by Terry Grosz
“Folks, we lost three good horses last night during the storm. Like the other night when the storm got so intense, those guarding the herd left for the dry of the wagons. That was when we apparently had visitors. Martin and I tracked the missing stock as far as we could but eventually lost them because of the heavy rains destroying even the hoofprint indentations. However, my brother and I do not think they stampeded off because of the storm. Jerry and Dave, having been here before, think they were taken by resident Paiute Indians while we slept!”
He could see the effect of his words had on the assembly. The women and young children were terrified at hearing they had had wild Indians among them, and no one had even noticed their presence.
“Back at Fort Bridger we were told that the Paiutes could not be trusted and that they were horse thieves of the highest caliber once we got to this part of the trail. So we will now double our guards wherever the animals go and will post double guards in camp every night. Martin and I will draw the first night’s watch tonight and Dave and Jerry the second night down the trail. I feel they will be back for more stock since they made such a clean escape, and we need to stop them before all of us are walking,” he continued with a smile, trying to lighten the moment. If the grim looks of his fellow travelers meant anything, his effort hadn’t succeeded.
That night, after the fires had died down and the light had faded, Jacob quietly moved to one side of the livestock resting within the circle of wagons, and Martin moved to the other. For hours everything was quiet, and then Martin noticed one of the bell mules looking intently in his direction. Straining his eyes for a long time, he saw nothing until—there it was! It was just the slightest movement by one of the wagon wheels next to the animals. Quietly notching the arrow in his bow, Martin waited. Two more forms silently slipped into the circle of wagons behind the first one, heading for several quietly standing but now alert horses.
Zip—thunk went an arrow from Martin’s bow into the standing dark figure not six feet from where he knelt partially hidden behind a wagon box. A scream erupted from the man as he pitched forward, gurgling his life’s essence into the soil.
Boom went Martin’s pistol into another fleeing form at a distance of less than four feet, illuminating the face of a heavily painted Indian in the muzzle flash. Another scream erupted from that man as the heavy pistol ball blew away his lower jaw. Ka-poof went Martin’s second pistol as it misfired at the third fleeing figure. Boom went the heavy roar of a Hawken as Jacob, having also seen the creeping forms, crept around the outside of the circle of wagons in order to draw closer and back up his brother. Another fleeing figure struck the damp ground after being hit by Jacob’s rifle ball, never to creep into a wagon camp or steal livestock again.
By now the wagon train was in an uproar! Men were shouting and women were screaming as the herd of livestock, scared by the shooting and smell of blood, anxiously milled about within the circle of wagons, creating even more chaos.
“Hold your fire! Everything is under control! ” yelled Martin, not wanting to get shot by mistake by the aroused travelers.
Jacob, on the other hand, stayed glued flat to the ground until the uproar settled down and someone lit one of the campfires. Then the two men moved to the outside of the wagons to see if any Indians remained. Seeing no one, they ambled back to camp as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Lying there under Rich Grosz’s wagon was an Indian with an arrow thrust deeply into the base of his throat. His eyes, wide open in eternal surprise, said it all. The man Jacob had shot had not moved because the lead ball from his Hawken had blown through his chest and severed his spine. Meanwhile, the man shot in the jaw by Martin was lying on the ground, gurgling and trying to crawl backward as if that would help with the intense pain. Without a word, Martin bent over and cut the man’s throat to put him out of his misery. Looking up, he saw Kim looking down on the savagery from the back of her wagon. For once Martin did not blush over his actions.
“It’s all over,” Jacob said firmly, trying to reestablish a feeling of normalcy. “Let’s get our cooking fires lit, take on some grub, and, come first light, graze our stock for an hour or so before we move on.”
Martin moved to his brother’s side and quietly said, “Best we move on before the rest of the tribe comes looking for the ones we just killed.”
Jacob nodded in agreement but said nothing, for the look in his eyes said it all.
As the camp swung to life and the intense moment passed, Jacob and Martin dragged the dead Indians into the willows along the creek—but not before cutting off their fingers once they were out of the rest of the travelers’ sight. Those were tossed to the four winds for the critters to enjoy and to cause the dead Indians eternal grief as they tried to enter the Happy Hunting Ground, being less than perfect in form.
Walking back to camp, they headed for Daniel’s cooking fire and poured themselves some just-warmed over coffee as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Margaret paused in preparing breakfast to give the two men a big hug of thanks.
There really is something to this family thing, Martin thought as he happily settled down by the fire with a grin while the blood of the Indian whose throat he had just cut was not yet dry between his fingers.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Humboldt River and Trouble
After several more long days of hard, dusty travel with scant good water that didn’t taste of alkali, the wagon train finally arrived at the Humboldt River just west of present-day Elko, Nevada. For the next week the group traveled almost due west along the river, enjoying the abundance of water and fair grazing. Just off the river bottom were miles and miles of sagebrush, rabbit brush, rocks, deep dust pockets, more rocks, fleet jackrabbits, and little else. The large game animals had mostly disappeared except in small numbers along the river. The hunters took every opportunity when the game showed themselves to freshen up the wagon train’s fresh meat supplies.
One night Jacob signaled the wagons to circle in a large meadow. Martin, riding up from the tail end of the train, looked upon the deep green of the meadow with relief.
“Brother, we best hole up here for a day. The animals are finding it harder and harder to pull these wagons living off the rank grasses we have found to date,” he said.
“I agree,” said Jacob. “This here meadow has the best eats for our critters I’ve seen in the last ten days. I think we need to rest for a day and let the stock recover and let the folks repair their tack, grease the axle hubs, wash, and bake. According to the Halls, the route ahead has some pretty sparse pickings, so we better make the best of what this area has to offer.”
“Damn, I’ve seen some pretty poor land these last few days, and what still lies ahead, if it’s like what we just passed, isn’t worth owning,” said Martin.
Jacob nodded in agreement as he looked ahead as far as he could see and saw nothing but more sagebrush, rocks, dust devils, and shimmering heat waves.
Dusk found some of the weary travelers tending cooking fires while others returned from the river’s edge, where they had washed their clothing and taken baths. Standing discreetly around the women at the river’s edge stood six heavily armed men, watching the surrounding terrain for any sign of danger. When the women finished, the men washed in shifts, always leaving an armed guard alertly on the shore. They had seen enough fresh Indian sign throughout the day to make them wary. Later that evening Jacob and Martin held a council of war with the two old but still hardy mountain men. All four realized they were near a band of Indians on the move. They also realized that the sharp-eyed Indians had probably already seen the plumes of dust raised by the wagon train that was closely following them across the high desert.
“Tonight I want all our livestock except for the slow-moving oxen double-hobbled in case someone from that band gets a hankering for some good horseflesh,” Jacob said, sternly.
“Jerry, why don’t you and I take the first watch tonight and let my brother and Dave take the second one?”
Martin suggested through a cold mouthful of yesterday’s biscuits.
“Sounds good to me, and if I might make a suggestion, I say we load our rifles with buck and ball this evening. My shooting eyes ain’t what they used to be, and that surefire mixture of lead can give man or beast a powerful gut ache,” Jerry answered with a knowing grin.
“Might not be a bad idea,” said Dave, “because if and when they come, there might be a passel of them red devils on top of us all at once, and it is a damn sight easier to get their attention if the air is filled with lead heading their way.”
Jacob thought over the suggestions and then said, “Them is all good ideas, and I was thinking more or less along the same lines. I want all of us to carry two pistols along with our rifles for the next several days until we can lose this band of Indians. I also want all of you to personally contact every male member of the wagon train who can shoot and make sure they’re sleeping with their shooting irons close at hand and ready to go in case something happens.”
For the next several days all was quiet along the trail and within the circle of wagons at night. They continued to see large numbers of moccasin tracks and unshod-pony hoofprints in the alkali dust, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Finally the tracks of the traveling Indians broke south around a small, shallow water pan toward a distant range of mountains and disappeared from the wagon trail along the Humboldt River.
Moving along the northwest side of the waters of the Humboldt Sink, Jacob turned in his saddle and looked back. Each wagon was traveling out of line from behind the one directly before it to avoid the choking haze of alkali dust raised by the feet of the oxen and wheels of each preceding wagon. Far to the rear, beside the last wagon, was the dusty gray figure of his brother, alertly watching over their charges.
My, how love blinds one’s vision, Jacob thought with a grin.
Kim and some of her family members were in the last wagon that day, and Martin faithfully stuck close to the wagon so he could visit with her. Each day the wagons moved up one place in the train and the lead wagon went to the rear so that the miserable traveling conditions of riding “drag” at the end of the line were shared equally.
Turning back in his saddle, Jacob continued smiling through gritty teeth as he looked for a spot to rest for the night that had some good grazing. Good grazing was scanty in that part of the desert, but he finally settled on an area beside a small, shallow pond where the animals could water and feed. Firewood was scarce, and the party would have to scatter among the nearby rocky hills to gather sagebrush limbs and roots for their evening’s fires once again.
I’ll have to break out some of my remaining sacks of wheat and oats to add to the oxen’s feed this evening, Jacob thought. Otherwise they will soon lose too much muscle mass to be able to pull the wagons unless we find better grass.
Riding ahead, Jacob signaled with his raised arm to circle the wagons in the spot where he sat on his horse. Soon the wagons were circled as the men hustled to unyoke the oxen and let them feed among the sparse grasses as long as possible. The horse and mule herd was already grazing, and the oxen hurried to join in before all the good grass was gone. The women and children tumbled from the wagons to pick flowers, scrounge sagebrush firewood, and soak their bare feet in the warm waters and mud of the Humboldt Sink. The men were still heavily armed and set up a guard around the livestock or quietly stood near the women and their activities. Soon fire pits were dug, and any wood gathered during the day’s travel along the trail was retrieved from the tarps swinging under the wagons. In short order fires blazed and coffee merrily bubbled away in blackened coffee pots hung on rods over the fire pits.
Groups of children scurried over the hills, picking up bits and scraps of wood as several groups of watchful men stood guard over those activities as well. As darkness fell, the men brought the livestock in from the meadows, and Jacob, Jerry, and Dave managed to grain all the oxen while keeping the other animals from helping themselves to the oxen’s fare. The great smells of baking biscuits and many pots of cooking stews soon prevailed in the cooling desert air. Jacob, Dave, Martin, and Jerry settled around the campfire of Jacob and Martin’s kin, and soon the fatigue of the day began to melt away, especially when Margaret served up large, golden-brown Dutch-oven biscuits smothered in a heavy, gravy-laden venison stew. That was followed with a cup of scalding black-as-night coffee, and life was good.
After dinner the men gathered for their evening’s assignments, and shortly thereafter Howard Larson’s imported English pipe tobacco could be smelled around the inner circle of wagons. That was soon followed by the scent of strong-smelling cigars from Jacob and Martin’s stores being smoked by the rest of the men who enjoyed tobacco.
The cool of the evening from the evaporating water pans in the Humboldt Sink quickly enveloped the wagon train. Cooking fires slowly died down into the orange eyes of coals staring skyward, and except for the nervous shuffling of the tired livestock, the camp quieted down for the evening.
Thump went the dull sound of a tomahawk into Jacob’s cousin Bill’s skull, killing him before he hit the ground in a lifeless, crumpled pile. This was sixteen-year-old Bill’s first and last watch over the livestock.
At the front of the nearest wagon two Paiute braves reached for the back of the man mountain named Chris Grosz, who was watching the other side of the herd. The first brave, a large man himself, grabbed Chris’s shoulder in order to pull him to earth and swiftly cut his throat with his knife. The Indian was surprised to grab something that felt as solid as a large rock. The rock whirled in an instant with the quickness of a cat, grabbed the brave, and broke his neck with a savage twist. The remaining brave’s tomahawk thumped into the shoulder of the large man. Then it was taken from his hands, wrenched from the wound, and smashed into his forehead, spoiling his white-striped face with the rich color of his own fresh blood.
“Indians,” Chris yelled as he grabbed his rifle, whirled, and broke his rifle stock over a third Indian rising from his position of concealment. In that instant, Chris had broken the Indian’s back. Immediately after that, the man gurgled his last as Chris’s knife cut his throat.
Moments before Bill had been killed, Martin and Jacob had been awakened by an increase in the shuffling sounds from the horse and mule herd. Realizing something was afoot, both men had slipped out from their sleeping furs and quietly awakened Dave and Jerry. Then they disappeared into the darkness on each side of the ring of wagons. Jacob drew first blood from an Indian reaching for the sleeping Amanda just as Chris yelled his warning. Grabbing the brave from behind, Jacob severed his spine with a brutal knife thrust in the back. Unseen by Jacob, however, another brave was quickly closing in behind him. Boom went a rifle from the back of Rich Grosz’s wagon. Rich had neatly shot the assailant in the head from a distance of about three feet! By now, hell had no fury like the fast-awakening wagon-train members, leaping from their beds to the sound of many yelling Indians within the circle of wagons!
“Indians among the stock!” yelled Mark Webb as he cut one down with a shot from his pistol as the brave attempted to lead a horse from the inner circle.
Another Indian attempted to crawl up into Chris’s wagon, only to have Chris’s wife, Lisa, shoot him clear off the seat of the wagon with her shotgun. The close-in blast hurled him backward into the brush, dead before he hit the ground. Then everything dissolved into a dusty swirl of fighting, grappling men and milling livestock. For several moments all that could be heard was the heavy thump of rifles and pistols going off, the lighter thwack of tomahawks, and the zip sounds of arrows passing at too-close-for-comfort range.
Daniel managed to shoot an Indian who had a neck lock on his son, Jeremiah. That Indian dropped in his tracks, and not a moment too soon, as Jeremiah was immediately locked in mortal combat with another brave who made a fatal mistake in grabbing the stout farmer. Martin Jones and his three boys were all locked in a swirl of tomahawk-swinging Indians, which was soon broken up by the addition of Da
ve and Jerry. Only one Indian limped away from that part of the fight; he was found the next day, hiding in a thick stand of rabbit brush and slowly bleeding out. The hungry magpies and local desert ants had discovered what was left of his life and had already feasted.
Then it was all over, and aside from the many questions hurled back and forth as the travelers checked on each other, things began settling down. Soon sparks from old fire pits were rekindled with fresh wood, and the travelers surveyed the bloody scene.
Martin had been hit by a low-flying arrow that had passed clean through his cheeks, chipping a tooth in the process. At his feet lay two dead Indians, one killed by a pistol ball and the other by a knife in the throat. Jacob was unwounded except for a loud ringing in his left ear caused by Rich Grosz shooting over his shoulder and killing an Indian who was racing up to Jacob with an upraised tomahawk. That was a small problem, to Jacob’s way of thinking. Bill had been killed at the beginning of the fight. Chris Grosz had suffered a deep tomahawk wound to his left shoulder that had slashed clear to the bone. At his feet lay three raiders who would raid no more. Jerry and Dave had each killed an Indian after they had left the fight at the Joneses’. They had caught two raiders racing for the outer circle of the wagons, each trailing a horse. The accurate shooting by the two old mountain men had been dead on the mark regardless of their constant carping that they couldn’t shoot straight. Mark Webb had caught an arrow in his right thigh and a cut to his left hand when he had exchanged knife thrusts with an assailant. Despite his wound, Mark had hit his target. Martin’s grandfather had been shot clean through his side, probably by a friendly shooter in the wagon train, but not before he had killed two raiders with his tomahawk and knife. Otis Barnes had killed one Indian as he had raced by with a horse on a lead rope and broken another’s jaw with a right cross as that man had tried to help a fellow Indian escape. That Indian was soon dispatched by one of Martin’s cousins, who took his scalp in the process. Marvin Clary never had to leave his wagon. Two Indians tried to come in the front and another in the back. All three died from close-in shots by a rifle, a pistol, and a scattergun wielded by the straight-shooting Clary.