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| Worthington Whittredge, "Encampment on the Platte River," c. 1866 |
Appomattox Courthouse was six
months ago and Gareth was glad the war was over. When he received word of
General Lee’s surrender, he stripped off his grey lieutenant’s jacket, saddled
his paint and headed west in search of a little peace and quiet.
While he had fought for the
Confederacy, Gareth really didn’t care about either side. Jefferson Davis was
fighting to maintain slavery under the guise of “state’s rights” and Abraham
Lincoln was fighting for tyranny under the guise of “preserving the union.” All
Gareth wanted was to be left alone, but the Union drew him into the war. They ensured
that Gareth would not only fight for the Confederacy, but hate the damn Yanks
for the rest of his life.
In 1861 when the War Between the
States began, Gareth MacNair was living happily and mostly peacefully on his
small farm in Tennessee with his wife, Maria and two sons, Jim and John.
While many families had sent their
sons off to war with foolhardy assurances that the war would be over in a
matter of weeks, Gareth had forbidden his boys from enlisting. He could see
right through the lies of the Secessionists and he would have no part in
maintaining slavery or defending it and neither would he abide his sons being associated
with that human degradation.
“What you want us to do, Pa?” Jim
had asked incredulously, “You want us to fight with Lincoln’s boys?”
“I don’t want you to fight at
all,” Gareth had stated flatly. “You’re gonna stay home and stay out of this.
You hear?”
His boys didn’t talk to him for a
month, but they obeyed him.
One day in April of 1862, his boys
had gone out hunting. When they didn’t come home by sunset, Gareth and Maria
began to worry. In the dying blood red light of dusk, Gareth grabbed his
Kentucky long rifle, the same kind that made Jack Hinson famous during the War, and
walked out the front door with every intention to search for his missing boys. As
Gareth stepped through the door, he looked across the potato field and saw
uniformed horsemen emerging from the trees on the other side. It was a small
company of Union cavalry.
As the cavalry cleared the tree
line, Gareth saw two scared and tired looking men; hands tied together and tethered
to the last two horses, jogging to keep from falling. They were his sons!
Gareth set his rifle against the
door and waited anxiously as the cavalry rode down the path to the front of his
house. A tall, haughty officer with captain’s bars on the shoulders of
his blue uniform raised his hand and signaled the company to stop. As the
company came to a halt, the captain continued forward on horseback.
The captain’s voice was oily smooth,
but all business with tinge of Virginia drawl. “These bushwhackers claim that
this is the home of Secesh sympathizers.”
Gareth could feel a combination of
fear and anger as the realization that his boys were being accused of a crime against
the Union that carried the death penalty. Even worse, Gareth himself was being
accused of being a Confederate sympathizer. As the blood filled his face, he
did everything he could to stay calm.
“No, sir,” Gareth replied
deliberately. “You are mistaken. My boys ain’t bushwhackers and we ain’t on any
side here.”
“These are your sons?” the captain
noted with surprise. There was a condescending air to every word the captain
spoke. “If they are not bushwhackers, then perhaps you can explain why they
were firing on Union troops.”
“Pa,” John cried out, fear and
desperation in his voice. “We didn’t. I swear.”
“My boys went out hunting this
morning,” Gareth explained calmly. “They were probably shooting at game.”
The captain smiled pure evil.
“Just the sort of explanation I
would expect from Secesh.” He turned to his men and stated simply, “Kill the
boys, hang their heads on the gate posts. Burn the buildings and fields.”
“NO!” Maria cried out from inside
and ran through the door, down the steps and sprinted toward Jim and John.
Time slowed down. Gareth remembered
every sensation. He felt the tingle of every hair on his body and every bead of
sweat beginning to secrete from his upper lip and forehead. For the rest of his
life, he could recall in detail every moment and motion of the next few
seconds.
Four soldiers in the rear
dismounted their horses. Two of them, lieutenants, drew their sabers with a
ring of cold steel. The other two grabbed Jim and John and forced them to the
ground.
Gareth stood frozen with mouth
agape – unbelieving.
As Maria crossed the clearing
between the house and the potato field, the captain pulled his Colt Dragoon
revolver and fired a single shot.
Gareth flinched back to reality
and watched in horror as his wife fell motionless to the ground. His eyes
widened. He knew in his heart of heart, there was nothing he could do, but he
was going to kill that Captain. He turned to grab his Kentucky long rifle, but
it was too late. The captain had already leveled his revolver and fired again.
Gareth felt fire in his back and
the wind was knocked out of him. The shot spun him around and he stumbled off
the porch and fell to the ground. As the darkness closed in, his last sights
were his dead wife in a pool of blood and the Union lieutenants bringing their
swords down on the necks of his struggling sons.
He had been found by Confederate
scouts and hospitalized for over a month in bed. He spent another two months in
recovery. After his recovery and because of his combat experience in the
Mexican war, he was offered a commission as a lieutenant. He gladly put on
Confederate gray and took up arms in order to kill as many murderous Yanks as
he could.
With the war over, his wife and
sons dead, his home burned and his burned land untenable, Gareth MacNair had no
home to go to.
He was in the southwest region of
the Nebraska Territory. Even though he was behind schedule, it was actually a better
time to be in the region. If he had made the time he hoped and arrived in the
area three months earlier, he would have walked right into a war between Union
Army and several local Indian tribes. The Union, with superior firepower had
won and the region was at peace for now. Of course the war was a problem that
the Union Army created in the first place with typical government tyranny. At
any rate, the travel was safe for now while the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho
licked their wounds and plotted in their camps.
Gareth was riding cross country,
due south, cutting his own trail. His only possessions besides the clothes on
his body and the wide brimmed felt hat on his head were his Army pack, his old
trusty Kentucky long rifle, a Henry repeating rifle he took from a dead Yankee
during the War, two 1851 Colt Navy revolvers he’d had since the Mexican War, a
Bowie knife on his belt, and his sturdy paint horse.
His travels took him through some
beautiful hill country. It was an easy ride and very peaceful. It was just the
thing that Gareth needed. Gareth could easily see why people wanted to settle
in these parts. He was tempted to stop and stake a claim himself.
The peace of the day was cut by gunshots.
Gareth’s head snapped to the front and the paint flinched, startled. It sounded
like only one or two guns firing, but they were firing repeatedly. There was
definitely something bad going down and Gareth wanted no part of it.
Over the sounds of gunshots, Gareth
could also hear screaming—lots of it. That was enough to pique his curiosity.
It sounded like a slaughter.
The gunshots seemed to come from the
south, just ahead of him. In the hills, it was sometimes hard to tell.
As Gareth spurred his paint up the
hill, the gunshots ceased, but there was still the sound of screaming. There
was only one scream. The rest had fallen silent, but that one scream was filled
with the utmost terror.
Just before he crested the hill, Gareth
reigned in his horse and jumped off. He quickly tied his horse to a tree just
below the crest of the hill and pulled down both of his rifles. His Henry rifle
was good at close range and had saved his bacon on several occasions. He
figured he would need his long rifle, though. He could shoot a squirrel out of
a tree from two hundred yards with a good shooting support and he had used it
to send many Yankees to meet the devil.
His Henry stayed loaded, but he
had to load his long rifle and did so as he climbed the hill. At the top of the
hill were a cluster of boulders. He walked behind them, set his Henry rifle
against the rocks and brought his long rifle to the ready. He slowly peered
around the west side of the rocks looking down the hill. Immediately, his blood
began to boil.
The view from the top of the hill
revealed a river running west to east. This was the South Platte River and Gareth
had expected to cross it today. The river was lined with beautiful fall colored
cottonwood trees. The leaves blazed fiery red, orange, and yellow, and smoldering
browns.
The beauty ended there. Along the
bank, there were at least a dozen lifeless Indian bodies – men, women, and
children dead from gunshot wounds. To the east of the bodies, there were two
horses tied to trees.
And two U.S. Army soldiers in
those goddamn Yankee blue jackets. One wore sergeant stripes and the other was
a private. They were wrestling with a struggling Indian girl.
Gareth’s mind was thrust back in
time three and half years. Maria running, falling dead, the burning pain in his
back, his sons dying at the hands of Union soldiers. The evil glare of the
Union captain.
“Git ‘er hands,” the sergeant
directed.
The private grabbed her left, but
with her free hand, she delivered a solid right hook that sent the private
reeling forcing him to let her go. She was strong.
She tried to make a run for it,
but the sergeant was faster. In three steps he grabbed her leather tunic and
backhanded her, knocking her to the ground. She was dazed, but still conscious.
She tried to get up, but her head was spinning and could only crawl.
“Damn it!” the sergeant exclaimed
with a sneer, “She won’t be as much fun like this.” He turned to the private,
“Go on boy fetch some rope.”
“Alright!”
As the private ran back to the
horses to retrieve the rope, the sergeant walked slowly to the Indian girl.
This was Gareth’s chance. If he was going to rescue this girl, from these vile
monsters he was going to have to take advantage of the lull. Gareth leaned
against the rock for support.
The sergeant bent down and grabbed
the Indian girl by her hair and spun her over. He straddled her, sitting on her
pelvis. She tried to resist, but the sergeant was easily able to grab her hands
and hold them over her head.
Gareth lined up the sergeant’s
head in his sights. It was a long shot, but Gareth had more than two decades of
experience and elevation on his side.
The private was already at the
sergeant’s side with the rope and he began quickly tying the Indian girl’s
hands.
“Whoo hoo!” the private yelled
excitedly, “I ain’t had me none in months.”
“Just git ‘er tied,” the sergeant
instructed, “We got plenty of time.”
Gareth placed the pad of his index
finger on the trigger and took a deep breath. He could feel his heart beat
slowing. Calm. Halfway through his exhale, he squeezed.
Just as the private finished tying
the girl’s hands, they were both sprayed by something wet. He looked down to
see the girl’s tunic and face spattered with blood.
Before he could react, he was
startled by the report of rifle fire. At the same time, the sergeant’s lifeless
and nearly decapitated body slumped to the ground.
The private forgot about the
Indian girl, sprang to his feet, pulled his Colt Army revolver, and sprinted
for the nearest tree.
From the top of the hill, Gareth
was almost done reloading by the time the private got to the tree. The private
would have good cover behind the tree, but he wouldn’t be able to stay there
forever and Gareth was patient.
The private didn’t know where the
shooter was, but he knew the report had come from the north. He assumed the
shooter was in the cluster of rocks at the top of the hill. Probably a damned
Sioux brave he and the sergeant had missed while following this group. He had
good cover, but if the shooter came down the hill, he would be vulnerable. He
and the sergeant had gone AWOL from Fort Laramie two weeks prior, so there was
no help coming for them. If he could make it to his horse, he might have a shot
at making it out alive.
Gareth watched the tree intently. The
muscles in his arms were on fire, holding the rifle steady. The Kentucky long
rifle was only ten pounds and the support of the rock helped ease some of the
weight. Nevertheless, holding that position was starting to take its toll.
Suddenly, the private dashed for
his horse. He fired to the north indiscriminately, hoping to cover his run, but
Gareth was way out of the revolver’s range.
He followed the soldier’s run,
leading him by a few yards trying to take the soldier’s speed into account. He
squeezed the trigger once more and the trusty old rifle roared in response.
Gareth wasn’t sure he hit the
soldier at first. He was still running. After a few steps, the soldier stumbled
and fell lifeless in a pool of his own blood.
Gareth slung his long rifle,
grabbed his Henry rifle and started quickly down the hill. The girl was still
tied and was trying to crawl away from the gore.
At a brisk jog, Gareth made it to
the bottom of the hill in just under two minutes. The girl had crawled slowly
about twenty yards. She was still dazed from being hit by the sergeant and
sobbing uncontrollably.
Gareth rushed to the girl’s side.
He put his hand on her shoulder and she spun on her back wide eyed.
“Omakiya ye!” She screamed,
shrilly, “Ayustan ye!”
“Sh, sh,” he tried to console her,
“It’s ok.”
She continued struggling. She
didn’t understand that Gareth was trying to help. This was Sioux territory
which meant she was probably speaking Lakota. Gareth had a lot of experience
with Indians and their languages. Growing up in the east he had learned some Cherokee
and during the Mexican war he learned a lot of Apache, but in Lakota, he could
only remember one word and he hoped it was the right one.
“Okopesnian,” Gareth said calmly,
“Safe. You understand?”
The girl collapsed on her back,
weeping, but relaxed. She understood him. Gareth meant her no harm.
He set his rifles down. The girl
was still upset and anything could be seen as a threat and he didn’t want to
startle her into a fit again. He pointed to his Bowie knife and then to her
hands which were still tied together. He then made a sawing motion with his
hand against the rope. She nodded in understanding.
Gareth pulled the knife from its
sheath and cut her bonds. He fully expected her to make a run for it. He
wouldn’t have blamed her and he would have let her go. Instead, she flung
herself into his arms and held him in a tight, fearful, sobbing embrace.
“Pilamayaye,” she sobbed quietly. Gareth
assumed that was some sort of expression of gratitude.
He held her for a moment longer,
stroking the back of her head. He was aware of her softness pressing against
him. He hadn’t held a woman close for three and a half years. This girl was
young – younger than him anyway. In spite of the austere life of the Sioux, the
luster of youth had not yet left her. In spite of her comparative youth, she
was certainly more woman than girl. He felt the pangs of desire that had become
almost unfamiliar to him.
Gareth put those thoughts aside
and pulled the girl away from him by the shoulders. He looked into her eyes.
They were deep brown, almost black, almond shaped, and tender. Again, the pang
of desire coursed through him.
“Come on,” he said, looking away
uncomfortably, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Standing, Gareth helped the Indian
girl to her feet. He took her hand gently and motioned toward the river.
“Clean,” Gareth said.
The girl nodded, but stood still.
She raised her hand and pointed to herself.
“Mapiya.”
“Mapeeya,” Gareth repeated, “That’s
your name? Mapeeya?”
The girl nodded and said, “Huh.
Mapiya emaciyapi.” She pointed at Gareth inquiringly.
He nodded, pointed at her and
repeated again, “Mapiya” he caught the pronunciation better this time, then he
pointed to himself and said, “Gareth.”
“Gahr-eeth,” she tried. Mapiya’s
mouth was still quivering from crying, but she forced a smile and walked to the
river’s edge.
Gareth walked behind Mapiya and
she began to lift her tunic over her head. He stopped short looking at the bare
tawny skin of her back. She was undressing and with no shame. As much as the
man in Gareth wanted to keep watching, the gentleman in him turned around.
He didn’t think she would
understand, but with is back to her, Gareth pointed up the hill and said, “I
have to go get my horse.”
“Huh,” he heard her reply. It
wasn’t a question and Gareth had heard Mapiya say it before. He hoped that
meant “yes” and that she understood. He went to the horses, untied one, mounted
and rode to fetch his paint.
Gareth took inventory of the
soldiers’ gear. They had a Springfield 1863 rifle and a Pattern 1853 Enfield
rifle. He had no use for either of those weapons. Each of the soldiers had a
Colt Army revolver. Since Gareth already had his own revolvers, he thought
about giving them to Mapiya – maybe one of the rifles too. She would probably
leave. Even though she was in Sioux country, she was alone and she would need
protection.
Besides weapons and ammunition,
they had simple packs and rations, and the inventory went quickly. He turned to
look at the dead Indians scattered about. He wanted to honor the dead, but he
wasn’t sure of Sioux traditions. Some Indians practiced sky burial and some
burned their dead. He didn’t have time for either and besides, both of those
practices would probably create more problems than they would solve.
One of the dead soldiers had a
spade. Gareth decided to risk offending Mapiya and began digging graves in some
brush away from the river. He hoped the plants would hide the graves.
Hours passed. Gareth was aware
that Mapiya was taking inventory of her own people’s possessions. She found
clean clothes and tied drag sleds to one of the Army horses and also to Gareth’s
paint on which she began stacking various items she found: furs, packs, food,
and other items. Evidently she planned on staying with him for a while. They
both did their work quietly.
When the graves were finished, Gareth
began to drag the body of one of the Sioux – an old man – toward the first
grave. Mapiya appeared and grabbed the old man’s feet. She wasn’t crying anymore,
but she was very serious and they both gently lowered the body into the first
grave.
Within minutes all the Sioux
bodies had been laid to rest. Gareth picked up the shovel. Mapiya grabbed his
hand and shook her head. Gareth had the feeling she was going to say some kind
of words over the graves, so he removed his sweat soaked, wide brimmed, felt
hat and placed it over his heart.
Mapiya began singing and dancing
haltingly around the graves. The tune was hauntingly beautiful and filled the
air with a kind of magic that touched Gareth’s soul. Gareth couldn’t understand
the words, but he could understand the emotion. By the looks of the people now
lying in graves, Mapiya had lost her family today.
They made camp on a higher plateau
above the river. After bathing himself, Gareth shot two rabbits and Mapiya was
cooking them over a fire on an improvised spit. As Mapiya cooked, Gareth made a
makeshift tent for Mapiya by tying a rope between two trees, throwing some Army
blankets over the top and staking down the corners. He planned on sleeping in
the open air, but figured a lady might like some privacy.
As they worked, Gareth couldn’t
help but steal glances at Mapiya.
She had let her raven black hair
down to dry and it made her look less girlish. Her hair was combed back, but
still fell in luxurious, silky streams over her shoulders as she worked. Her
face was soft and angled with high cheekbones, and a slight blush of youth. She
had found a clean, simple deerskin dress that fell gracefully over her athletic
yet feminine body.
Mapiya caught Gareth’s eye as he
tried to steal another glance. He quickly looked away, embarrassed. He
pretended to be absorbed with the tent. When he looked back, he could see that
she was smiling.
With dinner finished, Gareth laid
out his own bedroll next to a tree and sat down leaning against the tree with
his Henry rifle next to him.
Mapiya cleared her throat and Gareth
looked up. She was standing next to the tent holding some kind of rolled up
fur.
She pointed to the tent and said,
“Heyuway.”
Gareth had no idea what she said,
but responded anyway. “Yeah. That’s for you.”
Mapiya pointed to Gareth, beckoned
with her hand and then pointed to the tent. “Heyuway.”
Gareth understood. Mapiya wanted
him to go in the tent.
“No ma’am,” Gareth replied,
smiling. Patting the ground he said, “I’ll be fine out here.”
There was a look on Mapiya’s face.
Was that disappointment? She disappeared into the tent.
Gareth was tempted to go into the
tent, but he knew what would happen in there. Mapiya was beautiful and although
he called her a girl because she was younger than him by probably fifteen to
twenty years, she was all woman. Gareth had never dishonored a lady. He hadn’t
even lain with his own wife until they were married.
As he began to drift off into a
light sleep Gareth listened to Mapiya moving around inside the tent. He
wondered how the Sioux were married. He wondered what that would be like. He
wondered what marriage to Mapiya would be like.
She had awakened in him something
that he hadn’t felt in three and a half years. Since the death of Maria and his
sons, Gareth had only felt anger and had been consumed with hate and the desire
to exact retribution on the Union. He had no room for love. He didn’t even care
for his own men—they were simply tools to help him carry out his revenge.
Mapiya had put dent in his hate.
For the first time since the death of his family, Gareth felt the need to
protect something instead of destroy it. He felt that he could love Mapiya. He
felt that he did love Mapiya. In a sense, she had rescued him just as much as
he had rescued her.
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