“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 Mejico. 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
“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.
“I now ride with you,” was all he said for the next three days.
After that there was no being shed of the boy. Sprout stuck to me tighter than a hungry tick on a brown dog. He wouldn’t have gone back to an Army fort now if I’d threatened him at gun point, so I ended up taking him south with me. At first my excuse was that nobody in these parts was likely to adopt a young Kiowa, regardless of his eye color, but after a while I truly began to favor his company.
The boy was a surprisingly fast learner.
I soon found myself having fun sharing what I knew with him. Since I’d never had a younger brother, I discovered, to my surprise, that it was not all take and no give. In fact, during the year and a half we rode together, Sprout taught me many things back, such as reading sign and trick riding, Injun style.
We continued on south and finally joined that cattle drive just north of San Antonio. Old Amos Simpson was in charge. Not surprisingly he was reluctant at first to take on a Kiowa, young boy or not. Fortunately his partner, Dave Randall, had served for a year with my uncle Zeke while in the military, under Doniphan, and recognized our family name.
In December of 1846, Colonel Alexander Doniphan and his Missouri Mounted Volunteers had ridden south from New Mexico to reinforce Wool’s division in northern Mexico. For nearly six months the Missouri Mounted trekked some 2,000 miles straight across Mexico to the Gulf Coast, winning battle after battle.
To hear Uncle Zeke tell it, they were a real rowdy bunch. “No uniforms, no pay, and no discipline, but no finer group of fighting men ever lived,” he’d bragged. “Doniphan was just a lawyer and amateur tactician, but he shore was one natural-born leader. At Brazito we was surprised by Mexican forces, but Doniphan managed to beat them back in less than an hour. And later, in a battle outside Chihuahua, when we was outnumbered three to one, the colonel single-handedly turned what could have been a real disaster into total victory.”
Dave Randall later told me that he counted 300 dead Mexicans when the smoke finally cleared. The Missouri Mounted Volunteers had lost only three men.
“Amos, if this lad’s kin to Zeke, you can bank on his word,” Randall told his partner. “If he says there won’t be a problem with the boy and is personally willing to vouch for him, then, Injun or not, we’d best take him in. You know as well as I do that Zeke once saved my life, and, since I was the one who pulled you out of the Canadian that time back in ’Sixty-One, well, I guess that means you sort of owe him, too.”
Under the circumstances, it was hard to argue with Dave’s logic, so Amos finally gave in and hired us both. The men were apprehensive at first but any doubts about Sprout soon vanished and the novelty of having a friendly Kiowa scout eventually caught on. Over the next several weeks, the men began chipping in one by one with bits and pieces of clothing, although no one could ever break the boy of his habit of wearing moccasins.
Sprout learned to drive cattle, to rope and to brand, but, more often than not, Simpson used the boy to help out with what he knew best and enjoyed most, namely hunting and scouting. With Sprout along there always seemed to be an extra rabbit, squirrel, or deer for the pot. We ate better on that drive than most, due in large part to the boy’s efforts.
