On the hilltop, Ned cursed angrily. “They shot Boley. The damn fool let hisself get spotted. Dammit! I warned him to watch out for that bastard with the Henry rifle.” Certain now that the man he had just shot was Will Cason, he immediately sent more lead flying to churn up the sandy creek bank in hopes of a lucky shot. “Why don’t the son of a bitch die? He’s been hit twice. Why don’t he die?” he exclaimed when he was forced to duck when an answering shot snapped the air as it passed over his head.
“Well, as long as we’re up here,” French said, “they can’t go nowhere without us seein’ ’em. He can’t hold on much longer. We can just wait him out.”
“Maybe so,” Spikes said, “but there’s that other’n down there, too.”
“I don’t know. He don’t seem to be able to do nothin’. He ain’t fired a shot that I could tell. I don’t think he’ll be no trouble.”
Ned nodded. “I reckon you’re right. We’ll wait him out. The stubborn bastard can’t make it much longer. Why don’t you go down and round up all the horses and bring ’em to the bottom of the hill behind us? I’ll stay here and make sure they keep their heads down.”
Propping himself against the roots of a cottonwood that protruded from the bank, Will was able to remain sitting upright. He wanted desperately to lie down, but he feared that if he did, he would never be able to sit up again. He blinked repeatedly in an effort to keep his vision from blurring as he strained to keep a constant eye on the hilltop. Feeling as if the life was slowly draining from his body, he knew it was up to him to hang on long enough to hold his attackers at bay until dark. Then maybe they might have a chance to steal away in the night. Braxton was of little use, but he had not expected him to be. Their antagonists were two. He was certain of that now, and they evidently had decided to wait them out. Every now and then, when he glanced at Braxton, he could read a pronouncement of death in the lieutenant’s eyes as he stared back, desperately clutching the still cold pistol in his hand. It ain’t his fault, I reckon, the thought struck him. They don’t teach this kind of stuff at West Point. He could be a little bit of help, though, instead of sittin’ over there shittin’ his pants.
The creek bank grew quiet as the afternoon wore slowly on, each party awaiting the coming darkness. Fighting the almost overpowering urge to simply close his eyes and slide into unconsciousness, Will could not prevent his heavy lids from closing for a few seconds every now and then, the frequency increasing as the day finally approached darkness. It was during one of those moments when he was jerked awake by the sound of his name.
“Cason!” Braxton exclaimed. “They’re coming!”
Will immediately forced himself to awaken. In spite of the pain caused by even a slight movement, he raised his rifle to train on the open prairie beyond the creek. The light had faded the outline of the hill and he was not sure if it was caused by approaching nightfall, or simply the fading of his life. In that sobering moment, he knew that he would not live to see another morning. Suddenly, everything seemed to become a little clearer, and he determined to make those who would take his life pay dearly for their efforts. Looking toward the hill, he now saw more clearly the two men working their way cautiously down the slope to the broad floor of the prairie. Come on, dammit, he thought, we’ll take the train to hell together. Then he glanced at Braxton again, huddled there wide-eyed and shaking. In the moment just passed, he had almost forgotten the lieutenant was there. “Get up from there,” Will commanded. “Get on that horse and get the hell outta here while you’ve got the chance.”
Reluctant to move from the protection of the bank, Braxton still hesitated, not certain what he should do. But one thing struck him abundantly clear, Will was fading rapidly. “What about you?” he managed to ask.
“I’m done for,” Will replied. “You’ve got a chance. Get on that horse and ride like hell.” He pointed toward the southeast. “That way—about twenty miles you’ll hit the Pawnee, follow it east to Fort Larned. I’ll hold these bastards off as long as I can to give you a head start.”
Still Braxton hesitated, uncertain about his chances of escaping and finding Fort Larned. But looking at Will, he saw the possibility of being left to face the two bushwhackers alone, and that was not a prospect he cared for. “I’m sorry it ended this way, Cason,” he said quickly. Then, without taking the time to saddle the horse, he led it into the water and jumped on its back. Yeah, I am, too, Will thought, suddenly growing weary again as Braxton galloped out onto the open prairie, accompanied with a new round of shots from Spikes and French. Will did not return their fire.
“There goes one of ’em!” Ned shouted to French as the two crept closer to the cottonwoods by the creek. Certain then that the rifleman had finally gone under, since the soldier was fleeing the scene and there were no answering shots from the Henry, they both started to run, shooting at the fleeing rider. None of their shots found the target on the galloping horse. “We’ll get him. Let’s make sure about the other’n, then we’ll get the horses.”
In the dim light of dusk, they almost landed on Spades when they charged over the bank and jumped to the creek bed. French saw him first—huddled over against the roots of the cottonwood. He started immediately toward him only to suddenly be cut down by a rifle slug in his belly. With French between him and Will, Ned could not see to shoot until his partner dropped to the ground. Seeing that it was too late then, he dived back up on the bank, but not before he took a rifle slug in his thigh. His one thought in that moment of panic was to escape with his life. Limping as fast as he could, he fled toward the hill and the horses as Will strained to push himself up so he could shoot. He had only a few seconds to get a good look at his antagonist, but he was able to identify Ned Spikes, Sarah’s treacherous guide to Santa Fe. Spikes managed to lose himself in the gathering darkness before Will could do more than throw a few wild shots in his general direction.
A coward by trade, Ned was not willing to chance another encounter with the wounded man at the creek. Pained by a wound of his own, he had to get to someplace where he could tend to it. Grimacing as he stepped up in the saddle, he gathered up the reins of the other horses and fled. I know the spot, he thought as he rode away. After I take care of my leg, I might come back when that bastard has had a chance to die. On the other side of the river, heading in the opposite direction, Braxton held on to his horse’s neck, terrified by the sound of the gunshots behind him. The one thought in his mind was to save himself.
Behind the two panicked cowards, Will fell back against the tree roots, exhausted from the loss of blood and his efforts to kill Ned Spikes. He made no effort to keep his eyes open, closing them against the burning pain in his side and shoulder. Many thoughts streamed through his brain as he attempted to make sense of what had just happened. He knew that he was dying, but he did not fear it. He just hoped that death would go ahead and take him and not drag it out painfully. He tried to think if there were any debts that he left unpaid, and the only one he could think of was a promise to Sarah that he would look after Braxton. If he’s got the brain of a sand flea, he thought, he oughta be able to find Fort Larned. So I reckon I did the best I could. He slowly nodded his head to confirm it, took a deep breath, and lay back to wait for death to come for him. A last thought before sliding into sleep was wondering if Spades would be waiting for him.
His father was there, as big and robust as when he had last seen him when Will was just eleven years old, and he was leading Spades as he walked toward him. Familiar sights of his boyhood home surrounded him and he knew he was back in Missouri. “Hello, Pa,” he heard himself say. “I reckon I’ve come home.”
“You ain’t done a helluva lot with your life up to now, have you, son?” His father smiled then—the little half smile that Will had forgotten about. “I reckon you are a pretty good scout, but what the hell are you gonna do when the Injuns are all on the reservation?”
Will paused to look all around him and discovered he was no longer in Missouri, but back in Kansas
again. “I don’t know, Pa,” he replied, “but it don’t look like it matters much since I’m up here with you now.”
“We ain’t ready for you yet, son. You’ve got a lot more to do before you’re through down there. Don’t worry about Spades—I’ll take care of him for you.”
He was aware of a deep feeling of disappointment as his father’s image faded away with the light that had shone for a moment, but was now gone.
Not sure whether he was in heaven or hell, Will slowly opened his eyes to see the light again, realizing then that the light was the sun peeking over the eastern horizon. A stinging pain in his side told him that he was still alive, and upon blinking away the veil of sleep from his eyes, he saw that he was still lying against some tree roots a helluva long way from heaven or hell. The dream he had did not come to mind until much later, lost in the urgency of his present condition.
Forcing himself to shift his body slightly in order to look behind him in the creek bed, he at once felt a stab of grief when he saw Spades’ carcass. He silently apologized, then looked beyond the horse to the body of one of the men who had attacked him. He remembered then, Ned Spikes, although wounded, had escaped. A good thing, he thought, for if he hadn’t he could have easily finished me off while I was asleep. He spent a brief thought on Braxton, wondering if the bewildered lieutenant had been able to find Fort Larned. Then his concerns were captured by the painful spasms in his side. Looking down at the bloody mess that had crusted his shirt, he started to reach for it, but was stopped abruptly by a sharp pain in his shoulder. He had forgotten that he was wounded there as well. Only then aware that he was still holding his rifle, he laid it aside and used that hand to examine the wound in his side.
After a great deal of effort, he managed to pull his shirt away from the ugly hole left by the bullet. The blood had plastered the fabric of his shirt to the wound, causing him considerable pain to separate the two, and starting the flow of blood anew. Realizing for the first time that the pain he experienced ran through him all the way to his back, he felt behind him and found an exit wound. Maybe this was a good sign, he thought. The bullet had gone all the way through. He then promptly felt the back of his shoulder to see if the same had happened there. It had not and he told himself he should have known that because of a feeling like a five-pound ball of iron in his shoulder. He had been so sure that he was going to die before he passed out last night, but now it seemed that death was not ready for him. One of the things that convinced him was his desire for food.
Although still reluctant to move, he told himself that he had to force his body to obey him. With his good hand, he took hold of a tree root and strained to pull himself up on his feet. Gasping with the pain, his head swimming, he immediately dropped down on his knees, and remained there while he readied himself to attempt it again. This time he remained on his feet in spite of the feeling that he was tearing his insides apart. After he steadied himself, he reached down and picked up his rifle. Using it as a walking stick, he slowly made his way over to Spades’ carcass, where he sat down on the dead horse’s quarters and took his canteen from the saddle. Suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, he downed a good portion of the contents, then paused to wait a few minutes as if expecting the water to stream out through the holes in his body. When that failed to happen, he decided that it was all right to eat something. Evidently the bullet had not punctured any internal organs.
With each step producing a stab of pain, he moved slowly to the remains of the campfire, where he found a large slab of antelope hump lying in the ashes. He brushed it off and ate as much as he could hold. The major portion of the antelope had not yet been cooked, and was most likely too far spoiled to salvage. The small quantity of roasted meat would soon turn, as well, so food, in spite of being in great supply, would not be fit to eat.
Feeling tired from the simple motions of taking food and water, he sat down and leaned back, using Spades’ croup as a backrest, to think over his situation and evaluate his chances of getting out of his predicament. He decided there was nothing he could do about his wounds other than trying to contain the bleeding. There was no treatment that he knew to render unto himself, so it was just going to have to be in the hands of fate as to whether he survived. Then there was concern about the third member of the bushwhackers. He was sure he had wounded Spikes in the leg, but the question he could not answer was would he return to see if Will was alive? There was a lot for a murderer to come back for—saddles, weapons, ammunition. Would he return with others? At any rate, Will decided that he could not remain there, waiting to heal on his own. Come hook or crook, he thought, I’m gonna have to walk to Fort Larned. It was not a promising decision, but he felt he had little choice but to try. Die here, or die on the way to Fort Larned, he thought, not a helluva lot of difference.
Forcing his every move as he struggled to prepare for the trek to Fort Larned, he filled his canteen with water, then removed one saddlebag to carry what food he decided was all right to eat. There was a small quantity of hardtack left that would do in a pinch, so he put that in the bag as well. He took his extra revolver from his saddlebag and stuffed it in his belt, draped a cartridge belt over his injured shoulder and the saddlebag over the other one, and still using his rifle as a cane, he took a few steps toward the creek to test his steadiness. The weakness in his legs almost caused him to sit back down immediately, but he fought the urge, fearing that if he sat down, he might not be able to get back up. Running on willpower alone, he forced himself to concentrate on one step at a time as he entered the cool water of the creek. Fighting against a current that he would not even have noticed before, he managed to make it to the other side and up the bank, ignoring the fresh bleeding from both wounds. Once he had gained the other side, he stood for a moment, soaking wet from the waist down, and stared out at the prairie before him. “It ain’t but twenty-five miles,” he announced and took the first unsteady step.
Chapter 13
It was early morning, before reveille, when Braxton reached Fort Larned. The private on guard duty did not know what to make of the sudden appearance of a greatly disheveled lieutenant riding bareback on an exhausted horse. But he directed him to post headquarters, where Braxton explained his unlikely arrival to the officer of the day, Lieutenant Chad Williams. After hearing Braxton’s tale of his escape from a Cheyenne camp, his wound treatment at Fort Hays, and his narrow escape from an attack on Walnut Creek, Williams insisted that the surgeon should look at his wound.
“Lieutenant Williams,” Braxton implored, “it is extremely important that I return to Fort Dodge as soon as possible. My wound is healing fine and I don’t want to waste any more time before reporting back.”
“I’m sure Colonel Thompson would advise a visit to the doctor after what you’ve been through,” Williams said. “You should take the opportunity to rest here before you think about heading back to Fort Dodge.”
Braxton released a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Look, Williams. . . . Chad, is it?” When Williams nodded, Braxton continued. “Look, Chad, you seem to be someone I can confide in. I was supposed to be married right after that mission to attack the Cheyenne village. My fiancée doesn’t even know if I’m alive or not. I need to get back right away. Surely you can understand my anxiety to return to her.”
Williams’ face relaxed into a wide smile. “Well, I certainly can understand your hurry. I guess I would be, too.” He chuckled, delighted in Braxton’s situation. “I’m sure the colonel will understand as well. I’m gonna be relieved here in about fifteen minutes. Why don’t you and I go have some breakfast? You look like you could use some, and by the time we’re through, the colonel should be here.”
The lieutenant was accurate in his anticipation of the colonel’s reaction to Braxton’s ordeal. “My God, man,” he said after hearing the story, “it’s a miracle you’ve made it back.” A man of understanding and compassion for the gentle pleasures of life, he understood Braxton’s urgency to return to Dodge and the grievi
ng lady who prayed for his safe return. “If you’re sure your wound has healed enough to make the trip, I’ll send a detail to escort you back right away—today if that is your wish.”
“It is, sir,” Braxton replied at once.
“But you’ve ridden all night,” Lieutenant Williams interjected. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you’ve had time to rest?”
“I’m ready to go today,” Braxton replied emphatically.
The colonel had to chuckle. “Oh, to be a young man again . . . I’ll tell you what, we’ll detail an ambulance to take you back. You can rest on the trip.”
“Thank you, sir,” Braxton replied, blushing slightly. “I guess I am thinking with my heart instead of my head.”
“Hell, nothing wrong with that,” the colonel said, then remembering part of the lieutenant’s story, he asked, “What became of the civilian scout that was with you?”
“He was killed at Walnut Creek,” Braxton replied.
Ned Spikes rode about five or six miles before stopping to determine how badly he was wounded. His first thought when fleeing the half-dead man with the rifle was to ride to the little settlement at the great bend of the Arkansas River. There was no doctor there, but there was an old Indian woman who could remove a bullet or sew up a knife wound. Although his thigh was paining him some, he was still able to walk on it, and the bleeding had not been extensive, so he decided to make camp there on the riverbank and see how bad it was in the morning before making up his mind. When he thought about the scene he had just fled, he had to wonder why his first reaction was to escape. After all, he allowed in defense of his decision to run, the crazy bastard killed Boley and French. But the man was more dead than alive from the looks of him, so there was no need to worry that he might be coming after him. “Hell, he ain’t got no horse.” That thought, although late, just came to him.
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