The Battle at Washita was Autie’s first great victory as an Indian fighter, and put to rest the sense that his best days were behind him. He again came to national attention, a hero and an expert on all things West. Libbie felt it gave him false confidence; he simply would not believe that his luck would ever end.
Two days after the battle, the troops arrived at the fringe of the valley created by the confluence of Beaver River and Wolf Creek. They had stopped to prepare for their victory march into Camp Supply. Some believed such pomp undignified, but Autie loved military ceremony, understanding its power over both the victors and the vanquished.
The crowd could not breathe for excitement as the soldiers rode down the slope of the valley with the band playing. General Sheridan and his staff had been alerted, and waited mounted for the review. The 19th Kansas Volunteers, who had only just arrived at Camp Supply, missing the entire campaign, cheered on the men they were supposed to have fought alongside. It was magnificent. Pure spectacle. People talked about it for years afterward because it confirmed what they longed to believe, that they were the chosen and had divine blessing for their mission.
At the head of the column Osage guides rode in triumph, wearing full war regalia, chanting war songs. Periodically they would fire their guns into the air and spur their horses off on a dead run like errant rockets, returning with victory yells, gloriously fearsome. Faces made demonic in paint, they brandished spears on which were fastened the gruesome trophy scalps of their mutual Indian enemy. Guides worked for the army but settled scores first and foremost as Indians. Even their horses lost their natural animal innocence, implicated by the decoration on their bodies—painted stripes and dots—into beasts of a netherworld, with strips of red and blue enemy blankets woven into their manes and tails, scalps and ears tied to their bridles and saddles.
In front of Sheridan’s staff and close enough for everyone to hear, the chief of the scouts yelled out, “They call us Americans—we are Osage!”
No one in the audience responded, and soon the troopers’ cheering covered the uncomfortable silence, answered by the volunteers cheering from the fort.
One young warrior carried a pole with the scalp of Chief Black Kettle, for which he was much honored. Even Libbie recognized the name as that of a great advocate of peace between the whites and the Indians. To celebrate his death seemed misguided. If their strongest chance of negotiated peace had just expired, surely that was no victory? They would later find out that the chief had indeed lost his life in the battle, but not his scalp.
Next came the scouts dressed in their pell-mell frontier outfits of buckskin and rags. Then the officers, with Tom among them, looking very much the knight-errant. A handsome figure he made, and Libbie felt the pride of a mother. He gave her a nod, then rode close to give her an Indian beaded pipe as battle prize. Autie rode alone, astride his favorite stallion, transformed once again into the conquering hero. He looked straight ahead, stopping in front of General Sheridan to sweep off his hat.
Behind him came the women and children prisoners, wrapped in their bright red blankets, meekly astride their winter-gaunt ponies. Next came the band, playing the ubiquitous “Garry Owen” of which Autie was so fond. Next came the troops in formation, four across, in their patched blue uniforms, some with their feet wrapped in rags due to lost boots, giving the lie to the ease they pretended. Nothing quelled celebration like the admission of privation. As they passed General Sheridan they gave military salute with their raised sabers.
The irregular procession was thrilling and profane. Men returning from war in the same way they had from time immemorial, they could have been a victorious Napoleonic army. Autie had read excerpts of such historic parades out loud to her and had taken them as his template. It was heart-stopping in its pageantry and strangeness, its gruesome spoils of war down to the pipe that she held in her hand. There was an undeniable beauty in the sun glinting off sabers, the bright colors of guidons and blankets. The ear filled with music and war cries and cheers. The whole procession had the clear fingerprint of Autie, for better and worse. It was the turning point for them to finally leave behind the War of the Rebellion and feel their new destiny lying there on that empty, wintery plain.
As the group of prisoners halted on their mounts, Libbie saw a young woman singled out, one to whom the others paid deference, and then she observed Autie’s eyes on the girl, and she knew. Her heart froze. Gossip only confirmed it later. The girl was yet another spoil of war.