Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Twelve women died over the next several days. Then those who had made it through the worst began to slowly recover. They asked what had made them sick. What disease had befallen them?

  No one could tell them anything because no one knew. They were glad they made it and could get well.

  “Be a lot more graves ’fore the West gets settled,” Preacher said, resting on his shovel for a moment in the graveyard beside the trail.

  “Amen, brother,” Blackjack said. “Amen.”

  Preacher was right in his dire prediction. Years later, when the great movement west had abated, experts began theorizing that there had been one grave dug every eighty to one hundred yards between Missouri and the Willamette Valley. And many times whole families, six or seven people, were buried in the same shallow pit. So there is really no way to judge how many people died on the Oregon, Mormon, and California trails. Hundreds, certainly. Thousands, probably.

  At the wagons, Preacher and the others could only guess as to why none of the men and some of the women were not at all affected by the strange disease, while others were incapacitated for days, and still others succumbed to it. And it was just as baffling as to why once the malady had run its course, the women, who hours ago, were so sick they could not raise their heads, were now getting to their feet so quickly.

  “It’s a miracle,” one woman exclaimed. “God’s work surely.”

  Preacher didn’t know about that. He was just glad it was all over. He lifted his eyes heavenward. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Stay with us, won’t You?”

  “Who you talkin’ to, Preach?” Snake asked.

  “God.”

  “He reply?”

  “We’re alive, ain’t we?”

  “You do have a point.”

  Steals Pony then said, “I think the women will be fully recovered and ready to travel in another two days.”

  Preacher nodded his head in agreement. “We haven’t lost much time. Even when the women was kidnapped, the wagons still kept on west. But we damn well better be over them mountains ’fore the snow flies.”

  “Where do we take them across the Platte?” Blackjack asked.

  “I give that some thought. It’s been fairly dry this year. River ought to be low enough to make crossin’ pretty easy. We’ll stay south ’til we get up to the Buttes. Then we got to cut south and cross the Sweetwater. We’ll stay north of the basin and head for the Green. We’ll see how the cutoff looks when we get there.” He smiled. “I figure ten days to two weeks and we’ll hit the Laramies. Then these ladies will really see what they got themselves into.”

  “And so will we,” Steals Pony said solemnly.

  “Chimney Rock, ladies,” Preacher said, swinging down from the saddle and using his hat to slap the dust from his clothing.

  Dry. Awful dry. But to Preacher’s way of thinking, that was better than mud and slow going.

  The women had been stoical when they rolled away from the cross-marked graves, now days and miles behind them on the trail. A few had had tears in their eyes, but by and large, they had controlled their emotions.

  “I can see why it got its name,” Eudora said, standing up from the wagon seat to stretch and to rest her rear from the pounding it had taken that day.

  Since this party had ample mounts, few were forced to walk, but many still chose to, just to stretch out some. And in the case of many of the women on this train, for other reasons.

  “Arapaho coming,” Snake said, riding up. “Pretty good-sized bunch, too. But I talked to ’em, and they ain’t on the hunt for trouble. Just curious.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “’Bout a minute and a half.”

  “Rupert,” Preacher said. “Tell the women we got Injuns comin’. And tell them to stand easy but ready to grab guns. Here we go.”

  The Arapaho were not hunting for trouble, but neither were they out to win any prizes for sociability. One big buck made that clear right away.

  “Get off the land,” he told Preacher.

  “What would you have us do, fly like eagles?” Preacher asked. “We’re not stayin’ here. We’re just passin’ through and we’re peaceful.”

  A warrior rode up to Eudora’s wagon and stared at her. She met his eyes with a look that was as cold and fierce as his. Faith was writing in her journal and the Arapaho jerked the journal out of her hands. Faith jerked it right back and the Indian lifted his hand to strike her. But before he could, Faith conked him on the head with a heavy club she’d found and the brave hit the ground with a thud. He did not move.

  Only Preacher and the sub-chief had conversed, and the Arapaho were not sure whether the majority of these people were men or women. They could tell that some were women. But they knew the mountain men, and knew that Preacher and his kind would spill a lot of Indian blood before they could be brought down.

  The sub-chief said he wanted a tribute before he would allow the wagons to cross.

  “We’ll cross,” Preacher told him. “And we don’t have nothin’ to give you.”

  “Preacher plays a dangerous game,” the Arapaho said, his eyes turning mean.

  “This ain’t no game,” Preacher assured him. “If you think it is, just start some trouble.”

  “This is our land!”

  “This ain’t nobody’s land. You use it, the Pawnee use it, the Cheyenne use it. Lots of tribes use it. Now we’re usin’ it. You can have it back when we’re done passin’ over it. That’s the deal.”

  “Bad deal.”

  “It’s the only deal you’re gonna get.”

  The sub-chief had been sizing up the situation. He knew that everybody on this train was armed with guns, and plenty of them. He wanted those guns. But he could see no way to get them without losing a lot of his people. To his mind, it was a bad deal in more ways than one.

  The Arapaho cut his eyes to Steals Pony. He knew the Delaware. He was both afraid of him, and jealous of him. The Delaware moved with ease among the whites. And that infuriated not only him, but many other Indians. He hated the way Steals Pony sat his horse and smiled arrogantly at him.

  “I will kill you someday,” he told Steals Pony.

  “It is a good day to die,” Steals Pony told him. “You want to see which of us die this day?”

  The Arapaho glared at the Delaware for a moment. Slowly, reason began to overtake emotion in his mind. His body lost its tenseness. “It is not the time and this is not the place, Steals Pony. But someday.”

  “Surely,” Steals Pony replied.

  The brave that Faith had conked on the head moaned and stirred on the ground. He had a knot on his head about the size of an egg. He sat up and put both hands to his head, his fingers feeling gingerly at the goose egg. When he spoke, it was in his own language and evident to all that he was cussing.

  One of his friends laughed at him and pointed at Faith. The buck with the sore head rose to his feet with as much dignity as possible and hopped on his pony. He sat there for a moment, staring hatefully at Faith. When he spoke, his words were hard and tinged with hate.

  The Arapaho sub-chief rode down his side of the wagon train for a couple of minutes, looking at the drivers and those mounted on horseback. When he returned, there was a different light in his eyes. “You will not go much further,” he told Preacher. “What you will be is a lesson to any who might want to follow you.”

  “Is that right?” Preacher replied, in the sub-chief’s own language. “I’d give it some thought, was I you.”

  “Why? I know your secret now. You shall see us again.” He wheeled his pony and left, the others galloping behind him.

  When they were gone, Eudora said, “He knows we’re women. Right, Captain?”

  “That he do. They’s a right nice crick just a few miles up ahead. It’s got some graze for the animals. The attack won’t come today. He’s got to get back to the main camp and talk it over. When he returns, it’s doubtful he’ll have many more than’s with him now. Most of the Arapaho ain’t much
when it comes to war. They’d rather be friends with ever’body. They pretty easy to get along with. Some of the other tribes call them the Blue Cloud People ’cause they so peaceful. We’ll make the crick and get ready for a visit.”

  When the wagons were rolling, Blackjack rode up to Preacher. “You neglected to tell the ladies that that bunch just might have some Kiowa or Southern Cheyenne friends that’d just love to come along on the raid.”

  “That did slip my mind, Blackjack. I just plumb forgot it, I did.”

  “You think you just might tell them after we make camp?”

  “I probably will. But it’s doubtful the Southern Cheyenne and the Kiowa is this far north. But you never know, do you?”

  Blackjack smiled. “No, Preacher. You never do.”

  Preacher walked the tight half circle. The open end faced the creek, which had high bluffs behind it. The attack could only come from the front and sides. So the stock was safe and had water and some graze.

  “Load up every gun,” Preacher told the ladies as he passed by the wagons. “Keep hatchets close by; a few of them are sure to get into the circle.”

  Preacher sat down to eat only after he was satisfied that no more could be done. Steals Pony was absent. He had gone outside the circle to prowl.

  “Once this journey is concluded, I will be able to correct certain theories about Indians never attacking at night,” Rupert said. “That’s what we were taught.”

  “Injuns will attack whenever they feel their medicine is good,” Snake told the young officer. “I don’t know who started that crap about Injuns being afraid to fight at night. What many of them is afeared of is gettin’ kilt at night and not bein’ buried proper. If that happens, they believe they’ll wander forever, never findin’ peace, never seeing family or friends. The Injuns is a tad more superstitious than most whites. Although I have seen some mighty goosy white folks.”

  The young officer leaned back on one elbow and smiled in the waning light. “Here we are, expecting an attack from the savages, and I am not afraid, not apprehensive—just enjoying the company of friends and savoring the taste of coffee after a good meal of camp stew. It’s…well, amazing!”

  Blackjack smiled slowly at him. “Ain’t no point in worryin’ ’bout what might happen. You can’t change it no matter how much you roll it around in your head. You see, an Injun don’t worry about much. Or so they claim. Personally, I think an Injun worries pretty much about the same things me, Preacher, Steals Pony, and Snake do. Something to eat, a warm place to rest, a good horse, a good gun, a good woman.” He smiled. “Forget about the woman on Snake’s part. He’s too damn old to do much except remember.” Snake grunted, but he didn’t dispute it.

  “On the other hand,” Blackjack continued, “You folks east of the Mississippi, hell, you worry ’bout all sorts of things. You worry about the rain and the wind and the heat and the cold—you worry ’bout all sorts of things that can’t none of you do a damn thing about. I don’t know why you fret your heads so much ’bout things you can’t change.”

  Steals Pony had returned and was standing, listening to the men talk. He looked at Rupert. “You recall Blackjack saying, in his quaint way, about there being a time to worry?”

  “Did I say that?” Blackjack asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” the Delaware replied.

  “Yes,” Rupert said. “I do.”

  “Now is the time,” Steals Pony said. “The Arapaho are about a half mile from the wagons. And they are painted for war.”

  6

  Steals Pony had not seen any Cheyenne or Kiowa with the bunch, and Preacher would have been surprised if he had seen any. This was mostly a band of young men led by a sub-chief called Broken Nose. Steals Pony said that Broken Nose was always leading young men off to fight.

  “How many in this bunch?” Preacher asked.

  “Forty perhaps. No more than fifty.”

  “We’ll drive them off with the first volley,” Rupert said.

  “Don’t count on it, son,” Snake told him. “When the Arapaho decides to fight, he’s a fighter. They might spend all night just creepin’ up on us, and be five feet away from us come the dawnin’. Then they’ll hit us. Don’t never underestimate an Injun. They’ll fool you ever’ time.”

  “I should take you men back east with me so you could teach classes on frontier fighting.”

  “They wouldn’t believe us, son,” Preacher said. “You didn’t, so why should they?”

  “We ain’t got no fancy de-grees from universities,” Blackjack said.

  “Let me inject this viewpoint here,” Steals Pony said. “I started to say that what we all lack in book knowledge and formal education, we probably more than make up for by possessing a deep well of basic common sense. But then I quite suddenly realized that any man who would voluntarily choose to spend his entire life, more often than not, alone, with no one to converse with except his horse, in the deep wilderness and towering, snowcapped mountains, with violent, sudden death all around him every day, sleeping on the ground instead of a bed, and wandering as aimlessly as the wind and as free as an eagle, really might not be as smart as he thinks he is.”

  “Ain’t that purty?” Snake said. “That damn Delaware is a regular poet, by God.”

  “Yeah,” Blackjack agreed. “Go on, Steals Pony. Say something else.”

  “You really want me to?”

  “Shore! That was plumb purty.”

  “All right. How about this: here come the Arapaho.”

  The first attack was only a feeler on the part of the Indians. A few arrows were hurled at the wagons and a few shots were fired at the attackers. Neither the arrows nor the lead balls hit anything of importance.

  “Hold your fire until you’re sure of your targets!” Preacher shouted. “They’re just feelin’ us out, lookin’ for weak spots.”

  Steals Pony retrieved several of the arrows and carefully inspected them. They appeared to be newly put together and were finely made, the arrowhead made of carefully worked bone. He knew the glue that helped hold the feathers to the shaft was made of a mixture of buffalo hooves and hide, the strings from a bull buffalo’s sinew.

  “What’s wrong?” Preacher asked in a hoarse whisper, after watching Steals Pony for a few seconds.

  “The arrows are new,” the Delaware said.

  “All of them?” Blackjack entered the conversation.

  “All of them.”

  “We’re in trouble.” Snake added his voice. “Them arrows more than likely mean they’ve planned and prepared for this. I got me a hunch Bedell and what’s left of his bunch came through here and stirred ’em up. Maybe by ambushin’ a small band of ’em. Kilt women and kids, probably. Damn trash.”

  “Broken Nose!” Preacher shouted from his position. “Why are you attackin’ us? We ain’t done you or your people no wrong.”

  But only the silence of early night greeted Preacher’s question. And that told Preacher and the other mountain men a great deal.

  “Why won’t he reply?” Eudora asked.

  “Because they’re close and that would give away their positions. Them firin’ the arrows is back a good ways. We got Injuns layin’ out yonder not more than twenty feet from the wagons. They’ll lay still as a rock for hours. I don’t think they’re gonna give up this fight as easy as I first thought. They’re mad about something.”

  Those Arapaho who were laying back some distance from the wagons began shouting taunts at the pioneers. But since only the mountain men spoke in their tongue, the shouted insults and taunts were incomprehensible to the women. But they still got the message.

  Steals Pony grunted as one particularly offensive insult was hurled directly at him.

  “Wagh!” Blackjack said. “That there was right personal, Steals Pony.”

  Blackjack raised his voice and told Broken Nose that before this was over, the Arapaho was going to find his tongue cut off and shoved up into a place that was located very near where Broken Nose surely k
ept his brains.

  Broken Nose screamed his outrage at that.

  “What did Steals Pony say to make that savage so angry?” Eudora asked.

  Preacher told the women close to him.

  “My word!” Faith exclaimed.

  The Arapaho laying back then really started shouting the insults, filling the air with obscenities.

  “They’re gettin’ ready to charge,” Preacher said. “That hollerin’ will cover any slight sound the attackers will make. Get ready. Pass the word.”

  The faint sound of weapons being cocked was heard all around the wagons. Preacher had his rifles propped up against a wagon wheel; his hands were filled with his multi-shot pistols; half of the barrels were double-shot. He knew that the first wave would come in fast and close, and probably several, or more, would get inside the protective circle of wagons. And he wanted all the firepower he had for this first, close-up charge. Since there was practically no chance of an attack from the rear, due to the bluffs, Preacher had assigned only a few of the women to guard the rear. “Hold your fire until you’re sure you can put one down,” Preacher told the women. “They’re gonna be real close—close enough to smell the wood smoke on ’em—so don’t panic. They’re countin’ on you ladies to panic. Let’s give ’em hell, gals.”

  With a silent urge the first wave of attackers came out of the night like deadly wraiths.

  The attacking Arapahos were met by an almost solid wall of heavy-caliber lead balls. One buck leaped between two wagons directly at Preacher. Preacher lifted his right-hand gun and stopped the Arapaho in midair, the twin-balls slamming into his belly and chest. He fell back—his bare chest and belly torn open and bloody—dead before he hit the ground.

  One suddenly screaming Arapaho leaped at Faith, his lips peeled back in a snarl. She lifted her rifle and shot him in the face, the ball entering his open mouth and exiting out near the top of his head. He fell soundlessly to the earth and did not even twitch.

  Yet another enraged buck got inside the circled wagons and managed to get his hands on Eudora’s shirt. She bodily threw him against the side of a wagon and proceeded to club his head in with the butt of her rifle.