Found by the Cheyenne

Here's another bit of the story I posted last. In this passage, three men - a scout named Pony Rogers, a soldier named Lt. Baker, and an Indian named Catcher are searching for the band of Cheyennes who kidnapped a young emigrant girl. Their mission is to trade with the Indians to gain the girl's release, but first they have to make contact - or be found by the Cheyenne.

The story occurs during the Civil War, when Indian-white relations on the Plains were quite tenuous, the U.S. Army being otherwise occupied with the "rebellion." As a result, the warriors of certain western tribes, resentful of the scattering of buffalo herds and the white men's diseases that wrecked havoc among their people, were punishing emigrants whenever the opportunity presented itself.

   

Found By The Cheyenne

 

They rode on, the Indian flanking twenty, thirty rods out to either side.  Periodically he dropped back, scanning the back trail.  After two days they abandoned the Big Sandy and cut southwest, finding no mark of man’s passing until they came upon a scattering of mule bones, bleached and crazed.  Alongside a pelvic arch lay a dried, cracked leather pannier, empty, with a bullet hole in it.  Next to it a bible, half-buried in the sand, its cover weathered and rotting, the remaining pages melded, nearly transparent.  It was open to the book of Revelations, with a verse, barely legible, underlined in ink - And in her was found the blood of prophets, and of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth.

The following morning the Cheyenne came – quietly at first, out of the pre-dawn gloom.  There were nine of them, flattened against their ponies, quirting with bows and weapon handles like jockeys. They had cut the trail of the three men and their small pack train two days before.  Miners, they thought.  Wandering the country as if they were lost, even with an Indian to guide them.     

A thousand yards out, Catcher saw them.   Then Pony.  They checked the loads in their weapons and gathered the horses in a nearby dry wash, the Indian holding picket ropes while Pony turned packs to form breastworks.  Then he leaned over Baker and shook his shoulder.

Wake up lieutenant, he said.  We got company for breakfast.

Pony turned and said something to Catcher in Cheyenne.

What? said Baker.

Get up lieutenant.  We been found.

Baker blinked sleep from his eyes.  He looked at Pony, who knelt and levered a round into the chamber of his rifle, brought the weapon to his shoulder and slowly, casually, cocked the hammer, took aim.  Baker’s eyes widened.  Five hundred yards.  Faint cries now, like migrating geese.  Baker flipped onto his belly, fumbled with his carbine.

The Spencer’s report rang in his ears, and Baker saw the lead pony stumble, its rider hurtling forward, disappearing into the sage.  Pony levered another round, cocked the hammer, aimed.

Boom.

The acrid smoke obscured the lieutenant’s vision.  When it cleared, he saw the attackers had spread out; another pony was down.  Its rider staggered to his feet, weaponless.  They were four hundred yards away.  Baker checked his weapon.

Are they Cheyennes? asked Baker.

The horses, lieutenant, said Pony.

What?

Aim for the horses.

Pony fired again; a third mount and rider went down, cartwheeling.  Three hundred yards.  Suddenly the riders reined up and turned their horses in circles, shouting as they sawed their animals around, taunting the camp to fight.  Baker shouldered his carbine, but Pony reached over and grabbed the barrel.

See what happens, he said.

Two of the unhorsed warriors doubled up with other riders, the third limped through the sage, cradling an injured arm.   This marksmanship was unexpected, and now the warriors wheeled and rode back in the direction they came, at a trot, their small rawhide shields flashing in the morning light.

They’ve had enough, said Baker, rising.

But the warriors were not quitting, nor did Pony and Catcher believe they would.  Instead, the attackers rode out of rifle range and dismounted in the sage to build a fire and smoke their pipes.  The three without horses sulked; one rocked back and forth, grimacing from the pain of a broken arm.  From behind their packs Baker and Pony could see only the tops of the Cheyennes' heads above the sage, a thin vein of smoke twisting upward from their fire.   

What are they up to? asked Baker.

Pony glanced back at Catcher, who shook his head.

Nothin at the back door.  Maybe they’re all in front of us, Pony said.

Think they’ll come at us again? asked Baker.

Pony shrugged.  They know we’ve got good long guns.

He looked at Baker.

If they try us, aim for the ponies.  We come out here to trade, not shoot. 

They mean to kill us if they can, said Baker.

Pony turned back to watch the warriors.

Cheyennes’re a clannish bunch.  They’re all family and everbody else is a stranger.

Again he looked at Baker.

Shootin the family is impolite.  Just aim for the horses.

They watched the Indians for a quarter-hour.  They could see the Cheyenne gesturing with weapons, animated in discussion.

How long do you think they’ll take? asked Baker.

Until they decide, said Pony, who turned and shouted something to Catcher in Cheyenne.  Catcher waved.

Pony rose.  He propped his rifle against a pack and pulled his pistol, checked the loads.  He stuck it back in his belt.

I’ll try to talk to them, he said.  If it goes wrong, I’ll be back on the double-quick.

He looked at Baker.

The ponies, lieutenant.

Baker nodded.  Pony turned and walked into the sage, his knuckles skimming the tops of the plants as he moved. Far to the west cotton boll clouds flattened and merged and grew dark, and a sudden wind fanned Pony’s gritty hair like flames as he walked.  A change in weather was coming and even the sky seemed anxious, as if the earth itself presaged a reckoning.