The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  “They’re gonna try and pick us off one at a time,” Win said.

  Percy handed the reins to Luis. “Get us out of here and keep us out in the open as much as you can.”

  “Hold up a sec,” Win said. “I want to know who we’re fightin’.” He slid over the side of the wagon and reached down and grabbed the broken arrow and climbed back on.

  Luis released the brake and slapped the reins, putting the wagon in motion.

  Win spent a moment studying the shaft and the fletching, then tossed the arrow overboard and wiped his bloody hands on his pants.

  “Well?” Percy said.

  “Comanche,” Win said.

  Percy gave Win a hard look and said, “We’re now shootin’ to kill and we’re goin’ to kill as many of those bastards as we can.”

  Win nodded and worked his way back to the cannon.

  CHAPTER 40

  Leaning over to pour another cup of coffee, Cyrus stood when he heard a faint boom from somewhere in the distance. He cupped a hand around his ear and turned his head, listening. A few seconds later, he heard a vague tat, tat, tat of what sounded like rifle fire that was almost inaudible. But from the rhythm of the shots he knew it had to be the Gatling gun. He splashed the dregs from his cup into the fire and shouted, “Mount up!” He nudged the coffeepot out of the coals with the toe of his boot and then started kicking dirt on what was left of the fire.

  Amos, who was sprawled out on his bedroll and leaned back against his saddle, said, “Where we goin’?”

  “To kill some Injuns,” Cyrus said as he hurried over to grab his gear. “Now get your ass up and movin’.”

  Amos pushed to his feet and began rolling up the tarp he’d been lying on. “What Injuns you talkin’ about?”

  Cyrus began cramming stuff into his saddlebags. “What’s wrong with your ears? Percy’s crew is shootin’ at somethin’.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin’,” Amos said.

  Cyrus didn’t bother to reply. “Isaac, you and Wilcox gather up the horses and be quick about it.”

  “I knew I heard something,” Wilcox said as he and Isaac hurried off without argument.

  Within ten minutes, they were mounted up and ready to ride and all they needed was a direction. Cyrus knew the sound of a rifle could travel long distances on windless days and across flat terrain. He also assumed that Percy and his crew were somewhere between where they were sitting now and the ranch. With all that in mind, Cyrus pointed to the east and they set off. Cyrus steered his horse toward Wilcox and fell in beside him. “Did you hear it?” Cyrus asked.

  “I heard a faint boom, but nothing else,” Wilcox said.

  “How far you think?”

  “Four, maybe five miles.”

  “’Bout what I figured,” Cyrus said. “Range out a ways and see what you can find. I got no hankerin’ to ride into a bunch of Injuns on the warpath.”

  Wilcox nodded and spurred his horse into a lope. Cyrus nudged his horse with his spurs and put Snowball into a canter. The other men quickly followed suit. They began pulling their rifles from their scabbards, their eyes scanning in every direction. After riding fairly hard for a half an hour, Cyrus slowed his horse to a walk as did the other men. The worst thing they could do was arrive at an Indian fight with used-up horses. On a normal day, Cyrus would have pushed the pace, but the suffocating heat took its toll on both man and beast.

  It wasn’t much longer until Cyrus spied Wilcox riding back their way. He was walking his horse and riding easy in the saddle, but he was also busy scanning the ground and the surrounding area. Cyrus assumed from his body language that the threat of an Indian attack was no longer imminent. Spurring Snowball into a trot, he rode out to meet him.

  Both men reined to a stop. “Any Injuns?” Cyrus asked.

  “A whole passel of them,” Wilcox said. “I cut several fresh trails, but I ain’t seen nary a one. Percy and his crew are comin’ along in the wagon. Injuns been trailin’ them for the better part of two days. One of the Injuns snuck up on Arturo while he was ridin’ out away from the wagon and put an arrow in him.”

  “Is he alive?” Cyrus asked.

  Wilcox shook his head. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  Cyrus took a deep breath and let it out. “He was a good hand.”

  “Yep, he was.”

  The two sat in silence for a moment. Cyrus pushed his hat back, pulled his neckerchief out of his back pocket, and mopped his face as the rest of Cyrus’s crew caught up with them. Cyrus wasn’t too concerned about an immediate Indian ambush because they were a good distance from the river and clear of anything that could offer the Indians concealment. Even the tall grass had been chomped down by a grazing herd of buffalo that must have recently passed through. So, they sat and waited for the wagon to catch up to them, which it did after a few minutes.

  Cyrus and his men turned their horses and fell in with the wagon. Spurring his horse to catch up, Cyrus slowed as he came abreast. He nodded at Percy in greeting and his son returned the nod. “Can’t shake the Injuns?”

  “Hard to do when you can’t go no faster than a walk,” Percy said.

  Cyrus looked at Win, who was sitting in the wagon bed next to the cannon. “How many, you figure?”

  “Probably a hundred in all,” Win said as he scanned the riverbank for hostiles. “They’re too scared to make a run at the wagon.”

  “I would be, too,” Cyrus said. “All we can do is keep ridin’ the trail. Either they’ll get tired of trailin’ us or they’ll make a move. Ain’t nothin’ we can do about it.” Cyrus swiveled his gaze to Percy. “Lost Arturo, huh?”

  Percy’s feathers got a little ruffled at the question. “Not a damn thing we could have done about it.”

  “I didn’t say there was,” Cyrus said.

  “You didn’t have to,” Percy said. “I could hear it in your voice.”

  Cyrus turned back to Win. “Grab your horse and you and Wilcox go scout. Isaac, take over the cannon.” He knew his son was angry with him, but he didn’t give the matter much thought. Anger and sadness were better left to the weak willed. Out here, any thoughts about anything other than doing your job could get you killed in a hurry.

  As the wagon continued to roll, Isaac lined up beside it and stepped out of the saddle and onto the wagon. Walking toward the rear, he led his horse around and tied off the reins. Win did the same in reverse and everyone settled in, their gazes constantly sweeping the surrounding terrain. Cyrus and Amos hung close while Win and Wilcox lengthened their distance out to a hundred yards or so as they cut sign.

  After the adrenaline rush from the earlier action, Percy’s fatigue worsened. He sat down beside the Gatling gun and leaned his back against the wagon seat. He pulled his pipe from his front pocket, filled the bowl with tobacco, stuck it in his mouth and reached for a match before pausing. He was so tired he hadn’t been thinking straight. It would be incredibly dumb, he realized, to strike a match while sitting in a wagon full of gunpowder. He pulled the cold pipe from his mouth and dropped it into his shirt pocket. That was, he presumed, the reason the Indians hadn’t fired any conventional weapons at them, hoping to capture the wagon intact.

  But, Percy wondered, what would the Indians’ response be if they realized they had no hope of winning the wagon? As that question zinged around inside his tired brain, he recalled seeing Indians shoot signal arrows that were tipped with gunpowder and hide glue. What were the odds the Comanches would construct their own fire arrows? he wondered. Could that be a glaring weakness they had all overlooked? The gunpowder used to arm the cannon was stored in a tin can with a lid to keep it dry, but how much had been spilled during loading? It was something to consider, Percy thought.

  He turned and leaned against the side of the wagon, so he could observe the area ahead and the river at the same time. Thinking the likeliest attack would come from somewhere down by the water, he reached up and swiveled the gun around so that it was pointing in that direction. As the team
plodded on, the crunch of the wheels through the dirt was like a ticking clock in a quiet room and Percy found himself nodding off again, his head bouncing off his chest. He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, but within minutes his head was lolling again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so tired. The nights caring for Mary weren’t easy although, with enough laudanum on board, she’d often sleep for long stretches, which allowed him a chance to nap. I wonder how Mary is? He opened his eyes and steadied his head. That thought stirred him out of his reverie for good. The old familiar sensations were back in an instant—the constant worry, the clenching of his guts.

  But even those thoughts were pushed aside when he heard a loud thwack, like something striking wood. He glanced over at Isaac and saw him diving down below the edge of the wagon. Percy flipped over on his belly and ducked his head down. “What was that?” Percy asked.

  “You gotta see it to believe it,” Isaac said. “Peek over the side.”

  Percy pulled himself up far enough to steal a look at the side of the wagon and said, “Jeezus, that was close.” An arrow was embedded in the wood two inches below where he’d been sitting.

  CHAPTER 41

  Emma and the Indians were on the move again. The group had split up before starting out and Emma had gotten a good look at the two older women before they were led away. They weren’t dead, but they looked like they were or soon would be. With vacant stares, they sat, tied to their horses. Their faces were bruised and swollen, yet that paled in comparison to the damage done to the rest of their bodies. They were caked with dried blood and their breasts were cut up and dripping blood. Emma couldn’t even imagine the horrors they had endured. A tiny part of her was glad they had ridden out with the other group.

  It was Emma and the two young boy captives who were riding with this group, along with her four abductors, including her archenemy, Scar. Leading the pack was the chief or whom Emma thought of as the chief. She had sensed a subtle change the moment she’d seen the crude drawing of the Rocking R brand scratched out in the dirt. She didn’t know what it meant or even if it meant anything. Perhaps the chief was excited about a larger reward or maybe it meant she would be sold at a higher price to the highest bidder. Emma didn’t know, and not being able to communicate with her captors was frustrating.

  Big Nose was still in charge of her horse and they were riding toward the front of the pack, not far from the chief. Scar, Shorty, and Crooked Finger had been relegated to the back and, again, Emma didn’t know if there was a shift in the hierarchical order or if it was simply an aberration. Whatever it was, she was glad that Scar remained at a distance, although she knew she hadn’t seen the last of him. She secretly hoped his arm would become infected from her bite and then the infection would spread throughout his body. Scar dying from such an infection would be more than she could hope for. But she knew the odds of that happening were slim.

  Her body was stiff and sore from being hog-tied and her feet ached terribly from where Scar had burned them, but the dull pain that radiated from her inner core was what she noticed most. Huge blisters had formed on her shoulders and the tops of her legs and the unrelenting sun was showing no mercy as they plodded onward. The Indians didn’t appear to be in any great hurry, and she wondered if they had a final destination in mind. Surely there had to be a place they called home, Emma thought. They had wives and children and brothers and sisters and moms and dads, too, didn’t they?

  The answer came several hours later as they approached an immense canyon that stretched farther than Emma could see. It was so large that she couldn’t fathom the enormity of it. The floor of the canyon was dotted with trees and stretched on for miles in all directions. In the distance she could just make out a ribbon of water that snaked through the area and had no idea that small stream was responsible for what she was now seeing. The canyon’s rugged beauty was breathtaking. The sheer rock walls were a multicolored canvas of reds and pinks and whites that Mother Nature had painted over millions of years. The view was almost stunning enough for Emma to momentarily forget that she was captive to a bunch of savages, but she was quickly reminded of that fact when Big Nose yanked her horse to the left as they picked up a trail that descended to the bottom. Emma wondered how her grandfather and father would be able to find her in all that vastness, not only in the canyon but the empty plains surrounding it.

  When they reached the bottom, they picked up a game trail and rode for a good while. The junipers were thick up in the draws and prickly pear cacti grew everywhere they could find a foothold. Along the river, cottonwood and willow trees shaded the banks and there were pops of color from the wildflowers that grew up in random locations. In the distance, Emma could here dogs barking, and she thought they were close to the place they called home.

  The chief led them around an outcropping of rocks and through a stand of juniper that eventually opened up to a large wide-open space that was sheltered at the back by a sheer cliff that soared high overhead. A line of teepees stretched into the distance and the dogs were barking and weaving in and out among the horses’ legs. The women and children came running and, way off in the distance, Emma saw a herd of horses that numbered in the thousands. Not knowing what to expect, Emma tried to prepare herself for whatever might come.

  The women ran over and began untying the ropes securing Emma and the other captives. Once free, a mean-faced squaw knocked her off her horse, grabbed Emma by the hair, and began dragging her through the prickly pear toward the teepees. The long, sharp needles stabbed at her blistered skin and Emma felt like she was being dragged through a bed of red-hot coals. She glanced back and saw that the two boys were enduring the same punishment, though not as quietly as Emma was. Their crying and screaming echoed off the canyon walls.

  This hadn’t been the welcome Emma had envisioned. As they neared a cluster of teepees, the squaw turned loose of Emma’s hair and she thought the worst was over. But she was mistaken. The woman was joined by several others and they began whipping Emma with long willow sticks that stung like a thousand wasp stings. She rolled up on her side, curled up, and tried to cover her head with her arms as the old squaws beat her mercilessly, ripping the skin from her body in chunks. Despite the intense pain, Emma was determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing her whimper or cry. Then Emma heard someone shout and the beating stopped as quickly as it had started.

  Emma lowered her hand from her face and saw the chief striding over, his face contorted with anger—or what Emma hoped was anger. He stopped and shouted at the women in Comanche as he angrily waved his hands in the air. Slowly, the old squaws slunk away like a pack of beaten cur dogs. When they were gone, the chief said something else to someone else Emma couldn’t see, and then strode off. Emma looked up to see a younger squaw approaching and she immediately curled up in a ball and covered her head with her now-bloody arms again. She tensed up, waiting for the blows to rain down.

  Instead the woman knelt down beside her and pulled Emma’s right arm down until her face was exposed. She pointed at Emma and grunted something in Comanche. Emma shook her head to signal she didn’t understand. The woman pointed again and then curled her index finger—the universal sign for come here—or whatever the word was in the squaw’s native tongue. The woman stood and put her hands on her hips, waiting.

  Emma groaned as she rolled over onto her belly. She muttered a curse word or two she wasn’t supposed to know as she pushed up to her knees. Whether she could stand was yet to be determined. Blood dripped from her wounds as she sat back on her heels and took a deep breath. Without moving her head, she cut her eyes one way then the other, trying to see if the two boys were nearby. If they were, she couldn’t see them. She hadn’t heard them cry or scream in the last few moments and she wondered what that meant.

  After taking another deep breath, Emma summoned the last reserves of her strength and wobbled to her feet. She had to grab the squaw’s arm to keep from falling and it took a moment or
two to steady herself. The squaw pushed Emma’s hand off her arm, turned around, and started walking.

  “Thanks for the help,” Emma muttered as she took one tentative step and then another. She wobbled after the squaw, who appeared to be heading toward a large teepee that was surrounded closely by two smaller teepees. Without turning to see if her charge was making any progress, the squaw disappeared into the larger structure. Emma finally found her stride, or as much of a stride as she could manage after having her feet burned and being hog-tied all night and then tied to a horse all day and finally having been beaten to a pulp. Each step was agony. Running a mental checklist, she couldn’t pinpoint any area of her body that didn’t hurt. And she had no idea what to expect when she eventually made it to the teepee where the squaw disappeared. She didn’t think she was in for another beating, based on the chief’s actions. But there were many other ways to inflict pain and, from what Emma had heard, it was something the Indians were expert at.

  When Emma reached the teepee, she tentatively lifted the edge of the deerskin flap and took a peek inside. With the bottom of the teepee rolled up to allow for air movement, there was enough light to see the squaw standing near the cold fire hearth, waiting. She didn’t have anything in her hands and Emma took that as a good sign. She lifted the flap far enough to slip through and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 42

  Rachel sat and studied Seth as he finished up breakfast. Jacob and Julia had already finished and had gone outside to do their chores. At ten and seven, they weren’t overburdened with tasks, but Rachel thought it important they do something to learn responsibility. Consuelo was puttering around in the kitchen and Rachel was debating on whether to confront Seth about his new hobby or not. Rachel had noticed that he did most of his eating with his left hand, which was unusual, but she’d already noticed his damaged right thumb.