by Al Lacy
Above the sounds of the crackling fires and the few voices that could be heard in the village, the night music went on. There was the rhythm of the wind in the branches of the pines. Wolves howled in the mournful distance, and nearby owls hooted, underscoring the deep gurgling sound of the creek that ran past the village.
On each side of the village, two sentries were at their posts. At the east edge of the village, warriors Sudana and Hipto sat on a fallen pine tree, listening to the night music around them. Their ears, however, were alert to any unfamiliar sounds, and their eyes continuously searched the darkness for any sign of someone approaching.
A few clouds drifted overhead, partially covering the moon.
Suddenly Hipto stiffened as he heard sounds of hooves in the grass. “Do you hear that?” he asked his partner.
Sudana grasped his rifle, peering in the direction from which the sounds were coming. “Yes. It could be deer or elk, or even antelope. But I think it is horses.”
Both men stood up, rifles ready, and suddenly they caught sight of what appeared in the dim moonlight to be ghostly shapes floating toward them.
The back of Hipto’s neck prickled, the hairs rising.
“It is horses, and there are riders on their backs,” Sudana said.
Sudana stepped forward first, then Hipto moved up beside him. At that moment, the clouds that partly covered the moon blew away, and the brighter light revealed two Ute warriors. As they drew up, one of them said, “Sudana, Hipto. It is Zaldo and Windano.”
Sudana said, “You are traveling? You need a place to sleep for the night?”
“It is not like that,” said Zaldo. “We must speak to your chief.”
Sudana nodded. “We will take you to him. Please leave your horses here.”
Zaldo and Windano slid off their horses’ backs and walked with the sentries as they led them into the village. Soon they were moving past the fires, and some of the warriors recognized Zaldo and Windano and spoke to them.
Chief Antono was sitting on the ground by the fire in front of his tepee, his squaw beside him. Two other warriors and their squaws were seated around the fire with them.
All of them saw Sudana and Hipto coming their direction, and when Antono recognized subchief Zaldo and warrior Windano, he stood up. The other two warriors by the fire also rose to their feet.
“Chief Antono,” said Sudana, “Zaldo and Windano have come here wishing to speak to you.”
Antono nodded, with a friendly look in his dark eyes. “Come. Sit down here by the fire.”
Antono’s squaw stood up. “We squaws will leave so Antono may talk to Zaldo and Windano privately.”
Antono thanked her, and as all three squaws walked away, Antono told the other two warriors they could stay. He dismissed Sudana and Hipto that they might return to their post.
Antono picked up a fresh log and tossed it on the fire, then set his steady gaze on his guests. “What is it you wish to discuss with me?”
Zaldo’s features were stony. “Chief Antono has not learned of what happened to Chief Yukana and many of his warriors today?”
Antono shook his head. “No. What happened?”
Zaldo explained that for the past few days, Chief Yukana had been leading his warriors in attacking white men’s ranches, killing them and their families, then burning their houses. He explained that this was because Chief Yukana learned that earlier this week, Chief Tando had gone to Fort Junction—accompanied by Chief Ouray—and had signed a peace treaty with white man’s government. In his wrath toward Chief Tando’s turning traitor, Yukana had decided to show his hatred for the whites by attacking their ranches.
Antono smiled thinly. “I must say what Chief Yukana did was very good. I only learned of Tando becoming a traitor and signing the peace treaty this morning. Word came from some Ute warriors who live near Fort Junction. I will tell Chief Yukana how proud of him I am when next I see him.”
Zaldo and Windano exchanged glances, then Zaldo looked back at Antono. “Chief, you will never see Chief Yukana again. He is dead.”
“Dead? Chief Yukana is dead?”
“Yes. Earlier today, the chief sent Windano and me ahead to scout out the choicest ranches to attack. When we had found a good number, Windano and I rode back to join up with our chief and his band and make a report. Ahead, we heard the sound of gunfire. We galloped up close to the battle, left our horses tied to trees, and went in closer on foot. We arrived just in time to see the last of the warrior band go down under the fire of the white men’s army. They had two of those guns they call Gatling.”
Antono’s features were gray. “And—and your chief was down?”
“Yes. A few of the soldier coats had been killed or wounded. We waited until the soldier coats had picked up their dead and wounded and rode away, then went down to the field of battle.
“Chief Yukana was still alive, but just barely. He asked if all the others in the band had been killed. We told him they had. With his last few breaths, Chief Yukana told us to come to you and tell you that he now believed that Chief Ouray had been right all along. All Utes should have made peace with the whites when Ouray and the majority of the Utes did. He also said Chief Tando did right when he signed the peace treaty. Chief Yukana told us to plead with you to make peace with the whites. It was the last thing he said before he died. That is why we have come, Chief Antono: to tell you what our chief said with his dying breath.”
Grief showed in Antono’s eyes. He held his gaze on Zaldo for a long moment, then said, “Your people know that their chief and those warriors are dead?”
Zaldo nodded. “Yes. The bodies are now at our village, waiting for burial tomorrow morning.”
“And how do they feel about all of this?”
“They agree that we should have made peace with the whites when Chief Ouray urged us to do it. They are ready to make peace now.”
Antono looked at his two warriors who sat with him. “How do you feel? Have I been wrong to stand against the whites?”
The warriors looked at each other, then one of them said, “Chief Antono, when our warriors have been in battle with the white man’s army, with many killed and wounded, there has been hushed talk in the village among the people. Many have said they wished you would make peace with the whites so there would be no more bloodshed.”
“Why did they not say this to me?”
“Because they not only look up to you, Chief, but they fear you.”
“You two have felt this way?”
“Yes, Chief,” said the other warrior, “but we fear you also. This is why we have not told you how we feel. But has there not been enough blood shed by our warriors?”
While Antono ran his gaze between the two warriors, Zaldo spoke up. “Chief Antono, the soldier coats from Fort Junction are now patrolling with the guns called Gatling. It took them only a brief time to kill the band with Chief Yukana. Is it worth it to go on making war with them, and to have more of your warriors killed?”
Antono felt a weakness creeping over his stubborn will. After a brief moment, his face turned pale. He looked suddenly exhausted, and his eyes were like dead black coals. His voice was low as he said, “Chief Ouray has been correct all along. No, it is not worth it. Let us gather all of our people here right now. I will tell them that I will do the same as Chief Tando. I will go to Fort Junction and sign a peace treaty with the white man’s government.”
It was dawn the next morning—Thursday, September 22—when Chief Tando and subchief Nandano lifted a groggy, feverish Latawga onto the frame of the buffalo-hide travois hitched by its pair of long poles to one of the pintos owned by Tando.
Leela stood close by her son, looking on with her face devoid of color. Two squaws flanked her, each holding a hand to comfort her.
The entire village was gathered at the scene.
The eastern horizon blushed pink above the majestic mountains. An eerie silence clung to the village as if the sight of the chief’s ailing son on the travois meant
he was going to die.
Medicine man Rimago stood over the chief’s son, a worried look on his deeply lined face, as Chief Tando bent over and tied Latawga securely to the travois.
When Tando stood erect, Rimago looked at him with tears in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Chief Tando. This is all my fault.”
Tando shook his head. “Anyone could have dropped the bottle, Rimago. It slipped from your fingers. You could not help it.”
Rimago bit his lips. “If only it had landed on the soft earth instead of landing on that rock.”
“I wish it had, Rimago,” said Tando, “but since you have not been able to apply the medicine Dr. Dane Logan gave you, there is no choice. Latawga’s fever is very high, and the wound in his leg looks very bad. Nandano and I must take him to Dr. Dane Logan immediately.”
Standing close by, Nandano said, “Chief Tando, I am concerned that we are not taking a number of warriors with us in case we encounter trouble from white people who may not know that you have signed the peace treaty.”
“We dare not appear to be traveling with warriors, Nandano. This would lead whites to think we are doing something against them as we have done for so many grasses. I can only hope if you and I come upon whites who show hostility toward us, that by seeing Latawga, they will believe that you and I are taking my very sick son to Dr. Dane Logan in Central City.”
Nandano nodded and walked to his pinto. As he was swinging onto the horse’s back, Tando turned to his squaw and said in a tender tone. “Leela must not worry. Dr. Dane Logan will make him well. Latawga will not die.”
Leela let go of the hands of the squaws and used both palms to wipe tears from her cheeks. She nodded. “Latawga will not die.”
She then bent over her son and patted his sweaty cheek. “Latawga’s father is correct. Dr. Dane Logan will make you well.”
Tando squeezed Leela’s arm, then stepped to his horse and mounted.
He and the subchief rode away with Nandano holding the reins of the pinto that bore the travois.
The people of the village looked on as Chief Tando, Nandano, and Latawga headed north. The horizon had changed from pink to molten gold, casting lengthy shadows as the sun lifted toward the sky.
Soon they entered a dense forest, and wove their way among the trees for over an hour. When they were nearing the north edge of the forest, Tando called for Nandano to stop. He slid from his horse and bent over Latawga, whose face was gleaming with perspiration. He looked up at his father with bleary eyes. Tando took a bottle of water from where it had been tied to the travois and gave his son a long drink.
When Latawga had downed all the water he wanted, Tando used a cloth he had tucked inside his buffalo hide coat to wipe the perspiration from his son’s face.
Tando mounted his pinto again, and they headed down a gentle slope toward another forest.
When they were within less than a half-mile from the forest’s edge, Tando was looking back at Latawga. Suddenly from the corner of his eye, he saw Nandano stiffen his body and pull back on the reins. His eyes were wide.
By reflex, Tando pulled rein, too. When he jerked his head around to see what had caused Nandano to stop, he saw a cavalry column of over thirty men riding toward them double file out of the forest, with two wagons bearing Gatling guns bringing up the rear. Metal from the rifles the troopers carried flashed in the sunlight and the column’s guidon fluttered in the breeze blowing over the high country.
“Soldier coats!” gasped Nandano.
Tando squinted at the leader of the column, and a smile curved his lips. “Do not be afraid, Nandano. If you will look closely at their leader, you will see that it is Captain Darrell Redmond.”
By this time, Captain Redmond had recognized the Indians, and was hurrying the column toward them.
When the men in blue drew up, Chief Tando raised his hand in a sign of peace, and Redmond did the same.
The soldiers looked on as their captain noted the travois attached to the pinto behind Nandano, and said, “Chief Tando, Nandano, who do you have on the travois?”
“My son, Latawga,” responded the chief. “He is very sick. We are taking him to Dr. Dane Logan in Central City. Dr. Dane Logan will make him well.”
Redmond nodded. “I am sure he will. We will not detain you. Just let me ask … have you heard about Chief Yukana?”
“We have not,” said Tando. “What is this?”
Redmond told him how he and his men had been tracking Yukana and his warriors to put a stop to attacks on ranchers and their families. There was a battle, and when it was over, Redmond and his men rode away, leaving all of the Indians down—including Yukana.
Chief Tando shook his head. “I am sorry that Chief Yukana was doing this to the white ranchers and their families. I hope the rest of his warriors will stop making war against the whites.”
“We have already gone to the village and talked to them. One of the subchiefs promised that they would no longer be our enemies.”
“That is good. It seems, then, that there is only one Ute chief who still is at war with the whites … Antono.”
“Yes. Does Antono know about you signing the peace treaty?”
Tando nodded. “Yes. He was very angry toward me, but said he would not fight me because we are Ute brothers.”
“Well, I’m glad for that. I’m hoping that when Antono learns about Chief Yukana being dead, and his people making peace with us, he will think it over and do the same.”
“This would be very good,” said Tando.
“Very good, indeed, Chief. Well, I said I would not detain you, and I already have. Hurry and get your son to Dr. Logan.”
In Central City, from the time Dr. Dane and Tharyn opened the office at eight o’clock, the waiting room began to fill up. Some were patients with appointments, and others were walk-ins with emergencies.
At times, Dr. Dane needed Tharyn at his side in the surgical and examining room, but when she was at her desk doing paperwork, her mind often flashed back to her dream about Elizabeth Ann the night before.
The name was becoming even more precious to her, and as she thought about the dream, she relished her brief moment with the sweet child.
She told herself over and over that it was just a dream, but she was still determined that her first baby girl would be named Elizabeth Ann. She even told herself that her little girl might even look like the one in the dream.
At midmorning, Tharyn looked up and saw a couple come in with the man carrying a young boy who was quite pale and obviously hurting. As they stepped up to the desk, the man said, “Ma’am, is Dr. Logan in?”
“Yes, he is,” Tharyn replied, noting that there was a white cloth around the boy’s neck. “He is with some parents and their baby in the back room, but he should be finished very soon.” She stood up, moved around the end of the desk, and looked at the pallid-faced child. “I assume there’s something wrong here on his neck.”
“Yes,” said the mother. “Do you want to see it, ma’am?”
“I’d like to.”
The boy winced and made a tiny cry as his mother removed the white cloth. Tharyn took one look at it and said, “That is one bad abscess! It will have to be lanced. Are you folks patients here?”
“We’ve been in a few times,” said the father, “but it was when Dr. Fraser was here. Our names our Morton and Lillian Hall. This is Ronnie. He’s nine years old.”
At that moment, Dr. Dane had just finished examining Sam and Sherrie Drummond’s week-old baby boy, and was walking out of the back room with them, saying what a fine, husky boy he was.
Tharyn rushed up and said, “We have a nine-year-old boy here with a real bad abscess on his neck, Doctor.”
Dr. Dane excused himself to the Drummonds, and while they were getting ready to pay Tharyn their bill, Dr. Dane told Ronnie Hall’s parents to bring the boy into the back room.
When Sam and Sherrie stepped outside, Sam’s parents, Chet and Alice Drummond, were waiting for them in the buggy. Chet ho
pped off the driver’s seat and took his grandson from Sherrie so Sam could help her into the buggy’s rear seat beside Alice. When Sherrie was in place, Chet handed her the baby, then hurried onto the driver’s seat. Sam climbed onto the driver’s seat beside his father.
As they drove away with Sam at the reins, heading south toward their ranch in the mountains, Sherrie spoke up with elation in her voice. “Well, Grandma and Grandpa, you’ll be happy to know that Dr. Logan says little Sammy Jr. is in perfect health.”
Alice’s face beamed. “That’s wonderful!”
Chet turned around to take a quick look at the small bundle in Sherrie’s arms. “Handsome little guy, too! Looks just like his grandpa!”
Sam chuckled. “Well, maybe he’ll be fortunate and grow out of it.”
The women laughed, and Chet gave his son a mock scowl.
Soon they reached the south edge of town, and were moving into open country when suddenly Sam pointed ahead and said, “Look up there! Two Utes riding toward us! They’ve got a travois tied to that pinto behind them.”
Sherrie gasped and said, “What are they doing, coming this way? Looks like they’re heading right for town!”
Both Chet and Sam whipped out their revolvers.
“Utes!” Chet said, as if the word tasted sour.
Sherrie clutched her baby close to her heart, eyes wide.
“We should avoid a confrontation if possible, Chet,” Alice said.
Chet bit down hard. “I don’t want bullets flying with you ladies and little Sammy Jr. in the buggy, dear. We’ll do our best to avoid any trouble, but we have to be ready in case these savages try anything.”
The Utes were drawing near. When they saw the two men brandishing their guns, both of them raised their hands in a sign of peace, also showing that they held no weapons.
Chet signaled for them to stop, and both Indians pulled rein. The pinto pulling the travois behind them came to a halt.
Drawing the buggy to a stop, Chet held his gun in plain sight, the muzzle pointed downward toward his feet. Sam did the same.
“You speak English?” Chet said.