turned to Kit. “Colonel Carson, certainly you must see the benefits of attempting a lasting peace with the Indians.”
Kit drew a deep breath and thought about the question as he absentmindedly curled the corner of one of the maps on the table. “I feel for the poor devils, Martin, I really do. But they savvy just two things. Friend and enemy. A friend is somebody stronger than they are. An enemy is weaker. If we want to be friends with them, we have to show them our strength. That’s their way. The elders in the Ute tribe tell me that only a few generations back the Comanches moved down here from up north and just flat kicked hell out of the Apaches to take the plains. That’s what they do and that’s all they understand. They will hate our guts if we just sit on our asses and let them raid our towns and ranches. They will respect us if we take the fight into their own country.”
“Where is the authority for such action?” Stocker demanded. “There is no proof that the Comanches want war with us. Only a few of them have been accused of raiding. Does this warrant a campaign of attrition against them?”
“Mr. Stocker,” said the general, “I appreciate your commitment to your duty as agent to these savages, but believe me, I have the authority to order a campaign. Your suggestion that not all the Indians are guilty is a point worth considering, however. So I will allow someone familiar with the Comanches to go along with the troops to identify the friendlies and try to keep them out of the fighting.” He looked at me when he said this.
“I’ve offered to guide a peace delegation into Comanche country,” I replied. “For now, that service is all I am willing to commit to.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Greenwood. You are not the only scout available to this department. At this meeting, however, you may prove of some service by identifying known campgrounds of the enemy and informing Colonel Carson and myself of the strength of the enemy warriors, their weaponry, supplies, et cetera.”
Martin Stocker stood up suddenly, his chair scooting across the floor behind him. “Gentlemen, I must respectfully excuse myself from further involvement in this affair. This meeting has evolved into a council of war. I will not stand by and watch plans being made to attack and kill the very people whose welfare I am charged to protect. You should know, General, that I will protest this campaign in a letter to my superiors at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and to President Lincoln himself.”
Calmly, Carleton looked up from his maps. “I would expect no less of you, Martin. Thank you for coming.”
When Stocker stormed out, I considered following him. But I was not as reputable as he. I was sneaky. I wanted to investigate General Carleton’s plan and determine what he had in mind in the way of a campaign against the Comanches. In making this decision, I indeed became a spy again. I was collecting intelligence that I hoped would benefit an enemy of the United States of America. Oddly enough, I felt no guilt in this act of treason toward the United States. In fact, when I thought about my Comanche brothers, I liked being the scoundrel th
at I was. My disloyalty to Kit, on the other hand, gave me no small amount of shame. He may have been the only man alive who could have talked General Carleton out of the campaign, but he was convinced that the Indians had to be warred into peace.
Carleton began asking me numerous questions about the Comanches and their haunts. Some of them I answered honestly, knowing that one band’s location months ago would prove useless intelligence now anyway. When asked about their favorite campgrounds, I was evasive, except when I knew that Kit knew the answer as well as I. I didn’t want Kit to catch me lying for the sake of the Comanches. But in spite of what Carleton believed, Kit Carson did not know the Comanches the way I did. He knew the Utes, the Navahos, the Mescaleros, the Arapahos, and the Cheyennes better than I did. But not the Comanches. So I could get away with spreading a modicum of false information without Kit or Carleton knowing.
When asked about Comanche strength and supplies, I erred on the side of weakness. I didn’t want to paint the Indians as too powerful, for fear Carleton would order even more recruits and arms to go out against them. What I did find out in this meeting was pretty much what I had already suspected anyway. Carleton would commit some three hundred cavalry and infantry troops to the campaign, plus another hundred Ute scouts, if they could be recruited. Fort Bascom, the new post on the Comanche Trail, would serve as the jumping-off point for the campaign. Preparations should begin immediately and the campaign launched as soon as possible before winter came on.
When the meeting was over, Kit and I walked down the street to a cafe. Kit knew the owner, and asked for a table in the back, where no one would recognize him. We ordered a couple of steaks and talked about friends and family all through our meal, without mentioning a word about the meeting in the general’s war room. Finally, though, as Kit pulled his napkin from the front of his shirt and threw it on the table, his face turned grim and he looked me right in the eye.
“You know what I need,” he said, as a statement more than as a question.
“You need intelligence.”
He nodded. “I need to know where they’re at, and what their strength is.”
I sighed and put my silverware down, my appetite suddenly gone. “I’m going out there, Kit, but not necessarily as your spy. I believe this campaign against the Comanches is wrong. I’m going to try to do something about it.”
“What can you do, now, Kid?”
“I’ve got to try something. Anything. Those are my people. They trust me. Maybe I can try to get the major chiefs together and ride in for peace talks.”
Kit shook his head. “There’s no time. You know the bands are scattered from hell to breakfast. Anyway, even if you could talk the chiefs into begging peace, which I doubt, General Carleton has already sent orders to Fort Bascom to turn all flags of truce away. He will not treat with the Indians, Kid.”
“I can’t just let this happen. And you don’t have to, either. You could resign your commission. Look at you, Kit, they’re using you up like an old horse that ought to be out to stud.”
Kit chuckled. “There’s more life left in me than you think, Kid. And I need the salary to support Josefa and the children. Anyway, I’ve never resigned from anything in my life. It is my duty to follow orders.”
“You weren’t always a soldier.”
“No, but it suits me. I believe my men need to be led, and I believe the Indians have got to be whupped into accepting civilization. Otherwise, we’ll have to kill ’em all before it’s over. With your help, we could whup ’em quick and save more of ’em in the long run.”
I stared at my plate and searched my heart. “You’re not going to whip the Comanches, Kit. I don’t care if you muster a thousand men. You’ll lead them all to slaughter on the plains. I don’t want to see your last campaign end in a horrific defeat.”
Kit smiled. “Those Comanches have sure got you hornswoggled. I know it won’t be easy. That’s why I need your help. But it can be done. The Comanches will not hold the southern plains forever.”
“I can’t help you this time, Kit. My heart’s not in it.” I felt crushed to admit this, yet the honesty in my words bathed my soul with relief of the burden.
Kit leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Listen, Kid, you’re going out there anyway. Just keep your eyes and ears open. You’ll know when I’m coming, so ride out and meet me for a parley. You can tell me whatever you want to, or tell me nothing at all. Just meet me halfway and talk. Can you just promise me that much?”
I thought for a while as Kit’s eyes searched mine. “If I hear you’re coming, I’ll ride out and talk. But it will only be to try one last time to talk you out of this campaign.”
We left it at that, and said our farewells. I retired to my room and began writing letters to the commissioner of Indian Affairs, to senators, to the secretary of war, the secretary of state, and to President Lincoln himself, begging them all to call off the campaign. I knew the odds were against me. Most if not all of my letters would probably fall into rubbish bins or fireplaces. Even should one get read, and answered, the reply would probably come too late to make a difference.
After posting my letters, I made immediate preparations to ride into Comancheria. I had heard the government viewpoint. It was time to seek the wisdom of Burnt Belly and test my brotherhood with Kills Something. I felt as if the fate of the entire world rested on my shoulders. In reality, looking back, I was nothing more than a pawn in a trifling struggle that would scarcely warrant a paragraph in the book of world history. But it was my paragraph to write, and I was prepared to fill my inkwell with blood.
Forty-Three
Burnt Belly sat cross-legged before the fire in his lodge. It was a small prayer fire, for the weather was pleasant, and the heat of fires not needed. The bottom of the buffalo-hide lodge cover was rolled up two fists above the ground to draw the temperate air in as the warmth of the fire sought escape through the smoke hole. The old shaman pulled a mouthful of whiskey from the small jug I had brought him. He took a healthy pinch of black powder from the buckskin pouch. All at once, he spat the whiskey and threw the black powder into the fire, causing the little blaze to flare. Now he resumed a chant that meant nothing in the Comanche tongue, but as far as I knew might very well have been the language of the spirits. This had been going on since dawn, and the sun was now plunging toward the western horizon. All day, I had listened to the chants, fed the fire for Burnt Belly, smelled the smudges of cedar and fir whose smoke carried prayers up to the Great Mystery.
Suddenly the chant ended. “They are coming,” Burnt Belly said. “In two moons.”
I had not even told him about the campaign yet—only that I needed to seek his wisdom and advice. It is possible that Comanche and Kiowa scouts had been keeping an eye on the construction of Fort Bascom, and had simply surmised that the attack was imminent. It was possible that Burnt Belly had reasoned that the soldiers must strike before winter fairly set in. Or it is possible that the spirits told him the future. With Burnt Belly, one never knew.
“Yes,” I said. “Three hundred bluecoats and a hundred Utes.”
“Fools,” he said. “Let them come.”
“Would it not be better to ask for peace?”
“What peace? The same peace that the Mescaleros and Navahos got at that slave camp on the Bitter Water?”
“A different peace. One that allows us to stay in our own country with honor.”
“The blades of our lances will win that peace. I have had visions. Our time to show our strength draws near to an end. The great war between the whites is almost over. The tejanos and the bluecoats will soon be one people again. Before that time comes, we must take everything we can and drive every hostile white man from our country. Then, the battle will become one to hold what we have won. The bluecoats and the tejanos do not respect an enemy who wants peace. They understand only the arrow and the bullet and the knife. Let them come into our own country, and we will teach them respect.”
This echo of Kit’s
observation almost amused me. “Little Chief will lead them. He has defeated the Mescaleros and the Navahos.”
Burnt Belly scoffed. “They are weak. Both people are our enemies. We might have defeated them ourselves, generations ago, but we have let them survive so that we may raid their fields and herds. Little Chief will find one of our horseback soldiers worth ten of their warriors.”
“I tried to tell them not to come. I did not say too much, but I tried to tell them they could not defeat the Comanche and Kiowa alliance. They would not listen. They are too full of arrogance and pride.”
“Little Chief is your friend,” he said.
“Yes, but my loyalty lies with my brother, Kills Something, and the Comanche people.”
“You speak the truth. Your heart is Comanche, but it runs with the blood of a white man. You want to fulfill your promise to fight against the whites who will invade us, but now you see that you must do battle with your own warrior-brother, Little Chief.”
“It troubles me, but I have spoken in council, and I must defend my people if the bluecoats come, no matter who leads them.”
“So be it. Little Chief is a great warrior. He will fight hard and he will expect no less of you—even as his enemy. The Great War between the whites has turned friend against friend and brother against brother. Each man must answer to the call of his own heart. Do not let it trouble you. It is the way of a warrior.”
“You have answered my two questions. The one about peace, and the one about my friend Little Chief, who now is destined to become my enemy. Now I must decide how to prepare my people for the attack.”
Burnt Belly took another pull from the jug and cast the whiskey and powder into the fire once more. He looked at me, smiling. “That time was just for fun.” He reached his hand toward me. “Help me up, nephew. I have been sitting here too long and I am old and stiff.”
I went to help him, but before I could take his hand, he rose magically, with a strength and balance a man of his years should not have possessed.
