Slipping from the saddle, he knelt by the stream and lowered his head down to the water to drink deeply, then splashed his face and wiped it with his neckerchief. After watering his horses, he went back to a tree and sat down to wait for the rest of the party to catch up. It was relatively cool in the shade, and the trickling sound of the brook made him drowsy.
A sense of well-being suffused him, a strange sensation considering the constant threat of a Sioux raid, but the six weeks with the survey party had been the most peaceful time he’d known since before the war. Taking out his pipe, he lit it and considered the trip, thinking of how fortunate they’d been up until now. The party consisted of Brown and himself as engineers, and a full crew of rodmen, chainmen, axmen, flagmen and teamsters to handle the considerable train of wagons and pack animals. Brown had argued for a professional hunter, the usual practice in regions like this, but there had not been one available. Mark had proven his worth at once to Brown, for he had had no trouble bringing in plenty of game.
“You’re as good as a professional hunter,” Brown had remarked. “Where’d you learn to hunt like that?”
“My grandfather was a mountain man,” Mark explained. “And my father’s one-quarter Indian. I learned a lot from them.”
Brown stared at him. “Your grandfather—would that be Christmas Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard plenty about him,” Brown said, and looked at his assistant with new respect. “And if you’re part Indian, I hope that means you know a little bit about these Sioux.”
Mark had shrugged. “Not as much as my father. He always knew what to do.”
But no trouble had come, which worried Mark. He said as much to Brown later that night when the main party pulled up. Mark had dressed the antelope he had shot, and soon the delicious smell of fresh cooked meat filled the air. Mark sat down with Peter Brown and the two of them ate slowly.
“Any sign of Indians, Mark?” Brown asked.
“Not that I’ve seen—but I’ve got a feeling they’re out there. My hair won’t lie down on the back of my neck. I feel just like I did the night before I went up the hill with General Pickett.”
They had come over a hundred and fifty miles across the Laramie Plains, a lush and rolling grassland where great herds of buffalo and antelope grazed—an age-old hunting ground that the Sioux would surely defend with jealous fury. In the spring of the year the tribes’ supplies of winter meat were depleted and their hunting parties usually ranged far and wide, so it troubled Mark that they had seen none.
He and Brown had to proceed well out in front of the rest of the expedition—the most vulnerable position of all. It was Brown’s responsibility to determine the over-all line to be followed, working from rough maps prepared by earlier reconnaissances, and to designate reference points in the terrain for the surveyors who followed. He had quickly learned to trust Mark’s judgment, and it was a relief to have someone to share the responsibility. A half mile or more separated the front and rear flagmen, with the rodmen and chainmen strung out between. These middlemen laid down the actual right of way, recording distances, compass directions and elevations, and putting down stakes to guide the final location crews that would come later, just ahead of the graders. The pack train plodded in the wake of the rear flagman, and the axmen worked along the line as needed, clearing away trees, brush and other obstructions to give a clear line of sight for the transits.
Mark said suddenly, “You know, Pete, the way we’re strung out—it’s the worst formation possible. I can’t understand why the Sioux haven’t picked some of us off by this time.”
“Maybe they’re going to be peaceful this summer.”
“You’re the only one who believes that.” Mark sipped his scalding black coffee and mused, “They’ll run out of meat next winter and come into the forts promising to be good. But right now they’re mean and full of meat. Just like I’d be if somebody’d come to take my land.”
“A funny way for a railroad man to think,” Brown said soberly. “You understand that this railroad means the end of the Indian way of life?”
“It’s gone already,” Mark said, and if he had any grief, none of it showed on his face. “Someday there won’t be any signal fires on the horizon, Pete. All this will be little farms and villages.”
Peter Brown shrugged, “Well, just let me get this survey done and I’ll thank the good Lord for it. My big ambition is to get back to St. Louis and marry Molly.” He took an envelope out of his pocket and asked, “Did I ever show you a picture of the girl I’m gonna marry, Mark?”
“Not today.” Mark took the tintype and peered at it by the light of the flickering lantern. Molly Penrose was no beauty in anyone’s sight, but the young engineer spent long hours gazing at her picture, and Mark had heard every detail of her virtues many times over. “Wish I could be at the wedding,” he commented, then an owl hooted and he swung about abruptly, listening hard. Brown leaped up and peered out into the darkness. “Blast you, Mark Winslow!” he exclaimed. “You give me the willies—got me seeing Indians behind every bush!”
The next day at dusk, however, Mark’s fears proved well-founded. Sioux raiders cut off a wood detail at dawn. The first Mark or Brown knew of it was when the detail got back, breathless and scared witless.
“I was standing beside John Clair,” a young axman named Stevens said, “and I heard something go thunk. When I looked around, there was John pulling at this arrow that went clear through his chest!” He licked his lips and whispered. “I—I tried to pull it out, but he died right off. We had to fight our way back with ’em shootin’ at us all the way, and I couldn’t even see ’em!”
Mark decided quickly, “We’ll have to throw a ring around the camp. Every man get his rifle.”
“Ain’t you going out to get them Indians?” Stevens demanded.
Mark looked at him in disbelief. “You can go hunting a Sioux war party in the dark if you want to. I’ll wait for dawn.”
Brown said, “I heard that Indians won’t attack at night.”
“Some won’t, these Sioux will try it anytime,” Mark said. “Half of us will stand guard till midnight, the others will take over then.” With his military background, it seemed natural for him to assume command, and Brown felt better with the ex-officer giving orders.
All night the men lay with their rifles ready, keeping an uneasy watch. At the first gray of dawn the enemy struck with a flurried drumming of hoofs in the half-dark. Mark heard it first, and yelled, “Here they come! Wait till you get something in your sights to shoot!” There was a quick yelp of war whoops, then a spatter of rifle fire and the hissing whisper of arrows. Mark moved up and down the line, giving advice and calming the men.
A yell down the line caught his attention and he whirled and raced toward it. A group of ten or fifteen Indian ponies had broken through. “Hold the line!” he yelled. “Don’t break the line!” He joined the fray, pausing to put two Indians on the ground with as many shots from his Spencer. His Spencer bullets expended, he yanked out his pistol and advanced, firing as he went. The Indians had seen him, and a pair of them, still mounted, turned their horses and came at him screaming. He knocked the first one off, but his second shot missed and the pony crashed into him, throwing him to the ground. Revolverless, he looked up to see the muzzle of the Indian’s rifle centered squarely on him. A moment later, the warrior fell over backward, fatally struck by a bullet. Mark rolled over to see Brown, who had shot the Indian, coming at him. “We’ve got to hold ’em off, Mark!” he yelled.
The men continued to fire at the Indians who had broken into the camp, advancing as they shot, until the warriors left in a rush, hunching low on their horses. The firing went on spasmodically over to Mark’s left, but he said, “I think that’s it. They’ll probably pull back now.”
He was right, and five minutes later a calm came over the camp. “Let’s see how much damage they’ve done to us,” Brown said with a pale face.
“Pete—
thanks,” Mark said. “You saved my life.”
“I was scared spitless,” Brown admitted. “Still am.”
“No matter. You stuck to your guns. That’s what counts.”
“Never been in a fight,” Brown said in a voice of shaky wonder. “Always wondered if I’d have the grit to face up to it.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed you’d never seen action before. You did fine, Pete!”
They had lost four men, with five more wounded. Six Sioux lay where they had fallen. Brown looked toward Mark. “We’ll have to bury the dead right away.”
A grave digging detail was set to work, and by ten that morning the company stood at the common grave for a brief service. Brown read from a New Testament and said a halting remark or two, then turned away saying, “Get the burying over with.”
“It’s so hard, Mark!” he said bitterly. “Take young Clark. He was engaged, just like me. This morning he had the world—now it’s all over for him.” He gave Mark a queer glance. “I guess you’re used to this, being in the army and all.”
“You never get used to it,” Mark said in a clipped tone. “At least I never do.” Then he shook his shoulders as though throwing off the gloom. “We’ve got to get moving. The men are plenty spooked.”
“Think they’ll hit us again?”
“Probably. They can live on almost nothing, and we’ve got to haul all our supplies. They’ll wait until we get careless, then take another try.”
“Maybe we ought to go back and get some troops.”
“Up to you, Pete. You’re the man in charge.”
He watched Brown struggle with the decision, remembering well his own struggles over such things. It was a thing some men could not do, and he was not sure about Peter Brown. It took something special to lead men into situations where they might be killed. General McClelland, for all his other good qualities, could never do it. Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson could. Because of them, the South lasted as long as it did in the unequal struggle.
“We’ll go on,” Brown said. “But we’ve got to send word to General Dodge about this. Might mean trouble for the UP. Clark was the nephew of Thurlow Weed, an influential newspaperman from New York.”
A messenger pulled out at once, and the rest of the party continued on. They forded the North Platte River and headed into the Red Desert beyond. This was rough country, a region of bleak rust sandstone, wind-tortured mesas, and arid earth clumped sparsely with the dull gray-green of sagebrush and crusted with bitter alkali deposits. The land seemed devoid of life. But the Overland Stage ran along its southern edge, and Sioux war parties had long been accustomed to riding across it to and from their raids southward.
The men grew surly, wanting to turn back, and the maps were inaccurate and misleading. Several times they missed the scanty watercourses, and by the end of the month, a hundred miles out in the wasteland, they were in poor shape.
At supper, Brown remarked, “I can’t shake this feeling that trouble’s coming, Mark. Guess I’m superstitious.”
They were sitting down, drinking coffee, and Mark looked out into the darkness. “Sometimes it’s more than superstition that makes you sense something’s out to get you. Had that feeling a lot during the war. I’ve got it right now.”
“Think we ought to turn back?”
Mark studied the fire, then said, “Maybe so, Pete. The men are about played out. We need a big show of force here.”
“I was hoping you’d say that!” Pete grinned. “Didn’t want to suggest it, but it sounds good to me. We’ll turn back first thing in the morning.”
They got an early start, breaking camp while the stars still glittered in the blackness of the sky. Mark cautioned the men to keep as quiet as possible, but as the pack train clattered along the hard-baked floor of the desert he knew that subterfuge was impossible. “Let’s make a quick trip, Pete,” he said as dawn fired the tops of the buttes to their left. “They know where we are anyway. Maybe we can get close enough to Fort Sanders by afternoon to send for an escort.”
Brown nodded, and they moved along the line to spread the word to the men. Noon came, and they stopped long enough to eat a hurried dinner, then forged ahead.
It was after three when they came to a small canyon, framed by rising cliffs of red sandstone on each side. Mark had gone back to ride at the rear of the column, and Brown, unaware of the Sioux habit of using such terrain for an ambush, led the party into it. They were almost half way through when a shot rang out, and a man pitched to the ground.
At once a fusillade of shots followed, and Mark moved toward the front at a dead gallop. The men were trying to return the fire, but firing up at the shadowy targets was utterly ineffective. “Pete!” Mark yelled. “Get moving! We’ve got to get out of this canyon!”
Brown shouted, “Men! Come on!” and wheeled his big bay. He had not gone twenty feet when a slug struck him in the body, knocking him to the ground. The terrified men galloped past him, seeking cover from the deadly fire, but Mark stopped and lifted him up. He spared no words, but shoved Brown across the saddle, swung up behind him, and spurred his horse into a dead run. Lead whizzed past his ears, kicking up small geysers of dust, but miraculously Mark emerged from the canyon unhurt.
“Make for that hill!” he yelled, and the others, seeing him driving his horse to a rise of ground spotted with large broken rocks, followed. Even as the last of them reached the crest and threw themselves off their exhausted mounts, a file of mounted warriors erupted from a hidden ravine and Mark yelled, “Patterson, take five men and get the horses back out of the line of fire! Stay with them—we’re dead men without them! The rest of you, take shelter and hold your fire until I give the order! We’re not going to make it if we don’t stop this charge!”
They all waited as the screaming warriors drove their mounts up the hill, and it was not until they were twenty feet away that Mark yelled, “Fire!” The volley that followed emptied at least a dozen horses, and knocked down at least that many of the Indian ponies. It broke the charge, and the Sioux raiders faded like ghosts.
“They’ll be back,” Mark said. “Get your rifles loaded. Mallon, look after the canteens. We’re going to need that water!” He wheeled and ran to where he had put Brown in the shadow of a huge rock. The engineer was lying on his back, clutching his stomach, the crimson blood staining his hands.
“Let me take a look, Pete,” Mark said. He pulled the man’s hands away and saw what he had feared. The bullet had taken Brown squarely in the stomach. He’d seen enough of such injuries in the war to know that the young man would have been better off if the bullet had hit him in the brain. There was, Winslow realized grimly, nothing but a horrible death ahead for Brown.
“It’s—bad, isn’t it, Mark?”
Winslow made himself smile. “We’ll take care of you, Pete. Let me get a bandage on that wound.” He removed shreds of clothing from the area, talking to Brown steadily, calling for Roger Mallon to bring the medical kit. He dressed the wound and gave Brown a huge dose of laudanum, hoping that it would put him out, which it did.
Mallon stayed close, and when he got Winslow alone, he whispered, “He’s bought it, ain’t he, sir?”
Mark shook his head, but said only, “I want you to stay with him, Roger. I’ll be close, but I’ve got to organize the defense. All of us are going to be dead if we don’t watch it.”
All that late afternoon the Sioux kept up a steady fire, and Mark had to keep warning the men to save their ammunition. He called the three men who were leaders of the party to him and told them, “We’re not out of this thing yet. They’ve got us pinned down, and they know we haven’t got any help coming.”
“How about sending someone to Fort Sanders for soldiers?” one of them asked.
“No single man would ever get through,” Mark said. “What we’re going to have to do is fight an orderly retreat. In the morning we’ll all move out together. We’ll take it slow, with an advance guard to clean out anything that’s in front of
us. A rear guard will cover the party. The land is flat and the Indians are poor shots as a rule. We’ll put our best marksmen in front and in the rear, and we’ll move slowly. They’ll try to scatter us, and if we let them do it, we’re goners. But if we stay close and don’t panic, they’ll have to give up.”
He spoke firmly, but he knew more than anyone else how slim their chances were. It was suddenly as though he were pulled back in time, to one of Stonewall’s expeditions, when they had been cut off from help and surrounded by large Union forces. We got out of that, so even if I’m not Stonewall Jackson, I guess we’ve got a chance.
All night long he sat beside Peter Brown. He offered him more laudanum, but Brown stared at him and said, “No. If I’m dying, Mark, I want to stay awake.” The pain came and went, and he talked about the men, how he wanted them to make it. He slipped into a half-conscious state until about three in the morning, when he called suddenly, “Mark—you there?”
“Right here, Pete.”
The dying man reached out his hand, and Winslow took it. “Are you a Christian, Mark?”
“No. My folks are all Christians—but I’ve been a black sheep.”
Brown thought about that, then said, “I’ve been a Christian since I was seventeen years old. Got saved at a revival in St. Joe.” He took a deep breath as the pain hit him, his grip tightening on Mark’s hand. He looked up and despite the pain in his eyes, he was not afraid. “Sure am glad about that, Mark. I’d hate to go out without knowing things were all right.”
“I’m . . . glad for you, Pete.” Winslow’s voice was unsteady. “Can I take any messages for you?”
Brown’s eyes fluttered and his chest moved rapidly. He tried to speak, and Mark had to lean forward to hear. “Tell—Molly—tell her I loved her best of all.” His back arched, and he gave a rasping sigh. Mark thought he was gone, but his eyelids fluttered, and Peter continued, “And . . . tell my folks . . . I died believing in Jesus . . . and Mark . . .” Blood flooded his mouth as he fought to speak. “Mark . . . I . . . want you . . . to believe . . . too!”
The Union Belle Page 12
