by L. J. Martin
I’m bleeding, seeing a little bit double and head still swimming, but I’m alive.
And the good news, these savages are seemingly different than the Lakota. Their markings are different, their hair worn unlike, even the breechcloth is not the same. Let’s hope they're enemies of whom I hope are my new friends—Many-Dogs and his band.
If not, I may have double trouble. Generally, folks don't appreciate one who kills their friends.
There’s a trickle of water in the middle of the meadow so I lead the sorrel down and let him water while I wash the blood away from my face and neck and regain my senses. Spotting Sadie in the distance I mount up and move slowly over and gather up her lead rope, which she’s been dragging but I’m happy to find still intact. My other Percherons, saddle horse, and four mules are nearby and as I head out wander along behind. As we move to the top of a low rise, a number of mustangs join up as well.
Other than a dozen mule deer and a large herd of antelope, moving south, a few circling hawks and flushing some sage hens, we don’t see a sign of life for over two miles. Then I rein up short.
On a ridge not more than a half mile to the northeast a half dozen savages appear on the horizon. It’s mid-afternoon and the cover of darkness is hours away, even though it’s getting darker and darker earlier and earlier.
I’m undecided what to do. If I spin and gig the sorrel away, even leading Sadie, I’m not sure the others will follow at even a trot, much less a gallop.
Then I shade my eyes and study the group more closely. I swear one of them is wearing a fur hat, and he’s mounted and next to a man on a paint horse.
Could it be Carbone and Many-Dogs?
I drop Sadie’s lead rope, she drops her head to graze, and I gig the sorrel forward. If I can get within a quarter of a mile I can have some confidence I recognize friend or possibly foe.
Rather than move directly toward them, I move down toward the river and into a stand of pine and find a well worn game trail. Like me, the game wants to stay just inside the cover of the trees.
After moving north what I figure to be four hundred yards, I move back to the edge of the trees, but my high-lined riders are no longer on the horizon. I’m forced to move on to the top of a low ridge, but rather than top it mounted, I ground tie the well trained sorrel, letting him stand over his reins, and move forward on foot.
I can’t contain the smile when I see the group of riders no more than three hundred yards to the east, moving south toward where they last sighted me.
Recovering my mount, I give him the heels and in moments am reining up beside Shamus Carbone. I give Many-Dogs a nod and a tight smile, and he gives me his usual stoic look in return.
“Mr. Carbone. I’m glad to see you…I think?”
“Proud to see you son, but why the ‘I think’?”
“I had a run in with some Indians a couple of hours ago and they tried to ventilate my hide. I had to put the Sharps to work on them.”
“Our people are all with us or in camp, if that’s what worries you?”
“Those fellas came from a camp I had to raid last night to retrieve my stock which was driven off when that buff herd came stompin’ through. I’d hoped I’d left them fellas all afoot, but it seems they had three mounts hid out somewhere. They are not dressed like Many-Dogs and his people. Fact is, they’re painted up looking like they rode straight out of hades.”
“God damn Crow, I’d wager. It would seem they came near to winning that confrontation.” He nods to my chest which is covered with dried blood and my blood soaked head-tie.
“Too close for my taste. It was a dying swipe, but he damn near took my head off and may have got an ear.”
“We got a medicine man,” he offers.
“If need be…but I don’t think it’ll send me to a box. I’m doing better already.”
“We heard the Crow done crossed the river and we're doing a little ride about to see if we can prove the rumor. We heard shots fired and figured it was the Crow stealing some of our buffs or some damn thing as they was too many shots for a simple hunt. Odds are they was coming to raid our camp how-some-ever...but it seems you done got in the way. Damn Crow always seem to get hungry for horses and women to warm their lodges, come the moon of the falling leaves. Can you take us to whatever you left of ’em.”
"Moon-of-the-falling-leaves?"
"Yep, November to you. Then the moon-when-the-deer-lose-their-horns...December."
“I can take you, but there’s a whole lot more of them back behind somewhere and they may be catchin’ up by now. I was bringing a herd of their ponies to y’all as I figured you could use them.”
He gives me a broad smile, then laughs aloud. “Damn, you want’n to trade for Pretty Cloud?”
“That is a pleasurable thought, sir. But the truth is, I want to make a gift of them. No strings attached.”
“How many horses?” he asks curiously.
“Two dozen or so, if they’re still gathered up. I left them when I saw y’all in the distance.”
This time he guffaws loudly and slaps a thigh. “Damn if you ain’t in fine fettle, son. Let’s go fetch ’em, and hope them are Crows you shot full of big ol’ Sharps holes.”
I lead them away.
We move at a lope as I’d like to get there before a mad-as-hell group of savages on foot arrive. And I’d like to deliver my new won herd of horses and get back to Ian, who must be about to come hunting me. I’d hate for him to be ambushed by two dozen Crow, even if afoot. Afoot doesn’t mean you can’t lay in wait.
We top a rise and see three dozen horses and mules grazing in the distance and I spot the scattered rocks and pile that offered me cover. I rein that way with Carbone and Many-Dogs and his warriors close behind.
To be truthful, I’m holding my breath as we dismount. The warriors are suddenly very animated and loud, although I cannot understand a word of what they’re saying. I’m watching my back, thinking it might be a target for a lance or arrow, when in fact it’s the target of a healthy slap from Shamus Carbone.
“Damn good work, Wasichu Bad. You killed Walks-With-A-Hawk, a war chief of the Crow. He’s taken many a Lakota scalp and stole more than one woman from the people. Dang if you ain’t a hero.”
Now it's my turn to laugh. "Well sir, that and a half dollar will get me steak and eggs in Benton City...were we in Benton City. There’s your horses over yonder…after I cut mine out. By the way, am I Wolf-Long-Shot or Wasichu Bad?”
“Don’t be worrying about what you’re called, so long as the Great Spirit don’t call you home. I’d say we’d have us a jollification right here and now, but these young bucks are eager to find a gaggle of Crow without mounts.”
While I'm listening to him, three of the Lakota warriors have dismounted and are lifting the hair of the three dead Crows. Shamus notices me watching, and likely the revolted look on my face.
"You coulda counted coup on them, but the one kills them can't."
“All I want is to head back to my camp and make sure Ian still has a fine head of hair.”
“We will send a couple of young bucks with you to help you drive. Another group of us, less experienced at killing Crows, is a half mile behind.” Shamus turns and yells to a brave, who spins his mount and disappears over the rise at a gallop.
We no more than get my stock separated from the others when another half dozen Lakota come over the rise at a gallop and join up with Many-Dogs. He barks orders and two young men, two of those I originally met when I shot the wolf, come over and give me a nod.
I give Many-Dogs and Shamus a wave, and start off back to my camp, leading Sadie. The Indians have to continue to nudge the mustangs away to keep them from following, as do the two young men who come along to help me drive. The fact is, with Sadie in tow, my remaining two Percherons, two saddle horses, and four mules need no driving…but I’m happy to have the company and the additional four eyes who’ll watch out for the Crow. And maybe join in a fight, if need be. Although I note th
at only one of them has an old cap and ball revolver, while both have bows and knifes.
My head hurts, my head wound is still weeping, and I’ve had my fill of fighting and killing. I hope I can get peacefully back to camp.
I just want to head for home…such as it is.
Chapter 22
As we amble along at a leisurely walk, I remember the young man's name. Falls-From-Sky as I recall, and speak to him pointing. "You are Falls-From-Sky." And am surprised when he replies.
"You Wasichu Bad."
"You speak English?"
"I have words English. Little Belly learn me."
"Little Belly?"
"Shamus to Wasichu."
"Ah, Shamus...Little Belly." I have to laugh at that as I have noticed that Shamus has a pronounced bulge over his beaded belt.
As we move along, I sigh deeply as it's beginning to snow.
"Snow early." He says.
"Moon-of-the-falling-leaves normally."
He shrugs. A universal expression, I guess. "Snow come moon-of-the-deer-lose-horns. Early now."
"What do I feed these horses when the snow is deep."
Again, he shrugs. "Horse feed horse until snow..." And he indicates snow over eighteen inches or so, then he imitates the pawing of a horse. "Moon-of-the-popping-trees or moon-of-the-sore-eyes, maybe too deep."
"That's January and February?" He half shrugs and half nods.
"Wasichu names."
"So, what then?"
"Bark of waga chun...tree of knocking leaves."
"You'll show me?" I ask, and he nods.
I presume it's a cottonwood as I've seen horses fed the bark of narrow leaf cottonwood trees, and they do have leaves that rattle in the breeze.
As we get a mile or so from the mile long ravine leading down to the camp, I see a rider coming our way. Ian, I guess he figures I'm crow bait, which now has a double meaning as the Indians trying to raise my hair were Crow.
He reins up when a little over a hundred yards from us with the butt of his Spencer on a thigh, at the ready.
As we near he calls out. "I guess them are friends?"
"Yes, sir. Drovers giving me a hand."
"I got a gallon of stew on the fire, should y'all have an appetite."
"Damn sure could eat," I call back. He lets us pass and falls in behind to help move the stock along.
When we rein up near camp he comes up alongside to dismount. "Missing a Perch mare," he says.
"Yep, damn Crow Indians et her. I hope they choked."
"I'm surprised you didn't choke them yourself."
"They were three dozen. I did put three of them under, thanks to Mr. Sharps and Colonel Colt, and I'll be surprised if Shamus and Many-Dogs don't send lots more somewhere up in the clouds or down below, or whatever they believe."
"The Lakota showed back up?"
"They did, come on like Mosby and the Cavalry. Damned if they didn't."
"And loaned you a couple of troopers to get you home safe."
"That they did, and are happy with us as I left them two dozen mustangs that wandered out of the Crow camp. I guess they took a shine to me. I believe we got friends for the duration."
"Seems like we may need them."
It's my turn to shrug.
"You got a letter," he says, a crooked grin on his ugly Irish mug.
I look at him like he might be as crazy as what he's said.
"There's a post office hereabout?" I say, and laugh.
"Special delivery from a keel boat headed downriver. Seems they was happy to help out a pretty girl with chocolate skin and a smile as big as a fingernail moon."
He reaches in a shirt pocket and hands me a folded paper. I take it and walk away until I find a rock to perch on.
Dear Braden:
I am sorry I could not say goodbye but we
were so busy getting our things together.
I hope that when you catch up you'll come
visit me in Benton City. Madam Allenthorpe
is going to purchase or build a saloon and
Opera house and I'm to help. Be careful.
Stay in one piece.
Your friend, Miss Pearl Allenthorpe.
Well, it's a nice letter…I guess. I'd hoped for a little more as our keeping each other from freezing to death obviously meant quite a bit more to me than it did to her.
Your friend, Miss Pearl Allenthorpe. I would have hoped for something as personal as we'd been to each other. But then I guess she learned to be personal from others, maybe more than one other? Maybe that is what she'll be doing, working for Madam Allenthorpe in what she calls a saloon. Maybe saloon is a polite way of saying pleasure house?
The thought of that brings the heat up my spine and flushes my cheeks.
It's time I forgot about Miss Pearl Allenthorpe. In fact it's time I forget about my past and think only of my future. To hell with the past. To hell with Pearly.
I wad the paper up, walk over to our soddy, and throw it into a pile of kindling. It'll help start a fire someday soon.
I do see our iron sink tilted up at a forty-five-degree angle and resting in a bed of hot coals. There's at least a gallon of stew bubbling there.
"Looks good, eh?" Ian says from over my shoulder. He's followed closely by Falls-From-Sky.
"Name?" I ask Falls-From-Sky, pointing to the other young Indian who looks to be no more than sixteen.
"Sheo...in Wasichu, Prairie Chicken."
"Sheo, Falls-From-Sky, we eat now."
The stew is delicious. As we have only three spoons we’ve gathered from the hillside and four peach cans for bowls, the Indian boys have to share a spoon. Sheo refuses the loan of one and uses his knife to spear the meat and drinks the liquid.
We'll get along just fine without Pearl. I’ll get along just fine without Pearly.
I turn to Ian who's chewing away. "I don't see our stockpile of meat?"
"No, and you won't see it unless you pull apart that stone wall over there." He points to another wind cave that's been completely walled up with flat shale.
"Damn, you been busy."
"Dried a few pounds as well. But I ain’t been as busy as someone killing Crows, and hope I don't have to get that busy."
It's nearing dusk by the time we've finished our stew, still snowing lightly, and I think there's a real storm coming as I'm hearing thunder...then realize it's far to steady.
Another herd of buffalo is coming, and me with only four loads ready to go.
What the hell, four dollars is four dollars, and maybe more with the Indian bows and Ian’s Spencer. With the weather like it is, we can freeze a lot of meat and if my thinking is right can use the offal and whatnot for bait. Wolf hides are worth even more than buff.
I guess it's time to go to work.
I am surprised at the proficiency of the young Indians, and their bravery, as they bring down three bulls. They ride in very close and let fly with an arrow, then again and again, while many other buffalo are at a dead run nearby. If their horse stumbles, they would be very lucky to survive. They impress me with both their skill and their bravado.
One of their bulls dies, slowly, after making the river and in the very cold water but we’re able to recover the body a quarter mile downriver.
Four bulls fall to my Sharps and three to Ian’s Spencer. Unfortunately two bulls are totally ruined, stomped and kicked, by the oncoming herd, which doesn’t stop for over two hours. I have no idea how many animals passed during that time, and I rue the work that we four will have to apply over the next two days. We have ten bulls down but two of which will only be good for wolf bait.
We are two full days skinning and scraping hides—a task that disgusts the young braves as they say it’s women’s work—and boning out the meat. They do teach us a trick by beheading a bull and staking his forequarters to the ground, starting the skinning from the shoulders down, then using two of my big strong mares to strip, dragging the hide away. Peeling, not carefully cutting, saving a qu
arter day’s work on each carcass.
I’ve convinced the young braves to stay on with us for as long as we can hunt, and promise them a Spencer each, should it be as long as a month, but they insist they will have to return to their camp and obtain Many-Dogs permission. I also have to make them understand the Spencer will have to come from trading with a passing boat.
Leaving Ian with the task of drying what meat he can and stowing the rest in his walled up cold-box of solid rock, I decide to leave with the boys and ride to the Lakota camp. I should know its location if we have an emergency or if I need to warn them of impending danger—so I can find it as quickly as possible.
Besides, I’d like to see Pretty Cloud again. I had foolishly felt some obligation to Pearl, but with her rather off-hand letter, I no longer have any illusions in her direction. She’s moving on. So shall I.
We’ll leave with the morning light.
As we stop work for the day and Ian takes some prime cuts from a bull to cook for our supper, Falls-From-Sky waves me up the hillside. We climb, him carrying two four foot long pointed sticks, to a hundred yards from the top of the ridge with him only telling me it’s a “lesson.” When he stops he plunges his stick into the earth next to a half-inch thick stem. The earth is now covered with an inch of snow and he digs until he comes up with a spindle shaped tuber about five inches long.
“Timpsula,” he says, and scrapes away the soil and takes a bite, then hands it to me.
I follow suit and chew, and find it to be rather pleasant. A little astringent or bitter, but palatable enough.
“Good,” I say.
“You call wild turnip. We eat. We dry, grind, use for bread.”
“Can we dig more?” I check the ground and see lots of dead and dying plants with hairy stalks and pointed leaves the size of my hand.
“All turnips…timpsula,” he says, and we go to work. We return to camp with as much as we can carry in a bag made of my coat.
When we were first stranded I had visions of us going hungry, now I have visions of growing out of my clothes. I’ve never eaten so much heart, liver, and rich red loin.
