by Jim Cox
The mid-April weather brought flowers and green grass waving across the plains in a gentle breeze as far as the eye could see. Most mornings started before sunrise as they rose from their bedrolls to the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking from the nearby campfire. The morning air was chilly and most mornings started with a beautiful sunrise that beckoned a sky full of pillow-like clouds floating eastward in a background of blue. As the morning hours passed, the temperature became near perfect and the days ended with a gorgeous sunset of multiple colors. There were a few spring rains.
By the end of the second week, a routine was established. A favorable number of calves were serviced each day—not as many as with a full staff of young men, but progress was good considering the situation. The older men moved slowly, which was only expected, but they were range savvy and seldom made mistakes. The women learned to ride, rope, brand, and castrate nearly as efficiently as the ranch’s three young male wranglers.
Their daily routines became fixed day after day. They rose, ate a fast breakfast, topped-off with a second cup of coffee, and then headed for the cows. After a full day’s work, they returned to camp, tended their horses, ate supper, and crawled their tired bodies into bedrolls.
Red figured at the rate the present crew was working it would take until the first of July to finish the job of servicing the remaining two-thousand head of calves the original ranch crew had left before they went to war. After that, the ranch’s two-year-old stock had to be driven to market which would take another six to eight weeks.
Except for warmer temperatures and longer days in the saddle, nothing changed much at the Crooked Rail Ranch as the month of May passed into June. However, the war-torn country as a whole was in turmoil. All modes of civilian transportation had ceased, including the stagecoach, which not only eliminated travel but stopped all mail service and newspaper delivery. Even the movement of cattle and other produce to markets was stopped which caused food shortages, especially in large cities. The new telegraph communication system strung across many of the states was now restricted to the military.
The last newspaper delivered to Fort Gibson had been printed in May and mostly contained articles about the war. Thousands upon thousands of young men from both sides were being slaughtered weekly. Fighting with great intensity was spreading throughout the land, even into the central states and territories west of the Mississippi River. There were articles about specific battles and their outcomes—some stories favored the Union—some described the wins of the Confederacy. Prognostications were reported from General Grant and General Lee, each predicting their victory within a few months, but in reality, there were no signs of either side weakening or giving in. There was an article about Kansas becoming the thirty-fourth state, and another said a Union steamboat had blown up on the Mississippi River, killing the passengers aboard. Esther was heartbroken when she read this and prayed Doyle wasn’t aboard, but she had concerns. The fact she had no means of communication to find out if he was okay was devastating to her, and she worried.
Rumors reached the ranch in late June that the Creek and Seminole Indians were planning to join Union forces and invade the northeast area of the Oklahoma Territory. As a defensive move, the Confederates tried to take back Fort Gibson, but the Union interceded, and they took back control of the stockade, returned its original name, and manned it fully with qualified soldiers. Their intent was to suppress Confederate activity in the area and maintain a Union stronghold.
In spite of the war and the rumors, the Crooked Rail crew stayed their course and finished the round up the first week of July. There had been no serious injuries. One of the men was gored in the calf of his leg, and Joan had burned her hand on a branding iron, which required butter and a cloth wrapping, but otherwise, things went smoothly, except for the Indians. They saw Natives watching them from a distance every day which concerned them; it was as if the Natives were spying on them—perhaps gathering information. Needless to say, the wranglers kept a keen eye out but didn’t slack in their work. On two occasions, Red saw Indians driving off a few head of stock that had wandered into thickets, but he left matters alone and didn’t retaliate.
After completing their work on the range and returning to the homestead, the crew spent the next morning recuperating and cleaning up. They had baths, hair and beard trims, and spruced up in clean regular clothing. In the afternoon, they laid around resting and getting ready for a big cookout.
As the party lingered the next day, the crew enjoyed the food, but their faces displayed a bit of sadness—it was a bitter-sweet ending—sweet because the roundup had been completed; but bitter because the older townsmen would be going back to Fort Gibson, and their comradery would be missed. Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were especially downhearted because their two-year-old stock would not be going to market which would cause a financial shortfall and would crowd the range, causing their herd to roam a considerable distance into unknown territory.
But life went on. The old wranglers headed home with a feeling their bodies had been rejuvenated during the last ten weeks. Their minds were full of memories of what was most likely their last roundup. Memories about their fellow townsmen, about the remarkable women, the Winslow’s, Red, and the three young men who hadn’t left for the war. They were the best crew I’ve ever worked with, one townsman thought. After the old men rode off, the women cleaned and straightened things up from the party. A light supper was prepared, and bed came early.
The next day, breakfast was eaten and the dirty dishes washed and put away when Mrs. Winslow walked in, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table. “May I speak with you privately, Esther?” Esther retrieved a cup of coffee, motioned for Joan and Shining Star to leave, and took a chair across from Mrs. Winslow.
Esther reached across the table for the older woman’s hand and said, “I know Joan and I aren’t needed any longer, Mrs. Winslow; it’s obvious there aren’t enough men at the ranch to warrant three cooks; Shining Star can easily do the job now.”
Mrs. Winslow squeezed Esther’s hand and said, “Thank you for being so understanding, Esther, and thank you for all you’ve done for us since you’ve been here. You’ve done much more than we ever expected of you…you’ve been wonderful.”
“Thank you for those kind words, Mrs. Winslow,” Esther said with a pleasant smile, “Joan and I will be leaving for Fort Gibson day after tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
On the day of their leaving, Red hitched the horse to the buggy and placed the women’s satchels in the back before Esther and Joan entered the barn. The mother and daughter were a bit red-eyed from saying goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, and their Crooked Rail friends, but the morning was half over, and they needed to be on their way to Fort Gibson. “Would you swing both doors wide open, Joan,” Esther said, “while I drive the team out?” The girl pushed the doors partly open, but a distant movement caught her eye. The bright sun was blinding, so she pulled her bonnet low and raised her hands to shade her eyes.
“Come quick, Ma,” Joan said excitedly, “There’s Indians on the east ridge looking at us.”
“Stand back, Joan, and ease the doors closed—we don’t want to be seen if it can be avoided.” Esther climbed down from the buggy and hurriedly went to the doors, opening one slightly to peep out. She counted fourteen natives on horseback that looked to be painted for fighting and all holding rifles. Just then, the back barn door opened, and Red walked back in. Joan ran to inform him about the Indians, but he cut her short.
“I know about the Indians, Joan. I saw them ride up shortly after you left the house.”
“Do you think they might attack us? Ma counted fourteen. Maybe we can hold off that many,” the girl hoped nervously.
Joan was about to make another comment when her mother called out, “There’s another group joining them; I’d say an additional eight or nine.” Red hurried to the door for a look.
“I want you women to head for the house. Leave through the
back door and stay calm, acting as if you didn’t know the Indians were around. Tell Mr. Winslow to send two of the young men to the barn and for ʼem to bring rifles and plenty of shells. Shining Star should come for a lookout and to help keep our guns loaded. Tell him I hope we might be able to catch the natives in crossfire between the house and barn if they attack.” It was difficult, but Esther and Joan did as they were told and appeared at ease and unconcerned as they walked to the house.
The barn men had brought the animal’s watering tanks closer to a central location in case the barn was torched, and they made plans to release the stock if the barn caught fire and got out of hand. Red stood at the front double doors with one cracked for observation. He positioned one of the young men at the back door and the other facing south at a side window; Shining Star stood at the window facing the house. All four observers held chamber filled rifles with several boxes of shells nearby. The waiting was tense. Nothing was happening—two long hours passed.
The house was ready, too. Buckets of water sat about with wet towels alongside, and all of the wood window shutters had been pulled closed. Mr. Winslow stood beside a front window looking at the Indians through a hole in the shutter; his wife was nearby to help in any way she could. Bill was at the back door, ready for a rear approach. A young man faced south, toward the barn, and Esther stood at a north window with her daughter. All positions had loaded rifles and boxes of shells at hand.
The July sky was cloudless with no wind whatsoever, allowing the sun’s hot beams to penetrate. It felt unseasonably hot, perhaps due to their anxiety.
Esther reexamined her gun, making sure it was full of shells. She was leaning it back against the wall when she noticed Joan wiping tears. “Why are you crying, Joan?” she asked quietly.
“We’re going to be killed, Ma. We don’t have a chance against that many Indians,” Joan said expecting sympathy from her mother, but it’s not what she got.
Esther’s gaze at Joan was intense, and with a firm voice she said, “Wipe away those tears and straighten up…you’re acting like a baby. Who knows what’s going happen. You’ll be seventeen in a few months and in this part of the country you’re considered a mature woman. We’re well protected behind these log walls, and the Indians will have to charge toward us in full view—that is if they attack us at all.” Esther paused, “The army from Fort Gibson may even show up…have a little faith, Joan.”
“I’m sorry, Ma. I wish I was more like you. You never seem to worry or give in to anything,” Joan said as she wiped her eyes dry.
Esther looked firmly at her daughter and said, “I do worry, and I’m as concerned as you, Joan, but I suppose my years have taught me things normally work out.” Joan nodded and sat down leaning against the log wall. Esther’s eyes turned toward the landscape, looking for Natives, but her thoughts traveled to yesteryear. My baby girl will soon be seventeen, and she’s developing into a wonderful young lady. Esther shook her head wondering. Where did the years go? Then her face saddened as her thoughts went to her son, wondering where he was? Is he alive or has he been killed? Tears nearly came. Will I ever see him again?
“Ma, what do you think Pa does in prison?” Joan asked, interrupting her mother’s thoughts. “It must be terrible to be penned up—not being able to do what you want.” A few seconds passed. “Does he have any freedoms, Ma, or is he caged up all of the time.”
“I don’t know the answer to those questions, Joan. Let’s hope things aren’t too miserable for him.”
“Do you still love him, Ma? You said you had feelings for him when he brought those divorce papers to our house in New Orleans.”
“No, Joan; I don’t love him anymore, but I want the best for him.” Esther wanted to tell her daughter about her plans to marry Doyle, but she decided to wait.
Joan thought on her mother’s answer and then asked, “Do you think I’ll ever get to see Pa again, Ma?”
“Someday, Joan…maybe someday,” Esther answered.
Joan settled back against the wall, and Esther’s mind focused on the unknown. Where’s Doyle? She asked herself. Is he still alive or was he killed in the riverboat explosion? Please God, bring him back to me, she prayed, I love him.
“Here they come…get ready,” Mr. Winslow’s shout rang out causing all their minds to refocus on the problem at hand.
Twenty-two warriors on horses were lined up walking side by side slowly downhill toward the homestead. Every horse and rider exhibited war paint, and the riders carried rifles. When they got within two-hundred yards of the homestead, the line stopped with no movement whatsoever. Inside the house and barn, folks watched with anticipation as they wiped sweat from their brow and dried their hands. They were anxious, their hearts pounding, fearful, but ready. After all, every man and woman among them had lived lives of personal hardship; potential strife was always present causing them to be attuned for whatever evil force might come their way. Joan would have been the exception, but even her young life had known hard knocks. All the guns in the house and barn were up and ready, waiting for a signal to fire.
Minutes passed slowly until a Native at the center of the line, who appeared to be a chief, took a few steps forward holding a rifle raised high. When his hand lowered, the rest of the Indians seemed to explode, running at full speed for the homestead with shrilling shouts. As they got within gun range, they split up and started circling the buildings in a dead run, half going in one direction and the others going in the opposite. No weapons were fired. A blanket of dust rose making it difficult to see the Indian’s pattern of movement, but it didn’t confuse the ranch’s old-timers; they’d seen this technique used before.
“Fire at will when they get close enough,” Red shouted, and immediately four shots rang out—two horses lost their riders. When the house heard shots from the barn, they opened up too. Four shots—another sprawling Indian.
The Indians seemed to become more cautious. They charged the house and barn but hovered on their horses’ necks, and shot from under it. A bullet splintered the barn’s window sending sharp wood particles into a young wrangler’s face. Luckily, none hit his eyes. A horse came running between the buildings with its rider swung low on its side and nearly out of sight, but he was in full view of Shining Star who was the lookout at the barn’s window across the way—another Indian hit the dust., but while it was happening another attacker, unseen in a cloud of dust, shot twice at Mr. Winslow who had gone from his window to the front door for a better view. The first bullet penetrated his right thigh and the second hit the left side of his chest causing him to fall to the floor unconscious. By the time Esther got there, Mrs. Winslow had pulled her husband away from the door and had his head in her lap. Esther grabbed one of the wet towels by a bucket and handed it to her to wipe his face. Then she tore two long strips from her undergarment and handed them to Mrs. Winslow saying, “Place these cloths on his wounds and apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Right now, I need to take his position at the window. I’ll be back as soon as this fighting stops.” Esther then picked up Mr. Winslow’s rifle and called to Joan, “Come and get this rifle, Joan and shoot any Indian who gets close to your station.” Esther heard a volley of shooting from the barn and reached Mr. Winslow’s window in time to see a native approaching with his arm back ready to throw a lighted torch—she shot—another dead Indian lay in the dirt with a torch burning nearby.
Fighting went on for another thirty minutes with two more fallen Indians. Then the Natives headed north toward the ridge, leaving seven tribesmen lying dead on the ground. As the settlers focused on the departing Natives, Joan asked, “Do you think the Indians will come back for their dead?”
“Most likely they will,” Red answered, “It’s their custom.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
When the defenders who’d been in the barn returned to the house through the back door, Red’s left arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage and hanging in a makeshift sling. Shining Star and one of the young men were with him.
“Where’s the other young man?” Bill asked.
Red hung his head and spoke softly, “He didn’t make it. He was gut shot, and we lost him a few minutes ago—he died in terrible pain.” Red turned, “He needs to be buried; I’ll get a couple of shovels. Someone can help me dig the grave.”
Esther reached for his arm. “He can wait, Red. Right now, we need to tend to your arm and clean any other wounds.” Esther looked at Shining Star who immediately headed for clean bandages.
“Were there any injuries in here?” Red asked. Esther moved out of Red’s line of vision and pointed to Mr. Winslow lying on the floor with his head in his crying wife’s lap. “Is it bad?” he asked looking at Esther, “Where was he hit?”
“Yes, it’s bad, Red,” Esther whispered, not wanting Mrs. Winslow to hear. “He was hit twice. One bullet went completely through his right thigh. I think it missed the bone and if it did it should heal within a few days. But the other wound is extremely serious. The bullet broke a rib, and there’s no exit wound…it’s still inside him.”
“Can we get it out, Esther?” Red asked.
“No one here has the skill to perform the procedure; he’d need a doctor, Red. Even a doctor might not be able to save him.”
“We have to try. There’s an army doctor in Fort Gibson, Esther. He’s a Union doctor, but I hear he helps southern folks, too.” He started to rise, but Esther pulled him back.
“Mr. Winslow would never make the trip, Red. Jostling around in a wagon would kill him for sure. He’s lost a lot of blood and is too weak to make the trip. His only chance is if the doctor comes here.”