Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  “I see where he is,” Lettie said, her voice trembling with excitement as Jim scrambled back under the wagon.

  “Good,” Jim said, “’cause that last one was a little too close for comfort.” He wriggled around to see where she was pointing. “Keep your eye on that spot. I’ve got to take care of this one in the bushes.” After checking to make sure the shotgun was loaded, he crawled back close to the front wheel and watched the clump of bushes closely. In a few seconds, he caught the slight movement of a couple of leaves move. Almost instantly, another arrow struck the wagon box. The shotgun roared as Jim sent a hail of lead where he had seen the leaves move. Not waiting, he shifted his aim a few feet to the right and fired the other barrel into the clump. This time he was rewarded with a sharp yelp of pain. Putting the shotgun aside, he picked up his rifle again and reloaded while keeping a sharp eye on the rim of the draw behind them. For a little while, the rain of arrows on Lettie’s side increased. But there were no more from Jim’s side. After a few minutes with still no shots from that side, Jim decided that there had been no more than three on that side of the draw–no doubt the same three they had seen on the hill before the ambush.

  Turning his attention back to the Indian with the rifle, Jim crawled up beside Lettie. “You all right?”

  “I’m all right,” she replied. “I just can’t hit anything with this pistol.”

  “You shoulda grabbed this shotgun when you jumped down. Too bad I didn’t have time to get some shells with it. Maybe I can get a shot at this son of a gun that’s got the rifle. You still got him spotted?”

  She nodded and pointed to a low mound near the mouth of the draw. “He stays behind that hump with just the barrel sticking out when he shoots. I shot at him twice, but I didn’t hit anything but dirt.”

  “What about the others?” he asked.

  “As best I can determine, there are several others spread out to the right of him. I can’t tell how many.”

  Feeling reasonably confident that their assailants were all on one side of them now, Jim studied the mound that Lettie had pointed out. “I figure they ain’t got but one rifle. And I’m betting he ain’t got a lot of ammunition for it, ’cause he sure ain’t shooting very much. I’m gonna see if I can get a better angle on him.” He started to back away from her.

  “What do you want me to do?” Lettie asked, sensing he was preparing to make a major move.

  “Just keep your eyes open, honey, and shoot at anything you think you can hit.” He pulled back on his hands and knees, then paused again. “Shoot at it even if you don’t think you can hit it.”

  Crouching low behind the wagon, Jim moved quickly past the front wheel before dropping to one knee to take another look at the mound. Lettie was right. He could see the barrel of a rifle laying in a scooped-out groove to the left of the mound. He still had no clear shot. The angle was not right. Rising to a crouch again, he moved quickly forward to take cover behind the frightened mules. Already frantic from the shooting and the two carcasses that prevented them from bolting, they spooked when he suddenly appeared beside them. Their movement was spotted at once by the Indian behind the dirt mound, and he rose up and fired. Jim’s reaction was immediate. He returned fire, nailing the Indian in the center of his breastbone, then jumped quickly aside to avoid being buried beneath the mule that had caught the warrior’s bullet.

  Certain that the rifle was the only one among the raiding party, he knew he had no time to lose. It was a race between him and the rest of the warriors to get to the rifle. With reckless abandon, he ran across the draw and charged up the other side. Seeing his charge, warriors popped up from the edge of the rim to take shots at him. Ignoring the arrows that flew all around him, Jim scrambled up the steep side of the mound to confront a startled Indian in the process of reloading the single-shot Springfield rifle. The unfortunate warrior never had a chance, instantly doubling over with a slug in his belly. Before the man hit the ground, Jim turned his Winchester on the brave’s comrades, firing as fast as he could cock the lever and pull the trigger. There were seven of them along the rim. Jim dropped three of them in rapid succession before the other four fled in the face of certain death.

  Jim stood there for a few minutes, watching as the four surviving warriors leaped upon their ponies and disappeared over the rise to the north. He remained there until they were out of sight before turning back to see about Lettie. Just as he turned, he was startled by a gunshot right behind him. On reflex, he dropped to one knee and brought his rifle up to shoot, only to discover the warrior he had shot in the breastbone crumpling to the ground, a war ax in his hand. Behind the Indian, Lettie stood, still pointing her Colt Peacemaker at the warrior’s back.

  “Godamighty,” he said softly. The look on the young girl’s face told him that she was more startled than he. Seemingly dazed, she stared at the body of the warrior for a long moment before looking up at Jim with eyes wide open. “I’m much obliged,” he said. Realizing that the act of killing a man could be quite a shock to anyone, and likely even more so for a girl of her age, he walked over and took the pistol from her hand. Then he gently dropped it in her holster. “Looks like he was about to settle my hash with that ax,” he said. She blinked several times as if waking up from a dream, and then the color began to return to her face.

  “I thought he was going to kill you,” she uttered, barely above a whisper.

  “He would have,” he said with quiet conviction. “Now, we’d best get ourselves out of this place. We’ve got some work to do before we can get started.”

  With Jim directing her, Lettie soon recovered from the shock of killing a man. He didn’t let her take the time to think about it. Wasting as little time as possible, he cut Lettie’s one surviving mule from the traces and set about rigging a couple of pack harnesses. They had no choice but to leave the wagon, as well as much of the provisions Lettie had hauled all the way from St. Louis. Using the mule and Bingham’s black horse as pack animals, Jim loaded as much of the supplies as he thought they could carry. When they were ready to get under way again, Jim took a last look at the bodies of the dead Indians. Then they started out for Fort Laramie. Lettie didn’t look back at her wagon as she sat on Sam’s back, following Jim’s lead.

  * * *

  As near as Lettie could figure, it was the end of October when the buildings of Fort Laramie first appeared on the horizon. They were a welcome sight. She stood up in the stirrups to acknowledge Jim’s signal as he circled Toby a few hundred yards ahead, waving and pointing toward an assembly of buildings on an almost treeless expanse. To Jim, gazing at the wooden structures as he waited for Lettie to catch up to him, the buildings looked more like a town than a fort. Nevertheless, it was a military installation and that fact gave him pause to think about the reason he had left Virginia.

  Maybe he should be concerned that the army might be looking for him. But he reasoned that there were several witnesses to the incident on the banks of the Rapidan River, one of them a civilian, Sheriff Thompkins. Thompkins would surely testify that it had been a simple case of self-defense when Jim shot Lieutenant Ebersole. It seemed unlikely that the army would pursue the issue, especially in light of the fact that their numbers had been so drastically reduced since the war. They were already spread too thin on the western frontier to worry about little more than protecting settlers on their way to Oregon and California. The vast country west of the Missouri was still a world apart from Virginia. It didn’t figure that the army had the time or the manpower to chase after the hundreds of outlaws who had fled to the west to lose their former identities. If he had remained in Virginia, however, he felt that there most likely would have been some investigation. He had long before decided that he was going to head west. Shooting the arrogant lieutenant had just presented him with the opportune time to leave. After thinking it over, he decided he had no reason for concern as he entered Fort Laramie.

  Arriving at Fort Laramie caused a bewildering mixture of emotions for Lettie. As she gui
ded Sam along the sandy banks of the Laramie River, she suddenly experienced a feeling of dread at the realization that her journey with Jim Culver had reached its end. Fort Laramie was the agreed-upon destination for their partnership. Confident and independent, defiant even, when their journey had begun, she now realized how much she had come to depend upon the broad-shouldered young man riding easily in the saddle, the two pack animals on lead ropes behind him.

  The damning thought kept returning to her mind: What would she had done without his blazing-fast rifle when the Indians had ambushed them? Yet she admitted to herself that there was more to her feelings than that. She would simply flat-out miss having him around. He was a friend. They had fought off an Indian attack together. It didn’t seem right that they should just say, So long, maybe I’ll bump into you again somewhere. She wondered if he was having similar thoughts. If he did, he would never say so. She remembered little things that had stuck in her mind. When they were pinned down under the wagon, and he told her to shoot at anything she thought she could hit, he had called her “honey.” Did that have special meaning? Or was it just a casual slip of the lip? She suddenly shook her head as if to clear it of such useless meandering and reminded herself that she had come west to find Steadman Finch. She forced herself to concentrate upon that objective and not let girlish emotions interfere.

  The object of her emotional contemplation led the horses toward the parade ground, past a long building that looked to be a barracks. A group of several soldiers lounging on the end of the porch stopped talking to gaze at the young woman riding the bay. Jim asked directions to the sutler’s store. He was directed to a building a little way beyond the barracks.

  Jim pulled Toby up at the rail and dismounted. “Well, I reckon we made it to Fort Laramie,” he said with a broad grin on his face, waiting for Lettie to hand him Sam’s reins.

  “Yes, I reckon we did,” she replied, reflecting his smile. She stepped down, stiff from riding and the chilly afternoon air. It felt good to be on her feet again, and she took a few steps back and forth to give her blood a chance to flow, warming her legs.

  There was now the question of what to do, a subject that neither party broached at this time, simply because neither Jim nor Lettie had the slightest idea. Jim wasn’t quite sure where he was heading from here. He had a vague determination to look for his brother Clay, but he had no idea where to look and sense enough to realize the vastness of the country beyond Fort Laramie. He hoped that someone here might know of Clay and possibly his whereabouts. Lettie likewise was possessed only of purpose and nothing more as far as direction was concerned. Montana territory could just as well be on the moon. And though her resolve was still there, she was almost ready to admit that there was little hope of finding Steadman Finch in the great expanse of the high plains and the Rocky Mountains. It was with these separate but equally discouraging realizations that the two travelers entered the sutler’s store.

  * * *

  “Clay Culver?” echoed Alton Broom, the clerk in the Post Trader’s Store. “Sure, I know Clay. I mean, I know him about as well as anybody does. He keeps pretty much to hisself. It warn’t more’n a month ago he was here, though—rode scout some for the army this past summer. I couldn’t say where he is now. He didn’t say where he was goin’—just that he was goin’. Clay seldom does. What was you lookin’ for him for?”

  “He’s my brother,” Jim replied. “I was hoping to join up with him for a while.”

  “Your brother?” Broom was genuinely surprised. The statement equated to someone saying they were brother to a timber wolf. “Well, I’ll be . . .” He extended his hand. “Alton Broom’s my name.”

  “I’m Jim Culver.”

  “Well, pleased to meet you, Jim. Did Clay know you was coming? He didn’t let on, if he did. ’Course, Clay Culver never says much, anyway. Oh, he might whisper ‘fire’ if your pants was a’blazin’.” He paused to laugh at his joke. When Jim said that Clay had no idea he was coming, Broom scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a shame. If you’da just been here a month ago . . . But when he ain’t ridin’ for the army, hardly nobody knows where he goes—just loses hisself up in the mountains somewhere.” He turned to look at Lettie, who was examining some bolts of cloth at the far end of the store. “And you and the missus came all the way out here just to see Clay, and he’s gone.”

  “That ain’t my missus,” Jim quickly replied. “Her name’s Lettie Henderson. I met her on the trail just past Fort Kearny. Her brother and their guide were killed, so she came on with me.”

  “Well, forevermore,” Broom said. “That’s a real shame. Has she got kin out here?”

  “No. She’s looking for a man named Steadman Finch, out in Virginia City, Montana territory.”

  Broom rubbed his chin again, trying to prime his memory. “Steadman Finch–I ain’t ever heard that name before. But you said he’s out in Virginia City.” He took another look at the young girl now fingering some ribbon. “Is she thinking about goin’ up in Montana territory this time of year? It’s too late to head up there now. Why, folks coming through from up that way last week said it’s already come a good snow not more’n fifty miles north of here. She’d best wait till spring.”

  As Jim was about to confess that neither he nor Lettie had made up their minds about what they were going to do, he was interrupted by a man who had been busy loading a wagon with supplies. Standing at the end of the counter listening to Jim and Alton Broom talk, the man had become interested in the conversation. “Couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying, young fellow. I know your brother. He shows up now and again in the little valley where I live. He comes to see a friend of his, an old trapper named Monk Grissom.” He glanced at Broom. “You know Monk, Alton.”

  “Oh, hell, who don’t?” Broom replied.

  The man turned back to Jim. “My name’s Nate Wysong.” They shook hands. “I run a little store in a place we call Canyon Creek. Alton’s right. It’s too late in the year to start out to Virginia City. I expect if I had waited another two or three weeks, I might not have had time to get back to Canyon Creek with my wagon—and that ain’t but four weeks from here.”

  “I expect you’re probably right,” Jim said, not sure what to do at this point. He looked over at Lettie, who was close enough now to have heard Wysong’s comments. “I suppose we’ll both have to find some accommodations around here somewhere to ride out the winter. I can’t speak for her, though.” He smiled. “She might look young, but she’s sure got a mind of her own.”

  “Well, I’m not asking what the arrangement is that you and the young lady has,” Broom said. “But there are some places here where you could stay.”

  Jim was quick to set him straight. “Me and the young lady ain’t got no kind of arrangement. We just joined up when she was in trouble and traveled from Plum Creek to here—all fit and proper.”

  “All right, then,” Broom replied. “Like I said, I didn’t mean to insinuate nothin’. There’s a couple of places where a single girl can get a room.”

  Nate Wysong had been studying the two young strangers carefully while Broom had been talking. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you two come with me to Canyon Creek? We’ve got room in my cabin for the young lady. My wife would enjoy having another woman to talk to. And there’s an empty cabin not too far from my place. An old trapper named Jed Springer built it. He’s long gone now, but Jed built a right stout cabin—got a dandy fireplace. You could spend the winter there, Jim. You never know—you both might decide you wanna stay. It’s a right friendly community. We’ve got a church and a general store and a blacksmith.”

  It was a neighborly gesture that Nate had made, but he had ulterior motives as well. When he had first walked into the store, he had heard Jim and Lettie explaining to Alton that they had lost a wagon and mules to an Indian raiding party. More than likely, that raiding party had been Pawnee. There had been reports of some scattered bands of Pawnees preying on isolated settle
rs and freighters. But that was east of Fort Laramie. No one had seen any such activity out toward South Pass, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be other young bucks looking to cause a little trouble. With a month’s drive ahead of him, it wouldn’t hurt to have this young fellow and his Winchester along if he was even half the man his brother was reported to be. As for the young lady, the Colt she wore on her hip, aside from reminding him of Katie Mashburn, made Nate think that she might be handy to have around as well if there was trouble. Apart from these considerations, Canyon Creek desperately needed fresh blood. After Reverend Lindstrom worked on them for a whole winter, he might sell them both on settling in Canyon Creek.

  Lettie didn’t have to think about the proposition twice to know that she couldn’t have asked for a better arrangement. Feeling lost only minutes before, she now regained some of her old confidence. With a whole winter to work on him, she was confident she could persuade Jim Culver to help her search for Steadman Finch in the spring. “Why, thank you, sir,” she gushed at Nate. “That’s most generous of you. I’m sure I can earn my keep.” She turned to Jim. “That would put you one month closer to Montana territory in the spring.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Jim said, not sure what he should do.

  Nate sought to aid her cause. “That’s a fact, and, like I said, your brother shows up in Canyon Creek occasionally. Matter of fact, that might be your best chance of seeing him this winter. I can’t say I really know him, but he’s been in my store a couple of times. Monk Grissom says he’s half mountain lion—spent a couple of years living with the Lakota Injuns—said he was close friends with an old trapper named Badger. When Badger died, Clay moved up into Shoshoni country. But you might see him this winter if he comes to see Monk.”

  It was settled, then. The next morning, Jim, Lettie, and Nate Wysong set out for Canyon Creek—Nate driving a heavily loaded wagon, Jim and Lettie following, each leading a packhorse loaded with Lettie’s provisions.