Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Read online

  Taylor said nothing. The hard miles they had traveled had finally led them to their destination. Now it was again moving out of reach. He wondered if their journey would ever end. On the other hand, he had come to a new realization as he’d watched the small band take leave of its camp. When he’d seen the Bender woman, the hatred he’d nurtured rose briefly in his chest. Then it was replaced by another emotion at the sight of Jakey’s mother being forced to march along behind the renegades. His thoughts returned to the young boy, scared and clad in overalls, acting far more courageous that his age required. And at that moment he realized that it was no longer Kate Two who was the reason for his quest.

  • • •

  As they walked toward the creek, the silence was broken by the sound of a flock of buzzards taking flight. Reaching the bank, they saw a naked body floating facedown in the shallow stream. “Looks like somebody got left behind,” Barclay said.

  Taylor removed his boots and waded into the water. As he dragged the body to the bank and turned it over, he could see that the dead Indian’s eyes were still open, his mouth agape. Across his throat was a jagged gash.

  “If I’m guessin’ right as to who this might be,” Barclay said, “it seems someone’s done ol’ Boone Stallings a great favor.”

  “You saying this is the man he called Hawk?”

  Barclay nodded. “Used to be.”

  “What do you reckon we ought to do with him?”

  “Seems to me the buzzards was here first.”

  • • •

  Kate Two pulled her hat far down on her forehead as she watched from a sandbar while her new followers forded the shallow Red River. The water came only to the knees of those who shouldered the party’s few belongings, carrying them into a land that the United States government had forbidden them to enter. The river formed a border between the Indian Territory and the new state of Texas—and for those who ignored the edict to stay out, dire consequences dealt by trained regiments of Indian fighters were promised.

  The children waited on the opposite bank until they were lifted onto horses and ridden across. At their sides, the dogs swam the short distance. July Barstow, exhausted and light-headed from the heat, held to the tail of one of the horses as she followed along, her tattered dress soaked by the muddy water, her bare feet burying into the sandy river bottom with each step.

  That the ragtag band of renegades had so willingly agreed to follow her had come as a welcome surprise to Kate Two. Though confident in her ability to manipulate and control, she had taken a big chance when she announced that she had been chosen to replace Hawk as their leader. That his warriors—a few who understood bits of English—had embraced the notion, she felt, was a testimony to their utter stupidity and willingness to believe that she was actually in possession of mystical powers. When she explained that the spirit fathers had called Hawk on the Hill into the clouds, there to receive their wisdom before he returned, none had questioned.

  If things went as she hoped, she would need to carry out the ruse only a while longer.

  For many nights, while lying next to Hawk, she had plotted a way to escape the squalor of Indian life and return to the world she’d previously known. Now she had finally put the plan into motion.

  The only truth she had spoken the night she stood before the council fire was that money was what empowered the white man. For her to make her escape, she would need that empowerment as well. A few successful raids, she hoped, would accomplish that goal. Then it would be time to lead her followers into the hands of the Indian fighters. The role she would then play would be that of a helpless captive in need of being saved from the heartless savages.

  • • •

  The caravan followed an old buffalo trail for the remainder of the day, reaching an isolated canyon just before sundown. Though fires were started, the only food available was smoked strips of horse meat and wild berries collected along the way. In a nearby stream, horses were watered as the weary travelers washed the dust and mud from their bodies. With no time to erect the teepees before dark, buffalo skins were spread on the ground for sleeping.

  At first light, Kate Two told the warriors that scouts would be sent out to locate the nearest settlement or farm with livestock that could be stolen and herded back to camp.

  Chapter 12

  The settlement of Dawson’s Ridge was typical of the small towns that were beginning to appear on the Texas plains. A year earlier, when the wagon train had arrived, its members had surveyed the fertile grasslands, the nearby creek, which promised an adequate water supply, and the high vista, which offered a sweeping view in all directions, and called their journey to an end. With their approval, Deke Dawson, the self-appointed leader of those who had traveled from Tennessee, proclaimed it their new home. There was little argument when he suggested that the hamlet be given his name or that he be elected by a show of hands as its mayor.

  A portly man with a bushy mustache and a thick mane of white hair, Dawson decades earlier had enjoyed the power of local politics before accusations of bribe-taking and various other illegal activities had forced him from office, making it necessary for him to quickly head west. To his fellow travelers he mentioned nothing of the shady dealings he’d been involved in, instead bragging that among his dearest friends back in Tennessee had been a fellow politician named Davy Crockett.

  The town grew quickly as the settlers moved from tents fashioned from the covers of their wagons into sturdy cabins built from native wood and stone. Soon there was a livery and a corral, a laundry near the creek, and a tent beneath which Sunday sermons were delivered by a lay preacher who had made the trek west. Once a still was erected and fully operational, a social center where meals and whiskey were available was erected. “We’ll not call it a saloon,” Mayor Dawson insisted, “for there will be no women of bad character passing through its doors. The nightly playing of cards, however, will be allowed so long as the wagers are small and friendly made.”

  The game hunting and fishing were good, crops grew, and the spring arrival of half a dozen calves promised the beginning of a herd of cattle. And as other passersby happened onto the community, its population grew. One day soon, Dawson said, they would have need of a school and the appointment of a town marshal to see to the proper order of things. On days when he dreamed on an even grander scale, he spoke of a hotel with its own dining room and a dry goods store and grocery that would sell items regularly delivered by stagecoach and supply wagon.

  • • •

  It was an unusually hot afternoon when two boys, trailed by a panting dog that was not at all sure what the commotion was all about, ran toward the Dawson’s Ridge Social Center. A hen and her flock of chicks scattered from their path. “Soldiers are coming,” the youngsters said in unison as they waved their sun-browned arms in the direction of the creek.

  Deke Dawson stood in the street, hat in hand and a wide smile on his face, as the small detail of Union soldiers approached. “Mighty proud to see you boys,” he said. “Step down and tell us what it is that brings you to our fine little town.”

  “Just passing through on the way to rejoin Colonel Mackenzie,” the leader, a stocky, bearded redhead, said, and tipped his hat. “Sergeant Patrick Murphy, D Company, Fourth Cavalry.”

  “A mighty long ride from home,” Dawson said as a crowd gathered.

  A dozen men, their blue uniforms powdered with trail dust, dismounted at Sergeant Murphy’s signal. For over a year they had been away from home and families, fighting renegade bands of Indians terrorizing the Texas plains. Most of the major battles had been fought and won farther to the east in places with names like Palo Duro Canyon and Adobe Walls, leaving only isolated uprisings to be addressed. Promising that their work was nearly done, Mackenzie had divided his regiments into small companies and details, assigning them to seek out any remaining war parties. His orders had been simple. If the Indians re
fused to surrender and return to Fort Sill as prisoners, they were to be killed.

  “To put your mind at ease,” Murphy said. “We’ve been down south and have seen no sign of any savages, Comanche or Kiowa.”

  “All the same, we continue to keep a watchful eye,” Dawson said. “We’ve got men who take their turn standing guard along the ridge every night. And we’ve stored away ample weaponry.”

  “Which I hope you never have need to use,” Murphy said.

  “Your words to God Almighty’s ear,” the lay preacher yelled out from the crowd. “Amen to that,” said another.

  “I’m sure the good colonel is anxious for your return,” Dawson said, “but before you take leave we’d like an opportunity to show our hospitality. If you boys will join us out of the heat, the first taste of whiskey will be at my expense. And while you’re washing the dust from your throats I ’spect the womenfolk would be happy to prepare you a meal far better than any you’ve had while on the trail.”

  • • •

  The brief stop turned into an overnight stay for the soldiers. They drank ample amounts of Dawson’s Ridge’s whiskey and ate heaping bowls of venison and potato stew along with large servings of hot corn bread. Soon two fiddle players were providing music. Before nightfall several of the women arrived with cast-iron pots filled with cobbler made from wild blueberries and pecans.

  Delighted by the company, the festive atmosphere, and the fascinating stories being told, the townspeople volunteered their homes to the soldiers for the night, moving into the Social Center, where they made pallets for their own evening’s rest.

  With the visiting company of soldiers in their midst, safety from any intruders was ensured; thus no sentries were sent to their stations.

  From a safe distance the two Comanche scouts took advantage of a full moon to survey the landscape of the small settlement and listen to the faint sounds of music and laughter. A day’s ride away, their new leader would be pleased to hear their news.

  • • •

  “It’s not likely they’ll be going far before they set up a new campsite,” Barclay said as he unsaddled his horse. He and Taylor had crossed into Texas and followed the travois tracks made by the Comanches until it was almost dark. “I reckon we won’t be losing much ground if we get ourselves some rest.”

  Thad had been unusually quiet during the day, his thoughts skipping from one thing to another as they rode. Now, as they set up camp, he wondered about home and if Sister was worried for his safety and how she and young Jakey were. The milky eyes of the dead Indian he’d pulled from the creek came to mind. So did the distant images of the two women they were following after. And most of all, he pondered the strange and quiet man he was riding alongside. Tater Barclay was a mystery, equal parts kind (“If you’re of a mind to make this fool’s journey it occurs to me you might find some company of use. . . .”) and hard (“Seems to me the buzzards was here first. . . .”). A lonely man, Taylor thought. As he considered such things, he also wondered if, for the first time in his life, he’d met a person he could honestly call a friend.

  Barclay broke the silence with a grunt as he stretched out on his saddle blanket. “I’d greatly admire to soon see some civilization,” he said. “Been so long since I was drunk, I’ve about forgot how it’s properly done.”

  • • •

  The following morning the two men had traveled only a few miles before the tracks of the Comanche caravan suddenly disappeared. The renegades had used branches to sweep away the marks left by the sleds and the footprints of those who followed along behind them. They had worked late into the night to erase their trail and then had turned from their southward course to travel east before arriving at the hidden canyon that would be their new home.

  Urging their horses to a nearby rise, Taylor and Barclay shaded their eyes and squinted into the rising sun. They saw nothing that would indicate the whereabouts of those they’d been following. On the southern horizon, however, a faint cloud of dust came into view.

  “Whoever it is,” Taylor said, “they’re coming instead of going. And their pace is far quicker than that the Comanches were keeping.”

  Barclay fixed his gaze on the dust cloud until he could see that it was being made by horsemen riding two by two, traveling in a westerly direction. When he saw that they were dressed in blue, he smiled. “Could be that we got company that’s friendly,” he said. “I figure we ought to catch up to ’em and say howdy.”

  At his rider’s urging Magazine was soon in a full gallop, with Barclay’s horse close behind. Taylor was waving his oversized hat as he neared the company of soldiers. Murphy signaled his troops to a halt and ordered them to raise their weapons.

  “State your business,” he said as Taylor and Barclay reined their horses to a stop.

  “We been followin’ after a band of Comanches,” Barclay said.

  Murphy smiled thinly. “We’ve been in these parts for over a week now and have seen no sign of Indians.”

  “They just crossed the Red River a few days back, moving their camp down this way,” Taylor said.

  “How many of them, not counting women and elderly?”

  “Twenty, maybe a few more. Among them is a female they’ve kidnapped.” Taylor looked at Barclay, and debated briefly whether to share his belief that they were also being led by a white woman, but decided against it. Such an observation, he knew, would immediately brand him as one crazed by too much sun.

  “And what is your plan once you catch up to them?” Murphy asked.

  “That part we ain’t exactly figured out yet.”

  • • •

  The residents of Dawson’s Ridge were surprised to see the soldiers returning. Again, it was Deke Dawson who hurried to greet them. “Wasn’t expecting a return visit quite so soon,” he said.

  “It appears we might have spoken too soon about the safety of your town,” Sergeant Murphy said. He nodded in the direction of the two men who accompanied them and explained that they had seen Indians to the north just days earlier. “Since I’ve never made these fellas’ acquaintance, I can’t rightfully vouch for their claim. But I felt a duty to give you a warning.”

  As he spoke, a man tied his mule to the hitching post in front of the Social Center and hurried toward Dawson and the crowd that had again gathered. By the time he reached them, he was excited and out of breath. “Somebody took away one of the calves last night,” he said.

  Dawson placed a hand on his shoulder. “You sure it wasn’t varmints, a pack of wolves or coyotes?”

  “Not unless they’ve learned how to unlock a gate and leave it standing open.”

  A look of concern crossed Murphy’s face as he listened to the exchange. “It appears while we were enjoying your gracious hospitality last evening, we let our guard down a bit too much. I believe that what these men told us is the honest truth. Most likely you were visited in the night by renegades wishing to get a lay of the land.”

  He motioned for two members of his detail to approach. “You will be on your way to report to Colonel Mackenzie and advise him of the reason for our delay,” he said. “The rest of us will remain here to determine the seriousness of this situation.”

  Chapter 13

  The Social Center, normally quiet and empty until much later in the day, was filled with activity after Mayor Dawson called for an immediate town meeting. Tables were moved aside, chairs aligned in rows, and the clapboard windows opened to allow whatever breeze there might be to flow through.

  Dawson had invited all of the soldiers to attend, but Murphy suggested his men’s time would be better spent investigating ways the town might be fortified against possible attack. Thus it was only the sergeant, Taylor, and Barclay who stood in the front of the room when the mayor called the meeting to order.

  “We’re here to discuss a matter of dire concern, as most of you already kn
ow,” Dawson said. “It has been brought to our attention that our fine community might be in danger of attack from savages lurking nearby.” He pointed to the two strangers who had recently arrived. “These two gentlemen have knowledge that a band of Comanches recently made its way across the northern border and headed in our direction. It is supposed they are now somewhere nearby and most likely considering an attack on Dawson’s Ridge.

  “To our good fortune,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, “we have in our midst a group of men who are among the finest Indian fighters on the frontier. And being the good soldiers and brave men that they are, they have returned to help us in our time of need.”

  Reluctantly the mayor—clearly enjoying the opportunity to demonstrate his public speaking skills—then turned the meeting over to Murphy.

  The sergeant was several inches short of six feet tall, his red hair curling around his ears. His face seemed permanently red from the Texas sun.

  “As things now stand,” he said, “we have only speculation that you’re in harm’s way. With luck, this concern will pass without need for further worry. But until we’re certain of it, it’s best we prepare.”

  He had already begun to formulate a plan. His men, he explained, were determining the locations where Dawson’s Ridge might be most vulnerable. The entrances to the town would be barricaded by wagons, rain barrels, anything that would block the way of an attacker and provide shelter for armed defenders. A rotation of both soldiers and men of the community would be assigned to stand guard, night and day, along the ridge, near the creek, and toward the north. Under no circumstances would anyone be allowed to go beyond the immediate vicinity.

  “If there is an attack,” Murphy said, “it would likely come at night. The fact that we’ve currently got a full moon should give us time to prepare. Knowing Indians, particularly Comanches, they don’t like to move about until it’s pitch-dark.”