Shadow Riders: The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 (The Plainsmen Series) Read online

  “I am Lieutenant Colonel Davidson of the Tenth U.S. Cavalry,” the officer began. “We have called you here today to listen to the words of some important officials of our governments regarding the future of both your tribes: Kiowa and Comanche. Without further delay, I introduce to you Mr. E. P. Smith, the Great Father’s commissioner of Indian affairs back in Washington City.”

  As Smith rose from his chair, there came a smattering of applause from the other white men, while none of the buffalo soldiers clapped. The assembled Indians looked on without emotion as the government official began his proclamation.

  “I come this morning with greetings from the Great White Father for his Kiowa and Comanche children,” Smith said, then halted a few moments to allow for McCusker’s translation. “There are many important matters for us to discuss today between your tribes and our government officials. But perhaps the most important of these is the release of your two chiefs.”

  Smith glanced at Davis, finding the governor watching him intently. The commissioner wiped some sweat from his upper lip and continued self-consciously, clearly ill-at-ease before the painted, feathered assembly of plains raiders. “The man I will now introduce comes from far away in the land of Texas.”

  As Smith paused, McCusker translated and signed. That singular word was muttered and re-echoed among the proud red crowd.

  “Tehas!”

  “This one is chief of Tehannas?”

  When McCusker nodded at him, the commissioner continued, “He is the leader of the people of that state, and as such comes to discuss the release of Satanta and Big Tree with you. I now have the honor of introducing Governor Edmund J. Davis, the esteemed governor of the sovereign state of Texas.”

  Davis rose to the applause of his staff and most of the Texas stockmen who had come north in hopes of locating some of their stolen cattle. With a hand held in his vest as if to strike a commanding pose, the governor peered over the crowd for a few moments in a manner of assessing it for political advantage before he began to speak. When he started, it was with a nod given to Philip McCusker, as if he were granting the interpreter permission to begin his part of this highly charged drama.

  “Allow me to begin by telling the great leaders of both the Kiowa and Comanche peoples that the white citizens of the state of Texas want only peace with your tribes.” As Davis spoke he walked slowly to his right, down behind the line of officials seated at the table, his left arm held out theatrically while he drove home his words.

  “It is indeed unfortunate that the history of the state of Texas … truly from the time of our independence from Mexican rule and domination, has been a history of bloodshed and hatred and prejudice beyond any man’s imagination. But we of today—truly, we of this very day, have before us the opportunity to change this bloody trail we both find ourselves upon. We can begin anew, today.”

  Theatrically, he came to a stop behind the two captive Kiowas, laying a hand on Satanta’s shoulder, the other on Big Tree’s. “Behold, your chiefs. See how they have fared while they were in our care. They have not missed a meal. They have not suffered from want of sleep. Nor suffered for want of anything at all. We arrested them for their crimes against a private civilian on the soil of Texas. And now, the time has arrived that they can be turned back to their people.”

  When the last words tumbled from McCusker’s lips, there was a rapid stirring among not only the Kiowas, but the Comanches as well. Like the flushing of a large covey of quail from the brush, or the scattering of turkey toms from the mesquite, the air grew charged. This was to be a great moment, Seamus Donegan realized. A chance at last for the white man to live up to his word given to the Indian.

  “But first,” Davis continued as he stepped away from the chiefs, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully, his countenance much more subdued, “I must present you with the terms of their release.”

  McCusker’s translation brought confusion to the red faces where an instant before there had been a tangible joy. Low, thunderous voices rumbled as the group whispered among themselves, their dark eyes growing murderously dark once more, glowering not only at Davis, but at every one of the other white men at the table.

  “I will free the chiefs, releasing them from the custody of the soldiers—allowing them to return to their people on this great reservation—if your tribes will subscribe to the following conditions.”

  Only stony silence now met the once enthusiastic throng of red men seated upon their blankets before the tables, or standing stock still on the Fort Sill parade, an impressive array of armed, warrior might.

  “Where are the Comanche among this gathering?” Davis asked of McCusker.

  The interpreter began to translate automatically, then realized his mistake. Self-consciously he pointed out the left side of the great assembly pouring across the grass and gravel parade.

  “Good,” Davis said, nodding and stepping down the front of the long tables for the first time, placing himself between the other white officials and the Indians. “We are aware that recent war-parties of Comanche warriors have illegally left this reservation and crossed the Red River into Texas—striking our settlements, stealing our stock, murdering innocent citizens of my state. Now, listen to me carefully … as I tell you that the Comanche must deliver up to my hands five of their warriors responsible for these recent and bloody raids into Texas.”

  McCusker anxiously delivered the condition, his own eyes filled with its terrible message. As the ultimatum sank in, the Indians stirred. Shifting uneasily, the buffalo soldiers brought their weapons up in a noisy rattle that prompted Carpenter and Waller to whisper among their men.

  “Hold on! Just stand by…”

  At the same time, the white officials at the table appeared to be trying to make themselves as small as possible in the event of calamity as a puffed-up Davis plunged ahead.

  “In addition,” the governor continued, holding an arm up which he waved over the assembly, “both the Kiowa and the Comanche must return all the stock that can be identified as coming from the ranches of Texas citizens.”

  Ignited up by the white man’s incendiary words, the young men near the back of the assembly began exhorting for resistance—shouting, waving lances and bows, unashamedly exhibiting their guns, pointing them at both the white men and black soldiers the warriors clearly outnumbered at this tense moment. Some of the old men, undoubtedly concerned themselves about the harsh condition placed upon them by the white men, nonetheless turned and attempted to regain order and calm over the young hotbloods threatening to turn the assembly into a bloodbath.

  “Finally,” Governor Davis continued, his loud voice raised over the hubbub, “the tribes must guarantee the U.S. Army and our varied government bodies that they will always camp close to their agencies and will no more ride into the sovereign state of Texas … they must agree that they will obediently draw their annuities as distributed by the Indian Bureau … and the bands must submit to a roll-call system to determine if any warrior or family has fled the reservation between the occasions of distributions of those government rations.”

  It was clear to Donegan that McCusker found this translation distasteful, if not downright dangerous. The interpreter glanced at Satanta and Big Tree, who were whispering between themselves.

  “The tribes must understand,” Davis shouted over the clamor, “that we are requiring them to adhere to these conditions within thirty days. That is thirty suns … or the two chiefs will not be released.”

  With the translation, Satanta and Big Tree leaped to their feet, shackles rattling, both ankle and wrist.

  There came an almost immediate surge of the young men. Their chiefs were shouting as loudly as the rest—with McCusker attempting to translate a little of the angry rhetoric that blued the air of the Fort Sill parade that sixth day of October.

  Then a new voice arose above the clamor—drowning out most of the others, quieting the rest. Lone Wolf, the aging war-chief who, along with Satanta, had been held hos
tage by Custer and Sheridan five winters before, hurried to stand at the front of the assembly, his blanket looped over one shoulder and under the other arm for gesturing.

  “You figure that old sharp-eyed one’s got a gun under that robe?” Seamus asked of Sharp Grover and Jack Stillwell.

  “If he don’t,” Grover replied, “then Lone Wolf ain’t the sort of chief the Kiowa want leading ’em anyways. From what I know of that devil, he’s packing iron, that’s for certain.”

  Stillwell whispered, “I heard how Lone Wolf stepped up to General Sherman right here on this ground, pointing his rifle at the general back to ’seventy-one when the army arrested them two chiefs, Seamus. You best believe that’s a bad one with an oily reputation and he doesn’t come out of his lodge less’n he’s swaybacked with weapons.”

  In the uneasy hush brought about by Lone Wolf’s demand for quiet, the Kiowa chief began to speak.

  “Let the white man know we want peace with him. But we want a strong peace—forged between two old enemies who respect one another. Not a peace of one powerful adversary over his weaker neighbor. This cannot be.”

  He stepped slowly through the front rows of the chiefs and head men who remained seated on the ground, coming to a stop in front of the Texas governor.

  “Let the white man know we will adhere to the terms he has laid down for us to live on this reservation and to receive our presents from his government. But let the white man know too that he must release our two chiefs … but not in thirty suns. Not in one sun. We must have our chiefs back now!”

  There arose a sudden whipping of fury from the young warriors who cried out their war songs, yelping and yipping like hungry coyotes for blood. Across the next anxious moments, the older men slowly quieted them, then waited for the haughty Davis to respond to Lone Wolf’s angry demand.

  When he had crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, the governor said, “I will not be dictated to by you, Lone Wolf—or any other Indian savage. You yourself have been a criminal. A known murderer and a butcher and a thief. You will not tell me what to do. Instead, I have come here today to tell you and your people what I want you to do for the white man!”

  Lone Wolf’s eyes narrowed on the tall white official, those eyes the only betrayal of his emotions. “We have nothing more to talk about. Perhaps I was an old woman when I told my people to come here and listen to the words of the white man. Perhaps I have told them the wrong thing to pay heed to what you had to say, because there is little sense and reason and courage to your words.”

  “Courage?” Davis shouted, his own eyes narrowing. “I’ll show you courage! Look around you, Lone Wolf!”

  “I see your soldiers. But are your eyes crusted shut, white man? Can’t you see our warriors ready to turn this ground red with your blood?”

  Already on his feet and just then scurrying to Lone Wolf and Davis was Enoch Hoag, central superintendent of the Indian Bureau. He stepped boldly between them, glaring up at the taller Davis, jabbing a finger in the governor’s silk vest.

  “By damn, Davis,” he hissed, face red with anger, a Quaker not easily given to profanity. “Your refusal to release these two prisoners at once blocks the way to achieving peace right at the outset. For, if Satanta and Big Tree are not released here and now, we’ll never get agents among these people ever again. The bands will scatter across the prairie, making it a job for the army to gather them once more. And that bloody war will be on your hands, Davis!”

  “What the hell do you think we have now, Hoag?” Davis spat. “You figure we’ve got us a picnic of things down there in Texas? That what you think of things now?”

  Hoag shook his head angrily, licking spittle from his lips as Smith and Cheyenne agent John Miles rose from the table, headed for the scene. “You listen to me you pompous prig. If these two chiefs are released, then agents can go among them and begin working on the path to peace: distributing presents, counting families, holding roll-call for them.”

  Instead of paying heed, Davis grinned mockingly and rocked back on his heels, gesturing over the anxious, muttering crowd of warriors and chiefs. “If they are so warlike as all that, Mr. Hoag,” the governor replied, “then we had as well fight them here and now, at once!”

  Lone Wolf turned away on his own accord, wagging his head in bitter frustration, and took his seat, not able to understand the white man’s words, more so unwilling to talk with someone so dead set on bringing ruin to this council and any last chance of peace.

  E. P. Smith hurried up to his superintendent and Davis as the old chief turned away. “Governor, would you consider it a sign of good faith on the part of the Indians—and therefore agree to release the two chiefs—if the tribes bring in five of the warriors guilty for the raids into your state?”

  Davis rubbed his chin thoughtfully, glancing over some of his staff and then letting his eyes rest on the stockmen who had come north from their ranches in Texas.

  “Yes,” he quietly answered in the end. “I suppose I would see it as a sign of good faith from them.”

  Smith immediately turned back to the haughty, muttering crowd of ignited red men. “Listen to me!” He held both his arms up, demanding quiet of the huge assembly threatening to explode into bloodshed. “You can have your chiefs back if you will listen to me and do as you are told!”

  Pointing to Satanta and Big Tree, Smith continued, raising his voice to announce to all, “Bring us five of those guilty of the raids in Texas … within twenty-four hours—one more sun from now—and the chiefs will be freed!”

  He waited a moment while McCusker translated and some of the words sunk in. More and more of the head men murmured among themselves.

  “You must go back to your lodges,” Smith added. “Go there now and discuss this among your leaders. You must do nothing else but talk about this matter … and decide what you will do to bring in five of the guilty raiders to us.”

  Lone Wolf stood, his hair black with no iron belying his sixty-plus winters. Few wrinkles marred his thoughtful face. “We will go talk now. Yes. And we will return with our answer. If we have not decided by tomorrow at this time, we will be here the day after. We go now.”

  As if on that cue, the rest, both Kiowa and Comanche, arose with a rattle of weapons and a shuffle of blankets and robes, a tinkling of hawks bells, heading off the parade and out of the gates as slowly as they had come earlier that morning.

  Seamus watched the bead of sweat slowly fall down the black flesh of the sergeant’s immobile, muscular neck minutes later as the last of the warriors strolled beyond the gates. Only then did he realize he himself was sweating, his palm plastered to the wood handles of the army model .44 he carried over his left hip, butt forward.

  Waller sighed. “Damn, but I figured we was dog meat, Seamus.”

  “Me too, Reuben.” He looked over the rest of Waller’s squad. While the strain of events clearly showed on their faces, there appeared to be no fear. “Your men held up well, Sergeant.”

  Reuben turned suddenly and saluted. “Thank you, sir—Sergeant Major Donegan.”

  On instinct, Seamus saluted, a little self-conscious as his fingers snapped against his brow. “As you were, Sergeant Waller.”

  The black soldier wagged his head slightly as his eyes went back to watching the warriors disappear through the trees. Only then did he reply in a doleful tone. “I don’t … don’t think things is ever again gonna be the same as they is now, Seamus.”

  Chapter 20

  October 7–8, 1873

  In the Moon of Falling Leaves. The end of the raiding season and the coming of another winter.

  Lone Wolf despaired for his people. Many times he had gone the way of his heart—fighting the white man, leading the war faction of the Kiowa bands along with Big Tree and Satanta. His voice the strongest in calling Kicking Bird an old woman for dealing with the soldiers and cuddling up with the white peace-talkers.

  But now something inside the old chief told him the sun was setting on his people
.

  It was the autumn of the white man’s year 1873. Perhaps too this was the season of the yellow leaf for the Kiowa.

  This was a betrayal all the more difficult to deal with because even Kicking Bird remained silent, staring at the flames of their council fire in Lone Wolf’s lodge. The Wolf sat surrounded by the others who talked and argued and debated for long hours that night. Yes, now even Kicking Bird believed the white man had lied and proven himself faithless.

  First they had been guaranteed the two chiefs would be freed more than seven moons ago. Anger set in among the Kiowa, but with Lone Wolf’s help, Kicking Bird had quieted the warriors and the noisy women—convincing them to wait out the time specified by the white Tehannas. They never had any other choice: it was always the white man’s schedule for their lives.

  Gone the time of the short grass of their lives. No longer was it merely the march of the seasons and following the imperatives of the nomadic buffalo from rut to hunt, to calving and to hunt once more. When life was simple not so long ago.

  Now even old Kicking Bird hung his head in confusion, if not outright shame, that he had been lied to as well as the war-chiefs.

  “We could have told you, Kicking Bird!” cried Eagle Heart, giving voice to much of the denunciation heaped on the old chief’s shoulders.

  “Yes! The white man talks from one side of his mouth when he is afraid of our strength … and he talks from the other side of his mouth when he demands something of our weakness!” added Big Bow, a powerful war-chief among the Kiowa.

  Red Otter, Lone Wolf’s brother, took the talking stick, impatient to speak his heart. “Why do you spend so much of your strength beating Kicking Bird’s shoulders and head? Is he to blame for our troubles?”

  “We would not be caught in this now if we had not listened to Kicking Bird in the beginning!” White Horse shouted.