White Stone
Hill, Dakota Territory, September 5, 1863
The
sun rising over the smoldering village promised a hot day. The sky was clear
blue and cloudless, except for the cumulus of black buzzards circling
expectantly overhead. Smoke from blazing lodges rode the wind, burning eyes and
carrying the acrid smell of gunpowder and the stench of death across the
prairie to the coulees and the short, wooded hills where the Dakota warriors
had taken refuge. The very air tasted bitter to the tongue. They were tired;
their horses, spent. Even the earth beneath their moccasins seemed exhausted.
On
the run from the Star Chief Sibley since the battle at Big Mound two moons
past, they had stood to fight him again at Dead Buffalo Lake. Now for the span
of two suns, they had done battle with another Star Chief called Sully, a
relentless warrior who spent his time drawing pictures with pigments soaked in
water when he wasn’t killing tribesmen.
Today
would bring no respite. The blue coats and their thunder guns were still here,
hovering like the feathered bone pickers circling overhead. The white army had
inflicted a terrible toll on the Dakota. Warriors were accustomed to staring
into the face of death, but how could even the bravest stand against big guns
that shredded men and horses with bursts of fire and thunder?
Inkpaduta,
whom the Americans called Red Cap, a dour, pox-scarred war chief, had led them
through these many days of slaughter, fighting with a ferocity born of a deep,
implacable hatred of whites. He had a wily mind, vicious fangs, and terrible
claws, but Sully had numbers, firepower, and tenacity.
The
shelling began again with the booming of cannon and the ear-splitting eruption
of hot shells. The fusillade was not so effective now that they had the
protection of the gullies and the hills, but Sully would soon be on the move.
Their ranks decimated, the Indians withdrew, abandoning food and provisions and
leaving their women, children, and wounded to the mercies of the Americans. All
was lost now, but at least some of them would live to do battle another day.
CHAPTER 1
Teacher’s
Mead, Dakota Territory, Spring 1864
A
whistle drew me outside where a child’s voice from atop the hollow hill behind
the house directed my gaze south. Less than half a mile away, six mounted
warriors rode west between the Mead and the near shore of the bloated Yanube
River. They were too far away to identify, but they did not have the look of
Sioux.
Cuthan
joined me on the porch. “I guess we know why the blue coat went flying by here.
Do you think they’re renegades, Otter?”
An
hour earlier, a trooper had passed on the south side of the river, riding hard
for Ft. Yanube.
“If
they are renegades, they’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise, but we’d
best get everyone inside.”
I
looked toward the near field where six-year-old Alexander stood in the middle
of the freshly turned rows. A hand shaded his eyes as he stared at the riders.
He caught his father’s wave, dropped the bag of corn seed he was holding, and
started for the house. John, younger by a year, shot around the corner of the
porch, eyes agog. He’d given us the warning from the hill.
“Do
you see them, Pa? Do you see them?”
“We
see them, Son,” Cuthan said. “It took sharp eyes to spot those riders in the
tree line. You did well.”
Glowing
from this praise, the boy self-consciously snatched off his hat and slapped it
against his leg to free it of dust, as he’d seen his father do a thousand
times.
The
warriors had halted and were talking among themselves. After a moment, they
headed in our direction at a slow, cautious pace. Each cradled a long gun in
his arms.
Cuthan’s
wife, Mary, stepped out onto the porch. “What’s happening?”
“Get
back inside,” I said sharply. Those warriors should see a family of natives,
not a yellow-headed American woman. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re
in the house. Oh!” she gasped as she caught sight of the warriors.
“Go
inside with your mother,” Cuthan said to the two boys. “Let’s join them,
Otter.”
“I
want to talk to those men.”
“We
can talk through the door.”
“I
want to know what’s happening. The best way is to go out and talk like men.” I
said.
“I’ll
get our rifles.”
“I’ll
go alone and unarmed. If anything happens, send Mary and the children through
the secret tunnel into the hollow hill. You stay in the house. Fight them off
if you have to.”
“I’m
not going to let you….”
“Think
of your wife and fry and do as I say. I’ll be all right.”
I
walked to the barn, trying to appear unhurried. White Patch, anxious for
exercise, danced in anticipation as I threw a halter over his long nose. I
didn’t bother to saddle the pinto. I would have preferred to greet the
strangers in my breechclout, but Mary considered them uncivilized, so I
refrained from wearing mine around the Mead. I stripped my white man’s shirt
over my head and dropped it in the dirt. Getting rid of the garment made me
look more like who I was.
By
the time I left the farmyard, the riders had almost reached the line of trees
bordering the old game trail running in front of the place. When I got within a
hundred paces of the leading horseman, I gave the open-handed salute. He
returned the gesture as we pulled up facing one another.
“Hah-ue.”
I spoke the Lakota greeting even though I could see these were foreign Indians.
Southern Plains from the look of them. Four wore their hair in a pay-shah—a
roach. One was in braids, and the sixth wore a turban of some sort. “I am River
Otter.”
“I
don’t speak Sioux,” the leader said in passable English.
I
repeated my name in the American language.
“I
have heard of you. The Last Yanube, they say.”
“Almost, although the man who farms this land
has the same blood I do. What can we do for you?”
He
squared his impressive shoulders. “I am Big Scar. My men and I are Cherokee.”
“You are a long way from Cherokee country, and
you do not have the look of a wandering star-gazer.”
They
broke into laughter and chattered among themselves for a moment.
“Do you fly the Stars and Bars or the Stars
and Stripes?” Scar asked.
“Neither. We are peaceful tribesmen who want
no part of the war. We are content to let the whites kill one another while we
mind our own business.”
The
Cherokee leader was a striking, reddish-hued man with a meaty nose and a purple
scar across his right cheek. He wore his hair in a stiff roach and was dressed
in fringed buckskin trousers, a leather vest, and a bone breastplate. He pursed
his heavy lips. “A warrior should choose a side and fight for it.” Lifting a
bare arm, he indicated his companions. “Join us and raise the hatchet against
the people who killed your village.”
“Those people are dead now, and I had a hand
in seeing some of them to that end. I have no quarrel with the others.”
“Are there tribesmen in
the area who will join us?”
I motioned over my
shoulder. “My adopted son, Cuthan, and I are the last bloods in the hundred
fifty mile stretch between Ft. Ramson and Ft. Yanube, although occasional
travelers come through the territory going from where they have been to where
they are headed. You seem to ride with some purpose in mind. Was it you who
frightened the army man who went flying past earlier?”
The men laughed again.
“You are right. He was running away from us. We intend to stop him before he
reaches the fort up the river.”
“Then I apologize for
detaining you.”
“No need. The way the
blue coat was flogging his horse, he’ll ride the animal to death and have to
walk the rest of his journey.”
“Why do the Cherokee
come all the way up here to frighten our whites? Don’t you have enough of your
own?”
“Aye, more than enough.
But we are part of a big Confederate army come to take this country away from
your whites and give it to ours. We are the Native Detachment of McComber’s
Battalion.”
I kept my Indian face
in place. McComber’s Battalion meant nothing to me. “There is a Confederate
army behind you?”
“The main detachment is
at Ft. Ramson.”
“Have they taken the
fort?”
“They are doing battle
for it as we speak. We are to catch the outrider and stop him from bringing
reinforcements.”
My heart lurched. I
felt as if the blood drained from my face and puddled in my moccasins. The
American’s Civil War, until now merely a series of news dispatches and gossip
items, had arrived on our doorstep.
“I see no singing
wires,” Scar said. “Does that mean they have no telegraph at Yanube?”
“Nay, it does not reach
that far.” I saw no harm in answering honestly, since I perceived this as a
test of something he already knew.
“Good. Who is with you
in the stone house? I see two rifle barrels sticking from gun ports. If I
didn’t know better, I’d say this was Ft. Yanube. It is built like a blockhouse.
“That describes
Teacher’s Mead. The stone house was built back when there were hostile tribes
in the area.”
“And the rifles
pointing at us?”
“One is in the hands of
Cuthan Strobaw, the son of Cut Hand, last chief of the Yanube. The other is
held by his wife.”
“Tell them it would not
be wise to be so unfriendly when next we meet.” He waved his companions toward
the river before turning back to me. “The farm to your east. Is that owned by
bloods, too?”
“That is the home of
some foreign settlers. They, too, take no sides in this war. They came across
the ocean to farm in peace.”
The man nodded. “The
river is angry. Is there a walk-across?”
“Our snowmelt is just
ending, so you’ve come when the waters are at their highest. The best walk is
thirty paces to the right of the big cottonwood you see yonder. Even it is
dangerous this time of year. I would not risk it.”
Scar had to get his men
to the other side in order to catch up with the dispatch rider, and my last
remark was a subtle challenge. He fixed his eyes on me for a long moment,
although I was unable to discern if it was rudeness or merely his adoption of
the American habit of staring. Then he wheeled and caught up with his
companions as they rode for the river at a leisurely pace.
I returned to the house
and related all I had learned to Cuthan and Mary. Alexander, as was his nature,
remained quiet and solemn. John and his younger sister, Rachel Ann, danced
around demanding to know if there was going to be a battle. Little Hannah was
only two, but she joined in what she considered a game.
We watched from the
porch as the six Cherokee Confederates urged their reluctant ponies into the rushing
current. They were halfway across the Yanube when the last man in line cried
out as his horse lost its footing. The brave in front of him twisted around to
see the cause of alarm, and his pony, too, dumped him into the angry waters.
The others laughed and jeered until Scar sent them downstream to catch their
companions. I was sorry to see both horses wade ashore, apparently without
injury. The incident had cost them nothing but a dunking and a delay.
“Cuthan, go put a
saddle on Patch and find my shirt. I dropped it in the dirt before going out to
meet the invaders. Mary, fix a travel bag with jerky. You might want to let
your father know what’s happening. The Cherokee asked about his farm. See if
you can persuade him and your brothers to come back here.”
“You’re going to warn
James?” Major James Morrow was the commandant at Ft. Yanube.
I nodded. “The Cherokee
was right. That blue coat will ride his horse into the ground before he reaches
the fort.”
While they went about
accomplishing the chores I’d given them, I loaded my Henry repeating rifle and
put spare cartridges in another bag. When I was ready, I accepted the supplies
Mary had fixed and went outside. Cuthan had the pinto saddled with a bedroll
tied behind the cantle.
“You understand this
creates danger for you, don’t you?” I shrugged into the shirt he handed me.
“Aye. If the Cherokee
learn of your ride, they may try to take revenge on the Mead.”
“Even so, it is
something I must do.”
“This I know. How long
do you figure it will take you to reach the fort?”
Patch can trot most of
the way if I rest him often enough. I should cover the fifty miles in four
American hours.”
Cuthan glanced at the
sky. “It will be dark by the time you arrive.”
“That is good, I think.
It will give me some cover.”
Patch caught my sense
of urgency and was eager to race, but I reined him in. Distance was the aim,
not speed. My main problem was figuring out where the Reb Irregulars were. Scar
had not demonstrated any anxiety after crossing the river. When I last saw him,
he and his companions had been traveling at a walk. I veered slightly north to
keep the thin screen of trees lining the river between the Cherokee party and
me.
#
RIVER OTTER, published by STARbooks Press, is
available from Amazon.
*Possible spoilers*
ReplyDeleteYou had me until the very end. I don't believe the final act was loving on either man's part, considering what the previous encounter(s) had done to Otter's relationship with James. If James himself had somehow nudged Otter towards Andre in an attempt to help the younger man 'come back to life', I'd almost believe it, but as it stands it felt completely out of the blue. Just my two cents. All said, I enjoyed "Cut Hand" and (most of) this book quite a bit.
Anonymous,
ReplyDeleteI agree with you totally! That's why at the top of Page 288 James says he's going to town to arrange for a nanny for little Libby. When he adds "I'll likely overnight at the Rainbow House. Why don't you go see Andre and prepare the ground," it is a message sent and received. James is so concerned over the well being of Libby's father, he's willing to risk his relationship with Otter. Otter, of course, knows he belongs to James, so his partner is risking nothing.