Blue River

By Bruce Drake

Blue River is an action packed story of seven kids, in Kansas, in the 1840's. Indians kill then loot their families' wagons and leave nothing for them to survive with.

The seven youngsters mesh as a family and together they fight untrained oxen, kidnappers, cattle thieves and their doubts as they try to escape persecution. Along the way they pick up Bill, a big black man. David Little takes the family north into Nebraska and settles on the Blue River and they build a ranch in Indian country.

Laura, the second oldest, and Dave become involved and he flees to Santa Fe at the time of the Mexican War, mapping what is now Arizona and New Mexico while fighting Apaches. He ends up in California after the war mining gold with the Army. His unit is killed off an paper, betrayed by men in the Government and nearly annihilated. But seven men escape the treachery and struggle to get back home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452070902

Bruce Drake

Bruce Drake was born in the heart of Michigan. He grew up on a farm without electricity, a telephone, or inside plumbing. While attending a one-room schoolhouse, his imagination began to develop. Also, his mother was a great storyteller. Bruce married a classmate after a hitch in the army. They had three daughters. As a family, they traveled to many of the places he writes about. He still lives in mid-Michigan with his wife. He enjoys fishing, traveling, and writing his stories.

Book preview

Pawnee

The dark space where I lay hidden was tight and there was no light to see by, in these cramped quarters except through the hollow reed we used to get air down here. I strained my ears to hear the noise from above and I could detect shooting. It was steady at first, then sporadic and now occasional as good men fought for their lives against overwhelming odds.

Suddenly a horse’s hoof penetrated the dark interior of the buried trunk where I lay hidden below the ground; I then heard the Indian pony struggle to maintain his footing. The young Pawnee Braves were making their wild Indian sounds as they swarmed the wagons above.

This thirteen year old could see some of the disaster taking place through that hole in the trunk lid. A red man’s hatchet as it sank deep into Mrs. Croces’ head and she disappeared from my view. The screaming had ceased and only the wild yells of the Pawnee war party came to me where I lay.

Through the early dawn haze I saw a young Pawnee Brave come into my restricted view through that hole in the trunk lid. He was holding Mrs. Franklin’s long yellow hair high for all to see and making his loud eerie yells.

I could feel the hair on my body stand up and goose bumps on my cold arms as I listened to the massacre up above. I had a sick feeling down in my stomach and a shudder shook my body. What would these heathen cutthroats do next? Inwardly I trembled as the red marauders were bent on destroying our families.

I was lying in that big trunk taking in the carnage up above, of our horses being rounded up, Indians going through the wagons and every time something of value, to them, was found those wild piercing yells echoing from the woods along the creek.

The prairie breeze was picking up and the wind was pushing dust across the ground and into my under ground hiding place; dropping dust and some sand onto my stomach and making me want to sneeze.

Rolling onto my stomach I buried my head in the clothes that lay beneath me, things ma had placed in here with me. After three good muffled sneezes I’d cleared my nose. The disaster that went on above chilled me to the bone. Ma and dad, I’m sure, were dead and I felt sick inside.

This ole clod hopper rolled over onto his back again and pulled a shirt up over his nose and listened to the Indians going through our wagons. Oh the noises they made as prize after prize were found and celebrated, lifting them high for all to see.

I shuddered as my mind went back to the things that had gone on in the last twelve hours. The Indians had overwhelming odds. My mother’s idea was to try and save her children from certain death as the red men did their dirty work. There were too many Pawnee Indians and too few to defend our camp.

Mom’s idea was to bury seven kids in and around the campsite, from all three families. We worked frantically through the night digging holes and burying seven trunks for us kids to lie in while the rest watched and defended our camp.

The small group of kids was told if something happened to the family that I was in charge and they should listen to me and I must look out for the younger kids. The adults were now all gone by the sounds of what took place above. Six men, three older teen boys and the women were all massacred for no reason at all.

Three weeks ago, dad had joined the other three families, going west, for we needed protection going through Indian country. More people would add security to our trip through Kansas. A wagon alone on the Great Prairie would be easy pickens and needed the men in the other wagons to help protect each other. But so many mistakes were made, by our wagon leaders, that were devastating to the families.

As time went on the day grew warm and so did the inside of my buried box. It was almost noon before I decided that the Indians were gone for good. Putting both feet on the trunk lid I pushed as hard as I could and the lid swung upwards.

The bright sunlight flooded in and blinded me for a moment. As I stood up and surveyed the area, human bodies and blood were all over the camping area. The Pawnee had done their dirty work and left. Smoke from the burned out wagons was still drifting skyward and the slight breeze carried it away.

Two wagons were still smoldering with very little left to show that they had been wagons once. Two wagons were still intact canvas and all. Clothes, household things and odds and ends were scattered all over the ground, most of it was broken. The Pawnee had thrown things from the wagons, while searching for booty to take home with them.

All the adults were dead and scalped. All the weapons were gone, the livestock had disappeared and the Indians had fled the scene. The turkey buzzards were already circling high overhead waiting for an afternoon meal.

Mrs. Franklin’s baby boy had its head smashed in and was still in her arms. Two older teens lay under the burned out wagons. My ma and dad were shot and scalped. It was a gruesome sight and a sob escaped before I got control.

The Pawnee must have suffered loss, with all the shooting that went on earlier, but not one Indian body did I see. They must have carried them off. The ground was red from the blood of so many killed both Indian and white.

This ole boy wasn’t at all sure of what to do, get the kids out first or remove the dead bodies of the families. I didn’t want the younger children to see their parents, in this gruesome condition, so I removed the mothers and older teens, dragged them outside our camp and laid them in a small depression in the ground.

The weight of moving the men would put to much strain on me. I was trying to decide which kid to get out first to give me a hand; finally I tapped on Laura’s trunk and up came the lid as she pushed with both feet. As the trunk lid flipped open dust and dirt filtered down on her. She got up out of her buried trunk and slapped dust from her dress.

Laura, I need your help. Your pa and ma are dead and I would like all the bodies outside the camp before bringing the others out. Tears flooded her eyes as she scanned the area. I felt sorry for her and her loss knowing each of us would suffer with grief in our great loss. My real concern was for the little kids who depended on moms and dads for so many things in their young lives.

Laura, for a girl, was strong and maybe affected the least by seeing dead bodies. Anyway she was the person I thought of getting out first. I was right she could handle removing most of the dead bodies.

She was thirteen, slender and strong for her age. I liked her a lot. She was enjoyable to be around. There is no way a thirteen year old girl or guy could not be affected the way this thing happened and the way the bodies were treated after death.

Laura was a little bit squeamish, although she took a foot and helped drag the men to the hole outside the camp area. When she saw her mother with a real bad wound, from that Indian hatchet and the scalping, it shook her.

This ole farm kid put his arm around her as we walked back into camp. My heart went out to her as she struggled with her feelings. This ole boy must be strong for all my new family, so I tried to keep busy and not think about what the Indians had done. It would be rough on everyone without an adult to help out.

Next we uncovered my brother Roger, a 12 year old, then Laura’s brother and sister, Brian and Linda, lastly Rosie and Gary Franklin. Seven kids all alone way out here on the Great Western Prairie with no horses, no livestock, two empty wagons and very little food.

We were in a lonely desolate land along the Santa Fe Trail. It was the route we had followed west heading for Bent’s Fort, far to the west, then south over the mountains through Raton Pass, down into Santa Fe and a new life in a new land.

Crying was heard throughout the day as we talked of their dead folks.

Guys, we’ve got to sit down and talk this thing out, about how we might survive and what happened to our folks. We decided to search the wagons looking for money, knives, guns, or anything of value to us in our struggle to survive. Roger and Gary searched one wagon. Rosie and Brian searched the other looking for anything of value for we couldn’t carry much on our backs.

Ma had put many useful things in our trunks, blankets, food, a canvas water bag, a large canteen, ropes, metal pots, a coffee pot, matches, a half dozen gunnysacks to carry things in and clothes, lots of clothes. We would have trouble packing just this much out of here.

Laurie and I pulled everything out of our under ground boxes. There was a Colt revolver in my trunk, powder, slugs and caps. Ma must have snuck that revolver in with me. There was a squirrel gun in Laura’s box. She had powder, caps and shot for it.

The handgun was a revolver 36 caliber Colt. We had four large horns of powder and lots of caps, a hunting knife, plus a tobacco can with a hundred and twenty-seven dollars in it, fifty-three dollars in a sulfur matchbox. Apparently the folks put all their money in with us so the Pawnee wouldn’t get it. We kept mostly survival things and hand tools.

The adults had put me in charge to somehow save these six kids. How can a thirteen-year-old boy survive the Indians on the frontier when adults couldn’t provide safety for us? I trusted Roger, my brother, and Laurie somewhat. The rest I‘d not been that close to, to make any judgments.

I was more or less satisfied that the Indians were gone for good and wouldn’t be back, although we exercised lots of caution, because you never know about those pesky Indians. What more could they want from this outfit? We didn’t have much. No, I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be back.

Charles Ford led the covered wagons that we joined, in Independence, Missouri, to make this trip down to Santa Fe, Texas. He had been informed of the Indian trouble, and was sure these red devils we saw were Pawnee.

The camp was not readied for an Indian attack; wagons were not circled tightly and the horses were to far from camp. Ma had us working frantically most of the night. By dawn seven trunks were placed, just below the surface of the light sandy soil. The seven of us were hidden from the red men and their evil ways.

As we sat talking we heard the moo of a cow. Roger, you stay here with the group while I go have a look see. I sure hoped it was a milk cow, with all these kids we sure did need one. A quarter of a mile away, I found Mrs. Franklin’s and dad’s milk cows and a calf by the creek. They were in need of someone to milk them.

Plains Indians had little or no interest in cows with all the buffalo around. They liked the taste of mule meat some what and horses were worth a little risk and that is what brought them down on us in the night, that and the sloppy camp procedures. The white man that thinks he is invincible in a red man’s world is crazy.

I drove the three head of cattle toward the wagons. As I entered the camp Laurie was building a fire. So I said Laurie, keep it small and use only dry wood to minimize the amount of smoke. I needed to keep this family as busy as I could and their minds off their troubles. They could have a hard time adjusting to their loss.

No horses and two cows, what in the world can we do with two cows? This was a predicament that I didn’t know how to get out of. We are going to need a lot of Divine help.

We were to far from the Santa Fe Trail. Mr. Ford said, We will camp on this creek for a couple days, rest our livestock and soak the wagon wheels before moving on to Bent’s Fort. We were taking the mountain route down into Santa Fe. Dad’s plan was to go south from Bent’s Fort into Santa Fe, and settle in Texas. Well he won’t make that trip with us now. I bit my lip to hold back the tears; I mustn’t show a weakness to the family.

Texas had won their independence from Mexico back in 1836 and wanted good families and businesses to settle down there. Now even that dream was gone. Gone like a flower after a real hard frost. My mother’s wish was to see her kids grown. Her dream had vanished, as those heathen Indians had put an end to all their lives.

Roger tied the cows to the wagon, grabbed a pail and began to milk them. We gathered our meager possessions, on the ground, by the wagon and began to sort out what we would need to stay alive in Indian country. Thank you, Lord, we now had two cows to help carry some of our stuff, but we must not overload them.

This ole dude was missing his folks already. I must get everyone’s minds off their problems and our great loss. The hopelessness of our situation was staggering, kids alone where adults can’t make it is a bit much.

Later with two shovels Roger and I slipped out to bury the adults in shallow graves covering the graves with dirt and stones to keep the coyotes from digging them up. Each child helped haul stones to the grave sight.

Brian you empty out one wagon, Gary and Linda do the other, and as things were hitting the ground I heard, in the distance, another mooing sound. "Quiet!" Then silence. I asked, Did anyone else hear that moo?

The answers were, no! I was sure I had. Maybe it is wishful thinking on my part. We were quiet for a moment longer and heard nothing. I gotta go have a look. So off I went sneaking down the creek, going slow and watching, for it might be a trap.

About a half mile downstream I came across some of dad’s livestock, ten, two and half year old unbred heifers that dad planned for his farm in the Republic of Texas. What luck! These ten head opened more possibilities for us and our trip west.

Later in the evening the dark clouds started forming in the west and the heat lighting flickered back and forth across the night sky like fire works on a Fourth of July. Rosie said, David, I don’t like it at all. The air was now still and eerie as nothing moved on the prairie. Is this a sign of doom and gloom?

Settle down you guys and don’t get all carried away. The wind did kick up but brought no rain from that dazzling display. It’s only God giving us something to think about. I was feeling my long day and a half of stress with no sleep.

Tired as I was I enjoyed God’s display, just sitting out away from the fire and enjoying the prairie solitude. We needed to keep an upbeat attitude for what could be ahead with seven kids trying to make it to somewhere, to do something, somehow.

My mind was working on how we could move a wagon out here with only these young heifers. Could we? I don’t know. Time would tell.

Bull Whackers

The next day was spent adjusting horse harnesses to fit cows. Oh what a mess we had! We rigged up our horse harnesses to fit on six head of our young stock. Then we hitched the biggest heifers to our wagon, the wagon we decided to take out of here with us. We loaded what we thought we needed for the trip and started north for the Santa Fe Trail. I said north but it was more like all over the place.

Now mules can sometimes cause a man some real grief, but six untrained oxen are obstinate and about as stubborn and ornery as anything I ever did see. We didn’t have one trained oxen to yoke ours to and it was a dismal mess. The livestock didn’t want to pull the big wagon and when the wagon moved we had teams every which way trying to break free. They didn’t understand anything about pulling a wagon.

We spent three long hours of hard labor trying to get the six head of young stock to move the wagon in a straight line and we had come less than a hundred feet. They fought us all the way; they fought the harness and the work of pulling a load.

They were tangled up, with front hooves over the back of the other oxen and they wouldn’t pull together at all. They continually sea sawed back and forth. It was frustrating to say the least. By noon I was tuckered out and we hadn’t come a hundred yards yet.

What bugged me the most was after the first hour Laura kept asking, Are we there yet? This girl was something, I don’t know what, but something.

We unhooked the teams and let them eat on the lush green grass and we left the harnesses on them so they would get use to them. Then I lay back in the grass to rest. I had to smile for Laurie was kind of funny.

She came and sat down by me and asked, David, is there anything I can do to help? She handed me a large piece of jerky to eat and a cup of cool water.

No Laurie, I don’t think so. Thank you for asking.

The cattle had worn themselves out; with all the trouble they were giving us. How could this wimpy outfit make it anywhere before cold weather set in? Maybe, if the stock were broke to pull the big wagon, but when the wagon moved they became excited and started climbing over the other heifer’s backs, raising havoc and they wore me plum out.

As I lay there my mind turned to Laura, what a fine person she was. Rather skinny, but she was fast becoming a good friend. She was a worker and a rock. I could depend on her, I was sure of that. This group was working as a team. These kids did what they could and I was quite proud of this wimpy outfit as raggedy as it was.

Laurie’s hair was long and brown and it came down to the middle of her back. How she could keep it that long out here, on the prairie, was a mystery to me. Each night I would see her brushing it and she washed it whenever she could.

Rosie’s hair was shoulder length and a pretty blond like her mothers. Linda’s hair was barely covering her ears, a pretty strawberry blond and she was as cute as a bug’s ear. The boys were good looking lads and eager to help, as best they could. I knew what Roger, my brother, could do, while the rest were untried as of yet.

After an hour we hitched up the young stock, to the wagon, and tried it again. By four o’clock they were worn to a frazzle. Laura saved the day. She walked close by the teams. Talked to them and was lightly touching them soothing and calming the teams with her soft gentle voice.

You could see them settle down with a touch. My harsh voice had not helped. With her and Rosie working with me, we got a little over three quarters of a mile from morning camp. The distance was not good, but we did make some progress. We could easily see our morning camp and the other wagon. Well, tomorrow is another day.

I said out aloud, I hope we don’t starve before we reach the Santa Fe Trail.

Roger piped in, You can say that again.

The girls cooked a meal and we took care of the stock. Gary and Brian milked the cows while Roger and I mended the harnesses and made some adjustments. We were hoping to correct some of our previous troubles. Horse harnesses were not made to put on cows. And these heifers were not born to pull a wagon. Troubles sprang up everywhere as we moved north toward the Santa Fe Trail.

We hobbled the stock, and after dark it was girls into the covered wagon and we boys under it. We tucked the canvas inside of the wagon side boards and the other end staked down in case of rain or heavy dew. We made a kind of a lean-to on the wagon.

Around the fire, eating our breakfast, the talk was of leave the wagon behind and walking out of here. They wanted to put our things on the livestock and lead them out of here.

My answer was, We stay with the wagon for now. It gives us a dry place to sleep if it rains, kind of like a