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Travelling in the coach was as comfortable as it got back then for white folks, thanks to the leather strings suspension which absorbed most of the bumps of the hardly marked road and which gave the whole cabin a steady, gentle rocking motion.

Climbing aboard first, Miss Suzie had taken a seat facing into the driving direction and motioned me to sit next to her. The judge had then pleaded with Mr. Beauchamp to climb aboard first. Of course he didn’t do this out of courtesy but only to sit knee to knee with me for the following days. I warded off all his conversation attempts and hid as best as I could behind my fan, sticking my nose out of the window as far as good manners allowed.

With awkward silence descending onto the cabin, I could hear quite a bit of the conversation on the coach box. The driver wasn’t much of a talker but Fred, the young lad sitting shotgun, was all the more. I remember how he commented on how empty and desolate the prairie looked. The driver just grunted that this was why we were racing as fast as possible through this land.

“And because of them Injuns, I guess”, Fred mused, adding that he wondered if there were really Indians in this area since we hadn’t seen a single soul for hours.

“Not as goddamn many as there used to be but still more than enough. This whole country’s still infested with them Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Sioux, you name it”, he spat out.

“How can anyone live here at all…?”, Fred wondered. “It’s really little more than a desert, isn’t it? Not a single tree to be seen…”

“This used to be an Injun trail. Them redskins travelled here for trade and whatnot I’ve been told”, the driver grunted. “See all these tree stumps by the river?”

“Oh yeah… what’s that about?”, inquired Fred.

“Those were cottonwood groves. They lined most of the Platte River and the tributaries. Them Injuns camped between those trees in winter and had their ponies eat the bark to survive the cold months. They also used them for firewood, but not much, they mostly heat with buffalo chips, you know?”, the driver suddenly got talkative.

“How do you know all that?”

“Old time trapper told me. Them redskins have been wintering in these groves for generations. I saw them in the early summer of ’59 when I first made the trip to Denver. Real little forests, all thick and green, and rich green pastures around them. A year later the trees were all gone, chopped down by the emigrant trains. And where these pastures had been, it was all just this mess of trampled mud that you see now.”

“Wow, that was fast, I guess”

“Yep. Like overnight, I can tell ya. Now we have these ranches and stations every 12 miles or so for foraging. I hope you’ve brought your own food along. They charge ungodly prices at the stations for some really bad food which you have to force down in five minutes while they’re changing horses…”, the driver chuckled. “Isn’t that so, Mr. O’Brian?”

“That’s not for me…”, croaked the Irishman from the roof of the cabin where he had made himself comfortable between the suitcases, his horse meanwhile trotting behind the coach. “I collect buffalo tongues on the way. They know me at the Ranches and will gladly swap a nicely roasted one for two raw ones, which is fine with me, as I get the tongues for the price of a bullet each…”

“Won’t the shooting attract Injuns…?”, Fred inquired hesitantly.

“Bring ‘em on!”, the Irishman cried. “If you know how to handle a gun and keep your cool, that’s splendid bisnis! They pay twenny bucks for an Injun scalp, easily! And as them redskins usually carry ‘round more than just their hair… you know, weapons, clothes, ornaments and such, maybe even a pony or two if you’re lucky… lemme tell ya, Boy, killing yourself an Injun can earn you as much money as half a year or even a full year of hard, honest work, ye unnerstand? . There’s a lot of demand, and as long as there’s any supply, I’m sartn’ly gonna stay in the Injun killin’ bisnis!”

“I reckon it’s pretty dangerous, though…?”, Fred asked.

“Sure, no risk, no gain! You jist gotta make sure you’re one step ahead of ‘em Redskins. “A week ago I killed one pretty close to where we’re jist now.”

“Really?” Fred was audibly impressed.

“Yup, young Cheyenne buck, was a’huntin alone. I baited that one with a big chunk of tobacco, cos, you gotta know, them noble redskins are all freeloaders, they call it “presents”, but it’s really jist beggin’, them stinkin’ savages are all proud an’ arrogant an' all, but when it comes to the good stuff they’re never above beggin’, so, when he took it out of ma hand and was all grinning I gave him a bullet into the puss, ya know, BAM, clean shot, point blank!”

“Wow…”

“Yeah, that was a pretty easy one, but why not. Better kill’em young before they start rutting with them Squaws and make papooses, right? And I can tell ya, that one would definitely have been in the papoose bisnis, ya know, that one was a fine lookin buck, handsome face, I mean before the bullet. And a big Injun he was, sartn’ly a six footer, long limbs, ya know, them Cheyennes are real tall redskins, often taller than white folks… I didn’t bother to peel the leggings from 'im but I took some other pieces… have ye seen the beaded buckskin the nigger woman is wearing? I harvested that here!”, he said with audible pride.

With a sudden feeling of nausea I looked at my fingers wandering across the intricate beadwork on the cuffs of my oh so fashionable, brand new buckskin jacket. For a moment I imagined they belonged to another person, the person who had made all that painstaking beadwork. Somewhere out there this woman was probably crying her eyes out at this very moment because her sweetheart wasn’t coming home. I felt both sick and sad and sorry for this woman I had never seen. But then I started wondering if I was even better off than this poor unknown Squaw. She had loved and been loved. And she was free. I had never had the luxury of either love or freedom. These people around me certainly considered Indians less than human, a thing I was painfully accustomed to, but at least they didn’t consider them someone’s property…

I covered my eyes and buried my nose into the soft buckskin of my sleeve. The scent was … pleasant… soothing. It felt both cool and soft, like a gentle caress. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the Cheyenne “buck” who had worn this…

_________________

Poser Pro 2014 - Vue 2014 (never shove two downscaled volumetric clouds into each other for dust and let the sun shine through it at the camera - this took 130 hours to render, LOL)

Duster by FreyaStrongart! fav.me/d8baosx

__________________

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Description

Travelling in the coach was as comfortable as it got back then for white folks, thanks to the leather strings suspension which absorbed most of the bumps of the hardly marked road and which gave the whole cabin a steady, gentle rocking motion.

Climbing aboard first, Miss Suzie had taken a seat facing into the driving direction and motioned me to sit next to her. The judge had then pleaded with Mr. Beauchamp to climb aboard first. Of course he didn’t do this out of courtesy but only to sit knee to knee with me for the following days. I warded off all his conversation attempts and hid as best as I could behind my fan, sticking my nose out of the window as far as good manners allowed.

With awkward silence descending onto the cabin, I could hear quite a bit of the conversation on the coach box. The driver wasn’t much of a talker but Fred, the young lad sitting shotgun, was all the more. I remember how he commented on how empty and desolate the prairie looked. The driver just grunted that this was why we were racing as fast as possible through this land.

“And because of them Injuns, I guess”, Fred mused, adding that he wondered if there were really Indians in this area since we hadn’t seen a single soul for hours.

“Not as goddamn many as there used to be but still more than enough. This whole country’s still infested with them Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Sioux, you name it”, he spat out.

“How can anyone live here at all…?”, Fred wondered. “It’s really little more than a desert, isn’t it? Not a single tree to be seen…”

“This used to be an Injun trail. Them redskins travelled here for trade and whatnot I’ve been told”, the driver grunted. “See all these tree stumps by the river?”

“Oh yeah… what’s that about?”, inquired Fred.

“Those were cottonwood groves. They lined most of the Platte River and the tributaries. Them Injuns camped between those trees in winter and had their ponies eat the bark to survive the cold months. They also used them for firewood, but not much, they mostly heat with buffalo chips, you know?”, the driver suddenly got talkative.

“How do you know all that?”

“Old time trapper told me. Them redskins have been wintering in these groves for generations. I saw them in the early summer of ’59 when I first made the trip to Denver. Real little forests, all thick and green, and rich green pastures around them. A year later the trees were all gone, chopped down by the emigrant trains. And where these pastures had been, it was all just this mess of trampled mud that you see now.”

“Wow, that was fast, I guess”

“Yep. Like overnight, I can tell ya. Now we have these ranches and stations every 12 miles or so for foraging. I hope you’ve brought your own food along. They charge ungodly prices at the stations for some really bad food which you have to force down in five minutes while they’re changing horses…”, the driver chuckled. “Isn’t that so, Mr. O’Brian?”

“That’s not for me…”, croaked the Irishman from the roof of the cabin where he had made himself comfortable between the suitcases, his horse meanwhile trotting behind the coach. “I collect buffalo tongues on the way. They know me at the Ranches and will gladly swap a nicely roasted one for two raw ones, which is fine with me, as I get the tongues for the price of a bullet each…”

“Won’t the shooting attract Injuns…?”, Fred inquired hesitantly.

“Bring ‘em on!”, the Irishman cried. “If you know how to handle a gun and keep your cool, that’s splendid bisnis! They pay twenny bucks for an Injun scalp, easily! And as them redskins usually carry ‘round more than just their hair… you know, weapons, clothes, ornaments and such, maybe even a pony or two if you’re lucky… lemme tell ya, Boy, killing yourself an Injun can earn you as much money as half a year or even a full year of hard, honest work, ye unnerstand? . There’s a lot of demand, and as long as there’s any supply, I’m sartn’ly gonna stay in the Injun killin’ bisnis!”

“I reckon it’s pretty dangerous, though…?”, Fred asked.

“Sure, no risk, no gain! You jist gotta make sure you’re one step ahead of ‘em Redskins. “A week ago I killed one pretty close to where we’re jist now.”

“Really?” Fred was audibly impressed.

“Yup, young Cheyenne buck, was a’huntin alone. I baited that one with a big chunk of tobacco, cos, you gotta know, them noble redskins are all freeloaders, they call it “presents”, but it’s really jist beggin’, them stinkin’ savages are all proud an’ arrogant an' all, but when it comes to the good stuff they’re never above beggin’, so, when he took it out of ma hand and was all grinning I gave him a bullet into the puss, ya know, BAM, clean shot, point blank!”

“Wow…”

“Yeah, that was a pretty easy one, but why not. Better kill’em young before they start rutting with them Squaws and make papooses, right? And I can tell ya, that one would definitely have been in the papoose bisnis, ya know, that one was a fine lookin buck, handsome face, I mean before the bullet. And a big Injun he was, sartn’ly a six footer, long limbs, ya know, them Cheyennes are real tall redskins, often taller than white folks… I didn’t bother to peel the leggings from 'im but I took some other pieces… have ye seen the beaded buckskin the nigger woman is wearing? I harvested that here!”, he said with audible pride.

With a sudden feeling of nausea I looked at my fingers wandering across the intricate beadwork on the cuffs of my oh so fashionable, brand new buckskin jacket. For a moment I imagined they belonged to another person, the person who had made all that painstaking beadwork. Somewhere out there this woman was probably crying her eyes out at this very moment because her sweetheart wasn’t coming home. I felt both sick and sad and sorry for this woman I had never seen. But then I started wondering if I was even better off than this poor unknown Squaw. She had loved and been loved. And she was free. I had never had the luxury of either love or freedom. These people around me certainly considered Indians less than human, a thing I was painfully accustomed to, but at least they didn’t consider them someone’s property…

I covered my eyes and buried my nose into the soft buckskin of my sleeve. The scent was … pleasant… soothing. It felt both cool and soft, like a gentle caress. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the Cheyenne “buck” who had worn this…

_________________

Poser Pro 2014 - Vue 2014 (never shove two downscaled volumetric clouds into each other for dust and let the sun shine through it at the camera - this took 130 hours to render, LOL)

Duster by FreyaStrongart! fav.me/d8baosx

__________________

Previous page: fav.me/da06m0o
Story start: fav.me/d9yz2vm

Next page: