Doomsday Rider

Twenty-five

At noon, Estelle and Fletcher stopped in the shelter of cottonwoods along Sand Creek and ate some cold bacon washed down with creek water.

A buffalo cow, a yearling calf walking at her flank, came to the creek. The cow watched the two humans warily, white arcs showing in her eyes as she dipped her nose into the cold water and drank.

After a few minutes the huge buffalo, shaggy and ragged in her winter coat, scrambled back up the bank, the calf following, and, humpbacked and watchful, walked to the southwest.

The calf showed evidence of recent wounds on his legs and back, and Fletcher figured he and his mother had been involved in a scrape with wolves. Sometimes such an attack could last for several days, and that must be the reason why the cow had dropped so far behind the rest of the herd.

Nature in this harsh land had a cruel indifference to the fate of a single buffalo calf, but with perseverance and more than his share of luck he would make it.

Fletcher hoped he did, feeling the natural sympathy of one hunted creature for another.

He and Estelle swung into the saddle and followed the wagon’s tracks south. For now the snow was still holding off, though from horizon to horizon the sky was dark and ominous, the clouds curling like great sheets of gray lead.

They cleared Walnut Creek and rode into country even more cut through by narrow creeks and washes. Here and there buffalo wallows, ancient and used by countless generations, were gouged deep into the ground, some of them holding thin patches of snow at their lowest levels.

As the day wore on to late afternoon, Fletcher caught sight of a rectangular black rock rising above the plain like a block of basalt about a mile ahead of them. As he and Estelle rode closer they saw that this was no rock, but the blackened ruins of a settler cabin.

Three walls still stood, supporting part of the roof, and a creek ran close to the place, providing a ready supply of water.

There was no way to tell when the cabin had burned or who had burned it, but Fletcher suspected it had happened years before and was probably the result of an Indian attack.

His impression about the age of the place was confirmed when Estelle, staking out the horses close to the cabin, found a wooden grave marker half-buried in the grass. The wood had rotted considerably, but she and Fletcher made out the name, Annie, and the date, 1868. Under that was a single word: Cholera.

Death for cholera victims was so certain on the Kansas plains, their graves were dug while they yet breathed, and later they were laid to rest wrapped only in a blanket, wood being scarce and expensive in a treeless land.

Maybe the people who once lived here had burned the cabin themselves, then picked up and left to dream other, better dreams in a safer, less hostile place.

Fletcher had no idea of what had really happened. But whoever had built this cabin had done him and Estelle a favor, because here they would spend the night.

There was plenty of dry wood in the cabin, most of it already charred, and Fletcher built a small fire. The remaining walls sheltered him and Estelle from the worst of the wind, and as night fell they ate a supper of broiled bacon, pan bread, and coffee.

After he finished eating, Fletcher built a smoke and studied Estelle for a few minutes, framing in his mind what he was going to say. Firelight touched the girl’s face, adding color to her cheeks and a reddish tone to the blond hair that fell in shining waves over her shoulders.

Finally Fletcher said, “Estelle, you ever think about what you’re going to say to your father if we catch up to him?”

“Not if, Buck, when.” Estelle was silent for a moment or two, then added, “I’m going to tell him he tried to have me killed and failed, mostly because of you, someone else he wanted dead. But, more importantly, I’m going to tell him he murdered my son and that I’ll never forgive him for that. All this, and more, I’ll tell him in front of President Grant and those who are with him.”

“It might not wash, Estelle,” Fletcher said gently. “Grant and the other senators may not believe you. They know your father; they don’t know you.”

Estelle nodded. “I realize that. But at the very least some of the dirt will stick, enough perhaps to sow a seed of doubt in Grant’s mind. Enough to make sure my father never gets a chance to run for president.”

Fletcher sighed and shook his head. “It’s thin, Estelle, mighty thin.” He hesitated, about to say their chances of evening the score with Falcon Stark didn’t amount to a hill of beans and that they were both hopelessly clutching at straws. But he thought better of it and instead asked, “And after that, I mean when it’s all over, what will you do?”

“Do what my husband would want me to do, of course. I’ll go back to the Tonto Basin and continue the work of the Chosen One, bringing the Apaches the word of the Lord, preparing them for the terrible day of doomsday to come.”

The girl looked at Fletcher, her blue eyes shining and alive in the fire-streaked darkness. “This is my calling, Buck. I can no more turn my back on it than I could the good Lord Himself.”

Fletcher tossed his cigarette butt into the fire. “It’s fine to have a dream, Estelle, kind of like the people who once lived in this cabin. But look around you, when the dream is gone all that’s left is ashes and a grave out back where your hopes lie buried.”

Estelle took it without even blinking. “That won’t happen to me, Buck. I am doing God’s work and He will keep the dream alive in me. This the Chosen One told me, and this I believe.”

“The Chosen One’s dream ended with the Apaches,” Fletcher said, trying to slap this girl across the face with his words and bring her back to reality. “About the same time they ended his life in the worst way they could.”

If Estelle felt any hurt, she didn’t let it show. “Yes, Buck, the Chosen One is dead, but his spirit dwells in me. I can feel it. He knows I will preserve and in time fulfill his dream. I speak with his voice and I am his prophet.” She joined her hands together and raised her eyes heavenward. “Amen and amen.”

Fletcher let it go. Despite her youth and vulnerability, Estelle Stark was a fanatic, and there is no reasoning with a zealot. For her, his words were empty of meaning, just noise, like so many rocks falling on a tin roof.

“Better get some sleep,” Fletcher said, his voice gentle, not allowing himself to blame this misguided young woman for anything. “We’ve got a long day on the trail tomorrow.”

* * *

Fletcher and Estelle rode out at first light.

They crossed Pawnee Creek at the rocky shallows fifty miles due west of Fort Larned and headed southwest, following the trail of the wagons. Stark’s party had swung well wide of the fort, built on the upper reaches of the Pawnee close to the Arkansas to protect travelers on the Santa Fe Trail.

Confident of his heavily armed hunting expedition’s ability to defend itself against any Indian attack, Stark had obviously ordered Wild Bill Hickok to lead them directly to the buffalo herds before the threatening weather worsened.

Fletcher and Estelle rode all of that day and camped by a wide, frozen creek where there was evidence that Stark’s wagons had also stopped for the night.

The wagons had been pulled into a defensive circle, no doubt Hickok’s idea, and several large fires had been lit.

Fletcher knew that the always cautious Bill would not have approved of the blazing fires so deep in Indian country. But scattered, empty champagne bottles, littered cigar butts, and gnawed steak bones revealed Stark’s intention that his influential guests have a good time.

If Bill had made an objection, he had been ignored.

The creek had a steep-cut bank as tall as a man that curved away a good hundred yards to the south, most of its length lined with cottonwoods. The creek bottom was sandy, and only a narrow ribbon of water, covered in pane ice, ran through it. Fletcher brought the horses down to the creek and staked them on the sand. He gathered up armfuls of buffalo grass and threw it down for the horses; then he had Estelle huddle in the hollow of the cutbank out of the wind.

There were enough twigs and branches lying around among the roots of the cottonwoods to start a small fire. There would be little smoke, and the fire itself would be hidden from any passing Sioux by the creekbank.

Over this hatful of fire Fletcher boiled a pot of coffee and broiled a few strips of bacon. After he and Estelle had eaten and finished the coffee between them, he scattered the fire and stomped out any remaining embers.

The fire may have been hidden, but it was better to take no chances. Even a pinpoint of light could be seen for miles across the plains in the darkness.

As the night gathered around them and the temperature dropped, Fletcher and Estelle huddled together, taking what comfort they could in their closeness and body heat.

The prairie wind sighed among the branches of the gaunt cottonwoods and set the buffalo grass to rustling . . . promising that it was going to be a long, cold night.

* * *

Shortly before midnight Fletcher woke after a few hours of restless sleep and gathered more grass for the horses.

He scrambled back down the bank and scattered the grass at the horses’ feet, then sat close to Estelle and built a smoke.

He had made up his mind.

The weather was getting more threatening by the hour and the smell of snow was in the air. If they did not overtake Stark’s wagons by sundown tomorrow, they would give up the chase and head for the safety of Fort Larned. He did not want to get caught out here on the plains in a blizzard. As it was, they might already have cut it too fine. The fort was maybe seventy, eighty miles away across wide-open country with little shelter, and their supply of food was rapidly dwindling.

Fletcher nodded, agreeing with himself. It would have to be tomorrow. He would tell Estelle that when the time came.

Just before daybreak he lit another fire and put the coffeepot in the middle of the coals. When the coffee boiled he shook Estelle awake and the girl shivered, blinking her eyes against the light of the gray dawn.

“How did you sleep?” Fletcher asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question, but hard-pressed to say anything.

“I was cold,” Estelle said. “You?”

Fletcher nodded. “Cold.” He poured steaming coffee into a cup and handed it to the girl. “Here, drink this while I saddle the horses.”

He did not mention his decision. That would come later.

The sun was yet to appear above the horizon when Fletcher and Estelle took to the trail again. The icy wind had risen, slapping at their faces with wintry fingers, and snowflakes tumbled, many more of them than before.

Ahead of them the tracks pointed across the endless grass, beckoning them onward . . . yet mocking them for their foolishness.

Two hours later they found the wagon.

It was Estelle who saw it first. She reined up and pointed directly ahead of her. “Buck, is that one of the wagons?”

Fletcher squinted his eyes against the wind and falling snow. There was something there and it was a wagon. It was tipped over on its side and there was no sign of the team or the driver.

Sliding his Winchester from the boot, Fletcher ordered Estelle to stay back. He rode forward at a walk, the rifle in his right hand, the butt resting on his thigh.

Tense and wary, he swung wide to the east and circled the wagon at a distance. There was no sign of life.

He rode closer and listened, hearing no sound but the wind and the rustle of the grass.

What had happened here?

Fletcher, the Winchester now ready across his saddle horn, cut across the grass directly for the wagon. He stopped when he was about thirty yards away. Just in front of his horse there was a wide splash of scarlet blood, another to the right of the first. Someone had been hit by a heavy-caliber bullet here and had staggered to his right, only to be shot a second time.

And the man could only be an Indian.

Riding closer Fletcher saw that the wagon had been looted, then overturned. Around it lay the mutilated bodies of four men, three of them bearded and dressed in buckskin shirts, low-heeled boots, and heavy wool pants.

These had been Falcon Stark’s skinners. They had made a fight of it, judging by the brass shell casings lying around them.

One man, younger than the others, smooth-faced and looking to be no more than seventeen, had been pinned to the wagon by a war lance, the blade driven into the wood too deeply to be removed. The shaft of the lance stuck out from the boy’s chest, and he hung there, scalped, dead eyes still wide with his terror at the manner of his death.

The other three bristled with arrows, most of them fired into their bodies when they were dying or already dead, and two of them had been scalped. The right cheek of one skinner, who had sported a magnificent pair of bushy red side-whiskers, had been cut away, the only trophy available since the man was completely bald.

Estelle rode up beside Fletcher, her face chalk white from shock.

“What . . . what happened, Buck?” she whispered, knowing what she was seeing, but wanting Fletcher to tell it and perhaps find a way to somehow quell the horror of it.

But there was no easy way around what had taken place here.

“They were caught out in the open and didn’t have a chance,” Fletcher said, his eyes bleak. He nodded toward a wheel at the rear of the wagon, one of the spokes broken. “They stopped to fix that, probably told the others they’d catch up. Then the Indians hit them.” Fletcher pulled an arrow from the side of the wagon. “I’m not an expert on these matters like Bill Hickok is, but I’d say this is Sioux, and over there”—he nodded toward the young skinner—“judging by the otter fur and eagle feathers, that war lance is Cheyenne.”

Fletcher swung out of the saddle, knelt and felt the neck of one of the men. He looked up at Estelle. “He’s still warm and the blood on him hasn’t dried. I think this attack happened no more than an hour ago.”

“My God, Buck,” Estelle whispered. “The president.”

Fletcher nodded, rising to his feet. “Yes, Estelle, the president. And us.”

He searched the wagon, but the Indians had taken everything of value. Ammunition boxes had been smashed open and their contents removed, and the gun belts had been stripped from around the waists of the dead men and their rifles and skinning knives taken.

The Sioux and Cheyenne had no love for buffalo hunters and their indiscriminate slaughter, and the dead men had been mutilated badly, ensuring that they would wander the afterlife maimed and crippled, unable to exact vengeance on the warriors who had killed them.

Swinging into the saddle, Fletcher turned to Estelle. “We’ll catch up to the wagons very soon, maybe in a couple of hours.” He tried to smile, managing only a joyless grimace that never reached his eyes. “Better get your speech ready.”

“I’m ready,” the girl said, her face rigid. “My speech has been ready since my son was murdered.”

Fletcher nodded. “So be it. Let’s ride.”