Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  Polk lifted his hand to strike once more when the Kiowa dog appeared. The dog leapt and tore into the trader’s arm, causing Polk to fall to the ground, screeching in surprise.

  “What the—!” Polk tried to roll his hands around his head for protection. “Get him off me!” he cried, “Please! Get him off me!”

  Still woozy, Free stood still, knowing the better of getting between a fighting dog and his prey. “Hey!” he screamed over the dog’s madness and then gave a shrill whistle. The crazed dog was oblivious and tore at Polk’s forearm swinging the helpless man’s limb back and forth in a frenzy. “Hey!” Free screamed again, “Easy now! Easy, boy.”

  The dog gradually slowed his movements but kept his jaws clamped on Polk’s arm. The animal looked up at Free with his mouth pulled taut and a fair amount of the trader’s flesh in his mouth.

  Free walked over and spoke to the dog, “Easy. Good job, boy. Good dog.” He reached out tentatively and patted the dog’s head. “So you were the someone following my trail.”

  “Get him off me!” Polk continued to scream, as a river of blood flowed down his wrist.

  Free fixed a hard stare into Polk’s eyes. “You best calm down and keep your tone civil, Mr. Polk, or I’ll let this dog eat you alive.”

  Polk nodded in defeat. “Just get him away from me,” he whispered.

  “I’ll do that right after you answer my questions,” Free stated sharply. “I ought to shoot you for hitting me with that Sharps.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Just get this dog off me.” Polk sobbed.

  Free patted the dog’s head once more and then spoke to Polk, “I prefer to let the dog keep his grip until I get my answers, Mr. Polk.”

  “Just hurry.”

  “When did Tig pass through here?”

  “He’ll kill me if I tell you.” Polk pulled his face away from the dog.

  The dog scooted back on his haunches and pulled tighter on the trader’s arm. The animal issued a low growl to show his intent.

  “The dog’s going to kill you if you don’t tell.” Free stated matter-of-factly, “And you know what, Polk, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll leave you with this dog right now, and I’ll move up the trail with your wagon in tow.”

  “All right! All right! Tig was here two days ago, toward sundown. He bought some whiskey and dried beef, and then he left. And that’s all I know!”

  “Did he have anybody with him?”

  “He come alone. We shared a bottle, and then he left.”

  “You didn’t see a woman?”

  “I’m telling you he rode into camp same as you. There weren’t a soul with him. And that’s the truth.”

  Free gazed down the trail. His mind digested Polk’s words. Tig was alone. Where was Clara? he wondered. Had she had managed to escape? That has to be it; I won’t believe otherwise, he told himself. And if she had escaped, then he needed to find her before Tig. “What’s the quickest way to the Guadalupes?”

  Polk grimaced in pain. “The quickest or the safest?”

  “The quickest,” Free said.

  “You’d need to ride south toward the Sand Hills. Mister, please get this dog off me,” Polk pleaded.

  “How many days’ ride?” Free asked.

  “On your horse, one day.” Polk grimaced.

  “You think Tig would go that way?”

  “Only a fool would head that way.”

  Free stood and walked to the wagon. He looked under the driver’s seat and found his Colt. “I’ll be taking my Colt.”

  Polk nodded.

  “And the Sharps.” Free walked to Spirit and untied the pony. “You have a protest with any of that?” he asked Polk.

  “None.” The trader frowned, “None at all.”

  “Good,” Free said dryly and then lifted the tobacco pouch from his neck. “When we’re done here, you might want to doctor that wound, Mr. Polk.” Free cut a plug from the tobacco and pushed it into the back of his jaw, “A dog bite can leave a man with the fever.”

  He replaced the pouch, stepped up on Spirit and called to the dog. “Let’s go, Dog.”

  The dog issued a guttural growl, shook the trader’s arm violently for good measure and then released his prey.

  Free rode Spirit out of the camp and up the far bank. As he crested the bluff overlooking the camp, he hollered out, “Fair warning to you, Mr. Polk. If I ever see you again, I aim to repay you for the knock on the head.”

  Chapter 13

  Apache Seep, The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868

  As twilight emerged, Clara rode hard for a small grouping of shin oak. The chaparral grew in a tight clump below the convergence of two sand dunes. She took the beckoning trees as sanctuary from the building north wind. Urging the horse forward into the tightly wound tree branches, she found a small clearing laced with squawbush. A small oval of stones lay at the far edge of the refuge. Nudging her horse toward the rocks, she saw a seep of clear water pooled inside the aggregate. Energized, she bounded from the horse and for the first time in days exhaled a breath of relief.

  With only a few minutes of usable light left in the sky, a fire was the first priority to surviving the night. Frantic, she began to strip the brown leaves found near the base of each tree. With the approach of winter, the deciduous plant yielded a bounty of the dead foliage. Using her shirt as a basket, she gathered a garment full of the plant material and dumped it on the ground near the seep. Hurrying against the encroaching darkness, she began snapping dead twigs from off the trees. Securing a large bundle of the kindling, she rushed back to the seep and dropped to her knees. She worked in great haste and arranged six of the largest rocks around the dead leaves, then glanced skyward at the last vestige of light. She fumbled in her shirt pocket looking for the safety match Jordie had stuck there days earlier. Deep in the pocket, the Lucifer lay hidden among the dust and lint. “Where are you?” she shouted aloud. Then her fingers felt the slender wooden stick. Clumsily, she rolled the match up the side of her pocket and pulled it into view. “Please work,” she uttered in desperation.

  In a careful and calculated movement, she raked the head of the match against one of the stones and watched the sparks fly. Instantly, the pungent smell from the phosphorous emission filled her nose. Using her free hand as a mantle, she delicately put the match to the dried leaves. The acrid smell of smoke plumed upward, followed by a crackle of fire that caused the pile to glow orange. As the flames devoured the leaves, she carefully added the small kindling twigs one at a time. Within minutes, a humble but fueled fire lit her hideout.

  The dim light put off by the fire yielded a sense of security and propelled her toward the next chore. Her horse needed tending to. Time was pressing to remove the saddle and rub the animal down before the freezing temperatures of the night settled over the desert. Left to soak in its sweat, the animal could die of pneumonia by morning.

  She grabbed the lead rein and tied the horse to the trunk of a shin oak. Reaching under the animal, she released the girth strap from its ring and yanked the saddle toward her. As the saddle dropped to the ground, the horse issued a series of warning snorts, its eyes opened wide in fear. From behind, the heavy rustling of breaking shin oak branches caused her to throw her head around, uncertain as to the cause.

  Out of the darkness, a man crashed through the small forest of oak and landed face down in front of Clara. From his shirtless back emerged two arrows, and the man’s gaunt appearance told her he had traveled far to arrive at the seep. She rushed over, grabbed his arms and pulled him toward the light of the fire. Running back to her horse, she pulled the rifle from its ring and held a cautious gaze toward the entrance of the oaks, hoping no Indians had followed.

  Minutes later, certain of their security, she returned to the man and began to examine his wounds. The first arrow lay embedded below the shoulder in the soft muscle of his lower back. The second arrow was a few inches to the right of his backbone. The arrows belonged to Apaches, as each bore three fletched
feathers from a red hawk. Looking at each wound, she feared the flint arrowhead, bound by deer sinew and mixed with the man’s blood, had expanded and tightened to the shaft. It would take some effort to extract the arrow without breaking the tip.

  “Mister?” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  The man moaned and nodded his head.

  “I’m going to help, but what I have to do is going to hurt you real bad. Promise me you can stay quiet. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded once more and moved his forearm under his mouth.

  “The only way this arrow is coming out whole will be if I shake it back and forth to widen the wound. If I don’t, the flint shoulders will never release. I’m truly sorry.”

  The man bit down on his forearm and nodded once more.

  Clara gripped the shaft with both hands and rocked the arrow back and forth violently, watching the man as she proceeded. A vein grew large on his forehead and beads of sweat formed on his reddening face. Realizing the man’s extreme hurt, she rocked harder and then standing, pulled with all of her strength on the arrow. The man gave a muffled cry as the flinthead tore through muscle and skin on its exit. He moaned once more and then passed out from the pain.

  Clara ripped her other sleeve and dipped the cloth into the seep. After wringing out the dampened material, she wrapped it around an oak branch and held it over the fire. When the water evaporated, she removed the cloth and laid it across the wound as a poultice. With the man passed out, she hurried to work on the second arrow.

  An hour later, she used Jordie’s blanket to cover the resting man and then finished wiping down her horse. Alone and miserable, she rested against the saddle with the Winchester across her chest. As she listened to the night sounds, she realized her prospect of heading west and away from Jordie was now at a standstill.

  Chapter 14

  The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868

  Tig worked his horse between the dunes of the Sand Hills, looking for any sign of horse tracks in the shifting soil. The ground exhibited the fresh markings of a ringtail lizard. By the zigzag movement of the tracks, the speedy little reptile was probably on the run from a burrowing owl. He leaned over the left side of his mount and picked out the faint shape of a print that could belong only to a shod horse. He rose in the saddle and surveyed the desolate landscape before him. If Jordie was between dunes, he might never find him. He took his gaze back to the track and walked his horse west, following what he could of the wind blown trail.

  Several miles into the wasteland, he found depressions that appeared to be tracks leading up one of the larger dunes. From the size of the indentions, he reckoned the horses fought hard against the sliding sand as they tried to cross over the hill. Lucky me, he mused. The struggle had left so large a depression that the previous evening’s winds did not erase them completely. Tig brushed the reins slightly over his horse’s neck and urged the beast over the mound ahead.

  As his horse crested the hill, the backside of a man on his knees came into view. The figure threw great handfuls of sand into the air as he dug frantically in the white sand. Next to the man in a darkened stain of blood lay a dead horse.

  “Hello, Jordie.” Tig removed his hat and scratched his hairline, “Appears your luck keeps heading downhill.”

  Jordie turned in a start at the voice. Shocked, he gasped for breath at the sound of the man he feared most. “Tig,” he said weakly. “Am I glad to see you.”

  Tig set his hat back on his head. “Are you now?” He narrowed his eyes and spat to the ground. “Why’s that?”

  Jordie stood and faced Tig. He began to crawfish in a zigzag movement down the sand valley. “I dunno, Tig, I just am.”

  Tig moved the horse forward as the scared creature in front of him continued to back away. “You never were a smart one, Jordie.”

  “That’s me for sure, Tig. I never had a lick of sense.” Jordie stammered as his retreat slowly garnered speed, “Not a lick.”

  “You ran out on Chase and you ran out on me!” Tig thundered.

  “It wasn’t like that, Tig.” Jordie threw up his hands in an attempt to placate the devil in front of him.

  “It was the woman, Tig. It was her idea. I know I should have never listened to her…,” Jordie forced a weak smile. “But it won’t happen again, Tig. I promise it won’t.”

  Tig pushed his horse to within a foot of his prey. “I know it won’t, Jordie. Where’s the woman?” he hissed.

  Jordie stumbled as Tig’s horse bumped him. He fell and then regained his feet quickly. “I don’t know, Tig.” His voice quivered, “She bushwhacked me she did.”

  Tig continued his relentless forward push on the cowering rabbit of a man in front of him. “Ambushed you?” An evil grin formed on his lips. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, that’s what happened, Tig. I was trying to catch some shut-eye, and she bushwhacked me.” Jordie turned his shoulders and looked at the endless valley of sand surrounding him. Huge mounds of white kept him penned, trapped by the approaching Tig. He glanced back, a sheen of sweat on his face. “I know I messed up, Tig, but let me make it up to you,” he pleaded.

  “Where’s the woman, Jordie?” Tig settled his right hand near his Colt.

  Jordie recoiled, “I dunno, Tig. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.” He began to cry. “I’m just a dummy like you said, Tig. I didn’t mean to mess up. I didn’t mean to.” Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

  “Appears you’re on the camino del muerte, Jordie.”

  “What’s that mean, Tig?” Jordie wiped at his cheeks with his shirtsleeve. “That’s a funny word for sure.”

  “It’s what the Mexicans call the way of death.” Tig smiled broadly.

  “No, Tig! Now just hold on!” Jordie screamed and then broke to his left. He began a desperate run up the large dune, but the shifting sand grabbed at his feet and tripped him face first into the hill. He rolled over in a panic with a layer of white painted across his face. “Please, Tig.” He held his hands in front of his face, “Please.”

  The solitary gunshot reverberated throughout the Sand Hills. Tig figured the woman, wherever she was, should have heard it. He hoped she did. He wanted her to pack the same fear Jordie carried before he died. He wanted her to dread knowing that Tig Hardy was coming for her.

  Clara thought the new day was forever in starting. As the sun finally rose over the shin oak stand, she laid a piece of heated oak bark on the man’s wounds. The heat startled him awake.

  “Lay still,” she said. “The bark will help draw out any poison.”

  The man lay on his stomach and looked up. “Is this heaven or the other?”

  Clara laughed aloud. “It’s a little of each.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any grub? It’s been a week since I last ate.”

  “I have a piece of hard tack that you’re welcome to.” She removed the hard bread from a white cloth. “It might take a few minutes of soak to be able to pull at it.”

  “Believe me, Ma’m. I’d take any nourishment right now.”

  Clara nodded in understanding and handed the hard tack to the man. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Robert Armstrong McCaslin.”

  “Well, Mr. McCaslin, my name is Clara Anderson.”

  “If I might inquire, Ma’m, what’s a woman doing out in this God-forbidden country by herself?”

  “It’s a long story, too long to tell right now, Mr. McCaslin. But the short of it is we need to get you well, because there’s a man trailing me that can only mean no good for you if we’re caught up to.”

  “I’m fit as a fiddle,” McCaslin said right before he passed out again.

  Reluctantly, Clara extinguished their fire. She couldn’t take the chance that the smoke would be smelled or seen by Jordie or Tig. She poured handfuls of sand on the flame to avoid smoke. When the fire was out, she buried the entire rock circle in sand in the hope that the chaparral looked as it did the night she rode in. She knew Mr. McCasl
in would never be able to keep up in his condition and Tig couldn’t be that far behind. A hiding spot seemed the best solution, and much as she hated to do so, she had to let the horse go. If they were lucky, Tig and Jordie might pursue the animal’s trail. If not, she did have the Winchester.

  Clara had finished cinching the saddle around the horse’s belly when the sound of a lone gunshot rode the wind into the chaparral. It was hard to tell the direction from which the gunfire came, but it did not seem far away. Anxious, she led the horse out of the shin oak and with a shout and a hard slap of her hand sent her best means of escape galloping toward the southwest.

  Chapter 15

  Agua de Mesteño, Texas December 1868

  The war whoops of Comanche raiders filled the prairie outside of Agua de Mesteño. Parks held his ear into the north wind and tried to ascertain the distance to the fight. Unsure as to the identity of the war party’s victims, he turned Horse toward the commotion and spurred the mustang toward the sounds of the engagement.

  As he rode up a small plateau overlooking the river, he came upon a scene of bedlam. Below him, a band of fifteen Comanche laid siege to a Conestoga wagon. The driver of the wagon stood behind the driver’s seat, opposite the attacking warriors. Behind the man, two bodies lay dead on the bank of the river. The Comanche, only twenty feet from the prairie schooner, fired arrows in salutation. The man returned their fire with a Colt pistol.

  Parks dismounted and grabbed his Winchester as he rolled off Horse. He found a dead tree limb near the edge of the plateau and dropped to his stomach behind the log. Levering the rifle, he sent a rapid succession of cartridges toward the marauders, intent on giving the impression that more than one man occupied the high ground. He emptied the rifle in less than a minute.

  The Comanche looked in his direction and shook their bows at him with spirited yells of, “Yellow boy!” The Indian name for the feared rifle.