His first order since they had left Tascosa was met with little enthusiasm.
He instructed one of the men to unsaddle the deserted horses. “We’ll leave the gear behind and hope somewhere up ahead we’ll find a home for the animals.”
Searching the ridge of the gorge, Bootsy located where Wilson had camped, waiting to carry out his ambush. There were the remains of a small campfire and burned bones of what appeared to be a couple of rabbits. On a pile of rocks were bloodstains left by Jonesy Pate.
Clay walked the area for several minutes, moving from the campsite to the perch Wilson had fired from, then to where he had tethered his horse. “I’m just making a guess,” Breckenridge said, “but since he had cause to take leave in a hurry, I’m betting he continued that way.” He pointed eastward.
The following day they encountered a small herd being driven toward the Red River. Clay and Bootsy approached the trail boss and asked if he had seen any strangers recently.
“Few evenings back,” he said, “this skinny-lookin’ fellow—real funny acting—rode into our camp on a horse that appeared on its last leg. He was wanting to buy a fresh mount and said price was of no matter.
“All we could spare was a mare not in much better shape than the one he had. But he took it and was on his way, happy as could be, especially after we also agreed to sell him a tin of coffee.”
“You recall what direction he was headed?”
The trail boss pointed to the south.
“What’s down that way?” Clay asked.
“Just more of what you’re looking at here, which ain’t much.”
The following afternoon, as the men’s heads bobbed in rhythm with the gait of their horses, Clay rode up next to Bootsy. “We’re being followed,” he said. “Have been most of the day.”
Bootsy shielded his good eye and looked in the direction Breckenridge was pointing. On a distant rise, he could see the faint outline of several horses standing side by side.
“Indians,” Bootsy said. “I’d bet money on it. My advice is you don’t tell the men, lest they scatter like scared quail. This here’s trouble Top Wilson started back when he rustled those cattle from the Comanches.”
“And it doesn’t appear to be over. Best we start considering what to do should they decide to do more than follow along and watch.”
“My vote’s for getting outta here.”
“No way of telling how many there are,” Breckenridge said, “but it’s likely we’re badly outnumbered. And I don’t figure there’s any friendly intent to their following us. The cattle drive we paid a visit to is about a half day’s ride back the way we come. They had six, maybe eight men who, if they’re fair shots, could help even the odds.”
Without explanation, Clay ordered the men to reverse direction.
Well before they reached where he assumed the cattle drive would be, Clay sensed disaster. On the far horizon he could see black dots in the bright blue sky lazily gliding in a circle.
Buzzards.
The scene they soon rode up on caused two of the Baggett men to retch. Others silently looked away.
“Good Lord Almighty,” said Bootsy, “it was a massacre. Nobody but a crazy person would do something of this nature.”
“Savages,” Clay said as his eyes roamed the horror.
Tied to the wheels of the chuck wagon were two cowboys who had been scalped and their eyes removed. Their shirts had been torn open and gaping cuts to their stomachs allowed bloody intestines to spill into the dirt.
Other dismembered bodies lay nearby, pecked at by the buzzards. Somewhere nearby, hungry coyotes were already howling.
There was no sign of the cattle.
Clay stood in his saddle, again searching the horizon. In the distance he could see the same horseback forms that had first alerted him to the fact they were being followed. “They’re playing a game with us, like a kitten with a ball of string,” he said. “They’re sending a message I don’t rightly understand. If they wanted us dead, they’d have done killed us.”
“What are you thinking we should do?”
“Safest thing would be to head back to the canyon. If we can make it.”
Which was just what Silver Hawk hoped their plan would be. He had recognized three of the men from the night his village was raided. The War Gods had instructed him to make the white man lead him to the place those who stole his people’s cattle and killed his warriors called home.
As the nervous group made their way homeward, they were still followed, but always from afar.
“Time was,” said Bootsy, “when I considered the worst thing could happen would be a tongue-lashing or worse from ol’ man Baggett. And you can rest assured that’ll be coming when he learns of our decision to retreat. But after seeing what was done to those trail drivers back there, the boss doesn’t worry me in the least.”
The Indians, on the other hand, worried him a great deal. Clay shared his concern.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE LONGER TOP Wilson continued his aimless wandering, the more he dwelled on settling his score with Ben Baggett. It was one of the few trains of thought that he could hold to without his mind hopscotching from one subject to another.
Without knowing how, he had reached the West Texas community of Santa Angela and, near exhaustion, rented a hotel room. He slept fitfully through two days before feeling rested enough to go in search of something to eat. When he looked into the mirror, however, he decided that a shave and a haircut were necessary. He also paid forty cents for the first hot bath he’d had since leaving Tascosa.
Shortly, he discovered the Santa Angela Saloon and Big Red’s Gambling House. Since it was located near the newly built Fort Concho, Santa Angela was a bustling, energetic little town where local farmers and cavalry soldiers coexisted. Even the colored Buffalo Soldiers were invited to the bar and poker tables on payday.
With Baggett’s money in his pocket, Wilson was welcomed and began to think he might stay for a while. He dined on steaks and corn on the cob and apple pie and drank all the coffee he wanted. Though he lost far more than he won, he enjoyed the camaraderie of the card games and played most afternoons.
He was thoroughly enjoying himself, relaxed and feeling better than he had in some time. Until the morning he woke in the Concho County Jail.
A soldier had caught him hiding an ace in the pocket of his jacket, reached across the table, and knocked Wilson to the floor. The soldier not only demanded that Top immediately leave the gambling house but that he waste no time getting far from Santa Angela.
As Wilson was lying on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, his personality changed in an instant. He alternately screamed and cursed, kicking wildly at the stunned soldier. He began to growl like a rabid dog, then pulled his pistol and randomly fired shots into the ceiling.
Fearful that he might make one of his fellow card players his next target, the soldier grabbed a chair and brought it down hard against the back of Wilson’s head.
He was still unconscious when the sheriff arrived and took him away to jail, not sure whether he was drunk or crazy or both.
The following morning, Wilson bribed an elderly jailer with a five-dollar gold piece, was given back his gun, and set free.
The whole unfortunate event, he’d decided as he’d spent the night in the darkened, foul-smelling cell, was somehow the fault of Ben Baggett.
* * *
* * *
IN TASCOSA, MADGE had not spoken to Breckenridge since his return. She’d heard Eli Rayburn’s secondhand account of the failed trip and misadventure with the Comanches and wished to know no more.
She struggled to decide whether to focus her anger on Clay’s stubborn determination to put himself in danger’s way or to dismiss the growing feelings she was privately dealing with.
Clay, meanwhile, focused his efforts on helping Jones
y back to health. He’d heard nothing from anyone at the canyon for weeks. It was as if everyone, himself included, had decided to take a long, deep breath before making the next move, whatever it was to be.
One early morning as they were taking their regular walk, Jonesy posed an out-of-the-blue question to his friend. “You ever find yourself wondering about the boy Lonnie?” he said. “How he’s doing? If he’s getting cared for properly? Or if he remembers our promise to return for him?”
Before Clay could say anything, Pate gave his own answer. “I do. Quite a lot, in fact. I ain’t said nothing about it, but I’d admire to see him. Fact is, I’ve been thinking that if he’s of a mind, I’d invite him to come live with me and the wife. I know she’d be pleased having him.”
The boy they’d rescued following the Red River flood was not the only thing on Pate’s mind.
“Clay,” he said, “we’ve been friends long enough for me to understand how you think on things. For that reason, I’m of a mind I can say my piece and not rile you. So here goes. . . . I have to admit I can’t know how I’d feel if my own kin was to be murdered. But I know wanting to do something about it is a natural thing. That’s why I come this way with you. But now I have to be honest. I’m wanting to go home. And I’m thinking you should as well. You’ve done good, learning what caused Cal to be killed and knowing who done it. But now I fear this whole thing is driving you to distraction. It’s my opinion that ain’t a good thing.”
When Clay didn’t respond, Jonesy tried to lighten the mood. “Besides,” he said, “ol’ Ruben’s likely to have eaten you outta house and home by now. Not to mention that your dog’s probably tired of having to sleep at the feet of a snoring stranger.”
For a moment, he thought the smile on Breckenridge’s face was in response to his remark about Sarge. Then, however, he realized that he was looking toward town, where he saw Madge hurrying in their direction.
“I need you to come with me to the saloon,” she said after taking a deep breath. “It’s Jennie Broder. She’s crying and scared out of her wits.” Without further explanation, she turned and headed back, Clay and Jonesy following.
Jennie was huddled behind the bar, her face buried against her knees. She was sobbing.
“She saw him,” Madge said.
“Saw who?”
“Top Wilson.”
Clay knelt next to Jennie and gently lifted her head and wiped away tears. “Tell me what happened,” he whispered.
After composing herself and sipping from the glass of water Madge handed her, Jennie said, “I was out front of the mercantile, sweeping off the porch, when this horse came up and stopped right in front of me. I didn’t pay it much mind until I heard the rider say, ‘Hidy, little lady.’ I looked up and there he was, grinning down at me.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“He was skinnier than I remember and looked a bit ragged, but I know it was him. He was wearing a black shirt and black britches. He sat there for a few seconds, just grinning. Then he rode off, laughing like a crazy man.”
“You see which way he went?”
Jennie shook her head. “Soon as I saw who it was,” she said, “I closed my eyes.”
Breckenridge gave her a hug and got to his feet. He took Madge’s shotgun from behind the bar and handed it to Pate. “You stay here and look after things,” he said. “I’m gonna go saddle my horse.”
“And do what?” Madge asked.
“I’m gonna go kill him.”
* * *
* * *
DURING HIS RIDE back onto the High Plains, Wilson had mumbled to himself endlessly. For most of one day, he had repeatedly cursed the fact he’d not remained in Santa Angela long enough to shoot the soldier who had caused him to spend the night in jail. But in the brief times when his thinking was clear, he had only two recurring things of importance on his mind. One, it was time he shot Ben Baggett dead and got it over with. Two, he was going to tell Jennie Broder of his feelings for her and take her away. His plan for carrying out those events, however, was a thought for another day.
* * *
* * *
BRECKENRIDGE HAD NO real expectations of quickly catching up with Wilson. It was just a way of releasing the renewed energy he felt toward his mission. His spirits were rejuvenated by the knowledge that his prey wasn’t far away.
And now his purpose was twofold. He would avenge the death of his brother and, in doing so, provide safety to the woman who had loved him.
Dismissing thoughts of immediately confronting Wilson, Clay turned his horse in the direction of the Broder farm. He wanted Jennie’s father to be aware of what had happened.
Cyrus Broder was mucking out a stall when Breckenridge arrived. “He shows his face here,” he said, “he can expect to get it blowed off. Meanwhile, I’d just as soon my little girl remain in town, where you can keep a close eye on her until this matter’s taken care of.”
Clay said that he was returning to town right away and would urge Jennie to stay at the saloon. “I’ll request that Madge close for business for the time being. Me and my friend Jonesy will be there keeping watch.”
The town was quiet when he returned. The front door of the mercantile was locked, and Jennie’s grandpa had left for home. Madge had already placed a CLOSED sign in front of the saloon, and Eli Rayburn sat in front of his livery with a shotgun across his lap.
Word had spread quickly that some manner of trouble was afoot, and the street was empty except for a couple of stray dogs.
Pate had removed his sling and was practicing holding Madge’s shotgun in a ready position, aiming, and cocking. “I’d much prefer for you to bring me my sidearm,” he told Clay. “I doubt I can hit the side of Eli’s barn with this thing. What is it you’re thinking he’s gonna do?”
Clay shrugged. “All I know is he’s got a thing for Jennie and won’t likely leave town without trying to do something stupid.”
“So we’re just going to wait for him to ride up, blowing kisses and professing his undying devotion?”
Breckenridge shrugged again. Madge sat across the room, her arm sheltering Jennie. “We can’t hide in here forever,” she said.
“It won’t be long,” Clay replied.
* * *
* * *
TOP WILSON HID his horse in a small ravine less than a half mile beyond the laundry. By climbing onto a high limb of an oak tree, he was able to see everything going on in town, which wasn’t much. Nobody entered or exited the mercantile. The street was virtually deserted. A man sat alone in front of the livery, doing nothing. Just sitting, passing time, in the middle of the day.
Top thought how good it had been to see Jennie again. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
He had no idea how much time had passed before he saw a lone rider stop in front of the saloon and rush inside. Shortly, he came back out and rode down to the tents behind the livery, stayed only a few minutes, then returned to the saloon.
That’s where Jennie is, Wilson thought, waiting for me.
He climbed down from the tree and sat in its shade. A cool breeze rustled through the leaves. He’d get some rest while he waited for it to get dark. Then he’d go get her.
Fireflies were already dancing when Wilson climbed back to his perch and watched as the man at the livery walked to and from the saloon. Once, he talked with another man in the doorway. Another time, a woman briefly joined them, but she was too far away for him to tell if it was Jennie.
Waiting for nightfall, Top was getting impatient.
* * *
* * *
IN THE SALOON, Clay and the others were restless. Madge had heated up some soup and put a platter of pork sandwiches on the bar. No one was hungry.
Breckenridge was standing near the front door, looking out onto the empty street, when Madge approached. “What makes you think he
’ll come and try to take her?”
“Just a gut feeling. It appears he’s not right in the head, so he’s not thinking on what will result from his actions. Odds of him succeeding at whatever he’s got in mind to do ain’t good. Even if he knows it, I doubt he cares. If I had a decent notion of where to find him, I’d be out there looking. But since I don’t, it’s best we stay here together and force him to come to us. My guess is he’s just waiting for dark.”
She curled an arm into his and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting since you got back to town. Thinking how you might have been killed . . .”
Clay gently put his fingers to her lips and smiled. “I got a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“We’ve known each other for a time now, and I’ve still not been told your last name.”
“Dunning,” she said. “I’m officially Elizabeth Margaret Dunning, but I’ve been called Madge ever since I was a little girl.”
Clay held out his free hand. “I’m proud to know you, ma’am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS DECIDED Eli Rayburn would serve as a lookout from a position in front of the livery. If he saw movement or the horses in the corral became suddenly agitated, he was to fire a warning shot to alert Clay and Jonesy.
“Shooting straight up in the air’s about all I’m good for,” he said. “With a little luck I can at least hit the sky.” At sunset he got a lantern from inside, lit it, and set it on his bench alongside his coffeepot. And waited.
A man who had avoided violence all his life, Rayburn had no idea what role he might play in the event that was to unfold. Still, he’d volunteered without hesitation. Madge had been a good friend for years, and though he didn’t know Jennie well, he and her father had come to Tascosa at about the same time and had gotten along well from their first meeting. He’d occasionally had a drink with Jennie’s grandpa after he’d closed the mercantile for the day.
The Breckenridge Boys Page 13
