“Why?” Buck asked. “So you can track down Private Price?”
“You know why,” said Rachel. “You must be good for something more than sittin’ on a wagon tongue teasing me.”
Buck laughed. “Not much. You’re seein’ my best side right now.”
“Something’s botherin’ you,” said Haze. “What is it?”
“When there’s shooting,” Elizabeth said, “must you always jump right in the middle of it?”
“If you’re referring to back there at the cabin,” said Haze, “when the stock is about to stampede, it’s every man’s duty to get out there pronto. There won’t always be a pack of outlaws waitin’ with Winchesters. Hell, I only got hit once. Poor old Buck took two slugs, and might of died.”
“My sympathy to poor old Buck,” Elizabeth said, “but my concern is for you.”
“If you want me,” said Haze, “you’ll have to accept the good and the bad. Can you?”
“Ah reckon,” she said, imitating his Texas drawl.
CHAPTER 11
The Red River. November 5, 1873.
While resting the teams, the teamsters had climbed down and were stretching their legs. To relieve the boredom of the trail, the outriders and the women had joined them.
“If my reckonin’ is anywhere close,” Port Guthrie said, “we should be in Texas this time tomorrow. We can’t be more than a few miles from Doan’s Crossing.”*
“What’s there?” Trinity asked.
“Just a shallows in the Red,” said Guthrie. “Lots of northbound cattle drives cross there. There’s good water and graze, and sometimes friendly Indians camp there.”
“And sometimes, not-so-friendly whites,” Lafe Beard said.
“It’s too late in the season for cattle drives,” said Mac, “and it’s a mite far south for owl hoots from Indian Territory. There’s Texas law just across the river.”
“We don’t need to scout for water,” Red said, “but it might be handy knowin’ if we’ll have company at the crossing.”
“I’ll find out,” said Mac. “I aim to ride on ahead. If anybody’s there, I want to know who they are and why they’re there.”
Mac rode out, and found Guthrie’s estimate to be correct. He reached the river somewhere west of the crossing, and as he rode downriver he could see the dirty gray of smoke in the sky ahead of him. Mac rode only a little farther before dismounting and proceeding afoot. He wished to see without being seen. For convenience, the fire was near the river, in a clearing that surely must be the crossing. There was little cover, and Mac had to satisfy himself with what he could observe from a distance. Four men were gathered around the fire, and were obviously preparing a meal. Mac could recognize none of them from so great a distance. He watched the camp for a while, finally deciding the party consisted of only the four men he could see. He returned to his horse, and after leading the animal for almost a mile, he mounted and rode north.
“Rein up,” Port Guthrie shouted.
It was time to rest the teams again, and an opportunity for the outfit to hear what Mac had to say about the Red River and Doan’s Crossing.
“Four hombres had a cook fire goin’,” Mac reported. “I wasn’t close enough for them to see me, and I couldn’t identify any of them. If they’re unfriendly, I reckon we can hold our own.”
“Them bein’ on the north bank of the Red is reason enough to make me suspicious of them,” said Guthrie. “Leavin’ Texas, the Red is the jumpin’-off place. Even the Rangers won’t chase a man into Indian Territory.”
“We won’t start a fight, even with hostiles,” Mac said, “but if they start one, we’ll finish it. When we’re near the crossing, Red, I’ll want you, Haze, and Buck riding with me.”
Nobody said anything. After their recent experiences with outlaws, they understood his caution. The teamsters mounted their wagon boxes and the caravan moved on. There was no sign of smoke as they approached the river. Red, Haze, and Buck rode on ahead of the wagons, joining Mac. Warily they trotted their horses into the clearing that led to the crossing, but there was no sign of the men Mac had seen.
“Maybe they just stopped long enough to eat, and then rode on,” said Haze.
“That’s possible,” Mac replied, “but not likely. It’s too near sundown. They built their cook fire close to the river for convenience, but they’ve drifted back into the brush for the night. We’ll set up our camp as near the river as we can, leaving most of this clearing behind us. They’ll have to cross some portion of it to get to us, even if they approach from up- or downstream.”
“There should be a moon later tonight,” Red said. “Maybe, instead of allowing Port and his boys to take the first two watches, we ought to be awake, settin’ on ready.”
“I kind of feel the same way,” said Buck. “I don’t want any more surprises like we had back at the cabin.”
“My sentiments, exactly,” Haze said. “Ever since that outlaw segundo escaped Quanah Parker and his Comanches, I’ve had the uneasy feeling we’ll be meetin’ the varmint again.”
“I kind of hope we do,” said Mac. “It’s like walkin’ through tallgrass, knowin’ there’s a sidewinder in there somewhere. You want him to go ahead and strike, and be done with him.”
There was time for supper before dark, and afterward, Mac explained the strategy he and his companions had already discussed.
“Red, Buck, Haze, and me will be watching for anything that moves, and that means nobody gets up and wanders around. Stay put until dawn.”
“Suppose we have to go to the bushes?” Hattie said.
“Suppose you do,” said Mac, “and behind the bushes there’s an outlaw with a gun? Don’t spread your blankets so close to one another. Leave enough space to squat where you are.”
“And afterward,” Trinity said, “try not to thrash around too much.”
Though embarrassed, Hattie laughed with everybody else. But they took Mac seriously and there was no moving about during the night, nor was there any sign of the expected visitors. They showed up next morning, before breakfast. Red saw them first.
“Mac, here they come.”
The four stepped out of the brush, well out of Colt or rifle range.
“He didn’t disappoint us,” Mac said. “One of them is the varmint whose compañeros had a bad experience with Quanah Parker and his Comanches.”
“A damn shame he wasn’t there, himself,” said Buck. “You recognize any of the rest of them?”
“No,” Mac replied, “but he’s had time to throw in with others of the same caliber as those who tangled with the Comanches. Stand fast, until we know what they have in mind.”
The four came on, but Mac didn’t allow them to come within range.
“That’s far enough,” said Mac. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“You know who I am,” Russ replied, “and I want you, wagon boss.”
“Take me, if you can,” said Mac. “The rest of you, don’t buy more than you can pay for. Only a damned fool gets gunned down in somebody else’s fight.”
“We ain’t doin’ nothin’ but seein’ he gits an even break,” one of the trio siding Russ replied.
“Fair enough,” Mac said, “and my three amigos are here to see that I get one. Red, Buck, Haze, if any one of those three pulls a gun, kill him.”
Russ came on, but his three companions didn’t accompany him. Russ wore his Colt low on his right hip, thonged down. His hand swung freely, hovering nearer the weapon as he came closer. Mac went to meet him, leaving Red, Buck, and Haze out of the line of fire and in a position to face the outlaw’s three companions.
“My God,” Trinity cried, “Mac could be killed.”
“He could,” said Port Guthrie, “but he won’t be. He’s doin’ what he has to do, if he’s to go on standin’ on his hind legs like a man. Watch him.”
Trinity did watch, unable to turn away. Mac halted, his hands at his side, and at that moment Russ went for his gun. Chills of terror swept over Trin
ity, for Mac Tunstall had made no move! The outlaw’s gun rose, spat flame once, and lead kicked up dust at the outlaw’s feet. Mac hadn’t seemed to move, but the smoking Colt was in his hand, the roar of his second shot seeming part of the first. Russ stumbled backward, and when his knees buckled, he fell on his back, the Colt still in his dead hand. A west wind sent his old hat tumbling away, while his three companions watched it in morbid fascination. Only then did Mac speak.
“Unless the three of you aim to take up where he left off, mount up and ride.”
“We’ll ride,” said one of the three. “He got a fair shake.”
The trio turned and walked back the way they had come, disappearing in the brush. In a matter of moments, there was the sound of hoofbeats as they rode away.
“Oh,” Trinity cried, “oh!”
Not caring what anybody thought, she ran to Mac, throwing her trembling arms around him.
“Whoa,” said Mac, “I don’t have any bullet holes in me.”
“He didn’t even come close to gettin ventilated,” Red said.
“Trinity,” said Elizabeth, “turn him loose. It’s your turn to make biscuits.”
“Yeah,” Mac said, “we can do this anytime. I’m starved.”
“You’re an insensitive brute,” said Trinity, letting go of him.
They all laughed as she stalked away, toward the wagons.
“You’ll have plenty of time to sweet-talk her tonight,” Buck said. “Looks like we’re fresh out of outlaws.”
After breakfast, they crossed the river into Texas.
“I’ll ride on ahead,” said Mac. “We’re good for a night or two of dry camp, but I’d prefer fresh water.”
Mac saw Trinity watching him, and just for a moment he thought she was going to go with him. But she resisted the temptation and he rode south alone. He mentally pictured a map of Texas Hiram Yeager had shown him, and he believed they were not more than sixty miles from the White River. But if nothing went wrong, the heavily loaded wagons would need a week to cover that distance. He rode fifteen miles without finding water, and that meant a dry camp. A second night in a dry camp would see them in trouble, for the Texas sun was hot, and there was a limit as to how long the mules could last on a small ration of water from the barrels. When he met the wagons, they were at a standstill, and at first he believed they had stopped to rest the teams. But as he drew closer, he learned otherwise. In the shade of one of the wagons lay a man dressed in Union blue.
“He stumbled into us afoot,” Red said, as Mac dismounted. “He’s been shot.”
“Have you learned who he is, or what post he’s from?” Mac asked.
“No,” said Red. “He’s burning with fever and talkin’ out of his head. Trinity’s gone to the wagon for the medicine chest.”
The man lay belly-down. Port Guthrie had removed his shirt, revealing the wound. It was high up, encrusted with dried blood.
“I’ll need hot water,” Guthrie said. “It’s been maybe three days since he was shot, and it may be too late to save him. I’ve seen wounds after blood poisonin’ had set in, and this looks like one of ’em.”
Hattie had taken wood from the possum belly beneath one of the wagons, and had a fire going. Elizabeth was dipping water from one of the barrels.
“I reckon this ain’t a good time to bring it up,” said Mac, “but it’s dry camp tonight, and maybe tomorrow night. I rode a good fifteen miles without a sign of water.”
“The more time we lose today, the more we’ll have to make up tomorrow,” Red said.
“That’s it,” said Mac. “We have to get this hombre patched up, into the wagon, and be on our way.”
Trinity returned with the medicine chest, and Port Guthrie took it.
“This ain’t goin’ to be pretty,” Guthrie said. “Them of you with a weak stomach best not stick around. I’ll do what I can.”
Mac backed away and sat down in the shade of one of the wagons. To his surprise, Trinity sat down beside him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a silly goose.”
“Honk, honk,” said Mac.
“Damn you,” she said, “you don’t make it easy, do you?”
“If I did,” said Mac, “you’d come to expect it and would give me a hard way to go more often, wouldn’t you?”
She laughed, surprising him. “I suppose I would. What do you think happened to that soldier?”
“If I had to guess,” Mac replied, “I’d say he’s been shot.”
“Oh, damn it,” she said wearily, “you know what I mean. Why do you think he was shot? Indians?”
“No,” said Mac. “Indians would have ridden him down and he never would have made it this far. He’s likely from Fort Worth, and likely a deserter. He may have been confined to a guardhouse or stockade, and may have been shot while escaping.”
“The army would shoot a man for that?”
“They would, without hesitation,” Mac said. “The army takes discipline seriously. If a soldier runs—deserts—under fire, he’s subject to being shot by his own men. Then if he escapes and is later captured, the sentence is almost always death before a firing squad.”
“My God, that’s cruel,” said Trinity. “It’s no crime, being afraid.”
“It is when a man’s a soldier,” Mac replied. “A chain is never any stronger than its weakest link. A soldier who yields to cowardice or fear imperils the lives of others.”
“I suppose you’ve never been afraid.”
“You suppose wrong,” said Mac. “I’ve been afraid most of my life. Only a fool is without fear. Fear can keep a man alive or be the death of him, dependin’ on how he can relate to it.”
“Mac Tunstall, sometimes you strike me as the most brilliant man I’ve ever known, and at other times, the most . . . most—”
“Ignorant,” Mac finished.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”
“Trinity McCoy, every man is a mix of ignorance and brilliance. What you get, and how much, generally depends on what you’re askin’ for. A man rises or falls accordin’ to what’s expected of him.”
Trinity had a sharp response on the tip of her tongue, when she saw the merriment in his eyes. She was about to prove his point, and they both knew it. Moreover, they seemed to have attracted an audience.
“My God,” said Buck reverently, “we’re about to lose old Mac. Next thing we know, he’ll be wearin’ a derby hat, teachin’ school, and rollin’ in money. I hear that them with his kind of learnin’ makes as much as forty dollars a month.”
“He’s mighty deep,” Red agreed, “and he’s had me fooled all these years. Told me his daddy always took him to school. Mac was in the fourth grade, and his old man was in the fifth. Now I know he was just tellin’ me that so’s I wouldn’t feel ignorant alongside him.”
They all roared with laughter. Especially Trinity.
“Damn fine lot you are,” said Mac. “A man can’t carry on a private conversation without all of you gatherin’ around like a flock of geese.”
The merriment ended as abruptly as it had begun, when Port Guthrie approached.
“This young hombre’s got the worst case of blood poisonin’ I’ve ever seen,” Guthrie said. “If I’m any judge, he’ll be leavin’ us sometime tonight.”
“Then we’ll have to search him for some identification,” said Mac. “He’ll have a family somewhere who deserves to know of his death. We can report it at Fort Griffin, but we’ll need to at least know his name.”
“I found a letter in his shirt pocket,” Guthrie replied. “It was wrote to him from Ohio and looks to be from his ma.”
“Hold on to it then,” said Mac. “We’ll do for him what we can, and failing in that, see that he’s properly buried. The army will be responsible for notifying his family.”
“Do you honestly believe they will?” Hattie asked.
“It would be the right thing to do,” said Mac.
“Mr. Guthrie,” Trinity said, “before you turn that let
ter over to the army at Fort Griffin, I want his family’s address from it. As soon as I reach a place where I can post a letter, I’ll write to his mother, tell her of his death, and that we buried him.”
“I think that would be a fittin’ and proper thing to do, ma’am,” said Guthrie.
“If there’s nothing more to be done for him,” Mac said, “put him in the wagon and we’ll move on. We can’t afford to lose any more time, if we’re to have any hope of reaching water sometime tomorrow.”
The wagons rolled on, and near sundown Mac halted them on a plateau where, if there was no water, at least there was good graze.
“We’ll dig a fire pit,” said Mac, “so we can bed the coals for hot coffee during the night. I don’t know that anybody would be attracted to our fire, but there’s no point in taking chances, when we don’t have to.”
Just before supper was ready, Port Guthrie broke some sobering news.
“The young hombre in the wagon is dead. It’d be easier, buryin’ him in the cool of the evening.”
“I think you’re right,” said Mac. “We’ll hurry supper, dig a grave, and lay him to rest before dark.”
“I hope we didn’t hasten his death by bouncing him around in the wagon,” Trinity said.
“I doubt it,” said Guthrie. “He wouldn’t have lasted any longer if we’d left him lay in the shade of a wagon, instead of bringin’ him on. When a man’s flesh is rottin’ away and death is just a matter of time, it’s a blessin’ when the end comes quick.”
Supper was a somber meal. Red and Haze were the first to finish, and taking a pair of shovels, they began digging a grave on a hummock a hundred yards from the wagons. The first stars were winking silver in a field of deep purple when they wrapped the soldier in a blanket and lowered him into the lonely grave.
“It’s so sad,” Hattie said. “He can’t be a day over twenty, and he’s being laid away by strangers, hundreds of miles from his family and all that he must have held dear.”
“He’s more fortunate than some,” said Guthrie. “Many a man has come west, only to leave his bones bleachin’ on the plains where he breathed his last, with not even a stranger to bury him and send word to his family.”
The Winchester Run Page 17
