Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  He grimaced with the effort of turning. His blood, already cold, ran even colder as he did so. With soul-shattering whoops two be-feathered Indians were bearing down on him, clouds of powdery snow billowing out. With one hand he wrenched at the arrow which, although gusted off its intended target by the mountain wind, had impaled him by his clothing to the tree. With the other he raised the all-ready-levered rifle and fired. But in his haste the slug did no more than bring a shower of snow from the foliage.

  He freed himself as the nearest attacker closed in on him with a raised axe. He lifted his arms instinctively. Then he knew no more.

  When he awoke he was sure he was in hell. He had to be. Only in hell could there be such pain. The first pain that ripped him from unfeeling unconsciousness was in his right temple. Then he remembered that the upraised axe had fallen with the blunt edge lowermost. Otherwise his head would have been in two pieces. Next he sensed the raw groove made across his neck by the arrow. As his awareness of the present intensified he discovered he was suspended from a tripod of timber beams. His thonged wrists were numb.

  It was difficult for him to move his head but he could see other tripods on either side. Hanging from each were the near-frozen carcasses of caribou. At least he was more alive than they. Just.

  As his mind took stock of the situation, he contemplated the question as to whether he was to be a Christ or a Barabbas. He didn’t know how long he’d been hanging there. He surmised it couldn’t have been long. Without his thick over-clothes, he surely would have been as dead as the meat around him, dangling as he was on the top of the world at the mercy of the autumn winds.

  The tripod began to shake rhythmically as though someone was shinning up one of the timbers. There was an Indian close, cutting through the main thong above him. The man’s breath was strong and repellent. Seth crumpled as he hit the hard, icy ground. He was too numb to get up of his own accord. He sensed being dragged away from the exposed summit.

  Like a puppet he was hauled to stand before a tipi amidst a gathering of what he supposed were Yakima. His legs, still without capability, buckled and he fell to his knees. Voices jabbered around him in an unknown tongue––the Sahaptin dialect, he guessed, that he’d heard miners speak of. Eventually an old man emerged, swathed in furs with a multitude of feathers hanging loosely from a headpiece. The man spoke, slowly, deliberately, in English.

  ‘You interest me, white man. Why you come ? You brave...or a fool? Or maybe you scout for white soldiers?’

  Seth spoke with difficulty. ‘I am from the East. I came with wagons. Indians attacked. My wife was taken. I’ve come to take her back.’

  A young brave at the old man’s side leant over and whispered in his ear, apparently helping out in the translation. The old man nodded. Then he spoke in the dialect and Seth was dragged off to another tipi. The deerskin flap was pulled back and he was partly thrust inside. His eyes were not adjusted to the darkness so he could make nothing of the interior. But he recognized the voice.

  ‘Seth!’

  It was Kate!

  ‘Kate,’ he croaked. He felt her grabbing him, then strong hands pulling them apart. ‘What have they done to you ?’ she screamed. The same question was in his throat but he had no chance to voice it or reply as he was dragged back to the chief.

  The brave who had accompanied him returned to the chief’s side and spoke in dialect to him. The old man nodded again. ‘So the woman did belong to you. That we have learned. Well, now she belong to the tipi of Quinquian, my son. He need children, many children. Strong children.’

  ‘She’s my wife, for God’s sake!’ Seth shouted, some of his strength now returning. ‘My wife!’

  ‘She not Quinquian’s wife; she his slave. The white man, he not understand many things. He never understand the having of slaves. Nor does he understand that all this land’––he waved his hand expansively––’belong to red man. He want take land. He get redman to make mark on paper but, in his turn, white man’s mark, it mean’––his hand shot flat and moved horizontally till he found the word––’it mean…nothing.’

  A spark of interest suddenly lit up the features of the man beside the chief. He whispered in the old man’s ear again. The chief resumed. ‘My son, Quinquian, he has idea. He prepared to fight for his new slave. Are you prepared to fight for woman you call wife ?’

  Seth was no fighting man yet he had no choice. ‘Yes. Whatever he says.’

  ‘Then let it be.’

  The ring of people widened and a man cut through Seth’s wrist bonds while another tied a longer thong to Seth’s left ankle. The other end was fixed to the right ankle of Quinquian.

  Seth rubbed. his wrists vigorously. Despite his acquiescence he foresaw only one result from such a contest. Minutes later a knife was thrust into the ground at his feet.

  ‘That is to be your weapon when I lower my arm,’ the chief explained.

  On that instruction the two men faced each other. Quinquian had stripped to the waist. His brown skin seamed impervious to the cold wind cutting across the encampment. The Yakima’s face mirrored his anticipation.

  The chief’s arm dropped. Both men pulled out their knives and began circling each other, the one menacing the other nervously defensive.

  Quinquian lunged and Seth was congratulating himself on avoiding the first thrust when he realized too late–– it was merely a feint. Quinquian used it to give himself the opportunity to lean down and grab the thong snaking on the ground between them. Before Seth could step back in counterbalance Quinquian yanked the cord pulling Seth’s leg from under him. As he fell heavily on his back his opponent leapt on him with the ferocity of a mountain lion.

  Both men gripped the wrist of the other’s knife hand and they locked together in a vibrating stalemate. But the Indian was clearly the stronger and Quinquian’s blade sliced the cold air nearer and nearer Seth’s face. The white man writhed energetically and managed eventually to yank himself free and roll clear. Both men were on their feet again, But Seth had learned his lesson and he too had a length of the bonding thong coiled around his hand to prevent his opponent jerking him once more from his feet.

  Again Quinquian took the initiative, swinging his blade in a vicious arc which sliced open the front of Seth’s jacket. He brought the knife around on the back swing with equal success. But the success was his undoing. The blade tangled momentarily in Seth’s fast-shredding jacket. In the split second of his opponent’s fumbling Seth looped the rawhide strip around the Indian’s throat and tightened it. Before Quinquian realized what had happened Seth had whipped another coil around his throat. The Indian coughed and dropped to his knees as Seth pulled tighter. Quinquian relinquished his grip on his blade and fell forward using both hands in his attempt to loosen the throttling coils. Seth maintained the pressure although he didn’t know what his chances were if he killed the son of the chief.

  Suddenly a command was given. The voice was frail and could hardly be heard above the noises of the circled onlookers. Despite its quietness it had significance for the members of the tribe end thus was heard––in the same way the delicate splintering of a twig can be heard by the attuned ear of a man of the forest.

  Seth was only aware of the voice because of the hush that fell on the spectators. He looked back to see the chief make a lateral movement with his arm and repeat the command. Seth hopefully guessed it was Sahaptin for ‘Cease’. He relaxed his grip on the Indian’s throat. Quinquian wriggled free and turned to hear what further commands his father had. Then Quinquian rose in response to the words that did come and cut the strip of rawhide that had joined the two combatants, the thong that had been the cause of his overthrow.

  The chief resumed his faltering English, clearly addressing the white man. ‘I did not know whether you were fool or man of courage. The two can be so close. You come to strange land. You, clever––outfox my scouts once.’ He nodded and pointed away from the village in the direction in which Seth had come. ‘We know you trick two
of our warriors on your journey to this high place. It is puzzlement that such a clever man should come this far; for your woman you walk into camp of many-number red man. I think you not warrior, yet you ready to fight many-scalp brave. It is my conclusion you are man of courage.’

  `There was a pause. Then: ‘Woman––she truly your squaw. No slave to Yakima. I have decided.’

  As he spoke the last words his extended arm moved slightly, adding a chiefly emphasis to his words. ‘You go white chief Olympia. Tell, Yakima not sign white man’s treaty. Tribes will have powwow. Red man will divide red man land.’

  Seth listened but was not concerned with the politics of the situation. ‘And I take my wife ?’

  The wizened fingers rode skyward. ‘The snow gods are here. You leave squaw in warm Yakima tipi. She be safe for when you return.’ His speaking of the next sentence was accompanied by his fist touching his chest above his heart. ‘There is Sketana’s word on that.’

  The relief was apparent on Seth’s face. ‘I accept your word. You are an honorable man, Sketana. Put I still want to take my wife.’

  ‘The decision is yours. She is your property. But we advise you against. In any case, we give furs and blankets for your journey. Food, too.’

  The treatment of the white man and his squaw changed. They ate at the campfire as equals to the red man.

  Seth found himself ripping into caribou meat alongside his former opponent. Quinquian’s English was better than his father’s. Seth discovered he’d been taught at a mission. After a long conversation Seth plucked up courage to ask why the Indians were suddenly attacking the white men.

  ‘As my father has said, they are taking our lands.’

  Seth didn’t understand. ‘Yes, but it is only by treaty agreed by yourselves.’

  ‘Pah, it is one-sided deal. He take our land and give back small piece.’ Seth, new to the Territory, was still puzzled. ‘But you receive payment––commodities and money––do you not?.’

  Quinquian scoffed. ‘I know the meaning of white man’s money.’ He tapped his forehead in the universal gesture of understanding. ‘We are given what is called––annuities. It sound good, money every year. I make calculation. Each Indian is going to get fifty cents a year. Is that worth parting with our birthright ?’

  Seth shook his head. As a newcomer, he hadn’t realized the bargains were that raw.

  Quinquian continued. ‘And I tell you one thing. White man make his mark on treaty––but his mark is no good until treaty is ratified by white man’s council of elders––what he call government. That can take a season of our time, what you call three months. In all that time––white man can change mind! On other hand, red man put mark on treaty––it binds immediately. He––no change mind. Well, I follow whitey’s way now; I change mind.’ He wiped grease from his mouth. Many whites come to land before treaty ratified. We send back. They come with guns and fight. So we fight and kill.’

  The next day, after a night in their own tipi, Seth and Kate set off down the mountain. His warbag was topped with Indian food and Kate wore a fur shawl given by Quinquian. After an hour they stopped to rest on a ledge. A light snowfall had begun and they watched the flakes drifting down into the great void below them.

  Seth took his wife’s hand. ‘Did they ill-treat you ?’

  She paused as if choosing her words carefully. ‘Not in a violent way.’

  His face tightened and he looked at the fur shawl wrapped around her slight figure. ‘Were you––molested ?’

  She paused even longer before answering this time. ‘Quinquian took me once.’

  Langton covered his eyes with his hand.

  ‘He claimed me as his woman,’ she continued. ‘Some kind of trophy as I understand matters.’

  ‘Trophy?’ he said with a tremor. ‘ My God, does that justify it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  He exhaled loudly. ‘I wish I’d killed him.’

  She put an arm weakly around his shoulders. ‘Things may have turned out differently if you had.’

  As the day wore on the snow got worse and the temperature dropped. Kate got rapidly weaker. Although it was not yet dark Seth decided to camp for the night as his wife was shivering and having difficulty breathing. He found the cave he’d used previously. Once inside he tried to get her to eat but she had no interest in food, rejecting the hardtack which he had remaining.

  Eventually he forced her to have some strengthening caribou marrow supplied by the Yakima. He felt her brow––she was shivering and, despite the cold, sweating at the same time. He got worried as the night wore on, her shivering becoming more violent and her breathing increasingly difficult. With his precious bundle in his aims he fought off sleep until eventually fatigue forced it upon him.

  When he awoke his wife’s shaking had stopped. For a moment he was relieved––until he realized the absence of movement was complete. She was not even breathing!

  He held her close for a long time. He didn’t want to leave her. His Kate.

  He looked at her in his arms and thought of the warm, warm tipi from which he had taken her. That was what she had needed: a warm, cozy tipi. And he had chosen to take her away from it.

  The tears froze on his cheeks. He cradled her for a long time, the words “If only I hadn’t taken…” acting as a mantra in his numbed brain.

  And so it was, much later, a lonely figure stumbled downwards through the drifts. Through the drifts, alone, to civilization.

  POSTSCRIPT

  It took a three year war to defeat the Indians to the east of the Cascade Mountains in Washington Territory, during which dozens of their leaders were hanged. In 1858 the tribes were herded into reservations and their lands were opened up for settlers.

  A Hanging at Constitution Pass

  They knew it was to be quite a day when hangman Zachariah Painter came to town. What they didn’t know was that it would make for an even more memorable night!

  The rider looked ordinary enough. Plain, dusty suit; an equally-dusty derby sitting compactly on his middle-aged head. A black string tie flopping against the white cotton vest. Graying sideburns down to his jaw-line. A matching droop moustache topping his mouth. No guns. He didn’t look like a hangman. But tied on behind his saddle was a large valise and if you could have seen inside it you would have seen a coiled rope––standard Penal Department issue. Strapped into the lid a large knife, also part of the official regulation kit, especially honed for its one task of cutting rope––the right length. And, neatly folded, a black, eyeless mask with a draw string around its base. He shielded his eyes against the sun and he could make out another rider in the distance––motionless on the ridge before him.

  `Mr. Painter?’ the stationary man shouted. The approaching rider kept silent until he’d mounted the ridge.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Jed Tucker, Marshal of Constitution Pass,’ the other replied, thumbing the badge on his chest.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. Painter. Forgive me not answering you immediately but in this heat and at my age I ain’t holding no conversation at the top of my lungs.’ The lawman extended his hand. ‘I rode out to escort you into town.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind, son.’ The older man took the hand wearily. ‘Zachariah Painter at your service, sir.’ He looked down from the ridge at the spread of buildings below that made up the township. ‘So that’s Constitution Pass? Must confess, I’d never heard of the place until your communication came through to the office. Had to use a map to find the place.’

  He handed the lawman papers from an inside pocket as identification. After being studiously examined the documents were returned and Tucker pulled his pinto round alongside the hangman’s horse to face in the same direction. ‘Yes, sir. That’s Constitution Pass. That’s where ... it’ll be.’

  The old man gigged his roan. ‘Come on then, young ‘un. An unpleasant job, but a necessary one.’

  The marshal accompanied the exceptional visitor to town and
saw to his installing in the already prepared room in the hotel. Later in the afternoon the two men went to the high-fenced enclosure behind the law office. The smell of fresh-cut timber pervaded the air. It had been a long, long time since Constitution had seen a hanging.

  ‘Everything’s ready, sir,’ Tucker said pointing to the gallows which had been erected to Penal Department specifications. ‘It’s the first of the new kind we’ve had to build. We don’t have much call for the instrument in these parts nowadays.’ He took a blueprint from a work-table and knocked away some shavings from its surface. ‘Worked as close as we could to this specification that your office sent out.’

  Painter nodded, mounted the steps and tested the firmness of the structure. He worked the trap to see that it swung free. ‘Your carpenter has done a sound job, Marshal. No worries on that score.’

  He took a watch from the top pocket of his Prince Albert coat. It was just after four. ‘Eight o’clock in the morning is the appointed time. Regulations.’ He clicked the watch shut and returned it to his pocket. ‘Let’s go and look at the prisoner.’

  There was a short ginger-haired man seated in the law office when the marshal and the hangman entered. It was Owen Cavanagh, the town’s newsman. ‘What the hell do you want, Owen?’ the marshal snapped.

  ‘Just covering the proceedings for the press.’