The crazy water was finding its way into lodges at an alarming rate, and Kicking Bird objected vociferously to the military and civilian authorities. The colonel in command of Fort Sill told him he had no authority to ban the sale of liquor and that the issue would have to be taken up with General Mackenzie, who, as he knew, was in the field.
The civilian who owned the store that sold the whiskey had transferred ownership to another who lived far away, and when Kicking Bird took the matter up with the head clerk, he, too, replied that he was not authorized to suspend the sale of spirits.
Lawrie Tatum shared Kicking Bird's outrage, but as commodities failed repeatedly to arrive as promised, and as the whiskey continued to flow without interruption, Kicking Bird was soon forced to alter his regard for the little Quaker. The man who had offered himself as protector, facilitator, and guardian did not have the power to carry out his avowed duties.
There were a few qualified successes, however. The Quaker agent's school began to fill up, not with children eager to learn about the modern world but with children eager for the food their attendance provided. An edict forbidding reservation-wide religious ceremonies, dancing, singing, and mass celebrations of any kind was rescinded after Kicking Bird absolved himself of all responsibility for the bloodshed to come from such a foolish command. The refugees streaming in from Comanche and Kiowa country needed protection from overzealous soldiers, and after pestering, cajoling, and browbeating the colonel, Kicking Bird was able to put in place a system of safe conduct for those who had chosen not to combat the government.
Important as they were to basic survival, these triumphs amounted to little else, and each night when Kicking Bird slipped under the covers in his lodge, he craved only the rest his body and his mind needed desperately. But the day to come would be fraught with a new tangle of events, and, invariably, he lay awake trying to anticipate all that he have to do.
Though he tried hard to keep his thoughts from drifting in a direction he dreaded, sleep never came before an agonizing contemplation those who were still out fighting the soldiers. Judging from the bands disheartened who were appearing in greater and greater numbers on edge of the reservation, the time when hostilities would be settled was fast approaching but, as much as he wanted the fighting to end, Kicking Bird felt a new river of heartache spreading across his chest each night. He loved his people, and a part of him especially loved those who were defying the white man's army.
Every grueling day of his reservation life he asked nothing. But every night, on the threshold of sleep, he cried out mutely for the Mystery to deliver from destruction the ones who still fought.
Chapter LXI
Two afternoons after the massive storm swept over them, the remnants of Ten Bears' village stumbled, hungry and half-frozen, down a well-worn buffalo trail and into the great canyon. With the last of their energy, the exhausted hostiles threw together shelters and fell asleep, relieved at finally reaching a place they regarded as impregnable.
The most pressing need was for food and next morning a large group of the most able-bodied warriors, including Dances With Wolves, Smiles A Lot, and Blue Turtle, went hunting. Sixty miles long and several miles wide, the canyon had been a favorite winter sanctuary for the buffalo and, two hours after they started out, the hunters found a small herd of several hundred in a side canyon. They killed a dozen of the animals, and the makeshift village spent the rest of the day feasting on meat. Sated, the people retired early to their lodges for the restorative of another long sleep.
Just before dawn a single, distant shot stirred the Dances With Wolves lodge, but thinking a hunter must be out early, the family turned in their robes and slept on.
Minutes later however, Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist were standing outside in the chill, listening to the sound of more gunfire. Peering through the half-light, they could see a disturbance at the front of the village. Dances With Wolves jumped onto the back of the nearest pony, and as Stands with A Fist rushed out of the lodge to thrust a rifle into his hands, Blue Turtle rode up.
"White soldiers in the canyon!” he screamed.
Dances With Wolves stared down at his wife and children.
"Run!" he commanded. “Where is Snake In Hands?”
“He's with the ponies,” Stands With A Fist answered, terrified.
“Run," he repeated. “Run now!”
People were scrambling past them as he and Blue Turtle galloped toward the front of the village. Dances With Wolves could see the silhouettes of warriors already firing from perches on the sides of the canyon, and, as the fleeing people began to thin around him, warriors on foot and on horseback sprang into view firing desperately at an oncoming enemy that seemed to be everywhere.
Hundreds of blue-coated men were advancing on the village. Half a mile away a large column of hair-mouth cavalry was disappearing into a side canyon, but Dances With Wolves had no time to think. He and Blue Turtle had been joined by many other mounted warriors in their dash, and just as they reached the village's perimeter, the soldiers made a charge.
Firing as fast as they could, the warriors blunted the charge, but they could not stop the forward movement of the soldiers. Fighting only for time, the Comanche horsemen kept shooting as they fell back through the village, constantly checking the progress of the women and children, who were now clambering up the sides of the canyon. In a running council of screams and shouts, the warriors on the canyon floor concluded that they would have to seek cover if they were to continue fighting and began to peel back.
But as Dances With Wolves wheeled his pony toward escape, he heard his own name float through the din of gunfire. Turning back, he saw Blue Turtle standing alone, one arm upraised. On the ground next to him a pony was kicking.
Enemy bullets were splashing the ground around Blue Turtle, and as he began to run, Dances With Wolves kicked his pony forward.
He was just reaching for the stranded warrior when a bullet slammed into his chest and passed out his back.
As Dances With Wolves slumped forward Blue Turtle managed to climb up behind him. Slipping his arms around his wounded friend's waist, the young man grasped the reins, turned the pony, and gave him his head.
They had just cleared the village and Blue Turtle was frantically searching out a good spot for hiding when Smiles A Lot appeared alongside and, motioning for him to follow, galloped ahead.
Dances With Wolves was still conscious when Blue Turtle and Smiles A Lot pulled him down from the pony and began to carry him up a steep, clear trail leading to the canyon's rim. A hundred yards later they reached a wide spot on the trail and laid their burden down to catch their breath. The hair-mouths had overrun the village and dark columns of smoke boiled up from the lodges as they were set ablaze.
A gurgling sound swung their attention back to their fallen comrade and the young warriors were crestfallen to discover that the sound was coming from the hole in Dances With Wolves' chest. The bullet had gone through one of his lungs. Blood was bubbling at the corners of his mouth and his eyes were going gray with the dull film of death.
"See to my wife. ." he wheezed, his voice garbled with blood, ". . my children."
“We'll carry you to the top," Smiles A Lot insisted. He and Blue Turtle lifted their comrade up but had only managed to progress a few feet before they realized that the man they were carrying had died.
Not wanting his body to fall into the hands of the enemy, the two young warriors searched the side of the canyon until they found a crevice suitable for burial. They wedged his body into the slit and stuffed the opening with rocks and earth. When the tomb had been sealed and thoroughly camouflaged with brush, Blue Turtle and Smiles A Lot continued up the trail.
Once over the rim, they saw that most of the village had escaped. Women and children and warriors were scattered over the plains adjacent to the canyon's edge. some were huddled in little groups and some were wandering, half-dazed, trying to locate family members. The wounded had been grouped toge
ther and Owl Prophet was doing what he could for them.
After a few minutes of looking, Smiles A Lot found Hunting For Something. She was sitting, stunned but unhurt, with Stands With A Fist and her two daughters. The littler of the girls, the one called Stays Quiet, was crying in her mother's arms, and the one called Always Walking had her hands against her ears.
"The baby?" Smiles A Lot asked his wife.
"The baby's not hurt," Hunting For Something assured him.
"Have you seen Dances With Wolves?" he heard Stands With A Fist ask.
She sat very still, cradling her child, but her eyes were wild with fear and anxiety, and for a moment Smiles A Lot could do nothing but blink.
"Have you seen him?” she asked again, as if he might not have heard.
"He is dead," Smiles A Lot said.
This revelation seemed to have no effect on Stands with A Fist.
"Have you seen Snake In Hands? He was with the ponies.”
"No," said Smiles A Lot, but as he replied, a flurry of excited shouts rose around him. Looking up, he saw a small herd of perhaps thirty horses trotting toward him. When he stood, he could see that a single, bloody-faced boy was driving the ponies.
"Here he comes,” Smiles A Lot said.
Although his face was streaked with blood, the boy was unhurt. But he had terrible news.
"The soldiers have captured the horse herd!” he announced breathlessly. "They ran off with them!”
Smiles A Lot and his fellow warriors rushed to the edge of the canyon to see if such a thing could be true and were surprised to see that the blue-coated soldiers were withdrawing. They —- out of the canyon far to the south, and as Smiles A Lot watched the force serpentine toward the rim, something caught his eye on the prairie beyond.
At a great distance they looked like a legion of worms wriggling over the plains, but Smiles A Lot knew immediately that they were the Comanche horses. He also knew that an effort must be made to recapture them. Without the horses they would all be helpless.
Chapter LXII
General Mackenzie broke off the fight, falling short of but one goal. He had not destroyed the hostiles themselves, an action that would have been in keeping with his orders, but in all other respects he had achieved a significant victory in the great canyon.
Rarely had the general been as enamored of the rank and file as he was following the battle in the canyon. The hundreds of men under him had ridden out the terrible storm and marched all night across the frozen heart of hostile country before scattering the foe and reducing their town to ash.
But as Bad Hand's force marched south the general found himself most pleased in the knowledge that Captain Bradley had succeeded in capturing the entire hostile horse herd, almost a thousand in number; and these animals were being driven in front of him now. Indians without horses were like wagons without wheels, and there was no doubt that the last significant pocket of aboriginal resistance had been shattered. The freezing weather was aggravating the general's many old wounds, but there was no way he would let it reduce his pleasure as the miles between himself and the broken enemy piled up.
What to do with the mammoth horse herd was a piece of unfinished business that he dealt with swiftly and decisively when it was reported at mid-afternoon that the column was being shadowed by fifty or sixty warriors.
The scouts were ordered to locate a dead-end canyon large enough to accommodate the Indian ponies. In less than an hour a suitable place, with high walls on one side and an elevated ridge on the other, was discovered, and Bad Hand ordered the ponies driven inside.
More than a hundred men were ordered to surround the herd. Dozens of cartridge boxes were positioned along the line of soldiers and, as afternoon shadows began to stretch over the cold, brittle landscape, the order to commence firing was given.
At the height of the slaughter, the riflemen had wavered. Some had thrown down their weapons and a few had been overcome with nausea, but the incapacitated were quickly replaced with fresh shooters. The plunging, shrieking mass of ponies diminished rapidly, and by last light, no movement could be discerned in the box canyon now filled with the bodies, two or three deep in some places.
As he was eating dinner, a mixed group of civilians and Tonkawas reported that the hostiles had disappeared, confirming the general's suspicion that they were after the horses, and that night Bad Hand settled into one of the deepest, most peaceful sleeps he had ever enjoyed.
A few scattered and impotent bands might wander the prairie a while longer, but, for all practical purposes, the conquest of the southern plains was complete.
Chapter LXIII
Less than two weeks after the battle in the canyon, on the plains west of Fort Sill, a safe-escort team of warriors met the bedraggled, starving, destitute remains of what had once been a grand confederation of Comanches and Kiowas.
That same afternoon, one hundred and forty-six men, women, and children, many of them former residents of Ten Bears' village, marched drearily past flanking columns of expressionless soldiers. Among them were White Bear, Smiles A Lot, Rabbit, Hunting For Something, the Owl Prophet family, and Wind In His Hair's widow, One Braid Trailing, Stands With A Fist, Snake In Hands, Always Walking, and Stays Quiet were there, too, buried deep in the group that filed through the post.
At first Stands With A Fist had been adamant in her refusal to come into the reservation, saying that she and her children would die before they repeated the experience of Jacksboro. The other women unanimously vowed that they would give their lives before they would let the whites take her or her children, and Stands with A Fist relented, deciding at last that she would rather live out her life as a captive Indian than a free white.
Without prompting, Kicking Bird and his followers kept Stands With A Fist's secret, but that proved to be the least of the former medicine man's trouble.
When news of the circumstances under which Ten Bears had died spread through the lodges of the former hostiles, Kicking Bird's reputation plummeted. Owl Prophet told anyone who listened that Kicking Bird's infatuation with the whites and their dubious magic had caused Ten Bears' death. From there it was a short leap to making Kicking Bird personally responsible for the collapse of Comanche life, and with that, lines were quickly drawn between the two men. They refused to speak to each other and avoided all contact.
The reservation's inhabitants were divided into two camps, one that would listen to Kicking Bird and one that would not, and a grating antagonism between the groups became a predictable aspect of daily life.
The intractability of the new residents might have been overcome but their free-roaming ways could not, and shortly after their arrival it was evident that they would not stay put.
The warriors, especially the youngest of them, could not be dissuaded from leaving at their own whim to hunt and raid in secrecy. No matter how carefully they were monitored, gangs of young men regularly slipped on and off their prescribed territory creating a level of instability that dashed the white-devised system to failure.
Kicking Bird, in addition to his other duties, seemed constantly en route between the lodges of the former hostiles and the headquarters of the soldiers. His tribesmen were rarely pacified, and it was not often that the military could be convinced to relax their rules, but Kicking Bird kept on, certain that his presence was the main impediment to bloodshed between the factions.
As weeks of negotiation turned into months, the optimistic resolve of Lawrie Tatum was gradually smothered. Like Kicking Bird, he was a man in the middle. He disapproved of the former hostiles, attitude and quickly hardened his stance against those who had stayed out, saying that anyone who could not adhere to the rules must be subject to punishment.
At the same time, he found his influence with white authority trickle down to nothing. He did not possess the power to right any wrongs. All he could do was complain, and two months after the last big battle, he resigned in frustration and returned to his family in Iowa.
The little Qu
aker was replaced by a quiet, complacent man named Parsifel, who was so ineffectual that Kicking Bird quickly realized that all semblance of an advocate had departed with the little bald man who had been his friend.
A month later, during a period of relative calm, Bad Hand commanded all warriors to present themselves on the parade ground in front of his headquarters, and as they gathered, Kicking Bird and Agent Parsifel were called into Bad Hand's house for a council.
"My government has decided to punish those responsible for attacking the army's corn train last summer," Bad Hand announced.
"Many are dead," Kicking Bird countered.
"The government only wishes to punish the living," Bad Hand replied humorlessly.
"What is the punishment?" Kicking Bird inquired
“Incarceration."
"For how long?"
"That has yet to be determined."
There was a long silence as Kicking Bird searched for a way to diffuse the impending catastrophe, but all he was able to do was ask more questions.
"Who will be punished?"
"Whoever is guilty."
"But how will you know that?"
"I want Kicking Bird to go outside and tell the guilty men to show themselves."
"They will not do that," Kicking Bird said flatly.
"Let's go outside," Bad Hand said, rising out of his chair.
As Kicking Bird predicted not a single man stepped forward. Bad Hand had the government's order repeated, and still no one moved.
“You leave me no choice," he said to Kicking Bird. Then he turned to one of his officers and gave the order for twenty-five men to be selected from the warrior ranks.
"Wait," Kicking Bird interrupted and Bad Hand called back his officer.
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