Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  Free’s face slackened as Park’s words settled in his mind. “I ‘spect that’s true.” he said.

  As the last parcel of daylight streaked across the sky, a charcoal outline of buildings rose in the distance.

  Appears we’ll be staying Saturday night in Adobe Walls.” Parks said, “I just hope it’s not one night too many.”

  In the early hours of Sunday morning, the call from two owls drifted from Adobe Walls Creek. Unable to sleep, his thoughts consumed with Clara and William Parks, Free sat up and listened to nature’s orchestra. Under the full moon, night birds, frogs, and locusts provided a backdrop for the owls and affirmed all was right on the Pan-handle Plains.

  Spirit grazed on grass shoots nearby, but appeared disturbed by both the sounds and the oppressive heat. The restless mustang kept his head low to the ground and inhaled loudly as he searched for young seed head. He snorted at each owl’s screech and shook his back violently in response. In the distance, Horse rolled on his back and scattered dust in the breezeless night. Free appraised the camp and decided he better get some shut-eye before sunrise. He laid his head against the saddle and rested his hat on his face when a thunderous crack jolted him upright. He leapt from the ground and instinctively jerked the Colt from his holster. Barefoot and shirtless, he searched the camp for any sign of gunfire and then heard a commotion from inside Hanrahan’s saloon.

  “What is it?” Parks woke with a start and sprang to his feet.

  “I don’t know, but it sounded like a .44 Sharps went off next to me,” Free answered.

  The men put an ear into the air as a strange quiet descended on The Walls, and then a voice hollered from Hanrahan’s, “The lodge poles cracked! We’re gonna need some help in here afore this roof comes down on us!”

  Free and Parks raced into the saloon. The hunters who chose to sleep inside were looking at the massive hewn cottonwood trunk supporting the sod roof.

  “What’s going on?” Free shouted.

  Jim Hanrahan looked at Free and Parks, “The support pole has cracked. We’re going to need to fix a prop or this whole roof will collapse!”

  Several hours later, two eight-inch diameter cottonwoods supported the cracked ridge pole. As the weary hunters moved back toward their bedding, the dim light of day flashed on the eastern horizon.

  “I swear it was rifle fire that brought us all to our feet,” Free said, confused.

  “Why would Hanrahan make up a story about the ridge pole snapping? That doesn’t make much sense,” Parks said.

  “I don’t know, but maybe it’s for the best. Let’s saddle up and cut a path.”

  Parks yawned at the orange streaks illuminating the sky, announcing the morning. “Might as well, we’re up anyway.” He lifted his saddle from the ground and whistled for Horse.

  Free walked to Spirit and lifted the reins that dragged the ground beneath the mustang. “Come on, Spirit. It’s time we got on our way.”

  Billy Dixon leaned against his wagon and tossed a bedroll behind the lazy board. The young hunter looked over at Free and Parks. “You two leaving us?” he asked.

  “I think we’ve been here long enough, Billy,” Free smiled.

  “Well, thanks again for your help yesterday and this morning.” He nodded toward Hanrahan’s.

  Parks cinched the girth strap on Horse and caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. A man, hat in hand, raced toward them, from the Adobe Walls Creek. “Who or what is that, Billy?” he asked.

  The young hide hunter set his eyes on the figure and squinted. “Looks to be Billy Ogg. I sent him to the creek to fetch my horses.”

  Free cocked his head and tried to discern the darkness boiling over the horizon. “Looks like a herd of buffalo trailing him.”

  Parks pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddle pack and looked into the distance. “Best pony up for Hanrahan’s boys! It appears every Indian on the Southern plains is hot after Billy Ogg!”

  Chapter Nine

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

  Billy Ogg reached Hanrahan’s completely exhausted and collapsed face down in the dirt. From behind, the howl of Eeeeeeee-YUH-haaeeeetaaaaheh rumbled across the prairie like summer thunder. Billy pushed his hat onto his head and pulled the brim down over his ears in an attempt to silence the haunting war cry.

  The advancing swarm deafened the air to all other sounds, so Billy did not hear the creak of the door in front of him.

  A dark-skinned hand eased from the slight opening and grabbed the hunter by his buckskin collar. With a mighty tug, Free yanked the whimpering hunter into the safety of Hanrahan’s.

  “Praise be!” Billy exclaimed.

  Parks stood behind the door and when he saw Billy was safely inside, he pushed his shoulder into the wood planking and slammed it shut to the attacking horde. A barrage of arrows quickly followed and plunked harmlessly against the saloon entrance.

  Billy shook uncontrollably. The frightened hunter ran both hands through his hair and patted the top of his head repeatedly. The realization of what lay beyond Hanrahan’s door rushed over him and caused his knees to buckle. He placed both palms on the floor to support his body as a wave of fear rushed over him.

  Free pulled the juddering hunter to his feet and hollered, “Are you hit anywhere?”

  Billy stared at Free for a split second and then uttered, “No, but I ain’t never run so far so fast in my life.”

  Outside, a swarm of warriors reached Hanrahan’s and began to pound against the saloon door. The intensity of the Indian’s whoops and shouts held the hunters in a fixed pose of fear.

  “Sounds like the same yell the rebels used during the war,” Parks hollered.

  Free looked around Hanrahan’s at the paralyzed men and shouted, “Get anything you can to barricade this door! Move! Or we’ll find ourselves wall to wall with Indians!”

  Shaken from their palsy, a frantic scramble erupted inside the saloon as the men grabbed for tables, chairs, and anything else to act as a barrier between them and the savages outside. They jammed the furniture against the door and piled the crates high on the walls.

  Parks stuck his Colt through one of the gun slots and discharged the weapon with random fire while the others worked feverishly to secure the building.

  The ping of arrows continued to assail the saloon door and intimidated the harried hunters to stop their work every few seconds and cut a glance at their timber barricade.

  “How many of them are there?” Billy Dixon shouted over the rifle fire and thud of bullets that plunked into the sod walls.

  “Thousands!” Billy Ogg screamed out.

  After a few minutes, the hunters’ initial panic faded. With the front door battened, the saloon suddenly seemed defensible and impregnable. Regaining their composure, the men now began to take up arms.

  “Did everyone get inside?” Parks asked Billy Dixon.

  Billy took a quick inventory of the hunters. “There’s ten of us here. I can’t speak to who might be at Fred Leonard’s or Rath’s store.”

  Outside, a loud cry sounded shrilly. A Comanche chief in full war paint and buffalo head-dress sat atop a squat Medicine Hat mustang. The chief’s face wore the black paint of death. His pony pranced ceremoniously in front of the four small buildings of The Walls. The chief taunted the hunters with insults and begged them to come out and fight. He carried a fourteen-foot war lance tight against his side and swung the flint tip back and forth menacingly. With no takers to his challenge, he backed his pony against Hanrahan’s door and slapped the horse’s flank with a leather strap. The mustang kicked repeatedly at the door but with little effect. Unable to gain entrance to the hunters, the chief shouted to the warriors, “Kill everything!”

  Free peered out of a gun slot and exhaled loudly. The war party, all painted in yellow and red, raced their ponies around the four buildings whooping and shouting. Calico streamers strung from willow hoops woven into their horse’s manes fluttered in the air and the ponies carried the same p
aint as their riders. Many of the warriors bore buffalo hide shields decorated with feathers of striking colors that flitted at the slightest movement.

  The Comanche chief urged on his warriors by remaining in full view of the saloon, defiant to the guns inside. “See, brothers!” he yelled, “The hunters hide in shame for they know the power of Esa-tai’s medicine!”

  The circling warriors yipped louder at the chief’s pronouncement and some braves ventured close enough to the hunter’s gun slots to slap them with their palms.

  The chief looked around the camp and noticed a wagon readied with a hitched team of oxen. He rode over and poked the war lance through the goods inside.

  Suddenly, Ike Shadler sprang from his hiding spot and leveled his Sharps on the chief. He fumbled to cock the rifle and in the split second delay, the chief thrust the lance deep into Ike’s chest. Howling at the first kill, the chief pulled the impaled hunter from the wagon. A group of braves looked on as the lanced hunter flopped about on the ground and rushed forward eager to join in the game.

  As the enjoined warriors counted a second coup on the dying victim, a chilling scream filled the air. Jacob Shadler leapt from his concealment in the wagon and attempted to make for the safety of Hanrahan’s. He covered only a few feet before a fusillade of arrows entered his back.

  The black-faced chief smiled and lowered himself from his horse. He raised Ike’s lifeless head by the hair and voiced a deep guttural chant. He kept his gaze fixed on the saloon and lifted the scalp with two deft cuts of his knife. He mockingly waved the scalp across his body and once more taunted the hunters to come out and fight. After several minutes, he tied the scalp to the tip of his lance, jumped on his horse and rode away praising Esa-tai’s puha.

  Billy Dixon stared at the proceedings in disgust and sank against the wall. “That chief in black face paint is Quanah himself,” he uttered to the group.

  The remaining Comanche dispatched Jacob’s scalp quickly and rejoined the other warriors who continued to circle the buildings.

  “I’ll kill all of you red devils!” Bermuda Carlisle raced for a gun portal, a Big 50 in hand. The emotion-filled hunters joined Bermuda and let their anger boil over in a barrage of bullets from the saloon. After the volley, a smoky haze choked the room and left the men dry mouthed and exhausted.

  Parks shouted to the hunters, “Take your time and make your bullets count! If we can put a few rounds in that Comanche chief, Quanah, we might take some wind out of this bunch!”

  From across the room, Bat Masterson screamed, “Sweet Jesse! They’re killing our horses!”

  Free slid next to Masterson and looked outside the narrow portal. The twang of bowstrings resonated on the dusty thoroughfare and arrows darkened the air. Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa warriors were using their bows to shoot the hunters’ staked horses.

  In front of the Shadlers’ wagon, another group fired rifles at close range into the oxen. Free swiveled his head back and forth across the small opening and tried to locate Spirit. After several seconds, he saw the mustang standing calmly next to Billy Dixon’s wagon.

  “Spirit!” Free shouted, “Over here, boy!”

  The mustang’s ears perked up at Free’s voice and he turned his head toward Hanrahan’s.

  “Spirit!” Free called again.

  The horse snickered and crossed as though invisible through the hundreds of Indian warriors. Ten yards from the saloon, a loop of rope flashed in the air and fell around the mustang’s neck. From behind, a Kiowa brave pulled the rope taut and cinched it tightly. With his rope set, the brave kneed his pony behind the shoulder, signaling the horse to back up. Enraged, Spirit whinnied and tugged violently against his captor’s rope. The Kiowa brave shouted for help and soon a second rope settled around Spirit’s neck. Spirit’s eyes widened and he reared against the ropes but the struggle only served to tighten the lassoes and cut off his air.

  Free pushed his Colt through the gun slot and fired recklessly at the two Kiowa.

  The first brave hearing the report looked toward the saloon and shouted, “Your bullets cannot hurt me! You have chosen sides, Aungaupi chi, and for that the Kiowa retake their pony and leave you to die with the other hide hunters!”

  With both ropes tightly fixed, the Kiowa spun their ponies and ploddingly began to drag Spirit toward Skunk Ridge. Sensing the futility of resisting, Spirit snorted and reluctantly galloped away with his captors.

  “Spirit!” Free screamed.

  Parks hurried over to Free’s side. “Did you see him?”

  “The Kiowa have him.”

  “What?”

  “You were right. They know we helped the hunters recover that wagon.”

  “Free, catch hold of yourself! We have more difficulty than Spirit does right now! He still carries White Horse’s medicine, and no warrior would risk harming him during battle.”

  Parks looked out the portal and watched as Spirit galloped away from The Walls. “They aim to keep us locked down. Without horses, we’re in a tight spot.” His thoughts went to Horse, and he issued an ear-piercing whistle through the portal.

  Horse stood in a plum thicket fifty yards from the fighting. Upon hearing Park’s whistle, he raced toward the sound. As he crossed the whirling circle of Indians, a Comanche warrior spied him and signaled for the others to hold their arrows. As the circle slowed, the brave yipped twice and chased after Horse with a loop of rope.

  “Yah! Git outta here, Horse!” Parks screamed and issued a high shrill whistle.

  Horse nodded twice and threw his head into the wind. He raced west from the camp with the Comanche brave in hot pursuit.

  Chapter Ten

  Skunk Ridge, Texas, June 1874

  As the mid-morning sun blistered the plains and drove most creatures in search of shade, Quanah moved most of his warriors back to Skunk Ridge, leaving only a few trusted Kwahada to watch the hunters.

  The warriors galloped into the camp and announced their victory with dazzling displays of horse manship. The Cheyenne entered first. Their braves rode backward and hurled curses at Adobe Walls. The young and old warriors of the camp howled in laughter at the Cheyenne feat. The Kiowa followed and sprinted past the camp congregates, standing upright on their ponies. The Comanche entered last and demonstrated why they were called the greatest horse men on the plains. Each Comanche, secured only by locked ankles, hung below their horse’s neck and swung from side to side, only inches from the ground.

  Quanah greeted each passing warrior with yips and shouts in praise of their courage. He shook the black-haired scalp adorning his war lance and felt the prophecy of invincibility was indeed true.

  Esa-tai, beside Quanah, sat on his horse, chanted and shook his hands skyward as each warrior astride a pony passed by. The Wolf Prophet and his mustang were adorned in yellow mud emanating a mysterious, spirit-like appearance.

  “The Great Spirit looks with favor on Esa-tai’s medicine, for not one warrior carries a wound from the attack,” Quanah praised.

  Esa-tai nodded and pointed to Quanah’s lance. “This morning the Great Spirit gave the People but a small gift for their prayers, but at the next attack our blessings will be many and the number of scalps on your war lance will grow by twenty.”

  Quanah curled his upper lip into a wicked smile. “Keep your medicine strong, Wolf Prophet, for after we swoop down on the whites once more, they will come to know the full power of the People. When we have finished here today, I will take all the warriors and go north to rid our land of the whites and their wagons.”

  The camp buzzed with activity as the multitude of warriors returned. The separate bands re united and soon laughter and loud storytelling filled the air. Some bands danced while others sang, and many warriors replayed their exploits through hand signals. The Comanche warriors present for the killing of the two hide hunters howled in joy at the coup counted on the white men.

  While the Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Comanche relived the morning battle, boys, who had not yet earned their me
dicine, carried water in buffalo bladders to each band, providing the warriors with a much-needed drink.

  After the storytelling quieted, Quanah rode through the bands and urged the warriors to ready themselves. At his bidding, the braves repainted their bodies, switched to their fresh mounts and prepared once more to ride into Adobe Walls.

  When all had remounted, Quanah led the war party to the crest of Skunk Ridge. A group of older chiefs sat around a small fire on the exposed ridge. Quanah approached respectfully and announced himself by wiggling his index finger down the middle of his chest.

  The group nodded their pleasure with the attack and invited him to sit. He smiled and threw his gaze skyward to observe the sun’s position. Happy at the sign, he dismounted and positioned himself on the eastern side of the fire.

  “You have fared well,” a white-haired chief commented and held out a sacred pipe.

  Quanah received the pipe with both hands and took a deep draw of the smoke. “It feels well,” he said.

  “Go then and finish the battle. Count many coup and bring us the promise of Esa-tai,” the chief said.

  Quanah nodded to each chief, returned the pipe to the fire and rose. He turned to view the gathered war party awaiting his command. He held his hands toward the sun and began to blow smoke from his mouth. The white plume drifted toward the bands and then disappeared in the air. As the smoke dispersed in the wind, the warriors all yipped loudly and shook their weapons.

  Quanah leapt to his mount’s back and shouted, “The Wolf Prophet’s medicine is strong! Stronger than the hunter’s guns!”

  The warriors howled with delight at their leader’s words.

  “I say today is a good day to fight our enemies! As sure as the trees grow tall and the great river runs long, it is our day to be victorious!”

  Another great whoop filled Skunk Ridge. Quanah stabbed his lance into the ground and signaled for his rifle. A young boy approached on foot and handed the war chief the Winchester.