'On most accounts, sir,' Sherman answered.
The president rose out of his chair, signaling closure. 'Come up with an alternative and we'll schedule another meeting.'
'We have an alternative, sir.'
The president stood for a moment longer before descending again to his high-backed chair.
'Let's hear it, then.'
'Actually, sir,' Sherman explained, 'it's more a variation than it is an alternative.'
'All right, all right.'
By way of introduction, Sherman indicated the small, bullet-eyed man next to him and said, 'General Sheridan has been the primary formulator, so I'll let him speak to it.'
'Good,' grunted the president.
Sheridan was known to the president as a master at applying lethal pressure on a weakening foe, and his ideas for dealing with the 'Indian problem' were cut from the same cloth. As he listened, the president quickly realized the plan was smart, simple, and, best of all, politically adroit. The Quaker agents would deliver a clear message to all camps on the plains: all would be required to enroll on reservations within thirty days of receiving the message. Those not enrolling would then be considered hostile and subject to pursuit and punishment by the forces of the United States. The public would believe that the government was offering the olive branch to all 'peace-loving natives' while serving notice to the hopeless incorrigibles. In less than five minutes General Sheridan had laid out a reasonable, workable solution to the whole unrelenting mess, and as the president rolled it over in his mind, he could find no good reason to reject it.
'How soon would you be able to mobilize?' he asked Mackenzie.
'In a week, sir.'
Encouraged, Sheridan leaned forward.
'If I might just add, Mr. President. .'
'Yes? '
'As the ultimatum is delivered. . might it not be wise to invite the most amenable leaders to visit Washington. We know from past experience that a trip to the capitol has a sobering effect, even on the most intractable chieftains. And the timing might prove quite advantageous.'
'Excellent idea,' the president remarked, rising out of his chair again. 'Let's get some of those people out here.'
Ranald Mackenzie returned from Washington wearing stars and girding himself for battle. He immediately called together the Quaker agents and instructed them to disseminate the War Department's ultimatum to the tribes of the southern plains in any manner they felt prudent. Then he hunkered down on the veranda of his quarters to plan his campaign. One of the hallmarks of the general's field operations was meticulous and canny planning. His attention to detail had enabled him to carry the day on numerous occasions, and he would spare no efforts as he laid his nets for t}re subjugation of the primitives.
Sheridan seemed to take a campaign for granted, and though Mackenzie had not known him well before his trip east, he departed Washington with the impression that General Sheridan knew quite well what he was talking about. They had shared a brief but memorable conversation as they left the White House and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue.
'You handled yourself well, General,' Sheridan had said' 'I particularly liked what you did with that silly question about the buffalo-hunters.”
'Thank you.'
'The president has been sensitive to this business of the buffalo hunting. Half of Congress — half of the congressional wives, anyway — they're bitching constantly about the 'slaughter of the buffalo.' I don't think a day goes by that he isn't assaulted by some plea to save the buffalo. To hell with the buffalo! Those hunters are saving the army time, trouble, and money. They're killing the Indian commissary. No buffalo, no Indians, no problem. Simple as that.'
'You think there'll be no need of a campaign?'
'Of course there'll be a campaign,' Sheridan replied jovially.
'There'll be some diehards. . and you'll have to go after them.'
Chapter XXXVIII
Only one among them understood precisely what the defeat at Adobe Walls signaled, and that was Kicking Bird. Though he was as brokenhearted as any man, the leader of those who strove to look beyond the horizon had settled on a final, unalterable course of action that would begin to unfold as soon as they reached the village.
In the meantime, however, an insistent voice began to speak in his head. 'Go west. . find food.'
They were still several days from home when the detour to the west was made, and they had traveled but a few hours when they met the party led by Wind In His Hair. After debating the possibility of continuing, the war trail, the remaining Hard Shields had at last discarded it and turned their horses for home.
As the leaders of the two groups counciled in the open, under a cloudless sky, a brief reestablishment of brotherhood was effected. Wind In His Hair had also sensed that the village would be hungry and, while they could never make up for the terrible losses they suffered, bringing in food would fill empty stomachs and provide some relief for the hearts of everyone.
The parley was more like a meeting of old, trusted acquaintances rather than actual band members who had known each other all their lives. It was better that way, for the animosity between the two groups was momentarily suspended in the space between them. The smoking was leisurely, the talk was casual, and there was even a little of the joking that had always been a feature of such meetings.
Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair and even Owl Prophet shared laughter over the visionary being knocked off his pony, and when Kicking Bird offered, 'I guess your power is pretty good. . you're still alive,' a reconciliation of sorts was effected. The council broke up with more camaraderie than anyone had felt in a long time and the two groups rode west together with common purpose.
The country that was once home to buffalo in huge numbers was nearly devoid of game, but after a full day of traveling, the party located a herd of several hundred animals. They were spaced for several miles along the breaks of a wide stream, hiding like refugees from the agents of holocaust, and when the warriors started them they ran not as a herd but like a flock of frightened birds, scattering helter-skelter.
Enough of the big creatures were taken to load every spare pony with hides and meat, and women who might ordinarily have shaken their heads at the sloppiness of the butchering did not complain when the humbled war party returned. The village had been living on scraps for many days, and the arrival of meat had the hoped-for effect.
But the prospect of full bellies did little to offset the present grief. Twenty-two warriors had been left on the slope above Adobe Walls, and ten more had serious wounds that, if not fatal, would incapacitate them for the rest of their lives. Shrieks and moans for the dead and wounded overtook the village even as the meat was being parceled out and, as daylight faded, the communal gloom deepened. Not a single lodge was spared the anguish. Those who had family members were inconsolable, and even as some sheared off their hair and others hacked at their own limbs, relief was no closer.
At twilight the mourning had yet to peak, and it was at this time a lone rider was spotted coming off the prairie. Unfortunately for the little Quaker on his mule, the first riders to reach him were a group of angry young men who ignored his upraised hands and the words of peace and friendship with which he spoke to them in their own language, and contemptuously ripped the small bald man off his mount.
Providentially, the young men began to argue, shoving each other roughly around in a contest to see who would have the right to strike the fatal blow. As the squabble continued, Lawrie Tatum tried to wriggle away through the grass. When a few observant boys pounced on him, the Quaker suddenly found his legs held fast against the ground and several knees pressing into his chest. His head was jerked so hard that his neck cracked,
