Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 17
But what Wheatfall hadn’t counted on was War Heart sticking to the treaty out of respect for the man he called Looks Ahead. The Kiwota war chief was willing to stretch the benefit of the doubt as far as it would go where his former enemy was concerned. It was through his strong influence, along with the bitter lesson learned from Running Wolf’s adventurous excursion, that even the most excitable young warriors stayed under control.
Another thing Wheatfall hadn’t taken into consideration was the Indian custom of sharing. Each family who received an issue of goods from the Mission of Indian Reform gave some to others who hadn’t. That way, a few weeks of beef and other staples kept the entire tribe’s bellies filled.
Aside from the never-ending and demanding task of keeping wandering herds of buffalo turned away from the area, the militia had additional duties, one being the constant and futile search for opportunities to attack the tribe, which took up much of their time.
Wheatfall and his men rode through several hundred square miles of the Buffalo Steppes Reservation in an aggressive attempt to locate the isolated bands of desperate Kiwota hunting groups they expected to be out there. But the militia found the country to be empty. The situation continued for another month until the strength of the summer sun, and a lack of rainfall, baked and parched the part-time soldiers. They had to slake their thirst, and that of their horses, in creeks and streams that grew smaller with each passing week.
The last days of July found Wheatfall and his men, angry and nearly worn out, up on the northwest portion of the steppes. The hot, dusty, frustrated militia soldiers had settled down to camp in a wooded area bordering an unnamed lake. Although the bivouac consisted of military tents and accoutrements issued from quartermaster stores, there was no martial look about it. The hunters-turned-soldiers set up their sleeping arrangements in an unorganized, haphazard fashion as they settled down to wait and grouse about the situation.
Wheatfall knew that he faced the very real potential of a violent mutiny. The hunters might be wearing uniforms, but they were nothing like soldiers, who would be obedient under difficult conditions for long periods of time. These were lawless, independent, unreliable cutthroats who had been cast out from the best parts of society and, in some instances, even the worst. Wheatfall was going to have to see that things got better or a bad situation sure as hell would get worse.
Leaving Red-Eye in command, Wheatfall made a quick, direct trip to the reservation agency to have Wheeler Coburn send word to Senator Osmond Torrance about the deteriorating circumstances he now faced.
Back at Fort Buffalo, on the other hand, Major Matthew Devlin was able to breathe a bit easier because of the way things were going. Another half-issue of cattle for the tribe had come in from Fort Snelling. Those beeves, along with the food drawn from the mission, further calmed Indian tempers. Although no buffalo had appeared, the tribe was far from starving. Several weeks previously, the major had removed the twenty-four-hour, fifty percent duty order. That put his own troops in better moods. There was still the usual problem with desertions, but not to any great extent that the strength of the garrison was threatened.
Gilbert Paxton was also finding everything going his way. The school curriculum at the mission was on schedule under his heavy-handed supervision with the help of George Fenwick. But the students were far from happy. Even the girls felt the heavy oppression and confinement of the white man’s discipline.
The first time members of the tribe came to visit their children, they were shocked at the change in them. The girls in their dresses and the boys with short hair wearing suits caused some consternation among the Indians.
In addition, the youngsters were forbidden to speak in Kiwota. Immediate physical punishment was the fate for any student caught even uttering an exclamation in Kiwota during play. During the tribe’s visit to the school, the children fearfully spoke to their elders in English when the Paxtons or Fenwick were within earshot, then reverted to whispering in the tribal tongue when the opportunity presented itself. The elders, confused by this conduct, unable to understand the words, and unused to subterfuge of any sort, were alarmed. But the potential issue of additional gifts kept them calm.
Using English was not really all that difficult for the Indian students. The acquisition of the new language was easy for young minds whose speaking habits were not yet deeply ingrained. But it was done at the expense of their native tongue. The total exposure to English, in many cases, had begun to make it the preferable way to speak.
Even their Indian names had been taken from them. An alphabetical list of first names for both girls and boys had been drawn up. They were allotted to assigned desks where the children sat, without regard to the child’s personality.
Everything in the young Indians’ lives was regulated, overseen, and subject to the mission’s rules. Most civilized children would have seen the place as an extremely strict institution, but to the Kiwota children, it was a cruel place in which their natural desires to enjoy and admire the world around them had been crushed.
Every boy had experienced at least a dozen whippings and other punishments. The record holder was Swift Rabbit, now called Samuel, who bore marks of the whip on his back that would leave him scarred for life.
War Heart and others voiced concern about the change in the youngsters, but Paxton was ready for that. He decided to move ahead of time, and made another gift of foodstuffs and tobacco. In addition, more cattle arrived from the Mission of Indian Reform in early August, and he saw to it that the beeves were quickly distributed. This, coming so close on the heels of the regular government issue, meant the tribe had more than enough to eat for the first time in many months.
Even the elder Many Snows argued against those who wanted to take the children out of the school. “Now, for the first time in many moons, we do not have to kill dogs for meat,” he counseled his people. “Even the elk have not been numerous enough to feed us. Therefore, let us leave things as they are, and see how it will all turn out.”
The tribe agreed, settling down to enjoy the larder that would carry them into the first days of September. With the fall season approaching, however, and winter not far away, the old fear of the Moons of Cold Hunger came upon them once again. With no buffalo at all that summer, the influx of the extra cattle would not meet many of the Kiwotas’ needs. Even if the elk had been plentiful, they would not give the Indians all that they required.
The bison supplied more than meat. The animals’ carcasses provided cups and ladles from the horns; bowstrings, rope, and halters from the muscles and sinew; knives, arrowheads, and tools from the bones; and robes and clothing from the hides among other things necessary for survival and a comfortable life.
Once more Many Snows gave advice to his people. “Let us go out and search the buffalo in small groups. If a herd is found, we will all come together to kill the animals in it.”
A young hunter asked, “What if we have to leave the reservation, Many Snows?”
“We are desperate for buffalo,” the old man replied. “Therefore, do what you must.”
Another few weeks drifted by. Although the weather was still blistering hot, the days had grown shorter. Now, with even War Heart willing to ignore the treaty under those desperate conditions, numerous hunting bands were ready to go out and find buffalo, no matter where.
~*~
A couple of mornings later, things were not going well for Colonel Ned Wheatfall. He noticed his men getting more restless with each passing day. Only his most loyal followers, the ones he’d made officers in the militia, displayed any patience with the situation. Things finally came to a head when the entire band, armed and scowling, approached the campfire where Wheatfall and his staff were preparing breakfast.
Within an instant, the militia colonel leaped to his feet. He drew his revolver with one hand and his knife with the other. He faced the crowd, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Captain Red-Eye Morgan, and Lieutenants Pockets Dugan and Dan Lilly. Scared and angry as hell, the quartet faced off against more than forty angry men.
The mob also sported drawn pistols or buffalo rifles along with a smattering of issue carbines. One man stood out in front of the others. His name was Dink Martin, and the fury in his expression and voice seemed to increase his naturally large stature.
“You’re bringing this all on yourself, Wheatfall!” he sputtered. “We told you yesterday we wanted you to pay us off. If you give us the money we got coming, then ever’body walks away and ’live and happy.”
Wheatfall licked his dry lips. “You ain’t getting nothing ’til it’s due you. We ain’t finished our work out here.”
“There ain’t no more work to be did!” Martin shouted. “They ain’t gonna be no Injun war. Them Kiwotas is big, fat, dumb, and happy with all that stuff they’re getting from the government and that mission feller. We ain’t gonna see none of ’em out here, and you can bet your ass that no man jack in this bunch is gonna sit around on his ass ’til the snows come.”
A couple of the men on the side made a slight move to get around the back of Wheatfall, Morgan, Lilly, and Dugan. Red-Eye aimed his pistol at them. “Take another step, you sons of bitches, and I’ll put a bullet through you.”
“You can’t get us all,” Martin said.
“We can damn sure get you,” Wheatfall said.
“And we can damn sure get you!” Martin retorted. He, like all the rest of the men, was primed to fire.
Wheatfall decided to take it from another angle. “There’s lots o’ money to be made out here. You been paid pretty good so far, ain’t you?”
“There ain’t no women out here,” a disgruntled hunter shouted. “You said we’d have squaws, but even they ain’t been made available to us.”
“That’s on account o’ the Injuns has been slow about getting out here,” Wheatfall said. “When they do, you’ll have plenty o’ their women.”
“We’re wasting time,” someone shouted. “If this thing falls through, we won’t get another damn cent!”
“Sure you will,” Wheatfall said. “We’re far from finished.”
Pockets leaned toward Wheatfall and whispered, “Maybe you better pay ’em off, Ned.”
“Not on your life!” Wheatfall said. “If’n I did, which I cain’t, the senator’d be all over my ass.”
“What senator?” Pockets asked.
“Just shut up,” Wheatfall snapped. “You don’t have to worry about no senator ’cause it ain’t none o’ your business.”
“Things ain’t going worth a damn,” Lilly complained.
Red-Eye didn’t have much confidence either. “They’re gonna make a move pretty quick, Ned.”
“It’s gonna be all over for us,” Pockets added.
“Rider coming!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Wheatfall didn’t take his eyes off Martin. “Who is it?”
Lilly looked and replied, “It’s Earling Denmore.”
Within moments the drumming of hooves and Denmore’s shouts could be heard.
“Injuns! Injuns!”
Now everyone looked around, expecting to see a crowd of Kiwotas riding down on them. But the view around the camp stayed clear as Denmore rode on in. He scarcely took notice of the unusual gathering as he reined in hard and looked out over the crowd.
“There’s a Injun hunting camp about five miles to the east,” he announced. “Twelve bucks and a bunch o’ squaws and kids.” He looked at Wheatfall. “Ain’t that what we been waiting for?”
“It sure as hell is,” Wheatfall answered.
Martin grinned. “That’s more like it.” He shoved his revolver back into its holster.
Wheatfall fired, the bullet striking his antagonist in the middle of the chest and throwing him back against the men standing directly behind him.
“What the hell did you do that for?” one of the men asked, kneeling down to look at Martin. “Damn! He’s dead!”
“Let that be a lesson to all o’ you sons of bitches. Don’t start getting big ideas about who’s running things around here!” Wheatfall said. “I ain’t taking no guff from nobody! Now get ready to ride out. We got work to do.”
Pockets Dugan looked down at the dead man. “What’re we gonna do with him? If’n them dragoons from Fort Buffalo find him, there’ll be big trouble.”
“Big trouble?” Wheatfall asked. He laughed loudly. “There sure will be. But not for us. “Ol’ Martin there was killed by Kiwotas.”
Red-Eye Morgan laughed. “Then, let’s go get even with ’em for it.”
“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do,” Wheatfall said. “Saddle up, damn it!”
Minutes later, with Earling Denmore in the lead, the pack of territorial militia galloped out of camp, heading over the prairie with their weapons locked and loaded, not only with powder and ball, but also with murderous intent.
~*~
At exactly that same moment, more than a thousand miles away in Washington City, another situation had arisen that would affect the Kiwota tribe and the lives of its people far out on the Buffalo Steppes.
Senator Osmond Torrance stood at the window of his office looking down at the street scene below. He was in a thoughtful mood as he slowly enjoyed the excellent cigar which wreathed his head with a pleasant smoky aroma.
His secretary, Howard Puffer, approached him and offered a snifter of expensive brandy. “Have you sorted it out yet, Senator?”
Torrance took the glass and sipped the liquor. “Not quite, Howard,” he answered. “One must be very careful in a situation like this.”
“You should keep in mind that you already own that land,” Puffer said. “A thousand prospectors could stake a thousand claims, but it wouldn’t mean a thing. The entire Medicine Hills section of the Buffalo Steppes has been legally claimed by you since we filed the papers just before DeWitt Planter’s tragic death.”
“I haven’t forgotten that,” Torrance assured him. “No one will be able to dispute my ownership or make trouble for me over it.”
“Of course not,” Puffer said. “No record of that government geologist’s find up there exists.”
Torrance turned away from the window and walked back to his desk and sat down. “I’m going to have to do something, though. Things are just moving too slow out there. If Ned Wheatfall can’t stir up anything, then there may not be any good opportunities for a while. I want to have the situation under my control when next year’s spring rolls around. It is most imperative that I am able to get the Torrance Mining Company into full operation.”
“Well, sir,” Puffer said. “Permit me to point out to you that if you do something now, it will guarantee that when the warm months arrive on the Buffalo Steppes, there will be very little time before quite a ruckus starts by an influx of prospectors.”
“You’re right!” Torrance exclaimed. He stood up. “I want you to go to New York and see our friend Ambrose at the Herald. Tell him that gold has been discovered in the Medicine Hills of Dakota Territory. I want you to make a personal call on him to make sure the news is reported exactly as I want it.” He took another pull on his cigar and a sip of the brandy. “By God! That should cause quite a stir around the country.”
Puffer nodded in agreement, saying, “The real tumult will be out there on the Buffalo Steppes.”
“Yes,” Torrance said, smiling. “And it will be most violent.”
Chapter Eighteen
Many Snows walked slowly across the length of the small hunting camp. Every joint in his old body ached with each narrow stride he took on his spindly old legs. He tried not to show the discomfort he felt, but everyone who stopped their activities to gaze at the elder member of the tribe could tell that the two-day ride on horseback had been a real punishment for the oldster. Yet, in spite of the pain, he was glad he had made the trip. It had been a wonderful experience to once again be away from the main village and out in the open countryside. Deep in his heart, Many Snows knew it would be the last time he would ever ride out on the prairie on a hunting expedition.
“Grandfather!” a young warrior named Two Horses called to him. “Come and sit with me. We can visit.”
Many Snows appreciated both the respect and the courtesy of the salutation and the kind invitation from the man who was actually no kinsman. But he shook his head. “Thank you, Grandson. But I have much to attend to. Later we will smoke a pipe and talk together.”
“If we are lucky, we will eat buffalo liver together, Grandfather,” the warrior said. “We young men will use our strength and your wisdom to make sure that happens.”
Many Snows smiled. “We will all do our best, and the People can share the best parts of many large bulls.”
“Everyone will look forward to that, Grandfather,” Two Horses replied.
Many Snows went back to where his son-in-law and daughter, Calling Dove, had set up their lodge in the hunting village. This group of people from the tribe was one of several that had gone out in a determined effort to find buffalo. Normally, Many Snows would have stayed back, but the warm weather gave him energy and took the pain from his joints. That was the reason the old man decided he would be able to go out one more time before he died. Although the demands of hours on horseback were more than he had bargained for, he enjoyed being out in the open in a small group rather than being surrounded by many tepees in the regular village.
When he was a young warrior, they had called him Two Kills from the day on which he killed a pair of Pawnee warriors in a single charge. Only a few seasons previously the People had begun to call him Many Snows because of his advanced years. He didn’t particularly like the name, but he didn’t blame them. His braids were gray and his dark face heavily wrinkled from a lifetime spent in the sun, wind, and various temperatures of his environment. His muscles had shriveled and his eyesight deteriorated. All that was left was his personal dignity and wisdom. When he accepted all that as good, Many Snows knew he had become a traditional elder of the People.
