by Peter Grant
Walt gasped and shuddered as Samson poured bourbon over his arm. The spirit seared liquid fire into the entrance and exit wounds left by the arrow. Elijah wrapped his arm carefully in the clean cloth, closing the bandage with a safety pin, then helped him put on the shirt. Meanwhile the corporal administered a bourbon wound dressing to the injured soldiers, then re-fastened their bandages and allowed them a mouthful apiece of the liquor.
He offered the bottle to Walt as well. “Want a swig?”
Walt accepted it and took a small mouthful. “Oh, that’s good! No more for me, though. I want to keep a clear head.”
“I’ll have the rest of your share, then,” the NCO retorted with a grin. “That way it won’t be wasted.”
They tied the dead soldier over the back of his horse, then made their way back to the wagons as quickly as the wounded could manage. The soldier with the stomach injury was laid on a travois, two poles trailing from the saddle of his horse to the ground, with blankets secured between them. He groaned in pain the whole way, letting out a cry of agony whenever a pole jolted over an obstacle or rough patch.
By the time the train came into sight, the circle had already been more than half formed as the wagons came up slowly. The remainder of the army escort had ridden to the top of a nearby rise and were keeping watch over the surrounding grasslands, rifles in their hands.
The sergeant in command rode to meet the returning patrol. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Injuns in a draw,” the corporal replied. “They was jus’ sittin’ there, prob’ly waitin’ to hit the wagon train. I reckon we busted up their plans by ridin’ right into the middle of their ambush. They fired a volley an’ charged us, a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’. We’d have been overrun if these two,” indicating Walt and Sam, “hadn’t come over the rim behind ’em. They saw what was goin’ on an’ opened up on the Injuns with their repeaters. Knocked a few out of their saddles an’ drew half of them off us. We was able to fend off the rest. After a few more of ’em went down, the rest ran for it.”
“Casualties?”
“Ferris is dead. Miles is bad hurt. He’s gut-shot. I dunno if he’ll make it. Two more with leg an’ arm wounds, not too serious. This man,” indicating Walt, “took an arrow in the arm while he was helpin’ us.”
The sergeant nodded gratefully to Sam and Walt. “Thanks, both of you. Sounds like I’d have lost half my escort without you.”
“We might have sprung that Injun ambush ourselves if they hadn’t, an’ with only two of us, we wouldn’t have made it at all,” Sam pointed out.
“Prob’ly not,” the sergeant agreed soberly. He turned to the corporal. “Head back to the train an’ make the wounded comfortable, then bring the rest of your patrol to join me.”
“Yo!”
Rose was waiting on tenterhooks as Samson and Elijah escorted Walt to her ambulance. “Walt, the scout said you were shot! What happened?”
“Just an arrow in my arm,” Walt replied. He couldn’t help wincing as he slid off his horse. “We hit a bunch of Indians. They look to have been laying for the train. It’s probably a good thing we interrupted them. We drove them off. I’m not too badly hurt.”
“Thank God! What about the wounded soldiers?”
“Two have leg and arm wounds. One took a bullet in the stomach. He’s in a bad way. The fourth is dead.”
“Oh, no!” She turned to Elijah. “Go over to the soldiers and tell them, if the one with the stomach wound needs to ride in a wagon, they can put him in our ambulance. It’ll be the most comfortable vehicle for him. We can move some of our gear into other wagons to make space for him if we have to.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Samson cleaned Walt’s rifle for him while they waited for the last wagons to join the defensive circle. Rose took the opportunity to examine his wound, and clean and disinfect it again—this time with a solution of carbolic acid from the first aid box, instead of bourbon—and re-bandage it. Despite his pain, Walt couldn’t help grinning at her muttered complaints about the ineptitude of males when it came to tying bandages correctly.
“We managed all right during the war,” he teased. “We didn’t have women around to do it for us.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t,” she retorted, but relaxed enough to smile while saying it. “Walt, do me a favor, please, darling? Stay out of the way of any more arrows!”
“I’ll surely do my best. They’re no fun at all.” He pointed to the west with his left hand. A curtain of heavy rain was rolling towards them. “That doesn’t look like fun either. We’d best get under cover.”
Walt and Rose sat on the bed, and Samson and Elijah on the trunks, as the rain drummed loudly on the ambulance cover. Looking out, Walt said, “I don’t think those Indians will be back today. They can’t fight in this. Flintlocks will be useless, and even caplocks won’t be foolproof when they’re wet; and bowstrings will be soaked in no time if they uncover them.”
Samson looked up from where he was checking one of his revolvers. “How long to Denver City, suh?”
“I’m not sure. Probably at least ten days, maybe as long as two weeks. Are you getting tired of the trail?”
“Yassuh. I’s got me a hankerin’ for a long, hot bath, an’ a great big plate o’ fried chicken wid gravy an’ all de trimmin’s, an’ a soft bed, an’ a chance to sleep all night long.”
Rose laughed. “As soon as we get to Denver City, I’ll go shopping for chickens!”
They waited through the rest of the wet, windy day, but the Indians did not return. The night was tense, but undisturbed. Sadly, the stomach-shot soldier died in the small hours of the morning. The two dead troopers were wrapped in blankets and loaded into a wagon, to be buried at the next suitable place.
Mike Harkness woke the train an hour earlier than usual. As the first light streaked the sky, he called a meeting of all the train’s drivers.
“We lost another half-day yesterday. We’re already late, and we can’t afford any more holdups; so from now on we’ll roust everyone an hour before sunrise. We’ll push on from dawn until sunset, watering the teams when and where we can, then form a circle in the twilight. That way we can cover up to fifteen miles a day. It’ll mean harder work, later meals, and less sleep, but that’s what we pay you for. Mr. Holladay’s got a lot of money riding on this wagon train. If we don’t get to Denver City as fast as we can manage it, none of us will have jobs.”
“What about them Injuns?” another called. “Iffen we’re pushin’ hard, we cain’t be as careful as usual. They might sneak up on us without bein’ spotted.”
Harkness nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, but before we left Cheyenne Wells, the stage station manager told me that Injuns are only causing trouble at present in the first hundred miles or so from the Kansas border. We’ll be through that by the end of the week, if the good Lord’s willin’. Keep closed up as best you can, and keep your eyes peeled for ’em. Once we’re closer to Denver City I reckon we’ll be past the worst danger.” He looked around. “There’s no more time for talkin’. I want to reach Kit Carson tonight, even if it means travelin’ after sunset. Roll the wagons!”
Within two hours, they noticed the consequences of Harkness’ drive for greater speed. Slowly but inexorably, the train began to separate into first two, then three segments as the fitter, stronger teams pulled ahead of the others. Instead of slowing the train to allow the rearmost wagons to catch up, Harkness and his deputy galloped up and down the line of march, scolding the stragglers and urging them to greater speed. Tempers frayed, and harsh words flew back and forth.
Walt wasn’t riding today due to his injury. He sat on the seat of the ambulance with Rose. Hs right arm was in a sling. Samson and Elijah rode their horses ahead of the wagons with the scouts, keeping an eye out for Indians who might be waiting in ambush.
By mid-morning Samson rode back to Walt to confer. “Suh, dere’s a gap between dis group o’ wagons an’ de group behind us, an’ it be gettin’ bigger. Re
member what de scout tol’ us in Kansas?”
“Yes, I surely do,” Walt said grimly. “Tad said Indians like to split a wagon train into sections, then attack one and wipe it out before the others can send help. I reckon you’d better ride with your rifles in your hands from now on. I’ll keep my revolvers handy. Tell the scouts I think a couple of you should ride behind our group, as well as in front of it, to watch for any sign of attack.”
Rose reached back to pull her short-stocked Henry carbine from the rifle boot as Samson said, “I’ll tell dem, suh.” He spurred his horse and galloped towards the head of the train.
Within a few minutes Samson and Elijah rode back along the line of wagons. Samson told him, “Mistah Harkness, he done tol’ de scouts to stay up front an’ look out for ambushes, so ’Lijah an’ I’s gonna watch de gap behin’ us.”
“All right. We’ll drop back to the rear of this group of wagons with you, so we can add our firepower to yours if necessary.”
“What about the soldiers?” Rose asked Samson.
“Dey split up too, ma’am. Half gwine t’ ride in front, an’ de udder half goin’ back to try to speed up de slow groups an’ cover de rear.”
Walt frowned. “They should concentrate their force, not divide it. That’s one reason they had four dead and wounded yesterday. There weren’t enough troops in the patrol to put up a better fight. They should know better.”
“Perhaps they don’t have any choice,” Rose pointed out. “Mr. Harkness was very firm about what he wanted, and they can’t order him to do things their way. He’s a civilian, after all.”
“Yes, he is, and I know he’s being pushed hard by his boss, but I still don’t like it. Rose, drop back to the rear of this group of wagons, then keep pace with them. I’m going to the back of the ambulance. I’ll unlace the cover and watch to the rear while Samson and Elijah keep a lookout to either side.”
He kissed her gently, then eased himself over the seat into the load bed of the ambulance. Collecting his spare revolver and one of the buckshot-loaded coach guns, he made his way to the back and set them ready to hand next to him. If worse came to worst, he reckoned he could fire the shotgun one-handed at point-blank range.
The wagons lumbered on through the growing heat of the day. Shortly after noon they came upon a shallow stream. Trouble immediately arose as the first teams of oxen tried to stop and drink their fill. Their drivers, on the other hand, wanted to push them through the water as quickly as possible so that other wagons could follow. Shouts and curses erupted as teamsters used their whips and goads on the recalcitrant animals. The beasts responded with bellows of bovine protest.
“Suh, dis be a good place for de Injuns to make trouble,” Samson called as Rose was forced to halt the ambulance at the back of the pileup of wagons.
“Keep your eyes peeled!” Walt shouted back. He glanced over his shoulder. “Rose, I’m going to get out so I can see better. The wagon cover’s blocking my view to the sides. Stay on the seat and keep your rifle handy.”
“All right. Be careful, dear!”
Walt jumped down, grateful for the rawhide thongs that kept his revolvers in their holsters on his hips as he stumbled and nearly fell down. He winced as his wounded arm protested the hard landing, and settled it more comfortably in its sling before looking around. Everything seemed peaceful to the right and behind the wagon. He glanced to the left, noting a ripple in the long grass as the breeze picked up. It ran along in a smooth line, then suddenly a gap appeared in it not fifty yards away. Even as he watched, the wind-line moved further away. After a moment the gap was filled as the ripple became an unbroken line once more.
“Samson! Elijah!” he called, suddenly alert. “There’s a hidden hollow about fifty yards that way.” He pointed. “Take a look—but be careful!”
“Yassuh!” both men answered in unison, and turned their horses in the direction he’d indicated. Elijah, closest to the hollow, didn’t wait for his partner to join him from the other side of the ambulance, but started towards it at once.
“Wait for me, ’Lijah!” Samson called as he spurred his horse—but he was too late. With a sudden explosion of war-whoops, half a dozen Indians sprang to their feet, tugging at their horses’ hackamores to pull them up from where they’d been lying concealed in the hollow, no more than twenty yards ahead of Elijah.
As the Indians started to mount their horses, Elijah raised his rifle and fired at one who was drawing his bow. His bullet struck the brave in the head, spinning him around and tumbling him to the ground—but not before he’d released his arrow. It streaked across the grass and drove deep into Elijah’s chest. He cried out, dropping his Henry and the reins as he clutched the arrow’s shaft. He bent forward in a spasm of agony, bounced off his horse’s shoulder and fell to the ground.
“Elijah!” Samson screamed, even as his rifle cracked and another Indian staggered under the impact of his bullet. Walt took a split-second longer to make sure of his aim at such a relatively long range for a revolver; then he began firing, shooting at the attacker’s horses, the largest target available. Behind him he heard the crack of Rose’s Henry as she opened fire. A third Indian fell, accompanied by first one, then two horses. With half their number already down, the three surviving Indians whirled their mounts and galloped away.
Samson reined in his horse, jumping from the saddle even before it stopped. He took three running steps, then dropped to his knees beside Elijah and cradled him in his arms. Slowly, tenderly, he turned him over to lie face-up across his knees. As Walt and Rose ran towards him, they heard him say, “We gonna get you to de wagon, ’Lijah. You gonna be all right.”
Walt came up in time to see Elijah shake his head. Blood bubbled and frothed on his lips, its quantity proving that the arrow had punctured a major blood vessel as well as his lungs. He coughed. “Too late… Samson, ma fr’en’… I c’n… taste blood…”
“No! No! I ain’t gonna let you go, ’Lijah! You cain’t leave me!”
Elijah looked up at Walt, just as Rose dropped to her knees on his other side. “Ask Mistah Walt… He know… He seen dis afore…” His breath was coming in rasping gasps, heavier and heavier, more blood trickling from his lips down his chin and onto his neck. He’s sinking fast, Walt thought to himself in despair. The arrow must have hit his heart, or one of the big arteries near it. He’ll be dead in a minute.
“Suh?” Samson looked up at him with desperate appeal in his eyes and voice.
Walt sank to one knee beside Rose. “I… yes, Elijah, I’ve seen it before. The arrow went through your lungs, and you’re bleeding inside.” Beside him he could hear Rose murmuring the Our Father.
“No! No!” Samson’s voice was anguished.
Elijah said haltingly, “Mistah Walt… bury me proper… don’ leave me out here… on de prairie…”
“We will, Elijah. I promise you.”
“T’ank… you…” He tried to raise his arm, but didn’t have the strength any longer. “Miss Rose… t’ank you… fo’ everyt’ing… an’ you, Samson… you stay strong… you hear me?”
“I’ll try, ’Lijah.” Samson wept openly as he hugged his friend.
“See Miss Rose… safe to Denver City.”
“We’ll get there safely, Elijah,” Rose said softly. “Samson will look after us, and Walter and I will look after him.”
Elijah’s eyes held Rose’s for a long moment. He turned his head slightly to look up at Samson, and opened his mouth: then a spasm ran through his body, a gout of blood erupted from his lips, and his eyes rolled up as he took a last, gasping breath. There was another tremor, a sigh, and he lay still.
To Walt, it seemed as if they knelt there together, frozen, for an eternity.
He came out of his reverie to hear hoof beats approaching. Five soldiers from the advance guard and two of the train’s scouts came tearing across the grass, reining to a halt beside them. “What happened?” a trooper demanded.
“Six Indians were lying in wait in that h
ollow.” Walt gestured towards it as he rose. “We got three, and two horses—you’ll find them lying there. The other three rode off.”
“We’ll take a look.” The soldiers clattered off towards the hollow. The scouts slowly dismounted.
“I’m sorry about Elijah,” one said. “We’ll miss havin’ his help. He was a good man.”
Samson looked up at him, nodding slowly through his tears. “I reckon dem be fine words for his grave. He was a good man.”
“We’ll carve it on his headstone,” Walt promised. “We’ll take his body to Kit Carson and bury him there for now. As soon as we can make the arrangements, we’ll bring his body to Denver City and give him a proper funeral, with a preacher and a headstone and everything.”
Shots sounded from the hollow as the soldiers put down the wounded ponies and made sure that the fallen Indians were truly dead. Ignoring them, Rose asked, tears shimmering in her eyes, “Samson, what was his family name? I only knew him as Elijah.”
“He didden’ have one,” Samson said softly. “He was jus’ Elijah. Lots of slaves didden’ have no las’ name.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Dey christened me Samson Moses, Ma’am.”
The soldiers returned. “Found these,” one said, holding up a bow and a quiver of arrows. Two more carried muzzle-loading rifles, knives and a tomahawk, to prevent the Indians retrieving the weapons of those who’d died.
Walt held out his hand. “I’ll take the bow and arrows.” He couldn’t say why he wanted them, except that they were the weapons that had killed Elijah. The soldier handed them over without a word.
One of the scouts took an arrow from the quiver and looked at it. “They was Cheyenne,” he said without hesitation. “See the fletching an’ colors on the shaft?”
Walt nodded. “They paid for Elijah, three for one. He killed the man who shot him, and we got two more.” He sighed. “That won’t bring him back, though. Will you help us carry his body to our wagon, please?” He glanced at the ox-wagons ahead of them, most of which had by now crossed the stream and watered their teams. “We’ll wrap him in a blanket and lay him inside. We’ve got to get moving.”
