The Rocking R Ranch
Page 15
Win, Arturo, and Luis walked over to where Percy was standing. Percy mimicked pushing the wagon, and the three men nodded and took up positions. The wagon creaked and groaned when they started it moving, the noise loud in the quiet night. Slowly, they pushed the heavy wagon out to open ground. It wasn’t the preferred location, but it was a damn sight better than where it had been. The new field of fire was limited by the trees on the right although Percy thought they’d have about 180 degrees of open area in which to operate. Enough, he hoped. While Percy climbed up in the wagon, the other three men scooted away to grab their rifles. When they returned, Percy directed Arturo and Luis to watch their rear and asked Win to cover the trees to the right. From all that Percy had seen during his Indian-fighting days, he expected all the fighting to occur out in the front. Percy double-checked that the Gatling gun was loaded and ready then settled in for the wait.
Percy didn’t want a long, drawn-out engagement and his plan was to nip whatever this was in the bud as quickly as he could. And he hoped to do it without an enormous amount of bloodshed on either side. With that in mind, he leaned down and whispered to Win, “Load some canister shot in the cannon. When they show themselves, aim high enough not to kill anybody and light it up. If that don’t work, reload and send ’em to hell.”
Win nodded, placed his rifle on the wagon seat, and went to work loading the mountain howitzer. It was the one weapon that remained unloaded until it was needed, because the result of an accidental firing could be catastrophic. Percy studied the sky, searching for approaching cloud cover while pondering the situation. The Comanches were known for raiding while the moon was full, but they used that to their advantage to take their victims by surprise. Would they do the same against an armed enemy who was wide awake? he wondered. He fished his watch out of his front pocket and popped the lid to check the time. They had about three hours until sunrise and if they spent that time standing around waiting for who knows what, they’d all be exhausted when they needed to be at their sharpest. Percy stared into the distance and sniffed the air, trying to catch the smell of smoke. He didn’t smell anything and, since he’d been alerted, had seen no signs of movement.
He began to wonder if Arturo was seeing things, but that would be unusual for such a sharp-eyed young man who was known to be as steady as any man on the ranch. Percy decided he had to take Arturo at his word, and he was back to his original question—Would the Indians wait for daylight to attack or would they even attempt an attack? They were a pair of unanswerable questions. The only way they’d know was to wait and find out. Percy thought about sending Win out to cut sign, but that would expose him unnecessarily and he decided against it. Percy decided to seek a second opinion. “Win,” he whispered.
“Yeah, boss?” Win whispered back.
“Think they’ll wait for daylight before makin’ their move?” Percy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Don’t know,” Win said. “Maybe.”
“You’re not helpin’ me any.” Percy made a decision. “You three get some shut-eye. I’ll wake you if I need you.”
With no arguments from the three, they walked over to their bedrolls and stretched out on the hard ground. Percy doubted they’d get much sleep, but who knew? Percy climbed over the wagon seat and sat down. All they could do now was wait.
CHAPTER 33
Cyrus was up and moving before the Waggoners’ roosters even thought about crowing. Thoughts of wasted time had stirred him from sleep. Every second those savages had Emma was another second of possible torture she had to endure and that thought ate at Cyrus like a fresh gunshot wound. He knew what that felt like because he’d suffered several over his lifetime. After dressing, Cyrus slipped noiselessly out of the house and made his way to the barn, where he saddled his horse. After leading the horse out of the barn, Cyrus mounted up and steered his horse west.
The heat hadn’t abated much with the darkness and it wasn’t long until Snowball had worked up a lather. The full moon was still up, and it provided more than enough illumination for easy navigation. While his mount plodded along, he was still thinking about his granddaughter when a wave of sadness washed over him. Emma had been the one who named the horse he was now riding back when he was a small colt, and he wondered if Emma would be around to name other colts. He immediately wiped that thought from his mind. If he had to search for the rest of his life, he was going to get Emma back, no matter what. And if that meant killing a bunch of Injuns, then so be it.
He leaned forward and patted Snowball on the shoulder and forced his mind to think of something else. He didn’t want to contemplate the task ahead because it appeared too daunting. So, his mind drifted to where it usually did when he wanted to think happy thoughts—his wife of over forty years, Frances.
Although his family had a vast swath of land, they never considered themselves rich. Frances Landry, on the other hand, had been born rich, although that played no role in drawing Cyrus’s attention. He would have picked her out of a crowd if she’d been dirt poor. He couldn’t put it into words why, it was just a feeling he’d had when he met her all those years ago in New Orleans. In town to buy some horses to crossbreed with the wild mustangs roaming across Texas, Cyrus had met her at a dinner hosted by an old family friend. Frances, dealing with the recent death of her father, who had been killed after gunplay erupted during a high-stakes poker game, was understandably melancholy, but when she did smile, it lit up the room. That smile, and his reaction to it, forced Cyrus to extend his stay in the city.
According to the stories Cyrus had heard, high-stakes poker games and whiskey drinking weren’t unusual for Albert Landry, Frances’s father. The only son of a wealthy tobacco plantation owner, Albert, with little interest in the family business, had moved the family to a large house in the French Quarter, where he whiled away his time with cards, mistresses, and whiskey. When his father died, Albert turned the plantation over to a foreman who oversaw a slew of slaves and, as many at the time had expected, the place eventually went to seed. After Albert’s untimely death, the problems of the plantation landed at the feet of Frances’s mother, Millicent. Frances quickly grew tired of all of it—her father’s death, the plantation problems, the humid weather, the stench that seemed to linger over the city—and all she had wanted to do was to escape to somewhere else. And Cyrus obliged her after a month of courtship.
As Snowball plodded along, Cyrus smiled at the memory. Going from a large, bustling city to the Texas frontier had been a shock to Frances’s system, but it wasn’t long until Percy had come along, and the new family settled into a routine. He smiled again as he thought about those early years. There were bumps along the way, like most couples, but they’d weathered them. They lost three children to diseases or illnesses, which created periods of extreme sadness, but life was tough and the only thing they could do was pull their boots up and keep moving forward. The plantation’s problems eventually landed in their laps early in 1860 and Cyrus and Frances, who saw the writing on the wall as talk of war spread across the country, liquidated everything and split the proceeds with Frances’s three siblings. And they’d gotten out just in time because war broke out the next year, crushing land prices all across the South.
After traveling for a couple of hours, Cyrus hit the Pease River just as daylight was breaking on the horizon. Riding his horse down into the water, he let his horse drink his fill then spurred him up the far bank and followed the river west, hoping to strike Wildcat Creek before too long. Thoughts of Frances faded, and Cyrus turned his mind to what might lie ahead. He wondered if Percy’s crew and the wagon were at the rendezvous yet or if they would be delayed further awaiting their arrival. Feeling the pressure of time again, he was hoping Wilcox had already scouted the Indians’ trail and had some idea of what direction they should go. Thinking of that made him wish he’d made a harder run at Charlie Goodnight. Goodnight knew this country probably better than any white man alive plus he could speak Comanche a hell of a lot better than
anyone else in his crew. But there was little he could do about it now. They had whom they had and that was it.
A little farther along, Cyrus’s nostrils picked up a hint of woodsmoke. He peered into the distance, searching for signs of a fire, but with daylight coming on and the heat waves already shimmering, any smoke was difficult to see. Not knowing if they were friend or foe, Cyrus rode on, his right hand resting on his thigh, only inches from the butt of his pistol. After riding down into a gully and up the other side, he spotted the flicker of a campfire that looked to be about a half a mile away. Craving a cup of coffee, Cyrus spurred Snowball into a lope.
A few moments later as he drew closer, he slowed Snowball to a walk, recognizing the two men who were sprawled out on their bedrolls, their saddles acting as backrests. Cyrus reined his horse to a stop and climbed down. “You ain’t got nothin’ better to do than lay around camp all morning?”
Isaac Turner looked up at his father-in-law. “We been waitin’ for you and the rest of ’em. What you want us to do?”
“Nothin’, I guess,” Cyrus said as he looked over at his other son-in-law, Amos Ferguson. “Where’s Wilcox?”
“He rode out before dawn. Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” Amos said. He knew Cyrus would be cranky after a couple of days in the saddle.
“I aim to, as soon as I get the saddle off,” Cyrus said. He untied his saddlebags and tossed them on the ground, uncinched the saddle and slid it and the blanket off the horse’s back and let them fall to the ground, then slipped off the bridle and waved his hand to shoo Snowball away. The horse walked away a few steps and began grazing as Cyrus dug his cup out of his saddlebag. He walked over to the fire, poured a cup of coffee, and pushed his hat back as he surveyed the lay of the land. What he saw before him was not much different from what he saw every day back at the ranch.
After taking a sip from his cup, he turned and looked at Isaac and asked, “Seen any Injuns round here?”
“Nope. Ain’t seen a human of any type, except you,” Isaac said. “Find anything out back at Fort Sill?”
“Got a name, but even that’s a guess I got from a Kiowa chief.” Cyrus took another sip of coffee and stared off into the distance again. “You find any sign of the Injuns that took Emma?”
“Found a trail about a mile north of here,” Amos said. “Don’t know if they was the right Injuns or not. Wilcox says they’s tracks all over the place.”
“What’s the name you come up with who mighta taken Emma?” Isaac asked.
Cyrus walked over and took a seat on the ground next to the fire. “Quanah Parker. Ever hear of ’im?”
“Nope,” Isaac said. “But I aim to kill ’im first chance I get.”
“He’s Cynthia Ann Parker’s boy.”
“The Indian captive that went batshit crazy when they returned her to her white kinfolk?” Isaac asked.
“The same,” Cyrus said. “They say he’ll be a hard one to find. Might be out here a spell.”
“How long you figure?” Amos asked.
“No idea,” Cyrus said, “but I wouldn’t make no Christmas plans if I was you.”
CHAPTER 34
Percy had awakened Win, Arturo, and Luis before dawn, so they would be prepared to repel the assumed Indian assault. A good portion of Percy’s brain still wasn’t convinced there were any Indians within twenty miles of them, but even a small probability of their presence demanded constant awareness. Despite his uncertainty, Percy reasoned that if there were Indians about, they most certainly knew they and their wagon were nearby. Or that’s the excuse he used in determining whether his need for coffee outweighed any potential danger—hence the coffeepot now simmering atop the coals of a small fire he’d built earlier.
The deciding factor in his decision came down to the number of Indians who might be in the area. If they numbered four or five hundred or less, he thought they were in pretty good shape. The mountain howitzer alone was like having two hundred extra rifles. But if there were more Indians than that—say, over five hundred—then it came down to a mathematical equation that involved reload times and firing rate. And Percy was too exhausted to do the math, so he estimated their chances as good to excellent for anything less than five hundred Indians, and fair to middlin’ for any number over that. Either way, building a fire to make coffee wasn’t going to make a damn bit of difference. Percy refilled his cup and returned to his place behind the Gatling gun.
Winfield Wilson carried his cup of coffee over to his place behind the mountain howitzer while Arturo Hernandez and Luis Garcia took up their rifles and positioned themselves on opposite ends of the wagon. Percy took a sip of coffee and said, “No killin’ during this first run if they come. I’m hopin’ our overwhelming display of firepower will break their will before any blood is shed.”
“And if they keep comin’?” Arturo asked.
“I hope it don’t come to that,” Percy said. “No tellin’ how many Injuns they could pull in from the reservations if we’re here very long. My goal is to send them on their way so we can get the hell out of here.”
Arturo took a sip from his cup then said, “You still ain’t answered my question, jefe. What happens if it don’t go like you think?”
“Then I guess we aim to kill. Nothin’ else we can do about it. But now that you mentioned it, it’d probably be better if you and Luis worked with Win on the cannon. Those two rifles of yours aren’t goin’ to make much of a difference. Luis, you pack the powder charge and Arturo, you ram the canister shot home. That’ll speed up our firin’ rate.”
Arturo and Luis nodded and moved to the rear and rested their rifles in the wagon bed just in case they were needed in a hurry. Win’s job was to fill the firing nipple with gunpowder and then place a musket cap on it that, when struck by the firing hammer Win controlled with a rope, would ignite the powder charge in the barrel. It’s a routine they’d practiced sparingly, and Percy was hoping inexperience wouldn’t be the deciding factor.
Percy turned his focus back to the area in front of them. He could see a long way and it looked as flat as a table, but Percy knew there were slight dips and rises and a few scattered ravines where the Indians could hide. If there were any Indians, Percy thought. The sky to the east was beginning to brighten and they all knew an attack could occur at any moment.
Percy studied the wagon layout, searching for weaknesses. The two guns were mounted on opposite ends of the wagon to allow a wider field of fire. The only hiccup Percy could think of involved the cannon’s position in relation to the Gatling gun, but that would only occur if the Indians decided to flank them on their right, something he thought highly unlikely due to the dense timber over there. The Indians might try to sneak through the trees on foot in an attempt to pick them off. However, in Percy’s past battles with Indians, he found them extremely reluctant to dismount from their fleet-footed ponies.
The thought of horses triggered a sudden panic in Percy. He looked across at his three companions and said in an urgent whisper, “We need the horses up here close or the Injuns will steal ’em.”
Arturo and Luis jumped down from the wagon, grabbed a handful of ropes, and took off at a run. Percy was kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier and he glanced over his shoulder to check the duo’s progress. It was the wagon team he was worried about. Their personal horses were well trained and would come at a whistle and he could hear Arturo and Luis whistling in the distance to call up their mounts. The mules were another matter entirely and it often took a bucket of oats to get them close enough to put a rope on them. Percy did remember Arturo hobbling them last night and he was hoping they hadn’t drifted too far.
Percy’s thoughts of horses were obliterated a moment later when a cacophony of Indian war whoops shattered the stillness. The eerie sounds launched a waterfall of fear that raced down Percy’s spine as he searched the distance for the enemy. “Where are they?” Percy shouted to Win.
Win pointed ahead. “They’ll be comin’ a-yonder out of that shallo
w ravine.”
The words were no sooner out of Win’s mouth when a line of Indian warriors charged over the lip of the gully. That group was quickly followed by another and then another and they spread out in a long line, racing their ponies forward. “How many, you reckon?” Percy asked.
“Coupla hundred, maybe,” Win said.
The Indians were still a good distance away, but they were closing quickly. Percy glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see that Arturo and Luis had secured the animals and were racing back to the safety of the wagon. He turned back to the front and said, “Remember, Win, aim high.”
Win nodded. “How close you want ’em before I touch off this here cannon?”
“Two hundred yards ought to do it,” Percy said.
The Indians and their ponies were painted for war and Percy could tell they were Comanches by the way they rode. It was if horse and rider were all one entity, fluid and graceful. If the Injuns weren’t on a mission to murder them, Percy could have watched them ride all day. Percy grabbed the gun’s handle, leaned down and aimed at a spot in the distance, and waited.
When he thought the Indians were close enough, Percy shouted, “Fire!”
The mountain howitzer roared, and a cloud of smoke swirled around the wagon as Percy cranked the handle of the Gatling gun, working the weapon from left to right and chewing up the ground about ten yards in front of the advancing warriors. As Win, Luis, and Arturo reloaded the cannon, Percy paused long enough to see the Indians turning their horses and racing away, just as he had expected. Arturo and Luis shouted their own war whoops as the Indians divided up and raced away.
“Think they’ll try again?” Win asked.
“We aren’t stayin’ here long enough to find out. I’ll stay on the gun and you three get the team hitched up.”