“A dozen yellow roses to welcome a Boston gal to Texas,” James called after him.
David laughed again and started whistling the popular song Yellow Rose of Texas as he rode away.
* * *
When supper time had come and gone at the ranch house and David had not returned from town, James began to feel some concern. “Not like David to miss supper,” he mused as Aunt Martha cleared away the dishes.
A short, stout woman of sixty years, Martha was a family friend who had truly become family. She had stepped in to help raise the brothers when their mother died at a young age. The boys grew to call her Aunt Martha because she was the only real mother they had ever known. Still sporting a full mane of flaming red hair, she had a tough, firebrand attitude to match. “He probably got invited over for a meal somewhere,” Martha laughed, “Lord knows how that boy can never resist good home cooking.”
“No doubt about that,” James chuckled in response.
The sound of a rider approaching at a gallop caused him to push back from the table. “Maybe that’s him now. Sounds like something’s up.” James buckled on his gun belt, checked his pistol, and stepped out onto the veranda.
A ranch hand quickly swung down from the saddle and tied his horse to the rail in front of the house. It was Francisco, a young Mexican who had been with them for a couple of years. “Señor James!” he shouted.
“What is it, Francisco? What happened?”
He bounded up the steps to James and paused a moment to catch his breath. “A group of desperadoes stormed the town when Señor David was there. They took your brother away.”
“What?! How did they do that?” James demanded.
“They were on their horses, hollering and shooting into the air. They had a Comanche with them and I saw him jump down from his horse, put a dart in a hollow stick and shoot it at Señor David with his mouth. The dart hit David, he fell down. With the help of another man, the Comanche threw him onto his horse and they rode out of town. I’m sorry, Señor James. It happened so fast, I could not do anything to help your brother.”
“Did you see who these men were?”
“No, they were all wearing bandanas on their faces.”
“Shoot!” James muttered to himself. “It’s not your fault, Francisco. Gracias for riding here as fast as you can to tell me. Why would anybody want to kidnap my brother? He ain’t got no quarrel with anyone, he’s a peaceable man.”
“I do not know; it makes no sense,” Francisco responded.
Unless some hombre is trying to get revenge on me, James thought. It’s always a possibility for a lawman.
He could think of no one who might be holding a grudge against him at the present time, however. It had happened once or twice in the past – as it did for every lawman – but those matters had all been dealt with. The men who came after him were all either dead or in jail serving a long sentence.
“We need to form a search party, Francisco. Go inside and get some grub while I round up a couple of the boys and get the horses ready. Maybe we can pick up their trail and find out where they’re headed with David.”
“Sí, Señor. Gracias.” Francisco turned and went into the ranch house where Aunt Martha already had a hot plate of food on the table for him.
* * *
Although the search party had a couple of hours of daylight to work with and there were experienced trackers among them – including James himself – they had little success in following the kidnappers. The gang had split up quickly after abducting David and it was impossible to determine which horse carried the unconscious body of the sheriff’s brother. Whoever led the outlaws saw to it they made their escape well.
As darkness fell, the searchers were still making no headway, so with a heavy heart James called a halt and they rode back toward Sonora. The men were silent for a couple of miles, puzzling over the mysterious abduction. Finally the deputy sheriff, Ben Leary, turned to James and said, “Sorry we lost the trail back there, Boss. I’ll have the boys back out at dawn. We’ll pick it up.”
“I don’t know, Ben,” the sheriff said thoughtfully, “they covered their tracks as well as I’ve seen anyone do it. The only solid clue we got is that a Comanche was with ‘em. Think I’ll ride over to their camp tomorrow while you boys are searching. Maybe they can tell us who this dart-shooter is.”
“Sounds good, Boss,” Leary said. He looked at the silhouette of his colleague riding beside him in the moonlight. James looked lonely and forlorn. They had worked together for five years now, and Ben had never seen his boss so discouraged. Of course, no one had ever kidnapped a member of his family before. It was understandable. Leary was a wiry, tough man with the scarred hands of a boxer and a fighter, yet also a close study of human nature. He felt bad to see his friend so distressed.
“Hey, don’t you got to make a detour down to the stage station tomorrow? Thought that Boston woman was getting into town?” Ben said, trying to divert the sheriff from the seeming sadness of his brooding.
“Shoot. I forgot about that,” James startled. “The stage ain’t in ‘til afternoon, though. That’ll give me time to get out to the Comanche camp in the mornin’ and see what I can find.” He paused for a moment. “You know, there’s something about this situation that just ain’t adding up, Ben.”
“Women are hard to figure out, Boss.”
“No, not that – although that’s sure enough the gospel truth, ain’t it?”
Leary let out a bemused grunt of agreement.
“I mean David’s kidnapping. He don’t have an enemy in this world. You know there ain’t a mean bone in that man’s body, Ben. So whoever is behind this is after something or someone else. Probably me.” He fell silent for a moment. “It can’t be the family of that outlaw I killed last year. We already dealt with that. So what are these kidnappers after? It just ain’t adding up.” The deputy sheriff had no response. He turned his gaze back to the moonlit countryside and thought some more about it, searching for answers.
* * *
The next morning, James was on the trail before dawn. He was travelling alone because all of their available men were either needed at the ranch or continuing the search party. He was concerned for his brother’s safety, but had no worries for his own.
If someone wanted to kill the Sheriff of Sonora they would have tried it already instead of kidnapping David.
The trail to the Comanche encampment cut through the rolling terrain of the West Texas Hill Country for some twelve miles. After a few hours of travel, James arrived to find their camp well-positioned between limestone outcrops for protection from the elements, and close to a good supply of wood and water.
Dismounting his horse and leading it by the reins, he walked the last hundred yards toward them to let everyone know that his intentions were peaceful. The Comanche wars had been over in west Texas for ten years, but the sheriff was taking no chances. He also believed that if a person got down off their high horse and met people eye to eye then they were much more inclined to be friendly and open. It was a simple matter of respect. He knew the Comanches had many good reasons not to trust the white man after a century of troubled relationships. But he found that his approach was generally well received among them, too.
The camp was a collection of some two dozen tipis. Cooking fires burned in the open with men and women gathered around them. Children and a few dogs ran about playing. James stopped at the edge of the camp and waited. Eventually a young man got up from his position near a tipi and approached him. As he got nearer, James saw him notice the metal sheriff’s badge pinned on his vest.
“You have come to see our chief, lawman?”
“Yes,” James replied, “I wish to talk with him about something.” The man led him to one of the tipis, disappeared inside for a moment, and then poked his head back out, motioning for James to enter. The sheriff looked around and tied his horse to a pole before ducking into the lodge, removing his hat as he did so.
“Don’t worry, l
awman, your horse is safe outside,” his guide said with an ironic tone and the hint of a smile.
“I know the Comanche are the greatest horse raiders in all the Plains,” James replied respectfully, his eyes adjusting to the dim light inside the lodge.
“Yes, we were once great raiders,” the voice of an older man said, “but that day has gone the way of the buffaloes now.” The chief was sitting on a blanket across from him, beckoning with his hand for the visitor to have a seat. James accepted the invitation, and his guide also sat down with them.
“I’m James McCloud, Sheriff of Sutton County.”
“So I see,” the chief said, glancing at the metal badge. “I am Chief Jaquana of the Nokoni Comanche. You are here to talk business, Sheriff?”
“Yes, sir,” James began. “Chief, there was a raid on Sonora yesterday: a white man’s raiding party, but one of your men was among them.”
Chief Jaquana’s eyebrows rose up in surprise. “We are not so foolish to attack the white man’s city. The wars are over for us, Sheriff, except the fight to keep our ways alive. This Comanche was not of our camp.”
“You know who he is then?” James asked.
“He was carrying a dart flute?” Jaquana asked.
James nodded.
“Yes. We know him. He is a wanderer away from the Wanderers. That is what Nokoni means, Sheriff: wanderers. But this man has a bad spirit in him. Our medicine woman could not cure him of it. He never stopped causing trouble for us, so we made him go.”
“What is his name?”
“He is Blue Shadow.”
“Blue Shadow?” James repeated; puzzling at the strangeness of the name.
“Yes. This Nokoni is a master at selecting herbs and mushrooms for his darts. When he mixes them, his hands are stained with the color of the medicine. They have become blue like the shadows and the stain is so deep it never washes away.”
James shuddered involuntarily at the image of a stained, banished Indian, sent away from his wandering tribe to drift alone among the hills and valleys of Texas. “How did he join with the gang of white men who raided Sonora and took my brother captive?”
“Your brother?” Chief Jaquana asked.
“Yes sir, it was the Comanche’s dart that put my brother to sleep. They threw him onto Blue Shadow’s horse and escaped.”
“He is an excellent horseman,” the chief remembered, “like so many of our people. But I do not know how he came to join the white men, or why; except that – as we know too well, Sheriff – Blue Shadow was born to trouble and is quick to find it wherever it hides. He is, as you white men say, an outlaw.” The chief paused for a moment. “I hope your brother will be returned to you in good health.”
“Thank you, Chief Jaquana. So do I.”
The chief smiled. “Will you stay and smoke the pipe with me?”
“I cannot this day, sir. The time is too short. And there is a woman waiting in the town.”
“Ah, a woman,” the chief intoned. “A man will ride many miles for a good woman he can bring into his lodge. I am blessed by the Big Father to have three such in my tipis.”
“I think one is all this cowboy can handle,” James smiled.
“Then may this one bring you much happiness, Sheriff.”
James nodded, turned toward the exit and stepped outside again, where his horse was still standing by the pole.
4
Georgia Warton stared nervously out of the stagecoach window as it bumped and jolted its way down the road. She was the only passenger in the mail stage. Up in the driver’s seat, a middle-aged man with a graying handlebar mustache gripped the reins. A Winchester rifle was in a scabbard tied to the seat next to him. Georgia poked her head out the window and shouted, “How much farther to Sonora, driver?”
“‘Bout half an hour,” he yelled back, spitting a stream of tobacco juice towards the ground.
“Thank you,” she said and the coach lurched, throwing her painfully onto the edge of the bench. “Good...gracious!” Georgia climbed back onto the seat and smoothed her dress with both hands. I’ll never complain about the roads of Boston again.
She had disembarked from the steam train in San Antonio before starting the long journey towards Sonora. Her regulation 25 pounds of baggage was tied onto the coach to keep it from flying off as the driver pushed the team of six horses through a hot spring day, swearing profanely at every bump in the road.
She was glad to be the only passenger in the coach. Starting with the man in the bowler hat – just a few miles out of Boston – a long succession of men had approached her on the train. They all wanted to make conversation but Georgia felt so nervous and vulnerable travelling alone that she had brusquely sent every one of them away – all fourteen of them. The gentleman callers had become so routine that she morbidly started counting the times it happened.
Fourteen men between Boston and San Antonio. She was relieved to be alone in the stagecoach. Being a pretty woman sometimes has its downside, Georgia thought, then rebuked herself for being so vain.
As their destination grew closer, she thought about the letter exchange with Sheriff James McCloud.
Guilt had begun to fester in her heart over claiming to be a seamstress. Yes, the lie had succeeded in not scaring the man off... but what would he think when he found out the truth? Would he be angry and send her away? She hoped he would not find out until they had gotten to know each other better.
On the bright side, she really was a good chess player. It was something they could possibly enjoy doing together and she looked forward to matching wits with the sheriff over the chessboard. Matching but not surpassing, mind you. Part of the education of a debutante was never show up a man in any activity that might embarrass him. That would risk sabotaging a relationship right from the start.
Oh, dear. Now I’m assuming that the chess skills of a Boston debutante are naturally superior to a Texas rancher. She resolved not to fall into any stuffy Eastern airs toward the Western man. I must let him see who I really am – despite that abominable lie about being a seamstress. Please forgive me for my stupid, venal deceptions, God.
And she fervently hoped that James had not lied to her as she had to him.
That would be a crushing shock! Oh, Lord, I pray that Mr. McCloud has been more of an honorable man in his letter than I have been an honorable woman in mine! I hope that he is a real cowboy, not just wearing the clothes of one like I’m wearing the dress of a seamstress.
“We’re coming into Sonora now, miss,” the driver called, startling her out of the prayers and confessions. Georgia slid over on the seat and gripped the window frame tightly for balance as the town came into view.
It looked like an absolutely gorgeous location. Groves of trees stood among rolling hills, interspersed with savannas covered in rich grasses. She thought it must be perfect for raising livestock and could see cows and sheep grazing out on the range. The town itself was not large but looked prosperous and growing. There was about an equal number of wood houses and wood-frame tents, plus a couple of stores, a saloon, hotel, and a livery stable.
The stagecoach clattered through the dirt streets and came to a stop in front of the post office in a cloud of dust. Spitting an arc of tobacco juice to mark the end of the journey, the driver climbed down from his seat and opened the door of the coach. “Welcome to Sonora,” he said gruffly, extending a weathered hand to help Georgia step down.
“Thank you,” Georgia said, alighting onto the street. The driver nodded and then busied himself untying the baggage lashed in the boot at the rear of the coach. She took a deep breath of Sonora air. It seemed incredibly fresh after a day of dusty stage travel. Looking around her, there was no one to be seen in the post office. In fact, even though it was mid-afternoon and it should have been a busy time, there was no one in the street either. No wagons or pedestrians. Nothing.
“Is this town always this quiet?” Georgia asked the driver.
“It sure ain’t. Seems mighty strange.”
He walked into the post office and rang the bell on the counter. More silence. “Tony?!” he shouted. “You there?”
The sound of boots scuffing on the floor announced the arrival of a man in the doorway behind the counter. He was short, stocky, and clean shaven, wearing a white linen shirt with a clerk’s bow tie. “Sam! Sure glad to see you.”
“What the blazes is going on around here?” Sam the driver asked.
“Sorry. I had to be sure it weren’t anybody from that damn gang of desperadoes yesterday.”
They both turned as Georgia walked into the office. She stepped up to them and stood beside Sam. “What ‘damn’ gang was that, sir?”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Tony said, embarrassed at being overheard cussing by a lady. “The whole town is kind of spooked after what happened. Everybody’s kinda lyin’ low. A gang of several men stormed in on their horses yesterday afternoon, faces covered. Nobody knew what the...what they wanted. They were just shooting in the air, acting crazy. A Comanche that was with ‘em jumped down off his horse, put a dart into a blow gun and shot it into David McCloud. Knocked him flat out on the ground. Then they threw him over his horse and ran out of town hollerin’ like the devil.”
Caught Between Love And Duty Page 3
