Chapter 6

Camping was usually a very quiet affair for Ben and Han. Their camps were normally set up with a minimum of fuss and always with an eye for defense. Camping with the Cherokee was a different and tumultuous affair. Not that the Cherokee were a loud or boisterous people. They could be ghosts when they wanted to. It's just that so many people can't set up camp without some noise and good humored jostling between them. It did help that they didn't set up as one large camp with one large camp fire the way white men did. Ben, Han, Bear and Elk all had their own camp fire. The rest of the band set up at small fires spreading out from their central fire with between two, three, or four Braves at each.

Shortly after dismounting at the end of the day a warrior rode in, said something to Bear, then rode away. Ben looked at Bear enquiringly and Bear said, "He wanted to know what to do with the captives they picked up during the day. I told him to bring them in one group at a time so none of them could hear what was asked of the others."

Bear explained that he had ordered his men to bring any captives to the command group during the day if it was convenient. If it wasn't, then bring them in after camp was set up. It seemed the family in the wagon was the only group that was convenient.

Each of the Cherokee's had to come to the central fire to get a closer look at the strange white man they were following. One band brought the first group of captives with them that had been collected during the day.

The first captives brought in were another family; a man, wife, and two sons that were escorted into the camp. The man's hands were tied and lead ropes went from him to his wife and sons. Ben took a brief look at their auras and immediately cut them loose.

The man was tall and rawboned. His tired, lined face looked like it hadn't seen shade since he was born. His hands were big, rough and callused. The rich red dirt of the area seemed too embedded in the man's hands. He was a farmer. The farmer looked worried as he glanced nervously around to see the Indian's reaction to him being cut free. His wife was a weathered looking woman that seemed resigned to whatever life threw at her. The boys were just tow headed kids of about 9 and 10. The younger one looked terrified but the older boy seemed determined not to let them know that he was afraid.

"I'm sorry for you being treated like that," Ben told the family as he offered them water. Han started handing out jerky to the family. "We needed to talk to anyone we could find to get some information and this was the only way we knew to do it."

"Are you some kind of renegade?" the man asked, half belligerent and half fearful.

"No I'm not," Ben said patiently.

"Well, you're riding with the Indians," the man pointed out.

"Actually, they're riding with me," Ben explained. "I have a job to do in the Wolf Creek area and needed some help. They are the help I needed."

"So, you're in charge of the Indians?" the man asked incredulously.

"Ah, no, actually," Ben gestured toward Bear and continued, "Bear Brother is in charge of this band. They've just agreed to help me."

Bear was bent over the fire adjusting a kettle of soup so it would set upright over the coals. He didn't look up when his name was spoken. He just waved one hand over his head and said, "Yep, that's me. I'm in charge." Then he muttered an expletive in Cherokee when the pot slipped and some of the soup sloshed over the coals.

"Do you mean that we aren't going to be killed?" the woman asked hopefully.

"Are they still going to scalp us," the youngest boy asked fearfully.

"No killing and no scalping," Ben assured the family.

"E us eed um ifermshon," Han said as she handed the youngest boy another piece of jerky.

"You talk funny," the oldest boy said. "What did she say?" he asked turning to Ben.

"She said we just need some information," Ben explained.

"Why does she talk funny," the oldest boy asked accepting another piece of jerky. He wasn't being mean. He was curious.

"Her tongue was cut out," Ben said. His tone was a little rougher than it needed to be but that was always the case when he remembered what happened to Han.

"Did the Indians cut it out?" the younger boy asked breathlessly. He was staring at Han and his jaw had stopped in mid chew.

"No, it was white men. It was evil white men like the ones we're going to see tomorrow," Ben said in a stony voice. "What's your name?" he asked turning toward the father.

"The name's Frank Gibbons. I could name a few of the evil ones if you're talking about the Wolf Creek country," the farmer growled.

"That's the kind of information that we're looking for," Ben replied as he sat on a rock. "I take it from your comment that you're leaving the Wolf Creek area to escape someone." Ben sighed and shaking his head said, "I only know one of the large ranches hired someone to drive out squatters and the smaller ranches. If you can tell me anything beyond that it would be helpful."

The man shrugged and said, "What's to tell? Old man Thurston owns the BAR-T and he decided that he's the only one with any right to the land in the Wolf Creek country. Thurston came to this country when he was a young man and figured anyone that came in after him was trying to steal his land from him. He hired some gunslinger with men of his own to drive all the smaller ranchers and farmers out."

"He hired a butcher," the woman corrected.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked.

"They don't just kill people," the farmer explained. "They cut them up."

"Sometime they don't kill the ones they catch on purpose. I guess they figure that live examples of what could happen scares people more than a dead body," the farmer's wife said with a choking sob. "And they're right."

"That's what they did to Mr. Johnston," the oldest boy said quietly, just loud enough to be heard over his mother's crying. "He lives about three miles from us. Did live about three miles from us," the boy corrected himself. "Me and Darrel found him by the creek yesterday morning," the boy continued. "He was naked and they cut off everything, ah," the boy gestured toward his own crotch. "They cut off everything between his legs," the boy concluded quietly.

"He was still alive and raving most of the time," the farmer picked up the tale. "We could understand some of it though. They killed his wife, son and daughter in front of him. We couldn't understand everything but from what we could understand, they did it slow. They, ah, did a lot of things to them before they died. Mr. Johnston died about sunset yesterday. We didn't wait for morning. We loaded our mules with what we could and left last night. We didn't even try to take the wagon because we planned to go cross country. I guess we were lucky because we could see fire reflected on the clouds about where our place was after we were gone about two hours."

The farmer's wife was pale as milk after the story was finished but she said, "Sarah Johnston was a good woman. Billy and Anna were good kids too. That shouldn't have happened to them."

Ben felt the weight of those deaths settle over him. If he could have come just a little faster; just one day earlier; maybe he could have saved those innocents. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was hoping to get here before they started but ... well, that doesn't matter now. Can you tell me anything about these men? How many are in the gang? Where is their headquarters? How do they operate? Anything at all would be a help."

The farmer shook his head and said, "We've seen strangers riding in the distance but we don't know where they're staying. Harry Johnston told me last Sunday that he heard there was a big camp over on Mammoth Creek. That's about 15 miles southeast of Reverend Follett's church." I don't know how many there are but I know that's on the Bar-T range. I think old man Thurston had a line shack and barn with corrals built someplace along Mammoth Creek but I don't know where."

Ben nodded and said, "Okay. We'll look for them in that direction." He hesitated before continuing. "I know your cabin was burned but the land was still there. We're going to stop them. After we're through you can go back to your land and rebuild if you want."

The farmer snorted and said, "Cabin? They didn't burn our cabin. That was probably our wagon burning and maybe some of the furniture burning. No one out here has wood cabins. There isn't enough wood. Everyone out here lives in dugouts or soddies. We have plenty of prairie sod to build sod houses and the buffalo grass makes the walls as strong as any wood house. They're warmer in the winter and cooler in summer too." The farmer paused and looked at Ben speculatively before asking, "So you really think you're going to be able to stop them?"

"Yes," Ben said softly. "Their leader will be killed and the rest of them won't be a problem after that. Everyone here is dedicated to killing their leader."