CAUGHT
A Cooper Smith - Wagon Train fic
By Badgergater
Episode: Zebedee Titus (Season 7)
Category: Missing Scenes
Just how did those Comanches get their hands on Coop?
(Authors Note: Thanks to Hired Hand, the best of the betas)
Along the trail west, a man meets some mighty interesting characters.
Zebedee Titus was one I wasn't going to soon forget. Folks everywhere in the west know him, and they tell lots of tales about what he's done, some of them pretty darn fantastical. They've written whole books about Zeb, making him into some sort of bigger-than-life frontier legend, but he isn't. He's a man, a good one, but just a man who can make mistakes like all the rest of us.
And one of his mistakes nearly cost me my life.
It's not true that I volunteered to go looking for those Comanches just to get away from Charlie Wooster. Well, okay, maybe it's partly true, but I'll explain that later.
I did volunteer for that scouting job, I'll admit that, and Chris agreed to let me be the one to ride ahead to check for Indians along our route, but there's a long story behind it. See, it all started when my friend and fellow scout Duke Shannon reported that he'd seen smoke, Indian-made smoke, but Zeb had disagreed. I was going to find out for sure. Zeb may be a famous scout and all, but Duke I know. And trust. If he says there was smoke, I believe him.
Cautioned not to let ol' Zeb see me go because no one wanted to answer any awkward questions about why I was riding out, Duke and I started walking real easy-like across the camp. We ambled slowly through the circle of wagons like we were strolling along on the evening camp check, something one or another of Chris' crew did most every night. We muttered quiet hellos, howdys, and good evenin's to the folks we passed, turning down three offers of coffee and one for pie along the way. Thankfully, no one seemed to regard our walk across camp as anything out of the ordinary.
Even taking our time as we were, I had to stretch out my stride to keep up with Duke - matching my steps with that long-legged walk of his is always a challenge, and doubly so with me having a gimpy leg.
Okay, so I had fibbed a little when I told Chris my leg was healed up. It *was* better than it had been, that was for sure, but honestly, it was still plenty sore. I'd just gotten better at hiding it, at smoothing out my step so the hitch in my gait hardly showed at all.
Or so I hoped.
At Chris' order, I *had* just spent two whole days without the particular misery of riding with a knee and hip that ached with every step taken by my horse. Those two days, however, had left me knowing that riding my own horse couldn't possibly have been any worse than riding all day on that creaking, jolting, jarring, bouncing, rumbling wagon that I swear hit every single rock, rut and pothole on the trail.
With Charlie chattering away in my ear.
Non-stop.
I don't know how poor Barney can stand it.
It ain't that I don't like Charlie Wooster, because I do. He's a good guy, and a great friend, and he'll stand by you whenever you need it, and to be honest, he ain't even that bad of a cook, not really, not considering the difficulties of cooking along the trail. I just love to tease the old coot; we all do. But an all-day dose of Charlie's jabbering on constantly about this and that and the other thing, all of which were nothing, was more than I could take. He gossips worse than my old Aunt Alice, bless her soul.
Maybe I'm just used to the silence of the trail, to listening to my own thoughts, and I admit it, I can only take so much talk. By anyone. Well, unless it's a pretty girl, of course.
But I do like my silences, and you never, ever, get those around Charlie. Not like with Duke - the two of us can ride along without saying so much as a single word for hours on end. And even Barney, who some days can ask more questions than a schoolmarm quizzing a whole room full of students, was catching on to the scout's need for listening. He understands that you can't hear much out along the trail when you are flapping your mouth instead of tuning your ears.
Duke and I finally passed the last wagon and arrived at the picket line. Nodding to the guard, I walked down the row of stock to my horse, stroking Gambler's nose before untying him. "You ought to be well-rested and ready to go, boy," I muttered to the sorrel as I led him away from the other horses.
Duke, meanwhile, had retrieved my gear from the nearby supply wagon. He held Gambler while I quickly tacked up the horse, staying out of sight behind the supply wagon. I slid the blanket into place and smoothed it before setting the saddle atop it. Flipping the near side stirrup up over the seat, I looped and tightened the cinch, knotting it snugly in place before dropping the stirrup back down to its regular position. I checked his bridle and buckled the breast collar and hooked the tiedown, and Gambler was ready to go.
Duke, standing on my horse's offside, was already hanging a full canteen over the saddle horn while I tied the saddle strings around my saddlebags and bedroll before sliding my Winchester into the scabbard.
"Coop, you be careful out there," Duke advised, peering at me over my horse's back, a worried frown furrowing his open face. "I did see that smoke you know, even if Zeb didn't," he insisted.
"I never doubted you did," I answered. Duke sure had taken it hard when the old man and seemingly Chris, too, had disagreed with him. He still seemed a mite touchy on the subject, despite Chris' support of him and the wagonmaster's willingness to let me out go out to confirm Duke's report.
His face lost the scowl it had been wearing pretty much for the past two days, since Zeb showed up, and he nodded in appreciation. "It was coming from way over toward Hawk Butte, maybe even on the far side of it, but those Comanch could've moved further this way by now."
"I know." I smiled confidently, taking Gambler's reins in my hand.
Seeing I was ready to mount, Duke stepped back but he kept a hand on the sorrel's bridle, as if reluctant to let me go. I knew how much he had wanted to handle this job himself, but there was no way we could have kept that a secret from Zeb. The old man might not notice I wasn't around, but we could never explain Duke's absence. "Just don't be takin' any chances, Coop. If they are Comanches - "
"I know about Comanches, Duke." Lifting my boot to the stirrup, my smile vanished and I pressed my lips tightly together to hide a grimace as my knee protested the movement. But I swung aboard and quickly settled myself in the saddle, adjusting my reins before nodding down at Duke. "I'll be back in time for tomorrow night's supper," I promised lightly, then lowered my voice to a whisper. "Be sure to save me some, huh? I'd rather eat Charlie's cookin' than my own. Just don't ever tell him I said that."
Duke nodded but he hadn't lost his worried frown as he let go of Gambler's bridle. "Just you be careful, Coop."
"Don't you know, that's my middle name?" Tugging my Stetson tightly down on my head, I spun my horse around on his heels and walked the sorrel away from camp.
Gambler was eager to go, full of days of pent-up energy. He tossed his head and danced, protesting the slow pace, but I held him in check for the first mile out, keeping him to a walk. I didn't want old Zeb to hear me leave - maybe the old man's hearing wasn't any better than his eyesight, but I didn't want to chance it. The noise might alarm others, anyway. I know full well how loud, and unnerving, galloping hoofbeats can sound in the late night quiet of the camp.
I was glad to be back in the saddle, sore leg and all.
It was a nice night to be out on the trail. A wedge of milk-white moon had cleared the eastern horizon providing enough light for me to see the ground beneath Gambler's feet. Once we were what I figured was a good mile from camp, I lifted the sorrel into an easy, ground-covering lope. Without effort on my part, my body molded itself to the familiar rocking rhythm of the horse's stride, and though my hip ached a bit, it wasn't too uncomfortable.
At least, not yet.
I was lucky. I'd not only fibbed to Chris, and the others, about how recuperated I was, or wasn't, I hadn't ever admitted to anyone how nasty of a fall I'd actually taken. I'd done more than twisted my knee, a lot more, I recalled ruefully, reaching down to massage my sore hip as I rode, and thinking back to what I'd done.
It had been more than a week ago now. Duke and I were, as usual, miles out ahead of the train, scouting out our route. While folks may think there's just one trail going west to California, and in some places that's true, the fact is, most places, we've got to choose between one route or another, or even more choices. Which one is best might depend on how long ago it rained, because either too much or too little water was a problem; how hot it was or had recently been; the availability of enough good graze for the stock; the condition of the stock and/or the wagons; the driving skill or lack of it among our westward travelers; and the size of the loads this particular group of prairie schooners was carrying. Then there's the location of Indians, who are rarely rooted to one spot but move year to year, month to month, even week to week, and you can't forget the possibilities of things like rockfalls and rockslides and washouts, early snows, how we're fixed for supplies- just all sorts of things affect where we go.
All that uncertainty, of course, is what gives Duke and me our jobs.
This time, Chris had us checking out the regular route versus a possible shortcut we'd heard about. Duke was off checking out the trail Chris had used before, a flatland passage that went around a line of steep hills, longer but, as long as there was enough water, likely to be fairly easy going. The train could make good time going that way but would have to cover quite a few more miles. I was exploring the other possibility, a trail showing recent rutted wagon tracks leading up into the hills. They seemed to be heading for a saddle between the two highest points. If the route was passable for wagons and the grade not too steep, it could cut miles, maybe even days, off our route, though at the expense of some slow, hard climbing.
The old trapper who'd told us about the route seemed mighty sure of himself, and those wagon tracks seemed to confirm it, but Chris Hale is a cautious man. He holds in his hands the lives of hundreds of folks, so he's not one to take chances. He'd sent us to scout both trails and then report back on what we found.
Duke and I split up, and my solo ride was uneventful for the first day and well into the second, when I'd finally reached the top of the pass. The grade wasn't bad; I judged all but the most heavily loaded wagons could make it up real easy. The big loads might need some help, adding an extra team of horses for the steepest sections, I reckoned, but it was doable, and likely to save considerable time. Still, getting to the top of the pass was only half the battle; we had to get the wagons down the other side as well, so my scouting job was only half done.
But I had reckoned that the worst was over as I rode on down the far side of the pass. I followed a small trickle of a stream that grew steadily wider and deeper, cutting into the hillside as it dropped down to flow through a rocky canyon. The trail grew worse and worse, narrower and steeper, looking less and less likely as a wagon route. Then suddenly, at a sharp bend, the trail dead-ended - a tangled jumble of rocks, broken branches, and even whole trees, stacked at least twenty feet high filled the little canyon from rim to rim.
No wagon was going through there.
In front of me the stream widened out into a shallow, teardrop-shaped pond, but it was plainly still flowing through a gap under the debris.
I pulled Gambler to a halt, disappointed. The old wagon ruts disappeared right into the rubble, which looked mighty recent- some of the tree branches were still green. I turned around to peer back up the hill behind me. It must have been a vicious flash flood to have carried all that rubble down into the canyon, a disappointing ending to what could have been a real time-saving route for the train.
I rubbed a gloved hand across my jaw, once again looking back at the trail I'd just descended, then up at the rubble blocking my path. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked — after all, the stream was cutting through it. Might be that only a few hours work by a crew of men could be enough to dig through the debris and re-open the trail, still saving the train days of travel.
Having come this far it wouldn't hurt to take a few minutes to look around a bit more, I reckoned. I dismounted, wrapping Gambler's reins tightly around the thin trunk of a young Ponderosa pine. I pulled my canteen from the saddle, taking a long drink before wiping my chin with a gloved hand. Shaking the container and deciding it needed a refill, I walked over to the stream and knelt beside it, pushing the canteen under the water, letting the cold, clear liquid fill it. Done, I splashed water from the creek on my face and neck before standing, capping the canteen, and walking back to my horse, hanging the container's strap around the saddle horn.
I scanned the hills looming above me, looking for a vantage point I could climb to that would give me a good view ahead. I studied a bit, then chose a likely route, gave my horse a farewell pat, and hiked around the edge of the pond.
The climb proved harder than it looked. The hill was steep-sided, nearly straight up and down, with slick rock that tended to crumble and give way under my boots. I used small trees and brush as handholds, my booted feet scrabbling and sliding on the rough ground, kicking loose small landslides of dust and rock as I worked my way up.
Under those conditions it took me a hard half-hour's climb to get just part way up the side of the canyon. I paused on what seemed like a fairly stable spot, huffing and puffing with the sweat running down my face. I pulled off my hat, wiped a sleeve across my forehead, and tugged my Stetson back into place before stretching to my full height and peering ahead.
"Well, that was a waste," I muttered aloud. Debris choked the canyon tangling into a huge rock fall that blocked the trail as far as the next big bend in the canyon walls. This wouldn't take a few hours to clear - more like a few weeks, even with a good size crew. And dynamite. There would be no new time-saving route here.
With a disappointed sigh, I started back down toward my horse, discovering real quick that going back down was no easier than going up had been. My boots slid in the loose shale with the first step and even latching onto a small pine didn't do much to slow my descent as rocks and dirt gave way beneath my feet. I paused, steadying myself, then started out again, choosing each footstep carefully.
Though not carefully enough.
Half a dozen steps and I found myself on a particularly steep spot, balanced with all my weight on a lone rock that jutted out from the hillside. Suddenly, I felt it shift, slip, and then fall away beneath me. I skidded a couple of feet, fighting to keep my balance as I kicked up dust and started an avalanche of gravel and small rocks. I made a grab for another small tree, but this time it snapped in my hand, and I went down, hard, my right knee twisting unnaturally under me as I landed hard on my hip. It seemed like half that hillside was moving with me as I kept skidding downward, bigger rocks joining the cascade of debris now, the kind that hurt when they hit you. One thudded into my shoulder as I slid down the hillside, my right leg taking the brunt of the damage. I reckon I slid thirty feet and only stopped because I'd gotten to the bottom of the hill, dang near landing in the pond to boot.
Nearby, Gambler danced at the end of his reins, snorting his displeasure at my unusual style of descent.
I slumped on the ground, coughing out the dust I'd inhaled and taking a moment to gather my wits before standing. I used my hat to slap the worst of the dust off my clothes, then limped gingerly over to my horse. My knee wobbled painfully with every step, and my battered hip wasn't feeling any better. I was pretty sure I had bruises on top of bruises but at least it didn't feel like anything was broken.
I calmed Gambler a bit, then, when he seemed at ease, limped over to the pond and washed the grime from my face, taking a long drink of the cool water. Easing back to my feet, favoring my right leg, I hobbled over to my horse and untied his reins.
I stepped into the stirrup and swung my leg up over the sorrel's back. Settling into the saddle with a low groan I turned Gambler back uphill, retracing our route back up and over the pass.
I didn't meet up with Duke until late the next day. By then, I was so black and blue and stiff just sitting my saddle hurt and much as I tried to hide it, I couldn't. I told Duke I'd just twisted my knee, which was truth though not all of it. Wasn't anything could be done about it anyway, so I rode without complaint, though I did catch him looking over at me now and again, seeming sort of skeptical, like he knew there had to be more to my story than 'I twisted my knee on a loose rock' which was what I'd told him.
Once we got back to the train, I brushed off Charlie's hovering and told Chris I didn't need any doctoring because it was nothing more than a twisted knee, and left it at that.
Based on what I'd found, Chris turned the train and took the flatland route, around the hills and on toward Fort Laramie.
I kept scouting, though riding was a misery. I couldn't find a comfortable way to sit my saddle that didn't ignite the ache in my knee and hip, but I soldiered on without complaint until the fateful day Barney brought in my 'replacement,' the legendary mountain man Zebedee Titus.
My night ride was peaceful. I wasn't even too tired, having gotten way more than my usual share of rest these past few days while I was, at Chris' orders, taking it easy. Around first light, with the darkness to the east just starting to soften, I gave Gambler a breather to graze and rest while I gnawed on jerky and sipped from my canteen. I sure missed my morning coffee, but if I was gonna make my suppertime rendezvous with the train, I didn't have time for a fire. Nor did I want to risk the chance that the Indians I was looking for, who Duke had spotted by their smoke, might spot me by mine.
Sunrise found me many miles ahead of the train, crossing a series of low rolling hills dotted with scattered clumps of trees. I could see why Chris didn't want to abandon this route unless he was one hundred percent certain that he had to - this would be nice, easy traveling for the wagons.
The sun climbed higher, and I rode more cautiously, ears attuned for the slightest sounds, eyes scanning the sky for smoke, the ground for tracks, and the land around me for the tiniest bit of movement.
It was late morning when I finally spotted what I was looking for but had hoped not to find — a narrow column of smoke drifting up over a rise a quarter of a mile in front of me.
I reined Gambler toward a small grove of trees, dismounted, and tied him there. Setting off on foot, limping only slightly, I cautiously worked my way to the top of the rise. Near the crest of the hill, I dropped down to the ground, slithering on my belly in the grass, and wormed my way up to the top and peered over.
Duke had been right.
There were Indians.
Comanches.
Lots of them.
Their camp spread out for several hundred yards among the scattered cottonwoods lining the banks of a meandering creek. I did a rough count and figured there were at least thirty teepees, a sizeable band. A herd of colorful ponies, easily several hundred and probably more, grazed in a meadow on the far side of the stream. A few ponies were picketed beside the teepees - those I knew would be the warriors' best mounts, the fleetest of their horses, used for hunting.
And war.
There were, without a doubt, more than plenty enough warriors in the band to wreck havoc on the train.
I'd seen enough. I eased back from the crown of the hill, turned, and crouched low, started back for the trees where I'd left my horse. Once I was for sure out of sight of the camp, I stood full upright and hurried back to Gambler. I needed to get to the train and warn Chris to turn the wagons back.
I was within a few yards of my horse when he raised his head and nickered.
But not at me.
His ears were up and pointed away from me, back toward the hill I'd just descended. I spun around to look behind me and my blood went ice cold. A Comanche warrior stood on the rise where I'd just been, looking directly down at me.
He turned back toward the village, raising his fist high above his head, and let out a long, wavering whoop, loud enough to wake the dead.
I turned around and ran for my horse. One sharp tug freed the reins and, ignoring my gimpy leg, I leaped into the saddle, spurred Gambler into a gallop, and raced for my life.
Part Two
I had a decent head start or so I reckoned, but it took only seconds for the warrior's cry to be answered and the drumming of hoofbeats, too many hoofbeats, followed right behind. The others must have been close, much closer than the village, and already mounted, because Gambler and I had barely cleared the small clump of trees when a whole bunch of Comanches came thundering over the hill at full gallop.
They were strung out behind me, a dozen war-painted braves, maybe more. I turned back to Gambler, crouching low over his neck, urging him on to greater speed. He responded by lengthening his stride, head outstretched and ears laid back, racing over the ground like the wind.
I'd picked this horse for times just like this one. A good scout's horse needs to be the best of the best. After all, a scout spends most of his life in the saddle, so his horse has to give a man the kind of comfortable ride you can sit all day, day after day, without jarring your backbone apart. He has to be a mannerly and companionable creature, too, because a lot of nights, it's just you and him by the campfire. Most of all, he needs speed, flat-out, run-for-your-life speed because sometimes, that's what a scout has to do.
Like I was doing right then.
I needed every ounce of his speed.
A quarter of a mile and I chanced a look back, seeing that we were pulling away from our pursuers, all except for one brave, a small, wiry warrior astride a lean spotted pony. That horse might not be as big as Gambler but he had a quick stride that was allowing him to stay with us, maybe even close the gap a little bit.
I pulled out my pistol and snapped off a couple of quick shots behind me, knowing because of our speed that the bullets would go wild, that they wouldn't hit anything but hoping they just might slow down that Comanch chasing me, even a little.
They didn't.
He didn't even flinch, much less break stride.
Reluctant to waste any more shells, I re-holstered my weapon and concentrated on getting more speed out of my own horse.
This was a race I had to win because there was a whole lot more than my own life at stake here.
I had to get back and warn the train.
Gambler ran on easily, a mile, then two, the war cries of my pursuers lessening gradually as we finally began to slowly pull away, even increasing our lead over the lone warrior who was slowly dropping back, his tough pony flagging at last.
I was just beginning to think that I'd made good my escape when in the blink of an eye the tables turned.
I don't know whether it was plain bad luck, riding right into that other war party, or if I'd been herded into an ambush, and the fact is, it don't matter which. All I know is that one minute I was finally riding clear of my pursuers, breathing a little easier at last, and the next, a half dozen screaming, whooping warriors in full paint appeared out of the trees, ahead of me.
I pulled up my horse, Gambler's skidding hooves kicking up a cloud of dust as he came to a rearing, sliding stop. I looked desperately around for somewhere to run, for some kind of cover, for anything that might give me an edge, but there was nothing. Bullets whipped past my head, buzzing through the air around me like angry bees; more kicked up rock at my horse's feet.
It was plain I couldn't stay where I was.
Taking the only chance I could see, thin as it was, I turned my horse away from my pursuers, and the newcomers as well, heading off at a right angle, even though I knew it was likely useless, able only to buy me a bit of time that wouldn't in the end make any difference in my fate. They were going to cut me off, and the fastest horse that had ever been born couldn't outrun pursuers front and back.
But I had to try.
The lives of all those innocent folks on the train were riding on my shoulders.
As far as he'd already run, as lathered as he was with lungs heaving from the strain, Gambler was game and he tried. I tapped him with my spurs, and he lunged back into a gallop, ears pinned back, and we raced away.
There were warriors to my right, and more to my left.
A narrow, quite likely an impossibly narrow, path to escape between them.
For one heady moment, I really did think we might outrun them all.
But I was wrong.
The war party's ponies were not only fresh, they had the angle on me.
A bullet snapped past my ear, its peculiar buzzing sound far too familiar and far too close for comfort.
Another plucked at my sleeve.
I pulled my iron and emptied it at the onrushing braves to my right. They swerved and scattered, slowing, but as soon as I stopped shooting, they renewed their pursuit, their war whoops ringing through the air.
Out of options, I was searching desperately for cover, for any kind of shelter no matter how slight, something that would give me a chance to pull my rifle and maybe hold them off. But there was nothing around me except flat, open plain covered with sparse summer-brown grass and sprinkled with clumps of sagebrush.
Good for running.
No good for defense.
I could feel Gambler faltering beneath me now, his fluid stride gone slower and shorter as the long run took its toll on him at last, but surely the Indian ponies were tired too? Those that had chased me from near the camp had slowed and fallen farther behind, but not the others. They were gaining on me.
I had only one desperate chance left.
Once again I pulled my horse to a sliding halt, yanking my rifle from its scabbard as I bailed off in the dust, stumbling as my bad knee buckled and threw me to the ground. I rolled, spun and twisted, raising up on one knee, lifting the rifle to my shoulder.
I was surrounded.
The Comanches were all ranged around me, near twenty of them, I guessed, but I didn't stop to count. They formed a rough circle with me at its center, sitting impassively aboard their ponies. I couldn't watch them all so I rose slowly to my feet and focused on the one who was obviously their leader, my rifle aimed at his heart.
He was tall and lean and sort of regal looking, wearing a full war bonnet of eagle feathers, which meant he was no minor chief. Stone-cold obsidian eyes studied me from the gaudily painted face, and I was pretty darn sure I didn't stack up well by his reckoning.
I don't speak much Comanche, and I sure wasn't about to put my rifle down to try sign language, so I used what few words I knew, a greeting I'd learned from another scout, supposed to be something about peace and friendship. And then I added, in English, in a voice that surprised me with its steadiness, "I'm no threat to your village. I'm just a scout from a wagon train, looking for a route through this country. Let me go back and tell them you're here, and we won't bother you. We'll go around, take another route, leave you in peace." I added the word peace in Comanche again, all the while praying that was actually what the word meant.
None of them said anything, none of them reacted. I reckoned there weren't any of them who spoke English. I tried the Comanche greeting words again, "Friend. Peace."
This time, the chief's face broke into a smile, but it wasn't a friendly or a welcoming smile, not one bit, but an ugly thing, more like a sneer. It was mocking and superior and my heart sank. I'd get no mercy here. He said something I didn't understand, gesturing at the warriors, and they crowded in a bit closer.
I lifted my Winchester higher, the sights centered on the middle of the chief's chest, but they didn't react.
They all had guns, too.
And there were a lot more of them than of me.
I kept my eyes locked on the chief's, even when I could hear noises behind me. To look away from his eyes was to die, I knew that.
Though quite likely it really didn't matter where I looked because ten to one death was stealing up on me from behind.
Unbidden, I felt my shoulders tighten in anticipation of the attack I couldn't see but that I knew was surely coming.
The first blow from behind was a surprise because it wasn't a mortal thrust from a lance or a knife. Instead, it was nothing more than a sharp slap on the shoulder.
It took a split second for my brain to register what had just happened - a warrior had just counted coup on me. I'd heard often of that ritual; a brave proved his courage by daring to touch his enemy, especially an armed enemy, using a coup stick, which looked kinda like a cane. Counting coup was big medicine among the Plains Indians.
Maybe that would be it. Maybe that was all they wanted, a chance to earn bragging rights, a campfire story to tell about how they'd tapped on the shoulder of a white man who held a Winchester in his hands, and lived to tell about it. That was it, that would be all, I thought hopefully, as another coup stick thumped across my shoulders, a bit harder this time.
But once again I was wrong.
The blows didn't stop. Instead, more and more of them rained down on my shoulders, back, neck, and finally one to the side of my head, not with a coup stick this time but with something much more solid, a club of some kind, and it staggered me.
My vision wavered and went dark, and I slid to my knees. Someone snatched the rifle from my hands, and then they were all over me.
I fought.
It was my last hope.
Indians, I knew, respected bravery and honored courage.
I lashed out with my fists, making random contact, doing as much damage as I could with gloved hands and booted feet, but, battling overwhelming numbers as I was, I took a lot more punishment than I dished out.
One on one, two on one, I'd have given them one heck of a fight, maybe even three on one, motivated as I was by the stakes at hand.
But the odds were worse than that, more than a dozen to one, and they swarmed me under by the sheer weight of numbers. I hit the ground, bit the inside of my lip, and spit dust and blood from between my teeth as the blows continued raining down on my head. A fist to my cheekbone had me seeing stars again, and a kick to the ribs knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air and kept swinging wildly, and then one final crushing blow to my head and blackness overtook me.
I don't think I was out for very long, probably only a couple of minutes, because when I came around, I was being held down and my wrists were being tied tightly in front of me with strips of rawhide. Rough hands dragged me upright, but I was too dizzy to stand and fell back to my knees. This time strong hands on my shoulders held me there.
I could hear a lot of talking through the buzzing in my head, but I understood only a rare word here or there, just enough to know that they were arguing over my fate. It quickly became plain who was on which side when one of the braves, I think it was the one with the fast horse who'd chased me from the village, grabbed hold of my hair. He jerked my head back, baring my throat, his knife flashing silver in front of my face. For a second I thought he was going to cut me right there, but instead, I could feel the weapon's cold, razor sharp edge held tight against my throat.
I fought to hold on to consciousness and stay very, very still.
Indians respect strength and they honor courage.
The sky and ground were spinning.
Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I couldn't afford any sign of weakness now. Indians respect strength and honor courage.
There was more shouting, echoing like thunder rolling through my throbbing skull. I was pretty sure they were arguing over what they were gonna do with me, and it was likely the only difference was whether they'd kill me quick or kill me slow.
The chief said something, something that sounded harsh and final, and the man holding me jerked my head even farther back until I thought my neck was going to snap. He snarled something, anger plain in his tone, and then the pressure of the knife disappeared from my throat. I sucked in a deep breath, swaying on my knees. The warrior hissed more angry words, spit at my feet, and swung his fist, walloping my right cheekbone with the force of a mule's kick.
I passed out again.
To be honest, I was surprised to wake up a second time. The fact that I was alive, that was the good news, along with the realization that I was no longer lying in the dust but instead was aboard my own horse, draped over Gambler's familiar red-gold neck, which I figured out once I managed to crack open my eyes. The bad news was, my hands were still tied, with the rawhide bindings looped around the saddlehorn. My head felt like it was about to split open; my ribs hurt with every breath; and the rest of me felt pretty much pummeled all over. Worse, my horse was surrounded by ponies ridden by war-painted Comanches.
And I didn't have a clue where they were taking me.
Was I on my way back to their camp, to be the evening's featured entertainment? I shuddered, knowing all too well what Indians could do to their prisoners. More than once over the years I'd helped the Army recover what was left of some of them, poor devils.
It grew dark, and we rode on. I drifted in and out of awareness, mostly out, mostly too dizzy and too weak to so much as lift my head to try to get my bearings or figure out where we were going.
We rode a long time, or so it seemed to me, and then finally we stopped. Gambler stood tiredly, head drooping near as much as mine, and I clung to the saddlehorn and just floated, slumped over his neck.
My head must have been more messed up than I thought, because for a moment I thought I heard voices, voices talking English, and I forced my eyes open far enough to see that there was a sort of glow in the night, like campfires maybe. But understanding what was happening, much less the words being said, was way beyond me by then.
And then Gambler started walking forward, and the English-speaking voices were back, and louder this time, familiar voices calling my name. Gentle hands gripped my shoulders, easing me off my horse and down to the ground.
"Coop?"
I swore that was Bill's voice. Oh no, had the Comanches captured him, too? I groaned, fighting to open my eyes, and when I finally did it wasn't Bill I saw but a bearded face hovering over me.
"Here, Coop, drink this," Charlie ordered.
Water touched my cracked and bloodied lips, and I gulped it down gratefully, not caring if a hallucination was giving it to me, because it sure tasted real.
The hands picked me up again, carrying me just a little ways, the voices muttering soothing words as I was set down. My fingers touched the soft warmth of a blanket someone draped over me.
I still thought I was seeing things. Everything was sort of swooping around, worse than the worst hangover I'd ever had, my vision dim and ghostly gray around the edges, making it hard to know if what I was seeing was real. I blinked and got my eyes open enough to see blurry faces gathered around and looking down at me. I reckoned they were Bill, Duke, Chris, and Barney.
"Chris?" I croaked out in a raw voice, reaching out a hand. My knuckles, I could see, were swollen, scraped and bruised. Maybe the damage hadn't been so one-sided after all.
Chris appeared, looming over me and looking worried as he took hold of my hand. Just that gentle squeeze hurt. "Easy, Coop. I'm right here."
"The Comanches - " I started, urgently.
"It's okay, Coop. They're gone. Zeb talked to them, and they won't be bothering us."
I licked my lips and nodded.
"Where are you hurt?" he asked.
"Pretty much everywhere," I admitted, coughing.
The water was back at my lips, and I drank more of it, some running down my chin to drip on my chest. The water was real, that was for sure.
"Easy now, let me through here, let me through," Charlie's voice rumbled from a distance and drew closer until he appeared above me again. He had a bowl in one hand, a cool damp cloth in the other, and he knelt down and gently wiped my face with the cloth, muttering something about, "Savages. Just look what they done to him."
There was a lot of red on that cloth when he pulled it away. He wiped my face, uncovering the scrapes and bruises, and asked me again where I was hurt and if I'd been shot, which I hadn't. Charlie worked real careful as he wrapped up my battered ribs, and finally done, let me sit back and rest.
We talked a bit more after that, but I don't rightly remember much about what was said. I do remember Charlie feeding me soup, and I was so out of it that I actually told him it tasted good. That should have convinced the whole crew that I was completely out of my head, which I pretty much was.
I do know that it must have gotten Chris to thinking because right after I'd finished that soup, letting Charlie spoon feed it to me which I know Chris understood meant I was weaker than a newborn kitten, they moved me into a bed in the wagon and then chased everyone out to let me rest.
After a bit Charlie reappeared, offering me something more to drink, in a cup this time. I was going to refuse, but he insisted.
"This'll be good for you, Coop, help you sleep. Drink up now," he ordered.
I did, expecting more water, or even soup, but instead was surprised to find it was whiskey; Charlie must have broken into the medicinal stores. I wasn't sure about the effect of that alcohol on top of my already addled head, but I drank it, and it took hold real quick. Right in the middle of Chris' question about how the Comanches had managed to catch me, I nodded right off.
So that's how I found myself riding in the wagon once again, this time on a bed inside the wagon instead of up in the box next to Charlie. Those Comanches had worked me over good. I forget all about my gimpy leg, because I pretty much hurt anywhere and everywhere a man could hurt. Both my eyes were swollen near to shut; fire sparked in my ribs with every breath; my head spun every time I lifted it off the pillow; and my jaw hurt so bad it took me near a week to be able to properly chew anything resembling real food. Even my hands were sore, so sore it was hard to shake Zeb's hand when we left him behind at the new trading post.
Sure seemed like things worked out near perfect for the old man, though - those pilgrims needed the sort of help a real frontiersman like Zeb could give them. He wasn't just gonna feel useful, he was actually gonna be useful.
So in the end, things turned out just fine for Zeb, and for me, too.
I got a nice chance to rest up for a few days while the train paused to help build that new place they called Fort Zebedee Titus, and by the time the wagons rolled again, I'd started to heal enough that the rough ride wasn't near so hard on me.
Oh, and Barney, he loaned me that book of his, the one ol' Zeb had signed for him, letting me read it while I was lying abed recuperating.
I don't often have the time to read books, but that one was interesting, especially since I knew some of the other men mentioned in it, and a lot of the places were familiar to me, too. It got me to thinking about my life, and what I do. Scouting is a life full of adventures, the kind that appeals to those eastern folks who want to read about frontier life… while they're sitting safely in their cozy parlors. Barney suggested that someday someone might want to write about me. I laughed at his offer to write down my stories, because who'd want to hear about my life? It hasn't been near as interesting as Zeb's has been.
But then again, you never know. Maybe some day, a hundred years from now, people will want to know about how folks crossed the Plains in their prairie schooners, and about the scouts who guided them.
Maybe.
But I really don't think so.
- The End -
Historical Note: Counting coup refers to the winning of prestige in battle by the Plains Indians of North America. Warriors won prestige by acts of bravery in the face of the enemy, and these acts could be recorded in various ways and retold as stories. Any blow struck against the enemy counted as a coup, but the most prestigious acts included touching an enemy warrior, with the hand or with a coup stick, then escaping unharmed. Counting coup could also involve stealing from the enemy. Risk of injury or death was required to count coup. The phrase "counting coup" can also refer to the recounting of stories about battle exploits. The term is of French origin from the noun coup (pronounced /ku/) which means a hit, a blow or a strike. The expression can be seen as referring to "counting strikes". Coups were recorded by notches in the coup stick, or by feathers in the headdress of a warrior who was rewarded with them for an act of bravery.
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