Buffalo Trail (23 page)

It grew dark. Isatai wormed his way back up the hill and insisted that it was time to leave. “Just a little longer,” Quanah said. “I want to count their fires, see how many stay and how many leave.”

None of them left. Instead, they built some half-dozen fires, slaughtered a cow, and cooked the beef—Isatai's stomach rumbled so loudly when he smelled the roasting meat that Quanah feared the whites below would hear it. After the men had eaten, Quanah prepared to creep away. Surely the white men would send out guards to patrol the area around their camp. But that didn't happen. The young longhair who was the leader placed a few men at the edges of the meadow, but no farther out. There was no need to move Isatai and the horses away, or for Quanah to move from the crest where he lay so comfortably.

He watched idly as the white men cleared away the pots and plates from dinner, rinsing them with buckets of well water. As he watched, he
thought again of the message Isatai claimed to have received from the spirits.
Dance.
Of course, Isatai was a fool and a liar, and he had probably just blurted the first word that came into his empty head. Still, the word seemed to have some meaning.
Dance.

One of the men below was a white man and yet wasn't, his skin an off color. Like Isatai, he was big and fat. He rummaged in a wagon and produced a thing with strings. Then he grasped another long, narrow thing with a single string—it looked like a very fragile bow. He rubbed this skinny bow across the thing with strings, and this made musical sounds that Quanah liked very much. So did the other white men, who began to hop about, some singing along and others linking arms and whirling—
dancing
.

“So white men dance too,” Isatai whispered, startling Quanah, who had been so absorbed in the scene below that he hadn't heard his rotund companion coming back up the hill. “I suppose everyone dances. The People have ours, and the Kiowa and the Cheyenne have their bloody sun dances. I wonder why the white men are dancing tonight.”

And then, in an instant, Quanah had it, the way to make everything work. Of course the word “dance” was key to gaining the cooperation of the Kiowa and assuring the continued support of the Cheyenne as well. It was so obvious—why had he not have thought of it sooner?

He dragged Isatai back down the hill and, once they were mounted, set the fastest pace possible back to the Quahadi camp.

C
ash McLendon considered himself smarter than most of the men he met in the West. From his time in St. Louis society, he knew how to waltz, which utensils to use when during multicourse dinners, and the surest, least detectable methods of stealing industrial secrets from competitors. With the exception of Jim Hanrahan, a seasoned businessman who'd served in the Kansas state legislature, such things were certainly beyond the ken of almost everyone else at the new Adobe Walls site. But they far surpassed McLendon in skills required for frontier construction. Left to his own devices, McLendon would have struggled to put up a tent that wouldn't immediately fall over. He had no idea which type of tree furnished the best wood for ridge logs, as opposed to an entirely different type of lumber required for fences. It astonished him that great bricks of sod could actually be cut from the meadow using a special plow, and that these earth-and-grass bricks could be used to form thick walls. Two of the structures taking shape in the undulating meadow actually had glass windows. Whatever social skills they might lack, these rough-and-tumble frontiersman used the materials at hand to construct honest-to-God buildings.

At first, as soon as they'd picked the site and spent a full day resting
after the trip from Dodge City, everyone pitched in. Deep trenches were dug; then thick cottonwood logs were laid down in them to provide a foundation to which slimmer upright logs could be nailed. It was hard, sweaty work, but required sure hands all the same. A single misplaced log would weaken an entire wall. Just constructing the two-hundred-by-three-hundred-foot corral for the Myers and Leonard store took almost two weeks. Its log fence stood eight feet high, and the wood had to be cut and hauled back to the meadow from groves of cottonwood about six miles away. The walls of the three buildings that bordered the corral—a store, a mess hall, and a stable—were what the building crew called picket, logs chinked with mud, pocked occasionally with shooting slots so gunmen could stand inside and fire in case of attack. There was a heavy double door in front, also made of wood. The door faced east so that it could be open on cool mornings to let in breeze and sunshine. There was also a smaller, lighter back door.

Tom O'Keefe's blacksmith shop was much smaller, a square fifteen by fifteen feet, and also had wood picket walls. But unlike the Myers and Leonard store, there were wide gaps between the logs. O'Keefe would spend most of his days laboring by the roaring fire necessary to bring metal to molten heat, and so he required constant fresh air blowing through.

Hanrahan's Saloon, twenty-five by sixty feet, had sod walls three feet thick at the base and two feet thick at the top. They could be penetrated by bullets, but defenders could also easily poke holes in the walls with tools or gun barrels and fire out. The great advantage was that sod bricks were virtually fireproof.

All three structures had the same roofs: in each, a thick central ridgepole supported a framework of smaller supporting poles. When these were in place, they were covered by several layers of sod and dirt. Though bullets could penetrate, rain couldn't. There was some space between
the buildings, almost thirty or forty yards. The meadow was deep enough so there was no need to cram one on top of the other. All of the buildings faced east.

After the first few days, most of the construction was done by crew members rather than the hide men themselves. They felt themselves above such menial labor, even though prior to leaving Dodge they'd agreed to lend a hand. Fred Leonard, O'Keefe, and Hanrahan hadn't expected free labor: every man was paid four dollars a day plus meals—not bad wages for hunting camp skinners and cooks—but this was a pittance to hunters accustomed to making that much from the sale of one or two hides. So, one by one, the hide men announced that they needed to scout the area, and rode out for days at a time, often bringing some of their crewmen with them and slowing camp construction accordingly. The three businessmen argued that they were breaking their word, but the hide men responded that they were heading out for the long-term benefit of the camp. For maximum hunting success, everyone needed to know all the freshwater springs in the area, and where the draws and hollows were where significant numbers of buffs might try to shelter in case of bad weather. Of course, they would also be on the lookout for Indians. None had been seen since they'd been accosted by the butt-baring Kiowa; apparently the Cator brothers were right, and most of the Indians had drifted away. Still, it was important to be sure.

Even Billy Dixon quickly got bored with camp construction and rode out with Frenchy, Mike McCabe, and Charley Armitage, three of his most veteran crewmen. Bat Masterson begged to come, but Billy, being less tactful than usual, said no because it was to be a long, wide scout, with a pace so blistering that an inexperienced hand like Bat could never keep up. That sent Masterson into a prolonged sulk; after Billy and his three companions rode off, Bat disappeared too. McLendon found him on the banks of the northernmost creek several hours later. Bat was
slouched in the shade, scribbling away in his notebook. As usual, he refused to let McLendon read what he'd written.

“It's private, C.M. Now, tell me, is the camp work all done for the day? I swear I'll puke if I have to help secure one more ridgepole into place.”

“You're in luck. I think the last nail was driven not too long ago, and tomorrow we'll commence putting in shelves for the store and saloon.”

Bat tucked his pencil behind his ear and snapped the notebook shut. “Glad to hear it. Once they've got an array of items for sale, we can have some relief from the monotony of bacon and beans for dinner, washed down with water. I'm parched for beer or something stronger.”

“Water will continue to suit me fine, since Jim Hanrahan's bound to charge at least a nickel a beer. I'm down here to make and save every cent that I can. You ought to be too.”

Bat waved his hand dismissively. “In a few weeks, C.M., maybe a month at most, these hills will be crawling with buffs and echoing with the sound of gunfire. A few beers ahead of that won't cause either of us to go financially amiss.”

“I need every cent, Bat.”

“Ah, you have no idea of the amount of money we're about to come into.”

Still upset by the snub from Billy, Bat stalked rather than strolled the half mile back into camp. McLendon followed at a more leisurely pace, thinking again about Gabrielle. Now that construction was almost complete, some of the teamsters were heading back to Dodge City in the morning. Charlie Rath would be waiting there to load their wagons with his own supplies prior to setting up shop in newly built Adobe Walls. The teamsters would carry letters to mail in Kansas, too, and bring back any missives addressed to denizens of the camp. Perhaps there'd be a letter coming from Gabrielle—she'd had time now to receive the latest
one from him and decide how to respond. The slightest hint of further encouragement would help McLendon get through what he knew would be a summer of hard, messy work.

•   •   •

I
T WAS TWO FULL WEEKS
before Billy Dixon and his three crewmen returned. They reported that they'd ridden east and encountered a few stray buffs here and there, but not the main herd.

“It's early yet, only April,” Billy said. “They'll surely show by month's end, or the beginning of May at the latest.”

Everyone at Adobe Walls was restless. They did some hunting, held shooting competitions, which Billy Dixon invariably won, and played cards. Since nobody had much money—and wouldn't until the great herd arrived and sales of hides could commence—they played for markers to be redeemed at a later date. A few of the men ran up considerable debts, a hundred dollars or more. Markers were also used to purchase food and dry goods at the Myers and Leonard store, sit-down meals prepared in the store mess hall by Old Man Keeler, and libations served in Hanrahan's saloon. Crew skinners and cooks drank liquor, but to McLendon's surprise most of the hide men limited themselves to beer and an odd concoction known as “bitters.” Masterson explained that bitters, named for a somewhat unpleasant taste, was believed to promote good digestion and bowel health. Curious, McLendon squandered two bits for a glass and nearly gagged on the first sip. So far as he could tell, besides tasting bad, bitters had the kick of pure alcohol.

Inevitably, there were physical flare-ups. Brick Bond got into several near brawls, which were broken up by Billy Dixon, Jim Hanrahan, and a few of the other men. Mike McCabe and Dutch Henry Borne had a fistfight over who was first in line for a rabbit hash breakfast served up by Old Man Keeler. Bat Masterson, who'd been so sunny-natured back
in Dodge City, now acted touchy much of the time. He found insult in the most innocuous comments, and once when McLendon kidded him about his black mood, Bat challenged him to fight right then and there.

“What the hell, Bat, I'm your friend and you know it,” McLendon protested. “Why in the world would you want to fight me?”

“I really don't,” Bat admitted. “But ever since Billy put me down a few weeks back, ever'body's been treating me like the camp buffoon. I won't stand for it.”

“That's foolishness. It's true the others like to josh with you, but they did that back in Dodge, too, and you always joshed right back.”

“It's just that I want to prove myself here,” Bat said. “I don't want to be the goddamn kid brother anymore.”

McLendon patted Masterson's shoulder. “You'll feel better when the herd arrives and there's plenty of action to keep you occupied.”

“Well, I wish those damn buffs would get here. This waiting is tedious.”

•   •   •

I
N EARLY
M
AY
, Charlie Rath came down from Dodge at the head of a dozen wagons loaded with dry goods. He brought with him a dozen employees, including a Swede named Andy Johnson who would be in charge of the Rath store, and also William and Hannah Olds. William Olds's cough was more wracking than ever, and his wife's nerves were as shaky as McLendon remembered. Rath hired members of the hunting crews to build him a sod structure about the same size as Jim Hanrahan's saloon. Since the men had nothing else to do, it was completed in three days. Its attic-like storage area, which included glass windows commanding a view of the meadow, could be reached only by ladder. The Oldses slept up in the attic to preserve Hannah Olds's privacy. As the only woman in Adobe Walls, she was afforded great courtesies by all of
the men. She was always addressed as “Mrs. Olds,” never “Hannah.” They went out of their way to ease her obvious discomfort in such rough surroundings. They built a spacious outhouse so, unlike the men, Mrs. Olds wouldn't have to relieve herself in the brush. A pregnant mare gave birth, and the skinner who owned her gave the tottery colt to Mrs. Olds as a pet. A special stall for the foal was built in the Myers and Leonard stable, and in the mornings and evenings Mrs. Olds went there to feed it by hand.

A well was also dug just inside one of the walls. That meant, during inclement weather or in the event of a siege, it would be possible for anyone in the Rath store to get all the water they needed without going outside.

Once his store was ready to open for business, Rath and Andy Johnson took Fred Leonard aside for a private chat. The hunters and their crews had hoped for store price wars, with each trying to undercut what the other charged for popular goods. But what happened was the opposite. Prices in both stores were identical—and, in almost every case, higher than what had been charged for the same items back in Dodge. A can of tomatoes that went for thirty cents in Kansas cost forty in both the Rath and Myers and Leonard stores. The hide men and their crews were accustomed to spending a dollar for each pound of tobacco they smoked in their clay pipes. Now the charge was a dollar twenty-five.

“That ain't fair, Fred,” Frenchy told Leonard. “With my own ears, I heard you promise back in Dodge that you'd keep prices down here the same.”

“I don't deny that,” Leonard said. “But what I failed to realize, until Andy Johnson and Charlie Rath pointed it out, was that I got to factor in shipping costs now. These teamsters charge exceeding high for every wagonload of goods they haul. There's where the extra few cents comes in. Surely you can understand.”

“I understand that I'll have one or two less pipefuls to smoke a day,” Frenchy groused. “There better be a damn sizable herd of buffs about to arrive here. I'll need the extra money to buy your outrageously priced tobacco and make you a rich man by so doing.”

Almost everyone in camp ran up extensive bills at the stores and saloons. One of the few who didn't was McLendon. He only imbibed at the saloon when someone else was standing drinks, and his meals consisted of the cheapest fare available, usually crackers and cheese sliced from a mighty wheel in Myers and Leonard's. Hannah Olds couldn't give him occasional free suppers as she had in Dodge. Charlie Rath watched everything like a hawk, and when he went back to Dodge after two weeks in Adobe Walls, Andy Johnson exhibited the same watchfulness.

The days dragged, growing increasingly warmer. Some of the men gladly volunteered to help when Andy Johnson added a small bastion to the corner of the Rath store. Inside the bastion, they dug another well, so that water was available indoors as well as from the outside well and nearby freshwater springs. Billy insisted on everyone taking turns on guard duty at night, but eventually even he conceded that there didn't seem to be any Indians to guard against.

“Damndest thing,” Billy mused. “Still, I want one or two sets of eyes alert ever night. Indians got to be out there somewhere. They can't all have moved on from the region.”

Most mornings, some of the hide men rode out, most of them going southeast in hopes of catching the first glimpse of the approaching herd. A few went in other directions, hunting or else simply avoiding camp tedium. During the third week in May, there was considerable commotion when almost twenty men rode into Adobe Walls. Their leader was J. W. Mooar, who announced that anyone who wanted was welcome to leave the camp and come with him.