Come Sundown (33 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Come Sundown
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“Come in here, Mr. Greenwood! Bring your wife and light for a spell.”
We tied our ponies and gladly entered the warmth of William's cabin. Westerly and William's wife, Yellow Woman, were fast friends, and quickly withdrew to their own end of the cabin as they carried on in their native Cheyenne tongue. As I watched them walk away, arm in arm, I thought it odd that
Westerly, though younger, had retained more of the traditional ways than Yellow Woman. The elder woman had been married to William so long that she dressed mostly like a white woman, except for her moccasins and leggings.
William lit his pipe and poured himself a fresh cup from the pot on the woodstove. We talked for a long while about mutual friends and happenings all across the frontier and in the East, with the war. Finally, William began to broach the subject of his sons, Charles and George.
“You got my letter,” he said.
“Yes, sir. At Fort Stanton.”
“In times of peace, I wouldn't let it worry me—the boys going into camp with their Cheyenne kin.”
“Has there been fighting between the Indians and soldiers?”
“Just a skirmish or two, so far. But I've lived away out here for a long time, Mr. Greenwood. I can scent trouble like a trail hound.”
“What do you smell on the wind?”
“The Confederates have sent agents out among the southern plains tribes. All of them. The Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, Cheyennes, and Arapahos. They're trying to recruit the Indians to their side.”
“
White
agents?” I asked.
“No, they didn't have the
cojones
for that. They sent white agents to the territory first, to persuade the civilized tribes. The Cherokees, Choctaws, Creeks, Tonkawas, and some others have gone over to the Confederacy. The agents who went to talk to the plains tribes were mostly Cherokee and Choctaw.”
“Are the plains tribes going over to the Confederacy?”
“Oh, hell, no. They want no part of it. You know, a lot of rich Choctaws and Cherokees in the territory have big plantations and African slaves. That's why they've gone secesh. They want to hold on to their slaves. But the plains people have got all they want as long as there's still buffalo to hunt. They don't want to have any truck with the Rebels whatsoever.”
“Then why should you worry about trouble?”
“Because word is already out in Denver that Confederate agents have visited Indian camps on the plains. That's all some
hotheads need to convince themselves that the Indians have turned Rebel.” He puffed hard on his pipe, clearly excited and uneasy about the prospects.
“Why don't we ride to Denver and tell them the truth?”
William blew an angry cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I've written letter after letter to the governor, telling him the Indians want no part of the war and ought to be left alone to hunt. But these politicians have got their own schemes in mind. They
want
an Indian war.”
“Why in God's name would they want that?”
“The regular troops have all gone east to fight. It's a volunteer army out here, and they all want Indian-fighter reputations. They want to force the Indians off the land so they can settle it up with white farmers who will vote for them for killin' off heathen redmen. It's politics of the worst kind, Mr. Greenwood.”
“You're afraid George and Charles will get caught up in it.”
“Yes. I'm afraid in general that the whole Cheyenne nation will be wiped out by zealots. I'm afraid my wife's people will be slaughtered in ambushes and massacres. But I'm particularly concerned about my boys. They both fought for a time with the Confederates back East. They've already absorbed an ill view of a Union uniform.”
I nodded. “If fighting breaks out, they'll side with their Cheyenne kin.” I was thinking of my adoptive Comanche relatives, and knew I would also help them defend their rights to their own hunting grounds if soldiers should attack. For the Bent boys, the bond was even stronger. Half their blood was Cheyenne.
William leaned toward me, his chair squeaking. “Can you find them, Mr. Greenwood? Can you bring my boys home?”
I sighed and rubbed my chin. “I have no doubt that I can find them. Convincing them to come home is a different matter.”
“Of course, I'll pay you, and I'll outfit you with whatever you need. Will you try?”
“Of course I'll try. The pay doesn't matter. I'll do my level best. I'll take Westerly with me. We've already talked about it. She's handy on the trail and she'll help me move more easily among the Cheyenne.”
“Yes, that's good. You know I'd go myself, if I could. But I'm getting old, and I'm needed here to keep things calm.”
“I understand. I'm glad you called on me. I'll handle it as best I can.”
With that, our business was over, and William seemed somewhat relieved. I knew the feeling, and I'm sure you do, as well. When a problem festers in your mind, it can rob you of sleep, haunt your every waking hour, distract you from your business. It perches on your shoulders like a corpulent vulture, its dull, troublesome plumage looming dark over your head. But, having taken the first step toward solving your problem, do you not feel as if a burden has flown from your shoulders? Even though your problem may remain unsolved, you have sent it off to soar elsewhere for a while, for you have begun to rid yourself of it. Do not let the talons of trouble cling long to your flesh, my friends. Take action, like William Bent. Perhaps he could not solve all the problems of the plains, but he was never one to stand long at a buzzard roost.
At twilight that day, a large village of Cheyennes rode to the stockade to camp. They seemed excited, and in good spirits. We soon found out why. They held a scalp dance that night. Westerly and I went to the camp to observe. I saw the scalp on a pole. I suppose it could have been a Pawnee or Ute scalp, but it looked more like the locks of some unlucky white plainsman.
In the morning, I went with William to question the camp chief, Long Chin, about the scalp. The chief and William had been friends for a long time, and in fact, Long Chin was William's brother-in-law—the brother of both William's first, Owl Woman, and his current wife, Yellow Woman. After the death of Owl Woman, William had married her sister, Yellow Woman, for that was the Indian way.
When William asked about the scalp, Chief Long Chin readily admitted that it had been taken from a white man.
“Why was this man killed?”
“He was killing buffalo.”
“Perhaps he was hungry,” William argued.
“He only took the hides. Maybe a tongue or a hump sometimes. It is happening more. They are killing and skinning, leaving the meat to rot.”
“You should have come to me.”
“You were not near. It was far out on the plains. I sent some warriors to ask this man why he left so much meat go to waste. When he saw my warriors coming, he shot one of them and wounded him. Before he could load that big rifle again, my warriors rode him down and killed him.”
William shook his head. “This is not good. If word of this gets to the soldiers, they will want to punish you.”
The chief bristled. “This man shot first at my warriors. He was hunting on our land, wasting meat in the winter when we need it most. He was the one who should have been punished, and he was. Now, since the white hunters have scattered the herds, we have come here for rations and gifts. If white hunters are going to ruin our hunting, the white government must provide us with rations.”
“Long Chin, we have been friends and brothers for many years. You know I will not let your people go hungry before I have given you my last scrap of food from my own meat pole. You will have your rations, and your gifts, as well. But you must promise to stay away from the white hunters. Let me handle them.”
Chief Long Chin made no such promises, for he was a member of the elite Dog Soldier society, and would not avoid a conflict with an enemy. He only said, “I will send the headman of every family to your stockade to get the rations.”
As we rode back to the stockade, William looked at me and said, “This is a risky proposition, Mr. Greenwood. It looks as though I'm rewarding him for killing a white man. But I know Long Chin, and he tells the truth. These hide hunters are getting bolder.”
“When did this start? Why?”
William smirked. “In Europe, they've finally discovered what we've known for decades—that buffalo leather is superior to cowhide. They're making belts out of it in Europe to run big machines in the factories. To make things worse, the
Queen of England has ordered that all of her harness leather for her stables must be made only of buffalo hide imported from America. Now every snob in England wants to hold tanned buffalo-hide reins in his lily-white palms. It's become quite a fad. Like beaver hats in the old days.”
“There was a time when I thought the buffalo herds would be safe forever. I never thought of men killing them for hides alone.”
“It surprised me, too, the first time I saw it. A dozen carcasses lying on the plains, skinned. Too much meat for even the buzzards and crows to eat, gone to waste.”
“No wonder the Indians are angry.”
“I'd say they're justified in being riled.” He looked over his shoulder at the Indian camp. “Can you help me dole out rations this afternoon?”
“Of course,” I answered, though I didn't look forward to handing out canned, pickled, and smoked foods to proud Cheyennes who would rather kill their own fresh meat on the free and open plains.
T
he next day, Westerly and I crossed the Arkansas and rode generally northwest. We led a pack mule that carried provisions and some trade items like knives, hatchets, mirrors, trade cloth, and beads. Westerly knew the winter camps. We checked first along upper Horse Creek, above the place where it disappeared into the sand. We found the remnants of a camp: small rings of blackened stones that had enclosed cook fires; larger rings of stones that had weighted down the bottoms of tipi covers to keep the cold northers out. The grass around this camp was all but gone.
The trail was too old to follow, save for the cropped ends of grass stalks where ponies had grazed as they moved along. We found another abandoned camp on upper Rush Creek, and another
on the headwaters of the Republican River. The camp on the Republican included buffalo bones, so we knew the People had enjoyed a successful hunt.
“I believe we will find some hunters on Surprise Creek,” Westerly said.
“I haven't heard of that creek. Why is it called Surprise?”
She smiled knowingly. “You will just have to wait and see.”
The creek did surprise me. Instead of running along a low wrinkle in the plains, it meandered across a prairie that looked positively level. We rode up to within twenty paces of it before I even noticed it. “This must be Surprise Creek,” I said.
Westerly laughed, her eyes twinkling.
We found tracks running downstream and followed them until dark. We camped that night on the plains, rolled together in blankets, on top of a sheet of oiled canvas that we could also fold over us in case of rain, snow, or bitter cold. Wolves and coyotes howled around us. The sky was so big here on the open plains that we seemed to look downhill at the stars on the horizon. The vast grasslands sure seemed peaceful for such troubled times.
The next day we found a small group of young hunters. They had succeeded in killing three buffalos. These warriors had heard that George Bent was camped with Chief Sand Hill's band of Cheyennes over on the Smoky Hill, so Westerly and I left them with some knives and hatchets as gifts for their hospitality, and turned southward. Four days brought us to the Smoky Hill River. We found a large camp of Cheyennes under Chief Sand Hill and some Arapahos under Chief Left Hand camped at the confluence of Ladder Creek and the north fork of the Smoky Hill. George had gone off with some Dog Soldiers to raid the Pawnees, so Westerly and I made camp and waited.
Three days later, George returned, and to my delight, he had Charles with him, having found Charles at another Cheyenne camp on the south fork of the Solomon. George seemed happy to see me, but Charles remained aloof. I let them rest up from their raid into Pawnee country—though they had returned with neither scalps nor stolen horses—and
waited until the next day to begin persuading them to return to William's stockade.
I went to George's lodge about midday and said, in Cheyenne, “May I come in?”
“Who is it?” Charles said from inside.
“It is Plenty Man.”
There was a pause, then George's voice said, in English, “Sure, come on in, Orn'ry.”
I slipped quickly between the bison-hide lodge covering and the bearskin door flap, trying not to let the precious warmth slip from the lodge. “I brought some chips,” I said, laying an armload of dried buffalo chips on the ground beside the small fire in the middle of the lodge. There was little timber left at this camp.
“Good,” George said. “Are you hungry?”
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Charles lounging on a mattress of buffalo robes as George watched a hunk of hump meat roast over the fire. Charles did not get up to greet me, but George stood, shook my hand, and offered to share the hump roast with me.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Westerly just cooked some stew for me. It was good. An antelope I shot two days ago with wild onions and greens and some potatoes and carrots I carried from your father's stockade.”
George nodded. “How is Father?”
“Very well. But worried.”
Charles snorted. “Worried? About what?”
“You know your father. He takes a lot of responsibility upon himself. He's concerned that the war fever will infect the plains. In fact, it seems that it's already happening.”
George nodded. “It is happening. Every village has a story about how some hunting party or camp's been attacked without warning by soldiers. Unprovoked.”
“It's not an especially good time to be traveling with Indians on the plains.”
“You know what I think is behind it?” George said. “Colonel Chivington is commanding the Colorado volunteers now. I think he's afraid he'll be ordered east to fight the Confederates in Kansas. I think he'd rather battle bows and arrows than Rebel guns.”
“The son of a bitch is a coward,” Charles said bitterly.
George glanced at his younger brother. “Chivington doesn't give the Cheyennes much credit as fighters. The tribe has been at peace for so long.”
“Thanks to your father,” I added.
“Partly. But Chivington's convinced that we can't fight. He has no idea what kind of a hornet's nest he's about to stir up.”
“He's gonna wish to God Almighty he
had
gone east to fight Rebels after he tangles with us!” Charles's eyes glinted with malice, as a short burst of laughter rasped from his throat.
I couldn't help noticing that George and Charles had spoken in terms of “we” and “us,” as if they were wholeheartedly Cheyenne though they were only half-blood, and had lived east of the plains for ten years attending school.
“You know, if you boys would come back to your father's stockade, maybe we could make a difference. Your father's been writing letters to Governor Evans, but he's not being taken seriously. Maybe if we all got together and rode to Denver, we could tell the governor what's really going on out here and avoid a war.”
George seemed to give the thought some credit, but Charles just hissed and rolled his eyes.
“I'm not going back to that stinking stockade to shovel shit for an old man who never wanted me around anyway. I'm a Cheyenne warrior. It's time to lay in meat and hides for the winter. Time to make weapons for the spring raids.”
I knew better than to push the issue at that point. “Speaking of laying in meat,” I suggested, “do you think Chief Sand Hill would let us go out on a buffalo hunt together? Westerly and I cut the path of a large herd two days' ride northwest of here, and the herd looked to be drifting south and angling this way.”
George's eyebrows rose, and Charles sat up eagerly on his couch of buffalo robes.
“Well, you boys are probably tired right now. Tell me tomorrow if you want me to take you to the buffalo.”
With that, I rose and stepped out of the lodge, into the cold wind.
 
 
EARLY THE NEXT morning, George and Charles came to my lodge and asked me to speak to Chief Sand Hill with them.
“Don't let on it's a big herd,” Charles said. “We don't want every damn buck in camp coming with us.”
I grinned at Charles. “You reckon a real Cheyenne warrior would want to ride with a paleface like me and a couple of half-bloods anyway?”
George chuckled.
“Who are you calling half-blood?” Charles said, though he knew very well what he was.
Chief Sand Hill gave his permission for our hunt, but warned us not to frighten the herd away if it was a large one. We were to hunt the stragglers and kill only as much meat as we could carry. Our real mission was to scout the size of the herd and report back to camp. We were also to look for prospective new campgrounds, with plenty of grass, water, and fuel. We took the rest of the day preparing for our ride, planning to leave before dawn.
That evening, the camp crier ran through the village, announcing the arrival of some Sioux warriors. It didn't take long for the news to get around that the Sioux men had brought a war pipe with them, and wanted the Cheyennes to smoke and commit to open warfare with soldiers. The Sioux had been having trouble with soldiers and settlers from Minnesota to the Black Hills, and they were seeking allies for an all-out uprising. Chief Sand Hill announced a council in his lodge for that night.
Being a visiting white man, I didn't rank high enough to get into the lodge, but I stood outside and strained to hear the talks going on inside. I stood beside another white man—a greasy loafer who went only by the name of Carter. He claimed to be a trader, but I knew or had heard of every trader between the Rio Grande and the Missouri and this man was no trader. He was one of those shiftless frontier wretches who had somehow learned to cadge his existence off Indian generosity—a white beggar among redmen. He had married a Cheyenne woman from a large family so that he could bum food and other goods off his many in-laws.
“What are they saying?” Carter asked me, as I strained to listen through the doubled winter hides of the big lodge.
“You don't speak Cheyenne?”
“Of course I do, but I'm hard of hearing.”
I tried to close my nostrils against his unpleasant odor, for he stood upwind of me. “The Dog Soldiers want to smoke the war pipe and go with the Sioux to fight white soldiers. But Chief Sand Hill and the elders are against it. That's Sand Hill speaking now. He says he's been east to the cities of the whites. He's met the Great Father. He says there are more white people than there are grains of sand in the Smoky Hill River. He says we must do all we can to avoid war with the white soldiers.”
“We?” Carter asked. “You gone Injun, squaw man?”
“I'm just repeating what he said. I'm adopted Comanche, not Cheyenne.”
Carter looked at me with disbelief. “Well, I've heard all I need to hear.”
 
 
EARLY THE NEXT morning, as George and Charles and I were preparing for our hunt, the Sioux warriors left, and half a dozen Cheyenne Dog Soldiers went with them. The Dog Soldier society consisted of veteran Cheyenne warriors who endeavored to seek danger in battle. They were skilled at warfare, reckless, and unbelievably courageous. Though Cheyenne, the Dog Soldiers commonly rode and camped with the Sioux in those days. I don't know when it started, or why, but the Sioux welcomed and respected them. So when six Dog Soldiers rode away to the north with the Sioux warriors, I didn't think much of it.
We took six horses—three to ride and three to pull our camp equipage and hopefully return dragging meat. George and I exchanged much conversation on our way west. He asked about Kit and many other mutual friends. Charles, on the other hand, didn't want to talk about a white man at all. Most of his conversation was in broken Cheyenne, which I guess he thought I couldn't understand, for sometimes he talked about me in rather unflattering terms.
Finally, I cut my pony in front of his and said, “If you have something to say about me, say it to my face, like a man. I understand Cheyenne better than you do. My wife is Cheyenne. You're speaking a mongrel mixture of Cheyenne and Arapaho.”
Charles's face turned crimson with embarrassment and rage, and he kicked his horse to gallop on ahead of us.
“He is very angry,” George said.
“At whom?”
George shrugged. “At our father, for sending us away to school. At every kid who ever called him half-breed. At the white folks back in Westport who wouldn't let us in their stores or houses. At the Union soldiers for shooting at him. And especially at himself for being half white.”
“All the same things could be said of you. Why aren't you angry?”
George rode along for a few seconds, then looked at me, and smiled. “Who says I'm not?”
 
 
WE FOUND THE buffalo the next day. The herd seemed to have fragmented, for there were only a couple of hundred big woolly beasts in the bunch we found. We stayed downwind and sneaked up on a dozen stragglers, riding within shooting range with buffalo robes over our backs to fool the beasts into thinking we were their brothers. Once within range, we slipped from our horses and each of us killed a bison with our rifles. George and I killed cows, and Charles shot a yearling bull. That was all the meat we could carry back to camp on our travois, so we spent the rest of the day skinning and butchering. To skin each carcass, we tied one horse to the horns and one to the hide and had them pull in opposite directions as we helped cut the skin free from the meat with our knives. We stayed busy until dark, then enjoyed a feast of buffalo tongue and hump ribs.
“We may be cooking this little bull with his own dung,” Charles mused, for our only fuel was buffalo chips.
“The odds against that are quite magnitudinous, but anything is possible.”
“The odds can kiss my rosy red ass,” Charles replied.

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