Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  “You think this cowboy and his friend rode our mustangs the eighty miles to Fort Concho?” Free asked.

  Parks looked toward the stage depot and tightened his jaw. “Would appear so, and my gut’s telling me Tig Hardy is no longer in jail. What do you think Tig’s gonna do when he learns his brother is dead?”

  Kelley sized up the younger Hardy’s body. “I suspect he’s gonna come looking for the man who done his brother in.”

  “I reckon that’s so.” Parks stared grimly at the corpse. “Free, why don’t you check on Samuel while I get this body moved off the street.”

  In an upstairs room of the Jenkins House, Free stood next to Clara and looked down on the sleeping figure of the livery owner. “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good, Free. I got his head wound sewed up, but blood keeps oozing from his mouth. I’m afraid he’s busted up inside, and I don’t know of anything to stop that.”

  At that moment, Free saw Samuel roll his eyes open.

  “Free, I’m sorry about those horses.”

  Free knelt beside the bed and noticed the blood dripping from the corner of the livery owner’s mouth. “Don’t worry about that right now, Samuel. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Sure,” Samuel whispered.

  “Did either of those cowboys tell you where they wanted to take the mustangs?”

  “They said Fort Concho. The big man said they were prospecting for land.”

  “But those ponies could easily make the San Angelo trip,” Free stated. He scratched his head in confusion.

  “That’s just it, Free; those ponies had been rode hard, more than to San Angelo and back. I swear they had to be run over a thousand miles.”

  Free patted Samuel’s arm and stood. “You just rest, Samuel. Clara will stay here with you until you’re better.” He watched the man nod his head and then slowly close his eyes. Turning to Clara, he rubbed her shoulder, and then he drew her close. “Thanks for helping here.”

  “What’s troubling you, Free?”

  He smiled at her ability to read his moods. “Something isn’t right here, Clara, but danged if I know what.”

  Chapter 3

  Paracoa Spring, Guadalupe Mountains, Texas December 1868

  Tig Hardy poked at a burning log with the heel of his boot. Seven hundred feet into the Guadalupes, the cool morning air and the wait caused a troubling anxiety to build in his head. The mountain’s silence, gladly received, found interruption only by the occasional crack of a pine splinter incinerated in the fire.

  Chase and his friend Jordie should have returned by now, Tig reckoned. Something didn’t feel right, but if he knew his younger brother, he was bedded down with a bottle of Lone Jack sleeping off a bender. Ignoring his instincts to move on, he decided to wait one more day for the pair. If they hadn’t showed by then, he would meet up with the rest of the gang at the old Pinery Station, now long abandoned by the Butterfield Coach line.

  The escape from the Fort Concho stockade had gone exactly as he planned. Lady fortune smiled on him the day the mustang pony arrived at the fort. Although he remained in the stockade during the races, later his guards willingly described the contest for him. One pony, small as a donkey, had run five times without rest against the cavalry’s best and beaten them all. The mustang’s owner, the guards recounted, told all in attendance that his horses could run a hundred miles a day for a week on a handful of grain. As the soldiers recited the race repeatedly during the remainder of the day, Tig absorbed it all and contrived his break away.

  And he had proof that those mustang ponies had performed as talked up, for he now sat five hundred miles northwest of Fort Concho unloose from a sure hanging. And if Chase did as he was told, the mustangs were more than a hundred miles northeast of Fort Concho. Tig laughed aloud. “My trail should be colder than those 10th Cavalry soldiers by now,” he mused.

  A loud series of caws stirred Tig from his thoughts and caused him to swing his head to the south. Three crows took flight from the pines. The departing birds’ momentum forced the tree branches against each other, further breaking the silence of the mountain. Turning an ear toward the crows, Tig slid the Colt from his holster and held the gun beneath the saddle blanket that covered his torso. A lone rider exited a break of pine fifty yards away and galloped toward the camp.

  As the man drew close, he could see it was Jordie. Even at the distance, Jordie’s face carried a look of dread. Tig stood as Jordie heeled the horse several feet from the fire. He walked over, grabbed the horse’s reins, and stared at his brother’s friend with spiteful scorn.

  “Tig! Man, am I glad I found you!” Jordie shouted.

  “Where’s Chase, Jordie?” Tig looked down the trail behind him.

  “We ran into trouble in The Flats.”

  “Where’s Chase?”

  “He beat the livery owner, Tig—.”

  “I said where’s Chase, Jordie!”

  “He’s dead, Tig. Shot down in the saloon there.”

  “What?” Tig squeezed hard on the reins, wrapping them in a knot around his hand. “Chase is dead?” He looked up at Jordie in disbelief. “Who shot him?”

  “It was an ambush, Tig. Two cowboys in town, one white and one colored, bushwhacked him as he walked in the saloon.”

  Tig stared at the ground, trying to comprehend his brother’s death. “Bushwhacked?”

  “One was hid behind the door. Shot him dead as he walked into the saloon.”

  Tig threw his head up. “Chase just walked into the bar, and these cowboys shot him up?”

  “As sure as I’m breathing, Tig. That’s what happened.”

  Tig exhaled loudly. Something didn’t sound right. “How’d you get out?”

  “I ain’t gonna lie to you, Tig. Once that cowboy shot Chase, I ran. I ran for my life.”

  Tig stared at the man in front of him. “So you just took a French leave?” He thought hard about shooting Jordie off his horse but reckoned he would need him to identify his brother’s murderer. Dropping the horse’s reins, he cursed in a low breath and then yelled, “Git down off your horse, Jordie, and explain everything that came about. And I mean everything!”

  Minutes later, both men sat at the fire. Tig stared hard into the flame muttering, “If you two had just done what I said, we would all be in Fort Sumner right now in fine shape. But Chase always had to go crazy, and now he’s dead for the cause of it.”

  “He just went crazy like you said, Tig.”

  “Shut-up, Jordie! I ought to kill you for not helping him or killing the man who shot him.”

  “But I told you, Tig, I didn’t know he was going back in the saloon. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Well, there’s something you’re gonna do now, Jordie.”

  “Anything, you know that, Tig.”

  Tig took a deep breath and recalled his father’s strict instructions on family. The only way a Hardy man mourns a kinfolk’s killing is with revenge, Tig. It was that way with my daddy and his daddy before him. It’s always been our way.

  A darkness clouded Tig’s eyes. “We’re both going back. You’re gonna point out that cowboy, and then you and me are going to kill him and his colored friend. Then we’re going to kill everyone in both their families.” He stared at the scared man across from him. “That’s what we’re gonna do, Jordie.”

  Chapter 4

  Fort Concho, Texas December 1868

  The cold front which now pushed to the east, left behind the accustomed temperate days of December. Riding to where the North and Middle Concho rivers converged, Free gazed at the stone structures of Fort Concho. The fort sat on what looked to Free to be an endless flatness.

  “Is there any vegetation without thorns that grows in this country?” Free pulled mescat barbs from the sleeve of his shirt.

  “You’re supposed to ride around ’em, Sergeant. Not through them.” Parks grinned at his friend’s annoyance.

  “That’s a heap easier said than done.” F
ree shucked the last thorn and watched as small drops of red bubbled upward dotting his sweat-stained shirt.

  The men stepped down from their mounts and wrapped their reins around the hitching post near the quartermaster building. They had come to Fort Concho seeking answers to the mystery of the Hardy brothers, and most important, if Tig Hardy still sat in lock-up.

  “Parks, Free, to what do I owe the honor?” Captain Huntt walked the men into his quarters.

  The men strode into the foyer behind him removing their hats as they entered.

  “I will tell you both, my men do so treasure those mustangs you sold us. My goodness, they are magnificent beasts! And I can speak with authority that many of my colleagues are now interested in buying horses from you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Parks smiled at the captain and cleared his throat. “And please excuse my rudeness, Captain, but we were wondering if you could give us some information on a recent guest of yours.”

  The captain motioned for Parks and Free to sit. “Who would that guest be?”

  “Tig Hardy,” Parks answered.

  “Ah. Tig Hardy. It seems Mr. Hardy is no longer our guest. I can only surmise he found the accommodations not to his liking and decided to find a setting more suited to his person.”

  “Any idea where he might be?” Free asked.

  Captain Huntt reached over to his desk and removed a plug of tobacco. “Appears the man just up and disappeared.” He held the plug toward Parks and Free. “We searched a hundred miles in every direction for him and never found a trace.”

  Free reached out and took the tobacco from the captain. “How’d he get out?”

  “Well for that, I will give him his due. There was a man who looked just like him, drinking across the river at Mestizo’s—.”

  Parks leaned forward with a furrowed brow. “Just like him?”

  The captain leaned back against his chair and ran a hand across his forehead. “Could have been kin,” he said almost to himself. He then sat up straight and took a deep breath. “Embarrassing as it is to recount, someone on post, probably another accomplice, began shouting, Tig Hardy’s leaving out of Mestizo’s! Soon most of the fort was saddling up and chasing the fake Tig as he rode south to beat the devil.”

  “What happened when your troops caught up with him?” Free asked.

  “There was not a lot we could do, Free. It obviously was not Tig. Up close we could tell the man looked like him, but that was all.”

  “Meanwhile, the real Tig flew the coop?” Parks asked.

  “That’s the long and short of it, Parks. The boys knew what they were doing. They executed their plan while most of the troops were out in the field. One detachment was escorting civilian stonemasons and workers from Fredericksburg as protectors from that crazy Comanche Little Bear and his band. The second detachment was searching for White Horse. Since Custer’s victory on the Washita, White Horse is back in Texas on the warpath and stealing livestock at will. To further complicate the situation, almost everyone on the post was at the mess hall taking their noon meal.”

  “Any idea of the other accomplice’s identity?” Free handed the tobacco back to the captain.

  “None. We figured he busted the lock while the rest of the post went chasing the imposter.”

  “What about the imposter, captain?” Parks asked. “Who was he?”

  “That’s another mistake made by my men. Once they saw the man wasn’t Tig, they apologized and quick-timed it back to the fort, leaving the imposter to skedaddle. And by this time, the pursuing troops were ten miles to the south of the fort and probably in the opposite direction of the real Tig.” The captain leaned forward and stared at both men with hard eyes. “Now, you two want to tell me why you’re asking all these questions?”

  Parks raised his head and bit down on his lip. “Yes, sir. I shot your fake Tig in The Flats yesterday.”

  “What?” the captain asked.

  “The owner of Kelley’s, down in The Flats, identified the man as Chase Hardy, Tig’s little brother.”

  “I still don’t understand.” The captain frowned.

  “Well, sit back, Captain,” Free lifted his hat slightly and scratched his head. “Because this story is going to interest you.”

  After Free finished his tale, Captain Huntt stood and walked to the small frame window in his study. Looking out over the parade grounds, he spoke, “You are aware, I would assume, of the reason behind Tig’s stay in our stockade?”

  Free stood and walked over toward the captain. “Talk is he killed three Buffalo Soldiers from the 10th Cavalry across the river.”

  Captain Huntt turned and faced Free. “He didn’t just kill them, Free. He mutilated the three. Cut off their chevrons, ripped the stripes from their pants, and then disfigured the corpses. And the strangest part, those soldiers weren’t even from around here. Tig didn’t even know the men. They came out of Fort Sill to help with the telegraph lines near Johnson’s Station. The way I hear it, they were done with their job and decided to bend an elbow before heading back through Indian Territory.”

  Parks stood, a dark frown furrowed his brow. “What was his difficulty?”

  “Miguel Telodes, the Mexican who runs Mestizo’s, came running across the Concho screaming like a gut-shot panther. He said Tig went crazy because the colored soldiers were drinking and dancing with a couple of Mexican girls.”

  Free shook his head in disgust. “What possesses a man to feel so obliged as to another man’s drinking companion?”

  “I wish I could speak to that, Free. All I can tell you is Tig was sitting at a table drinking Lone Jack when we arrived. He didn’t resist or even act like three soldiers were lying dead around the bar. He was as calm as you or me right now. Most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Free looked to Parks and saw the concern gathering about his face. “I reckon Mr. Hardy will be looking to pay us a visit soon.”

  “You best be extra careful.” The captain walked the men toward the study door and shook hands with each one. “Tig Hardy won’t rest until you’ve paid with family the same as him.”

  Free and Parks hurried without distraction from Huntt’s quarters to their ponies. The distance between themselves and family occupied each man’s concentration and presented a harsh reality. The prospect of the long ride home anguished both of them.

  Free mounted Spirit and looked toward Parks. “You best get to San Saba, Parks, I’m riding for the Clear Fork.”

  “I’ll move my mother in with friends, Free; then I’ll come straight away.” Parks wheeled Horse toward the Concho River.

  “Ride safe,” Free yelled. He slapped the reins across Spirit’s shoulders and spurred the mustang hard for the scrub prairie and northeast toward home.

  Chapter 5

  Anderson Homestead, Texas December 1868

  Clara trudged in the soft river sand and hauled a bucket of water toward the mustang pens. She spent most of her day in The Flats tending to Samuel. She returned home only after the army doctor finally made his way to the Jenkins House hotel. Shadows crept sluggishly across the prairie and unfurled a tenuous canvas of black in their retreat. Feeling the warmth of the December day disappearing, Clara hurried to finish her outdoor chores. As she crossed the limestone porch at the back of the house, her attention was drawn toward the distinctive bark of a dog. Shading her eyes, she scanned the open prairie toward a spot where a mound of beads, rock bowls and hair pipes lay. In the midst of these Kiowa offerings, she saw an Indian dog tied to a decorated lance by a length of rawhide. The animal jumped excitedly on its hind legs, pulling against its binding and barking at the empty prairie.

  “Another gift?” Martha Anderson asked from the back porch.

  “It appears that way, Mother.” Clara moved with prudent apprehension toward the dog. It resembled a large coyote. “Parks says as long as the Kiowa believe Free is responsible for the recent rains, they will continue to leave gifts in hopes the buffalo will return.”

&nb
sp; “Well, we best leave him tied for now,” Martha held a fixed stare on the confused animal. “It doesn’t look to me much like he wants to stay here. I’ll fetch him some table scraps in a bit.”

  Clara nodded and gazed out over the prairie. She was concerned that the Kiowa could unexpectedly appear without their presence being known. “Maybe, he’ll be a good thing, Mother. You know, to warn us and all.”

  “I don’t know, Clara, if I have to listen to something yapping all night, I’d much rather it be a baby.” Martha looked at her daughter-in-law and pursed her lips together. “When is that going to happen? I’m getting on in years, you know.”

  “Why, Mother Anderson!” Clara leaned her head back and pushed her tongue slightly through her lips, “You never know; it might be happening now.”

  Martha looked carefully at Clara, letting her daughter-in-law’s words slowly sink in. “Clara!” She beamed broadly, “Are you—? You tell me now! Am I going to be a grandmother?”

  Clara nodded her head and held her arms out. The two women embraced and jumped up and down in each other’s arms, their shouts carried across the Comancheria.

  “Two months, I believe.” Clara tasted the salt of tears in her mouth.

  “Clara!” Martha held her daughter-in-law at arm’s length, “Does Free know?”

  Clara shook her head, “Not yet. I wanted to be sure before telling him.”

  Martha embraced Clara once more and rubbed her stomach. “A baby! We’re going to have baby!”

  Well into the night Clara was bolted awake by an unfamiliar noise. The Indian dog’s unremitting barking was now silent, and a strange stillness reigned over the house and surrounding prairie. The fog of sleep still present, she rubbed her eyes and tried to recall the sound that brought her upright. Still drowsy, she let her feet dangle off the side of the bed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker through the open bedroom window. Suddenly, the black night glowed orange.