Ride to Valor

by David Robbins

  The din drifted west and a profound silence fell. Shafts of sunlight came through rents and breaks in the prairie schooner.

  “We’re not dead?” Adeline said in astonishment. She coughed and swatted at the dust. Tears of joy welled in her eyes and she kissed and hugged her baby. “It’s a miracle!”

  “Not so loud,” James cautioned. “There still might be hostiles about.” He climbed on top of the pile and clambered onto a stove that lay on its side. Standing, he reached up. The wagon box had split in half. He carefully climbed through the break and crouched with his head below the gully’s rim, listening. Someone was moaning, and there was a gurgling and thrashing.

  James had lost his carbine. He drew his revolver and rose high enough to see over. To the west the stick figures of the hostiles trailed the dust cloud. All around, the prairie grass had been trampled to bits. Here and there lay dead buffalo. Here and there, also, were shattered prairie schooners, some on their sides, a few flat on their beds, one upside down. Dead horses lay near many of the wagons, and elsewhere. One that wasn’t dead accounted for the gurgling and the thrashing.

  James rose higher. Not much was left of the settlers who had been on those wagons. Pulped flesh and bones, mostly. One man was missing part of his face and his arm. A woman had somehow been torn nearly in half. Close by lay a body with the chest crushed flat and the legs turned in on themselves. The only part that was whole was the head; it was Peter Dermit, his mouth wide in the scream torn from his throat as he was pulverized.

  “Lieutenant?” came a soft voice below.

  James holstered the Colt. Bracing his legs, he bent and lowered his arms. It was the work of a few seconds to pull Adeline and her baby up beside him and then to steady her as together they climbed out. She straightened, took a step, and stopped.

  “My God.”

  “I know,” James said.

  “What did we do to deserve this?”

  James had no answer to that.

  To the north were two wagons, intact. To the south was another, as well as two riders who were eagerly trotting toward them.

  James wearily smiled and waved and Private Howell and Chester Gilliam waved back.

  “Where’s my husband?”Adeline said, walking in a slow circle. “Why didn’t he stop when I was yelling to him?”

  Again James held his own counsel.

  “I don’t see our wagon or him anywhere.” Adeline moved around the gully, casting hopefully about.

  James went with her.

  “Oh!” Adeline stopped and put a hand to her throat. “There it is.”

  The prairie schooner was a loss, the canvas in tatters, the wheels busted, the bed splintered. What little was left of an arm and a hand poked from under the rubble.

  Adeline sank to her knees and sobbed.

  James put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I truly am.”

  She wept without sound, her head hung in despair, the baby strangely quiet in her arms.

  James respectfully walked off a few yards.

  The surviving prairie schooners were heading back, too.

  Presently Howell and the Southerner drew rein and Howell beamed with glee.

  “We’d given you up for a goner, sir. It’s a delight to see you breathin’, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

  James gestured at Adeline and Howell sobered.

  “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinkin’.”

  Chester Gilliam surveyed the carnage. “I never saw the like in all my born days. Hellfire, I never imagined the like of any of this.”

  “Where’s Plover?” Private Howell asked.

  James shook his head.

  “Damn,” Howell said. “For a Yankee he was almost all right. Timid, but then Yankees ain’t naturally got as much grit as us boys from south of the Mason-Dixon.”

  “I’m a Yankee, Private,” James said.

  Howell coughed. “I stand corrected, sir.”

  Chester was staring to the west. “You know, if those redskins take it into their heads to finish what those buffs started—”

  “I had the same thought,” James said. “Go hurry those wagons along.”

  Private Howell nodded and rode to the south. Gilliam headed to the north.

  James turned to the gully. He walked along the rim until he saw a tail sticking from under the box. It took some doing to work down and under to his horse. He tried to remove the saddle, but there wasn’t enough space. He did manage to get his saddlebags off, and his canteen. He was about to climb out when his knee bumped something sticking out of the riot of effects: a hardwood stock. He pulled and wriggled and pulled some more, not knowing if it was his carbine or the settler’s rifle, and finally worked it free. “Someone up there likes me,” he said, and patted the Springfield.

  By the time James clambered from the gully, the three prairie schooners had arrived.

  One of them belonged to Ezekiel. “You made it,” the old man said with a sad smile.

  “Barely,” James said.

  Ezekiel stared at the bodies and the ruin. “I almost feel guilty to be breathing. A lot of those folks were my friends.” He peered about. “You didn’t see what happened to our wagon boss, did you?”

  James shook his head.

  “I did,” Private Howell said. “He tried to outrun the buffalo, but his horse wasn’t fast enough.”

  “Just as well,” Ezekiel said. “The truth be told, I never liked the man much.”

  “We have to get out of here,” James said. “Ezekiel, any objection to having Adeline and the baby up there with you?”

  “Be glad for the company.”

  “Private Howell, I’ll need your horse. You can ride on one of the wagons—”

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” Chester broke in. “But why don’t you use my animal? I don’t mind ridin’ with Zeke, here, and the lady.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” James said. “I’ll go fetch her.”

  “What’s your hurry, son?” Ezekiel asked.

  “He’s worried the hostiles will return,” Chester said.

  “You are, Lieutenant?”

  “I sure as hell am,” James said.

  52

  For more than a mile the prairie schooners clattered and creaked. Their slow pace rubbed at James’s nerves. He rode at the rear with Private Howell.

  “No sign of them yet, sir.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” James said, only partly in jest.

  “Even if the redskins do come back,” Howell said, “maybe they won’t see our tracks and think we perished with the folks in those wagons.”

  James made no comment on the prospect of the Indians failing to notice the ruts of the three schooners that led away from the slay ground. The only surprise was that it was taking Broken Ear so long to come after them. Rubbing his sore neck, he glanced back for the hundredth time. “I told you not to jinx us.”

  A knot of riders were in the distance. As yet they were too far away to identify, but they were coming from the west; it could only be the hostiles.

  Just then Chester Gilliam poked his head around the canvas of the lead wagon and hollered, “Lieutenant! Get up here right quick! We have company.”

  “More Injuns?” Private Howell said.

  James hurried to the front. Ezekiel had brought his schooner to a stop. Off to the east were more riders, only these were in a column and not bunched together.

  “It’s the captain!” Howell cried in delight. “They got here sooner than we reckoned.”

  James shifted in the saddle. The Indians and Captain Stoneman were about the same distance from the prairie schooners. It was likely that as yet, neither was aware of the other. An idea came to him, and he immediately put it into execution. “Private Howell, ride like hell to the captain. Tell him that the hostiles are almost on us and for him to come on fast but as quietly as he can.”

  “Quietly, sir?”

  “No bugle. No shouting. Speed is everything. Off you go now.”

/>   Puzzled but dutiful, Howell galloped off.

  James reined toward the prairie schooner. “Ezekiel, I need you and the others to turn your wagons. Line them up from north to south so that you’re between the hostiles and our relief.”

  “Whatever for?” the old man asked. Then his eyes lit and he jerked as if he’d been slapped, and he laughed. “Oh. I’m savvy. So the redskins won’t see the soldierboys until it’s too late.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  The settlers in the other wagons weren’t as eager, but they obeyed. James had everyone climb down and get under the schooners. He dismounted on the west side and stood with his carbine in his hands.

  “Awful risky,” Chester said, “usin’ us as bait. What if the hostiles reach us before your captain does?”

  “We keep them busy,” James said.

  “Are all officers like you?”

  “In what way?”

  “You must have been born with grit in your veins.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Good. Because it is.” Chester nodded. “I’ve done made up my mind. I make it through this, I’m sure enough enlistin’.”

  The war party was a lot closer. Broken Ear was out in front, whooping and waving a rifle over his head.

  “They think they have us,” Chester said.

  “Get under a wagon.”

  “Not if you don’t.”

  One of the warriors fired and lead smacked into the schooner behind them. An arrow whizzed into the canvas. All the hostiles were yelling and yipping with savage glee. As whites would say, the Indians thought they had the survivors dead to rights.

  James raised his Springfield. He aimed and held his breath to steady the carbine. Ignoring more slugs and arrows, he stroked the trigger.

  Eighty feet out, Broken Ear went rigid. Blood spurted from the hole in his throat and he dropped his rifle and pitched from his warhorse.

  James dived under the schooner. Shafts and bullets smacked the wood like hail. Ezekiel and the other settlers were firing.

  He aimed and banged off another shot.

  The war party broke to either side to encircle the prairie schooner.

  They were met by waves of blue. Carbines crackling like firecrackers, the troopers tore into the surprised renegades. The Indians were caught completely off guard. At such close quarters the soldiers made nearly every shot tell and a third of the hostiles fell in the initial seconds. A mad chaos ensued, with the warriors more intent on escape than counting coup. The fight became a rout.

  Captain Stoneman wasn’t about to let any get away. Roaring commands, he gave chase.

  Just like that it was over. Dead and dying warriors lay by the score. A few figures wore blue.

  Sergeant Strake and half a dozen troopers were moving among the prone forms, finishing off any with red skin that moved.

  James slid from under the prairie schooner. He was about to go to Strake when Chester Gilliam said his name.

  The Southerner sat propped against a wheel, blood trickling from his mouth, two arrows sticking from his body.

  “No,” James said. Kneeling, he saw at a glance that it was hopeless. Either wound was mortal. It was a wonder the Southerner was still alive.

  Chester coughed and more blood flowed. “Looks as how I won’t be enlistin’, after all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault, now, is it?” Chester grinned. “I should’ve skittered under the wagon when you did, but I was a mite slow.”

  “You would have made a fine trooper.”

  “Thank you.” Chester’s eyelids drooped, but he forced them open. “You see Howell, tell him for me that he’s right. Not all Yankees are worthless.” He chuckled, and was gone.

  53

  James stood in the doorway to their bedroom in the quiet stillness of dawn and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her bosom as she slept. The first blush of light wreathed their pink curtains, lending her face a rosy glow. She was beautiful, the most beautiful sight he ever set eyes on. That so beautiful a woman cared for him was a miracle of life beyond his fathoming.

  James felt an ache in his chest. The ache was as deep as his marrow, a hurt like no other, a hurt of pleasure and not pain. He’d never felt anything like it. Not with the wild girls in Five Points. Not with the fallen doves in St. Louis.

  Peg stirred something inside him that he’d never realized was there. Maybe it took a woman like her to bring it out of him. Maybe that was what love was about. Real love, the kind that endured, the kind that filled a heart to bursting with the potency of raw need.

  James quietly removed his hat and set it on the chest of drawers. He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged his boots off and set them aside. He undid his belt, started to unbutton his uniform, and stopped. Easing onto his side, he turned. Her back was to him. He snuggled against her and placed an arm across her belly. She wasn’t showing yet. It would be a while.

  A lump formed in his throat and he had to swallow. He moved her hair and kissed the nape of her neck.

  “James?”

  He hadn’t meant to wake her and stayed still thinking she would go back to sleep.

  “James?” Peg said again. She stirred and looked dreamily over her shoulder and a smile lit her whole face. “Why don’t you say something?”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  James kissed her and put his nose to her hair and breathed deep of her scent. It was one of the most perfect moments of his life.

  “How did the patrol go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you meet up with any hostiles? The other patrols are already back and they didn’t see sign of any.”

  “We saw a few,” James said.

  “Tell me all about it.”

  James ran a finger along her ear. “There’s not much to tell.”

  Peg slid her hand from under the blankets and touched his lips. “You’re saying there was no danger?”

  “No more than I expected,” James said. Which was the truth, as far as it went. He would elaborate only if she pressed him, and fortunately, she didn’t.

  “Good. I was so worried.” Peg rolled over and pressed her cheek to his chest. “It’s so nice to have you home.” She sniffed a few times and laughed. “Even if you do smell like your horse.”

  James almost told her that his horse was dead but caught himself in time.

  “The first thing you need is a bath.”

  “The first thing I need is to sleep here by your side for a while.”

  “I would love that,” she said.

  James stroked her hair. “Are you happy, Peg?”

  She looked at him. “What kind of question is that? Of course I am.”

  “Say the word and I’ll give up the army and be a store clerk or do whatever other kind of work I can find.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? I’d never want you to give up army life.”

  “I’m just saying that if you did, I would.”

  Peg shifted and peered into his eyes. “Oh. I understand.”

  She playfully rubbed his chin. “You felt guilty leaving me alone. But no, I don’t want you to give up what you love most in this world.” She grinned. “Next to me, of course.”

  “There is nothing on this earth I love more than you,” James confessed.

  “Goodness, you get romantic when you are away.” Peg paused. “But why did you ask? Do you want to muster out and move back East?”

  “Not this bluecoat,” James said. He wearily sank his head onto a pillow and closed his eyes. He was tired, so very tired.

  “The East isn’t my home anymore. The West is.”

  “The West forever,” Peg said.

  “Forever,” James Marion Doyle echoed.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  54

  The baby came into the world squalling. James wanted to name it Randall in honor of his father, and Peg said sh
e didn’t mind so long as they named their first daughter after her mother.

  They stayed at Fort Sisseton until the army closed it. After a short spell at Fort Leavenworth, James was assigned to Fort Yellowstone.

  The Indian Wars, as the newspapers dubbed them, slowly wound down. Tribe after tribe was subdued by the overwhelming force the whites brought to bear on the “Indian problem.”

  The mighty Comanches, the stalwart Cheyenne, the determined Sioux, all were brought to bay. Even the bands many considered the most fiercely independent of all, the Apaches, were eventually forced onto reservations.

  James had one more encounter with the red man. He had been at Fort Yellowstone for two years. By then he had made captain.

  His duties, compared to the wild and perilous days at Fort Sisseton, were mild. The troopers were there to safeguard the newly created national park from vandals and to enforce its game laws.

  On a routine patrol in the fall, James was deep in the geyser country. It had been so long since he had seen an Indian, let alone fought one, that when he climbed to the crest of a timbered ridge and beheld an Indian seated cross-legged on a flat boulder, he was as surprised as the young troopers who were with him. He ordered a halt and dismounted. His sergeant wanted to go with him, but James climbed onto the boulder alone and sat facing the apparition.

  James had never learned to tell the tribes apart as well as the scouts could. He didn’t know if the man before him was Cheyenne or Sioux or Blackfoot or what.

  The warrior was old. Wrinkles formed crags of his loose flesh. His buckskins hung in folds to his skin-andbones body and were worn thin from long use. His moccasins were fit to fall apart. He looked at James with tired eyes and spoke so softly that James had to perk his ears to catch his words. “White man.”

  “Indian,” James said. “To which tribe do you belong?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Eh?” James said, surprised by the question. Most warriors took pride in their people.

  “Does it matter?” the old warrior said again. “To your kind we are all the same. We are animals to be driven onto land we do not want to live on and made to live as you live even though we do not want to live as you do.”