Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  Martha glanced out the narrow front window of the sod house, searching the path for Sam and Billy. The three-foot-thick walls of the soddy provided more insulation from the intense heat that was building up outside, but moist rings were already darkening the underarms of her rust-brown dress.

  "Sarah, will you see what's keeping your father and Billy?" asked Martha as she turned to the stove. "If those two don't hurry up, they'll get a choice of cold or burned biscuits." She wrapped the skirt of her apron around the handle of the big, steaming coffee pot and placed it on the rough oak table.

  Sarah pulled open the thick cottonwood door and started down the path to the creek. She stopped, spotting the two full water buckets resting on the creek bank at the foot of the hill. Her eyes scanned the creek banks uneasily.

  "Dad!" she called. "Billy! Come on and eat." Glancing toward the barn, she caught sight of her father's fly-covered prostrate body. Automatically, she moved toward the still figure, when out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed movement of a shadow just inside the open barn door. She turned and dashed toward the house, choking back near-hysterical sobs as she ran. As she stumbled through the door, she pushed it shut and slammed the heavy wooden bar into its iron bracket. Back flat against the door, she faced her startled mother.

  "Mother," she said frantically, "he's dead. Dad's dead. Out by the barn. There's somebody out there."

  "Oh, my God!" Martha gasped. Stunned and distraught, she was silent for a moment. Then, "Billy. Where's Billy?"

  "I don't know. I didn't see him."

  "The guns," Martha said. "Get the guns." She moved to the north window of the sod house and, peering out cautiously, she could make out Sam's grotesque head and shoulders before her view was obstructed by the huge barn. The blood was drying now and was beginning to darken and brown. She turned her head away, her face a ghostly white, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Sarah darted quickly into the other room. Her father's double-barreled shotgun and old Henry rifle leaned against the wall in the corner near her parents' double bed. A worn, rawhide bag of shells was tied to the shotgun by a leather thong. She rummaged through the drawers of her father's oak chest and found a tin box containing his remaining Henry cartridges. Snapping up the guns and ammunition, she returned quickly to the main room.

  She handed the shotgun and shell bag to Martha who positioned herself by the north window and readied the twin barrels. Sarah kept the weighty Henry and slipped to one of the two front windows, resting the barrel of the rifle on the sill. Sam had brought the Henry back from the war. A powerful gun, it could kill at one thousand yards and would fire sixteen times without reloading. According to Sam, Union soldiers had claimed that the Henry, loaded on Sunday, fired all week. Sarah knew how to use the weapon but not more than twenty cartridges remained in the tin box.

  For nearly half an hour, the two women watched and waited. Intermittently, Martha shook spastically as her eyes came to rest on the gory head of her dead husband. The smothering heat was beginning to overtake the house and the back of Martha's dress was soaked with perspiration.

  Suddenly, Sarah saw a huge, black-bearded man emerge from the foliage across the creek. He swaggered triumphantly through the shallow creek and stopped, hands on hips, on the creek bank near the abandoned water pails. "Mother," she whispered, "there's a man down by the creek. He's white."

  "I'm sure I saw an Indian peek around the corner of the barn. This shotgun won't do much good at this range, though," said Martha.

  Sarah said, "Just wait till he gets close."

  The big, white man hollered, "Come on out, folks. We ain't gonna hurt nobody. Just want a few eats, that's all. Then we'll be on our way."

  He was answered by the roar of the Henry, and he stumbled backward into the creek as he dodged the bullet whining past his ear.

  Scrambling awkwardly from the cold creek, Bear sputtered, "That's just fine, friends. You want to play rough, we'll show ya a real good time.” He scratched his groin, cackled and waved to the Indians. "Let's have a little fire, boys!" he yelled.

  In a few moments, the small outbuildings were engulfed in flames. The horses were driven out of the barn and snagged quickly by the Sioux warriors. No sooner was the last horse out than heavy, black smoke curled skyward from the barn.

  Shrill squeals of pigs and bawling of cattle broke the still morning as the Sioux commenced their ruthless, systematic slaughter of the livestock. A few cows penned in the barn had not been released by the Indians, and the putrid smell of burning flesh filled the air. The stench drifted through the windows of the sod house, and Sarah and Martha coughed and choked, fighting the tears that streamed involuntarily from their smoke-filled eyes.

  Martha spied a painted, bare-chested Indian in front of the burning barn not far from Sam's body. The shotgun exploded futilely. She squeezed the trigger again and then stooped to reload. The shotgun blast drew the raiders' attention back to the house.

  The back of the sod structure was windowless, so the Indians were forced to approach from the front or sides. Bear charged across the creek, bellowing orders as the warriors moved closer to the house. Sarah's Henry barked twice, kicking up dust near Bear's feet as he dived belly-flat against the dry, hard slope. The Indians weaved back and forth, crawling, leaping, and dodging so that Sarah could not get a clear shot. The rifle cracked twice again, but she could not maneuver the heavy weapon quickly enough to strike a moving target.

  A torrent of bullets thudded against the sod walls as Sarah ducked below the sill. Martha rose to the window, sliding the big, double barrels of the shotgun searchingly along the ledge. A single shot pierced the quiet. Sarah turned, startled, when she heard the sharp clanging of metal against metal as the shotgun fell from its perch, bouncing against the cooking stove as it fell to the hard-packed earth floor. She shrieked as she saw her mother crumple and collapse next to the gun, a widening mass of scarlet saturating the bosom of her dress.

  Leaning the Henry against the wall, she crawled quickly to Martha's side. "Mother! Mother!" she choked, grasping the woman's unfeeling hand. The gaping, gurgling hole at the base of Martha's throat and her pale, frozen face told Sarah that her cries were unheard. Shocked and dazed, she was jolted to her senses when she heard the scraping on the window frame as a Sioux warrior started to crawl through the narrow opening. Sarah snatched up the shotgun as the Indian's hands grasped the ledge to pull himself through. She leveled the shotgun and watched tensely as his sinewy muscles tightened and an eerie, painted face and shoulders emerged through the window. She raised the shotgun calmly and squeezed the trigger. The explosion thundered and vibrated through the room; the Indian tumbled backward through the window, his nose and the right side of his face blown completely away, replaced by a red pulp of blood and bone fragments.

  Wiping the splattered blood and stinging perspiration from her eyes, Sarah edged along the wall. She stopped when she heard the pounding and hammering that thundered against the bulky slabs that formed the door. Suddenly, the gleaming blade of Sam's own axe appeared through the splintered cottonwood. The bar snapped and the shattered door fell in. Another Sioux warrior, clad only in breechclout and buckskin leggings, leaped through the open doorway flourishing a blood-stained war axe menacingly. Upon seeing Sarah, he crouched, an evil grin parting his thin, wet lips as he advanced toward her with the war axe upraised. Again, she pulled the shotgun trigger, and the resulting blast hurled the warrior backward. His eyes bulged open in astonishment and puzzlement as the axe dropped from his hand, and, instinctively, he grasped at his belly in a hopeless attempt to catch the pulverized, bluish intestines that spilled from the massive hole there. He jerked convulsively and tumbled over Sarah's narrow bed that had rested so peacefully along the south wall of the soddy.

  Sarah darted, shotgun in hand, for the rawhide shell sack on the floor near Martha's limp body. She reached in the sack frantically, pulling out two more shells, but before she could reload, the shotgun was twisted harshly from he
r hands and she was pushed to the floor by a heavy, booted foot. She squirmed to get away as a rifle butt slammed against her forehead, and she drifted into unconsciousness.

  Minutes later, Sarah's eyelids twitched and blinked open. As she raised her head groggily from the floor, her eyes focused on Martha's stripped bloody skull. She swallowed hard and turned away. Struggling to her knees, she fingered the throbbing, tender bulge on her forehead and grimaced as she ran her fingers along the sensitive, moist gash enfolded within the swelling.

  She was startled by the clanging and rattling of Martha's pans and looked up to see a tall, skinny, almost emaciated, Indian ransacking her mother's small cupboard. His long, matted hair was draped over filthy, wet, slippery looking shoulders, and slanted streaks of red and yellow adorned the warrior's brown cheeks giving him an evil, foreboding look. Another shorter, stockier warrior dragged the body of his dead companion through the open doorway. Sarah's eyes fixed upon the fresh, still bloody scalp of long, light brown hair that dangled from his rawhide waist band.

  Suddenly, a rough, calloused hand yanked her head sideways and tilted her chin upward; her eyes met the dark, piercing eyes of Bear Jenkins. "Now ain't you a saucy, little morsel," he laughed. "Come on up and say howdy to ol' Bear." He jerked her up from her knees, squeezing her arm in a viselike grip until she bit her lips to keep from crying out. Bear chided, "Now, sweetheart, you just be nice to ol' Bear, and you might keep that pretty scalp of yours. Better yet, you might just get to come along and keep me company for a few days." The big man chuckled to himself and relaxed his grip momentarily.

  Sarah tore loose and shot for the open door, but pulled up short when she confronted Lone Badger standing just outside. The Indian's expressionless, stoic face showed no emotion, but his hand tightened perceptibly on the bloodstained knife at his side. Sarah veered away from the opening and dashed to the far end of the room, backing against the wall, her wild eyes darting back and forth like a cornered animal. Lone Badger stood silently in the entryway while the other Sioux rummaged noisily in the small bedroom.

  Bear closed in on Sarah, his broken, leering grin and a growing bulge in his trousers leaving no doubt about his intentions. "Come here, you yellow-haired bitch!" he croaked. "Papa Bear's gonna give you somethin' special."

  He lunged for Sarah's arm, but she ducked swiftly away and he crashed against the wall. He charged after her and, this time, caught her wrist, twisting it viciously until she fell painfully to her knees. He slapped her sharply across the mouth. "Listen, Goldilocks. You do what I say or you're gonna be one dead little girl," he warned. Sarah tried to pull away and the big man slipped his Bowie knife from its sheath. Waving the wicked long-bladed knife in front of her eyes, he asked, "We gonna be friends or not?"

  His jaw tightened, and his beady eyes said that she had better surrender—or die. She quit struggling. "Now, that's more like it, dolly," Bear chortled, loosening his grip on her arm. "Now you just stand still, and I'm gonna treat ya like a real lady."

  His crusty, grimy hands shot out snatching the top of Sarah's dress, ripping, tearing, and pulling at her clothes until she stood stark naked in the room. Sarah remained silent and grim-faced. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but angry defiance flashed in her eyes.

  "My, my, my!" grinned Bear. "Ain't you got a nice pair of tits, honey. And just fetch your eyes on that," his eyes roamed down her firm, smooth belly to the dark triangle between her legs. "I'd wager you'd be just ripe for the pickin’.’”

  Tossing his Bowie knife on the table, Bear unfastened his belt as he walked slowly toward Sarah. His buckskin breeches dropped to his knees, and his flushed, engorged organ sprang free. Sarah shivered involuntarily and edged away, but he grabbed her wrist and, in a single motion, flipped her to the hard dirt floor. Instantly, he was on top of her, pinning her arms to the floor, crushing the breath from her with his massive, corpulent paunch. She tried to turn her face from his foul, rotten breath as his open, panting mouth sought hers. Sarah winced and sobbed softly as he punched again and again, trying to gain entry. Finally, he penetrated brutally, and only then did she cry out, reacting to the searing pain of his savage thrusts. Bear huffed and wheezed as his body pounded against Sarah's with harsh, driving force. He grunted like a hog when release came, spittle dripping from the corners of his mouth. He withdrew abruptly and lifted his wet, slippery body away. As he stood and pulled up his greasy, dirty trousers, he kicked Sarah sharply in the ribs.

  "Now, weren't that nice, sweetheart," he said, "and just think, you can always remember that ol' Bear gave it to you the first time." He laughed hysterically.

  Lone Badger stepped silently through the entryway, and Bear turned to join the Indians in the looting of the house. Sarah crawled snaillike to the corner of the room and huddled there on the floor, her smoldering eyes following the big white man as he lumbered about the room.

  The skinny Indian emerged from the bedroom, his arms loaded with plunder. He stopped short and stared impassively at the naked young woman curled up in the corner. He looked at Bear and queried him in guttural Sioux.

  Bear fixed his eyes on Sarah and shook his head affirmatively. "You hear that, Goldilocks? Crazy Buffalo wants some, too. You'd be glad to oblige, wouldn't you?"

  He turned to the Indian and said, "Give her a good humpin’, Crazy Buffalo. We're gonna pull out with the boy. When you're done, kill her." He stooped and picked up Sam's Henry and, gathering up his spoils, stomped out of the house chuckling to himself. Lone Badger followed.

  Sarah brightened appreciably upon hearing Bear's casual reference to Billy. Her eyes became alive and alert. Crazy Buffalo piled his bounty on the oak table, and, as he advanced deliberately toward her, Sarah heard the horses galloping away from the homestead. A deathlike hush fell upon the sod house, interrupted only by the unrelenting hum of the flies at work on the carnage left by the raiders.

  The stone-faced Sioux was attired only in a filthy, buckskin breechclout and ankle-high moccasins. His protruding ribs seemed on the verge of breaking through the tight, wet skin of his chest. But Sarah's eyes were drawn to the bone-handled hunting knife suspended in a crude sheath from the rawhide thong that served as the Indian's belt. She remained crouched and unmoving in the corner. As the Indian neared, the pungent odor of sour horse manure and stale perspiration was overpowering. He stood above her, his dark eyes traveling up and down her body. He pulled his breechclout aside and was on her like a cat. She feigned submission and tumbled back down to the floor. As the Sioux pressed against her and reared his buttocks in anticipation of entry, Sarah's fingers closed around the smooth handle of the knife and slid it easily from the sheath. With a fierce, upward thrust, she plunged the keen-edged blade into the Indian's belly. His eyes popped out in shock, and his mouth flew open to scream, but his throat emitted only a gagging, choking sound as Sarah shoved him away, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Knife in hand, Sarah rose and peered out the window. They were gone. Clothing was strewn throughout the house; she singled out some of her own and dressed. She pulled a quilt from her parents' bed and took a blanket from Billy's straw-filled mat beneath her own bed. Dry-eyed and grim, she covered her mother's rigid grotesque body with the blanket. Carrying the quilt, she stepped barefoot out of the sod house and proceeded purposefully to Sam's unmoving form. Flies rose in a black, buzzing swarm as Sarah draped the down-filled quilt over his body.

  Until then, Sarah had been oblivious to the intense heat radiating from the barn as orange flames swallowed and consumed the large building. She backed away and turned her eyes upon the devastation and slaughter that surrounded her. She gazed blankly, like someone in a trance, at the mutilated carcasses of the cattle and hogs. Abruptly, she pivoted and ran back to the sod house. Shortly, she reemerged cradling the big shotgun that had been passed over by the invaders. She stepped quickly down the slope, through the creek, and into the dense undergrowth on the opposite side. There she crouched next to one of the towering cottonwoods and wai
ted in fearful anticipation of the raiders' return.

  4

  SEVERAL MILES SOUTHEAST of the Kesterson ranch, Thomas Jefferson Carnes brushed the stinging sweat from his eyes and climbed the dry, grassy hillside toward the crude board shack perched at the summit. Wasted the whole damn morning on that wheel, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the crippled wagon resting at the base of the hill near Rock Creek. As he neared the top of the incline, Tom caught the faint aroma of salt pork and beans, and could make out the painted homemade sign above the cabin door—Double C Cattle Co. Some cattle company—a half section of dying grass and fifty half-starved cows. It was a long way from Red Oaks plantation.

  Tall, almost six feet two inches, and sandy haired, Tom had the bearing of an aristocrat. Hard and trim from the rugged ranch life, Tom still carried himself like the army officer he had been. A southerner by birth and temperament, Tom had been a boy during the Civil War, too young to serve in the Confederate Army, but he remembered with unflagging bitterness.

  He was still haunted by the gory picture of his father impaled on the end of a Yankee bayonet while their elegant plantation home was being devoured by flames. The war had driven him from the beloved Virginia plantation and sent him, with Joseph, to the home of his father's kindly brother, Phillip Carnes. His lawyer uncle had seen to his material needs and had been instrumental in obtaining Tom's appointment to West Point two years after the war. When Phillip, as executor of John Carnes’s will, had been forced to sell Red Oaks at a fraction of its worth, Tom had felt a deep sense of loss and loneliness. The void had never been filled, and sometimes Tom worried that his quest for roots was an unhealthy obsession.