A Duty to Justice

A Duty to Justice

William Dodge smelled the ripe homesteader before he rode his horse around the sod hut. He lay spread eagle in the roasting sun of a July Nebraska afternoon. Actually, he couldn’t see a corpse. Instead, a writhing, buzzing mass of black flies blanketed a man shaped body. Nothing showed: not fabric, boot, hair or flesh. He grimly guessed the fly layer might be an inch deep. The result of imagining the flies laying eggs in the nutritious mound caught him by surprise. As a U.S. Marshal, he hadn’t puked at a death scene for a decade. Most of his spew had missed, but he wanted to wash what remained off the side of his horse, saddle, and self.

Dismounting by the well, he was relieved to see only a few spots needed cleaning. Searching inside the dimly lit sod hut, he found a small dish towel on the dry sink. Taking the towel and walking toward the door, his boot kicked something on the shadowed dirt floor. It sounded like pottery.

Squatting and twisting to see the hard packed surface better, he found several large pieces of a smashed clay jar. Just under the small wood burning kitchen stove, his eye caught a glint. No, there was more than one object reflecting the light coming through the open door. From under the stove and table, he gathered three nickels and a dime. The Pawnee didn’t steal money, and no arrow shafts poked out of the mound of flies. That was all the evidence he needed. His marshal’s report would conclude the settler was murdered by a thieving white man.

He hoisted a filled bucket from the well and dipped the dish towel into the cool water. His arm halted just before he gave his horse, Dandy, a swipe. That cool towel would feel so good on his face and neck. Indeed, it was bliss. Taking his broad brimmed tan hat off, he hooked it over the saddle pommel. Dunking the towel a second time, he squeezed it over his head and smiled at the chill running through his shaggy, light brown hair. Sadly, the cool relief lasted only for seconds. Plunging the towel again, he rubbed the sodden cloth over the spots of filth on his saddle and down a streak on Dandy’s shoulder. While he cleaned, he realized that he still had a mystery. Was there a family?

It would be better if the dead guy’s murder was due to the Pawnee. Indian raiders usually kidnapped a wife and children. That’d mean they were still alive, and he could rescue them.

White men, on the other hand, wouldn’t do that. Well, they might kidnap them for a while. Have a little fun with the females. But eventually, depending on how evil the outlaws were, they’d abandon or outright kill their victims. If he were going to save them, in either case, time was of the essence.

Before chasing down the killer, he looked around the homestead for evidence of what had taken place. There were no horses in the three-sided shelter. Probably stolen too.

In the sod hut, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Was there a dress or bonnet hanging on a peg? No, but perhaps a wife kept her clothes in a trunk. You always had to contend with mice and snakes in sod huts. Had he seen any dolls or wooden toys? No, but a second smaller bed set against the back wall. Both were the typical grass stuffed mattresses on rope laced bed frames. Was that a trunk in the dark corner? Yes. A stirring of the contents revealed only a few pieces of apparel: a man’s and maybe an eight to ten year-year-old boy’s dungarees and patterned shirts. One woolen dress, darned socks, and some knit sweaters.

Would a single killer kidnap a mother and child? Not likely. They’d be crying and trying to escape at every step. It wouldn’t make sense. He should look for more bodies. Then again, what if two or more villains had been here?

Rummaging to the bottom of the trunk, his fingertips touched a soft leather book. A Bible? Once pulled out, he saw it was a document case tied with a leather lace to keep it closed. It contained a few handwritten bills of sale for items such as a quarter-horse, wheat seed, a plow, and more. The only printed paper was the deed to the homestead. All with Frank Lambert as the buyer. Another mystery solved.

Back in the saddle, he circled the sod hut. He should see hoof prints in the bare dirt or trampled prairie grass. The more horses creating a trail for him to follow, the better. Ah, there it was. Maybe two or three horses. The Indians would have stolen all the horses too. Well, either way, bandits or Pawnee, he’d follow their trail. A few spur strikes and Dandy was galloping along, eating up the ground.

A couple of miles later, he slowed his weary horse for a resting walk. Dandy might need to carry him a long distance in pursuit of their quarry. May be he shouldn’t chase this group? If he followed one or two white men, sure, he’d done that many times. What if he chased an Indian raiding party? A band of warriors may number a lot more men than three. As a lone tracker, either type of group could ambush him. Riding to Hastings and rounding up a posse sounded like the safest idea. Then again, assembling a posse could take a day or so. By then, the hostages could be dead. No, he had to risk going solo. At least the breeze was from the same general direction that he was going: northwest. His horse would nicker if it caught the other horses’ scents.

As the scorching afternoon passed, they galloped less. His sweat soaked cotton shirt clung to his torso. Perspiration burned his eyes, and dust covered his face like the pancake powder women wore. Extracting his pocket watch from his vest, it read ten minutes past six. Studying the distance in all directions, he hoped to see a cooking fire’s smoke column marring the cloudless blue sky. Nothing. Wait. Was that a hazy, green smudge on the western edge of the world? Yes! From Dodge’s eager kick of spurs, his sluggish horse leapt in surprise. Surging into a run, Dandy raced across the grassland. That distant tree line meant water and shade. It also meant a potential ambush.

Running from a crime, both Indians and outlaws would watch for pursuit. They’d probably spotted him hours ago. On this prairie, ancient creeks often cut deep ravines into the thick soil. Such a gulch would hide and protect his attackers, while making him an easy bull’s eye for their turkey shoot.

With a mile to go, he turned Dandy diagonally to the right and raced upstream. From north to south, cottonwood tree tops poked out of the shaded gully. The slope might be cliff like. He couldn’t risk leaping his horse over the edge. Reining Dandy to a sudden stop, he yanked his rifle from the saddle holster and ran across the turf. At the rim, he belly flopped and peered over the edge. Pointing his rifle downstream, he waited. He didn’t smell campfire smoke. No sounds of people shouting or shooting. Most important was what he heard: an orchestra of songbirds. No one downstream was scaring them into silence.

With relief and caution, he descended into the cottonwood tree grove, waded across the ankle deep creek, and ascended a gentle slope up the far side. As he climbed, the tops of a dozen teepees appeared. His gut clenched, and he didn’t take the next step. After a second of hesitation, he continued up the embankment. Scouts with arrows ready to fly in his direction must be watching. If he tried to run, he’d instantly resemble a tailor’s pin cushion.

Once he’d scaled the bank enough to see above the rim grass, he halted. He couldn’t force another step. Looking right at him from a hundred feet away, fifteen Pawnee warriors stood in a line waiting quietly to welcome him. Three more were on horseback at the south end of the line in case he fled their hospitality.

Noise down in the ravine caused him to pivot for a look behind. As he watched, a young man rode Dandy up the ravine slope and passed by him heading for the line of warriors.

Since they hadn’t killed him, maybe they weren’t connected to his group of murderers. Considered a peaceful tribe, many Pawnee worked as scouts for the US Calvary. Could he dare to hope for their assistance with his hunt? Maybe he could even hope they’d feed him. He hadn’t eaten anything since puking his breakfast.

***

Marshall Dodge knew his irritation with his hosts was unwarranted. Of course, the village would find him an exciting oddity. Located as he was near the center of the encampment, Dodge sat cross-legged in the shade of the chief’s teepee. Fascinated Pawnee eyes openly studied his clothing, boots, and body parts.

A loud hiss came from behind him. Flashing a look over his shoulder, a group of three adolescent boys laughed as they dashed around the teepee out of sight. Of the two warriors standing guard by the chief’s teepee, one was frowning and shaking a spear at the fleeing juveniles. The other looked at Dodge. The brave pointed to a fur covered bag hanging from his neck, and then touched his own hairless upper lip. He smiled and pointed to Dodge’s face.

Was the man saying his horseshoe mustache looked like fur? It wouldn’t be good to show annoyance, so smiling, he nodded.

A sudden insight amused him. Were those youngsters attempting to count coup on him? If they could have touched him, it would have embarrassed his guards. Would that have counted coup against them too? Now that was funny.

Turning back around, he resumed watching the women prepare their contributions for the communal evening meal. Most chopped and mixed foods next to other dwellings. Pots boiled and ovens baked. They focused completely on their tasks. Well, not completely. Occasionally, he’d notice a woman stop, stand up, and watch the other women. Were they competing? He hoped so. They still hadn’t fed him.

Once a cook approached another and interrupted her work. They talked while staring unashamedly at him. He stared back, but it didn’t faze them. They continued starring at him with periodic fits of giggles.

It was puzzling. This village acted as if seeing a white man was a rare event. Maybe it was, but how could that be? It worried him. If this group avoided whites, what importance did they put on that avoidance? Now that he knew of them, what might they do about it? Did they fear he’d tell other whites their location? Perhaps hate filled men would massacre the village? Dodge knew it wouldn’t be the first time such bloodshed had occurred.

A sound drew him to the teepee. As he looked, the chief threw aside the buffalo hide covering the door and stepped out. Relief flooded him. The chief wore a ceremonial outfit. Tonight would be for honoring their guest and not something more lethal.

A guard tapped him on the back with the butt of a spear. Stiff joints protested as Dodge stood and followed the chief to the fire ring.

In minutes, he sat cross-legged in a place of honor beside the chief. Perhaps a hundred people sat upon the grass in a crowd that ringed a small fire within a much larger fire ring. Six mounds of dry cottonwood branches waited behind the people. These were evidence that a big dance was in store after dinner.

It took him a while. If the chief hadn’t blocked his view, he’d have noticed the woman and boy sooner. They were sitting on the other side of the chief. It was likely a place of honor, too.

From glimpses past the chief, he could tell they were not from this village. Both still wore the clothes they'd put on yesterday morning at the sod hut. His fists clenched. His last view revealed bruises on both of their faces. Someone had split her lip, and it was now puffy. Which of these savages had brutalized them? He must find out immediately.

"May I speak?"

Young women serving food froze. Conversations around the little campfire halted and everyone stared at him. Dodge could guess at their thoughts. What baffling thing was this strange man doing? He pointed to his chest and then pointed to the white woman. He performed the pantomime again, adding two fingers from his right hand, walking from himself toward her.

"They don't know English," said the kidnapped woman. "But I will ask if we may sit by you." She then spoke loudly to the tribe.

He felt shocked. How did she know their language? After a brief word from the chief, she and her son came to him.

Once seated, he could see he'd jumped to a conclusion. "Are you Pawnee?"

"Yes, but this isn't my village. I'm going home tomorrow."

"How? They kidnapped you from your homestead, right?"

"What?" She appeared confused. "No, of course not. I came here seeking help."

"Do you know your husband is dead?"

Her eyes dropped to her lap. "Yes."

"I'm looking for his killer. Did you see who did it?"

Her eyes darted to her son. What the blazes? Why did she do that? “Tell me what happened."

"My husband was a good man, but he had a hot temper. When angry, he'd become a charging buffalo. Lately, Frank Jr. sassed him something terrible. He'd hit the boy so hard over and over. I'd think he was going to kill him. I'd hit Frank on his back with my fists until he stopped raging."

She jumped when he laid his hand on her forearm. "What happened yesterday?"

Despite the daylight still shining bright, the evening campfire light showed tears glistening on her cheeks. "Yesterday he didn't stop. Not even after he'd knocked Frankie out. I had to do something, or he'd have killed our son."

Dodge gently squeezed her arm.

She took in a deep, shaky breath. "I saw the axe by the woodpile." She stopped talking and stared into her lap again.

"You need to come with me back to Hastings."

"No! Why can't you just let us go home?" Her eyes searched his face.

Dodge was confused. "Go home? Back to your sod hut?"

"That's not my home anymore. We will return to my village. Never will we mix with whites again."

"I'm a U.S. Marshal. I have a duty to enforce justice in this state. What’s your name?”

“Yana.”

“Yana Lambert, I’m arresting you for the murder of your husband, Frank Lambert."

"No!" Frankie jumped up and tried to push Marshal Dodge from a cross-legged position onto his back.

Shock among the Pawnee, brought a stop to all of their conversations. The boy’s aggression confused the tribe. Most of them watched, while a few of the warriors rose to their feet.

It was easy for Dodge to control the boy’s push, spin his body so he could pull the boy's back into his own chest, pinning him in a bear-hug.

"I did it". I did it!"

Yana pleaded, "No, Frankie. Say nothing."

Seeing that the boy’s mother took no action to interfere with the marshal, the chief quickly raised his hand to stop his warriors’ advance.

"Enough!" Dodge bear-hugged Frankie hard. "You, Ma'am, let him speak. Frankie, tell me the truth. What happened yesterday?"

"I hit him with the axe. Mama wasn’t moving, but he kept hitting her." His voice trembled as he sobbed the words.

Dodge gentled his tight embrace into a firm hug. The boy probably didn’t notice. “Go on.”

"The axe cut deep into Papa’s back. The blood - there was so much of it. He just laid there. I thought he was dead. I said I was sorry. But he wasn’t dead. He didn’t move but he spoke. He said he was going to kill us both. When he started to move, I hit him again - then again. I chopped him like I did our firewood. I couldn’t stop. I was afraid to stop. I was so scared. Mama, I'm sorry."

Dodge looked at the mother. "I didn't see an axe by the body. What did you do with it?"

"I washed it and put it back by the woodpile. I cleaned us both up and got our money from the jar. What could I do? Where could I go? I’m Pawnee. Frank’s family would take Frankie away from me. The other homesteaders would demand I be hung. There was no place to go except home to my people, to my village."

Dodge felt the shaking sobs of the child he held. Yana’s empty arms hugged herself while she rocked back and forth. Looking around the fire, he saw some of the women crying. None of the tribe knew he’d solved a mystery. None knew a horrific crime’s facts had been revealed by the confessions of the guilty. They only knew a tragedy had befallen this young woman and boy. Their sympathy would be with them, not him. Would the tribe allow him to arrest the boy? Not if Yana begged them for salvation. A hot headed teenage Pawnee brave might see justice in killing a hard hearted lawman.

Where was the path to justice? He was a man of honor and must do his duty, but what was it in this case?

***

The next morning, Marshall Dodge rode out of the village alone. It felt right and just to him, but who else among his society would agree? All the way to Hastings, he discussed with Dandy how he should write up his marshal’s report.