Ralph Compton Comanche Trail

by Carlton Stowers

  DEAD END

  They kicked their horses into a gallop and rode through the entrance in single file until entering the small clearing. A short distance away they could see smoke rising from campfires. As they approached the circle of teepees near a steep bluff, they saw only a few women milling about. Only then did they realize that they had entered a box canyon with but one way in or out.

  Barclay leaned toward Taylor as he brought his rifle to his shoulder. “Don’t see no horses,” he said just as the first shot echoed through the canyon. The soldier in front of them slumped in his saddle, blood pouring from a hole in the back of his neck. The Indian women hurriedly disappeared into the teepees.

  Two dozen Comanches, wearing full war paint and screaming battle cries, approached from the same entrance through which the soldiers had traveled. Instead of hiding in the rocks above, they had waited until the soldiers had entered the canyon, then followed, blocking the only exit. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-0-698-14500-9

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Afterword

  Excerpt from THE DANGEROUS LAND

  THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

  This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

  True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

  In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

  It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

  It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

  —Ralph Compton

  Prologue

  There was a clean sweet smell to the predawn air as the man stepped from the cabin porch and walked toward the barn. Inside, his wife and children still slept, warmed by the fire he’d just stoked.

  The time before the sun rose was his favorite, the autumn solitude broken only by the sounds of early-rising birds. With the soreness of his muscles relieved by a night’s sleep, he contemplated another day’s work. He would feed his mules, milk the cow, and spread grain for the laying hens before the aroma of biscuits and brewing coffee lured him back to the house. Then there would be wood to cut, the field to till, and repair of a wheel on the wagon to be tended.

  In the year and a half since they had arrived from Arkansas and staked their small claim, the work had been hard, the harsh frontier environment a daily challenge. But now times were better. He’d finished building the cabin and barn, dug a well, and removed rocks in order to plow a small sandy loam field where stands of corn and grain were beginning to flourish. The family, like so many other ambitious pioneers moving west, had begun to feel they were home.

  He was emerging from the wide doorway of the barn, milk pail in hand, when he saw shadowed movement in the nearby stand of trees and heard the impatient pawing of unshod hooves. Even as he dropped the bucket and raced to get his rifle, the clearing filled with a dozen mounted Comanches, their faces lined with war paint. A yell was followed by the leader’s first wayward shot, which struck the wall with a loud thud.

  The farmer kneeled behind the wagon and returned fire as the horsemen moved in his direction. A round smashed into the chest of the nearest attacker. As the Indian fell from his horse, a volley of return fire ricocheted through the barn.

  With only the interior darkness for cover, the man was trapped as the attackers began to circle the building, their war cries growing in volume.

  Inside the cabin, his family was wakened by the shouts and gunshots. His wife directed the children to hide beneath the bed, then raced toward the front door where her husband’s pistol hung. She had just taken it from its holster when the door swung open and a bare-chested form filled the entryway. Holding the gun with both hands, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. A rifle fell from the hands of the Comanche as his face turned red with blood that gushed from one eye.

  Even as he was falling, another stepped over his body and shot the woman. From the barn, her husband heard the screams of his children. He left his makeshift fortress and raced toward the house. A hail of bullets and arrows struck him and he fell forward after only a few steps. He managed to get to his knees, dizzy and gasping for breath, before one of the raiders kneeled beside him and drew a knife across his throat.

  The Comanches dragged the bodies of the woman and children into the yard and laid them b
eside the man. Then they pillaged the two small rooms, collecting the few items of value they could find. That done, they lit torches from the fireplace and set the cabin on fire. Across the way, others had led the two mules and the cow from the barn, spread coal oil from the farmer’s lantern, and set the building ablaze as well.

  Angered by the deaths of their own, the savages scalped the man and woman, then set about mutilating their bodies. The Indians formed a circle around their victims and began to chant their war cries as they repeatedly shot arrows into the remains. The children were thrown down the nearby well.

  Then, with their two fallen warriors lashed to the stolen mules, the Comanches rode away as black smoke curled against the rising sun.

  No neighbors were close enough to hear the gunfire or the death screams. It was the smoke that alerted the dead man’s brother, whose cabin was on the other side of the valley. By the time he arrived, his horse lathered in sweat, only smoldering ashes remained.

  When he found the tortured bodies that lay in the dusty yard, he fell to his knees and retched. He searched frantically for the children, fearful that they had been abducted. Only when he saw the girl’s rag doll near the well he’d helped his younger brother dig did he know where to look. What he saw as he peered into the cool darkness caused him to let out a pained cry that echoed across the valley.

  He dug through the ashes of the barn and found a charred pick and shovel. With them he dug graves in the shade of the nearby trees.

  He knew no words to say once his work was done, so he stood alone in the morning silence, his tears a final farewell to the only kin he had.

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Kansas, summer 1873

  Thad Taylor’s lanky body throbbed with pain and the bright morning sun forced him to shield his eyes as he stepped from the front door of the jail. His recollection of the previous night was hidden away in a drunken fog—too many whiskeys and an argument in Stubby’s saloon down the dusty Independence, Kansas, main street, a flying chair or two, then a full-scale free-for-all. The fact that one eye was almost swollen shut, his knuckles were raw and blood-crusted, and his ribs felt as if an anvil had been dropped on them was all the hungover Taylor needed to realize he’d been on the losing end of whatever fight he’d likely instigated.

  It wasn’t the first time.

  He was making a futile attempt to smooth his tangled rusty brown hair and wipe the dried vomit from his torn shirt when he saw his sister glaring at him from a nearby buggy. Once again the sheriff had called her to fetch him and, despite earlier vows that she would never again do so, she had come to take him home.

  Thad nodded in her direction, aware that a tongue-lashing was soon to come.

  “Get in, Thaddeus,” Sister said, hoping passersby would not take notice and quickly spread the word that the doctor’s boy had again gotten himself in trouble with the law.

  He ran his fingers through his hair again. “Gotta find my hat,” he mumbled through swollen lips.

  “Get in . . . right this minute.” Her tone made it clear that finding his hat would have to wait.

  They rode in silence on the trip out to the Taylor Farm, sweat beading on Thad’s forehead despite the cool morning breeze. Sister kept her eyes focused on the mare in front of her, her knuckles white as she held tightly to the reins and her temper.

  The weathered old farmhouse was in view before she finally spoke. “Thaddeus,” she said, careful not to look toward him, “you’re past your twentieth year and still whoring and drinking and carousing, doing absolutely nothing worthwhile with your life. It’s a shame, if you ask me. Are you ever going to amount to anything?” A tear ran down her cheek as she spoke.

  “Reckon not.” He was sorry for his response as soon as the words escaped his mouth. “Where’s my horse?”

  “Unlike you, he came home last night,” Sister said. “I unsaddled him and put him in the barn.” She gave him a stern look. “Just like I always do.”

  “He okay?”

  “Much better than you. I’m just glad Daddy’s away and not here to see what a frightful mess you are.”

  After cleaning up and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot that hung above the fireplace, Taylor declined Sister’s offer of breakfast. His stomach churned at the very thought of food. Instead he headed toward the barn and the small room he’d converted from what was once a place for storing saddles and tools back when the home place was still a working farm. It had only a bed and a small chest, most of its faded paint peeled away. But the place provided him solitude, away from the big house that he’d stormed out of three years earlier, following yet another argument with his father.

  He fell onto the bed, resting an arm across his eyes, hoping the dizziness would soon go away. And, as was his routine following each of his boozy misadventures, he took stock of his miserable station in life. As was always the case, he didn’t like the scenes that played in his mind.

  His father, Independence’s only doctor, was one of those bigger-than-life characters. He’d lost count of how many children, his own included, he’d helped bring into the world, how many broken bones he’d mended and lives he’d saved. If the stories Thad had heard since boyhood were true, Dr. Winslow Taylor, a portly Scottish immigrant with a booming voice, had been a fun-loving man in his younger days. He was quick to help out friends and neighbors, ever ready to buy the first round on Saturday nights, loved dancing, playing the fiddle. And, above all, his wife.

  That he had been unable to save her life when complications developed following his son’s birth had changed Dr. Taylor forever. His good nature disappeared, his delight in the company of others waned. While he continued to carry about his medical responsibilities in a professional manner, he was never the same after Maggie Taylor was buried. Doc Taylor became a bitter man. Often, on late nights when he sat alone in his library, sipping whiskey and smoking his pipe, he would quietly talk to himself. His words, part curse, part an expression of haunting disbelief, were always the same: I can heal others but couldn’t save my own.

  The only thing that brightened his spirits was his daughter, Peggy, whom everyone had begun calling Sister even before her younger brother was born. She had her mother’s features—high cheekbones, eyes so blue as to be almost hypnotic, shiny auburn hair—and a warm, generous nature. In Sister’s company, Dr. Taylor was able to think back on happier times.

  Thad, on the other hand, was a constant reminder of the darkest day in his life. And, while the doctor had never said as much, his son was certain that he was blamed daily for the death of his mother. Thad had long since resigned himself to being the family curse, robber of all of his father’s joy. He’d so balked at the doctor’s insistence that education was the path to a man’s success that when he’d stopped going to the schoolhouse, no argument was offered. Whatever small effort at guidance the elder Taylor had tried ended in such grand failure that he’d long since halted the useless exercise. By the time Thaddeus reached adulthood, he couldn’t even remember when he’d finally given up on any effort to win the doctor’s approval.

  In exchange for doing handyman jobs around the farm—milking, mucking out stalls, carpentry when the roof of the house leaked, clearing brush, and tilling Sister’s summer garden—he lived on the family place and enjoyed his sister’s cooking. Otherwise, he and his father were as distant as strangers, seldom speaking, seeing each other rarely, and then only from a safe distance.

  What little money Thad earned came from odd jobs he did for folks in town who occasionally tried to reach out to the young man whose life they perceived to be painfully lonely, filled with anger, and without real purpose.

  If Independence had a bona fide outcast, it was Thaddeus Taylor.

  • • •

  The day was nearing an end under a gray sky that was forewarning a thunderstorm by the time he was wakened by a gentle knock at his door and the
sound of Sister’s voice. “You feeling good enough to eat something?” On her arm was a basket that held a plate of tomatoes, corn bread, beans and bacon, and a large slice of apple pie.

  “Looks like I’m gonna live,” he said as he realized that his appetite had returned.

  Sister sat silently watching her brother as he began to eat ravenously. He wasn’t exactly a handsome man, she thought, but if one looked beyond the bruises, swollen eye, and unkempt hair, overlooked his need for a shave and new clothes and another ten pounds on his skinny frame, there was something about Thaddeus Taylor that she assumed women might find attractive. Not just whores, but good women like those who attended church at the Calvary’s Cross Baptist. She was certain she wouldn’t always be the only one to love her brother—if he straightened up.

  “I’m sorry about what I said today,” she said.

  Thad smiled for the first time since he’d been released from the jail. “I’ve heard worse,” he replied as he buried his fork into the apple pie.

  After gathering the emptied plates, she sat beside him on the bed. “You up to talking for a bit? I’ve got something on my mind that—”

  “I know I’ve said it before, but this time I swear on the Good Book that I ain’t going back to Stubby’s.”

  “That’s not what’s worrying me.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s been over three weeks since Daddy left to go visit Uncle Dalton in Fort Scott. Dalton’s getting up in years, you know, and he’s not at all healthy, so Daddy felt it was time to look in on him, maybe talk him into coming here to live with us. But he told me he wouldn’t be gone more than two weeks, since Julie Simpson—you know her, she works at the grocery in town—is going to be having her baby soon. It’s not like him to delay his return and ignore her needs.”

  “Didn’t even know he was gone,” Thad said.

  “Anyway, the last couple of nights I’ve been having these awful dreams. In them, bad things are happening to Daddy, like Indians getting him or some outlaws knocking him in the head and robbing him. I know it sounds crazy. But the truth of the matter is I’m getting really scared.”