Snake Oil

by Fenton Sadler

  Morton’s mind was beginning to turn now towards what would be the practicalities of his situation when once they reached town.

  ‘First thing we’ll need to do when we reach Claremont is make some provision for you,’ he said to Keyhole. ‘I can’t be sharing living quarters with a girl-child; that would hardly be fitting. Although I can’t say what we’re going to do. I’m sorry for you, being orphaned and all, but I’d be less than honest if I didn’t remark that you’re a complication I could well have done without. Meaning no offence, mind.’

  The little girl smiled at Morton, a bright, good-natured and open grin. She was obviously feeling pleased with life, which was, when you considered matters, very odd indeed.

  While Morton was puzzling over this he noticed that one of the flankers who had been sent out by the captain was no longer mounted on his horse, but had fallen from the saddle and was being dragged along by one ankle. Even then, Morton did not catch on at once, but wondered why the fool didn’t make any effort to free himself from the stirrup and remount his horse.

  A fraction of a second later, the answer came to him: that the rider was dead and had been killed not by a gun, which even at that distance they would have heard, but probably by an arrow. In the time that it took Morton to put all this together, which was no more than a second or two, the attack began.

  The Comanches along with their Kiowa allies had gathered a formidable force of horsemen together and ridden ahead of the artillery column, waiting patiently at the ideal point for an ambush. The riders had been concealed from view behind the rocky bluffs, which obscured the view of the road ahead. They had presumably been signalling to scouts on the cliffs overlooking the road, keeping themselves informed in this way of the progress of the army as it plodded north.

  In retrospect, of course, it was absurd to think that the Comanches would allow anybody to massacre their families and burn their villages without seeking vengeance. Morton cursed himself for a fool, because he should have realized this and not allowed himself to accept help from the Yankees. How ironic if now he were to end up being killed alongside a bunch of soldiers of the Union!

  As the riders streamed out from behind the rocky hills ahead of them the captain tried to arrange his men for defence. To his credit, he gave thought, even at this critical time, to the children in Morton’s care. The officer rode up and said to Morton: ‘I’m putting the wagons and guns in a circle. You and those children can stay there. You might be safe.’ Before Morton could thank him, the captain had spurred on his horse and was off again.

  Jack Morton had seen enough military engagements to know that this particular episode was not likely to end well for the soldiers. While the men were doing their best to move their various wagons, limbers and fieldpieces into a rough circle, the cavalry was milling about, waiting for orders that were not forthcoming. None of the troopers wished to take it upon himself to ride out and attack the Indians without specific orders to do so.

  The horses that had been pulling the artillery were now unharnessed and the various loads were being pushed into position by sweating men. To Morton, this was quite mad. They would have done better to cut and run, leaving the heavy equipment behind. Then again, he supposed that the senior officer, at a safe distance from the battle, might object to field guns being abandoned and even allowed to fall into the hands of the Indians.

  As he huddled behind a limber, his arms protectively around the two children for whom he was responsible, Morton reflected that all battles seemed to end up like this, with men shouting and running round like headless chickens. However the generals or the chiefs planned things, it always came down to frightened men shooting randomly at those on the other side. Sometimes the winner was the side whose men were less apt to run than their opponents, at other times it was because by good fortune one side happened to have more powder and shot than those they were facing. Seldom, though, were such engagements decided by military strategy or because of individual bravery. War was always confusion, chaos and mess.

  In the present situation, the Indians were fighting to defend their territory, which always gave an advantage in battle. They had also had time beforehand to figure out what they would do. The Federal forces, on the other hand, had had no thought of fighting until two minutes ago. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, thought Morton, this will be a regular massacre.

  So it proved, as the riders harried the men who were on foot and trying to heave the wagons and guns into some kind of defensive arrangement. The cavalry, who should by now have been riding out and keeping the enemy at bay, were sitting and waiting for orders that did not come. They were firing their carbines at the attackers, which was good, but otherwise they were doing nothing.

  It was impossible to say how many men were attacking the column. Certainly at least a couple of hundred, thought Morton. They weren’t using lances and bows, either; all the riders appeared to be carrying rifles. The tactics the Comanches were using were pretty sound as well. They were moving swiftly, stopping every so often to fire at the men who were working to build the defences. While some were doing this, a group had split off and were beginning to draw near to the cavalry, trying to lure them into close-quarter combat.

  At last the captain got round to issuing orders to the men on horseback. A bugle sounded and they formed up, ready to advance. Then, to Morton’s amazement and horror, he saw that the men had drawn their sabres and were preparing to charge like that, with swords in their hands. He could only think that this was the standard army response to dealing with an Indian attack: to give them a taste of cold steel.

  This would be all well and good if their foe was a rabble of savages armed with nothing more deadly than sticks and knives. That was not at all the case here, though, and sending swordsmen against men with rifles was, to Morton’s mind, madness.

  Although his main concern was to keep the children safe by hunkering down in the most sheltered spot, Morton occasionally risked a quick look around; every such glance confirmed his suspicions: that the soldiers were coming off worst. Those fools who had trotted off waving their sabres had, just as he thought they would, been cut down by rifle fire before they had much of a chance of using their brightly polished swords. The rest of the troops, including the captain who was, it appeared, the most senior officer present, were now in the crude ring of wagons, carts and ammunition limbers.

  By chance, the officer commanding the column ended up right alongside Morton and his charges. He might have given the order for those troopers of his to ride out holding their sabres, but Morton could not help but notice that rather than draw his own sword, he was instead cradling a carbine. The shooting was now more or less continuous from both sides and Morton was wondering how much longer they had to live. He had, during the war, come across an army unit that had fallen into the hands of Indians and the memory of what had been done to those men haunted his thoughts for many days afterwards. The Indians were nothing if not inventive when it came to dealing with their enemies.

  Still clasping the baby in his arms, Morton risked a look above the parapet. He gasped in astonishment. There, as large as life, was Stormcloud; wearing a magnificent war bonnet of eagle’s feathers, which were dyed crimson at the tips. At the very moment that he recognized the Comanche warrior, the captain raised his rifle and prepared to fire. Instinctively, Morton knocked the rifle up, causing the shot to go wild. The officer turned to face Morton and in his eyes Morton could see the bitter confirmation of the suspicions that he had entertained about the man he had rescued on the road. The officer opened his mouth to speak, preparing to reproach Morton perhaps for his treachery, when a ball took him in the side of his head, sending him toppling sideways. Then Stormcloud was shouting commands at the riders surrounding the makeshift stockade, and the firing raggedly died down, leaving an eerie silence.

  Morton looked round and saw that not a single soldier remained alive. He supposed that he had been spared, because he had not been taking an active part in the fighting an
d nobody had thought to fire at him. Then a shadow fell upon him and he realized that a rider had come right up to the flimsy wooden barrier behind which he was cowering.

  He looked up to see Stormcloud staring down at him impassively. The child he had come to know as Keyhole saw her father and, giving a squeal of delight, wriggled from Morton’s arms and jumped up to greet her father. He smiled back at her gravely. Then he caught Morton’s eye with his own and said quietly: ‘Moreton.’

  ‘Well,’ said Morton, ‘I guess you’ll be taking your daughter back again. She’s pleasant company, but I won’t deny I’ll be glad to have only the one helpless infant to care for. I ain’t cut out for to be a nursemaid and that’s the fact of the matter.’

  The other Indians watched this transaction impassively. There was no telling how much Stormcloud had told them about entrusting his daughter to the safekeeping of this white man. At any rate, it did not look to Morton as if he was about to be scalped this very minute, so he stood up, holding Robert carefully.

  ‘Well,’ he said to Stormcloud, ‘if you could let me take one of the horses, I reckon I’ll be on my way.’

  At least one of the Comanches must have understood English, because a riderless horse was led forward: a cavalry mount. Just as Morton was about to step into the saddle little Keyhole ran up and flung her arms around his legs. He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Then, since there seemed no point in staying any longer, he mounted up, a little more awkwardly than usual for having the burden of an infant in his arms, and set off towards Claremont.

  Chapter 11

  Even as he started north, leaving the massacre behind him, Jack Morton’s mind was working furiously. He wasn’t overly distressed at the death of those cavalry and artillerymen. After all, they had put themselves beyond the pale by their behaviour in Palo Duro. Even at the height of the War Between the States, when emotions were raging at fever pitch, neither side would have attacked villages like that, shelling women and children. No, as far as Morton was concerned those boys had got what was coming to them.

  He might have his own private opinions on the destruction of that column, but Morton didn’t expect everybody to feel the same way about it. There were those who would accuse him of not knowing where his loyalties lay if he were to express his honest views on the subject too openly.

  This touched upon another question. It would be tactless and could even prove dangerous for him to ride into Claremont on a cavalry horse. There was an army brand on its rump and the saddle and ammunition pouches also declared that this animal and its tack were the rightful property of the United States cavalry. Once news of the massacre spread, it would be pretty unhealthy to be thought of as one who had had a hand in the business.

  His musings were interrupted by Robert, who began whimpering.

  ‘What’s the matter, fella,’ Morton asked him. ‘Hunger, thirst, or pain in the teeth department?’

  The baby was thirsty and probably wanted milk, but that had all run out now. All that Morton was able to offer was a few sips from the canteen attached to the saddle. In his bag was a few mouthfuls of the pap that the child lived on.

  Morton looked up at the sun, trying to gauge whether it was yet noon. He hoped that the officer who assured him that they would be in town a little after noon had been right. He truly didn’t know what would happen if they were compelled to spend another night out in the open. He was himself tired of sleeping rough, but he feared that it might be the death of the child if he were not able to rest in clean sheets and be properly fed and watered soon. This was no sort of life for an infant.

  After they had been travelling for perhaps an hour and a half Morton saw, shimmering on the horizon, what he at first thought might be a mirage; the kind of illusory visions that one sees on hot days in the desert. But it wasn’t remarkably hot, nor was he in a desert. He reined in and scanned the distant landscape carefully. This was no mirage; the image was wavering only because of the warm air rising from the dusty soil that lay between him and his destination. This could only be the town of Claremont. It was not possible to calculate how far off he was from the town; it could be anything between ten and twenty miles. The high ground that the road passed through here gave Morton a view that extended a good long way ahead of him. Whatever the distance, it could hardly take him more than two hours before he was back in civilization.

  For a moment, Morton was gripped with panic when he thought that he was unable to recollect the name of the man given to him by Robert’s mother. That would be the hell of a thing, to fetch up in a strange town without any idea of what to do with the baby. He soon recalled the Christian name. Martin. It took some little time though to bring forth Catchpole from the deeper recesses of his memory. Martin Catchpole; that was one peculiar name, but it had the virtue of being distinctive. There probably weren’t two men in that little town both of whom were called Martin Catchpole.

  It was hard to know how he was to go about this little errand. Without doubt, this Catchpole fellow would be pleased to see his grandson, but being simultaneously informed of his daughter’s death might be calculated to take the edge off his pleasure in the family reunion. Perhaps, thought Morton, there would be some female relative who could be enlisted both to take charge of the baby and also break the sad news to the child’s grandfather. That would be a perfect solution, all things considered. Jack Morton had never been one for a heap of wailing and weeping and he strongly suspected that there was going to be a mort of such things when he handed over the infant, along with the news of the circumstances surrounding his acquisition of the same.

  When he was a mile or so from the outskirts of the town, having already passed a few farms, Morton dismounted and set Robert on the ground. Then he removed the saddle and bridle from the horse and sent the animal on its way with a slap on the flank. He would present an uncommon enough aspect as it was, entering the town carrying a baby, without the added complication of riding a horse that had been stolen from the US Cavalry. Morton was keenly aware that he cut a most disreputable figure, having lived and slept in these same clothes for some little while now. He had only the shoulder bag, which contained a couple of clean diapers for the child, a pot holding a little food and, of course, his pistol.

  The odd looks and sidelong glances began as soon as he reached the streets of the town. Claremont wasn’t a large place and most people living there knew, or at the very least recognized, one another. Not only was Morton a stranger, he looked like a disreputable vagabond. All this might have passed without remark, had it not been for the extraordinary fact that this tough-looking customer was cradling a baby. Such a sight had never before been seen in Claremont and it didn’t take long for word to spread that there was a rare curiosity to be seen on Main Street.

  Claremont was a respectable town, which managed in the general run of things to discourage hobos and drifters. Morton knew that his appearance contrasted sharply with that of the other folk he passed on the boardwalk, but there was little enough to be done about it. He could see women eyeing him askance and whispering to each other, while mothers called their children to them, presumably in case he should snatch them away and carry them off somewhere.

  After a while he had had enough of this and was on the point of bearding the next passer-by and asking where Martin Catchpole was to be found. Before he could do so, a rival attraction appeared on Main Street, which drew attention away from Morton. Two black horses pulling a sombre, black-painted wagon approached, followed by a crowd of men and women dressed as though they were on their way to church. As the wagon drew closer Morton could see a pine casket lying in it, surrounded by flowers and wreaths of leaves.

  Bowing his head in respect, Morton was relieved to find that people in the street had transferred their attention from him to the funeral as it passed. After the little procession had gone by he decided that the time had come to rid himself of his burden and to track down this young fellow’s real kith and kin. He stopped an elderly party and asked wh
ere he might be able to find Martin Catchpole.

  ‘Catchpole, did you say?’ enquired the old man, ‘Martin Catchpole? Why, you just missed him, son.’

  ‘I did? Could you point him out for me, do you think?’

  ‘Certainly. You see that wagon going along the way, with a heap of folk trailing after it?’

  ‘The funeral? Sure I see it. Is Catchpole among the mourners?’

  ‘No, my boy,’ said the man, ‘he has a more important part to play than merely being one of the extras, as you might say. He has the starring role.’

  ‘I don’t rightly understand you sir.’

  ‘Bless you, I thought I made my meaning clear enough. Martin Catchpole is dead. That there is his funeral.’

  Jack Morton stared blankly at the old man, scarcely able to believe his senses. This was indeed an unlooked for development.

  ‘When did he die?’ he asked.

  ‘Not above forty-eight hours since. Had the apoplexy and just dropped dead where he was standing.’

  ‘Did he leave any kin?’

  ‘His daughter was the only kin he had. She upped and left about two year since. Married some young fellow as Catchpole didn’t take to. Rumour was that he cut her off without a cent. But what’s your interest in the late and sadly lamented, if I might ask?’

  ‘I have something of his. Doesn’t he have any other relatives in town?’

  ‘No; after his wife died some years back there was just him and his daughter. They didn’t get on right well, from all I heard.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Morton walked away from the old man almost in a daze. His plans had all centred around passing this infant on to somebody else and then going on his way. Now, that no longer appeared to be possible. He sat down on a log lying on its side that some thoughtful person had provided for those who wished to take the weight off their feet for a while. Robert was disposed to whine a little, so Morton took out the bottle of snake oil and applied a little to the child’s gums. That was the end of the bottle. There was a very small amount of food remaining and he absent-mindedly spooned that into the child’s mouth.