In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

by Michael A. McLellan

  Outside of venturing out to forage, which Henry warned them against, the women began going about their work as they would on any other day. Morning cook-fires were kindled though there was little to cook, and water was drawn from the stream. They were aware that they were in danger from the white men, and Spotted Bird had instructed them to hurry across the stream and hide behind the cottonwood thicket if the warning signal was given. They weren’t aware, however, that their appearance of normalcy was important. It was a concept that Henry simply couldn’t translate into Cheyenne. The women went about their business normally, because it was all they knew.

  The sun was high and hot when Henry finally saw the riders.

  They were coming from the south along the stream at the base of the bluffs and moving slowly. Henry knew from his outings with the army that this was to keep down the dust to conceal their advance. They stopped at the same spot the scouts had on the previous day. The distance was too great to discern features through the glasses, but Henry thought he knew who Picton was nonetheless. There was a man at the front on a bay horse. He was wearing a red shirt, and most of the activity seemed to be centered around him. It appeared he was lifting a pair of field glasses. Henry lowered his own and slid back behind the boulder.

  “Soon,” he said to Spotted Bird in Cheyenne, who nodded solemnly and picked up the Spencer. Henry leaned back around the boulder and raised the glasses. Picton’s men were fanning out to cover the entire opening in the L shaped bend of the bluffs, cutting off any chance of escape. There’s nowhere to go, anyway, Henry thought.

  Picton wasted no time, he and his men charged forward. Henry turned and shouted behind him, “Now!…Hétsęstseha! Hétsęstseha!

  Spotted Bird let loose with a call that sounded similar to the yip-howl of a coyote. It was immediately echoed by the two young braves who were perched on outcroppings, and the three down below among the lodges. The women dropped what they were doing and hurried across the stream to the spurious safety of the cottonwood thicket where four old men and two young ones barely out of boyhood, armed only with knives, were prepared to die protecting them.

  Henry took the Spencer from Spotted Bird and went down on one knee as close to the boulder as he could push his body. The dust cloud following the charging riders was immense. The ground shook, and the sound of hundreds of hooves beating the earth was like thunder. Faster horses began to pull ahead of the rest, and he had time to think, I’m a damned fool, just as several of the lead horses went crashing and tumbling to the ground.

  Henry opened fire.

  He hit five of the first seven he shot at, and did it in less than thirty seconds. Spotted Bird was already grabbing the Spencer and shoving the Burnside into his hands before he could even get turned around. It wasn’t fast enough; riders were entering the camp. He fumbled open the bundle of ammunition for the Burnside and set it on the ground in front of him as he watched a rider run his horse into a lodge at the edge of camp. The lodge collapsed and the horse and rider with it. The horse clambered up and ran off, the rider stood and drew his sidearm, searching for a target. Henry shot him, levered the rifle, removed the spent cartridge, and loaded another. Shots started ringing, the dust was beginning to make it hard to see. Some of the riders were dismounting and entering lodges, others were charging for the stream and the thicket of cottonwoods.

  Henry shot the first rider to make it to the stream, but there were a dozen more right behind. He levered the Burnside again just as Spotted Bird tapped his shoulder, snatched the empty rifle away and handed him the Spencer. The riders were already across the stream and coming around the flanks of the thicket. Henry stood and switched places with Spotted Bird, he couldn’t defend the women from the side of the boulder he’d been shooting from. He had a clear line of sight over the rest of the camp, but the boulder itself blocked his view of the cottonwood thicket. He lay down on the edge of the outcrop and looked for a target. The women were scattering in all directions as the riders descended upon them, swinging their sabers and firing pistols. Shouts, curses and screams of agony melded into an unintelligible cacophony of human depravity and suffering. Henry shut out the screams and fired the Spencer. The riders, almost directly below him, were easy targets. He shot three before anyone realized where he was. Finally, one began shooting back. Others joined in. The angle was poor, though, and they were on horseback. Not a single bullet came close. Henry shot two more and the rest began to flee back across the stream. He stood and switched places with Spotted Bird again, exchanging rifles as he did. All of the riders were fleeing the camp. Henry saw two more horses go tumbling as they attempted to gallop over the concealed holes. He fired at one of the fallen riders as he untangled himself from the injured horse and scrambled to his feet. The shot was pushing the Burnside’s range, however, and the bullet puffed the dust several feet away from its intended target. Henry let him go.

  For the moment, it was over.

  Henry raised the field glasses. Picton—if he wasn’t injured or dead—and his remaining men were riding northeast at a gallop, along the stream. The children! Henry thought in a panic. Why would he ride north? The women probably didn’t walk the children more than a few miles. If Picton’s men didn’t stop, they’d run right into them. He turned to Spotted Bird and pointed northeast. “Nótaxevé’ho’e,” he said. Spotted bird looked flummoxed for a moment, then understanding dawned on his creased and sun-weathered face. He put a hand to his chest and nodded. Henry nodded in return.

  They climbed down the bluff and hastily strode past the bodies of the slain and injured. The air was thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder. Fast Horse, two of the young braves, and at least ten women lay dead near the thicket. An equal number of Picton’s men lay strewn among them, either dead or mortally wounded. Unharmed women tended to the injured while the remaining few males snatched up firearms and tried to retrieve as many arrows as they could. One of Picton’s men screamed in agony as a brave pushed, pulled, and twisted the arrow in the man’s side in an attempt to free it. Another was being bludgeoned to death with a rock by a woman as several others stood over her and watched. A shot was fired and Henry spun around. One of Picton’s men was lying on his back and aiming a wavering pistol at the group of women. Henry raised the Burnside just as Little Mouth walked up to the man and unceremoniously shot him with Henry’s pistol. He squatted and began removing the man’s possessions.

  There were three of the men’s horses milling around the stream. Henry asked Spotted Bird to catch them. Meanwhile he searched quickly among the bodies and dead horses for rifles. He passed over a Springfield and some other make he didn’t recognize before finding a Spencer with just over half a box of ammunition on a groaning horse with a broken leg. There was a man pinned underneath, dead. Henry shot the horse.

  He hurried back to where Spotted Bird waited with two horses. Apparently the third had ran off. He handed Spotted Bird the Spencer and the ammunition, then ran across the stream, mounted Harriet, and rode back. Little Mouth was standing next to Spotted Bird. He was holding Henry’s pistol, belt, and holster in his hand, and had another around his waist. He handed it up to Henry, who took it and quickly checked the loads. Only four shots fired. It meant Little Mouth had understood when he’d explained the pistol’s range; the boy didn’t waste any shots.

  Spotted Bird held up the reins to one of the horses, and cocked his head toward Little Mouth. Henry looked around; he was hoping for one of the older braves. Aware he was losing precious seconds he nodded his head. Little Mouth whooped loudly and leaped up onto the horse. Spotted Bird struggled, but finally got mounted.

  He muttered something derogatory in Cheyenne about the white men and their saddles, and kicked the horse forward.

  4

  About a mile and a half northeast of the Cheyenne camp, Frank Picton raised his hand and slowed his horse down to a walk.

  “They were just waiting for us, Colonel. Goddamn red sons-of-bitches dug goddamn holes,” Bill Taylor said unbelievingly
.

  “I’ll ask you not to use the Lord’s name in such a manner in my presence, Mister Taylor. Post two reliable men with fast horses by that tree at the creek’s edge. Tell them to stay out of sight. If they see anyone leaving the savage’s encampment, they’re to rejoin us forthwith. Give them your field glasses.”

  “Why—”

  “Do it now, Mister Taylor.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  Taylor turned his horse to do as he was bid. Picton stared forward. He was red-faced and angry beyond measure.

  Several minutes later, Taylor rode up alongside Picton. “I sent McMurtrey and Highley. I would’ve sent Pendergrass, but he’s dead…so’s Hill. Red sons-of-bitches.”

  “An Indian—much like a nigger—can learn to shoot a rifle, but he does not possess the intelligence, dexterity, nor the patience to be its master. And the traps, although a rudimentary defense, required planning beyond their aptitude.”

  “Are you saying there were white men back there shooting at us?”

  “I’m saying that the late Mister John Elliot seems to have found at least one pair of sympathetic ears. Ears I intend to have hanging from this very saddle by this time tomorrow. How many men did we lose?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Unfortunate. Hill, you say?”

  “Yessir. Colonel. We’re going back, aren’t we? I mean, white men or not, there couldn’t have been more than two or three rifles and a handful of bucks shooting arrows.”

  “One rifle. And a very well positioned sharpshooter in possession of it. We’ll halt shortly and wait until nightfall. He’ll lose most of his advantage with the sun…what in the…Taylor, look over there. There are red devils by the creek. Tell the men to arm themselves.”

  5

  The women snatched up the youngest of the children and ran when they saw the riders, but there was nowhere to hide and they couldn’t outrun horses. Picton had them herded back together on a grassy area next to the stream. The women held the infants protectively.

  Picton dismounted and walked back and forth in front of the Indians, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

  “Rider coming, Colonel. Moving fast,” a man called out.

  “Looks like McMurtrey’s roan,” Taylor said.

  “Perhaps we’ll not be forced to wait after all,” Picton muttered to himself.

  A few minutes later, McMurtrey rode up fast, reining in the roan, hard. He stopped short in front of the huddled women and children.

  “Three of ‘em come outta there riding hell bent, Colonel,” McMurtrey said breathlessly. “They’re coming this way.”

  Picton stood facing his frightened captives and drew his pistol. “Of course they are,” he said, and opened fire.

  6

  Henry heard the shots over the hoof beats of the galloping horses. He pulled hard and brought Harriet to an abrupt, sliding stop. The rapid staccato of the rifle and pistol shots echoed from the bluffs, slowly tapering to nothing. Finally, there was one last shot. Its lone echo faded, leaving a silence so complete as to be an abomination.

  Spotted Bird and Little Mouth had also stopped, though several yards in front of Henry. They walked their horses back. Spotted Bird met Henry’s eyes, his expression was grave. Little Mouth still looked eager, impatient even.

  Henry looked at Little Mouth and spoke in Cheyenne. “You must go west for one day, then north. Find more Cheyenne, Arapaho, or Sioux. Tell them what happened here. Do not stop at the camp.”

  “I want to fight the white warriors. I am not afraid.”

  “If you wish to help your people you must do this.”

  Little Mouth looked at Spotted Bird, who was gazing steadily at Henry. After a moment, he turned to Little Mouth and nodded. Little Mouth whooped loudly, kicked his horse up and rode off.

  “The white warriors killed the children,” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Spotted Bird agreed.

  Henry took his field glasses from his saddlebags and scanned the base of the bluffs. He found them, not far off, at the edge of the stream. The man in the red shirt was staring back at him through his own pair of glasses. Henry wondered what he was thinking.

  7

  Frank Picton lifted his field glasses. There were two riders, not three. A nigger and an Indian—an old Indian from the looks. He turned to Cal McMurtrey, “You said there were three riders, I only see two.”

  “There were sure enough three of them, Colonel. Garrett Highley saw ‘em, same as I did.”

  Picton raised the glasses again. There. One was fleeing. The sharpshooter, had to be. Elliot’s Indian loving accomplice. He handed the glasses to Taylor and began reloading his pistol.

  Take ten men and go after those two. One’s a nigger—undoubtedly the one who dug all of those holes—the other’s an old Indian. The rest of you mount up, we’re going after the recreant who murdered our companions from hiding.”

  “Pardon, Colonel, but there was an awful lot of squaws and pups here. There’s bound to be men somewhere. You sure you want to split up?”

  “Mind yourself, Mister Taylor. Do not question me again.”

  “Yessir.”

  8

  Henry watched the roughly forty men separate into two groups. The larger one, led by Picton himself, rode southeast. The smaller group started toward him and Spotted Bird.

  They’re going after Little Mouth, he thought, though he couldn’t understand why. After a moment’s deliberation he turned Harriet and rode off eastward—fast—and on a course that would put him between Little Mouth and Picton.

  He rode nearly a mile, then slowed Harriet enough that Spotted Bird could catch up. When Spotted Bird came up alongside, Henry pointed at him, then pointed southeast—away from the Cheyenne camp. Spotted Bird nodded and turned his horse southeast.

  It had the desired effect. The men chasing them veered and followed Spotted Bird. Henry continued eastward. Minutes later he was directly in Picton’s path. He slowed, leaned forward and rubbed Harriet on the neck. “I’m sorry,” he said, then he straightened up, pulled the Spencer from its scabbard, turned north, and rode straight at them.

  9

  Frank Picton felt only perplexity as the rider turned toward him. He couldn’t see whether it was the nigger or the Indian who was about to give up his life for John Elliot’s fleeing collaborator. He guessed the Indian. This was an act of loyalty, and he knew that niggers rarely possessed the capacity for it. Indians, at least, would try to protect one another. He withdrew his pistol and charged ahead.

  10

  The distance was closing quickly, but Henry had enough time to hope that if he succeeded in killing Picton, the other men would cry off and leave Little Mouth and the survivors at the Cheyenne camp alone.

  When he felt he was within the Spencer’s range, he forced himself to wait a little longer, even after Picton’s men began firing at him. Finally he raised the rifle. He recalled the first time he was allowed to hunt buffalo with the Cheyenne, and let his hips absorb the now familiar rhythm of Harriet’s gait. He aimed, fired…and missed.

  Henry levered the rifle and raised it again. White-hot pain exploded in the left side of his chest. He fumbled and almost lost the rifle. Nearly on top of them, he quickly aimed and fired again. The shot went home, taking off the bottom half of Picton’s face. He saw this just as Harriet ran headlong into the oncoming riders. More fire lit up Henry’s right shoulder, and the Spencer went tumbling to the ground as his right arm dropped uselessly to his side. Harriet grunted and stumbled to the left, Henry, nearly losing the saddle, grabbed a handful of her mane just as she regained her gait.

  Then they were past.

  11

  Blood was running freely over Frank Picton’s hand as he raised it to where his lower jaw should have been. He felt a flap of something lying against his neck that could have been his tongue. He held the hand up and stared at the blood in rage and disbelief. It was the nigger. How could he…

  Frank Picton toppled from his horse.

&nb
sp; 12

  Henry spared a look behind. A dozen men or slightly more had turned to give chase. Harriet was flagging. He thought she might be shot. He pushed her anyway; they would die if she stopped.

  13

  Harriet was walking. Have I been asleep? She was nearing the bluffs—which weren’t really bluffs anymore but mountains. Henry turned, the pain from his chest was immediate and intense. Broken rib, he thought dazedly. There was no one following him. He looked down, there was a small hole just below and to the left of his breast. He tried to move his right hand to examine it, but his arm wouldn’t move. The lower half of his tan shirt had turned a deep red. He felt hot and out of sorts. There were trees ahead, and he could see the stream glistening through them. He could hear the water, running fast. Eliza was there, next to a large pine. She was beckoning him.

  Twenty-One

  1

  The tracks of the thirteen horses and riders joined with another group, several miles to the north of where the old Cheyenne with the twisted hands had been killed, scalped, and left lying in the dust.

  The riders, near forty in all, had then rode south. Brave Wolf and the other Dog Men, along with Red Cloud and his his two hundred warriors would follow and kill them. Standing Elk would stay behind with the boy and see to the old man. Perhaps afterward, he would find Nótaxemâhta’sóoma.

  Twenty-Two

  1

  New York, New York. May 23 1866.

  Jonathon Hanfield set down his pen with a scowl and looked up from his work when he heard the familiar creak of his study door.