by J. A. Crook
***
Through each wound in Grant Vickers beaten body, blood came. Two horses out of those used by the Greyson party to travel adjacently to the wagon were all that were left of the many cattle, oxen and provisions. On the back of the horse Grant had made off with, the limp, dead-weight of his pulverized companion, Hank, flopped, in increasing danger of falling off of the back of the running steed. Close behind Grant was only one of the two Indian guides that were hired to accompany the Western-bound party.
Things had gone as could be expected. The delay to try and round up whatever provisions could be carried out, the assembly of the cattle and oxen after the raid, and the focusing on where exactly the Southern fort rested, were all things that contributed to the eventual arrival of a second Shoshoni group, curious of where their hunting party had disappeared to. When the second wave of Shoshoni stumbled onto the mound of overkill, the situation took a turn for the worst.
Before the violence broke out, things were already heading proverbially south for those that remained at the stranded wagon. One of the two guides refused to travel to Fort Bleck, frantically shouting about the word that was said by the first wave of Shoshoni raiders, “Dzoavits.” While the word made the other guide as uncomfortable, it didn’t drive him off, which meant that all that remained of the Greyson party at the wagon were Grant, Jim the butcher, and one of the two Indian guides. The party of three no later became a party of two when Jim Bleckley, who initially offered to protect the honor of Hank Paulson, the carpenter, was murdered by way of an arrow through the skull. Gunfire from the weapon that Grant Vickers had maintained after the first attack, kept his life, and the life of the remaining Indian guide, intact. The irony was that Hank’s honor was likely to be preserved while the dead body of the one that made the offer to bring Hank back, Jim, was bloodied in the dirt, dead in the same place Hank died earlier.
Either concerned about ending up like the first wave of Shoshoni, or unconcerned with the fleeing of two men over the abandoned provisions at the camp, eventually both Grant and the guide made it away from the chase, heading East for some time, only to turn and head Southwest, in the direction of where the guide presumed Fort Bleck rested. The run off course cost them time, as did the attack, as did the fruitless preparation. The only sign of hope was that the Fort itself wasn’t very distant, even after being sent off course for some time.
When there was no longer a need to run and a slower pace could be taken, it was. Grant Vickers rode beside the Indian guide with Hank better secured at his flank. Grant asked, suspiciously. “Is there any chance Akule told the Shoshoni where we were?” Akule was the name of the guide that fled in fear.
Apenimon, the guide that remained, shook his head. “No. Akule would not.” His thick accent coming through the English words.
Grant sighed as he looked down the hill to what he believed was a small post, likely to be Fort Bleck some distance away. “How are you so certain? It makes sense he would tell of our whereabouts to protect himself. Cowardly, but people do such things to preserve their own lives.”
Apenimon said nothing for some time, observing the distant post himself, eyes open and sharp for anything that could have been out of the ordinary. “We’ve already angered the Western spirits. We would not provoke them more than we have.”
Grant watched Apenimon peculiarly. Grant wasn’t one for spirits, either Christian or native, but with how terrible the trip had become so quickly for the Greyson party, if there was any prospect Grant was wrong on this one thing, he wouldn’t make it any worse by provoking the unknown. He simply said, “If this is the result of angry spirits, then remind me what ritual it is that will allow me to make amends.” And he smiled for the first time in a few days, continuing on his way down to the old post at the bottom of the hill.
