Summary: Hoss and Joe are on a trip to buy horses

Rating: PG      Word Count: 8900

Desperate rescue

“I’m soaked to the bone!” I grumbled while sitting on the bank, dumping half a gallon of water from my right boot. The pants clung damp to my legs like a second skin.

Looking at my disgusted face, Hoss slapped his thigh with laughter, but my mood was rock bottom. I was tired, hungry, cold, and in no shape for jokes.

We had been on the road for several days and had traveled northeast, following the course of the Humboldt River. The landscape was dotted with rolling hills covered with small deciduous trees, bushes, and dry grass. Travstraeling close to the stream was comfortable.

My brother pointed at a spot with dense growth. “We’ll camp over there and warm ourselves. Stop complaining, buddy. Crossing the river at French Ford tomorrow at noon would mean riding all day in wet saddles. This way, we can dry our clothes by the fire overnight.”

I squeezed the stubborn leather back over my wet sock and onto my foot. “The water wouldn’t have been so deep at the ford. We wouldn’t have got wet at all.”

Stifling a shiver, I stood up. The sun had set, and a cool breeze tempered the early summer heat.

Spring rains had filled the Humboldt with an unusual amount of water. Hoping it wouldn’t be so deep, we had chosen this spot where the river was about one hundred and fifty feet wide, but the current had been rapid, and the horses had struggled against it. In places, the waves had come up to my mid-thigh, and I had only stayed dry from the waist up.

Water dripped from my pants as I swung back into my damp saddle and steered Cochise into a brisk trot toward the grove of trees where we would spend the night.

 

We had set out on our journey four days ago. I had gotten up early that morning, excited to be going. Being on the road with Hoss for a few days was like a vacation. I was going to enjoy the time.

As I climbed down the stairs with my packed saddlebags slung over my shoulder, the house was still cool and quiet. I grabbed the previous day’s newspaper, crumbled it, and placed it in the hearth, followed by a handful of kindling and some logs.

Just as the flame from my match leaped onto the paper, my eyes caught the bold headline, “… at Frenchman`s Ford.” The text blackened before I could decipher more, and the greedy fire devoured the page. I rubbed the back of my neck. What was so important to print on the Territorial Enterprise’s front page? We would pass that area on our way to Paradise Valley in northern Nevada. I would ask Pa. He and Adam were those who were always well-informed.

“Joseph, Hoss, I’m looking for yesterday’s newspaper. I had no chance to read it,” our father said as we sat at the breakfast table. “It was right there on my desk.”

“Sorry, Pa, I used it to light the fire. Did Adam read it?”

“He’s already on his way to pick up the lumber we ordered,” Hoss said, helping himself to a portion of crispy bacon. He put a chunk in his mouth and started chewing. “You have all the stuff in your pack, Joe?”

“Long time ago. Pa, we’ll be on the road for about ten days.”

“I know, Joseph.” With a nod, our father poured himself coffee.

As I piled scrambled eggs onto my plate, I noticed the lines on his forehead and across the bridge of his nose. “You’re not worried about our trip, are you?”

“Oh, Joe, a father always worries. Such a long ride to buy horses right before the spring roundup …”

“Aw, c’mon, Pa! This is our last chance to get a few days off. Later on, we’ll work from sunup to sundown for weeks!” Hoping for support, I glanced at Hoss. After all, he was as excited as I was about this journey.

“Joe’s right, Pa. We’ll be careful and avoid trouble.”

“Alright, boys. Then get going!” Pa’s mouth twisted into a smile, but I could see he was still concerned. I patted him on the forearm to show him how much I appreciated him letting us make the trip anyway.

 

Wrapped in our bedrolls, we sat by the roaring fire. The branches crackled, and yellow sparks swirled in the air. With my eyes closed, I took another sip of coffee, intense and hot, just how I liked it. Its aroma mingled with the smoke the evening breeze blew into my face. Our wet pants and boots hung over a drying rack, constructed from a few sticks, and steamed. Only our saddles and boots would still be damp in the morning because it took forever for leather to dry, but that couldn’t be helped. Right now, I was warm and comfortable.

The horses dozing beside us lifted their heads and pricked up their ears. Cochise snorted. My hair roots tingled. This was a sparsely settled area, and you had to be on your guard. At any time, you could run into outlaws who would not hesitate to shoot a bullet in your guts just for a few dollars.

My hand fumbled for my revolver, eyes straining to pierce the inky blackness beyond the firelight. “Hoss!” I hissed, giving him a nudge with my elbow. “There’s someone out there!”

With a soft click, I cocked my gun and pointed the muzzle in the direction both horses faced. I felt ridiculous and naked, barefoot, and my lower half was only covered by my bedding. There was a rustle from branches brushing against a body, and a dry twig snapped. That wasn’t a beast. A predator would shy away from the fire. I jumped to my feet, clutching the cloth with my fist, forefinger on the trigger, ready to fire.

“Hello, camp!” a croaking voice came from the blackness of the night, followed by more rustling and hoofbeats.

With an audible hiss, the air escaped my lungs, and the tension drained from my body—no renegades out for our lives.

“Come over here and step into the light! We mean you no harm!” shouted Hoss, the first to regain his composure.

A small figure squeezed out of the bushes, pulling a reluctant mule by the rein. “I saw your fire and thought I’d come and visit.”

“Dadburnit, stranger, I almost shot you,” Hoss said, putting his rifle down.

The old man was unimpressed. “Got any coffee left?” He started to unsaddle his mule, then shuffled over to the fire and sat down on a stump with a groan. “Old bones.”

Hoss poured our visitor a cup of coffee and handed him the pan with the remaining beans, which were still lukewarm.

“Thanks, boys!”

While he shoveled the rest of our grub into his nearly toothless mouth, I had a chance to take a closer peek at him. I sat across from him, looking at the shaggy white beard, battered, stained hat, and leather shirt that was patched in places. The man was one of those strange characters you often meet in the West. Shy of people but harmless and always on the move.

I tucked the bedroll around my lower body while my brother turned our pants, which would soon be dry. “This is Hoss, and I’m Joe Cartwright. We’re on our way to Paradise Valley to see some horses. What are you doing here, Old Man?”

“Just call me Oldtimer, boy. I wander around where I’m at. Don’t need much. I’m happy with a warm fire, a can of beans with rice, and tobacco. Most of the time, I prefer the company of my mule to that of humans, but sometimes I feel like talking. I figured you were decent guys, could spare an old man some coffee.”

The stranger looked at my bare toes. The spot where I thought his mouth was, overgrown with beard, twisted into a grin. “Did you take a bath? Cleaning is overrated, I think.”

“No, we rode through the river. Lots of water this year.”

The oldtimer let out a cackling laugh, his bright eyes twinkling with amusement. “Gosh, boys, don’t you know they built a bridge at Frenchman’s Ford?”

“A bridge?” Hoss scratched his head. “I heard about a guy named Ginaca—also called Joseph—who was building one, but I didn’t know it was finished yet.”

“The newspaper article! I had a glimpse of part of the headline. They must have reported on the bridge!” Glancing sideways at Hoss, I felt like an idiot.

The old man still chuckled to himself as he popped the last of the beans into his mouth and leaned back, stroking his belly in satisfaction.

We sat around the campfire for over an hour, listening to our visitor’s stories until Hoss yawned so hard that he almost wrenched his jaw. “I’m turning in!”

“Me too, I’m beat. Good night, Oldtimer!”

 

In the morning, we parted ways. Our visitor waved goodbye as he followed the Humboldt west while we headed north.

++++

With a smile, I looked at the two young stallions Hoss led on a long string. Mr. Henderson, the horse trader we bought them from, had not overpromised. They were spirited Morgan horses with glossy coats, strong legs, and excellent build, and I already had an idea of what their offspring would be like. In any case, they were a perfect addition to our breeding stock. Their muscles bulged as they trotted behind Hoss, their tails and heads held high in pride. “Beautiful animals, aren’t they, Big Brother?”

“Yeah, they’re worth every cent we paid.” Hoss seemed absent-minded and kept looking around.

“You worried about the renegade Bannocks?”

“You heard Henderson. He suggested we avoid the area around the ford. The braves have caused a lot of trouble, attacking travelers and farms. Let’s not take it lightly.”

“I think he exaggerated. Look at Oldtimer. He has been around here all the time. He told us he’d always gotten along fine with the Indians. He stayed away from them, and they left him alone.”

“We promised Pa to be careful.”

I pulled down my hat against the still-hot evening sun and scanned the hilly landscape, searching for danger or anything unusual. Sparse, dry grass, thorny weeds, and shrubs covered the stony slopes. “I don’t want to get wet again, so let`s ride over the new bridge.”

Hoss grimaced and rubbed his neck. “I dunno. I’ve got a bad feeling. There was a flash of light ahead a while ago. Maybe it’s just an old glass bottle, but maybe we’re being watched. Let’s play it safe. We’ll travel west and cross the river tomorrow where we came in. If someone gets hurt, it’s mostly you, Little Joe. I don’t want to cut an arrow from your flesh.”

I knew Hoss was not a coward; his funny gut feelings often proved correct. On the other hand, the Humboldt carried plenty of water, and the bridge was tempting. No matter how warm, no cowboy liked riding in soaked pants on a damp saddle.

After crossing another hill, the river appeared south of us. Like a glittering snake, it wound through the landscape in a pale blue-gray only a couple of miles away. “I say we try it at French Ford. I’m not afraid of some old Indians.”

Hoss stopped Chubb and frowned, studying the hillsides, his fingers playing with the handle of his colt. “I’m not keen on being attacked by a bunch of braves. I’d rather be wet than dead!” He gave me a dark look as I giggled at his unintended pun.

“Let’s toss a coin!” I pulled a 50-cent piece out of my pocket and flipped it up. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads, but …”

“Ha! I win. Come on, Hoss, nothing’s going to happen!”

Knowing my brother would follow me, I spurred Cochise into a brisk trot and led him downhill. I had a lot of practice getting Hoss to do things he didn’t want. With a giggle, I remembered all the crazy stuff I had already talked him into doing.

“Joe, wait a minute! We better—”

A gunshot, followed by hair-raising war cries, made me spin.

“Dagnabbit! Indians!” Hoss was a long way behind me, struggling with the stallions, who pranced and reared up, eyes twisted in panic.

I felt a wave of heat rush through my body. “Drop the horses!” I shouted, hoping to drown out the screams, hoofbeats, and whinnies.

Relieved, I watched Hoss release the rope. He dug his heels into Chubb’s flanks and steered him toward me. The four warriors would be satisfied with the horses and leave us alone. That was my second mistake today.

One of the Indians caught the stallions while the other three gave chase. Trailing a cloud of dust, they approached fast. The feathers on their spears and the fringes of their leather shirts fluttered like storm-whipped sedge grass. Their shouts raised the hair on the back of my neck, though I knew it was part of the tactic to intimidate the enemy.

More gunfire rang out. I bent low over Cochise’s neck to make the target as small as possible. His mane smacked me in the face, and his hooves pounded like drumsticks on the hard ground.

A sudden sharp pain ripped through the flesh of my right upper arm, making me gasp. I was hit!

You must shake off your pursuer before the injury weakens you too much. Ignoring the wound, I drew my revolver and fired until the bolt clicked into an empty chamber.

Hoss, also shooting, had fallen more behind. I saw two braves catch up and surround him, the third on my heels.

Sweat covered my skin. Cochise’s loud panting drowned out my heavy breathing. I clung to his neck again.  My nose filled with the pungent smell of a sweating horse as a white, spray-like lather formed on his coat. We couldn’t keep up the pace for long. In front of us appeared a group of rocks. Run for cover! I unsheathed my rifle and leaped from my pony. Startled crows fluttered away, screeching.

The barrel danced in my trembling hands as I leaned against the rock, took aim, and closed one eye. “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes,” an experienced colonel had once told me.

The Indian was close enough that I could spot the pockmarks on his face. It’s strange how you can see so many details in a split second. Strips of red cloth were woven into his braids. He wore a leather shirt decorated with porcupine quills and steered his horse with his thighs. His bow was taut, and the arrow pointed straight at me. Drawing my lower lip between my teeth, I held my breath and crooked my index finger.

Strike!

The brave flinched, clutching at his shoulder and jerking his mount around at the same time.

Satisfied, I watched him chase off. It hadn’t been my intention to kill him, although he wouldn’t have hesitated to blast an arrow through my heart. Knowing he was out of action was enough for me. I ran the back of my hand over my damp face, removing sweat and dust. For now, I was safe.

My brother wasn’t as lucky. I squinted my eyes, trying to see what was going on. One of the Indians led our stallions by the rope. The other two were about to bind Hoss` hands when the injured man joined them. They were too far away to hear, but I could tell from their gestures that they discussed.

With deep breaths, I tried to control the rising panic in my chest. Images of bodies maimed and scalped by Indians flashed before my eyes. I began to pace back and forth, pounding my fist against the rock until it hurt. It had been so darn foolish to ignore Henderson’s warning!

As I opened the cylinder and reloaded it with shaking fingers, I was so clumsy that I dropped some balls. It was good that we had at least plenty of ammunition with us.

After my heartbeat calmed down, I noticed the searing pain in my right arm. With a grimace, I felt the wound through the jacket, but I assumed it wasn`t deep. The arrow just grazed me. It would be okay to take care of it later. I drank a small sip of water to moisten my mouth, which was dry with excitement. It would be wise to ration it since I didn’t know if the Indians would lay siege to me.

Considering my options, I eyed the small group. The one I shot was slumped against a rock, being bandaged by a warrior in a blue plaid shirt, leather breeches, and loincloth. The sight of the injured man brought a grim smile to my face—one less to worry about.

Hoss was guarded by a brave with a lance while the fourth inspected the captured horses. Tamed by wide headbands, their long black hair shone in the sun, but they were too far away to see more details.

Although I wasn’t afraid to fight them, my death would be of no use to anyone. I was reckless at times, but I knew my chances were slim in one in four, even though I saw only one rifle. The others had bow and arrow, no less dangerous, and they also bagged Hoss’s weapons. The smart thing was to follow them and wait for a good opportunity.

Damn. I rubbed my face with both hands. I`d been so careless, so sure that nothing would happen. We wouldn’t be in trouble if I had listened to Hoss’ gut feeling. But guilt wouldn’t help. I had to concentrate on doing whatever it took to get him out.

I wrinkled my nose and took a sniff. Was there a hint of decay in the air? My throat tightened at the memory of the crows I`d scared. Had they been disturbed by me during a meal?

As I made my way between the rocks, my steps were hesitant as if to delay the moment of truth, for I knew what that smell meant.

I should have been prepared for the sight but bounced back anyway. A corpse lay before me. It was a small, old man with a white, shaggy beard and a blood-stained leather shirt. I moved closer, pressing the back of my hand to my nose. Furious green iridescent flies began to buzz around me.

Sticky and foul-smelling air hit my nose, forcing me to take shallow breaths through my mouth. The dead man was on his back, feet facing me, his body already bloated. The arrows poking out of his chest and the shell casings strewn about told me of his final moments.

“Sorry, old man!” I mumbled a last goodbye before turning away. Leaving the body for the crows and vultures hurt, but I couldn’t bury him and lose sight of my brother.

Huddled behind the boulders, I watched the gesturing braves come to a decision. With Hoss in their midst, they turned toward the northeast. Only now did I notice they had a pack animal, a mule. Oldtimers mule.

 

Careful to stay out of sight, I followed the small group until sunset. From a previous trip, I was familiar with the area. Elko County was a desert with tufts of brown grass, sparse waist-high to man-high shrubs, and a few river valleys with green vegetation and trees.

The warriors did not bother to cover their tracks. I suspected they were a bunch of young bucks eager to prove themselves. Maybe they were inexperienced and reckless or full of pride from their success. They would collect trophies to show their courage and take booty such as horses and captives. An Indian who could call a slave his own was respected, and Hoss would make a good worker with his strength and size.

When it got too dark to follow the Bannocks, I looked for a good place to set up camp. I was plumb beat. My head pounded, and my eyes felt hot and tired. I unsaddled Cochise between some rocks and let him graze while unrolling my bedding. “Damn, the bag with the grub is behind Chubb’s saddle,” I muttered, kicking stones aside to make a comfortable sleeping place without chunks digging into my hips or back.

Not having anything to eat didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have dared light a fire anyway. I had no clue how far away the Indians were.

When I shook the canteen, the gurgle showed it was almost full. At least I still had enough water.

It was time to treat my injury before it got too dark. Gritting my teeth, I peeled myself out of my jacket. Dried blood had left a rusty red stain on my shirt, and the fabric was stuck to the wound. A soak did the trick. With tiny tugs, I plucked the cloth from my skin.

Lazy blood oozed from the furrow, mixed with the water from the canteen, and dripped from my elbow to the ground. As expected, it was a harmless graze, deep but with smooth edges. I couldn’t stitch it up, but my scarf provided a sufficient bandage. With the help of my teeth, I knotted it tight.

Exhausted, I sank onto my bedroll and stared at the near-black sky. A few feet away, Cooch browsed the short grass, and his chewing had a soothing effect. A figure flitted over me like a shadow, most likely an owl on the hunt.

I tossed and turned, and sleep refused to come. It wasn’t just my aching arm, my growling stomach, or the memory of the old man’s corpse, but my guilty mind. I had gotten Hoss into trouble before, but this topped them all.

My stomach tightened, thinking about the way Indians treated their captives. How would Hoss feel if he had to live on scraps thrown at his feet like a dog? Bitter bile rose in my throat as I imagined how they might torture him and force him to work from sunrise to sunset. Hoss was a tough guy, but what would slavery do to him? It would destroy him—probably not his body, but his gentle spirit.

Why did gloomy thoughts always appear in the night? They felt black and heavy like thunderclouds. I pondered how to free Hoss from the predicament I had put him in without finding a solution. During the day, I had enough distractions to keep me from brooding, but at night, I lay alone with my doubts and feelings, unable to find a reasonable solution.

Was I able to follow the tracks further and get my brother out? I didn’t have a choice, did I? Henderson, the horse breeder, would help me, but I mustn’t lose touch with the group. If I screwed up, it was likely that I`d never get to see Hoss again.

I would stare into space without knowing anything but the cold sparkling lights of thousands of stars, making me feel tiny and weak. Although I was used to sleeping outdoors and wasn`t fearful, my nerves were on edge. Every rustling and crackling made me hold my breath. I half expected a brown hand to appear from the undergrowth and have a knife to my throat.

By morning, I had fallen into a light sleep. I dreamed of crows pecking at me, arrows piercing my flesh, and dark-eyed Indians sneaking into my camp.

 

I jumped out of my skin when something touched my neck. Still trapped in the dazed state between waking and sleeping, I flailed around, trying to free myself from my bedding. I snatched my weapon from the holster beside me. My heart hammered like a fist against my rib cage.

“Darn, Cochise!” I groaned, lowering the .45 and waiting for my pulse to calm. My horse’s soft muzzle was against my face, and the long, sensitive hairs tickled my cheek. I chuckled as Cooch snorted, blowing warm air into my ear. “You’re right, buddy. We need to get going!”

With a grimace, I stood, circling my injured shoulder, which felt sore and stiff. It crunched like someone had sprinkled sand in my joint.

My morning wash consisted of a handful of water on my face and a swig rinsing out my mouth. I poured the rest into my hat and offered it to my four-legged friend. We would have to find a waterhole soon.

It didn’t take me long to break up the camp. There was no fire to put out and no cooking utensils to pack up, just my bedroll and Cooch`s tack.

Half an hour later, I came upon the Bannock’s abandoned night camp. Next to the fireplace, I dropped to my knees. It was still warm! The air was filled with the faint smell of smoldering wood. In the ashes lay gnawed bird bones and two half-empty cans. I fished out the few beans still inside with my finger and popped them into my mouth, angry that the Indians had fed on our supplies. Judging by the leftovers, they probably didn’t like the white man’s grub.

A grim smile flitted across my face when I found a piece of bloody cloth. I hoped the guy I`d shot was sick enough to slow the group down.

I ran my fingertips over the bark of one of the bigger trees. Resin leaked from an abrasion, and there were tracks in the sand. This was the spot where Hoss had been tied up. His large boot prints, distinct from those of the Indians wearing leather moccasins, were easy to recognize. They showed no drag or sign that he had stumbled, so I assumed he was okay.

“Let’s ride on, Cooch!” Like an old man, I used the stirrup to get on my horse and began following the Bannocks again.

 

After many hours of staring at the ground, my eyes burned, and my neck was as stiff as if I had dozed off in an uncomfortable chair. The Indians still moved northeast, so all I had to do was stay in the general direction. I made good progress. At times, I thought I had a glimpse of them, but the terrain was hilly, and I made sure to stay under cover.

Years ago, my friend Sharp Tongue taught me how to put myself in the shoes of an enemy or animal I hunted. He had been one of the best trackers.

“You have to think and feel like a beast,” he`d told me. “You have to nourish yourself; you need water and shelter. Where do you find food? Where is a safe place to hide or rest? Are you predator or prey?”

With my eyes closed, I imagined myself to be the leader of the Indian warriors.

I could feel my horse’s muscles working with only a woven saddle blanket under me. The sun burned hot, and I wasn’t wearing a hat, so I would avoid the hills and ride in the valleys with shadow and water.

We wanted to take it slow because one of us was injured. We had a captive and horses, and we would like to brag about our booty. Young and exuberant, we didn`t worry about a single white pursuer.

Yeah, I was pretty sure they were on their way to their tribe. The Bannocks lived in southern Idaho, and the direction they rode matched. By the time they reached their clan, there would be little hope of freeing Hoss, so it would have to happen in the next couple of days. But what chance did I have? Alone, without food, against tough, skilled warriors who had done nothing but survive in the wilderness all their lives. They were right not to care about me following them.

Pushing aside my worries and discouragement, I patted my horse’s neck. “We can do this, Cooch.”

 

By evening, my stomach rumbled loud enough to irritate my pony, but at least we had found water, and my canteen was full. When two fat rabbits crossed our path, I licked my lips. I could almost taste the fat dripping down my chin and the tender flesh between my teeth, but I didn’t dare fire a shot. It would be heard for miles. On the other hand, the Bannocks probably knew I was onto them. By the time I made up my mind, the opportunity had passed.

When I rummaged through my saddlebags, I found a crumbled piece of jerky. It looked like it had been there for months and didn’t smell very fresh, but it would keep me going. Determined, I chewed the fibrous mass until my jaw ached, and I washed it down with water.

The setting sun tinted the sky with wild reds and oranges. I dismounted from my horse, tired and numb. My body cried out for rest, but I couldn’t allow myself a break. Getting Hoss free was the most important thing!

I ensured my knife was in my boot and put a handful of rounds in my pocket. With water from my bottle and some earth, I mixed a thick paste. I remembered the mud fight with Hoss and Adam as I rubbed the brown stuff into my face, exposing only my eyes. My bright hat had to be left behind.

Where would I set up camp? I thought as I scurried through the bushes. Scattered tracks were visible, looking fresh. The edges were sharp, not blurry, the trampled stalks full of vigor, not wilted. I took a sniff. A faint smell of smoke hung in the air. Beneath me, in a hollow, was a collection of rocks, bushes, and small trees, and if I was not mistaken, the grass was green and lush. Now, I could also hear the gentle rippling of a creek. It was an ideal place to rest. The Bannocks were there somewhere, my instinct told me.

Step by step, I crept forward, careful not to make a sound. Breaking a twig or turning a stone would give me away. It was good that the wind blew in my direction so their horses couldn’t smell me. All my senses were on alert. A coyote howled in the distance, and the tree frogs began their evening concert.

Before me loomed the group of rocks. As I crouched beside them, breathless from tension, the rough surface still radiated the day’s stored heat. When I heard the sound of laughter, I knew I was close. Right behind those boulders were my enemies! The bushes would give me cover. I felt like a slow turtle, crawling forward, inch by inch, dragging its belly through the dirt.

I only stopped when I saw the glow of a fire bathing the camp and the four figures around with their legs under them in a soft light. The hurt man wore a colorful blanket over his shoulders and leaned against a tree trunk. A fat rabbit hung impaled over the flames while one of the Indians plucked a quail. The meat smelled good, and I pressed my stomach to the ground to silence the angry growl.

The Bannocks chatted in a low, casual tone punctuated by an occasional laugh. Our blue enamel pot stood near the flames, and fatback sizzled in the pan. Aside from the men wearing leather and lacking saddles, the place was not so different from a white man`s camp.

I tried to peer through the gloom. Where was Hoss? My attention was drawn to a blurred, bright object almost out of the light of the fire. It was his hat! I narrowed my eyes. My brother sat against a tree, his arms wrapped around the trunk. It was important not to mess this up now! I had to crawl to the other side and cut his ropes. If I hadn’t been so excited, I would have laughed at the Indians for being so careless as not to post a guard.

Dry leaves rustled as I retreated on my hands and knees. A thorn dug into my palm, and I bit my lip to avoid cursing—and stopped dead. An unmistakable rattling sound near me made me freeze. I felt like ice-cold fingers stroking my spine. Heck! A rattler!

Stay calm. Rattlesnakes were rarely aggressive but would defend if provoked or cornered. I remained on my hands and knees, motionless as a tree stump. If I didn’t move, it wouldn’t consider me threatening and disappear. The thorn dug deeper into my flesh, and my injured arm began to tremble. Trying to force my mind to a more relaxed situation, I imagined myself lying by a river, the soft, lush grass beneath me. The sun was warm on my face, and my big brother sat beside me with a fishing rod.

“Hey, can I get some water?” Hoss’s annoyed voice tore me from my daze. “When I die of thirst, I’m not much use to you, am I?”

Relieved, I lifted one corner of my mouth. If he could complain, he was okay. My arm started to shake even more. I had to shift my weight! Was the snake gone?

Two pointed teeth digging into the flesh below my thumb answered my question. I gasped and rolled onto my side, clutching my forearm. My mouth was dry, and the panic left a metallic taste. I brought my wrist to my eyes. Two innocent-looking drops of blood, shimmering like pearls, oozed from my skin. I fumbled for my knife.  A couple of deep slashes would help the poison to drain. Moonlight shone on the blade, hovering just above my skin. My hand quivered, and my mind raced. Cutting or not cutting? The teeth had gone in deep.

No! I lowered my knife. I would need both hands to sneak up on Hoss and free him. If I hurried, I would have enough time before the venom began to paralyze me. What happened then was in God’s hands. Maybe I was lucky. Snake bites didn’t always end in death.

My fingers already felt numb as I removed my jacket and ripped off my shirt sleeve. I bound the rag around my arm just below the elbow, tightening it with a small stick like a tourniquet. That would stop the poison long enough.

Gritting my teeth, I stood, feeling as shaky as after a twelve-hour day in the saddle. Waves of heat and pain radiated from the punctures and crept up my arm. Sweat formed on my torso, soaking my shirt. Move your butt, I motivated myself, lifting a foot that felt like two pounds of mud stuck to my boot.

My eyes had adjusted so well to the darkness that I could see enough to find my way. It seemed like hours when I reached the other side of the camp. All the while, memories flashed through my head of how one of our ranch hands had suffered a snake bite many years ago. His muscle spasms, racing pulse, unbearable pain, and difficulty breathing had impressed me at the time. Yes, he had survived, but it had taken him weeks to recover. He had bled all over his body, and the wound had become infected.

The fire had dwindled to an orange glow, and I could see the Indians’ resting shapes under their blankets. One of the men muttered something and shifted. Tethered a short distance away, their ponies flapped their tails, nibbling leaves from the bushes. I considered stealing the horses, but I didn’t know how much time I had left. Freeing my brother was more important.

My head swam, and I blinked several times to get a clear view. The tree was right in front of me. I ran my fingers over the rough bark until they hit a rope.

“Hoss?” I formed with my lips.

Deep breaths told me my brother was asleep. In a situation like this, how could he be sleeping?

“Hoss!” I shook his arm.

He sat up with a deep breath and a rustle. “Hm?”

“Shh, Hoss. It’s me!” I fumbled the knife out of my boot, my left hand almost useless. Pull yourself together!

Careful not to cut his skin, I felt for the restraints and placed the blade.

The hands before me disappeared as the hemp loops fell to the ground. Done! A hint of a smile flitted across my face. Dropping onto my back, I closed my eyes. I had no strength left to go on!

Somebody shook me. “Dagnabbit, Joe,” a familiar voice hissed. Then I felt Hoss pick me up and throw me over his shoulder. My head rested on his vest, which smelled of leather and smoke. Angry shouts echoed through the night as my brother stomped through the brush like a bison on the run. Branches whipped my body, and my leg got caught in a thorny bush. I heard fabric ripping. Bouncing up and down almost made me sick to my stomach.

“Put me down. I can walk!” I croaked, suppressing a gag.

Hoss put me down but wouldn’t let go of my wrist. Stumbling, I ran after him. In the dark, the braves would have trouble following us.

When we thought we had enough distance from the Indians, we crouched in a hollow surrounded by dense thorny weeds. The weird thing was my head was clear again, and the nausea disappeared. I wondered why the venom didn’t work on me. Was my tourniquet so effective? Had I just imagined the symptoms? Doc Martin once mentioned how much the mind can affect the body.

My senses were wide awake like a deer running from a pack of wolves. The drying sweat made me shiver. My arrow wound throbbed, my snakebite burned, and my belly itched from the filth that had gotten under my shirt while crawling around. The air was filled with the scent of rich earth and dampness from the creek.

“Hoss, you okay?” I whispered near my brother’s ear.

He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me closer. “Yeah, I’m fine. You did a good job! Are you all right?” Hoss’s bright eyes glinted in the moonlight as he studied me. “You look darn beat.” He lifted his hand, rubbing his thumb over the layer of mud on my face that had long since hardened and begun to crumble.

“Rattlesnake bit me!”

“What! A snake? Where did she get you, Joe?”

As I raised my arm, Hoss caught my wrist and brought it up to his eyes. “You didn’t cut it?  When did that happen? You seem pretty good for a snakebite.”

“Yeah, it`s weird. I tied my arm off.”

Hoss felt for the tourniquet and found it loose. “Sometimes, when they’re just defending themselves, they don’t use their poison. It’s called a dry bite. You got lucky, buddy!”

“Shh, did you hear that? Here comes one!”

A slender silhouette stood out against the moonlit sky. Moving in our direction, the warrior carried a spear and poked it through the bushes. His leathery soles made little more noise than a creeping cat of prey. Hoss’s fingers dug deep into my shoulder to keep me still. Our minds were the same. If we remained silent, it was unlikely he would find us. As I groped for my gun, my body tensed. I was prepared.

When the Indian was only a few feet away, he paused and raised his spear.

Hoss’ bright hat flashed through my mind as the man reached out to impale my brother. A second before the spear’s tip dug into the ground where Hoss had just crouched, I pushed him aside. Like a mountain lion pouncing on its prey, I plunged into the Bannock. He let out a muffled gasp as my head hit him in the middle, knocking the air out of his lungs.

The guy was muscular and sinewy, writhing beneath me, making my grip slip from his greased skin. He straddled me, grabbed my hair, and slammed my head to the ground, causing colorful lights to dance like sparks before my eyes. Then, the strong fingers wrapped around my throat and squeezed. My ears started ringing. With dwindling strength, I tried to hit the Indian’s neck or face. Breathing or screaming was impossible. Just when I was about to give up, the weight was gone. I heard a thud and the fall of a body.

“Joe, I’ve got him! You all right?”

I rubbed the back of my head and sat up with a grimace. The words came out raspy and croaky. “Yeah, I’m fine. Come on, let’s take the brave and get out of here. What the heck took you so long, Hoss? He almost killed me.”

“You shoved me into a prickly weed!”

“Better some thorns in the flesh than a lance, huh?” I tried a weak joke as we returned to my camp. Hoss pushed the reluctant Bannock, his hands bound behind his back with a neckerchief, along.

 

Cochise greeted us with a snort and lifted his head as we stumbled into camp, our prisoner between us. The Indian’s lips were pressed into a line. He shot us angry glances from his coal-black eyes. The long hair reeked of grease and smoke and hung thick and heavy down his back.

He wore a cloth vest, now torn from fighting, and a necklace of bones and feathers. Without ceremony, we dragged him to a tree and tied his hands around the trunk.

“Good work, Joe!” I heard the appreciation in Hoss’s voice as he patted me on the shoulder. Then he tore open his mouth to yawn. “I’m plumb tuckered out. Let’s get some sleep!”

 

We lay under my bedding like an old married couple, huddled together to escape the cool night air. My exhausted body began to shiver. A warm fire, hot coffee, and some grub would be heaven right now, even if it were just a handful of beans, I thought, listening to Hoss’ deep, steady breathing. Being able to fall asleep right away was enviable. Ignoring my various aches, I slid closer to the warmth of his massive frame and forced my muscles to relax. We were safe for tonight. The braves would not come after us in the dark. The exertions of recent days took their toll, and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

At first, I thought I was in bed and had overslept; then, I noticed a stone pressing against my hip and the horse-smelling, scratchy saddlecloth under my cheek. The persistent shaking on my shoulder stopped only when I sat up with a grumble.

“Get up, Joe!”

“Huh?” Yawning, I rubbed my eyes.

Hoss held a rusty tin can in front of my nose. Green needles floated in a hot liquid. I sniffed, but it smelled good. Resinous and fresh, almost like Hop Sing’s herbal brews.

“Pine needle tea!” Hoss said with a grin and shoved the can into my hand. I noticed he had built a small fire.

“Thanks, brother!” I would have preferred coffee, but I appreciated Hoss’s gesture, and it was good to have a warm drink after the cold night.

Eyebrows knitted together, I looked down at my left wrist and moved my fingers. The swelling on my forearm was slight. Otherwise, I was fine. While I slipped out of my jacket and rummaged in my saddlebag for my spare shirt, I wondered if Cochise could carry both of us. Probably not.

Hoss stood beside our captive, offering water, but the man made a disdainful sound in his throat and turned his head. It was clear that he was too proud to accept anything from us. When he could have been sitting, the warrior looked like he had spent the night standing by the tree. A dark bruise adorned his chin where Hoss had hit him yesterday. His angry, sparkling eyes, which followed our every move, gave me goosebumps.

Now, in daylight, I could take a closer look at him. I was surprised at how young he was. With his even facial features, women would probably call him handsome. His moccasins looked soft and comfortable, and his leather pants were decorated with porcupine quills. Just to be sure, I stepped behind him and examined his restraints. I could tell by the sore skin around his wrists that he had tried to free himself, but Hoss had done an excellent job of tying him up.

“What do you have in mind, Joe?”

“I’m thinking. What should we do with him? Try to trade him for Chubb and the two studs?”

“Yeah. That was my idea, too.”

“All right, little brother, Let’s lie in wait.”

 

“Are you nervous?” Hoss asked as I checked my revolver’s chamber a third time.

“Yeah.” Hidden behind a tree, I craned my neck and peered out. The issue was not if the Indians would come but when. Our tracks must have been so apparent to them that we might as well have put up a sign. “Is the Indian I hit badly wounded? How many braves we should prepare for would be good to know.”

Hoss gestured to his left arm. “Shot in the shoulder. I think we only have to expect two.”

The waiting was hard to endure. I knew Bannocks were masters at sneaking up like ghosts, but our campsite was well chosen. It was elevated, backed by a cliff, and easy to defend.

When I heard a rustle in the bushes, I raised my rifle, but it was only a rabbit. Unbeknownst to us, a mountain bluebird sat on a branch, singing its “chur chur.” Otherwise, it was silent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cochise perk up his ears and turn his head. The back of my neck tingled. I whirled around, weapon at the ready. My hunch was correct. Dropping to the ground, I saw the flash of an arrowhead. We fired at the same time. I heard a scream and splintering wood as my bullet shattered the archer’s bow while his arrow struck the ground behind me, lodging with a vibrating shaft. Panting, I wiped the dirt off my face and aimed again, but the Indian was gone.

“Are you well, Joe?” When Hoss glanced my way to ensure I was okay, I noticed the beads of sweat on his brow.

My big brother was just as nervous as I was, but his voice was firm and confident when he called out, “We know you guys are here! We’ve got one of yours! I suggest a trade! The captive for our three horses and weapons!”

For a while, all we could hear was the wind rustling through the leaves. I assumed the Indians would confer. Hoss’ knuckles were white on the rifle handle as he listened with his mouth open.

From among the trees, a figure appeared. He wore a cream-colored leather shirt and stood tall without a sign of fear, a firearm loose in his hand. “You white men are liars! We want proof that Pahninee is alive!”

My brother and I exchanged glances and tightened our grip on our weapons.

Our captive shouted something in his native tongue.

“All right, big man! We’ll do as you suggested.” The Bannock gestured, and moments later, we heard hoofbeats. The speaker handed his rifle to the brave in the blue plaid shirt, picked up the horses’ guide ropes, and walked toward our camp.

Hoss motioned to our captive. “You cut him loose, Joe. I’ll cover you.”

I stepped out of the ring of rocks, shoving the young warrior in front of me, my gun pressed into his back. “Don’t try anything!” I warned him, my mouth dry with tension. A few yards in front of me stood the leader of the group. His eyes shone black as birch tar while we sized each other up.

“It was brave to sneak into our camp. I didn’t expect a white man to be able to do that.” He gave me an approving nod.

“I had a good teacher. Many years ago, I was friends with a Paiute, Sharp Tongue. We went to school together.”

“I knew him, but he’s dead, like so many of us.”

“That`s my fault. I had to kill him in a fight. Sharp Tongue was bitter, and our schooldays were long ago.”

The look on the Bannock’s face was inscrutable, and I didn’t know if he believed me, but I wished he did.

“You have my respect for tricking us and freeing the big one.”

“I had no choice. He’s my brother.” I pointed at Hoss, hoping the Indian understood what I was trying to say. ‘We are responsible for each other and care for each other.’

The Bannock nodded again, but then his face darkened, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “We only reclaim what once belonged to us. Your people took everything. Our land, the buffalo and antelope, and many of our lives. A white man’s disease came and killed most of our nation a few years ago. Those who survived still carry the scars on their faces. All we have left is our pride.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“Just empty words,” the Indian said, bitterness in his voice.

He was right. What good was my apology to those mourning the loss of their loved ones or suffering hunger because the game was gone? I knew that contaminated wool blankets the Army had given to the Paiutes and Bannocks had brought a smallpox epidemic to the Indians.

“Still, the killing must stop,” I said, thinking of Oldtimer with regret. I lowered my gun and gave my young captive a tap on the shoulder. “Go!”

The leader looped the stallions’ ropes and Chubb’s reins around a branch.

Hoss and I watched the braves turn without looking back, mount their horses, and disappear into the thick bush as silent as they came. One moment, I could see them; the next, it was as if they had never been there.

We were young men from different cultures and backgrounds. Had we met under other conditions, we might even have become friends.

Hoss snapped me out of my reverie by slapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll get the horses.  C’mon Joe, let’s get everything packed up, and then we’ll make our way home.”

 

Epilogue

“Pa, what’s wrong?” I asked, pouring myself a coffee. My father’s expression was severe as he slid the Territorial Enterprise across the breakfast table and tapped on an article. Frowning, I grabbed the paper and began reading.

 

Humboldt County, Nevada

Cavalry eliminates renegade Indians.

A unit of courageous U.S. soldiers succeeded in eliminating a band of Bannock Indians responsible for raids and robberies in the Frenchman’s Ford area. In the early morning of June 5, 1865, the troop, led by experienced Captain John Marshall, surrounded the braves. The soldiers had the upper hand and defeated the Indians in a short but fierce battle. According to reports, all members of the bunch were killed in the firefight. Their exact number is unknown, but it is believed that only a handful of young warriors were on the prowl. The homesteaders who settle in the area can now breathe a sigh of relief. Captain Marshall reports that the army will continue to take action against Indians who threaten or steal from white settlers.

 

I lowered my head, not realizing my hand squeezed the paper so hard that it wrinkled.

Pa touched my forearm. “Joseph, this isn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Why must there be war all the time?”

“There always will be. Men are greedy; they want power, land, and wealth. Some people take what they want, and humanity falls by the wayside. These young braves knew the danger they were in when they raided and plundered farms. It was only a matter of time until this would happen.”

“Indians are not so different than us.”

“I know, Joe. That’s why we must have a friendly relationship with the Paiutes around us.”

I longed for fresh air, so I pushed my chair back and stepped outside. Cochise’s snort greeted me as I entered the barn. It smelled of hay and warm horse, a familiar soothing scent. I began brushing the black and white coat with long strokes to think in peace. The monotonous movement helped me to calm down. I didn’t understand why the article had upset me. After all, we had barely exchanged a few words with the Bannocks, and they hadn’t been friendly to us. It just felt like we`d decided to respect each other after all.

I tossed the brush back into the grooming box, where it landed with a clatter. As I leaned against the stable wall, Cochise rubbed his head on my shoulder, looking satisfied.

With his hands in his pockets, Hoss sauntered towards me. “Joe, what are you doing in the barn? Brooding? Let’s enjoy the beautiful day. How about a trip to the river to catch some trout for supper?”

The End

January 2024

 

Episodes referenced:

The Far, Far Better Thing, written by Mort R. Lewis