Frontier America

by William W. Johnstone

  Jamie didn’t rush his reloading. He knew he had time. His fingers performed the task in smooth, efficient motions. He glanced over at Tyler and saw that the young officer had followed his example and turned his horse so he could rest his rifle’s barrel across the saddle.

  “Which one are you aiming at, Lieutenant?” asked Jamie, his tone as casual as if he’d been inquiring about a Sunday picnic.

  “The . . . the one on the right,” Tyler answered. “My right. With that black stripe painted across his face.”

  “All right. Make your shot count.” Jamie nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the rifle’s stock as he aimed. “I’ll take one of the others.”

  A couple of seconds ticked by as the two men steadied their aim. Jamie’s Sharps boomed first, followed an instant later by Tyler’s rifle. The Indian Jamie had targeted flew backward off his pony, drilled through the chest. Tyler’s shot wasn’t quite as accurate, but the bullet shattered the black-painted Pawnee warrior’s right shoulder. The impact twisted the man around, but he didn’t fall off his pony. Instead he hauled the animal around and rode back the other way.

  That left three of the hostiles mounted and charging at Jamie and Tyler. There wouldn’t be time to reload the rifles again. Jamie shoved his Sharps back in its sheath and dropped his hand to the Walker Colt on his hip.

  Tyler carried a Colt Dragoon pistol in a flapped holster on his right hip. Jamie figured between the two revolvers, they had enough firepower to make a good stand against the three Pawnee warriors.

  The problem was that the Pawnee bows had a longer range than the handguns. Arrows began whipping through the air around Jamie and Tyler. One of them grazed the rump of Tyler’s horse and made the animal whinny shrilly in pain.

  A rifle boomed again, this time from the hummock. One of the remaining Indians slumped forward over his pony’s neck, struck from behind by the bullet. He slid off the galloping pony, and the warrior riding beside him had to jerk his mount away to avoid getting tangled up with the fallen man.

  That disrupted the attack, and the two Pawnee who were still mounted must have decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to remain in this crossfire. One waved an arm and yelled at the other, and then both turned their ponies and rode hard to the north, away from the scene of battle.

  “They’re giving up?” Tyler asked in amazement as he stared at the dwindling figures.

  “No Indian will keep fighting once the price for winning gets too high,” said Jamie. “They’re hardheaded that way. So they’ll just light a shuck and figure on fighting again some other day.”

  He peered toward the hummock where a figure was now visible, standing on top of the mound and holding a rifle. That was the man who had picked off one of the remaining Pawnee and convinced them to abandon their attack. Jamie grunted in surprise. He was pretty sure the rifleman was Lieutenant Edgar Davidson.

  “We’d better go check on those fellas,” Jamie said.

  He and Tyler mounted up and rode toward the hummock. As they came closer, Jamie saw he was right. Davidson was the man standing there. The lieutenant was reloading his rifle as they rode up.

  “A timely arrival, Lieutenant Tyler,” Davidson said.

  “We had just gotten back to camp when Mr. MacCallister heard the shots,” Tyler said. “I’m glad we were able to get here in time to help.”

  “Yes, the situation looked a bit dicey when those savages attacked us. This was the only cover we could find.”

  Davidson’s voice was calm, and his fingers didn’t seem to be shaking as he finished reloading the rifle, but all the color was washed out of his face and his eyes were a little bigger than normal.

  “Are any of you hurt?”

  “I’m afraid Private Hodgson is dead.”

  “No!” Tyler said.

  “He was struck in the throat by an arrow as we dismounted. There was nothing Private Thomas or I could do for him.”

  “Where are your horses?” Jamie asked.

  Davidson had been ignoring him so far, but the lieutenant answered that direct question.

  “They ran off while Thomas and I were taking cover. As far as I know, none of them were injured by arrows, so you should be able to find them.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” Jamie said.

  He had started to turn his horse away when Davidson said to Tyler, “I assume the wagons are on their way, Lieutenant?”

  “The wagons are stuck in the mud,” replied Tyler. “They didn’t get very far when Sergeant O’Connor gave the order to move out.”

  Davidson blew out a breath in obvious disgust. He looked at Jamie, who had paused, and said, “I suppose you’re going to gloat now.”

  “Nope. I’m just going to find those horses so we can get you fellas back to the wagons. Private Hodgson will need to be laid to rest.”

  “Yes,” Davidson said, nodding slowly. “Yes, he will. Did you find the other horses that ran away during the storm?”

  “All but two of them,” Tyler said.

  Davidson nodded again.

  “Enough that we can push on, then,” he said. “Once we get the wagons free.”

  Jamie rode out to look for the horses. Davidson seemed a little subdued, even humbled, by what had happened, he mused.

  But Jamie had a hunch that wouldn’t last.

  * * *

  Jamie found all three of the horses, so they were able to load Private Hodgson’s body onto one of the mounts and take it back to the spot where the wagons were stuck. Sergeant O’Connor hadn’t made any progress in getting the vehicles loose from the mud, and the attempts were abandoned as the grim news of Hodgson’s death spread.

  Lieutenant Davidson placed Hayden Tyler in command of the burial detail. Jamie knew that finding a spot dry enough for a grave to be dug would be difficult, so he gave the young officer a hand. They had to go about half a mile to a slightly higher stretch of ground. Even there, when the two dragoons who’d been assigned to dig the grave were about a foot down, water began to trickle into the hole. As the water deepened, Tyler told two more men to fetch buckets and bail.

  It was miserable, frustrating work. If there had been any trees around, Jamie might have suggested that they build an elevated scaffold and lay Private Hodgson to rest Indian fashion, but that wasn’t an option, either. So the men kept digging, and by the middle of the afternoon, they had a muddy pit into which Hodgson’s blanket-wrapped body was lowered. One of the troopers who served as a chaplain of sorts had a Bible with him, and he read Scripture in a short burial service.

  Then, while a couple of men shoveled dirt back into the grave, the rest returned to the chore of trying to free the wagons from the mud. Even though it was too late in the day for the detail to resume its trek toward the mountains, it would be best to get the wagons loose before the mud hardened around the wheels.

  That took both teams, boards for leverage, and a number of men putting their shoulders to the wagons and pushing. Jamie found himself on one rear corner and looked over to see Sergeant Liam O’Connor at the other corner. O’Connor scowled at him, but both of them threw themselves into the work of grunting, straining, and heaving against the mud’s stubborn grip. More men tugged on the mules’ harnesses and urged the beasts to put their strength into it.

  Finally, with loud sucking sounds, the wheels came loose and the wagons rolled forward a few feet. Corporal Mackey bellowed for everyone to stop before the wheels had a chance to dig in again. They all moved to the other wagon and worked it loose as well, just as the sun was going down.

  Jamie went to Lieutenant Tyler and said, “I don’t think there’s much of a chance those Pawnee who got away will come back, but just in case, you’d better put on some extra sentries tonight and make sure they know to keep their eyes and ears open.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Tyler replied with a nod.

  That precaution proved to be unnecessary, as the night passed peacefully. The next morning, Jamie stomped the ground to test its firmness an
d decided it might be dry enough to try moving the wagons again.

  “Once they’re going, keep ’em rolling,” Jamie told Corporal Mackey. “There’s a little slope up to the west, so gradual you can’t really see it, but the farther we go in that direction, the better it should be.”

  Mackey nodded his understanding and said quietly, “I never would have tried it yesterday if Sergeant O’Connor hadn’t ordered me to, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “I know that.”

  “And Hodgson wouldn’t be dead if—” Mackey stopped short and took a deep breath. “Reckon I’ve said enough. Almost more than I should.”

  “You weren’t about to say anything the rest of us haven’t thought, Corporal,” Jamie told him.

  Mackey shrugged and went to see about getting the mule teams hitched up. Jamie looked around for Lieutenant Tyler and saw him talking to Davidson. Somewhat to his surprise, Davidson motioned for him to come over and join them.

  When he did, Davidson traded salutes with Tyler, who walked off to see to whatever task Davidson had given him. Then Davidson clasped his hands behind his back and said to Jamie, “You haven’t said anything to me about what happened yesterday, MacCallister. I’m sure you have an opinion on the matter.”

  “Not really,” said Jamie. “We ran into some pure bad luck, that’s all. Private Hodgson had the worst luck of all.”

  “You don’t blame me for his death?”

  “He probably wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t taken him with you,” Jamie admitted. “That’s just the plain truth of what happened. But I don’t know that you did anything wrong.”

  Davidson cocked an eyebrow and said, “Oh?”

  “That’s right. As the officer in command of this detail, you had every right to ride ahead and do some scouting. Had I been here, instead of being out rounding up those horses, I probably would have done the same thing.”

  “The difference is that the savages wouldn’t have taken you by surprise.”

  Jamie shrugged and said, “Likely not. But I might’ve wound up in a fight with the Pawnee anyway. Things like that happen out here on the plains.” Jamie shook his head. “If you’re waiting for me to condemn you, Lieutenant, I’m not going to. Not for what happened yesterday.”

  “I did manage to kill one of the hostiles,” Davidson said with a sniff.

  “You did, and it was a good shot. I’ll give you credit for that.”

  “But not respect.”

  “Lieutenant,” Jamie said, “why do you give a damn whether I respect you or not?”

  Davidson stared at him, and for a second, Jamie saw something in the young officer’s eyes he hadn’t seen before: fear. For all his arrogance and seeming self-confidence, despite the fact that he was surrounded by soldiers at the moment, Davidson was scared. Whether it was the idea of failing in his mission that frightened him, or just that he was scared of being killed, he was terrified—and he didn’t like it.

  Then, almost instantly, Davidson controlled that emotion and shoved it down deep inside him where it had come from. Jamie saw that as well, in the thinning of the young man’s lips, the jut of his jaw, and the stiffening of his backbone.

  “That will be all, MacCallister,” he said. “You can go on about your job now.”

  “Yeah.” Jamie rubbed his beard-stubbled chin. “I’ll do that.”

  He turned and walked back to his horse. Corporal Mackey was on the driver’s box of the lead wagon, the other teamster held the reins of the second vehicle’s team, and the dragoons were waiting for Sergeant O’Connor’s order to mount up. Within minutes, the little column was on its way again, and although the wagon wheels left deep ruts in the soft ground, this time they didn’t bog down.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Crow village

  Following the battle with the outlaws who had attacked the wagon train, Preacher and Hawk had returned to the village the next day. They were lucky enough along the way to run into a small herd of deer, so they brought quite a bit of fresh meat back with them. The Crow ate well that night, well enough that it seemed like a celebration of sorts.

  Preacher and Hawk also sat down with Broken Pine and the other leading warriors, including Many Pelts, and told them everything that had happened.

  “Those settlers won’t cause any trouble for you,” Preacher assured the warriors sitting around the fire in Broken Pine’s lodge. “They’ve turned around and headed back down to the Sweetwater, and from there they’ll go on through South Pass. They won’t come anywhere close to your village.”

  “But other white men will come,” Many Pelts insisted. “You said they all believe there is a good way up here to cross the mountains with their wagons.”

  Disdain practically dripped from Many Pelts’ voice. Several men nodded in agreement with him. As so often happened, these Indians couldn’t even begin to comprehend how white men thought and felt about things. Of course, Preacher told himself, the same thing was true when it was turned around and pointed back the other direction.

  “Over time, folks will realize that fella who wrote the book didn’t know what he was talkin’ about. When that happens, the wagon trains will stop driftin’ in this direction and you won’t have to worry about them anymore.”

  “How long?” Many Pelts demanded. “And how much will they ruin our hunting grounds before this thing you promise happens?”

  “Your huntin’ grounds will be fine,” Preacher said, trying to restrain the impatience he felt at Many Pelts’ stubborn attitude, an attitude obviously shared by several more of the Crow warriors. “As long as it starts rainin’ again, like it’s bound to, the game will come back and be as plentiful as ever.”

  Broken Pine said, “There is no way to be sure this will happen, Preacher. If it does not, our people will starve.”

  “I guess we can never be sure somethin’s gonna happen until it does,” Preacher said.

  “Another thing worries me,” Broken Pine went on. “These men who raided the wagon train . . . what are the chances they will come here and attack our people?”

  Preacher shook his head and said, “I don’t see any reason why they would. There were some renegade Indians among ’em, but most of’em were white, from what I could tell, and that means they were after loot. The Crow lead happy, peaceful lives here, but no offense, Broken Pine, you folks don’t have anything that’d interest a bunch of greedy, no-account varmints like that.”

  “Preacher is right,” said Hawk. “Those evil white men are no threat to us.”

  Many Pelts scoffed and said, “Of course you agree with your white father. I say the best way, the only way, for our people to be safe is to fight any white men we see and make them want to stay far away from here.”

  “You talk like a Blackfoot,” Hawk snapped back at him.

  Many Pelts snarled, leaned forward, and reached for the knife at his waist.

  “We do not fight each other,” Broken Pine said sharply. “Especially in my lodge.”

  “You heard what he said!” Many Pelts exclaimed.

  “My apologies, Many Pelts,” said Hawk. “My words were unwise. But I do not want our people to seek trouble when it is not necessary.”

  Broken Pine said, “There is wisdom to be found in those words. We will not fight among ourselves, and we will not go to war against the whites. Perhaps the spirits will smile upon us and no more wagon trains will come near our hunting grounds.”

  “That’s a good thing to hope for,” Preacher agreed with a nod.

  For the next week, it appeared that those spirits were smiling, just as Broken Pine suggested. Hunting parties found more game, which led Preacher to hope that animals were already starting to return to the area in greater numbers. No more wagon trains were spotted out on the plains.

  Preacher spent his days with Hawk, Butterfly, Eagle Feather, and Bright Moon. This was probably the longest stretch he had ever visited with his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. He thoroughly enjoyed this time.

  But even while h
e was doing that, he began to feel restlessness growing stronger inside him. Going to sleep and waking up in the same place, day after day, was something to which he had never become accustomed. Pretty soon now, he was going to have to be on the move again.

  Before that happened, though, he wanted to spend time with his other friends in the village, so he suggested to Hawk that they go hunting again, but on this occasion, they would take Broken Pine, Big Thunder, and several other warriors Preacher had befriended with them.

  “This is good!” Big Thunder enthused when Preacher told him about the hunting trip. “And when we get back, we will fight again?”

  “Why is it you’re so bound and determined to tussle with me?” asked Preacher. “I’m gettin’ old, son. I can’t be much competition anymore.”

  Big Thunder shook his head and said, “Preacher will never be too old to fight! That is what you do.”

  “Sometimes, it seems like that’s all too true. It ain’t like I go lookin’ for trouble, though. Somehow it just finds me.”

  There were ten men in their party when they set out from the village. They planned to be out for two or possibly even three days but took the bare minimum of provisions needed for a trip like that. They were counting on finding game to feed them.

  Dog ranged far ahead of them, but Preacher didn’t worry about the big cur scaring off any deer or antelope. If Dog spotted any worthwhile game, he would come back and lead them to it. The only things he would go after for himself were rabbits and grouse.

  The men took their time, not pushing the ponies they rode. As they loafed along, they talked about many things, from women they had known to great battles they had fought in the past to their hopes for what they would find in the world beyond this one. Preacher reflected that there wasn’t much difference between a hunting trip with this bunch of fellas and one he might have taken with a group of white friends. When you got right down to it, folks were folks . . . mostly.

  They didn’t find any game the first day, so they pushed out farther into the foothills the second day. A lone deer provided enough meat for the hunters to have a good meal, but not enough to make traveling back to the village worthwhile. On the third day, one of the warriors suggested that they venture out onto the plains, where they might find a herd of buffalo.