Trail Angel

by Derek Catron

  “Where are we, anyway?” he asked.

  “Dry Creek.”

  Caleb thought the private was joking. “Did you come up with that yourself?” Peters shook his head, confused by the question.

  “The name of this place is Dry Creek?”

  Peters nodded, looking as if he might call the doctor for another examination of Caleb’s head. Oh, Lord. Caleb would never understand how the Union won the war with this kind of planning and leadership. “Just like the army to hatch a plan that depends on finding water at a place called Dry Creek,” he said, though it occurred to him the army might have the last laugh. Having failed to kill him during the war, maybe the army meant to rectify the oversight on the trail.

  Wands, his face red with strain, yelled orders to prepare to head out.

  “They say the campsite’s by a river,” Peters said as he stood, offering a hand to Caleb. “Guess the lieutenant wants to hurry and get there.”

  Caleb took Peters’s hand, grateful for the aid. “I hope you’re right. Doc says we’re almost out of water.”

  As they walked to the wagon, Caleb looked back to where they had found the dead soldier. “So much for Dry Creek. Tell me, where are we going to camp?” he asked Peters. “Indian Massacre River?”

  He had meant it as a joke, but neither man laughed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  After a midday break, Annabelle sneaked some sugar from the commissary wagon to spoil Paint. She intended to ride the horse that afternoon, putting from her mind the strange looks the marching soldiers gave her as she passed riding astride a horse and wearing boy’s clothes.

  They were still at least three days out from the new fort, the Bighorn Mountains to their west looking like they might stretch forever. As the wagons advanced, she noticed Jim Bridger hunched over a circle of white stones. Annabelle eased Paint toward him, realizing as she drew near that the objects were bones from an animal like a cow, only larger and bleached white in the sun.

  “Buffalo,” Bridger said as he looked toward her, his face pinched in a squint against the bright day.

  Annabelle dismounted for a closer look. With its dark horns, the skull looked monstrous, the bones coming together in the beast’s face like some kind of beaked predator. “I’ve never seen buffalo. I thought they would be everywhere.”

  “Used to be. Settlers have driven off them hunters haven’t killed. I used to think there were more buffalo than stars, but now it’s like the skies have growed dark.”

  Annabelle noticed odd scratchings on the thick side of the bleached skull. The marks appeared too regular to be natural, combining to form odd shapes and swirls. She asked about them.

  “That’s what I been ruminatin’ over.”

  “They’re not letters, not English anyway.” Bridger wasn’t literate, Annabelle knew, though she’d heard he enjoyed being read to. “Are they Indian letters?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “I didn’t know the Indians had a written language.”

  Bridger picked up the skull and ran a long, leathery finger across the marks, as if to read them by touch. “It’s not so plain as English, but they have ways of transmittin’ a message.”

  “Can you tell what it says?”

  Bridger nodded and looked to her, as if judging how much to say. Annabelle feared what he might say, but she had to know if they or the others were in danger. “Tell me.”

  He stood, walking over to get his mule’s reins and signaling with a nod that she should do the same with her horse. After he mounted the mule he looked back to her. “The message is a call to any Indian who passes to gather for a big battle.”

  Annabelle looked around the empty fields. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure, but if I had to guess, I would say Crazy Woman Creek.”

  “The stream we crossed yesterday?”

  Bridger nodded. “Kinda thought we was bein’ watched. Any train headed north would have to cross there. It’s the only good water.”

  “Josey and the second train—” Bridger grunted an agreement. “Shouldn’t we tell the captain to go back?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Annabelle stared at him, unsure what to make of his reserve. “Surely, the captain will want to come to the aid of the second train?”

  “He has his orders.”

  “But that was before we knew the others were in danger.”

  Bridger’s deeply lined face seemed to sag, and the scout looked his age when he faced her. “Do you think your Josey would put you in danger, even if it meant he would be safer?”

  Annabelle shuddered as if struck by an icy breeze. She looked the way they had come, past an ocean of grass to where she thought Josey might be, coming for her and unaware of what lay between them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  From the crest of the hill, Caleb saw a line of cottonwoods and scrub oaks snake through the valley below. “That’s Crazy Woman Creek,” Peters said, his voice hoarse with thirst. The seat beneath them creaked as the round man adjusted his weight. “It’s gotta be.”

  Caleb’s hope surged but he saved his voice. They had been without water for hours, with the sun rising higher in the sky, temperatures soaring with it. The doctor provided updates every few miles. After he reported 100 degrees well before noon, they implored him to stop. It was better not knowing.

  The path across alkaline flats had been clear, at least, and travel was easy, though they kept a deliberate pace to spare the mules. Doc warned him his fever might return, especially without water. Caleb felt weak but didn’t complain. He would have to be carried before he would go back into the wagon, which was stifling even with part of the canvas peeled back.

  The undulating line of trees appeared to trace the contours of a creek, but the papery leaves obscured the view. Caleb feared another dry creek might mean the death of them all. He squinted, wishing he had a field glass. The trees forked into two strands, creating parallel lines with what looked like a small, dry ridge in between. There has to be water to have so many trees. At the farther line of trees, between the leaves, flashes glinted like starlight. With a surge of relief, Caleb grabbed Peters’s arm and pointed, still not trusting his voice. Sun wouldn’t reflect like that off a sandy river bed. There had to be water.

  Lieutenant Wands confirmed this with his field glass, sending word back through the wagons. It was hard not to race the mules to the water, but Caleb judged they were still a couple of miles off.

  As the wagons proceeded down the slope, Caleb became convinced the first line of trees masked another dry bed, seeing no signs of moving water through the leaves. Nothing, it seemed, was going to be easy about this trip.

  Their progress halted as the first wagons mired in the sand on entering the dry creek bed. Caleb feared they would have to double-up the teams to get through, but with enough soldiers lending a shoulder and the drivers whipping the mules bloody, they regained momentum.

  “Doc, you might have to walk from here,” Peters called back. He asked Caleb, “You think you can make it on foot?”

  Caleb looked to Peters, allowing his gaze to follow the other man’s full girth. “You sure that’s the best idea?”

  Peters chuckled. “I suppose you better drive. I’ll push, if it comes to that. You’re going to have to keep ’em moving once we get into that sand.”

  Caleb shrugged. He’d been driving a team of oxen halfway across the country. He doubted steering some mules through a sandy creek bed was any more challenging than walking through it himself. “Beats dying of thirst.”

  Peters and Doc Hines climbed from the wagon, and Caleb drove to a break in the trees where the path sloped into the creek bed. The wagons would have to slog a good hundred yards to the left to reach a point where they could climb out.

  The ambulance wagons were in the middle of the train, behind a supply wagon and a Conestoga that carried the women and babies until they walked, too. Caleb waited until those wagons pulled far enough ahead that he wouldn’t have to
slow if they became mired. Getting Peters to walk proved a good decision, as he lent his wide shoulders and tree-stump legs to the wagon, keeping it moving so long as Caleb didn’t let the mules quit.

  Josey Angel had circled back from the front of the train. Guess he doesn’t feel like pushing. His reins in one hand and his rifle in the other, Caleb admired his horsemanship to keep his balance in the sand. Josey Angel nodded toward Caleb. “Glad you’re up again.”

  “Feel even better once we reach water.”

  Caleb expected some kind of reassurance from the scout, but instead Josey Angel studied the tree line that hid the creek beyond. “Me, too.”

  By the time they had all entered the creek bed, the first wagon pulled its way out. About a dozen men squeezed together to find purchase behind the wagon box to propel it from the sandy creek bed, the mules braying in protest.

  Then the Indians attacked.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Lying in the shade of a rifle pit dug under one of the wagons, Josey pushed thirst from his mind, but the effort only exposed him to more damning thoughts. I still should have seen it coming. He didn’t blame the officers for the ambush. The decision to spare the thirsty horses and go without scouts had been necessary. I should have ridden ahead when we came to the creek. It had been a perfect spot for an ambush.

  It took remarkable effort for the teamsters to get the wagons out of the creek bed while Josey and the soldiers provided a covering fire. Most of the soldiers carried single-shot Springfield rifles, but the Colonel had them coordinate their fire so the Indians couldn’t rush and overwhelm their position. Wands also had a sixteen-shot Henry, and the big lieutenant knew how to use it. He and Josey maintained a steady defense when the others reloaded.

  With the Indians held at bay, the teamsters drove the wagons into a defensive circle on a ridge overlooking the dry creek bed. The drivers unhitched the mules and brought them inside the corral. One teamster stacked neck-yokes from the wagons to make a breastwork. Others emptied the wagons, stacking crates and sacks of supplies to build a makeshift keep. That’s when the Colonel set a few of the men to digging rifle pits.

  The Indians seemed content to bide their time.

  “They know we can’t last without water,” the Colonel said.

  While the others saw to the mules and wagons, Josey checked his guns. Fighting always left him restless and jittery, like he’d been drinking coffee all day. Since his first battle, when he was so green he hardly remembered to fire his weapon, Josey had approached every fight the same. The methodical preparation of cleaning and loading guns shielded his mind from thoughts of what might happen. It was no hasty thing, loading a Henry rifle and four six-shot revolvers. A fight left no time to measure and pour powder, pack the ball, place the percussion caps. The routine helped keep his head clear, and Josey needed that now more than ever.

  They hadn’t been in the corral long before the Indians launched a sneak attack, loosing a few arrows into the corral before being driven back by return fire. Near as anyone knew, the attack came from a ravine on the opposite side of the ridge. Wands and the Colonel thought the ravine might lead to the creek. If the way did lead to water, the Indians would be waiting there.

  Wands asked for a volunteer to join him in scouting out the ravine, driving away any Indians if necessary, and then leading a party loaded up with canteens and buckets to get water. Josey had felt every head turn in his direction, but his tongue, thick with thirst, held still. Finally, the chaplain riding with them stepped forward.

  A well-built man of about forty with a thick head of white hair, Reverend White had the vigor of a man half his age. He must have had a reputation as a fighting man of the cloth for none of the others seemed surprised he volunteered.

  With the two of them gone, Josey wrestled his guilt. I should have led them into the ravine. Wands commanded. He was responsible for seeing these men on to Fort Phil Kearny. He has a baby, a wife. Josey had looked away from her as she watched her husband leave the wagon corral. He hadn’t been able to look at anyone. He felt their stares on his back, silent accusations of cowardice. They are right.

  For most of the day’s trek Josey had been lost in a daydream of a Montana ranch with a house overlooking a river. The clear head Josey usually kept in battle, a quality the Colonel once told him was more valuable than his marksmanship, had been lost in a muddle of conflicting emotions. Actions that usually came automatically required his constant focus as his mind drifted somewhere else.

  Annabelle.

  Though never heedless in battle, Josey knew he might die cowering in a hole just as easily as in a cavalry charge. When exploding mortars rain shrapnel everywhere, a man doesn’t imagine himself immortal just because he wakes in a surgeon’s tent. Such thinking is for the fresh fish who believe nothing evil can happen to them because it never has. Most die soon enough. Or, like Josey, they learn how fickle war is. Absorb that lesson, and a soldier knows he is doomed, a knowledge that can free his head from the distractions that might kill him before his time.

  Today was different. Today, one thought filled his head.

  I want to live.

  It was a ridiculous thing to think in a fight. Of course, he wanted to live. Every soldier wants to live. Thinking it during a battle was no more useful than a cartridge box of daisies. Worse, it distracted him from the moment when a second’s inattention might get him killed.

  Annabelle.

  Dwelling on her now only invited fate to cut his thread. Josey wasn’t a superstitious man, but every soldier knew comrades who foretold their doom on the eve of battle. No one remembered the others who spoke with just as much conviction of their deaths, only to survive to repeat the prophesy before the next battle. Loving Annabelle didn’t make Josey any more tempting a target to fate. Thinking about her when he needed to be focused, that could get him killed. Loving Annabelle has turned me from Achilles to Hector.

  Hector always dies in the end.

  Josey finished loading his rifle. The Colonel stood beside him. Josey avoided his gaze. I need to forget Annabelle if I want to live to see her again.

  Josey had lost track of how long the men had been gone. Ten minutes? Twenty? No one spoke while they waited. The silence weighed on them as much as the heat. Josey found himself holding his breath to listen more intently.

  A breeze rippled across the wagon covers, sounding like a sail on a river barge. From somewhere in the tall grass beyond the wagons, a quail cooed. Josey wanted to shush it, to preserve the silence even as it tortured them. So long as it remained quiet, he imagined the others were safe, that he wasn’t responsible for their slaughter. They were probably nearly back, struggling under the weight of so much water, moving noiselessly in hopes the Indians would not discover them.

  Unless they were dead.

  Even now the Indians might be stripping their corpses. Josey shook the thought from his head. We would have heard something if they’d come under attack. Gunfire. War cries. Screams. Something.

  No. Silence was good. Silence meant life.

  Then the silence was broken.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Standing behind her father and Jim Bridger, Annabelle had to crane her neck to see Captain Burroughs. A doughy, splotchy-faced man, Burroughs had close-set eyes and a nervous habit of ceaselessly looking about. This was Burroughs’s first posting in Indian country, and he seemed more determined to avoid a mistake than win glory. Pleas from Bridger and her father to turn back left him agitated.

  “I can’t run off willy-nilly,” he said, his face reddening. “I have my orders: to see this train—with your family among them,” he directed to her father, “—safely to the fort. I can’t go off based on some primitive scratches on a bone.”

  Bridger muttered under his breath, “Damn paper-collar soldiers.” Annabelle knew she wasn’t expected to address the captain but couldn’t contain herself. “Mr. Bridger said it’s a message.”

  Burroughs looked her way as if seeing her for t
he first time. “I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand military matters.” He looked past her without finishing his thought.

  Tugging on the sleeve of his uniform, Annabelle wouldn’t be ignored. “How will it look if a train of military wagons is wiped out by Indians? If the newspapers back East reported such a thing, why, the officer who stood by to allow a massacre would be infamous.”

  Burroughs blinked twice, his eyes casting about as if looking for an escape that wouldn’t endanger either body or reputation.

  “Yes, how do you spell ‘Burrows’?” her father asked. “Is it with a W or a GH? The newspapermen will want to know.”

  Burroughs blinked again. He looked at her father, then back to Annabelle, finally to Bridger. His face had grown as red as the stripes on the flag.

  “I could lead the mounted infantry back,” Bridger offered. “We would make better time, while you and the rest of the soldiers continue on with the wagons.”

  Burroughs turned away, looking to each wagon in the train, his head bobbing with his shifting gaze, reminding Annabelle of a woodpecker. He called to a lieutenant overseeing the wagons. “Gather the mounted infantry.” He turned back to Annabelle. “For your sake,” Burroughs said, the color draining from his cheeks, “I hope we have less need of those troops than the wagons behind us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “Here they come!”

  Josey saw first the hat, then the shoulders and torso of a young private, shuffling in a hopping gait with the weight of a bucket in each hand and at least a couple of canteens dangling from straps around his neck.

  The first gunshot echoed out of the ravine before the last of the men emerged. At the sound, the young private redoubled his awkward shuffle. His face locked in a grimace, veins in his neck bulging. A burly sergeant behind him wasn’t faring much better. Those in the camp shouted encouragement with what voices they had. More shots were heard by the time all six were moving across the grassy field to the wagons.