22
Three hours later they were prepared to go their separate ways. After discussing it with Standing Elk in Cheyenne, Henry convinced John and Clara to take the two best horses out of the four the Dawson’s and Beaderman’s had been riding.
“If one of yours comes up lame, you’ll have another—and one to carry your supplies. I don’t need much, and neither does Standing Elk, so we loaded up most of what food and water is here for you two. If you stick to the way I told you, you won’t likely run into anyone before you reach Colorado. Just make sure the horses drink their fill at the water stops, because it’s a long way between them.”
John extended a hand. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, shaking it.
Clara threw her arms around Henry and hugged him fiercely. “My dear, Henry. Thank you.”
Henry was momentarily taken aback but returned the embrace with a faint smile. The smile faded when he felt the side of Clara’s face.
He gently broke away. “You feel feverish.”
“Well, it’s hot. You should try wearing one of these.” She waved her hand over the thick riding habit. John had finished rinsing it out in the river before he helped Henry bury Ben Campbell. Afterward he laid it in the sun to dry. It was still damp in places, the blood stains had faded, but were still clearly visible.
“You should have a hat, anyway,” Henry said.
John turned to Clara, “You can wear mine. I’ll cut a piece of the nightgown you were wearing and line the inside so it will fit better.”
“There’s no cause to worry over me. I’m a bit tired but feeling quite well otherwise.”
“I guess you should be on your way, then,” Henry said.
Clara and John mounted their horses. Henry tethered the spare to Clara’s, and the pack horse to John’s.
“Wait, almost forgot,” Henry said, and strode over to Harriet. He removed a small sack from his saddlebags, then returned and handed it to Clara.
“There’s a hundred dollars in there. My reward for rescuing you.”
“I can’t accept this. You deserve ten times as much…” She smiled ruefully. “Theo Brandt told me he’d been offering five hundred. It appears you’ve been cheated.”
“I’d still like you to have it. You’ll need it in Denver.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
“My pleasure, Miss Hanfield.”
“Please, call me Clara.”
Henry smiled. “My pleasure, Clara.”
Sixteen
1
Following Picton and his men wasn’t difficult. The signs from the nearly seventy riders and the handful of pack-horses were plentiful. The remnants of their camps stank of urine and feces. There were discarded whiskey bottles, bean sacks, scraps of cloth, and the greasy looking remains of burned out campfires.
Picton’s trail exited the river and headed roughly northwest less than two days out of Fort Laramie. Henry thought Picton might sweep around and pick up the Bozeman Trail, but he didn’t. He began tying strips of cloth to scrubby bushes and tree limbs to mark his passage for Standing Elk.
He found the dead Sioux three days after parting company with the others.
The corpses were lined up just like the Arapahos had been. Fourteen of them, all braves, mutilated by Picton’s men, then picked over by scavengers. Henry figured the Sioux had been on a hunt. He dismounted and walked Harriet down the line of bodies. He wondered not for the first time what was in men—or missing from them—that made them capable of such acts. He wondered if he had the right to claim he was any different. Hadn’t he himself struck—and possibly killed—another man to take what that man possessed because he believed he needed it more? The questions were troubling. He thought of what Standing Elk had said as they sat and smoked while watching Clara and John fade into the shimmering distance.
He coughed smoke. His throat burned like he’d swallowed an ember.
“Do not breathe in the smoke. It must rest in your mouth, then you may set it free,” Standing Elk said in Cheyenne.
Henry did as he was told. He drew in the smoke and held it in his mouth for a few moments before opening it and letting the smoke drift slowly out. Standing Elk nodded his approval. Henry passed the pipe, but Standing Elk just held it in his lap.
“The white man only knows desire, Nótaxemâhta’sóoma. He knows nothing of contentment. His heart is dry and withered, and he seeks to revive it with that of which has no medicine. He is careless and wasteful, and places himself above and apart from all other things. The white soldiers murder without regard, but themselves are spiritless and go screaming into their own deaths as they were born into life. The white father would take all of our hunting grounds and leave our children with stomachs full of air and hearts full of hate. There can be no peace with such men. We will kill this murderer of The People, but it will not stop the whites. There will be more. Many more.”
Henry thought about Short Bull. He thought about his father, whom he didn’t even remember. He thought about Picton and the men who followed him. He thought about the man by the river. Henry understood then, that there was something in Standing Elk’s words that belonged to all men.
2
The next day he found their campfires still smoldering. He was close.
Seventeen
1
Clara was bleeding again. She’d taken a piece of the cotton nightgown and put it between her legs when they stopped to water the horses. Now, less than two hours later, she could feel blood dripping down her leg. The wad of fabric had completely soaked through.
“I’m afraid I have to stop,” she said.
John was travelling just ahead of her. He twisted around in the saddle. “Can you make it to those bluffs up ahead? We’ll find some shade there.”
“Yes.”
They reached the line of bluffs about twenty minutes later. Towering red sentinels overlooking a dry and empty landscape. They came to a place where two bluffs met and there was a deep U-shaped divide between them. The sun was low in the west, and John thought it as good a place as any to stop for the night. He urged his horse toward the cleft and stopped just inside. It was shaded from the afternoon sun, and easily ten degrees cooler than out in the open.
John dismounted and hurried around to assist Clara. He helped her down. Her face was a sickly white except for the angry looking red blotches high on her cheeks.
“Please walk away,” she said. “Go and look around. You can return in a little while.”
“Clara, what’s wrong?”
“I’m bleeding,” she whispered, as if someone might overhear.
“Oh, no. What can I do? Let me help you.”
“No. Please, just go. I’ll be fine.”
John hesitated.
“Please,” she repeated.
He nodded. “Just let me tie up the horses.”
2
As soon as she felt he was far enough away, Clara removed the canteen from her horse and walked in the opposite direction with one hand pressed between her thighs to keep the blood-soaked cloth in place. She made for a pile of house-high rocks that had at some point separated themselves from the bluffs. As soon as she was behind them she let the bloody remnant of the nightgown drop. It made a sickening sploosh sound when it hit the ground. Clara removed the stopper from the canteen with a shaky hand. She bent and lifted the hem of the riding habit; a wave of dizziness washed over her, she dropped the canteen and uttered a breathless, “Oh, no,” before fainting.
3
“Clara? Clara, darling?”
Clara’s eyes fluttered open. John was kneeling over her. He was wetting a scrap of cloth with water from his canteen. He laid it on her forehead. It was blessedly cool.
“I’m so hot,” she said.
He put his hand behind her head and gently lifted it. “Here, drink a little.”
She pushed the canteen away. “Oh, John. I should have stayed in New York. I should have waited for you to return. So much has happened
. I’m responsible for Randall’s death. Kind, gentle, Randall. I’m so sorry. And the sergeant—Ben. He…he—”
“He was doing what he believed to be right. So was Randall. None of this is your fault. If there is blame to be placed, it should be placed on me. I’m the one who should never have left New York. I should have protested the ridiculous punishment levied on me without process. I should have pushed my father to provide me with proper legal counsel instead of worrying over the Elliot’s good name being shamed in the newspapers. We’re here, now, and we’re together. I will never let you out of my sight again.
I love you, Clara. Now please, drink some water, then I’m going to carry you out of the sun where you can rest.”
She nodded her head and he brought the canteen to her lips. He could feel the heat emanating from her face on the back of his hand. He pushed back the tears that threatened to come and set the canteen aside.
“I’m going to lay out a blanket for you.” He hurried over to the horses and removed a bedroll. He spread it out in the shade of the narrow divide then returned for Clara.
“All you need is some more rest, darling,” he said as he gently lifted her. “We have plenty of food and water; we’ll stay here until you’re well again.” He knew there was no water for the horses, but thought they could endure two or three days and still carry him and Clara to the next hole. He laid her down on the blankets. There was a smear of blood on his shirtsleeve where he’d had his arm underneath her. He’d seen the bloody remnant of the nightgown lying next to where he’d found her. He retrieved what was left of it from her saddlebags and tore it into several pieces.
“Clara, you’re still bleeding,” he said, squatting next to her. “Can you put this between your legs?”
She nodded and took the wad of cloth from him. He turned his head away.
4
Clara worsened during the night. She floated in and out of consciousness, sometimes muttering things John couldn’t understand. He stayed awake and kept exchanging the fever-heated cloths on her head and neck for cool ones. Twice he changed the saturated wads of the nightgown, but by dawn the flow of blood had stopped almost completely. He drew some hope from this.
By noon she seemed a little better. She drank a fair amount of water, and even took a few small bites of dried beef. John thought her color was better and she felt a bit cooler.
Though she slept most of the day she was clearheaded and in better spirits during the times she was awake. John spoke softly to her of the hours they’d spent walking by the lake near her family’s farm at Cornwall.
She even laughed a little when he brought up the time when a large and ill-tempered gander had bitten him and then chased him into the water. They agreed it was only a matter of time before she would be strong enough to travel.
Later that night her fever intensified to the point that she was completely delirious. She shouted curses at her father and swiped feebly at the air. She had fits where she wept uncontrollably. John finally stripped off the heavy riding habit. Its stench of blood, urine, sour sweat, and something foul and unnamable nearly made him vomit. Tossing the soiled dress aside he could scarcely believe the amount of heat coming from Clara’s body. He upended one of the canteens over her, and she began to shiver. Her teeth chattered so loudly he feared they would break. John laid himself beside her and put his arms around her. He held her close; despite the shivers, her heat was enough to break a sweat on him. Soon the shaking passed and she fell into a fitful sleep. John held vigil, wetting scraps of the cloth and wiping her body down. At some point in the early hours of the morning, he dozed.
When he awoke, Clara was dead.
5
John sat in front of the grave with the pistol’s muzzle pushed firmly against the soft skin below his chin. Tears blurred his vision. He attempted to pull the heavy sidearm’s hammer back, but it slipped from his blood-slicked hand and clattered to the ground. He squeezed the tears from his eyes and looked dumbly at his fingers. They were raw and still bleeding from pulling stones from the rocky soil. He lowered his hands and stared at the grave.
“I’ll be with you soon,” he said. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes.
He picked up the pistol and slid it into its holster, then walked to the horses and began removing all of the gear (excluding his own) from them and letting it drop to the ground. “Go on, you’re free,” he said, releasing the horses.
John Elliot mounted his big stallion and rode away.
Eighteen
1
Henry watched the men through his field glasses. It was less than an hour from sundown, and they were setting up camp near a stream at the base of some bluffs. Earlier he’d almost been spotted by an Indian—probably a Pawnee—who was watching Picton’s back-trail, but the Indian had been distracted by something farther away and to Henry’s left. Henry had dismounted and coaxed Harriet to the ground where he lay next to her with his arm over her neck. The Indian, who was only a few hundred feet away, caught the movement in his peripheral. His eyes passed over Henry several times before he turned his horse and moved on. The encounter told Henry that Picton wasn’t as careless as he’d begun to believe he was. He wondered how many scouts Picton had watching his flanks.
2
The next morning, well before sunup, Henry rode east for five miles before turning north, skirting well around Picton’s camp. He decided it would be best for him to stay in front of Picton and his men. That way he could warn any Indians in Picton’s path. He rode parallel to the bluffs, figuring that Picton would follow them, at least for awhile. Henry thought the stream running along the bluffs ran to the Powder River. It was likely there were Indian camps along it. He guessed Picton’s scouts would know that, even if Picton didn’t.
He stopped frequently to leave sign for Standing Elk. Henry hoped he was able to gather enough braves to defeat Picton and his gang of murderers. The lake with the blue flowers was only a three day ride from where Emmet Dawson had just attempted to kill Henry for the second time. If the mixed band of warriors were still there, then Standing Elk should already be on his way. If not, there was no telling when he might arrive. If the Indians were still at the lake, and the Dog Men with them, Henry knew it might mean him coming
face to face with Short Bull’s son, Brave Wolf. He chose not to brood on the possibility.
Early the following afternoon he saw the dark lines of smoke rising lazily from a place where the bluffs took a pronounced bend to the northeast. Here the dust-colored, flat-topped hills with their brome and sagebrush covered lowlands began to give way to higher mountains mottled with pine and fir as they marched their way off into the distance.
Knowing he was easily a day and half ahead of Picton’s scouts, Henry cut northwest, heading for the bluffs. It was likely a Sioux camp, he thought, the midday smoke from tanning hides.
He entered the camp two hours later: Cheyenne, not Sioux. They’d fled north after hearing about the murder of their kinsfolk at Big Sandy Creek. As was common in the spring and summer months, most of the men were on a hunt. According to an old man named Spotted Bird, the men had been gone for three days. He gestured animatedly with one scarred and misshapen hand as he told Henry in Cheyenne how there had been little game on the journey north, how they had survived on roots and what was left of the white man’s treaty flour. Finally they had to eat some of their horses. Spotted Bird blamed the whites for the lack of game. He claimed they scared it all off to force The People to live where the whites wanted them to live; where they were told they could hunt but there was no game; where they could eat only flour, beans, and sick beef; where they could easily be killed when the whites no longer wanted to share any of the land with them. Henry told him of Picton. Spotted Bird asked Henry if he, Nótaxemâhta’sóoma, was going to help them battle the white-man warrior. Henry frowned at the old man’s use of the now familiar name.
“I will help you,” he said.
Forty-one women, nineteen children, five old men, and seven bo
ys still two or three years from manhood remained in the camp. Escape was Henry’s first instinct, but there weren’t enough horses to make a run for it—less than a dozen—and Picton was too close for them to make a go of it on foot.
They would have to stay and fight.
3
Henry distributed what little dried meat he had left, then he asked the women to put out the fires (they were cooking big pots of some sort of pungent smelling porridge) and gather all of the rope and hide thongs they could find. The teenage boys and old men brought what weapons there were: five bows, two war-clubs (one with a broken head), and eleven bone-handled knives. Soon a pile of arrows began to grow—Henry thought around thirty—though a few were missing some fletching. Everyone went about their tasks and did as he asked without question. He was saddened a little by the eagerness of the seven not-yet-men to face the white warriors. They were already boasting about their victories and dreaming of the stories that would be told about them.
The plan was a simple one. Henry wasn’t a soldier, nor a wily tactician. He wasn’t anything. He was, he thought, as he surveyed the scrubby prairie, a man without a place, a purpose, or a people.
4
He spotted John with his field glasses about two hours shy of sunset. Clara wasn’t with him. Henry mounted Harriet with a sense of foreboding, and rode out to meet him. He knew she was dead before John could open his mouth.
“Clara’s gone.”
Henry lowered his head.
“Ahhhh, God, Henry. Why her?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is God punishing me?”
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 24
