Chapter 3

I slipped up behind the Bushwhacker, flipped the garrote over his head, and pulled it tight around his neck. You feel your air being cut off, but a garrote like mine really kills by cutting off the blood flow to your brain. Just cutting off your air would take several minutes to kill you, but having the blood cut off to your brain can kill you in less than a minute.

I learned this little trick from a Frenchman from Marseilles; he was one of those men who volunteered to join the Union Army in exchange for transportation to the USA. From the way he acted, I was sure that he knew a lot more about the garrote than he was willing to tell me, but he taught me what I needed to know.

As soon as my first victim passed out, I cut the tendons in his arms and legs so that he could not use his hands or feet, but I was careful not to cut any blood vessels. I gagged the man with a piece of his shirt and left him to recover consciousness on his own.

Living up to my nickname of Snake, I "slithered" across the road to the last man in line on that side. I treated him the same way as the first man and left him to take on the next man on this side of the road. Anyway, I had taken care of all six of the ambushers in only a few minutes, so I was ready for the rest of my revenge.

Actually, my revenge was quite simple. I dragged all six men deep into the woods and tied them to a tree by a noose around the neck. Their hands were totally useless, as much as if I had cut them completely off, but I was counting on the mental torture of having your hands, but not being able to use them. I left them gagged and simply abandoned them to starve or die of thirst, I didn't care which. However, before I left, I explained who I was and why I was doing this. One of the bastards started crying, so I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could for good measure!

I rode the rest of the way to the next camp site and checked it for adequate water, which there was. I made sure that there was no danger lurking around and hurried back to the wagon train. I had been gone a long time, and I didn't want them to start worrying about me and maybe doing something foolish. That evening, I called John aside and told him what I had done that day. He had been a long-time friend of the scout and had been especially saddened by the murder. When I finished my story, John slapped me on the back in a friendly gesture and walked away into the shadows to be alone for a while.

The rest of the trip to Independence was unremarkable. We met no more Bushwhackers and the journey was completed with the whole train coming through unscathed. This was indeed a rarity, and John's reputation was made as a wagonmaster. He had vaulted to the top of his profession and would be in demand as long as he wanted to guide wagon trains. His specialty was the Oregon Trail and it was just coincidence that he had been in Cleveland when I needed the job. I told you I was lucky!

John tried to keep me on to go with the train to the Oregon Territory, but I was set on giving Kansas a try, so I turned him down. On the other hand, Sam Harley and the rest of the group wanted to stay with the train and go on to Oregon. I turned the guard duty over to Sam and left for Wichita two days later.

The money I had earned with the guard company had made me sort of rich, so I was able to outfit myself in style for the trip to Wichita. I bought two riding horses and a pack mule trained to follow without a lead rope. I picked up a tent and all of the other creature comforts that I thought that I might need. I also bought myself a .44 caliber Henry rifle and had my pistols modified to use the same cartridges that the Henry used. That cost me a good bit of money, but I figured that it was worth it—now I could reload my pistols about as fast as I could reload my rifle.

The weather was still good and looked to hold long enough for me to get to Wichita before it turned bad, so I bid my friends goodbye and headed out on the next stage of my grand adventure. I had been riding for four days, and I was well out onto the empty plains of Kansas when I ran into my first Indian trouble.

I was riding along minding my own business when I heard some gunshots and some weird yelling. I looked around and didn't see anything that could account for the noise, so I sped up to a fast lope, because it sounded like the noise was ahead of me.

I topped a small rise and saw the source of the trouble. Three wagons were bunched up and a band of 19 Indians was riding around them, shooting and yelling what I assumed were war cries. Three men were sheltering under the wagons and shooting back at the Indians, but neither side was scoring any hits that I could see. I figured that at the ratio of 19 to 3, the White men at the wagons needed all of the help that they could get.

I must say that I was totally ignorant of the nuances of Indian fighting, but it looked to me like the Indians were so intent on their current fun that they had not seen me. Therefore, I should be able to shoot them from my present position with a relatively high degree of safety. I decided to test that theory.

I hobbled my horses and mule behind the little hill and returned to the crest with my rifle, spare ammunition, and my canteen. I moved to the military crest of the hill and prepared to start my own little war. Now, the Henry rifle has one major defect, namely, there is no forestock to protect your left hand from a hot barrel. Therefore, you normally have to let the barrel cool down after shooting a full magazine in rapid fire. This was what insured the continued popularity of the Spencer, and I would have stayed with it, were it not for the chance to have my rifle and pistols all use the same ammunition.

Anyway, I got set up in a prone position, which not only steadied my aim, but made me significantly more difficult to see. All I had to worry about was the presence of powder smoke, and I thought that the light breeze was enough to dissipate the smoke quickly enough to serve my needs.

I began shooting at the Indians at a measured rate, since I didn't want my rifle to overheat. The range was somewhat extreme, but I had it down after a couple of shots. I was about half way through my second magazine of bullets before the Indians found me. I had killed or seriously wounded 12 of the 19 warriors by that time, but the name of the game was about to change in a hurry.

They turned to charge at me as soon as I was spotted. I paused to reload the magazine of my rifle so that I would be as prepared as possible when the Indians got a little bit closer. I waited until they got within a comfortable shooting range and opened up on them again. This time, I was shooting as quickly as I could draw a bead on a target, so the barrel began to warm up very fast. I was wearing a glove on my left hand, but it offered little real protection. I was able to empty the magazine before I had to abandon the rifle, but the last two shots were not as well aimed as the others had been.

By this time, there were only two warriors left to attack me, but they were very close. I drew my pistol with my right hand and began shooting. The range was a little long for a pistol, but it was closing rapidly. I did manage to drop the last remaining Indian before he reached me, but it was a close call. When that happened, I heard cheering from the wagons, so I stood up and waved my hat to them to acknowledge their cheers.

Just to be on the safe side, I took the time to reload my rifle and pistol before I did anything else. I retrieved my mounts and rode down the hill to speak to the men at the wagons. Needless to say, I was well received with a lot of hand shaking and back slapping. I was even offered a celebratory nip from a special canteen, which I gratefully accepted.