Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Page 7

  “Am I guessing right that it wasn’t the first time you’ve shot a man dead?”

  Barclay chuckled. “And it ain’t likely it’s gonna be the last. From here on, we’ll do our sleeping with one eye open.” He pointed toward Taylor’s hip and the preacher’s holstered Colt. “Better figure on usin’ that sidearm soon.”

  By nightfall, they were nearing the base of the Cookson Hills.

  As they made their way along a powdery red trail that ascended into an endless canopy of trees, they became aware of signs of life. Whispery clouds of smoke rose from cabins so deeply hidden in the woods they were barely visible. As they rode higher, the faint sound of children playing could be heard.

  “Welcome to the back end of nowhere,” Barclay said. “Know that we’re bein’ watched. I’d advise your best behavior from here on and let me do the talking if it’s needed.”

  • • •

  A mile away, on the highest of the hills, a sentry climbed from his post and rushed to find Big Boone Stallings. “Strangers coming,” he said. “Two riders with a couple of mules trailing.”

  “Indians?”

  “White men, it appears.”

  “Ride down and tell them I ain’t in the market for more mules,” Boone said. “If it’s a place to hide out they’re seeking, tell them to go looking elsewhere. If they’re wearing badges, shoot ’em and feed ’em to the hogs.”

  Chapter 9

  The hilltop clearing appeared abruptly as the riders emerged from the tree-sheltered trail. Word had already spread that strangers were being brought along, and several gathered to see who they might be. “Ain’t Indians,” one boy whispered to another. A woman standing over a large kettle making lard stopped her stirring to watch the arrival. Big Boone sat silently on his porch, arms across his chest, his thick fingers interlocked as he watched a bantam hen and her chicks peck at the hardened ground. A large Mexican sombrero shaded his eyes.

  Taylor and Barclay were led to Stallings’s cabin and told to dismount. Thad had been surprised that his traveling partner had willingly agreed to hand their weapons over when they were stopped.

  “I’m guessing your purpose here ain’t to be bringing my mules back,” Stallings said. “Though I appreciate the gesture, truth is I got no use for the stupid animals. Or the men who was riding them when I sent them on their way. I hope you boys seen to it they didn’t get far.”

  Barclay nodded.

  “They made the poor decision of getting drunk and trying to steal from me,” Stallings said. “If they hadn’t been kin—cousins, I’m told, though I ain’t sure I ever believed it—they’d never have left these hills. Being generous in my old age, I sent ’em riding out on those broke-down mules with a warning never to come back.

  “I’m guessing that they tried to rob you as well and are most likely now dead. If I’d had a say, you would have stripped ’em buck naked and barefoot and sent ’em walking among the wolves.”

  He nodded to one of his men, who hurried to the porch to help him to his feet. The simple effort stirred a wheezing deep in Stallings’s chest.

  Barclay’s eyes had not left his face. Big Boone steadied himself against a cedar post that held a corner of the porch roof in place and returned the stare. “Should I recall knowing you?”

  “I reckon not,” Barclay said.

  • • •

  He had been even younger than Taylor, tracking the buffalo herds across the northern plains of Kansas. On the hunt for months, killing and skinning the lumbering animals, spending the last hours of daylight scraping and salting the hides before stretching them to dry in the next day’s sun. It was a hard and lonely undertaking, which Barclay endured only by focusing his thoughts on the money his efforts would bring.

  One night, as he sat near a small campfire, bone-tired and dreaming of the time he could return to St. Jo as a man of means and marry Jolene Cavanaugh, half a dozen men rode into his camp, guns drawn. He’d not even had time to reach for his rifle before one of the riders’ horses was spurred to lunge toward him, its sharp hooves cutting into his flesh and snapping his collarbone. He was beaten and knocked unconscious by the time the robbers gathered his hides and rode away, leaving him for dead.

  Before passing out, Barclay saw that the leader, sitting astride a big bay, wore a sombrero, his long black hair hanging well below his shoulders. He laughed as his men pounded and kicked the hunter.

  Before his swollen eyelids closed and he began to vomit, Barclay had heard one of his attackers call the leader’s name. Boone.

  For several days he was near death. Had it not been for a spring near his campsite where he sipped water and bathed his wounds, he would not likely have found the strength to retrieve his rifle and position himself against a tree trunk where he could watch for any further attacks from man or beast. There were days and nights—he couldn’t recall how many exactly—of fevered dreams and a constant ringing in his head. Finally his body healed and his mind cleared.

  His first thought was to immediately seek revenge against those who had robbed him. Then, as the rage subsided, his focus returned. He had come to hunt buffalo and collect their hides, and even if hindered by the makeshift sling he fashioned to protect his collarbone, he would begin to rebuild his lost fortune as soon as he could ride. Finding the man called Boone would have to wait.

  And in time the raw memories of the assault and robbery waned. When Jolene had rejected him, he became a man without purpose, all feelings gone numb. Even summoning anger over what had been done to him was difficult. Months later, when he’d seen the Wanted poster for Boone Stallings and was told that he had likely fled into Indian Territory, Barclay had little interest in tracking him down. All he wanted to do was forget the past. And over the years the wounds, both physical and of the spirit, slowly healed, all but forgotten.

  Until the young man from Independence returned his wagon and spoke of his own need for revenge.

  • • •

  Now whatever remnant of hatred he still held to had vanished the moment he saw the old man, his body bloated, his sunken eyes watery, and his stringy hair now white. Taking his life would be a kindness, releasing him from a misery far worse than death.

  Instead, as he’d chosen to do so long ago, he concentrated on his new purpose.

  “Our apologies for comin’ to you with no invite,” Barclay said. “We’ll be on our way as soon as you’ll allow me a few questions. It’s only information we’re seeking.”

  “I’ve got little of that I’m willing to part with.”

  “My understanding is that from time to time the Comanches visit these hills to do selling and trading. What might go on in these parts ain’t of our concern, or wasn’t until a short time back when they rode away from Kansas with a couple of womenfolk we’re now in search of.”

  “I buy no women,” Stallings said. “Too much trouble. Other items of interest, maybe, but no women, white, Indian, or half-breed. It ain’t smart business. The only market for them is way farther south, past Texas and down into Mexico. It’s there you should be headed.”

  “These Indians who visit, where is it they come from?”

  “A few travel from the reservations to the west, mostly to buy whiskey. They’re the older ones, like me, wanting strong medicine that will help them forget how bad their lives have become. The younger ones who refuse to stay put on government-given ground and make trouble, they roam, never staying in one place for long.”

  “How often is it that these renegades pay you visits?”

  “I don’t recall admitting that they do.” For the first time since their arrival, he smiled. “But I reckon you boys ain’t dumb.” He focused his gaze on Barclay. “For the sake of continuing this enjoyable conversation, let’s say it could be I do a bit of business with them now and again. Not long ago one might have spoken of a white woman he wanted to know if I was interested in pur
chasing.”

  “Just one?”

  “That’s my recollection. That and the fact that I quickly told him no.”

  “Any thoughts on where we might locate him?”

  Boone shook his head. “My suggestion would be that you leave him be. He’s a mean and crazy one, even without benefit of my whiskey. I’m being honest with you when I say it would suit me fine if he never set foot here again. But when a body least expects it, he rides up the hill with a few of his friends, wanting to do some business. Can’t say there’s much that scares me these days, but he does. They call him Hawk and he’s an honest-to-goodness bhoot.”

  Taylor said, “A bhoot?”

  Stallings nodded. “One of them Indian ghosts that’s here one second and gone the next.”

  Barclay reached for his saddle horn and lifted his boot into a stirrup. “We thank you. We’ll be on our way if you’ll kindly return our property.”

  “Leave the mules. You’ll find your guns down at the bottom of the trail. Does that seem a friendly exchange?”

  “Thought you wasn’t wanting the mules.”

  “I wasn’t,” Stalling said as he returned to his chair, “but somebody’s likely to.”

  • • •

  “I don’t reckon I learned much back there,” Taylor said as they rode away from the Hills.

  “Except maybe the fact that it appeared you once knew the man.”

  Barclay told him of his long-ago encounter with Stallings and his band of outlaws, careful to leave out any mention of Jolene Cavanaugh.

  “Did it cross your mind as we visited that you might still want to kill him for what he did?”

  “Nope. He’s done dead already. He just ain’t accepted the fact yet.”

  In truth, they had learned something during the strange visit. “What we’ll want to do is find us a place to make camp,” Barclay said, “somewhere far enough away from the Hills so as to be out of sight of those men manning the guard tower and anyone who might be coming to pay a visit. We’ll just hunker down and wait.”

  Taylor gave him a puzzled look.

  “We could hope to stumble onto the site of the Comanches’ camp. No telling where they are, and I ain’t of a mind to spend the rest of my days wanderin’ around these parts. I figure Stallings was being truthful when he said they come to do business with him, so what I’m suggesting is we just wait and let ’em come to us. Then when they take their leave we can follow at a safe distance.”

  “How long you think we’ll have to wait?”

  Barclay grunted. “Could be a while. Or maybe not. We’ll just have to give our patience some exercise and see what develops. Meanwhile, maybe we could pass some time teachin’ you how to properly shoot that Colt they just give back to you.”

  Taylor rubbed his hand against the holster belted to his waist. “I suppose.”

  “If you ever read any of them dime novels,” Barclay said, “they’re filled with gunfighters claiming to be fast draws, fannin’ their guns with one hand while shooting with the other, always hittin’ their target without so much as aiming. I’m here to tell you that ain’t the way of the real world. I’ll do what I can to teach you.”

  That evening, just before dusk, they stood facing a steep ridge where they had lifted a rotting tree trunk into place. They were well out of earshot of the Cookson Hills that now loomed in the distance. Barclay described the proper stance to take, the way to hold a pistol with not one hand but two, and how to sight down its barrel. “If time permits,” he said, “it’s a good idea to take a deep breath and hold it before you shoot. Keeps the hands steadier and gives you a better chance of hittin’ your target. You always want to squeeze the trigger real slow.”

  “And if Indians or outlaws are suddenly bearing down on us and time is of the essence?”

  “Then forget all the fancy stuff I’m telling you. Just point and start shootin’.”

  Their ammunition was limited, so Taylor’s first lesson consisted of only six shots. Five raised small puffs of red dust well away from the target. One hit the old tree with a pleasing thud. “Now what you’ll want to do,” Barclay said, “is think on what you just done. Let your mind’s eye take aim and shoot, over and over again, until it begins to feel a natural thing to do.”

  That night as he slept, Taylor fired shot after dream shot, reducing the tree trunk to nothing but pulp. It was when the target suddenly turned from a rotted tree to a smiling woman with long black hair, wearing a peasant blouse, that he woke, sweat beading on his forehead.

  • • •

  Hidden in a grove of trees atop the ridge, they took turns watching the landscape while their horses lazily grazed nearby, content with the inactivity. Dust devils raced along the flatland, and heat patterns danced from the surface as the sun rose high into the sky. That aside, there was no movement to see.

  It was early on the third day when tiny dots appeared on the southeastern horizon. Slowly they came closer, finally taking the shape of four riders. Following behind were three packhorses. Barclay and Taylor shielded their eyes and watched as the small single-file caravan turned in the direction of the Hills.

  “I think it’s them,” Barclay said.

  Chapter 10

  Had Barclay and Taylor been closer and able to view the faces of Hawk on the Hill and his followers, they would quickly have recognized their fatigue. Heads rolled and bobbed with the gait of their horses, bodies slumped forward in an effort to stay atop their mounts.

  Their most recent raid had taken them south below the Red River, to a small trading post in Texas. With white soldiers armed with high-powered Sharps rifles now patrolling the northern and western parts of the Territory in search of those who had not remained on the reservations, the dwindling number of renegade bands had begun moving their encampments toward the southern border, the targets of their raids more far-reaching. And with greater risk.

  The four buffalo hunters who had defended the small trading post—nothing more than a makeshift saloon, a blacksmith, and a tent where hides were being tanned—had put up a fierce fight before their defeat. Two of Hawk’s warriors had been killed, along with three horses.

  In recent days his anger had boiled into rage; the savagery he ordered heightened. The dead traders, the blacksmith, and the saloonkeeper had been scalped and decapitated, their heads mounted on poles to make them easy prey for the buzzards. It had been the idea of the woman who had ridden with them to cut out their hearts and burn them. She and the raiding party drank whiskey found in the saloon and hungrily ate from its small larder of dried buffalo meat and cold biscuits. Then they set the building afire.

  As they left, the newly stolen horses piled with hides and rifles, only Talks With Spirits seemed pleased. She had argued against returning the bullet-riddled bodies of the two warriors to their camp. “It will only slow us,” she said. “Their happy spirits are now in the clouds and they will understand. I will soon speak with them.”

  Hawk had begrudgingly agreed. He didn’t like the fact that the white woman was becoming increasingly forceful with her demands. But as word of her special powers spread, new followers continued to come into his camp. For that reason she was valuable to him, and he chose to tolerate her efforts to influence his decisions.

  “When you go to the Hills,” she told him, “the hides should be traded for more rifles, not whiskey. If you are to be a successful war chief, you must have the proper firearms.”

  • • •

  Taylor rose from his prone position and stretched his legs as the Indians disappeared into the trees that sheltered the trail leading into the Cookson Hills. “You figure that’s who’s gonna lead us to where we’re wanting to go?”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t,” Barclay said. “But I’m betting they’ll take us in the right direction. These renegade bands might not like each other all that much, but they most o
ften make their camps close by one another. If one bunch finds what it considers a safe place, the others ain’t likely to be too far away.”

  “You never told me how it is you came to know so much about their ways,” Taylor said.

  “Back before my buffalo hunting days I joined up for a spell to help the army fight Indians. They talked about how we’d make the new frontier safer for settlers, all high-minded and noble about their intent. But what I seen was just a lot of murderin’. Killing Indians for killing’s sake. Old men and womenfolk, children even. Seemed to me we wasn’t no better than the savages we were hunting down. It boiled my stomach and one night, after everyone was sleeping, I just rode away from it. I ain’t never looked back.” He paused. “’Cept for a bad dream every now and then.”

  “So, what is it you see different about what we’re aiming to do?”

  “We ain’t huntin’ Indians,” Barclay said. “We’re just looking for two women. There’s a difference. A big difference.” There was a sharpness to his reply that Taylor had not heard before.

  Taylor said, “You ain’t thinking what we’ve set out to do is—how’d you say it?—high-minded and noble, are you?”

  “No, I can’t rightly claim that. But seems it needs to be done.”

  “I figure that’s close enough.”

  • • •

  It was nearing dusk when the Indians emerged from the Hills and headed southward. “Night ridin’ is slow goin’,” Barclay said as they watched the small caravan disappear into the soft haze of the horizon. “The rattlesnakes come out when the ground starts cooling, so be on the lookout for them. And there’re prairie dog holes dug everywhere. The minute a horse steps in one of ’em, he’s gonna be lame and useless. And that’s if he ain’t broke a leg.