A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  "Sure," said Bart, "but they said Maude was ugly. I was fighting for her honor."

  Liz lifted her chin and quickened her step. Bart smiled to himself in spite of his cut lips as he walked along beside her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The families said their goodbyes in the early afternoon as the four wagons separated from the train on their way to the Texas panhandle. It was a bittersweet parting. Bitter because they were separating from folks who had become close friends and part of their daily lives, people who had pulled together through all sorts of hardships, but sweet because coming to this fork in the journey brought everyone closer to their final destinations.

  El Pueblo was nearly out of sight when the six wagons crossed the Arkansas River, leaving the Union behind and entering the Colorado Territory. The wagons stopped early. It was about four o'clock, and the sun was still high and hot. The captain circled the wagons in a tighter formation than normal between a vertical rock formation that rose over two hundred feet to the north and a grove of willow trees surrounding a pool of water to the south. The rock cliff provided excellent protection from the rear, and the trees gave frontal coverage in case of an attack. As the wagons circled and rolled to a stop, the captain stood in the center and motioned for everyone to listen up. "There's Indians about," he said in a stern voice. "I won't sugarcoat the seriousness of the situation. The Army post commander at El Pueblo told me three trains have been attacked recently and all the people were murdered—men, women, and children. We’re still five days away from Flat Peaks, and more than likely, we'll be attacked before we get there. Remember, attacks can occur at any time. Indians can slip within twenty yards of an onlooker in broad daylight without being seen—even on flat, open ground. Some folks think Indians won’t fight at night, but that’s not true. We’ll keep guards posted, and everyone’s to stay alert at all times.”

  The captain paused for a moment and then continued. “I’d like all guns and ammunition brought to this location within twenty minutes. We’re going to evaluate our fighting strength and develop a strategy in case of an attack.” Everyone listened attentively with grave concern and then hurried to their wagons to comply.

  When they had all returned, the captain evaluated their limited number of guns and small supply of ammunition with skepticism. His worry showed as he spoke. “There are only eight men among us, and we’re very limited on shells. We may be strong enough to protect ourselves against three or four Indians, but it’s questionable if we could ward off a larger group. We must prepare for the worst.”

  “Why don’t we turn back to the fort?” suggested a woman. “We could wait there until the trouble settles down and then continue.”

  “It’s already the middle of September, and snow comes by the first of November in Flat Peaks due to its elevation of five thousand feet. That only gives you folks six weeks to build temporary housing and get settled,” declared the captain. “If we go back, we’ll have to stay at the fort until spring.”

  “I say we continue,” bellowed an older man. “We left St. Louis three months ago, and I’m ready to get settled. Besides, I don’t have the money to hole up in the fort for the winter.”

  “Neither do I,” echoed another member.

  Conversations were turning into arguments when the captain stepped forward. “Let’s have a vote. But let’s agree we’ll stick together and all turn back, or all continue, depending on the vote outcome.”

  “That’s only fair,” voiced a man. “We need to stay together for safety’s sake, either way, the vote goes.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “We’ll have a secret ballot,” instructed the captain. “Each wagon will have one vote regardless of the number of passengers in it. Let’s use grass stems to cast our votes. Longer than three inches means we’ll continue, shorter, we turn back. Take your time and talk it over. It’s an important decision. When you’ve made your choice, put your stem in my hat.”

  Couples ambled off by themselves, trying to determine their choice. For some it was easy, and their blades of grass found their way into the hat within a couple of minutes, but for others, the decision did not come so quickly.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, when the last stem was placed in the hat, everyone gathered around the captain as he dumped the contents onto a flat rock for all to see. There were four long stems—they would continue.

  “Let’s talk about our strategy in case of an attack,” barked the captain. “How many of you men were in the war?” Four responded, including Douglas. “Can you shoot straight?” Four nodded favorably. “You other two men, do you know how to use a gun? Can you hit a moving target?” One nodded yes, but the other man said he’d had very little experience with guns.

  “I can shoot as well as any man here,” interrupted Mrs. Kaiser as she stepped toward the captain. “And I’m sure there are other women among us who know how to shoot a gun. We don’t want to be left out of the planning when it comes to our safety.”

  “We’re not leaving you out. You’ll be an important part of our defense,” countered the captain. “If a man gets wounded, you’ll take his place, but since we have a limited number of weapons, you’ll be most helpful if you keep the rifles loaded for the men and care for the wounded. You can also keep watch for any intruders and douse fires the Indians might start. Fill all your water barrels and place them in strategic locations.” His instructions quieted the women, and they got busy.

  Turning back to the men, he said, “We don’t have ammunition to waste, but we should have a limited target practice. Get your rifles and follow me to the cliff—you too, Bart.”

  By the time the men had finished their target practice, the captain had concluded their shooting ability was fair, including the man who had questioned himself. Bart had started returning to the wagons with the other men when the captain called him back. “Bart, we’ll need you on our defense line too. I know you said you had never shot a gun, but I’m going to teach you. Are you up to it?”

  “It’s time I’m learning, Captain. I’ve heard boys my age in this part of the country can shoot as good as grown men. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “That’s a good attitude. Now let’s get started.” The captain continued, “You know, Bart, a gun is not a toy. It’s a serious weapon that’s never to be pointed unless you mean to fire. Only have a cartridge in the chamber if you have a need for fast action. Never shoot at movement unless you can distinguish your target. It might be a person or a horse in the brush.”

  The captain spent nearly an hour outlining gun safety and procedures before handing Bart a rifle and five cartridges. Then the captain said, “Load your gun and get ready to shoot.” After Bart had loaded the gun, the captain took it and demonstrated how to brace it and aim when shooting. Then he handed the gun back and said, “See that tree limb leaning against the cliff? Aim down the sights at the limb, and then squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it. If you pull on the trigger, you’ll pull the gun off target.”

  Bart followed the captain’s directions and still missed the limb by nearly a foot. However, all four of his remaining shots found their mark. “Good job,” praised the captain. “Now let’s head back to the wagons, it’ll soon be supper time.”

  “Thanks,” said Bart. “Maybe we can do some more practice tomorrow if time allows?”

  “We have to conserve ammunition, Bart. There’s not enough for more target practice. In fact, if we’re attacked, we’ll have to make every shot count. Bart, if the Indians do come, stay well concealed behind a tree or boulder. Make your shots quick but deliberate. Don’t stand looking for a target. Find your man and make a fast shot or you’ll become a target yourself.”

  As they approached the wagons, Bart handed the rifle back to the captain, but he waved it off and said, “You’re plenty old enough to own a gun, Bart. It’s a gift.” Bart was so surprised the captain was out of sight before he remembered to thank him.

  Bart walked into camp with an extra bounce to his step and
Liz’s eyes were on the gun. “Where did you get the gun?” she quizzed.

  “The captain gave it to me. He says it’s a gift. I’ll be using it to help fight off the Indians,” bragged Bart in what he hoped was a manly voice. “I did some target shooting with the captain. Hit my target four out of five shots.”

  After supper, coffee was being poured as the captain walked up to the campfire. When a cup was handed to him, he said, “Better tie things down pretty good before bedtime. By the looks of those clouds in the west, there’s a storm coming. If I were you, I’d get my rain gear ready.”

  “Been noticing the sky myself,” commented Douglas. “I heard storms can be severe out here with high winds and lightning.”

  “That’s an understatement. We’re at a fairly high altitude, and the storms here are hazardous, but the higher we go and the farther west we get, they’ll become worse. If you’re ever caught in the mountains during a storm, seek protection underground if it can be found—the wind is brutal.”

  When the women moved off, the captain said to Douglas in a low voice, “I’ve been seeing Indians following us all afternoon. I haven’t made out how many there are, but I’d say about a dozen. Douglas, we need to post lookouts tonight, and I’m asking you to coordinate the efforts. Place one man on each side of the circle, between the wagons and the trees. Change guards every three hours. If rain and wind comes, it’ll be pitch black, and hearing will be hampered. Tell the men to stay alert. Douglas, the men, shouldn’t smoke. Indians can smell the smoke and be guided by the red glow of a lookout’s cigarette.”

  The captain and Douglas walked off together. One to alert other members of the wagon train and the other to schedule the watch. Bart started to run for the captain and thank him for the gun but changed his mind. The captain has serious concerns on his mind and shouldn’t be bothered, he thought.

  The storm didn’t disappoint. It was about midnight when lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder that woke Bart. He was sleeping under the Douglas’ wagon with the chip canvas hanging down to the ground toward the wind. It slapped about but kept most of the rain from reaching his bedroll. The cloud-covered sky caused an eerie darkness. There was very little visibility. Water could be heard rushing down the hillside in newly created streams. Dull footsteps crossed the wagon floor above. Undoubtedly, the ladies, who always slept inside the wagon, had awakened and gone to the back for a peek at the storm.

  As Bart’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Mr. Douglas sitting on a rock with his back leaning against the front wagon wheel. It was not the proper location for guard duty, and it was not his turn to be on guard. His rain slicker was pulled high up around his neck, and the bulge in his slicker made it evident he was shielding a rifle from the rain. His hat was soaked.

  Mr. Douglas is providing additional protection that may or may not be needed, Bart thought. He especially wants to protect his wife and daughter. He’s a good man, a man who would give his life for his family without hesitation. A man people can count on…a man like I want to become.

  As two guards were going to their watch, they first stopped under the canopy sheltering the fire. Douglas had their coffee poured. They drank and then left for their stations without a word. Douglas returned to his rock, and Bart hunkered down into his blankets and was soon asleep again.

  When morning came, there were only large fluffy clouds floating overhead. The rainwater had run off through cracks and crevices into streams and now headed for the lowlands. The new day offered low humidity and a mild temperature—it would be perfect weather for traveling. Families ate and loaded their wagons, but everyone had a concerned look. They were relieved the night had passed without an Indian attack but were not sure what the new day would bring.

  The wagons started, knowing if all went well they’d reach Flat Peaks in four days. Folks were becoming itchy. They were tired of the daily grind and ready to see the land that would be their permanent home. Eyes constantly searched the hills for Indians. They were there, their presence could be felt, and for a few pioneers with keen eyes, they were sometimes seen.

  It was midafternoon when Bart rode up to the captain about fifty yards in front of the wagons. “I haven’t thanked you for the rifle, Captain. It sure was a surprise, and I’m obliged to you.”

  “I’m glad you have it, Bart. Remember to keep it clean and to follow the rules we talked about.”

  “You and Mr. Douglas clean your guns with oil. Is that necessary or can I simply wipe it down?”

  “It’s best to use some oil, but it’s not needed every time. Wipe your gun daily and oil it once a week if there’s no rain. If it’s rainy, oil it every day. You can use my oil or ask Douglas for the use of his.”

  “Captain, do you have another rifle?”

  “Yes, I have two. My favorite is a rifle my pa gave me when I was about your age. It’s a little obsolete, but my aim is better with it than any gun I’ve ever shot. It has sentimental value, too. The one I gave you was my best spare.”

  “Thanks,” said Bart. “I really appreciate it.”

  They rode in silence for nearly thirty minutes. The only sound came from the captain’s squeaking saddle or a wagon wheel’s rim far behind them clinking on a rock. Bart eventually broke the silence. “Captain, do you know of any jobs to be had at Flat Peaks or any other towns in that vicinity? I’ll need to find housing and a job to cover my cost.”

  The captain did not answer right away. They rode on for five or ten minutes. “I can’t think of any jobs, Bart, but I’ll ask around when we get there if you want me to.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  More time passed before the captain said, “I thought you’d be staying with the Douglas family? Have you talked with them about your situation? About where you should stay?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I’ve imposed on them long enough. I wouldn’t want to be a bother while they’re trying to get settled. They’ve been very nice, but eventually, I’ll have to leave their hospitality.”

  They rode on.

  “Can you see the Indians following us, Bart? There’s at least twelve riding parallel to us at the foot of the hills to the north. They’re riding in the timber.”

  “I hadn’t noticed them before, Captain, but I see them now. Do you think they’ll attack us?”

  “Most likely they will.

  Bart, I need you to take a turn at guard duty tonight. The men have lost sleep and need rest. Can you stay awake and alert the camp if you see Indians?”

  “I’d be proud to take a turn, Captain, and I’m pretty sure I can stay awake. If you’ll let me take Maude along, she’ll wake me if I happen to nod a little.”

  Bart was ready to return to the wagons when Maude stopped with ears pointed straight ahead. “Captain, something’s got Maude’s attention.”

  “Let’s ride easy and be prepared,” the captain responded. Minutes later, they topped a rise and saw dark smoke clouds. The cause of the smoke became obvious when they got within two hundred yards of the plume. Charred wagons lay on their sides with smoke coming from their ruins, and scattered about were misshapen, charred lumps that were undoubtedly human remains.

  “Bart, ride back and alert the wagons. This is probably the train that left El Pueblo the day before us. It looks like the attack took place early this morning, but the Indians could still be around waiting for us. Tell the men to have their guns ready and to be very careful as they approach.” Bart wheeled Maude around and took off.

  The captain rode behind a large boulder and waited for the train. His gaze scoured the entire area, looking for anything strange, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He looked for shadows that did not belong. He looked for colors that were out of place and for bushes with a dark background, but nothing seemed odd. He saw Indians riding in the distant hills, but they were not currently a threat and probably weren’t the same group responsible for the carnage before him.

  When the wagons caught up, they moved slowly forward toward the tr
agedy. The captain shouted for the women to stay inside the bonnets.

  There had been nine wagons involved. Everything had been ransacked, leaving nothing of value. Dead bodies were scattered everywhere; not a living soul remained. There were eleven men and nine women, plus five boys and three girls. Most likely, the women and young girls had been raped and brutally handled; that was the normal thing for Indians to do during an attack. Cuts and bruises on the boys’ bodies indicated they had been viciously tortured before death. The men were scalped, leaving dark red circles where they lay. Tracks of shod horses could be seen leaving the site. The destruction was terrible.

  In spite of the captain’s warning, the women’s curiosity got the better of them, and eventually, they looked at the carnage. Tears blurred their vision. Liz’s face was stone cold as she stared in total disbelief, not understanding how any member of the human race could do such a thing.

  Once the initial shock wore off, the captain gave orders for the men to search the bodies for items of identification or articles of value. It was a gruesome task, and nothing was found. Afterward, men started digging graves. Two hours later, four large, deep holes were ready. The bodies were moved to their resting place and covered over with dirt. Mounds of rocks were placed on top of the graves to prevent wild animals from digging them up.

  Folks gathered around the graves with heads bowed. Many had tears because they felt a pioneering kinship with the fallen, and they knew they could have easily been the victims. After several minutes of the bystanders’ silent prayers, the captain said a few words and then suggested they join together in reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Since no identification was found, grave markers were not placed at the burial site. Neither would letters be written and sent to the deceased’s loved ones. Such was often the fate of pioneers who traveled west. Their loved ones back East never knew what had become of their family and friends. Whether they were safe or dead.