Vengeance Trail

by Bill Brooks

  “Thank you for the hospitality,” said Caleb, dismounting and leading the two horses to a water trough. The man followed along behind, joined now by several other men and boys whose curiosity drew them out. The women and young girls remained near the houses.

  Caleb noticed several fair-sized vegetable gardens, some sheep pens, corrals, out-buildings and some farming equipment—all neat as a pin.

  He loosened the saddle on the mare he had been riding while she and the other horse drank at the trough.

  “It looks like you all have made a nice place for yourselves here,” said Caleb. “I don’t reckon there are many Mormons in Texas,” he commented further as a way of conversation.

  “More than you might think,” replied the man who then extended his hand. “I am Joseph Tinsdale, Elder. It is always good to have guests. You are welcome here.” Caleb shook the hand, noted the strength in it.

  “I’m Caleb Drew, federal marshal from Ft. Smith over in Arkansas.” Caleb saw a flicker of caution pass through the elder’s eyes.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Tinsdale. I’m only passing through this way. I am in pursuit of a man who murdered a deputy of mine. I believe that he would have passed this way sometime in the last day or two.”

  The look of caution in Elder Tinsdale’s gaze was replaced by one of recognition.

  “A stranger did pass this way early yesterday morning. He purchased a bottle of liniment for his animal—sore legs, he mentioned. Not a friendly man. We offered him what we would any traveller: food, rest, water. But, he seemed not inclined to partake of our offerings.”

  “Tell me, Elder. Was this man big-chested with stumpy legs? Did he wear buckskins and carry a big bore rifle?”

  “It does sound like the man, yes.”

  “Good, then I am gaining ground on him.”

  “You are welcome to stay for lunch,” said Elder Tinsdale.

  Just the mention of food renewed a forgotten hunger within the lawman. Trail grub was at best merely sustenance. Usually hardtack and salt pork and occasionally beans. He had given no time for the hunting of meat. None could be afforded in the pursuit of the killer.

  Now, he weighed the desire to eat a good meal, with the need to continue the trail without let up. He decided that he could stand the nourishment and make up what ever small amount of time it might take to eat with these kind folks.

  “I’d be obliged to sit down to lunch with you, Elder. I have not had a good meal since leaving Ardmore, three days ago. My missus is a good cook and I sorely miss the taste of well-prepared victuals.” The decision seemed to please Elder Tinsdale for a broad smile creased his kindly face.

  He was placed near the head of a long table that stood in the front yard of one of the main houses. All the men and boys removed their hats and sat with their heads bowed while a prayer was spoken by Elder Tinsdale. After which, the women and girls served them bowls of lamb stew, hot biscuits, fresh vegetables, and cold buttermilk.

  It was as satisfying a fare as any he had ever eaten, and Caleb Drew found himself cherishing each bite. The men ate silently and with purpose, it seemed. Little or no conversation took place at the table. After all the men and boys had been served, the women and girls had taken places at a second table and ate in equal silence. Only the smallest children made any show—theirs, one of happy laughter.

  Afterwards, they had invited him to dinner and to stay the night. He thanked them, shook several hands of the men and declined to stay longer.

  “Elder Tinsdale,” he said, as he prepared to mount. “You have a good community here. I wish you the best of luck for the future. I am willing to pay you for the meal, the water, and the grain you have given me for my horses.”

  “No need for payment, Mr. Drew. We cannot accept payment for the Lord’s bounty. What we have was given to us by Him and we share it gladly. It is the Lord’s way to help where we can. We will remember you in our evening prayers and wish you God speed in your journey. I hope that it does not end in violence.”

  “So do I, Elder, so do I.”

  He glanced back as he rode away from the small settlement, many of them waved their goodbys and he tipped his hat to them. He felt at once renewed by their kindness and refreshed by their generosity. And for once, his mind did not dwell on the task directly before him.

  Eli Stagg had tracked both animals and men long enough to know when he himself was being trailed. There was nothing physical to indicate it, no sight or sound behind him to prove it. But, instinct told him that someone was on his trail. How far back, he could only guess. Who was tracking him was also just a guess.

  Several times he had paused and waited, hoping that whoever it was on his trail would make the fatal mistake of being too close. But, no one came. Perhaps he was just being overly cautious he told himself, but then, it paid to be overly cautious and so the feeling would not leave him.

  He had maintained such caution as well when passing others on the road, refraining from contact or casual conversation. He had no desire to be delayed or encountered. But, as the nagging suspicion grew that he was being trailed, he knew that he must stop long enough to lay an ambush for whoever it was behind him.

  He maintained an eye for a place that would afford him hideout along the trail, a place where he could observe but not be seen. Unlike the wooded hills of Arkansas where ambushes could easily be laid, this Texas country seemed spare of any such opportunity.

  He purposely slowed his pace in order to scout for spots from which to set an ambush in hopes that whoever it was behind him would catch up.

  He eventually came to a broad but shallow looking river, the brown muddy flow broken only by the white riffles where it was most shallow. A small stand of cottonwoods lined the far shore. It would be the proper place for an ambush.

  He touched heels to the horse, walking it into the river. The water rose only to his stirrups before receding again. He walked the horse onto the far muddy bank and in among the cottonwoods.

  After hobbling the horse, he removed his saddle and gear, and placed them on the ground near the base of a good-sized cottonwood that afforded him both a clear view from whence he had just come and concealment.

  He removed the Creedmore from the deerskin scabbard and laid its barrel to rest across the saddle. He judged the distance between his position and that of the far bank to be seventy yards, an easy shot for such a weapon.

  He settled himself in a comfortable position, accommodating his wait with the taste of beef jerky and warm water from his canteen. A taste of good whiskey would settle just fine in a man’s belly, he thought.

  So would a lot of other things that two thousand dollar reward money would bring: Whiskey, and women, and a new rifle. Some good horses maybe.

  He checked the loads in his weapons, made sure his cartridges were dry by spreading them on a blanket in the sun. A man could never be too careful. Lots of men had died because their hammers fell on bad cartridges.

  Caleb Drew had removed his jacket due to the heat of the day. He wore a fresh white linen shirt that he had packed as an extra and had put on the day before when eating lunch with the Mormons in their settlement.

  His wife had bought him the shirt for his Federal appointment. It had come with a paper collar and paper cuffs, which he soon discarded. He wore crimson suspenders instead of a belt to hold up his denims. Strapped to his waist was the Peacemaker with a seven-and-one-half-inch barrel that he had paid fifteen dollars for. He had replaced the original walnut grips with ones of Mother of Pearl and then had the pistol nickel plated. It was a fine looking weapon. He had only fired it in target practice. It seemed a bit heavy, but he figured after all the expense, it would do.

  Off in the distance he could see the bright green leaves of the cottonwoods fluttering in the wind. The horse had picked up the smell of water and had quickened its pace. He gave it its head, glad for the opportunity.

  Eli Stagg saw the dust sign of a rider approaching from across the river. He set the rear sights that he had h
ad especially mounted to the Creedmore. Resting the weapon across the seat of the saddle, he lay spread-eagled behind it.

  The flat muddy river came into view as Caleb rounded a slight bend in the road. It was the color of creamed coffee.

  Eli Stagg saw a single rider appoaching the river from the far side. He drew a bead on the broadest part of the man—his chest.

  As the rider came nearer the water, the bounty hunter could plainly see that it was not Cherokee Tom, as he suspected it might be all along. He was disappointed that it was not the lawman. He had sort of hoped it would be; the fellow was way too nosy, and too uppity to be wearing a badge and acting like a white man.

  The fellow across the river looked as though he could be a drummer, except for the iron on his hip and the stock of a Winchester protruding from the saddleboot.

  Caleb Drew had never even given it a thought that his badge remained pinned on the jacket he had removed earlier and tied to the back of his saddle.

  The bounty hunter squinted to see if the rider across the river was wearing a star. He didn’t see one. It would be an easy shot. He held his fire, though, waiting to see what the fellow was up to. A lawman had certain ways about him that other men did not. Lawmen were snoopy. He’d be able to tell by watching whether or not this fellow was snoopy.

  Caleb Drew pulled up to the water, dismounted, and let his horses drink freely while he scanned the far shore. There were cottonwoods on the other side that he could catch some shade in and give the animals a chance to graze on sweet grass for a brief while. He was glad for the respite.

  While he waited for the animals to finish drinking, he knelt to scoop some of the water into his hands and splash it over the back of his neck. As he did so, he noticed a fresh set of tracks leading into the river. He moved closer to examine them.

  Eli Stagg saw the man inspecting the ground.

  He surely ain’t no drummer. He drew the hammer back on the Creedmore.

  In that instant, Caleb Drew recognized the possibility that the tracks could easily belong to his quarry. Perhaps, right now, the man was across the river laying in among the cottonwoods watching him—laying ambush for him.

  Instinct caused him to reach for the Colt on his hip, the fingers touching the Mother of Pearl hand-grips.

  As they did, Eli Stagg squeezed the trigger of the Creedmore.

  The boom of the big gun resounded among the cottonwoods, a large plume of smoke lifted itself from the hidden position. The thumb-sized chunk of lead smashed into the chest of Caleb Drew knocking him flat on his back. His horses broke and ran.

  It was as though a great weight had fallen on him and held him pinned to the earth. A fire felt as though it were blazing in his chest and both his hands had gone numb.

  Everything seemed to have suddenly slowed down, most of all his thoughts. He could feel the wet warm strain of blood spreading over his shirt front. He knew he had been shot. The realization frightened him. He was afraid to look at the wound, but he did so anyway. The white shirt was splattered a crimson that glistened in the sunlight.

  He tried to move but found that he could not. The weight on his chest seemed to grow heavier. It was difficult to take a breath. He swallowed several times and felt the blood rising into his throat.

  The sky above him was clear blue, as blue as he had ever seen it. He could hear something splashing in the river, could hear the splashing come nearer.

  Eli Stagg waded into the water, his Creedmore reloaded and ready. He crossed cautiously, even though he knew that his shot had taken the stranger dead center—through the brisket. The man had not moved, except for a slight effort of his legs. But, old trapper’s habits made the bounty hunter wary of the trapped.

  The blood was beginning to cause him to choke and fight for breathing. He wished he had something to drink, something to wash the blood out of his throat. He could hear the sound of splashing growing closer and closer. If only he could reach his pistol.

  Eli Stagg waded out of the river, his buckskins dark and greasy brown, and came to stand before the downed man. It was easy enough to see from the amount of blood soaked into the man’s shirt front that the shot had been a mortal one.

  “Who are you, mister?”

  Caleb Drew felt the shadowy presence of someone, or something pass over him. He opened his eyes, saw the blurred features of a man, saw the man’s mouth move, heard what sounded like echoes coming from the man’s mouth.

  “What—?”

  “I said, who the hell are you?” Eli Stagg bent at the waist and examined closer the drawn and twisted features of the wounded man. It was then that he finally came to recognize his tracker.

  “I’ll be damned to hell, you’re that Federal Marshal back in Ft. Smith! The one that had everything handled. Haw! Looks like you done gone and got yerself kilt!”

  The man’s words were muted by the roaring inside Caleb Drew’s head. He was feeling suddenly cold, as though he was laying in ice. He tried to understand what the man was telling him, trying to understand…and then he recognized the man!

  “Please…,” he uttered. The word gurgled in the bloody throat. “Please…don’t…” But, the words, the plea, seemed to die somewhere deep inside him.

  The bounty hunter looked into the dying man’s eyes. It was a look he had long grown accustomed to seeing in the eyes of animals he had trapped in the wilderness.

  “You rode a long way just to get yourself kilt!” He saw the bounty hunter step back away, saw the patch of sky above him once more, felt the warmth of sun strike his face, but still, his body was growing so very cold. He knew he was drowning in something he could not see but only feel.

  He closed his eyes at the impending terror, prayed to a God that he had never taken the time to know, and then surrendered. Eli Stagg was already stripping away the lawman’s possessions.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After nearly six weeks, Carter Biggs found himself in the middle of nowhere, or so it seemed to him. All of his efforts had not brought him one step closer to his quarry, Johnny Montana.

  Every day that passed drove home the realization that the quest for vengeance had been ill-fated. How he had ever hoped to track down the outlaw to begin with was beyond him now.

  His journey had carried him through piney woods and rolling hills, through the bayous and swamps, beyond the forests and out into the open grasslands. Once he had crossed over into Texas, the country seemed to have gotten suddenly bigger and emptier than it ever had before.

  The loneliness of the country had given him over to talking to himself. Without Lowell along to converse with, he felt a great longing to hear the sound of another human voice. His own would have to do.

  “This is no place for a hog farmer,” he admonished himself several times an hour, it seemed. “Nothing but yellow grass.”

  He had grown weary of the chase for more reasons than one. The fire in his belly to settle scores with the outlaw, Johnny Montana, no longer burned so hot.

  “Forgive me old man,” he prayed aloud as he rode over the vast open prairie, “but I just don’t feel like I have the heart to keep going most days. It ain’t that I don’t want to do what is right by you, but I feel plumb lost in this Godforsaken country.”

  And then he would lapse into long spells of silence letting his bulk sway to the rhythm of the horse’s step, listening to the whistle of wind against his sunburned ears. Sometimes he would cry.

  He had ridden through rain and lightening storms, and once saw a tornado twisting in the distance. The sun and wind burned his neck and ears and turned his hands brown. And, it seemed, all day long he spat dust from his dry mouth.

  Except for scattered herds of cattle, he saw no animal life other than a pair of pronghorn antelope that was too far away to shoot at—he shot anyway out of frustration.

  He came to places where barbed wire fences made him change direction and once counted over two hundred coyotes that had been shot through the head and hung up by their tails on one of those f
ences— the smell was awful.

  Compared to his beloved Autauga County, this land offered little compromise to man or beast. Even the plants were nothing more than survivors. Grease-wood and prickly pear cactus, mesquite and yucca— thorny, sharp, inhospitable plants that seemed not much good other than for something to look at.

  He missed the sweet grasses of his homeland, the bending willows, the towering oaks. He missed, too, the abundance of water. Texas water was precious; even the raindrops seemed to dry into dust the moment they hit the ground.

  But it was more than trees and rivers and plants that was taking the heart out of Carter Biggs. It was more than missing the sound of rooting hogs and the smell of wood smoke and curing hams. It was more than the lonely journey that carried him farther and farther from home. What was weighing on the big man’s shoulders more than anything was a desperately wounded brother left in the hands of a black-eyed Cajun swamp woman.

  Carter Biggs was a man who prided himself in taking care of his own. It was a matter of honor.

  But he had abandoned the boy in favor of some foolish vow he had clung to. That vow had not brought him any closer to Johnny Montana than it had the man in the moon.

  It was stubbornness that had made him go on. He knew it. Stubbornness, like a pistol at his head, giving him no choice, pushing him on and on and on.

  Poor ol’ Lowell. Baby brother, Lowell. Probably lying dead under a mossy sod right now—chickens pecking on his grave.

  He thought of the swamp woman, the Cajun. Marie, she called herself. Strange woman that both frightened and attracted him. Hell, he had to leave. Strange woman! Stood right up to him, though. Stood up and talked him down. Thinking of her made him anxious.

  The town of Tascosa appeared through the haze of heat, a distant outline of low-lying buildings. He had no idea what town it was, nor did he care. He was weary and sore and his mount was lathered, its head bent low to the ground.