Silver City Massacre by Charles G. West Page B

extinguished. “Everybody in the whole damn territory will know we’re here.”
    â€œI expect you’re right,” Joel said. “We’d best move on outta here. The horses are rested enough, anyway.”

Chapter 4
    Lame Foot stood at the top of a rocky mesa, barren of all but a few trees.
    â€œThere,” he said to his companion, Hunting Owl, and pointed toward a thin black column of smoke drifting up on the western side of a low line of hills.
    Hunting Owl climbed up beside him to see. He said nothing for a few moments while he considered the thin column wafting straight up before being sheared off by the breeze drifting across the crown of the hills.
    â€œWhite man,” he said, for it would be unusual for an Indian to build a fire out of something that would make that much smoke unless he was trying to signal someone. “Wagons, maybe.”
    â€œLet’s go see who it is,” Lame Foot suggested. “It might be soldiers.”
    â€œShould we tell the others first?” Hunting Owl asked. The rest of their hunting party was at least a mile behind the two scouts, on the return to their camp on the South Platte.
    â€œLet’s go see who made the fire. Then we can warn the others if there is danger,” Lame Foot advised.
    When Hunting Owl agreed, the two Arapaho warriors jumped on their ponies and rode down from the mesa, then galloped across the narrow valley to the line of hills beyond. Leaving the horses on the side of the hill, they crawled to the top, making their way to a spot where they could see the camp by a stream. The camp, which was almost completely hidden by a bank of willows, might have been overlooked had it not been for the smoke drifting up through the tops of the trees.
    â€œIt is hard to tell,” Lame Foot said, “but I think it is only one or two men. I can see part of one horse between the willows and the stream.”
    â€œThat is good,” Hunting Owl said. “That means they can’t see us if we move up on the other side of the willows.”
    Both warriors were surprised to find a party of only one or two white men in this Arapaho and Cheyenne territory. These were troubled times between white man and Indian since the cowardly attack at Sand Creek by Colorado volunteers, and consequently, white people seldom passed through unless they were heavily guarded. This bit of luck might result in the acquisition of guns, and that was very much on their minds as they decided how best to approach the camp.
    â€œMaybe we should split up. You can sneak up from downstream,” Lame Foot suggested. “And I will approach from upstream and make them think I am alone and come in peace.”
    â€œThey may shoot at you,” Hunting Owl said.
    â€œI’ll be careful. If they start to aim their guns at me, I’ll escape into the trees. I think there’s a good chance they will want me to come closer, and you can slip up behind them with your bow.”
    Hunting Owl nodded in agreement. It was a good plan. Lame Foot was older than he and was wise in the ways of combat.
    â€œGive me a little time,” he said, for he would have a greater distance to go to be in position. They split up then and descended the hill, one angling downstream, one upstream.
    When Lame Foot reached the willows by the stream, he was about forty yards from the camp. He could see two horses in the trees between him and the camp. He could also clearly see one white man, sitting by the fire.
    Is there another one? Maybe in the bushes relieving his bowels,
he thought.
    He edged a few yards closer. There was still no sign of another man. He could see the white man clearly now. He had a strange look about him that puzzled Lame Foot for a moment. Then he realized there was a bandage wrapped around the man’s face.
    He has been wounded. Maybe he is running from a battle
. Lame Foot decided then that the man was probably alone, so he stepped out of the