Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  “Somebody’s coming.”

  Clell Adams rose up on one elbow. “Where?”

  “Yonder,” Hicks replied, pointing out toward the meadow.

  Clell remained up on his elbow, staring at the lone rider approaching from the northern end of the valley. When it became apparent that the rider was indeed headed straight for them, Clell sank back to his position against the side of the cabin. “You better go git Fry, I reckon.”

  “Go git him yourself, old man,” Hicks replied, remaining seated on the other side of the cabin door. Like Clell, Hicks was taking his ease in the warm sun that was reflected from the logs of the cabin. Both men had come outside to escape the constant moaning of Trask, whose wound was paining him considerably.

  “Fry!” Clell yelled out. “We got company!”

  In a few moments, Simon Fry was standing in the doorway, squinting out at the lone figure riding toward the cabin. “Who is it?”

  “Well, now, how in the hell do I know that?” Clell returned.

  Ignoring Clell’s snide retort, Fry continued to stare at their visitor. “Looks like an old trapper,” he said. He waited in the doorway while Monk approached the cabin.

  Monk took inventory of the cabin as he neared the shallow branch that ran in front of Jed’s old place. They sure as hell didn’t look like homesteaders. There was no sign of women or children, and, from the number of horses grazing in the small pasture, Monk figured there had to be more than the three men he could see.

  “Howdy,” Monk called out as he rode up before the cabin.

  “Howdy,” Fry returned. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothin’ much, I reckon,” Monk drawled. “I got a little place just on the other side of Rufus Colefield’s. Been gone for a spell. How long have you fellers been camping in Jed’s old cabin?” He glanced over at the two men lounging on each side of the doorstep. The younger one eyed him with bored curiosity, while the older man had shoved his hat down over his eyes and appeared to be sleeping.

  “A few days,” Fry answered. “We’re in the Montana Territorial Militia. I’m Captain Fry.”

  “The Montana Militia?” Monk repeated. “That’s a new one on me. I ain’t never heard of the Montana Militia. What in the world are you doin’ over in this part of the territory?” When Fry offered his concocted story about trouble with the Shoshonis, Monk was sincerely surprised. “You can’t be talkin’ about Chief Washakie’s crowd,” Monk said. “They ain’t caused no trouble for a long spell. Where was they raidin’?”

  “North of here a piece,” Fry replied.

  “Forevermore,” Monk exclaimed. “That’s pretty hard to believe.” He glanced at the two lounging men again. “How big a detail was sent?” When Fry informed him that there were eight men in his command, Monk shook his head, amazed. “That ain’t much of a detachment.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. Monk had spent considerable time scouting for the army at Fort Laramie, and he knew that eight men weren’t enough to make up a normal patrol. “I expect if you run into a war party, eight men wouldn’t stand much of a chance.” The idea seemed absurd to Monk. “Eight men! Where’d you fellers come from, anyway?”

  “Virginia City,” Fry answered.

  “Virginia City?” He marveled. “I didn’t know there was any soldiers at Virginia City. I heard they’d moved the capital there about a year ago, but I never heard tell of a soldier fort there. I’ve been over that way more’n a few times. There wasn’t never no soldiers there.”

  “Well, there are now. Like I told you, we’re volunteers in the territorial militia. We ain’t been organized very long.” Fry was getting irritated. This old mountain rat was as full of pesky questions as Horace Spratte had been.

  Monk sensed the irritation in Fry’s voice. The captain didn’t seem to like being questioned about the particulars of his mission to the valley. “It seems a mite peculiar to me that any territorial governor would send a detachment as small as your’n to chase a Snake raiding party. You sure they was Snakes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Everybody knows Washakie’s people have been friendly to the whites for a long time. Maybe that raiding party was Sioux; they’ve been riled up lately in a few spots.” He shook his head and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Eight men. Hell, if Washakie’s Snakes were on the warpath, they’d run through you fellers like shit through a goose.”

  Monk could see that his comment wasn’t well received by the man standing in the doorway, but he didn’t particularly care. As far as he knew, there wasn’t any such thing as a territorial militia in this part of the country. Their story might have been easier to swallow if there were about fifty of them instead of just eight. Judging from the two lolling around the doorstep, they were a pretty sorry-looking lot. They may have been part of a militia at some time, but if that were the case, it was Monk’s guess that they were most likely deserters now. It was his guess that they had just happened upon Canyon Creek and decided to lay up here for a while. No skin off my back, he figured, as along as they keep to theirselves and don’t cause no trouble.

  “Mister,” Fry warned, “you ask a helluva lot of questions. If I said the raiding party was Snake, then, by God, they were Snake.” He was about to say more, when Pitt moved up behind him to get a look at Monk.

  “The captain here just told you we’re spread pretty thin. We’re just the advance party. There’ll be others before long. We was sent out here to help you folks. Have you got a problem with that?”

  Monk eyed the big man standing behind the “captain.” He stood almost a head taller than Fry. A husky brute, Monk figured he must be the stud horse of the outfit. Taking his time to answer Pitt, Monk craned his neck to look beyond Pitt, trying to get a glimpse at whoever else might be in the cabin. “Nope,” he finally said. “I ain’t got no problems a’tall. You boys just look like a pretty ragged bunch of soldiers to me.”

  “Why, you old son of a—” Pitt started when a wail from Trask interrupted him.

  “Pitt, ask him if there’s a doctor here ’bouts,” Trask yelled. “I need a doctor, dammit!” Trask’s swollen shoulder had only gotten worse since Reverend Lindstrom had given it a cursory glance and rubbed some bag balm on it, reasoning that the salve would reduce the soreness since it worked so effectively on his cow’s udder. But it had reached a point where Trask was suffering constantly with the pain.

  Not waiting for Pitt to convey the question, Monk asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He took an arrow in the shoulder, and the head’s lodged in there,” Fry answered, then pointedly added, “A Snake arrow. He’s been bellyaching ever since. I asked your preacher if there was a doctor here. He said there wasn’t.”

  “I’ve took a few arrows out from time to time. Bring him out here, and I’ll take a look at him,” Monk said.

  “Anything to stop his whining,” Fry replied after thinking about it for a second. He looked back over his shoulder. “Bring him on out here.”

  In a few seconds, Mendel and Wiley carried the suffering man outside and laid him on the ground beside the front step. Trask was in such pain that he cried out when they put him down. Monk dismounted and knelt down to take a look at the wound. It was a nasty-looking wound, swollen and festering. The skin had tried to heal over it, but it was so full of pus that it had formed a lump the size of a small melon on the unfortunate man’s shoulder.

  “What was you aimin’ to do? Just wait till his arm dropped off?” Monk asked sarcastically. “That arrow shoulda come outta there.”

  “Hell, we tried. It wouldn’t budge,” Clell said, raising up on his elbow to watch the fun.

  “Well, he’s got to be cut. That thing’s gotta come outta there. If it don’t, he’s gonna lose that arm, maybe worse. I seen a trapper with a wound no worse than that. It was back in ’56 or ’57—don’t remember which—at the Bayou Salade, near the head of the Arkansas River. He died.”

  “Oh Lordy,” Trask moaned. It was not what he wanted to hear.
>
  “Hell,” Monk grunted, “it looks like it’s wantin’ to pop out, anyway. Won’t take much to cut it out.” He looked at the faces gawking at the wounded man. When no one gave any indication of taking on the job, he asked, “Want me to do it?”

  “Yeah,” Fry quickly replied. “Cut him.”

  For the second time since he had been shot, Trask was pinned down to the ground by his comrades. Monk drew his long skinning knife and wiped it on the side of his leg to make sure it was clean. With a nod to the three men holding his patient, he got down to business. When he took hold of Trask’s shoulder, the man cried out in pain. “Damn, son, I ain’t cut you yet,” Monk said, then cut the shirt away to give himself some room to work.

  After another look at the wound, Monk didn’t waste much time. With one quick move of his knife, he slashed the yellowish-green center of the swelling, instantly releasing a thick, foulsmelling fluid that caused the circle of spectators to back away a few feet. Trask yelped in pain, stiffened, then relaxed, perspiration beading his forehead. “Well, hell,” Monk exclaimed. “No wonder it was hurtin’ so bad. There’s a three-inch piece of the wood shaft still in the stone head. Just like a big ol’ splinter, it was trying to work its way out, but the arrowhead wouldn’t let it.” With little warning, other than a curt “This is gonna hurt like hell,” Monk sank his knife deep into the muscle until he felt the blade strike the arrowhead. Trask screamed and fainted dead away.

  “Damn,” Clell commented dryly, “I think you kilt him.”

  “Naw,” Monk replied as he worked away at the arrowhead. “He’s just passed out. It’ll be easier on him. Anybody got any whiskey? This dang hole’s got so full of blood, I can’t see what I’m doin’.”

  All seven of the other members of the gang had now gathered around to watch the mutilation of Trask’s shoulder. No one budged until finally Fry told Caldwell to fetch a jug from inside the cabin. Caldwell did as he was told, handing the jug to Monk upon his return. Monk was about to uncork it, when Mendel protested.

  “You plannin’ to waste good whiskey on his shoulder? Hell, old man, there’s a whole damn river behind the cabin. Wash it out with water.”

  Monk uncorked the jug. “Whiskey works better’n water. Besides, whiskey’ll make the blood strong . . . if it’s the right kind of whiskey,” he added with a grin and tilted the jug up to his lips, taking a long pull of the fiery liquid. Unable to speak for a moment while the fire burned in his throat, he fought back the tears and tried to smile. “It’s the right kind,” he finally rasped. Pouring generously, he splashed the whiskey over the arrowhead. Able to see again, he poked at the stubborn arrow shaft, trying to determine why it was so reluctant to back out. “Somebody musta tried to drive it on through,” he decided. “Wedged it up against his rib.” With one more cut, he slashed the muscle holding the arrowhead tightly against the rib, allowing the missile to move away from Trask’s rib cage. One simple tug of the broken shaft, and he was able to extract the offending arrowhead.

  Simon Fry stood over the unconscious Trask, his arms folded in front of him as he gazed at the stricken man. Trask was ashen, blood flowing freely from the messy wound in his shoulder. He looked for all the world as if he were dead. In a tone completely devoid of pity, Fry asked, “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Monk said, wiping his bloody hands on Trask’s pants, “but he soon will be if you don’t stuff something in there to stop that bleedin’.” While Caldwell went inside to find a rag, Monk held the arrowhead up to examine it. There was not enough shaft left to identify it—it could have been Shoshoni as they had claimed. “If he wakes up, he might wanna keep this here arrowhead. It might bring him luck. Anyway, that’s all I can do for him. Just depends on how strong he is.”

  “Well, old man, I reckon ol’ Trask there owes you a word of thanks,” Fry said. “That is, if he ain’t dead.” A wry smile creased his face. “He wasn’t much use to us laying around moaning, anyway.”

  “No trouble a’tall,” Monk replied. “I reckon he’ll most likely heal up after a while.” He matched Fry’s smile with a knowing smile of his own as he finished cleaning up. After a few minutes watching a crude bandage being applied to Trask’s shoulder, Monk walked over to his horse and stepped up into the saddle. “I expect you need all your soldiers, being so short-handed. You never know when old Washakie might send about two hundred armed warriors raising hell through this valley.”

  The comment was intended to give Fry and his men something to think about. Monk knew that Washakie was at peace with the white settlers in the valley. In fact, the old chief was encouraging his people to learn to speak English and plant crops—a development that Monk was disappointed to see. As far as Monk was concerned, Indian ways were better.

  His natural instincts cautioned him to be careful about showing his back to men such as these, so he backed his horse slowly away from the cabin, keeping an eye on the seven men gathered around Trask. Then, turning, he rode off across the branch and headed for his own cabin.

  “He’s a feisty old cuss, ain’t he?” Pitt said as they watched Monk ride off down the valley.

  “I’m not so sure he believes we’re militia,” Fry decided. “We might better keep an eye on him. He might cause trouble.”

  “It’s his funeral if he does,” Pitt replied.

  * * *

  The next morning found Monk in better spirits after a restful night sleeping before his stone fireplace. After seeing to his horses, he took an inspection tour around the crude shack he now called home to see if any repairs were required before winter set in. He was a bit more mindful of the condition of the cabin from a standpoint of defending it against attack than he would have been before his meeting with the valley’s most recent visitors. Satisfied that his walls were stout enough, he decided that there wasn’t much more he could do to improve them. There were a few thin places in the chinking between the logs that could stand a little reinforcing. He knew he should take care of them soon, but there was a little time yet before the first icy winds would come sweeping through the valley. So he merely made a mental note to work on the cabin walls before too long. His chores done, he focused his attention on himself: more specifically, on the growling in his stomach. Ordinarily, he would have already sliced off a slab of salt pork and put on a pot of coffee. But he had been on the trail for the past week, and his mind had been filled with thoughts of some hot biscuits and fresh-churned butter. And he knew the place to go for them. It was still early enough. He could saddle up and make a friendly little visit to his neighbor, Rufus Colefield. If he didn’t waste any more time, he should get there at about the time Katie would be pulling the biscuits from the stone oven he had helped Rufus make.

  * * *

  “Well, lookee yonder what the wind blowed in,” Rufus called back over his shoulder.

  Katie, a heavy iron skillet in her hand, walked over to stand in the doorway behind her father. “Monk Grissom,” was all she said, but she stood there for a long moment watching the old trapper as he guided his horse around the lower end of the garden. Probably the only person other than the boy who could bring a smile to her face was Monk. Always a welcome sight, he had been a close friend to her late husband, and she knew that he never came empty-handed. If he had been hunting, it would be a slab of buffalo hump or the hindquarter of an elk. She knew that he had been to Fort Laramie, so it would most likely be something other than fresh-killed meat. After a moment longer, she turned and went back to the table to make up extra dough. They would need more biscuits.

  Rufus stepped outside the door to meet Monk as he pulled up before the hitching post. “I swear, you never know what’s gonna show up on your doorstep these days,” Rufus joked loudly.

  “Howdy, Rufus,” Monk said, grinning broadly as he stepped down from his horse. “I figured I’d better come see if you folks had packed up and gone back east yet.”

  “The only reason I ain’t is because I ain’t got the money,” Rufus replied, laughing at the thought of makin
g the long, arduous trek back across the country. “Come on in the house. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  “Is that a fact?” Monk did his best to look genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t wanna put you out any. I thought I’d stop by to thank Luke for watching out for my horses while I was gone. Where is that boy, anyway?”

  Rufus laughed. “Right behind you.”

  Monk almost jumped when he looked around to discover Luke standing silently a few feet away. “I swear, Rufus, we’re gonna have to hang a cowbell around that boy’s neck.” He reached back and gave Luke a playful slap on the shoulder. “How you makin’ out, son?” He was answered with a warm smile. Monk looked fondly upon John Kendall’s son. Like his father, Luke moved quite easily between the Indian’s world and the white man’s, although at this stage in young Luke’s life, he was still probably more Shoshoni. Further thoughts on the subject were put aside when he heard Katie call from inside the cabin.

  “I’m putting breakfast on the table. Pa, you and Luke get your butts in here before it gets cold.” There was a slight pause before she added, “You can bring in any other strays that might have lost their way, too.”

  Luke and Rufus looked at Monk and grinned. They filed through the cabin doorway to find Katie standing by the table, hands on hips, a contrived expression of impatience on her face.

  “Howdy, Katie,” Monk said, pulling his hat off his head. “I hope you don’t mind me bustin’ in on you at mealtime.”

  “You’re always welcome, Monk,” Katie returned, letting her stern expression slip just a little.

  “I brung you a sack of coffee beans from Laramie.”

  “Well, that was mighty thoughtful, Monk. We can sure use ’em. Now sit down and eat your breakfast.”

  Not a word was spoken for several minutes, until the edge was taken off Monk’s appetite. Once the second biscuit was downed, he slowed enough to tell them the news from Fort Laramie. “Another wagon train of Mormons come through while I was there—last one this year, I reckon. It’s gittin’ a mite late for another’n to start out.” He paused to consider what he had said, then continued as if thinking out loud. “Them Mormons just keep coming, but there ain’t many big parties anymore, not since ’68 or ’69. I expect most of ’em rides the train since the railroad was built.