A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

  Rivers said he could, and readied himself to climb on Luke’s back. Once Luke had him up and had settled under the weight, he started making his way carefully down the snowy defile. “Did you run into Calvin Foster down near the river?” Rivers asked. “He went lookin’ for a horse in the middle of the night.”

  “Was that his name?” Luke asked. “I ran across a soldier that was cut pretty much to pieces. Maybe that was Foster. I couldn’t say, but from the look of it, they most likely killed him a few hours back. The blood hadn’t froze yet.”

  Stunned, Rivers realized that it had probably been Calvin’s screams that he had heard during the night. Suddenly feeling too weak to hold his head up, he let it drop on the broad shoulder of his rescuer. Aware of the sudden draining of the wounded man’s strength, Luke said, “Don’t drop my bow.” He had no sooner said it than he heard his bow bounce off a rock and settle in the snow. Moments later, the arm around his neck relaxed and Rivers started to slide down to the ground. “Damn,” Luke murmured, and quickly spun around to catch his burden. He stooped down and let Rivers’s limp body fall across his shoulder while still holding his rifle in one hand. Before straightening up, he reached down and grabbed his bow with his other hand. “Damn!” he said again under the deadweight on his shoulder. “I wish to hell you’da waited till I got you back down this gully before you passed out.”

  It was a slow descent down the slippery defile with Luke giving thanks that Bob Rivers was not a big man. Carefully placing each foot, and bracing under his load as he stepped, he managed to make it down to the riverbank without tumbling. Successfully down from the ridge, he could not relax his vigilance, for now he was faced with the task of evading the twenty-five or thirty Cheyenne warriors gathered near the water’s edge. There might even be one or two among them who knew him from prior visits to their camp. Looking up at the sky, he guessed that he had an hour or more of darkness. After that, he didn’t give himself much hope of slipping away from the village without being seen. Another troubling thought came back to mind then. His horse, although a strong pony, had already been ridden hard. It was in no shape to race across the prairie carrying double. He needed another horse to carry Rivers, and there was only one place to get one. With a reluctant sigh, he lowered the unconscious man to the ground. You better not be dead, he thought, and bent low over him to make sure he was breathing.

  Then he looked toward the group of warriors some fifty yards away, preparing to make an effort to recapture their pony herd. Judging by their actions, he guessed there was still much confusion and discussion as to the best way to accomplish the job with the few horses they had managed to save. His best chance was now, he decided, while they were still in a state of confusion. “Up on the ridge!” Luke called out in the Cheyenne tongue. “Wounded soldiers at the top of the gully, I think they have bullets left. I have no weapon.”

  His cries halted the discussion among the Cheyenne warriors as they all turned and strained to see the dark figure standing in the shadows of the cottonwoods that lined the river’s edge. “Who speaks?” one of the warriors called back.

  Thinking at once of the name the Crows had given him, Luke answered. “I am Dead Man of the Arapahos,” he said, knowing that there were usually a few Arapahos as well as some Sioux in most Cheyenne villages of any size. “I am wounded in the leg, or I would go to kill them.”

  There was no need for further incentive for the angry warriors. They responded at once, hurrying toward the mouth of the gully. “How many?” one of them asked as they ran toward Luke.

  “Two, maybe three,” Luke answered, pointing with his arm up high against his face, and hoping it was too dark to see his sandy hair.

  Filled with a savage desire for revenge, the warriors took no time to talk to Luke. One who seemed to be the leader shouted to another, a young boy. “Little Sky, stay and hold the ponies.” Then he led the others up the gully.

  Guessing the boy was disappointed to be left behind, Luke said, “I am wounded and cannot climb up the ridge. I will hold the ponies, so you can go.” In the darkness, Luke couldn’t see the smile on Little Sky’s face as the boy immediately followed, leaving him to guard the horses. With no time to waste, he picked the only pony with a saddle. It was a typical Indian saddle and blanket, but would be easier for Rivers than riding bareback. Had there been time, he would have tried to run the remaining horses off across the river, but he couldn’t take the chance of some more warriors showing up before he was able to get it done.

  When he led the pony back to Rivers, he found the wounded man trying to get up on his knees, the cold snow having brought him out of his faint. “Come on,” Luke said. “I got you a horse. I know it’s gonna be hard for you, but you’ve got to stay on him if you wanna make it back to your company.”

  Rivers nodded. “I’ll make it,” he promised, optimistic now that there was a horse to ride. Luke lifted him up in the saddle and he immediately fell forward on the horse. “I’ll make it,” he repeated, and wrapped his arms around the pony’s neck. The horse, a shaggy sorrel, wasn’t sure he liked the strange smell of the man on his back, or the one holding the rope bridle for that matter. He tossed his head repeatedly in protest, causing Luke to fear he was about to buck Rivers off, so he snatched a blanket off one of the other ponies and rubbed the sorrel’s face with it. The familiar smell served to calm the pony down, enough so that Luke was able to lead it quietly downriver to the plum thicket where his paint was waiting.

  “I know you’re hurtin’ a helluva lot,” Luke said when he led his horse out of the bushes and climbed in the saddle. “I’ll try to see what I can do to help you in a little bit, but we need to get as far away from here as we can. When those warriors find out there ain’t no wounded soldiers at the top of that gully, they’re gonna be lookin’ for us in a hurry, especially the one whose pony you’re ridin’.”

  There was no response from Bob, his only focus being directed toward holding on to that pony. Luke took the reins of Bob’s horse and led him across the river, glancing back frequently, half expecting to see the suffering man slide off into the water. Thankful that he hadn’t done so, he turned the paint’s head south to follow a well-traveled trail along the eastern bank. He felt reasonably safe sticking to the common trail, where there were many tracks in the snow, because, like the Indian ponies, his paint was not shod. And he reasoned that the warriors would most likely storm off on the wide trail left by the retreating soldiers, assuming that he would be anxious to catch up with them. Instead of heading back to Lodge Pole Creek, however, he planned to follow the South Fork of the Powder for ten or twelve miles before cutting back to head straight for Fort Fetterman. His foremost thought was to get the wounded soldier to a place where he could get medical attention. In the meantime, he’d do what he could to ease Rivers’s discomfort.

  It was about an hour past sunup when the trail he had been following veered to the east, away from the river. “You doin’ all right, Bob?” Luke asked.

  “I’m still here,” came the weak reply.

  “Good. I ain’t seen no sign of anybody on our trail, but just in case, I’m gonna leave this trail here—take us into the river for a little bit. The water’s shallow near the bank, so we’ll follow it a ways till we find a good spot to make a camp and let you rest up some.”

  After about a quarter of a mile up the river, he found a suitable spot in a stand of cottonwoods on the east bank. He dismounted, then helped Rivers down. “I’ll have you a fire goin’ in a minute,” Luke said, “soon as I take care of the horses.” With one arm around Luke’s neck, Bob was able to hop on one foot over to a log, and stand there for a moment while Luke swept the snow off. Once he was settled, he managed to sit upright while Luke pulled the saddles off the horses and hobbled the Cheyenne pony to let them paw around in the snow to find grass. In a short time, he had a fire going close up to the cottonwood log with Bob sitting on a saddle blanket next
to it, his back against the log. Luke stood over the wounded man then and said, “I reckon it’s time I took a look at that leg.”

  By this time, the leg had swollen to the point where Luke had to cut the boot to get it off Bob’s foot. Bob clenched his teeth, but could not prevent a few sharp gasps from escaping while Luke slit his trouser leg enough to reveal the twin wounds just above the knee. They looked as bad as Luke had feared, and he knew that Bob was withstanding a huge amount of pain. There were two entry wounds, but only one exit wound, which tended to confirm what Bob had thought—that his leg was broken. One of the rifle shots had gone right through his leg and was not a serious problem. The second bullet had done the damage, and had apparently struck the bone. He straightened up and gave Bob his prognosis.

  “It don’t look good,” Luke began. “You need a doctor to try to fix that leg. I’ll do what you want me to. It’s your leg, but if it was mine, I’d open up those wounds and let ’em drain some of that swellin’ outta there. They’re tryin’ to heal over, and there’s one slug still in there and probably oughta come out. It’ll hurt like hell, but I expect it’ll feel a sight better afterward. Like I said, though, it’s your leg, your call.”

  “I need to do somethin’,” Bob admitted. “The way it’s painin’ me now, I don’t think I can stand it till I get to a doctor.”

  “I sure as hell ain’t no doctor,” Luke repeated. “But like I said, if it was my leg, I’d open that one wound back up before it toughens up over that bullet.”

  Bob leaned his head back and sighed. “Go to it, then.”

  Luke heated his skinning knife in the fire until he felt he had killed most of whatever had accumulated on the blade. Then, after it had cooled down enough, he set to work on Bob’s wounds. He worked slowly and as gently as possible while making the initial incisions, but when his patient passed out again from the pain, he went after the rifle slug in earnest. Reluctant to make the wound worse than it was already, he stopped probing when it became obvious that he was not going to be able to go deep enough to dislodge the bullet from the bone. “About all I can do,” he muttered. His cutting had released a great deal of bloody fluid, however, that should ease the pain somewhat—until it built up again. But by that time, with a little luck, maybe he could get him to a doctor. Heating up his knife again, he cauterized the minor wound, but hesitated over the more serious one, thinking that it might cause greater problems for the surgeon if he cauterized it.

  All done, he stood up over the unconscious man and considered his chances of recovery. In a few moments, Rivers came to, still in pain, although it was now a different kind of pain. “Damn,” he forced through clenched teeth and raised his head, trying to get a look at the result of his rough operation.

  “How long has it been since you ate somethin’?” Luke asked.

  Bob had to think about it for a few seconds before recalling. “Night before last,” he said.

  “You’ve lost a helluva lot of blood,” Luke said. “I need to find you some food to build your strength up. We’ve got a long ride to catch up with the army. I’m sorry I ain’t got any coffee to give you, but I’ll find somethin’ to put in your belly.” He picked up his bow and set out along the riverbank.

  He knew his prospects for finding deer or antelope were pretty slim, but he saw quite a few holes in the bank that looked like muskrat lodges. He wasn’t partial to muskrat, but it was nourishment, and that was the important thing at the moment. He had eaten it many times before when there was nothing else available. The meat had a taste similar to that of rabbit and the Indians seemed to enjoy it. “It’ll do till I find somethin’ better to hunt,” he declared.

  When he approached a bend in the river where a colony of muskrats appeared to have built a series of lodges, he crouched in the brush near the water and waited. The little beaverlike animals were most active early in the mornings and early evenings, but they were often about any time of day, so he waited. After a wait of approximately half an hour, he detected a stirring in a patch of lily pads, so he rose to one knee to watch it more intently. In another few moments, a muskrat appeared among the pads where it had been feeding. Luke notched an arrow and drew back his bowstring. There’s dinner, he thought as he released the arrow.

  * * *

  They remained there by the South Fork of the Powder for the rest of that day. Luke made bandages out of an old shirt he carried in his saddlebag, and fashioned a splint for Bob’s leg from cottonwood branches and straps made from muskrat hides, donated by several more of the little four- or five-pound critters. While the Cheyenne pony seemed well rested, Luke’s paint needed the extra day before starting out on the long ride back to Fort Fetterman. As for Rivers, he appeared to be responding favorably to Luke’s care, although he was still in a great deal of pain. The operation had succeeded in relieving much of the pressure around the wounds, and the nourishment served to lift his spirits enough to question his benefactor.

  “How’d you know where to find me?” Bob asked while sucking the last little bit of meat from a tiny bone.

  “One of the fellows in your company told me where he had seen you last,” Luke replied. “He said he saw you when you got hit.”

  “I knew the captain wouldn’t run off without sendin’ somebody back to get me,” Bob said, although he had thought he had been abandoned all during that long night when he and Foster had hidden in the gully. “I don’t reckon I’ve thanked you for riskin’ your neck to come after me. At least, I don’t remember it if I did. I was outta my head there for a while.”

  Luke shrugged, but made no reply. He saw no purpose in telling Bob that Captain Egan had not sent him, but had written Rivers off as an unfortunate casualty of the botched attack on the village. Able to concentrate on something other than his wound now, Bob studied the sandy-haired man in buckskins closely. “I don’t recollect ever seein’ you around before you showed up in that gully last night. Tell you the truth, I thought you mighta been an angel.”

  “I ain’t ever been mistook for one of them before,” Luke said. “I’m one of the new scouts that signed on back at Fort Laramie.”

  “Well, mister, I’m mighty glad you did. What is your name, again?”

  “Sunday,” Luke replied. “Luke Sunday.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to know you,” Bob said, extending his hand. “And I owe you a helluva lot.” Then he repeated the name. “Sunday,” he said. “Maybe you ain’t no angel, but that’s close enough.”

  Luke shrugged and shook his hand. “Maybe you’d better wait till I get you back to Fort Fetterman before you thank me too much.”

  The next morning, Luke helped Bob into the saddle again and they set out on a course almost directly east. Luke figured they were roughly eighty or ninety miles due west of Fort Fetterman. Although he had hoped to make better time, he found that the ride was taking too much of Bob’s strength just to remain in the saddle. Added to the problem was the necessity to dismount every so often to keep stiffened joints from freezing. In Bob’s case, this meant hopping for a few minutes while being supported by Luke. As a consequence, the miles covered in a day’s time were far less than what Luke had hoped.

  After the second day’s travel, Luke set up camp when he came to a favorable spot by a creek that had frozen over. There were trees for shelter and firewood as well as cottonwood limbs to peel for food for the horses. He planned to make Rivers as comfortable as possible while he went in search of game. By this time, both men felt the need for food. Luck was with him, for he found a small herd of deer taking shelter in a grove of trees some two miles downstream from his camp. That night the two travelers feasted on fresh venison, with plenty left over to sustain them for the rest of their journey. Most of the next morning was spent in the construction of a travois, since Bob’s leg was getting progressively worse, and he could no longer sit up in the saddle without excessive pain. Luke took the fresh deer hide and used
it on the platform of the travois to help keep the cold from freezing the wounded man. Then he piled his blanket and buffalo coat on top of him. Satisfied that it was the best he could do for him, he set out to cover the remaining thirty miles to Fort Fetterman.

  Chapter 3

  It was late in the afternoon, in the midst of a heavy snowstorm, when Luke rode into Fort Fetterman, leading Bob’s horse and travois with the half-frozen man aboard. Hard-luck fort or not, it was a welcome sight for both travelers. Stopped briefly by a picket, who thought it was an Indian approaching, Luke identified himself and then proceeded directly to the post surgery, where two orderlies took Bob off his hands. Luke hung around while the post surgeon examined Rivers to make sure he hadn’t brought in a dead man. Afterward, Bob got the bad news that the leg couldn’t be saved. Obviously distraught, he nonetheless took the prognosis calmly. “I’m afraid that bone is smashed,” the surgeon said. “There’s no way I can set it, and there are already some signs of gangrene setting in. I’m gonna have to take it off. To tell you the truth, the fact that you came in here half-frozen probably kept that leg from getting worse than it is now.”

  “That’s hard news to swallow,” Luke told Bob. “I’m sorry I couldn’ta done somethin’ to save that leg, but I don’t know what it woulda been.”

  “No call for you to apologize to me for anythin’,” Bob quickly assured him. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t come in that Injun camp after me, I’d be dead right now. And I’d a heap druther be a peg leg than a dead man.”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll be goin’ along now,” Luke said in parting. “You take care of yourself. I’ll see you after they get through sawin’ on you.” Seeing the glistening in Bob’s eyes, he could see that the man was fighting to control his fear of the operation awaiting him, so he didn’t linger, wishing to avoid Bob’s embarrassment for failing to hide his emotions.