Renegades

For three days they rode wrapped in blankets, hunched against a cold driving rain, crossing both forks of the Arikaree and the south fork of the Republican, trailing along the Big Sandy as the clouds lifted.  The soaked ground bore yellow and rust-colored hues, rippled silver where standing pools whelmed the bleak sage in wallows and scattered sloughs.  It was the first week of September, Wah ka nun e ishi as the Cheyenne called it, the Plum Moon.

They had no fresh meat since Cottonwood Springs.  Bison were nowhere to be seen, yet the prairie bore abundant sign; its clumped surface was trail-scarred by herds all the way to the horizon. 

On the evening of the fourth day as they made camp they saw a herd of antelope in the distance, so before dawn Catcher set out after them on foot.  He carried a bow and quiver and the red flannel cloth he had at the Cottonwood Springs camp, and reluctantly he allowed Baker to come along, warning the lieutenant that he must do exactly as he was told.

They walked for an hour, until the horizon glowed.  A slight breeze gathered.  Catcher found a wide, deep buffalo wallow and gave Baker sign to lie at the bottom and not to move, nor make any sound.  On his belly, near the rim on the windward side, the Indian peered over the edge.  Another hour passed and the sun broke the horizon, throwing blue shadows across the prairie, bringing dew-heavy gnats up in swarms from the wet ground. Prairie dogs stretched and yawned atop burrow mounds.

Baker watched the Indian, who grasped the bow and three arrows in his left hand, the red cloth in his right.  Suddenly the right hand shot up in the air and pumped up and down four times, the red flannel flapping like the wings of a giant bird.  Catcher stopped and brought the cloth to his side.  A minute, two minutes passed, and the Indian made the same motion again – four pumps, then stopped.

This happened three more times, then ten minutes passed before Catcher waved the cloth again, this time only once.  Baker wanted to say something.  He began to suspect a joke was being played on him, that momentarily Pony’s face would appear at the edge of the wallow, smiling, laughing at his gullibility.  He started to sit up, opened his mouth to speak when Catcher sprang to his knees, simultaneously drawing the bow and releasing it.  Before Baker could speak Catcher had nocked another arrow, drawn the bow and released it again.  Baker rose.  He looked over the edge of the wallow to see dust raised by several antelope as they ran away, white rumps zig-zagging through the sage less than two rods distant.

The Indian drew his skinning knife from his belt and began to walk in the direction of the fleeing antelope.  Where was he going?  The antelope were almost out of sight. 

A motion in the sage caught Baker’s attention; he realized an animal was down.  The lieutenant could see the ends of the arrow shafts moving as the antelope tried to regain its feet.  From the wallow Baker watched the Indian and the motion of his arm as his knife was drawn across the animal’s throat.  No sound, except the sudden rattle of a late season grasshopper as it launched itself into the warming air.

Catcher quickly butchered the antelope, leaving most of the carcass and viscera glossy and steaming in the brush.  He and Baker carried the strap, the liver and heart slung in the bloody hide, each man holding one end, walking side by side.  Baker felt the animal’s stiff hair and its blood crusting on his hands as he walked.  The Indian said nothing.

 When they reached camp Pony had the horses watered and was gathering buffalo chips for the cooking fire.

So lieutenant, he said, you know how to catch antelope now?

Baker shrugged.  I’m not at all sure what I saw out there.

The Indian says they’re so curious, said Pony, all he has to do is wave that little red cloth and they come in from miles around.  It’s how he got his name.  Known for it among the Cheyenne. 

He readied a pot of coffee.

I’ve tried it a dozen times.  Antelope didn’t quit runnin til they got to Texas.    

Pony coaxed a smoky fire from the chips.  Baker wondered about such an obvious sign of their presence in hostile country.  Aw hell, Pony said, Indians could be anywheres out there.  Likely to see us first anyhow.  Might as well eat. They put the strap on a spit and cut the heart and liver in strips to fry.  Within minutes coyotes, perhaps ten, had surrounded the camp, slinking back and forth through the sage.  The hobbled horses whinnied for the proximity and kicked out viciously whenever one came too close. 

When they finished eating they rolled their blankets and gathered their possibles to make preparations for travel.  Baker was scouring their tin plates with sand when he looked up and saw Pony and Catcher staring east, rifles in hand.

A lone figure appeared on the ridge of a hill perhaps a half mile away.  The man was afoot, approaching at a steady pace.  Halfway he stopped and raised a hand.  A white man.  He wore a caped army overcoat, woolen army trousers and carried a long staff.  He had an army blanket rolled and tied over his right shoulder, a warbag, a canteen at his hip.  As he got closer they saw his clothing was torn, a long beard covering his unwashed face.  He was hatless; a faded red silk scarf covered his head.  His brogans were wrapped with rags.

Howdy to ye, every man, he said.  Name’s Louderman.  Phineas.  With a P-H.  Late of Ohio.

Neither Pony nor Catcher replied.  Baker rose.

I was wonderin could ye spare a piece of tug?  It’s been two days since I et.  Small animal.  Gopher, I think.  All gristle.  Like to puke my guts dry from it.

He drew up his canteen, pulled the stopper, tilted back his head and swallowed twice.  His thin throat was caked with rings of dirt.  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

We was just about to be on our way, said Pony. 

Baker interrupted.  Sit down, stranger.  We got time.  My name is Baker.  Artemus Baker, Lieutenant, United States Army.

Pony and Catcher exchanged glances as the lieutenant refilled the coffee pot and cut Louderman a long slice of the backstrap, which the gaunt man ate with noisy relish, seated cross-legged on the hard caliche.  The soles of his shoes separated from the cracked uppers, exposing his toes.

Mister Louderman, you got any idea as to your whereabouts? asked Baker.

The man licked his fingers, looked around.

Not to a certainty.  I reckon to cut the mountains fore too long though.  Am I right?

Appears you lack certain requirements for the journey, said Pony.  Where’s your horse?

Louderman took up the coffee cup, blew on it.

Horse?  Waugh, won’t have one.  Knotheads.  Kickin, bitin knotheads.  He tapped his shoe.  It’s shanks mare for me, he said.  I’m a walker.  Learnt to in the army.

He looked at his feet, smiled.  Don’t believe these here ankle boots will take much more, though.

You walked out here? asked Baker.

I mean to say so.  Ever damn mile of it.

Well now, said Pony.

Yessir.  On my way to Californey.

Catcher said something to Pony in Cheyenne.  Both men picked up their rifles and walked off toward the horses. Louderman watched them walk away.

Don’t appear either of your friends cares for my company, said Louderman.

Not my friends, replied Baker.  We’re… business associates, you might say.

Thought you said you was in the army.

We’re in search of a little girl, kidnapped by the Cheyenne.  Family was murdered.

Injuns?  Just you three is out here huntin’ Injuns?

The girl.  We’ll trade for her, if we can locate their camp.

I’ll be damned, said Louderman.

You said you were in the army at one time, Mister Louderman.

Louderman took a long sip of coffee, smacked his lips, wiped them on his sleeve.  He coughed.

As a matter of fact, lieutenant, I suppose I still am, he said. 

What do you mean?

I am an Ohio man.  Mustered in at Camp Dennison in sixty-one.  Me n my brother Albert.  Company C, Delaware Guards, fourth Ohio Volunteer Infantry. 

He looked at Baker.

Have ye seen any mischief with the rebels, lieutenant?

No, not yet. 

Ah, yes, well.  Louderman stared into his coffee cup.

We was, uh, we was on the peninsula with McClellan, he said.  Me n Albert.  Yorktown, Gaine’s Mill.  Malvern Hill.  Sharpsburg, too. 

He pronounced the names slowly, rhythmically, like the chiming of a clock.  He looked at Baker, a faint smile on his lips.

We was a fightin’ outfit.  Yessir.

The smile faded.

We was at Fredericksburg, too. 

He shook his head.       

Oh boy, there was a fight.  Yessir.

He set his cup down, clasped his hands and began kneading them, as if they were cold.  He stared at the ground.

We was in the tenth assault.  The tenth.  Me n Albert.

He paused and seemed to shrink within the overcoat. 

I can still see the Johnnies up there, flags wavin.  There they are, the colonel said.  There they are.

His voice trailed off to a whisper:  The tenth assault.    

He cleared his throat. That was a fight, by God.

He looked up at Baker, eyes brimming.

A hunert and fourteen of our regiment went in.  Only twelve come out.  Twelve, lieutenant.

He shook his head.

All them boys.  Shot to pieces.  Albert…

He looked at his hands.

It unstrung me.  My hands got to tremblin so’s I couldnt even hold my rifle. So I… I took the big bounce, is what I done. 

Deserted? asked Baker.

I was no use to myself nor anyone else.

He looked up at Baker.

I s’pose you aim to arrest me now, eh, lieutenant?

Pony was not a Christian, nor an educated man.  His prejudices were informed entirely by experience.  He could barely read his own name, so he paid less attention to language than motive when in the company of other men, especially whites, most of whom were fearful and contemptuous of his relationship with Indians. 

As he walked away with Catcher he knew something was wrong. He had survived on the plains by reading the messages that men send with their eyes, the giveaways that betray intention.  The ragged man was after more than food. Catcher had spotted it too.  Leave this stranger behind before he steals our horses, he said to Pony.  So they rose and took their rifles with them.

Their suspicion proved authentic when they saw three men bellycrawl behind the low rise where the horses were picketed.  

As they walked Catcher checked his pistol and reloaded his Sharps and waited for Pony to move around behind the horses, where the guise of readying pack saddles allowed him to slide the barrel of his Spencer across the withers of his horse.  They were over 100 paces from where the lieutenant was talking to Louderman.  Pony suspected the ragged man would make a move as soon as the commotion started; he would shoot or stab Baker, whose inexperience would allow his attention to be drawn away from the man who intended to kill him.  Pony had no particular concerns about Baker – he believed every man’s life was ultimately his own lookout – but if they were to prove successful in retrieving the girl he thought the lieutenant could be useful in collecting the reward.  At least Baker provided an extra hand, even without experience.  So Pony drew a bead on Louderman’s chest.  He saw Baker turn away to lift the coffee pot, and the ragged man reached inside his coat to bring forth something that caught the light.  Pony’s finger touched the trigger lightly.

Baker heard the impact of the Spencer’s 350-grain bullet, then the boom.  The rifle tended to fire high; though aimed at Louderman’s chest, the round struck him in the throat, producing a hollow, slapping noise as it tore away a large portion of the man’s larynx, just above the junction of the sternum and collar bones. 

The sound of the shot carried to Louderman’s accomplices, who brought weapons up as Catcher appeared at the top of the rise, thirty yards in front of them.

The Indian fired his Sharps at the closest man, knocking him backward into the second man, who was kneeling.  The third man, seeing both companions hit, turned and began running back down the depression.  He was fleet; he made twenty yards before Pony reached Catcher’s position and fired, exploding dust from the ground on the man’s right side. 

Damn, Pony said, levering another round into the chamber. He drew a deep breath and fired again, this time hitting the runner squarely between the shoulders, the impact driving him face-first into the sage.

By this time the second man had disentangled himself.  He wore his partner’s blood splashed brightly on his face and in a dark swoop across the shoulder of his tattered frock coat.  He carried a pistol in his hand, and he pointed it back as he scuttled up the side of the gulley.  He snapped off a shot at Catcher, who was walking down the rise toward him, his own pistol in hand. 

The ball went wide, so the panicked man fired twice more, missing both times.  Catcher closed the distance between them to no more than twenty paces, stopped, and raised his own weapon.  He brought up his left forearm and laid his right arm across it to steady his aim, cocked the pistol, and shot the man in the chest.  The man went down, rose again unsteadily, and went down for good when the Indian shot him again.

The lieutenant came running, hurdling the sage, revolver in hand.  Where are they? he said, white-faced and breathless.  Catcher was reloading. Pony pointed toward the bodies on the other side of the rise.  Who are they? said Baker.  Pony shrugged.  How’s yer friend? he asked.  Finished his coffee yet?  You nearly took off his head, said Baker.  Pony smiled.  Still got yourn though, aint ye lieutenant?

Baker let out a deep breath.  We don’t have shovels, he said.  Pony began walking toward the horses, stopped, turned back to face him.

What?

We haven’t any shovels.  To bury them.

Pony turned again, resumed walking.

They can bury their own goddamn selves. 

Stop, said Baker.  We’ve got to bury them.

Pony stopped, turned again.

Is that so?  The same as they’da done for you?

That doesn’t matter.  We’re not like them.

No we aint by god. We’re still breathin.

That isn’t what I mean.

     I know your meaning, lieutenant, Pony said. 

  

The Arapaho

They drove Catcher’s wagon to Cottonwood Springs and parked it behind the ramshackle stage station and put the Indian’s horses in a corral where he saddled a paint pony.  Then they bought some beans and fresh fatback and coffee and repacked the loads their animals carried.  They checked their weapons and mounted and rode to the edge of the settlement where Pony and the Indian stopped.

What is it? asked Baker.

Pony and the Indian looked at each other, then turned in their saddles and Pony spoke.

Me n Catcher, we think ye need to shed the blue shirt.

What?  For what reason?

Lieutenant, we’re on the trail of Cheyenne.  Bein Indians, chances are they’ll see us first.  That shirt makes it more likely they’ll run or fight.  Not the result we’re after.

I’m an officer in the army.

Ye can tell em that.  But first we got to get close enough to talk.  They don’t welcome the uniform, lieutenant.

Baker thought about it, then stripped his cavalry shell and folded it, tucked it in a saddle bag.  He wore a white muslin shirt, which grew dark with sweat as the day wore on and the temperature climbed.

They crossed the south fork of the Platte and headed west toward Julesburg.  Gradually the miles of needlegrass and coneflower gave way to sage, soapweed and rabbitbrush, and nothing other.  The river angled southwest, and the land descended into a broad floodplain, bordered on the west by low, naked slopes, riffled with washouts and shallow draws that trailed to the horizon like dry veins, twisted and narrowing, only to disappear in the high, rolling savannahs that moated the buttes and hogbacks, portends of the Rockies, far to the west.  In the center of the floodplain a ribbon of cottonwoods marked the winding flow of the Platte as it turned again west, then south to front the foothills, before finally bending back north, in the long canyon climb to its origins in the snowfields of the distant summits. 

They rode a land tracked in ancient millennia by herds of mammoth and camel, and the great spike-toothed cats that stalked the auguries of the bison flood; an ancient country, empty, through centuries and in tongues unknown described as the home of countless tribes, eagle-worshippers and headhunters, repetitious and transient. 

It was Cheyenne country.

--

There were two of them, mounted on tall American horses.  They were trail weary; for the past month they had been raiding with the Cheyenne, attacking small parties of the hairy-faces as they strung the talking wire or hunted buffalo, or when they foolishly struck out across the prairie as Bauer had done, inadequately armed, or alone -  deserters, prospectors, the hopeful and the forlorn, now dead.

Three scalps were attached to rawhide shields that hung from the crups of their horses, which bore underneath the brands of pale-skinned owners.  One rider wore three silver rings on his right hand; the other a rawhide necklace on which human fingers had been strung.  Both were armed with bows and on this morning they rode single file, confining their line of travel to the winding draws and low ground between rises, avoiding skylines like wolves.  They were returning to their people, to the land of the Arapaho, west of Laramie.

Pony rode to the middle of a dry wash, dismounted, and seated himself cross-legged in the gravel bed in front of his horse.  In his mouth he held a clay pipe.  Before him in the sand he set a coffee pot.  The Arapaho rounded a bend, saw him and stopped, pulling the jaw ropes until their ponies’ mouths gaped; nor did the Indians’ facial expressions betray their surprise.  But a moment passed, and both of them brought their bows up, slowly, simultaneously turning arrows they held in their hands so they could be nocked.

The click of gunlocks stopped them.  They turned to see Baker and then Catcher rise up on either side of the wash, weapons aimed at the heads of the Arapaho.

They expected to be shot from their horses, but the hairy-face who sat on the ground began sign-talking, and after a short interval the Indians slung their bows and dismounted to sit in the gravel, glancing around to see Catcher and Baker lower their weapons.

Pony built a small fire and made coffee.  They watched without speaking.  He spoke Cheyenne and he signed, telling them he was not interested in killing them or they would be dead already.  He only wanted to talk, and if the Arapaho would talk, he would send them on their way with gifts - some of the black medicine and a bag of sugar.  He asked them if they knew where the dog soldiers who had been raiding up on the Holy Road were, and if they knew anything about a small girl, daughter of a killed hairy-face.  He poured each of them a cup of coffee and set the cups in front of the warriors, the aroma rising.  He brought out a bag of sugar and put small handfuls in each cup, then set the bag before them, motioning to drink.  They looked at each other, but did not pick up the cups.  Pony poured a cup for himself and drank from it.  He smacked his lips and smiled and motioned again for the Arapaho to drink.  Then he lit his clay pipe.

They were young, barely eighteen years old, on their first extended journey away from their people.  The Cheyenne had treated them well, like family, but the travel and lack of sleep had worn them down.  They were homesick.  The coffee smelled good.  Only talk, the hairy-face said.  Then the pipe. 

Among the plains tribes a lit pipe was an almost universal sign of non-hostile intent, of truth spoken.  Not friendship, but a pause, a suspension of animus - temporarily, anyway.  The hairy-face spoke in signs and his Cheyenne was good.  He drank the coffee to show it was not poison.  And unlike most of his race it was obvious he was comfortable in the company of Indians; he traveled with one.

I am called Pony, he signed.  I know the Cheyenne well.  I have lived among them.  I am not here to fight.

Almost in unison the Arapaho reached for the coffee.

He offered them tobacco, which they took.

They gave their names.  White Magpie and Dog-That-Runs, which was short for The-Dog-That-Runs-After-Horses.  As their horses stamped the gravel and switched flies, their story unfolded:  They had been with the Cheyenne since the last full moon.  They had not seen the girl.  Magpie had heard about a girl in the camp of Little Wound, but since he hadn’t seen her himself, he would not say she was the one the hairy-face sought.  Many attacks had been made in the country around the Holy Road, and there was considerable anger among the Cheyenne against the hairy-faces.  Dog soldiers led some of the attacks.

Magpie was the speaker; Dog-That-Runs drank coffee and nodded.  Pony asked if they knew where Little Wound’s village was camped.  Neither knew, but Magpie thought the village was moving west and south out of the Smoky Hill country toward Two Buttes Creek.  Pony smiled and tapped his pipe against his heel, signaling the end of the talk.  The Arapaho finished their coffee and he gave them the sugar and a small sack of coffee beans. 

Before he rode away, Magpie looked at Catcher and Baker, then at Pony.  He leaned forward on the withers and spoke to Pony in low tones.  The Dog Soldiers will try to kill you, he said.  You will have to be very brave.  Then the two Arapaho put heels to their horses’ flanks and rode down the wash, rounded a corner and vanished from sight.

          Baker stepped to Pony’s side.  What did he say? he asked.  Pony turned and exchanged Cheyenne words with Catcher, who nodded and began walking up the wash to where their horses were tied. 

Rogers, what did he say?

Pony looked at Baker.  Lieutenant, we’ll be heading south.

He turned to walk away, but Baker stepped around him and blocked his path. 

What did he say?

Pony smiled.  He said be ready.  Step aside, lieutenant.

Baker didn’t move.  What did he say about the child?

Pony turned his head to the side and spit into the gravel.  When he turned back, his smile was gone.

He don’t know about the girl.  She might be with Little Wound’s people.  Mebbe not.

Where are we going?

To find out.

Baker didn’t move. 

All saucered and blowed lieutenant?  Ready to jump the heathens? 

He leaned forward. 

Where we're headed more'n likely it'll be the other way around. Now git the hell outta my way.

A Promise Broken

Thus the remainder of the day passed:  while Baker watched, Pony and the Indian smoked a short stone pipe and drank more whiskey.  This went on until sunset.  Under the stars they unspitted the antelope meat and ate heartily.  Pony and Catcher continued drinking until the crock of whiskey was consumed, at which point Catcher stood on unsteady legs and pulled a section of red flannel cloth from his belt.  He raised the cloth in his hand and turned his face to the sky to sing a Cheyenne brave-heart song, but instead lost his balance, doubled over and vomited, collapsed on his side and began to snore.

Pony, cup in hand, belched loudly and rose.  He staggered out onto the prairie and pissed.  He rubbed his belly, turned and staggered over to face the lieutenant by the fire.  He set the cup down and Baker watched as the man collapsed in the dirt,  a reeking amalgam of whiskey and sweat.

Pony struggled to a sitting position and leaned toward the lieutenant, who turned his face to avoid the mephitic gust of breath.  Pony spoke:  Ye mustnt think poorly of the man. 

He pointed at the recumbent Catcher.

He’s had a time of it, Pony continued.  Got into a scrap with another buck over a woman awhile back.  Had to kill him.  Pony shook his head.  Cheyenne don’t hold with that.  Banished him from their camps.

After I done for that forty-niner at Laramie, he said, I lived with the Cheyenne awhile.  At’s when we met. 

Pony picked up his cup and took another swallow of whiskey. 

Done a good little bit of business together over the years, he said.  Horses, mostly.

Strange, said Baker.  He didn’t seem at all glad to see you.

Waugh, said Pony, waving a hand as if to remove the fact. Three summers ago we had a string of ponies.  I drove em to Kearny to sell.  On the way back I stopped in Dobytown.  Paid some attention to a woman there.  Lulu LaPierre.  Sweet little Lulu.

He took another drink of whiskey.

She absconded with our purse, he said, shaking his head.  I tried to explain…

He leaned forward, eyes half-lidded from the whiskey.  I’ll tell you this, he continued, wagging a filthy finger in the soldier’s face.  An Indian will never forgive misdealins with horses.

He tilted back to rest on his elbows.  Sonofabitch shot at me.

--- 

Flies woke Pony.  They tickled his nostrils and walked on his eyelids, explored his ears and swarmed at his lips.  He slapped at them and coughed and tried to spit but was dry from the whiskey.  He rose stiffly and walked to the wagon and lifted a small wooden cask that originally held lamp oil but now served to water Catcher’s animals in dry country.  The taste was worse than the smell, but such was his need that he drank without hesitation.

  He looked at the sky.  The sun was overhead.  Noon, he thought.  The air was hot and the horizon shimmered.  The Indian hadn’t moved from the spot where he fell, his black hair still fanned out over the bare ground, gray with dust. 

One of Catcher’s horses whinnied.  Pony turned and shaded his dry, stinging eyes.  Lt. Baker was coming in from the direction of Cottonwood Springs.  He had awakened before dawn to build a fire and eat and then rode in to send a telegram to Kearny.  It stated that current intelligence indicated the girl was taken by Dog Soldiers from a band led by the Cheyenne Little Wound; the lieutenant, Pony and an Indian recruited by Pony would embark immediately to locate the hostiles.

Another hour passed before the Indian stirred.  He raised himself to a sitting position and then crawled to the shade of the tarpaulin shelter, where he joined Pony, who had sought relief by unstopping another jug of whiskey. 

Baker assembled his camp belongings as the pair passed the jug back and forth.  Their speech became slurred once again and their horses went unsaddled and the packs remained where they had been unloaded yesterday. 

By the time Baker had finished his tasks the sun was low in the sky.  The lieutenant spoke:  You said we would leave today.

Pony and the Indian ignored him.

It’s plain to see the major was correct in his estimate of you, said Baker.

Pony looked at him.

You, sir, are a lying drunkard, said Baker.

Pony wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  True, I am not exactly sober at the moment, he said.  But I don’t recall a single fib since I awoke.

Yesterday you said we’d be leaving today.

Did I?  Well, that was not a lie.  A simple misstatement of fact is all.  No malice, no harm intended.

No harm?  That little girl continues to live at the mercy of the murderers of her family.

Pony took another pull from the jug.  Lieutenant, the horses can use the rest.  And I don’t believe one more day in her present circumstance will alter the outcome for her in any way.

He looked at Catcher, who was dozing.  Besides, he chuckled, I don’t think the Indian will be ready until morning. 

I don’t know anything about that man, said Baker, except he possesses the same bad habits as you.  And I have no agreement with him.

Pony’s smile dwindled.  His lips tightened and he got to his feet.  He picked up the jug and the cob stopper and took two steps toward Baker.  He raised his right arm and pointed to the horizon.

Tariff’s high out there, he said. 

He dropped his arm and continued:  Him and me, we been in a few tight spots.  

He looked at the reclined Indian, then back at Baker, eyes narrowed. 

He’s… he’s four-square in a predicament, is what I’m sayin.     

He leaned toward Baker. 

Which is more than I know about you, lieutenant.

Pony turned and took a step toward the wagon, stopped and turned back to Baker.

You want to ride, go ahead. 

The scout stoppered the jug and walked away.