"The Death of A Legend"
Chapter Four
The constant 'clackety-clack...clackety-clack...clackety-clacking' of the steel wheels as they rolled along from rail...to rail...to rail, was having an almost hypnotic affect on the Marshal. That, coupled with the gentle, side-to-side rocking motion of the stock car he and his horse were riding in, was slowly lulling him to sleep.
He was sitting on a pile of straw in a far corner of the car, with his back resting up against the wall and his crossed arms resting comfortably upon his chest. One of his long legs was out-stretched. The other--bent at the knee--was serving as a temporary hat stand for his Stetson.
But the Marshal was nowheres near as relaxed as he appeared to be--as he should have been--considering that everything had gone exactly according to how he had planned it...so far. The day was still quite young, however, and that is what had him feeling so uneasy--all the uncertainties that still loomed ahead.
Speaking of uncertainties...
Crown was glad his friend hadn't pressed him for further details concerning the 'escape from Fort Dawes alive' part of his 'plan'. Because there weren't any...exactly.
All the Marshal had was a potential escape plan.
Until he reached the Fort and presented the particulars to Lieutenant Anderson--and received the young officer's approval and cooperation--the peace officer couldn't be sure of pulling it off. And, if he couldn't pull it off? Well...being in his line of work, the Marshal never really had his heart set on dying of old age anyways. He'd just have to do the best that he could--under whatever circumstances presented themselves--and leave it at that.
Besides, the only certainty in life was that there were no certainties in life. 'Time an' unforeseen occurrences befall us all', he thought, suddenly recalling the Divinely inspired words of a much wiser man than he.
The fatigued philosopher's drooping eyelids dropped and he drifted off with Mac's words still echoing in his ears '...if that Indian were no' a good friend a' yers, would yah still be considering riding out a' here?...if that Indian were no' a good friend a' yers...if that Indian were no' a good friend a' yers...if that Indian were no' a good friend a' yers...'
As the train rolled along, the years rolled away...
For the umpteenth time in the two long hours it had taken the thirty-one reluctant little dogies to be driven a mere three miles distance from the main herd, the mottled old bull in the lead planted all four of his feet firmly in the pink-tinged earth of the ravine, and refused to take another step.
The thirty cows obediently trailing in its wake ground to a halt along with him.
The two young cowhands--whose misfortune it was to be hazing the obstinate creatures--gasped in exasperation and then turned to each other, wearing the most pained expressions on their sweat-streaked, dust-covered faces.
Dave--because he was riding at the head of the herd and so was closest to the stalled critter--stared distastefully down at the statue-like bull for a few moments, then 'whistled' and 'whooped' and slapped his chapped knee with the coil of his lariat.
The mottled monster remained motionless, however, obviously unimpressed by the young drover's display.
Dave managed another exasperated gasp and opened his mouth to hurl a fresh string of insults at the still unanimated animal. But, not being nasty by nature, the young man discovered his imagination for inventing insults had been completely exhausted. Incredibly, he was all cussed out. All that eventually departed from his rather parched lips was a rather half-hearted, "Hee-ya-ah!"
The bull just glared back at him in wide and wild-eyed defiance. Then it lowered its enormous head, gave it a savage shake and let loose a series of low, deep-throated 'bellows' which literally shook the ground and sent long streamers of saliva sailing from the tip of its long, lolling tongue.
Dave, on the other hand, was both impressed and distressed by the little dogie's display. The animal was, after all, over seven feet long and stood nearly six-foot at the shoulder. There was better than an eight-foot spread from the tip of one of the Longhorn's long horns to the tip of its other. No doubt about it, Dave was staring at a close to a ton a' trouble on the hoof!
The cowboy decided he was sick and tired of staring at it. So he reined his horse around and went riding up to his companion in the rear. "James, me boy...I think it's about time we traded places. Don't you? How 'bout you ridin' point for a while an' I ride drag?"
'James, me boy' just sat there, with his crossed forearms resting rather relaxedly on the horn of his saddle, looking like he was lost in thought. He was. He was thinking about Dave...and the little dogie.
Dave had been carryin' on a colorful, shouted, one-sided conversation with the cantankerous old bull all morning and was obviously in no mood now for a no answer.
The little dogie sounded really riled up and was obviously in no mood now to be herded along anywhere by anybody.
So then, James was thinking...Who would he rather 'lock horns' with under the circumstances? A mad Dave...or a mad bull?
His hesitating to reply caused Dave to sigh and continue, "I know you won the toss fair an' square. But I wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for you! This whole detail was all yore doin'! Remember? 'Gee, Mr. Donnelly, why don' we give 'em some breedin' stock, too?'" he mimicked, in a 'goody-goody' fashion and glared disgustedly at his big-mouthed companion.
"I don't give the orders in this outfit," James calmly replied in his defense. "Remember?"
"No-o-o!" Dave shouted back. "You jes' make suggestions! Well, I got a real good one for you! In the future, do me a favor--an' keep yore 'suggestions' to yerself!"
The shouting clinched it. James concluded that he'd rather deal with a mad bull, than a mad Dave, any day! Jim was about to leave, but then turned back to his companion, looking confused. "I thought you said you liked the idea..."
"Oh, I did!" Dave admitted. "I did! But that was before I found out who was gonna be stuck babysittin' that big dumb bull over there!"
Jim suppressed a smile. "No wonder the ol' boy is all riled up. What with all the names you been callin' 'im, lately. If you want 'im ta respond proper, yah got ta be polite...an' address 'im by his rightful name."
Dave looked dubious. "Which is rightfully...?"
"David," Jim teased. "But I jes' call 'im 'Dave'...on account a' how he reminds me of another ornery ol' cuss I know," he added with a grin. Then he ducked as the bull's namesake grinned and whipped his hat at him.
Jim grinned again and went cantering cautiously up to assume the precarious 'point' position. "Ah, come on now, Dave!" he called out politely. "Yah got ta quit yore dallyin' there, Davey!" he continued, calmly working his way to within striking range of the rogue's razor-sharp horns. "We haven't got all day, Da-ave! Yah big dummy!" he concluded rather rudely.
Then he whacked the belligerent beast on the behind with the coil of his lariat and went galloping off up the ravine in the direction of the Indian village--with both 'Dave's', and the rest of the herd, in hot pursuit!
Needless to say, they made the remaining four miles in real good, if not record, time!
Jim went cantering right into one of the two large holding corrals on the outskirts of the Indian camp.
Dave--the big dumb bull--trotted obligingly in after him...followed by all thirty of his heaving, huffing herdmates.
Jim skirted quickly around the milling, 'mooing' cattle and went scooting right back out the entrance.
Dave, the drover, pulled the top bar of the gate across just as 'Dave', the bellowing bovine, was about to pursue his partner back out of the pen. He immediately dragged the middle pole across the portal as well, shutting Jim safely out and the bull safely in.
Jim gasped in relief then reined his lathered horse in and slipped to the ground beside his equally relieved looking partner.
The two of them slid the gate's bottom bar into place and then stood there hunched over, resting their hands on their chapped knees. Both boys remained silent, but only because they were breathing too hard at the moment to speak.
"You're crazy, yah know that!" Dave gasped at long last. "Startin' a stampede like that...with me on the ground...pickin' up my hat! You got ta be crazy! You could a' at least warned me!"
"I considered it," Jim gasped right back, in reply to his irritated companion's latest accusation. "But then I remembered yore suggestion. You know, the one where I'm s'posed ta keep my suggestions ta myself…" He grinned and ducked again as Dave grinned and took another playful swing at him with his hat.
"You're crazy!" Dave repeated for the third time in less than a minute. "In a brilliant sort a' way..." he added, his voice filled with admiration.
Jim flashed his friend a bashful smile and removed his hat, too. The two friends wiped the sweat and grime from their foreheads with the sleeves of their faded, dust-covered shirts, and turned to see what all the commotion was behind them.
The cattle were still milling about, because the old bull was still all riled up and still circling the corral at a pretty good clip--still searching for a way out.
"Why, a fella don't got ta be no genius," Jim casually observed, "ta figure out the ol' boy prefers chasin' ta bein' chased." His accurate comment caused the two young cowhands to exchange grins again.
Then their grins vanished, as they gradually became aware of yet another commotion going on all around them. The area of the holding corrals was rapidly becoming the center of a great deal of attention.
The two young men stood there, silently staring into the solemn faces of the half-starved people that were gathering in small groups around them...and the pen containing the cattle.
Jim thought about how the buffalo were free to roam wherever they wanted to. When grass got scarce, they just moved on to better grazing. Yet the Government had 'cooped up' these people and just left them there to starve. "It ain't right..." he muttered, his voice filled with anger and frustration. These people should be able to move on in search of food for themselves and their families, too. People should be as free to roam as the buffalo. "It just ain't right..." he sadly repeated and slapped his hat across his knee in an attempt to dispel some of the dust--and disgust!
Unlike Jim, Dave had never seen 'cooped up' Indians before. He found something hauntingly sad about the place...and the people.
The Comanche had been such a proud people—a nation of nomadic, skilled hunters and horsemen. Being forcibly 'cooped up' seemed to be taking an even greater toll on their spirit than it was on their emaciated bodies. Their current living conditions seemed more like dying conditions for them.
Dave could see that hauntingly sad look reflected even in the faces of the very young children. The Government hadn't just taken away these people's way of life...'coopin' 'em up' had crushed their spirit--took away their will to live, as well. "About what I said back there," Dave said, sounding as solemn as he looked. "You know, about you and yore suggestions..."
"Forget it," Jim suggested and slapped his sweat-stained hat back on his sweat-drenched head.
"That's not too likely," Dave continued, sounding even more somber. "Givin' 'em breedin' stock...so they kin start raisin' their own cattle an' havin' beef all year 'round...well, I jes' want yah ta know I still think it's a good idea. In fact, it's a damn fine idea! An' I'm right proud ta have played a small part in carryin' it out. Even if it did mean that I jes' had ta spend the most miserable mornin' a' my entire life...so far."
Jim suppressed another smile. Then he glanced at the still empty corral and frowned. They seemed to have beaten the cattle for eatin'. "Come on! Mr. Donnelly said they'd have someone here who speaks English. We'd better go see if we kin find 'im. Someone's got ta explain ta 'em that these cattle are not for eatin'."
The two young cowhands started leading their horses off in the direction of the Indian village, questioning people along the way.
Did anyone around there speak any English? How about Spanish? Chiracowa Apache? Blackfoot? Kiowa? Cheyenne? Cherokee? Sioux? Crow? Paiute? Arapaho?
They questioned everyone within fifty yards of the holding pens.
But no one acknowledged that they spoke any English or Spanish or Chirakowa Apache etc., etc., etc..
So Dave gave up and turned back. "Don't you speak any Comanche, at all?" he inquired and glanced in his multi-lingual friend's direction.
But Jim was no longer beside him. 'Gentleman Jim' had stopped a ways back to admire--and assist--a beautiful young girl who was staggering up a steep slope from the river, carrying two very large, very heavy wooden buckets filled with water. "Not nearly as much as I'd like ta be able to at this moment, believe me," Jim admitted, stepping over to help the girl with her burden. "Ishtar-te-yo-ne-ke," he cordially declared and flashed her his warmest, winningest smile.
The girl halted dead in her tracks and looked almost fearful of him.
So the cowboy smiled again and extended his hand to her--palm up and open--in a sort of universal sign of friendship.
But the girl was having no part of it. Her large, dark eyes flashed with hatred and contempt and she pulled away from him with such suddenness that it sent water sloshing out of her buckets.
Jim stared after the rapidly disappearing beauty for a few moments, looking rather confused--and more than a little disappointed. "Must a' been somethin' I said..."
Dave stared after her, too, looking both amused and amazed. "What exactly did you say?"
"Good question..."
"Yeah, well...there was sure no mistakin' what she said."
Jim turned to his friend, looking puzzled--for the girl hadn't spoken.
Dave turned to his friend, looking smug. "I mean, I may not speak Comanche, but I got 'eyes'. First you said, 'Hello there, little lady. Kin I help you carry yore buckets?' An' then she said, 'Get lost, cowboy! Before I carve yore bleedin' heart out!'"
Jim winced at his partner's rather grim--yet seemingly accurate--'interpretation' of what had just transpired.
"Anways, that's the way it appeared ta me," Dave restated. "But then, I wasn't lookin' at her quite the way you were..." he added with a sly smile.
"Yeah..." Jim suppressed another smile and stood there, staring off into the distance. "An' I could a' looked at her all day..." he whispered, sounding rather wistful. He snapped back to reality, glanced over his friend's shoulder and stiffened, as he caught sight of an old man, with a feathered war lance, slipping between the rails of 'the' holding pen. "What does that darn fool think he's doin'?" he exclaimed in alarm. "He-ey, stop! You cain't go in there! Especially not on foot! Hey! Somebody stop 'im!"
Somebody had to stop the bull from killing the old man--or the old man from killing the bull!
The only problem was, Jim seemed to be the only 'somebody' aware of the problem, who was in a position to act at the moment. So he sprang up into his saddle and spurred his horse forward across the yard--toward the corral.
Every year at that time, trail bosses--driving large herds of cattle from ranches down in Texas up to the rail heads in Kansas--would bargain with the Indians for permission to take a 'short-cut' through Indian Territory. The advance delivery of an agreed upon number of cattle would usually seal the deal.
As was customary upon the arrival of their first 'crossing cattle'--as the Indians called them--the brave with the most seniority would spear a steer or two--or three--and the entire camp would feast and celebrate for several days.
But the brave old brave who entered the holding pen this delivery day--on foot--and armed only with a wooden war lance--was not aware of, or even expecting, the old bull's presence.
The young cowboy, racing toward the corral at break-neck speed, was aware of very little else. Jim actually considered, for a moment, reaching for his rifle. But then he weighed what was at stake and quickly reconsidered. There had to be another way...a way to save them both...from each other.
He reached the pen, spurred his horse again and went sailing right up and over the top rail.
The old man had, by this time, found himself suddenly face-to-face with nearly two thousand pounds of penned-up ferocity. Realizing that he was probably about to die, he chose to do so while attacking rather than retreating. The old man courageously charged his pawing opponent and hurled his spear forwards with all of his strength and skill. His aim was accurate and appeared to be right on target.
But, at the last moment, the old bull saw the feathers flying at him and leaped aside.
The old man's lance landed harmlessly in the dust. His only missile ended up missing the mottled old monster by a mile.
It was at this time that the bull, who carried two spears--permanently attached--and who was equally adept at aiming and hurling them forcefully through the air, made his charge.
Jim made a courageous charge of his own and tried to block the bull's path. Then, failing that, he hoped to distract it at least long enough to allow the old man time to escape.
But the old bull completely ignored the irritation racing around him on four fleet feet and continued to charge the slower moving of his two targets--the old man traveling on just two feet.
The gap was closing quickly.
Jim had no choice but to place his horse--and himself-- directly across the bull's path again. This time, his actions did force the mottled monster to change its course.
The obstinate animal swerved to avoid the collision, but not before taking an aggravated swing at the source of its aggravation.
Then, before the critter could get itself turned around and back on track, Jim locked onto the old man's wrist and hauled him up behind him in his seat.
It didn't take too much effort. The old man was, after all, half-starved.
Inspired by the bull's spears and its rider's spurs, the horse went sailing back up over the top rail to safety--and to cheers of approval from the Indian audience.
Jim reined his overly inspired mount in and set the old man down on the ground at his friend's feet.
"Mas-ne-dan-tas!" the old brave announced to his fellow braves and waved his arm in the direction of his young rescuer.
"Mas-ne-dan-tas!" they repeated approvingly.
"They said," Dave deciphered, "that that was some fast thinkin', and a fancy bit a' ridin' you just did there! An' I agree!" he added, sounding every bit as impressed with his partner as he looked.
"I wasn't thinkin'..." Jim quietly corrected, "...or I prob'ly wouldn't a' done it..." He paused to gasp for breath.
Dave suddenly noticed that his partner appeared noticeably pale. He also glimpsed the front of the old man's shirt and saw that it was smeared with bright red blood.
"...An' the ridin' could a' been...just a tad bit...fancier!" Jim finished, falling forwards in his seat.
Dave quickly realized which of the two men the smeared blood belonged to. He caught his collapsing companion under the arms and carefully lowered him to the ground. Then he gently rolled his injured friend onto his left side so he could examine the source of all the smeared blood and determine the extent of the damages. He winced, finding a horrible, deep gash midway down the right side of Jim's back--where the bull's horns had hooked him.
To those watching, the whole bull business had been just a 'whir' and a 'blur' and was all over in just a matter of seconds. While everyone remembered seeing the old bull swing his enormous head in the young cowboy's direction, no one could recall actually seeing it make contact.
Jim hadn't seen it either, for that matter. But he had sure enough felt it! It had felt like a red-hot poker had been rammed very forcibly into his back. The force of the impact was so great that it had very nearly dislodged him from his saddle.
Dave fumbled with the knot on his scarf, slipped it from around his neck and quickly stashed it into the gaping, ghastly wound in an attempt to stem the steady crimson stream.
Jim jerked a little and winced in pain.
Dave winced again, too, and watched helplessly, as his bright blue bandana quickly became a bright red. "How yah doin', partner?" he inquired, keeping his voice incredibly calm--for his partner's sake.
"Not too bad..." Jim gasped, sounding equally incredibly calm--for the same exact reason. "How does it look?"
"Not too good," Dave honestly admitted. "I cain't stop the bleedin'." He fumbled with his belt buckle and then slid it from around his waist. "I'm gonna have ta leave yah here an' go for help. I'll fetch Mr. Donnelly an' ol' Dan. They'll know what ta do." He slipped his belt around Jim's mid-section, then pulled it up nice and snug and fastened it--so that it would keep constant pressure on the scarf and hence, the wound.
Jim gasped again and groaned involuntarily as the increased pressure increased his pain, considerably. He moaned again to keep from crying out and started moving around.
Dave gave his friend's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You jes' lie here--nice an' still like--an' I'll be back before yah know it!"
Jim was hurting too much to be able to speak now, so he acknowledged Dave with a slight nod and even a slighter smile. Then he shut his eyes and lay there grimacing and gasping and gritting his tightly clenched teeth.
Dave grimaced himself. Then he gave his friend's arm one last squeeze and reluctantly got to his feet. He snatched up his dangling reins, swung up onto his horse and went galloping off, in a pink-tinged cloud of dust.
Leaving Jim lying there all alone--and hurting. Well, not exactly all alone. But he sure enough was hurting! Jim hadn't hurt that ba-ad since the time when he was thirteen years old and had his horse shot out from under him! The stricken animal had landed on his left leg, snapping the bone in two--in two places!
He tossed his head and continued squirming about, trying to find a comfortable--no, no-o, Jim decided he'd be willing to settle for just a bearable position to lie in. But there was none forthcoming.
Someone's strong hands gripped his arms firmly--yet gently.
Jim snapped his eyes back open to check that someone out. The cowboy found himself completely surrounded by silent, solemn-looking Indians. The old man he had pulled from the pen was stooped beside him, trying to hold him still.
"Mas-ne-dan-tas!" the brave repeated, smiling approvingly. He gave his young rescuer's arm a reassuring squeeze and placed the cowboy's hat on his chest. Then, before Jim even realized what was happening, the old man had scooped him carefully up off the ground and was even more carefully carting him off somewheres.
The large circle of by-standers parted for them, then reformed into two semi-circles and followed silently and solemnly along.
For being so old--and so malnourished--the man displayed remarkable strength and stamina. The Indian hauled his hundred and forty pound burden effortlessly up to a teepee, in the very heart of the village, and ducked under the flap at its entrance. Once inside, the old brave placed his young rescuer gently down on a rather plush pile of buffalo robes.
"A-Ahhh!" Jim cried out involuntarily, as his badly injured back came into contact with a softer--yet still solid--surface again. The pain took his breath away.
The old man gave him a deeply sympathetic look and then quickly left.
Now Jim really was all alone! He was also really hurting, really bad. His breath returned in quick, short gasps. He lay there, with his eyes tightly shut and his jaw tightly clenched, grimacing and gasping...and moaning and groaning. Then, to distract himself from the pain--and to keep himself from squirming clean out of his skin--Jim opened his eyes back up and forced himself to take a long look around.
It was nearly noon now and bright sunlight was shining down at him through the gaping hole created by the poles poking through the top of the tent. The place was well furnished as Indian lodgings go.
The reason for the affluence soon became apparent. Hanging from the lodgepole almost directly over his head was the most resplendent feathered headdress Jim had ever seen, and he had seen a few--a few more than he had cared to, actually.
Judging by the vast assortment of armaments lying about and lining the walls, the teepee's occupant was not only a great Chief, but also a mighty warrior—a courageous and cunning man who had--no doubt--counted many a 'coup' in his day.
There were feathered spears of various lengths, and bows...some strung, some unstrung. Quivers filled with arrows bearing the markings of practically every Indian tribe Jim was aware of, and even a few he couldn't recognize.
There were knives...in and out of leather sheaths. Rifles...in and out of leather cases. Sabers...in and out of metal scabbards. There were stacks of brightly-colored, beautifully-woven blankets...rows of large, clay jars...some covered, some uncovered...several sealed sacks...and a large, leather-bound wooden trunk, resembling--more than anything--a treasure chest.
There were two other stacks of buffalo robes--one on either side of him. In the very center of the teepee's dirt floor, was a ring of medium-sized stones--the home's kitchen and the family's fireplace. The ground sloped noticeably away from around this point--a provision designed to keep the home fires burning even after the heaviest of downpours.
Jim finished his initial inspection then groaned involuntarily and shut his eyes tightly again. He was still impressed--but no longer distracted--by his surroundings. His eyes remained closed and didn't reopen until the tent flap rustled.
It was the old man again. "We-yo-wa-su-yen!" the Indian declared, pointing to a young, brawny brave who had accompanied him into the tent. "Mas-ne-dan-tas!" he added, motioning to the moaning man lying not very stilly on his borrowed bed of buffalo robes. The old man gave his young rescuer another deeply sympathetic look. Then he snatched up one of the rifles and made another rapid departure from the teepee.
The brawny young brave remained and sat down, cross-legged, on the dirt floor beside Jim's pile of buffalo robes. "Ishtar-te-yo-ne-ke, Mas-ne-dan-tas."
Jim smiled, through all his misery, he was forced to smile. He had remembered the correct way to say, 'Greetings friend, I mean you no harm,' in Comanche, after all. "Well...I understand the first part all right..." he revealed between gasped breaths. "But I don't have the vaguest notion...what...'Mas-ne-dan-tas' means."
"It means," the young brave told him, speaking in fluent, flawless English, "one who rides the wind or rides with the wind."
Jim was absolutely astounded. "You speak English!" he exclaimed, tensing with excitement. Then he stiffened and groaned as the sudden movement produced even more pain. "That old man...the one who just left here totin' a rifle...you got ta go talk ta 'im...You got ta make 'im understand...the cattle in that pen out there...are not for eatin'...The cattle in that pen...are for breedin'...makin' more cattle."
The young brave's brows arched. "I am aware of the effects of breeding," he announced, suppressing a smile.
"Goo-ood..." Jim gasped, "then you are also aware...that without that ornery ol' bull out there...there won't BE any effects...So I'd be much obliged...if you'd go out there...an' translate that idea...to that old man with the rifle...right away!...An' tell the rest a' yore people ta wait, too...There are more cattle comin'...plenty more!...In jes' a few more hours...they're gonna have more meat...than they kin eat...in a year!"
The young brave noticed the young cowboy's highly agitated state seemed to be aggravating his already serious physical condition. "All right! All right! Calm down. I will go tell them if you will just calm down and lie still."
Jim quickly calmed himself down and forced himself to lie perfectly still.
True to his word, the young brave got up and left.
Jim was feeling very much worse. He was extremely thirsty all of a sudden and he felt extremely cold.
It occurred to him, for the first time, that it just might be that he was...dyin'.
Being but a young man of barely twenty years, Jim hadn't given dyin' a whole lot of thought before. Strange, but he didn't seem to be as scared of the thought of dyin' as he was of the thought of bein' all alone when--and if--it should happen.
Well...he reckoned it wasn't how a man died, but how he lived that concerned the Almighty.
He had lived a good--albeit brief--life, and was not afraid to face his Maker. Jim figured that must be the reason 'only the good died young'--because they hadn't lived long enough yet to get themselves into any really serious trouble.
The tent flap rustled, announcing the return of the young brave.
Jim snapped his eyes open and shot him an anxious, questioning glance.
"Relax, Windrider," the Indian urged with a smile and sat down, cross-legged, beside him again. "My Chief has assured me that he will not shoot the bull. You see, he also understands the effects of breeding. In fact, he has promised that no harm will come to any of the cattle in that pen out there."
Jim stared up at the lodgepoles overhead and breathed a welcome--albeit painful--sigh of relief. Then he suddenly looked even more astonished. "Wait a minute...Are you sayin'...that old man I snatched out a' that pen this mornin'...the old guy with the rifle...is a Comanche Chief?"
"Chief Pe-ro-ka-mas is not just a chief. He is the CHIEF Chief of our tribe."
"Well, now..." Jim muttered, staring thoughtfully back up at the lodgepoles overhead, "...don't that beat all!" He turned back to the young brave. "The name's Crown...James Crown," he said and extended his hand in friendship. The Indian reluctantly took it and shook it. "My friends call me Jim...What do yore friends...call you?"
"I go by the name of We-yo-wa-su-yen. But my wife just calls me John."
"What does it mean?"
"Beth says it means 'the Lord is gracious'--or something like that."
Jim shot him an 'oh brother' look and suppressed a weak smile himself. "I meant...the other one."
John smiled wryly. "It means 'two rivers', or 'a place where two rivers meet'." The young brave noticed the young cowboy seemed to be having a rather difficult time speaking and swallowing. "Would you like some water? I could bring you your canteen..." he volunteered and started to rise.
Jim stiffened again and latched onto the young brave's wrist. "No!" he gasped with a grimace, sounding a bit panick-stricken. "I mean...I'd appreciate it...if you could jes'...set here with me...for a while..." he added and noticed that things seemed to be growing dimmer by the second.
John noticed that Jim's soft-spoken words, like his watering eyes, were filled with an almost unbearable sadness. "I understand, Windrider," the young brave softly assured him. He placed his hand over the hand gripping his wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I will not leave you."
Jim's grip relaxed a bit, then his watering eyes closed. "Jim," he whispered with another weak smile. "Remember...friend?" He gasped and stiffened, and grimaced and groaned again. The pain was unbelievable and unbearable, and he finally--mercifully--passed right out.
John Two Rivers felt the young cowboy's hand go suddenly limp.
The rest of Jim's body quickly followed suit. Then his head rolled to one side and he was perfectly still, except--thank God--for the rather rapid, but steady, rising and falling of his chest.