Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  At dusk on June 25, the detail from Camp Supply rode into The Walls. As they approached the noise and lights coming from Hanrahan’s Saloon they called out a customary hello.

  “Who is it?” One of the figures outside of Hanrahan’s called back.

  “Amos Chapman and a detail from Camp Supply.”

  Amos?” a voice hollered into the dusk.

  “One and the same, Billy,” Amos shouted back. “We’ve come tired and hungry, and with bad news from northeast of here.”

  “Come in!” Billy Dixon walked toward the approaching horses. “Have a drink of your liking,” he offered.

  The men stood outside of Hanrahan’s later that evening and enjoyed coffee and whiskey. Amos spoke with Billy Dixon, as Fred Leonard, James Hanrahan, Bermuda Carlisle, Andy Johnson, and Bat Masterson listened in.

  “Billy, meet my friends and the best horse men on the southern plains, Free Anderson and Parks Scott.”

  “You two must be ace-high. I can’t remember Amos carrying on so,” Billy laughed. “Welcome to the Walls!”

  Free took in the figure of Billy Dixon. The slender hunter had a head of long curly hair and his youthful face bore a full bushy mustache that drooped slightly from his upper lip. “Thank you,” he said, “We are grateful to find everyone above ground and keeping a full head of hair.”

  Fred Leonard joined in, “You won’t need to worry much about these boys. They all have a wealth of experience fighting Cheyenne. I ‘spect you’ll find them more than ready for a skirmish.”

  Free dipped into the neck of his shirt and removed a leather tobacco pouch. “I would never doubt the staunchness of the men here, sir.” Free cut an end from his tobacco plug and poked it into his jaw. “I only spoke to my relief in finding all parties enjoying the June heat.”

  Bermuda Carlisle tossed back a shot of whiskey and spoke in a quiet voice, “In the past week, we’ve heard that several hunters have been attacked by these savages. Friends of ours now lay scalped and mutilated. I would say, sir, we are all red hot for a fight with these devils.”

  A murmuring of agreement drifted among the group of hunters and merchants.

  Fred Leonard nodded and said, “As you gentlemen can rightly see, this bunch will not let savages scare them away. A good many of us have left stakes in Dodge City and come here to make our fortunes. We all understand the risk that comes with that fortune.”

  “We came across two of your tradesman dead and scalped near the old city,” Free said matter-of-factly. He sipped from a tin of black coffee.”

  “Two men?” Billy Dixon frowned and looked toward Fred Leonard.

  “They were tied to a wagon filled with hides.” Free tossed a gaze at Leonard, “That fortune you speak of is probably not so important to those men right now, Mr. Leonard.”

  Fred Leonard put a hand above his upper lip and wiped his mouth. He looked inside Hanrahan’s and listened to the hunters inside laughing and telling long tales. “That had to be Freeman and Morton,” he uttered.

  Billy Dixon nodded his head. “They were bound and determined to hunt that northeast prairie, just the two of them.”

  Amos tossed the remainder of his coffee to the ground and held the cup toward Bermuda Carlisle. “Could you spare a pinch of that whiskey?”

  The grizzled hunter poured a generous amount for the scout. He grinned, “That’s what I like, a man who partakes no matter the difficulty and remains un-a-feared of a few savages on the loose.”

  Amos took a long sip from the cup and looked into Billy Dixon’s eyes. “Appears to be more than a few raiding parties, Billy. The Comanche are on Elk Creek holding a sun dance.”

  “What?” Billy blurted. “Are you sure?”

  “Lieutenant Baldwin sent me here to warn all of you that three hundred Cheyenne left the reservation a week ago. They headed to Elk Creek to join with the Comanche. I figure it’s going to get bad, Billy.”

  “A Comanche sun dance?” Dixon considered the notion. “Why would they call a sun dance, the Comanche have never held for ceremony.”

  Free looked at Amos and then turned his attention to Billy Dixon, “I reckon they’re as determined as you men to protect their fortune.”

  “Huh?” Dixon glanced up at Free. “Their fortune?”

  “Buffalo. Seems you both covet the same fortune and I figure each is determined to kill the other for it.”

  The circle of men threw hard gazes at Free.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Fred Leonard shouted. “You ride into The Walls on a marked Kiowa pony and a bee in your bonnet about killing buffalo? I can tell you right away Cowboy, you’re just barking at a knot with this crowd!”

  Parks, stepped forward, placed his hand on Free’s shoulder, and said to the others, “It’s been a long several days for us,” he said, “We’re going to catch some rest.”

  Free recognized Park’s grip on his shoulder. It was a signal to be silent and he knew to forgo any talk about who held rights to the buffalo. “Gentlemen,” he tipped his hat and they started to leave.

  Amos tapped the tin cup against his thigh and exhaled softly, “We didn’t ride here to tell you men how to run your camp. We rode here to deliver a message from Lieutenant Baldwin. And we’ve done that. I would ask you consider what you’ve heard here to night and make your own decisions as to staying or leaving.”

  Bat Masterson, quiet throughout, broke his silence, “And we thank you all for bringing that message. You rode through some dangerous country to get here. But I’m not leaving. I’ve sat around for weeks waiting on the herd’s arrival, and now that they’re here, it seems foolish to cut and run.”

  Billy Dixon stared out at his wagon and then looked back at the assembled hunters from inside the saloon. “Bat’s right. Amos and these men undertook a dangerous ride to come here and warn us. Let’s all sleep on this to night.”

  Amos moved forward and shook Billy’s hand, “That’s all I ask. We’ll bunk out near your wagon if that’s OK. My orders are to return to Camp Supply after advising you of the situation at Elk Creek. Any man who wishes, can ride with us in the morning.”

  Chapter Six

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

  Free grabbed his Mexican saddle by the biscuit and tossed the rig across Spirit’s back. He reached under the mustang and pulled the cinch tight. He let his thoughts drift to his wife, Clara, and his son, William Parks. He looked over Spirit’s back and tossed a gaze at Parks, then showed a wide smile.

  “What’s got you grinning like a fox in the hen-house, Free?” Parks smoothed his saddle blanket and cast a crooked smile.

  “I was just thinking of your namesake.” Free laughed, “I can picture him running to the corral this morning, ready to feed the mustangs and Clara...”

  “...running behind hollering for him to wait for her,” Parks interjected.

  “Right,” Free laughed harder. “But does he listen to his mother?”

  “Of course not.” Parks squared his saddle on Horse’s back. “He’s got too much of his father in him.”

  Free cinched the girth belt and dropped his stirrups. “What are you trying to say, Parks?”

  “I’m only saying . . .”

  “Free. Parks.” Amos Chapman approached from behind and walked the grulla mustang between the two men. “I guess I’ve jawed here all I can. The men and I are riding back to Camp Supply.”

  “Alone?” Free looked down the empty street.

  “Appears so. I reckon these hunters are a might too prideful to pull up stakes now, what with the buffalo moving into the Panhandle.”

  Free turned away from Spirit and extended his hand toward the scout. “Well, no one can say you didn’t try to warn them, Amos. Good luck to you and ride safe.”

  Parks walked around Horse and approached the detail. “Take care, Amos. I hope you fare well in your future endeavors.”

  “Thanks, Parks.” The scout raised his hand and motioned for the detail to move out. “I’ll be sure and get your money
on the next supply train to Fort Griffin.”

  The military detail gigged their mounts and galloped toward the Adobe Walls Creek. In a matter of minutes, the group became dark specks on the prairie.

  “I reckon we best fill our canteens and packs before we pull foot.” Free slipped the reins over Spirit’s head.

  Parks studied the sun and nodded his agreement. “I reckon that to be a sound idea. Mr. Leonard should have everything we need.”

  A half hour later, Free strode from the well situated between Leonard’s store and Hanrahan’s. The tall, muscular mustanger carried two canteens and a buffalo bladder filled with water.

  Parks had secured a bag of flour, and tossed it behind his saddle, securing it with rawhide keeper straps.

  “I’ve got the water,” Free called out.

  “Good.” Parks looked at his friend and placed hardtack and smoked beef in his saddle pack. “As hot as that sun is today, we’re going to need plenty of it.”

  Free strode out to Spirit and stepped into the stirrup.

  “Free! Parks! Hold on there!” a voice boomed from Hanrahan’s.

  Free turned in the saddle and watched Billy Dixon hurry from the saloon with Bat Masterson on his heels.

  “Morning, Billy.” Parks tipped his hat, “Bat.”

  Free pulled the left rein and turned Spirit to face the two men. “Morning,” he nodded.

  Parks walked Horse up even with Free and looked at the approaching men with a careful eye. “I’ve got a bad feeling we’re fixing to be asked for a favor,” he whispered.

  Billy stood in front of Spirit and rubbed the pony’s nose. “I need to ask a favor.” He looked at Free and then over to Parks.

  “What is it you’re needing, Billy?” Free reached for the tobacco pouch hanging from his neck and removed a small plug.

  “I know you two are set on leaving this morning, but the boys and I got to talking and we reckon we owe it to Freeman and Morton to bring their worked hides back here to sell. You know, so we can give their families the money they deserve.”

  “So what’s the favor?” Parks looked down at the hunter and rubbed his chin.

  Billy glanced up at Parks and squared his jaw. “We need for you to lead us out to where you buried those men.”

  Free took a sidelong glance at the hunter. “That’s a good half day’s ride from here,” he stated.

  “I know. I know it’s asking a lot from you both, but wouldn’t you want the same if it were you lying in the bone orchard?”

  Parks tilted his hat back and leaned forward on his saddle. “Billy, I don’t know if you heard what Amos said last night, but this country is a dangerous place for men to be caught out on the open prairie.”

  The young buffalo hunter turned to Parks, “I know, Parks, but me and the boys are determined to go. The Shadler brothers rode in today but are willing to go back out with a team of their oxen and haul back Freeman’s wagon...”

  “Why do you need us, Billy? Free interrupted, confused. “You men know this country better than us.”

  “That we do, Free, but truth be told we all know that horse of yours is protected by the Kiowa. There’s not an Indian on the Panhandle Plains who’ll risk angering the Great Spirit by spilling blood near that pony. It would sure make the journey safer for us if you and Parks were to guide us to those boys’ wagon.”

  Free leaned toward Parks and handed him a cut of tobacco. “What do you think?”

  Parks scratched his head and stared northward. “We might be fixing to step off into some deep water if we get involved, Free,” he cautioned.

  Free tightened his lips, “I reckon that’s so, but my gut tells me I should help. Those men’s families certainly deserve the hide money.” He turned back to the buffalo hunter. “I’ll take you boys out there, Billy.”

  Billy grinned and wheeled toward the saloon. “You won’t regret this.” He called over his shoulder, “I promise we’ll go out, fetch that wagon, and then get you both back on the trail in double-quick time.”

  Parks surveyed the surrounding countryside and then looked over to Free, “I’ve got a bad feeling in my bones on this one, Free.”

  Free saw the concern in his friend’s eyes and knew better than to ignore Park’s foreboding. His intuition had saved their hides more than once. “We’ll take them out and be back here by mid-afternoon,” he offered as reassurance.

  Parks poked the tobacco plug deep into his jaw and spit onto the dusty street. “I just hope we haven’t hopped on an Indian broke horse, Free, because you can darn well bet every Kiowa for a hundred miles will be watching us.”

  Chapter Seven

  Adobe Walls Creek, Texas, June 1874

  Quanah and the war party of the Southern Plains Indians rode from Elk Creek after the new moon crossed the summer sky. The column of several hundred mounted warriors stretched for a mile across the landscape and rode in organized bands of fifteen to twenty men. Each warrior held a string of ponies for the purpose of fresh mounts. In the late afternoon, the group arrived at a stand of cottonwood trees near Adobe Walls Creek.

  As long shadows crept across the land, Esa-tai called for council, and the warrior chiefs assembled in a small depression below the crest of Skunk Ridge under the cooling shade of the cottonwood canopy. The assembled delegation sat in a semi-circle around the Comanche medicine man and waited patiently as Esa-tai closed his eyes and began to chant softly.

  After several minutes, Esa-tai opened his eyes and greeted the assembly, “Warriors. Last night the spirit wolf came to me in a dream. He held a sleeping white child in his mouth and on his back rode the hawk and the snake.”

  The chiefs nodded and rocked back and forth murmuring a soft chant.

  Quanah brimmed with confidence and asked, “What does your dream mean, Wolf Prophet?”

  Esa-tai jumped to his feet. “The wolf brings good news! The hide hunters will all be asleep when The People come down upon them like hawks from the sky! With their rifles all stacked against the walls of their shelters, The People will strike like the snake and take their lives!”

  Quanah slapped his thighs loudly and turned to his fellow warrior chiefs, “So it is said; so it will be.”

  Esa-tai invited the chiefs to rise. “Go back to your bands and tell your braves to paint their bodies in red and yellow only. The ponies must be painted in the same colors.”

  The group nodded their understanding and encircled the Wolf Prophet.

  Esa-tai untied a buffalo sac from around his waist and dipped his hand into the pouch. “Mix your war paint with Esa-tai’s puha.” The Wolf Prophet dropped a handful of dirt into the cupped hands of each chief. “This will keep any white bullets from penetrating your skin.”

  As Lone Wolf walked back to the Kiowa bands, a warrior known as Little Boy ran to his side and walked with the chief.

  “What is it, Little Boy?”

  “Lone Wolf, I rode the northern prairie looking for soldiers as you asked.”

  “Were any of the blue coats near the Adobe Walls?”

  “No, not one soldier. But I did see a wagon loaded with aungaupi crossing the land. The wagon traveled toward the Adobe Walls.”

  “Good! They will die with their friends!”

  “The wagon was led by two men,” Little Boy continued, “And one rode the spirit tséeyñ of White Horse.”

  Lone Wolf stopped abruptly. “Are you sure it is a spirit pony, Little Boy?”

  “I looked through the long glass, Lone Wolf. It was the tséeyñ given to the buffalo man.”

  “Aungaupi chi?” Lone Wolf asked excitedly.

  “It was aungaupi chi.”

  “So the buffalo man takes a side!” Lone Wolf spoke loudly, “So be it; he will die in the Adobe Walls with the hide hunters!”

  Little Boy nodded in understanding.

  “One thing, Little Boy.”

  “Yes, Lone Wolf.”

  “When the battle begins, you must ride to the hunters’ pens and take the spirit horse. We must
not disrespect the Great Spirit by allowing a Kiowa tséeyñ to die with the whites.”

  Little Boy clenched his right hand into a fist. “It is done, Lone Wolf.”

  Chapter Eight

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

  The whoosh of Ike Shadler’s whip preceded a loud crack that snapped Free’s attention away from two figures silhouetted against the southeast skyline.

  “Gettt uppp!” Ike sung to the team of oxen.

  The massive animals plodded across the prairie pulling the recovered Freeman and Morton wagon in a symphony of creaks and groans. The wagon’s retrieval had turned into one difficulty after another for the men. When they arrived at the site, Ike inspected the wagon and informed the group it wouldn’t pull half a mile if the wheels weren’t greased. The chore of removing all four wheels kept the men exposed on the plains for two extra hours and rankled Free about his decision to help the hunters.

  “Friends of yours?” Parks swung around in the saddle and glanced at the pair who slowly trailed the wagon’s progress.

  “Couldn’t say. You suppose they’re Kiowa?” Parks glanced back again. “Hard to know. But more than likely a scouting party for one of the tribes.”

  “I guess we should have ridden on this morning,” Free said, anguished.

  Parks pushed a chaw of tobacco into his jaw. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Free. A man without some fuss in his life each day gets satisfied. And after a time, he’s sleeping on feathers and washing his face from a bowl,” he joked.

  “I think you and I will be OK then.” Free smiled back then glanced at the moon visible in the day sky. “Looks like we’ll have a full moon to ride under to night.”

  Parks cut a glance back to their trackers. “With Indians about, it might be best not to ride out to -night. That moon will make us easy targets for a Comanche or Kiowa arrow.”

  “Even with Spirit?”

  “Our friends back there have watched us freight hides toward Adobe Walls. I reckon Spirit won’t be much good to us anymore.”