by Jory Sherman
As Dan was approaching the Red, he could smell its tang in his nostrils. He was just beginning to relax when he heard a gunshot which brought him up short. The crack of a rifle hung in the air for several seconds and sent a shiver up his spine. The sound startled him because he had been riding since before sunup in a silence that stretched into empty distances where he saw nothing, heard nothing. The sound faded from memory and he rode on, wondering if someone might have shot an antelope or a deer somewhere up ahead.
As he came to the high edge of a rise above the river, he heard the popping sounds of several rifles almost at once. More chilling than these was the high-pitched yelps of Indians in full war cry.
Dan drew his Winchester ’73 from its sheath and cocked the lever, sending a cartridge sliding into the firing chamber. Blue’s ears were rigid cones, twisting on his head, the fine hairs stiff on the edges, shimmering a pale gold in the sunlight.
Then he heard a woman’s scream and more gunshots, just before he reached the rim of the rise.
Below him, was a lone wagon, pulled by a team of oxen, and a small band of yipping Kiowas, riding around it like circus performers. They were shooting at the people hunkered around the wagon and beneath the war cries the whine and sizzle of hot lead was flying in every direction.
Chapter Four
Dan saw that there were other wagons lined up on the other side of the Red, waiting to cross. A lot of the rifle-fire came from men shooting from under and behind those wagons, with little effect. The Kiowas were superb horsemen and they rode their ponies in weaving patterns, zig-zagging back and forth within the circle, keeping those in the near wagon constantly under fire.
As he sat his horse, Cord saw a man stagger from behind the wagon that was under attack on his side of the Red River. The man clutched his chest, which was spurting a fountain of blood. One of the women in the near wagon screamed in terror. The man’s legs turned to rubber and collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground, face down, as the Kiowas screeched in exultation.
Cord blocked out all else within his range of vision and focused on a single Kiowa brave as he brought his rifle to his shoulder. He lined up the front blade sight on the warrior, lined up the barrel until the blade fell into the slot in the rear square sight, led the man, starting from behind him and swinging the barrel in a straight line. When the brave’s body disappeared behind the sights, he squeezed the trigger and followed through with his swing.
The rifle bucked against Dan’s shoulder as the powder exploded, spewing sparks and lead from the muzzle. The Kiowa jerked as the bullet slammed into his back with paralyzing force. He threw up his arms and the pony ran out from under him. He hit on his buttocks, sat there for an instant as blood oozed out of the small hole in his back. Part of his breastbone shattered and tore a larger hole in his chest and blood sprayed in a fanning arc, carrying with it slivers and bits of bone, wads of lung material and a piece of his heart. He slumped over like a man bowing to a deity and lay still, bleeding out until his heart stopped pumping.
The Kiowa turned on Cord, brandishing their rifles and yelling at the top of their voices. Dan swung on another brave, facing him, levered another cartridge into the chamber, ejecting an empty brass hull out the side. Dan held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The recoil jarred his shoulder, sending a fist-blow of pain into the muscle, but he was already cocking the rifle again as another warrior charged straight at him.
It was an easy shot, and Dan dropped the man with a lead slug to his throat. A red flag of crimson spray spewed from under his chin, then his head tilted as the bullet ripped like a hammering buzz-saw through his spinal column. He toppled from his pinto pony, lifeless as a rag doll, dead before he hit the ground.
A Kiowa bullet sizzled over Cord’s head and he kicked Blue in the flanks, heeled him hard over in a right turn as the horse lunged forward, ears laid back, eyes rolling in their sockets, showing white at the rims.
The excitement gripped Dan, and he felt a tingle in his veins as he rode straight for the nearest Kiowa. He gave out a rebel yell that startled even the Indians. Something came over him unlike anything he ever felt before, an exhilaration that elevated his senses to a point where he almost thought he was invincible. All his fear vanished and he felt gripped in a hazy glow that was thrilling. He shot his rifle on the run.
As he jacked another cartridge into the chamber, he saw one Kiowa ride close to the downed white man. The brave leaned over the side of his pony, holding a war club in his hand. He reached almost to the ground and when he passed the fallen man, he swung the club and dashed it into the man’s head, cracking it open like a melon. Blood and brains flew in two directions as he rode on. Cord chased after him and the warrior turned to do battle.
Without thinking, or aiming, Dan fired from the hip and the bullet ripped through the Kiowa, tearing out his innards as it blew a hole through his back the size of a fist. The Kiowa, blood gushing from his mouth, twisted in a slow spiral and tumbled from his mount. He writhed on the ground for several moments, kicked twice, and lay still.
Cord turned and faced another Kiowa who began to chant his death song.
The gunfire from the opposite bank of the river suddenly went silent as everyone there watched Cord charge the last Kiowa on horseback. Those around the wagon that had been under attack also stopped firing their weapons and watched in open-mouthed awe.
The Kiowa raised his rifle over his head with one hand and beat on his chest with the other. Then he brought the rifle down and kicked his pony in the flanks. The pony leaped forward and the Kiowa hugged one flank, aiming his rifle at Cord.
Dan hauled in hard on the reins, bringing Blue to a skidding stop. He raised his rifle and took careful aim on the Kiowa brave coming at him from the flank. There was a great silence except for the pounding, unshod hoofs of the charging pony. It seemed an eternity before Dan swung his rifle barrel very slowly until his target vanished in his front sight.
Cord squeezed the trigger and followed through, his rifle moving very slowly at such short range.
The warrior rode right into the bullet. The lead slug caught him in the forehead, between the eyes, flattened as it struck the bone, mushroomed and splintered off slivers of lead, ripping through the skull, smashing brain and bone in its mortal path. The Kiowa’s head jerked back and there was a snapping sound as the impact of the bullet broke his neck. He slid from his pony and hit the ground in a blood-soaked skid, coming to rest as the pony veered away, riderless, from Cord, galloping off up the slope to disappear over the top like some ghost horse vanishing like smoke on the plain.
Dan turned to the wagon and rode toward the man who appeared to be the patriarch of the family.
Before he and Blue got there, however, he was startled to hear those on the opposite bank lift their voices in a resounding cheer, seemingly exulting in the fact that the fight was over and Cord had been the victor.
“They’re cheerin’ you, son,” the man said, stepping toward Dan. “And, we’re mighty grateful to you for takin’ a stand and helpin’ us out. I’m Lester Simpson and I’d like to shake your hand.”
Dan slid his rifle back in its scabbard and shook Simpson’s hand. A woman in the wagon looked at him shyly. She was holding two little girls close to her. Behind the wagon, two milk cows, Guernseys, moaned deep in their chests. A young boy climbed out from under the wagon, holding a small caliber rifle in his hands.
“Who’s that?” Dan asked, nodding toward the man lying on the ground.
“That was my brother, David, God rest his soul.”
“I’m sorry,” Dan said.
“What is your name, son?”
Dan wanted to speak his true name, but he knew he was still a wanted man. He did not know how far south the flyers from Abilene might have traveled.
“Jason Martin,” he said.
“I and my family thank you for your help, Mr. Martin. Those savages were trying to steal our milk cows and take our women.”
“You’re lucky the
re weren’t more of them.”
“The Lord watches over us,” Simpson said.
As they talked, Dan saw the other wagons beginning to cross the Red. They made creaking sounds and he heard the outriders yelling at the mules and oxen, flicking small whips over their backs. In a few minutes, it was going to get very crowded, and he didn’t want to linger.
“What brings you our way?” Simpson asked.
“I’m going back home. To Texas. Where do you hail from, Mr. Simpson?”
“Most of us come from Walnut Springs. We had a bad year and lost most of what we had. But we’re getting a new start up in Kansas.”
“That’s good,” Cord said, impatient to be off and cross the Red. The women had climbed out of the wagon and were tending to David Simpson, sobbing and reciting prayers over his dead body.
“We all bought land dirt cheap from a man who understood our plight and came to our salvation.”
Dan didn’t know what to say. He could see that the man wanted to talk about a new start while his brother lay dead. As if he wanted to hang on to hope, despite his brother’s cruel death. Simpson appeared to be a bit addled by the shock of the Indian attack.
“Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Simpson. I’m sure sorry about your brother.”
“Yes, I must tend to his burial. I pray the Providence follows you, Mr. Martin, all of your days.”
“Same to you,” Dan said, and turned his horse. He waved to Simpson and rode down to the river. As he watched the wagons fording, he knew he would have to wait until they were all across, so he could follow the same track. He didn’t want to risk riding Blue into quicksand or into a deep hole where he and the horse might founder in swift waters.
At the tail end of the caravan, behind the last wagon to cross, a short stocky man rode up to Cord and touched a finger to his hand.
“Howdy, stranger,” the man said. “You’re a pretty fair shot. Don’t know how we would have fared if you hadn’t come along when you did and kilt them red devils.”
“Sometimes it just takes a little luck,” Cord said.
“No luck to it. You did some fancy shootin’, plain and simple.”
Dan nodded, not wishing to engage the man in such conversation. His belly was still quivering from the experience and there was a dark place in his mind where there had been brightness and elation when he was shooting the Kiowa. He did not feel good about any of it. Just that it was over.
“You ought to come with us on our journey to the promised land,” the man said.
“I have other plans. Sorry.”
“We could use a man like you. We’re going to build us a town. We bought two whole sections up in Kansas, dirt cheap.”
That was the second time Cord had heard that same expression, “dirt cheap”.
“How cheap?” Dan asked.
“Ten cents to the acre. I got me the deeds in my saddlebags. I’d like to offer you some of that land for your home at no cost to you. Just as a way of thanking you and bringing you into our midst.”
“I’m going home. To Texas.”
“A savage land down there. Comanches, Apaches, Kiowas. Lawlessness. That’s why we’re leavin’. As bad as Oklahoma. Kansas is civilized.”
“No more than any other place, I reckon,” Cord said.
“There’s money to be made up in Abilene. That’s where our land lies.”
“Who sold you the land?” Dan asked, some small tick scratching inside his brain.
“Why, a generous and affable man name of Jake Krebs,” the man said. “Had him affidavits and letters of introduction from the top officials in Abilene and the state.”
“Jake Krebs?”
“That’s right,” the man said.
Dan felt his stomach spasm and roil with a sickening swirl of bile. He looked at the man hard, trying not to show pity. His throat constricted and he had trouble breathing for a long moment.
“Know him?” the man asked.
Dan cleared his throat and shook his head. “Never heard of him,” he said, and nudged his spurs into Blue’s flanks.
The man gaped as Dan rode into the river without saying goodbye.
“Mighty peculiar,” the man muttered. “Downright unsociable.”
Dan crossed into Texas, a tightness in his chest as if something was squeezing his heart in an iron fist.
Chapter Five
Dan was amazed to see the huge herds of longhorn cattle in and around Ft. Worth. He saw cowhands everywhere and rode with his hat pulled down low on his head, the brim bent down in front to shield his eyes and most of his face. He didn’t expect to see anyone he knew, but wanted to stop off, get a shave, haircut, and bath before continuing on to Waco.
He was tired. Tired in muscle and bone and mind. He hadn’t been able to get Krebs out of his mind. What he had done to those poor people. Fleeced them out of their money and set them off on a wild goose chase, probably to a worse place than they had left at Walnut Springs. They would find when they reached Abilene, that there was no land, and that the papers they held were worthless. That bastard Krebs.
There had been times when he wanted to quit the owlhoot trail and just forget about Jake Krebs. But Marshal Ben Alexander was right. Krebs had to be stopped and brought to justice. There was just no end to the man’s devilment. He didn’t care who he hurt. He was just a greedy outlaw and a cold-blooded killer.
And Dan wanted him bad now.
The smell of cattle was strong in his nostrils. It was everywhere in Ft. Worth, so thick he couldn’t even smell his sweaty self. But he wanted a hot bath and wanted to shave his beard so he didn’t scare his mother half to death. He kept to the back streets and looked at hotel signs. He was looking for one that offered a hot bath, was cheap, and where he wasn’t likely to run into anyone who knew him.
Not finding anything, he forced himself to ride on, skirting Ft. Worth, south to the Brazos. He followed the crooked line of the river until he saw the familiar face of home in the houses and buildings that formed the town. He exulted in the sight of smoke spiraling up from chimneys and the familiar smell of cattle that grazed along the river outside town, outriders keeping them close while their friends invaded the small town, taking turns at the saloons and the glitter gals, the cafes and the card tables.
Waco lay along the Brazos River, where a bunch of shacks, saloons, gambling parlors, and brothels sat in sight of the river, but were concealed from the main part of town so that the puritans were not offended by these establishments.
He barely remembered this forlorn section of town. He had once ridden down the Brazos, clear to the old capitol, Washington-on-the-Brazos, where the water was salty, and upriver near to New Mexico, with the river running clear and sweet. He remembered those journeys with Jason, when they were both very young and full of adventurous thoughts, and a sadness came over him. How the world had changed, he thought, but he knew that was only a meaningless aphorism. He had changed, too, and that added to the sadness that washed through him like a vagrant tide.
Dogs lay in shadow between buildings, half-asleep, and he saw a cat or two skulking after pigeons roosting on the false fronts. He read the signs on the boarding houses, hotels, and gambling halls. The farther he rode, the fewer the buildings, and these with large spaces in between, empty lots, he supposed, with only one showing any signs of new building, having lumber stacked under tarpaulins and sawhorses standing empty, with kegs of nails nearby and shovels resting upon them, next to hoes and pickaxes.
It was then that Dan saw a man riding toward him, along with another man, and Dan turned into one of the empty lots and rode behind a building where he could watch the men passing. He couldn’t be sure who it was because the rider was too far away for identification. But as he sat there atop Blue watching the street, the horsemen passed by, their horses at a slow walk. Dan got a good look at one of the men and his heart seemed to skip a beat.
Calvin Harris. Calvin had been a good friend when Dan had been in jail, facing death by hanging. Ben Alexan
der had been the only other man who had befriended him during that time.
Dan didn’t recognize the other man, but he appeared to be a cowhand, judging by the crimp of his high-crowned hat, to his well-worn boots. He carried two coiled lariats on his saddle. His clothing was caked with dust and black with sweat stains, and he wore a hog-leg on his hip, had a rifle in his boot. He was a sharp contrast to Harris, who was dressed in a business suit and wore a gray felt Stetson with nary a smudge on it. The two men were talking and did not notice Dan staring at them from behind the building.
The two men stopped and Dan saw them shake hands. The stranger turned his horse and rode to a hitch-ring in front of a hotel called The Double Eagle. Harris rode on and Dan quelled the urge to call out to him.
Harris was the man who had hired Dan and his brother to drive the three hundred head of cattle after all Harris’s hands were murdered by Krebs. Those unfortunates had driven the cattle from the Rio Grande Valley up to Waco. Only they never made it. Krebs murdered them south of town in a little settlement called Belton. Harris had hired Dan, Jason, and Juan to drive the cattle to Abilene. Dan had thought they were Krebs’s cattle, and so had Jason. It was only after the shootings at the stockyard that Dan became suspicious of Krebs. But, by then, it was too late.
The sadness returned as he watched Harris ride on by and disappear. There, he thought, rode an honest man, a man who wanted Krebs brought to justice as much as he and Ben Alexander did. He wished he could have hailed Calvin and perhaps gone to a saloon and had a drink with him, but he couldn’t risk that. He had made a promise to Marshal Ben Alexander and he meant to stick to it. But it was sad to see a friend ride by, a man he admired and respected, and have to skulk in the shadows like a common criminal, without a word passing between them.
