by Mike Kearby
Unsure of what was said, she watched the chief extend his left arm toward the sky, palm up and push his right hand over the open palm.
“When the moon moves two hands in the sky,” he said, “We go.”
Chapter 29
North Bank of the Salt Fork, Texas 1868
Free squinted as the mid-morning sun beat down on his brow with a blinding intensity. His hands, bound to the saddle horn, prevented him from bending the brim of his hat to shade his eyes. Jubal had tied him and Parks to their horses before leaving the overhang earlier in the morning.
Now, a half-day ride from The Flats, they both faced the looming prospect of a hangman’s noose. He knew they had almost run out their string. Glancing over, he noticed Parks scanning the land on both sides of the river.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“The cavalry. It’s funny that all my life, Colonel Ford has been there when I needed him, and I figured he might make an appearance here today.”
“We’re not in the bone orchard yet, Lieutenant. You and I have been through the mill before. We’re going to come out of this just fine.”
Trailing behind, he heard Jubal call out.
“You boys shut your big bazoos. I’m trying “You boys shut your big bazoos. I’m trying to figure where I’m gonna spend this money, and all your jabbering is distracting.”
“It’s not too late to do the right thing, Jubal,” Parks hollered out.
“He’s right, Sheriff,” Free joined in. “You can still hand the money back to the ranchers. The court will take favor with you for doing that kind of thing.”
“I’m gonna miss both you boys. And when I get to Mexico, I’ll toss a whiskey in your memory.”
Free looked at Parks and shook his head. Since New Mexico, he had tried to understand Jubal’s side of their dustup. If he were in Jubal’s shoes, he might have the same grudge against a soldier who cost him a corporal’s rank. And during war, things happen that cost men their lives. So, regardless of Jubal’s actions at Boca Chica, Free could empathize with the decisions he made. But this wasn’t wartime, and he could not abide needless deaths because of a man’s greed. Things had gotten too far out of hand, and Jubal needed stopping.
Deep in his thoughts, Free worried for Clara and wondered if he had dispatched her to her own death sentence. He figured by insisting she head north on his marked pony, she would draw the attention of White Horse and his raiding party. If she managed that, he felt sure the Kiowa would make a hard run to save him and Parks.
Suddenly jerked from his thoughts, Free threw a pained look to his lower leg. Parks had ranged Horse over, and the mustang’s shoulder was pressing into his flesh. He tossed a quick glance to Parks, who was motioning his head to the northeast. Looking left, he caught a glint of sunlight reflecting from the prairie. He followed the reflection across the prairie to a spot below the lower bank of the river. From the underbrush, he saw another flickering of light. Signals, he thought. Maybe she did find them. Looking back over his shoulder, he yelled.
“Jubal, any reason we can’t stop for a drink? You mean to hang us, not have us die of thirst.”
“I always figured you for a complainer, Sergeant. We’ll get you some water, all you want, but not till we reach The Flats.”
Fromthe corner of his eye, Free saw a Kiowa brave come into view. Appearing from the tall prairie grasses, the lonewarrior rode at a slowgait, his gaze straight ahead, as if hewas unaware of them.
“Look right,” he heard Parks whisper.
Glancing to the south riverbank, he saw another Kiowa brave appear. The brave walked his pony into the shallow riverbed.
For the next few minutes, Free counted as thirty braves emerged from the prairie on both sides of the river. He noticed they never looked toward Jubal. Once all had emerged into view, they followed each other in an extended single file line.
From behind, he heard Jubal exclaim. “What the - !”
“Looks like company, Jubal,” Free said.
“Shut-up, Sergeant! Where the hell did they come from?”
“You may have overplayed your hand this time, Sheriff.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re riding through Indian Territory alone.”
Jubal edged his horse up between Parks and Free, his Colt in hand. “We’ll see about that, Sergeant. Put your spurs into those horses.We’re going to gallop a little and see what these savages aim to do.”
Free touched his pony’s flank and watched Parks do the same. Glancing to both sides of the river, he noticed the Kiowa had picked up the same stride and continued to hold their positions on each side of them. The braves kept their stares forward, not once offering any acknowledgement of their prey. He looked over and could see the sweat beginning to form on Jubal’s upper lip. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere, Sheriff. You might want to take hard consideration about your situation.”
“I think these savages just need a little distraction.” Jubal holstered his Colt and pulled a thick leather string from behind his saddle.
“What are you talking about, Jubal?
“You boys stay safe and have a nice ride.”
Free heard the quirt whoosh through the air, then felt his horse buck and jump to the left. In a flash, the horse was at full gallop, running toward the line of Kiowa. He watched the Indians break formation, turning and riding toward him at full steam. He reckoned they aimed to turn his horse, but with his hands tied, he had no way of helping. Choking the pommel, he held tight as the horse bounded like a wild bronc, splitting the line of Kiowa and sprinting north.
Quick as rabbits, the Kiowa spun and caught back up to him, and soon several braves flanked his horse. One of the braves looped a rawhide string over the horse’s head. In an instant, string after string encircled the animal. He felt a violent shaking as the Kiowa pulled back, slowing their ponies and cinching the rawhide strings tight around the runaway’s neck. Soon, stopped and unable to shake his captors, Free felt the horse calm.
Relieved, he looked back toward the riverbed to see Parks and Horse circled by a group of Kiowa. Throwing a quick look west, he saw swirls of earth kicked skyward as Jubal tried to flee the Indians. A line of four Kiowa ponies chased after him, gaining ground with each stride.
As one of the braves cut his bindings, Free watched White Horse approaching, Clara in tow. From a distance, the Kiowa chief called.
“Ha chò, “Aungaupi Ch`i!”
“Ha chò, White Horse,” he yelled back and raised his right hand, palm out.
“Free!” Clara jumped from her pony and race toward him. “I didn’t know if I . . .”
His ropes cut, Free pushed off his mount and ran to meet her. “Shhh . . .” He hugged her, rubbing the back of her neck as a comfort. Glancing up to the Kiowa chief, he smiled. “I owe you for two lives.”
“Aungaupi Ch`i, you bring powerful medicine to the prairie, you bring rain when we have none, and soon the buffalo will return. You are a brother to the Kiowa.”
Free nodded to the chief. “You are a wise friend.”
Turning back to Clara, he held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Parks moved Horse toward the group at a slow canter.
“Parks!”
Grasping Clara’s hand, he walked rapidly toward his friend. “I told you we’d get through this.”
“I never doubted you, Sergeant.”
Free slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Looking past Parks, he saw in the distance the four Kiowa braves returning; their high-pitched yips, unpleasant and loud, filled the prairie. “I don’t think we can say the same for Jubal.”
Behind one of the braves, he saw a cloud of dust. Through the powder, he could discern Jubal, tied by string around his neck and hands, desperately trying to keep up with the Indian ponies. Free watched the sheriff run several yards, then stumble to the ground allowing the mustangs to drag h
im over rock and brush. Struggling to regain his feet, he would right himself for several steps and then stumble to the ground once more. This misery continued for a quarter mile or more.
“Remember what your father said to unjust punishment?” Parks said.
Free bit his lip. “He’s done in for sure.”
When the four braves rode past, rejoining the rest of their raiding party, Free could see Jubal was a bloody mess. The Kiowa jumped from their ponies, and the entire group began to chatter. Yipping and dancing at the sight of a helpless Jubal, the braves all took turns touching the frightened sheriff with their arrows.
“They’re trying to take all of his energy,” Parks said. “Leaving him with only fear to fight them.”
Free watched the four braves strip the sheriff of his tattered clothing in a concerted frenzy. Several other braves gripped Jubal’s arms and legs, encircling each with rawhide. One of the Kiowa, wearing a buffalo head, pushed four broken spears deep into the red sand and began a dance around Jubal. Tied to each lance, the rawhide laces effectively staked Jubal to the prairie.
“We best take our leave,” Parks whispered. “There are going to be things that happen here you don’t want Clara to carry a memory of.”
“Is it wise to depart so soon?” Free looked at Parks, unsure of how to proceed.
“No small talk, remember? You tell the chief, you need the saddle pack from Jubal’s horse. Then you tell him it’s time for your medicine to travel east. And Free . . . don’t get involved.”
Free nodded and walked stiffly toward White Horse. He glanced once more to see the sheriff straddled by one of the braves. The warrior was using an arrowhead to slice his face. Free looked away, sickened by what he witnessed. He had wanted Jubal dead since that day at the arroyo, but now he could only feel the anxious drumming of his heart, not really wishing this fate upon anyone, even Jubal Thompson.
The saddle pack across his shoulder, Free mounted the medicine pony and with a light nudge of his spurs left the Kiowa raiding party at a slow gait.
Strangely silent, he kept his thoughts as they followed the river toward The Flats. Severalmiles away he turned to Parks and Clara. “No matter his doings, I wanted to stop the Kiowa back there. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for Jubal. Odd, even after all of his trying to kill us, I felt sorry for him.”
“That’s OK, Free,” Parks said. “Feeling sorry for a man has nothing to do with what he may or may not deserve. Sympathy doesn’t allow a man to make that distinction.”
Free nodded and leaned forward in his saddle. “I reckon we best get this money back to its rightful owners.”
“When we do that, I figure old Judge Freemont will have no choice but to clear you of all charges.”
Free pointed to the tobacco pouch on Parks’ neck and motioned to his mouth. “That oughta make him hotter’n a cathouse on nickel night.” Free caught the pouch tossed by Parks.
“Free Anderson!” Clara exclaimed, a grin forming at the corners of her mouth.
Free cut a plug of tobacco and pushed it into his jaw. Pulling the drawstring on the pouch, he tossed it back to Parks.
“You looking for work after all of this?” Parks asked.
“What you got in mind, Lieutenant?” Free bit down on the tobacco plug, sending a thin line of brown to the corners of his mouth.
“I’m looking for a partner.”
“You work with Missouri slaves, do you?” Free asked deadpanned.
“Haven’t you heard, Sergeant? The slaves are all free.”
Free slapped his saddle horn, laughing aloud. “So they are, Lieutenant. So they are.”
“And it won’t cost you a thing to come aboard. All that’s required is a strong back and little need of comfort.”
Free stared down the winding riverbank; ahead he envisioned his future. A future with deep roots set in the West Texas soil. He reached over and took Clara’s hand, squeezing it firmly. “I’ve got the woman I love and a friend I can count on, Lieutenant. Everything else is just fuss.”
Acknowledgements
It is very rare that things are accomplished in this world without the help and support of others. My heartfelt thanks go out to:
Weldon L. Edwards, my high school English teacher, who thirty-six years after graduation encouraged me to finish the story. Mindy Reed at The Authors’ Assistant for her concise editing, guidance, and help along the way. I can honestly say the book might still be sitting on my desk without Mindy’s expertise at all things in the writing, publishing realm. Gloria Kempton, whose insights and gentle coaching help bring the writer out in me. Gay Storms for her unique knowledge of West Texas which kept the historical aspects of the manuscript accurate, and also for her profound belief in the project. Fred Tarpley at Word Magic who truly understands the written word and its effect on the reading public. Wanda Reddell, Clarence Holliman, and Charles Scott, three teachers who served as role models for me and many others. Stephanie Barko, literary publicist extraordinaire, who created all ad copy and press releases for media distribution. The Handbook of Texas Online, a truly remarkable history resource for all things Texan. The Texas State Historical Association and its partners for making the handbook available to all Texans.
Author’s Note
The soldiers of the 62nd Colored Infantry made remarkable sacrifices.
At the Civil War’s end, these men and the men of the 65th Colored Infantry began donating money from their pay to found Lincoln Institute, a school where ex-slaves could learn to read and write. The men raised over six-thousand dollars, an astounding accomplishment, when you consider the small sum paid to soldiers during the Civil War. Known today as Lincoln University, the school is home to a campus of diverse students. In May of 2006, the school began seeking donations to help fund a-memorial to the soldiers who made sure that all people had the right to be educated. Information on the Soldier’s Memorial fund is located on the following page. It is my hope that all The Road to a Hanging readers will consider a donation. It is a worthwhile cause and the soldier’s of the 62nd and 65th certainly deserve the honor.
HIGH PRAISE FOR MIKE KEARBY
THE ROAD TO A HANGING
“What I love most about historical fiction is that it places fictional characters into real history, and on this count Mr. Kearby is right on target. With plenty of action, danger and suspense from those days, even the most discriminating western reader will be satisfied. Absolutely entertaining! A quality work!”
—New Book Reviews
“An excellent example of the recently resurgent Western genre. It is well written, with a believable plot that zips along and keeps the pages turning. The background is well researched, and the author doesn’t gloss over the violence of life in 1860s Texas.”
—Historical Novels Review
“Exciting reading.”
—Roundup Magazine
“An action-packed trail.”
—Elmer Kelton
“First-rate action and excellent characterization.”
—Author James Ward Lee
RIDE THE DESPERATE TRAIL
“A rousing, action-packed saga of rough justice in an untamed land, highly recommended.”
—Midwest Book Reviews
AMBUSH AT MUSTANG CANYON
“The look and feel of Texas in the 1870s, with its anguishing clash of cultures, comes dramatically alive once more in Mike Kearby’s Ambush at Mustang Canyon. Read, enjoy’and learn!”
—Cotton Smith, Author of
Blood of Bass Tillman
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
January 2008
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Copyright © 2006 by Mike Kearby
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