Finally, when the Indians had satisfied their lust for mayhem, and the sun dropped lower in the sky, they departed. So young Tom Logan left his hiding place and went back to stare at the inhumane carnage left by the warriors, temporarily paralyzed by the stark brutality and disregard for human life. He had not known such savagery existed in the world until this moment, but it was a lesson that would remain with him all his life.
After what seemed forever, he forced his mind to focus on what must be done to survive. The most important thing, he decided, was to bury his parents and perhaps to salvage anything that he might be able to use. The Indians had attempted to set the wagons on fire, but all but a few of the wagons survived with little more than scorched wagon beds and ruined wagon sheets. With no idea as to what he was going to do from this point forward, he occupied his mind with the task of giving his mother and father a decent burial. Pick and shovel were readily available on nearly every wagon, since the savages evidently had no regard for the tools.
It was close to dark by the time he had finished digging the grave and resolved himself to the task of dragging his parents’ bodies into the shallow hole. He choked back a sob when he looked again at his mother’s bloody body, her blouse soaked red from two bullet holes in her breast. But determined to save their remains from the wolves and buzzards, he pulled both bodies to the grave. Gently wrapping their bloody faces with the remains of a half-burned bedsheet, he then proceeded to shovel the dirt over them. It was the worst part of the ordeal for him, but when the grave was finally filled in, he felt more at peace with his parents safely settled in their eternal rest. That done, he sank down beside the grave, unable to think of what he should now do. The whole world seemed to be suddenly devoid of all sound—no birds, no rustling of night critters in the underbrush, no sounds of the horses. It was as if there was nothing left alive but him. Exhausted, he sat there for almost an hour, hardly moving, until at last he lay back on the ground and drifted off to sleep.
He was awakened early the next morning by the sound of an animal snuffling around the half-burned wagon behind him. Sitting upright, he discovered a pack of coyotes sniffing around the bodies strewn on the ground. A shadow flitted quickly across his face, and he looked up to see a circle of buzzards overhead. His first impulse was to fire his father’s shotgun to frighten the scavengers away, so he quickly loaded a couple of shells in the double-barreled weapon and fired once in the air. The result was what he had hoped, for the coyotes immediately scattered in fright. But the success was short-lived, because within minutes the beasts began to slink back and the buzzards became even bolder, enticed by the abundance of food. It was then obvious to the eleven-year-old boy that he was not likely to win a battle with the law of nature. Even if successful in the endeavor, he was not willing to use up his precious shotgun shells in an attempt to kill all the coyotes and buzzards. Neither was he prepared to dig enough graves to bury all of the victims; so, accepting the fact that he was obliged to look out for his own existence, he joined in the scavenging of the wagons.
Knowing he was alone in the world, he searched for blankets and clothes to keep him warm, a pan to cook in, water sacks or a canteen, and anything else of use that the Indians might have overlooked. There was not much to find, for the war party had been pretty thorough. However, he was lucky to find a hatchet and a skinning knife in the storage compartment beneath the boards of a wagon bed. His fellow predators ignored him for the most part, having plenty of food sources to choose from, only challenging him once when a coyote contested a half side of bacon left in a barrel under a wagon. The contest was determined when Tom spent one of his shotgun shells to settle the debate, leaving one more meal for the other scavengers. When he had searched all the wagons and was satisfied there was nothing else of value for him to find, he looked around at the carnage still in progress. Then he turned and looked at the mountains to the north. It occurred to his young mind that there was safety for him in the mountains. He needed a place to hide, for he feared there would be other war parties riding through South Pass.
He was not sure of the exact date, but it was late August, and he knew that winter was already on its way. His father had been worried that they had started too late in the season to reach Oregon before the mountain passes would be closed with snow, and thoughts of the Donner party some ten years before had come to haunt him. Now similar thoughts came to trouble the boy’s mind as he decided what to do. The possibility of continuing on to Oregon was out of the question with nothing awaiting him there. There was nothing for him at Fort Laramie, either, if he tried to return to that army post. Seeing no choice but to seek a place in the mountains where he could become invisible to the Indians, he turned his concentration toward finding the right spot to build his nest. Using twine from a ball he found in one of the wagons, he tied his blanket in a roll, with everything he could pack inside. With his hatchet and knife in his belt, his shotgun in one hand, and a sack containing the quarter side of bacon in the other, he started walking to the north.
With his sights set on the mountains, he continued to walk across the wide expanse of prairie and sagebrush until reaching the foothills that offered some protection from hostile eyes. With his father’s flint and steel, he was able to build a fire to cook the bacon he had managed to save from the coyote. With hatchet and knife, he constructed a rough shelter to provide some protection from the cold mornings in this high elevation. With his first camp now established, he determined to hunt for food.
He had hunted many times with his father, and he was confident of his ability to use his father’s shotgun, but he knew that he would soon be out of shells, so he assigned himself the task of making a bow for small game. With no one to teach him, he experimented with many failures, using limbs from various trees and twine for a bowstring, forcing him to rig traps for squirrels and other small animals to keep from starving. In time, he fashioned a crude bow that provided him with a weapon that worked after a fashion, but it would be some time yet before he learned to shape the proper wood and use animal gut for a bowstring. Through trial and error, he learned to survive.
Over the next several years, the boy found that he was at home in the mountains, and he moved from camp to camp, sometimes high up in the mountains, sometimes along the river that flowed through the valley, following the game that provided his food and clothing. Satisfied with the solitude he found, he had no desire for contact with other humans, and occasionally it was necessary to melt into the trees quickly to avoid an Indian hunting party. Isolation was not his intention in the beginning, but more a natural evolvement that made him at home in the forest, like the coyotes and wolves that hunted the prairie and mountain ridges. Before long, stories of a wild boy began to circulate among the different Shoshone villages when hunters caught a fleeting glimpse of him as he slipped away into the forest.
No one knew where the boy got the name of Wolf, but Wolf himself remembered the day he learned he was called that. It was an important day in the young man’s life, for it marked the first time he had left the sanctuary of the mountains. And his first contact was not with Shoshone hunters but in a chance meeting with a group of Crow hunters in the eastern foothills of the Wind River Range. Now, on this day in June, he recalled those circumstances as he casually watched the three prostitutes prepare supper.
From a rocky ledge at the top of a cliff, he had watched the group of five Crow hunters following a wounded deer through the thick brush lining the stream below him. They were lucky to find deer, he thought, for these hills are about hunted out. Content to remain an observer, he remained kneeling on one knee, watching the event and thinking that if they did not find the deer, he would make use of their kill. A rustling among the willows on the opposite side of the stream caught his eye and he stared hard in that direction. A moment later, he glimpsed the head and shoulders of a Shoshone warrior as he pushed stealthily through the willow thicket. The first warrior was followed by a second, a third, and a fourth, all carrying rifles, and
all advancing upon the unsuspecting Crows. Their intent was obvious, but Wolf felt no responsibility toward either faction, no more so than if it had been a fight between two beasts of the forest; so he remained hidden, content to watch the drama.
Possessing the element of surprise, the Shoshone hunters struck first, just as the Crows were about to find the deer, catching them completely off guard. The initial volley killed three of the Crows before they could respond. The remaining two, although one was wounded, reacted quickly enough to retaliate, killing two of their attackers. At that point, it became a duel between the four remaining combatants at point-blank range. After a series of shots were exchanged, all went quiet, and Wolf moved closer to the edge of the ledge in an effort to see what had happened. After a lengthy pause with no sound from below, he surmised that they had managed to kill each other, and as a result, it occurred to him that fate had provided him the opportunity to acquire weapons and possibly a horse, not to mention a fresh supply of meat. The thought of it caused a rush of excitement in his body. He had been without shells for his shotgun for several years, and he had never owned a horse.
Jumping from ledge to ledge like the goats he had observed in the high mountains, he descended the cliff to the stream below. He paused to take a look around the thicket before moving cautiously through it to the scene of the battle. The bodies lay close together, all apparently dead. He recognized the Shoshone hunters, because he had seen them many times. The others were not Indians he had seen before. Looking about him, he was excited to see rifles of several different makes, but the one that captured his attention was one with a lever-type action, lying next to one of the Shoshones. He immediately dropped the single-shot, bolt-action rifle he had first spotted and picked up the Henry. Turning it over and over, impressed by the cold, lethal beauty of the weapon, he was aware of a feeling of new confidence, for it gave him a powerful weapon for protection, far superior to his crude bow and arrows.
He rolled the body over to remove the cartridge belt. As he was strapping it around his waist, he sensed a possible danger, and he looked quickly at a body lying several feet away in time to catch the movement of the eyelids as they slammed shut. Immediately alert, he cocked the rifle and prepared to defend himself, but there was no threat from the wounded man, since Wolf could see the man’s rifle lying several yards away. Having no animosity toward either side in the short, violent confrontation that had just taken place, Wolf went to the wounded man’s side and knelt. When he rolled him over on his back, the Indian’s eyes fluttered wide open and the two men stared at each other for a few moments—the white man in curiosity, the Indian in helpless fear that the scalping knife would come next.
Wolf looked at the hole in the Indian’s upper chest and nodded solemnly. With no knowledge of any Indian dialects, he asked simply, “How bad?”
There was a flicker of hope in the wounded man’s eyes, and he rasped a response in English. “Don’t know. Hurt like hell.”
“I’ll try to help,” Wolf said, almost startled when the Indian spoke. It was almost as strange to hear his own voice as well, for he had spoken very little over the past several years. “I’ll be back,” he said, and rose to his feet then to quickly check the other bodies to make sure they were dead. He wouldn’t hesitate to help the wounded man, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t get a bullet in the back while he was doing it. After he was satisfied that the other warriors offered no threat, he returned to the wounded man’s side. “I don’t know much about doctorin’,” he said, “but I’ll do what I can.”
“Get horses first,” the Indian said.
“All right,” Wolf said. He had not thought about the horses, but he realized then that he should have. He immediately disappeared into the willows where he had seen four Indian ponies when he came down from the cliff. Knowing there should be five more close at hand, he continued to follow the stream until he came upon the other horses. He tied the reins together to a length of rawhide rope he found on one of the horses and led the five back to pick up the other four. When he returned to the scene of the fight, he tied his lead rope to a tree and left the horses to stand in a bunch.
While Wolf was fetching the horses, the wounded man had managed to pull himself up to a half-raised position with his back against a tree. Though obviously in great pain, the Indian gazed steadily at his white benefactor as he approached once again. “You’re the one they call Wolf,” he pronounced, for he was sure it could be no other.
Not understanding, Wolf responded with a blank stare at first, then asked, “Why do you say that? I don’t know that name.”
Certain that he was right, the Indian said, “That is what they call you. My name is Big Knife of the Absaroka people. I thank you for your kindness.”
Remembering that Absaroka was how the Crows referred to themselves, he was somewhat surprised to find a Crow hunting party in this part of the Wind River Mountains. “My name is Tom Logan,” he said. “I don’t know this name you call me.” It occurred to him then that he had had to pause to think for a moment before recalling his name. It had been years since it had been necessary. He turned his attention to the care of Big Knife’s wound then. There was little more he could do for the wound than to fetch water from the stream and clean it as best he could. He had failed to notice earlier that, in addition to the chest wound, there was a long, shallow wound in Big Knife’s scalp on the side of his head. Though not serious, this wound probably explained the unconscious state he was in when Wolf first arrived.
As his brain cleared somewhat from the grazing blow to his head, Big Knife realized that the wound in his chest was probably not as serious as he had at first thought. “I don’t think bullet in too deep,” he said. “Maybe you pull it out.” Wolf nodded agreeably and drew his skinning knife, grateful for Big Knife’s suggestion, having been undecided what he should do to help the wounded man. Proving the Crow’s prognosis to be correct, Wolf was successful in probing for the lead slug and extracted it with a minimum of harm to the wound. At Big Knife’s suggestion, Wolf built a fire for the purpose of cauterizing the wound. The treatment left Big Knife with limited use of his left arm and shoulder, but otherwise able to ride.
It was time then to decide what to do next. There was much to be done in order to return to his village, which was two full days’ ride to the Sweetwater River. The bodies of his four brother tribesmen would have to be taken home, as well as extra horses that were too valuable to leave behind. Big Knife clearly needed help, and although Tom was reluctant to stray far from his familiar territory, he agreed to go with him. Although Big Knife felt an urgency to leave before encountering another Shoshone party, they decided to wait until morning to start. There was a deer to skin and butcher if they were to have food for the journey, so Wolf set about recovering the carcass at once. After he had meat roasting over the fire, he turned to the task of loading the bodies of Big Knife’s friends on their ponies. Of the four Shoshone horses, Wolf took his pick, at Big Knife’s insistence, and selected a stout bay with a substantial Indian saddle. Big Knife smiled, satisfied that Wolf had been rewarded with horse, rifle, and ammunition for his trouble. “Good pick,” he said. “Pony strong. Make you good horse.”
Big Knife watched his unlikely rescuer as Wolf finished the preparations to leave, fascinated by the young man known by several of the tribes as the seldom-seen spirit of the mountains. It was obvious by the crude workmanship of the deerskin garments and leggings that there was no woman’s hand in the sewing. And there was an almost childlike air about the man’s conduct. But there was no doubting the young man’s strength, for he hefted the bodies of Big Knife’s friends upon the backs of their horses with little more than an insignificant grunt. Now, the chores done, he sat down opposite Big Knife and examined his newly acquired rifle, again in a childlike manner. Big Knife was sure he was the one for whom the legend was created. “Wolf,” he pronounced. “That good name for you.”
The young man glanced up when Big Knife said it. He stopp
ed to consider what the Crow warrior said. He had not been Tom Logan for many years now. “Wolf” suited him better. He decided to keep the name. It was what Big Knife was going to call him anyway.
What would have been a two-day ride turned into three because of Big Knife’s injury. Although it was not a life-threatening wound, the bullet had torn into the muscles of his chest and shoulder, making it uncomfortable to ride for extended periods of time. During the times of rest, the Crow warrior sought to satisfy his curiosity for the seemingly guileless young white man who seemed as much a part of the frontier as the Indian. And yet there were many things that Crow boys learned at an early age that Wolf obviously did not know. The first lesson was to offer suggestions that would make the boy’s butchering of the deer more efficient, saving time as well as some of the better parts of the carcass. He found Wolf to be receptive to his suggestions, and not offended at all. The butchering was the first of many lessons Wolf would learn from his new friend and mentor.
Day of the Wolf Page 2