The Winchester Run

by Ralph Compton

  “I won’t say a word,” Haze replied. “Now lean that Winchester against the wagon and come set beside me.”

  The night passed without difficulty. The horses and mules were given a small ration of water from the kegs. It would be sufficient to see them to the North Canadian. But before they reached the river, they could see buzzards circling ahead. They were harbingers of death, and with each spiral, they were closer to the ground.

  “Something or somebody’s dead or dying,” Mac said. “Come on, Red.”

  Long before they reached what had attracted the buzzards, they could see that it was a man. Or the remains of one.

  Several buzzards flapped away as Mac and Red dismounted. The body was that of an Indian dressed in buckskin, and he lay belly-down.

  “Easy enough to see what happened to him,” Red observed. “Shot in the back. Twice.”

  “He’s alive, but just barely,” said Mac, as he felt for a pulse. “Stay here and keep the buzzards away from him, until the wagons get here. I’ll ride back and hurry them along.”

  “Trinity,” Mac said, when he met the wagons, “there’s an Indian who’s been hurt. We will take him on to the river with us and do what we can for him. We’ll have to put him in your wagon, if that’s all right with you.”

  “It’s all right with us,” said Trinity. “We’ll trot our teams on ahead. Why don’t you get the medicine chest from Port’s wagon?”

  Mac did so, making the rest of the outfit aware of the wounded Indian. He then rode on, catching up to the rattling wagon. When it reached the Indian, Red let down the tailgate. Trinity and Hattie were shoving their belongings aside, making room for the Indian. By the time Mac and Red got him to the wagon, Hattie was spreading a blanket. Quickly the wagon rattled on toward the river, Mac and Red riding alongside it.

  “I’ll start a fire,” said Red. “Did any of you think to bring a pot to boil some water?”

  “We have several in our wagon,” Trinity said. “I’ll get one.”

  “We’ll have to move him out of the wagon, so we can see what we’re doing,” said Mac. “Red, when you get the fire going . . .”

  When Mac and Red lifted the wounded man, Hattie took the blanket and spread it on the ground beneath a poplar tree, a few yards from the river. Within minutes, the rest of the wagons arrived, Port Guthrie in the lead.

  “Port,” Mac said, “you’re our authority on gunshot wounds. Why don’t you have a look at him?”

  “Get that shirt off him, then,” said Guthrie, “while I wash my hands.”

  The rest of the teamsters were unharnessing the mules, while Haze and Buck had taken the reins of the horses. They must not be allowed to drink too soon.

  “God,” Red observed, when the Indian’s buckskin shirt had been removed, “he’s been hit hard and low down.”

  “No exit wounds,” said Guthrie. “The lead’s still in him. Takin’ it out may finish him for good.”

  “No more certainly than leaving it in,” Mac said. “It’ll be uphill all the way, but it has to come out. He’s a bueno hombre, or he wouldn’t have survived this long.”

  Guthrie spent an hour removing the lead, and when he had finished, he fell back on the ground, sweating and exhausted. Without being asked, Hattie passed an unopened quart of whiskey to Mac. He poured it into the wounds.

  “We have a bolt of cotton muslin in our wagon,” said Trinity. “We brought it for—”

  She blushed, and the rest of the women laughed.

  “Get it,” Mac said. “We’ll save enough for whatever need you have. Cut or tear me a couple of pads, each thick enough and large enough to cover these wounds. Then rip some strips long enough to reach around him, to hold the pads in place.”

  Mac soaked the pads with whiskey and placed one over each of the wounds in the Indian’s back. With Red lifting the wounded man, Mac passed the long strips several times around him, tying the ends tight.

  “It’s not the most comfortable position,” said Mac, “but we’ll leave him belly-down, so we can keep an eye on those wounds. They’re still recent enough that he doesn’t have a fever, but it’ll come.”

  “Move him back in our wagon before dark,” Trinity said, “and we’ll look in on him during the night. If fever takes him, we’ll dose him with whiskey.”

  So began the long night of watching the critically wounded Indian, of pouring whiskey down him when he burned with fever, of changing the whiskey-soaked pads covering his wounds. At dawn the fever left him and his pulse seemed stronger. But then, riding from the west in a column of twos, the soldiers came . . .

  * On November 23, 1868, Custer and the U.S. Seventh rode from Camp Supply, south. Five days later, they wiped out the Cheyennes in what is now western Oklahoma.

  CHAPTER 7

  The patrol consisted of ten men. A lieutenant and a sergeant were in the lead, and the rest of the men reined up behind them. The officer spoke.

  “I am First Lieutenant Weems, and this is Sergeant Gilbert. We’re on patrol from Fort Elliott. Yesterday, a few miles west of here, we flushed an Indian. We got some lead in him, and just after sundown, shot his horse from under him, but we lost him in the darkness.”

  “I’m Tunstall,” Mac said. “We’re bound for Austin. Why were you after the Indian? What has he done?”

  The officer laughed. “He’s guilty of being an Indian. There’s nobody left except Parker and his hostiles, so he has to be part of that band. We’ve been ordered to shoot Indians on sight. Any Indians.”

  “Any Indians?” Red asked. “Without knowing if they’re friendly or hostile?”

  “Mister,” said Lieutenant Weems, “as far as the army is concerned, every Indian is hostile. I am authorizing you to shoot any Indian you may encounter. Failure to do so will be considered an act of insubordination against the government of the United States. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mac said. “You have, sir. Abundantly clear, sir.”

  The lieutenant interpreted the response exactly as Mac had intended, and he rode away in silence. The sergeant and the rest of the men followed, the privates trying mightily not to grin. Finally, when they were lost to distance, Red laughed.

  “You, sir,” said Red, “are guilty of harboring a fugitive. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  “I am,” Mac said, “and I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “He was high-handed, spit-and-polish, by-the-book,” said Port Guthrie, “but I’d say he’s right about one thing. This wounded man is almost surely one of Parker’s band.”

  “But we don’t know that,” Mac replied, “and neither does Lieutenant Spit-and-polish.”

  “What would they have done, had you surrendered the Indian to them?” Trinity asked.

  “Finished what they started,” said Mac.

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t let them have him,” Trinity said. “Whatever he is, he’s a human being.”

  “He is,” said Hattie, “and soldier or not, I’d have shot any man trying to take him.”

  “That’s precisely why I said nothing about him,” Mac said. “We have enough enemies without adding the army to the list.”

  “He’s tough as a hickory nut,” said Haze, “and he’ll live. Question is, what will we do with him?”

  “Turn him loose, I reckon,” Mac said, “when he’s able.”

  “I hope he’ll remember this,” said Buck, “when Quanah Parker and his bunch come after our scalps.”

  “When it comes to Indians,” Red said, “you can’t count on anything but your fingers and your fast gun.”

  “That’s gospel,” said Port Guthrie.

  “This is as confusing as anything I ever heard,” Elizabeth said. “Why are we saving and protecting a man who may later return with his friends and murder us?”

  “It just rankles the hell out of me, seeing a man shot in the back,” said Mac, “even if he is an Indian, even if I have to kill him myself, the next time we meet.”

  “That’s about the way
I feel,” Red said.

  “Well, I’d like to know what we’re goin’ to do,” said Saul Estrella. “Do we spend the night here, where there’s water, or move on?”

  “I think we’ll spend the night here,” Mac replied. “I’ll ride on ahead and see how far we are from the Canadian River. It could be as much as twenty miles.”

  “That’s a good two-day drive,” said Gourd Snively. “Another dry camp.”

  “We have water barrels, and there’s the river,” Mac said.

  Part of Mac’s decision to remain at the North Canadian another day had to do with his consideration of the wounded Indian. It was a critical time, and being tumbled about in a moving wagon might mean the end of him. Besides that, it seemed about time for that troublesome bunch of renegades—those who remained—to make their move, and the terrain was especially good near the river. As they traveled south, toward the Red, the possibilities of an ambush increased as the country became more broken. Danger of Indian attack would be great enough, without adding to it the almost certain ambush by outlaws. Mac went to the wagon where the Indian lay. The drawstrings had been loosened and the canvas drawn back to provide light and air. The wounded man’s breathing was no longer ragged and irregular, and as Mac looked at the solemn face, he was shocked. Obsidian eyes stared back at him without expression. Just as suddenly the eyes closed, and Mac turned away. Hattie stood a few paces away, watching him.

  “I think you’d better avoid getting into the wagon for a while,” Mack said. “Just for a few seconds, his eyes were open. As he gains strength, there’s no telling what he may do or how he may react.”

  “After all we’ve done to help him,” said Hattie, “I can’t believe he’d harm me.”

  “Believe it,” Mac replied. “You’re white, and that means you’re the enemy.”

  “Why . . . that’s ridiculous,” said Hattie.

  “Is it? You heard what the lieutenant said about Indians. They’ve been forced to see us as the army regards them.”

  After breakfast, Mac prepared to ride south, to the Canadian River. He had a parting word for the outfit.

  “Use this day to wash and mend clothes or anything else that needs doing. Port, I’m depending on you to see that every water barrel is filled. Draft as many men as you need. Until I know, one way or the other, we must prepare for a two-day drive from here to the Canadian River.”

  “Mac,” Trinity asked, “may I ride with you?”

  “You don’t have a horse,” said Mac, “and it’s too far to ride double.”

  “Red says I can ride his horse,” Trinity replied.

  Red grinned and winked when Mac looked at him.

  “All right,” said Mac. “Saddle him, Red.”

  Red laughed. “He’s already saddled and the stirrups raised.”

  “You take a hell of a lot for granted, don’t you?” Mac said.

  The sun wasn’t more than an hour high when Mac and Trinity rode south.

  “I didn’t know you could ride,” said Mac.

  “Of course I can,” Trinity responded. “I grew up in farm country. I can handle a mule or horse hitched to a turning plow, too. I know all the cuss words.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Mac. “I could just see me bringing you back belly-down across the saddle, your behind a mess of saddle sores. How are you at milking cows?”

  “That’s a foolish question. I can milk any damn thing that gives milk. Why?”

  Mac laughed. “A Texas man won’t have a woman that can’t milk. We have a fondness for milk in our coffee, but we’d be disgraced if we were caught milking a cow. If it ain’t written somewhere in the Bible or the Constitution of the United States, I’m sure it’s part of Texas law, on file at Austin.”

  “Texas men are crazy as loons,” she said, with as straight a face as she could maintain. “I want a man who doesn’t chew, dip, or smoke, and only gets drunk on Saturday night.”

  “I reckon that rules me out, then,” said Mac. “I can’t stand Texas red-eye, even on a Saturday night. It’s been aged about ten minutes, and it’s so strong it’d gag a llano buzzard.”

  “But that’s not all,” Trinity said. “I’ll want two milk cows, a flock of chickens, and a big red rooster.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Mac. “I was afraid you’d want a house with a parlor, a bed, a cookstove, a table, eatin’ tools, and maybe a carpet on the floor.”

  “Oh, I’m a primitive woman,” Trinity said. “I’d not expect any more finery than any Texas man could comfortably provide.”

  “Good,” said Mac. “All we’ll need is a one-room line shack with a cowhide hung over the open door to keep out wind and rain, and a water hole not more’n a mile distant.”

  “Aren’t you Texans afraid of spoiling a woman, being so lavish?”

  “Oh, hell,” Mac said, “you got it all wrong. The shack’s for the cows, chickens, and the big red rooster. You and me will take our bedrolls and bunk out in the brush.”

  It was perfectly foolish conversation. They laughed until they could laugh no more, until their horses snaked their heads around, wondering what had come over these strange humans. Even for October, the sun was hot.

  “We’d better stop and rest the horses,” Mac said.

  They dismounted, loosened the saddle cinches, and sat down beneath a pine.

  “How far do you think we’ve ridden?”

  “Maybe ten miles,” said Mac. “I’m sure it’ll be a good two days’ journey, as slow and as loaded as the wagons are. I just hope it’s no farther.”

  “I’m not used to it being this warm in October,” Trinity said. “It’s warm enough for a swim in the river.”

  “Maybe,” said Mac, “but it’s not safe enough. Remember what happened the last time you took your clothes off and got in the water?”

  Trinity sighed. “Yes, I remember. But it seems so peaceful.”

  “That’s generally the way it is in the West, just before all hell busts loose,” said Mac.

  It was time to go. Mac snugged up their saddle cinches. They mounted, riding south.

  Far behind Mac and Trinity, careful not to raise any dust, a pair of the renegades—Russ and Gillis—followed.

  “I got my doubts,” Gillis said. “You really think if we grab these two, the rest of ’em will abandon them wagons to us?”

  “They will, if they want this pair to go on livin’,” said Russ.

  “You’d turn ’em loose?”

  “No way,” Russ said. “Once we get control of the wagons, we’ll have to kill ’em all. But they don’t have to know that.”

  “Why don’t we go ahead and take them?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” said Russ. “They’ll be watchin’ their backtrail, and would see our dust long before we could get close enough. We’ll find a good place, take cover, and get them as they return.”

  Everything seemed peaceful along the North Canadian. The women had followed Mac’s suggestion and were at a shallows in the river, washing clothes. Upstream, Guthrie and his teamsters were filling water barrels. Red, Buck, and Haze were helping. It was Red who first saw the riders approaching from the north, and before he could utter a word, the others could see the alarm in his eyes. Slowly they turned, and what they beheld sent chills at a fast gallop up their spines. The landscape was alive with mounted Indians!

  “Lord amighty,” Port Guthrie groaned, “there must be five hundred.”

  “Don’t nobody pull a gun,” said Red quietly. “We’re at their mercy.”

  “Hell,” Buck said, “if they’re Comanches, they don’t know the meanin’ of the word.”

  Hattie, Rachel, and Elizabeth, up to their knees in the river, had just become aware of the Indians. They stood there, pieces of wet clothing in their hands, shocked into silence. Then a miracle took place. From the wagon where the wounded Indian lay, there came a shout. It was a guttural sound that none of them understood, but the mounted Indians had heard. Somehow the wounded Indian had gotten to his feet an
d was holding to the rear wagon bow, speaking to the mounted men who surrounded the wagon. One of the mounted Indians trotted his horse to the wagon’s tailgate, extended his hand, and the wounded man stepped from the wagon onto the horse. The horde of mounted Indians turned their horses and rode north, in the direction from which they had come. One rider fell back, and for just a moment, faced the men and women at the river. He then whirled his horse and rode after his comrades.

  “By God,” said Red, “I got a feeling we was just face-to-face with Quanah Parker, the chief of the Comanches.”

  Hattie, Rachel, and Elizabeth had forgotten their wash, and came on the run.

  “They took him away,” Hattie cried. “How did they know he was here?”

  “They didn’t,” said Port Guthrie. “They were here because they had plans for us. That wounded Indian in the wagon changed their minds. It was our kindness to him that saved our bacon.”

  “If Mac Tunstall never does anything right again, this will be enough,” Buck said.

  “There was one of them who turned back and looked at us,” said Hattie. “He looked young, almost a boy.”

  “That likely had to be Quanah Parker himself,” Red said, “and he is young. He had a white mother. Cynthia Ann Parker was taken by the Comanches, and became the wife of a Comanche chief.”*

  “I reckon that’ll be some relief to Mac,” said Haze. “Now all we got to bother us is what’s left of that band of renegades.”

  “You really think they’ll come after us?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes,” said Haze, “for the same reason Mac does. We dealt ’em too much hurt. They want the wagons, but they want us just as bad. I’d say we’re a hundred and forty miles north of the Red River. Once we cross it, we’ll be in Texas. I look for that bunch to come after us somewhere between here and the Red.”

  “Unless they’ve picked up some more men,” Buck said, “there can’t be more than a dozen of ’em. That means an ambush.”

  “Mac and Trinity’ve been gone for more than three hours,” said Hattie. “I hope nothing has happened to them.”