Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  Ride the

  Desperate Trail

  MIKE KEARBY

  For Kendra, who always makes me laugh.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Also by Mike Kearby

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Mestizo’s, Outside Fort Concho,

  Texas November 1868

  The lone rider eyed the three cavalry mounts tied to the split mesquite rail outside of Mestizo’s. The man’s face, hardened by a lifetime of weather and difficulty, appeared dangerous and uncaring. He cast a glance skyward, incensed by the humidity from a thunderstorm now pushed to the east. The nauseous heat pressed hard on every living thing and infuriated even the most gentle of souls.

  The man dismounted and removed the salt-stained blackened hat from his forehead revealing a full head of golden hair. He pulled the bandana from his neck and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Deliberately, he tied his horse next to the cavalry mounts and examined the U.S.-issued property with a measured gaze. Each saddle carried the mark of the 10th Cavalry, Buffalo Soldiers. He stared at the horses, narrowed his eyes, and pulled his mouth taut. With little regard for the steeds’ owners, he spat a glob of tobacco across the saddle of the nearest animal.

  He tred up the three steps to the small way station. The sign on the door read Bebida y Mecancías. The robust merrymaking of dancing and women’s voices blasted from inside. Fiesta, he thought.

  Glancing back to his horse, he stared across the river toward Fort Concho. His eyes scanned the post for movement as his right hand instinctively tapped the pearl Colt handle jutting from his holster. He turned back in sullen disapproval, thrust the door open, and walked into the darkened bar.

  Chapter 1

  Anderson Homestead, Texas December 1868

  Aharsh wind blew cold on Free Anderson’s cheek. Gray winter clouds, framed against a purple back drop hung low on the northern horizon forming a wall from north to east. Overnight a blue norther had gushed in, plummeting temperatures by forty degrees, a reminder to man and beast alike of the sudden changes common on the West Texas plains.

  Free stood in the decay of the ancient abandoned Comanche Reservation near the Clear Fork of the Brazos. The numerous structures of a decade ago now sat in ruins. On the surrounding prairie, large rectangular piles of limestone jutted from the ground, giving a fort-like appearance to the landscape. Here, at the junction of the southern prairie and the river woodlands, the fertile plain teemed with deer, wild turkey, and waterfowl. And it was at this place that Free staked claim to his homestead.

  Free and Parks looked over the recently constructed three-room house that rose majestically from the prairie. The men had built the structure from the drop logs that once formed the reservation agent’s building and the readily available prairie limestone.

  Free, an ex-Missouri slave, clapped his hands together and looked on with pride at their craftsmanship. “I never thought I’d see this day,” he told his Civil War lieutenant and best friend.

  “It’s a fine home, Free,” Parks said, “It’s a home in which a man can raise a family.”

  Free turned back to the newly constructed corral and placed a loop of string around the corner post. He then turned and gave an OK signal to Parks.

  The lieutenant secured his end over the opposite corner post and marked the string. “Appears to be square, Free.”

  Free walked toward his friend, the collar of his wool coat turned up and wrapped around his neck and ears. Great puffs of steam exited his mouth with each step. “Gosh, it’s cold out here!”

  Parks cupped his hands over his mouth and blew heated breath into them. “And by the looks of that cloud bank, this might set with us awhile.”

  “Well, thank goodness the corral is finished.”

  “Amen,” Parks answered.

  “Free! You two best come in and take your breakfast!”

  Free glanced toward the backdoor of the wood frame house and acknowledged his mother’s call. He waved back an OK to her and looked to Parks, “Let’s get out of this cold.”

  Six months had passed since their final encounter with the outlaw sheriff, Jubal Thompson. Free and Parks had prevailed and were able to return all the money the Old Stone and Dodge ranches lost to the lawman’s rustling operation. As a show of their gratitude, the ranchers offered them one thousand dollars each and persuaded Judge Freemont to reconsider his unfair court judgment against Free.

  As they entered his mother’s kitchen, the smells of coffee and fatback engulfed them filling Free’s nostrils with childhood memories. He pulled a willow chair from the table and invited Parks to sit, then walked toward the iron wood stove, removed a blackened kettle, and poured two cups of coffee. He handed Parks one of the tin cups and sat across from him.

  “Who wants eggs?” Martha asked.

  Free pressed against the back of his chair and watched his mother set a plate of eggs and fatback in front of him. “Oh that smells wonderful.”

  “And there are biscuits coming,” Clara said.

  Free glanced up and watched his bride of five months enter the kitchen. Clara had nourished and cared for him while he sat in Jubal Thompson’s jail months earlier. And it was Clara who rode alone into the Comancheria to save both Parks and him from the hangman’s noose. He could not imagine life without Clara. Beaming at her beauty, he noticed she carried a piece of leather with one hand while she finished a stitch with the other.

  “All right, Free Anderson,” Clara said, “this is for you.”

  Free accepted the object from Clara, a handcrafted tobacco pouch.

  “It’s about time,” Parks laughed.

  Free hung the pouch around his neck and then pointed to Parks, “Can I borrow some of your tobacco to put in here?” Free feigned ignorance as the kitchen erupted in laughter and accusation.

  “Free Anderson! You will get your own tobacco!” Clara laughed.

  Free pulled an end cut of plug tobacco from his front shirt pocket and held it for the others to observe. “I want everyone to know I bought some yesterday at Dutch Nance’s store.”

  He pushed a fork full of eggs toward his mouth, and then smiled as those around him applauded his purchase. He looked toward Parks and said, “Well you can’t say we have occasion for fuss in our lives these days.”

  The words had no sooner left his mouth when a
thunder of buggy wheels rumbled throughout the kitchen. Free threw a surprised glance toward the door.

  “What was that you said, Sergeant?” Parks asked.

  Free hurried to the kitchen window and saw Murph Jenkins running stiffly toward the house. A rapid series of knocks echoed on the cut cedar, and Free rushed to open the door.

  “What is it, Mr. Jenkins?” Free reached out and pulled the white-haired man into the warmth of the kitchen.

  “You and Parks need to come quick!”

  Parks rose, “Trouble?”

  “It’s Samuel! Those mustangs of yours he leased out earlier in the week came back this morning in bad shape. Samuel called the two cowboys on it and told them they would have to pay a week’s worth of keep for how they treated those ponies.”

  Free sat Mr. Jenkins down in one of the willow chairs. “Mother, get him some coffee please.” He held the hotel proprietor by the shoulders and asked. “What happened next?”

  “They beat him and laughed while they did it. Samuel’s gashed deep on his forehead, and he keeps spitting up blood.”

  “Where is he?” Parks asked.

  “He’s at the hotel, but the army doc is out at the Wittson Ranch helping Sarah Holder with her baby. Samuel needs some doctoring soon, or I am sure he’s gonna die. Those cowboys were mean sorts, all liquored up and playing to the gallery.”

  Free glanced up and saw Clara was already preparing a bag. Before their marriage, she worked for Murph as a maid and nurse. “Clara will ride back with you, Mr. Jenkins.” He patted the man’s arm in reassurance.

  “I knew you’d come. Thank you, Clara.”

  “And those cowboys, where are they?” Parks asked.

  “The both of them are in Kelley’s drinking.”

  The Flats lay eight miles to the south of Free’s homestead. Following the Clear Fork, both men rode in silence in the cold until Fort Griffin came into view.

  “What are you aiming to do, Parks?”

  “I reckon if these boys are roostered enough to beat a helpless man like Samuel, not much good is fixing to come out of this.”

  “Likely so,” Free said. He pulled his Colt from its holster and checked his ammo.

  “It would be nice if the county could find a new sheriff,” Parks said.

  “You and I both know they aren’t going to get anyone to take the job. They won’t pay near enough for a man with any sense to risk his neck sheriffing The Flats.” Free slid the Colt back in its cover.

  “Especially when they know we’re dumb enough to do it for nothing,” Parks replied.

  Chapter 2

  The Flats, Texas December 1868

  Parks tied Horse to the hitching post in front of Kelley’s and then stepped onto the boardwalk with a heedful look in each direction. He needed to make sure he and Free entered the saloon without a surprise attack from behind them. To the west he saw Milt Davies approaching rapidly, waving his hand in the air.

  “Parks!” The man hollered.

  Parks stopped on the boardwalk and waited for the Kelley’s regular to make his way to him and Free.

  “Parks, thank goodness you two are here,” Milt said. “Two hard cases are inside. They gave Samuel a beating this morning, and now they’ve run everyone out of the bar. They need dealing with before they kill someone.”

  “They the only two in the bar, Milt?” Parks kept his gaze on the saloon doors.

  “Yep. One of them is tall and heavyset; he’s the one who beat Samuel.”

  “OK. Thanks, Milt, you just go on about your business, Free and I will take care of this.”

  Parks watched Milt walk back to the hotel. A tingling warning traveled through his body and made the hairs on his arms stand at attention. He knew this fight or flight response manifested when danger was imminent, signaling that he and Free might be walking into an ambush. He rubbed his gun handle for security and then glanced to Free. “I’m going in first and see where these boys are situated. You give me a minute and then come in and set yourself on the opposite side of the bar from them.”

  “Be careful, Parks.”

  Inside the bar, Parks noticed the two cowboys standing off to the left in front of the Faro and Chuck-a-Luck tables. Both had a good view of the swinging doors and anyone who tried to enter the saloon. He walked to the middle of the bar and surveyed the room. Mr. Kelley ran a dirty rag in and out of a glass, nodded at his approach, and then slightly tilted his head toward the cowboys.

  “What’ll it be, Parks?”

  “Tobacco.” Parks placed both his hands on the bar.

  Parks watched as Kelley set a wooden bowl filled with tobacco on the counter. He cut a plug off one of the ends and nodded back to the owner.

  “The bar’s closed right now, cowboy.”

  Parks swung a hard gaze over to the pair. He looked at the taller of the two, the one doing the talking. “You must be the cowboy who spent all week breaking down my ponies.” Parks spit brown liquid toward the cuspidor at his feet.

  “Oh, those were your nags; well, I guess we beat the wrong man then.” The heavyset cowboy laughed.

  The hinges of the saloon door creaked. Parks glanced up at the bar mirror and saw Free enter. He turned his gaze to the cowboys and noticed the talker tossing back a shot of whiskey.

  “Ain’t this nice, they let coloreds drink with white folks in this burg.”

  Free moved to the east end of the bar and leaned on the wooden counter. He stared across at the cowboys.

  “Morning, Free.”

  “Morning, Mr. Kelley.”

  Parks spit once more, and then glanced toward the end of the bar. He stood, back held straight, hands clenched in tight fists, and proceeded point-blank for the talker.

  “You might want to watch yourself, horse peddler. I don’t take kindly to a man getting too close to me.” The cowboy moved his right hand below the bar in a slow deliberate motion.

  Keeping his eyes locked on the cowboy, Parks rounded the corner of the bar with hard purpose, coming face to face with the man. He saw the cowboy’s hand wrapped around an ivory pistol handle.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” the man uttered.

  In one quick motion, Parks’ left hand surrounded the cowboy’s pistol grip, and using his strength, he held the man’s Colt in its holster.

  “Arrrg.” The cowboy groaned as his knuckles cracked against metal.

  With lightning speed, Parks pulled his own Colt and thrust the barrel against the cowboy’s cheekbone while releasing his grip from the man’s pistol. “Go ahead and pull that Colt, cowboy! Let’s see how you back up your wind!”

  “And you!” Free barked across the bar to the man’s companion. “Set your hands on the bar!”

  Parks made sure the cowboy’s companion moved his hands onto the bar as ordered, then looked back to the talker. Forcing his Colt deeper into the cowboy’s cheek, he said, “Now big talker, I believe you owe Samuel twenty-five dollars for his injuries, and you owe me another eight dollars for the horses.”

  “You’re gonna regret this, horse man. You better kill me now because I’ll come back looking for you after we’re done here today!”

  A surge of energy gushed through Park’s chest. Without a second thought, he raised his left hand and whacked the cowboy hard across the mouth. He watched the man dip and then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand; a trickle of blood was visible on the corner of his mouth. “You’re not dealing with an old livery owner now, Cowboy!” Darkness clouded the cowboy’s eyes. Parks figured this affair could end only one way. “Now, you reach deep into your pocket, cowboy, and pull out some dollars. If you don’t have any, you and your friend are gonna spend considerable time in the jail! Understand?”

  With angry reluctance, the cowboy thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash, his face flushed scarlet as he slapped his money onto the bar.

  Parks looked to Kelley and said, “Count out thirty-three dollars from his roll and hang onto it for me.”

&nbs
p; Kelley moved toward them, counted out the money, and then placed the cowboy’s roll back on the bar.

  “Now Cowboy, pick up the rest of your money and you and your friend get out of here! And from now on, you best ride clear of The Flats! The next time I see you I won’t be as friendly!”

  Parks removed his gun from the man’s cheek. He made sure he remained in full view of them as the pair ambled slowly out of the bar, his Colt pointed steady at the swinging doors. Particles of dust drifted slowly into the saloon, highlighted by the morning sun and propelled by the door’s movements, they flickered briefly before settling on the planked floor. He motioned with his Colt for Free to get down. And then moving right, he braced his shoulder against the inside wall of the saloon.

  The doors leveled, and the brief silence was violated as the talker burst back inside, his gun drawn. He sprayed lead toward the west corner of the bar, filling the room with smoke.

  “I knew you were too stupid to leave with breath in your lungs, Cowboy!” Parks’ Colt roared. He catapulted the cowboy back through the swinging doors with a single shot.

  Parks looked over to Free as he rose from behind the bar.

  “Hey, you,” Parks yelled out to the second cowboy. “When I walk out these doors if I see a pistol in your hands, I will shoot you as dead as your friend!”

  Parks held for an instant and then heard the jingle of spurs on the boardwalk hightailing it away. He pushed through the swinging doors, stepped over the cowboy lying on his back in the street and glanced west. He saw the cowboy’s companion hurrying toward Fort Griffin.

  “This one’s dead,” Free said.

  “You know this fella, Kelley?” Parks asked. “Samuel told me he leased him horses to ride to Fort Concho, but he didn’t give me any names.”

  “I know of him,” Kelley answered. “Parks, that’s Tig Hardy’s younger brother, Chase.”

  “Who’s Tig Hardy?” Free asked.

  Kelley kicked at the body with his boot. “He’s the man who bushwhacked those three Buffalo Soldiers of the 10th Cavalry outside of Fort Concho. Story goes he killed all three and then cut off their chevrons. He’s a detestable character who’s locked up in the jail at the fort awaiting trial.”