Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  Free walked over and stared carefully at the blanket. “Hard to say.” He looked back and pointed to the tracks. “There’s prints over there for fifteen horses, and then they just vanish from the mountain.”

  The Kiowa dog ran to the blanket with his nose held high in the air. He sniffed every inch of the fabric and then began to jump and claw at one corner.

  “What is it, boy?” Free asked, concerned.

  The dog lifted his head and sniffed into the blackness. Aroused by a scent, he issued an angry, rolling growl directed up the mountain trail.

  Parks gazed into the distance toward the higher peaks of the Guadalupe range. “The dog seems all fired up that the trail leads north.”

  Free scanned the mountain above and shouted in frustration, “Clarrrahh!” He waited several seconds as the echo circled the hillside, and then he called again, “Clarrrahh!” He fixed his gaze on the black peaks above. “Why would they travel to higher ground in the dark and cold?”

  Parks shook his head, confused by the dog’s signal. “I don’t know. You’d reckon they’d follow the trail down the mountain and into the scrub prairie.” He glanced at Free, “What do you want to do?”

  Free slipped the reins over Spirit’s head and stepped up in the stirrup. “I guess we ride up the mountain.”

  Under the soft light of the moon, Free and Parks followed the Kiowa dog up the rock-strewn mountainside. The treacherous terrain forced the men to walk their mustangs tardily as a misstep on the scattered chunks of limestone could easily snap a cannon bone.

  “Free, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we’ve got to stop,” Parks said. “These ponies need water and rest. We’ve been riding the trail for almost a full day.”

  Free nodded his understanding. “I know, Parks, but we’re bound to be close. What if we stop now and Clara’s only a little ways off? I couldn’t live with that.”

  Parks rode close to his friend. “We’ll be no good to Clara if we don’t get some rest, Free. Fighting while you’re tired is foolish. Fighting Apache while you’re tired is a death request. Let’s give these ponies a rub and take a few hours of rest. By that time, the sun should be on the rise and we can follow the Apache trail in the daylight.”

  Free reluctantly pulled on Spirit’s rein and patted the mustang’s neck. “You’re right, Parks. I know you are. And I know better than to go off in the dark like this, but the thought of Clara out there with the Apache is twisting my gut into knots.”

  Parks nodded helplessly, “We’ll find her, Free. I promise we’ll find her.”

  The men dismounted and unsaddled the mustangs. After wiping down each with a wool rag, they allowed the horses to graze unfettered on the mountainside.

  “We best not risk a fire.” Parks pulled the last of their jerked beef from his saddle pack.

  Free nodded and removed the water bladder from around his saddle. “I’m getting accustomed to these dry camps anyhow,” he said.

  After a small portion of meat and water, Free lay back against his saddle and under the shadow of Guadalupe Peak wondered what sunrise would bring.

  The December sun rose in a fiery ball of red. Great streaks of daybreak raced from the horizon and chased the morning chill westward. Free woke to loud barking. The Kiowa dog raced from up the mountainside and into camp growling and yipping with puppy-like exuberance.

  “What’s he so happy about?” Parks woke and leered at the dog from beneath the brim of his hat.

  “I think he wants us up.”

  The dog ran full bore to Free’s side, licked his face several times, and then ran toward the mustangs.

  “Dog!” Free admonished the animal with a stern voice. “Quit it!”

  Unheeding, the dog ran circles around the ponies and then raced up the trailhead. Several yards up the trail, he turned, barked loudly at both men and then rushed toward the peak.

  “I guess we best get up; he’s not likely to let us rest any longer.” Free stood, looked at the morning sun and then arched his back. “Man, am I feeling old.”

  Parks leaned forward from his saddle and rocked his neck back and forth. “We’re getting soft, Free. Too much sleeping on feather mattresses lately, I reckon.”

  Free pulled his saddle from the ground and walked toward Spirit, “It doesn’t take long to get used to the comforts of life, that’s for sure.”

  The men rode up the mountain trail toward Guadalupe Peak. The dog’s interminable barking served as both roadmap and aggravation to the two.

  “What do you think he’s got now?” Parks asked.

  “I don’t know. But that constant yapping would make a preacher take up cussing.”

  Parks looked over to his friend. “Well, his barking doesn’t carry the concern as before. You figure if he had found the Apache band, there would be a whole lot of growling coming out of him.”

  At the crest of the next rise, the dog came into view. He charged full bore at a dead horse sprawled on a mound of limestone. Two arrows protruded from the mustang’s neck. In almost play-like fashion, the dog emitted a low rumbling sound at the dead beast and barred his teeth to show his dis plea sure. Free and Parks rode close to the dog and dismounted.

  Free stared at the dead animal and then turned back to Parks. “What does this mean?”

  Parks pushed his hat back and exhaled slowly.

  “What is it, Parks?”

  “It means there’s an Apache brave buried under that horse.”

  “That’s why they traveled up the mountain?”

  “This is a sacred place. I reckon they figured it best to bury him here. But this dead Apache may present a mess of difficulty in getting Clara back.”

  “What?” Free jerked his head toward Parks. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that band can’t return to the village victorious now. And those scalps they took are now worthless.”

  Free shrugged. “I still don’t understand what that has to do with getting Clara back?”

  Parks pulled his hat back down and bit on his lower lip. “These braves have to capture as many hostages as possible on their way back to the winter camp. It’s the only way they can make amends for losing a warrior.”

  Free grimaced, “And they aim to keep all their hostages as Apache?”

  “The dead brave’s mother will demand a new son from the leader of this raid and the rest of the hostages will be kept as slaves or sold to border traders.”

  Free dropped to one knee and removed his hat. “Like those two at Agua de Mesteño?” He rubbed his brow.

  “The very same. Polk told me those two were Comanchero, but I’ll bet they traded with all the tribes.” Parks turned and looked west. “I figure the band that has Clara must winter to the south near the Rio Grande. That country is full of broken mountain range.”

  Free gazed out toward Mexico, “What do we need to do to get Clara back? She’s carrying a child, Parks and who knows what hardships she’ll endure in an Apache winter camp.”

  Parks placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’re going to have to trust me, Free.”

  Free looked up, “You know I’ll always do that. What do we need to do?” He repeated, anguished.

  “First, we need to drop this trail and ride down to the prairie. Next, we need to round-up a Mesteño herd as quickly as possible.”

  “Wild mustangs?” Free asked, concerned. “Why?”

  “We’re going to do some bartering with our Apache friends, but if we aim to keep our scalps we best not ride into their camp empty-handed.”

  Chapter 26

  The Apache Winter Camp, Texas January 1869

  Near a long, sweeping bend of the Rio Bravo, the Apache raiders crossed back into Texas. Clara, asleep against Delshay’s back, was startled awake by a great splashing of water and the thunderous clatter of hooves on river rock. She had endured eight long days tied to Delshay as the raiding party navigated the torturous Mexican desert. From her short time with the Apache, Clara had
come to realize that they could survive in a land where most other men would perish.

  Ahead of her, the captured children, slung over their captors’ ponies like killed deer, lifted their heads as high as possible to avoid drowning. The Apache had raided several villages en route to the winter campground and the captured children now numbered seven, two boys and five girls. The Apache hobbled the children at night, and the only food given them during the long journey was the stomach milk of a rustled calf. Clara noticed that the seven children were very young, not one appeared to be over the age of eight. She figured the Apache knew that young children adapted easier to a captive’s life. A small tear dotted the corner of her eye as she tried to imagine what fate lay ahead for her, her child, and the seven captured children.

  The Apache, vigorously pursued by Mexican bounty hunters and the feared Tejanos, hid their winter camp in an offshoot canyon deep inside Cañon de Sierra Carmel. Sheer limestone walls protected the village on three sides, and lookouts posted along the cliffs could scan the mountainous landscape for miles in all directions. By the time Chan-deisi and his warriors forded the shallow waters of the great river, all of the Apache camp, alerted to their return, waited for the whoops and cries that signaled a successful raiding party.

  Clara peered over Delshay’s shoulder at the spectacle of the Apache winter camp. Fifty tepees were scattered against the back of the canyon with all of their openings facing southeast. Racks of thinly sliced meat dried in the warm January sun and several clay pots cooked in a communal fire pit.

  As was the custom when a warrior died in battle, the raiding party approached in solemn quiet. Several of the squaws who recognized the meaning of the silence, broke from the assembled band and ran toward Chan-deisi. The squaws beat their breasts and shouted loudly at the sky. Clara wrapped her hands tighter around Delshay, alarmed at the reception. The angry mob circled them, and began to pull the now terror-stricken children from the mustangs.

  The oldest of the squaws ran to the left side of Chan-deisi’s mustang. She pounded her fists on Chan-deisi’s leggings and cursed him in an earsplitting wail. Chan-deisi dismounted and tossed his right hand skyward. He walked toward the men of the band, all the while suffering the abuse and curses from the old squaw.

  At Chan-deisi’s signal, Delshay cut Clara’s bindings and then leapt from his pony. He looked up at her and held his finger to his lips, “Gunjule,” he said and then trudged solemnly through the howls of the Apache women. He stopped one of the women who held her head bowed to her chest and pointed in great animation toward his pony. The woman nodded, moved past the other squaws and approached the mustang.

  Clara, free of Delshay, sat motionless, unsure of what to do next. She rubbed her wrists and watched as Chan-deisi and Delshay moved past the squaws and then disappeared into a large tepee decorated with many bison hides.

  “You come down.”

  Clara glanced down at a young squaw. “You speak English?” she asked, amazed.

  The squaw grabbed Clara’s wrist and yanked her from the pony to the ground, “You do as I say. You will be OK.” She nodded toward the squaws, “They only take the children.”

  Clara rose and stared intently at the figure before her. Even with a sun-bronzed face, this most certainly was a white woman.

  “Who are you?”

  “Follow,” the young squaw lowered her head once more and ushered Clara away from the building chaos; “the children will be OK.”

  Clara turned back and looked on horrified. The older squaws held each child by the ear, dragging them toward a gauntlet of young squaws and Apache children. “What are they doing!” she cried.

  “Shhh.” The white squaw cautioned. “Gode.”

  “I don’t understand,” Clara said, frantic.

  The white squaw grabbed Clara’s hand and led her to a tepee near the creek. “The dream spirit,” she replied, “A brave from the raiding party has been killed. The dream spirit lives in the bodies of children. The gode must be driven from the children so the camp will not be cursed.”

  “But, that’s crazy!” Clara objected.

  “Not crazy. It is our way. The children will be good.” The squaw looked about and then quickly pushed Clara into the tepee.

  Clara knelt on one of several bison hides that covered the floor.

  “I am called Dayden,” the white squaw said, “Delshay’s wife.”

  “You’re white.”

  “I was white. A long time ago, before the Apache. But no one from my people came to claim me. So now I am Apache.”

  Clara leaned forward and grasped Dayden’s hand, “Can you help me?” she asked.

  Dayden patted Clara’s hand gently, “I can help you to live but not to escape.”

  “I have a child inside,” Clara said, desperate.

  “I know,” Dayden smiled, “Delshay spoke of this. He is wise and knows such things. He wishes it a boy.”

  Clara leaned back, confused. “He wishes?”

  “Yes, you are very strong, for Delshay to take you as a wife.”

  “His wife?” The words whirled through Clara’s head. “His wife,” she stated, wearily. A sudden heaviness descended on her shoulders and a rush of emotion forced her to sob uncontrollably.

  Dayden held Clara’s shoulders and softly rocked her back and forth. “It is the baby,” she whispered in Clara’s ear; “he is happy and sends you tears as his sign.”

  Clara hugged Dayden and exhaled softly, “Yes, it is the baby’s sign.” She wiped her eyes and steeled her mind for what might follow. If Delshay thought she was strong, she must stay strong. Averse as the thought was of becoming an Apache wife, she realized it might be the only way to protect her and the baby until Free came for them. “And the children?” she pointed outside the tepee flap, “what about them?”

  Dayden smiled, “The children will be good.”

  Clara smiled but turned away from the flap, unable to listen to the cries of the seven captured children.

  Chapter 27

  The Comancheria, Texas January 1869

  Free, Parks and the Kiowa dog lay on their stomachs behind the cover of a three-foot dirt mound adorned in yucca. The prairie hump was the highest point for miles on the flat land of the southwestern Comancheria. Parks trained field glasses on a herd of twenty mustangs that grazed two hundred yards upwind. The herd browsed in a tight circle eating on dried prairie grasses and mesquite brush.

  “Mesteño,” Parks grinned, “that browse would kill a cavalry horse.”

  “How many do you figure we need to capture in order to barter with the Apache?” Free asked, anxiously. They had trailed this herd for over a week since leaving the Guadalupes, and he was frantic with concern about Clara.

  “I reckon we best take them all.” Parks rolled over on his back and lifted the tobacco pouch from beneath his shirt. “We can’t afford to ride into an Apache camp and be short. We’re going to need every one of those ponies.”

  Free glanced at the grazing herd and then looked at Parks. “That might take weeks.”

  “More likely, a month.” Parks pushed the chaw into his jaw, “In this country, it will take some doing just to get close to them.”

  Free returned his gaze to the prairie and then rolled over on his back. “It’s flat for a long ways, that’s for sure.”

  Parks stared up at the cloudless sky quiet and lost in his thoughts. “We’ve got the two fastest ponies on the prairie, Free. I know we could swoop down on that herd and rope a couple of mares, but the others would scatter, and we’d waste another two weeks trying to get them back together.”

  Free reached inside his shirt and removed his tobacco pouch. “Are you certain this is the best way to get Clara back?” he asked.

  Parks twisted to his side and looked at Free. “Afraid so. The Apache take captives for only two reasons; one is to replace a lost tribe member and the other is for trade. If we hold good mustangs, like those out there, we ought to be able to trade for Clara.”


  Free dipped into the pouch and pulled out a plug of tobacco. “We best work out a plan then, because I can’t bear to have Clara a captive any longer than need be.”

  Parks sat up and took a long hard look at the mustang herd. He untied the bandana from around his neck, mopped at his forehead, and then announced, “What we need is a Judas goat.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, a goat used to lead the rest of the herd to slaughter.”

  Free winced, “Those aren’t goats out there.”

  “No, but a mustang follows a herd just the same.”

  “And where would you propose we find a Judas goat in the middle of the Comanche prairie?”

  Parks gazed over at Horse and chewed at his lip, “You’re looking at him,” he grinned.

  “Horse?”

  Parks got to his feet and strolled over to the mustang. He uncinched the girth belt and removed the saddle from Horse’s back. “I’m going to let Horse see if he can get close to the lead mare.”

  Free pushed his hat back and scratched his head. “You’re going to do what?” he asked, confused.

  Parks gently rubbed the inside of Horse’s left ear. The mustang relaxed his body and stood perfectly still, thoroughly enjoying the massage. “Most folks think the dominant stallion leads a wild herd, but it’s not always that way. Look down at that bunch. The dominant male is on the outside of the herd circle.”

  “Isn’t that where he needs to be to defend his herd?”

  Parks removed his finger and patted Horse’s neck, “Yes, but that doesn’t give him dominance. The herd leader is inside the circle. Males and low positioned females stay on the herd’s edge. If there’s trouble, they get to face it first.” Parks stroked the bridge of Horse’s nose. “We’re going to see if Horse can entice that dominant female to run with him.”