The emigrant train descended at Ash Hollow into the valley of the Platte. The wagons crossed the Bluewater and headed northwest, onto what geologists call the Box Butte Plain, where box-shaped sandstone monoliths rise from the gullied stretches of shortgrass buffalo prairie. The emigrants were still 150 miles east of Fort Laramie, but they had made excellent progress since leaving Fort Kearny and would soon be seeing the silhouette of Scotts Bluff, gateway to the final push for Laramie and the mountains.
The weather was warm and dry.
Three times since Kearny the train had been stopped by Indians. At the first encounter the pilgrims gave up flour, sugar and coffee. The second cost them molasses, salt pork, powder and a few pounds of lead. On the third meeting a brave attempted to board a wagon and weapons were drawn, but the Indians withdrew.
Shortly before dawn on the 19th day out, 10-year-old Charles MacGruder, his twin brother Edward and his uncle James were herding the train’s stock back from the Platte when two Indians rode out of a wash behind them and approached the uncle to ask for ‘tabac.’
The uncle indicated he had none, and as he turned back toward the herd fifteen warriors came whooping from the tree line along the river, circling the train’s animals and clubbing both boys from their horses. The uncle’s hand had barely touched his revolver when he was struck simultaneously by four arrows.
All of the MacGruders were scalped.
The scout Chambers was the first in the camp to see them coming. As morning light broke over the hills he walked out onto the open prairie and heard the yelping and saw the dust and then the warriors waving the MacGruders’ bloody shirts like flags as they came on, hazing the horses, oxen, and mules toward camp. Chambers yelled Indians, murderers, and took up his heavy dragoon revolver. He managed to split the stampeding stock with a shot that brought down the herd’s bell mare kicking, tossing up chunks of sod as she somersaulted and slid on her side, bloody foam streaming from her mouth and nostrils.
Miles and two others quickly joined the scout and each took a hurried shot at the red horsemen before they saw an even larger force bearing down on the camp from the east, out of the rising sun.
Naked, with the bright light behind them, their horses’ tails tied up for war, 40 attackers with bows, lances, and clubs galloped out of the glare like circus riders, throwing themselves to the sides of their ponies, shooting arrows from under the horses’ shaggy necks, whooping and swinging their weapons. The air filled with dust as they rode through camp, sawed their ponies around and came back to board the wagons.
Screaming women and children ran out onto the prairie in panic to be clubbed down or skewered, arrow and lance shafts passing through, some extending like puppet parts out both sides of a neck or a shoulder or midsection. Fires broke out in some of the wagons.
By the time he reached his wagon Miles carried an arrow in his hip; he fired his rifle once from his wagon seat before taking another shaft through the chest. He fell back into Abigail’s arms, wide-eyed and spitting blood as he mouthed final instructions to flee, flee, flee.
Sarah stared in horror, her hands covering her mouth as her mother rose and pushed her toward the back of the wagon.
Go Sarah, she said. Go now. Go now, she repeated in a calm, almost catechistic tone. It was her final response to the litany of slaughter, for in the next moment an arrow pierced the wagon cover, passed through her back and emerged between her breasts.
Then came a ripping sound and the canvas parted under the blade of a scalping knife, and the vermilioned face of a Sioux warrior became Sarah’s last recollection of the day.
The weather was warm and dry.
Three times since Kearny the train had been stopped by Indians. At the first encounter the pilgrims gave up flour, sugar and coffee. The second cost them molasses, salt pork, powder and a few pounds of lead. On the third meeting a brave attempted to board a wagon and weapons were drawn, but the Indians withdrew.
Shortly before dawn on the 19th day out, 10-year-old Charles MacGruder, his twin brother Edward and his uncle James were herding the train’s stock back from the Platte when two Indians rode out of a wash behind them and approached the uncle to ask for ‘tabac.’
The uncle indicated he had none, and as he turned back toward the herd fifteen warriors came whooping from the tree line along the river, circling the train’s animals and clubbing both boys from their horses. The uncle’s hand had barely touched his revolver when he was struck simultaneously by four arrows.
All of the MacGruders were scalped.
The scout Chambers was the first in the camp to see them coming. As morning light broke over the hills he walked out onto the open prairie and heard the yelping and saw the dust and then the warriors waving the MacGruders’ bloody shirts like flags as they came on, hazing the horses, oxen, and mules toward camp. Chambers yelled Indians, murderers, and took up his heavy dragoon revolver. He managed to split the stampeding stock with a shot that brought down the herd’s bell mare kicking, tossing up chunks of sod as she somersaulted and slid on her side, bloody foam streaming from her mouth and nostrils.
Miles and two others quickly joined the scout and each took a hurried shot at the red horsemen before they saw an even larger force bearing down on the camp from the east, out of the rising sun.
Naked, with the bright light behind them, their horses’ tails tied up for war, 40 attackers with bows, lances, and clubs galloped out of the glare like circus riders, throwing themselves to the sides of their ponies, shooting arrows from under the horses’ shaggy necks, whooping and swinging their weapons. The air filled with dust as they rode through camp, sawed their ponies around and came back to board the wagons.
Screaming women and children ran out onto the prairie in panic to be clubbed down or skewered, arrow and lance shafts passing through, some extending like puppet parts out both sides of a neck or a shoulder or midsection. Fires broke out in some of the wagons.
By the time he reached his wagon Miles carried an arrow in his hip; he fired his rifle once from his wagon seat before taking another shaft through the chest. He fell back into Abigail’s arms, wide-eyed and spitting blood as he mouthed final instructions to flee, flee, flee.
Sarah stared in horror, her hands covering her mouth as her mother rose and pushed her toward the back of the wagon.
Go Sarah, she said. Go now. Go now, she repeated in a calm, almost catechistic tone. It was her final response to the litany of slaughter, for in the next moment an arrow pierced the wagon cover, passed through her back and emerged between her breasts.
Then came a ripping sound and the canvas parted under the blade of a scalping knife, and the vermilioned face of a Sioux warrior became Sarah’s last recollection of the day.
---
I’ll be fucked, exclaimed Teddy Cole as he stood in the gulley where he and Cutter laid in concealment. He recognized the lone rider descending the barren rise to the south, yet another antelope slung across the crup of his pony.
Lookee here. It’s Jumper, Henry, he said.
Cutter rose. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.
Jumper. Come here, ye soulless heathen. We’re on foot, unhorsed again by your goddamn kin.
I’ll be fucked, exclaimed Teddy Cole as he stood in the gulley where he and Cutter laid in concealment. He recognized the lone rider descending the barren rise to the south, yet another antelope slung across the crup of his pony.
Lookee here. It’s Jumper, Henry, he said.
Cutter rose. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.
Jumper. Come here, ye soulless heathen. We’re on foot, unhorsed again by your goddamn kin.
They moved to the river where they built a small fire and roasted the antelope backstrap, the first meat in two days for Cole and Henry.
Need to procure mounts, said Cutter, who emitted a loud, rolling belch as he tossed a piece of gristle into the fire. We’ll lose our feet strolling this country.
This country. Jesus Henry, said Cole. Do ye have a notion of where we are?
Cutter shook his head. No but the heathen does, pointing at Jumper, who looked at him. Do ye know where we can obtain some animals on the cheap?
Jumper shook his head.
In the morning they headed north, across miles of broken prairie until they reached the Platte. Four days later they came upon the massacre site.
The blackened corpses lay bloated in the grass, stiffened limbs sticking out like the roots of trees blown down in a tornado. Carrion eaters had dismembered many, and several wolves slunk away at the approach of the travelers, who moved among the burned wagons, noses covered by their shirt sleeves, waving away the flies, which rose in dark, oscillating plumes as they passed.
While Jumper stood watch they scavenged currency, several blankets, gold teeth and pocket watches. They examined damaged firearms, arrows, burned clothing.
Cole moved among the decomposed bodies until the stench became intolerable. Jesus Christ Henry, let’s be on our way, he said.
Two weeks later they used the currency to purchase horses and saddles at Ft. Kearny.
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