Shadow Riders, The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 (8 page)

“I'm hopeful this can be done with as little bloodshed as possible, General.”

Sherman would have grown exasperated had he not been so excited. “You call the plan, Colonel. Whatever you want. I don't care how you have your brunettes play it out. Only one thing I want to see happen: capture those guilty for the butchery!”

Grierson nodded. He turned to Inspector General Randolph B. Marcy, who was accompanying Sherman on the general's inspection tour of southwestern posts. “I think you'll both be proud of the Tenth Cavalry when this day is done.”

Sherman huffed, “Proud or not, Colonel—I want those murderers.”

Then Sherman promptly proceeded to lay plans to lure the chiefs to the post where Grierson's Negro soldiers would be in hiding, behind doors and window shutters, ready to show themselves the instant their quarry was surrounded. Within minutes the plan was agreed upon and Grierson had his captains prepare their four companies for possible action. The three veterans of the Civil War were congratulating themselves when Grierson's adjutant suddenly appeared at the colonel's door, his face tight, pinched with surprise.

“Col-Colonel Grierson,” he announced, pushing only the upper part of his body through the door. Behind him arose a commotion.

“What is it—”

“Colonel … one of the chiefs is here—”

The adjutant was suddenly shoved aside as the door itself was flung open by a bare, brown arm. In strode a tall, stout Kiowa dressed in leggings and a red breechclout. Over his shoulder he had slung a shiny bugle. On his left arm hung a rawhide shield, and in that hand he held a tall red medicine lance, his
zebat.

“Sir, I couldn't stop—”

“It doesn't matter now, Lieutenant,” Grierson said, moving halfway across the room toward the visitor.

Sherman looked at Grierson, expectantly enough that the colonel answered on his own.

“General Sherman, you see before you the great chief of the Kiowa—White Bear.”

“White Bear?”

“The translation of Satanta.”

Sherman nodded slowly in satisfaction. “I'll be bloody damned,” he whispered as more commotion was heard from the porch. A civilian in his mid-thirties strode in the door, looked over the soldiers, then moved over to stand with Satanta. “What in blazes brought this red son of a bitch to us, do you suppose?”

“I ain't got a clue,” declared the civilian as he inched up to Satanta.

“Who the hell are you, sir?” Sherman inquired.

“He's Horace Jones—my post interpreter, General.”

“Then bloody well find out what brings White Bear here,” Sherman demanded.

“I was just about to do that for you, General.” Jones asked his questions, mostly in Kiowa, some Comanche, but also with a sprinkling of Spanish thrown in. “He says he heard the Big Chief of the white man soldiers was here on a visit. Satanta came to see you for himself … since he is the Big Chief of the Kiowa. He came here to … to measure you up, General.”

“I thought there were other chiefs of the Kiowas,” Sherman said.

“There are,” Jones explained. “Lone Wolf and Kicking Bird are leaders of their own bands. But Satanta is clearly the war leader of the Kiowa.”

Sherman found himself smiling, more satisfied than he had been since moving out of Washington City, so peopled as it was with phony back-slapping, back-stabbing politicians talking out of both sides of their mouths.

“I damn well realize who Satanta is, Jones. Tell him I know of him—tell him the Big Chief knows Satanta led the raid on the wagon train.”

The room filled with officers fell hushed as Jones translated. Then Satanta took a step forward and spoke, pounding his chest at times for emphasis.

“Yes, soldier chief—I am the one who led my hundred warriors down on the wagon train. We killed seven white men, but we lost three of our own, and had more wounded. This makes us even.”

“Tell this pompous windbag of a butcher that it would take ten—no! A hundred Kiowas to equal the life of one innocent white man, Jones!”

As the interpreter began translating, Satanta's eyes grew wide with the ferocity of the soldier's words. The chief backed up, his right hand playing at the butt of the pistol stuffed in the bright red silk sash tied around his ample waist.

Sherman pointed at the gun. “Don't you dare touch it, you red bastard!”

Satanta's hand froze. His face grew tight, flint-chip eyes bouncing off the others in the room. Then something lit by desperation came over his countenance. “There were more chiefs there when we rode down on the wagon train,” he began to explain, his tone nowhere near as haughty.

Sherman stood there, slowly crossing his arms as Satanta explained things, with Jones translating at his elbow.

“Other chiefs … they ordered the young men to capture the wagons. We … they didn't want to kill the white men. Only take the wagons. The white men shot at the warriors. Killed three and wounded some more. None of us could hold the warriors back. I am not a powerful man to hold them back when their blood is up. They … the warriors killed to revenge the white men who killed our—”

“Those white men were protecting their property, you son of a bitch!” Sherman roared. “I damned well wish they'd made more of you good Indians that day!”

“I need to go back to my people,” Satanta said quietly, his eyes furtive, longing for the door as he started to inch off in that direction, putting himself behind Jones. “To get our presents, I must be there with my wives.”

“You stay—”

Satanta was past Jones and out the door, flying off the porch toward his prize pony. He had the rawhide reins in hand just as Grierson's orderly got to the chief, pistol drawn. The chief stared down at the pistol held inches from his belly, then stared at the young soldier's face, and finally up at the faces of those officers squeezing out the door onto the shady porch.

Sherman waited for the interpreter to push his way through the gathering of the curious. “Mr. Jones, tell the chief he is my guest for now. Tell him he must take a seat on the porch. Here. While we wait for the others to come.”

He turned to Grierson. “Let's proceed with our plans, Colonel. Put a guard on Satanta here and send Jones to fetch the other guilty leaders from the agency across the creek. I want to secure all the big fish in my net.”

When the Kiowa did come over from Tatum's agency, more than the chiefs accompanied the Indian agent to Fort Sill. Like Satanta, they had heard the Big Chief of the Great Father was at the fort and had come to see for themselves.

“Jones,” Sherman whispered as the Kiowa streamed onto the post parade, “tell Satanta to keep his mouth shut if he knows what's best for him. Tell him I wouldn't mind killing him myself if he makes a sound.”

While the warriors squatted and sat on the ground before Grierson's porch, the women and children clustered behind them in a milling throng, interpreter Jones invited the chiefs to have a seat in the porch shade, joining Satanta as a sign of respect for them.

“Who's missing, Mr. Tatum?” Sherman asked.

The agent said, “Only Big Tree and Eagle Heart.”

“Where are they? Still across the creek?”

“No,” Jones replied. “I don't know about Eagle Heart, but I saw Big Tree cross the parade, heading for the post sutler's place.”

“All right. We'll corner him soon enough.” Sherman turned to Grierson. “Are your brunettes in place, Colonel?”

The commander of the Tenth Cavalry glanced over the perimeter of the parade ground. “Appears everything is in order, General.”

“Very good. Jones—tell these chiefs that they, like Satanta, are under arrest for the murders of seven white men and the theft of property from Henry Warren's wagon train.”

The words were barely off the interpreter's lips when the commotion started: women keening, the chiefs starting to rise, exposing pistols; warriors edging forward muttering their anger and their war-cries.

“Captain Carpenter! Lieutenant Pratt!” shouted Grierson.

Down both sides of the excited throng of Kiowas moved two companies of buffalo soldiers, Springfield carbines held at ready. Lieutenant R. H. Pratt's D Company spread front into line at the left of Grierson's headquarters. Captain Louis H. Carpenter and his H Company, rescuers of Forsyth's civilian scouts at Beecher Island back in 1868
*
loped into line on the right.

Grierson yelled, “Mr. Orleman—now!”

The red crowd surged back on itself, angry and yelling, the women wailing and children crying. At that moment their escape route was snapped shut as Lieutenant L. H. Orleman, also at the rescue of Major Sandy Forsyth's survivors, stepped forward with ten more grim-faced brunettes.

The tension in the air was so thick a man would have to cut it like fleece from buffalo hump-ribs as the warriors surged forward, then back, then suddenly in another direction to attempt to knife through the cordon of black-faced soldiers sweating beneath their kepis in the spring sunshine.

“Jones! Tell the warriors we want no trouble. Only their chiefs. Tell them I'd like to round up every one of their miserable number who had a hand in that raid … but I won't,” Sherman ordered. “Tell them to take their women and children back to the agency now before something ugly happens.”

The chiefs were yelling at their men, the warriors and women hollering back in a confusion of voices and keening cries.

“General, they're demanding to know what's to happen with the chiefs you've taken prisoner,” Jones said.

“We're taking them down to Fort Richardson to trial.”

“Why Richardson?” asked Tatum.

Sherman grinned. “Because that's the military district where the ghastly murders took place … and that's where we'll form a jury.”

“You mean a lynch-mob, Sherman,” Tatum spat, suddenly angry and no longer able to contain it. “That's what you'll find—a bloody lynch-mob!”

“We're giving these red butchers more than they gave those seven dead heroes,” Sherman growled. “What trial did they give those seven—”

“General!” shouted Horace Jones, tugging on Sherman's elbow.

“Who the hell is that?” Sherman asked as he turned, seeing an older Kiowa approach on horseback, coming from the direction of the sutler's. The rest of the Kiowas parted for his pony, quieting to some degree. “Is that Big Tree … or Eagle Heart—the one we're looking for?”

“No. That's Lone Wolf.”

Sherman grinned. “So, that's the one who Custer and Sheridan captured, along with Satanta, back in Indian Territory a month after Custer wiped out Black Kettle's village on the Washita.”

“The same,” Jones replied.

Lone Wolf's face did not betray any emotion as he kicked a leg over his pony and dropped to the ground, his arms filled with weapons. He stopped at the edge of the porch, slowly sizing up the scene, then handed a bow and quiver of arrows to a warrior. To another Lone Wolf tossed a Spencer repeater. With only a Spencer left to him, the Kiowa chief cocked the hammer and advanced on the tall, graying soldier from Washington City who stood at the center of all those on the porch.

Sherman flung his arms out to stay the soldiers who suddenly threw open the window shutters behind him. “Let's keep everyone calm, fellas,” he said quietly.

Lone Wolf's eyes looked over the chiefs as if reading the story as plain as print. Behind him the crowd fell completely silent as the Kiowa chief placed one moccasin on the bottom step. Slowly, Lone Wolf climbed to the second step, bringing up the muzzle of the Spencer to point at Sherman's chest. He stood there a moment longer, then placed a foot on the third step, which would bring him within point-blank range of the soldier chief.

Grierson waited no longer. He lunged from the edge of the crowd on the porch, seizing the muzzle of Lone Wolf's carbine.

“Jones, tell these warriors that bloodshed is no way to save their chiefs! Tell them!” shouted the colonel as he wrestled with Lone Wolf to keep the muzzle pointed at the porch awning.

Angry muttering ran through the crowd as Lone Wolf ceased his struggle and reluctantly let the colonel take the carbine. Completely ringing him stood soldiers, their sidearms drawn and pointed at the old chief. Behind the rest of his people stood more of the buffalo soldiers, while at the windows behind Satanta and Satank waited more, their rifles at the ready.

“Jones, tell one of these warriors to go to the sutler's and fetch Big Tree back here. Send another to search for Eagle Heart. I want them both,” Grierson said, watching Sherman nod in approval.

Minutes passed by as Captain Carpenter's men allowed the women and children to pass off the parade and begin filing back to the agency in hopes of quieting the angry warriors.

“We're not waiting any longer, Colonel. Get some men over there to the sutler's place now!” Sherman ordered.

Grierson sent Lieutenants Woodward and Pratt with D Company.

When they reached the post store, there was a small crowd of Kiowa gathered both outside and in as Woodward led a small detail through the door, sending Pratt and the rest to surround the entire building.

Behind the counter stood a young Indian, for the moment busy passing out the goods he was taking from the shelves behind him. He froze when Woodward entered and the buffalo soldiers spread out behind their lieutenant.

Then in the blink of an eye the warrior tore off behind the counter, pulling his blanket over his head as he dove through the window at the back of the store with a crash of glass and wood. The Kiowa were screaming in the building, shouting outside as well when the war-chief rolled onto his feet, abandoned his blanket and took off at a sprint.

“Get him, boys! Catch him alive if you can—catch him alive!” Lieutenant Pratt ordered above the commotion.

At that moment near the trees shading the store, Eagle Heart was himself coming to the army post, answering the summons to see the soldier chief. From the shadows he heard the commotion and saw Big Tree hurl himself through the window, taking off across the field behind the store. Eagle Heart disappeared into the shadows, fleeing before he was discovered.