by Lauran Paine
They went boiling down the land and gave the yell. The sounds, so ludicrous coming from men who yelled with sound and nothing else, amused Kit’s iron spirit. When a Dakota raised the yell, he said something, called on his medicine or his forefathers or imitated the battle cry of some animal. Not the emigrants. They just yelled to give relief to the passion and fright within them.
The Indians started shooting when the hard-riding horsemen were still a long way off. Kit squinted against the sunlight and rode with pistol balanced, cocked and ready, but unfired.
At the last moment before the emigrants started firing at the wavering bucks, Kit threw back his head and screamed like a wounded cougar. The cry had an awful lilt to it, a rising and falling crescendo of sound that shivered in the air. Then it was lost in the smash of guns and the howls of men, both red and white.
The Dakotas couldn’t hope to stand before the mounted men but they stood as long as they dared, to Kit’s amazement. Indians never fought pitched battles. It wasn’t their way. They took honors from ambush and surprise and wily strategy. Head-on, stubborn battling seemed more than ridiculous to them; it seemed a suicidal waste of good fighting men.
Big Eagle and White Shield Owner’s foot soldiers were no different, especially in the face of the onrushing horsemen. They shot guns and arrows, but two things saved Kit’s outfit from casualties. They were riding fast and swerving erratically. The Dakotas finally broke and fled, shooting, when they shot at all, in hesitating seconds when they would stop, whirl, fire, and run on at top speed for the distant forest.
Once they broke, the Dakotas were lost. With savage fury Kit hurled his men upon them. Where a few warriors would band together and stand firm, chanting their death songs, he swung wide and left them alone. Bypassing pockets of resistance, he concentrated on the single men, riding them down, and shooting them like prairie dogs.
When the wagons showed well within range, he led his blowing horse and wild-eyed emigrants back to clear out the little nests of warriors who refused, stubbornly, to be routed. The slaughter continued under the hot sun until the valley floor was covered with dead and dying Dakotas. None had gotten close enough to kill the harnessed animals that came on, heads high, snorting softly, smelling the blood of white man and red man, but under the firm and experienced hands of the drovers.
Kit rode back at the head of the emigrants with a savagely pleased look. Lige came loping up to meet him. He, too, was grinning like a death’s-head.
“We ought t’ have a big powwow dance, Kit.”
“Where’d the riders go?”
“Oh, they were sly ones, boy. They were going to ride plumb around in back and come up on the loose stock. Then they saw them boys, and by that time I was down there with the men. They walked, their blamed horses almost within shooting range … but not quite … and that’s where they were during your fight up front.”
“No danger? No lost stock?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I don’t think they’ll recover from that skirmish right away, Lige. Want to eat?”
Lige shook his head. “Naw. You go ahead. I’ll go up front and line ’em out like before, down both sides, and keep the train rolling. See you later.”
Kit turned and looked at the emigrants. “Every third one of you come on. We’ll see what we can scare up for food. The rest of you take your stations on both sides of the train. When we’re through eating, we’ll come out and relieve you.”
He rode around the wagons and up behind the young men who were closing the open end of the V. Red Houston reined over beside Kit with an eager excitement, like red paint, in his face.
“Mister Butler … you reckon I could go out with the men?”
Kit shook his head. “Red, you couldn’t serve anywhere better’n you’re serving here. Honestly, you’ll see that, after a while.”
The boy fell back, and Kit’s blood-shot-eyed group rode up, in among the wagons. Faces appeared, as if by magic, from around the great canvas-covered bows and over tailgates. The animals within the V were grazing as they went. Kit saw Allie waving to him. She was sitting on the high seat of the seventh wagon down, on the south side. He rode over, swung onto the seat, and held the reins to his horse. Reuben Burgess nodded gravely, silently at him. He caught a glimpse of an older woman deep within the wagon, but had no time for a second look.
Allie squeezed over beside her father, who gave way a little, making room for Kit. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you?”
He saw the clear sparkle in her eyes and looked past her to the distant outriders. “No, we haven’t done much, Allie. Just pushed ’em away for a little while is all.”
“If we can keep that up a few days longer, we’ll be safe.”
He grinned sardonically. “If,” he said with dour emphasis. He looked out around the seat, where a purple notch in the far hills was looming closer. “See that gap, Allie?”
“Straight ahead?”
He nodded at her. “Yep. If we get through there, it’ll be the miracle of the ages, ma’am.”
“What’s on the other side?”
“Well,” he said softly, “if we get over that pass, we’ll be safe, like you say … only I wouldn’t give much for our chances.”
Allie’s father was studying the jagged spires that girded the trail far ahead. “Have you ever been through there, Mister Butler?”
“Kit. Yeah, twice. Once exploring … once in a hurry with some Rees behind me.”
“Is it steep? That’d slow us badly, if it’s steep.”
“It isn’t the steepness,” Kit said, staring up at the forbidding spires. “It’s the narrowness.”
“Too narrow for wagons like these?”
“I didn’t mean that. No, I’d say that pass has been used for hundreds of years. The trail’s good. Not very steep and there’s only one ford, and that doesn’t amount to much, even in the spring. What I was thinking about was the sides of the pass. The wagons’ll have to go through there single file. One behind the other, you see. We’ll be at the mercy of the Indians. They can get on both sides and shoot down on us.” He didn’t say any more, although a picture was formed in his mind very clearly of what would happen.
Allie and her father were looking somberly ahead. He turned and looked at the girl’s profile. It was a thing he would carry inside his head always. Clean and wholesome and strong-looking, without too much prominence to any one feature. A beautiful head and a handsome face, any way he looked at it. He sighed. The sound was lost in the grinding overture from the huge wheels. Then she turned and caught him staring. He didn’t drop his glance, either.
“Ma’am, you reckon you could take pity on a hungry man?”
She laughed as much with relief as with pleasure. He looked so doleful and dirty and exhausted. “Stay here for a minute.” She swung around and disappeared behind the high seat, down the shadowy interior of the Conestoga.
“Mister Butler.” Kit turned and studied Burgess’ face. It was strong and long, with the same eyes Allie had, only small in his head from perpetual squinting. “Are you pro-slaver, by any chance?”
The question startled him. He looked beyond Burgess to the nearest outrider, where the lift and fling of the land was merged with the sky. His answer came slowly because he had to plan the words. “No, I reckon not. I haven’t been east of the Missouri in many years. Out here, men do for themselves. They don’t need slaves … and if they had ’em, they’d just be another mouth to feed and another scalp to save.” Then he smiled. “You know, Indians say niggers don’t have souls … that’s why they’re black. Not having souls, there’s no reason to scalp ’em. I’ve always figured the reason they didn’t lift nigger wool was because they couldn’t get a good hold of it.”
Burgess didn’t speak. He looked straight ahead where the distant hills were.
Kit tried again. “I don’t suppose it’s righ
t for one man to own another. Honestly we don’t think much about things like that out here.”
“Then you aren’t a slaver?”
“No.”
Burgess drove in silence for a while. He didn’t speak again until Allie came back with a thick crockery plate with cold buffalo tongue on it, some white bread, and a big, quivering blob of some dark red preserves. Kit was looking his gratitude at the daughter when the father spoke.
“Is Fort Collins beyond that pass?”
Kit spoke around the food he was eating. “Beyond the pass is a big plain. It drops downward for a long way. We’ll make good time if we get there. Across the plain is Fort Collins. Maybe another week’s traveling.”
“Then our remaining danger is the pass.”
Kit ate hungrily and scowled a little. “That’s taking a lot for granted, Mister Burgess,” he said. “Even if we make the pass, there’s still the chance they’ll keep after us out on the plains. They’re pretty hard to discourage, those Dakotas. When you see ’em all just turn and start riding away … or walking away … you’ll know we’re safe. Until then, don’t take anything for granted.”
“You know them pretty well, don’t you?”
“I’ve lived with ’em, gone raiding against their enemies with ’em, hunted and feasted and sat around and jawed with ’em.”
“And … you like them?”
“Yes.” He handed the plate back to Allie and smiled his thanks. “You people don’t know them. You don’t understand them. All you see is war paint. Well, I reckon the best way to show you how they feel is to ask how you’d feel if the Confederates back East were to invade the States and drive all you Federalists from your homes.”
“There’s a difference,” Burgess said in an ominously cold way.
“No difference at all,” Kit said bluntly. “They’ve been here too long to welcome any kind of an invasion.”
“They’ve never worked the ground, Mister Butler. They’re savages.”
Kit could feel his face reddening. “Savages? Mister Burgess, they think we’re savages. I reckon a good example of the difference between us would be this—I’ve yet to know an Indian who was a liar. I can’t say as much for a white man.” He pulled his horse’s reins inward a little, drawing the plodding animal up beside the high seat. Burgess turned and watched him vault over into the saddle. His eyes were frosty. Allie swung over into the place Kit had vacated. She looked anxious and worried.
“When can we stop, Kit?”
“At sundown, Allie. No sense in stopping before. The only safety we can rely on is darkness … and we dasn’t rely on that too much, but the men’ll have to have some rest pretty soon or they’ll be toppling over. Thanks, ma’am, I appreciate that food.”
He reined away before she could speak. She watched him go with a soft and brooding look. Other men were riding back down the wings of the V. They were passed by the boy guards across the open end of wagons, and straggled leisurely back out onto the valley floor, where they relieved other men who went to get some food.
Lige watched Kit approach. He was riding the point, far ahead of the train, with men strung out behind him on both sides of the wagons. He reined up and waited. When Kit caught up, they rode knee to knee for a while, studying the pass in silence, then Lige spat lustily.
“She’s going to be hell in there, Kit.”
Kit nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. If we had enough men, we could throw a string of ’em on both sides of the pass up in the trees and get the drop on our copper-hided friends.”
“But we haven’t,” Lige said. He threw a worried look at Kit. “Have the emigrants got bells?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen ’em. We’ll hold off on using the bells until we’re pretty close, though, Lige.”
“We’ll be up there by tomorrow night, looks like.” Lige began wagging his head back and forth. “The times I’ve been over that trail. Hell, I never thought I’d be guiding wagons over it.”
Kit smiled. “The land’s changing, Lige,” he said. “Wouldn’t surprise me to see you finish up your days farming.”
“Plowing?” Lige said with a rush of horrified breath. “Me … plowing and seeding and all such stuff? Not on your damned life.”
“Looks like that’s the future out here, old-timer.”
“Future, hell,” Lige spat out. “Before I’ll do that, I’ll go to horse trading. These people are always needing new stock. Well, I’ll steal from the Indians and trade to the whites, then I’ll steal from the whites and trade to the Indians. A man ought to do right well like that.”
“Until one side or the other catches him and closes off his wind,” Kit said dryly.
“Well, what’re you planning to do, then? I can’t picture you scratching up the danged ground behind a yoke of oxen.”
Kit was silent for a moment, his calm glance resting on the twin peaks far ahead, frowning down with stony impassiveness on the valley. “Up until a few days ago I hadn’t thought much about it, Lige. Now I have. Seems to me a man ought to do pretty well just raising horses and cattle. Get himself a big block of land and put up a big log house and raise cattle and horses.”
“Why such a big log house?” Lige was squinting at Kit with a suspicious, sniffing look.
Kit smiled broadly. “Well. You know how it is. A man can’t just live alone.”
“Oh,” Lige said, without too much surprise. “I thought she was throwing stones at you. The last time I seen you ride past her, didn’t either one of you look very pleased.”
Kit turned and looked at his partner. “Must be your imagination, Lige. Except for arguing a little about Indians, we hit it off fine.”
“Does she know that?” Lige asked wryly. “I think you’d better tell her. Women like to be told when they’re going to get married to a man. Don’t much like being surprised about things like that.”
“Go to hell,” Kit said quietly.
Lige let out a squeaking laugh and nodded at the frowning peaks. “I might do that, too. Maybe up ahead in that durned pass.” He shrugged. “A fellow’s got to go sometime, I reckon.” He turned his horse with a sly look at Kit. “Did she feed you?”
“Yeah. Buffalo tongue and wild plum preserves, I think it was.”
“Then I reckon she’ll do that same for me. Leastways I can ask.”
“She will,” Kit said, then he turned quickly. “Lige, be careful what you say to her.”
“Me?” Lige said, riding away. “Why, Kit, I’m surprised at you.” His laughter came back softly.
Kit squirmed in the saddle and swore under his breath. Lige was all man, a man’s man. He had about as much tact as a Dakota horse under a white man’s harness.
Chapter Ten
Kit urged his horse up ahead, far enough to be able to see the waving spring grass on all sides of the wagon train. If there were Dakota warriors hiding, he couldn’t see them. He rode like that the rest of the afternoon, and a dawning suspicion began to form in his mind. The Indians weren’t going to try and waylay them again on foot—at least not out in the open. He signaled for some of the emigrants to ride up toward him. When they came, he sent them out in sets of four, skirmishing far and wide, then he stayed where he was, watching. They didn’t scare up a single hidden buck Indian.
By the time Lige came back, looking full in the face and secretly amused about something, he was convinced his suspicion was right. “Lige, I’ve got a notion …” He stopped there, studying Lige’s beaming countenance with a slight frown. “What the hell have you been up to? Doggone you, Lige. Did you shoot off your lip back there to Allie?”
Lige’s face assumed an injured look, but his little eyes never lost their pleased, sly look. “What were you going to say, Kit?” he asked with unruffled calm.
Kit studied Lige for a moment and stifled an urge to swear at him. He straightened in the saddle and stared hard at the p
eaks. “I was going to say—blast your soul—that I’ve had the country up ahead scouted, and there’s not an Indian anywhere around.”
“So?”
“So I’ve got an idea that White Shield Owner and Big Eagle pulled them out.”
“Why?” Lige asked quickly. “Because they’re afoot?”
“That’s only part of it, I think. They all know they can’t match us when we’re mounted and they’re not. I’ve got a notion they’ve made tracks for the pass. They’ll have all day tomorrow to fort up there, then, when the train rolls between the bluffs, all hell will bust loose.”
Lige studied the mountains ahead somberly. He didn’t speak for a long time. Not until the sun was sliding far off center, then he shook himself like a dog coming out of a creek, took a short chew of tobacco, and spat.
“That’s about it. Well, like I said, she’s going to be hell in there, Kit.”
Kit didn’t answer.
They finished out the rest of the late afternoon riding side-by-side in deep silence. Red Houston came eagerly loping up to them with his boyish face split wide in an engulfing grin.
“Folks want to know when they should circle, Mister Butler.”
Kit raised an arm and pointed to a meandering creek that shone bloodred in the late sunlight. “Tell ’em when we get to that creek, Red.”
The boy loped back down the south wing of the wagons. Lige laughed. “Wish I was his age again.”
“Or had his feeling of adventure,” Kit said, smiling. “Well, let’s turn the leaders, Lige. They can circle when we hit the water.”
The lead wagons were ready to turn inward by the time Kit and Lige got back to them. The word had spread rapidly, thanks to Red Houston. The two scouts sat their horses out a ways, clear of the dust and turmoil, until the men were double-tonguing the wagons to seal the circle, then they rode down and into the enclosure, swung down, unsaddled, and turned their weary animals loose.
Lige went as far from the clustering people as he could and began to make a hole for a cooking fire. Reuben Burgess came up to Kit and faced him. There was a deep stratum of humor in the old man’s face. It had nothing to do with what he said.
