The doctor entered through a space between the curtains, shaking the excess water from his hands. He had also donned a white apron. Under that, he still wore his nightgown and slippers.
“Everyone step back, please,” he asked the group. “The first thing I have to do is remove the poison.”
“If that means you’re going to suck it out,” said Charley, “I’ve already done that, Doc.”
Kelly interrupted with, “We just need you to dress the wound and put him on some proper medication.”
“Could you at least let me take a look at the boy’s wound?” asked the doctor as he shook a thermometer he’d taken from a nearby glass vial.
Everyone moved back even farther as the doctor squeezed in closer to Henry Ellis. He nodded for the boy to open his mouth. Henry Ellis did and the thermometer was inserted.
Next, the doctor examined the snakebite, unwrapping the towels from around the wound.
The observers remained quiet as the physician went about his business.
“Will he be all right, Doc?” asked Charley.
“He won’t die of snakebite, if that’s what you mean,” said Doctor Stone, “but with all of you in here hovering over him like he was already gone to meet his maker, he’ll more’n likely suffocate instead.”
The small group of onlookers, the boy’s friends who were observing, mumbled their apologies.
“Why don’t you all get out of here and come back in an hour or so,” the doctor said to them. “By then I should know if he’ll be requiring any hospitalization or not.”
Close to an hour later, the friends of Henry Ellis were still milling around on the doctor’s office porch, talking about the boy’s incident with the snake. No one was blaming anyone. They were all discussing Buster’s heroism.
Charley stepped through the front door, hat in hand. Everyone gathered around their leader.
“The doc wants to keep him overnight for observation… or until his fever breaks,” Charley said. “He advised me that we should all check into the local hotel or get a room at the boardinghouse for the night. Hopefully, Henry Ellis can be released in the morning and we can all be on our way.”
He turned to Feather. “Feather, you ride on back to camp and tell them other Colorado boys we’re having a slight setback.”
“Will do, boss,” said Feather. He slapped his horse on the rump, then took off, mounting the already running Chigger pony express style.
He galloped out of town.
As the little cowboy thundered past on Chigger, Bart Pickens, the sheriff of Dundee, stepped out onto the sheriff’s office porch. Pickens was pushing fifty, with an evil-looking scar running down the side of his face. He was followed by his deputy, Leroy Stubbs. Leroy was freshly shaven with remnants of soap under his chin and behind both ears. Both men scratched their heads as they watched Feather’s dust fade into the distance.
The deputy pointed over in the other direction to where Charley and the others were still gathered in front of the doctor’s office.
“C’mon,” said the sheriff, “we best go see what’s going on over at the doc’s.”
He stepped off the porch. His deputy followed.
“Here comes trouble,” whispered Roscoe when he saw the two lawmen approaching. Charley put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, moving past him. He extended his hand to the approaching sheriff.
The lawman didn’t appear to want anything to do with Charley’s hand, let alone to shake it. He basically ignored the old cowboy and spoke to Rod instead.
“We don’t allow Indians in our town, son,” he told Rod. “If any of the rest of you claim this man as a friend or relative, we don’t want you here, either.”
Charley had been caught without words. He just stared back and forth between Rod, the sheriff, and the door to the doctor’s office.
“I don’t think you folks heard the sheriff,” said the deputy. “We don’t allow In-juns and their kind in Dundee, Texas. It was In-juns just like him that burned our town to the ground fifteen years ago.”
Charley and Roscoe started to say something but were stopped before they could speak.
“I reckon you strangers don’t hear so well, either,” said the sheriff. “You’re not wanted here.”
He turned on Rod in a flash. “And you, Indian … I told you we don’t allow Indians in Dundee. You have violated one of our four town statutes … and therefore I’m putting you under arrest.”
Before anyone could move, Holliday drew his guns, aiming them at the two lawmen.
“Go on, Rod. Get on outta here while you can,” he said.
Both Charley and Kelly stepped in between the two lawmen and the old gunslinger. Charley pushed Holliday’s wrists so the weapons were pointing down.
“Holster those right now,” he told the Wild West show performer. “There’s no reason for gunplay.”
“There will be soon,” said the sheriff, drawing his own pistol and firing at the now disarmed Holliday.
KA-BOOM!!
Charley’s Walker Colt exploded at the same moment the sheriff pulled his trigger. Charley’s Colt’s hand-poured lead projectile blasted the sheriff’s gun completely out of his hand. Charley swung the old Ranger Colt over to cover the deputy. The secondary lawman didn’t have the courage to draw.
Charley turned his attention back to Holliday.
“Did he hit you, bub?” he asked.
Holliday checked his coat, trousers, and hat. He found the bullet hole in his left pant leg.
“Any closer and he would have,” said Holliday.
By then Roscoe and Rod had both of the lawmen covered, as did Charley.
The gunshots had aroused some of the citizenry, who were now gathering down the street. Several of the men were dressed in business suits, others in shirts and wool trousers—even more were still in their bedclothes. Charley made a note to himself that none of the men were armed.
The townspeople discussed something between themselves, then they all turned and began walking toward the doctor’s office.
Kelly turned to Charley and said, “Looks like the town fathers don’t like seeing their law enforcement officers out-gunned.”
Rod moved over to her side and put his arm around her.
“It’s all my fault,” he said.
“No, Rod. It wasn’t your fault,” she answered. “These lawmen are in the wrong. They were going to arrest you for just being who you are. That’s not right at all.”
“You can bet your bottom dollar it ain’t right,” said Charley. “Now all we got to do is convince these vigilantes of the same thing.”
“We are not vigilantes, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The group of townsmen had reached Charley and his outfit.
It was one of the men wearing a suit who was doing the talking.
“We’re just here to thank you for freeing our town from the likes of these two,” said the better dressed man. He held out his hand to Charley. “Ben Perkins,” he said, still holding out a hand. “I run the general store here in Dundee.”
The two men shook.
“But I’m also the mayor … and these four gentlemen beside me are members of our city council.”
Everyone nodded their greetings.
Perkins went on: “These two …” he indicated the sheriff and the deputy, “and their gang … rode into town about four weeks ago. They killed our elected sheriff and deputy, then told us they were taking over. Everyone had to turn over their guns. We had no way to protect ourselves. They’ve been running this town ever since.”
“Where’s this gang you mentioned now?” asked Charley.
“There’s only two more of them left and they’re drunk as skunks over in Dundee’s one and only saloon. The rest of them have killed each other off fightin’ over card games and the saloon’s one and only soiled dove.”
“Roscoe, Holliday,” said Charley, “you both go over to the saloon and get those other men. Meet me at the jail
and we’ll lock ’em up with these other two.”
He turned back to the townspeople.
“I reckon the town belongs to you folks again,” he said. “And oh, there’s just one more question I’d like to ask.”
Charley leaned in close to Perkins. “Was this town burned to the ground fifteen years ago by Indians?”
“Oh, no sir,” said Perkins. “This town wasn’t even on the map fifteen years ago.”
“Grampa,” came the call from the doctor’s office door.
Everyone turned. Henry Ellis stood on the porch with the doctor at his side.
“I think he’s ready,” said the doctor. “No more fever, so I’ll release him early. He can go back to your camp with you today if you’d like. Everything should be like new.”
Later on that evening after everyone had returned to camp and the cattle had been moved a few more miles, Charley was sitting near the campfire going over his maps. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, holding one of the charts closer in order to see better in the flickering firelight.
“I’ll be danged,” he said in a whisper. He turned and called over to Roscoe.
“Hey, Roscoe, could you come over here for a minute?”
Roscoe set down some pots he was polishing and moved over to Charley.
“Sit down, will you, Roscoe?” Charley asked him.
His old friend obliged, kneeling down beside him.
“Take a look at this map, will you?” he said. “I just figured out I had it folded wrong for the last few days and now something’s not quite right.”
Roscoe studied the wrinkled chart.
“Looks ta me like where we’re more’n just a tad off where we’re ’sposed to be, don’t it?”
“Roscoe,” said Charley lowering his voice, “I’m not much for admitting to it when I’m wrong, but it looks to me like we’ve been headed in the wrong direction for the past few days.”
“That long ago?” said Roscoe. “I don’t think we could be off the trail by that much, C.A., but you’re right about bein’ off a little.”
“Remember that wide, shallow river we crossed Tuesday morning?” said Charley.
Roscoe nodded.
“We thought it might be a tributary of the Devil’s, but it wasn’t. I’m beginning to think it was the Pecos River running half underground instead.”
He pointed to the map. Roscoe’s eyes followed.
“If that’s true, C.A., we gotta do some back-trackin’.”
Charley gave him a disgusted look. “I know that, Roscoe. Do you think I’m stupid? I just don’t want the others to know it… ’specially my grandson.”
Roscoe was catching on. His lips curled into a wide smile.
“Then we need to turn the herd around slow an’ casual-like over the next couple a’ days. As soon as we’re headed southeast again we’ll be all right,” he said. “Then we’ll have ta cross back over the Pecos, down lower here,” he pointed to the map, “closer to the border, and start lookin’ fer some familiar landmarks.”
“Do you really think we can do it?” said Charley.
“Do you mean, can we fool the others?”
“I’m not worried about the others,” answered Charley. “The question is: Will we be able to fool Henry Ellis?”
The sky turned overcast and held for the next couple of days, which made it much easier to hide the fact they were turning the herd one hundred and eighty degrees and heading the other way for a while. At one of their several camps along the way Charley thought he’d been found out for sure.
It started when Kelly drifted over to where Charley was bedding down that night and asked him, “Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?”
Charley froze inside. His mind whirled with thoughts: Have I been caught up in my own lie? Does Kelly know more about geography than I’ve given her credit for? Does she have a compass of her own I didn’t count on? Has she seen by some of my actions that something isn’t quite right? Or is she just guessing?
“What makes you think we might be off course?” he asked her.
“Oh, nothing really,” said Kelly. “Henry Ellis just asked me if we were headed in the right direction after the noon meal today. I don’t even know why he brought up the subject, but I thought I’d ask you anyway.”
“No, we’re doing just fine, young lady,” he told her. “We should be home before you know it.”
ROD LIGHTFOOT
by Kelly King
We know him by the name he chooses to use in the white man’s world, Rod Lightfoot—even though he is known to his blood family and his tribe as Man Who Walks with Cougar.
“I figured using Rod Lightfoot as my name would work better for me on law school applications and for introducing myself before I was to be interviewed.
“I was born on my tribe’s reservation in Indian Territory (Oklahoma) twenty-six years ago,” he begins. “When I was a child, I grew up and was educated in the traditional Indian ways by my parents until I was twelve. At that time my mother and father were urged by an Indian reform group to send me to a reservation boarding school, where I lasted only a few years. But it was enough time for me to learn to speak and read English, which I’m grateful for. I also learned about the white man’s laws, and how men study to learn those laws so they might protect others who have mistakenly run afoul of the law or those who are just plain ignorant of the laws and are being taken advantage of like our people had been before the Trail of Those That Cried (The Trail of Tears).
“I was nearly fifteen years old when I escaped from that boarding school. I stole some white man clothing from where they dry on a rope and found a hat big enough to hide my hair. Then I traveled south to Texas and went looking for work on any ranch that would have me. I was befriended by one ranch owner I had asked for a job, and he hired my services as a post hole digger—I also worked as a cowboy when his herd was ready for market. That was my first cattle drive and we moved that herd to Dodge City, Kansas.
“It was in Dodge City where I saw my first real lawyer in action. I had been arrested and was put in jail for the crime of being an Indian. The city marshal there in Dodge City took a liking to me and suggested that I hire his friend, who was a lawyer, to defend me. The lawyer’s name was J.M. George, and when I told him why I had been arrested and the fact that I was broke, he offered to defend me for nothing. During my trial, Mr. George proved that there wasn’t a city law against Indians being inside a saloon. And that what everyone had thought was a law was just an old rule made up by a few hypocrites who happened to own all the saloons in Dodge. I was set free, and please believe me when I say there was more than one white man who bought me a drink after the trial … including my lawyer.”
Mr. Lightfoot continues, “J.M. George, hired me to be his personal assistant and I worked out of his office looking up previous cases in his law books for other trials that came up for him. Mr. George also allowed me to read any law book I wanted to read in his library, plus he would personally answer any questions I had about the law. It was at that time I made up my mind I really wanted to be a lawyer. Mr. George also told me just how much money I would need for tuition fees for law college. And when he realized I wasn’t making enough working for him to even think about opening a savings account, he advised me to use the talents I had gained growing up on the reservation—mainly my experience with horses: riding bucking broncs, bulldogging, and roping cattle. He told me I should enter cowboy exhibitions. They were becoming a popular pastime in the Southwest and consisted of a series of different events a cowboy could enter, like riding a bucking horse, and if I won I would be paid money for my efforts. So I started doing that. I found that the majority of small towns put on these exhibitions every so often, usually on weekends or national and local holidays. I was in San Antonio for one of those events when I heard that U.S. Army Colonel Leonard Wood—on orders from Assistant Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt—was looking for expert horsemen from all walks of life to volunteer for an Army equestrian
division he was putting together to take to Cuba to fight in the war with Spain, which had just begun. It was called the First United States Volunteer Cavalry. I volunteered and I qualified hands down, and being of Indian birth was not a problem for me this time. Just the fact that I could ride a horse, and ride it well, was the only thing that mattered to Colonel Wood. The one big problem we faced when we landed in Cuba was that our horses were not with us. They had become separated from us through someone’s mistake so we immediately became infantry soldiers—something none of us had ever been trained for. We were ordered at once to march on a small town and were met with resistance before we had time to realize what was happening. I had never been close to death and destruction like that before in my life. When it was all over we marched on. Some of us were reunited with our horses, so when we reached what was called San Juan Heights, what Americans are now calling San Juan Hill, I at least felt like a cavalry soldier again. We fought alongside the Tenth and Twelfth Infantry Regiments—the Buffalo Soldiers. Even though these gallant Negro soldiers did most of the heavy fighting, the American press gave Roosevelt and Wood’s Rough Riders the most attention … Roosevelt had been given the rank of lieutenant colonel by then, plus he led the charge. Believe me … we didn’t take that hill all alone. We won the battle but we lost a lot of men. I thank God every day that I was able to get through it all uninjured.”
Mr. Lightfoot, paused, remembering. “After the war I went back to Dodge City, hoping to get my old job back with Mr. George. But I was told he’d married and moved his practice to Arizona. I continued entering cowboy riding events like I had been doing before the war. In Denver I met Mr. Pike through coincidence—he had just taken out an ad in the local Denver newspaper for a personal business attorney. Why I answered that ad I still don’t know. Now that I look back, Pike either didn’t have that many young lawyers show up to be interviewed, or they all wanted too much money. I’m sure now it was all about how much Pike was willing to pay. Anyway, when I got there and told him a little about my background and my dreams of wanting to go to law school, he hired me on the spot. I was on my first assignment for Mr. Pike when I met you.”
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