Other Westerns by Johnny D. Boggs:
The Lonesome Chisholm Trail (Five Star Westerns, 2000)
Once They Wore the Gray (Five Star Westerns, 2001)
Lonely Trumpet (Five Star Westerns, 2002)
The Despoilers (Five Star Westerns, 2002)
The Big Fifty (Five Star Westerns, 2003)
Purgatoire (Five Star Westerns, 2003)
Dark Voyage of the Mittie Stephens (Five Star Westerns, 2004)
East of the Border (Five Star Westerns, 2004)
Camp Ford (Five Star Westerns, 2005)
Ghost Legion (Five Star Westerns, 2005)
Walk Proud, Stand Tall (Five Star Westerns, 2006)
The Hart Brand (Five Star Westerns, 2006)
Northfield (Five Star Westerns, 2007)
Doubtful Cañon (Five Star Westerns, 2007)
Killstraight (Five Star Westerns, 2008)
Soldier’s Farewell (Five Star Westerns, 2008)
Legacy of a Lawman (Five Star Westerns, 2011)
Hard Winter (Skyhorse Publishing, 2013)
Río Chama (Skyhorse Publishing, 2014)
Whiskey Kills (Skyhorse Publishing, 2015)
South by Southwest (Skyhorse Publishing, 2015)
The Killing Trail (Skyhorse Publishing, 2016)
Ghost Legion (Skyhorse Publishing, 2016)
First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2017 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
Copyright © 2012 by Johnny D. Boggs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Tom Lau
Cover illustration: A Dash for the Timber by Frederic Remington, 1889
Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-765-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-766-0
Printed in the United States of America
For Lucia St. Clair Robson,
fine friend, great writer, and a Comanche at heart
Chapter One
Sweating profusely, Daniel pushes his way through the throng crowding the boardwalks of Hell’s Half Acre.
Over the silk top hats, bowlers, Stetsons, and battered slouch hats, he can just make out Rain Shower, in her doeskin dress and moccasins, fighting through the multitude. She’s maybe twenty yards ahead of him. He calls out her name. Screams it louder, but she can’t hear him. He can’t even hear his own voice.
The people—taibos, all of them, white men without faces—grunt like pigs, pushing him backward. He turns sideways, letting some of these men rush past him. Now he can no longer see Rain Shower. He jumps, tries to catch only a glimpse of her. A boot steps on his own moccasin. A spur’s rowel grazes his calf. Angrily he slams an elbow into the side of a passerby, but doubts if the faceless man feels anything. He curses, in the language of The People and in the pale-eyes tongue, forces a path through the crush, jumps again, screams Rain Shower’s name.
He spots her shiny black hair, but just briefly. She’s too far ahead of him. He wants her closer. Needs her to be closer. Why does she keep walking? Why doesn’t she wait for me? Why doesn’t she turn back toward me?
“Rain Shower!” he cries. “Wait! Stop! Wait for me!”
Fort Worth, Texas, is no place for a Nermernuh girl. Especially not in Hell’s Half Acre.
A white man in dirty vest and bandanna shoves him, and he stumbles, catches himself on a wooden column in front of a hitching rail. No horses tethered here, he notices, so he pulls himself onto the rail, gripping the column for support, finally able to see above the mass of people. They look like buffalo now, the way the buffalo used to look on the Llano Estacado, millions of them, so thick you could not see the ground.
Again, he yells Rain Shower’s name, and this time she turns. His heart races, but he can breathe again. He almost slips on the rail; in fact, he swings off briefly, but somehow he manages to get his feet back on the wood. Recovered, he looks down the boardwalk.
Rain Shower laughs at him, and he smiles back at her.
“Wait for me,” he says. Or starts to say. Before he can finish, he sees the hand reach around the corner. It grasps Rain Shower’s arm.
Fear etches into her face. She stares at the man holding her—Daniel can’t see the man, just his arm and hand, and the hand is covered in a bright red glove—then Rain Shower turns back toward Daniel and screams.
Only he can’t hear her scream. The hand jerks her out of sight, around the corner of a false-fronted mercantile.
“No!” Daniel yells, losing his grip on the wooden column, feeling his moccasins slip off the rail. He falls onto the boardwalk, landing on his back, hard, forcing the air out of his lungs. He rolls to his side, opens his eyes, tries to catch his breath, and sees the stampeding buffalo, feels the first hoof crush his ribs, as thunder rumbles and the skies darken …
* * * * *
Daniel Killstraight woke with a start.
His heart pounded, and his long black hair felt as if he had just been dunked in Cache Creek. He ripped the sweat-soaked sheet off his body, and stared at the darkened ceiling, trying to recall the dream. No, he decided. It would be better to forget that nightmare. It would be better to figure out where he was.
Not home. Home, for Daniel Killstraight, was a cabin the Pale Eyes had built for Ben Buffalo Bone’s late father, a wooden structure his friend’s father, and now his uncle, used as a stable. For the past two years, those unshod ponies shared the house with Daniel Killstraight. Ben was Rain Shower’s brother, and that started Daniel thinking about the nightmare that had awakened him.
He wasn’t on the reservation near Fort Sill in Indian Territory, but at the Pickwick Hotel in Fort Worth. No, that wasn’t right, either. When Daniel and his Comanche Indian friends had arrived in Fort Worth to meet a few Texas cattlemen, and attend a lecture by Captain Richard Pratt, the hotel manager had smiled like a weasel and stammered that no rooms were available in the hotel.
“No rooms for Indians, you mean,” Daniel had said.
The hotel manager, a balding man with a waxed mustache, ran his finger underneath his paper collar and shook his head, saying, “No, no, young man, no. That’s not it at all. It’s a busy weekend, you see. Lots of guests. But I have taken liberty to arrange for you to stay in the Taylor and Barr building. It is not far from here, gentlemen, just over on Houston Street. They have five modern and quite comfortable apartments upstairs.” The man’s small eyes shot from Daniel to Charles Flint to Yellow Bear and, finally, to Quanah Parker.
“Indoor plumbing,” the man stammered. “Gas lamps. Much quieter, too.”
This wasn’t his first trip to Fort Worth, and Daniel let the manager know it.
“We stayed in the Texas Hotel last year,” he said.
Quanah nodded. “Treat good. No ticks in bed. Ice cream.”
“There are no ticks in our beds, either, Mister Parker.” The manager sounded indignant. “I assure you.” He trained his eyes o
n Daniel. “And you, young man, I’ll have you know that a noble savage … I mean, a dignitary like Quanah Parker and his entourage, a friend to great cattlemen Dan Waggoner and Captain Lee Hall, both friends of the Pickwick Hotel, would be most welcome in any of our suites … if any happened to be available. We are full up, sirs.”
Quanah Parker might be welcome here, Daniel figured, but not Daniel Killstraight. Not tonight. Not ever.
So here he was in the Taylor and Barr building, sweating in a room that felt like a furnace. It was August, however, so no one could do anything about the heat. Charles Flint was just down and across the hall. Next door to Daniel were Quanah and Yellow Bear, who had insisted that they share the room. Isa-tai, Charles Flint’s father, bunked with Nagwee, the puhakat of the Kotsoteka band who had come to counsel Quanah, in the room next to Flint’s. As far as Daniel knew, the fifth room, directly across from Daniel’s, remained vacant.
Sighing, he reached above his head and turned up the gas lamp, before swinging his feet over the bed. Once his heartbeat had dropped to something more reasonable, he stood and eased his way to the open window. Putting his hands on the sill, he leaned out into the Fort Worth night, hoping to catch a breeze, but the wind did not blow, and the air felt heavy with humidity. The thermometer outside the plate glass window in front of Taylor & Barr’s store had read one hundred and four degrees, and Daniel doubted if the mercury had fallen much.
Even at night, however, even in a miserable heat wave, Fort Worth’s citizens remained active. A hack’s carriage clopped down the street, and he could make out the noise of a piano, a banjo, laughter. A whistle blew. A horse snorted. A woman giggled.
Fort Worth, Daniel decided, never slept.
It reminded him of the cities he had seen back East. Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Carlisle, and while the latter seemed even smaller than Fort Worth, Daniel figured it couldn’t be. Fort Worth, however, was certainly different than those Pennsylvania cities, and a long, long way from home.
The window overlooked an empty alley running between Houston and Main. With no street lamps in the alley, he could make out the dim outline of the walls of the Fakes & Company furniture warehouse. The three-story Pickwick Hotel was northwest, at the corner of Main and Third. He couldn’t see that hotel, could barely make out anything in the darkness, although light shone from the windows and door at the saloon across the street, illuminating at least a part of Houston Street. Jinglebobs started singing a song beneath him, and Daniel looked down.
No, the alley wasn’t empty. A cowhand was busy muttering something as he unbuttoned his pants, and soon began spraying the wall of the Taylor & Barr mercantile with urine, soaking the white-stenciled lettering on the brick walls.
WE OFFER OUR ENTIRE LINE OF
CHILDREN’S, MISSES’ AND LADIES’
CLOAKS AND DOLMANS,
BOYS’, YOUTHS’ AND MEN’S
CLOTHING AT
MANUFACTURRERS’ PRICES.
Daniel wondered if he were the only person in Fort Worth who realized the painter had misspelled manufacturer.
Quanah had bought a cloak and a dolman earlier that afternoon, even though Charles Flint had told the Comanche chief that he could buy something cheaper at the agency near Fort Sill once they got back home.
Daniel could still picture the look Quanah gave Charles Flint. “But I ask you what dolman and you say you no know,” Quanah had said as they stood on the boardwalk, staring at the wall advertisement.
“But … I … you … it’s … I …” Charles Flint could not think of anything else to say, and Daniel knew that rarely happened.
“Come,” Quanah had announced, speaking in broken English for the Texians accompanying the Comanche delegation. “We find dolman. If like, me buy one for Tonarcy.” Tonarcy was undoubtedly Quanah’s favorite of his eight wives.
“Hell’s bells, this alley stinks of piss!”
Daniel looked down at the cowboy again, heard him laugh at his joke, and saw him stagger, spurs chiming while he made a wandering path back toward Houston Street. As soon as he stepped out of the alley, he stopped. A police officer had grabbed the cowhand’s shoulder, spun him around, and the tall, gangling man had toppled into the dust on his backside.
“Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph, what in the bloody hell were you doing in that alley, you drunken waddie?” The officer pointed something—nightstick, Daniel guessed, what he remembered both coppers and miners in Pennsylvania calling a billy club—at the cowhand.
It sounded like the cowhand answered, “Waterin’ my mules.”
The policeman said something Daniel couldn’t understand, but a shout came from up the street, probably from the Occidental Saloon. The policeman left the cowhand in the dust and took off running toward the shouts, yelling something, and blowing his whistle.
After three clumsily failed attempts, the cowhand managed to push himself to his feet, and weave his way across Houston Street and through the batwing doors of Herman Kussatz’s Tivoli Hall.
More whistles sounded, and he could make out shouts, curses. For seven years, Daniel had lived among the Pale Eyes in Pennsylvania. First as the lone Comanche student at Carlisle Industrial School—although Charles Flint would join him during Daniel’s last year learning to be a taibo. Then in Franklin County, working for that hard-rock German until blisters covered his hands and feet. Finally, breathing coal dust and hardly seeing the sunshine at the Castle Shannon Mine near Pittsburgh. Yet he never really understood the Pale Eyes. For two years, he had been back among his people—if they were his people any more—wearing the badge and uniform of The People’s tribal police. Metal Shirts, The People called them. His own uniform showed the chevrons of a sergeant. At least it had, until Daniel, and all the other Metal Shirts, had cut off the sleeves of those scratchy, ill-fitting gray woolen blouses. Now they wore them like the pale-eyes’ vests.
More whistles blew. A window smashed. A horse whinnied.
He heard something else, and bumped his head against the open window. A door had shut down the hall. He rubbed his head, and walked to the dresser to pour a glass of water.
Tepid and tasting like iron, the water didn’t cool him. He could barely even swallow it, but he made himself, then mopped his face and the back of his neck with a hand towel, and wiped his sopping wet, long black hair. He stared at the door, then at the clock, wondering who would be coming to his room so late. If that cheap little Progressor kept the right time, it was 3:17 a.m.
Daniel smiled then, remembering. He and Quanah had retired shortly after supper, and Charles Flint had said he would soon join them. Yellow Bear, however, had said he wanted to see the sights, so George Briggs, a pale-eyes cowhand who worked for the big taibo rancher Dan Waggoner, had promised that he and old Yellow Bear would “tree the town”—whatever that meant.
The shutting door he had heard must have been Yellow Bear, finally making his way back to the room after a night on the town. He couldn’t wait to hear Yellow Bear’s stories over breakfast.
Outside, a cow bawled, probably from those giant shipping pens at the stockyards.
Cattle reminded him of buffalo—cuhtz in The People’s tongue—and that brought the final image from his nightmare to his mind. Daniel shook off the thought. Instead, he settled into the cushioned parlor chair, remembering what had brought him to Fort Worth.
Chapter Two
“You two are going to Texas,” Joshua Biggers said with smile.
Daniel and Charles Flint looked at each other, then stared at the young Baptist minister who had been appointed agent—the third in two years—for the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache reservation, giving him the blank stares The People often gave Pale Eyes.
Hugh Gunter, Daniel’s Cherokee friend and a member of the United States Indian Police with jurisdiction over the Five Civilized Tribes east of Comanche country, called it “the dumb look.”
The smile faded from the young agent’s face. “Not permanently,” he said, swallowed, and shuffled through the
papers on his desk. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and at last he found the paper he wanted.
“This is a letter from Captain Pratt,” he said. “He’s giving a talk in Fort Worth. He specifically requested that you two join him …”
“Pratt.” Charles Flint tested the name.
Daniel remembered Pratt. How could he ever forget him? A bluecoat, Richard Pratt had started the Carlisle Industrial School, teaching Indians to follow the white man’s road. When Daniel was thirteen, he had been loaded onto a wagon with several Arapahoes and sent to the railroad station. In Pennsylvania, they had joined other frightened Indians—Lakotas, Cheyennes, Kiowas, even Pawnees, traditional enemies of The People. It was at school that School Father Pratt had given Daniel his new name.
Once, Daniel had been called His Arrows Fly Straight Into The Hearts Of His Enemies, the name his father had given him. Pale Eyes never could quite translate that name into their own tongue, so they had shortened it to Killstraight. At Carlisle, Pratt had made all the new students point to a pale-eyes word written on a blackboard—after white men and women had shorn the new students’ long, black hair, forced them to bathe with smelly soap and steaming hot water, and made them wear itchy pale-eyes clothes. Reluctantly, almost defiantly, Daniel had pointed to one, and watched as School Father Pratt nodded and scratched a white line through the word, the chalk screeching and making Daniel’s skin crawl. “Now,” School Father Pratt had said with a smile, “your name is Daniel.”
Later, one of the School Mothers had demanded that Daniel take a new surname. Her word still rang in his ears. “Killstraight conjures simulacrums of depredations, of rapine, of the barbarous nature of these savage fiends. Strait …” He could see her double chin wagging as her head bobbed with satisfaction. “Daniel Strait would fit him well. A noble Anglo-Saxon name. I knew many Straits in Hertshire.”
“Perhaps,” School Father Pratt had said with a smile, as he placed a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and squeezed gently, “but, having taught this lad for these past few years, I think Killstraight fits him like a glove. Leave it Killstraight, Missus Hall. Daniel has earned that much, I warrant.”
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