by C. J. Petit
So, Kate was resigned to her current life, and even at the age of twenty-three, thought her life was over and couldn’t get any worse. She was very wrong.
They had worked their way to the farthest part of the fields and Kate was standing, stretching her back, as she glanced back at the sod cabin. She tilted her head and looked more closely.
“Fred, there are four mules in front of the cabin. Who owns them?”
Fred whipped around and cursed, “It’s those damned Murphys!”
He dropped his rake and sprang toward the house, Kate watched for ten seconds and dropped her spade and followed. She hadn’t taken ten steps when a woman’s scream split the air.
Kate cried, “Bertha!” and continued to sprint toward the house. Then she stopped, sliding in the moist soil when two men spotted her and charged in her direction. Kate turned and ran for her life, but it was no use. They were taller and were excited. She began to cry as she ran because she knew what was going to happen, they were going to rape her and kill her.
She fell after two hundred feet and was still sobbing when they reached her and violently raped her. But she was wrong. They didn’t kill her. What they did was much, much worse.
_____
April 13, 1867
John was twenty miles southwest of Omaha and making good time by noon of his first day on the trail. The weather was cooperating, and the wide plains made it easy to spot any potential threats, and John would occasionally spot smoke from a locomotive on the northern horizon as the Union Pacific pushed west.
He had crossed to the south side of the Platte River to put it between him and the railroad. It would have been easier to follow on the north side near the tracks, but it was those tracks that he was concerned about.
The men in the brigade who didn’t have jobs waiting for them, almost to a man signed up to work building the railroad, or tried to. The lure of the three-dollar-a-day in wages attracted many of the suddenly out of work soldiers. It was quite an increase over the thirteen dollars a month the army had paid privates, or even the seventeen dollars a month for sergeants, for that matter. He could never understand why even a lowly second lieutenant was paid almost ten times as much as a private, not that he was going to give any of it back.
But the work as a laborer building the railroad was back-breaking, often literally. Many of the soldiers signing up had no perception of the long hours of hard labor that building a railroad across the West demanded. The wages paid were well-earned, but the Union Pacific had a rapid turnover of workers who only lasted a few days before leaving. Many veterans, both Union and Confederate would sign up and after a few days decide it was simply too much work for the pay and leave.
And, just as the Central Pacific found that it could pay Chinese workers less and get more work, the Union Pacific realized that Irish immigrants would work for less pay and still do the work. The Irish were still paid a lot more than the Central Pacific paid the Chinese, but, except for their drinking habits, which were notorious, they made good workers. It riled the veterans and other railroad workers who were sometimes turned away when the immigrants agreed to do the same job for less pay.
What the Union Pacific had building the railroad westward then, was a mix of Union and Confederate ex-soldiers, and the mutually detested Irish immigrants. It was a volatile mix, and that was why he wanted to put some distance between him and the railroad. It seemed that there were always men returning on the roads that ran beside the rails, and most weren’t happy. He felt that it was better if he kept a few miles buffer between him and any disgruntled ex-workers.
So, John Flynn rode west, keeping the Platte River a couple of miles to his right shoulder as he traveled. He was familiar with most of the terrain in Nebraska and the southern part of the Dakota Territories, and he still had his compass, so he wasn’t about to stray too much. Fort Kearny was another hundred and fifty miles straight ahead, and when he reached the fort in another four or five days, he’d see if anyone knew the whereabouts of the Flynn family.
_____
Kate Walsh was curled up in a ball on the floor. She could see her bare feet sticking out of the poor excuse she had for a dress and wondered why God hated her so much. First, He had married her off to Phil Pearson, lazy, fat bastard that he was, then let her get raped and dumped into the river, only to bring her back to life and put her here in this earthly Hell where she suffered almost daily assaults by one of the Murphys, sometimes multiple times a day. They were vile, dirty and disgusting men who almost made her vomit when they came near. She wanted to die, but there was always that tiny flicker of unrealistic and undeserved hope.
“Hey! Kate! Get over here!” shouted the father and the worst of them all.
_____
John continued to ride west for four more days of monotonous travel, which was deeply appreciated, as excitement on the plains is rarely good news. His favorite subject of wool-gathering was Melissa. Ever since he had ridden away, there was that lingering suspicion that he was making a mistake. But each knew that until he found his family, there was no future for them. But when he did, then maybe he could return to Melissa. But so much could change in just seconds in this dangerous world.
Today’s ride brought him to within thirty miles of Fort Kearny and hopefully close to the home he’d never seen. He hadn’t spotted a soul the entire journey. That would change shortly.
He’d just finished his noon break and was riding at a slow trot when he spotted two horses heading toward him from the northwest. They had no pack horse, which struck him as a bit odd. They were white men and were about two miles out. That meant they had just crossed the Platte, or had been coming from the west following the river a lot closer than he was, and both were unusual. Why cross the river here? There was nothing south of him for hundreds of miles. And if they hadn’t crossed, why ride close to the river where there are more obstacles like sand dunes and small ravines?
He kept an eye on them as they continued to approach, and debated pulling his trigger loop off his pistol. It was a rude thing to do, normally, but in this situation, he thought that rude was necessary. He freed his pistol and continued to keep them under observation.
John continued riding due west and noted that they had shifted their course slightly to intercept him, but he didn’t change his pace, because there was no point. If he went faster, they’d just change their angle. It looked as if they wanted him to run, and he wasn’t about to tire his animals. They were under a mile now, but still too far away to see their faces, but he could see their horses. One was a dappled gray and the other a light tan, which told him they weren’t army or ex-army. The army never bought light-colored horses, at least not for the cavalry, and there were no artillery units in the Territories.
He had to snicker to himself when he remembered that Nebraska was no longer a Territory, having achieved statehood a few weeks ago. But his amusement didn’t last long as the two men continued to close the gap.
He reached down and cocked the Spencer. There was already a round in the chamber, so it was ready to fire with a trigger pull. He didn’t want to use the Winchester yet. He wanted the range of the Spencer, but he still reached down and cocked the Winchester’s hammer.
The men continued to veer toward him. John made no secret about watching them any longer, because he wanted them to know that they were being scrutinized. It didn’t seem to bother them, either. The closer they got, the more John was puzzled. By now, if they were friendly, or even pretending to be, they would have waved, but all they did was ride right at him, practically waving a big flag that said THIEVES.
When they got within a half mile, he noticed that both had rifles already in their hands, yet another bizarre move. It was like they were begging to get him to fire on them. He guessed that they must have been after his pack horse of supplies and probably the horses themselves. Horses were a valuable commodity out West after the war, with so many of them stripped from ranches and farms. John wondered where those two got theirs.
He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his heavy jacket pocket, then shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, stood in his stirrups and slid the jacket on the seat before sitting on it. He was chilly, but now had freedom of movement, which should have warned those two that he meant business, but it didn’t seem to have the slightest impact on their behavior.
John finally dropped all pretense and pulled his Spencer carbine out of its scabbard. That seemed to inspire the two men to action. As soon as it was level, they both accelerated their horses and fired at 200 yards. The sound identified the rifles as repeaters, and both shots fell short. What was wrong with this pair? They were doing everything wrong. They had their horses moving faster, which meant a jarring firing position. They weren’t in range for their repeaters yet, either, but they were already well within range of his Spencer.
He guessed that they expected him to run, being outgunned and outmanned, and would just leave his pack horse behind. That wasn’t about to happen. They each fired twice more as they closed, the rounds moving closer.
John stopped Arrow and turned him slightly to his right. He aimed the Spencer at the man on the right as they both began accelerating to close the distance. They were just passing a hundred and twenty yards when he fired, knocking the right man from his horse, the large .56 caliber round striking him in the left shoulder and ripping it apart.
The remaining shooter continued to fire, and one of his rounds struck John’s saddlebag. John didn’t take time to inspect for damage, he just levered in a new round and cocked the hammer. Another of his adversary’s rounds buzzed past his head, almost causing him to pull the trigger prematurely, but he reacquired the man, who was cycling his rifle, and at seventy yards, squeezed the Spencer’s trigger. The heavy bullet struck the rider center mass and jerked him from the saddle. He was dead before he bounced and rolled across the prairie.
John quickly turned his horse and rode to the second man, looked down, knew he was dead and trotted to the first man, who was still alive.
John slid his Spencer into its scabbard and pulled his Remington, before stepping down.
He kept the man under his pistol as he drew near, the man losing blood rapidly and alternating groans and screams.
“What the hell did you do that for?” John demanded.
The man tried to focus on John, but failed.
He gritted his teeth and all he managed before dying was a weak, “Food…”
John was stunned. Why didn’t they just ride up and politely ask? He would have parted with some of his food. This was beyond stupid, not to mention incredibly strange.
He went through the man’s clothing, which was in poor repair and dirty, and found two dollars and eleven cents in United States currency and no identification. He looked at his rifle that was lying on the ground. It was a Henry repeater in nice condition. No wonder they thought they could take him on. They had new repeaters and thought they had a huge advantage, but they had lousy tactics. If they had left their rifles in their scabbards, acted nice and friendly, then, when they were within rifle range, they just haul out their repeaters and fill him full of lead before he could react. They could have pulled it off easily if they just hadn’t acted so aggressively.
Then, he looked at the nice rifle and another question begged an answer. If they were hungry, why hadn’t they just hunted for some game if they needed food? They surely had the right weapons.
He picked up the rifle and pulled off the man’s gunbelt. It was a Colt New Army pistol in fair condition, but it was empty. Then, John walked over to the dead man’s horse and took the reins. It was a nice horse and the saddle was in good shape. After sliding the Henry into the scabbard, he checked the horse’s rump, but there was no brand, so he just led the horse to the second man’s animal and then led them both to the pack horse where he fashioned a longer trail rope to the other two animals.
The mystery was widening after he had examined the horses. The rifles and the horses were in a different class than their clothes, handguns and overall appearance.
Now he had four horses, unless they had been stolen, which would account for the difference between the riders and the horses. He’d have to stop at Fort Kearny and let them know what had happened.
He checked the other man’s pockets and found seventy-five cents. But he had another Henry rifle as well, and it looked almost new. Out of curiosity, he cycled the rifle’s lever and only three cartridges ejected from the gate. He slipped the now empty rifle into the empty scabbard, pulled the first one out and cycled the lever and only four rounds popped out. They had begun their attack with a total of about a dozen rounds of ammunition. He picked up the seven cartridges and slipped them into his pocket with their $2.86 before returning the second empty rifle to the second horse’s scabbard.
When he checked the saddlebags, they were devoid of cartridges and just about everything else one would need to successfully navigate across the prairie. They didn’t even have any ammunition for the pistols, or in the pistols, for that matter. The second pistol had empty chambers like the first.
It was all very bizarre. They could afford the Henry rifles but not food and ammunition? He began to think that they had used their pistols, despite their empty chambers, to steal the horses. The rifles were probably already in the scabbards when they stole the horses. It was the only thing that made any sense and their behavior indicated that they were being pursued for their theft of the horses.
He took the other man’s pistol, another Colt New Army, but in better condition. He put both revolvers and gunbelts in his second horse’s saddlebags. Before he mounted, he checked the saddlebag that had been hit by one of their .44 cartridges. He wasn’t pleased to find that his shaving kit had been almost destroyed, but, he noticed, the brush had survived. For some reason, it struck him as funny and he started snickering. When he stopped amusing himself, he finally pulled his jacket back on, slid on his gloves, mounted his horse and began riding west.
It was late afternoon, and he was almost ready to camp for the night when he received an answer to the mystery of the two attackers. He saw a cloud of dust to the northwest again and didn’t hesitate this time. He pulled his Spencer and kept the horses moving. This time, he left his gloves and jacket on for the simple reason it was getting colder and the wind was picking up.
He got a good look at the riders just as that they must have seen him, and he slid the carbine back into its scabbard. The lead rider was wearing a blue uniform, as were two of the other four with him. When they were closer, he even recognized the sergeant leading the group, as well as the two privates, because all three had served with him in the First Nebraska.
They recognized him as well, and waved a greeting which he returned.
Two minutes later their arrival was preceded by a large cloud of dust as they drew to a sudden halt.
“Well, how are you doing, Lieutenant? It looks like you did our job for us.”
“Unlike you, Sergeant Anderson, I’m a civilian now. I’m just getting all the wear out of this uniform I can. I’m surprised to see you, though. I thought you, Hennessey and Harper were mustered out a few months ago.”
“Nah, we signed up because we didn’t have any place to go, and the army sent us to Fort Kearny. We were chasing down a couple of horse thieves, but it looks like you caught up with them first.”
John glanced back at the two horses.
“They caught up with me is more like it. They chased me down and started firing, so I returned fire and killed them both. They were firing at two hundred yards with those two Henrys and I had my Spencer. Their bodies are another fifteen miles east on the prairie, probably already providing dinner for the buzzards. I was heading over to Kearny myself to see if anyone knew of my family. I don’t know where they went, but they were supposed to have headed this way.”
“I’ve only been here for a few months, so you might want to tag along and ask some of the long timers.”
John nodded, figuring it was a long shot.
<
br /> Sgt. Anderson pointed at the two civilians and said, “This here is Fred Spooner, and Harry Clausen. Those are their horses and rifles. The two dead men were railroad workers for two days, didn’t like the work and demanded their pay. They caught a train coming back from end of track and it stopped here overnight. Early this morning, they pulled their pistols on Mr. Spooner and Mr. Clausen, took their horses and ran off. I guess they’ve been on the run since.”
John nodded. “Now it all makes sense. They didn’t have any food or ammunition and seemed in a rush to get mine. Go ahead and untie the horses. Are you going to bother to go back and pick up those bodies?”
“No, Sir. Who am I to deprive those pretty birds of a meal?” he replied with a grin.
The sergeant walked his horse to the back and untied John’s trail rope as Mr. Spooner and Mr. Clausen stepped their horses closer to John.
“We really appreciate this, Lieutenant. We figured our animals and rifles were gone because we weren’t going to track them after dark.”
“Call me John. It’s just like I told Sgt. Anderson, I’m a civilian now. Glad to have helped with those two. Did you know that both of their pistols were empty?”
Clausen looked over at Spooner, shook his head and then looked back at John.
“You’re kidding! Well, that does put a cherry on this whole thing.”
He reached over and shook John’s hand, as did Mr. Spooner.
“So, you’ll be following along with us back to Kearny?”
“I’ve got to find my family. The army told them I was dead and then they pulled up roots and came out this way to do some homesteading. I need to see if anyone could tell me where to find them.”
John then pointed behind him with his thumb.
