A Vast and Desolate Land

by Robert Peecher

  Carlos stretched out in his legs in front of his camp chair. "I'm not telling you anything you do not know, but this is a wide and open plain where it is easy to get lost. You could ride within a few miles of Sinclair and never see him. You could easily get disoriented. If you ride back after them alone, you might never come off the Llano Estacado."

  Fitz nodded. "I understand. But I feel some responsibility for Skinner Jake getting away from us. And if he was the cause of something going wrong for Rab and the others, that would be my fault, too."

  Carlos nodded. "No other man would blame you."

  Fitz cast a look back to the east, back to the wide expanse of the Llano Estacado.

  "Like as not, Skinner Jake's going to die out there," Fitz said.

  "Like as not," Carlos agreed.

  "He's afoot, limited in his provisions, and he had a fifty mile trek west just to get off the Staked Plains and to a place where he might find water and decent hunting. Fifty miles is a long way to go."

  "Longer to go if he gets disoriented or turns an ankle stepping in a prairie dog hole," Carlos said. "Or if he runs into Comanche."

  "And if he did turn back, there's small chance he'd ever find Rab and the others," Fitz conceded. "But if he does find them, it's a good bet he can cause all sorts of trouble."

  Carlos took a heavy breath.

  "So what do you think, my friend?" Carlos asked.

  Now Fitz sighed heavily.

  "I think in the morning I'm going to pack up some provisions, take a spare horse, and ride back to see if Rab and the others need my help. Even if I don't run into Skinner Jake, if they have trouble with the Comanche I should be there instead of here."

  Carlos nodded, wondering if Fitz was more worried about Skinner Jake or more worried about not staying with the others in the first place.

  "We'll ride on and be waiting at Rab's ranch with the cattle."

  -19-

  "I'm a white man," Cossatot Jim said. "You can't just hand a white man over to the Comanche."

  Rab Sinclair ignored Cossatot Jim's pleas. He had more on his mind than anything Cossatot Jim had to say.

  The men had ridden back west, moving back to the place where Rab had his initial parley with Pounding Fists. After getting Cossatot Jim from the horse thieves, they had seen the Comanche scouts a couple of times during the day.

  They broke for camp just before nightfall and bound Cossatot Jim in rope so that he would not escape again.

  They woke before dawn, and when the first light of day began to show, they saw that overnight the full body of the Comanche raiders had turned up.

  Like specters, the Comanche appeared overnight about a mile from where Rab and the others camped.

  "I never heard them," Vazquez said. "They moved horses and men right past us in the middle of the night, and I never heard them."

  "It's enough to put a man's heart racing," O'Toole said. "I seen 'em do things like that before. It'll shake you, for sure."

  Kuwatee remained silent, looking out at the Comanche camp across the plain.

  "I reckon they'll want to parley," Rab said. "I'll finish my breakfast and ride over there to see about making the exchange."

  "You call it an exchange," Cossatot Jim snapped, "but it's murder, is what it is. You'll all be guilty of murder if you hand me over to them savages."

  "You'll die either way, so you might as well shut your mouth," O'Toole said to him. "If we don't hand you over to the Comanche, we'll hang you from the first tree we see."

  "Hang me for what? Killin' that squaw?"

  "No," O'Toole said. "We'll hang you for stealing the hawss."

  Cossatot Jim sat quiet at that, but he wasn't finished with his pleas. He was just looking for a new line of attack.

  O'Toole bit his lip as he walked over and took a seat on the ground near Kuwatee. Like everyone else, he'd been keeping an eye on the Comanche camp since the morning light first showed the encamped Indians.

  "Maybe it's just my nerves from all the years I spent fighting the Comanche," he said. "Every time I ever saw a camp of more than about four Comanche, they always looked like they was a war party to me. But I'm looking over there at that camp, and for all the world it looks to me like they's readying for a fight."

  The fact was, from this vantage point the Comanche seemed completely indifferent to O'Toole and Kuwatee, Vazquez and Rab Sinclair. But to O'Toole, that looked like a war party.

  "It is hard to say what their intention is," Kuwatee said. "I count twenty warriors."

  O'Toole glanced across to the camp. They'd erected no tepees, and appeared to have just slept on buffalo hides with blankets.

  "No women," O'Toole said.

  "No," Kuwatee agreed. "There must be a larger camp somewhere on the Staked Plains where the women and children are."

  Rab Sinclair threw a blanket over the blue roan and then a saddle.

  "You're riding the roan again today? You rode him yesterday," Vazquez said.

  Rab grunted affirmatively.

  "I trust him if things go sour."

  "And what do you want us to do if things go sour?" Vazquez asked.

  "Depends on how sour they go. If I'm dead and you can get to Caleb to rescue him, I'd be obliged if you would do that. He's a good boy and doesn't deserve the sort of death the Comanche would give him. If you can't rescue Caleb, then get yourselves out of here. Do your best to get my cattle to Evangeline so she's got the income from them."

  For thirty years, relations between the Comanche and the whites were dictated by hostility and mistrust. Even Rab, who for a short time when he was young had lived among the Comanche, did not trust them. All the men in the outfit had heard stories of the way the Comanche tortured hostages. No man among the outfit cared to find themselves captives of the Comanche. They all held one last cartridge in a pocket to be used as a last resort rather than to be captured alive.

  "I'm going to ride out there part of the way and see if Pounding Fists will come out and parley," Rab said. "I intend to come back. If there's some reason why I'm riding over to their camp of my own will, I'll signal you with a wave of my hat. If he comes out with warriors and takes me back against my will, you be ready for whatever comes next. It'll come fast."

  "You'd be a damn fool to go over there," Cossatot Jim shouted as Rab cinched tight his saddle.

  "Maybe so," Rab said in his easy way.

  Rab took a heavy breath and stroked Cromwell's neck, feeling the horse's strength below his hand.

  "All right you ol' biter, you be ready to run like the devil," Rab whispered to the horse.

  The knot made Rab Sinclair feel like he was headed into trouble. It was the same knot he had when he rode into the Mesilla Plaza to face a man who wanted him dead and the army that man had paid to be with him. It was the same knot he had in his stomach when he rode into the Black Mesas of the Cimarron River Valley in search of murderers. It was the same knot he'd had on the eve of battle back during the War. And it was the same knot he had when he was a boy and he and his father were about to be thrown out of another tribal village.

  Rab checked his Colt Dragoon to see that all six chambers had balls and powder. He put percussion caps on all six nipples and left the hammer on half cock.

  "Cut a deal with me, Sinclair!" Cossatot Jim called. "We can work something out."

  Rab put a foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over the back of the blue roan.

  "We're working something out," Rab said to Cossatot Jim. "I'm riding out there now to do it. I'll say this to you, in case I don't have time to say it later. A man who violates a woman deserves whatever justice he gets. Whether it's a noose outside a white man's courthouse or a fire in a Comanche camp. What he don't deserve is sympathy. So you'll get none from me."

  "It ain't a decent way to treat a white man," Cossatot Jim said.

  "Well, killin' that squaw wasn't a decent way to treat an Injun woman," Sinclair said.

  ***

  Rab Sinclair rode the blue roan about thre
e hundred yards away from the camp.

  Those Yellow Boy rifles the men in his outfit had in their scabbards wouldn't be any use at this range. If anything went bad out here, Rab knew that he was going to be on his own. It was easier that way, though. A man on his own didn't have to worry about someone else. He didn't have to worry if a man near him was injured. He just had to watch out for himself.

  Rab sat the horse for a quarter of an hour, facing the Comanche camp and waiting for Pounding Fists. The Comanche camp was active, but from where he sat Rab could not determine what they were doing. They did not appear to be breaking down their camp or preparing to leave. He thought he had spotted Caleb Morgan. A lone man sat on the ground in a posture that suggested to Rab that he was bound at the wrists and ankles.

  At last, four of the Comanche mounted on horses and began riding toward Rab. All four carried Comanche lances wrapped in bleached leather straps and adorned with feathers. If they had rifles or six guns, Rab could not yet see.

  They did not hurry, leaving Rab with ample time to look them over as they rode out to him.

  Pounding Fists rode at the head of the small contingent with the other three keeping some distance behind him. As they neared, Rab could see that they were all shirtless now and had painted their faces and chests with red and white paint. Their ponies, too, were painted with designs on their faces.

  Rab reached into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. It took a couple of matches, but he was able to get the pipe lit despite the wind.

  By the time Pounding Fists and the other three rode up to where Rab Sinclair was sitting his horse, Rab had struck a relaxed posture and was puffing his pipe. If he was honest, his posture didn't match how he felt.

  The Comanche had a reputation among white settlers. Whether it was deserved or not, Rab had seen for himself what they were capable of doing. The camp where they found the slaughtered buffalo hunters was reminder enough. He seldom got nervous dealing with other men, whether Indian or white, but the Comanche made his heart beat faster.

  "You have buffalo hunter?" Pounding Fists said.

  "I have him," Rab said. "Bring out the boy so that I can see him. I want to know he's unhurt."

  "You are great warrior among your people," Pounding Fists said.

  "I ain't," Rab said. "I'm just a cattle rancher. Sometimes I guide folks who are going from one place to the next. But I ain't a great warrior."

  "Boy says you are great warrior. Says you will kill Comanche if we harm him."

  Rab grinned and puffed his pipe.

  "I lived for a time among the Cheyenne. When I was about fourteen years old, my pa and I lived with the Cheyenne. I remember that I was about fourteen, because there was a Cheyenne squaw I sparked on, and that's about the age when I really started to take an interest in women." Rab smiled at the memory of it. "You understand?"

  "Pounding Fists understands."

  "I thought you would. You've got good English. Missionaries?"

  "Pounding Fists father married white woman. She teach white talk."

  "So, like I was saying, I was about fourteen years old. I was pretty big for my age. Strong. I had a reputation among the boys in the tribe for being pretty good in a fight. But even so, they kept coming at me. Kept wanting to fight me. Now some of 'em, I knew why they wanted to fight. Two or three, they'd sparked on that same squaw and they thought if they could best me in a wrestling match that she would give them the attention she was giving me."

  The Comanche was listening to the story, and as far as Rab Sinclair was concerned, that was a good sign. Anything that kept Pounding Fists from trying to lodge that lance in Rab's gut was a good sign.

  "But there was others, too, that kept coming at me. And I asked my father about it. I asked why, when they know I'll beat them, do they keep challenging me. Do you know what he told me?"

  Rab puffed the pipe a couple of times, and Pounding Fists sat patiently.

  "He told me to never let an Indian know I was any good in a fight," Rab said. "He said once an Injun knows you can fight, it's a great honor for him if he can best you."

  Rab smiled now and leaned forward in his saddle.

  "You understand? That boy may have said some things about me, but I ain't claiming they're true."

  Pounding Fists' face showed no emotion.

  "Is the boy unhurt?" Rab asked.

  "He is."

  "I'd like to see him. And then we'll exchange hostages," Rab asked.

  Pounding Fists spoke to one of the men behind him, and that man wheeled his horse and galloped off toward the camp.

  The wind seemed to beat harder against Sinclair's face than it had since they'd first brought the cattle up to the Llano Estacado. His face was exposed now in front of the Comanche, and he was half tempted to pull the bandanna up over his nose and mouth. But Rab knew that in a parley with the Comanche, anything could ignite a powder keg, and he didn't want to do anything that might tempt a fight. They were bringing out Caleb, trusting Rab to bring out Cossatot Jim later.

  Pounding Fists did not speak, but sat his horse with his eyes on Rab Sinclair.

  Rab didn't make any more effort to make conversation. Instead, he watched the Comanche going to get Caleb.

  It was hard to see the details from the distance, but Rab was able to fill in that which he could not clearly see. He watched them cut the ropes and bring a horse to Caleb. Not including the one who rode out with Pounding Fists, three more Comanche mounted to ride out with Caleb. That meant there would now be seven of them together out there for the parley.

  The odds were about to be heavily weighted in Pounding Fists' favor.

  Rab let the blue roan dance a little bit so that he turned in a circle. It gave him an opportunity to look around for any more Comanche raiders.

  Vazquez, Kuwatee, and O'Toole were watching. Out across the open country, Rab saw nothing in any direction.

  As the roan came back around, the four Comanche were riding out with Caleb. He looked fine, riding the red-haired horse. If he was injured, he was still sitting up straight. If they'd tortured him, as they were known to do to hostages, it was not so bad that he could not ride.

  After several minutes, Caleb and his Comanche guards rode up even with Pounding Fists.

  "They treat you decent?" Rab asked.

  "I could use some water," Caleb said. The boy looked pale with fright but was otherwise unharmed. "They ain't fed me much."

  "This is almost over," Rab said. "You'll be home soon enough, and this'll give you something to talk about down at the saloon.”

  "I'd rather forget it," Caleb said.

  Rab turned to Pounding Fists.

  "I'm obliged to you for remembering the sorrel hawss," Rab said. "I'll go now and fetch the buffalo hunter. Then we'll finish up our business here."

  Rab wheeled the roan and rode back across to where the others of the outfit were waiting.

  "All right Cossatot," Rab said. "It's time to go and pay for your crimes."

  "You can't turn me over to them," Cossatot Jim said, and his eyes were wide with fear. He was nearly in hysterics.

  O'Toole lifted Cossatot Jim to his feet.

  "Maybe one of us should ride out there with you," O'Toole said.

  "Saddle a hawss for Caleb," Rab said. "Cossatot Jim can ride out on it. Wait here for me. Be ready to ride or fight. If you look about two hundred and fifty yards north of where I'm talking to them Comanche, there's a nice rock outcropping. If this comes to shooting, that would be a place to make a stand."

  O'Toole looked for the spot. "I see it. If it comes to shooting, we'll meet you there."

  They left Cossatot Jim's hands bound and helped him onto the buckskin, saddled with Caleb's saddle.

  "You'll pay for this," Cossatot Jim raved. "Every one of you. You can't turn a white man over to the Comanche like this. O'Toole! You know this ain't right. Stop this!"

  O'Toole shrugged. "Caleb's over there on account of what you done, Jim. We ain't got no choice in this thing.
We've got to get Caleb back, and you've got to pay for what you done."

  Rab urged Cromwell forward, and the buckskin followed.

  "May you all rot in hell for what you're doing to me!" Cossatot Jim yelled as he rode away.

  While they rode out, Kuwatee, O'Toole, and Vazquez saddled their own horses and packed their gear on the spare mounts.

  By the time they reached Pounding Fists and the six other Comanche, Cossatot Jim was all out of threats and exhortations.

  Rab rode up close to him and grasping Cossatot Jim by the back collar of his coat, Rab jerked him clear of the saddle and dropped him to the ground.

  "There's your hostage," Rab said. "Caleb, climb down off of that sorrel horse and get up on the buckskin."

  Caleb hesitated, but none of the Comanche moved to stop him. So he swung his leg over and dropped down off the sorrel. He took the sorrel by the lead and walked it over near to the buckskin.

  "Here's the last thing I'll say, and then we'll ride off," Rab Sinclair said to Pounding Fists. "You want to give the buffalo hunter justice, and I won't stop you. But no torture. You hang him or shoot him. But no torture."

  Pounding Fists narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

  "Comanche justice."

  "No, sir. Hang him or shoot him, like decent folk would."

  Pounding Fists let out a war whoop and jumped from his horse. In a smooth motion, he drew a knife from his belt and reached down and grabbed a handful of Cossatot Jim's hair in one hand and raised the knife up, ready to cut and tear.

  That's when a heavy thunder erupted from a rocky outcropping about three hundred yards away. Rab looked to the direction of the sound, and there at the rocks saw a bit of white smoke being whipped away by the Llano Estacado wind.

  When he turned back, he saw a hole in Pounding Fists' chest, and the Comanche fell to his knees, his fingers still intertwined in Cossatot Jim's hair.

  Pounding Fists' eyes were wide, a look of shock on his face.

  A second before the Comanche, Rab Sinclair realized what had happened, even if he didn't understand why.