The Holy Road

Chapter XXXVIII

Only one among them understood precisely what the defeat at Adobe Walls signaled, and that was Kicking Bird. Though he was as brokenhearted as any man, the leader of those who strove to look beyond the horizon had settled on a final, unalterable course of action that would begin to unfold as soon as they reached the village.

In the meantime, however, an insistent voice began to speak in his head. "Go west. . find food."

They were still several days from home when the detour to the west was made, and they had traveled but a few hours when they met the party led by Wind In His Hair. After debating the possibility of continuing, the war trail, the remaining Hard Shields had at last discarded it and turned their horses for home.

As the leaders of the two groups counciled in the open, under a cloudless sky, a brief reestablishment of brotherhood was effected. Wind In His Hair had also sensed that the village would be hungry and, while they could never make up for the terrible losses they suffered, bringing in food would fill empty stomachs and provide some relief for the hearts of everyone.

The parley was more like a meeting of old, trusted acquaintances rather than actual band members who had known each other all their lives. It was better that way, for the animosity between the two groups was momentarily suspended in the space between them. The smoking was leisurely, the talk was casual, and there was even a little of the joking that had always been a feature of such meetings.

Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair and even Owl Prophet shared laughter over the visionary being knocked off his pony, and when Kicking Bird offered, "I guess your power is pretty good. . you're still alive," a reconciliation of sorts was effected. The council broke up with more camaraderie than anyone had felt in a long time and the two groups rode west together with common purpose.

The country that was once home to buffalo in huge numbers was nearly devoid of game, but after a full day of traveling, the party located a herd of several hundred animals. They were spaced for several miles along the breaks of a wide stream, hiding like refugees from the agents of holocaust, and when the warriors started them they ran not as a herd but like a flock of frightened birds, scattering helter-skelter.

Enough of the big creatures were taken to load every spare pony with hides and meat, and women who might ordinarily have shaken their heads at the sloppiness of the butchering did not complain when the humbled war party returned. The village had been living on scraps for many days, and the arrival of meat had the hoped-for effect.

But the prospect of full bellies did little to offset the present grief. Twenty-two warriors had been left on the slope above Adobe Walls, and ten more had serious wounds that, if not fatal, would incapacitate them for the rest of their lives. Shrieks and moans for the dead and wounded overtook the village even as the meat was being parceled out and, as daylight faded, the communal gloom deepened. Not a single lodge was spared the anguish. Those who had family members were inconsolable, and even as some sheared off their hair and others hacked at their own limbs, relief was no closer.

At twilight the mourning had yet to peak, and it was at this time a lone rider was spotted coming off the prairie. Unfortunately for the little Quaker on his mule, the first riders to reach him were a group of angry young men who ignored his upraised hands and the words of peace and friendship with which he spoke to them in their own language, and contemptuously ripped the small bald man off his mount.

Providentially, the young men began to argue, shoving each other roughly around in a contest to see who would have the right to strike the fatal blow. As the squabble continued, Lawrie Tatum tried to wriggle away through the grass. When a few observant boys pounced on him, the Quaker suddenly found his legs held fast against the ground and several knees pressing into his chest. His head was jerked so hard that his neck cracked, and the merciless face of a young warrior peered, upside down, into his. He saw metal flashing in the sun and he felt a blade cur into his temple and slice backward along the side of his head. Just as he made the realization that he was being scalped alive, the knife halted and his body was suddenly released.

He shut his eyes, trying to comprehend what was happening, and when he opened them again he was looking in the gruesome, one-eyed countenance of Wind In His Hair. The warrior stared at him silently for a few moments. Then the face of Kicking Bird appeared and Laurie Tatum was certain he had received deliverance.

"You want this pitiful creature?" Wind In His Hair asked.

"Hmm," Kicking Bird grunted.

"Better keep him in your lodge. . better watch him. If he comes out these young men will kill him. If I see him, I'll kill him."

There was still a gauntlet of knife-wielding widows and taunting, stone-throwing children to navigate as they passed through the village, and Lawrie Tatum was struck on the head with several projectiles before he was whisked into the safe haven of Kicking Bird's family lodge. While Kicking Bird's wives applied compresses and bandaged his torn and bleeding scalp, the shaken Quaker watched and listened as his host tried to explain that he should stay put until he could be spirited out of the village.

But Lawrie Tatum had not risked his life only to abort his mission, and Kicking Bird was taken aback when his white acquaintance began to converse in passable Comanche.

"Bring Ten Bears," he petitioned. "You. . Ten Bears. . me. . we talk now."

“Now?"

“Yes. . now.”

A few minutes later, the old man, whose spectacles now rested on his nose through every waking hour of the day, took the hand of a white man for the first time.

Fearful of the danger in having the little agent in his special lodge, Kicking Bird shooed his family out and the three men settled on the floor. They smoked Kicking Bird's pipe, and as it began its fourth revolution, the Quaker shook his head negatively. He let his gaze wander fitfully over the floor for a few seconds before glancing first at Kicking Bird, then Ten Bears, then back to Kicking Bird.

"I talk," he said, jabbing a stubby finger against his chest. "I talk now."

Kicking Bird and Ten Bears exchanged puzzled looks. This little man, his face coated with sweat and grime, blood caked in jagged lines along his jaw and throat, his bandaged head giving the impression of an impoverished potentate, and the bent frame of his eyeglasses causing the apparatus to list wildly on his face-what made him think he could simply ride into their village and demand to speak with Ten Bears?

Yet Lawrie Tatum's eyes burned with a bright purpose that would have registered on anyone. The urgency of his mission was so great, in fact, that it transcended his ridiculous appearance, and Kicking Bird and Ten Bears, curious to hear him, nodded for him to go ahead.

Clearly and concisely, the Quaker relayed the new ultimatum. All Comanches must enroll on the reservation within thirty days or suffer the consequences of war with the whites. He also made it clear that while, he personally abhorred war, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he stressed that to take up arms against the whites would be fruitless. He concluded by telling both men that he had spoken truly.

Kicking Bird stared at him, shocked.

"Everyone must come in?" he asked, disbelieving.

“Yes."

"In one moon?"

“Yes."

Ten Bears had pulled out his pipe, packed it, and, in the silence before Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum spoke, had began to smoke.

"One moon not enough," Kicking Bird stated flatly.

"One moon," Lawrie Tatum repeated helplessly. "One moon."

Kicking Bird leaned in toward his visitor.

"Some Comanche fight."

“You. . stop them."

"No, Kicking Bird cannot."

“If you go. . people follow.”

"Some. . maybe. Each man decide. Not Kicking Bird."

Frustrated, the Quaker tacked in another direction.

"The buffalo. ." he began solemnly, "buffalo gone."

Kicking Bird's eyes widened. So did Ten Bears'.

"Gone?" Kicking Bird exclaimed. "Where?"

“Trains."

Lawrie Tatum sighed as Kicking Bird tried to grasp what he was saying.

"East," the Quaker offered.

Direction didn't matter much to Kicking Bird, who was still preoccupied with the concept of buffalo on trains. "How many trains?" he asked.

"Oh," Lawrie Tatum gasped, "I do not know. Many, many, many. All day. All night."

"The buffalo are dead on the prairie," Kicking Bird stated firmly. “Not on trains."

The Quaker's rudimentary Comanche was adequate but, reverting to simple signs, he easily made Kicking Bird and Ten Bears understand that he was not talking about whole buffalo. Only the tongues and skins of the buffalo were being carried east on trains.

Ten Bears took the pipe from his mouth and said something that Kicking Bird quickly translated.

"Buffalo not die. Buffalo holy."

Lawrie Tatum pursed his lips and softened his voice.

"Comanche no eat. . no food. Comanche must come."

Again Ten Bears spoke and Kicking Bird translated.

"We talk in. . in council. . tonight. Ten Bears will not go. Born on prairie. Die on prairie."

Kicking Bird glanced at Ten Bears as the old man continued.

"Ten Bears old," Kicking Bird said. "Too old for white man's holy road."

"Kicking Bird?" Lawrie Tatum asked. "Kicking Bird come in? Touch pen?"

Though his mind was already set, Kicking Bird could not find it in himself to admit his decision.

"Maybe," he answered.

The Quaker agent was crestfallen. He had ridden far into unfamiliar country, risking his life to deliver a distasteful ultimatum. The response to his personal plea had fallen far short of the hopes he harbored, and as he tried to articulate the last part of the offer he did so with none of his normal verve, certain that this, too, would be rejected.

"Come to Washington."

Kicking Bird's face jumped.

"Washington?"

"Great White Father wants. . meet Comanches."

"Who?" Kicking Bird asked.

"You," Lawrie Tatum answered. Then he tilted his head in Ten Bears' direction. "And Ten Bears."

"Kicking Bird. . Ten Bears. . go Washington? Meet Great White Father?"

“Yes."

Kicking Bird translated the startling invitation for the old man, but Ten Bears, after a moment's reflection, shook his head as he spoke.

"Ten Bears say no. Cant ride horse. Can't walk so far."

"Ride train," Lawrie Tatum countered.

Kicking Bird spoke to Ten Bears again and, for the first time, the headman sent his reply directly to Lawrie Tatum.

"White people kill Comanches," he said,

"No, no, no. Great White Father say no. No. . no.” "Catch Comanches. . put in cage."

"No," the Quaker said emphatically. "Kicking Bird, Ten Bears, Washington. Make five, six, seven sleeps. Come home."

Kicking Bird translated and the old man picked up his pipe. He —- it with a brand from the fire and puffed intently. Then he laid it his lap and, when his reply to Kicking Bird was finished, looked naturedly in Lawrie Tatum's direction.

"Ten Bears say he like new eyes Lawrie Tatum give him. Wants eyes to see what white men do. He go."

"Kicking Bird?" the Quaker asked breathlessly.

"Kicking Bird go."

"Wonderful!” Lawrie Tatum exclaimed in English. The two Comanches gazed, at him quizzically and he quickly added in Comanche, "Good. . good!"

The excitement in the lodge was palpable for a few seconds. Then Ten Bears spoke his second thoughts.

"Train safe?" Kicking Bird asked.

"Yes, quite safe."

"No kill Comanche?"

"No," replied the Quaker, who, for emphasis, reached into his saddlebags and pulled out the black book he worshiped. He placed one hand flat on the book, raised the other and swung his head from side to side.

"No kill Comanche."