Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Read online

  It was another talent, however, that most intrigued travelers. Kate Two claimed the mystic ability to communicate with the dead. For a dollar, the same price she charged for a visit to her bed, she would conduct séances once a meal was finished and the table cleared. With a flair for the dramatic, her eyes would roll and her head would jerk as she reached out to passed loved ones and communicated their reassuring thoughts to mesmerized onlookers.

  Along the Osage Trail, Kate Two was becoming something of a celebrity.

  • • •

  Thad Taylor had felt a growing sense of uneasiness as he traveled back southward, stopping to ask settlers and townsfolk if they might have seen his father. None, however, recognized the man in the picture he showed. It was as if Doc Taylor had simply vanished.

  Thad spent a morning in the small settlement of Thayer, getting no positive response from shopkeepers or passersby. The town marshal was asleep in his tiny office when Taylor entered and roused him. He grumpily said he’d not seen the man in the photograph before, placed his booted feet back atop his desk, and was again snoring even before his visitor left. Down the street, an elderly gentleman, repairing the broken axle of a traveler’s wagon, had suggested that he might want to make a stop at the next way station. “It’s only about five miles down the way, where you meet up with the Osage,” he said, pointing southward. “You’ll see it just ’fore you get to Big Hill Creek. Likely there’ll be a number of folks to inquire to once you get there.

  “If nothing else,” he added with a smile and a wink, “I hear tell you’ll find a mighty pretty young lady living there.”

  • • •

  It was nearing noon when Taylor saw John Bender hoeing in the garden. “Young fella,” Bender called out as he tilted his hat back and wiped his brow with an oily bandanna, “it looks as if you’re headed the wrong way. Most folks are traveling west these days. Why don’t you get down and come on into the house? You look like you could use something to eat and something to wet your whistle.”

  As he issued the invitation, a young man who appeared to be close to Taylor’s age peeked from the corner of the cabin, a grin on his freckled face. “Howdy, howdy, mister. Howdy, howdy,” he shouted, then broke into laughter as he began flapping his skinny arms. Then he disappeared.

  “That there’s my boy,” Bender said. “He’s a bit touched, as you can see. But he’s a hard worker and does what he’s told, so I ain’t complaining none.”

  The inside of the cramped cabin had the odor of lard too often used, boiled turnips, and a faint metallic smell Taylor didn’t recognize. Kate Bender stood at the woodstove, sweat beading across her forehead and a dip of snuff protruding from her bottom lip as she removed a pan of corn bread and placed it on the table. She ladled a cup of water from a barrel that sat near the doorway and handed it to the visitor.

  “It vas jus draw from vell,” she said in broken English. “Maybe it still can be cool.” She motioned for him to sit at the table.

  “You’re more likely to feel some breeze if you sit on the side by the curtain,” her husband suggested.

  Just before Thad took his seat, the canvas parted and Kate Two appeared. Her long black hair fell across shoulders that were exposed by a white peasant blouse, her blue eyes quickly settling on the visitor. “Can’t say I’ve seen you here before,” she said. Her voice had a lilt to it, free of her mother’s accent.

  “Never been here before,” Taylor said as he sipped at the turnip soup, which proved to be foul-tasting.

  “So, what is it that brings you this way?”

  Taylor pulled the framed photograph from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “I’m looking for this man,” he said.

  He looked so intently at the face of the young woman seated across from him that he didn’t notice the quick exchange of glances between the elder Benders.

  “Yes, I do recall him,” she said. “He stopped in a while back to water his horse and purchase a jar of Mama’s peaches. A fine old gentleman, he was. We exchanged words for a bit and he seemed seriously interested in taking advantage of my gift.”

  “And what gift might that be?”

  “I, sir, am a spiritualist.” She smiled. “Blessed with the special ability to make contact with the departed.”

  “You mean you talk to dead folks.”

  “That’s exactly right,” she said, ignoring his skeptical tone. “I felt there was someone he wanted me to reach out to, but he said he was already late arriving at his destination and took his leave. I urged him to stop in another time when he was of a mind. It was my opinion I would be seeing him again.

  “Is it your fear that he might have run into deadly trouble with Indians? Maybe you’d like me to try to make contact with your friend.”

  “I don’t recall saying anything about him being a friend.”

  Kate Bender began wiping crumbs of corn bread from the table and looked across the room at her husband. “Time for you get back to working,” she said. John Bender reached into his trousers pocket, pulled out his watch, and nodded.

  Taylor’s pulse quickened at the brief glimpse of the gold pocket watch. It looked exactly like one his father had carried for as long as he could remember. His first thought was to rip it from the old man’s hand and challenge him about the whereabouts of the doctor. Instead he took a deep breath and said, “Mighty nice-looking watch you’re carrying.” He tossed two of Sister’s dimes on the table.

  Without reply, an ashen John Bender turned and was out the door, moving swiftly in the direction of the barn. The two women stood silently, their faces vacant stares.

  “Fact is, I found that watch to be familiar-looking,” Taylor said, “and it makes me wonder a bit what else might have taken place here when my father visited.”

  Though neither of the women responded, he was overcome by a feeling of uneasiness. The sweltering cabin suddenly felt cold and threatening. Would the old man return from the barn with a gun?

  “I reckon I’ll be stopping back again real soon,” he said as he quickly made his way out the door and mounted his horse.

  He nudged Magazine into a trot and as he rode away he could hear a high-pitched voice chanting, “Howdy, howdy, mister. Howdy. Howdy,” then an insane laughter that was now far more chilling than amusing.

  Taylor hurried back toward Thayer as storm clouds rumbled along the horizon. Something, he was certain, was wrong. Some manner of harm had come to his father during his stop at the strange way station he’d just visited.

  He needed to talk with the marshal.

  • • •

  Brantley Thorntree was slight and bony, half a foot shorter than the man who had already interrupted his morning sleep once that day. An unruly beard hid much of his face, and his clothes hung on him like a scarecrow’s as he rose from his chair on the boardwalk in front of the jail. Only the deep growl of his voice hinted at the authority one might expect of a lawman.

  “Mighty short trip,” he said. He looked westward toward the approaching cloud bank. “I reckon you’ve come to seek shelter before the storm arrives.”

  “Truth is, I’m in need of your help,” Taylor said as he dismounted.

  “Come have a sit and tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Taylor recounted his journey and its purpose, ending his story with the fact that he was certain the watch he’d seen in John Bender’s hand belonged to his missing father. “Marshal, there’s something strange going on down at that foul-smelling place,” he said, his words coming more rapidly. “Seems to me everybody there is half-crazy or worse. There’s a dim-witted son and a sister who claims to have special powers to talk with dead folks. The old woman barely speaks the language and the old man, he seems to just do whatever pleases her.”

  “They’s a lot of strange folks moving out this way these days.” The marshal spat into the street. “Can’t say what you�
��re describing is all that unusual, though I have heard tell of the pretty young woman who offers a variety of special favors. Not that I know about them firsthand, mind you.

  “Let me think on it,” he said. “Can’t do nothing till this storm clears anyway. Best you hurry on down to the livery and get you and your horse a dry place to stay the night. My old bones tell me we got us a frog-strangler coming our way.”

  • • •

  The storm hit with a vengeance. Loud claps of thunder rattled the walls of the stable where Taylor lay, head resting on the saddle he’d removed from Magazine. Though he was weary and distraught, rest evaded him as his horse nervously paced the small stall. Outside, the sky had blackened long before sundown, and the rain beat against the roof with a roar.

  He could not rid his thoughts of the scene that had played out at the way station.

  Or of his father. Was it possible that an educated man like him could have believed the claims of a young woman boasting powers to reach out to those who had passed? Had he, in desperation and sadness, been convinced that, for a dollar’s price, he might hear the comforting words of his wife one more time? And, if so, had it led to yet another family tragedy? What, he wondered, would he say to Sister upon his return if his dark concerns proved true? If there was real truth to the dreams she’d told him about?

  The questions raced through his mind late into the night.

  There was a squeak of the hinges on the livery door and a figure appeared, a lantern flickering at his side. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat and down the slicker he wore. “You in here, boy?” It was the voice of Marshal Thorntree.

  “I figured the thunder was most likely keeping you awake,” he said. “Me, I don’t get much sleep nights, no matter what the weather. I reckon that’s why you caught me snoozing earlier in the day. We need to do some more talking.”

  Taylor rose, brushing hay from his pants, but made no response.

  “Truth is,” the marshal said, “you ain’t the first to come to me with a concern for lost kinfolk. People been disappearing along the trail now for some time. I didn’t give it much mind, thinking there was all manner of explanation. Maybe they lost their pioneering spirit and turned back or fell ill or got themselves killed by savages who still take leave of their reservations now and again.

  “I never made no connection to the Bender place till you brought it to mind. But now that I’ve thought on it, seems all the bad things I’ve been hearing about took place down that way.” He cleared his throat and shook rain from his hat. “Anyways, as soon as this storm passes, I’m gonna deputize me a few men here in town and go down there for a look-see and some conversation with those folks.”

  “I’ll be wanting to go along,” Taylor said.

  “In that case, consider yourself rightfully deputized.” With that he turned and walked back into the watery night.

  The driving rain, the likes of which eastern Kansas had seldom before seen, continued for two days.

  • • •

  Four men were already waiting with Marshal Thorntree when Taylor arrived in front of the jail to finally begin the morning ride to the Benders’ place. Though a clear blue sky greeted them, the three-day storm had left the street a chocolate quagmire. Standing pools of rainwater made the street look like a stagnant riverbed. There were no wagons or buggies in sight and few other people aside from idle shopkeepers stirred.

  “Gonna be mighty slow going, I’m afraid,” the marshal said as the newly deputized men sat along the boardwalk, scraping mud from their boots.

  “This here’s my deputies,” he said after a brief nod to Taylor. “Tater Barclay here, he’s kinda my full-time, part-time deputy when he ain’t drunk or tending his place.” The burly man with oversized arms that strained against the sleeves of his flannel shirt nodded at him. “These boys are Jason and Mason Weatherby, fairly good for nothing mostly, but they’ll have to do.”

  The twin brothers flashed identical smiles. “Reckon you get what you pay for, Marshal,” Mason Weatherby shot back.

  “And this,” Thorntree continued, “is Brother Winfrey. He does our preaching.”

  Though surprised that a man of the cloth would be riding with them, Taylor only nodded in the direction of the slightly built man whose long, prematurely silver hair reached to his shoulders.

  Brother Winfrey stood to extend a handshake. “I’ve not always had the calling,” he said. “Rode with Sterling Price and the Missouri State Guard back in the day.” He tapped a hand against the handle of a ten-year-old army-issue Colt that hung at his side.

  “Now that we’ve made our proper acquaintances,” the marshal said, “we’d best mount up and be on our way.”

  He rode point, followed by the twins, Barclay, and the preacher. Taylor brought up the rear.

  “Anybody rides hisself off into a gully and gets drowned,” Thorntree yelled back at his posse, “we ain’t stopping for you.”

  Chapter 4

  The six riders remained in their saddles, staring toward the ramshackle cabin’s open doorway, the sign that had promised food and lodging swinging in the gentle breeze from the one nail that still held it in place. The snorting of their mounts was the only interruption to the silence.

  “Hello, the house,” Marshal Thorntree called out.

  When there was no response, he instructed Barclay and the twins to check the barn. He, the preacher, and Taylor headed toward the cabin.

  Inside, debris was scattered across the dirt floor. Footprints of scavenging coyotes crisscrossed the room.

  “Don’t look like there was much for the critters to find here,” the marshal said as Taylor pulled back the canvas that separated the single room. “Cleaned out back here too,” he said. Only the frame of the bed remained.

  Barclay joined them. “Only thing out in the barn is a milk cow badly in need of tending. I give her some hay and seen she had fresh water. By the looks of tracks, there was once a wagon there, but it’s gone.”

  Thorntree looked around the deserted cabin. “Appears to me these folks took their leave in a bit of a hurry.” He pointed toward the shelf where rows of Kate Bender’s canning jars were still in place. “Me, if I’m planning to move on, I’d figure on taking some food along.”

  Taylor called out from the opposite side of the curtain, “Something here you need to see, Marshal.” He’d pushed the bed aside and was standing over a hole that led to what appeared to be a cellar. A ladder disappeared into the darkness below.

  “I seen a lantern out in the barn,” Barclay said.

  “Go fetch it,” the marshal said.

  Even before the deputy returned, Taylor was aware of the metallic odor he’d been unable to recognize on his earlier visit. Now, though, it was stronger, more cloying. Once he and the marshal had made their way into the cramped cellar, the stench was so strong that both men placed a forearm against their faces. Thorntree was holding the lantern above his head when the preacher joined them. The three stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the small earthen room.

  “I know that smell all too well,” Brother Winfrey said. “It’s not one you’ll likely ever forget.”

  Taylor looked at the preacher. “From your soldiering days?”

  He nodded, silently pointing to dark spots on the wall and floor that were visible even in the lantern’s faint glow. “The Devil’s work has been done in this godforsaken hole,” he whispered. “Folks have died here.”

  Bile rose in Taylor’s throat as he hurried up the ladder and away from the cabin. Outside, hands against his knees, he heaved as the muscles of his stomach knotted and the ground around him spun.

  • • •

  The Weatherby twins had made an even more chilling discovery. Their boots caked with doughy mud, their faces suddenly white, they urged the marshal to follow them to the orchard located no more than a hundred yards from the cabin. “We
was trying to follow the tracks of their wagon,” Jason said, “when we come upon something strange.”

  “Yessir, mighty strange,” Mason added breathlessly.

  The deluge had washed soil away, baring the roots of many of the trees. Pears and peaches lay scattered, knocked from limbs by the pelting rains. In several places there were sunken areas where loose dirt had settled.

  “Right yonder.” Jason pointed toward one of the indentations. A decaying arm reached up from a shallow grave, its discolored hand wrapped into a clenched fist.

  Brother Winfrey fell to his knees and began to pray.

  The marshal tugged his hat tighter as he began to count the number of low spots that were visible. “Looks like we’re gonna be needing us some help,” he said. He helped the preacher to his feet and instructed him to ride back to Thayer. “Gather up some folks for digging. And alert Doc Libby we’ll need his wagon and some burlap for wrapping soon as he can get it here.”

  Taylor was already walking toward the barn to see what tools old man Bender might have left behind.

  In the following days word spread quickly of the horrific discovery on the Benders’ place. In addition to a dozen men from Thayer who had returned with Brother Winfrey, neighboring settlers began arriving on horseback. Some came by wagon, bringing picnic baskets and spreading blankets wherever they could find a dry spot that afforded a good view of the gruesome drama being played out.

  Joining those who returned with the preacher was Ashley Ambrose, editor of the Thayer Observer, who mingled among the onlookers and workers to gather information for a story he was sure would be unlike any he’d ever written.

  By the end of the third day, ten bodies had been exhumed. Among them was that of Dr. Taylor, the back of his skull shattered and his throat slashed. In another grave, workers found a man an onlooker identified as George Loncher, who had last been seen a month earlier, leaving for a trip to the nearby settlement of Harmony Grove. Most of the bodies examined by Doc Libby as they were brought to him in the barn were so badly decomposed that it was unlikely they would ever be identified.