Those families crossing the mountains carried their axes and shovels… they would not be stopped.
Where there was land to be taken, they would go, and then they would grow restless and rise up and move westward again and again.
Turning back toward the fire I was stopped by Heath’s voice his… killed a man in a duel. The man said something about Chantry settin’ the fire himself, an’ Chantry challenged him. The fellow was a loudmouth, just blowing off with a lot of loose talk. He tried to back out, but Chantry wouldn’t let him. Told him to make his fight or he’d shoot him like the dog he was.
The man fought. Chantry let him shoot first, and the bullet burned Chantry’s neck… drew blood. Then Chantry shot him.” “Kill him?” “That he did, and do’ you know where the bullet hit him?” “In the mouth,” Solomon Talley said.
“He shot him in the mouth.” Heath turned on him. “You’ve heard the story, then?” “No,” Talley replied grimly, “but that’s a hard man yonder. Besides,” he added, “that’s what I’d o’ done.” For a few minutes I stood silent, letting the talk turn to other things, and then I started forward, making enough noise so they would know I was nearby.
They knew then, and I wished they did not. There are times when to be just nobody at all is the best thing. All that was past I wanted to forget.
For in a sense I was running away, not only from the scenes of love and happiness turned to grief, but from the whispered stories that implied I myself had started the fire that killed all I loved. Such a rumor starts easily, but how to put it down?
Nor did I wish to be pitied or to find doors closing in my face that had once been open to me.
My hands held the Ferguson rifle. In the months and years to come, it might be all there would ever be. It was mine. Not only that, but it reminded me of my mother, of our old cabin where we had been hungry yet rich in love, of my wife, who often rode to the hunt with me, and of my son whom I had taught to shoot with this very rifle.
Walking up to the fire, I squatted beside it, wiping my hatband with my fingers. “The sky says it will be windy tomorrow,” I said.
“Aye,” Ebitt agreed. “There’s stew, man. You’d best finish it off so’s we can clean the kettle. And you’ll be needin’ some coffee.” There was talk then by the campfire, the good talk of frontiersmen, and I listened for I had much to learn. I had studied at the Sorbonne and at Heidelberg and I had taught history at Cambridge and William and Mary but what I had to learn from these men could be found in no book.
They had been early upon the land, hunting and trapping for their living, and they knew well the land to which I had but lately come.
Firelight danced upon their faces. There was the good smell of a wood fire burning, of coffee freshly made, and the smell of meat broiling, and of the stew.
Something had happened during the day, for I had killed game, brought meat to the fire. They knew now that I was no drone, and that in whatever came I would carry my weight.
They were hard men living upon a hard land that demanded much, and the fact that I had killed an enemy in a face-to-face meeting meant something to them. It was a thing they understood. In the east, where duels occurred frequently, but were already looked upon with distaste in some quarters, this was not always the case.
Solomon Talley accepted the first watch, and Isaac Heath volunteered for the second. As for me, I requested the final watch, knowing Indians preferred attacks by daybreak.
Again I saw the Otoe’s eyes upon my rifle, and I smiled at him. He did not respond, but looked away. Already I was tired.
My body had not accustomed itself to the long hours of riding, and I wished to be fresh for my guard duty, so I opened my small blanket roll and went to sleep.
Hours later I was gently awakened. It was Heath. “Come, man, it’s three by the clock, and a night with stars.” Rolling out, I folded my bed, tugged on my boots, and slipped into my jacket. Heath looked at me and shook his head. “Those brass buttons now, they make a fair mark for shooting.” “I know that. I’ll risk it until I can make a shirt. Has it been quiet?” Heath shrugged. “Yes, if you can call it that.
Frogs down below, and the usual coyotes, but the light is deceitful. You’ll have to keep a wary eye for trouble.” Taking my rifle, I went out to the perimeter of the knoll and looked down over the prairie below.
All seemed to be empty and still. In the darkness a good bit was yet visible, and I walked slowly, halfway around the camp, then quickly doubled back and came around from the opposite direction.
Heath added a few small chunks to the fire to keep the coals alive for morning, then turned in.
The camp was still. If an attack was to come, the obvious place was from out of the creek bed where nothing could be seen. One by one I checked off the sleeping positions of my friends. Talley, Ebitt, Sandy, Kemble, Shanagan, Heath, and the Otoe.
The time drew on, and my ears became attuned to the night. I moved off, never circling the same way twice, never completing a circle, for I wished to establish no pattern, no way I could be timed. In the far off east there seemed to be a lightening of the sky, but it was early for that.
For several minutes I was conscious of something wrong before it occurred to me that the frogs had ceased their endless croaking. The night was suddenly silent.
Near a boulder I squatted, one toe slightly behind the other, listening.
Nothing… no sound.
I turned my head. Should I awaken them? I did not want to make them lose their sleep because of my own foolishness. I could awaken one of them… Talley, perhaps.
Talley… Ebitt… Sandy.
Kemble… Davy Shanagan, Isaac Heath, and the– The Otoe was gone!
Horses… first they would stampede the horses. That much I had learned. Swiftly, I ran to them. They were nervous, heads up, nostrils distended.
“Shanagan,” I said.
And a shadow moved… a horse snorted, and I sidestepped as a darker shadow lunged toward me. There was the gleam of firelight on a knifeblade, and I chopped, short and hard, with the butt of my rifle.
He was coming low and fast and the butt thunked against his skull and he went down hard. Turning swiftly as another came in over the low mound, I fired.
My shot was from the hip, for there was no chance to aim. It caught the Indian and turned him but my hands went automatically for bullet and powder.
All was suddenly still. Unused to combat, I had expected the clash of arms, the scream of wounded, the stabbing flame of shooting… and there was nothing.
Stepping back among the horses, I went from one to the other, whispering to quiet them down. From where I stood, I could see the beds of the others, all empty.
Something stirred near me and I turned swiftly. Davy’s voice was scarcely breathed. “You all right?” “The Otoe was gone. I went to the horses, thinking they might try to stampede them.” “You done right.” He could see the body on the ground about a dozen feet away. “You got one?” “Two, I think. I shot one over there.” I started forward and Shanagan caught my arm.
“Uh-uh. They’ll still be out there.” There was a faint lemon tinge to the far-off sky now. We stood waiting, listening.
An owl hooted… inquiringly. After a bit, the same owl.
Davy’s lips at my ear whispered, “Wonderin’ where this one is.” The sky lightened, red streaks shot up, and high in the heavens a cloud blushed faintly at the earth below.
We waited, not moving, not knowing what might come. The Indians might press the attack, might draw away to wait for a better moment. The red man is under no compulsion to continue a fight. He does not insist upon victory at any cost, and he has time. He is under no compulsion to win now.
Now the sky brightened quickly. We moved to the perimeter, seeking firing positions. The plain below was innocent of life.
Degory Kemble moved over to us. “There’s nobody in sight,” he said. “My guess is they’ve pulled out.” He saw the Indian lying in the dust and moved over to him. With his toe he turned him over, holding his rifle ready for a shot if the warrior proved to be playing possum.