“Oh,” Wash said. “Oh.”
Words Spoken by Porcupine Bear,
Chief of the Dog Soldier Society,
During an Argument with His Brother-in-Law
Over the Opening of Some Kegs of Whiskey
Once we were a great and powerful nation.
Our hearts were proud, and our arms were strong.
But a few winters ago all other tribes feared us;
now the Pawnees dare cross our hunting grounds
and kill our buffalo.
Now we call other villages to our assistance,
and we cannot defend ourselves from
the onslaughts of the enemy.
How is this, my People?
We kill buffalo by the thousand,
our women’s hands are sore with dressing the robes,
and what do we part with them to
the white traders for?
We pay for the white man’s firewater,
which turns our brains upside down, which makes
our hearts black, renders our arms weak.
It takes away our warriors’ skill
and makes them shoot wrong in battle.
Our enemies, who drink no whiskey,
when they shoot always kill their foe.
We have no ammunition to encounter our foe,
and we have become as dogs,
which have nothing but their teeth.
We are only fearful to our women,
who take up their children
and conceal themselves among the rocks
and the trees, for we are famishing.
Our children are now sick,
and our women are weak from watching.
Let us not scare them away from our lodges,
with their sick children in their arms.
I say let us buy from the trader
what is useful and good,
but his whiskey we will not touch.
Let him take that away.
I have spoken all I have to say,
and if my brother wishes to kill me for that,
I am ready to die.
I will go and sit with my fathers in the spirit land, where I shall soon point down
to the last expiring fires of the People,
and when they inquire the cause of
this decline of their people,
I will tell them with a straight tongue
that it was the firewater of the trader
that put it out.
LOOKING FOR PEACE
It was his first ever visit to a town of the ve’hoes.
It was the same for Horse Road, who rode on his left. As they walked their horses down the middle of the wide dirt trail that ran between the buildings, Wolf looked over at his friend out of the corner of his eye. Horse Road’s shoulders were hunched. He was moving his head back and forth, trying to take in all these strange sights.
“Close your mouth,” Wolf whispered. “You look like a frog catching flies.”
Horse Road straightened his back and turned his gaze forward. He yawned, trying to appear as if he was not awed by all he saw.
Wolf understood. He shared his friend’s feelings, even if he was not showing them. The wooden buildings were so big. There was even wood on the ground, boards laid so that the white people could walk on them. He had never seen so many wagons rattling along piled with freight or such glittering windows—like thin sheets of clear ice, where all sorts of things for which he had no names were on display. Just the strange new things to see were too much for him to take in.
But he was most disturbed by the loud noises here, unlike anything ever heard in any Cheyenne village. It was not just the rattling of wagons and the screeching of their wheels, or the strange music coming out of the buildings, places the interpreter said were where ve’hoes would pay to sleep. That was hard as it was to believe. How could anyone have no homes of their own or relatives to stay with?
No, the worst sounds were the voices. The loud and harsh voices of the white townspeople. None of them seemed able to keep their mouths closed, not for even a heartbeat. The ve’hoes were all shouting, laughing, threatening each other. Wolf glimpsed one drunken brawl after another as they rode past the buildings. Leaning out of windows above them were women unlike any he’d ever seen before. They were brightly colored as birds, many of them wearing feathered caps on their heads. Their clothing—what little there was of it—seemed designed to show off their bodies rather than to keep them warm. They were as loud as the men. Their voices were higher and shriller, but they sounded just as aggressive, and their laughter was empty of real happiness.
The interpreter, seeing where Wolf and Horse Road were looking, leaned over toward them.
“Strange as this might sound,” the interpreter said with an ironic smile, “white men pay money to be with those women.”
Horse Road was shocked. He started to lift his hands to cover his ears. Then he remembered he was holding the leads for half of the horses they were bringing. He dropped his hands and pretended to relax.
Wolf knew how his friend felt. Seeing and hearing this place helped him understand something. He knew now why the ve’hoes acted as they did. Spending time in places like this would make any people crazy! But he would not let it affect him. He would maintain his dignity. By his example he would help Horse Road to do the same. They had an important job to do. They must not look like small, frightened children as they did it.
The two had been chosen. Their job was to travel with this group of soldiers, black men led by a white officer. Among these Buffalo Soldiers was the small one Wolf had seen before. Although there was no reason for that little Buffalo Soldier to recognize him, he had looked at Wolf. He had nodded several times during their long ride.
But Wolf had kept his face impassive. The little man’s nodding in a friendly way had been pleasing. However, there was no way he could ever be friends with any ve’hoe soldier, black or white.
The seven horses they were leading had been carefully selected. They were fine animals for their six chiefs and their Indian agent to ride home. Their chiefs, they had been told, were to come in to this town. It was named Wichita, although it was home to none of the native people it had been named for. The six chiefs and the agent would arrive by iron horse. Wolf had never see a train close up. It would be interesting to get close to an iron horse without having to worry about being shot at by the white men on board.
The six chiefs who had been sent as a peace delegation to Washington were Stone Calf, Pawnee, Wind, White Shield, White Horse, and Little Robe. Stone Calf and Little Robe had been to the East before.
“What I liked best,” Little Robe had said as they readied themselves for their journey, “was Harvard University. It would be a good place to send my son for an education.”
“Maybe my son, too,” Stone Calf had agreed.
As Wolf listened to that talk about being educated by ve’hoes, he had wondered what that would be like. He always wanted to learn things. Strange as the whites were, there was much they knew that the Indians did not know. But would he want to be taught by whites? Would they want to teach him? Maybe if there was peace. Maybe I could go to a ve’hoe school, Wolf thought.
Peace. They had been trying to find peace with the whites for so long. His grandfather Black Kettle had been a warrior. But that was when he was young. And he had never fought against the whites. Black Kettle had followed the way of peace more than half of his life. He had been living it when he was killed.
There was never a time when their chiefs were not trying to make peace with the ve’hoes. The first white men they met were Lieutenant Clark and his brother Lewis, who had been traveling toward the sunset, seeking a trail to the big saltwater. They and their men had been treated very well by the Cheyennes, who gave them food and shelter. In return, Clark and Lewis gave them medals bearing the face of the Great Father in Washington. We shall always be brothers and live together, the captains had said.
That w
as good. The Cheyennes had liked the captains and their men. They were powerful and good-looking. They were interesting people. They had strong weapons. Friends with strong weapons could help the Cheyennes against their enemies. Enemies were all around them then. There were the Pawnees, the Crows, the Utes. Farther south were the Kiowas and Comanches. Back then every tribe was an enemy except for the Lakotas and the Arapahos.
Gray Head had told Wolf about those days.
“We were fewer than those enemy nations,” he had said. “But we were good fighters.”
Fighting the white men, though, was something they did not want. The council of forty-four chiefs, those whose job it was to follow Sweet Medicine’s advice, agreed to peace. They smoked the pipe with the whites who came after the captains. Let us be brothers. The pale-skinned men said they agreed.
It started well. The whites brought useful objects. They brought pots for cooking that did not break easily like those made of baked clay. They brought warm wool blankets. They brought sharp steel knives and arrowheads. They brought fine new guns. But it soon became clear that these new people wanted more than just trade. Their hide hunters began to kill all the buffalo. Their traders also brought the deadly poison of whiskey that made men crazy. White thieves stole their horses. When young men of any tribe raided the whites, every Indian was blamed. Horse soldiers came in and built forts. Then those soldiers attacked peaceful villages. Chiefs who tried to live in peace were shot dead with the American flag in one hand and the other extended in friendship. It seemed those pale-skinned people wanted more than just buffalo hides. They wanted all of the Cheyenne land.
“So we began calling them by another name,” Gray Head said. “We gave those pale-skinned people the name of ve’hoe. Ve’hoe, the trickster. Ve’hoe, the one who allows his greed to control him. Ve’hoe, who is powerful but can never be trusted. Ve’hoe, the black spider. Beautiful to see but deadly to touch.”
Now they were in the very middle of the white town. They were bothering no one as they rode down the middle of the trail. But the closer they came to the tracks where the iron horses traveled, the more people came out of the buildings. Some pointed at them and shouted. Some brandished guns and made angry, threatening gestures.
“It is good we are not we alone,” Horse Road said. “If we were, those people would kill us.”
“We are safe,” Wolf said. “The Buffalo Soldiers will protect us.”
He spoke those words in a confident voice. But he was not all that sure he was right. He had never seen so many white people before. There was not a friendly face among them. He had never done anything bad to any ve’hoe. But he knew that to them, one Indian looked just like another. And if one Indian did anything bad, every Indian should be punished.
It was a crazy way to think. It was the ve’hoe way. It was just as crazy as the way ve’hoe soldiers were treated. Gray Head had explained it to him.
“Among the ve’hoes,” Gray Head said, “if a white soldier disobeys, then his leaders have the right to beat or even kill him.”
Wolf had thought at first that Gray Head was joking. How could any nation be held together if those who disagreed were treated that way? But then Gray Head had reminded him of something. Those white men had just spent many years killing each other for such reasons. They killed each other because some believed that all men born with dark skins were meant to be owned by those with white skins.
The most important thing that Cheyenne chiefs did was not to lead the people into war. It was to seek peace. You could not belong to the Council of the Forty-four unless you lived as a man of peace. Sweet Medicine had set it up that way. Each of the forty bands had one peace chief and then four more were chosen by all to help lead the council. All of them were brave. Many had been great fighters before they answered the call of the chieftaincy. But when they became a member of the forty-four, they no longer went to battle. No matter what. Little Robe’s family had been killed at Sand Creek. Still he spoke and acted for peace.
Soon they would see Little Robe and the others. Their welcoming party was now at the edge of the town. They could see the iron rails running across the land and a small wooden house near the rails. But there was no iron horse. And there was no sign of the six chiefs and Agent Miles.
The white officer in charge of the party of soldiers got off his horse. He went up into that little wooden house. Then he came out. He looked unhappy. He held a piece of paper in his hand. He spoke a few quick words. Wolf could not catch any of them.
“What is it?” Wolf asked.
The interpreter, who looked as unhappy as the white lieutenant, shook his head.
“Dodge City,” he said to Wolf and Horse Road. “That is where your chiefs are. We have come to the wrong ve’hoe town.”
“Hah,” Horse Road replied. “Is any ve’hoe town right?”
“This trip has been an unmitigated misadventure. A disaster! A debacle!”
Agent John D. Miles was mad as a wet hen. He stomped his feet and waved his arms as he stalked back and forth in front of the railway car where his six half-frozen and loop-legged chiefs had spent the night. November nights got deadly cold in Dodge City, and there had been no heat at all in that car, nor any extra blankets to keep them warm.
But that did not explain why his Indians looked the way they did. They were drunk and befuddled, every one of them.
Wash stayed sitting on his horse alongside the other eight men of the company and the Indians who had traveled with them. Best right now to keep their distance from the angry agent and his half-dead, intoxicated charges. It was not their fault that they’d not been there when the agent and his chiefs has arrived yesterday. They’d just been following the orders that sent them to Wichita, one hundred fifty miles east of Dodge.
So, instead of being on time, they ended up a day late. Their lieutenant, the only one dismounted, was still trying to explain it to the angry Indian agent.
Lord knows, Wash thought, we rode like blue blazes to cover those hundred and fifty miles over rough ground and did damn well to get here as soon as we did.
But that was not earning any sympathy from Agent Miles. He continued flapping his arms like a rain-soaked banty rooster.
“Wichita,” Lieutenant Millen repeated again, his voice apologetic. “Our orders said Wichita and——”
“Wichita me not, soldier,” Agent Miles spat. “Hold thy tongue.
"I do not wish to hear that name uttered again in my presence!”
“Yes, sir,” the new lieutenant said, lifting his hand halfway up and then pausing, not sure if he should salute, the Indian agent not being an army officer. “I am deeply sorry, sir. Still our orders did state that Wi——”
“What!”
The lieutenant stopped himself halfway through the word, which was a good thing. Agent Miles no longer looked like an enraged rooster. He resembled an overheated kettle about to blow its stack.
“Er...,” Lieutenant Millen said, then he bit his lower lip. Just out of West Point, he was not set for such situations as this, nor for a Nineveh like Dodge City, which was bigger than Wichita and the main railhead for cattle drives and the shipping out of buffalo hides.
As they’d ridden into town the lieutenant had looked down his snub nose in disbelief at the drunk cowboys and buffalo skinners slumped in alleys, the scrawny dogs licking slimy pools behind the saloons, the mean men sporting old Confederate jackets and handguns looking at them slanty-eyed.
Happy to kill them a negro soldier the first chance they get, Wash thought.
Josh had pointed to the rail yards and warehouses ahead of them. “A million buffalo hides sent back East jes’ in the last three months alone.” Josh had a head for such facts. “Ou-wah fair Dodge City,” he continued, changing his voice to sound like some boasting white city father, “it is a bustling center of commerce, a place of pure promise, destined for greatness.”
Josh had chuckled and then inclined his head toward the front of a mercantile store across the str
eet from them. The roughly printed sign in its window read CLOSED.
“Heard tell,” Josh said, “two weeks ago the owner of the hotel down the street had a little disagreement with the other white man who run that store. Both got drunk as skunks and killed each other in a shootout right over there.”
His gaze directed Wash’s eyes to a horse trough whose usefulness for holding water had been lessened by the bullet holes in it.
“Both had to reload twice, but each of ’em finally managed to sling enough lead to kill the other,” Josh had grinned.
And then, as they had turned down the street to the rail station, the sight of the outraged Quaker Indian agent had greeted them.
Right now, Wash thought, if our Quaker friend had a gun in his hand, despite all of his peaceful beliefs I believe he would ventilate our green lieutenant, who is cogitating over the right approach to pacify a pacifist.
“We are here now, Mr. Miles,” Lieutenant Millen said at last, deciding to rely on courtesy and plain truth. “Please accept my most sincere apologies for the delay.” He held out the telegraph message received in Wichita. “As you can see, we were told to proceed with all due haste to meet your party once we received this message in——”
“Where?” the agent asked. His voice was dead calm, but it was like the pause before a thunderstorm slams in.
“Ah...ah,” our lieutenant stammered. “The other town.”
From behind the mounted soldiers, someone let out a little bark of a laugh. Wash turned his head back to see both Indians innocently looking up at the sky as if expecting rain. The young Cheyenne men had been brought along with them so that the chiefs would be greeted by some of their own people. The taller one was mounted on a fine big roan. He understood and spoke a little English, and Wash suspected him of that laugh. That young Cheyenne had acted as if he knew Wash. But from where? Wash wasn’t sure. Had he seen him at Camp Supply when Company D was stationed there? Or when they visited the agency? He did look a bit familiar.
Brothers of the Buffalo Page 17
