Authors: Mike Blakely
Come Sundown (46 page)
A flock of cranes circles overhead, fluting a pretty symphonyâa musical warning of the norther that has pushed them toward warmer waters. And the blue cloud descends from the frozen reaches of the North Pole. Snow falls on your miserable beasts and makes you shiver in great convulsions. You must hide overnight in a cave you carve out of a cutbank on the north side of a creek. You rise at dawn, stiff and weak. You ride through drifts and thank the spirits for sending just one night of snow.
You ride, and you take heart, for you are closing ground. The sign becomes fresher upon the new-fallen snow. Your ride is almost over. You welcome even the prospect of chaos on the battlefield over this damned riding. You know where you are. Just miles from the Crossing. The old Adobe Walls stand waiting. Your people do not know the danger that descends the valley. You turn loose the two poorest mounts and make one last push. It is time. The sun crouches behind the horizon ahead of you, poised to rise on what could be your day of glory, your day of great failure, or your last day on Earth.
B
efore dawn, I came upon the supply train, the wagons having been left in the rear under guard. I had expected this. Darkness prevented me from actually seeing the wagons, but my mount, fatigued as he was, lifted his head and perked his ears at something down the trail, so I drew rein to listen. I heard two sentries in conversation. In that frosty, rarefied atmosphere, a spoken word could travel a long way. As I had not heard human voices in days, these knifed through the natural sounds of the valley like an alarm. Kit would have been furious had he known his sentries were conversing in anything more than a whisper.
efore dawn, I came upon the supply train, the wagons having been left in the rear under guard. I had expected this. Darkness prevented me from actually seeing the wagons, but my mount, fatigued as he was, lifted his head and perked his ears at something down the trail, so I drew rein to listen. I heard two sentries in conversation. In that frosty, rarefied atmosphere, a spoken word could travel a long way. As I had not heard human voices in days, these knifed through the natural sounds of the valley like an alarm. Kit would have been furious had he known his sentries were conversing in anything more than a whisper.
Having first heard the voices, I waited to listen for more. I heard a mule stamp a foot. I heard a loose corner of canvas flapping against the side boards of a wagon in the brisk north breeze. The wind shifted on an errant gust and I caught the faint odors of gun oil, manure, and salt pork. This was when I surmised that I had ridden upon the supply wagons and that Kit's main attacking force had ridden on ahead. I reined my mount away before he could nicker to the mules at the camp.
I avoided the supply wagons, riding up a steep ravine on my jaded mount to the rims of the Canadian canyon. On the bluff tops, I found the riding somewhat easier than in the canyon. Here, the ground was more level and the vegetation widely spaced. And I would have the advantage of being able to look down into the valley from high vantage points when dawn came. I struck a lope and rode wide around the heads of the arroyos, holding to flatter ground.
When dawn finally bathed the valley with enough light to make visible the scene below, I rode to a point of land overlooking the bottomlands and, concealing myself behind a juniper bush, I took a peek. In the distance, less than three miles away, I saw the smoke trails of a sizable Indian village. Faintly, I could make out the shapes of ivory-colored tipis,
which color told me that this was a Kiowa village. Just my side of the village, I spotted a herd of horses, and knew that some young men or boys would be guarding them through the night.
which color told me that this was a Kiowa village. Just my side of the village, I spotted a herd of horses, and knew that some young men or boys would be guarding them through the night.
Now, just below me, I witnessed the movements of Colonel Christopher Carson's column of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, with his Ute scouts making up the vanguard. I knew he could not see the Indian village from his position down in the canyon, for his line of sight was interrupted by a bend in the valley, and by clumps of cottonwoods and other timber. But soon, Kit's Utes would discover the Kiowa herd and the pony guards, and the action would commence.
Now I looked far down the valley, past the Kiowa village, to the timber of what I knew was Bent Creek. Beyond that creek stood Adobe Walls, for I knew exactly where I was. Beyond Adobe Walls, Adobe Creek wound through the prairies. And beyond that, fully six miles away, I could see the smoke cloud of a larger Indian village where I had last left Kills Something and his allied bands. For a brief moment, I considered riding to my old-friend-turned-enemy, Kit Carson, to warn him of the superior force he was about to blunder into. I could not, of course.
I turned away from the bluff and braced for the last leg of my ride. In my exhaustion and excitement, something odd took place. A feeling of calm came over me, and I felt my weight lift, aiding my pony in his last punishing run. I felt as if in a dream, and Vivaldi's
Four Seasons
began to play in my head, as clearly as if an entire orchestra had crowded into my skull. I rode effortlessly through Concerto no. 1 in E Major: Spring.
Der Frühling; allegro.
Trancelike, I flew along the bluffs, outdistancing the soldiers below, soaring along like an eagle toward the Kiowas to warn them of their danger.
Four Seasons
began to play in my head, as clearly as if an entire orchestra had crowded into my skull. I rode effortlessly through Concerto no. 1 in E Major: Spring.
Der Frühling; allegro.
Trancelike, I flew along the bluffs, outdistancing the soldiers below, soaring along like an eagle toward the Kiowas to warn them of their danger.
As I galloped, I made suppositions. The village I had seen was Little Bluff's, which would make it some 170 lodges strong, each lodge housing one or two warriors. Fewer than three hundred unprepared Kiowa warriors could not hold off a surprise attack by over three hundred soldiers with Ute scouts advancing and cannon trailing. So, I decided my job was to dash into the village and urge a hasty retreat downstream, where the Comanches were in camp beyond Adobe Walls.
As I sailed along the bluffs in the light of dawn, I heard shots, and knew Kit's Utes had engaged the Kiowa sentries guarding the horse herd. At that moment, I plunged down an arroyo and hastened to the camp of hide lodges. I began to yell, “Yee-yee-yee-yee!” like a Comanche warrior as I charged into the village. Warriors were stepping out of their lodges with weaponry, for some had been awakened by the smattering of gunfire. I galloped straight to the large lodge of old Chief Little Bluff and found him flinging the bearskin covering of his doorway aside as he squinted against the light and leapt out into it.
“The bluecoats are here!” I said, in the Kiowa tongue. “They are more than three hundred, with Ute scouts in the lead. You must retreat, Uncle. We will join with the Comanches, and then turn to attack!”
A young warrior from a lodge nearby pointed at me and said, “He has led the bluecoats to our camp! Plenty Man has led the enemy to attack us!”
“Silence, you young fool!” the old chief snapped. “Look! His pony is almost dead. He has ridden to warn us. Look closer. See the cuts and bruises on his face! They have tortured him. Plenty Man has escaped the enemy to warn us. Do you not remember the weapons he brought to us? The white buffalo he killed to protect us? Now, we must do as he says. Send your families downriver to the Comanches. We will hold the village until our women and children have escaped. Hurry! Everyone!”
I dismounted, throwing my leg over my poor, stolen horse; leaving him there panting, his head low. I moved with the rest of the warriors toward the upper end of camp, though I had no weapon with which to meet the Utes. I picked up a stick of hackberry from a woodpile and advanced, shouting into the lodges I passed, urging the men to fight and the women to retreat with their children.
Chaos engulfed the little village as the Kiowas and their Kiowa-Apache friends emerged from their lodges to the prospect of violent death. I saw a woman running with a childâbut she was running along with the warriors, into the fray. “Mother!” I shouted, catching her by the arm. “The warriors
are running to meet the enemy. You must run the
other
way!” I pointed eastward. Wild-eyed, she did not seem to want to believe me, until she noticed another mother dragging a child by the arm, while carrying an infant on her back, and she followed them toward the Comanche village downstream.
are running to meet the enemy. You must run the
other
way!” I pointed eastward. Wild-eyed, she did not seem to want to believe me, until she noticed another mother dragging a child by the arm, while carrying an infant on her back, and she followed them toward the Comanche village downstream.
Riderless horses began to stampede into the village, having escaped the Ute scouts who had captured most of the herd. I wished for a lariat, for I could have lassoed one that came nearby. A few sentries who had been guarding the herd came sprinting wild-eyed into camp, shouting their warnings. Behind them rode the first of the Ute invaders, having taken the time to change their pad saddles to stolen horses. One rode up behind a fleeing Kiowa sentry, whom he shot in the back of the head with a pistol. After that shot, the firing became general between Utes and Kiowas, and absolute chaos ensued, with bullets and arrows flying in every direction, men shouting, women screaming, and horses galloping everywhere in terror.
I remained in the calm of my trance, with Vivaldi's own orchestra playing in my head.
Largo e pianissimo sempre.
I had accomplished my mission. I had warned the Indians. I marched into the thick of the skirmish with my chunk of firewood in my hand. A mounted Ute warrior spotted me and, considering me easy prey, angled toward me, drawing a bow. I have never been more certain of my impending death. I simply knew I would be killed.
Largo e pianissimo sempre.
I had accomplished my mission. I had warned the Indians. I marched into the thick of the skirmish with my chunk of firewood in my hand. A mounted Ute warrior spotted me and, considering me easy prey, angled toward me, drawing a bow. I have never been more certain of my impending death. I simply knew I would be killed.
Then a bullet hit that warrior in the back and spilled him from his mount before he could loose his arrow. I found out later that the Kiowa warrior Stumbling Bear had saved my life by killing the Ute warrior about to ride me down. Remarkably, the dead warrior's horse ran straight to me, and I caught the reins of the war bridle. A moment later that horse threw his head in front of my face and took a bullet that would have blown the orchestra right out of my skull. Sprayed in hot blood from the horse, I found myself knocked backward, during which time I saw an arrow pass by me and I heard it pop through the whitened buffalo hide of a Kiowa lodge. Another Ute warrior rushed past me but only glanced at me. Seeing me
painted in horse blood, he must have thought me dead or mortally wounded.
painted in horse blood, he must have thought me dead or mortally wounded.
Regaining my senses, I realized that I had avoided two arrows and a bullet meant for me. It was as if angels were brushing me aside, out of the paths of the deadly projectiles, and I felt that I must have some reason for living, so I sprang from the ground and ran ghoulishly, blood drenched, back through the village so that I might in some way aid in the retreat. As I sprinted, I spotted a Spencer repeating carbine someone had dropped on the ground. It was a Kiowa or Ute weapon, decorated with brass tacks hammered into the stock, with a feather tied to the barrel by a horsehair, to aid in judging windage. I grabbed it up, and as I ran through the gunfire, the shouts of battle, and the rumble of hooves, I checked the breech and found one live round in the chamber. This rifle also had a seven-shot tabular magazine in the rifle stock, but I had no time to determine how many rounds it held.
Sunlight glinted in my eye, the great orb having ascended the canyon bluffs. I caught the putrid smell of offal, and glanced to see a battle-gutted horse thrashing piteously on the ground. I wished that I could use my one sure bullet to end its misery, but I dared not.
I ran past the Kiowa lodges and into the Kiowa-Apache part of camp. There, I saw the old Apache chief Iron Shirt standing at his lodge door, chanting a death song. He was wearing the ancient Spanish coat of mail that had given him his name years before. “Grandfather, you must retreat with the rest of us!” I shouted. He did not even look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the invaders advancing lodge by lodge toward him, and I knew he had chosen to stand and die.
I left Iron Shirt's lodge, and came upon a young warrior who could not have been more than thirteen, trying to string his bow to meet the enemy. “Run, boy!” I ordered. “String your bow later!” But just then an arrow struck him in the hip, knocking him from his feet. As he tried to drag himself to safety, I ran to him, broke the arrow shaft off, and threw him on my back to carry him away. I retreated until my leg muscles and lungs burned, carrying the boy with me, until White Bear
rode past me on a fine horse that he must have had staked overnight in the village.
rode past me on a fine horse that he must have had staked overnight in the village.
“I will carry the boy,” White Bear said, with amazing calm. He was a young man, but experienced in warfare, and years later would become known as a terror to Texas settlers, who knew him as Satanta. I helped White Bear lift the wounded boy up onto the horse.
“I will come back for you, Plenty Man,” he promised.
“Do not worry about me,” I replied. “My spirit powers are strong today.”
He smiled and carried the boy away at a gallop.
I had to stop to catch some wind, so I turned back toward the attackers and found a Ute brave galloping my way with a cavalry revolver lowering to fire at me. I raised my carbine to my shoulder and fired, hitting the Ute man in the Adam's apple, and almost tearing his head completely off. I ran to capture the weapon he had dropped, though bullets and arrows hissed through the air all around me. I even took the time to touch the dead man with my rifle barrel so that I could claim the coup later in council, should I survive.
A bugle sounded advance not far up the canyonâthe first bugle call of the dayâand I knew the cavalry would soon be following the Ute scouts rank by rank. I backed away from the attack, trying all at once to watch for enemies amid screams and shouts and gunshots and hoofbeats while checking my captured weapons. I found the magazine of the Spencer carbine empty. The cylinder of the Remington percussion-cap revolver held four loads. I sensed that most of the women and children had escaped the village by now and that the Ute charge had been almost halted by a stubborn Kiowa resistance. Still, I caught my first glimpse of blue-coated cavalry coming up behind the Utes, and I knew it was time to draw back if I wanted to survive long enough to help protect the Kiowas in their retreat.
Though still panting from having carried the wounded boy on my back, each breath fogging the cold air, I turned and ran to the last row of lodges on the east end of camp. Here I found a few veteran warriors making a last stand to allow their families
to reach the timber of Bent Creek to the east. The woods and brush would conceal them as they made their way to the Comanche camps. So I turned to face the attackers, joining the Kiowa and Kiowa-Apache defenders. The feeling of calm that had borne me this far still survived through the battle, and the string section of Vivaldi's orchestra tripped every so lightly through the end of the first concerto of the
Four Seasons. Danza pastorale: Allegro.
to reach the timber of Bent Creek to the east. The woods and brush would conceal them as they made their way to the Comanche camps. So I turned to face the attackers, joining the Kiowa and Kiowa-Apache defenders. The feeling of calm that had borne me this far still survived through the battle, and the string section of Vivaldi's orchestra tripped every so lightly through the end of the first concerto of the
Four Seasons. Danza pastorale: Allegro.
Along this line of warriors I found Stumbling Bear, Lean Bear, and Chief Little Bluff. Soon, White Bear came riding back to the line, having taken the wounded boy to safety. These men, and some younger braves, held the edge of camp and kept a steady stream of bullets and arrows flying westward toward the attackers. They used their own lodges as their breastworks, for in the winter the tipis were double-walled and stuffed with grass for insulation against the bitter cold. Few rifle bullets could pass through four layers of buffalo hide, avoid lodge poles, and still hit a target with killing force. Yet the Utes continued to advance lodge by lodge, and more bluecoats began to appear through the gun smoke between the lodges.
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