Ride to Valor

by David Robbins

  James couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve only missed it by a thousand miles. I’d say your wagon boss would be better suited making shoes.”

  “Hey now,” Ezekiel said. “It’s not his fault. It’s ours. We were tired of all the traveling and Peter Dermit suggested we try Montana Territory as it’s closer and there’s plenty of land to be had.”

  “Plenty of Indians, too, or didn’t you hear about Custer?”

  “Oh, we heard,” Ezekiel said. “We also heard the army was rounding all the redskins up and it would be safe to go just about anywhere.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Peter Dermit read it in a newspaper. He knows a lot, that Peter. Captain Guttman says Peter knows more than he thinks he does. The two of them have been squabbling since we left St. Jo.”

  “Tell me, Ezekiel,” James said. “Do you and the others know about the hostiles on your trail?”

  “What are you talking about? We haven’t seen hide nor hair of Indians this whole trip. You ask me, all those tales people tell are so much hot wind.”

  “Tell that to the three of you the hostiles have already killed.”

  Ezekiel stiffened. “You don’t mean Sam and his wife, and Aaron Marsh who went to fetch them?”

  “If that was their names, I do.” James looked at the prairie schooner. “Does every man here have a gun and know how to use it?”

  “We all have guns. Captain Guttman made each of us bring one. But as for using them, we can plunk a grouse if it’s standing still, but I daresay there’s not one of us who would be of much use in a life-or-death fight.”

  “Wonderful,” James said.

  Sunrise was breathtaking. Bright splashes of red and pink heralded a golden crown. A few pillowlike cumulus clouds floated serenely overhead, their snow white a contrast to the deepening blue.

  Soon the camp was astir, and in no time James was surrounded by curious men, women, and children. He had learned a lot about their journey from Ezekiel Smith, and when a stocky man in a deerskin coat and a wide-brimmed hat strode toward him, he knew from Ezekiel’s account that it was Captain Paul Guttman. They shook, and James explained why he was there.

  Guttman possessed a craggy face burned brown by the sun.

  Years ago he had made his living as a trapper and now as a guide.

  “I’m right sorry to hear about Sam and Minerva, but they wouldn’t listen. They insisted we come on ahead and they would catch up.” He sadly shook his head. “I’ve never had so much trouble with a train as I have with this bunch. They’re a passel of know-everythings.”

  “Here, now,” a man took exception. Lean as a broom, with a hooked nose and a pointed chin, he was dressed in store-bought clothes and knee-high boots. “You can’t blame us for looking out for our own interests.”

  “Who would you be?” James asked.

  “Peter Dermit’s the name.” Dermit didn’t offer his hand. “I’m the leader here.”

  “He thinks he is,” Guttman said.

  “Did you hear him?” Dermit asked James. “He’s been like this the whole trek. Treats me as if I don’t know a buffalo from a badger.”

  “We should never have left the Oregon Trail,” Guttman said. “It was your brainstorm, and now three people are dead on account of it.”

  “On account of hostiles,” Dermit said, bristling. “How dare you blame me, you overstuffed—”

  James stepped between them. “That will be enough. I’m in charge now and I won’t put up with this squabbling.”

  Dermit switched his anger from Guttman to James. “See here. Who do you think you are? The army has no authority over us. We’re free to do as we please.”

  “As of this moment, no, you’re not,” James said.

  “What is it you want of us?” Guttman asked.

  “We’ll sit tight until Captain Stoneman arrives. Hopefully, the hostiles will leave us alone. Then we’ll escort you to Fort Sisseton.”

  “How long must we stay there?” a matron in a bonnet inquired.

  “That’s up to the army, ma’am,” James answered.

  “At least tell us if it will be days or weeks.”

  “Until the uprising is quelled.”

  “Hellfire,” Dermit said. “That could take months. What will we live on in the meantime? The army’s generosity?”

  “I’m sure Colonel Maxton will see to your needs,” James assured them.

  Some were clearly displeased. Others didn’t appear to mind.

  To judge by Dermit’s clenched fists and the twitching of his jaw, he was the most upset of all. “We can’t allow this,” he addressed his fellow travelers. “Summer doesn’t last forever. This far north, the cold weather comes early. We need to find a place to settle and start on our cabins with all dispatch.”

  “I don’t see what else we can do,” a man said. “It’s the army.”

  “We can stand up to them,” Dermit said. “We can refuse to go with this man and his superior. The loss of our friends aside, the Indians haven’t attacked our train. We’re too many for them and they’re afraid of our guns.”

  “I don’t know,” another man said.

  Dermit raised his voice. “Who is with me? Who will stand up for our rights with force if we have to?”

  Private Howell and Private Plover were observing the proceedings from opposite ends of the camp. James motioned and they came on the run and stood at attention.

  “Sir?” Howell said.

  James pointed at Peter Dermit. “Take this man to his wagon and see that he stays there.”

  Howell reached for Dermit’s arm, but Dermit jerked away.

  “Now, you just hold on. You can’t just come in here and treat us like criminals. You have no jurisdiction.”

  James touched his insignia. “This is all the jurisdiction I need. You can go quietly or I can have my men tie you and carry you. Your choice.”

  A woman about Peg’s age with a baby in her arms raised a hand as if she were in school. “Lieutenant Doyle, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You might want to hold off on that. You’ll need your soldiers for more important matters.”

  “What matters, exactly?” James asked.

  “Them,” the woman said, pointing.

  James turned.

  The glow of the rising sun revealed that the circle of wagons had been encircled in turn by scores of warriors.

  47

  Panic spread like a prairie fire. Men swore and ran for their rifles and women cried out. Several of the smallest children caught the contagion of fear and burst into tears.

  An older woman had her hands to her throat. “Look at them all. We don’t stand a prayer.”

  James turned to Guttman. “You’re their wagon boss. Calm them down. No one is to shoot unless I say.” He moved to a gap between the prairie schooners so he could see the Indians better. “Damn.”

  The war party had swelled to over forty.

  “There weren’t that many before,” Private Plover said. “Where did the others come from?”

  “Who cares?” Private Howell said, feeding a cartridge into his carbine. “They’re here and we’re in for it.”

  The Indians were sitting their horses just out of rifle range. For them to come into the open was unheard of, and James was perplexed as to why.

  The settlers scurried like rabbits. Women and children climbed into or under wagons while their menfolk took positions with their rifles. Guttman roved among them, bellowing for everyone to stay calm and keep their wits about them and for the men not to shoot.

  A warrior in a breechclout gave his bow and quiver to another and approached with his empty hands out from his sides, guiding his animal by his legs alone.

  “What do you reckon that’s about, sir?” Private Howell said.

  “I can pick him off if you want,” Chester Gilliam offered. “Put a pea smack between his eyeballs.”

  “No.” James gave his carbine and his revolver to Howell. “He wa
nts to talk. I’ll go meet him.”

  “Is that wise, sir?” Howell said.

  “One of us has to and I’m the officer.”

  “How will you palaver?” Chester asked. “Do you speak Sioux or know sign?”

  That gave James pause.

  The wagon boss had heard them. “I know sign. I’ll go with you.” Guttman gave his rifle to Private Plover.

  “Your six-gun and your knife, too,” James said.

  Guttman hesitated, then complied. “Let’s go see what the red devil wants.”

  “You don’t like Indians much, I take it.”

  “I hate them,” Guttman said. “The Blackfeet killed a brother and a cousin of mine, both. Andy Jackson had it right. We need to round them all up and cage them like animals or wipe them out.”

  Had it not been for the fact that James had no way of communicating, he would have made the wagon boss stay with the wagons.

  The warrior stopped midway and lowered his arms. Although within easy bullet range, he displayed no fear or anxiousness. He might have been a bronzed statue, he sat so still.

  “I know that buck,” Guttman said. “He’s Sioux. Forget which band. Minniconjou, maybe. Or was it Sans Arc? Whites call him Broken Ear.”

  James understood why when they drew near and stopped. The warrior’s right ear had been mangled by a blow or a bullet.

  Instead of covering it with his hair, the warrior wore his hair drawn back as if to show it off.

  Broken Ear fixed them with a baleful glare. He ignored Guttman and said to James in English, “Bluecoat.”

  It was James’s understanding that few Sioux spoke the white tongue. Most of the time the army relied on interpreters. “I am told that you are known as Broken Ear.”

  The warrior grunted and touched what was left of it with a hint of pride. “White dog do this. Me kill with knife. Take hair and hang in lodge. Take your hair. Hang in lodge with his.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work,” James said.

  “Me scare plenty quick,” Broken Ear said.

  “I’m Lieutenant James Doyle. Unless you break away and leave these people alone, there will be dire consequences.”

  Broken Ear scowled. “Use small words. Big words not go in head.”

  “Go, or more blood will be spilled.”

  “You say that like bad thing,” Broken Ear said. “Me like spill white blood. Me like spill all white blood so there no more whites.”

  Guttman said something under his breath that James didn’t catch.

  “Want whites never come Lakota land,” Broken Ear said. “Want Lakota land Lakotas.”

  “I don’t blame you,” James said.

  “What?” Guttman said.

  Broken Ear had lowered his arms. “You not blame? Then why you here? Why you come Lakota land?”

  “It’s not up to you or me,” James said. “We can’t change how things are.”

  “Whites go or Lakota kill.”

  “Be sensible,” James said. “This is a war your people can’t win. There are too many of us.”

  “More to kill.”

  “I was hoping you wanted to talk peace.”

  Broken Ear angrily slashed the air with his hand. “No peace ever, my people, your people.”

  Guttman swore and said, “This is a waste of our time, Lieutenant. Tell this red bastard to go to hell and we’ll hunker down.”

  A crafty gleam came into Broken Ear’s dark eyes. He gestured at the wagons. “Me let whites live if you give guns. All long guns. All guns with six-shots. Give those and we go.”

  Guttman laughed. “You’re out of your mind, heathen.”

  “Quiet,” James said. To Broken Ear he said, “You can’t honestly expect us to hand over our weapons. It would put us at your mercy.”

  “Broken Ear keep word. Give guns, you live. Not give guns, all whites die.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Guttman rasped.

  “You’re not helping matters,” James said.

  “Whites think Lakota dumb,” Broken Ear said scornfully. “Whites always trick Lakota. Me show you. Lakota smart, too. Broken Ear have good trick. Soon all you be broken.”

  “Big talk,” Guttman said.

  “Damn it to hell.” James was at the end of his patience. “Shut up or go back.” He appealed to Broken Ear one more time. “I speak for the whites now. I offer you the hand of peace if you will take it.” He held out his.

  Broken Ear’s face betrayed his contempt. “Me not white. Me Lakota. Me put fear in whites plenty soon.”

  “Listen to reason,” James said.

  “Me done talk,” Broken Ear announced, and wheeled his horse.

  “Wait,” James called, but the warrior made for his companions.

  “I guess we told him,” Guttman said.

  48

  James almost punched him. Pivoting on a heel, he returned to the wagons and reclaimed his weapons. A number of settlers had left their positions and wanted to know what the palaver had been about.

  “Injun bluster,” Guttman told them. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  As if to prove him right, the Sioux rode off to the east and were lost in the glare of the rising sun.

  Several hours passed with the settlers in a state of nervous dread. An attack was looked for any moment, but the war party didn’t reappear.

  “What they waiting for?” a man loudly wondered. “Is this a trick to wear us down?”

  “Maybe they went for more of their kind,” another suggested. “Enough to wipe us out.”

  “That will do with talk like that,” Guttman said gruffly. “There are women and children present.”

  “So?” said an older woman. “Do you think us so weak you must spare our feelings?”

  James was outside the circle, leaning against a prairie schooner. He had made several circuits of the camp and not spied a single Indian anywhere.

  “These folks sure do squabble a lot,” Chester Gilliam commented.

  “They’re scared,” Private Howell said, “and that makes ’em contrary.”

  Private Plover was nervously fingering his carbine. “I wish the Indians would do something. The suspense is eating at me to where I can barely think.”

  “Yankees have puny thinkers, anyhow,” Private Howell said, laughing.

  Plover wasn’t amused. He turned to James. “Sir, how long before Captain Stoneman shows? I’ll feel a lot better once he does.”

  So would James. By his reckoning, though, it wouldn’t be until near sundown. “Seven or eight hours yet, Private.”

  “I hope I can stay awake that long, sir,” Plover said. “I’m about dead on my feet.”

  “Go get some coffee.”

  “Me, too, sir?” Howell asked.

  “All three of you, if you want.”

  James was left alone with his thoughts. He could use some coffee, too. He smothered a yawn and stretched and was leaning back when his shadow was joined by another. “What do you want?”

  The wagon boss had a Winchester cradled in his left arm.

  He was chewing a wad of tobacco and now he spat a dark gob, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and squinted into the haze. “Someone should go on a scout to see if the redskins are still around.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” James said.

  “You’re the army, not me,” Guttman said. “It’s your duty to protect these people.”

  “Don’t tell me my job.”

  “Damn, you’re prickly. But you know I’m right. Could be the Sioux know your captain is coming. Could be they pulled off to ambush him. Did you think of that?”

  Yes, James had, and the prospect troubled him. “They could be anywhere.”

  “There’s only one way to be sure. I can’t do it. These people are under my charge. I have to stay and look after them.”

  “You actually care what happens?”

  “They pay me to care.” Guttman spat again, and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I wouldn
’t give a good damn for the whole lot if they didn’t. I never have cared for people much.”

  “You cared enough to warn them about straying off the Oregon Trail.”

  “Cared, hell. I was thinking of my own hide.” Guttman motioned at the plain and said sarcastically, “In case you ain’t noticed, we’re in the middle of Sioux country.”

  “Takes all kinds,” James said.

  “Yes, it does,” Guttman agreed, and laughed. “You won’t get my dander up, so don’t bother trying. I’m not to blame for this fix. Dermit is. And you soldier boys, too, for not subduing the Sioux like you should.”

  “They don’t subdue easily. Ask Custer.”

  “Everyone knows he was a glory hound. He got what he asked for.” Guttman’s cheek bulged with tobacco. “But he died doing his duty and that counts for something. Now how about you do yours and get out there and look for the damned Sioux?”

  James remembered a time when he would have slugged someone for talking to him in that tone.

  “Well? Nothing to say? Or is it you’re yellow? You don’t want to go for fear of being stuck with arrows? Must make your wife proud if you’ve got one, knowing she married a coward.”

  James hit him. He looped a right that smashed Guttman on the chin and knocked him against the wagon. Guttman dropped his rifle and his knees gave, and he grabbed at the schooner for support. Pulsing with fury, James punched him again, in the gut. Guttman doubled over. James was about to land a third blow when he got the better of his anger. He slowly lowered his arm.

  “Don’t ever mention my wife again, you son of a bitch.”

  Guttman waved a hand and sucked in breaths. “Like I said,” he wheezed. “You’re too damn prickly.”

  At that juncture Private Howell and Private Plover and Chester Gilliam returned. They looked from James to the wagon boss and back again.

  “Did we miss somethin’, Lieutenant?” Private Howell asked.

  “This gent givin’ you trouble?”

  “Get your horses and bring mine,” James commanded.

  “Are we going somewhere, sir?” Private Plover asked.