“Right,” Toad said.
We climbed aboard the wagon and headed west. I had never driven a wagon before, but I made a tolerable job of it. Beside me, Toad whistled nervously. “Let’s sing a song,” he suggested.
“Let’s not,” I said. And so we drove in silence, with our hearts in our mouths.
They got lost.
Their own trail from the day before should have been easy enough to follow, but large stretches of the plains were as flat and featureless as any ocean, and they lost their way several times.
They expected to reach the plains camp before noon, but instead finally found the camp in late afternoon. They loaded the wagon with the remaining ten wooden crates of fossils, which weighed about a thousand pounds in all, plus some final supplies and Johnson’s photographic equipment. He was pleased they had come back, for among the fossils they now packed was of course the box with the X, containing the precious Brontosaurus teeth. “Couldn’t go home without these,” he said.
But by the time they were ready to head back, it was after four o’clock, and growing dark.
They were pretty sure they could never find their way to Cow Island in darkness. That meant they would have to spend the night on the plains—and in another day, the advancing Sioux might come upon them. They were debating just what to do when they heard the savage, bloodcurdling cries of Indians.
“Oh my God,” Toad said.
A dust cloud, stirred up by many riders, appeared on the eastern horizon. It was coming toward them.
They scrambled aboard the wagon. Toad broke out the rifles and loaded them.
“How much ammunition have we got?” Johnson asked.
“Not enough,” Toad said. His hands were shaking, dropping shells.
The whooping grew louder. They could see a single rider, hunched low in the saddle, pursued by a dozen others. But they heard no gunshots.
“Maybe they don’t have any guns,” Toad said hopefully. At that moment, the first arrow whistled past them. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Which way?” Johnson said.
“Any way! Away from them!”
Johnson whipped up the team, and the horses responded with unaccustomed enthusiasm. The wagon rumbled forward at frightening speed, bouncing and tossing over the prairie, the cargo creaking and sliding around in the bed. In the growing darkness, they headed west, away from the Missouri River, away from Cow Island, away from Cope, away from safety.
The Indians closed in on them. The solitary rider drew abreast of their wagon, and they saw it was Little Wind. He was soaked in sweat; his horse lathered. Little Wind came very close to the wagon and gracefully leapt aboard. He smacked his pony, and set it racing to the north.
Several Indians chased it, but the main party continued in pursuit of the wagon.
“Damn Sioux! Damn, damn Sioux!” Little Wind shouted, grabbing a rifle. More arrows streaked through the air. Little Wind and Toad fired at the pursuing Indians. Glancing over his shoulder, Johnson estimated there were a dozen warriors, perhaps more.
The riders came closer, and easily surrounded the wagon on three sides. Toad and Little Wind fired at them, and both hit one at virtually the same time, blasting him backwards off his horse. Another veered closer until Toad took careful aim and fired; the Sioux warrior clutched his eye, slumped forward, arms limp, then toppled sideways off his horse.
One Indian managed to climb aboard the wagon, as Little Wind had done. He was swinging his tomahawk over Johnson when Little Wind shot him in the mouth. In the same instant that the blade cut across Johnson’s upper lip, the warrior’s face burst red and he fell back, off the wagon, and was lost in the dust.
Johnson grabbed his bleeding face, but there was no time for horror; Little Wind turned to him. “Where you drive? Go south!”
“South is the badlands!” It was already quite dark; it would be suicide to enter the abrupt cliffs and gullies of the badlands at night.
“Go south!”
“We’ll die if we go south!”
“We die anyway! Go south!”
And then Johnson realized what he was being told. Their only hope, a slim hope, was to head where the Indians would not follow. He whipped the team, and the wagon plunged southward, toward the badlands.
A mile of open prairie stretched ahead of them, and the Indians again surrounded them on all sides, whooping and shouting. An arrow seared Johnson’s leg, pinning his trouser leg to the wooden wagon seat, but he felt no pain and drove on. It was darker and darker; their guns glowed brightly with each discharge. The Indians, recognizing their plan, pursued them with greater intensity.
Soon Johnson could make out the eroded dark line of the badlands at the edge of the prairie. The flat plains just seemed to drop away into black nothingness. They were approaching at frightful speed.
“Hold on, boys!” he shouted, and without reining his horses, the wagon plunged over the lip, into darkness.
Badlands
Silence, under a waning moon.
Water trickled over his face, onto his lips. He opened his eyes and saw Little Wind leaning close. Johnson raised his head.
The wagon sat upright. The horses snorted softly. They were at the base of dark cliffs, looming high.
Johnson felt a pinching in his leg. He tried to move.
“Stay,” Little Wind said. His voice was tight.
“Is something wro—”
“Stay,” he repeated. He put down his canteen and held out another. “Drink.”
Johnson sipped, sputtered, coughed. The whiskey burned his throat, and some splashed on the slash above his lip, making that burn, too.
“Drink more,” Little Wind said. He was cutting the cloth of Johnson’s trouser leg with a knife. Johnson started to look.
“No look,” Little Wind said, but it was too late.
The arrow had pierced the flesh of his right leg, passing under the skin, pinning him to the seat. The flesh around the wound was puffed and purple and ugly.
Johnson felt a wave of dizziness and nausea. Little Wind grabbed him. “Wait. Drink.”
Johnson took a big drink. The dizziness returned.
“I fix,” Little Wind said, bent over Johnson’s leg. “No look.”
Johnson stared at the sky, at the moon. Thin clouds drifted past. He felt the whiskey.
“What about Toad?”
“Stay now. No look.”
“Is Toad all right?”
“No worry now.”
“Where is he? Let me talk to him!”
“You feel hurting now,” Little Wind said, his body tensing. There was a whacking sound, and Johnson felt a pain so sharp he screamed, his voice echoing off the dark cliffs. Immediately he felt a searing, burning pain that was worse; he could not scream; he gasped for breath.
Little Wind held the arrow up, bloody in the moonlight.
“Finish now. I finish.”
Johnson started to get up, but Little Wind pushed him back. He gave him the arrow. “You keep.” Johnson felt warm blood pouring from the open wound; Little Wind bandaged it with a strip of cloth cut from his bandana.
“Good. Good now.”
Johnson pushed up, felt pain as he stood, but it was bearable; he was all right. “Where’s Toad?”