by Mike Blakely
After the storm broke, Quanah drifted on to find his band of Wanderers, but I preferred to stay behind. The winter was a long one, and I remained alone in my despair. There were times when my wailing sobs echoed through the icy canyons like a demon’s song. I ate only when my stomach twisted in knots of hunger, slept only when I dropped from sheer exhaustion, bathed only to torment myself with frigid waters cold enough to kill me. A couple of times I almost waited one second too long to drag myself through the hole I had chopped in the ice, sensing that beyond the aching agony of the cold there was comfort for the tortured heart and soul.
When spring came, I pulled myself together to some extent. I found Kills Something’s band and rejoined them. The People looked at me differently, for I had grown gaunt and my eyes were hollow as caverns. Even my brother, Kills Something, avoided me, and I withdrew from the society of the village and traveled with it only for protection and convenience. I would wander all day and listen to trees and other plants that strained to talk to me. Sometimes I would shout at some bush or weed in frustration, making everyone in camp believe that I was quite touched. Yet they allowed me to remain, for I was learning spirit-secrets, and I could heal.
Always, always, I struggled with the same thoughts. Westerly, and how I missed her. My vision of Burnt Belly in the Shadow Land. My hatred of Chivington. I longed to seek the wisdom of my friends Owl Man and Little Chief—William and Kit. Dare I? Did a noose await me back in the towns of the white men? Did anyone remember me at all? Was I even alive? Did I ever even exist?
It went on like this for almost a year, and then something happened. A rattlesnake bit me on the buttocks as I went to sit on a fallen log. Got me right on the bare skin at the edge of my breechclout. I treated myself, as Burnt Belly had taught me, with an ointment of scraped coneflower root mixed with the grease of a bobcat, also chewing the sweet, tingly coneflower root. The cure worked, but the wound still swelled and hurt so badly for a couple of days that I realized that I was quite alive. I decided that I must make a change. My occasional cures with Kills Something’s people did not warrant the spirits allowing me to exist on Mother Earth, and that was what the snake was sent to tell me when it bit me. I knew I had to make myself more useful.
I began remembering things other than my losses. Burnt Belly had taught me cures that I had never used. So I resolved to get serious about my career as a medicine man. I practiced the chants and incantations the old shaman had shared with me. I sought and collected healing herbs. The coneflower, in particular, became my favorite cure, for one day while I strolled alone on the prairie, a blooming coneflower spoke to me in a voice as clear as yours or mine—a feminine voice that listed her medicinal uses. I was stunned. The little purplish blossom could do much more than treat snake bite.
“My juice soothes and heals burns,” Coneflower said. “My roots stop fits and stomach cramps. Dry my leaves and smoke them to cure headache. Chew my roots to soothe toothaches, swollen throat glands, and mouth sores.”
Coneflower went on to tell me that she was particularly adept at purifying the blood and the entire system, increasing resistance to infection, speeding the healing of wounds, and boosting the body’s natural immune system. Indeed, when so-called modern medicine finally discovers coneflower, it will become a household word, though I predict that our posturing physicians will probably refer to her by her scientific name derived from the Greek echinos, referring to the prickly stalks and leaves—echinacea.
During this time of self-recovery, I would also dream of captive children who wanted to go home—parents who missed them. Once, I had been a trader renowned for negotiating the release of captives and bringing them home. I knew it was high time I resumed my status as trader and ransom negotiator. I went to Kills Something one day, and told him that I was going away.
“Why do you leave?” he asked—the first words he had spoken to me in a dozen moons.
“My time for mourning has passed. I have work to do.”
“Your work is here, healing the people.”
“That is true, my brother. But I must also go between your people and the whites and save the Way of the Noomah as long as I can. The spirits call me to this task. I must make peace where I can, or war will destroy everything. Do you understand? Do you trust me to do this? I am no longer crazy, my brother. The demons have left my heart.”
He looked me up and down. Finally, he smiled a little. “Yes, I see that you are back.”
“I am sorry about the times I shouted at trees and upset the people. I had bad blood in my heart, but now I am pure again.”
“What about the revenge you wish on the soldier chief from Sand Creek?”
I sighed and swept my eyes across the rolling plains of Texas. “I have given it over to the spirits. I will not seek him out, but if the spirits wish me to take my revenge on him, they will deliver him to me. It is no longer in my hands.”
He nodded his approval. “Where will you go?”
“Back to Nuevo Mexico. I will come back with many good things to trade, like I did in the old days.”
Kills Something smiled and sighed with no small measure of relief. “That would please me, and all of the people. But will the whites not kill you for fighting against the bluecoats?”
I smiled. “Do you remember how I became invisible at Adobe Walls when Little Chief and the bluecoats came?”
“Aho. The people still talk about it.”
“Plenty Man will become invisible again. He will move among the whites and no one will ever see him.”
Kills Something grinned, clearly gladdened to hear me boast again. “We will feast when you return, like we once did.”
I offered my hand, and Chief Kills Something took it. “Until the Moon of Falling Leaves, my brother.”
“May the spirits protect you.”
I DECIDED TO take on a new identity. I would call myself Geronimo Jones, and claim that I was half Mexican and half English—the bastard son of a British duke who, whilst philandering about northern Mexico on a lavish jaguar-hunting expedition, bedded my mother—a comely señorita from Agua Prieta—begetting me. Inventing a new past for myself entertained me as I rode westward to the settlements of New Mexico.
By the time I reached Santa Fe, I had cut my hair and started a beard. I quietly went about buying single articles of Mexican clothing at different stores so as not to draw attention to myself. I purchased high-top boots and huge spurs, a sombrero, riding britches with silver conchos, a red cotton shirt and a leather riding jacket. In this costume, I could walk right up to people I had known casually for years, and carry on a conversation with them without their ever knowing who I really was. It provided amusement that I dearly enjoyed and needed.
Sometimes, I would even start conversations about the exploits of the famous frontiersman Honoré Greenwood—me. It was great fun. I would get a conversation going by casually mentioning the name of Kid Greenwood, then I would listen to fanciful accounts of his duel with Snakehead Jackson, his infiltration of Sibley’s brigade in San Antonio, his rescue of Captain Lord’s men at Valverde, his slaying and scalping of the two Mescalero scouts with Paddy Graydon’s outfit, the many children he had ransomed back from the wilderness tribes, and his service as trusted scout for the great Kit Carson.
There was even some talk of how Kit had forcibly detained me on the plains east of Fort Bascom, but oddly enough, no one in Santa Fe seemed to know that Honoré Greenwood had connived against Kit’s regiment at Adobe Walls. I began to wonder how much of a fugitive I really was. But by now, I was having too much fun being Geronimo Jones. It was just such a relief not to have to be Honoré Greenwood for a while.
As Geronimo Jones, I became a new Comanchero. This did not float well with the established Comancheros of Santa Fe and Taos, who thought that I would horn in on their market. I had to back down more than one angry competitor wielding a gun or a knife, but eventually I convinced them all that I would not harm their trade, as I worked almost exclusively with one
band of Indians far to the east—Kills Something’s people.
And so passed the next three years of my life. Geronimo Jones became a celebrated figure in Santa Fe and Taos. More than one man claimed I was his cousin or nephew or uncle. The señoritas adored me, for I was the son of an English duke. A bastard son, perhaps, but blue-blooded nonetheless. I took to drinking tea, stating my intention to one day sail to England to have a cup with dear old dad.
I did not see Kit Carson during these years, for I spent much time out among the Comanches, venturing into New Mexico only twice a year, while the army relentlessly ordered Kit up and down every trail it had conquered between Washington, D.C., and Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He established Camp Nichols to protect the Santa Fe Trail; treated with the Indians, including Little Bluff, whose village he had burned at Adobe Walls; traveled east to visit kin in Missouri; reported to his superiors in Washington, D.C., where he was breveted general; served at Fort Union, Taos, Santa Fe, Maxwell’s Ranch, and the Bosque Redondo; held a council with the Zuni Indians; and testified before a visiting Joint Special Committee from the U.S. Congress on Indian matters.
Finally, General Christopher Carson was granted command of Fort Garland, Colorado, where Josefa and his five children could join him. A sixth child, Stella, was born to General and Mrs. Carson at Fort Garland. Kit was fifty-seven. Josefa, thirty-nine.
Now, the only person to whom Geronimo Jones had revealed his true identity was Lucien Bonaparte Maxwell. Maxwell was a bigger rascal than I was, and I knew he would admire my guise. He delighted in encouraging me to tell lies about my nonexistent past to visitors at his hacienda, who were many in those days, as his ranch was a stage-coach stop. Maxwell stayed in constant contact with Kit, through messenger or mail, and kept me apprised of Kit’s whereabouts and doings.
In the spring of 1868, I went to Maxwell’s Ranch for an extended sojourn. I had arrived with a mule train of whiskey and all manner of other goods for the Comanchero trade, and Maxwell convinced me that I had better fatten those mules for a couple of weeks on oats before embarking on the long, dangerous trek into Comancheria. I gladly consented. Maxwell’s Ranch was an oasis in the wilderness. Lucien himself had amassed great wealth during the Civil War and the Indian Wars, selling beef and other foodstuffs to the army and the Bosque Redondo Indian Reservation. One branch of the Santa Fe Trail ran past his place, and he could purchase goods from all over the world over the tailgate of a freight wagon.
So it was, one afternoon in April, that Lucien Maxwell and I happened to be sitting in the sunshine in front of his mansion, eating sardines and smoked oysters on English biscuits, and drinking Chinese tea, while we watched his servants and laborers go about their menial chores.
“What have you heard from Kit?” I asked, having held the question to myself long enough.
Maxwell frowned, then took a bite from a sort of sardine and oyster sandwich he had made between two crackers. “Not good,” he said, crumbs spraying from his mouth. “Kit tried to resign his commission last summer because of his problem.” Maxwell pointed to his left shoulder. “The goddamn army refused his resignation. Those bastards have used that man up, Kid. But he finally got them to muster him out last winter, and he moved to Boggsville. Josefa is pregnant again, of course. Those two breed like rabbits.”
I chuckled, but the chuckle died quickly, and I suddenly missed old Kit very much. “Maybe I should go see him.”
“Go see him,” Lucien advised. “I’ve talked to Kit several times about that scrape at Adobe Walls, and he never mentions you taking sides with the Comanche. He doesn’t even know that I know. We don’t talk about it.”
“I wasn’t only taking the Comanche side,” I argued. “I made damn sure the Indians didn’t know about Kit’s supply train. If they had found it, Kit’s campaign would have ended in disaster.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lucian said. “I know about that. But Kit don’t know.”
“I’d never tell him. He believes he himself got his boys out, and he did. I don’t want him thinking otherwise. The point is that if I had really turned on Kit, I could have destroyed him, but my aim was not to beat him. My aim was to convince him to leave that valley with all practicable haste, and he did so, against the advice of his overzealous officers.”
“Well, that’s Kit. He’s always done what he thought was right, and damn any man who didn’t see it his way. You ought to go see him before it’s too late.”
“I didn’t shoot any soldiers, you know,” I said.
“What? At Adobe Walls?”
“Yeah. I fired a few shots in the air and screamed like a Comanche, but I never would have shot any of Kit’s boys.”
“I wondered about that. That’s good to know. But you charged with the Indians more than once, right?”
“Oh, they tried their best to kill me, Lucien, but luck was with me that day.” I sipped the last of my tea, which had gone cold. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished since then that I had caught a bullet that day. You know … Because of … Sand Creek. And Westerly.”
I hadn’t spoken of it to anyone until that moment, and I had to make a supreme effort to choke back my tears and not blubber like a fool in front of Lucien. I could already see that the subject made him uncomfortable. Lucien was a good man, but hardened by the frontier, and not given to showing much emotion. That’s why I was so surprised to hear what he said next.
“I’ve been lucky. Kept Luz by my side all these years. Don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. I can’t imagine how you didn’t just go plumb crazy, Kid, and I know you came close. That goddamn Chivington is just a dog, and that’s all. And that rabble of his—they ought to all be under the jail. I can abide a hard case and a man who’s quick to kill, but what they did warrants something worse than a firing squad for all of ’em. And ain’t a one of ’em’s been brought to trial. That Chivington resigned his commission just so’s he couldn’t be court-martialed. That’s the act of a coward.”
“I’ve pondered hunting him down,” I admitted.
“Of course you have, and you’re not the only one. It wouldn’t do you no good though, Kid. Let him live with the shame of the blood of children on his hands. Serves him right.”
“Still … I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him across the street one day in some town. I don’t know if I could stop myself from killing him.”
“If I ever see him, I’ll beat him to within a inch of his miserable life, I can promise you that. He better never show his sorry ass on this trail.”
I let it go at that, and we began to talk about more pleasant matters. We sat there all afternoon, enjoying the sun’s warm rays until it slipped behind the mountain. About the time we decided to pick up our chairs and carry them inside, we saw a rider coming at a trot from the Cimarron road to the north. A man who has watched horses and riders all his life can read a mount and a horseman at a glance. This rider had been on the trail for many a mile. The pony’s head hung low. We waited, of course, for the newcomer to arrive before going inside.
“By God,” I said.
Lucien squinted. “What? Who is it?”
“That’s Blue Wiggins.”
Lucien began to chuckle. “Wait till he meets Geronimo Jones. If you can pull this one off, Kid, you’re a genius. Blue would know you in the dark.”
So I fought back my grin, summoned up my gall, and waited for Blue to arrive.
“Howdy, Lucien,” he said, riding up to the gate where we waited.
“Good God, Blue, you’ve ridden that pony near to death. “Garcia!” he shouted at one of his stable hands. “Toca el caballo!”
Blue got down and nodded at me, extending his hand. “Blue Wiggins,” he said, handing his reins to the stable boy.
“Blue, this here is a Comanchero amigo of mine you might have heard of. Geronimo Jones, of Agua Prieta, Old Mexico.”
Blue’s eyebrows rose as he shook the kinks from his legs. “Yes, I have heard of you, Mr. Jones. I sure have. I’ve been wanting to meet
you. I understand that you’re an acquaintance of my friend Orn’ry Greenwood.”
I feigned confusion. “Orn’ry?” I repeated.
“Plenty Man,” Lucien explained, as if I needed the explanation.
I smiled and nodded, but kept my eyes shaded under my big sombrero. “Ah, Mucho Hombre. Sí, Mucho is a friend of mine.” I leaned toward Blue and said in a stage whisper: “We are even closer than brothers.”
I swear Blue looked at me with something akin to jealousy. “Same with me and Orn’ry. ‘Mucho’ as you call him. We were brothers, all right, but I haven’t seen him in four years.”
“Come on in the house, gentlemen, and take your hats off.” Lucien could hardly contain himself. “Follow me.”
We strolled up the stone walkway to the mansion, Lucien and I grabbing our chairs along the way.
“So you’ve seen Orn’ry? He’s all right?”
“He’s all right, hermano.” I paused and touched Blue on the sleeve. “A brother of Mucho’s is a brother of mine. Yes, he is as well as you might expect. He’s become a famous medicine man among the Comanches. He has five wives, thirteen children, and three thousand horses. He’s like a rich médico, no?”
Lucien was chuckling under his breath, but Blue didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ll be damned,” Blue said. “Can’t say it surprises me much. When you reckon you’ll see him again?”
“Oh, I see him all the time. I leave within the week for Comancheria. Shall I take him a message from you? A letter, even?”
“I wish you would. As soon as possible. Kit wants to see him.” He looked at me to explain. “Kit Carson.”
