Come Sundown (51 page)
Authors: Mike Blakely
As I turned back toward the column of fours, I saw an image running like a specter through the smoke, an errant shaft of sunlight glinting on a knife blade held in the soldier's hand.
“No, Toribio!” I heard. “Get your Meskin ass back here, goddamn it!”
That was Blue Wiggin's voice, sure as I was alive. The cloud shifted, and I saw Toribio Treviño kneeling over the body of the dead Comanche warrior, his eyes gleaming vengeance as he groped madly at the hair and slashed savagely with the blade. More hooves thundered to my right, and I knew Toribio
would be overtaken as he tried to collect his trophy, so I made Major spring in between the riders and Toribio. I screamed so that I would be heard, but almost too late, as three veteran Comanche horse warriors suddenly burst into view, smoke swirling around them like whirlpools in a muddy stream. They dodged three ways and we all slammed against one another, yet managed to stay horseback as they glared in anger at me, and rode away with the thickening smoke.
would be overtaken as he tried to collect his trophy, so I made Major spring in between the riders and Toribio. I screamed so that I would be heard, but almost too late, as three veteran Comanche horse warriors suddenly burst into view, smoke swirling around them like whirlpools in a muddy stream. They dodged three ways and we all slammed against one another, yet managed to stay horseback as they glared in anger at me, and rode away with the thickening smoke.
My eyes were stinging now, but I saw the scalped Comanche corpse on the ground, and caught sight of Toribio sprinting back to the column to the cheers of soldiers. I knew I had to get out of the way as the smoke began to choke Major and me, so I turned downwind and urged my mount to gallop. Finally, toward the very head of the column, the fresh prairie air began to find its way into my nostrils and lungs again and Major coughed as he ran, as if to clear the smoke and make way for pure wind. I heard a voice shouting and saw Kit on his horse.
“Fire the grass ahead, soldier! Burn it ahead of us! You, too, boy! Use your powder.”
He came into view: the grizzled warrior, gaunt and gnarled on a walleyed horse; sitting there like part of the half-crazed beast between his knees. I could not help reining in to watch him for a spell, though bullets clipped the tall grass blades around me. He felt me watching, Indian-like. His pony sensed his alarm, and wheeled full around before he could check the animal. As if to answer, Major made a circle of his own, then Kit and I locked eyes and squinted at each other for a moment, dancing on our four-leggeds.
A billow of smoke. The hum of a musket ball. A death song. The smell of guts. A shout, a scream, a groan. The sting of cinders. An orchestra gone mad in mutiny, like the mind of a fiend; like a flock of thunderbirds low overhead; like a stampede of nightmares and terrors unleashed.
“Pettis! To the high ground! Right flank, Lieutenant Pettis. Get the guns up high, to ⦔
The voice trailed off as Kit rode one way and I rode the other.
I galloped to safety, running around the line of fire the soldiers
had lit to burn the grass ahead of themâa simple stroke of commonsense genius on the part of Colonel Carson. Soon I thundered into the Kiowa camp. Here I found many Kiowa warriors and their women trying to carry their belongings away before the soldiers could return to destroy the village. They darted feverishly in and out of lodges and dragged all manner of property with them along a trail that circled back to the larger Comanche encampment downstream.
had lit to burn the grass ahead of themâa simple stroke of commonsense genius on the part of Colonel Carson. Soon I thundered into the Kiowa camp. Here I found many Kiowa warriors and their women trying to carry their belongings away before the soldiers could return to destroy the village. They darted feverishly in and out of lodges and dragged all manner of property with them along a trail that circled back to the larger Comanche encampment downstream.
“Leave your things and get out!” I ordered. “The soldiers will be here soon. The big guns are going to fire into the villageâthe thunder guns that shoot twice!”
I shouted my warning again and again as I rode through the shambles, passing erstwhile belongings flung haphazardly about in the confusion. Not only did I see robes and blankets and weapons and Indian foods, but I also noticed things that were sure to anger the soldiers and make them think themselves justified in their dawn ambush of this gathering of families: a buggy and a spring wagon belonging to Little Bluff; white women's dresses and bonnets; white children's clothing; family photographs; books; soldiers' uniforms and weapons; and one particular scalp taken from a woman who had once combed long, beautiful blond hair.
I left the Kiowa camp and rode to higher ground to get a better view of the scene. Major used all of his muscle and the last of his wind to climb a bluff overlooking the Kiowa camp. He was really getting too old for this sort of exertion. From this vantage, I could see over the smoke from the grass fires. I spotted Lieutenant Pettis to my left, his men toiling to drag the two gun carriages up onto an elevation by hand, having unhitched them from their teams.
The top of this little elevation was barely large enough to accommodate the two mountain howitzers and all their accompanying equipage and soldiery; the elevation itself was just high enough to afford a view over the column of unhorsed soldiers. It was as if God himself had placed this little hillock here for Kit Carson's salvation. The column of soldiers was now strung out between the artillery and the Indians, protecting the gunners as they loaded their pieces.
The escaping column of soldiers had now stalled under fierce Comanche attacks concentrated along its left flank. The artillerymen positioned and loaded their pieces as if they themselves were on fire. I watched as they lobbed a deadly missile toward the charging Comanches, and when they did, the howitzer lurched backward and went tumbling down the back side of the little hill, the gunners chasing it. I laughed as the second cannon fired, with the same comical result. However, I knew that the men would soon have the guns back into position and would continue to shell the attacking Indians. Then they would unleash their deadly fire on the Kiowa village, clearing it of Indians so the soldiers could destroy it.
Entranced, I swept my gaze across the ground below. The first line of fire set by the Comanches had burned past half of the column of soldiers, and Indians were still charging the head of the column now where the smoke was thickest. The second line of fire, set by Kit's soldiers, had swept ahead and was now clouding the Kiowa camp. The soldiers I could see stood bravely upon their blackened ground, holding their positions, but there was great commotion I could only hear going on inside the cloud of smoke: gunshots, shouts, battle cries, screams of horses and men. Then, as my eyes searched this battle-torn valley, I spotted a white-haired rider slumped on his pony, far beyond the soldiers, heading back toward the Comanche camp.
“Burnt Belly,” I said.
Major had caught his wind, and now plunged down off the bluff at my urging. I charged through the smoke ahead of the column of soldiers and rode hard across the prairie. As I overtook the old man on his pony, I slowed, so as not to excite his mount, and I heard his death song. Blood was streaming down his arm and onto the old fist that clenched the mane. I came around in front of him and saw the wound to his chest that gushed blood. A bullet had struck him right at the top of the old lightning scar that had burnt him so many winters ago.
He felt my presence there, and shifted his eyes to me. His death song ceased, and he smiled and reached to me. I saw him slipping from the pony and I quickly darted up to him to catch
him. His strength was almost gone and he fell onto me, his weight pulling me down. I threw a leg over Major and jumped down, easing the old medicine man to the ground as gently as I could. I laid him in the grass so he could look up at the sky, and my panic began to consume me as I watched the blood well up from the hole in his chest. I put my hand over the wound, feeling the hot slickness of the old man's lifeblood as I tried in vain to stop the flow. Burnt Belly feebly pulled my hand away from his wound.
him. His strength was almost gone and he fell onto me, his weight pulling me down. I threw a leg over Major and jumped down, easing the old medicine man to the ground as gently as I could. I laid him in the grass so he could look up at the sky, and my panic began to consume me as I watched the blood well up from the hole in his chest. I put my hand over the wound, feeling the hot slickness of the old man's lifeblood as I tried in vain to stop the flow. Burnt Belly feebly pulled my hand away from his wound.
“It is as I have seen it in my visions,” he said. “But even more beautiful.”
“Grandfather,” I said. “I must tell you.”
He silenced me by raising a finger. “Quiet. I am listening to music.” His eyes closed and he lay back and smiled.
“I love you, old man,” I said in English. At least, I think it was English. My mind was quite cloudy.
His eyes opened, as if he had understood, and he looked right into my face. “You must remember the things I have taught you, Plenty Man. There is much yet to learn, but now you have only the spirits to teach you.”
A cannon shot and a whistle of shell sang behind me, exploding among unlucky warriors. Burnt Belly seemed not to even hear the sound. His bloody hand groped until he found mine, and he gripped me like an eagle. “Grandson ⦔ His breath was ragged, his eyes fluttering. “Make a smudge of fir needles when the Thunderbird comes. Do not let the beast catch you in his gaze ⦔ His eyes closed and his body made a lurch. “The burden is too great for you to ⦔
The old man's chest fell and his grip went loose in my hand. His eyes opened and he stared at the sky, but he was not there.
I did not even feel like I was there anymore. My fatigue and my sorrow combined to sweep me into some peculiar state of half-consciousness. I remember seeing my tears fall into the blood on the old man's chest. I remember the reports of the cannon, and the shaking of the ground when the shells exploded. I remember mounting Major and standing guard over the corpse as I watched the battle, useless and detached from it all now, as if it had chewed me to ruin and spat me aside.
Lieutenant Pettis's howitzers scattered the Comanches and cleared the Kiowa camp. Kit's soldiers charged into the village to retake it. Come sundown, the lodges were afire, sending dots of orange embers aloft in the twilight. When darkness fell, the soldiers marched away up the valley, and the Indians let them go. I sat on my pony and stared stupidly. At some point, I lay forward across the withers of Major and went to sleep, my dreams intermingling with the events of the day.
I awoke on the ground, wrapped in a blanket, daylight coloring the sky. Someone must have found me, taken me from my horse, and covered me. Opening my eyes, I saw Major grazing not far away, having freed himself somehow of the war bridle. I got my body moving and looked to my left, where Burnt Belly had lain. But someone had carried his body away. From the Comanche camp, over a mile away, I heard the eerie music of mourners across the otherwise quiet valley.
Wearily, I pulled myself to my feet. The sun was about to rise over the eastern bluff. Major looked at me as he chewed his grass. I did not intend to catch him. I simply turned toward the camp and trudged that way. Major followed behind, pausing now and then to crop the tall grass, as if Burnt Belly had saved it just for him.
T
here. That is what you came to hear me tell. That is the way it happened. I was in the big, bloody middle of it. It happened on this very ground, sixty-three years ago. If you go snooping around these prairies and woods, you may still find rusty things dropped by dying men. It was among the most horrible and exhilarating days of my life. Yet, I admit that I would not have missed living it even now. I could do nothing to stop it. I could only suffer it along with everyone else.
here. That is what you came to hear me tell. That is the way it happened. I was in the big, bloody middle of it. It happened on this very ground, sixty-three years ago. If you go snooping around these prairies and woods, you may still find rusty things dropped by dying men. It was among the most horrible and exhilarating days of my life. Yet, I admit that I would not have missed living it even now. I could do nothing to stop it. I could only suffer it along with everyone else.
They called it the Battle of Adobe Walls. It happened on November 25, 1864. Years later, it would become known as the
“First” Battle of Adobe Walls, for a “second” battle was yet to come. I was here for that one, too, but that is a tale for another time. The first battle was a victory for the Indians, but it came at such a cost of lost men that little celebration followed. The Indians had driven the invaders out of the valley, but had killed only a few bluecoats and had taken no scalps. The official reports of the officers vary, for some men died of wounds after the actual battle, but the toll amounted to only a few dead and perhaps twenty wounded among the soldiers and their Ute scouts.
“First” Battle of Adobe Walls, for a “second” battle was yet to come. I was here for that one, too, but that is a tale for another time. The first battle was a victory for the Indians, but it came at such a cost of lost men that little celebration followed. The Indians had driven the invaders out of the valley, but had killed only a few bluecoats and had taken no scalps. The official reports of the officers vary, for some men died of wounds after the actual battle, but the toll amounted to only a few dead and perhaps twenty wounded among the soldiers and their Ute scouts.
That Kit Carson got out of this valley with any men at all is a tribute to his leadership, coolness under fire, common sense, and almost total lack of desire for personal glory. Had he listened to his ambitious officers, and attacked the larger Comanche village, his command would have been slaughtered to the last man. He faced odds similar to those which, years later, General George Armstrong Custer would face at the Little Big Horn. Yet Carson kept his regiment together, refusing to divide his forces beyond the point of leaving his supply train behind under guard. He used his two pieces of artillery with brilliance, and it had been his own idea to trail the cannon along in the first place, cumbersome though they were. Kit knew he had been beaten at Adobe Walls, but he returned to Fort Bascom with light losses in the face of overwhelming opposition, and lived to tell the tale. Soon, he would be breveted general.
The Comanches and Kiowas lost almost one hundred killed, and twice that many wounded. Their victory was costly, and it fed their fear of and hatred for white men. Soldiers had now pierced the very heart of their country, delivered a telling blow, and gotten out. And the thunder guns. Oh, the dread of the gun that shoots twice. Those mountain howitzers so shook the warriors that forever after, when soldiers were sighted, the first question was always about the cannon: “The big guns? Did you see them? The guns on wheels? The guns that shoot twice?”
So it was that the victors of the First Battle of Adobe Walls suffered more than the vanquished invaders. For Little Bluff,
Kills Something, and the other Indian leaders, it was a point of little pride. For Kit, who admitted that he had been whipped, it was nonetheless his greatest battle and one that he even boasted about in his reports to his superiors.
Kills Something, and the other Indian leaders, it was a point of little pride. For Kit, who admitted that he had been whipped, it was nonetheless his greatest battle and one that he even boasted about in his reports to his superiors.
It was also Kit's last fight. After returning to Fort Bascom, most of his regiment was disbanded, his men mustered out. Kit was assigned to various duties on the plains and in the mountains. I would not see him during these years after Adobe Walls, for I suspected that his sense of duty might persuade him to have me arrested as a traitor.
Indeed, I had let events manipulate me into a precarious position. Once Kit's personal spy, I was now considered an enemy to the government. At least, I assumed that I was considered a turncoat. In reality, I would find out years later, few people thought about me as much as I thought about myself. It would appear that Kit himself was the only white man who knew that I had been with the Indians at Adobe Walls, and he would take that knowledge with him to the grave.
Yes, I would see Kit once more, but there were other matters to suffer first. Telling this grieves me to this day. I do not like to speak of it. I will not dwell upon it. But you should know what I have suffered, so that you may appreciate the strength of the human spirit, and the will of man to rise above the heaviest of all sorrows.
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