Henry turned back to John. It was too dark for John to see the open anger on Henry’s normally impassive face. “There might be fighting.”
John climbed off of Ben’s horse. “We’ve spoken of it.”
Henry was silent for a time. Finally he walked to Harriet and untied her. “I scouted up ten miles before it got dark. They followed the river. We’ll go that far, then wait for sunup.”
20
Clara, John, and Ben explained everything to Henry as they rode northwest up the Platte River, one picking up the narrative where another left off. Henry listened in silence, he was deeply saddened to hear of Clara’s loss. It only reinforced his feeling that she shouldn’t be along, and intensified his anger at John for insisting that they go.
John told of the letter he received while confined in the officer’s quarters. It was from his father’s closest friend and business associate. The letter told of his father receiving notification that his federal shipping contracts would not be renewed as usual come their expiration in July. Three days later he received a letter from his bank calling in all of his loans due to his imminent insolvency. He shot himself at his office on the docks that same day.
They stopped several hours before dawn at a sizeable copse of trees. Henry suggested everyone try to get some sleep. No one did. When it was light enough to see, John took Clara’s dress and shoes down to the river and began washing them. When Henry saw what he was doing he removed something from his saddlebags and followed.
“Blood’s probably not going to come out. This might fade it some, though.”
John was hunkered by the quickly moving water. He turned and took the offered cake of soap.
“Thank you.”
Henry nodded, then turned to go.
“You think I’m wrong for bringing Clara?” It was almost a rhetorical question.
“Yes.”
“What would you have done? Would you have left her there?”
“It doesn’t make any difference, what I would have done. You can keep the soap.”
Henry walked the short distance back to the trees and stopped dead.
“You just keep coming, nigger,” Emmet Dawson said, pointing a rifle at Henry. “James, go get the one by the river and bring him up here with the rest.” Emmet glanced quickly at the Beaderman brothers. “Gentlemen, you are experiencing divine providence first hand—come on now, boy, kneel down here next to these other two. After all these years, God has put you in my path once again. This time His justice will be served.”
“Like the justice you served on Eliza?”
“Your whore only reaped the harvest she had sown.”
Henry let out a wail of rage and rushed at Emmet. Emmet turned the rifle and hit him in the forehead with its heavy stock. There was a hollow sounding thud, and Henry fell to the ground.
“George, tie him,” Emmet said. “Then tie the rest of them.”
“What’s this all about?” Ben Campbell asked.
“Clara!” John called, breaking into a run.
“You hold on or I’ll shoot you,” James called from behind him.
John ignored him and knelt by Clara. “What is this? I know you. All of you,” he said angrily.
“This nigger,” Emmet kicked Henry in the side, “is an escaped slave.”
“Slavery’s been abolished. Or haven’t you heard?” Ben said.
“I will not explain myself to a Yankee.”
George Beaderman approached Ben. “Give me your hands and shut your mouth, Yank, before I shut it for you.”
“War’s over too, you ignorant pie eater. Your side lost,” Ben said vehemently.
George pulled his pistol and aimed it at Ben’s face. “Mister Dawson, I’m going to shoot this blue belly scum.”
“Please do, George.”
The report was deafening. Clara, who was only inches away, could barely hear her own scream as she watched the back of Ben Campbell’s head explode outward in a spray of blood and brains.
Ben’s body pitched sideways into the dust, and Clara watched in horror as a tendril of smoke rose lazily from the hole in his forehead. George Beaderman turned the pistol on John. “Now, you want to give me your hands, or you want a ball in your head too?”
After George Beaderman tied John and Clara’s hands, he tossed John’s pistol aside and holstered his own. He then helped his brother and James Dawson lift Henry onto a horse they’d culled from their captive’s string. Ben’s horse.
“No!” Clara shouted frantically. “Theo Brandt must have informed you that my father is very wealthy. Please, take us back to Fort Laramie. I’ll send a wire to him—”
“Tie his hands. Quickly, he’s waking…” Emmet Dawson turned to Clara. “I have every confidence Mister Brandt will pay us whatever reward we desire for your safe return, Miss Hanfield. It was fortuitous that we recognized your horse and saddle in the nigger’s possession. Otherwise we would have hanged him yesterday afternoon and been done with it. I suspected he was waiting for you. Perhaps you have a taste for the darkies.”
“I’ll kill you,” John said.
“George, finish hanging this nigger then gut-shoot the other Yankee. His nigger-loving jezebel can watch him die.”
“Mister, whatever you think I did, you’re mistaken,” Henry said, swaying slightly on the horse. “I was a free man then, and I’m a free man now. Only difference is, now I’m not afraid of you, or what you’re about to do.”
James threw the noose over a thick branch and slipped it over Henry’s head. Henry didn’t struggle.
“You can reunite with your black whore in hell,” Emmet Dawson said, and slapped the horse in the thigh.
Clara shrieked as the horse bolted out from under Henry. John struggled to his feet, only to be knocked back down again by Wayne Beaderman’s boot. Henry’s legs flailed and kicked out wildly. Clara managed to stand. Emmet Dawson stumbled toward her. He was clutching at something protruding from his throat.
Blood was gushing from his mouth and he was making choked, retching noises. On his face was an expression of bewilderment. He dropped to his knees.
“Pa!” James shouted and started toward his father. He only made two steps before letting loose a scream and falling to the ground. He twisted and writhed and moaned in pain. His hands reached fruitlessly for the arrow in his back.
Wayne and George Beaderman spotted the lone rider and started shooting; all other concerns were forgotten. The rider was coming fast, and straight at them.
“Lie down on the ground, Clara,” John shouted as he struggled to his feet again. “It’s Indians.” He ran to Henry and tried to get underneath him. Stars exploded in his vision as Henry kicked him in the face with one thrashing boot-clad foot. He tried to get under him again, “Henry…Henry stand on my shoulders!” he yelled up to him. Henry didn’t seem to hear.
Standing Elk’s horse charged forward. He nocked another arrow, aimed, and let it go. This time the arrow missed, and he calmly slung the bow over his shoulder. He lifted the revolver Henry had given him more than four years before from where it hung from his neck by a rawhide thong. Sliding his body down the left side of his horse to where he was nearly lying on it, he clung to the animal with one hand and held the pistol with the other.
“Shoot the goddamn horse, Wayne! Shoot the goddamn horse!” George shouted at his brother seconds before Standing Elk’s charging mare trampled over him, cutting off his voice forever. Standing Elk pulled himself upright and heaved back on the reins. He wheeled and fired the pistol. The bullet took off Wayne Beaderman’s right ear. Beaderman dropped his rifle and started running toward the river. Standing Elk shot him in the back.
Henry’s struggles were weakening. Standing Elk rode up and cut the rope where they’d tied it off to a low branch. Henry dropped to the ground in a heap. Clara got up and ran to him. John stood several feet away, massaging his jaw. He stared at Standing Elk warily.
Standing Elk dismounted, unslung his bow and quiver of arrows from his shou
lder, and leaned them against a tree. James Dawson cried out weakly. He was crawling toward his father.
Standing Elk strode over to him, batted away his hat, and grabbed a handful of his hair. He yanked back—hard—while simultaneously removing the elk-horn handled knife from the sheath on his leggings. James Dawson let out a womanish scream of fear and pain. Standing Elk dropped to one knee and quickly swiped the knife across his throat before releasing him and letting him collapse to the ground. His legs kicked weakly for several seconds before becoming still. Standing Elk stood up. John was staring at him, wide-eyed. He spared John a brief glance, then dismissed him. He walked to where Henry lay unmoving in the dirt and squatted next to Clara, giving her a curious look before nudging her aside. She recoiled from his touch but stayed by Henry. Standing Elk leaned over and put his ear by Henry’s mouth. He began singing something under his breath. It was simple and melodious, and consisted of mostly vowel sounds. After a moment he turned to Clara and said, “Water.”
Clara stood, but John was already awkwardly taking the canteen off of his saddle with his tied hands. Ben Campbell had loaded the horses with food and water before sneaking John out of the officer’s quarters. He risked a lot, John thought sadly. He stared down at Ben’s body.
“Give it to me,” Clara said, taking the canteen from his hand. He looked up, startled from his thoughts, but said nothing.
Clara stood over Standing Elk. Holding out the canteen with her bound hands. He was probing around the back of Henry’s neck with one hand.
“Is he going to live?” Clara asked, her voice wavering.
Standing Elk stood, grunted something Clara couldn’t understand, and walked to his horse. He untied his medicine bag from around the horse’s neck and returned to Henry, wordlessly taking the canteen from Clara before squatting back down beside his friend and beginning to sing again. He removed a small, folded piece of hide from his medicine bag and dumped the brown, powdery contents into his hand. Setting the bag down, he removed the stopper from the canteen with his teeth and poured a few drops of water onto the powder. He set the canteen aside and used a finger to mix the powder into a paste. This he spread over the thick, angry looking weal on Henry’s neck.
With a satisfied nod, he stood and walked over to the broken and battered body of George Beaderman.
“Excuse me.” John said, walking over and standing next to Clara. “Do you speak English?”
Standing Elk acted as if he didn’t hear. He picked up George Beaderman’s pistol and examined it briefly before setting it aside and removing Beaderman’s belt and holster.
“You’re Standing Elk,” Clara said. It wasn’t a question. “Please. Will he live?”
Standing Elk stood. He put George Beaderman’s belt around his waist, holstered the dead man’s pistol, and stood. He pulled his knife from its sheath and approached Clara and John. John stepped protectively in front of Clara. Standing Elk reached out and took him firmly by one forearm and flicked the knife through his bonds. He handed John the knife, hilt first, then pushed him aside, though not roughly. Standing Elk studied Clara’s face. “He will live,” he said, then started off toward the body of Emmet Dawson. He stopped short to pick up a pistol.
“That’s my pistol,” John called after him while cutting Clara’s bonds with Standing Elk’s knife. Standing Elk examined the Remington, then looked at John. He turned his attention back to the Remington after affording John the same dismissive look he’d given him just minutes before.
“It’s his,” Henry croaked. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. Clara ran to him. Standing Elk glanced his way, then took one last look at the pistol. He dropped it to the ground and walked over.
“Haaahe, Nótaxemâhta’sóoma,” Standing Elk said, sitting down cross-legged in front of Henry.
“Haaahe,” Henry returned hoarsely. Then switching to English: “You’re going to call me that now?”
Standing Elk smiled almost wryly. “I gave you this name.”
Henry looked past Standing Elk, his expression changing from one of reserved gladness to one of sorrow. He stood, wavering slightly before finding his balance. He walked over and stared down at the body of Ben Campbell.
Standing Elk came up beside him.
“You killed all of them?” Henry asked.
“Héehe’e.”
Henry nodded. “We have to get moving, but first I want to bury him.”
“This is what the whites do. Then you hunt whites who kill Indians.” Both were stated with Standing Elk’s familiar matter-of-fact way.
“You know about the Cheyenne and Arapaho camps?”
“Héehe’e.”
“How long have you been following me?”
“Since Hotoa’ohtšėhe’kėstaestse was killed for a white woman. His son, Ho’neoxhaaestse, says he will kill the one who killed his father. He says the one who killed his father is…óvahe…a coward.”
“Do you say the same?”
“Short Bull took what was not his. You should not speak so much. Your voice needs to heal. I will prepare a pipe while you put the white soldier in the earth.”
Standing Elk walked over to Emmet Dawson. “This was their Chief?”
Henry nodded. Standing Elk removed Emmet Dawson’s pistol belt and pulled the pistol from the holster. It was a Colt Navy, identical to the one Henry had given him. He re-holstered it, walked back over to Henry, and handed it to him without a word.
21
Henry and John went about the task of burying Ben Campbell. They worked slowly and in silence. Henry was suffering from the worst headache of his life, and John was preoccupied with his guilt: his guilt for murdering the Cheyenne woman and her child, his guilt for his father’s suicide, and his guilt for not immediately taking Clara as far away from the God-forsaken prairie as their horses would take them. Both men were digging with knives and their hands. When they were finally finished, it was shallower than Henry would have liked. Clara offered to help gather rocks for a cairn, but she was flushed and tired looking. John told her they could manage without her and suggested she sit in the shade of a tree and rest. Standing Elk filled his pipe, set it aside, and began stripping Emmet Dawson and his men of everything he deemed useful. Clara looked away when he started removing their clothes.
“Shouldn’t we bury those men as well?” John asked.
Henry glanced at the bodies. “No.”
“Why is he taking their clothing?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“I’m going to take Clara away from here—now, today. South, to Colorado for a start. Then to Texas or California…I’m sorry, Henry, I should have done it before.”
Henry stopped and looked at John. “Sometimes doing right isn’t so simple as you’d think. You want to believe everything is a choice between right and wrong, but it isn’t. Sometimes you have to choose between right and right. Seems like it’d be easy. For some reason it never is.”
“What if your choices both seem wrong?”
“I reckon you should feel lucky that’s not what you’re faced with. Come on, let’s bring him over here.”
After they dragged Ben’s body into the grave, Henry covered him with his bedroll. They backfilled until there was a short mound, then gathered rocks from the river for the cairn.
“Either of you want to say anything?” Henry asked John and Clara.
“Perhaps you should.” John said.
“I reckon not.”
Henry walked over to where Standing Elk was sitting on the ground and cutting the dead men’s clothing into long, thin strips. Clara and John followed. Standing Elk looked up from his work as they approached.
He spoke in English: “I will ride and gather many warriors. You find these Indian killers. If they did not follow the river, leave these for sign.”
“They’ll be easy enough to find without those,” Henry said.
“I will not be searching for them. I will be searching for you.”
Henry looked puzzled.
<
br /> “He doesn’t want Picton to know he’s coming with an army of Indians,” John said. “You locate Picton, then just track him from a long distance. When Standing Elk arrives with his warriors, they’ll still have the element of surprise.”
Henry nodded. “How long?”
Standing Elk waved a hand. “Many days.”
John looked at Clara. “I want to get you to a city. Denver, for now.”
“They need you,” Clara replied.
“You heard him. He’s going to gather an army of Indians to go after Picton and his men. As for whoever set him and this awful scheme in motion, I’ll write a letter to the Secretary of the Interior demanding an investigation. We can post it when we reach Denver. Clara, you don’t look well. I’m a fool. This is no place for you. This is no place for either of us.”
Clara was silent for a moment. Finally, she looked at Henry and smiled. “Henry, thank you for everything you have done for us. I won’t forget you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Hanfield.”
Clara turned to Standing Elk. “Thank you for coming to our aid, and for saving this good man’s life—twice now, from what I’m told.”
Standing Elk stared up at Clara but said nothing. He stood up and walked over to the pile of belongings he’d taken from Emmet Dawson and his men. He selected a Burnside rifle along with about twenty cartridges wrapped in a piece of oilcloth, and presented it to John. John took the rifle and ammunition, and after a short deliberation walked over to his horse and removed his cavalry sword. The elaborately decorated sword had been a gift from his father. He hadn’t worn it a single time since leaving the military academy, not even when he rode into the Indian camp expecting a battle. He caught Henry’s eye on the way back; Henry gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
He held the sword out to Standing Elk who took the offered gift, removed it from its scabbard, and examined it closely. He held it up in the air; the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees flashed brightly on the immaculate blade. He uttered a satisfied grunt and returned the sword to its scabbard. He put a hand on John’s shoulder and nodded once. “Épéheva’e….It is good.”
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 23
