by Peter Grant
“I’ll talk to the captain first thing in the morning about those pack saddles. If he agrees to sell them to me, or let me borrow them until we come back this way, we’ll help you offload your wagon. With luck, we’ll be ready to roll in two days.”
They pulled out three days later, the boiler having taken longer to transship than Harkness had allowed for. Rose fled to the ambulance, blushing, as the teamsters trying to move the dead weight onto its new wagon let fly with volleys of blood-curdling oaths every time things went wrong. Still, they got it right in the end, and the stronger wagon and its newly-constructed cradle took the strain without any apparent difficulty.
Harkness briefed all his teamsters before they left Pond Creek. Walt, Samson and Elijah attended the meeting. “We’re gonna try to cover at least ten miles a day, twelve if we can,” the wagon boss warned everyone. “I know that’s pushin’ it with a big train like this, ’specially with slow ox teams. It’ll take us more’n an hour every day just to get all the wagons on the trail, an’ the same to get off the trail an’ fort up every afternoon. Still, we’ve lost at least six days all told over that damn boiler, so we’ve gotta crack on. With luck an’ good weather, we’ll reach Denver City in twenty days.
“You need to keep a careful watch all round, all the time. The Cheyenne are raidin’. We ain’t got many hosses compared to some trains, but they know we’ll have rifles, ammunition an’ other loot, an’ they can eat our oxen. If they can split the train into different sections, they’ll kill everyone in one section, steal all they can, drive off the oxen an’ burn the wagons. If you get cut off, it’ll take up to an hour for us to circle the other wagons. We can’t send some of our escort back to help you until we’ve done that, so keep closed up if you don’t want your hair on a Cheyenne scalp stick.”
Walt’s decision to buy two spare horses, over and above his four-horse wagon team, all broken to both saddle and harness, proved to have been a wise one. They were able to rotate them every day, four carrying pack saddles and two being ridden by Samson and Elijah. The ambulance had its dedicated team of two horses, and Walt used the horse he’d ridden across Missouri the previous year. Samson welcomed the chance to ride every day, but Elijah regarded it with mixed feelings. He’d never ridden a horse prior to the previous year, and still felt more at home on a wagon.
“Not to worry,” Walt teased him. “By the time we get to Denver City you’ll be so happy in the saddle, you’ll never want to go back to a wagon again.”
“Not me, suh. No wagon ebber bucked me off de seat ’cause it was feelin’ its oats in de mornin’!”
Rose and one of the men stayed with the train every day while the other two assisted the scouts and hunted for meat. Every day the people on the train—one hundred and twenty teamsters, twenty army troopers, the wagon master and his deputy, two scouts and Walt’s party—ate the meat of two to three buffalo, or the same weight of venison.
While chewing on a buffalo rib one night, Samson observed, “You was right about de Henry not havin’ much power, suh. It’ll take a buffalo up close, but when you gets more dan fifty or sixty yards away, de bullets don’t go deep enough. I had two of dem bounce off dis buffalo’s ribs today.”
Walt made a wry face. “Yeah, the Henry’s real good at close-range fast shooting, but its cartridge only has twenty-eight grains of powder. It needs more. You and Elijah can borrow my Sharps to hunt buffalo, if you like. Mind you take good care of it!”
“Yassuh! We will. T’ank you. Dat’ll make it much easier.”
They reached Cheyenne Wells in eastern Colorado Territory on the evening of the fourth day. They woke the next morning to dark skies, gusting winds bringing warm, moist air from the south, and roiling clouds high overhead moving rapidly eastward. The train boss looked up and shook his head. “That’s trouble. When you get winds blowin’ in different directions like that, the weather can get real bad on the plains. We’re gonna have to be careful today.”
“What could happen?” Walt asked.
“Rain’s pretty certain, an’ it may get heavy. We don’t want to get caught in a gully when it starts comin’ down in sheets. Flash floods can happen real fast out here. Also, we’re comin’ to the end o’ tornado season, but that don’t mean we can’t still get one.”
“I’ve heard of them, but never seen one before, only dust devils.”
“Mister, I’d as soon not get within five miles o’ them monsters! We saw a bad one in Kansas last year. Passed a few miles ahead o’ us. When we got up to its track, it’d cleared the ground like a giant hand had scraped it clean. Its path was about a hundred feet across, stretchin’ from horizon to horizon. Weren’t nothin’ left there. Grass, bushes—all gone. I reckon if a wagon got hit by one o’ them things, wouldn’t be anything left of it either.”
“Except maybe that big boiler,” Walt suggested with a grin.
The big man guffawed. “Yeah. With our luck that damn thing’d be left sitting on the ground, with nary a sign o’ its wagon or team!”
The wagon train’s chief scout rode up. “Mornin’, boss. I don’t like the look o’ that.” He glanced up at the sky.
“Me neither. I was just sayin’ the same thing to Mr. Ames, here.”
“That’s why I’m here. Ames, will you help us today? You scouted for that other train, an’ I heard you scouted durin’ the war. We got us a big problem in this weather. If a flash flood comes through while we’re crossin’ a deep place, it can wash away a few wagons an’ drown their drivers an’ teams. What’s worse, it’ll cut the train in two. If Injuns decide to attack just then, they can hit one part of the train while the other can’t help them.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Ride with Sam ahead of the train. Whenever you come to a deep-cut gully, cover him while he checks it out. It’s too easy for Injuns to jump someone checkin’ out a tight place alone. Sam knows this section of the trail. He’ll be able to tell whether it’s gotten deeper or steeper since we came through last year. If it has, I’ve told him to bring back word to halt the train until the weather clears. We daren’t take a chance on bein’ caught in a place that’s likely to flood.”
“Makes sense. Sure, I’ll do it.”
Walt headed back to the ambulance to collect his oilskin slicker and tell Rose what he’d be doing, then joined Sam at the head of the train. As they spurred their horses, the scout said, “I hear you did pretty good on the way through Kansas.”
Walt shrugged. “I did the best I could.”
“Accordin’ to your two men an’ the soldiers back at Pond Creek, it was a pretty good best. I’m glad to know your party all have experience with Injuns, ’cause this is Cheyenne country. They weren’t happy when we started to move in, an’ they turned real mean after Chivington hit Black Kettle at Sand Creek. They blame all whites for that, not just him. Their Dog Soldiers are like wasps on this section of the trail. They rush in, sting, an’ get out again before you can swat ’em. They like to hit scouts like us before we can warn the train they’re out there. What I’m saying is, we’re gonna have to be real careful.”
“I hear you.”
“Word of advice. Keep the flap on your saddle holster closed, an’ put on your slicker now. You can leave it hangin’ open to stay cool, but close it if you see rain comin’. It can hit real fast, an’ you daren’t risk the powder charges in your guns gettin’ wet. Ain’t no way you can reload a cap-’n-ball revolver in a downpour like we get out here unless you’re under shelter, an’ as you can see, we ain’t got none. If we hit heavy rain, be prepared for anything. You never know what you’ll flush from down in a hollow, ’cause neither side c’n see or hear the other comin’ until they’re up close. Does the brim o’ that cavalry hat droop in the rain?”
Walt nodded as he slid his arms into the sleeves of his oilskin jacket. “Yeah, but only if if it gets real wet.”
“That’s no good. Means you can’t see past the brim. That’s a quick way to get killed out here. If I were
you, soon as you can I’d throw it away an’ get a better one that’ll hold its shape no matter what.”
“I don’t see any stores around here.”
“Buy one when you get to Denver City.”
“I’ll do that.”
They rode through the morning into the early afternoon, checking out every gully and draw in the path of the train. None appeared to have been eroded any deeper or wider since Sam had last passed through. “Lookin’ good so far,” he said with satisfaction. “The closer we get to the Rocky Mountains, the trickier it’ll be, ’cause the water can rush down outta the foothills at a helluva speed. This far out it don’t move as fast.” He stretched. “We’ve got a bit too far out ahead o’ the train. Don’t wanna get cut off from it if there’s trouble. Let’s head back that way.”
They’d covered about a mile when Sam pointed. “Look there. Ten o’ the army men are headin’ this way. Looks like they decided to split into two sections to patrol today.”
“I see them.”
As the cavalry section rode towards them, it went down into a shallow draw. As the last rider disappeared from their sight, a ragged volley of gunfire sounded, followed by scattered single shots. Sam snarled, “Injuns!” and spurred his horse, racing ahead as Walt reached for the rifle in his saddle boot.
They arrived at the lip of the draw to see a score of Indians swarming around the patrol. Three of the soldiers were already on the ground, one motionless, two moving weakly. The others had formed a circle around them, still astride their horses. They’d drawn their revolvers and were trying to draw a bead on the swiftly circling Indian ponies and their riders.
Walt didn’t hesitate. The range was only about a hundred yards. He hauled on the reins, braking his horse savagely to a standstill, threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the nearest Indian. Beside him Sam pulled a Spencer carbine from his saddle boot and joined in.
Walt’s target jerked as the bullet hit him, reining his horse around to stare in utter disbelief at the unexpected attack from behind. Walt steadied his aim and fired again, tumbling the man from his pony, then shifted his aim to another figure in the swirling dust. The Indians’ wild war cries were cut off for a moment as they looked around to identify the new danger, then half of them whirled their ponies around and charged up the rise towards Walt and Sam, shooting as they came. The other half scooped up their few casualties, even as a fourth trooper slid from his saddle, then turned to follow their comrades.
Walt shifted his aim to the group coming towards them. He fired four carefully aimed rounds, hitting two riders and two animals. Sam shot an Indian off his horse, and two more as they tried to help those who’d been hit and fallen from their mounts. Walt took aim at another, but before he could pull the trigger he gasped at a sudden burning pain in his right arm. He reeled in the saddle, his arm suddenly no longer able to work the trigger and lever of his Henry. He let his arm flop to his side, dropped the Henry awkwardly across his saddle and reached for a revolver with his left hand: but before he could cock it and take aim, the Indians broke away, streaming off to the left and vanishing over a slight rise.
Sam turned to look at him, his eyes widening as he saw the arrow sticking out of his slicker’s sleeve. “Ames! You all right?”
“I guess so,” Walt gritted through clenched teeth as another wave of pain hit him. “Ain’t the first time I’ve been wounded. Good thing they got me at the end of the fight instead of the start.” He awkwardly slid the revolver back into its holster.
“Good thing you were wearin’ your slicker, too. It slowed down that arrow a mite. Here, let me boot that rifle for you. Can you stay in the saddle until we reach the soldiers?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good. I don’t want to stay out here any longer than we have to. Them Injuns weren’t runnin’ scared. Things just turned against ’em once they had people shootin’ at ’em from two sides. They may be lookin’ to gather more warriors, then hit us again.”
“Yeah. The soldiers have wounded to get to safety as well.”
They rode down the slope, Walt trying to ignore the surges of pain as his horse took each step. Sam drew his revolver and put a round into each of the Indian bodies they passed, to make sure none of them were playing dead.
The corporal was bent over a wounded man. He raised his head as they rode up to him. “Damned glad to see you two! They jumped us out o’ nowhere, an’ there were twice as many o’ them as there were of us. If you hadn’t come along, we might not have made it out o’ here.”
Sam waved a hand dismissively. “Maybe you’ll do the same for us sometime.”
“Count on it!” He peered at Walt’s arm. “That’ll have to come out before we can dress the wound.”
“Yeah. Hang on, Ames. I’ll help you down.”
He jumped off his horse, came over to Walt and helped him steady himself as he swung down from his saddle, wincing at the pain. The corporal joined them, helping him sit down on the grass. He moved to Walt’s right side, while Sam came around behind him.
“That’s likely a war arrow,” the soldier said conversationally. “It’ll be barbed. It can’t come out backwards, so there’s only one way.” He laid hold of Walt’s upper arm just above the elbow, grasping the arrow shaft firmly in his other hand. Before Walt realized what was about to happen, he thrust it the rest of the way through the meaty part of his upper arm and out through the sleeve of his slicker. Walt shouted in agony, his body bucking uncontrollably as a red mist seemed to suffuse his eyes.
Sam leaned into him from behind, preventing him from falling over. Through the pain he felt his arm move gently as the scout held the tip of the arrow shaft in his fingers, cutting through it with his knife and lifting the arrowhead away. “Yeah, it’s a war arrow,” he grunted. “Head’s off and the shaft’s clean—no splinters.”
“Good,” the corporal said. He held Walt’s arm steady again and without warning, with a swift tug pulled the arrow shaft back through his arm and out of the entrance wound. Walt yelled again, swaying, almost blacking out as raw agony roared through his body once more.
“All done now,” Sam said matter-of-factly from behind Walt as he sheathed his knife. “Sorry, but there ain’t no other way to do it out here. Hold still now while we get your shirt an’ slicker off.”
They carefully removed the clothes from Walt’s torso. Sam cut the shirt in half at chest height. He used the lower part to roughly bandage the wound, then fashioned a sling for Walt’s right arm out of the sleeves and shoulder section. “That’ll do to get you back to the train,” he said cheerfully as he worked. “We’ll clean your arm properly and bandage you up better when we get there. What d’you think, corporal? Push on today, or circle the wagons an’ wait for this weather to clear? I reckon those Injuns may try again.”
“I’m thinkin’ what you’re thinkin’,” the NCO agreed. “I’d as soon have all of us together behind what cover the wagons can provide.”
One of the four soldiers on the ground was dead. Two others had injuries to their limbs, but the third had been shot in the stomach. He lay on his back, gasping and groaning in agony. Sam and the corporal looked at him, then at each other, and shook their heads. “He can’t ride,” the soldier said. “We’ll have to bring a wagon to get him, or make a travois to haul him back.”
“There’s nowhere to get poles for a travois ’cept back at the train,” Sam pointed out. “I reckon a couple of us have to ride back, tell ’em to circle the wagons an’ look out for Injuns, then bring back poles an’ a couple of blankets. You guard him till we get back.”
“We’ll do it.” He glanced at Walt. “You want to go back with the messengers?”
“No. They’ll be riding at full tilt, and I can’t manage that right now. Besides, I can still use a revolver with my left hand, and I’ve got a Henry rifle in my saddle boot. I can’t use it, but one of you can. We might need it.”
“True enough. I’ve shot a Henry before. Got more ammunition?”
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“In my saddlebags. Needs reloading.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Sam and one of the soldiers galloped off, rifles in their hands as they looked around warily. The rest of the patrol gathered around the injured men, scanning the countryside intently. The corporal reloaded Walt’s rifle and stood by in the center of the group, ready to add its firepower to the single-shot carbines of his troopers.
Walt moved to his side. “Think he’ll make it?” he asked in a low voice, nodding to the stomach-shot soldier.
“I dunno. Looks bad, an’ he’s in a lot o’ pain. If we can get him back to the wagons without rupturin’ anything inside, he’s got a chance; but if it gets worse, he won’t last more’n a day or two.”
“That’s how I see it. Saw too many wounds like that during the war. Makes mine look like a pinprick by comparison.”
“Uh-huh. Ain’t nothin’ good about bein’ shot in the guts.”
Within twenty minutes they heard the rising thunder of hoofbeats coming from the direction of the wagon train. The corporal called, “Watch our back trail!” and hefted the Henry, only to hear Sam’s voice from the top of the hollow.
“It’s us! Don’t shoot!”
“Come ahead!”
Sam showed himself, looking down warily; then he turned and motioned to those behind him. Two more soldiers came over the rim, carrying poles and blankets. They were followed by Samson and Elijah, who grinned from ear to ear as they saw Walt.
They slid from their saddles next to him. “Miss Rose sent us, suh,” Samson told him as he rummaged in a saddlebag. “She sent dis.” He held out one of the bottles of bourbon that they’d obtained back at Fort Riley. “She say to use it to clean de wound fust, an’ only den drink de rest.”
Walt couldn’t help smiling. “She would! Still, she’s got a point.” He turned to Sam. “Let’s use some to clean all the wounds, except the stomach shot, then everyone can have a mouthful.”
Elijah took from his saddlebags a folded clean cloth for use as a bandage, and a clean shirt. “Miz Rose, she sent dese for you too, suh.”
