Cottonwood Grove

JULY 18, 1868

AT THE GROVE

IN THE PRE-DAWN quiet, three slim Shoshone boys, their braids tightly fixed, hunting knives at their sides, slid from their dappled ponies to the dusty ground by the trees. They stood together, facing east, a row of cottonwood trees behind them. The cottonwood grove was a propitious place to begin their day of hunting. Water, always scarce, especially in a time of drought, flowed freely from the spring near the place where these cottonwood trees chose to grow. This little clump marked the nearest water source to the path the buffalo took between their spring and summer grazing places.

As the sun glided upward in a clear blue sky noting the start of day, each boy offered a clump of sweetgrass to the cardinal directions to bless the new day and their hunt. Their untethered ponies pawed the ground, waiting impatiently to run the buffalo.

Still a year away from initiation as warriors, the boys had slipped out of camp with their knives and bows and arrows, in secret, to prove their value to the tribe. As they prayed, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the cottonwood trees. Their ponies whinnied. The boys sensed danger but before they could react, bullets flew at them from the rocky mound just above the cottonwood stand.

Bullets pinged stones, thudded into trees, splayed the ground, and tore apart the dreams and hopes of the three Shoshone boys. The noise of the attack sent the ponies skittering backwards, but the sturdy mounts did not run until the strange men approached, smoking rifles in hand. Only then did the ponies wheel around and pound away. The loyal little ponies ran so quickly that the tall blue-jacketed white men knew it was futile to give chase. One of them, in a half-hearted attempt to catch them, ran the few steps to the trees from the rocks to try to circle around the little dappled ponies, but they were mere specks on the far horizon before he finished making the circle.

“Damn!” swore the man who had given chase. A sergeant, he was the leader of the blue-coated marksmen. “They’re too fast for us to catch on Army nags. But, catchin’ them sure woulda made this day worthwhile.”

One of the other two men wandered over to the dead boys. “Nuthin’ much here,” he muttered. “These knives aren’t bad.” He reached down and grabbed each boy’s hunting knife. All three of them took a knife, sharing the deed, sharing the booty. The sergeant’s patrol report for that day didn’t even mention the incident. He accounted for the expended ammunition as “target practice.”

Back at the fort, many of their fellow soldiers admired their new hunting knives with decorated handles.

“Where dija get those?” they were asked over and over again. Each man gave the same answer every time. Knowing that the knives would attract attention, they had agreed upon a common, consistent answer on the ride back to the camp.

“We met some Shoshone boys on the trail and won them from them.”

No one questioned their answer.

AT THE CAMP

WHEN THE THREE TIRED ponies finally ambled back into the Shoshone camp without their young riders, worried braves followed their trail back to the stand of cottonwood trees. Their mothers followed. The wails of the bereft mothers echoed their way into the wind. Their tears and the water from the spring dampened the earth enough to allow the braves to dig three graves, narrow trenches. They buried the three boys in those trenches and tamped down the earth over the graves so animals would not dig up the bodies. The mothers walked home without their sons, with narrow trenches in their hearts.

After a few weeks, wild grass and flowers began to grow over the place where the boys’ bodies rested. Rain washed away bullets left on the ground, carrying them to and fro in the little rivulets that rain makes on dry ground. Over months, bark grew over nicked places in the trees. In a few years, the wind had worn smooth any pings and scratches on the rocks. But the stain of the deed remained deep within the earth, deeper still in the hearts of the Shoshone people.

JOAN LEOTTA

Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer. She writes in many genres but is especially fond of sharing short stories, poems, and essays. Her work has been showcased in a variety of journals ranging from St. Anthony Messenger to Betty Fedora, Mystery Tribune, Overmydeadbody.com, and Kings River Life. Her essays have appeared in the Italian American, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Sasee, skirt, and Eastern Iowa Review among others.

On stage, she presents tales of food, family and strong women and has several one woman shows, including one on Narcissa Prentiss Whitman, one on the Civil War spy, Belle Boyd, and a story that deals with George Washington’s youth that is not based on a real person. She loves history, researching and collecting stories, both folk and real.

When she is not playing with words on page or stage, she can be found walking the beach, daydreaming and collecting seashells.

“Cottonwood Grove” is Joan’s first short story to be featured in Saddlebag Dispatches.