"Pony" continues...

Orders from Washington

It took three weeks for Baker’s report of the massacre to reach St. Louis and another month for the document to arrive at War Department headquarters in Washington, where it remained on the desk of an orderly for a week before it was processed and recorded.  Official notification was forwarded to the German consulate, which in turn sent word via diplomatic courier to Berlin.  From there the news was posted to Stuttgart in a formal government letter - signed by the Kaiser’s Minister of Foreign Affairs - which informed the Bauer family of the circumstances attending the discovery of the deaths of Lorenz, Lisbeth and Franz and the kidnapping of Meta at the hands of die Indianerin.  That was in late October.

The news circulated widely, reaching the pages of newspapers in Munich, Nürnburg, and Würzburg in November.  By March the fate of Meta and her family began to generate considerable public disquisition regarding the overseas protection of German citizens, eventually penetrating the Imperial government’s highest ministerial levels.  Ultimately the fate of the Bauer family impelled the journey to Fort Kearny of William Stipple, second assistant secretary to Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War of the United States.

Stipple arrived by stage at the fort in the late afternoon of the eighteenth of April, having completed his fortnight of travel from the capitol in discomfort, due to a disquieted colon, which was the result of contaminated meat he had consumed before boarding a ferry at Hannibal, Missouri.  Following an interval at the fort’s sinks he was escorted into the commandant’s office by Lt. Baker. 

The lapels and shoulders of Stipple’s black swallowtail coat were frosted with dust, which he brushed with a white handkerchief as he seated himself opposite the post commander, Major John S. Wood.  Small-bodied and peevish, Stipple squirmed in his chair, nervously adjusting his pince-nez spectacles as he shifted his weight repeatedly, seeking a position which he hoped would relieve the excruciating burn of his latest, hurried evacuation, and forestall the advent of the next. 

Adding to his discomfort was the fact that the frontier terrified Stipple.  He hated its trackless emptiness: The meld of ungridded earth and empty sky was anathema to civilization and the rule of law.  Nature was anarchy, and the death of his trade.  Nor did his prejudice spare its inhabitants, for it was also his opinion that any man, red-skinned or white, who could be satisfied - even for a moment – living under such wild conditions was disqualified as a gentleman, and deserving of no more consideration than a June bug under a heel. 

Such was the Secretary’s temperament on that April afternoon:  Offers of refreshment were curtly refused; obviously Stipple would spend not one minute longer than necessary transacting the business to which he had been assigned.  Following formal introductions to Major Wood and Lt. Baker he removed a pair of gray kid gloves and opened a small leather folio, withdrew a sheaf of official documents and laid them on the Major’s desk.

The major picked up the top document and scanned it while  Stipple spoke.

This is the record of our situation, major.  You are looking at formal diplomatic correspondence between his majesty the Kaiser’s ministers and our own department of state.

Yes, said the major.  He tilted the vellum to catch the light from one of the two windows cut into the rough cottonwood-log wall behind him.  Above the windows sod bricks continued for another three feet, meeting bare cottonwood timbers at the apex.  Motes of dust floated in the bright shafts of light.  A stray insect buzzed lazily above their heads.   Behind the major an American flag stretched out between framed engravings of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.  Both engravings were heavily stained. 

We have a problem, as you can see, Stipple continued. 

The major put down the sheet he was reading.  He tilted his head slightly and looked directly at Stipple.

What I see, Mister Stipple, he said, is a voice of concern for the Bauer family, and for the welfare of all emigrants who choose to embark on the overland trail.  Understandable, don’t you think?

He folded his hands together and set them upon the desktop.  He did not blink nor did he take his eyes from Stipple, who leaned forward slightly, adjusting his spectacles.

Let me assist you, major.  Last year at this time the British government was on the verge of official recognition for the Confederate government.  If not for our victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, that might well have happened. 

His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the folio.

Unfortunately the war is far from decided. 

He paused and leaned forward even more, looking around the room as if searching for spies.   

And you might be interested to know that General Grant is preparing a major campaign against Lee in Virginia and Sherman is getting ready to move south from Chattanooga.  The outcome of these movements will be critical.  The whole world is paying attention, his excellency the Kaiser included. 

Stipple leaned back a little but did not take his eyes from Wood.

He is an unpredictable man, Stipple continued.  The Kaiser.  We’re told he is considering a proposal to establish some sort of diplomatic relationship with the rebels.  This stir about the Bauer family has raised questions in his government about the willingness – the capability – of our union to protect itself and its citizens from murder and thuggery.  Indians, of all things, major.

He placed a hand on the documents.

Don’t we have enough to worry about?  Must we be also concerned with what the Kaiser thinks?

The major straightened in his chair.  The expression in his eyes hardened as he spoke: 

My dispatch regarding the Bauer incident was clear on this point.  I told Mister Bauer not to leave.  I made it clear to him the army could not guarantee his safety beyond the immediate vicinity of the fort.  He chose to go.  His family left in the night.  Quite without my knowledge or approval.

Stipple bore in.  What’s done is done, major.  We cannot be concerned with excuses.

Lt. Baker stood abruptly.

Sir, he said loudly, perhaps you’d care to saddle up and accompany us.  You would see…

Sit down lieutenant, said the major.  The lieutenant did not sit, but moved to the back of his chair and leaned against it, his fingers pressing hard into the back.

The major laid his hands flat on the desk. 

Mister Stipple.  I am responsible for the military administration of over four thousand square miles of this wilderness.  I have only 75 troops under my command.  More than three thousand wagons have passed through this section of the overland trail in the last twelve months.  What, exactly, would the Secretary have me do?

Without hesitation Stipple reached into the folio and produced another folded document bearing the wax seal of the War Department.  He placed it on the desk, far enough from the major to require him to leave his seat to pick it up.

These are your orders, major.

With great deliberation Wood raised himself and leaned across the desk for the paper. 

A slight smile crossed Stipple’s pursed lips, and he brought his hands together at the fingertips as he looked at Baker and then back at the major.  His posture was not that of a man who felt threatened.

 

March 28, 1864

 

To:  Major John S. Wood, commanding

First Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry

Fort Kearny, Nebraska Territory

 

You are hereby ordered to organize and execute a thorough search for Meta Bauer, the daughter of Lorenz and Lisbeth Bauer, both deceased, killed by Indians on or about June 11^th of the previous year in proximity of your site.

If the girl is found alive, you will use whatever means are at your disposal to retrieve her from the possession of the Indians.

You will assign such resources to the accomplishment of the mission as you feel are prudent and necessary to its completion and immediate result.  You will report that result to Department Headquarters and will forward periodic reports as to your progress, beginning immediately.

                           Respectfully,

                           U. S. Grant,

                           Lieutenant Genrl,

                           commanding

 

                           Edwin M. Stanton,

                           Secretary of War,

                           United States

                           of America

Wood looked at the signatures, handed the document to Lt. Baker.

Stipple pretended to brush the dust from his lapels.

You have the world’s attention major, he said, and it appears the world wants to know what happened to that little girl.

He rose, closed his folio, and began putting on his gloves.

By the way, major, he said, there is a reward offered.  The family will pay one thousand dollars for her return.  That should be a sum sufficient to inspire someone to locate and return her, don’t you think?

He looked at Woods.

I think so.  And so does General Grant.  And the Secretary.

We don’t know whether she’s still alive, said Baker.

In the event the child is not alive, lieutenant, the reward will not be paid.  It’s that simple.

Stipple pulled a watch from his vest pocket.

Gentlemen, how you accomplish this task is up to you.  But you must find out what happened to the girl.

He opened the watch and checked the time.

I’m leaving in the morning for Washington.

He picked up the folio and moved to the door, turning back to address the major as he opened it. 

I expect to be hearing from you soon, major.

The lieutenant and major stood at the open door and watched Stipple cross the parade ground, his coattails flapping like bird wings as he quick-stepped to the sinks.  In the distance a meadowlark perched on a corner of the post infirmary’s sod roof and threw its song into the gathering dusk.

Baker turned to the major.

I will assemble another patrol in the morning, sir.  We’ll prepare for a week’s march.

And where will you go, lieutenant?

Southwest, sir.  We’ll move in the direction they took.  Perhaps we can strike a fresh trail…

A waste of horseflesh, lieutenant.  No, I believe the only course now is negotiation.  If she’s still alive, which I doubt, perhaps we can contact the Cheyenne and persuade them to give her up, or trade her.

Yes sir.  How do we make contact, major?

Wood moved away from the door to sit behind his desk.

Yes, well, that’s the question, isn’t it?

Onward With "Pony"

The next installment: 

The year had suffered a bloody beginning.  War was being fought between the states and it seemed with each passing month the god of battles conjured ever greater spectacles of slaughter.  In June, as Bauer’s wagon rolled slowly up the Platte valley, Lee marched north, his butternut-clad scythe swinging through central Pennsylvania - mayhaps for the harvest of Washington itself, the citizens cried. 

As it happened the fate of the Bauers was not discovered until the late afternoon of July 3^rd.   Pickett’s wreck in the wheat field at Gettysburg was a matter of historical record when a small hunting party of Pawnee guided a detachment of Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry to a spot 35 miles west of Fort Kearny.  The Indians pointed out a large and clamorous flock of crows above the cottonwoods that lined the river.    

 The birds were harassing a pair of feeding coyotes, which loped away upriver, panting, as the Pawnee made sign and the troops approached the immigrants’ tossed camp.  Their horses shied and sidestepped around the broken furniture and hatcheted trunks and overturned pasteboard boxes.  Gangs of black flies rose in spiraling tendrils.  Animals had been at the bodies for three weeks; Lisbeth and the boy were little more than blood-stiffened cloth and scattered bones attended by a few shreds of gnawed flesh, blackened with rot.

With bandanas covering their noses the patrol fanned out, and within the hour a trooper discovered the disconnected skeletal remains of Lorenz Bauer on the river sand where he died, an arrow still lodged in the spokes of his ribcage.  A few yards away, in the middle of the shallow channel a bleached trunk of driftwood split the river’s gentle current.  Spiked on a branch angling up from the surface was Bauer’s caved skull, its cracks limned with bird droppings, empty eye sockets staring west, toward Oregon.

The troopers dismounted to gather and identify the dead.  They searched the barrow of the wagon and the smashed cartons and crates, discretely pocketing small items that appealed to them.

The twelve enlisted men were ten-dollar-a-month soldiers ranging in age from seventeen to fifty-five.  None had more than three years of formal education and three spoke little more than a dozen words of English.  The majority were recent immigrants and sons of immigrants but not one had ever fought in a battle of any kind, especially against Indians; nor was there among them a marksmen.  Only a few had ever fired a weapon.  Alcohol abuse and lack of sanitation at the fort would kill three within six months. Within a year’s time four would desert the post to wander westward.

 As he sifted through the remnants of the immigrants’ possessions Lieutenant Artemus Edward Baker was strangely reminded of the martyrdom of Christians in ancient arenas – of the men, women and children torn apart by wild animals for the amusement of a pagan populace, and he likened himself and his men to civil workers of that time, hired to clean the killing pit.  Cruelty, he thought, is a concept expressed by every race during the centuries since the Son of God lived among men.  Is good truly the stronger force? he wondered - fearful the answer was here, before his eyes, flyblown and stinking.

The young lieutenant had not sought this posting on the frontier. In the previous year he had graduated from West Point near the top of his class.  The Ohio-born son of a dry goods merchant, he grew up listening to the winter stove stories of Mexican War veterans gathered in his father’s store.  Chapultapec, Buena Vista, Churubusco - the bloody tales excited him, and he embraced the concepts of duty, honor, and martial glory, often imagining himself commanding regiments in battle.  The war over secession was to be his opportunity; he had studied hard.   

Then just before Christmas in his final term he attached his name as witness to an affidavit which accused another cadet of cheating.  It was the truth, and the guilty cadet, who happened to be the nephew of an Indiana congressman, was expelled.  Never was punishment more just nor retribution less sure.  The congressman reacted swiftly:  none of the names on the affidavit would be awarded command or staff positions in any of the corps occupying the field against the rebels. 

Several of Baker’s humiliated classmates resigned their commissions to enlist as privates.  Four had been killed in battle already.  But Baker would not resign.  The rank was his by merit, and so earned would not be surrendered.  He decided he would perform the duties assigned to him:  he would compose the duty rosters, file the reports, supervise the fatigue details and endure the ennui and risks imposed by garrison life on the frontier.  He would not be broken.  His exile on the frontier was but a delay, nor was he uncertain that his destiny lay on battlefields as yet unknown.

-- 

The soldiers found the Bauer family bible.  And though none among them read German, they looked at the roster of names and births and deaths and became aware of one missing body.  Then someone found a scratched daguerreotype made in St. Louis and they saw Meta’s face.  The little girl was not here.

They dug graves and Baker opened a small prayer book to speak over the dead as the late sun dropped behind reefed, blood-red clouds. 

Throughout the night heat lightning flashed behind the dark horizon as the soldiers slept.  In the morning Baker sent a trooper back to the fort with word of the massacre while the patrol rode southwest, following the tracks left by the Indian ponies and stolen mules. 

The soldiers rode all day in the heat, their dust rising in sluggish swirls that could be seen at great distance, their eyes straining to discern a trail that broke apart and grew faint and finally vanished in the cedar-choked canyons that began to divide the dry short-grass tableland. 

When shadows of horse and rider stretched over the prairie like long blue ropes the patrol halted and hobbled their footsore animals and made coffee.  For all their trouble they found nothing but the slaughter site of one of the mules.

Eat a goddamn mule, said a private as he dismounted and shook the dust from his blouse.  He pressed a dirty fingertip against a nostril and blew gouts of muddy snot into the dry grass.  Goddamn ‘em.

The patrol spent the night on the prairie and in the morning headed back, crossing mile after mile of the dry and alien country until they climbed a low ridge and followed it  eastward until it broke apart into the rolling hills that marked the course of the south fork of the Platte.  Far to the north across the shallow flood plain the tired riders cursed the sight of yet more hills, so it was not strange that late in the afternoon they cheered and raised their hats like marooned sailors when on the far side of the river a distant train of freight wagons came into view, their white canvas covers glowing in the scorched humid air like the sails of ships.  They were almost home. 

Upon the patrol’s return to Fort Kearny an elderly Pawnee was given a cup of whisky to inspect the arrow pulled from Bauer’s rib cage.  The old man held the shaft close, turning it slowly in the bright sunlight as his milky eyes parsed the grooves and fletching.  He took two long swallows of whiskey, spit on the arrow and made the chopped finger sign for Cheyenne.

The Beginning of "Pony"

I guess it's not really fair (or smart) to post portions of a story without the beginning. Here's the start of the last two posts... it sets the stage for all that follows.

June 11, 1863

In the hour before dawn the German lifted his blankets and rolled out from under the wagon to stretch and yawn.  Fog thickened the darkness until his eye could discern no shape beyond arm’s length, nor could he hear a sound beyond his own movement.  He felt the cool, wet air on his face as he made his way to the back of the wagon and reached inside the canvas cover, feeling for the dragoon pistol he left there the night before. 

As he took it in his hand his wife’s hand closed over his.  Her face appeared at the canvas opening.

Lorenz?

Lisbeth.

Wie gehts?

The mules… wasser.  I take them to the river now.  Then  some grain to make an early start.

I’ll wake the children.

Nein.  Sie schlafen.  Now some coffee.  Then wake them.

She leaned out from under the canvas and kissed him.  He stuck the heavy pistol in his waistband and turned away from the wagon.

Lorenz.

Ja.

We catch up to the other wagons?

Nachmittag, Ich denke.

She heard his voice again as the fog swallowed him.

Kaffee, bitte.  Schnell.

Lorenz Bauer stepped into the grainy darkness and paused, listening.  He had bought the six big-bellied, square-built mules for three hundred dollars in Independence.  He was skeptical of their short legs until the dealer told him they were Mexican mules that would thrive on nothing more than pine straw and cactus, and would still out-pull any animal the Lord had fashioned since time began. 

So far they had proven to be even-tempered and strong enough, but they were quiet animals too and in the dark Bauer strained to locate his picket line.  He moved slowly until he heard a tail swish.  He drifted toward the sound and almost walked into one animal as it dozed - its looming shape suddenly appearing through the mist, ears canted like horns on its anvil-shaped head.

By the time he had them haltered the fog had begun to lift.  He smiled.  In the distance he could almost make out the silhouette of the cottonwoods that lined the Platte River.  The trees comforted him.  Both he and Lisbeth were raised near Stuttgart, only a few kilometers from the Schwarzwald. 

It had been nearly a year since they left Germany, and the sadness of their departure was still vivid in his memory.  It had not been an easy trip.  When they arrived in St. Louis a letter brought news of the death of Lisbeth’s mother.  To assuage his guilt Bauer entertained thoughts of returning to Germany, but when he broached the subject Lisbeth refused to consider it.  Think of the cost, she said.  With tears in her eyes she reminded Lorenz that even if they returned, they could not bring mutti back.  Lisbeth was nothing if not a practical thinker, and she would not accept his vision of life in America as a pipedream.  In Oregon he would provide for both of them and the children with his brains and the labor of his hands.  It was a future of hope. 

Such were his thoughts as he led his mules to the river.

Shrouds of fog clung to the trees that marked the wide, braided flow of the Platte.  Already the eastern horizon glowed; within the hour the crisp air would be warming.  Bauer led his mules through a willow thicket to the edge of a sand bar on one of the slow-moving channels.  This was not like the rivers of home – the Rhein and the Elbe - mighty, blackwater rivers of commerce.  A man could wade across the Platte’s shallow seepage.  Good only for watering stock and wetting one’s feet. 

Oregon will be different. 

Bauer knelt and removed his hat.  He splashed his face and watched the throats of the mules glide gently up and down as they sucked great draughts of the dark liquid.  He calculated he had made 30 miles since Fort Kearny.  If the family pushed hard today they would catch the previous wagon train by three o’clock that afternoon.

Then one of the mules raised a dripping muzzle and turned its head to the east, velvet nostrils flaring.  The animal stretched its neck, and loosed a hoarse, grinding bray that carried Bauer’s attention downstream.

A man stood at the edge of the river, rim-lit, a gray shape in the light gathering behind him.  He was not tall.  His physique reminded Bauer of the Missouri blacksmith who had shod the mules - bandy-legged, with long arms, a square-shaped head, thick neck and sloping shoulders.  Bauer stood up and opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.  The stranger was silent and Bauer squinted to see better and took a step into the river to improve his sightline.  The weak light revealed little detail, but Bauer could see the stranger was nearly naked, with strands of long hair hanging loose on both sides of his head.  In his right hand he held a heavy cudgel.

The stranger had watched from a thicket downstream. When he saw Bauer kneel in the sand he stepped out and walked forward until he was within fifteen paces.  The white man was ignorant of his presence for much longer than he anticipated – proof that his attention was elsewhere.  Alone, but for his woman and two small children.  Foolish.

The stranger carried only a club, his preferred weapon, and a Green River knife, and was naked except for breechcloth and moccasins.  He was that summer in his thirty-third year of life, and his oiled, blue-black hair, unevenly-cropped in mourning, was drawn back loosely in a tangle and tied behind his head.  Around his jaw his dark, copper-colored skin glowed with vermilion paint in a pattern he had used many times, carefully applied to appear just as it had on his uncle, whose reputation in battle was well-remembered in the stories of his people.

Those stories, in part, had shaped the man’s life and brought him to that riverbank.   War was his trade, yet among his kindred he was regarded as a man apart - a particularly reckless fighter who would risk taking a blow to deliver one.  On his left breast, two fingers’ width above the nipple he bore a maroon swash of scar tissue where, as an adolescent, he had been pierced by an Assiniboin lance, the first of many battle wounds he received.   Because of this no one, not even the man himself, had expected his life to continue as long as it had.  But in this matter fate held its own counsel and in the passage of time the man had married and fathered a child, a daughter, whose brief life was the fillip in the events which unfolded on this morning.

       

Slowly he moved forward.  He could see the white man’s fear beginning as his right hand drifted toward the pistol butt in his waistband.  But Bauer’s lack of caution predicted his inability to react quickly - with violence - and his fingers had barely touched the pistol when he was struck by the first arrow.

It came from behind, entering just below his right shoulder blade, shattering two ribs before traversing the thorax.  The impact knocked Bauer to his knees in the water, unnerving the mules, three of which backed up into a willow thicket, white-eyed, heads tossing.  Time slowed; Bauer coughed hard twice, the spasms bringing bright lung blood bubbling over his lips, gobbing his chin with large, crimson curds that strung down to the water’s surface.  He flailed the air with his left arm, gasping as he tried to regain his feet.  His chest was on fire.  He lifted himself to a crouch and was struck again hard in the hip.  He spun away from the water to stagger sideways onto the sand, where he fell on his right side.

Two Indians emerged from the willows upstream, and then three more.  They held short bows, arrows nocked.  They watched as the wounded man rolled onto his chest, the protruding arrow shafts wagging like quills on a porcupine.  He groaned and lifted his head, which bobbed and trembled.  He weakly moved his arms and tried to gather himself when the one who first appeared downstream reached him.  He placed one foot in the middle of Bauer’s back and pushed him down.  He grabbed the German’s hair and pulled his head upward to bring his face into view.  The Indian’s eyes bore black, bottomless corneas and sclera the color of rust.  Windows without interiors.  Pitiless.  The Indian raised his right hand and brought the stone-headed club down hard on the German’s skull, exploding blood and brain across his dark forearms, chin and throat.  Then he turned the body over and withdrew the pistol from the waistband and inspected the caps and cylinders, blowing on them to clear the grit. 

The other Indians gathered the mules and tied them to branches of driftwood that marked the apex of spring floodwaters against the shallow bank.  The warriors moved quickly, exchanging neither spoken word nor gesture.  In turn they examined Bauer's body, every man touching the corpse by hand or with a bow. 

Then the sun broke the horizon, and in its flat, silvery light the tribesmen mounted their ponies and rode in the direction of the German’s camp.

 

The children of Lorenz and Lisbeth Bauer were slow to rouse that morning.  Meta, age 8, and her brother, Franz, 6, whimpered softly and snuggled back under soft quilts when their mother gently uncovered them and kissed their ears.  The grinding fatigue of the overland trail typically appeared first in the youngest travelers, accumulating over time like wet clay on a boot, growing heavier until each day’s advance seemed a weight almost impossible to bear.  By the time they reached Laramie, many emigrants didn’t bother to wake the littlest children for travel.  As long as they ate well, the small ones were allowed to sleep through the day, roused only when the train confronted a difficult river or a steep grade.  The Bauer children were showing the signs of trail weariness, but Lisbeth suspected her mother’s passing had an affect as well. 

What she didn’t know was that the news of the death of Grossmutti had not really saddened the children; their memories of the wizened, bespectacled woman centered on her pale, furrowed skin, and the bony, claw-like fingers that dug into their cheeks and ears when she greeted them.  In fact, she reminded them of an engraving they had seen of eine Zauberin, and they had always been uneasy when left alone in her presence for long.  They were frightened of her cackling laugh and the silent rooms of her creaking, drafty house, with its strange, musty smells and the several, multi-colored Kätzen that darted from room to room and perched on the deep window sills.  No, they did not miss her.

But before St. Louis they had never seen their mother press herself into their father’s shoulder, nor witnessed the tears that rolled slowly down her cheek as he spoke softly to comfort her.  What affected Lisbeth’s children was not their grief, but hers.  After the letter came Lisbeth had barely spoken for days, and it was not until their father announced they would be joining a train out of Fort Kearny that their mood lightened; mama had smiled as he told them.  What they did not know was that her smile was not about the train, but other news.

After a few minutes Lisbeth called to the children to hurry; she would make griddle cakes.  She heard them squeal inside the wagon as she lifted her heavy cast iron skillet from the side box.  This day they would eat a hearty breakfast; it would be a special day.  Today she would tell them about the baby she would have when they reached Oregon.

She was removing the coffee pot from the fire when two of the mules trotted around the corner of the wagon, leads trailing in the short grass.  Lisbeth watched the animals as they moved away, their heads sawing from side to side, ears aslant, as if listening to a trailing sound. 

Lorenz? she said softly, turning back to the wagon.

She looked up and saw the killers as they closed in, mounted in a line abreast.  The light behind them carried a fresh, spectral glow, rimming their feathers and bows and shields as they rode, sparkling in the dew-tipped coats and vaporous breath of their ponies.

Mein Gott, she whispered.  The coffee pot slipped from her grasp and she sank slowly to her knees, spilled coffee steaming in the grass, her pink hands reaching up to her cheeks, moving across her eyes to block the next moments from view.

One of the killers raised her husband’s revolver slowly.  Vehoe, he said, and pulled the trigger.

 

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.

Without John Wayne

This is a piece of a larger story I wrote about a year ago...

 

WITHOUT JOHN WAYNE

By

M.E. Mortensen

 

One man woke before his companions.  In the predawn darkness he moved quietly past the horse guard to inspect the hobbled, dozing animals, whispering to them as he gently stroked their flanks, telling them they were beautiful and greatly cherished.  Their coats were wet with dew, and as he touched them they yawned and licked their mouths, swished their tails and shook their heads, turning to watch as he walked away.

He went to the edge of a spring and knelt.  He cupped his hands in the water and drank from them and wet his face and shoulders.  Then he walked out on the dark prairie and facing east he prayed softly, the words handed down from generations long lost in the shadows of history.          

Gradually his companions woke but they did not approach him nor did they speak.  They watered their mounts and they ate what small rations they had.  They primed the few ancient fusils they possessed, and assembled themselves, each alone with his thoughts.  They prepared their horses and they inspected them and when they were ready they mounted and joined together, the animals fresh, prancing, mouthing their bits and jaw ropes.  The horizon glowed gray as they set off at a trot, a forest of legs quick-stepping nearly in unison.

 

In another camp were six men, unemployed teamsters and two deserters from Fort Kearny who had joined the small company three days previous, ragged and hungry.  All were making for the mountains, for the gold and silver that could be plucked from the shadowed canyon walls of the front range, just west of the confluence of the South Platte and Cherry Creek.  

The day before they had forded the Stinking Water and Frenchman’s Creek.  Fresh buffalo sign was everywhere, and as they passed a jug around their night fire they spoke of fresh hump roast and ribs, and of wealth and whores. They had crossed into a new land.  

The great constellations wheeled in the night sky and when the jug was emptied they posted the two Kearny deserters on watch. The fugitives seated themselves cross-legged at opposite ends of the picket line, each cradling a pitted and fouled army carbine in his arms, his thin belly pressed against a pistol stuck in his belt, its muzzle aimed at his testicles. They were young, ages 19 and 23, illiterate, with only a few months on the frontier.  Both were second sons of poor farmers. They enlisted on the promise of adventure but found military board unappetizing, the work tedious and the discipline unendurable.  They were poor gamblers; they had saved little of their wages for a stake. Worse yet, garrison life had installed in each a taste for whiskey, which flawed their decisions and left them vulnerable to physical impairments, such as the drowsiness that always accompanied their drinking – and so predicted their failure to survive the early hours of that final morning.

 

In the dark four bowmen belly-crawled to within fifteen paces of the hapless pickets, arrows nocked.  Just before dawn they raised their bows. The soft twang of death, followed by choking, gurgling sounds.  A twitch.  A long sigh.

First light brought twelve riders at a dead run from the east, out of the new sun, flattened against their mounts, a chaos of arrows and buffalo robes to spook the camp’s horses.

The cavvy’s picket rope popped as it broke and panicked horses snorted and broke across the prairie in wide circles, looking back as they ran.

The attackers rode over the sleeping camp.  The first killer came in striking with his favored stone-headed club, down and down, to break rising, unprotected skulls; turning, leaning, aiming the pony with his knees.  Arrows zipped among the blankets - two, four shafts sprouting in the rising men, bodies flopping under the strikes of iron, stone and hoof.  Several raiders carried pistols, but they did not use them.  Destroying the wasichus was effortless - fluid, like sparks rising from a fire, extinguished as quickly as the eye looks.  

Only a couple of the whitemen died outright, however, so several tribesmen dismounted with hatchets and knives.  The wounded moaned, hands and feet moving, reaching for absent weapons.  Rifles lay underneath blankets, pistols beneath saddles, some even swaddled in oilcloth, rust-free. None of the victims had slept in readiness.   

Not a gun was fired save one, a young brave’s musket.  His ball pierced the hips of an old, bearded skinner as he crawled from his blankets, unarmed.  He was the last alive. 

Though his legs were useless the wounded man resisted death, pulling himself forward by fistfuls of buffalo grass, grunting, heading nowhere.  Six mounted tribesmen gathered around him, watching impassively. One adolescent, his thin brown leg looped around the tall fork of his war saddle, munching a found biscuit.

Into their midst strode the warrior who led the attack, bloody club in hand.  The nearest ponies shied as he stepped on the skinner’s back, swung the mallet overhead and caved the old man’s skull.

They spent some time rifling the bodies, emptying pockets, taking supplies. Tobacco and coffee were highly prized, and gold coins too, if only as gifts so their women could decorate their ears. They stripped the dead and slashed them to suppress the appetite for war in the spirit world. They took hair to decorate shields and lances, and to carry on sticks around the great celebration fires they would build when they returned to their lodges. They cursed the dead for their boldness in coming here and for the coughing death they brought with them. And when these things had been done to their satisfaction and the horses were rounded up, the warriors mounted and rode south, wrapped in the dead men’s blankets, carrying the dead men’s guns and powder, eating stolen bacon with bloody fingers.  Around the campsite the slain lay naked; hands, feet and heads severed, bellies opened, skulls flensed.

And a flock of crows began to gather.   

 

"GREEN GLORY" published

Very happy to announce the book I wrote, "GREEN GLORY: A Visual Tribute To The Courses Of The Majors - Golf's Renowned Venues," is off the press, with initial copies bound and about to be delivered to the courses and clubs included in the book. It's the culmination of a three-year effort that included the yeoman labors of photographer and longtime friend Patrick Drickey, skilled painter Linda Hartough, editor Sally J. Sportsman, publisher Steve Hayes, designer Gail Snodgrass, able assistance by photographer and newest Stonehouse star Dan Murphy, and yours truly.

It's my debut as a published author, and so far (one week) reactions have been very positive. I just returned from Orlando and an evening at the Association of Golf Merchandisers' (AGM) meet-and-greet prior to the opening of the PGA Expo. PGA attendees got a chance to see the book, and more than few chose to buy autographed copies, multiple in many cases. Even signed a few myself... weird feeling.

I don't know exactly how to describe the emotions that go along with realizing this goal, but since my name is on the book as author I suppose I'm obligated to try to find the words. As stated earlier,  Patrick and I started working on this project three years ago; there now exist on our hard drives files and files of letter drafts, emails, power point presentations, and in our memories hours of phone calls in which Patrick and I discussed everything - from our next move following rejection by one source or another, to questions about design and content. We always seemed to agree about what was required... which makes the book as much a tribute to our collaboration as the game of golf, in my mind. I'm proud of that.

The words? Few things are as repulsive as false modesty (insulting and terribly boring), but I'll run the risk of accusation here by saying that I think the words are mostly just adequate to the task. Fortunately, the book is a coffee table creation, meant to be looked at, admired, read only as occasion or interest inspires. No plot, no overarching literary theme, no complex scenes, characters or dialogue. Parts of the section introductions I like, while most of the course descriptions I wrote just trying not to sound like the sentences were lifted word for word from course websites. Mixed feelings about the words. A sports journalist I am not - yet, if ever. Great assistance, guidance and direction were provided by the book's editor, Sally J. Sportsman (yep, her real name) - a gentle, charming, unafraid writer and public relations pro whose credentials relating to golf prose far outweigh mine. Thank you Sally.

So, one hand raised in triumph, while, out of sight, the other trembles. That's how I feel.

Oh, one other thing. I haven't publicly thanked my wife, Laura, for her support of this project. You can find her name in the list of "ACKNOWLEDGMENTS" (British spelling, in deference to our colleagues in the UK), but that's small compensation for her contribution, in my opinion. Laura is the perfect wife for a writer: She is ever-sensitive to my many shifts in  mood, attention span, conversational ability and companionship quotient as I pursue my interests, real and imagined. She reacts to this melange of personality/behavioral environments much like an able seaman - she rides the waves skillfully, unfurling sails as conditions dictate, traversing the eddies and treacherous whirlpools without complaint. I owe her everything. She is my pal, my citadel, my truth.

My contract for writing the book provided me with a limited number of copies, which have been quickly committed to family members - real and chosen. So if you're at all interested in obtaining a book, I'd like to help you out, but I can't get it any cheaper or quicker than you can, thru www.stonehousegolf.com, beginning March 15.
Actually, that might not be true... but I want to sell books, too.

Thanks for stopping by.
     

Veteran's Day

November 11. Veteran's Day... a national holiday to honor those who've served in the armed forces. Originally proclaimed as Armistice Day in 1919 by Woodrow Wilson to observe the end of WWI "... with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service..." at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.

In 1945 the purpose of the holiday was expanded to include all veterans, and in 1954 Congress replaced the term "Armistice" with "Veterans."

This year, 2012, is the first Veterans Day celebrated, ironically, without a living veteran of the First World War. Yet approximately 2 million WWII vets survive, as well as vets from Korea, Vietnam, Lebanon, Grenada, Panama, Iraq and Afghanistan.

Memorial Day is our holiday recognition of the sacred dead. But the living too, deserve our respect and ongoing concern. More and more we are recognizing the cost of service to those men and women who have witnessed the horrors of combat; the psychological and emotional price paid by veterans of all ages, in all wars. PTSD, battle fatigue, combat stress, and shell shock are terms used since World War I to describe their trauma. "Irritable heart" or "Da Costa's Syndrome" were Civil War nomenclature for those same afflictions, which have been noted as far back in history as Herodotus.

I recently finished reading "Dispatches," Michael Herr's brilliant memoir of his experiences as a correspondent in Vietnam, and I was particularly struck by his description of  the face of one young GI:  "He had one of those faces, I saw that face at least a thousand times at a hundred bases and camps, all the youth sucked out of the eyes, the color drawn from the skin, cold white lips, you knew he wouldn't wait for any of it to come back. Life had made him old, he'd live it out old."

It made me wonder how many of those faces we as a nation have created, war after war, since 1776. No, freedom is not free. It is historically a bloody enterprise, a brutal, demanding dream, killing and maiming its defenders as surely as it benefits those willing and fortunate enough to take advantage of its blessings. Veterans Day, if it stands for anything, should serve as an everlasting reminder that we owe the living veteran everything we can do to erase - or at least mitigate, as best we know how - the scars he or she bears for having served.  And survived.

Left: My dad, PFC Edwin G. Mortensen, awarded the Bronze Star for action in the Po Valley, Italy, 1944. Recalling the deprivations and violence of his service would bring him to tears. He described combat as a "seminal" experience, saying,  "A man cannot come out of it the same fellow."