Ralph Compton Comanche Trail

by Carlton Stowers

  “And just what is it you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to go find him.”

  • • •

  A bright eruption of stars had filled the moonless, cloud-free sky after the rainstorm. It was still a couple of hours before daylight and there was a clean, newly washed smell in the prairie air as Taylor stood at the entrance of the barn, a packed saddlebag draped over one shoulder.

  He’d slept little. Instead he had listened to the gentle rhythm of the rain on the roof as he contemplated his sister’s request. Go find him. Where? How? And, perhaps most puzzling of all to him, why?

  He was saddling his sorrel, Magazine, when he sensed that he was not alone. In the flickering light of a nearby coal oil lantern, he made out the image of his sister standing in the doorway.

  “You’re going to do it,” she said.

  Her brother shrugged. “Got nothing better to do.”

  “Come up to the house before you leave. Coffee’s about ready.”

  Carefully laid out on the kitchen table was a knotted bandanna filled with freshly baked biscuits, a hat her father wore when he was making his rounds to visit patients, and his hunting rifle.

  And there was a small gold-framed photograph of their mother and father. “Could be that you might need this if you need to make inquiries,” Sister said. “Of course, it was taken when he was considerably younger, but it’s the only likeness I have.”

  Taylor gave the picture only a glance. Instead he focused on the Winchester and laughed. “I couldn’t hit the side of a sizable barn with that thing. I ain’t exactly got a reputation as a gunfighter, you know.” The fact was, he’d never even owned a sidearm.

  “I doubt it would be a barn you’d be aiming at if you found yourself facing some kind of serious trouble.” She handed him a pouch filled with ammunition, then reached into her apron and produced a small white kerchief knotted around a fistful of coins.

  Her brother sipped from his coffee cup and shook his head.

  “You take it and don’t argue,” she said. “But don’t you dare go spending it all on whiskey and foolish amusements.” She put her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder. “I’m expecting you back real soon, you hear?”

  He reached for the doctor’s hat and wasn’t surprised when it fell across his bruised forehead and rested against his ears. He sighed. “Figures that it’d be too big.”

  Sister put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

  Chapter 2

  Aside from a lone coyote that appeared from an alley and stopped in the middle of the muddy street to watch him pass, Independence was quiet as Taylor began his northward journey. Even the morning birds had not yet begun to sing, and no rooster’s crow had signaled the arrival of a new day. Whoever might have taken his place in Sheriff Henry’s jail was still lost in tortured sleep, and the saloon was dark and quiet. Thad welcomed the solitude as he passed the deserted general store, the livery, and the hotel, making his way toward the open plains.

  He was without any real plan, aside from following the trail that led north toward Fort Scott. Once the route of Indians following buffalo herds, it would take him along the Kansas-Missouri border, across miles of flatlands, past an occasional way station and a few small communities established by ambitious settlers. Depending on Magazine’s willingness, Taylor judged that it would take him three days to reach the home of Uncle Dalton, a man he’d not seen since he was a child.

  Likely as not, he would arrive to find his uncle and the doctor sitting on the front porch, sipping whiskey, talking of old times, and arguing the virtues of Dalton taking leave of his home to make the trip back to Independence. Taylor would make his father aware of Sister’s worry, urge that he consider a prompt return, and offer to help with the loading of Uncle Dalton’s belongings in the event he’d decided to take the doctor up on his offer.

  Once the sun rose, its warmth felt good on his aching body, and he’d begun to sense a small measure of purpose to his journey. While he didn’t share his sister’s concern for the well-being of his father, believing that his delayed return was nothing more than a matter of his own choosing, the rider was enjoying the sights and sounds of the flatlands through which he was traveling. He’d not seen another person or even a settler’s cabin since sunup.

  By noon he reached a small creek and dismounted to allow Magazine to drink and graze while he sat in the shade of a small stand of mesquites, eating a couple of the biscuits Sister had sent with him. Taylor had closed his eyes and was about to doze when he suddenly felt the presence of someone standing over him.

  It was a boy, no more than ten or twelve, wearing overalls and a frayed straw hat.

  “That’s a mighty big hat you’re wearing, mister,” the youngster said.

  Taylor smiled. “Borrowed it off a giant. What brings you here?”

  “Been fishing since sunup. Pa said it would be okay if I promised to bring home enough catfish for supper.”

  “Catching anything?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  The boy introduced himself as Jakey Barstow as they made their way down the creek bank, where he lifted a length of rope from the muddy water to display half a dozen fish.

  “By the look of things, I’d guess you’re a pretty fair fisherman. Where’d you come from?”

  “Our cabin’s ’bout a mile past that ridge,” he said, pointing to the west. “Me, my pa, and Ma come here from Tennessee.”

  “Well, then, welcome to Kansas, Mr. Jakey Barstow. We’re glad to have you and your folks settled in our fine state.”

  “My pa says we’re likely to have neighbors real soon, maybe even a town one of these days. He says there’re gonna be lots of folks moving this way.”

  “You got no worry about Indians, being out here all by your lonesome?”

  Jakey shook his head. “Pa says the soldiers moved ’em all down south to the reservations where they’ll mind their own ways and leave civilized folks alone.”

  As the boy chewed on one of the biscuits offered him, he cast an eye toward the rifle strapped to the back of Taylor’s saddle. “You fearing you might come up on Indians along your way?”

  “Nope,” Taylor said as he mounted Magazine. “But I am gonna be on a careful lookout for rabbits and squirrels intent on making any trouble.”

  Jakey grinned and waved as Taylor tipped his oversized hat and rode away.

  • • •

  Fort Scott, Kansas, had changed dramatically since the days when it was garrisoned by army troops charged with protecting the frontier and negotiating treaties that called for Indian tribes to take leave of their land and move farther west. For years there had been more fighting than negotiating as the Removal Act, which President Andrew Jackson had signed into law, dissolved into all-out war.

  Finally, after a great amount of bloodshed, the spirit of the tribes and their leaders was broken, and most survivors had been driven away. All that remained were scattered bands of angry young warriors who continued to occasionally raid white settlers, stealing livestock, burning homes, and leaving unspeakable death in their wake.

  The danger, though still real, was no longer considered grave enough to keep Fort Scott active.

  Long before it closed in 1853, Dalton Taylor had resigned his position as legal attaché for the military, convinced that the Indians were being treated unfairly. A gentle, well-educated man who could not embrace the bloodlust of either the soldiers or the Indians, he sought to distance himself from what he perceived as unchristian cruelties by all parties.

  He opened a law office, and when the military buildings were eventually sold at auction to discharged soldiers and newly arriving settlers, he purchased one of the clapboard officers’ quarters and made it his home. And from that vantage point he’d spent two decades watching Fort Scott grow into a thriving community.
/>   • • •

  Thad Taylor was pleased to see the town on the horizon. He’d stopped only to spend a night in the settlement of Parsons, sleeping in the loft of the livery after seeing that fresh hay was laid out for Magazine. In the morning he’d bought a bowl of stew and a cup of chicory coffee from the owner and was on his way. The following night he’d slept under the stars.

  His empty stomach was growling as he rode along the main street, searching for a place that served food. A sign positioned on the wooden walkway in front of the hotel caught his attention: FRESH BREAD AND GRAVY, 25 CENTS.

  The proprietor waited until he’d finished his meal before initiating a conversation. “Will you be needing a room during your stay?” he asked. “For a dollar a day I can give you one of the upstairs rooms with a window and a nice view of the town. A heated bath is fifty cents extra.”

  Taylor said, “I don’t expect to be staying here long. I’m here to see my uncle, Dalton Taylor. Don’t reckon you might know where he lives.”

  “Oh my, yes. Everybody knows Mr. Taylor. A real gentleman, he is, and a fine and honest lawyer until various illnesses caused him to close down his business. He still comes in here every Sunday after preaching’s over to have his lunch. It’s always a genuine pleasure to see him. You’re mighty lucky to have him as kin.”

  Then, pouring more coffee into Thad’s cup, the hotel owner gave him directions to his uncle’s home.

  As he prepared to leave, Taylor reached into the pocket of his jacket. Wiping dust from the small gold frame, he handed it to the owner. “You seen this man here lately?”

  The owner studied the photograph, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”

  It was the same response Taylor had heard earlier from the man who ran the livery stable back in Parsons.

  • • •

  A frail-looking old man stood in the doorway of the small cabin located near what was once the hub of military activity. He looked at his visitor over glasses that rested on the end of his nose. His hair was white and he leaned against a cane. In his free hand he held a book, a thumb marking the place where his reading had been interrupted.

  “So,” he said after clearing his throat, “you’re my brother’s boy. Can’t recall when I last saw you, but I’m guessing you weren’t more than knee-high.” He invited Taylor inside.

  The interior of his home was sparsely furnished but neat, the front room resembling a library more than a place for greeting guests. On the rows of makeshift shelves that covered each wall were carefully arranged books on a variety of subjects. A welcome aroma wafted from a small kitchen.

  Dalton Taylor put aside his book—Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter—and poured coffee for his nephew.

  “It appears you do a good deal of reading,” Thad said in an attempt to make conversation.

  His uncle glanced at the small volume on the arm of his chair. “It passes an old man’s time, though I can’t say this one here is worth the dime it cost me. All these folks back in New York City are writing about life in the West like they’ve grown up out here when the truth is they don’t know anything about this part of the world.” He set the book aside. “So, what is it that brings you this way?”

  Thad explained his father’s planned trip and its purpose. And his sister’s worrisome dreams that had sent him on his search.

  “I’ve not seen him,” the old man replied. “Last time I heard from him was a letter that came maybe a month or more ago. We correspond on occasion, just to let each other know we’re still breathing, but he made no mention of coming here. And if he had suggested it was to convince me to return with him down to Independence, I’d have told him not to waste his time. I’m quite satisfied where I am and plan on dying right here. Sooner than I’d like, I expect.”

  He put a handkerchief to his mouth to muffle a hard, rattling cough. “Tuberculosis, in case you’re wondering,” he said.

  The simplicity of Taylor’s mission vanished as the dying old man spoke. The likelihood of Sister’s dreams coming true sent a sudden chill along his spine.

  So sure had he been that his father had safely reached Fort Scott, he hadn’t bothered to pay careful attention as he followed the trail northward. Now he would need to visit every way station and farmhouse along the way as he retraced his route. As he contemplated his task, he reached into his pocket and felt the coolness of the small picture frame.

  What, he wondered, would he tell Sister if he wasn’t able to find their father?

  “I suggest you stay the night here,” his uncle said. “Get some rest before you start out again. There’s a grove of trees out back and a small stream. You can tether your horse there. I’ve got a bed that’s fairly comfortable.” Before Thad could argue, his uncle added, “I’d enjoy having the company.”

  • • •

  The sun was going down as the two men sat on the shaded front porch, Dalton Taylor steadily puffing on his pipe despite the fact that it increased his coughing spells, Thad lost in thought about what the next few days might bring.

  It was the elder Taylor who broke the silence. “One of the few benefits of getting up in years,” he said, “is that you’re allowed to express yourself as you please. That being said, I’ve got something I want to ask you about.”

  “Ask away.”

  “I’m wondering why it is that in his letters, your daddy has never once mentioned you, good or bad. He’ll always say something about your sister and how pretty she is, but nothing about you.”

  Thad smiled. “I guess he don’t think I’m pretty.”

  “I take it you and he don’t exactly get along.”

  “That’s a kind way of putting it. Truth is, me ’n him have never had much to do with each other, least not since I got old enough to talk back when he was scolding me.”

  “Your daddy mean?”

  “No.” After a brief silence, he added, “Mostly, he’s just sad. Folks who know him say he’s been that way since my mother passed.”

  Dalton tapped the ashes from his pipe. “And you’re thinking that all these years he’s blamed you for what happened, I suppose. An angry man has to have someone to hold responsible for his misery, and it sounds to me like you got elected.”

  Thad didn’t respond. He stared toward the road, where someone’s dog was hurriedly trying to beat the darkness home.

  “I knew your mama, even back when your daddy was courting her,” Dalton continued. “She was as fine a woman as you could ever hope to meet. She made every day of your daddy’s life a pleasure. When she died, more than a little of him did too, I expect. Being a bachelor all my life, I can’t claim to be an expert on the love shared by a man and a woman, but what I saw between your folks was special.

  “It’s no wonder that he changed once she was gone. But, boy, none of that was your doing. That she didn’t survive giving birth to you was no fault of yours. Call it the course of nature or the will of the Almighty, but don’t go blaming yourself like he’s done all these years. No need for you to be as unfair as your daddy’s been.”

  Thad pulled the small photograph from his pocket and handed it to his uncle. Dalton studied it carefully for several seconds. “A happy time,” he said. “Unfortunately I fear that the days ahead might not be.”

  Chapter 3

  For adventuresome settlers dreaming of a better life, the Osage Trail, extending westward from Missouri through Kansas and into New Mexico, was the route increasing numbers followed in search of prosperity. A steady caravan of wagons, loaded with meager belongings and high hopes, traveled the rutted and dusty pathway originally blazed by massive herds of migrating buffalo.

  Now, with the Indians moved westward or onto the Indian Territory reservations to the south, the spacious plains of Kansas had become a new and welcoming frontier, offering pioneers free plots of land simply for the claiming.

&
nbsp; Among those staking claim to a hundred-and-sixty-acre plot in an isolated region of Labette County was a large, bushy-eyebrowed German immigrant named John Bender. Older than most who had made the hard journey, he had arrived with his son and set about building a small cabin and barn, dug a water well, and planted a small orchard and garden before summoning his wife and daughter from the Michigan mill town where they had waited for word that their new home was ready.

  Bender’s wife, Kate, a lumbering, overweight woman who spoke little English, had immediately recognized that the untilled land her husband had claimed would hardly yield a living for the family. And it was she who soon devised a plan to improve matters. With the help of her grown daughter, Kate Two, she set about rearranging the interior of the small cabin, stretching the canvas from her husband’s wagon across the middle and placing a table in the front half of the room, leaving only a small area in back for the family’s living quarters. She instructed John to build a small row of shelves across one wall, and began canning the produce from the orchard and garden.

  Soon a hand-painted sign hung above the doorway, visible to those traveling the Osage Trail, proclaiming that GROCERIES, FOOD, AND LODGING were available. Crude though it was, another way station for weary travelers was in business.

  In time, a steady stream of settlers stopped in. Some purchased a meal, a few bought sacks of ground corn and canned pears, some only stopped to water and feed their horses. Occasionally an exhausted traveler would take restful advantage of a night spent in the Benders’ barn.

  And Kate Two, a pretty young woman who had not inherited her mother’s girth or ill humor, would entertain guests. If a male traveler arrived alone, she would invite him to the bed in back of the cabin while the rest of the family excused themselves to the barn to tend the visitor’s animals.