Authors: Charles G. West
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Of the four partners who started out from Fort Laramie, Anson Miller was the loudest snorer. He could probably outsnore the other three combined. Ned Turner had expressed concern that Anson’s snoring might be heard by a passing Sioux war party and be the cause of all their deaths. Worse yet, Anson was always the first one asleep, usually deep in his slumber almost as soon as he pulled his blanket over his shoulders. Anson maintained that he only snored when he rolled over on his back. So it had become a ritual with the other three to place a large stone or stick of wood behind Anson’s back as he lay on his side, figuring it would prevent him from rolling over.
All four of the partners had eaten heartily, and after a long evening of conversation about prospecting and planning for the beginning of their search for gold, everyone turned in later than usual. Consequently
no one bothered to place a rock behind Anson. The fire was no more than a bed of dying embers when Anson rolled over on his back. Within seconds, his mouth dropped open and the first nasal bass tones rumbled up his windpipe. He had issued no more than two or three notes before a beefy hand was clamped tightly across his open mouth, causing him to snort briefly before Charlie White Bull’s razor-sharp skinning knife laid his throat open from ear to ear.
Held firmly by the half-breed’s powerful hands, Anson Miller’s life drained from his body, his arms and legs thrashing helplessly while his last breath bubbled from his severed windpipe. Charlie glanced over at Jack Stratton’s bedroll where Booth was performing the same execution. With two members of the prospecting party disposed of, Charlie went to the other side of the fire to slit Ned Turner’s throat.
When Charlie reached down to clamp his hand over Ned’s mouth, Ned awoke and yelled, causing Charlie to struggle with him before subduing his flailing victim with a knife thrust deep in his belly. Awakened by the struggle, Tom opened his eyes to discover Booth standing directly over him. Alarmed, Tom asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Why, nothin’,” Booth replied, smiling, “nothin’ at all.”
While Tom fought to rid himself of his blanket, Booth pulled his pistol from his belt and put a ball in Tom’s forehead, killing him instantly. He stepped back as Tom’s body slumped back to the ground.
“Waste of lead,” was Charlie’s stoic comment, as he cleaned his knife blade on Ned’s shirt.
“Quicker,” Booth replied simply. He would not have wasted a bullet if Tom had not awakened before
he could slit his throat. Since he did, Booth saw no reason to struggle with his victim, risking a wound himself. Pausing to reload his pistol, he said, “Now wasn’t that a sight better than chargin’ into four men with guns like you wanted to do the first day?”
Charlie grinned, transforming the somber face into a comical brainless facade. “I reckon.”
“Let’s git some sleep,” Booth said, “we can take inventory of our goods in the morning.”
Charlie was not ready to retire yet. “I wanna take the scalps now—so I can dry ’em in the morning.”
Booth shook his head, exasperated. “What the hell do you want ’em for, anyway? You can’t trade ’em.” He watched for a minute while Charlie sliced the skin around Anson Miller’s pate. “I swear, Charlie, I ain’t never gonna make a civilized man outta you.” Booth pulled his boots off, rolled up in his blanket, and was soon on his way toward the peaceful sleep of a man satisfied after a good night’s work. Other men might have been a bit uneasy going to sleep while a brainless half-breed was loose with a bloody knife. Booth wasn’t worried in the least. Charlie was like a child in most ways, and he would be lost without Booth to tell him in which direction to start every morning.
Most of the following morning was spent stripping the bodies of all useful items and pulling the packs apart. Booth was a little disappointed to find no more than a couple of kegs of black powder and a likewise small supply of flints and lead. There was a large quantity of dried beans and salt pork, as well as several tins of smoked oysters, one of Booth’s favorites. Of course there were mining tools and other supplies, but the item that delighted Booth most was a silver pocketwatch that Annie Farrior had given Tom as a wedding present. He rewound it and held
it up to his ear, a wide grin on his face when he heard the steady ticking of the timepiece.
THOMAS L. FARRIOR, LOVE FROM ANNIE
, was the inscription on the inside cover of the watch. It brought a wide grin to Booth’s face. Charlie, until then busy pulling Anson Miller’s shirt from his body, paused to watch Booth wind the timepiece—regretting the fact that he had not found it first.
Reading his partner’s expression, Booth said, “Hell, Charlie, you can’t tell time, anyway.” Feeling real pleased with himself, he looked down at the body of young Tom Farrior. “This here really shines—I swear it does—and I reckon I can at least give you that map I promised you.” He pulled his knife from his belt, and after cutting the shirt open, drew the point across Tom’s bare belly, opening a long slash. “This here’s the creek you’re laying beside.” Carving a couple of X’s across the first slash, he said, “And here’s where the gold’s at—and now you got your map.” He stood there giggling at the joke.
Curious, Charlie walked over, stood next to Booth, and stared down at the almost bloodless lines drawn on the corpse, the blood that had not drained during the night having settled in the body. Puzzled by Booth’s obvious enjoyment over the slashes, he turned to stare in his partner’s face.
“That’s his map,” Booth tried to explain, still laughing.
Still confused, Charlie shook his head and said, “Not much map.” He returned to his plundering of the packs.
Booth decided to stay where they were that night, and start out for Montana territory the next morning. He knew there were a couple of mining camps out there that his reputation had not reached. They could sell most of the tools there, and all of the food supplies.
That decided, they dragged the bodies away from camp since they were already attracting a horde of flies. Booth intended to get an early start the next day. It wasn’t healthy to stay too long in the Black Hills.
B
lue Water sat before her father’s tipi, pounding the kernels of wild grain into a meal that she would make into cakes. The entire camp was preparing to set out on a long journey in a few days to a place Blue Water had never seen. After returning from a meeting with the other elders of the village, her father, Broken Arm, had told her that she must make preparations to pack up the tipi. Chief Washakie had told the council members that a great conference had been called for at Fort Laramie, between the North Platte and the Laramie rivers. The purpose was to propose a peace treaty between the whites and the warring tribes along the Medicine Road that the whites called the Oregon Trail.
She looked up from her work when a group of boys ran between the lodges, laughing and shouting in a game of war. Blue Water smiled at the tall sturdy youngster leading the pack, running with the grace and strength of an antelope. Broken Arm had given her son the name of White Eagle because the boy’s skin was lighter in color than that of the other boys. It was no secret that White Eagle’s real father was a white trapper.
Blue Water had been a young girl when she had fallen in love with a sandy-haired young man at the rendezvous on the Green River eleven summers ago.
She would have gone with him wherever he wanted to go, and at the time, she felt in her heart that he returned her love. But it was not to be. Broken Arm would not permit the union, and when he realized something had happened between Blue Water and the white man, he broke camp in the middle of the night and took his daughter with him, leaving the rendezvous and the young white trapper behind.
She paused to think about that time. Her young heart was broken, even then carrying the seed that would bring her a son, but she knew it was best to leave. She only regretted that she had left without saying goodbye. Stealing away in the middle of the night may have been unnecessary, but her father thought he was acting in her interest. Perhaps he was right, for the trappers no longer came to the summer rendezvous after that year. Since then troubled times followed between the white man and the Indian, although her people, the Shoshoni, remained at peace with the white men. Looking back, she could see that her place was here with her people, with the mountains to protect them from the ever increasing numbers of wagon trains following the Medicine Road. The aching in her heart for the young trapper eventually subsided, and when Eagle Claw talked to her father about making her his wife, she was not reluctant to agree to the proposal. White Eagle needed a father, and who among the warriors of her village would have been a better father to her son than Eagle Claw?
As she had hoped, Eagle Claw had proved to be a good father, teaching the boy the many skills he would need to become a warrior. Little White Eagle was an attentive pupil, and Eagle Claw soon found that his adopted son showed promise to be a leader among his peers. A frown settled upon her comely features when she thought of Eagle Claw. White Eagle was only ten
summers old when Eagle Claw was killed in the war with the Gros Ventres. Blue Water had not yet taken another husband, although a year had passed since Eagle Claw’s death. There had been opportunities, for she was a handsome woman. Perhaps she would marry again, but for the time being, she preferred to live in her father’s tipi. White Eagle missed the man he called father, but there were many uncles, as well as Broken Arm, to oversee his training.
“Trace,” she murmured as her thoughts drifted back to that moonless night on the Green River. Trace was the name the white men had called the young trapper.
“What?” Broken Arm asked, as he came around the side of the tipi, thinking she had spoken to him.
Startled by the sudden appearance of her father, Blue Water hesitated before replying, not wanting to let her father know her thoughts. “Nothing, Father, I was just singing to myself.” Even though many years had passed since the rendezvous on the Green River, Broken Arm was still troubled whenever he suspected his daughter had thoughts of the young trapper.
“I have just been talking with the elders and we have decided to start for Fort Laramie tomorrow, so you must finish your preparations today,” Broken Arm stated.
Blue Water nodded and continued grinding the kernels of wild grain. After a thoughtful moment, she paused again and asked, “Why does Washakie want to go to the council with the white chiefs? Fort Laramie is a long way from our country. Why should we worry about the soldiers?”
Accustomed to his daughter’s habit of questioning the decisions of the elders, Broken Arm patiently answered her. “Washakie is right. It is important that the soldier-chiefs know that the powerful Shoshonis
should be informed of any treaties made with the white men. Bridger, the great friend of the Shoshoni, has told Washakie that the soldiers called this meeting with our enemies, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, Arapaho, Crow, Arikara, Assiniboine, Gros Ventres, and Mandan. Although the Shoshonis have been friendly with the white man for many years, we were not asked to attend this meeting which may greatly effect the future of all Indians. We must be there to protect our traditional hunting ground. The Great White Father in Washington must know that the Shoshoni people will not permit the Sioux and the Cheyenne to trespass on our lands.”
Blue Water nodded without further reply, indicating that she understood. Washakie was a wise chief, so she was sure that this was a necessary journey. Inside she still wished that her people would stay away from the soldier forts. She felt reluctant to leave the land of the Shoshoni. Here they were strong, protected by the lofty ridges of the Bitterroots to the west, and the massive Bighorns to the east. The soldiers had no business here. Let them build their roads through the Arapaho country to the south.
It is not for a woman to decide
, the words of the elders rang through her head. She sighed to herself and went back to preparing her meal.
Early the next morning, the village prepared itself for the long journey to Fort Laramie. Blue Water helped her aunts take down the tipi, folding the buffalo-hide covering and tying it to a packhorse. Fashioning a travois with two of the lodge poles, she loaded the entire contents of the tipi and strapped them down. After she had prepared food for her father and White Eagle, she packed her cooking utensils in a parfleche and strapped it to the loaded travois. The village was on the move before the sun had climbed to the tops of the pines on the eastern ridge. Blue Water rode on a
bay pony, leading the packhorse with the travois. Her son rode beside his grandfather on a spotted gray pony that Eagle Claw had given to him. The sight of the boy’s confident posture as he rocked gracefully in rhythm with his pony’s gait, brought a warm smile to Blue Water’s face.
* * *
Buck Ransom walked his pony across the wide parade ground, past the post headquarters, heading toward the post trader’s store. Laramie had changed quite a bit since the old days when the inner courtyard of the old fort used to be busy with Indians and trappers. The old fort by the Laramie River had been abandoned since the army took it over a couple of years ago. Now it looked more like a town than a military fort. He’d heard that it was officially designated Fort William, but nobody called it that. The trappers were mostly gone now, but the Indians still came there to trade at the post trader’s store. He had passed a camp of Sioux about a mile from the fort, next to a Cheyenne camp. In the next few days, there would be many more bands arriving for the big medicine treaty the government had called for—Arapahos, Crows, Assiniboines, Rees, Hidatsu, Mandans. These were some of the tribes the government had invited. To add a little more spice to this already volatile stew, he had heard from Bridger that Washakie—though uninvited—intended to bring his Snakes to the party. Buck was curious to see what was going to happen when all those Indians were camped so close to each other. Some of the tribes invited to the conference were blood enemies, and he figured it was going to take a miracle to keep some of them from going after each other. Pretty soon, there were going to be thousands of Indians around the fort, and as far as Buck had seen, there were probably no more than three hundred or so soldiers to keep the
peace. They had set up a camp near the fort and called it Camp Macklin. It was going to be interesting, and Buck decided it was a spectacle he didn’t want to miss.