Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Page 11

  Chapter 14

  In the days following the massacre of the soldiers, the mood of Dawson’s Ridge was far calmer than Thad Taylor had anticipated. The barricades at each end of town remained in place and the routine of standing guard was continued by the men while the women went about their daily chores in small groups, their children never out of sight. Still, with each passing day the threat of an attack seemed a more distant concern. The townspeople appeared to be resigned to the situation and had chosen to view it more as a short-term inconvenience that would soon be resolved.

  Tater Barclay was a different story. As he slowly mended, his arm in a sling and walking with a crutch, he had begun turning away the offers of food brought by the women, complained when Sloan Reynolds would appear to redress his wounds, and hobbled about town with a constant scowl on his face. “Being stove up like this,” he confided to Taylor, “makes a man of no use.” He had begun spending hours in the Social Center, drinking whiskey while the rest of Dawson’s Ridge went about its business.

  One evening, after making his rounds to see that armed guards were in their places and women and children were safely inside their houses, Taylor sought out his traveling partner and found him seated alone in a darkened corner of the Social Center. His head rested on a table and he was snoring loudly.

  Thad put his hand on Barclay’s good shoulder and shook him awake. “Time we get on over to the livery,” he said.

  Barclay slowly raised his head. “Well, if it ain’t the marshal come to fetch the town drunk,” he said, his watery eyes squinted as he looked up. “This makes me feel right to home.”

  The night air had helped sober him by the time they reached the livery. Barclay sat on his cot. “I apologize for not bein’ much use to you of late,” he said. “Never been crippled up before and I’m havin’ a devil of a time dealin’ with it.”

  “Seems you’re dealing with more than being stove up,” Taylor said. In the weeks they had ridden together, he had come to recognize his partner’s moods. And since the nights when he’d sat beside Barclay’s bed, wondering if he would survive, there was a question he’d wanted to ask. Now was as good a time as any.

  “I got something to speak with you about that’s likely none of my business,” he said.

  “Speak away. I got no secrets worth keeping.”

  “Back when you was fighting your fever and talking crazy in your sleep, you kept calling out to somebody name of Ray Boy. I kept thinking maybe it was kin I’d need to be in touch with if you took a turn for the worse and died on me.”

  Tater bent his head into his hands and didn’t reply for quite some time. “He was my brother,” he said. “My younger brother.”

  “By your speaking in the past tense, I get the strong impression he’s no longer living.”

  Barclay shook his head and told of accompanying his brother and his family from Arkansas to stake claims in Kansas. “They found them a nice little place and after I helped ’em get settled in, I went lookin’ for me a spot of my own, the one you seen when you returned my wagon.

  “It wasn’t no more than a couple of miles away from ’em, but it was distance enough to give us both our privacy. I’d ride over and visit on most Sundays, playin’ with the young’uns and helpin’ Ray Boy with whatever needed an extra hand. His wife was a fine cook and would always serve up a good meal before it was time for me to head home.

  “They were about as happy as folks got a right to be.”

  Taylor had left his chair and stood leaning against a wall.

  Barclay recalled the morning he’d seen the distant smoke rising from his brother’s place and of arriving to find the entire family dead, their house and barn reduced to ashes. “Never in my life, before or since, have I felt the kind of anger I did that day. That was the cause for me to join up and become an Indian fighter for a time to see that every last one of them no-good savages died a terrible death. The sad feelings never went away—still haven’t—but after a while I just got plumb weary of carryin’ around all that hate. No matter what I might do, it wasn’t gonna bring Ray Boy and his family back. I ain’t sure I’m proud of it, but what I chose to do was give up on the idea of revenge and see if I could move on with my own life.

  “Then you showed up talkin’ of the killin’ of your pa and the kidnapping of that boy’s mama, and I understood what it was you were feeling. All of what I’d tried to put away—losin’ my only kin, my feelings for the Comanche devils—returned. Like it had been just hiding in the back of my mind, lookin’ for a way to come forward again. And it has. I don’t rightly know how to deal with the feelings, but they now come to me in my sleep and accompany me through my days. Like somethin’ ain’t been finished and needs to be.”

  Taylor felt a sadness sweep over him as he listened. He finally understood Barclay’s willingness to travel along with him. He’d never for a minute considered it a “fool’s journey.” Rather, it was something he’d long waited to do.

  “Maybe together,” Taylor said, “we can see it done.”

  Barclay stretched out on his cot. “Not till I can get to where I ain’t walkin’ around like I’m a hunnerd years old.”

  “Ornery as you seem to be, I’m betting that won’t be too long.”

  For the first time in days, Tater was smiling as Taylor left the livery to go check on those standing watch.

  • • •

  The following morning Barclay awoke to the sound of a bell ringing, at first thinking it was his imagination or perhaps the lingering effect of the previous evening’s whiskey binge. Getting to his feet, he reached for his crutch and hobbled into the street.

  A pretty young woman, her hair the gold of fresh hay, sat astride a mule, ringing a hand bell as she rode toward the middle of town. Following behind was a man dressed entirely in black, his deep-set eyes looking out from a face that was almost skeletal. He was holding a Bible against his chest.

  Only after a small crowd had gathered did the bell-ringing cease. Staying in his saddle, the man tipped his hat, then spread his bony arms wide. “I am come to bring God’s word of salvation, directed to your fine town by the Holy Spirit’s guiding hand,” he said. “I’m the Reverend Jerusalem Chadway, and traveling with me is my daughter, Joy.” With a smile he added, “And you can rightfully believe me when I tell you she is most aptly named since she has accompanied me on this long and difficult mission that’s taken us from town to town, buffalo camps to way stations, tawdry saloons to even the most vile of houses of ill repute.”

  Taylor was returning from the pasture where the cattle were being watched over and brought Magazine to a halt near Barclay. “What’s all the commotion about?”

  “Seems we’re bein’ visited by one of them saddlebag preachers,” Barclay said. “I only heard a bit of what he has to say, but I’m already right certain he’s crazy as a snakebit donkey. No man with a whit of good sense would bring his daughter along with him into these parts.”

  Even Mayor Dawson hesitated before approaching the strange-looking man. “All travelers are welcome to Dawson’s Ridge,” he finally said as he extended a hand. “If it’s preaching you’re here to do, I ’spect you’re likely to find a good number of listeners.”

  Reverend Chadway bowed his head. “It isn’t always that we’re so well greeted.”

  Taylor made his way through the crowd for a closer look at the preacher, who was using his hat to beat the dust from his threadbare suit. “I’m wondering which way you folks came from,” he said, “and if you’ve seen any sign of Indians about.”

  “Oh my, yes. Our travels have taken us onto the reservations where we’ve told the heathens of the Almighty’s glory. I’m not claiming that we’ve succeeded in enlisting a great number of followers yet, but it is our calling to try.”

  “I ain’t speaking of reservation Indians, Reverend. I’m talking of those who roam these parts and wish harm to whi
te folks.”

  Chadway nodded. “Unfortunately I hear there are those about, though it has been God’s will that we have not crossed their path. There was some mention just a few days back of a stagecoach that was waylaid and robbed as it was making its way to Lone Oak. I’m told that the driver and those aboard met an unfortunate end.”

  As he spoke, the women were escorting his daughter toward the Social Center and urging the preacher to follow. “Let’s get you folks out of the heat,” the mayor’s wife said as she took Joy’s arm and led the way.

  It was clear the ladies of Dawson’s Ridge were far more excited than the men over religion coming to town. At the wives’ urging, two of the unused army tents were moved to a spot near the livery, the visitors’ mounts were tended, and basins of water for bathing delivered. The preacher and his daughter were invited to share the evening meal with the Reynolds family.

  “How long will you be staying?” Katie Reynolds asked after Reverend Chadway blessed the meal and gave a lengthy thanks for the hospitality that had been extended.

  The preacher was not a man of short answers. “Our schedule is not of our making,” he said. “Rather, it is dictated by a higher power. It is my responsibility to tend the needs of those I meet along the way. Some, it seems, need more than others. If the folks here are of a mind, I’ll gladly do preaching on Sunday, morning and evening, And I have no doubt my daughter can be persuaded to lead a bit of singing. She has a voice to be envied, as you’ll soon learn.”

  And while no one asked, he was soon off on his personal history. His grandfather and father had been preachers, he said, helping build churches in small communities throughout Louisiana. “I took to the pulpit myself at age thirteen,” he said. He was almost fifty when called to serve as a circuit rider, and for the past two years he had traveled through the eastern and central parts of Texas and up into Indian Territory. “My wife, a refined and genteel woman, did not embrace my new calling and simply wished me well. Last I heard, she was living somewhere near New Orleans in the company of a wealthy lumber mill owner. I pray for her soul nightly before I sleep.”

  He looked across the table at his daughter, who had not said a word since the meal was served. “Others better understood the nature of what I was asked to do and agreed to accompany me. Praise be to God.”

  • • •

  Taylor had made the first of his nightly rounds of the lookout stations and was on his way to check on Barclay when he saw the preacher sitting on a stool in front of his newly pitched tent, puffing on a corncob pile.

  “Mighty fine evening,” the preacher said.

  “So far.”

  “I spoke with Mr. Reynolds earlier in the evening and he told me of your concern that renegades might be planning to attack. That explains the barricades we faced as we entered town and the fact that all the menfolk are carrying guns. As you likely know, it goes against my beliefs and preachings to bear arms. Thus, aside from praying mightily for the town’s safekeeping, I fear I can be of little use in this matter.”

  Before Taylor could respond, another voice spoke. “Mr. Reynolds also said that you’ve been recently picked to be the town marshal,” Joy Chadway said as she stood in front of the adjacent tent, running a brush through her hair. “It was my impression that he feels much better with you now keeping watch over things.”

  Her voice instantly reminded Thad of his sister, and he couldn’t recall when he’d seen a woman so pretty. But before he could even tip his hat in response, she disappeared into her tent.

  Only as he was riding away did it occur to him that he’d failed to ask the preacher if he’d heard any mention of a woman leading the stagecoach attack he’d spoken of earlier in the day.

  Chapter 15

  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 o
ld 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.”