Fandom: Alias Smith and Jones
CAPTURED!
by Michael Quebec
based upon characters created by Ella Davis
The Lone Ranger and related characters were created
by Fran Striker and George W. Trendle
Various locations, including the border area between Texas and Northern Mexico, near the Rio Grande and Palo Duro Canyon, near Amarillo, Texas
The ‘Tejanos’, the Mexican inhabitants of Texas, had slowly seen their power, their prestige, and their very dignity taken away from them by the newly arrived Americans, ever since the founding of the Texas Republic from Mexico in 1836. By 1845, with Texas' admittance into the Union, Anglo settlers increased in number, squatting on prominent Tejano haciendas and often forcing the proud Mexicans to leave their homes at gunpoint. So it was with Juan Nepomucino Cortinas. He had come from a prominent and wealthy Tejano family in Brownsville, Texas, but his family had lost their lands to white squatters.
In July of 1859, Cortinas witnessed the beating of a former employee of his at the hands of the Brownsville sheriff while white citizens looked on. Some of them were laughing, others simply moved on, ‘minding their business.’ None lifted a hand to save the man. Mexican onlookers watched with horror and fear, but among them was Juan Cortinas. Cortinas could stand no more. In a rage, Cortinas injured the sheriff, and then rescued his former employee. The white citizens were shocked, looking upon this as an act of ‘rebellion’ from the Mexican ‘greasers.’ Mexican witnesses, who were unable to help the beaten man, were now emboldened and found a new sense of pride in the heroic act of the former haciendero, Cortinas.
However, also among the witnesses to this act of proud defiance was a recently discharged Union Army officer, a veteran of The Mexican American War who had gained his notoriety for brutality at Churubusco. He was ‘the butcher’ Bartholemew ‘Butch’ Cavendish.
Cavendish, a graduate of West Point, and a megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, had grown jealous of his friend's Sam Houston's prestige when Houston became president of the Texas Republic in the 1830's. Since that time, Cavendish had entertained the idea of establishing his own republic somewhere in the West, with himself as military dictator. He thought he had his chance during the Mexican War ten years later, but those plans fell through. It wasn't yet time. However, he had been able to assemble a personal army of loyal officers under his command during the Battle of Churubusco. Cavendish waited for his time to come and Cortinas, unwittingly, provided the opportunity.
The legendary Texas Rangers, a unit of volunteer lawmen founded in San Felipe de Austin on 1835, originally to protect the white settlers from Comanche raids, were the thorn in Cavendish's side. Various illegal operations in Texas under Cavendish's directions were thwarted by the Rangers. Dan Reid, a protégé of legend Ranger Captain W.C. Tobin, had led daring raids against Cavendish's operations. With six-guns blazing, Reid broke up weapons smuggling rings and fencing operations that he knew, but couldn't prove, were under the orders of ‘the butcher.’ By the same token, Dan Reid had proven an extremely formidable opponent. Only a cunning plan would eliminate this singular threat to Butch Cavendish's plans.
Dan Reid's younger brother, John, had recently arrived in Texas from the East, where he had graduated from college. Both Reid’s were orphans, their parents murdered by bandits on their homestead after these same road agents lost their first quarry, a Kiowa Indian boy. The Kiowa boy was pursued by these men for the bounty on Indian scalps, but the young John Reid had saved the Kiowa by hiding him. Unfortunately, these men then picked up the trail to Reid's isolated home and decided to get their ‘easy money’ at the expense of Reid's parents.
Taken in by the Kiowas and given a special amulet as a gift from his newfound
Kiowa ‘brother’, whom he had hidden from the bandits, John was later reunited with his elder brother Dan. Before John left the Kiowa encampment with Dan, the Kiowa boy gave John a name, ‘adopting’ John into the tribe and his family. He called John Reid ‘kemosabe’, a name that meant ‘trusted scout’.
Feeling that the frontier was no place for a young boy to be raised properly, Dan reluctantly sent John to live with their aunt in Detroit, Michigan, following their parents' deaths. Now, after all these years, the Reid brothers were reunited. John had hoped to make his living in the West as a writer for a fledgling newspaper in Texas, under the auspices of Texas' foremost publisher, Francis Striker. When John began working for the Strikers, he soon caught the eye of Striker's daughter, Amy. The attraction was mutual. It seemed that John would soon have everything a man could possibly want in life; love, a thriving career, and a new home where he could make a difference. But all of that changed with the coming of the Cortinas raids . . . and of Butch Cavendish.
Cortinas gathered a large force of ‘rebels’ or ‘bandits’ depending upon who was describing him. He led daring raids across the border, making the Texas/Mexican borderlands unsafe for American travel of any sort. In need of any allies he could find, Cortinas, reluctantly, accepted the ‘assistance’ of Butch Cavendish and his personal ‘army.’ Years later, as an official in Mexico, Cortinas would reflect upon his days as a rebel/bandit leader and his association with Cavendish. He would say, "I was so determined to fight, I would have made a deal with the Devil himself. And I did."
Two months after the incident in Brownsville, Cortinas and his men, under the ‘encouragement’ of Cavendish, led a brutal raid into that same town. Heavy casualties on both sides were the result, with women and children suffering in the crossfire. John Reid and Amy Striker were there.
Initially pursued by Captain Tobin's Rangers, Cortina's men were aided by
Cavendish falsified trails so that it would appear that the raiders were hiding somewhere in Palo Duro Canyon.
Tobin, following his ‘instinct’, decided to lead his men across the Rio Grande. Dan Reid and his men would pick up the trail to Palo Duro.
Due to the brutality of the attack, Dan Reid, though sympathetic to Cortina's cause, felt that he had to put a stop to the raids. He also knew, through his ‘gut feeling’, that somehow, Cavendish was involved. With his company of Rangers, he was set on tracking Cortina to Palo Duro. However, John had also witnessed the brutality committed by both sides. He insisted he accompany his older brother. Reluctantly, Dan had to agree. They were brothers and they had been separated before. This time, they would be together again no matter what. Saying goodbye to Amy, whom he hoped would one day become his wife, John accompanied his brother and their detachment of volunteers. John was made an honorary Ranger.
Cavendish's men were positioned on the high ground of the Canyon. They were entrenched in such a way that a force three times their size would be at their mercy. All they had to do was shoot down on them when they arrived and the canyon walls would be their trap.
Dan Reid's Rangers never knew what hit them. A rain of lead showered upon them, cutting the force down. John Reid and his elder brother tried to spur their men on valiantly, but the surprise attack was well sprung. Men who had seen action against Comanches, Mexican raiders, and the worst outlaws in Texas history were now helpless before the brutal onslaught of Butch Cavendish's private ‘army.’ While the slaughter of the Rangers went on, a lone Kiowa warrior, originally out on a ‘vision quest’ after his family had died from a cholera epidemic brought on by the white settlers, now bore witness to the deed.
Dan Reid's final act before dying was to shield his younger brother John, who was still fighting fiercely, from the fire from above. When the last shots rang out, Dan took most of the impact for John, and the two brothers lay amongst the rest of their comrades, the older brother dead, the younger brother near death.
Cavendish and his men departed, satisfied that the Reid’s would no longer stand in the way of his plans for a new Western ‘republic’ under his name. When they left, the Kiowa warrior rode down to the foot of the canyon to check for survivors. Though the whites had proven to be enemies of the Kiowas, this warrior remembered that one white had saved his life when they were both boys and that white boy lost his parents because of it.
Searching among the dead, the Kiowa warrior found the two brothers. He recognized that one had shielded the other, and upon removing Dan Reid's body, the warrior saw something he hadn't seen in years. The younger brother underneath was wearing the amulet he had given to his protector when they were boys. This young white man was his adopted ‘brother’, and he was still alive.
Using herbs to treat the wounds, the Kiowa warrior hid John Reid, tending his injuries, while making prayers to the Great Spirit for his recovery. A week later, John Reid awoke from his unconscious state. Still weak, he was addressed by his Kiowa benefactor as ‘kemosabe’, a word that meant ‘trusted scout.’ He recognized that as the Kiowa name given to him years ago as a boy. Slowly, John Reid whispered with recognition, "Tonto.
(2)
Horse Creek Saloon
Horse Creek, Wyoming
From just outside the saloon, peering through the main window, Sheriff Lom Trevors observed the altercation going on inside. For such a little fella at 5' 5" tall Jedidiah ‘Tally’ knew how to handle himself against much larger opponents. He would duck under punches by squatting at the knees and work on the midsections of the other participants, then come up to their heads with well placed blows while using his hips for leverage to heave anyone overhead whenever they would attempt to grab him.
Lom smirked, almost enjoying the little display. However, he could see the other sheriff, Newsom, the rightful representative of the law in this town, along with his men, make their way from across the dirt street towards the saloon. Lom, in town to investigate the whereabouts of Jedidiah’s friend and Thaddeus and to look into rumors about how the town obtained it's labor for the nearby silver mine, beat a hasty retreat around the corner. Lom Trevors did that seemingly just in time, as a chair came flying through the very window that he was looking through. He waited and hid around the corner, the entrance to the alley, as Sheriff Newsom and his men broke up the fight in the saloon.
Firing his pistol in the air, and making a hole in the ceiling with that same shot, Sheriff Newsom shouted out, "You men, stop!" The combatants stopped midway through their fight as Newsom instructed his deputies to take the participants into custody, Jedidiah among those to be arrested. However, as the arrests were being made, Newsom took one of his men aside and said, "The one waiting outside, ducked around the corner."
Newsom's man asked, "He the one the Major wanted us to take out?"
Newsom answered, "He's the one." Newsom edged closer and gave his order quietly. "Ride him out of town. You know where to finish him." His man nodded and was about to leave, but Newsom stopped him and added, "Make sure he can be found properly."
Newsom's man understood. "It'll be done right." Newsom nodded approvingly. His man took two deputies and exited out the back of the saloon while Jedidiah, along with the others, were being led out of the front entrance, escorted by Newsom's other deputies.
Lom Trevors observed, as Jedidiah was being led to the jail across the street, accompanied by the other saloon patrons and the deputies. It seemed as if all was going according to Trevors' and Jedidiah's plan for an intentional arrest, which was to be followed by a court hearing. However, so intent was he on observing, that Trevors didn't notice the three men who came up behind him at least not until he heard Newsom's man cock his pistol and place it behind the back of his head. "Howdy Sheriff.'" Newsom's men disarmed Trevors and walked him out through the back alley in the opposite direction, away from the jail. However, they were not alone. From the rooftop of one of the buildings near the alley, a Kiowa warrior observed, then followed.
Newsom's men rode Trevors, who was bound at the wrists to his mount, to the outskirts of town, on the route of Wyoming's Oregon Trail. One of Newsom's men was carrying, of all things, a Sioux bow and a quiver of arrows, even though he was obviously a white man. Lom Trevors knew that they were taking him out to kill him, but the strange weapon that one of them carried confirmed a suspicion he had about the intent of these men and their leader whoever he was. They stopped by a nearby stand of trees, which was actually a rare thing to see out on the Northern Great Plains. For the most part, the land was pretty much a vast sea of grass, mostly uninterrupted by any other features.
Newsom's man ordered, "Get him down off of the horse." His accomplices did just that, walking the wrist-bound Lom Trevors to a tree and tying him to it, using not ropes, but buffalo thongs, again, a strange thing to use. Standing back, the man with the bow took aim.
Trevors shouted out, "Why the hell don't you just shoot me with your gun? God damn it!" There was no answer.
The split second that the bowman loosed his arrow, a silver bullet shattered his bow, making his aim go slightly off and changing the arrow's trajectory by a few inches. The arrow imbedded itself into Trevor's chest, but it just missed his heart. The bowman grasped his hands in pain while yelling out, "Shit!" The Masked Man and the Kiowa Warrior rode down on Trevor's would be killers.
The Masked Man leaped from his white stallion and tackled the bowman, sending both of them sprawling to the ground. They both struggled briefly and the Masked Man, having the advantage of surprise, mounted the bowman. With one well-placed blow with his right elbow and forearm, the Masked Man sent the bowman into unconsciousness. The second killer drew his Colt and took aim. Before he could squeeze the trigger, a tomahawk hatchet imbedded itself into his back. He slumped forward to the ground.
Newsom's man, gripped by panic, had already jumped upon his horse, riding hard, back towards town. The Kiowa took out his hatchet from the back of the now dead would be killer and said, "One of them got away. I'll get him!"
"No!" Said the Masked Man as he started cutting Trevors free. "Both Scout and Silver are played out from the ride over here and his horse is still fresh. We know where he's going. Besides I'll need your help with this one. He's in shock."
The Kiowa helped the Masked Man place Trevors on his horse, actually leaving the arrow in, as they knew that it acted as a cork of sorts. To pull it out now, without the things they would need to treat him, would result in Trevors dying from a loss of blood. They also took the bowman, who was unconscious, and placed him on his horse. Then, the Masked Man and the Kiowa Warrior, with both a patient and a captive in tow, rode off in the direction of Fort Laramie, away from the town.
(3)
He paced back and forth in the jail cell. He was glad that he had told them that his name was Tally Wagons, so as not to mar his good name. His trial was set for today. He knew he wouldn't get a fair hearing, but that's what he wanted. He stopped his pacing as he heard a noise. He went to the window and looked out. There was Samantha. What was she doing here? Before he could ask, she tossed a note inside to him and then walked off. He picked up the note from the floor and read it.
Oh no, this couldn't be happening to him. They had lost the sheriff. Well, it did say that they were working on finding him. He just hoped that it would be before the trial. If not he would end up the same place Samantha's brother was, a convict committed to working at the silver mine.
He sat down and thought about the last month or so. He had found Samantha, and him and Samantha had found Justin. He was being forced to work at a silver mine along with a bunch of other men. Justin's crime hadn't really been a crime after all. The sheriff had arrested him because of some trumped up charge, saying that he had stolen the horse he was riding and the gun, too, cause no half-blooded Indian could afford a nice looking animal like that. One of the town residents had informed them of that.
Samantha had wanted to bust Justin out of there, but Jedidiah had persuaded her not too. There had to be a legal way to go about getting him out of there. One day while Jedidiah and Samantha was watching the mine, trying to figure out a way to get Justin released, they came upon another man doing exactly the same thing. He was watching the mine trying to figure out a way to get his friend out of there, too. All three of them rode off together, and they had lunch to discuss the situation.
Joshua Smith's friend Thaddeus Jones had been wrongly accused of killing a man and thrown in to work at the silver mine. Joshua told them that a respectable citizen had seen the whole thing, but she feared for her life, so she wouldn't testify for Thaddeus. The people fear the law here, Joshua had told them. But Joshua had a plan to trap the real felon, and to get Thaddeus and Justin released, but part of the scheme had been for Jedidiah to get thrown in jail. Jedidiah hadn't liked the part about him getting put in jail, but he would do anything for Samantha.
So last night Jedidiah had involved himself in a bar fight. He didn't start it, but he did have a hand in finishing it. Sheriff Lom Trevors from Medicine Bow had seen the whole thing. The worst punishment for such a thing would be paying the bartender for the damages and a night in jail, but Joshua and Jedidiah were hoping for a sentence to the silver mines, so that Lom Trevors would have evidence of a corrupt sheriff and a corrupt judge. Lom could then call the Wyoming territorial Marshall in to investigate the judge's books to see who else had been sentenced unfairly.
Unfortunately the trial was set for noon, and Lom Trevors was missing. Jedidiah hoped that Joshua would find the good sheriff and have him there in the courtroom when he was tried. When Lom had arrived in Horse Creek, he had come incognito, keeping his badge hidden, so that the sheriff and the judge of Horse Creek wouldn't know who he was. Jedidiah just couldn't understand what could have happened to the sheriff. Unless someone had got wind of Lom being a sheriff, and the crooked sheriff and judge had done something to him. Jedidiah's future looked very bleak at the moment. He hoped Joshua had some kind of Ace up his sleeve in case he didn't find the sheriff in time.
Jedidiah hadn't heard from Samantha or Joshua, and now it was time. Sheriff Arden Newsom pointed his gun at Jedidiah as he walked behind him. Entering the courtroom, that was the saloon, Jedidiah searched the place, resting his eyes on Samantha. From her facial expression, he could tell that sheriff Lom Trevors hadn't been found yet.
"Bring the prisoner forth," Judge Floyd Boland commanded.
Sheriff Newsom pushed Jedidiah forward. Jedidiah caught his balance and continued until he was standing in front of the judge's desk.
"You are guilty of damages and disturbing the peace. How do you plead?" Judge Boland folded his arms in front of him and sternly looked upon the prisoner waiting for his reply.
"I plead not guilty, your honor." Jedidiah knew he had done some damaged to the saloon, but some of the others, even the one that had started it, had done more damaged to him, and they hadn't even been thrown in jail.
"Wrong! You're guilty." Judge Boland looked down at the papers in front of him. "You're hereby sentenced to one year imprisonment to serve your sentence by working at the Lucky Fortune Silver Mine."
"But I'm not guilty, and even if I was, isn't that sentence a little too much for the crime." Jedidiah argued. "What about a trial to prove my innocence."
"No debating with the judge." Sheriff Newsom grabbed Jedidiah by the arm. "Come along now."
Jedidiah twisted around, "But judge, I'm innocent."
"Keep arguing and I'll double your sentence." Judge Boland stated as he stood up and sternly looked at the prisoner.
As Jedidiah was leaving he gave Samantha a quick little grin to let her know that he would be all right.
Samantha waited a few seconds and then followed. She looked up and down the street but there was no sign of Joshua or Sheriff Lom Trevors. If she ever wanted her brother and Jedidiah set free, she would have to find them. Jedidiah was in this trouble because of her. She would have to set him free some how.
Sheriff Newsom took the prisoner out and hulled him off to the silver mine where he would be put in chains and used to help dig for more silver.
(4)
White settlements in the Wyoming territory during the 1860's usually were located near or around the various army forts and trading posts along the Oregon Trail. Emigrants on their way to the Oregon Country and California passed through the Trail, while families of traders, soldiers, and missionaries eked out their livings within the confines of the forts or their surrounding settlements. This was still the domain of the Northern Plains Tribes and large-scale settlement by the whites was still, for the most part, eight years away.
Some members of the Northern Plains Tribes, among them, the Northern Cheyennes, the Northern Arapahos, and most especially, the Lakota or Sioux as the whites called them, frequented the forts from time to time, trading skins for the white man's utensils such as kettles, knives, and most importantly, guns. Those who came to the forts also would trade with the passing emigrant wagon trains along the Oregon Trail for coffee, sugar, bacon, and other goods of the white man.
Within the tribes, factions developed. Those who thought it best to avoid white contact were known as ‘Stay Aways’. They knew that though the whites were at war with one another now, soon, they would come to try and take their country from them. They knew that the majority of whites thought of them as dirty, as savages, and usually feared and hated them. The emigrants on the Oregon Trail usually traded their goods more out of fear than out of a genuine interest in trade or establishing friendly relations with the Indians. The ‘Stay Aways’ usually did just that. They stayed clear of the whites, as long as they felt that they could be safe without having to fight.
The ‘Hang Around The Forts’ was the name given to describe the group first mentioned above. Not only did they trade with the whites for the aforementioned items, they often times treated their wild cousins with disdain while growing increasingly dependent upon the new Americans. Scorned by their relatives and the whites alike for their halfway lives, not quite Indian, but not quite white either, often they would be the first victims to suffer whenever conflicts between the two races arose. It was only natural, since being so close to the forts, they were the easiest targets to find.
The 'Stay Aways’ and ‘The Hang Around The Forts.’ They often held each other in low regard. But they were still Lakota, still allies by ties of blood and family. When one suffered, the other would rise up to help.
There were many ‘Hang Around The Forts’ Sioux at the civilian trading post known as Fort Bartholemew, located in Southern Wyoming. It was not unusual for them to even visit the nearby township of Horse Creek, which was located equidistant, between the Bartholemew trader's post and the military garrison at Fort Laramie.
Justin and Samantha Calhoun's late mother, Yellow Bird, an Oglala Lakota woman by birth, had been among those who had visited Horse Creek to obtain trade goods while in the company of their father, Captain George Calhoun, a local trader. At that time, however, Horse Creek was just a collection of tents, a mining enclave situated near a recently discovered vein of silver.
Though not an army post, Fort Bartholemew seemed well protected from attacks by hostile Sioux. Rumored to be financed by a former Union officer from Texas who was now a businessman, and a highly successful trader, Fort Bartholemew was garrisoned by a large, well armed civilian force. It was even rumored that the trader's post at Bartholemew had more men, and more arms, than the government supplied, but under-manned, Fort Laramie.
Horse Creek's vein had recently become one of the first fully operational, and privately owned, silver mines in the territory. Originally found in surface deposits, the vein's silver had been stripped from the surface by the first wave of miners to the area. To get at the more rich deposits underneath would take more money and more equipment than the private miner could ever hope to obtain. Thus, the Lucky Strike Mining Company was established, formed, like Fort Bartholmew, by an unknown benefactor and his associates. The rumor was that it might even be the same man or men whatever the case may be.
Horse Creek itself, was one of the first large scale white settlements in Wyoming. Naturally, being a town originally founded on the premise of mining, it tended to attract the worst elements of society. Miners, frustrated that their efforts bore little fruit, as well as the fact that their vein was now privately owned by a company that probably already had more money than they knew what to do with, turned to gambling, drinking, thievery, and murder. When not drowning out their sorrows in liquor or women who sold their services at a local house, it was not unusual for these men to murder each other. It was also not unusual for these men to find employment by murderers or at the very least, business men, who made their living through the taking and stealing of innocent lives. Horse Creek, the stop over between the two forts along the Oregon Trail, was a portent of things to come. Horse Creek was the center of vice, greed, and corruption in Wyoming.
Justin Calhoun, at 6 feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds of muscle, and having worked most of his twenty-eight years of life as a blacksmith, was used to hard labor. The silver mine was no different except that here, Justin Calhoun was now a captive within its dark confines. Forced to work alongside others who, like him, have been indicted on a dozen trumped up charges brought on by Horse Creek's corrupt Sheriff Newsom and Judge Bowland, he toiled long and hard, digging for the silver ore. With him was a friend he had met here in the mines, Thaddeus Jones, alias ‘Kid Curry’, a former highwayman who had been promised a pardon by Wyoming lawmen for his past crimes, provided that he stay out of trouble for one year.
As Thaddeus worked, he grumbled to himself, "Well, there goes that pardon."
Justin, also working and sweating, asked, "What? What did you say?"
Thaddeus responded, "Nothin'!" For no one could know whom him and Heyes really were for they might try to collect the rewards that are on their heads.
One of the guards angrily shouted, "You two down there! No talking in the mines!" The two of them, along with the half dozen other workers continued on with their labors, quietly.
The armed guards were volunteers from Fort Bartholemew. Justin recognized that they were not regular army, since his own late father was an officer. Yet, they were wearing uniforms of some sort.
One thing that caught Justin's eye was the fact that there were so many Lakota working in the mines, right alongside the vagrants, such as himself and Thaddeus. "Sioux," he said to himself.
"Yeah, I never seen so many Indians with whites and not tryin' to collect their hair," said Thaddeus. Justin just looked at him. Thaddeus said, "Sorry, friend. I forgot." He was referring of course, to the fact that Justin was a half-caste Sioux. Justin put it aside.
"I recognize some of 'em, from Spotted Tail's band."
"Out of Fort Laramie?" Thaddeus responded while still digging.
"Hey, shut up down there!" Came another yell from an armed guard, this time pointing his rifle at them.
The two of them continued to work quietly, reducing their conversation to a whisper "'Laramie Loafers', they call 'em. I don't think they'll be missed too much," said Thaddeus.
"Think so, huh?" Responded Justin. "More intrusions into Sioux lands and now they're kidnapping our people to dig for silver."
"What do you mean, 'they?' You're still half-white," said Thaddeus.
"Yeah. I get reminded of that, everyday," said Justin.
"Must be hard for you and Samantha, bein' in the middle all the time," said Thaddeus. Justin didn't respond. "Anyway, them birds with their rifles on us ain't regular army. Some kind of volunteer militia or somethin'," continued Thaddeus.
"It won't matter. All the warriors need to know is that it's whites that's taking their relatives and this whole territory will erupt. Plus the fact that most of the regulars are back East, fighting the Confederates," said Justin.
"Got to figure out some way to get out of here, get word to Sheriff Trevors-."
"Yep," Thaddeus cut in. "That's a lawman for ya. Ain't never around when you want 'em." The leader of the guards, a sergeant, came forward, annoyed.
He shoved Justin. "I thought I told you two sons a bitches to shut up!"
Justin turned and faced him quietly. The sergeant looked him in the eye. "You look a little red to me, son. That what you are? Lousy breed-beggar? That why you don't savvy English too well chief?"
Thaddeus came forward. "Look sir, he ain't no chief and it was all me. So, we're gonna go back to work, right quietly." The sergeant immediately shoved his rifle butt into Thaddeus, doubling him over.
"What the hell-!" Shouted Justin as he went to Thaddeus, who was on his knees in pain. The sergeant pointed his rifle at the two of them. Justin held Thaddeus, who was gripping his midsection and gasping for air.
"Now, now," said Thaddeus, "that there was mighty unfriendly."
Thaddeus immediately pushed the rifle aside and delivered a left cross to the sergeant's jaw. With his adrenaline now up, Justin joined in, as the other guards came forward. Using his shovel, he knocked two armed guards down who had come running in. The other workers looked on, not seizing upon the opportunity.
The white workers were either frozen with fear or physically weak, having been over worked without proper rest or food. As for the Indian workers, they seemed to know that this wasn't the right time and they were more interested in observing the two men's willingness to fight.
Justin grabbed one guard by the neck with his right hand while delivering a left to his face. He then used his great strength to grab another guard by the collar and pick him up. Lifting him over his head, Justin tossed the man to the ground.
Thaddeus used a little more finesse. Knocked to the floor to his knees, the sergeant tried to kick him. However, Thaddeus grabbed his leg. Then, putting his shoulder into the sergeant's midsection, he stood himself up, heaving the sergeant over his head and sending him crashing behind him into an ore cart on the tracks. However, more guards came and he took another rifle butt, this time to the face, knocking him down. The guards then stood over him with their guns drawn. He stayed on the ground, wisely raising his hands.
Justin continued fighting, wrestling with a guard who had a pistol in his hand. He knocked the guard down with a left, but while on the ground, the guard, also a strong man, recovered quickly and fired, hitting Justin's thigh. Justin yelled out in pain. Then the other guards piled on Justin, shoving their guns and knives in front of him. He was in no condition to continue fighting as he gripped his leg in pain.
The sergeant was helped out of the cart by the others. Brushing himself off, he shouted out angrily, "Put 'em in the box!" The other guards grabbed the two men, Justin unable to stand because of his wound. He yelled out in pain and Thaddeus tried to help him.
However, the guards grabbed him forcefully and Thaddeus said, "He's been shot, God damn it! He needs a doctor!"
The guards ignored him. Instead, they simply escorted Thaddeus and Justin out of the mine, walking them over to the huge iron box, which was located near the latrines, just outside of the worker's quarters. Thaddeus decided to help Justin walk and the guards, realizing it was the best way to move him, allowed this, at gunpoint. The sergeant said, "Got a lot of fight in you two, eh? Lousy scum! We'll cure you of that quick!" He then looked to the box, calming himself down. "The walls of this thing here are pure iron. They get so hot in the afternoon sun. You can feel your skin boil and puss up white. By nightfall, you can feel your outsides start to peel off. But don't worry. By then, it starts to get cooler. A LOT cooler!" The other guards laughed. The sergeant continued. "You boys are right lucky. You just earned yourselves a three day vacation . . . in THE BOX!" He then turned to the guards and said, "Toss 'em in!"
Thaddeus tried to struggle while protesting, "Now wait a minute! Hold on! He's hurt! He'll die if you put him in there-!" Thaddeus and Justin, who was weak from his wound, were both shoved in as the door was shut behind them and the locks set in place.
Another guard turned to the sergeant and said, "He's right, sergeant. Mr. Bowland had orders from the Major to get as much work from 'em as he can. He might not like losin' a strong buck like him."
The sergeant smirked. "So one less Indian buck to work the mines. I think the ‘Major' can afford it." Leaving one-armed guard to keep watch on the box, the sergeant and the rest of the guards left Thaddeus and Justin locked in.
(5)
Beneath the main store of Fort Bartholemew resided a true miracle of engineering, a subterranean dwelling that was both a palatial estate and a paramilitary headquarters. That such a quarters could be both constructed and maintained in the middle of the Great Plains during the 1860's, in total secrecy, was a sign that the man behind it was anything but ordinary.
Major Bartholemew Cavendish liked to think of himself as above ordinary men and he was right. At West Point, his tactical maneuvers had been compared to that of the great military geniuses of the world, from Napoleon to Genghis Khan. He was also a man possessed of great charisma and magnetism. He was a master of manipulation and the spoken word, through which he could convince men to perpetrate acts that no sane man would do under ordinary circumstances. However, his ambition and arrogance were proportionate with his genius. Though formal psychiatric evaluations were a century and a half in the making, Cavendish's superiors knew that promoting that insane bastard to higher levels of command would be disastrous for the U.S. Army. They did what they could to keep him from being promoted, despite his string of victories during the Mexican American War. He resented the fools who took credit for his victories during the war with Mexico, but he told himself that it mattered not. T!
he war was simply a way of sharpening his tactical skills in preparation for bigger game. For here, in his underground headquarters beneath the civilian fort that bore his name, Cavendish plotted
and planned, setting in motion his bid for the establishment of the Wyoming Territory under his personal banner.
This was mid-afternoon, the time when he liked to practice classical fencing maneuvers, to focus his mind and body. On hand, while Cavendish cut and slashed away at an armored and padded dummy target, were two of his lieutenants, representatives of law and order in the nearby township of Horse Creek, Sheriff Rance Newsom and Judge Harlan Bowland.
Bowland began, "The mine's output has increased by ten percent, Major. The new workers-." Cavendish cut him off and said, "Ten percent is just slightly above NOTHING. The members of Congress can not be purchased with mere tokens."
"Yes, sir," said Bowland as he lowered his head. "But we can't work the mines harder without raising more suspicion. The number of workers . . . and the death toll-."
"Are all in keeping with my plans, which for the moment, I have not chosen to divulge to you, in full detail." Cavendish thrust his saber into the chest cavity of the practice dummy. "If you need more workers, simply continue to take them from the Indians that frequent the Trail."
Bowland responded, "We've been doing that, Major. But the Sioux, they've been causing more troubles along the Trail-."
"And how is that YOUR concern, judge?" Asked Cavendish, annoyed.
"Well sir, it seems to me that the more troubles happening nearby, the more we draw attention to our operations-."
Cavendish seized Bowland's throat, his fingers gripping his Adam's apple, dropping the huge man to his knees. "OUR operations? You dare place yourself on a par with me? Have a care, Bowland! I have only tolerated your presence thus far because you have proved yourself useful to me on occasion! Do not seek to test my patience!" Cavendish then released Bowland, who coughed while gasping for breath while on his knees. Cavendish turned to Newsom, who stood at attention. "War with the Sioux and Cheyenne Nations will result in utter chaos. With Fort Laramie under-manned as a result of the Southern rebellion, the Wyoming territory will need a man with the means to bring
order! The silver obtained from the mine will guarantee our land appointments in Washington. Is that not right, sheriff?"
"Ye-yes, sir . . . Major!" Responded Newsom, anxious to avoid bringing Cavendish's anger upon himself the way Bowland had.
"False trails have been maintained to implicate Fort Laramie in the abduction of the savages' red brothers?" Asked Cavendish.
"Maintained, sir. Our . . . YOUR . . . agents have reported upon the rising tensions between the regulars at Laramie and the Northern tribes," responded Newsom.
"Very well." Cavendish then referred to the still coughing and gasping Bowland. "Have the guards remove him. When he's able to speak, remind him of my generosity and patience in not disposing of him."
"Yes, sir."
"Come back after you've sent for the guards. Bring the man whom you assigned to dispose of the sheriff from Nebraska. He is still waiting in the hall, as he was instructed to, correct?"
"Yes, sir." Newsom exited and called out in the hall. "Guards!" Two guards entered and Newsom said, "The major wants him returned to town. Get a doctor for him, too." The guards nodded and left with Bowland. Newsom then went into the hall to get his man, who was talking with some other guards.
"I'm tellin' ya, it was a white man leading them! Masked and he came a swoopin' down on us on a pale horse like somethin' outta one them dime novel ghost stories!" Said the man to one of the guards in the hall.
One of them responded, "So you say it was a whole pack a Injuns, led by a renegade?"
"That it was! Maybe thirty or forty of 'em, and he was probably a squaw man, or somethin' like that. Anyways, after I made shore the job was done, I lit out, straight outta there as fast as I can. It was too late for the other two and I wanted to make shore ah still had me a full head a hair!"
Newsom came to them and they all immediately stood at attention. "Major's ready for you, now." The man nodded and followed Newsom back towards Cavendish's office.
"You state in your report that thirty to forty Sioux braves descended upon you and your men, killing your two companions just before Trevors had been liquidated," said Cavendish, while continuing his practice.
"Yes sir, Major. It's right in there in my report," said Newsom's man.
"I am fully aware of the report. I simply wanted to see if you were foolhardy enough to state such boldfaced lies to me in person." Newsom's man kept quiet, but his eyes widened. Cavendish turned to him, looking him straight in the eyes with a gaze that could pierce through steel. It seemed as if Cavendish had peered through the man's soul and he no longer had the strength of will to maintain his charade. Cavendish said plainly, "If thirty Sioux braves had descended upon your party, there wouldn't be enough of you
left to pick up with a blotter." The man looked away, the lie now fully stripped away from him. Cavendish paced. "Now as for Trevors, I want to know if he had been disposed of before your ran."
"We-we shot him just before they came on us, Major-."
"They? Description!"
"There-there was an Injun with him, but he wasn't a Sioux. Kiowa, I think."
"Two men?"
The man nodded. "The other was a white man on a pale Stallion. It was spooky. The horse almost glowed in the moonlight, like a-."
"Like a ghost?" Finished Cavendish.
"Yeah. It was like he was some kinda ghost."
"Undoubtedly, the effect the rider wished to convey upon his quarry. Superstition. The affliction of the ignorant." Cavendish then turned to the man and finished, "And the stupid."
The man bowed his head in shame and continued. "He wore some kind of mask-."
Cavendish now was sure whom the man was referring to. "Yes. HIM. Even here, he dares follow me, seeking to interfere with my plans!" With one movement, Cavendish thrust his saber into the man's midsection, then pulled his saber free, killing the man instantly. He then turned to Newsom, who stood by trembling with shock. "This man was under your direct command, sheriff. We cannot tolerate cowardice or incompetence within our ranks. Understood? Make sure that Trevors is truly dead. Then find the Masked Man and his Indian companion."
"Ye-yes, sir!" Before Newsom could leave, Cavendish then issued one more order, referring to the dead man, bleeding on the floor. "One more thing. Remove him. And have someone clean up this mess."
"Yes, sir!" Newsom exited as Cavendish took a towel to wipe the blood from his saber.
Meanwhile back at the mines, "Justin? Justin! You still alive?" Asked Thaddeus Jones, who was shaking the apparently unconscious form of Justin Calhoun.
"Unfortunately," was Justin's quiet reply. Justin then asked, "What . . . what the devil are ya doin'?" Thaddeus had taken off his shirt, having tied it around Justin's leg to stop the bleeding. He was now removing Justin's shirt. Justin was very suspicious of that.
"Don't worry," replied Thaddeus. "You ain't my type." Thaddeus used the shirt, along with their under shirts, to cover the bottom of the box floor. "That guard was right. This thing's gettin' hotter n' an oven. Got to find a way for us to keep from burnin' up."
"Swe . . . sweat lodge," said Justin.
"Sweat what?" Asked Thaddeus.
"Sweat lodge," said Justin. In short gasps, both from the pain of his wounded leg and from the increasing heat within their iron prison, Justin explained. "See, the Lakota would lay out . . . skins over a lodge. Inside would be a fire. Gets so hot in there . . . ya'd think you was bein' cooked fer dinner."
"I knowed Indians was crazy. Why the hell they'd wanna do that?" Asked Thaddeus, the heat getting to him.
"It was a way . . . of getting in touch with . . . Wakantanka," was Justin's reply.
"Walk a tonk a WHAT?" Said Thaddeus.
Justin explained, "Wakantanka . . . God. The Lakota believe that all they have to give to God is their bodies. Through pain . . . they feel closer to Him. The Sun Dance . . . the vision quest . . . the sweat lodge."
"Well, I ain't been to church since I was a little kid. 'Course, choosin' 'tween a sermon what says I'm headin' straight ta Hell and bein' in a actual oven-." Thaddeus shook his
head. "What a choice."
Justin smiled as he said, "It's just like . . . the sweat lodge . . . you see? We can...get through this-."
"By 'gettin' religion'? In here? No thanks! I got me enough troubles without gettin' no Indian mumbo jumbo!" Was Thaddeus' reply. "We got to start thinkin' of a way to get outta this thing and get you to a doctor-!"
Justin cut in. "Ain't no way out. You heard 'em. Iron. Locked. Guards outside. No way out."
Thaddeus was now really annoyed, not just from the heat, but also from the smile coming from Justin's face. "Will you get that stupid look offa your face? It gives me the creeps! I mean, what are ya doin', just givin' up?"
"No," said Justin. "Fighting . . . without resisting."
"Oh great. More Indian religion."
"We can't . . . get out. So we . . . got to survive by goin' into . . . ourselves . . . our own minds. The Lakota believe . . . the 'real world' . . . is the world of dreams. That's how . . . they deal with . . . impossible situations and survive."
That got Thaddeus' attention. "You into your 'own mind?'"
"Yep," replied Justin while smiling and closing his eyes.
"That's why the heat don't bother me none. That's why I'm gonna live."
"Well, what are ya thinkin' of?" Asked Thaddeus.
Justin replied with a smile, "Naked women."
Thaddeus replied, while finally seriously considering Justin's methods. "God damn." Thaddeus looked to Justin, who was now apparently asleep, or deep in concentration. Thaddeus had to add, "Say, Justin. I don't mean to cut into your spiritual connections with God and the naked women and all but, hell, I need you to kinda move to one side." Justin opened his eyes, already knowing what was bothering Thaddeus now. With urgency, Thaddeus said, "I gotta take a leak."
(6)
The heat in the iron box was beyond sweltering. Both Thaddeus and Justin could feel the boils starting to form on their skins and it seemed as if every ounce of water in their bodies was being sweated out. The throbbing in their temples, the light-headedness, and the queasiness in their stomachs added to their worsening conditions. However, to Justin Calhoun, a half-caste Oglala Lakota, this was merely the easiest way for a warrior to achieve the visions, blessings from Wakantanka, The Great Spirit.
Justin had never met Yellow Bird, his mother, nor for that matter, his white father, Samuel Calhoun. However, both he and his sister knew they were different. Always knowing the white side first hand, Justin sought to find his Indian side. Though he would never be fully accepted by either people, he learned and took that part of his heritage in.
The vision did indeed come. Though ‘right-minded’ whites would call what he was experiencing was a hallucination, brought on by severe heat stroke and dehydration, but Justin Calhoun knew that this was indeed a vision.
In his mind's eye, he saw a circle of Indians in council. These weren't Lakota, these weren't Sioux, no, these were their one-time enemies, the people who the Lakota had driven from the Black Hills nearly eighty-winter counts before, the Kiowas. Justin could tell, because their chiefs, well known for their defiance of the Texans, were in attendance. There was Satank, the old warrior, whose haggard appearance, gray hairs, and long, Mongol moustache disguised the noble, strong warrior beneath. There was also Setiente. The smiling, jovial warrior who lived every day to it's fullest by indulging in life's pleasures. And to Setiente, there was no greater pleasure than the rush of battle. Also in attendance was Kicking Bird, the diplomat of the Kiowa nation. Though a warrior with no peer, Kicking Bird always spoke for peace. The important men of the Kiowas, as well as their allies, the Comanches and the Plains Apache, were in attendance because of the
acts of one man.
Justin Calhoun didn't recognize him, but he can sense the Kiowa warrior's strength of will. "Tonto," called out old man Satank. "The Texans are our sworn enemies! They collect bounties on our scalps and violate the women of our tribe. Then they dig in the bowels of Mother Earth, taking from her, not to live, not to honor The Great Spirit, but for greed! For the yellow metal and the paper it brings to take our hunting grounds from the weaker chiefs! They have always done these things, always killing more than they need, killing off the buffalo, killing off the land . . . killing off us! And now, you bring one of them into our camp? Why, Tonto?" The man called Tonto stood up, carefully weighing his words before giving his answer. Justin could see that this man had struggled with that very question earlier.
"Great chiefs of the Kiowa nation, as well as you who are our brothers, the Comanche and Prairie Apaches, I have asked myself this ever since I found him, nearly dead from an ambush from atop our sacred hiding place. What makes a man an enemy or a friend? Is it the color of his skin, the shape of his nose? What makes him a brother? The same mother, the same father? The Comanche and the Prairie Apaches are our brothers, though their tongue and their ways are different from ours. This man is white. But he saved my life as a boy. He became my brother. He is not the same as those who have invaded our lodges and killed our women and children. Like many of you, I would know something of that. I still visit the burial scaffold of my wife and daughter. That hurt will never go away." Justin could see that the Indians fell silent. "If the day comes that he proves himself to be the enemy of our people, then it shall be my lance that seeks out his liver! But until that
day comes, let him be judged by his deeds and his alone!" In the eye of Justin's mind, he saw that the Southern Plains chiefs fell silent. With that, the vision changed.
Now Justin saw a young man. Justin couldn't see the young man's face clearly, but he could see that he was strong. Justin could also sense his determination and his sadness. The young man was kneeling by some recently dug graves, holding a badge of a Texas lawman. The grave he kneeled over was an empty one, while the others were covered up and marked. The young man said, "From this day forward, John Reid is dead. He died along with those others at the foot of the canyon as we were shot down like animals! Dan, brother, I swear by all that's holy that I shall dedicate my life to make sure that those murderers shall be brought to justice. I shall not rest until the West will be made safe for decent people. I shall dedicate my life to this cause until the day comes that I join you, brother." The young man arose and slowly put on a mask, covering his face. The Kiowa warrior that Justin saw in the previous vision came forward on a brown horse. Behind him, trailed another horse, a White Stallion. The Masked Man came forward towards the White Stallion as the Kiowa warrior released its reins.
The vision faded. Justin was now awake. The heat was gone, the effects that it had upon his body was not. Thaddeus spoke weakened by the effects of the days now faded heat. "Ju-jus?"
Slowly, Justin answered, "Yeah."
"You-you hangin' in there . . . with your wound an all?"
"Hangin' in there."
"Still . . . got to get a doctor for ya. The wound . . . get infected . . . turn to poison."
"Thanks for reminding me."
Thaddeus didn't answer that remark. He just smirked. Thaddeus then continued. "Cooler now."
Justin answered, "Just the change in the weather. Nighttime. Soon it'll be freezing. So
much that you could feel your teeth shake off. It's like a fever. First the heat, then the chills."
Thaddeus interrupted, "Thanks for reminding me." Justin smiled. His cruel kidding worked. However, his worsening condition was no joke, and Thaddeus was right. He had to see a doctor and get the bullet removed. Thaddeus started pounding on the walls.
"Open up out there, ya hear me! Open up! If ya gotta keep me in here, fine, but this man's injured! He needs a doctor!" To himself, he said, "Pack of murderers!" Thaddeus resigned himself to the situation.
"It's useless," said Justin.
"I had to try. It's better than sittin' around, waitin' to freeze to death."
"We won't freeze. Long as we set our minds to it," said Justin.
Thaddeus just shook his head, deciding not to argue with Justin's beliefs. He had previously stripped down to keep cool. Now he was covering himself quickly as the chill inside began to increase. Thaddeus, wanting to distract himself from the cold, continued talking. "Had me this crazy dream earlier. You know, when the heat got so bad, I just plumb passed out. Anyways, it was weird. There was this group of Indians. I recognized some of 'em. Kiowa's and Comanches. Some of their chiefs had led raids on the settlements near Comancheria when me and-." He was about to mention Heyes, but then caught himself. "a buddy of mine were workin' in Texas. Anyways, they took in this fella who was standin' by some graves. Guess he was a bandit or somethin’. He-."
Justin cut in. "Wore a mask?"
Thaddeus was surprised. "Yeah, yeah, he wore a mask. Anyways, this one Indian, he gave him this-."
Justin cut in again. "White horse."
"Yeah. What the hell is this? I talk to myself when I was havin' that there fever dream?"
"Wasn't a fever dream, Jones," said Justin. "It was a vision. We both seen it. It was a gift from the Great Spirit. It was our salvation." The cold started to set in.
Sunset at Fort Laramie this day was tense. A cavalry troop out on patrol came riding in. Half of them were seriously injured and two of them were dead with arrows in their backs. The man at the stables asked, "What the hell happened?"
"What do you think?" Answered Lieutenant Jackson Ward, the troop's leader. "Another attack by the Sioux! Pretty soon this fort'll be a death trap for us unless we ride out and settle things with those red devils!" Ward then called out while referring to the injured men. "Get a doctor for these men!" He then referred to the dead soldiers, with genuine remorse and sadness. "And get a preacher for these two."
"Indian troubles are getting worse by the day," said Colonel Hank McLaughlin, the post commander. Inside the doctor's quarters, he paced, as Doctor Lee Caldwell was removing the arrow from Sheriff Lom Trevors, who was unconscious. Also in the office was scout Jim Bridger along with the Masked Man and Tonto.
The Masked Man asked, "Will he live doctor?"
The old doctor responded, "Meaning, did you get to him in time. I don't know, son. Got the point out." He held the arrowhead up. "Sheet metal, I'd say. Funny. The Indians are so dependent on the goods of the white man, now, that even their arrow-points come from us. Had this been their traditional stone or bone points, I could've had a hell of a time removing the chips from him. Anyways, we'll just have to wait and see if I got to him before infection has had a time to set in. Well that's all I can do for him. Make sure someone keeps watch over him. Let me know if there's any change. Been at it for hours, I need some air." The doctor finished up and started to leave. He then turned towards Trevors, who was still unconscious in bed, and said, "In a way, it's good that he's still out of it. If I had to go I'd rather have it be in my asleep." The doctor then exited his own office.
The Masked Man came forward. "That was no Indian that shot this man."
"Yeah, we have him locked up. Officially, being held for questioning for his knowledge of the Indian raids," said the Colonel.
The Masked Man interjected, "Precaution against leaks, Colonel?"
"Kind of hard for a man to know who he can trust these days. As it stands, only my most trusted officers are involved in our investigations and only a few of them at that," replied the Colonel.
"Understood," said the Masked Man, who noticed that the Colonel was looking at Tonto suspiciously. "You can put your mind at ease, Colonel. Tonto?"
Tonto came forward. "My people are Kiowas, Colonel, from the South. The Sioux drove us their from our homes in the Black Hills. I have no allegiance to them."
"Satisfied?" Asked the Masked Man.
The Colonel nodded. "We've interrogated that would be Indian prisoner whom you brought in. He's either a very hard case or-."
"Or what?" Asked the Masked Man.
"Or he's more scared of the man he works for than of us."
The Masked Man turned to Bridger. "Jim, you say there's a lot of talk in the Sioux camps, blaming this post for a lot of their missing relatives."
Jim Bridger came forward. "It's not just talk. The young warriors of the tribes are saying that the soldiers here are kidnapping their relatives, the ones camped nearby."
"'Laramie Loafers'?" Asked the Masked Man.
"That's what they call 'em," said Bridger.
"The old man, Sitting Bull, he says it's the white man's way, taking slaves. That's why we're fighting back East. He says now is the time to drive us from their hunting grounds and rescue their ‘blinded' relatives who are slaves to our ways."
Tonto interjected, "The old one is pushing for a war, then."
The Masked Man noticed his friend's willingness to judge the Sioux in a bad light. "You say some trails were set?" Asked the Masked Man.
Bridger responded, "Yeah, leading towards the ridge just before the road here."
"Sounds like someone is anxious to set the Sioux against this post," said the Masked Man.
Lieutenant Jackson Ward came busting in. "Set them against us? They are against us! And the sooner we all start acting like military men instead of fools, the safer this country will be!"
"Lieutenant!" Yelled out the Colonel angrily. Ward snapped to attention. "It is customary to knock before entering a premises. Or has military protocol been usurped out here on the Plains!"
Ward apologized, "Sorry sir. It's just . . . my men, ten of them injured. Two of them dead, killed with arrows in their backs! One of them was young Fred Miner. I was going to be best man at his wedding in two months. Now I gotta go tell his fiancée' that there'll be no more wedding." The room fell silent. Ward then looked to Tonto. "What is it now, Colonel? We fighting Indians or fighting with 'em?"
The Colonel went to him. "I regret what happened to your friend, lieutenant. But he was a
soldier."
"And this is war," answered Ward. "With all due respect, I just hope you remember that, Colonel." Ward then tipped his hat and exited, giving Tonto a dirty look as he left.
"I apologize for his behavior, gentlemen," said the Colonel. He then referred to Tonto. "To both of you."
The Masked Man continued, "There's a mining town and trading post nearby, along the Oregon Trail, correct?"
"We've had our suspicions about Horse Creek and Fort Bartholemew," said the Colonel.
"Fort Bartholemew?" Asked the Masked Man.
"That mean something to you?" Asked the Colonel.
"Maybe." The Masked Man paced. "When I was officially requested to look into this by Washington, I was following a lead on the man who was responsible for my brother's death. Now I'm beginning to think I'm back on that case."
"What do you mean?" The Colonel asked.
"Just a suspicion I have, Colonel." The Masked Man then said, "Kind of unusual to have a white settlement this far North. So far, the lands from the Nebraska to Montana have been Sioux lands, with only the Oregon Trail and the forts along it to be used by the white man. How long has this Fort Bartholemew been in existence?"
The Colonel answered, "Both the Trader's Post and the town nearby, more or less about two years. Not too long after the silver vein was discovered. Big Eastern corporations staked their claim on the place. The legality of the claims were always suspect and this corporation had enough men and arms to chase out any miners that were still nearby. I'll be square with you. That so-called 'trading post' has more men and more arms than even we do, mostly because a lot of our men have been called back East to fight."
Tonto interjected, "If they are the ones responsible for the kidnappings and they are so well armed, why bother framing Fort Laramie?"
"That's a good question," said the Masked Man.
Bridger said, "Maybe they just want to avoid a fight if they can."
The Masked Man continued. "Maybe. Maybe it's something even more. Jim, you're familiar with the Northern Tribes. If you can reason with them, convince their chiefs to hold their warriors in check. We need the time."
Bridger said, "A couple of months ago, I would have said I could talk the chiefs out of war. Now, with the way things are, I'm just another 'wasichu' to them. That means 'takes the fat' in Lakota. To them, that's all we white men have ever done."
The Masked Man paced. "Then maybe you need somebody to come along who has no stake in this to help plead our case for peace. Somebody who might even have a reason to fight the whites. Such a man with you certainly wouldn't have any reason to lie." They all turned to Tonto.
"I've no intention of staying in a Sioux camp!" Exclaimed Tonto.
"Tonto-" tried the Masked Man.
"I wouldn't trust a Sioux any more than I would trust a rattlesnake!" Said Tonto. "There's no talking to those people!"
The Masked Man said, "Tonto, I need your help."
"Why would they listen to me, a Kiowa? They'd only laugh before they threw me out of camp. My people are the ones they defeated."
The Masked Man said, "Your people have also suffered because of the actions of white men like those we're after. They know that. They'll listen to you."
Tonto reluctantly nodded and went with Bridger, who said, "We best leave for the Oglala camp soon as possible. We'll be safer in the dark, since most of the warriors don't like to fight at night. Bowstrings get wet with the moisture in the night air."
Tonto added, "That is if they're only using bows and arrows." Bridger and Tonto left The Masked Man then said, "I want to have a little talk with our prisoner, Colonel." The Colonel nodded his agreement.
It was early evening at the Lucky Strike Mine. Jedidiah, his wrists tied, was brought into the office of the sergeant by an armed guard. This sergeant was the same man who had thrown in Justin Calhoun and Thaddeus Jones in the box a few hours earlier. "Well what do we have here?" Asked the sergeant as he stood up from his desk.
The guard responded, "New worker, sergeant. Sheriff Newsom wants him marked down in the books. He'll be one of the replacements for the two you had to discipline today."
The sergeant smiled sarcastically at Jedidiah, gloating. "You know what he means by 'disciplining?'"
"No," said Jedidiah.
"I want you to take a look at something, right here." He motioned for Jedidiah to come to the window. The iron box was clearly in view. "We got a lot of ways to cure a man of bein' high-spirited. But that thing's our pride and joy, mostly because it's simple. It's just a box. A box that turns into an oven by day and ice by night. If our two 'examples' in there are lucky, they'll be dead before morning." The sergeant laughed. Jedidiah did not. "You don't seem to amused by me. Am I boring you prisoner 981?"
Jedidiah knew that the numbering was a part of de-humanizing him. He answered, "No. You're not 'boring' me 'sergeant.'"
The sergeant laughed. "Oh. And one more thing." The sergeant grabbed Jedidiah by the collar. "Don't ever get me mad." He then delivered a right cross that sent Jedidiah to the floor. Jedidiah looked up, but he knew that with his wrists bound and the armed guard present, he had better hold his temper. "Take him to his quarters gently," said the sergeant. The guard picked Jedidiah up off of the floor and escorted him out of the office.
Untied, Jedidiah was shoved into his quarters. There were bunk beds and several prisoners inside. One of them, a small man in his fifties, named Sim, laughed. "Looks like we got some new meat!"
"Shut up, Sim!" Said Link, a strong, tall black man who was another prisoner. "Tryin' to get some sleep, here."
Jedidiah went to what he thought was an empty bunk bed and sat down, but another worker, a big, strong man, came over to Jedidiah and said, "You're in my bunk." Without saying anything, Jedidiah got up and went over to another empty bed. "That's my bunk, too," said the big man. Jedidiah shook his head, then tried to sit down on an empty spot on the floor, but then the big man said, "That's my spot, too."
Jedidiah stood up. "Well I'm just a little tired of moving." The others moved back, making room for the fight they knew was about to happen.
"Ain't you just a little bit small to be causin' trouble sonny?" The big man, at 6' 2" and 190 lbs., towering over the 5' 5" and 140 lb. Jedidiah, gripped him by the collar, ready to heave him out of the window. However, Jedidiah squatted abruptly, dropping his full weight down to the ground, planting himself, while simultaneously reaching over with his left arm, hooking and trapping the big man's arms at the crook of the elbows. Jedidiah then reached underneath and gripped the big man's testicles hard. He dropped to the floor with a moan of pain, lying on the ground in a fetal position. The men in the compound looked on, wide-eyed and surprised. They all gave Jedidiah space as he took his choice of a bunk.
Link went to him. "I ain't never seen anything like that. That fella's mean. He once broke a man's back just 'cause he sneezed near him."
"That's 'cause no one ever stood up to him, before. They let his size intimidate them. I don't scare easy."
"Name's Link."
"Jedidiah." They shook hands.
"You look like someone I can trust."
"Trust? For what?"
Link eased up close to him. "Escape."
Jedidiah shook his head. "Not interested."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Look, sooner or later every one of us is gonna get worked to death in them caves! I knew two fellas, just like you, got themselves buried in the mines!"
"Look I got my reasons. Now if you want to risk your fool neck against armed guards, go ahead. But leave me out of it!"
"You don't scare easy, huh?" Link, frustrated, left Jedidiah alone.
Sim went over to him. He was laughing. "What's funny? Asked Jedidiah.
"Him. He's always gettin' them fool notions about escapin'. Hell, if Sioux braves ain't made it, how's he expect us to?"
"Sioux, here?"
"Yeah. They're housed in the other compound. I guess the birds what run this place don't
want to take no chances in them red savages takin' our hair in the middle of the night. Not that they really care what happens with us. Link's right. They'll bury all of us eventually."
"Then maybe we ought to consider Link's plan."
"Why rush to gettin' killed. Got to hang on to every little bit of life you can, especially when it's all you've got left. Anyway, things could be worse. Them two in the box out there, I'll take my chances in the mines over that, any day."
Off-handed, Jedidiah asked, "Who's in there?"
"New meat, just like you. One of 'ems a half-breed, I hear."
That got Jedidiah's attention. "Half-breed?"
"Yeah. Him and his friend Jones, I think was his last name."
Jedidiah grabbed Sim. "When were they put in there?"
Startled, Sim said, "I-I don't know! You-you're hurtin' me, mister!"
Jedidiah released him. "Sorry. Those two in there, when were they put in?"
"Earlier today. They usually leave 'em in there for three days. 'Course by then, there usually ain't much left to take out. They ain't friends of yours, are they?"
Jedidiah didn't answer. He simply knew that he had to do something for Justin and Thaddeus who were prisoners in the box.
The Masked Man was left alone in the cell with the bowman. He tossed the bowman against the cell door. "Talk! You know where he's hiding, the layout of the fort! I want to know!"
The bowman replied, "I'm not tellin' you anything!" The bowman took a swing at the Masked Man who easily blocked the punch and put his hip into the man, tossing him over his shoulder to the ground.
Holding the man by his extended arm, the Masked Man locked it at the elbow, securing it with his armpit and his clasped hands. He then kneeled on one knee while putting his other knee against the man's shoulder and neck. The man screamed. "You want to keep this arm?" The Masked Man exerted more pressure, making the man scream. "Where is Butch Cavendish?"
The man nervously replied, "Alright. All right. I'll talk." The Masked Man let the man up. The man then staggered to the walls of his cell.
"Where's Cavendish hidden and why'd you try to frame the Sioux?"
"Cavendish is beneath your reach, masked man!" With that, the bowman bit his own tongue hard. Within seconds, he was on the floor, bleeding to death.
The Masked Man called out, "Colonel! Colonel!" Colonel McLaughlin and two armed guards came running in, unlocking the cell. The Masked Man knelt over, trying to steady the dying man.
"What the hell happened?" Asked the Colonel. "Bit his own tongue to prevent himself from talking. Get him to the doctor, quick!" The two guards grabbed the chocking man and rushed him out of the cell.
"What kind of leader instills that much loyalty, that much fear, in his men that they would be willing to kill themselves rather than betray him?" Asked the Colonel.
The Masked Man answered, "The kind that I've been trailing for two years. Colonel, I think it's time I visited Horse Creek."
Jim Bridger and Tonto were on their mounts, riding up to where the last known location of the Oglala camp. Bridger said, "We'll be there, soon. I guess I can understand what you're feeling, Tonto."
"Do you? These Sioux are quick to point out whenever they've been wronged. But then they laugh when they talk of my people, especially when they talk of how many Kiowa their warriors have killed."
"Maybe it's time for the Indian nations to put past grudges aside. The new ways are coming. Army forts and the settlers will be swarming over the Plains."
"You mean stand together?" Scoffed Tonto. "Like the white man who is so 'united?' That's why your people are killing each other in the East. I choose my friends, Bridger, and my enemies." Annoyed, Tonto then rode ahead of Bridger, who just shook his head, knowing it was useless to argue. At that point, shots rang out, Scout, Tonto's pony reared up. Tonto then regained control and rode back to Bridger. However, before either of them could find cover, they were soon surrounded. A party of twelve Sioux warriors had them surrounded. "Indians don't like to fight at night, huh?" Said Tonto to the surprised Jim Bridger. "They don't not unless they're armed with guns!" All of the Sioux were armed with repeating rifles, not bows and arrows. Tonto knew that perhaps it was time for him to sing his death song.
New York, 1861.
Bare-knuckle boxing bouts were illegal in most States, denounced by most of the upper crust of American society as immoral. Reformers in particular, referred to the sport as barbaric, a throw back to the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome. However, there were also those who saw "the manly art of self-defense as a true science and a valid sport. This night, in a New York warehouse, two men squared off, while a large crowd gathered around, making their bets. The bout was scheduled for 25 rounds, boxers of the 19th Century having to go for much longer than their modern counterparts. Each boxer had put up a significant amount of money, a guarantee that each one would show up. Both wore the tights and boots common for boxers to wear of that time period. Each one also wore a sash across their waists, one wore yellow, and the other wore green. Both were bare-chested.
This was a heavy-weight bout. The yellow-sashed boxer was an Irish immigrant. Though obviously strong, he was slightly smaller and not nearly as bulky as his opponent. Though initially scoffed by his slightly larger opponent for being a ‘Mic’ and for the color of his sash reflecting his cowardice for having tried to duck out of this fight, it was soon apparent that the smaller Irish boxer was the superior fighter. Throughout the bout, he would stalk the larger man, remaining in a crouched position, slipping under most of the taller man's blows and positioning and distancing himself in such a way that most of the blows from the larger man that did land on him were either smothered or merely grazed him, without the full power of the larger man behind the punches. The smaller man would then pound away at the larger man's ribs after having staggered the big man with an over-hand right over the larger man's left jab, sending him into the ropes. For three devastating rounds, the smaller Irish boxer mauled the larger man. By the fourth round, the big boxer's manager and corner threw in the towel. The fight did not last the prospective twenty-five rounds, and some of the patrons in attendance starting hurling things into the ring. Fortunately, the fight's promoters knew they couldn't rely on New York's constables to keep order. They hired bodyguards, armed with clubs, to keep the peace. Within a few minutes, order had been restored as the managers escorted their fighters back to their make-shift dressing rooms.
In his room, the young boxer was being massaged and patted down by his corner man to relax him while his manager, while pointing out some of the few mistakes the boxer had made during the fight, nevertheless congratulated his young protégée'. The boxer said to his manager, who was also his trainer as was the common practice of the time, "I wanted to thank ya. When I arrived from Dublin, I came without a red cent, and then you took me in. Treated me better than me own father."
"You deserved it, son. I could see it in your eyes, a determination and a raw courage. That's something ya can't teach a man. You can only refine it. It's not a common thing, and so when I saw you in your first fight, I knew I had to take you in."
"What about your other fighters? They went on to make somethin' of themselves, too."
"Yeah. But anyone can learn a skill. The determination, the hunger, that's something else. In all me years of trainin', I taught a lot of young men how to use their fists proper. But in all that time, there was only two that really wanted it, so much that you can feel it. It's the hunger. You are one of those two."
"Who was the other one? He still fightin', too?"
"Yes. You'll never see him in the ring, though. But he's still fightin'."
Quebec, Canada 1861
The fair was a grand festival, in spite of the tension in the air. Families were in attendance, taking in the food, the festivities, and the shows, and the organizers were certain that they had raised enough funds for victims of a recent cholera epidemic. The tension came from the mixed crowd. Many if the attendees were well to do recent arrivals from England, popularly referred to in the press as the ‘Chateau Clique’. However, also in attendance were an equal amount of Patriots, native-born French Canadians who clung tenaciously to their language, their culture, and their Roman Catholic faith. Both groups usually didn't like each other. However, both French and English Canadians had suffered from the cholera epidemic and so there would be peace at this festival for today, at least, for the crowd, at least. For near one of the tents, a makeshift boxing ring was erected.
Inside stood a French boxer from Marseilles, having arrived in the Canada’s from that port city of France just five years earlier. He was dressed in the standard tights, boots, and sash in the manner of the American and English boxers of that time period. He was muscular and well built and he had a long, handlebar moustache. Though no longer in his prime, since he appeared to be in his mid-forties, he seemed confident in his abilities and to the English he seemed cocky.
Also in the ring was a barker who called out, getting everyone's attention that passed by. A crowd gathered, particularly the younger, rowdier men who were in attendance. The barker called out, "Lahdeehs uhn shentailmain! Monsieurs . . . ma'amzelle. I preezent toyoo zee magneefeecent fy-the zee great combatant all zee way from Marseilles! Monsieur Andre Pichot!" The French patrons applauded loudly while the English patrons simply kept quiet. "Een mah hand, Ah 'ave zees grande gold piece! Ah weel geev zees to zee first man zat can last three rounds in zee ring weeth Monsieur Pichot een man to man combat!" The crowd milled around, but there were no takers.
"Surely, zair mahst be wahn among yoo not lacking een zee qualities of manhood!" Still, there was no answer. Then the barker, listening carefully to the milling crowd, so as to point out who was mumbling to their friends in French and who was mumbling in English, directed his baiting at the latter. "Monsieur Pichot ees an exponent of zee noble art of le Savate zee French art of boxing!" He then directed his next remark at the English speaking patrons. "Zehre 'ahs been much speculashon as to zee superiority of French boxing over zee Engleesh boxing!" That got the crowd going. "Eet ees no speculashon! Zee unwilleengness of your fine Engleesh patrons here in attendahnce, obviously steel een zee flower of manhood, attests to zee superiority of le Savate!"
The French patrons laughed while the young man of the English began falling over themselves, wanting a chance to show up both the barker and the tall, moustached Frenchman standing beside him in the ring.
Shouts of "let me at ''em" could be heard.
Finally, a huge, powerfully built English Canadian stepped up, taking off his jacket. "I'll take on yer blasted fighter!"
"Finallee! A man among zee Engleesh!" A smaller man, obviously the English man's friend, took his coat while telling the barker, "Jake 'ere is the boxing champ of ole' Lankshire an' 'ee once stepped in the ring with the great Thomas Cribb!"
"Hee steps een, 'ee weel be carried out," the French barker said with a smile, garnering the laughs of the French attendees.
The English Canadian boxer asked, "What be the rules, gov'?"
"Rules?" Responded the barker.
The small man responded for his friend, "Yeah, rules! Marquis of Queensbury shall it be?"
"'Marquis of Queensbury?' What are we een here for, to play a mere slappeeng gahm weeth our 'ands? No, monsieur! Zees ees a fight for honor for national pride! No wrestling, no gouging, no forayn objaycts! Beyond zat, eet shahll be a test of skeel between zee two combatants! N'est-ce pas?"
Rubbing the shoulders of his friend, the little man said, "Knock 'is ruddy block off, Jakey boy!"
Slapping his fist into his other hand, the English Canadian responded, "With pleasure!"
The barker signaled to the man at the corner of the ring to ring the bell as both he and the little man stepped out of the ring. There was no referee for this impromptu demonstration bout. There was only the English boxer, assuming his raised fist fighting stance and the French savateur assuming a very similar fighting stance. However, as the English man stepped forward and shot out his left jab, the French boxer parried it while shuffling back just out of reach. He then delivered a left round kick to the English boxer's lead knee, a round kick to the English boxer's head with the same foot, then a powerful spinning back kick to the English boxer's midsection, sending the huge Englishman to the floor, gasping for air. His small companion rushed into the ring and tried to help his friend up.
"No fair! 'E was kickin' 'e was!"
"Correct, monsieur!" The barker then addressed his remarks to the crowd. "What yoo 'ahve shoost seen, ees zee classeek expression of le Savate zee French art of boxing weeth zee feet!"
The English patrons were especially dumbfounded. Though there were a few boos from some of the English, many were genuinely shocked and dumbfounded. Not only had the French boxer used kicks to dispatch one of their own, he did so with a grace that was almost ballet-like in its execution. It was actually beautiful to watch, in a brutal way. The booers wanted to start a riot and constables were on-hand, ready to keep the peace. However, there weren't enough hecklers to cause trouble and as the majority of the crowd applauded, English as well as French, the hecklers made their departure. The barker escorted the moustached savateur to the inside of the tent after apologizing to the fallen English boxer. "My apologies, monsieur, but yoo do not ween zee gold piece!"
Inside the tent, the barker congratulated the savateur from Marseilles. The barker genuinely enjoyed the French boxer's company, partly because the man was a quiet and easy going fellow outside of the ring. However, it also gave him a chance to speak in his native French to a man who did not have a Canadian accent. "Monsieur Pichot, that was a most magnificent display!" Said the barker as he changed jackets, speaking in perfect French, and not the unwieldy English language, which he actually loathed.
"It was no great victory," Pichot said. "The man has obviously had no experience with savate, but I have boxed, so I knew what to expect of him. In any case, this month will be the end of my tours. I can settle down with my wife and start raising a proper family."
"You'll give up the fight game?" Pichot shook his head.
"No. I could never give up. But I am getting old past my prime. I'd like to spread savate among our people, as a source of pride in our abilities, our very manhood!"
The barker smiled at the prospect. "A saul, a gymnasium would be in order. Ironic, is it not, Monsieur Pichot? A few years ago, savate was relegated to the lower classes of the docks. Street fighters and saloon brawlers who wanted a way to give them an advantage, but wanted to avoid the stiffer penalties for using a fist to strike a man under French law."
Pichot said, "The art wasn't called 'savate' at that time, but chasson. 'Old shoe.'" He smiled at that. Yes, I would like to open a saul for savate here for our people."
"Have you ever coached before here in the Canada’s?" Asked the barker as he finished changing, ready to end his work for the day.
Pichot responded, "Yes I had one student. Not too long ago. He picked up very fast. He had a determination in him. And the irony was, he wasn't even French. He was an American."
The Minnesota Woodlands, 1861.
The woodlands of this area were not too far off from the towns where hostilities between the Eastern Sioux or Dakota under Little Crow and the German settlers and American traders were beginning to brew. The lumberjacks of this camp needed an outlet to release their tensions, since they all knew that a Sioux was in Minnesota was coming.
One of the most common past times for these rough and hardy men was the art of wrestling, the most common style being the catch as catch can style, the same style that President Lincoln had practiced while still in his youth in Illinois.
This day's match was a friendly one, as most of them were. Two men, one tall, one shorter, but stocky built, had gripped each other by one arm while gripping each other behind the back of the head with the other hand. A circle was formed by the other lumberjacks, edging them on, while some others were off of the circle, warming up for their recreational bouts.
Midway through their bout, the taller wrestler tried to push the smaller man down, trying to use his strength and size, as opposed to skill and technique, to best his opponent. However, the shorter man shot in to the taller man, pushing with his legs and driving his shoulder in between the taller man's legs. With a heave, he hoisted the taller man onto his shoulders while pulling on his elbow. He threw the taller man onto his back and then covered him, pinning his shoulder as one of the other lumberjacks fell to the ground
and patted the ground and yelling. "One fall!" The others cheered and the taller man, in good sportsmanship, smiled to his conqueror and shook his hand.
They both laughed. "I'll never be so foolish as to misjudge a man by his size again!" The smaller man patted him on the shoulder and they both got up, leaving the circle to get some water while two other wrestlers entered to test each other's skills. "What the hell did you do to me? I thought I had you for sure."
The smaller man answered, "Just leverage, using my weight and yours, to my advantage."
"Well, friend, if you ever have the time, I'd be more than happy to part with a bit of my pay to learn that."
The smaller man said, "I ain't never really taught much."
"Never?"
"Guess I never really had the patience. I did teach once, though. Young fella, told me he had lost his brother."
San Francisco, Chinatown, 1861.
The mah-jong hall was the gathering place of Chinatown's more rowdier crowd. It was also frequented by members of the Triads or ‘tongs’, the Chinese underground criminal organization. As the patrons continued with their bets, the owner of the establishment was being ‘shaken down’ for ‘protection’ money by two very large tong members. In his native Cantonese, one of the tong enforcer said to the owner, "You have been offered a chance to pay your tribute owed us, Wing Ho!"
The other enforcer said, "We merely seek that which is owed us for the protection the tong provides."
"Protection?" Asked the owner sarcastically. "When the whites rioted in our new homes, we were left to fight and defend our families alone! The tong was nowhere to be found! Even though it was your wars against each other that caused the riots!" The first enforcer slapped him down. Defiantly, the owner slowly looked up and said, "It was you tongs, while firing upon each other for control of your 'protection' money that you squeeze from us, that shot and killed a white woman when she was caught in your cross-fire."
"Insolent dog!" Yelled out the first enforcer as he grabbed the old man by the collar. "You forget yourself! In Canton, the tong holds sway even over the officials who serve the Manchu rats who sit upon the throne!"
At that point, the first enforcer's companion let out a scream of pain. As the first enforcer released Wing Ho, he saw his companion lying on the ground unconscious. Standing over him was Wing Ho's own bodyguard, a Chinese man in his early fifties. He stood out not by his size, since he was actually of average height for a Chinese. What made him stand out was the fact that his head was not shaven in front, nor did he wear a pigtail, as was the custom forced upon the Chinese by their Manchu rulers over two hundred years earlier. The bodyguard said plainly, "This is not Canton."
The owner took cover behind his desk as the tong enforcer took out his hatchet. The tong enforcer faked a left low kick, hoping to bring the guard's hands down, so that he can come up top with his hatchet upon the guard's head. However, the bodyguard didn't respond to the fake. Instead, he shuffled in and simultaneously blocked the hatchet blow with his left hand, while gripping the enforcer's throat with his right. He then thrust his right heel into the right knee of the enforcer, knocking the tong enforcer off balance and giving him even more pain.
Applying pressure, the guard said, "Drop it." The tong enforcer complied, releasing the hatchet, letting it fall to the ground. Immediately, the guard shot his right shin between the tong enforcer's leg, kicking him in the groin. He then finished the job with a hammer fist strike to the back of the enforcer's head and neck, sending the enforcer to the floor. To the owner, he said, "I'll take them outside, quietly."
"Thank you," said the owner, placing his left hand over his right closed fist, the Cantonese gesture of greetings or thanks.
The bodyguard had left both tong enforcers in the back alleys and had returned to the owner's office. "They'll keep coming, uncle Ho." He referred to the owner as ‘uncle’, though they were not related. This was his way of showing respect for the owner, who was significantly older than the bodyguard.
"The tong is a blight upon our people. I will not contribute to their evil by paying them a part of the funds that I worked so hard for."
The bodyguard shook his head. "One cannot stand against a giant alone."
"The other businesses members of the Chinese-American League will stand with me.
Law Sifu, we did not leave our homes in Kwangtung Province, to escape the oppression of the Manchus and the barbarity of the Taiping Rebels only to be bled by the tong."
Law Ming Cheng, the bodyguard, or ‘Teacher’ Law as he was now being called, paced visibly worried. "You now refer to me as 'teacher'. You mean, you wish me to train the young men of the Chinese League?"
"They will kowtow before you, taking tea with you. Many of them, though having lived here for so long, have not forgotten the respect due upon a teacher. Especially a boxing teacher, such as yourself."
The bodyguard paced even more, looking more worried. "Do they know what this means? It will be another tong war."
"It will be a war against the tongs, so that we may be truly free in our new homeland as Americans." Wing Ho knew that Law was still concerned. "Has it been so long since you've taught your family's art?"
"No. There was a student once. Not too long ago. As a matter of fact, I had broken one of our people's most important laws." The owner Wing Ho gave Law a questioning look. "I taught a non-Chinese my family's style of gung-fu. In the short time that he spent with me, he was the best student I ever had."
Recollections from the four mentors of John Reid, various locations, 1861.
The New York boxing coach told his protégée', "Came to me one night. Half of his face was covered up."
The Canadian savateur told the barker, "I assumed that he had scars that he wished to hide."
The Minnesota wrestler told his former opponent, "He was no stranger to it. He had some experience. With Indians, he told me."
The gung-fu bodyguard in San Francisco's Chinatown told the hall owner, "Anyone else, I would have refused, especially since he was a foreigner. But I could see his pain, even through the cover he used to hide his face."
The New York boxing coach said, "He had a natural feel for it. But he also had an anger."
The Canadian savateur said, "That anger left him open to attack when he first started."
The Minnesota wrestler said, "It often blinded him."
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "But he learned to harness his anger, control it, and eventually, he became its master."
The New York boxing coach said, "He never complained about the pain."
The Canadian savateur said, "If anything, I had to tell him to tone everything down."
The Minnesota wrestler said, "He was very intense."
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "That also could have been a weakness. But he turned that side of him into a strength."
The New York boxing coach said, "He learned how to do things that it normally takes most athletes years to develop."
The Canadian savateur said, "Through hundreds of contests."
The Minnesota wrestler said, "He was gifted. It was almost as if-"
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He had little time to waste. Had he stayed longer-"
The New York boxing coach said, "He could've been even better. In any case-"
The Canadian savateur said, "He was at least on a par as a senior practitioner who's had twice the training he had."
The Minnesota wrestler said, "I dunno. Wish I could've helped him more."
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He had the physical skill, but the pain never left him."
The New York boxing coach said, "Whatever it is that's inside of him-"
The Canadian savateur said, "Inner demons-"
The Minnesota wrestler said, "He hid them. Maybe that's what the mask was for."
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "He did show what a man could be capable of, if he had the motivation. Or the pain."
The New York boxing coach said, "Anyways, that was a few years ago. Later on, I read a story in the papers about a boy in Texas.
The Canadian savateur said, "Lost his brother-"
The Minnesota wrestler said, "Be about his age. Never told me his name-"
The gung-fu bodyguard said, "But it made sense that that would be him. John, may you find peace in your journeys."
The New York boxing coach said, "Good luck, John."
The Canadian savateur said, "I hope what I taught was useful to you."
The Minnesota wrestler said, "Maybe he's using that now to help others. Don't know how, but maybe he is."
*****
A saloon, any saloon, was considered an improper domain for ladies during the 1860's. Only dance-hall girls and women of questionable character frequented saloons of the Old West. Samantha Calhoun may have had no intention of frequenting Horse Creek's saloon, especially since most of its patrons were among the worst dregs west of the Mississippi. However, she had been asking questions as to the whereabouts of her friends and brother and that got attention. At twenty-five, she was a beautiful young woman. And of course, she was obviously half-caste.
The men of the town, many of them mercenaries and soldiers employed by Fort Bartholemew and on leave, had caught wind of Samantha. The men from the fort had been trained to observe blind obedience, and as such, often times they lacked the ability to take any real initiative to further Cavendish's cause. In short, when it came to their jobs, they really didn't know how to think for themselves. As for the mercenaries, they were paid to stir up trouble and to occasionally spy on nearby Fort Laramie. A girl searching for friends who might be held in the mines was actually NOT an unusual thing. A lot of men were held captive there. As a matter of fact, a half-breed Indian girl on such a search should have been beneath the notice of these men except that Samantha, with her long black hair and lavender eyes was very beautiful.
They grabbed her off of the street after chasing her down and cornering her. They then decided to have fun with her. There were four of them, escorting her to the saloon against her will, laughing, and enjoying themselves as she struggled to break free. She even called out for the townspeople to help, but it was not in anyone's best interests to stand up for a half-breed Indian girl.
A balding, medium-sized, "soldier" from Bartholemew slammed some money onto the bar and called out, "Barkeep! Get us some right fine 'firewater' fer the lady here!"
His companions laughed while Samantha shouted out, "No, let go of me!"
"Barkeep, she ain't too used to settin' down and socializin' with us common white folk, here. See, she's the wife of a chief!" His friends laughed at that remark. However, there were a few patrons who couldn't stomach what they were doing. Though they dare not say anything to stop it, they were in no mood to sit around and observe it. Some of the patrons left. The bald man continued, "One of the wives, actually, since them Injuns can’t satusfy theselves with jest one squaw! She's Princess . . . Rain In The Face!"
His friends put their hands to their mouths rapidly while making whooping sounds, mocking the war whoops of Indians. They then laughed. The bartender poured a glass. "Naw. She don't want just a shot. This here's a real honest ta goodness Injun princess!" To one of his friends who held her, a heavyset man, "Hank, give her the bottle!"
"It'll be my pleasure." Hank took the bottle. Sarcastically, he offered the bottled to her. "Ma'am?"
"No!" She screamed. Hank then poured the bottle on her as she tried to resist. The men laughed.
However, across the room, a tall Mexican vaquero wearing a huge sombrero on his head and a serape across his shoulders, slowly called out, "Senor, jew ahhre destoorbeeng my dreenk."
The men turned in his direction and the bald man, feeling challenged and angered said, "What did you say?"
The vaquero stood up, flinging aside his serape, revealing how well armed he was. "Aye seh, senore. Jew ahhre very load weeth the indio. Jew ahhre destoorbeeng my dreenk." The bar patrons moved out of the way, giving everyone room in case a gunfight would ensue.
"You fancy this here Injun squaw greaser?" One of the men held Samantha while the other four squared off against the vaquero, all ready to draw their guns.
"She ees just another indio to me. But yoo men, I theenk yoo do not know how to handle her. She ees like a horse. She needs to be broken gently. Jew men . . . ahhr not gentle."
"Really," said the bald man as the drawing of guns seemed imminent.
The bartender then called out, "Now hold on, fellas! Your bosses promised me no gunplay when I opened up! God damn it, I cain't have me no payin' returnin' cuss'mers if they keep gittin' shot!"
The bald man shoved the bartender aside, annoyed. "Git outta the way! Awright, how 'bout it, greaser! You real big on talk! You willin' to settle this with yer hands?"
"Take it outside!" Pleaded the bartender, remembering the fight that Justin Calhoun previously took part in. It cost him a window, some tables, some chairs, and several broken drinking bottles and glasses.
"Shaddup! W'ere already doin' you a favor!" Shouted the balding man as he and his companions began undoing their gun-belts and placing them on the bar. "I git enough a bein' told what ta do at the fort!" He then directed his remarks to the vaquero. "Now muchacho, let's see ya talk big with yer fi-." He tried to sucker punch the vaquero with a wide right, but the vaquero stepped in with his left foot while striking out with his left hand, the kind of ‘defensive stop punch’ that could be found in both Western boxing and Southern gung-fu styles such as Wing-Chun or Hung-Gar. The balding man's nose was immediately broken as he slumped to the floor, holding his bleeding face as his eyes started to tear up from the intense pain.
The next man tried a right punch, but the vaquero simply leaned back and delivered a right sache' kick, a side kick to the inside of the man's left knee, the type that could be found in Savate, the French science of kicking. The vaquero's full body weight was behind the kick and the second assailant's knee snapped. He dropped to the ground, yelling out in pain, "God damn it, son of a bitch!"
The third assailant was already on the vaquero, tackling him, both of them crashing to the ground. The bald man was still holding his nose when he yelled out from behind his clasped hands, "That's it! Pound that greaser son of a bitch!" However, the vaquero was still able to cover his face, preventing the third assailant from being able to effectively land a blow. The third assailant, who had mounted the vaquero, then tried to hold the vaquero's hands, so that he can open him up for a head butt. However, the vaquero, who was on the floor on his back, leaned forward, placing his own head into the assailant's chest, preventing the assailant from head-butting him. The vaquero then put his feet near his own butt, then with a push of his legs, the vaquero arched his back and shifted his weight to the left, causing the assailant to lose his balance and throwing him to the left, a classic wrestling move. The vaquero, now on top, then delivered a left elbow to the assailant's face, then immediately rolled off of him and got back up on his feet, careful not to stay too long on the ground, since the assailants friends may still be able to join in if they have recovered from their injuries. Fortunately, the other two were still on the floor, in pain. The third man got up off of the floor and charged the vaquero. Using the assailant's momentum against him, the vaquero grabbed the assailant's right elbow while encircling the assailant's waist. Putting his hips into him and bending his knees, the vaquero tossed the third assailant onto a nearby table, breaking both the assailant's left arm upon his landing and the table.
The bartender, frustrated over the damage, said to himself, "I told 'em to take it outside!"
The fourth man was still holding Samantha. The vaquero slowly walked over to them. "Now, senor, I believe you have my woman." The fourth man still was wearing his gun-belt.
He panicked and drew his gun. "Go to hell!" Having loosened his grip on Samantha, she then seized the moment and shoved the man, causing him to both miss his shot and making him stumble into one of the saloon patrons who had stayed to observe the fight.
"Son of a bitch!" Yelled out the patron, who immediately landed a right cross on the fourth man's face. It wasn't too long before a full-scale barroom brawl was underway.
The bartender, safely behind the counter, was again frustrated. "I told 'em to take it outside!"
Samantha tried to get away. However, the vaquero grasped her by the wrist. She tried to struggle free, but the vaquero's grip was too strong. He pulled her with him and they both left the saloon out the back as Sheriff Newsom and his deputies entered from the front to restore order. Upon passing the bar, the vaquero and Samantha could both hear the bartender mumble to himself, "I told 'em to take it outside."
The vaquero led Samantha as they ran through the alley. Once he was sure they were clear of the trouble, the vaquero stopped. Samantha was breathing heavily as she said, "Okay mister. If you think I'm just going to give myself to you, you're wrong. You can force me, but you'll have to kill me first!"
The vaquero reached into his pocket. In perfect English, without the accent, the vaquero said, "I've no intention of doing that, miss. After all, you gave me the excuse I needed to get in with their leader." Samantha looked at him suspiciously. He continued. "I know you don't have much reason to trust me, but maybe this will ease your fears." He gave her a bullet.
"A silver bullet?," Samantha said as she looked at it closely. She had heard rumors of a masked man who used silver bullets. He was supposedly some kind of vigilante who occasionally would work in an official capacity for the government. Of course, that was all some kind of legend. At least, that's what she thought until now.
"Miss, how long has it been since your friends disappeared?"
"A few days ago. They have my brother and a friend of mine working in the mines. It's around the time when the troubles started happening between the soldiers and," She hesitated.
"Your people?" He said, understanding. "The whites think that they want war, but that's not the case! They're only fighting to protect their hunting grounds and now with the kidnappings."
"You believe that the kidnapped Sioux are here, not at Laramie?"
"I've tried to tell some of my relatives, but they say the trails lead to Laramie. Also, there's one more thing."
"What is it?"
"They say that the trading post here has always treated them fairly, because . . ."
"Because why?"
"Because they give the Lakota warriors guns, guns that they can use to feed their families in order to hunt the buffalo and for use in protection against their enemies, the Crow and
Pawnee."
The vaquero, who was in reality the Masked Man in disguise contemplated the situation. "The soldiers at Fort Laramie had given gifts to the Indians before, guns had been among them."
Samantha interjected, "They've always given the Indians the more obsolete models, single shot muzzle loaders. The ones they've received from the traders at Bartholemew are breech-loaders. And they're repeating rifles. The traders asked the Lakota chiefs to make sure their warriors keep it a secret as to who was supplying them."
"But you're a Lakota. That's why you know."
"Half. I wouldn't have said anything, but with the troubles brewing and my brother prisoner in the mines."
"Understood. I know it must be rough for you, being in the middle."
"No matter what happens, I'll lose loved ones on both sides if it comes to war between the Teton Lakota Nation and the United States."
"Maybe it won't have to come to that." He offered his hand to her. "If you'll trust me." Maybe it was the way that he offered his hand to her, the feeling of both strength and gentleness that she felt from him. Perhaps too, it was something that she saw through his disguise, in his eyes. There was a sadness, a loneliness that she felt in him, which he did his best to hide in order to appear as strong as possible, in order to win the confidence of those he tried to aid. In any case, she took his hand. "We'll get you to someplace safe and then I'll pay a visit to the mines. If your brother's there, I'll find him, along with the rest. I promise." As he held her hand, Samantha felt her heart skip a beat. She felt guilty. He was a stranger and after all, she and Jedidiah were in love, or so she thought. And he was also prisoner in the mines. As for Joshua and Sheriff Lom Trevors she still hadn’t found them.
(8)
Within the primarily Oglala camp, a council was being held. Other bands of the Lakota had camped nearby; the Hunkpapa, Brule, Sans Arc, Blackfeet, Two Kettle, Miniconjou, as well as their relatives from the East, the various bands of Dakotas, and of course, the allies of the Teton Lakota Nation, the Northern Cheyennes and the Northern Arapahos. It was afternoon and both Tonto and the white scout, Jim Bridger, were brought, with their wrists bound, before the chiefs of the Northern Plains Tribes. This was informal, so the meeting was outdoors, as opposed to being held within the tipi of the Cheyenne Medicine Arrow Keeper. The Oglalas would have been obliged to give their Cheyenne allies the courtesy of being the `hosts' had this been formal, since the Cheyennes were their guests. This was within the center of the camp, the tipis forming the Sacred Circle around it.
Besides the chiefs, the villagers, including the women, children and old people, were in attendance to witness the goings on. A young warrior, no more than nineteen or twenty years of age, came forward to Tonto and Bridger and pulled out his knife. However, instead of attacking them, he simply cut their buffalo thong wrist bindings, and then walked off. Tonto felt that there was something unusual about this young man. When he finished uncutting their binds, rather than joining the other warriors, he stood apart, taking his seat alone, away from the others. Tonto noticed also that behind the young warriors unbound hair, he wore what appeared to be a smooth, ground pebble. It was obviously, a charm possessing `medicine' or power of some sort. Tonto knew that this young man must be special.
Bridger was the first to come forward. "A'ho, kola, Mahpia Luta." The Oglala chief raised his hand. In English, he said, "We may speak in your tongue, Blanked Bridger," the Oglala Chief referring to Bridger's nickname given to him by the Lakota, "so that your friend can understand. He is a white man's 'Indian', is he not? He would not understand his tongue, and we would not understand his."
Tonto stepped forward, "I understand your meaning, Chief Red Cloud." Tonto obviously did, since that was the English translation of the chief's Lakota name. "I am nobody's 'man.' I am not a servant nor a running dog, my people are the Kiowas, the people from whom yours had stolen the Black Hills from in the time of my grandfather, then conveniently forgotten this so that you may tell your children that the Great Spirit 'gave' you these hills!" There was an angry uproar from the surrounding crowd.
Red Cloud and the others waved them off while shouting for everyone to keep quiet. Red Cloud then said, "Ordinarily, your hair would be hanging from my coup stick after such an insult to our people. But you are a brave man, an 'Indian' as the wasichus call us, and soon the time will come when we will need as many brave 'Indians' alive as possible if we are to survive them. Be lucky that I need information from you and Blanket Bridger. Be silent until we speak to you . . . Kiowa."
Tonto knew that he had won Red Cloud's respect and he wisely, knew not to push the matter further. He backed away, but still kept his head high while facing the chiefs, standing as straight as possible to make himself appear taller than he usually was. Red Cloud then addressed Bridger. "Why do you ride against us, Blanket? Though white, we had always known your heart to be of our people until now."
"The whites your warriors ride against have done you now harm."
"The Indians at the soldier fort have done yours no harm! And yet, they are missing, the trails leading to the forts. Your people are no longer content to take our land at the Platte River country. They are no longer content with roads. Now they wish to make slaves of us, like they do with the people they have stolen from across the big water!"
"The trails are false!" Said Bridger. "The enemies of your people are at the trader's post."
Red Cloud answered, "They give us guns! Would an enemy dare arm us, knowing that we would rise up if we knew they had taken our brothers? And I do not believe that a white man, any white man, could set trails that would fool our finest trackers." Bridger did not answer. He didn't know how to answer that, since he knew that Red Cloud was right. How could whites possibly mislead Indians with false trails in their own country?
Tonto thought about that, too. He could not restrain himself. "No white man could, unless he had other 'Indians' helping him." Again, there was uproar from the crowd. The chiefs looked to each other, taking in the importance of what Tonto was implying.
***********
Jedidiah was part of a working team that was working outside of the mines, bringing the ore-carts out to be processed. Link was with him and the sergeant and his men were outside, watching over everyone. Link noticed that Jedidiah kept looking towards the guarded iron box. While continuing to work and load the ore, Link edged closer to Jedidiah and said, "You keep lookin' at that box and the sarge and his boys will make an 'example' of you, too."
Jedidiah got the message after looking at the sergeant. To Jedidiah, the sergeant appeared to have the look of an angry bulldog, just waiting for an excuse to pounce. He continued working, taking his eyes off of the iron box. He also edged closer to Link, working with him, helping with the loading. He said, "How the hell am I supposed to keep my cool? My friend and another one is in there! They'll die if we don't get 'em out."
Link responded, "And if you get killed, they'll never get out. I got two others who want in on the plan?"
"Can you trust them?" Jedidiah asked in a hysterical, suspicious tone.
Annoyed, Link answered, "Of course I can trust them! You think I'm gonna be careless with my own life? I'm not stupid, you know!" They both realized that their shouted whispers were growing louder and that the other workers were starting to notice. They both calmed down. Link continued, "Of course we can trust 'em. Two brothers, there used to be three of 'em."
"They lost one of their own in the mines?"
"Sixteen year old kid. Caught when one of the tunnels caved in 'cause of the rottin’ wood supports gave way. That there sergeant had the two of 'em beat when they stopped working to try to dig out their brother."
"Little son of a bitch! Before we get outta here, I wanna ring his fat neck!"
"First we get your friends out, then we can worry about that later."
"Yeah." Jedidiah had noticed that there were many Indian workers here. "A lot of Indians, here."
"Don't count on them helpin'," said Link.
"They're like Chinese, they keep to themselves."
"Good fighters, though, if we could work with 'em. They're bein' here is probably the reason for all the Indian troubles in the first place."
"Forget that notion. They don't trust nobody and maybe they got a reason. But right now, we got to go with what we can depend on." Link then paused to gather his thoughts and catch his breath. He then continued. "Our two guys are in the mines right now, but they're going to be assigned to clean up duty tonight."
"Who assigned them the double duty?"
"Guess."
"Our friend, the sergeant."
"Loveable guy." Link continued, "They'll be observing the guard's routine. Then tomorrow night, we can strike."
Jedidiah's frustration was obvious. "Tomorrow night might be too late for my friend and his companion!"
"Got not other choice. Let's just hope they can hang on for one more night." Link then left Jedidiah to go back to work elsewhere so as not to attract too much attention to themselves.
Jedidiah said to himself with sarcasm, "Hope." Left alone to his work, Jedidiah noticed that one of the Indian workers had dropped something as he was doing his loading chores. Sim was nearby. He stopped what he was doing, picked up the object and tried to give it back to the Indian. Walking after the Indian, he said, "Hey! Hey, you! You dropped something!"
The sergeant intercepted him. "What the hell are you doing? Give me that!" The sergeant took it away. He then shoved Sim to the ground. "Git back ta work, ya little sonafabitch! 'For I tan yer mangy hid and feed it ta the vultures!" Sim, on his butt on the ground, backed away frightened, then got up and quickly went back to work. The sergeant looked over the object. Jedidiah recognized it as some kind of beadwork, probably religious in nature, as Justin and Samantha had told him some things about their mother's beliefs. Jedidiah saw that the sergeant looked around, and then put the object into his pocket.
In the Oglala camp, another important Teton leader, Pawnee Killer, said in response to Tonto's implication, "If it is another red man working with the whites, it is one of our enemies, the Pawnees or the Crows. They lick the white man's boots so that they no longer have to hunt to feed their families. They are the same type that helped guide the Squaw Killer, Harney, to Little Thunder's camp on the Blue Water, and murder our people more than five winter counts ago."
Tonto then spoke, Red Cloud's warning to keep quiet having been forgotten by the momentum of Tonto's implication, "All the Nations remember that attack. But there were Sioux among the guides-."
Pawnee Killer said, "Traitors, 'hang around the forts.'"
Tonto then continued, "Still your relatives, the ones who are missing, the ones who you fight for."
Another leader interjected, "What are you getting at, Kiowa?"
"I'm saying look to the possibility of the trader's post. There are those among your people, if not here, then among the 'hang around the forts' who would stand to gain by betraying their own and by framing the soldiers at Laramie. After all, the blue-coats at Laramie haven't always dealt fairly with the red man."
The young warrior who sat by himself added, "No they haven't. They killed the chief of my village, a man who they themselves had appointed as 'chief of all the Sioux' as if such a thing were possible. The reason was over a stray cow that wandered into our village."
Bridger added, "We have all remember the death of Conquering Bear, Tashunka Witko." Bridger addressed the young man by his Lakota name. Tonto continued, "If an ambitious red man wanted to gain power, would it not be to his advantage to be the savior of his people? He'd encourage a war with a hated enemy, then supply you with the means to carry it out!" The chiefs and the crowd took in what he said, causing a loud uproar.
Red Cloud spoke over the commotion, his voice quieting them down. "We have many chiefs and we all trade at the post!"
Tonto added, "Then one of the traders, he's the Sioux who has betrayed your people."
Again, the crowd became loud. Another leader, a Hunkpapa holy man, renowned for his visions & his battle record against the Crows, spoke up. "Listen to him brothers. There is the possibility of truth in what the Kiowa says."
Red Cloud spoke to this other leader, addressing him by his Lakota name. "Tatanka Yotanka, you believe these lies. He is a Kiowa! An ally to the Crow, our hated enemies! Of course, he would try to spread suspicion amongst us!"
Tatanka Yotanka, the Sitting Bull, simply said, "I'm not saying that it's true what he says.
I merely say that it might be true." Sitting Bull then stood up to address everyone. "Brothers of the Teton Nation, as well as those of the Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho, as you know, I have visited our cousins, the Santee of Minnesotta, 'The People of The Farther End.' They have also been betrayed by traders who say they owe when they do not owe and by their own brothers who work for the traders. Their chief, Ta Oyate Duta, 'His Red Nation', who the whites call 'Little Crow' in remembrance of his father, has told me that war seems on the horizon, a war they cannot win, but a war that they must fight. I say we must listen to this man. And think on what he has said. True, his people were enemies of ours at one time. But the time is coming when ALL the Red Nations must stand together. I'm sure our Cheyenne brothers understand this. They're cousins in the South are allies with the Kiowas and the Comanches and the Prairie Apache." Sitting Bull then looked to Tonto, and with a smile he said, "Anyway, he may be Kiowa but at least he is not a Shoshone!"
Tonto knew that that was as close as he would ever get to a compliment from a Sioux. He smirked at that remark. Sitting Bull then finished. "That is all I have to say. Washte." With a wave of his hand, Sitting Bull sat down. There was silence as the respected holy man's words were taken in.
END PART 8