by Tim Washburn
“Seth, you come back here,” Rachel said, her voice stern.
Seth stopped, turned, and looked at his mother for the first time. “I’m done talkin’.”
“Oh, you are, huh? In that case get your butt over to the corral and get to work helping your uncle.”
Seth and Rachel joined in an angry stare-off and she mentally ticked off the seconds, waiting for him to turn away first as he always did. But, to her surprise, she was the first to break eye contact and that troubled her. His determined defiance now could be the harbinger of years of difficult battles ahead. She pondered a response that would reassert her authority and fell back on the old standard—issuing orders. “Go on, now. You’re wastin’ time.”
Seth glared at her a moment longer then turned and walked away without saying a word. For Rachel that was even more unsettling, and she immediately felt a need to call him back—to repair the damage before it had a chance to take hold. But she didn’t. And that was something she would soon regret.
CHAPTER 5
Riding through land granted by treaty to the Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache tribes in 1867, Cyrus raised his hand and called the group to a halt as Moses Wilcox studied the ground, searching for the rustlers’ trail. Percy pulled out his pipe and filled it with tobacco as he watched Wilcox work.
A tall whip-thin man in his late forties, Wilcox had scouted for the army for years until he called it quits when the soldiers turned their focus from war among the white men to killing or capturing Indians. The child of a white man and a full-blooded Chickasaw woman, Wilcox was raised among the Indians and didn’t much like pointing out his distant kinfolks for the army to slaughter. He joined up with the Rocking R four years ago and stuck.
Percy flared a match and lit his pipe as Wilcox climbed back aboard his horse.
“The rustlers look to be headed up toward Fort Sill,” Wilcox said. “Could be they’re plannin’ to sell them steers to the army.”
“Not with my brand on ’em, they ain’t,” Cyrus said. “Just the two of ’em?”
“Yes,” Wilcox said. “And they’re riding shod ponies.”
“Probably stole them, too,” Cyrus grumbled. “Still don’t mean they ain’t Injuns.”
Percy took a draw from his pipe then said, “If they’re smart, they’ll change the brand. Make the R a B or hit it with a three-quarter circle and they’d have the Circle R brand.”
“When’s the last time you heard of an outfit called the Circle R round these parts?” Cyrus asked. “Or a Rockin’ B? Them soldier boys are smarter than that.”
Percy turned to look at his father. “Might be smart enough to see a good deal, too. A couple of steers at about half what they’re worth?”
Cyrus looked up at the sun high overhead, sweat trickling down his face and into his beard. “It’s hotter’n hell and we’re wastin’ time with all this speculatin’. Things fall our way, we’ll likely be home fore dark. Let’s ride.” He spurred his horse into a walk.
The terrain was flat and the few trees, mostly blackjack oaks and cottonwoods, were bunched along the banks of the small creeks that cut through the landscape. What the place lacked for trees, it made up for it with the number of insects flying about. Grasshoppers by the hundreds fluttered up at each clop of the horses’ hooves. And if they weren’t flying, they were perched in the grass and weeds, rubbing their hind legs in a symphony of fast clicks. In addition to the constant noise, gnats swarmed, flies were thick enough that they matted the horses’ rumps, and the mosquitoes were merciless, attacking any hint of bare skin. But for Percy, this was all too familiar.
After leaving the ranch at the age of seventeen to see what was beyond the horizon, Percy drifted south, visiting the young city of Dallas for a spell before moving on, searching for what, he didn’t know. The one thing he did know was that he wanted to see the ocean, and his travels led him to Houston then down to Corpus Christi, never staying in one place more than a week or two. As his grubstake began to dwindle, he moseyed up to Austin to see the capital of their new state. And while there and desperate to find work, Percy, a good shot with a pistol and a rifle, signed up as a new recruit for the Texas Rangers in 1851. It didn’t take him long to figure out shooting at bottles and cans was much different from shooting at another human who was shooting back. But under the tutelage of Ranger Captain William (Bigfoot) Wallace, Percy had learned, and learned quickly, as his unit skirmished with Comanches, Apaches, and Mexican bandits. And over the years and through many battles Percy became a highly skilled warrior and a dead shot with either rifle or pistol. Members of his troop had boasted that Percy was the most lethal man in Texas. Not that it mattered much to him.
Startled from memory when a grasshopper jumped on his hand, Percy flicked it off, tapped his pipe on his leg to empty the ashes, and slid it into his saddlebag. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his face. The heat was oppressive, and the tall, browned stalks of grass stood undisturbed. It was unusual not to have some type of breeze and when it didn’t exist it was noticeable. Percy shifted in the saddle, trying to find a more comfortable spot. When he turned to check their back trail a moment later, he spotted a dozen riders off to the east and headed their way. He spurred his horse into a trot and rode forward to consult with his father.
“Think they’re looking for trouble?” Percy asked his father as he eased his rifle out.
“Naw,” Cyrus said. “I’m bettin’ they’re Montford Johnson’s boys. Looks like some Injuns and Mexis without a white man in the bunch.”
“How does that make ’em Johnson’s men?” Percy asked.
Cyrus looked over at Percy. “Montford is a full-blood Chickasaw and he struck a deal with the Kiowas and Comanches, tellin’ them he wouldn’t hire no white riders to herd his cattle. I hear them savages do a fair job of lettin’ him be ’cause of it.”
The riders drew to a stop about twenty yards away and Percy and Cyrus rode forward to meet them. Cyrus studied the group then smiled and pushed his hat back “How you doin’, Joe?” he asked the leader of the group.
“Good, Cyrus. You?” Joe asked as he removed his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s hotter’n half-price day at the whorehouse.”
Cyrus chuckled. “That it is.”
“Whatcha doin’ up this way?” Joe asked as he put his hat back on.
“Lookin’ for a couple of rustlers. Stole two of my steers. You ain’t seen ’em, have ya?”
“Nope, but someone stole two of our horses day before last and we ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’em.”
“Probably your horses the rustlers are riding,” Cyrus said. “Bastard thieves.” He uncorked his canteen and took a swallow of water then pointed that canteen at Percy. “Joe, this here’s my oldest boy, Percy. Percy, meet Joe Twofeathers. He’s been ridin’ up in these parts forever.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe,” Percy said.
“Likewise,” Joe said. “I heard the name afore. Rode with the Rangers for a spell, didn’t ya?”
Percy nodded. “Been a while.” He pushed his rifle back into his scabbard and said, “Only thing I hunt after now is a few stray cattle or a rustler or two on occasion.” Although Percy had ridden across the river and into Indian Territory many times, it wasn’t his favorite place to loiter. His motto was to get in and get out as quick as possible.
Joe shifted in his saddle. “I wish you’d do a little more manhuntin’ while you was up here, Percy. All kinds of bad folk ridin’ round these parts.”
“Not my job anymore,” Percy replied. “Most of them will likely meet a bad end if they keep at it long enough. There’s always someone meaner and tougher.”
“I guess you’re right, there. It can’t be too soon for some of ’em.” Twofeathers turned to Cyrus. “Ride with a keen eye, Cy. Comanches and Kiowas is all riled up.”
“Ain’t they always?” Cyrus said.
“Not like this,” Twofeathers said. “Scent of blood’s in the wind.
I can smell it.”
“What’s their issue this time?” Percy asked.
“Hell, ’bout half of ’em’s starvin’. Indian agent’s always cuttin’ their rations. And a hungry man will get real damn mean right quick,” Twofeathers said.
“Hell them Comanches are born mean. Sounds like they’s just lookin’ for an excuse to go raidin’, if you ask me,” Cyrus said.
“Maybe so,” Twofeathers said. “But some of ’em are hurtin’, for sure. Gonna be hard to keep ’em here if they’s hungry all the time.”
“They stealin’ your cattle?” Cyrus asked.
“Mr. Johnson gives ’em a few here and there. Helps to keep the stealin’ down some.”
“All right, Joe, we’ll keep an eye out,” Cyrus said.
“If you find our horses drop ‘em by on your way back. See you around, Cyrus. Nice to meet ya, Percy.” Twofeathers and his the men turned their horses and rode off.
“Think there’s anything to what he’s sayin’?” Percy asked.
“You surprised the government backed off on a promise they made?”
“No, not really,” Percy said. “I reckon them treaties ain’t worth the paper they’re written on.”
“Nope. And that goes for both sides. Let’s roll.”
CHAPTER 6
It had been a few hours since her argument with Seth, and Rachel was still concerned there had been a fundamental shift in their relationship. Deciding to walk down to the corral for some emotional mending, she stood, grabbed her short-brimmed sombrero off a peg by the door, and stepped out of the hot house into a furnace. The sun was merciless and, paired with the high humidity, it was suffocating. Rachel was drenched with sweat before she made it twenty feet from the porch. Gnats swarmed, cicadas hummed, and even the chickens had gone in search of shade.
Stepping into the shade of the barn, she nodded at two of the ranch hands who were busy mending saddles and walked on through to the corrals beyond. The stink of fresh cow manure hung like a blanket over the chewed-up dirt and a half a dozen horses stood, swishing their tails, in a skinny spot of shade at the far end of the corral. Trying to ignore the smell, which she’d always hated, she climbed up the fence rails and scanned for her son.
Her brother Eli had a calf snubbed to a post in the center of the other corral and, while two other ranch hands held it down, another stepped over with a red-hot iron and branded the Rocking R symbol on the calf’s left-rear flank. The calf bawled and snot flew as it swung its head, trying to get up while the mama cow stood on the other side of the fence, looking through the rails and bellowing. The scent of singed flesh reached Rachel’s nostrils as one of the ranch hands holding down the calf notched its ear then pulled off the rope. The calf lurched to its feet and stood on unsteady legs for a moment before moving off. Rachel walked over to the other corral, climbed the rails, and shouted, “Eli, where’s Seth?”
He took off his hat and used it to dust off his chaps as he walked over. He put the hat back on and propped a foot on a fence rail, his dirty shirt sagging with sweat. “I saw Seth ride out early this morning. He had his rifle, so I assumed he was going hunting.”
“Oh no, no, no. He didn’t go huntin’, damn it. He went chasin’ after his pa.”
“Why would he do that?” Eli asked.
“He was mad they wouldn’t let him go along with them. You have to go after him, Eli.”
“Why? I assume he’ll return home if he doesn’t find them or they’ll send him home if he does.”
Rachel said, “That’s a lot of assuming, Eli. And you know Seth’s never ridden across the river before.”
“He can follow a trail, can’t he? I presume even a twelve-year-old boy could follow the trail of a group of mounted men rather easily.”
“I’m sure he can. But if he doesn’t come home, how are we going to know he caught up to them and something else bad hasn’t happened? That whole place is infested with some of the vilest people to ever walk the earth.”
“Now who’s assuming?” Eli asked.
Rachel climbed down from the fence. “You know what? Forget I asked. I’ll go find him myself,” she said as she turned toward the barn, fuming. She wasn’t really surprised by Eli’s hesitation. Elias hated conflict and he fancied himself a scholar after going back East to college, thinking he’d leave ranch life behind. He got his degree, but then he floundered around for a couple of years until their father derailed the money train and he was forced to come home.
“Stop, Rachel,” Eli shouted.
Rachel whirled around. “What? You change your mind?”
“You’re not riding off by yourself.”
Rachel stomped back toward the corral. “I will if you won’t. I swear, Eli, you’re ’bout the biggest coward I ever seen.”
“Think what you will, but this is not an issue of bravery or cowardice. It’s simply an issue of time.” Eli sighed and looked off in the distance a moment before turning back to look at Rachel. “What if Seth arrives back home after I leave? I could spend all afternoon searching for something that isn’t there.”
“Well, Eli, I reckon a grown man could follow the trail of seven men and a boy on horseback.”
“Touché.” Eli looked down at the ground and nudged a dirt clod with the toe of his boot. As tall as Percy at six-two, Eli was much thicker and heavier, having gotten a good dose of his father’s genes. Not to be outdone, his mother had contributed her fair share, too, giving Eli her red hair and blue eyes and, with it, the pale skin that was so susceptible to the sun. Eli never left the house without his hat and kept his lower face shaded with a well-groomed beard and mustache. He looked up at his sister and said, “Perhaps I’ll ride out for a look.”
“Not by yourself. I don’t want to have to send someone out to look for you, too,” Rachel said.
Eli shot her an angry look. “I’m a fine navigator but I suppose Winfield Wilson could accompany me.”
“Good choice. One of you needs to be able to shoot a gun and Win can shoot the wings off a fly. Plus, he can read sign almost as good as Wilcox.”
“Your assumption that gunplay might be involved is based on what exactly?”
“I have no idea what you’re liable to run into but having Win along would ease my mind some. In fact, it’d probably be a good idea if you left your pistol home and took that scattergun of yours. Not much aimin’ involved with that one.”
Eli’s cheeks reddened with anger. “I’ll decide which weapons are best to take. And, I have to say, you are vastly underestimating my shooting abilities.”
“Maybe so but I’m not goin’ to stand here and argue your pistol prowess, Eli. Seth’s already been gone too long.”
CHAPTER 7
Forbidden from riding north into Indian Territory, Seth was now traveling in unfamiliar lands. It wasn’t much different from his side of the river—it had the same flat terrain, the same gnarly branched blackjack trees bunched along the creek banks, and the same tall clumps of blue grama grass—but what made this side different was the fact that he was now trespassing on land owned by the Indians. And when he thought about that, his heart rate accelerated a bit. He soon gave up on trying to remember any of the landmarks and focused his full attention on following the trail left by his father’s group. It wasn’t a difficult task because the tracks were still relatively fresh. The few times he had trouble were when the group ahead hit a patch of rocky ground or had crossed a creek and drifted downstream before riding back out. But with a little practice he was able to pick up the trail and continued on.
Heat waves shimmered in the distance and, as soupy as it felt, Seth knew a summer storm wasn’t out of the question. And storms in these parts could boil up quickly and, just as quick, turn into violent, lightning-infused monsters. He glanced up at the sky and didn’t see any storms forming, but he knew it was early yet. He nudged the bay gelding with his spurs to quicken the pace. Although he didn’t really like storms, his main fear was the possibility of the trail being washed away
and not being able to find his way back home.
He looked up and spotted a grouping of teepees in the distance and adjusted his course to avoid them. Seeing Indians was nothing new for Seth. Living where they did, Indians came and went, trekking back and forth across the ranch land almost on a daily basis. Most were peaceable and more than a few would stop by the main house to trade leather goods or hides for groceries or something they needed. And if they were really hungry his grandpa would trade them a steer or an injured cow in exchange for some work he might need.
But Seth was also well aware that there were other types of Indians nearby—the ones who would kill or kidnap him in an instant. And the biggest problem with that, as far as he was concerned, was that you couldn’t tell the difference between a friendly Indian and an Indian with bad intentions. The only way to know if they were friend or foe was to wait and see their reaction and by then it was usually too late. To compensate, Seth’s intention was to avoid all Indians, period. And that was hard to do because he was currently riding through lands owned by the worst of the worst—the Kiowas and the Comanches. From the stories he’d heard, the Comanches were the meanest Indians to ever ride the earth.
Thinking of the Comanches and the possibility of a storm popping up had Seth worked into a lather. Why would they care about a twelve-year-old boy? But then his mind drifted to the stories of Comanches kidnapping other children and the horrors they’d faced. And he’d even overheard some of the ranch hands talking and they’d said the Comanches’ favorite forms of torture often began with some combination of fire and knives and ended with severed body parts. And as Seth thought about that, fear spider-walked down his spine and he twisted in the saddle, searching the area for lurking Indians. None were visible, but that didn’t necessarily slow his heart rate any because everyone knew an Indian could sneak up on you without making a sound.
Seth tried to force his mind to think about something else and he focused his attention back on the trail, hoping—praying—he’d catch up with his father’s group sooner rather than later. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind from clicking back to the Comanches. He thought he recalled his father saying that most of the Comanches, or at least the most dangerous ones, were not and had never been on the reservation, but he couldn’t remember if it was them or another tribe. And there was a big difference between a Comanche and a Cherokee.
