Guy DuBose could not figure out why there was no pursuit after his escape. His apprehensive looks to his rear as he fled for his life revealed nothing. Even at the outset of his dash for freedom after he’d clubbed his guard, Guy made no effort to sneak quietly away once he was on the Indian horse.
The soldier damned noise discipline as he gave the eager animal its head and allowed it to gallop as madly as it wanted out of the camp. He continued to give in to the mount’s eagerness to run as long as it moved southward.
When he’d gone a great distance, he finally forced the animal to control its exuberance. Riding that fast for a long length of time would exhaust the horse—and it was dangerous. The plains country held prairie dog holes and other natural traps in which a horse’s leg could easily be broken.
Finally, when glances all around told him the near countryside was empty, Guy took advantage of the situation. He came to a complete halt to simply wait and listen. He wanted to find out for sure from which direction the Chogolas were chasing him.
But there was nothing but the sounds of chirping, whirring insects making their mating sounds in the warm morning. That was a sure sign that no human lurked through the grass toward him. Puzzled, but relieved, Guy resumed his escape at a slower, surer pace. Only then, after the initial excitement died off, did he notice the growing pain in his burned feet, hanging down on each side of the animal. As the blood collected in them, the hurt began to pulsate in time to his heartbeat. All he could do was try to ignore the torment even as it grew worse.
The rest of the morning was a whirl of nervous stops and starts. Still unable to believe he had gotten away clean, Guy spent more time simply listening. Weaponless, except for the knife he’d taken from the Indian he’d killed, the veteran soldier knew that there was no way he could keep any adversaries at bay for much time.
Mid-day arrived bright and hot, casting brilliant sunlight over a prairie that was empty save for Guy, his horse, and the assorted creatures who made that part of the country their home. Now, damning caution, he pressed on, trusting in luck and his eyesight. His feet were badly swollen, and he knew that if he didn’t reach help within the next twenty-four hours, irreparable infection would set in.
He finally found some brackish water in a buffalo wallow. He drank the muddy liquid carefully, trying to keep as much silt out of his mouth as possible. With his thirst barely satisfied, he went on. The sun was much hotter a couple of hours later. He knew it was burning him badly, but there was nothing he could do about it. Finding shade and staying there until early evening would only make him vulnerable to discovery.
Guy heard the massive shooting later in the afternoon. He recognized the heavy “pows” of Springfield carbines interspersed with much more numerous “pops” of other weapons. The army weapons encouraged him enough that he damned all caution and moved toward the sound of the fighting. If cavalrymen and Indians were engaged in battle, Guy figured the soldiers would win.
It was over amazingly quick. But Guy pinpointed the exact direction toward the short-lived fighting by noting a hazy grove of trees on the southern horizon. They were straight in the direction that led toward the battle site. Trusting in pure luck, he pressed on hoping to find some of Fort Alexander’s troops at the end of the agony.
Seeing at any distance at all was difficult. Guy perceived dancing blobs ahead of him. They rose and fell back to the ground in graceful swoops. His sun-beaten mind could not muddle through the effort of figuring out what they were. But finally, he realized they were large birds.
As he drew closer to them he could hear their caws, and recognized them as crows. Then he could see what attracted them to the area. Naked bodies, impaled by arrows, lay close together. Guy, dreading what he must see, rode on until he reached the awful place. Now the buzzing of flies over the cadavers could be heard among the birds’ excited calls.
Scalped, hacked, and slashed open, Company C answered its last muster. Guy could see what was left of Paddy McNally, the shaft of his beloved guidon driven through his disemboweled stomach. Trumpeter Pullini, face up, had a calm expression on his Italian countenance even if his head had been chopped from his body. Ben Horn and Tim Donovan had died and were mutilated, side-by-side as soldier comrades, while ex-Corporal Hansen was scattered in several parts at their feet.
A quick shock of grief hit Guy when he saw the remains of his faithful friend Sergeant Harry Tate. Now Martha would be alone with the children, forced to leave Fort Alexander. The army had little use for the widows and orphans of dead soldiers. It was cruel, but Lieutenant Joseph Harris as adjutant and Lieutenant Bill Robertson as quartermaster would have no choice but to follow regulations and have her moved off Soap Suds Row and the military reservation.
Guy rode around the camp until he could see Morris Kramer. The newspaperman’s notes, torn up and scattered, were soaking in his blood. Guy swung his eyes to the center of the pile and saw Captain Gordon Blackburn, just a head and crow-bitten torso, with the arms and legs severed and thrown away someplace. Every member of the command had been scalped. Those parts of them were now trophies of war, proudly displayed by Chogola Comanche and Kiowa fighting men.
Now Guy realized where his potential pursuers had been. The messenger who arrived in their camp must have told them of the company’s location. Guy, who knew nothing of the massacre of Chogola oldsters, women, and children at the Red River Agency, thought that Lame Elk had decided to go for the chance to kill many soldiers, rather than chase one who had escaped the camp.
Guy turned his horse south and rode away from the butchery.
The remainder of the day merged into a hodgepodge of blistering heat from the sun, dry hot wind, and the torment of his feet. As his lucidness failed, Guy’s last sensation was that of his right foot. It had swollen so much that the flesh had burst.
Time was no longer a dimension in his life. Hallucination and blessed unconsciousness ran in and out of his awareness. Guy’s eyelids were swollen almost shut. The sun had burned him badly, making even his lips blister. Dried out and dangerously dehydrated, he remained aboard the horse through sheer instinct.
A wavy view of sky and grass came into focus now and then. At one point he could see Inez, the Druce’s Mexican housekeeper, looking at him. Her eyes were wide and she seemed to be screaming in terror. The sight faded and he went back into the troubled dreamland of his whirling mind.
Other pictures broke in now and then. Soldiers, Netta Druce and her husband, and even Pauline. The regimental surgeon and chaplain also made appearances as his mental state cleared little by little.
Finally Guy could clearly see Pauline smiling down at him. Although groggy, he became more and more aware of his surroundings. He was on a bed in the post hospital, and she was sitting on a chair beside him.
Guy licked his dry lips, feeling the punished skin. He struggled to speak, “How long—”
“You’ve been back almost two weeks,” Pauline said. “The Druces said you rode into the agency. They brought you to the post.”
“Oh, my—” Then he saw Minnie Robertson standing behind her.
Pauline reached out and lay a cool hand on his face. She bent down and kissed his cheek. “It’s all right, darling. Everyone knows about us now.”