Fort Larned

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Boson Books
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Raleigh, NC 27606

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His gelding struggled to maintain its footing as he climbed the steep bank of the Arkansas River. Once the dun made it safely to the valley floor Collier cut his eyes north toward Pawnee Rock. The sandstone monolith loomed over the broad plain like a sixtyfoot red sentinel. From the rock's crest a man on horseback could see ten miles of Santa Fe Trail and the buffalo grass river valley in either direction. He had used the rock before. Part of his job as chief cavalry scout was as a lookout along the trail between Fort Larned, thirty miles to the west and Fort Zarah, thirty miles to the east.

   Lane Collier was a tall man in his mid thirties. He had a short black beard framing even features and dark brown eyes. He wore a dark blue shirt, buckskin pants and knee high black riding boots. He was a fluid rider, easy in the saddle, a light touch on the reins. He leaned forward in his saddle and patted his horse on the neck. He was impressed with the effortless way the gelding moved. He had been out of the fort for three full days and had covered more than seventy miles. The horse was carrying him as easily as it had the first day and he was lucky to be riding such a good animal. Lieutenant Bohanin was unhappy with many mounts issued his troopers and would have requisitioned it if he had known. As the gelding climbed the steep slope toward the top of the rock, Collier adjusted his muzzle loading Plains rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle.

   As the dun stepped to the top of the rock, Collier stared absently at the floor beneath the gelding's hooves. The sound of the riders caught his attention and he reined up. Five Cheyenne warriors were sixty yards away making their way up the opposite slope. Collier wheeled the gelding around and spurred for the river, the warriors breaking into pursuit.

   Collier cursed himself as he struck out across the valley. He had been daydreaming in the saddle and it could cost him his life. His only hope was to make for the river to either make a stand or attempt to lose them. He doubted that his gelding, after days on the trail, was fresh enough to outrun them.

   He heard the blast of a rifle shot from behind and felt a rush of air as a ball just missed his ear. He wondered how many had rifles. It wasn't more than seven hundred yards to the banks. If he could make some cover maybe he could hold them off if they weren't too well armed. The lack of any quick follow-up shots gave him some hope. One rifle against one was more to his liking than one against five. He leaned low in the saddle to make as small a target as possible. A second shot struck the gelding in the spine above the tail. As the gelding's back legs gave out Collier stepped to the ground drawing his rifle. The horse went down on its side and Collier knelt behind it. He drew a bead on the lead Cheyenne. He set the back trigger of the heavy Plains rifle and took his time aiming. He had to make his one shot count. The .54 bucked as he touched the front hair trigger and the lead Cheyenne rolled off the back of his pony. He drew his .44 Colt revolver as the warriors split on either side. Four were left and only one had a rifle. Collier aimed at the rifleman's horse. As an arrow buried itself in the ground at Collier's feet, he fired and watched the pony fall. The rider slammed into the ground and staggered to his feet, favoring his shoulder, looking for his rifle. Collier fired his pistol again and missed.

   The Indian was torn between running for cover and finding his gun. He dropped to the ground out of Collier' s line of sight. The remaining men dropped behind the banks of the Arkansas.

   Collier crawled to the away side of his horse and reloaded his rifle. He rammed the patch and ball home, and placed a fresh percussion cap on the nipple before drawing his Colt. He was on the side of the dying gelding's feet and couldn't take the chance of getting kicked. He put the muzzle of the revolver behind the dun's ear and pulled the trigger. He went to work reloading the three empty chambers of his revolver. He cut his eyes from the bank of the river to his pistol and back. Once the revolver was loaded, he settled down for the wait drawing close to the gelding's body and placing his rifle within easy reach.

   Collier thought that he saw movement along the bank. He drew a bead on what he thought to be an Indian but there wasn't time for a shot. He placed the rifle across the belly of his horse and fished an extra loaded cylinder for his Colt from his saddle bag. He took a drink from his canteen and waited for the Cheyenne to make a move. As the morning sun rose in the sky, flies and gnats hovered about his face and he wished for a breeze to scatter them.

   He was in a stalemate and he could do little to get away. Even if the Cheyenne wanted to leave, they wouldn't without the body of their friend and Collier was between them and it. The gelding wasn't much but it was the only cover he had. He could only wait for their next move.

   An arrow flew from behind the bank of the river into a high arch and buried itself in the grass twenty feet in front of Collier's position. Collier smiled as he realized that the Indians were trying to find his range. Those arching shots were something that he couldn't do with his rifle. Another arrow fell to earth about ten feet from him.

   
"Someone must think they're pretty good,"
Collier mumbled.

   A third arrow lodged into the gelding's hip.
"Someone is pretty good."

   He looked hard for a head to show itself. Someone had to be watching where the arrows were landing. A subtle movement along the bank betrayed the Cheyenne. Collier could barely make out his form as the brave's head slowly rose above the river bank. As a fourth arrow struck the gelding, Collier's rifle roared. He couldn't tell clearly but he felt that he might have hit him. If not, the Indian would be more careful poking his head above cover. If he had hit his target, Collier figured that only two healthy Cheyenne were left.

   Collier waited for nightfall. In the waning light of sunset he could see movement but wasn't really sure. As shadows lengthened and light dimmed, it became almost impossible to see clearly at that distance. His head ached from the strain. As night fell, he slipped his saddle from his gelding and slung his canteen. When it was dark, he crawled toward the river, pushing his saddle and rifle ahead of him. Several times he stopped and waited behind the saddle listening. When he reached the bank, he hesitated at the edge. Other than the river sounds, he could hear nothing. He dropped over the edge and waited for several minutes crouched against the bank.

   When he was certain there was no one about, he rose to his feet and lifted his saddle over his shoulder. After a mile or so he relaxed.
"Maybe they wanted out of this fight as
bad as I did,"
he thought. He hoisted the heavy saddle to his shoulder and walked into the night. It was at least twenty-five miles to Fort Larned. If he kept a steady pace, he could be there by dawn.

The activities of an active frontier post surrounded the sandstone buildings of Fort Larned situated on one of the most important trails in the West. Nine new buildings surrounded an open square. Their fresh new appearance contrasted greatly with the motley assortment of sod buildings and dugouts that surrounded them. The Pawnee River surrounded the post on three sides with the south end open to the prairie and the Santa Fe Trail. The hospital, a rough adobe structure, stood on the north side of the east loop of the river. A bit farther to the east were the corrals and some makeshift barns. No walls were surrounding the post. Instead it took on more of an appearance of a well-ordered village situated around a public square.

   A troop of infantry drilled in the square. The soldiers wore simple uncomfortable uniforms of Civil War vintage. Wagons of a recently arrived supply caravan were lined up near the commissary building at the south end of the square. To the southeast stood an odd octagonal stone building called the blockhouse that functioned as a guardhouse. Beyond that were six circled wagons with stock grazing nearby.

   A tall, handsome woman of twenty years was doing her washing just east of the blockhouse. She could draw fresh, clean water from the blockhouse well rather than from the muddy river water. A line was strung between two wagons in the circle and wash was drying in the sun and wind. She worked the clothing on a scrub board with an easy strength that came from her size and build. Her dark brown hair was formed into a tight bun at the back. Her neck and face were tan from working outdoors.

   When she saw the man on the far bank of the dry loop, she wondered just how long he had been standing there. She thought it odd that a man would be carrying his saddle, especially since he had just passed the corrals. As the stranger started down the slope of the bank, she wondered if it wouldn't be a good idea to make her way back toward the wagons. He was dressed in a broad brimmed black hat, dark blue shirt, buckskin pants and high black boots. He was a handsome man with a trim beard standing more than six feet in height. He carried a beautiful muzzle loading Plains rifle and wore a Colt revolver. From his easy manner, she decided that he probably wasn't a threat.

   He approached the well and smiled. "Looks like you found yourself a job."

   She smiled and wiped a soapy hand across her forehead. "I didn't have to look very hard. You lose your horse?"

   He acted surprised by the abruptness of her comment. "Yeah, I sure did."

   "Quite a way back?" she asked.

   "About thirty miles, I reckon." He shuffled from one foot to the other as though he was uncomfortable speaking to women.

   "You need those spurs for a walk?"

   He looked at his feet and chuckled. "I've worn them so much that I never thought about that ma'am. I guess they do look a little odd."

   "No, sir, they don't. I guess I just have a strange sense of humor."

   He smiled broadly. "Ma'am, your humor is just fine." He set down his rifle and saddle, and put forward his hand. "My name is Lane Collier."

   She wiped soap off her hand on her apron and extended it. "I'm Nell Baker. It's nice to meet you."

   Their handshake and greeting were formal, yet the touch of it felt good. They appreciated each other's manner.

   "You need something?" A harsh voice came from a man standing near the entrance to the blockhouse. A dark unshaven man and a small brown hat glared at them.

   Nell Baker looked up and answered uneasily. "Nathan, this man just walked in from-"

   "You need something, mister?" Nathan asked.

   Collier noticed that she was looking at the ground as if the cold edge of the man's voice had forced her into submission. His eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I need something."

   She didn't look up. "This is my husband, Mr. Collier . . . Nathan Baker."