Brothers of the Buffalo

by Joseph Bruchac

  The peace chiefs Little Robe and Stone Calf were going to take no part in Quanah’s and Isa-tai’s war. But they were not displeased about such taking of horses. It was only fair. The army had promised to protect their herds. It had not done so. Little Robe’s own son had been wounded just a few days before by a group of white horse thieves who took a big part of the Cheyennes’ remaining herd. Gray Head and Little Robe had gone to the Darlington Agency. They had asked Agent Miles to send the army.

  “We want you to bring back our stolen ponies,” Gray Head said.

  “The army has better things to do than bring back Indian horses,” Agent Miles had said.

  Of course, soon after the horse raiders reached the Cheyenne camp with those fifty horses, the interpreter from the agency paid them a call. He carried a message from Agent Miles

  “You must bring back the horses you took,” the interpreter told Gray Head.

  Gray Head laughed. “Tell Friend Miles,” he said, “that he can have these horses back when the army men bring back our horses. Unless they have better things to do.”

  Each night there were more men around the campfires of those readying for Quanah’s war. One was the oldest son of Stone Calf.

  “My father’s road is not mine now,” Stone Calf’s son said. “I am ready to fight.”

  As yet, though, there had been no fighting. Instead, they had to listen to Isa-tai brag each evening about how his power would protect them.

  “The Great Father above has told me that we are going to kill many tai-bos. I will stop the bullets from their guns. Their guns will not pierce your shirts. We will kill them all as if they were old women,” Isa-tai boasted.

  “Hear what he says,” Quanah said. “The Great Father above has told him the truth.”

  The former Buffalo Soldier with the bugle stood near Isa-tai and Quanah, puffing out his chest as they talked. Loud Voice. That was the name they all now called the yellow-skinned man. It was only partly because of the horn he carried. Four moons ago, he had joined the Comancheros. Now, with Quanah and the Quahadis, he was always boasting in the broken Comanche he had learned.

  “I teach how ve’hoe soldiers fight as one. Then we defeat them easy!”

  Wolf looked at the man with distrust. How could a man desert his own people and join their enemies? Of course Loud Voice had

  his own answer to that question.

  “Why me here? Bad. Them treat me bad. Them treat Indians bad.”

  But Wolf thought there was another reason Loud Voice had joined them. Greed. In return for his help, Loud Voice asked for a big share of whatever was won in battle. Loud Voice smiled like a hungry coyote when Quanah promised he would be given much, much.

  Wolf looked back over his shoulder as he rode. The great mass of people from several nations moving across the land did not look like an army. They were not marching swiftly and alone as white men did. The fighting men were accompanied by their families. They set up their camp circles each night, re-creating their own villages.

  Wolf’s sister waved to him. She was sitting on the back of her mare. It was an old animal, too old for battle. So it was dragging the lighter of the two travois with their possessions. His mother’s even older horse plodded next to it. It was dragging the tipi poles as Wolf’s mother led it along.

  That night he would sleep in his mother’s lodge. He would eat by her cooking fire with her and his sister. He would be home each night. Even though each night they moved far from where they had been the night before. Despite his worries about the fighting to come, that made him feel good. Not just being at home, but being able to travel. He felt free, so much freer than when they were confined at the agency.

  He looked along the line of horses and travois. Each travois was accompanied by the women and children and old people who did not ride ahead with the younger men. His gaze paused for a moment at a certain white horse. One girl was on its back and another walking by its side. Both were attractive and about his age. Both had about sixteen winters. They were no farther away than a man might throw a lance. As he looked at them, both girls turned their heads. They looked his way and smiled. Wolf turned his eyes upward. He felt his face grow as warm as if he had just leaned toward a fire.

  If times were not so crazy, he thought, I would think about bringing horses to their father. But which one would I ask to consider me as a husband?

  If only that was all he had to worry about. But such easy problems as choosing a girl and hoping she would choose him were far away. As far away as the possibility starting a family. All that was close was war.

  That morning they had practiced horn fighting like white men. They had lined up on their horses two by two. Loud Voice had played the horn sound that meant to start. Together, they had walked their horses forward then. That had gone well. Then he had made the sound to stop. That, too, went well. Everyone had been pleased. Some had laughed and joked. It was easy. But Quanah had not laughed.

  “Listen,” he had shouted. “Be quiet.”

  Loud Voice had made the horn sound to start. Again, all started together. Then he made the sound to attack. All started galloping. They went faster and faster. Some were shouting war cries, kicking their heels into the ponies’ sides. It did not go well, though, when he played the horn call to turn back. No one was ready to retreat. But between his horn and Quanah’s shouting, everyone finally did so.

  Wolf turned his eyes to the front. He had seen something. Dust was rising. A rider was coming their way fast. It was Buffalo Scout, one of the men who had been told to ride ahead.

  “Tai-bos!” Buffalo Scout shouted. “Tai-bo soldiers ahead!”

  Quanah signaled to Loud Voice. The yellow man lifted the horn to his mouth and played the call to assemble.

  “We attack,” Quanah shouted.

  “At last,” Horse Road said, raising the new rifle in his hand.

  Wolf kicked his heels into Wind’s side as they moved forward together.

  It was not long before they reached the soldiers, who were on horseback and moving at a trot toward the north. The soldiers saw them and began to move in their direction. Wolf counted them as best as he could through the dust. There were at least sixty of them, maybe more. His heart began to pound.

  “Now we confuse them,” Quanah said. “Watch. Do not move.”

  Loud Voice rode forward and lifted his bugle. He played the white man sound that meant to retreat. Many of the white soldiers heard that sound. They turned their horses and began to ride away.

  “Now we attack,” Quanah said.

  The battle that followed was a good one. The sounds of Loud Voice’s horn kept confusing the enemy soldiers. The sun moved two hands across the sky as both sides fought like white men, forming up, charging, and retreating.

  Wolf fired his new gun many times. So did Horse Road. They all had plenty of ammunition. The ve’hoe soldiers shot many times too. But no one was hit on their side. Perhaps Isa-tai’s medicine really was working. Finally, the white soldiers rode off. None of those ve’hoe soldiers seemed to have been hurt, either, although two white men had fallen off their horses when the bugle calls confused them so much they ran into each other.

  It was a good battle. All fought well together. They rode back to their camps to tell the women and children and old ones about the fight. Everyone was in great spirits

  “Maybe we will fight again tomorrow,” Horse Road said. There was a big grin on his face. Even Wolf had to smile. If war was like this, it was not such a bad thing.

  The next morning they rose early.

  “More white soldiers are camped over that hill,” Quanah said. “Today we will fight them.”

  It turned out to be just as good as the day before. They had another fine battle. It was the same group of white soldiers. It was easy to recognize them. Their soldier chief who had led them before was a burly man with dark hair and a feather in his hat.

  Just as before, Loud Voice’s horn calls kept their side together and confused the white men. Fi
nally the soldier chief led the ve’hoes off the field. He wanted no more of this kind of fighting. Just as before, no one had been hurt. Some on both sides waved goodbye as the white men rode off.

  It would have been enjoyable to fight that soldier chief and his men again the next day. But Quanah decided that they had better things to do.

  “We still need to find the buffalo hunters and wipe them out,” Quanah said that evening when they all met to talk about their plans. “Tomorrow we turn to the west.”

  Wolf and Horse Road stayed sitting by the fire as the others drifted away. They were feeling happy. Then they heard a loud voice coming from the direction of Quanah’s tipi. It was an easy voice to recognize. The former Buffalo Soldier, Loud Voice.

  In his bad Comanche he was complaining. He was not pleased about the way the last two days of fighting had gone.

  “No good,” he whined to Quanah. “Why we no kill ’em soldiers? Me want kill all. Me want get horses, money, sugar, coffee. Me no get anything.”

  Horse Road smiled and made the sign for foolish.

  Wolf shook his head. “Our yellow Buffalo Soldier does not want honor. All he wants is to fill his saddlebags.”

  The next day, Wolf and Horse Road were among those sent out to scout along the Canadian River.

  “Find the stinky white men’s camp,” Quanah said. “We know they are near here.”

  They went with a party of six others to find the buffalo hunters’ camp. Old Man White Wolf was the leader. They had searched all day and were almost ready to turn back when Wolf saw something.

  “Look.”

  The others squinted their eyes to peer in the direction of the sunset. A small, thin column of smoke was rising from beyond the farthest hill. They rode to that distant hilltop and looked down over the other side, into a wide valley. And in that valley was what they had been seeking.

  Four log houses surrounded a big corral filled with horses and mules. The smoke Wolf had seen was coming from the chimney of the biggest house. Wagons were pulled up behind the two houses at the far end of the corral. A dark mountain of hundreds of buffalo hides was piled by the wagons.

  And beyond their camp was nothing but death. The skinned and rotting bodies of buffalo stretched south as far as their eyes could see.

  “Ahhh-ahhh,” Old Man White Wolf said. His voice was filled with disgust.

  All of them shared that feeling. Any pleasure from having found the place was mixed with sorrow. What those evil men had done to their sacred animals was awful.

  “We ride back now,” Old Man White Wolf said. “We ride through the night.”

  It was dawn when they sighted their lodges. Old Man White Wolf made a signal, and all six of them fired their guns in the air. They galloped in a great circle four times around the big camp. That told everyone that they had met success and gave time for those in the camp to make ready for their entrance.

  Old Man White Wolf led them in. Single file, they rode into the village. Because Wolf had first seen the telltale smoke, he rode in second place.

  In their camp, all the men and women had formed a long line. The women were ululating. Their voices were high and sweet as the cries of eagles. The men were lifting up their guns and bows, shaking them and crying out loudly.

  “HAI! HAI! HAI!”

  It lifted Wolf’s spirit. He felt as if there were wings beating in his chest.

  “HAI! HAI! HAI!”

  They walked their horses slowly.

  “HAI! HAI! HAI!”

  Their heads were up. Their eyes were forward until they came to the center of the big camp.

  “HAI! HAI! HAI!”

  There, Old Man Black Beard stood with Quanah and Isa-tai at his side. As they reined up their horses, Quanah raised both arms. Everyone became silent.

  “Tell the truth,” Old Man Black Beard said. “What did you see?”

  “I shall tell you the truth,” Old Man White Wolf answered. “We saw four log houses. We saw horses moving about. We saw buffalo hides piled high and many dead buffalo.”

  “All right,” Old Man Black Beard replied. “Soon we kill some stinky white men.”

  Wihio was out walking around.

  He saw some fat rabbits. He was hungry.

  You rabbits, he called out to them,

  can you learn a new song?

  Yes, the rabbits replied. We are great singers.

  We can learn any song fast.

  That is good, Wihio said. I will choose just four of you.

  Then I will teach you a good song.

  Those of you who learn it

  will never hear a better one again.

  Wihio chose the four fattest rabbits.

  He took them with him out onto the prairie.

  Now, he said, here is the song.

  But when you sing it you must keep your eyes closed.

  The rabbits closed their eyes. Then Wihio sang.

  Eyes closed tight, can’t see a thing.

  Eyes closed tight, can’t see a thing.

  The rabbits sang it back to him.

  Eyes closed tight, can’t see a thing.

  Eyes closed tight, can’t see a thing.

  Keep singing, Wihio said, keep your eyes closed

  The rabbits did as he said. And as the rabbits sang,

  he knocked each of them on the head

  and threw them into his bag.

  NEWS

  Petersburg, Virginia

  June 24, 1874

  My Dear Son Washington,

  This is your mother writing to you (with the help of your bright and talented sister). Did you receive the letter written on my behalf by Miss Henrietta Ames? I hope she told you that I am in good health and spirits and that your sister (me, of course) has recovered from her illness.

  Mama is still talking, Wash, but I think it is better for me to just write what I think you would like to hear and not worry about taking her words down exactly as I tried to do in my earlier epistles.

  My dear brother, when I think back on those early letters I wrote to you, I am a bit embarrassed. I have become so much more adept (is that not a fine word?) at expressing myself thanks to the tutelage of Miss Ames. I just love her. She is the kindest person, but very strict about our being the very best students that we can be. She told me just today that if you are as talented as I am, then whatever you do will be a credit to our family and to our entire race. She is very eager about doing whatever she can to help our race rise above the past and the indignities of slavery that were inflicted upon us by callous representatives of her own race. That is how she talks. Is that not wonderful?

  I should let you know that a good deal has happened in the time you have been gone. Some of it is rather a secret, and Mama has asked me not to speak of it. So I shall honor her wishes. But let me simply say that I have not seen her so happy in years and that you need not worry yourself as much as you have in the past about being the man of the family and caring for all our needs.

  I am now at least three inches taller than you! I am also the best student in Miss Ames’s school. I simply mention these two things as factual details, not to brag in any way. We love and miss you.

  Your loving mother,

  Mama

  (and, of course, your exceedingly brilliant

  and well-educated sister Pegatha)

  Wash read the letter for the third time.

  Pegatha, he thought. Then he laughed out loud.

  Despite the colonel’s call to readiness, they had not marched right out against the hostile Indians, even though Kicking Bird had informed Colonel Davidson that an attack on a big camp of buffalo hunters was imminent.

  A rider with orders from General John Pope himself had arrived no more than an hour after the colonel had begun to assemble the men. Those orders contained explicit instructions from the general, the head of the western armies.

  Stay put. Do not ride to the defense of those men.

  The buffalo hunter camp had been set up deep in the heart of Indi
an lands—where whites were forbidden to trespass. The buffalo hunters and the traders with them had put themselves into a position like that of setting up a honey shop inside a bee’s nest. As far as General Pope was concerned, anything that happened to them was just what they had coming.

  Surprisingly, Colonel Davidson seemed not all that bothered about the stop to his plans. Josh thought he knew why and voiced his opinion to the small group of men gathered in the barracks after the last bugle call—Wash, Charley, Private Henry Imes, and Private Rufus Slade.

  “Our colonel,” Josh said. “I imagine he knows that it is just a matter of time now. Sooner or later war will get here. Then he can kill him some Indians. Or, to be more accurate about it, have us kill them for him.”

  Despite the raid they’d made on the fort’s horse herd, it seemed that most of the Comanches and nearly all of the Kiowas had resisted Quanah Parker’s call to go on the warpath. But that was the only good news. A considerable number of hostiles had taken up the war pipe. Among them were the most deadly and dangerous of every tribe, Lone Wolf and his followers among them. And word had been brought to Fort Sill that nearly all the Cheyenne tribe had left the agency at Darlington.

  “Pretty soon,” Charley said, “someone going to drop a match on this here powder keg. ’Specially now that it’s about fighting time.”

  All Wash could do was nod his head in reply. It was the time of year when war parties always ventured forth, the time when the horses were getting fat from the spring grass and strong enough again to carry their riders on long raids. And some of that raiding had already begun. They’d just heard the grim news that two buffalo hunters were killed by the Indians and left out on the prairie near Adobe Walls. Those unfortunates had not just been scalped. They had been staked to the ground and their bodies cut up bad. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew those murdered men must have been kept alive for a long time while being cut up piece by piece. The thought of that happening to one of their own had brought down a silence upon them as thick and dark as a buffalo robe until Josh had finally broken it.