But no one, not even Owl Prophet himself, could have foretold or guessed or dreamt the depth of the disaster that had, for the time being, been avoided in the place whites called the Great Salt Prairie.
The tiny group of soldiers who passed unmolested before the eyes of Wind In His Hair and White Bear had possessed a prize of incalculable value in the common ambulance they were escorting. Under the canopy of that spartan vehicle, next to the ordinary soldier who was driving, was the chief of every hair-mouthed blue-coat in the United States, the general known as Sherman.
Had Owl Prophet not spoken, General Sherman would surely have been killed – stripped, scalped, and dismembered – and his demise would have provoked total war, bringing the powerful wrath of a united white nation down on the heads of the Kiowas and Comanches with sledgehammer effect.
The man they had spared was taciturn as a stump and bilious in the extreme. It was he who had championed the strategy of "scorched earth" and brought the Confederate States of America to its knees. His face was scarred by battle and his small eyes, by any standard, looked inordinately cruel. It was his unalterable goal that in his presence, politicians should quake, subordinates should tread softly, and commoners, whether soldier or civilian, should be struck dumb with awe. He was the steadiest, most brilliant General of the army the United States had ever produced.
On the fateful morning he had skirted death, General Sherman had said nothing to his lowly companion in the ambulance, because nothing could be said. The country was as desolate as any other on the Texas frontier.
Worthless, he had thought to himself as he stared ahead at the bleak landscape, the stub of a cigar clenched in his teeth. Just like all the rest. How long have I been here? Almost three weeks. Inspecting what? The stinginess of my budget? Listening to whom? Broken-down farmers and backwoodsmen wringing their hands, begging for protection. From what? Half-naked men with bows and arrows that they see behind ever tree. I served with the president. He wants peace. A drunk who wants peace. Wo doesn't want peace? That's why we fight. He was better as a soldier. Goddamn Indians. I haven't seen a one. Just the same, I'd clear the country that fast if I had the authority. Then these people's carping would cease and, the army could get on to other business. Goddamn, godforsaken country. Who would want to live here?
General Sherman had taken the road from Fort Richardson to the new post at Fort Sill against the advice of everyone with the courage to speak. The country was too dangerous to traverse virtually alone. Doubling his token escort would not have made the general any more secure, and more than one officer had prudently suggested that he travel with the corn train, which was bound also for Fort Sill.
But Sherman did not take the danger seriously and his bile rose at the questioning of his wish to travel early and light. He was eager to inspect the construction of what was to be an enormous installation, and was looking forward, after sharing the mess tables of so many dubious officers commanding far-flung posts, to the company of Colonel Mackenzie.
Mackenzie was a queer one, to be sure – unmarried, moody, and given to oddly timed fits of temper. But his talent for leadership, his reliability, his energy, and his terrier-like pursuit of the enemy raised him above other officers when it came to field command. General Sherman was looking forward to the breath of fresh air Colonel Mackenzie's competence would bring him.
He was hurrying through breakfast with Mackenzie the next morning, anxious for a firsthand look at the new construction, when a first sergeant knocked at the door so violently that both soldiers started out of their seats. A squad of tired, terrified cavalrymen had come in, he informed them, with news of the wagon-train massacre. Within an hour's time, the two officers were riding toward the site at the head of nearly fifty mounted troops.
The timing of their arrival at the Great Salt Prairie coincided with the appearance of a large group of aggrieved civilians from a settlement named Floyd, which had been home base for most of the unfortunate drivers whose bloated corpses were now turning black in the noonday sun. Since no one had as yet been interred, General Sherman had the opportunity to view the charred, eyeless bodies, which were still lashed to the wagon, wheels, and, after squatting a few moments in front of the grinning carcasses, expressed the wish to speak with civilian and soldier alike.
The general told his somber audience that he took this travesty as a personal affront and, so long as he was General of the Army punishment of the perpetrators would be his highest priority. Nor would he stop at atonement for the innocent lives so wantonly destroyed. The material wealth of the Indians would be confiscated until every ear of government corn had been compensated.
A few days later General Sherman, standing ready to travel a hundred miles to the railhead, where he would board a train east to Washington, lit his cigar and whispered to Colonel Mackenzie: "I'm going to work on the president as soon as I get back."
“Yes sir."
"Keep your troops in readiness."
“Yes sir.”
"You'll be going after these people as soon as I can clear channels."
"I'll serve you in any way I can, sir. We'll be ready."
"We need to end all this."
"Yes sir."
Chapter XXVIII
The great war party made its victorious return a few days after Kicking Bird's, but as revelers ruled the village with dancing and feasting, the man who had spoken so effectively for his people stayed in his special lodge, gazing morosely through the hours of the day and night at the flames of his fire.
His wives brought food and drink, and his children popped their heads in from time to time for a look at their father, but otherwise they let him alone. It was obvious that he was troubled as never before, and to the regular queries from his wives as to what troubled him, he offered the same reply again and again:
"I am thinking."
The state of mind he had fallen into was a devastating reversal of the euphoria he had felt when he spoke to the white men from Washington. The good feeling began to fade on the morning he awoke from the nightmare of the box, and by the end of the first full day's march home, it had evaporated completely. In its place was a sickness that had seeped into his blood and taken root there.
Again and again the words he had spoken invaded his solitude, and a few times they almost drove off the cloud of despair that enveloped him.
The words were true enough, as true now as when first spoken. But time and distance had given Kicking Bird the opportunity to reflect, and when he regarded the meeting objectively, only one, inescapable conclusion could be reached. It was obvious, in Hatton's squirming and Bad Hand's deadened eyes. It was manifest in their outrageous offer of slavery for a free people.
The whites were unconcerned; they were perfectly comfortable with their position. When Kicking Bird thought hard about it, he understood that every physical movement they made, every word they uttered – even the excited ramblings of Lawrie Tatum – boasted, of their superiority. The whites behaved as if they knew something he did not, and Kicking Bird, searching the depths of his malaise, guessed correctly what it was. That the Comanche and everyone like them were doomed.
Men who were also looking to the future, men like Gray Leggings and Island, would stop by occasionally to smoke and talk, but for almost three days Kicking Bird remained in the special lodge. Finally he ventured out after White Bear had taken his Kiowas north, and the first place he went was Ten Bears' lodge.
The old man was in good spirits and was obviously feeling good physically for he climbed to his feet almost in one motion when he heard Kicking Bird announce himself.
"I have been wondering when you would come," Ten Bears cried happily as Kicking Bird came through the door. He spread his arms and embraced the traveler and walked him to the fire.
"What have you been doing?" the old man asked.
"I have been thinking."
"Ah." Ten Bears nodded, his eyes widening. "You have been back for several sleeps.
This thinking must be important and strenuous . . . hmm?"
"It's hard thinking. I had to stay in my lodge to do it.”
Ten Bears lit his pipe.
"The village has been happy. People like to celebrate a victory . . . especially against the whites. The young men need to feel good about themselves, and the women and children are happy that almost everyone came back."
Kicking Bird puffed somberly on the pipe and handed it back.
“I took a different path," Kicking Bird said.
"Yes . . . tell me about it. I am eager to hear."
He started at the beginning, leaving nothing out about the journey and his meeting with the whites. Ten Bears interrupted him rarely but had to ask for details of the white offer to be repeated because it was so hard to believe. For the most part, however, he listened intently to Kicking Bird's story. The former medicine man revealed his conviction that they were all doomed, and when he was finished, Ten Bears sucked at his pipe for a long time before speaking.
"How could anyone do as the whites ask?" the old man said. He had said this to his lap, and when he raised his eyes, Kicking Bird saw the same plaintive disbelief that inhabited his own heart.
The visitor lowered his eyes, pursed his lips, and shook his head.
"How could we give up our country?" Ten Bears asked, incredulous. "How can the whites expect this? "
"I don't think your question matters to the whites," Kicking Bird said. "They want our country, and if we don't give it up they mean to take it from us."
"But they will have to kill every Comanche to do that."
Kicking Bird heaved a sigh. His eyes roamed Ten Bears' lodge as if he were taking it in for the last time. Then he settled his stare once more on the old man sitting across from him, and when he spoke, his words carried the weight and gravity of absolute truth.
"The whites have enough bullets and enough soldiers to kill every Comanche a hundred times."
Ten Bears thought hard for a moment but such a thing was difficult to grasp.
"Have you seen that many bullets and soldiers?"
“No."
"How can you know for certain they have the power to do this? "
"Their eyes told me so."
Ten Bears knew that Kicking Bird was an astute reader of the evidence behind men's eyes, and there was no doubt in his mind that he had heard truth. The old man closed his eyes and let his head tip back. In a prayer he had known since childhood he petitioned the Great Mystery.
Do not leave us, Mystery, he thought. Your Comanche children need protection. Take pity on us, Creator of All Things. Do not leave us.
When he opened his eyes, Kicking Bird was looking straight at him.
"We must council," Ten Bears declared.
“Ummph,” grunted the visitor.
Ten Bears had noticed something strange between Kicking Bird's fingers. He had never seen anything like it.
"What's that? " he asked.
Kicking Bird gazed down at the little case Lawrie Tatum had given him.
"For Ten Bears," he said, handing the case across the fire.
As Ten Bears turned the unknown object in his hands, Kicking Bird circled the fire and settled on his knees next to the puzzled headman.
"What skin is this?" Ten Bears wondered. "It's rough.”
"I think cow . . . look." Kicking Bird pointed to the case's seam. “It opens, Grandfather."
With a slight trembling of his fingers, Ten Bears pried open the case and peered down at the delicate blend of wire and glass inside.
"The agent, Lawrie Tatum, said you should put this thing on your face."
Suddenly startled, Ten Bears snapped his head up and cocked it at Kicking Bird.
"What for?"
"It makes old eyes new."
"What? "
"Whites with poor eyes put this on their faces."
"What whites?"
"AIl kinds. Even young ones."
Ten Bears tentatively pinched two fingers on a section of the wire and lifted the strange object in front of his eyes.
"Are they beneficial to women, too?"
Kicking Bird thought for a moment.
"I haven't seen a white woman yet."
Ten Bears had begun a close inspection of the spectacles but could find nothing familiar enough in their makeup to provide a clue as to how they might work.
"How do they function?" he asked.
"They have arms that fly out." Kicking Bird's hand instinctively reached for the glasses. "May I help you, Grandfather?”
"Yes, yes."
Kicking Bird took Lawrie Tatum's present in both hands, and, with the exactness of a surgeon, slowly unfolded the device. Turning the spectacles around, he lifted them toward Ten Bears' face.
"The arms rest on the ears and the glass on –"
Ten Bears threw up a hand and Kicking Bird stopped.
"Do they cause pain? " the old man asked.
A worried expression fixed itself on Kicking Bird's face. "Not in the whites."
For a moment the two men gazed helplessly at one another. Then Ten Bears gave a little, resigned wave of his hand.
"Oh, put it on. I'm not afraid of it."
Kicking Bird bent forward once again and the spectacles landed softly on Ten Bears' face. The lodge had grown murky in the twilight, and the old man, unsure of what he might be seeing, brought one of his hands in front of his face.
"Ah!" he cried and, brushing at his face with both hands, flipped the spectacles onto Kicking Bird's legs.
"It's awful! My hand is blurry! I can always see my hand."
"They are for far-seeing," Kicking Bird explained hastily. "We should go outside. Let me help you up, Grandfather."
Ten Bears let Kicking Bird help him to his feet and tottered to the door rather sheepishly, silently scolding himself for making a fuss over some trivial white trinket. The whites possessed some useful objects, some of them quite decorative, but nothing along the lines of the miracle Kicking Bird had described.
Determined to observe the decorum that befitted his age and place, Ten Bears let Kicking Bird place the white man's invention on his face, thinking he would make a polite comment or two if he saw interesting colors or odd patterns. He did not expect to see a teenager on a horse at the far end of the village and was astounded to find that he recognized the young man.
"How did Sun Boy get in here?" he exclaimed.
"Look to the right," Kicking Bird suggested.
"It's Otter Belt. He's leading some horses."
"Look left."
"Bird Woman shaking out a robe . . ."
Ten Bears pulled the glasses off his face and looked dorm at them with a mixture of respect and awe.
"This is a good trick . . . but how do they get people inside these discs? And how do they know what the people I see look like?”
"You don't understand, Grandfather . . .”
“No."
"Put them on."
Ten Bears did as his friend asked.
"Everything you see is here in camp. Sun Boy was riding his horse just now. Otter Belt was bringing in his animals. Bird Woman was shaking out a robe. Looking through the discs makes your eyes new.”
Ten Bears fixed the glasses over his nose and ears, this time without help, and commenced searching out a succession of objects both living and inert. AII the while he kept his fingers on the frames, tilting the glasses up to check the indistinct images in his eyes against the ones he was seeing through the little discs of glass.
A profound calm settled over Ten Bears as he moved his gray head from one place to another. He stopped tilting the glasses and for a long time stared through his new eyes exclusively. At last he turned to Kicking Bird. The spectacles hung on his face as if they had been there for years.
"You are right . . . my eyes are new. I'm going to keep this thing.”
"Good, Grandfather."
The old man resumed h
is gazing. Looking over the village so keenly seemed to take the stoop out of him. The addition of the grasses had made him appear straighter and stronger. So intent was he on looking that when he spoke again it sounded like he was talking to himself.
"We must council on all you have told me.”
"Yes, Grandfather."
"We must talk tonight."
Chapter XXIX
Smiles A Lot would have spent much more time in his lodge had it not been for the demands of others. Almost as soon as he got home, men started coming by to smoke or invite him out, and after a full day and night of constant interruption, he and Hunting For Something decided to leave Rabbit with one of his uncles, strike the lodge, and move a distance from camp, where they would be left alone.
They had returned at twilight on the day Ten Bears received the miracle of new sight and had just started to unpack when they heard the crier announce an important council that night.
Not long after they had started a fire the voice of Wind In His Hair sounded outside the door and Smiles A Lot was stunned to see him come inside. The great warrior walked to within a pace or two of the boy.
"Sit among the Hard Shields tonight," Wind In His Hair said. "The bravest should always sit together."
Smiles A Lot was too shocked to respond.
Wind In His Hair smiled thinly, reached out, and gave Smiles A Lot's shoulder a few light taps.
"Someone will come by and bring you."
Then he turned and, a moment later, ducked out the lodge flap.
Smiles A Lot and Hunting For Something had known Wind In His Hair all their lives. They saw him almost every day he was in camp. The history of his life was well known to them and yet they stood mutely, as if they had been poleaxed and would at any second crumble, senseless, to the floor.
As usual, it was Hunting For Something who found her tongue first.
"Sitting with the Hard Shields . . ." she said, turning her face to his. "What does it mean?"