Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  “We’ll need a place to set up camp,” Fry said.

  “We could use a doctor, too,” Pitt put in. “We got a wounded man that needs some lookin’ after.”

  “I’m sorry. We ain’t got a doctor, but I’ll be glad to take a look at him—help him if I can.” Lindstrom started to say something more, when he heard the sound of horses approaching from behind the church. He turned to see Rufus Colefield round the corner, followed by the half-breed boy, Luke Kendall. Rufus hopped down and, handing his reins to Luke, strode over to meet the soldiers while the boy stood back a respectable distance and listened to the men talk of supposed Shoshoni renegades.

  Rufus Colefield was enthusiastic about any military presence in the little valley, even if there had been no trouble from the Indians in a long time. He welcomed Fry and Pitt warmly, although his eagerness to receive them waned somewhat when the conversation returned to the topic of provisions for the eight men. He was somewhat more helpful when Fry repeated his need for a base of operations.

  “You could set up camp in Jed Springer’s old place,” Rufus suggested. “There’s a cabin already built, with a good fireplace, and it ain’t no more than a quarter of a mile from my place.”

  “That’s right,” Lindstrom said and explained to Fry that Jed Springer, an old trapper who had settled in the valley, had been killed some time back. “Jed got liquored up one night and fell off his horse—broke his neck.”

  “That just might do at that,” Fry said and winked at Pitt. “Yes, sir, that sounds like the perfect place to set up my headquarters.”

  Rufus beamed his pleasure at having suggested the place. “We can show you how to get there, can’t we, Luke?”

  The boy said nothing; the only indication that he had heard Rufus was a slight nod of his head. He found the militiamen a curious lot, with the nondescript items of military clothing—a few hats, a shirt or two. He remembered the soldiers he had seen two years before, when he had lived with his mother’s people for a while and journeyed to Fort Laramie for the treaty talks. Those soldiers had all been dressed in identical blue uniforms and rode in military file. Not like these men, sprawled now on the ground while their horses pulled up grass from the reverend’s pasture.

  Luke gave the horses a longer look. He was especially interested in the fancy hand-tooled Spanish saddle on the captain’s horse. The initials SF were tooled on the skirt. Luke had never seen such a fancy saddle before. Aside from the eight saddled horses and four packhorses, there were eight more that looked to be Indian ponies. While Rufus talked to the two soldiers and Reverend Lindstrom, Luke moved over toward the grazing animals. They were Shoshoni ponies—he was certain of that. One in particular, a spirited little buckskin, looked just like one that Little Otter treasured. He had heard the soldiers tell of a fight with a party of renegade Snake Raiders, but he found it hard to believe that any of Chief Washakie’s band had been involved. He had been to the Shoshoni camp recently enough to know that there were no such renegades. Chief Washakie would not tolerate it. Maybe, like most white men, they didn’t know one Indian from another. Luke decided that he didn’t like the looks of these so-called soldiers. Though young in years, in spite of Rufus Colefield’s open acceptance of the strangers, Luke Kendall relied upon his own sense of judgment.

  * * *

  Katie Mashburn filled the basin with water from the wooden bucket beside the back door. To bring it to a comfortable temperature, she added a bit more of the boiling water from the kettle hanging in the fireplace and tested it with her hand. Throughout the summer, she had bathed down at the river after working in the field. Today there was a definite chill in the air, so she had decided to take her bath in the cabin since her pa and Luke had ridden over to the reverend’s place. Whitey Branch had passed the cabin an hour before with news that some militiamen had come to Canyon Creek. Whitey had appointed himself as the unofficial town crier of the settlement, and Katie knew that he had a tendency to exaggerate on occasion. Her pa had decided to see for himself, so he’d saddled his horse and, taking the boy with him, had gone to gawk at the soldiers.

  When the water felt right, Katie sat down and pulled her boots off. Laying them aside, she sat still and listened for a few minutes. There was not a sound to be heard outside the crude log house. Still she listened. There was nothing but the sound of the clock on the mantel, its constant ticking tediously counting off the moments of the day. It was a small clock to be so loud, or maybe its ticking merely seemed especially loud when contrasted with the heavy silence inside the cabin. It was a melancholy sound that seemed intent upon reminding her of the ticking away of her youth. It suddenly struck her that she could not recall a time when she had been really young—childhood, maybe—but never a young lady. But then, out here no one was a young lady, it seemed. You were either a child or an old woman, and you went from one to the other overnight. Although she perceived herself as an older woman, none but her own eyes saw her that way. In the short span of her years, she had known enough hardship and pain to age her in mind as well as in spirit.

  Sighing, she got up from the chair, unbuckled the wide leather belt, and laid her heavy pistol aside, making sure it was within easy reach if needed in a hurry. Ever mindful of that horrible day when they had been suddenly surprised by a Ute war party, she did not feel comfortable unless the pistol was handy. Her eyes lingered a few moments longer on the Colt revolver that Monk Grissom had acquired for her by means she was discreet enough not to question. He would only venture to say that the army had more than they needed in a large shipment of Colt’s new model. Called the Peacemaker, it was a vast improvement over the single-action revolver she had worn before. She had never had occasion to use either weapon, but she had promised herself that there would be no hesitation to do so if it became necessary.

  Katie had long ago decided that she could count on no one but herself, although in recent months she had begun to rely on Luke. Rufus, her father, was a hardworking man but not a brave one. He had run when the Indians came that day. He couldn’t help it, she had decided, and had forgiven him for it, although she knew that the poor little man had never forgiven himself for his actions on that day. What could he have done against a raiding party of that size? It would have been a foolish waste of life if he had attempted to stop them. Still, it might have made a difference if he had stood against them with her husband. Who am I to judge anyone? she asked herself. I was hiding in the corn rows. Her hand dropped to rest upon the handle of her Colt .45. Next time, it’ll be different.

  “So, here you are, Katie-girl, dressed like a man, doing a man’s labor, taking care of your pa instead of the other way around—and raising John Kendall’s bastard son.” As soon as she said it, she felt ashamed of herself. She knew that young Luke Kendall’s mother, a full-blooded Shoshoni, had been as much a married woman as she was. And Luke was a good boy, although he was a handful sometimes. But he was a bright youngster as well. She had seen that right off; otherwise, she would not have agreed to look after the boy after his folks had been killed. With Robert gone, she and her father had needed an extra hand around the place, anyway.

  Realizing that if she dawdled much longer, she would need to heat more water, Katie took off her shirt and trousers and began to clean some of the field grime from her body. After she had dried herself, she picked up the mirror from the shelf. Holding it so the crack down the middle was not in the way, she took a serious look at the image reflected back to her. What she saw in the mirror did little to encourage her. She could not honestly say that she was homely, but there were wrinkles and worry lines around her eyes and nose that testified to her many hours in the sun and the certain toll life on the frontier took on all women. “What the hell do I care?” she blurted and put the mirror down.

  When she had put on some clean clothes, she walked to the door of the cabin and threw the gray bathwater out. She had already started fixing supper when she heard horses approaching. Picking up her pistol, she went to the door to make sure it
was her father and the boy.

  * * *

  Rufus Colefield was anxious to tell his daughter the good news. He left the horses for Luke to put away while he bounded through the cabin door to find Katie. “Maybe you can stop worrying so much about Injuns now,” he started. “The territorial governor sent a militia unit to winter in the valley.”

  Katie paused when hearing this. “Territorial governor? I didn’t know there was such a person out here.”

  “Well, I reckon there is, ’cause the captain said that was who sent him and his soldiers.”

  “Really? How many soldiers?”

  “There’s eight of ’em, but one of ’em’s bad wounded,” Rufus replied. “They’re gonna set up camp right downriver from us in Jed Springer’s old place. Me and Luke showed ’em where it was.”

  Katie turned to face her father. “Eight?” she asked incredulously. “Is that all? Are there more coming?”

  “Reckon not. Leastways, they didn’t say so.” Seeing the skeptical look in his daughter’s eyes, he quickly added, “But they all look like they could handle theirselves—except that one with the arrowhead in his shoulder.”

  This piqued Katie’s attention right away. “Arrowhead?” she asked. “Where did they have a run-in with Indians? What kind of Indians? Did they say?”

  “They said Shoshoni,” Rufus replied, casting a sideways glance to see if Luke was in earshot before he continued. “The captain said there had been a lot of Snake raiding parties between here and the Wind River Mountains. Said they had run down a bunch of ’em a couple of days ago, and that’s where that feller picked up the arrow.”

  The story didn’t make sense to Katie. The Shoshoni had been peaceful for a long time now, and there had been no incidents that she was aware of that might have destroyed that peace—certainly no conflict between the folks of Canyon Creek and Chief Washakie’s band. Young Luke Kendall’s presence in the valley had been an important link in the friendship between the Shoshonis and the white settlers, since his mother had been a member of the tribe. It didn’t hurt that Monk Grissom had a cabin in the valley, either. Monk had been a friend of the old chief’s for a long time. For these reasons, Katie wasn’t comfortable with reports of Shoshoni raiding parties in the area. It just didn’t make sense. When Luke came into the cabin after taking care of the horses, she questioned him on the subject.

  “You heard what the soldiers said? That the Shoshoni are raiding?”

  Luke nodded.

  “What have you heard when you visit your uncle, Angry Bear?”

  “There has been no talk of war parties on the reservation,” the boy replied. “My uncle told me that Washakie is disappointed that the white man’s government has not provided the tools and seed they promised, or the help to breed better animals, and the many other things to help our people. But there is no talk of war. I don’t think the soldiers know what they’re talking about.”

  Katie studied Luke’s face for a moment, considering his opinion, one that agreed with her first reaction to her father’s story. She had learned in the short time that Luke had lived with them that the boy was especially astute for a youth of fourteen. With Katie’s blessing, Luke was allowed the freedom to go to the Shoshoni village to visit his relatives whenever he chose. Since he had just returned from a visit only two days before, Katie felt he would surely have learned of any recent war parties. The boy was honest to a fault, so she never doubted anything he told her. John Kendall had never discouraged his son from spending time with his mother’s people. To the contrary, he had believed that it was good for the boy to know the way of the Shoshoni. As a result, Katie now saw more Indian than white in Luke.

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see about these soldiers, but I think you’re probably right. I don’t believe the Shoshonis have been raiding white folks.” She reached out and smoothed down a wild shock of hair on the boy’s head, smiled, and said, “Sit down at the table while I fix supper, and we’ll work some more on your reading this evening.”

  A silent observer to the interaction between his daughter and the half-breed boy, Rufus Colefield realized that the only time he ever saw Katie smile was when she was talking with Luke.

  Chapter 2

  Over two thousand miles east of Canyon Creek, on a hot July morning, young Jim Culver held the plow steady with one hand while he took the reins from behind his neck with the other. “I’ve been turning that rock over from one side of the furrow to the other for two years. I’m tired of looking at it.” Pulling back hard on the reins, he called out softly, “Ho, Henry, ho—ho back.” When the mule continued its steady pace down the row, Jim’s voice took on more authority, and he jerked back on the reins with force. “Ho, dammit, Henry, you old, wore-out bag of bones!” Nearing the end of the row and the shade of three tall poplars at the edge of the field, the mule decided it more sensible to pause in the shade. Knowing it useless to argue with the cantankerous old mule, Jim decided to let Henry have his way. Leaving the mule standing in the shade, he walked back up the row. Setting his feet solidly under him, he bent his knees and got a firm grip on the sizable rock. Gritting his teeth and exhaling loudly, he straightened up, bringing the rock with him. Then, carefully placing one foot after the other, he carried it to the edge of the field.

  He took off his hat and squinted up at the sun—close to noon, he figured, and he still had about a half-acre left to plow. He paused for a few minutes to let the warm sun caress his face. It felt good. He turned toward the south field, where he could just see Stephen following along behind Red, the three-year-old mule their pa had bought last spring. He’s almost at the end of the field, Jim thought. He glanced back at Henry and shook his head slowly. That was the way of things when you were the youngest. You plowed with the old mule.

  “I don’t give a damn,” he announced to the mule, which studied him now in mournful contemplation. “I ain’t staying around this place much longer.” In the past two years, there hadn’t been a day that passed without his either saying it or thinking it. But this day was different, he told himself. Today was his birthday—twenty-one years old. It was long past time for a man to set out to find his place in the world. It might make it a little harder for John and Stephen, but they seemed more in tune with the farm than he was. He was more like Clay, his eldest brother, who had left the farm eight years ago. John and Stephen could handle it, even without much help from Pa—and there hadn’t been much help from him for over a year. He had never quite recovered from a bout of pneumonia a year ago this past December.

  Raymond Culver never said much to his youngest son about the itch that some men have for the horizon. But he could see it in Jim’s eyes whenever the boy looked with longing at the sun setting in the west. And there was no denying that of the three sons still at home, Jim was the one most at home in the woods, hunting any critter he could find. Raymond had lost a son and a daughter to the western frontier already. Still, he would never tell Jim not to go. He would never kill the boy’s spirit, although it would be hard to see him go. It had been eight years since Jim’s brother, Clay, had left for Dakota territory—eight years with only an occasional word—from places like Fort Benton, Fort Laramie, and Fort Hall, and once even from Fort Lincoln—to let them know he was still alive. Raymond Culver was resigned to the fact that he would never see Clay again, and, with his health failing so rapidly, he might probably say the same in regard to Jim if the boy was determined to leave.

  “Come on, Henry.” Jim plopped his hat back on his head and grabbed the reins. “Let’s get this field done. I’ve got some plans tonight. I need something pretty to look at after staring at your hind end all day.” He took a firm grip with both hands as the plow took hold, leaning hard to his left to compensate for Henry’s tendency to stray. “John will be out here looking at these furrows,” he reminded the indifferent mule.

  * * *

  At a little past seven o’clock that evening, Jim guided his horse to the end of the long hitching post beside t
he Virginia Hotel and tied on next to a bay gelding. There were only a few horses tied at the rail. Most of the guests were arriving by carriage, the men’s fancy shoes and the ladies’ frilly dresses protected from the dusty street by a scarlet carpet leading from the cobblestone curb to the entrance of the hotel. Fredericksburg was determined to demonstrate her elegance as the gentlemen and their ladies came out to celebrate the annual Summer Cotillion.

  Having no illusions whatsoever that he belonged to this handsome throng, Jim glanced down at the engraved invitation in his hand as he entered the building. He couldn’t help but smile. No Culver had ever been invited to attend one of these grand affairs. John and Stephen had both advised against attending the dance, but Jim had insisted on going. After all, it was his birthday. Fredericksburg’s high society might just as well provide him with a celebration. His friend Alan Cranston had presented him with an invitation and all but dared him to come. Jim was sure it was thought to be a great joke, but he had decided to call Alan’s bluff. So here he stood, in clean homespun shirt and woolen morning coat, looking for all the world like the country bumpkin.

  Smiling graciously and bowing his head politely to each couple as they entered the hotel ballroom, a tall, thin doorman welcomed Fredericksburg’s elite. Knowing most of the guests, and recognizing pedigree in those he did not, he opened the door wide as the luminaries of local society traipsed by in their finery. Jim stood off to the side of the lobby, watching the parade of silks and satins for a few minutes, hoping to spot Alan Cranston. It was quite a show, he had to admit, the ladies in their ballroom gowns, on the arms of their escorts, laughing and chattering to friends and acquaintances—most of them discarding their light evening wraps as soon as possible in order to better display their gowns.

  There were quite a few unaccompanied gentlemen as well, young and dashing in their dark formal wear. Several were army officers, no longer regarded as forces of occupation but as part of the social scene of a city they had once bloodied in battle. The war had been over for nine years, but Jim still found it ironic that the town so embraced the army it had once hated.