CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham left
Cinnabar, they went across the top of the park, then cut south,
crossing the Montana border back in to Wyoming Territory. From the
lofty heights of Dead Indian pass it was as if they were on top of
the world. They could see far down into the valley where the
Yellowstone River snaked its way through, and they had a wonderful
view of the surrounding mountains, range after range.
“You know, I write my Western novels
about this land, but I’ve never really seen it,” Ingraham said.
“The scenery here is magnificent. I love the way the light and
shadows play upon the mountains, and down in the valleys. We don’t
have anything like this down in Mississippi, I can tell you that
for sure.”
“Look at Falcon,” Cody said. “He is as
at home here as a mountain goat.”
“Kind of hard to breathe up here
though. I’m getting winded,” Ingraham said.
“That’s because you have those little
Mississippi lungs,” Cody said. “You see how big Falcon’s chest is?
That’s because it is all lung. He has no heart, no liver, nothing
in there but one big lung.”
Ingraham laughed. “Cody, after that
tall tale about the mountain of telescopic glass you told the other
day, and this wild tale, you have definitely missed your calling.
You should give up show business and become a full-time writer,”
Ingraham said.
“The Life of Honorable William F. Cody,
the famous hunter, scout, and guide known as Buffalo Bill, by
William F. Cody,” Cody said. “How does that sound?”
“Everyone in America will want to read
it, of that I am sure,” Ingraham said.
“Hmm, I just may give that a thought,”
Cody replied.
They continued their banter for several
more minutes, then Falcon held up his hand.
“Hold it,” he said.
“What do you see?”
“Look, down there. Alongside the
river.”
“Is it an Indian?” Ingraham
asked.
“No, it’s a white man.”
“What are those clothes he’s
wearing?”
“Long johns,” Falcon said. “He’s
wearing nothing but his underwear.”
Falcon slapped his legs against the
side of his horse, urging it into a lope, and the other two
followed.
“I think I know that man,” Cody said as
they drew closer to the strange figure.
When they reached Oliver Bowman, they
saw that Falcon was right. He was half-naked and barefoot. In
addition, his eyes were bloodshot, and his swollen feet were
leaving bloody footprints in the sand.
“Oliver? Is that you?” Cody
asked.
“Hello, Buffalo Bill. Fancy meeting you
here,” Bowman said, just before he passed out.
By the time Bowman regained
consciousness, Falcon had already started a fire and brewed some
coffee. He gave Bowman a cup, and Bowman drank it down greedily,
not caring that it was so hot that it burned his lips.
“You wouldn’t have anything to eat,
would you?” Bowman asked.
“Some elk jerky,” Falcon said, offering
him a piece.
Between deep swallows of coffee, Bowman
wolfed down the jerky. “I’m mighty obliged to you,” he said. “Sorry
to be puttin’ you folks out like this.”
“Nonsense, you aren’t putting us out,”
Ingraham said.
“It’s nice of you to say
so.”
“Oliver, what are you doing out here
like this?” Cody asked.
“You mean with purt’ nigh no clothes
on? I thought if I had to swim it would be easier if I didn’t have
my clothes.” He looked at his hand. “I thought I had my pistol with
me. Did you see a pistol?”
“You were unarmed when we saw you,”
Cody said.
“Oh, yeah, I reckon I was,” Bowman
said. “I left my pistol with Doyle Clayton. Or, was it my rifle? I
don’t remember now. All I remember are the Injuns.”
“Indians?” Falcon asked.
Suddenly Bowman seemed to come out of
his stupor.
“My God! Injuns!” he said. “We was
attacked by Injuns yesterday, me and Doyle was! He’s still up
there, if he’s alive. He’s been shot, I know that.”
“Where is he?” Cody asked.
“I don’t know for sure, he’s upriver,
that’s all I know. Maybe ten or twenty miles or so.”
“We’ll find him,” Falcon
said.
“Ingraham, Mr. Bowman doesn’t live too
far from here,” Cody said. “How about you take him
home?”
“I thought I might come with you two,”
Ingraham said.
“And just leave Mr. Bowman
here?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you are
right.”
Bowman began shivering then, from the
cold.
“Here, Mr. Bowman,” Ingraham said,
taking a blanket from his saddle roll. “Wrap yourself in this, then
climb on to the horse behind me. How far is it to your
place?”
“Ten, maybe twelve miles,” Bowman
answered through chattering teeth.
“Climb up behind me, keep the blanket
wrapped around you, and hold on,” Ingraham said. “I’ll get you
safely home.”
“I think we should return,” Running Elk
said. “Already we have lost nearly half our number.”
“You may return if you wish,” White
Bull said. “But I will stay until I have claimed
coups.”
“They are but two men,” Running Elk
said. “Where is the honor in killing but two men? Especially as
they have already killed so many of us.”
“That is all the more reason we should
kill them,” White Bull said. “There is honor in killing enemy. It
matters not how many there may be.”
Although Running Elk was opposed to it,
he knew that he could not abandon White Bull without violating a
lifelong friendship, and he could not leave the fight without
losing face, so he stayed. But now it had been two days, and the
white men were well armed and well dug-in alongside the river, so,
despite their many efforts, they had been unable to defeat
them.
Jumping Bear and the others grew
frustrated and a few suggested that perhaps White Bull was not the
leader for them. White Bull challenged any other to take his place
if they could, but none accepted the challenge. Running Elk felt
honor-bound to defend White Bull’s position, so he let the others
know that he would continue to follow White Bull. But he knew that
if the fight went on for one more night and day that the other
Indians would leave, and if that happened, White Bull, and by
extension he as well, would be disgraced and
dishonored.
White Bull began shooting toward sand
dunes where the white men were. Running Elk and the others joined
in the shooting.
As Falcon and Cody approached the spot
in the river where Bowman told them Clayton would be, they heard
shooting from ahead. The Indians, as Bowman had explained, were
located on the east side of the Yellowstone, so Falcon and Cody
crossed over to the west side as they continued their
approach.
In this they were lucky, for there was
a long, high ridge that ran along the west side of the river,
shielding their approach. They rode as close as they could get,
then they dismounted, and securing their horses, continued on foot.
When they heard one of the bullets whizzing just overhead, they
knew that they must be even with Clayton, so they crawled up to the
top of the ridgeline and looked across the river.
There they saw Clayton. They saw too
that he was badly wounded, and was moving with great difficulty in
order to return fire. He was no longer aiming his shots, but merely
shooting to let the Indians know that he was still
alive.
“Clayton!” Falcon called.
Clayton looked around, as if not
certain he had heard his name called.
“Clayton!” Falcon called again. “We are
over here, across the river.”
“Thank God you have come!” Clayton
said. He tried to get up.
“No! Stay there! We will come to you!”
Falcon shouted.
Clayton got back down as instructed,
and Falcon and Cody climbed over the ridge, then ran across the
river to join him. The river was deeper than they thought, coming
all the way up to their armpits, so it slowed them considerably,
but they made it across without incident.
“Bill Cody, what are you doing here?”
Clayton said. “I thought you were in New York.”
“I was,” Cody answered. “But Mr. Bowman
told me you were in trouble, so I asked my friend here to come
along, and here we are.”
“From New York?”
“Sure, why not?” Cody said, laughing,
and trying to make Clayton feel better.
“Well, wherever you came from, I’m damn
glad to see you,” Clayton said. “These Injuns have been givin’ me
hell.”
“Looks to me like you gave that one
hell,” Falcon said, pointing to a dead Indian who was lying over to
one side.
“Yeah, he sneaked in last night,”
Clayton said. “I guess he figured I was asleep and he could bash my
head in.”
“There are a couple more out there,”
Cody said. “I’d say you have put up a pretty good
defense.”
“Yeah, well, between Bowman and me, I’m
purt’ sure we’ve kilt at least four or five of ’em. Oh, that
reminds me, Bowman! He’s out there somewhere.”
“Bowman is safe,” Falcon said. “He is
the one who found us.”
“Good for him,” Clayton said. He looked
at Falcon. “I don’t reckon I know you. Who are you?”
“The name is MacCallister. Falcon
MacCallister.”
“Damn! I’ve heard of you,” Clayton
said. Despite his wounds, he was able to muster a chuckle. “I
reckon if I can’t get the United States Cavalry out here to rescue
me, gettin’ Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister would be the
next best thing. Maybe even better.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Falcon
said, easing up to the top of the dune where Clayton had taken
shelter. Looking out across an open area, he saw a line of Indians,
and he counted eight.
“I see eight,” Falcon said. “How many
are there?”
“I expect that’s about all that’s
left,” Clayton said. He wriggled up the dune so he could peer over
it with Falcon, then he pointed. Do you see that fella there? The
one wearing the buffalo horns?”
“I see him.”
“I don’t know his name, but he seems to
be the leader of them. But now, here’s the funny thing. He and one
of the others are dressed like Crow. This here fella is Shoshone.”
He pointed to the Indian who had tried to sneak up on him last
night. “And I know that some of ’em are Cheyenne. What are the Crow
and Shoshone doin’ fightin’ with Cheyenne? And agin’ us? I thought
we was friendly with the Crow and the Shoshone.”
“It is a curious thing,” Falcon said.
He cocked his rifle and aimed it at the Indian who was wearing the
buffalo horns.
“You can’t hit him from here,” Clayton
said. “And that Injun knows it. He’s been struttin’ back and forth
out there all day, just rubbin’ it in that he’s out of
range.”
Falcon’s answer was to squeeze the
trigger of his rifle. The rifle boomed and the recoil kicked his
shoulder back. The Indian stiffened, then one arm went up as he
fell from his horse. The rest of the Indians, seeing their leader
fall, turned and galloped back into the trees.
“Damn!” Clayton said in admiration.
“That was one hell of a shot.”
“Let’s get you home,” Falcon
said.
When the other Indians fled, Running
Elk waited. He watched as the white men left, seeing that one of
the horses was carrying two men. He was sure there had only been
two men when the battle started. Someone else must have joined them
during the night. That meant that there had never been more than
three men against them. Three white men against thirteen Indians,
yet the white men had prevailed. This was not a good
sign.
When Running Elk was certain the three
white men were well gone, he went out to check on White Bull. As he
expected, White Bull was dead. Running Bull constructed a travois,
then put White Bull’s body on it. He was taking his childhood
friend and recent rival home.
Running Elk traveled for the rest of
the day, then camped out that night. It seemed strange, lying on
the ground sleeping beside White Bull’s body. Once, when they were
children, they watched as an old man of the tribe was dressed in
his finest clothes, then elevated onto a burial
platform.
“Where do you think he is now?” Running
Elk asked.
“He is in the great beyond, where
hunting is always good and there is always feasting,” White Bull
had replied.
Running Elk had always found the Happy
Hunting Ground to be a comforting thought for those who died. But,
when he went to the white man’s school, he was told there was no
such thing as a Happy Hunting Ground. He was told that only if one
followed the white man’s Jesus, could one be saved, though he never
quite understood what it meant to be saved.
When Running Elk rode into the Crow
Village the next day many came to see who was being pulled behind
him on the travois. White Bull’s mother saw him, and began weeping,
as did his sister and even Quiet Stream.
“Were you with Mean to His Horses?”
High Hawk asked.
“No,” Running Elk replied. “Mean to His
Horses would not take us with him. So White Bull led a raiding
party, and was killed.”
When he saw White Bull’s mother put her
hand on White Bull’s face, he wanted to comfort her.
“White Bull died very bravely,” he
said.
Brown Cow Woman shook her head as she
continued to weep. “I do not care that he died bravely,” she said.
“I did not want him to go. I feared when he left that this would
happen.”
“Are you going back to join Mean to His
Horses?” Quiet Stream asked. “Did you come back, only to return
White Bull’s body?”
“I am not going back,” Running Elk
said. “I was wrong to leave. I will stay here, with my people, in
peace.”