by M L Dunn
“Keep his head up,” Sam yelled, when the pony tried to toss Caleb then and Caleb jerked the horse’s head up.
For a full minute the horse fought, but then it suddenly settled down and Caleb led it around the yard in a large circle a few times, before riding up to the porch.
Allison approached Caleb then and handed him a small purse she’d been holding. “Caleb… I want ya to do whatever it takes get Mattie back,” she said determinedly. “That’s all the money we have, but don’t you hesitate to use it if it will get Mattie back somehow,” she said, stepping back the moment he took it from her.
“I won’t,” Caleb said, wondering if such wild, unlearned savages as would steal a child would have any use for money.
“Don’t give up on her,” Allison instructed him. “Some men would give it a good try, but if that didn’t do it they’d quit and leave it in God’s hands. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t know what you might have to do, but bring Mattie back,” Allison pleaded. “I know it’s a hard thing I’m asking you to do, but don’t quit on her. She’s just seven years old and she don’t know any life but this one with us. Please don’t leave her alone.”
Allison was holding Caleb there with her gaze, her eyes trained on him.
“I know she can be brought back to us,” Allison said firmly. “Now go,” she said beginning to cry. She gathered Abby up in her arms and stood holding her tightly.
“I’ll bring her back,” Caleb promised, trying to give his wife and child a reassuring look before spurring his horse after Sam Bartlett and Allison carried Abby out towards the road to watch them leave.
Chapter 5
July quickly crossed the shallow stream and rode out on the plain the other side to find the Indian Caleb had killed. He found Steam Carter already there, pacing around the area.
“Comanche,” Steam said pointing at the warrior as July slid off his horse.
“Young too,” July said looking down at him lying sprawled on the ground.
“It don’t make sense for Comanche to stray this far north to take captives.”
“These things never make sense.”
“I counted about a twenty ponies,” Steams said pointing out a number of horse prints all around the spot.
“I doubt there’s that many braves,” July said. “This far from their lodges, they probably brought some extra ponies with them,” he determined. July looked back over his shoulder across the stream toward the Havel place then. “You been over there?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“She’s okay,” Steam said meaning Mrs. Havel. “She spotted ‘em rushing up from the creek. Luckily she had the sense to run and hide. Lucky for her it was this time of year. I mean when the corn is tall. I guess they didn’t look for her too long before they went and ransacked the house.”
“Ride over there and help my deputy recruit some men to run down these killers. Just them that got decent enough horses.” Steam Carter mounted his horse. “Don’t bring Hans back with you,” July though to instruct Steam then.
Mr. Havel was not a small or scarce man, and July knew any horse would be sorely tested giving chase with him atop it. Besides he didn’t like having the man around. Mr. Havel entering the saloon in town was one of the few things that could make July want to leave.
“As soon as Caleb Evans shows, bring what men you got,” July shouted after Steam Carter as he rode off.
Their home was ashes and charred remains left there for the Havel’s to pick through. Smoke rushed out the doorway like out a dragon’s mouth and Mr. Havel stood in the midst of it telling the deputy what the Indians had done to his home and what they’d stolen from him.
“They shot two of my hogs, and they stole my violin. Why in damnation would they want my violin?” Mr Havel asked the young deputy.
Tom Durrant hoped Mr. Havel did not expect an answer from him, because he certainly did not have a good one to offer him. “You were pretty lucky considering,” he said.
“I suppose.”
“You should go with Caleb after Mattie,” Mrs. Havel told her husband then, standing next to him.
“I will,” Mr. Havel said looking behind the deputy and seeing Caleb riding onto his farm. “Here he comes now.”
“I can go,” Mr. Havel told the deputy the moment he asked for volunteers to join the sheriff and him.
“No, the sheriff wanted you to stay here,” Steam Carter interrupted, pointing at Mr. Havel. “He wants you to take care of the Evans’ family while Mr. Evans is away.”
“He said that?”
“Yes, said you’d be doing him a big favor if you’d stay.”
“I’ll will then,” Mr. Havel said proudly before turning to Caleb. “God be with you getting Mattie back. I’ll watch out for your family while you’re gone.” Mr. Havel was fond of the Evans family, Caleb in particular because Caleb Evans never avoided him the way some other men did.
“I’d appreciate that,” Caleb said, wheeling his horse around to head towards where the sheriff was waiting the other side of the creek.
Tom Durrant crossed the stream leading about a dozen men, but when they reached the spot where July was waiting, several of them told the sheriff they needed to go home first for their guns or to check on their families. July told them not to bother, just to go on home, but not before he gathered all their canteens and an extra horse and everything else he thought might come in useful. Sam Bartlett had to borrow a rifle from another man since he hadn’t brought one with him, but he was willing to accompany the sheriff starting right then.
July went and stood at the head of the assembled group of men then. “They stole Mattie Evans and Rebecca Hilliard,” he began. “They killed John Hilliard,” he said, but then, as if that wasn’t how he wanted to leave things, he told them they could get Mattie Evans and Rebecca Hilliard back.
“They took Mr. Havel’s violin and some other things,” Tom Durrant thought he should mention and then immediately regretted he had.
“Well I hope we don’t recover that violin,” July muttered walking over and pointing at a spot on the ground. “They left quite a trail for us to follow. They probably figure we won’t be able to keep up with them, but I plan to. That there is the print of Aaron Hilliard’s buggy horse. It’s a big Morgan, and its print is easy to spot among these others,” July said, pointing down at it. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 6
Some men were prone to thinking of Comanche as damn near superhuman, while others saw nothing worth praising about them. Either error could prove costly. The former had caused men to give up too easily trying to take back a captive from them, while the latter had led more than one man to wander confidently in among them and get himself killed.
July knew the truth to lie somewhere in between. Experience had taught him so, since this was not his first time chasing Comanche. His opinion of them was that they were the best horsemen on the plains, but other than that he didn’t give them a lot of thought.
July figured the Comanche would push hard for forty or more miles. Then they would stop and rest their horses, thinking no white man’s horse would be able to travel as far and as fast as their ponies. July though, saw one reason for hope - the Morgan horse. It was going to tire sooner and travel slower than the Comanche ponies and as long as the Comanche accommodated it, July figured he had a chance to catch them.
Headed west of the Havel’s farm, July and the others passed by some empty sod homes, left to rot and cave-in on themselves now like Halloween pumpkins come November. Their former tenants having picked up and moved on after several failed crops and many unanswered prayers. The land slowly being reclaimed by bluestem and buffalo grass and soon, any mark or sign that someone had once tried to make a go of it there would cease to exist.
July had but five men with him; Caleb Evans, the two ranch hands - Carter and Parson - Sam Bartlett and his deputy Tom Durrant. Five good men with him was enough July thought; but at that point all he knew was
that he had five men with him. The truth was he thought it more important he have five good horses with his, for just about any man capable of staying atop a horse and somewhat skilled at firing a rifle would do. The horses mattered most, because the Comanche would test them severely. Except for Caleb’s colorful paint, which stood out from the more uniform bays and sorrels the rest of them rode, July figured any of the Comanche horses to be superior. These horses were used to heading for the shelter of a barn come the close of each day and he figured the men astride them were similarly accustomed.
The marks the Comanche ponies cut into the ground were easy enough to follow until dark, but then, during the night there was little they could do but keep pace, hoping not to stray too far off their trail. Steam Carter and Bill Parson rode for the High Water ranch. Sam Bartlett, past fifty, owned the livery in town and was more than a capable horseman if not much for carrying a gun. July had heard Caleb Evans had fought in the war. Although, since this area had been settled by Pennsylvanians led here by an Episcopalian minister – the sheriff knew Caleb had fought for the Union and had probably been in the infantry.
Tom Durrant, his deputy, was really no more than a boy. July had found him a year before in Abilene sitting by the stockyards reading a book. The sheriff, like most others drawn or finding themselves in Abilene, preferred the kinds of entertainment offered in the town’s saloons than those found in a book. Those who refrained from such kinds of diversion usually were not found there and the sheriff was curious as to why this boy was.
So he asked. It seems Tom Durrant, all of nineteen, had come west with the railroad, but he didn’t care to accompany it any further that direction. The boy and others had requested to leave the employment of the railroad, but were denied and even warned not to try. In fact several pairs of large men were stationed on the outskirts of Abilene to discourage such thinking. It just so happened that the county had an opening for a deputy and the sheriff offered it to the boy right then. Tom Durrant, more eager to leave the railroad than to start a new line of work, accepted after July assured him no railroad employee would stop him from leaving. July did tell him though, that there was nothing he could do about the back pay owed him.
Within an hour it was dark, and when the six of them came to a thin stream, not more than a step across, the sheriff halted the group.
“This is a nice pace you’re leading us at sheriff,” Sam Bartlett said, “but I can’t see where you’re following any trail.”
“I lost it,” July said matter-of-factly. “Out here there is nothing come daylight that will prevent us from seeing twenty miles any direction. Tomorrow they’ll throw up some dust for us to spot, but for now I just want to keep pace with them. Where does this stream lead?” he asked Steam Carter.
“Back towards the Arkansas,” Steam said. “I doubt they would follow it.”
“Is there much water between here and the Cimarron?”
“There’s a few more streams, but none likely to have much water in them this time of year.”
“I suspect they’re heading straight towards the Cimarron,” July said. “How far is it from here?”
“A ways still. They might make it there by late tomorrow.”
“How far is the High Water from here?”
“Hour if you are hurrying - little more in the dark.”
“Bill, I want you to ride there and tell Mr. Schott what’s happened,” July said turning towards Bill Parson. “I want you to hurry, so I’m going to give you the extra horse in case yours steps in a hole or something,” he said handing him its reins. “Have Mr. Schott send some men after us with extra horses.”
“That will make only five of us in the meantime,” Caleb said.
“Five rifles will scare them off easily enough,” July explained. “Tell them to come a hurrying,” he told Bill Parson just before slapping his horse and sending him off.
Afterwards, July approached Caleb as their horses drank from the stream. There wasn’t much water in the streambed so they bent down and cupped the water in their hands for the horses to drink out of. “There ain’t a lot of cover out this way,” July explained. “The ground is bare mostly, so we should be able to spot sign of them once the sun’s up. For now we just need to keep pace with them. If they get too far ahead of us we’ll never catch them.”
Caleb nodded. July walked over to Steam Carter then and told him he thought there should be some sign of where the Comanche had crossed the sandy creek they were standing in and he sent him looking for it. Steam started off and July walked over to Tom Durrant. He sent Tom off the other direction with the same instructions. Tom rode off downstream and it happened that July and the others had not even left the creek bed yet when they noticed the deputy down a ways from them leading his horse around in a circle. July stood wondering at the boy a moment before mounting his horse and starting towards him.
Birds, the sheriff had found, were able to draw the boy’s attention away from his work. As July made his way towards him now, he saw his deputy slide off his horse and begin darting around the streambed. July thought he must be after some rare or brightly colored bird he’d come across. Kansas was a natural highway for migrating birds the boy had told him.
July had taken to the boy more than he ever thought he would have, but not because of his ability as a deputy. The boy was sensible and intelligent, but the act of confronting other men caused him fear. It was hard to fault the boy since July had started out the same way, but July had since overcome any fear he had of other men. He’d learned from some of the most capable men in Texas and on the frontier. What those men had taught him foremost was to act first and act decisively.
“Apologize later if you need to, but always hit a man hard enough that you gain control of him,” July had instructed Tom. As much as July was suited to be a lawman though, Tom Durrant wasn’t, and he knew the boy hoped to vacate his position in the not too distant future.
When July reached the spot where his deputy was darting around the bed of the stream like he was competing in an Easter egg hunt, he found instead he was gathering up some playing cards that lay scattered across the creek bed or caught in nearby bushes.
“I found these,” Tom said excitedly, holding out a handful of cards towards July. “They probably belong to Mr. Havel.”
July accepted the cards and held them up in the moonlight. There was no pair or much order among the cards, but the sheriff thought he held a winning hand. He showed the cards to Caleb and Sam Bartlett when they joined him there.
“Must have been one hell a card game,” July said climbing off his horse. He walked around the streambed studying the sandy bed, hoping to spot something. Spotting a jumble of horse prints, July squatted next to them, took a match out of his coat pocket and lit it, looking them over. Not finding what he was looking for there, he threw the match down, walked to another spot, and lit another match. This time he found what he was looking for.
“That’s Aaron Hilliard’s Morgan,” he said pointing at a print before throwing the match down. He followed the big horse’s tracks out of the streambed and onto the plain. “They’re headed straight for the Cimarron. Even better they haven’t split up.”
“Should we fire a rifle and get Steam back here?” Sam asked.
“No,” said July. “They might be close enough they’d hear it. Tom you hurry and catch him.”
The deputy soon caught up with Steam Carter and led him back to the others. They rode through the night and when the sun rose the next day they spotted places where the ground had a thin dry crust covering it that broke when stepped on and the Comanche horses passing over it had left a noticeable mark for them to follow.
Chapter 7
Flathead and Black Horse wanted to push on towards the Cimarron. Neither had wanted to go near the white settlements when they discovered them there, but the young warriors had pleaded with Owl Feather to let them raid a farm. The young warriors were angry to find whites had moved farther out on the plain, and they blam
ed them now for the absence of buffalo. A hastily planned raid, had netted such results - one warrior was dead and they had little to show for their venture but a child, a slow horse, a white woman slowing losing her mind, and some other useless items from the farm house they’d ransacked. Now Black Horse didn’t want to rest till they reached the other side of the Cimarron, thinking the whites wouldn’t pursue them the other side of it, figuring the river clearly suggested a turning back point.
They would have reached the river if Owl Feather had been willing to abandon the big horse he’d stolen, but it was all he had to show for the raid and he was reluctant to part with it despite its lacking any apparent usefulness. The big animal had slowed them down and now they were camped in a dry ravine on the plain, still a ways from the river, allowing the big horse time to recover. Owl Feather said they would eat the horse if it was good for nothing else.
The young warriors pulled the woman off the horse and began humiliating her. Another of them began plucking the strings of the strange musical instrument. Another began to taunt the child, threatening to cut off one of her fingers if she was to cry.
Black Horse told Flathead they should leave and go on alone, but unexpectedly Flathead asked Black Horse to hurry and take the child from the young warriors. Black Horse was just in the mood to put the young warriors down, so before even asking Flathead why, he strode toward the young warriors. He grabbed the violin from one and used it to slap the one nearest the child with it in the head before throwing the now broken instrument out into the grass. Black Horse told them he was taking the child and none of them dared protest.
He looked over at the two by the woman and told them they’d humiliated her enough, and to let her alone now. If she was to become Comanche, it was best they started treating her like one, he told them. The young warriors appealed to Owl Feather, but Owl Feather only said that he didn’t care to hear the woman screaming anymore. The young warriors left the woman lying in the grass, staring ahead blankly and then Owl Feather sent one of them back to see if they were being followed.
