Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  “Billy’s got plenty of sand,” Bat said angrily, but Dixon held up a hand to silence him.

  “J.W., perhaps you can share what you found down there,” Billy suggested. “It’s certainly possible that you observed things I missed. No man’s eyes are infallible.”

  Mooar signaled the bartender for a drink and pulled up a chair. “Well, there’s plenty of buffalo sign. Come late spring, they’ll be back along the Canadian, I suspect passing right by that spot where Kit Carson had the big Indian fight ten years back. I forget the name.”

  “Adobe Walls,” Carlyle said. “Called that on account of some of the structures built there by traders. Carson’s party barely escaped with their hair.”

  “Yes, Adobe Walls. The buffs will come through that area. Anyone waiting who has a good eye with a gun and sufficient crews to skin all day will make a fortune.”

  “That’s if the Indians don’t get him or the Army don’t run him off,” observed Heath Lee.

  Mooar smiled indulgently. He took a clay pipe from his pocket, tamped in tobacco, and lit his smoke with a match that he struck smartly against the heel of his boot. “Yes, of course, always the Indians. But a smart man can avoid them, and a well-armed man with steady aim can fight them off if needed. They’re scattered down there and hungry, no real danger if you stay prepared and alert. And as for the Army, well, I have it on good account that the Army is no longer interested in discouraging white hunters from roaming south of the Arkansas.”

  “I’d be interested in knowing what you mean by ‘good account,’” Billy said. Coming from Mooar, the statement would have sounded like, and been intended as, an insult, but Billy managed to keep his voice neutral. He just seemed curious.

  Mooar tossed back his whiskey and gestured for a refill. The bartender rushed over to serve him and was rewarded with a few extra coins.

  “Well, young Billy, when I got back, instead of coming straight to a saloon, I paid a visit to Fort Dodge, called on the commanding officer there. I was straight with him, as I always am to everyone. Told him that I knew white hunting was forbidden below the Arkansas, but it was time to be practical, the buffs being virtually vanished from around Dodge. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I’ve just been down all the way to the Canadian River and there’s plentiful buffalo sign. Now, we all know that treaty was wrong from the start, all favoring the Indians and so forth. I’m a hide man who wants to make a good living. In my place, what would you do?’” Mooar paused and sipped his drink. He knew someone would soon break the silence.

  It was Bat Masterson. “And what was the response?”

  “Ah,” Mooar said dramatically. “The commanding officer, he said to me, ‘Mr. Mooar, if I was hunting buffalo, I would go to where the buffalo are.’ Can’t get clearer permission than that.”

  “What he said to you fits with what I’ve heard,” Billy said. “Army’s got limited numbers, and they’ve moved most of them down to the Mexican border. Mackenzie’s supposedly leading them.”

  “I’m gratified that you’re trying to keep current. So what about it, Dixon? In the spring I intend to put together a small, top-notch crew and find my way down by the Canadian, there to shoot record numbers of buffs and enrich myself considerably. Care to hire on? There’s always plenty of room for another skinner, though since you’re almost as handy with a Sharps as your friends claim, I might bring you along as my back-up shooter.”

  Everyone else at the table stiffened except Billy, who smiled.

  “I appreciate the offer, J.W. I’ve got a lot to ponder before spring, and as I put together my plans, I may well consult you.”

  “You do that.” Mooar nodded to the group, wandered over and whispered to the bartender, then sauntered out of the saloon.

  As soon as Mooar disappeared through the swinging doors, Crash Reed blurted, “I can’t stand that Yankee bastard. Billy, you ought to have coldcocked him for speaking to you so.”

  “It’s true Mooar’s a bastard and a Yankee to boot, but it’s also fact that he’s a damn fine shot and the best hide-price bargainer among us,” Billy said. “Whatever I decide to do, I may need him to be part of, though I doubt the possibilities include one of us being employed by the other. Say, what’s this?”

  The bartender placed a full bottle of Old Crow bourbon on the table. “Compliments of Mr. J. W. Mooar.”

  “Now, isn’t that a fine thing?” Billy asked. “Let’s break the seal.” He took the bottle and poured generous drinks for everyone. “It’s impossible to detest a man while you’re drinking gift whiskey from him.”

  “Then I’ll toss this down fast so I can get back to hating him,” Masterson said, and everyone had a good laugh.

  They sipped the bourbon appreciatively; it was much smoother than the bar label whiskey they’d previously been drinking. Then Carlyle asked, “Billy, ain’t you worried that Mooar will get down there and shoot up all the buffs before any of the rest of us get a crack at them?”

  “I’m not, because the sign I saw indicated a herd just as sizable as the ones we used to have up here. Mooar or any other single shooter would need twenty years to make even a tiny dent in it. No, I’m trying to figure how to slim the risk to being down there this coming spring and summer. J.W.’s right with what the fort commander told him. The Army’s no longer a consideration. But the Indians could be, especially the Comanche. We go down in the usual way, small groups of six or ten, and half of us won’t ever get back. Those Indians will be aware of who’s in their land, how many, and where. They’ll set ambushes and make sneak attacks and pick us off a few at a time. It wouldn’t take that many of them to do it.”

  “Then you might not go?” Bat protested.

  “I want to go, and mean to. But maybe not in the usual way. A lot of hide men are gone from Dodge for the winter. I want to wait on all this until most everybody’s back and I can get a sort of general temperature.”

  “To what end?” McLendon asked. Around the hide men he usually said as little as possible, because he felt he had so little in common with them. But Billy clearly had at least the beginning of a plan in mind, and McLendon’s respect for Dixon was such that he was genuinely curious.

  Billy furrowed his brow and rubbed his mustache with his thumb. “What I’m thinking is, maybe we need to do this different. Us hide men, we’re friendly to each other at night in town, but in the summer daylight we’re out there trying to outwit each other, get the best shooting angles, and try to kill all the buffs for ourselves. We do that kind of competing in Comanche country and we’re dead men. Six of us in a party, hell, any three or four Comanche braves could take us by surprise and carve us up proper. No, don’t argue. In any kind of even numbers, they’re the better fighters. But if maybe fifty or a hundred of us went in on the journey down and then out on the hunt together, that might do it. You know how the Comanche and the other Indians never have big war parties—maybe twenty, twenty-five at the most. We put together a big enough group, build us a substantial camp down the Canadian way that we could defend if need be, no twenty Kiowa or Cheyenne or even Comanche could get at us there. They’ll be watching us every step of the way and they’ll know it would be useless to try. Don’t forget, those Indians ain’t just good fighters, they’re smart.”

  “You give ’em too much credit,” Reed said. “They’re little more than animals.”

  “Well, then, they’re smart animals, and we need to be wiser than they are,” Dixon said. “All right, boys, that’s enough meaningful conversation for one evening. Let’s drink up J. W. Mooar’s fine bourbon whiskey and then see if some of the ladies in the room care for a dance.”

  When most of the others were whooping and dancing, McLendon managed to whisper to Dixon, “Your plan makes sense, Billy. Safety in numbers. It’s good thinking.”

  “Don’t worry, McLendon. You’re inexperienced, but I feel like you’re a good man. If I put all this together, I’ll incl
ude you in the party.”

  McLendon managed not to laugh. “You misunderstand me. I don’t believe I’d want to risk my life in Comanche country for all the buffalo hides south of the Arkansas. I just think you’ve got an idea that might work. And please, if you do this, let Bat come along. It’d break his heart if you didn’t.”

  Billy looked over at Bat, who was whirling on the dance floor with Anne Louise, the most striking of the girls working at Hanrahan’s.

  “Hell, I won’t be able to keep the mouthy little peckerwood away. I just hope that by then he can shoot as good as he talks.”

  SEVEN

  It was almost two moon cycles before word reached the Quahadi camp about the raiders’ fates. The interim was a frustrating time. Besides waiting for the warriors to return, the villagers had very little food and were sometimes reduced to shooting down birds. They only did this when there was real danger of starving.

  Then, on two different nights, horses were stolen from their herds. The theft alone was an insufferable insult—the People stole horses, not the other way around—but the shame was compounded when the young boys charged with guarding the herd admitted that the thieves were white men who brazenly cut some of the finest animals away from the rest and drove them away. The Quahadi youngsters were caught completely off guard. Quanah and the rest of the warriors remaining in camp upbraided the boys severely, then took turns guarding the herd themselves. It was considered a menial task, much beneath the dignity of grown men, but the People measured not only their wealth but their power on the number of horses they possessed, and so, for pride’s sake, the Quahadi could not tolerate further theft.

  Then came the first news of the raids, and the horror of it eclipsed the loss of a few dozen horses.

  • • •

  JUST AFTER DAWN on the coldest morning in camp memory, four of the warriors who’d gone raiding in Mexico with the Kiowa staggered into sight. Three were on foot; the fourth was lashed to the back of a horse that was in just as bad condition as its near-unconscious rider.

  The villagers rushed out to help them into camp. Even the three on foot had terrible wounds. They were brought out of the biting wind into a tipi, wrapped in the warmest robes available, and offered the last bites of remaining food. Quanah and a few other senior men asked what had happened to them and what had become of the other Quahadi in their party.

  “Dead, all dead,” moaned Wide Feather, the most coherent of the wounded men. “Bad Hand’s soldiers caught us.”

  “That can’t be,” said Bull Bear, an older warrior who’d remained in camp. He was well known for admiring himself and finding fault with everyone else. “Fourteen left with Long Branches and the Kiowa. Bad Hand is clever, but not enough to kill all but four of you.”

  “All dead,” Wide Feather repeated. Shuddering under the robes, choking down gulps of thin hot soup, he told the story.

  It had been a good raid—in fact, one of the finest in recent memory. For a Kiowa, Long Branches was a good leader. They made their way down to Mexico completely unimpeded and, once there, pounced on several small villages, raping and killing the women, torturing the men to death, scalping all of them, and gathering up many horses. They thought about bringing some of the Mexican children back to the Quahadi camp, but since food was so scarce even for those already living there, they decided not to add more hungry mouths and slaughtered the Mexican tots instead. This was life worthy of men: conquering enemies, doing what they pleased to them, and then leaving with their hair and horses. Not one Quahadi or even one of the lesser Kiowa suffered so much as a scratch. They sang victory songs as they drove their hoofed booty back north.

  But back in Texas, while the triumphant raiders stopped to water their stolen stock at some freshwater springs, Bad Hand’s cavalry was suddenly on them, Wide Feather had no idea how they were able to manage such surprise. Several Quahadi and Kiowa fell in the first volley of shots, and of course the remaining Kiowa ran away. Wide Feather emphasized that the surviving Quahadi did not. It was understood among all of the People that their wounded fighters were not to be left for the enemy. They must be picked up and carried away, or at least defended by survivors to the point of their own deaths.

  “So why are you four here?” Quanah demanded.

  He and the other three were cut off behind a band of trees, Wide Feather explained. They’d lost their guns in the fight and had only their lances and knives. Still, they were prepared to make a counterattack to rescue their fellow Quahadi who were wounded and down, when Bad Hand’s soldiers spotted them and fired a volley that drove them back several hundred yards farther. All four were hit, hurt so badly that they were barely able to lose themselves in the tall grass.

  “From there, we could only watch what happened,” Wide Feather said.

  Bad Hand’s soldiers were assisted as usual by Tonkawa scouts. The Tonkawa hated the People for being superior and driving them away when they wanted their land. For several generations the People dominated the Tonkawa, taking their horses and their women whenever they wished, and now in response the Tonkawa men were glad to serve Bad Hand. The only great Tonkawa attribute was the ability to track: they could tell from a single bent blade of grass not only how many of the People passed by but their walking speed, their individual weights, and even the condition of their horses. Otherwise, they were the least of humans, all of them weak-limbed and cowardly, and that worst thing of all. The Tonkawa were cannibals.

  “And so it happened while we four watched from the high grass beyond the trees,” Wide Feather said. “It was terrible, but we could not look away.”

  As the white soldiers stood idly by, the Tonkawa descended on the fallen Quahadi and Kiowa by the freshwater springs, killing those still alive by slashing their throats. Then they used their knives to cut the livers out of the victims’ bodies, roasted the livers over a fire, and ate their disgusting fill. Quanah and the other village men were nauseated by Wide Feather’s description.

  “I think they saved Long Branches’ liver for last,” Wide Feather said. “Somehow they guessed that he was the leader.”

  “The ignorant Tonkawa think that they gain other men’s powers by eating their flesh,” Bull Bear grunted. “There is much celebration in Tonkawa camps now. They ate livers of the People and now they’ll believe they are as great as we are. When our other raiders get back and the weather is better, we Quahadi need to go find them and prove that they’re not.”

  There was general assent, though the loss of ten men severely reduced the Quahadi fighting strength. Everyone waited now for Cloudy and his men to return, no one more than Isatai, who was still eager to announce that the spirit of Buffalo Hump was back in communication with him.

  “I think Buffalo Hump’s spirit may have allowed the Tonkawa feast because he is angry I’m waiting so long to announce his presence,” Isatai told Quanah. “Spirits are very impatient.”

  “You and Buffalo Hump need to wait like the rest of us,” Quanah snapped. He tried his best to tolerate Isatai’s prattling, but he was growing increasingly concerned about his nephew Cloudy. If that raid had failed, too—if more camp warriors were lost—maybe the remaining villagers would talk about giving up and taking the white man’s road, which is how the People referred to the act of surrendering to live on a reservation.

  “Buffalo Hump’s spirit won’t wait much longer,” Isatai warned.

  • • •

  SOON AFTERWARD, the remnants of Cloudy’s ten-man raiding party straggled home. Their news wasn’t as bad as Wide Feathers’, but it was close. Like the Kiowa band led by Long Branches, they’d enjoyed initial success. They’d attacked small ranches in Texas instead of tiny villages in Mexico, but with similar results. Their male victims were tortured to death, their female victims raped and then killed, and all children were slaughtered in deference to the hungry times back at the Quahadi camp. They took some horses, began their return journey, and
ran into a substantial white cavalry patrol. The running fight lasted for several days. At times it seemed that the Quahadi might escape. A few were wounded, but none so badly that it was necessary to stand and fight. However, the white soldiers were persistent, and they were being helped by Black Seminole scouts. These men, the products of interbreeding between the Seminole Indians and escaped black slaves who lived among them, weren’t cannibals like the Tonkawa but far superior fighters and ever better trackers. Every trick Cloudy and his men tried to conceal their trail was thwarted. Finally they were cornered near the river whites called the Brazos, and though they fought bravely the guns used by the white soldiers and Black Seminoles were better. Cloudy and two others fell down dead; there was no sense in trying to retrieve their bodies. The remaining seven Quahadis ran for it, leaving behind the horses they’d stolen. They felt no disgrace—the raid had been conducted in the honored, traditional way, and they had fought bravely. None of their fallen comrades had been eaten. But, in light of the ten men killed in the earlier raid, an additional three dead Quahadi warriors meant a staggering loss to the camp.

  There was much mourning, loud wails from mothers and widows especially. As Quanah feared, some of the villagers, especially the older ones, began talking about going into the reservation. It would be humiliating, but at least everyone left would survive if, for a change, the whites kept their promises and delivered the food promised to reservation Indians. The younger members of the camp, especially the men, would hear nothing of it. They burned to avenge their lost tribesmen on the Tonkawa who’d feasted on their livers. They envisioned a spring raid, when maybe thirty or even forty of the remaining Quahadi men could descend on Tonkawa camps in Texas and butcher everyone living in them.

  Only Quanah and Isatai remained apart from the frantic discussions. They spent most of the days roaming on hunts, finding very little game to kill, or else huddled under robes in Isatai’s tipi. Quanah avoided his own tipi, because Wickeah couldn’t understand why her brave, important husband was keeping to himself at such a critical time. She told him that he had to be a leader, and he told her to be quiet. For a change, she ignored his command and continued to nag, until he had no choice but to get away from her. Any other Quahadi warrior would have soundly beaten a wife who acted so rude, but Quanah never struck Wickeah because he loved her too much.