by Jeff Guinn
When they’d moved the camp north of the river, they found a relatively shallow spot to cross. But now the water was deeper, and there was rippling evidence of a fast current.
“We try to ford it here, this wagon’s liable to tip over,” Billy said. “We best go along a bit farther, see if there isn’t a better place.”
They picked their way along the river for another mile or so, but didn’t find a place that looked more promising.
“Well, damn,” Billy said. “What do you think, C.M.? Shall we attempt it?”
McLendon didn’t think so. He remembered the cow that had been caught in quicksand on the trip down from Dodge City, and it seemed to him that the swirling current was suspiciously flecked with dirt. But before he could reply, there was the sound of hoofbeats, and two riders raced into sight.
“It’s Jim McKinley and Dutch Henry,” Billy said. “Those two hate each other. If they’re riding together, something’s happened.”
It had. McKinley and Henry said word had reached Adobe Walls that one of the scattered white hunting parties had been slaughtered by Indians.
“Joe Plummer left their camp to bring a load of hides in to sell,” McKinley said. “Joe goes back and finds the other three in the crew all cut up to hell.”
“Left in pieces is what they were,” Dutch Henry added. “Joe says it was so cruel that he was too repulsed to vomit.”
“Wait a minute,” McLendon said. “Joe Plummer—was he with Tommy Wallace and Dave Dudley? Does that mean that Mirkle Jones—”
“Yep,” McKinley said sorrowfully. “That fat Creole was just the finest fiddler. But they carved him up, too, Joe reports. A few of the boys have gone out with Joe to collect what remains that they can, so we can give them a decent burial. Dutch Henry and me are trying to find all the outlying camps to spread the warning.”
“Everybody needs to come in,” Billy said. “If the Indians are on the attack, we’re better off sticking together.”
“Jim Hanrahan says perhaps not,” Dutch Henry said. “Jim’s thinking is, if everybody’s warned and alert, then maybe there’s no need to break off the hunting, what with it being at its peak just now. Plenty of time to come in later if it appears there are Indians in any significant number.”
“That’s still to be determined,” Billy said. “C.M. and I need to head on in and dispose of these hides. We don’t want to get caught out in between if any raiding parties are still about. Jim, you and Dutch go on and get the word spread.”
McKinley and Henry galloped off. Billy said to McLendon, “There’s no time now for further exploration. We’ll cross the river right here. Pull Fannie up into the wagon and then hold on tight.”
“Whatever you say.” McLendon was grief-stricken by the news of Mirkle Jones’s death, and petrified that some lurking Indian band might be creeping up on them in the brush along the bank.
Billy clucked at the mules and yanked the reins. The braying team balked at the river’s edge. McLendon had always found Billy Dixon to be the calmest of men, but now he swore and slapped the reins sharply on the mules’ backs. The animals reluctantly plunged into the water, and the wagon dropped in behind them. As soon as it did, McClendon felt the conveyance tugged hard by the current. “Keep going!” Billy shouted at the mules, and Fannie added a series of panicked yelps from the wagon bed. The river was about twenty yards wide, and they were almost halfway, when one of the mules lost its footing and collapsed with a splash. The other mule lost momentum and stumbled, briefly disappearing under the water. As both mules struggled desperately to get back up, the wagon tipped precipitously. Billy and McLendon tried to keep their balance, but couldn’t.
“It’s going over—jump!” Billy yelled, and they did. McLendon was surprised that the river was so cold on such a hot day. His boots hit the sandy bottom and he pulled them up quickly, fearing quicksand more than drowning. He found solid footing and stood up. “Use your knife to cut the mules free,” Billy called, and McLendon tried. He got one cut loose and it worked its way to the south bank. The second mule’s eyes were wide with hysteria, and it jerked its head from side to side. The water was up to McLendon’s chest as he waded to the stricken animal, grabbing at its harness. His left foot hit soft sand and he felt his boot being sucked down. Involuntarily wailing in panic, he tried to extricate his boot but couldn’t. Taking a breath, he plunged his face below the surface, reached down, and yanked his foot out of the boot. Then he cut the second mule loose and hung on to its bridle as the long-eared beast pulled them both to the south riverbank. Fannie met them there, barking loudly. Then the mule that had pulled McLendon clear heaved a great sigh and dropped dead.
McLendon lay on the bank, trying to catch his breath. After a moment he remembered Billy Dixon and looked for him. Billy was still in the river, frantically yanking at the part of the capsized wagon still above the surface.
“Help me, C.M. We got to get the rifles out of there if we can!” he yelled, and McLendon reluctantly went back into the water. But try as they might, they couldn’t retrieve the weapons, which apparently had been swallowed up by the sand of the riverbed.
“We lost the hides, but that’s a small thing,” Billy said when they’d finally given up and climbed out onto the Canadian’s south bank. “The guns are what matter if there’s fighting ahead. After we clean and dry your Colt, I expect that it’ll work again. We don’t have time to do it now, and even if we did, all your ammunition is soaked and ruined. Should the Indians fall upon us now, we’d have to throw rocks. Come on, we’ll ride double into Adobe Walls on our surviving mule.” McLendon had trouble staying in the saddle of a well-trained horse. The six- or seven-mile ride to Adobe Walls seated behind Billy Dixon on the bony spine of a nervous, irascible mule was agonizing, but at least they didn’t encounter any Indians.
• • •
ADOBE WALLS WAS in an uproar when they arrived. Dozens of men, all shouting and gesticulating, were gathered in front of the Myers and Leonard store. Billy hopped down from the mule; McLendon, crotch and ass aching, gently eased himself to the ground. He limped behind Billy, who shouted to Brick Bond, “Is there fresh information on the killings?”
“Anderson Moore just rode in,” Bond said. “He reports finding his partners butchered.”
“Anderson Moore?” Billy asked. “I thought it was Joe Plummer who discovered them.”
“That’s yesterday’s news,” Bond said grimly. “Dave Dudley and Mirkle Jones and Tommy Wallace were the ones Plummer found. No, there’s been a second attack. Moore rode off from his camp night before last, looking to fetch up with Sam Smith’s crew and enjoy some card playing. Billy Muhler and Antelope Jack Jones, the two Moore was camped with, considered themselves too Christian to play a few hands of poker. So Moore rides back to their camp the next day and finds them just tore to pieces. Goddamn Indians actually poked a stick up Antelope Jack’s ass ’til the pointy end come out his throat. Some of the boys is fixing to head back there, try to clean up what’s left of the bodies, and get them properly in the ground.”
“C.M. and me are going to get some guns and shells, then turn right around and go fetch the rest of our crew, if in fact they aren’t already on their way back here,” Billy said. “We passed Dutch Henry and Jim McKinley on the way in. They were bent on informing all the outlying camps.”
Inside the store, Fred Leonard was busy selling guns and ammunition. Billy grabbed McLendon’s arm and dragged him to the counter. He told Leonard that they each needed a Sharps Big Fifty and a box of shells. McLendon needed new boots.
“That would run you about eighty dollars each for the rifles, and another ten for the ammunition, Billy,” Leonard said. “McLendon, the boots is seven dollars. You’ll both understand that I require payment in cash.”
“Fred, I’ve surely got several thousand dollars in credit with you,” Billy said. “My crew’s brought in three loads of fine hides, and yo
u’ve purchased them and entered the transaction in your books.”
Leonard shook his head. “In light of the current situation and also the present demand for weaponry, I’m not selling anything against accrued credit just now. Should the decision be made for all of us to flee, some of my ledgers might be lost and then there’s no accounting for credit balances. Unless you’ve got actual money, Billy, please step aside. I’ve got cash customers standing behind you.”
McLendon thought the veins in Billy’s neck would burst. He roared, “I got to go bring in my crew, and you deny me the means to protect myself and them, if necessary?”
Leonard looked past him and said, “Next.”
Billy was about to lunge, but McLendon stepped in front of him. “Billy, arguing will only waste time. We’ve got to get back to the others. Look, I’ve got cash money—not much, but some.” He fished in his pocket and extracted some soggy bills: seventy-six dollars all told. He hated giving up even a penny, but he handed the bills to Billy. “See what Andy Johnson or Jim Langton over at the Rath store will give you for this.”
Langton sold Billy a secondhand .44 caliber Sharps and twenty shells. McLendon got some serviceable footwear. After making the purchases, they briefly ducked back into Myers and Leonard’s store. “One day soon, we’ll discuss this, Fred,” Billy said. “Meanwhile, be damned straight to hell.” He and McLendon got some bread and bacon from Old Man Keeler, who didn’t charge them a cent, then went to the stables and saddled two of the extra horses that Billy had stabled there. They were shocked to see Brick Bond saddling up too.
“You might need another gun,” he said. “My crew is in here safe, so let’s go collect yours.”
“I thought he said he’d never come back to Adobe Walls again,” McLendon whispered. “Guess the Indians changed his mind.”
“Don’t provoke him,” Billy whispered back. He said loudly, “Thank you, Bond. This is a fine thing.”
They raced back east along the Canadian, gnawing makeshift bacon sandwiches as they rode.
• • •
BAT MASTERSON, Frenchy, Mike McCabe, and Charley Armitage were surprised when Dixon, McLendon, and Bond came clattering into the camp. They said they’d been shooting and skinning buffalo. Nobody had come to warn them about Indian attacks.
“Maybe the Indians got Dutch Henry and Jim McKinley too,” Frenchy said.
“More likely they just went around to the crews that they found and missed some,” Billy said. “All right, our wagon was lost in the Canadian, so take what you can carry while mounted and let’s be going.”
“Christ Jesus, Billy, we got about a hundred fresh hides perfect for selling,” McCabe said. “Let me stay with them. When you get back to Adobe Walls, send another wagon out this way.”
“I know how you like to argue, Mike, but this is no time for it,” Billy said. “Leave the hides stacked as they are. Maybe if this blows over, we can come back for them. Now let’s ride.”
• • •
THE NEXT NIGHT, some sixty hide men, crew members, and camp merchants gathered in Myers and Leonard’s because it was the biggest Adobe Walls building. Jim Hanrahan led the meeting.
“We’ve got to decide what to do next,” he said. “I already know of three, maybe four outfits who’ve already lit out for Dodge City. I know more of you are ready to do the same. But let’s think for a minute of our circumstances.”
“Ain’t much to think about,” Billy Tyler said. “There’s bunches of Indians about, and a man has to care more for his own hair than a buffalo’s hide.”
“Self-preservation is a powerful thing,” Hanrahan said. “But it’s also true that we’ve a mighty crowd of buffalo right here, and so far as we know there’s not another herd like it to be found anywhere. We go back to Dodge City, there are no buffs there. You boys are making fine money here.”
“At least we’ll be alive back in Kansas,” skinner Mike Welsh said. “I went out with the group that wanted to bring back the remains of the Dudley crew. Time we got there, all the bits and pieces left of them had scattered about and we couldn’t find enough to retrieve. And the other camp where they got chopped up, the ones went to fetch them back found that the bodies got swept up in the Canadian, which was rising high at the time. Dudley, Tommy Wallace, Antelope Jack—were they here, they’d tell us running away poor beats dying with money. I see no disgrace in shedding this place at once—Brick Bond and his boys just left for Dodge. At least Kansas is safe.”
“Not necessarily so,” said Hanrahan. “Shorty and Isaac Scheidler are just back from hauling some hide loads there. They inform me that just a week or so ago there was an Indian attack right outside of Dodge. Isn’t that so, boys?”
Isaac rubbed his temples. “Well, Mr. Hanrahan, the fellow that told it to us was pretty drunk, so he might have been seeing Indians around Dodge when there weren’t any.”
Shorty said, “Well, Indians around Dodge or not, the important thing is, we didn’t come across any on our way here. Left Dodge six days ago, got here yesterday, not a red man to be seen.”
“That’s my point,” Hanrahan said. “We’ve lost some good men to the savages, I admit. But it’s been a few days since, and there have been no other attacks. My thought is that this was the work of a small band just coming through the area and jumping crews that weren’t sufficiently alert. These Indians are probably far removed by now—heading farther into Texas to raid in Mexico would be my guess. No reason, if we take additional precautions, that we can’t continue on, take advantage of this great buffalo herd while there still is one. This is the end of our time, boys, we all know it. When this herd’s gone there won’t be another, and all of us will have to find other means of making our livings, and probably not in ways that pay as well. What we can do is, go out in hunting parties of fifteen, maybe twenty. Have five or six guns on watch while the rest take the buffalo. No Indian raiding party will have sufficient numbers to risk further assaults. Back here in camp, you can sell your hides for honest profit, have all the necessities and even enjoy some luxuries. Surely you won’t let the Indians spook you out of that.”
It was a persuasive speech. Afterward, even Billy Dixon admitted Hanrahan had made valid points.
“What do you think, C.M.?” he asked as they drank bottled beer in Hanrahan’s saloon.
McLendon considered his current plight. He’d given Billy all the money in his pockets to buy the old Sharps. So far, from the buffalo he’d shot and the hides he’d sold, he had about $250 in credit with Fred Leonard, but for the moment Fred wasn’t honoring credit with hard cash. Even the two bits per skin that Billy paid him was accounted for in credit with Myers and Leonard’s. If McLendon went back to Dodge City now and Leonard never redeemed the credit he’d accrued, then McLendon would be flat broke and in no way able to get to Gabrielle in Arizona Territory for months to come, maybe longer if he had trouble finding a job in town. True, he was very much afraid that if he stayed south in Adobe Walls, he’d be killed by Indians in some particularly horrible way. But if he stuck it out, if he survived and Fred Leonard paid out after the current crisis was past . . .
“Let’s stay, Billy,” McLendon said. “I know that some, like Bond and his outfit, have headed back to Dodge, but Jim Hanrahan’s probably right. The Indians are long gone.”
TWENTY-FIVE
After the two raids on their outlying camps, the remaining white hunters did exactly what Quanah anticipated. Some fled north; the others barricaded themselves in the big camp in the meadow and posted guards. This would make the coming attack more difficult. Quanah didn’t believe that Isatai’s magic would make the whites fall asleep at the crucial moment. Still, he thought the camp could be taken. For a change, the Indians would enjoy a huge advantage in numbers: five hundred warriors against maybe a tenth as many whites. If they didn’t kill all of the hunters in the first rush, they could surround the four buildings that made up the
camp and overrun the few survivors. It would be over before the sun was halfway across the sky.
Then the white hunters went out again, but this time in larger numbers than before, maybe twice all of the fingers on Quanah’s hands. There were enough white men to withstand assault by raiding parties, and even the brashest young warriors didn’t want to risk attacking them. The hunters took precautions, too, stationing men to watch in all directions while the rest of them shot and skinned buffalo. They were ready to fight if they had to, and the Indians respected the deadly accuracy of their rifles.
While the hunters roamed, the whites remaining behind in the big camp were careful too. They posted guards at each end of the meadow. They stopped going to the well outside the buildings. Quanah wondered what they had to drink—maybe whiskey. He hoped they didn’t drink it all before the attack at the full moon. Whiskey would be a fine reward for the triumphant warriors, especially since there was only one white woman in the camp, and she looked too old and scrawny to survive more than a few rapes.
• • •
THREE DAYS BEFORE the full moon, runners arrived to announce the imminent arrival of the Cheyenne. Quanah was relieved. The Kiowa were again growing restless and resented any attempts by the People to be pacified. With Gray Beard and his strict Cheyenne dog soldiers on the scene, it would be much easier to keep things under control.
Quanah and Isatai rode out to greet the Cheyenne and to escort them to the war village set about a half day’s ride north of the white camp. It was far enough away so that white hunters would be unlikely to reach it, but still close enough to the camp so that the great war party could easily move into position for attack.
