by Tim Washburn
“I’m not,” Frances said. “And don’t you start thinkin’ about a bunch of bad things, either. The shotgun is in case we run into varmint while we’re lookin’.”
Abby started biting the nail on her right index finger, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood.
“Quit bitin’ your fingernails,” Frances scolded. “We’ll find Emma.” Frances didn’t need to check if the shotgun was loaded—it remained that way at all times. She walked over to a shelf by the front door and grabbed a few extra shells and slipped them into the pocket of her robe. “Think we need another lantern?” Frances asked.
With her apprehension about Emma’s welfare on the verge of spinning out of control, Abby said, “No, let’s just go.” She grabbed her lantern from the table and hurried toward the door. She stepped out into the darkness, and Frances followed behind. “I don’t even know where to start,” Abby said.
“We’ll start at the barn and work out from there,” Frances said in an even voice, trying to ease her daughter’s worry. “Emma has to be here somewhere. We’ll find her.”
“I’m goin’ to wring her neck when we do,” Abby said angrily.
After searching the barn and the surrounding area outside, they found no sign of Emma. Frances and Abby checked the smokehouse just in case and went house by house, inquiring about Emma’s whereabouts. They’d looked everywhere they could think to look and there was still no Emma.
After being awakened, Eli’s wife, Clara, and Rachel joined the search and they now had three lanterns burning.
“Let’s pause for a minute and think this through,” Frances said as she grabbed Abby’s arm and pulled her to a stop.
“We can’t stop,” Abby shouted as she yanked away from her mother’s grasp.
“We’re not stopping, Abby,” Frances said. “We’ll search all night if we have to, but we need to be smart about it.”
“We need more people,” Rachel said. She walked over to the bunkhouse and knocked on the door to roust the ranch hands and then walked back.
“Where haven’t you looked?” Clara asked.
“We’ve looked everywhere I can think of,” Frances said.
“Is it possible she fell asleep somewhere?” Clara asked.
That was a question they all pondered for a moment.
“Outside?” Abby asked.
Clara shrugged. “Maybe. It’s miserable inside. Maybe she found a cool place to lie down and fell asleep.”
While they were talking, Frances’s mind clicked through possible places Emma might be. The ranch was a big place and they’d have to wait until daylight to mount a full-scale search if she couldn’t come up with another idea. Then she hit upon something. “Emma said something this morning ’bout making a blackberry pie. Let’s check the blackberry patch down by the river.”
Abby turned to look at her mother. “You can’t pick blackberries in the dark.”
“I know, but maybe she’s hurt and can’t make it back to the house.”
Abby picked up her lantern and started walking. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, Abby. Just a moment, please.”
Abby stopped and began gnawing on her fingernail again.
Frances looked back over her shoulder and shouted instructions to the men now spilling out of the bunkhouse.
“Now we can go,” Frances said. “Everyone, spread out and form a line.”
Once everyone was situated, they began walking toward the river. They all shouted Emma’s name repeatedly and all they heard back was silence. Although the sun was long gone, the heat it created was still present and they were all sweating. And the lanterns didn’t help, their heat only adding to the misery. They walked all the way to the berry patch with no sightings of Emma.
Jesse “Stringbean” Simpson, ranch foreman, held his lantern close to the ground, looking for sign. “Everyone, take it slow and easy,” Jesse said. “We don’t want to clutter the ground up in case we find somethin’.”
Abby and the rest of the group continued shouting for Emma as Jesse worked his way into and through the brush, studying the ground.
“Found something,” Jesse shouted.
Abby rushed over. “Where is she?”
Jesse stood and handed a basket to Abby. “Found that basket and a bunch of spilt blackberries.”
“This is my basket. Where’s Emma, Jesse?” Abby shouted, on the verge of hysteria.
“Don’t know that yet, Miss Abigail.” He picked up his lantern and slowly backed away. “Ya’ll stay there for a minute while I do some lookin’.” With the lantern held low and his eyes focused on the ground Jesse stopped, walked sideways for a bit, then turned and walked west for about a hundred yards before returning. When he looked up, his face was pinched with worry.
“What is it?” Abby asked.
“Looks like four ponies rode right through here,” Jesse said.
“Shod or unshod?” Frances asked.
Jesse looked at the ground for a moment then looked up and said, “Unshod, ma’am.”
Abby let loose a wail that pierced the night as she sank to her knees.
Rachel hurried to her side and knelt down, wrapping her arms around Abby as Frances took charge, telling Jesse to gather the men and saddle up the horses, praying they weren’t too late.
Abby shook out of Rachel’s arms and lurched to her feet. “I’m goin’,” she shouted as she bulled in between Frances and Jesse. She looked Jesse in the eye and said, “Saddle my horse, please.”
“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ride hard and fast if we have any hopes of catchin’ them Injuns,” Jesse said.
Abby took a step closer to Jesse. “I can ride as good as anyone on this ranch. She’s my daughter and I’m going.”
Frances saw Jesse looking at her for help and she stepped forward, putting an arm around Abby, and, with a firm hold, steering her away. After a short distance, Frances stopped and turned to face her daughter. She reached up and gently placed her hands on either side of Abby’s face. “I know you’re hurting, but you have to let the men handle this. Jesse is right—they need to ride hard and fast and they can’t do that if they have to worry about protecting you, too.”
Tears rolled down Abby’s face, wetting her mother’s hands. “She’s needs her mother.”
“You’ve got two other children who also need their mother. You have to let the men do their jobs. When Cyrus and the others get back, they can take up the hunt, too. We’ll get her back if we have to move heaven and earth.”
Rachel stepped over to join her mother and sister. “We’re burning time and every second counts, sis. Let the men handle it.”
Abby wiped her nose with the back of her hand and offered the tiniest of nods.
Frances gently thumbed away Abby’s tears before letting her hands drop. She looked over at Jesse and the other men and said, “Saddle up. We’ll pack some provisions while you men get loaded up.”
Rachel took her sister by the hand and led Abby back to her house. Frances offered a few more instructions to the men and offered them bonus pay for their pursuit then she and Clara followed Rachel. Inside, Frances put on a pot of coffee then she and Clara began gathering supplies for the men.
A few minutes later the men, six in all with the others away, stopped by the house. Clara and Frances carried the supplies outside and the men divvied them up and stuffed them down their saddlebags. Frances stepped over, grabbed Jesse by the elbow, and steered him out of earshot. “Jesse, this is hard country and it takes hard men to get the job done.”
Jesse nodded and said, “Yes’m.”
Frances lowered her voice and said, “I have only one request.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
“I want you to kill every one of those filthy savages who kidnapped Emma.”
Jesse looked off into the dark for a moment, then turned to look at Frances. “What if it be Comanches?”
“I don’t give a damn what they are,” Frances said.
“All of thi
s is assumin’ we find them. Ain’t no guarantee of that,” Jesse said. “They could be thirty, forty miles away by now. We got no idea how long the girl’s been gone.”
Frances spent a moment considering Jesse’s suggestion. She wasn’t impractical, and Jesse had made some good points, but it was a helpless feeling standing around while her granddaughter was getting farther away. The horses snorted and stomped, impatient to get on with their duties now that they were saddled. Frances glanced up at the faces of the men that were just visible in the halo of light produced by the lantern. They looked determined, willing and able to take up the chase, but was that the right course of action? Her thoughts were interrupted when Jesse spoke again.
“And to tell the truth, ma’am,” Jesse said as he waved a hand at the other five riders, “none of us left here are worth a damn at reading sign. Wilcox would be who you’d want.”
“Wilcox isn’t here,” Frances said.
“No, ma’am, he ain’t. We’re mounted and ready to ride, ma’am. Just give the word.”
Frances was torn. Every minute that Emma was gone mattered. But she also knew making a hasty decision and sending the men off on a foolhardy mission could end up costing lives. She clasped and unclasped her hands, unsure of what the right decision was. Sending a telegraph to Fort Sill to alert Cyrus and the military about the kidnapping wasn’t an option because there were no telegraph lines running to the fort and even if there had been, the closest telegraph office was in Dallas, a hundred miles away. After a few more moments of thought Frances, as difficult as it was, made her decision. “Jesse, would you pick a man to ride with you, then head north to find Cyrus and the others and tell them what’s happened?”
Jesse mulled that over for a moment. “I will, ma’am.” He turned and looked at the men. “Clay, you’re with me. Everyone else, unsaddle your horses and get some shut-eye.”
The men dismounted, unloaded the supplies from their saddlebags, and Jesse and Clay Hendershot picked up some jerky and stuffed it into their bags. Both men mounted up and Jesse looked down at Frances and said, “Might be best to keep a close eye out in case them Injuns come back.”
“If they do,” Frances replied, “I’ll give them an up-close look at my ten-gauge.”
“I ’spect you will,” Jesse said before spurring his horse forward.
CHAPTER 13
Emma was physically and emotionally numbed as the four Indian ponies thundered across the plains, the savage’s grip on her never loosening. They had been riding for hours with no stops and—more important—no opportunities to escape. And Emma was planning to escape or die trying. During the long night, thoughts about her fate tormented her mind until, through sheer willpower, she finally tamped them down. If they were going to kill her, they would have already done so.
But Emma also knew some fates were worse than death.
As the sky began to lighten, heralding the coming dawn, the Indians rode down into a small creek and allowed the horses to drink. The Indian holding her, whom she named Big Nose, finally loosened his grip and elbowed her off the horse. Emma hit the ground hard and her breath rushed out in a whoosh. She curled up in a ball as she tried to get her wind back as the four Indians moved upstream from the horses and drank from the creek. Once she regained her breath, she glanced around to mark the Indians’ location and scrambled to her feet. She was desperate for water, but her desperation to escape was more urgent.
Emma had no idea where they were in relation to the ranch. West Texas was immense, and she could be miles from civilization, but that didn’t dampen her urge to run. After a quick glance to pin their location, Emma took a deep breath and charged up the creek bank. She heard the Indians laughing as she grabbed on to a sapling and pulled herself over the top. She pulled up short when she discovered the wide-open prairie extended for as far as she could see, with no signs of civilization in any direction.
That’s all Emma got to see before the Indians were on her. The Indian who had grabbed her ripped off all of her clothing and threw her on the ground. Emma cried when he began his assault and that earned her a beating, the brave repeatedly slapping her. By the time the third Indian knelt on the ground and lifted his breechcloth, Emma was resigned to the fact that she was powerless to stop them. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her mind drift, flashing on images of her family, wondering if she’d ever see them again or even if they’d want her after this. But those thoughts were too painful to ponder so Emma turned her mind to the gnarled branches of an old post oak tree that shaded a portion of the creek. She focused on tracing the branches from the trunk to their tips, with not a foot of straight in any of them. Some twisted up, some down, the others this way and that with apparently no predetermined path. A lone tear formed in her left eye and drifted across her face and into her hair before the Indian on top of her could see it.
Eventually—finally—their appetites were sated. Emma looked down to see her thighs covered with her own blood and before that thought could register, her captor grabbed Emma by the hair, dragged her down to the creek, and rolled her into the water. Emma looked up to see the other three savages cutting her calico dress into shreds, each taking a piece of material and tying it around their heads like victors of a conquest. In the back of her mind she was hoping—praying—that they’d maybe let her go now that they got what they wanted. But, as she suspected, an Indian pulled her up by the hair, threw Emma over his shoulder, and tied her to one of the horses they’d stolen somewhere along the way. Naked as the day she was born, tears streamed down Emma’s cheeks as the Indians mounted up and, leading her horse, rode up out of the creek.
Emma winced in pain with each step of the horse. To add to her misery, the sun was now riding high in the sky and she could feel her pale skin already roasting and knew she’d be burned and blistered by the end of the day. The Indians kicked the ponies into a gallop and each lunge of the horse sent shockwaves of pain radiating through her body. If she hadn’t been tied to the horse, she would have gladly jumped off and been content to die where she fell.
Through sheer force of will, Emma mentally suppressed the pain from raging to a level just below unbearable and tried to focus on her captors. She still had no idea which tribe the four Indians called home, or if it even mattered. Due to the location of the ranch, it could be any of a dozen tribes, but judging from their brutality Emma was thinking they were either Apaches, Kiowas, or Comanches. Not that there was a whit of difference between the three—all were known to be sadistic and all took pleasure in devising new ways to torture their captives. The only thing that kept her from going crazy was that she knew her grandfather had a good relationship with a good number of tribes and his contacts could possibly lead to a quick recovery. Before she could give that further thought, her mental wall collapsed, and a wave of intense pain washed out any other thoughts.
CHAPTER 14
With the rustlers’ trail gone for good, Percy, Cyrus, and the rest of the group had rolled out of Fort Sill at daybreak. Now it was midmorning and the horses were lathered up and the men were drenched with sweat. Yesterday’s brief storm had not only muddied the ground, it had elevated the humidity level to agonizing levels, making the journey home miserable. Unaware that Emma and Seth had gone missing, the men weren’t in a hurry, fearing if they pushed the horses too hard, they’d ruin them. As it was, the men were switching mounts every couple of hours, making good use of the extra horses they’d brought along, all in an effort to keep the horses fresh in case they encountered a group of marauding Indians. And that wasn’t out of the question with the Comanches presumably on the warpath.
Percy glanced forward and spotted two men running their horses hard toward them. Still too far away to learn much about them, he slid his rifle out of his scabbard. “Two men ridin’ hard our way,” he told the other men. Other rifles were drawn as Percy surveyed the approaching riders, his horse walking steadily forward.
“Them boys’re gonna kill those horses,” Cyrus said. “They ought
to be horsewhipped.”
“I expect they’ve got a reason,” Percy said. “Let’s hope there’s not a pack of wild Indians coming up behind them.”
When the two riders drew closer, a tingle of dread crept down Percy’s spine.
“Hell, that’s Jesse and Hendershot,” Cyrus grumbled. “I’ve a mind to fire their asses on the spot.”
The two men reined their horses to a stop and before Cyrus could say anything, Jesse looked at Isaac Turner and said, “Injuns kidnapped your oldest girl, Isaac.”
The blood drained from Isaac’s face and his shoulders slumped. “When?”
“’Bout dark, yesterday. Found the tracks of four unshod ponies and they’re headed west.”
“So not reservation Injuns?” Isaac said, his voice barely audible.
“Unless they done circled around, no,” Jesse said.
“How many men you got trackin’ them?” Cyrus asked.
Jesse studied the ground for a moment then looked up at Cyrus and said, “None. Miss Franny told me to ride up here and find ya. The girl had probably been gone for hours fore we found the tracks.” Jesse looked at Amos and said, “Seth ain’t with you?”
“Why would Seth be with us?” Amos asked.
“He rode off after you yesterday mornin’.”
Amos was momentarily taken aback. “Do what?”
“Seth rode out not long after ya’ll rode out. Miss Rachel sent Eli and Win out to fetch him.”
“So he’s back home?” Amos asked.
“No, sir,” Jesse said. “They still ain’t back.”
Not one to dawdle with a bunch of questions, Cyrus Ridgeway was a man of action and he began barking orders. “Eli and Win can handle Seth, maybe. Wilcox, take Amos and Isaac with you to see if you can cut the Indians’ trail. Percy, you, Jesse, and Hendershot head back to the ranch and hitch up the wagon. It’ll slow us down but we’re going to need it. Load on some more ammunition and, Percy, tell your ma to pack enough supplies for a couple of weeks.”
Cyrus gave little thought to consoling his daughter Abigail, nor did Isaac appear to give much thought about consoling his wife. And there was no question about which wagon to hitch up, because they all knew which one Cyrus was referring to.
