Indian Territory
Big Boone Stallings sat beneath the shade of a large pecan tree, frowning as the small band of Comanches disappeared into the shadows of the winding trail that led away from his camp.
“Look at ’em,” he said to the two heavily armed men who stood nearby, watching the visitors leave. “They’re so happy you’d think they had good sense.” As if on cue, they laughed. In his ample lap was a pouch filled with small pieces of jewelry—watches and rings mostly—for which he had negotiated a paltry payment. A couple of riders were moving the livestock the Indians had sold him in the direction of a corral that sat at the base of a nearby bluff. Two aging horses, a pair of mules, and a milk cow, none of great value.
Bargaining and trading with renegades was not the way Stallings had planned to spend the remaining days of his life. Rarely was there a sober moment when he didn’t long for the times before he had been forced to hide away in the Cookson Hills, sharing his dismal world with savages and others like him who were hoping to elude the law and a hangman’s noose.
It was hardly a fitting end for one who had ridden with the legendary William Clarke Quantrill. As part of a guerilla unit along the Kansas-Missouri border during the early days of the Civil War, they had ambushed Union patrols and attacked the homes of pro-abolitionist civilians. Stallings had never understood the reluctance of Confederate leadership to embrace their efforts, instead referring to them as cowardly bushwhackers. In his mind, the bloodshed for which he and his fellow raiders had been responsible for had been a patriotic service to the South.
Still, for Big Boone, his days with Quantrill had been a valuable education and served him well once he’d assembled his own small gang of social misfits and begun to boldly rustle cattle, steal hides from buffalo hunters, and hide in wait to rob stagecoaches. He had been somebody back then. Maybe not famous, like the James brothers or the Youngers, but a man of some reputation. Always with money in his pocket, he drank good whiskey, had whores whenever he wanted, and took great pleasure in being feared by all—even those who hired out to ride with him.
Then, on a long-ago night in Lawrence, a drunken argument had erupted during a card game. Pistols were drawn and soon the saloon was filled with the acrid smell of gun smoke and the screams of men being shot. Before killing those who had accused him of being a cheat, Stallings had been seriously wounded, bullets tearing into his chest, leg, and shoulder.
Well after one of his men had helped from the scene of the carnage, it was learned that among the dead left behind was a highly regarded Kansas City politician. With the shot that had killed him, Stallings had earned the reputation for which he’d long strived. Wanted posters went up throughout Kansas, offering a reward for his capture, dead or alive.
He’d slowly healed, tended by a rural doctor who cared little about who paid for his services, and had lain in the bed of an old chuck wagon, spirited away to a hiding place in the Indian Territory. “Boss,” one of the men who had accompanied him on the torturous journey said, “you’re mighty lucky to be alive.”
Stallings wasn’t so sure. His breath had come in sporadic bursts and even the constant sips of whiskey his companion provided had failed to dull the pain. One arm had no feeling. The doctor had warned that in all likelihood he would be an invalid for the rest of his life
And so it had come to this.
In a small hillside clearing sat a cabin hastily built from native timber. From its front door one could look out on a row of shabby tents where his men slept, a weather-beaten barn, the corral, the chuck wagon stolen long ago from cattle herders, an outhouse, and a still. The most unusual structure stood on stilts, towering above the trees. Atop it was a platform from which sentries stood constant guard, watching for intruders.
Old before his time and infirm as he was, his wounded body bloated to the point where he could no longer even mount a horse, the only remaining thing of value to Stallings was his own miserable life. Selling rifles and whiskey to Indians, buying their stolen goods, and directing one of his few trusted men to resell them for small profits, this had become, in itself, a form of imprisonment.
In truth, the day and night guard was an unnecessary precaution. The legend of the Cookson Hills was such that no law-abiding citizen would venture along their trails. Most lawmen considered the region too dangerous to approach. Few Indians even dared go into the Hills. It was a no-man’s-land, an isolated parcel of the frontier that had been given over to the most desperate and feared of society.
There Big Boone had grown into a pained and constantly paranoid man.
• • •
He was not the only one in the Indian Territory struggling with paranoia. The young Comanche warrior who had just left was also troubled by self-doubt. Members of his tribe called him Hawk on the Hill, but Stallings knew him only as Hawk, an ill-tempered renegade with an enormous hatred for the white man and a dwindling following.
Were it not for the need he served, Stallings knew he and his men would long ago have been killed, probably in the dead of night, scalped, their bodies left for scavengers.
Hawk had chosen to ignore the treaties his elders had agreed to. He had initially banded a sizable number of like-minded young tribe members to his cause. He stirred their anger with whiskey-driven rants about the broken promises of the white man’s government, the theft of their homeland, the weevil-infested grain and spoiled meat parceled out to their weak elders who had agreed to retreat to the reservations, the killing off of their buffalo. The only good white man, he insisted, was a dead white man. And to that end he had led raids on settlements north into Kansas and south into Texas, leaving death and destruction in his path.
And with each act of revenge, the legions of his nomadic followers had grown. He soon become one of the most feared and respected members of the Comanche tribe. Army scouts were never swift enough to keep up with his movements. Hawk on the Hill was like smoke, a ghost, here one minute and gone the next, always leaving flames and death in his wake.
His savagery was making him into a legend and he reveled in the recognition.
Then another face emerged from the Indian rebellion. His name was Isa-tia, and he possessed an evangelical skill that Hawk was unable to match. The stocky, broad-faced Isa-tia was a medicine man, equal parts shaman, brujo, and magician. Traveling through what remained of the fragmented Comanche Nation, he spoke of how he had ascended into the clouds to a place far beyond the sun, where the Great Spirit had spoken to him, providing a plan that would not only destroy the white man but restore the Comanche tribe to its former glory.
It was just what many of the angry young warriors wanted to hear.
Isa-tia claimed miraculous healing powers, even the ability to raise the dead if he chose. The white man’s bullets, he said, could not harm him. As proof, he would belch up cartridges he said had been fired into his body by soldiers. On command, he could send lightning, hail, and thunder down on his enemies. When a brilliant comet appeared in the western skies, Isa-tia promised that he could make it vanish in five days. And it did.
To demonstrate his ability to pay visits to the Great Spirit, he would gather a group of warriors and demand that they look directly into the sun as he began his skyward journey. While his followers were temporarily blinded, he would steal away to hide in a nearby cave, only to reappear the following day with new promises brought from on high.
Gullible warriors were promised eternal life in exchange for their loyalty. They quickly fell under his hypnotic spell. Many of Hawk’s men were among them, and he had no idea how to combat the mystical hold the new leader had gained.
Until the woman named Kate Two had spoken to him of powers that she also possessed.
• • •
It had been his plan to sell both of the women taken during the recent northern raids to buyers in Mexico, a profitable practice he’d employed since his early days of leading raids on white settlements. The pretty one with the long black hair and piercing eyes had shown no fear when she was taken from the wagon in the middle of the swollen river. A woman of such strength and beauty, Hawk was certain, would bring as much as four hundred dollars. The other, plain and frightened, would earn him less.
Aware that Hawk had been taught some English at the reservation school as a boy, Kate Two had asked to speak with him. Assuming the captive woman would plead for her life, he had entered the teepee where she was being held.
He had remained there for several hours, listening to her claims of being a spiritualist.
“If you will allow me,” she said, “I can be of great help to you. I can contact the great chiefs who are now gone, and they can provide wisdom and guidance as you battle against the white man.
“I will ride at your side and help you to become the mightiest of all leaders.”
After he had agreed to remove the bindings from her wrists, she reached out to him, placing a cool palm against his forehead. Soon her eyes were rolling and her body convulsing as she identified the spirit voice of Hawk’s dead father. “He has been gone since you were a small child,” Kate Two said, “but he has watched with great pride as you have grown into a strong and smart warrior. He wishes you to know that he is in a happy place, where large herds of buffalo roam as far as the eye can see and everyone lives in peace.
“And,” she said, “he urges that you continue to fight for the rights of your people.”
Hawk was mesmerized. “Ask him of this man named Isa-tia who is guided by the Great Spirit.”
Kate Two was silent for a time, her eyes closed. Then her head began moving from side to side and beads of sweat formed across her brow. “Your father tells me that the Great Spirit knows of this man who speaks false promises. He says he is one who should soon die.”
She let her hand fall to her side and looked at Hawk. “If you will allow me but a sharp knife and lead me to him, I will put it to his throat and kill him for you.”
Hawk silently rose and left the teepee, then stood in the warm evening breeze. His eyes roamed the small encampment. He slowly walked toward a nearby stream, where he cupped water into his hands and bathed his face. Perhaps, he thought, he had found a way to regain his lost standing.
Returning to the woman, he extended a hand, helping her to her feet, and led her from the teepee and toward the water’s edge.
“Wash yourself clean,” he said. “From this time forward you will be called Talks With Spirits. And you will be one of us.”