The Death of Emil Schulman

Emil was the eight-year-old son of Leon and Hilda Schulman of Toledo. Two days before the train was scheduled to arrive at Fort Kearny Emil woke with fever, which grew worse during the day’s travel despite his mother’s efforts. By noon the boy was delirious. An hour before the train halted for the day the boy spoke his last intelligible words. His mother heard him ask, is Grösspapi coming to supper? By the time the wagons stopped, the boy was dead.

Hilda refused to allow anyone to move the boy until dawn, when she collapsed into the arms of her husband, who wrapped her in a quilt and held her in the bed of their wagon until she fell asleep. Abigail Miles and another woman bathed the boy’s body while Thomas and two other men dug a grave and fashioned a small coffin from several crates.

The train decided to suspend travel for two days.
Early in the morning of the third day Miles approached Cutter to ask a favor: Would Cutter and his friends look after the train’s stock while the families gathered for a short funeral service? The shallow grave was a quarter of a mile away from camp, on the crest of a saddle-shaped hill crowned with two small cedar trees. The service would last perhaps a half hour – prayers, a few hymns, a Bible reading. Then the train would hitch up and embark.
Of course, the outlaw said. We’ll be honored to do this for the poor lad’s family.

When the last of the emigrants had assembled on the hill Cutter and Wilson spent fifteen minutes tossing the wagons for clothing, weapons, cash and jewelry; the boy, Jumper and Cole saddled horses selected by Cutter and rounded up the cattle and mules. Before he mounted up Cutter tossed the boy a pepperbox pistol, two shirts, and a canvas satchel containing sugar, coffee and a small sack of beans. Watch and learn boy, he said.

The thieves took the herd and headed southwest, fording the river a mile from the train campsite. Two milk cows became mired in quicksand, but Cutter made no attempt to retrieve the animals; he shot them.

They pressed on through the afternoon and early evening, halting briefly to recruit the animals north of the Little Blue River. As Wilson and Cole watched the herd Cutter, the boy and Jumper ate a cold lunch of dried apples and jerky in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

When Cutter finished he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled. Boys, he said, scratching his goatee, I believe we’ll find this country to our liking. These green sonsabitches trail out here with money and property fairly hanging from their pockets. They plead with us to relieve them of their burdens. ‘Will ye watch our stock?’ Hell yes, Reverend. We’ll watch your stock all the way to Santa Fe. He laughed and looked at the boy. What do ye think boy? Are ye ready to be rich?

The boy nodded his head. Ready as hell, he said.

They rode on through the night and all the next day, stopping briefly for water and to rest the animals. By the evening of the third day they could see trees lining the banks of the Republican River, which they would cross and follow west.

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It was a week before Miles and the other families would get their wagons hauled to Fort Kearny. The fort, established seven years earlier as an army post and resupply depot for wagon trains, was in turmoil; General William S. Harney was outfitting an expedition to punish the Sioux for the Grattan massacre at Laramie the previous year. The commander of Fort Kearny, Major Albermarle Cady, met with the heads of the train’s families and urged them to return to Nebraska City and wait there until the following spring.

The country between here and Laramie is overrun by bands of hostiles, he said, and if your thieves were headed west, more than likely their scalps and your stock belong to the Sioux by now. Your party is not equipped adequately to defend itself out there. The major rose from behind his desk and walked to the window of his sod headquarters building. He pointed at the supply wagons assembled on the fort’s parade ground. Within a fortnight, he continued, we shall load those wagons and embark against the savages. We will be in the field for at least a month, perhaps longer, and will be unable to render assistance to travelers should the need arise.

He turned around to face the room.
You have already suffered grievously, gentlemen. Don’t compound the damage. Your women and children will be at great risk if you proceed.
The words hung over the room like a pall.

That night after supper the emigrants held a meeting to decide a course of action. They built a large fire, and in the crackling yellow light each man gave his opinion. The majority favored a return to Nebraska City. Miles was the last to speak. He removed his hat.

We cannot pretend our situation is without hazard, he began. I have held counsel with my wife and daughter about it. And I know that for some, the difficulties will prevent further travel. I understand that. I sympathize. Were I and my family less committed to reaching our destination, we too might turn our wagon around. But for us, there will be no return. I do not say this to debate any decision to quit the trail; I say it so ye who wish to continue, but who may be doubtful of a shared commitment, will know that there are yet those who will pursue the accomplishment of our original purpose. I have discussed this matter with Mister Chambers, and have received his oath to continue to guide us. And it is with his help, and under the care of our Lord, and with his blessing, that we shall continue.

He stopped there, put on his hat, shook hands with the men standing on either side of him and walked out of the firelight. The result was that seven of the twelve families decided to continue. It took two more weeks to secure the supplies and animals they needed, but on August first they left Fort Kearny: eight wagons, 53 head of oxen, mules and horses, and 56 men, women and children.

The Stolen Herd

Back at camp Wilson was packing up when the rest of the Indians rode down on him. There were ten of them, and they had spent the previous day trailing the stolen herd, moving under concealment along the river bottom, waiting for an opportune moment.

Cutter had selected a campsite adjacent to a sloping draw that cut south through the flat prairie. Originally the draw was a game trail to the Platte, but decades of erosion deepened the narrow track until it had dropped well below the surface of the surrounding ground, a perfect defilade for the warriors, who led their ponies up from the river to within forty yards of the camp before they mounted and rode out.

Cole and Cutter left Wilson alone while they began searching for the stock, which had strayed overnight. Unknown to the outlaws, the Indians had already driven the animals downriver in the dark and corraled them in a side canyon.
A year earlier his carelessness might have cost Cutter only the herd, but trouble at Ft. Laramie splintered a fragile peace with several Plains tribes; an old chief named Conquering Bear had been shot down by soldiers in retaliation for the theft of an emigrant’s footsore cow, and now young men in wandering bands were killing wasichús wherever they found them.

Wilson was rolling his blankets when he heard the ponies pounding across the dry grass. He had left his rifle next to his saddle some ten feet away, but that hardly made a difference. There were ten warriors coming; he would have only one shot before they reached him.

It was over in less time than it takes to saddle a calm horse. Wilson missed his shot, the killers did not. They put three arrows through him and left him face up, spread-eagled on the ground, naked and scalped, thighs and abdomen slashed, a small, smoky fire set under his skull to roast his brains.
They took his rifle and horse, but paid little attention to the remainder of his belongings before they mounted and set off, whooping, in pursuit of Cutter and Cole more than a mile to the west.

Cole saw them first. Henry, Jesus, he said, and spurred his horse past Cutter, who sawed around and stared in surprise at the oncoming riders before he joined Cole in flight. The Indians closed to five hundred yards, their ponies flat out, but the outlaws’ mounts were fresh, and within a quarter mile the Indian ponies began to wheeze.

The Indians were close to breaking off the chase when Cole’s horse lost its footing in a buffalo wallow.
The animal’s front hooves slipped in the mud and its head went down hard, breaking its neck and catapulting Cole forward as the horse's hindquarters cartwheeled in the air. Luckily the animal didn’t land on him, but Teddy came down in a sprawl, the wind knocked out of him, and he lay on the ground, dazed.
Get up, ye shirkin’ sonofabitch, Cutter commanded. He was tempted to ride on, but he reined up and dismounted when he realized he would be riding alone. Henry was nothing if not practical; even if he found the stolen stock, he would be unable to drive the herd by himself.

The whooping riders were within several hundred paces. Cutter could hear their cries and the thrumming of the ponies’ hooves. He moved to the edge of the wallow and coolly knelt on one knee, pulled his revolver from his waistband, quickly checked its loads and laid it on the ground. Then he raised his rifle and took careful aim. His ball downed the pony of the nearest rider, which in turn caused two trailing ponies to trip, their riders tumbling, weapons flung like sticks in a strong wind.

Cutter threw down his rifle and took up the pistol and split the charge with his first shot, which unhorsed a young warrior and sent the others around both sides of the wallow. Amid the zip and smack of arrows Cole managed to rouse himself and retrieve his rifle. He pulled the trigger, collapsing another Indian pony. He reloaded quickly – he had the presence of mind that morning to carry extra cartridges and percussion caps, the good fortune of which he would remind Cutter over and over in the coming days.

Five warriors unhorsed - with two injured and one dead - and no additional powder and lead for Wilson’s stolen rifle made the Indians cautious. The warriors circled the wallow and gathered their fallen, moving out of range to assess the situation. To kill these two wasichú it was clear they would have to risk the injury or death of perhaps two or three more of their number, an unacceptable choice. Besides, they already had the horses, mules and oxen.

The warriors built a small fire, smoked a pipe and parlayed for almost an hour before they mounted and rode west, managing to run off Cutter’s stray horse as they left.
Cole looked at Cutter.
You reckon they done for Wilson?
That’s the direction they come from.
And the kid?
Wouldn’t surprise me.