"In a week, sir."
Encouraged, Sheridan leaned forward.
"If I might just add, Mr. President . . ."
"Yes? "
"As the ultimatum is delivered . . . might it not be wise to invite the most amenable leaders to visit Washington. We know from past experience that a trip to the capitol has a sobering effect, even on the most intractable chieftains. And the timing might prove quite advantageous."
"Excellent idea," the president remarked, rising out of his chair again. "Let's get some of those people out here."
Ranald Mackenzie returned from Washington wearing stars and girding himself for battle. He immediately called together the Quaker agents and instructed them to disseminate the War Department's ultimatum to the tribes of the southern plains in any manner they felt prudent. Then he hunkered down on the veranda of his quarters to plan his campaign. One of the hallmarks of the general's field operations was meticulous and canny planning. His attention to detail had enabled him to carry the day on numerous occasions, and he would spare no efforts as he laid his nets for t}re subjugation of the primitives.
Sheridan seemed to take a campaign for granted, and though Mackenzie had not known him well before his trip east, he departed Washington with the impression that General Sheridan knew quite well what he was talking about. They had shared a brief but memorable conversation as they left the White House and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue.
"You handled yourself well, General," Sheridan had said' "I particularly liked what you did with that silly question about the buffalo-hunters.”
"Thank you."
"The president has been sensitive to this business of the buffalo hunting. Half of Congress – half of the congressional wives, anyway – they're bitching constantly about the 'slaughter of the buffalo.' I don't think a day goes by that he isn't assaulted by some plea to save the buffalo. To hell with the buffalo! Those hunters are saving the army time, trouble, and money. They're killing the Indian commissary. No buffalo, no Indians, no problem. Simple as that."
"You think there'll be no need of a campaign?"
"Of course there'll be a campaign," Sheridan replied jovially.
"There'll be some diehards . . . and you'll have to go after them."
Chapter XXXVIII
Only one among them understood precisely what the defeat at Adobe Walls signaled, and that was Kicking Bird. Though he was as brokenhearted as any man, the leader of those who strove to look beyond the horizon had settled on a final, unalterable course of action that would begin to unfold as soon as they reached the village.
In the meantime, however, an insistent voice began to speak in his head. "Go west . . . find food."
They were still several days from home when the detour to the west was made, and they had traveled but a few hours when they met the party led by Wind In His Hair. After debating the possibility of continuing, the war trail, the remaining Hard Shields had at last discarded it and turned their horses for home.
As the leaders of the two groups counciled in the open, under a cloudless sky, a brief reestablishment of brotherhood was effected. Wind In His Hair had also sensed that the village would be hungry and, while they could never make up for the terrible losses they suffered, bringing in food would fill empty stomachs and provide some relief for the hearts of everyone.
The parley was more like a meeting of old, trusted acquaintances rather than actual band members who had known each other all their lives. It was better that way, for the animosity between the two groups was momentarily suspended in the space between them. The smoking was leisurely, the talk was casual, and there was even a little of the joking that had always been a feature of such meetings.
Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair and even Owl Prophet shared laughter over the visionary being knocked off his pony, and when Kicking Bird offered, "I guess your power is pretty good . . . you're still alive," a reconciliation of sorts was effected. The council broke up with more camaraderie than anyone had felt in a long time and the two groups rode west together with common purpose.
The country that was once home to buffalo in huge numbers was nearly devoid of game, but after a full day of traveling, the party located a herd of several hundred animals. They were spaced for several miles along the breaks of a wide stream, hiding like refugees from the agents of holocaust, and when the warriors started them they ran not as a herd but like a flock of frightened birds, scattering helter-skelter.
Enough of the big creatures were taken to load every spare pony with hides and meat, and women who might ordinarily have shaken their heads at the sloppiness of the butchering did not complain when the humbled war party returned. The village had been living on scraps for many days, and the arrival of meat had the hoped-for effect.
But the prospect of full bellies did little to offset the present grief. Twenty-two warriors had been left on the slope above Adobe Walls, and ten more had serious wounds that, if not fatal, would incapacitate them for the rest of their lives. Shrieks and moans for the dead and wounded overtook the village even as the meat was being parceled out and, as daylight faded, the communal gloom deepened. Not a single lodge was spared the anguish. Those who had family members were inconsolable, and even as some sheared off their hair and others hacked at their own limbs, relief was no closer.
At twilight the mourning had yet to peak, and it was at this time a lone rider was spotted coming off the prairie. Unfortunately for the little Quaker on his mule, the first riders to reach him were a group of angry young men who ignored his upraised hands and the words of peace and friendship with which he spoke to them in their own language, and contemptuously ripped the small bald man off his mount.
Providentially, the young men began to argue, shoving each other roughly around in a contest to see who would have the right to strike the fatal blow. As the squabble continued, Lawrie Tatum tried to wriggle away through the grass. When a few observant boys pounced on him, the Quaker suddenly found his legs held fast against the ground and several knees pressing into his chest. His head was jerked so hard that his neck cracked, and the merciless face of a young warrior peered, upside down, into his. He saw metal flashing in the sun and he felt a blade cur into his temple and slice backward along the side of his head. Just as he made the realization that he was being scalped alive, the knife halted and his body was suddenly released.
He shut his eyes, trying to comprehend what was happening, and when he opened them again he was looking in the gruesome, one-eyed countenance of Wind In His Hair. The warrior stared at him silently for a few moments. Then the face of Kicking Bird appeared and Laurie Tatum was certain he had received deliverance.
"You want this pitiful creature?" Wind In His Hair asked.
"Hmm," Kicking Bird grunted.
"Better keep him in your lodge . . . better watch him. If he comes out these young men will kill him. If I see him, I'll kill him."
There was still a gauntlet of knife-wielding widows and taunting, stone-throwing children to navigate as they passed through the village, and Lawrie Tatum was struck on the head with several projectiles before he was whisked into the safe haven of Kicking Bird's family lodge. While Kicking Bird's wives applied compresses and bandaged his torn and bleeding scalp, the shaken Quaker watched and listened as his host tried to explain that he should stay put until he could be spirited out of the village.
But Lawrie Tatum had not risked his life only to abort his mission, and Kicking Bird was taken aback when his white acquaintance began to converse in passable Comanche.
"Bring Ten Bears," he petitioned. "You . . . Ten Bears . . . me . . . we talk now."
“Now?"
“Yes . . . now.”
A few minutes later, the old man, whose spectacles now rested on his nose through every waking hour of the day, took the hand of a white man for the first time.
Fearful of the danger in having the little agent in his special lodge, Kicking Bird shooed his family out and the three men s
ettled on the floor. They smoked Kicking Bird's pipe, and as it began its fourth revolution, the Quaker shook his head negatively. He let his gaze wander fitfully over the floor for a few seconds before glancing first at Kicking Bird, then Ten Bears, then back to Kicking Bird.
"I talk," he said, jabbing a stubby finger against his chest. "I talk now."
Kicking Bird and Ten Bears exchanged puzzled looks. This little man, his face coated with sweat and grime, blood caked in jagged lines along his jaw and throat, his bandaged head giving the impression of an impoverished potentate, and the bent frame of his eyeglasses causing the apparatus to list wildly on his face-what made him think he could simply ride into their village and demand to speak with Ten Bears?
Yet Lawrie Tatum's eyes burned with a bright purpose that would have registered on anyone. The urgency of his mission was so great, in fact, that it transcended his ridiculous appearance, and Kicking Bird and Ten Bears, curious to hear him, nodded for him to go ahead.
Clearly and concisely, the Quaker relayed the new ultimatum. All Comanches must enroll on the reservation within thirty days or suffer the consequences of war with the whites. He also made it clear that while, he personally abhorred war, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he stressed that to take up arms against the whites would be fruitless. He concluded by telling both men that he had spoken truly.
Kicking Bird stared at him, shocked.
"Everyone must come in?" he asked, disbelieving.
“Yes."
"In one moon?"
“Yes."
Ten Bears had pulled out his pipe, packed it, and, in the silence before Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum spoke, had began to smoke.
"One moon not enough," Kicking Bird stated flatly.
"One moon," Lawrie Tatum repeated helplessly. "One moon."
Kicking Bird leaned in toward his visitor.
"Some Comanche fight."
“You . . . stop them."
"No, Kicking Bird cannot."
“If you go . . . people follow.”
"Some . . . maybe. Each man decide. Not Kicking Bird."
Frustrated, the Quaker tacked in another direction.
"The buffalo . . ." he began solemnly, "buffalo gone."
Kicking Bird's eyes widened. So did Ten Bears'.
"Gone?" Kicking Bird exclaimed. "Where?"
“Trains."
Lawrie Tatum sighed as Kicking Bird tried to grasp what he was saying.
"East," the Quaker offered.
Direction didn't matter much to Kicking Bird, who was still preoccupied with the concept of buffalo on trains. "How many trains?" he asked.
"Oh," Lawrie Tatum gasped, "I do not know. Many, many, many. All day. All night."
"The buffalo are dead on the prairie," Kicking Bird stated firmly. “Not on trains."
The Quaker's rudimentary Comanche was adequate but, reverting to simple signs, he easily made Kicking Bird and Ten Bears understand that he was not talking about whole buffalo. Only the tongues and skins of the buffalo were being carried east on trains.
Ten Bears took the pipe from his mouth and said something that Kicking Bird quickly translated.
"Buffalo not die. Buffalo holy."
Lawrie Tatum pursed his lips and softened his voice.
"Comanche no eat. . . no food. Comanche must come."
Again Ten Bears spoke and Kicking Bird translated.
"We talk in . . . in council . . . tonight. Ten Bears will not go. Born on prairie. Die on prairie."
Kicking Bird glanced at Ten Bears as the old man continued.
"Ten Bears old," Kicking Bird said. "Too old for white man's holy road."
"Kicking Bird?" Lawrie Tatum asked. "Kicking Bird come in? Touch pen?"
Though his mind was already set, Kicking Bird could not find it in himself to admit his decision.
"Maybe," he answered.
The Quaker agent was crestfallen. He had ridden far into unfamiliar country, risking his life to deliver a distasteful ultimatum. The response to his personal plea had fallen far short of the hopes he harbored, and as he tried to articulate the last part of the offer he did so with none of his normal verve, certain that this, too, would be rejected.
"Come to Washington."
Kicking Bird's face jumped.
"Washington?"
"Great White Father wants . . . meet Comanches."
"Who?" Kicking Bird asked.
"You," Lawrie Tatum answered. Then he tilted his head in Ten Bears' direction. "And Ten Bears."
"Kicking Bird . . . Ten Bears . . . go Washington? Meet Great White Father?"
“Yes."
Kicking Bird translated the startling invitation for the old man, but Ten Bears, after a moment's reflection, shook his head as he spoke.
"Ten Bears say no. Cant ride horse. Can't walk so far."
"Ride train," Lawrie Tatum countered.
Kicking Bird spoke to Ten Bears again and, for the first time, the headman sent his reply directly to Lawrie Tatum.
"White people kill Comanches," he said,
"No, no, no. Great White Father say no. No . . . no.”
"Catch Comanches . . . put in cage."
"No," the Quaker said emphatically. "Kicking Bird, Ten Bears, Washington. Make five, six, seven sleeps. Come home."
Kicking Bird translated and the old man picked up his pipe. He ----- it with a brand from the fire and puffed intently. Then he laid it his lap and, when his reply to Kicking Bird was finished, looked naturedly in Lawrie Tatum's direction.
"Ten Bears say he like new eyes Lawrie Tatum give him. Wants eyes to see what white men do. He go."
"Kicking Bird?" the Quaker asked breathlessly.
"Kicking Bird go."
"Wonderful!” Lawrie Tatum exclaimed in English. The two Comanches gazed, at him quizzically and he quickly added in Comanche, "Good . . . good!"
The excitement in the lodge was palpable for a few seconds. Then Ten Bears spoke his second thoughts.
"Train safe?" Kicking Bird asked.
"Yes, quite safe."
"No kill Comanche?"
"No," replied the Quaker, who, for emphasis, reached into his saddlebags and pulled out the black book he worshiped. He placed one hand flat on the book, raised the other and swung his head from side to side.
"No kill Comanche."
Chapter XXXIX
A council was held the night of the fateful interview with Lawrie Tatum, and it was perhaps the most unlikely ever convened.
As the warriors filed in, the wailing of women and children outside continued unabated, but the men stuffing themselves into Kicking Bird's special lodge would have been no less morose had there been no mourning to dampen the atmosphere. Each took his place, and the pipe revolved around the first circle in a silence so complete that each could hear his neighbor breathing.
Finally Ten Bears laid the pipe in front of him and started up from the floor. Pushing the spectacles higher on his nose, he gazed wistfully over the assembly.
"Hear me, brave-hearted Comanche men. My heart is glad to see you here. It fills with pride at the sight of fine warriors sitting together.
Choking with emotion, Ten Bears paused. In the absolute quiet, he stared at his feet until he regained his composure.
"The little white man agent has asked Ten Bears and Kicking Bird to make a long journey east. The Great Father in Washington wants to meet us and take our hands. I have told him I will go. Kicking Bird has said the same. I have often wondered how white people can live in this world and I want to see it. We will visit the white people for maybe ten sleeps and then we will come back.
"This journey will be my last. When I return I will leave this beautiful earth I have been walking so long and cross the stars to be with all those who came before me. I am looking forward to crossing the stars. I have traveled the circle of life. My life has been good. My heart is good. That is all I have to say for myself."
&nb
sp; There was not a sound as Ten Bears sat back down, with help, and the few seconds of stillness that followed seemed to last forever.
Then Kicking Bird stood up.
"I have seen what you have seen," he began. “Our brothers lying dead on the earth. I have fought what you have fought. I was not afraid to fight. I was nor afraid to die. I took a white man's scalp. It hangs in my lodge . . . but Kicking Bird is finished trying to fight the white man's guns. It is useless. More fighting will only make more dying . . . more weeping."
He paused long enough to let an upwelling of sobs from outside wash eerily through the lodge.
"The little white man says the buffalo are being killed so the white people can have their tongues. Maybe they are making medicine with the tongues of our brothers. Maybe they are using them for ceremonies. I do not know. Soon there will be nothing for my wives and children to put in their bellies. I want my wives and my children to live more than I want to fight.
"Before I go to Washington I will go where the white man asks and take his pen in my hand and touch it to the paper that promises to make no more war. I will follow the 'holy road.' This I will do in the morning.
"I ask no one to go with me. Each man here is a warrior. Each man will know his heart. I have no rancor toward any man who disagrees with what I do. My heart is good."
Wind In His Hair was starting up as Kicking Bird settled back down but, after reaching his feet, he seemed in no hurry to speak. He stood, imperious, for a few moments, his good eye unblinking. Then he laid a fist gently against his chest.
"There is no bitterness in Wind In His Hair's heart,” he began. “Our minds may choose different paths, but some part of every heart will always be as one. All my life I have been a warrior, and I will not change. I will not die as anything else.
"The whites have taken much from me. They have taken my brothers, my wives, my children. Now they want to take me off the earth upon which I walk. Maybe they will kill me now, and if they do, so be it. I will not take their hands. I will keep my ponies' tails tied up for war."
Wind In His Hair had made his quiet, measured statement in silence, and it prevailed as he resumed his seat.