It was September, as the white men count the months, and three years had
passed since the Big Gray Horse and the Old White Horse had come to live
among the Quahada ponies. The summer had been very hot and no rain had
fallen, so there was only a scant supply of dry feed for the ponies and
buffaloes and antelopes.
What grass had grown in spite of the drought had been eaten by a swarm
of locusts, so that only the bare stalks remained, and these held no
nourishment. Where small streams had rippled, there were beds of dry
sand. Larger rivers, big enough to have floated a good-sized boat when
there was no drought, dwindled down to shallow threads or formed in
pools of stagnant water coated with green slime. It was a hard time for
the Quahada ponies, and still harder for the Indians.
Songbird watched her father's face anxiously. She knew that he would not
allow any one to see whether he were worrying, rejoicing or grieving at
any time. It would be unworthy of a warrior to show his feelings, and
most unworthy of a chief. She had heard the squaws talking when no men
were near.
They had said that when the last winter had gone and it had been time
for the green grass to show above the ground, all the Indians from long
distances had gathered at Medicine Lodge to hold a great council of war.
Reports had been brought that Indian runners, or messengers, had found a
big camp where a large number of buffalo hunters lived, and from it each
day the white men went to kill buffaloes. They did not use the meat, but
left it to spoil in the hot sun, after the hunters had skinned the dead
animals and taken the hides away. As far as the Indians could travel,
dead buffaloes that had been skinned lay in herds just as they had
fallen when the hunters had shot them with fire-sticks.
On their fingers the Indians counted how many buffaloes had been found
in one day of travel. Some of them had seen as many as two hundred, and
other Indians who had come from different directions told the same tale.
Soon there would be no buffaloes left. The grass was gone, the water
was growing less each day, the ponies would become thinner and weaker,
and when the hunters had killed the buffaloes, the Indians would die,
and the white men would cover the land.
So the Indians from all the tribes of the Southwest gathered at Medicine
Lodge and formed a war party to drive out the white hunters and save the
buffaloes.
That had been six moons ago, when the grass was just starting above the
ground. In a little while they had thought that the rains and warm sun
would make plenty of feed for the ponies, antelopes, and buffaloes, and
there would be pools of water in low places between hills, or in hollows
of large rocks. Then it would be the time to begin fighting.
But the rains did not come, and Songbird, listening to the talk of the
squaws, longed to speak to her father and ask him about it all, but she
knew that such things were not for children's talk. Nor did she ask the
squaws, for they would be angry that she had listened to them.
"If only Moko were here I could ask her," she said to herself sadly.
But Moko had heard the call of the Great Eagle six moons ago, and now it
was nearing winter. Songbird greatly missed her old friend, the Picture
Maker. Moko had always answered questions and explained things without
being cross. The other women were too busy asking one another what they
would do in the winter, when the dry summer had killed the berries and
nuts and maize and the buffalo hunters had killed all the game.
So Songbird kept her thoughts to herself and watched her father's grave
face as he talked with Karolo or the head chief.
Then one day a Kiowa runner dashed into the Quahada village and the
warriors gathered quickly about him. His pony wandered over and joined
the Quahada ponies and the two cavalry horses, where they were nosing at
dry stubble and hoping to find a bit of green feed at the roots.
"The white men are fighting the Indians again," the Kiowa pony said.
"The Indians cannot hide from them always," spoke the Big Gray Horse,
who looked alertly at the Kiowa pony.
"I told you that the white men would keep coming until all the Indians
have been conquered"--the Old White Horse turned to Star. "It makes no
difference how bravely the Indians fight, nor whether they are right or
wrong, the end is the same. They are conquered and must obey the white
men. But maybe that is best for all."
"It would be best for all if each let the other alone!" answered Star.
"If men had as much sense as horses have, there would be less trouble
for all of us. We do not fight, though some of us belong to the
Quahadas, others to the Kiowas, and you," he turned to the cavalry
horses, "belong to a general and to a soldier who obeys the general. If
there were ponies here from the Arapahoes and the Cheyennes, or any
other tribes, we would all graze together and not bite nor kick one
another. Why, then, do men fight one another?"
"Men are different," the Big Gray Horse spoke.
"It is a pity they do not know how silly we think they are!" snorted
Hawk, joining the group.
"They are our masters," the Old White Horse rebuked him quickly. "Young
horses kick and buck and bite, or run away when they first are brought
to a troop. But they learn soon what it means to be hurt by heavy bits
in their mouths, or sharp spurs digging into their sides. If a horse
throws a man, another man gets on the horse's back at once, and then
another and another, until the horse is too weary to fight. I have heard
young horses talk about men, but it does no good. They all talk the
same, then they understand, and so they stop fighting against the bit,
the spur, the saddle, and the rider, and they obey. After that they,
too, listen when young horses talk as they themselves once did. For when
all is said and done, men are our masters! We will obey them whether
they are white men or Indians, because we belong to them and must serve
them. I, too, bit and fought and bucked men from my back, long ago."
As they talked, Quannah and his head chiefs, accompanied by the Kiowa
warrior, approached the ponies. When the Quahadas stopped, the Kiowa
slipped his bridle of rawhide over the nose of his pony, which submitted
quietly. Its owner's hand rested lightly on the pony's neck and the
animal's eyes watched its master's face. He was speaking to the Quahadas
now.
"This is the message. The Big Father at Washington has sent his
soldiers. They come in numbers like the leaves on the trees, or the
blades of grass on the prairie. Our runners have brought word that the
soldiers are coming to surround and kill all of the Indians. Big chiefs
lead the white men from four sides. A friendly Indian sent us word that
a big chief named Miles leads them all, and that Mackenzie, who fought
us three winters ago, is with the others. He has not forgotten the rout
of the White Horses yet."
The Old White Horse cocked his ears, and the Big Gray Horse lifted his
head high. Star saw them look at each other, and he remembered they had
often talked of these big white chiefs.
"I am Mackenzie's horse," the Big Gray Horse said proudly. "Officers and
soldiers do not lie to Indians, nor kill their game, nor take their land
from them for themselves. When the Indians give a pledge of peace the
officers do not harm them, nor their women or children. They make the
buffalo hunters keep away from the Indian's land and protect the Indian
who does not go on the warpath."
"I know that is true"--the Old White Horse spoke earnestly--"for I
lived many years in the White Horse Troop and have seen all these things
myself. If Quannah would be friends with the big white chiefs, it would
be better for him and for the Quahadas. Listen! He is speaking now."
The horses turned their eyes on the Quahada chief, who, with the best
warriors of the tribe, faced the Kiowa runner. The Comanches, like the
ponies, watched Quannah's face and waited to hear his words. Karolo, the
Medicine Man, stood beside him.
Karolo had offered many prayer-sticks to the Great Spirit, asking that
the Thunder Bird might be sent over the land with rain and that the
buffaloes might be spared. But the Great Spirit was angry and would not
listen. Then Karolo knew that it was because the white men had come on
the Indians' land and were killing the buffaloes that belonged to the
Great Spirit, who had said the buffaloes must not be killed except for
food and clothing. Only by driving the white men away and saving the
buffaloes, would the Great Spirit's anger be appeased.
Yet Karolo was sad. He knew that the white men were many times the
number of the Comanches, and that their fire-sticks could reach much
farther than the Quahada arrows. In his heart the old Medicine Man felt
that the Indians could not win, but would be conquered and made
prisoners by the white men, if they were not all killed in the fight.
Quannah had talked this over with Karolo many, many times.
The chief looked past the Indians, past the tepees of the village, and
fixed his eyes on the crest of a hill beyond the camp. For a little
while he did not speak, then he glanced at the faces of his chiefs
before he answered the Kiowa runner.
"Tell your chiefs that the Quahadas will join them against the white
men."
He held out both his hands and the Kiowa grasped them, saying, "It is
good!"
Turning quickly the messenger leaped to his pony's bare back. Sitting
erect, he gave the loud, fierce battle cry of the Kiowas. Instantly the
Quahadas answered it with their own call. Then the women, running from
their tepees, and the children who stood beside them, took up the cry.
The Kiowa, leaning low on his pony's neck, darted out of sight, carrying
word that Quannah would lead his warriors to join the fight against the
white men.
When the last echoes of the war cries had died away, the Quahada
warriors heard their chief say slowly, "We will fight! It is the last
stand of the Quahada Comanches, but we will fight so that our fathers
will not be ashamed when they hear the Great Eagle calling us."
Then they left him standing there, and went to their own tepees, where
their wives and children awaited them.
For the next week the village was bustling with preparations, and day by
day the Kiowa warriors arrived from distant points. At last the entire
body of Kiowas and Quahadas, riding their best ponies and driving the
immense herd of extra ponies and those that were laden with food, robes,
bows and arrows, formed a great cavalcade. All the warriors were decked
in gorgeous war bonnets and armed with lances and shields, while quivers
that were full of arrows hung across their backs beside strong bows.
Only the women and small children were left behind. Even the oldest men
and youths who were ten years old rode behind the Quahada chief.
Songbird watched her father lead them up the slope of the hill. He
turned Running Deer about, and his figure stood plainly against the blue
sky where the incline ended sharply.
For a few minutes he looked down on the homes of his people, then his
eyes wandered to those who rode up the hill toward him. His arm was
raised high above his head, and Running Deer leaped at the touch of his
heels. Swirling at the pressure of the rein, the mare disappeared over
the crest of the hill.
The last of the riders vanished. Their cries came more faintly, until a
strange silence fell upon those who stood watching the hilltop where no
living thing was now visible. Long after the women and other children
had dispersed to take up the everyday routine of their lives, Songbird
stood alone watching the top of the hill.