by Tim Washburn
“Why did you start it to begin with?” Abby asked. “You had to know it wouldn’t end well.”
Rachel didn’t answer and that angered Abby.
“You didn’t give a thought to any of it, did you? Which is so like you. Dive right on in without a care in the world and leave it to someone else to clean up the mess. And don’t expect me to believe that you ended it. You didn’t, did you?”
Rachel shrugged.
The slow burn of anger coursing through Abby’s body flared red-hot. Rachel’s most annoying tendency was to think only of herself. Abby stood and pushed the chair in, all thoughts of biscuits now gone. “Well, I hope it was worth it.”
Rachel looked up and smiled. “Oh, it was. Every luscious second of it. I bet you wished it was you, huh?”
Abby looked Rachel in the eye and said, “I think Ma had the right idea but the wrong target.” She turned and marched out of the house.
CHAPTER 57
Percy felt something nudge his shoulder and his pistol was out and cocked before he even opened his eyes.
“Easy,” his father said in a low voice.
Percy looked up and it was so dark he couldn’t see his father’s face He sat up and whispered, “What’s goin’ on?”
Cyrus squatted down next to him. “Don’t know. Thought I heard somethin’.”
“Where’s Amos? He had last watch.”
“Don’t know. I ain’t seen him. It clouded up during the night and I can’t see a damn thing.”
Percy threw off the blanket, grabbed his rifle, and stood, the pistol still gripped in his right hand. “What did you hear?”
Cyrus stood. “A bump or a thump. Coulda been a grunt,” he whispered. “Sounded like it was over by the wagon. Where was Amos standin’ guard?”
“By the fire, the last time I saw him.”
“Well, far as I can tell, he ain’t there now. Fire’s all but gone. There was just enough light to find ya.”
“I’m goin’ to walk over to the wagon,” Percy whispered. “Where’s your rifle?”
His father poked him in the side with his rifle barrel.
“Cover me.”
“How the hell am I s’posed to cover ya?” Cyrus whispered. “We get out away from what’s left of that there fire, and we ain’t goin’ to see nothin’ at all.”
“Okay, you woke me up. What do you want to do?”
“Don’t know. Maybe get up behind the Gatling gun,” Cyrus whispered. “If we hear anythin’ else, them muzzle blasts will light ’em up like it’s high noon.”
“Don’t know where the horses are.”
“Don’t matter. They’ll haul ass soon as that gun starts, if the Injuns ain’t already took ’em.”
“Okay,” Percy whispered. “Wake up the others and ya’ll go over by the fire so I’ll know where you are. Add on a little more wood so it doesn’t go completely cold.” He handed his rifle off to Cyrus and looked up at the sky to see if the clouds were going to pass anytime soon, but as far as he could tell it looked like they were socked in. He took a moment to get his bearings then put his left hand out and began walking slowly forward.
A little farther on he was hit by a thought—if they couldn’t see neither could the enemy. Percy pondered that as he shuffled forward. If he was walking in the right direction and, if his recollection of locations was correct, he had about twenty feet to cover. Out of self-preservation, they kept the fire and wagon separated and the distance between them was usually twenty to thirty feet. With his left arm still extended, he began counting his steps, his ears attuned to the noises of the night. When he reached twenty-five steps, he stopped, looked back at the fire to judge his position, and then turned a slow circle with his arm extended. When he didn’t hit anything, he wondered if he was off by a hundred yards or an inch. And there was no way to tell. He turned ninety degrees, took two steps, and hit wood.
Feeling his way, he climbed aboard the wagon, made it past the cannon, and finally arrived at the Gatling gun. He had to feel for the crank to know which way it was pointed and, once he was in position, settled in for the wait. He couldn’t see the Indians attacking now, but first light was a different story altogether. But the more he thought about it the more he wondered. It didn’t make sense that the Indians would attack them again, especially while they were camped on open ground with no cover for miles in any direction. Percy thought it more likely the Comanches would bide their time until they found the perfect ambush spot somewhere ahead. It made more sense for the Indians to wait for them and their horses to get tired at the end of a long, exhausting day and then strike. But he wasn’t an Indian and didn’t think like one. If they were stupid enough to attack here, the mountain howitzer would shred them to pieces before they could even get into arrow range.
Still on the gun when the eastern sky gradually brightened to announce a new day, Percy thought if an attack was going to come it would be soon. Now that he could see, he took a moment to make sure the gun had plenty of ammo. He counted five two-hundred-round magazines that were preloaded, giving him a thousand rounds to work with. If they were going to need more than that, he figured they had a good chance of ending up dead.
The sun continued climbing higher in the sky and there was no sign of Indians and no war whoops or banshee screams emanating from the distance. Sweat started at the base of Percy’s neck and trickled down his back. Although the sun was low on the horizon and far removed from where it would be midafternoon, its impact was already being felt. And Percy knew it wouldn’t take long to burn off the already-thinning cloud cover, which had been a curse last night but would have been a welcome gift later today.
The last attack had occurred later in the day when the location of the sun was irrelevant. Not so this morning. The Indians preferred to ride with their backs to the sun when attacking, making the sun’s current position problematic. Percy pulled his hat down a little more, trying to block the glare. To assist, Wilcox rode a hundred yards to the north and was prepared to wave his hat if an attack appeared imminent.
Percy sat on the edge of the wagon rail and kept an eye on Wilcox. He glanced over at the fire and saw his father putting on a pot of coffee like it was another normal day. Percy didn’t sense imminent danger and he was starting to believe it was just another day. He looked at Wilcox again and he was sitting easy in the saddle. Percy scanned the horizon for threats and didn’t see anything. They might miss an invasion if the Indians belly-crawled through the high grass but there wasn’t much of a breeze and Percy didn’t see any unusual movement.
“Still ain’t seen Amos,” Cyrus said as he walked up.
“Unless he was resurrected during the night, he’s gotta be around here someplace.”
“Well, he ain’t. You might as well get on down. There ain’t nothin’ out there.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. We need to be lookin’ for Amos. For all we know he coulda moseyed off to take a piss and broke a leg or got bit by a snake.”
“Okay,” Percy said. “Should we put Luis on the gun?”
“Naw. If the Injuns was a-comin’ they’d already be here.”
Percy climbed down out of the wagon and took a moment to stretch. It had been a long time since he had spent this much time not only away from home but also his feather bed. His back was reminding him he wasn’t as young as he once was. After stretching, he placed his hands on the wagon and did three or four push-ups to get the blood moving. Looking under the wagon seat to see if he’d left his rifle, something caught his eye. He walked forward and stopped. Turning, he shouted, “Pa!”
Cyrus came hurrying over and Percy stepped around the nose of the wagon and kneeled down next to Amos, who was facedown on the grass. Percy put a hand on Amos’s back to see if he was still breathing and found he wasn’t. Cyrus arrived, short of breath.
“Oh hell,” Cyrus said. “What happened . . . to him?”
There were no arrows or visible knife wounds. “Don’t know,” Percy said. “N
eed to roll him over.” As the others arrived, Wilcox rode up on his horse and climbed down. Percy moved around beside Amos, grabbed his arm, and rolled him over. There were gasps when the cause of death became readily apparent—the right-front portion of Amos’s skull was caved in.
“Injuns?” Cyrus asked.
“Don’t think so,” Percy said as he stood up. He took a moment to study the front of the wagon and found the cause. He pointed at the splash of blood on the far corner of the bed. “Remember, it was darker than hell last night. He must have tripped over the wagon tongue and hit his head.” Percy looked at Cyrus and said, “That must have been the bump you heard.”
Cyrus nodded. “Beats all I ever seen. All the dangerous things we done, and he gets killed walkin’ around in the damn dark?”
“You sure it weren’t Injuns?” Isaac asked.
“I’m sure. Look close and you’ll see some of Amos’s hair stuck there in the corner.”
Cyrus pushed his hat back on his head. “Well, hell, we’re two men down, now.”
That was something Isaac didn’t want to hear. He pointed at the wagon and said, “We still got that there cannon and that there Gatlin’ gun. Those count for two dozen men.”
“They ain’t goin’ to count,” Cyrus said, “if we ain’t got nobody to operate ’em.”
“We still got people,” Isaac said. “That’s my girl with them savages. We ain’t quittin’.”
“Nobody said we was quittin’,” Cyrus said. He took off his hat, wiped his face with his sleeve, and put his hat back on. “Well, hell, somebody grab a shovel and start diggin’.”
CHAPTER 58
After finishing their chores, Seth and Chauncey saddled up their horses, slid their rifles into their scabbards, stopped by the river to grab the pistols and holsters they kept hidden in an old slicker, and took off, riding north into Indian Territory. They didn’t have a particular destination in mind and Seth was keenly aware of what happened the last time he rode that way. And he would carry that mark from his previous visit for the rest of his life.
Once clear of the river, they paused to strap on their gun belts. Although both were the same age—twelve—Chauncey was the larger of the two and his holster and pistol better fit his larger frame. Seth, thin and lanky, looked somewhat ridiculous with his rig on, the holster running from his hip to his knee. But he didn’t particularly care what others thought and he was determined to never leave home without his pistol ever again.
Although they didn’t have a destination in mind, they did have a plan and that was to shoot something other than a can, or a tree, or any other type of stationary target. They wanted something that moved and weren’t too particular about what it might be. Both carried a Colt Model 1861 Navy cap-and-ball, six-shot percussion revolver that fired a .36 caliber bullet. To make sure they had plenty of firepower they had preloaded several extra cylinders so they could just swap them out when needed. The pistols were heavy, a pain to load, and they were far from the boys’ preferred weapon of choice, but it was all they had. They would much prefer to own one of the newly released Colt Single Action Army revolvers, or the Peacemaker, as it was better known, because there was no reloading involved. You simply popped a .45 caliber cartridge into the cylinder and let her rip. Both coveted one, but the twenty-dollar price tag was well beyond their means.
They rode toward a small creek, hoping to kick up a rabbit to test their shooting skills. Seth was a little concerned about firing from the saddle because, as far as he knew, his horse, Thunder, had never been exposed to close-range gunfire. But that wasn’t Seth’s only worry. Despite his bravado about riding into Indian Territory, he’d turn around and ride home in a heartbeat if his cousin made the suggestion. Which wasn’t likely, knowing Chauncey. Seth had pushed for a hunt along the river on ranch land, but Chauncey had issued a dare, so here they were. And Seth was feeling dizzy because he was repeatedly turning his head one direction and then the other, searching for approaching riders.
“What are you lookin’ for?” Chauncey asked.
“Just lookin’ around,” Seth said.
“You’re scared, ain’t ya?”
“I ain’t scared. I’m here, ain’t I?”
“You’re here, but you’re about to twist your head off your damn shoulders.”
“Am not. I’m lookin’ for game.”
Chauncey laughed. “I ain’t goin’ to let anything happen to ya.”
“I don’t need you lookin’ out for me.”
Just then a rabbit darted out from a patch of high grass, and Seth was so angry, he pulled his pistol, cocked it, and fired without much thought. He had no idea how close the shot was because the instant he fired, Thunder reared up and Seth dropped his pistol as he grabbed for the saddle horn. He missed by an inch and he tumbled off his horse and slammed onto the ground, the breath crushed from his lungs. Chauncey sat his horse and laughed as Thunder took off at a dead run, making a beeline for the barn.
Seth finally caught his breath. He sat up and said, “Why didn’t you catch my damn horse, asshole?”
“Hell, Seth, I couldn’t have caught that horse if I’d had a rope tied to him,” Chauncey said as he slapped his thigh and laughed again. “Damn, that horse’s eyes was as big as dinner plates when he shot by me.”
Seth stood up and dusted his pants off. He thought it lucky that he didn’t have his pistol handy because he’d probably have used it to shoot Chauncey off his horse. He stalked around looking for his gun, found it, and jammed it into his holster. “I’m goin’ home.”
“Oh, c’mon, Seth. You didn’t know that horse was goin’ to rabbit like that.” Chauncey was still chuckling when he climbed down off his horse. “I’ll walk with you.” He took off his hat and slapped his horse across the butt and shouted, “Git,” and the horse took off toward the ranch. They walked in silence for a few minutes and then Chauncey leaned over and punched his cousin in the arm and said, “Maybe we can stop at the river and do a little shootin’.”
Now on low simmer, Seth said, “Okay.”
They had been only about three miles from the river when Thunder bolted, and it didn’t take them all that long to walk back. Both were sweating profusely, but it was such a common occurrence that they hardly noticed.
“Think you could shoot somebody?” Seth asked.
Chauncey shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t seem like that big a deal to me. I know my pa’s shot his fair share and it don’t seem to bother him.”
“You don’t think you’d feel bad about it after, I mean?”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t shoot ’em unless I had a reason. Take them fellers that roughed you up. Would you have any doubts about killin’ them?”
“No,” Seth said. “And if Uncle Eli and Win hadn’t killed them, I would have.”
“So what’s the difference, then?” Chauncey asked.
Seth shrugged. “I suppose there ain’t one.”
“There you go. I don’t imagine shootin’ a man is much different from shootin’ a deer or another animal.”
Seth pondered that for a few moments and said, “Maybe. Except a man’ll have kinfolk that probably care about him.”
“So what,” Chauncey said. “Kinfolk don’t matter.”
“They matter if they pick up a gun and come after you.”
“I guess I’d have to kill them, too. I ain’t thought much on it.”
Another rabbit skittered out from under a bush and Chauncey pulled his pistol and shot it before Seth could even put his hand on his gun.
“That wasn’t too hard, right?” Chauncey asked as he holstered his revolver.
“Well, the rabbit wasn’t shootin’ back, was it?”
Chauncey chuckled. “No, it wasn’t. But a man ain’t shootin’ back, neither, if you kill ’im first.”
CHAPTER 59
After burying Amos, it took Percy and the crew two weeks to reach the Arkansas River, where they lost the trail for good. During all that time, they saw no other humans. They h
ad found some tracks that suggested they were being watched by Indians, but there had been no further attacks. Stymied, they had decided to camp by the river until Wilcox could find the trail again.
This morning, Percy was poking through their meager food supplies to see how much longer they could hold out. They ran out of coffee three days ago and used the last of the bacon yesterday. They had been hunting along the way and they had harvested several deer, but the meat didn’t keep long enough to last more than a day unless they smoked it and no one wanted to take the time to do that. Of key concern was the lack of coffee. You didn’t realize how much you missed it until you didn’t have it. And it made for a cranky crew.
Situated where they were, out in the middle of no-man’s-land, Percy had consulted a map and discovered the closest places to resupply were Dodge City, Kansas, 165 miles to the east, or Pueblo, Colorado, which lay 143 miles west of their current position. The map was an old one and it didn’t show the locations of the newer army forts they continued to build, and trying to find one could burn through time they didn’t have.
The reason there wasn’t anywhere closer was directly related to the presence of not only the Comanche, but also the Apache, Ute, Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and a few renegade Kiowa Indians off the reservation in Indian Territory. These tribes controlled a great swath of land in the middle of the country that stretched from Mexico to Canada. And Percy, Cyrus, and the rest were now smack-dab in the middle of it all.
While looking at the map, Percy had also calculated the distance back to the ranch and found it was a disappointing 325 miles as the crow flies. If they pulled up stakes today and started for home, it would take them most of a month to get there. And that estimate was assuming they wouldn’t hit any hiccups along the way, an unlikely scenario. Percy also had some concerns about the wagon. Although it had been manufactured to exacting standards, it was beginning to show signs of wear after a month grinding across the rough terrain. Bust a wheel out here and they’d be in a world of hurt.
