Comanche Calumet - White-Eye Castrametation

Comanche Calumet—

White-Eye

Castrametation

Peter Rask III

Cover Art by Tyl Destoop 

Foreword

Who is this Man in the Land of Fire?

That’s Caitlin Boyd!

Headfirst into a gale-force wind, the lone rider pushed his way across the frozen Colorado plain. It was well below zero, and sharp snow bit hard into his face, threatened his mortal life. He was Apache, but white. It was late November in the year of the Lord, 1864.

The white man in Indian garb could smell death even in this brutal weather. The coppery smell of blood was on the howling wind, but whose blood could leave such a scent?

The Indian rode east. He was frightened and angry at the same time. Instinct told the warrior to use caution. He knew in his spirit a battle had been fought, and just that very day. Without warning, the sun broke through and, by God’s grace, the wind’s howling voice nearly stopped.

Must be nigh on toward three o’clock. Sun’s near the quarter position into the west, the Apache said to himself.

The warming fingers of the sun penetrated the Indian’s fur. The snowdrifts were two to three feet deep. Dismounting his horse, the man rubbed the flanks of his companion while speaking calmly, commanding the animal’s obedience.

Whoa, Boy. Easy, Diablo, he said, and the horse reacted to the voice with love and devotion. His head came down and pushed the human forward toward a large plateau up ahead. The wind had stopped blowing completely, and the sun lit up the snow crystals as if it were a field faceted in diamonds.

What could be more beautiful, more peaceful, than a view like this? Oh, Lord, I feel as if I’ve died and ascended into heaven, the man spoke out loud to himself, taking in the panoramic view of Colorado’s rugged beauty.

But a shudder of sickening weakness came over the warrior as he saw a tiny arm sticking up out of the snow. The hand was severed, blood frozen and dried over the cut. In this place, the smell of death was real. The Indian stopped quickly and uncovered a tiny body. It lay next to what must have been its mother, though both heads were missing.

Oh, God. Sweet Jesus! Tell me that I’m not seeing this! the warrior cried in a lament that combined sadness with anger. Only a deadly, dull silence followed as pain and tears fell freely. The Indian walked up onto the plateau. Tepees were smoldering, as were the remains of their human inhabitants. Cannonball pockmarks riddled the landscape where hundreds of body parts were strewn all over the plateau— heads, arms, legs, and genitals.

The Apache vomited, spewing his guts out while tears continued down his face. His mind reeled as the unholy panorama played out before him. It was an unwarranted attack. Running Spirit knew that much. The wind had blown the plateau clean of snow, and Running Spirit found a tattered American flag thrown over two dead bodies. A white flag of truce had been tied just above the American eagle. The faces of the dead were twisted, drawn, and mangled— a tale of merciless killing.

Long knives! Who else could be so ruthless, cruel, and barbaric? White-eyes, always takin’, never givin’. Breakin’ treaties, saying words. Makin’ promises they never intend to keep! The Apache screamed this at the top of his lungs, the words bouncing off the canyon walls opposite the plateau like ricocheting bullets.

The bodies and the ground were frozen solid. Burying would have to wait until first thaw. The Indian vowed that he would remain until his brothers and sisters of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho nations could receive a proper Christian-Native American burial. God, Yosin, protect the bodies of these, my Indian brothers and sisters, until they can be returned to Mother Earth.

Running Spirit’s heart leaped as the silhouettes of a cavalry company of pony soldiers came into view on the horizon. Running, the warrior leaped into a nearby rifle pit. The soldier blues were part of the evil that had attacked this village this morning. Commanded by the butcher himself, Colonel John Chivington, they were part of the battalion that had committed the atrocity here on a designated reservation called Sand Creek.

They were one of the six companies of the Colorado 1st cavalry. They had to be C, D, E, G, H, or K troop. But the ungodly, inhuman way they killed was proof that they were volunteers, not soldiers of the United States government. 

Colonel John Chivington, Methodist preacher, hater of Indians— his titles condemned him. A Civil War was underway with white-eyes killing white-eyes. Whites were enslaving the black race. In these battles for power and place, the American Indian was non-human. They were lied to, made fun of, and outright murdered so that their land could be taken. After all, they weren’t white. They weren’t really even considered to be human. In fact, in some respectable Washington circles, they thought Indians were truly expendable.

Damn any man who sympathizes with Indians. I have come to kill Indians and believe it is right and honorable to use any means under God’s heaven to kill Indians. Kill and scalp all, big and little. After all, nits make lice. These were the words of a traitor and murderer, J.M. Chivington.

Chivington called himself a preacher and a man of God, but he blasphemed the very word of God. He judged, lied, and dishonored the God he claimed to serve. The day would come when he would face his maker at the great white throne of judgment where his knee would not only bend, but his mortal soul would be cast into the fires of hell. God’s Law, not man’s would ultimately prevail. The blood of Jesus makes it clear, and the cross leads the way. We are all brothers in the sight of God. The Bible gives no man a license to kill. Under certain conditions we can and must defend ourselves.

The pony soldiers rode past the plateau of death, cursing and disrespecting the dead, not knowing that an Apache warrior hid in a rifle pit and witnessed it all. Their laughter at the Sand Creek Massacre showed their true nature, a dark side that was controlled by Satan. Running Spirit watched in horror as he viewed the hats, saddles, sabers, and other gear that was adorned with scalps of dead men, women, and children. They even displayed Indian fetuses, fingers, toes, and ears on their gear. He vomited again when he saw male and female genitals displayed like trophies, hanging from hats and sabers. Chivington and his troops plundered every teepee and stole horses and other precious goods. They had returned to kill and torture the wounded as the smoke of this grotesque war settled.

Running spirit, the Man in the Land of Fire, watched until the soldier blues vanished from the far side of the horizon. Today he felt sixty rather than twenty, as viewing the horrific scenes of death began to take its toll. His mind drifted back into the Arizona Territory, and he remembered the beginning of his trek. In that day, he was adopted by the greatest Apache Seer of Chiricahua descent, who became his Di-Yin of war.  For him it was a journey of life, and he gained wisdom from the Apache people and all of the other Native Americans as well.

He had grown and learned many lessons. He was able to say that Yosin, the Great Spirit, the God of the Universe, had a hand in raising him. He was the adopted son of Geronimo Golgathy, the one who yawns, the man of many visions, venerable saint for the mighty Apache Nation.    

Before his journey as Running Spirit, his name was Caitlin Boyd. Raised in a Christian home by his parents. His father, Charlton Boyd, was a preacher of the gospel. The Boyds left Michigan in 1852 and headed for California in a Conestoga wagon. Running Spirit thought of the many memories around the campfires of that wagon train. For a second, the dark gave way to light in view of the fond memories of his youth, blanking out the death and carnage on this bloody plateau.

Caitlin, my boy, always remember to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Do not be a witness against your neighbor without a just cause, his father instructed him. This is from the book of Proverbs, my boy.

The wind began to blow again as winter returned to the Colorado plains. A band of warriors rode over to what they thought was the lone surviving Indian. They were Dog Soldiers, part Cheyenne and part Lakota Sioux.

From what lodge do you come? A silence ensued. The asking warrior grew impatient. I ask simple question, long-hair, the warrior said.

I come from far away, from the land of the Apache, from the lodge and wickiups of the Seer, Geronimo. I hail from Broken Pass in the mountains of the land called Arizona, Running Spirit said in Apache as he explained with his arms encompassing the sky and pointed to the southwest.

Geronimo? asked a lone Dog Soldier with great respect. The Apache only nodded his head.

Another warrior spoke in broken English. Apache, do you speak in the tongue of the white-eye?

I do, was Running Spirit’s reply.

You look like white-eye. How is it you act, speak, and live as an Apache? the Dog Soldier asked.

It is a long story, my brother. If time allows, maybe someday I shall speak to you of it, Running Spirit offered.

In broken English, the Lakota host asked the Apache to come and join them at their lodge of the brotherhood. My name Red Bear, Apache, the warrior spoke proudly, striking his fist to his chest. You?

My name is Running Spirit, a Chiricahua Apache, he countered, and the silence led to smiles, as the warriors began to greet each other.

We, too, have a story to tell, Running Wolf indicated. He was a warrior and Dog Soldier of Sioux and Cheyenne blood. His hand pointed to the death and carnage of Sand Creek.

You do me great honor, Running Wolf, Running Spirit replied. Your brother, Red Bear, also gives me great dignity. It is my privilege and honor to parlay and speak of many things with you in the lodge of your brotherhood, in the presence of the mighty Sioux and Cheyenne, the Man in the Land of Fire proclaimed. Loud screams and chants filled the darkening sky. The snow began to fall once again. The arms of Red Bear and Running Spirit joined and locked in the traditional grasp, tying together two Native American brothers in friendship, honor, and trust.

May the great and mighty Spirit of all our people bless and anoint this union of brothers by our blood, our words, and our deeds. Now and forever, Running Spirit offered.

Diablo trotted up to his master. Mounting, the warriors rode off and left behind the plateau of death. Running Spirit could not imagine that all these warriors’ paths would cross again in the future at the Custer Expedition into the Black Hills. The Pa Sapa would be the site where these two cultures would clash in violent, mortal combat.

It would begin in 1874, the Custer Expedition out of Fort Abraham Lincoln. It would end on a bloody hill, on the Montana Road, on June 25th, 1876, at a place called the Little Big Horn. This would become another story in the winning and the robbing of the Great American West, the plundering and raping of the mighty Native American Nations. This particular account of the Caitlin Boyd saga, the Running Spirit Chronicles, would be known as Lakota Road.    

Prologue

Boyd rolled the smoke in his mouth. It tasted good— almost as good as those cigars from Cuba. He’d been sent up from the Arizona Territory by Colonel Adams at Fort Carson, sent up into the Colorado Territory to help quell the problems the cavalry was having with the Comanche and Kiowa, as well as the Cheyenne and Arapahoe. Pug and Bo-Bo, his faithful scout dogs, wet tongues hanging out with panting, scampered up to let him know all was quiet for the time being. Happy to have their fur tousled by their master, both dogs returned the affection, and then bounded back to their work.

Inhaling deeply on the cigarette, his lungs pulled in the smoke. Exhaling, he watched the swirling tails of white vapor twist toward heaven, reminding him of the guardian angels that he prayed the Lord would send to watch over him. Then, he saw the feathered flight of the majestic bald eagle. Now it reminded him of the curling smoke he’d once seen coming from the ceremonial calumet, the Comanche peace pipe. His dream of a bond between the two factions of his life, the accord the feathered smoking device might accompany, seemed to be crumbling, slipping away.

Boyd crushed out his smoke, and Diablo swished his tail, slapping the pestilence of horseflies from his flanks. It made an eerie sound that bounced off the canyon hillside.

Caitlin Boyd was a big man, tough and burly, smart and trained in the ways of war. Raised by the Apache and taught by the Great One Geronimo himself, Caitlin knew the skills of survival. He also knew humility. He was a Christian, raised by a man of God to the age of eight or nine. His parents were killed in 1852 in a wagon train massacre when they were deep in the heart of the Arizona Territory. With three arrows sticking out of his body, Caitlin killed three Apache braves before falling by his parents’ bodies, arms outstretched to protect them. That was all Geronimo needed to see. Yosin, the great God of the Apache, told Geronimo that Caitlin would be his son and that he would raise him at Broken Pass. 

Boyd’s eyes searched the Colorado skyline, squinting against the sun to see what was on the horizon. He was to join up with D Troop out of Fort Lyon. Captain John Evers, a friend and fellow cavalryman, commanded the troop. Evers was a soldier with honor, integrity, and the ability to command. 

Something moved Boyd’s spirit. Something was in the wind, and it wasn’t just the sound. It was the smell. John Varner was back at the fort, so it wasn’t the gambler. Whatever was coming was foreign, yet felt familiar. He saw the dust, removed the Winchester from its scabbard, and levered a round into the chamber. The rifle swung through three hundred and sixty degrees. Boyd pulled the lever up tight so the Winchester was ready. Boyd was not. He still didn’t know what was on the wind. Crushing the smoke against his cavalry issue trousers, he dismounted Diablo and sent the two dogs out to see what was coming at him.

Pug, Bo, vamos! Tell me, pups, what is on the wind. Go! Caitlin Boyd quietly slapped the flanks of Diablo, sending him into the tall Colorado brush against a hillside. The day was scorching hot. Removing his dimpled cavalry hat with its wide brim, he mopped the sweat from his face. Saddle leather creaked and groaned as Diablo found his spot against the hillside. Pulling the .44 pistol from its holster, he rotated the cylinder against his arm and eyed all chambers.  Seeing them full, he holstered the weapon and grabbed the Winchester. As he headed over the rise, the wind came at the scout. He could smell them, but they couldn’t smell him.

The dust they had blown up was now gone, but the smell was still there. If they were white-eyes, they might be trying to hide in an arroyo or canyon. If they were Indian, they might be starting to close in on their enemy. The smell was misleading. Boyd couldn’t detect flour, pork, or any other kind of odor. Boyd could smell a white woman a mile away. If the wind was right and the conditions favorable, he could tell what she’d cooked throughout the day. But these smells were different, not white or Indian.     

With care and cunning, the scout reached the crown of the hilltop. The dust had settled, and what he saw surprised him. To the right, Pug and Bo-Bo lay in the brush, silent