by Jim Cox
Time passed slowly. Bart knew his death was coming, but what he dreaded more than death was the torture he’d have to experience before dying. Stories abounded of the many tactics the Indians used to inflict pain. They all seemed horrible—too horrible to think about.
I wouldn’t be in this distress if I had paid more attention during my guard duty. I didn’t stay alert, even though the captain cautioned me several times to do so. There’s no excuse for my laziness. I let the captain down, the Douglases down, and the other families too. If only Maude would have…Maude!” He gasped. I let her down too. Most likely, she’ll be butchered and eaten.
Trees shaded the camp but the temperature rose as time passed, and it passed very slowly. If Bart’s judgment was accurate, it was about noon. The women had put aside their work and started cooking. The aroma was not appetizing to Bart, but he was too anxious to be hungry for anything. All he wanted was a drink of water. The Indians, however, gathered again and ate with abundant appetites, enjoying every bite.
Bart watched a boy about his age pick up a clay pot and fill it with water from the creek. He came directly to Bart and waved the pot under Bart’s nose, grinning all the time. Dipping his cupped hands into the water, the boy pretended to offer Bart a drink but purposely let the water run through his fingers onto the ground. Before leaving, he poured the remainder of the water in the pot onto the ground inches in front of Bart’s bound feet.
Bart’s mouth was very dry. It felt like it was full of cotton. The captain had told him to place a small rock, the size of a marble, in his mouth when water was not available. It would cause saliva to form and satisfy thirst for a while. But rocks weren’t available to him. Looking at the water poured on the ground at his feet only caused Bart’s thirst to become stronger and his anxiety to grow. “It’s the beginning of the torture process,” he reasoned.
Not too long after the boy taunted him with the water, several other boys came, holding sticks about three feet long. They formed a walking ring around Bart, each striking him two or three times. The circle made three rounds before the boys left, leaving Bart in agony. What comes next? he thought as they walked away.
Every muscle in Bart’s body ached, especially his back, due to the awkward posture he was tied in. His hands and feet were numb from the tight bindings. The direct midday sun found him through the branches of the trees, causing sweat to drip into his open wounds. More than an hour passed before men and boys came from the woods carrying armloads of tree branches, which they piled around Bart. Extra limbs were placed off to one side for additional fuel. A man started a small fire thirty feet in front of Bart and placed the ends of five long branches in it. When the tips of the branches were glowing red, the Indians picked them up and advanced toward their prisoner. Bart was already in agony, both physically and emotionally, but he resolved to be brave during his torture and death. He’d act like a man.
The glowing ends of the branches were within inches of Bart’s chest when someone spoke and pointed to Bart’s shirt. He must have given instructions for the shirt to be removed because an Indian immediately stepped forward and jerked it off.
When the necklace on Bart’s bare chest was exposed, the Indians gasped and stepped back, pointing to the necklace. Within seconds, panic started erupting among the Indians with everyone talking at once. Bart had no clue what they were saying, but the reaction of the Indians gave him his first glimmer of hope. Maybe the necklace would buy him some time.
A young Indian ran to the chief’s tepee and spoke loudly in an excited voice. The chief stepped out. He was a well-built, middle-aged man with a headdress of three eagle feathers; a necklace decorated his bare chest. As the chief approached, the crowd separated. For a full minute, the chief stared at Bart’s necklace. Then his eyes became fixed on Bart. The chief seemed puzzled.
He reached for the claws suspended from Bart’s neck, and after a careful examination, gave a nod, indicating their authenticity. When his eyes went to Bart’s facial scar, he placed his forefinger on it and traced the injury from top to bottom. His gaze turned to Bart’s eyes with an unspoken question. How did this happen? He then reached for Bart’s necklace with his right hand, took his own necklace up in his left, and pulled the two together—an act of friendship. Bart looked closely at the chief’s necklace. An eagle’s talon and a wolf’s claw hung from it.
When Bart looked up, he was looking into the chief’s coal black eyes. They stood looking at each other for a few seconds before the chief let Bart’s necklace fall and took three steps backward. His stare continued without a blink. Apparently, the chief was satisfied because he raised his right arm and turned an open palm toward Bart. Remembering, the same gesture from the old chief at Deep Springs, Bart knew he would not be tortured anymore. He was not going to die, at least not today.
The chief turned and gave orders. Bart knew they were commands because the onlookers scurried into action. Two men immediately untied Bart and helped him to the chief’s tepee where he was seated in comfort. Women rubbed salve on his wrists and ankles, which were bleeding from his bindings. Then they placed leaves on them and wrapped them with soft deerskin. They also washed and put salve on his head wound. They even dressed the injuries Bart had received from the boys’ stick beating.
As soon as the medical attention was over, a woman brought a bowl of water and a piece of roasted buffalo meat. Bart drank all of the water and handed the bowl back to the woman for more. She hurried off. He was a little reluctant to eat the meat, but knew hesitating would be insulting, so he picked up the hot meat and started chewing. He was surprised at its flavor. It was delicious, very tender and juicy.
As he ate, another woman came and measured his shoulders, arms, and feet with a length of rawhide. After she had gone, Bart continued eating. When he had finished the meat, a bowl of berries was placed in front of him. Then a second bowl was brought. He smiled with a hand over his stomach, indicating he was full. The woman with the berries returned the smile.
Bart sat in wonderment. He had been well fed and his wounds tended. Most importantly, although he didn’t yet realize it, something special had happened that day with these Indians. A friendship had begun that would change lives.
When Bart started thinking about returning to the wagons, he knew the sooner he returned, the better. People would be sad and worried. He estimated the trip would take four or five hours if he rode Maude. Walking would take considerably longer. Looking at the sun, Bart judged the time to be about four o’clock. He needed to get started if he was going to make it back to camp by sunset.
He started to stand when three women returned with deer skins in their arms. They handed him a shirt and motioned for him to put it on. Bart could feel the softness of the skin as he pulled it over his head. The fit was perfect. Its sleeves had rawhide fringe hanging from them, and the front had beads of all colors interwoven at the neckline. The shirt hung within six inches of his knees.
He thanked the women by smiling and nodding his head. One of them indicated for Bart to sit, patting the stone where he had previously sat. She then pulled his feet forward and placed newly made moccasins on them. They were a good fit.
The chief entered and waved for Bart to follow him outside. The moccasins felt very comfortable as he trailed after the chief who was heading for the horses. Three other men were already mounted with the wagon train’s horses tied behind them. Another held Maude’s reins. The chief motioned for Bart to mount the mule, and then because of Bart’s weakened condition, summoned a bystander to give him a leg up. The chief mounted a black stallion, and they all rode off.
They started for the wagons. At least that’s where Bart guessed they were headed. The black stallion the chief rode took the lead. He walked with an elevated gate and his head held high. Maude ambled along behind the stallion, seeming unconcerned. The other six in the party took their positions behind Maude. The trip to the wagons was quiet. A snort from one of the horses or a hoof click on a rock occasionally sounded.
Finally, they topped the last rise and stood looking down at the wagon train travelers, who were sitting around their fire drinking coffee.
Minutes went by before a woman at the wagons noticed the Indians. She rose, pointed to the hill, and shouted, “Indians!” in a voice that could have been heard for miles. People scattered for safety; the men went for their guns.
“We’re going to be massacred!” shouted a woman. “I knew we’d be killed. We should have turned back to the fort.”
The Indians started downhill and rode within a couple hundred yards of the wagons. “Aren’t those our stolen horses?” someone yelled.
“They sure are,” echoed a voice. “Isn’t that Bart in front of them on his mule?”
The captain looked toward them and commanded, “Hold your fire everyone. These Indians aren’t on the warpath. They’re coming in peace.”
“Douglas, come with me. We’re going out to get Bart,” the captain said with excitement in his voice. The families stood together at the edge of the circle watching them go. Liz stood near the front of the group with her eyes straining toward Bart.
“Hello, Captain. Hello, Mr. Douglas,” called Bart, as the two men approached. “Sure am glad to see you. Meet my new friends. I don’t know their names, but this is the chief.”
After several minutes of talk going back and forth between the chief and the captain, the reins of the three wagon train horses were handed to Douglas. The chief then dismounted and stood in front of Bart with a raised arm and opened palm. Bart mirrored the gesture. Then the chief handed Bart the reins of his black stallion, turned and swung up behind one of his men who rode off at a gallop. As the white men rode back to their wagons, Bart saw Liz run for her wagon.
When Bart arrived and dismounted back at the camp, folks clamored around him, wanting to know what had happened, all speaking at once.
“Folks. Folks,” the captain shouted. “Let’s get our horses hobbled for the night, and then we’ll all gather around the fire and let Bart tell his story. That way he’ll only have to tell it once. We won’t wear him out, and there won’t be any variations.”
The captain continued. “It looks to me like you’re all done in, Bart. Why don’t you go with Mrs. Douglas?” Bart handed the reins to the captain. “Douglas, this stallion is going to be hard to hobble, would you help me?” Mrs. Douglas walked over, took Bart’s hand, and pulled him to her for a long, tight hug. When she released him, Bart asked, “Where’s Liz, Mrs. Douglas?”
“She’s in the wagon, Bart. Give her a little time. She thought you were dead. Actually, we all did, but Liz had the hardest time of it. She tried to be brave, but she’s been in misery. She’ll come to you in a little while.”
An hour after the people had eaten supper and circled around the fire, Bart finished telling his ordeal. He explained all the events of his capture as well as he could. He left out a few of the cruel details, wanting folks to have a kind feeling toward the Indians. People sat talking and asking questions for nearly an hour before drifting away to their wagons for the night.
Douglas, Bart, and the captain were eventually the only ones remaining. They sat in silence, staring at the flames. “What did the chief have to say, Captain?” Bart asked. “I’ve wanted to ask about it ever since we got back to camp, but haven’t had the opportunity.”
The captain replied, “First off, his name is Little Big One, and he’s the grandson of the old chief you helped. He’s tribal chief of nearly five hundred Indians who move about over most of the Colorado Territory.”
“I didn’t see that many in their camp.”
“You saw only one small tribe, Bart. There are several tribes under his authority scattered around this part of the country. He happened to be where you were today. He called you Scarface and referred to you as his young paleface brother because you saved his grandfather’s life. He also said you acted like a brave warrior when you were tortured.”
Time passed, and the only sound was the fire crackling and an occasional coyote howl. Eventually, Douglas and the captain rose. Bart asked, “What about night watchmen, Captain? Aren’t we going to post any?”
“There’s no need to, Bart. The chief said his men would protect us from any renegade Indians. He acknowledged there was a lot of activity in the area, but we shouldn’t worry. He said his people will protect us tonight.”
Bart looked toward the far-off mountains for several seconds before saying, “Captain, it seems like the chief is an honorable man but are you sure we can trust him? Do you think he might be setting us up?”
Douglas interceded with a quick answer, “Bart, he wouldn’t have returned you if his people had ill thoughts toward you or plans against us. I don’t have the experience of the captain, but I believe we’ll be safe.”
“Herb’s right,” reflected the captain. “When an Indian of Little Big One’s reputation gives his word, you can be sure he means it. I’d bet my last dollar on it.”
“What about the horse? What am I to do with him?” Bart asked.
“The chief said he was a great stallion among the Indian tribes. A horse with very strong parents. He could become the foundation of a top-notch horse breeding program, Bart, a horse you could build your future around. You can tell by his soundness and conformation he’d sire very good offspring,” said the captain.
You’d better be careful around him,” interjected Mr. Douglas, “he’s a spirited horse, and stallions can be very dangerous.”
“Yes,” said the captain. “The chief said only a strong man should handle him, that women and boys should stay away from him.”
“Does that include me, Captain?” asked Bart.
“Yes, it does, at least for the next week or so, till we arrive in Flat Peaks.”
Douglas and the captain started for their wagons, but Bart remained behind sitting by the fire, recalling everything that had happened to him. He gazed toward the far-off hills and thought he saw the silhouette of an Indian slipping from one boulder to another. Hopefully, it was one of his new friends. The camp was quiet, and overhead the sky was full of twinkling stars. Bart was at peace with himself. Once again, some divine power has provided for my well-being.
The night air got chilly, and Bart was about to head for his bedroll when he heard someone coming up behind him. He didn’t turn. He knew who it was. Without words, Liz sat down beside him. He looked at her in the reflection of the fire that brightened her face. Her hair was straggly, and her freckles were magnified by the light. Bart turned and matched her stare toward the flickering fire without uttering a word. Only the crackling sound of burning wood could be heard. The two sat in silence for several minutes before Liz rose and headed for the wagon. Bart joined her. After a few steps, she paused, seeming to be in deep thought. Then she turned and with a shaky but commanding voice said, “Bart Carter, I wish you would either stay dead or stay alive. I can’t stand much more of this.”
Chapter Eighteen
The following days were uneventful. There was a rising expectation among the group that the remaining travel days would be safe and their dreams of reaching their new homesteads were at hand. Everyone was more sociable at breaks. During the nightly stops, laughter and smiles abounded as they sat in a circle around the fire, drinking coffee and listening to Mr. Dubia’s fiddle music. Spirits were high for everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Kaiser. Mr. Kaiser’s health had deteriorated to the point he couldn’t leave their wagon, forcing Mrs. Kaiser to stay at his side most of the time. People helped whenever they could, but deep down, all knew Mr. Kaiser wouldn’t last much longer.
Days were getting shorter and the nights cooler. To keep on schedule, Captain Willard started their morning travels in the dark and didn’t stop at night until the last glimmer of sunlight.
The people had eaten their evening meal in darkness and were sitting around the campfire drinking coffee when the captain rose and stood in the flickering light. “Folks, listen up,” he called. “We’ve only two more days of travel. We’ll hold our
last camp on the trail tomorrow night about ten miles from Flat Peaks, and we’ll complete our journey around noon the following day, so you need to make plans. Folks at Flat Peaks are usually helpful but don’t expect them to have everything laid out for you. You’ve noticed the mornings are chilly even though it warms up by midmorning, but within six weeks, snow will be flying and the temperature will be down in the twenties or even the teens. Your first priorities when we arrive should be to arrange for housing, cut your winter’s supply of wood, and gather enough food to last the winter. Don’t forget your livestock. I’ll be staying around Flat Peaks for a couple of weeks. If you need help, let me know.” The captain answered several questions before excusing himself for the night.
The next morning’s trail had an uphill terrain that ran parallel to the mountains a few miles to the north. Dark-bottomed snow clouds surrounded the mountain tops all morning, but by midday, the clouds cleared, revealing snow along the ridge lines. The air was noticeably thinner, causing the rest stops to be more frequent.
The captain’s warning about having a plan constantly occupied Bart’s mind. He was ashamed of himself for not being prepared. What was he to do? He had enough money to last the winter holed up in a hotel or boarding house, but that was wasteful. He wanted to follow his father’s advice and use the money to invest in the future. He was deep in these thoughts when the captain rode up.
After a few minutes of small talk, the captain asked Bart if he knew what he was going to do, if he had made any plans. Bart was silent. He was embarrassed to tell the captain he had no plans at all. He felt like a wet-behind-the-ears little boy, incapable of making decisions.
They rode on in companionable silence before the captain tried again. “Has Douglas talked to you about staying with them?” he asked in a lackadaisical voice.
“No, sir,” answered Bart. “I don’t want to be a bother to them any longer.”
They rode wordless for another mile or so before the captain broke the silence. “Bart, I promised to take you hunting, so we could continue your shooting lessons. This is the only evening left. Would you like to go?”
