The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  Cyrus looked at Jesse. “Any idea which band of Injuns took her?”

  “Didn’t find no arrows or nuthin’, but I’m bettin’ Comanche since they rode west.” Jesse thought a little longer then said, “Could be Apache, though.”

  “Two feathers of the same bird,” Percy mumbled.

  “They’re all nasty and mean,” Cyrus added. “Jesse, you and Hendershot trade out for fresh horses.” He glanced at the position of the sun to gauge the time and guessed it was somewhere around ten in the morning. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  “What are you, Luis, and Arturo goin’ to do?” Percy asked.

  “We’re going back to Fort Sill. I’ll report Emma’s kidnappin’ to the army and the Indian agent then we’re goin’ to roust some of them redskins and see if we can maybe find out where their kin is camped. A bunch of the Injuns speak a little Spanish so Arturo or Luis can help with that.” Cyrus paused a moment to mentally calculate the logistics of everything. The wagon was going to slow everything down, but that couldn’t be helped. “Jesse and Clay, I want you two to hang back at the ranch and keep an eye on things. Try to get the rest of them calves branded so we can start a drive up north to the railhead. For the rest of you, we’ll meet in two days where Wildcat Creek feeds into the Pease.”

  The men were starting to ride away when Cyrus rethought his strategy. “Wait,” he shouted. “Percy, you rode all over this country when you was rangerin’. You might ought to go with Wilcox, Isaac, and Amos. Each of you grab an extra horse to take along with you.”

  “Who’s going to get the wagon?” Percy asked.

  Cyrus looked at the two Mexicans he employed. They were good men and would stick to a task until it was done, regardless the circumstances. “Arturo, you and Luis go get the wagon. Jesse and Clay, you help ’em get her hitched up. I’ll ride back to Fort Sill myself.”

  “Sí, patrón,” Arturo Hernandez said.

  “Make sure you get plenty of ammo,” Cyrus ordered, “and tell Señora Frances to pack some grub.”

  “¿Dos semanas?” Arturo asked.

  “Sí,” Cyrus replied. “Could be longer, but who the hell knows.” Cyrus, usually a very decisive man, was having trouble wrapping his mind around who needed to go where. He shifted in the saddle, feeling the pressure of time slipping away. The major sticking point was trying to decide the best use of Percy’s skills. And guarding the wagon would be paramount. “Scratch that. Percy, you go with Arturo and Luis to get the wagon. Tie on a couple of water barrels, too. I got a feelin’ we’re headed into dry country.”

  “Okay,” Percy said, an exasperated tone in his voice. “We set now?”

  “We’re set,” Cyrus said. “See ya’ll in two days.”

  The men separated and rode off in three different directions. Percy and his crew rode hard toward the ranch, arriving early in the afternoon, after changing horses several times during the ride. The men stripped their saddles from the worn-out horses and Percy asked Hendershot and Jesse to round up the wagon team and some fresh mounts. As they dispersed to saddle fresh horses, Percy headed toward his mother’s house to ask her to pack up some grub. On the way, Abby and Rachel came outside to meet him and fell in step beside him. Abby looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink since Emma had disappeared.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Rachel asked.

  “Most went west to see if they could cut the Indians’ trail. Pa rode back to Fort Sill to report Emma’s kidnappin’ and to see if he could dig up some information about who might have taken her.”

  “What are you doin’, Percy?” Abby asked. “You’re going out to help find her, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I came to get some supplies and to grab the wagon.”

  “What wagon?” Rachel asked, then she answered her own question. “Oh, that wagon.”

  “Yes, that wagon,” Percy said. He looked ahead to see his mother stepping down off the back porch of the main house.

  “How long are you goin’ to be gone?” Rachel asked.

  Percy shrugged. “Pa’s planning on a couple of weeks.”

  Abby reached out her hand and pulled her brother to a stop. “I want to know what you think, Percy. You’ve ridden out to that part of the country.”

  Percy really didn’t have time for all these questions, especially when he didn’t have any answers his sister would want to hear. He knew how difficult the task ahead of them was. The area they were heading into was a sea of nothingness that stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions. Looking for a single band of Indians was going to be like looking for a single needle in a barn full of them. “I don’t know, Abby. I can promise you we’ll do everything we can.”

  Percy awaited the arrival of their mother and she slipped an arm around her son’s back and squeezed a hug.

  “What do you need me to do, Percy?” Frances asked. She had lived long enough on the frontier to know exactly what was going on.

  “Need some grub, Ma, and plenty of it,” Percy said. “We’ll hunt game for meat, but we could sure do with some flour, coffee, and whatever else you think we’ll need.”

  Frances looked at her two daughters and said, “Grab anything you can from your two kitchens and bring it to the house. Don’t worry if you’re runnin’ low because I’ll send somebody to Red River station for supplies later.”

  Once Rachel and Abby were out of earshot, Frances put a hand on Percy’s arm and said, “I know you don’t know how long you’ll be gone, but you need to spend a moment with Mary before you leave.”

  “How is she today?” Percy asked, his face crinkling with new worry.

  “Not good, son. She can’t get out of bed.”

  Percy looked off in the distance for a long spell. “You’ll watch after the kids?”

  “Of course,” Frances said.

  Percy blew out a long breath. “Okay. Let me get the wagon squared away and I’ll look in on her.”

  Frances patted her son on the arm before turning for home.

  Percy, as hard as it was, turned his mind back to the task at hand. He walked around to the side of the barn and slid open the wide door. Inside was the wagon. Built by the Peter Schuttler Wagon Works Company out of Chicago, the wagon had oversized wheels, a beefed-up frame, and a bed that was designed to float the river crossings without wetting the contents. And it was those contents that made this particular wagon so special. It was the equalizer that kept any marauding Indians at bay.

  Mounted at the front of the wagon, with a 360-degree field of fire, was a Gatling gun. A hand-cranked rotary cannon, the gun’s six rotating barrels could spit out two hundred rounds per minute. The original gun shipped with a forty-round, gravity-fed magazine that slipped into a slot at the top of the gun. The Ridgeways increased the rate of fire by adding a drum magazine that held two hundred .50 caliber rounds. And if that wasn’t enough to get the job done, there was an even more sinister weapon mounted on the back of the wagon—the M1841 mountain howitzer. Loaded with canister shot, the weapon could blast 148 .69 caliber lead balls in a single firing. It was like a hundred sawed-off shotguns firing at the same time. The effective range of the weapon extended to hundreds of yards, but the closer, the deadlier. At two hundred fifty yards, the howitzer could level an enemy with lethal precision. The Indians were mighty afraid of the Gatling gun but they were absolutely terrified of the mountain howitzer.

  After what seemed like forever, Jesse and Hendershot returned, leading the mule team and driving some fresh horses out in front of them. Luis and Arturo worked quickly to harness the four mules and they pulled the wagon from the barn.

  Percy leaned over the rail and counted the cases of ammunition stored aboard. By his estimation, they had enough ammo to wipe out all the Comanches currently walking the earth.

  CHAPTER 15

  Seth was unable to sit a horse with his blistered bottom so the three of them—Seth, Eli, and Win—were making slow yet steady progress heading back to the ranch afoot. Leading their horses, the three started
around daybreak and were now in sight of the Red River. There had been no discussion about who the three men Win and Eli had killed were or where they might have been from. Dead was dead, and the rest of that stuff didn’t matter. Eli thought they were lucky they came along when they did because he had no doubt the three men had other devious deeds in mind. And if they’d tried to do whatever it was to Seth, how many other children had endured the same? Not anymore, Eli thought.

  The water level in the river was up slightly from yesterday’s brief shower, but it was little more than ankle deep in most places with a few deeper pools thrown into the mix. Eli didn’t know who’d given the stream its name but whoever it was had nailed it—the water was muddy and brackish, and so salty it was unusable most of the year. What the riverbed lacked in water, it more than made up for it in the amount of quicksand which littered the entire Red River basin. It would suck a cow or horse in so deep the only way to get them out was to put a rope on them and pull them out. Luckily, the three avoided any quicksand and a couple of water moccasins sunning on the sand and crossed safely.

  As they were climbing up the far bank and back onto ranch land, Eli’s heart stuttered when the roar of gunfire shattered the silence. The quick tat, tat, tat, tat could be only one thing—the Gatling gun. The three turned their horses loose to find their own way back to the barn and quickened their pace, weaving through a thick stand of blackjacks, not knowing if the ranch was under attack by a swarm of warring Indians or a roving pack of ruthless raiders. When the weapon didn’t sound again, Eli and Win glanced at each other, confused. They paused at the tree line and scanned the surrounding area. A large swath of land around the ranch buildings had been cleared of all trees and brush to allow for a wider field of fire and the only thing Eli could see were the heat waves shimmering in the distance. There were no clouds of dust indicating a group of invaders and the gun hadn’t sounded again. Hoping younger eyes might be sharper, Eli leaned in close to Seth and whispered, “See anything?”

  Seth shook his head. “I reckon they’re just horsin’ around.”

  “I hope you reckon right,” Eli said. He led the other two out of the woods. Hugging the tree line just in case, the three worked their way around to the side of the barn and saw Percy bent over the Gatling gun.

  “What the hell, Percy?” Eli asked as they walked over to the wagon and stopped.

  Percy stood and said, “Makin’ sure the gun’s workin’. I see you found Seth, proving miracles can still happen.”

  “Funny,” Eli said. “Are you anticipating an all-out assault on the ranch?”

  When Percy didn’t immediately answer, Eli asked the question again.

  Percy shot his brother a glare and climbed out of the wagon. Percy winced when he saw Seth’s bruised face, but he’d wait to get the story from Eli. He ruffled Seth’s hair and said, “Why don’t you go tell your ma you’re back so she’ll stop worryin’.”

  “Are you goin’ to shoot the gun again?” Seth asked, his eyes alight with excitement.

  “Shootin’s over. Now, go on, your ma’s worried sick,” Percy said.

  Seth hung his head and limped toward home. Once he was out of earshot, Percy looked at Eli and Win and said, “Indians took Emma sometime last night. We’re headed out to look for her.”

  “Which Injuns?” Win asked, his mustache and beard so thick you couldn’t see his mouth move.

  Percy stared off in the distance for a moment, then refocused his gaze on the two men. “Comanche or Kiowa.”

  “Not a hair’s difference between them,” Eli said. He looked down and nudged the dirt with the toe of his boot for a moment then looked up at his brother. “You’ve heard the horror stories of what they do to their captives.”

  Percy sighed. “I know. Only hope is to find her quick.”

  “Wagon’s gonna slow us down,” Win said.

  “Can’t be helped,” Percy said.

  “Want me to accompany you on the search?” Eli asked.

  “No,” Percy replied. “Best you stay and keep an eye on the place.” He nodded toward Jesse and Hendershot who were busy with the wagon and said, “Them two are stayin’ back.”

  “What do ya need me to do?” Win asked.

  Percy pondered the question for a moment. Win was a hell of a tracker, much better than he was, but the two Mexicans could cut sign almost as good as Win could. However, Win had fought in his share of Indian scrapes and was deadly with a rifle in his hand. “Probably be best if you went along, Win,” Percy said. “The more eyes lookin’, the better. Accordin’ to Colonel Davidson the Comanche are gettin’ mighty frisky.”

  “Why doesn’t Davidson do something to address the problem?” Eli asked.

  “Army’s goin’ to but he didn’t know when,” Percy said. “I reckon he’s got his hands full keepin’ what Indians he does have corralled.”

  “Ought to take their damn horses away,” Win said. “That’d keep ’em from ridin’ off.”

  “That’s his problem to worry about,” Percy said. “We got our own problems.” He looked at Eli and asked, “What happened to Seth?”

  Eli told Percy what had happened, including Seth’s branding.

  “Jeezus,” Percy said under his breath. “Where are those three bastards now?”

  “They remain right where we found them,” Eli said. “You can rest assured they will never abduct another child.”

  Percy nodded. “Good. Any idea of who they were?”

  “No, nor do I particularly care,” Eli said. “When are you leaving?”

  “As soon as I can get things squared away,” Percy said.

  “What are the odds of quickly finding Emma?” Eli asked.

  “Not good,” Percy replied. “It’s wide open country out west and finding anything will be a damn chore, much less a bunch of sneaky Injuns on the run.” He pushed his hat back and wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve. “I need to go do a few things before leaving.” Percy issued instructions about what he wanted done and turned for his house. He walked by the corral to see if either of his two sons, Chauncey or Franklin, were around but he saw no sign of them. Probably out fishing, he thought. Walking up the stairs to the front porch, Percy paused, took a deep breath, and pushed through the door.

  “You’re back,” his sixteen-year-old daughter, Amanda, said. Tall and willowy with long dark hair and blue eyes, she was the spitting image of her mother when she had been young.

  “Not for long,” he said, leaning down to kiss Amanda on the cheek.

  “Goin’ out to look for Emma?”

  Percy nodded. “How you holdin’ up?”

  “I’m scared, Papa. That coulda been me out there.”

  “Can’t live your life running scared all the time. How’s your ma?”

  “She ain’t gettin’ any better.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “You say ain’t all the time,” Amanda said.

  “Doesn’t mean I want my kids sayin’ it.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes and Percy smiled before shuffling toward the bedroom they’d added on three or four years ago when things got too tight. The curtains were drawn, the room dark. Percy had met Mary Blalock in San Antonio at the tail end of his time with the Rangers. And she had been a beauty with long dark hair, blue eyes, and a wicked sense of humor. But the person now lying in the bed in front of him bore little resemblance to the woman he’d met those many years ago. Percy inhaled a deep breath and released it before stepping into the room.

  “Mary, you asleep?” Percy asked.

  “You back already?” Mary asked, her voice slow and slurred by laudanum, a powerful drug derived from dissolving opium powder in alcohol.

  “Yeah, but I have to head back out.” Percy stepped over to the window and cracked the curtain open a tad so that he could see.

  “Emma?” Mary asked.

  “Yes,” Percy replied as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and covered Mary’s hand with his own. “How are you feelin’?”r />
  “Poorly. Can’t use my left arm at all.”

  Percy had brought in doctors from all over, but none could say with any specificity what was ailing his wife. The most common response was that Mary might get better or her condition could continue to worsen. Thanks very much, Percy had thought at the time. “Want to try and get out of bed to walk around a bit?”

  “I can’t, Percy. My eyes . . . are so blurry . . . can’t hardly see and . . . can’t feel . . . my left leg at all.”

  The two sat in silence for several moments and Percy’s mind drifted to the task ahead. The odds of finding Emma were long, but knowing his father, they would ride to the ends of the earth before even thinking about riding home.

  “Percy?” Mary said, drawing Percy away from his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  Mary withdrew her right hand from under his and reached out, placing a hand on Percy’s gun belt.

  “You have . . . your pistol?”

  Percy had a pretty good idea where this was going. “Yes.”

  “Please . . . I beg you . . . please . . . shoot me. I can’t stand this . . . misery,” she said, with a feeble tug of his gun belt.

  It was a request Mary had made before and Percy knew she was in agony, but he couldn’t bring it upon himself to kill his wife and the mother of his children. “I can’t do it, Mary.”

  “Then leave me . . . your pistol and I’ll . . . do it myself.”

  Percy stood and leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I can’t do that, neither.” Percy turned and walked out of the bedroom and then out the front door, tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d debated the issue a thousand times in his mind and, if it had been just the two of them, he might have done it. But Amanda had been the one caring for her mother and the thought of asking her to help clean up the aftermath of a bloody suicide by gun was more than Percy could tolerate.

  Percy stopped, dried his eyes, and returned to the house. He stuck his head in the door and asked Amanda to step outside for a moment and she did. “Mandy,” Percy said, “your ma’s in terrible shape.”