by Hazel Rumney
Growing up on the Great Plains, he’d come to respect winter—a grudging respect only, such as the cavalry gave the warlike Sioux. Winter and the Indians were both mortal enemies who tendered no quarter.
The sheepskin coat covered his upper body, hips, holstered Colt, and part of the saddle. In place of boots, which became stiff and hard to pull on and off, he wore mid-calf moccasins. This footgear was one of his prized possessions. He’d traded two new stag-handled knives and a spavined horse to a Cree woman for this pair of handmade moccasins. The insteps were decorated with a pattern of green and white stained porcupine quills, while the soles were double thicknesses of buffalo hide. The insides were lined with wolfskin harvested in winter so the pelt retained the downy undercoat of fur as well as the tough outer guard hairs His toes were usually the first of his extremities to be bitten by frost. But the fur lining, and the hooded stirrups that cut the wind, effectively warded off the insidious cold during the several hours it took his mounts to dash from swing station to swing station on his eighty-five-mile run.
Thus armored against the elements, he was reasonably comfortable, except for his fingers inside the gauntlets. They still hurt with such cold he had to pull off the gloves and blow on his fingers every twenty minutes to keep them from going numb and useless.
Neal considered what he was leaving behind. He loved the riding. It was the people who never let up on him. Good things never outlasted the bad. At seventeen, he was still growing, and might eventually get too heavy to be a rider, even though he was only one-hundred-thirty pounds on a five-foot, seven-inch frame. Everything was designed to cut the amount of weight a pony had to carry. Even the small, slotted saddle was merely wet rawhide stitched over a wooden tree. With only stirrups and necessary rigging added, it weighed no more than ten pounds. It was the mail stuffed into the four pouches of the mochila that counted—the mail was what paid the way for the whole operation.
There were other factors beyond his control. He couldn’t go indefinitely without receiving his salary. The owners of the express were in financial trouble.
It appeared the country was rushing toward a civil war that would likely disrupt the Pony.
And how long would it take the backers of the telegraph to begin planting poles and stringing lines across these vast open spaces and even the Rocky Mountains? The end was in sight for this job, and he’d better prepare for it. Even trains were destined to replace stagecoaches in a few years.
His future was probably in sheep ranching. But the thought of fighting off greedy cattlemen for public grazing didn’t appeal to him. Forget the future; it’s a blank. It was time to go where he could be respected. The company would fail soon. He would get away before he was fired, he rationalized. But the company might fail even sooner without you. Where’s your sense of loyalty and responsibility? Your parents taught you better. You’re not a quitter. You signed on to carry the mail. You have to at least give them some notice, a voice within him argued. He gritted his teeth. Conscience had no logic. He had to plan ahead and get on with his life. It was time to start looking for other work.
The bare buttes of Jail Rock and Courthouse Rock loomed ahead, thrusting up several hundred feet above the prairie. He saw them as through a fog, but then realized it was snowing a couple of miles away. Big flakes began to fall, melting on his eyelids.
An hour later it was snowing heavily when he made a flying exchange at the swing station. Galloping out on a fresh pony, he was surprised how quickly the station and the two hostlers vanished behind him in the whirling flakes.
On to Scottsbluff. As long as the spire of Chimney Rock was visible, he could keep the trail. The dry snow was already fetlock deep and piling up fast on a northwest wind.
Thirty minutes out, he spotted the Indians.
Something dark and moving caught the corner of his vision. He swiveled his head. From the bouncing back of his galloping mount, he saw at least five braves through the gauzy curtain. His heart gave a leap and began to pound. He slitted his eyes against the stinging ice crystals. Very likely Sioux, he guessed. Where the hell did they come from? Maybe riding out of the Black Hills following migrating buffalo? Winter meat was crucial. But it appeared they were traveling light. The plains tribes hated whites for intrusion into their lands and for decimating buffalo herds just for sport. The Indians took every opportunity to strike back. I’m the only game available.
Normally, the best tactic against hostiles was to outrun them on the faster, grain-fed express ponies. He leaned over the pony’s neck and touched its flanks with spurs. The animal tried, but apparently had nothing in reserve.
The Sioux had seen him and were coming fast out of the blizzard to head him off. Already they were well within pistol range.
Even though the blowing snow obscured it, Neal knew the surrounding terrain; maybe the Sioux did not. He slowed his mount to guide him off the trail.
THUNK!
Something like a club struck his left thigh. A feathered shaft was suddenly protruding from the front pouch of the mochila. Before he could react, another arrow deflected off the saddle horn and ripped his gauntlet.
Neal guided his mount directly away from the hostiles to present them with the smallest possible target. Apparently, their skill with bow and arrow was greater than their prowess with firearms—especially from the backs of moving horses.
He made for the row of cottonwoods that grew along the base of Courthouse Rock near Pumpkin Creek. How far away was that shelter? Two miles? More?
The wind was scouring the ground almost bare in places and drifting the powdery snow in others. The pony galloped free for a hundred yards, then stumbled into a drift and floundered, knee-deep for a distance.
Neal had no time to look back. All his concentration was focused on attaining the limited protection of the trees. His heart was thudding in his chest, and his breath steaming like that of his laboring pony. He leaned low over the saddle horn, expecting every moment to feel sharp flint of an arrowhead bury itself in his back.
He thought he heard two shots, but the heavy snow deadened sounds. He could only hear his pony’s heavy breathing and the soft thudding of hoofs in the snow.
After what seemed like hours, the wind and blinding snow seemed to ease. Neal looked up and saw he was in the lee of giant Courthouse Rock, which was sheltering him from the blast.
He twisted in the saddle and glanced over his shoulder. The dark figures against the white background seemed to be more distant, but he couldn’t be sure. But one thing he could be sure of was that his pony was tiring and slowing. He slid out of the saddle into knee-deep snow and led the horse, stumping along on stiffened legs. It was a losing race. They would have him for sure within a few minutes.
Suddenly his right foot plunged down a steep incline beneath the snow and he rolled headfirst into a drift, icy particles going down his neck and up his sleeves. He staggered to his feet and clapped his hat back on his head. Gasping, he took hold of the reins and walked slowly ahead. It was still daylight, but the blowing snow was creating a false twilight. He’d reached the sloping bank of Pumpkin Creek near the base of Courthouse Rock. Dark trunks of gnarled cottonwoods stood yards apart and ahead he could see a flat white sheet that appeared to mark the frozen creek.
He’d have to find a good spot and make a stand. His right hand felt under his coat to make sure the Colt hadn’t fallen from its holster. It dawned on him that he and his horse were now below the sight line of the pursuing hostiles. If he could somehow find cover before they saw him again, maybe he could hide. He looked for fallen timber. The snow was not as deep among the trees and he led the pony as quickly as he could stagger along. Something was wrong with his left leg. Numb from cold? He could feel a slight stinging sensation he hadn’t noticed before. He glanced down and saw the chaps were stained with dark blood all the way to his foot. The arrow had gotten him before it embedded itself in the mochila pouch. A thrill of fear stabbed his stomach. That much blood probably meant an artery had b
een severed. The way his heart was pounding, he could very well pump out his life’s blood in a short time.
Ah, there’s what he needed—a giant cottonwood that had fallen across the creek, its thick trunk and tangled roots providing a place to shelter from pursuit. The tree lay along a ridge of snow the wind had piled up on the lee side. Even though he and his pony were out of sight, there was no actual hiding with his tracks plain in the snow. Would this be the end of the trail for him? Even though he was still breathing heavily from exertion, he felt strangely calm.
“Well, fella, I’m sorry I got you into this.” He pulled off his gauntlet and stroked the animal’s nose. The pony snorted, still winded.
For the first time, Neal realized the second arrow that ripped the glove had raked a raw cut across the back of his hand. The pony would fare better than he would. As soon as the party of Sioux disposed of him, they’d take the uninjured pony along with them.
He looped the reins over a broken branch but was certain the fatigued animal wasn’t going anywhere. Then he hunkered down, half-sitting in the thigh-deep drift behind the thick bole. He made no attempt to bare the wound in his leg. At best he had only minutes before pursuit caught up with him, so he pulled his Colt and slowly turned the cylinder, making sure it was capped. The heavy sheepskin coat and holster flap had protected any snow from wetting the powder. He leaned his elbows against the tree, laying the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel atop the horizontal trunk. He kept a gauntlet on his left hand but gripped the icy gun butt with his bare right hand since the forefinger of the torn glove wouldn’t fit through the trigger guard.
He could only await the outcome. It wouldn’t be long.
For the first time he was aware of the profound silence. Only a low moan of wind sounded now and then in the bare branches far overhead. Thin skeins of snow were whirled from the tops of drifts, emphasizing the loneliness of nature in its winter sleep. For some reason he thought of wolves and buffalo and lynx, and all the animals who did not hibernate in warm dens. Theirs was the tough life, finding prey or forage in such an environment. Many of the weaker, older ones would perish.
His left leg had begun to throb, either from the wound or the cold. The rest of his lower body was comfortable, insulated by the deep snow. His face and one hand were freezing. He’d removed the long scarf from his head to facilitate hearing, and his ears and nose were numb.
Predators and prey. The same tableau was being played out here and now by humans—men who did not act on instinct and should have known better.
Very likely he’d never see another sunrise. How strange was Fate, or the workings of Providence. He chuckled with ironic humor. Had he resigned yesterday, none of this would have happened.
Long, early dusk was settling in under the trees.
He heard a voice.
Getting a grip on his Colt, he removed his hat and ducked lower behind the tree trunk. He heard horses snorting and ventured a peek through the tangled roots. Three riders were leading the others down the snow-choked slope of the creek bank, apparently following the tracks.
Holding the Colt under his coat to muffle the sound, Neal double-clicked the hammer to full cock. The pistol was of the latest design—a .36 caliber 6-shot revolver with a long barrel for accuracy.
All five of the riders drew up and Neal heard them in conversation. No doubt they’d seen blood in the snow. Did they think he was mortally wounded and going off to die? One of the braves gestured around at the grove of thick cottonwoods. Neal wondered if he might be suggesting this was a good place for an ambush. Their voices rose in argument.
Neal held his gloved hand over the nose of his pony, praying the animal would not answer the whinny of one of the hostile’s ponies. But his hand slipped off and the express pony snorted loudly. Neal jumped behind the log, pistol in hand, as the Sioux walked their horses toward him in foot-deep snow. Three had arrows nocked and two were holding rifles. They were no more than fifteen yards away.
Heart pounding so that it shook his body, Neal rested the barrel on the log and took careful aim, holding his breath.
Boom!
The rider in the lead threw up his hands, dropped his bow, and toppled backward off his horse. The others let fly quickly but their horses were plunging at the blast, and the arrows whistled overhead.
Neal fired again at the two holding the rifles. But their panicked ponies were whirling in circles trying to bolt and the riders could get no aim. A rifle bullet chipped dead bark from the tree trunk. Neal fired twice more, quickly, yellow flame stabbing out from the muzzle and clouds of white smoke obscuring the Sioux. He could barely make out one of the Indians leaping down and grabbing his wounded companion and flinging him across the back of his horse.
Neal had only two shots left. Gasping, he gripped the Colt, determined to sell out for the highest price.
But the Sioux had had enough. Yelling, they kicked their mounts into motion and lunged away through the trees and up the bank.
Neal waited. Several minutes passed, and his heart rate began to subside. He pulled on his right glove and waited, eyes and ears alert. A long quarter hour dragged by, and his hopes rose. Had they vanished into the blizzard with their wounded or dead companion? Finally, satisfied they were gone for good, he leaned his head against the tree trunk, sweat beginning to chill his body.
When he holstered his Colt, his hand brushed the lump bulging an inside pocket. A bacon sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, but knew he needed fuel to ward off the intense cold. He brought out the food and ate it, washing it down with handfuls of snow; his canteen was missing from the saddle.
It was nearly dark when he finished and he wondered if he should try to examine his wound. He’d have to strip off the chaps, canvas pants, and long johns. Instead, he examined the snow and blood-caked leg on the outside. He flexed it slightly. The blood was frozen solid and he felt no wetness underneath. With luck the arrow had missed an artery. If so, the intense cold would stop the bleeding, he knew, but the wet blood turning to ice next to his skin could freeze the tissue. He knew he had to get up and move on to try for Fort Laramie where he could get help. Walking would keep the blood flowing to his extremities and generate some warmth. It would also keep the leg from stiffening up.
He decided to wait a little longer to be sure the Sioux were gone. He wrapped the long scarf around his head, ears, and neck and put on his hat. Meanwhile, he’d just rest here awhile in this soft drift. His pony was nibbling the snow and moving around a bit, lifting one leg and then the other. The animal did not appear to be in acute distress, so Neal leaned his head back against the trunk, tucked both hands inside his sheepskin coat, and closed his eyes, warm and comfortable.
He jerked awake to something wet and warm smothering him. A big tongue was licking the dried salt off his face. When he moved to one side, the pony whickered.
“Thank God, you’re on the job,” he said aloud, struggling to his feet. “I’d just settled in for a long winter’s nap—from which there’s no awakening.”
He realized the danger and brushed the snow off his saddle, wondering if he had the strength to mount. He hooked an arm around the saddle horn and urged the pony forward. After dragging him several yards, the pony stopped in snow only a few inches deep.
His left leg didn’t work well enough to reach the stirrup, so he awkwardly mounted from the right side.
Then began an ordeal that seemed to go on forever. The bitter night cold had settled in, but the wind had died and only steady snowflakes fell straight down. The pony found the trail again and plodded onward. At times, only half conscious, Neal thought he saw figures materializing out of the darkness on either side of him. They seemed so real he sometimes put up a hand or yelled or tried to reach for his Colt. But they were only spectral visions that vanished. At other times he awoke, startled, to realize he’d been asleep in the saddle. Now and then he would pull up and get down to lead the pony, to give them both some relief. He stumped along, beating his gloved hands against his side
s until sharp pains in his fingers and then in his toes announced circulation was returning. When that happened, he jogged ahead to pump the blood even faster.
He had to make the next station at Torrington, a few miles this side of Fort Laramie. When he felt too fatigued to walk, he again struggled into the saddle and let the pony carry him.
Without moon or stars, there was still some vague visibility because of the whiteness all around. The pony seemed to sense the trail and held to it.
Neal was unaware when the snow stopped. But once, opening his eyes and rousing himself again, he noticed the grayness of coming day. The light gradually grew, even though a heavy overcast persisted. Then he dozed again, and only snapped awake when the pony stopped.
Someone yelled and two men were lifting him down from the saddle. He was at Torrington. Neal felt himself being carried inside a brightly lit room with a wood fire crackling.
“See to that pony. He saved my life,” Neal mumbled, sounding drunk since his jaw was nearly frozen.
“Don’t worry. He’ll get a rubdown and plenty of oats,” a deep voice said. “Let’s have a look at you.”
“Water,” he gasped.
A strong arm lifted his head and shoulders while a canteen was put to his lips. He gulped down a long drink, and then lay back with a sigh on the blanket in front of the fire. He felt his clothing being pulled off, and rough hands rubbing his arms and legs. Then he passed out.
When he awoke some time later, he didn’t at first know where he was. He smelled coffee and meat frying. He was lying naked under a blanket in a bunk, his left thigh snugly wrapped with bandages.