“John, what are we gonna do?” Mabel called from within the wagon. “Are they still out there?”
“I don’t see much we can do,” her husband answered. “Just wait ’em out, I reckon. As long as we’ve got the upper hand on weapons, there ain’t much they can do without gettin’ shot. They mighta already gone, decided it not worth the risk. We can’t see a blame thing on the other side of those bushes.”
Everything John said was true, but Cole didn’t care much for hiding behind the wagon all night, not knowing if there were Indians still planning to jump them sometime during the dark hours ahead. As John said, there was a strong possibility that the raiders had conceded the contest since they were overwhelmingly outgunned. But Cole wanted to know that they were indeed gone. So he studied the lay of the land between the wagon and the low mound on the other side of the stream, planning the best route to take him safely to the rear of their position. When he was satisfied that it was to work around behind them, there was nothing left but to wait for darkness to cover him.
The wait was not long, for as soon as the sun dropped below the western horizon, it was as if someone had blown out a lantern. Within minutes, darkness enveloped the two big cottonwoods.
“Cole, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Ann protested when he told John what he was going to do.
“Those Indians might be long gone,” Cole told her. “And if they are, there ain’t no sense in us stayin’ holed up behind this wagon. If they’re not gone, then maybe I can encourage them to leave with a few rounds from my rifle. I’d like to know how many we’re dealin’ with, anyway.” He turned to John then. “Keep a sharp eye. I’ll let you know if they’re gone so you don’t shoot me when you see me comin’ back.” He was off then, disappearing into the darkness.
Passing the campfire that was already dying out, having been left unattended since the discovery of the Indian raiders, Cole crossed the stream and made a long arc on his way to get behind the mound that had protected their attackers. With the absence of a moon, his range of vision was restricted to no more than a couple of dozen yards, so he made his way cautiously.
When he came upon a draw that led up between two ridges, he estimated that he was now directly behind the raiders’ position at the mound. He had started to close the distance between himself and the mound when he was momentarily stopped by the whinny of a horse behind him. Dropping to his knee at once, he prepared to defend himself, but there was no one there. He realized then that the Indians must have left their horses farther back up the draw.
That answers the question of whether or not they’ve gone, he thought.
He got to his feet again, knowing he had to exercise even more caution now that he was sure they still had designs on the wagon party of white people.
The top half of a full moon appeared low on the horizon as he stepped carefully toward a stand of scrubby trees between him and the bush-covered mound by the water’s edge.
When that thing gets a little higher in the sky, this whole prairie will be lit up, he thought.
It made him hurry his steps a little until he reached the stand of trees. With his rifle up in a ready position before him, he stepped between the trees, coming face-to-face with a young Cheyenne warrior intent upon working his way behind the wagon.
There was a moment’s hesitation by the two adversaries, both taken by surprise. They regained their composure and reacted almost at the same time. With no time to notch an arrow, the warrior drew his knife and launched himself to attack. Blessed with reflexes equal to, or even quicker than, his assailant’s, Cole stepped to one side, capturing the brave’s wrist in his hand to deftly throw him flat on his back.
Quick as a great cat, Cole had his rifle trained on the Indian’s chest, poised for the kill—but he failed to pull the trigger. Able to see the Cheyenne clearly now, he discovered that he was little more than a boy. It occurred to him that it was the reason he had been able to throw him to the ground so easily. Undecided then, he took a step back while still holding the rifle on the helpless boy, finding it difficult to kill one so young.
Thinking he was doomed to die, the Cheyenne boy could do nothing but lie there with eyes wide with fear as Cole brought the Henry rifle to his shoulder and aimed it directly at his head. He could not, however, bring himself to take the boy’s life. He took another step back and ordered, “Get up! Get outta here!” He motioned toward the draw where the Indian ponies were tied. “Get goin’!”
Hearing the white man’s commands, the boy’s two companions, also boys, ran toward the confrontation. Cole turned to face them and threw two quick shots near them in warning. He waved them on with his rifle.
“Get on those ponies and get outta here,” he ordered.
Their ambitious attempt to steal horses thwarted, they did as they were told, going by the white man’s motions and the tone of his voice, for they knew very little English. Finally realizing that their lives were to be spared, all three hurried up the dark draw.
Wondering how he was going to explain to John why he let them get away when he clearly had the jump on them, he turned to go back to the wagon. He had taken no more than two steps when he felt the solid blow of an arrow in his back. The impact caused him to stumble, but he quickly recovered and cranked three shots into the darkened draw. He had no way of telling if he had hit one of them or not, hearing only the tattoo of horses’ hooves on the hard floor of the draw.
Cursing himself for a softhearted fool, he tried in vain to reach for the arrow shaft in his back. It felt as if it was embedded pretty deeply, and he could feel the back of his shirt slowly becoming wet with blood, but the pain was bearable.
Maybe it ain’t too serious, he thought hopefully, as he hurried back to the wagon. “It’s me, John,” he called out when he got back to the stream. “I’m comin’ in.”
“Come on, then,” John replied. He walked a few steps from the front of the wagon to wait for him. “We heard the shootin’,” he said when Cole came up from the stream. “What happened?”
“They’re gone,” Cole said. “It was just some young boys tryin’ to steal horses.”
“Did you hit any of ’em?” John pressed, eager to hear what had happened.
“No, I don’t think so. Like I said, they were just boys.”
“Well, I hope they found out what it’ll cost ’em to come after our horses,” John allowed. “At least they didn’t cause no harm.”
“That ain’t exactly right,” Cole said, grimacing with the discomfort he was beginning to feel.” He turned then to show John the arrow embedded in his back.
“My Lord in heaven!” John exclaimed. “You got shot!”
“I got careless,” Cole admitted.
“Mabel! Ann!” John blurted. “We need some help. Cole’s been shot!”
Already climbing out of the back of the wagon, Ann almost fell the rest of the way when John yelled. Horrified when she saw the arrow shaft sticking out of Cole’s back, she ran to him. “Cole, honey,” she cried in distress, “what happened?”
“I got careless,” he repeated, thinking it fairly obvious what had happened.
Her tone became scolding then. “What are you doing walking around with that thing sticking out of you? Sit down so we can take care of you.” Wringing her hands as she watched him sit down on the ground, she looked to Mabel for help.
Having just climbed down from the wagon herself, Mabel was as stunned as her sister had been. With her children now crowding around to gape at the arrow protruding from their uncle’s back, she recovered her calm and salvaged her role of authority.
“Elliot,” she directed, “go get that fire started again. Lucy, you can get that bucket of water now.” She hesitated then to ask Cole, “You did say those Indians were gone?” When he replied that he was pretty sure they had, she continued to issue instructions. “I’ve never had to doctor anything like this befor
e, but I know we’d best get that thing out of your back. From the way you’re moving around with it, I’d say it hasn’t hit anything critical inside you.” She turned to Ann. “Let’s see if we can get his shirt off of him.”
“Be careful, if you don’t mind,” Cole said. “I ain’t got but two good shirts. Try not to make the hole any bigger than it already is.”
“Cole, honey,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern, “how can you worry about that old shirt? You’ve been wounded!”
“We’ll save the shirt,” Mabel stated flatly. “I can’t guarantee the patient, though.” She was amazed by the casual manner in which Cole regarded his wound. “Is that arrow paining you?”
“Yeah, some,” he answered. “I’d sure like to get it outta me.”
“Well, let’s get to work,” Mabel said. “Let’s see if we can get that shirt off. Ann, why don’t you see if you can work the hole up over that arrow while I pull it over his head?”
With eyes getting bigger by the second, Skeeter crowded in to watch. “Can I touch it?” he asked Cole.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Cole told him. “It’s a mite tender right now.”
“Get out from under me,” Mabel scolded the boy. “Stand over there by your pa.” Scrunching up his nose in protest, he nevertheless minded his mother.
With everyone out of the way, they began the work of removing the arrow from Cole’s back. As it turned out, the arrow had not had enough force to puncture any vital organs inside his body, but it did embed itself firmly in his muscular back, luckily up near the shoulder. It required some cutting with Mabel’s sharpest knife to remove the arrowhead, which left a sizable gash in his back. When the operation was completed, Mabel splashed the wound generously with some whiskey from John’s one bottle of rye. “Maybe that’ll kill whatever they mighta put on the arrowhead,” she said. That was the only time the patient winced during the entire surgery.
Fascinated by the whole procedure, Skeeter asked if he could have the arrowhead. “Why, I was gonna give that to your mama,” Cole teased. “But I reckon you can have it if she don’t want it.” The precocious youngster looked at once to his mother hopefully.
“I reckon I can do without it,” Mabel told him, laughing. Serious again, she advised Ann to try to keep the wound clean and keep an eye on it to make sure it was healing all right. “Maybe we’ll find a doctor in one of the railroad camps when we catch up with them. There’s no telling what kind of poison those savages dip their arrows in.”
• • •
The wound was slow in healing. In fact, Ann was concerned that it might be infected as Mabel had warned. Cole was less concerned, thinking that he would heal, just as he always did with any other wound. Even though it caused him some pain, he didn’t let it slow him down as they continued on, following the progress of the Union Pacific. The pain, however, was more of a discomfort than a crippling inconvenience. They saw no more of the horse thieves, Cole having been accurate in his guess that they wanted no more of the repeating rifles the white men carried. He was reluctant to tell John how he came to get shot by the Cheyenne boys, but eventually John pried the story out of him.
“You shoulda shot that one when you had him on the ground,” he said, “and any of the other two you had a shot at.”
“They were just young boys, tryin’ to impress their folks by stealin’ our horses,” Cole said in defense. “I just got careless.”
That was as much as he was willing to confess. He knew John’s feelings about Indians—that the only good one was a dead one. But Cole didn’t have it in him to shoot a helpless boy, and the one he had under his sights looked to be no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Cole had never killed a person before, and he didn’t want to start with a killing that seemed more like murder. He hoped that John would let the incident rest.
“He’ll learn some harder ways,” John told Mabel when talking about her young brother-in-law privately. “He’s damn sure strong enough, and he don’t seem to fear nothin’. He’s just too softhearted, but that’ll change out here where somebody will run you into the ground if you don’t take a hard line.”
Mabel did not agree with her husband’s assessment. “He’s just a decent man,” she said. “He’ll do fine out here, and I know he’ll take good care of Ann. The rest will come in time.”
Chapter 2
Catching up with the construction crews, they came to the end of the tracks some forty miles short of Crow Creek Crossing. The crew worked from sunup to dusk, and when they had finished for the day, there were plenty of opportunities for them to part with their pay. In fact, there was a temporary town of tents and board shacks in place that could be easily dismantled and carted to the next location. Since there were no women in the “town on wheels,” however—except for those tents advertising prostitutes—John and Cole deemed it unwise to camp too close, though they were keen to enjoy the feeling of protection afforded by the large crew of workers.
“I’da thought the army woulda sent a detachment of cavalry to guard the crews,” John commented, seeing no soldiers in sight.
“There’re plenty of men with guns,” Mabel said as she looked down the temporary street of saloons, shops, and bordellos with no shortage of idle loafers. “I guess the Indians aren’t anxious to pick a fight with all these armed men hanging around.”
There was a dentist in a tent next to the saloon, and Ann encouraged Cole to have him examine the wound in his back. But Cole declined, insisting that it was healing fine, although it gave him some pain.
“All right,” Ann replied, “but if that wound isn’t a whole lot better by the time we reach Crow Creek, we’re going to find a doctor.”
“Whatever you say, dearest,” Cole teased. Though he felt certain there would not be one at Crow Creek, since they would arrive there long before the railroad reached that point.
Although anxious to get on to their destination, since the summer was in its latter days, John gave in to the children’s curiosity to see the building of the railroad. He delayed their departure the next morning long enough to let them watch the grading of a new section and the laying of the rails.
While watching the work, John and Cole engaged in conversation with Stephen Manning, a foreman of one of the crews, and asked him when he expected to be at Crow Creek. Manning told them that at their present rate they would be there no sooner than two months or more, depending upon whether or not the weather continued to be in their favor.
“I was told there was already a town of sorts there,” John said, concerned now that his little party of pilgrims might not find the right place to turn toward the Chugwater Valley.
“You won’t have any trouble findin’ Crow Creek Crossin’, I would think,” Manning told him. “Accordin’ to what the surveyors tell us, there is a sizable settlement there already. I suspect we might find ourselves winterin’ in that spot before we push on into the mountains west of the crossin’.”
The foreman’s words served to ease John’s concerns, and he allowed the children a few more minutes to watch the construction. “I’m headin’ back to the wagon,” Cole told him. His thoughts were for the two women waiting in the wagon. There were too many single men around, who had been starved for female companionship, to leave a pretty young wife alone for too long. There was also the possible opportunity to spend some time with Ann without the constant chaperoning of Skeeter. “I need to see about Joe,” he offered lamely as he turned to leave.
“I’ll go with you, Uncle Cole,” Skeeter announced immediately.
Damn, Cole swore to himself, then had to laugh at the youngster’s persistence.
Elliot, mature beyond his twelve years, caught his brother by the sleeve. “You stay here with us. Uncle Cole don’t need you houndin’ his every step.”
Cole smiled broadly as he continued walking. I’ve got to remember to do something special for that boy, he
thought. Now, if I could send Mabel off on some chore for a few minutes . . . The thought extended an already wide smile.
• • •
By the time they rolled into Crow Creek Crossing, they found a city in the early stages of birth. Though the places of business were still mostly housed in tents, permanent buildings of lumber were already under construction. Back on the Fourth of July, while Cole and his new family were still plodding across Nebraska, General Grenville Dodge, the Union Pacific’s superintendent of construction, had arrived with engineers, surveyors, railroad representatives, land agents, and military officers. Dodge and his crew had remained in Crow Creek Crossing for two weeks, platting a site two miles long and two miles wide. The site had been in Dodge’s mind for some time as the division point in the railroad across the vast prairie land. It was generally downhill from that point five hundred miles east to Council Bluffs, Iowa. To the west, the railroad started a serious climb up Sherman Hill and the mountains beyond. In addition, the new arrivals found that there was no longer a Crow Creek Crossing, because the name of the town had been changed to Cheyenne, an attempt to appease the raiding Cheyenne Indians that hunted up and down Crow Creek.
Since stores of general merchandise were readily available in the fledgling city, they took advantage of the opportunity to add to their stores of basic supplies before changing their course due north, following Walter Hodge’s instructions.
“Accordin’ to Walter’s directions,” John said, “we need to head straight north, and we oughta strike Lodgepole Creek after about twenty miles or so. When we get to Lodgepole, he says to turn more to the northwest, and we oughta strike Chugwater Creek after maybe fifteen miles.” He looked up from his notes and looked at Cole. “That’s about as close as he could get us to his place. Dependin’ on where we strike the Chugwater, he’ll be either upstream or down. We’ll just have to search him out from there, but he’s on that creek somewhere.”
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