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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Prairie Fire
Tom Sheehan
The train of 17 wagons, all canvas-covered and drawn by oxen, moved at the least pace imaginable. The land was dry, with water spots far between according to an old hand-drawn map, some of the sketch work faded, a corner of the map torn away. The wagon master had steered them away from Kiowa country by the directions on the old map. An earlier pioneer, his name lost in the torn corner, had drawn it from a trip to the area made over 40 years ago. Now, the area still dry for the most part, it was 1797, all the noted waterholes but two had appeared as shown on the map. The missing water holes had been swallowed whole by the earth, no signs remaining of their once being vital.
Fitzhugh searched the skies for the hundredth time. The first cloud in weeks was still in hiding, unable to climb the mountains west of him. He had shared this last waterhole with other creatures; the tracks were still showing in a small circle about the spring appearing out of near solid rock. Three years earlier he had tested the water, learned some of the territory. More than him, his horse Roscoe J. appreciated the water stop and a bit of rest under a lone tree a half mile away.
He was out ahead of the wagon train, his usual place of business he often said, taking another look around, marking a point on the horizon for definition, coming back to it after a slow scan, assuring there had been no change in what he had seen. This time he had taken note of a rock and a single tree set on the skyline. Nothing moved, here or there. He was positive of that.
A bit later he saw a wispy column of smoke off to the northwest and was reminded of two riders he had seen two days earlier heading in the same direction. Now he assumed they were hunters at their kill, skinning a hide, having a meal of cooked meat, resting their mounts … or they were hog-tied, spread-eagled, set for a ceremony. Out here, heading from one ocean to another, with frequent stops for a variety of reasons in odd places, one had to be wary. He and his traveling companions and the hunters he assumed to be northwest of the wagon train, were the intruders, the invaders. This was red man’s country, and ought to be acknowledged one way or another … never disregarded even slightly.
Locked into a quick reverie, thinking of a lady left behind, he suddenly was aware of an aroma sifting around him in a soft breeze. It was not a pleasant aroma. In fact, he thought it to be quite foul. When he rode around a small hummock he saw before him the still-life of a scene he rebuilt in a hurry. A coyote’s remains, partly chewed through by other critters, lay on the ground near the form of an Indian. An arrow was buried in the body of the coyote, and the Indian’s wounds were practically visible, his pain almost showing. The native’s leg was broken, with a bone thrust through the skin, his forehead clustered with sweat and grit and the visible marks of pain.
A twist ran through Fitzhugh’s body as he looked upon the wounded Indian, the obvious pain making the transfer. The scene moved Fitzhugh into quick and appropriate action. He cleansed what he could of the wound and, while the man was still unconscious, he set the break, in the course of which the Indian awoke screaming in pain only to settle back into unconsciousness. The Indian’s horse had not wandered off too far, or if it had, had come back to drink at the spring.
Fitzhugh, pondering the situation, recalled the young growth near the tree where he and his horse had rested. Riding back he picked two pieces to make a splint for the re-set leg. When he had put the splint in place and held it with rawhide, some of his own and some stripped from the Indian’s gear, he sat the wounded man on his horse and tied him on. The man woke a few times and passed out again, but remained on his horse.
Fitzhugh, reminding himself of his duties, measured his allotted time and set off north-east while holding a tether line to the other horse. No more than two hours later he spied a group of natives riding toward him. When the riders were about a quarter mile off, he raised his hand in the peace sign, while reining the other horse up beside him.
There was a babble of talk between the Indians when they saw the wounded man, and one of the Indians dismounted and approached Fitzhugh and his charge, calling out what Fitzhugh guessed to be the Indian’s name, “Yi P’ahy.” He said it twice, as if to wake him up, “Yi P’ahy. Yi P’ahy.”
At the same time, the Indian raised his hand to Fitzhugh in a return salute of peace, and then added, “Hah cho,” in a friendly voice. He wore a strange hat made from an animal hide and a half-wrap over one shoulder emblazoned with odd figures. His eyes were gray-green, his brow firmly chiseled, and his jaw set like stone. With care he studied the leg set in the crude splint, nodded his head at the other riders, and called two of them to ride on either side of their wounded companion. After carefully studying the splint arrangement, he looked at Fitzhugh and said, “Aahóow.” Fitzhugh understood it to mean “Thank you.” At least, he thought the action and the sound said just that.
Fitzhugh, trying to join in, pointed to himself and said his name a number of times. “Fitzhugh,” he said, “Fitzhugh, Fitzhugh.”
The Indian, putting his hand up again in a salute to peace, called the same name out as the trio of Indians rode away; “Yi P’ahy. Yi P’ahy.” Pointing to the sky he formed his arms in one big circle, then formed them in a smaller circle, and followed that by holding up two fingers.
A ways out on the grass the talkative Indian looked back, and Fitzhugh swore he called out his name, “Fitzhugh,” it sounded like. It was enough for the scout to believe he was now known by the small band of Indians.
All the Indians set off across the grass, two of them riding close to Yi P’ahy in case he might fall. No more of them looked back at Fitzhugh as they rode away.
It was hours later, back on his job out in front of the wagon train, chewing on jerky as he rode, scouring the skylines, marking notable landmarks, that Fitzhugh finally realized, or more likely wanted to believe, that the wounded Indian’s name was Two Moons. He said the name to himself a dozen times during the day; “Yi P’ahy. Yi P’ahy.” Again and again, “Yi P’ahy. Yi P’ahy.” It settled into him as the veritable truth of the Indian’s identity. Yet he wondered how much of the occasion the Indian would be able to remember if they were ever to meet again.
All that, he knew, could set a man’s mind to wandering.
The wagon train, without any great or serious incident, was delivered to its site in west Texas. Eight months later, Gregory Fitzhugh was again on the trail with another wagon train on its way west, out of Independence, Missouri.
In Independence he had seen a number of Indians lounging about the outskirts, looking for jobs, hand-outs or cast-off material as the long journeys began. Often he thought of their plight and also of the dangers they still imposed on unwary travelers heading west, or in any direction for that matter, on Indian land or land still claimed by Indians. Approaching a major turn in the road west, just outside of Independence, Fitzhugh noticed an Indian wearing a strange looking hat, a kind he might have seen before. The Indian, moving quickly, went into a wooded stretch and came out the other side on a horse that galloped further on the trail.
The next day, after a night’s halt, he saw the Indian with the strange hat on the trail ahead of him. Fitzhugh, still near civilization, had merely wandered ahead of the train as was a custom of his … getting into the spirit of the move, he was apt to say.
The Indian held up his hand in salute and said, “You Fitzhugh?” It sounded like a question. It sounded funny. But there was no story being told on his face. He said a second time, “You Fitzhugh?”
It was apparent that he knew of Fitzhugh.
“Yes, I am Fitzhugh.”
“Two Moons send me to watch for you. Tell you follow me all the time. Two Moon say, ‘Tell Fitzhugh the prairie will come on fire all over. Big fire. Big trouble.’ Two Moons is chief now. Big Kiowa chief. Bigger than River Forks Left. All Nations talk at his pipe fire. They listen.”
He stopped talking and looked back towards the wagon train stretched out a few miles away. “I will be near. No one else see me.”
He disappeared down into a swale that became a wadi that fell off to a half canyon gouged by a huge rock sitting where it had rolled to a stop centuries earlier. The rock too had been headed west. Fitzhugh took note of all things. The sun covered the land sure as a blanket. A soft wind carried the essence of fruit or flowers. Orange fruit or flowers. He tried to think of the name. It came to him with difficulty. He said, “Persimmon,” but he was not sure it matched.
Seven days later, the sun warm as a morning fire, the night stop over and all gear packed away again, the train was underway. Ahead, beyond a slight curl and shift in the land, a bald mountain sticking into the skyline many miles away to the northwest, Fitzhugh caught the acrid edge of smoke on the air, but saw no fire, no plumes of smoke, and no low cloud of vapors sitting atop the land.
What he did spot, out on the wide grass, was a rider coming toward him from due west, and at a full gallop. The rider kept waving his hand vigorously, as if in warning. Now and then he looked back over his shoulder. Fitzhugh could see all this although the man was a half mile away.
Then, far beyond the man, he saw the smoke as it suddenly leaped into the air over grass so flat that it looked like gravel. The rider came closer, and yelled, “The whole prairie’s on fire. You gotta get away from it. It’s closing in, like a ring’s around us.”
Fitzhugh saw, on both sides of him and the train, the rising smoke swirling into the air, now and then thrust by what must have been a blast of heat. The blast made the fire leap more like waves on the ocean.
“I’m gettin’ away from all this,” the man yelled and rode right on past Fitzhugh. “Better get out,” he yelled back over his shoulder and continued on his mad escape.
That’s the exact moment when Strange Hat, the only name Fitzhugh could give to the Indian sent by Two Moons, came out of a small wadi and waved him on toward the near wall of rock a good half mile off the trail.
Fitzhugh motioned up a rider from the wagon train and instructed him to tell the train master to follow him as soon as possible. He pointed over his shoulder at the billowing smoke, still rearing its dark gray ugliness on the flat prairie. The smoke seemed to make its own wind and forced multiple black clouds into the upper air. Fitzhugh felt no wind on his face but saw the internal action of a fire whose flames he could not see as yet … only the mushrooming clouds as they seemed to explode into the air off the level of the prairie.
His horse, catching the scent of smoke, became skittish, reacting strangely to rein demands. Fitzhugh felt the start of terror the animal must somehow know even if it had never been involved in a major fire before. It made him wonder about the horses and the oxen of the wagon train.
Vaguely, as if being drawn towards him by some vacuum caused by the fire, he heard the commotion and yelling begin to emanate from the folks in the train. All live critters faced a new but deadly intrusion upon their lives. The separate clouds began to gather into one huge mass of blackness that threatened the light of day. Out on the grass, running towards him, came numerous critters driven by fear of fire. In the grass there had to be many unseen escapes being endured. Overhead, in small clouds or collections of their own, flew birds ahead of the smoke and the flames, ahead of the intense heat that slowly began to be transmitted on the air, in the air. He could not name all the kinds of birds in flight.
Strange Hat urged him on with hectic hand and arm signals, all being centered at the wall of rock sitting at the foot of a small mountain. Fitzhugh wondered if the fire would pin them against the wall. The wagon train was rushing now right behind him, and he rode directly at Strange Hat who dropped down out of sight into a sudden dip in the earth. He suddenly knew the panic that had hit animals and humans on the train who might feel they were heading into a total envelopment of fire, rushing into death.
Then, at the dip of the ground Fitzhugh saw Strange Hat enter a wide crevasse in the wall, wide enough for two wagons side by side he estimated. It appeared to run into darkness, but as Fitzhugh took a second look he saw a bend develop in the sides of the crevasse, and light emanate from farther along the partition in the mountain. It shone like promise.
Back Fitzhugh went to the opening and gestured the lead rider and all the wagons to ride into the wide opening. They all followed, and after a long excursion and a bend in the way came out into another valley of grass so green and fair that amazement showed on all faces. With the threat of fire behind them, both animals and people relaxed, the pace out onto the rich grass went back to its normal slow movement, the plodding oxen pulling all behind them.
Strange Hat was nowhere to be seen.
The lead rider Fitzhugh had summoned came to him and said, “I’ve ridden this trail five or six times and never knew about this place. How did you find it? Did I see another rider up here with you?”
“What you saw was a messenger from the gods,” Fitzhugh said, and the rider went off with a smirk on his face believing Fitzhugh was temporarily caught up in an odd seizure of amazement or relief.
Neither man noticed a brace of two branches hanging on the wall of the crevasse as it opened to the new valley. They did not know the brace of slim branches was hung there by Strange Hat as a signal from Two Moons, nor did they know at time that the fort at Valley Creek had been burned to the ground during an Indian raid and the fire had spread to dry grass and was running rampant for miles and miles.
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