Ralph Compton Comanche Trail

by Carlton Stowers

  Before their grim chore was completed, workers also found skeletal remains of several body parts in a brush pile in a nearby ravine. In an abandoned water well, a human skull floated among a tangle of water moccasins.

  • • •

  It was nearing sundown when Marshal Thorntree found Taylor seated near the barn. His face caked with dirt, he looked out onto the nearby prairie with a dazed expression. Thorntree placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m mighty sorry, son,” he said as he crouched down beside him. “Don’t rightly know what else to say.”

  Taylor turned to look at the grizzled old lawman. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Never even imagined . . .”

  “Ain’t nobody could have imagined civilized folks doing this kind of evil. I reckon we’re all in for a long spell of night terrors ’cause of what’s been seen here.”

  He explained that the bodies, each wrapped in burlap, were being loaded onto Doc Libby’s wagon and would soon be on their way to Thayer. “You got any thoughts on what you want to do about your pa?” the marshal asked.

  Taylor closed his eyes. “It was my sister’s wish that I find him and bring him home,” he said. “I suppose that’s still my duty.”

  “In that case, you’ll be wanting the doc to prepare him for the trip.”

  With the twins out front, carrying torches to light the way, the somber procession made its way northward deep into the night.

  The marshal and Taylor rode side by side behind the slow-moving wagon. Thorntree said, “Soon as everybody’s had fair time to get some rest and see their families, we’ll form up a posse and be on our way. This matter won’t go unattended, I can promise you. Likely as not, they’re headed south and I doubt they can get too far what with all the mud and flooded creeks. We’ll catch up to them soon enough.”

  “And when you do?”

  The marshal looked straight ahead. “We can hope they decide to make a stand and put up a fight,” he said. “That way we won’t have to bother bringing none of them back to waste good hanging rope on.”

  “I’m still deputized, ain’t that right?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Then, soon as I get my father home, I’ll be catching up to the posse. Never in my life have I been of a mind to claim revenge, much less to take a life, but given the chance now, that’s what I’d dearly like to do, be it man or woman or a laughing half-wit.”

  Thorntree didn’t respond. The two men made the remainder of the journey in silence.

  • • •

  The headline on Ashley Ambrose’s article in the Observer spared none of his flair for the dramatic. DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S INN, it read.

  A horror so unspeakable that it caused some who discovered it to fall faint in disbelief had been played out just a short distance from our own community. It happened at a cabin way station south of Thayer. The property belonged to folks known as the Bender family and had been the darkly evil site of many murders and the desecration of bodies of unwary travelers along the Osage Trail for an unspecified amount of time.

  Ten dead have been discovered, and it is believed there might be that many more who fell victim to the murdering ways of the family.

  It is the speculation of Marshal Brantley Thorntree that the Benders would take quick measure of those who stopped in to determine if they had any sizable amount of money or valuable goods worth stealing. If such was the case, the likelihood of their surviving the visit was slim. Otherwise, if travelers were seen as ordinary poor folks, they were allowed to go on their way unharmed after making payment for their purchases.

  This reporter, who witnessed firsthand the horrific sights that Thorntree and his deputies were forced to deal with, wishes never again to view such ungodly carnage.

  Brother Noah Winfrey was seen praying over the lifeless bodies as they were being removed from shallow graves located a short distance from the deserted cabin.

  The Bloody Benders—a mother and father, son and daughter, all who are assumed to not be right in the head—had taken flight before the arrival of Thorntree and his men, leaving behind only a single cow badly in need of food and bawling to be milked.

  The marshal says that a posse will soon be formed to hunt them down and return them for hanging, which, to this reporter’s thinking, is the proper justice due.

  The one-room cabin, apparently built by the father upon settling there, was divided by a canvas taken from his wagon. In the front portion, this reporter observed a cookstove and table where visitors were invited to sit. In the event they were folks with money or other valuables, they were urged to take their place on the side of the table that would cause their backs to be to the canvas.

  While the Bender women served and entertained the customers, father Bender and his grown son, claiming need to tend to livestock in the barn, would sneak around to hide themselves away behind the curtain, one or both wielding an ax handle that had been used to knock the victims in the head.

  Once that foul deed was accomplished, they would drag the unconscious bodies down into a cellar that was dug beneath the cabin, and there the innocents’ lives would be ended by a quick knife slash to their throats.

  Marshal Thorntree supposes that once they were dead and their valuables taken, they were carried out to their final resting place, most likely under the cover of darkness. With apologies for the vileness of this report, it must be said that some of the bodies had been cut into pieces, apparently to make the chore of carrying them from the cellar a bit easier.

  It was a gentleman named Taylor from Independence, traveling in search of his missing father, who alerted Marshal Thorntree that something was amiss at the Benders’ place, causing the lawman’s visit that resulted in the gruesome discovery.

  Sad to say, Taylor recognized his father among the deceased and says he now plans to return him to Independence for proper burial.

  • • •

  Thad Taylor stayed drunk for two days in an effort to wash away the sights and smells of the Bender place and forestall thoughts of what he would say to Sister when he returned home. Tater Barclay, dealing with what he called “memory tantrums,” matched his new friend, whiskey shot for whiskey shot, and saw to it that Thad made it back to the livery once the saloonkeeper had sent them on their way.

  Though he had not yet been asked, Doc Libby had taken it upon himself to order the building of a casket. “I cleaned and wrapped your pa as best I could,” he told the finally sobering Taylor. “The casket is made of a good, sturdy wood and the top’s nailed down tight. There’s enough salt and charcoal covering him so that you won’t likely be offended by foul smell as you make your trip.

  “My condolences to you, my good man, and it is my sincere hope we meet again under more pleasing circumstances.”

  Taylor shook the doctor’s hand and paid him for the casket and care with the last of the money Sister had provided him, grateful that Barclay had offered him free use of his horse and wagon.

  “My ol’ mare ain’t likely to get you anywhere in much of a hurry,” Tater told him, “but she pulls a wagon more steady than your own pony is likely to. Axles been fresh greased, so I ’spect you’re ready as you’re gonna be.”

  “I’ll get your horse and rig back to you soon as I can,” Taylor said as they lifted the casket into place and tied it and his saddle to the side rails. He gently scratched behind Magazine’s ears, then tethered him to the back of the wagon.

  “All you’ll need to do this time is follow along and see to it you keep the doctor company,” he whispered.

  Chapter 5

  Taylor had lost track of the number of days that had passed since his journey began. He lazily rocked with the lurches and sways of the wagon, his hat pulled low to ward off the sun. And he found himself thinking of the cargo riding along with him. Whatever chance there might have been for him and his father to ever find common ground was now gone forev
er. He strained to summon any memories of good times between them, a moment of praise, an embrace, or a time of shared laughter, but couldn’t. And the knowledge both saddened and angered him.

  As he neared the short trail that turned toward the Bender place, he hurried Barclay’s mare along. Glancing toward the way station, he saw that several people mingled outside the cabin and barn and down by the orchard. The Bender Farm, he suspected, was to become a dark landmark, a destination for scavengers and the morbidly curious.

  Someone had already posted a crudely made sign that pointed the way to “the Homestead of the Bloody Benders.” Taylor muttered a curse and rode on.

  • • •

  The rains had given new life to the sprawling Kansas grasslands. Parched and brown during his dusty ride northward to Fort Scott, it was now an endless sea of green and there was a fresh smell to the air as he retraced his route. Taylor marveled at how quickly things could change.

  He was still two long days away from Independence before his strength began to return and he felt any real urgency to reach his destination. Delivering the unwelcome news to his sister, he decided, was best done and over with as soon as possible. Then there was the matter of Marshal Thorntree’s posse, which he was determined to soon join.

  The need for vengeance that had begun to stir in him the moment his father’s body was lifted from its muddy hiding place might have been puzzling had he given it more careful thought. Instead he simply kept his course, carrying out his responsibility to bring the doctor home.

  So lost in thought was he that he was unaware the sun had disappeared and dusk was fast approaching. Taylor steered the wagon toward a stand of trees and stepped down to stretch his legs. He unhitched the mare and freed Magazine and they quickly moved side by side toward a shallow pool of water left from the recent downpours.

  While the horses leisurely drank and grazed, Thad stood near a wild blueberry bush, filling his hat with the fruit. It was the first time he’d felt a need for nourishment since leaving Thayer. Soon he was lying beneath a star-filled sky, his sleep filled with raw and ugly dreams.

  He woke at dawn to the warm breath of Magazine nuzzling his face, the high-pitched arguing of a pair of nearby crows, and the faint smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

  Beyond a distant rise he could see a black cloud rising against the mottled gray sky. Thad saddled his horse, tethered the mare, and reached into the bed of the wagon to retrieve his father’s Winchester. He placed a hand on the wooden coffin. “We’ll be back soon,” he said.

  • • •

  As he rode into the valley, Taylor saw the smoldering remains of a small cabin. Only the frame of the doorway was still standing, flames still spitting from its charred wood. It too crumbled into the heap of embers as he neared. The barn had also been destroyed by fire, and the gates of a corral and hog pen hung open. Nothing moved as he called out.

  Shouldering his rifle, he surveyed the destruction. A garden had been trampled and near where the barn had once stood were the skeletal remains of a buckboard, a dark mass leaning against one of its wheels. Moving closer, Taylor was able to make out a human form. The swelled body, tied to the wheel and badly blistered by fire, was that of a man. Arrows protruded from his bared chest. He had been scalped and his tongue cut away.

  Taylor had heard stories of raids on settlers by renegade bands of Kiowas and Comanches. Instead of going quietly onto reservations, they wandered the plains to kill and plunder. But he had never before seen their savagery firsthand. And for the second time in a matter of days, bile welled in his throat and he knew he was going to be sick.

  Afterward, standing in the eerie silence, a gentle breeze swirling the smoke into wispy patterns, he let his eyes roam over what had once been an idyllic setting. Nearby was a creek, ashes settling onto its surface before being carried away.

  It was, he realized, the same stream on which he’d encountered the boy fishing on a day that now seemed a lifetime ago.

  Taylor searched the rubble but found no sign of other family members who had once called the destroyed place home. He assumed they had somehow escaped or, more likely, were carried away by the attackers.

  He mounted Magazine and nudged him toward the water’s edge. Moving slowly along the creek bank, he refrained from calling out for fear Indians might still be nearby. Instead he watched the still-damp ground for signs that someone might have managed to flee from harm. He was hardly a trained tracker, and was surprised when he saw a series of small footprints. Only then did he remember the youngster’s name.

  “Jakey . . . Jakey Barstow . . . You here, boy? I reckon it’s safe to show yourself. The Indians are long gone.”

  Nearby, bushes rustled and the boy appeared, cold and shivering, the same overalls he’d been wearing days earlier now covered in mud. He was crying as he looked in Taylor’s direction.

  “You here to help me, mister?” he asked.

  “Reckon I am,” Taylor said, hoping there was reassurance in the sound of his voice. “You here by your lonesome?”

  “They took my ma with them,” Jakey said.

  Taylor extended a hand and pulled the boy onto Magazine’s rump. The two rode in silence toward the campsite where Tater Barclay’s wagon and mare waited.

  • • •

  Jakey sat against a tree, wrapped in a flannel shirt Taylor had pulled from his saddlebag, watching as his rescuer hitched the wagon. “Where you heading, mister?”

  “Home. And, unless you’re of a mind to stay here, you’re welcome to come along.”

  “I don’t want to stay here, that’s for certain.”

  “Then I reckon since we’ll be traveling together, you ought to be calling me something ’sides ‘mister.’ Name’s Thaddeus Taylor. Most call me Thad and you can feel free to do the same.”

  “It’s mighty nice to meet you again, Mr. Thad. And I thank you kindly for your willingness to help me. I wasn’t at all sure what I was planning on doing till you came riding up.”

  “Best we get on our way. You can ride the horse and trail behind or sit up on the wagon alongside me.”

  Jakey approached Magazine and rubbed his hand along his flank. “If it’s all the same,” he said, “why don’t you relieve him of his saddle and I’ll ride up in the wagon?”

  Taylor, who had spent little time in the company of children, was surprised by the adult manner in which the boy spoke.

  “How old are you, boy?” Taylor said in an attempt to break the silence as they made their way toward the trail.

  “I’ll be nine on my next birthday.”

  “Seems to me you’re mighty well-spoke for being so young.”

  “My ma’s been teaching me. It was her plan that whenever a town got built and a schoolhouse was opened, she would make it known she wanted to be the teacher.” At the mention of his mother, a look of despair filled the boy’s face. Despite the fact that the sun had dried his clothes, he again began to shiver, pulling Taylor’s shirt tight against his slight body.

  They had been on the trail almost half a day before he spoke again.

  “I was up before daylight, planning on doing some more fishing,” he began. “I had just made it to the first brake of trees when they came riding in, all painted up and screaming and firing their rifles into the air.

  “It was when they set fire to the house that Ma and Pa came running out, not even fully dressed from their night’s sleep. One of the Indians shot my pa two or three times and a couple of others grabbed Ma and started dragging her away. She was screaming and begging them to let her go see to my pa, but they paid her no mind.

  “They put her on one of the horses while some others began herding our milk cow and the pigs and Pa’s team of mules down toward the creek. . . .” He told the story in a halting manner, staring straight ahead as he spoke.

  “How many of them?” Taylor asked.


  “I was so scared I don’t rightly know, but I figure there were six, maybe eight. Some had feathers on their heads and they were all riding bareback, even the woman who rode up with them.”

  “You seen a woman among them?”

  Jakey nodded. “But I don’t think she was an Indian even though she had long black hair. She was right pretty and was dressed like white folks. All she did was sit on her horse, smiling and watching as the commotion was taking place.

  “I’m not sure what else might have happened. I just took off running fast as I could, looking for a place I could hide.”

  Taylor bit against his bottom lip as he listened. “I reckon I might know who the woman was,” he finally said, his thoughts flashing back to the foul taste of turnip soup, the long shiny black hair, and the peasant blouse worn by a woman who had claimed to be a spiritualist.

  “Who might that be?”

  “Somebody more evil than the Devil himself. Somebody who I suspect likely watched the killing of my father as well.”

  For the first time since they’d begun their ride, Jakey glanced back at the wooden coffin tied down behind them. “Don’t seem neither one of us is having much good luck these days,” he said.

  “That, son, is about as right a statement as I’ve ever heard,” Taylor said. “And it’s my thinking that something sorely needs done to see that things change.”

  • • •

  Sister took the news of the doctor’s death far better than Thad had expected. She cried and excused herself to her room to spend some time alone, but soon reappeared to begin making a fuss over the youngster who had accompanied her brother home, seeing to it that he had a bath and a hot meal.

  Long after Jakey had fallen asleep in their father’s bed, Thad and Sister sat on the front porch, the full moon overhead causing playful shadows to dance in the yard. It was the first peace Taylor had experienced in days.

  “I’ve been preparing myself, you know,” she said. “I figured when neither you nor Daddy returned directly that my prayers wouldn’t be answered and something bad must have happened. I’m just glad you made it home safe.” Her disturbing dreams, she told him, had ceased.