Absaroka Ambush (18 page)

“Will the savages ever learn that?” Maude asked.

The Delaware smiled at the term 'savages,' but knew she meant no disrespect toward him. “No.” He frowned. “Well, doubtful, at best. And in an ever-changing climate, to cling to old ways that are suspicious, out-of-step, or seemingly hostile to those in power is a very stupid thing to do. One must constantly adapt. There will be much blood spilled before the white man settles the west.”

“The blood of both the Indians and the whites,” Agnes said.

“Yes. But much more red blood than white blood. One of the reasons so many tribes hate the Crow is because the Crow learned very quickly that to fight the white man was foolish. The Crow decided to work with the white man. A very smart move on their part. But you wait and see. The white man will still stick the Crow on reservations. They will not allow them to become a part of their society. My words will be truth. You wait and see.”

“There is talk back east of freeing the slaves held in the south.”

“They will be freed. Someday. Slavery is wrong. No man has the right to own another human being. But unless the black people adopt the white man's ways, they will be like the Indians, free to a point. But never totally free, never totally accepted.”

“You are quite the philosopher, Steals Pony,” Agnes said.

“I am a realist, lady. I do not stand in a meadow and shout at the lightning or curse at the wind and the rain. If I chose to live back east, I would cut my hair, dress in a suit, speak the white man's language, and be polite to those around me. I would be accepted. I have done so before. That does not mean I would lose my heritage. That would be impossible. A red man is a red man and a black man is a black man and a white man is ... well, who knows what a white man is? The whites don't even know who they are. But they know
what
they are. They make the laws and they rule. They always will.”

The Delaware smiled. “I know how to sit properly and balance a teacup on my knee without spilling a drop and eat little cakes and cookies and wipe my mouth with a napkin. I also know how to stalk and kill a man, take scalps, skin a deer or a buffalo, and survive out here. I have not lost my heritage. I shall never lose my heritage. How can you lose what you are born to be? But I shall always adapt and therefore I shall always be accepted by those whose opinions matter.”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

“Exactly,” Steals Pony said. “The alternative—as the Indians and any other racial group who chooses to violently confront the whites will discover—is being fed to the lions.”

The wagons rolled sixty miles over the next four days with not a single mishap. When they bedded down for the night, many of the women were complaining of nausea, restlessness, and aching in their bones.

“Do you suppose? ...” Rupert trailed that off.

“No,” Preacher said. “Some of the women who were not touched by the trash are sick, too. I don't know what it is. But I got a bad feeling about this.”

Steals Pony walked up. “Linda Parsons and Katie what's-her-name are burning up with fever.” He squatted down and poured a cup of coffee. “And both women have spots on their upper body.”

“Oh, damn!” Blackjack said.

“I don't think it's typhoid,” the Delaware said. “The spots are larger and look different.” He shrugged. “I don't know what it is. The whites have many diseases that are unknown to the Indian.”

The men looked at one another and then without a word, quickly stripped down to the waist. Rupert could not help but notice that Preacher was a ruggedly built man, lean-hipped and with tremendous power in his arms and shoulders. They inspected each other. No spots.

“Whatever it is,” Snake opined. “I'll bet you a gold eagle we'll be right here for a week or better.”

“I won't argue that bet,” Preacher said.

The next morning, most of the women were so sick they had trouble raising their heads.

Eudora, Faith, April, Lisette, and a few others were not affected by the malady, and they gathered with the men in the coolness of dawn.

“Any of you women got any notion what this is?” Preacher asked.

They shook their heads. Eudora said, “It looks like typhoid. And has many of the same symptoms, but I'm sure it isn't that.”

“How, Miss Hempstead?” Rupert asked.

“There are no signs of diarrhea, coughing, nosebleeds, or constipation. Some women have fever, some don't. This is not typhoid.”

“But we have some awfully sick women on our hands,” Faith said.

“We have one that isn't sick anymore,” Claire Goodfellow said, walking up.

They all looked up at her.

“Tessie Malone just died.”

Preacher took charge immediately. “Strip her and burn her clothing and blankets. Wrap her in canvas and bury her away from this camp. Get movin', damnit! We got a plague on our hands.”

Four more women died within the hour. Preacher ordered every kettle hung over a fire and to get a lot of water boiling. Every stitch of clothing in the wagons was boiled. Every blanket, every cloth was sanitized in the boiling water. Preacher ordered the canvas taken down from every wagon and boiled. Every wagon was emptied of its cargo and the beds scrubbed down. The mules and oxen were bathed with strong soap. They all seemed to enjoy the new attention.

The men didn't like doing it, but there were so few women still able to stand, that they had to strip many a woman that day, bathe her, and wash her hair. Most of them soon found that they could detach themselves from their task and just get it done without undue embarrassment.

“If you get tired, stop and rest,” Preacher told everybody. “Don't let your body get run-down.”

Preacher sent the Delaware out for herbs to crush, combine, and make into a syrup that could be drunk. He didn't know if that would do any good, but it damn sure couldn't hurt nothing.

“This has to be the cleanest bunch of trailsme ... ah, trails-peoples I ever seen,” Blackjack observed much later on that day when the men were stretched out wearily on the ground, eating supper and drinking coffee. “I know I'm damn shore cleaner than the day I was birthed.”

All the men were cleaner than they'd been since the trip began. They had scrubbed with strong soap, cut their hair and beards, and washed good, and then had boiled their clothing. They had discarded their buckskins and were now dressed in homespun. At least somebody spun it, Preacher reckoned.

Faith came up and joined them, sitting down on the ground beside Preacher with a tired sigh.

“You get anything to eat?” he asked.

“I'm too tired.”

“No, you ain't. You got to eat. Go without vittles at a time like this and your body gets weak and then you'll get sick like them others over yonder.” He dished up a tin plate of stew, tore off a hunk of frying pan bread and handed it to her. “Now, eat. Steals Pony made up an Injun puddin' that's tasty. But eat this stew first.”

She took the plate and soon found that to her surprise, she was famished. She ate another plateful and a goodly portion of Steals Pony's puddin'. “This is delicious. What's in it?”

“Don't ask,” Steals Pony urged her.

She took the warning to heart and didn't. But she ate all the puddin'.

 

 

Twelve women died over the next several days. Then those who had made it through the worst began to slowly recover. They asked what had made them sick? What disease had befallen them?

No one could tell them anything because no one knew. Just be glad you made it and get well.

“Be a lot more graves 'fore the west gets settled,” Preacher said, resting on his shovel for a moment in the graveyard beside the trail.

“Amen, brother,” Blackjack said. “Amen.”

Preacher was right in his dire prediction. Years later, when the great movement west had abated, experts began theorizing that there had been one grave dug every eighty to one hundred yards between Missouri and the Willamette valley. And many times whole families, six or seven people, were buried in the same shallow pit. So there is really no way to judge how many people died on the Oregon, Mormon, and California trails. Hundreds, certainly. Thousands, probably.

At the wagons, Preacher and the others could only guess as to why none of the men and some of the women were not at all affected by the strange disease, while others were incapacitated for days, and still others succumbed to it. And it was just as baffling as to why once the malady had run its course, the women, just hours past were so sick they could not raise their heads, were now getting to their feet so quickly.

“It's a miracle,” one woman exclaimed. “God's work surely.”

Preacher didn't know about that. He was just glad it was all over. He lifted his eyes Heavenward. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Stay with us, won't You?”

“Who you talkin' to, Preach?” Snake asked.

“God.”

“He reply?”

“We're alive, ain't we?”

“You do have a point.”

Steals Pony then said, “I think the women will be fully recovered and ready to travel in another two days.”

Preacher nodded his head in agreement. “We haven't lost much time. Even when the women was kidnapped, the wagons still kept on west. But we damn well better be over them mountains 'fore the snow flies.”

“Where do we take them across the Platte?” Blackjack asked.

“I give that some thought. It's been fairly dry this year. River ought to be low enough to make crossin' pretty easy. We'll stay south 'til we get up to the Buttes. Then we got to cut south and cross the Sweetwater. We'll stay north of the basin and head for the Green. We'll see how the cutoff looks when we get there.” He smiled. “I figure ten days to two weeks and we'll hit the Laramies. Then these ladies will really see what they got themselves into.”

“And so will we,” Steals Pony said solemnly.

 

 

“Chimney Rock, ladies,” Preacher said, swinging down from the saddle and using his hat to slap the dust from his clothing.

Dry. Awful dry. But to Preacher's way of thinking, that was better than mud and slow going.

The women had been stoic when they rolled away from the cross-marked graves, now days and miles behind them on the trail. A few had had tears in their eyes, but by and large, they had controlled their emotions.

“I can see why it got its name,” Eudora said, standing up from the wagon seat to stretch and to rest her rear from the pounding it had taken that day.

Since this party had ample mounts, few were forced to walk, but many still chose to, just to stretch out some. And in the case of many of the women on this train, for other reasons.

“Arapaho coming,” Snake said, riding up. “Pretty good-sized bunch, too. But I talked to 'em, and they ain't on the hunt for trouble. Just curious.”

“How much time do we have?”

“'Bout a minute and a half.”

“Rupert,” Preacher said. “Tell the women we got Injuns comin'. And tell them to stand easy but ready to grab guns. Here we go.”

The Arapaho were not hunting trouble, but neither were they out to win any prizes for sociality. One big buck made that clear right away.

“Get off the land,” he told Preacher.

“What would you have us do, fly like eagles?” Preacher asked. “We're not stayin' here. We're just passin' through and we're peaceful.”

A warrior rode up to Eudora's wagon and stared at her. She met his eyes with a look that was as cold and fierce as his. Faith was writing in her journal and the Arapaho jerked the journal out of her hands. Faith jerked it right back and the Indian lifted his hand to strike her. But before he could, Faith conked him on the head with a heavy club she'd found and the brave hit the ground with a thud. He did not move.

Only Preacher and the sub-chief had conversed, and the Arapaho were not sure whether the majority of these people were men or women. They could tell that some were women. But they knew the mountain men, and knew that Preacher and his kind would spill a lot of Indian blood before they could be brought down.

The sub-chief said he wanted tribute before he would allow the wagons to cross.

“We'll cross,” Preacher told him. “And we don't have nothin' to give you.”

“Preacher plays a dangerous game,” the Arapaho said, his eyes turning mean.

“This ain't no game,” Preacher assured him. “If you think it is, just start some trouble.”

“This is our land!”

“This ain't nobody's land. You use it, the Pawnee use it, the Cheyenne use it. Lots of tribes use it. Now we're usin' it. You can have it back when we're done passin' over it. That's the deal.”

“Bad deal.”

“It's the only deal you're gonna get.”

The sub-chief had been sizing up the situation. He knew that everybody on this train was armed with guns, and plenty of them. He wanted those guns. But could see no way to get them without losing a lot of his people. To his mind, it was a bad deal in more ways than one.

The Arapaho cut his eyes to Steals Pony. He knew the Delaware. He was both afraid of him, and jealous of him. The Delaware moved with ease among the whites. And that infuriated not only him, but many other Indians. He hated the way Steals Pony sat his horse and smiled arrogantly at him.

“I will kill you someday,” he told Steals Pony.

“It is a good day to die,” Steals Pony told him. “You want to see which of us die this day?”

The Arapaho glared at the Delaware for a moment. Slowly, reason began to overtake emotion in his mind. His body lost its tenseness. “It is not the time and this is not the place, Steals Pony. But someday.”

“Surely,” Steals Pony replied.

The brave that Faith had conked on the head moaned and stirred on the ground. He had a knot on his head about the size of an egg. He sat up and put both hands to his head, his fingers feeling gingerly at the goose egg. When he spoke, it was in his own language and evident to all that he was cussing.

One of his friends laughed at him and pointed at Faith. The buck with the sore head rose to his feet with as much dignity as possible and hopped on his pony. He sat there for a moment, staring hate at Faith. When he spoke, his words were hard and tinged with hate.

The Arapaho sub-chief rode down his side of the wagon train for a couple of minutes, looking at the drivers and those mounted on horseback. When he returned, there was a different light in his eyes. “You will not go much further,” he told Preacher. “What you will be is a lesson to any who might want to follow you.”

“Is that right?” Preacher replied, in the sub-chief's own language. “I'd give it some thought was I you.”

“Why? I know your secret now. You shall see us again.” He wheeled his pony and left, the others galloping behind him.

When they were gone, Eudora said, “He knows we're women. Right, Captain?”

“That he do. They's a right nice crick just a few miles up ahead. It's got some graze for the animals. The attack won't come today. He's got to get back to the main camp and talk it over. When he returns, it's doubtful he'll have many more than's with him now. Most of the Arapaho ain't much when it comes to war. They'd rather be friends with ever'body. They pretty easy to get along with. Some of the other tribes call them the Blue Cloud People 'cause they so peaceful. We'll make the crick and get ready for a visit.”

When the wagons were rolling, Blackjack rode up to Preacher. “You neglected to tell the ladies that that bunch just might have some Kiowa or Southern Cheyenne friends that'd just love to come along on the raid.”

“That did slip my mind, Blackjack. I just plumb forgot it, I did.”

“You think you just might tell them after we make camp?”

“I probably will. But it's doubtful the Southern Cheyenne and the Kiowa is this far north. But you never know, do you?”

Blackjack smiled. “No, Preacher. You never do.”

 

 

Preacher walked the tight half circle. The open end faced the creek, which had high bluffs behind it. The attack could only come from the front and sides. So the stock was safe and had water and some graze.