by Tim Washburn
The one thing they still had in abundance was ammo. The Indians remained at a distance, carefully watching the crew’s progress. It was frustrating, but Percy was hoping it would work to their advantage when word of the approaching beast reached the ears of Emma’s captors. Percy thought the Indians would have taken a shot at stealing the mule team or their mounts, but their fear of the cannon and Gatling gun must have outweighed their hunger for horses.
Although the lack of food and the presence of an amalgamation of Indian tribes weighed heavy on Percy’s mind, there was another, larger worry. And that was his father. Cyrus didn’t look well, and it was apparent his health had declined during their long journey and there was still no end in sight. At sixty-four, his father had lived a hard life, as did everyone living along the frontier. Cyrus hadn’t said anything about not feeling well, however Percy had noticed him rubbing his chest and left arm much more frequently. Percy wasn’t a doctor and had never spent much time studying the ailments of the human body, but he was smart enough to know his father was in distress. And the sad fact that angered Percy the most was that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Percy closed the lid on the chuck box and walked over to the fire, where his father was sprawled out on the ground and leaned up against his saddle. Although they didn’t venture too far from camp, Win and Wilcox were out scouting and Luis and Isaac took off downriver in search of game. A cool front had passed during the night, bringing a welcome change in temperatures. Camped under a massive cottonwood tree, Percy thought the morning would have been perfect if he’d only had a steaming cup of coffee.
“How bad is it?” Cyrus asked.
Percy sat down on his blanket. The thing he missed most was having a chair to sit on. “Well, it’s not good,” Percy said. “Looks like we’re going to be living off the land for a while.”
“Okay,” Cyrus said. “Done that before. But I sure do miss my coffee, though.”
“I hear ya.”
The two sat in silence for a few moments, both staring at the flickering flames, each with their own thoughts. Percy shifted his gaze from the fire to his father. Cyrus was pale, and despite the coolness of the morning, perspiration coated his forehead.
Eventually Cyrus broke the silence. “We went about this the wrong way.”
“How’s that?”
“Wilcox might be a world-class tracker but he don’t think like an Injun. We should have hired some of them Injun scouts up at Fort Sill.”
“Not a lot we can do about that now.”
“You’re right there. But we could spend a year out here and never get a look at Emma. We’re in Injun country now, and they’ve been travelin’ these parts for hundreds of years. They know every waterin’ hole and every little nook and cranny. It would take us damn near a decade to search it all.”
“So what are you sayin’? You want to pull up stakes?”
“No, I ain’t sayin’ that. That’s just some things I wanted you to ponder as this here search lined out. You might give a little more thought to startin’ over in the spring with a passel of them Injun scouts.”
Percy didn’t like the direction of the conversation. “Where you goin’ to be?”
His father ignored the question and continued. “The army ain’t gonna tolerate these Injuns runnin’ wild much longer and besides, the buffalo’s thinnin’ out. Might be best to work through that Injun agent back at Fort Sill. You talked to Davidson, what’d he tell ya?”
“He said they were ready to mount a campaign to herd the Indians back to the reservation. He didn’t say when, though.”
“It’s a-comin’ soon. I can feel it. Too many white settlers wantin’ their piece of the American dream. They got a name for it, but I can’t recall it.”
“Manifest Destiny,” Percy said.
“That’s it. Don’t know why they had to put a title on it. We’ve been doin’ it since we landed here two hundred and fifty years ago. The Injuns out here ain’t got no concept of how many of us there are. Hell, you could put all the Injuns on earth together and they wouldn’t fill up Saint Louie. And that’s just one of hundreds of places like it.”
“You’re all philosophical all of a sudden. Is there a reason?”
Again, his father ignored the question. “With all the raidin’ the Injuns been doin’ down in our part of the country it’s gonna put pressure on the army to do somethin’. And that might be the best chance to get Emma back. Even if you did find the right Injun camp soon, they’re most likely gonna hide her somewhere. That’s what I’d do if I was lookin’ down the barrel of all that firepower you got.”
Percy stood, angry at his father’s repeated use of the wrong word. “Why do you keep saying, ‘you’? It’s how much firepower we have.”
Cyrus waved his hand to silence Percy. “You understand what I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Yes, I understand. Do you wanna go home? Is that it?”
Cyrus started coughing and it took him a while to get it stopped. His eyes were watering when he looked up and said, “Naw. I want to get Emma away from . . . them savages, but I don’t know . . . if we’re goin’ about it the right—”
Cyrus broke off when he was hit with another coughing fit. This one went on a lot longer before it finally subsided.
“You want some water?” Percy asked.
“Yeah.”
Percy walked over to the wagon and grabbed his canteen, his emotions all over the place. He wanted desperately to find Emma and he was torn because he also wanted to get his father home as soon as possible. It was an impossible decision. He took a deep breath and walked back over to his father, pulled out the stopper, and handed him the canteen. Cyrus sat up but his hand was shaking so badly he struggled to get the canteen to his lips. Percy knelt down beside him, took the canteen from his hands, and poured a little water into his father’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Cyrus said as he lay back down against his saddle. “I guess my throat’s dry.”
Percy replaced the stopper and stood, his eyes welling up with tears.
“Best go check on the horses and make sure . . . the Injuns hadn’t snuck up and stole ’em.”
Percy looked down at his father as tears leaked out the corners of his eyes. “The horses and mules are fine.”
“You can’t see ’em from here. Probably down by the river. Best go check.”
“Okay,” Percy said. There were so many things he wanted to tell his father, but his thoughts were so jumbled he couldn’t form a coherent sentence. All he could think to say was, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, son. Now go see . . . about them horses.”
Percy turned away as tears coursed down his cheeks. He yearned to sit down beside his father and hold his hand until the end, but he knew that’s not what his father wanted. He was too proud. Tiny pieces broke away from his heart as he walked toward the river, his vision clouded with tears. His heartache extended beyond his father to his mother, who would be absolutely devastated by the loss of her husband. They’d laughed and loved together for more than forty years and for her to miss his final moments tore Percy up inside.
He found the horses and mules where his father said they would be, down by the water. Leaning against a tree, he watched them for a while as they grazed on fresh green grass. Lost so deep in thought, Percy lost track of time for a bit, the rhythmic chomping of the horses lulling him into a somber trance where images of his father’s life played through his mind. He reached up and wiped away the last of his tears. He knew these weren’t the last tears he would shed for his father and he knew his absence would be felt long after he was gone.
Sometime later, Percy made his way back to camp and found his father had passed. He kneeled down and closed his father’s eyes for the final time. Percy wasn’t much of a praying man and didn’t hold much stock in churches and he didn’t know any of the familiar verses. Instead, he said a simple good-bye, stood, walked over and pulled another blanket from the wagon, and covered his father�
��s body.
Needing something to do to ease his mind, he returned to the wagon and pulled out the shovel and then stood and looked around for a long time, searching for the perfect place. With no high ground anywhere around, Percy studied the river and decided that under the leaves of a towering, two-hundred-year-old post oak tree would be the perfect place. He’d dig the hole and wait until the others came back for the burial.
Percy wasn’t so consumed by grief that he forgot where he was. The spot where he wanted to dig was about a hundred yards away, and he thought that distance too far from the wagon. And if the Indians rode in along the riverbed and decided to attack, they’d be on him in seconds. He put the shovel back in the wagon, grabbed his rifle and a couple of ropes, and went after the mules.
Once he had the wagon hitched, Percy steered toward the large oak tree and parked in the shade. He took a few moments to make sure the Gatling gun was good to go and loaded the mountain howitzer then grabbed the shovel and started digging. The earth was soft and sandy from centuries of flooding and he wondered for a moment if he was making a mistake burying his father there. He didn’t want the body to be washed out and exposed to animals, but he figured if he dug the hole deep enough there wouldn’t be any worries. And he wanted to work—anything to take his mind off the loss of his father.
It took Percy three grueling, nonstop hours to dig the grave to his satisfaction. Although he was in the shade and a cool front had moved through during the night, he was drenched in sweat by the time he finished. And it felt good. It had been a long time since he’d worked that hard and it allowed him a chance to come to grips with the new world order. The ranch and everything on it, was now the responsibility of him and his mother and he was okay with that. It was as it should be. He just wished it hadn’t happened so soon.
Percy climbed out of the hole and drove the wagon back to camp. Luis and Isaac soon returned with a freshly killed deer and both were shocked to learn of Cyrus’s death. Percy took Isaac aside and they spent some time talking. Isaac’s father had died when he was four years old and Cyrus had been the only father he had really known. Isaac, originally from San Antonio, had married Abigail when he was eighteen, and Cyrus had welcomed him into the family and treated him as if Isaac was his own son. Yes, his father could be a hard man, but Percy knew he had an extra-large soft spot for family.
Win and Wilcox rode in about an hour before sunset. They, too, were saddened to learn of Cyrus’s passing. And they didn’t arrive with good news, because they were no closer to knowing where the Indians were. It was like the Indians walked into a fog and disappeared.
They loaded Cyrus’s body onto the wagon and Percy drove it down to the gravesite. Each man told their favorite Cyrus story, and each took a turn on the shovel and, as the sun settled on the horizon, they rode back to camp sullen and silent, each with his own thoughts.
CHAPTER 60
In the beginning stages of her captivity, Emma had worked extremely hard to keep track of the days but after a couple weeks she lost heart. The numbers nor what particular day it was didn’t matter anymore. As a captive, the Sundays were just like the Mondays, and just like Tuesdays and on and on, until the days slowly bled from one to another with no differences whatsoever. Emma had also made it a point to talk to herself in English so she could remember, and even that had gone by the wayside. She hadn’t spoken in her own language in a long time and the way it was looking, she might never again. To her, if felt like she’d been a prisoner for most of her life. The days were long, grueling, and monotonous. The only thing that kept her mind centered was thinking of all the ways to kill Scar.
He hadn’t stalked her since the last time he so viciously assaulted her, but she’d seen him from afar and each time she had to suppress the urge to vomit. His constant smirk was always there either in person or in her mind. She knew she had to let it go or it was going to drive her crazy and maybe she could have if she’d had someone to talk to. Being a prisoner was one thing. But being a prisoner in a place where it felt like solitary confinement was soul crushing. She had picked up more Comanche along the way although it was such an awful, guttural language that there was no joy in speaking it.
There had been one interesting occurrence recently when the camp was visited by some Mexican traders. She knew they were Mexicans from overhearing their conversations in Spanish and that was all Emma knew about them. Big Nose had tied her up and kept her out of sight during the entire duration of their visit, which had lasted the better part of three days. And that might have been the one incident that put her over the edge—the total loss of any hope of ever being rescued. It was clear from that episode that the Indians had no intention of ever letting her go, and the only way it would happen was either by escape or by pressure from outside forces—specifically her father, grandfather, Uncle Percy, and all the others from the ranch. She had no idea if they were still searching for her, but it was something she silently prayed for every night. So far all she had to show for her efforts were more unanswered prayers than she could count.
Emma was so beaten down that she’d even lost the will to fend off the men during their nighttime advances. Although the number of incidents had tapered off some, Emma still felt dirty and humiliated after every encounter. She thought she might kill Scar and get away with it if she was smart about it, however, she had no misconceptions about doing the same to other males in the tribe. She’d seen the Indians when their blood was up. Another group of Indians had brought in a male Mexican captive who had apparently killed one of their braves and it had taken him three days to die after enduring the most horrifying tortures that one human could inflict upon another. It had been sickening to see and although Emma might one day be at the point where she’d welcome death, she couldn’t bear the thought of being tortured to death.
Emma looked up at the sky to judge how much longer she’d have to scrape the hide before it became too dark to see. The Indians might occasionally go without food for a day or two, but it seemed that they never ran short on hides. Those and horses were the tribe’s trading currency and the old squaws were slave drivers. And there wasn’t anything easy about any of it. The hides were heavy and hard for Emma to handle and if it had just been the scraping it might have been okay. Instead, the old squaws used a horribly tedious process that involved three separate stages of scraping in addition to washing, stretching, three stages of brine-tanning, then sewing, softening, thinning, and smoking. And each step in the tanning process often involved the use of water that had to be hauled up from the river. One hide could take a week to finish and they always had two dozen hides or more in various stages of finishing. It was exhausting and never ending. And if Emma wasn’t working on a hide, they had her doing something every minute of every day from daylight to dark. Her arms had almost doubled in size since her capture and her chest and back muscles had thickened to the point where she imagined she no longer looked like a girl. Emma knew that hunters traveled great distances to hunt buffalo for sport and she hoped they killed them all, and soon.
As darkness settled over the camp, Emma set her scraper aside and washed up with water she’d hauled to camp in a water bag, which she now knew was a buffalo stomach. She hurried into the chief’s teepee and sat down for the first time all day. If she had a favorite time in such a bleak existence this was it. It was too dark to work, and she wasn’t allowed to cook—she guessed they were afraid she’d poison them even though she didn’t know the first thing about poison plants—and she had time to herself. The chief was usually out consulting the elders or whatever it was he did, and Devil, who also lived in the chief’s teepee, had cooking chores. The old squaw she’d fought and made up with had made her a new buckskin dress that actually fit, and that’s what Emma put on as soon as she arrived back at the lodge. The dress was beautifully beaded, and Emma knew from the craftsmanship that her onetime enemy was now her dearest friend.
Emma heard horses approaching and she stepped out of the tent to see who it was.
It was too dark to see much, but Emma didn’t need a bunch of light to know that it was more Indians. She watched as one of them slid off his horse and walked quickly over to where the chief was sitting by the fire. There was a quick conversation and then she saw the chief stand. Something was going on and Emma didn’t know if it had anything to do with her, but her hopes inched up ever so slightly.
* * *
Quanah Parker didn’t really know why he was so surprised to hear Heap Big Guns and his wagon were only two sleeps away to the east. He knew it was going to happen and would continue to happen. They might go back home when the snows came but he knew they’d come back. Now the question was, what to do? Quanah walked out away from camp and ran through his options in his mind. They couldn’t push much farther up into the mountains or toward the west without running into other brothers who were quick to take up arms. The only out Quanah could see was to pick a different trail and head back to the big canyon. They’d have to avoid the old man when he drifted back toward his stomping grounds, but that was fairly easy to do.
Or he could try to end it here by asking for a parley with Heap Big Guns and try to convince him that he didn’t know anything about his young’un. The more he thought about that the less he liked it. The old man had the firepower to demand a look through the Indian camp and if Quanah refused, Heap could set up downriver, well out of arrow or rifle range, and rip them to shreds.
Whatever he was going to do he needed to do quickly. If they moved, the squaws could take down the camp and be ready to move at first light. And if he chose to parley, he’d prefer to do it while there was some distance between them. Then he ran through the old scenario of an outright attack again, trying to think of anything that would be different this time. But he couldn’t think of anything. The new problem was the same as the old problem and that was their inability to get close enough to fight without massive loss of life.
And if they could escape again, he thought that maybe he would be able to put together a war party and go kill them all when Heap Big Guns returned. But that was something to consider at a later time. For now, the right decision was to move, and he returned to camp and announced that they were moving camp once again.
