Shortgrass Song (50 page)

The horses seemed compelled to race, running abreast, thundering over the ground, and the Nez Perce gelding began to pull away from the others. They followed the wagon tracks at a gallop, making a turn down the river-bank, through the trees, and into a clearing. Caleb was just getting ready to claim victory when Powder River stiffened his legs, balked, and reared. He heard one of the hunters swear, and when he got the gelding under control, he saw the horribly mutilated body of Elam Joiner tied to a wagon wheel, burned, scalped, and hacked beyond abomination.

The old man had been stripped and, dead or alive, lashed to the wheel spread-eagled. Arrows bristled from him like quills from a porcupine. His genitals were gone, a huge gouge in their place. His stomach had been ripped open and his organs removed. Deep, ugly gashes parted the flesh of his thighs. Half the wagon was charred from a still-smoldering fire, started at the base of the wheel Elam's body was tied to.

Turning away, Caleb stumbled down from his horse and fell into some bushes. He heard some of the other men gagging, but Washita Jack Shea was cussing in a fit of instant rancor. Caleb had only glanced at Elam, but the unreal image of the corpse, black and red, came before everything he looked at. He would have given anything to make the vision go away, and yet he felt a morbid compulsion to look again. For triggering that ghastly weakness within himself, he hated the Indians even more than for killing poor old Elam.

He turned, grunting his own vomit back down his throat, and saw Jack trying to cut the body from the charred wheel. The rest of the men had walked away. Washita looked to Caleb for help, so he got up to do what he could. He held Elam's body under the arms as Washita, still swearing anathemas against every Comanche ever born, cut the rawhide ties. Caleb looked beyond what he was doing when he stretched Elam on the ground. To his horror, Washita Jack began pulling arrows from the body. Caleb had to turn away again to escape the sounds of tearing flesh.

When the wagon arrived, Caleb pulled out a hide to wrap Elam in. Mort unloaded a shovel and a spade, and the grave digging began. The skinners and hunters worked silently, tense with horror and anger.

Badger Burton seemed palsied with hatred. “I should have been with him,” he said over and over.

Elam Joiner was buried in a shroud of green buffalo hide with the skull of a bull for a headstone. Mort said a few words of prayer over the fresh mound of dirt, and Washita Jack Shea called for a council of war to meet at the wagon.

“Any man that doesn't want to fight,” he said, standing in the bed, “can walk away right now and nothin' will ever be said against you.”

Some of the skinners looked at their boots, but none turned away.

Washita nodded. “I thought you'd feel bloody. You've a right to.” He sat on a pile of rolled hides in the wagon bed. “Smokey already found their trail across the river. They must have thought Elam was huntin' alone; they were careless. As soon as the moon comes up, we'll follow 'em. Elam told me the other night that the Pease River is about thirty miles north of here, and that's most likely where the red bastards are camped. It'll be a hard ride tonight, but we'll be on 'em at dawn, and then they'll suffer for what they did to Elam.”

“How many of 'em you reckon there are?” George asked. “There ain't but twelve of us.”

“It doesn't make any difference,” Washita said. “They're ignorant of us. They won't have any guards posted. We'll surprise 'em the way we did when I served with Custer on the Washita. You all know I was there.”

Caleb didn't know. It was the first explanation he had heard concerning Washita's nickname. The knowledge of it gave him a deep and sudden faith in the leadership of Washita Jack Shea.

“Besides, we've got somethin' Custer didn't have,” Washita continued. “Sharps Big Fifties, and three of the best shots on the Southern Plains. Mort, make some coffee. It's an hour yet before the moon rises.”

FIFTY-NINE

A dozen tired men sat on their horses in the moonlight, looking at the Pease River over a roll in the plains. It was a broad line of black foliage embedded in the gray plains. Slender columns of silver smoke rose from a bend in its valley.

“What do you call that gelding?” Washita said to Caleb.

“Powder River,” he answered, whispering hoarsely.

“He's got a nose for human blood. He like to have boogered when we found Elam back there. A horse like that will smell murder for you.”

Caleb nodded, and the men sat quiet for another minute, occasionally shifting in their seats, squeaking saddle leather.

“What's takin' Smokey so damn long?” Badger Burton asked.

“Relax,” Washita said. “He's got to go slow to be quiet. We've got plenty of time till daylight.”

Badger heaved impatiently, and the silence began again.

Washita reached into his saddlebag for a flask of whiskey, took a drink, and passed it to Badger. “Some of their women and children are bound to get hurt when the fight starts,” he said to the men as the bottle went around. “We might kill some of 'em. Don't worry about it; there's nothin' we can do about that. Those butchers have put their families in danger by what they did to Elam, and if any of 'em get killed, it's their fault.”

Caleb burned his throat with whiskey and passed the bottle on. He slumped forward in the saddle and snatched worthless moments of sleep, waking with a start every time he began to fall out of the seat.

Smokey Wilson finally returned from the river, riding at a lope toward his companions. “It looks good for us,” he said, getting down from his horse. With his boot heel he drew a crooked line across a bare spot of ground. “This is the river,” he said. “There's a bluff on the north side where you can see nearly the whole camp. They've got lodges set up all along the north bank.” He pointed at his map as he reported.

“How many lodges?” Washita asked.

“I counted sixteen, but it was pretty dark. I may have missed a few.”

“How far from the camp is this bluff you're talkin' about?”

“About a quarter mile. Easy range for the big guns. And there's hardly a tree for cover between the bluff and the camp. All the thick timber's on the south side of the river, along this bend.”

“Where are their horses?”

“Grazin' in the canyons upstream, a good half mile off.”

Washita chuckled bitterly and got down to draw his battle lines on Smokey's map. First he put three dots where Smokey had said the bluff was. “Me and Smokey and Badger will get on this bluff where we can shoot down on their camp.” He drew triangles to represent the tepees. “We'll take two guns each and a man to load 'em for us. Mort, you can load for me. Corley, you load for Badger, and Smith, you'll load for Smokey. Bring some canteens to cool the barrels. We'll have to shoot fast.”

“What are the rest of us skinners gonna do?” George asked in a shaky voice.

“You'll charge the camp from the south at daybreak, push 'em out, and stir 'em up so we can pick off the braves with our buffalo guns. We'll give each of you a revolver and a repeating rifle. Holcomb, your mount's the best in camp. You'll lead the charge.”

Caleb felt the mettle of fear and pride surge through him.

“Caleb's my partner,” Seth blurted. “Let George load for Badger. I want to make the charge with Caleb.”

Washita looked at George, who nodded in agreement, glad to get out of the charge. “All right,” Washita said. He drew Caleb's line of attack in the map. “Holcomb, your skinners will sneak up on the camp from the south through these trees. At first light, charge across the river and into the camp. Drive 'em all to the north, then we'll have at 'em with the Big Fifties in this open area between the camp and the bluff. Don't let 'em get into the trees or we'll lose 'em.”

Caleb stared blankly at the map.

“Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I'll leave it up to you when to charge. Wait till you can see to shoot, but don't wait for them to wake up. Remember, when they figure out where we are, they'll try to pick us off of the bluff. I'm counting on your men to keep up a steady cross fire.”

Caleb nodded, wondering how he had come to be trusted with the attack. Was it because he owned a good horse? Because he was a hard worker? Certainly it had nothing to do with him looking like a leader of men. He was just a skinner, a drifter, a left-handed guitar player. If he had stayed home, he would have seen none of this. But he couldn't stay home. He didn't belong there. It wasn't his home. He had no home. What else could he have done? He just had to keep going.

In an hour the hunters were in position on the bluff and Caleb was leading his squad of skinners toward the tree line. He reined his mount in when they passed the first few trees. “Let's wait here till it gets lighter,” he whispered.

“What for?” Seth asked.

“I don't want to get too close before it's light enough to shoot. A dog might start barkin', or the Indians might hear us comin' and get away.”

Seth sighed and looked at the sky. “When the last star dies out,” he said, “we'll start sneakin' through the trees until we see the lodges. Then we'll charge.”

“Good idea.”

They watched the sky. When the light of the morning's last surviving star had faded away, Caleb whispered his orders. “Spread out. Get about twenty yards abreast of each other, and ride at a walk through the trees. Stop when you see the tepees, and wait for me to give the signal to charge.”

“And don't forget what the son of a bitches did to poor old Elam,” Seth added.

“All we have to do is keep 'em out of the trees,” Caleb said. “Herd 'em to the north.”

The riders could barely see one another as they rode through the timber. Caleb thought they made a terrible amount of noise, stepping on limbs, kicking rocks, and raking past branches, but he hoped the sound of the river would cover their approach. The odor of smoke came to him, and he knew he was close. He pulled his revolver from the holster.

Spotting the first lodges through the trees, he stopped to take in the lay of the land ahead. The river was running swift, but the riffles told him it was shallow all the way across. Nothing stirred in the camp. Not even the dogs knew attackers were near. Beyond the bristling peaks of the lodges, the dark bluff loomed. He could barely see the three hunters there, kneeling behind their rifle rests, their loaders ready with the spare guns. He looked to both sides along the tree line to find Seth and the other skinners waiting. There was no use in putting it off any longer. He nodded and spurred Powder River.

The six bloody young men charged from the trees, jumped a small cutbank, and splashed into the river. Seth released a blood-curdling scream and Caleb fired the first shot through the peak of a tepee.

The camp came alive like a shaken hive of bees as the revolvers fired into it. Washita's plan worked horribly well. Every Indian that ran from the lodges turned north, away from the river. The openings of the tepees faced south, so the squad of skinners could see almost every Comanche who came out. Bullets punctured the cured hides all around the tent flaps.

The skinners halted between the river and the camp and pulled carbines from their saddle scabbards. Caleb saw blood on the ground but didn't know who had been hit. He could hear the cries of babies, the screams of women, the shouts of warriors. “Go through the camp!” he said to his men. “Spread out.”

They moved slowly among the tepees, taking wild shots at fleeing figures in blankets. As far as Caleb knew, the Indians hadn't returned a single shot. Then a bullet cracked a lodge pole behind his head. He saw a brave with a repeater standing between two lodges. He turned Powder River and shouldered his carbine, but the warrior already had a bead drawn on him. A buffalo gun boomed on the bluff and the warrior jerked forward, bits flying from him.

Screams and shouts trebled as the Indians milled in terror. The hunters had waited patiently until almost the entire band was in the open flats under the bluff. Now they rifled balls of lead mercilessly down on the Comanche.

Caleb rode toward the dead warrior to keep the other braves away from the repeater on the ground. Halfway there, two small figures darted into the open. A shriveled woman with long shocks of hair pulled a naked, dark-skinned boy by the arm as they ran. She stooped, grabbed the rifle by the barrel, dragged it away. Caleb aimed but couldn't fire. Something in the woman's gait struck a deep chord of terror in him.

They had swept the camp of Indians and were raking them with a reckless cross fire. The Comanche were caught in the flats between the buffalo guns and the repeaters of the skinners. Few of the braves had had time to load their weapons. As the carnage mounted, the riflemen emptied their magazines and retired behind tepees to reload. The cross fire wilted, and Caleb knew he should have told his men to stagger their fire to maintain a constant barrage. The few Indians who were fighting back now turned their guns on the bluffs.

Clumsily, Caleb shifted rounds from his cartridge belt to the loading port of his Winchester, trying at the same time to hold Powder River behind a Comanche lodge. He glanced toward the flats, then at his men.

“They're tryin' to move upstream!” Seth shouted. “Come on, Caleb, let's turn 'em back toward the bluff!”

Looking between the tepees, he saw the Indians scrambling to his left, running low behind bushes, carrying dead and wounded. He turned Powder River and trotted behind the last row of lodges standing between him and the Indians. As he rode, he caught glimpses of the scrawny woman with the rifle, leading the naked boy by the arm. Some old, inexplicable disgust rose in him. The guns roared like cannons from the bluff.

“Hurry up!” Seth shouted.

He spurred the gelding to a lope, trying to flank the Indians and herd them like cattle back under the Big Fifties. Suddenly a barrage of gunfire erupted from the bushes, and Seth's horse went down.