The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  “But . . . after the way I acted when it happened.” Trace lowered his eyes. “If I would have done something different other than act like a coward, this whole mess may have been different.”

  “May have,” Paul said. “Lots of things may have been different, but most likely they would have been pretty much the same. From everything I heard, there wasn’t much you could have done where my young ones were concerned.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Just stop. Things could have been a lot worse. They may have been downright terrible if we’d put up more of a fight. Them Comanches were already on their way out, and standing up to them more than we did would probably have just forced them into a corner. You and I both know that ain’t a smart thing to do.”

  “I guess so.”

  Paul closed his hand around the arrowhead. When he felt the sharpened edge touch his palm, he was tempted to grip even tighter so the chipped stone would cut him good and deep. If he couldn’t help his children, it only seemed right for him to share their fate.

  Before following through on such a desperate notion, Paul blinked his eyes and loosened his grip. “Guess I’ll take these back to Doc Swenson just like you said.”

  Trace extended his hand to offer over the arrowhead he’d uncovered. Just as Paul was about to take it from him, Trace snatched it back. “I just thought of something! Well, two things actually.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, come with me to the pump,” Trace said as he jumped to his feet. “You were scratched by one of them arrowheads that are supposed to be poisoned. You’ll wash off that hand right now.”

  “It ain’t that deep,” Paul said as he stood up. “The poison has probably been burned off anyhow.”

  “Be that as it may, it doesn’t serve you to take any chances. Come along with me. I won’t hear another word about it.”

  Having seen as much of the charred spot on the ground as he could stomach, Paul followed the other man over to the water pump directly behind the largest store at the trading post. He went through the motions of working the pump’s handle and then moving his hands beneath the chilly trickle of water that came from the spigot. The water felt good but didn’t offer much comfort. “What was the second thing you thought of?” he asked.

  “This here arrowhead,” Trace said as he washed it off beneath the water once Paul was through. “It’s Comanche and so are the men who fired them.”

  “We already knew that.”

  “Exactly. So if you’re in the market for something and you’ve plumb run out at your regular supplier, the trail doesn’t just go cold. We’re businessmen, Paul. More than that, we’re store owners! If you needed something that you thought I could supply, only to find out that I didn’t have it anymore . . . what would you do?”

  “Take what I could and make the best of it,” Paul sighed. “We already spoke about that too.”

  “No! You’d go to another supplier!”

  “I should ride around looking for other spots those Comanches have attacked and hope someone there saved an arrow or two?”

  “Granted, that was the next thing I thought as well,” Trace admitted. “But that would take too long and there’s no guarantee of success. The only guaranteed place you’ll find some of that poison you need is at the source!”

  Paul furrowed his brow. “You mean the Comanches themselves?”

  “Yep. That is, unless you know someone else that might be mixing up a batch of arrow toxin.”

  “Why would they want to help me?”

  “I know of two villages not far from here where a good number of Comanches have made their home,” Trace explained. “I’ve dealt with folks from both of them settlements on a few occasions and have found them to be accommodating if not altogether friendly.”

  “That’s not how I would describe the men that attacked this place,” Paul said.

  “Right. So if you go to one of those camps and it looks like they’re on the warpath, move along to the next one. If the other one looks the same or worse, come back here and we’ll come up with something else. While you’re riding, ask anyone you find if they were attacked and if they know anything about that poison. Not every Comanche is bloodthirsty. Plenty of them will want to help save a child’s life.”

  “Sounds like a whole lot of riding.”

  “You got anyplace better to be?” Trace asked with a smirk on his face.

  “If my children are hurting, I should be with them!”

  “But if you can help them—”

  “I know,” Paul snapped. “I just don’t want to waste time when there may be precious little of it.”

  “Do you really think this would be a waste of time?”

  “My head’s been racing for so long I barely know what to think anymore. I’ve given up on trusting the first thing that comes to mind.”

  Trace patted Paul’s back. “You’re in over your head. Any man raising young ones without a woman to lend a hand would know how that feels. So don’t trust the first thing that comes to mind. This came to my mind and I think it’s your best shot. Why ask a doctor to make sense out of something he scrapes off an arrowhead when you could just hand him a portion of the poison itself?”

  “But if I’m wrong in going, it may cost me time with my children.”

  “So . . . they’re dying?”

  “Could be,” Paul said.

  “They’re with a doctor who’s doing everything he can for them. You took the job of getting some of that poison to make his job easier. If you gave up before trying every last way you could to get that job done, you’d regret it your whole life. How costly do you think that would be?”

  As Paul’s thoughts settled in his mind like so much swirling grit in a pond full of restless fish, he saw the sense in what he was being told. In fact, the truth of what Trace was telling him was so evident that Paul felt like a fool for not jumping at the idea right away. Perhaps sensing that, Trace said, “You’re tired. Maybe it would be best if you got some rest.”

  “No. I’ll go now. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”

  “I’ve got to do more than point you. I need to draw a map. I’ll also have Dorothy put together some supplies for your trip. That’ll take a bit of time, so do yourself a favor and stretch out while we work.” Before Paul could protest, Trace added, “It’s either that or make yourself a nuisance by getting underfoot the whole time.”

  “You made your point. I’ll be over by my horse when you’re finished. And, Trace?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m much obliged to you.”

  Trace shook his head and walked back to his store.

  As soon as he found a tree near his horse, Paul sat against it, stretched out his legs, and took a few moments to check for holes in his eyelids.

  Chapter 14

  What had been intended as a short nap turned into something a bit longer. When Paul was awakened by the thump of Trace’s foot against his side, the sun was noticeably higher than it had been before. Although there were some kinks in his joints and back after napping in something other than a bed, Paul was grateful for the reprieve. “How long was I asleep?” he asked.

  “Not long enough, by the looks of you,” Trace said. “Dorothy wanted to leave you be for a while longer, but I knew you’d be wanting to move along as soon as possible.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “You’ll appreciate this even more,” Trace said as he handed over a folded piece of paper.

  Paul took the paper and unfolded it. Apart from the writing on its surface, he quickly noticed the small amount of money tucked into the crease. “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “A small fund to keep you moving along.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Keep it,” Trace said quickly. “It’s not charity and it’s not a gift. Believe
it or not, you’re not the only one concerned about those children of yours. That money and that map is me and Dorothy’s way of helping them get well. If there’s any cash left when you’re through, pay me back the next time you come here with business to conduct.”

  Although he felt peculiar about taking a handout from anyone, Paul knew that arguing with Trace would only take up more precious time. So he closed his hand around the money, tucked it away, and took a look at the map that had been drawn for him. “There’s three spots marked here,” he said. “I thought you only knew of two Comanche villages.”

  “I do. Dorothy came up with the third. She was just there about a week ago to buy some blankets and such. There weren’t any hostilities that she noticed, so you might want to start with that one.”

  “What about the other two? Any one of them more hostile than the rest?”

  “Neither one of them was hostile the last time I saw them,” Trace said. “Then again, it’s been a good long while since I’ve been out that way. The best advice I can give you is to be careful no matter where you go. Do you have a pair of field glasses?”

  “No.”

  Trace held up a finger as if he were telling a young boy to stay put. Paul followed the order he’d been given as the store owner turned on his heel and raced back to the main building. Preparing his horse for the ride didn’t take long, and before he could climb into the saddle, Paul saw Trace rush back over to him.

  “Here,” Trace said while handing over a set of field glasses, “take these.”

  “But these are expensive! I know that for a fact.”

  “Don’t be so full of yourself. I’m not giving them away. I know how much they cost. I already feel bad enough that those two children got hurt on my property, so the least I can do is look after the man trying to help them. The best way to keep him safe is to let him get a look at them Comanche villages without getting too close.”

  “And what happens when I find a village that may have that poison?” Paul asked. “I’ll have to get pretty close to get my hands on some of it.”

  “Could be that one of those chiefs may hand over some of it just to be helpful. Most of them Indians have struck me as good enough souls. If those raiders were just a couple of rogues, there’s no reason someone else might want to keep a few innocent children alive. And if they’re not feeling overly generous, I’d imagine someone could be convinced to part with some of what you need for a bit of that money you’re carrying. You and I have been in business long enough to know that just about everything under the sun has a price tag on it.”

  Paul couldn’t help cracking a smile. “I’m worried about retrieving a poison-tipped arrow from a group of marauding Comanches and you’re spouting off about sales practices? That’s a bit of a reach—don’t you think?”

  Shrugging, Trace replied, “It’s the best I can come up with. Truth be told, you’re doing something I’d never have the courage to do. I can tell you where to find some Comanches around here, give you a few ideas of how to approach the problem, and supply some tools for the job, but that’s about it. Wish I could do more.”

  “You’ve done plenty.” Paul drew a sharp breath and let it out as if he were snuffing out a candle. “Now it’s time for me to keep doing my part. I’ve already talked enough about wasting time, so all that’s left is to stop wasting it. I’ll take the field glasses and I’ll bring them back to you. If they’re in any worse condition than they are right now, you’ll charge me the difference.”

  “Of course I will! What kind of businessman do you take me for?”

  “You’re a good one . . . and a better friend.”

  When Paul stuck out his hand to be shaken, he was nearly knocked off his feet by an enthusiastic bear hug from Trace.

  “Be sure to let me know what happens,” Trace said in a voice that was muffled by the hug. “Both to you and your young ones.”

  “I will. Now you’d best let me go while I have enough wind in my sails to keep moving.”

  Chapter 15

  According to the map he’d been given, the first village was less than a day’s ride away. Paul pushed his horse to the limit for as long as he dared to make the trip with as much time to spare as possible. While his efforts might have shaved some time off the ride, getting lost amid a tangle of crossing trails didn’t help him one bit. Actually calling the barely visible ruts in the ground trails was being mighty generous. As the sunlight began to fade, Paul found it next to impossible to follow one for very long before he lost it and was diverted to another. Thanks to either a keen sense of direction or a good dose of pure luck, he found the rock formation marked on the map and the hills just beyond it.

  In a matter of minutes, there would be no sunlight left. Rather than race ahead while he could still see the path in front of him, Paul dismounted and led his horse by the reins toward the village. He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of another rider, a wandering child, a woman walking home after washing some clothes, or anyone else from the village who might alert the others to his presence.

  He found no one.

  The hills he’d been looking for were so slight that he barely knew he’d been climbing them until he saw teepees scattered on the ground at the bottom of a gradual incline less than a hundred yards away. Paul dropped to one knee as his heart thudded in his chest. He’d already been carrying the field glasses in one hand, but he still had to fumble to get them to his eyes so he could look through them. Unfortunately, in the growing darkness, all he could see through the lenses was even more darkness.

  He cursed under his breath and then winced at the sound he’d just made. Hunkering down even more, Paul stared at the village below while straining to force his eyes to acclimate even quicker to the darkness. Just as he was trying to think of another way to hide himself from anyone in the teepees below, Paul felt a tug from the reins gripped in his other hand. He let out a breath and swore one more time. Since he’d somehow forgotten that his horse was standing tall at the top of the hill while he did his level best to keep from being seen, Paul gave his knees a rest and stood up as well.

  “So much for trying to sneak anywhere,” he grumbled. Turning to the horse, he patted the animal’s nose and said, “Next time, remind me to tie you off somewhere before I make an ass out of myself . . . again.”

  The horse had nothing to say to that.

  Paul felt a measure of relief that he’d botched his attempt at stealth so completely. At least the pressure was off so he could walk into the village like a normal person. After putting away the field glasses and double-checking that his Schofield was loaded, he did just that.

  The walk was much easier than the last portion of his ride had been. Not only was he better able to see anything that may be in his way, but his eyes became fully accustomed to the thick blanket of shadow settling over the Colorado landscape. Another factor allowing him to breathe easier was that he no longer had to worry about trying to sneak past any number of eyes that knew every bump and slope surrounding the village. That ship had already sailed, so Paul could just make the rest of the walk at his own pace.

  For a while, he thought the Comanches in the village were too busy laughing at him to do anything else. Nobody came to meet him and nobody made their presence known. When he got within twenty yards of the village’s perimeter, Paul grew nervous again. He still saw no movement, which could very well mean that someone was coming up behind him with knife drawn or taking aim at him with a bow from a distance. Since there wasn’t much to be done about it now and nowhere for him to hide, Paul kept walking.

  When he approached the closest teepee without seeing the first hint of life, Paul’s hand found its way nervously to his Schofield. He stopped in his tracks and took a moment to look for anyone in the vicinity.

  The longer he looked at the darkened teepees, the more they blended in with the surrounding landscape until his eyes could hardly pick them out
anymore. Not a single fire crackled within the settlement, and the only movement to be heard was the occasional scrape of Paul’s horse’s hooves against the ground as the animal shifted its weight.

  “Hello?” Paul called out.

  His voice was swallowed up by the night like water that had been spilled from a canteen onto a cracked desert floor. Of all the different possibilities racing through his mind on his way to the village in regards to what would be waiting for him, this wasn’t one of them. Paul had considered being captured by braves, embraced by a benevolent chief, or haggling with a reluctant trader. Faced with a fat load of nothing, he found himself at a loss.

  “Anyone here?”

  Since his words had the same effect as his previous ones, Paul felt almost as foolish as he had when trying to sneak up to the village with a horse ambling along behind him. He didn’t know what else to do, so he approached one of the smaller teepees and pulled back the flap covering its entrance.

  The pointed tent was empty.

  The one beside it was empty as well.

  One by one, Paul checked the teepees. There were fewer than a dozen of them, so it wasn’t a very big job. Although it was too dark to see every last detail, there was no mistaking the hollow rustle of tanned skins wrapped around nothing but cold air and dirt.

  By the time he reached the other side of the settlement, Paul was even more confused than when he’d arrived. Having a group of Comanches move on from one spot to another wasn’t anything extraordinary, but he was fairly certain they would have taken their village with them. Also, this was supposed to have been the place that Dorothy had visited a week before.

  “I suppose this isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Paul said to his horse as a way to fill the eerie silence that had wrapped around him like a cloak. “Mark one place off the list and move on to the next.”

  Even though he had no reason to suspect all those Comanches had hidden themselves just for his benefit, Paul wasn’t going to spend any more time inside the village. He led his horse away, rode slowly for a short stretch, and then found a spot to lay out his bedroll. What little sleep he got that night was anything but restful.