Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  Tom had excelled at the military academy, but he was a loner. The other cadets had looked to Tom for leadership, but not friendship. He knew that he was cool and detached, and that some invisible barrier kept him from true comradeship with the others. But far from being hurt, he had been gratified that his aloofness afforded him additional time during which to plan and dream.

  Graduating with honors from the academy, he had been assigned as a green second lieutenant to Fort Laramie in Wyoming territory. He had reported for duty at Fort Laramie three years after the Treaty of 1868 which brought an uneasy peace with the Sioux. During his uneventful duty there, the fort was free from Indian assault, and Tom's own combat experience as a cavalry officer had been confined to a few skirmishes with Indian bands led by an obscure Oglala Sioux war chief called Crazy Horse. In his nearly four years at Fort Laramie, Tom advanced to the rank of captain. Only twenty-five years old, his progress was meteoric for the peacetime army. His military career was tagged by his superiors as promising.

  But the preceding spring, Tom, to the shock and puzzlement of the professional army, had resigned his commission and headed by train for Fairbury, Nebraska, the county seat of Jefferson County. He had been taken with the green, rolling hills of the county when he had passed through on his way to Fort Laramie. The sturdy oaks and enormous cottonwoods that lined the creek bottoms struck a responsive chord and rekindled his elusive dreams. Here he would build his own Red Oaks. . . . And he had never been comfortable wearing blue.

  Tom paused in front of the shack and removed his sweat-soaked shirt. He liked the liberated feeling that the nakedness gave to his tight, muscular back and arms.

  From his position on the crest of the hill, Tom could see for miles in every direction. He savored the view to the south where the rolling, grassy hills of Nebraska gave way to the more level acres of northern Kansas. Turning his eyes to the northwest, he observed thick, black smoke rising from behind a ridge and dissipating into expansive blue sky. It couldn't be a grass fire—the smoke was too localized and concentrated. Instinctively troubled and disquieted, he turned and paced more deliberately to the shack. As he entered the unkempt, single-room structure, he greeted the other half of Double C Cattle Company.

  "Well, Joe, it doesn't smell too bad. Wouldn't matter anyhow. I'm hungry enough right now to eat fried buffalo chips if I had to."

  "You just might have to," the other countered, "if you aren't a little more complimentary of the cook."

  Joe turned toward Tom, skillet in hand, and grinned broadly. He was easily several inches taller than Tom and had wide, massive shoulders. The sinewy muscles that spanned his arms and chest stretched his denim shirt to its limits. The smooth, mahogany-hued skin of his face was embellished with a dashing, black mustache that draped just slightly over his lips. Joe was a handsome man by any standard, and his easy smile had, no doubt, dissolved the defenses of many a young woman.

  Many former slaves had adopted the last names of their masters, but Joseph Carnes also carried his master's seed. It had been common knowledge on Red Oaks plantation that Joe was also John Carnes’s son. Tom's mother had died giving birth to her son. Soon after, it was household gossip that Becky, a captivating, ebony servant girl, was sharing her master's bed. A bit more than a year after Tom's birth, Sally bore a son.

  In the years that followed, Sally became mistress of the house in all but name. She occupied her own room on the master's floor and administered the day-to-day operation of the household. Joe shared Tom's private tutor and was permitted only occasionally to play with other Negro children on the plantation. Like most other southern plantation owners of his era, John Carnes rationalized and supported the institution of slavery, but he was also a kind man and gentle with the slave population of the plantation. He refused, often at considerable financial sacrifice, to break up Negro families and even maintained a small school for the slave children. Red Oaks slaves were frequently labeled "uppity" by the Carneses’ neighbors.

  When Joseph was ten years old, he and his mother had been formally granted their freedom by John Carnes, and, although the prized documents were no longer required, Joseph still carried them with his valuables as proof that he was a free man before Abe Lincoln came along. Nonetheless, Joe and Sally had remained at Red Oaks as free blacks and an informal part of the Carnes family. Sally died shortly after the start of the war, but it was accepted as a matter of course that Joe would continue residing in the home with unacknowledged status of son and brother.

  After John Carnes’s death, Joe was taken into the Phillip Carnes home with Tom for a brief spell. He was promptly assigned servant duties and, although he and Tom had remained close, he was unable to accept the new family relationship. One morning, he decided to leave and head west.

  The railroad had offered a natural home for Joe's talents. Although not more than a boy, with his enormous size and strength, he quickly landed a job with a Negro crew, laying rails for the Union Pacific near Omaha. His innate intelligence and obvious education made him a natural link between management and the unskilled, uneducated Negro workers. In a short time, he had been made foreman of his own crew.

  Later, he was assigned as liaison to a band of Pawnee scouts employed by the Union Pacific to protect its crews from Sioux and Cheyenne attacks as the railroad wormed its way across the Nebraska plains. He became fast friends with many of the Pawnee warriors who were in awe of the black man's towering physique and overpowering strength. He was called Black Bull by the Pawnee in honor of the bull buffalo that was so highly worshipped and respected by the Plains Indians. Joe found ready acceptance among the Pawnee and had even taken a Pawnee wife who had been tragically killed in a Sioux raid on their village during one of Joe's long absences. In his years with the Pawnee, Joe honed and sharpened his skills as a frontiersman, and by May of 1869, when the tracks of the Union Pacific were joined with the Central Pacific at Promontory Point in Utah, Black Bull had become something of a legend.

  In the years that followed, Joe continued working for the Union Pacific, mostly as a scout and troubleshooter for construction and maintenance crews. Between assignments, he lived with the Pawnee. He and Tom exchanged letters when they could, and, after Tom's assignment to Fort Laramie, they were able to meet once or twice a year. At their last meeting before Tom's resignation from the army, Tom had related his plans. Uncle Phillip was holding Tom's small inheritance from his father, and Tom had accumulated some money of his own, and Tom proposed they pool their capital and have a try at ranching. Joe, ready to try something new, agreed. He was to ride to Fairbury and scout out the possibilities; Tom would join him as soon as he was discharged.

  Tom eased into a chair at the rustic, cottonwood-hewn table as Joe scraped chunks of salt pork, smothered with steaming beans, from a greasy, black skillet into two tin plates. Setting the plates at the table and taking his own seat, Joe asked casually, "Did you see that smoke off to the northwest this morning?"

  "I just saw it when I came up. How long has it been going?" Tom replied.

  Joe said, "I noticed it when I was working out by the horse barn about midmorning—it hasn't died down much since then. It's all shooting up from one place. It's not likely a grass fire. Could be trouble for somebody."

  Tom queried, "Who lives over that way, do you know?"

  "A family name of Kesterson, I think. Small ranchers."

  The Virginians had lived in the county for less than half a year, having purchased the tiny ranch and small herd of stock cows with the last of their funds. Their only real acquaintances in the county were the lawyer in Fairbury who had helped with the land acquisition, and the storekeeper at nearby Steele City where they purchased most of their supplies. So far, they had kept pretty much to themselves—Tom, because of his natural penchant for isolation; Joe, although, more extroverted, because years of living with his race had taught him to proceed cautiously.

  The men ate ravenously and quietly until Tom broke the silence. "You feel like a ride this aft
ernoon?"

  Joe answered, "I thought you were just going to move out here, build a big ranch house and mind your own business. I don't know why the Sioux didn't lift your scalp out in Fort Laramie country, anyway. If you'd had your eyes open, you'd have seen that there are two horses tied down by the barn—saddled and ready to go." Joe grinned, as he rose from the table. "Let's hit the road, partner. You can do the dishes when we get back."

  5

  THEY SMELLED IT before they saw it. The two riders, the lighter man mounted on a sleek bay mare and the larger man astride a big-boned spirited, white gelding, made their way warily along the red clay banks of Rock Creek. They stopped intermittently to listen, catching only the steady hum of the creek waters and the labored breathing of their own sweating horses.

  It was mid-afternoon when they led their horses into the clearing. The stench was almost unbearable and Tom struggled to retain his dinner. During his duty in Wyoming, he had viewed some of the butchery and mutilation inflicted by the Oglala Sioux; there was no doubt in his mind about who had visited the Kesterson homestead. As he surveyed the smoldering debris and bloating carnage, he felt indignation and outrage at the waste and senselessness of it all.

  He lifted his wide-brimmed hat, sighed, and brushed back his damp, coarse sandy hair. A dark shadow swooped across his forehead. Shielding his green-brown eyes from the blinding sun momentarily, he looked upward and caught sight of the black, sinister-looking turkey vultures that had been interrupted in their work and soared above the smoldering outbuildings, their wide, outspread wings casting floating shadows on the ground.

  "Jesus Christ," choked Joe. "They've been slaughtered. Every Goddamn last living thing's been slaughtered!"

  They tied their horses at the edge of the clearing. Tom slipped his Winchester carbine easily from the rawhide loop that suspended the rifle from the saddle. He had opted for the cavalry technique of carrying the weapon on horseback in lieu of the bulkier, more cumbersome, saddle holster used by most cattlemen. The twelve-shot repeating saddle gun was the companion piece to the Colt "Peacemaker" revolver resting in the holster on his right hip. Both guns conveniently accepted the .44 centerfire cartridges and were welcome improvements to the antiquated, outmoded army firearms.

  The two men walked slowly and cautiously into the open yard—Joe's fingers brushing the cold steel of his own six-shooter, Tom cradling the Winchester in readiness. They stepped up to the quilt-covered corpse of Sam Kesterson near the smoking timbers of the barn. Joe bent over and pulled back the bloody cover. "Must be Kesterson," he observed matter-of-factly as his eyes fell upon Sam's crushed, disfigured head. Releasing the quilt, he scanned the fringes of the clearing searchingly. "Somebody lived to tell about it or he wouldn't have been covered up."

  Not far from the sod house, they found the gruesome bodies of two Sioux, a trail of dried, brown blood leading from the open doorway indicating that one of the victims had been dragged from the house. "Somebody sure as hell used a shotgun on those two," Tom pointed out. Then, tugging at the rawhide medicine pouch that adorned the neck of one of the dead Indians, "They're Sioux, all right."

  The Oglala, one of the tribes of the Teton Sioux, believed that all the powers they needed were controlled by various gods. When a Sioux boy approached manhood, he went alone into the wilderness where he fasted, prayed, tortured himself, and waited for a vision. Upon returning to the village, he went to the medicine man who interpreted his vision and identified the boy's guardian spirit. The spirit might dwell in any object—a bird, an animal, even a plant. The Oglala boy would then obtain some part of the guardian spirit, perhaps a feather or a bone, and carry it with him at all times, frequently in a small rawhide pouch. This was his reservoir of personal power.

  Tom led the way through the open doorway. In a few moments, both men emerged choking and coughing from the heavy, putrefying odor that permeated the house. They had stayed just long enough to note that the dead occupants were a Sioux warrior and a middle-aged white woman, and then they promptly evacuated the premises.

  Tom said, "I'm afraid we've got some nasty work to do. Tell you what, Joe, we'll draw straws to see who takes the house."

  "Go to hell," Joe answered, and walked away to the barn. Kicking away burnt, smoking debris, Joe scrounged through the rubble, retrieving any salvageable tools and implements. Picking up a rusty spade attached to a charred stub, he froze when he caught movement in the brush across the creek. Slowly, he moved toward Tom who was backing clumsily out of the soddy, his hands locked on the ankles of the dead Sioux.

  "Tom," Joe whispered, "don't turn around, but somebody's in the bushes across the creek. On three, hit the dirt. One . . . two . . . three."

  The stiff, rigid legs of the dead Indian thumped against the earth and both men, drawing their Colts, dived to the ground pointing their pistols in the direction of the cottonwood grove.

  Abruptly, the brush beneath he trees parted and Sarah waded into the creek. The two men rose as she walked calmly and soberly up the worn path, her hands gripped tightly on the shotgun. Holstering his Peacemaker, Tom hesitated and then stepped quickly to meet the young woman.

  She was a pathetic sight—wet, tangled hair, her sweaty grimy face speckled with blood, and a bluish purple lump covering half of her forehead. As she drew closer, Tom could make out attractive feminine features that suggested a dormant beauty slept beneath the dirty, weary face. But he was stricken especially by the young woman's eyes, ice-blue, intelligent eyes, but cold and unfeeling. There were no tears, no outward signs of the intense sorrow she must feel.

  He moved to relieve Sarah of the heavy shotgun. He had expected the disheveled, exhausted young woman to collapse sobbing in his arms. Instead, Tom knew she had eyed him appraisingly before surrendering the shotgun, and now her mind was obviously turning to the immediate tasks at hand.

  Ill at ease, he introduced himself, "Ma'am, my name's Tom Carnes,“ and gesturing toward the Negro, “and this is my brother, Joe Carnes. We live south of here a few miles and saw the smoke from your ranch." Then softly, he murmured, "I'm sorry. This must have been your family."

  She responded dispassionately, "Yes, my mother's in the cabin, and that's my father." She nodded her head in the direction of Sam's prone body. "We were attacked by Indians led by a white man. One Indian and a white man—he called himself Bear—took my brother Billy. When I heard your horses, I thought they were returning. I have to get my brother back, but first there's work to be done here. I'd be grateful for your help."

  Tom had the uneasy feeling that her polite quest was nearer a command than a plea for help. Tom was accustomed to giving orders and was mildly perplexed at the turnabout. He looked questioningly at Joe. The latter's face was expressionless, but there was an annoying twinkle in his dark eyes.

  "Well, Captain Carnes," he said, "I'll see if I can fix that shovel."

  6

  THANK GOD, THAT'S done, Tom thought as he stood solemnly by Sarah near the two fresh mounds of black dirt. They had dug a shallow common grave for the three Indians and had buried Sam and Martha near the graves of their three children. Joe had fashioned a crude wooden cross and erected it midway between the graves of Sam and Martha. The tediously carved inscription read simply, "Sam and Martha Kesterson—August 16, 1875."

  As they walked silently away from the graves, Tom breathed a sigh of relief. It had been an unpleasant, miserable job and he was damn glad it was over. There was nothing more they could do about the bloating carrion that was scattered about the homestead. They would have to leave that to the coyotes and turkey vultures and other carnivorous predators to clean up the mess.

  He couldn't understand what kept Sarah going. She had been dry-eyed and almost serenely calm during the entire macabre process. She had unflinchingly undertaken to dress her parents for burial and, having accomplished that, had spent the remainder of the afternoon straightening up the house and packing the few items of personal belongings that had been overlooked by the raiders.

/>   It was drawing close to sundown. What were they going to do with this young woman? She sure as hell couldn't stay here alone and, as far as Tom knew, he and Joe might be the closest neighbors. They could take her to Fairbury or Steele City, but, riding double, it would be well after dark when they got there. Tom and Sarah paused in front of the sod house, and Joe strolled on toward the horses.

  As if reading Tom's mind, Sarah tilted her head upward, meeting Tom's eyes directly. "Mr. Carnes," she said, "do you suppose I might impose upon your hospitality a bit further and stay at your ranch tonight? I won't stay long; I plan to go after Billy in the morning."

  Taken aback, he answered, "Uh, certainly, Miss Kesterson. I was just going to ask you if you'd like to stay. I have to warn you that our accommodations aren't exactly luxurious, though."

  She knew he wouldn't say no. She was reading him like a book; you could see that in her eyes. Those damned eyes, he thought.

  Joe saddled the horses, and they were ready to move out. Joe had remained strangely, and, uncharacteristically, quiet most of the afternoon, but somehow Tom had the feeling that the black man found a subtle humor in some part of the tragic situation—something to do with Tom's ineptness in dealing with the young woman.

  Sarah went into the house, and when she returned, Tom was pleasantly surprised at the small bundle of personal belongings she carried. He'd expected he would have to weed out some of her possessions, but she apparently had the good sense to know there was a limit to the load the horses could carry.

  Tom moved to assist her with her belongings. "Let me help you, Miss Kesterson," he said.

  "Thank you," she responded and then, for the first time, with just the faintest trace of a smile, "but make it Sarah from now on."

  "Okay, Sarah; I'm Tom. I'm afraid there are only two horses," Tom explained the obvious. "We'll have to ride double."