A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

  “Oh!” Mary Beth exclaimed when she started down a gully to suddenly find Luke kneeling by the water’s edge. “I didn’t know you were here.” He turned to look at her, a straight razor in his hand. “Oh,” she went on, thinking she might have imposed upon his privacy, “you’re shaving.” It struck her as odd that he would be, since he seemed so much like an Indian that it never occurred to her that he might have whiskers. Feeling somewhat awkward at that point, she made an effort to offer light conversation. “Your razor looks like the one my father used to use. Where did you get it—from your father?”

  “Zeb Gaither gave it to me,” Luke replied. Offering no further explanation, he turned to rinse the razor in the water.

  “Oh,” she said again, curious now, and hoping she could inspire him to talk. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No, he raised me.” He dried the razor on his sleeve and got up to leave.

  “I didn’t mean to chase you off,” she quickly stated. “I can go farther upstream to wash my pan. I didn’t mean to interrupt your shaving.”

  “I was done,” he said, and started up the gully.

  “You’ll have to tell me about your friend Zeb sometime,” she called after him, realizing as soon as she said it that it was a stupid thing to say.

  “He’s dead,” Luke replied as he reached the top of the gully and headed toward his horse, left grazing in a stand of trees farther up the riverbank. Behind him, Mary Beth stood perplexed, shaking her head. The man is incapable of carrying on a casual conversation, she thought.

  Her questions had triggered thoughts in his mind that seldom came to the surface, but now prompted him to think of the circumstances that caused the razor to be in his possession. Zeb Gaither. He repeated the name in his mind and pictured the old trapper who had found a white boy-child near a Lakota camp. The child was no more than a toddler; his parents had been killed in a raid on their wagon train by a Sioux war party. The child was the only survivor of the massacre, having hidden under a washtub while the wagons were burned and the bodies of his parents and the others were mutilated. He didn’t know how long he had remained hidden under the tub, but Zeb had told him that he was half-starved when he found him.

  The old trapper took the boy to raise, although he was not pleased by the prospect of having the responsibility of a child. Knowing it was too much for him to take on alone, he enlisted the help of a Cheyenne woman named Owl Woman to take care of the boy. Zeb had lived with Owl Woman off and on for quite a few years. She was childless, so the gift of a son to raise was welcomed. Zeb insisted on a proper white name for the child, so he sat down and thought about it. He didn’t think it fitting to give the boy his own name. After all, he thought, he might not grow up to amount to anything I’d be proud of. In case he did, however, he decided to give him his father’s first name, Luke. Then, as near as he could recall, he had found the child on a Sunday, so he settled on the name Luke Sunday. As far as the boy was concerned, it was as good a name as any, so there were never any thoughts about changing it.

  Zeb Gaither died when Luke was about twelve years old, when his horse was startled by a rattlesnake and bucked the old man off, breaking his neck. With Zeb gone, Owl Woman seemed to lose interest in a life without him, so she followed him after a bout with pneumonia when Luke was fourteen. For Luke, it was a sign that it was time for him to leave the Cheyenne village to see for himself something of the white man’s world, the world he had been born into. The experience had not been to his liking. He had gone to Fort Laramie with hundreds of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors when some white men had come from Washington to create a great treaty between the red man and the government. There were many soldiers there as well as civilian government people. He went to the sutler’s store and looked at the many things offered for sale, and watched the soldiers as they marched by in formation. He even exchanged a few words with some of them, since Zeb Gaither had taught him to speak white man’s talk. He did not really understand the treaty talk, but Red Cloud, the Sioux chief, became very angry with what the government proposed and abruptly left the meeting with his people. Luke left with the others, never to visit Fort Laramie again until ten years later.

  At that point, he had decided that he was neither Cheyenne nor White and for the next several years he made his home in the Absaroka Mountains where he hunted and trapped, content to live alone. He never spent much time thinking about his solitary existence. It was something he was accustomed to. It had always been that way, even while he was living in the Cheyenne village. He was different from the Cheyenne boys his age, partially because of Zeb’s influence, but also because the forest, the rivers, and the mountains spoke to him in a different tongue, one he could not ignore. As a consequence, he had always hunted and trapped alone to the puzzlement of the other boys.

  There came a time, however, when he realized that it was necessary to abandon his solitary ways. Because of increased numbers of white settlers moving into the traditional hunting grounds of the Indians, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, and the Arapaho began to seek new hunting grounds, even to the point where he saw more and more signs of them in his mountains. This was added to the fact that he needed some means to buy ammunition for the Henry rifle that had belonged to Zeb Gaither. War had come to the plains as the government insisted that all tribes should move to the reservations, and he knew that he was going to have to choose sides in the conflict. It was difficult to give up his independence, but he decided to cast his lot with the people of his birth, the whites. He left his mountains to join a village of Crows on the North Platte, since they had always been allied with the soldiers. He had lived with them for almost a year, befriended by a young warrior named Black Feather, when the army sent word that they needed scouts. He had at once seen an opportunity to buy the cartridges and supplies he needed, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t enthusiastic about working for the army.

  Bringing his thoughts back to the present, he paused to take a thoughtful look at the straight razor before returning it to his saddlebag. He pictured Zeb Gaither on the last day of his life. That horse never bucked a day in its life, he thought, until that rattlesnake struck at its legs. “I reckon that’s why Zeb got throwed,” he mumbled. “He never expected it.” He dropped the razor in the saddlebag and stepped up in the saddle that had also once belonged to Zeb.

  * * *

  A bright three-quarter moon, riding high in the clear night sky, revealed the sharp lines and the many draws and ridges that extended as far as the eye could see. Beyond the ridges, the prairie waited with no relief except for scattered patches of cottonwood trees along the serpentine river. There had been no contact with hostile Indians so far, but the growing number of trails, some from entire villages, was enough to cause Luke to consider traveling at night until reaching the Yellowstone. As long as the weather held, there should be no problem in driving the wagon by moonlight. He nudged his horse gently and the obedient paint started at once, making its way down the backside of the ridge at a comfortable walk.

  He had planned to scout the next morning’s trail as far as the forks of the river, where the Little Powder flowed into the Powder, before circling back to return to camp. But the flickering light from a campfire below the bluffs caused him to stop. At once alert, he dismounted and led the paint down along the bluffs until he came to a thick stand of berry bushes. Leaving his horse there, he continued on foot until he was close enough to see the camp. It was impossible to get an exact count, but he knew there were at least twenty or more, judging by the several fires. It was not a war party, for there were women and children, but he could not tell whether they were friendly or hostile. Regardless, there should be no trouble with them, he reasoned. They were most likely heading west to join Sitting Bull, like so many others, and would probably be on their way in the morning. As long as they don’t know we’re camped just up the river from them, he thought.

  He remained there for a few minutes
longer before deciding to withdraw and return to his camp. It struck him then that he could smell the aroma of roasting meat. He paused to sniff it, then suddenly realized that the steady breeze was coming from the south. It was not the Indians’ cook fire he smelled, but that of his companions, and less than a mile away! There’s no reason for them to think it isn’t their own fire they smell, he told himself. Unless they’ve got somebody scouting around just like I’m doing! With a sense of urgency then, he stepped up in the saddle and started back to the wagon.

  * * *

  After watching Luke fade away in the darkness, Mary Beth had returned to the chore of washing her iron skillet. Using a little sand to loosen some of the grease that had baked on the bottom, she wiped the pan out and rinsed it thoroughly. Satisfied that it was as clean as she was likely to get it, she made her way back up the gully to the top of the low bluff. Looking toward the wagon, she saw David coming to meet her, but he suddenly stopped in midstride to stand perfectly still while looking to his left. Puzzled, she followed his gaze toward the cottonwoods that bordered the riverbanks. When she saw what had stopped her husband, her heart fairly threatened to leap into her throat. There in the shadows of the trees stood an Indian warrior, his rifle leveled at David.

  With no chance to run, both David and Mary Beth were momentarily paralyzed as they stared fearfully at their unexpected guest. The warrior, equally surprised to find the wagon and the white couple less than a mile from his camp, was uncertain what to do. So with the advantage his, he cocked his rifle and aimed it at David, still hesitating for a moment while he made up his mind.

  “There is no reason to spill blood here.” The words in the Cheyenne tongue came from the trees behind the warrior, accompanied by the distinct sound of a rifle cocking. The warrior spun around expecting a bullet to come his way, but there was nothing to be seen in the shadows. “These people come in peace.” Luke spoke again, his voice calm and without emotion. “They wish you no harm.”

  The warrior paused, his rifle still at the ready while he strained to see where the voice had come from. Having moved from the spot from which he had originally spoken, Luke stepped from the shadows to face the warrior, both men still holding their weapons prepared to fire. “It is foolish for us to shoot each other,” Luke said. “We are not enemies.” Although he could now see that the warrior was Sioux, he guessed that he understood the Cheyenne tongue. “We are not soldiers,” he continued while the warrior appeared to be undecided. “We are passing through your land. That is all. We take nothing from the land but what we need to eat. Let there be peace between us.”

  The Sioux warrior lowered his rifle and released the hammer, convinced that the deadly calm white man would kill him if he made any effort to shoot. “What you say is wise,” he said. “There is no need to spill blood. Go in peace.” He turned then and disappeared into the trees.

  Terrified, Mary Beth ran to her husband. Wasting no time, Luke quickly said, “Hitch up your horses and pack up your things. I’ll be back in a minute. Be ready to move outta here as soon as I get back.” Leaving them to act on his instructions, he slipped into the cottonwoods after the Sioux warrior.

  Moving cautiously through the shadows, he came to the edge of the trees in time to see the warrior jump on his pony and gallop away toward the Sioux camp. Knowing that it would only be a matter of minutes before the warrior could get back to his people to report the discovery of the wagon, Luke returned to David and Mary Beth, who were frantically hurrying to follow his orders. He waited a couple of minutes while David closed the tailgate and ran to climb up on the seat beside Mary Beth. When they were set to go, he pointed toward a low bank at the edge of the river. “Take your wagon across to the other side. You oughta be able to cross there all right,” he said, hoping he was right, because there was no time to test the river bottom. When David started toward the spot indicated without hesitating, Luke kicked dirt over the campfire and jumped on his horse to follow. Heading them off before they reached the water, he grabbed the bridle of one of the horses and led the team toward a section of the bank that looked firmer to him. The wagon threatened to bog down near the center, but with Luke’s and David’s urging, his horses hauled it to the other bank.

  Relieved that the spot he had picked to ford the river had been a good guess, Luke looked toward a line of ridges to the west. He was acting purely on instinct, because he could not predict what the Sioux party would do when the warrior returned to his camp. One thing he felt strongly about, however: He did not feel comfortable remaining where they were and trusting that the Indians would be content to leave them be. So he continued to lead the wagon toward the treeless ridges, searching for a cut or ravine that afforded sufficient cover to withstand an attack. There was little thought toward finding a place to hide, for the wagon tracks leading out of the river stood out in the bright moonlight as if it were midday. Time was short, so he urged David to hurry. There was bound to be a scouting party visiting their camp within a very short time, even if the Sioux meant them no harm.

  Picking a narrow ravine at the base of a high ridge, Luke pulled up and waited for David to drive his wagon between the rocky walls. “Leave the wagon in the openin’,” he instructed. “It’ll give you a little protection to shoot behind. Unhitch the horses and lead ’em back to the end. We don’t wanna take a chance on one of them gettin’ hit.” David was quick to respond and when he had led the horses to safety, Luke led the paint back to join them. “We might be doin’ all this for nothin’, but it’s better to be ready in case those Sioux decide to pick up a couple of horses and a wagon full of supplies.” The frightened couple stood wide-eyed, awaiting his every command. “David,” Luke continued, “get out that shotgun of yours and your pistol, and keep your eyes open.” He turned then to Mary Beth, who was busy wringing her hands in anguish. “Get that big ol’ pistol you’ve been totin’. You think you can use it for anythin’ besides shootin’ me?”

  She almost smiled when she recognized the barb for wearing the weapon during the first days of their journey. “I guess I can use it to shoot at Indians if I have to,” she answered, and went at once to her trunk to get it.

  “You can watch David’s back while he’s watchin’ the mouth of the ravine,” Luke said.

  “What about you?” David asked. “Where are you gonna be?”

  “I’m gonna climb up to the top of this ridge,” he replied. “I’ll do us more good up there with my rifle, where I can see if they try to circle around behind us.” Unwilling to waste any more time, he pulled the Henry from his saddle sling and started climbing the side of the ravine. David and Mary Beth looked at each other anxiously, knowing he was doing what was best for their defense, but still reluctant to be left alone. It was only for a moment, however, and then they moved quickly to their posts, each resigned to do whatever was necessary to ensure the safety of the other.

  With pistol in hand, Mary Beth took a position near the front of the wagon as David crawled up on the tailgate. He gave her a reassuring nod and she returned it with a determined smile. At that moment, she was proud of her husband—and proud of herself as well. They would show Luke Sunday that they would stand together against the savages.

  Luke’s instincts were not wrong, for he had barely had time enough to scale the ridge when he heard excited voices coming from the campsite he had just left. After a few moments more, he spotted the first of several warriors examining the wagon tracks at the edge of the river. After a short discussion, they spread out, joined by several others, and began a stealthy advance upon the ravine. There could be no mistaking it for a friendly visit, so Luke prepared to start picking apart their attack. Standing out in sharp relief on the moonlit prairie, the warriors offered inviting targets as they darted from one small hummock to the next, seeking the scant protection offered between the river and the line of ridges. When they were well within range of his rifle, Luke took aim at the foremost warrior and squeez
ed the trigger. The warrior threw up his arms and collapsed, causing the man next to him to stop abruptly. It was his mistake, because it gave Luke time to crank in another cartridge, and dispatch him with his partner. Without the advantage of Luke’s lofty position, David and Mary Beth could only search frantically back and forth in front of them as Luke’s rifle shots snapped over their heads, reducing the number of warriors by four. Expecting the Indians to suddenly appear at the mouth of the ravine, they could only wait and watch. In a few minutes time, however, the rifle fell silent, causing them more concern. There had been but two or three answering shots from their attackers. Could the silence mean that one of those shots had found Luke? A great sense of relief washed over them when they heard his voice.

  “Don’t shoot, I’m comin’ down,” Luke said. Moments later, he appeared. “They figured it was costin’ them too much to keep comin’. They might have had enough, figured they wouldn’t risk anybody else gettin’ shot. But you never know what they’ll do—might decide they need to revenge the four they lost. Anyway, they ain’t gonna be happy about it, so you’d best hitch up again, and we’ll try to put some distance between us and them while they’re decidin’.”