Chapter 13
Near Chugwater Wyoming 1875
He was resting from the long ride when he heard what sounded like thunder. He kicked sand on the gray ash that remained of his fire and grabbed his bear pad and gun and ran to where Kodah was tied. He secured the pad and jumped on her back, sliding his knees under the rope he left coiled around her and rode at a gallop to the far bank of the river. The noise got louder. It wasn’t thunder but a herd of buffalo, at least three thousand head coming his way. The sound of a buffalo rifle echoed in the distance and he knew who was firing. He had been tracking these men for two days and he finally caught up with them.
He turned his buckskin mare, around and urged her into a lope heading west toward a stand of rocks. She responded immediately and in less than a minute he had hobbled her and removed his rifle and crouched behind a stand of wind stunted oaks and rocks. He untied the deer hide bag holding his ammunition and laid his rifle on top of a boulder and sighted down the barrel. He was an experienced hunter and knew this rifle well. The wind was erratic and blowing out of the north kicking up dust balls around his feet. He would have to compensate a little more than usual when sighting in his target. His hair was blowing in his eyes, so he took a piece of rawhide and tied it back. Now he waited. The time passed and the rocks around him grew painfully hot by the rays of the sun and a terrible thirst beset him.
Soon a cloud of dust materialized in the horizon like smoke rising from a burning forest. Then he saw them. First an outrider, it was the man who grabbed his mother while Grey Wolf was being tortured. He was riding on the west side of the herd keeping them from breaking out across the plains. There were two more riders following behind the herd and another outrider to the east. There were four. He figured he could take out the closest outrider first and then be able to drop one of the riders in the rear before they knew what was happening. That would leave two, assuming his two shots would be on the mark, and he knew they would. One of the riders in the back was riding Grey Wolf’s black stallion. He was a tall heavyset man with heavy jowls and pock marked skin, a drooping mustache and a scraggly beard. There was no doubt this was Turk Turner, his mother’s killer. He carried a Remington lever action repeater rifle in his hands and guided the stallion with a touch of his legs. Yellow Hair would enjoy watching him die.
The outriders were having a difficult time keeping the herd together. A cow and calf broke away
“Keep those cows and calves in close,” Turner screamed, as one of the riders in the back took aim with his rifle and dropped the calf.
“Yahoo, I got me one,” the rider yelled.
Then Turner fired a shot that took down the cow. Pretty soon all four riders were firing into the herd and yelling. The buffalo were dropping and tripping as the dead bodies began to pile up.
This senseless and reckless killing angered Yellow Hair and he brought his rifle up and sighted down to the chest of the outrider. Slowly, he thumbed back the hammer on his Springfield buffalo rifle and let out his breath, lightly squeezing the trigger, watching his target as the bullet went low and to the right, tearing into the flesh and hide of the horse. The horse dropped and rolled, dislodging its rider. Before the rider could gather his legs, the herd of buffalo was on him, mauling and dismembering the body.
“Where did that shot come from,” screamed the young rider pulling in next to Turner.
“Damned if I know,” hollered Turner. Let’s get to some cover quick.”
Yellow Hair removed another bullet from the bag and chambered the round. Again, he brought the Springfield up and slowly pulled back the hammer. Sighting down the barrel, he found the rider he was looking for, Willie Reston, one of the men who took his mother into the tee pee and who he believed tortured and killed her.
Reston pulled back on his horse, coming to a stop.
Yellow Hair adjusted his aim and slowly, with great patience, let out his breath and squeezed off another round. He saw the rawhide on the back of Reston’s shirt disintegrate and the blood and muscle splatter in the air. Methodically he brought down his rifle to chamber another round while watching the two remaining riders.
Turk Turner turned his horse and kicked him furiously to get out of the line of fire.
“I’m gettin’ the hell outta here.” Turner yelled.
The other outrider had dismounted and crouched behind the carcass of his friend’s dead horse. The blood and commotion was spooking his horse and he was having a difficult time holding him and staying behind cover. His horse reared in fear and he let him go. That was the wrong decision, Yellow Hair thought, as the man’s horse was his only way out.
Again, Yellow Hair raised the Springfield rifle to his cheek and sighted in on Turk Turner as he fled on the black stallion. He would have preferred to look into Turk’s eyes as he died, but this would have to do.
The crack of the rifle brought a grim smile to his face, as he knew this was the round that was fulfilling part of the mission he set out to accomplish years ago. The bullet found its mark and as it impacted Turk Turner’s body, muscle spasms caused Turk to pull back on the reins, and the stallion reared, throwing Turner to the ground. The shot had severed his spine, not killing him. The boy watched as Turner attempted to crab crawl to some brush for cover.
He turned to watch the last man cowering behind the dead horse. The man knew Yellow Hair was up in the rocks but couldn’t see him. It had been hot today and the sun was still keeping the heat at an unbearable level. The smell of the blood from the death and carnage below was wafting up to the boy and he heard Kodah whinny and he turned to see her prancing around. After all the hunts they had been on, the instinct of fear, coming from the smell of blood, still remained with his pony.
Sliding off the rock, he picked up his spent cartridges and put them in the pouch tied to his waist and returned to his position. He watched as his last target furtively glanced up over the carcass of the dead horse. The boy decided to wait before putting him down for good. He wanted him to agonize over his upcoming death. Glancing to the north, he could make out the legs of Turk Turner, the man that he swore vengeance on, as he lay prostrate behind the small bush he chose as his final resting place. Yellow Hair could see no movement and figured death was near, if not already there.
These men deserved to die. Yellow Hair’s family did not injure them, nor take their wives or horses. There was no reason for them to be attacked by these men.
Yellow Hair wiped away a trail of sweat trickling down from his right temple. It was time. He lifted his rifle and took aim just over the right flank of the dead horse, waiting for the rider to show his head. He knew that eventually curiosity and impatience would cause him to make a deadly mistake. It wasn’t long before the man’s head appeared. Slowly exhaling Yellow Hair squeezed off another round. It found its mark and he watched the head explode like a melon. He was done. Slowly he walked back to his pony, returning the Springfield rifle to its scabbard. He removed the hobble putting it in the pouch. Picking up the reins, he swung up on Kodah’s back and rode down to where his victims lay.
The smell of death was heavy and thick as he approached the first outrider’s body. He was mangled and dismembered and it was hard to determine that it had been a man. Kodah was nervous smelling the blood coming from the dead and dying carcasses. Yellow Hair spoke to her gently; reassuring her with a steady voice as they passed over the second man he shot. There was a hole one could put his fist through in the man’s left chest where his black heart had once been.
When he approached the third body he saw that most of this man’s head was gone. The impact from the .50 caliber bullet was enough to bring down a 2000-pound buffalo so it didn’t surprise him that it would tear a man’s head off as had happened here. What was left of him looked like he was a young man about the boy’s age. Yellow Hair had never seen him before. What was he doing riding with these killers? Was he Isom’s son? Whoever he was Yellow Hair felt no remorse for killing him.
Turning his mare, he gently squeezed her sides and she took off toward the man, Turk Turner, the boy had been waiting to kill for so long. As they got within ten yards of his victim, he could hear him moaning. He dismounted and dropped the reins. He removed his Bowie knife from its sheath above his moccasin as he slowly approached the dying Turk Turner. He knelt down and roughly turned him over. An agonizing moan escaped from Turk’s throat as he opened his eyes, staring at the boy, wondering who he was and why he shot him. He raised his arm. It was more like a wave then any effort to fend off the boy’s hand.
Yellow Hair slapped it away and looked in Turk’s eyes and said: “My name is Yellow Hair. You killed my mother.” He plunged his knife into Turk’s throat and savagely turned it back and forth, watching and listening as the blood gurgled and choked the last vestige of life out of this vile creature that was lying beneath him. Then he cut out Turk’s heart and stuffed it in his mouth.
Grabbing Turk’s hair, he pulled his head back and brought his knife around to get his topecokan sunpi - scalp. When Yellow Hair was done he let out a blood curdling yell to let the spirits know he had anho - counted coup and avenged his mother’s death.
When it was over, he wiped the blood from his knife on Turk Turner’s shirt and slid it back in its sheath and slowly rose to his feet. Kodah was still waiting where he left her and as he walked to her he held out the scalp and said: “Well little one, this part of our journey is over.”
Yellow Hair mounted and took off at an easy trot heading southwest along the bank of the Chugwater toward Fort Laramie, still searching for the man who killed his father, Grey Wolf. It was a good forty five miles and he planned to stop for the night and make camp at Horse Creek, about ten miles east of the fort.