The boy had hollowed eyes and stared back at me with a blank and distant expression.
“I don’t even know your name, where you’re from, where you’re going to, or anything,” I said, more to myself than him. “And what in the world I’m going to do with you is beyond me. Sure don’t fancy riding right into a Comanche camp with you. Hell, I’m not even sure you’re all Injun. Never saw one with blue eyes before.”
“Kiowa,” he said, looking up from his plate for a moment.
“How’s that?” I asked. “You understood that? Can you speak English?”
He nodded his head. “Kiowa say my white parents killed years ago in buffalo stampede. I found in small hole near their wagon with Father on top of me. He died trying to save me from being crushed. The Kiowas heard my cries, and Wolf Tail, second cousin to Santank, took me as his own.”
“Santank, the chief? I heard of him.”
“Yes. He is Kaitsenko.”
“What’s that? Sorry, I don’t follow.”
“The Kaisenko are the Real Dogs, the Society of Ten Bravest. They lead the tribe in battle, and are sworn to fight to victory or death. Three of the Real Dogs wear red cloth bands, six wear red skin of elk, and the leader, Chief Sitting Bear, wears a black skin from neck to ground.”
“I get it. So you grew up with this cousin, Wolf Tail.”
“Well, I was raised by Pipe Smoking Girl, a Kiowa medicine woman, but Wolf Tail has always called me his son,” he said proudly.
“OK, so what name do you go by now, boy?” I asked, filling my cup back up with coffee.
He responded in Kiowa, which I didn’t speak, later explaining in English that it meant something like Buffalo Calf Wailing.
“Well, I can’t go around callin’ you Sobbing Buffalo or Buffalo Crying Calf or whatever,” I said. “Don’t you remember your real family’s name?”
“Now Kiowa my family. Only one,” he said stubbornly.
“Look, sprout, if you’re going to ride with me, I’ll have to call you something easy enough for both of us.”
“What sprout mean?” he asked.
“That? Well, it’s sort of a nickname. You know, like a bean sprout, new growth…youth?” I tried to explain.
“Fine,” he said, nodding his head.
“Fine what?”
“From now on I am Sprout.”
I shrugged my shoulders. At least it was simple enough, and for the time being neither he nor I were in any mood to argue.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t remember his own name you sure speak English well enough.”
“Some I remember, some Wolf Tail teach me. Rest I learn from…uh…half-breed men who lived among us. At one time white men were welcomed in Kiowa camps. First ones act more like us humans. But after that, others come to take buffalo and rob us of our lands. They are like mosquitoes, coming in swarms to suck Kiowa life blood dry. Chief Santank soon learn truth. He always keep me near whenever he deal with white men. Santank wanted to see how men who translate for Long Knives lie. White men never knew I understand English when I play nearby them. Santank and Wolf Tail are wise men, not fools. They get better meaning from white words with me around to help,” he said proudly.
“Don’t you want to go back to your real people now?” I asked innocently. “Maybe your family had kinfolk that are still around. The Army might have a list of people who are missing and any relatives that are still looking.”
“Kiowa are my family!” he answered angrily. “And Long Knives cannot be trusted. They have no respect for the people, or the land. They do not know what is right.”
“Aren’t you being a little hard. After all, they can’t all be bad.”
“Who do you think shot me? Why do you think I am alone out here?” he said, adjusting the sling I had made for his shoulder.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Ever since soldiers come, they have tried to kill us or put us on reservations. Kiowa always walk the earth free, north from the land of the Dakota and south to Méjico. No limits, no reservations. My people were traveling south, away from Fort Sill when Long Knives attack us. We had harmed no one. Wolf Tail wanted to go south to hunt over land that was once ours. Just to hunt. But soldiers attack us without warning. When we see them coming, we tried to run, not fight.”
“It’s a little hard to imagine Kiowa braves running,” I commented.
“Our braves were not afraid for themselves, never. Kiowa fear no men in battle, but they do worry about women and children. When Long Knives started shooting, our men tried to lead them away. A group of soldiers caught me. One was about to shoot me when his captain stopped him. He saw my face and blue color to eyes, as you did, he say to me that I am now rescued and gave orders to take me away.”
“What about the others in the group you were with? Where are they?” I asked, fearing I might already know the answer.
“The captain made me watch as soldiers killed all the Kiowas they had captured.”
“Not the women and children?”
“Yes,” he answered quietly, the pain evident in his expression. “Pipe Smoking Girl, too,” he added sadly.
“So how did you end up here?” I asked.
“First chance I get, I steal knife from soldier next to me. I stick him in arm and broke free. They shot me.” He touched his shoulder. “But I ride away. Try to find my people.”
I shook my head in disbelief. I knew how painful that wound was but amazingly he never showed it. At least not to me.
We camped another full day until he was strong enough to ride.
“I’m headed south, Sprout,” I said, “so I guess you’ll have to come with me. At least until I can find a place to drop you off.”
He stood his ground and shook his head. “North.”
“Sorry. Not headed that way. Can’t afford to lose any more time,” I replied. “Besides, I’m not sure I would be smart to ride around Indian Territory looking for Kiowas. It’s not worth the risk.” It was a harsh comment to make to him, but I was really just thinking out loud. “Come on, Sprout, you’ve got no choice.” I turned the horses around and slowly walked south, figuring he’d follow sooner or later.
I was wrong. When I looked back, he was already several hundred yards away on foot, headed in the opposite direction.
“Of all the stubborn….” I stared at him a while, and then, cursing to myself, reluctantly turned the horses north.
Later, as I shifted the packs between the two mounts, I looked over at the boy cautiously.
“He’s a bit spirited,” I said, referring to the piebald. “Sure you can handle him?”
By way of reply, he simply grabbed hold of the pack horse’s mane, swung up on the paint, and galloped around in circles. It was an incredible display of horsemanship for one so young, highlighted by him sliding off the horse’s far side and hanging on by the stirrup and cinch strap. He was riding at a dead run, facing backward while lying completely horizontal. He had practically vanished from sight when viewed from my side. It was more than enough to convince me of his riding ability.
We traveled together for almost a week, until crossing a river about 200 miles from Fort Sill. We had trailed the rest of the Kiowas, who’d escaped, to a clump of trees at the bend of a small creekbed.
Sprout was perched in front of me, just behind the saddle horn, my arms around him. The sight ahead had us both paralyzed. There, lined up along the bank, in a straight row of fifteen, were the remaining Kiowa braves. They were side-by-side, and all were dead. Worse yet, they had each been decapitated! Every brave was stretched out, legs apart, with his head stuck between them, staring forward in a grisly display of the white man’s cruelty.
For the first time in my adult life I felt shame.
While I didn’t ask, it was evident from the boy’s expression that Wolf Tail was among the dead. Sprout took it all in without shedding a tear.