~Thomas Shining Turtle~

The Past
Oregon Territory
1886

The train rattled and rocked on the flimsy rails that had been spread across the countryside, the engine on the lead chuffing and banging as it sent cinders and bits of ash flying into the air behind it. In the rough coaches being pulled by the engine, armed soldiers in roughspun Union blue watched over sullen prisoners. The air was full of odors, mostly of unwashed bodies and the after effects of woodsmoke, as well as animosity. All the faces glaring at the guards were sharply defined Indian faces, men, women, and children, all chained, shackled, and eager to escape.

It was to the White Man's detriment that none of the soldiers could differentiate tribal differences. For the most part, these prisoners were of the nations of the Southwest, Apache, Navajo, and Chiracahuas. But no small number of them were from other parts of the abundant North American countryside. Nez Perce, Paiute, Yakima, Shoshone, Crowe, Blackfoot, even several branches of the Sioux nations were evident, although they all honored an unspoken agreement not to advertise the differences, since the soldiers would have taken these facts as invitations to provoke fights or mete out corporal judgement for their own greedy reasons.

The train was supposedly carrying followers of the Apache uprising, those that had agreed to wreak havok for Geronimo against the long noses. The group was being transported to a prison in far off Florida, a place so alien to them that the descriptions from the guards struck them as children's tales. There was no way they could believe what these people told them, and so chose to ignore it until they saw for certain. In reality, the prisoners were simply those gathered from wherever they could be found, and thrown on the train to be paraded out during the trip east. While public opinion was hardly in favor of the Indian Nations, the whites had managed to outlast the People, and a war of attrition had been a lost cause in the face of not just the sheer numbers of the Union forces, but the fact that the People had to overcome several centuries of conflict within their society before they could present a serious threat. Especially when their resources were cut out from under them as swiftly as they had been.

Their immortal companion had been captured while on a journey of what passed for diplomacy among the Nations, trying to rally differing tribes to a single cause. Unfortunately he had noted only limited success, especially with some tribes, like the Pawnee, chosing to side with the Whites for monetary gain. Realizing that he knew little of the plans of these invaders, he had chosen to go along with the imprisonment. (Of course, knowing that the profiteers were just as likely to cut Indian bodies up for trophies had managed to have a small say in his decision.) Once satisfied that he knew the worst of the whites' plans, the Shoshone had spent most of his journey working methodically at the locks on the manacles that linked him not just to the fittings of the car, but also to the others. For some reason, the whites believed that tying them together would be a serious detriment. If he could loosen a couple of the connection points, he would prove to them just how strong their numbers could be.

Not that he harbored any illusions about his survival potentials. The officers carried sabers, and an Indian head was just as good a trophy for display as a live Indian. He needed to be careful here. Of course, if he could get his hands on one of those sabers...

The train shook and banged as it decelerated. This usually meant that they were approaching a station, and would be released to be hauled out and shown off before they were fed and allowed to stretch their legs. With luck..

The lock assembly clicked open, and he managed to catch the suddenly loosened cuff in his hand before it could strike the wooden floor. As the train ground it's way to a halt, he began to quietly take up the slack in the chain, waiting for his chance. If only the guards were trusting and non-attentive...

The chance came as the guards began rousting them. One stepped close and lashed at the next man in line with a knotted quirt. The Shoshone simply reached out and wrapped the chain around the guard's neck, then yanked back sharply. As the links bit into his throat, the other guard in the car fumbled for his weapon. Unfortunately, the would be assassin was thwarted by the sudden mad howling press of the prisoners. By the time the first guard had been throttled, the others had managed to disarm and kill the second, although not in as neat a manner.

Men with certain death looming over them can move with remarkable speed, and this group proved better than the standard. By the time the few items belonging to the guards were distributed, the shackles had been removed from all, and the escape had begun in earnest. With two rifles, an equal number of sabers, and the few items they could wrench from the coach's fixtures, they knew instinctively to stick to speed and stealth. Too many soldiers rode the train, but a town could mean confusion.

The two doors of the coach were thrown open, and the group of prisoners escaped by whichever they considered the closest means of egress. So fast was their movement that they had all exited the coach before a cry was made from the guards. The cry was cut short by a swift response from an Apache that had claimed one of the rifles, and he proved far better with the strange longarm than the soldier that had supposedly trained with it. He was already attempting to reload the rifle with the limited ammunition supply when the soldier struck the ground, having fallen from the roof of a coach.

Townspeople were gathering to bear witness to the bravery of their military, but their pride and bravado were nothing compared to the energy of the indians as they ran for what passed for wilderness. A lesson that had been hard learned over the ages by hunters was that a shock and ruckus on the run can be as effective as loosed weapons, and a variety of warcries rang out from bronzed throats. The Shoshone joined in with a chorus of yipping cries, then flinched as a shot flashed past his ear. Time to spread more confusion, he decided. Spinning the length of chain that he carried in a tight circle, he pressed off in a slightly different direction, scaring a group of elderly women as he ran, his arms and legs pumping smoothly under the rough prison issue.

He found himself on a street, and grinned as he considered the possibilities. The whites had never been given to real work, and they eased their ways and pampered their women as no one else. Sure enough, several of their wagons and carriages were there, still hitched to the animal teams. Shouting an inarticulate yell, he leaped into the seat of the nearest carriage, and shouted flicked the chain at the backsides of the two horses pulling it. For some reason, it hadn't been tied up yet, and the horses took off at an easy gait. He managed to drop the chain and find the reins, and the citizens of the town were honored with the spectacle of the seemingly crazed indian pressing one of their carriages through the street at breakneck speed, screaming and calling as he did.

The Shoshone knew in his heart that he should go back and collect his fellow prisoners, but the carriage would be slowed too much by extra bodies and uneven ground. Better to leave a trail for a while, then cut the horses loose and use those to make better ground for a while. Confusion would give his compatriots a better chance...

His reverie was cut short by the sudden realization of a voice behind him. Not just behind him, but from the carriage. A woman's voice. He risked a glance behind, and saw the reason the carriage hadn't been tied up. Riding with him, albeit against her will, was a woman, her hair flying in the breeze, and a look of determination on her face.

The Shoshone considered briefly, then pressed the horses some more. He would reason with her later, so long as she didn't attempt to attack him. Certainly, she could appreciate that.

He hoped.

To be continued..

__________________
"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.