Laramie

Acknowledgements:

I owe a debt of gratitude to Diane Gregg, Thomas Stoddard, and Kevin McArthur for their tireless efforts in reviewing, revising, and editing this work. Applying their expertise they have significantly improved the book’s continuity, and readability, while significantly reducing the number of grammatical spelling and syntactical errors that are the bane of all authors. Their effort and encouragement are deeply appreciated.

Prolog

It had been a long day and though the sun was still high in the startlingly blue and cloudless sky, shadows were already extending their ever lengthening grey fingers across the sandy canyon floor.

The boys had been gone for too long and it was well past the time they should have returned to eat and ready themselves for their return. Unless they began in the next hour or so it would be well past dark before they could get back to the reservation, and stumbling around in the darkness was not something he wanted to do.

The young white hunter enjoyed having the Navajo boys join him when he was hunting near their reservation. Grey Wolf and Red Coyote were good kids and fun to be with. They were both small and sort of scrawny as were most of the children in their tribe but their energy level at ten was boundless, and although the hunter was still young himself their need to be in constant motion tended to wear him out. To get some peace and quiet he had allowed them to scout up the canyon, but they had been gone far too long, and he was getting a little apprehensive.

He drained the dregs of the coffee from his cup, gathered his equipment and strapped his gear to the weary old packhorse. He had started a small fire nearly an hour earlier to cook the strips of fresh venison from the deer he had shot the day before and to warm the tinned beans he had planned for their supper; but it was too late to cook now. They would have to get by with the smoked buffalo strips he always carried.

He doused the fire with what was left in the coffee pot, strapped the pot on the packhorse and covered the fire’s ashes with the sandy red soil of the canyon floor. He was ready to start back as soon as the boys returned.

The warm afternoon sun made his eyes heavy and despite his concern for the boys, he eased his back against a sandstone boulder, pulled his hat down over his eyes and relaxed; there was nothing he could do but wait.

He had just nodded off when he heard the boys’ excited shouts. Looking up he saw them racing toward him riding double on Red Coyote’s small pony. It was obvious that something was wrong. He jumped up immediately alert, grabbed his rifle and hastily pulled his horse and pack animal off the dried bunches of grass they were grazing on.

Apaches! They screamed in unison as they jumped down from the pony and ran to him.

Grey Wolf, is that blood all over you? Are you hurt? he shouted. And where’s your horse?

Grey Wolf was the small dark skinned son of the Navajo chief, Grey Cloud. When he reached the hunter he hugged his waist and cried out breathlessly, Apaches! When we saw them we raced back as fast as we could, but my pony stumbled and fell, and I banged up my arm… He held his thin dusty arm up for the trapper to see the small cut, then, continued my pony couldn’t get up and when I saw his leg was broke I cut his throat and got blood all over me. Then I jumped up on Red Coyote’s horse with him. I don’t know if the Apaches saw us but they’ll find my pony real soon and know we was there.

Grey Wolf stood trembling, clutching the hunter with blood oozing from the small cut on his arm and blood splatter on his shirt. The two boys were badly frightened. Grey Wolf was close to tears but fighting them back, while Red Coyote, though silent, had tears streaming down his dusty anguished face. They had every right to be scared for if captured by the Apache they would be taken as slaves or tortured and killed on the spot. Either fate was too terrible to contemplate.

Okay, boys, take a deep breath and calm down. We have to get out of here real quick, but if you ride that pony any further you’re going to kill it. How many Apaches do you think there were?

Grey Wolf swallowed and with trembling voice said, I’m not sure but I counted ten before we started to run.

Were they moving steady, like they had someplace to go, or were they just wandering around hunting for something to kill?

They weren’t moving too fast so I suppose they were hunting.

Okay boys, we don’t have to panic but we do have to get moving. Both of you get up on my horse and lead the pony. After you get started I’ll lead the packhorse down the canyon. He helped the two to climb up on his tall horse, settled Grey Wolf in the saddle with Red Coyote behind him and gave him his pony’s reins.

Calmly and quietly, the hunter spoke to the boys. "Do you remember when we came into the canyon this morning how narrow and twisty it was at the entrance and how we had to go single file to get in here? Well we’re going to go back out the same way. Once we get through the opening I’m going to block it up long enough for you two to go get help.

Now let’s get going, we don’t have to race but we can’t go slow either. Wait for me once you get past the canyon entrance. Let the horses water at the creek, then tie them where they can graze. As soon as you can, start gathering rocks as big as you can carry or drag, and put them in a pile near the mouth of the canyon so that I can use them to block the entrance when I get there. You’re going to have a long hard ride ahead of you, so you had better get on your way. They hesitated for a moment not wanting to leave him but he hollered, Now get! and slapped the horse on the rump.

He watched the boys hanging tightly to his horse as it trotted down canyon toward the entrance with Red’s pony pulling at the reins but following closely. As soon as he saw they were moving at a good but not frantic pace, he took the packhorse’s lead and started down the canyon at a slow dog trot. It was close to five miles to the entrance of the canyon and he couldn’t afford to race there and be too exhausted to do what had to be done.

He ran easily without stopping or pausing for several miles. He was in excellent overall condition, but not really up to running long distances. He slowed to a walk when he got within sight of the twisting entrance and was breathing easily when he at last rounded the sharp bend at the end of the canyon and saw the boys. They had done a good job of gathering rocks and a large pile stood near the entrance while the horses were leisurely munching on the sparse vegetation.

Okay, boys, now listen carefully. I want you to get to the reservation as quickly as you can, but be careful not to move so fast that you injure the horses. Grey Wolf, you’re the biggest so you ride my horse but don’t leave Red Coyote behind. Stick together and go slow enough that Red’s pony can keep up without killing himself.

As they were talking they heard excited yelping from far back in the canyon. The shrieks reverberated through the canyon for miles. It was clear that the Apaches had found the pony and would soon be on their way. The young hunter figured he had maybe an hour before the Apache found their trail and followed it through the canyon. He had a lot to do in that time.

Okay, boys, it’s time to go! Wolf, tell your father what’s happening and ask him to send help right away. I’m going to stay here awhile and slow them down long enough for you two to get away.

But won’t they kill you if you stay? asked a trembling Grey Wolf.

Not if you boys get back in time. So get going!

As soon as the boys had mounted and were on their way the hunter ran back to the entrance of the canyon and began blocking the passageway with the rocks and boulders the boys had gathered and some larger ones he dragged to the entrance. It was hard work, but the pass was so narrow that he was quickly able to pile rocks across the entrance nearly as high as his head.

He then ran back and gathered arms full of dry brush and wood and stacked this against the front of the barrier. He struck a small fire several feet back of his manmade wall, put several small logs in the flame and ringed the fire with rocks. In all it had taken him almost an hour and he was totally exhausted when he finished.

He unloaded the pelts and other gear from the packhorse and tied the animal to a small bush just out of gunshot range from the canyon entrance and his makeshift wall. He then picked up his rifle and moved back toward the mouth of the canyon to about fifty yards in front of his wall and settled down behind a small boulder.

He sighted his Hawken rifle in on the barrier to insure that he had a clear field of fire, loaded it, stuck his already loaded pistol in his belt and laid lead balls and a horn of gun powder out beside him for easy access. He could reload and prime his .50 caliber Hawken fast enough to get off two or three shots a minute, which he hoped would be sufficient to slow the attackers long enough for the boys to get a safe distance away.

He decided to save his percussion pistol in case he needed it when he finally had to run.

As he lay there looking up the canyon he was conscious for the first time that day of the startling beauty of the sandy red walls that shimmered in the sun and the cloudless blue skies as a pair of hunting hawks gracefully soared over the barren landscape. Why was it that he seldom took note of all the beauty around him? I guess it’s natural to become jaded but the prospect of imminent death sure does have a tendency to heighten one’s awareness, he thought as he lay there waiting for the Apache to arrive.

He did not have long to wait. The air was suddenly filled with the sounds of galloping hooves pounding down the canyon and terrifying screams of excitement and rage from the seemingly demonic beings as their blood lust urged them toward their unseen prey. When the first horse sped around the sharp turn and crashed into the barrier, the hunter feared it wouldn’t hold, but the horse and rider came to a crunching stop and both rider and horse fell mortally stricken by the ferocity of their charge and the abruptness of their stop.

Those closely following only avoided the same fate by leaping off the backs of their ponies and letting the ponies crash against the rock barrier and fall to the floor of the canyon thus making the barrier even more imposing. But a number of those who dismounted in this manner were crushed against the side of the canyon by the surging horses behind them.

He counted; so far there appeared to be three down, and as many horses. When one of the surviving Apaches scrambled to the top of the barrier, he fired his first shot and counted to himself four. Then there was a period of relative calm as the savages still howling, reorganized and tried to figure a way around the impasse. It wasn’t long till another brown face peered over the rocks and was counted as number five.

Now the watching and waiting game began in earnest. The fallen horses that still lived, screamed and thrashed making it difficult for the Indians to approach much less remove the rock barrier.

The sky was rapidly darkening and night would soon descend on the lone defender and his attackers. He calculated that in less than an hour it would be dark enough for the Apache to scramble unseen over the rocks or even begin to pull the barrier down. The longer they waited however, the better. The boys had been gone now for some time and were probably well out of the Apaches’ reach. If he kept the Apache warriors tied down till full dark he was sure the boys would be safe; although he had some serious doubts about his own survival. But being fatalistic he decided the only thing he could do was to relax and accept whatever happened as God’s will.

He did not at first see the dim shadow move to the top of the barrier and begin to push the rocks down, but he saw him soon enough to bring the count to six. It would be totally black in a few minutes, so it was time for him to take the next step. He pulled his leather work gloves out of his back pocket and put them on, picked up his rifle and ammunition and crawled rapidly toward the barrier. He saw no movement but sensed that they were beginning to remove the rock pile. It was now or never.

He fired the Hawken at the top of the pile, heard a scream then jumped up and raced to the small fire he had started earlier. He dropped his rifle and with his gloved hands picked up the bright red embers that remained of the fire and threw them into the brush and sticks he had piled high against the rocks. The brush burst instantly into flame revealing two attackers moving toward him down the rock pile. Having expended the Hawken’s last round, he slammed the heavy barrel into the throat of the closest Indian then swung the butt of the weapon hitting the other Indian’s shaven head. Both Indians hit the ground unmoving. If they weren’t dead, they had been effectively taken out of the fight.

Well that makes eight, I think, he said to himself. It was time to leave. As he knelt to reload his Hawken he saw that the barrel had cracked and there was a bulge near the breach plug. This had probably resulted from overloading a round, which was easy to do in the haste of hurried reloads or it was possibly the damage resulting from using the gun as a club. In any case, the crack not only rendered the weapon unusable, but also dangerous. The hunter looked carefully at the barrel then put a double load of powder in the damaged barrel, tamped down a ball, and for good measure jammed a chunk of rock into the end of the barrel. He dropped the Hawken and picked up an old flintlock he found on the rocks next to the Indian with the smashed face and ran back toward the packhorse.

He heard Apaches scrambling down the side of the rock pile. As he ran, he turned back and fired a shot from his confiscated weapon, but he didn’t think he had hit anything. He threw the gun down and continued to run. When he reached the pack animal he grabbed its halter, wrapped the lead rope around his left hand, and scrambled up on its back.

As he rode away, the hunter heard the crack of a shot and the sound of the bullet whirring past his head. A few seconds later there was a thunderous explosion followed by loud screaming. The hunter had loaded and left the damaged Hawken, sure that after the Indian expended his round he would pick it up and fire it. He figured that he had now killed nine, maybe ten of his pursuers depending on how close they were to each other when the Hawken exploded.

He knew that the packhorse was not nearly fast enough to outrun an Apache pony, particularly with him bouncing around on its bare back, but it was the best he could do at the moment. The old horse, after first twisting and bucking, had accepted its new burden and moved at a steady but halting pace away from the canyon entrance.

He had gone less than a mile when he heard the galloping hoofs of a rapidly approaching horse and the screams of its rider.

The impact of a bullet striking his body and the intense pain jarred the hunter and made him lose his tenuous balance on the boney back of the old horse. He fell heavily to the ground with the lead rope still clasped tightly in his hand.

His attacker pulled his pony to a skidding halt and leaped off with a knife in his hand and raced to where the trapper was being dragged slowly behind the still moving packhorse. The Apache reached down and grabbed the hunter by the hair, twisted him around, pulled his head back and stabbed at his throat. The hunter stopped the Apache’s knife hand just before it completed its downward arc. The hunter was a powerful man and was able to stop the thrust but not before the knife had penetrated the soft skin of his throat.

The two struggled against each other as the Apache tried desperately to break the trapper’s iron grip on his wrist and free his bloody knife to finish its deadly work. The two fought and strained for what seemed an eternity as the hunter tried with all his might to push his assailant from him. But the Indian remained crouched astride the trapper’s body pressing the knife, now with both hands ever closer to the hunter’s exposed throat.

The hunter was rapidly weakening from the loss of blood from the bullet wound in his back and he knew he couldn’t fight much longer. So, gathering all his remaining strength, with an explosive effort he pushed his attacker back, pulled his left hand from the entwining rope lead, grabbed the pistol stuck in his belt, pressed it against the Apache’s side and fired. The bloody knife fell from the Indian’s hand as he tumbled backward mortally wounded.

The hunter rolled over on his side and tenderly probed his throat with a trembling hand and found that the knife had not cut deeply and only a small amount of blood was flowing from the wound. With a sense of relief, the exhausted and badly wounded hunter relaxed, then slumped back onto the ground and lost consciousness.

Sometime later, he awoke hearing the thunder of galloping horses rapidly approaching. Oh, no! No more of you devils, he murmured. He strained to get up but couldn’t make it even to a sitting position.

As he struggled, he felt strong but gentle hands push him back to the ground, and heard a voice he vaguely recognized say, Take it easy, you’re going to be all right. He felt small hands touch his face gently and heard Grey Wolf’s trembling voice whisper, please don’t die. Then all went black and he drifted into a soft, warm, and painless place.

Chapter 1 Vicksburg

A searing July sun hung over the sweltering city while artillery shells rained down on its hapless inhabitants. Union patrol boats cruising the Mississippi River had shelled the city day and night for weeks, while Union artillery batteries surrounding Vicksburg poured lethal missiles onto the huddled denizens of the beleaguered city.

To protect themselves from the bombardment many of the city’s residents had burrowed into the high clay cliffs that crisscrossed the city. Steep cliffs lined many of the roads in the city for they had been cut through the hills and ravines which were part of the topography of Vicksburg. As the siege wore on these cave homes became more elaborate; some even sported rugs and carpets on their dirt floors with connecting doors to other underground rooms.

No shipments had entered the city for weeks and food supplies were scarce and becoming scarcer for both the Rebel soldiers and the civilian population. The Union army slowly and inexorably tightened its strangling grip on the city and crept ever closer to the city’s weakening defenses. In some places Union troops were less than a hundred yards from the Rebel lines.

To increase the pressure on the city’s defenders the Union army had begun surreptitiously digging long narrow trenches, or saps, from their lines to and under the parapets that had been built as part of the rebel defenses. The saps allowed Union forces to place large quantities of explosives beneath Rebel lines without detection. The explosives, when detonated, tore gaping holes in the Rebel lines. The first such attack, though tearing a sizeable hole in the Rebel line, had inflicted very few casualties. And the Union army for some inexplicable reason had failed to exploit the gap in the defensive line and penetrate the city.

Then early this morning a second and even larger explosion had torn a hole in the wall killing many Rebel defenders and blowing entire human bodies into the air with some landing alive on the Union side of the line. Although successful in destroying a part of the city’s defenses and inflicting severe damage, the breech was not large enough to permit enemy troops in any great number to move into the city.

At the sound of the explosion, Confederate Lieutenant David Wharram and a squad of Rebel infantrymen raced to the site to guard against union troops trying to breech the line. They arrived at the scene to find chaos and carnage. Horribly mangled bodies of dead, dying, and badly wounded Rebel soldiers littered the area. David first ordered his sergeant to set up a defensive