Chapter 20
Chapter 20: Reaping the Whirlwind
As the war party trotted towards Adobe Walls, the younger braves in the lead were itching to show off their war-craft. A teen-aged brave spotted an animal in the dusky light and showing off, shot it with his bow. When he retrieved his arrow, it proved to be a skunk. But it had died so fast that it never gave off it's usual pungent stench. The Indians who witnessed this amazing luck laughed hilariously.
White Eagle was not long behind the vanguard of the huge coalition and came upon them as they celebrated, but was not amused. He held up his hand to stop the nervous laughter. “This is not allowed. You must hold back... this kind of wasteful killing could bring us failure.” He looked sternly at the impetuous brave with the skunk. “The Great Spirit does not tolerate such murder as this- a harmless animal, you have no plan to eat. I should make you eat it raw! It would be better for you to go back to your mother- but bury it first, so that you do not kill our whole mission.”
This was a bad omen, especially to Comanche tradition. But it was only one among several. The deadly and determined amalgamation of Plains warriors arrived upon the scene about 250 strong, with stragglers following behind. White Eagle sat on his horse and confidently signaled for the first foray; his bravest warriors were to get near to the compound and eliminate the night watch with their bows. Once that was done, Quanah was sent in to wipe out the village. And this may have been the last order White Eagle ever gave.
Aware that hostilities could begin at any moment, and unwilling to accept the myth that Indians preferred not to fight at night, early in the morning of the 27th, James Hanrahan shot off his shotgun inside of his saloon, awakening everyone in the adobe village. When they came running, he told them that a faulty ceiling beam must have cracked and made the noise, but he had achieved his purpose, and offered everybody a drink... It was a joke, but with dead serious intentions. And this was considered reasonable social behavior at Adobe Walls. Sadly some drovers watching the herd out on the outskirts did not wake and did not come, and when they heard their dog start barking, they hollered for him to shut up. They and their Newfoundland dog were soon bristling with arrows before the first war cry.
Quanah led a classic charge of excited plains warriors down into Adobe Walls, a blood-curdling legion of avengers, ready to kill every person inside. The next bad omen was almost immediate, when several bonneted war chiefs were thrown into somersaults when their ponies stepped into prairie dog holes. Their pride may have been damaged, but they all would have been disappointed had they known that there were only 28 men and one woman in the whole ill-fated compound. Still these kinds of odds should have given all of them great fun and satisfaction.
Catching the hunters by surprise, they had been able to execute several residents before the men inside the buildings knew they were under attack. In the first charge, the Indians were proud to use their new Colt's revolvers, originally obtained from the whiskey ranches, which meant they could fight close and reload in seconds. But the so-called battle was a big let down, as the buffalo hunters began to use their expert marksmanship with their long-reaching rifles. Soon a dozen or more dead Indians littered the streets. Charge after charge by the tribesmen proved that the White's bullets still killed accurately and with stunning affect, regardless of White Eagle's assurances. But Quanah would not relent, trying to crash in a door with the butt of his horse, then climbing on to the roof and firing down into the habitations, all to no avail. Thick adobe walls were great protection in such fire storms.
The main attack was over in two hours, and when White Eagle's horse was killed underneath him, the warriors began to defect in droves. A disgusted Comanche stopped and scalped the Newfoundland dog, his only trophy for all of his trouble. One young brave demanded that White Eagle retrieve his father's body, lying inside the compound, his death the result of misplaced trust in a false prophet. Since he was supposedly immune to the bullets, he should not hesitate to at least do that for him. But instead the little medicine man stood in shock, and became an instant pariah. Quite quickly the various tribesmen became disillusioned, and they began to gather their dead and turn away, pronouncing White Eagle as a liar and a fake and a coward. Scores of Indians laid about dead, and many more would join them if Quanah continued to send his forces into the deadly fire of the hated “Texans.” But many of the warriors began to speak openly of “bad medicine.”
The Battle of Adobe Walls was over, but the aftermath would take weeks. First on the agenda was a fierce reckoning within the Indian leadership. False claims and empty promises had led hundreds of proud plains warriors into a debacle, and those falsehoods had to be confronted. Their owner had to answer for needless deaths and the destruction of Native American morale. The Cheyennes were the first to give White Eagle a piece of their mind.
Dull Knife spat towards White Eagle and called him “Isa tai,” meaning Coyote Shit Ass, and begging him to a fight. “You have no medicine, Coyote Ass” He declared as he flashed his teeth, “You liar. You have caused many deaths on this day- a day of our shame. the Whites desecrate their bodies, as we watch. You have wasted their lives... banished their souls! Kicking Bird was right! From this day we will know you as Coyote Shit Ass. Only the most foul, disgusting things come from your mouth and your spirit!”
White Eagle looked right through the brave dog soldier, wishing Dull Knife would run his lance right through his body, and end his misery. He knew that he would never recover from this debacle. Dull Knife raised his lance and pronounced, “From now on, until your soul joins those you have betrayed, we will call you Coyote Shit Ass, the Indian Soul Rustler!”
Quanah grabbed Dull Knife's lance, before he could find the nerve to kill the shrinking shaman. He jerked it away, towering over Dull Knife and ready to defend his fellow tribesman. “He is not our enemy, dog soldier, the Texans are our enemy. Do not spill Indian blood while we are trying to avenge for our fathers!”
Quanah's credibility as a war chief was now in question, and he would have spent more lives and risked his own to save face, with disastrous results. But wiser minds prevailed. He was finally shot and soon even his faithful, devil-may-care fellow Comanches would not make another charge. Native American participants later estimated at least seventy Plains warriors had been killed in the battle. After all of their palaver and dancing and historic tribal cooperation, they had only managed to kill four “Texans.”
Later some Cheyennes went and found "Coyote Shit Ass" and beat him unmercifully, but were careful not to kill him. It was most important not to insult Quanah, and it gave them more satisfaction knowing the medicine man would suffer a long time from his beating. They planned to return often to freshen his injuries.
The frustrated handful of warriors who stayed camped in a haphazard siege for days, hoping the others would rally, but eventually gave up as the taunting hunters posted the heads of their unretrieved brothers-in-arms, scalped and impaled on poles around the village; ultimate insults intended to infuriate the warriors, and coax them to throw caution to the wind and charge once more. The bloody, fly-infested warrior heads on those gnarly juniper stakes stared blankly out into all directions on the plains, but quite hauntingly at the disgusted remnant of Quanah's army. It was a sight even he could not bear, and they all eventually trickled away. There were plenty of other Texans, less fortified and easier to kill.
The hunters were not in terrible danger there, but they dared not leave. Their supply line had been cut, and it could well be a long trip back to Dodge. Or a short deadly one. So they made the best of it.
This battle was the first of many shooting scrapes which made Bat Masterson famous. Alongside him, shooting with cruel accuracy was Billy Dixon, who had personally sent many of the long distance rounds which flabbergasted the attackers. But few chose to point out that in the same buildings, fighting for their lives, were two gunfighters who later became as infamous as these previous men had become famous; “Dutch Henry” Born, a ruthless horse thief, and Jim “Bermuda” Carlyle, later a famous gunslinger in the Lincoln County War. While serving on a makeshift posse, he foolishly made himself a hostage to the “Regulators” led by Billy the Kid, drank a few rounds with them and ended up riddled with bullets. Such were the defenders of the Panhandle version of the Alamo, but they at least had the distinction of humiliating their attackers. Still, as time passed, and the Comanches lost interest, the people inside slipped away, never to return. The trainload of goods brought there were mostly left to the Comanches to scavenge.
Whirlwind was back at the agency by early July bragging that they were not through. He let Agent Miles know that the “whiskey ranches” and stage stops were next. Soon the vengeful warriors aimed their lances at two strings of “whiskey ranches” in northern Indian Territory, and southern Kansas, both originating at the Indian Agency, one towards Wichita, the other towards Dodge.
Outlaw “entrepreneurs” who cared little for the law had planted these trading posts which cut through the middle of the Nations. They were perhaps the ugliest manifestations of free enterprise ever created, as combination whiskey bootlegging, gun-running, and prostitution one-stop shops. Only one post on the trail between the agency and Wichita was licensed, and that was Lee & Reynolds, which maintained a decent record, although all of the establishments were believed to have been trading illegally with the Indians in some way. The rest, which were referred to euphemistically as “ranches,” were known by names such as Kingfisher Ranch, Skelton Springs Ranch, Buffalo Springs Ranch, Baker Ranch, and Pole Cat Ranch. And these were some of the main targets of the Indian uprising, which was nothing more than an a predictable knee jerk reaction, an ethnic cleansing reflecting the terms of their treaties with the United States Government, and which it had neglected to enforce.
After numerous crimes and cons, the whiskey ranches were known to harbor most of the troublemakers who plagued the various tribes. Their appeal had been that they would trade with the Indians with no limits on the alcohol, and quite generously with firearms. But after the Indians traded their buffalo hides or other things for goods, horse thieves often followed them and robbed and even killed them. These dens of iniquity, which featured the wildest and meanest men and women of the West, were so remote and so wild, most of their stories are only hinted at through newspaper accounts, and then only of their celebrated demise. But in the blink of an eye, border villages such as Sun City, Mule Creek, Smallwood and several more obscure contraband outposts north of the Cimmeron in southwest Kansas were on fire, and their inhabitants dead or scattered. Five "traders" were counted dead at Sun City, but the death toll at the others was never really counted.
A couple of days after Whirlwind's warnings, Agent Miles fled his agency in western Indian territory with a couple of dozen refugees. They made it to the Lee & Reynolds stage station and collapsed, only to discover many huddled women and children, hungry, stranded and afraid to leave. There they heard of the troubles and near tragedy of “Monchy” Russell and his men at the cattle station. But all nine had survived with only two men wounded after being surrounded by fifty warriors. Men further out on the prairie did not fare so well- and they had watched poor Bill Watkins impaled and mutilated as he desperately fled towards the station. The stage stops all along the trail had similar stories, if they had not been altogether destroyed.
Curiously, Miles's entourage was not touched, but they witnessed considerable carnage on their flight to safety. They came upon the dead and burned bodies of Pat Hennessey and his teamsters, and a wagon train circled around hysterical travelers with no horses left to take them out of the wilderness. Every sign on the way to Kansas told of the Native's thoroughly deadly, yet selective methods.
The Indians were no doubt glad to see Miles's party leave the Territory, but they seemed to know who their real enemies were. It was never recognized at the time just how surgical their raids had been.
Alvin and Sim were stuck in Dodge for the time being. It was too dangerous to try to return to eastern Kansas in the wagon. So they took more photographs and waited for a safe path to open up. Rath and Lee and Reynolds, the Dodge-based investors, cried for the cavalry to retaliate, but found the army to be reluctant participants. Good soldiers, they cleaned their rifles and waited for their orders, which they knew were on the way. Meanwhile the Delaware Scouts were already scouring the Arapaho villages for intelligence. Government sanctioned wars are not overnight things.
The population in Dodge nearly doubled overnight as Buffalo hunters, teamsters, surveyors, railroad crews and settlers sought refuge from Indian hostilities. Bat Masterson finally came in with a bunch of buffalo hunters who had made the stand-off against the Plains Tribes at Adobe Walls, and suddenly the newspaper scare blossomed into well-founded hysterics. Marksmen Masterson and Billy Dixon were the toasts of the town, as everyone crowded into the saloons to hear the latest accounts of savagery and heroism. They had fought bravely, then sneaked out of the compound, saving themselves, but leaving the many goods stocked there by Mr. Rath and others to fend for themselves. It was a sizable loss. But there was no disputing the basic facts, a couple of dozen hunters had survived a holocaust of Native American anger, facing perhaps 300 warriors with superior firearms and inspiring pervasive Indian disillusionment. But woe to those persons caught stranded on the prairie without sufficient cover and ammunition.
Meanwhile, Agent Miles had been able to inspire a civilian response among the Dodge citizenry. Fifty men organized a militia to go and chase the renegades back to hell's door if need be. Still waiting for Col. Nelson Mile's cavalry to arrive in Dodge, Black Otter agreed to scout for them. Sim looked longingly at Alvin, wanting to join them; this was his big chance to see some real action in the West of his childhood imaginings, but Alvin just glared at him. “Don't kid yourself, Sim, this is not 'cowboys and Indians'- this is REALITY; get yourself killed or maimed for life. Or worse get left behind when you get tired, and get caught all by yourself facing a few dozen warriors. No, leave it to the men who know how to do this.” It was wise and quite unwelcomed advice, but he heeded Alvin's admonishments. They watched and listened to the townsmen as they planned their adrenaline-infused venture, which was already beginning to unravel.
An old geezer wanted to go along but was shunned because of his age. A teen-ager was sent home as well because he was too young. But the geezer was not giving up easily, and dove into the suspicions on the streets of Dodge City.
“You fellers ought ta know- Lee & Reynolds PAID that damn Comanche to attack Adobe Walls... to eliminate their competition!” A fight nearly broke out at that point, and Alvin and Sim retired to the sanity of their tent.
Whirlwind had spoken and Indian justice had been applied, and now the United States Army was finally considering some action. There was no doubt who had started the coming conflict, which would be remembered as the “Red River War,” and there was no doubt about who had been, somewhat deservedly, the object of Indian wrath. And now there was no doubt about who would, mile by mile, acre by acre, end the devil-inspired conflict. The army finally and reluctantly officially entered the fray in late July. By this time there had been over a month of scattered and bloody retaliations across the central plains. A great military campaign was conceived and organized, bringing a large U. S. force into northern Texas from different directions, and Indian justice would be stopped, even if it meant their near extermination.
Coyote Bowels embraced his new name, understanding the sentiments which awarded it. Depressed and in shock from his beating, he sat down on a blanket and began to pray. What had he done wrong? Why had the Great Spirit let him be so deceived? Dull Knife had been right, and the name he gave him fit better than anything he could think of, and the beating he got was deserved. Still, he could not bear it. Perhaps he would, over time, just be known as Coyote, an ignoble predator and scavenger. He closed his eyes and wanted to get drunk, the only thing that might temporarily erase his overpowering humiliation, but all the whiskey had been consumed. Coyote was left alone with his sober self-condemnation.
Chief Moway came to him and was followed by two White slave boys, who were being initiated into the Comanche tribe. He led them up to Isa tai, and told them to stand while he presented Isa tai with the tribal council's verdict. Sunburned, scratched, cut, bruised and bleeding, they had already had all of the conflict they wanted.
Moway was a powerful man, in status as well as in physique. He was also a man of few words, and had said very little during the whole campaign. Now he was sent to relay a message, and a brutally physical one. “The Chiefs have convened White Eagle. You are now to be called Isa Tai, Coyote Bowels. Because that is the lowest, most disgusting, most useless matter on this earth." Moway stopped and let that statement resonate into the prairie breeze, for eternity to affirm. "It was given to me to punish you, because I could be trusted not to KILL YOU.”
“Coyote Bowels” sat and looked straight ahead. He could only imagine what punishment was deemed appropriate. His humiliating fate was to be beaten to death by White children!
Quanah, Wild Horse, White Antelope, Horseback and others watched resolutely from a distance, with subtle grief on their faces. Moway stepped back and pointed to Isa tai, and told the boys to beat him. Each held a stone club and yet neither had ever used one. Moway shook his pointed fist at Isa tai, and demanded they beat him, but the two boys stood, afraid and confused. Then Moway yanked one of the clubs away and hit Isa tai hard across the back of the head with his wooden club, knocking him out instantly, then he fake-hit him with the stone club all over. Moway stalked back to them and handed the stone club back and pointed angrily. When they hesitated, he pushed them both on top of Isa tai, and took one of them's hand, which held a club, and beat at the unconscious man with it, without striking. They began to tap at Isa tai, but Moway was not having it, and slapped them and beat them with his fists, and waved his club, making it clear, “beat him- or I beat YOU!” They finally commenced to half-heartedly beat the poor medicine man on his back and shoulders.
Isa tai began to bleed here and there, but this was not enough. So Moway took the club again, and showed them by fake-hitting to hit all over his body, and not in just one place. He swung at his head, at his arms, at his legs, and at his feet. And finally the boys did as they were instructed. This way no Comanche's hand had inflicted any lethal blows on a fellow Comanche. Later on, if there were to be repercussions from family members, they would be aimed at the White captives, who had just become mercenary executioners.
Then all was quiet as Moway walked away. And the tribe moved out, leaving Coyote Bowels on the prairie to bleed and stink and maybe die.
The next day, a young brave was sent on a fast horse to leave him a buffalo bladder of water. He respectfully laid it down, and stared to see if Coyote was still breathing. When he saw a slight rise in his side, he took it as a sign of life and quickly returned to the caravan, which was headed into the plains of southern Colorado. It was now up to the great Spirit to decide Coyote's fate.
The other Plains tribes had been warned not to touch the medicine man, and that there would be severe repercussions if they did. The Kiowas and Arapahos could be trusted, but they were not so confident about the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. Still, they had to leave him there, vulnerable, even to Cheyenne retribution, to allow the Great Spirit to do his will.
Coyote had a concussion and was unconscious for almost twenty four hours. Then he sat for several hours, just finding solace in the blue sky, and the prairie birds as they sang. They welcomed him back to life, and promised that he would survive. A hawk flew over and tilted his wings to the currents of the wind and glided away, as if to say, “Get up Coyote- you must go now.” So he staggered to his feet, and suddenly felt every blow Moway's boys had made, and saw the bruises, and fell to his knees and wept like a child. When he was able to, he took a few steps, then some more, and finally he was walking, even though his body was screaming in pain. This too was part of the punishment.
He was alive, and that was enough for now. He knew he was when he licked his lips and had very little saliva to wet them. He took a sip and thanked the Great Spirit for the water, as now it would probably save his life. The cool Panhandle breeze electrified his body, pressing his bruises, but cooling him all over. It felt good to be alive.
Tribal leaders allowed his wife to leave the tribe in order to attend to him after he had been abandoned for forty-eight hours. She had stayed back after the first day, and waited. This time period was considered sufficient suffering, and then she could provide him food and a lean-to, and treat his wounds, if he was treatable. On her way she passed by a Cheyenne camp, and realized that the Dog Soldiers were carefully watching Coyote's recovery and debating what part they might play in his death- or his resurrection. Once the Comanches were out of the way, and they had applied some whiskey to the equation, there was no telling what they might decide to do.
Coyote waived her off at first. He did not want her to see him in this pathetic condition. He worried that if she interfered, the Dog Soldiers, whom he could hear from time to time when the wind was right, would get rough with her. He also knew that once she stayed with him, she would be separated from the tribe, perhaps forever, as nomadic peoples, especially in wartime could be hard to find. He tried to scold her and told her to go. But the force of the swelling on his face and the continuous blood on his lips would dry and almost glue his mouth shut. So he waved at her violently, but she patiently ignored his antics.
“You are not going to die White Eagle, why do you fight me? Why do you fight life?” She scolded, as only wives can do. “We can and will do this- together. Let me build you a shelter.” Finally Coyote yielded and quit resisting her help, and after several days most of the Cheyennes were gone. In a week he was functioning well, eating and hunting small game.
Then the Dog Soldiers came. Displeased with Coyote's progress, they threw him on a horse and took him away. Coyote was not surprised at all, and did not put up a fight. He did however beg them to take his wife a horse so she could catch up to her tribe. They gave her a stray mule. Then they took “Isa tai” far enough away north that she could not follow, and then they gave him the beating they thought he really deserved. It was mostly cursing and whipping with horse whips which cut into his flesh, and a few more brutal blows with wooden clubs. But this time, they left no water, and his wife could not find him. This time his fate was truly in the Great Spirit's hands, without tribal hedging. Really, without a chance.
The Dog Soldiers sat and watched. Only a great deal of suffering would satisfy them. It was nothing personal, nothing they would not do to one another, if one of them dangerously misled the tribe or violated their trust. These were the Mossad of the Plains Tribes. They were not people to trifle with, much less lead into a slaughter.
Coyote laid naked and bleeding for two days before he even tried to move. When he finally did, he crawled with the speed and grace of a turtle to a large shrub to hide himself from predators. All he could do was pray, and he did, and occasionally snatched a grasshopper to eat. This was justice, he knew, and he was not angry. But he worried about his wife and family, and how this terrible event would affect them, and he cried until he had no more tears.
Nearly dead, the vanquished medicine man slept a great deal, as his body recovered, and occasionally he looked around to try to discern whether the Dog Soldiers were still guarding his sequestration. He had not heard them for awhile, and this gave him some peace. And as he heard a paisano moaning soulfully in the distance, it's mournful song escorted a dream into his subconscious, and he fell into deep sleep. A white eagle came to him in his dream and told him he would soon die. A paisano however came and argued that he had seen a different outcome. Coyote Bowels argued with both of them, confused and desperate for his honor to be restored. Eagle insisted, he had been Coyote's spiritual guide since he was a teen-ager. “He has always listened to me, all of these many years.”
Yes, but I too have been calling, and had he listened, perhaps he would not be where he is, from listening to you.” Paisano argued. “And if he will give me a chance, I will save his life, whereas you will only take it.”
At the threshhold of death's door, Coyote laid lifeless as his spirit flew in the dream, over the land and over many rivers, until he came to a land crawling with livestock and people and covered with buildings. It was the White Man's country, once seen and described by other Comanches. Paisano could not fly very far before he had to land and run behind, but Eagle flew along and scoffed at the villages below. “There is so much noise, he complained, and smoke in the air, and no buffalo to eat- and these people neglect and abandon their young. This is the demon land.”
Coyote studied the land, and did not like it either. “Wouldn't you rather be dead?” Eagle reasoned. Then Paisano finally caught up.
“Wouldn't you rather be with your wife, and your children? And your grandchildren? How bad can it be, to an Indian they call Coyote Bowels?” Paisano questioned in response.
“Is he dead?” a human voice asked, and Coyote felt a nudge to his shoulder. He opened his eyes, and his body pains told him that he was awake, and he peered through his swollen eyelids to see who had come to finally kill him. But they were not the Dog Soldiers. There were three- whose shadows now covered him and blocked the sun. When he was able to focus, he saw the face of an Indian, or at least the son of one. But the Indian put a White Man's canteen to his lips and poured. Normally he would have refused, but he was too weak to resist. He stared into loving eyes as he sipped, and two souls connected immediately, and he gladly drank again. Eagle had almost taken him, but Paisano had kept his promise.
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