Michael Blake - The Holy Road

The Kiowa country was not as mysterious as that of the Comanches. Nothing equaled the drama of Comanche grasslands flat as the sky. Or plunging canyons that stretched into labyrinths on a scale so great as to be capable of containing entire civilizations. There were waterways of every length and breadth, from rivers that men routinely risked their lives in crossing to tiny hidden springs in terrain where the presence of water seemed inconceivable.

Still, Kiowa country was magnificent, blessed with water of every miraculous form, oceans of rolling grassland, and a sense of self-containment not usually found in other worlds. Like its southern neighbor, the Kiowa country, by virtue of its size and variety, could have qualified as a continent.

Kicking Bird always felt as easy as if he were at home when passing through Kiowa land, especially on this trip at the head of a large delegation.

That the Kiowa seemed to hold him in greater esteem than his own people was a poignant irony. To be sure, there was variety of opinion among the Kiowa, too, but in comparison to the Comanches they were far more worldly. Their contact with the whites in recent years had been much greater than that of their powerful yet isolated allies to the south. And not all of it had been bad.

White scalps hung in the lodges of many Kiowa warriors, and there were many Kiowa women who no longer spoke the names of fathers, husbands, and brothers, men who had been sent on the long journey across the Milky Way by white bullets. But the Kiowa had traded with whites. They had attended big councils where they talked with hair-mouthed men called commissioners. Kiowa warriors had taken the hands of white soldiers whom they had already met in running fights or would meet in the future.

None of them cared much for the plentiful white-skinned people from the east whose behavior was so perplexing, but at least the Kiowa knew something of them — no one more than Touch The Clouds, who had attended almost every plains meeting the whites had asked for and had fought with distinction through every conflict. It was the village of this warrior, made legendary by his extraordinary height, that Kicking Bird sought.

On reaching the camp of Touch The Clouds, Kicking Bird and his delegation settled in as honored guests. The Kiowa insisted they pitch their lodges in an enviable spot adjacent to their own community with easy access to water, fuel, and forage. At once the Comanches were treated to the predictable orgy of visits and feasting. Interspersed with gorging and talking were rounds of horse racing — dominated, as usual, by the Comanches — gambling games that floated from lodge to lodge, and, because a large herd of buffalo had recently appeared just north of camp, daily hunting trips that kept the village supplied with fresh meat.

Yet amid this seemingly constant swirl of activity, Kicking Bird remained focused on the reason for the visit. Room had been made for his lodges in the center of the village, a few steps from Touch The Clouds' home, affording the two warriors the opportunity to conduct their meetings with neighborly ease.

Both men took full advantage, and through the first two days of Kicking Bird's stay, they were rarely seen but in each other's company. At any hour of the night or day they might be found talking over pressing matters of the moment with prominent warriors of both tribes.

The subject of the whites was never tabled for long and Kicking Bird quickly found that the sentiments of the Kiowa closely mirrored those of his own people. Some, like himself and Touch The Clouds, were open to more contact, while others were staunchly opposed.

A significant number of Kiowa, especially a tight-knit clique who followed a crafty, barrel-chested man named White Bear, were of both minds. If the wind shifted toward peace they stood ready to exploit it. If a call for war went out they were eager to participate. White Bear and his devotees, like many of their Comanche counterparts, viewed peace and war as part of a natural cycle, like good weather following bad, or vice versa.

However the teaming of Touch The Clouds and Kicking Bird gave them great influence. That two eminent men known for their levelheadedness constantly guided the discussion toward the subject of the whites led people to the conclusion that the problem was more timely than ever, and all the better if it could be solved in some amicable way.

But after two days of discussing the question in uncommon detail, the two warriors were losing some of their own resolve. Kicking Bird had received his peace medal as a ceremonial present and had never had what might be considered a true conversation with a white man. Touch The Clouds had met many whites in council but the talks never led beyond vague promises of friendship and, in the ten winters he had attended these parlays, he had never met with the same white man twice. Despite his long experience, Touch The Clouds didn't really know any white men.

By the third morning of Kicking Bird's visit the two friends had come full circle. They sat in Touch The Clouds' lodge making a show of keeping their discussions vital while in truth their talk had become moribund. They had met with every leading warrior and had explored every avenue that might lead to a decision as to what action to take. The most viable approach had come from the vacillating White Bear who had suggested they ride in force to the vicinity of the great Medicine Bluff, show themselves, and wait for a reaction.

The two friends discussed this idea once more and, in doing so, realized that it had little promise. The chance was too great that the white soldiers would open fire at the sight of armed warriors, thus defeating the goal of talks that might hold out some hope for conciliation.

On the heels of this frustrating review, Touch The Clouds fired his pipe and the men lapsed into an awkward silence as they passed it back and forth. Neither man knew what to say.

At last Kicking Bird put into words what both of them were thinking.

“I have been thinking. . This question of what to do cannot be answered by ourselves.”

"I have been thinking the same,” Touch The Clouds confessed.

"Perhaps it is a question only the Mystery can answer.”

"Yes," Kicking Bird agreed. His eyes roved helplessly around the spacious lodge. "But nothing has been revealed. I wonder sometimes if the Mystery no longer looks on us as his children.”

"I wonder the same.”

Again the men lapsed into forlorn silence, but a moment later the stillness in the lodge was pierced by a cry from outside. Many other shouts followed in rapid succession, and by the time the friends had gotten to their feet, it sounded as if a general alarm was being raised.

They ducked through the lodge entrance to an explosion of action outside. Men were leaping onto their ponies. Women were hurrying children into their lodges. A great whooping filled the air.

Swinging onto their ponies, Kicking Bird and Touch The Clouds were able to make out through the dust and shouting words that told them what the pandemonium was about.

"White man on the prairie! White man coming in!"

Following thick clouds of dust, Kicking Bird and Touch The Clouds tore out of the village and had barely cleared the camp before they pulled up in disbelief at what lay before them.

A solitary man dressed in black, his hands thrust into the air, was sitting on a wagon pulled by a mule as dozens of warriors, yapping at the limit of their lungs, swarmed around him.

As they rode closer they saw White Bear's pony jostle the intruder's mule. The warrior bawled out words they couldn't hear, then struck the man hard with his bow and the cause of all the excitement toppled off the wagon and crashed to earth.