Ralph Compton Texas Hills

by Ralph Compton

  The rabbit shuffled a couple of steps, nibbled at a plant, then raised its head and looked around.

  Ebidiah figured his scent had given him away, but if so, the rabbit didn’t show any alarm. Unconcerned, it hobbled off, its tail bobbing.

  He crawled higher. Twenty feet. Thirty. More. The top was still a ways off, crowned by growth.

  Ebidiah figured that was where the warrior would be. He skirted a cedar, intent on the crest above, and almost missed spotting a buckskin-clad form with raven-hued hair crouched in shadow not ten feet from him.

  The next instant the figure sprang.

  Ebidiah heaved upright to meet the attack, but he was only halfway to his feet when steel flashed. He got the Sharps up and blocked the knife, only to take a kick to the thigh that buckled his leg. He went to one knee and tried to jam the Sharps’s stock to his shoulder to shoot, but the Comanche was on him in a heartbeat, the knife striking at his throat. Again he barely blocked it.

  The warrior was young; it was doubtful he’d seen twenty winters. He kneed Ebidiah in the chest and Ebidiah sprawled onto his back. Instantly, the young warrior pounced, his knee gouging Ebidiah’s gut.

  Stars exploded before Ebidiah’s eyes. For a few harrowing moments he thought he would pass out. Iron fingers clamped onto his throat, and his breath was choked off. Then his vision cleared, and he saw the Comanche, the knife raised high, about to plunge it into him.

  The young warrior was grinning; he thought Ebidiah was a goner.

  Not if Ebidiah could help it. He drove the Sharps into the Comanche’s ribs and had the satisfaction of causing him to grunt in pain. Swinging the barrel, Ebidiah sought to slam it against the warrior’s temple, but he jerked back and the barrel only clipped him.

  Still, it was enough that the Comanche let go and dived to one side.

  They scrambled to their feet at the same moment. Before Ebidiah could level his Sharps, the warrior seized the barrel and shoved it aside, then thrust his knife at Ebidiah’s heart.

  Ebidiah sidestepped, barely, and did the last thing the warrior would expect. It was a dirty trick from the many wrestling matches Ebidiah took part in at the annual rendezvous back in the beaver days. He butted the young warrior in the face.

  Giving voice to a wolfish snarl, the Comanche skipped backward, scarlet spurting from his nose. In the same motion he wrenched on the Sharps and tore it from Ebidiah’s grasp. Casting it aside, he swiped at his nose, then poised on the balls of his feet, his knife glittering in the sunlight.

  Ebidiah clawed for his bowie. The last thing he wanted, at his age, was to become embroiled in a knife fight.

  The Comanche screeched his war cry, and pounced.

  Chapter 25

  “Did you hear that, Pa?” Luke asked.

  Owen Burnett paused in the act of filling their coffeepot with water. He was on his knees by the creek, the sun warm on his face, the water cool on his fingers as he dipped the pot in. “Hear what?” His son had sharper hearing than he did. Sharper eyesight, too.

  Luke was quizzically scanning the hills to the north. “A scream of some kind, or a yell.”

  Owen listened, then shook his head. “I don’t hear a thing.”

  “There was only the one,” Luke said, “but I’m sure I heard it.”

  “I’ve been told that mountain lions scream on occasions,” Owen recalled. And the hills were known to harbor the big cats. “Never heard it myself. They say it sounds just like a woman screaming.”

  “This didn’t sound like a woman.”

  “Someone in trouble?” Owen said skeptically. They were so far back in the hills, there was no one else around.

  “I don’t know.” Luke shrugged. “Maybe it was my imagination.”

  “If you hear it again, let me know.” Owen bent, lifted the full pot, which took both hands, and stood. He headed back, saying, “Things are going well.”

  Falling into step, Luke said with less enthusiasm, “Well enough.”

  “Is there a problem?” Owen asked. They were all set to commence the roundup in the morning. In a month or two, if all went well, they’d have enough cattle for the drive.

  “I don’t trust the Kursts.”

  “Not that again,” Owen said. “They’ve behaved themselves, haven’t they? And held up their end of our pact? I haven’t seen a single one shirk their work.”

  “You won’t, as much as their pa hankers after the money,” Luke said. “It’s all that matters to them. And that worries me.”

  “You’re worse than your ma,” Owen muttered, and then said, “Why does it worry you?”

  “Where do we stand with the Kursts?”

  “How do you mean?” Owen saw Gareth with Harland and Thaxter over by their mounts, talking. “We’re their partners. Same as the Weavers.”

  “I doubt they give a damn about any of us.”

  “That’s harsh, and uncalled for, unless they’ve done something I don’t know about.”

  “It’s their attitude,” Luke said. “They act as if we’re here to help them out, and nothing more. They don’t treat us as equals.”

  “Gareth has treated me with nothing but respect.”

  “I can’t say the same about his brood, especially the older two. They act like I’m the dirt on their boots.”

  Owen sighed. “You three have been at each other’s throats since I can remember.”

  “Can you blame me? I’ve told you how they act.”

  “Does your brother feel the same way?” Owen probed. If so, he’d sit both of them down and have a long talk, sort out the resentments on both sides so the roundup and the drive went more smoothly.

  “Sam is too bothered by Lorette to pay much attention to anything else.”

  This was news to Owen. “Lorette? What does she have to do with anything?”

  “You haven’t seen how she acts around him? Sam thinks she’s set her sights on him. You ask me, she’s teasing to set him up for a fall. That’s something those Kursts would do.”

  They were almost within earshot of the others, and Owen stopped so what he said next wouldn’t be overheard. “You need to stop this. It can lead to arguments, or worse.”

  “You make it sound as if it’s my fault they treat us so shabby.”

  “I very much doubt that Harland and Thaxter have complained to Gareth about you. You’re the one who keeps griping about things.”

  “You’ve always told us to be honest with you,” Luke said, looking hurt.

  “Sam hasn’t mentioned anything about Lorette, and I haven’t noticed her misbehaving.”

  “She wouldn’t around you or her pa.”

  Owen shifted the coffeepot from one hand to the other. “Look. I grant you, the Kursts are rough around the edges. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that their social graces, as your ma would call it, leave a lot to be desired. They don’t get along with others very well. That’s their nature. It doesn’t mean they’re up to no good. It’s just how they are.”

  “If you say so,” Luke said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  Owen sought to mollify his son by adding, “I’ll also grant you that they don’t give a hoot about anyone but themselves. People like that, they look down their noses at everybody else.”

  “That’s the Kursts, sure enough,” Luke allowed.

  “Once you take them as they are, as rude and overbearing, they won’t bother you as much. You come to expect it.”

  “Is that why it doesn’t bother you any?”

  “I never said that,” Owen replied. “I wish they would be nicer. But there are a lot of people like them in this world. People who only care about their own wants, and the devil take everyone else. You ask me, they’ve never grown up. They’re like little kids. Everything is me, me, me.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “If
everybody in this country was like the Kursts, things would be a mess. There’d be squabbling all the time, with everyone wanting to ride roughshod over everyone else.”

  “So I should try harder to get along with them?”

  Mightily pleased, Owen smiled. “Give it a try. For me. Swallow your pride and ignore them and things will work out fine.”

  “I hope so, Pa. I truly do.”

  “Good.” Owen clapped him on the arm. “Now why don’t you go find your brother and send him to me while I get this coffee on?”

  Owen went to their campfire and hunkered. He was greatly relieved that he’d finally gotten his oldest to quit being so suspicious. Philomena was bad enough in that regard. He loved her dearly, but she was the most suspicious person on God’s green earth.

  Humming to himself, Owen prepared the coffee. He didn’t pay much attention when Gareth and his two oldest rode off. Wylie was over by the packs, doing something or other. Silsby and Iden were across the way, with Reuben Weaver.

  It was a while before Samuel showed. He reported that he had checked the rope corral, and it was secure. He ended with, “Luke says you wanted to see me.”

  Owen patted the ground. “Have a seat.”

  Sam plopped down, cross-legged, and placed his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “What is this about?”

  “Lorette Kurst.”

  Sam sat up so fast, it was a wonder his spine didn’t snap. “What has Luke told you? Consarn him, anyhow.”

  “Are you and her getting along?”

  “If we got along any better, I’d have to marry her.”

  “How’s that again?”

  Sam squirmed and puckered his mouth as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But since you brought it up, she treats me like I’m some of that hard candy at the general store, and she wants to take a lick.”

  “Samuel Guthrie Burnett,” Owen said. “That’s no way to talk about a lady.”

  “Honest to goodness, Pa. She makes eyes at me, and everything. She gets me so flustered, I can’t hardly think.”

  Owen laughed. “Girls her age sometimes do that, son. It doesn’t mean she wants to haul your britches down.”

  “Oh, Pa,” Sam said, and blushed.

  “Your sisters aren’t like that, but I have known of girls who like to flirt with boys to no end. It’s how they test the waters, your ma tells me. They tease and they play but they’re not serious.”

  “So it’s a game with her?”

  “Yes,” Owen said with absolute conviction.

  “All her talk about me being handsome, she’s just teasing me?”

  “Do you think you’re handsome?”

  “I’m ordinary as dishwater,” Sam said.

  “Well, then.”

  Sam’s face mirrored immense relief. “I’ve been worried silly, and all for nothing?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Why, that ornery female. I could just spank her.”

  “That wouldn’t help matters,” Owen said. “Let her tease and playact. You go on about your business and eventually she’ll lose interest.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Women don’t keep after a man if he doesn’t warm to them.”

  “So no trouble will come from her antics?”

  “None whatsoever,” Owen assured him.

  “Thanks, Pa. I feel a lot better.”

  “Trust me, son,” Owen said. “You and your brother, both. Things will work out fine.”

  Chapter 26

  Ebidiah Troutman saved his life by a whisker. He swept his bowie high and blocked the young Comanche’s blow. Blade rang on blade, the shock jarring Ebidiah’s arm down to his marrow. He retreated to gain space but the warrior came after him, swinging his knife like a cleaver.

  Ebidiah had no time to think, no time for anything except to rely on pure instinct. He was cut on the arm, but not deep. His left leg was nicked. He stabbed his bowie at the Comanche’s neck, but the man skipped back out of reach.

  Suddenly crouching, the young warrior said something in his own tongue. His face was aglow with bloodlust, the effect all the more unnerving because of the blood that still trickled from his broken nose.

  “I don’t want this,” Ebidiah got out. “Just leave those settlers be. We don’t have to fight.”

  The young warrior showed no sign of understanding. A vicious sneer curled his lips, and he returned to the attack.

  Ebidiah backpedaled. He was no match for his adversary. Not if the fight went on for more than a few minutes. The warrior had the advantage of youth and vigor. Ebidiah would tire, his reflexes would dull. He must end it quickly, but how? he asked himself in desperation.

  Moving his knife in small circles, the young warrior feinted, laughed, and feinted again.

  The warrior was toying with him, Ebidiah realized. When the Comanche flicked the knife at him yet again, he retaliated with a short, quick thrust. The tip of his bowie sheared into the other’s hand above his knuckles, drawing blood.

  Springing away, the warrior looked down at his hand. Fury replaced his sneer. He growled a few words, and with his eyes blazing like the fire pits of hell, he came at Ebidiah in a rush.

  Ebidiah blocked, countered. For a little bit he held his own, but he could feel his arm tiring, feel fatigue nipping at his body. He was too old for this, much, much too old.

  The Comanche delivered his most powerful blow yet, a swing that would have decapitated Ebidiah had it connected. Ebidiah jerked his bowie up and spared his throat, but the sheer force sent him stumbling. He tried to right himself but his right heel caught on something, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back.

  Quickly placing his free hand flat on the ground, he tucked his knees to his chest, intending to roll and stand.

  With a fierce yip, the Comanche loomed over him. The young warrior’s arm arced high.

  Without thinking, Ebidiah slammed his feet against the Comanche’s knees. He was only trying to knock him back. Instead, there was a loud crack. The warrior cried out in pain and pitched forward, directly toward Ebidiah. In a panic, Ebidiah flung his arms out to push the warrior away. But the weight was too much. The young warrior crashed down on top of him. Ebidiah yelped and heaved and kicked, and only then realized that his bowie was buried to the hilt in the warrior’s chest, just below the sternum.

  Riveted in shock, Ebidiah lay still as the Comanche tried to rise. The younger man’s eyes locked on his. The warrior started to raise his knife, and collapsed.

  Ebidiah scrambled to free himself. He didn’t know if the Comanche was dead or only wounded. He shoved clear, yanked his bowie free, and sat up.

  The young warrior lay on his side, his arms limp, his eyes open and glazing with the emptiness of death.

  A reaction set in. Ebidiah quivered from head to toe, and gulped deep breaths. He had been lucky, oh-so-lucky. He stared at the blood on his bowie, then hugged his arms to his chest, bent over, and shook violently. His teeth chattered so hard, his jaw hurt.

  Ebidiah lost track of time. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Finally the shakes faded and his breathing returned to normal and he was himself again. Sitting up, he wiped his bowie on the grass, then stood and stared down at the body. “Will wonders never cease?” was all he could think to say. By rights, it should be him lying there.

  “Thank you, God,” Ebidiah said reverently. He replaced the bowie in its sheath and reclaimed his Sharps.

  Belatedly, it occurred to him that there might be more Comanches about. Squatting, he studied the undergrowth and strained his ears, but apparently there had only been the one.

  “What to do with you?” Ebidiah said. He considered taking the body down and showing it to Owen Burnett and the others. But the Kursts might wonder what he had been doing so near their camp, and he
couldn’t very well say he’d been spying on them. No, he reckoned the smart thing was to leave the body there, and go.

  Standing, Ebidiah took a couple of steps, and stopped. The body might draw buzzards. The settlers might not notice or care to investigate if they did, but if there were other Comanches in the vicinity, they certainly would.

  Ebidiah changed his mind. He should bury the warrior and hide the grave. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left, more than enough time to have it done by dark.

  First things first. Ebidiah went down the hill and brought Sarabell back up with him. He wouldn’t risk losing her to the Comanches. With her safe, he found a broken tree branch thick enough for his purpose, sharpened it with his bowie, and set to digging a hole long enough and wide enough. Within a short while his shoulders ached something awful. Grimacing, he persisted.

  As he dug, he reflected. This business of keeping an eye on the Burnetts had unforeseen dimensions. He hadn’t counted on tangling with a Comanche. Who knew what else might be in store? He liked them, but he wasn’t willing to die for them.

  By the time he’d scooped out a shallow trench, Ebidiah had come to a couple of new decisions. It would take the settlers weeks to collect enough cattle. He wasn’t about to hang around that long. He’d go his own way, maybe drift by now and again to see how they were doing.

  He wouldn’t tell them about the Comanche, either. They might want to see the grave, and what use would that be? Besides, the Bible said something about doing good deeds in secret. Well, Ebidiah would keep this a secret. He’d take it with him to his grave.

  Finally the hole was big enough. Mopping his brow, Ebidiah stood. Brief dizziness came over him, and he had to steady himself. “I am definitely too old for nonsense like this. Don’t you think, gal?”

  Sarabell went on dozing.

  Stepping to the body, Ebidiah hooked his hands under the warrior’s arms and dragged it over. He laid the warrior on his back and folded the hands on the chest. Covering the body took a while. He had to be sure to spread the dirt over every square inch.

  To make doubly certain the body was never found, he added rocks and brush and branches. He tried to arrange things so the grave appeared to be part of the landscape, in case other Comanches happened by. If they found the dead one, there would be hell to pay.