Beloved Physician (15 page)

As if the bay gelding understood his master’s words, he bobbed his head and whinnied.

They were on a steep incline. Dr. Dane let his eyes roam. Blinking against the glare, he shifted his line of sight to the north where massive white clouds filled the sky. Great banks of cumulus piled to magnificent heights, dwarfing the mountains in comparative insignificance.

Soon horse and rider topped the rise and began a sharp descent on the trail. Dane let his eyes follow the creek as it rushed southward, sliding in a gleam of foamy white into a vast canyon below.

After going up and down on the natural trail northward, Dane and Pal came upon relatively flat land, surrounded by forests, and before them lay one cattle ranch after another.

Dane soon found himself gazing at a huge grassy fenced-in field behind a large red barn, where four cowboys were branding cattle. He smiled at the sound of bawling and bellowing that came to him on the breeze, along with the crackling of horns and pounding of hooves.

The young doctor fastened his gaze on one cowboy who rode a black horse and was chasing a frisky steer. He whirled a lasso around his head and gave it a toss. The rope shot out and the loop caught the right rear leg of the steer. The black horse stopped with marvelous suddenness, and the steer slid to a halt on the grass.

Quick as a flash, the lanky cowboy was out of the saddle with a length of rope in his hand. Grasping the legs of the steer before it could rise, he tied them with the rope. Another cowhand came running with a smoking branding iron in hand and applied it to the flank of the steer. Instantly the steer was released, and with a bawl, jumped up and bolted away, kicking his heels up in reaction to the burning on his flank.

For a moment, the smell of burning hide and hair wafted on the breeze and met Dane’s nostrils.

Within a few minutes, Dane and his horse entered a dense forest and wound among the trees. Squirrels ran up and down the trunks, and birds twittered in the high branches. At the sound of Pal’s pounding hooves, a pair of buck deer bounded from the shadows just ahead, dashed over a rise, and quickly disappeared. Dane smiled at their speed.

Some twenty minutes later, he emerged from the forest and about half a mile ahead, Dane saw Fort Junction standing where the Boulder and St. Vrain Rivers joined.

He put Pal to a trot and aimed for the front gate, which was visible in the twelve-foot-tall stockade fence. To one side of the
gate was a guard tower, the floor of which stood some three or four feet above the fence. Next to the tower rose the flagpole with Old Glory at its top, waving proudly in the breeze.

The two guards in the tower watched the lone rider draw up, and one of them smiled down at him. “Good afternoon, sir. May we help you?”

Dane smiled back. “I’m Dr. Dane Logan, Central City’s physician and surgeon, gentlemen. Is Colonel Smith here?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I need to see him if possible. I want to report to him about a ranch family south of town being attacked by Indians. I did surgery on the rancher and saved his life by removing a bullet from his chest, but the Indians killed his wife and children.”

The guard motioned for the other one to go down and open the gate.

“The colonel will want to hear about that, Doctor, I assure you. My partner will escort you to Colonel Smith’s office.”

When the gate swung open, the guard on the ground said, “I’m Corporal Laird Cotter, Dr. Logan. Please dismount. I’ll tie your horse right here by the gate; then we’ll go to the colonel’s office.”

Pal whinnied as his master walked away with the corporal. As Cotter led him farther into the fort, Dr. Dane noted the deep ruts worn into the hard ground; ruts cut by the iron-shod wheels of the military wagons.

He saw the line of the log barracks with the stables beyond them. The officers’ quarters were across the grounds, facing them, and the offices were just ahead, to the right. On the same side were the commissary and the sutler’s store, sided by the mess hall.

When they reached the offices, the commandant’s was in the middle. Corporal Cotter stepped up and knocked on the door, and almost immediately, a husky voice from inside said, “Yes?”

“Colonel Smith, it’s Corporal Laird Cotter. I have someone
here who needs to see you. It
is
very important, sir.”

“Well, come on in, Corporal.”

Cotter introduced the doctor to Colonel Perry Smith, and the colonel shook his hand, welcoming him. He dismissed Cotter, gestured for the doctor to sit down in one of the pair of chairs facing the desk, then moved behind the desk and eased onto his chair.

Perry, a mustachioed man of forty, said, “Now what is it you wish to see me about, Dr. Logan?”

“Indian trouble, sir.”

Smiths face took on a stony look. “Something I never like to hear, Doctor, but it exists. Tell me about it.”

Dr. Dane told the colonel the story of the Ute attack on the Jack Bates ranch as it was related to him by rancher Rex Wilson, emphasizing that Wilson wanted the colonel to know that the Indians were indeed Utes. He advised Smith of the theft of the
Diamond B
cattle, of the violent deaths of Mrs. Bates and their three children, and of his removing the bullet from Jacks chest to save his life.

As Dr. Dane was telling the story, he saw the glitter of anger gathering in the colonels eyes.

When he finished by saying that Rex Wilson felt sure the band of Utes were from Chief Tando’s village, there was smoldering indignation in his stiff-set cheeks. “I don’t doubt it. Tando is the most vicious of the renegade Ute chiefs. I’m going to take my troops to his village, but I know when I confront him with it, he will deny any knowledge of the cattle theft from the Bates ranch and, of course, the killing of the man’s wife and children.”

He paused. “Knowing Tando and his bloody warriors as I do, I’m positive they thought they had killed Mr. Bates too, or they’d have made sure of it. Dr. Logan, I very much appreciate your coming here to report this to me. Although Tando will deny the whole thing, I am going to go there and at least let that blood-hungry beast know that he is on the edge of disaster. I’m going to make it
plain and clear to him that his village will be under tighter scrutiny from now on. There will be patrols from this fort moving about the area of the village like never before.”

Dr. Dane nodded. “Good. I hope it serves to put some fear into him.”

“We’ll do our best. For the past six months, there has been less trouble from the Utes than we had experienced before that time. There still have been some raids on ranches on the west side of the Continental Divide, but not nearly as many as before. However, I received wires from the commandants at Fort Uncompahgre and Fort Lewis on the west side of the mountains just last week, advising me that the Ute renegades were killing ranchers again and stealing their cattle.

“I had hoped they were getting the renegade blood out of their system, but it looks like they’re starting again, and it’s quite obvious after hearing your report that the stealing and killing is going to include the east side of the Divide once more. Most of the Ute thefts and attacks on the east side of the Divide have been done by Tando and his bunch.”

Dr. Dane shook his head. “Well, sir, I hope your show of force will discourage Tando and his warriors from continuing these raids altogether.”

Smith sighed and ran fingers through his mustache. “Knowing Tando, I really wonder, but it’s worth a try. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take a large number of men, plus two Gatling guns.”

Dr. Dane’s eyebrows arched. “Gatling guns, hmm? That ought to make them sit up and take notice.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The doctor rose from his chair. “Well, Colonel, I need to be going. My wife’s having to run the office by herself. She’s a certified medical nurse, but she can’t do it all.”

Smith stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for bringing this information to me.”

At the same time Dr. Dane Logan was riding south toward home, at the Ute village some twenty miles southwest of Central City, Chief Tando and his warrior son, Latawga, were sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of their buffalo hide tepee, discussing the young subchief, Danpo, and the seven warriors whom Tando had sent out to steal cattle from some white mans ranch in the area.

The muscular, dark-skinned chief was in his early forties. He was clad, as was Latawga, in a robe of buffalo hide. Latawga, like all Ute braves, wore a cloth band around his head with a single eagle feather protruding up at the back of his head. Tando was wearing an unusual headdress, which was the scalp of a wolf, mounted with all the terrible grinning teeth. Beneath that gear there showed a thoughtful, meditative face.

Tando frowned and ran his gaze toward the north end of the village. In the Ute language, he said, “I am becoming concerned for Danpo and his men, Latawga. The sun is halfway down the afternoon sky, and yet they have not returned.”

Latawga, who strongly resembled his father, replied in Ute, “Possibly they ran into an army patrol, Father.”

At that moment, Tando’s squaw, Leela, came out of the tepee carrying a metal bucket Latawga had stolen during a raid on a white mans ranch over a year ago. The long shower of black hair fell glistening over her shoulders. She paused and looked down at her husband and son with her brow furrowed. “Should not Danpo and his warriors be back by now?”

Tando nodded slowly. “Latawga and I were just talking about that very thing. Indeed, they should have returned some time ago.”

Suddenly, one of the braves on lookout duty high up in a pine tree called loudly, “Chief Tando! Danpo and his band are returning and have a good number of cattle!”

The sentry’s voice carried over the entire village, and the sound of bawling cattle could be heard. Almost everyone in the village was out of their tepees and looked in the direction of the cattle. Along with the chief, his squaw, and his son, they noticed that one of the band’s pintos had a blood-smeared back and was riderless. Then they saw that Danpo had a bloodied warrior named Yamda on his horse with him. Yamda was slumped over, but as they drew nearer, it was evident that he was breathing.

Rising to his feet, the chief set his eyes on the unconscious, wounded brave, and his crooked, yellowed teeth were bared in the black, shapeless slit of his mouth as he hurried toward Yamda’s horse. Latawga followed on his father’s heels.

Danpo halted his horse as the chief drew up and gave orders to one group of braves who were gathering around to take the cattle and slaughter them immediately. He reminded them that he wanted the hides destroyed so if the soldier coats should come, there would be no evidence that they had stolen cattle in the village with brands on their hides.

The braves rushed to do as their chief had commanded.

While the eighteen head of cattle were being driven to the place of slaughter, Tando motioned to two young braves in the mounted band, Katasho and Pawaga. They slid from their pintos’ backs and drew up to him.

“Yes, Chief Tando?” said Katasho.

“You and Pawaga take Yamda from Danpo’s arms. Carry him hastily to Makota!”

The two braves responded quickly. Danpo eased Yamda down into their uplifted arms, and cradling him carefully, they hurried across the open area that was surrounded by tepees to that of the silver-haired village medicine man. Makota’s tepee was extra large in circumference. As Katasho and Pawaga drew up, the tepee’s flap was back. They saw Makota on his knees inside, beside a young white woman who lay motionless on the grassy floor, her eyes closed.

They knew that Joyce was ill.

Makota was patting Joyce’s forehead with a wet cloth. He stopped and looked up at the braves who held the bleeding young warrior in their arms. “What happened to Yamda?”

Katasho said, “Danpo’s band was stealing cattle from a rancher. The white man began shooting. We fired back. Before we could kill the rancher and his family, Yamda was shot. It looks bad, Makota.”

The old man pointed to a spot on the tepee floor close to the white woman. “Put him down here.”

While Katasho and Pawaga were easing their wounded comrade onto the floor, Makota gave the white woman’s pallid face a lingering look, then felt for a pulse at the side of her neck. He shook his head and dropped the cloth into the bucket of water beside her and turned his attention to the unconscious Yamda.

Both braves noticed that the white woman had stopped breathing.

“Joyce is dead?” said Pawaga.

Makota nodded solemnly. “She is dead.”

Pawaga had been part of Chief Tando’s village for only a few days. Alone, he had fled the village of Chief Ouray some ninety miles to the southwest in the state to join the renegade Utes under Chief Tando’s leadership.

Makota went to work on Yamda.

Katasho looked at Makota, his eyes wide. “Chief Tando and his squaw are going to be very upset when they learn that Joyce has died.”

Makota glanced up and nodded. “Yes. Very upset.” He then put his attention back on the wounded warrior.

“I can see that Joyce is white,” said Pawaga, “so why will Chief Tando and Leela be upset?”