The Holy Road

Chapter LVI

Early in his life as a warrior, Wind In His Hair had nearly been killed several times on a single raid into Mexico and on his return home had sought the counsel of an old woman reputed to have the power to turn bad luck to good.

When the old woman learned that Wind In His Hair had recently begun to eat with metal implements, she advised him to cease the practice. Wind In His Hair had followed the advice unerringly, and not once in the intervening years had his lips touched food tainted by the metal of a white man's spoon or ladle.

Even in the chaos of the wrinkled-hand chase, he had scrupulously monitored the preparation of his food, but in a temporary camp sequestered in a stand of cottonwoods several miles from the wagon train, the taboo was violated.

That morning had been particularly confusing. Camp was erected as men prepared for battle, and while trying to organize the warriors, he had too hastily accepted and devoured a bowl of broth and meat. A few minutes later One Braid Trailing had brought him a second breakfast. Tracking the first breakfast back to its source, Wind In His Hair discovered a large metal ladle submerged in the pot that had produced his meal. If he led his warriors that morning he was certain to die, so he watched sourly as two hundred warriors disappeared into the east to confront the wagon train.

Careful to avoid casualties, they swooped down from all sides and put the mule-driven wagons to flight, killing several soldiers and knocking down a few mules in the process.

The ungainly wagon train fled in the direction of a nearby stream, hoping to make its stand in reach of water, but the warriors quickly surrounded it, forcing the wagons to halt short of their objective.

The whites drew their vehicles into a tight circle and began to throw up breastworks of wet earth as the Comanches and Kiowa, following Wind In His Hair's strategy of weakening them through hunger, thirst, and attrition, settled in to snipe at long range.

But it was not long before the simple plan began to unravel.

In days past the discipline of a siege would have been carried out, but now the buffalo were dead, the army was coming after them, families had little to eat, and every warrior felt constant pressure to do something. No one was content to sit still, especially the young men, and when Smiles A Lot impulsively and suddenly rode his black horse toward the encircled wagons, roars of approval followed him.

He moved at a walk until close enough to draw the enemy's fire. Then his horse rose into the air, came back to ground, and, with a great leap that made a projectile of both horse and rider, charged into the fire coming from the wagons.

At fifty yards, Smiles A Lot veered to a parallel course and inaugurated a demonstration of horsemanship for which the Comanche was famous. At full speed he grabbed a hunk of mane, swung down along the racing animal's side, struck the earth with both feet, and vaulted into the air before coming to rest again on the animal's back. He repeated this astounding maneuver several times before pulling up, wheeling, and sprinting back the way he had come. To the amazement of all who could see, he rose and stood on the horse's back, dropped down, swung over the speeding horse's side, passed under the animal's neck, swung up the other side, and stood once again.

Though unrivaled in its mastery Smiles A Lot's daring exhibition was part of a long tradition practiced by bold warriors of preceding generations. It was always good to do such things: it swelled the courage of brothers-in-arms while disconcerting the enemy and making him waste ammunition. But as Smiles A Lot halted to give his heaving mount a chance to catch its breath, his heart and mind fused in an indescribable entity. The blood pumping through his veins resounded like the beat of a great drum. It filled the open prairie around him with an irresistibly primal call, and the circle of wagons ahead suddenly grew as transparent as the enemies he had seen in the vision at the great Medicine Bluff.

Smiles A Lot charged the wagons again but this time he did not veer, and as he swung down along the side of the running black horse, his fellow Comanches could not believe what was happening. Smiles A Lot was going through the enemy.

The black horse took flight over one of the wagons with smiles A Lot still hanging at his side. Scattering white men as they landed, horse and rider dug across the open ground, cleared a wagon on the other side, and streaked back onto the prairie.

When Smiles A Lot pulled up again the screams of his fellow fighters overwhelmed all sound. The voices did not abate. They rushed into his ears and spread through his body like fire. The black horse pivoted on his hind legs and charged again. This time Smiles A Lot did not conceal himself but rode into the oncoming fire from the wagons straight up. Again they leapt a wagon, tore over the ground occupied by the whites, flew over a second wagon, and sped back across the prairie until they reached the ranks from which they had come. The feathers on Smiles A Lot's head had been shot to pieces. The toe of one of his moccasins was missing. Both reins had been sliced in half. But the bodies of horse and rider were untouched by white man bullets.

The power and magic of Smiles A Lot electrified the Comanches and Kiowas surrounding the wagon train. The young men could no longer be held in check, and even veteran warriors knew that something must be done. Smiles A Lot's charge had brought their pride to a boil; such that when the warriors talked excitedly about what course to take, it quickly became apparent they could not act without the one who was the soul of resistance.

Riders were dispatched to the village, and, less than an hour later, overcoming his best instincts, Wind In His Hair answered their call.

"We will ride over them," he bellowed, riding up and down the lines of warriors. "We will ride over them again and again until they are dead."

Seeing that the Indians were attacking in full force, the wagon train's commander ordered everyone to take cover. Soldiers and civilians were instructed to go to small arms once the Indians penetrated the defenses, but one among them, a former buffalo-hunter named Arbuckle, had no intention of using a peashooter when he possessed the best rifle a man could own. He slid under a wagon and started firing at the oncoming horde, taking aim at the figure out in front, the one with the big, trailing bonnet of eagle feathers.

Arbuckle emptied a couple of saddles but was unable to get a clear shot at the one he wanted. As the Indian charge broke overhead, Arbuckle about-faced under the wagon to fire at those who had gotten inside the circle.

Suddenly, the mass of horses and men parted and Arbuckle sighted down his rifle at the back of his prize. He squeezed the trigger and the warrior with the bonnet jerked. A hand went to the small of his back and the Indian slumped forward. The man with the eagle feathers disappeared, and Arbuckle's disappointment at not being able to shoot him a second time was fleeting. He knew he had gotten him good with the first round.