Very carefully, Morton set down the can of camphor oil and then reversed the rifle, so that he could swing the butt at a handy target. Then he drove the rifle with his full strength against the sleeping man’s head, sending him flying backwards off the rock upon which he had been perched. Had this been a genuine military operation Morton would have made sure to kill the fellow before proceeding further, but he was reluctant to shed blood without good cause and, after the blow he’d been dealt, Morton could not imagine that man being able to get up and fight for several hours yet. He picked up the can of camphor oil and made his way gingerly down the slope to where the fire glowed faintly.
When he was almost at the bottom of the slope Morton paused again and stood perfectly still, listening. He had thought that the travois he saw might have been carrying a couple of tepees, but in the embers of the campfire, he could see that in fact the travellers were sleeping in wickiups, built from branches and twigs woven together. He doubted they could have thrown these up in the time available, so Morton figured that this must be a regular stopping-over site for members of the tribe, whoever they were.
There was no sign of anybody being awake so Morton set to work. In a sheath on his belt he carried a razor-sharp knife and this he drew. There were thirty or so horses, all contained in a little corral made of thorny branches lashed together with rawhide thongs. That would not take long to dismantle. He set to, slashing the leather strips apart and carefully teasing out branches, so that the beasts were able to go free when they chose. They might need a little encouragement, but he was sure that he would be able to supply that.
Very carefully, Morton moved round the encampment, listening at every hut. He found the one that he was seeking last of all. Within, he could hear the unmistakable snuffling and little cries of a fretful baby. The odds, he supposed, were stacked very much against there being two young infants around here.
Little though he knew about the ways of Indians, it seemed reasonable to assume that the only woman, specially an exceedingly old one, in a party of men would have a wickiup all to herself and that she would have the baby with her. Morton, unwound a length of rope and cut it from the coil. Then he set down the can of oil by the opening that served as a door for the crude hut, ducked his head and entered.
He was in no mood to fool around, so, much as it went against his general principles to manhandle a woman, he started by ensuring that the old woman would not interfere, nor raise the alarm. He could just about see in the gloom, where a body was lying, and from the sounds that the came from the other side of the wikiup he was able to hear that Robert was not next to the woman.
The sooner this business was concluded the better. Morton brushed his hands over the sleeping body to establish which end had feet, then grabbed hold of the head at the opposite end of the body, clamping a hand over the mouth to stifle any cries. Then he forced the length of rope in the old woman’s mouth and tied it securely at the back of her head, effectually gagging her. Working swiftly, he used the larger coil to tie her hands behind her back and then secure them to her feet. He was firm, but not rough. When this was done he went over to where the baby lay and scooped him up in his arms.
So far, so good. Robert hadn’t woken, for which Morton was profoundly grateful. As he left the hut he reached into his pocket and extracted the powder flask. Holding this awkwardly in the same hand with which he was supporting the baby, he picked up the can of camphor oil and unscrewed the top. There was a stack of broken branches and twigs near the dying campfire. Morton threw some oil on to the embers, hoping that the fire would rekindle more vigorously.
When flames began to flicker he carefully placed the can of oil on the fire and then dropped the copper flask of powder next to it. Then he sprinted up towards the path that led back to his horse and van. He was almost at the point where he had lamped the sentry when there came the sharp crack of an explosion, followed almost instantly by a blinding white flash that lit up the whole area like a lightning bolt. Just at Morton had planned, the powder flask had gone off like a grenade, shattering the tin of boiling camphor oil and allowing the fire to ignite it at once.
Also as he had hoped and expected, the horses were driven mad by the sudden exploding gunpowder and brilliant white light of the blazing camphor oil. They stampeded out of the flimsy corral, headed away from Morton and thundered through a gap in the depression. I bet they take a bit of catching, he thought. Then it was time to make his way make down the path to the van. Just before he began threading his way down, Jack Morton turned towards the little encampment and said quietly: ‘Well, I reckon that if we meet again, you boys will know to give me a wide berth and not go troubling me or aught.’
Since the Indians would not know where the attackers were coming from, nor how many there were, Morton guessed that he would be safe from pursuit for quite some time, particularly since they would be fully occupied for the rest of the night in trying to catch their horses. His main fear, once he had harnessed up again and was leading the horse and van back to the road, was that in the darkness he would miss some rock and damage his only means of escape from the area. But God sometimes smiles on villains and fools, as well as the righteous, and he made the road with no mishap.
It had been one of those nights when sleep was going to be quite out of the question, so Morton resigned himself to riding the moon out of the sky. By dawn he believed that he had put five miles between himself and any pursuit by vengeful Indians. He really had no desire to be caught out here in the wilderness by a body of swift warriors on horseback and he kept glancing back anxiously to check that there was no sign of that happening. The sun had only been above the horizon for perhaps a quarter-hour when Morton knew that his hopes were vain and that a number of galloping horses were heading after him.
The dusty cloud raised by the riders was spreading along the road, so fast were the horsemen riding, and unless he’d lost his skills as a scout Jack Morton believed that they would be upon him in no more than fifteen minutes. Whoever they were, and he could have a pretty good guess at the identity of those racing towards him so frantically, they were in the devil of a hurry.
There was no point even trying to outrun them. His horse was tired and in sore need of a proper rest. All that Morton could do was try and pick them off before they reached him. Then he recalled, with a sinking heart, that he had used the only powder he possessed in that reckless gamble at the Indian camp. His rifle was charged for one shot and he had another five shots in the pistol at his belt. His chances suddenly did not look too brilliant.
Never having been one for giving up without a fight, Morton did not mean to begin now. He reined in the horse and then peered back into the van. Robert was still asleep, which was a mercy. Morton took the rifle, jumped down and positioned himself behind one of the wheels. Then, realizing that he had just done something incredibly foolish, he stood up again and went back to secure the brakes. He returned to his position, knelt down and trained the rifle on the cloud of dust that indicated he might have only ten minutes of life remaining to him. He cocked his piece and waited.
As the riders came closer he was able to see that they were not, after all, Indians. All the same, nobody else seemed to be using this road, so the sight of these three men racing along made Morton a little curious. He remained where he was and continued to keep his rifle pointing in their general direction. Who knew? They could be road agents or the Lord knew what else. He wasn’t about to take any chances, not now that he had that baby back in his care.
Chapter 7
‘Who are you?’ cried one of the men as they reined in a little way off from the van. ‘Will you hold the road against us?’
‘I ain’t holding the road,’ called back Morton. ‘The three of you can go round me, if you’re minded.’
‘Morton?’ shouted back the man, ‘Jack Morton! What in the hell are you doing out here?’
‘Is that you, Robarts? You and your friends mean no harm?’
‘Not a bit of
it. Come out and talk, man. What ails you, why are you hiding behind that van?’
Morton stood up and lowered his rifle. He walked over to where Emile Robarts waited along with two other men who looked as though they too could be Creoles or perhaps Mexican. Morton reached up his hand and shook with the three of them.
‘As I live and breathe,’ Robarts said, ‘what in the name of all that’s wonderful brings you out here, Morton?’
At that moment Robert began to cry lustily. ‘Wait up,’ Morton said, ‘I have to feed the child.’ He climbed aboard the van, picked up the baby and the jar of food, then went back to talk to the riders, who were watching him and his actions with increasing amazement.
‘You taken up as a nursemaid? What’s with the baby?’ Robarts asked.
‘It’s a long story,’ replied Morton as he spooned the pap awkwardly into the infant’s mouth, while endeavouring to avoid dropping the jar, the spoon or the baby. ‘You didn’t see any Indians heading along the same way that you came, did you?’
‘They don’t mostly use the road right now,’ replied Robarts. ‘Word is that the army are going to be using this route soon. You remember that bastard Sheridan? General Sheridan as he is now? He’ll be here directly to winkle out all the Kiowas and Comanches to take ’em off to some reservation. But why? You have trouble?’
Briefly, Morton told the men of his little escapade the night before. The three of them stared at him in horror.
‘You’ve not changed since the surrender, Morton,’ Robarts observed. ‘You still know how to get yourself into a heap of trouble. You best come along with us.’
Robarts’s two companions looked uneasy and one of them said something in a low voice.
‘Morton hates the Yankees as much as we do,’ Robarts told them. ‘He and me fought side by side, behind the lines. He won’t betray us.’
‘I thank you kindly for the offer,’ said Morton, ‘but the fact of the matter is, I have to get this child to Claremont. It’s been good visiting with you Robarts, and I’d love to talk over old times, but my business is pressing.’
‘You won’t make it to Claremont,’ said Robarts briefly. ‘For one thing, the army are going to be coming up that road and they’ll most likely be fighting along the way. More to the point, that old woman you tied up and assaulted sounds to be mighty like the old chief’s wife, mother of the present chief of the Kiowa, Mamay Day Te. That’s the boy we call Lone Wolf in English.
‘I heard that he’d sent his mother refugeeing down towards Oneida with a nice bodyguard. When word reaches Lone Wolf of what you did, your life won’t be worth shit. You want to save your life and that of the baby there, you best accompany us.’
Robarts was, according to Morton’s recollections, a man of few words. Such a long speech as this indicated that he felt strongly about the subject. If a man like Emile Robarts told you your life was in danger, then it was wise to sit up and take note. Morton shrugged.
‘It doesn’t seem like I have a deal of choice in the matter,’ he said.
After they’d been on their way for a while, with Robarts riding alongside the van, Morton said: ‘I thought this was the way to Claremont? Didn’t you say that General Sheridan was apt to come charging along here soon?’
‘We’re not going the whole length of the road. We turn off soon and make for the canyon.’
‘What canyon might that be?’
‘Place called Palo Duro. Ever heard of it?’
‘Not until a day or two back, I hadn’t. Isn’t that where the Indians and the comancheros are supposed to be holed up?’
‘That’s it, in a nutshell.’
‘What makes you so sure that those comancheros’ll give me a warm welcome? You in with them?’
‘You might say so,’ said Robarts, laughing. ‘I suppose you’d have to know sooner or later. I lead a band of them. Biggest bunch hereabouts.’
‘You, Robarts? That makes strange listening.’
‘Don’t see why. I’m still fighting the Yankees, same as during the war. Is that any stranger than selling snake oil?’
Morton laughed at that, a long rich chuckle.
‘That shot was in the gold! You’re right, we’ve all of us had to find other ways of making a living since the war. Listen, do you really think that this Lone Wolf will be vexed with me for hogtying his ma?’
‘Man, are you quite crazy? He’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth to kill you slowly. He sets great store by his mother, I’m telling you.’
‘She shouldn’t have taken little Robert here. It was her as started the business.’
‘That’s nothing to the purpose. We’re going to be near the Comanches. They’re like to find the story amusing, should they hear of it. Not that I recommend you shoot your mouth off about it.’
At about midday they reached a pool fed by some spring that had its origins among the hills and cliffs to their right. The horses were allowed to drink their fill while the four men walked about and stretched their limbs.
Robarts introduced his partners, who looked to Jack Morton like typical vaqueros, as Rod and Casso. Presumably these were abbreviations of some kind, Morton guessed that Rod was probably short for ‘Rodriguez’, but in any event, those were the names to which they answered.
They appeared to be reasonable enough fellows, and if Robarts trusted them Morton was inclined to go along with his old comrade. Emile Robarts had always been a sound judge of character.
From what he could make out, Palo Duro Canyon and the villages there for which they were heading were about another four hours away. It was good of the riders to travel along at the slow pace of his van. To Morton’s surprise, none of the other three men showed any real interest in how he had come to be responsible for a baby. That was the good thing about associating with those on the wrong side of the law; it was considered ill mannered to take too much notice of another fellow’s affairs, let alone ask a heap of questions.
Morton returned the compliment and didn’t ask where Robarts and the others had been or what they were up to in the canyons. He hazarded a private guess that it was perhaps something in the gunrunning line, but it wasn’t really any of his business.
Before they set off again, Morton contrived to speak privately to Emile Robarts.
‘Listen man,’ he said, ‘you see how I’m placed, having charge of this infant and all?’
‘It’s nothing to me,’ said Robarts with a laugh. ‘You say you’re answerable for the child, that’s good enough for me.’
‘Yeah, I knew you’d adopt that line and I’m thankful for it. What I want to know though is this. Are you quite sure that going along with you boys into this canyon of yours, Palo Duro as you call it, you perfectly sure that that’s safer for this infant than if I were just to make a run for Claremont down this road?’
Robarts, whose manner was now, as it had always been during the war, casual and amused, placed his hand on Morton’s shoulder.
‘Old friend,’ he said, ‘I tell you now that if you go down that route there ahead of us, you and that child won’t make it to your destination. The land there is alive with scouts, Kiowas and Comanches both. They’d kill you as a spy. I won’t even talk of your attacking Lone Wolf’s mother. That alone would be the death of you in these parts, even if there wasn’t a war brewing.’
‘Well then, all I can tell you is that I’m mighty glad of your help.’
Palo Duro Canyon was a vast network of smaller canyons, little valleys, streams, pools and grazing lands. You would never guess when entering the place from the road that there was such a rich and varied landscape hidden away behind the forbidding cliffs. This had been the stronghold of the Comanche and Kiowa for some years; since Texas had become an American possession, in fact.
The comancheros, most of whom were Mexican in origin, had bases here as well. They had a strong business interest in not seeing the Indians herded on to reservations. From time out of mind, the comancheros had exchanged powder and guns for ponies and h
ides, coffee, tobacco and alcohol for slaves and other, even less salubrious trading activities. Without the Indians, the comancheros would most likely end up being forced by economic necessity into hiring themselves out as vaqueros.
Palo Duro looked to Morton like some vision of paradise. There were herds of ponies grazing peacefully, children playing freely around the villages scattered throughout the network of valleys, and plenty of fresh water to sustain a pretty large population.
‘How come you and your friends can’t just live peaceably here?’ he said to Robarts.
‘Tell you the truth, Morton, I wouldn’t mind at all. But we need flour and coffee, stuff like that. We have to trade with the rest of the state in order to get those things. There’s no real agricultural land here, it’s just pasture. We couldn’t grow wheat, barley or anything of that kind here.’
‘It sure looks nice, I must say.’
Like many people, Morton had always thought of the comancheros as being next door to bandits; it was a pleasant surprise to see that they had a settled and law-abiding aspect to them, just like other folks.
The comancheros lived a little apart from their allies and trading partners, in a little collection of wickiups in a canyon of their own. Robarts’s group were not the only comancheros based in Palo Duro, and Morton gathered that some were rougher than others.
‘You best keep out of sight for a while,’ said Robarts, ‘’til I’ve had a chance to ask about and find out how things stand. I don’t think word will yet have reached anybody here about Lone Wolf’s mother, but you never can tell with Indians. Sometimes, they seem to have an almost supernatural ability to hear news before any human agency could be involved.
‘I’ll see if any of the Kiowas hereabouts know about this. You can keep your van here with us, but I’d appreciate it if you could somehow disguise it a little, so it’s not as noticeable. Maybe put brushwood over it or something. There’s no point in meeting trouble halfway, leastways not until we have to.’
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