Buffalo Trail Read online

  ALSO BY JEFF GUINN

  Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson

  The Last Gunfight: The Real Story of the Shootout at the O.K. Corral—And How It Changed the American West

  Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde

  Glorious: A Novel of the American West

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

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  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2015 by 24 Words, LLC

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  Endpaper photos courtesy of Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Canyon, Texas

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Guinn, Jeff.

  Buffalo trail : a novel of the American West / Jeff Guinn.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-62324-4

  I. Title.

  PS3557.U375B84 2015 2015007432

  813'.54—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Jeff Guinn

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE: NOVEMBER 29, 1864

  PART ONE | Winter 1873–74 CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PART TWO | March–June 1874 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  For all of my friends at Putnam, past and present

  PROLOGUE:

  NOVEMBER 29, 1864

  The icy dawn wind brought tears to the eyes of the men on horseback and they had to squint hard to see. There were almost six hundred of them, and besides the wind, many had their visions blurred by terrific hangovers. In camp the night before, they’d pulled bottles of whiskey from their saddlebags and gotten drunk in anticipation of a great victory the next day. It was against U.S. Army regulations to drink on duty, but they didn’t care. Most of them were “100 daysers,” members of an Army-affiliated civilian militia who’d enlisted for the express purpose of fighting Indians after a long summer of deprivations. Marauding Cheyenne and Arapaho had been bloodily active throughout Colorado Territory, and some of these militiamen had lost loved ones. All of them knew someone slaughtered by the savages. For the better part of three months, they’d scoured the countryside without finding any marauding Indians to kill in reprisal. Now, with their enlistments almost up, they were about to have their revenge.

  The village of Cheyenne chief Black Kettle’s people abutted the scaly shores of Sand Creek in eastern Colorado Territory. It was a desolate place, far from shade trees, abundant grass, and decent hunting, but when Black Kettle made peace with the white men, this was the place he’d been ordered to go. He did so willingly, telling his tribesmen that if they demonstrated good faith, the whites would realize that they could be trusted, and then they could move to a better location. To reinforce his point, Black Kettle flew two flags over his tipi—one the Stars and Stripes, the other plain white in the universal signal of nonviolence.

  Two militiamen, sent ahead as scouts, cautiously crept to the crest of a nearby hill. Looking down, blinking against the wind, they saw the flags and dismissed them as a ruse. Indians weren’t to be trusted. They pretended to be tame and then attacked any fools who believed them. The ones in this camp by the creek were going to meet white men who knew better.

  The scouts inched back down the hill, mounted their horses, and rode a half mile to where the main body of troops waited. Their commander, burly, bearded Colonel John Chivington, said, “Well? Are they there?”

  “They are,” one of the scouts said. “A lot of them, all unaware.”

  Chivington, a battle-tested veteran, mistrusted such optimism. “You’re certain? We’re not riding into a trap?”

  “No danger of that,” the second scout said. “Why, I hardly saw a warrior, just some women and children and old people. The men must still be asleep in the tipis.”

  “Well, then,” Chivington said. He turned to his officers, who stood nearby. “Have the men mount, but keep it quiet. Those red devils have good ears.”

  One of the officers objected. “There’s a treaty, sir. It’s well known that this camp is at peace.”

  “Captain Soule, the savages have not honored the treaty,” Chivington snapped. “Just ask some of the men here, maybe the ones who knew the Hungate family.” Back in June, Nathan and Ellen Hungate and their toddlers, Laura and Florence, had been butchered by Indians. They were far from the only whites to die recently at the hands of hostiles, but the outrage over their murders was widespread after their mutilated bodies were taken by relatives to Denver and displayed for a day before burial. There’d been unstinting public demand for retaliation ever since. This put great pressure on the Army. The War Between the States was finally winding down; the last thing the Union needed was for the people of Colorado Territory to decide the Lincoln administration couldn’t defend them from the Indians. They might then turn to the Confederates for protection, giving the rebels’ morale a much-needed boost. To forestall that possibility, Chivington had volunteered to organize and lead a civilian force dedicated solely to reprisal. He felt it was his patriotic duty. They had repeatedly failed to catch savages in the act of raiding. Now, as winter set in and his militiamen’s enlistment periods were up, Chivington decided to attack any Indians he could find. In its isolated location, and with its very existence infuriating most white territorial settlers, the Sand Creek camp was an easy choice.

  “It’s believed Arapaho killed the Hungates, sir. This is a camp of Cheyenne.” Captain Soule wouldn’t back down.

  “Indians are all the same,” Chivington said. “C
heyenne, Arapaho, Comanche or Kiowa or whatever. The ones down there deserve to die for what they’ve done.”

  “Sir, not all Indians are hostile,” Soule said. “We have no proof any of them in that camp have killed any white people.”

  Chivington had no patience with softhearted fools. “Count on it—there are warriors with white blood on their hands skulking in some of those tipis.” Before Soule could protest, he added, “Even if not, we’re sending a message here. It’s time for the Indians to know what it feels like, having noncombatants taken down. Lord knows, they’ve done it enough to us. Maybe they’ll think twice next time, before attacking innocent families like the Hungates. We’re going to do a thorough job of this. Yes, in some ways it’s distasteful, but it’s in service of an honorable cause.” He looked past Soule and said to the other officers, “Above all, no quarter. The savages never show mercy, so they’ll get none from us. Our purpose is to exterminate every one.”

  Soule pleaded, “Surely not women and children.”

  Chivington glared at him. “Captain Soule, you’re insubordinate. All of you have your orders. Kill everyone in the village, and have your men do as they will with the corpses. We must demonstrate to the people back home that the Indians were repaid on their own hateful terms. None are to be spared, big or little. Females can always produce more nits, and nits grow into lice.” The officers saluted, Soule reluctantly, and then came the creak of leather and muted jangle of spurs and bridles as men mounted. They eased their horses forward. The sound of hooves on the hard winter ground was smothered by the howling wind.

  • • •

  IN THE VILLAGE, a few hundred people ate breakfast—not much, just soup warmed by tiny fires inside the tipis. Boys ate quickly; they had to go out and tend to the horses tethered nearby. Women nursed babies or else fell to the endless chores that were their daily lot—sewing, mending, things that could be done inside, close to the fires and out of the cold. Later, whether the wind abated or not, they would have to go out and chop wood so that the fires could keep burning, and also forage for anything remotely edible. Some old men sat in the tipis, too, but they had no obligations beyond smoking their pipes and reminiscing about better days, before there were so many white men and so few Cheyenne. Except for a dozen men recovering from wounds or illness, there were no warriors present. Black Kettle had sent them all away on a hunt. Because the camp was in such a bad place, the men had to travel a long way to find any deer or winter buffalo. They’d left only two days before, and weren’t expected back for another week. A few of the men grumbled about leaving the camp defenseless, but Black Kettle convinced them that it was all right to go. The chief himself stayed behind; Black Kettle felt that he must be available should anyone from the white government come calling. A modest cache of pemmican was always kept on hand in his tipi, so that such important visitors could be treated to a meal. Even if the villagers were hungry, none of them, including Black Kettle, could touch that food.

  Black Kettle had just decided to leave his tipi and walk among his people, comforting them as best he could against the cold and their mostly empty bellies, when he heard the first shouting and screams.

  • • •

  CHIVINGTON LED the charge down the hill, brandishing his saber and roaring, “For your loved ones! For America!” A few of the men behind him began shooting, but most used their sabers. The thick column of riders smashed into the center of the village, where screaming Indians milled frantically. Chivington experienced a moment of surprise—there was no return fire from the savages; why?—and then he was in their midst, swinging his sword, feeling its keen edge carve through flesh and bone, a marvelous thing to be delivering justice. All around, his fine men doing the same—God’s work, it was. Before joining the Union Army, Chivington had pastored a Methodist church, and he felt the presence of God with him this morning. The Almighty approved.

  Now a few warriors emerged from tipis, but they all seemed slow—something was wrong with them—and Chivington’s troops cut them down almost effortlessly. They’d ridden all the way through the village now, the first portion of the attack was over, so they doubled back to focus on individual targets, women and children mostly and also a few stumbling old men, all trying to get to the creek, the fools. It was shallow and no trouble at all for the soldiers and militia on horseback to splash in after them and swing their sabers. The water soon turned red.

  Amid the confusion came moments of clarity. Chivington saw one Indian, a man of middle years, emerge from a tipi holding some kind of skin pouch in one hand while he pointed to fluttering flags at the top of the tipi with his other, a white flag and an American flag—sacrilege for Old Glory to fly above the dwelling of a heathen. Chivington meant to cut down this miscreant himself but someone else beat him to it, slicing into the Cheyenne’s shoulder with his sword. The Indian shrieked, dropped his pouch, and fled toward the creek. Chivington lost sight of him then because his own gaze fell on a smallish Cheyenne fleeing not toward the creek but up the hill. This one ran very fast and looked to be getting away, and the colonel spurred his mount in pursuit. He was almost on his quarry when the Indian turned and stood at bay. It was then he realized that it was a girl, a very young one, maybe ten or so, Chivington always had trouble estimating the age of children. She looked straight at him, afraid but brave, fists clenched at her sides. The colonel felt a spark of admiration but ignored it because she was a savage and even the nits among them must die. “Close your eyes!” he shouted, thinking she might understand English. Instead, she arched her back and spit at him. Chivington swung his saber to strike her head from her body, but as he did his horse bucked and the blade bit into but not through the girl’s neck. She fell and Chivington prepared to dismount and finish her, but before he could he heard someone back in the village shouting, “Stop! That’s enough!” Captain Soule was trying to call off the attack. Chivington rode back down the hill and, in full view of everyone, ripped the captain’s insignia off the shoulders of his uniform. “I’ll deal with you when we’re home,” he said coldly. Then, to the rest of the men, he shouted, “Finish the job!” and they knew what he meant. Chivington rode back to the hill to kill the girl he’d wounded, but when he got there she was gone. There was blood all over the grass and he decided she’d crawled off to die; good riddance. He returned to the village, sat on his horse, and watched his men as they went about their holy work. They scalped the bodies and cut off fingers and ears and genitalia. Chivington hadn’t realized you could do such things with women’s private parts, but some of the men were particularly inventive with their knives. They threaded leather thongs through their trophies and draped them from their saddle horns like garlands on Christmas trees. Chivington imagined a grand parade of his victorious troops down the streets of Denver, the impressive souvenirs of their fine morning’s work dangling proudly on display. The cheers would be deafening. It would be the kind of approbation that might get a commanding officer called to high office once his military duty was behind him. Territorial governors enjoyed both prestige and opportunities for personal wealth. If elected by a grateful public, John Chivington would humbly serve.

  On the ground nearby, Chivington saw the pouch dropped by the Indian who’d come from the flag-flying tipi. He picked it up and found strips of dried meat inside. The colonel felt peckish. All he’d had since the night before was coffee.

  Chivington withdrew one of the meat strips, sniffed it suspiciously, then took a cautious bite. It was venison seasoned with plums, and tasted very good.

  PART ONE

  Winter 1873–74

  ONE

  As a man who loved his tribe and understood its ways very well, Quanah was worried.

  Winters were always hard, with the buffalo gone and most other game skittish and hard to track. But this year when the cold months came, the People began observing many strange signs. Rocks resembled faces of long-lost loved ones. A crow spoke to some hunters and told
them where to find a bear who should have been hibernating but wasn’t. Someone saw a six-legged buffalo, but its two extra limbs allowed it to run away so fast that it was lost to sight before the rest of the village could be alerted. At night, huddling around fires, trying to ignore the hunger pangs that wracked them, everyone discussed these things, pondering what they might mean. Though they believed in spirits and omens, the People had no formal religion, and unlike the Kiowa and Cheyenne, did not designate official medicine men to explain signs. Among the People, anyone was free to interpret and prophesize, and everyone else could either agree or not, as they chose.

  Though he accepted the possibility of spirits, Quanah did not believe in omens at all. In his twenty-eighth year and a full warrior since his fourteenth, he thought people saw signs when they wanted to. A profusion of omen sightings was inevitable whenever there was widespread desperation, and this bleak season was the most desperate time in memory for the tribe called Comanche by outsiders, white and Indian alike. Those on the reservation who depended on the white man’s charity were starving, because the promised cattle and corn were not supplied in sufficient quantities to feed even small children, let alone hungry adults. The People who still roamed free were hungry, too. Traditionally there were winter stores of pemmican—dried turkey, venison, or buffalo meat pounded into strips during the bountiful hunting months and flavored during drying with honey, piñon nuts, and wild plums. Though pemmican was not as delicious as fresh meat, it was nourishing and could tide everyone over until the cold broke and the game returned. But now there was very little pemmican, either, because white hunters encroaching on Indian land in the warm season thinned game that became even scarcer in the winter. In particular there were far fewer buffalo; the whites who killed them took only the hides, leaving to rot the meat that the People required to survive the winter.