So far, Catlin had not wrecked. He walked alongside the wagon—for a man in the volunteer infantry knew how to walk. Some bullwhackers rode on the back of the nigh wheeler. A few had found a way to sit on the left-hand side of the wagon, but Catlin did what he had spent three years doing. He marched.
A rider appeared ahead, legs bouncing out and back as the black horse galloped, kicking up clouds of dust. It had to be Coushatta John Noah. “Stop these . . .” The pounding of the horse’s hooves faded the curse. “. . . miserable oxen.”
“Oh, hell,” Catlin said, and remembered the easiest of the commands, “Whoa. Whoa! Whoa, you . . .” He grimaced and did not exhale until he saw his two longhorns stop a good two yards behind the freight wagon immediately ahead.
He felt like sighing in relief until the major reined the black into a sliding stop right next to Catlin.
“Where’s that boy extra?” the major roared.
The boy extra would be Steve Grover—at least twelve years too old to serve as a boy extra on a wagon train, but Major Noah wasn’t about to take a chance with two greenhorns driving wagons to Montana’s goldfields.
“Boy. Hey, Boy Extra?” the wagon master called.
The call went down the train from bullwhacker to bullwhacker, and, at length, Steve Grover slipped between Catlin’s wagon and the one six feet ahead.
“You need me, Major?” Grover said, out of breath, but he had been farming instead of marching for months now.
“Yeah. Fetch two saddled horses tethered behind Farley’s wagon. Bring them here. Quicker than I can skin a coyot’. Move. And bring them fancy muskets you two soldier boys brought along.” Grover had already disappeared. “With powder, lead, and caps, boy,” the major called after him. He turned to Catlin. “You say you’re pretty good shots with those smoothbores?”
Catlin stared blankly. “They’re rifled muskets,” he corrected. “Not smoothbores.”
“I don’t give a damn what you call them, can you shoot them?”
“Pretty well.”
“You’d better.”
* * *
Two miles ahead, they saw the remains of the wagons. Two of them, or maybe one double-hitched. The oxen were gone. The fire was out. The men, both of them, were dead.
Three years of war—well, not even three, about four months shy of that—had hardened Catlin and Grover. They had seen men blown in half by canister, ripped to shreds by grapeshot. They had seen how much damage one minié ball could do to a human body. But nothing could prepare them for the scene on the Nebraska plains.
“My God,” Steve Grover said.
One body resembled a porcupine, pinned to the blood-soaked ground with dozens of arrows, the top of his hair ripped from the skull, throat cut, hands hacked off and tossed aside. A wolf had been seen running from the body when Catlin, Grover, and the major had ridden up. The scene was so horrible, the stench overpowering, they had hobbled their skittish horses fifty yards before the massacre site.
“He was the lucky one,” Major Noah said.
For the other poor soul was staked out, naked, arrows piercing his feet, his hands, thighs, even his manhood. His head, blackened and charred and gruesome, lay on a pillow of ashes. Roasted alive.
“What’s that . . . ?” Grover had to turn his head and spit. “In his . . . mouth?”
“His dick, boy,” the major said. “Or his pard’s. No telling. Cheyennes.” He yanked the arrow from the corpse’s right foot. “Yeah. Cheyenne.” He pitched the arrow into the sand. “Cheyennes have a peculiar sense of justice.”
“Barbarous bastards.” Grover spit again. “Damned savage red-skinned sons of bitches.”
“You reckon so, boy?” The major walked ahead. “It’s payback, fellows. And the Cheyennes didn’t start this fight.” He pointed southwest. “Ever hear about Sand Creek?”
“No.” Catlin shook his head. Grover spit more bile and wiped his mouth with his hand that didn’t hold the Enfield.
“A bunch of your Union volunteers attacked a peaceful camp of Cheyennes in southeastern Colorado. Even the chief in the camp was known as a peace chief. Colorado boys, same group that had turned back the secesh down in New Mexico Territory back in ’62, killed a hundred, maybe two hundred old men, babies, women. And what the Cheyennes did to these poor bastards ain’t nothing compared to what your white comrades done to the women and kids at Sand Creek. Late November, maybe early December, don’t rightly remember. In ’64. Surprised you didn’t read about it.”
“We were a little busy,” Catlin said. He couldn’t find enough spit in his mouth to swallow.
“If I was President Johnson,” the major said, “I’d give all of Colorado Territory back to the Cheyennes, Utes, and Arapahos. Tell them to do whatever they wanted to the residents there. Because those boys in blue turned this whole part of the territories red.”
“I thought you preferred ‘Liberty and Union Men,’” Grover said.
“I do.” He started walking back to the horses. “But I abhor a butcher.”
* * *
When the hobbles had been returned to the bags, and the three men sat in their saddles, Major Coushatta John Noah pulled tobacco from his pocket, tore off a hunk with his teeth, and offered the twist to Grover and Catlin, both of whom declined.
“If you remember . . .” the major said as he worked the chaw with his teeth. His eyes trained on Catlin. “. . . you allowed that you weren’t teamsters, mule skinners, or bullwhackers during the late war.”
The chaw shifted to the other side of his mouth. “But you said that I might be needing men of your particular talents. So we’re about to see how good you and my boy extra are.” He pointed. “Give the dead a wide berth, then cut back to the trail. Just follow the wagon tracks. Slow and easy. I’ll be riding back to the train. You just take a slow walk, steady, till you come to where you’d think a wagon would barely fit between the Little Blue and some formidable bluffs. We call it ‘The Narrows.’ Don’t ride through. We’ll camp on this side. Do a little scouting in the morn and keep pushing on toward Kearny. I’ll drive your wagon, Catlin.”
“You don’t want our Enfields with the train?” Grover asked.
Noah’s head shook. “Indians find trains rather curious. Rarely will they attack them. Those two damned fools yonder are dead because they rode out alone. Strength in numbers, boys. That’s how you all whipped the rebs. But . . . those Dog Soldiers might attack a couple of foolhardy wayfarers traveling alone.” He pointed toward the remnants of the wagons, and the remnants of what once had been men. “This was a small party. Six. No more than eight. So most likely they had their fun and rode off without another thought. But, since Sand Creek, it pays to be careful. So this could be the work of some scouts for a big war party. If that’s the case, and you boys are as good as you claimed you were back in Nebraska City, well, I figure they’d have to bring in their pals. So if they jump you, and I find that it’s a hell of a lot of Cheyennes, we’ll fort up at Fort Kearny till things get more peaceable. But if you make it to The Narrows, then I’ll figure that the Cheyennes got what they needed, scalps and plunder and oxen and all, and it’s safe to keep going west.”
He turned the horse, kicked it in the sides, and loped off toward the wagon train.
“What do you think?” Grover asked after the major vanished in the emptiness.
“That I never should have read advertisements in the La Porte Herald in the dead of winter.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, what do we do?”
Catlin shifted the Enfield into his other hand and climbed into the saddle of his horse. “Follow the major’s orders,” he said. “We’re good at taking orders. Do what he said. Go nice and steady, around that . . .” He did not look at the corpses. “Walk slow and easy. Keep our eyes open for any cloud of dust, any bird call, or bark of a coyote. Hell, the major’s likely right. Probably just some young warriors, eager to get revenge for that massacre the major was talking about.
We’ll get to The Narrows, rest our horses, wait for the major and the others to arrive. Have a few stories over Freezing Creek’s jug tonight.”
Grover mounted his horse, and they turned the animals westward, upwind, curved back to the trail, and moved slowly.
“You know, John,” Grover said after a mile or two, “I’ll admit that I was so scared I almost pissed my pants before Perryville. But after that first fight, I really wasn’t scared before we went into battle. Figured if I got killed, I got killed, and you just couldn’t fret over that.”
“That’s what made you a top soldier,” Catlin said.
“Yeah, well. Maybe so. But this is just damned different. It just scares the hell out of me. I mean, what the hell would all the folks back in La Porte be saying, if some total stranger was to find my pecker in your mouth, or vice versa?”
Catlin had been reaching for the canteen, but now he stopped, looked over at his friend, and said, “Jesus Christ, Steve, shut the hell up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Osiyo,” said one of the riders, raising his hand in greeting.
“Cherokees,” Jameson Hannah whispered to Story as they sat around the fire that evening. “Probably tribal leaders. Damned Indians. You talk to them . . . I’ll mosey over to some of the boys and have them ride off to help the boys circling the herd. These sons of bitches will steal anything that’s not—”
“Shut up,” Story said. “And keep your ass on that log.”
Sitting his coffee cup on the ground, Story rose, grimacing at the tightness in his legs, and raised his own hand, “’Siyo,” he returned the greeting, and caught the look of surprise in Hannah’s cold eyes.
They had come dressed in their best, and that impressed Story. The oldest man, with silver hair that hung past his shoulders and a face savaged by smallpox years earlier, wore a long-tailed green coat with brown velvet trim that had probably been in fashion a decade or two ago. His cotton shirt was a billowy crimson, and the silk cravat hung tight across the collar, with three medals hanging from buckskin thongs. One of the medals depicted the image of the late Abraham Lincoln, so he must have been a Union man. The trousers were buckskin, and the boots the style of the cavalry, complete with military-issue spurs. A Cherokee turban topped his head.
The other man was much younger, probably around Story’s age, wearing moccasins and trousers of a Confederate soldier. Story guessed that he had ridden with Stand Watie’s Cherokees during the rebellion. A Yankee Cherokee and a Cherokee reb . . . riding together, Story thought. Much like we have in this outfit. A fringed hunting shirt of orange and blue stripes, made from trade cloth of wool, covered his white dress shirt. His flat-brimmed hat had been tilted back at a rakish angle.
The third rider was a woman, in a silk skirt of gold, a cotton blouse of multiple colors and dozens of buttons, and a shawl. Her raven-black hair reminded Story of Ellen.
“Please.” Story waved his arm. “Light down. Join us. Would you care for coffee?”
The old man turned to the woman for translation, although Story thought this might be an act, that the silver-haired devil understood English perfectly. He smiled, as did Story at the woman’s voice, and after a short nod, the men and the woman, the latter riding sidesaddle, dismounted.
“Martinez,” Story said. “Ward. Take their horses. José, fetch . . .” The cook had already poured three cups. He set two on the other side of the fire, and returned to bring the third. That one he placed in the hands of the Cherokee woman, bowing while removing his hat, before returning to the wagon.
The old man tested the coffee, smiled, nodding his approval, and spoke. The woman translated, “My grandfather is called Percy Gunter. He asks if you had any difficulty crossing the river today.”
“The Verdigris was very, very high,” Story said. “As well you know.” He smiled. The woman spoke to her grandfather in Cherokee. “I asked one of my men if he might build a ferry, only to be told that it would take too long.”
Upon hearing this, the old man grinned and clapped.
Story raised his tin cup in toast and said, “It honors us to pass through your country. Do you know how the rivers are farther north?” He pointed toward the North Star.
“You will find no dry ground for many miles.” The younger man spoke, only to be rebuked by the woman.
The Cherokee glared at the woman and waited for the old man to pretty much say the same thing.
Sipping coffee, they exchanged pleasantries, talked like folks did back in Ohio and Kansas, about the weather and corn, horses and cattle. Talked like every man in Ohio and Kansas, hell, even Montana, and the Cherokee Nation—except Nelson Gile Story. But here, in a camp before a tribal leader of the Cherokees, it was Nelson Story who showed his restraint, his patience, even something of an understanding, while Jameson Hannah had to bite his lower lip to keep from blowing up and demanding that the old man get to the point.
Which, the old man did at last. The empty mug went onto the log, and Percy Gunter said, “Many Texans have walked across our country this year with hundreds and hundreds of longhorns.”
“Speaks English, that sneaky . . .” Hannah whispered. Story spoke loudly to drown out Hannah’s anger.
“I think our cattle swim more than they walk.” He smiled. Old Percy Gunter’s eyes brightened.
“You have more swimming to do,” he said.
“Go on.” Story nodded.
“This land was not always our land. My land . . .” He gestured east. “Was there. It was where I was born. This is not the land my father wanted, nor is it the land I wanted, but your government made this our land. Now, it is my land, my home.” He gestured to his son and daughter. “Their land. The land of our people.”
Story sat patiently. “The Texans who drive the longhorns through our country have hurt our lands. Our fields. Even our water. For you to swim . . .” Percy Gunter grinned widely. “. . . your longhorns across Cherokee lands, we ask that you pay a toll of ten cents for each head of cattle. Horses and mules, we will not charge.”
Leaning toward Story, Hannah whispered, “Offer him two and a half—”
“We will pay you what you ask,” Story said, and Hannah’s fist clenched as he straightened and his ears reddened.
“I own many cattle,” Percy Gunter said. “Many others own many cattle. The numbers of our herds drop when each Texas herd comes through our land. We ask that any Cherokee cattle that wanders into your herd be returned to our people.”
“I would have it no other way,” Story said.
Hannah spit between his teeth and slowly shook his head. The fists remained clenched, the knuckles whitening.
“Lastly,” the old man said, “the Texas Road—the Shawnee Trail—whatever name you wish to call it, is well marked. But Texas cattle often move off this trail, to eat Cherokee grass. We ask that you keep your cattle on the trail, and not stray from it until you are out of our country.”
The old man leaned back, waiting. Story shook his head slowly. “This last demand, we cannot accept.” He gestured toward the cattle’s bedding grounds. “Too many herds have passed through already, and cattle and horses need grass to eat. Grass does not grow on well-traveled roads. We must move our herds where they can eat.” He stood, reached inside his pocket, and withdrew a pouch, letting the gold coins cling. “But I will pay the toll . . . one hundred dollars—you require for us to pass through your land. And know this: Any Cherokee cattle that we find will be driven back toward your people each morning before we push north.” He undid the thong as he approached the three Cherokees, and felt glad when Percy Gunter nodded his acceptance of the terms.
Not that Jameson Hannah was happy after the Cherokees had ridden off.
“We could’ve gotten out of this a hell of a lot cheaper,” he sang out. “You let them farmers buffalo you.”
“It’s their land,” Story fired back. “They have a right to charge us for crossing their country, and ten cents a head seems dirt cheap.”
“W
e could’ve whipped them so badly they would’ve paid us.”
Story turned and came face-to-face with Hannah. He whispered so that none of the men—even the closest, the Mexican cook—could hear him.
“You save that fighting for when we need it. I’m not wasting men, powder, or lead on some Cherokees. I’m certainly not paying men to fight damned Indian farmers. We get out of the Nations, we’ll have those rustlers and mad-as-hell Kansas farmers dogging us.” He came even closer and dropped his voice even more. “And once we turn this herd toward Montana, we’ll have Sioux and Cheyenne after our hair, buster. I guaran-damn-tee you that fighting them won’t be near as easy as running roughshod over an old man, a hotheaded boy, and a young Cherokee maiden. That’s when I’ll pay you and your crew to fight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Eleven days later, long before daybreak, even before José Pablo Tsoyio barely had the coffee warm, Story galloped off toward Baxter Springs, Kansas, with Mason Boone, leaving the rest of the crew and the cattle on the southern side of the flooded Neosho River. That morning, they passed one herd camped a few miles from town. Then another. On the outskirts of town, a dozen riders trotted out to meet them.
“Texan?” The white-haired gent with the flowing beard, and a musket braced against his thigh, demanded.
“Montanan,” Story said.
Some of the riders glanced at one another, but the old man leaned forward and said, “Bullshit.”
Story leaned back in his saddle and laughed. “Well, I guess that’s one way of calling me a liar.”
The men laughed. Then stopped. Story’s Navy Colt was cocked and pointed at the old man. Two riders reached for belt guns, but the bearded man muttered, “Don’t act like damned fools.”
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 19
