‘ “Git me a scalp,” Mingo said.

  ‘ “Hit ain’t Christian,” I said.

  ‘ “Hell,” he said, “I knowed Christians as skinned Indians. I knowed a feller made him a baccy sack outer a squaw’s bubby. But hit didn’t do so good,” he said, and started cutten, “hit wore out right off. But a scalp now, hit’s diff’rent, hit’s a keepsake.”

  ‘He scalped him, then we looked down the draw fer the nigger. Thar he was, but they’d done taken his scalp. “They made a pore trade,” Mingo said, “a nigger’s scalp ain’t no good, hit ain’t worth beans. Hit ain’t much better’n mine.”

  ‘Them was the only Indians we had trouble with that year, but them fellers went down from Dodge City all together, they had plenty trouble over in Texas. They had a big fight down at a place called ’Dobe Walls, and some got killed, and a passel of Indians. But the Indians was still bad on south a-ways. They was fighten at Anadarko with the sojers, and killen and scalpen here and yander. And raiden down to Texas. And the Kiowas caught a supply train — hit was Captain Lyman’s wagons, I recollect — and give ’em a big tussle. We was down to Fort Sill the next spring, and we heared tell from the sojers. How they laid out four days in holes they dug, a-thirsten and no water, and the Indians all around, a-ride-en and a-whoopen and a-shooten. They was one Indian tied a white sheet round him and come ride-en through the sojers four times, and back agin, and lead cut that-air sheet off’n him, but ne’er a slug teched him. Doen hit made him a big chief, and they give him a new name fer hit, lak they done. But a scout got through to Camp Supply, and more sojers come.

  ‘Hit was a bad year, and no denyen, and the Gin’al over to Fort Sill — hit was Gin’al Sheridan as fit in the war — a-gitten ready and sot to stomp ’em out. And he done it. They was run here and yander, lak a coyote and the dogs on him. They run ’em and ne’er give no breathen. Some of ’em come in and give up, but some of ’em kept on a-runnen and a-fighten, the wildest what went with the war chiefs Lone Wolf and Maman-ti and sich. But they come in, too, a-fore hit was done. I seen ’em. Hit was at Fort Sill I seen ’em. They was another chief, named Kicken Bird, what got ’em in. He seen how hit would be, and he said to his people, and he made ’em come in. I seen ’em at Fort Sill. They put them Indians in the corrals — they was stone corrals — and the bad chiefs locked up in the jail, and chained, and in the stone ice house they was a-builden. Ever day the wagons with meat come, and they throwed the meat over wall — raw meat and in chunks lak you was feeden a passel of painters. They taken what stock the Indians had and drove ’em outside and shot ’em and let ’em lay, stinken. Hit was lak the stink when they’d been shooten buffalo and skinned ’em. Git a west wind, and couldn’t no man in Fort Sill git the stink of them ponies outer his nose, wake-en nor sleepen. And hit ne’er helped no man eat his vittles.

  ‘They was gonna send the bad chiefs off and git shed of ’em. A fer piece, to Florida. Kicken Bird, they was gonna let him pick out the ones to go, the ones he knowed was dead-set agin the white folks. And he done hit. He named Lone Wolf and Maman-ti, and a passel more, and said they would ne’er have hit in their hearts not to scalp a white man. The time come to git shed of ’em, and I seen hit. Them army wagons was standen thar by the ice house, and sojers drawed up with guns, and they taken out the Indians from the ice house. They had chains on ’em. And thar Kicken Bird come ride-en on his big gray stallion — a man he was to look on, tall and limber, and he could evermore set a hoss, a sight to see. He got off, and come up close to Maman-ti and Lone Wolf and them was standen thar. “Hit’s time,” he said, “and my heart is full of a big sadness. But it will be. I love you, but you would not take the right road. But I love my people. I send you away because I love my people, and you would make them kill theirselves a-beaten their head agin the stone. Fighten the white man is lak beaten yore head on a stone. When yore hearts is changed, you kin come back to yore people, and you will find love in my heart for you.” That’s what they said he said, fer I didn’t know no Kiowa talk to speak of.

  ‘The chiefs standen thar, the chains a-hangen off’n ’em, didn’t say nuthen. They just looked at Kicken Bird. Then Maman-ti, he said: “You think you are a big chief, Kicken Bird. You think you have done a good thing. The white men talk to you and puff you up, Kicken Bird. But you are lak a buffalo cow, dead and layen in the sun and swole with rot-wind. Indians ought to be a-dyen together, but you would not die with us, Kicken Bird. Now you will die by yoreself, Kicken Bird. You are dyen now, Kicken Bird, and the rot-wind is in you.” The wagons started rollen, the black-snakes a-cracken, off toward Caddo crossen. Kicken Bird stood thar, and watched ’em go. The sojers marched off, but Kicken Bird kept on a-standen thar, looken whar the wagons done gone.

  ‘They’s things in the world fer a man to study on, and hit’s one of ’em. What come to Kicken Bird. He stood thar, a-looken, and then he went to his lodge, down on Cache Crick, nigh Sill. They say he just set thar, not give-en nuthen to notice, to speak of. He et a little sumthen, but he didn’t relish nuthen. He ne’er taken his eyes off’n the ground. Five days that away, and come the fifth mornen and he keeled over and died. “I done what come to me,” he said, layen thar, “and I taken the white man’s hand.” Then he was dead. Nary a mark on him, and him in the prime.

  ‘But they ain’t no tellen. Some said as how Maman-ti, when the wagons camped outer Sill, prayed and put a strong medicine on Kicken Bird to die. Then he died his-self fer putten medicine on another Kiowa. But agin, maybe his heart was broke in two. Maybe Kicken Bird’s heart broke in two lak a flint rock when you put hit in the hot fire. They ain’t no tellen. But hit’s sumthen fer a man to study on.

  ‘Hit was in. May they taken them Indians away from Sill, and me and Mingo hit out agin. Buffalo hunten agin. But we didn’t do so good that year. They was peteren out. That’s what made them Indians so durn bad, some folks said, them buffalo goen. They didn’t git no vittles then, but what the gov’mint give ’em, and hit spiled more’n lak. We taken what we could find, but the time was goen in Oklahoma. We heared tell they was buffalo down Brazos, and Charlie Hart’s boys a-gitten ’em, so hit was down Brazos and up Pease River. We done what we could, but the time was a-goen. Mingo got lak I’d ne’er seen him git a-fore. We’d sight buffalo, and he’d go nigh loco. “Durn, God durn,” he’d say, his voice lak a man prayen “God durn the bastuds.” And his eyes with a shine in ’em lak a man got the fever. “Durn,” he’d say, “what you a-waiten fer, you Kentuck bastud?” and we’d move out on ’em. Light or dark, he’d be at hit. Past sun, I seen him, and not light fer a man to aim by. Him a-waste-en lead, and them Sharp’s evermore et lead lak a hog slop. Two ounce the slug, and powder to back hit. “Mingo,” I says to him, “hit’s a willful waste.” “I’ll cut yore scaggly thote,” he said, and ne’er said one more word all night.

  ‘We come outer Brazos and up Kansas way. “They’s buffalo north,” Mingo’d say. Days, and we’d see a old bull, maybe, and a couple of cows. And bones layen white on the ground, fer as a man’s sight, white lak a salt flat. The wagon wheel went over ’em, cracken. We come to Dodge City. They was bones piled and ricked up thar, a sight of bones. Them nesters and ’steaders done picked up and brung ’em in to sell ’em. They was buyen ’em back east to make fert’lizer to put on the wore-out ground. Bones ricked up thar along the Santa Fe, a-waiten, you ne’er seen sich. They was fellers in Dodge City, but not lak a-fore. Fellers was setten round didn’t have a dime, what had been thrown round the green lak a senator. Bones and broke buffalo hunters thar, them days. We was in Dodge City, and Mingo ne’er outer spitten-range of a bottle. “Buffalo gone,” he said, “durn, and hit’ll be whisky next, and no country fer a white man.” But they shore-God wasn’t no drout in sight yit. Not with Mingo.

  ‘We was in Dodge City, and word come the Sante Fe was payen out good money fer men to fight the Denver and Rio Grande fer putten the track through where the Arkansas comes outer the mountains, out in Colorado. Mingo come and said to git ready, we was goen. But I said, naw, I wasn’t gonna be a-shooten and killen no human man, not fer no railroad, no way. “Me,” Mingo said, “I kilt plenty fer the gov’mint goen on four years, and kill a man fer the gov’mint, I shore-God oughter be willen to kill me one fer anybody else. Even a railroad.” But naw, I said. But Mingo went on and done hit, and me waiten in Dodge City. Then he come on back, and money he had. “Hit’ll be Santa Fe line,” he said, “and Irish fer cross-ties.”

  ‘Then Mingo said: “Yellowstone, up Yellowstone and they’s buffalo lak a-fore. Hit’s the word. Git ready.” But I ne’er said nuthen. “What you setten thar fer?” he said. “Git ready.” Then I said I wasn’t aimen to go. “What you aimen to do?” Mingo said. I said I couldn’t rightly name hit, but hit would come to me. I said I might take me out some ground, have-en a little money left to git me gear and a start. Mingo looked at me lak he ne’er laid eyes on me a-fore, and he give a spit on the ground. “A fool hoe-man,” he said, “you be a durn fool hoe-man.” “Maybe,” I said, “if’n hit comes to me.” “A bone- picker,” he said. He give me a look, and that’s the last word I e’er heared him say. “Bone-picker,” he said, and give me a look, and walked off. He was gone, a-fore sun next mornen. Yellowstone way, they said.

  ‘I taken me a claim, lak I said. Up in Kansas. And I done well as the next one, I reckin. I ne’er minded putten my back to hit, and layen a-holt. And I had me money to git a start, gear and stock and sich. Two year, goen on three, I stayed. I was a-make-en out, that wasn’t hit. Hit was sumthen come over me. I couldn’t name hit. But thar hit was, sleepen and wake-en.

  I sold my stock and gear. I said to a man, “What’ll you gimme fer my stock and gear?” And he named hit. Hit wasn’t nuthen, not to what a man could a-got. But I taken hit, and hit was ample. To git me a outfit. And I started a-move-en. Down through Oklahoma, and west. West, lak a man done them days when hit come over him to be a-move-en.

  ‘I went down the way I’d been a-fore, and hit was diff’rent a-ready. But not diff’rent lak when I come back in ’ninety-one on my way back here. The Indians was dance-en then, when I come back through, tryen to dance the buffalo back. They’d been gone a long time then, and the bones. Them Indians was a-tryen to dance ’em back. And Indians ever whar, I heared tell, up in Dakota and west. The ghost-dance, they named hit. They was make-en medicine and tryen to dance back the good times, and them long gone. Hit would be a new world, and fer Indians, they claimed. A new earth was a-come-en, all white and clean past a man’s thinken, and the buffalo on hit a-move-en and no end. Lak that time I stood on a rise near Medicine Lodge Crick and seen ’em a-move-en, and ne’er reckined on the end, how hit would be. That-air new earth was a-come-en, they figured, a-slide-en over the old earth whar the buffalo was done gone now and the Indians was dirt, a-blotten hit out clean, lak a kid spits on his slate and rubs hit clean. And thar all the Indians would be, all the nations a-standen and callen, all them what had died, on that-air new white earth. The live ones was dance-en to bring hit.

  ‘They was them as had seen hit. They was them as fell down in the dance and had died, lak they named hit, when they was a-dance-en, and laid on the ground stark and stiff lak dead. They was the ones as had seen hit, the new land. They’d come to, lak a man wake-en, and tell as how they had seen hit. They seen the new earth, all white and shine-en, and the dead ones thar, happy, and beckonen with the hand, and they talked to ’em. Squaws what had chil’en what was dead, they’d see ’em.

  ‘They was some folks as was laughen and scornen. Said them Indians was gone plumb crazy. But not me. One time, long a-fore, when I was young and sallet-green, I mighter scorned. But not then, in ’ninety-one, when I was a-come-en back, after what hit was I’d seen. I’d laid dead lak them Indians, and seen hit come to me. Hit was how I was a-come-en back. In ’ninety-one.

  ‘But them Indians. They come together in a big ring, a dance-en. Round and round, and a-singen. Them songs they made up, how they’d been dead and what they seen in that-air new land a-come-en. And the medicine man, he was in the middle, a-shake-en his eagle feather, and them Indians move-en round, and a-singen. Then somebody starts to feel hit a-come-en and starts a-shake-en and shudderen, lak the chill. And the medicine man, he waves that-air eagle feather a-fore his face what’s a-shake-en, and he blows out his breath at him and says, “Hunh, hunh, hunh, hunh!” And that feller comes outer the ring in the middle, lak the blind-staggers, and the medicine man waves the feather a-fore him, and ne’er stops and says, “Hunh, hunh, hunh!” Till that-air feller gits the jerks, lak a man when the gospel hits him. Then the jerks is gone, and him a-standen, stiffer’n a man on the coolen board, and eyes a-stare-en lak a-fore the pennies is put. He stands thar, how long hit ain’t no tellen, and them dance-en and singen, and hit come-en on more Indians, too, and them a-fall-en. They lays on the ground thar, lak dead, and broad daylight, maybe. And the singen and dance-en not stoppen.

  ‘But that was in ’ninety-one, when I was come-en back, not when I was a-goen. A-goen, I was headed west, lak I said, lak a man them days when hit come on him to be move-en. I was down in Santa Fe and seen hit. I went to the middle of town, and seen the folks a-move-en and doen, and I figgered I’d lay over and rest up, maybe. Then hit come on me. Naw, I said, I ain’t a-stoppen, hit’s on me not be be a-stoppen. I didn’t tarry none, only to git me grub and sich. A feller said to me, “Whar you goen?” I said I didn’t know, and he said, “God-a-mighty, stranger, goen and don’t know whar!” And I said, “Naw, I don’t know, but hit’ll come to me when I git thar.” And he said, “God-a-mighty!” And I went on.

  ‘I come into the mountains. Them mountains wasn’t lak no mountains you e’er seen. Nor me. Not lak them hills in Arkansas or in this-here country in Kentucky. That-air country was open and high, and the mountains rise-en outer hit. Hit was June when I come in the high country, and they was flowers ever whar. I ne’er seen sich. Greasewood with blooms plumb gold, and little flowers on the ground. And the cactus, flowers a-bloomen fer as a man’s sight. But no smell. Put yore nose to hit, but they ain’t no smell, fer all the brightness.

  ‘I went on to the high mountains. Cedars and juniper I come to, but scrub and not fitten fer nuthen. Then up higher, piñons, then oak but hit scrub. Then high up in them mountains, the big pines standen, and no man e’er laid axe. Look down and the land was all tore up down below, ever which way, tore up and a-layen on end. And the ground with colors lak the sky at sun. Look up, and snow was still layen when I come, and the sun white on hit, lak on cloud-tops in summer. The wind come down off’n the snow, cold to yore face and the sun shine-en.

  ‘I come in that-air country, and ne’er ast no man the way. Outer Santa Fe I seen folks a-goen and come-en, then they wasn’t none to speak on. In the high country I seen Indians sometimes, ride-en along, or standen, and I made ’em signs and them me, but I ne’er ast ’em the way. A man could be in a place in that-air country and they’d be Indians live-en thar, not a pistol-shot, and him ne’er knowen. Not the way they fixed them houses, dirt piled up round looken lak a hump outer the ground. Hogans, they named them houses. The cold come or hit git dry and the grass give out, and they’d up and move and build ’em a new house. One day, sun to sun, and hit was built.

  ‘Summer I was in the mountains, high up. The cold come, and I moved down and built me a house, lak them Indian houses, only mine set south, back up under a hunk of rock. Them Indian houses sets east, ne’er no other way. Hit’s agin their religion. And I fixed me a shed fer my ponies. That winter I laid up thar. I lived off’n the land. A man kin do hit, put to hit, what with a rifle and snare-en. But I traded the Indians fer some corn, now and agin. But two-three months, and I ne’er seen nobody, hair nor hide. I didn’t miss hit, somehow. I’d a-come thar, and thar I was. Hit’s past name-en, how the Lord God leads a man some time, and sets his foot. Thar I was, and I knowed they was a world of folks off yander, down in the flat country. A-gitten and a-begetten, and not knowen the morrow. I knowed how they’d been war and killen in the country, and folks rise-en in slaughter, brother agin brother. And men was dead and under the earth, as had walked on hit, standen up lak me or airy breathen man. And no man to name the reason. Only the Lord God. I minded me on the power of meanness I’d seen in my time. And done, to speak truth. A man does hit, some more, some less, but he’s got hit to think on.

  ‘Hit looked lak my head was full, one thing and ernuther. Sometimes hit was lak I could see, plain as day, ever thing and ever body I’d e’er knowed layen out a-fore me, all at one time. They ain’t no tellen how hit was, but hit was that a-way. All together, lak a man lived his life, and the time not a-passen while he lived it. Hit’s past sayen, and they ain’t no word fer me to say hit, but hit was that a-way. A-fore God. Hit’s sum-then to study on. Then a man feels clean, hit’s ne’er the same.

  ‘Summer come, and the snow gone, and I started up to the high mountains. I seen Indians a-move-en, too. They made me signs, and I taken up with ’em. They had ’em sheep and ponies, and was goen whar the grass was good. They was two or three of ’em knowed our talk, not good but some. All summer I was with them Indians, off and on. The grass gone and time to be a-move-en, and they ast me to move too, and I done hit. A man could git along with them Indians if’n he had a mind to. I done hit. They ne’er had nuthen agin me, nor me agin them. Hit come cold, and they was a-move-en down low, and I went with ’em. They helped build me a winter hogan, lak their’n, and they rubbed corn meal on the posts, the way they done fer luck, and sprinkled hit on the floor, and said the words they says to make the live-en in the house be good live-en. They throwed a handful on the fire they’d built under the smoke hole, and said the words. They fixed vittles, and we set on the floor, on sheep skins, and taken sop, side by side. They made cigarettes, lak they do, outer corn shucks and terbaccer, and set thar smoke-en and talken. Hit was lak a log-raise-en in this-here country, and folks jollifyen.