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  It was several days after the disastrous news from the raids before Quanah finally told Isatai that it was time.

  • • •

  “I THINK EVERYONE is ready to listen now,” he said. “There’s much argument and confusion in the camp. Things have never seemed so desperate. We need the guidance of Buffalo Hump’s spirit—spoken in your voice, of course.”

  Lately Isatai had been caught up in confusion himself. Quanah’s attitude toward him had become unpredictable. Often he was still the good, humorous friend who understood and respected the great responsibility placed on the fat man by the spirits, but sometimes Quanah was almost as condescending as he’d been before the spirits began speaking through Isatai.

  Isatai badly wanted Quanah to continue liking him—with all the bad news about the raids and uncertainty of what the villagers should do next, Isatai’s spirit contacts seemed to be forgotten by everyone else. Nobody asked him what the spirits thought that they should do. If anything, Quanah had kept him so far away from everyone else that they might not have been able to find him to ask even if they remembered to.

  But now Quanah said that it was time. In the morning he would call everyone together and announce that Isatai and the spirits wished to address them. But first, Quanah wanted to spend the night with Isatai in his tipi, discussing exactly what they spirits would say. Did Isatai still know that he was the vessel of Buffalo Hump? Did he truly feel sure of this, and in the morning would he say so? And why, Quanah wondered, had Isatai decided that it was Buffalo Hump whose spirit called him? Could it be that Buffalo Hump wanted the People to remember his great raid when the whites were driven into the sea? Had Buffalo Hump’s spirit reminded Isatai of how all the camps of the People united in a time of desperate trouble, and then reached out to other tribes to join them, until finally they numbered four hundred fighters, maybe five hundred, so many that they were able to sweep the whites before them?

  Isatai thought so. He wasn’t entirely certain. “Maybe you ought to leave me alone to sleep awhile. Then Buffalo Hump’s spirit can blow into me and I’ll understand him better.”

  “What you need besides sleep is something to drink,” Quanah said. He produced a bottle of whiskey, the kind the People sometimes acquired from white traders. “Here, have some.”

  Isatai rarely drank whiskey because he usually had nothing of value to trade. He grasped the bottle and took several gulps, choking as the liquor burned his throat. Quanah thumped him on the back and retrieved the bottle.

  “And now sleep,” he urged. “When Buffalo Hump’s spirit comes, perhaps you might ask if he put it in Long Branches’s and Cloudy’s minds to make these bad raids happen as a lesson, a way to show us that the old ways of small war parties won’t work anymore.”

  “I’ll try,” Isatai said. “Can I have some more from that bottle?”

  Quanah generously let him drink all he wanted, and then stayed beside him as Isatai passed out.

  While Isatai snored, Quanah sat in the fat man’s tipi and thought about what might happen in the morning. There was some whiskey left in the bottle but he didn’t drink it. That would have felt like celebrating something that made him feel ashamed. Of course, he knew that no spirits, let alone that of Buffalo Hump, were communicating through foolish, trusting Isatai. Quanah was tricking the fat man into saying what he wanted, and it was cruel. In fact, he was using trickery—all right, lies—to make the People do something they otherwise never would. But he had to. He’d already tried being honest, using logic. No one would listen, so this was the only way.

  Quanah understood what the other People would not accept: if they failed to change, if they didn’t attempt something daring and different, they were doomed. There were too many white men and too few of the People. It was impossible to kill all the whites, and when the People lost even one man they were greatly weakened. In Quanah’s youth, counting everyone in all their camps, the People numbered twenty thousand or more. Now there were less than four thousand.

  The traditional small raiding parties were not suited for present circumstances. Yes, there had been great times, but now more and more whites encroached. If nothing changed, the People would fight in the usual ways and soon be snuffed out, or else give up and live on reservations, where they would be cheated out of rations by greedy agents. In either instance Quanah would stay with his beloved Quahadi and share their inevitable end, dying in useless battle or starving under the white man’s rule. But he believed there was still a way to avoid those fates.

  If the People, joined by the Kiowa and Cheyenne and Arapaho, gathered all their remaining forces, they could strike the whites in some memorable way that would convince their foes to let them alone, leave them in peace. Then the soldiers could do what they were supposed to: protect the territory promised to the Indians, in particular keeping out the white hunters. This is what Quanah had urged during his recent visits to other camps of the People. No one listened, because he was half white and because they were still too wedded to the old ways. But maybe Buffalo Hump’s spirit, speaking through Isatai, could persuade them. And if it did, if the People truly joined together with their allied tribes, then it was a matter of selecting the right target—a fort, perhaps, or one of the bigger white villages like the one just above the Arkansas River where so many of the buffalo hunters gathered. Dodge City, they called it. Leaving the place burning, with mutilated bodies strewn everywhere, might accomplish what was needed. Not long ago, some Cheyenne hungry enough to hunt elk above the treaty river came upon a teenage white boy not far outside Dodge and tortured him to death. No whites from the village heard his screams and came to save him. Apparently the people there believed they were safe from attack and so didn’t keep careful watch. It was something for Quanah to think on.

  But first he had to gain support not only among the Quahadi but in all the other camps of the People. For that, he needed fat, stupid Isatai. It was a sad thing to take advantage of a fool, and Quanah regretted doing it. But Isatai was the necessary tool at hand and so Quanah would make use of him. In the morning his great plan would either finally take root or else fail completely. Maybe it really was up to the spirits to decide.

  EIGHT

  In December, McLendon found a project to keep himself busy during the evenings when he didn’t feel like staying in his boardinghouse room to read and brood. Stephen Geest, an itinerant preacher who traveled around western Kansas, asked for volunteers to build a small Dodge City church in an abandoned building off Front Street to be called Union Church. The building had originally been a saloon, one of the few that went out of business for lack of customers, and only because its proprietor had been caught spiking his barrels of cheap whiskey with snake heads. McLendon was himself a nonbeliever, but he felt that if ever a town needed a church, it was Dodge. Anything that might even marginally stem the constant violence was welcome, so far as he was concerned.

  So he joined Geest and a dozen others when they gathered after dinner on the reconstruction project. It was an interesting mix of volunteers—Don and Darlene Burgess, who ran one of the smaller Dodge dry goods shops; buffalo hunter Henry Raymond; Rebecca Travis, a cook at the Dodge House hotel; Hannah Olds, McLendon’s landlady; a few working girls from various bawdy houses; and, to McLendon’s surprise, a small selection of Dodge City’s leading citizens. Druggist Herman Fringer had been a key member of the group organizing county government. Jim Hanrahan, a member of the state legislature, sometimes hired McLendon to do odd jobs around his saloon and billiard parlor, and Fred Zimmermann sold the ubiquitous buffalo hunters most of their guns and ammunition. He and Hanrahan disliked each other, mostly because of Zimmermann’s outspoken opposition to any form of alcohol consumption and gambling. But they both favored Christ, and worked amicably together carving and fitting the wood slabs that would form the church altar. McLendon, whose carpentry skills were considerably less advanced, helped the whores pass out tools as needed and occasi
onally pounded nails. It was a pleasant change to be among company other than Bat, who talked constantly but almost always about the same subjects: getting rich, getting drunk, or dallying with pretty women. Sometimes, if McLendon happened to be working alongside Fringer or Zimmermann, he could even enjoy listening to them converse about non-Dodge topics, often the political scandals in Washington, where the administration of President Grant was apparently awash in corruption. Fringer believed that much was being made of nothing: “All politicians take at least a little.” Zimmermann wanted trials and lengthy prison sentences for everyone, up to and including Grant himself: “Even the most powerful men must respect the law.”

  “That’s not been my experience, Mr. Zimmermann,” McLendon said, thinking of the days back in St. Louis when he passed around political bribe money on behalf of his influential father-in-law. “The more power men have, the less they think that the law in any way affects or restricts them.”

  “You’re cynical for one still so young, Mr. McLendon,” Zimmermann replied. In Dodge City, as in most frontier towns, adult men of limited acquaintance or different social levels addressed each other formally. Zimmermann owned and operated one of Dodge’s most successful businesses. McLendon picked up buffalo bones. “I fear you’ve spent too much time in the company of scoundrels.”

  “Well, that’s inevitable, because at present I reside in Dodge City,” McLendon said, and everyone laughed. As always, he was careful not to say anything specific about his past. He’d made that mistake eighteen months earlier in Glorious, and it almost cost him his life.

  Everyone sawed and hammered away for an hour until Geest called a work break. They gathered around a kerosene heater to warm their hands and sip hot cider passed around by Rebecca Travis. McLendon liked Rebecca, a middle-aged women with thick, dark hair who was as unwilling to talk about her past as he was. They had a running joke about her marriage prospects. Dodge City’s population was overwhelmingly male, and McLendon teased that Rebecca could surely find a man willing to marry her. But when he’d tell her that, with so many single men around, the odds were good, she’d roll her eyes and reply, “Maybe the odds are good, but around here the goods are odd.”

  While the volunteers drank their cider, Preacher Geest described the wonders Jesus would work in the new Dodge City church. Geest, a thickset, clean-shaven young man, was very earnest in his efforts on behalf of the Lord. He had to be: it was a hard life going from one Kansas town to another, extolling the sinless life preferred by God to the drinking, gambling, brawling, and whoring that sustained most men on the frontier. But he didn’t assume the role of judge; one reason McLendon continued to volunteer was because Geest welcomed the participation of Dodge City whores, telling them how much God loved them.

  Now, as Geest described the wonders of the first service to be held in the new church—he had hopes the rebuilding process would be finished in a few more weeks—Henry Raymond, the grizzled buffalo hunter, had a question: “Preacher, you going to let any Jews in here?”

  “Of course, if they want to come. God’s house will be open to anyone.”

  Raymond spat some tobacco juice. “Jews don’t believe in God, do they?”

  Geest pursed his lips. “Mr. Raymond, I think that they do, just not in the Christian way.”

  “Well, ain’t this intended as a Christian church?”

  “There are many different ways of coming to God, Mr. Raymond. I would hope that our Jewish friends will come here and be persuaded to the Christian faith. But if not, at least they will also praise God. We need a great fellowship of all believers to beat back the forces of Satan. Don’t you agree?”

  Raymond shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’m just here to drink this lady’s cider.” He winked at Rebecca, who whispered to McLendon, “See what I mean about the goods being odd?” But when the break was over, McLendon noticed that she and Raymond worked together on sanding long boards for the benches of pews. He hoped that maybe they’d enjoy a romance. His own broken heart didn’t prevent him from wishing happiness for others.

  Preacher Geest called a halt around eleven p.m. Everyone gathered around as he said a prayer, asking God to keep particular watch over those helping to build the new church. As the volunteers filtered out, Jim Hanrahan whispered to McLendon, “A few of us are going over to Herman Fringer’s house for coffee. Come along.”

  “Not to your place for a drink?”

  “Ah, Fred Zimmermann’s involved, and he won’t set foot in a saloon. So join us. It might get interesting.”

  • • •

  DESPITE THE TOWN’S general seediness, there were a few nice homes in Dodge City, all of them built on a hill well above the saloons and whorehouses near the railroad. Herman Fringer, whose drugstore on Front Street was an anchor of town business, had every intention of staying and prospering as Dodge grew. His two-story home reflected this. It was built of the finest wood, with planks brought in by wagon from Wichita. The furnishings were expensive and comfortable; a fire blazed in the front sitting room lit by elegant oil lamps, not the clunky kerosene burners found almost everywhere else in town. Mrs. Fringer, in an elegant dress, greeted her husband and his guests—Hanrahan, Zimmermann, and McLendon—ushering them in and serving coffee in delicate china cups. McLendon hadn’t experienced such luxury since fleeing his father-in-law’s mansion in St. Louis. It felt odd to once again settle back in a well-upholstered chair and to take real cream and a spoonful of finely granulated sugar in his coffee.

  Fringer passed around cigars, sipped some coffee, and sighed with satisfaction. “It’s a good thing we’re doing, getting this church built. Town needs churches. This little bitty one’s just the start. Got to have a solid religious community to attract the investors.”

  “So they’ll see we’re not all saloons and whorehouses,” Zimmermann agreed. “I long for the day we’ll be a civilized place. But it’s coming, it’s coming. No thanks to you and your ilk, Hanrahan.”

  Hanrahan chuckled. “Fred, without people like me serving up drinks and girls to dance with—”

  “Dance,” Zimmermann scoffed.

  “Yes, dance, and whatever else. Most men here don’t have wives waiting to warm their beds at night. Anyway, it’s attractions such as I offer that keep the hide hunters stopping in town at night, and while they’re here, that’s when they buy their guns from you and their powders and tonics from Herman. We had to start somewhere. And now, with the buffalo scarce, we’ve got the next step to take. Herman, what are you hearing on that?”

  Fringer, a neat-looking man with fleshy cheeks and a double chin, puffed thoughtfully on his cigar.

  “Word is, the state legislature’s moving the tick line west again by fall. And that means it’s going to be Dodge’s turn.”

  Zimmermann grunted with delight, and Hanrahan whispered to McLendon, “You know what the tick line is, right?”

  Like virtually everyone else in Kansas, McLendon did. The tick line was critical to the burgeoning cattle industry. Shortly after the end of the Civil War, Texas cattlemen began driving their herds north to Kansas, where the animals could be shipped to Eastern slaughterhouses by rail. It was an economic bonanza for Abilene, the Kansas town where the cattle drives ended. But the Texas cattle soon proved to be infested with ticks whose bite caused Kansas cattle to sicken and die, while the Texas beeves were impervious to the toxin. To keep Kansas animals free of ticks, the legislature began moving a “tick line” gradually west, keeping the ticks away from the majority of Kansas cattle. Texas cattle could not be driven into Kansas east of the line. After Abilene, Ellsworth became the designated cattle town, and when the Texas ticks grew too numerous there, the line moved west again to Wichita. Now, if Fringer’s sources were correct—and, given his political connections, they undoubtedly were—Dodge would be the next logical cattle drive town.

  “It’s perfect timing,” Fringer said. “The buffalo go and the cattle come.
End of one era for Dodge, the beginning of another.”

  “I won’t be sorry to see those rowdy hide men go,” Zimmermann said. “Drunk and carousing, nasty and brawling, good riddance.”

  “You liked taking their money well enough,” McLendon said. He felt offended on behalf of Masterson and his other friends among the hide men.

  Zimmermann arched an eyebrow and glanced at Hanrahan, who said, “I have Cash McLendon here with me because I think he’s the kind of man we’ll need in the days ahead. Good head for business, I believe. He’s going to start work for me full-time in the spring, so when they announce the tick line move and I expand my business interests, he’ll be in place to help me run my operations.”

  This was news to McLendon. “Really?”

  Hanrahan shushed him. “Thing is, Fred, you’ve got to accept that we’ll be replacing one form of public nuisance with another. You think these hide men are bad, wait ’til you encounter Texas drovers. They’ll roar into town, collect their pay from the drives, and set out to spend every cent getting drunk, laid, and loud. Of course, as McLendon points out, we’ll all be glad to take their money. And the good thing about the Texans: they’ll spend every cent they got and leave town, head home, and instantly be replaced by the next bunch. We’ll just need to get the town incorporated, hire some good, tough lawmen.”

  “That’s the key,” Fringer agreed. “A sheriff and some deputies to keep things under control. Once the tick line shifts here, we’ll get this town set up legally with the state. Hide men, Texans, it doesn’t matter, just so long as they spend their money. And as they do, we’ll build churches and a school—hell, even have a real cemetery instead of Boot Hill. We’ll keep all the rowdiness down below Front Street, and decent people can live up here on the hill. It’ll work.”