The Holy Road

Chapter XXXIII

That same afternoon, outriders of the great party discovered the first camp of hunters. The scouts had not actually seen their bivouac, but the distant boom of the long-barreled, far-shooting buffalo guns of the whites told of its existence. Following instructions, the scouts hurried back to the main body of warriors and, shortly after their arrival, the leading men went into council.

No one had ever seen a party of white hunters that consisted of more than ten or twelve men, and their camps never had fortifications. Their heavy, fast-firing rifles presented the most difficult problem. A warrior might not even see the man who was firing before losing his life an instant after he heard the hollow report of the big gun. A handful of such rifles were enough to deter large forces. A night attack, however, reduced this threat to practically nothing.

As the men in the circle talked these things through, it quickly became apparent to all that Kicking Bird's strategy was wise. A few men wondered aloud at the lack of honor in killing enemies as they slept, but they were quickly reminded that the whites were not so much an enemy as a scourge, and a scourge, as everyone knew, must be eradicated by any possible means.

Ever mindful of the niceties of diplomacy, Kicking Bird suggested that each tribe select fifteen warriors by lot to ride in the first wave, an approach embraced by every man in the circle. The timing of the attack was set for an hour before dawn, and as the sun dropped below the horizon, the warriors concluded their talk and returned to their followers, certain that by the time the sun returned, the prairie would be soaking up the hated blood of the buffalo-killers.

Around midnight a force of sixty-five warriors, augmented by Kicking Bird, Wind In His Hair, Young Dog, Touch The Clouds, Wolf Robe, and White Bear, who, by virtue of standing, had been exempted from the random draw, moved to within striking distance of the hunters, camp.

After an hour's wait, two scouts returned to report that there were eight white men in the squalid camp and that all of them, even the guard they had posted, were asleep. Two wagons were parked near the fire, but otherwise there was no visible impediment to the attack.

A few young men whooped with anticipation but their cries were quickly stifled by the reproaches of elders mounted next to them. Only a signal from the man who had created the war party could send it into action, and Kicking Bird was sitting calmly on his pony.

Like any good field commander who strives to leave nothing to chance when the lives of his fighters are in the balance, Kicking Bird decided to wait a few more minutes. It was possible that the scouts, maneuverings had caused a light sleeper to open his eyes, and the Comanche leader wanted to give the camp time to slip back into the deepest slumber possible.

But even the shrewdest commander cannot anticipate all of the infinite chance deviations of life, and it was no different with Kicking Bird. That one of the hunters might have a toothache never occurred to him, much less that the man who sat up in his blanket shortly after the scouts departed had done so at the instance of a throbbing jaw and not because some sixth sense had alerted him to danger. Nor could Kicking Bird have foreseen that the pain in one man's mouth would have such devastating consequences for himself, his warriors, and those whose prayers for success they carried. Had he been able to divine any of these things, Kicking Bird might have concluded that the fate of the Comanches and all other free people on the plains had turned cruel.

The man whose aching jaw was a key element in the destiny of an entire people had been suffering for several days. His fellow hunters had done all they could for him, trying that same afternoon to yank it out with a bullet mold, but their latest effort had only succeeded in breaking off a chunk of the afflicted molar.

The sufferer had tried to hasten sleep with a few long gulps of whiskey, but now; as he sat in the night, staring at the slovenly camp, which stank continually with the odor of rotting blood and skin; he decided impulsively to ride for Adobe Walls.

It pained him to do so because he was going to lose a lot of money, but the hurt in his head was too great. He grabbed up his Sharps rifle, scooped his bedding into his arms, and in minutes was riding north across the prairie.

Half a mile out he heard gunfire at his back and turned to look. The fire at camp was only a pinpoint of light far off in the darkness, and though he couldn't make out the action at that distance, he knew instantly from the volume of rounds being fired that the camp was under attack.

Then, as he sat listening, the gunfire suddenly diminished and a different sound rolled across the prairie. It carne to his ears and traveled into his brain with a creeping recognition that stood his hair on end. He was hearing the primal, horrifying screams of Indians. With the finality of a trip-hammer, the hunter whirled his horse around and, even after reaching a full gallop, didn't stop kicking.