by Will DuRey
Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz sat alone in Clancy’s store eating steaks that Clara had set before them free of charge; reward for ‘two brave Indian fighters who are making the West a safer place to live’. To their ears, those words were more welcome than her earlier declaration that the man they’d antagonized was Wes Gray, especially after the return of the cavalry patrol with the news that the scout had gone in search of the captain’s kidnapped fiancée.
‘That’s the one they call Medicine Feather,’ Charlie Huntz had said, keeping his voice low lest it should betray his nervousness.
Lew was thinking of their carelessness after the robbery. They had done nothing to hide their tracks, thinking they would lose any pursuers at the North Platte or when they struck a well-used trail. But Clem and his lust had changed all that. Even if he was only half as good as his reputation, Wes Gray would have no difficulty in following the trail of the robbers back to Laramie. He would find Clem’s body and one look at his face would be enough to identify him as his brother. Then he would find the spot where Charlie and he had fought the Indians, followed by the dead horse. Then there were those two Indian boys, the last sign on the way into Laramie.
‘One of two things we can do, Charlie. Either we clear out of here before the squaw man gets here, or we go and meet him.’
‘What do you suggest, Lew?’ asked Charlie, with his usual dependence on Lew’s thinking, Lew chewed on his last piece of steak before answering.
‘It’ll look suspicious if we pull out before nightfall, but Gray might be back here before sundown. If we leave now we might not get far enough ahead to lose him. So, I reckon we go and meet him. Stop him from pointing the finger at us. Then we stay here one more night and head south again to spend some money.’
He picked up his hat, admired its silver discs and put it on his head. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need to purchase some horses.’
They chose a spot that gave them a commanding view of a valley down which they knew Wes Gray must ride. They had been there since early morning, rifles ready, horses close by for a speedy escape. They had been there so long they were beginning to wonder if he’d chosen another route. Charlie Huntz was edgy.
‘Should I ride up ahead? See if I can see him?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Charlie. He has to come this way.’
No sooner had the words left Lew’s mouth than the two men saw him in the distance, close to the mouth of the narrow valley.
‘That’s Clem’s horse he’s leading,’ said Lew. ‘He’s sure to know we were with him.
Charlie raised his rifle but Lew advised patience..
‘Wait until you’re absolutely sure. He can get a lot closer yet. We’ll fire together. He won’t get up again with two bullets in him.’
They lay on their stomachs and sighted along the long barrels of their Winchesters.
‘Ready? Lew asked.
‘Yep,’ said Charlie.
‘On three. One . . . two . . . .’
Before Lew reached three a rifle shot exploded somewhere down the valley. Arms flung wide, Wes Gray fell from his horse, an unmoving form in the long grass. Lew and Charlie eased the pressure from their triggers and looked at each other. Suddenly, a band of Indians emerged from the folds of the hills and descended on the felled scout. They surrounded him, one of them sitting astride his chest, scalping knife glinting in the bright morning sun.
‘Well, well,’ said Charlie. ‘Looks like we’ve been saved a job.’
Lew grinned. ‘Let’s get out of here.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hearing was the first of Wes’s senses to return as he lay on the ground, but it was his instinct for survival that latched on to those pinpricks of sound and guided his mind through the confusing black void to the light which lay beyond. How long that journey to consciousness took he could not have said. Perhaps mere moments, perhaps much longer, but as he neared the end of his struggle he recognized the noise as voices which were neither clear nor friendly.
Suddenly all his senses kicked in. A shriek was uttered, so close to his face that he felt a spray of spittle. This was accompanied by the foul smell of stale animal grease. Pain followed, his head engulfed by a continuous, throbbing ache. He kept his eyes closed, aware that excess light would increase the pain and pain was an enemy that had to be overcome if he was to arrange his thoughts in some sort of order. But there was no relief for him. A long, piercing shaft of pain, an intense white void of agony, lanced from the top of his head to some point deep behind his eyes.
The searing shock forced a yell from his mouth and bulged his eyes open. The face of a Sioux warrior was inches from his own. Two thick white lines were painted from cheek to cheek and above those his dark eyes were filled with hatred. His left hand gripped Wes’s hair, his tugging on which was the cause of the intense pain, and his right held a scalping knife. Unable to defend himself, Wes awaited the searing moment as his scalplock was separated from his head.
A low, guttural voice barked from somewhere behind the brave, causing him to hold back his strike, but the look in his eyes didn’t relax. Wes wasn’t sure that the command had been uttered with enough authority to permanently prevent the strike. More words were spoken by several voices. Wes was now aware that he was at the centre of a gathering of braves, most of them with lances poised to deter any fight he had in him. There wasn’t much. The man astride him hadn’t given up hope of taking Wes’s life and hair. He began shouting: arguing, Wes supposed, with the man who had reasoned against killing him. With a final cry, his would-be killer raised his knife and stabbed it into the dust adjacent to his left eye.
Wes’s gratitude for the man who had argued for his life lasted no more than a moment. Freeing the blade from the ground, his assailant, with a swift, violent jab, smacked the bone handle into the side of his head and, again, Wes lost consciousness.
The next few hours were the most painful and humiliating Wes Gray was ever to endure. He hovered on the edge of consciousness, desperately striving to master his senses. Each time he surfaced from that black chasm it was for only a moment, until the fearful pain in his head forced him to succumb once more to dark oblivion. On the third or fourth occasion he endeavoured to hang on to consciousness, forced himself to learn something of his situation before trying to open his eyes.
He listened for voices, but there were none. The only sound was the steady rumble of unshod horses walking slowly over the dry grassland. He wanted to touch his head, feel the spot which was throbbing with the rhythm of an Indian war drum, but he was unable to move any part of his body. It passed through his mind that he had been paralysed by the injuries he had sustained, that his body could no longer respond to the urgings of his brain.
In panic he opened his eyes. The ground was passing below his head. Wes was mortified by the knowledge that they had tied him, securely, across a pony. His hands were tied together as were his legs, and another rope had been passed under the pony’s belly securing wrists to ankles. He tried to raise his head but a wave of pain deterred him from trying too hard. Involuntarily, a groan slipped past his lips. The reward was a blow across his shoulders from a lance or a coup stick. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again it was with a determination to stay conscious and to make some effort to assess the situation.
Blood and dust combined to produce a raging thirst. Blood ran across Wes’s brow, over his right eye and lips, and dripped, occasionally, on to the trail below. Somewhere in his misty memory he recalled a gunshot and deduced that to be the cause of the pain in his head. In other circumstances, being merely grazed by a bullet might have been considered lucky but, if the Sioux intended his death to be sport for the village, he could soon be wishing that his death had been instantaneous.
What troubled him was the reason for their attack. He recalled the face of the warrior who had wanted to scalp him. The hatred in his eyes was almost personal, as though it was Wes and Wes alone whom he wanted to kill. In the jumble of thoughts in his mind he wondered
if the two men who had reached Laramie had been telling the truth, wondered if they had been attacked by Sioux, and that somewhere on the plains were two other survivors of the Shoshone raid. Even as that thought occurred to him he knew it was without any real substance. Again he closed his eyes, intending to conserve energy in the hope that an opportunity to escape would present itself.
Whether it was sleep or unconsciousness that overcame him Wes was unable to say, but it was late afternoon when they stopped and the rope that tied him to the pony was cut. Roughly, he was pulled from the animal and thrown to the ground. Because he was bound hand and foot he was unable to protect himself from the impact. His shoulder hit the ground, then his head. He had promised himself not to cry out again, but that was a promise almost broken at the first test.
Suddenly a multitude of legs surrounded him. Men, women and children. The children poked him with sticks, some threw rocks, others kicked or punched. No one spoke, the silent manner of their assault was more frightening than the threat in the hate-filled eyes of the man with the white markings across his nose. He stood over Wes and prodded his shoulder with the blunt end of a lance, eventually striking it hard across his back when Wes tried to turn away from it.
He would have served Wes another blow if the circle hadn’t broken to allow two ponies to be led into the ring. An Indian was on the back of each animal, though not riding as to war or the hunt, but slung across the back in the same manner as Wes had been brought to the village. The difference was that their limbs weren’t tied, but stuck out, stiff and unmoving. The first body, that of a boy, was lifted down.
Immediately a wail went up from a woman who was pushing her way forward. She took his head, cradling it as those lifting him from the horse put him on the ground. The warrior with the white face markings put down his lance and sank to his knees beside the woman. The sound of her keening was interrupted by another high-pitched shriek as the second body was laid on the ground. Wes could see that this, too, was a young boy, and his mother wailed at the night sky when she saw the terrible gunshot wound that had ended her son’s life. To the accompaniment of tom-toms and rattles, women in the crowd began to chant death songs for the boys.
A medicine man hovered over Wes and issued instructions. Two warriors cut the bindings around his wrists and ankles allowing the blood to flow painfully to hands and feet again. They stripped him naked, then marched him around the village, the whiteness of his skin an obvious target for their derision. Wes tried to tell them he was Medicine Feather, brother of the Arapaho and friend of the Sioux, but even with his life at stake, his mouth couldn’t form the words nor his lungs summon the strength to make them heard above the tumult.
Sticks and clubs struck blows about his head and body. He began running hoping to avoid most of the blows, but the head wound reopened and blood ran down his forehead and into his right eye. Not that it mattered whether or not he could see, he knew the braves at either side were leading the way to his execution. The air was filled with whoops and high-pitched trills. Men and women wanted revenge for the dead boys. They wanted white man’s blood.
Wes was dragged a complete circuit of the village, subjected all the time to threatened blows with knives, lances and tomahawks, and actual blows from clubs and sticks. From time to time he fell but each time he got back up. He wouldn’t let them believe they could bully him into submission even though every inch of his body ached and rising to his feet was a signal for the onset of more punishment. Deep inside, however, he knew that to submit to these blows would lessen his worth in the eyes of the warriors and his death, when it came, would be of even greater torment.
When they stopped Wes was back where he had begun, in the centre of the village, near the totem pole. A frame had been erected which was travois-like, one of the sledlike contraptions that their ponies pulled to transport their goods or sick people. As they dragged Wes towards it he found a new reservoir of strength and determination. He stopped, dug in his heels to root himself to the spot, then thrust with all his strength, a last ditch attempt to shake off his captors. The one on the left stumbled but retained a grip on the scout’s arm, but there was little effect on the other. He stepped behind Wes and twisted his arm up his back, giving his companion the opportunity to regain his ground.
At the same time the buffalo-horned shaman sprang forward. In his raised hand he carried a bear’s claw endowed with long, cruel talons. With a vicious strike he raked the scout’s chest, ripping it open with four ragged gashes. Only the guard’s tight grip kept Wes upright. Through the haze of pain he heard a scream. For a moment he thought it had come from his own throat, but he was wrong. A warrior charged at him, his lance aimed at the prisoner’s heart. Instinctively, Wes knew it was the brave with the white markings and, with that same inner knowledge, he also knew he must be the father of one of the dead boys.
The warrior wasn’t allowed to reach Wes. Braves at either side grabbed his arms and dragged him to the ground. A tall Indian, in a feathered bonnet that reached down almost to his knees, stood before him, speaking in a stern voice and silencing the crowd. Everyone listened intently. He ordered the lance to be taken from the man and given to a woman at the front of the circle. She held it while the chief continued talking, his arms and hands gesticulating all the time.
When he stopped the woman threw the lance to the ground, and from the folds of her dress she produced a sharp, short knife. She locked eyes with Wes, then began to sing in a manner that chilled the scout. Another woman moved beside her, she too was holding a knife. They sang together and as they sang the women of the tribe gathered around them. The men, all but the two who held him, moved to one side, clearing the distance between Wes and the women.
The singing stopped abruptly. Slowly, with the elegance of queens on their thrones, the two women seated themselves on the ground. The first woman lifted her head and spoke, throwing her words to the sky. She spoke of her son, of how his spirit now hunted with his ancestors because of the evil that white people had brought to the land of the Lakota. As she reached the end of her speech the knife in her right hand flashed and she chopped the small finger from her left hand. Immediately the second woman followed suit.
Such acts of mutilation were, Wes knew, symbols of mourning. For each dead son the women had removed a finger. They held their hands up to the crowd so they could see the blood flowing over their hands. Everyone began shouting, the men waving war clubs and tomahawks, too. All the anger was aimed at the prisoner.
Wes was pulled to the frame behind him, his legs spread wide and fastened at the ankles. Likewise his arms were stretched out above his head and tied at the wrists. In vain he struggled. Had he been uninjured his resistance might have been greater, but the outcome was inevitable. There were too many to fight. It took only seconds for them to secure him to the poles, to string him up in the dying heat of the day like the carcass of a deer waiting to be butchered.
The villagers dispersed, leaving him to the agonies of his body. Blood now flowed not only from the head wound but also from the savage slashes inflicted by the medicine man. In addition, his back, shoulders and head had taken a series of heavy blows as he’d run the village gauntlet. Bloody sweat dripped into his eyes and every breath seemed like a swallow of barbed wire in his parched throat.
He was left to hang in torment. At some point he passed out, only to be revived by the medicine man, who shouted in his face and threatened again to use the sharp talons of the bear claw that he carried. Wes had slumped so that his arms were bearing all his weight. The pain in the shoulder joints was barely eased by the little adjustments it was possible to make.
By now the sun was low and would soon disappear. The medicine man began cajoling some braves. In a short time they began to stack kindling in preparation for a big fire. With an eerie fascination Wes watched as the village people began to congregate around the totem pole. Some were wrapped in blankets, others carried them over their arm. It seemed that the party would not soon be over. Th
e time had come, Wes realized, for his death, and it was a cause for celebration.
When the last rays of that day’s sun touched the ground the drums began. The people sat in a circle around the unlit fire and listened while the old men sang. Then the chief stood up, casting aside the blanket he carried so that he could exhort the people of the village with gestures as well as with words. His wiry frame was short and his voice was a flat monotone, but he wore a long, feathered bonnet which touched the ground and gave authority to his presence and words.
For the most part Wes couldn’t understand the Indian’s speech, but from time to time the chief pointed at the prisoner. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he was exhorting the tribe to murder and, for a moment, Wes thought that perhaps he was being defended, that the chief was telling his people that the captive had not been allowed to speak in his own defence or explain his reason for being in the land of the Sioux, but it was a hope that was short-lived.
The medicine man stepped forward again, with something clasped in his hands. Wes could see water running to the ground as the Indian approached. Whatever he was holding, it clearly wouldn’t bring any comfort to the captive. At that moment, Wes lost all expectation of mercy. By now the particular torments of wounds and thirst had left him, only the desire for life survived.
The medicine man passed behind Wes and he felt the Indian’s damp hands wrapping something around his throat. It tied the scout to the frame, tightly, so that he couldn’t move his head. Everyone fell silent. Wes recognized the feel of rawhide on his skin. Wet rawhide shrinks as it dries. Somewhere behind him an order was shouted. Within seconds the great fire was lit. The fire’s heat would cause his slow strangulation. As the medicine man moved away from him he could see that many of the women had knives. Before he was dead the women would be allowed to take revenge for the death of the children.
