A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  A path was cleared for the wagons to pass and the train continued on. No words were spoken as the wagons rolled westward. The travelers’ minds were occupied with distraught thoughts. Would they be next? Would they be scalped? Would the women be raped? Mrs. Douglas’ thoughts went to Liz. Would strangers bury them in unidentified graves and their story never be told? When would the Indians come? Maybe tonight, but if not, probably before they reached Flat Peaks. These disturbing thoughts filled their minds throughout the day.

  The evening stop was on top of a knoll, with a mile view in all directions. It was a perfect defensive location in case of an attack. Scattered about, atop the knoll, large boulders protruded at least four feet above the ground. There were no streams or ponds in the area, so water was drawn from the storage barrels. The stock was ground hitched inside the circle for protection, and three saddle horses were tied to the wagons. A fire was lit in the middle of the wagon circle, and extra logs were piled nearby for added fuel. The firelight was needed to spot any intruders approaching the wagons. However, the pioneers didn’t look at the blaze because it would temporarily impair their vision. Supper was prepared and eaten in silence. The terrible death scene was still on everyone’s mind and could not be blocked out.

  Bart was not sleepy, but he went to bed early, since he was scheduled for the second watch. It seemed he’d only been in bed for a few minutes when the captain shook him. “It’s time for your watch, Bart. Can you stay awake? The Indians could come at any time—you must stay alert.”

  “I can,” Bart said. “And besides, I’ll have Maude with me.” Bart stomped his boots on, pulled his hat down, and picked up his rifle before walking over to Maude. From habit, he tied her lead rope to his left arm and went to his watch.

  There were millions of stars in the heavens and a full moon that lit the entire countryside. A cool breeze encouraged Bart to hunker down against a large rock for warmth. Normal night sounds reached his ears, giving evidence that all was at peace. Occasionally, a coyote howl echoed across the prairie. Bart leaned his rifle against the boulder and sat down cross-legged with his back against the rock. He was sure he could see if Indians were approaching and Maude could detect the slightest movements. All he had to do was watch her long ears, which were now laid back in a relaxed position.

  Time passed slowly. Sleep and drowsiness were temptations, but Bart was determined to stay alert. After all, he had given his word to the captain, and that was a commitment he intended to keep. At first, sleep was easy to push aside, but by the second hour, Bart had to keep active by twisting his hands or rotating his feet to stay awake. As the third hour began, he moaned, “Only one hour to go before I can crawl back into my warm bed.”

  Something brought him back to the present. What was wrong? What had alerted him? It came to him. There were no night sounds. No crickets chirping, no noise from any night critters. He observed Maude. She was looking downhill with her ears pricked forward.

  Bart needed to change position for a better look, but before moving, he took off his boots for quieter mobility and placed his hat on top of them. He was pushing himself off the ground when Maude jerked back in fright, causing him to lose his balance. Immediately, an Indian jumped him and jammed a rag into his mouth. Bart had not been prepared for this surprise attack but hurriedly recovered. He hooked a leg around the Indian’s head and rolled on top of his attacker, but a second Indian swung a heavy club, hitting the side of Bart’s head and causing stars to appear as total darkness set in.

  Slowly, the night sounds returned. An hour after the attack, Bart’s watch replacement stomped on his boots, took his coffee, and walked off to his guard station. But the boy was not there. Thinking Bart may have moved to a different nearby location, the guard walked in a large circle around the area, but Bart was nowhere to be found. After searching a bit more, he found Bart’s boots, hat, and rifle lying by the boulder, but no sign of the boy. The worried man cupped his hands and called out with a soft voice, but there was no response. He grabbed up Bart’s rifle, and started to pick up his clothing but changed his mind, thinking the articles might offer clues. As he turned for camp, he saw black splotches on the ground next to the boulder. After careful examination, he determined the black splotches were blood stains. The captain heard footsteps and was sitting up when the guard approached. “What is it? Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  “Captain, the Indians were in camp and took the mule and three of our horses.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” questioned the captain, as he shook out his boots.

  “Captain, they took the boy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As soon as he heard boots crunching on the rocks, Douglas’ eyes were wide open. He was immediately standing, stomping into his boots. “What is it Captain, is there a problem?” Douglas asked as he approached the captain.

  “I’m afraid there is, Herb. The Indians got through Bart’s watch. The boy is gone. They also stole three horses and the mule right from under our noses.”

  The captain continued, “Douglas, there’s no need trying to follow them in the dark. I know you’re eager to start the chase, but their tracks would be too hard to see, and we’d likely destroy some of the vital signs if we start now. We’ll wait until morning and start at first light.” After a pause, the captain added, “The boy’s boots, hat, and gun were found in a neat pile. The Indians were probably in a rush to get away and didn’t see them.”

  Minutes passed before Douglas said, “I’ll take over the watch, Captain, and take care of Bart’s things.” As he started off toward the watch station, the captain called to him.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Herb. He’s likely already dead, or soon will be. That’s the Indians’ way. Our best hope is to find his body, so we can bury him properly.” Douglas nodded, knowing the captain’s words were true.

  Later, standing beside the boulder where Bart’s boots, hat, and gun were stacked, Herb asked himself, “Why did I let the boy take a turn? I should have taken the guard duty myself.”

  By reputation, Western men didn’t cry. They were thought to be calloused by life’s cruel hardships and able to endure most anything with a stiff upper lip. Like many bigger-than-life stories, these rumors were false. Western men were like men all over the world. When loved ones were hurt or lost, hearts broke and tears flowed. Herb Douglas was no exception. He put his head in his hands and cried.

  How am I going to tell my wife and Liz? he wondered. He did not deliberate long and resolved to let the words come as the situation warranted. One thing was for certain…he must be the one to break the news to his family. It was imperative that after his watch he be back in camp before folks rose and stirred about.

  While he stood guard, Douglas’s thoughts turned to Bart. He was a good boy with high morals who obviously had good parenting. He was a person always willing to help other folks. Around camp, he pitched in and did more than his share. He tended the horses, morning and night, and filled the water tanks without being told. He gathered wood when the pile got low and helped Alice with the cooking chores. He especially liked to help Liz with the dishes.

  The bond that had grown in the few short weeks they had known Bart was remarkable. He had become almost like an adopted son to both himself and Alice, a son they were never able to have. They had hoped for four or five children, but during Liz’s delivery, complications arose that prevented Alice from having another baby. Now, their adopted son had been taken from them. Tears filled his eyes.

  Maybe Alice will be able to handle the situation. But how about Liz? She will be devastated, her world torn apart. Ever since she found and saved Bart, Liz has seemed to think he was her charge.

  Douglas knew Liz didn’t consider Bart as an adopted brother. He recalled the looks exchanged between the two and how Liz constantly spoke of Bart when he was not around. He especially remembered how they gazed at each other when their hands came together at the dance.

  They were young, perhaps too young, but str
ong feelings can occur even among the young. Bart was fourteen and Liz soon would be. In two or three years, they could have married. That would be a young age for marriage back East, but out West, it was accepted. Somehow, maturity came sooner in the West, perhaps because most families were strapped for money and young men had to leave home at an early age to earn their own keep.

  It’s going to be a long, difficult day,. But the Good Lord willing, we’ll get through it somehow. The eastern sky was turning a dull gray when Douglas picked up Bart’s things and headed for the heart-wrenching task that lay ahead.

  Liz woke, dressed, combed her hair, and picked up two ribbons before climbing from the wagon. “Mama, do you have time to put my hair up in pigtails?” she called out in a cheerful voice. But no answer came. Stepping forward, she saw Bart’s boots and hat laying by the wheel. “Why are Bart’s boots and hat laying there? Where’s Bart?” she asked with alarm. Her father raised his eyes to meet hers. Her mother turned to Liz with red, swollen eyes and a streaked face.

  “Come here, Liz, I have some very bad news,” said her father.

  She started crying as she went to him. “It’s Bart, isn’t it? He’s been hurt again, hasn’t he? How bad is it? Where is he now?”

  “He’s been taken by the Indians, Liz, sometime during his watch.”

  “Can’t you follow and get him back?” responded Liz.

  “The captain will be here any minute, and we’re going to try. Honey, don’t get your hopes up. It’s very unlikely we’ll find him alive. Hostile Indians most often kill their captives. It’s their custom. Our best hope is to find his body.”

  Douglas felt his heart sink as he watched his daughter rush to their wagon, but he was sure he had done the correct thing by telling her the likely outcome of the brutal story. He stared at his wife, shaking his head, not knowing what to add. They stood in silence for a couple minutes before the captain came riding up.

  “I’ll go to her, Herb, as soon as you leave,” Alice said as she drew back from the men.

  Douglas mounted one of his draft horses and followed the captain to Bart’s watch site. They dismounted, and both men were silent as they studied the ground. They were hard to see on the rocky landscape, but faint footprints could be distinguished by the experienced eye. Squatting down, the captain used his finger to outline the imprint of a moccasin among the boot tracks of the watchmen. A short distance away, two lines in the dirt indicated where a person, likely Bart, had been dragged. The marks led to a jumble of small, shoed horse or mule prints, probably Maude’s. Two sets of moccasin tracks heading downhill were followed by the mule prints. The men traced the prints along a trail to a washed-out gully about a half mile from camp where several horses and riders had gathered. The captain estimated a total of nine unshod horses had left the gully and then circled the wagon camp before departing on a northward angle up toward the wooded hills. They continued to follow.

  The terrain was flat with little cover. The captain knew Indians could hide in the unhideable, so he rode with care and stopped every hundred yards for a detailed reconnaissance. The trackers’ efforts were slow due to their precautions. They occasionally lost the trail and had to circle about, losing precious minutes as the sun rose higher in the sky.

  They tracked the Indians’ trail for two hours before coming to the wooded hills. They continued in the trees for a short distance and then stopped where they sat in silence. After a few minutes, the captain broke the hush. “Since we haven’t come upon Bart’s body, I’d guess they’ve taken him to their camp where he’ll be tortured. It’s a terrible fate, but it’s their way. Douglas, I know you’re willing to follow the trail farther, but you shouldn’t because you’d probably get killed and that would be devastating, considering you have a wife and daughter. We’d be setting ourselves up for an ambush if we continued.”

  Douglas’s reply was inaudible. He simply turned back, knowing the captain’s words were true. Liz—what would he tell Liz?

  When the wagons were in sight, Douglas saw his wife and daughter staring in his direction. Their hands were cupped over their eyes, shading the sun as they strained to see a third rider. Douglas knew their hopes were shattered when only he and the captain came into sight. His daughter turned quickly and ran for the wagon. His wife sat down to wait for him.

  Riding heartbroken into camp, the two men separated. The captain went to the front of the train while Douglas rode to his own wagon and dismounted. Alice met him halfway and fell into his arms. Douglas was a strong, well-built man, but as he held his weeping wife, he had never felt so weak and helpless.

  Without saying a word, Alice took her husband’s hand and together they walked to the wagon’s rear entrance, preparing to tell their daughter the heartbreaking news—but words weren’t necessary. Silence did all the talking as the three embraced with sobs and tears. Several minutes went by before Liz pulled away and looked soberly into her father’s eyes and then said softly, “Papa, I know he’s been killed. You don’t have to explain. Perhaps someday you can tell me the details, but not now.” After hesitating for a minute or two, Liz asked her parents, “Why does God allow bad things to happen? Why did He let Bart get killed?” There was no answer.

  The three sat in silence holding hands, looking into the unknown. As time passed, the circle of hands gave encouragement. They were a family, a strong family, and they would survive in spite of setbacks and heartbreaks. “Papa, don’t feel guilty,” Liz said after a long pause. “You did everything possible to save him. It’s not your fault.” She turned and gave her father an extra-long hug. While he was being hugged, Douglas met his wife’s eyes, and a message was exchanged. It would take some time, but their daughter was strong; she would get through this.

  The wagons moved out at midmorning. It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, and the far-off mountains were covered with pine and ash trees, giving the horizon a glimmer of blue-green. Mountains towered higher as they traveled west. Some peaks reached several thousand feet, and snow glistened on their bare summits. Eagles floated with wings spread wide on the mountain’s wind currents and deer fed in the meadows. In the distant grassland to the south, buffalo grazed. The wagons were passing through breath-taking scenery, but no one was looking. Their minds were on the boy. How had he been treated, how had he died? Why was he taken from them?

  Hour after hour they plodded on. Time seemed to be standing still. The noon-day stop came, and meals were eaten without the usual conversations. Onward they went.

  They were behind schedule because of their late morning start, and the captain knew if they continued on to the normal evening stop, they’d be traveling in darkness. Consequently, he stopped two hours before sunset in an alternate location. The wagons circled by a small stream and people began their evening routine. When chores were completed and meals eaten, they sat around the central fire, drinking coffee and staring at the flickering blaze of the fire. Words were scarce.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bart regained consciousness minutes before reaching the Indians’ camp. He was draped over a horse with his wrists tied to his ankles under the horse’s belly. His head hung, pounding with pain from the blow he’d received during the attack.

  The new day was coming to life when the Indians rode into their camp. They stopped at an upright post, and an Indian stepped forward, untying the rawhide strips from Bart’s hands and pushing him from the horse. Bart landed on his head with a thud because his hands were numb and unable to break his fall. The Indian jerked him upright and slammed his back against the post, retying his hands behind the post. When Bart was securely fastened, his captors motioned for others to come forward and see their prize. Men, women, and children came running to the site with smiles, pleased to have a prisoner in their camp. They all had black hair and were short compared to a white man’s average height. Most men wore a deerskin shirt and leggings with dangling fringe. The women wore one-piece dresses made of deerskin with rows of beads interwoven along the neckline. All o
f the adults wore moccasins. The young boys and girls went barefoot and bare-chested.

  After the curiosity had worn off, Bart was left alone. He was not under any illusions. He knew death would likely come before sunset. Doubts flowed through his mind. Why me Lord? Why are you letting me die when I’m so young? Am I a bad person? Haven’t I acted properly? His thinking changed as his thoughts moved to the folks in the wagon train. Will they come after me? Probably not, unless they could raise the military, and time was too short for that. The Douglases—what would they be doing? Was Liz being strong? Did she know I would be killed?

  Bart shook his head, trying to rid himself of dark thoughts about his death. Instead, he concentrated on his surroundings. He counted twenty-three tepees lining the east bank of the small creek running nearby. This number of tepees probably houses seventy to ninety people, he surmised. In the middle of the lineup stood a larger, more elaborate tepee which was likely the chief’s. To the north of the camp was a roped-off corral with fifty or more horses, including the three wagon train horses and Maude.

  In front of every tepee was a fire with simple utensils lying around. Most everyone sat cross-legged on the ground eating their breakfast. Occasionally, a woman would rise and serve additional food.

  When breakfast was completed, the women busied themselves by unrolling huge buffalo hides on the ground and scraping the skin with sharp stones to remove any remaining fat or tissue. Some women poured seeds into hollowed-out rocks and ground them with fist-sized stones, probably making flour. Others were making clothing from tanned antelope or deer skins. A few were cutting out and sewing moccasins. All the female Indians were busy doing something, but the men sat around talking among themselves.