Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  “I need solid guns with me,” Carson said. “Most fellows aint worth spit. Major Grier is rounding up some of his men and they won’t be ready until the morning and most of those army fellows aren’t the best shots.”

  “Your friend is not worth much right now,” Josefa argued.

  “He will be,” Carson said as he took the pot from her and poured a large mug of coffee. “Drink, Elijah.”

  Early November and Taos’ altitude brought cold at first light. Cord felt like hell had doubled down a load of pain on him. His head was pounding, his throat was parched and his hands were shaking. His horse looked like a pretty tall obstacle as he considered mounting.

  “We need to get going.” Carson’s horse was fidgeting, sensing the rider’s urgency.

  Cord sighed, stuck a foot in the stirrup and swung himself on board. “I’m riding.”

  Carson didn’t wait. He set out at a gallop and Cord followed, every movement misery. They caught up with the patrol of dragoons under Major Grier on the outskirts of Taos. Grier spared Cord a disgusted look. He was class of ’35 and had been the Assistant Instructor of Infantry and Cavalry Tactics during Cord’s plebe year. As par for his cadet career, Cord had been the Immortal in Grier’s class, which had not been forgotten. Cord’s more recent activities in New Mexico, consisting mainly of drinking, whoring, and fighting, interspersed with semi-sobering up long enough to take scouting or hunting jobs to get the money to go back to those activities didn’t endear him to his fellow Academy graduate either. The only reason Grier was taking Cord as a scout was because if he didn’t, Carson wouldn’t go and the mountain man was a legend on the frontier.

  Cord settled into a cocoon of misery, keeping Carson, Major Grier and the contingent of soldiers in sight as he followed. He had no idea what direction they were heading or what exactly they were doing. Something to do with Apaches and an attack.

  It took him five days before his head was somewhat clear, but his hands still shook.

  They found the site of the attack on the afternoon of that day. Six dead. Stripped naked, their bodies bloated in the sun and partially eaten by carrion. Soldiers set to work burying the dead.

  “All men,” Carson said. “They took the women. Supposed to be three. A Mrs. White, her daughter and a negro servant.”

  “What do you suggest?” Major Grier asked.

  “We track them until we find them,” Carson said, treating the question as ignorantly as it had been asked. He looked over at Cord. “You good?”

  Cord tapped the Lancaster resting across his pommel. “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s ride.”

  It took twelve more days, east across New Mexico, to track down the Apaches. It was rough country, but the Apache trail wasn’t hard to follow, given there appeared to be about a hundred of them.

  Finally, near Tucumcari, just forty miles west of the Texas border, the gap began closing quickly. The Apaches were moving along the bank of the Canadian River and the signs were getting fresher.

  “We’ll hit their camp soon,” Carson warned Major Grier as they rode along the south bank of the river. “I recommend we sent a small scouting party ahead.”

  Grier vetoed that, believing there was strength in numbers, so they continued on, Carson and Cord in the lead, along with Grier and his adjutant, the main body of dragoons just behind.

  “Do you think the women are still alive?” Grier asked.

  “We haven’t tripped over any more bodies,” Carson said. “And there’s sign here and there they got women with them. But you never know with these folk. They’re--” he looked to Cord. “What’s the words I’m looking for?”

  “Unpredictable,” Cord said.

  “I assume the savages have taken advantage of the poor creatures,” Grier said.

  Carson shrugged. “Once someone been took a few weeks, they start losing the will to escape. They just focus on surviving. They survive a few more months, they start forgetting there any other life.”

  They came around a bend in the river and immediately halted as the Apache camp appeared less than two hundred yards ahead.

  Carson twisted in his saddle and signaled for the rest of the men, strung out over a quarter mile to hurry up. “We need to hit them hard and fast,” he advised Grier.

  “I think we should try to parlay with them,” Grier said. “If we go in shooting, there’s a good chance the captives will get killed.”

  “We go in talking, there’s a good chance they’ll get killed too,” Carson said.

  “I’m in command,” Grier said. “I’ll take a detachment forward under a white flag—“

  “Sir!” Carson had no patience. “This is gonna to go to hell quick. They already killed white people. There aint no parlaying now. We’ve got to charge.”

  “Sir,” Cord said, “he’s right.”

  “Shut up you drunk,” Grier said, the command decision weighing heavy on him. The decision was taken away as Carson had predicted. An Apache on the outskirts of camp saw the riders and raised the alert. The camp became a beehive of activity, Apaches scattering in all directions.

  “Get the women,” Carson yelled to Cord.

  The two scouts galloped forward. Behind them Grier bowed to the inescapable and ordered his trumpeter to sound the charge.

  Cord raced toward the camp, leaning in the saddle to make as small a target as possible. A few braves were putting up a defense, but most were escaping. Cord saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and spotted a white woman running desperately toward the river. Behind her, a brave was drawing back on his bow. Carson jerked on the reins and snapped the Lancaster to his shoulder. He squinted down the barrel, but his hands weren’t steady. He took a breath, tried to steady once more and fired.

  He missed.

  The brave let loose and the arrow slammed into Mrs. White’s back. She dropped like a stone. The brave turned and ran.

  Cord lowered his rifle as the dragoons came charging by. He lay the gun across his pommel and stared at the tremor in his hands. Then he reached into his saddlebag and retrieved his flask. He drained the entire thing in one long gulp.

  There was no sign of the daughter or servant. Whether they’d been carried off or never made it here, there was no way of knowing. There were so many small trails now going in so many directions, it would be impossible to know which to follow.

  Cord sat alone, not far from where a couple of soldiers were digging a hole in which to bury Mrs. White. The arrow had gone straight through her heart, killing her instantly. Grier was going through the goods that had been abandoned in the haste to abandon the camp. He was furious at Carson, believing if they had used a white flag the bloodshed could have been averted.

  “You doing all right, Elijah?” Carson asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “What happened?” Carson asked. “We got split up in the charge.” He frowned. “You drinking?”

  “I-“ Cord began, but Grier came stomping over, holding something in his hands.

  “Found this in her satchel.” He held a well-thumbed pulp novel. He extended it to Carson. “Ever seen it?”

  “Yeah, I seen it,” Carson said, not bothering to take the book.

  Grier read from the cover. “’Kit Carson: The Prince of the Gold Hunters’ is what it says. You’re a giant of a man. A hero. Been everywhere, done everything yourself.” He perused the insert. “Says here in this story the frontier hero Kit Carson vows to some woman’s parents that he will track down and save their daughter, no matter how long it takes.”

  Grier tossed the book to the ground. He pointed at it. “The myth.” Then he pointed at Mrs. White. “The real Kit Carson. She must have been reading that, thinking the real deal would be coming for her. Well, you came. Didn’t work out, did it?”

  Carson was crest-fallen, staring at the book as if it were a rattlesnake. “I very much regret Mrs. White’s death.”

  “It isn’t his fault,” Cord said.

  Grier spit. “A fraud and a drunk. W
hat a pair.” He walked away.

  Carson went over to the grave. Cord joined him. They helped lower her body in, then the two scouts began shoveling dirt, covering her. When they were done, Carson stood at the foot of the mound of dirt, silent and troubled.

  “It’s my fault,” Cord said. “I had a clear shot at the brave who fired the arrow. I missed. He didn’t.”

  Carson turned his head. “You missed?”

  Cord held out his hands. The tremor was noticeable. “I killed that woman.”

  Carson sighed. “You didn’t save her, but you didn’t kill her. The Apache done that.” He faced Cord. “You need help, Elijah.”

  The Paiute Village was nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Snow had fallen the previous day and blanketed everything. Cord swayed drunkenly on the trail leading to the winter encampment, Carson at his side. The mountain man took the flask from Cord’s hand.

  “You go in with nothing,” Carson said. “No gun. No knife. No food. No clothes. You go in there like you came into the world.”

  “What’re you doing?” Cord slurred.

  Carson slid the sketching of Lidia and young Ben out of Cord’s breast pocket and put them in his own. Then he took the Lancaster and Bowie. Finally, he stripped Cord, who was unable to put up much of a defense given his inebriated condition. His pale skin was whiter than the snow.

  “She’s waiting for you,” Carson said.

  Cord blinked in confusion. “Who?”

  “Elijah, you got dealt some bad cards in life,” Carson said. “Can’t change them cards. But can change how you play them. Today’s the start.”

  Carson gave his friend a shove. Cord stumbled, fell to his knees in the snow. Staggered to his feet. He walked barefoot through the snow toward the village. As he got closer several Paiutes came out to see this curious phenomenon enter. In the center of the village, the old woman threw open the flap to her lodge. When Cord arrived, she reached out and placed her hand on the tattoo in the center of his chest and shook her head. She had a blanket in her other hand. The same blanket Cord had given her four years ago. She wrapped it around Cord’s shoulders and took into the lodge.

  VIOLET RUMBLE

  March, 1851, Palatine, Mississippi

  From her sitting room, Violet Rumble watched the plume of dust floating into the sky over the Natchez Road. A single rider coming on this early Spring day of 1851. She went over to the chest and poured herself a liberal dose of ‘medicine’. She downed it, pulled on her gloves, arranged her hat on top of her head, and then went downstairs to the front parlor, where she could watch the drive to the house. The rider appeared at the end of the drive as Seneca came into the hall and joined her.

  “Who is it?” Seneca asked.

  “Mayfield,” Violet said. “Natchez sheriff. Is your father on his porch?”

  Seneca shook his head. “No. He rode off this morning.”

  “Where?” Violet’s tone was sharper than she intended.

  “I don’t know, mother.”

  Violet went to the front door. She opened it, nodded at Samual who stood in the shadows to the right, and went to the top of the wide stairs as Sheriff Mayfield halted his horse at the end of the drive. A slave hurried up and took the reins, waiting with head downcast.

  “Finally decided to do your job, sheriff?” Violet asked as he dismounted.

  Mayfield was a small man, who compensated by carrying a big Colt revolver in a holster on his right hip. It slapped loudly against him as he walked to the base of the stairs. He had dark eyes that darted to and fro and rarely made eye contact. He owed his position to back room deals with the traders who ran Natchez and could get the vote out. The power elite of the plantations had ignored the position, considering it of no importance. To their own detriment.

  “I got important work, Miss Violet,” Mayfield said. “And the judge wasn’t keen to issue a warrant.”

  “But you do have the warrant based on the papers Miss Rosalie gave you?” Violet pressed. It bothered her that Rosalie wasn’t here, but at her family home, tending to business.

  Mayfield reached into his vest and pulled out a roll of heavy paper. “I got it all. The papers and the warrant.”

  “Then we must ride out to Shantytown,” Violet said. She gestured at Samual.

  “Aint necessary for you to come,” Mayfield said.

  “I believe it is,” Violet said.

  “What’s going on, Mother?” Seneca was dressed impeccably, as always, and his cane was in his right hand, as always.

  “The sheriff has a warrant for St. George for black-marketing cotton from Palatine and running guns south during the war,” Violet said.

  “At last!” Seneca exclaimed. “It took long enough to catch the rascal.”

  “He isn’t caught yet,” Violet said. “Get your horse.”

  Seneca strode off to the stables. In a few minutes Samual came back leading Violet’s old nag with Seneca riding beside him on his own horse. Samual helped her onto the sidesaddle and without a word she led the way down the track that led to the dark heart of Palatine. Seneca and Mayfield followed.

  Violet gestured for Seneca to ride up beside her. She leaned close to her son, hand gripping the pommel of sidesaddle. “Where did your father go?”

  “I have no idea,” Seneca said. “He can do things when he wants, mother. You know that.”

  Violet shook her head. She tugged a glove tighter over her hand, a surprising sign of nervousness. They rode through a thick patch of forest, a natural wall between Palatine House and Shantytown. Violet paused as she saw St. George standing at the base of knoll, arms folded across his burly chest, as if waiting for them. And Tiberius’s horse tethered on the side of the overseer cabin.

  “This might not be a good time, Sheriff,” Violet said.

  “I came all the way from Natchez,” Mayfield said. “You asked for this, you getting it.”

  “Afternoon sheriff.” St. George touched a finger to the brim of his hat in greeting. “Whatever can I do for you?”

  “Got me here a warrant for you, Mister Dyer,” Mayfield said, pulling the roll of documents out of his vest.

  St. George didn’t seem surprised. “Don’t you think the master of Palatine be told of this?”

  Mayfield nodded. “Probably.”

  St. George jerked a thumb at his cabin. “He up there. Let’s tell him.”

  Mayfield swung off his horse. Seneca dismounted and offered a hand to his mother. Violet’s face was white. “You have to stop these men,” she hissed to Seneca.

  “What are you talking about, Mother?”

  It was too late. St. George and Mayfield were already halfway up the knoll. Violet hurried to follow, a bewildered Seneca in her wake. He’d never seen his mother move as fast as she did now, feet flying underneath her hoop skirt. All four reached the cabin together and St. George threw the door open with a satisfied thrust of his arm.

  Tiberius Rumble, master of Palatine, lie on his back in St. George’s bed, buck naked, with an equally naked girl straddling him. The girl looked at the open door and the four people peering in as if they were of no consequence, not stopping her rocking motion or even slowing. Tiberius turned his head, blinking at the sudden light.

  “St. George! What the hell are you—“ Tiberius fell silent as he could finally make out the four. “Stop!” he ordered the girl, who ignored him. “Damn It!” Tiberius shoved the girl off and grabbed the blanket to cover himself.

  The girl tumbled to the floor, then slowly got to her feet, not trying to hide her nakedness at all. Her skin was as white as the man she had been riding, but her facial bone structure indicated negro to Violet and the others. And she was young, no more than thirteen or fourteen.

  “Father!” Seneca took a step into the room, but no further.

  Violet brushed past him and grabbed the girl’s smock, throwing it at her. “Get back to your hut.”

  “Oh, she aint from here,” St. George said, satisfaction oozing in his vo
ice. “Well, she from here, but not of here now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Seneca demanded.

  Sheriff Mayfield took a step to the side. He tapped a hand on the warrant and documents. “I aint sure this a good time to be doing this. Seems you got bigger problems here.”

  The girl held the smock in her hands when a woman’s voice pierced the air from the open door.

  “What in hell have you done to my daughter?” Sally Skull stood in the doorway, her large bulk filling it. She shoved her way past everyone to Gabriel and grabbed the smock, pulling it over the girl’s head. Then she turned to face the four as she jabbed a finger at Tiberius, who looked like a dying, pale fish grasping a blanket to his white haired chest. “He’s raped my daughter! You son-of-a-bitch.” She pulled her pistol and leveled it at Tiberius.

  “Easy now,” Mayfield said, without much conviction. His pistol was still in its holster. “Let’s settle this peaceful.”

  “Arrest him!” Skull insisted, her gun still pointed at Tiberius.

  Violet remained silent, watching the pieces move on the board and knowing she’d been outplayed long before arriving here.

  “I’m sure there be a peaceful way to work this out,” St. George said. “But you know,” he added slyly, “this worse than it look.”

  Violet stiffened, waiting for the final blow to fall. Tiberius was sitting up now, a befuddled look on his face. Seneca was frozen in confusion and shock. Not for the first time, Violet desperately missed Lucius.

  St. George reached into his black sash and pulled out a piece of paper. “This here bill of sale show that this here girl, she was sold to Miss Skull here. By me, on orders of Master Tiberius Rumble. And said girl’s mother be Mary. Her father, well,” St. George made a show of looking at the paper, “it not say.” He turned to Tiberius. “But we know who the father be, don’t we, sir?”

  Tiberius’ hands were shaking and his face paled.