The Color of Lightning

by Paulette Jiles

  “For messages,” said Beatty. “To make messages.”

  They drew great slash marks across sheets of paper. They listened carefully as the young Quaker explained that soon they would go home to their own people. He tried to get them to sing, but they could not hit the note and had no sense of the musical rhythm of white people, but only the subtle and constantly varying beat of Comanche songs, the floating tenor.

  Samuel counted out pennies into their hands and sent them to the sutler’s store for hard candy so they could understand the meaning of money but when they came back they put the hard candies beneath their blankets in the army tent and did not eat them. They were afraid of being poisoned.

  IN THE BITING cold that came in the last of December of 1870, Samuel saw a man in a light buggy driving up from the south along Cache Creek. A little man, bowed over his hard hands that held the reins in a knot. Samuel met him at the door of the agency house and brought him inside out of the wind.

  “Mr. Hammond, I am Sam Kilgore,” the man said. “My boy was taken in Clay County. Martin. Last week. There was a big raid, they killed old man Koozer and took his wife and two daughters. They killed some of the Maxeys. The Maxey baby. They took the Maxey boy.”

  Samuel tried to take notes but the man’s account was rambling and repetitive and once he wept, briefly, with his hand to his forehead.

  “Koozer was a Quaker, like you,” Kilgore said. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Like you.”

  Samuel turned away from Kilgore to watch the trembling low light behind the isinglass. This was the fourth bereaved parent and relative who had driven or ridden across the dangerous stretch of open plains to ask for his children. He put his head in his hand and for a few moments listened to the wind scouring away the putty in the window frames and said a brief prayer.

  “Let me see what I can do.” Samuel reached out and touched the man’s arm. “They are coming in in three or four days for rations. Just wait here. You can sleep in the enlisted barracks at the fort.”

  “What will you do?” the man asked. “I know of people that came here to the agent before you, and he said he could do nothing. He said he couldn’t do a damn thing. People went and ransomed the children themselves. The Babbs did, paid hard money and a good gray horse to get them back. Y’all are useless as tits on a boar.”

  “Let’s calm down,” said Samuel. “Calm down. I understand how you feel. You are right to be angry. I will get them back. I will. No matter what.”

  A week later Samuel saw a column of dust toward the northwest. He stood with one of the men from the sawmill, the man who worked the big crosscut saw. His name was Frenchy Robideaux, and he watched the Indians coming with narrowed eyes. Before Samuel could tell one horseman from the other, Onofrio rode up at a gallop.

  As they watched the Indians approach, Onofrio tried to calm himself. To get his breath back. He held to the reins tightly, and the alarmed horse danced to one side and then the other. “They come by the old hayfield. At Caddo George’s place. They killed that Caddo boy you set to watching the cattle.”

  “Well, God save us,” said the sawyer. “The sons of bitches.”

  They stood together in the cold December wind and saw the dust storming off to one side of the approaching horses and loose hair streaming in the wind. The spiky black design of lodgepoles heaped on either side of a mule. Dust boiled away from the hooves of their horses as if with every step they took they set the ground on fire.

  Samuel had a can of coal oil in one hand. He had been on his way to burn a pile of cut brush. He set it down and opened the white picket fence gate.

  “Why?” he said.

  Onofrio lifted both shoulders. “The Comanche and the Caddo have been fighting one another forever,” he said. “They just fight.”

  “Frenchy, take Onofrio’s horse and go to the post, go to the commander’s house, and tell Colonel Grierson to come with a detachment of soldiers. Go now.”

  “They’ll see me,” said the sawyer. He wavered. His hand went to his hat and then to the reins. The horse shifted and turned his head to look at the approaching Comanche and Kiowa horses. “They’ll know. They’ll follow me.”

  “Hurry,” said Samuel. “Just go.”

  “Give me a pistol.”

  “I don’t have one,” said Samuel. He threw the reins over the horse’s neck and turned the stirrup for the sawyer. Finally the man stepped into the stirrup and rode away at an innocent and casual walk and when he was out of sight behind the new sawmill he spurred the horse into a gallop.

  The headmen came to the agency house. They dismounted in simple, fluid motions and looked about themselves, and one turned back to call to the women. The women and children stayed on their horses. Samuel saw Two Hatchet, a handsome man despite his receding chin, with delicate, long eyes. A man whom Samuel recognized as Satank, old and weathered, spoke to Onofrio.

  “They have come for the rations,” said Onofrio. He swallowed several times. “They want them now. They don’t need any beef. They already got their beef.”

  Samuel said, “Come inside.” He opened the little white picket gate with its ornate, turned gatepost and made a welcoming motion.

  The men stood reserved and hostile among the chairs and desks, their moccasins leaving dusty impressions on the carpet like bare feet. Two Hatchet picked up a steel pen from the desk and turned it up to look at the point. They all wore revolvers. The old man Satank stood beside Eaten Alive and regarded Samuel beneath drooping eyelids.

  “You killed young Jesse George,” said Samuel. “The one who was looking after the cattle. That is murder.”

  The young men went after him, said Satank. The Caddo always fight us.

  And Eaten Alive laughed at Samuel and said there was no controlling the young men. It was foolish to ask him to do so. He could not.

  “You have taken yet more captives,” said Samuel.

  Yes, we have some captives out on the plains, a long way away. Eaten Alive said it easily, with a wave of his hand.

  Onofrio’s voice ran along behind the sound of the Comanche language in a relentless monotone. There was no one to translate for the Kiowa but the time had passed for translations and for considered words. Tones of voice and gestures said everything that needed to be said.

  “Bring them in. Bring them in now.”

  Eaten Alive said, They are having a good time. They want to be Comanche. Who would not want to be a Comanche?

  Samuel turned to Satank. “Bring in any captives you have. Any and all. I will not issue you rations, and this is the last time I will say this. Bring them in or you will be taken prisoner.”

  Satank said something in a high, loud voice that was not translated. Onofrio stood silent with a shocked look on his face. If fighting started it was going to be at very close quarters. Onofrio stepped back. Satank shouted again, and bent forward toward Samuel, his finger stabbing the air. Then he reached inside his four-point blanket with his right hand. Onofrio threw out his arm in front of Samuel. Two Hatchet stepped backward and knocked over the water pitcher. It shattered. Satank brought out two human scalps and flung them at Samuel.

  There are your captives. That is all you will ever get of them.

  The scalps fell at his feet. One was light brown hair, and the other was black and long and wavy. They lay with scattered locks on the flowered carpet.

  Samuel reached down and picked up the streaming hair and for a second or two considered the agony of these two deaths among so many others. Death by random violence, by intent. Death and violence seem to have sprung up all around him like demon weeds. This was not like marching and ordered armies. It was different and ancient beyond time. He heard the sound of horses and commands coming from the north road.

  “I am telling you my patience has come to an end. There are soldiers here and I will use them. I will send them after you and the Quahada. Our force is much greater than yours. I wish you to understand this.”

  He is done talking, said Onofrio.
>
  Satank and Setanta and Aperian Crow stared at Samuel for a moment. Then Satank made a dismissive gesture, and they turned to go.

  When the headmen walked out of the gate in front, beyond the delicate and civilized little white fence, they were met and surrounded by soldiers and the soldiers reached out to them in a moving confusion of blue woolen arms and boots. The headmen were disarmed and handcuffed. A man named Big Tree fought for a short while but three soldiers flattened him on the ground and cuffed his hands behind him. A revolver fell from beneath the buffalo robe of Eaten Alive and it went off with a startling bang but nobody was hit. A soldier picked it up delicately by the grip between thumb and forefinger. He said that Agent Hammond might want to make out a receipt for this but the sergeant told him to shut up. The men walked away between the soldiers quietly and stepped into the army transport wagon. It was not dignified to struggle. The women and children had scattered to the horses and within moments they were gone.

  Samuel sat in Grierson’s office in the stone commandant’s building and signed the arrest warrants. Grierson reached across the desk and took the papers from him.

  “I know this runs against your every belief,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  They were to be tried in a Texas court, since homicide was a state and not a federal crime. An engraving of President Grant hung in a dark frame over the fireplace, and an American flag hung limply from its staff. The colonel’s windows were open several inches despite the cold. He was using ox shoes for paperweights, each half-shoe an iron comma from some giant’s alphabet.

  “That is neither here nor there,” said Samuel.

  “I am sending a detachment to the agency,” said Grierson. “I will take the women and children into custody until they return the captives. They will be well treated.”

  “Yes, I suppose they will be.” He turned in the chair and reached for his coat. “They have provoked me into this.”

  “This is not going to be easy, Samuel.”

  “I know it.” Samuel stood up and jammed on his heavy wool coat with fierce and punitive thrusts of his arms. “Don’t sympathize with me, Colonel. I have lost all goodwill, here.”

  “You will need all your resolve,” said Grierson. “The Texans will want them executed by cannon, or machete or something.”

  “Oh yes, I have thought of that many times.” Samuel put on the brown felt hat that he had bought so long ago at Wanamaker’s on Market Street. “I am grateful for your prompt response.”

  “My duty,” said Grierson. “And I think a friend of yours is here. James Deaver.”

  “What, he’s here?”

  “Yes, he is. And another reporter from somewhere. Chicago or somewhere.” Grierson turned to the window and threw it open. He leaned out to the chips and kindling of the carpenter’s yard behind the commandant’s building. The men were constructing a great stone beehive kiln for drying lumber. He shouted, “Mr. Deaver!”

  A faint voice called out, “Here!”

  Chapter 33

  WELL, WELL, NOW it begins!” cried Deaver. He grasped Samuel by the coat sleeve. “We got reports of all the captives, and here we are at the crucial moment of arrest.” Deaver forged on through the cold air toward the sergeant’s quarters. “How kind of the army to put us up in its drafty barracks.” They walked down the quadrangle; stone buildings arranged around the long parade ground. On the verandas of the enlisted men’s barracks soldiers stood staring toward the guardhouse. “And you will refuse them food and blankets while they starve.”

  “I can forbid you the agency,” said Samuel.

  “But you will not, you will not.” Deaver walked on with one hand on Samuel’s sleeve. His muffler tossed in the cold wind. His breath smoked. “I am your conscience, I am the recording angel. I shall do sketches of our brave military riding into the enemy camps and the women and children held prisoners, we will be here on the spot when it happens.”

  The enlisted men’s barracks was one long hall with a great fireplace at one end, and a sergeant’s private quarters at the other end. The correspondents had somehow requisitioned it; Deaver and another man were in the room along with carpetbags and portfolios that were much the worse for wear. Samuel sat on a spindly chair in front of a long table with bottles on it. Lone Star Bitters and London Royal Nectar Gin, Ayers Compound Extract of Sarsparilla. The stone walls had recently been plastered white, but they had been keeping their card scores on the wall near the table with penciled totals in Roman numerals. The cards were on a bed; slightly racy. The picture on the backs was of a girl standing on a stream bank, fishing; she had hooked her own skirt hem and drawn it up so that her drawers and garters showed.

  “This is Charley Simonton,” said Deaver. “He’s AP. Charley, Agent Hammond.”

  “Delighted,” said Simonton. He nodded. He still wore his slouch hat. He had clearly finished some report and was now in a slight daze of thought. Written sheets lay to one side of his hand. “Ran into Jim here when we were on the first run of the Kansas City–Denver railroad. Just inaugurated. We were on the inaugural run.”

  “How are you here so quickly?” said Samuel.

  “The telegraph,” said Simonton. “We listen in with a router box.”

  Deaver turned the pages of a newspaper. “Here it is,” he said. “New York Times. They did a good job with it.” The wood engraving was delicately lined and the background an intelligent balance of blacks and whites. An Indian warrior on a horse galloped beside the smoking locomotive. “We got to ride in the parlor car with the railroad nabobs. Treated to antelope chops and cold Krug, and I sat and observed starving Indians begging at the Wichita station.” Deaver slammed the newspaper down on top of his sketchbook. “How is it?” he asked. “How is it we do this to the original inhabitants of this continent?” Deaver ran his hand through his thick, dark brown hair as if he would tear at it.

  “I don’t have any answers,” said Samuel. He sat quietly in the ruin of his own personal philosophies as if they were smoking timbers in a heap and felt as if he had just murdered someone, or perhaps abandoned someone in a burning building.

  Simonton looked at Deaver and then back to Samuel. “So you’re the Indian agent,” he said. “Honored.”

  “I am that,” said Samuel.

  “A Quaker.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, well.” Simonton nodded. “You came here to bring peace and brotherly love, and you are going to preside over their destruction. My my.”

  “I have merely arrested four men who have admitted to murder and kidnapping.” Samuel sat with both hands loose in his lap. “There was nothing else I could do.”

  “Why should they be charged with murder? This is a war. They are at war with the Texas settlers, and now you are handing them over to Texas juries. Have you heard the news from Washington?”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “The Peace Policy might be rescinded.” Simonton searched in his pockets and found half a cigar. He lit it. “You must regret that. Or maybe not.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me?” said Samuel. “I must thank James for introducing us, but I don’t keep much of a social life and I find matters are pressing.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Simonton. He put out a hand. “Jim is an old friend. He makes interesting acquaintances. His sketches are renowned. I depend on him for the interesting acquaintances he makes.”

  “You owe me,” said Deaver. He had poured himself a shot of gin and sipped at it and with the other hand sifted through a loose-leaf pile of ink drawings. “I am looking at the mementos of a destroyed people, here.”

  “And you are the Friend in authority,” said Simonton. “The other Quakers of the Indian Committee are far away. You can do as you like.”

  “That’s quite untrue,” said Samuel. He tried to think of something to calm himself, to reply politely. He was the Indian agent and could not indulge in personal hostilities. He was a representative of the federal government and also of the Society of Friends.
r />   “But the Quakers and the red men are alike, in some way.”

  “I used to think that,” said Samuel. “But experience has taught me otherwise.”

  “But think. The young Comanche men go alone to the mountains or some deserted place and fast and cry for a spirit to guide them. Do you not seek the Inner Light?” Simonton leaned forward in the chair. He was interested.

  Samuel glanced up at Simonton from beneath his eyebrows. “You know very well we do.”

  “So do the horse Indians. Now, consider. Both Quakers and Comanche stand alone before the Divine Presence and seek to be taken, or moved, by the spirit.”

  Samuel threaded his fingers together and regarded his shoes. “Mr. Simonton, this is the sort of conversation Harvard divinity students have with each other when drinking brandy in their rooms.”

  “But the question must be considered, were you to dispute theology with a Comanche medicine man, or a Kiowa priest of the Sun Dance.”

  “I have no intention of disputing my beliefs with anyone.”

  “Ah, you will miss one of the great pleasures of life. As well as London Royal Gin.”

  “I will concede that.”

  “The free life on the plains. No other people like them anywhere,” said Deaver. He turned to Samuel, and Samuel saw that his eyes were glistening. “You will send the army after them. You know they kill the women and children. You know about Sand Creek and the battle on the Washita. Will you preside at the hangings?”

  “What hangings?” Samuel stood up and reached for his old brown wide-brimmed hat. “Are you quite sober, James?”

  “No, I am not,” said Deaver. Simonton silently poured out another measure of gin for the illustrator. “I am merely here to see them tried and then strangled on a rope. A carnival of crime on both sides. Which side are you on?” Deaver wiped at his face and took up his glass. “You are going to force them to live within the reservation,” said Deaver. “I find this melancholy. It will kill them.”

  “It can’t be helped,” said Samuel. “You spoke once of tragedy. That Americans were uncomfortable with tragedy. And here it is. We are regarding it. Like an audience.”