Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (8 page)

July looked around and lowered her voice. “Is it possible you would give me an honest answer to a question?” she said. “What's to become of me?”

“It's not my place to say. Early on, when we were both held as prisoners, there was talk of our being sold to the Mexicans. But as you well know, my situation has changed considerably. And since the men have returned with no other white women in recent days, it isn't likely that Hawk would want to make that long journey for a single sale. Truth be told, I don't expect you would bring high dollar anyway.

“I've occasionally spoken in your behalf, telling Hawk that you are an able worker and that I consider you a friend. He has promised me that he will keep his men from bothering you.”

“You consider me a friend?”

“Not really,” Kate Two said. “But it's nice having someone to talk with on occasion so long as I've got to be in this hellhole. Once I'm gone—and that day will come—what happens to you is no concern of mine.”

She turned and walked away laughing, her attention moving to the arrival of Hawk and his men.

She could smell the whiskey on Hawk's breath as he dismounted and approached her. Barely acknowledging him, she walked to the packhorses to examine the goods that had been received in exchange for the buffalo hides. She counted only half a dozen rifles, one small box of ammunition, several sacks of corn and beans, a single bolt of cloth, and two empty crock jugs.

Kate Two put her nose to the opening of one of the jugs, then glared at Hawk as he walked toward his teepee.

She followed, waiting until they were out of earshot of the others before she spoke. “You allowed the white trader to poison your good judgment with liquor. You did not receive
fair exchange for the skins we fought so hard to acquire. You have been made a fool.”

Hawk stiffened, but his piercing black eyes were unable to focus on her.

“The spirit fathers will not be happy that their war chief has failed his people,” she said. “It is time for new wisdom.”

Taylor and Barclay reached the creek before sunup and slowly followed along its banks. Bullfrogs jumped at their approach, making widening circles as they splashed into the muddy water. Nearby an owl hooted his disapproval at their intrusion onto his hunting ground, and somewhere in the distance coyotes howled.

“Might be a smart idea to dismount and walk the horses,” Barclay said. “We're gettin' close.”

They traveled afoot for an hour before he signaled for Taylor to stop. “Smell that?” he said. “Mesquite burning. Somebody's gettin' the fires ready.” In the first hint of daylight, they could see thin trails of white smoke rising in the distance.

Leaving their horses tethered, they silently followed the flow of the creek, careful not to emerge from the shadows of the trees. A gray dawn was approaching as they reached the top of a small rise that finally gave them a view of the Comanche camp. Below, a flurry of activity was under way.

Teepees were being dismantled, their poles stacked into neat piles. Sleds made of buffalo hides lashed to the long
trunks of red oak saplings were being hitched behind horses and mules. Women and children collected items they were to carry.

“They're breaking camp,” Taylor whispered as he lay prone beside Barclay. “Reckon something spooked 'em?”

“Something or somebody.”

•   •   •

The previous evening, as Hawk and his followers sat around a council fire, Kate Two had played her role as Talks With Spirits with dramatic flair. Late in the afternoon she had announced that she had been summoned into the nearby hills to speak with the spirits and would return at nightfall to pass along their message. The ceremonial fire was already casting shadows when she rode out of the darkness into the camp. Her hair was now in braids, her cheeks were lined with yellow war paint, and in one hand she carried a lance.

She dismounted and walked to where Hawk waited, and stabbed the spear into the ground. “The almighty spirits have spoken,” she said, “and you are to relay their words.”

She talked slowly to allow him to translate. “The forefathers are not pleased,” she began. “They say you are fighting your battles against the white man in a foolish way. You have only attacked their homes and taken things of too little value. The time has come to show new courage.”

Pacing among the mesmerized warriors, she told of greater opportunities that waited on the plains south of the Red River. “If you are to be successful and grow in number, you must follow the spirit father's wishes and more boldly attack your enemy. You must raid his towns, his wagon trails, his stagecoaches. You must take more than his few horses and mules. You must take his money, for it is his true power.”

Though she had no actual knowledge of such things, she said that the spirits had described to her large herds of buffalo that waited in Texas. To the south there would be no more hunger.

And then for a moment she fell silent, letting her eyes roam the nodding faces of the young warriors. Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence.

Finally she turned to face Hawk, a slight smile spreading across her painted face. “The spirits spoke of one other thing,” she said. “It is their wish that I lead you on this new journey.”

Hawk's jaws tightened as he glared at the white woman. He rose and quickly disappeared into the darkness. He had not translated her final words, but to those assembled the message was clear.

•   •   •

For some time Taylor and Barclay lay watching the activity prompted by Kate Two's grand performance.

“If one of us had a lick of good sense,” Barclay said, “we woulda brung some field glasses along with us.”

“Where do you think they're heading?”

“To the south, most likely. Down toward the Red River and as far away from Indian Territory as they can get.”

Taylor's hand gripped Barclay's arm. With the other he pointed. “That's her,” he said. Though the distance was too great to be certain, Thad was convinced that the figure he was looking at was a woman, dressed in buckskins and sitting astride a small paint. He was equally certain it was the same woman he'd long ago encountered in the Benders' way station. Across her shoulder was a rifle.

Barclay shielded his eyes and squinted. “Seems to me
she's ordering folks about,” he said. “Huh. Not exactly what you'd expect of a white woman held against her will.”

•   •   •

They watched in silence as the caravan slowly began to move southward, Kate Two riding point. In the rear, walking among the children and dogs, was another woman. Even from a distance the men could see that her shoulders were slumped, her steps a weary shuffle.

“It appears,” Barclay said, “that we found those we've been looking for.”

They waited until the Comanches had disappeared beyond the horizon before leaving their position and walking down to the abandoned campsite. Aside from the gray ashes of the campfires and cleared ground that had been reduced to red powder, there was little to indicate that anyone had ever been there.

Barclay looked in the direction the Indians had taken and shook his head. “Never figured on livin' long enough to see a sight like that,” he said. “A bunch of savages being led off by a white woman. She must have some mighty convincin' powers.”

“Could be they come to her from those dead people she claims to have conversations with.”

Barclay snorted. “These Comanches might be a mean lot and the best horsemen around—and I'm includin' Union and Confederate cavalry—but ain't nobody ever claimed they're smart thinkers. What they don't seem to know is they're likely to meet up with a heap of trouble if they're going into Texas. There's bluecoats down there who can't wait to shoot 'em dead and be done with it.

“Ever since President Grant got fed up with all the broken
peace treaties and commissioned that Civil War hero Mackenzie to round up those hostiles still terrorizing settlers, a sizable number of Indians have gotten themselves killed. And from what I hear, it ain't going to be over until there's none left.”

“So, how does that help us with what we're attempting to do?”

“It might be that once we find out where these people are gonna settle, we can find some help,” Barclay said. “Seems it would be a wiser choice than tryin' to do it on our own and gettin' ourselves scalped. For the time being, though, all we can do is just keep following along until we figure a way to get our business done.”

Taylor said nothing. The hard miles they had traveled had finally led them to their destination. Now it was again moving out of reach. He wondered if their journey would ever end. On the other hand, he had come to a new realization as he'd watched the small band take leave of its camp. When he'd seen the Bender woman, the hatred he'd nurtured rose briefly in his chest. Then it was replaced by another emotion at the sight of Jakey's mother being forced to march along behind the renegades. His thoughts returned to the young boy, scared and clad in overalls, acting far more courageous that his age required. And at that moment he realized that it was no longer Kate Two who was the reason for his quest.

•   •   •

As they walked toward the creek, the silence was broken by the sound of a flock of buzzards taking flight. Reaching the bank, they saw a naked body floating facedown in the shallow stream. “Looks like somebody got left behind,” Barclay said.

Taylor removed his boots and waded into the water. As he dragged the body to the bank and turned it over, he could see that the dead Indian's eyes were still open, his mouth agape. Across his throat was a jagged gash.

“If I'm guessin' right as to who this might be,” Barclay said, “it seems someone's done ol' Boone Stallings a great favor.”

“You saying this is the man he called Hawk?”

Barclay nodded. “Used to be.”

“What do you reckon we ought to do with him?”

“Seems to me the buzzards was here first.”

•   •   •

Kate Two pulled her hat far down on her forehead as she watched from a sandbar while her new followers forded the shallow Red River. The water came only to the knees of those who shouldered the party's few belongings, carrying them into a land that the United States government had forbidden them to enter. The river formed a border between the Indian Territory and the new state of Texas—and for those who ignored the edict to stay out, dire consequences dealt by trained regiments of Indian fighters were promised.

The children waited on the opposite bank until they were lifted onto horses and ridden across. At their sides, the dogs swam the short distance. July Barstow, exhausted and light-headed from the heat, held to the tail of one of the horses as she followed along, her tattered dress soaked by the muddy water, her bare feet burying into the sandy river bottom with each step.

That the ragtag band of renegades had so willingly agreed to follow her had come as a welcome surprise to Kate Two. Though confident in her ability to manipulate
and control, she had taken a big chance when she announced that she had been chosen to replace Hawk as their leader. That his warriors—a few who understood bits of English—had embraced the notion, she felt, was a testimony to their utter stupidity and willingness to believe that she was actually in possession of mystical powers. When she explained that the spirit fathers had called Hawk on the Hill into the clouds, there to receive their wisdom before he returned, none had questioned.

If things went as she hoped, she would need to carry out the ruse only a while longer.

For many nights, while lying next to Hawk, she had plotted a way to escape the squalor of Indian life and return to the world she'd previously known. Now she had finally put the plan into motion.

The only truth she had spoken the night she stood before the council fire was that money was what empowered the white man. For her to make her escape, she would need that empowerment as well. A few successful raids, she hoped, would accomplish that goal. Then it would be time to lead her followers into the hands of the Indian fighters. The role she would then play would be that of a helpless captive in need of being saved from the heartless savages.

•   •   •

The caravan followed an old buffalo trail for the remainder of the day, reaching an isolated canyon just before sundown. Though fires were started, the only food available was smoked strips of horse meat and wild berries collected along the way. In a nearby stream, horses were watered as the weary travelers washed the dust and mud from their bodies.
With no time to erect the teepees before dark, buffalo skins were spread on the ground for sleeping.

At first light, Kate Two told the warriors that scouts would be sent out to locate the nearest settlement or farm with livestock that could be stolen and herded back to camp.

The settlement of Dawson's Ridge was typical of the small towns that were beginning to appear on the Texas plains. A year earlier, when the wagon train had arrived, its members had surveyed the fertile grasslands, the nearby creek, which promised an adequate water supply, and the high vista, which offered a sweeping view in all directions, and called their journey to an end. With their approval, Deke Dawson, the self-appointed leader of those who had traveled from Tennessee, proclaimed it their new home. There was little argument when he suggested that the hamlet be given his name or that he be elected by a show of hands as its mayor.

A portly man with a bushy mustache and a thick mane of white hair, Dawson decades earlier had enjoyed the power of local politics before accusations of bribe-taking and various other illegal activities had forced him from office, making it necessary for him to quickly head west. To his fellow travelers he mentioned nothing of the shady dealings he'd been involved in, instead bragging that among his dearest friends back in Tennessee had been a fellow politician named Davy Crockett.

The town grew quickly as the settlers moved from tents fashioned from the covers of their wagons into sturdy cabins built from native wood and stone. Soon there was a livery and a corral, a laundry near the creek, and a tent beneath which Sunday sermons were delivered by a lay preacher who had made the trek west. Once a still was erected and fully operational, a social center where meals and whiskey were available was erected. “We'll not call it a saloon,” Mayor Dawson insisted, “for there will be no women of bad character passing through its doors. The nightly playing of cards, however, will be allowed so long as the wagers are small and friendly made.”

The game hunting and fishing were good, crops grew, and the spring arrival of half a dozen calves promised the beginning of a herd of cattle. And as other passersby happened onto the community, its population grew. One day soon, Dawson said, they would have need of a school and the appointment of a town marshal to see to the proper order of things. On days when he dreamed on an even grander scale, he spoke of a hotel with its own dining room and a dry goods store and grocery that would sell items regularly delivered by stagecoach and supply wagon.

•   •   •

It was an unusually hot afternoon when two boys, trailed by a panting dog that was not at all sure what the commotion was all about, ran toward the Dawson's Ridge Social Center. A hen and her flock of chicks scattered from their path. “Soldiers are coming,” the youngsters said in unison as they waved their sun-browned arms in the direction of the creek.

Deke Dawson stood in the street, hat in hand and a wide smile on his face, as the small detail of Union soldiers
approached. “Mighty proud to see you boys,” he said. “Step down and tell us what it is that brings you to our fine little town.”

“Just passing through on the way to rejoin Colonel Mackenzie,” the leader, a stocky, bearded redhead, said, and tipped his hat. “Sergeant Patrick Murphy, D Company, Fourth Cavalry.”

“A mighty long ride from home,” Dawson said as a crowd gathered.

A dozen men, their blue uniforms powdered with trail dust, dismounted at Sergeant Murphy's signal. For over a year they had been away from home and families, fighting renegade bands of Indians terrorizing the Texas plains. Most of the major battles had been fought and won farther to the east in places with names like Palo Duro Canyon and Adobe Walls, leaving only isolated uprisings to be addressed. Promising that their work was nearly done, Mackenzie had divided his regiments into small companies and details, assigning them to seek out any remaining war parties. His orders had been simple. If the Indians refused to surrender and return to Fort Sill as prisoners, they were to be killed.

“To put your mind at ease,” Murphy said. “We've been down south and have seen no sign of any savages, Comanche or Kiowa.”

“All the same, we continue to keep a watchful eye,” Dawson said. “We've got men who take their turn standing guard along the ridge every night. And we've stored away ample weaponry.”

“Which I hope you never have need to use,” Murphy said.

“Your words to God Almighty's ear,” the lay preacher yelled out from the crowd. “Amen to that,” said another.

“I'm sure the good colonel is anxious for your return,” Dawson said, “but before you take leave we'd like an opportunity to show our hospitality. If you boys will join us out of the heat, the first taste of whiskey will be at my expense. And while you're washing the dust from your throats I 'spect the womenfolk would be happy to prepare you a meal far better than any you've had while on the trail.”

•   •   •

The brief stop turned into an overnight stay for the soldiers. They drank ample amounts of Dawson's Ridge's whiskey and ate heaping bowls of venison and potato stew along with large servings of hot corn bread. Soon two fiddle players were providing music. Before nightfall several of the women arrived with cast-iron pots filled with cobbler made from wild blueberries and pecans.

Delighted by the company, the festive atmosphere, and the fascinating stories being told, the townspeople volunteered their homes to the soldiers for the night, moving into the Social Center, where they made pallets for their own evening's rest.

With the visiting company of soldiers in their midst, safety from any intruders was ensured; thus no sentries were sent to their stations.

From a safe distance the two Comanche scouts took advantage of a full moon to survey the landscape of the small settlement and listen to the faint sounds of music and laughter. A day's ride away, their new leader would be pleased to hear their news.

•   •   •

“It's not likely they'll be going far before they set up a new campsite,” Barclay said as he unsaddled his horse. He and
Taylor had crossed into Texas and followed the travois tracks made by the Comanches until it was almost dark. “I reckon we won't be losing much ground if we get ourselves some rest.”

Thad had been unusually quiet during the day, his thoughts skipping from one thing to another as they rode. Now, as they set up camp, he wondered about home and if Sister was worried for his safety and how she and young Jakey were. The milky eyes of the dead Indian he'd pulled from the creek came to mind. So did the distant images of the two women they were following after. And most of all, he pondered the strange and quiet man he was riding alongside. Tater Barclay was a mystery, equal parts kind
(“If you're of a mind to make this fool's journey it occurs to me you might find some company of use. . . .”)
and hard
(“Seems to me the buzzards was here first. . . .”)
. A lonely man, Taylor thought. As he considered such things, he also wondered if, for the first time in his life, he'd met a person he could honestly call a friend.

Barclay broke the silence with a grunt as he stretched out on his saddle blanket. “I'd greatly admire to soon see some civilization,” he said. “Been so long since I was drunk, I've about forgot how it's properly done.”

•   •   •

The following morning the two men had traveled only a few miles before the tracks of the Comanche caravan suddenly disappeared. The renegades had used branches to sweep away the marks left by the sleds and the footprints of those who followed along behind them. They had worked late into the night to erase their trail and then had turned from their southward course to travel east before arriving at the hidden canyon that would be their new home.

Urging their horses to a nearby rise, Taylor and Barclay shaded their eyes and squinted into the rising sun. They saw nothing that would indicate the whereabouts of those they'd been following. On the southern horizon, however, a faint cloud of dust came into view.

“Whoever it is,” Taylor said, “they're coming instead of going. And their pace is far quicker than that the Comanches were keeping.”

Barclay fixed his gaze on the dust cloud until he could see that it was being made by horsemen riding two by two, traveling in a westerly direction. When he saw that they were dressed in blue, he smiled. “Could be that we got company that's friendly,” he said. “I figure we ought to catch up to 'em and say howdy.”

At his rider's urging Magazine was soon in a full gallop, with Barclay's horse close behind. Taylor was waving his oversized hat as he neared the company of soldiers. Murphy signaled his troops to a halt and ordered them to raise their weapons.

“State your business,” he said as Taylor and Barclay reined their horses to a stop.

“We been followin' after a band of Comanches,” Barclay said.

Murphy smiled thinly. “We've been in these parts for over a week now and have seen no sign of Indians.”

“They just crossed the Red River a few days back, moving their camp down this way,” Taylor said.

“How many of them, not counting women and elderly?”

“Twenty, maybe a few more. Among them is a female they've kidnapped.” Taylor looked at Barclay, and debated briefly whether to share his belief that they were also being
led by a white woman, but decided against it. Such an observation, he knew, would immediately brand him as one crazed by too much sun.

“And what is your plan once you catch up to them?” Murphy asked.

“That part we ain't exactly figured out yet.”

•   •   •

The residents of Dawson's Ridge were surprised to see the soldiers returning. Again, it was Deke Dawson who hurried to greet them. “Wasn't expecting a return visit quite so soon,” he said.

“It appears we might have spoken too soon about the safety of your town,” Sergeant Murphy said. He nodded in the direction of the two men who accompanied them and explained that they had seen Indians to the north just days earlier. “Since I've never made these fellas' acquaintance, I can't rightfully vouch for their claim. But I felt a duty to give you a warning.”

As he spoke, a man tied his mule to the hitching post in front of the Social Center and hurried toward Dawson and the crowd that had again gathered. By the time he reached them, he was excited and out of breath. “Somebody took away one of the calves last night,” he said.

Dawson placed a hand on his shoulder. “You sure it wasn't varmints, a pack of wolves or coyotes?”

“Not unless they've learned how to unlock a gate and leave it standing open.”

A look of concern crossed Murphy's face as he listened to the exchange. “It appears while we were enjoying your gracious hospitality last evening, we let our guard down a bit too much. I believe that what these men told us is the honest
truth. Most likely you were visited in the night by renegades wishing to get a lay of the land.”

He motioned for two members of his detail to approach. “You will be on your way to report to Colonel Mackenzie and advise him of the reason for our delay,” he said. “The rest of us will remain here to determine the seriousness of this situation.”