by Mike Kearby
“Now step down, or I’ll shoot you off that horse like a dog!”
Free was angry for allowing himself to be in such a situation, but he knew there was nothing to do but dismount Comida. He hoped it wasn’t the last thing he ever did.
Wishing he had never stopped at this place, Free faced the mouth of the canyon at the instruction of the lone rider left atop the gully’s rim. The remaining five were making their way down the funnel. A smirking Jubal Thompson held the lead.
Unsure as to his best course, he spied Mr. Goodnight’s Henry set in his saddle ring. He might have chance against the five riders with the gun. The fallen oak would certainly provide enough cover. Free moved quickly, grabbing Comida’s reins and turning the horse’s body between him and the approaching riders. He reached for the Henry, pulling it halfway from the saddle ring when the dirt near his boots dusted up, followed by the echo of a rifle shot.
“Leave that Henry in the ring, Sergeant!”
Free released the rifle at the sound of a shell being ejected and raised his hands to the sky. He turned and saw the sixth rider’s rifle aimed at his chest.
“That wasn’t too smart,” Jubal said.
He stood in silence as the five circled him, enclosing him in a wall.Ashiver of fear crept up his backbone and caused his shoulders to quiver ever so slightly. He had experienced the same shiver before every battle during his war years. The one thing he knew from those years was that a man bundled in fear did not make rational decisions. He breathed deep, hoping to relax his tension, but the sight of five white men surrounding him in the middle of the Comancheria did little for his anxiety.
Jubal Thompson sat directly to his front, leaning on his saddle horn and staring down at him. Free could see a smug look of satisfaction beaming from his face.
“Sergeant, is that guilt I see set on your face?”
Free kept his focus straight ahead, refusing to look Jubal in the eye. He figured he didn’t need to anger these men any further.
“Well boys, it appears that for once, Sergeant Anderson has lost his voice. Too bad he didn’t lose it that evening at Boca Chica.”
Free shot a glance toward Jubal. The realization that it didn’t matter if he spoke or kept quiet came over him. Whatever he said or did not say carried no weight. These men aimed to do him harm either way. He could feel the anger rising inside of him. “No, I can speak, Sheriff.”
“By your tone, I figure you haven’t learned your lesson. It seems a colored in your situation might learn to be a bit more respectful of a white man.”
Free felt the heat of anger warming his chest and face. “I’m a freedman, Jubal. Don’t mistake that!”
“That’s mighty big talk for a cattle thief accused of selling stolen beeves to the Indians.”
“You know that’s a lie!” Free shouted. He eyed the men around him, trying to calculate the odds of reaching his pistol lying on the ground beneath his feet.
“I see that look, Sergeant. I would forget about that pistol of yours. You’ll be shot to pieces before you can even thumb the hammer. But by all means, let her fly if you think the best of it.”
Free knew the chances of getting off even one shot were slim. But now he reckoned that if Jubal wanted him dead today, they would have shot him from the ledge. In his mind that bought some time for thinking. “You have no proof for any of your trumped up charges, Jubal.”
“I don’t know, Sergeant, what’s a runaway slave doing in the middle of the Comanche range by himself? It would appear he’s here to meet with the savages. By the way, my man up top there has a string of stolen cattle we supposedly took off of you. I think we might have plenty of needed proof.”
Free kept his gaze forward and his eyes emotionless. He cursed to himself as the sheriff’s laugh echoed throughout the arroyo. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the rider closest to him stepped down from his horse. The man stood at least six foot four and appeared to be the lead rider. The tall rider reached down and picked up the discarded pistol from the ground.
“Johnny,” he heard Jubal speak to the man. “Get him on his horse and tie his hands to the saddle.”
From above, the sixth rider called out.
“Jubal! Kiowa are heading down stream!”
Chapter 12
The Kiowa Arroyo, Texas 1868
Free worked to pull his hands free of the rawhide string binding him to his saddle. The man called Johnny held a rope around Comida’s neck leading the animal off the canyon floor.
Outside of the gulch, ten Kiowa warriors sat on multi-colored ponies. Free looked on in wonder as Jubal rode out toward the warriors. He carried both hands palm up as he greeted the Kiowa.
He remembered Mr. Goodnight telling stories about the Kiowa and how the Comanche and the Kiowa had been fierce enemies for centuries, fighting over the buffalo ranges. But as more whites moved West, the tribes had joined together in the common cause of raiding settlers, stealing horses and taking lives. The fact that ten Kiowa braves sat talking to Jubal had him stumped as to the reason.
They spoke for several minutes, and then Jubal pointed to his right. Free followed his motion and watched as the sixth rider pushed the twenty or so longhorns toward the Kiowa.
He noticed the Kiowa leader motion across his chest and then push his right hand toward Jubal, mimicking the lever action of a repeating rifle. Their dealings apparently completed, the warriors moved the cattle toward the riverbed and quietly disappeared into the land.
Confused, Free took note as Jubal turned and shot a gaze his way.
“Well, Sergeant, there’s our proof. It looks like to me and my deputies that we just caught you selling stolen cattle to the savages.”
Free looked around at the outfit, their faces all gleamed with laughter. If he was going to survive any of this, he had better learn as much as possible about Jubal’s dealings with the Kiowa. “Nobody’s going to believe I rustled twenty head by myself, rode into the Comancheria alone, and sold them to Kiowa braves.” He looked at the deputies and hoped he had planted some doubt in their heads. If so, he might get Jubal to explain more of his plan.
“Don’t listen to this ex-slave, boys.” A streak of blackness flashed in Jubal’s eye. “I’ll bet that other ex-slave, Bose Ikard, is in on it with him. I’ll bet you they’re both dealing with the savages. Hell, the whole trail drive outfit may be working with him.”
And that was it. Free knew if he pushed any further, he could bring Mr. Goodnight, Bose, and the rest of the drivers down with him. Jubal had put a spoke in the wheel, and he knew there was no one left to help.
“Now, you might think about hobbling that lip of yours, Sergeant, or you’ll be riding shank’s mare back to the Flats.
Free stared through crusted eyes as he plodded behind the six riders into The Flats. His tongue felt swollen, and blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. Small black gnats tormented his battered lips and eyes, continually swarming his face. With his hands tied to the saddle horn, there was little he could do for relief but shake his head, momen- tarily disrupting the pests. For the past two days, he had existed on several pulls of water from his canteen. Jubal had given him just enough water to keep him alive for the journey into town.
His body ached with a dull pain that throbbed with every beat of his heart. And for each step Co-mida took on the rough, uneven land, a shot of lightning struck his temple. Before leaving the arroyo, the man Jubal called Johnny had used a leather strap tied with tiny slivers of flint to soften him up. “Keep you fromhaving any stupid thoughts on your way to the jail house,” he remembered the man telling him. As they approached The Flats, his shirt was little more than shredded cloth.
As Comida trudged through the street, Free noticed a girl standing to his left. He leaned over, squinting at the figure. He wanted to tell her he was innocent. That he had been framed. But the girl simply stared at him as the riders passed. Leaning back, he kept his stare on the figure, certain he had seen sadness in her eyes.
&nbs
p; Somewhere far off, he heard a voice asking for water.
“Johnny, shut him up!”
Free felt the sting of a rawhide string wrap around his neck. “Shut-up, Sergeant! You want to make the town’s people think we’re curly wolves!”
Free felt tears well up in his eyes, and a hopelessness he had never experienced before settled over him. As a lone tear dropped to his cheek, he realized the sheriff was parading him through town as a whipped dog. Jubal wanted everyone to see the ex-slave crying like a baby on his way to jail.
Furious and determined to remove the cloud of doubt entrenched in his mind, he closed his eyes and conjured up memories locked deep in his head. Rising to his consciousness, he saw the painful vision of his father falling in the field, the pitiful sight of his mother toiling alone in Missouri, and the horrific sight of soldiers dying at Boca Chica. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Licking the liquid with his tongue, he realized he had bitten a hole in his lip. Pushing his back straight, he willed himself to ride tall. Act like a freedman, he reminded himself, and staring ahead to his captors, he muttered, “We’ll see who ends up dead.”
Chapter 13
The Flats, Texas 1868
The Flats’ jail cell was stark, located outdoors and giving the prisoners little protection from the West Texas heat, blowing sand and the at-times relentless humiliation of the town’s people. The stand-alone stone cell was six feet tall and six foot square. Small vertical slits in the rock allowed for light and air. The door, made from a latticework of iron, used a Hobbs lock to keep the prisoners secure.
Jubal had made it plain to all that he did not want to see or smell the drunks, coloreds, and Indians who would occupy his jail.
As Jubal and the riders approached the far end of town, he noticed Deputy Von Riggins standing outside the jail.
“Howdy, Sheriff.” Von called out.
Jubal acknowledged the deputy with a nod of his head. “Get out here and help us!” he yelled as he stepped down from his horse. He allowed the deputy to pass him before he walked toward the west side of the buildingwhere the cellwas located.
“Where’d he come from?” Jubal yelled out to his deputy. He was looking at a large, passed out individual. The man wore a buffalo scalp on his head, complete with a full set of horns.
“He’s a buffalo hunter, Jubal.” The deputy shot back. “Came into town last night shooting up the place with a shotgun.”
“Well, get him out of here before I shoot the two of you!” Jubal watched in anger as the deputy ran back from the dirt street.
“I thought I was supposed to help the riders?” Von mumbled.
“You’re supposed to do what I tell you!” Jubal kicked at the drunk. “Is Judge Freemont still at the Fort?” He looked on as two of his riders dragged Free into the outdoor cell and dumped his body on the only item in the cage, a stained mattress set on the dirt. The mattress carried the signature of all the drunks who had lain there in preceding days. Even outdoors and with the accompanying West Texas wind, the cell smelled rank and stifling. “One of you get some water from the horse trough and put it in there with him. I don’t want him dying on me before I hang him.” He turned his attention back to his deputy, watching as Von deposited the buffalo hunter half into the street and half onto the boardwalk.
“I think he’s set to leave today, Jubal. I believe he said he was heading out to Weatherford to hold court.”
Jubal looked at Free, passed out in a heap. “At least he won’t be any trouble for the rest of the day.” He rubbed his neck and looked back to Von. “Get over to the Fort and tell him he’s not to leave today. I have a case that needs trying, and it won’t wait for the next circuit. I need to see him today.”
“But, Jubal,” The deputy appeared anxious. “The judge ain’t gonna like that.”
“Just tell him what I said!” Jubal set a hard gaze on the deputy. “Tell him now!” His steel eyes bore through the deputy. He kept his stare until Von turned and ran down the boardwalk toward Fort Griffin. “And the rest of you,” Jubal looked to his riders, “we’ve still got work to do. Johnny, you come with me. And you five,” He gestured at the others. “Get yourselves some grub over at the Jenkins House. Tell the old man to put it on the town’s tab and have him send two plates over to the sheriff’s office with plenty of coffee.”
Jubal motioned for Johnny to follow and started walking to the front of the jail, still speaking to the five as he walked off. “And boys, get your fill, because as soon as Johnny and I are done, you’re heading out again.”
Inside his office, he slammed the jail keys on his desk and walked around to his chair. The room was a small ten by twenty rectangle with canvas lining the walls. “We’ve got to move those cattle to New Mexico by the end of the week,” he said to Johnny. “Everything has come off real grand for us, but I don’t like tempting fate. We’ve been lucky to hold the Kiowa off with the promise of repeaters, but they’ll come to their senses before too long.” He reached into a side drawer on his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “They’re holding over a thousand head of ours, and I’m getting a touch uneasy about that.”
“Those cattle would already be in New Mex if we hadn’t spent the last two weeks chasing down that sergeant of yours,” Johnny said.
Jubal felt a spark of anger in his chest. “That sergeant of mine, as you call him, is our alibi! And the sooner I get Judge Freemont to try him, the sooner he’ll hang! And when he does hang, we won’t need to be looking over our shoulders worrying if we’re all going to be found out! Now does that make sense to your feeble little mind? Or do I need to ex plain it some more? Don’t you worry about that sergeant of mine! You’ve got one job and only one job! You worry about getting those cattle to New Mexico and getting our money!”
“Aw right, Jubal. Just calm down. I understand. But we’ve been riding for almost two weeks. The boys and I could all use a bath and a shave.”
Jubal rose, turned, and kicked his chair away from him, slamming it into the wall behind him. “I don’t give a continental what you and the boys want!” He let his hand drop slowly to the butt of his Colt. “Those cattle are going to bemoved this week!”
He made a mental note of Johnny’s reluctance to do as told. “If you want to make the decisions, Johnny, you know what to do!” Jubal threw a glance toward Johnny’s holster. “But I hope you understand I’m not some tied-up runaway slave before you skin that leather!”
“Simmer down, Jubal. I’m not challenging you. But me and the boys aren’t slaves either. You best remember that.We’ve got our breaking points too.”
Jubal reached behind and pulled his chair back under him. He looked at the man sitting across from him and gave thought to shooting him on the spot. But he knew he needed six men to help deal with the Kiowa. It would take every one of them to kill T`on-syan and his warriors and then move the cattle to New Mexico. But most of all, he needed all six to take the fall for the thousand head of rustled cattle. The six would all be dead before they returned to The Flats. The thought drew a smile to his face. “You’re right, Johnny,” He pushed the bottle across his desk. “Take a drink. When we’ve eaten, you and the boys can clean up and let off some steam. But you need to be out of here by sunup tomorrow.”
He watched as Johnny reached for the bottle, his face all grin. “Thanks, Jubal, we’ll get this done for you.”
The Sheriff nodded and then added. “One more thing, I need for you to bring back one hide from those cattle we left with the Kiowa yesterday. Make sure you have enough hide to show the brand. That’s our evidence against the sergeant outside. If I know T`on-syan, he’s already butchered at least one of those steers.”
“Maybe all of them. T’on-syan and his bunch are lucky the Comanche haven’t killed themall by now.”
“Well, that’s worked in our favor for sure. It’s a good thing the Comanche don’t have an interest in the staked plains just yet.” Jubal rose and crossed to the front of his desk. He mot
ioned for the bottle and took a big drink. “Because if they did, T`on-syan and his renegades would all be dead by now. I don’t think the Comanche take kindly to Indians working with whites.”
“What do I tell T`on-syan when he wants to see their rifles?”
Jubal rocked back in his chair. He held the whiskey bottle tight to his chest and seemed momentarily lost in thought. “You open up on them, Johnny. You kill every one of them. Understood?” He took another pull from the bottle and handed it back to the cowboy.
“Understood.”
A knock brought Jubal’s attention back toward the jailhouse door. “Food’s here. Let her in.”
From the open door, a young colored girl en tered the room. Head down, she scurried over to Jubal’s desk, placing a wicker basket on top. “Clara,” He spoke with little respect. “What are we eating today?”
“Mr. Jenkins sent beef steak, beans, and biscuits.”
Jubal watched as she set two tin plates of food on the desk. “And how about our coffee?”
“Oh yes, Sheriff, I have coffee too.” She lifted a silver pot from the basket with two tin cups tied by string to the handle.” Can I get you anything else, Sheriff?”
That’ll do right now, Clara. You best get back to the hotel. But you be here first thing tomorrow morning to get my wash. Understood?”
“Yes sir. I’ll be here first thing.”
Jubal watched the young girl leave, and then he and Johnny began digging into their plates.
After filling his belly, Jubal looked toward Johnny. “Now remember,when you boys get toNewMexico with the cattle, the Mexicans don’t get so much as a look at them until you see the money.”
“I know what to do, Jubal. You’ve told me a hundred times already.”
“And I’ll tell you a hundred more times if need be. I don’t want any of you boys missing your cut of the loot because a Mexican put a .44 in your gut.” Jubal untied the cups from the coffee pot handle and poured them both full. He pushed one cup of the black liquid toward Johnny and drank from the other himself. “They will try to ambush you for the cattle. Just be certain you understand that.”
