“Not out there! Up here! Jack’s up here!”
Confusion replaced Grant’s unease. Jack couldn’t be on top of the rock formation. Wherever Jack was, he was without a horse, and he couldn’t have outraced the four of them at the pace they had set. Grant didn’t doubt Breckenridge saw someone on top of the rock formation, however. Maybe it was a trick; maybe Jack turned turncoat; or maybe another Indian was up there in disguise, playing possum, waiting for Breckenridge to get closer so he could pop up, screaming and swinging his tomahawk…
“Watch my side!” Grant ordered Webster and scrambled up a cleft to the top of the rocks. Grant pulled himself onto the formation’s summit, which was flat as a plate and as wide as two chuck wagons. When he saw what was up there, what felt like a shot of whiskey came up from his stomach, and he forced it back down. Grant had seen bad sights before: men bristling with so many arrows they looked like pin cushions and men mutilated because the Indians believed they’d enter the afterlife maimed. But this was the worst case of such brutality yet. This victim wasn’t just missing eyes or organs. He didn’t have his tendons cut or muscles split. His body was strewn.
“It’s Jack,” Breckenridge said helplessly.
“How can you tell?” Grant asked.
Breckenridge kicked a head out from behind a rock.
“Holy—” Grant averted his gaze upward. He saw a low-flying bird — a heron, perhaps — with puffy clouds high above it. Then the bird disappeared, and Grant closed his eyes, thinking he was close to passing out if he was hallucinating birds like a punch-drunk boxer.
“What’s going on up there?” Paulson called.
Grant bit down on his composure. This excursion was his chance to shine, after all. If successful, an officer’s commission was sure to follow. “You and Webster get up here!” Grant managed.
While looking away from the mess, something else caught Grant’s eye — petroglyphs carved into the rock formation. Indians must have used the site as a camp during their hunting trips, or while passing through on their annual migrations. Many of the tribes were nomadic, only stopping in semi-permanent camps during the winter. This was a huge disadvantage in their fight against the white men because they had no industrial base to support a war. In effect, the Indians retreated even when they won because their supplies were exhausted. Furthermore, the military forces rooting them out knew this and ruthlessly attacked the Indians’ winter encampments, destroying whatever surplus they managed to squirrel away and leaving the Indians weaker with each passing year.
A buffalo, deer, fish, thunderbird, rabbit and wolf — Grant ticked off the animal drawings that made up the petroglyphs. He considered the Indians savages, but he respected their ability to live off the land and hunt the animals that shared the territory with them. The Indians used wildlife for everything from food, shelter and clothing, to boats, tools and, in the case of buffalo chips, fuel for their fires. Grant admired the practicality of it, to get rich off what one could pluck from the earth. Too bad it wasn’t that easy in white-man world. Money and reality were all that counted there. That’s how Grant knew the Indians were doomed. They still believed in birds so large their wings could create thunder. But how could that compete against people who believed in the bottom line?
“Holy Jesus!” Webster exclaimed when he got to the top.
Paulson followed and went white, despite his leather-like tan.
Webster considered the parts of Jack that remained recognizable as human. “But how? The Indians would have had to grab Jack, throw him on a horse and ride over here… all without us seeing.”
“Then that’s what happened.” Grant saw little point in questioning the horsemanship of the Indians. Ever since the Spanish introduced the animals to North America, the Indians had taken advantage of their benefits, which changed their whole culture. Horses enabled Indians to trade with tribes hundreds of miles away, uproot entire camps and hunt with greater efficiency. Grant had seen cavalrymen ride their own horses to death trying to keep up with Indians who didn’t want to be kept up with. “We don’t need to worry about how they did it,” Grant said. “We need to worry about whether or not they’re still out there. We’ll stay here for the night. If any Indians are still around, they’ll have a hard time getting to us.”
“We should keep moving,” Breckenridge disagreed. “We’re just four men, and the Indians got bigger fish to fry with more blue coats coming in from the east and west. The ones that hit us are probably happy they got Jack and already hightailed it out of here.”
“You sure about that?” Grant asked. “What if they get a bee in their bonnet about us? We aren’t going to outride any Indians the shape we’re in.”
“If we stay, more might come,” Breckenridge argued.
“I’m with Breckenridge,” Webster chimed in. “You’ve seen the trails, Grant. Too many redskins around for my taste. We need to link up with the Seventh as soon as we can.”
“Who’s in charge here?” Grant reminded them.
“Jesus wept,” Webster shook his head. “What do you think, Paulson?”
Paulson stood with his back to the group, staring off into the distance. “I think you should stop taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“And what’ll you do if I don’t?” Webster challenged.
Paulson turned. “Ask you again.”
Webster grinned despite the tension.
Grant watched their easy camaraderie with irritation. He could never find his niche among his fellow soldiers, even though they were an eclectic bunch: book keepers, farm boys, dentists, blacksmiths, salesmen ruined by drink, ivory carvers, Bowery toughs, some out to escape women and some in the army to learn to read and write. Grant knew there had to be others like him, who joined up to get famous, but he never came across them in his travels. Grant had visions of single-handedly defeating a superior force, coming across a mother lode of gold while chasing Indians through mountain passes or rescuing the grateful daughters of homesteaders snatched by raiding parties. Something. Anything. Then he would ride the results to fortune and fame. Instead, all he got was riding here and riding there under the summer sun and winter sky. Plenty of Indians died, to be sure, but what was that worth? Even the market for scalps had dried up. Sadly, promotion had become the best option. Grant figured if he could achieve a high enough rank, maybe he could acquire the status to join a stage show as a trick shooter. Entertainment was the ticket these days.
“You want to know what I think,” Paulson said. “I think we’re worn out, and I think the horses are worn out. We’re in enemy territory, but we’re in a defensible position in enemy territory with the bulk of the Indians to the east and heading north by all signs. We have two days to link up with the Seventh at a location that’s a day’s ride away. I think we should take an hour or two to collect ourselves. Then we can reevaluate riding on at dusk.” He turned to Grant, his face inscrutable. “What do you think?”
Grant knew Paulson was finding a middle ground to keep the peace. Still, it wouldn’t do to weaken one’s authority by acknowledging it.
“We need to round up the horses,” Grant ordered. The animals had wandered a short distance away to graze on wild alfalfa. Grant knew if he sent Breckenridge and Webster to wrangle their mounts, they’d talk about him behind his back. “Paulson and Breckenridge, you got the duty. Webster and I will take care of Jack and keep a lookout.”
“Fair enough.” Paulson led Breckenridge down the rocks.
Grant set about tossing pieces of Jack over the side. The summit wouldn’t be so bad if they could get rid of the larger chunks. The blood would quickly dry up in the heat. Grant knew Webster watched him and measured him, so he showed no ill effects even as his stomach churned. He tried to think of the parts as nothing more than firewood. That helped a little. He pointed out a leg.