The Trail

by M L Dunn

  Jonas was not far behind the sheriff and he fired at the riders with his rifle and another of them fell. The attackers fled then, seemingly hoping some of the others would stay and put up a fight, but none did. They split into two groups, some of them making their way back through the cloud of dust they’d created, while others headed directly away from the oncoming men.

  July pursued the three that made their way back through the camp. The one in back found he was now the most in harm’s way as no one else had followed him. He decided that, rather than get shot in the back, he’d have better odds of surviving if he pulled up and shielded himself behind his horse before taking on the man chasing him. He jumped from his mount before it even had slowed down much, causing him to stumble and fall, but he rose quickly and went to shoot July, but before he could, the sheriff finished him as he rushed by. The two others rode on, not even bothering to fire at the man pursuing them or even look back at the man who had tried to put up a fight. The only thing they wanted now was to get away with their own lives. Caleb sighted one of them in his rifle, but he decided to let the man live.

  July chased them only a little ways, firing twice more, before letting them escape and returning back to the wagon.

  Patrick O’Hara had been shot twice and his father brought him morphine to dampen his pain, but the boy told him he could not feel anything any longer anyway. He only wanted his father to stay by him and grip his hand. The boy asked what he had thought of him freeing the mules to causes a stir, between his stuttering and present condition it took him nearly a minute to get the words out. His father and all the others claimed, without any deceit, that he had saved all the men in the camp from certain death.

  One of their attackers remained alive also. He lay out in the grass silently for a while, but then called for water. A need to quench his thirst had become greater than any other desire he had then.

  His horse, and those men that came closest to being his friends in life, had both run off. Caleb, Jonas and the sheriff answered his call for water, but they approached him with their guns drawn. They found the man lying in the tall grass with one hand pressed to his chest, blood working its way between his fingers. He had thrown his gun a few feet away to demonstrate he was no longer any threat. They gave him water to drink. He spilled most of it onto his chin, but thanked them for it. They stood above him, turned sideways, not looking directly at him. He wore a faded gray hat, the kind cavalry soldiers had worn during the most recent war, with crossed sabers insignia. This man was white, but not far from him was a Mexican who’d been shot through his abdomen, but had already bled out.

  July asked why they had done this. The man drank from the sheriff’s canteen again before stating that he had not intended to hurt anyone. Deceived he was, hoodwinked, bamboozled.

  “How so?”

  The man lifted his arm with some effort and threw it west. It lay in the grass with its index finger extended. He said there was a hidden canyon forty miles that way where renegades - cattle rustlers, deserters, horse thieves and those willing to be hired out by the Comancheros - congregate and are left mostly unmolested by the law.

  He and the others were recruited from there by a man claiming easy riches for them if they would just ride two days out on the plain to rob a trader he’d spotted a couple of days before who had not sense enough to bring but a couple of guns with him. The man claimed the few men he had seen with the trader did not appear all that tough.

  “He was wrong,” the dying man said, looking directly at July. He went on to tell them the man who had recruited them, had put it like the trader had it coming. The trader was greedy, suppressing the hireling, wanting to keep all the profits from trading for himself. The man promised them that once they showed their superior force, displayed their skill on horseback – for all of them had fought from horseback either the Union, or French occupiers in Mexico – the trader and his men would simply throw away their guns and run off. Then they’d confiscate the wagon and its contents and be on their way and in the by and by; teach the trader a valuable lesson about his own greed. The trader was probably a Union sympathizer anyway.

  July expected the man to say more, but when he fell silent, July looked down and saw the man was dead.

  As they were looking down at the man, Mr. O’Hara came toward them, having waited until his son had passed away before wanting to leave his side.

  “I only asked one thing from you – to stay close to the wagon. They would never have attacked us,” he said pointing at the men lying dead in front of him, “if they hadn’t seen us as an easy target. Now my son is dead – all because you let your child be stolen,” he told Caleb. “You should have watched over her better.” He turned away from them then before his voice faded off as he repeated, “Now my son is dead.”

  The next morning, very early, Caleb stood by the wagon watching Joe and Mr. O’Hara pound a cross into the ground above where they had dug a grave for Patrick O‘Hara. The sheriff stood nearby watching them as well. After they had constructed the small cross, Mr. O’Hara went about replanting some prickly pear atop the grave to fend off any scavengers that might try to get at his son. The scavengers probably wouldn’t have bothered though, as they were left some more easily accessible remains nearby.

  Jonas approached. “What if he don’t care to accompany us any further now?” Jonas asked as he watched Mr. O’Hara. “What are we going to do then?”

  “We can make him still,” July said.

  “How? You gonna shoot him? Steal his wagon?”

  Caleb spoke then, “If he wants to leave, we’ll let him. I don’t want to force him to help me any longer if he don’t want to.”

  Mr. O’Hara was saying a prayer for his boy, but when he was finished he turned around and came toward them.

  “The last thing my son asked from me is that I continue on and help you find your child,” he told Caleb. “So that’s what I’m prepared to do. Let’s get going.”

  After that Mr. O’Hara kept mostly to himself. He sat away from the rest of them at dinner and hitched the seven mules now, to the wagon without Caleb’s help. He did not whistle. Caleb had a horse again, an appaloosa – taken from the man who had tried to make his stand right there by the wagon. The only thing Mr. O’Hara did say was this was why you didn’t come out on the plains without plenty of guns with you – else, like they had found, you find yourself a target.

  He also went on to say the Comanche, when they finally did locate them, might see them the same way – either they would trade with them or being the practical people they were – might find it easier to just rid the world of them..

  That night when they made camp, Joe wasn’t sure, but he thought they were probably in Texas now and something about being in Texas bothered Caleb.

  It seemed whenever he had heard someone speak of having fled or visited Texas, they felt obliged to warn him of the oversize insects and reptiles roaming freely there. Caleb had come to picture Texas, and Mexico even more so, as lands not so removed from prehistoric times. Places where centipedes the size of your longest finger and spiders as big around as the back of your hand were not uncommon sights. There was even a fish in the rivers further south, the sheriff claimed, that had jaws not unlike Nile crocodiles.

  But it was snakes that caused Caleb the most concern. It seemed the worst snakes were found in Texas – deadly, of unnatural size, and naturally disposed to assault humans. Clever they were too, willing to swim after you or drop from a tree onto you, fangs at the ready. So he became more diligent about checking his bedroll each night and his boots each morning. He feared for Mattie also, and one night dreamed she stood behind him while he swung a stick at a giant snake that fought to snatch her away from him. The fight went on in his dream without resolution, until he woke.

  Setting up camp the second day after Patrick O’Hara’s death, Caleb spotted three riders a few hundred yards out, standing, watching them. Mr. O’Hara eyed them through the binoculars.

  “Buffalo
hunters judging by the Sharp’s rifles they’re holding,” he determined.

  One of the hunters left the other two and rode closer. “Is that Sweet Time O’Hara?” the hunter yelled as he approached.

  “It is,” Mr. O’Hara answered, “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Big Eye Howell. Remember me?”

  “Of course,” Mr. O’Hara shouted. “What in the world brought you out to this forsaken spit of earth?”

  “Poor judgment,” Big Eye explained, “And now I’ll have to pay for it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Comanche raided our camp along the Brazos.”

  “Why?”

  “Well for a few months now we’ve been out here taking buffalo. Got us a camp on the Brazos,” Big Eye said, pointing like that would help. “I guess the Comanche didn’t like that. Used to be there was plenty of buffalo to go around. Anyway they came looking for us. Jumped Carlos and Sully while they were squatted relieving themselves one morning. Carlos lost part of his ear and Sully got an inch deep gash in his back from a tomahawk. There were seven of us camped there and the Comanche were smart enough not to rush us. They just ain’t got the numbers they use to. They never showed themselves – I think they know what these Sharp’s can do, so they just lobbed arrows at us from the bluffs. After a couple of days they gave up and left. The only other damage they done was to burn both our wagons and that’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re looking for a wagon?”

  “We were on our way to Fort Worth to hire one out, but now we’ve found you. They elected me, Carlos and Ike to fetch one cause the rest of them claim the Comanche must have tracked us to find our hidden spot on the Brazos. We’ll pay you two dollars each a day to haul our buffalo hides to Fort Worth and another four a day for use of the wagon. That’s a good rate and it’s probably seven or eight days to Fort Worth. We’ll throw in a buffalo hide for each of you. We’ll feed ya too, got plenty of meat. Comanche won’t bother us any. A group that large with rifles out here in the open is way too many for them now days,” Big Eye said, smiling at Mr. O’Hara’s wagon.

  “No thanks,” Mr. O’Hara said.

  “How come?” Big Eye asked, surprised.

  “We got other business to attend to.”

  “Oh. What would that be?”

  “Comanche stole this man’s child,” Sweet Time explained, flipping a thumb toward Caleb. “We’re looking to buy her back.”

  “You need the wagon for that?”

  “They might mistake us for you without it,” Mr. O’Hara claimed.

  “They just might,” Big Eye said, understanding Sweet Time’s reasoning.

  “We heard Big Bear was camped along the Canadian here,” Mr. O’Hara said.

  “Well I don’t which band it was but some were. Since then we saw where they dragged their tepees back north. I don’t know if that helps any,” Big Eye said pointing north. He shifted in his saddle to look behind him and shake his head at his two companions. “Well, I’m eager to get moving so I’ll say, So long and good luck,” he said turning back to Sweet Time, waving goodbye. “I hope Carlos and Ike aren’t too disappointed you’re turning down our offer.”

  July and Jonas watched Big Eye ride back to his two companions and then not long afterwards one of them fired his rifle from quite a distance away toward their camp. The buffalo hunter was not trying to hit any of them, but was trying to knock over the kettle of beans cooking in the fire to show his displeasure at them turning down their offer.

  Chapter 22

  So they headed the direction Big Eye had pointed and the next day, Jonas, riding just a little way ahead of the wagon, cut across a trail where some travois had been drug by not many days before. He waited there to point the tracks out to Mr. O’Hara when he arrived at the spot. Sweet Time caused his mules to start the direction the drag marks were headed.

  It seemed they were getting nearer to finding Big Bear’s camp because that same day they spotted an Indian watching them from a small bluff not too far off. Mr. O’Hara told them the Indian was a Comanche as he signaled to him. The Comanche signaled back, but did not come closer, instead he rode off.

  “That’s okay,” Mr. O’Hara said. “He’ll let the others know we’re out here. I think we’re close now.”

  Starting that night, they each took a turn keeping watch. Jonas was sitting in the back of the wagon, watching the half-moon labor through its arc, when he saw a group of riders, outlined by moonlight, cresting a small hill. He softly called for Mr. O’Hara.

  “What is it?”

  “We got company.”

  Sweet Time stumbled out from underneath his wagon and blanket and stood looking at the riders’ silhouettes. “These ain’t Comanche,” he claimed, “but I don’t think it’s more of the ones we run into the other day.”

  “There’s eleven of them,” the sheriff counted, “Who are you?” he yelled a moment later when they made no move to approach any closer.

  “They probably don’t speak English,” Sweet Time said, but they found at least one of them did when he shouted that he was Juan Romero.

  “Ah hell,” Mr. O’Hara said.

  “You know him?”

  “Not as a friend,” Mr. O’Hara said with some alarm. “He trades out here. Stolen cattle and the like. Likes to surround himself with a mean bunch.”

  “Tell him to come on in.”

  “He ain’t a man you want to be inviting into your camp. Who knows what he was planning before the corporal here spotted him,” Mr. O’Hara said flipping a thumb at Jonas.

  “Maybe something different if I can talk to him a minute.”

  July indicated for Mr. O’Hara to invite Juan and his men in and Sweet Time turned and yelled out to Juan Romero and his men to come on in.

  Joe found his shotgun and climbed in the wagon as the riders approached. They stopped and lined up in a row, their hands lingering near their weapons and in the middle of them was Juan Romero. Juan was a big, heavy man who wore a wide sombrero and mustache and two pistols. Behind Juan, sitting on the same big horse, was a woman.

  “How’d you know we was here?” Mr. O’Hara asked.

  “It’s not much of a secret, you’ve been wandering around in circles for more than a week,” Juan said in a heavy, Mexican accent. “You lost?”

  “No. This is exactly where I want to be.”

  “Only the desperate come out here,” Juan told him. “I thought I’d chased you out of these parts for good.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Why are you back?”

  “I was hoping to trade some inventory I’ve been trying to get rid of for some buffalo hides,” Mr. O’Hara answered as if it was best Juan Romero didn’t know why they were out there.

  “You have any drink to sell?” Juan asked. “My men are thirsty.”

  “No,” Mr. O’Hara answered. “Not enough for all your men. That’s quite a group you have there.”

  “Sí, you have to protect yourself out here. You don’t have many men with you.”

  “Oh, we’re plenty,” Mr. O’Hara said, hoping to convince Juan.

  “I would say, not enough,” Juan said as his sombrero flapped each time he moved or turned. “Why don’t we come in and have one drink, you have enough for just one little drink don’t you?

  “No, not enough.”

  “Maybe we could trade,” Juan said pushing the woman behind him off the horse and then climbing down also. “Look, she is very pretty, maybe you would like to visit with her while my hombres have a drink.”

  “She white?” Mr. O’Hara asked, peering through the darkness.

  “Si, she’s white and very pretty.”

  “Where’d you get her?” July asked.

  “I traded for her just manana. She was muy expensive. I’m going to take her home with me. She’ll bring me a nice profit when I decide to sell her. She is beautiful, no?” Juan said lifting some of her hair.

  “We’ll take her off your hands if you like.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t want to sell her yet,” Juan said, “but I’ll let you spend some time with her.”

  “I’d like to see her returned to her family,” July said.

  “There’s no reward for her,” Juan explained, confused.

  “That don’t matter. Trade her to us and we’ll see she’s returned to her family,” July said removing his badge from his shirt pocket and shoving it toward Juan.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s my badge, I’m a lawman and I’m ordering you to hand over that woman.”

  “Why weren’t you wearing that before?” Juan asked.

  “I don’t sleep well with it on.”

  “You a U.S. Marshall?”

  “No.”

  “Texas Ranger?”

  “Was,” said July.

  “Where you work from now?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Oh,” Juan said laughing. “We don’t see many Kansas lawmen out here.”

  “That’s probably fortunate,” July said. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars reward for her.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “What’s she worth to ya then?”

  “No, no, no,” Juan said shaking his head and his sombrero followed. “The question is; what’s she worth to you,” he said pointing at the sheriff. “My men don’t want to part with her, you should forget about the idea before there’s trouble.”

  “Make it sixty,” Mr. O’Hara offered.

  “No, I think I’ll hold onto her.”

  “I’m ordering you to turn her over to us,” July said forcefully.

  “You are way out of your jurisdiction,” Juan said laughing. “That badge don’t mean nothing out here.”

  “What if I was to blow a hole through your head,” July shouted back. “That mean something to ya?”