The half-breed rode all the way to the Paha Sapa, where he joined an Oglala band led by an uncle named Eagle Bull. The string of stolen wasichú horses caused great talk among Tabonneau’s relatives, who held a welcoming feast despite their dwindling food stores. And though his mother was long dead he was treated as a prodigal son, honored, given every courtesy and consideration. In return, he gave his uncle two horses, and spent most of his time in the old man’s lodge, entertaining cousins and visitors with stories about living among the wasichú.
Experience had taught him that the wasichú were like shifting sands, he told the listeners; in motion, restless, united only by the greed that drove them to seek the yellow metal, they strove to own everything, and to destroy all that stood in their way. His mother’s people were wild and reckless, even cruel, but like the fingers of a strong hand they were bound to one another in ways the wasichú could never understand, sharing strength and blood and purpose.
That winter Edwin Tabonneau severed all ties with the wasichú, a society in which he had never been particularly welcome despite his father’s reputation as a first-rate trapper and frontiersman. In truth, the son’s Stygian heart had always hewn to the ways of his dark-skinned relatives, whose night fires and stories of war comprised his earliest memories. Yes, that winter Edwin Tabonneau would rejoin the Lakota for good, to speak his mother’s tongue, and even assume his boyhood name, Ptehincala, the Buffalo Calf, or Jincala, Newborn Calf, said with a grin, because he was reborn to the people.
---
Winter passed. As soon as the grass began to freshen the 20 lodges of Eagle Bull’s tiyoŝpaye moved south and west toward Laramie. They camped at Pankeska Wakpa, the Platte River, for four days, and were joined by another band, a mix of related Brulé and Oglala lodges led by another old man chief named the White Crow.
The young men of White Crow’s band had done some raiding the previous summer, so there was wasichú plunder in camp to be traded and gifted. And there was also the girl.
Tabonneau saw her the day after White Crow’s tipis went up, her pale features like a beacon amid the Lakota. He was riding in with a hunting party when he noticed her; like a pack mule she tagged after a group of women gathering fuel along the river’s edge, stooped from the burden of limbs piled on her back. He reined up to watch her. The older women took note of the warrior’s bold stare and pushed the captive girl along, scolding him for his brazen behavior - which he ignored, until one old crone began tossing stones at him.
Sarah was living in one of the lodges owned by her captor, a warrior named the Magpie. She did not have the status of a wife and was treated as a female prisoner… to be used by Magpie whenever it suited him, or given on a temporary basis to any warrior with whom he wished to curry favor. Most of the time she was ordered around like a servant, charged with menial chores, subjected to the fluctuating moods and complaints of Magpie’s wives.
She was called Wówinyeyawin, the Tool Woman, or Used-As-A-Tool, and sometimes also Wiocan, Mute Woman, because she seldom spoke. She attracted a great deal of attention from the people, who seldom saw white women. She was prodded and petted, grabbed and sometimes cuffed or clubbed, but the slightest protestation drew a severe beating, and the result was that she withdrew into herself. In time her retreat from the daily circumstance of her life became whole, and she neither reacted to abuse nor did she seek escape. Long before White Crow’s tiyoŝpaye joined Eagle Bull at the Platte the person that was Sarah Miles had ceased to exist.
A week after he saw the girl Tabonneau appeared at Magpie’s lodge leading a string of five horses stolen from the road ranch. Negotiations took place in accordance with tribal protocol – a long leisurely smoke followed by a small meal. The purpose of the visit, though known, remained unspoken until, perfunctory etiquette completed, Magpie and Tabonneau came out of the lodge to sit cross-legged on a robe. Magpie leaned forward to cast a critical eye on the horses. In the meantime most of the members of his household, including relatives and friends living nearby, assembled in front of the tipi.
Tabonneau extolled the animals’ conformation, speed and quiet demeanor, giving special emphasis to the fact that the fastest two were mares, whose colts would add great value to Magpie’s herd. Magpie’s herd – the words carried a teasing redolence. Everyone knew that most of Magpie’s horses had been stolen by Crow warriors just before his band broke winter camp. Two travois ponies and a buffalo runner were the only remaining animals of a herd that had once totaled more than a score in number.
If the warrior had any reaction to the remark it failed to register on his face. He lit another pipe and sat in silence for a long period. The offer of the horses was too good to refuse, but Magpie’s dignity demanded that he not appear overly eager, so Tabonneau waited patiently. After a respectable amount of time the half-breed brought forth a bundle of red cloth and opened it. He laid out a small hand mirror, an ivory comb and several hair ribbons he had taken from the slain prostitutes.
When Magpie motioned for one of his wives to pick up the bundle the bargain was sealed.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
End of The Road Ranch
On the day Eli Jumper died an early chinook softened the crusted snow. By sunrise the eves of the ranch buildings began to drip, and the warming air raised vapor from the backs of the horses in the corral. Sunlight on the snow reflected with a blinding intensity, affecting horses, cattle, even the coyotes, whose prowls were frequently interrupted by paws drawn across sore eyes. The world gleamed.
In his gimcrack hide shelter Jumper drew charcoal stripes across his cheekbones as he readied himself for the day’s hunt; he dried his bowstring, loaded the quiver and sharpened his skinning knife before taking a few bites of jerked antelope. He would ride east, hoping to cut the trail of elk, buffalo or antelope driven toward the Platte in recent snowstorms.
He had heard the drunken cheers and laughter in the main ranch building late last night… so much for Cutter’s drinking embargo. What Jumper did not hear was Tabonneau’s silent rise from his blankets in the predawn hours to gather jerky and biscuits, or his stealthy advance into the storeroom to slit the throats of the sleeping prostitutes.
Nor as he stepped out of the stable into the sunlight did Jumper see the half-breed waiting for him just outside.
The Osage did not hear the bowstring release, but the arrow struck him between the shoulder blades, and he went to his hands and knees in the snow and saw his blood, bright and frothy from the lungs, blossoming red in the whiteness beneath him. A loud ringing surged in his head and a shadow passed over him, arms raised.
Down came the axe.
Minutes later Tabonneau saddled his horse and tethered the others together to be led out of the corral. Then he went back to the main building, quietly opened the window of the whores’ room and lit a fire on the bloody blankets covering their bodies. He returned to the corral, mounting his horse like a man with nothing better to do. He led the string of horses out of the corral and rode north to join his mother’s people.
The wet conditions inside the sod building slowed the fire’s progress; it took a few minutes before the smoke roused Cutter. He put on his boots, a shirt, trousers, and a buffalo coat, then took up two pistols before he shouted at Cole.
Open yer eyes, son of a bitch.
Huh?
Ye’ll cook in another minute.
Cutter kicked open the door and stepped into the sunlight, smoke trailing him out the door. Shielding his eyes, he turned and backed away from the building, watching more smoke roll out of the whores’ window.
Cole stumbled out of the doorway, coughing, a blanket around his shoulders, his left hand holding his unbelted trousers. His right held a shirt over his nose and mouth.
He coughed hard.
What about the whores? he said.
The wind shifted, bringing the smoke toward them. With it came the smell of burning flesh.
Don’t guess we have to worry about them, said Cutter.
Cole coughed again. What about Tabonneau?
Cutter shrugged.
And Jumper… where’s the damn Indian?
Cutter turned his head, saw the empty corral and recognized the answer: There, tied by its hair to the top of one of the gateposts, was Jumper’s head.
Cole followed his gaze.
Aw hell.
Well now, said Cutter, let that be a lesson…
What? What lesson?
Just then the snow-covered section of roof over the whores’ room collapsed, raising a large plume of steam as wet snow came down on the burning contents. Cutter shoved his pistols into the waistband of his trousers and looked at Cole.
Whoremaster is no longer our line, he said.
In his gimcrack hide shelter Jumper drew charcoal stripes across his cheekbones as he readied himself for the day’s hunt; he dried his bowstring, loaded the quiver and sharpened his skinning knife before taking a few bites of jerked antelope. He would ride east, hoping to cut the trail of elk, buffalo or antelope driven toward the Platte in recent snowstorms.
He had heard the drunken cheers and laughter in the main ranch building late last night… so much for Cutter’s drinking embargo. What Jumper did not hear was Tabonneau’s silent rise from his blankets in the predawn hours to gather jerky and biscuits, or his stealthy advance into the storeroom to slit the throats of the sleeping prostitutes.
Nor as he stepped out of the stable into the sunlight did Jumper see the half-breed waiting for him just outside.
The Osage did not hear the bowstring release, but the arrow struck him between the shoulder blades, and he went to his hands and knees in the snow and saw his blood, bright and frothy from the lungs, blossoming red in the whiteness beneath him. A loud ringing surged in his head and a shadow passed over him, arms raised.
Down came the axe.
Minutes later Tabonneau saddled his horse and tethered the others together to be led out of the corral. Then he went back to the main building, quietly opened the window of the whores’ room and lit a fire on the bloody blankets covering their bodies. He returned to the corral, mounting his horse like a man with nothing better to do. He led the string of horses out of the corral and rode north to join his mother’s people.
The wet conditions inside the sod building slowed the fire’s progress; it took a few minutes before the smoke roused Cutter. He put on his boots, a shirt, trousers, and a buffalo coat, then took up two pistols before he shouted at Cole.
Open yer eyes, son of a bitch.
Huh?
Ye’ll cook in another minute.
Cutter kicked open the door and stepped into the sunlight, smoke trailing him out the door. Shielding his eyes, he turned and backed away from the building, watching more smoke roll out of the whores’ window.
Cole stumbled out of the doorway, coughing, a blanket around his shoulders, his left hand holding his unbelted trousers. His right held a shirt over his nose and mouth.
He coughed hard.
What about the whores? he said.
The wind shifted, bringing the smoke toward them. With it came the smell of burning flesh.
Don’t guess we have to worry about them, said Cutter.
Cole coughed again. What about Tabonneau?
Cutter shrugged.
And Jumper… where’s the damn Indian?
Cutter turned his head, saw the empty corral and recognized the answer: There, tied by its hair to the top of one of the gateposts, was Jumper’s head.
Cole followed his gaze.
Aw hell.
Well now, said Cutter, let that be a lesson…
What? What lesson?
Just then the snow-covered section of roof over the whores’ room collapsed, raising a large plume of steam as wet snow came down on the burning contents. Cutter shoved his pistols into the waistband of his trousers and looked at Cole.
Whoremaster is no longer our line, he said.
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Hard Winter
Life slowed for the Lakota.
A cold wave descended upon the plains, and many bands moved to winter camps sheltered in the leeward corners and valleys of the Black Hills. Snow began to drift against the lodges, and the ponies’ coats grew shaggy. Under the frigid temperatures their breath condensed to form blankets of ice pearls on their backs as they pawed crusted snow in search of forage.
The boy spent most days huddled in his wikiup, wrapped in hides, his eyes stinging from small, smoky fires. Hurried walks to the cooking pot and to answer nature’s call, and occasional, brief rabbit hunts constituted the only intervals spent outside his small shelter.
His appearance deteriorated; despite the low temperatures lice infiltrated his robes and small sores erupted on his unwashed body, face and scalp. Nor was the damage confined to his physical mien: The cold and insuperable isolation began to affect his mind. The fragile connections that defined his identity as a being among other beings were dissolving, and in the absence of other communication he began to hold conversations with himself, at times in anger, sometimes laughing until tears came.
His world was shrinking, but the Lakota paid small attention; madness, especially when induced by seasonal hardship, was not uncommon and was considered intensely personal - mystical, perhaps visionary, always solitary. Unless he became violent, there would be no intervention.
Then came the time called the Hardship moon, Tehi wi, and the boy’s misfortunes multiplied as the cold deepened its hold on the land. Frigid darkness seemed to swallow everything, and daylight snuck upon the camp like an enemy, the color of ashes, concealing the line between earth and sky. Freezing gales flogged every living thing. Women and children stripped bundles of willow and cottonwood bark for the ponies, yet many died in the drifts, the boy’s gray among them.
---
Winter confinement brought trouble to the outlaws’ road ranch as well. Quarrels erupted. Cole and the two whores were the first to become prickly, the cause being Cole’s unceasing pursuit of sexual favors sans compensation. Their spats grew combative under the influence of whiskey, until finally Cutter drew a pistol and declared a moratorium on the consumption of spirits without his personal say-so.
And no more free rides, Teddy, he added, or I’ll nip off your pizzle and feed it to the roosters.
But Cutter’s difficulties were far from over: Unknown to him, ancient enmities presaged the finish of his Laramie scheme.
Eli Jumper’s tribe, the Osage, the Wah-Zha-Zhe, were a plains people, and by the 1850’s their relations with the I’n-Shta-Heh, the heavy eyebrows, as they called the whites, led many warriors like Jumper to scout for army expeditions against enemy tribes – the Kiowa, the Cheyenne, and, when the opportunity presented itself, the Lakota.
Edwin Tabonneau had been raised among the Oglala, and from the moment he saw the murdered woman’s shell ornament on Jumper’s ear, he knew how the Osage had acquired it. Worse yet, subtle details told him it had likely been fashioned by a woman of the Bad Face clan, his mother’s family.
Not a word had passed between Tabonneau and Eli since Ft. Laramie, but Jumper knew the risks his presence in Lakota country imposed.
Unfortunately the snow that curtailed visits of soldiers and emigrants to the ranch also forestalled the extended hunting trips that kept distance between the two men. Now, instead of supplying meat for the ranch, Jumper tended the stock, keeping himself separate from the others, even sleeping in a special hide shelter in the dugout stable. He prepared his own meals and seldom entered the main building, yet his presence was marked.
Tabonneau had for some time committed himself to the murder of Eli Jumper; furthermore, he reasoned that Jumper’s wasichú collaborators should suffer as well.
The fact that Tabonneau himself had joined with these men to kill and rob carried no favor; he was, after all, a Lakota - never truly partnered with his mother’s enemies.
A cold wave descended upon the plains, and many bands moved to winter camps sheltered in the leeward corners and valleys of the Black Hills. Snow began to drift against the lodges, and the ponies’ coats grew shaggy. Under the frigid temperatures their breath condensed to form blankets of ice pearls on their backs as they pawed crusted snow in search of forage.
The boy spent most days huddled in his wikiup, wrapped in hides, his eyes stinging from small, smoky fires. Hurried walks to the cooking pot and to answer nature’s call, and occasional, brief rabbit hunts constituted the only intervals spent outside his small shelter.
His appearance deteriorated; despite the low temperatures lice infiltrated his robes and small sores erupted on his unwashed body, face and scalp. Nor was the damage confined to his physical mien: The cold and insuperable isolation began to affect his mind. The fragile connections that defined his identity as a being among other beings were dissolving, and in the absence of other communication he began to hold conversations with himself, at times in anger, sometimes laughing until tears came.
His world was shrinking, but the Lakota paid small attention; madness, especially when induced by seasonal hardship, was not uncommon and was considered intensely personal - mystical, perhaps visionary, always solitary. Unless he became violent, there would be no intervention.
Then came the time called the Hardship moon, Tehi wi, and the boy’s misfortunes multiplied as the cold deepened its hold on the land. Frigid darkness seemed to swallow everything, and daylight snuck upon the camp like an enemy, the color of ashes, concealing the line between earth and sky. Freezing gales flogged every living thing. Women and children stripped bundles of willow and cottonwood bark for the ponies, yet many died in the drifts, the boy’s gray among them.
---
Winter confinement brought trouble to the outlaws’ road ranch as well. Quarrels erupted. Cole and the two whores were the first to become prickly, the cause being Cole’s unceasing pursuit of sexual favors sans compensation. Their spats grew combative under the influence of whiskey, until finally Cutter drew a pistol and declared a moratorium on the consumption of spirits without his personal say-so.
And no more free rides, Teddy, he added, or I’ll nip off your pizzle and feed it to the roosters.
But Cutter’s difficulties were far from over: Unknown to him, ancient enmities presaged the finish of his Laramie scheme.
Eli Jumper’s tribe, the Osage, the Wah-Zha-Zhe, were a plains people, and by the 1850’s their relations with the I’n-Shta-Heh, the heavy eyebrows, as they called the whites, led many warriors like Jumper to scout for army expeditions against enemy tribes – the Kiowa, the Cheyenne, and, when the opportunity presented itself, the Lakota.
Edwin Tabonneau had been raised among the Oglala, and from the moment he saw the murdered woman’s shell ornament on Jumper’s ear, he knew how the Osage had acquired it. Worse yet, subtle details told him it had likely been fashioned by a woman of the Bad Face clan, his mother’s family.
Not a word had passed between Tabonneau and Eli since Ft. Laramie, but Jumper knew the risks his presence in Lakota country imposed.
Unfortunately the snow that curtailed visits of soldiers and emigrants to the ranch also forestalled the extended hunting trips that kept distance between the two men. Now, instead of supplying meat for the ranch, Jumper tended the stock, keeping himself separate from the others, even sleeping in a special hide shelter in the dugout stable. He prepared his own meals and seldom entered the main building, yet his presence was marked.
Tabonneau had for some time committed himself to the murder of Eli Jumper; furthermore, he reasoned that Jumper’s wasichú collaborators should suffer as well.
The fact that Tabonneau himself had joined with these men to kill and rob carried no favor; he was, after all, a Lakota - never truly partnered with his mother’s enemies.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
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.
---
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.
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.
---
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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Hunt
Things evened out for the boy following his fight with the young Lakota. Privileges were extended; he was given a pair of leggings and a simple buckskin shirt, and his meals came from the family cooking pot instead of the scraps thrown out for the dogs. He was even given a short bow and several blunt-tipped arrows, with which he practiced daily.
One morning he woke to find a fat gray travois pony hobbled next to him, a sign of permission to use the animal. He had not been invited to live in the lodge, but as the evenings cooled Bear’s oldest wife built him a wikiup brush shelter and gave him a newer robe on which to sleep.
He lived attached to the Lakota, but not with them. He was seldom spoken to. On occasion Bear-That-Walks addressed him as wablenica, the Lakota word for orphan, or akabhan, which means standing-on-the-outside. At any time he could have mounted the pony and ridden away, but he could not imagine where to go. Civilization was a term that held no meaning; he did not dream of tree-lined thoroughfares and leather shoes crowned with smiling faces. Among the Lakota he was allowed to live without bother. He gathered fuel for the fires and occasionally brought a rabbit or a prairie chicken for the pot, and that was enough.
Early in the fall, a time called Tree-leaves shaken-off moon, the councilors of the village, called big bellies, met and smoked together for several days. When they finished a crier rode a paint pony among the tipis calling out instructions. Early the next morning the lodges were pulled down and packed on travois along with the elderly and the smallest children. The people, horses and dogs began to move west along the White River, strung out in a long line over the broken prairie, some walking and some riding in the rising dust, faces chalked and vermilioned, hide shields and weapons visible, a few travelers adorned with scapulars of enemy fingers and more with shell earrings and bone necklaces, the young boys racing their wild ponies back and forth. And as the clan moved the members sang a traveling song exactly as it had been sung by generations long dead, the sound quivering across the humped and split ground, reaching as far as the watching outriders and beyond, lost in the massive vault of sky and earth.
They traveled all day and the next four without unpacking the travois, until somewhere far out on the baking plains they cut the north fork of the Platte River, and they erected lodges among the scattered cottonwoods and set about gathering fuel for the cooking pots. They unpacked only essential possessions, and the boy realized this camp was temporary.
Small parties of warriors were sent out long before sunrise dressed in wolf skins. Over the course of two days they stayed away until sundown, returning quietly without the tremolo chants and drumbeats common to war or raiding. At noon on the third day one of the sorties returned to smoke with the big bellies, and when word of the meeting was spoken the camp became a hive of preparation; whetstones put to arrowheads, lances and skinning knives; bows strung, dust sprinkled over the backs of ponies to ensure speed. For thousands of years bison herds had turned the grass into meat and shelter, sustaining the tribes as they arrived on the Plains, converting forest-dwelling root diggers into nomadic hunters. In the process the buffalo became a god, joined later by the horse, the god dog, shunka wakan.
Thus the Lakota conformed themselves as they set forth: just after dawn the painted hunters rode into the clear morning light carrying bows and lances, mounted on sleek ponies specially trained and decorated, the people singing strong-heart songs.
The boy was not invited to participate, yet he decided to follow the hunters on the little gray, his bow and worn skinning knife brought along for whatever purpose presented itself.
He rode until the ground beneath the gray’s hooves trembled and dust obscured the horizon and a rumbling thunder filled the air. The boy crested a rise where he saw the hunters disappear and there he saw the great herd as a torrent - an ocean of buffalo, dark ridges of hump meat moving like waves, the hunters ki-yi-ing within and around the roiling mass, shooting arrows and thrusting lances, swerving as panicked beasts whirled, horns hooking blindly against the current.
In the wake of the stampede the boy saw dark shapes moving on the torn ground: wounded buffalo were bellowing, kicking, attempting to rise and lose the smell of death. He rode down among them; viewing here and there a trampled calf, stomped shapeless amid crushed prickly pear and flattened yucca.
He heard a scream. In the distance a black pony coughed and stumbled, its saddle slipped down on its side, entrails hanging in uneven loops beneath its torn belly. From somewhere its rider limped up and drew a blade across its throat and the animal sank to its knees and rolled on its side, kicking twice.
Soon mountains of meat were carved and laid upon fresh-stripped hides as men, women and children worked the steaming carcasses, the children’s lips and chins gleaming with blood from mouthfuls of warm liver and sweetbreads spiced with drops of bile. Bones were cracked, ribs chopped, marrow scooped; humps, tongues, hooves, brains, horns and skulls were collected; stomachs and intestines emptied. All day the ponies bore loads back to camp, leaving behind piles of offal and dark red stains to mark the killing ground. No count of the quarry was taken or assumed. The killing had continued until arrows were gone, lances broken, ponies and hunters gored or used up.
Around the perimeter wolves, coyotes, ravens and magpies gathered. In this country there was no such thing as too much meat, and throughout the following week the Lakota gorged themselves in feasting.
By spring they would chew boiled hides.
One morning he woke to find a fat gray travois pony hobbled next to him, a sign of permission to use the animal. He had not been invited to live in the lodge, but as the evenings cooled Bear’s oldest wife built him a wikiup brush shelter and gave him a newer robe on which to sleep.
He lived attached to the Lakota, but not with them. He was seldom spoken to. On occasion Bear-That-Walks addressed him as wablenica, the Lakota word for orphan, or akabhan, which means standing-on-the-outside. At any time he could have mounted the pony and ridden away, but he could not imagine where to go. Civilization was a term that held no meaning; he did not dream of tree-lined thoroughfares and leather shoes crowned with smiling faces. Among the Lakota he was allowed to live without bother. He gathered fuel for the fires and occasionally brought a rabbit or a prairie chicken for the pot, and that was enough.
Early in the fall, a time called Tree-leaves shaken-off moon, the councilors of the village, called big bellies, met and smoked together for several days. When they finished a crier rode a paint pony among the tipis calling out instructions. Early the next morning the lodges were pulled down and packed on travois along with the elderly and the smallest children. The people, horses and dogs began to move west along the White River, strung out in a long line over the broken prairie, some walking and some riding in the rising dust, faces chalked and vermilioned, hide shields and weapons visible, a few travelers adorned with scapulars of enemy fingers and more with shell earrings and bone necklaces, the young boys racing their wild ponies back and forth. And as the clan moved the members sang a traveling song exactly as it had been sung by generations long dead, the sound quivering across the humped and split ground, reaching as far as the watching outriders and beyond, lost in the massive vault of sky and earth.
They traveled all day and the next four without unpacking the travois, until somewhere far out on the baking plains they cut the north fork of the Platte River, and they erected lodges among the scattered cottonwoods and set about gathering fuel for the cooking pots. They unpacked only essential possessions, and the boy realized this camp was temporary.
Small parties of warriors were sent out long before sunrise dressed in wolf skins. Over the course of two days they stayed away until sundown, returning quietly without the tremolo chants and drumbeats common to war or raiding. At noon on the third day one of the sorties returned to smoke with the big bellies, and when word of the meeting was spoken the camp became a hive of preparation; whetstones put to arrowheads, lances and skinning knives; bows strung, dust sprinkled over the backs of ponies to ensure speed. For thousands of years bison herds had turned the grass into meat and shelter, sustaining the tribes as they arrived on the Plains, converting forest-dwelling root diggers into nomadic hunters. In the process the buffalo became a god, joined later by the horse, the god dog, shunka wakan.
Thus the Lakota conformed themselves as they set forth: just after dawn the painted hunters rode into the clear morning light carrying bows and lances, mounted on sleek ponies specially trained and decorated, the people singing strong-heart songs.
The boy was not invited to participate, yet he decided to follow the hunters on the little gray, his bow and worn skinning knife brought along for whatever purpose presented itself.
He rode until the ground beneath the gray’s hooves trembled and dust obscured the horizon and a rumbling thunder filled the air. The boy crested a rise where he saw the hunters disappear and there he saw the great herd as a torrent - an ocean of buffalo, dark ridges of hump meat moving like waves, the hunters ki-yi-ing within and around the roiling mass, shooting arrows and thrusting lances, swerving as panicked beasts whirled, horns hooking blindly against the current.
In the wake of the stampede the boy saw dark shapes moving on the torn ground: wounded buffalo were bellowing, kicking, attempting to rise and lose the smell of death. He rode down among them; viewing here and there a trampled calf, stomped shapeless amid crushed prickly pear and flattened yucca.
He heard a scream. In the distance a black pony coughed and stumbled, its saddle slipped down on its side, entrails hanging in uneven loops beneath its torn belly. From somewhere its rider limped up and drew a blade across its throat and the animal sank to its knees and rolled on its side, kicking twice.
Soon mountains of meat were carved and laid upon fresh-stripped hides as men, women and children worked the steaming carcasses, the children’s lips and chins gleaming with blood from mouthfuls of warm liver and sweetbreads spiced with drops of bile. Bones were cracked, ribs chopped, marrow scooped; humps, tongues, hooves, brains, horns and skulls were collected; stomachs and intestines emptied. All day the ponies bore loads back to camp, leaving behind piles of offal and dark red stains to mark the killing ground. No count of the quarry was taken or assumed. The killing had continued until arrows were gone, lances broken, ponies and hunters gored or used up.
Around the perimeter wolves, coyotes, ravens and magpies gathered. In this country there was no such thing as too much meat, and throughout the following week the Lakota gorged themselves in feasting.
By spring they would chew boiled hides.
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