Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 18
He also knew he had truly reached advanced years when, during the telling of the story of Two Kills at the council fire one evening, most of the people there didn’t realize he was the warrior who had performed the brave deed. Those who had witnessed it had passed over to the Spirit World a long time before.
The elderly Kiwota thought perhaps there was one man in the tribe older than he. A confused, skinny fellow called Beard because of excess facial hair, lived with his grandchildren. Many Snows could recall when Beard was a warrior and used to go out on the same hunting and raiding parties as he did. But it was difficult to recall whether the man had been an older warrior or not. Many Snows could not even recall Beard’s name from his youth. It was just as well. Now and then the wrinkled old man could be seen walking around the village calling out names of warriors long gone, to go with him to steal horses or fight the Pawnee. One of his granddaughters would eventually come and get him, taking the babbling, disconcerted oldster back to their lodge. He was a bad-tempered ancient, but most of his surliness came from the pain that caused him to limp. A scar, from either a bullet or a lance head, marred one hip. The old wound was stiff, and whatever glory it had gained him in the past meant nothing in the present.
Many Snows sat down at the fire where his daughter tended to a pot of elk stew. He sniffed, saying, “It smells good.”
“It is too bad the elk is not as sustaining as the buffalo,” Calling Dove said. “Or offers the People as much.” She glanced outward onto the prairie. “Now we cannot find a herd because of the bad white men. Too many things have changed for the People. It should stay the same, and we could live like the old ones did.”
Many Snows was aware that nothing ever stayed the same for the tribe. He could remember the father of his grandfather telling him what it was like for the People before the white man. These were referred to as the “old ones” by the younger generation.
From the old ones who were ancient when he was young and called Two Kills, Many Snows learned what it had been like when there were no horses or guns or iron weapons and tools. The People walked the prairie with their possessions transported by travois-pulling dogs. Not much could be loaded on the contraptions; so lodges were smaller, and the People had fewer possessions.
But the mighty horse changed all that.
Warriors could range farther and faster once the horse was conquered. More could be hauled by the newly acquired animals than by the smaller dogs. This gave the People the luxury of larger tepees and more possessions. They ate better and were richer. They could also range farther to make war, so long-lasting feuds with the Pawnees and other enemies developed as killings, rape, and horse stealing increased in intensity and violence.
On the more peaceful side, the horse also provided the People with more leisure time. It was during hours of inactivity that old tales and legends were told and retold. Much of the religious tradition of the People, normally observed by only a few, became well known by all. Thus, the tribe developed a spiritual side to their beings.
“Nothing stays the same, Daughter,” he said. “Sometimes changes are for the best.”
“Maybe when you were young,” his daughter said. “But not anymore.”
Many Snows thought about the mission school and the strange sight of Kiwota boys with short hair and white man’s clothing. The girls looked different in the cloth dresses they wore, and all the children spoke the white man’s tongue.
“Maybe you are right, Daughter,” he finally conceded. “But when we once more have plenty of buffalo, things will get back to normal. War Heart will see to that.”
“The People are losing their trust and confidence in War Heart,” the woman remarked.
“They are stupid,” Many Snows said. “War Heart has a good head. He knows when to wait and when to act. If he thinks something must be done, he will see that it is done. If it were not for the wisdom and bravery of War Heart, the soldier chief Looks Ahead would have defeated us much sooner with his strong medicine.”
Calling Dove dipped a gourd into the stew. “Here, Father. Eat and be quiet.”
Many Snows took the food and gratefully chewed the meat softened by the long boiling in the stock. When one was missing most of one’s teeth, it was good to have something that could be eaten without discomfort.
The old man sank deep into thought as he ate and stared out over the countryside that had been his home for the entirety of his long life. He remembered many things as he slowly took his nourishment. There had been the glory of intertribal warfare, furiously frightening moments of frustration when the Pawnees were able to press their advantages, and gentler memories of his three wives and the children they bore him. He had been lucky as a father, since more than half of those babies had lived past infancy.
Many Snows also recalled the first meetings he’d had with white men. He had thought them loud, hairy, strange creatures with wondrous knowledge and remarkable tools and weapons. Those fellows had been easy enough to get along with. They had only wanted to hunt, trap, or trade. Many of the Indian women had been willing to lay with them to get presents of beads and mirrors. It had been a good time then, with those first white men. No land grabbing had taken place, and everyone got along fine.
Then the other type of white man arrived. These were the ones who wanted to settle down in an area of open land and call it their own, not allowing anyone else to even travel across it, much less settle down to camp for a while. Many Snows had always thought that concept of ownership of earth ridiculous. One might as well point to a star in the night sky and say, “That one is mine. No one else may look at it.” That was when the trouble with the whites had started, the old man recollected. The raiding had been easy on those isolated, unpleasant settlers. The men had been killed, the women raped, and their children either slain or taken into captivity.
The battles became more serious later on when the soldiers arrived. They were clumsy fighters and did not always do well. Many Snows—or Two Kills, as he was known—and his fellow warriors could pick and choose the times they wanted to fight. The white army fought back viciously, gaining ground in the long war because they had more soldiers than the Indians had warriors. It seemed that for every bluecoat killed, three more would appear in tribal country.
But eventually the great white soldier Looks Ahead came to fight the Kiwotas. He was a different sort of soldier chief, who fought the Indians like an Indian. He sprang from nowhere when he wanted to, killing off many warriors before pulling back out of harm’s way. He cared for his soldiers like they were his own sons, making it hard to kill them. Finally, even the leader War Heart was defeated. Many Snows had to admit, however, though the Kiwotas hated Looks Ahead, they also respected him because he always spoke the truth.
The old man finished his stew, remembering once again the first time he met with whites. He vaguely wondered what his final contact would be like.
The shadows lengthened as the sun went faster across the autumn sky. Many Snows enjoyed the warmth of the season that comforted his joints. The Moons of Cold Hunger were unkind to old men. With his belly full of elk stew and his daughter humming as she tended her camp tasks, the elderly Indian settled back against some rolled-up buffalo robes. Before long he nodded off into a light nap, but eventually sank into deep slumber in which he dreamed of riding a galloping horse across what seemed to be an endless prairie.
He awoke with a start, uttering an exclamation.
“Father!” Calling Dove cried in alarm. “What is wrong with you? Are you ill?”
“I had a bad dream,” Many Snows said.
The woman frowned in worry. Bad dreams were taken very seriously by the People. “What did you dream about, Father?”
He took a deep breath. “I dreamed I rode a war horse I had many summers ago. He was strong and powerful, so I let him run as fast as he wanted. But as he ran, he grew weaker and began to starve until his ribs showed through his skin.”
“What could that mean?” his daughter wondered.
Many Snows ignored the question. “Finally, he could barely walk. Then a war party of hairy white soldiers ambushed me from a dark cloud that lay across the land.” The old man sighed. “Then I woke up.”
“Did they kill you in the dream?” Calling Dove asked.
“I think so,” Many Snows said.
“That was a bad one,” the woman remarked.
“Yes,” Many Snows agreed. He lay back again on the buffalo robe. “It is the worst dream I ever had.”
The sudden sound of approaching horses startled them both. Many Snows struggled to his feet and saw the hunting party from the village approaching. A dozen warriors, all in the prime of their lives, brought their animals to a walk as they closed in on the village. Then each dismounted and led his mount to his lodge. From their conduct, all could tell they hadn’t located a herd.
Many Snow’s son-in-law, a solemn man called Swift Elk, turned his horse over to his wife. After checking the stew pot, he walked over and sat down beside the old man.
“We saw sign,” he said. “But it was many suns old.”
“Which direction did the animals go?” Many Snows asked.
“To the north and west,” Swift Elk replied.
“That is good!” Many Snows exclaimed. “They will be coming back this way. There is no good grazing to the west of Medicine Hills.”
“Then, why would they not go farther to the west?” Swift Elk asked. “They are not bound to stay on the reservation like the People.”
“But this is their home,” Many Snows argued. “If the white hunters do not run them off, they will come back here and graze.” He stood up and pointed outward. “See the grass? It is thick and undisturbed. That will draw the buffalo back here. There will be a great hunt.”
Swift Elk was thoughtful for several moments. “Perhaps you are right. They have eaten for a long time in other parts. The old bulls will remember the land of the People and bring the herds to us before the first snows.”
“We must be patient,” Many Snows counseled.
“I will tell the others what you said,” Swift Elk said.
Like all Kiwotas, he was brought up to respect the elders of the tribe. “They will heed your words and wait for the buffalo.”
Calling Dove returned from feeding the horse. She dipped up some stew for Swift Elk. After handing it over to her husband, she asked, “Do you want more, Father?”
“My stomach is troubled; I cannot eat,” Many Snows replied.
“Are you ill?” Swift Elk asked between slurps of his supper.
Calling Dove answered for him. “He had a bad dream.”
“I dreamed I rode a dying horse and that soldiers attacked me from a cloud that lay on the land,” Many Snows said.
“He thinks they killed him,” Calling Dove said in a serious tone.
“Let us not speak of such things,” Swift Elk said. “When we return to the village you can ask the medicine man about it. If the dream is bad, he will help you purify yourself and keep the bad spirits away.”
“Yes,” Many Snows agreed. “I must do that.”
Before retiring for the night, the hunters met and worked out the next day’s activities. Then, as the fires died out, everyone eventually withdrew to the interior of their lodges to rest up for what was hoped would be a successful buffalo kill.
Many Snows went to his blankets and robes in the far side of the tepee and settled down. He didn’t like to let on, but he was extremely tired. The ride and all the camp activities had worn him out. It was only from great effort that he was able to hide the fatigue that dogged his ancient body like a pack of wolves at a dying old buffalo bull.
The oldster went to sleep fast, but his slumber was not restful. Once again he dreamed of riding the dying horse as it weakened in its run across the prairie. The cloud across the earth appeared again, and the hairy white soldiers charged out of it to attack him.
Many Snows’ eyes popped open.
He glanced toward the opening of the lodge and could see that the dawn had begun to break. A slight grayness invaded the blackness of the night. The old man had to urinate. At his age, that was something to be attended to immediately or he would lose control. He painfully got to his feet and shuffled toward the exit. Bending over to get through the small gap in the tepee’s cover was agony, but he got outside and gradually straightened up. After a couple of breaths, he limped slowly to a spot behind a tree and tended to his business, urinating in weak spurts from his flaccid penis. At one time even the sight of a pretty woman would cause the member to swell out erect and proud, but those days were certainly over with.
Many Snows finished, then turned to go back and get more sleep. A flash of blue caught his eye at the edge of the camp. Then another, another, and yet another.
“Soldiers!”
He bellowed out the word so loud and strong that it surprised him. But he didn’t have time to reflect on the strength in his voice before the firing started. Many Snows found even more hidden strength as he rushed back to the lodge. Already some of the sleepy warriors, with weapons in hand, appeared outside their lodges. His son-in-law was also there, holding a carbine. The old man bowled over his daughter as he went into the tepee and retrieved the bow and quiver of arrows he had brought with him from the village.
He quickly gathered up the weapons and headed for the opening, but Calling Dove blocked the way. She shrilly asked, “What are you doing, Father?”
“We are being attacked!” he shouted over the growing thunder of detonating weaponry outside.
“Let the young men fight,” his daughter begged.
He ignored her and went back outside. Several dead women and children could be seen scattered among the lodges. The soldiers, well armed, were moving through the small village shooting at everyone. Many Snows fit an arrow to the bow and sent it flying in the direction of the soldiers. He didn’t know if he hit the man he’d aimed at, for a cry behind him attracted his attention. He turned in time to see Calling Dove collapse to the ground, the front of her dress soaked in blood. Her open, staring eyes gave evidence of her death.
Infuriated, Many Snows stumbled forward on his old legs. Now he could see that the warriors were badly outnumbered and that many had already gone down. But at least a handful of soldiers also lay on the ground in grotesque positions of instant, violent death. The old man shot his arrow and hit one man, causing the bearded fellow to bawl in pain as he fell to his knees. The old man prepared to send another arrow into the enemy, but a blow from behind caused him to stumble forward and fall face-first to the earth. He turned over and could see the distorted face of a soldier aiming a pistol at him. The old Indian didn’t have time to hear the detonation of the weapon before the bullet crashed into his skull, taking away his life in one measureless instant.
It was Many Snows’ last contact with white men.
Chapter Nineteen
The persistent shout of the sentry broke into Major Matt Devlin’s concentration as he read the quarterly report recently prepared by the post quartermaster.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
Devlin tried to renew his concentration on the complicated document.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
The major gave up the effort, getting to his feet to walk to the window. He unlatched it and pushed it open.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
He glanced toward the guardhouse and could see the corporal of the guard quickly buckling on his cartridge belt and rushing toward the calling sentry at the front gate of Fort Buffalo. An off-duty guard, lounging in front of the building, idly watched the activity.
“Trooper!” Devlin yelled out.
The dragoon looked toward the headquarters building and snapped to attention when saw that it was his commanding officer calling to him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get inside and tell both the officer of the day and the sergeant of the guard to accompany the corporal,” Devlin ordered. “As soon as they find out what the hell is going on, they are to send someone to me as quickly as possible with a full and accurate report.”
“Yes, sir!” The soldier saluted and went inside to tend to the instructions.
Immediately, two more figures could be seen running toward the front gate. Devlin went back to the report, disgruntled that his concentration had been broken. Facts and figures on government property had to be perused very carefully before a signature was applied. Many an officer had met his administrative Waterloo from signing incorrect supply reports as proper and accurate. Not only would he be censured for inefficiency, but monetary charges could be levied against any shortages of items on the list.
“Now, let’s see,” Devlin said to himself as he began to read aloud. “Six drum cases, one hundred lantern wicks, two hundred linen collars, fifty curb bits, fifty watering bridles, one dozen barracks chairs. ...”
Several more minutes passed before the corporal of the guard reappeared, running toward headquarters. This time he bounded up the building’s steps and stopped momentarily at the sergeant major’s desk to deliver a quick, important message. Immediately the senior noncommissioned officer knocked on Devlin’s door and stepped inside.
“Sir!” he announced. “The officer of the day sends his compliments and wishes to inform the commanding officer that the territorial militia detachment is approaching the post with dead and wounded.”
“Oh, goddamn it!” Devlin swore.
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant major replied.
Devlin grabbed his cap and rushed outside, turning toward the gate. He walked rapidly, noting the gathering of dragoons and wives and children.
“Make way!” the sergeant of the guard yelled out. “Make way for the post commander!”
Devlin walked up in time to see the ragged column of Wheatfall’s militia less than a half mile away, approaching slowly. As they drew closer, it was obvious both men and animals were dust-covered and tired.
