Buffalo Trail

by Jeff Guinn

  “Billy, we can’t let this happen.”

  Billy nodded toward the others. Mike McCabe had apparently prevailed over Tyler and Bat. He grabbed the Indian woman by the hair and dragged her behind the bar. “Move out, Oscar,” he said to the bartender. “I need some room.”

  “It’s happening already, C.M.,” Billy said. “Let’s get going. This is something we don’t need to see.”

  McLendon and Billy took their rifles—Billy had the .44 Sharps, and McLendon a Winchester. They walked cautiously out into the meadow, squinting into the darkness. McLendon was slightly drunk and Billy more so. Still, for about an hour they explored the camp perimeter, occasionally tripping over roots and rocks and falling on their faces.

  “Think we ought to follow the creek for a bit, maybe look up on the bluff?” McLendon asked.

  “Maybe the creek. Bluff’s almost a mile away; don’t want to go that far.” When they didn’t see anything along the creek, Billy said what the hell, they ought to go back.

  “Do you think they’re finished with her?” asked McLendon.

  “I hope so. But most of the boys seem to be possessed by rutting fever. That squaw’s had a hard time for certain.”

  • • •

  WHEN THEY GOT BACK, the saloon was mostly empty. Some of the men were sprawled out asleep in front of it; it was too hot to sleep inside. Oscar Shepherd paused as he stacked glasses to say that “the party” had moved over to the Myers and Leonard’s store, where there was more room.

  “Some more of them wanted to have at that squaw, and I told them I needed to get back behind the bar ’cause I had work to do,” he said. “She’s such a pitiful thing too. Dirty and bad smelling. But they didn’t care about that.”

  “I believe I’ll just turn in outside,” Billy said to McLendon. “I’m going to sleep under my remaining wagon. You ought to do the same, C.M. Whatever they’re doing with that woman, you got to let it go.”

  “I know you’re right. I’m just thinking that if they’re done with her, I’d make sure that she got something to eat.”

  “Do as you think best, but if they’re still sporting with her, don’t interfere. That’s how you get shot.”

  • • •

  IN THE MORE EXPANSIVE Myers and Leonard’s store, McLendon saw that in a back corner some of the men had made a rudimentary mattress from gunny sacks of rice and beans. The Indian woman was splayed on her back there, and Shorty Scheidler grunted as his body heaved between her legs. She emitted occasional mews of discomfort. A few drunks watched. Bat Masterson sat on the floor, his back propped against the store counter.

  “You come to have a go at her, C.M.?” he asked, struggling to stay upright.

  “Oh, Bat,” McLendon said. “Did you have to use her like that?”

  “She’s just a goddamn Indian. It wasn’t even all that good. She just lay there.” Bat slumped forward and for a moment McLendon thought that he’d passed out. But then he raised his head again and mumbled, “I prefer white whores to red ones.”

  McLendon shook his head in disgust as Shorty Scheidler gave a long, loud groan and collapsed on top of the Indian woman, who lay limply beneath him, her deerskin garment crumpled near her feet. McLendon thought she might have passed out, but then it seemed to him that although her body was still, her eyes were flitting everywhere, and the expression in them was anything but submissive. It was only an impression, and the next moment, when he looked again, her eyes were closed.

  “Come on, Shorty,” McLendon said. He reached down and shook Scheidler’s shoulder. There was a raw, gamy odor of sex. “You can get off her now. You had your fun. Let’s give her some food and let her go.”

  Shorty pushed himself up on his knees. His grimy pants and stained drawers were lowered down around his ankles, and his limp member glistened in the glow of a kerosene lantern on the counter. “Not yet. I want some more.” Beneath him, the Indian woman lay passive. Her bare body was splattered with sweat and semen. “For a dirty squaw, she ain’t bad looking, even with that neck scar. Pretty good titties, don’t you think?” There was satisfaction in Shorty’s tone, and threat too. McLendon still had his Winchester in his hand and wondered if he might need to use it.

  “From the look of you, you won’t be able to do anything for some time,” McLendon said, trying to sound reasonable rather than confrontational. “Come on, let her go. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, packing up for the long trip and so forth. You need your sleep.”

  “That’s my concern and none of your own. I’ll keep her here as long as I please.” The woman stirred and tried to sit up. Almost casually, Shorty struck her in the face with the back of his hand, and there was a thud as her skull bounced off the floor. “Go away, McLendon.” The woman moaned, and Shorty pulled his hand back to hit her again. As he did, McLendon smashed the butt of his rifle against Scheidler’s skull and knocked him off her. He was sure that the blow would knock the diminutive teamster unconscious, but Scheidler rolled over and lurched to his feet. Screaming incoherently, he tackled McLendon and they tumbled over Bat Masterson, who screamed in his turn and reached for his pistol. McLendon’s rifle was knocked from his hand. Scheidler punched McLendon twice in the face, hard, and was about to do it again, when Masterson pushed the barrel of the gun against his neck.

  “Don’t be hitting my friend, Shorty,” Bat said in a voice that sounded almost sober. “I think you’ll go outside now and find someplace to sleep.”

  “I won’t forget this, Masterson,” Scheidler snarled.

  “Sure you will. We all will. We’ve had whiskey and a woman to boot. It’s been a fine night. Let’s not ruin it.”

  Scheidler stumbled outside. McLendon said, “Thank you, Bat,” but Masterson was already snoring. McLendon’s face smarted, and blood dribbled down his chin from a split lip. He turned to where the woman lay on the gunny sacks and gestured for her to get up. She did, slowly. He picked up the dress from the floor and handed it to her. She put it on and stood looking at him, her gaze an unsettling combination of disgust and curiosity.

  “Let’s get you some food,” he said. He went to a shelf and took down a package of hard candies and a small loaf of bread. The bread had been baked that morning by Old Man Keeler and was surely going stale. It wasn’t much for her to eat, and he briefly considered going to the kitchen in the Rath store to see if any of Mrs. Olds’s venison stew was left over. But that would take several minutes at least, and he wanted to get the woman out of camp before any of the other men came after her. She took the candy and bread from him; he noticed that she avoided touching his hand. “You should go now,” he said. “Come on.” He motioned toward the door. She moved gingerly; he thought that she must be very sore. McLendon walked beside her, not making any physical contact but guiding her between sprawled hunters and their crews where they lay sleeping on the ground. When they were clear of the buildings, on the north side of camp in the direction of the creek, McLendon said, “I’m sorry. I know that you don’t understand what I’m saying, but I’m sorry. Go on, now.” He thought that she would try to get away as quickly as she could, but she stood for just a moment longer, studying him in the dim moonlight. He noticed that her right eye was swelling from Shorty Scheidler’s blow. Then she whirled and he heard the soft crunching of the brush as she pushed through it toward the water.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Soon after one of the white men pulled Mochi into one of the huts down in the meadow, two others emerged with rifles and began walking out toward the river, taking their time and sometimes even flattening themselves on the ground, dropping quickly when they did.

  “These are very wise men,” Lone Wolf whispered. “They get down close to look for signs.”

  Still, the four Indians were able to move about along the bluff and river and avoid the two whites, who might have been wise but were also loud, talking to each other and stepping on brittle twigs that snapped under
their feet. After a while the white men went back to their camp and the Indians regrouped on top of the bluff. As they regained that vantage point, they saw Mochi being dragged into the largest hut. Her dress hung around her waist and several men pawed at her before she was thrown inside. Medicine Water, crouched behind Quanah, gasped as he saw the battered state of his wife. Quanah thought for a moment that Medicine Water might lose control and bolt down the bluff to her, but the leader of the Cheyenne dog soldiers stayed where he was, though his body trembled.

  Then they waited for a long time. Some of the white men came out of the big hut and lay down on the grass to sleep. It gradually grew quieter. Finally a white man, one of the pair who’d scouted the valley earlier, emerged, and he had Mochi with him. She carried some things in her hands. The white man walked with her toward the river, and the Indians dropped down the side of the bluff and moved that way, too, Medicine Water well ahead of the others, practically sprinting to the thick brush along the banks. Quanah briefly considered going out to kill the white man with Mochi, but didn’t want to risk making too much noise. Then the white man stopped and Mochi did as well, but only briefly. Then she continued on to the river, while the white man returned to his camp.

  The three other Indians hung back as Medicine Water rushed to Mochi’s side. She said something to him, then gently pushed him away. She walked down along the river and threw the things in her hand into it. She pulled off her dress and got into the water, ducking completely under the surface, then emerging. Ever since he had met her, Quanah had imagined the glory of Mochi naked, but now that he could see her he felt no sexual tug, only astonishment at what she had just done. She scrubbed every inch of her body with handfuls of sand, rubbing so hard that it seemed her skin must tear off, and then she put her dress back on. Finally Medicine Water went to her and wrapped his arms around her. He guided Mochi away from the others and they sat together on the riverbank for a while. Quanah, Lone Wolf, and Iseeo kept a discreet distance from them.

  “She is a woman of real courage,” Iseeo said. “I have never seen such bravery.”

  After a while Mochi and Medicine Water stood up and gestured for the other three to join them. “We need to ride back,” Medicine Water said. “We know what we need to do now.”

  Quanah looked at Mochi. Her right eye was swelling shut. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The familiar insolent glint was back in her left eye. “Of course I am. Are you?” But Quanah saw that she winced as she mounted her pony.

  As they rode, Mochi shared her report. There were, she estimated, white men in the camp in the number of three times her fingers. There weren’t any more hidden in the big hut. There were guns, lots of them, rifles and also the small guns—all of the white men wore those on their belts. Best of all, in the big hut there were many fine things, ammunition and knives and the curious white war clubs with blunt metal ends. There were sacks and sacks of food, things grown in the ground that were not as good as fresh meat but still would prove most welcome during the next cold season when it was hard to find game.

  “After the great fight, we’ll have so much,” Mochi said. “Everyone will walk away with many things.”

  Mochi had also noted useful things about the huts themselves. She said that in two of them the walls were very thick and made of squares of grass and mud. The roofs of all the huts were the same, packed dirt held up by a crosshatching of log poles. These huts wouldn’t burn, but she thought bullets fired from close range would penetrate the walls. Arrows wouldn’t, so they should be aimed through the openings on the sides of the buildings, the ones protected with the shiny thing white men called glass. Arrows could break through that. All of the huts had the wooden doors favored by whites, and these were stout and could be barred from the inside. It would be best for the attackers to catch all of the whites outside. If any of the white enemy managed to get into the huts and shut the doors, it would be difficult, though certainly not impossible, for the Indians to get at them.

  “Oh, we don’t have to worry about that,” Iseeo said. “The Comanche Spirit Messenger is going to use his magic to keep them all asleep. They’ll be lying on the ground outside their huts and we will just walk up and kill them. Afterward we’ll speak of Isatai as the greatest ever among us.”

  “Perhaps,” Mochi said, and Quanah thought she sounded doubtful. She must not believe Isatai any more than he did, proving herself a woman of sense as well as courage.

  “They have horses and mules in their corral, and also some cattle,” she continued. “I heard dogs, not many. Maybe two or three.”

  “And one woman,” Quanah said. “Where was she?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Then Mochi said, “In the fight, there is one of the white men that I want to kill myself. He’s easy to know because he’s a small one, almost like a child. There will be confusion and everyone will want to kill any whites they can reach, but if it is possible, this one is mine.” She looked hard at Quanah, glaring with her good eye. “I know you’re going to lead the attack. I want to ride in front with you.”

  “You’ve earned that right.”

  Mochi said firmly, “Yes, I have.”

  • • •

  WHEN THEY REACHED the war camp late in the morning, they summoned the warriors. Quanah, Medicine Water, and Lone Wolf described the white camp, the four main buildings all in a line, and how many enemies they would find there. They explained how the mighty war party would ride out soon and go almost all of the way before nightfall. After it was dark, they would make their way along the bank of the wide river, then follow the creek that broke off toward the meadow where the white men had their camp. They would spend the rest of the night far enough away so that the white hunters couldn’t hear them. Just before dawn they would go the rest of the way down the creek, a very short ride, and then they would attack.

  Isatai insisted on speaking then. He reminded everyone that the magic given to him by the spirits would cast the white men into sleep so deep that it would be easy to ride up and kill them all. He would personally be there, staying just beyond the fight itself and communicating with the spirits, Buffalo Hump especially.

  “Through me, they will guide and bless you,” Isatai said. “Believe, and everything that happens will be a good thing.” To Quanah’s immense relief, Isatai seemed done talking; but as he was stepping back he caught himself, came forward again, and added, “Remember not to kill any skunks. The spirits say so.” There was some muted chuckling. “Don’t do it,” Isatai repeated. Quanah quickly tugged him back and changed the subject, telling the assembled war band about all the fine things in the white hunters’ biggest hut. They enjoyed hearing about the ammunition most of all.

  • • •

  SOON AFTERWARD, the procession of nearly five hundred warriors rode majestically out of camp. There were so many that it took a very long time. A man could have fletched a dozen arrows or a woman might have cooked a big meal from start to finish before the war band was completely beyond the circle of tipis and the horse herd just beyond. The barrels of their rifles and the blades on their spears glinted in the sun. The women, children, and old men remaining behind were dazzled by the spectacle. No one in living memory had seen so many fighting men in a single war party. The warriors were supremely confident. Even those who doubted Isatai’s magic felt that the assembled fighting force was invincible. Quanah let Lone Wolf and the Kiowa take the lead. Though he would not participate in the fight, Satanta rode with them. Then came the warriors of the People, with Quanah and Isatai at the forefront. The Spirit Messenger closed his eyes and hummed, a much better thing in Quanah’s estimation than babbling about skunks. The Cheyenne, at Quanah’s suggestion, brought up the rear, with Medicine Water and his dog soldiers hurrying along any stragglers and keeping the formation relatively tight. Mochi rode at Medicine Water’s side. She was dressed in the same regalia as
the other dog soldiers: leggings, a breechclout, and a war bonnet made from the feathers of predator birds. In addition, she wore a bone and hide breastplate. A bow and quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder, she balanced a shotgun in front of her, and a long, wicked knife hung in a hide sheath at her side. Mochi’s right eye was swollen completely shut, but her face glowed with anticipation.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cash McLendon was reluctant to stir from his blankets when Bat Masterson woke him shortly after sunup. As usual, he’d had trouble falling asleep, though this time not because he was troubled by mistakes in his past. Instead, he felt haunted by the suffering inflicted on the young Indian woman, and his head ached and his split lip stung from Shorty Scheidler’s punches.

  “For God’s sake, Bat, leave me alone,” McLendon grumbled. The spot in front of Hanrahan’s saloon where he’d chosen to lie down was soft with thick grass that was almost as good as a mattress. “Drunk as you were last night, I’d have thought you’d be slow to arise yourself.”

  “Bad as we both might feel, some mornings require early activities,” Masterson said, prodding McLendon in the ribs with his boot until he groaned and sat up. “There’s some fences to mend if we want to avoid future conflict, as we surely do.”

  “Shorty, you mean.”

  “Correct. Lingering grudges tend to fester, especially out in the country where we can’t much escape each other’s company. Go wash up and then let’s get this over with.”

  Masterson and McLendon found Shorty Scheidler where he usually was in the early morning, sleeping beside his brother, Isaac, in their wagon, which they habitually left on the north side of the Myers and Leonard picket corral. The brothers, covered with thin blankets, were stretched out snoring in the wagon bed. Maurice, Isaac Scheidler’s massive black Newfoundland, lay between them. When he heard Masterson and McLendon approaching, he raised his heavy head and growled low in his throat. Then, when he recognized McLendon, he yelped happily and hopped down from the wagon. McLendon gave the dog’s head a brief pat and pushed him aside. Maurice barked some more, which woke the Scheidlers.