Gone to Kansas 1856 Fire and Tribulation: The Sequel to Gone to Kansas 1855 A Historical Novel

By Kendall D. Gott

In Gone to Kansas, 1855, young Hiram Lockwood left a broken family and St. Louis to seek his fortunes on the frontier in Kansas Territory and on the Santa Fe Trail. In Kansas 1856, Hiram is shedding his greenhorn ways and gaining experience as a muleskinner and stage driver. Soon he finds himself in the midst of the turbulent times of "Bleeding Kansas," where a man could be shot for not being "on the right side of the goose." Surrounded by rogues, miscreants, and border trash, Hiram must rely on himself and a few friends to thread his way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886447873

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Preface

1: The Hunt

2: The Ball

3: Trails West

4: A Mission of Great Importance

5: Games People Play

6: The Stage to Lawrence

7: Two Birds with One Stone

8: March Winds

9: Is Lawrence Burning?

10: Kickapoo

11: Potawatomi

12: Duty Calls

13: Fighting Along the Black Jack

14: Topeka

15: Boss from Hell

16: Three Forts Fall

17: A Time to Stay, a Time to Skedaddle

Epilogue

About the Author

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Gone to Kansas 1856 Fire and Tribulation

The Sequel to Gone to Kansas 1855 A Historical Novel

Kendall D. Gott

ISBN 979-8-88644-786-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88644-787-3 (Digital)

Copyright © 2022 Kendall D.Gott

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To Julia,

high school sweetheart and wife

Special thanks to Gina Henoch for the use of Kansas Sunset for the cover.

Preface

The Kansas Territory was a lively place. Quinn's Tavern was a hot spot and conveniently located near the Scott House and stage station. It attracted all kinds of characters to Leavenworth City and its environs. When men were sober, they generally restricted their social activities to checkers, cards, dice, and even faro when there was a reputable dealer in town. That all changed when the tanglefoot whiskey flowed. It flowed whenever men had cash money in their pockets.

You might kill me, but a couple of you will launch to eternity with me. Who's it going to be?

You sound like you have too many teeth in your slave-loving mouth. A blow from behind sent the new arrival staggering. Punches and kicks then came in with the rapidity of a woodpecker beating his head on the side of a tree. Once relieved of his pepperbox, knife, and money, the man from Iowa was tossed out the door and landed in a heap. No one thought to check if he was still breathing.

Hiram Lockwood¹ had made his way here to the rim of a nation last April and joined a wagon train to Santa Fe. He had returned by autumn and seen this ugliness firsthand before. He knew he couldn't help the hapless man without suffering the same fate. He was here to escape his domineering father back in St. Louis and the life of drudgery that was planned for him. Working inside a bank was not what he had in mind. Getting embroiled in the slavery issue one way or the other was simply hazardous to one's health. He had other plans.

The year 1855 was bad enough. The year 1856 would be worse and end up being the bloodiest of the territorial period. Drunken violence and accidents accounted for most of it. Land disputes caused quite a bit too. What shocked the nation was that folks were getting assaulted and killed over their political beliefs. There was just something un-American about that.

The people of the territory were bitterly divided on the issue of slavery, and intimidation and violence were on the rise. With the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act in 1854, it was said that settlers themselves would determine whether a territory would be admitted into the Union as a free state or a slave state. In Kansas, Missourians poured across the nearby border and naturally voted affirmative on the issue of slavery. Few from Missouri stayed to make a new life. Those ruffians that rode into Kansas appeared as a Mongol horde when it came time to vote. These proslavery men were successful in intimidating the free-state men from voting and stuffing the ballot boxes in support of their candidates. This occurred to some degree in all past elections, but the brazenness and scale were unprecedented. There were only 2,905 qualified voters at the time, and a total of over 6,307 votes were counted. Subtracting the free-state men's vote meant that over five thousand came from the Missouri border crossers. The massive voter fraud in 1855 established what many called the Bogus Legislature. President Pierce instantly recognized it as the legal government. This legislature quickly drew up a state constitution and applied for admission of Kansas as a slave state to seal the deal. While that languished in Congress, the capital finally ended up in Lecompton.

Naturally, this all didn't sit well with the free-state men and abolitionists, who came to Kansas in increasing numbers from New England and states across the Midwest. They had been reminded of the inherent hypocrisy found in the US Constitution, all men are created equal, and wanted to do something about it. Most of them came to stay and live, not vote and go back home. The free-state men promptly declared they would not follow any laws from the Bogus Legislature. They also went about arming themselves and cooking up schemes to form their own competing free-state government. The situation nearly came to outright war in late November of 1855, when Sheriff Samuel Jones gathered an army of ruffians outside Lawrence threatening to burn it down. Fortunately, Governor Shannon quickly lost his nerve and forbade the attack. This so-called Wakarusa War ended with negotiations and no fighting. The proslavery, or Law-and-Order men as they called themselves, returned to their homes on the other side of the border.

This all seemed to be a bit of a fuss over the maybe one hundred and fifty slaves in the territory. What kind of state Kansas would become though had national implications. A free Kansas would presumably add two antislavery senators and upset the balance of power held in place since 1820. Such a tilt in Congress could mean antislavery policies and laws. A Kansas with slavery would buttress the institution for the near future and allow it to spread. No matter which way Kansas went, half of the country would be distressed about it.

The peace was enforced by Mother Nature. The full force of the winter of 1855 hit in the last week of December and took most of the inhabitants of the new Kansas Territory by surprise. All outside activity ceased when temperatures plunged to twenty below zero and the snow was measured in feet. Settlers and townspeople huddled around their fires and stoves and wondered what in the blazes had happened. Life on the frontier was expected to be hard, but not like this.

I extend a special thanks to Robin Kern and Janette Kenny for their helpful thoughts and editorial comments. Noted historian Tim Rues also deserves recognition for several ideas and anecdotes.

Northeastern Kansas Territory

1

The Hunt

For Hiram Lockwood, the political situation made life quite uneasy. He had left a broken home in St. Louis nine months ago and had quite an adventure down the Santa Fe Trail. Earning his spurs, the famous Russell, Majors, and Waddell firm hired him on as a stage conductor. Operating out of Leavenworth City, his stage made three runs to Lawrence each week. Hiram had no potent feelings about slavery even though he was from Missouri. He certainly did not care for the methods of the proslavery men, who had beaten him severely, mistaking him for an accursed abolitionist. All in all, Hiram just wanted to be left alone to earn his way. He was having a hard time straddling the fence, as they say; just about everyone he met asked him about his allegiance. Hiram had been mostly clever in avoiding the issue, but fewer men were willing to let the matter slide so much anymore.

The Leavenworth House was a noted free-state establishment owned by Uncle George H. Keller, where Hiram found lodging. With a virtual boycott by the proslavery men, Mr. Keller had given him a bargain rate for his food and board. Like most all hotels, there were no sources of heat in the rooms. Folks simply used the beds for sleep and spent all other times out and about conducting their daily business. Hiram had two good blankets and his fine greatcoat for the nights but spent his waking hours in the dining room or the tavern with the men huddling around the iron stoves. The Farmer's Almanac had proved useless for forecasting this winter, but it briefly added some heat to the room. The women congregated in the parlor and the sitting room with the fireplaces. They were thus spared the tobacco smoke and generally foul habits of the men. In the entry parlor, the assorted ladies gave the room such a thick perfume bouquet one could have hung his hat on it. A slightly out-of-tune piano rested against a wall in the sitting room, almost constantly in use. Sometimes it was by an accomplished player, but often it was someone obviously just learning the instrument. Children concocted games that required the young'uns to scamper throughout the hotel howling like Indians. Their annoying activity was nearly constant and only subsided at meals and bedtime.

Hiram would normally be away conducting the stage to Lawrence, but the bitter cold and snow were far too dangerous for man and beast. It was the coldest winter in local memory. The surface of the Missouri River had frozen two feet thick. The Atchison newspaper, the Squatter Sovereign, said the ice was so thick that a large heavily loaded wagon pulled by six yokes of oxen and a six-mule team passed by each other in the center of the river.

The howling prairie winds made the cold feel twice as bad and froze any exposed skin in moments. Draft animals would surely injure themselves on the ice and maybe even get frostbite in their lungs. Men certainly made dashes to their favorite tavern, but they were endangering life and limb. Two men had drunkenly died in the snow this winter already, and a handful more lost a toe or two to frostbite. There was nothing else to do except ride it out and hope the food and liquor supplies held.

A year ago, Hiram Lockwood could be called lazy and shiftless with a fair amount of justification. His father had used his connections at the Boatman's Savings Institution in St. Louis to land him an apprenticeship. The job of new accounts clerk was about as low as one could be without being on the janitorial staff. Hiram found no joy or satisfaction in that. Instead of shuffling paper, his mind went to the tales of his childhood hero, the great Daniel Boone. He had read every book and penny press novel about the man and came to the Kansas Territory for the promise of excitement and to make a little money on the way. The first year found plenty of the former and adequate amounts of the latter. In addition, Hiram had quickly earned the respect of his employers through his hard work and dedication to the job.

But being snowbound wasn't making any money. Worse, listening to the same stories over and over while sitting idly by the stove was soon bereft of any entertainment value. He practiced his knots with his piece of rope while other men whittled sticks, neither making anything of use. The only other option was to drink, smoke, and gamble. Frankly, it all was quite torture now. He needed to get up and go out to get the blood flowing through his limbs and brain.

A strange fellow named Steinhardt huddled close to the stove and shivered. He looked to be about nineteen, Hiram's age, but was painfully thin. Almost sickly looking. His clothes were worn thin, but they were clean and barely tattered. His brogan shoes, though, looked in fine shape and the heavy wool socks thick and warm. This Steinhardt fellow also worked for Russell, Majors, and Waddell, but Hiram did not know in what capacity. He was just as unemployed and idle with the winter in full swing and was probably as poor as Job's turkey. Whiskey, gambling, and other vices would do that.

Steinhardt caught Hiram looking him over and called out to him.

"Hey, Lockwood. You still have that fancy rifle of yours? I haven't seen you tote it around lately.

His reedy voice sounded annoyed, but the question was not a hostile one. Hiram was indeed in possession of a fine rifle made by the famed gunsmith Horace Dimick of St. Louis. Its .45 caliber bullet was a tad smaller than the .50 caliber version of the more common Hawken rifles, but it had proved adept at dropping buffalo and an Indian or two.

I most certainly still do. Can't fathom a reason to part with it.

Why don't you take it out and find us something to eat? That is unless you ain't tired of the salted beef and pork.

There was a general murmur of agreement as if the huddling masses suddenly thought Hiram had been slacking off all this time. He had pitched in on toting wood on occasion. That wasn't much, but more than what most of these jaspers had been doing around the place.

The idea was enticing, but gusts of wind rattled the loose windows. It was probably a fool's errand, as most of the prairie critters had no doubt gone to ground seeking shelter. On the other hand, there were deer, antelope, and sometimes elk aplenty in normal times. Buffalo were getting thinned out in this eastern part of the territory, but they are still out there in pockets. The furbearers, such as bobcats, minks, raccoons, and foxes, had enough pelt on them to keep active. Their pelts could bring in some money, especially the minks. Maybe the many creeks around here might have a beaver or two. If only the wind would let up, then maybe something would show itself.

A voice rose up from the huddled masses around the great iron stove. Hiram could not tell who spoke.

I can say with certainty that a good cut of fresh meat would go down the gullet quite nicely. My rifle is always at the ready, and I just might do that. Does any of you have a recommendation on where to go?

To the west or northwest, out of town. Careful you don't traipse on Indian land though. The Delaware are having second thoughts about selling their land in these parts. The Kickapoo have a small reservation up against the western boundary of Fort Leavenworth and aren't too friendly, and naturally, any settler wouldn't want you cleaning out the game on their land.

If this wind ever lets up, I will give it a try.

The assorted grunts and moans from the men were a vote of no confidence. It perturbed Hiram greatly as if they thought he would leave this late in the day. He feels obligated to go at the soonest opportunity. He vowed to shame these men come hell or high water. Maybe that was their plan all along.

Supper that evening was just like all the other meals for the past week. Salt pork and beans were the main fare. Leavenworth City had sprung up so fast that there was inadequate planning for the winter, especially one as hard as this. Last year was mild, so the meat butchered in the late autumn was generally salted to last through a temperate winter. Crops that were planted last year were fruitful enough, but there were too few of them planted. Fresh vegetables were long gone, and even potatoes were portioned out sparingly. Everything now until the first spring harvest was root vegetables and a few others preserved in vinegar. Lots of folks seemed to subsist on meat and bread, but Hiram just generally felt better with a more varied diet. At least there were biscuits or corn bread aplenty and a small assortment of chess pies on occasion. There was no actual food shortage. It was just that everyone's diet was plain and monotonous.

That does it. I'm a going hunting. Even if I freeze to death, Hiram told himself.

That evening Hiram went over his gear and made ready for a hunt. He had practically no experience beyond what he had read in the exploits of frontiersmen in cheap novels. While along the Santa Fe Trail last spring and summer he took in his share of game, it's true. But each of those critters he came upon by chance, and they were probably driven toward him by wolves, coyotes, or Indians. He could even claim two buffalo, but they had stood stupidly, waiting to be shot.

A blast of air interrupted his thoughts. A piece of newspaper he had shoved into the rickety window frame had dropped loose, and a jet of cold air and flecks of snow shot into the room. The paper was quickly but back in place and pressed in firmly with the blade of his large camp knife.

Deciding to travel light, Hiram brought out his haversack. He placed extra socks and a handful of lucifer matches into it. He added a half-full canteen with a good snort of whiskey but fully expected it to become frozen and useless. He would roll up and add a blanket in the morning. Hiram owned two fine Colt navy revolvers but didn't see the need to carry all the weight, especially if he shot something big and had to carry it back. He removed the pistols and the cartridge box from his gun belt but, of course, left the knife in place. To save more weight, Hiram removed all but ten rifle rounds from his possibles bag. If he did his job right, he might only use only one or two. Lastly, he wiped down his rifle stock with linseed oil and the metal parts with winter strained oil. The fittings crafted out of German silver and the striped maple stock was beauty complete. The rifle went back into its soft leather case and Hiram to bed.

Awakening at first light, Hiram was not surprised the wind had stopped. It was always like that. Yet as the sun came up, it usually brought with it a blast from the north. No matter, Hiram would at least give it a try. If he came back confounded by the weather, no one could blame him. It wasn't like anyone else had volunteered to join him. Dressed and ready, Hiram loaded his rifle. It was far easier here than it would be with heavy gloves in the field. He hesitated a moment and returned one of the Colt revolvers to the gun belt. He had no idea how it would work in the bitter cold, but it might be handy to have.

Fellow guests caught sight of him as he descended the stairs. Cheers and huzzahs sprung forth as if he was the new emperor of Austria. Waving off the applause with a slight smile, he wolfed down the breakfast of molasses baked beans over biscuits and then stuffed some extra biscuits into his possibles bag.

Anyone else what to come? Last chance, Hiram said sarcastically.

There were no takers. He pulled up the hood of the greatcoat and secured it in place with a scarf tied around the neck. He stepped out the door.

Even without a stiff wind this morning, the cold took his breath away. He had gotten soft sitting in the hotel for weeks. Yet with proper clothing, the cold winter morning was tolerable. If one could forget the inconveniences it had caused, it was a fine sunny morning indeed. Not a cloud in the sky. It was good to see other people out and about too. Most of them were either brushing snow from their doorways or processing firewood. Maybe the animals of the prairie would be out and about too.

He made his way to Cherokee Street and followed it to the edge of town and beyond. The Kansas Territory was a beautiful one, especially when seen while protected from the weather that seemed to be constantly assaulting it. On this day, heavy snows covered the land. The rolling prairie looked like a vast sea. The whitened trees along the creeks beckoned with the shelter they provided.

The buckskin greatcoat with its wool lining proved to be too much. It was made for sitting atop a stage and not for walking about so. He began to sweat, and that was not good. Hiram unbuttoned the garment down to his gun belt and pulled back the hood. The scarf was used to protect his ears. He knew if he stopped for any length of time, though, he would need to button up. The mercury was certainly still in the single digits and was nothing to fool with.

Three Mile Creek was the first obvious place to look for signs of game. It ran straight west from town. Some folks figured it was named thus for being three miles in length. The name came from its mouth being three miles from the flagpole up in Fort Leavenworth. There were some deer tracks, but even to the untrained eye, they looked old. Blowing snow had nearly filled them in. There were also tracks made by men, mules, and wagons. These were newer, and the wood chips and fallen branches made it obvious someone had been collecting firewood. No deer and few other critters would put up with such a commotion.

Deer are most active at dawn and dusk, and even Hiram knew that. Perhaps, though, with the forsaken weather, they would be driven to lope about in the daytime. The rut was still ongoing, but in decline, so maybe the bucks at least were more active and less cautious than usual. They lose an enormous amount of body weight in the post-rut, and a buck will feed to catch up on the weight and energy he has lost.

Hiram cursed himself momentarily. For the sake of weight, he left behind his watch and compass. He thought both would be handy now. If he ventured too far, he reckoned he could just go straight east and find the Missouri River, then head south back to Leavenworth City. He had to scale the ridgeline ahead of him anyway, and surely he would be able to see the smoke rising from the city.

The rise up was not particularly steep, and the summit was no more than one hundred feet. Normally it would be simply a stretch of the legs. Not so today. With a foot or more of snow, there was no way to cover ground quickly, and the trees and underbrush hindered movement too. Quite often Hiram got tangled up in briars and tripped over deadfalls. It was slow going. There were signs of deer scraping on the trees, but they too were old. The bucks had shorn off their antler skin weeks ago.

Hiram was no experienced hunter and was trusting solely on his luck and marksmanship. The simple reason he trusted his luck so was that any brown animal is simply so much easier to spot against the white background than at any other time of the year. Tracking is easy too as footprints are obvious. Following a blood trail would be child's play. Even the tiniest drops of blood stick out like a sore thumb on the white background of snow. Even if he found nothing to shoot at, it was beautiful out here with the hoarfrost in the trees and a welcome change to the hotel.

Hiram used a great deal of energy making his way up to the crest of the ridgeline. Just when he was about to reach the summit, he heard a deep grunt up above. It might be a deer or not. His inexperienced ears could not tell. The rifle remained in its case, with the strap over the shoulder, as he needed both hands to get to the top. When he finally reached level ground, he found a surprise, but it was not a deer.

You! Hold it right there and don't cry out. Turn around slow. The voice was low and deep, and only just loud enough to be heard.

Whitetail deer follow a somewhat predictable cycle of activities throughout the day, and skilled hunters will learn the pattern and find a strategic place to hide. Hiram had stumbled upon this man doing just that and surely ruined his hunt for a time.

Hiram did as he was told. It took him a moment, but he saw the source of the voice in the woods. The grunting too. A man was sitting on a stump with a rifle pointed right at him. He had a white bedsheet draped over him that made him nearly invisible. Hiram tried to sound confident and harmless.

Hold fire. I'm not hostile.

You might not be, but I surely am. I've been lying in wait for hours, then you stumble up and scare everything away. I should shoot you dead right now.

Well, if you do that it would drive all the game away for days. Besides, I'm not good eating.

The man found no humor in the discussion and changed the subject slightly.

Got anything to eat on you?

Couple of biscuits. Baked up this morning.

Let's have them and then you vamoose.

Hiram retrieved them from the bag and tossed one to the man and then the other. It occurred to him he could well have withdrawn his revolver and fired while the man's gaze was on the soaring savories. Hiram was in no mood to add to his list of fatalities and understood the hunter's efforts went to naught for the day. He would be perturbed too, if in his place.

Sorry, there's no speckled gravy with those. I shall depart the way I came with apologies.

The hunter lowered and placed his rifle across his lap and eagerly ate the first biscuit. As Hiram began to retrace his steps, the man called for him to halt. It was a friendly voice now but seemed wrong.

That's a fine coat you are wearing. That rifle of yours is all cased up and must be a fine one too. Too bad you ain't ready to fire it.

Hiram spun about with his revolver drawn. The eyes of the man showed shock and surprise. He had not noticed the Colt navy. It was a big mistake, especially since his rifle was still lying on his lap.

That they are, and I mean to keep them. Keep your hands free of that rifle.

Can I finish this other biscuit before you shoot me?

This man seemed unbalanced and may have a trick up his sleeve. It was risky to have a long conversation with him.

"I'm heading down this hill, as agreed. Don't take my good nature and generosity as a weakness. If you make any hostile motions in my general direction, I will shoot you down. Comprende, amigo?"

Using short Spanish phrases like that told most people in these parts that the speaker had been back and forth on the Santa Fe Trail and was not one to be trifled with. The hostile hunter used his left hand and slowly lowered his rifle to the ground, and then kept both arms raised until Hiram was out of sight. As for Hiram, once he was below the summit, he holstered his revolver and quickly uncased his rifle. He looked back over his shoulder countless times as he made his way down the hill, using the trees for cover. No shots were fired, and he made his tracks northward along the foot of the line of hills.

It occurred to him that the huntsman on the hill didn't ask how he stood on the issue of slavery. That was probably the first encounter in almost a year in which the subject was not broached.

Some gnawed down bushes caught Hiram's attention, and there were hundreds of pellets scattered in small piles across the snow. Hiram wasn't sure but figured there were rabbits about. His rifle would easily kill one, but there wouldn't be much left to eat unless he was lucky enough to get a head shot. With all the noise he was making plowing through the two feet of snow, the little varmints heard him long ago and skedaddled.

About a mile later he came to a foot of a broad hill, which was somewhat rocky and did not have the thick trees and underbrush the previous one did. As there was no other way to go but back, Hiram scaled it and looked beyond. He didn't know the names yet, but he was on Government Hill overlooking the Salt Creek Valley. In the distance, he could spot the smoke rising from the scattered homesteads to the northwest. Towards the east, there were a handful of Indian wickiups and teepees, probably belonging to the Kickapoo tribe. There was a ridgeline to the east hiding Fort Leavenworth from view, but smoke rose from chimneys.

A flash of movement below caught his eye. Two deer! Two of them bounding through the field of snow below with their white tails flashing warning. They abruptly stopped, though, the vapors shooting forth from their mouths in unison. They could be simply catching their breath or perhaps sensed his presence. Hiram could not tell, and there were too many branches in the way to show whether they were bucks or does. Does were the better eating in the winter. At this time of year, bucks could be lean and stringy.²

Hiram pulled off his right glove and lined up the shot. The wind had not appreciably increased, so there was little to compensate for. From this angle and height, he could hope for a double-lung shot, the most merciful. With luck, the bullet would not careen off a branch along the way. Makers of the Dimick rifle equipped them with a double-set trigger for greater accuracy. Hiram pulled the rear trigger with a click. The front trigger was now a hair trigger, needing only the lightest touch. He focused on his breathing and shut out all other thoughts and distractions. Slight pressure on the trigger produced the desired result. The hammer fell forward, striking the percussion firing cap, igniting the powder. The patched ball flew across the one hundred and twenty yards to the target. One deer dropped in its tracks. It stayed down. The other bounded away to the west.

Hiram couldn't help himself and whooped at his success. He quickly reloaded his rifle and made his way down the far side of the hill toward his prize. It was a fine doe. A big one. The shot was placed well, but not perfect. The trick now was to gut and then cart it back over the hill and all the way to Leavenworth City. Hiram rolled the animal onto its back and into position to get to the gruesome task at hand. He wasn't expecting to see what he found.

An arrow!

An Indian had shot this deer in the rump. By the look of it, it was a fresh wound and certainly was no kill shot. There was a good chance the doe could have pulled it out on her own and live to tell all her deer friends about it. A look back down her trail showed four Indians in the distance tracking her. They stopped when they saw Hiram and readied their bows. They were just less than a hundred yards away but well out of range. Yet Hiram knew they could stalk him at will, and the chances of him hauling over one hundred pounds of venison over the hill fending off an Indian attack may not end well. Besides all that, it occurred to him that he might actually be on the Kickapoo Reservation. He saw no markers saying either way.

People of the Kickapoo tribe were relative newcomers to the Kansas Territory, arriving after the Treaty of Castor Hill in 1832. Kickapoo comes from their word Kiwigapawa, which roughly translates to wanderer. The tribe had moved several times under pressure from competing Indian tribes and encroaching settlers, starting from southern Michigan and Ohio, across Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa. The national government allocated land in southern Missouri and then in the Kansas Territory, where it was thought they could remain indefinitely. Two years ago, the Kansas-Nebraska Act opened up white settlement out here and ended that notion. Since then, the Kickapoo ceded over six hundred thousand acres of land to the United States government and now retained one hundred and fifty thousand acres. Fiercely independent, many Kickapoo people fled to Mexico rather than submit to the United States. The days of the Kickapoo tribe were certainly on the wane. Those remaining nearby clung to Fort Leavenworth for protection or settled in the reservation some forty miles to the northwest. There was talk of rounding up those left in the territory and removing them to the Indian Territory.³

There were dozens of languages and dialects of the plains tribes and Hiram didn't speak a lick of Kickapoo. Fortunately, he was familiar with some Indian customs he learned along the Santa Fe Trail. Indians rarely knew the observance of shaking hands and certainly didn't practice it amongst themselves. Smiling as a gesture of friendliness seemed improper and ridiculous to them. Raising the right hand with the palm forward was a gesture used out on the prairie and it might work here. The word hoe, spoken in concert, might be the right one or not.⁴ Hiram cradled his rifle in his left arm.

With his right hand open and raised, he then beckoned the four warriors forward. They chatted amongst themselves using a combination of spoken words and hand gestures. Eventually, they closed the distance. Their arrows were notched, but they held the weapons to their sides. They could still fire quickly if they wanted to.

The four braves stopped about twenty yards away. None spoke but eyed Hiram up and down. To them, he must have looked like a grizzled old mountain man. The Indians were scrutinized in return. These four Kickapoo were no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. They wore a combination of buckskin and buffalo skins for warmth. None wore feathers, but each had a respectable knife. Hiram couldn't tell if they were afraid of him or just nervous. Either way, one could suddenly decide to let fly with an arrow. The Colt revolver was probably the only thing keeping the peace, and it was still in its holster.

Hiram pointed at the arrow protruding from the deer and then to each brave. The intent was to identify who made the shot. The message was understood, and the tallest took a step forward and proudly hit his chest with his fist.

I figure none of you speak English, but I will say it, anyway. You hit this deer first, but I killed it. There is more meat here than I can carry. Give me the two haunches there and you can have the rest.

The Indian lads yammered amongst themselves in their singsong Algonquian language. Three seemed in agreement with whatever scheme they were cooking up. The holdout was eventually and begrudgingly persuaded. The boy who made the shot was in full agreement, at least. Hiram clasped his gun belt buckle. The revolver was just inches away.

"We agree, waapeskinenia."

Jolted, Hiram asked, Do you speak English?

No, he said firmly.

The tallest motioned for Hiram to stay put and kept his eyes on him, while the other three drew their iron knives and went to work. The back legs were soon skinned and detached at the hips. Indians naturally wanted a complete pelt, and Hiram was only interested in the meat, anyway. He was happy too that he didn't have to gut the animal. When finished, the young braves left the large hunks of meat in the snow and wordlessly carried off the carcass toward their village. They didn't even look back.

Hiram pondered what had just happened. No doubt the Kickapoo could use the meat and hide but didn't feel the need to fight over it. Times must be good for them. But sharing a kill like that would bring no distinction for any of the young braves. On the other hand, the hotel guests would probably hail Hiram as a hero for bringing in meat. Yet the luster would fade quickly when learned he shared it with the Indians. The big loser was the doe.

With the rifle cased and slung over his back, Hiram tied the two deer haunches together at the feet, threw them over his shoulder, and trudged back up the hill. There was well over sixty pounds of whitetail, but it felt twice that. He could see Leavenworth City out in the distance, at about three miles. An easy trek in fit weather. It would take some effort with all the snow. Fairly certain there were no Indians looking for his scalp, he found a sheltered draw to catch his breath. After clearing some snow, he made a fire to warm his boots and change his socks. He kept the flame small but hot enough to cleanly burn the wood as the Indians did. No need to attract attention. It was a fine opportunity for cooking up a chuck of venison and to polish off the two remaining biscuits. The fire melted enough water in the canteen to get a good drink of water. Hiram couldn't remember enjoying a meal as wonderful as that before.

*****

Striking the direct route back to town avoided the belligerent hunter on the hill. Well, if he took a shot at this distance, it would be a lucky hit. About a quarter-mile out, he removed the rifle from its case. Firing it would make