The Other Side of Lincoln. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

and now roamed the area striking, killing, raping the white eyes. The Indians must be here to rest with the wounded. Russell kicked softly with his good leg out into the river remaining low to the branch, careful to avoid any sighting by the savages.

      Any sound and they will get me, he thought. I’d rather drown than die at the hands of the Cheyenne. The Cheyenne was a most hostile bunch of redskins, who had a deep-seated hatred for the whites, and broken treaties of the past. Gabe had seen and heard of the Indian method for dealing with captives. Cruel savages utilizing the most outrageous forms of mutilation before you die. Cutting off body parts and feed them to their cur dogs. Burying a person up to the neck and leaving them to bleed to death or die from exposure. They won’t get another shot at me he thought. This river is a better savior and pathway to heaven...just take a deep breath and sinks to the bottom let out the air and takes in a gulp of water. You’d be dead before you reached the top...only seconds and little misery.

      The movement of the water picked up...there seemed to be a droning hum below him...it grew louder and then his worst fears were realized. He was being sucked into the draft of a waterfall. He was sick, tired and knew that he was now too far into it to escape...just try to get away from this limb...maybe he could free fall and hit on his ass... “Nooooo, he screamed as he was swallowed by the roaring convergence between the huge boulders and the cliffs up either side of the river and thrust down through the churning froth into the river below.

      Morning came and Russell found himself entwined and a part of brush that had washed up on the bank of a small sand bar in the middle of the river. Dear God he thought...this can’t be heaven, I’m freezing and my entire body is hurting as though someone has beaten me with a battering ram. Then he remembered the falls, the terrifying freefall that he would have loved at twelve years of age... and then he heard something magic...a whistle, perhaps a bird of the west that he had never before seen or heard...another of the wonderful discoveries of the west... but this whistle had a human face. He looked out from the sandbar...there it was near the riverbank...a woman. She whistled again and called out to her dog... “Come here Rags...here Rags...that’s my good boy.”

      “Thank you sweet Jesus.” Russell said as he cleared himself from the bank and began to peddle against the most outrageous pain he had ever felt. Not just the knee, but his entire body and most especially his right hip. He was no more than 100 feet from the bank when he started to shout. The water was swift, only a few moments before it would sweep past her and any hope for him to be saved. “Please help me...help, help!” Russell shouted again and again.

      No proclivity to withdraw into the illusion and the myth, wholly propagated by the fairer sex of a man unwilling to ask for help.

      He could see that the woman had heard him...he began to thrash in the water...went under taking water in gulps...he recovered now only twenty feet from the bank coming up quickly. He could see the woman dropping her dress and petty coats and calling to the dog pointing to the river...she jumped in as well as the dog. In what seemed an eternity the dog reached Russell. The dog’s mongrel face and head reached out to Russell...he remembered the fear of the coyotes, and getting into the river for protection against them...but the big dog with the fearsome head licked him.

      The woman was there next to him...she had his arm, calling the dog she placed Russell’s sleeve in the dog’s mouth.

      “Go Rags...she commanded.” As she dog peddled with all the strength of his large body, the woman remained next to Russell holding him afloat while pushing him toward the riverbank. “Good boy Rags...atta boy Rags.” She urged the dog to the shore.

      Thank God Russell thought...big dog...with his angel.

      “I’m badly hurt ma’am!” was all Russell was able to get out before he gave way to the pain...his body knew that he was unable to stand it so it had shut him down.

      Miracle of miracles the woman and the dog, Rags, tugged and pulled getting Russell to the riverbank, and then up onto the ground. Fortunate that Russell wasn’t a big man or they no doubt would have failed...and perhaps in the effort lost their lives as well.

      He was soaked, he was bone cold and it was obvious that he had a severe knee wound at the least. Gunshot she knew as she cut away the trouser leg then removed the flimsy wrapping...she could see the infection along with several leaches which had attached themselves to the wound area. No doubt these critters saved his life she thought...along with the moving water.

      First, she would have to get him out of the soaked uniform and into something dry and warm. She decided that she could not risk a fire in fear of a return visit by the Cheyenne. The warmth of the dry clothing, the blankets...her own warmth and that of the big dog Rags would have to be enough.

      It had been two days since the Indians had attacked the settlers being escorted by the Calvary unit. She had remembered seeing this man alongside others who had fought valiantly when the Cheyenne ambushed from the trees along the river. She had watched in anger and horror as the settlers, soldiers and her family were killed one by one...out there in the open...like fish in a barrel.

      They had sent flaming arrows into the canvass top of the family wagon after first shooting and killing her husband...and then the two girls jumped from the wagon trying to escape the flames and the heat.

      She could remember vividly the Indians jumping on the team of horses, trying to release the wagon tongue...she searched for her children with her eyes, and then instinctively somehow shot both Indians. The horses had run off in the frantic battle trying to avoid the noise from the guns and the fire and smoke from burning wagon tarpaulins.

      During this period she had slammed her head against the wagon and was knocked unconscious. When she awoke...the wagon was setting here by the river. Smoldering from the fire but intact. She did not know how far the horses had run until they nearly ran into the river, nor did she know how long she had laid unconscious but it was dark and she calculated by the location of the moon that it had been some ten hours since the attack.

      Now, twenty-four hours later, she continued to weep, moan, and rock and pray for her children. She was certain that her husband had been mortally wounded...she had seen him as he was shot and watched helplessly as he fell between the traces of the team of horses. Why had she not jumped from the wagon with the girls she continued to ask herself...and then she remembered in a split second she had become entangled...her dress, somehow caught in the teeth of the hand brake. She had struggled and finally got the petticoat lining released as the Indians jumped the horses. Phil’s rifle lay on the seat...dropped there when he was shot...she remembered the blood...so much blood on the Stanley repeater...the gun he was so proud of and valued as a prize possession. The gun she remembered that he had said would tame the west.

      Were it not for Rags and now this heroic young soldier diverting her mind from the thought of the loss of her children she surely would have used the gun to tame her personal torment over the tragic loss of her darling...her precious...her beautiful daughters.

      Russell stirred in the back of the wagon, once again speaking out loudly... inaudible remarks...the fever had raged in him now for the third day. Somehow she had been able to get his clothes exchanged with those of her deceased husbands and had managed to get him into the wagon. She was terrified at moving him but she also knew that if she did not get him to a doctor he would surely die from the wound and the infection.

      She had been driving the team for hours and seemed confident that she had made steady progress and surely was nearing the Kansas border.

      “Whoa boys...whoa now...she called out to the horses as she leaned back in the wagon seat pulling the reigns with her. The six-horse team yielded, welcoming the opportunity to rest. Rags jumped from the seat and ran barking at the lead pair as if to say... “Don’t you hear my lady calling to you...don’t you know to stop.” And, now, they had indeed.

      She climbed into the bed of the wagon...sat at Russell’s head. She cooled it with a wet towel and tried to force some water between his swollen and cracked lips. The fever did not seem any worse but certainly no better. As

      She stroked his brow she said ...don’t worry Phil...I mean sir; whoever you are...we