Clara nodded and let Randall help her to her feet. They hurried over to where Beckett was kneeling next to Vance. Vance’s face was as pale as paste, but he was conscious and cursing.
“Damn, low, dirty, sons of bitches,” he growled.
“Help me get him over to the wagon. We got to stop the bleeding,” Beckett said.
Randall glanced over at James Rickman and Elias Spearse. Neither of the men were moving. Beckett struck him lightly on the leg. “There ain’t nothing you can do for them, and I couldn’t imagine why you want to anyhow. Now c’mon, let’s get him over there. Miss Randolph, if you wouldn’t mind picking up your father’s and that scoundrel Rickman’s rifles…”
Clara wasted no time and moved to retrieve the rifles. She picked up the Henry she’d purchased in St. Joseph, then went after the other one, which lay where Randall had dropped it after hitting Rickman with the stock. She gave Rickman’s body a wide berth, though she couldn’t help looking at him. The side of his head was caved in, and there was a great deal of blood. There was no doubt the man was dead. She hurried after Beckett and Randall, who were dragging Vance to the overturned wagon.
“Mister Randolph, cut that lead horse on the left free, then shoot the rest,” Beckett said, after a quick glance at the injured and struggling horses. They’d laid Vance in the narrow shadow thrown by the wagon, and Beckett began pawing through the scattered cargo looking for suitable bandage material.
“I think this one’s dead,” Randall said, after taking the Henry from Clara and walking up to the horses.
“Shoot it anyway,” Beckett said without looking up.
Clara set down the other rifle. “How can I help?” she asked Beckett.
“Here, take this,” he said, tearing a cotton shirt in half and handing to her. He strode back to Vance.
Clara followed and knelt beside him. She flinched at the heavy report of the Henry rifle.
Beckett seemed not to notice. “Vance, you got to help us now. When I count to three, you roll over onto your side so we can get to the exit hole. Miss Randolph, you hold half that shirt tight over the front hole and half of it over the back one while I get this belt around him and cinch—”
The last of his words were lost as Randall fired the Henry again, but Clara understood what she needed to do.
Beckett looked at Vance: “You ready?” Vance nodded.
“One, two, thr—”
Vance screamed in pain and effort as he rolled to his side; Clara screamed in horror as Beckett fell on top of her with an arrow in his chest. “INDIANS!” Randall screamed from a few yards behind her.
Clara rolled out from under Beckett, who was struggling to his knees. He looked up at her and began to speak, but nothing came out except a gurgling sound and a great, gout of blood. He raised a hand toward her, then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the ground. She turned to the sound of high-pitched cries and pounding hooves, and saw what looked like twenty or more naked and painted men riding toward her.
“Run!” Vance croaked, swinging an arm weakly in her direction. Clara looked around frantically, her heart racing. She wheeled and ran around to the other side of the wagon and ducked down behind it.
A split second later, she thought of Randall. She stood back up. He was there, clambering over the dead horses, coming around to her side of the wagon.
“Randall!,” she called.
He looked up at her, lost his footing, and fell. He crawled the rest of the way over the horses, then stood and ran toward her. Two arrows hit him almost simultaneously: one in the buttocks and one in the middle of his back. Inertia carried him the last several steps, and he collapsed almost at Clara’s feet. Clara dropped next to him just as several of the riders reached them. Randall pushed himself up, looked at Clara regretfully, and started toward the first Indian to dismount. He picked up a nearby length of iron; it was part of the cooking tripod and the only thing within reach that might conceivably serve as a weapon. What did I do with the rifle? he thought bewilderedly.
The piece of iron might as well have been a feather. The young brave stepped forward and swung his war-club before Randall had even lifted it. The two-pound granite hammer hit him squarely on the left side of his head, and Clara heard a sickening crack. Randall fell to the ground.
The young brave stood indecisively over Randall. He’d wanted a scalp, but curiously the white man had almost no hair at all. He contemplated taking the scalp anyway, but the man was also old—very old. It would almost be like taking the scalp of a woman. He glanced around and saw Randall’s Henry rifle. It was sticking up in between the two dead horses Randall had crawled over. The young brave raced after the prize before another could get it. The old man was all but forgotten.
Clara was cowering against the wagon as the brave walked away from Randall’s unmoving body. Love for her lifelong servant and caretaker overcame her fear, and she ran to him. As she was kneeling beside him, she was suddenly yanked roughly backward by her braid. She landed on her back—hard—and unintentionally kicked Randall’s face. Suddenly more angry than afraid, Clara reached her arms over her head and gripped her thick braid while simultaneously twisting her body. Her captor lost his grip and she scrambled to her feet.
She sprinted away, but there was nowhere to go in the endless grassland. She saw trees not too far distant. The river, she thought, just as a hand clamped tightly on her arm.
Clara wheeled and swung, open handed, striking the brave solidly on his ear. This time he cried out, then doubled his effort and wrestled her to the ground. Thinking of the baby, Clara stopped struggling. She looked up; there were several more Indians standing over her. They were all naked except for some kind of animal skin breechcloth over their genitals. Some had feathers in their hair, and their faces were painted with blacks, whites, yellows, reds, and greens. They were things of nightmares. One of them was the one who struck Randall with the club. His face was painted solid black from his nose to his hairline. He was holding Randall’s new rifle. They were pointing and laughing; not at Clara, but at the at the one who was now straddling her. He was rubbing his ear and looking up at the others ruefully. He wasn’t any older than Clara. She began to weep.
5
The Hotamétaneo’o, or Dog Men had watched the wagon and its accompanying horsemen from across the river for two days. The group of twenty-four braves was led by Short Bull, one of the lesser Cheyenne chiefs. He’d contemplated attacking and taking the rifles, horses, and whatever food the whites carried, but the whites were displaying their rifles plainly and this made him cautious. His Dog Soldiers were out of powder for their three old muskets and Short Bull’s own pistol. He knew they could still defeat them with weapons of the Cheyenne, but the whites were obviously prepared for battle, and he was reluctant to needlessly lose any of his braves. Many of his warriors were on a hunt in the north, and the remainder were at the camp with the women and children, three day’s ride to the northwest. In the end he had contented himself with watching and waiting.
His prudence was rewarded when the whites began to fight amongst themselves. He quickly readied his warriors and waited for events to unfold.
Once he saw that three of the whites were either injured or dead, he ordered two of his younger braves to chase down the white’s fleeing horses while he and the rest of his Dog Soldiers attacked.
There was no battle: two of the whites were already dead, and another mortally injured. His warriors killed two old men and captured a young woman. They said she was spirited. He would take her with them. Perhaps she could be traded. There were rifles, pistols, shot, powder, and food. There was also whiskey, but Short Bull would not allow his warriors to take it. The white man’s drink was poison to his people. The warriors he’d sent after the horses returned with six of them. Short Bull bid them each pick one since they missed the attack.
He bent over the dead white man’s body and picked up the pistol lying next to it. It was a good pistol. He told his warriors to take eve
rything they could carry.
6
Clara’s emotions ran from terror to anger and back to terror again in mere moments. She was pulled to her feet by two of the braves and marched past Randall’s body and the three dead horses that were still attached to the overturned wagon by their rigging. She was brought in front of a man who was older than the rest. The man wore animal skin leggings in addition to the breechcloth, and his face was painted with three simple white stripes which ran ear to ear. He was standing over Elias Spearse’s body, intently examining Elias’ pistol. He jammed the pistol into the hide thong that secured his breechcloth, crossed his arms, and looked appraisingly at Clara. He motioned with his hand and she was released.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Clara said, still weeping. “I have a baby.”
The man, obviously their leader, continued to stare at her for a moment, then said something to one of the younger men. He spoke in a language Clara couldn’t understand. The speech had a lot of Teh and Hoh sounds. When the man finished speaking, the brave removed a knife from a hide scabbard and started toward Clara.
“Wait!” She screamed and began to back away. “I have a baby. A baby.” She rubbed at her belly, then made cradling and rocking motions with her hands. Two of the Indians restrained her.
The man stared at her curiously, then made the same strange hand motion he’d made before; she was again released. Clara thought frantically, then put both of her hands on her stomach and slowly moved them out about twelve inches. She quickly repeated the gesture: “Baby,” she said. “I’m going to have a child.”
Understanding dawned on the man’s face. He looked over at the other men and smiled, then nodded, and pointed at Clara. “Mé’ėševotse,” he said almost proudly before turning his attention back to the brave holding the knife and affording him an expectant look. The brave stepped forward again and grabbed a handful of the hem of Clara’s dress. Clara screamed in panic and tried to move away again, but was again held fast. The brave quickly and neatly cut around the dress, leaving only a few inches below her waist.
He backed away and examined his work, pointing his knife at her drawers and chuckling before returning it to its scabbard.
The man who was called Short Bull walked a few yards and retrieved his horse. He led it over to a frightened and confused Clara, who was standing cross-legged in an attempt to keep the open-crotched drawers closed. Without preamble he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and set her on the bareback horse. He said something to the men and they all laughed. Then he climbed up behind Clara and urged the horse away.
Seven
1
John stumbled away from the mutilated bodies and vomited in the dust of the dooryard. The small house and outbuilding were burned to the ground. Frank Picton looked after him, his expression was stony.
“I’ve no doubt you completely understand now, if you didn’t before. Straighten up and wipe your face. If you’ve no stomach for war, then you’re of no use to me. I’ll not have the men see you mewling and puking. If you’re to lead them, they must respect you. We’ll ride back to camp and send some men back to give these poor souls a proper burial.”
John wiped his mouth and looked back at the bodies: two men, one woman, three children. All were stripped and scalped. The men had their penises and testicles cut off. He walked back and picked up his hat—which had fallen off when he stumbled away from the corpses—and dusted it off. Frank Picton was already mounted and starting away.
John had ridden out of Fort Laramie six days after his disturbing and perplexing meeting with Frank Picton, along with seventy men. There should have been eighty, but ten of the galvanized volunteers—freed Confederate prisoners who swore allegiance to the United States—slipped out shortly after reaching the fort. So much for allegiance, John thought.
Word came to Picton of an Indian raid on a settler’s place about sixty miles southeast of the fort near the Platte River. Two brothers, both former trappers, had been trying to set up a new trading stop to serve the increasing demands of emigrants and settlers. An army courier hoping for a replacement for his injured horse had discovered the mutilated bodies of the brothers and their families. He left them where they lie and limped his horse the rest of the way to Fort Laramie.
Picton was already planning to head south to hunt down Indian bands—renegades, he said—who were camped off of their treaty-designated lands, when Brevet General Moonlight forwarded the news of the attack to him. Picton ordered John to prepare the men to leave the next morning.
After making camp five miles northwest of the site of the raid and sending out two Pawnee scouts to circle the area (Henry was not to be found at the fort), Picton and John had ridden in to assess the situation.
Now, standing by his horse, he thought he did understand. There could be no acceptable reason for the murder of these people. Perhaps he’d been as naive as Frank Picton said he was. Wasn’t this proof of everything the colonel—Frank—had told him? He took one final look at the children lying facedown in the ashes and dust, put on his hat, then followed Picton.
The next morning they headed southwest toward Colorado. One of the two Pawnee scouts told Picton in very broken English that the raiders had gone that way. He also thought they were Cheyenne Hotamétaneo’o—Dog Men, not Sioux. Picton stated bluntly that he didn’t care what tribe the Indians were from. He only wanted to find and destroy them.
They traveled southwest for three days, the main body of the force several miles behind the vanguard consisting of the Pawnee scouts and seven ex-confederate militia men who were supposed to be seasoned bush fighters. There was some tension amongst the men—understandably in John’s opinion. Only a short time ago these men would have been shooting at each other, not sharing beans, salted pork, and jugs of whiskey.
On the fourth day, shortly after noon, one of the men from the vanguard rode back and informed Picton that they’d discovered a small Indian camp about seven miles ahead. He said they weren’t the Indians they were chasing; they were Cheyenne, but it didn’t appear there were very many braves, and there were only two horses that they could see. He said that the Indians they were after almost had to have passed through the camp, though.
Picton made a show of consulting his map. “Perhaps their warriors are out hunting. Nevertheless, those Indians are not on lands designated to them by the treaty they signed. They are therefore trespassing on United States property without leave and are to be considered hostiles. John, please send five men back to the last water we passed. Tell them to set up camp and have them help Mister Paulson prepare for surgery. The Pawnee scouts as well; we won’t need them. The rest of us will attack the camp at dusk.”
John rode to the rear of the men and located Richard Paulson. Paulson had been a veterinarian in Illinois before the war, and a surgeon during it. His wife died of typhoid while he was away. He’d served under Frank Picton and, having nothing to go home to, had followed Picton to Fort Laramie at Picton’s request.
John relayed the message to Doctor Paulson, then picked out five men at random. He only knew a handful of the men’s names, mostly the ones he’d been introduced to personally by Picton; men who’d served with him in the war.
“Can’t you pick somebody else, Lieutenant? I didn’t come to do camp work. I’ve put up with these prairie niggers long enough and I’m ready to shoot some more of them.”
“Local volunteers?” John asked almost rhetorically.
“Yes, sir. I was with the Colorado First, then with Colonel Chivington at Big Sandy Creek.
“What’s your name?”
“Rogers, sir.”
“Well, Mister Rogers, if you can find someone who’s willing to trade with you, you are welcome to come along.”
“Yes, sir.” Rogers started away.
“Mister Rogers?”
“Sir?”
“I expect five men in addition to Mister Paulson to set camp.”
Rogers looked chagrined. “Yes, sir.”
&n
bsp; 2
The camp was located next to a medium-sized stream. There were only about sixteen lodges in all. The surrounding area was completely treeless, and it would be nearly impossible to take the Indians by surprise unless they waited for darkness and crawled through the grass. Frank Picton, citing the clearly inferior numbers of the Indians, discarded the option out of hand.
After synchronizing watches with Picton, John and half of the men circled well around the camp—about a half mile—and situated themselves behind a gentle rise that would obscure the horses. The plan was for a straight cavalry charge with the two lines coming from opposite sides of the creek, closing into a circle as they approached to cut off escape.
John’s heart was racing as he held the pocket watch and counted off the last minute before eight o’clock. He’d been preparing to be a soldier for three years, but there was nothing that could have readied him for the conflicting feelings of fear and excitement he now felt.
When the second hand passed the nine, John stuffed the watch into his pocket, drew his pistol, and spurred the big stallion forward.
It was a slaughter.
The people in the camp heard the horses while they were still far off. Seconds later they saw them; riders coming from both sides at a full gallop. There would have been plenty of time to react and defend themselves had there been warriors in the camp.
There weren’t.
The camp was occupied by seventeen women, nine children, five old men, and two horses. All, including the horses, were survivors of Colonel Chivington’s attack at Big Sandy Creek six months before. Four of the women’s husbands had been killed there, and the rest—who’d been on a hunt during Chivington’s attack—had departed with a mixed Cheyenne/Sioux/Arapaho war party in the aftermath. The women, along with their children and the five related old men, had broken off from Black Kettle’s band because they no longer felt safe under the chief. The women had not seen their husbands since.
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 13