Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  “It seems for every step we take, most of this hill slides down around us,” the wounded man complained.

  “Fight the sand, Mr. McCaslin; I don’t intend to die out in this desert!” She spoke with authority.

  “There are men riding here that aim to kill me! And that means they will kill you too! So, I need for you to stop fussing and help me get you up this hill!”

  Her urgency and fear got his attention. McCaslin stuck his right hand into the sand and began to push against the dune. He hopped in short bursts up the mound gumming the whole way, “This is some way for a man to spend Christmas Eve.”

  Christmas Eve. Clara stopped abruptly. I was going to tell Free about the baby today.

  “Clara, are you OK?” McCaslin turned back.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She began moving once more, “That’s it. We can do it.” She spoke with encouragement as she rushed to keep up with the energized McCaslin. “We’re almost there.”

  Several minutes later, they crested the giant pile of sand and fell exhausted on the opposite side.

  Clara’s heart pounded wildly in her chest, but without hesitation, she rose at once and slid down the giant mound.

  “Where are you going Clara?”

  “I’ve got to clean up our trail,” she yelled.

  Rolling down the white hill in an avalanche of sand, she placed both hands behind her and used them to break her free-fall. She came to a stop at the bottom of the dune in a spray of sand, leapt to her feet and sprinted for the seep, careful to stay in the same tracks she and McCaslin had used in their exit.

  Inside the dense forest, she grabbed the bedroll and bladder and tossed both over her shoulder. She neared the fire pit and spied the ripped sleeve she had used to wipe down the horse. She picked it up and shoved it into her front pocket. Taking a final look at the camp, she pushed her way back through the scrub and stopped outside to break off several small limbs.

  Hastily, she backpedaled toward the dune, using the leafy branches to sweep away any sign of footprints left by their struggle to climb the mound. “With the wind blowing across the dune behind me, our tracks should be unnoticeable,” she called out.

  “You are one smart lady!” McCaslin yelled to her.

  “Mr. McCaslin, look back east, do you see any sign of riders?” she hollered.

  “Nothing!” Robert called back.

  “Good,” Clara muttered and then began the arduous backward ascent up the steep hill of sand.

  Clara reached the top of the mound and searched the horizon in all directions for any sight of movement. She held a tight grip on the Winchester, ready to use the rifle if necessary.

  “Can you shoot that Winchester?” McCaslin asked.

  “I’ll do OK. You’re not worried about my aim, are you?” Clara asked.

  “It’s not that, Clara,” McCaslin offered. “I can see you are more than able to take care of yourself. But if you have never shot at a man before, there might be some reluctance when you finally set that sight on a human target.”

  Clara stared out onto the white rolling landscape. She understood Robert’s concern, but there was no way she would submit to Hardy’s custody again. The baby in her stomach required that. “I promise you, Mr. McCaslin, if the occasion arises to shoot, there will not be any hesitation on my part.”

  McCaslin reckoned not and offered a wide smile. “I can see that now, Clara. And if it ain’t being too nosy, what could you possibly have done that would cause men to trail you so far out in this bone-infested desert?”

  Clara glared at the man and issued a thin smile across her lips,

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “Fair enough.” He grinned, “I owe you my story, that’s a fact, after all, you did save my life. I was working with a government survey team out of Fort Sumner. About two weeks ago we finished our work and camped just north of here below Antelope Ridge. Before daylight, a band of twenty Apaches attacked the camp, killing six of the eight of us outright. My brother and I survived the fight only because I managed to catch one of the horses the Indians had scattered. The two of us hightailed it out of camp riding to beat the devil.”

  “And the Apaches didn’t follow?” Clara asked.

  “One thing about the Apaches, Clara, they love a good game. They sent out a small band to hunt us. It was truly something to watch. Two braves rode on horse back and two others followed by running behind the horses, holding on to their tails.”

  Clara remembered Parks telling them an Apache could run seventy miles a day on foot and never take a hard breath.”

  McCaslin continued, “They followed us that way for miles shooting arrows at us the whole time. They shot us and the poor horse full of arrows. We managed to put another mile between us before the horse fell. And my brother, Jim…well, he walked as best he could for maybe another mile before he died. I staggered on foot for I don’t know how long before I ran into your camp.”

  “And the Apaches?” Clara asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they stopped to celebrate their victory. Six scalps back at the camp and most likely Jim’s later must have satisfied the bloody savages.” McCaslin stared without expression into the distant desert.

  Clara looked down at the sand. “I’m sorry Mr. McCaslin. I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s OK. I understand how a woman out here all alone would have plenty of mistrust built up against strangers.”

  Clara nodded at the man and then looked out across the desert, “Thank you….” She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth frozen open.

  McCaslin shot a look toward her, “What is it, Clara?”

  She pointed to the northeast. Not more than three hundred yards out in the desert in the glare of the morning sun, a dark figure on horse back crested the top of a sand dune riding straight for the seep.

  Chapter 18

  The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868

  You smell that water?” Tig spoke in a cheerful tone to the mount beneath him. The brisk December morning had the horse feeling its oats. Feeling flush himself, with Jordie dead, he sank his spurs into the horse’s flank. “Let’s ride then.”

  The steed, not needing spurs for encouragement, picked up his legs and began a hard run over the top of a tall dune.

  Tig knew this desert well. He had hidden here many times from a bothersome posse or sheriff. Most lawmen were reluctant to chase an outlaw across a desert teeming with blowing sand, rattlesnakes and Apaches. Up ahead, the green color of scrub trees appeared indicating water. With a little luck, he would pick up the woman’s trail around the seep.

  Tig reined the horse, slid out of the saddle and walked to the patch of scrub oak looking for any sign. To his left he noticed a set of hoof prints lightly indented in the sand and headed southwest away from the seep. Fresh, he thought. The flimsy wind blowing from the east had not yet covered them with sand. He stared with focused intent at the tracks and rubbed the back of his neck. Something didn’t set right in his head. He kicked at the sand floor in frustration. Way too clean.

  He studied the seep with a careful eye. In the back corner of the oak enclosure he spied where two branches had been broken from one of the trees. He moved closer and observed the green lying beneath the bark. He turned back and hurried out of the chaparral and into the desert. Grabbing his horse by the reins, he knelt and studied his own tracks. He glanced over to the tracks and let a wide smile carry across his face. Within seconds he had mounted his horse and spurred the animal hard toward the southwest.

  “Looks like your plan worked.” McCaslin glanced over to Clara.

  “We’ll see.” Clara kept a watchful eye on the departing Tig Hardy.

  “I thought you said there were two of them?” McCaslin inquired.

  “There were.” Clara frowned. “I think I know what that shot was this morning.”

  McCaslin stared at the dust following the rider. “Who is he, Clara?”

  Clara rolled to her back and exhaled loudly, “I don’t
really know him. He rode onto our land four days ago in the middle of the night and burned our house and corral to the ground.”

  McCaslin threw an incredulous stare at Clara. “He burned you out?”

  Clara rolled back over and scanned the horizon intently. “He beat my mother-in-law and kidnapped me. All I know is his name. He goes by Tig Hardy.”

  “Tig Hardy?” McCaslin gritted his teeth.

  “Do you know him?” Clara bolted upright.

  “No…No, I don’t, but I know of him.” McCaslin rose to his knees. “Some say he is the devil himself.”

  “I’m inclined to draw that conclusion as well.” Clara spoke as Tig Hardy’s dust disappeared under the horizon and from view. “Let’s have some water and then I’ll tend to your back.” Her tone was weary. “Then we’ll try and figure out our next move.”

  Chapter 19

  The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868

  The harshness of the desert sun burned red against Clara’s closed eyes. She swallowed dryness and then licked her chapped lips. She slowly opened her eyes and glanced at McCaslin. His snoring caused the realization that they both had succumbed to fatigue earlier.

  She rose, stretched and then dusted her shirt. The finely grained sand seemed to occupy more on the inside of her clothing than she did. A harsh wind had picked up from the north and tiny sand devils rose and spun skyward from the top of the surrounding dunes. Clara rubbed at her shoulders and looked to the northern skyline. A rich bank of purple clouds sat atop the horizon.

  “Mr. McCaslin,” she nudged the sleeping man, “Wake up, Mr. McCaslin.”

  “Huh?” he opened his eyes quickly.

  “How do you feel?”

  He opened his mouth several times and licked his lips. “I feel pretty good. What’s going on?”

  “I’m afraid we may have more trouble heading our way.” Clara nodded northward.

  McCaslin rose from the sand and stared at the northern sky. “That doesn’t look like just a cold front to me.”

  Clara felt tears welling at her eyes. She clenched her jaw in an attempt to check her volatile emotions. “I was afraid you’d say that, Mr. McCaslin, I think we have a snow storm heading our way.”

  McCaslin turned his head to survey their surroundings. “There’ll be a cold rain come first, Clara. We need to make shelter as best we can.”

  Clara nodded, fighting back her tears. “What do you suggest?”

  “I think we best try to build a lean-to against the base of this dune. We’re gonna need to get some scrub oak limbs to use as a frame.” McCaslin rubbed his jaw and glanced to the seep below.

  Clara stood and faced McCaslin. “Mr. McCaslin, I’m sorry I ran the horse off but I just didn’t think the two of us stood a chance in trying to outrun Hardy.”

  McCaslin put a hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that, Clara….” He stopped mid-sentence and stared to the southwest.

  “What is it?” She spun on her heels and stared across the desert.

  “I can’t be sure, but it sure looks like Hardy may have found your horse.” He pointed at a spinning cloud of sand on the horizon.

  Across the desert, they spotted a rider on a dead run for the seep with a horse in tow.

  In the shadow of the towering sand dune, Clara curled up on her right side and listened with cautious intent for any sound from Hardy or his horse. An unrestrained nervousness rippled through her arms and shoulders, causing her upper body to twitch uncontrollably. Unable to stop the shivering, she pressed the Winchester deep into her body for support. McCaslin lay on his left side, his eyes in a fixed stare on her face.

  “Ma’m.” Hardy’s voice broke the silence.

  “I know you’re up there, Ma’m.”

  Clara let a small whimper escape from her closed mouth. She looked to McCaslin who held his forefinger against his lips.

  “Ma’m, please don’t make me come up there after you.” Hardy spoke with relative calm. “I’ve ridden a good ways to retrieve your horse, so there’s no use in acting like you’re not around.”

  McCaslin pointed to the rifle, asking in sign for Clara to pass it to him.

  Tig pushed his hat back off his head and scratched his scalp. “It was your tracks, Ma’m. The imprints in the sand were very light as if the horse was riderless. That’s what gave you away.”

  Clara shoved the rifle toward McCaslin and stifled a desire to cry aloud.

  “I reckon the broken scrub branches were used to hide your footprints.”

  McCaslin eased a cartridge into the rifle chamber.

  Angry at the silence, Tig yelled, “Ma’m, if I have to come up there, you won’t like what I do next!”

  “That won’t be necessary.” McCaslin rose from the cover of the sand hill and held the Winchester chest high on Hardy.

  “Well lookey here.” Tig laughed at the shirtless figure. “Robert Armstrong McCaslin. Present and accounted for, have you been watching over my hostage, McCaslin?”

  Clara’s eyes opened wide at the sound of McCaslin’s name. With a sense of dread and disbelief, she rose and stared at the man next to her.

  McCaslin hesitated, looked over at Clara and then slowly lowered the rifle. “Appears that way, Tig,” he said.

  Clara sat between her two captors with fists clenched, her back pinned against the scrub oak. The fear that consumed her minutes ago had been replaced by a sense of betrayal and anger. She stared into the distance but listened with a careful ear to the two men standing above her. She knew it was important to leave a sign for Free. It was imperative he know she was alive. And then she remembered the ripped sleeve stuffed into her pocket.

  “Here you might want to put his on.” Tig pulled a wool shirt from his saddle pack and tossed it toward McCaslin.

  “You sure cut a wide path, Tig,” McCaslin said as he pulled the shirt over his head with great care.

  “I had business that needed tending to.” Tig looked down at the woman and smiled. “Some of it is still unfinished.”

  “Well when this is over, I hope you plan to let Clara go.” McCaslin tucked the shirt into his pants.

  “You’re not going soft on me are you, McCaslin?” Tig grinned.

  McCaslin cleared his throat and looked at the larger man in front of him. “I don’t care much for hurting a woman, that’s all.”

  “Well, you let me decide about that and we’ll stay the best of friends,” Tig warned. “Now tell me how it is you came to be in the Sand Hills.”

  McCaslin scowled and then said, “We waited at the Pinery Station like you asked. We waited for a week past when you and Chase should have showed. At that point, the boys were restless and decided to ride out to Antelope Ridge and see if there were any drive cowboys making their way back to Texas. The Lowery brothers figured it would be easy pickings.”

  “How come you boys couldn’t do what I told you?” Tig spat at McCaslin’s feet. “It seems of late that cowboys who won’t follow my orders end up dead.”

  “It seems following your orders gets a man the same result,” McCaslin snapped back. He saw Tig’s jaw tense and softened his voice. “It doesn’t matter much now anyhow, Tig. The Apaches caught us below the hills and killed everyone.”

  “Everyone, but you,” Tig stated and held McCaslin with a wide-eyed glance.

  McCaslin gritted and then glanced back north. The once bright sky retreated south to escape the rippled waves of purple that rolled across the horizon like a thunderous herd of bison. “We’ve a storm coming, Tig, and if we want to hold up to the weather, we best go about making a shelter.”

  “No time for that. We’re going to ride. I figure the woman’s man is closing on us and I aim to meet him and his friend at the Pinery Station where we have an advantage.”

  Clara shot a questioning glance at the two men, “But there are only two horses.”

  Tig said flatly, “Don’t worry none, Ma’m, you’ll be riding with me.”

  “I’d rather she ride with me, Tig
,” McCaslin said as he adjusted the stirrups on Clara’s horse.

  Tig studied the man for a moment, tapped his pearl Colt handle and then bellowed in laughter. “OK, McCaslin, if that’s what you want, lead the way out.”

  As the trio mounted up, Tig rode close to a scrub tree near the front edge of the seep. “Oh, and Ma’m, you forgot this.” A ragged piece of shirt sleeve dangled between his fingers. “Your man will find out soon enough if you’re dead or alive.”

  Chapter 20

  The Sand Hills, Texas December 1868

  Anoticeable drop in temperature accompanied Free and Parks into the Sand Hills. The Kiowa dog ran far ahead of the horses with his nose near the ground. His back hair bristled in the sunlight at the warning smell of the man.

  “How’d you come by the dog?” Parks asked.

  “I found him with a Kiowa lance in his side the day Mother died.”

  “Well, he seems to have taken to you.”

  “I reckon it’s more a partnership,” Free said. “I figure the dog wants Hardy as bad as I do.” Free pointed to the dog absorbed on the scent trail. “I think he knows Hardy’s scent and is dead set on finding the man. I sure wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his jaws. You should have seen what he did to a trader that tried to beef me at Agua de Mesteño.”

  “I met your trader friend,” Parks smiled. “Last I saw of him, he was looking for his top-notch.”

  Free looked to his friend. “He was scalped?”

  “I came upon him fighting with a band of Comanche. If I had known of your difficulty with him beforehand, I might have left him to the Indians. I also saw the two ruffians you left behind.”

  “Those two seemed well set on dying that day.” Free cut off his words and focused on the dog.

  At the base of a towering sand mound, the dog lifted his head into the wind and sniffed aggressively at the air. After processing the waves of scent, he dashed to the crest of the hill, barking at the air and kicking sand behind him. In seconds, he disappeared over the rise.