He was frankly mystified that Braxton was suffering so badly from a single bullet wound in his shoulder. He had lost a great deal of blood and the wound was still seeping enough to soak the bandage Will had applied. But it was not at all uncommon to see men with shoulder, arm, or leg wounds able to continue fighting. He had to assume that the beatings Bradley had suffered, along with his hunger and thirst for a couple of days, must have somehow contributed to his poor condition. The question facing him now was what to do for him. It might be that the rifle slug was causing infection and needed to come out right away. Will had no idea, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do, and he was beginning to worry that Braxton was going to die on him before he could get him to the doctor. He knelt down beside him to give him the bad news.
Thinking Will was about to badger him to climb back on his horse, Braxton gazed up at him with heavy eyelids. “I can’t do it,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to rest.”
“I know you wanna get to the doctor to take care of that shoulder,” Will said. “But I don’t think we’re gonna make it if you can’t stay on a horse, and I don’t see anythin’ big enough here to make a travois to carry you.” He paused to make sure Braxton was hearing him. “So, I think I’m gonna have to cut that bullet outta you, ’cause you sure as hell ain’t gettin’ any better with it in you.”
Feeble at best, Braxton immediately protested. “No,” he gasped. “You’ll kill me, you crazy savage.”
“As appealin’ as that sounds, I don’t reckon so,” Will replied, unable to suppress a grin. “I can’t see how it could make it any worse, and it might help. Anyway, I’m gonna dig it outta there, but I ain’t got no whiskey or anythin’ to make it easier on you. I doubt if you could hold any whiskey if I had it, anyway, sick as you are.”
“I said no, damn you,” Braxton insisted, his anger serving to strengthen his tone a little.
His patience in short supply at this point, Will replied, “I’m gonna take that bullet out or I’m gonna leave your ass out here to take care of yourself.” A trace of a smile returned to his face as he suggested, “Besides, this’ll give you a chance to show how much man you are.” He drew his knife and tested the edge. “Those damn turtles didn’t do my knife any good. I’d best sharpen it a bit.”
While Will went to his saddlebags to find his whet-stone, Braxton tried to get to his feet, but sank back when he found himself too weak. Will shook his head, astonished by the lieutenant’s great dread of an operation Will would have performed on himself if the situation were reversed. While Braxton laid back in dreadful anticipation, Will gathered some dead branches to build a fire. When he had a steady flame going, he propped his knife in it for a while to rid the blade of anything he thought the turtles might have left on it. While his knife was heating, he pulled Braxton’s shirt aside and removed the bandage. “Damn if that ain’t a pretty sight,” he remarked when he saw the puffy flesh around the wound.
After removing the knife from the flame, he waited for the blade to cool down a little before he committed it to Braxton’s shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt like hell,” he said, “but I’ll try to make it quick.” He picked up a willow limb from the edge of the fire and pressed it against his patient’s lips. “Here, bite down on this.”
“Oh, Mother of God,” Braxton wailed, knowing he was helpless to stop the attack on his shoulder, and clamped his teeth down on the stick.
“Damn,” Will uttered as he cut the center of the wound and jerked his head back, recoiling from the putrid odor that accompanied the release of yellow pus. Braxton’s body, which had tensed rigidly, suddenly went limp and the stick dropped from his mouth. He had fainted dead away. “Good,” Will said, and went to work with his knife. The operation didn’t take long. It was a messy surgery, but he found the rifle slug and removed it while the lieutenant was still out cold. Once the bullet was out, he put the knife back in the fire, this time letting it stay there until the blade began to glow. Noticing that Braxton’s eyelids were beginning to quiver, he hurried to take the red-hot knife and apply it to the bleeding wound in an effort to cauterize it. Braxton screamed in pain before fainting again.
After rinsing his knife in the stream, he took a handful of sand from the bank to thoroughly clean the blade. Then he stood up and looked at his patient, still lying motionless on the low bank. “Well, I either killed him or cured him. I reckon I’ll carry what’s left of him back to Sarah.” As he started up the bank, he was startled by a sudden spray of dirt in front of him. He reacted immediately, dropping to the ground even before hearing the sound of the rifle that fired the bullet. The first shot was followed at once by several, all kicking up dirt around him. With no time to be gentle, he grabbed Braxton’s ankles and yanked him roughly down below the bank. “Stay down!” he commanded to his confused patient when Braxton tried to struggle to a sitting position. He pulled out his revolver and stuck it in Braxton’s hand. “Take this in case I get shot.” He snatched his rifle from the willow he had leaned it against and crawled as fast as he could up the streambed.
He had been lucky and he knew it. He had gotten a little careless while his mind was occupied with the surgery he had performed. Now he had to get to a position where he could see where and how many they were. When he got to a spot where the willows were thickest, he crawled up the short bank into the middle of the trees and worked his way back toward Braxton until he could scan the open prairie between the stream and the hills to the north. There was no one to be seen. Knowing then they had to have circled around to approach from downstream, he moved farther toward the edge of the willows until he had a better angle to watch the bushes below the spot where Braxton lay. Just don’t stick your head up, he thought, hoping Braxton would remain below the bank. As he concentrated his gaze on the bushes and the stand of trees beyond, he waited until he saw something move near the edge of a thicket of berry bushes. He continued to fix his gaze on the spot, his rifle aimed and ready to fire at the next sign of movement. In a few seconds it came and he responded with six rounds rapid fire, filling the thicket with lead.
Caught in the sudden barrage, Bloody Hand and Brave Elk beat a hasty retreat with only luck to account for neither of them being hit. They scrambled back to a grassy mound by the water’s edge and took cover. “It is my fault,” Bloody Hand said, admitting something they both knew. “I should have waited until we got closer before I shot the first time.” His burning desire to kill the white man had grown to such proportions that he had raised his rifle and fired at the first glimpse of the one he called Coyote. His premature shot surprised Brave Elk, who was left no choice but to fire as well. Now the white scout had fled somewhere farther up the stream and had come close to hitting them.
“We should split up and see if we can get on both sides of him,” Brave Elk suggested, and Bloody Hand agreed. “The soldier is still hiding under the bank,” Brave Elk continued. “I will cross over the stream and kill him. Then we will trap the coyote between us.”
Bloody Hand nodded and crawled toward a clump of berry bushes close by the bank as his friend leaped across the stream to make his way up behind Braxton. Bloody Hand, obsessed with the belief that anyone who killed the coyote would take his medicine for his own, was convinced that it was he who Man Above had chosen to slay him. It would be even stronger medicine if he could kill him in hand-to-hand combat, but he would not hesitate if he got a clear shot.
Lying helpless beneath the low bank, Braxton struggled to try to pull himself up closer to it, feeling he had no protection from the opposite bank, and he didn’t know where Will was. Even with the adrenaline increase caused by his desperate situation, he didn’t have the strength to move himself very far. Finally he gave up and lay there flat on his back, groping behind him for Will’s revolver, which had fallen from his stomach as he had tried to wiggle backward. On his back, he couldn’t see much on either side of him, and only straight behind toward the opposite bank of the stream. He wondered where the scout was, thinking he’d feel a lot l
ess concerned if Will was with him. He had heard the shots fired by the Henry rifle a few moments ago and they sounded to be some distance away. It occurred to him then that Will had nothing to lose and possibly something to gain if he just concerned himself with his own safety. Overtaken by a moment of anger, it was almost immediately replaced by one of terror as a Cheyenne warrior suddenly appeared at the edge of the stream, a fearsome-looking savage Braxton recognized at once as Bloody Hand’s friend. Brave Elk grinned triumphantly as he saw the soldier frantically fumbling for the pistol. Seeing it was a little out of Braxton’s reach, Brave Elk sneered contemptuously and took his time to aim his carbine at the helpless man, enjoying the fear on the soldier’s face. Braxton could only stare wide-eyed at his executioner, too terrified to even move. A moment before closing his eyes in anticipation of meeting his Maker, he was shocked to see the Indian stagger backward as two slugs impacted on the middle of his chest. Startled by the two hammerlike blows to his breastbone, Brave Elk looked down at the bullet holes in disbelief as he felt his legs grow suddenly weary beneath him. Defiant to the end, he attempted to raise his carbine again, but a third shot dropped him facedown in the stream.
Moving catlike through the thick bushes, Bloody Hand heard the series of shots to his left and quickly made his way toward the stream. None of the shots sounded like they had come from Brave Elk’s carbine, so it worried him that he had not heard answering shots. After crawling around a clump of larger plum trees, he parted the brush to see Brave Elk lying in the water. He almost cried out at the sight, but had to delay his thoughts of revenge when a rifle bullet snapped a plum branch close to his head. Reacting instantly, he rolled over behind the small tree and returned fire toward a spot from where he guessed the shot had come.
A duel ensued, in which neither opponent knew exactly where his adversary was, with both men firing at the last muzzle flash and quickly moving before there was time for return fire. It continued for almost a quarter of an hour before Bloody Hand’s frustration caused him to issue a challenge. Confident in his destiny to gain the coyote’s power, he called out to him. “Okohome!” he yelled. “I have seen your medicine and it is strong. I say we are wasting good bullets while we hide in the bushes. Let us lay down our guns, and I will meet you with only our knives to fight with. I am Bloody Hand and I give my word that I will let the soldier go. It is only you that I fight. You have killed Brave Elk, so it is only the two of us now. What say you? Lay your gun aside and come out to fight me and we’ll see whose medicine is stronger.”
Will didn’t respond at once while he tried to decide if there was a trick up the Indian’s sleeve just to get him in the open. Why did he call me coyote? he wondered. The thought left his mind as swiftly as it had occurred, for he assumed it just an insult to further taunt him. “All right,” he yelled, “I’ll meet you by the stream. Lay your weapons down and I’ll come out.”
Bloody Hand smiled. He could not have hoped for more. No man could best him in a knife fight and he had waited for this day for quite some time. He would take the coyote’s scalp and absorb his medicine. There would be many songs sung about this day. Propping his carbine against a tree trunk, he removed his cartridge belt and his shirt, ready for battle. Then he stepped out in the open a dozen yards from the spot where Braxton lay, his scalping knife in hand. The white scout was not there yet.
Watching from beside a clump of bushes, Will waited as the powerfully built warrior stepped out into the open. A formidable opponent by any means, and more muscular than the average Indian—No wonder he wants to knife fight, Will thought. Well, best not keep him waiting. He stepped away from the bushes, exposing himself to Bloody Hand’s look of shock when he saw the rifle in Will’s hand.
“Put your gun aside,” Bloody Hand implored. “I trusted your word. Have you no honor?”
“Shit, no,” Will replied, “not when it comes to savin’ my neck. Besides, who’d be fool enough to trust a coyote?” He raised his rifle and placed two shots neatly in the center of Bloody Hand’s chest, just as he had done with Brave Elk. “Well, that takes care of that,” he said, and turned to look at Braxton. “You all right?”
Weak, but indignant enough to protest vigorously, the lieutenant retorted. “You left me lying helpless here like so much bait,” he fumed.
“Well, hell, I figured you weren’t doin’ anythin’,” Will replied with a grin. “And it worked real good, although I thought you mighta used that pistol I left you.” Actually, it had worked pretty well. Will figured the warrior that jumped across the creek would most likely come out in the open when he saw the helpless man lying there. It was the other one he couldn’t pinpoint. He found it hard to believe the man had challenged him to hand-to-hand fighting with knives and then presented himself to be shot. Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you, he thought.
Although his feathers were still ruffled over the way Will handled the situation, there was little Braxton could legitimately complain about. Will had once again saved his life. Still, he had to find something to criticize. “The savage was right in saying that you agreed to his challenge and then took unfair advantage.”
Will was forced to laugh at the lieutenant’s comment. “Did you get a good look at that son of a bitch?” he retorted. “I’da been a damn fool to knife fight him. Hell, he mighta been better at it than me. Matter of fact, I’m sure he woulda been. The only thing I use a knife for is to skin a deer.” He walked over to look at the body, and couldn’t help thinking what a shame it was to have to shoot such a fine physical specimen. I wonder what in the world possessed him to think I’d want to fight him with a knife when I had a rifle, he thought, with no way of knowing that he was somewhat of a legend, thanks to Bloody Hand’s obsession with him. Coyote . . . huh. Looking back at Braxton, he asked, “What do you reckon woulda happened to you if I lost to this buck? He mighta kept his word about not killin’ you, but he didn’t say anything about whether or not he was just gonna leave you here to die, did he?” There was not much Braxton could say to refute the question, so he chose to ignore it.
Will felt fairly sure there had been only the two Indians following them, but he was not willing to count on it until he had scouted the trail behind them. Leaving Braxton where he lay, he rode a few hundred yards upstream, then did the same in the other direction before riding out to the hills behind to look over their back trail. Satisfied then, he returned to make camp right where he was for the night. He got Braxton as comfortable as possible, using saddle blankets to fashion a bed for him. Then he rounded up the two horses the Indians had ridden and hobbled them with Braxton’s horse. “I’ve got some coffee left and a little bit of bacon,” he told his patient. “I think you need some fresh meat. I don’t know if I can find anything to shoot around here, especially since all the shootin’ that just happened most likely scared any game away. But I’ll see what I can find. If I can’t find some meat, I might slaughter one of those horses.” He was only halfway serious, but it was enough to trigger a fastidious response from the lieutenant.
“What kind of savage are you?” Braxton demanded. “I’ll not eat any horse meat.”
“If you get hungry enough, you will,” Will replied. “Course, it’s up to you how long you’re gonna lay there on your back. We ain’t but a day’s ride from Fort Hays. When you get done actin’ like a woman in childbirth, we can get the hell outta here.”
Whether Will’s stinging remarks had anything to do with it was questionable, but Braxton’s fever broke later that night. And by early the next morning he was able to eat the rabbit Will had flushed out of the brush a hundred yards up the stream. “That mighta been the only rabbit within fifty miles of here,” he jokingly speculated. “I swear, I thought there’d be somethin’ fit to eat with all these berries to feed on.” Seeing the lieutenant obviously feeling better, he couldn’t resist teasing a little. “I reckon it depends on how fast you get ready to ride, but if we stay here much longer I expect I’ll have to carve a haunch offa one
of those horses.” Knowing by now that Will had no intention of killing one of the horses, Braxton did not see fit to grace the threat with a comment. His expression was response enough. Will continued. “Course we’ve got a couple of perfectly good Injuns we ain’t thought about yet. That big one looks like he might be a little bit tough, but the other one might do to turn over the fire.”
In truth, Will was a good deal more particular about what he would eat, almost as much as Braxton. But he would not have hesitated to butcher a horse if the situation had been dire enough. In this case, it did not even approach it. There was always game to find if a man looked hard enough, and they weren’t but a day’s ride from Fort Hays. He just couldn’t resist picking at Braxton a little. The bodies of the two hostiles had been dragged away—far enough so that the buzzards could feast on them—right after he had hobbled the horses.
On the second morning at the stream, Braxton climbed into the saddle—with Will’s help—and assured him that he was ready to make the ride. The two unlikely companions left the little stream to boast three less members of the rabbit population, leading the two extra horses behind them. True to his word, Braxton remained upright and asked for no stops along the way. Will watched for signs of wilting on the lieutenant’s part, but other than a stop to rest the horses, there appeared to be no need for further delay.
They reached Fort Hays by early evening and Will took Braxton directly to the post hospital, where he received the direct attention of the surgeon. Will stood by while the doctor examined his handiwork, the surgeon’s face a constant frown as he uncovered the several layers of bandage Will had fashioned. “It’s a mess,” the doctor said, “but it oughta heal up just fine. The best thing you did was cauterize it.”
Will was glad to hear him tell Braxton that he was going to keep him in the hospital for a couple of days before releasing him to return to Fort Dodge. That would give Sarah two more days to change her mind. It was an encouraging thought, but one without much hope. I should have left him in that Cheyenne camp, he thought as he left to check in at the orderly room in hopes of getting resupplied with some ammunition and maybe a credit slip for the sutler’s store.
War Cry Page 18