dontravis.com
blog post #342
My
fellow Okie Mark Wildyr is trying to get a publisher to pick up the other books
in his Cut Hand series. He’s asked to do a guest post presenting the
opening to the second book in the series, River Otter. I, of course,
graciously consented.
When
we reach Chapter l, the first player is River Otter, more commonly called
Otter, white man’s name Joseph Strobaw, who was the last spouse of the
legendary Billy Strobaw, a white man the Indians knew as the Red Win-tay. The
second is Dog Fox, whom Billy gave the white-sounding name of Cuthan Strobaw, so
that the youth would never forget his true father, Cut Hand. The year is4, and
the Civil War is raging, but has not touched this part of the Wyoming Territory…
until now.
RIVER OTTER
By Mark Wildyr
Timbers fall to ringing axes, game to booming sticks.
Hunger drives us from ancestral homes.
Tribal drums go hollow.
Flutes pipe in despair.
Stanza from the poem “Echoes of the Flute” by Mark
Wildyr
Prologue
White Stone Hill, Dakota Territory, September 5, 1863
On
the run from the Star Chief Sibley since the battle at Big Mound two moons
past, they had stood to fight him again at Dead Buffalo Lake. Now for the span
of two suns, they had done battle with another Star Chief called Sully, a
relentless warrior who spent his time drawing pictures with pigments soaked in
water when he wasn’t killing tribesmen.
Today
would bring no respite. The blue coats and their thunder guns were still here,
hovering like the feathered bone pickers circling overhead. The white army had
inflicted a terrible toll on the Dakota. Warriors were accustomed to staring
into the face of death, but how could even the bravest stand against big guns
that shredded men and horses with bursts of fire and thunder?
Inkpaduta,
whom the Americans called Red Cap, a dour, pox-scarred war chief, had led them
through these many days of slaughter, fighting with a ferocity born of a deep,
implacable hatred of whites. He had a wily mind, vicious fangs, and terrible
claws, but Sully had numbers, firepower, and tenacity.
The
shelling began again with the booming of cannon and the ear-splitting eruption
of hot shells. The fusillade was not so effective now that they had the
protection of the gullies and the hills, but Sully would soon be on the move.
Their ranks decimated, the Indians withdrew, abandoning food and provisions and
leaving their women, children, and wounded to the mercies of the Americans. All
was lost now, but at least some of them would live to do battle another day.
Chapter
1
Teacher’s Mead, Dakota Territory, Spring 1864
A whistle drew me outside where a child’s voice from atop
the hollow hill behind the house directed my gaze south. Less than half a mile
away, six mounted warriors rode west between the Mead and the near shore of the
bloated Yanube River. They were too far away to identify, but they did not have
the look of Sioux.
Cuthan joined me on the porch. “I guess we know why the
blue coat went flying by here. Do you think they’re renegades, Otter?”
An hour earlier, a trooper had passed on the south side of
the river, riding hard for Ft. Yanube.
“If they
are renegades, they’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise, but we’d best get
everyone inside.”
I
looked toward the near field where six-year-old Alexander stood in the middle
of the freshly turned rows. A hand shaded his eyes as he stared at the riders.
He caught his father’s wave, dropped the bag of corn seed he was holding, and
started for the house. John, younger by a year, shot around the corner of the
porch, eyes agog. He’d given us the warning from the hill.
“Do
you see them, Pa? Do you see them?”
“We
see them, Son,” Cuthan said. “It took sharp eyes to spot those riders in the
tree line. You did well.”
Glowing
from this praise, the boy self-consciously snatched off his hat and slapped it
against his leg to free it of dust, as he’d seen his father do a thousand
times.
The
warriors had halted and were talking among themselves. After a moment, they
headed in our direction at a slow, cautious pace. Each cradled a long gun in
his arms.
Cuthan’s
wife, Mary, stepped out onto the porch. “What’s happening?”
“Get
back inside,” I said sharply. Those warriors should see a family of natives,
not a yellow-headed American woman. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re
in the house. Oh!” she gasped as she caught sight of the warriors.
“Go
inside with your mother,” Cuthan said to the two boys. “Let’s join them,
Otter.”
“I
want to talk to those men.”
“We
can talk through the door.”
“I
want to know what’s happening. The best way is to go out and talk like men.” I
said.
“I’ll
get our rifles.”
“I’ll
go alone and unarmed. If anything happens, send Mary and the children through
the secret tunnel into the hollow hill. You stay in the house. Fight them off
if you have to.”
“I’m
not going to let you—”
“Think
of your wife and fry and do as I say. I’ll be all right.”
I
walked to the barn, trying to appear unhurried. White Patch, anxious for
exercise, danced in anticipation as I threw a halter over his long nose. I
didn’t bother to saddle the pinto. I would have preferred to greet the
strangers in my breechclout, but Mary considered them uncivilized, so I
refrained from wearing mine around the Mead. I stripped my white man’s shirt
over my head and dropped it in the dirt. Getting rid of the garment made me
look more like who I was.
By
the time I left the farmyard, the riders had almost reached the line of trees
bordering the old game trail running in front of the place. When I got within a
hundred paces of the leading horseman, I gave the open-handed salute. He
returned the gesture as we pulled up facing one another.
“Hah-ue.”
I spoke the Lakota greeting even though I could see these were foreign Indians.
Southern Plains from the look of them. Four wore their hair in a pay-shah—a
roach. One was in braids, and the sixth wore a turban of some sort. “I am River
Otter.”
“I
don’t speak Sioux,” the leader said in passable English.
I
repeated my name in the American language.
“I
have heard of you. The Last Yanube, they say.”
“Almost,
although the man who farms this land has the same blood I do. What can we do
for you?”
He
squared his impressive shoulders. “I am Big Scar. My men and I are Cherokee.”
“You
are a long way from Cherokee country, and you do not have the look of a
wandering star-gazer.”
They
broke into laughter and chattered among themselves for a moment.
“Do
you fly the Stars and Bars or the Stars and Stripes?” Scar asked.
“Neither.
We are peaceful tribesmen who want no part of the war. We are content to let
the whites kill one another while we mind our own business.”
The
Cherokee leader was a striking, reddish-hued man with a meaty nose and a purple
scar across his right cheek. He wore his hair in a stiff roach and was dressed
in fringed buckskin trousers, a leather vest, and a bone breastplate. He pursed
his heavy lips. “A warrior should choose a side and fight for it.” Lifting a
bare arm, he indicated his companions. “Join us and raise the hatchet against
the people who killed your village.”
“Those
people are dead now, and I had a hand in seeing some of them to that end. I
have no quarrel with the others.”
“Are
there tribesmen in the area who will join us?”
I
motioned over my shoulder. “My adopted son, Cuthan, and I are the last bloods
in the hundred fifty-mile stretch between Ft. Ramson and Ft. Yanube, although
occasional travelers come through the territory going from where they have been
to where they are headed. You seem to ride with some purpose in mind. Was it
you who frightened the army man who went flying past earlier?”
The
men laughed again. “You are right. He was running away from us. We intend to
stop him before he reaches the fort up the river.”
“Then
I apologize for detaining you.”
“No
need. The way the blue coat was flogging his horse, he’ll ride the animal to
death and have to walk the rest of his journey.”
“Why
do the Cherokee come all the way up here to frighten our whites? Don’t you have
enough of your own?”
“Aye,
more than enough. But we are part of a big Confederate army come to take this
country away from your whites and give it to ours. We are the Native Detachment
of McComber’s Battalion.”
I
kept my Indian face in place. McComber’s Battalion meant nothing to me. “There
is a Confederate army behind you?”
“The
main detachment is at Ft. Ramson.”
“Have
they taken the fort?”
“They
are doing battle for it as we speak. We are to catch the outrider and stop him
from bringing reinforcements.”
My
heart lurched. I felt as if the blood drained from my face and puddled in my
moccasins. The American’s Civil War, until now merely a series of news
dispatches and gossip items, had arrived on our doorstep.
“I
see no singing wires,” Scar said. “Does that mean they have no telegraph at
Yanube?”
“Nay,
it does not reach that far.” I saw no harm in answering honestly, since I
perceived this as a test of something he already knew.
“Good.
Who is with you in the stone house? I see two rifle barrels sticking from gun
ports. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Ft. Yanube. It is built like a
blockhouse.
“That
describes Teacher’s Mead. The stone house was built back when there were
hostile tribes in the area.”
“And
the rifles pointing at us?”
“One
is in the hands of Cuthan Strobaw, the son of Cut Hand, last chief of the
Yanube. The other is held by his wife.”
“Tell
them it would not be wise to be so unfriendly when next we meet.” He waved his
companions toward the river before turning back to me. “The farm to your east.
Is that owned by bloods, too?”
“That
is the home of some foreign settlers. They, too, take no sides in this war.
They came across the ocean to farm in peace.”
The
man nodded. “The river is angry. Is there a walk-across?”
“Our
snowmelt is just ending, so you’ve come when the waters are at their highest.
The best walk is thirty paces to the right of the big cottonwood you see
yonder. Even it is dangerous this time of year. I would not risk it.”
Scar
had to get his men to the other side in order to catch up with the dispatch
rider, and my last remark was a subtle challenge. He fixed his eyes on me for a
long moment, although I was unable to discern if it was rudeness or merely his
adoption of the American habit of staring. Then he wheeled and caught up with
his companions as they rode for the river at a leisurely pace.
*****
The
Strobaw family’s life has been shaped by the people and the events ever since
Billy Strobaw came to the territory in 1832, fleeing New York where his family
was tainted by their loyalty to the crown during the Revolutionary War. Now,
another war is about to change things for them once again.
If
you would like to read more of the book, please let DSP Publications know of
your interest.
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!
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you next week.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
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