by Mike Kearby
Chapter 10
The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868
As if by magic, the scrub landscape disappeared. In its stead, a covering of white now engulfed the land. Miles of elongated peaks of sand projected across the horizon. To Clara, it seemed as if all of West Texas had abruptly become a desert. Each time her horse crested one of the sand hills, another rose into view, like waves rolling across the sea.
The all-night ride from Agua de Mesteño drained her and left her horse covered in white foam. And now, the careworn animal battled the constant shifting sand in an attempt to move forward. With each step, she felt the horse sink deeper into the loose grains of soil that composed the Sand Hills. Panicked in its attempt to free itself, the horse whinnied and reared back as it clambered against nature’s vise-like trap. As the animal fought the sand, Clara noticed a ring of blood forming on her wrists. The knots that Jordie tied to bind her to the saddle had dug deep into her flesh with each movement of the flailing horse.
Clara studied her surroundings with great deliberation. She knew it was important to loose herself from Jordie and find Free before Tig showed up. “Jordie, we need to rest these animals,” she pleaded to the rider in front of her.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Jordie turned back to her, “If we stop, Tig will catch up to us. And you can bet he is riding hard on our trail.”
“Jordie, it’s not going to matter much if we don’t rest these horses. If they die, Tig will catch up to us no matter what.”
“Dang!” Jordie cursed, Why’d I have to be so stupid!”
“Jordie, you’re not stupid!” Clara knew she needed to calm the man. “You made the right move. We just need to rest so we can get away from Tig.”
Jordie pulled reins and looked back. “OK! We’ll rest. Just shut-up, will ya?”
Thankful that she had managed to get through to Jordie, she nodded her head and held her silence.
“Chase once told me a man could dig down several feet and hit good water here.” Jordie stepped from his mount and followed the rope securing the horse behind him. “He said, this is where he would hide out if the law was chasing him.” He reached up and untied Clara’s hands. “We’ll rest here a short while. I figure the quickest way out of the desert is west.”
Clara rolled off her mount and knelt in the sand. She placed her hands on the small of her back and rocked back and forth trying to loosen the knots down her spine. She held uneasiness in her stomach and she prayed no harm had come to the baby during the long ride.
“Hold your rein, if your horse takes off out here, you’ll have a long walk out.”
Clara turned and took the reins from Jordie. “Thanks.” She smiled while wrapping the reins securely around her hand. “Do we need to wipe the horses down?” she asked.
“You do what you want. Me? I’m getting some shut-eye.” Jordie fell back against the sand hill.
Clara glanced at Jordie. Above his waist hung one pistol and there were no cartridges on the gun belt. She ripped a long patch of cloth from her sleeve and began to wipe the foam from the horse’s chest just as she had watched Parks and Free do a hundred times before. She reached as far back under the saddle as she could, and when finished, she glanced back to Jordie. His hat, pulled low over his brow, hid his eyes and he was snoring contentedly. The rope Jordie employed to lead her horse was tied to his boot above the ankle. She walked over to his horse and with little sound, removed the bladder from the saddle. She made special note that the rope around Jordie’s ankle tied him to the saddle. Glancing back once more to her sleeping captor, she held quiet. The loudness of his snoring proved the deep state of his rest. With great trepidation, she removed the bunk-roll from Jordie’s saddle and then slipped back to her horse.
She removed the stopper from the bladder and poured water down her hand, letting the animal slurp what it could. She knew if she was to make her escape, her horse needed water and rest. After she used half of the water, she took a quick sip and then placed the bladder over her saddle. Looking back to Jordie, she leaned back into the sand and closed her eyes, but instead of sleep, her mind raced feverishly trying to decide what to do next.
After a while, Clara opened her eyes and looked skyward. From their position against the sand hill, she knew the sun would soon move to the opposite side of the bank. When it did, the rays would wake Jordie from his sleep. She studied the surrounding desert and knew the unmoving wind would show any tracks she made while attempting to escape. Anxious and frightened, she also knew this was December and by the look of the northern sky, a cold front was building and might blow in by evening. She rubbed the lightweight fabric of her shirt and knew she would freeze in the desert without more clothing or fire. She reckoned the odds were stacked against her. To ride back northeast out of the desert would put her straight into Tig’s path. If she tried to cross the desert toward the southwest, she faced the real possibility of Indians and freezing temperatures. And if she started a fire, Tig, Jordie or the Apaches would know her precise location.
Oh, Free! What should I do? She asked herself, stifling her need to cry out.
A sudden tightness around his boot startled Jordie awake. He could feel sand rushing up his shirt and into his face. He tried to open his eyes but it was useless against the fine particles pelting him relentlessly.
“Sorry, Jordie!” He heard a voice yell.
And then he realized his horse was dragging him across the desert floor. He tried to bend forward at the waist, but the speed at which he was being dragged prohibited the movement. Rolling his head back, he could see the upside down figure of a horse and rider galloping across the sand and away from him.
“What in the tarna—!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you for this, Clara!”
His horse, terrified by the counter weight of his body, raced between dunes where the sand had less give. The animal’s thunderous hooves rumbled dangerously close to his head. “Stop!” he screamed at the runaway. “Stop, dangit!”
After a quarter mile, Jordie could feel his clothes beginning to shred under the friction of the sand grit. Left with little course of action, he reached down to his gun belt and loosened the leather ring holding his Colt in place. As his body continued to jounce from the desert floor, he took careful aim at the rope binding him to the horse. Holding steady, he squeezed the trigger, but the bullet veered wide of the target. He wrapped both hands around the gun handle, trying to control the shaking, and shot again. Once more, the bouncing sent his bullet wide of the rope. “Hold still!” he cried. In desperation, he pulled the trigger three times in succession. All three bullets were true but not to his target. Almost immediately, the horse stopped and dropped in the desert sand. Three bullets lodged in his chest.
“Blazes!” Jordie screeched.
With his horse dead, Jordie rolled forward and shot again, splitting the rope holding him in place. He untangled himself from the rope, sat up and gasped for breath, spitting sand in great mouthfuls over his tattered shirt. “Gawd darn it!” he cursed.
He felt the rapid beat of his heart pulsing against his temple. Panicked, he hurriedly crawled to the now still horse. He reached for his water bladder and realized it was not on the saddle. Frantic, he searched all around the horse and surrounding sand. He looked back to see if it had fallen during the breakaway. Frustrated, he slapped the saddle with a resounding smack. He reached under the horse to release the girth belt and discovered the empty, leather rifle scabbard. The hard reality that the girl had the water, the rifle and his bunk-roll hit him like a mule’s kick. “I’m done in for sure,” he muttered.
Chapter 11
Nathan Polk’s Trading Camp, Texas December 1868
Sitting on Spirit in a cover of scrub, Free rocked his head to the left and then the right in a slow, deliberate movement. It was a habit formed during his war days to ease tension. A series of snaps and cracks issued from his neck and interrupted the quiet of the day.
Since bidding farewell to
the Good family, his soldier instinct had kept his mind on high alert. The occasional snap of a dried prairie grass stalk or the rustle of dried leaves reinforced his suspicion that someone followed his trail, but the stalker remained well hidden. Now as he sat above the rocky shoreline of the Agua de Mesteño a more pressing problem presented itself.
He leaned forward over Spirit’s neck and surveyed the scene in the trading camp. What appeared to be two border ruffians trampled over the trader’s merchandise. Both wore dark dusters that Free figured hid a set of Colt pistols. By all appearances, the men were among the willows.
He looked back west, debating the wisdom of heading into the trading camp. Most likely, Tig supplied here. He was miles from anywhere and Free did not like his odds of riding into the camp alone. The wise thing would be to move on. Still, he reckoned the trader would be able tell him what he needed to know, when Tig arrived and where in the Guadalupes he was headed. With an ample portion of reluctance, Free nudged Spirit with his spurs. From his experience, he had a fair idea of what might happen in the camp, but his mind was set come the hard trail or not. He pressed his tongue against his teeth and issued a clicking sound to the mustang, “Time to go, Spirit,” he whispered, “no use in beating the devil around this stump any longer.”
“Afternoon.” Free, sitting tall, walked Spirit into the trading camp, cautiously announcing his presence to the group.
“Afternoon, stranger.” The trader whittled on a piece of driftwood without as much as a glance up. “Something I can do you for?”
Free took a heedful look at the two men sitting several yards away on a large piece of flat rock. Both wore more than a few days’ growth of whiskers. The taller of the men wore a coonskin hat on his head. “I’m looking for a friend.” Free’s words were measured, his gaze fixed on the two men.
“Sorry, mister, I only sell or trade goods here.” The trader said, “Information giving seems to only create problems. I know it don’t make a man much money.” He laughed.
“I’d be willing to pay you fairly for the word,” Free proposed. “It’s important to me.” He looked to the trader.
“Hey, Mr. Colored Man!” One of the ruffians yelled out, “Is that a bangtail you’re a’riding?”
Free knew they were referring to the fact that Spirit was an Indian pony. “Pardon me?” Free made note that both men’s dusters were buckled behind their Colts.
The man in the coonskin hat stood. “He said is your hoss a bangtail?”
“If you say so.” Free answered and then addressed the trader again. “What do you think, Mr…?”
“Polk. Nathan Polk.” The trader returned to his whittling, but he whispered in a low voice, “And I think you’re about to step off in a hornet’s nest, son.”
Hearing the trader’s whisper, Free refocused his attention on the ruffians. He reminded himself that riding west would have been the smart move. With whiskey running through them, these two are all-fired for trouble, he thought.
Both men were on their feet now, and the man in the coonskin hat began to circle behind Spirit with a cocky stride. Free decided his best course was to stay mounted. “I wouldn’t get too close, sir. He’s been known to make a man bite the ground.”
The smaller of the ruffians was now standing directly in front of Free. He pushed his beaver top hat back and called to his friend. “Isham, look who thinks he’s the biggest toad in the puddle.”
Free put his left spur into Spirit’s flank. The horse kicked at Isham forcing the man to jump back toward the river.
“I warned you nicely,” Free spoke, his stare fixed on Beaver Hat.
Isham stumbled backward into the water. He looked at his wet boots and laughed aloud. “I’ll bet that horse’ll burn the breeze. Whataya think, Coy?”
“I’ll bet he will.” Coy laughed back. “What do you want for him, Mr. Colored Man?”
“I don’t think he’ll be for sale today.” Free spoke with a bravado that belied his predicament. Caught between the two, he could not make a play without catching lead from one of the men.
“Land sakes, man, I guess we’ll just take him then.” Coy grinned.
“That’s what we’re gonna do.” Isham joined in.
“You aim to shoot a man in the back?” Free yelled out.
“Front, back, it really don’t matter to us.” Coy laughed. “But we don’t want to hit the horse on accident, so why don’t you just step down real easy like?”
“That I’ll do, boys.” Free announced, “You two seem death on for a fight.”
Isham and Coy erupted in laughter.
“Didya hear that?” Coy stopped his laughter and snarled, “Git off my horse, mister! Git off now and pull foot!”
Free pushed his boot against the stirrup and stepped down on the mustang’s left side. As he lowered from the saddle, he slid his right hand to his gun belt, readying himself to pull the Colt. Calculating as he moved, he decided to shoot Coy first since the man held the better shooting position. As his feet touched the ground, he pushed Spirit’s head to the right with his left hand. The motion swung the mustang’s rear around and created a shield between him and Isham. Colt in hand, he fired from under Spirit’s neck hitting Coy square in the chest.
The man’s face showed surprise at the quickness of Free’s play. He looked down and clutched his chest as a dark stain began to spread across his shirt.
Without hesitation, Free turned quickly and saw Isham with both hands held high, gripping Colts. Free braced for the bullets but none were forth-coming. Big mistake, Isham. He reckoned the ruffian must have set store by Spirit and did not want to shoot through the mustang. The slight delay gave Free the split second he needed to pull the trigger on his Colt. The bullet hit the man with a force that knocked his hat to the ground and spun him to his knees. Free held his Colt on the man and watched as Isham struggled to gain his feet.
“Drop it! And you can vamoose out of here, Isham.”
“You can go to blazes!” Isham hollered as he raised his Colts to fire.
You’ve got more grit than sense. Free pulled the trigger on his Colt twice in rapid succession and watched as Isham fell facedown on the river rock.
“That’ll be enough.”
Free spun toward the voice and cocked his Colt ready to fire. Not two feet away, he saw that Nathan Polk held a big fifty on his chest.
“Drop it!” the trader barked. “This Sharps will put a hole the size of a whiskey bottle in a buffalo; just think what it’ll do to you!”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Polk! You know I didn’t have a choice in the matter!”
“Drop it, I said!” Polk screamed once more, “I don’t allow no man to come in and shoot up my camp, especially no colored.”
“Mr. Polk, I only—.”
“Drop that Colt!” Polk screamed and cocked the Sharps, “I won’t be asking you again!”
Free dropped the pistol onto the rocky ground of the riverbank.
“Now, kick that gun toward me!” Polk commanded.
Free flipped the gun with the toe of his boot and watched as it landed between the trader’s legs.
“Now, take a seat on the ground and be careful when you do!” Polk reached down, picked up Free’s gun, and placed it in his waistband.
“Tell me what kinda information you need that would make you get into a fool’s gun play like that?”
Free took a seat on the rocks as ordered. “I’m looking for a man goes by the name, Tig Hardy.”
“I thought as much.” Polk steadied the Sharps, “What’s your business with Tig?”
“You know of him?” Free asked.
“You best let me ask the questions. Now, what’s your business with Tig?”
Free stiffened his back. “I aim to kill him.”
Polk pushed the gun closer. “That’s mighty high talk.” He grinned, “Tig might not be as obliging to your goal.”
Free reckoned he was wasting precious time. “Mr. Polk, I can’t rightly speak to your intentions, b
ut I only came here to seek information. I didn’t want trouble; those two ruffians brought that down, and you know that is the truth.” He looked up at the trader and started to stand. “And I don’t want any trouble with you,” he declared.
“It’s a little late for that, mister! If Tig doesn’t kill you, then those two boys’ kin will!” Polk slammed the Sharps against Free’s temple and then muttered. “A man signs his own death warrant killing Fischers in this part of the world. Everyone knows they’re Comancheros, you damned fool!”
Chapter 12
Agua de Mesteño, Texas December 1868
The sound of a wagon on rock brought Free’s eyes open. He squinted into the brightness of the day and tried to figure how long he had been unconscious. In front of him, facing the river, Polk was loading merchandise into a Conestoga. Four oxen stood rigged in the neck yokes, and Free observed Spirit tied to the sideboard.
“Polk?” Free shouted, the words caused his head to ache and his eyes to close. “What’s going on?”
“Winter’s fixin’ to set in. Time to pack up and leave.”
“Well, you’re not taking my mustang with you,” Free declared. He tried to gain his feet, but his limbs were still shaky.
“I don’t think you have much say in the matter.” Polk tossed the remaining two buffalo hides into the wagon’s bed, “None at all.”
Free struggled to his feet and staggered toward the trader. “You hold on, Polk! I said you’re not leaving with my horse!”
The trader turned and backhanded Free across the face. The blow sent him reeling with Polk in close pursuit. As Free felt his legs give way, he caught a blur of tan racing toward the trader’s back.
