A Deadwood story -- counting coup, conclusion

~~~

Lieutenant Wilcox desperately wanted this mission over and done with. It was bad enough that the Indian scouts clearly thought of him as little better than an inept child, but the expedition itself had been truly punishing. The trip up to the Black Hills had involved a lot of hard riding, little sleep--and then only with a blanket on hard ground--and living off cold rations. Then when he finally got to go into that Deadwood place and have a seat indoors and some coffee--and was beginning to feel like a civilized human again--Sergeant Bogart's fiance had torn into him like one of the gut-shredding harpies of ancient legend.

He had never before known a woman who could demolish a fellow's self-esteem in such colorful and extended fashion. It was in actuality probably accomplished with only a few sentences, but it felt like an eternity of verbal abuse.

The worst part was, he knew she was right. He had developed great respect for the Indian scouts, and hoped he was learning some things from them...but it had been an egregious lapse in judgement and responsibility to have allowed Corporal Red Knife to look for the woman on his own, and run the risk of being shot as a hostile by one of the townspeople.

Still, it had turned out alright. Once Mrs. Kuhr had finished giving him instruction in the art and craft of applied profanity, she had given both him and Red Knife a darn good feed of coffee, pie and venison stew. She then gave them some useful information in terms of things she had heard about signs suggesting hostiles were in the area, and was able to pinpoint exactly where these reported signs had appeared. Furthermore, she agreed to alert the populace of the town about the need for caution when hunting or working in the hills, and promised to do so in a manner that she hoped would cause the least possible amount of panic and overreaction. Wilcox had in fact improved his standing in the woman's eyes by suggesting that she embellish the truth about the size and nature of the force that the army had sent to pursue the raiding party, in order to give the locals some reassurance that the hostiles would be dealt with swiftly and effectively.

But now he was back in the hills, crouching in some bushes in a thin rain, waiting for the signal from Clouds on Big Mountain to attack the Lakotas' hidden camp. They had already confronted the raiding party once--an encounter in which Clouds on Big Mountain and Young Hawk had tried to convince the Sioux to return peacefully to the Agency. The scouts had no real wish to kill Lakotas unless they had to, not just because that was an aspect of their orders, but also because if they killed these fellows, that might stir up more unrest and new problems among Red Cloud's people.

The hostiles, however, had chosen to resist, and a short, sharp dust-up had erupted. The raiding party managed to break through the encircling scouts and escape, but in doing so at least one of them had been wounded. The one positive note in the course of events was that in the fight, Red Knife had struck one of the Sioux men with a native form of riding crop, thereby "counting coup" and gaining accolades from his colleagues. Young Hawk was quite proud of his nephew, and the other scouts all seemed to take it as a good sign that the raiding party would not slip away next time.

Well, this was that "next time." The Lakota were hiding in a cluster of some rocks and fir trees, while the scouts--and Lt. Wilcox--were arranged in a circle around them, ready for a fresh attempt to make them return to the Agency.

Wilcox peered through the misting rain and branches of the bushes where he was concealed, but he really couldn't see anything. He was frustrated, he was wet and miserable, and he was painfully aware of something having worked its way into his boot where it rubbed uncomfortably against his ankle. But this was, of course, not the time to be pulling off his boots and trying to look after a minor irritant like that.

Oddly enough, what Lieutenant Wilcox was not, was scared. The firefight the other day had been his first occasion of actually being under hostile fire, and he had found it to be an experience that was strangely exhilarating--as well as sobering. He had felt almost disconnected from himself when the shooting started...like an observer, watching a training exercise. If you had pressed him to explain his feelings, he would have found it hard to put it into words. Now, waiting for his second encounter with the enemy to commence, he was aware of his physical discomfort, he longed to get this business concluded, but he also was remarkably calm and in the moment. Many years later, he did make a comment to the effect that on this occasion, he had felt he was where he was supposed to be...

And then a shot rang out from the rocks...then more. They had been detected by the Lakota. Almost immediately, the scouts were returning fire, and the crackle of gunshots was rising to a brief crescendo. Suddenly, Wilcox realized there was a hostile warrior on the move: advancing rapidly, bent over and taking advantage of all cover he could find, and heading directly towards the lieutenant.

Wilcox raised his .45/55 service carbine, drew in a breath and let it out part way, took aim, squeezed the trigger...and missed. The Indian heard the roar of the carbine and saw the flash, and began bearing down on the officer. Rather than trying to reload the carbine, Wilcox tossed it aside. He then stood up, clawed open the flap on his pistol holster, and yanked out the big Schofield revolver as quickly as he could.

Now, you may recall something we mentioned some time ago, while the young gentleman was still in St.Louis at the cavalry depot. At this time, the U.S. Army had a mixture of revolvers in service, including the Colt model 1873 (commonly called the single action army), and the large Smith & Wesson No. 3 revolver (later versions of which were known as the "Schofield"). Mr. Wilcox had elected to keep his Smith & Wesson as his personal sidearm of choice, being as it is a break-action style of weapon, in which the frame is hinged so that you when you undo the catch, the barrel drops down and a mechanism automatically extracts the contents of your cylinder. Consequently, you can remove your spent casings and get reloaded much more quickly than you can with the SAA Colt.

Unfortunately, there is a curious thing that occasionally happens with the Smith &Wesson No. 3. In jamming the pistol into the holster or pulling it back out, it is possible to accidentally disengage the catch on the frame. When that occurs, once the pistol is drawn clear of the holster the heavy barrel will be pulled down by its own weight, opening the action of the weapon, and your firearm can unexpectedly and inconveniently unburden itself of your unfired cartridges.

This is one of the reasons why the Army rather preferred the Colt over the Smith & Wesson (as well as other factors like its use of a relatively anemic round, and that it had more parts that could potentially break). But accidentally unloading itself in the heat of combat was a pretty substantial drawback in and of itself.

Mind you, this sort of accident was not common. There was...oh, let's say maybe something like a one-in-a-hundred chance of this occurring. But it did happen now and then. And of course, that is precisely what happened to Lieutenant Wilcox in this instance. The one-in-a-hundred thing that could go wrong chose to go wrong at the worst possible time (as such things usually do). When the young officer yanked out the massive revolver, the catch was in fact undone, the heavy barrel did, in fact, tip forward, and the extractor mechanism functioned as it was supposed to. The Lieutenant was unpleasantly surprised by the sound of his unfired rounds landing on the soft ground.

Plop. Plopplopplop....Plop.

The Indian who was rushing at Wilxcox was apparently surprised as well. He stopped a short distance from the white man, who was looking at his now empty pistol. Then the white man said something in his own tongue (it was in fact, "Oh, what the hell"). Then the bluecoat--rather than running away or cowering--casually tossed his useless weapon over his shoulder and charged at his opponent, shouting like one who had looked upon the Face of the Great Spirit and gone mad.

To complicate the situation, the Lakota warrior also noticed that several of the "White Men's wolves"--Indians who fought alongside the bluecoats--had burst from the nearby undergrowth and were coming to the aid of this crazy white guy. Under these circumstances, the Lakota man elected to execute a tactical withdrawal, and turned to make a dash back to the cover of the rocks. As he did so, he felt a sharp--but certainly not disabling--blow to the back of his head.

Crazy white guy had smacked him from behind with with the open palm of his hand. The Indian could have turned and killed the man with his knife, but he knew the scouts would be on him almost instantly, so he continued back to the rocks.

Wilcox, meanwhile, having just slapped a Sioux warrior on the back of his head, suddenly was overcome with the realization that he had placed himself in a somewhat untenable situation. He was more or less in the open and unarmed. Red Knife and another of the Arikara men had rushed out from cover to stand with him, but at any moment he expected for them all to be cut down by a renewed hail of bullets from the direction of the rocks.

But that wasn't what happened. Instead, all shooting stopped. Some moments passed, and then a voice called out in Sioux from the cluster of rocks and trees. Clouds on Big Mountain replied in the same language, and before long, there was movement from the Lakota as they left their concealed positions. Red Knife explained to the Lieutenant that the raiding party was surrendering itself to return peacefully to the Agency.

In a way, it wasn't surprising. As the half dozen men came down from their position, Wilcox could see that at least two of them were wounded. They only had a couple horses, and to tell the truth, the Lakota looked about as tired, hungry and miserable as he felt...these men had made their attempt to return to the old ways...and they were now ready to go back.

What did surprise Wilcox however, was that the Crow and Arikara scouts crowded around him patting him on the shoulder and smiling broadly. The lieutenant looked at Red Knife with a puzzled expression.

"What's all this about, Red Knife?"

Red Knife laughed. "You too have counted coup! And how you did so! To empty your gun...and throw it away! Crazy you seemed, but crazy-brave! That is why our enemies decided to quit and go back--being chased by us, and a white man who does not fear to die...who would throw away his gun to count coup...they lost their hunger for this fight."

Second Lieutenant Josephus Wilcox thought about this a minute...he briefly considered trying to explain what had actually happened...then he decided it was was not in his own interest to disabuse anyone present of the notion that he had deliberately unloaded his pistol and tossed it aside in order to count coup in the purest sense of the concept: without any deadly weapon for protection, and expressing utter contempt for his enemies.

He turned to Young Hawk and Clouds on Big Mountain, and with Red Knife's help, told them that he wished to return briefly to Deadwood so he could tell the One Eyed Sergeant's Woman what had happened, and that all was well. He would also get them some supplies for the return trip.

The two elder scouts nodded their assent...though Young Hawk asked if some of the scouts should perhaps go with the Lieutenant. With no hint of irony, he told Wilcox that they would be proud to go with him to the white men's big camp if he wished them to do so.

But Wilcox shook his head.

"No thank you, Young Hawk. I will go alone. I do not wish for you or any of your...of our men to be shot by mistake by some fool."

He then looked at Red Knife and grinned. "It's all right, I will do my best to not get lost."

As the scouts watched Wilcox ride off in the direction of the town, Red Knife told the others what the lieutenant had said. The Crow scouts all smiled slightly at this, but the Arikara men laughed out loud. The universe could indeed be a funny place sometimes.

~~~

A Deadwood story -- counting coup, part 2

~~~

Traveling First Class, army style.

Lieutenant Wilcox knew that the Army could be frugal, but he didn’t realize how utterly, drop-dead tightfisted it could be, until he discovered that he and his detachment of new recruits would be traveling most of the way to their first duty post in a Union Pacific boxcar. Sergeant Bogart, however, gave no evidence of being surprised at this, and the men just seemed pleased that they would be making a large part of the trip by rail, instead of having to ride their horses the entire way. A good many of them, after all, were somewhat new to the art of horsemanship, and they were probably more comfortable gaining experience on horseback in smaller doses.

The same train included a number of additional freight carriages that were identical to the one that was occupied by the men, but these were laden with supplies and provisions destined for Fort Sidney and Camp Robinson, as well as the Red Cloud Agency. There were also a number of stockcars loaded with horses--a number of re-mounts as well as the animals assigned to the recruit detachment. The Army, in its infinite practicality--and a desire to make sure that the new troops would not have too much time on their hands while en-route--had detailed the recruits to water and feed the horses during the journey. The men were also to have the pleasure of mucking out the cars at rest stops.

Although it was not specifically among the tasks that had been assigned to them, the Sergeant had respectfully suggested that the Lieutenant detail some of the men to stand guard around the train when it made stops, in order to prevent any larcenous-minded miscreants from breaking into the boxcars and making off with government property.

Wilcox took the suggestion. He appreciated that the Sergeant had brought the idea to his attention, as he quickly realized that even though he hadn’t been instructed to post guards, if something did turn up missing, he would very likely be held responsible for not taking any proactive steps to prevent such an occurrence. As a new officer, he also appreciated the way that Bogart had approached the issue. He had quietly brought the matter up with the lieutenant outside earshot of the men, so the impression was that Wilcox had initiated this course of action.

The Lieutenant soon realized that the Sergeant was working in a variety of small and subtle ways to build up and strengthen the new officer’s standing with the men. Suggestions often came in the form of questions:

“Beg pardon, Lieutenant, shall I take a detail and get some fresh straw for the men to bed down on?”

“Lieutenant, shall I have the men air the blankets now and sweep out the car?”

“Excuse me Lieutenant, I believe we will be here at this stop for a while, may I have the men make some fires and cook up some bacon and boil coffee while we have the chance? Oh and sir, the water cask is getting low...request permission to detail Willich and Ericson to get it refilled.”

To his credit, Wilcox immediately knew that the only possible answer to all these questions was “Yes, Sergeant, carry on, please,” expressed with a nonchalant air that implied that he had, in fact, been intending to issue precisely those orders.

Now, considering that--as you will recall--2nd Lieutenant Wilcox had expected army life and his role as an officer to be somewhat more formal and “regulation” when he had first arrived at the Cavalry Depot in St. Louis, you may be feeling a certain degree of astonishment (if not incredulity) that he was so readily adapting to the reality of how things worked in frontier units.

Well, first off, let me explain that, yes, Mr. Wilcox may have been young and enthusiastic, and he may have left West Point with his head full of all kinds of pretensions and grand notions...but he was not a goddam idiot. The time he had spent at the Cavalry Depot waiting for the recruits to be released into his care had been quite a lesson. He had witnessed first-hand what the Sergeant and other non-coms at the depot were accomplishing in training the new men. Furthermore, Wilcox had been given a good "talking to" not just by the commandant, but also a number of other experienced officers as well. Some of these individuals had been rather forceful in making their points: their stories about what had happened to officers who fell prey to their own ignorance and arrogance had been stomach-churningly graphic. Several of these men had been present at the aftermath of the Custer fight, and described in detail the horrible process of trying to find and identify the bodies of their friends.

As I said, the young man was not a fool, and quickly saw the desirability of not ending up as a naked, mutilated corpse rotting on the plains.

Furthermore, Wilcox simply was fascinated by the trade of soldiering, and he genuinely enjoyed learning about it. He was very glad to have the chance to receive more instruction in how it was actually done. In fact, he desperately wanted to ask Bogart about his fighting Comanches before the war and leading a company of Confederate cavalry. He was also intrigued to find out that one of the recruits, Private Willich, had been a Prussian lancer and had fought at Sedan in 1870. Wilcox ached to hear that man’s story as well. But even in the more relaxed atmosphere of the frontier, it just would not have been appropriate for him to have requested that these men share their personal experiences with him.

Still, when all was said and done, by the time the train finally arrived at Sidney, Nebraska under a gray and sodden sky, 2nd Lieutenant Josephus Wilcox was feeling slightly more confident about how he would acquit himself in this strange and dangerous environment.

At the station yard in Sidney, Wilcox was watching the men as they got their gear out of the boxcar and unloaded their horses when he heard the sound of horsemen cantering up behind him. The Lieutenant turned to see some cavalrymen splattering through the mud towards him, dressed in largely shapeless slouch hats and a mishmash of outerwear that included caped overcoats and canvas jackets among other things. The horseman in the lead, whose hat bore brass crossed sabers and the number “3,” was evidently in charge--the fact of which was confirmed to Wilcox when the man got close enough that captain’s shoulder straps were visible on his stained leather hunting coat.

“Lieutenant Wilcox, I presume?” the captain enquired.

Wilcox, saluted. “Yes sir.”

The man’s weather-worn features broke into a craggy smile and he returned the salute in a manner that was so crisp it seemed curiously incongruent with his rough and ready attire. “Glad to have you here...I’m Captain Welles. We’ll be setting off back for Camp Robinson as soon as we’ve sorted out which of the remounts and supplies are for us, and which will stay here at Fort Sidney....I understand First Sergeant Bogart was to come with you?”

“Yessir, he was,..um..is” replied the young officer. Wilcox turned to call for Bogart to report to him, but was startled to find the man already standing right behind him.

The one-eyed veteran snapped a salute at the captain that was so sharp and strictly regulation it could have struck sparks from steel. The mud bespeckled captain’s response was equally fit for a parade ground...but the grin on his face was the kind of thing reserved for old friends and comrades.

“Hello, Sergeant!” said Welles, his eyes with a bit of a sparkle in them. “Good to see you again.”

The old sergeant smiled too. “Thank you sir. Tis good to see you and the boys as well.” He nodded at the mounted men behind the captain, all of whom were smiling back...a few of them nodded in response and several touched their hat brims in greeting.

The captain turned. “Corporal Brill! Bring up the wagons and have the new men commence loading ‘em up. Mr. Pickens, take your detail and see to the remounts...have them ready to move out as soon as possible.” He turned back to Sergeant Bogart. “How are you finding St. Louis?”

Sepp smiled again. "Well, Captain, it’s a good bit o’ hard work and more than the usual ration of minor frustrations, but I find it tolerable enough. How are things at Robinson, sir? How’s the Major?”

The captain frowned slightly. “Oh, the Major’s fine. I shall give him your regards. But the situation could be better...we’ve just had a small group of Red Cloud’s young men decide they’ve had enough of agency life and they’ve bolted..probably gone to go do some raiding up in the Black Hills.”

Sepp looked thoughtful. “Have you anyone to send after them?”

Captain Welles coughed. “No, not really...not from the Third, anyway. Part of the command is down with fever, part is on a long patrol into Wyoming, and the Major wants the rest to stay at Robinson in case things get dicey on the Agency. He wants us around to keep any more of the young warriors from getting ideas in their heads. But Clouds on Big Mountain and some of his Crow scouts are on their way to the Camp even as we speak, and I have a few Arikara scouts who are available to go with them. Just wish I had a senior non-com or an officer to go with them...could help with the diplomatic side of things...I hate to send Indian scouts into the area of the gold fields on their own--those damned argonauts haven’t the vaguest clue regarding the natives...idiots will probably try to shoot our scouts on sight.”

At this point, the lieutenant found the courage to speak. “Sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilcox?”

I ..um..that is..I would like to volunteer to go with the Indian scouts...if I may...unless of course, you were thinking of sending Sergeant Bogart...”

Welles looked at the young officer appraisingly. He then turned to Sepp and slightly arched an eyebrow. Almost imperceptibly, the old sergeant nodded. The captain looked back at Wilcox and folded his arms on his chest.

“Very well, I believe that would be acceptable. In fact, First Sergeant Bogart is not an option for us...his orders are to return to the Cavalry Depot with the next train heading east. And well...to be honest, Lieutenant, being as we are somewhat shy of enlisted men...even with the new lot you’ve done such a good job of shepherding here...we don’t really have a place for you quite as of yet. You are somewhat...ah...extraneous for now.”

Even with being labeled “extraneous,” Wilcox was feeling quite pleased with how this was developing. The fact that Sergeant Bogart had given him the nod...a stamp of approval that he wouldn’t just be a burden to the Indian scouts--and that the Captain had said he had done well with his assignment of delivering the recruits--all in all, he was feeling downright good about himself at the moment.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

Captain Welles chuckled. “You’re rather excited about the prospect of this aren’t you, Lieutenant? Splendid. Matter of fact, several of the Arikara men are equally enthused about the task. They are rather young themselves...they have yet to count coup and are eager for the chance.”

Wilcox had been following all the conversation to this point but now he looked a tad puzzled. “Count coup, sir? As in killing an enemy?”

“The Captain waved his gauntleted hand dismissively. “Oh no, it's not about killing...they look on it as anyone can kill an enemy--it’s about getting very close and striking your enemy in a contemptuous sort of way, preferably with your hand or something harmless...like a riding crop...very important tradition for these people.”

“Ah...I see,” said Lieutenant Wilcox, even though he didn’t, really.

The Captain was already thinking about other things. “You know, it would probably be helpful if we could have you get in contact with someone up there..perhaps in Deadwood City or Lead..a community leader or responsible individual who isn’t a complete addlepated lackwit. Let them know what is going on, without causing some kind of panic...gather information on what is going on in the vicinity.”

“Yessir, that might be helpful," agreed the Lieutenant.

Welles turned to Sepp again. “Sergeant Bogart, you spent a goodly bit of time up in that neck of the woods...do you know of anyone who isn’t a feckless idiot that you could suggest as a contact person for the Lieutenant and the scouts to meet with?”

Sepp grinned. “Yes, Captain, I believe I do....”

~~~

Storytelling in Steelhead -- was it good for you too?

~~~

The charmin' Riven Howemewood invited me to take part in a Halloween spooky storytelling marathon in the garden at the Steelhead public library. What a grand time, Thank you Riven!

I only got to stay for part of the event, but there was a real nice turnout and great readings. Some of the presentations were readings of works by authors such as Ambrose Bierce (always popular at this time of the year) or things like this piece, which was found and read by Hawc DaCosta. There were also original stories read by some of our in-world authors--for example, my friend Headburro Antfarm offered up what I understand was an enhanced version of his sewer zombie epic (sadly he took his turn at storytelling before I was able to get there), and I presented two pieces that I wrote this morning, basing them on a couple of traditional tales that I expanded and stuffed some dialogue into.

On the whole, other than a couple of stupid typos, I thought what I did turned out pretty well. So I decided to share them with you folks here (also I'm too damn tired to write anything else today, but hell, I want to give ye somethin').

The first story is based on what may be at least in part, an old plains Indian story. I tried to write in the voice of Pawnee grand mother telling the tale. The second is a fanciful expansion on common story that sort of falls into the realm of western urban legends. It is told in Dio's usual voice, so you cussin' fans won't be totally disappointed.


The Salt Witch

Long ago, in the days before the white men came to the plains to hunt and trade and draw their maps, even before the bearded men in iron clothing brought the Horse, which ran away or were stolen by the People, who would use them to make a new way of life upon the grasslands...

There was a story told among the Pawnee people, living in what the white men now call Kansas and Nebraska, the story of the Salt Witch, and the Pawnee chief who destroyed her.

The Pawnee are a brave and war-like people, taking great joy in their fights with their old enemies the Sioux, and others who would do them harm. In those days before the coming of the Horse, they moved on foot, following the game they hunted, including the sacred Buffalo. Ayah! you gotta be brave to do that! ....hunting buffalo on foot! Maybe some time I will tell you how they did it. But not now.

Now I will tell you about a journey that lies at the heart of this story of the Salt Witch. For the Pawnee also made great journeys for many purposes on foot, pulling their things behind them on the framework of sticks the Metis and voyaguers call travois.

There was one band of Pawnee down in what is now Kansas, who were led by one of the most brave and fearsome war chiefs the people had ever known. It was so long ago, that no one recalls his name, but, oh, they remember how fierce he was!

This man knew no fear, in sight of an enemy he was possessed of such rage that no one could stop him in his killing, it seemed like nothing created by the Spirits or man could turn him aside from his prey!

Only his gentle and beautiful wife could calm him...only she had the power over his heart to turn him from the path of his rage. He loved her with a force as powerful as his anger, but with her he was as kind as a grandmother, and filled with joy like a young man who has just come to know his first affection for a woman...

One day, the elders of his band came to him and said, “The people need salt, there is little left in our camp...will you lead our people north, above the wide river to the salty lakes? There they may gather the salt that is left on the banks as the sun dries out the waters.”

The war chief agreed, and he told his people to bundle their things and load the travois, and they set off across the grasslands, across the wide river, into the sand hills of what the white men now call Nebraska, where they could find the dried salt on the banks of the saline lakes and ponds.

Along the way, they met another band of Pawnee, coming south from those lands. “Greetings brothers!” they said. “Where do you journey to?”

“We go to the sand hills, to gather salt from the banks of the lakes.” said the chief.
“Ayah!” the others cried. “Beware when you get there, for there is a witch woman who dwells there now! You will see a pillar of the salt, in one place, and then when you turn, it will be in another! It is the Salt Witch, hunting you! She is evil, and feeds upon the fear that dwells deep in a man’s heart, and she will try to steal or kill the spirits of your people!”

Many of the chief’s band felt dismay and their hearts turned to ice at this news. The elders came to him, and asked, “Should we turn back?” But the chief, he talked to his warriors, and gave them new heart. They agreed with him that they all should go on, having come this far.

They went on and found a place where a great salty lake had been burned almost dry by the sun, and there was much salt...so much salt that some of it formed pillars that stood tall above the ground...

and the people...

as they worked...

felt sure some of the pillars seemed to move.

Or perhaps it was just one. It would be far behind you..and then you turned to scrape at the salt with an antelope’s shoulder bone, and when you stood up again...the pillar seemed closer....

The chief shouted to his people to work hard and fast, to be brave as the Pawnee are, and to not fear things that cannot be seen and may be only in the mind. But many of them still felt fear, especially the chief’s wife...and she could feel something gripping at her heart.

They finished, taking much salt that would last them a very long time and could also be used to trade with other bands. Oh! but they were glad to leave that place....and as they traveled back, their hearts grew lighter...except for that of the chief’s wife.

Her thoughts grew dark, her chest was pained, her breathing shallow, and her dreams at night made her cry out and wake, sitting up, washed in sweat, her eyes wide....The chief was greatly troubled, and worried for his wife...

He asked the band to stop when they got to the wide river and to camp for awhile, so she could rest, and the medicine man could try to help his wife....

They of course agreed, for the whole band was fond of the chief’s wife...but they could do nothing for her, and during the night of their second day in camp by the wide river, she died.

The people of the band were greatly saddened by this...the women cried out and the men spoke in low voices, their eyes downcast...but not the chief.

He stood looking towards the north...to the sand hills and the salty lakes...to the one lake, where the pillars of salt stood. An elder asked him, “My brother, what passes through your mind? I know you are troubled and grieving...but there is nothing else we can do...”

The chief turned his head slowly towards the elder, and the old one could see the fire beginning to burn in his eyes, the darkness in his face, how his chest heaved as his heart beat faster and faster like a war drum...

The chief stripped off his clothing and painted himself black...he took up his great war club which had a stone head made of pure white stone from the sacred Black Hills...the stone the white men call quartz, which dwells in the earth with the shining yellow rocks the People know as the blood of the Sun.

The stone head of his war club was hard and sharp, a pure glowing white, which is why the People call such rocks “stone ice”...it was fixed with stout rawhide laces to a sturdy ash haft, and this club had been washed in the blood of many enemies...

The chief stood for a moment on the edge of the camp, gripping his war club..and then he let out a cry that was as if a bear and a panther had joined voices, and his people knew he had been taken by his rage. They watched as he ran on powerful legs towards the north.

The chief ran until he came to the very lake bed where they had gathered salt, and there, he saw an apparition: an old woman standing over the figure of a young woman...her face was twisted in horrid glee, as she held the young woman by the hair, a stone knife lifted in her hand!

The chief let out another roar, twice as dreadful as before, and he charged forward, his war club raised...

The Salt Witch--for it was indeed her--laughed and let go of the young woman, turning towards the onrushing man. She reached out with her magic to feel for his fear...

and she found none.

All she could find was rage. A terrible, immense, towering rage...

Rage so pure...it was not like the anger that grows from fear or hate...it was an elemental power, like the great fires that sweep over the grasslands in dry season, or the storms that blacken with sky with clouds that crash and throw their burning lances at the earth....

And the Salt Witch herself now knew fear...for the Salt Witch was not some evil sprit that could not be killed. She was a living thing...fully evil, yes...but a being who could die.
And knowing this, she tried to turn herself into a salt pillar to hide, but the fear had caught her so completely, she forgot how...

She could only whimper “Mercy” as the war chief closed with her...

But the rage does not know mercy...he brought the club of pure white stone down on her head and split her skull from crown to chin. He wrenched his weapon from the mass of blood and brains and teeth, and then swung at the hand that still clutched the wicked stone knife, smashing bones and flesh and shattering the knife into a hundred pieces.

He swung again and sank the club into her chest, laying open what was inside...and as she fell, he thrust his hand into the gaping wound and tore her heart from its very roots. Dropping his club and the bloody organ, he took her arms and wrenched them from the sockets, pulling the wretched creature to pieces with his bare hands.

And then he heard a voice.

“Husband...she is dead. You may cease your rage...”

It was the young woman...

...it was his wife...

She was shimmering, and he could see through her, for it was just her spirit, which had been taken captive by the Salt Witch, and was now free...

...but she still had to power to calm his rage one last time...

She smiled at him...and he sank to his knees before her smiling spirit, and he wept...for the first and last time in his life, he wept...

She bent forward to kiss him, and he was calmed...the rage was gone...

...and the spirits of the winds came and took her to the Other Side Camps, where she would wait for her husband.

The chief wiped the tears from his face and stood...he piled the remains of the Salt Witch and called out to the Great Spirit to hold the evil thing in this place until the end of time...and the shattered body parts of the vile creature became, for one final time, a pillar of salt.

And he returned to his people and journeyed with them for many years, until he too passed and rejoined his beloved in the Other Side Camps.

Now when the People go to that place to gather salt, they have no fear. They beat the ground with clubs around that salt pillar to remind the Witch of how she was destroyed, and to chastise her with the knowledge that one who feeds on fear can have that fear turned upon them.


Devil Dogs of the Comstock

Chinese folk are a lot like injuns an irishmen: they got a certain understandin’ that most other folks don’t, ‘specially in matters of a spiritual nature.


An’ they kin be downright philosophical regadin’ about jus’ about nearly ever’thin’...

Like here’s a story ‘bout some fellers what went to the Comstock hopin’ to make their fortune..but they sorta tended to run about a day late an’ a dollar short, so when they got to that part o’ Nevada, the big rush was over, and the smaller sliver claims was already played out.

Well, they figgered it wouldn’t hurt to look at some of the abandoned claims to see if anyone has mebbe missed somethin, and they was in this one lil’ minin’ town when they heard tell of a nearby canyon that was jus full o’ old claims, where the work had seemed so promisin’ and tussle fer diggin’ rights had been so enthusiastic, that the miners who had been digging up there had all got guard dogs to keep off claim jumpers.

So these two fellers...brothers most likely, bein’ as when yer both as dim-witted as these boys were, ye ain’t gonna be willin’ to put up with each other less’n ye got blood ties forcin’ the issue....

...anyhow, they was fixin’ to go up to this canyon, and they gets to talking with an ol’ Celestial gent who tells ‘em, “You be wary, for that canyon has spirit dogs--you hear how miners up there have guard dogs?”

“Yep” says the two brothers, noddin’ their mostly empty heads.

“Well,” says the ol’ Chinese man, “when silver all gone up there, miners go..but most leave dogs behind...don’t need them no more...they starve and die, still guarding masters’ claims.”

The two fellers of course, don’t put much stock in this, cuz like I said, they warn’t possesed o’ much in the way o’ fetchums. The head on up the canyon and find a likely lookin’ ol’ hole cut into the hillside, an’ set up a little camp.

The old claim, was purty much just a little square hole framed up with some crude hewn timbers...an they was a chain pegged outside. Our heroes follow the chain inside the hole an’ see the bones of a very, very big dog at the other end, just within the entrance of the diggin’s, where the por critter musta crawled to an’ expired.

Beyond that, they discover purty much the usual o’ what ye’d expect in a hole dug into a hillside, which ain’t a whole lot. They keep pokin’ around, not findin’ much, but they do manage to piss away the better part o’ the day, so that they elect to settle in fer the night at their lil’ camp instead o’ headin back to town.

After dark fell an they’s a-layin under their blankets by the far, when the one says, “You hear that?”

“What?” says the other.

“Like a snufflin’ an’ growlin?” says the first.

“NO. Tis jus’ coyotes mos’ likely. The far will keep ‘em at a distance. Now shut the hell up an’ go to sleep ye feckless turd-brained puke.”

“I ain’t feckless,” the first one mutters all petulant-like, as he rolls over.

They try to go to sleep, but after a while they kin both hear the snufflin’ an growlin’...the older one takes out his six shooter, an’ fires a round into the brush to scare off whatever it was...and it got quiet again fer a while...

but then the noise starts up again, louder than before..and just as the one feller is gonna let off another shot, they hear this barkin’ an snarlin’...not like ye get with a coyote, but with a big dog.

..a big mean dog.

...a big mean dog who is utterly an unforgivably pissed off...

The hair is a-standin’ up on the back o’ their scruffy red necks, an’ they both start turnin’ toward the sound o’ the barking...

...which happens to be a-comin’ from in the minin’ hole dug in side o’ the hill not more’n a few yards away...

an’ they kin see see two red, glowin’ eyes, starin’ at em from in the darkness o’ the hole...

an’ then...the chain starts to move.

The older one who’s got a bit more of a calculatin’ side to his nature, he says...”um...Billy Jon, how long do ye recollect that chain was?

An’ Billy Jon, bein’ the more emotional o’ the two, just sorta goes,

“Arhghalagalaga!!!

They both leaps up an takes to runnin’ fer the hosses fast as they kin, no boots, no britches (no brains) an’ Billy Jim--the older and slower o’ the two--swears he felt somethin’ nippin’ at his calves.

They get to the hosses, yank the picket pins outta the ground, leap on and take off with no saddles, a-hangin’ on fer dear life, not stoppin’ til they got back to town. Whole town hears about this, an’ o’ course, some laugh about it, an’ others..well, they don’t.

Next mornin’ our two intrepid prospectors is debatin’ about goin back up for their gear, when along comes the ol’ chinese fella with his mule, carryin’ their saddles, camp gear an’ clothes an’ all...

“Here.” he says with a lil’smile. “I get your stuff for you.”

“Well, that’s right neighborly of ye, ol’ man, “ says Billy Jim. “But how in tarnation kin ye jus’ so calmly go to that place when there is somethin’ so downright goddam evil up there?”

“Oh, it not evil.” the gent replies.

“What do you mean, it ain’t evil?” says Billy Jon with a good deal o’ incredulity.

“Ah,” says the ol’ chinese man. “Dog’s master tell him, you be good dog, guard claim--never let nobody but master dig here. But master never tell dog is ok to stop guarding claim. So he keep doing it. He just being good dog. Good dog...

...forever.

~~~