The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  “I did. I did not say a person never needed a gun. There are times when the discharge of a weapon is warranted.”

  “Well, that’s why I want to know how to shoot. For the next time.”

  Eli sighed. “Assuming there is a next time.”

  “I ain’t that old. There’ll be a next time.”

  “No, you aren’t that old. And that brings me to my second point—your age. Don’t you think you are a bit young to be handling a pistol? Rifles should be the weapon of choice for boys your age.”

  “No, I don’t. And I had a rifle and those men took it away from me.”

  “Another disadvantage to relying on weapons as your only means of defense.”

  Seth picked up the bucket of milk and looked up at his uncle. “Thanks for nothin’.” He turned and started for the house.

  Eli sighed again. “Wait, Seth.”

  Seth turned and glared at his uncle. “What?”

  “Come here, please.”

  Seth stomped back, the milk sloshing in the bucket.

  “Put your bucket on the ground for a moment,” Eli said.

  Seth complied.

  “First,” Eli said, pointing at Seth’s damaged right hand, “it might be a good idea to find a tight-fitting glove to wear while you’re practicing.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “And second, the only piece of advice I can offer on shooting is to think of the pistol as an extension of your arm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Percy would be a much better tutor but think of the barrel of the gun as your index finger. You don’t necessarily aim, but rather, you point the barrel at your target like you would point at it with your finger. Does that make sense?”

  Seth nodded. “I think so.”

  “I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish or what type of scenario you envision, but my final piece of advice is that speed is vastly overrated. Accuracy is of paramount importance. When it comes to gunplay, second chances are a rarity.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to be a gunfighter or anything, Uncle Eli. I just want to learn how to shoot.”

  “That’s comforting and understandable. From what I gather, gunslingers have a very abbreviated life span. Now, you should take that milk to your mother.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Eli,” Seth said. On the way back to the house, he rolled what Eli had said around in his mind. No, he wasn’t aiming to be a gunfighter, but if he got to be good enough, who knew what could happen? One thing he knew for certain was that no one would lay a hand on him ever again.

  CHAPTER 38

  The screams of the two older women had faded sometime during the night, but Emma didn’t know if that meant they were dead or whether the savages had simply stopped their torment of them. Either way, they remained quiet as the sun’s first rays stretched across the landscape. The Indians had danced some type of dance that involved the scalps taken during their raids and a portion of that dance was reserved for their captives, who were ceremoniously slapped and beaten about their heads and upper torsos in some type of crude ritual. Emma had weathered that, but her feet had ached something fierce all night where Scar had burned them.

  However, the one positive—if Emma could think of any positives—was that the ceremony had included food, or something that would have resembled food if it had been cooked. Once the festivities wound down, Big Nose had untied her and had handed her a piece of barely cooked meat that was unidentifiable in the dark. But Emma was hungry, and she had somehow choked it down, the blood running down her chin and dripping onto the dirt. The captives had also been given water, but in insufficient amounts to quench their thirst.

  Emma awoke with her mouth as dry as a powder keg. After those few moments of kindness during the night, Big Nose had hog-tied her again and it now felt as if her shoulders were on the verge of separating from her body. And whatever she’d eaten had caused her stomach to revolt and Emma had soiled herself during the night and her own stench was now gag-inducing.

  Although awake, Emma hadn’t yet opened her eyes. The longer her captors thought her unconscious or asleep, the better. She had tried to talk to the other captives earlier and for her efforts had gotten a whipping across her blistered back with a willow switch. Lying on her left side, Emma slowly opened her right eye to see one of the young boys lying about three feet away. His right eye was swollen nearly shut, but his left eye was open, and he was staring at Emma—or rather staring in her direction. His gaze appeared vacant and whether he registered her presence, Emma didn’t know. She summoned a small measure of humanity from the reserve that still lived somewhere inside her, and she smiled, hoping for a response. But none was forthcoming. She could see his chest rising and falling so she knew he was alive. She coughed and when she saw his eye refocus on her, she smiled again. His response was to turn his head, breaking visual contact. Emma took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it in frustration. If they—the captives—couldn’t band together in the name of humanity, then all hope was lost.

  Emma coughed again, and after a few moments the boy turned to look at her. This time he held her gaze and, rather than smile, Emma nodded at him and he nodded back. Progress, Emma thought. She mouthed the words, “hang in there,” and the boy nodded again as tears began leaking from the corners of his eyes. Emma felt her eyes watering up and tears slid down her nose and dripped onto the dirt. They weren’t tears of sadness, anger, or pain. They were tears of—not joy, there was no joy to be had here—but of relief at having made human contact with another person who had no intentions of doing her harm. And it was the first time she’d felt that since the Indians had captured her.

  Emma turned her head to see Big Nose walking toward her. Although she had no idea what he had in store for her, she felt instant relief that it was him and not Scar. She hadn’t seen Scar again after he had assaulted her last night and she thought he had probably been busy partaking in the torture of the two older women. And her emotions were mixed on that. She felt terrible for them, but anytime Scar was occupied elsewhere was good for her.

  Big Nose squatted down beside her, and Emma braced herself for whatever might come. Instead, Emma was surprised when he untied her and helped her to her feet. Stiff and sore from being hog-tied all night, Emma took a tentative step forward and winced in pain when her burned foot struck the ground. She paused, inhaled a deep breath, and took another tentative step, determined to walk wherever they were going. The pain was agonizing, but it was much better than being dragged around by the hair. Once her limbs loosened up, Emma clenched her jaw against the pain as Big Nose took her by the elbow and steered her toward the creek. Once there, he mimicked washing himself and nodded toward the water. Emma waded in, the cool water caressing her burned skin. She angled for a deeper pool and sank down up to her neck. First, she drank until she could drink no more, then she began washing the filth off her body. Why Big Nose was being nice was a question never far from her mind. Were they allowing her a chance to clean up in readiness for a human sacrifice? Or was there another sinister reason? She tamped down the questions bombarding her brain and allowed her body to relax.

  With the sun up, she could see other Indians moving about. The Indians hadn’t erected any teepees, so she assumed this was a temporary resting place. How long they’d stay was an unknown. Emma would prefer to be on the move because the longer they stayed in one place, the greater the risk for further abuse. Then her thinking changed. If they stayed for a while it would give her father and grandfather a better chance to catch up. If they had been persistent—and she knew her grandfather would be—then freedom might be at hand. Or closer, at least, Emma thought. Those thoughts were interrupted when Big Nose shouted something in his native language. Emma looked up and he waved at her to get out. Well, whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon.

  Emma swam toward the bank and waded out of the water. Although she would have preferred a bar of soap, she felt clean for once. And she smelled
better, too. She prepared her mind for another assault but was surprised again when Big Nose took her by the elbow and led her back to camp, the pain pulsing up her legs from her burned feet. Emma’s head was on a swivel, searching for Scar as Big Nose steered her away from the other captives and through a throng of mulling Indians. Emma’s body was tensed up, awaiting the blows. But the Indians didn’t show much interest and Emma wondered if Big Nose had staked his claim for her and the other Indians had acceded to his wishes. It was confusing. Emma couldn’t see Scar abiding any such agreement no matter who said what.

  A few steps later, they came to a spot where several Indians were sitting cross-legged in a circle. Big Nose began speaking while Emma stood and studied the faces of the Indians who were assembled. This was some type of council or whatever the Indians called it, which meant one of these men was the man in charge. She watched their interactions with Big Nose and she quickly pegged the Indian with long braids and a bright piece of cloth tied around his neck as their leader. The man had a distinctive face with a knife-blade nose, high cheekbones, and a piercing gaze. After a few moments, he stood and walked over. He examined Emma as if he was studying a horse and his gaze traveled up and down her body. Emma stood defiantly, trying to mask the fear coursing through her body.

  The chief spent a long time studying her face then turned to look at Big Nose and said something terse in his native tongue and Emma saw Big Nose flinch. Big Nose leaned down and picked up a stick and drew something in the dirt. Emma was busy watching their facial expressions, trying to interpret what was being said. When the chief looked down at the ground, Emma saw anger wash across his face. Emma’s heart accelerated, not knowing what was coming. She glanced down at the ground and her knees sagged a bit when she saw what Big Nose had drawn.

  In a patch of dirt of this godforsaken country was a crude drawing of the Rocking R brand.

  CHAPTER 39

  Having not slept at all the previous night, Percy found it difficult to keep his eyes open as the wagon rumbled across the prairie, even with the threat that an Indian attack could occur at any moment. And that made him angry. He could remember riding for days with no sleep, and, yes, he had been much younger then, but he hated it when people used aging to explain away a weakness. And it wasn’t like he was on the downward slide to his last roundup, either. At forty-three he was as healthy and fit as he had ever been so there wasn’t any excuse as to why he couldn’t keep his eyes open, but he was finding it a nearly impossible task. He wasn’t too worried about a surprise attack because Win and Arturo were ranging out far enough to provide early warning. With that in mind, he asked Luis to slow the wagon for a moment and Percy slipped over the side. One way to keep sleepiness at bay, he thought, was to walk.

  They were traveling west with an eye on the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River as a guide a half a mile south of them. With the Indians somewhere around and the river a perfect ambush site, Percy had no interest in getting any closer. The area they were now traveling through was devoid of trees other than the ones clumped along the riverbank and the ground was cut up in areas by dry washes—ugly scars upon the landscape created by centuries of rain. In the distance, Percy could just make out a large herd of grazing buffalo through the heat waves shimmering above the sunbaked earth. The buffaloes’ being relatively close was a concern because they were the Indians’ primary food source. And where you found one, you often found the other. Percy walked a little closer to the wagon in case he needed to hop aboard quickly.

  Grasshoppers were as thick as flies in a hog pen and they fluttered aloft by the dozens with each step. Those that weren’t flying were busy making noise by rubbing their hind legs against their forewings and, mixed in with that, was the clicking and buzzing of what sounded like a million cicadas. With the noise and the blazing sun, Percy deemed himself sufficiently awake and clambered back aboard the wagon, drenched in sweat. He stepped over the wagon seat and sat down next to Luis, who had a firm grasp on the reins.

  “¿Visto indios?” Percy asked.

  Luis shook his head. “No indios. ¿A dónde fueron?”

  “I don’t know where they went,” Percy said, scanning the horizon. “But you can bet they’re around here somewhere.”

  “¿Dónde aprendió español?” Luis asked.

  “I picked it up here and there. Where did you learn English?”

  “Same,” Luis said. “¿Cuánto tiempo más?”

  “I’m hopin’ we make the rendezvous well before dark,” Percy said.

  The two rode in silence for awhile. Luis steered the wagon around a washed-out area, the wagon bouncing up and down with every dip in the terrain. The ride was so rough that Percy was thinking about climbing aboard his horse that Win had tied on at the back. The wagon hadn’t been designed for comfort. The initial design called for leaf springs to be installed on both ends of the wagon bed. But after a flurry of letters back and forth between the ranch and the wagonmaker in Chicago it was decided that the springs wouldn’t hold up to repeated firings of the cannon. So off came the springs and with it a more comfortable ride. Luis elbowed Percy in the side and nodded down the trail as he brought the mules to a stop.

  Ahead, Win was racing his horse back toward the wagon. Percy glanced right and saw Arturo also loping back in. Percy scrambled back over the seat and returned to his spot behind the Gatling gun as both men reined their horse to a stop almost at the same time. Win turned to look at Arturo and said, “You cut their sign out on the right flank?”

  Arturo nodded.

  “Whose sign?” Percy asked.

  Win pulled off his hat and wiped his face with his right sleeve. “I cut the trail of a pack of Injuns that leads down to the river. Can’t be more than an hour old.”

  “Maybe they’re waterin’ their horses,” Percy suggested.

  “Don’t think so,” Win said. “I think they got their eye on that there wagon.”

  “Well,” Percy said, “They aren’t gettin’ it. Could you tell if it’s the same group from this morning?”

  “I don’t think it is,” Win said.

  Percy mumbled a curse word or two. “How many in this group?” he asked Win.

  “I reckon there’s about thirty-five to forty,” Win said.

  Win and Arturo climbed down from their horses, hitched them to the rear of the wagon, and climbed aboard. “What’s yer plan this time?” Win asked. “Might be better if we was to bloody their noses a little.”

  “We do that, they’ll be after us for days,” Percy said. He turned to Luis and said, “Let’s move. Angle us away from the river.”

  Luis nodded as he clucked his tongue and slapped the reins. The wagon began to roll as Percy pondered the situation. It was the same situation they’d faced earlier. He really didn’t want to kill any of the Indians because their response would be ferocious and lengthy. But on the other hand, their continued presence was a time killer and a nagging worry. “Let’s just see how it plays out,” Percy said.

  “Want me to give them a li’l taste of the cannon?” Win asked.

  “Why not,” Percy said. “But let’s get the horses away from here first.”

  Arturo took that as his cue, and he wove his way around the guns and untied the horses. Standing on the lip of the bed, he pulled his horse up even with him and threw a leg over the saddle. He led the other horses a good distance away and kept a tight grip on their reins.

  While that was happening, the hair at the back of Percy’s neck stood up and a wave of foreboding raced down his spine. Something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  And it didn’t take him long to figure it out—the two groups of Indians weren’t separate units, they were working in concert.

  “Stop, Win,” Percy shouted as he turned to wave Arturo back to the wagon. But he was too late. An Indian stood up out of the tall grass behind Arturo and loosed an arrow that pierced his back. “They’ve got us in a cross fire,” Percy shouted as Arturo buckled over and slid off his horse. “W
in, take the river,” Percy shouted as he swiveled the Gatling gun around to cover their right flank. The cannon roared, and Percy heard the canister shot rip through the trees lining the riverbank as he aimed for the spot where the Indian appeared and turned the crank, sweeping the gun from left to right. He spied their horses bolting out of the corner of his eye, but that was the least of their problems.

  “Luis,” Percy shouted, “drive the wagon over to Arturo.”

  Luis slapped the reins across the team’s rumps and put the mules into a run. It made shooting with any accuracy extremely difficult, but that was the beauty of the gun—there wasn’t a lot of aiming involved because you’d eventually hit whatever you were shooting at if you kept turning the crank. Win was busy reloading the cannon and, with lack of targets, Percy stopped firing.

  “Don’t see much,” he shouted to Win.

  “Not much on my side, neither,” Win said. “I don’t reckon they’re stupid enough to mount a charge.”

  Nearing the spot where Arturo fell, Luis hauled back on the reins and brought the team to a stop. He set the brake and jumped down. It took him a moment to find Arturo in the tall grass and when he did, Percy saw him kneel down beside his friend of many years. Percy jumped into the wagon seat, released the brake, drove the wagon closer. Arturo was facedown and remained motionless as Percy heard Luis mutter a prayer in Spanish. He broke off the remainder of the arrow shaft and rolled Arturo over onto his back. Percy winced when he saw the razor-sharp, steel-headed arrow protruding from Arturo’s chest.

  “Get him in the wagon,” Percy said, “and we’ll give him a proper burial when we can.”

  Luis angrily yanked the remainder of the arrow out of his friend’s chest, leaned over and grabbed him under the arms, and lifted him up. He dragged Arturo over to the wagon and Win helped pull the body on board as Percy scanned the area for Indians.

  “What’s their plan?” Percy asked Win as Luis climbed back up to the wagon’s seat with tears dripping from his cheeks.