by Zina Abbott
“All them mules of yours are going to be able to pull. Got feed for them in the wagon, too.” Henry squinted and studied Otto as he considered his words. “Then, you don’t think Pa’s making me stay behind because he figures I’m too young to help?”
Otto smiled and gave his brother a playful shove on his shoulder. “No. If he thought you were too young, he would have left you home with Ma and Magpie instead of letting you come here to help me harvest wheat. Even though we won’t be gone long enough the livestock will suffer too much if you should forget to feed or water them, he wants to see what you can do on your own.”
Henry scoffed. “I won’t forget to feed and water them. That’s nothing, especially with that fancy wooden windmill you got over your well. Makes it easy to fill the horse trough and haul water to the garden from the holding tank. But, what you’re saying is, if some outlaws show up to rob your ranch or burn the house down, I need to figure out if I should shoot them dead or figure out how to run and hide?”
Otto looked askance at his brother. “Now you sound like you’ve been listening to too many tall tales. What makes you think outlaws would show here?”
Henry shrugged. “Overheard Pa and Uncle Sidney talking a few weeks back. They were saying a lot of those bushwhackers, like what attacked Salina during the war, didn’t go back to their homes and farms and pick up where they left off when the war started. Too many of them, especially the young ones, have hit the outlaw trail. They’ve got hideouts in Wyoming and Colorado and places like that. From there, they ride out to rob folks. Uncle Sidney was saying some of them can be pretty brutal, like they were during the war. I guess some of them even shoot small children, like they were killing prairie dogs or something.”
“Uncle Sidney can get a little over-excited on occasion, Henry. You need to learn you have to take what he says with a grain of salt sometimes. I’ve seen no signs of former bushwhackers near my place, and I haven’t heard talk about it from any of the neighbors. It’s too civilized around here, now. Besides, from what I’ve heard, most of those outlaws are after big money and are robbing stagecoaches or banks. However, Henry, that’s part of what I think Pa wants to find out. If strangers who posed a threat to you were to show up, what would you do?”
“I’d get the rifle and let them have it.”
“I’ll have my rifle and pistol with me. I can leave behind the shotgun, but you’d be foolish to go up against a gang of armed men who learned to kill during the war, especially if all you had was a shotgun.”
“What do you expect me to do? Run and hide and just let them have your animals?”
“Yes. If a bunch of outlaws show up here, they may butcher one steer for meat, or rustle the rest of the cattle, but chances are they wouldn’t harm them. They may want my horse. If they do, let them take it.”
Henry wrinkled his forehead and shook it in denial. “That don’t seem right. Sounds like I’d be a coward.”
“You couldn’t expect to come out ahead if it was you against several grown men. I don’t want you to do anything foolish where you’d get yourself wounded or killed. It would be better to hide and get away as soon as you can, and let them take what they want. The Army or the marshal can send some men out after them later.”
“What if they ransack your house? What if they burn it to the ground?”
Otto inhaled a shaky breath as he turned his gaze towards his house. It was not a mansion, not by any stretch of the imagination. However, it did represent the investment of the money he earned while in the volunteer cavalry which he used to buy the wood and other supplies to construct it. It represented the hard work and sacrifice of family and friends who had left their own work behind to help him at a time he still struggled to recuperate from his battle wound. He had built it with the hope that he would eventually regain the full use of his leg, and he would be in a position to find a nice woman to court and marry so they could raise a family in that house. Just because he now accepted that he would be forever crippled, and it was doubtful any woman would choose to be stuck with someone in his condition, that did not lessen the hopes and dreams the house represented to him.
Otto turned to his brother. “Henry, you are more important than this house or my barn. If someone puts a torch to them, let them burn. Don’t risk your life for them. Just get as far away as you can until they leave.”
Otto stared at his brother while Henry considered his advice. Otto could tell it felt foreign to his brother that he should not defend to the death what was his—or, in this case, his brother’s. He hoped Henry would understand that his safety and his life were more important to Otto than everything Otto owned and had worked to build the past three years.
“You think that’s what Pa would want me to do?”
“I’m sure he would, Henry, but I doubt it will come to that. Your biggest challenge will be caring for the stock and not burning the house down heating up the food Ma sent in airtights.”
Henry blew a raspberry with his lips. “That’s no problem, although I sure hope Ma sends another loaf of bread along for me. I can manage the animals. Now, if you already had your chickens, that might be another matter. I’ve been near pecked to death more than once, and I’m not stupid enough to give anything with feathers and a beak another chance at me.”
Otto laughed out loud. “Let me guess. It’s Magpie’s job to take care of the chickens at your place.”
“You bet it is. She’s plenty old to do outside chores, even though she likes to play up being the baby in the family to get out of work.” Henry hesitated before he turned to Otto with a questioning expression. “Why did everyone start calling Margarete Magpie, anyway?”
“Because from the time she was little, she jabbered constantly, just like a magpie. Plus, magpies like shiny objects, and they like to steal them to take back to their nests. Pretty little baubles have a way of disappearing when our Magpie is around, too.”
“Humpf. That sounds like her.” Henry scrunched his forehead. “You’re pretty sure Pa and everyone’s supposed to show up here by tonight? Sure don’t see any signs of them coming.”
“That’s what Pa said.”
“You haven’t told me yet how you got that arrow in your rump.”
Otto grimaced. Although he had promised his father he would share the story in an effort to deglamorize being a soldier, he had resisted doing so, claiming fatigue after long hours spent harvesting and bagging wheat. “It actually was my lower back, and it was a ball from an old musket. We’ve been right busy, Henry. It took longer than I thought getting it all done.”
“Yeah, but we did it. We should have taken part of our Sundays to read the Bible some and rest up a bit, but instead I kept going like you wanted, even though I could tell you were hurting. Now we have that load in the wagon, plus another load’s worth for you to take later.”
Otto flinched. True, he had neglected Sundays in order to get everything done while he had help and before the family was due to show up, and he hoped Henry did not make an issue of it around his mother, or he’d hear about it. In spite of Henry’s tendency to stop working once he started talking, Otto had managed to keep him moving. He had been a much bigger help than Otto had initially anticipated. “We did, Henry. And I have you to thank for it. I couldn’t have done it near this fast without you.”
A look of determination on his face, Henry walked up Otto, and assumed a wide stance with his arm folded. “And, I got that garden patch plowed and planted. That was no Sunday picnic, no matter what Pa says. Way I figure it, I deserve to hear that story about you fighting the Indians out west. All of it—not the shortened, cleaned-up version you told when I was younger.”
Otto gritted his teeth. Even though he told his father he would share that story, he had hoped Henry would forget about wanting to hear the tale. Just thinking about it sent him into a tail-spin of depression. Talking about it would probably affect him even more. “I still plan on telling you about it, Henry.”
Henry nodded to him.
Next, he walked to the other side of the wagon and leaned against the side as he focused on the lane leading up to Otto’s homestead.
“What do you see?”
“Dust clouds. Looks like they’re about here. Sure hope Mrs. Palmer feels up to cooking something decent so we don’t have to eat what you fix.”
Otto offered him a half-smile. “Henry, how can you say that? Haven’t I kept you fed?” Then, he sighed. “Actually, I’m sort of hoping the same thing.”
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CHAPTER 6
~o0o~
After it was all over and the dust began to settle, Otto decided the Atwell-Palmer group driving cattle into his property was a sight to behold. He had put his few cattle in his corral with feed and water and left the pastureland next to the small creek open for whatever his visitors were driving. Henry had cleaned and prepared stalls for a few extra horses, but Otto knew the rest would need to be hobbled. Because he couldn’t sit a horse for long, he didn’t know if he would be expected to help keep an eye on the herd that night, or if his father and uncle had made other arrangements. All he knew was, his barn, corral and pasture looked full—how like he would eventually like it to be all the time with his own cattle.
Mary Palmer had answered both Otto’s and Henry’s prayers. As soon as she climbed down from the wagon she had been traveling in while their neighbor, Shorty Sanders, drove, she headed for the kitchen and started frying up potatoes and some ham she had brought to go with the beans Otto had cooking. She also made biscuits, which pleased everyone.
Henry especially felt gratified when Mary pointed to the loaf of bread she had brought in the house.
“I have bread I baked for when we’re on the trail. But your Mama sent that one for you, Henry. She says she misses you and will be happy to see you home again. Now, you hide it in a cupboard, or it won’t last until we leave.”
Henry smiled wide as he found a clean dishtowel to wrap around his bread. “Thank you, Grandma Mary. Otto’s no baker, so it’s either been hardtack or mush the last few weeks. You bet I’ll keep it hidden.”
“You’re welcome, Henry.”
Otto inhaled deeply as he entered the kitchen. “That ham and fixings certainly smells good, Mrs. Palmer. It will be a pleasant break from my usual fare.”
“Then maybe you ought to get you a fat sow about ready to pop out a bunch of piglets instead of those chickens you plan on getting. I’d druther take care of pigs than chickens any day.”
Otto scowled at his younger brother, who had made the suggestion. “All in good time, Henry. Right now, eggs and an occasional chicken in the pot will do me more good than a pig to be kept fed. Besides, we already got the chicken coop built. I’d have to build a sturdy pen first before I can consider getting a sow and a boar. you’ll be going home with Pa once we get back, so it shouldn’t make much difference to you.”
Henry glanced at Mary’s face with her grin and a knowing twinkle in her eye. He knew to not make a big issue of the matter, but he couldn’t resist mumbling the last word on the subject. “Well, you just make sure when you bring back those chickens, you bring back a wife to chase them down and take care of them. I still want nothing to do with anything having feathers and beaks.”
“What’s this about a wife?”
Otto shook his head, avoiding Mary’s probing gaze. “Nothing. Henry is just being his usual ornery self.”
“Otto, why don’t you call me Grandma Mary like the rest of your brothers and sisters do? You know you’re welcome to. We’re all family.”
Otto turned back to Mary with a self-conscious grin and shrugged. “I don’t know. My mother always tried to teach us to be polite when we address adults. Although you’re a neighbor and grandmother to our cousins, I know you aren’t really our grandmother.”
Mary waved her hand to brush off his comment. “We’re still family, Otto, in a roundabout, in-law sort of way. Why, with Kizzie marrying a man with a half-Kaw half-brother, I figure I’ve got in-law kin who are Kaw.”
Otto’s smile widened. “I wonder if Charlie Gray Cloud’s children realize they have another grandma who claims them. I appreciate you being willing to look upon us all so kindly.”
“I’m happy to. And if Charlie ever brings his wife and children to meet me, it will please me no end to consider them part of the family.”
Otto nodded and smiled half-heartedly as the memory of the time he helped the Palmers, as well as his mother and siblings, flee the threat of the Arapahos who had attacked the farms west of Salina. Her life had been in danger, too. Yet, she had accepted Charlie Gray Cloud as soon as she learned her granddaughter, Kizzie Atwell, planned to marry Charlie’s full-white half-brother, Leander Jones. Unlike so many whites, Mary was able to see tribal people as individuals. She was able to separate those tribes who were hostile to the whites from those who were friendly.
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CHAPTER 7
~o0o~
Otto insisted the Palmers take his bed while he slept in the barn loft with the men. Tired from a long day of travel and herding cattle, they soon left to go to their respective places for the night—all except Otto and Henry.
After the two settled around the still-warm stove in the kitchen after supper, Henry turned to Otto, his face full of anticipation. “I can hardly wait to hear this, Otto. I bet it was right exciting, being able to go after a bunch of Indians to put them in their place after what they did to us white people, wasn’t it?”
Otto shook his head, his eyes staring at the stovepipe without seeing it. “No, it wasn’t. I’ve never been through anything so miserable in my life. I suppose I learned a lot, but I’d never want to do it again.”
Henry’s expression fell. He hadn’t expected that answer. “But…the only reason it was miserable was because you got shot, wasn’t it? I can see where that could have turned you sour.”
“No. Even before that, it was a bad situation.”
Otto decided if he was going to persuade Henry of the true nature of his experiences fighting the three tribes, he would need to start at the beginning with the event that had triggered the latest round of hostilities, particularly on the part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho. He turned to his brother. “You recall hearing about that massacre of a bunch of Cheyenne along Sand Creek in Colorado? The one where Old Black Kettle and his followers who had agreed to a treaty were camped there under a flag of truce when he and most of his people were slaughtered?”
Henry wrinkled his forehead as he searched his memory. “Not really. I mean, our folks didn’t talk about things like that around us younger ones back then—afraid it would give us nightmares.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Knowing how Ma and Pa are, I can see where not much would have been said at home. I was already in the Volunteers when it happened, so I heard about it. It was a major fiasco, and a lot of us thought that Colonel Chivington, who ordered the attack, should have been strung up for what he did.”
“But…look what the hostiles did to white people west of Salina. It was just payback, wasn’t it?”
“I would have thought that once, but not now. It wasn’t a battle against their warriors. Most of the Cheyenne those soldiers killed and mutilated were women and children. All the while—until he was killed, anyway—old Black Kettle was trying to point out they were there under a white flag of truce. What makes us whites more civilized than them when we go in and do something like that, knowing that particular group of people already agreed to the terms of a treaty? They had planned to go to a reservation and live peaceably. Chivington and his men ignored that. I know when we left for Powder River to chase the tribes down, I vowed I would never stoop to run down and kill women and children, even if I was given a direct order to do so. Going after their warriors is one thing; massacring those who are just trying to escape to safety is another.”
Henry grew defensive. “That colonel—he must hav
e had a reason to do it.”
“He did have a reason. His reason was, he hated all Indians. He had no conscience about killing children because ‘nits grow into lice.’ He completely undid all the progress other military leaders had achieved in the previous year or more making treaties and persuading some of the Plains Tribes to give up certain territory they considered their hunting grounds in order to accept other land up around the Powder River in Wyoming as a reservation for them.”
“But, at least they’d have land.”
“If you ever saw that country, Henry, you’d know it is desolate compared to farther south where the tribal people really want to be. There isn’t enough grass up there to support the large herds of buffalo they need for food and just about everything else they use in their lives. It will be rough going for them up there.”
“Why do they have to hunt buffalo to live? Why can’t they farm like we do?”
“It’s not their way of life. They don’t want to learn to farm.”
“So? I don’t much like farming, yet I got to do it. That’s how it is if you want to eat. Leastways, that’s what Pa says.”
Otto threw back his head and laughed. “Henry, it won’t hurt you to know all you can about farming. If you decide you want to do something different in life, figure out what it is and learn to do it.” Otto grew serious again. “But, keep in mind, people with Indian blood don’t have as many options as we do. Besides the fact they tend to be raised differently than we are, there are more whites than Indians, at least in the civilized parts of the land, and there are a lot of jobs where Indians would not be accepted. Even if they were dressed like white men and wore their hair cut short, which a lot of them don’t like to do, do you think most white people would do business with a banker, or shopkeeper or blacksmith with an Indian face?”