Chapter 11: Indian Trouble

 

Early morning sunshine woke Mac on Wednesday. The lame ox had improved enough to hitch to the wagon. Mac enjoyed the travel west along the Platte, through a wide valley with rolling hills to the south. Their company made good time and passed three other groups. Thursday brought them more of the same.

Each day Samuel Abercrombie took a few men hunting while the wagons rolled along the river.

“Don’t know why he’s always hunting,” Pershing grumbled to Mac. “Buffalo will be around for weeks yet. Don’t need more meat.”

Abercrombie returned Thursday evening with a bloody haunch tied to his saddle. “Shot five antelope,” he said, gesturing at his companions with similar loads. Flies buzzed around the new kills. “Fresh game again tonight.”

“What’d you do with the rest of the meat?” Doc asked.

Abercrombie shrugged. “Indians’ll take our leavings. Unless wolves or coyotes get there first.”

Mac ate the buffalo stew Jenny had made and listened to Abercrombie boast from across the campsite, “Mighty fine antelope steak!” The man was hard to take.

 

May 13, 1847. Abercrombie delights in plaguing Pershing. Can they travel all the way to Oregon together? Making good time—over 30 miles in two days.

Thursday night shots woke Mac from a heavy sleep. “Indians!” a man shouted. Women and children shrieked inside the wagons. He grabbed his rifle and joined others milling around camp.

“I seen ’em,” Lennox, a farmer from Ohio, said. “Indians herding our horses in front of ’em. Look.” He gestured at a gap in the circle. “Wagons ain’t chained together.”

“God damn it,” Pershing said. “I’ve told you fools every night to check. Who was on guard?”

“Me,” Lennox said sheepishly. “Musta dozed off.”

“Christ!” Pershing said. “How many horses gone?”

“Five. Near as I can tell,” Lennox said.

“Two of ’em’s mine,” said Polk, a man in Baker’s platoon.

“Saddle up!” Pershing ordered. “We’ll track ’em down.”

“Jesus,” Samuel Abercrombie said. “It’s pitch black, and my horse was rode hard yesterday.”

“If you’d stay near the wagons, he’d be in better shape.” Pershing turned away from Abercrombie. “There’s plenty of men without you.”

Abercrombie cursed, but saddled his mount with the others.

Pershing sent men east, west, and south. “Hope they didn’t go north,” he said. “But I doubt they’d cross the Platte at night.”

Mac rode south all night with Pershing, Polk, and four others. The sky was clear, the air cold.

Shortly after dawn they crested a sandstone hill to find a small Indian camp in the ravine beyond—about thirty makeshift huts clustered near a corral holding a dozen or so Indian ponies and five larger horses. Mac wondered how Pershing planned to retrieve the horses without getting shot.

“I see my mounts,” Polk said. “Let’s go!”

“Not so fast.” Pershing held up a calming hand. “Only seven of us, and a slew of Pawnee. We’ll walk down friendly-like.”

“Ain’t no friends of mine,” Polk muttered. “Stole my horses.”

They rode slowly downhill toward the Indian village. The dwellings weren’t much—scraggly tree limbs covered with mismatched animal skins. Ten Pawnee men rode out to meet them, wearing hide shirts decorated with porcupine quills, bird feathers, and animal claws. One man’s headdress sported a white wolf’s tail hanging down the side. A necklace with a bear claw circled his neck. The chief, Mac thought.

“You have our horses,” Pershing said, gesturing toward the Indian’s corral.

“No.” The wolf tail swung back and forth as the chief shook his head.

“They were taken from our camp last night.”

“No take. Found on prairie.”

“They’re ours.”

“In Pawnee corral.”

“We’ll pay,” Pershing offered.

“God damn it,” Polk said, pulling out his rifle. “They’re horse thieves! I ain’t paying to git my own mounts back!”

Two Pawnee flanking the chief pointed their guns at Polk. The chief raised his hand to hold his men back. “How much?” he asked.

“One blanket for each horse,” Pershing said, ignoring the brandished weapons. His Army experience had made him a steely devil, Mac decided.

“Horse worth more.”

“You’ve only had ’em one night.”

“Gun, too,” the chief said.

Pershing shook his head. “No guns. I’ll throw in a knife.” He took out his Bowie knife and handed it to the chief. “Good knife.”

Polk spat in disgust. Mac eased his hand toward his rifle, just in case.

The chief touched his thumb to the blade. He turned to his men and said something in Pawnee. All but the two braves beside him turned and galloped back to camp.

The chief nodded at Pershing. “We bring horses your camp. You give blankets. I keep knife now.” He and the remaining two braves followed the others.

Polk snorted. “They know where our camp is. They took ’em.”

“Most likely,” Pershing said. “But we’ll get our horses back, and nobody gets shot. It was our damn fault for not securing the wagons.”

The sun beat warm on Mac’s back as the men returned to camp. He was impressed Pershing had negotiated for the horses without violence. He hoped the meeting in camp would go as well.

“Each man that lost a horse needs to give a blanket,” Pershing ordered. “Polk, need two from you.”

“I got just one blanket for each of my family,” Polk said.

“Then find someone with extras and trade.” Pershing folded his arms across his chest.

Polk cursed, but went to his wagon and returned, throwing two blankets down at Pershing’s feet.

The Indians rode into camp, herding the horses. Pershing gave the Pawnee chief five blankets, and added a small bag of tobacco. “Keep away from our camp,” Pershing said.

Abercrombie snorted and spat. “They’ll come begging every night, if’n you treat ’em nice. Indians only understand buckshot.”

“Double guards tonight,” Pershing ordered. “And stay awake.”

 

May 14, 1847. Spent the morning chasing horses. Bought them back from the Pawnee, thanks to Pershing’s steadiness. Only made ten miles after noon.

The next day began with damp drizzle. As they got underway, a party of Indians rode along the crest of the hills south of the Platte. Mac pointed them out to Pershing.

“Stay close to the wagons today,” the captain said. “Pass the word.”

Mac sat with Jenny through the rainy morning, Valiente tied behind the wagon.

“Weren’t you scared of the Pawnee yesterday?” Jenny asked.

“Some,” Mac said. “But Pershing handled it well.”

“Daniel told Esther that Captain Pershing gave them too much for the horses.”

“What’s a few blankets?” Mac said. “Horses are more important.”

“I suppose,” Jenny said. After a moment she continued, “Every tribe we see seems stranger than the last. Less civilized.”

“Not used to white folks, I guess,” Mac said. “Pershing says the Pawnee roam the prairie. The village we saw was a temporary camp.”

“Will they follow us?”

Mac pointed to the Pawnee riders on the hill crest. Still following.