by John Legg
It had taught him some things, though. Things like how to persevere under incredible hardships; how to push on through exhaustion, fear, and deprivation; how to handle himself in a fight, either with firearms or hand to hand.
It also had taught him to keep his own counsel more often than not, and to disguise most of his feelings. He figured it would never do to let the enemy know what was going on in your mind. That kept them off balance, and at times would give a man a chance to get out of a dangerous situation. People saw his placid countenance and easygoing demeanor, and often mistook it for gullibility, tranquility, or both.
Despite those thoughts, which he could never completely keep out of his mind all the time, he still kept an ear and eye out for danger. Four days out from Claude Fenniman’s trading post, Rhodes stopped and stared at a thin wisp of smoke off in the distance. He pondered it as he sat watching. It could be Indians, he supposed, but if so, there probably were only a few, since there was not much smoke. On the other hand, it could not be a wagon train or army patrol.
He shrugged and touched his spurs to the palomino’s sides. There was one sure way to find out, he figured.
He stopped again in a shallow dip in the interminable prairie and then moved up the hill in a squat, one of his pistols in hand. At the crest, he flattened on his stomach and slithered the last few yards and looked over. Across the prairie, less than a quarter of a mile away, sat two lonely-looking wagons. A group of people huddled around a small fire. From the wind drifting in his direction, Rhodes knew it was a buffalo chip fire. He also saw that there were only four mules, not nearly enough to pull the two wagons. Because of that, Rhodes figured they were in poor shape.
He shoved himself backward down the slope a little, then stood and turned to walk back to his horse, shoving his pistol back into his belt as he did. Once on the palomino, he headed south and rode a little way before heading west again. As he neared the small camp he stopped. He sat a moment, then nodded. He pulled his two Whitney revolvers and dropped them into his saddlebags, one to a side. Then he rode on again.
When he was still fifty yards from the camp, he shouted and waved. He rode forward slowly, figuring that the people might be edgy. They were, and Rhodes made no sudden moves as he stopped near one of the wagons. “I’m unarmed,” he said, raising his arms.
Two men held muzzle-loading rifles toward him, though the weapons were not really aimed. They were not friendly faces. Three women and several children stood behind the men, looking frightened.
“Looks like you folks’ve had a spot of trouble, here,” Rhodes said genially.
“That’s none of your affair,” the older of the men said harshly. He appeared to be in his early fifties. “We’d be obliged if you was to move on. Follow your friends.”
“I have no friends out here, mister.”
“We don’t believe you, mister. Now ride on.”
Rhodes shrugged. “Good day, then.” He turned the palomino’s head and rode on. He stopped half a mile away and loosened the saddle to let the horse breathe. The mule could do with a little rest, too. Rhodes took his pistols out of his saddlebags and stuffed them into his belt again. As he stood there, he gnawed on a piece of jerky and kept an eye out on the land around him.
A speck of dust off on the horizon caught his attention, and he watched it. For a while, it did not seem to progress any, and he figured it was just a dust devil, or perhaps a mirage. He shrugged and looked off.
Finishing the jerky, he tightened the saddle. As he began to pull himself up on the horse, he glanced at where he had seen the dust before. The small cloud had moved closer, and Rhodes could see three riders. A moment later, he realized the three were Indians. And they were heading toward where the two wagons were.
Rhodes stood there, reins in hand, hand on saddle horn, thinking. He owed those people nothing. Quite the opposite, in fact. But he figured there was a reason the people had run him off. There must be more to it than was seen in that thirty-second encounter. He spun and hammered a picket stake into the ground, then tied the mule to it. He swung into the saddle and galloped off.
As the camp came into sight, Rhodes slapped the reins on the horse’s withers, urging a bit more speed out of the racing horse. He surveyed the camp with one glance. Two women were standing behind the men with powder horns, shot pouches, and ramrods in hand, ready to reload. The third woman was under a wagon, huddling all the children around her.
Rhodes could tell when the two men fired by the puffs of powder smoke, though he could not hear the reports of the weapons over the sound of the horse’s hooves and the rushing wind.
One of the Indians fell off his horse and bounced a few times, but the other two Indians appeared to be untouched. Both were firing arrows, and one of the men with the wagons fell, an arrow protruding from his chest or arm. Rhodes could not be certain which at this range. The man squiggled under the other wagon.
Rhodes flew into the camp as the two Indians circled it. He noted that the third Indian was on his feet and limping toward the camp. The uninjured man in the camp spun and fired wildly at the two Indians. He missed, but Rhodes thought the stray ball had come suspiciously close to his own head.
One of the warriors broke off the attack on the camp and headed toward Rhodes, firing two arrows as he charged. Rhodes never flinched. Another thing he had learned during the war was that you could not duck a bullet. Either it would hit you or it wouldn’t. He figured it could apply to arrows, too.
He grabbed the shotgun from the saddle scabbard holding the sawed-off barrels with his left hand, which also held the reins. With his right hand, he snapped back one of the hammers. When less than twenty-five yards separated him from the warrior, Rhodes jammed to a halt. He threw the scattergun up to his shoulder, and a second later, fired.
A full load of buckshot hitting the warrior in the chest from little more than ten yards away slammed him to the ground. Rhodes slapped his spurs against the horse and raced off. In the few ensuing seconds, the other mounted Indian had circled the camp several times, chasing the unwounded man and the two women under the other wagon.
The warrior stopped, laughing at the frightened whites hiding under the wagons, as if that would save them. Still laughing, he turned to look for his friend. And caught Rhodes’s second load of buckshot mostly in the face. His countenance disintegrated and he fell.
Rhodes pulled to a squealing stop and grabbed the rope rein of the warrior’s pony. He looked up and saw the wounded Indian running away. “Take this horse,” Rhodes snapped. When the man slid out from under the wagon and took the rein, Rhodes slid the scattergun away. Then he walked his horse around the wagons, and gave the animal its head. In moments he had caught up with the third Indian.
He stopped almost alongside the Indian, who spun, snarling. He had a war club raised over his head. Rhodes, who had pulled one of his pistols as he rode, shot the Indian twice in the chest. It was one more thing he had learned in the war—be remorseless in battle, for the enemy would. Such a thing sat hard on a generally decent man like Travis Rhodes, but it had to be done nonetheless. He knew these Indians would never give him any quarter, so he would give them none.
Still, he felt no pride or satisfaction at having killed the three warriors. It was simply something that had to be done. He rode back to the wagons and dismounted. “You folks all right?” he asked as he dismounted.
The younger man—who was in his mid-thirties—nodded. “Brother Flake is wounded,” he said quietly, “but it is not too bad, I shouldn’t think.”
Rhodes nodded. “The women and kids all right?”
“All are fine.” There still was no friendliness in the man’s voice.
“You folks want me to ride on, I will,” Rhodes said agreeably. He figured something had happened to these people to turn them away from any and all strangers. He wondered what, but he didn’t wonder too much.
“That’d suit us just fine, mister,” the man said. Erastus Flake had gotten out from under the wa
gon and stood. As Rhodes turned to get back on his horse, Flake called for him to stop. Rhodes did and turned, still holding his reins in hand.
“We are much in your debt, stranger, and you are welcome to sit at our table.” He almost grinned. “Such as it is.”
“What about him?” Rhodes asked, jerking a chin in the other man’s direction.
“I believe Brother Hickman will accede to my request.”
“That right, Mr. Hickman?” Rhodes asked.
Phineas Hickman nodded once, curtly.
“There, you see now,” Flake said. He smiled a little at Rhodes. “But where is your mule, Mr...?”
“Travis Rhodes,” Rhodes said, shaking hands with both men. “I left him back there a ways when I saw those Indians heading your way.”
“Where did you leave him?”
“About a half-mile yonder.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get him and bring him in.” He paused. “You got some rope?”
Flake nodded. “Brother Hickman, some rope please.”
Hickman scowled but got the rope and handed it to Rhodes, who took it while staring coolly at Hickman. He took the rope and tied it around the dead Indian’s ankles. He mounted and walked the horse away, dragging the warrior behind. When he got to the first one he had slain, he stopped and tied the rope around that one, too. He dragged both out a little distance and then undid the rope, leaving them there.
When Rhodes returned to the camp, it was apparent that Flake, who obviously was the leader here, had spoken to Hickman, since the latter was rather more cordial. It seemed forced, but at least it was not outright hostility.
Flake was sitting on the ground, his back resting against a wagon wheel. The arrow shaft was still sticking out of his arm just above the biceps. Rhodes pointed to it. “You havin’ trouble getting that out?” he asked.
“Some,” Flake admitted. “Brother Hickman has never done such a thing. Nor have the women.” He paused. “Have you?”
Rhodes shrugged. “Never an arrow. I’ve pulled bullets out of folks, though. Want me to take a crack at it?”
“If you would be so kind,” Flake said. “Though I am afraid we are so far in your debt as to never be able to pay you back.”
“I ain’t keeping count.” Rhodes tied his horse and mule to the other wagon, then came back to where Flake was sitting. The man was ashen-faced but otherwise was not displaying any pain. “Get some whiskey out,” he said. When there was no response, Rhodes looked at Flake, a question in his eyes.
“We do not partake of spirituous beverages, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake said evenly.
“Not even for cleansing wounds?”
“There is no reason to bring temptation along in our own wagons, Mr. Rhodes. A dose of hot steel, the proper poultice, and faith in the Lord should be enough.”
“My apologies, Mr. Flake, I didn’t know.” Rhodes was surprised.
“Most Gentiles don’t.”
“Gentiles?”
“Those not of the faith. You see, Mr. Rhodes, we are Saints.”
Rhodes knew there was a chance he might regret asking, but he felt he had to. “Saints?”
“Latter-day Saints. Most know us as Mormons.” He shrugged.
Rhodes shrugged. “Never heard of such folks,” he said easily, not wanting to offend. “But if that’s your way, then so be it.”
“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Rhodes. Many—well, maybe most—are not so congenial.” He paused. “And our church does not make Gentiles subscribe to our ways. We have no objection to using whiskey to cleanse a wound if it is held by someone else.”
Rhodes nodded, and then grinned a little. “And if I need a snort?” he asked.
Flake also smiled, seeming none the worse for his wound. “We all have our weaknesses, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake said, still smiling. Then his face hardened. “Of course, we cannot abide drunkenness.”
Rhodes nodded. The threat did not concern him. He went to his horse and pulled a small bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags. Kneeling in front of Flake again, he asked, “You want to do this sitting? Or would you rather be lying down?”
“Sitting will suffice.”
Chapter Six
Rhodes reached out and gave the arrow shaft an exploratory tug. Flake hissed but otherwise was silent. “Don’t seem to be in there too strong,” Rhodes said. He ripped open Flake’s sleeve enough to give him some working room. Then Rhodes pulled his big knife and poured a little whiskey over the blade.
One of the women handed Flake a piece of twisted cloth. Flake nodded and shoved the thing into his mouth.
Rhodes flipped the excess whiskey off the blade. Grabbing the arrow shaft in his left hand, he brought the knife up with his right. Without hesitation, he quickly slit Flake’s flesh in two quick, short cuts. He gave a yank with his left hand and the arrow came out with a minimum of rending flesh.
Rhodes glanced at Flake. The Mormon’s eyes were closed and his face was coated with a sheen of sweat.
“You want me to stitch that?”
“No,” Flake gasped, pulling the rag out of his mouth.
“Heat?”
“If it needs it.”
Rhodes shrugged. “I’ve seen men come through bigger ordeals all right. A good poultice ought to take care of it, if you have anything to use.”
“We do,” the same woman who had spoken before said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Rhodes nodded, stood, and stepped back. The woman—a middle-aged, matronly sort—took the spot where Rhodes had been squatting and slathered something over the wound in Flake’s arm. Then she bandaged it.
While she was at work, Rhodes picked up the cork and stuck it back in the bottle of whiskey. He felt like having a jolt or two, but decided against it. He figured there was no need to flaunt it in front of these people. He stuffed the bottle into one of the saddlebags.
When the woman had finished and stood, Rhodes asked, “Anything I can contribute to the pot?”
“Mother Eliza?” Flake asked the woman who had just patched him.
“Flour, if you have any, Mr. Rhodes, would be a welcome thing. We have not tasted biscuit or bread for more than a week now.”
Rhodes nodded. “Regular flour? Or cornmeal?”
“We would prefer regular, I think.”
Rhodes got the tin of Elton’s flour and handed it to the woman. “You folks got enough coffee?” he asked.
Eliza dropped her eyes. In question, Rhodes turned to Flake. “Another thing you folks don’t partake of?” he asked.
Flake nodded. “However, if you have coffee and want some, we won’t object.”
Rhodes nodded. “Obliged, Mr. Flake. Now, I best see to my animals.” Rhodes unloaded his mule nearby, stacking the goods as neatly as he could and covering them with the piece of canvas. He took a few minutes to put some water and coffee into his small coffeepot and put it on the fire, which, he noted, now had a few pieces of wagon planking in flames.
He unsaddled the palomino, storing the saddle, bridle, saddle blanket, bedroll, and saddlebags near his supplies. Then he curried the horse well.
“Would you like some oats for your horse, Mr. Rhodes?” Eliza asked quietly from behind him.
“I’d be obliged, ma’am,” Rhodes said politely. He took the feedbag of oats and hooked it over the horse’s head. Then he finished brushing the animal down and hobbled it and the mule. Finally he washed up a little, using water from one of his two canteens.
The others were sitting around the fire now, the women and two of the children with blankets or shawls over their shoulders. With the darkness had come a chill. Rhodes squatted down and self-consciously poured himself a mug of coffee.
“What brings you out here, Mr. Rhodes?” Flake asked. He had gained a little of his color and looked good considering the circumstances.
Rhodes shrugged. He was tired and hungry and did not want to answer questions. “Searchin’,” he finally said.
“Searchin’ for what?” Flake
asked.
“I ain’t sure,” Rhodes said honestly. “I reckon I’ll know what it is once I find it.”
“A frustrating quest, I would think,” Flake said.
“I suppose.” Rhodes paused for a sip. “How’d you folks come to be out here with too few mules?”
Flake sighed. “A sad tale,” he said, then laughed a little. “We were to join one of the caravans heading to Deseret, where our church is headquartered. I was unavoidably delayed in New York on business. By the time I reached Independence, the caravan had been gone almost a month. Brother Hickman and our families here decided to press on anyway, despite the lateness of the season.”
“Where is this Deseret?” he asked.
“Beyond the Wasatch Mountains, on the shores of the Great Salt Lake.”
Rhodes nodded. One of the men he had served with during the war was a veteran of the useless campaign against Brigham Young and his followers out in the vastness of the west. Rhodes had not put together Mormons and Deseret in his head until just now.
“That’s a hell of a trip, Mr. Flake,” Rhodes said. “Excuse my language.”
“It is indeed.”
“You ever been there?”
“No, sir. But we will be welcomed, have no fear.”
“It ain’t your reception there I’m wonderin’ about. It’s you gettin’ there at all.” He paused and sipped some coffee. “It’s more than a mite late in the season for such a trek. I ain’t ever been out there, but I know others who have. It’s a man-killin’ and animal-killin’ trek, Mr. Flake, and one not to be taken lightly. Besides, you don’t get out there in a hurry, winter’ll catch you out here.”
“We are well prepared,” Flake said, a note of indignation in his voice.
“Like hell you are,” Rhodes said roughly. “Pardonin’ my language. Just two wagons,” he said, shaking his head in amazement, “is no match for a good-size war party.”
“You are out here alone, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake pointed out.
“A-yup, I am. I’m also a heap scared of it, too. But things look bad for me, I can ditch the mule and hightail it to other parts in a hurry. But you, you have plodding old wagons, and more importantly, women and children to be considered.”