Authors: Mike Blakely
Come Sundown (47 page)
Little Bluff looked over his shoulder at the families fleeing across the open prairie behind us. “Tomorrow we will teach our women to run faster!” he shouted, pausing to draw his bow and shoot an arrow that unhorsed a Ute warrior at a remarkable distance. “But today we must make one charge on the enemy so our children and women can reach that timber. I will be the first to count coup on that enemy warrior I just shot, and you younger men will not beat me to that honor.”
The firing along our line ceased as each man prepared to charge the enemy in a counterattack. The resident orchestra in my head had lapsed into Concerto Number TwoâSummer. The minor-chord renderings of the phantom players suited the mood of impending combat.
Der Sommer. Allegro non molto.
Lean Bear began singing his war song of the Sentinel Horses warrior society. Somehow, it blended with and became part of the orchestra in my fatigued mind.
Der Sommer. Allegro non molto.
Lean Bear began singing his war song of the Sentinel Horses warrior society. Somehow, it blended with and became part of the orchestra in my fatigued mind.
White Bear took up Little Bluff's challenge to race for the
coup honors, as he loosed a Kiowa war cry and sprinted forward. Like hounds on a trail, the rest of us sprinted forward, a step behind White Bear. I felt the surge of energy battle can generate and ran forward with the Kiowas, shooting my revolver into the front line of the attackers as I screamed. My hair felt as if it were standing on end, and my heart beat like a drum at a scalp dance. I raced forward until a Ute warrior appeared through the smoke, and I fired at him as he shot at me with an arrow. My bullet hit him in the chest, killing him, as his arrow nicked my ear, loosing a trickle of blood that joined the horse blood already crusting upon my skin in the dry autumn air.
coup honors, as he loosed a Kiowa war cry and sprinted forward. Like hounds on a trail, the rest of us sprinted forward, a step behind White Bear. I felt the surge of energy battle can generate and ran forward with the Kiowas, shooting my revolver into the front line of the attackers as I screamed. My hair felt as if it were standing on end, and my heart beat like a drum at a scalp dance. I raced forward until a Ute warrior appeared through the smoke, and I fired at him as he shot at me with an arrow. My bullet hit him in the chest, killing him, as his arrow nicked my ear, loosing a trickle of blood that joined the horse blood already crusting upon my skin in the dry autumn air.
I fired my Remington revolver three more times, its eruptions joining the general gunfire and war cries of our desperate little counterattack. A couple of Utes were killed in this maneuver, several wounded, and the rest frightened into a momentary retreat as they stampeded back into the leading line of cavalry soldiers marching methodically through the camp that the Utes had already cleared for them. I saw Stumbling Bear pursue these fleeing Utes all the way to the front line of the cavalry, where he shot and killed a bluecoatâthe first of Kit's volunteers to fall in the battle.
Now, Stumbling Bear turned back toward the cover of some lodges, and the rest of us fell back with him. The advance of Utes and cavalry had sulled, and we left their front line in confusion as we retreated clean out of the camp and over the prairie the women and children had already crossed. As we ran, I heard the bugle order a halt, and I knew we would not be pursued immediately. This relieved me, for many of us were on foot, and could have been ridden down by the attacking horsemen. But for now, the soldiers were content with having captured the Kiowa village.
I felt stronger than I might have expected, trotting through the tall grass to Bent's Creek, carrying the Spencer carbine and the Remington revolver. I had ammunition for neither, but knew I would find it in Kills Something's camp, for I had led the supply run for such materiel myself. Once we reached the timber, we began to find the wretched refugees war always produces. Old men and women sat among the trees, panting
and staring, too exhausted to go on just now. Wounded women and children gazed about in shock, and warriorsâsome just boys in their first fightâbled from all manner of horrible wounds.
and staring, too exhausted to go on just now. Wounded women and children gazed about in shock, and warriorsâsome just boys in their first fightâbled from all manner of horrible wounds.
Little Bluff walked up to a young man named Two Birds, who had been wounded in the belly from an arrow that had passed all the way through him. The chief began to laugh and point at the warrior where he lay. “Look what has happened to Two Birds!” the old chief shouted. “He has become a woman! Get up, if you want to be a man again, and go to the next camp!” To my surprise, young Two Birds stood and lifted his chin in defiance of the pain, though his face quivered in agony. He turned and began stumbling eastward.
Others could not be rallied by insults. Those who could ride were put up on horses, behind or before riders. Those who could not even stand were placed on blankets. I grabbed the corner of a blanket bearing a young woman who had been shot through the leg by a rifle ball, her leg shattered. How she had gotten this far, I never knewâperhaps on some rescuer's back. Three other men took up the other corners of the blanket and we started eastward across the prairie of Adobe Walls.
I looked to the north and saw the old ruins rising on the familiar ground. Memories came avalanching down on me. I remembered placing many of those adobe bricks myself, years ago. I recalled the days and nights spent inside and outside of those walls with friendsâwhite, brown, and red. Whatever it was that I had tried to accomplish by building that adobe fort here had failed. In the confusion of the day, I felt that all the suffering and dying surrounding me now was my own damned fault.
And still, Vivaldi played in my head.
AdagioâPresto.
AdagioâPresto.
H
elp came from the Comanche camp before we reached Adobe Creek. Kills Something's people, having heard the shooting, had sent riders to the bluffs above to observe. These riders, upon seeing the Kiowas running from their camp, knew a serious attack had occurred, and now sent ponies pulling pole drags to bear the wounded Kiowas and Kiowa-Apaches to the safety of the large Comanche encampment. I happened to see Fears-the-Ground riding one such pony, and summoned him to take the woman with the broken leg.
elp came from the Comanche camp before we reached Adobe Creek. Kills Something's people, having heard the shooting, had sent riders to the bluffs above to observe. These riders, upon seeing the Kiowas running from their camp, knew a serious attack had occurred, and now sent ponies pulling pole drags to bear the wounded Kiowas and Kiowa-Apaches to the safety of the large Comanche encampment. I happened to see Fears-the-Ground riding one such pony, and summoned him to take the woman with the broken leg.
“Is all that blood yours?” he asked, staring at the dried black stains all over me.
“Only a little. The rest is the blood of my enemies.” This was a lie, of course, for most of the blood had come from an unfortunate horse. But I wasn't opposed to telling a lie to boost my warrior's reputation.
Fears-the-Ground's smile came and passed quickly. “The crier said soldiers are attacking.”
“Yes,” I replied. “They have taken the Kiowa camp.”
“How many?”
“Not enough to defeat us if we gather our warriors quickly to face them.”
He nodded and turned his mount back toward camp, bearing the wounded woman across the prairie on the travois. I ran afoot to the village and went straight to Kills Something's lodge. There, my adopted brother was busy gathering reports from the riders who had ascended to different high places to view the action upstream. When he saw me, his eyes widened in surprise and he summoned me forward.
“My brother,” he said. “What has happened to you?”
“I was captured and beaten by the bluecoats, but I told them nothing.” I paused to gasp for breath. “I escaped and rode ahead of the soldiers to warn Little Bluff's camp. Only a few Kiowa warriors were killed, and some people wounded. The
bluecoats have not had enough. They will try to attack your camp next, my brother.”
bluecoats have not had enough. They will try to attack your camp next, my brother.”
“How many bluecoats?”
“Only three hundred, and seventy-five Utes.” I did not mention the supply train, miles upstream. Secretly, I wanted Kit to have an escape route if he proved wise enough to take it. Had I mentioned the supply train, Kills Something would have sent a party to slaughter the guard there, capture Kit's provender, and cut off his retreat. Kills Something's village and the others downstream numbered over one thousand lodges, and I knew we could mount almost three thousand warriors, including the Kiowas and Kiowa-Apaches who had already been run out of their village, and a band of Arapahos who had taken refuge here to escape the troubles in Colorado. Kit would be lucky to get out at all, but I wanted to leave him some kind of hope. In spite of everything that had happened, I still held his friendship dear.
Kills Something nodded and thought for a moment, as the leaders of the warrior societies waited for his decisions. “We have no time for a council of war,” he said, “but we have time to put on our paint and headdresses and catch our best war ponies. Crier, tell the first-year men of the Little Horses society to join the Kiowas and go to meet the enemy. They must go afoot, hiding in the grass or the timber along the creek. They must shoot well and hold the soldiers back until the rest of us can get mounted. Then we will teach these bluecoats not to invade our country. Go!”
The warriors dispersed with a general battle cry that echoed off the bluffs in the cold morning air.
Kills Something looked at me, and summoned me closer with a gesture of his chin. “What else must I know, my brother?”
“Their leader is Little Chief.”
He frowned a little, then let his expression turn to an anxious grin. I supposed this was either because he admired my loyalty to him over Kit, or because he wanted to face the great white warrior Little Chief in battle. Perhaps a bit of both.
“What else? Horses? Guns?”
“Half the bluecoats are mounted. They will come first. Then the foot soldiers. They are all well armed with rifles.”
“Our warriors are also well armed. And our horses rested. Theirs will be tired.”
“Yes, but the Utes have already captured the best Kiowa ponies. And my brother, you must listen. They have big guns coming up from behind. The thunder guns that roll on wheels like a wagon. The guns that shoot twice.” The Indians referred to the howitzers this way because the cannon would shoot the shell, then the shell would explode on impactâshooting
twice.
twice.
“How many thunder guns?”
I held up two fingers. “The big guns make much noise and they shoot far, but they are slow to load and to turn and to aim. Against good Comanche riders, they will do little harm. We must tell our warriors to ride hard and keep moving. Any one bunch of braves that gathers in a group will become a target.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and shook me, as if gauging my resolve. “You look like an antelope that has been run by coyotes, then ripped apart by their teeth.”
“I am not wounded. The blood is not mine. I have time to bathe in the creek and put on my war paint. Then I will be good again.”
Three miles away, the clarion note of the U.S. Army bugle signaled the advance and I knew Kit's forces would move forward to take Adobe Walls. There would be little resistance from the Comanche snipers, who would let them have the ruins of the fort. But they must hold Adobe Creek at all cost. “They are coming now,” I said.
Little Bluff nodded, a grim visage shadowing his face like a war cloud. His wife stepped from the lodge with his shield, and handed it to him, followed by his quiver and bow case, which he strapped on his back. Lastly, she gave him a Henry repeating rifle and a cartridge belt laden with ammunition. He looked up at the cloudless sky. “It is a good day for a battle.”
I left Kills Something and went to my lodge to gather my weapons, my Comanche clothing, some pemmican, and a pouch of black war paint made from animal lard and charcoal. Leaving my lodge, I headed toward my favorite bathing pool on Adobe Creek. I began at a trot, but then felt so utterly exhausted that I had to slow to a walk. I began to doubt my ability
to participate in the coming battle. This filled me with shame, and I knew I had to summon new energy.
to participate in the coming battle. This filled me with shame, and I knew I had to summon new energy.
Reaching the pool, I stripped myself of my white man's clothing and stood in the cool November air. I raised my eyes to the heavens and lifted my palms to the sky. I knew the spirits would disapprove should I pray on my knees like a white man. The Great Mystery scorned a man who would grovel and kneel. I was exhausted, but I could still stand. I prayed to the spirits of the winds, the storms, and the flaming stars to lend me strength for one more day. I began to yearn for the cold embrace of the clear waters, and the next thing I knew, I was falling into the pool, though I didn't recall making the decision to dive in.
The water hit me like a cymbal crash, though I knew Vivaldi had written none into his piece. Spirits had slipped into the orchestra.
Presto. Allegro.
And the composition lapsed into “Autumn.”
Der Herbst.
Concerto no. 3 in F Major. I remained submerged until my lungs burned, then I surfaced like an otter, shaking the water from my hair as I felt the energy seep back into my pores. I rubbed the blood from my skin, then clawed my way out of the pool. I stood in the sunshine to put on my moccasins and breechclout.
Presto. Allegro.
And the composition lapsed into “Autumn.”
Der Herbst.
Concerto no. 3 in F Major. I remained submerged until my lungs burned, then I surfaced like an otter, shaking the water from my hair as I felt the energy seep back into my pores. I rubbed the blood from my skin, then clawed my way out of the pool. I stood in the sunshine to put on my moccasins and breechclout.
Many sounds accompanied the orchestra between my ears. From the Comanche camp came shouts and hoofbeats, from the Kiowa camp came the distant victory cries of the Ute scouts and the soldiers. Occasional gunshots and bugle signals punctuated the general din as enemies took potshots at one another across the Adobe Walls prairie. When my face had dried, I opened my paint pouch and colored the left half of my face black. This was my own design; a reflection of my “moon medicine.” It represented the half-moonâthe phase that granted me my greatest powers. Next, I donned my weaponsâbow and arrow, and a revolver with a cartridge beltâand picked up my war bridle.
I walked quickly to the horse herd, which had been moved closer to camp so that the warriors could choose their mounts. Well over one thousand animals milled about as Comanche men looked for favored war ponies. I caught the first horse that
would let me within reach, looped my war bridle around his lower jaw, and sprang onto his back. From the back of this horse I was able to move through the herd until I spotted Castchorn. When I rode to his side and spoke to him, he made no objection to my slipping off the pony I had caught, and onto his back. Once mounted on Buffalo Getter, I felt ready to ride to the battle front. Mounting this good horse only made me remember how the soldiers had killed All Horse, and I became angry and eager for vengeance.
would let me within reach, looped my war bridle around his lower jaw, and sprang onto his back. From the back of this horse I was able to move through the herd until I spotted Castchorn. When I rode to his side and spoke to him, he made no objection to my slipping off the pony I had caught, and onto his back. Once mounted on Buffalo Getter, I felt ready to ride to the battle front. Mounting this good horse only made me remember how the soldiers had killed All Horse, and I became angry and eager for vengeance.
I rode westward at a trot and slipped through the timber of Adobe Creek until I could see the ruins of the old fort through the branches. At first glimpse, I saw a number of U.S
.
cavalry horses corralled within Adobe Walls. The cavalrymen had dismounted and scattered, lying in the tall grass. Thus deployed as skirmishers, they were firing randomly at distant enemy figuresâKiowas and Comanches who were also creeping about in the grass, they, too, seeking clear shots at the foe. Just outside Adobe Walls, I recognized an officer looking through a telescope. It was Major McCleave of the First California Cavalry. I did not know him well, but I had met him once in Santa Fe.
.
cavalry horses corralled within Adobe Walls. The cavalrymen had dismounted and scattered, lying in the tall grass. Thus deployed as skirmishers, they were firing randomly at distant enemy figuresâKiowas and Comanches who were also creeping about in the grass, they, too, seeking clear shots at the foe. Just outside Adobe Walls, I recognized an officer looking through a telescope. It was Major McCleave of the First California Cavalry. I did not know him well, but I had met him once in Santa Fe.
Now, from my left, I heard a war whoop and saw some fifty Comanches riding hard toward the walls, making a charge on Major McCleave's position. He began shouting orders, urging his men to reload and hold their fire until the Indians came within range. The major tucked his telescope under his belt and drew his revolver. The Comanches thundered forward, scattering as they flew. Riding nearer, each warrior slipped to the right side of his mount, clinging to his galloping steed with a left leg thrown over the rump and a right arm thrust through a loop under the pony's neck. As though this were not a difficult enough feat of horsemanship, each warrior armed with bow and arrows drew his bowstring from this precarious position. The riders with rifles and revolvers had an easier time of cocking their weapons in preparation to shoot.
McCleave shouted the order to fire just as arrows began to fly. One Indian pony fell, shot through with a rifle ball. The rider rolled through the grass, but sprang instantly to run to safety. Two Comanches peeled quickly back to their unhorsed
comrade and, riding one to either side, grabbed him by the arms as he ran and lifted him to the back of one of the rescuers' ponies. Bullets cut the grass all around the three escaping men, but failed to connect. The charge thus thwarted by the soldiers, the Indians galloped away to regroup in the timber. It seemed to me that the soldiers had failed to account for the speed at which the Indians rode, and had missed all but one horse. As far as I could tell, the Indian arrows had also failed to draw enemy blood. But this was only the first charge.
comrade and, riding one to either side, grabbed him by the arms as he ran and lifted him to the back of one of the rescuers' ponies. Bullets cut the grass all around the three escaping men, but failed to connect. The charge thus thwarted by the soldiers, the Indians galloped away to regroup in the timber. It seemed to me that the soldiers had failed to account for the speed at which the Indians rode, and had missed all but one horse. As far as I could tell, the Indian arrows had also failed to draw enemy blood. But this was only the first charge.
A far-off bugle call drew my attention toward the west, and I noticed a number of soldiers galloping from the Kiowa village toward Adobe Walls to reinforce Major McCleave. I watched them approach until I recognized Colonel Kit Carson himself leading the reinforcements. Far behind Kit's column, I saw the two gun carriages of the howitzer battery, and all the ammunition-laden mules and soldiers attached thereto.
Those mountain howitzers did not include caissons and limber carriages like most artillery. All the ammunition was carried on pack mules, and the gun carriages themselves could be dismantled and packed on a mule in minutes should trails too rough for wheels be encountered. Perhaps Kit should have ordered his howitzers broken down for this run, because the two cannon had come upon an obstacle in the form of a little ravine that knifed across the prairie. Though not very deep, the cutbanks of the ravine seemed specially designed by Mother Earth to obstruct the progress of axled wheels. A travois, I mused, would have had no trouble scooting up the bank, though I didn't suppose a howitzer would have proven of much service from a pony drag. The ill-designed carriage wheels under the howitzers spanned a narrow breadth, and they tended to fall over sideways quite easily. I watched with some amusement as mules strained against their harnesses and men afoot struggled to turn spoked wheels up the vertical dirt bank.
Another Comanche battle cry rose from the timber, and a second charge sped toward the Adobe Walls, timed to beat Kit's reinforcements there. Castchorn and I could wait no longer. I wanted to get a closer look at the action, so I added
my war whoop to the effort and sprang forward from the timber. I galloped past a couple of Kiowas still hidden in the grass and rode to a spot on the prairie where I knew I would join the charge from the left. I drew my revolver and felt Castchorn reach top speed, my hair whipping in the air, still wet from my bath in the creek. As the Comanche assault neared, I turned to my right, joining the other riders, falling into place third in line. The riders slipped to the sides of their mounts, and I did the same as white puffs of rifle smoke began to appear. I heard a bullet sizzle through blades of grass under my head and I cocked my revolver. I didn't intend to shoot any of the soldiers, some of whom I had served with at Valverde and Fort Stanton, but I rode close enough to fire a shot into Adobe Walls, just for the fun of seeing the dirt rain down on Major McCleave.
my war whoop to the effort and sprang forward from the timber. I galloped past a couple of Kiowas still hidden in the grass and rode to a spot on the prairie where I knew I would join the charge from the left. I drew my revolver and felt Castchorn reach top speed, my hair whipping in the air, still wet from my bath in the creek. As the Comanche assault neared, I turned to my right, joining the other riders, falling into place third in line. The riders slipped to the sides of their mounts, and I did the same as white puffs of rifle smoke began to appear. I heard a bullet sizzle through blades of grass under my head and I cocked my revolver. I didn't intend to shoot any of the soldiers, some of whom I had served with at Valverde and Fort Stanton, but I rode close enough to fire a shot into Adobe Walls, just for the fun of seeing the dirt rain down on Major McCleave.
Suddenly, the horse in front of me took a bullet and stumbled, spilling the rider. I raised myself upright on Castchorn and angled him toward the fallen rider. The warrior was shaken, trying to rise from his knees. He was facing me, so he saw me coming, and raised his right hand. I tucked my pistol under my belt and grabbed my mount's mane with my left hand, extending my right hand downward. Castchorn and I had practiced this rescue maneuver hundreds of times, and he knew to ride close to the man, to change the lead of his gait so that he could push off with his front right foot when the extra weight pulled him right, and to time the meeting so that his feet were planted when I pulled the man aboard. Bullets hissed around us as our hands met and I leaned hard to the left as the warrior did his best to leap upward. Then the warrior was astraddle behind me as if by magic, and I had scarcely slowed from a full gallop. The men at Adobe Walls actually cheered me for the rescue as I bore my fellow attacker out of rifle range to the timber along Adobe Creek.
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