Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  Bat whistled sharply. “Mollie Whitecamp? You mean the madam who calls herself Dutch Jake? Why, she’s going to turn this building into a brothel. I guess her first cathouse is doing such brisk business that she requires additional space.”

  “That’s of no consequence to me,” Mrs. Olds sniffed. “Mr. Olds and myself require you to vacate the premises by the time we make our journey to the south.”

  “Well, I’m going in the same direction, so I had plans to pack up and move out anyway,” Bat said. “Though the thought of continuing my residence here in the company of Dutch Jake’s finest girls has considerable appeal. Did you know this was happening, C.M.? Working girls in these rooms? Is that your real reason for staying behind?”

  “Hardly,” McLendon said. “Thanks for the notice, Mrs. Olds. I’ll make new arrangements.”

  Later he pulled Hannah Olds aside and said, “Ma’am, have you considered the situation in which you’re about to find yourself: out in wild country with rough men, and danger everywhere? You’ve told me often enough that Dodge City is too much for your nerves. And your husband isn’t a well man. Down south, he’ll be beyond the reach of doctors.”

  Mrs. Olds blinked, and McLendon noticed the deep stress lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “It’s a gamble that we’re willing to take. My husband’s health continues to deteriorate. I’ve got family in the East if we can only get together the money to go to them; he could die in more comfort there, and afterward I’d not be alone in the world. This boardinghouse earns us very little. Mr. Rath has offered generous salaries. If we can survive down there through this single hunting season, we’ll be in a financial position to depart this awful frontier for good.”

  Billy Dixon set the departure time for the third week in March. Masterson was too excited to continue picking up buffalo bones, and McLendon couldn’t gather enough of them alone, so they spent the days in town. Bat had several flings with saloon girls, telling each that she was his one true love and he wanted a last night in her arms before he left to risk death down south. McLendon looked for a new place to live, and found a room in the boardinghouse operated by the Burgesses, who he’d met helping to build Union Church. They charged $1.50 a night, considerably more than he had paid Hannah and William Olds, but the room was bright and clean and the $35 weekly salary he’d make at Hanrahan and Waters allowed the additional expenditure. September, he thought. I ought to have sufficient funds by September, and then I’m going to Gabrielle.

  McLendon also spent time with Jim and Mose Waters, discussing his new duties in the saloon. Mostly he would be expected to keep books, track inventory, and place orders for liquor, beer, and billiard equipment. McLendon hadn’t previously had much to do with Hanrahan’s business partner, but Waters seemed like a decent fellow.

  “I can’t promise you much more than a few months, Mr. Waters,” McLendon said. “By that time I hope to have put aside enough money to head out to California.”

  “Call me Mose. Jim’s told me of your plans, and that’s fine with me. Meanwhile, I’ll be glad of your assistance. I understand that Jim and Billy Dixon and the rest are setting off south next Tuesday. What say we make that your first day on the job?”

  • • •

  ON A SUNDAY NIGHT two days before the expedition was to depart, McLendon sat with Billy Dixon and some of the other hide men in the Hanrahan and Waters saloon. The hunters sipped whiskey and talked about the good shooting they anticipated down south. Figuring an average of three dollars per hide, the money they expected to earn was considerable—at least sixty dollars a day for the worst shots, and a hundred or more for marksmen like Billy. Even their lowliest crew members could anticipate hefty wages.

  “If my backup shooters have any skill at all, together we’ll surely take down a hundred fifty or two hundred buffs each day,” Billy said. “I pay my skinners two bits a hide. So they might earn twenty-five or even thirty dollars on a daily basis if they demonstrate sufficient stamina with the knife.”

  “Don’t say that where McLendon can hear,” Jim Hanrahan joked. “He’ll turn his nose up at the wage I’m paying him to stay in Dodge, and insist on coming south with us instead.”

  McLendon laughed with the rest. “Jim, you have my word that I won’t change my mind. I’m reporting for work on Tuesday, right after you boys set out south.”

  On Monday morning he packed his belongings so he could move into his new room the next day. It didn’t take long. He hadn’t accumulated much during his time in Dodge, just a few shirts, denim jeans, and long johns. Then McLendon went over to Hanrahan’s to ask Mose Waters when he should report for work on Tuesday.

  “Early afternoon, I expect, or whenever Billy and Jim and the boys have departed,” Mose said. “Meanwhile, this letter came for you.”

  Just the sight of the handwriting on the outside of the envelope thrilled McLendon. He ran to his room in the Olds boardinghouse and read what Gabrielle had written:

  March 1, 1874

  I am in receipt of your letter, and was pleased to learn that you are well. Given the circumstances of our parting back in Glorious and your subsequent departure from there in haste, I remained concerned for your well-being. Thus your message has afforded me considerable relief.

  So far as your offer to resume a relationship, I am frankly confused. Since last we met, things in my life have changed. As I believe you learned from the salesman Mr. LeMond, I now live in Mountain View not far from the old site of Glorious and work at a hotel here. My father, who is in ill health, lives with me. My own health is good.

  No, I have not married Joe Saint. This is not to say that I will not, only that as yet I have not felt it was appropriate for me to do so. You have brought me so much pain and he has been constantly kind and loving. But back in Glorious you swore to me that you had changed, and based on my observations there I believe that this may be true, at least to some extent. I respect you for working hard to become a better person. You are right in one thing, it is time for me to make my choice. I do not know what it will be.

  If you still wish it, come to Mountain View and we will talk. Let me emphasize that I make no promises. Also, I would never do to Joe Saint what you did to me in St. Louis, simply walk away with someone else without regard for the feelings of the other. I have shared your letter with Joe, and will show him this one before I send it to you. When he noted the return address on your envelope, he commented that he has heard of Dodge City and it is said to be a fearsome place. Joe says he will somehow convince me to marry him rather than go with you, and I will continue to give him that opportunity. When possible, please contact me with the presumed date of your arrival here. Mountain View is a growing town and you might find it even more to your liking than California. (And if you do go to that state, you must learn to spell its name correctly.)

  I will wait to hear from you.

  With kind regards,

  Gabrielle

  THIRTEEN

  It took almost five days of hard riding for Quanah and Isatai to reach the main Cheyenne camp, which was well north of the Kiowa village. They briefly detoured to meet with the leaders of the Arapaho, who, as Quanah expected, were glad to talk about attacking the whites but declined to participate. They’d watch this great fight Quanah described, they promised. If it was successful, their people might join in a second one.

  “The Arapaho want others to do the fighting, and the Kiowa want proof that we consider them our equals,” Quanah said. “Now everything depends on the Cheyenne. They have the greatest numbers and, next to the People, are the finest fighters. If they don’t agree to join us, our plan is ruined.”

  Isatai corrected him. “Buffalo Hump’s plan, you mean.”

  “Yes, Buffalo Hump’s.”

  “Don’t worry. His spirit promises me that the Cheyenne will agree, and so will the Kiowa, at least some of them. Buffalo Hump has nothing to say about the Arapaho, so I guess they’ll
just stand aside and watch after all, being no better than Mexicans. But we’ll get all of the warriors that we need.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now, do you think Buffalo Hump’s spirit might be willing to tell us exactly where the Cheyenne are?”

  All the Indian tribes moved their campsites frequently, sometimes to follow the buffalo or other animal herds, other times to escape detection from the white soldiers. The Cheyenne camp Quanah and Isatai were seeking had been recently established. Many of the Cheyenne had wintered on an agency south of the Cimarron, hoping to subsist during the cold months on the white man’s food. As usual, far less was provided than had been promised, and, additionally, they were harassed by white rustlers who ran off many of their horses. That caused a rift in the Cheyenne leadership. Little Robe, Stone Calf, White Shield, and Whirlwind argued that, since everyone was settled, it made sense to stay on at the agency until the snow melted. But Medicine Water and Gray Beard were too furious, and led about half of the two thousand people away to the north, losing the meager agency rations but maintaining their pride. So while Quanah knew roughly where their new camp was located, the region was still vast.

  “I believe that if we keep going in this direction for just a while longer, we’ll find the Cheyenne and they’ll welcome us,” Isatai said. “You worry too much. Trust the spirits like I do.”

  Quanah was sick of hearing Isatai tell him to trust the spirits, but because he didn’t have any other ideas, he kept riding in the direction Isatai wanted. As the sun began to sink behind a mountain range, he saw wisps of smoke rising from behind some hills just ahead.

  “That will be the Cheyenne camp,” Isatai said. “We’re going to arrive in time for the evening meal. I hope they’re better hosts than Lone Wolf and the Kiowa.”

  They were. The Cheyenne greeted their two visitors like long-lost brothers, and soon Quanah and Isatai were seated beside a warm outdoor fire, smoking a pipe with Gray Beard and stuffing themselves with dog stew. It was a happy camp. Recent hunting had been good, and everyone was glad to be free of the agency workers and their endless demands for the Cheyenne to wear white people’s clothing and learn to plant crops.

  “They even wanted us to pray to their god,” Gray Beard said, popping a hunk of dog meat into his mouth and smacking his lips at the fine taste. “They only have one, though they say confusing things about his son and how the father and the son are the same thing. These whites at the agency call themselves Kway-kers. They say we have to pray to their god, or else he’ll send us to some other agency called Hell. It’s supposed to be very hot there, with evil spirits who will prod us with pointed weapons.”

  “Ah, the Cheyenne dog soldiers can beat any Kway-kers or their evil spirits,” Quanah said, complimenting the elite fighting force of the Cheyenne nation. “But it’s better not to be at any agency at all. We were meant to live on this land in whatever way we choose, not how the whites tell us that we must. And Isatai and I have come here on behalf of the People to tell you about a way we can make that happen.”

  Gray Beard listened attentively as Quanah explained. Isatai didn’t talk at all. He ate several helpings of stew, then closed his eyes and hummed. Quanah felt more comfortable with Gray Beard than he had with Lone Wolf and Satanta in the Kiowa camp. The Cheyenne chief seemed more interested in war strategy than in the spirit of Buffalo Hump, but he didn’t make light of the spirit choosing a very odd fat man as his messenger. When Quanah was finished talking, Isatai opened his eyes, said, “Buffalo Hump’s spirit promises that the Cheyenne will prosper once you join us,” and resumed humming.

  “This is interesting,” Gray Beard said. “Of course, I must talk about it with the ones still at the agency. They’re getting ready to leave, since the cold times are finally over.”

  “So they might join us too?” Quanah asked hopefully. Stone Calf, Little Robe, and the other chiefs at the agency were all great fighters.

  “Maybe,” Gray Beard said. “They are very angry at the whites and I think they would like to fight. Meanwhile, we’re glad to have you and Isatai here as our guests. Can you stay awhile? Tomorrow we’re going to have some contests led by Medicine Water, and after that a dance—not the sun dance, which I know you Comanche don’t care for.”

  “The sun dance, any of your dances or customs, we respect them all,” Quanah said quickly. “We’d be honored to stay.”

  “Will there also be feasting?” Isatai inquired.

  “Of course,” Gray Beard said without the slightest hint of mockery. “Communicating with spirits must be hungry work.”

  The two visitors spent the night in Gray Beard’s tipi. Like those of the People, it was made from buffalo hides, but the Cheyenne tanned their hides much longer, until they were bleached almost white. Then they decorated the pale hides with pictures in bright colors, mostly reds, yellows, and blues. As a result, they were much lighter inside, even at night when only a low fire smoldered, its small, darting flames reflecting off the white, scraped skins. Gray Beard and his three wives all slumbered peacefully, and Isatai snored like ten bull buffalo in full rut. Quanah, though, tossed on his robes. The too-bright interior contributed to keeping him awake, but mostly he couldn’t sleep because he was so excited. Gray Beard seemed prepared to enthusiastically become a partner in the Great Fight. If he helped Quanah convince the agency chiefs to do the same, and almost all the available Cheyenne warriors participated, why, that was maybe five hundred fighters right there! And added to that might be two or three hundred Kiowa, and surely the same number of warriors from among the People. A fighting force of a thousand or more—no whites could withstand it, not even if Bad Hand gathered all his soldiers to oppose them. Though Quanah couldn’t sleep, he still passed the night happily, imagining what was going to happen.

  • • •

  THE DAWN WAS GLORIOUS, perhaps the first morning since winter that the air was pleasantly warm. Birds sang and the sun rose in an especially bright blue sky. Gray Beard’s wives served fresh hot corn cakes smeared with honey for breakfast. After enjoying the meal, Quanah asked Isatai if he wanted to come with him to a nearby creek to wash. Isatai crammed another corn cake in his mouth and shook his head.

  Quanah walked through the camp toward the creek. He and most of the villagers he passed exchanged greetings. Quanah thought to himself that they were an especially good-looking tribe. Men among the People tended to be short, with thick chests; Cheyenne men were taller and much less bulky. The physical contrast between the women of the two tribes was even greater. Comanche females were usually squat, with wide waists and heavy haunches. Quanah’s wife, Wickeah, was a rare exception. Some of the Cheyenne women Quanah passed on his way to the creek came close to matching Wickeah in willowy beauty.

  Several villagers were performing morning ablutions at the creek, splashing their faces and cleaning their teeth with twigs. A half-dozen men used sharp-edged rock fragments to scrape whiskers from their cheeks and chins. A few dozen yards farther down, some women of the camp were washing clothes, swishing calico shirts and deerskin dresses in the water, then vigorously wringing them out and spreading them to dry on nearby bushes. Quanah watched for a few moments, enjoying the domestic bustle, and then he noticed her. She was so perfect—face, figure, a kind of sensual glow and confidence emanating from her—that for a moment Quanah forgot to breathe.

  She was still young, but more of a woman than a girl. Her eyes flashed, her thick black hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore a thin cotton shift that Quanah guessed must have been stripped from some white woman during a raid. The sun shone through the shift, and her breasts and legs were deliciously silhouetted. She stood shin-deep in the creek, washing clothes with the other women, chattering and laughing with them. Quanah saw that some of the things she rinsed were men’s apparel: a breechclout and leggings and some shirts. Maybe a husband’s, but hopefully a father’s instead. Already Quanah was calculating how many horses it
might take to buy this woman as his second wife. Wickeah would be jealous of the newcomer’s superior beauty, but at this moment Quanah didn’t care what Wickeah would think. True, this woman who he instantly coveted was a Cheyenne, but surely she would feel pleased, even honored, to become the second wife of the greatest warrior among all the People and, as such, a member of the People herself, the ultimate elevation in life. In fact, after he married her, Quanah thought he might take a third and even a fourth wife from among the Quahadi. That way, if Wickeah tried to assert herself as senior wife by assigning chores, the work would be done by wives three and four while Quanah spent many hours lying with his lovely, ripe Cheyenne.

  Spotted Feather, a Cheyenne man who Quanah knew slightly from trading, washed his face nearby. Quanah went over and greeted him.

  “I heard you were in camp, also that you have some new plan to fight the white men,” Spotted Feather said. “White raiders took four of my horses back at the agency. I’d be pleased to be part of any war party.”

  “A fighter like you will be welcome,” Quanah assured him, even though he had no idea what kind of fighter Spotted Feather was. “Say, can you tell me something about that woman over there—the one leaning down to wash that red shirt?”

  Without glancing up, Spotted Feather spit out some creek water and said, “Her name is Mochi.”

  “Mochi? Are you sure that’s who I mean?”

  Spotted Feather dried his face with a handful of grass, briefly looked over at the women washing clothes, and said, “Of course, Mochi. All the men notice her. The way she looks, how could they not?”

  “Is she married?”

  “A woman that fine, of course she is. And not to just any man. Her husband is Medicine Water, the leader of our dog soldiers.”

  “Ah. Medicine Water.” This complicated but did not entirely crush Quanah’s hope. Any Cheyenne dog soldier was a formidable warrior—Quanah couldn’t take his wife away without anticipating a bruising battle. As their leader, Medicine Water was unquestionably the finest fighter among his tribe. Still, Quanah believed that he would win—he was one of the People, after all. Of course, if Quanah wanted the cooperation of the Cheyenne in his efforts to drive away the white men, he could hardly alienate them at this early stage by forcibly taking Medicine Water’s wife. That would have to wait until the great battle was over and the People were reestablished as the rulers of the land, with all other tribes subordinate to them. But eventually Mochi would be his.