Tall Bear gathered his weapons and ran into the tall grass where his horse, still bridled, was grazing. He quickly tied on his war shield and threw a blanket onto the horse’s back. This Appaloosa was a fine war horse, swift, obedient. It was important the weight on his back be as light as possible. That was how the Sioux and their war ponies often outmaneuvered the bluecoat soldiers, whose horses were weighed down with heavy saddles, camping gear, men wearing heavy boots, too much clothing.
He wore only a breechcloth himself, nothing more. He had painted himself that morning for war, daily preparing himself for more attacks if they should arise. One side of his face was painted black for death, the other side had red stripes running from just under his eye to the bottom of his cheek, put there with paint on the tips of his fingers. They represented flowing blood. More red stripes ran down his chest. His hair was tied into a tail away from his face so that it could not blow into his eyes and affect his aim, and just yesterday he had painted arrows on his horse’s rump, repainted the bear claws on the steed’s shoulders and neck.
Always prepared! That was how it had to be when making war. He leaped onto the horse’s back in one swift movement, clasping his rifle in his right hand. He wore a small tomahawk and his big hunting knife in a leather belt around his waist, and low moccasins.
He let out a piercing war whoop as he rode to join other warriors already circling the camp, the few women along to tend to them cheering them on as each man charged to the sacred war pole and touched it as he rode out, sod flying from under the hooves of swift ponies, dust filling the air. He touched the pole with his rifle and clamped his legs tightly around his horse’s girth, heart pounding, blood flowing hot.
What choice did they have but to do this? It was too late to turn back the whites in Minnesota, but here…here there was hope. He and thirty-seven other warriors yipped and hollered as they thundered out of camp, up and down over rolling hills, until about twenty minutes later they came into sight of the trail. There would be no warning, no talking. Surprise was their best weapon. Tall Bear could already see the wagons begin to circle, saw little flashes and puffs of smoke that told him those driving the wagons were already shooting at them.
In moments he and the others were circling the wagons. He raised his own rifle as they rode, aiming, firing, proud of his marksmanship while on the back of a horse. He watched a man fall, rode past a wounded Indian at the same time. One of the war party had stayed behind to light little sacks of buffalo chips that were tied to the ends of arrows, and he had fired them into the tops of some of the wagons. Already three of the eight or so wagons were on fire. He could see the frightened faces of the white men who had taken refuge behind the big freight wagons. He shot another trader, all of them intent on keeping more supplies from getting to miners’ camps. He took aim again, prepared to fire…then hesitated. Jess! It was Jess Willett, his father’s old friend. He couldn’t shoot Jess!
In that one quick moment, he would realize later, his life changed. He felt a stinging blow at his right shoulder, and his rifle flew out of his hand. He fell from his horse, knew he’d been shot, remembered being torn again by confusion. He’d been out to kill white men, yet there had been one he could not hate or kill. His white side had again come to life to haunt him, like the time he’d shot that little white boy back in Minnesota, something he would never forget.
His body hit the ground, and he felt a smashing blow to his head, thinking some white man must have hit him with something. Then he felt someone dragging him, heard Jess’s voice. “Leave him be! You ain’t gonna kill this one!” He heard more war whoops, more shooting, then the voices of white men cursing. He heard Jess’s voice, closer now. “I ain’t lettin’ you die, boy. I owe it to your pa.”
A white man was helping him, saving his life. Yet only seconds before he’d been out to kill every white man on this pack train. That was the last thing he remembered for hours.
Tall Bear a woke to unfamiliar surroundings. He opened his eyes to see a lantern hanging inside a small enclosure. After studying the white canvas over his head he realized he was inside a wagon, much like the wagon that white woman, Faith, had driven. Was he back at her camp? He blinked, confused, until a familiar face leaned over to look down at him.
“Finally awake, huh?”
He studied Jess’s gray-and-red beard, the concerned look in his eyes. He tried to sit up then, but pain ripped through his right shoulder.
“You just lay still there, Gabe. You lost a lot of blood, but the bullet went clean through. I poured whiskey into the wound and wrapped it up.”
It felt strange to be called Gabe. “I need water,” he said.
The old man obliged, tipping a canteen to Tall Bear’s lips. “Here you go.”
After drinking the water Tall Bear studied Jess’s eyes. “You should not…have helped me.”
Jess corked the canteen. “You’re Alex Beaumont’s boy. He’d have wanted me to help you. I gotta tell you, though, I’ve had a time keepin’ the rest of the men here from comin’ in here and puttin’ a bullet in your head. Only thing holdin’ them back is you’re half-white and your pa was my good friend.”
Tall Bear closed his eyes, trying to think straight. “What happened to my horse? Where are my friends?”
“We finally managed to chase them off, but they done enough damage that we’ve turned back. I reckon they’ll leave us alone if they see us goin’ the other way. You and your friends won this round, boy. We can’t survive yet another attack, and most of the supplies is burned up, still sittin’ back there where we left ’em. Our extra mules is run off, so we figured we’d best head back, see if we can get a soldier escort before we head this way again. I don’t know what happened to your horse. Your warrior friends have probably taken him off with them for safekeeping.”
Tall Bear sighed. “You will take me to the soldiers? Have me arrested?”
Jess chuckled. “I didn’t save you for that, boy. I wouldn’t do that to Alex’s son.” He set the canteen aside. “Nope. I ain’t aimin’ for you to be arrested. I done told the others that anybody who tries to kill you before we get back to Fort Laramie is gonna feel my own bullet in his gut. I’ll take you to the fort, and you can do whatever you want after that. I’ve got friends there among the soldiers in charge, men who listen to what I tell them about how to handle Indians. If I tell them not to arrest you, they’ll leave you alone. You’ll be healed some by then, and you’ll be free to leave. I’ll have done my part helpin’ Alex’s son.”
Tall Bear looked around the wagon again, seeing pots and pans hanging everywhere, all sorts of other supplies. “You should leave me off here.”
“You need more rest first. You took quite a blow to the head when you fell from your horse. I saw your head hit a big rock.”
The wagon jolted as someone whistled and swore at the mules who pulled it. Tall Bear realized then that it was bright daylight. It must be morning. The attack must have happened yesterday, and he’d lain unconscious since then. “I do not want to go to a fort full of bluecoats.”
“Well, you ain’t got much choice, unless you want to try to run off on foot once you’re well. I expect you have that right, but I want you to think about somethin’ while you’re layin’ here healin’, boy. I want you to think about why you’re layin’ here at all. It’s because you hesitated when you took aim at me. You couldn’t shoot me because I was your pa’s friend, your white pa’s friend. You holdin’ off shootin’ me is what caused you to get shot yourself by one of my other men. There’s a part of you that belongs to our world, Gabe, and you’ve gotta face that fact. I want you to think about that, think about what your pa would think of you ridin’ with war parties, killin’ men not so different from himself.”
Tall Bear rubbed at his eyes with his left hand, unable to move his stiff right arm. “He would understand.”
“I expect he would, but he would also tell you there ain’t no future in these raids, not in the long run. He’d tell you that
whites is gonna keep comin’ and comin’ out here until it’s impossible to stop them, just like all over back east, and like in Minnesota. He’d tell you you ought to think about your white blood, how you could use what you know about both worlds to help both sides.”
“I do not understand,” Tall Bear said, frowning.
“You understand the white world and Indian alike. If you truly want to help the Sioux, you should do what you can to make them understand that all this killin’ ain’t gonna do no good except to get more of themselves killed when more and more soldiers come to hunt them down, kill their women and children. The best way to survive is to give this up. I know it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but men like you can help it along, Gabe. You can be a scout for the army, give the soldiers in charge advice about how to handle certain situations, and at the same time be a mediator with the Sioux.”
“I will not help soldiers hunt Indians,” Tall Bear replied flatly.
“Even if it means helping those Indians? Even if it means there could be peace, and the Sioux could still keep a lot of their hunting grounds? I can tell you right now that the government back in Washington is already talkin’ about a new treaty. Their generosity is gonna depend on how soon Red Cloud and his warriors decide to stop the killin’ and sit down and talk. You can help that happen, and it will save a lot of lives. I just want you to think about it, Gabe. I suspect you feel you don’t fully belong in either the white world or the Indian. This way you can be a part of both and be doin’ somethin’ good, like your pa would want.”
It all seemed too much to think about right then, as waves of blackness hit Tall Bear while Jess talked. “I must think a long time about this. It probably will not matter. Either one of your men will kill me, or the soldiers will hang me when we reach the fort.”
Jess touched his arm. “I’m in charge of this wagon train, and these men know I’ll kill anybody who tries to bring you harm. When we reach the fort, I’ll talk to the commanding officer. I’ve got a strong feelin’ that if you’re willin’ to act as a scout once we reach the fort, he’ll go along with that. You think about it.”
Jess climbed forward toward the driver’s seat. “I’ll take over for a while, Jake.”
“That bastard half-breed awake yet?”
“He ain’t no bastard, and yes, he’s awake.”
The wagon stopped for a moment. Tall Bear figured the one called Jake must be climbing down. He heard Jess whistle and shout then, and the wagon started rolling again.
Laramie! He was going to Fort Laramie, a den of blue-coats! He hated to admit it, but some of what Jess had told him made sense. He’d always been torn between both worlds. Maybe living between both was the answer. He had much to think about, but at least it would help keep his mind off that pretty little white woman he’d never see again.
Chapter Fourteen
Faith took aim through the hole in the shutters designed for the barrel of a rifle. She fired, and an Indian fell from his horse. Pure, heaven-sent luck, she thought, although she had been practicing her aim all summer. She had more than just the depot and its horses to defend. Now she had a five-month-old baby to protect, even more reason not to think about the fact that she had probably just killed another man.
One could not think about things like that in these situations. Hilda was at the other window, and when she fired her rifle, another Indian’s horse took a spill. “Got ya, ya bugger! That’ll teach ya. Ya try to take our horses, we kill yours!”
The horse’s rider staggered away from the animal, then turned to face the depot, raising his arms as though in brave defiance and letting out a war cry. Hilda fired again, and a bloody hole appeared in the man’s chest. He fell, silent.
Faith kept firing randomly, hitting nothing, just wanting to show the raiders she and Hilda were not about to give up easily, trying to scare them off and hoping luck would be in her favor. She noticed the one warrior she had hit still lay motionless, and she hoped God would understand and forgive her for killing him, just as she hoped she’d be forgiven for killing Clete Brown.
Most of the summer had gone by with no Indian problem, until the small raiding party outside had come riding down on the station, screaming their warcries, trying to get to the horses. Hilda had been outside when they’d approached from a distant hillside, and she had yelled for Faith to come help her get the six horses into the shed. Arrows had thudded into the doors of the shed just as they had closed them, and both women had run into the depot, bolted the doors, and closed the shutters, taking up rifles to defend themselves. Thank God the back of the depot was butted against a hillside and had no windows. They didn’t have to worry about defending that side of the building, too.
This was Faith’s first experience with such an attack, and her heart pounded with terror. She reminded herself she had her baby to think about. She could not let her fear overcome the necessity of the moment, which was to remain calm and keep her aim steady. She fired again, both women trying to keep the raiders from getting into the horse shed. The warrior at whom she fired fell from his horse, but he got back up and remounted, blood on his arm.
The raiders began circling the depot then, their faces frightfully painted. Both women fired and reloaded and fired again as fast as they could. Another Indian fell, but Faith wasn’t sure if it was from her bullet or Hilda’s. Thank God there was only a handful of raiders. They could only pray the braves would give up and rejoin whatever camp they’d come from…and pray they would not return with a hundred more warriors.
“This must be on account of that Indian fight last year down in Colorado,” Hilda said, shouting over the gunfire. “Buck told us to expect plenty of trouble this summer.”
Little Johnny lay on a blanket on the floor, crying from all the noise. Faith ached to go and comfort him, but there was nothing she could do. Briefly she thought how amazing it was that she was in a little stage station in a remote area of the Rockies shooting at Indians, and with a five-month-old baby to defend. What a far cry from the Faith Kelley who had run away with Johnny Sommers two years ago, her heart full of dreams.
When she stopped to reload, she was sure she heard more gunfire farther off.
“The stage is comin’, I think!” Hilda shouted. “By golly, they’ve got a soldier escort! We’re gonna be all right, Faith honey!”
Great relief flooded through Faith’s veins when she looked through the gun hole to see the stage charging down a distant hill, several men riding with it. Two warriors reappeared, and Faith took aim.
“Let them go!” Hilda warned. “They’ve come to pick up their dead. Let them do it, or they’ll just come back later and make more trouble.”
Faith held off, watching the warriors quickly pick up the bodies of their friends and sling them over their horses. They rode away, bullets whizzing past them from the direction of the approaching stage. Moments later several soldiers rode past the station, still firing at the fleeing Indians, while the stagecoach and its team thundered and clattered to the depot, raising so much dust when the driver finally halted the vehicle that for a moment Faith could see nothing.
“Everybody all right in there?” the driver called out. It was Buck Jones, whom Faith had come to know well. She respected him for his skill and rugged independence. He was a gnarly, skinny, but strong man, probably in his forties, she guessed. He always looked as if he needed a bath and a shave, and he was rather rough in manner. But he was a good man, blunt-spoken, and full of wild stories about his experiences as a stage driver and former scout for wagon trains.
“We’re fine, Buck,” Hilda called back, setting her rifle aside and opening the shutters.
Faith picked up Johnny and patted his bottom to soothe his crying, while Hilda opened the door to shout more at Buck. “You didn’t get here none too soon. That’s the first time any of them horse thieves have been around here this summer. Maybe it will be the last.”
“At least they didn’t get the horses,” Buck answered.
Faith
breathed a sigh of relief. She had survived her first Indian attack. There had been no trouble with outlaws this year, probably, according to Hilda, because of so much Indian trouble elsewhere. The territories of Wyoming and Montana and Idaho were not the safest places to be right now, not even for outlaws, yet Faith could not bring herself to leave the depot. Sommers Station had become home, and Hilda was not just a good friend. She was like a mother to her, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave the woman there alone. Besides, where else would she go? She’d found something she could call her own, a new form of freedom and excitement, a place that tested her courage and stamina. Arriving passengers were always surprised to find two women in charge of a remote stage depot, and Faith had become used to the questions and comments, especially from men who just could not believe women could do such things.
“We can do anything, can’t we, Johnny?” she said softly, kissing the baby’s cheek while outside men were talking and shouting, some of the soldiers giving out war whoops of their own for having chased off the “sons of bitches.” There was even some laughter. When Hilda returned, Faith, still shaken, turned to her. “Are you all right?”
“I reckon so. How about you?”
“I’m fine.”
Hilda set her rifle aside and wiped sweat from her brow. Then she walked up to Faith and put her arms around her and the baby. “You’ll get used to it, dearie. This Indian thing will get straightened around as more folks come west. They say they’ve started buildin’ that railroad, and now that the war is over back east, you just watch how fast things grow out here. You’ll do okay, honey. We’ve just proved we can handle anything, ain’t we?”
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