What is a western? Is it the cliche of a rider and his horse, a damsel in distress or the villain in black? What is it about western stories that keeps us enthralled, regardless of age? Perhaps it is a combination of the simplicity and harshness of life in that bygone era. We seem to be drawn to protagonists who have suffered and yet persevere. Examining the past may prove helpful in the present. Here is my version of a story of the old west.
The Present (1891)
The sunshine-encrusted mountains in south central Wyoming could have been a mirror of the Sea of Tranquility on the moon. The peaks were sharp and pointed, like shards of broken glass. They seemed eager to reach up into the heavens to touch or even surpass the serene wisps of cloud that drifted by. The mostly clear indigo sky was a painters palette ready for a sunset of colour. In the valley below, just west of Charlesburg, the dusty trail threaded its way through mesquite and boulders towards the horizon and Fort Laramie. Just below the farthest crest, a moving shadow could just be made out. A lone rider and his horse. At each step, gentle puffs of dust rose from the horses hooves and drifted lazily to the right. The horse, a beautiful pinto, lifted his legs proudly even as the rider slumped forward in obvious exhaustion.
Will Chambers, a 23 year old cowhand, painfully shifted his weight in the saddle. His horse, Splash, twitched an ear in expectation but, when no command was heard or felt he continued his slow gait. Splash was one of Wills most prized possessions, a gift from his father. The other was a gold, butterfly design broach that had been his mothers and which he carried in his vest pocket. He wanted to be able to feel its presence through the denim material of his shirt. It was all he had left of her. He chose to call his fathers gift “Splash” because of the irregular patch of brown on the otherwise milk white body. It ran from the horses shoulder to his left flank and was mirrored on the other side. It appeared as if someone had poured a container of paint over the animal. He was a beautiful animal who loved the the open plains and mountains as much as his master. In the distance, Will became aware of a thin trail of smoke that rose almost straight into the sky. It seemed to be coming from the top of a tall bluff. His curiosity was aroused and, as he continued forward, he urged Splash to increase his speed. The animal responded with enthusiasm, as he was tired of the slow progress, and welcomed this sudden action.
Will scanned the horizon. The brilliance of the blue sky was a sharp contrast to the dull sand coloured cliffs ahead. In his wake he was leaving the more sedate, although rocky plateau. The thin column of smoke continued to rise upward into the windless atmosphere. Sensing that he was close to the source of the mysterious smoke column, he dismounted and tied Splash to a nearby chestnut tree and continued on foot. Ahead, he heard a deep, monotonous hum. As he moved forward and around a large rock, he discovered the origin and cause of the smoke and humming.
Flashback
In 1878, the first of several tragedies occurred to hang like a cloud over the Chambers family. Emily Chambers, expecting her second child, developed scarlet fever. She lost the baby and remained weak and sickly. Six months after the childs death, Emily, too, was gone. The shock of these events caused Wills father, Emmet to rethink his and young Wills future. He could not adjust to his wife and baby daughters premature deaths. He also felt helpless trying to raise Will while tending the heavy demands of the farm. After discussing their options, they agreed to sell the farm and head west to start a new life. But it was difficult. They crossed the country, never staying too long in one location and earning just enough to move on. Emmet gravitated to herding cattle and young Will tagged along and learned with him. They travelled west, then south, into Texas and Oklahoma where they joined cattle drives on their way north to Utah and Wyoming. These drives took months to complete and the work was hard, grueling and monotonous. Emmet did his best to raise his son. His one steadfast rule was to insist on no guns. He was adamant in his belief that guns were for killers. In the intervening eleven years, Will grew from a gangly pre-teen into a handsome young man.
It was midway during the last run between Tulsa and Charlesburg, Wyoming that the accident happened. Something spooked the cattle and they started to stampede. Emmet galloped after the lead steers in an effort to turn them when his horse stepped into a gopher hole, broke his leg and fell on his side to the ground. Emmet was caught under the animal. He was badly crushed. Will was wild with fear. They were in the middle of nowhere with no doctor and little medicine other than the chuck wagons corn whiskey. His comrades helped build a lean-to structure to keep down the prairie wind but they could not linger. The cattle drive had to go on. Every movement caused Emmet to grimace in pain and most of the time he was unconscious or in a stupor from the whiskey. It was a frightening moment when the other wranglers rode off northward yelping and calling out to get the cattle moving.
The lean-to was set beside a small brook. That night a light rain fell and a cold damp mist rose up from the water. Will collected loose branches and tree bark in the immediate area to shore up the fire for the night. It was well past midnight when the rain stopped, but the mist was heavy. Will had fallen into an exhausted sleep. The fire was flickering low, almost out, when a breeze swirled through the mist and a shadow fell over the two sleeping figures. Wood was added to the fire and the flames rose up. A handful of sand like material was thrown on the fire and it flashed as it was consumed, emitting a sweet herbal aroma. Will woke with a start. The warmth of the fire was a welcome relief from the damp. He went to check his father and found him peacefully asleep. He relaxed and fell back into a deep sleep. The next morning, Emmet was dead. His face still wore the peaceful look, but Will was devastated. He was left sad and empty. He buried Emmet beside the brook, somewhere in north-west Kansas. The tall grass rocked in the breeze as he completed the makeshift cross of willow branches. He stood for a long time thinking of their time together. Will caught up to the cattle drive two days later and he continued with them to Charlesburg.
The Present 1891
The large boulder partially blocked Wills view and he moved so he could see clearly the open space beyond. Kneeling face down with his forehead touching the ground in front of a small fire was an Indian brave. He wore buckskin trousers and moccasins but was naked above the waist. His blue black hair, well below shoulder length, glistened in the brilliant sunshine. His muscular back was the colour of damp terra cotta. His arms, which also touched the ground, were stretched out from his body, the forearm and hands slightly turned so that the hands and fingers were perpendicular to the ground. A long moan emanated from his mouth. As Will watched in fascination, the native lifted his head and then rose to an upright position, his arms still outstretched. He raised his head again looking upward in the direction of the smoke and slowly raised his arms and hands until they were above his head. Then he kneeled in his original position and repeated the ritual.
Will stepped backward determined not to interrupt him at his prayer. As he did so, he stepped on a twig and the sound resonated in the quiet as if someone had shot a revolver. The brave, already standing, whirled around, his knife drawn. He was startled but ready for action. Will froze. The stared at each other for what seemed a long time, neither moving. Slowly Will raised his right hand and arm and called out the only word he could think of “Lakota”. The Indian stared at Will intently and spoke in his native tongue which, of course, Will did not comprehend. With a combination of sign language, facial expressions and sounds, Will explained that it was the column of smoke that had attracted him. Amazingly, the Indian seemed to understand. He nodded as he put his knife away into the waistband of his buckskin and beckoned Will to approach. Will was not afraid. For some reason, he felt at ease with this stranger who was considered a savage by his white friends. These friends told endless stories of Indian massacres of settlers and wagon trains, adding constant embellishments of the redmans savagery.
Lately, however, rumours had been heard that the white man was not so innocent in his relations with the Indians. Snippets of atrocities had begun to filter through to the public about the happenings at Wounded Knee in southwestern South Dakota the previous December. In the last few months, charges of sexual abuse by drunken Seventh Cavalry soldiers against Lakota women and the foul treatment of the Indian prisoners in general began to appear in newspaper reports. Phillip F. Wells, an interpreter for the Cavalry whose knowledge of the Lakota language was poor, caused several incidents to occurr in the camp due to his misunderstandings. Officers Colonel Forsyth and Lieutenant James Mann also acted more savagely than the Indians in their charge. They were responsible for the aboriginal slaughter that eventually occurred. Over 300 elderly Lakota men, women and children, all disarmed, were brutally murdered. The Lakota carried off or buried many of the dead. Federal officials later erroneously estimated the death toll at 146, over 200 less than the actual number. The soldiers buried the victims in a mass grave. Each body was stripped of any “saleable” items and then thrown into the the pit. The bodies were laid side by side and layered row on row with only thin army blankets between layers. No prayer service was offered. It would not be until the zenith of the Third Reich when all too similar mass murders and burials would surpass this infamy.
As the smoke continued to rise, the Indian quietly explained, with signs and gestures, his story. He was the son of Yellow Bird, the medicine man who died at Wounded Knee. As tribute to his father and the Lakota people who died, he had taken the name of Yellow Eagle . He vowed to wander the land alone in atonement for what had happened and to offer prayers to the spirits of his ancestors.
Will was moved by the quiet earnestness he saw in the Indians face. Yellow Eagle had sprinkled some white powder on the small fire that smelled sweet and also made the smoke darker. Will asked if he could add some powder to the flames as well. Yellow Eagle passed over the small looped sack. Will closed his eyes and thought about his father under the plains of Kansas and the innocent people everywhere who died violently. He copied the motions he had witnessed Yellow Eagle perform. He took a small amount of powder and clenched it in his right fist. Then, with both left and right fists he touched his chest, spread his arms wide horizontally and swept them in a continuous motion down to his side and then up until both fists were above his head. He paused a moment and then dropped his arms over the fire and let the powder sprinkle from his palm into the flames. Immediately he smelled the sweet aroma of herbs and looked skyward again as the smoke rose into the heavens.
Will and Yellow Eagle parted as friends but, before he left, Yellow Eagle gave him the sack of powder as a gift to take with him. Touched by the gesture, Will impulsively gave him his mothers gold broach to seal their friendship.
That evening after a long ride over rough country, Will settled in at Fort Laramie. His first stop was to board Splash at the best stable in town and have him groomed and treated royally. Next he went off in search for some diversion of his own. He found it at the Big Bison Saloon. It was slightly ramshackle but well focused on the services rendered – cigarettes, whiskey gambling and women. He had been at the bar for several hours. A rowdy soldier, already well inebriated, entered and ordered drinks for all. He was celebrating the killing of a Indian from the Ghost Dance cult. He waved a trophy of the killing above his head. The Indian had a piece of jewelry in his possession, obviously stolen from a scalped wagon train victim. He bellowed that it was proof of the Indians guilt. It was Wills mothers gold ‘butterfly broach.
When Will reproached him for his blood lust, he was accused of being an Indian lover. The cowboy hurled abuse at Will and demanded to settle the argument outside. The excited saloon crowd who favoured the killer agreed. The throng followed the two protagonists onto the wood boardwalk and into the muddy street. Will refused to take part in the argument. He would not fight. He was called a coward and Indian lover. He turned his back to walk away. He had taken two steps when the shots rang out and he fell into the ruts of mud in the roadway. The searing pain Will felt for only a moment, then it was replaced by the pleasant sweet smell of fresh herbs. He closed his eyes as thoughts of his mother and father and Yellow Eagle swirled through his consciousness. He was at peace.
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