by Cotton Smith
Still he waited. Patience in such situations was his greatest asset. Besides, his mind and body needed time to recover. He leaned against the tree once more; this time to reload the pistols using both hands. His right hand was less numb, but still shaking. Holding each gun against his stomach with his right hand, he managed to shove new cartridges into place with his left. Returning the warrior gun to his waistband and his own to his left fist, his gaze revisited the hillside; the horse back leader was gone.
It was midmorning when he finally decided to leave the tree. He lowered himself using mostly his left hand, hung from a smaller branch and let go. The pain in his right leg as he hit the ground was excruciating and he lay for minutes unable to think or move. Finally, he retrieved his fallen Winchester and reloaded it, leaving the other weapons where they fell. The Indian with the cut-up leg was dead, lying next to the tree; most of his face was gone. He yanked free the rope, coiled it and placed it over his left shoulder.
Working his way around the encampment, he assured himself that none of the downed warriors was still alive. Four bodies remained; the others had managed to escape. He retrieved his bashed-in hat, placed it on his head without pushing out the crown, and noticed his rolled-up blanket was seared by the powder blast. Returning to the dun, he laid the lariat on the ground, removed the leg bindings and released the reins from his knife hilt. Immediately, the horse rolled onto its stomach and whinnied. A good sign. He didn’t notice the medicine pebble fall to the ground, roll a few inches and be still. Lockhart reached the canteen hanging from his shoulder and poured the remaining contents into his hat. Water streamed from a slice in its top where the tomahawk had struck.
He pinched the slice together with his fingers to contain as much liquid as possible. Gratefully, the horse accepted the cool drink and wanted more. Lockhart looked around for his other canteens, angered that the Indians had stolen them. His tired mind finally reminded him they were tied in the tree. It took three shots from his rifle to break the retaining branches and send the two canteens and supply sack flying downward. When he returned to the dun, the animal was standing. He gave the horse more water from his leaky hat and a handful of grain from a sack found with his other supplies.
Battle adrenaline seeped from his body and will, accelerating the lack of sleep and loss of blood, but he wanted to make certain of the dun’s safety before resting. Limping badly from his stiffening leg, he managed to lead the horse around the camp twice. The dun walked easily and seemingly without pain. Although a check of its legs revealed strained ligaments with the horse wincing when he touched the sore areas. He suspected as much. His horse was weak, but had recovered well. And fast. However, riding the animal was days away, he knew.
Returning to the same spot, he looped the retrieved tree rope around the horse’s neck and staked the lariat to his grounded knife, leaving a good amount still coiled. The horse could graze, but not too far. He noticed the fallen pebble for the first time and returned it to his pants pocket.
With caring for the horse completed, Lockhart thought about making some coffee. He unfastened the coffeepot and cup from the noise-rope and gathered some sticks to add to his cold fire. He sat on the log beside the struggling flames. His fingers sought the tips of the cardinal feathers, only slightly ruffled, in his shirt pocket.
Then he was asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
From his comfortable living-room chair, eccentric Denver entrepreneur Desmond T. Crawford heard noises outside in the street. Loud agitated voices. What could be the problem so early in the morning? He lowered his July 20, 1876, Rocky Mountain News to his lap and clicked open his pocket watch. Six thirty-five. Awfully early for a disturbance.
A clatter of footsteps preceded young Sean Kavanagh coming from the kitchen where he was preparing breakfast for them and the sleeping Falling Leaf. Crawfish tried to step around the array of newspapers, booklets and magazines laying about the living room, but managed to step in the middle of two newspapers, a periodical and a medical pamphlet. A new book had arrived a few days ago and was already marked with a fork where he had stopped in his reading of Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. The energetic businessman had read about it in a newspaper and ordered it from the general store.
“What be goin’ on outside, Crawfish? ’Tis the wee hours yet,” the Irish lad asked, motioning toward the front door.
“Hop-a-bunny, I don’t know, Sean. Was just going to see,” the businessman said in his usual quick-as-a-hiccup manner of talking. He reached for his silver-topped walking stick leaning next to the chair.
“I’ll go.” Sean was already hurrying across the room.
Nodding his approval, Crawfish returned to his newspaper, scanning the headlines for any sign of troop movement—or Indian activity—that would give him a sense of where his friend might be. It was silly, he knew, and sillier still to worry about Vin Lockhart. If any man could take care of himself, it was him. Yet Crawfish knew he would continue to worry until he was home again. With or without his Indian friends. He had already read a story about Buffalo Bill Cody claiming the “first scalp for Custer” in a duel with a Cheyenne chief named Yellow Hand at Hat Creek a few days ago.
Lockhart’s folded telegram lay on the floor, partially covered by a New York banking journal. The wire was the only communication to them since leaving more than a month ago. The big Swede stagecoach driver had filled him in about the trouble on the stage, including the return of money to the Wilcoxes. Crawfish knew they wouldn’t receive any more wires until Lockhart happened upon a telegraph office. Most likely, where he was going, that would have to be a fort. And just as likely, Lockhart would avoid such a gathering of soldiers unless he thought they could tell him something useful. That, too, was unlikely.
Ever since the Custer massacre at the Little Bighorn, the newspapers had been filled with stories and claims by U. S. Army commanders in the field as well as promises of retribution by politicians at every level. The first, unbelievable news had come from General Terry’s report telegraphed all over the nation.
The outcome was even more devastating as most people were following the daily dispatches, sent over the wire to major newspapers, from Bismark Tribune correspondent Mark Kellogg who had accompanied Custer. The Seventh Cavalry advance had been documented by Kellogg up to the day of the massacre and his own death there.
Custer’s demise had laid upon Denver’s Fourth of July celebration like a smelly blanket with many residents fearing the Indians would actually come south and attack cities. From what Crawfish had read, it appeared the Indians had split up after the great battle, but there was no documented indication of where they might be heading. According to the newspapers and telegraph updates, the Indians separated near the foot of the Bighorn Mountains, but their whereabouts were unknown at this time. Various reports had them at the Tongue River or along Lodge Grass Creek or at the foot of the Bighorn Mountains. Even returning to Rosebud Creek.
On July seventh, Crawfish and Denver learned the Far West steamboat, accompanying the army expedition, had docked at Fort Abraham Lincoln near Bismark, North Dakota, bringing fifty-four wounded soldiers. The swiftness of the boat’s return was credited with saving lives. The steamboat—draped in black and with its flag at half-mast— arrived at 11:00 P.M. on July fifth.
Warriors under Crazy Horse had attacked Crook’s base camp on July tenth; it read like harassment to Crawfish, not a serious tactic. Like thumbing one’s nose. The Indians had quickly vanished. The last three battles had been won by the Indians: Reynolds at the Powder; Crook at the Rosebud; and Custer at the Little Bighorn. How long would that last? Men and supplies were on the U.S. Army’s side. And time.
Western newspapers had greatly criticized Crook’s handling of his forces both during and after the battle of the Rosebud. Many blamed him for Custer’s defeat, noting that if Crook had stayed in the field, the combined forces would have probably taken the day at the Little Bighorn. Many also called for the government to gather an
army of volunteer frontiersmen to eliminate the Indian menace. Sheridan ordered a dozen more companies of infantry to join Terry in tracking down the warring Indians. Responding to Sheridan’s pressure, the Interior Department assigned temporary control of the Sioux reservations to the army. The great Sioux leader Red Cloud, already on a reservation, became outraged at the move and led his tribesmen away from the Chadron Creek agency.
It was clear, though, that Crook was in great need of supplies and ammunition. But, if he had returned to the field after being resupplied, the newspaper editorials claimed, he could have still been a factor in the Little Bighorn fight with his 1,300 men.
Crawfish had read, somewhere, how Major Carr was responsible for destroying the core of the Cheyenne dog soldiers along the upper Republican and Smoky Hill rivers. That was 1869 and his efforts brought safety to settlers in the area and, especially, to the freighting routes across there. That was part of Sheridan’s strategy to locate Indian villages and destroy them, removing havens for returning warriors on the warpath against whites. He had read recently that Brevet Major General Wesley Merritt had taken over command of the Fifth Cavalry from the retiring Carr. With Buffalo Bill Cody serving as chief of scouts, Merritt’s ten cavalry companies had been ordered to join Crook’s refitted command at Goose Creek and now the combined force was on a hard march to join up with General Terry at the Yellowstone.
“Hang the red bastard! He killed General Custer!”
The yell brought Crawfish from his newspaper again, and a twitch to his cheek, as Sean opened the door allowing the unfiltered voices inside. Sean stood in the doorway startled to see four men pushing and shoving an Indian in a torn and muddied gray shirt and white man’s trousers, ripped at the knees. The terrified Indian had his hands tied behind him and a rope around his neck that was yanked periodically by a fat man with bouncing jowls, a slouch hat cocked to one side of his head, and a habit of puffing out his cheeks when he was out of breath.
A litany of claims, curses and threats became a loud clamor: “There’s a good hanging tree. Right over there.” “I’m gonna scalp the sonvabitch. Just like they did Custer’s boys.” “You no-good red nigger!” “We’ll teach the heathen not to butcher our soldiers.” Hate snarled from the mouths of the four men; a bottle passed among them heightening their courage and resolve.
Sean stepped away from the doorway, unsure of what to do. He turned toward Crawfish; his eyes wide with fright.
The redheaded businessman had disappeared.
Sean hurried into the living room to determine what had happened to his mentor. Crawfish reappeared, limping without his walking stick and holding the long-barreled Colt that the Irish thugs had carried, and Lockhart had cleaned and reloaded.
“Stay inside, Sean,” Crawfish barked and headed for the door.
“What ye gonna be doin’? There be four o’ ’em.”
“I’m going to stop this madness right now.” Crawfish strode onto his front porch, trying to hide his stiffened leg as best he could. “What’s going on, gentlemen?” he demanded, forcing his voice to sound deeper than its usual birdlike level.
“Well, good mornin’! Gonna help us git rid o’ one of them red bastards that killed General Custer?” A sunburned farmer with long, wiry side whis kers and a bald head yelled back and waved the whiskey bottle. “We caught ’im tryin’ to sneak into town.”
In the farmer’s other hand was a Bowie knife. His faded overalls were unbuttoned at the sides revealing he wasn’t wearing underwear.
“I were the one who saw him.” A short clerk with a huge handlebar mustache that dwarfed his face, wearing a soiled apron and a tan bowler, pounded his chest. A Henry rifle was in his other hand at his side.
“Yeah, he’s probably a scout for the rest of them redskins,” a lanky freighter said. He was dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, a checkered waistcoat and mule-eared boots with his britches tucked in them. In his waistband was the handle of a revolver.
Crawfish stepped off the porch and headed toward them. “Gentlemen, that is a Ute Indian you are abusing. They’re peaceful, you know. They didn’t have anything to do with the Custer fight. He probably hasn’t even heard about it.” He paused and added, “Let him go.”
The fat man yanked on the rope around the Ute’s neck and hollered, “What did ya say? Are ya some kinda Injun lover?”
“Say, I know you. You’re the saloon keeper that had an Injun woman livin’ with him for awhile, aren’t ya?” the short clerk asked, thought about raising his rifle and decided against it.
All four men laughed and the tall freight driver asked, “How is that red pussy?”
Crawfish raised the Colt and aimed it at the farmer. “I said let him go. Take the rope from his neck. Do so now.”
“Hell, there’s only one o’ you—an’ you only got six shots, mister,” the freighter declared, narrowing his bloodshot eyes. “Then what ya gonna do?”
“Then I be shootin’ at ye—’til he be reloadin’ an’ we both be shootin’.” Sean’s clear retort came from the doorway.
Attention by the four would-be lynchers was drawn to the front of the house. The Irish boy stood with the other Irish thug’s gun, the Merwin & Hulbert open-top revolver, in both hands. It was cocked and moving slowly from one to the next.
“It’s just a kid,” the fat man whispered.
“That gun says he’s a big man,” the farmer grunted.
Crawfish didn’t turn; a wry smile found his mouth. Leave it to the Irish boy to be there when it counted.
“My first shot will take your stomach,” Crawfish said, continuing to point his gun at the stunned farmer, almost like he was teaching a class. “My second will do the same to you.” He motioned in the direction of the freighter. “Or maybe you, instead.” He waved the gun at the stocky clerk.
“Me be leanin’ toward shootin’ ye first,” Sean said, pointing with his left hand at the fat man.
A moment of hesitation passed. Crawfish hoped they didn’t notice the bead of sweat running down the side of his face. He also hoped Falling Leaf stayed asleep; he didn’t need the added agitation of their discovering the Indian woman was still at his house. He had deliberately let it drop in conversation in the saloon that the woman had left to join her tribe. It was safer that way for her—and for them. He knew Lockhart would understand. Shortly after that, on her own, Falling Leaf had begun carrying the pipe bag with her old revolver in it, whenever she went outside. He wondered if the weapon had ever been cleaned or if the cartridges in it would even fire. She wouldn’t let him even look at it.
“Oh hell, he isn’t worth gettin’ gun-shot for,” the farmer said and began removing the neck rope from the Ute. The Indian glanced at Crawfish, not understanding what was happening. His fearful eyes, however, flashed hope.
“Yeah, let the sonvabitch go.” The freighter waved his arms and glanced downward at the gun in his waistband.
“You go right ahead and try it,” Crawfish challenged in a soft voice. “It’ll be interesting to see if I can pull this trigger before you can skin that pistol.”
The freighter’s hands jerked upward and his eyebrows followed suit. A whisper came from the shortest would-be lyncher. “He’s Vin Lockhart’s partner.”
“Oh crap!” the farmer gulped.
“Heard Lockhart was dead,” the fat man said, shaking his head and causing his jowls to bounce even more. His statement was punctuated with puffed-out cheeks and a rush of whiskey-laden breath.
“George, you’re always hearin’ dumb shit stuff. I’m leavin’.” The red-faced farmer walked away.
“Me, too.” The short clerk followed, trying to decide if he should leave his rifle or not. Without daring to look at anyone, he decided it was all right to keep the weapon as long as it was at his side.
Minutes later, the quartet of upset avengers had vanished. The only indication they had been there was the discarded rope in the street.
Crawfish laid the Colt down on his yard and walked to the Ute. He
tried to recall the Ute words he had memorized years before when he was a struggling prospector.
“Mique wush tagooven,” he said and hoped it was the correct greeting.
The Ute smiled weakly at hearing “Hello, my friend” in his own language.
After untying the Indian’s hands, Crawfish patted him on the shoulder and invited him inside, using Ute words he recalled, “Welcome to my camp.” He motioned toward his front door where Sean stood.
Continuing to smile, the Ute rejected the offer politely and said he just wanted to return to his people. Crawfish didn’t get all of the words, but enough to understand. He turned toward the house and yelled, “Sean, bring a glass of water. Put some of that bacon you were frying on a slice of that fresh bread. Bring that jar of salve, too, will you? The one with the blue lid. Thanks, son.”
“Tograyock.” The Ute thanked Sean for the glass of water and thick slices of bread, one layered with six slices of just-fried bacon and the other with a mound of gooseberry jam. As the Ute devoured both, Crawfish applied some of the salve to the Indian’s raw neck, explaining it was “tuhaye.” Good. It was the only appropriate word he could recall. The Ute nodded and stood quietly.
Soon, the Indian was on his way, walking briskly; then he stopped, turned and yelled back, “God…bless…you” in English and resumed trotting down the street. Crawfish and Sean repeated the blessing to him and watched until he was no longer in sight.
“Well, I’m hungry,” Crawfish said, picking up his gun. “Or did you use all the bacon?”
“Aye,” Sean said, walking toward the house again. “A wee bit o’ time ’twill be—before more bacon be ready. I be giving all to hisself, the Indian.”
“Good for you, my boy. That’s what I would’ve done. He was badly mistreated.”
“Why do men hate men they do not know?” Sean’s gaze sought Crawfish’s face for the answer.
Crawfish shoved the gun into his waistband, thinking of how to respond.