by Mike Kearby
With a burst of energy, Free rose from the ground and with cat-like quickness crossed the distance between himself and the sheriff. With a fixed purpose, he pushed his Colt into the back of the shorter man. “Don’t move a muscle, Jubal, I’ve got you dead in my sights!”
Free kept a hard gaze on the two as the sheriff, still holding the rider by the neck, turned, his pistol pressed hard against the cowboy’s temple.
“You best drop that Colt, Sergeant, or your girlfriend here gets one in the head.”
Chapter 26
The Comancheria, Texas 1868
The sight of Clara gagged with a pistol to her head stopped Free dead in his tracks. Shocked, he dropped his gun hand slightly away from its target. In that instant, Jubal, a wide smirk crossing his face, plucked the Colt from his grip.
“Is that your best play, Sergeant?”
Free looked down to his empty hand, the realization of the moment jolting his senses. He looked up, casting a steel gaze into Jubal’s face.
“You harm her, and I swear you’ll pay!”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be barking out threats, Sergeant.”
Free cast a quick glance to Clara. Her eyes, opened wide, carried an unrestrained look of fear. Furious, he swung his gaze back to see Jubal call over his shoulder.
“You best drop your weapon too, Lieutenant! Or your friends are both up the flume!”
Staring past the sheriff, he blurted out. “Do as he says Parks! He’s got the drop on me, and he’s holding Clara!”
Within seconds, Parks walked toward him, hands pushed to the sky. Free knew they were soon to pay the consequence for underestimating the sheriff’s cunning.
“Get them all handcuffed! And tie their feet! I don’t aim to let anyone bushwhack me this go!” Jubal screamed.
Handcuffed, bound, and forgotten for the while, Free glanced down to Clara. She had worked the gag out, and her lips mouthed, I’m sorry. Waiting until Jubal turned away, Free whispered, “Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out of here.” Looking to the posse, he watched Jubal glance back and forth among the four men. Out of hearing distance, he nevertheless could tell the sheriff was worked up about something. After much pointing and stomping, the cowboys nodded, mounted their horses, and left the overhang, riding to the west. “Where do you reckon those fellas are headed?” Free asked, watching the cowboys take spurs to their horses.
“More than likely, they’re going to look for stolen cattle,” Parks answered.
As the cowboys disappeared past the horizon, Free looked to Parks. “He knows the cattle are gone. Why would he send them off?”
“I figure he wants to question us without anyone listening in.”
The posse gone, Jubal hurried over to the ponies tied in the cedars and rustled through each mustang’s saddle pack. Not finding what he was looking for, he untied the bedrolls, tossed each on the muddy ground and knelt beside them. After patting down every inch of cloth, Jubal swept the bedding aside and cursed in anger.
Free grinned, guessing the sheriff’s frustration might begin to work in their favor. “Looking for your money, Sheriff?”
“Be careful,” Parks uttered.
The sheriff gained his feet and rushed toward them, cursing as he came. Setting his jaw, Free prepared himself to withstand Jubal’s wrath.
“Where is it?” the sheriff screamed.
With cool composure, Free glanced down as Jubal grabbed his shirt, lifting him slightly off the ground. Unfazed, he raised his eyes and stared square into the sheriff’s face. “You want the money? You’re going to do it my way,” he said in a dark tone.
Jubal let go of his shirt, allowing him to fall back to the ground and sending a stab of pain through his backbone. Wincing, he nevertheless spoke with clear authority. “Don’t threaten Clara again, Sheriff, or you’ll never see the money.”
“I’ll’,” Jubal raised his hand in a striking position.
“You can’t scare us anymore, Jubal. You’re going to kill us all no matter what. So why should I die and give you the money?” Free watched the sheriff clench his jaw, knowing he had him thinking.
“I’ll let the girl go.”
“That’s right. She goes free, right now.”
“Not before I get the money!”
“It’s not going to happen that way, Jubal. She goes; then I tell you where the money is.”
“Howdo I knowyou’ll keep your end of the deal?”
“Because I want her alive more than I don’t want you to have the money. She leaves right now on my pony.” He nodded toward the Indian mustang.
Free held his breath as he and the sheriff stared hard at one another. He knew his ploy would work only if he showed no tell in his expression. After several minutes, he heard Jubal screech a string of curse words, then walk over to Clara.
“I’ll hunt her down again if you back out on me!”
Free looked over to Clara as Jubal cut the ropes around her feet. “Clara, you get on my horse, and you ride away. Don’t go back to The Flats. You head north, you hear?”
“But what about you and Mr. Parks? I can’t leave you here like this.”
“You just go while you can, Clara. You take my mustang and don’t stop until you’re far, far away. Go north!” He saw tears well in her eyes and run down her cheeks.
“Com’on!” he heard Jubal scream.
Fighting against the handcuffs in anger, he watched helplessly as Jubal grabbed Clara’s arm and pulled her toward his mustang. A grimace set on her face as she climbed into the saddle. “Just go, Clara. Head north.”
Exhausted on the inside, he kept his jaw taut, only satisfied after she disappeared into the distance of the Comancheria.
A stinging pop shook him away from Clara.
“Where’s the money, Sergeant?”
Free felt the sting of a welt rising on his cheek. “How did you know we had the money?”
“Truth be told, I didn’t know which of you would come out of this alive. But since you and your friend here were riding back east, I had to figure you disposed of The Riders and were coming back to clear your name. You needed the money to do that, Sergeant.”
“And you didn’t mind if your men died in the process?”
“They were cattle thieves. How was I supposed to know? Now, I know Clara is away, but if you don’t start talking about where my money is, I aim to begin working on your friend, and you won’t like watching what I do.”
“Look back to your north.” Free tossed his head toward the prairie. There’s a dead horse out there. Shot by Indians. Look under his neck and you’ll find a saddle pack. Your money’s in there.”
Free felt Jubal’s open hand softly pat his cheek.
“I knew you’d learn to respect me, Sergeant.”
Seething, Free watched the sheriff traverse the prairie toward the body of Comida.
“You know he’s going to drag us back to The Flats and hang us as quickly as he can,” Parks said.
“Just fuss,” Free replied. All his concentration, now was focused north into the Comancheria.
Chapter 27
The Comancheria, Texas 1868
With the rain stopped, the West Texas sun made its presence felt once more, saturating the air with a dripping heat. The hotness energized the prairie to life. A loud, frenzied hum filled the air, now swarming with hordes of mosquito and black gnats. The pests, looking to feed on or aggravate any willing prey, seemed particularly attracted to human sweat. Free shook his head wildly from side to side, trying to find some relief from the incessant blackness filling his eyes and ears. In the foreground, he could make out a blur of Jubal packing his horse with the rancher’s money.
“Little buggers are heck after a rain, aren’t they?” The Sheriff grinned.
“What happens now?” Free spoke with tight lips, trying to keep the bugs out of his mouth.
“I’ve got one more chore; then I’m hauling you and your partner back to The Flats. The preacher you requ
ested is waiting for you there.” Turning back to the horses, Jubal removed Parks’ Henry from the saddle ring and dropped the rifle into a leather holder hanging from his own saddle. With ease, he stepped up in the stirrup and plopped onto his horse. “You boys stay comfortable while I’m gone.”
Free watched Jubal turn his horse west and ride in the direction of the posse. Looking to Parks, he asked. “What’s he up to?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t thinkwith all these bugs feeding offme. You may think I’ve gone loco, but follow my lead.” Parks rolled over on his side and began rubbing his face and ears in the muddy ground. When he rose up, he had a thin layer ofmud covering his neck, cheeks, and ears. “It’ll keep them off you.”
Free nodded and rolled to his side, battering his face in the mud. As he regained an upright position, he looked backed to Parks, staring at his friend for an instant then said, “I promise to get us both out of this mess.”
Two hours later, the sun began a slow descent over the Comancheria. Free sat miserable. Thirsty and tired, he found that his arms had developed numbness from being locked behind his back for so long. Still, he had no idea where Jubal was or when he would return. As the last vestige of light hung in the sky, a lone gunshot echoed from the west. The reverberation lasting over five seconds indicated the shot was some distance away.
“There’s no doubt that was my Henry,” Parks stated.
After some duration, three more gunshots rang out back’to-back. Then quiet once more.
“You don’t think?” Free looked west. A worried frown settled on his face.
“It was his last obstacle,” Parks replied. “Now nobody can dispute his word.”
“How could-.” Free shook his head, unable to finish while trying to make sense of such savagery and evil.
“Now he can tell everyone we did it, and no one can say otherwise.”
Free struggled once more against the handcuffs, as much in anger as fear. Crazed, he screamed with all of his energy at the sky. Exhausted, he closed his eyes in an effort to regroup his feelings. He pictured his mother in Missouri and Clara riding a wild mustang into the Comancheria. Opening his eyes, he glanced over to Parks. “Sorry about that outburst.”
“More fuss, I suspect,” Parks responded.
Later, Jubal rode back onto the overhang, with one of the cowboy’s horses in tow. The day’s light, almost exhausted, hid all but an outline of the sheriff.
“You boys doing OK?”
“We heard gunfire.” Free watched Jubal dismount and lead the cowboy’s horse toward the cedars. “What happened?”
“A tragedy.” Jubal replied.
With dread as to the sheriff’s pronouncement, Free looked on as Jubal tied the animal next to Horse, then turned back toward him and Parks.
“I still don’t know how you two disarmed that cowboy. But thank God, I was able to get the drop on you both before you killed me too.”
“You think all of your killing was really worth the money?” Parks asked.
“Killing sworn deputies of a posse is a hangable offense, Lieutenant. Helping the colored escape would have only landed you some jail time, but now, you’ve really stepped off in it.”
Free stared in disbelief. “How’d you get so far away from the rest of us, Jubal?” He watched the sheriff pick up his canteen and cross to him.
“Much as I can’t stand killers, I’m going to give you both some water. I aim to make sure you’re in good condition for the ride into The Flats tomorrow.”
Free accepted the few precious drops of water eagerly, savoring the liquid as it ran down his throat. He watched Parks accept his ration, then observed the sheriff untie his bedroll and toss it on the ground several feet away. Removing the saddle from his horse, he set it at one end of his bedding, then brushed his horse on the flank. The animal flicked its tail and, moving away from the overhang, walked toward the prairie grasses.
Later, sitting alone in the night, Free could feel his mouth salivate as the pangs of hunger rumbled in his belly. Even in the dark, the distinct scent of flour and dried beef assaulted his senses. He swore in silence as he listened to Jubal chew the food with an open mouth. Free figured he wanted to make sure his bounty was known. Then from the blackness, he heard.
“You boys best get some sleep; you’ve got a long ride to The Flats tomorrow.”
Chapter 28
The Comancheria, Texas 1868
Clara held a tenacious grip on the galloping mustang’s reins. The brutish pony had been running at full speed for almost two hours. Not accustomed to riding so far, so fast, she bobbed up and down with each stride of the animal, jarring her lower back and creating a stabbing pain that traveled the length of her spine. Her inner legs squeezed hard into the pony’s sides in an attempt to control the bouncing.
Physically exhausted, she needed to stop. All of her muscles, constricted tight by the combination of fear and suspense, screamed for relief. Pulling the reins had no effect on the mustang, who continued his run with fixed determination. Her strength failing, she wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and gripped the pommel with both hands. The evening sky, cleansed after the rains, blended into a pallet of red, orange, and purple, reminding her of the lateness of the day.
She knew she had to get help. Free and Parks would hang if she didn’t, but she was uncertain as towhomight aid her. Free had told her not return to The Flats. And she knew he was right, for as much as the town folk might despise the sheriff, they would never stand up to him for an ex-slave. She lowered her head, trying to focus on Free’s last instruction to “go north.” He had repeated the phrase several times, so it had to be important, but each bounce against the saddle carried her concentration from his words back to the beast beneath her.
As darkness pushed the last portion of daylight below the horizon, the pony rolled his head left, lifting his nose into the wind. With several loud snorts, the horse shortened his stride and shook his head as if agitated. Rising up in the saddle, she felt the mustang slowing. Exhaling in relief, she relaxed her vise-like hold on the saddle horn. In that instant, the pony lurched to a complete stop, and Clara felt her body moving forward, across the mustang’s head at an incredible speed. She watched the ground rushing to meet her; then a deafening thud echoed in her head, and all around her went dark.
A gnat buzzed in Clara’s ear. Irritated, she tried to slap at the pest but could not find the strength to lift her arm. Flickering streaks of red flashed across the back of her eyelids. She felt herself smile, content to watch the strange dance. On instinct, her body tried to rise from the cool prairie grasses, but a heavy weight pressed against her chest keeping her down. With great effort, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the face of an Indian. Black paint streaked his nose, and a great set of feathers adorned his head.
“Aungaupi Ma!”
“Ma!”
Clara could hear the Indian chanting over her. Confused, she remembered the mustang throwing her off his back. She rolled her eyes, looking behind for Free’s horse, and she saw a circle of savages all staring at her, pointing and chanting.
“Aungaupi Ma!”
She looked back toward the Indian hovering over her. He removed his hand from her chest and pulled her from the prairie floor. Regaining her balance, she rubbed at a bloody scrape stinging her forehead. Still woozy, Clara realized night had set on the prairie and without thinking, she walked toward a fire burning several feet away. As she sat staring into the flames, the direness of the situation took shape in her mind. She had heard many stories about the torment Indians issued to women captives. She glanced around the camp at her captors, wondering as to her fate and wishing she had stayed with Free.
The Indian wearing the headdress strode toward her, pointing with great animation at Free’s mustang, now tied to a string of ponies.
Not knowing how to proceed, she pointed to her chest and then back to the horse. “It belongs to a friend.” She spoke in a loud voice, hoping the volume might
make her words understandable to the Indians. “He sent me to find you,” she said, the realization of Free’s instruction now clear to her.
“You know the Buffalo Man?”
“You speak English?” Clara felt tears well in her eyes, as the anxiety of the past three days released its hold over her body. “You speak English!” She sobbed, her shoulders bobbing up and down in concert with her crying. “You speak English!”
“Where is Aungaupi Ch`i?” the Indian asked.
Clara could see that his face held no concern for her situation or her tears. “Aungaupi Ch`i?”
“The Buffalo Man.”
She felt the Indian rub her head.
“Like you,” he continued. “Aungapui Ma.”
Realizing the meaning, she laughed between sobs and stared into the sun-hardened face of the Indian. “He needs your help! He sent me to find you!” she exclaimed.
“Where? The Kiowa will go to help “Aungapui Ch`i.”
“On the north bank of the Salt Fork.”
The Indian looked back to the south, then motioned to one of the others. Within minutes, a brave stood in front of her offering her a stringy, reddish meat and a bladder of water. Famished, she accepted the bounty and ate the food without hesitation.
“I am called Tsen-tainte. Chief of the Kiowa.”
Clara bowed her head and asked. “When can we go to the Buffalo Man?”
“Soon.” he replied. He dropped to the ground beside her. “First, you must tell everything.”
After talking for what seemed like hours, Clara glanced over to the Kiowa chief. He removed his gaze from the dancing flames in the fire pit and taking a knife from his waist sash began to scratch a map in the dirt. After several of the braves looked at the dirt drawing, he rubbed his hand over the picture, removing the image from the ground. Standing, he pointed to a spot in the sky several arm lengths away from the rising moon.
“Yi P’hay!” he spoke aloud.
