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.