by Jack Martin
‘I think he’s someone much like him, son. And that’s all that matters.’
It was strange but with Arkansas now out of sight Jake could still sense his eyes upon them, feel him watching them, protecting them. He knew that with Arkansas Smith out there no one would be able to come within two miles of the camp without them knowing about it. And if those that came brought evil intent with them then the hot lead from Arkansas’s guns would swiftly show them the error in their thinking.
They were safe; Jake didn’t doubt that.
Just as safe as they would have been tucked up in bed at their new Kansas City home. Well maybe not quite that safe, they still had the elements to contend with and a storm felt imminent, but they were certainly safe from another surprise attack from the bandits.
From the Diary of Ellie-May Preston
The man we called Arkansas Smith, set Jake’s ankle properly and once more Jake uttered nary a groan though he did fall unconscious for awhile afterwards. It is strange but it now feels natural to have Arkansas with us. It is as if he is part of the family and not the stranger he truly is.
There is the feeling of a storm in the air, which worries Jake mightily though he does not share his concerns, else he worry us. I however know him so well and I can read his concerns in his eyes. His lips may remain silent but I can hear what he is thinking. It is one of the things that make us so strong together, that we have some kind of bond that almost seems supernatural.
I now feel easier about the journey still ahead of us. Maybe I too, like Lucy, am starting to believe that this man Arkansas Smith is the answer to our prayers. He might very well be. It is strange how Jake told us all the legends of the man called Tumbleweed and then this Arkansas Smith turns up to fill the role of this phantom of the imagination. Of course I am not suggesting for a moment that Arkansas is Tumbleweed – I leave such fancies to Lucy and her father – but he has certainly provided us with the protection of the fancy in the fairytale.
And what a tale of fancy it is for Jake told it all to us just as his father and his father before told it. It is indeed a wild fancy but one, which provides comfort for, those who chose to believe.
No one knew Tumbleweed’s real name but the legend stated that he had been born in 1730 and was among the first whites to ever reach the land we now call America. It also told that he and his mother were the only survivors of a shipwreck, washed ashore like driftwood. And when the woman had ventured inland seeking sustenance for her and the child she had developed a fever and fallen down dead. Her infant child, then no more than six months old, was found by a pack of wolves and taken off by them, where they raised him as one of their own. As the baby became a boy and then a man he had learned the way of the wolf and know how to survive in the most inhospitable of lands. But the man, still with no name, knew that he was different from the wolves, which were his only family. He was said to have left his wolf pack and started wandering the wilds, carving out the trail they had named Tumbleweed. He was said to have been given the name by an Indian tribe who felt he had restless feet that always caused him to wander’ He would never stay in one place too long, and like a tumbleweed blown on the wind he would always be on the move.
It was said that he could speak many languages; both those of men and animals and many tales were told of his incredible feats. It was said that he had once rode a whirlwind tornado as if it were a bronco and would use rattlesnakes as lassos. He was said to have saved a wise medicine man from sure death by holding a conversation with the grizzly bear that was all set to eat the wise old Indian. The medicine man had possessed great power and as a gift to Tumbleweed he had gifted eternal life so that the man could forever protect those that travelled the hills he so loved.
As the years went by the man called Tumbleweed had continued to roam the hills, carving out the trail that now held his name. It was said that those who travelled the trail, as long as their hearts held no evil intent, would benefit from the protection of Tumbleweed. They would need fear man nor beast for Tumbleweed, always unseen, would never be too far away as he watched over them.
Jake claims there is some truth in the folklore, if only the tiniest grain, but I’m afraid that I am much more pragmatic than my darling husband, and have no time for such fancies. Folklore – fake lore would be a better word.
Thirteen
The storm broke just after the dawn and cut short their breakfast.
The storm had been brewing for days but when it did come, riled up into a fury, it was sudden, seemingly without warning. One moment the sky was slightly overcast and then in a blink of an eye it was raining with a ferocity that raped the ground, penetrating with enough force to spit up little clouds of dirt and spook the horses. Lightening, shooting through the sky like luminous serpents, lit up the surroundings.
‘We’ve got to move,’ Arkansas had to shout to be heard over the raging wind that lifted his hat from his head and sent it spinning through the air. Thankfully the hat became caught up in the tall grasses maybe twenty feet away. Arkansas ran and retrieved it, pushed it down further onto his head and tied it with his bandana, knotting the now shabby but once gay material, beneath his chin.
‘It’s going to get worse,’ Jake shouted and stumbled as he tried to pull his own horse under control. Damn and blast the broken ankle. He was useless.
‘You drive the wagon,’ Arkansas yelled. ‘Hitch your horse behind. I’ll lead and everyone else gets inside the wagon. ‘It’s blowing mighty fierce now. Let’s keep moving for as long as we can, cover as much ground as possible.’ The rain hammered into his face, drowning out most of his words.
Jake got the general gist though and he tied his horse next to the mule behind the wagon. Both beasts were skittish and shook their heads against the relentless pelt of the rain. Jake bowed his own head and using the side of the wagon box to support himself, he slid himself across to the front and then climbed up onto the box. He popped his head through the canvas and smiled at his wife and children before turning back to the matter at hand.
‘We’re ready,’ he shouted.
‘Then let’s move,’ Arkansas yelled and spurred his horse into action. The creature bowed its own head and started to trudge forward, the ground beneath its hoofs now a mud bath.
Jake pulled his hat down low to shield his eyes from the worse of the rain and he yanked his bandana up over the lower half of his face. He guessed he must look like a bandit, not that anyone would be able to see him through this rain that was coming down so thick and fast, it was like riding through a waterfall.
If only the storm had held off until they had reached the Great Forest which was still, even in the best of conditions, a good day’s ride away but at the moment it might as well have been a million miles distant.
Soon, Jake feared, if the rain persisted, they would have to stop as the wheels of the wagon refused to move and sank into the ground. Already the thick mud was sticking to the wheels and made the wagon all the more ponderous for the horses to pull. And the wind was hitting the canvas of the wagon, which made steering difficult, the canvas acting as a sail, trapping the wind.
The pace had become that of a slow crawl and Jake had to squint his eyes against the relentless driving rain. Arkansas couldn’t have been more than ten feet ahead of them, riding carefully, ensuring the wagon wasn’t driven into a newly formed hazard, and yet Jake couldn’t even see him though the storm.
Thunder sounded in the distance. Impossibly loud, it echoed and seemed to shake the very ground. A few seconds of deathly silence followed before the thunder sounded again, even louder this time and then a sheet of lightening brightened up the cobalt sky and momentarily gave the world a brilliant glow.
Inside the wagon Ellie-May was reading to the girls and she had to raise her voice over the deafening roar of the rain hitting the canvas. Little Jakie was sat just inside the wagon doorway, watching his father’s back through the slit, wondering if he should offer to take a turn at driving. He was sure he would be abl
e to handle the team and he knew his father was suffering with his ankle. Driving the wagon was easy enough at the best of times, but in this storm it became a ponderous weight and the wind resistance caused by the canvas meant that every inch of ground they covered was something of a minor miracle.
Suddenly the wagon lurked to the side and then movement stopped all together. Little Jakie went through the doorway and looked at his father.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘Darn wheel’s stuck,’ Jake said. ‘ We become bogged down.’ He shouted to get Arkansas’s attention and carefully lowered himself down to the ground. He turned back to his son. ‘Tell your ma to stay inside with your sisters. We’ll have this sorted out in no time.’
Arkansas turned his horse and sped back to the wagon. He dismounted and slapped the rump of his horse and the creature promptly moved behind the wagon, gaining some shelter.
‘She’ stuck fast,’ Jake said. The front wheels were almost completely submerged into the sodden ground.
‘We’ll have to remove the canvas,’ Arkansas said.
‘Remove the canvas?’ Jake couldn’t figure out the reasoning behind the bizarre request.
‘Ride into the storm barrel-headed. There’ll be less resistance to the wind that way and it should be easier for the horses to pull. We could stop here but the closer we can get to the forest the better. At least we’ll get some cover from the storm if we make the valley .’
Jake nodded. ‘Everyone’s gonna’ get mighty wet.’
‘Can’t help that.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ Jake said and turned back to the wagon, telling his family what they were going to do. They would be able to lay down in the wagon box and use the canvas as an oversized blanket, which would keep the worse of the rain off. It wasn’t perfect and would leave them exposed to the wind but there was no other way. With the canvas removed the wagon wouldn’t be such a wind trap.
Arkansas started on the canvas ties while Jake climbed from the wagon and started pulling at the canvas. Between them the two men removed the canvas from the wagon framing and then Ellie-May and the girls wrapped it around themselves as well as covering the perishable provisions. Little Jakie insisted on sitting up front with his father and no one saw fit to argue.
‘Let’s ride on,’ Arkansas said, smiling at the sight of the three heads poking out from beneath the canvas cover.
‘Ride on,’ Jake agreed.
The rain was now coming down harder than ever and the wind had also picked up. They would perhaps be able to cover a few more miles before they were forced to stop and sit out the storm. That would be it though, a few miles at the most and the thought that the storm could continue throughout the day and into the night was worrying. The horses were skittish and it was clear the force of the rain was causing them problems. Only the hardy old mule behind the wagon didn’t seem to mind and it raised its snout into the air, as if taking in the rain through its nose.
‘Come on you beasts,’ Jake said, flicking the reins and started the team off, pulling the wagon forward. There was some resistance and for a moment it didn’t seem as if they would move, but then with a squelching sound the wheels came free of the ground, which now had the consistency of quicksand, and once more they were on the move.
‘There she goes,’ Arkansas yelled and kicked his horse forward again. The sorrel, although bothered by the storm, answered to the command immediately and trotted forward.
‘Storm,’ Jake yelled to the heavens. ‘Why ain’t nothing but a summer’s shower. Take more than this to beat us.’
His yells were answered by a spit of lightening and a roar of thunder.
Progress though was slow, any slower and it would have been a standstill but nevertheless they continued onwards, Arkansas keeping his head down into his chest yet still the rain hit his face with a stinging force. Jake and his son did likewise and all of them must have felt that facing a band of bloodthirsty outlaws would have been simplicity in comparison to this attack from nature itself.
Nevertheless they did what they had to do and continued onwards, each yard covered by the wagon was a backbreaking toil, and the wind was so strong that even breathing became a difficulty.
To stop though was not an option.
Fourteen
Brady cursed but the blasphemy was carried off by the raging wind and no one heard. They needed to find shelter and rest out the storm. Their horses were tiring quickly and to continue in the storm was too dangerous to contemplate. They couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of them and there were many hazards to avoid as they travelled through the hills trying to get ahead of Arkansas Smith and the sodbusters.
Trouble was at the moment they were exposed to the elements and had no choice but to continue onwards until they found somewhere to shelter.
They would have to find somewhere very soon. The rain was intense and had soaked each of them through to the skin and Brady knew that rain such as this would get to the gunpowder in their ammunition, rendering their weapons useless. That was not something the bandit wanted to contemplate.
Not with Arkansas Smith somewhere ahead of them and the posse behind.
Brady thought for a moment of Kicking Horse. The Indian had still to return to them and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. On one hand it could mean that the posse were so far behind that the Indian was still some distance away and would take his time returning, or on the other hand it could mean the posse had gotten to the Indian and were at this moment riding towards them. There was no way of knowing for sure how far or how close the posse was.
Damn the weather, Brady dug his spurs harder into his horse. The beast was stumbling, digging its feet into the ground and didn’t want to continue in this hellish weather. Brady turned in his saddle to look at his men behind him but the rain lashed into his face and he had to look away, bowing his head. His hat felt heavy as if there were a gallon of water collecting in its rim. The water spilled over the rim and onto his face, running down over his eyes and tasting warm on his lips.
Blade brought his horse up level with Brady’s and looked at him with squinted eyes. ‘Mile or two ahead,’ he said. ‘There’s a worked out silver mine. We can get out of this darned rain.’
Brady nodded and shouted, ‘You know it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then take over,’ Brady said and pulled his horse back, allowing Blade to take the lead. ‘Get us out of this damn rain.’
Fifteen
Kicking Horse looked at the five men, all that remained of the once dozen strong posse, and bowed his head in shame. He was a full-blooded Cherokee and yet he had allowed himself to be captured so easily, rode straight into the five guns.
‘What do we do with him?’ Dan Kane asked. ‘If we’re going on ahead we can’t take him with us and leaving him here ain’t no option.’
Marshal Emery shook his head. ‘I guess he’ll just have to come with us,’ he said.
‘There’s a storm ahead of us,’ Kane protested. ‘ We’ll have enough to contend with without babysitting this Indian.’ The sky above them was murky but up ahead they could see huge billowing rain clouds as lightening lit up the far horizon.
‘And he’s bound to try and warn his men when we get close to the varmints,’ Bill Tillbrook put in. ‘Way I see it if we’re gonna’ try and catch up with Brady then taking this damn Indian along is not a choice.’
‘We could kill him here and now,’ Dave Ashton suggested and smiled at the Indian.
‘That may be the wisest thing to do,’ Max Tant added, glumly.
‘We’re riding under the colours of the law,’ the marshal said. ‘We ain’t no lynch mob.’
‘Can’t take him with us,’ Kane insisted. ‘Can’t tie him up and leave him here. We may not return and that would be a slower death for him than killing him here and now. Killing him now would be a mercy. He’s sure enough gonna’ hang if we take him in.’
‘We ain’t killing him,’ the marshal
said, firmly.
Kicking Horse, hands bound securely behind his back and feet tied at the ankles watched the exchange between the men without any display of emotion. He was however tensing his arm muscles, trying to pull his wrist free of the binding. If he could work his wrists free then he’d be able to work the rope down over his hands.
‘We got no choice,’ Tillbrook put in. ‘Not if we’re going on in any case. The way I see it the only way the Indian lives is if we turn back now and take him in. And like Kane said, they’re just gonna’ string him up then.’
‘We ain’t killing him,’ the marshal said again. ‘And we ain’t turning back.’
‘Then what the hell are we going to do?’ Dan Ashton asked.
The marshal lit a quirly and sat down on a large rock. He pulled the collars of his sheepskin jacket tighter around his neck and smoked while he thought the situation through. The men were right – taking the Indian on with them would pose too much of a risk but all the same turning back was not really an option. Arkansas Smith was out there alone, and the Lord alone knew how far ahead he was. The Indian was saying nothing and the marshal knew there was no way to get anything from the red man. Torture wouldn’t loosen his tongue but that mattered none since the marshal didn’t have the stomach to torture any man, red or white.
‘The way I see it,’ the marshal said presently. ‘Is there’s five of us, six if we include Smith but then Brady’s down in numbers too. I’m not rightly sure how many men he’s got with him now but it can’t be more than a handful and this Indian makes it one less.’
‘So?’ Dan Ashton prompted, not sure where this was going.
‘So, the marshal said. ‘I reckon I can spare one man myself. One of us stays behind with the prisoner. Set up a camp and waits for the rest of us to return.’
