The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 17

With the horses and two pack-mules readied, saddlebags and canteen full, Simms took a final meal of eggs and potatoes from the cook, who wished him well, but with the detachment of someone who knows no further meeting would ever take place. Simms then strolled to the tent where he"d slept for the previous two nights, and bade farewell to the men with whom he"d shared his canvas home. Both looked grim, said little, but Simms promised them he would see them again. Neither responded and Simms only smiled.

He left the camp at a slow walk, three soldiers trailing behind him, their blue shirts already soaked with perspiration. None spoke. They set their faces northwest, their mood heavy, resigned.

They continued in silence to higher ground, leaving the dull, flat plain sucked dry by the searing heat far behind, and wound their way up into the hills. They followed a trail already old from the many prospectors and settlers who made their way west, lured by the promise of gold and land. Lately, settlers seeking new opportunities, or religious groups fleeing persecution went this way, using the same, well-trodden highway. Desperadoes, bandits and Indians used it also, but for very different reasons. Simms knew this and kept his senses alert as he and the others settled into a steady pace. Soon, thoughts of camp, prepared food, companionship and safety, dwindled.

Simms led the way, steering his horse along a narrow pathway flanked by jagged rocks, white hot, but affording some welcome shade. He knew however, by nightfall these same rocks would radiate heat, making sleep virtually impossible. His plan was to keep moving, make the plain again by sundown, find some relief, the faintest hint of cool air.

The first day clawed by, the horses plodding through the thick, dusty earth, their heads bowed. Behind him, the soldiers – silent and sullen – draped themselves over the necks of their mounts. There was no respite from the relentless, slow, merciless ride and boredom, as much as the heat, drove them ever deeper into a mire of depression.

On the morning of the second day, Simms climbed to a vantage point and saw the plain stretching out before him. One of the soldiers had brought with him a telescope, which Simms now used to pick out areas of scrub, a few withered trees. On the far, distant horizon, a tiny trail of smoke caught his attention. He lowered the glass, twisting his mouth into a snarl. Perhaps the smoke came from a campfire, tenderfoots journeying deeper into the Territory, seeking out a promised land, with no laws to govern or restrict. And no protection either.

He snapped the eyeglass together. The likelihood was, he mused grimly, the fire came from Indians. Utes. A camp, or more disturbingly, a homestead, attacked and destroyed. He sighed, pulled off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

The men were breaking camp, packing away equipment, food, checking weapons. They all glanced up as Simms came down from the hillside.

“We will reach the plain in less than an hour.” He studied each solider in turn. “If you thought it was hot yesterday, what we"re about to reach will test all our endurance. Keep your heads down and try your best to conserve water.”

“How long will it take us to cross?”

Simms shrugged, looking again to the west. From here, the smoke was invisible. “A day.”

“This is horse s**t,” said one of them.

Simms arched an eyebrow. “What"s your name, soldier.”

“Hanson. Corporal Hanson.

“Well, Corporal, we"re all in this s**t together. We have no choice. We just have to accept it for what it is.”

Hanson grumbled, looked askance at the others. “And when we get there?”

“If we get there,” said another. He noted Simms"s questioning stare. “Wicks. My name is Private Wicks. This here is Landers.” The third soldier stiffened slightly but remained quiet. “We were ordered to accompany you, mister, but none of us are happy about it.”

If“We all know about the other groups who were sent,” added Hanson. “This smacks of a suicide mission.”

“Well, it ain"t,” said Simms. He put his hands on his hips and moved his head to the west. “Something happened out there, to both sets of men. They either got lost and died of thirst, or,” he looked to the soldiers again, “someone killed them.”

“Mormons?”

Simms shrugged. “Could be. Or Utes. We"ll know soon enough, I reckon. So, if you hear me holler, you move to cover, you understand?” They all nodded, not one looking away. “Because if it"s Utes we come up against, you need to know those bastards are meaner than the sun overhead, boys. And control your fire, make every shot count. We have no idea how many there are out there, but this is their land, no matter what Brigham Young might say. They were here long before any of us even dreamed about this place, before any white man, be he devil or a son of God, came to this land. It"s theirs and they want to keep it that way. So, sleep if you can, but keep an ear open for my shout.”

He slunk over to his horse and swung the saddle across its back. Already the heat pulsed through the air.

They camped later amongst bracken and scree, throwing themselves down in the dirt without blankets, exhausted, drained from the journey across the unrelenting plain. Simms sipped from his canteen and put his head back against his saddle, the only one amongst the party who prepared some kind of makeshift bed. His blanket lay close, for he knew in a few hours the temperature would drop as the rocks were no longer nearby. He took time to hobble the horses, keeping them close. He knew well enough how the Natives could traverse the ground in total silence, bellies close to the earth, slithering like snakes. They would come and take the horses within a blink of an eye and none of the soldiers would know of it until the morning came. So Simms kept the animals within an arm"s reach, and his Colt Dragoon in his hand, slept fitfully, stirring every few moments to check the darkness.

As the sun rose above the horizon and any more chance of rest withered in the blazing heat, the men rose themselves, prepared breakfast, sat and munched. Simms again stepped out into the open and fixed the telescope to the west. No evidence of the smoke remained and he scanned the endless vista for any other signs. There was nothing and he allowed his breath to trickle out, the tension leaving his shoulders. For now.

They cut out across the plain, the features of the landscape slowly changing, from hard, coarse, broken rock and scree to more giving, albeit parched, grassland. It rose gently, rolling hillsides pressing in around them, and the air slowly grew fresher. “It"s the river,” breathed Simms, twisting in his saddle to smile at the others. “Half a day maybe. The worst is behind us.”

Or so he believed.

After a brief rest in an area dotted with blackened, withered trees, they cut through a dip in the hills and came upon a glade, where the soil had been tilled, perhaps only weeks before. And across from these fields, prepared by the sweat and toil of settlers, stood a cabin. But not a tranquil, homely place. A place of death.

The timbers were charred, the roof collapsed, main door kicked in. The entire building was gutted, the thick, acrid smell of burning wood filling everyone"s nostrils as they drew closer.

Simms reined in his horse and his eyes roamed across the surrounding hills. Without a word, he pulled out the carbine from its sheath and slipped from the saddle. “Fan out, Wicks to the left, Henson to the right. Go wide, and keep your eyes peeled. Landers, you come with me.”

The soldiers, used to obeying orders, quickly spread out, and Simms ran, bent double, to a fenced-in vegetable patch, where he stopped, kneeling and watching. Landers beside him, breathing hard, whispered, “Who did this?”

“Utes,” said Simms.

“How do you know? Maybe it was them Mormons?”

Simms shook his head, motioning towards the cabin walls. When Landers followed his gaze he saw them for himself; several arrows protruding from the woodwork, blackened twigs, but still recognizable. Landers grunted and Simms gave him a quick glance. “Stay alert. I"m going inside, you cover me. Understand?”

Landers nodded and Simms saw how the young soldier"s lips trembled. He squeezed his forearm, winked, then moved forward in a zigzag pattern, keeping low, carbine ready.

Reaching the doorway, he pressed himself against what was left of the wall. This close, the smell was sharp and thick, smarting his eyes, so he deftly pulled up his neckerchief to cover mouth and nose, took a breath, and chanced a glance inside.

He saw them. Two bodies, adults, twisted into grotesque attitudes, their charred bodies like clumps of brittle charcoal, mouths open in silent screams. If they were once human, this was the only sign they bore of who they might have been, their features fused into a single piece of roasted flesh. He swung away and vomited into the dirt, gasping for breath.

Landers ran up next to him, dropping to his knees, eyes scanning the hillside for a moment before nodding to the doorway. “Holy s**t, what the hell is in there?”

Simms shook his head, ripping away his neckerchief to wipe his mouth. He slid down the wall, pressing his head back against the black timbers. “Don"t go in.”

Landers stared, eyes wide, moisture filling up along the bottom lids. “What the f**k?”

The lawman took a breath and stuffed his neckerchief into his pocket. He licked his lips, throat raw from the bile still clinging there, burning him. He swallowed. “I need a drink.” He scoured the fields, eyes narrowing. “They might still be here. I thought I saw smoke yesterday. This must have been why.”

“You saw it? How?”

“Through the "scope. I didn"t think…” He caught the fury in Lander"s face. “I wasn"t to know. And besides, what could we have done?”

“Prepared ourselves.” Landers closed his eyes. “Jesus. How many are there in there?”

“Two. Adults, possibly. It"s hard to tell.”

“Likely to be others. Children maybe?”

“I hope to God, no. If there were, the Utes would have taken them. Teenagers too, girls especially. Slaves. It"s common practice.”

“Slaves? Dear God… I didn"t know they did such things.”

SlavesSimms grunted and went to speak, but before he could form the words, Hanson"s voice screamed out, “Simms! Get your a*s around here.”

Simms! Get your a*s around here.He exchanged a look with Landers, then the pair of them were skirting around the remains of the cabin towards the sound of the corporal"s voice.

Hanson stood a little way off, open to the elements, his carbine held loose by his side, his other hand gripping his hat. He did not move as Simms and Landers came up alongside.

Simms saw it. A young man, no more than twenty, stripped n***d, his body propped up against a rock. There was an arrow where his genitals used to be, a burned arrow. They"d split his stomach, grotesque ropes of black, roasted flesh spreading out in a crude arc over the wreck of his abdomen. His eyes, like prunes, plucked out, crusted blood rolling, like slug trails, down his face.

“Why the hell did they do this?”

Landers fell to his knees and quietly sobbed.

Simms drew in a shuddering breath. “Revenge. Punishment. Who knows. There is usually a reason. One thing is for sure, the Mormons had no hand in this.”

“You can"t know that for sure,” snarled Hanson, his eyes wet when he turned his face to consider Simms. “I"ve heard it say they made peace with these bastards, converted them, gave them the promise of eternal life if they did their dirty work for them.”

“There"s no reason why any white folk would consent to this, whoever they are or whatever they believe.”

“No, not white folk, their servants. The white folk just closed their eyes and minds to it.” Hanson turned and spat onto the ground, put his hat back on his head and gritted his teeth. “Every one of these bastards I find, I"m gonna kill. I couldn"t give a good damn who they are. They"re dead.”

He whirled away and strode back across the fields towards where the horses stood.

Simms watched him go and blew out a long breath.

They buried the three bodies as best they could in shallow graves, working through the already prepared earth at the front of the homestead with their knives. Once they covered the bodies with a thin scattering of soil, they placed stones and larger rocks to create mounds and rammed in crudely-fashioned crosses to mark where the dead lay. Wicks said a prayer and they stood in grim silence, considering what had passed.

No words were uttered as they moved away, none of them looking back, all deep within their own thoughts. For a brief period, a clump of clouds drifted across the sky to dim the sun, but only briefly. It was enough to dampen their mood still further.

They crossed the prairie slowly, a ragged procession, heads down, heat draining all the energy from men and beasts alike. They climbed another rock-strewn hill and when they reached the top, they saw below them, in the flat plain, the remains of a camp. They reined in their horses and stood in a line across the rise. Simms leaned forward, put the telescope to his eye and picked out the details. He sucked in his breath. “Shit.”

“What the hell is it now?” asked Landers.

“More deaths?” Hanson questioned.

Simms looked across at Hanson and pulled a face. “It"s the remnants of a camp. There"s a horse, dead. Other bodies alongside.”

“Oh Christ,” said Wicks and put a hand over his face.

“They"re soldiers,” said Simms.

The silence spread over them, accompanied by cold air, like ice, causing them all to shiver. Simms gnawed at his lips and nodded to Landers. “You stay with the horses. Do not leave them for any reason. You hear or see anything, you yell. Yell like a f*****g banshee, you understand?” Landers nodded and Simms got down from his horse, checking his carbine. He narrowed his eyes. “We walk down real slow. Check for any cover and, once you find some, you keep its position in your head. If any shooting starts, you get to that cover and you kill whatever you see.”

notThe other two grunted and dropped down beside him. Together they shuffled down the gentle incline towards the dead.

There were four of them in all, contorted in the hideous aspects of violent death, stomachs bloated, flesh green-black, burned in the sun. Their eyes stared sightlessly towards the sky, one of them squashed up behind the dead horse. There were no weapons, no supplies, and arrows perforated each corpse.

“They took their guns,” said Simms, squatting down to run his fingers through the remains of the fire. “Cold,” he said and looked to his left, then right. “This might be a war-party, or a hunting-party. Either way, they must have come upon these men hard and fast.”

“Ambushed them like the cowardly dogs they are,” said Hanson.

“What do you expect, a stand up fight, facing each other in nice, tidy ranks, like the Redcoats of old?”

“You reckon these were the boys General Randall sent out to give his message to the ferry?”

“This is one of the groups, I reckon.” Simms stood. He rolled his shoulders. “Strange there ain"t no buzzards.”

“Eh?” Hanson responded with a frown.

“These bodies, why ain"t they been picked clean by the birds?”

Hanson frowned and studied one of the corpses. Something had been pulling away at the soft flesh of the dead man"s throat and cheeks. “Well, they did get started.”

“Yeah, but not anymore.” Simms swiveled on his haunches. “We best pull back, get to the higher ground and—”

Abruptly, Wicks threw up his arms and screamed, falling to his knees. Simms reacted first, rolling across the earth, making himself flat, and levelled his carbine toward the hillside as Wick fell beside him, face down in the dirt, an arrow protruding from his back. He was moaning, tried to push himself upright, and then a second arrow slapped into the back of his skull and he collapsed with a loud sigh, dead.

Hanson was running, revolver in his hand, firing off bullets in the precise opposite reaction to the instructions given to him by Simms. For himself, Simms cursed, and pressed himself up against his dead companion, placing the carbine over Wicks" shoulder, scouring the surroundings for any movement.

And movement followed swiftly.

He saw Landers on the hillside less than one hundred paces away, watched him stand up, carbine held out between two hands, blocking a downward strike by a wild, n***d Ute armed with hatchet and knife. Landers twisted, kicked the native in the groin and swung the carbine across his head. Simms saw the Ute drop, but before Landers could do any more, another jumped on his back, bronzed thighs wrapping around him, one arm jerking back his head, the other arm brandishing a hatchet. It would soon be over.

Simms shot the Ute in the head, saw the plume of pink blood, watched him crumple, still wrapped around a frantic, hysterical Landers. Simms feverishly loaded up the Halls with another round, working the paper cartridge into the breech and pressing it shut, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes.

He looked up. Landers was bent double on his knees, blowing out his cheeks, winded, terrified. A third Ute reared up and kicked him full in the face, throwing him into the air. The soldier hit the edge of the hillside and pitched over, rolling down in a wild jumble of arms and legs. The Ute sprang after him, knife ready and Simms blew a hole in his throat and sent him into oblivion.

He stood up, discarding the carbine, and pulled out his Colt Dragoon. Nothing else moved, the echo of the gunfire dissipating in the vastness of that place, the only sound the low, pain-filled bleating of Landers, lying on his back, nose and mouth smashed and bleeding.

“Are there more?”

It was Hanson, crammed in behind an outcrop of rock, reloading his revolver as best he could, hands trembling with no seeming strength in any of the fingers, breathing hard through his open mouth.

“Maybe.”

Simms took a step forward and relieved Hanson of the revolver. As his, eyes scanned the crest of the hill, he methodically poured powder into each chamber, fitted the shot and pressed home the percussion caps. “They will have taken the horses if there were more of them. The food and water, too.” He groaned, gave back the revolver and shuffled over to Landers. He got down next to him. The man"s eyes were rolling, the blood leaking from his broken face. Simms took a breath.“Did they take the horses?”

Landers blinked a few times, shaking his head once. “Water.”

Simms sighed and shouted across to Hanson, “Get him water,” before he straightened and made his way slowly up to the crest.

The Ute Landers kicked was lying there in a tight ball, hands clamped at his groin, face swollen where the carbine had smashed into him. The horses had run off, but stood a mere twenty or thirty paces away, quiet, feeding on tufts of coarse grass. They pricked their ears and lifted their heads as Simms slowly approached, soothing them with cooing sounds, stroking their necks, calming them.

He looked back at the hill and saw Hanson, who stood, feet planted wide, one of the hatchets in his hand. Simms watched as Hanson, slowly at first, but increasingly more uncontrolled, hacked the stricken native to pieces, his hand a blur.