by J. A. Crook
***
It was a shout that broke the dull droning sound of the nocturnal insects, a sound that became an equal to silence to those submit to it for a long enough time, as the Greyson party had been. The shout was of a voice unfamiliar to Harriet, who stirred in the bedroll beside her husband, who hadn’t quite woke up himself. Harriet shoved at Floyd sharply.
“Floyd!” Harriet said in a sharp whisper. “Floyd, wake up! There’s someone out there!”
Floyd rolled with the first shove before slowly opening his eyes and sitting up. “Someone out there?” He didn’t bother to whisper, still responding in a pseudo-unconsciousness. “Hattie, it’s got to be the middle of the night. No party would be travelling at this time.”
It was then that the cover of the tent was pulled swiftly open and a demonic image stared the two in the eyes, its face painted with whites and reds, feathers rising from its long black hair, bare chest covered in scars and tribal markings. It shouted in words that were unfamiliar, but the sound of them was enough to denote that they were threats. The waving hands of the strange being suggested Harriet and Floyd leave the tent immediately.
Disoriented and too afraid to scream, both Floyd and Harriet rose with the foreign commands, ushering themselves out of the tent toward the pit of smoldering embers that held the evening’s fire. Most of the group was being ushered out of their tents at the same time, and each of them realized that it was a group of Indians that were corralling the stranded party toward the fire.
Mr. Vickers stood next to the two Indian guides from their own party, both of whom didn’t seem to be receiving any sort of special treatment from what was likely to a foreign tribe. The only one missing from the group was Hank, and a spear-wielding soldier was shouting into his tent. The loud, threatening sounds of the aggressive tribesman trying to get Hank out of his tent were undermines by the thunderous crack of gunfire from the tent. The Indian man dropped dead right in front of Hank’s tent before the entire group of raiding tribesman rushed the tent with their spears held high and began aimlessly plunging the sharp weapons into the meager shelter. The tent gave way to their stabbings and fell as burial sheet atop Hank, whose blood oozed from and flung from the tent with each successive thrust. Harriet, who had no doubt that Hank was dead beneath the relentless assault, grabbed a hold of her husband, realizing that it was likely they were next. Floyd held her firmly, watching the attack, disturbed. Still, the entire party, short of the man they needed most in their current dilemma with the wagon, held still, knowing that it would be impossible to outrun the raiders.
Harriet whispered to her husband. “I don’t want to die, Floyd! I don’t want to die today! I wanted to be out West with you!”
Floyd gently brought a hand to Harriet’s face, continuing to watch the excessive massacre of their friend. His tone expressed clearly that he was both afraid and about to tell a lie. “We aren’t going to die here today. We’ll be alright.” And it was a lie only because he was uncertain of their fate. He whispered prayers a moment later, aided by his wife.
The next sound came from behind them, and though the word that came from their flank was foreign, the accent behind it sounded familiar: “Shoshoni!”
Harriet nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound, turning swiftly to see what else had come, expecting it was reinforcements by the word said. Instead, it was a middle-aged man and a younger counterpart, both with cowboy hats and horses. None of the party seemed to hear the approach of the men and the creatures, but it was likely that their attention was so drawn to the violence that they would be unaware of the trivial trotting of a horse. The Greyson party, now afraid and perplexed by the turn of events, watched the new arrivals. The Indian raiders stopped the savage stabbing into the now blood-soaked tent and turned to the men, saying a few words in their native language, as threateningly so as they had sounded while corralling the group.
The men stepped past the captive Greyson party and returned words, in the language of the natives. Harriet took the time to look over the men. The elder was strapped with two revolvers, which would have had enough bullets in them, if loaded, to kill off the entire raiding group twice over. Furthermore, the younger fellow held a shotgun in his hand, which could have done a fine job itself, if utilized.
There was a standoff of silence between the raiders and the gunmen, all in full spectacle of the confused and unsettled Greyson party. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, fear came into the eyes of each of the raiding tribesmen, and they began shouting, “Dzoavits! Dzoavits!” A word strange to the party, but the two Indian guides shifted uncomfortably, looking between each other.
The gunmen looked between each other as well, as if giving a nonverbal queue to do what needed to be done. The elder of the two pulled both pistols and began firing on the raiders. At the same time, the younger man, with the shotgun, stepped forward to close his range, firing powerful, bloody shots into the native group of raiders. Gore filled the sky as pieces of the painted men colored the dark backdrop of the night. Blood shot out of the men like a fountain, making the assault on Hank in his tent look mild. Every bullet was shot out of the end of each pistol with an assaulting, audible crack through the sky and twelve shots were counted from the pistol. When nothing was left of the raiders but a mound of body parts, feathers and torn leathers, all behind the smoky haze of fresh gunfire, there was a silence.
The Greyson party all remained close to each other, watching the fresh exhibit, mortified. When the gunmen turned back to them, the entire group winced and leaned away.
“We’re not here to hurt you. These fellas here? They’re Shoshoni Indians. They don’t take kindly to strangers, as you can see.” And the elder gunman gestured back toward Hank’s body. “They especially don’t like it when you shoot at them. Then, if you’re going to use your thunder-sticks, it’s best you kill them all. If one of them got away, you’d better be damn sure the rest of them would be showing up soon. That being said, maybe your group should get movin’ on instead of staying out here in the middle of nowhere as you are, with all these provisions.” And the elder gunman looked over the boxes of goods brought for the trip, kept outside of the damaged wagon for the repairs that were required.
“Sir, I personally cannot thank you enough. Without your help, I’m sure we’d all be—” But he was cut off by the younger of the two gunman.
“You’d be dead? You think these fellas here would kill ya?” And he started to laugh. First, a bit of a dilapidated chortle snuck out unnaturally, but then he broke into a full laughter. The elder man joined him a moment later, causing the remaining Greyson party, and the two Indian guides, to watch the men suspiciously.
The elder gunman spoke then. “They probably would ‘ave killed ya eventually. Wouldn’t have buried you like we bury our folks. They don’t have those same sorts of respects that you and I have. No, those Shoshoni, they have a respect for something a little different, and it ain’t human.” He warned, his smile fading.
“Ain’t human?” Harriet echoed, asking first.
“Oh no.” The elder gunman replied.
“What is it then? Some sort of god of theirs?” Harriet persisted.
“Some of this. Some of that. They got plenty of gods, the Shoshoni, but some of their
practices are things that separate the civilized from savages. You know, wild sexual practices and rituals...” And he paused for a moment, watching Harriet.
The stare made Harriet uncomfortable and she stepped nearer to her husband, if she could do such a thing. “Is that it?”
“There is one more thing.” The elder gunman grinned, as if finding pleasure in the dark revelation. “They’ve been known for eating the dead.”
Harriet’s face contorted as she was mortified by the news. “They eat other people?!” She shouted. “That’s unbelievable!”
Floyd, Grant and the others showed less expression to the news. Grant Vickers, in particular, was well aware of the stories out West. It so happened that the practice wasn�
��t as unusual as Harriet may have thought it was, which verified as the younger gunman spoke up again.
“Well, it isn’t just the Indians out this way eating people. You know, there’s a share of good white people like ourselves that have been known to do the same thing, when desperate. Not all of them show up as stocked as your bunch and...” The young man looked back over the boxes of provisions. “...some of them come as ready as you are, and don’t have a couple of us to come and save them. Even if they had let ya’ll live, ya probably would have been eatin’ each other by the end of the trek out West.” And he smiled a wide, toothy smile to that.
“Oh, God no!” Harriet exclaimed. “I’d first die with dignity than ever resort to something as absolutely grotesque as cannibalism!” She shouted, with authority.
Floyd placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder to calm her. Floyd understood that such a comment as the one made by the young man could have been considered an insult. Floyd hadn’t heard of reports of cannibalism, but he understood that such a thing could happen should the situation became dire enough.
“Listen, we’re not here to make a big deal out of any of this. You’re safe for now, but you’re going to have to get moving. What needs to be done to get this thing rolling again?” The elder gunman gestured to the immobile wagon.
Jim stepped forward, feeling a sort of responsibility to the position held by Hank only moments prior. With a grumbling tone, Jim said, “It needs an axle. And the only one that knew how to repair it was that guy over there.” And Jim cast a short, denoting finger in the direction of the bloodied, broken tent. “Unless one of you two know a thing or two about wagons and repairs, I don’t see us doing much here at all.”
The two gunman looked to each other for a moment in another silent exchange. The elder looked back over the demoralized and terrified group. “Then maybe you all should come back with us? We’re not a huge distance from here, just about seven miles south. I understand that’s a bit of a walk, but the lady can ride with me, her husband with Chance, here.” The elder gunman said while gesturing to his accomplice.
Grant looked to the two Indian guides and then to Jim. He spoke up. “I’m certain we’ll be able to find our way. The guides know this land well. What’s the name of the place?”
Chance spoke up as he approached his horse, then pulled himself up onto the saddle. “It’s called Fort Bleck. Of course, it isn’t much of a Fort, but it’s good for what it’s good for.” And he didn’t detail his ambiguous redundancy.
Floyd thought on the option for a moment, before asking. “And what about our things? And Hank? He deserves, at least, a proper burial. Not this.” A frown emerged on Floyd’s lips as he glanced toward the massacre.
The elder gunman smirked. “Well, let’s do this: if one of your strongmen can carry the bloody heap back to the Fort, we’ll talk about a ‘proper burial,’ otherwise, consider him lost. I’m sure his soul will find its way, only it won’t have six feet of dirt to dig through. Now, we better get movin’ before these Shoshoni realize their huntin’ party ain’t back when they’re supposed to.” And the gunman mounted his saddle the same, extending a hand toward Harriet. “Come along, Ma’am. Just hold tight. There isn’t a thing to be worried about. Shady here is about the best horse in this part of the country, I reckon.”
Harriet looked to her husband. If they couldn’t take the body, they couldn’t take their things. It was hard for Harriet to abandon the items from her home, but she didn’t know what else to do. She tried to be strong, despite the terrible turn of events. “Floyd...” She said softly. “We should go. We’ll come back for him. I promise you. And everything else.”
Floyd sighed and nodded, though he knew as well as Harriet did that when they left, the provisions were as good as gone, but for what the walking group would be able to bring back. Jim stepped forward then.
“We can bring the body, Floyd. We’ll bring him, but it means we’re going to have to leave something. We’ll bring the remaining cattle and the oxen. Load what he can on the yolk, to include Hank, and we’ll bring the most important things. The horses, too. I’m afraid it ain’t going to be many material things, Floyd. We’ll probably need the food, you know.” Jim was trying to be practical and honorable at the same time. In the situation given to them, it was difficult to be both.
“Bring Hank, Jim. I can’t think of leaving him out here. Those savages will probably return, and I’d hate to think that they’d make a ritual out of Hank.” And the thought made it hard for Floyd to swallow. He nodded, pleased with the idea. Floyd stepped toward Grant then. “Grant, you sure you’re alright with the walk? It isn’t an enormous distance, but it’ll be dangerous.”
Grant nodded, gesturing to the guides. “We’ll definitely make it there. These two know the language. I’m not expecting we’ll be able to reason with them, but by the time we’re gone, we won’t have a whole lot left to plunder. I’ve been in plenty of bad situations in my time, Floyd. Don’t you worry about me. Get off to the Fort with your wife and we’ll meet you there as soon as we can make it. Shouldn’t take long, once we get everything together that we need to. And trust me, we’ll be working quick.”
Floyd sighed. “Alright, Grant. I’ll see you at Fort Bleck, to the South.”
“See you at Fort Bleck.” Grant replied.
