Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke went outside to relieve himself, and was just finishing when he saw a large group of mounted Indians advancing slowly toward them.

  “Indians!” he shouted, running back inside.

  Barricading the door, Smoke ran to the window and looked outside. The Indians weren’t approaching as they normally did, either by stealth or by riding back and forth. Instead, they were heading straight for the building in a massive charge, their horses leaping over obstacles, feathered bonnets flying in the breeze.

  By now everyone else in the building had responded to Smoke’s warning and rushed to the windows. There was the sound of glass breaking as the defenders cleared the way for them to shoot.

  Nobody gave the order to fire, because no one was in charge. Instead, the defenders fired at targets of opportunity, and the opening salvo was devastating. Half-a-dozen Indians went down. Stunned by the unexpected volley, the Indians withdrew about two hundred yards, then formed for a second attack.

  “Anyone get hit?” Smoke called.

  “Yeah, Johnny got hit, but I don’t think it’s bad,” Tom said.

  “I’ll look after him,” Jo Ellen offered. Jo Ellen was the more attractive of the two prostitutes who had come in on the stage.

  The Indians came again, three abreast this time, galloping through the dust, shouting and whooping their war cries. They charged all the way up to the building, firing from horseback, shooting arrows and bullets at the cracks between the logs. They hurled lances toward the open windows. Two of them jumped down from their horses and tried to force the door open by hitting against it with the butts of their rifles.

  Once again, the buffalo hunters took very careful aim, making every shot count. Several Indians went down, and their riderless horses whirled and retreated, leaving their riders dead or dying on the ground behind them. The rest of the Indians waited a few minutes, then launched a third attack.

  “Here they come again,” someone shouted and, once more, the defenders fired at targets of opportunity.

  This time, however, the Indians made a much more traditional approach. Using a stone wall and a barn as cover, they were almost on top of the defenders before anyone could get a shot at them. The Indians fired through the windows, and bullets buzzed about like angry hornets.

  Three more of the defenders were hit, including Lily, the other woman.

  “Lily!” Jo Ellen shouted, running to her friend. She sat on the floor and held her friend’s head in her lap.

  “Never figured I’d go out this way,” Lily said, smiling up at Jo Ellen. “I always thought some drunken cowboy would shoot me in a jealous rage.”

  “Hang on, Lily, you’ll be . . .” Jo Ellen said, but Lily’s head fell to one side and her open eyes began to glass over.

  Suddenly, fire arrows came streaking in through the window, starting several small fires.

  “Get ’em out, quick!” Smoke shouted.

  Grabbing blankets and rugs, the defenders managed to beat out all the arrows but one, which continued to burn out of control.

  “We’re going to need water!” someone yelled, and another grabbed the water bucket and with it, finally got the upper hand over the last fire arrow.

  “Was that our drinking water?” someone asked.

  “Yeah,” Tom said.

  “We’re going to get awful thirsty.”

  “Where’s the well?” Smoke asked.

  “Out there,” the depot manager said, pointing to the well out in the front yard. Anyone who went after water would be completely exposed to the Indians.

  “I’ll go,” someone said, grabbing the bucket.

  “Speaker, no!” Smoke shouted, but Speaker was out before anyone could stop him, and he dashed across the open space toward the well.

  Watching through the window, Smoke saw a puff of dust fly up, then a gush of blood spurt from Speaker’s shirt. He went down and the bucket rolled, clanging, across the yard.

  “I wish he hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.

  “Yeah, he should’ve thought more about it. He never had a chance,” Tom said.

  “That’s not the only thing,” Smoke replied. “Now the Indians know we are out of water. All they have to do is wait us out.”

  That’s exactly what the Indians did. They did not launch another attack. Instead, they waited just out of range. The afternoon grew long and very thirsty, aggravatingly so when the Indians, who had plenty of water, would appear, just out of range, and pour gourds of water over their heads.

  The Indians didn’t leave during the night. From every window, the defenders could see campfires. They could also hear the drums and singing.

  “We’ve got to have water,” someone said. “I’m going out to get the bucket.”

  “You won’t make it,” Smoke said.

  “I might. It’s dark, they might not see me.”

  “Do you think they don’t know we need water?” Smoke replied. “You saw how they were pouring water over themselves today, tantalizing us. They’re waiting at the well for anyone who is crazy enough to try.”

  “We’ve got to do something. We can’t make it another day without water.”

  “How long can we last?” Jo Ellen asked, and Tom was surprised to see that she had come up to stand right beside him.

  “Maybe another day,” Tom replied.

  Tom looked out across the open ground toward the ridge where the Indians were. Though the fires had mostly burned down, he could still see faint glowings here and there. There was also enough of a moon that he didn’t think the Indians could sneak up on them, even if they wanted too.

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Jo Ellen said. “But I’m glad this happened. That is, if I live through it, I’m glad it happened.”

  Tom chuckled. “Well, I don’t know as I think you’re crazy. But that is a curious outlook.”

  “I reckon it is. But I aim to change my life after this. I don’t plan on being a whore anymore.”

  “Good for you,” Tom said.

  “What about you? You plan to go on being a buffalo hunter?”

  “Doesn’t make much difference whether I plan to or not,” Tom replied. “There aren’t many buffalo left. The truth is, I’m going to have to get into some other line of work pretty soon.”

  “You ever thought about ranching?”

  “Thought about it. I wouldn’t mind owning a ranch, but I don’t think I’d care to cowboy for someone else.”

  “I own a ranch,” Jo Ellen said.

  “What?”

  “That is, I own some land. It’s out in Colorado. A . . . uh . . . friend left it to me.”

  “He must’ve been a good friend.”

  “He was,” Jo Ellen said without elaborating.

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  “No, but I know it’s there. The county clerk sent me a letter describing it to me. And I’ve kept the taxes up. You aren’t married, are you, Mr. Burke?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You think you could marry someone who was once a whore?”

  Tom stared at Jo Ellen for a long moment. “Jo Ellen, are you asking me to marry you?” he asked in surprise.

  “I reckon I am,” Jo Ellen replied. “That is, if we get out of here. The way I look at it, we’re both going to be making some big changes in our life. Seems to me like it might be easier if we made those changes together.”

  Tom laughed out loud.

  “I’m sorry,” Jo Ellen said, her face burning in embarrassment. “I had no right to . . .”

  “No,” Tom said, reaching out to her. “You don’t understand. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because I never thought anything like this would happen to me. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  Shortly after dawn, when everyone was awake, Tom told the others that during the night he and Jo Ellen had made plans to get married.

  “When?” someone asked.

  “Soon’s we get out of here,” Tom replied.

  “Then you’re both goin’ to die sin
gle, ’cause there ain’t no way we’re ever goin’ to get out of here. Them Indians out there are just goin’ to wait us out till we either die of thirst or go crazy and start runnin’ toward the well,” someone said.

  “Maybe not,” Tom suggested.

  “Maybe not? What do you mean, maybe not?”

  “Well, I’ve been doin’ some thinking.” Tom walked back over to the window and looked out toward the Indians who were still there on the distant ridge. He studied them through a pair of binoculars, and took two large-caliber bullets from his bullet bag. Separating the bullets from the cartridges, he began pouring the powder from one of the cartridges into the other cartridge.

  “What are you doing?” someone asked.

  “I’m double-loading a shell,” Tom said. He nodded toward the binoculars. “If you take a look through those glasses, you’ll see some fancy-dressed son of a bitch up there givin’ orders to the rest of the Indians. Seems to me like if someone was to kill him, the others might go home. So, that’s what I plan to do.”

  “You mean next time he comes down here?”

  “No, I mean now,” Tom said.

  “Hell, man, he’s a thousand yards away if he’s a foot. What are you talking about?”

  “Light that candle for me, would you?”

  Shaking his head, the man lit the candle, then handed it to Tom, who tapped the bullet back into the cartridge, then used the dripping wax to help seal it. After that, he loaded his rifle, then stepped back up to the window.

  “You’re wasting a bullet.”

  “Maybe not,” Smoke said.

  “Wait a minute, are you saying you think he can do it?”

  “I’ve seen him shoot,” Smoke said. “He’s got a place to rest his rifle, and the target is right up on top of the ridgeline. Yeah, I think it’s possible. At least it’s worth a chance.”

  Tom picked up the rifle then and rested the barrel on the windowsill. He aimed, then lowered the rifle and adjusted his sights, lifted it up, aimed again, then lowered it for another adjustment.

  No one said a word.

  Tom aimed a third time. This time the rifle roared and bucked against his shoulder.

  One of the others had been looking at Tom’s target through the binoculars. “Missed,” he called.

  “I told you he couldn’t—”

  “Wait!” Smoke shouted. “You got him!”

  Everyone rushed to the window then to watch as, far in the distance, the fancy-dressed Indian fell from his horse.

  * * *

  “They left after that,” Smoke said. “All of the Indians turned and rode away.”

  “And the woman?” Pearlie asked. “Wait a minute, you said her name was Jo Ellen. You mean that’s where you met Mrs. Burke?”

  “Yes, Pearlie. Jo Ellen was a former whore,” Tom said. “But I will tell you this. No man could have ever asked for a better woman.” He had been quiet during the telling of the story, and now he used a burning brand from the fire to light his pipe. Walking away from the fire, he found a place to be alone for a while.

  13

  The Comanche village was near the Purgatory River and for this reason, the little settlement was called Purgatory by the white men, though not by the Comanche. The Indians had no specific name for their village. It was just where they lived, a part of them, and they would not think to name it, any more than they would give a name to the water they drank and the air they breathed. Here, an old chief sat in the center of a circle of men, women, and children.

  “Listen,” the old chief said, “and I will tell you the story of the Comanche.”

  Those who were around him, including the elders of the council and the young men, drew closer to hear his words. The one who held the attention of the others was Stone Eagle, the traditional chief of the Comanche. Stone Eagle was an old man who had fought many battles when he was younger. Because of that, he had the respect and admiration of everyone in the tribe.

  The women and children grew quiet, not only because it was forbidden to make noise while stories were being told around the campfires, but because they knew it would be a good story, and it filled them with excitement to hear it.

  “Once there was a young man,” Stone Eagle said. He held up his finger and wagged it slowly back and forth. “He was not Comanche, he was not Kiowa, he was not Crow, and he was not Lakota.”

  “What was he, Grandfather?” one of the children asked. It was a term of respect. Stone Eagle wasn’t really his grandfather.

  “He was before,” Stone Eagle said. “He was in the time of the beginning, before the winter-counts, when men could speak with the animals and the spirits of the earth, fire, wind, and water. Now the young man did not know this was unusual, because he had always been able to do so and it seemed a natural thing for him to do. Then, one day as he stood watching an eagle fly, he thought that perhaps he would try and fly too, so he leaped into the air and he beat his arms like the wings of an eagle, but he could not fly and he fell to the ground . . . ker-whump.”

  Stone Eagle made the ker-whump sound in such a way as to amuse the children, and they all laughed.

  “’Foolish one, you cannot fly,’ the eagle taunted, and he soared through the air and laughed at the young man.

  “Then the young man saw a coyote running swiftly, so swiftly across the plains, and he ran after the coyote, thinking to catch him, but he couldn’t. ‘Foolish one, did you think you could run as swiftly as I?’ the coyote mocked.

  “Then the young man saw a bear. The bear smelled honey in a comb that was high in a tree, and the bear, with his great strength, pushed the tree over so he could have the honey. The young man was very impressed with the bear’s great strength, so he too tried to push a tree over, but he could not. The bear, who was enjoying his honey, saw the young man, and he teased the young man and called him a weakling, and told him he had no business trying to push over a mighty tree in the first place.”

  Stone Eagle shook his head sadly, and clucked his tongue.

  “What did the young man do next, Grandpa?”

  “Oh, the young man felt very bad,” Stone Eagle said. “He tore out his hair, and he gashed his face with rocks, and he cried out in anger and in despair. ‘I cannot fly like the eagle,’ the young man said. ‘I cannot run as swiftly as the coyote, nor do I have the strength of the bear. Why am I on earth if I cannot do any of these things?’

  “Suddenly, the young man heard a strange-sounding voice, carried on the wind. ‘Go . . . to . . . the . . . mountain, ’ the voice said.”

  Stone Eagle made his voice wail in a terrible sound, and the smaller children were frightened. Some cried, and others clutched the hands of their mothers tightly. The older children were frightened too, but they welcomed the fright because it made them feel brave to listen to the story without betraying their own fear.

  “The young man climbed the mountain,” Stone Eagle went on. “And as he climbed, the voice in the wind continued to speak to him. ‘You are a worm,’ the voice in the wind said. ‘You are a blade of grass. You are an ant, a mote of dust. You are nothing. You cannot fly, you cannot run swiftly, you have no strength. Climb to the top of the mountain.’

  “‘Why should I climb to the top of the mountain?’ the young man asked.

  “‘You will know why when you get there,’ the voice in the wind answered.

  “The young man began to do as he was instructed, but he did so with a heavy heart. He believed that the voice had instructed him to climb the mountain so he could jump off and kill himself. He was frightened and sad, but he felt that he must do what the voice told him to do.”

  “And did he climb to the top of the mountain and jump off, Grandpa?”

  Stone Eagle held up a finger, as if to caution the young questioner against impatience, then went on with his story. “As the young man climbed, a strange thing happened. He grew hungry and, looking for something to eat, he saw the buds of the peyote cactus. He ate the peyote buds and as he did, he began to see things he c
ould not see before. He was no longer frightened, or confused, or ashamed. Only truth remained in his body, and with truth, he understood all.

  “It was true, he thought, he could not fly like an eagle, but an eagle could not use his wings as hands. It was true he could not run as swiftly as a coyote, but a coyote could not walk upright. It was true he did not have the strength of the bear, but the bear could not make poems or music or dance to the rhythm of the drums. When the young man reached the top of the mountain, he thought of all this and he spread his arms wide and looked over the valley, far below.

  “ ‘Why don’t you jump?’ a voice asked, and the young man looked around and there he saw a warrior, wearing many feathers and shining as bright as the sun.”

  “Who was the warrior, Grandpa?”

  “Some say it was he who is called Shining Warrior, a messenger from the Great Spirit, and that is what I believe,” Stone Eagle replied.

  “And did the young man jump?”

  Again, Stone Eagle held up a finger, calling for quiet.

  “‘No,’ the young man said. ‘I will not jump. I am not a worm, I am not a blade of grass, I am not an ant or a mote of dust. I am a man!’

  “ ‘Now,’ Shining Warrior said. ‘Now your period of trial is over. Now you have the gift of the peyote and the sacred wisdom, and from this day forth you will be the master over all the animals and over all the things of nature. You shall have a name and your name shall be called Comanche, and your people shall be many, and they will be mighty hunters and warriors.’

  “ ‘But wait,’ the young man called. ‘Wait, I have questions to ask. There are many things I do not know. How will I learn what is needed to know to be worthy of the fine name you have given me?’

  “ ‘I have given you the gift of the peyote,’ Shining Warrior said. ‘Now I tell you, when you wish to attain wisdom, you need only to build a sweat lodge. Go into the sweat lodge and build a fire so that you may sweat as you chew the peyote.’

  “And that is why, even today, wise men of our people use peyote to gain knowledge and to know the truth,” Stone Eagle said.