Grandpa's Tale: Indian Territory

Mountains.

INDIAN TERRITORY

1891

CHAPTER ONE

The Wounded

It was early Sunday morning, May 1891, in the United States Indian Territory. I was sixteen years old and had ridden about six miles from the ranch my father leased from the Choctaw Indians. The well-trodden trail led south and around an outcropping of rock, which forced cattle and cowboy alike to the banks of Gaines Creek. I lowered my head so the brim of my Stetson would shield my eyes from the east sun. The saddle squeaked as it rocked with Smokey’s lazy gait. I softly whistled The Yellow Rose of Texas; my thoughts were of sweet Ida Martin down in Nacogdoches.

Smokey suddenly dropped his head and braced his legs. His shod hooves dug into the dirt and I was nearly launched out of my saddle and over his head to the bone hard ground. He then gave a snort and reared straight up on his hind legs! I grabbed the saddle horn to keep from being dumped off backwards. Smokey came down hard and sprang on a dead run in the direction we had just traveled from. I pulled leather and pulled it hard to stop him from galloping toward home.

My horse might as well have seen Old Scratch the devil himself. I tried to simmer him down with pats on the neck and a soothing but commanding Whoa, Whoa which worked if I aimed him toward the Circle Four. However, our business was in the opposite direction, and I applied some hard reining and serious spurring in an attempt to head him back down the trail. No dice. Smokey’s idea was to stomp sideways and shake his head so hard I thought his bridle would fly off. Snort bubbles flew from his nostrils and his eyes stuck out so far, as the cowboys down in Texas would say, They could have been hacked off with a board! I dismounted in exasperation.

Some cow horses just won’t lead and Smokey belonged to that particular tribe. Since I didn’t want him running off and leaving me stranded, I tied his reins to a strong shrub.

I moved to the right side of my horse and pulled the Winchester from its scabbard. The fifteen shot repeating rifle gave me a lot of comfort and extra courage!

The heavily trampled cattle trail was lined with trees, thickets, and tall grass. I gripped my rifle with both hands and cautiously recovered the fifty yards Smokey had set us back. As I approached the blind bend in the path ahead, I glanced over my shoulder to be sure my ride home was still where I had tied him. So far, so good.

A black horse with a white face stood beneath a large willow oak tree about eighty yards away. The unfamiliar animal was saddled and its bridle reins hung to the ground. There was no sign of a rider. Surely Smokey wasn’t scared of another horse?

I dropped to one knee to make myself less of a target. My eyes darted in all directions. Not a leaf fluttered. The hammer on my Winchester was at full-cock. I remained very still and keenly alert. Two minutes passed before I hailed a Hello? A low moan from the thicket fifteen feet away raised the hair on the back of my neck and sent a shiver down my spine. I hugged the Winchester to my side and pointed its muzzle toward the sound. My finger was on the trigger, and my heart was trying to jump out of my chest!

Gaines Creek seemed to go quiet and all I could hear was the thudding of my heart in my ears. My knees shook as I stood and cautiously approached the opposite side of the trail. I parted the brush with the barrel of my rifle to discover a small crumpled shape lying motionless in the grass. He wore a cartridge filled gun belt. One Colt Peacemaker was still holstered, and the other lay on the ground at his feet.

The Territory was rough country; filled with murderers, bank robbers, kidnappers, and highwaymen. I took a full minute to carefully rescan the cattle path and surrounding trees and bushes for anything else that might be out of place. Gut instinct told me there was no immediate danger, and I thumbed my rifle’s hammer from full to half-cock.

I squatted beside the ashen-faced stranger. A closer look revealed a stubble whiskered man in his thirties. Since his moan had caught my attention I knew he was alive. How bad are you hurt?

He half opened his eyes and groaned, Bad, took in a breath, and exhaled, I’m dead!

That man needed water and I ran to where Smokey was tied. I briefly considered riding back to the wounded; however, I could make the trip nearly as fast on foot and bypass a repeat battle of wills. My brow dripped sweat as I raced back to the rapidly failing soul, with a nearly empty flask in my hand.

I laid my rifle on the ground and knelt to wipe spittle and dust from the stranger’s face. Most of the sparse liquid that I poured into his drooped mouth ran down his chin, but he did manage one swallow. That’s all I have, I uttered. I’ll bring more when I fetch a wagon from the ranch.

We were directly exposed to the sun’s pounding heat, and I offered to move the baking man into the shade. No use, he whispered. I’m all in.

Don’t say that! I tried to comfort him. I’ll help you.

*   *   *

Big buzzing and hungry flies swarmed at the dark stains on the outlander’s blue shirt. His hands were stained dark red and his clothes were covered with trail dust. This mortal was in death’s grip, and his spirit was close to being ushered to its next home! He groaned aloud as I scooped him gently beneath his knees and shoulders and carried him to the shade of the willow oak tree next to his mount. I don’t think he weighed more than a hundred pounds when I picked him up, but it felt like he weighed two hundred by the time I eased myself onto one knee and carefully lowered him to the cooler ground. Stay with it my friend. I’m goin’ for more water and a wagon!

Hurry, he whispered, and closed his eyes as I laid the near empty flask on his chest. I then ran back to my horse, grabbed the reins, and swung up into the saddle. Smokey chomped at the bit and we were off to the Circle Four at a flat out gallop.

My father was in the yard feeding our brown leghorn chickens when I slowed Smokey from a canter to a dusty stop by the water vat. The chickens clucked and flew into the air. Sam Houston, our redbone coonhound, let out a short arrr-uuu and ran to meet us.

I swung from my saddle and held Smokey’s head away from the water so he could catch some of his breath before letting him drink.

What’s wrong, George? Daddy asked.

There’s a wounded man at the Bend. He’s been shot!

Any idea who? my surprised father inquired.

No!

Daddy probed, What are you going to do?

Bring’im here!

Yuh think that’s a good idea?

What am I supposed to do, leave’im out there? I countered. He’ll be safe with us!

Safe with us? my father echoed. Maybe the marshals should be dealin’ with this?

Daddy! What if it was you or me in that fix?

My father ignored my tug at his heartstrings and fumed, I should’ve had Smokey and you gelded at the same time! Shaking his fist, he shouted, Are yuh tryin’ to send us to prison?

I deserved it. Nevertheless, my father and I were then of one mind about the matter, so to speak, and as an old saying goes, we were in for a penny.

Hitch Ike and Dan to the wagon and get to the Bend on the jump! I hollered to our hired hand Skip. And bring a mattress!

I considered switching horses, but that would take precious time. Smokey had gotten his wind back, and I gave him his head to take four long draws of water from the wooden vat. Daddy shoved two full water flasks into my saddlebags and I was ready to go.

My mustang could overheat if I crowded him too much, but I decided to risk it and crawled into the saddle. Daddy gave Smokey a slap on the rump and away we cantered and galloped to save a life!

It was the fastest six miles I ever traveled on horseback, and I halted Smokey a fair distance from where I had tied him off on the first trip. Crawling out of the saddle, I secured his reins to a strong shrub. Soaking sweat had turned my mustang’s hair to a dark brown, and his sides heaved from exhaustion.

Whoever lay by the oak tree would have to wait and share. I emptied the water from one flask into my Stetson for Smokey to drink. With Winchester in one hand and full water container in the other, I cautiously walked the remaining yards to the willow oak. The wounded man lay as I had left him, flat on his back with the flask still atop his chest. I leaned my rifle against the oak tree and knelt by his side to feel for a pulse. He was still clinging to life.

I placed my hand beneath the stranger’s dust covered head to lift it so he could drink. Here’s more water. He swallowed and reached to pull the flask for more. I moved it away with an, Easy does it, and waited a bit before giving him another swig.

It took a minute for the wounded man to blink his eyes fully open, and he grunted weakly, Where am I?

Gaines Creek, if you know where that is.

Yeh, I know, he sighed. I couldn’t make it.

Make it where?

Nevermind, he whispered. Who’re you?

George Manning’s my name, I answered. My father runs the Circle Four outfit. What’s yours?

Charlie Wilson, he moaned. The boys call me Tug.

I almost swallowed my teeth! Charlie Wilson’s name was known from one end of the Indian Territory to the other. He was an outlaw with a thousand dollar Dead or Alive reward on his head. Daddy was going to skin me alive!

As I sat on the ground at Charlie Wilson’s side and listened to his labored breathing, I pondered why he would share his infamous name so freely and concluded that it must have been a deathbed confession.

The thundering of hooves and loud clatter of our fast approaching spring wagon sent two blue herons into the air and lilting down the creek.

Skip was twenty-five years old and an experienced muleskinner, having made over a hundred freight runs for the government out of Fort Smith. His mom arrived in America from Ireland and his dad from Poland. He growled that, A tongue-tied, dumb-assed quartermaster at the fort couldn’t say my real name and started callin’ me Skip! It stuck. I must admit I had difficulty myself and joined the ranks of dumb-assed quartermasters. I waved my hat and he came on in a hurry.

We hastily smoothed out the bedding that Skip brought along. Most ranches used linen for mattress covers (or so-called ticks) into which something soft, like feathers, were inserted to make for warm and comfortable sleeping. However, Daddy insisted that our blanket-stuffed ticks be made of soft leather, which were easier to clean and far more resistant to penetration and lingering by bugs of any sort.

After unbuckling and removing Charlie Wilson’s pistol belt, we gently picked him up and laid him on the mattress in the bed of the wagon. The groan he let out seemed to want to stick in his throat.

While I fussed to make the bloodied and failing man more comfortable, Skip ran to Gaines Creek, carrying two empty wooden buckets. Within two minutes he hobbled back to the wagon, his arms stretched taut from the weight of the pails of water he set on the ground in front of the horses. Ike and Dan instantly immersed their large soft noses and mouths into the cool liquid. Their floppy lips quickly reached the bottoms of the pails, and I could hear sounds like straws in soda glasses as they siphoned for the last drops of the precious water.

I leaned over the rail of the wagon and sprinkled water on my wounded man’s face. You’re goin’ to our ranch.

Through a thick tongue, he whispered in protest, Don’t take me there! They’ll get me…fer sure!

Don’t worry, no one will know. Then I leveled with him, You must see a doctor at once, or you’re gonna die!

He softly panted, The money!

What money? I asked. No answer.

The hot May sun shone directly on Charlie Wilson’s face and caused him to squint. I took time to provide some shade by lashing my poncho between the top rails of the wagon.

Skip climbed onto the wagon seat and unhitched the reins. The ground was very rough and I told our muleskinner, Take it easy! With a Git and a hitch of the reins, Skip sent Ike and Dan thundering for the Circle Four in a cloud of dust. So much for telling him to take it easy!

I approached Wilson’s horse from the front. It was only then that I understood why his black and white mount had stayed so close and freed the bridle rein entangled in thick brush. With both reins in my right hand, I coaxed the stallion along behind me and headed down the trail to where Smokey was tied off.

Fortunately, my horse and the strange steed didn’t go into a biting and kicking frenzy, and I led the stallion towards the creek some thirty yards away. It is difficult to judge how much water a desperately thirsty horse is consuming, and I kept my fingers crossed that four long draws would not be too much, or too little. I tied off the watered stallion on the creek bank and retrieved my horse to let him drink.

Smokey had earned a rest. The black and white would carry me home. The spirited steed didn’t need any more excitement, so rather than switching saddles I took time to lengthen Wilson’s stirrups to fit my longer legs.

Many a proud cowboy has crawled onto an unfamiliar stallion only to find himself back on the ground in a lot of pain and wondering how in hell he got there! I gently patted and spoke to that big powerful horse, settling him to where I could crawl into the saddle. With Smokey in tow, I gradually caught up to the spring wagon.

It took about an hour and a half to walk, trot, and canter the six homeward miles. Daddy and Sam Houston were waiting at the gate as we finally came in view of the familiar house. Skip pulled hard on the long leather reins and with a Whoa! Whoa! Ike and Dan braced their sturdy legs to a stop and stood motionless, heads lowered and sides heaving. Harness straps that had rubbed against the running and sweating teams’ flanks left frothy streaks from their front to their hindquarters. Skip was already on the jump to scoop vat water into wooden buckets for the herculean horses to drink.

Michael Nehemiah Manning met me at the back of the wagon and asked again, George, who is this man?

Well, Daddy, I sheepishly confessed, He said his name’s Charlie Wilson.

Charlie Wilson! my father exploded. He looked in the wagon and his eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you just bring the devil home with you? What the hell were you thinkin’?

Daddy, I grumped defensively, I gave him my word!

Your word, my aching ass! Daddy shouted, and repeated, You’ll get us all locked up!

As Michael Manning limped away, he covered his face with both hands and shook his head. Lord, why me? I should’ve had that boy fixed a long time ago!

Skip had a smirk on his snoot and I bristled. I don’t think he was all that damn funny!

My father’s ire was still very apparent as Skip and I carried Tug Wilson into the house and placed him on my bunk; clothes, boots, dust, blood, and all. Daddy grudgingly agreed to keep an eye on Wilson while I went for a doctor.

I saddled Ginger and galloped away to Dr. Burke’s residence in Hartshorne to beg him to come to our ranch and see a very sick man.

Sure, George, he agreed. Who is it?

Don’t know for certain Doc, I choked. But can you keep it on the quiet?

Dr. Burke paused a moment before answering, You know you can depend on old Burke. He then asked, What’s wrong with your man?

He’s been shot and he’s lost a lot of blood! I was all in a lather to get back home, and exclaimed in a rush, Found’im this morning down by the river! He begged me not to take’im to our ranch. Wanted me to let’im die where he lay!

Dr. Burke wrinkled his brow, and I hurried to say, I know it don’t sound quite right. Just please give me time to find out more.

The physician looked at me askance yet nodded his head slowly up and down. Okay George, I’ll keep my ears open too.

Dr. Burke set his leather medical satchel on a table and filled it with small bottles, boxes, and cans from a large wall cabinet. The old doc pondered a blue jar before also wedging it into the satchel. He strapped the valise shut, handed it to me, and puffed, I’m too old for this boy, but I’m ready! At that, he took off for his front door at a brisk pace.

By the time I loosened Ginger’s reins from the hitch rail and crawled into the saddle, Dr. Burke was halfway to the livery. I followed and watched as our physician bridled and saddled his horse as smoothly as I had ever seen it done.

Dr. Burke seemed to glide up onto his horse. He reached to me for the stuffed satchel and with a big grin on his face, boasted, Practice, my boy, practice!

We were off for the Circle Four. The feisty physician’s butt didn’t bounce in the saddle as high as mine. He truly was a remarkable horseman! Pacing our horses between a trot and a canter, we arrived just after two-thirty in the afternoon.

Doctor Burke hurried to his new patient’s bedside while I cared for our tired and nearly baked horses. When that was done, I ran to the house in time to help Daddy and Dr. Burke finish cutting Wilson’s bloody long-sleeved shirt off with a kitchen knife. Charlie Wilson was so white and skinny that he looked like a plucked chicken!

Dr. Burke directed my father to boil two kettles of well water and to keep them boiling. We kept plenty of dry firewood next to our cast-iron stove, and Daddy soon had the lids hot enough to sterilize the water.

I helped roll Tug Wilson up and onto his right side. The doctor quickly discovered that one bullet had grazed the outside of Tug’s left upper arm while another had plowed a deep gash on top of his left shoulder. But the bullet that struck him just above his left hip was the worst wound, by far. It had entered from the rear and exited near his bottom rib, leaving a nasty hole in its wake.

The medical grip lay open atop the crude stand next to my bunk that had just been turned into Charlie Wilson’s sickbed. Daddy brought in an open kettle of boiled water and set it on a plank bottom chair as Doctor Burke picked a green tin container from his well-worn leather case and removed the lid. He dipped one end of a clean towel in the simmering water, let it cool, and then wiped it across the top of the goo in the open tin. While mixing the paste into the wet cloth, he advised, Keep it clean, and proceeded to wash his hands.

Dr. Burke paced back and forth beside Tug’s bunk, and upon stopping he looked down at the wounded outlaw. If you can hear me, blink. Tug blinked and the physician shared, Tended to a couple of hundred of good soldiers during the war who were shot up like you, so I worry most about infections. I’m gonna clean your wounds, stitch’em up, and plaster’em with an Indian poultice. He hesitated, then instructed, If you’re okay with that, blink twice! A pale and stark naked Charlie Wilson blinked twice.

The doctor soaked and soaped another towel