Philip Dampier's Blog

Shootout at the Spring

Episode Sixteen

Chad

By afternoon, Chad and his prisoner were following the creek across the prairie floor to where it joined the small stream that flowed down from the spring where he had left the preacher. The juncture of creek and stream was very close to where Chad and the preacher had spotted the small buffalo herd just a couple of days previous. Lance and then Chad crossed the stream and paused at a high spot just above the water’s edge.

It was too early to make camp, but Chad knew he had to find food if they were going to make it all the way to Fort Pierre. There could be deer or maybe even a stray buffalo among the trees along the stream bank, and he knew he had to look. He secured Lance’s hands to a six-inch cottonwood and then tied the outlaw’s ankles together. He tethered Lance’s horse near the creek, stripping it of all its tack. He planned on having Lance brush the tired-looking bay as soon as supper was secured.

Chad checked the wind, which was light and coming from the mountain they had just left. He remained on the east side of the stream, downwind of any possible game, and shaded at the same time from the lowering sun by the trees that grew close to the water. A hundred feet downstream, he found the flow blocked enough by a huge downed tree trunk to create a small pool. He returned to the camp and had his fishing gear out in minutes and a pole rigged. While he had hoped for red meat, he knew the white flesh of the fish would also be good, and he could smoke enough for the next day.

Between the grass, the deadwood, and the rocks, there was sufficient bait to catch several fish. The pool was teaming with foot-long perch and a few larger walleyes. Whatever Chad tossed in as bait was eagerly taken by a fish, and he quickly caught enough of both species to feed the two of them for the night and the next day. He also caught a few smaller-sized perch which he quickly tossed back into the pool. Once he thought he had enough, he cut a long, limber limb off of a sapling and threaded the fish onto it through their gills. Carrying his pole of fish, he led Buck back to where he had left Lance.

Everything seemed in order; Chad fell to work, first taking care of Buck and then building a fire pit and a smoking rack over the pit. There was plenty of deadwood along the stream, and he quickly gathered up a good supply, which he stacked a few feet from the fire ring of small rocks. Chad soon had the cooking fire going. He checked his prisoner every few minutes and looked up and down the tree line. He did not want to be surprised by Indians a second time. He needed the fire to cook their supper, but the smoke from the fire was a sure giveaway of his and Lance’s presence.

The hot coals began to accumulate; Chad placed the strips of cleaned fish skin down on the rack. It seemed like no time before Chad could smell the aroma of the slow-cooking fish. He located his and Lance’s canteens and filled them up from the stream’s cold, clear water. It had a pleasant taste, almost sweet, and Chad drank his fill before taking Lance’s canteen to him. Chad held it while the outlaw sipped from its narrow neck.

“You gonna turn me loose, Marshal, or you gonna hand feed me too?”

“I’ll untie your hands, Lance, and you can eat with them. Your feet stayed tied, though, and I may put a rope around the tree and your stomach. I’m afraid it’s only fish. But the fish is fresh and it will be hot. From the looks of your possibles, it’s more than you’ve been eating.”

Chad went back to check the fish, moving them just a smidgen and adding small sticks to the red-hot coals. He was thinking about Nancy and how he was just a few days from seeing her when a call surprised him so much he almost burnt his hand.

“Hello, the fire!”

Chad stood up, pistol in his hand, eyes searching for the owner of the voice.

“Who calls?”

“Benjamin McCabe, lately of Kansas and the 10th Calvary at your service, sir. May I approach the camp?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Chad responded, “and come across slow-like.”

A handsome roan gelding came into view, followed by a dark brown long-eared mule. The mule flashed white stockings on his front feet. The gelding was ridden by a man of obvious color, still attired in his cavalry uniform, including the broad-brimmed hat with tie-downs. The army sergeant sported a roughly trimmed beard and mustache, and his uniform wore a lot of dust. He obviously had ridden a long way. The mule was burdened down with baggage, and on top of the baggage lay a young doe, still limp in recent death.

“May I dismount, Marshal?” the dark rider asked, his eyes fixed on the silver star near Chad’s heart.

“You’re welcome, Sergeant McCabe, especially if that doe is included in your visit.”

The young soldier swung his blue-clad leg over the gelding and set his army boots on the grass. “Happy to share my good fortune, Marshal. Is the gentleman up on the bank your prisoner?”

“Yes, Sergeant, please let me introduce the infamous bank robber, Lance Powell. He’s on his way to see a federal judge and the wrong end of a rope as well, I think.”

“Ah, you’re smoking fish. They look and smell delicious. I caught wind of them several yards downstream. Give me a minute to unload and take care of my animals, and I’ll add some fresh venison to the feast.”

The sun had moved to the mountaintop by the time most of the provisions were made. Chad went and gathered up his prisoner, freeing his feet so he could walk to the fire. Lance’s feet were re-tied, and his hands were loosened enough that he could feed himself. Benjamin came up from the stream with a pot in his hands. He placed it just above some hot coals and dumped a small handful of ground army-issued coffee into the water.

“Good Lord, man. I haven’t had coffee for a couple of days now. You are an angel in disguise. Just ask, and it shall be yours,” Chad said, and a grin spread from ear to ear.

While the coffee got hot, the two men shared personal information in an effort to get acquainted. Chad’s thoughts immediately went to the war he had left not too many years prior.

“Where were you doing the war, Benjamin?”

“Until June of ’63, I was working on my folks’ farm in Pennsylvania.”

“What happened in June of ’63? What did you do then?”

“I joined the United States Colored Troops. Congress formed the Bureau of Colored Troops in May of that year. My birthday is in June, and I signed up as soon as I could. Lots of us colored boys joined up. We didn’t get the same pay, but we weren’t in as many fights as the white boys were. After the war, I joined the cavalry since I could ride with any of them, and the Army made a Negro Cavalry Unit and sent us to save the railroad from the Comanche.”

“What do you mean you got paid less? How is that?”

“Well, we got paid less a month, and they charged us for food and uniforms. The white boys got their food and uniforms free. But at least we got to serve, and by the war’s end, we were a large portion of the Union Army and got better treatment.”

“You want to go back to Pennsylvania when your tour is over?” Chad asked.

“No sir, Marshal. Out here, things are different. I got a chance to make a new life for myself regardless of my color. What about you, Marshal? You fight with the Union or the Rebs?”

“I went to West Point, and unlike many West Pointers, I chose to remain a United States Officer. I grew up on horseback and, so the cavalry was the right choice for me. I was one of those white boys who saw lots of fights. I rode with General Sherman, and he loved fighting. Now, I guess he’s fighting Indians.”

“What rank were you, Marshal?”

“I got promoted to Major just as the war was ending. I still think of myself as a Captain.”

“Why did you become a marshal? Why not stay in the army and make a career? You might be a Colonel by now.”

“I had enough war. I thought I had enough fighting, but being a marshal is not the same as being a cavalry captain. I like it out here. I’m pretty much my own boss on a day-to-day basis.”

“I noticed a round hole in your vest. How did you get that?” Benjamin asked.