In a state of calm he could not have explained, Captain Bradley had his waiting troops hold fire until the charging wave of Indians was within a hundred yards. When he did give the command, the line of rifles exploded as one, lashing the first ranks of horsemen with a fiery galelike blast that shattered their momentum. As riflemen reloaded and the enemy tried to gather itself the Gatling gun sprayed a lethal curtain of bullets over the field. In less than a minute it malfunctioned, but by that time critical damage had been done to the enemy, who were withdrawing in disarray.
For more than an hour afterward, Indian snipers shot into the camp but the firing dwindled steadily until, at mid-morning, it was ascertained that the enemy had forsaken the field.
Aside from the three enlisted men and one officer who had been killed, the only material loss was a significant portion of stores and this was due entirely to bad luck. A stray enemy round had struck a keg of gunpowder packed on a mule and the crazed animal, exploding in flame, had careened into the tents, setting several on fire.
Included among the completely and partially destroyed tents were two belonging to the quartermaster which contained a large supply of rations, and Captain Bradley concluded his report to General Mackenzie by expressing doubt that his command could remain much longer in the field without being resupplied.
He was tempted to include the interesting anecdote of a white man riding with the savages who attacked the horse herd, but, deciding that it was not germane, omitted the strange sighting attested to by several of the horse-herd defenders. He did add that, while he was impelled to detach some manpower to escort the wounded back to For Richardson, he would stay in the field and continue his mission for as long as was feasible, or until he received contrary directives.
As his dispatch was carried east by two good horsemen, accompanied by a pair of Tonkawa scouts, Bradley turned his energies to sorting through the fight's aftermath and the Indian bodies collected for examination. There were four Comanche, two Kiowa, and one Cheyenne, which led to the quite logical conclusion that the hostiles had formed a working alliance.
The Tonkawas requested the bodies, and despite Captain Bradley's refusal, they eventually managed to purloin one. The remaining six were left where they lay and after burying his own dead and salvaging all useable goods, Captain Bradley marched his column back onto the prairie. Though he knew he would not go very far that day, he wanted to impress the enemy with his resiliency.
As they angled west, the latest in the never-ending series of storms lifted, a break in the weather that mirrored a rising of the young commander's spirits. Morale was high and he perceived a renewed snap in the attention to orders and their execution. The attack on the horse herd had resulted in the loss of only six animals, and despite the necessity of reducing rations by half, it was likely that the command could last another two weeks in the field without being seriously compromised.
Three days later as the command was meandering about in broken country adjacent to the great caprock barrier to the Staked plains, the captain's spirits received another boost with the return of his messengers.
With them was a reply from Fort Sill, signed by Mackenzie's adjutant but obviously dictated by the general. The new instructions acknowledged receipt of Captain Bradley's report and directed him to march north and east to a point where he would rendezvous with a supply train being sent our from Fort Belknap. Once refurbished, he was to continue his long sweep up from the south for an eventual rendezvous with a column from Fort Sill under the command of General Mackenzie, whose departure was imminent.
Best of all, there was a postscript floating below the adjutant's signature which read as follows:
"The general wishes to convey his complete satisfaction at results of the late engagement described in your report. Additionally, he wishes to express his affirmation of the initiatives you have taken subsequent to the skirmish with hostile forces."
Captain Bradley had his own adjutant read the postscript aloud at roll call the following morning. The rank and file greeted the reading with cheers and, as they marched off to the northeast after breakfast, all recent privation was forgotten. The campaign's foundation had been unerringly laid. Now it was going into full motion, and for Captain Bradley it was easy to believe that the final outcome would be total victory.
Chapter XLIX
Though he remained the most respected man of the delegation, Ten Bears' purposeful maintenance of a certain attitude set him apart from the others. From the old man's vantage point, even Kicking Bird operated far below him as the visitors from the plains proceeded through their exhausting Washington itinerary.
Each day was packed with meetings, receptions, and sightseeing, all carefully orchestrated by an army of white officialdom. Its purpose was to overwhelm the peace leadership with an endless array of devastating impressions which would keep them reeling. Washington had practiced the same bloodless warfare for decades with striking success. Few Indians left the city without recognizing they had already been defeated by a culture whose size, energy, technology, and appetite altogether eclipsed their own.
Supposedly predicated on substance, the meetings with various government agencies followed the theme of producing an unforgettable show of power. Invariably, the men of the prairie were conducted through an inconceivably grand public building before meeting their human hosts in a room furnished with excessive and ravish distractions.
There were spirited exchanges at the Interior Department where many pointed questions about the mechanics of reservation life were asked, and at the War Department, where Kicking Bird lectured General Sherman on the limited control any elder can expect to exercise over the young. And the meetings were, of course, bracketed with eating sessions and demonstrations of magical apparatuses which effectively overshadowed the substance of the official discussions.
Apart from showing him deference owing to his age, the whites paid little attention to Ten Bears. It was a neglect the old man welcomed, for he had little to say on the issues of war and peace, and he was often seen dozing during the weightiest conferences.
That was not to say that the Comanche headman was bored. His interest in white civilization was profound, and his apparent lack of engagement was merely a way to stay focused on his more elementary agenda.
On the third morning of the stay in Washington, following a tour of the city's waterworks, he stayed behind to question the director while the rest of the delegation hurried off to see a horse race. Standing next to a set of huge turbines which pumped water to those who could afford it, Ten Bears' interpreter filtered the Comanche words into English for the director of public works, a fat, florid, and genial man who rejoiced in his work. He stood with one hand cupped to an ear, intent on all that the old man had to say.
"When refuse grows in our camp, we move," Ten Bears stated.
"Uh-huh. ."
"White men stay in one place."
"Uh-huh."
"Where does this refuse go?"
"Ah!" the director exclaimed. "Good question! Would Mr. Ten Bears like to see?"
Ten Bears nodded without hesitation and a few minutes later they were riding toward the outskirts of the city in an open carriage.
Long before they reached the dump, Ten Bears noticed a change in the sky's complexion that could not be linked to any natural element of weather. In the distance columns of dark smoke curled in the atmosphere, merging, then flattening out in a single, great blanket that dulled the sun.
All manner of conveyances piled high with garbage clogged the approach to the dumping ground, and when at last the carriage came to a stop within its confines, Ten Bears found himself surrounded by hillocks of smoldering waste, each the size of several lodges.