“’Bout the only thing you can count on from an Indian,” Barclay said, “is that he’s gonna seek the shortest distance to his destination. They’re headed south and that’s the direction they’ll keep. The other thing to remember is we ain’t lookin’ for any confrontation, just the knowledge of where it is they’ve set up camp.”
“And once we know that?”
“Best we wait and worry on that when the time comes.”
Taylor pointed in the direction of the Hills. Three riders emerged from the shadows, headed in the same direction as the Indians.
Barclay shook his head. “This ain’t good,” he said. “Get your horse. We gotta figure a way to cut ’em off.”
“What’s their intent, you reckon?”
“If I had to guess at what Stallings is thinking,” Barclay said, “I’d bet he’s sent his men out to take back whatever it is he traded. And if the man he was dealin’ with was the crazy one he told us about—this chief named Hawk—I’d guess he’s finally decided the time’s come to be done with him.”
• • •
Riding along the ridge, they quickly put distance between themselves and Stallings’s men before moving down onto the flatlands in search of a place to hide and wait. “Long as they ain’t expectin’ us, we’ve got the chance of surprise,” Barclay said. “What it is we need to do is just block their way. And do it without shots being fired and sendin’ a warning to those up ahead.”
When they reached a wooded area where only a narrow trail offered passage, Barclay dismounted and kneeled to examine the ground. “Don’t take a tracker to see that the Indians passed this way not too long ago. Their mounts ain’t shod,” he said. “This’ll be the way Stallings’s boys will be comin’ as well.” After hiding their horses deeper into the trees, they returned, rifles in hand.
“Now,” Barclay said as they waited in the shadows, “what we need to hope for is that these folks scare easy.”
They could hear them long before they arrived. When they came into view, Barclay stepped from behind a tree as the riders approached in single file. He pointed his shotgun at the leader. “That’s far enough,” he said. When one moved his hand toward his holster, Taylor cocked his Winchester and aimed it at him. The rider withdrew his hand from his holster as the others raised their arms above their heads.
“We ain’t aimin’ to kill nobody unless it becomes necessary,” Barclay said as Taylor collected the men’s handguns and rifles. “We’d appreciate it if you boys would get down from your horses and take a seat on the ground.”
As the three sat shoulder to shoulder, Barclay recognized them as the men who had taken their weapons at the base of the Cookson Hills before escorting them to Stallings’s camp.
“What is it you’re wanting?” asked one, an older man with several teeth missing and a scar across one cheek.
Barclay looked at Taylor and nodded in the direction of one of the men’s horses. Thad took a rope from the saddle and, using the bowie knife that had been held to his throat only a few nights earlier, began cutting it into lengths. He tied the men’s hands and feet.
The man spoke again. “I recall you being the ones who paid Big Boone a recent visit. I don’t know what it is you want, but you can be sure he ain’t gonna be pleased none by this.”
“I’d be mightily surprised if he cared one way or another what happens to you, so long as you do what he tells you.” Barclay cocked the shotgun and moved it to within a few inches of his head. Nearby, Taylor drew his Colt and aimed it in the direction of the others. “What is it you boys are intendin’ to do roamin’ out here in the dark? Explain that and maybe we can end our business.”
“The boss wanted us following some Indians who came into the Hills today. They’ve got something of his and he wants it back.”
“The payment he made for what they had to sell?”
The man nodded. “Big Boone acts all friendlylike when he comes around, sharing his whiskey and offering him a good exchange for his goods, but the fact is he has a particular dislike for that Comanche who calls himself Hawk. After they left, he called on us and said we was to track him down.”
“And I suppose you was to shoot him dead?”
Puzzled, the man looked at Barclay, then Taylor. “Am I to think what you fellas are doing is protecting those savages?”
“I reckon you could put it that way.” Barclay continued to point his shotgun in the direction of the captives while Taylor left to retrieve their horses. “What’s now gonna happen is this. We’ll be taking your horses—and your guns, of course—along with us. After we’ve properly distanced ourselves, we’ll let your mounts go. If they’re smart, maybe they’ll make their way back home.”
“What about us?”
Barclay shrugged. “That’s more your worry than mine. Likely, Big Boone will eventually send someone looking for you. If he don’t, well . . .”
“He’ll see you dead for this.”
With the back of his right hand Barclay smacked the man’s face and he went tumbling. “Now, that ain’t a polite thing to say to your hosts,” he said. “You need to learn some manners.”
Taylor leaned down, his face just inches from the man. “If you’re lucky enough to see him again, you can tell that fat old man that it ain’t gonna happen unless he’s willing to make a mighty long trip to get it done. ’Cause we ain’t never passing through this godforsaken part of the world again.”
They dismounted and rode away, the curses of three voices echoing into the still night. By then, the Indians were too far away to hear them.
• • •
On the bank of McGee Creek, Hawk’s followers awaited his return. A dozen teepees circled fire pits where women prepared food in cast-iron pots that had been taken from the homes of white settlers. With no buffalo to be found and even deer having grown scarce, they prepared thin soups made with the meat from squirrels, rabbits, and turtles mixed with roots and nuts. It had been weeks since the warriors had returned with a steer cut from a rancher’s herd or even a milk cow. Only when one of their horses came up lame and was slaughtered did they come anywhere close to a feast.
Some of the men sat making arrows and sharpening lances while others led horses to the creek for water. Naked children with swollen bellies gathered mesquite branches for the fires and played games. A few dogs, their ribs showing and fur dirty and matted, searched for scraps of food.
July Barstow, still wearing the threadbare gingham dress she’d had on when abducted, stood near one of the fires and let her tired eyes wander across the bleak encampment. And as was her daily habit, she thought of her son, Jakey, as she watched the children.
For a time she had counted the days that followed the morning her husband had been killed and she was taken from her Kansas home. It was a way, she thought, to keep her sanity. But soon they turned to weeks, then months, and she’d given up. Also gone were any thoughts of escape. It was that resignation that finally freed her from her imprisonment. In exchange, she became a slave, doing whatever labor was ordered. Even when they traveled to their next destination, she rode one of the mules, her hands free. And why not? She had no idea where she was or where the wandering band might be headed. The only hope left to her was that her son was safe and that she might be allowed to live another day.
• • •
Kate Two emerged from the teepee she shared with Hawk, wearing buckskins and a black hat that had belonged to her brother. A rifle rested on one shoulder. On each of her fingers were rings that had been taken in raids. In truth, her view of the shabby encampment was no more positive than that of the Barstow woman. She disliked its foul smells and the cloud of dust that hung over everything. The sad-eyed women irritated her, as did the children. The only bright spot in her life was the fact that she was now Talks With Sprits, and she enjoyed the reverent glances young warriors would steal as she walked among
them. Each evening, as members of the small band gathered around a fire to hear her make contact with the dead, their eyes would be so fixed on her performance that they appeared hypnotized.
For now, she decided, the adulation of savages would have to suffice—until she could come up with a better plan for the remainder of her life.
“A quiet morning,” she said as she approached July Barstow. Kate Two had no real interest in the white hostage aside from the fact that she served as someone to talk with and might eventually be worth a few dollars should a buyer be found. Hawk knew some English, but it came in strained phrases and misspoken words. July Barstow, on the other hand, was an educated woman with a command of the language.
“The men haven’t yet returned,” Barstow said.
Kate Two watched as July added wood to the fire. “I’ve seen the children gathered around you, listening to the stories you tell,” she said. “Why is it you are trying to teach them to speak our language? Were you once a teacher?”
“It was something I had hoped to do. As to my teaching the children words of English, it seems to me that one day after all the hatred has died and peace comes, they might find themselves in a world where it will be necessary for them to be able to converse with white people.”
Kate Two laughed and shook her head. “As long as there are men like Hawk and those who are crazy enough to follow him, there will be no peace or need for polite conversation.”
July looked around and lowered her voice. “Is it possible you would give me an honest answer to a question?” she said. “What’s to become of me?”
“It’s not my place to say. Early on, when we were both held as prisoners, there was talk of our being sold to the Mexicans. But as you well know, my situation has changed considerably. And since the men have returned with no other white women in recent days, it isn’t likely that Hawk would want to make that long journey for a single sale. Truth be told, I don’t expect you would bring high dollar anyway.
“I’ve occasionally spoken in your behalf, telling Hawk that you are an able worker and that I consider you a friend. He has promised me that he will keep his men from bothering you.”
“You consider me a friend?”
“Not really,” Kate Two said. “But it’s nice having someone to talk with on occasion so long as I’ve got to be in this hellhole. Once I’m gone—and that day will come—what happens to you is no concern of mine.”
She turned and walked away laughing, her attention moving to the arrival of Hawk and his men.
She could smell the whiskey on Hawk’s breath as he dismounted and approached her. Barely acknowledging him, she walked to the packhorses to examine the goods that had been received in exchange for the buffalo hides. She counted only half a dozen rifles, one small box of ammunition, several sacks of corn and beans, a single bolt of cloth, and two empty crock jugs.
Kate Two put her nose to the opening of one of the jugs, then glared at Hawk as he walked toward his teepee.
She followed, waiting until they were out of earshot of the others before she spoke. “You allowed the white trader to poison your good judgment with liquor. You did not receive fair exchange for the skins we fought so hard to acquire. You have been made a fool.”
Hawk stiffened, but his piercing black eyes were unable to focus on her.
“The spirit fathers will not be happy that their war chief has failed his people,” she said. “It is time for new wisdom.”
Chapter 11
Taylor and Barclay reached the creek before sunup and slowly followed along its banks. Bullfrogs jumped at their approach, making widening circles as they splashed into the muddy water. Nearby an owl hooted his disapproval at their intrusion onto his hunting ground, and somewhere in the distance coyotes howled.
“Might be a smart idea to dismount and walk the horses,” Barclay said. “We’re gettin’ close.”
They traveled afoot for an hour before he signaled for Taylor to stop. “Smell that?” he said. “Mesquite burning. Somebody’s gettin’ the fires ready.” In the first hint of daylight, they could see thin trails of white smoke rising in the distance.
Leaving their horses tethered, they silently followed the flow of the creek, careful not to emerge from the shadows of the trees. A gray dawn was approaching as they reached the top of a small rise that finally gave them a view of the Comanche camp. Below, a flurry of activity was under way.
Teepees were being dismantled, their poles stacked into neat piles. Sleds made of buffalo hides lashed to the long trunks of red oak saplings were being hitched behind horses and mules. Women and children collected items they were to carry.
“They’re breaking camp,” Taylor whispered as he lay prone beside Barclay. “Reckon something spooked ’em?”
“Something or somebody.”
• • •
The previous evening, as Hawk and his followers sat around a council fire, Kate Two had played her role as Talks With Spirits with dramatic flair. Late in the afternoon she had announced that she had been summoned into the nearby hills to speak with the spirits and would return at nightfall to pass along their message. The ceremonial fire was already casting shadows when she rode out of the darkness into the camp. Her hair was now in braids, her cheeks were lined with yellow war paint, and in one hand she carried a lance.
She dismounted and walked to where Hawk waited, and stabbed the spear into the ground. “The almighty spirits have spoken,” she said, “and you are to relay their words.”
She talked slowly to allow him to translate. “The forefathers are not pleased,” she began. “They say you are fighting your battles against the white man in a foolish way. You have only attacked their homes and taken things of too little value. The time has come to show new courage.”
Pacing among the mesmerized warriors, she told of greater opportunities that waited on the plains south of the Red River. “If you are to be successful and grow in number, you must follow the spirit father’s wishes and more boldly attack your enemy. You must raid his towns, his wagon trails, his stagecoaches. You must take more than his few horses and mules. You must take his money, for it is his true power.”
Though she had no actual knowledge of such things, she said that the spirits had described to her large herds of buffalo that waited in Texas. To the south there would be no more hunger.
And then for a moment she fell silent, letting her eyes roam the nodding faces of the young warriors. Only the crackling of the fire broke the silence.
Finally she turned to face Hawk, a slight smile spreading across her painted face. “The spirits spoke of one other thing,” she said. “It is their wish that I lead you on this new journey.”
Hawk’s jaws tightened as he glared at the white woman. He rose and quickly disappeared into the darkness. He had not translated her final words, but to those assembled the message was clear.
• • •
For some time Taylor and Barclay lay watching the activity prompted by Kate Two’s grand performance.
“If one of us had a lick of good sense,” Barclay said, “we woulda brung some field glasses along with us.”
“Where do you think they’re heading?”
“To the south, most likely. Down toward the Red River and as far away from Indian Territory as they can get.”
Taylor’s hand gripped Barclay’s arm. With the other he pointed. “That’s her,” he said. Though the distance was too great to be certain, Thad was convinced that the figure he was looking at was a woman, dressed in buckskins and sitting astride a small paint. He was equally certain it was the same woman he’d long ago encountered in the Benders’ way station. Across her shoulder was a rifle.
Barclay shielded his eyes and squinted. “Seems to me she’s ordering folks about,” he said. “Huh. Not exactly what you’d expect of a white woman held against her will.”
• • •<
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They watched in silence as the caravan slowly began to move southward, Kate Two riding point. In the rear, walking among the children and dogs, was another woman. Even from a distance the men could see that her shoulders were slumped, her steps a weary shuffle.
“It appears,” Barclay said, “that we found those we’ve been looking for.”
They waited until the Comanches had disappeared beyond the horizon before leaving their position and walking down to the abandoned campsite. Aside from the gray ashes of the campfires and cleared ground that had been reduced to red powder, there was little to indicate that anyone had ever been there.
Barclay looked in the direction the Indians had taken and shook his head. “Never figured on livin’ long enough to see a sight like that,” he said. “A bunch of savages being led off by a white woman. She must have some mighty convincin’ powers.”
“Could be they come to her from those dead people she claims to have conversations with.”
Barclay snorted. “These Comanches might be a mean lot and the best horsemen around—and I’m includin’ Union and Confederate cavalry—but ain’t nobody ever claimed they’re smart thinkers. What they don’t seem to know is they’re likely to meet up with a heap of trouble if they’re going into Texas. There’s bluecoats down there who can’t wait to shoot ’em dead and be done with it.
“Ever since President Grant got fed up with all the broken peace treaties and commissioned that Civil War hero Mackenzie to round up those hostiles still terrorizing settlers, a sizable number of Indians have gotten themselves killed. And from what I hear, it ain’t going to be over until there’s none left.”
“So, how does that help us with what we’re attempting to do?”
“It might be that once we find out where these people are gonna settle, we can find some help,” Barclay said. “Seems it would be a wiser choice than tryin’ to do it on our own and gettin’ ourselves scalped. For the time being, though, all we can do is just keep following along until we figure a way to get our business done.”
Ralph Compton Comanche Trail Page 8
