The Taylor County War (4 page)

About two-thirty in the afternoon,
Marcus turned off the Ranch road onto a dusty two-rut track and
stopped to study the map. “We are close, gentlemen.”

The boys climbed down to stretch
their legs.

“That bluff over there is our
marker. Next we need to find a dry wash with a mulberry tree off on
the right side of the road.”

“I’ll go scout,” Obie volunteered
and trotted up the wagon rut trace.

Frank sighed. “I better go with
him.”

Ethan climbed back onto the wagon
seat and asked to see the map.

Marcus passed it over to him, “You
can be the official navigator.” He got the rig moving again,
calling, “Stay where I can see you.”

Obie and Frank waved to signal that
they heard him.

Ethan said, “Mr. Breedlove’s
getting too old to run this place by himself. Look.” He pointed at
a string of barb wire that had fallen over. “Pa says he’s gonna
have to hire himself a real crew one of these days, or some shyster
upstart’s gonna take it away from him.”

“Your father should watch his
language in front of young ears.”

Ethan gave a small grin.

“Does this shyster upstart have a
name?”

Ethan straightened around on the
seat and stared ahead, his voice unusually strained. “Wouldn’t
know, sir.”

Well, it was none of his business.
He’d heard that Tobias Breedlove had come onto hard times, although
he didn’t know the details. There’d been a falling out of some sort
between him and his son, Ira, whom Tobias had hoped would take over
the ranch. It was a shame, Mr. Breedlove being a town founder.

“We found it, Mr. Sublette,” Frank
called from ahead. He and Obie were standing a few hundred yards up
the road waving their arms.

Two minutes later Marcus drew to a
halt at the wash, checked the map, eyed the old mulberry tree, and
spied faint wagon wheel tracks in the dry gravel. “Good job,
boys.”

They climbed back on the wagon and
Marcus turned into the wash. A quarter mile further he came upon
the broken bank where the surveyor’s wagon had pulled up out of the
wash. Wheel tracks led straight to an abandoned campsite complete
where a blackened stone ring still hugged the gray ashes of an old
fire. A small pile of wood had been conveniently left nearby.

***

Setting up camp took the rest of
the afternoon. Frank and Obie scouted up more firewood while Ethan
dug the latrine pit behind some nearby boulders. As evening came
on, Marcus built up a roaring fire to ensure a proper bed of coals
to fry potatoes and onions, and the salted beef steaks he’d packed
along.

Afterward, they sat around the
campfire in campaign chairs, waiting for it to burn down. Ethan had
taken to worrying again about Indians, while an unconcerned Obie
joked about hearing dinosaur footsteps back by the latrine. Frank
smiled quietly to himself and said little, his eyes in endless
motion, scanning the moonlit ridge lines. Marcus recalled nights
just like this during the war, going through the same routine.
Frank had natural survival instincts that would serve him well in
the future, particularly if he became a lawman.

Ethan shivered and pushed the palms
of his hands toward the heat. “I gotta put on my jacket.”

“Me, too,” Obie seconded.

Marcus poked at the fire with a
stick, spreading out the growing mountain of coals and eyeing the
big Dutch oven that waited nearby. It wouldn’t be long now. Cooking
wasn’t his long suit, but he’d gotten his fair share of practice
while out on a mission, just him and one or two others, hunting the
Georgia and Tennessee woods for Union artillery units.

His thoughts drifted back. The
memories were both painful and pleasantly nostalgic. He’d made good
friends, but lost track of them after the war. Ethan’s voice broke
the spell.

“Mr. Sublette?”

“Hum?” He looked up from the
fire.

Ethan and Obie were at the wagon,
Ethan pointing at the scuffed leather case Marcus had set upon the
front bench. “What kinda rifle you got?”

Had the boys been reading his
thoughts just then? Marcus smiled. “Bring it here to the fire and
I’ll show you.”

Ethan hauled the long case over and
Marcus laid it across his knees. “What kind do you think it
is?”

The boys shrugged and shook their
heads.

“It’s a very special rifle,” he
went on. “Not one man in ten thousand this side of the Atlantic
Ocean has ever seen one like it.”

That grabbed their attention like
no dinosaur bone ever would have. Their eyes were saucers and their
breathing might as well have stopped altogether as he unsnapped the
four latches and lifted back the lid. The boys leaned forward. The
rifle lay in a fitted bed of red velvet, and in the firelight the
long brass tube on its side gleamed like blood.

“Geeminy,” Ethan whispered.

“Is it a Hawkens?” Obie
wondered.

“Nothing so common,” Marcus said
lifting the piece from the case. “This, gentlemen, is a Whitworth
.451.”

“Never heard of one,” Obie
said.

“Of course you haven’t. Only a few
dozen ever made it over from England, aboard fast blockade
runners.”

“What’s that thing on the side, Mr.
Sublette?” Frank asked.

“That, Mr. Miller, is what blackens
a gentleman’s right eye.”

Frank smiled broadly. “That’s what
you were talking about earlier!”

“Indeed,” Marcus said. “It’s a
Davidson four power telescopic sight.”

“A spyglass?” Obie asked.

“Quite similar. Here, have a look.”
The boys took turns peering through the sight. As they did, he
explained the fine cross lines, and how to place them upon a
target. Next he showed them one of the paper cartridges, lined up
like cigars in a separate compartment. “These use a special gun
powder and bullet, all made in England.” He demonstrated how the
rifle was loaded — all but the final fitting of the percussion cap.
“There. Ready to go.”

“How far will it shoot?” Frank
asked.

“In the hands of a sharpshooter it
can put a bullet between a man’s eyes at a thousand yards.”

“Nobody can shoot like that,” Ethan
proclaimed.

“Think not?” Marcus gave a short
laugh. “Tell that to General Sedgwick, why don’t you. Tell you
what, tomorrow when it’s light we’ll pace off a thousand yards and
see if it’s possible.”

Ethan gave him a puzzled look. “How
come you’re not acting like a teacher now?”

“In the schoolroom I wear my
teacher’s hat, but out here, I put on my fun hat.”

***

“Nine hundred ninety-eight. Nine
hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.” Marcus stabbed his heel into
the ground. The boys carried long sticks that they teepee’d on his
mark. They fastened a head-size boulder on its apex, tying it all
together with a piece of string.

“General Sedgwick’s noggin.” Obie
declared, standing back to admire their work.

“Very good, gentleman. Back to
camp.” Marcus turned and stopped abruptly. The mud wagon looked
toy-like far down the long slope, but that wasn’t what caught his
eye and tingled the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Who are they?” Frank’s voice held
a wary edge.

“I don’t know.” Marcus squinted.
Four or five riders stood about the wagon. One afoot and looking
about. “We better go see.”

The riders spotted them right away
and dismounted in a casual manner, one checking a hoof, another
walking as if to stretch his back.

“That’s Mr. Billy Below,” Ethan
said when they got closer. “He rides for us sometimes.”

Marcus knew Billy, and now he
recognized Jimmy Spotted Owl and Lanny Taggart. Lanny often drove a
freight wagon for the Umberto Company. The fourth man he didn’t
know.

Billy grinned as they came up. “Hi,
teacher. Mr. Breedlove said you and your boys would be out looking
for bones.”

They shook hands. “Hello Billy.”
Marcus nodded to the others.

Frank and Obie drifted over to the
wagon and climbed up onto the tailgate. Ethan came right up and
stuck out a hand. “Howdy, Billy.”

“Ethe. Find any bones?”

“Not yet. We’re gonna do some
shootin’ first.”

“Shooting?” Billy laughed and
looked back at Marcus. “School was never this much fun when I was
going.”

“You must have attended the wrong
school, Billy.”

Billy laughed again. He was a
good-natured wrangler who made friends easily. Something of a
ladies’ man, too, Marcus had heard. Billy said, “Spied your fire
last night. Figured we’d ride over and see some of those big bones
we heard you was going to dig up.”

Jimmy Spotted Owl said, “Looked
like the whole north pasture was ablaze.”

Lanny came around the side of his
horse, slapping dust from his chaps. “Thought those Kiowas might be
getting up another war party.”

“No war party, just the boys and me
cooking dinner.”

Billy grinned. “Judging how it lit
up the place, you four must have eaten like kings.”

The man Marcus didn’t know took it
more seriously. “In this country, big fires attract unfriendly
moths.”

Marcus merely smiled and kept his
thoughts to himself. He’d spent too many unfriendly nights behind
enemy lines without a fire to give up the simple pleasure of one
now. “But it sure lays down a mighty fine bed of cooking
coals.”

Billy stepped up onto his saddle.
“We got some cows to find for Mr. Breedlove, or I’d stay and chat.
Hear you’re coming to headquarters Thursday night?”

“The boys and I have been invited
for dinner.”

“You’ll eat good. There’s no better
food between here and Wichita than in Sen Yung’s kitchen. If you
find any of them old lizard bones, bring ’em along for me and the
boys to see.”

“Will do. Thanks for stopping
by.”

The riders turned to leave, but
drew rein at the sight of six mounted men coming on at a fast
trot.

“You expecting company?” Marcus
asked.

“Those are some of the Rolling-R
wranglers.” Billy sounded worried. “Better see what they want.”

He’d no sooner got his animal
moving then all hell broke loose. With no word of warning, the
strangers drew their guns and began shooting.

Marcus grabbed Ethan and pushed him
toward the wagon.

Billy’s horse went down.

The attack had come so suddenly,
none of them had time to think. Lanny and the other man reached for
their guns while Jimmy Spotted Owl headed for ground. Like Frank,
Jimmy had natural survival instincts.

The riders came on –the staccato of
gunfire and gun smoke billowing like someone had opened the gates
of hell. A shotgun boomed and the cowboy Marcus didn’t know flipped
off the back of his horse.

Obie and Frank were still in the
wagon, bullets ripping through the wooden planks, shards of wood
flying everywhere. Marcus leaped for them, feeling a sting in his
right calf, grabbing both boys.

“Under the wagon. Now!”

A revolver shot cracked near his
ear – Lanny finally returning fire. A little ways off, Billy
scrambled to his feet, drawing his gun and firing over his shoulder
as he sprinted for the boulders. He’d almost made it when he
lurched and tumbled.

Marcus hurried the boys under the
wagon, pushing them to the ground, gunshots thundering all around
them. Lanny seemed to be holding his own, and Billy had managed to
regain his feet. He hobbled to the rocks, pouring hot lead over his
shoulder all the way.

Marcus felt helpless, unarmed. He
glanced about, and spied the unnamed cowboy sprawled nearby, his
revolver among the tawny grass.

“Keep your heads down!” Marcus
ordered. He scrambled clear of the wagon, dodging low, the fire in
his leg burning hot below his knee. He snapped up the gun and, like
Jimmy, went to ground.

The riders had fanned out, shooting
at anything that moved. Lanny was still returning fire, but
slumping in his saddle, his shirt a patchwork of scarlet.

From the boulders, Billy fired and
reloaded as fast as he was able.

Another rider careened off his
horse, slamming into the ground near Marcus. He tried to get up,
and Marcus put a slug through his brain.

Lanny downed another man, and then
followed him to the ground. That left Billy and Jimmy, and he
wasn’t so sure about Billy. Although wounded, he was still
fighting.

Jimmy Spotted Owl made a hard
target sprawled among the bunch grass, gripping his revolver in
both hands and firing methodically. Three men went down before his
hammer clicked on a spent cartridge.

Gun smoke nearly obscured the sun.
Marcus counted at least three gunmen but there might have been
others. Hard to tell now.

One of the attackers wheeled about
and galloped straight for Jimmy as the Cherokee cowboy frantically
shoved cartridges into the cylinder.

Marcus put his blade on the rider
and squeezed the trigger. The man slumped in his saddle and Jimmy
slapped the loading gate shut and knocked him off the saddle.

From out of the gun smoke a rider
came up behind him. The thunder of hooves behind him was his first
warning. Spinning around, he squeezed the trigger. The hammer
clicked harmlessly on a spent cartridge.

There was a sharp crack. And then
another. The man went limp and crashed to the ground at Marcus’s
feet. Through the acrid smoke, Frank Miller stood there with his
tiny palm gun still outthrust in his hand.

The last of the attackers reined
about and high-tailed it away. Billy stood from behind the boulder
and emptied his revolver, but the man had ridden out of range.

Marcus sprinted to the wagon,
ignoring the fire in his leg, and grabbed up the rifle he’d left on
the seat and thumbed a cap onto the nipple. As he braced the long
rifle across the seat, shoving the butt into his shoulder, the
years vanished and he was in another place, another time. The
telescopic sight against his eye felt as natural as breathing as
the crosshairs found their target. The magnification picked the
fleeing target clearly, in spite of all the smoke. Instinctively,
he calculated distance and speed, the information coming together
in his brain in some inexplicable way no one could ever
explain.