by M L Dunn
July dropped his hands and fired, hitting the warrior in the leg purposely, and the arrow sailed harmlessly over his head. Conditions deteriorated quickly from there. Half the Comanche brought their weapons to bear at him while the other half fled. A well-aimed, but fortunately from a distance, lance was thrown which July was able to step aside of. An arrow zipped past him to lodge itself in the ravine wall behind him.
The sheriff moved just to be moving and he drew his other pistol from behind his back and fired rapidly at the Comanche to encourage them to flee also, or at least rush their aim. He fired both guns quickly and randomly, hitting no more of them, but chasing them all off. He holstered one gun, dropped to a knee next to his saddle and drew it up over him like a blanket, while quickly reloading. The fleeing warriors lobbed arrows back at him, but July was hunkered down low in the ravine and none hit their mark.
July suddenly remembered Mattie Evans and turned to spot her, hoping she remained where he had last seen her, but the two Comanche had lifted her on a horse and were sprinting away with her. As he was watching Mattie Evans being carried away, a bullet whizzed past him.
The Comanche leader, about a hundred yards out, was firing at July with his own rifle. Squatted down in the ravine behind his saddle, July didn’t present much of a target and the warrior’s first two shots struck the wall of the ravine behind him, but then a bullet did locate him, hitting the saddle.
The saddle deflected the shot enough that it did not strike him directly, but the blow was enough to send him sprawling backwards, the wind knocked out of him. He lay in the middle of the ravine trying to regain his breath, while out of the corner of his eye he saw the Comanche leader, encouraged now, spurring his horse back towards him. More bullets landed in the bed of the ravine or passed just over his head as the warrior tried to shoot from horseback, but it was evident he didn’t have much experience at this. Somewhere in the distance between them, the warrior threw the rifle to the ground when it clicked empty and he drew his bow.
July felt to be moving as slow as if he were underwater, and drawing air into his lungs was just about the same, but suddenly his lungs restarted, he was able to move and he rose to his knees and forded himself behind his saddle. He lifted his pistol at the rushing warrior, but before he could fire he was forced to jerk the saddle upwards to block an arrow.
The force of it striking the saddle caused it to slam against him and knock him off balance again, but not as violently this time. He kept himself upright by thrusting his hand out, but then righted himself and fired as the horse and Comanche rushed past him. He had to dive out of the horse’s way, and a leg of the horse struck him, spinning him around to land on his stomach. An arrow landed just above his head. He quickly rolled over, rose to a sitting position and fired several times and the warrior toppled forward and fell from his horse.
The rest of the Comanche had regrouped some four hundred yards away on the plain and now were rushing toward him. July swung his pistol around and aimed well over their heads to make his bullets travel further. The rest of the Comanche pulled up. Spotting his rifle lying on the ground in front of the ravine, July ran to it and then ran back with it into the ravine. He found some shells in his saddlebag and reloaded the Winchester. The Comanche were still watching him from some distance and a rifle shot or two was sent his direction, so he answered with his rifle and the Comanche did one by one turn and retreat.
When the Comanche finally retreated, July rose and ran over to his deputy who he’d seen fall during the fighting. He passed by a stunned and silent, but not further harmed, Rebecca Hilliard and knelt beside Tom who lay on his back, his hand pressed to the side of his head and his feet and legs kicking out, involuntarily. A stream of bright-red blood seeped through the boy’s hair like the wringing of a wet dishrag and July lifted the boy’s head and parted the hair behind his ear and upon examination found a fairly good size break there oozing out blood. He placed his thumb along it and pressed like he’d seen field surgeons do and turned the boy over on his side so he could breathe better. The deputy’s eyes focused on him.
“You hurting?” was the only thing July could think to ask.
Tom Durant seemed to want to speak, but little more than a gurgle escaped him.
“I need some help,” the sheriff yelled back over his shoulder at Rebecca Hilliard who sat in a daze on the ground and responded little to his initial plea. July yelled more forcefully at her a second time and she turned towards him more in reflex than anything deliberate. “Bring me that blanket,” he said pointing at a horse blanket lying near her and she rose slowly and started towards it.
Blood coursed near the deputy’s eyes, but his arm would not more than jerk a little from where it lay next to him, so July wiped it away for him with his free hand. The sheriff’s thumb helped staunch the blood flow, but the boy was losing consciousness. Again Tom attempted to speak, but his speech was slurred and forced and at best he sounded like a man speaking underwater.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” July said. “Tell me again.”
The deputy’s hand, which had been tapping on the ground like a telegraph operator’s, abruptly ceased and the sheriff knew he would never know what message the boy had wanted to deliver. He could only speculate.
July sat, still staunching the blood flow. “I’m sorry I brought you out here,” he finally said. “No need to fear where you’re headed. You lived a good life, if only a short one.”
Mrs. Hilliard stood next to him now with the blanket and July took it from her and spread it over Tom Durrant. He gathered up the boy’s hat, which was threatening to blow away or be covered with dust. He stood over Tom a moment before telling Rebecca Hilliard he’d take her home.
The horses had all fled, except for the sheriff’s and Mr. Hilliard’s Morgan, that had not run far off. “I’d best catch them horses before they wander off,” he told her. “I’ll not be long.”
July caught the horses and led them back into the ravine and slung Tom’s body over the Morgan. Despite her being in shock, it took little coaxing for him to convince Rebecca Hilliard into following him back towards the small ridge, but she kept several paces behind him and said not a word.
Once there, July took Tom’s body down and placed him neatly on the ground. He retrieved a canteen of water for Mrs. Hilliard which she drank from without seeming to understand where it had come from. She sat in a heap, not responding, and would not lift her head or look at him.
July climbed to the top of the ridge and ducked down when he saw some Comanche returning to the ravine. He retrieved his rifle off his horse, slowly enough though not to alert Mrs. Hilliard, and hurried back to the top of the ridge. He positioned himself just far enough up the ridge to see over it.
Less than half the Comanche had returned and Mattie Evans was not among them. They’d come to retrieve their dead and the sheriff was content to let them go about it undisturbed. They looked his direction often, and it seemed they wanted to come after him, but they thought better off it. July sat near the top of the ridge, occasionally lifting up just high enough to keep an eye on them.
They soon left and July found himself trying to recall the town in Indiana where Tom was from so he could send a letter. He could not remember the name although he was certain he heard his deputy mention it more than once. He figured Mr. Hilliard would know because Tom had sent letters home regularly through him. The sheriff found he could see a long ways sitting atop the ridge and the distant horizon seemed like a canvas one might fill with images from their past.
Chapter 10
Caleb reached the Cimarron before the sun’s light did. The river was lined by short bluffs on both banks with little in the way of vegetation growing atop them, but some squat bushes. The Indian pony had become annoying, yanking on the reins as he walked ahead of it, wanting to rest, so when Caleb reached the river he tied it to a bush and left it there. He carried his rifle in anticipation of coming across the Comanche at any moment.
&nbs
p; Maybe he should have let the sheriff take his pony. He was not as confident in his abilities as was the sheriff, but it was much too late now. He walked only a little ways before he nearly fired at a swaying bush that looked to him in the dim light, like a Comanche readying to throw a blanket over him.
As the sky started to lighten Caleb was able to see along the bluff for some miles ahead and along the course of the river until it disappeared from view around a bend. He walked up to and past the next several turns of river. He was hoping to see smoke rising from a campfire or hear their horses whinny. He decided to wade across the river and walk along the opposite bluff. The current was slow and didn’t even reach his knees and after he’d come out of it he climbed to the top of the river bank and looked around. He saw nothing, just a flat, ugly land that went on and on for as far as the eye could see.
He was undecided if should continue on or maybe start back toward the sheriff. While a part of him was thinking over his immediate concerns another part of him was wishing he’d never sent Mattie after the cow. The thought that he should get back to his horse was interrupted by the regret that he and Allison had not settled on a lesser, but less remote piece of land the other side of the Arkansas. About the only thing he could decide was that he wished he’d never heard of Kansas. It seemed he’d made an endless number of poor decisions, any of which made differently would mean Mattie would be with him now.
He decided he’d head back. Hurrying across the river, he stumbled in the current and fell, soaking his clothing. So when he came out of the river, he removed his boots and clothing and stood squeezing the water out of them. He slung his shirt and pants over a bush to dry and lay down, thinking he’d rest for a short while. He was very tired, except for his mind which raced back one moment to Pennsylvania and then returned to Kansas.
Somehow he fell into a shallow sleep, but was awakened shortly and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and reached out for his clothing and found it little less-damp. He went to lay back down, the need for rest pulling him back down as strongly as gravity, but he sat up again for he was certain something had caused him to wake. He sat, looking up and down the course of the river, but saw nothing moving and heard nothing other than the flow of water past him. He stood and picked up his rifle and strapped on his revolver, but did not bother with his damp clothes. He climbed to the top of the bluff to look around and bolted into a run when he saw Mattie.
The Comanche were approaching the river just two hundred yards from him. This time he planned on following behind them, just out-of-sight, until they stopped for the night, but he needed to get his horse; realizing he’d made a poor choice in separating from it. He did not want the Comanche to spot him so he jumped from the top of the bluff to the river. He rose soaking wet and started running along the surer footing near the bank, barefoot and in his underwear. When he came around a small bend, the Comanche came back into sight and he ducked out of view. Caleb waited for them to cross the river and scramble out the other side and then he quickly crossed the river, thinking he would get an idea of the direction they were headed.
On hands and knees he scrambled up the river bank, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a warrior on horseback coming quickly towards him, an arrow already strung. As Caleb dove back towards the river, he felt a stabbing pain just above his shoulder blade. He fell into the current and let it carry him a ways. When he rose up he expected them to be waiting for him, but he found himself alone along the stretch of river. He could not reach the arrow in his back, so he left it there and deciding his plan could still be carried out he ran to find his pony. It took him more than just a few minutes to get back to it, and he untied it from the bush he’d secured it to and went to slide atop it. The uncooperative pony slid away from him and the rein slipped out of his hand. He went to catch it and the pony backed away again. He felt light headed and could feel blood dripping down his back. He meant to just rest on his knee a moment, but instead collapsed.
Chapter 11
Steam Carter and Sam Bartlett had shown up later the day of the sheriff’s encounter with the Comanche, leading Mr. Schott and a half dozen of his hired hands. July sent Sam Bartlett and another man back with Tom’s body and Rebecca Hilliard, and then the rest of them started towards the Cimarron after Caleb Evans. As they approached the river, one of Mr. Schott’s men spotted something and he rode up to Mr. Schott and pointed at it.
It was Caleb’s pony wandering around. They searched nearby and soon Steam Carter fired his rifle into the air to signal he had found something. When July reached them Steam Carter was turning Caleb on his side. He had an arrow sticking out his back, but Steam Carter yelled that he was not dead, but he had lost a fair amount of blood.
“Just passed out,” Steam told July.
Mr. Schott arrived and looked down from his horse. “He ain’t got no clothes on,” he pointed out.
Caleb stirred and rose to his knees. “I seen her,” he told Steam Carter. “I seen Mattie,” he said when the sheriff appeared just in front of him.
“Hand me a canteen,” Steam Carter said to the man closest to him.
“He’s just exhausted,” Mr. Schott mentioned.
Caleb drank.
“I know better than to think you’ve been messing with some man’s wife, but where are your clothes?” July asked.
“I fell in the river. I’d set them on a bush to dry.”
“How’d you get that arrow in your shoulder?” Steam Carter asked.
“I spotted the Comanche coming towards the river and I ran to get my horse so I could follow them. I guess they spotted me and one of them tried to kill me.”
“Damn near successfully,” July said. “We seen your child too.”
“When?”
“Just hours after you split from us. Turned out they was camped not far from us,” July said. “Tom spotted them once it was light and we approached them and tried to trade for your child, but things didn’t work out. There was a fight and they escaped with her. You must have seen them afterwards.”
“How’d this fight start?”
“They started it.”
“Build a fire right here,” Mr. Schott ordered his men pointing at the ground.
“How long since you seen her?” July asked.
Caleb tried to get it right in his mind. “This morning,” he told the sheriff. “What time is it now?”
“Be dark in couple of hours.”
“I meant to go after her. I don’t know what happened.”
“You’ve been awake for two nights now. You’re worn out and bleeding. You collapsed trying to mount your horse.”
July led some of Mr. Schott’s men across the river to look for the Comanche while Mr. Schott and another man cut the arrow out of Caleb’s shoulder. When July returned after dark he told Caleb they had failed to find any sign of the Comanche other than right where they had come out of the river. They had found Caleb’s boots and things and July handed him them. .
“What do I do now?” Caleb asked.
“You’ll make a report at Fort Dodge,” Mr. Schott said. “The Army can send a troop after her. They have scouts on their payroll who might know where to find Mattie.”
“That will take a while,” Caleb said.
“Take Steam Carter with you. We’ll send word back to your wife,” Mr. Schott promised. “I’ll lend you some money,” he said reaching in his pockets. “Maybe the sheriff will ride there with you,” Mr. Schott said looking at July.
“Fort Dodge is a bit out of my jurisdiction.” July answered hoping they’d understand his meaning, but Mr. Schott thought July was worried about his job. He told July he’d explain things to the rest of the county council, of which he was its most influential member. Caleb though, knew what the sheriff had meant; there was little that could be done in Fort Dodge towards getting Mattie back.
Chapter12
Allison Evans stepped out on her porch every half hour or so during the day like there was a clock there she could check for the t
ime. There wasn’t any clock though. What the porch did offer her was a view beyond the fields, out over the long stretch of open plain. From there she expected someone to come with word for her, or better yet, to see Caleb and Mattie returning. She spent most of her time imagining what could be happening beyond there.
Near dusk, three days after Mattie had been taken, she spotted a figure rising from there and she waited for it to take shape and she wondered. Finally she could make out a rider leading another horse with a body slung over it. Allison had to reach out and steady herself against a post of the porch. She watched until the rider and two horses were swallowed up by the cornfield. And then minutes later she spotted the man’s bobbing hat coming towards her.
“It’s not Caleb,” she heard the man yell. “He’s still after Mattie,” the voice yelled a moment later. Allison watched Sam Bartlett emerge from out the corn. He dismounted and left the horse carrying Tom Durrant there and walked the remaining way to the Evans’ home.
“It’s Tom Durrant,” he told Allison, swinging his hat back behind him and then beginning to work the brim of it nervously. “Caleb’s still after Mattie.”
“What happened?”
“Sheriff and Tom caught up to them and tried to trade for your child and Mrs. Hilliard,” Sam Bartlett explained. “But something went wrong and there was a fight. The Comanche fled, taking your child with them. Tom was killed in the fight, but the sheriff took Rebecca Hilliard back,” Sam Bartlett told her. “I left her with Mrs. Schott at their ranch.”
“Where was Will?”
“He’d gone on towards the Cimarron looking for them.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well I don’t really know, but the sheriff and some of Mr. Schott’s men went after him.”
