Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Read online

  A question came from the back of the room. “Why don’t we just attack them, locate their whereabouts, and get this done and over with?”

  “At some point,” Murphy said, “that might be an option. For now, though, the concern is for the safety of this town and the folks living here, particularly the women and children. Since we don’t yet know their location, we’ll stay put for a time and see if they’re bold enough to try something.”

  “So, we’re just to wait?”

  “For the time being.”

  Mayor Dawson stepped up next to Murphy. “Thank you, Sergeant. Please know that the folks here stand ready to do whatever is necessary. There’s not a man here who doesn’t own a rifle or shotgun or at least a sidearm, and all know how to use them. Not with the proficiency of you and your men, of course, but we’re a hearty lot and will gladly follow your command.”

  Murphy only nodded before making his way toward the door. “My men,” he said, “will pitch tents and bivouac on the south ridge.”

  As the sergeant left, Dawson turned to Taylor and Barclay. “You boys are welcome to bunk down at the livery. Old man Jackson’s got some spare cots he makes available to travelers. Since it was you who gave us warning, I’ll see to it that there’ll be no charge.” He stepped back and examined the two strangers. “Could be that you might want to take advantage of our laundry as well.”

  • • •

  Over the next several days, tension settled over Dawson’s Ridge. People tried to go about their daily routines, all the while wondering if the next sound they might hear would be that of war cries and gunfire. It was like being held hostage in one’s own home. Sentries manned their assigned posts and Murphy constantly rode the perimeter to make sure his men remained alert. Children, normally free to roam the town and play along the creek bank, remained close to their concerned mothers.

  “I’ve enjoyed about all the waiting I can abide,” Taylor said as he stood in front of the livery grooming Magazine. He and Barclay took their turns as lookouts at night and mingled with the townspeople during the day. They were wearing clean clothes for the first time in weeks and enjoying the coffee brewed each morning at the Social Center. Still, they found time weighing heavily. “I see no good that can come of this,” he added.

  The waiting ended the following night. With a waning moon low on the horizon, a small party of Comanches approached the town armed with Winchesters and bows. Blending into the shadows, they silently approached two guards on the southern ridge and quickly subdued them. After cutting the settlers’ throats, they mounted their ponies and fired shots into the air and rode away.

  A panic spread when the two dead men were brought to the center of town, their bodies stretched across horses and covered by military blankets. Women cried and covered the eyes of their frightened children. A dog approached one of the horses carrying the body of his master and began to whine.

  “They’re wanting us to follow,” Sergeant Murphy said. “Most likely their plan is to lure as much of our firepower as possible away from town so they can attack in our absence.”

  “So, what’s our plan?” Barclay growled. For the first time since they’d met, Taylor saw anger in his friend’s eyes. The mayor stood by silently.

  “We’ll follow immediately and attack while the men of the town stay back to stand guard,” Murphy said. “Tracking their retreat in daylight should be no problem, and I feel certain we have far more weapons than they do. It’s time this is ended.”

  Murphy instructed the townspeople to bury the dead and continue their vigil, then led his troopers out of Dawson’s Ridge.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” Barclay muttered, but he mounted and followed, Taylor behind him.

  • • •

  They had been following the Comanches’ trail for a couple of hours when Barclay nudged his horse into a trot and moved up to ride next to the sergeant. “It ain’t likely this’ll mean anything to you,” he said, “but there’s one thing I neglected to tell you about these renegades we’re going after. I feared you might think me plumb crazy.”

  Murphy looked at him without a reply.

  “When we seen them breakin’ camp to head this way,” Barclay said, “the person leading them was a white woman.”

  The sergeant laughed. “Never heard of such a thing. I thought you said you boys were following after a woman who was kidnapped.”

  “We are. Only there’re two of them. A lady bein’ held against her will and the one who’s now ridin’ out front. It’s the latter I felt obliged to warn you about.” He told of finding the body of Hawk on the Hill floating in the creek and the earlier murder of Taylor’s father. “My guess is she’s the one responsible for both killings. What I’m sayin’ is, if you’ve got any cause to hesitate about shooting a woman, just step aside and me and my partner will gladly tend to it.”

  Taylor had ridden up and was listening to the conversation when Murphy asked what the woman looked like.

  “The Devil,” he said.

  • • •

  The narrow entrance to the canyon was barely visible, hidden in a tangle of underbrush and tumbleweeds. Murphy took his field glasses from his saddlebag and carefully scanned the walls and the plateau above for signs that a trap had been set. Seeing no movement or glint from rifle barrels, he waved his men forward. His plan was one he’d used before during his search for renegade bands. He and his troops would charge the encampment with rifles raised, demanding surrender. In most cases that had worked, since those they tracked down were often too tired, hungry, and ill to offer any resistance But if the Comanches chose to defend themselves or take flight, his men were ordered to immediately shoot to kill.

  They kicked their horses into a gallop and rode through the entrance in single file. They passed an empty draw on the left, then entered a small clearing fifty yards ahead. A short distance away they could see smoke rising from campfires. As they approached the circle of teepees near a steep bluff, they saw a few women milling about.

  From behind them came the sound of a rifle being cocked. Taylor looked around them. They had entered a box canyon with but one way in or out.

  Barclay leaned toward Taylor as he brought his rifle to his shoulder. “Don’t see no horses, and I don’t believe that draw we passed was empty,” he said just as the first shot echoed through the canyon. The soldier in front of them slumped in his saddle, blood pouring from a hole in the back of his neck. The Indian women disappeared into the teepees.

  Two dozen Comanches, wearing full war paint and screaming battle cries, approached from the same entrance through which the soldiers had traveled. Instead of hiding in the rocks above, they had waited in the draw until the soldiers had entered the canyon, then followed, blocking the only exit.

  Murphy turned to see the approaching renegades. “Begin firing,” he yelled. As he gave the order, his horse buckled beneath him as two arrows pierced its flank and it fell sideways, pinning the sergeant’s right side to the ground. He screamed and pulled himself free. His right leg was at an unnatural angle.

  He pulled his body behind the dying animal and began firing with his carbine as his men milled about and searched for cover. The smoke from the rapid exchange of gunfire clouded the floor of the canyon. Two other soldiers were shot. As their bodies pitched to the ground, their mounts were hit and fell over them. Soon the acrid scent of blood mixed with the smell of gunpowder.

  “They’re shootin’ the horses,” Barclay said. “We gotta get out of here before we’re afoot and trapped.”

  Taylor fired his Colt at a renegade charging toward him, surprised that he hit him high in the chest. Seconds later, his pistol empty, he grabbed his Winchester and began emptying it into the crowd of oncoming Comanches. Then he saw his partner’s mare go down on her front knees. More shots rang out and Barclay clutched his shoulder, his body tilting to one side as his rifle fel
l away.

  On hands and knees, he yelled at Taylor, “Get out of here. Now!”

  Taylor reined Magazine hard to the left and rode toward where Barclay lay. He reached one hand down and helped him onto the horse’s rump. “Hang on,” he said, “I’m gonna try going right through them.” He kicked Magazine in the ribs and snapped his reins and the horse took off directly into the Indians.

  The sudden charge into them surprised the ambushers focused on the men in blue uniforms. Taylor leaned forward in the saddle, his face against Magazine’s neck, and fired shots without aiming while Barclay held tightly to his waist. One of the Indians moved to cut them off. Taylor shot him and knocked him from his pony.

  Magazine galloped through the Indians and jumped over fallen bodies as he made his way to the mouth of the canyon. Not a single soldier followed.

  As they entered the canyon, Barclay looked up to see Kate Two standing on a bluff watching the massacre.

  • • •

  Magazine was quickly lathered with sweat, his breath coming in labored grunts as he raced toward the open plains. Barclay held tightly to Taylor’s waist. “Ease up,” he said. “They ain’t gonna come after us.” His voice was hoarse with pain. “They’re too busy celebratin’ their victory.”

  Taylor eased up on Magazine. He felt Barclay’s grip relax and reached back to steady the big man’s limp body. He reined his horse to a stop and eased Barclay to the ground. The wound to Tater’s shoulder had darkened one side of his shirt with blood. As Taylor examined his partner, he saw that he had also been shot just above his left knee. Using his bowie knife, Taylor cut the pant leg away and made it into a tourniquet that he quickly applied. He pressed the remainder of the bloody cloth to the shoulder wound. While checking the horizon for Comanches who might have followed, he retrieved his canteen and splashed water on Barclay’s face. His eyes fluttered, then opened.

  “You’ve got to ride,” Taylor said.

  Though Barclay was conscious, his eyes were glazed, and he was unable to get to his feet without help. With great difficulty Taylor helped him onto Magazine. “Grip the saddle horn,” he said as he climbed on behind and placed one arm around Barclay’s waist.

  “Not sure I’m gonna make it.”

  “You will.” Taylor wondered if anyone in Dawson’s Ridge’s had medical knowledge as he urged the horse into a fast trot.

  Barclay’s head was lolling from side to side and his eyes were closed by the time they reached town. An anxious crowd gathered and helped the injured rider to the ground.

  “He’s hurt bad,” Taylor said. “Is there anybody here who knows doctoring?”

  A skinny young man wearing overalls and a straw hat pushed his way forward. “That would be me,” he said. “Fetch him over to my place.” He looked at Barclay’s wounds. “And be quick about it.”

  Sloan Reynolds had spent his younger days hoping to one day go back East and study to become a doctor. However, financial hard times had killed the dream long before he and his bride had joined the wagon train that found its way to Dawson’s Ridge. What he knew about medicine had been self-taught as he’d learned to care for his family’s livestock and tend the small aches and pains of neighbors. He’d mended broken bones and once stitched up a man who had been in a knife fight, but had never before dealt with a gunshot wound.

  Taylor placed Barclay on a bed as Reynolds’s wife brought a basin of hot water and towels from her kitchen. Reynolds cleaned dried blood away from the wounds and saw that the shot to the shoulder had entered the front and exited the back. “That would be the good news,” he said. “The bad news is that there’s still a bullet in his leg that will need to be removed.”

  He looked at Taylor. “Hurry over to the Social Center and tell them we’ll be needing a jug of whiskey.”

  Minutes later, as Reynolds’s wife applied damp cloths to Barclay’s forehead in an attempt to reduce his fever, Taylor held a tin cup to his lips, urging him to sip the whiskey. Tater swallowed and managed a pained grin. “That,” he whispered, “is about the only good thing that’s occurred all day. Aside from the fact that I didn’t get myself scalped, of course.” Then he removed the towel from his forehead and put a corner of it in his mouth and bit down.

  Once Barclay was drunk and a knife sterilized, Reynolds removed the bullet, then began stitching the wounds with needle and thread from his wife’s sewing basket. “He seems a hardy fella,” he said. “If we make sure the bleeding don’t start up again and keep him lying still, there’s a good chance he’ll be okay.”

  Taylor was bathed in sweat as he walked from the cabin. He could barely move. The events of the day—the gun battle, the race to get back to Dawson’s Bluff, and the ordeal he’d just viewed—had left him so weak that he needed to brace himself against the railing on the front porch. Townspeople stood waiting to learn what had happened. Mayor Dawson stepped forward and placed an arm across his shoulder.

  “We was ambushed,” Thad said, “Made fools of. Me and Tater were the only ones to get away. I can’t rightful say what the Indians are of a mind to do next. Some of them died as well. But we’ll need to continue careful watch, day and night, should they choose to attack.”

  With that he returned to Barclay’s side, where he would remain for the next two days and nights.

  Despite the offer to stay at the Reynoldses’ cabin while he recuperated, Barclay insisted that he be helped back to the livery where his cot awaited. Though still in pain and not yet able to walk, he had regained his senses and ill temper—a good sign, Taylor felt. Reynolds checked on him several times a day, applying fresh bandages and making sure there was no infection. Women of the town arrived with broth and loaves of warm bread.

  And as the days passed, a quiet settled over the community. Though the guard posts were constantly manned and the blockades stayed in place, there was no sighting of the Comanches.

  It was early evening when the mayor appeared at the livery, carrying a small jar of whiskey. “Seemed to me it was high time to drink to your good health,” he said as he handed cups to Barclay and Taylor. The three men drank in silence before Dawson continued. “I’ve got something on my mind that I’d admire to get your opinion on,” he said as he looked at Taylor. “As you’re no doubt aware, folks are nervous about the possibility of the savages killing more of our people. The folks of our fine community are of good, strong stock—to be sure—but my worry is that nervousness is likely to cause some unwanted behavior. Can’t say what form it might take, but it gives me cause for concern. From what I hear, there’s been more drinking down at the Social Center of late and tempers have occasionally flared.

  “It’s that, and the fact that we’re in need of leadership I’m not qualified to give that brings me here with my question.”

  Taylor glanced down at Barclay, who only held out his cup for a refill.

  “Mr. Taylor, I find that what we’re in need of is a town marshal, someone folks can look up to in this dangerous time. Is it possible that in your background is some experience as a lawman?”

  Barclay responded first. “Back in Kansas,” he said, “he was once officially deputized. Seen him sworn in myself. I reckon that still holds even if he’s lacking a badge. You want my opinion, he’d make a right fine town marshal.”

  “In that case,” Dawson said, “I’m officially offering you the job. Just what we might be able to pay for your services, I can’t for sure say.”

  Taylor looked at both of them and was silent for a few moments. “I’ll need some time to think on it,” he said. “And if I do agree, it will be only for a brief time, until this matter with the renegades is resolved and my friend here is back in good health. We’ve still got matters to tend to that have nothing to do with Dawson’s Ridge.”

  “Fair enough,” the mayor said. “Sleep on it and we’ll talk again in the morning.” With that he raised his cup in a farewell salute and depa
rted, leaving the half-full jar of whiskey behind.

  Barclay grunted. “Well, well, well . . . I ’spect you’d better pour me another,” he said, “so I can properly drink to the fact that I’m now ridin’ with a man of the law.”

  “You know better than any that my qualifications are slim.”

  Barclay’s expression turned serious. “Since my mind’s cleared,” he said, “I’ve been lyin’ here doing a lot of thinking. First off, I ain’t properly thanked you for saving my life. Not that it’s worth all that much, but I do appreciate it. Second, I was wonderin’ about your thoughts on what occurred up in that canyon.”

  “We should never have allowed ourselves to be drawn into that kind of trap.”

  “I’d say that was more the responsibility of Sergeant Murphy—God rest his soul—than any concern of yours. I was right proud of the way you handled yourself once all the shootin’ started.”

  “Truth is, I was scared to death.”

  “Which is a natural thing,” Barclay said. “What I was mostly wonderin’ about was your feelings over havin’ to kill somebody, even though it was only an Indian. My guess is that was your first time.”

  Taylor nodded.

  “I’d be surprised if it’s the last before we get ourselves back home,” Barclay said.

  • • •

  In the distant canyon, the dead Comanche warriors had been wrapped in buffalo skins and buried beneath mounds of rocks. Late into the night mournful chants rang through the encampment. Kate Two called the remainder of her followers together and praised their victory, then asked for silence as she reached out to the souls of those who had lost their lives. “They are in a happy place,” she said, “sitting at the sides of their fathers and preparing to follow the large herds of buffalo. You are not to worry about them. There are no white devils for as far as their eyes can see.”

  The ceremony came to an end when the disemboweled bodies of the soldiers were thrown into a ravine and set ablaze. Nearby, the hides of their slaughtered horses were already stretched on frames and drying.