Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (11 page)

July Barstow was exhausted, ill, and growing more despondent by the day. Though it had been just over a month since her abduction, it seemed a lifetime had passed. Any hope that she might be rescued and freed of her misery had vanished in the aftermath of the bloody victory over the soldiers. She had huddled in one of the teepees, watching over the children as the shooting and shouting were under way, praying that she would be found and taken to safety.

Finally, when the only sounds she heard were the triumphant cries of the warriors, she knew that her last bit of hope had slipped away. When she peeked from the teepee and saw the mutilation of the bodies of the dead soldiers that was under way, she drew the children near and forbade them to leave her side.

And she wondered how much longer the nightmarish routine her life had become would continue. Were it not for the chance that her son might still be anticipating her return, she would have thought seriously about taking her own life.

Once a strong and healthy woman, she had lost weight
and developed a cough that was at times so severe that it took her breath away. Her eyes, once sparkling, were lifeless, her movements the tired shuffle of an old woman.

After a long day of cleaning horse hides, her nostrils were filled with the foul smell of the task as she made her way to a teepee at the canyon's edge. It was the home of a renegade killed during the soldier attack, but she had been told she could now use it as her own. Pleased to no longer be sleeping in the open, she had just shut her eyes when a woman of the tribe appeared.

She was being summoned to the leader's lodge.

As July entered, Kate Two didn't bother to look up. In front of her, spread across a buffalo hide, were small piles of coins and paper money, a few pieces of jewelry, and several handguns. With a small fire casting shadows against the walls, she was taking stock of the items stolen during the recent stagecoach attack.

Finally she raised her head and nodded in July's direction. “There's a satchel over there that belonged to a woman passenger,” she said. “She was about the same body size as you. Perhaps you would like to look through the contents and see if there is something better for you to wear.”

The young woman instinctively ran her hands along the front of her filthy dress. For only a moment did she consider that she would be taking the clothes of the dead before walking over to the bag. There was a faint scent of lilac water as she opened it. Inside were three dresses, each nicer than anything she had ever owned. She selected the plainest, measuring it against her frame, then turned her back. Hurriedly she let the threadbare dress she was wearing fall to the floor and
stepped into the new one. The clean cotton cloth felt soft and cool against her skin.

“Take the others as well,” Kate Two said. “They are of no value to me.”

July was puzzled by the act of kindness. Could it really be nothing more than the fact that this evil and ruthless woman seated before her only wished to have someone near who spoke her language? Was that the reason she had spared her life and ordered the men of the tribe to stay away from her?

“Soon you will be repaying my favors,” Kate Two said. With that she began gathering the items that lay before her, putting them in the empty satchel. “Once this is full, you will learn what I mean.”

As she walked into the moonlit night, July let her eyes wander across the quiet camp, mentally counting the number of teepees that were occupied. In recent days Kate Two's followers had been greatly diminished, first by the losses suffered during the gunfight with the buffalo hunters, then with the soldiers. Several young warriors had simply ridden away in the night, deserting their white leader to join other Comanches roaming the western plains. Only a dozen men remained, hardly enough to mount a major attack. None of which seemed to concern the woman who continued to speak with dead spirits, passing along words of optimism, praise, and promise that their ranks would soon grow tenfold when the long-absent Hawk on the Hill made his triumphant return.

In the meantime they were to follow her command and raid only wagon trains, stagecoaches, and small way stations, taking the white man's money.

Passing a campfire that was nothing more than glowing embers, July tossed the old dress, her last physical connection to her previous life, onto it. The fabric burst into a brief flame that was already dying by the time she disappeared into her teepee. As she tried to sleep, her mind was still filled with questions. What would become of the women and children of the tribe once all the men were gone or captured? How long would it be before their leader put her own bid for freedom into action? And, July could not help wondering, what was to become of her?

•   •   •

As the days passed, Taylor became increasingly doubtful that the Comanches would attempt a raid on Dawson's Ridge. He knew that the small band's numbers had been diminished during the ambush in the canyon, and it was likely their scouts had reported the number of armed defenders waiting in town. Even with the absence of the troops, the settlers far outnumbered the renegades. Still, he made no mention of his feelings, wishing to keep the men of the community prepared.

His role as town marshal had amounted to nothing more than a strong scolding of two young still-tenders who took a jug of whiskey along to their lookout post and got drunk on their watch, and seeing that none of the children strayed from the sight of their mothers.

On Sunday morning he returned from the creek, his hair still wet and combed. Barclay awoke to see his partner putting on the clean shirt that he'd retrieved from the laundry. He sat on the side of his cot, massaging his wounded leg. “Never figured you for one to go to preachin' and hymn singin'.”

“Just curious. And if someone should decide to shoot the
preacher if he goes too long with his sermonizing, I 'spect the marshal might ought to be there to quiet things down.”

Barclay grunted. “If I was one to be guessing, I'd reckon it's more the singin' that's attracted your interest. And should that be the case, I'd offer a bit of advice. I wouldn't be wearin' that hat that's two sizes too big. Trust me, it don't give you a handsome look. When we finally get home I'm gonna purchase you a proper one.”

Taylor didn't immediately respond. When he did, it was to address Barclay's mention of returning home. “The longer we stay here,” he said, “the longer it's gonna be before we see Kansas again. Those Indians ain't coming to do these folks harm.” He waited for Barclay to reply and when none came, he asked, “What is it you think our plan should be?”

“I've been thinkin' on it. Most likely the renegades are still holed up in that canyon for the time being. From there they're going out to attack travelers, most likely to rob them of what money they're carryin'. There's a reason there that I ain't fully figured out. Again I'm guessing, but I 'spect they'll be lookin' to move on to the south or west sometime soon, maybe join up with another band. They do that every year, for religious reasons and courtin' and such.”

“So what we should do?”

“Nothing until I'm back to where I can mount a horse. Shouldn't be too much longer. Till then, I don't want you entertainin' thoughts of giving up your marshal job to head off on your lonesome. Promise me that.”

Taylor nodded. “It's a promise.”

“Then I reckon you'd best be off to get some religion. Could be it might do you some good.”

Reverend Chadway, still wearing his black suit, was
already bathed in sweat, holding his Bible as he paced and preached. There was an almost crazed look in his eyes as he spoke. Aside from those whose turn it was to stand watch, almost everyone in town had turned out to the Social Center service. Taylor entered and took a spot against the back wall.

The preacher's booming voice echoed through the building as he railed about the damnation that awaited disbelievers (“Yea, those who do not see fit to come to the Lord and willfully follow Him are doomed to an afterlife of eternal fire. . . .”), spoke of his journey, which the Heavenly Father had blessed (“We have come far and at great risk to life and limb, but through divine guidance we've arrived here to share the promise of a great day that's coming. . . .”), and of the evils of Satan (“His reach is far and his temptations come in many forms . . . drinking and gambling, whoring and stealing and killing . . . that can drag us down to burn in the flames of hell. . . .”), and of the need to love one another (“We are judged not by our own self-worth but by how we treat those less fortunate. . . .”). No sin was left unmentioned, and every joy for those who sought redemption was mentioned. Finally, as he began to wind down after an hour-long sermon, he announced that a baptism would be held later in the afternoon down at the creek for those who wished to repent and rededicate their lives.

It was his daughter's cue to lead the assembly in “Amazing Grace.” For the first verse most of the townspeople sang along as best they could before falling quiet, content to simply listen to her beautiful voice. By the time she sang “Old Rugged Cross,” Taylor could not take his eyes off her.

While many of the women gathered around Reverend Chadway to compliment him on his sermon, Joy took her
place behind the bar to help serve refreshments. Taylor waited until the crowd had disbursed before approaching.

Joy smiled as he neared, pouring him a glass of honey-sweetened tea. “I'm pleased to see you came to the service, Marshal Taylor.”

“Call me Thad, ma'am. This marshal business is only a temporary thing. I just wanted to stop by and say I don't recall when I ever heard such wonderful singing.”

“I thank you very kindly . . . Thad,” she said. “Though, truth be known, you don't strike me as a man who's heard all that much gospel music. I figure you more for a fiddle and banjo kind of man.”

“And you would disapprove if that's the case?”

“Hardly. I fancy fiddle playing and banjo picking myself.”

•   •   •

Back at the livery, Barclay sat on his cot, slowly exercising his arm and leg. He was still in considerable pain but determined to toss away the crutch and sling as soon as possible.

What he'd not told Taylor was that he'd been spending a great deal of time thinking about where their journey would take them next. He already had a plan. For the near future, he believed, the Comanches would continue to stay in the canyon, venturing out only to raid targets that offered little resistance. The woman leading them was obviously interested in quickly gathering a stake. For what, he wasn't certain. Perhaps so she could finance her own getaway.

If there was to be any chance of rescuing the kidnapped woman, if she was still alive, it would have to be done soon and while the majority of the renegades were away on a raid. In their absence, he and Taylor could make a surprise visit to the encampment and try to steal her away. The plan, he knew,
would likely require a great deal of patient hiding in wait. A few warriors, he guessed, would probably be left behind to guard the camp.

For the plan he had in mind to work, it was likely that more killing would be necessary.

Fall arrived in Dawson's Ridge with a flourish of color and cooler days. Late gardens were being planted, and the turning leaves gave new life to the nearby hillsides. Talk of a possible Indian raid had all but gone silent, replaced by the enthusiasm for the building of a small church that Reverend Chadway had agreed to stay and oversee. His daughter had begun holding daily classes for the children in the shade of a large oak on the edge of town. Nightly card games were again being held in the Social Center. And Mayor Dawson was back to his business of assuring residents that the community was back on its progressive path.

And while Marshal Taylor insisted that a watch continue, he was considering removing the barricades from the edges of town. People were needing their wagons and rain barrels for their daily use.

Tater Barclay's wounds had healed well enough for him to borrow a horse from the livery and ride alongside Taylor on his daily rounds, though he grumbled regularly while doing so.

They were near the north ridge when they heard the children singing. Halting their horses in the shade of the
sprawling tree, they listened until the chorus of voices quieted. Joy Chadway looked in their direction and smiled. “Boys and girls, say good morning to the marshal and his friend Mr. Barclay,” she said.

The riders tipped their hats in response to the children's singsong greeting. “You young'uns sing mighty nice,” Taylor said as their teacher approached him.

“I've promised them that if they work real hard they can sing at next Sunday's services,” Joy said

Barclay reined his horse away, again tipping his hat. “Ma'am,” he said, and trotted away.

“Your friend's not real social, is he?” she said.

“He just takes a bit of getting used to. You'll find him a good man if you stay here long enough to get to know him.” It was his way of asking how long she and the preacher planned to remain in Dawson's Ridge.

“Fact is, I'm hoping my father chooses to stay for a bit. He's quite excited to be building another church. And, in all honesty, I'm pleased to not be traveling and sleeping under the stars.”

“Seems to me this might be a nice place for settling down,” Taylor said. “Once the church is built it's gonna be needing a preacher. And if you keep instructing the children, next thing you know Mayor Dawson's gonna be talking of building a schoolhouse.”

“And are you contemplating making this your home?”

Taylor tipped his hat and reined his horse around. “Reckon I'd best let you get back to your teaching,” he said. As he rode away, the voices of the children again filling the morning air, his thoughts flashed to the young boy waiting for his mother back in Kansas.

Barclay was standing in the doorway of the livery when he arrived. “I'm thinking it's about time we get on with our business,” he said as Taylor dismounted.

•   •   •

Thad assured the mayor that since all had been quiet for several weeks, the likelihood that the town was in any danger was slim. What he had decided to do, he explained, was spend a few days riding the plains to see if there might still be signs of any Indians in the vicinity. Barclay would accompany him. “It'll do him good to feel of some use,” Taylor said. “Meanwhile, I've made assignments for those who'll stand watch in our absence.”

“And you'll be gone for how long?”

“We'll pack provisions for only a few days. Likely, we'll be back before most know we're gone. We'll leave at sunrise tomorrow.”

•   •   •

He told the mayor their plan. A day's ride would take them close to the canyon where they'd encountered the small band of Comanches. Once near, they would wait until dark to make a final approach, coming from the bluff side of the encampment rather than the entrance. From high above they could hide and determine the movements of the renegades and how many warriors remained. “First,” he said, “we've got to figure out how many of 'em there are. My guess is they're riding out on occasion to see if they can find a stagecoach or a wagon to attack and steal from. Most likely the white woman I've mentioned will lead them. I'm thinking when they're gone it'll be only the other womenfolk and little ones that remain. That's when we can get a bit closer and see if the boy's mother is still being held.”

“And if they don't leave?” the mayor asked.

“We're still thinking on that.”

Dawson's Ridge was still dark when they saddled their horses and left. After a short midday break, they continued until the sun touched the horizon.

They stopped when they reached a ledge that gave them a clear view of the canyon below. They tethered their horses near a small spring a couple of miles away and walked the rest of the way. It had been slow going, helped only minimally by the cloud-covered moonlight. It was near dawn when they silently made their way to a rocky area just two hundred feet above the Comanche encampment and settled in. They saw no movement below. Taylor passed a canteen to his partner. “Well?”

“I'm thinkin' that this business of getting old ain't something for the faint of heart,” Barclay whispered, then gritted his teeth as he massaged his thigh. “Don't reckon you thought to bring any whiskey . . . for medicinal purposes.”

Taylor made no reply and counted the number of teepees and horses hobbled in the back side of the canyon. “Even if there's a young warrior for every horse,” he said, “there can't be more than a dozen, maybe a few more.”

“Still ain't odds to my likin'.”

•   •   •

The wait lasted two days as they watched the slow-moving routine of the Indian camp. The women tended fires and cooked. One, whom Barclay determined to be the band's medicine woman, occasionally disappeared into a teepee at the far corner of the canyon. The men gathered in small groups to make arrows, sharpen knives, and clean their rifles. Two of those Taylor counted appeared to be nursing wounds
that had been received in the raid by the soldiers. Only after dark, when a ceremonial fire was built, did Kate Two appear from her lodge to hold court with her followers. The hostage they had come to find was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, before dawn of the third day, Kate Two emerged, dressed in buckskin and wearing her black hat. A pistol hung at her waist as she waited for one of the warriors, already wearing war paint, to bring her horse. Soon she was leading the men in a single-file exit of the canyon. Only the two injured renegades and a few old men were left behind to stand guard over the camp.

“Appears they're off to do some business,” Barclay said. “Best you go fetch our horses so we can pay our visit. We'll allow 'em time to get a good distance away. Then we'll enter by the same route we took last time.”

Two hours later they approached the entrance. Tater pulled his hat tight against his forehead, rested his rifle against his shoulder, and leaned to whisper to Taylor before kicking his horse into a fast trot, “Now, don't be bashful about defendin' yourself.”

A rifle shot hummed past, ricocheting off the limestone ledge. Barclay quickly aimed and returned fire. The old Comanche's rifle dropped to his side as he clutched his chest and fell to his knees. As another emerged from behind a teepee, Taylor fired three quick pistol shots, the third hitting its target.

It was almost too easy. The camp had been left virtually unguarded.

While the sound of the gunfire echoed through the enclosure, the women and children ran toward the back wall of the canyon. The women fell to their knees, hands hiding their
faces, while the children huddled behind them. After making sure the two warriors were dead, Barclay rode toward the gathering, pointing his rifle in their direction. “I'll keep a watch on these folks while you check the lodges,” he said. “Do it quick and careful.”

Taylor walked from teepee to teepee, pulling back the entrance flaps with the barrel of his rifle, finding nothing but empty pallets of buffalo hides and a human stench that caused his eyes to water. Only when he reached the one they had seen the medicine woman enter did he hear a sound. In the darkness, a low growl came from a small mongrel dog as Taylor entered. Beneath a mound of furs, he could see a human form.

Calming the dog, he approached and saw the face of a woman. Kneeling beside her, he gently lifted her head. Her hair was damp and matted by sweat, her eyes filled with fear. “Ma'am,” Taylor said, “Might you be the mother of a young boy name of Jakey Barstow?”

The woman tried to focus on the man leaning over her. Through parched lips, she managed to mouth only a single word—“Jakey”—before she fell unconscious. Thad wrapped her in one of the hides and lifted her into his arms, surprised that she seemed to weigh no more than a child. He carried her from the teepee.

“We've found her,” he shouted to Barclay. “But she's in mighty poor shape and in need of attention.”

Barclay reined his horse in their direction. He looked down at the frail woman and shook his head. “Hand her up to me,” he said, “and let's be gone.”

As the frightened Indian women and children watched, the two men quickly rode away.

Once in an open space, Barclay poured water from his canteen over the woman's face and tried to get her to drink. He shielded her from the sun with his hat as Taylor and Magazine led the way.

By midmorning they had distanced themselves from the Comanche encampment and had seen no signs of other travelers. Looking behind them, Taylor noticed that the dog he'd encountered in the teepee was following them.

“Looks as if we've got company,” he said.

Barclay glanced over his shoulder. “Long as he ain't got a gun, I reckon he's welcome to come along.”

“You go on ahead. I'll catch up.”

The dog, his tongue hanging loosely and panting, stood his ground as Taylor approached, pouring water into his hat. As the exhausted animal lapped eagerly, Thad ran a hand across his bony back, feeling the burrs and ticks embedded in its fur. “Looks like you've about run as far as you can go,” he said. He lifted the dog to his shoulder and swung back into the saddle.

As they approached, Barclay glanced over at the dog resting on Taylor's saddle. “Lord A'mighty,” he said, “that beats all I ever seen. Why is it you're bringin' that Indian dog along?”

“Seems he has a particular interest in the Barstow woman.”

Tater snorted. “Glad to see someone does.”

•   •   •

It was long after dark when they arrived at Dawson's Ridge. A flurry of activity began as soon as the travelers arrived at the Reynolds cabin. Barclay was directed to the back of the house, where the unconscious woman was placed on the bed.
Sloan's wife quickly alerted several neighbor women, and upon their arrival, the men were invited to leave.

Taylor walked toward the Social Center in search of food for the dog. Barclay limped behind. “I'm so badly in need of whiskey,” he said, “that I'll gladly rob the place if need be.”

Inside the cabin, water was heated for a bath and cool cloths were placed on the patient's forehead in an attempt to reduce her fever. On the stove, broth and tea were warming. Only when she was dressed in one of his wife's nightgowns was Sloan Reynolds allowed back into the room.

A few minutes later he walked outside to find Taylor and Barclay waiting on the porch, passing a bottle between them. “Best I can tell,” he told them, “is that she's suffering with consumption and is half-starved. I judge it a miracle that you found her when you did. It's going to take some time, but with proper watching over I think we can restore her to good health.”

As he spoke, the dog raced past him into the cabin. He found his way to the back room, jumped onto the bed, and took his place at the Barstow woman's feet. When one of the women tried to shoo him away, he bared his teeth and growled.

“We must get this filthy animal out of here,” she said.

Taylor appeared in the doorway. “First thing tomorrow,” he said, “I'll see that he's given a proper grooming. For now, though, I think it best that you let him stay where he is and do his job.”

“And just what might that be?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

“Watching over his friend.”