Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  After their meager supper, Jim helped Lettie recover the strewn items that Bingham had pulled from the wagon during his frantic search for her money. When that was done, she retired to the wagon while Jim rolled out his bedroll by the fire. In spite of her first impression of Jim Culver, she had every intention of staying awake during the night in case her knight had a blacker side that he had kept hidden.

  Despite her intentions, she found it difficult to remain awake, dozing off several times through the night only to awaken with a start and peer under the edge of the cotton wagon cover—each time to observe a man peacefully asleep. In the deep hours before daybreak, she unwittingly surrendered to her growing state of exhaustion and settled into a sound sleep. Sunup found her still warm in her blankets, finally stirring to the sound of a frying pan bumping against stones set in the campfire. Remembering where she was, she bolted upright and grabbed the edge of the wagon cover to look out.

  At last seeing some sign of life from the wagon, Jim stood up and called out, “Good morning, miss. I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed your skillet. Thought we could use a little bacon and coffee before we get started.”

  Embarrassed at having slept so late, she quickly scrambled out of the wagon. “If you’ll give me a minute to freshen myself, I’ll see if I can’t fix something to add to that.” She hurried down to the creek, glancing back at him frequently until she was hidden by the trees that lined the bank.

  The morning was chilly, with a light dusting of frost on the willow branches where Lettie performed her toilet. Washing her face and hands in the shallow current, she could not help but shiver. As she dried her face, she thought about her decision to go to Omaha to catch the train. Now that Harvey was no longer with her, it would be easy to lose her resolve and go back to St. Louis. Her uncle was probably right. It was utter foolishness for a girl of sixteen to cross the continent with no more than a boy of eighteen to look after her. He would think it absolutely insane for her to continue if he knew that Harvey was dead. And yet it galled her to her very soul to know that Steadman Finch was roaming free as you please after slaying her father.

  She walked back a short way along the creek bank until she had a clear view of the camp again. Shielding herself behind a large cottonwood, she peered around the trunk to study the tall young man who had appeared the night before. His back to her, he busied himself by the fire, seeming to display no interest in her private goings-on. She had made a mistake by accepting Henry Bingham at face value. Was she now making a similar mistake? What did she know about this man? He might be a cold-blooded murderer or highwayman. After all, he had dispatched Bingham handily. If he were going to murder me and take my money, he would most likely have done it last night while I was sleeping so soundly. She knew she had no desire to return to St. Louis. There was nothing there for her now that her family was gone. And she couldn’t bear the thought of going to live with her aunt Mattie. No. She made her decision. I’m going to find Steadman Finch, and I need someone I can depend on to help me. The matter settled in her mind, she walked back to the campfire.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced as she approached. “I’m not going back to Fort Kearny. I’m taking my wagon on to Montana as I had planned.”

  Jim sat back on his heels and gave her a long appraising look. “That don’t sound like a real good idea,” he said. “There’s a lot of wild country between here and Montana territory—no trip for a young girl to take alone. It might be a whole lot better if you go on up to take the train like you said before.”

  “I guess you’re right, but I’m not planning to go alone. I’m going with you.”

  “Whoa! Hold on a minute,” Jim uttered in surprise. The determined look in the young lady’s eyes told him that she was deadly serious. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not.” Momentarily flustered by the audacity of the young woman, he tried to collect his thoughts. “You can’t go with me,” he blurted.

  “Why not?”

  “W-well,” he stammered, “you just can’t. I mean, I’m traveling alone. I can’t . . .” He struggled to find reasons, but none leaped to mind. “Why, you’re not much more than a kid. How old are you, anyway?”

  “It doesn’t matter how old I am. I’m old enough to drive that team of mules, and I’m going to drive them to Montana with or without you.” She watched him closely, waiting for his reaction. “I’ve got some money. I can pay you to guide me.” She paused, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. “Since you killed my guide . . .”

  He shook his head in wonder, finding it difficult to believe he had ridden into such a situation and not really knowing what to tell this precocious girl. “Hell, I don’t want your money. I’m not a guide, anyway. Right where I’m sittin’ is as far west as I’ve ever been. I’m not even sure where I’m heading. I’m just heading west.”

  “You mentioned that you hoped to make Fort Laramie in a week or so. Do you know how to find Fort Laramie?”

  “Well, yeah. Any fool can find Fort Laramie. I ain’t worried about getting there. I just don’t know where I’m going after I get there. I was aiming to look for my brother Clay. He’s out in the territory somewhere. But it’s an awful big territory. I don’t know if I’ll ever find him.”

  “All right, then,” she replied with dogged determination. “You can take me as far as Fort Laramie, and I’ll make other arrangements there.”

  Lost for an answer, and not really sure why he was against the proposition, he remained silent while Lettie gazed impatiently into his eyes. He returned her gaze for a few moments before having to avert his eyes to escape the girl’s penetrating stare. Having made up her mind, she was not to be put off. “I could not help but notice that you seem to be traveling extremely light to be contemplating a trip of such length,” she said.

  He shrugged indifferently. “I don’t need much. I can hunt for my food.”

  “What about your horse?” Lettie insisted. “I notice that he is looking a bit poorly. So much of the grass has been fairly well grazed off.”

  Again, he shrugged. “Toby’s pretty tough. He’ll manage.”

  She continued. “I’ve got an ample supply of grain in my wagon, enough for my animals and your horse. I’ve also got two hundred pounds of flour, almost one hundred and fifty pounds of bacon, and a twenty-five-pound bag of coffee, sugar, salt, and a great many other things one needs to cross the continent.” She paused to see if he appreciated the significance of her words. “It would seem that I’m better equipped to undertake the journey than you are, Mr. Culver. It would make sense to join forces.”

  He shook his head, defeated. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Convinced that she was probably truthful when she threatened to go it alone if he declined, he relented. He decided someone as precocious and stubborn as Lettie Henderson shouldn’t be allowed to wander off across the prairie by herself. The next fellow she bumped into might be another Henry Bingham—or a hostile Indian. And she did have all those provisions. He scratched his head, hesitating to close the deal. Then, extending his hand, he said, “All right, you’ve got a partner.”

  Beaming with delight, she eagerly took his hand. “Good,” she pronounced. “Let’s get started to Fort Laramie.”

  “Let me go take care of Mr. Bingham first. I don’t wanna take a chance on poisoning the buzzards.”

  Not waiting for—or asking for—his help, Lettie immediately went about hitching her team while Jim saddled Toby and rode back across the stream. When he arrived at the site of the prior night’s fatal confrontation, there was already a ring of buzzards circling high overhead. Holding a pick he had taken from Lettie’s wagon, he dismounted and stood looking at the stiffened corpse gazing wide-eyed up at him. It registered with him that he was looking at the second man he had killed. It was not something that overly disturbed him. Each man had made the first move. And as far as he could judge, each man had left the world a better place without him. After relieving Bingham of his gun belt and a pocketknife, he looked at the
hard-baked prairie upon which the late Henry Bingham lay. To test the ground, he took a half-hearted swing with his pick. It penetrated no more than three inches before meeting solid resistance. He glanced back up in the sky to watch the buzzards circling. “Buzzards gotta eat, too,” he said. He picked up the pick and climbed back on Toby. Turning his horse toward camp, he tossed back over his shoulder, “Clean up after you finish, boys.”

  Chapter 10

  Remaining on the south side of the river, Jim and Lettie set out for Fort Laramie, following the Platte and the obvious trails left by the thousands of settlers who had made the journey before them. Jim learned right away that he had teamed up with an exceptionally capable young lady. As frail as a splinter, Lettie nonetheless commanded her mules with a firm hand on the reins. He had suspected that he would have to do most of the driving but soon found out that she had not been exaggerating when she boasted that she had driven them all the way from St. Louis.

  Lettie had been correct in her assessment of Jim’s horse. Toby was showing signs of fatigue after carrying Jim and his provisions all the way from Virginia without rest periods of any length. Jim felt a genuine sense of guilt for not taking better care of his horse. Until Lettie had to draw his attention to it with her casual remark, it had always been fixed in his mind that Toby was indestructible and could stand up under any task. He now reminded himself that he was not the only one setting out on a journey of this length for the first time. It was Toby’s first time, too. And the gentle Morgan had been raised on a portion of oats at regular intervals throughout his lifetime. Ever since Kentucky, Toby had survived on grass alone. It was taking him some time to adjust to it even though it should have been his natural way of feeding. Jim promised his horse that he would take better care of him from that day forward.

  They now had two extra horses tied on behind the wagon, a solid black with a white star on its face—the late Mr. Bingham’s horse—and a handsome bay that Lettie’s brother, Harvey, had ridden. Given the opportunity to rest Toby, Jim elected to ride the bay while scouting along their route of travel. The horse’s name was Samson, after the biblical strongman. But the name was immediately shortened to Sam after Jim got more acquainted with the spirited stallion. Lettie said it had been her brother’s favorite horse, purchased from a breeder in Jim’s home state of Virginia. It didn’t take long for Jim to appreciate the horse’s qualities. After spending one day in the saddle, he was properly impressed with the quickness and agility of the horse. Its massive quarters and heavily muscled thighs and gaskins enabled the even-tempered mount to spin on a notion and start quicker than a thought. Sam was about the same size as Toby, a little over fifteen hands high, and Toby seemed not to resent the competition. The two horses took to each other right away, blowing in each other’s nostrils to introduce themselves. In fact, Jim figured his horse appreciated the vacation.

  For almost the first full week of travel, there was very little conversation between the two in the newly formed partnership. Jim, as a rule, was not inclined to make idle conversation. And Lettie, in spite of her secure feelings about the man she traveled with, was still cautious about her situation. As a result, conversation tended to consist mostly of polite communication regarding trail decisions and camp chores. After a few weeks of monotonous grinding across a never-changing Nebraska plain, however, a more casual atmosphere naturally developed. By the time they reached Scott’s Bluff, they had become quite easy in each other’s company.

  For much of the journey, Jim tied the horses on behind the wagon and walked along beside it. Always, when the terrain up ahead threatened to take on different characteristics from the gently rolling plain, Jim rode out ahead to find the best route around hills or gullies. He was also mindful of the possibility that the closer to Fort Laramie they came, the more likely there might be signs of Indians. In their entire trek together, all the way since Plum Creek, they had seen no sign of Indians of any kind. This flew in the face of what Henry Bingham had told Lettie to expect. Jim suspected that Bingham had probably been trying to justify the fee he had charged Lettie by planting some seeds of danger in her mind.

  Several miles past the point where the river forked, creating the South Platte and the North Platte, they saw their first Indians. Jim spotted them first. Off in the distance, three mounted Indians sat motionless at the top of a rise to the north of the trail Jim and Lettie followed. They showed no signs of interest in the two white people in the wagon.

  A blacksmith at Fort Kearny had told Jim that there had been no reports of Indian trouble for some time along the old immigrant trail. But he had also advised the young man that it was always prudent to keep your eyes open anyway. Indians were like most folks: there were good ones, and there were bad ones. The blacksmith’s comments were in the back of Jim’s mind now as he guided Toby up a bluff to look for the best route for the wagon to skirt a line of cutbacks and gullies that ran down to the river. The favored route, verified by the multitude of wagon tracks Jim could see from his position on the bluff, was obviously through a short draw some one hundred yards from the banks of the river. He turned to take another look at the three Indians. They had not moved, seeming content to merely watch from a distance. Deciding that was the extent of their interest, Jim wheeled Toby and made his way back down the bluff to intercept Lettie.

  “The best way seems to be up that draw yonder,” he said, turning in the saddle to point the way. “Our three friends out there are still sitting in the same place, but I think we’d best get on through as soon as we can and get out on that flat beyond, where we can keep an eye on ’em.”

  “Do you think they see us?” Lettie asked, not at all comfortable in her first encounter with Indians. As if in answer to her question, one of the mounted warriors raised his hand and held it high in the air.

  “Well, I reckon there ain’t any doubt about that now.” Jim raised his hand in response to what he assumed was a polite greeting. “I don’t claim to know a blame thing about Injuns, so I don’t know what they’ve got in mind. Looks like they’re just watching so far.” He nudged Toby with his heels. “Let’s get this wagon to the other side of these gullies.” Whipping up her mules, she drove her wagon after him.

  Knowing they could get the wagon past the narrow draw long before the three Indians would have time to catch them, Jim figured he’d rather meet them on the open flat if, in fact, the Indians had it in mind to pay them a visit. Looking back frequently to hurry Lettie along, he led her along old wagon tracks cut deep in the sand of the narrow passage. Even with the four mules pulling, the wagon mired deep, coming almost to a stop near the middle of the draw. Just as Jim was turning back to help, he heard the first shot and saw one of the lead mules drop in its traces.

  Cursing himself for a greenhorn, he knew then that the three Indians they had seen were but a part of a larger raiding party. And the gesture he had assumed to be a friendly greeting was, in fact, a signal to the ambush waiting ahead. With no time to lament and precious little to get back to the wagon, he kicked Toby hard, as he could now hear more shots ringing out. The other lead mule dropped, kicking and screaming in agony as it rolled over onto its mate in the traces. “Get down!” he yelled to Lettie.

  She was on the ground beside the wagon, her pistol in hand, when he slid to a stop and came immediately out of the saddle. Her eyes wide in alarm, she waited for his instructions.

  “Get down under the wagon,” he commanded. “Stay behind the wheel and dig into that sand as much as you can.” He looked around him, quickly assessing their position and trying to spot the origin of the rifle fire while Lettie did as he directed. “Damn,” he muttered, “this ain’t good.” The raiders had effectively stopped the wagon by shooting the mules. And now they had the two of them pinned down under the wagon.

  After a few more random shots, there was a lull in the rifle fire. Jim continued to scan the sides of the draw, looking for a target. He came to the quick conclusion that there was only one rifle, but he still could not
find the source. He glanced over at Lettie in time to see an arrow jam into the sand behind her feet. A moment later, he heard dull thuds above them as more arrows struck the sides of the wagon box.

  “Keep watching that side over there,” he said and shifted his body around to face the opposite direction. He had been unable to spot the one with the rifle, but he figured that a man had to expose himself to use a bow. His rifle ready, his eyes darted back and forth along the crest of the draw, searching for movement. Suddenly, he spotted a warrior coming quickly to his knee to take aim. Before he had time to release his arrow, Jim cut him down and immediately shifted his eyes back along the ridge of the draw, searching again. As an arrow embedded itself in the side of the wagon just above his head, Jim spotted a slight movement in a large clump of bushes to his right. He fired at the clump, but there was no sound to indicate whether or not he had hit anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement to his left, and he quickly shifted his rifle back to cut down a second warrior who had raised himself up to shoot.

  “What about the horses?” Lettie yelled, still keeping her eyes pasted on the other side of the draw.

  “There ain’t much we can do for ’em,” Jim replied. “They probably want the horses. I doubt they’ll try to shoot ’em.” At that moment, he spotted more movement in the leaves of the clump of bushes, followed by another arrow in the sand before him. This time the arrow had come from another part of the bushes. He fired at the bushes again but hit nothing. You son of a bitch, he thought. I’ll fix your ass. Moving with all the hustle he could muster, he crawled out from under the wagon, jumped up on the front wheel hub, and jerked a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun from under the seat. His sudden action brought the Indian with the rifle back into the attack, and a bullet sent splinters flying only inches from his behind. He heard Lettie’s pistol answering.