A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  This plan wouldn't work if he had to walk, but since he planned to ride, he’d get along all right. He retied the bag around Maude's neck and considered the best way to mount her. She was a big mule, standing at least six inches taller at the withers than Bart’s five feet. Looking about, he saw a large rock he could use to mount. After settling himself on Maude, he rode up the animal path to the top of the hill and looked down on the surroundings that had been his home for the last five days. Though Bart knew he must leave, it was with some reluctance. It had been a safe place with shelter and water. He turned and observed what lay along his route to the west. As far as Bart could see, there were rolling hills with oak trees, a few pines, and an occasional large boulder jutting upward into a cloudless sky. He decided to follow the hill line, hoping to come upon a westward trail of some kind. Many miles ahead, a huge boulder rose above the horizon. It would become his first destination point; perhaps he could reach it within a day or two.

  He lightly tapped Maude's sides with his heels, and she started off. Maude seemed eager to leave and ambled along like she understood his plan. Bart rode ten to twenty feet below the hilltop to keep from silhouetting himself. Other than making their way around trees and climbing an occasional hill, the travel was easy, with little undergrowth. On terrain like this, twenty-five to thirty miles could be traveled in a full day, sunup to sundown. Perhaps they’d make fifteen miles today.

  Mile after mile they traveled. The trees blocked most of the sun’s rays, but the temperature rose to the mid-nineties. The heat and Maude's constant, poetic foot rhythm caused Bart to slump forward and nod with dull eyes. He missed the porcupine scampering behind a tree and the white flags of three deer running toward the next ridge. The minute the rhythm ceased, however, Bart became alert.

  Maude had stopped, looking toward a distant ridge with pointed ears. At first, Bart couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but then four Indians came into sight. Bart slowly moved behind a stand of pine trees and watched the Indians move closer. He was well concealed and felt confident he wouldn’t be found if Maude stayed quiet and the Indians didn’t cross over to his ridge and find Maude’s prints. The Indians were in no hurry; their passing seemed extremely slow. He watched their course, north of his, until they were out of sight. After a few minutes, Maude became calm, so he rode on with alert eyes.

  It was midafternoon when Bart spotted a grove of willow trees some distance ahead, and willows normally meant water. When the mule smelled the water, she pricked her ears up and quickened her pace. Knowing water could draw Indians and unwanted predators, Bart advanced with a great deal of caution. He crossed over to the next ridge south and then headed for a group of pine trees about fifty yards short of the willow grove. Riding with concern, he stopped every few minutes to study the surroundings. Looking from ridge to ridge, he carefully observed every possible hiding place for a waiting Indian. There were no signs, no movements. The birds were singing, and most importantly, Maude seemed at ease. He rode on, planning to use the pine-tree stand as a hideout near the willows.

  The pine grove consisted of twelve large trees, growing in a circular stand. From within, they provided a sanctuary. After tying Maude with a loose knot, Bart removed his boots, being careful not to spill any coins. In bare feet, he slipped behind the trunk of an oak tree. He hunkered down, observing the willows for a full five minutes, and then inched forward a few yards and squatted again. Everything looked normal. No smoke, no sound, and no movement. He moved again, this time to within twenty yards of the willows. There was a small pool of water among the willows and no Indians about. What Bart did see was a well-worn animal path leading into the water. He eased back toward Maude.

  Bart was very thirsty and knew Maude was, too. It had been hours since either drank. Perspiration had stolen much of his body moisture, causing him to crave what lay ahead in the pool.

  But after careful thought, he decided to leave without going to the pond. His footprints and the indentations from his shod mule in the soft ground around the pool could easily be found and followed. Not knowing when the next opportunity for water would come, Bart was hesitant to leave but knew he should follow his Pa's advice and take the best course when problems existed.

  Bart was untying Maude to go when her head came up. She looked toward the willows with pointed ears. Bart could see nothing but knew something or someone was down there. Several minutes passed, and he still didn’t see anything, but Maude's ears flicked back and forth. Suddenly, her head swung north, and he saw five Indians ride over the ridge toward the willows with a deer draped over a pack horse. As they came closer to the water, four more Indians walked out from the willows to greet the party. The deer was quickly hung in a tree and skinned. They spread the hide under the hanging deer with the hair side down and split the carcass, letting the innards spill onto the hide. Bart saw the deer’s raw liver passed from one Indian to another, each biting off a large piece while blood dripped from their mouths. He almost vomited watching them. When the liver was consumed, the other innards were rolled up in the hide for future use.

  Bart knew leaving was impossible, so he kneeled, holding Maude's reins and studying the situation. He felt sure he was well hidden but was fearful the wind would change and expose him.

  The Indians speared the deer with a strong branch and placed its ends on two forked poles at the end of the fire pit. Bart knew the cooking time would be over two hours, which meant there was a good possibility the Indians would spend the night. The late afternoon’s shadows were already being cast on the valley’s floor. If the Indians did stay, his only chance of escape would come after dark when they slept. Bart was not under any illusions. It would be hard to leave without alerting the Indians or their horses, which were their watchdogs of the night.

  Bart studied the landscape. He must prepare his escape while it was still light. Going down the north bank would intersect with the much-traveled path, and Maude’s tracks would alert the Indians of his presence. Traveling up the hill was not desirable either because of the bare rock and loose stone. Maude’s shoes would make an alarming sound if she walked on them. Bart concluded he must backtrack along the same route he had come.

  Time passed slowly. It was still light on the hilltops, but the valley floor was already in twilight. The entire area would succumb to darkness within the hour, but after the full moon rose, there would be light enough to travel by.

  There was laughter in the camp as the Indians sat eating slices of roasted venison washed down with gulps of water from the pool. Even though Bart couldn’t understand their speech, he felt sure they were reciting some of their recent adventures and telling jokes to one another. He wished he could walk down among them and establish a friendship; of course, that was not possible.

  It took patience. Bart waited for an hour after the camp became quiet before picking up his boots and slipping from the trees, leading Maude. They made next to no noise as they walked the moonlit path, stopping occasionally to listen for camp noise—there was none. Maude seemed to understand the predicament and followed closely. She was so quiet, Bart turned a few times to see if she was still following.

  After walking for about a half mile, he found a fallen log where he put on his boots and mounted. Maude stood still for a few minutes until she realized Bart had no idea where to go or what to do. She took charge and headed westward at a slow but steady pace.

  Bart was hungry, thirsty, and dead tired. So was Maude, yet she continued on and so must he. The marks on Bart’s back were healing but still painful, and his cheek had lost all its feeling. It was numb. Eventually, he slumped on Maude’s neck, sleeping until their motion stopped, and he woke.

  Maude had come to a large pine tree beside a stream of clear running water. It was a perfect place to spend the night or what was left of it. Sliding down, Bart removed the bag from Maude’s neck before going for water. After several swallows, they returned to the tree and slept.

  Something hard to explain was happening b
etween the boy and his mule. Neither was cognizant of it, yet a special bond was starting to build between the two. Their bond would soon be inseparable, a bond that would last a lifetime.

  Chapter Six

  Bart's eyes came open when he felt a tugging on his arm. He saw Maude pulling against her reins, trying to nibble sprigs of grass out of her reach. Bart continued to lie quietly for a moment, thinking of yesterday’s events. He smiled as he remembered outwitting the nine Indians who had gathered within fifty yards of him. He was proud of himself, but it was full light and time to get started.

  Remembering his original plan to reach the huge boulder on his first travel day, Bart got to his feet. It would take most of another day to reach it. Leading Maude to the water, he watched as she waded to midstream and took in gulp after gulp of the cool water. With drops still falling from her muzzle above him, Bart lay flat on his belly and sucked in several swallows of the much-needed moisture. Spotting his reflection in the smooth water’s surface, he moved to examine his cheek. His wound was beet red, swollen, and full of yellow pus—it looked like a mess. After washing his cheek with his wet bandana, Bart touched the gash and felt heat. His wound was undoubtedly infected. There was nothing he could do except wash it as often as possible. In the meantime, he must prepare for the day's travel.

  Bart hobbled Maude in a patch of grass twenty yards uphill before building a fire with extremely dry wood under tree branches, hoping the smoke would not yield his position. After placing a flat rock partly in the flames, he dug his coffee pot from the sack and headed for the creek. As he dipped the water, he looked at his reflection again. Nothing had changed; it still looked terrible.

  His stomach felt like he hadn't eaten in weeks. He’d already finished three corn muffins and drank most of his coffee before taking the bacon from the fire. After he ate the meat, he was full.

  Maude was still crunching grass when he rinsed out the coffee grounds and filled his pot again to douse the fire. He scattered the ashes, stored the coffee pot, and went to Maude. He removed her hobbles, tied his bag around her neck, and led her back to his sitting rock so he could mount up. After they got on their way and topped a nearby hill, Bart could see the tall boulder on the horizon many miles to the west. It would be his destination point once again.

  The passing hours remained virtually unchanged. The cloudless sky, the hot sun rays, and the tree-covered hills. But thankfully, the Indians were gone. It was almost noon, and Maude had kept a steady westward pace without rest or water. Because Bart was stretching food, he planned to skip his own noon meal but knew he had to take time for Maude to rest and graze. He had not seen any hostile signs, nor had she shown notice of any trouble, so feeling somewhat safe, he decided to stop at the next good place.

  The temperature seemed hotter than the day before. Bart tied his bandana around his forehead to prevent sweat from running into his raw cheek. He rode relaxed, with heavy eyes, and Maude constantly swung her tail and twitched her long ears to rid herself of flies. The next thing Bart knew, Maude halted and looked forward with pointed ears. He suspected she smelled water when she started off at a rapid pace. Within minutes, a rumbling sound echoed through the trees. They continued and stopped a few yards from a waterfall.

  Bart eyed the area before advancing farther. A trail made by critters could be seen coming down the north hill, but there were no footprints from man or horse. The water fell from a rock ledge into a basin and then hurried downstream over a path of rocks following the valley's floor. The water was cold, and its mist lowered the air temperature by at least ten degrees.

  They went to the stream and drank their fill. Bart removed his sack and hobbled Maude in a patch of green grass. After undressing, he stood under the falling water and was revitalized within minutes by the icy water. He washed his clothes and hung them over tree branches to dry.

  His clothes were still damp, but it was time to go, so he gathered everything, dressed, and led Maude to the stream for a final drink. Bart mounted and rode to the top of the hill to look around. He saw dark clouds on the horizon hanging over the area he was heading toward. The high-up boulder was still a distance off, but he’d made progress. Maybe he would reach the landmark by nightfall.

  The afternoon was uneventful, causing Bart to daydream and pay little attention to his travels. It was late in the day when a strong gust of wind caught his attention. The sky was full of rolling, black clouds, and the wind had picked up. A storm would be upon them in a matter of minutes. "Come on, girl," Bart urged, “we've got to find shelter.” After he touched Maude’s sides with his heels, her gait quickened. The storm started with a light rain, cooling the temperature considerably, and then thunder and lightning hit with strong winds and sheets of rain soaking everything. Bart felt ashamed for not staying alert and being caught out in the storm. Maude continued through the storm that seemed to have no ending. The rain eventually eased, however, and the high-up boulder appeared to be only one or two hours away, so they went on.

  He had been feeling queasy for the last couple of hours, and now was feeling much worse. His body ached, his head was spinning, and he felt as if he was going to throw up.

  He spotted a creek about a hundred yards ahead and decided to stop. Maybe a drink of cold water and something to eat might help, he thought, so he angled toward the stream. When they arrived, Bart slid off Maude's back and fell to his knees from weakness. After a minute or two, he rose and stumbled to the creek, leading Maude. They both drank, and then Bart found a large rock to sit on.

  Taking the sack from Maude's neck, Bart carefully removed the water-soaked articles one by one. The last thing was the sack containing his mother’s Bible. Bart was hesitant to open it because he feared the Bible would have further water damage but was relieved when he found it dry; apparently, the bag repelled water.

  His corn muffins were crumbled, but the beef jerky was unharmed. Laying two pieces aside to eat later, he repacked the sack and hung the rope ends around Maude’s neck. But Bart had trouble tying the rope because his fingers had no feeling in them. The numbness surprised him and made him aware something was seriously wrong; he guessed it stemmed from his infected cheek. Lightly touching the wound with his fingers, he felt the fever and a thick, slick substance oozing from the gash. Going back to the creek, he moistened his bandana and tenderly wiped the sore and then folded the cloth and pressed it against the wound.

  Bart’s walk back to Maude was difficult. It was a struggle to mount her. Once he was up, she walked off at a fairly fast pace, seeming to know help must be found. Bart swayed as she walked, and he held tightly to the sack rope to keep from falling. Each minute seemed like hours, but Maude stayed the course. By the time they reached their destination, Bart was laying on Maude's neck, practically unconscious. It was well past sunset.

  Although he didn’t know it at the time, the boulder he’d chosen for a landmark was only five hundred yards away from the beginning of the West’s rolling prairies.

  Bart rolled from Maude's back and crawled to a spot beside the large boulder. He slept but only for a short time. He woke in a fetal position, trying to stay warm. Feeling his hot forehead, he concluded he had a fever, though he was shivering. Moving against the boulder, which was radiating the day's heat, Bart went back to sleep. He slept off and on through the night, waking intermittently from pain and bad dreams. One nightmare caused him to sit upright, screaming into the night.

  Two hours after sunup, a jerking on the rein awakened him. Maude was ready to go. Bart tried to stand but was unable to; he hurt all over. Crawling on his hands and knees, he tried to call on reserved strength, but became sick to his stomach and vomited. He finally pulled himself up by holding onto Maude's tail. Knowing he ran a high temperature, was in bad shape, and might die if he could not find help, Bart gathered the strength to crawl upon a rock and pull himself onto Maude's back. When they rounded the large boulder, a wonderful landscape appeared. As far as the eye could see, the rolling, treeless land was covere
d with prairie grass, and in the far distance was a wagon trail…but Bart wasn’t looking.

  He was leaning against Maude’s neck with his arms alongside her shoulders, oblivious to his situation. She started downhill at a slow, easy pace and walked across the grassland with Bart swaying. Finally, his strength totally exhausted, he slipped from Maude’s back onto the grass, lying face down with no movement.

  Chapter Seven

  Liz tossed the chips she had gathered onto the canvas hanging under her family’s wagon and headed back to the open prairie for more. Since timber was not to be found on the prairie, dried buffalo manure, or prairie chips as most folks called them, were used to fuel travelers’ campfires. Liz’s job was to keep the canvas under the wagon full of the chips, which required her to gather several large buckets of them daily. Because earlier travelers had gathered the chips close to the trail, Liz had to venture quite a distance from the wagons; however, her father had given her explicit instructions to stay within calling distance.

  Liz and her parents, Herb and Alice Douglas, were going to homestead in the western part of the Colorado Territory. They had traveled from the Carolinas to St. Louis, Missouri, on riverboats. In St. Louis, they purchased a team of horses, a wagon, and necessary supplies, and joined a wagon train heading west.

  Their wagon train had stopped for a noontime meal when Liz set out looking for more chips. She had filled her bucket and was walking back to the wagon when she topped a ridge and saw three Indians on horses in the distance. They seemed to be looking at something ahead of the wagons. Liz quickly crouched down and crawled into hiding.