Trail Hand (7 page)

The memories came painfully back. Sitting there with the stench of death around me must have triggered the recollections. It, too, had all started with a dead horse. About five years earlier I had been riding south into Texas, alone, and trailing a piebald pack horse. There was word of a big cattle drive out of San Antonio, and I was hoping to sign on before it left.

The area I was riding through had a scarcity of game, and for the last two weeks I’d been forced to live off of old hardtack, and buffalo jerky so tough you could sole a boot with it. I remember it was early afternoon on a landscape that stretched flat out between two horizons.

Those new to the prairie always describe it as wide, but it’s more than that. It’s so big it hurts the eyes that try to take it all in at once. I’ve never been to sea, but I imagine the sailor on the deck of his ship must have the same sensation as a rider on the plains, one of personal insignificance when compared to the immense beauty of Nature.

I wasn’t searching anything trophy-size that day. I was just looking for something edible, preferably bigger than the palm of my hand, and hopefully meatier. Prairie chicken gets mighty tiresome after a while.

Off in the distance to my right I noticed a small mound that looked out of place. For some reason it seemed the wrong color, or perhaps it was the shape that first attracted my attention. At any rate, there was a chance it might be a kneeling deer or maybe a small stray buffalo down in a wallow. I dismounted and drew my Henry.

I was able to get a good steady bead by laying the rifle across my saddle, but the more I stared across the sights, the stranger that mound looked. My pa had always made a point of teaching me not to shoot until I was sure of the target, even if it meant going without, so I waited. There was no sign of movement, although I felt sure it had to be an animal of some sort. After a minute or two the realization finally set in that what I was aiming at was a downed horse with its saddle still on.

I mounted back up and rode slowly over to it with the rifle slung across my lap. The mound did in fact turn out to be a dead gray gelding, covered in dust and wearing a McClellan saddle. One look at that horse told me there was something very strange about the way it had died.

Although the pony had crippling bullet wounds in its hindquarters and shoulder, they were not lethal ones, and there were no others in its head, chest, or belly. Instead, the horse’s throat had been slashed and it had bled out. More unusual still was the trail of blood that led from the neck to another smaller puddle, over a few feet. There were also tracks on the ground spotted with more drops of blood, leading off toward the northwest.

The footprints appeared to have been made by small feet wearing moccasins. The edges of the tracks were still relatively fresh and sharp, unmarked
by wildlife, and no water or insects had collected in them. Had the prints been older, the natural process of erosion would have begun to round the edges off, and in all likelihood dust and débris would have filled them in. Whoever it was had passed this way not long before my arrival.

Intrigued, I followed the direction those tracks took for about an hour. From the size and spacing of that lone set of prints, I figured they belonged either to a young boy or perhaps a small woman. Trailing moccasin tracks isn’t smart in any man’s book, but there was an Army brand and a cavalry saddle on that dead horse, and as usual I was curious.

I knew I should be more careful, but even if the tracks were made by an Indian, I couldn’t just let him die out there all alone. Whoever it was obviously was in bad shape, what with the way the feet stumbled around and the amount of blood spilled on the ground.

Like I said, I couldn’t be sure who I was following until I finally came upon the body of a young boy, lying facedown on the ground. Although I’d considered the possibility, it still came as a surprise. The lad couldn’t have been more than twelve years old! I knelt down and rolled him over to check for a pulse and, to my relief, found him still alive.

“I wonder what the Sam Hill you’re doing out here by your lonesome?” I asked myself aloud.

His mouth had blood all around it, but no wound, so I reckoned he’d drunk from the horse’s jugular in order to keep himself going. His shirt was torn and there was more blood on his shoulder.
At first I assumed it to have come from the horse, but, as it turned out, there was a bullet hole in his back, hidden up under his long black hair.

I kept some water in a goatskin bag hung on the pack horse and I used it to cool off his head and wash the wounds. I couldn’t tell enough from his clothes to know what tribe he was from, but he was a small boy and he was injured, so I cleaned off his face and shaded him from the sun. Indian or not, I felt it wrong to shoot a child, and was not about to abandon him now.

Fortunately the bullet must have been spent before it finally hit him, because the wound wasn’t deep. The lead fragment I found just under the skin was easily removed, but, even so, I remembered thinking how painful it must have been for one so young.

I sat there holding the boy until he regained consciousness, and then poured some water in his mouth. After a drop or two moistened his lips, he started to drink on his own, and opened his eyes. They were sky blue!

“Well now, what do we have here?” I asked.

He gasped and tried weakly to push himself away. My smile reassured him a little, and after a short time he finally calmed down.

“Whoa, there, sprout, relax, you’ll be all right. Just take it easy and drink slowly.”

He went limp, took a couple more swallows, and then collapsed back to sleep without saying a word. I carried him over to the horses and made him a bed out of my blankets and saddle.

He slept for the rest of the afternoon and all through the night, awaking only once to take some broth made from the ocotillo powder and
other herbs I always carried. He was too dehydrated even to pass water till late the next morning. While he rested, I secured the horses, made some coffee, and kept watch all night with my Henry by my side. He was only a boy, but he was also a frightened plains Indian, a fact I wasn’t about to take for granted.

“Sure wish you spoke some English so I can decide what to do with you,” I said the next morning. He had been awake for over an hour and was trying to eat a little of the breakfast I’d fixed, but mostly he just drank. What food he did manage to keep down had to be chewed over and over, and swallowed slowly.

He had a shrunken stomach from not having eaten for so long. I’d been that way once before, and, contrary to what most folks might think, when a person’s that starved, as much as he may want to, it’s hard to get a whole lot to stay down. That kind of deprivation makes even the simple act of eating a painful task.

The boy had hollowed eyes and stared back at me with a blank and distant expression.

“I don’t even know your name, where you’re from, where you’re going to, or anything,” I said, more to myself than him. “And what in the world I’m going to do with you is beyond me. Sure don’t fancy riding right into a Comanche camp with you. Hell, I’m not even sure you’re all Injun. Never saw one with blue eyes before.”

“Kiowa,” he said, looking up from his plate for a moment.

“How’s that?” I asked. “You understood that? Can you speak English?”

He nodded his head. “Kiowa say my white
parents killed years ago in buffalo stampede. I found in small hole near their wagon with Father on top of me. He died trying to save me from being crushed. The Kiowas heard my cries, and Wolf Tail, second cousin to Santank, took me as his own.”

“Santank, the chief? I heard of him.”

“Yes. He is Kaitsenko.”

“What’s that? Sorry, I don’t follow.”

“The Kaisenko are the Real Dogs, the Society of Ten Bravest. They lead the tribe in battle, and are sworn to fight to victory or death. Three of the Real Dogs wear red cloth bands, six wear red skin of elk, and the leader, Chief Sitting Bear, wears a black skin from neck to ground.”

“I get it. So you grew up with this cousin, Wolf Tail.”

“Well, I was raised by Pipe Smoking Girl, a Kiowa medicine woman, but Wolf Tail has always called me his son,” he said proudly.

“OK, so what name do you go by now, boy?” I asked, filling my cup back up with coffee.

He responded in Kiowa, which I didn’t speak, later explaining in English that it meant something like Buffalo Calf Wailing.

“Well, I can’t go around callin’ you Sobbing Buffalo or Buffalo Crying Calf or whatever,” I said. “Don’t you remember your real family’s name?”

“Now Kiowa my family. Only one,” he said stubbornly.

“Look, sprout, if you’re going to ride with me, I’ll have to call you something easy enough for both of us.”

“What sprout mean?” he asked.

“That? Well, it’s sort of a nickname. You know,
like a bean sprout, new growth…youth?” I tried to explain.

“Fine,” he said, nodding his head.

“Fine what?”

“From now on I am Sprout.”

I shrugged my shoulders. At least it was simple enough, and for the time being neither he nor I were in any mood to argue.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t remember his own name you sure speak English well enough.”

“Some I remember, some Wolf Tail teach me. Rest I learn from…uh…half-breed men who lived among us. At one time white men were welcomed in Kiowa camps. First ones act more like us humans. But after that, others come to take buffalo and rob us of our lands. They are like mosquitoes, coming in swarms to suck Kiowa life blood dry. Chief Santank soon learn truth. He always keep me near whenever he deal with white men. Santank wanted to see how men who translate for Long Knives lie. White men never knew I understand English when I play nearby them. Santank and Wolf Tail are wise men, not fools. They get better meaning from white words with me around to help,” he said proudly.

“Don’t you want to go back to your real people now?” I asked innocently. “Maybe your family had kinfolk that are still around. The Army might have a list of people who are missing and any relatives that are still looking.”

“Kiowa are my family!” he answered angrily. “And Long Knives cannot be trusted. They have no respect for the people, or the land. They do not know what is right.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard. After all, they can’t all be bad.”

“Who do you think shot me? Why do you think I am alone out here?” he said, adjusting the sling I had made for his shoulder.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Ever since soldiers come, they have tried to kill us or put us on reservations. Kiowa always walk the earth free, north from the land of the Dakota and south to Méjico. No limits, no reservations. My people were traveling south, away from Fort Sill when Long Knives attack us. We had harmed no one. Wolf Tail wanted to go south to hunt over land that was once ours. Just to hunt. But soldiers attack us without warning. When we see them coming, we tried to run, not fight.”

“It’s a little hard to imagine Kiowa braves running,” I commented.

“Our braves were not afraid for themselves, never. Kiowa fear no men in battle, but they do worry about women and children. When Long Knives started shooting, our men tried to lead them away. A group of soldiers caught me. One was about to shoot me when his captain stopped him. He saw my face and blue color to eyes, as you did, he say to me that I am now
rescued
and gave orders to take me away.”

“What about the others in the group you were with? Where are they?” I asked, fearing I might already know the answer.

“The captain made me watch as soldiers killed all the Kiowas they had captured.”

“Not the women and children?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly, the pain evident in
his expression. “Pipe Smoking Girl, too,” he added sadly.

“So how did you end up here?” I asked.

“First chance I get, I steal knife from soldier next to me. I stick him in arm and broke free. They shot me.” He touched his shoulder. “But I ride away. Try to find my people.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I knew how painful that wound was but amazingly he never showed it. At least not to me.

We camped another full day until he was strong enough to ride.

“I’m headed south, Sprout,” I said, “so I guess you’ll have to come with me. At least until I can find a place to drop you off.”

He stood his ground and shook his head. “North.”

“Sorry. Not headed that way. Can’t afford to lose any more time,” I replied. “Besides, I’m not sure I would be smart to ride around Indian Territory looking for Kiowas. It’s not worth the risk.” It was a harsh comment to make to him, but I was really just thinking out loud. “Come on, Sprout, you’ve got no choice.” I turned the horses around and slowly walked south, figuring he’d follow sooner or later.

I was wrong. When I looked back, he was already several hundred yards away on foot, headed in the opposite direction.

“Of all the stubborn….” I stared at him a while, and then, cursing to myself, reluctantly turned the horses north.

Later, as I shifted the packs between the two mounts, I looked over at the boy cautiously.

“He’s a bit spirited,” I said, referring to the piebald. “Sure you can handle him?”

By way of reply, he simply grabbed hold of the pack horse’s mane, swung up on the paint, and galloped around in circles. It was an incredible display of horsemanship for one so young, highlighted by him sliding off the horse’s far side and hanging on by the stirrup and cinch strap. He was riding at a dead run, facing backward while lying completely horizontal. He had practically vanished from sight when viewed from my side. It was more than enough to convince me of his riding ability.

We traveled together for almost a week, until crossing a river about 200 miles from Fort Sill. We had trailed the rest of the Kiowas, who’d escaped, to a clump of trees at the bend of a small creekbed.

Sprout was perched in front of me, just behind the saddle horn, my arms around him. The sight ahead had us both paralyzed. There, lined up along the bank, in a straight row of fifteen, were the remaining Kiowa braves. They were side-by-side, and all were dead. Worse yet, they had each been decapitated! Every brave was stretched out, legs apart, with his head stuck between them, staring forward in a grisly display of the white man’s cruelty.