Ralph Compton Comanche Trail

by Carlton Stowers

  Sister let out a joyful scream, jumped from the porch, and ran toward the familiar voice. Magazine turned his head in an effort to see who it was that was frantically trying to climb onto his back. “It’s really you,” Sister said as tears welled in her eyes. “It’s really you!”

  Taylor had not even completely dismounted before she was hugging him tightly. “It’s really you,” she said.

  “Yep, it really is. And I’d like you to meet this lady who’s come with me. Her name’s July Barstow.”

  Sister turned to the woman. She looked exactly as Jakey had so often described her. For a moment Sister was speechless, and more tears ran down her cheeks. Then she regained her composure and turned back toward the house. “Jakey,” she yelled, “get yourself out here. And hurry. Somebody’s come to see you.”

  July was already off her horse and running toward the porch before her son appeared in the doorway. A wide smile on his face, he raced into his mother’s arms.

  • • •

  Later, they sat in the parlor, arms around each other. Several times July looked across the room to thank Sister for taking care of Jakey in her absence.

  “He’s a fine young man and a pleasure to be around.” She and Thad were standing side by side in front of the fireplace.

  “Before it gets too late I’d best go out to the barn and bed down the horses,” he said.

  There, amid the smell of cedar wood and hay and saddle soap, he was surprised how comforting the familiar surroundings were, how nice it felt to finally be in a safe place. It was good to be home.

  He poured oats for each of the horses and was brushing Magazine’s mane when Sister entered.

  “I felt a need to allow them some privacy,” she said. “I’ve got no idea what you had to do to accomplish it, but you’ve made a mother and son very happy. And me too. I have to tell you, there were times when I wondered if I’d ever see you again. I’m so glad you’re back.” She hesitated. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not right now, I don’t think. I missed you,” he said, “and I’m sorry if I caused you worry.”

  She watched as he tended the horses and was delighted when he pointed out that one would soon be a gift to Jakey.

  “Will you be staying?” she finally asked.

  He explained to her that July Barstow had been offered a place near Thayer and that he expected she would be inclined to settle there. “I’d like to travel back with her and the boy to see that they get there safely.”

  “You know they’d be welcome to remain here.”

  “July strikes me as an independent woman. She’d likely prefer to make a new start on her own. There’re good people over that way who’ll look after her if need be. And it’s not so far away that you couldn’t visit on occasion.”

  “And have you given any thoughts to what your plans might be beyond helping her to get settled?”

  Taylor shrugged. “I’m thinking I might travel back down to Dawson’s Ridge. I picked me up a good dog along the way and had to leave him there.”

  Sister smiled. “I’m not sure I’d believe any man would travel all the way to Texas just for a dog. A lady friend, maybe.”

  Her brother blushed. “Her name’s Joy, and she’s the daughter of a man who was once a preacher before he was killed.”

  Sister moved toward him and placed a kiss on his cheek. “It’s nearing Christmas,” she said. “In fact, Jakey and I were going to go into the pasture and cut us a tree first thing in the morning. His mother has to be exhausted and in need of rest and time to get reacquainted with her son. You’re needing rest yourself. Promise me that you’ll all stay until the holidays are past.”

  “I’d be willing to do that,” he said, “and it’s my guess that July will as well.”

  She walked into the tack room as he spoke, returning with a large box. “I was so hoping you would return before Christmas that I got you a present. I made myself think that by doing so it would somehow make it more likely you would come home.” She handed him the box.

  “But it ain’t Christmas yet.”

  “It feels like it to me,” Sister said.

  He lifted the lid and looked into the box, then began to laugh. “I know a number of folks who’ll say it’s about time.” He placed the new hat on his head. “Seems it fits.”

  “Yes,” she said, “seems it does.” She turned to go back up to the house. When she reached the barn door she stopped and turned to him. “I’m proud of you, you know. And your daddy would have been as well.”

  Thad Taylor tipped his new hat and smiled as she walked into the night.

  Afterword

  Spring 1911

  He was just a teenager when he’d written his story of the gruesome discovery at the Benders’ way station. In the almost forty years that had passed, however, Ashley Ambrose’s career path had taken him from the weekly Thayer Observer to a prominent position at the Kansas City Star. His writing had greatly improved with age and experience, and his regular column had become the best read in the state.

  He had become something of a celebrity. He won prizes for his work and he was regularly invited to speak at political functions and enjoyed a first-name relationship with many of the state’s wheelers and dealers. To his credit, however, he never strayed far from his roots.

  When he learned that Brantley Thorntree, by then in his nineties, was near death, Ambrose immediately left for Thayer to say good-bye to his old friend.

  In the town’s new hospital, the writer sat at Thorntree’s bedside and shared old memories with the former marshal.

  “I learned way back in the day never to tell a newspaperman how to do his business,” Thorntree said in a raspy, labored voice, “lest I get my britches burned. But since it makes no matter now, I’ve got a suggestion I’d like you to think on.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A book. A true story after talking with folks and getting all the facts,” he said. “Not that make-believe hogwash that Ned Buntline writes.”

  “A book about what?” Ambrose asked.

  “The story of what Tater Barclay and Thad Taylor done as they traveled to Texas back in ’73. I can’t say I know all about what happened, but I know enough to tell you it’s one of the greatest stories ever to come out of these parts. Think on it.”

  “A project like that would take a great amount of time and research,” Ambrose said. “I’m not sure I’d even know where to start.”

  “You can start with me. Taylor told me enough when he returned so’s I could point you in the right direction. He spoke of the places they visited and people they encountered. Never heard him so talkative before or since. It was like he was trying to remove the Devil from his heart. I’m not saying that he was all that good on detail, but I still find myself thinking back on the story he told.

  “I was you, I’d see about speaking with the woman they saved from the Indians first. July Barstow’s still living out on the place Tater willed to her ’fore he died. Her boy’s now took my old job as marshal, you know.” Thorntree’s voice was growing weak.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  The old marshal’s breathing was labored, and it was a minute before he continued. “She just retired from teaching at the school a few years back. The rest you likely already know. Her husband was killed by the Comanches and she was taken away. Thad and Tater went looking and found her. She’s pretty much stayed to herself since settling here. I know for a while the Weatherby brothers tried to court her—first Jason, then Mason—but she apparently had no interest in ’em. Which, by the way, don’t surprise me none. Since the stage now comes through Thayer, I think she and her boy occasionally travel to Independence to visit Taylor’s sister. Long as you’re in the area, maybe you ought to pay her a visit.”

  • • •

  July Barstow was working in her gard
en when Ambrose arrived in his buggy the next afternoon. She shaded her eyes with one hand, brushed a strand of gray hair away with the other, and nodded at the man wearing a suit and tie. “You must be lost or selling something,” she said.

  Once he’d introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit, she invited him to sit with her on the porch. She went into the house and returned with two glasses of lemonade. “I should go into town and see Marshal Thorntree,” she said. “I wasn’t aware he was in such a bad way.”

  “Since you were such a big part of the story,” Ambrose said, “I’m wondering if you would consider telling me about it. I’m sure even now there are things you would just as soon not recall, but to do the story justice I’d need your cooperation.”

  “What you’re talking about took place a long time ago,” she said. “Things were different then, and not often very pretty. I’ve not even spoken of those days with my own son, much less to a complete stranger. I’d have to do some serious thinking about it.”

  She sipped at her lemonade. “Will you be speaking to Thad Taylor?”

  “If I can locate him.”

  “Last time I saw him, he was riding off to return to Texas. I think he’d found himself a lady friend down there. What he did for me and my boy, I’ll never be able to repay. I still pray for him every night. And, on occasion, I ride over to where Mr. Barclay’s buried and give him my thanks as well.”

  “I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality enough,” Ambrose said as he rose to leave. “I hope you’ll consider what I’ve proposed.”

  “If you do see Thad, I’d appreciate you passing along my good wishes and telling him I still think of him fondly. And if he decides to tell you what you’re wanting to know, come back to see me and maybe we’ll talk some more.”

  • • •

  Brantley Thorntree died two days after Ambrose’s visit. But the idea he’d planted remained. A week after attending Thorntree’s funeral, Ambrose surprised his boss by announcing that he was taking time off from the paper.

  For weeks he followed the trail the two men had long ago traveled, imagining what the landscape had looked like back then. He visited the Cookson Hills, where he learned that Big Boone Stallings had died years earlier, choking to death on a chicken bone during what would be his last meal. Now only moonshiners remained hidden away in the infamous hills.

  He visited reservations, hoping to find anyone who might recall a white woman who once led a renegade band and claimed to be able to speak with the dead. He found no one willing to talk.

  In Waco, he walked the streets and stayed a night at the Captain’s Place. Its owner, Eli Stampley, he was told, had simply disappeared years earlier, never to be heard from again.

  Six-Shooter City still thrived, and those old enough to remember Kole Guinn had nothing good to say except that they were glad he got himself shot and killed by a drunk and jealous husband who was also serving as the town marshal at the time. As Guinn had no living relatives or partners, his ranch became property of the county. His magnificent house mysteriously burned, his huge herd of longhorns was sold, and his property was divided into small farms where cotton now grew.

  Finally, on a day that must have been much like the one when Taylor and Barclay first visited there, Ambrose arrived in Dawson’s Ridge.

  What Taylor had long ago described to Marshal Thorntree as a small settlement had grown into a thriving town. On the main street a long line of buildings housed a pharmacy, a general store, two cafés, a barbershop, and a doctor’s office. Several new houses were being built near the creek, and a stagecoach was pulling away from a hotel as Ambrose arrived.

  He asked a group of children playing in the street where he might find Thad Taylor. They pointed in the direction of the small church. “His wife’ll know where he’s at,” one of them said.

  Joy Taylor stopped putting hymnals in place along the pews and smiled at the visitor as he entered Jerusalem’s House. Ambrose removed his hat as he stepped into the sanctuary and introduced himself. “Mrs. Taylor? I’m looking for your husband, hoping to have a word with him.”

  “This time of day you’ll likely find him down at the Social Center,” she said.

  He made the short walk to what was still the largest building in town, greeted along the way by smiling people and friendly merchants. Inside, he approached a group of men drinking coffee, and again stated his purpose.

  One of the men turned and called out to a table near the back of the room, “Mayor Taylor,” he said, “you’ve got a visitor.”

  • • •

  Aside from the specks of gray in his red hair, Thad Taylor had changed little since Ambrose met him that dark afternoon at the Bender place years earlier. After introducing himself, the newspaperman explained Marshal Thorntree’s deathbed wish that he write a book, then passed along July Barstow’s best wishes and recounted his recent travels.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve come so far,” Taylor said, “just to hear me say I’m not interested in talking about things I’d just as soon forget. What me and Tater Barclay done had very little plan to it. That it worked out well in some instances was mostly pure luck. Tater, he might have been a hero—I’m of a mind he was—but I was just young and not real smart in those days. Lucky not to get myself killed.” There was a finality in his tone.

  Ambrose slumped in his chair. “Well . . . I can’t deny I’m disappointed. But I’ll respect your wishes. I’ll not pursue the matter further.”

  “Long as you’re here,” Taylor said, “have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. I’d admire to hear how July and her boy are doing. And learn more about what Marshal Thorntree done in his later years. And it seems you’ve done right well.”

  Late into the afternoon they talked, not as interviewer and subject, but two men simply enjoying each other’s company. Ambrose told of how his career as a newspaperman had taken him from Thayer to Kansas City, with several stops in between. Taylor explained that he’d served as Dawson Ridge’s marshal until the town’s founder had died of a heart attack on the very day the first stagecoach arrived in town.

  “My wife, who’s been preaching here even before we were married, had decided it was high time for me to quit being a lawman and set about campaigning to get me elected as the new mayor,” he said. “I figgered why not? My horse had got old and passed, same with my dog. I haven’t had a drink since my weddin’ day. And I’m not gettin’ no younger.

  “Truth be known, I’m gettin’ to where I kinda like the peaceful life.”

  Ambrose smiled as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to the mayor. “No chance at all that you might change your mind?”

  “I ’spect not,” Taylor said as he stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta get over to the church to get my little one, Barclay Junior, where his grandma’s been watching him. I promised him we’d walk over and watch the train come in.”

  “Little one? But your wife must be . . .” Ambrose frowned. “Barclay Junior? I don’t understand. . . .”

  Taylor’s smile disappeared, and his voice softened. “His daddy, Barclay Senior, died in Cuba, chargin’ up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt. Never saw his little boy—shipped out before he was born. And his mama died giving birth. Bark was the only child we had, so wasn’t nothing else to do but raise his son ourselves.” He chuckled. “And you know what’s funny? He reminds me more of Tater each day.”

  With that, he turned and walked down the sidewalk.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  the next Ralph Compton Western adventure

  THE DANGEROUS LAND

  By Marcus Galloway

  Available from Signet in paperback and e-book in September 2014.

  Colorado, 1886

  In his life, Paul Meakes had been plenty of things. When he was inclined to boast, he would mention his time spent as half a lawman working
as a deputy for a marshal in Kansas. Those had been an exciting couple of months but hadn’t amounted to much apart from riding on a few posses without ever being offered steady employment. He’d had a few lucky strikes as a miner while panning in the rivers of Wyoming and California, but plenty of men had stories like those. During his younger days, he’d been a trapper on the Nebraska plains skinning buffalo and dragging their hides from one trading post to another in search of the best price.

  Paul didn’t have much use for boasting anymore. Some years ago, he worked a few cattle ranches and picked up odd jobs in mining camps on his way into the southeastern portion of Colorado. Once there, he’d met a lovely little woman named Joanna and opened a little general store that stocked bits and pieces the locals weren’t likely to find anywhere else. He kept one of the best-stocked selections of books in the county and was known throughout his town for the oddities displayed in his front window. Residents of Keystone Pass knew where to go for blankets, oats, shoes, or tools. When they wanted something to read, a newspaper from any of a number of bigger towns, or fashions left behind by merchants on their way to New York or San Francisco, they went to Meakes Mercantile.

  Before long, Paul’s little store had acquired something of a reputation throughout Colorado. Those in favor of his place regarded it as a haven for fine goods and intellectual delights. Those who weren’t feeling so generous called the shop a dumping ground for yellow-back novels and wares from every snake oil salesman who’d dared showed his face east of the Rockies. Either way, Paul made a decent living. He was a far cry from being rich, but he managed to keep his head above water when it came time to feeding his little family.

  Joanna was a beautiful woman. Short and a bit stout in stature, she stole Paul’s heart the instant he saw her smile. When he worked up the nerve to ask her to a dance, hold her in his arms, smell her soft blond curls, marriage was a foregone conclusion. She was a caring wife and patient mother.