West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  And to add insult to injury, I feel the first few drops of rain we’ve seen in weeks.

  “Shelter, fire, food,” I say studying the heavens. “You, Sam and the ladies take on that chore until we get back to help.”

  “And you and Ian?” he asks.

  “We’re going after the stock. We may need to ride out of here.”

  “Well, we got plenty of building materials,” Alex says. “Planks and timber all over the damn country.”

  “Keep a sharp eye. Every savage for ten miles around heard that blast, and I’ll be surprised if they don’t come at a gallop.”

  “Let’s go,” I yell to Ian. “We may not have much time.”

  The tracks of our stock leads over the top of the ridge. And around a thick forest that dies out onto the plains.

  As we top the bluff that borders the east side of the river, we push into that forest, a thick tangle of chokecherry trees. Hard to move thru as their limbs hang to the ground and with the recent cooling weather are devoid of leaves...but still too thick to see through. We’re barely into the trees when two fat deer break out ahead of us. Mule deer I’d guess by the size of their ears. The horse and mule tracks had led up the bottom of the ravine and around the forest, but for some reason my hunter's instinct said not to follow. So instead I lead Ian into the tangle of limbs until we have to drop to all fours to get through. Not an easy task as I carry my Sharps and Ian is a big man, not made for tight places.

  I suck in a deep breath and hush Ian, who’s complaining behind me as he’s having to break brush to move forward.

  And it's good I'm low to the ground, as two hundred yards beyond the edge of the thicket, a half dozen savages circle the four mules and five big mares. Sadie, my lead mare, is the nearest to an Indian who has dismounted from his paint horse. He's walking slowly toward her, as she's dragging a lead rope and is obviously a domestic animal. As is my habit—from almost two years a military man—I assess their armament. It seems only two of them carry long arms. I have no idea how many might have side arms. The other four have spears. The one on foot has driven his spear into the earth near his horse and merely dropped the reins.

  They are bare-chested, hair to mid-back, some braided, some not. A single feather hangs from headbands of some. All wear leggings of elk or buffalo skin, some with moccasins to the knee. None of them are painted up as I understand they do when preparing for battle, and it gives me some consolation.

  I have no idea who these men are, they could be friendly.

  But, odds are, not.

  I scan the horizon as best I can from my low position, and see no more sign of life, other than a herd of antelope, maybe forty strong, in the distance. Too far a distance for a shot, even if we weren’t facing another band of hunters. Hunters who may think of us as prey.

  I know there are Sioux, Cheyenne, Kiowa and Arikara about, as two trappers were among those on board the Eagle and I listened to their conversations every chance I had, and they have claimed to know the tribes of the savages we've seen from the boat. But I have no idea how to tell one savage from the other, or one who wants to take my hair from one who wants to trade and live as neighbors—and hearing the trappers tell it, there are few of those.

  "We can't lose the stock," I say in a low voice to Ian.

  "Better the stock than our scalps," he says.

  "Move back into the trees so you can't be spotted, and run if you wish. I'm going out there."

  "You're a damn fool," he says, seemingly slightly astonished, then irritated. "And a bigger damn fool if you think I'd run.”

  "Probably I am a damn fool from any angle, but I’m not losing my stake." But I get to my feet and move forward, my Sharps at the ready.

  I only carry a half dozen balls with me, having left my possibles bag with my other balls and powder behind with Pearl. Damn it.

  I stride forward. The Indians are so intent watching the stock, they don't see me coming. Probably the last thing they would expect is a white man on foot, or one approaching six armed warriors as if he's a grizzly bear in search of a meal.

  I'm over halfway when the afoot savage nears Sadie, and she begins to edge away. Still grazing, but watching him with the occasional uplifting head, and not trusting his stalking.

  As she does, three of the remaining five begin to edge around the small herd. By the time I'm only seventy-five yards distant, and still striding forward, one of those trying to flank the herd glances my way. He lets out the most blood curdling scream I've ever heard, and I'm from a force of men known for rebel yells that freeze the blood of most Yanks.

  Which is fine as I'm as close as I care to get without knowing their intent.

  I can't help but pull up short and raise the Sharps to my shoulder, panning the little band slowly as if selecting a target.

  I hear one yell out so the whole band can hear.

  All of them are facing me, but not edging their mounts forward. The man who's afoot trots back to his paint horse and mounts, swinging up into his sparse saddle without a stirrup as easily as I'd flop down into a chair to have my breakfast.

  All but one of these men are wild-animal thin, but sturdy with defined muscles, and somewhat red as if cured by the sun, like tough slender trees who've reached for the sun from deep, dark forests. Those with rifles have them shouldered and I’m staring down their muzzles.

  But now the mounted man, who seems to be the leader, doesn't spur his animal but rather merely sits and watches me. He seems to put little faith in my ability with the rifle. And the fact is, although I could send him to meet his maker, I'd likely only get reloaded with the single shot enough times to get one or, a slight possibility, two, shots off should they all charge me.

  To my astonishment, they are not the only predators after my stock. On the horizon, maybe four hundred yards beyond the herd, four wolves appear. Like the Indians, they put little faith in my ability with the Sharps. They have little fear of any of us.

  However, I reason, this may be a fine opportunity to let the savages know that at least one of them is destined to die, should they continue on their quest for new riding stock or to discourage the animals rightful owner, me, from trying to recover them. With luck, my ability with the rifle will dissuade them from any evil intent.

  So I drop to one knee, raise the other to prop upon it, take a bead on the wolf who's leading the four, waiting until he sits back pausing to study the animals he's hoping will become his pack's supper. As I’ve swung the muzzle far to the left of the Indians, they follow the direction and see the pack. I take a deep breath, hold it, release the forward trigger, and ease the back one with no pre-conceived notion of when it will release its near half ounce of lead to the target. I aim almost three body widths above him.

  The Sharps bucks in my hands, racks my shoulder, and the heavy slug from the rifle slams into the big black lead wolf, knocking him head over heels. He rolls at least four times over and over, dust flying from his churning legs. But he’s quickly stilled. It's a lucky shot, and a propitious one, as the band of Savages look from me to the wolves, back to me, back to the wolves, giving me plenty of time to reload.

  It seems they can hardly believe what they’ve seen. And I can understand it as I can hardly believe my luck.

  I quickly reload then swing the muzzle again from Indian to Indian, and hear the one who was stalking Sadie yell again. A signal, I’d guess, as they quickly spin their horses and, whooping and hollering, ride low in the saddle across the necks of their animals offering as small a target as possible. I'm a little taken aback as the man in the lead reins to a sliding stop, leaps from his horse, and throws the wolf across his animal's rump. The paint takes umbrage and bucks, dumping his load, but the Indian is not to be refused and kicks his mount soundly in the belly until the horse stands quivering. He reloads him, then mounts, and now in the rear of his retreating band, gallops away with one hand behind holding the wolf in place.

  The trappers told of the savages keeping bands of dogs, whic
h they eat when food becomes scarce, so I guess wolf could be on the menu as well.

  Better the wolf than one of my mules or mares.

  The good news is the savages have fled; the bad, so has my stock, but luckily the savages went north the same route as the river while the stock headed east. And they are still in sight, having again stopped a few hundred yards away to graze.

  The country beyond the trees is rolling and almost totally without cover excerpt for knee deep grass, other than the occasional brush and tree lined ravine. I turn to see Ian standing at the edge of the chokecherries, shaking his head, and give him a wave and point toward the horses and mules. Then I set out, intent on bringing them home, and fairly sure no savage, at least not one of the six, will ride within five hundred yards of me.

  That makes me smile, as I'm not quite ready to make their acquaintance, or to decorate one of their lodges with my long locks of fine Irish hair.

  In less than a half hour we have the stock, me leading Sadie, Ian following up with a long switch of chokecherry limb, and are back at the head of the deep ravine leading down to the river and the rubble left of the ride that was to take us in comfort all the way to Benton City, still a thousand miles or more away.

  A thousand miles or more, and maybe ten times that many savages between us and our destination. And I'm sure the news of my fine shot, my fine lucky shot, won't travel before us.

  Now to see what awaits at the riverside.

  Chapter 16

  And what awaits is a surprise.

  Pearl, Madam Allenthorpe, Alex and Sam are busy working on a shelter. The Swede, Lucas Eckland, is laying nearby on a pallet of clothes they must have gathered from the shoreline, some of which are scorched and blackened, but still make a bed of sorts. He’s badly burned on one arm and the side of his neck, but is awake and watching the others.

  I’m pleased to see Chance O’Galliger, my workmate Willard—also known as Wheezy—Reverend Hunter, and Dag Eriksen working with them. Someone has recovered two bolts, at least six feet wide, of white sailcloth which is being used to encircle partially buried upright planks which Eriksen and the Reverend are nearby sawing more to length. By the bulk of the bolts I’d guess there is at least twenty-five yards on each. A center pole twice the height of the walls has rafters of branches descending to the walls circling the center. It will make a fine shelter, and by the growing cloud cover, and the dark sky in the west, we’ll soon need one.

  I smile as I see a small structure only four feet on a side nearby, a privy, I’d guess, which I’m sure was the first structure to be built. A large dirt pile nearby testifies to a deep latrine. The women have likely overseen the installation of a smooth seat. The ladies have had their say.

  As I tie Sadie to a nearby cottonwood sapling, and the rest of the stock begins to graze near her or moves the thirty yards down to the water’s edge to drink, Chance walks over and extends a hand.

  “I’m glad to see some more living souls,” Chance says, shaking his head.

  “You were aboard when she blew?” I ask.

  “The four off us were aft, me dealing a little faro using the capstan cover for a table, them playing. We suddenly found ourselves thirty yards from the boat, knocked senseless but trying to stay afloat. Thank God we drifted another thirty before the secondary explosion. Even at that it singed my hair and rolled me in the water, knocking the wind from my chest…nearly doing me in.”

  “None of you four hurt?”

  “Cuts, bruises, splinters, ears may never be right again…Wheezy may have a broken arm. He must have hit the rail on the way over.”

  “You’ve seen no one else?”

  “As we gathered up on shore a dozen or more bodies floated by, and as we made our way back here…we were a half mile downriver…we saw another half dozen or more that had been blown ashore, some in pieces.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “A terrible sight to behold.”

  “Did you see anything of use?”

  “Some tools, lots of planks mostly shattered and broken, plenty of firewood, some busted crates and barrels…but some foodstuffs in unbroken bottles. Can you use a case of buttons?” he asks, smiling.

  “I heard those trappers onboard talking of trading glass beads for skins. Fact is they may make good trading material.”

  “Buttons?”

  “You bet. We’ve already had a run in with a band of savages. Where there are men there are bound to be ladies who love their decoration.”

  He laughs. “You may be right, even buttons may be of value.”

  “Let’s get ourselves some shelter, some supper of some sort, then we need to organize a burial party. We’ve got lots of work to do.”

  Chance shrugs. “How about setting them adrift to join the others?”

  “No, sir. It’s a Christian burial…before the wolves go to work on them.”

  “Wolves?” Now he looks a little worried.

  “Plenty of them, and they looked hungry.”

  He sighs deeply. “Well, I’m a fair hand with a deck of cards but I’m not much with a shovel, how-some-ever if it’s got to be done.”

  I glance over, and on a ridge across the river, at least three dozen Indians sit on their mounts, quietly watching us work. “Speaking of savages…” I point.

  “God help us,” he says, shading his eyes with a hand as he counts the Indians. “Let’s hope the Emilie is not far behind and we can get aboard.”

  “Right now it’s shelter and supper. I doubt if they’ll try and swim the river here as she’s shallow, but she’s swift, and they’d make fine targets out there fighting the current.”

  “How about him?” Chance says, pointing up the slope to where the big bull, Brutus, grazes.

  “As I understand it, that’s a thousand dollar bull. I’m not sure making jerky out of him is the wise thing to do…besides, I saw a few deer and some forty head of antelope up on the plains. We won’t lack for meat.”

  “Then maybe you should hunt while the rest of us build and dig.”

  I nod, and yell my intention to Ian who’s helping with the construction, and turn and start back up the ravine. The sun is nearing the horizon, so an evening hunt it’s to be.

  I stop and turn back and yell at all of them. “We’ve got to bury lots of folks. If you get done with the necessaries, then get after it.” I get a few nods, but they turn back to the task at hand…shelter. Luckily, firewood is everywhere so that’s not a problem…at least for a while.

  Bearing north into a fork of the ravine we haven’t travelled, I don’t go two hundred yards away from the main ravine with its trickle of water, and not more than a half mile from camp, before a white tail doe and her nearly grown yearling fawn move out of the brush ahead of me. They only trot a hundred yards before they stop and look back. A mistake.

  At one hundred fifty yards I’m able to neck shoot her so as to not waste much meat, and by the time it’s growing dark I’m entering camp with the skinned doe over my shoulder and her liver and heart still warm in the pockets of my coat.

  And it’s a good thing as the first cold rain drops are beginning to fall. I’ll not be surprised if they turn to snow before it’s again light.

  Madam Allenthorpe seems spent and reclines by a new fire pit in the center of the twenty-five-foot-wide round shelter they’ve built, both its upright planks wrapped in sail cloth and a fairly decent roof constructed of the same sail material. They’ve left a hole in the very top for escaping smoke from a fire pit dug near the center pole.

  The madam’s green gown is soiled and wrinkled, her hair askew, and she’s shoeless. She appears plum tuckered out, a bit like a plucked peacock…or I guess peahen would be more proper. But she was a game worker while she lasted.

  Pearl, on the other hand, is still going strong. She’s cut some willow branches and woven them into a pallet and in short order has the heart and liver sliced in long strips and laid on the pallet which is nearly upright in front of the fire. Next to it she’s propped both racks
of ribs up to slow cook.

  There are ten of us to feed and the little white tail will only last a couple of more meals. In the morning, after we do our burying, I’ll go on the hunt again. Should we not become overrun by savages.

  After the reverend says grace, blessing the food and the fact ten of us still live, we each find a spot and using willow branches Pearl has sharpened for forks or skewers, and our hands for the ribs, are eating better than should be expected a few hours after a cataclysmic event.

  I’d kill for a little salt and a shot of Who Hit John, but even that may be provided as God only knows what’s been spread all over the cliff and hillsides rising up and away from the river; if the Indians don’t decide they want what little we have, before we have a chance to add to our meager belongings.

  It takes all of us digging from dawn to dark and by the end of the fourth day, we have forty-three graves, buried where they were blown, some in pieces, some graves just pieces.

  I’ve seen many a battlefield, and fought over one or more with bodies killed three or four days before, and smelling so of death it makes your mouth wish for a shot of powerful whiskey and your eyes water.

  But never anything like this.

  And I pray I never will again

  Nine of us share a twenty-five-foot, now walled and roofed, circle, while one stands guard up the hill a way.

  I heard that the savages do not attack at night, not that I expect an attack, but one can’t be too careful. There’s enough of us that we can break the night into two hour shifts. We guard borrowing Sam’s Spencer for the duty. I take the first, Ian the second, Sam the third, Alex the fourth, and he wakens Chance early for the dawn.

  I’m a little surprised when I walk out the flap that serves for our door, and the world is white. A gentle snow still falls, topping the inch on the ground. The good news is we have shelter and lots of firewood, some cut to length but most in six foot lengths blown off the Eagle where it was stacked for her boilers. The bad news is everything we might be able to use that's been blown onto the hillside will soon be covered in snow and very hard to find should this keep up.