Rayburn tried to return the laughter, but it was too painful. “We’re alive, ain’t we?”
Just as they were about to doze off again, Paul Price, owner of the laundry, appeared in the front doorway. He was wearing overalls a couple of sizes too large, and his shoulder-length hair covered his face. He was leading a horse.
“I was down near the gulley squirrel hunting this morning when I found him. I yelled out, hoping to alert his owner, but got no response. So I untied him and took him up to the house for some water. Wasn’t sure what I should do with him, so I brought him here.”
Eli examined the horse, still saddled, and determined there was nothing physically wrong with it. “I’m glad you did, Paul. I think I might know who he belongs to. Leave him and I’ll see he gets fed and rid of that saddle.”
He was certain it was Top Wilson’s horse, left in the gulley so he could make a swift getaway.
Price, glad to be relieved of the responsibility for the horse, turned to leave. He stopped for a moment to view the charred remains of the saloon. “Real shame about the fire, ain’t it? Man done that should be shot.”
Eli smiled. “He was.”
As soon as Price left, they freed the horse of his saddle and placed him in a stall with fresh hay and a bucket of oats. Rayburn removed the saddlebags and laid them on his workbench. Inside, he found a large pouch and a small tin of coffee. Emptying the pouch, he and Pate watched speechless as bills and coins spilled out.
“That’s a right smart of money,” Jonesy said. “I’d say Wilson was near rich.”
“Wasn’t his money,” Eli said. “He stole it.”
“That’s what Ben Baggett’s been in such a stew about, huh?” Pate said.
“And if you’ll agree to make no mention of us finding this, he can continue his stewing.” Even as he spoke, Eli was trying to think of a good hiding place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THOSE WHO HAD patronized Madge’s saloon regularly—local farmers, ranch cowboys, buffalo hunters—began arriving with their tools and wagons to clear away the debris. It was something of a last salute to a place that had been special to them. Even a few of the Tascosa women, despite their disdain for the place where their husbands had gotten drunk and lost grocery money at cards, brought sweet tea and lemonade for the workers.
Meanwhile, Eli Rayburn limped about in search of the ideal hiding place for the money. For the time being, it was buried in the bottom of his grain bin, but he wanted a safer place, somewhere far removed from the livery. It needed to be impossible for Ben Baggett or his men to find.
He and Jonesy had told Clay about their discovery.
They spent one whole evening tossing around ideas for a perfect hiding place. Finally, in the dead of night, they walked to the cemetery and found the grave of Colonel Basil Jay Hawthorne, a rancher said to have been the richest man on the High Plains before a strike of lightning claimed his life. As the legend went, he was out in a pasture helping a cow to birth her calf during a storm when it happened. The calf, which survived, was named Colonel by Hawthorne’s grieving widow.
There, beneath the largest tombstone on Boot Hill, they buried the money pouch in a strongbox.
“Anybody ever asks,” Jonesy said, “we can just say it appeared the colonel was just trying to take his money with him.”
“It’ll not need to remain here long anyway,” Rayburn said. “Just until a little time has passed so ol’ man Baggett will have forgotten about it, or died, whichever comes first.”
* * *
* * *
ALMOST TWO WEEKS had passed since what locals began referring to simply as “the Fire,” and neither Clay nor Jonesy had said much more about leaving for home. When the subject did come up, it was quickly quieted by a litany of excuses. It might still be a bit early for Pate to travel long distances. . . . They needed to keep an eye on Eli’s healing process and lend a hand at the livery. . . . And they would both feel better knowing Madge and Jennie were in good frames of mind before they left.
The decision to stay even seemed to put Jonesy in better spirits. “Truth is,” he said, “it could be that my wife hasn’t even discovered I’m gone yet. And if we get to running low on pocket money, we can always sneak out and rob the colonel of whatever we need.”
For a while longer, the tent would continue to be their home.
With the saloon no longer a destination, a new quiet settled over Tascosa. Only those in need of supplies braved the sweltering summer heat to visit Madge and Jennie at the mercantile. Blacksmithing needs were put on hold until Rayburn’s health returned, so there was little activity at the livery. Rarely was anyone from the canyon seen in town.
Even the pace of Baggett’s operation had slowed while he sought to recruit new manpower to replace the rustlers he’d lost. Bootsy was promoted to head scout and spent much of his time searching the New Mexico Territory for new ranches to raid.
Though he didn’t mention it as often, a day rarely passed that Baggett didn’t think about the money that had been stolen from him and curse the memory of Top Wilson. He had been delighted when he finally learned the details of the killing.
When Bootsy had told him that it was Madge who was responsible, Baggett walked down to the canyon corral, where Calvin Dunning was mending a fence. “Don’t I recall you being married to that saloon woman in town?”
Bootsy had also made him aware of Madge’s recent fame. “We ain’t been together in a long time,” Dunning said.
“But according to the law, you’re still husband and wife.”
“I guess.” Aware that others were listening, Dunning was uncomfortable with the conversation.
Baggett was enjoying the embarrassment he was causing. “When you come to work here, I had no idea you was hitched to such a famous person. Me, I had a woman like that, I’d stick close so she could protect me. Blow the head off anyone giving me grief. Of course, a fellow would need to be careful not to get her mad, lest she aim her shotgun in his direction. Think there’s any chance I might be able to hire her?”
There was a smattering of laughter among the other workers at the corral as Dunning turned and walked away.
“Next time you’re in town,” Baggett called out, “you be sure and tell the little lady how proud I am of what she done.”
“I don’t go to town,” Dunning mumbled.
* * *
* * *
PAUL PRICE WAS likely the least sociable resident of Tascosa. Aside from those who visited his laundry or sought a monthly shave or hot bath, few townspeople ever saw him or his wife, Anna. It was generally assumed that his shyness had something to do with his having been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a youngster. It was safe to assume he was the only person in town who had not heard details of the saloon burning.
Price was good at washing, folding clothes, and making chin whiskers disappear, but social graces eluded him.
When he’d appeared at the livery with Wilson’s horse, it was only the second or third time Eli had ever had a conversation with him. And then he was back. And again he was talking about a hunting trip he’d made in the wooded area beyond his place of business.
“I was wondering,” he said, “if we’ve got reason to be concerned about Indians attacking.”
“Far as I know,” Rayburn said, “it’s been a long while since we had those worries. I think the last time they were seen in these parts was when the army ran them out of the canyon and onto the reservation over in the Territory. What causes you to ask?”
“I thought I saw some the other day. Two of them riding bareback and carrying long guns.”
“Was they wearing warbonnets and have their faces painted?” Eli regretted the condescending remark as soon as it left his mouth.
“I’m telling you, I saw them.”
“Didn’t intend making fun. I’m sure you did. But I got no expla
nation for them being in these parts.”
Breckenridge, however, did when Eli mentioned the conversation that evening.
“Remember me saying how I thought there was something strange about those cattle drivers being killed the way they were? It seemed more message sending, like they were of a mind to even the score for what Top Wilson caused over at that Comanche village. They replaced their stolen cattle, but maybe ain’t yet satisfied they’ve properly avenged their dead.”
Rayburn spat tobacco into the dirt and cursed. “How long until we get all of Wilson’s messes cleaned up?”
“I recall a few of them following us home. Didn’t see them after we made it to Tascosa, but it could be they continued trailing Baggett’s boys on to the canyon. Might have recognized them as members of that rustling party Wilson led.”
Eli had a solemn look on his face. “You think we’ve got cause for concern here in Tascosa?”
“I don’t think so,” Clay said, “but if I was living down in Palo Duro Canyon, I might be inclined to start sleeping with one eye open.”
* * *
* * *
MADGE KNEW NONE of the hymns but faked singing as best she could. Jennie, seeing her brave effort, smiled from across the room. For both, it felt good to be among people again. It also pleased them that none in attendance had so much as mentioned the events at the saloon.
As was tradition, Sunday singing ended with a prayer and refreshments. On this afternoon there was gingerbread cake and apple cider.
On the buggy ride back to the farm, Madge wasn’t sure how she felt about the experience. The people, other women mostly, had been nice, but she was uncertain about a person placing so much blind faith in a divine being who watched out for people from somewhere high above the clouds. Where had He been the night her saloon burned?
She decided not to mention her doubts. Instead, she asked Jennie about Will Darby.
“He was a man trying very hard to mend his ways.” Jennie’s voice took on a wistful quality. “In his past, he had made a lot of wrong turns and bad decisions. He admitted that. But he had good qualities as well. Even Pa could see that once he got to know him. I told him once that he was like watching a rosebud opening into a beautiful flower.”
“And you loved him,” Madge said.
“I loved what he was becoming . . . a good and honest man. He told me of his mistakes and shortcomings, even why he gave up his Christian name to be called Will Darby.”
“What did he tell you about his brother?”
“Clay was the man he wanted to someday be. Will felt he’d been a great disappointment to his brother and wanted to make it up to him. He spoke often about one day returning to the family farm—me with him—and working side by side with Clay. He loved him.”
“I’m sorry that wasn’t allowed to happen,” Madge said.
The lantern was already lit in the cabin when they arrived. “In a way,” Jennie said, “I could understand his feelings about his homeplace. It’s much the same for me. I always feel everything’s right and as it should be once I get home.”
Madge reached across the buggy and gave Jennie a hug. She felt a slight tug of jealousy. The closest thing she’d ever known to a real home was a small bedroom located upstairs from a smelly saloon. And now even that was gone.
While they watched Cyrus unhitch the horse and store the buggy away, Madge felt a shiver run down her spine. She had the sudden feeling they were being watched.
“What is it?” Jennie said.
Madge forced a smile. “Nothing,” she said. “The devil just walked over my grandma’s grave.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SILVER HAWK CONTINUED to brood over the rustlers’ midnight attack on his village and the deaths of his three young warriors. In time, he left on a solitary trip into the Indian Territory wilderness to seek counsel with the spirits.
The small band of hostile followers who had joined him in escaping the confines of the reservation and the restraints of the white man’s government anxiously waited for him to return and provide guidance.
One of the tribe’s most revered war chiefs, he had been shamed, and the only way he could restore his reputation was to take bloody revenge on his enemy. He summoned rebel leaders of several other Comanche camps for a council meeting to discuss combining forces and attacking an enemy hidden away in a High Plains place called Palo Duro Canyon.
When he returned to the village in full battle gear, chants promising death to the white devils went up from the braves. Then there was a ceremonial bonfire and prayers to the War Gods that their aims would be true.
In the generations before, Comanche warriors had fought battles against the white man in a spontaneous and near-suicidal way. There was no planning and very little concern for the number of casualties that might be suffered. When young braves died, others simply stepped up to take their places. Such was the Indian tradition of range war in the early days of the new West.
Guidance and tactics were delivered by the spirits.
Then the soldiers brought a new style of warfare. Their military approach featured careful planning and strategy, measuring of all odds and advantages before the first shot was fired. Tribal leaders, weary of losing battles, soon began to adopt the white man’s battle plans.
Though he had never been to Palo Duro Canyon, Silver Hawk could see it clearly in his mind. Scouts, traveling in pairs, had been there and returned to the village with details of everything from the jagged walls to the number of men living there. What they described was an ideal place for a surprise attack. For the unsuspecting white man, it was a death trap.
The first shot fired was symbolic—a flaming arrow that arced high in the twilight sky before landing on the roof of one of the cabins. Afterward came a barrage of rifle fire.
Silver Hawk’s raiding party, almost fifty warriors strong, had split into two groups that lined the canyon on both sides of the Baggett encampment. The order was simple. They had come to take nothing but the white men’s lives, avenging the loss of their fallen brothers and the theft of their cattle. What they could not kill, they would burn.
So sudden was the attack that several men fell dead even before they had time to search for cover. Others began firing harmless shots toward the canyon rim. Those who looked toward the trail that led out found that it was already blocked by rifle-bearing Indians.
Ben Baggett frantically raced about his cabin. “Who are these people?” he yelled from a window. He held a gun, but had no idea where to aim it. “Who . . . are . . . these . . . people?”
A rifle shot tore away the canvas window curtain near him, and he ducked to the floor. “Somebody do something,” he said in a childlike voice.
Bootsy was trapped under a wagon with a couple of other men. With no visible enemy, none had yet fired a single shot.
“Why don’t they show themselves?” one of the men asked.
“Why should they?” Bootsy replied. “They got every advantage. We’re no more than target practice.”
The Comanches had planned the assault for the evening of a full moon, so even after nightfall, visibility remained good. Adding an eerie glow were the flames licking at the roofs of several cabins.
“How many dead you think we’ve got?” said one of the men crouched beneath the pavilion table.
“Maybe half,” someone said. “And more to come. This ain’t no fair fight . . . and I fear it’s likely to end pretty soon.”
“What if we surrender?”
“That ain’t what these folks have come here for.”
Even as he spoke, the attacking warriors began to descend from the walls of the canyon. If their prey insisted on hiding, it was time for hand-to-hand fighting to begin.
The Comanches knew they had the upper hand and were emboldened. The drone of war chants began to echo through the canyon as the warriors neared its floor. Down
the trail, additional attackers were coming on horseback.
As they ran through the compound, they would occasionally stop to fire shots into the bodies of those already dead. Scalping and mutilation could wait until later.
Despite a volley of fire, they charged the barn, where several of the cowboys were making a stand. The defenders were quickly overwhelmed. Some were shot point-blank; some had their throats cut. And when the last white man was dead, the building was set afire.
When Bootsy saw three warriors headed toward him, he got to his feet and took aim. “Might as well get this over with,” he said. He got off only a single shot before a bullet tore into his stomach. Another hit him in the neck. Choking and spitting blood, he fell to the ground and was soon dead.
A few tried to run, but escape was impossible. If anyone mounted a horse in an attempt to ride away, the animal was shot from beneath him.
Finally, when the last spattering of gunfire ended, the warriors began a methodical search of each cabin, tent, and outbuilding, looking for survivors. When none were found, the structures were also set on fire.
Ben Baggett’s cabin was already ablaze when braves checked it for occupants. Finding no one inside, they walked away and let it burn.
The fires gave an orange glow to the night sky as the attackers gathered the dead and piled them in the middle of the now silent compound. They, too, were set afire. All except the one-eyed man.
Silver Hawk instructed two of his braves to take the body into the place called Tascosa. It would send a message. The tribal leader wanted it known what had just happened in the canyon: that revenge had been taken. He also wanted to show he had no interest in causing the deaths of the innocent townspeople he had no grudge against.
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