Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  “How will I get this horse?”

  “The spirit didn’t say. You should feel honored that Buffalo Hump has concerned himself with such a small matter. Let’s see how the spirit makes this happen.”

  The going was hard. Quanah gave no credence to Isatai’s promise of a horse for him. The terrain was very uneven. The hills were steep and valley inclines were often precipitous, almost like the walls of gorges. The sky was cloudless and the air was still, so there was no shade or breeze to cool the sweat on Quanah’s body. He tried to distract himself from the physical discomfort by thinking about Mochi, but that only made him feel frustrated. His irritability intensified when they stopped at a spot well known for its pool of clean water. They’d emptied their water bags along the way and needed to refill them, but instead of plenty of water, there was only a small trickle—enough to wet their throats, but not sufficient for hearty drinks and water bag replenishment.

  “There’s another place a full day ahead,” Quanah said. “We’ll have to go thirsty tonight.”

  “That place will be almost dried up too,” Isatai said. “Buffalo Hump says so, and that there will be no more rain for a long time.”

  “Does Buffalo Hump ever have anything good to tell you?”

  “He says you’ll have your horse very soon. Water too. Let’s keep going.”

  They were in a place of abrupt hills that often made it hard to see very far ahead. But as they topped a rise, Quanah saw movement about five bowshots in front of them and slightly to the right. He stopped and cupped his hand over his eyes to block the glare of the sun, and saw three white men making their way up another hill. They were on foot, leading a horse laden with packs. It was odd that they had only one horse between them, but perhaps they’d lost others to injury or snakebite. All three men had rifles, but Quanah saw that these were older models, not the big, long-barreled guns that could send bullets straight over very long distances.

  It wasn’t surprising, two moons or more before the buffalo returned, to see a small party of whites this far into Indian land. There were always some white hunters around, even in the cold months. Only fools like the one Quanah had killed several months before came alone. Usually they came at least in pairs, and often more than that. Whenever they encountered these white men and their own numbers were sufficient, Indians had a choice. They could attack and kill the interlopers or, if they didn’t feel like going to so much trouble or risk, they could make it clear that they expected gifts—usually whiskey, tobacco, or sacks of sugar and coffee—in return for safe passage. Then the whites had to choose between handouts and possibly fighting for their lives if they refused and the Indians took offense. They almost always chose to hand over whatever the Indians wanted. In this case, Quanah wanted the horse. That was clearly more than these whites would be prepared to give, especially since there were three of them and the only other Indian besides Quanah was a very fat man who even stupid white men could tell was not much of a threat. So it would be a fight, then. That pleased Quanah. It had been too long since his last one. He quickly formulated a strategy.

  “We’ll approach them like we’re looking for small presents,” Quanah told Isatai. “Here. You take my rifle. Hold it down at your side, not pointed at them.”

  “Will you want me to shoot them?” Isatai asked nervously. Spirit Messenger or not, he knew he wasn’t very good with guns.

  “No, you won’t have to do anything. Just sit calmly on your horse and I’ll do what’s necessary.”

  “There are three of them,” Isatai said. “Are you sure? I’ll ask Buffalo Hump.”

  “Don’t bother him. The spirit can leave this fight to me.”

  Quanah grabbed the hackamore of Isatai’s horse and led the way down the rise toward the white men. He did nothing to hide and soon the whites saw them. The three hunters leaned together and talked briefly. Obviously deciding that the two approaching Indians didn’t pose a serious threat, the white men got their rifles ready and waited. When he was close enough, Quanah waved. One of the hunters waved back. Quanah stopped a short distance from them. He let the white men see how fat and useless Isatai was up on his horse, and how Quanah had no rifle or bow and quiver, only a knife and also the claw hammer in the waist of his breechclout.

  One of the whites said something in the incomprehensible gabble of his race. Quanah nodded and held out his hand. The other two hunters went over to their horse and took a few twists of tobacco from one of the packs. They gave the bits of tobacco to the first man, who stepped forward and handed the crumbly stuff to Quanah. He said something that sounded stern, probably a warning to take the tobacco and go before they shot him and Isatai, too, but it didn’t matter. Quanah stepped forward to meet him, reaching out for the tobacco with his left hand but dropping his right hand to the hilt of his knife as he did, and then he thrust the knife forward so quickly that it was in the throat of the first hunter before the man could sense what was happening. Blood shot up in a high arc as Quanah moved right past him, leaving the knife buried in his victim’s neck and snatching the claw hammer. The remaining two hunters were a pace or two away, one on either side of the horse. Because they’d let themselves relax and dropped the muzzles of their guns toward the ground, they had to raise them up to shoot, and the split second it took was all the time that Quanah needed. His claw hammer smashed against the temple of one, and the man dropped without a sound. The other hunter managed to get his rifle up, but Quanah knocked the barrel aside with his left forearm. The rifle went off and the sound of the shot echoed among the hills, but the bullet flew wild and Quanah clubbed the man’s shoulder. He screamed in agony and dropped the rifle. Quanah had him then and they both knew it, but the white man tried to run. His arm dangled and he moved slowly. Quanah could have caught him immediately, but he chose to lope behind for several moments, listening to his prey gasp and whimper. He reached out and tugged at the hunter’s coat, deliberately letting him wrench free and run a little more. Finally Quanah caught the man by his good arm, swung him around, and pushed him to the ground. He knelt on his victim’s chest and listened to the man babble. He might have been begging or praying to his god; Quanah wasn’t sure and didn’t care. What mattered was that he had triumphed, as the People always should. The man squirmed a little under the pressure of Quanah’s knees, but he knew there was no hope of escape and no one to save him. Helpless, he had to accept whatever Quanah wanted to do with him.

  This, to Quanah, was the essence of being a man. In such situations, the People showed no mercy. Small in number, they did horrifying things to their victims not just to celebrate their superiority but to intimidate future foes. Many more white hunters, Quanah knew, would soon be coming south to hunt the buffalo. Maybe some of them would stumble upon the body of this man. Quanah meant to send them an unmistakable message. When he’d killed the lone white hunter months ago, he had to hurry because the band of hide men was nearby. Now he could take his time.

  Almost casually, he raised the claw hammer and slammed it into the hunter’s face, cracking bones and breaking teeth. The man, too injured or terrified to shriek, uttered a low moan. Quanah got up and dragged him back to where the other two hunters lay. Isatai, after laboriously dismounting, rummaged through the packs on the white hunters’ horse. The hunter with Quanah’s knife in his throat was clearly dead. The one Quanah had hit in the head with his claw hammer twitched a little as he lay on the ground. Quanah threw his third victim down, pulled his knife from the first man’s throat, and cut the throat of the second man, who choked briefly and stopped breathing.

  Then Quanah turned his attention again to the surviving hunter. Isatai found some hard candies in one of the white men’s packs. He sat on the grass crunching the candy in his teeth and watched as his companion went to work. First Quanah built a small fire of sticks. When his victim tried to crawl away, he hauled him back and prevented further escape attempts by severing his hamstrings. The man groaned bu
t didn’t scream. He was too injured and petrified for that.

  While the sticks burned down to hot ashy lumps, Quanah passed the time cutting things off the hunter—a few fingers, one ear, and finally a testicle. He did this very deliberately, letting the man see the knife in his hand, allowing him to wonder what body part he would lose next. Though he suffered greatly, he was not yet near death. When the white man passed out from the pain, Quanah pinched his remaining earlobe until he came to.

  When he judged that the fire was ready, Quanah scalped the man, making a good job of it, cutting along the hairline and finally yanking the scalp from the skull. As he wrenched it loose, there was a tearing sound, like a piece of cloth being ripped violently in half. By this point, there was no resistance at all from the victim. He felt the pain but lacked the strength to react in any way to it. Quanah held the dripping scalp at arm’s length and shook it to dislodge the wet gobbets of blood, then stuffed the clotted hair into his waistband. When he got back to the Quahadi village, he would weave strands of the scalp into his best war horse’s hackamore, so they would stream attractively when he rode into battle. If any strands were left over, Wickeah would sew them onto the hems of her skirts as decorations.

  Quanah reached down and yanked the hunter’s shirt completely away from his chest and abdomen. Then he used the point of his knife to make a slit from below the man’s breastbone to his pubic bone, taking care to cut just deeply enough so that he could pull back the skin and expose the entrails beneath without killing his victim on the spot. Then, using a platter of bark cut from a nearby tree, he took the glowing coals of the fire and dumped them into the hunter’s exposed body cavity. The man jerked hard, spasmodically, and emitted a thin, keening howl that went on for some time, gradually sinking in volume. Quanah stood over him and savored the moment, the smell of burning flesh and guts, the sense of absolute power. When the hunter was finally dead Quanah went back to the other two white corpses and cut them up, too, taking both scalps and tearing off their trousers to castrate them. He pried the dead men’s mouths open and stuffed in their penises, cutting out their tongues to make room. He placed the severed tongues on their chests.

  “You do that very well,” Isatai said. “I suppose we ought to be going now. It will be dark soon.” They left most of the hunters’ belongings by the bodies. Quanah’s rifle was better than any of theirs, and Isatai said that he didn’t want or need a gun, since he had the magic granted to him by the spirit of Buffalo Hump. There were some boxes of ammunition—nothing that would fire from Quanah’s Henry, but they took the bullets anyway. They might work in some of the other Quahadi guns. There were three canteens, two filled with water and one with whiskey. They took these, and also some dried beef and the remaining hard candies that Isatai hadn’t eaten. They put everything in one of the packs on the horse, discarded the other packs, and Quanah mounted. It wasn’t a very good horse, splay-legged from age and overwork, but riding it was better than walking. Isatai mounted his horse and they headed south, leaving the white men for the vultures and coyotes. Even after the scavengers ate their fill, Quanah knew, there would still be enough left of the corpses to serve as a warning to whatever whites came this way next.

  As usual, Isatai hummed as he rode. Quanah exulted in what he had just done, and imagined the great battle and victory that surely were coming. The People, the Cheyenne, some Kiowa, all joining together. Quanah didn’t know where they would launch the great attack. That had yet to be determined. But of this he was certain: soon, very soon, would come the spilling of more blood, a flood of it. Somewhere, in an Army fort or even in a town, maybe—someplace where there were many of them gathered and feeling safe—white men should be singing their death songs.

  PART TWO

  March–June 1874

  SIXTEEN

  Just after dawn on Tuesday, McLendon reread the letter he was sending to Gabrielle. He’d spent most of the night laboring over it. After several failures to convey his feelings in lengthy, heartfelt fashion, he’d decided brevity would be best.

  Dearest Gabrielle:

  Your words are pleasing and I thank you for this chanse. You are always fair so of course you will be so to Joe Saint. He is a good man but I swear I will make you happyer. I am better than I was. I gess it would be hard to be worse.

  I beleeve I have found a way to make enough money to get to you faster, I think maybe by summers end. I hope you will hold me in your heart untill that time.

  I will send word when I am on my way.

  All my love

  Cash McLendon

  He took the letter to the Pioneer Store to mail. McLendon expected a lengthy wait in line behind many of the hunters leaving that morning with Billy. Undoubtedly they’d be making last-minute purchases of necessaries. But when he got to the shop, he found only a clerk behind the counter.

  “I expect the boys are either sleeping it off or else having one last coupling with the whores,” the clerk said when McLendon remarked on the lack of customers. “You folks are going to Indian country, after all. Not everybody’s coming back.”

  “The word is, the Indians have backed off,” McLendon said. “Billy Dixon says it’s likely we’ll be left to hunt in peace.”

  “So Billy would have to say, since he was trying to convince others to come with him. Do you have plenty of ammunition for that shiny new Peacemaker you’re carrying?”

  “I do, thanks.” McLendon gave the clerk his letter. “Please be certain this goes out on today’s train.” He put three pennies on the counter for postage, and added a dime tip.

  The clerk pushed the dime back to him. “No gratuity necessary. I admire a man who’s about to risk his life.”

  “Well, I hope that I’m not,” McLendon said. He walked out of the shop with Indians much on his mind. Surely Billy wouldn’t lie about such things to facilitate recruitment.

  McLendon found Billy in front of Hanrahan’s saloon. He was arguing with Bat and Shorty Scheidler. McLendon hadn’t seen Bat since the night before. He’d whooped when he learned that McLendon was coming on Billy’s expedition after all, and urged him to come along for a last-night-in-Dodge revel with whiskey and women. When McLendon declined, Bat went ahead without him. From his disheveled appearance as he yammered with Billy, Bat had overindulged considerably.

  “I told you no, and that’s the end of it,” Billy said to Masterson and Scheidler. He sounded frustrated.

  “It makes all the sense in the world,” Bat pleaded. “Me and Shorty, we’ll be in charge of it. You can have a share of the profits.”

  “Absolutely not,” Billy said. “We’re going down south on serious business. Last thing we need’s some women for you tomcats to get to fighting over.”

  “It won’t be that way,” Bat pleaded. “We’ll have it under control. And I personally think I shoot straighter in the daylight if I’ve had a woman on the night before.”

  “Well, since you don’t shoot straight at all, I assume you’re still virgin and have yet to test your theory. No women.”

  “Mrs. Olds is a woman, and she’s coming,” Shorty argued.

  Billy glared at him. “Mrs. Olds is going to be one of Mr. Rath’s cooks. Anyway, none of the Rath people are part of this first bunch. They’re going to follow along in a month or so, after we pick a site and get the camp going. Enough—you two have my answer. Masterson, go get your gear before I change my mind about having you on my crew. Scheidler, find your brother and start loading crates on your wagon. I hoped to leave by seven, and at this rate it will be nearly noon.”

  Bat and Shorty stumbled off, trailing whiskey fumes in their wake. “Those two,” Billy said to McLendon. “All they care about is drink and whores. By the smell of their breath they’ve had plenty of the one, and now they want to take the other along on the expedition.”

  “What? I miss your meaning.”

  Billy sighed. He took off his hat and wiped his br
ow with a grimy handkerchief. “Young Bat and Shorty just came to me with a scheme to bring a dozen or so whores with us. They said they’d set up a tent at night and handle all the money arrangements. Lord save us from fools. The sooner we’re away from Dodge and all its temptations, the better.”

  Despite Billy’s impatience, it was just past noon before the massive wagon train finally set out. Much of the town turned out to see them off. Best wishes for a profitable hunt and dire prognostications of Indian massacres were called out in about equal number as whips cracked and horse and mule teams surged forward. In all, there were a hundred and ten men and seventy wagons, most of these belonging to the hide men. During hunts, they were used for transporting hides, but now they were loaded with every kind of foodstuff, tool, and ordnance. A. C. Myers was paying the hide men for the use of their wagons to convey his store stocks down south. Two dozen wagons were owned and driven by teamsters, who hired on for general transport during the trip. Another three wagons belonged to Tom O’Keefe, who intended to open a blacksmith shop at the new campsite. His massive anvil alone took up one whole wagon bed. About twenty men rode horses, with spare mounts tethered to wagons. A small herd of cattle was driven along—these would furnish beef and, in the case of four cows, milk for those who wanted it. Two dogs came along, too: Billy’s red setter Fannie, who trotted alongside her master’s horse, and Maurice, Isaac Scheidler’s black Newfoundland.

  Cash McLendon was pleased to be invited to ride with the Scheidlers on their wagon. He could have mounted one of Billy Dixon’s spare horses, but he was never comfortable in the saddle. When he prepared to climb up on the wagon bench beside Isaac, though, Maurice yelped with excitement and leaped to attach himself to McLendon’s leg.