Disclaimer: The Sentinel and characters belong to PetFly and Paramount,
I've
simply taken them back to the Old West for a different kind of action.
Sorta.
Warnings: This is a Western Sentinel AU, with some rough language, implied
rape, moderate? violence. Rated PG-13, I guess.
Italics denotes thoughts. My sister Judy beta read part of this for me,
but
any and all mistakes are all mine.
Feedback, good or bad is welcome at thapowersthatbe@att.net
But Flames do hurt!
ECHO OF DRUMS
Part 1
Jim Ellison enjoyed riding scout. All by himself, no one making annoying conversation, no smelly tobacco smoke to avoid, no offensive odors catching him off guard. He carefully scanned the ridgeline for riders, dust, wisps of smoke; anything that might pose a threat to the herd three days ride behind him. The country before him would fool most; seemingly flat and endless, but Ellison knew there were washes and hollows where the unaware could be ambushed, injured, killed. This country was not unkind, but it did demand you pay attention and learn from those who had been through the land before.
He urged his horse forward, heading for a spring in the foothills, one hidden from those who had never traveled through here. He rode easily in the saddle, the big paint gelding surefooted on the rockiest of terrain, possessing a smooth gait that made riding him a pleasure. Jim had spotted the outcrop that marked the spring and urged his horse from a distance-eating trot into an easy canter. ‘Buck’ perked up his ears and Jim smiled. Rascal can smell water a mile away. Funny, but I swore I could smell it too a ways back there.
Jim had filled his canteens, wiped ‘Buck’ down and fed him some grain, started a small, virtually smokeless campfire with his supper going in less than an hour. He took advantage of the lingering warmth of the day to clean up in the cold spring water, fed by some underground river. He scraped the stubble from his face, sighing as he washed away the irritating grit from his face, neck, chest and arms. He promised himself a real bath in a real tub as soon as they reached Cheyenne. Later, as he scrubbed his trusty pan and pot clean after eating, he thought longingly of a home-cooked meal, or at least one in a clean restaurant. He checked his small fire, made sure ’Buck’ was secure for the night, scanned his camp perimeter and settled into his blankets. Sounds of the night; the wind, winged night hunters, bugs and frogs sang him to sleep. As he fell asleep he thought he heard another, faint sound, a drumming from across the miles.
Sun up found him two miles from his little camp. He had slept better than he had for weeks. He found himself humming a tune from his Army career, one that didn’t bring dark memories of those days. The morning passed quickly, making notes of the easier passage for the large herd depending on his skills and knowledge of the land between them and the stockyards in Cheyenne. Many herds moved on to the larger rail heads, some all the way to Kansas City, but this herd had started out far too late in the year, no thanks to a bitterly long winter in Montana. The cattle would be in better condition thanks to the shorter drive and the grasslands had been very bountiful this year and the fatter the cattle, the better the price. He worked well with the drovers and especially the trail boss. He smiled as he remembered the heated arguments he’d had with the cattle owners over naming Simon Banks as trail boss. But the man himself had quelched most of the objections. Banks managed his crew with a fair, but iron hand. Not there that hadn’t been problems, but with Ellison quietly backing him, Banks’ made short work of his detractors. There was still a lot of resentment by some who questioned having a black man as their boss, but the troublemakers had been quickly identified and either fired or adjusted their attitudes.
As the afternoon wore on, Jim found himself feeling uneasy. He double and triple checked the horizon, the terrain, the sky and found nothing amiss. A few times he thought he had heard things, things it was impossible for him to hear. He had gone for his gun the first time he thought he heard shots. Minutes later he had heard what sounded like more shots ringing across the plains; these accompanied by shouts of anger and screams of pain. He had brought ‘Buck’ to a halt and strained to hear more. As time passed, he listened and watched. He found himself seeing distant outcroppings of rock in great detail, spotting a lizard sunning in the afternoon sun. He shook his head as he felt himself falling away into nothing, blinking hard to clear his eyes; no one could see that far except maybe a hawk or an eagle. Too much sun.
He rode on, still straining to hear or see more, but nothing else happened. Except his feeling of unease grew as he and ‘Buck’ crossed the miles. He had had a campsite in mind for the night, but passed it by as he continued his search. Then, as twilight approached, he heard it again. That faint drumming. But this time it was not the peaceful rhythm from the night before. This drumming raced and skipped and worried Jim as nothing had ever before. A shallow stream was crossed and Jim had it in mind to continue on but he knew even ‘Buck’ had limits and he had no right to push the trusty horse on through the night. A cold dinner was eaten without appetite as he denied himself a fire. ‘Buck’ ate his oats and drank from the stream, and made good use of a few saplings near the edge to rub and scratch against after Jim unsaddled and wiped him down.
Jim rolled out his blankets and settled down. He pulled his brim low over his face to keep away bugs. The night sounds came through as clear as they had the night before, but the drumming, no longer racing and scared, kept him awake. The drumming was fainter than before and had slowed to the point where he lost it at times. Restless, fitful sleep was all that Jim was granted that night.
The sky was still dark and full of brilliant stars, but Jim was in the saddle and heading out. His sense of unease had changed to one of dread, a feeling out of place in the peace of the pre-dawn quiet. But Jim had learned during the war to follow his instincts. ‘Buck’ sensed his rider’s urgency and responded quickly when asked to give more. Jim found himself listening, following the faint drumming, all the time wondering if he was really hearing anything at all or if he was slowly going crazy.
Dawn found Jim and ‘Buck’ slowly traversing a treacherous stretch of rocky hills and trenches fit only for a mountain goat. Jim didn’t push his mount, and the horse picked his way up and across without hesitation. As they topped the rise, Jim picked up the faint odor of smoke and gunpowder. He turned south and followed the scent. Mid-morning found him crossing a nameless river tributary and climbing yet another hill. In the small valley below Jim found the source of the odors he had been tracking. A few tepees still stood; most were burned to the ground. Bodies lay strewn about on the ground; men, women, children.
Jim rode slowly through the tiny village, rifle resting across his arms.
He dismounted after checking thoroughly and finding no one alive. He looked up at the sun, noted it was almost noon and got to work.
That night he was finishing the last of the platforms. He had time to only
make four, but hoped the Indians wouldn’t mind sharing. He gathered the
bodies of the children first and gently placed them together on one platform.
He ground his teeth together as he placed one tiny infant next to a toddler.
The women were next. As he carried them he caught the odor of semen on some
and the thought of them being raped before they were murdered fueled his rage.
The men were last; most were old or too young to go out to hunt with the
warriors. He built a huge bonfire and watched it until it burned out near
dawn.
He was tired and angry and frustrated and saddened to the point where he was
almost numb. He scrubbed his face impatiently and went to saddle ‘Buck’.
There was nothing more he could do for these people and knew that nothing
would be done by his people for one simple reason. The US Army had been there
before him.
As he mounted he caught a flash of black on the crest of the hill across the river. He spurred ‘Buck’ forward thinking he had caught one of the bastards coming back to see if they had left anyone alive behind. As they topped the hill Jim knew there was nothing there to find. The brief flash of black had been too small for a horse and moved too quickly for a man on foot. The thought of losing his mind angered and depressed Jim further and when the faint drumming sound registered, the rage flared high again.
Galloping toward the sound was all that mattered. Jim didn’t really see anything around him. He didn’t notice ‘Buck’ slowly easing from a full out gallop to a canter to a swift trot. The sound was getting louder, coming closer and that was enough. The rage slowly ebbed away as they covered the miles and his mind cleared. They were picking their way through a twisting wash when Jim spotted the source of the sound he had been following.
A man, an Indian was stumbling along the rocky wash. He fell to his knees, then pitched face first to the ground. As Jim watched, the Indian slowly dragged himself to unsteady feet to shuffle forward. Jim pulled his rifle out of the scabbard as they caught up to him. The man must have finally heard the horse coming up behind him and lurched slowly, drunkenly around to face Jim. The man’s face was covered in thick dust and dried blood. Hair escaping the long braid down his back danced about his face in the breeze. Jim cautiously dismounted, keeping his horse between them in case the man had a weapon he hadn’t spotted, rifle trained on the Indian.
Filthy hands raised slowly into the air and Jim saw the grimace of pain cross the dirty face as they reached shoulder height. As he came closer, Jim noted the curl to the hair that escaped the tight braid, noted the color was mahogany not black, mahogany with red and dark gold highlights. Face to face, Jim saw eyes the blue of cornflowers, not the deep brown of a Sioux or Pawnee or any other Indian Jim had ever met. Those eyes were dulled with pain and exhaustion, yet full of fear.
Jim asked, speaking slowly, “Do you speak English?” The blue eyes were locked on his face and Jim didn’t think his words, not even the sounds registered. “Do you speak English?” Still no response, just those huge blue eyes staring at him, unblinkingly. Then, the bruised looking eyelids closed and he slid bonelessly to the ground. Jim stood looking at the man, really looking and saw the tough broadcloth pants under the buckskin adornments and beading, saw the worn, dusty boots and the white linen shirt. The shirt was in tatters and so dusty it looked brown. It was the bronzed skin and long hair in the braid that had Jim first thinking the man at his feet was Indian. He bent to pick up the man, but when he slid his hand under the thin shoulders the unconscious man moaned in pain. Jim pulled his hand out and saw the blood smeared on his palm. He rolled the man over and swallowed hard. This man had been flogged, whipped and recently. The long, thin welts were still bleeding and now covered in dirt. Jim grabbed the man up and headed for his horse. He ignored the sounds of pain the movement caused and clumsily mounted, not wanting to risk putting the injured man on the horse only to fall off before he could mount. He headed ‘Buck’ down the wash to a shallow area where they could get out easily and headed back to his last campsite.
Part Two
Jim gingerly dismounted, one hand keeping the limp body from falling off the back of his horse. He checked the immediate area, then,
satisfied no one was around, eased the injured man from the saddle. ‘Buck’ walked to the edge of the stream for a long drink, Jim knowing he wouldn’t go any further. He laid the unconscious man face down knowing he needed to keep more dirt from getting into the vicious wounds. He pulled his blankets from his saddle roll and spread them under a huge cottonwood. After settling the wounded man on the blankets, he gathered wood and started a fire to heat water. He had part of a bottle of whiskey in his saddlebag and set it aside, then pulled out his two clean shirts.
The water heated, he added the whiskey, then soaked a shirt in the water and laid it across the flayed back to soak the dried blood and caked in dirt. The unconscious man arched his back and yelled hoarsely. Jim found himself sitting on his backside to keep him from rolling over. Jim lifted the still warm, soaked shirt away and put it back into the simmering water. He started the worst part of cleaning the nasty wounds. The back of the man’s shirt had been ripped open down the middle, but pieces of cloth and fibers were imbedded in the raw lacerations. At one point the man’s eyes opened, the blue still dull with pain and Jim saw the cracked lips moving. Jim could barely make out the man’s whispered pleas for mercy before he fell unconscious once more.
It took close to an hour before Jim was satisfied he had removed every piece of linen, every thread that might fester inside the wounds. He mixed a poultice of herbs and roots learned from his time with the Shoshone. He gently spread the warm paste all over the angry wounds and laid his last clean shirt across the man’s back. He figured it would allow some air to get to the deep gashes and keep dust from blowing in on them. Leaning back, his head pounding from focusing his vision so tightly on the wounds for debris, Jim wondered again why he felt so compelled to help this man. He knew absolutely nothing about him. But that didn’t matter, all that mattered was that he had to help, had to protect this man. He added wood to his fire and began to simmer a broth with some pemmican. He figured when his patient was awake next, he’d try to get some of the warm liquid in him.
A sliver of a moon rose from the east as Jim finished his evening meal. The injured man was still deeply unconscious and Jim figured that exhaustion was as much a factor as the injuries. He spread out his blankets and contemplated the day’s events as he gazed at the stars blazing in the velvety night sky. His horse was picketed near the stream, nickering softly at times in contentment. Jim rolled wearily to his feet once more and checked on the oblivious man. He wished he could do something more, but way out here there wasn’t a lot of options. He had checked the man’s pockets, but only found a battered watch with a picture of a very pretty woman. He found himself wishing the kid would wake up and at least tell Jim his name. Kid? Yeah, that’s about right. Underneath the dirt and grime and blood was a youthful face in spite of the heavy beard stubble. He laid a gentle hand on the high forehead and frowned. It felt hotter than a couple of hours before. He adjusted the blanket as high as he dared to keep the man warm and returned to his own blanket. He would wait for morning and see what the new day brought.
Morning dawned with sullen clouds building in the western sky. Jim had coffee going and his broth reheating. He had only managed to get a few sips of it into the man last night, afraid to do more for fear of choking the man. He led ‘Buck’ to a grassy area to graze, then spent a few minutes as he did every morning scanning the area. He felt better this morning; no headache and his vision and sense of smell seemed sharp and clear. His hearing was still bothering him and he was still hearing that damned drumming at times. Right now it was slow and steady, but several times it had sped up and become erratic and he woke to the change in the sound. That was when he had found the injured man moving restlessly. Jim carefully picked up his small pan of broth and walked over to his charge. He set the broth aside and checked the sweat dotted forehead. Damn it all! He’s even hotter than last night!
Jim carefully lifted his shirt from the battered back and hissed in dismay. Several of the deepest cuts were bleeding sullenly and looked infected. He could feel the heat radiating off the man. He walked to the edge of the stream and knelt down. The water was cool this morning and with no rains lately, the water was running clear. Decision made, he yanked off his boots and stripped down to his long johns. As carefully as he could, he stripped the injured man and with a grunt, lifted him in his arms. He stepped into the stream and carefully moved to the deepest pool. As he lowered the unconscious man into the water he heard a low moan. He turned the man almost on his side in order to keep his face out of the water. He watched the water turn red, the blood swirling downstream. He watched the patterns of the blood in the water; mesmerized by the numerous ways it merged and separated.
He had no idea how much time had passed before he became aware of the smaller man stirring, almost jerking out of his grasp. Jim looked down into the wide blue eyes and realized the man was speaking, or at least trying to. Jim moved them closer to the bank and found a place where he could sit and hold the man’s head out of the water while keeping the cool water circulating against the lacerated back. He noted the wrinkles marring his fingers and knew that they had been in the water for a long time, time that he had no memory of.
He heard the man whispering and tilted his head to better hear. “...let me drown, please. I don’t want to die that way.” came the harshly whispered plea.
“No, I’m not gonna let that happen to you. I’ve been taking care of you. You’ve got a fever and your back was getting infected. That’s why we’re here in the water. Do you understand me?”
The head resting against his chest nodded, then lolled back. “Sorry.” Ocean blue eyes locked on sky blue for a moment before closing and once again the head rested against his chest. Jim Ellison felt a surge of fierce protectiveness rise up inside, something he hadn’t felt in many years.
They stayed in the water another hour. After carefully depositing the man on the blanket, face down once more, Jim built up the fire to ward off any more chill after the long soaking. He carried the broth over to the man and lifted him across his long legs. He heard the hiss of pain escape tightly clenched lips. “I know you don’t want to move much, but you really need to drink as much of this as you can. You’ve lost a lot of blood and from what I can tell you’re parched. Think you can do that for me?”
“Give it a try. Can’t promise more.” Jim spooned the lukewarm broth, allowing for the awkward position and the sore throat. Finally the curly head shook slightly, refusing any more and Jim set his small pan aside. He helped the man lie down on the blanket again, then rested his large hand on the forehead, sighing in relief that it was cooler.
“Blair.”
Jim leaned down, “What was that?”
“My name is Blair. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” A soft snore drifted into the air. “My name’s Jim Ellison.” he said to the sleeping man. “Good to meet you, Blair.” He watched the younger man sleep for a minute, placing his hand over Blair’s and then his eyes widened. The drumming wasn’t drumming at all. He felt the pulse under his hand, the pulse that matched the drumming exactly.
He fell back on his butt. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way for one person to hear another’s heartbeat. He grabbed his boots and yanked them on, getting up to pace. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t decide what was wrong with him, couldn’t stop hearing that damned drumming. He stomped back over to the kid, Blair, and glared down at him, willing him to wake up and tell him what the hell was going on. Blair kept right on sleeping, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside one Jim Ellison.
Part Three
Blair woke to the smell of coffee drifting through the night air. He tried to convince his eyes to open, but with little success. His nose twitched and he slowly, painfully turned his head toward a flickering light. The flickering gradually became a small campfire and the large dark lump next to it coalesced into a man. He licked parched lips and tried to speak. His throat was raw and he wondered how long he had been sick. And why he was outdoors. And who the man was staring into the flames. Harsh sounds came out but didn’t resemble the English language. The man next to the fire didn’t move and Blair wondered if the sounds he made were audible only to him. He tried to work up some moisture in his mouth and swallowed painfully. Tried to speak again. He knew he had been a little louder, but still no reaction from the silent man.
Blair tried to shift onto his side and his back came to agonizing life. He bit off a shout of pain as his breath caught. He lay flat on his stomach, unmoving, face pressed against a rough blanket and tried to breathe normally, squelching the desire to scream. He looked over at the man once the pain had subsided to a barely tolerable level and noted that he hadn’t moved a muscle; still staring into the flames of the small fire.
Blair struggled to gain control over his breathing. As the fog of pain receded from his mind, he thought he remembered floating in a lake earlier that day. No, not a lake, a cool river. He remembered thinking, wishing the swift current would carry away the pain centered in his back. And again wondered what had happened to him. He wondered who the man was sitting so quietly by the fire and why he wasn’t back.......
The loud sob startled Ellison, but didn’t break his concentrated focus of the intricacies of the dancing flames. But the thunderous drumming jolted him to awareness. For a moment he felt furious as he realized how late it had gotten and that he had no memory of the passing of time. But only for a moment. His head snapped up and found himself moving to the injured man’s side. The kid was weeping while trying to get to his hands and knees.
“Whoa there partner. C’mon, lie back down before you start your back bleeding again.” His words had no effect on the wounded man as he laboriously struggled onto his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes, a mournful keening issuing from trembling lips. “Hey, hey. You gotta lay back down. I said lay down!” The loud command finally registered on Blair who turned his head slowly and finally ‘saw’ Jim.
“I...I....they’re all dead. They....killed everyone. I....my fault.” His eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward. Jim’s quick reflexes kept the curly head from striking the hard ground. He checked the abused back and let out a sigh of relief when he found only a couple of places bleeding from all the movement. He made the kid as comfortable as he could and moved to his own bedroll. He thought over the few words Blair had spoken, but could make no sense of them. His thoughts then turned to the time he had lost tonight. He had been staring at his small campfire, thinking about the time he had lost scouting for Banks and the herd and then, nothing. Until Blair’s heart had started beating so hard and fast. Why would that sound bring me back to myself? No answers came to him from the heavens or the sleeping man. He heard the young man’s breath hitching at times and wondered if the tears were from guilt or grief. Sleep was a long time coming to Jim Ellison that night.
He was awake and moving long before the rain started the next morning. He had fashioned a travois and was tying his blankets in place when the rains began. Blair was still sleeping when Jim moved him to the travois. He woke long enough to mumble a sleepy question, but stilled when Jim’s large hand rested on his forehead and gently pushed the hair away from his eyes. “It’s going to rain all day partner and we’ve got to find some shelter. I’ll take it as slow and easy as I can, but the place I’ve got in mind is half a day’s ride from here.” Blue eyes blinked in understanding and the curly head nodded once. Jim settled him on the travois and wrapped his poncho around him to keep the rain off his head and back. He swung easily into the saddle, pointed ’Buck’ west and they were off.
Jim set an easy pace; one that wouldn’t tire his mount and still get them to the old mine he remembered from a couple trail drives ago. He pondered why some people dug for gold or silver while others ate dust and bad food, forded swollen rivers, fought off thieves, all to drive cattle to market for money. Jim had had little use for money, until he heard about the fertile and cheap land in the Pacific Northwest that was opening up for settlers. Not that he wanted to farm, but he wanted his own place, his own cattle and horses, his own home. He had taken on the job of scout to earn the money he figured he’d need and found kindred souls in Simon Banks and a few others with the drive. Simon was not one of the owners, simply hired as the best around to get the herd to the railhead safely and most profitably. Their cook, Joel Taggert, was another eager to settle his own land. The big man was gentle as the day was long, but once riled, a good man in a fight and one you better pray was on your side. Two others were heading with them once the cattle were delivered and sold. Jonathan Rafe and Henri Brown, both ex-soldiers like Jim and Simon and both tired of working for others.
These thoughts kept Jim occupied for most of the morning, at least what time he didn’t spend thinking about the young man on the travois behind ‘Buck’. He couldn’t believe Blair was actually responsible for killing the Indians he had found in the burnt out village. No, he had read the signs and Army horses had been there when those people had been murdered. And no way was that kid in the Army. He hoped that soon Blair would be able to answer at least some of his questions.
The old mine was hidden back in a blind canyon and when Jim had first found it, it had been abandoned for some time. He dismounted, checked on the injured man and turned to his horse, “Now I know you’re tired and I’ll get you out of this weather, but first I gotta check to make sure there’s no inhospitable critters that have taken up residence. You watch out for Blair, understand?” ‘Buck’ looked right at Ellison and Jim swore he understood every word he’d said and when ‘Buck’ shook his head, Jim was satisfied.
He pulled his rifle from its scabbard, checked his ammo and cautiously approached the mine opening. He found a handful of old branches, lit them with a match and used it to light his way. He moved in about 100 feet, checking that the old mine was not about to cave in. He dropped the branches that were mostly burned down and added some old wood he found along the shaft. He had seen no sign of bear or big cats, had heard no sounds other than the old timber supports groaning and water dripping further on in. He cleared the opening so ‘Buck’ could enter easily and went after his charges.
That evening as the heavens continued to douse the land, Jim was once again dry and had a pheasant roasting on a spit over his fire. He only hunted to supplement his meager supplies and never took more than he needed right then and there. ‘Buck’ had been fed and watered and tethered near the opening of the mine. Blair hadn’t moved since Jim had brought him near the fire and that had Jim worried. The man’s fever was about the same and the wounds on his back were no worse for traveling most of the day in the rain and over rough terrain. He poured a cup of coffee and held it near the man’s nose. Sure enough, a few seconds later, that nose twitched, the head moved and the blue eyes finally opened. One shaky hand reached out and unsteadily grasped the warm cup. Jim helped him bring it to his lips, small grin on his face. After a long sip, the eyes opened wider and the small cup was quickly drained.
“I haven’t had coffee in months.” The voice was still rough and raspy, but Jim thought the throat sounded less raw. “Thank you. I really appreciate all you’ve done. I don’t know your name though.”
“Jim Ellison. I know your first name is Blair, but you’ve never been able to tell me your full name.”
“Jim Ellison. Thank you, Jim Ellison. My name is Blair Jacob Sandburg and I think right now I’d give you my right arm or my first born for another cup of that nectar.”
Jim chuckled as he poured more coffee for Blair Jacob Sandburg. The hand was a little less shaky and the coffee disappeared quickly. “Well, Blair Jacob Sandburg, I have a pheasant right here that’s just about done. Think you’d care to share supper with me?” Just about that time the young man’s stomach rumbled, loudly. Jim’s smile grew. “Uh, is that a yes to supper?” Blair smiled and nodded.
The pheasant was history and Sandburg was sound asleep once again. The rain still came down and the fire was warm and cheerful. They hadn’t talked much, the kid still had little strength, no stamina, but Jim was pleased that he’d eaten solid food and kept it down. Gentle snores interrupted his musing and as he made himself comfortable in his bedroll, Jim Ellison smiled.
Bright sunlight was filtering in through the mine’s entrance when Blair woke the next day. He longed to stretch his arms and legs, but the slightest movement brought painful protests from his back. But he needed to answer a nature call and for the life of him, he could not figure out how to get to his feet. Just before he was about to give up and humiliate himself, Jim Ellison appeared at his side.
“How you doing this morning, Blair Jacob Sandburg?” Ellison’s voice was warm, friendly and Blair’s face fell as he remembered the horrible events from a few days before. He wondered how Ellison’s voice would sound when he knew the truth about Blair Jacob Sandburg. Jim watched the expressive face of the young man he had taken care of, watching the emotions chase across the mobile face. Kid better never play poker. “Whaddya say partner? You need to visit a tree this morning?” The face now flushed bright red and Jim knew the answer to his question. With some gentle maneuvering, Blair was on his feet and propped against a wall around the corner. He finished his ablutions and turned to find his rescuer at his elbow to help him back to his blankets.
Jim wanted to get back to the herd where Blair could rest in the back of Joel’s wagon and be out of the elements until his back really started healing. But the herd was at least two days behind them and the kid was in no shape to travel that far. Jim could leave him here with food and water and wood for the fire, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. So, he decided to stay put, let Sandburg rest one more day, then head out to meet the herd. And maybe, while they were staying put, he’d find out what the hell really happened back in that village.
Breakfast was biscuits and beans, coffee and some hardtack Jim cooked in with the beans. Not the greatest food in the world, but warm and filling. Sandburg only ate a small portion, but savored the coffee. He drank the dark, hot brew with his eyes closed and a look on his face as if he were drinking fine brandy. Jim cleared up their utensils and such then sat back, long legs crossed, stretched away from the fire. Blair lay on his stomach, face toward the fire, watching Jim.
“I figure you have lots of questions.” Jim looked over at him, startled, thinking for a moment the kid had read his mind. “I’d have questions if I were you. Go ahead, ask.” The low, gentle voice broke on that last word.
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering what happened back there and how you got hurt. But that can wait until you’re stronger.”
Blair closed his eyes and shuddered as the memories of that day swept through his mind. “No, I want to tell you, but I need to start at the beginning. Okay?”
“It’s your story, partner. But only if you’re sure.”
Blair nodded his head and began.
“I’m from Connecticut, but I’ve traveled with my Mom since I was, well since I can remember. All over the Eastern United States, Europe, parts of Africa and Asia, even Norway once. When I was sixteen I started in college in Chicago, then transferred to the University of Virginia. I want, wanted to be an anthropologist. My favorite professor, Eli Stoddard, taught about the native Indians, but he only knew about the Eastern tribes, like the Iroquois, Shawnee, Cherokee and others. But I wanted to learn about the Plains Indians we’d heard reports about and I decided that the best way to do that was to live with them.” He held up a hand to stay the outburst he saw coming from Jim. “Yeah, not the best way to do it, but that’s what I did. I was 23 at the time and thought I knew everything. What a laugh, huh? The first guide I hired robbed me blind and left me in the middle of nowhere. I almost starved to death before a cavalry patrol found me and got me back to St. Louis. I wired my Mom to send me some money, so I could pay for a room and meals.”
“Did she? I mean, send you money so you could take off without knowing a damned thing?”
Blair laughed and Jim thought how sad a sound that was. “She sent me enough to keep the landlord from tossing me out on my ear. I got a job teaching so I’d have enough to eat and buy some clothes and before I knew it, Naomi had tracked me down.” At Jim’s questioning look he added, “Naomi’s my Mom. She never insisted on being called Mother or anything; said Naomi was her name and I could call her that.” Jim quirked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, so Blair went on. “It took me a while, but Naomi saw I wasn’t going to change my mind and set about finding me a guide that was trustworthy and wouldn’t get her only son killed. Paxton, the guide Naomi hired, bought all the gear, food, horses and pack mules, even my clothes. Naomi headed back to New York and we headed west. He taught me a lot as we traveled, Jim. I mean, I had read what I thought was known and true about Indians, but I didn’t know squat!”
A few minutes passed before Blair started again. “The first tribe was, well, they were indescribable! The reverence for the land, their people, their culture! I felt like a bumbling idiot. But, I did manage to learn some of their language pretty quick, and that impressed them. Seems most whites don’t bother. Jim they were the most amazing people! Sure, they fought with other tribes at times, but they don’t kill, at least most of the time when they fought if they simply touched their enemy, that was enough. And they don’t kill for sport like white men do and when they do kill, they use the entire animal!” Jim looked at him and was amazed when Blair blushed again. “Of course you know all that, don’t you Jim? I mean, you know this land and the people, right?”
“Yes, I know the land and respect it and respect the Indians for their courage and bravery and they way they take care of their tribe. So, yeah, I guess I know what you’re talking about Sandburg. They are admirable people, but they are people and like anyone else, they have their bad apples too. But giving credit to them as a people, they have more respect for this country than most of the whites settling out here.”
Blair nodded in eager agreement. “That’s what I learned Jim. We moved on and I spent the next two years learning more and more and before too long, I realized I didn’t miss ’civilization’, not one whit! I still wrote and mailed letters to Mom when I could, but nothing could compare to what I was learning and seeing and then, when I met the Sioux, I didn’t want to leave.” Blair’s face was shining with the memories of discovery and learning. But that face paled and became drawn as he continued.
“God, Jim. It went so horribly wrong. I’d been with the tribe almost six months. Paxton, my guide had headed on up into the mountains, said he needed to be alone for a while. But me? It was the happiest time of my life. I thought I’d found home.” The voice broke again, but Blair kept on. “And I fell in love and she loved me too. We were to be married with the next full moon. There was an initiation planned for me and I knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, but I wanted to belong and I really, really loved her. I can’t even bear to say her name now. Anyway, I had fasted for three days and stayed in the sweat lodge with the Chief, Black Elk until time. Black Elk was elderly, but very wise and still very strong for his age. And it’s the time of year when the young men go out with the warriors to locate buffalo and elk for winter stores. So, there were only a few men left in the village, including one who stayed behind who was jealous of me. He didn’t want us to marry. Everyone knew, but he didn’t dare cross Black Elk and when he saw my initiation couldn’t be stopped, he rode out.”
Blair stopped again, fingers tightening around the blanket edge. “He came back though, with company. I was tied to a post and Black Elk had given me ten stripes across my back with a rawhide strip as part of the initiation. He didn’t do it maliciously and it did hurt like a real sonofabitch, but he didn’t like doing it. It was simply part of their tradition. If you want to be a warrior and protect the tribe, you have to prove you can withstand pain or else maybe you couldn’t function during a battle. Spotted Pony had gone to the nearest outpost and told the soldiers I was a captive and that I was to be killed that day. He wanted the soldiers to ride in and ‘rescue’ me, get me out of his way. At least that’s what he told me as he was dying. The soldiers rode in, saw me tied to the post and killed Black Elk right then. Spotted Pony killed that soldier and three of them shot him off his horse. That’s when all hell broke loose. They started shooting everyone. It was like when a pack of starving jackals attacks a lion in Africa. I was screaming at them, cursing them, begging for them to stop. This one big soldier came over to cut me down and I cursed him in every language I knew, including Sioux. He spit in my face and called me ‘squaw man’ and ‘injun lover’ and picked up Black Elk’s rawhide whip and beat me until I thought I would die. When I came to, they were gone. I don’t know if they cut me down or if I had managed to work my hands loose. I crawled to Black Elk, but I already knew he was dead. He’d been shot in the head.” Blair’s eyes closed against the tears he held back and swallowed hard. “I found her finally and knew that they had...they had.... Her nails were torn where she’d fought them. Spotted Pony was nearby and he was trying to tell me something. I was in a rage and before he could really say anything I hit him. I hit him over and over again. And then he said he forgave me, asked could I forgive him for being jealous, for bringing the soldiers to our village, for lying about me being a captive. I didn’t do it Jim. I couldn’t. I was angry beyond reason. My...she was dead and I hadn’t done a thing to save her, so I turned my back on him as he died.”
Silence reigned in the old mine for a while. The quiet voice came again. “I knew I was going to die and I had condemned myself by not forgiving him when he begged me to. I started walking, crawling away from what I had called home and waited for my death. I didn’t deserve to join their tribe, didn’t deserve to marry her and right now I have no idea why I’m still alive. It doesn’t make sense.” The voice was no more than a whisper, “Why am I still alive Jim? I don’t deserve to be.”
“I don’t have the answers to questions like that, Sandburg. But I can tell you one thing.” Hopeless blue eyes lifted to his. “You didn’t kill those people. You weren’t responsible for the actions of those soldiers or Spotted Pony. You were trying to belong to a group of people you admired, respected, loved. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.”