War Cry

by Charles G. West

  He was sure Edward Lawton had some money hidden away somewhere in that wagon. He just didn’t seem like the type to start out across the country without a grubstake. Ned might have brought this little party to an end sooner except for the rifle Lawton always seemed to have at hand, and the shotgun that rode beside his wife in the wagon. And every time he moved around at night, the little girl appeared to be watching him over the side rails of the wagon. I’ll catch him when he ain’t holding on to that rifle, he thought, and it better be soon.

  Morning broke warm and clear, another in a long line of days that never seemed to vary. Ned crawled out of his bed and stretched while he looked the camp over to see where everybody was. He knew after only a moment that there was never going to be a better chance to get things settled. Lawton was hitching up the horses, for once his rifle propped against the back of the wagon. His wife was making breakfast, the shotgun still propped by the wagon seat. It was made to order for what he intended. He started to head straight for Edward, but decided to risk the time to saddle his horse, just in case things went wrong.

  He led his horse up to the back of the wagon and looped the reins over the tailgate. Glancing at Edward and Sarah to make sure their attention was not on him, he picked up Edward’s rifle and laid it in the wagon bed. When he turned toward the front of the wagon, it was to meet the stare of six-year-old Emma, whose accusing gaze caused him to glare menacingly at the child. It was not enough to frighten the child into silence. “Papa,” Emma called, but it was too late to warn her father. Ned whipped out his .44 pistol and leveled it at Edward, who was just finishing the harnessing of the horses.

  At the sight of the revolver aimed at his stomach, Edward froze for a moment. “I was wondering when you were going to show your true colors,” he said.

  “You can make this easy on yourself,” Ned replied. “Suppose you just get that money I know you got hid and I’ll be on my way without no harm to nobody.” He turned his head slightly to caution Sarah, who just then became aware of the danger. “You just sit right where you are, sweetheart, or this is gonna get ugly.”

  “So you are the scoundrel I suspected,” Edward charged. “I have no money hidden away. I wouldn’t give it to a scoundrel like you if I did. So get on your horse and be gone, and leave us in peace.”

  Ned sneered and cocked back the hammer on the .44. “Have it your way, you son of a bitch.” Then he froze, startled by the sudden impact of a solid blow to Edward’s chest, sending the man staggering backward. Ned heard the crack of the rifle as Edward’s knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, mortally wounded. Still in shock, Ned stared at the pistol in his hand as if it had accidentally gone off. It was for only an instant, however, as the first rifle shot was followed immediately by several more, singing their deadly song as they ripped through the camp. He needed no further warning. With only a glance at the horrified woman as she rushed to her husband’s side, he ran to his horse. Leaping into the saddle, he galloped away, leaving the woman and child to fend for themselves against the Cheyenne war party.

  With absolute certainty that his life was flowing from his body, Edward tried to calm his hysterical wife and child. “Emma,” he gasped, forcing every word, “fetch my rifle.” When she hesitated, not wishing to leave his side, he urged, “Go, child, quickly now.” When his daughter ran to the wagon, he said his farewell to his wife of seven years. “There isn’t much time,” he said, each word coming with more difficulty as he coughed feebly, trying to keep from choking on the blood now rising in his throat. “You must save our daughter. Take her and drive the wagon away as fast as you can.” When she started to protest, he insisted. “There isn’t time to argue. I’m dying. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  “No,” Sarah cried. “I’ll not leave you! I can’t!”

  Speaking now with the clarity of a man about to step through death’s dark doorway, he admonished her. “Yes, you can. You have to—to save Emma. Know that I love you both and I am truly sorry for bringing you out to this wild country.” He then took the rifle from Emma and commanded, “Now go, and don’t look back.”

  Although he got started about an hour later than he had planned, Will had decided to push on into the evening and make camp where Bluff Creek joined the Cimarron. So it was past twilight when he had come to the river. He guided Spades down to the water’s edge and dismounted while the horse drank from the brownish red water. The river was low, as it usually was this late in the summer, exposing more of its red clay banks where gooseberries and chokecherries grew along its winding course. The water didn’t look fit to drink, but it had never done him any harm as far as he could tell.

  When Spades had drunk his fill, he looked up at Will as if to signal he was through. Will had often commented that Spades acted more like a dog than a horse. “Come on,” he said gently, and turned to walk up the bank to a stand of cottonwoods. The horse followed obediently without being led, stopping when Will stopped and standing patiently while he pulled off the saddle. After Spades was unsaddled, Will turned his attention toward building a fire and cooking his supper. He didn’t bother to hobble Spades. He knew the horse would not stray far from him. There was plenty of grass there, so he decided to save the oats he had brought for the next night.

  After his supper of coffee, bacon, and a couple of biscuits he had gotten from the enlisted men’s mess that morning, he broke off a cottonwood branch about the size of his finger and sat down against the trunk of the tree to watch the darkness descend. Always at peace when he was alone on the prairie, he pulled out his pocketknife and went to work on the branch. Whittling the butt end of the branch to a sharp point, he fashioned a toothpick to dislodge the remnants of bacon that had found refuge between his teeth. When he was satisfied that his teeth were free of bacon, he used the toothpick to clean his fingernails. Content with himself and his place in the scheme of things, he had finished off the last drop of coffee with not a care about the Indians, Lieutenant Bridges, or anything else.

  He was saddling his horse early the next morning when he heard the gunshots. Pausing immediately to listen, he counted seven or eight shots, maybe two or three miles to the west. Indians, he thought, since they sounded like the old single-shot rifles that many of the reservation Indians had. “Maybe a huntin’ party ran up on some antelope,” he suggested to Spades, whose ears were up and twitching to pick up the sound. “None of our business,” he said, and finished packing up his camp.

  As he stepped up into the saddle, there were more shots, though not as many as before and the source seemed to have moved a little from the first volley. Like they are chasing something, he thought. Trying to imagine what it might be, he told himself that buffalo had long since left this part of the country. Could be a herd of antelope, but they wouldn’t be chasing after them unless they were riding antelopes themselves, because no horse could keep up with an antelope when it was frightened. Next he heard the distinct report of a shotgun. “I better go have a look,” he decided then. The shooting seemed to have come from farther up the river. He hadn’t planned to follow the river, heading north along Bluff Creek instead. “It’s as good a way to go to Fort Dodge as any, I reckon,” he decided and crossed over to follow the Cimarron west.

  He had ridden approximately a mile and a half, following the serpentine river through the rolling hills of grass as the shooting became louder. He knew he couldn’t be far away at that point, and although the firing continued, it was not as heavy as before, with only random shots now and then. Riding up the side of a shallow ravine, he almost rode right into the midst of the trouble, and was barely able to jerk Spades to a halt just in time.

  Backing the horse slowly until he was safely out of sight under the side of the ravine, he drew his rifle from the saddle sling and dismounted, dropped Spades’ reins to the ground, and crawled back up to the rim of the slope to take a look. It was as he had already surmised. About fifty yards below him he counted nine warriors�
�Cheyenne, he decided—lying in a line behind a slight rise in the prairie. The rifle shots he had followed were coming from three of the Indians as they plunked away at a four-by-twelve farm wagon half in and half out of the water. It was obvious that the wagon, with two horses pulling it, had been in flight, but had gotten bogged down trying to climb up the opposite bank of the river. The attacking warriors were being held at bay by one person with a shotgun. Will strained to see whether there was anyone else behind the wagon, but could see no one. “Well, we’ll see if we can even up this fight,” he murmured.

  Pulling his rifle up into position, he laid the sights on the warrior closest to him and squeezed off the first round. The Indian yelped in startled pain before rolling over holding his chest. Will didn’t hesitate as he cranked out round after round in rapid succession, going down the line of warriors. At such short range there was little chance of missing, even firing as fast as he could cock his rifle and pull the trigger. With no protection against a rear attack, three lay dead before the remaining six realized from where the shots were coming, and had to scramble for cover. There was none behind them, so they had no choice but to run for their horses. Due to Will’s rapid fire, the Indians weren’t sure how many attackers there were, so they decided not to chance an encounter with a cavalry patrol. Thinking to add a little theatrics to the attack, Will stepped out in the open and made a distinct gesture as if signaling someone behind him. He hoped the hostiles looking back at him would take it as a sign there were soldiers following and would be discouraged from returning. He went for Spades and followed after the fleeing hostiles at a safe distance until he was satisfied they had no thoughts of mounting a counterattack. Reining Spades to a stop then, he went back to check on the three bodies lying on the grassy rise. All were dead and, as he had thought, they were Cheyenne. Only one of them had a rifle. The other two had bows.

  Convinced that the danger was over for the time being, he turned Spades toward the beleaguered wagon only to be startled by a blast from the shotgun. “Goddamn!” he roared as shotgun pellets rattled the leaves of the cottonwood tree above his head. “Hold your damn fire!” He backed Spades away a few paces. “I’m on your side, dammit,” he yelled. “The Injuns are gone!”

  “I’m sorry,” a frightened feminine voice came back from behind the wagon. “I didn’t mean to shoot at you. I accidentally pulled the trigger.”

  “Well, put the damn gun down. I’m comin’ in.” After a pause to make certain she did as he said, he again approached the river and splashed across to the wagon. As he dismounted, he looked right and left, trying to locate a husband, father, or brother, thinking surely there must be one. There was no one that he could see. “The Injuns have gone,” he repeated. “You’re all right now.” He continued to stare at the face just partially visible above the side rails of the wagon. When she continued to hide behind the wagon, he asked, “Where are your menfolk?”

  Finally deciding that she was, indeed, safe for the moment, Sarah Lawton came from behind her fortress to meet her rescuer. “My husband’s dead,” she replied, almost in a whisper. “They killed him.”

  Will thought about that for a moment before responding. “You’re all alone?” He looked around him for a body. “Where is he?”

  “Back yonder a’ways,” she answered, and pointed toward the west.

  He nodded his head, understanding, then surmised aloud, “And so you were drivin’ the wagon and the Injuns were chasin’ you.” He looked at the team of horses, now standing quiet, then glanced back at the wagon. “Didn’t pick a very good place to try to cross.” He was merely stating an obvious fact; it was not intended as criticism. At once realizing that she took it as such, he quickly amended his statement. “Most likely too busy tryin’ to save your neck. Don’t worry—I’ll get it outta there.”

  “I’m sorry,” she offered sadly. “I should be thanking you for saving our lives.”

  “No thanks necessary,” he replied. “I’m glad I happened along when I did.” Our lives? he wondered. She had just said that her husband was dead.

  “It’s all right, Emma,” she said then, “you can come out now.” Will was startled to see a small child crawl out from a hole under the wagon that the front wheels had created in the soft bank. She was holding a Navy Colt revolver that looked as big as she.

  “Whoa, little lady,” Will cautioned, after having been greeted with a shotgun blast from her mother. “Maybe you’d best give that to me.”

  With a fixed eye upon the stranger, six-year-old Emma Lawton was reluctant to hand over the weapon that her mother had given her in case things went bad for them. “It’s all right,” Sarah said. “He’s come to help us.” Emma dutifully offered it up to Will, muzzle first.

  Will wasted little time in grasping the loaded revolver and placing it in the wagon bed. Getting to important things then, he said, “We need to get that wagon outta there and clear outta this place. I don’t think that war party will be back soon, but they’ll most likely come back sometime to pick up those three dead ones yonder. My guess is they’ll lay low for a little while before comin’ back. You never can tell about an Injun, though—especially a Cheyenne—and dependin’ on if they figure out that it was just one man with a repeatin’ rifle that run ’em off.” He turned to take Spades’ reins, then paused. “What in the world were you doin’ down here? Where were you headin’?”

  “Santa Fe,” Sarah answered. “My husband knew some friends down there he was going to go into business with.” Looking to be on the verge of tears, she nevertheless held on to her composure.

  “How’d you get down here?” Will repeated. “You’re way south of the Santa Fe Trail.”

  While Will tied Spades up to the tailgate of the wagon, Sarah told him of their misfortunes. She recounted how they had engaged the services of a guide at Council Grove named Ned Spikes, who claimed to have ridden the Santa Fe Trail a dozen times or more. They took the wet route to Fort Dodge instead of the dry one, but since they were not with a wagon train, Spikes said they would have to go around the fort. Spikes convinced them that there was no real threat—that the Indians had stopped raiding—and he guaranteed their safety. Her husband was skeptical, but eager to get to Santa Fe, so he agreed to bypass the fort.

  When they had camped the night before, Sarah said she had noticed a change in Spikes’ demeanor, almost belligerent, he seemed intent upon leering at her as she prepared their supper. But there had been no trouble from the sullen guide that night. This morning, however, after the horses were hitched, he had suddenly greeted them with a drawn pistol and demanded the money that Edward had packed in the wagon. It was at that moment, with the two men facing each other, that the Cheyenne war party struck. The first shot fired hit Edward in the chest.

  Will listened without comment even though he had some knowledge of Ned Spikes. He had heard the name mentioned before, and always in connection with something vile and illegal. He had never had any personal dealings with Spikes, but he had seen the man hanging around the sutler’s store in Camp Supply on several occasions. He was not surprised to hear that Spikes had persuaded the woman and her husband to bypass Fort Dodge. He was most likely wanted for some crime there.

  Sarah could not hold back her tears as she went on to relate her late husband’s efforts to save them. Lying wounded, his life’s blood draining from his body, he had called for his rifle, then instructed her to put Emma in the wagon and try to save their child. Even though she understood that his life was draining as she knelt beside him, she could not forgive herself for lacking the strength to save him and her daughter.

  Already exhausted, the telling of the story drained the last bit of strength from her. Emma went to stand beside her mother, trying to console her. It was an uncomfortable scene for Will. He didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Feeling he should say something, he blurted, “Well, I reckon he held ’em off long enough to give you a head start.”

  She looked up at him with sorrowful eyes. “He only
had five cartridges for that rifle, and I counted all five of them as I heard the shots while we ran, counting down his life.”

  Sensing her feeling of guilt for abandoning her husband, Will tried to ease her conscience. “Ma’am, you done the right thing. Your husband had the right of it, and he wanted you and the little one safe. Wouldn’ta made no sense to stay and try to fight them Injuns.” Eager to change the subject, he said, “Now let’s see if we can get this wagon outta here.”

  Following his instructions, Sarah climbed up onto the wagon seat and tried to back the horses. With a lead rope tied to the back of the wagon, Will urged Spades to pull it off the bank. With very little trouble, the wagon backed into the stream. As soon as it was free of the bank, Will examined the front wheels to see whether there had been any damage. “We were lucky,” he reported to Sarah. “Now, gee ’em up and bring ’em around to head ’em toward that level spot,” he instructed after untying Spades’ lead rope. “They oughta be able to pull right out.”