Scar was correct in his assumption. Since Abbie and Jack Harding were insistent that the women had to be able to handle their firearms, the wagon train, starting early in the morning, had averaged less than ten miles each day before halting in mid afternoon so they had time for a full hour of rifle practice – learning speed loading, aiming, shooting at marks, and each cleaning their own gun before being inspected by either their captain or Jack.
That afternoon the ex-corporal had just completed a session on snap shooting and was busy laying out some large pieces of bark at distances of twenty-five to fifty yards to act as targets when Abbie came riding in at a gallop. She, as was her usual practice, had just been completing a ride around the campsite, checking that all was satisfactory for a distance of several hundred yards, when she saw a bunch of horsemen approaching at high speed. A glance through her father’s field telescope convinced her that the newcomers’ intentions were not good.
‘Stand to, everyone! Load your rifles. Prepare to repel a probable attack!’
So ordering, Abbie hitched the bay inside the wagon circle, and set the example by swiftly loading her Springfield and checking the loads in her revolver. The defenders were all at their posts by the time the rough-looking riders had halted, at a signal from their leader, about fifty yards from the wagon barricade. Scar rode out ahead of his men and called out, ‘Hey! This ain’t no decent way to receive neighbours when they come avisiting. Put up your guns! We come in peace.’
Unfortunately, Scar’s attempt at gaining an entry by guile was fruitless on two accounts. First of all, several of his own men grinned, and one actually sniggered, at his portrayal of the uncouth bunch of ruffians as being but peaceful citizens. Secondly, and more telling, was Dora’s cry, which was rapidly spread among the defenders, ‘He’s riding White Blaze, Len Flynn’s sorrel. I’d know that horse anywhere!’
Abbie had stepped outside of the wagon circle and was poised ready for trouble. Scar heard Dora’s cry and knew that his ploy had failed. He therefore turned to his men and cried, ‘OK you wolverines. Get them!’
As he gave his order, Abbie dropped to one knee and fired her rifle. She aimed at Scar, but his horse reared at the moment she pulled her trigger, and the ball struck the sorrel in the head killing him instantly. Scar jumped clear as the horse fell and ran forward, Bowie brandished in his right hand, pistol in his left. Simultaneously, Jack Harding gave the order for his front line of defence to open fire. This consisted of the six women from the newly-joined wagon train while he, his wife Polly, Jacob Levy and young Bobby Smith acted as a second line, ready to fire as the first group reloaded.
Abbie dropped her rifle and, pulling her 12mm pinfire, put two head shots into the advancing Scar. He reeled back and dropped like a stone. The fire of the women had been equally devastating. Three of the gang were down and not moving, while a fourth squirmed around on the ground, both hands clutching his stomach while he screamed for his long-dead mother. As the front rank reloaded, Jack and the other three stepped forward and, using independent fire, brought down more of the outlaws. One, and one only, rode away out of rifle range, clutching a shattered right shoulder and crying, ‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!’ as, terrified, he retreated from the murderous fire.
Jack Harding stalked forward and put a merciful ball into the gut-shot outlaw’s head. Abbie saw the stern look on his face and queried, ‘Jack?’
‘They got Polly, the murdering bastards!’
His wife had fired as directed and, instead of stepping under cover to reload, had stood there in the open and a chance shot had hit her in the heart, killing her instantly. The only other casualty was Eve Schultz who had been hit in the left arm. The ball had missed the bones, but had made a painful furrow from wrist to elbow. She, however, assured Abbie that it was nothing to worry about.
The bodies of the renegades were dragged some distance from the trail, and laid in a row beneath a sign ‘outlaws’ burnt into a board. Their weapons were smashed and left in a pile, while their surviving horses, except for one that Jack Harding kept for himself, were unsaddled and turned loose. A grave was dug for the remains of Polly Harding, and the whole group gathered to pay their last respects. They had no minister or priest among them so Abbie, as leader, spoke with a lump in her throat of how Polly had been such a pleasant, willing team-mate for both Jack and the assembled group. Most of the women were quietly crying by the time Abbie ended up by reciting the Lord’s Prayer, while Jacob whispered the Jewish Prayer for the Dead. Then the grave was filled in, and a simple wooden cross placed over the site, marking the spot where yet another person had died during the western expansion of the United States.
Abbie saw that something would have to be done to relieve the sombre mood that pervaded the group. So she gave the order to prepare to move out. Animals were brought in, hitched up and, seemingly, in no time all were ready to leave what became known as slaughter camp. Abbie, seated astride her bay, looked around to ensure that all was ready. She raised her right arm on high and cried out, ‘Wagons roll!’
CHAPTER NINE
Because of the changed circumstances, Jack Harding and Jacob Levy decided to team up. Jacob’s cart was hitched behind Jack’s wagon, which the former now drove most of the time, leaving the ex-corporal free to do some of the scouting. They shared the cooking arrangements in which Abbie also joined. Fortunately, the trio seemed to get on well together and Jacob, not being an Orthodox Jew, had no dietary problems.
The afternoon following the battle of slaughter camp, they had hardly circled the wagons when Abbie noted yet more riders approaching from the east. Their uniformity in appearance and the western sun glinting off brass buttons and accoutrements indicated that these horsemen presented no danger.
Arriving at the camp and speaking to Abbie, the leader of the cavalry patrol introduced himself, ‘Lieutenant Perkins, ma’am, Fourth Cavalry. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
Abbie introduced herself as Penraven and indicated that she was leader of the wagon train. Briefly, she outlined the events since leaving Paradise, ending with the defeat of the outlaw gang the previous day. In her description, Abbie gave due credit to the part played by Jack Harding and stressed that their successful defence had in large measure been due to the sturdy pioneer women.
As she spoke the lieutenant’s eyes grew wider and still wider and, eventually, he burst out with, ‘Well, if that don’t beat the band! So that’s how Scar and his bunch of scalawags met their end. Do you know Miss, er, Captain Penraven, we’ve been trailing those rogues for weeks, ever since they looted a lonely ranch near the settlement of Cheyenne. You folks did the army and the country a good service in getting rid of them!’ and turning to Jack who was standing by he stated, ‘And you, sir, if you’re not tired of soldiering, we could certainly find a place for you in the Fourth Cavalry.’
Jack smiled at the invitation and shook his head. ‘No, sir, thankee for the offer, but I’ve had me fill of soldiering. I’ll stick with the captain here.’
The patrol was invited to eat and spend the night at the wagon site and, nothing loath, the cavalrymen were delighted to eat something other than army rations. It was a delightful evening. The men dined on home cooking, and the women feasted their eyes on the men and enjoyed having male company, if only for one evening. Abbie tended to keep herself aloof from the merriment. Not because she considered herself in any way superior to the other women but, being in command, she recalled her father’s oft-repeated comments that too much familiarity would invariably loosen discipline to the detriment of any unit. So she sat, a lonely figure, by the side of Jack’s wagon, industriously stripping and cleaning her pinfire pistol, and tried to ignore the happy laughter coming from the campfires. The cavalrymen looked over and watched her as, pistol gleaming, she practised drawing and snapping her pistol on an empty chamber as she did every evening. The whole group watched in awe at her fluid pistol play and Jacob whispered, ‘No vonder men call ’er The Pinfire Lady!’
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br /> And thus, when the patrol left the following morning, Abbie’s reputation as a pistolera left with them.
The days and weeks passed. Like all the other parties moving westward, whether isolated groups, small caravans like themselves, or huge trains with up to seventy-five or more wagons, in general, they all experienced similar situations. Water had to be found, both for stock and human consumption. Rivers had to be crossed and Abbie was thankful that her people did not have to break down banks to afford passage for their wagons. Earlier trains had performed this task for them.
There were days for all travellers when the relentless wind, coming out of the west, drove both people and animals crazy with frustration as, with bleary, red-rimmed, grit-filled eyes, they drove their reluctant oxen and horses forward. Inevitably, every wagon train had sickness created by many diverse causes. Some camps were insanitary, when foolish travellers took water downstream from where they watered their stock or where others earlier had performed their ablutions. For some, the dietary limitations and lack of green vegetables took their toll among the thousands travelling west, and their graves along the trails marked the unanticipated end of their individual journeys. There were locations where the dreaded cholera or smallpox broke out and, due to limited medical knowledge, would spread like wildfire through an encampment. Babies were born, and babies died, as did the mothers that had borne them, and their final resting places, with a wooden cross or merely some pieces of stone to prevent wild animals digging up the bodies, were solitary reminders to all that passed by that life was a fragile thing.
In addition to all of the foregoing, the pioneers had to contend with wolves, four-legged creatures that tried to seize their stock, and two-legged varieties that preyed upon both people and their animals. The Plains Indians resented these ‘white eyes’ from the east, who came in their lumbering wagons, killing the buffalo and other wild game, in many cases not because they were hungry, but just because they could. They desecrated sacred burial sites, wantonly cut down the forests to build more and more permanent dwellings for themselves and their kin, and then told the native tribes that this was their land. They had found it!
The problem was that both cultures had totally different notions about private property and land ownership, and, of course, both were certain that they were right. The result was that there were was intermittent warfare where wagon trains were attacked and, on occasion, wiped out, with both animals and people slaughtered and their contents looted. In return, settlers would assemble armed force and attack and destroy Indian villages, without attempting to determine whether they were guilty of hostility towards the Whites. ‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian’ was a common saying of the day.
There were also the gangs of renegade Whites and half-breeds of all colours who, like the pirates who were the scourge of the Mississippi River, attempted to rob, steal and kill travellers on the trails to the West. Abbie and her people were lucky that they did not encounter any of this breed, but from others they heard some hair-raising accounts that kept them continually on their guard. They did, however, have one meeting with Indians, which could easily have become a serious affair.
One morning while the wagons were still circled, young Bobby Smith, on guard duty, yelled out that Indians were coming. Quickly, everyone was at her or his place, rifles loaded, ready to repel any attack. The Indians drew near and Abbie, who had stepped out of the circle, was relieved to note that they were not wearing war paint. She raised her hand in the peace sign.
The leader rode forward, ‘Squaw give guns! Give whiskey!’
Abbie shook her head firmly. ‘No guns, Chief, also no whiskey! You can have some bacon and a sack of flour. That’s all we can spare our red brothers!’ She signalled, and Tom brought out the offerings and placed them on the ground.
The chief reiterated his demands for whiskey and guns and then frowned, ‘Where white chief? No talk to squaw!’ he declared disdainfully.
‘I am the chief here. You talk to me!’
He looked down in surprise and grinned, noticing Abbie’s pistol hanging prominently in its cross side draw. ‘Show Red Hawk how squaw shoot man’s gun!’
Using a mixture of words and sign language, Abbie had one of the braves take the Chief’s gaily painted shield and place it against a rock about ten yards away. She turned back toward the chief and then swinging round, drew and rapidly poured five bullets into the centre of the shield. Then, while Red Hawk still sat mouth open in wonder, she punched out her empty shell cases and reloaded swiftly, trying to appear very casual.
Red Hawk exclaimed, ‘Wah!’ (which Jack Harding later suggested was an Indian variation of ‘Blimey!’) and proceeded to speak to his men, raising his arm, bringing it down in a jagged gesture, and pointing to Abbie, ‘Squaw Chief, sister to lightning! We go in peace.’
And so saying, the side of bacon and the flour were picked up and they rode away. The word spread far and wide and, in the future, all the Indian tribes knew Abbie as ‘Sister Lightning.’
CHAPTER TEN
For some time the travellers had periodically caught glimpses of the Arkansas River to their south as they headed west. They passed through about sixty miles of wooded country known, for its majestic trees, as Big Timbers. While it was delightful to travel in partial shade, escaping the constant glare of the sun, it was also a time demanding full alertness as there were many places where a caravan could be ambushed.
Eventually Big Timbers was left behind and the next landmark Abbie was to watch for was Bent’s New Fort.
William Bent and his brother Charles, together with their partner Colonel St Vrain, had in the 1830s built a large adobe fort, not too far from the town of La Punta. Trading with the Indian tribes, the mountain men and the caravans heading to and from Santa Fe, the Bents and St Vrain had, for several years, a flourishing trade in furs, hides and other products. By 1849 the beaver trade was dead, however, and William Bent attempted to sell his fort to the US Army. They declined to buy the fort and so, using twenty covered wagons, Bent emptied the buildings of everything movable and blew the structure up. He and his employees built another adobe fort, about fifty miles east of their former location, and this was the landmark that Abbie sought.
The fort hove in sight and, as they drew nearer, seemed to be an impressive building, though by all accounts, only half as big as the one that had been destroyed. They drew up in an area obviously used by caravans and, for the first time in many weeks, did not circle their wagons. Jack arranged for two others apart from himself to remain in camp, and the remainder went to patronise the trading store in the fort, while Abbie went to pay her respects to William Bent.
She found him, a cheery, round-faced, middle-aged man, in his quarters and his weather-beaten features broke into a broad smile when she entered and introduced herself.
‘Aha! So, you’re the Pinfire Lady I’ve been hearing about. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. We’ve sure heard a lot about you!’
‘Thank you Mr Bent, but just call me Penraven, or better still, Abbie.’
Abbie was seated and, with a soft drink in hand, was soon at ease and persuaded to relate most of her story to William Bent and his Cheyenne wife Owl Woman. There were certain things that Abbie kept to herself, and others, such as the search for her missing investment property, that she stressed were not to be voiced abroad.
When her story was finished, Abbie rose to leave and was encouraged to stay a while and enjoy supper with her hospitable host and hostess. The hour was quite late when she finally arose and, after thanking her hosts, Abbie made her way along the darkened porch that fronted the interior of the fort. Suddenly, she was aware of a dark shadow looming up in front of her and, by the dim light of a solitary hanging lantern, she beheld a huge, scruffy, bearded man in her path, reeking with the alcohol he had consumed, and maintaining his balance by swaying to and fro.
‘Where you goin’, lil girl? Les’ you an’ me find a nice place where we can make love. Come on
!’
So saying, he made a swift grab with his left hand, and grabbed Abbie by the front of her shirt. Ignoring her struggles, he jerked her towards him at the same time as he swept his right arm around her, locking her rigidly against his shirt reeking with sour sweat. Abbie struggled in vain against his drunken advances, as he fought to turn her face towards his, vainly trying to plant a kiss on her.
‘Let go of me, you drunken fool!’ Abbie cried, as her attacker transferred his left hand to her breast, pawing savagely, squeezing and twisting. Abbie cried out with the pain and wriggled frantically.
Suddenly, she received a slap across the face that set her head singing. ‘Shut up, you slut! Jus’ behave, an’ accept your lot.’ And he started to drag her towards a darkened doorway.
Abbie resisted wildly. Her left arm was trapped against his body, as was her pinfire pistol. With a supreme effort, she got her right hand beneath her buckskin shirt and against the hideout Colt. Drawing the gun, yet unable to raise it, she fired at the only possible target, down at her assailant’s crotch. Her would-be rapist screamed in anguish, as Abbie fired again and yet again. He held both hands to his mangled manhood and stared at her, his face twisted with pain.
‘You stinkin’ bitch! I’m gonna kill you for this!’
Abbie stood aghast at the havoc caused by his advances. Now, she had to react immediately, as a glistening Bowie appeared in his blood-stained hand and swept in her direction. Dropping the Colt, she stepped back and, drawing her 12mm pinfire, she put two bullets into his head between the close-set eyes. The bear-like figure remained still for a split second before swaying and crashing to the floor.
Abbie stood leaning against one of the porch pillars, smoking pistol in hand, as she was surrounded by excited people, drawn to the scene of the assault by the sound of the shots. Mr and Mrs Bent pushed their way through the crowd and, reaching her side, William queried, ‘What exactly happened here, Abbie?’
The Pinfire Lady Page 6