by Brown, Dee
“I rode one a piece out of St. Louis once,” Grover replied. He was thinking about the Indians, how they hated the iron horses which ran with such a clatter across the plains, frightening away buffalo herds and bringing settlers from the East. But that was life, always changing. If a man, white or Indian, couldn’t change with it, he was doomed. The plains Indians had two choices—go north to the Powder River country, or south to reservations in Indian Territory. No use fighting it by turning runagate. Roman Nose and Turkey Leg, and Charley Bent and the Dog Soldier Cheyennes—they wouldn’t give up. They could still make plenty of trouble if they put their crazy minds to it.
The rocketing passenger train hustled them over a hundred miles of track to Fort Hays in five hours, which was better than stagecoach time ever was, and before midnight they were bedded down in a barracks. As Grover drifted off to sleep, he had to stop to remember where he was, and he wondered if mankind had not speeded things up a little too much.
Next day, he and Bill Comstock selected a pair of horses from the Fort Hays corral and jogged off north to scout the Saline River valley. Through June and July they worked the country around Forts Hays and Harker, reporting in regularly to Lieutenant Beecher. They found a few small bands of Cheyennes and Arapahos moving south to Indian Territory, but no traces of hostile marauders. All rumors they could pick up from the friendlies indicated that Roman Nose and the Dog Soldiers were still somewhere far to the north, hunting buffalo along the Platte.
Late in July they met Beecher at Fort Zarah. “My reports to General Sheridan are getting skimpier every week,” the lieutenant complained. “You scouts know anything I can pass on to him?”
“It’s been a quiet summer,” Bill Comstock observed.
“We heard Turkey Leg’s bunch is camped up Walnut Creek,” Grover said.
“Rather far south for him,” Beecher replied. “Perhaps he’s changed his mind and aims to go on to the reservation.”
“Not the way we heard it,” Grover said.
Beecher shrugged. “Maybe the three of us can talk him into it. I’ll ride out with you in the morning.”
After three days of trailing west, they found a camp site only recently abandoned. Grover poked around in the dead ashes, peering and sniffing, circling the yellowed grass spots where tepees had stood. “Turkey Leg’s band all right,” he declared. “They went north.”
“Too bad,” Beecher said. “We’ll follow them.”
Next morning a cavalry patrol out of Fort Hays cut across their path. The horse soldiers were dead beat from too many hours in the saddle, their captain grumpy and gruff of voice. “Two days out and no sign of a redskin,” he told Beecher. “The ground must’ve swallowed ’em up.”
“What redskins you looking for?” Grover asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” the captain demanded sourly.
“We’ve been down on Walnut Creek,” Beecher explained.
“Marauding Cheyennes hit a bunch of ranchers and settlements along the Saline. Wiped out several families. Their sign pointed south.”
Beecher glanced at Comstock. “Your quiet summer’s over, Bill. Captain, the only Indian sign we’ve seen for miles is this trail we’re following north. Turkey Leg’s band.”
“Maybe Turkey Leg did it,” the captain said.
“Couldn’t have,” Grover replied. “His bunch is just about now coming in to the Saline country.”
Beecher nodded. “Sharp’s right. Of course this trouble means we have to find Turkey Leg in a hurry. Keep his young bucks away from the hostiles, talk him into turning south if we can. You heading back for Hays, Captain?”
The cavalry officer stood in his stirrups and stretched himself. “Might as well. If you scouts saw nothing south of here.”
“We’ll ride along with you.”
They rode into Fort Hays on August 14, finding it full of rumors and empty of soldiers. All infantry and cavalry units were in the field. A report had just come in from Captain Fred Benteen’s 7th Cavalry detachment. Benteen had overtaken a large force of hostiles, driving them for ten miles up the Saline.
“It’ll be risky for three white men to go into that country now,” Beecher said. Learning that General Sheridan was at Fort Wallace, he decided to telegraph him for further orders.
Within an hour Sheridan’s reply came back over the wire. Beecher was to report to Fort Wallace immediately in person. Grover and Comstock were to scout up the Saline valley, using their discretion in parleying with Indians.
Grover listened to the reading of the telegram, remaining silent for a minute or so. “Bill and me, we’ll be safe enough once we step inside Turkey Leg’s tepee. May take some tricky work sneaking in there though. You game for it, Bill?”
Comstock nodded. “I trust old Turkey Leg, same as you, Sharp. If you’re for it, I am.”
“Good luck,” Beecher told them, and they shook hands. “See you at Fort Wallace.”
West of Fort Hays, the scouts picked up Turkey Leg’s trail again, following it north to Solomon River. This was open country, buffalo country, still empty of settlements. On the morning of the second day, August 16, near the willow-fringed stream they found an abandoned camp no more than a day old. Grover pulled his horse over to one side, studying the tracks, then dismounted.
“Bill,” he said. “Look here.”
Comstock dropped from his saddle. “Pony tracks. Unshod. They come from across the river.”
“A hundred maybe. Wild bucks from up north.”
Comstock grunted. “If they joined on, too bad.”
The scouts mounted and circled the hoof-marked ground. Only one trail led out across the prairie. The buffalo grass was still trodden down and bent in the direction of movement upriver. For a quarter of a mile ahead the sign was plain as day, the stretch of disturbed grass a different shade of green from that around it. “They joined on,” he said. “Won’t be healthy for us, going into Turkey Leg’s next camp.”
Comstock pulled a piece of dried beef from a pocket of his buckskins and chewed reflectively. “My medicine’s been bad since yesterday, Sharp.”
Grover’s teeth showed in a flicker of a smile. “Old Medicine Bill. You’re worse’n any medicine man, worrying about signs. What’s wrong now?”
“My compass,” Comstock replied. He turned the metal case tied by rawhide cord to a buttonhole in his shirt. “Needle’s been spinning like crazy.”
“Don’t mean a thing.” Grover squinted at the sun. “You want to bear off for Fort Wallace?”
Comstock shook his head. “We come this far, might as well pay a visit to Turkey Leg.”
Late in the day they sighted the Indian camp. Grover pulled his rifle out of its boot and slipped it into a piece of leather slung over his saddle pommel, balancing the weapon horizontally across his legs. If he needed it in a hurry, all he had to do was raise it, aim, and fire.
They rode in a steady trot toward the curved line of tepees, slowing to a walk when they reached the fringes of the camp. A pack of dogs swirled out of nowhere, yipping at their horses’ heels. They moved on around the first ellipse of tepees, where young warriors gathered quickly to stare with open hostility at these unannounced visitors.
“Not a friendly face in the bunch,” Grover said softly. Riding knee to knee the scouts headed straight for the tepee in the center. It was marked with thunderbirds in bright yellows and reds.
“They’d cut our hearts out if they took a notion,” Comstock replied.
Turkey Leg heard their horses’ hoofbeats and flung back the flap of his tepee as the scouts were dismounting. His bronzed face, wrinkled by sun, wind and time, was solemn as he offered a formal greeting.
“I do not see a smile of welcome upon the face of my old friend,” Grover said in Cheyenne.
“In these days a Cheyenne chief has no reason for smiling,” Turkey Leg replied. With a graceful motion of his arm he indicated that they should enter the tepee. “Only in the lodge of Turkey Leg is a white man safe in this camp.” As Gr
over bent to enter, he glanced back. Young warriors were gathering in small groups, watching them. Some lifted their blankets over their faces or turned their backs in gestures of animosity.
A fire was burning in the center of the tepee, a blue spiral lifting to the blackened smokehole. They sat around the small blaze while Turkey Leg prepared a pipe. “Why have you come here?” the chief asked.
“To speak for the Great Father’s bluecoat soldiers,” Grover answered. “It was written at Medicine Lodge that all the tribes would leave this country and go to the territory of the Indians.”
Turkey Leg nodded gravely and touched a hand to his chest. “I did not sign it, but even so I would go. Many winters lie heavy upon Turkey Leg and he is for peace in a land where there are no white men. But my young warriors have spoken against this. They will stay and hunt in the land of their fathers.”
“The bluecoat soldiers will not stand still for this,” Grover took the offered pipe, turned it to the four directions, drawing puffs of smoke. “The soldiers are as many as grasshoppers in the Drying Grass Moon. They will come and drive your young men like cattle.”
Turkey Leg drew in a puff of smoke, exhaling slowly. “If I turned toward the territory of the Indians at the next sun’s rising, only a handful of old men and women would follow me. I am chief and must stay with my people.”
Comstock pulled a sheaf of grass from the ground and tossed it on the fire where it flared and disappeared. “Your people will go like that, Turkey Leg. No medicine can stop it.”
“We will wait and see,” the chief answered.
“At your last camping place,” Grover said, “many young warriors joined your people.”
Turkey Leg looked directly at the scout, his eyes unblinking. “They are Cheyennes, as are my people.”
“From Roman Nose?”
For the first time a faint smile showed on the old chief’s lips. “My friend knows much. Yes, Roman Nose is coming south again as he did last summer. With many warriors and many new rifles. The Sioux and Arapaho are with him.”
Grover shook his head. “He will lead your young men to die.”
“They say Roman Nose has sworn to stop the iron horse from crossing the prairies. They say he will drive out all the settlers from the buffalo country.”
Comstock made a scoffing sound in his throat. “Not even Roman Nose can do that.”
Shadows from the firelight deepened the wrinkles in Turkey Leg’s face. “Roman Nose has strong medicine,” he declared. “He has been in many battles, but no white man’s bullet has ever harmed him.”
“All medicine turns bad,” Comstock replied somberly, his fingers touching his dangling compass.
Grover tried once more: “Bring your people with us to Fort Wallace. I can promise you rations and soldiers to protect you on the way to Indian Territory.”
For a few moments the chief was silent, his face revealing no emotion. Then suddenly he brought his open right hand down sharply against the extended fingers of his left.
“That cuts it off,” Comstock whispered. “He ain’t going, nohow, Sharp.”
Turkey Leg was already on his feet.
“It’s near sundown,” Grover said as he arose. “We’ll camp here till morning.”
The chief shook his head. “My old friends must go now, far out on the prairie. The young warriors from Roman Nose have sworn death to your people. My son will ride out with you. You will not be attacked in his presence.”
Grover glanced at Comstock, who nodded quick agreement. “We’ll ride,” Grover said. Both scouts offered their hands in farewell, and Grover led the way outside.
The crowd of sullen-faced warriors had grown larger, thirty or more young men wearing blue or dark red blankets, some carrying rifles. At a sign from Turkey Leg, one of them came forward. His black hair was loose on his shoulders. A single feather and a beaded thong of rawhide hung from a plaited knot on top of his head. There was no formal introduction, only a quick exchange of Cheyenne monosyllables, and Grover understood that this young man was the chief’s son. He and four others would stake their honor to escort the two scouts safely from the village.
Grover knew that under different circumstances these same five braves would have been equally honor-bound to kill him and Bill Comstock, but he also knew there would be little danger now until the chief’s son had carried out the duty assigned him by his father.
As their horses trotted southward, the sun lay on their right, huge and orange in color, a few minutes above the flat horizon. They rode until dusk, the chief’s son taking the lead, two warriors on either side of Grover and Comstock. In all this time not one word was said, the Indians ignoring the presence of their unwanted guests. With every passing minute, Grover became more alert, listening, looking. He knew that half a dozen other warriors were in the rear, keeping their ponies to the same pace as the escort.
Suddenly the chief’s son halted, danced his pony around, slashed his hand down in a gesture of farewell, and the escort turned back for the village. The little group of warriors in the rear slowed for a minute or so until the returning escort passed them. Glancing back, Grover saw these other riders quirting their ponies; they were coming on now at a gallop.
Comstock said: “Reckon we ought to run for it, Sharp?”
“No use,” Grover answered. “Let’s see what they want.”
They were seven, most of them so young they could scarcely be considered as warriors. The oldest one carried a carbine slung over his back, a new Sharps breechloader. On his leggings he wore tiny bells which jingled with a silvery sound. Overtaking the scouts, they trotted alongside, shouting mild insults in Cheyenne.
For a minute or so the scouts ignored the taunts, continuing in their steady trot while twilight deepened around them. Then Grover began answering the Indians, returning jibe for jibe, teasing them but avoiding direct insults. One of the younger braves laughed, the others joining in.
Grover breathed easier. In ten more minutes the rolling land would be closed in darkness and a showdown surely would be avoided. He signaled Comstock to increase speed; they nudged their horses into a gallop.
In a few seconds the slower Indian ponies fell back. The seven Cheyennes were strung out now, only the rider with the belled leggings keeping pace, and then he swerved his pony and turned away, shouting a final jeering remark.
Grover kept one hand on his balanced rifle, listening to the fading hoofbeats, alert for any unusual sound. The sound came like an unexpected handclap, repeated, and as he identified it he felt the searing fire of a bullet tearing into his left shoulder.
He whirled in his saddle, his rifle up, firing at running shadows against the purple sky. Bill Comstock’s horse slammed against his leg. The saddle was empty.
“Bill!” Grover dismounted quickly, forgetting his wound until he winced from pain, and in that half second of motion he lost rein and bridle. His horse darted away after Comstock’s.
North on the darkening prairie he heard a faint silvery jingle of legging bells, and he caught a quick flash of orange fire. He hit the ground as a bullet screamed past, followed by the cracking echo of a rifle.
For several seconds he lay flat, then raised his head above the thick grass, his eyes straining in the dim light. A few yards up the trail he saw a dark shadow, and began crawling toward it. Before he was halfway there, he knew it was Comstock.
At the sound of hoofbeats far off to his right, he stopped. The Cheyennes were after his and Comstock’s horses. “Bill!” he called softly. “They’ve gone. You all right?”
There was no answer. Grover raised himself to his knees, running forward in a stooping position. As soon as he touched Comstock’s face he knew he was dead, and he felt a surge of bitter anger. The Cheyennes had no better friend among the white men than Bill Comstock, and now they had killed him.
For a minute or more Grover kneeled there, and then out of the darkness he heard the ponies coming back at a full gallop. Instinctively he rolled away, seeking cov
er against a hummock of buffalo grass. He lay on his side, gripping his rifle, watching blurred shadows moving against the night sky. The riders made a wide circle, slowed their pace, and he counted seven riders, nine horses. They’d captured the scouts’ mounts.
Tiny bells tinkled, and he turned his rifle toward the sound, his fingers curving on the trigger. A few Cheyenne words floated out of the darkness. He heard the slap of rawhide against horseflesh, and they were galloping again, back toward Turkey Leg’s camp.
Maybe they’d come back, maybe not. There was nothing for it now but to walk, and walk fast. He reached under his buckskin and found the shoulder of his woolen shirt saturated with blood which was still oozing from the bullet hole. To stop the flow, he ripped a strip from his shirt and balled it into the wound.
By now the sky was filled with stars. He found the Big Dipper, turned his back on the North Star, and started walking south. If the Cheyennes did not come back, and if he could keep going long enough, sooner or later he would reach the railroad.
At the first light of dawn, Grover sighted a line of eroded clay formations off to the west, and knew that he was near Monument Station. He would have turned in that direction, knowing a telegrapher was there, but his strength was too far gone. The railroad was closer, only two or three more miles straight south, and he kept the same course he had followed all night, resting every few hundred steps, struggling onward until at last he saw the shining tracks of the railroad.
Crawling up the embankment, he pressed one ear against a rail, listening, but there was no sound. He drained the last drops of water from his canteen, then stretched out beside the railroad ties, pillowing his head on his good arm.
Before noon he was awakened by the chugging of a locomotive, the clacking of metal wheels against rail joints. With an effort he got upon his feet and began waving his hat. A moment later he saw steam jutting from each side of the rocking locomotive, heard the squeal of braked wheels sliding over rails.
