The sun was just barely starting to peak over the eastern horizon as Hank Wells readied himself for the day. He’d been getting up at 4:30 every morning his entire life without any trouble. That’s the way it was when you lived and worked on a cattle ranch. There were always chores to be done and the earlier he started, the more he could accomplish. The only difference in the day was where on his family’s 50,000 acre ranch those chores took him.
The Wells Ranch was shaped rather like a rectangle running east to west, but was taller than it was wide. Roughly two-third’s of the acreage was devoted to grazing pastures for their 300 head of cattle. It had been considerably more until the area’s worst winter on record took out nearly 1,000 head a few years back. That winter had brought hardship for the Wells family in many ways, but Hank rarely allowed himself to think about it. They still had the land and that was the family legacy.
The ranch land was surrounded by the Cabrillo Buttes on the north, as well as ranches to the east and south. The western edge of the Wells Ranch bumped up against the Shoshone Indian reservation. Although they hadn’t ever had a problem with any members of the Shoshone tribe that lived there, Hank and his family were keen to keep it that way so rarely ventured to that side of the ranch. In fact, the Wells’ used the forested area as a sort of barrier. The forest ran north and south roughly 2 miles in from the reservation-meets-ranch border. It was a beautiful area, complete with a wide, low-running river that meandered in and out of the trees.
Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to that part of the ranch, yet today, that was exactly where his chores would take him. The fence line beyond the forest, the fence line that helped keep folks off his family’s property, and the cattle on it, hadn’t been tended to since that really bad winter so it was bound to need repair. Just because he and his family didn’t venture beyond the forest much, didn’t mean the cattle didn’t. Some of the other ranch hands would occasionally find a stray heifer and calf that far away, enjoying the cool river water as it flowed in and out of the shadows of the pine trees, across parts of the pasture and back again.
Hank strode out to the barn where he was greeted by a friendly neigh from Jack, his faithful American Paint Horse. Hank raised Jack from a foal and the two were tight as thieves. Jack was always ready for whatever Hank had in store for them. The more time on the prairie, the better as far as Jack was concerned. He stood stock still as Hank put the pad and then saddle on him, then bit and reigns, and, perhaps most importantly, Hank’s trusty rifle. As they headed west toward the far side of the ranch, little did either of them realize just how dangerous that adventure might become.
By the time they reached the forest’s edge, it was past dark. Hank found a dry, flat area where they could rest for the night. First, he built a fire to keep the chilly night air at bay. Then, after unsaddling Jack and tethering him to a tree nearby, he lay out his bed roll using the saddle as his pillow, and fell into a deep sleep.
A little while later, Jack started getting restless. Something was causing him to whinny and stomp restlessly in the direct where he was tethered. Hank woke with a start and sat up to listen. He shushed Jack so he could listen more closely. Hank thought he heard something in the distance. He listened more intently. It was a still, quiet night so any sounds were likely to travel a long way, but he couldn’t be sure if what he heard was close or far.
Making hardly any noise, Hank stood up and walked toward the edge of the light from the campfire. Peering into the dark night, and into the deep darkness of the forest ahead, Hank strained to hear. What was that? An axe chopping wood? No. That wasn’t it. It was a drum. He took a few more steps forward and Jack shuffled in the dirt again. Hank assured Jack that everything was fine and stepped even farther into the darkness. There it was again … the sound of someone beating a drum.
Hank vaguely recalled his father saying that the closest encampment on the Indian reservation was about 5 miles from the edge of their ranch. The drum he heard was considerably closer. In fact, it sounded like it was no more than a mile away. It sounded like it was coming from the far edge of the forest. Hank thought for a minute. He’d never met an Indian in person, although his father and grandfather had told him many stories about less-than-friendly encounters they had over the years. Hank turned back and looked at Jack as if to say, “What do you think we should do?” Jack nodded his head and pawed the ground a couple of times. He was ready to carry Hank to the drum sounds.
Hank saddled Jack up, put out the campfire and, as quietly as they could, the pair made their way to the sound of the drums. The sun was just starting to rise behind them and, in doing so, helped Hank feel more confident. He was much preferred facing unknown situations in the daylight. They felt easier to handle when he could see clearly what was ahead of him.
It took about 15 minutes to quietly and carefully make their way through the densest part of the forest near where they had camped. The sound of the drum had stopped and started several times, repeating the same pattern each time. As their got closer, they could start to make out a voice singing. A woman’s voice. It had a haunting tone to it. About 50 yards ahead, Hank could start to make out a figure in the clearing. He and Jack continued to amble toward the figure and soon Hank was able to see exactly who had been drumming and singing the plaintive song. There, kneeling in the clearing, was a beautiful Indian girl. She looked to be no more than 12 or 14 years old and was holding a small drum in her left hand while tapping out the mournful sound with her right. She was staring off into the distance as though she was looking for someone or something.
As Hank climbed down off Jack’s back, the young woman stopped her drumming and looked slowly toward him. She had jet-black hair that hung across the right side of her face, but Hank could see her eyes were swollen from the tears that ran down her dust-covered cheek. She wore what appeared to be a tanned animal hide dress with fringe around the edges of the sleeves and beautiful beadwork around the neck. She barely nodded at Hank and turned her attention back to whatever held her attention to the west. As she returned to her drumming and singing, Hank and Jack moved a few steps closer, then stopped.
He dropped Jack’s reigns and moved forward to kneel next to the woman. He had no idea if she would understand what he was going to say, but he tried anyway.
“You’re a long way from home. Why did you come here?”
The young woman stopped her singing and drumming and looked at Hank. She spoke so softly that Hank almost didn’t hear her. She moved back the hair that was covering the right side of her face and exposed a still-bleeding slash that ran from her ear across her cheek. “The elders told me I had to marry one of the old men in our tribe because his wife couldn’t have babies. I said no and tried to run away. They caught me and did this to show other men I’m not worthy. I snuck away in the night and came here.”
Stunned that she spoke English, it took Hank a second to gather his thoughts again. “Did you know you aren’t on the reservation?” “It is peaceful here. That is why I came,” she said.
Hank asked her how long she’d been there. He didn’t see any food or blankets around and no evidence of a campfire. He knew how cold the nights got this time of year.
“A few days.”
“We need to get you to a doctor. He can sew that up so it doesn’t get infected. Jack and I will take you, okay?” Hank looked over his shoulder and Jack immediately walked forward. The young woman started to resist saying she didn’t want to be a burden and that she wasn’t worth it. Hank insisted, though, and soon had her on Jack’s back. Hank climbed up behind and set off as fast as possible toward town.
As they rode, Hank introduced himself and learned her name was Little White Flower. She had three brothers and one sister. Her sister had been married off when she was about Little While Flower’s age and had been unhappy ever since. As they rode, Hank couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to her after the doctor took are of her wounds.
It took about an hour of hard riding to get to the little town of Hankins. Hankins was nestled in between the Wells Ranch and the ranch to the south. It boasted nothing more than a saloon, a hotel, a doctor and a general store, but all Hank cared about was finding Doc Winters.
The doctor heard Hank yelling his name from the street and stepped out onto the sidewalk. As the trio rode up, Doc Winters ran forward and helped the young girl down. Hank explained what had happened as Doc rushed her inside. After a few minutes, Doc turned to Hank and said he could stitch up her wounds and she’d be fine. He wasn’t so sure about her mental state, though.
Hank stepped outside while Doc Winters took care of his newest patient. Soon, they both came out to join him. Doc outlined instructions for making sure Little White Flower’s wound healed properly, then took Hank aside. “You know, she can’t go back to the reservation and she’s too young to live on her own. What if you took her home with you? I bet your mom would be grateful for another pair of hands around the place.”
“Oh, Doc, I don’t know.”
“Well, why not, Hank?” Doc said, “She’s just a young girl that needs a family. People that will genuinely care for her no matter what. You know your mother always wanted a girl.” Doc winked slyly at Hank.
Hank turned to Little White Flower. “Well, what do you think? Since you can’t go back to your family, wanna come live with mine? I guess I wouldn’t mind having a little sister.”
Little White Flower and Hank grinned at each.
Outside, Jack could sense that he’d have more weight on his back going home. Still, he knew it wouldn’t be a heavy load at all.
By Lisa Shrefler, Original Publication Date: September 2018