by Tim Washburn
As the sun slipped below the horizon, painting the sky with reds and pinks and purples, Frances knew she had to get on with it before it became too dark. “Have you had an opportunity to spend any time with our guest?” Frances asked.
“So that’s what this is about,” Rachel said, heat creeping back into her voice.
“It was just a simple question.”
“No, it wasn’t and you know it.”
Frances sighed. “Okay, then, I’ll rephrase my question. Is there something going on with you and that Ranger?”
Rachel stiffened. “That Ranger has a name. Leander Hays. And I’m a grown woman quite capable of making my own decisions.”
“I realize that, Rachel. But sometimes those decisions have implications for others.”
Rachel wrenched her arm free and turned to face her mother. “What is it you want to know?” she hissed.
“I want to know what is going on with you and that character Hays.”
Rachel took a step forward until they were nose to nose. “We’re fucking. Is that what you really wanted to know?” Rachel’s low, angry words were dripping with venom.
“What about Amos?”
“What about Amos?”
“He’s your husband.”
“So what?”
“Does that not matter?”
“It might to you.”
“But not you?” Frances asked, leaning forward until their noses were touching.
“Why do you care?”
The two glared at each other for a long, silent moment. Frances broke the stare and said in a low, angry voice, “I care about you and your family. What?” Frances said, poking Rachel in the chest with her finger, all pretense of a calm discussion obliterated. “You and your lover going to go off traipsing across the country? What exactly is your plan?”
Rachel took a step back. “That’s none of your business.”
Frances filled the void, taking a step forward. “It is my business,” Frances said, emphasizing each word with a poke at Rachel’s chest. “Everything that happens on this ranch is my business. And you need to quit this nonsense.”
Rachel turned away and Frances grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her back around. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”
Rachel shrugged. “It’s my life and you can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“No?” Frances spat. “I can do something about it.” Frances dropped her hand and stomped toward the guest cabin. “You just hide and watch!”
Rachel hurried after Frances and grabbed her arm, pulling her to stop. Rachel stepped in front of her mother and looked her in the eye. “Don’t do something you’re going to regret.”
“Rachel, I have had a lifetime of regrets and one more is not going to make a damn bit of difference.” Frances brushed past Rachel and stalked toward the cabin door.
Again, Rachel hurried past, turned, and put her hands on her mother’s chest. “Stop this madness.”
“I plan to,” Frances said as she swatted away Rachel’s hands and marched up to the door. She flung it open and pointed a finger at the Ranger, barely able to contain her rage. “I want you off this property right this damn minute!”
Rachel pushed past and entered the cabin, trying to get between Frances and Leander. Frances pushed her away and took a step forward, still glaring at the Ranger. “And if you’re seen on the property again either I or my men will shoot you dead. And I don’t give a damn if you’ve got a tin star or not.” Frances whirled around and marched out the door.
CHAPTER 50
After standing the first watch, Percy had rolled up in his blanket and slept like the dead. The adrenaline rush of sudden battle and a day of constant worry had sapped him of any reserves of energy he might have had. Now with the first full rays of the sun breaking on the horizon, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The odor of just-brewed coffee hung in the still air and, judging by the already-warm temperature, Percy knew they were in for another long, hot day. A new plan had not yet been formulated and he was going to suggest a change that two men remain in camp at all times. That was if they decided to stay here. He climbed to his feet, stepped away to drain his bladder, and returned to cinch on his gun belt.
It had been too dark for an accurate damage report so that was the first thing on his to-do list. They did know the Indians hadn’t absconded with the mules and that was a relief. Percy grabbed a cup from the chuck box on the wagon and shuffled over to the fire. He filled his cup, took a sip, and took a seat on the ground. He looked over at Luis, who had the last watch. “See or hear anything?”
Luis shook his head. “Nada.”
Luis, still sullen from the death of his friend, hadn’t said much since they had buried Arturo. Not knowing Mexican customs well or whether there was a certain period of mourning, Percy assumed he’d come around at some point. Percy took another sip from his cup and gave a little thought to starting breakfast then decided he’d leave that job to Amos, who didn’t seem to mind cooking. And Amos’s food tasted better than his although, it could be that his dislike of cooking colored his opinion. He switched his thinking from cooking to the current situation when a shadow fell across his cup and he looked up to see Winfield Wilson strolling into camp, his rifle slung over his shoulder and an empty coffee cup in his hand.
“Where you been?” Percy asked.
Win propped his rifle against the wagon and refilled his cup. “Out lookin’.”
“What did you see?”
“A passel of dead horses.”
“No dead Indians?” Percy asked.
“Nope. Plenty of blood trails, though.”
“How many dead horses?”
“Thirteen up close and another half dozen further out.” Win nodded at the wagon. “That there cannon of yours did a number on ’em, I’ll tell you that. Ain’t never seen anything like it. Anyway, about the same on blood trails. Don’t know how many Injuns were killed, but I reckon you lit into ’em pretty good.”
“Where did you find the dead horses that were closer in?” Percy asked.
Win pointed to the area on the other side of the wagon and moved his arm in a semicircle to the left. “Shot the shit out of some junipers behind us, too, but ain’t nothing dead over there.”
“How many Injuns, you think?” Percy asked.
Win took a sip of coffee. “Too dark to see much last night and the tracks are too tore up to venture a guess. Wilcox’ll have to look. But there was a pack of ’em.”
“Which way did they ride when they left?”
“Whatever way they could get with you a-shootin’ and us a-shootin’, too. Them Injuns scattered like church deacons in a whorehouse when the lights come on.” Win chuckled. “Beat all I ever seen. I reckon we’ll know more when Wilcox gets back from scoutin’.”
Percy heard a groan and he looked over to see his father standing up. He grabbed a cup and shuffled over to the fire. He poured coffee and said, “We have a plan yet?” He stepped out beyond the fire and took a piss.
“Waitin’ on Amos and Isaac to get up.”
“Well, wake ’em up. We’re burnin’ daylight,” Cyrus said grumpily.
Percy picked up a couple of small rocks and tossed one at Isaac and the other at Amos and they began to stir.
Cyrus dropped the tailgate on the wagon and sat. “Well,” he said, “I reckon every Injun within a hundred miles knows we’re here now.”
Percy looked over at his father, who was absentmindedly rubbing his chest. “I’m bettin’ they knew well before last night. Your chest hurtin’?”
Cyrus immediately stopped rubbing. “Naw, had an itch. Damn skeeters. What we get for campin’ so damn close to the river.”
“You had as much say as anyone in choosin’ where to camp,” Percy said, stung by the rebuke.
“I know it. Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” Cyrus said. “How are we on supplies?”
Percy noticed his father was rubbing his chest again but didn’t say anything. “I figure we can
stretch it another three or four weeks. More if we can get some fresh game.”
“Well,” Cyrus said, “guess we ain’t so concerned about shootin’ no more.”
Amos and Isaac shuffled over and filled their cups.
“Well, I reckon we’re all here now,” Cyrus said. “What’s the plan?”
Isaac walked over and took a seat on the tailgate and Amos sat down next to Percy.
“Not everybody at once,” Cyrus said. He looked over at Amos and said, “You cookin’?”
“I thought we was makin’ a plan,” Amos said.
“Ain’t no reason you can’t do both,” Cyrus said.
Amos pushed to his feet and put a pan on the coals to warm before walking over to the chuck box. He cut off several pieces of bacon and carried them over and put them in the hot pan then returned to the wagon and started on the biscuits.
“Who thinks there’s Injuns in the canyon?” Cyrus asked.
“We ain’t covered all of it,” Isaac said.
“We seen a bunch of it,” Cyrus said, “and didn’t see hide nor hair of any Injuns. Hell, far as we know, the redskins might not like campin’ in the canyon.”
“They camp down there,” Percy said. “We rousted some Apaches out there back when I was workin’ with the Rangers.”
“That was might near twenty years ago,” Cyrus said. “How do you know they ain’t changed their thinkin’ on it?”
“I don’t. But I don’t see any reason why they’d quit campin’ down there.” Percy pulled his knife and leaned over to stir the bacon.
Win joined the conversation. “After breakfast me and Percy’ll ride down there and find out for sure.”
“That’ll work,” Cyrus said. “But even if you do find evidence of Indians campin’, that don’t mean Emma was with ’em.”
“Emma would have left somethin’ behind for us to find,” Isaac said.
“How do you know?” Cyrus asked.
“I just know,” Isaac said. “She’s a smart girl. And I’d bet my last dollar she left us somethin’ to find.”
“Even if she did, that ain’t goin’ to tell where she went,” Amos said. He grabbed another pot, carried it over to the fire, and began dropping biscuit dough inside.
“It doesn’t rain much out this way,” Percy said. “If we know she was here at some point, we ought to be able to find their trail.”
Cyrus took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and said, “Well, first thing I reckon is to figure out if Emma has been here.” He turned to look at Isaac. “What d’ya think she’d leave?”
“A piece of her dress, maybe,” Isaac said.
Percy didn’t have the heart to tell his brother-in-law that Emma’s dress was probably ripped off not long after she was taken. “Maybe she left somethin’ else.”
“Why not a piece of her dress?” Isaac asked.
“Well . . .” Percy said, stalling until he came up with something, which he did. “Indians would see it. That’s why. It would have to be something less noticeable.”
“Didn’t think about that,” Isaac said. He gave the matter a little more thought and then snapped his fingers. “Some of her hair. They wouldn’t see that, would they?”
“Good thinkin’,” Percy said. “Might make it awful hard to find, though.”
“Not if you found where they was camped,” Cyrus said. “If they was camped, that is.”
“Won’t know until we look, I guess,” Percy said as he reached out and flipped the pieces of bacon over. “Going to take us four or five days to cover the entire canyon.”
Cyrus stood up and arched his back. “I don’t know any way else to do it. Ain’t goin’ to do us much good to follow the Injuns’ trail if Emma ain’t with ’em.”
Cyrus stood up straight and Percy noticed that he was rubbing his chest again as he looked off into the distance. Then he stopped rubbing and said, “Reckon a couple of us could do a little huntin’ while Percy and Win are gone.”
“We need to keep more than one man in camp. Too hard to watch everything with just one man,” Percy said as he stood. He grabbed an old horseshoe lying by the fire and used that to pull the pan of bacon off the fire and he carried it over to the wagon and put it on the tailgate.
“Well, I don’t think we’re goin’ to have to worry about it,” Cyrus said. “Probably need Win or Wilcox doin’ the scouting down in the canyon. Get too many people down there and it’ll make a mess of everything.”
Once the biscuits were done, Amos carried the pot over to the wagon and the chow was on. “Save some for Wilcox,” Cyrus said as he forked out a biscuit onto his plate.
Once breakfast was over, Percy and Win saddled their horses and, after stocking up on extra ammunition, rode down into the canyon. The going was slow because they had no idea what they were looking for. It was like searching for that one fallen leaf in a forest of trees. And to add to the confusion it looked as if the canyon had seen plenty of action recently. They were just beginning the search and had already discovered two different places where the Indians, or someone, had camped. They’d searched both sites and had found nothing but a lingering foul odor from the feces and animal carcasses along with the ashes of long-dead fires.
“What are we lookin’ for, exactly?” Win asked. “I didn’t want to say nothin’ in front of Isaac, but it ain’t hair. It’d blow away, wouldn’t it?”
“Most likely,” Percy said. “Only thing I can come up with is maybe she drew something in the dirt.”
“That don’t make no sense, neither. It’d have to be somethin’ that ain’t goin’ to wash away in the rain.”
“I’m open for suggestions,” Percy said.
“I ain’t got none. I reckon we’ll know it when we see it. Can’t be clothes, though. The Injuns would have shucked those off right quick.”
“You’re right.”
They rode in silence for a while, their eyes in constant motion scanning the ground and scanning for threats. It was obvious from the multitude of unshod hoof prints that the canyon was a popular place. And even though they hadn’t seen any sign of an Indian camp from their vantage point on the rim, it appeared that the possibility of running into an Indian war party was much higher than either one of them liked. Percy was hoping that word of last night’s introduction to the Gatling gun and mountain howitzer had spread. Nevertheless, both men had their rifles out and ready.
CHAPTER 51
Emma was exhausted, worn out—tired to the bone. The old squaws had been working her like a rented mule and if she failed to meet their level of expectation, she often received a beating via their hands, a stick, or whatever was handy. Her body was bruised and battered and, to add to her misery, she still hadn’t adapted to the Indians’ diet and her stomach was often roiling. And those were the agonies during daylight hours.
The nights were another type of horror altogether.
The worst part of it all was the isolation, the inability to commiserate with another human being. Emma was trying to pick up some of the Comanche language, but it was usually a word or two that described a physical object and nothing that dealt with the senses or emotions. There was a lot of pointing and grunting and that summed up her social interactions other than the unwanted advances from the men. She had hidden the knife in a safe place and had dreamed of using it many times but hadn’t yet worked up the courage. And her body ached enough as it was and the thought of a more severe beating or worse was something she didn’t want to contemplate—yet. Not that she wouldn’t get to that point if the days and weeks stretched into months. But she still believed a rescue was possible and the sooner, the better.
After the Indians had broken camp and left the canyon, they had been on the move for many days and Emma thought, based on the position of the sun, that they had traveled in a northwesterly direction. Emma didn’t know the distance traveled in miles, but she knew she was now a very long way from home. The Indians had made camp two days ago along a river bottom, the only real body of water Emma had
seen since their departure other than a few small water holes that the Indians must have been using for years. It was the most inhospitable place Emma had seen in her short life. The uniformity—mile after mile after mile without a trace of anything in which to mark your progress—was mind-numbing and monotonous. The Indians hadn’t seemed bothered by it. Emma didn’t know what guideposts were used to navigate such a vast expanse of nothingness, but they did it with apparent ease. Emma was just praying the ever-present wind didn’t wipe out their trail before her rescuers could find it.
Emma was brought back to the present when an old squaw whacked her across the back of the legs with a stick. Emma whirled around and tried to grab the stick from the squaw, but her grip was too strong. The woman sneered, yanked the stick from Emma’s grasp, and hit her again, this time across the thighs. It was the same old hag who’d slapped her across the face, and Emma snapped. She stepped forward and shoved the old woman back, then took another step and shoved her again. The old squaw went reeling back with the second shove and she tripped over an undulation in the ground and fell flat on her butt. Emma pointed a finger at her and shouted, “No more!”
The squaw looked stunned and it took her a moment before she clambered to her feet. Emma didn’t know what was coming next as the old hag approached, the stick still in her hand. But Emma was boiling mad, and she was ready for a fight if one came. The squaw outweighed her by a good forty pounds and was much stronger after a lifetime of hard work, but Emma was determined there would be no backing down this time, no matter the consequences. Even if the old squaw was someone who was important to the chief. Emma knew she didn’t sleep in the chief’s teepee because that was where she slept—or tried to when she was left alone.
The old hag walked up close until they were nose to nose, and Emma held her ground. She balled her small hands into fists and waited for the squaw to make the first move. They were now close enough that the impact from the stick would be limited unless the old woman was planning to poke an eye out. Instead, and to Emma’s amazement, the squaw leaned over and placed the stick on the ground, stood up tall and placed both hands on Emma’s shoulders, and nodded.
