Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (21 page)

Taylor had decided that they should travel along the main northward trail as much as possible. He had no intention of going near the Cookson Hills again, where there might be a chance of encountering members of Big Boone Stallings's strange clan. While there was always the possibility of bandits, he doubted they would leave the warmth of their hideouts for the small gain he and his traveling companion might offer. And, as he'd assured the Barstow woman, it appeared the region was now free of renegade Indians. That the family they'd passed a few days earlier had experienced no problems along the way was cause for optimism.

He was beginning to feel that they would soon reach Kansas without incident when he noticed a dark speck on the southern horizon. Wiping the glasses clean, he watched as it grew larger. For the next mile or so he would frequently stop and look through the glasses. Soon he could tell that it was a lone man on horseback.

“It appears we're being followed,” he told July. “He'll catch up to us soon.”

“Who is it?”

“Most likely someone from the ranch sent to even a score.” He fell silent for a while. “There's still plenty of daylight. I want you to ride on ahead. Stay on the trail. Once you've gone as far as you can, look for shelter. I'll catch up to you soon.”

“You're going to take this man on?”

Taylor slapped the flank of her horse. “Go,” he said. “Now.”

As she rode away he still had no clear idea of how to deal with the oncoming danger.

•   •   •

Buck Lee hated the cold, and though he'd not admitted it to those he'd left dead, he too resented this mission. Shivering and hungry, he cursed Kole Guinn. He knew that it was not the burned pastures, or the stampeding of his cattle, not even the death of de la Rosa, that sent his boss into such a rage. It was the death of that woman who had suddenly appeared at the ranch and caught his boss's fancy. It was because of her that he had ridden through a blizzard, farther into an untamed and ugly region he hoped to never see again, and killed two men. He cursed her as well.

•   •   •

Thad remained atop the small hill, watching as the rider slowly advanced. When the man got close enough that he might be able to see that he was being watched, Taylor rode Magazine down the hill and onto a flat, open space. He unhitched the sled and brushed the remaining snow from the canvas covering Barclay's body, then found a branch, which he stuck into the ground behind it. He placed his hat atop it.

That done, he sent his horse over the hill and moved quickly to a snowbank fifty yards away, using another branch
to brush away his tracks. He began digging with the butt of his rifle. Soon he had a hole deep enough to lie in with his rifle at his side.

•   •   •

Lee recognized that the tracks he'd been following for the last mile or so were freshly made. He pushed all the troubling thoughts from his mind and was suddenly alert and focused. He readied his rifle and rested it against the edge of his saddle. When he crested a small rise and saw what appeared to be a bundle of canvas lying in the snow ahead, he stopped and dismounted. Crouching, he moved close enough to see that the top of a hat peeked from behind it. He used his horse as cover and moved into a nearby stand of bushes, then crawled to position himself behind the fallen trunk of a large tree.

“I'll not be ambushed,” he called out. “Just as well you show yourself so we can get this over with.” He fired a shot that hit the canvas with a dull thud. A second shot hit the hat, sending it flying. “If you're able, stand and we'll talk.”

•   •   •

Taylor lay motionless in his hiding place. It would now be a game of patience. As he breathed, small flakes of snow scattered in front of his face. His legs were already stiff and he could barely feel his finger on the trigger of his rifle.

•   •   •

Across the way, Lee didn't take his eyes off the canvas, looking for any sign of movement. “You dead?” he yelled.

Thirty minutes passed in silence. Finally Lee rose from behind the tree trunk, his rifle aimed and ready. Though convinced that the man he'd been tracking was likely dead or seriously wounded, he still moved carefully.

A puzzled look spread across his face as he reached the
canvas mound and saw only the empty hat lying in the snow behind it. As he let his rifle drop to his side, he didn't see the snow-covered form nearby as it rose and rushed toward him.

•   •   •

Taylor raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. Lee grabbed at his neck, his hand quickly filling with blood. “What the . . .” He dropped to his knees. His body convulsed and he fell face forward. His legs continued to move, making strange patterns in the snow. Taylor walked over, pulled his Colt, and fired a second shot that caused the body to go still.

Taylor shivered as he brushed the snow and ice from himself. His hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts before he could pick up his hat. For a moment he stared down at the bullet hole in its crown. Then he leaned forward and retched.

He used his boots and the butt of his rifle to cover the body with snow, then went in search of Buck Lee's horse. He was tethered in the brush, showing no sign that the gunfire had spooked him.

Taylor brushed his hand against its mane. “I won't leave you here,” he said. “I've got a job for you to do.”

An hour later, when he caught up to July, Magazine was no longer dragging the sled. It was attached to Lee's horse.

July looked carefully at Taylor in an effort to make sure he was not injured. She inhaled deeply when she noticed the bullet hole in his hat, but she asked no questions.

“We've still got some daylight,” Taylor said, “so let's go on a bit farther until we make camp.”

They rode side by side in silence.

It was not until they huddled in front of a blazing fire that
July spoke. “I'm pleased that you are unharmed,” she said, reaching over to place a hand on Thad's arm. “And I'm grateful for your efforts to keep me safe.”

Taylor continued to stare into the flames.

She said, “Killing's not in your nature, is it?”

“Didn't used to be,” he said.

As they crossed the border and into Kansas, the landscape became increasingly familiar to July Barstow. Her spirits soared, and Taylor felt a sense of relief sweep over him. The danger and brutal weather were behind them. Two days later, under a cloudless sky, the steeple of Brother Winfrey's church appeared in the distance.

“I remember this little town well,” July said. “My husband brought Jakey and me along with him once when he when he came here to buy seed. We had such a pleasurable day.”

They rode past the church, then the livery and general store, before arriving in front of the marshal's office. Despite the cold, Brantley Thorntree sat dozing in his chair on the board walkway. He lifted his head and opened his eyes only when he heard the squeak of saddle leather as Taylor dismounted.

The marshal looked at Taylor, then the woman, and finally the weather-beaten sled. “Appears you've returned with good news and bad,” he said.

“This here's July Barstow,” Taylor said. “She once lived in these parts till their place got raided by Indians.”

“I remember,” the marshal said as he rose and tipped his hat.

“Tater Barclay was shot dead,” Taylor said. “It was his wish that he be buried on his brother's old place, so we've brung him home.”

“Being honest, I thought it would be him hauling your body back. It never occurred to me that Tater, mean and stubborn as he was, might get hisself killed. I figgered he'd outlive us all. What of the Bender woman?”

“Tater killed her. And in doing so saved my life.”

“Was it her who put that hole in your hat?”

Taylor shook his head. “That's another story.”

“Which I'll be wanting to hear once we've got you folks settled.”

Thorntree called out to a young boy playing nearby, “Run down to the smitty and have him come up here,” he said, “then go fetch Brother Winfrey and tell him I need to see him.” He turned to July. “If you'll accompany me, we'll go down to the house so you can meet my wife. She'll see to it that you get fed a proper meal and some rest.”

July shook her head. “I can't bother—”

“She'll welcome the company and having someone to talk to instead of me. Mr. Taylor, he can bunk over at the livery. He knows it well. I'll see to it that he's taken care of once we get you settled.”

As he spoke, the blacksmith and the preacher were hurrying toward them.

“We'll be having a funeral tomorrow,” Thorntree said. “A casket needs building and a bit of preaching will be called for.”

As the blacksmith took the reins of Buck Lee's horse, he looked at Taylor. “Seems you're about my best customer,” he said.

“It does appear that way.”

Brother Winfrey watched the sled as it moved down the street. “Tater Barclay?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“A far better man than most gave him credit for being.”

Taylor's throat tightened. “I can rightly agree with that. I never knew a finer man,” he said.

By nightfall, several women had gathered at the Thorntree house. When she woke from a brief sleep, July could smell food cooking. Water had been heated and poured into a tub so she could bathe. A nightgown was neatly folded at the end of the bed.

“You'll be sleeping here tonight,” Mrs. Thorntree said. “I've instructed my husband that he can stay down at the jail.”

At the livery, the marshal arrived with a bottle of whiskey. “Talking comes easier when a man's got something to lubricate his tongue.”

Late into the night, Taylor described the journey he and Barclay had taken. He'd never talked so much. As if needing to purge himself of the memories of the past months, he described the encounters with Comanches, the adventures in the Cookson Hills, the beating he and Barclay had suffered at the hands of men hired by a vengeful rancher, and, finally, the events that led to the death of Kate Two Bender. He talked of an old Indian named Huaco Joe, of a dog, and of a place called Dawson's Ridge.

Thorntree listened without interrupting. Only when it seemed Taylor's story was ended did he clear his throat and speak. “Seems you've told everything 'cept how you got the bullet hole in that awful-looking hat. But that can wait for another time. What you've done told me sounds like one of them stories you read in books,” he said. His knees creaked as he rose from the hay bale where he'd been sitting. “So now
you've got a happy ending ahead, reuniting the Barstow woman with her boy back at your place.”

“That's my plan.”

“And a fine one it is.” Thorntree raised the bottle in a salute. “Get some rest and tomorrow we'll put Tater to rest.”

“One other thing before you go,” Taylor said as he reached into his saddlebag and retrieved Barclay's letter.

Thorntree moved near a lantern and silently mouthed the words as he read. “I think this makes it official that his place now belongs to Mrs. Barstow should she wish to have it,” he said. He folded the letter and handed it back. “It's things like this—and the stories you been telling me—that Brother Winfrey spoke of. Tater was a good-hearted man.” He swallowed hard, wiped his eyes, and turned away.

•   •   •

By morning the blacksmith had built a wooden casket and loaded it onto a wagon. He unstrapped Barclay's body and was preparing to lift it when Taylor arrived. “Let me give you a hand,” he said. “Tater wasn't no small fella.”

While the smitty went to get a hammer to nail the lid shut, Thad took the small photograph he'd found in Barclay's belongings and placed it in the casket.

“I had a bit of extra time,” the blacksmith said as he returned. In his arms was a wooden cross. “I figgered a marker might be needed in the event someone wants to pay him a visit later on.”

Given directions by the marshal, the Weatherby brothers had ridden ahead to dig the grave. When they'd learned of the death of the man they'd occasionally ridden with as deputies, they were eager to help.

Taylor had one more stop to make before leaving for
Barclay's burial. He walked down the still-deserted street to the church. Reaching its steps, he called out, “Brother Winfrey, you up?”

The preacher appeared at the doorway. “I was just doing some thinking on what I might say about our friend,” he said.

As he spoke, Taylor unbuckled his gun belt. He carefully wrapped it around the holster that held the old Army Colt that Winfrey had given him. “I'll not be needing this anymore,” he said.

“Are you certain?”

“That,” said Thad, “is the one thing I'm sure of.”

•   •   •

“It was a very nice funeral,” July said as they rode back toward Thayer. “I think Mr. Barclay would have been very pleased. All your hardships of returning him home to his friends and family were worthwhile—don't you think?”

The day was warm and sunny and the service short. After Taylor and the Weatherby brothers placed the coffin in the ground, Brother Winfrey spoke for a few minutes, calling Tater a fine person who he hoped the Almighty would welcome to his heavenly home. After Marshal Thorntree put the cross in place, July laid a wreath on it that the women had helped her make from strips of cloth and ribbon the night before.

“I guess each of us thinks from time to time about our final days and what our resting place will be like,” July said. “It's my hope to spend my eternity in a setting as lovely as that of Mr. Barclay and his kin. Even as the preacher spoke, the birds were singing and you could hear the sound of the water rushing past in the creek. Come spring, the trees will leaf out and provide him comforting shade. The wildflowers
will bloom and the grass will green and it will be even more beautiful.”