by Jeff Guinn
“You take the reins on the way home, C.M.,” he said. “Damned if my fingers don’t feel like they’re about to fall off. If I don’t warm my hands enough for circulation to return, I won’t be able to thrill the girls at Tom Sherman’s dance hall tonight.”
“I don’t know why you spend so much time in that particular place,” McLendon grumbled. His hands hurt too. As soon as they’d finished cleaning and loading the bones, he pulled on gloves, but as he took up the reins he felt bits of buffalo offal stuck under his nails. It always took considerable scrubbing to get clean after a collecting day. “Tom Sherman’s prone to fighting or even shooting his customers if the mood strikes him. If you’re set on getting drunk and whoring, Jim Hanrahan’s saloon is safer. At least if you get hit or shot at there, it won’t be by the proprietor.”
“That’s so, but Sherman takes care to hire only the prettiest young ladies, and the Hanrahan whores tend toward the well-worn side. I’m saving most every cent in hopes of joining Billy’s expedition, so I can’t afford to do any actual dallying. But I do enjoy at least the sight of pretty girls as I sip my hard-earned beer. Tonight you ought to come with me for a change, C.M. Drinks and conversation with some attractive females would help lift you from your present sour mood.”
“After such a long day I prefer a quiet evening,” McLendon said. It was getting dark and it took concentration to keep the horses going in the direction of Dodge. “You might try it on occasion.”
Bat scrunched his shoulders against the cold. “C.M., certain aspects of your demeanor continue to puzzle me. To begin with, there’s your habit of letting your mind wander as you set up to shoot. You can’t aim straight if your mind’s miles away.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to be watchful for Indians.”
“Hardly. Those two boys earlier could have walked right up and lifted your hair. No, you daydream about that woman back in Arizona Territory.”
McLendon shook his head. “You’re wrong, Bat. She seldom crosses my mind.” It was an egregious lie. There were some days McLendon found himself thinking every spare minute about Gabrielle, the woman he’d loved and foolishly spurned back east, and then found again in the dusty Arizona mining town of Glorious. They’d parted there for the second time under dire circumstances that left him constantly aching with a soul-deep sense of loss.
“Well, maybe you’ve forgot her, but surely not her angry husband, the one you think may still be on your trail. I see the way you peer down alleys and behind buildings when we’re in town. You always assume he’s about to jump out and get you.” McLendon had never mentioned anything about a lost love’s husband. Bat assumed that himself. It was safer to let him believe it than to tell the truth.
“I’m not the only one with mysteries,” McLendon said, trying to change the subject. “What about you with that notebook you always scribble in? You won’t tell me what it is you’re writing.”
“My writing is of no concern for you, because it don’t put your life at risk. Your wandering thoughts are my business because they might imperil me.”
“Fine, whatever you say,” McLendon agreed. “Now, how about we get back to town, sell these bones, and get out of the wind? My very bones are chilled and I want a quiet evening.”
“I can suggest ways to warm up your bones as well as other body parts. Not that you’ll listen. The problem with you is, you’ve forgotten the difference between quiet and boring. You’ll lay on your bed reading a newspaper or that same old book—”
“The Last of the Mohicans, a classic.”
“So you say. And while you’re wasting your time that way, I’ll have myself a few beers and dances and get myself warm, then go to bed and dream about killing a thousand or so buffalo down in Comanche country. And that’s a dream that’ll come true.”
“What if, instead of you killing buffalo, the Comanche kill you?”
“Goddamn, McLendon. It’s a low fellow who tries to spoil his friend’s dream.” Bat drew his hand from his coat pocket long enough to punch McLendon on the shoulder that was already sore from the recoil of the Sharps rifle, and chuckled when McLendon grunted with pain. They passed the rest of the ride back to Dodge in companionable silence. Masterson thought about the buffalo he’d hunt with Billy Dixon down in Comanche country, and McLendon pondered where he should go once he finally saved up the train fare to get out of Dodge City. Where would he be hardest to find for the killer on his trail?
THREE
In the time immediately following his revelations from the spirits, the rest of the camp treated Isatai with new respect; some gave him small presents, like twists of tobacco, but it was obvious that they still didn’t like him. None of the other warriors invited him to share a smoke or a bowl of mostly meatless stew. What everyone wanted from him was additional spirit-inspired revelations, not friendship.
Quanah was different. For a few days he came by the ragged buffalo hide tipi Isatai shared with two ugly wives—no beauty like Wickeah for him—and casually visited with the fat man, who was initially suspicious when Quanah told some jokes and speculated on when the first hard winter storms would come. Previously, Quanah had been more contemptuous of him than anyone else in the village. It was at his suggestion that Isatai was demoted from full battle participant to horse-holder. But now the great gray-eyed fighter was treating him as an equal. Isatai thought at first that Quanah, like the rest of the Quahadi villagers, was just awed by the messages from the spirits and wanted more, but all Quanah did was chat about ordinary things, and despite himself Isatai was charmed.
After a week of daily small talk, Quanah came by Isatai’s tent one morning carrying his rifle, bow, and quiver. Quanah had a fine rifle, a fifteen-shot repeater that the whites called a Henry. He’d taken the gun from a white settler he killed far to the south, along with a claw hammer that he used as a war club.
“Get your weapons and let’s go hunting,” he suggested to Isatai. “We’ll ride north a little, see if there’s anything to find.”
“Maybe I won’t come,” Isatai said. He wanted to, but he was ashamed by the contrast between his weapons and Quanah’s. His only rifle was a battered old muzzle-loader; battle trophies from the whites were largely picked over by the other warriors before bumbling Isatai got a turn. His arrows were inferior too. Isatai had trouble attaching the feather fletchings and so his arrows rarely flew straight. Quanah’s arrows were perfect, as was his aim with a bow.
“Ah, I’d enjoy the company,” Quanah said. “And if you don’t mind, let’s take two of my horses. I have a pair that are restless and need some exercise.” It was a suggestion that allowed Isatai to avoid additional embarrassment. His few horses were dull-coated and stringy, and none would have matched up well with even the least of Quanah’s many sleek steeds. When Isatai hesitated, Quanah added, “If we bring back fresh meat, our wives will reward us in our blankets tonight.”
The ribald comment won Isatai over. It was the kind of joke Quahadi men shared with their friends.
“I’ll get my things,” he said, and briefly disappeared into his tipi.
They cut two fine horses from Quanah’s herd, a paint for Isatai and a gray for Quanah. Then they rode north out of the village. It was cold, but at least there wasn’t much wind. They had their rifles ready, but only for any unexpected encounters with enemies, not game. Ammunition was too precious and needed to be reserved for battle. Because of that, most warriors among the People and other Indian tribes were terrible shots with guns. They couldn’t spare cartridges for target practice. When they encountered deer or turkey or, really, almost anything edible, they used their bows instead. Isatai doubted that he could hit anything with his arrows, even at close range, but it was traditional for hunters to share whatever they got, no matter who made the killing shot. Quanah’s skill with a bow might provide Isatai and his wives with a rare, satisfying winter evening meal.
For a while they didn’t talk,
concentrating instead on scanning the horizon and studying the ground. A few times they saw faint marks in the dirt that they hoped might indicate the nearness of prey, but try as they might they didn’t encounter anything they could shoot. Isatai had just resigned himself to a long, empty-bellied hunt, when Quanah gestured toward a low hill and said, “Let’s rest there out of the wind. I have a little pemmican.” They ground-tied their horses and crouched on the bank of the hill. Quanah reached into his pouch and produced four thick strips of buffalo meat pemmican. Dark dots indicated to Isatai that it was flavored with wild plums. He took two of the strips, thanked Quanah, and tore into the food, trying not to take huge, mouth-stuffing bites.
Quanah ate more sedately. He chewed calmly for several minutes after Isatai was finished. Then Quanah produced a canteen filled with water, the one he’d taken from the white hunter he killed on his ride back to the Quahadi village, and they each took a good drink. Though food was scarce among the people in winter, water never was. With intimate knowledge of their wild region, they always could find freshwater in streams and wallows.
“You know what I think of on these winter hunts?” Quanah asked. “I think about seeing small herds of buffalo, the kind we used to find even in the cold season. We’d kill a few and summon the rest of the village and there would be great happiness. The women would get the hides to make into warm robes and also cut up the meat, and we’d take that back to camp along with the dung to make fires and the bones for needles and other tools. Nothing would be left. Don’t you remember?”
“I do,” Isatai concurred, wondering if there might be more pemmican in Quanah’s pouch and whether, if they kept sitting and talking instead of riding and hunting, his new friend might get it out to share. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
“How we’d eat afterward,” Quanah continued. “The livers dipped in gall right on the spot—that warm goodness—and then later in camp the tongues and huge roasts and ribs dripping with juice. All we could eat until our bellies hurt and we had to sleep. The next day, more eating.”
Isatai’s mouth filled with water at the memory. “Good days.”
“They were, and we have to make them come again. The white hunters—if we can get rid of them, all the buffalo will be ours again, in cold seasons as well as in warm ones. Don’t you agree?”
“I do,” Isatai said.
Quanah sighed and sat quietly for a moment, staring off into the distance. Then he said, “Well, let’s go find something to kill and bring back to camp,” and jumped briskly back on his horse. Isatai mounted more slowly, hauling his thick leg up and over his mount’s back. He had to kick the horse into a trot to catch up with Quanah, who now rode harder and apparently with more purpose.
After a bit Quanah pulled up. “I think I see turkey tracks,” he announced, pointing down at the ground. Isatai looked and didn’t see anything, but he wasn’t about to contradict his new friend. So he agreed again, and they rode on. After a few minutes Quanah said he thought they were getting close and ought to dismount—the sound and vibration of hooves striking hard winter ground would alert their prey. So the two men got down and tethered their horses to a low shrub. There was a thatch of thick brush a few hundred yards ahead and Quanah hissed that this was probably where the turkeys were.
“Let’s use our bows,” he whispered, and Isatai felt a little hurt that Quanah felt it necessary to remind him of such a basic thing. But he pulled one of his unimpressive arrows from his quiver and nocked it on the gut string of his bow.
The two Quahadis crept toward the brush. Isatai didn’t think there were really any turkeys there—Quanah was indulging in wishful thinking. But then there was a sudden rustle and several birds burst out, moving in a speedy waddle. The lone male had bronze and green feathers, and the females’ were dull brown.
“Now!” exclaimed Quanah. He loosed his arrow and one of the females dropped. Isatai, unsettled as usual in moments of action, fluttered a shot at the male, who veered back toward the brush. Isatai tried to nock another arrow; by the time he did and was ready to release it, the male was heading into the thicket. Isatai shot at him anyway; his arrow disappeared into the brush at the same time as the turkey.
Quanah released three more arrows before Isatai shot his second, and brought down another turkey hen. Several other turkeys flew frantically away.
“Good shooting,” Isatai said, feeling simultaneously elated and glum. Quanah would probably give him one of the hens, so Isatai and his wife would eat that night. But he’d been reminded all the same of his inferiority. If he’d been hunting alone, he would have returned to camp empty-handed as usual.
“Well,” Quanah said, “our wives will be happy. Why don’t you go for the horses, and I’ll get the turkeys and retrieve our arrows.” That was traditional too. Arrows were hard to make. Whenever possible, after battles as well as hunting, the People tried to retrieve them for future use.
The horses had been left several hundred yards away. Quanah went over to the first hen he’d shot and pulled out his arrow. Then, as soon as Isatai was out of sight, he picked up the first arrow his companion had fired and darted into the brush. The brilliantly feathered male lay dead a few yards into the thicket with one of Quanah’s arrows through its neck. Quanah yanked out his arrow and jammed in Isatai’s. Then he let out a loud whoop, which Isatai heard as he untied the horses. Puzzled, he led the ponies back by their buffalo-hair hackamores and asked Quanah why he’d shouted.
“You made a great shot! This turkey was all the way into the brush and your arrow still found him. You’re better with a bow than I realized, Isatai. I’m sorry for ever saying otherwise. I only got two slow hens with ordinary feathers, but you got the real prize.”
Isatai was stunned. He’d never made even a fair shot before. But still, there was the gorgeous male with Isatai’s arrow in him, and Quanah was a witness to what had happened.
“A lucky shot,” Isatai said.
“Not luck. Skill,” Quanah pronounced, and Isatai had to believe him, because Quanah after all was the greatest among the Quahadi warriors and knew about such things. Isatai didn’t ask what had become of his second arrow. His already-fat chest expanded farther with pride and he took the turkey that Quanah held out to him. It was very heavy; there would be feasting in Isatai’s tipi that night.
“Your shots were fine too,” he assured Quanah.
“Ah, my targets were practically roosting. Let’s take these turkeys home so our wives can pluck and cook them. I can’t wait to tell everyone about your shot. It was a fine thing.”
On the ride back, with the turkeys slung on their horses in front of them, Quanah was chatty. He confided to Isatai that he was ready to take a second wife, but Wickeah was already jealous.
“Women are so difficult. I tell her that with a second wife she won’t have to do so much work, but she says that all I want is a different woman in my blankets, I don’t want her anymore. You’ve got two wives. Advise me in this, I need your counsel. How do you keep your women under control?”
The great warrior Quanah wanted his advice—Isatai’s joy compounded. He forgot that his pair of wives were both starving widows desperate to marry any man in the village willing to have them. Isatai, always rebuffed by more desirable women, was the only one who would.
“I make it clear that I am the master of my tipi and that I will be obeyed. Women need firmness. Just tell your wife that you’re taking a second one, and no complaining or you’ll beat her. She’ll stop objecting—you’ll see.”
“Master of my tipi.” Quanah nodded. “I’ll do as you suggest.”
They rode some more in silence, Isatai already imagining how he’d describe his great shot to his wives, and then Quanah said, “I think maybe it was Buffalo Hump.”
Isatai was startled from his reverie. “Who was Buffalo Hump?”
“The spirit that called you up into the sky and gave you the m
essage about the People having to do a great thing. You were the one chosen, so what do you think?”
It hadn’t occurred to Isatai that he might be called on to identify a specific spirit. He knew, of course, who Buffalo Hump was, the great chief who many seasons earlier led a great band of fighters down into Texas and fulfilled his vision of driving white people into the sea. The People had no written language, but they honored their past with descriptive oral history.
“Buffalo Hump,” Isatai mused, stalling for time.
“I ask because his feat was one of the finest acts ever, a true great thing. So his spirit might decide that now is the time for another one—a great attack against the whites, maybe. And so he caught you up into the air.”
“It could have been Buffalo Hump.” Isatai tried frantically to figure out how the dead leader might fit into his current prophecies. “I need time to think on this.”
“We know that Buffalo Hump demanded the best of the People. It may be he wants you to realize quickly that it’s his spirit who has called you, and if you don’t, he’ll move on to someone else.” Quanah looked and sounded very concerned. “If it was, indeed, the spirit of Buffalo Hump. I might be wrong. You understand these things much better than I.”
“Yes, I do,” Isatai said. “But I thank you for your words. I’ll consider them tonight.” He tried to think of something to add, something impressive to reaffirm his spiritual authority over Quanah.
“I’m grateful to you. All of us are. We need to understand what the spirits want from you—from us. And at least you’ll think on Buffalo Hump tonight with a full stomach after eating as much turkey as you can hold. And look over there—a skunk! A few more bites, and a small, thick pelt besides.”
Quanah nocked an arrow in his bow, but Isatai raised a hand and stopped him. “Don’t shoot that skunk. I forget to say when I first returned from the sky that the spirits are fond of skunks and don’t want them killed. If you shoot that one, I might never be raised up again and we’ll never know what we’re supposed to do.”
