by Tim Washburn
“Who’s there?” the man shouted from the porch.
“Cyrus Ridgeway,” Cyrus shouted back. He saw the rifle barrel drift down until it was pointing at the ground and he sat a little easier in the saddle. “Who am I talkin’ to?”
“It’s me, Cyrus. Tom. How ya doin’?”
“I’ll be better when I get off this horse.” William Thomas (Tom) Waggoner, Dan’s only child, had grown since the last time Cyrus had seen him.
“Climb on down,” Tom said. “Leave your horse there and I’ll have one of the hands take care of him.”
“Much obliged,” Cyrus said as he climbed down from the saddle. He took a moment to stretch his back and then walked up the porch steps to shake Tom’s hand. “How old are you nowadays?”
“Just turned twenty-one.”
“Hell, I already had a wife and a kid and another in the oven when I was your age. How come some gal hasn’t scooped you up yet?”
Tom chuckled. “Women are pretty scarce around here. Besides, Pa keeps me too busy to do much lookin’ around. Whatcha doin’ down this way?”
“A group of Injuns took one of my young’uns. I aim to get her back.”
“By yourself?” Tom asked, an incredulous note to his voice.
“No, I’m meetin’ up with the others tomorrow. Your pa around?”
“Yep. We’re just sittin’ down to a late supper. Come on in.” Tom stepped over to the front door, opened it, and waved Cyrus through. Dan was sitting at the dining room table when he spotted Cyrus coming through the door. He smiled and stood, stepping over to shake Cyrus’s hand. A tall, beefy, dark-haired man, Dan sported a full beard that was now more gray than black.
Dan pumped Cyrus’s hand. “Been a long time, Cyrus.”
“It has been, Dan. Good to see you. Hope you don’t mind me bargin’ in.”
“You ain’t bargin’ in, Cy. You’re always welcome here.”
Dan’s second wife, Sicily Ann, who was about half Dan’s age, stepped out from behind the stove and walked over, giving Cyrus a hug. “How’s Frances?” she asked, stepping back.
“Meaner than ever,” Cyrus replied.
“You hush, now. That woman has a heart of gold.”
“I reckon she does,” Cyrus said. He looked at Sicily’s flour-spattered apron and tried to hide his disappointment when he asked: “What happened to Gabriela, your Mexican cook?”
“She went back home,” Sicily said. “Her mother was sick.” She saw the look of despair that briefly washed across Cyrus’s face and laughed. “She left me her recipes, though.”
“That’s good,” Cyrus said. “My mouth’s been watering the last ten miles or so.”
Sicily laughed again. “Have a seat. I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee and supper’ll be ready in a minute.”
Dan returned to his seat and Cyrus worked his way around the table and dropped into the chair opposite him. Tom chose a seat at one end of the table and they settled in as Sicily appeared with three steaming mugs of coffee, which she handed to the men. The three talked cattle prices, horses, and the weather for a few moments and then all talk died when Sicily placed a platter of steaming tamales down on the table. She retreated back to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of pinto beans, a plate of fresh corn tortillas, and a jar of freshly made salsa. As was typical, the men started eating before Sicily could get all the food on the table. Long, drawn-out meals were reserved for the city folk. Out here on the frontier, food was fuel. Cyrus grabbed a tortilla, filled it with beans, added a heaping spoon of salsa, rolled it up, and took a big bite. As he chewed, he noticed everyone around the table had stopped eating and was staring at him with grins on their faces.
Cyrus found out why a second or two later when he chomped down on a slice of pepper that set his mouth afire. He managed to swallow what was in his mouth and then he croaked, “Water, please.”
Everyone laughed as Sicily stood, hurried into the kitchen, and returned with a cup of water. Cyrus swallowed it in one gulp and set the empty cup on the table. His face felt flushed and his eyes began to water as a fresh bead of perspiration popped on his forehead. “Coulda warned me,” he mumbled. His tongue felt large and thick in his mouth.
“Hell, Cy, wasn’t time to warn ya,” Dan said, his smile spreading from ear to ear. “We got a new type of pepper up outa Mexico. They’re a tad bit warm.”
Cyrus coughed and said, “That’s puttin’ it lightly.” He unrolled the tortilla, spooned most of the salsa off, and resumed eating. He swallowed that bite and said, “That’s the hottest thing I ever put in my mouth. I don’t know how you eat it.”
“You get used to it,” Tom said. “It takes a while.”
“I bet,” Cyrus said. He went easy on the salsa for the rest of the meal and the heat in his mouth finally subsided. Once the plates were cleared away, the three men pulled the makings out of their pockets and began rolling cigarettes. Once they were rolled to their satisfaction, Dan struck a match and lit all three.
Dan exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “Tell us more about your young’un that’s missin’.”
“Ain’t a lot to tell,” Cyrus said. “She’s Isaac and Abby’s oldest daughter, Emma. Best I can tell from askin’ around, I need to be lookin’ for an Injun named Quanah Parker. Know him?”
“Know of ’im,” Dan replied, the smoke curling out of his nostrils. “I hear he’s a hard one to find and damn near impossible to catch. I s’pose the same could be said for all those wild Comanches.”
Cyrus took a puff from his cigarette and blew out the smoke. “Seen any Comanches round here the last coupla days?”
“Nope. But, hell, you can’t tell any of them Injuns apart so we treat ’em all as hostile until we know different. Even if they be friendly I don’t want them around here eyein’ my livestock, so we got us a shoot-first policy round here. I reckon that’s why the Injuns are skittish ’bout comin’ round too much. And I gotta couple of hands that could shoot a stinger off a wasp and Tom here ain’t too bad a shot hisself. My eyes ain’t so good anymore.”
“I gotta lot that ain’t good anymore,” Cyrus said. “And I’m a might older’n you. Got any ideas ’bout where I could find this particular Injun?” Cyrus snubbed out his cigarette on a tin plate full of smashed cigarette butts.
“Out west is all I know, Cyrus,” Dan said. “Somewhere out there in the big nowhere.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette on the same plate Cyrus had used.
“I don’t know even where to start,” Cyrus said. “I got a man cuttin’ sign, but you know how the Injuns are. They’ll split up a half a dozen times somewhere along the way.”
“I’d bet they were out somewhere along the Canadian or maybe further up west along the Pecos. Look for the buffalo. The Injuns won’t be very far behind.”
Sicily, carrying a bottle of hard-to-find Hennessy cognac and four glasses, returned to the table. She sat, poured two fingers in each glass, and passed them around, reserving one for herself.
“You didn’t have to break out the good whiskey for me, Dan,” Cyrus said.
“Don’t matter. Gotta drink it sometime and you bein’ here is cause enough.” Dan lifted his glass and said, “To findin’ your young’un.”
The four touched glasses and they gulped down the contents. Cyrus put his glass on the table and turned to look at Sicily. “Didn’t know you was a whiskey drinker.”
“This is cognac. There’s a big difference compared to that bathwater they sell in the saloons.” She held up the bottle and asked, “Want more?”
Cyrus slid his glass over and she splashed in more cognac then added more to her own glass. “Dan, Tom, want more?”
Dan leaned forward and pushed his glass across the table. “Can’t have you two drinkin’ alone.”
Tom followed suit and this time they sipped instead of guzzled.
“You beddin’ down here?” Dan asked.
“If that’s all right with you,” Cyrus said.
“Be fine,” Dan s
aid. “Take the room in back.” Dan pushed to his feet. “I’m beat. Cyrus, I’ll talk to you in the mornin’.”
“Night, Dan,” Cyrus said. He drained his glass, put it on the table, and nudged it toward Sicily as Tom took his leave. “How about a nightcap?”
Sicily poured more into his glass, added a slug to her glass, and corked the bottle. Cyrus wanted to ask her why she and Dan had never had kids but held his tongue. It wasn’t any of his business. He drained his glass and pushed wearily to his feet. “I’m too damn old to be settin’ a saddle all day. Thanks for the hospitality, Sicily.”
“You’re welcome, Cyrus. Might want to sleep light.”
“Why’s that?”
“Saw some Indians way off to the west right before sundown.”
“Dan said they were skittish about comin’ round here.”
“We’ve been lucky lately, but you never know what they’re thinkin’.”
“Great,” Cyrus mumbled as he made his way to the back of the house and into the spare bedroom.
CHAPTER 31
Darkness enveloped them before Emma could really get a good look at the new, larger group of Indians, but she saw enough to know that they had arrived with captives of their own. Emma saw two small white boys who looked to be brothers and were maybe seven or eight years old, and two other white women who looked to be in their late thirties or early forties—judging age wasn’t Emma’s strong suit. But, like her, all had been stripped of their clothing, their skin blistered by sunburn, and all had been tied to their horses. In addition, all looked to be as frightened and as miserable as Emma was.
As the pack of savages rode through the darkness, Emma wondered if she’d ever get off the horse again. And then she recalled the abuses she endured when the Indians did dismount, and she hoped they rode all night long. The insides of her legs were chafed raw and the pain pulsed hot with every step of the horse. The taste of blood lingered in her mouth on the few occasions she could generate enough saliva to swallow, and her belly rumbled with hunger. Emma would gladly welcome an arrow to the heart just to end her suffering, but she knew that if she was to die at the hands of the savages, Scar would make it a slow and painful process.
Despite her agony, Emma’s head lolled as her pony plodded onward. She hadn’t slept since being captured, other than a few minutes here and there, and her mind was foggy as to how long ago that had been. It felt like they’d been traveling for weeks although Emma knew that wasn’t the case. Nor did it really matter other than it helped Emma to estimate how long it would be before any rescue attempts could be made. If the family had discovered her absence immediately after it happened, then freedom could be riding only a half a day behind them. But she thought that highly unlikely. It would have been extremely difficult to track the Indians in the dark, so if they started at first light that next morning, Emma thought, then her father and grandfather could be a day or a day and a half behind.
However, the more Emma thought about it the more she fretted. Even if her saviors were only a day—or even two days—away they would be tremendously outmanned now that her little band had joined up with the larger pack of Indians. The only chance they’d have to rescue her would hinge on the willingness of her captors to negotiate. And she couldn’t see Scar letting her get away without extracting his pound of flesh. The Indians could hide her somewhere and deny any knowledge of her existence, but even that depended upon the willingness of the two sides to talk rather than fight. Knowing her grandfather, it could be guns blazing before thoughts of discussion ever entered his mind. The word guns sparked Emma’s brain down a new path of thought. She did know her grandfather and she knew he would exploit any advantage he could. And the biggest equalizer was already at hand—the war wagon. It would mean there’d been a delayed start and that Emma was in for more misery, but there was hope on the horizon. All Emma had to do was stay alive.
In the moonlight, Emma saw her horse’s ears prick up and he quickened his pace as did the other horses. A few moments later she understood why when she heard splashing in the distance. Water! Her hope now was that they’d let her partake. Big Nose, leading her horse, splashed into the stream, and Emma braced for what she knew was coming. Big Nose untied the rope securing her to the horse and pushed her off into the stream. It wasn’t more than ankle deep and Emma was momentarily stunned when she thudded to the ground on her back. But not knowing how much time they’d allow, she rolled up on her side and plunged her face down into the tepid water. It tasted awful, but Emma couldn’t get enough of it. Her stomach began cramping with the sudden infusion of fluid and she had to slow until the cramping subsided. On the far bank she could see the Indians gathering wood in the light of the full moon and she hoped that meant food.
What she would soon discover was that fire also meant pain.
Emma drank until she could drink no more. Her immense thirst sated, she began to wonder if she could slip away in the darkness and confusion. Before she could get any farther down that road, someone grabbed her by the hair and began pulling her out of the water. Because of the darkness she couldn’t see who was doing the pulling, but she had a sickening feeling it was her archenemy, Scar. With her hands still tied, she could do little to defend herself, and all she could do was endure. It felt like the skin at the top of her skull was going to be ripped from her head and she kicked with her legs, trying to ease the strain. In a few moments she was out of the water and was being dragged up the far bank, the brush tearing at her flesh. She could feel the stickers puncturing her skin as she clawed at the ropes binding her wrists. If she could free her hands, she might be able to snag a rock, a limb, a chunk of wood—anything she could use for a weapon.
The pulling stopped as abruptly as it had started, and she was immediately flipped onto her back. She looked up to see Scar’s sneering face staring back at her in the moonlight. Using the last of her mental strength, Emma willed her body slack as he began to assault her. Other female screams shattered the silence, and, to Emma, it sounded like a scene straight out of hell. Emma stared at the moon overhead and tried to think of something that would take her mind off what Scar was doing. He paused long enough to slap her across the face and then continued, his hands now clawing her breasts as he grunted in exertion.
Then he was done. He slammed his fist into Emma’s stomach, crushing the air from her lungs. As she struggled for air, he untied her hands, flipped her over, and jerked her arms behind her, and retied the rope. Then he slipped a rope around her ankles and drew her legs up behind her until she thought her hips were going to pop out of their sockets. He tied her that way, stood, grabbed the rope, and dragged her toward the fire. Emma wondered where Big Nose was and why he was allowing this to happen. Before she could formulate an answer, Scar dropped her on her belly, knocking the breath out of her again. As she gasped for air, Scar stepped away and returned a moment later with a red-hot stick in his hands.
In the moonlight, Emma could see Scar smiling when he touched the burning stick to the sole of her right foot. For the first time in a long time, Emma screamed. And she continued screaming as he pressed the stick down on the sole of her other foot.
Her screams died when she finally passed out.
Sometime later Emma came to. She was still strung up like a hog being slaughtered, but she was alone. The same couldn’t be said for the two older women the Indians had captured. Their anguished screams filled the night. Facedown in the dirt, Emma couldn’t see what the savages were doing to them, but she could imagine. Her burned feet throbbed with every beat of her heart and she had to force her head to the side to keep from suffocating. Before passing out again she mentally began devising all the ways she could torture and kill Scar.
CHAPTER 32
That same full moon that was shining brightly upon the Llano Estacado was shielded somewhat here by the leaves of a large walnut tree under which Percy and Win had chosen to camp. They’d picked a wooded spot along Buck Creek, bypassing the larger Prairie Dog Town Fork of th
e Red River that ran nearby, hoping to avoid any wanderers—Indians, specifically—in search of a place to water their animals. Arturo had driven the wagon behind a thick copse of stunted blackjacks and they had unhitched the team, loosely hobbled them so they wouldn’t run off, and turned them out to graze. Unsure if Indians were lurking, Percy had insisted on a cold camp and a rotating schedule of guards.
Now deep in the night, Percy was asleep when he heard a noise that immediately awakened him. He rested his right hand on the pistol he had kept in his lap and tuned his ears to the surrounding landscape. He was stretched on his bedroll, his saddle blanket folded over for a pillow. Then he heard it again. It sounded like the rustle of fabric rubbing against the brush. Percy cocked his Colt Peacemaker and the click-click-click-click was loud in the stillness of the night. They were making too much noise to be Indians, but Percy knew there were other threats out there—the family of the man he’d shot earlier slipping into the forefront of his mind.
Percy cocked his head one way then the other, hoping to pinpoint the location if it occurred again. Then a whisper up by his head. “Boss, it’s me.”
Percy released the held breath and lowered the hammer on his pistol. “Why are you sneakin’ around, Arturo?” Percy whispered. He threw back the thin blanket and sat up.
“Vi algo.”
“What did you see?” Percy whispered.
“No sé,” Arturo whispered.
Percy leaned close to Arturo and whispered, “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Movimi—”
“English, please. My brain’s too tired.”
“Movement,” Arturo whispered.
“Where?”
“Back the way we came.”
Percy nodded and whispered to Arturo, “Wake the others.”
Percy pushed to his feet and quickly strapped on his gun belt and seated his pistol before walking over to the wagon. He silently cursed himself when he immediately saw their folly. It had been a long time since he’d operated out on the prairie, but this was a beginner’s mistake. Yes, the wagon was hidden but the guns were as useless as an unloaded rifle because there was no field of fire. For them to be useful the wagon would have to be pushed out into the open.
