CHAPTER VIII
Lane Collier left the still sleeping camp long before sunrise. He told himself that he had to get her off his mind. Confirming his suspicions about the presence of hostiles would demand all of his attention. As he followed the Arkansas to the southwest, he rode the crests and rises to the north. As the day had gone before, Collier could find no hard evidence of the Indians. By the time that he reached Sand Point, he decided to cross the river and examine the sign left the day before. When he found signs, he warily followed. In spite of the tall grass, the trail of the two braves was easy to follow.
The sand hills were death traps. Thousands of low hills ran like ocean waves to the south. Ambush was likely and most whites stayed out of them. He could see for miles from the top of one but no one could tell what was behind any of them.
Collier was sick when he found Elk Heart's camp. He had ridden to within three hundred yards of a large band and not detected it. Worse yet, no lodge poles nor any indication of women and children were present. This was a full scale war party. Collier turned his gelding for the river and drew up his Remington.
As his bay came around, ten Cheyenne rode down on him from a nearby hill. Collier dug his spurs deeply into the gelding's flanks riding toward the river and the open country on the north shore. The Cheyenne were armed with long guns. They opened fire and Collier had to wheel away to the northwest as musket balls flew past him. Collier realized that they would haze him away from the crossing and he had to make a stand. Perhaps the soldiers would hear the shooting if he could hold out long enough. He realized that the wagons were at least ten miles away and they could hear no shots from that distance.
He made for a tall hill with a sheared face to the south. As he spurred toward the hill top, the Cheyenne opened fire. Though they were carrying muzzle loading trade muskets, they were experts at reloading from the back of a running horse. The flintlocks could be loaded and fired much quicker than percussion rifles.
Collier jumped from his saddle and went down on one knee to better aim with the Remington. The braves held up their ponies at the crest of the nearest hill and Collier held his shot. He jumped to his feet and pulled his saddle bags and canteen from his saddle. The bay squealed and jolted away as they hit it with several rounds. Collier threw himself to the ground and drew up the Remington. A brave kneeled on the near hilltop taking aim. Collier found his target quicker. The Rolling Block bucked as he pulled its trigger. The kneeling brave dropped his rifle and rolled backwards behind the hill.
"Got him!" Collier yelled as he thumbed back the hammer and block to reload another round.
Flying sand struck Collier in the face as an Indian musket ball slammed into the ground in front of him. He wiped sand from his eyes and made out two horseback riders breaking from behind a hill to the south.
"They're flanking me!" Collier thought. He drew a bead on the first horse and fired. The Cheyenne's horse went over on its side, the brave rolling free. The second brave was behind a hill before Collier could shoot again.
Collier's saddle bag jumped as a ball struck it. A second ball struck just to his left. He swung his rifle into the direction of fire and picked his target. A Cheyenne flinched as sand struck him in the face from Collier's shot. Colliers scooted below the crest for more cover. The Cheyenne to the south came around the hill in full charge. Colliers pulled his Colt and fired three quick shots. The Cheyenne grabbed his head and fell from his pony.
A musket ball caught Collier across the left forearm and blood splattered his face. He glanced at his arm. The skin was split open but it was only a graze. Collier loaded another round into the Remington. Two braves on horseback broke to the north and a third to the south. Collier missed a shot at the south rider. Shots rang out and Collier heard a ball strike with a thud beside him. The two north riders drove their ponies hard to circle him. He rose to try for a shot. A ball struck his shirt on his right side. Collier turned to see a Cheyenne behind his dead horse ramming home another round in his muzzle loader. Collier aimed and fired. The Cheyenne slumped over the animal. The Indian that Collier had missed came hard around the hill to the south and dismounted. Collier grabbed his saddle bags and crawled to the bay for cover knowing he was flanked.
The two to the north drew up their mounts and took positions behind a hill. Shots came from both directions. The horse's body jolted from the impacts. Collier gathered his supplies and ran to the base of the hill and dove headlong into the tall grass. The two braves to the north jumped up to try for a better position. Collier fired and a brave fell, grabbing his leg. Collier chambered another round and swung his rifle to the south. Three more braves rode hard in his direction with a fourth mounting his pony to join. The Remington came to Collier's shoulder. He sighted on the lead rider. The gun bucked and the Cheyenne fell. He reloaded and shot the second rider from his pony. The third brave reined up and retreated toward the hill and cover. The fourth turned his pony to join him. Collier's next shot caught the third brave in the middle of the back. The fourth rode up to keep his comrade from falling from his pony. Collier reloaded and turned back to the north. A brave carrying a war lance charged on foot. Collier drew his Colt and fired. The Cheyenne faltered a step. Collier fired again and the Indian faltered with two holes in his chest. He prepared to throw the lance. Collier's third shot tore into the man's chest. The lance dropped to the ground as the Indian collapsed.
Collier reloaded his revolver. His left hand was numb from the wound. He felt his side and blood filled his hand. He was cold though he was sweating. Once his pistol was loaded, he holstered it. He crouched in the grass and listened.
"I must have gotten six or seven. I hurt them bad," Collier whispered to himself. "I've got to get out of here now!" He gathered his supplies and slowly crawled toward the river. He made his way to the body of the brave and examined him. "Cheyenne for sure . . . I should have guessed."
He heard the sound of faraway shooting. It was a distance to the east and Collier knew what it meant. Collier tried to control his emotions as he listened to the sounds of the battle. A strong sense of guilt and failure filled his insides.
He crawled up the crest of the closest hill to the north. He felt that they probably scattered, many nursing their wounds. He knew the Indians had never encountered a man with such a fast-firing rifle. They had underestimated his capabilities and their charges had cost several their lives. He stopped at the crest of the hill and heard a groan. Collier removed his hat and carefully raised his head to see.
A lone Cheyenne was sitting in the grass, back to the hill, nursing a bullet wound to his left leg. He had a strip of leather and was tying off his leg above the wound. Collier's Remington had shattered his knee.
Collier decided that he would have to kill the man with his knife. Knifing a man was a close-up, dirty business and he didn't like it. As he came to his feet, the brave heard him and went for his rifle. Collier dove head long and wrapped himself around the brave as they rolled down the hill. Collier locked his forearm against the man's throat. He drove the blade deeply into his chest. He felt the man jerk before going limp. Collier waited for the man to die. A soft bubbling and rattling came from the Indian's throat. Collier eased his hold, waiting for the slightest reaction. He saw nothing. Collier looked at the man's face and realized he was dead. He shifted the body and tried to pull the knife from the wound. The blade held fast. He realized that he must have driven through bone. He shifted the body to the ground and changed his position to allow for more leverage. As the knife was freed, a sound of escaping air came from the man's chest. The hair on the back of Collier's neck tingled as he looked into his victim's face. He wiped his knife on the man's pants. Collier returned the knife to its sheath and looked toward the south. He could see nothing save his horse and the Indian's body.
Collier made his way to the river. He stopped at the crest of the first hill south of the Arkansas. The sun was low on the horizon and it would be less that an hour until sundown. It was three hundred yar
ds of open ground to the bank and Collier decided that he would wait for dark before going on. He bandaged his arm with cloth from his saddle bags. His side had quit bleeding but it hurt. Collier felt himself getting stiff and the fingers of his left hand were swelling. He looked at his rifle and shook his head in disbelief. Had he had his Plains rifle, they would have killed him.
His thoughts drifted to the man he had killed with his knife. The image of his lifeless expression haunted him. He thought of the thin line that existed between life and death. The sun disappeared behind the horizon. Collier waited as the night sounds of the river grew. His day of death was ending. He wondered if he would see another.
CHAPTER IX
The cool waters of the Arkansas provided relief as he forded to the north bank. He gave some thought to staying in the water and allowing the current to carry him back to the wagons but was afraid of fouling his powder. Remaining along the banks against the river was also a risk. The footing was uncertain in the dark and a broken leg or twisted ankle would be fatal for a stranded man. He decided to cross the river and work northeast to the protection of the caravan. Surely Roberts and his men had held out against the attack. They were experienced infantry, battle hardened veterans who had fought the best that the Confederacy could muster. Surely men who had faced the hell of Shilo or Antietam could hold off a few Indians.
Collier crawled upon the north bank of the river and put on his boots. He had removed them for the crossing. With the walk that he had before him, he didn't want wet boots that would blister his feet. As he dried his feet and pulled on the boots, he thought of Nell Baker. He had witnessed the terrible mutilations. He tried to clear his mind of such images, especially concerning a handsome woman like Nell.
He picked up his bags, canteen, and rifle before starting toward the wagons. If he could make good time, he could probably make the camp and sneak in under the cover of darkness. He heard the lonesome crying of several coyotes. He wished for the sounds of men laughing and making jokes around the warmth of a campfire. Collier had always considered himself a loner. He normally enjoyed the company of others for only a short time before he needed to be alone.
"Snap out of it! Keep yourself together! What the hell is the matter with you? You have a plan . . . now follow it!" He smiled at his self-admonishment.
He walked along the bank of the river and looked out upon the water. The moon was rising. The river seemed peaceful. Its sounds were constant and deep, helping control his fears. He gazed down the river looking for signs of campfires. His eyes cut across what appeared to be a wagon wheel sticking out of the water about one hundred yards ahead.
"Odd how the moonlight can play tricks on the eye," he thought. He dropped to one knee. "By God! It is a wagon!"
He made his way from point to point, watching for signs of life. Twenty yards from the object, he stopped. It was a wagon lying on its top. A dead mule was floating against it, and lashed to its harness.
He dropped to his belly and crawled toward the object. The open bank offered no protection and he didn't want to take chances. The river bank had caved under the wagon's weight. He peered over the edge at the wreck. The bloated carcass of the mule gently bobbed against the hulk. He was sure that it was from his group. Collier reasoned that the team had bolted during the fight and run head long into the river. No one would be foolish enough to split from the protection of the troops. It had to be a runaway.
He turned his attention down the stream. "How far can they be?" he whispered. "I must be close. Why don't I see or hear something?" He struggled to get control of himself. He wanted to run but dropped to one knee. "Get hold of yourself! You're acting like some damned green kid!"
His heart pounded and his hands shook. He saw a small gully leading to the river in front of him. He crawled down its slopes and waited. He crouched against the bank and held his rifle close. He felt like a child afraid of the dark and cursed his fear.
It took him several minutes to settle himself down. He considered the possibility of a massacre. Could they hold him accountable? Of course not. He was just a man, not God. How could they expect him to fight that many Cheyenne and still warn the troops? Hadn't he told Roberts that he expected trouble? What the hell was Roberts doing by allowing himself to get in such a situation. Just how much was a scout expected to do?
He stared at his rifle. He felt small and ashamed. "What a miserable little coward I am," he told himself. "Worrying about my own ass when people may still need some help."
He shook his head and gained some control. "I need to get out of this hole and find those wagons." He peered over the bank. "Get going, fool! You've had your rest! Now get the hell out of here and find those wagons!" He strained to see in the moonlight. He heard a noise from behind. He raised his rifle to fire. A barely perceptible form crouched low down in the gully next to a small bush.
"Oh, God, please don't shoot!"
He strained to see in the darkness. "Who is it? Who's there?"
"Please . . . Please don't."
Collier lowered his rifle. "Nell Baker? Is that you?" He rushed for her.
She scrambled down the gully. Collier grabbed hold of her and tried to settle her.
"It's me! Lane Collier! Mrs. Baker, don't you remember?" He turned her around and forced her to look at his face. "Mrs. Baker! Come to your senses! I'm Lane Collier!"
She released herself into his arms, sobbing and shaking. "Collier? Lane Collier? Oh, dear God! Lane Collier!"
Collier held her close, stroking her hair, softly reassuring her. She did not notice the tears in his eyes. They held each other in the dark waiting for sunrise.
CHAPTER X
The dawn broke cool and purple across the face of the Arkansas. A large drum fish worked its way along the bank searching for its morning meal. Collier held her against him and envied Nathan Baker. A woman like this was a treasure. She was something to hold and nurture, not to be abused or held like property. When she awoke, she would remember her circumstances and draw away from him. He noticed the rising and lowering of her breasts. They were the firm, full breasts of a young woman in her prime. They were soft and giving against him. Blood was dried and thickly matted in her hair on the left side of her head and stained the shoulder of her dress. The wound would have to be cleaned up and bandaged. He tried to free himself from under her without her waking. She stirred briefly as he gently placed her against the bank of the gully. She muttered sleepily as he drew away from her.
"Don't worry. Sleep. I'm not going away."
He dug into his saddle bags for the remnant of cloth he had used to bandage his arm. He soaked the cloth in the water. As he crouched at the bank, he looked across the river and smiled. He remembered wondering if he would even see another dawn just a few short hours before.
"Let's see if we can't clean that wound a little, Mrs. Baker," he said softly.
She smiled at him. "Oh no, Mr. Collier. I can take care of it."
"Nonsense, ma'am. Relax. You've taken a pretty good jolt. I just want to try to clean this up a little and examine it."
She raised herself into a sitting position. Collier tried to be as tender as possible as he wiped the blood from her neck and face. He allowed the water to soak and soften the blood matted through her hair.
"Let's get closer to the bank. This is going to take some doing." He helped her to her feet and led her to the water's edge.
She flinched and drew away. "Why don't you let me do this, Mr. Collier? It's pretty tender."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You're not hurting me. Quite the contrary, I'm not used to such tender treatment."
"Neither am I, ma'am," Collier smiled, then felt awkward and foolish for saying it.
"You're blushing," she said as she placed the cloth against her head.
Collier smiled. "Yes, I suppose I am. I'm more used to horses than people."
"Mr. Collier, you are doing just fine. I thank God that you're here with me."
"I'm just glad you're alive. I feared the worst." He gently pulled her hand down and looked at the gash along the side of her head. "I'm going to have to try to bandage this. I can tell it's going to start bleeding again. You've taken a pretty sharp blow."
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