This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE DEPUTY AT LARGE
First edition. September 22, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Landrun Publishing
ISBN: 979-8637824748
Written by Judge and Alanna Rodriguez.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author’s Note:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Also By Judge and Alanna Rodriguez
About the Author
We wish to thank everyone that has followed the development of these stories with us. We know that it has been quite the roller coaster ride and we thank you for your patience. It is our sincerest hope you will find inspiration in this continuing saga.
“Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me.” Philippians 3:12
Author’s Note:
This book is a work of fiction. Keep that in mind. Any and all similarities to actual events and real people are coincidental.
If this story gives you the desire to study history, or look within yourself to see if you would survive this scenario, then we have done our jobs.
Otherwise, it is our most sincere hope you enjoy the story and the development of the characters as much as we have.
Chapter 1
It was raining. Not the toad-strangling, drenching rain of the spring storms common enough to this region. No, this was just enough water to make the air hotter and more muggy. A lone rider, astride a dun colored roan, slowly rides down the Shawnee Road towards the quiet town. Several horses were tied to hitching posts, so it wasn’t a complete ghost town. The rider shield his eyes against the rising sun and looks on in irritation.
According to the map, this town was supposed to be five more miles to the west, only a mile from the trickle that was supposedly called a creek. Being on the edge of the Shawnee lands, one would think that a town would take care to be as accurate as possible to be separated from the tribe. This town, Denver, was only fifteen miles away from the Shawnee lands.
He mutters to himself, “I know that the landrun was a year ago, but this inaccuracy is ridiculous. It’s not like there weren’t surveyors available or anything.”
At the edge of town, a sign reads, “Welcome to Denver.” A crude, hand-painted sign tacked on the post below it read “Drunks, rustlers, carpet-baggers, and sheepherders will be shot.”
The horse and rider go through town, and stop in front of a building with a sign out front. “Town Marshal”. Slowly, as if injured, he dismounts. He opens the saddle bag and pulls out an oil pouch filled with a sheave of papers. He pats the horse’s shoulders companionably. “Stay here. It won’t be but a few minutes, Ranger.” Then he moves toward the door of the marshal’s office. The horse turns his head and snorts in acknowledgment. The man walks up to the door, knocks twice and enters.
The town marshal, a large man of middle years, is seated at the desk, writing what initially appears to be some type of report. “I’ll be with you in a minute”, he says still writing furiously on the page.
The man stands in the door way, stunned that he recognizes the marshal. I can’t believe it. How is this possible? From the doorway, he says in Cherokee, “I can’t believe it’s you, John. It’s been nigh on 20 years since I’ve seen that ugly face of yours.”
The marshal’s head snaps up, his face as white as a sheet. He jumps to his feet quickly enough he knocks the chair over and grips the handle of his Colt tightly. In Cherokee he says, “I see the face of a dead man in front of me. Tell me you aren’t Josh, tell me you didn’t come back from the grave to haunt me with the mistakes of my past.”
“Josh. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a dog’s age or three.” The rider slowly limps over to the desk, opening the packet and places the papers from it on top of a short stack of papers already there.
John, still standing never moves either his eyes from the newcomer, or his hand from the grip of his revolver.
“Now, I go by the name of Jacob Judah Isaacson. Most people call me Jake. Here’s your latest round of the Post.”
“Tell me what happened that day down in Crecilla. Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you for being a deserter.”
He shakes his head in wonder. “Crecilla Monastery. I haven’t spoken of that God-forsaken place for many years. I’ve thought about the mistakes made there everyday since that fateful night in ‘74.” He points to his hip. “I haven’t been able to walk straight, since.” He holds his hand out to the marshal, still standing with a strangle hold on his gun. “You know, I’m not gonna draw on you. You can sit back down, take a load off. I have quite a lot to tell you, but you really DO need to relax.”
“This had better be good. You know, we had quite the moving funeral for you when we got back to Camp Wichita.” He releases his grip on his gun, picks up his chair without taking his eyes off his old friend, and eases back into it, back straight. “Pull up a chair, you look like you could use it, and neither one of us is going to go anywhere until we have this out.”
Jake sits rather heavily in the chair, grunting as he does so. He gathers his thoughts briefly before saying, “You may recall, we followed the Chiricahua to that abandoned monastery. After chasing them for about a week, we were all saddle-sore. It was a miserable ride for me, particularly since my gout was acting up most of that hundred plus mile ride . . .”
THE TWO CAVALRY TROOPS follow the band of Apache into the crumbling buildings of the monastery. Josh looks over at his blood-brother and sees the same worried look. Captain Lonargan wouldn’t forgive either one of them for disobeying his orders once more. Both of them knew it, neither of them had a choice. They both ride at the head of the troop assigned to them as sergeant majors, with weapons drawn and at the ready.
As the shots from the ambush ring out, Josh’s troop ends up being on the north end of the abandoned monastery, while John’s troop ends up being on the south side. Shots ring out from the outer edges of the ruined abandoned buildings and cause the horses of the troop to throw their riders.
Josh is able to keep his mount under control well enou
gh, that is, until, the canteen draped over his saddle horn burst from a bullet and spills the precious water. Must have been from one of the stolen Winchesters. His horse, Davis, rears, unseating him. When he makes contact with the ground, there is a loud crack as his arm brakes and shoulder dislocates.
He barely hears John yell, “No!”
Anger floods his vision. Not necessarily at the redskins they were fighting, but more at himself for taking the tumble.
Josh knows he needs to get back to his horse, get back to the group, back to John. He is getting more separated from safety in a bad situation that’s getting worse. With pain shooting everywhere and making his vision darken around the edges, he picks himself up. Davis stands there, obediently waiting for his rider. What a good horse, but then he watches in horror as Davis start to fall and he’s barely able to get out of the way before the massive body falls on him.
His foot killing him, his right arm completely useless, pain making thinking difficult, he wants to just lay down. But he can’t give up, so he refuses to. By some miracle, he is able to draw his revolver left handed, but it hurts so bad, his aim is worthless. He empties his gun and begins to try to reload. There is so much commotion, so much panic, the troops is getting closer and closer to being over run. He realizes he’s too open. He limps as quickly as he can manage to get over to a partial wall, and is halfway there when a new searing pain shoots through the top of his thigh and he barely makes it to the wall. Leaning up against it, he finishes reloading. In a moment of lucidity, he takes off his belt and cinches it as tight as he can to staunch the flow of blood. And his world goes dark.
When Josh comes to, the sun is much lower in the sky than he remembers it. He’s not sure how long he’s been laying there. He distinctly remembers there being gunfire before he blacked out. But now, it’s quiet. Deathly quiet. No sounds of gunfire, no screams or moans of pain. Has he been left for dead? He struggles to look around. Dead bodies, both Indian, soldier and horse, lay strewn about haphazardly, including his beloved horse. He is going to miss that horse. How long has he been there? Has no one stayed behind? None of the men of the troops that he considers brother? Where is John? Has he come this far only to loose his blood-brother this way? Is he injured or did he get away unscathed? Why didn’t they come back?
He thought he felt abandoned at the orphanage and when he found out his clan had been murdered. But now, as he leans back and stares up in the sky, he knows utter despair.
JAKE GRUNTS AS HE TRIES to re-settle his body in the solid wood chair. He desperately wishes for the open trail. Sitting too long in one place is utter agony. “I was scared, in pain, and still losing blood.” He looks to John, and waves off an offered cup of coffee. “I try to stay away from the stuff. If the cup doesn’t have a drab of whiskey, or is pure water, it don’t hold any interest for me.
“I don’t know how long I was propped up against that wall, conscious, but it wasn’t long before one of those Apache came up to me, most likely to scavenge from me. I was sure I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. Once he got close enough to grab my gun from my limp fingers, I used my left hand and stabbed him in the throat.”
Jake grins at John’s look of incredulity. “I’d figured he was most likely a straggler. Lo and behold, he wasn’t with them at all. I leveraged myself up to a position where I could see the rest of the monastery, and it really was deserted. That’s when I guessed he was just a random vulture scavenging the battlefield. I did notice however, he wasn’t in paint, so I guessed at that point he wasn’t with the group we were chasing. My wound was still oozing blood. I knew I was going to pass out again if I didn’t do something about it soon. I crawled back over to my horse and grabbed my flint and tinderbox. I was able to use my knife to get the bullet out of several rounds, and pour the gunpowder into the wound. Then, using my knife and flint, I lit the powder in the wound.”
With a look of disbelief, John nods, indicating for him to continue.
AFTER THE FLASH, JOSH doesn’t remember if he screamed or just passed back out. His throat is raw like he has been screaming when he wakes again, but that can also have been due to not having any water for five or six hours at that point, as well. Night is well underway as the moon has fully risen. When he hears coyotes in the distance, probably being drawn in by the blood shed at the site earlier in the day, he knows he’s in as much danger if not more than earlier. He drags himself over to the dead Indian and scavenges what he can.
He’s not sure how, but he manages to get to his feet. Is he hurting so bad that he can’t feel anything anymore? Is he in shock? Is he getting better somehow? He wanders around a little and finds the Indian’s mule not far away. The animal was obviously not happy to see him. The mule brayed and bawled at him, and proved to be a fouled tempered beast. After some more searching, Josh sees that the cantankerous mule has a saddle, crude, but effective. He tries to mount the mule, but finds he’s barely able to. But somehow, he manages to drag his sorry bulk to the beast’s back, reins in hand. While not being happy, the mule is well trained enough to take orders.
“You are one stubborn animal, you know that?” he asks the obstinate mule. A bray is his answer and he can almost imagine Stubborn cursing at him. Stubborn. “That’s what I’m going to call ya. Stubborn.”
Josh gives him free rein, figuring the animal will go back to where he is used to being fed. By the time dawn comes, Josh finds himself in the middle of the wilderness, at the base of the Wichita mountains. He is desperate for water. How long has it been since he had a drink?
Hearing a gunshot and seeing the canteen hanging on the saddle horn burst and spill the precious liquid has him searching for the gunner and trying to save the water from leaving the canteen. Only to realize there isn’t a shooter, there isn’t a canteen, and it is only a memory.
He allows Stubborn to guide him to the camp that the Apache had built in the woodlands, hoping it will get him close to water. Thankfully, he is right on both counts. Apparently, the Indian had been raiding not only the stores of whites, but his own people, since the camp is quite well stocked with foodstuffs.
Josh finds his benefactor’s source of water and drinks until he thinks he’ll drink up the entire creek. Next, he fashions a sling for his arm and allows Stubborn to graze. Finding blankets, he rolls himself into one and sleeps until around noon the next day. He wakes to the call of nature and his stomach. Stubborn has come back to the camp, and is munching greedily on the grass surrounding iy. He spends several days there, trying to recover his strength and debates if he wants to continue to live. In truth, these few days feel like purgatory.
After the fight at Crecilla, he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. All his instincts tell him he’s either dead, or about to die. After a few days in that camp, he finally decides he needs to try and get back to Camp Wichita. So he sets out with Stubborn with a few supplies he is able to carry away from the camp. With him being injured, and Stubborn living up to his name, he can’t manage very many provisions.
Chapter 2
The next couple of weeks are anything but comfortable. Josh’s shoulder made his right arm useless, and Stubborn proves to have quite the mind of his own. The animal knows he is dependent on him, so he does everything he can to take advantage of the situation. The cantankerous mule will only travel for so many hours a day and then stops. Josh decides to travel along the salt fork of the Red River, so they don’t run out of water, but having limited food leaves Josh hungry for several days at a time. He uses his few remaining rounds on jack rabbits, bobcats, and coyotes. Thankfully, Stubborn is smart enough to avoid the mountain lions’ territory. After all is said and done, it takes them two weeks to get back to some semblance of civilization, where they arrive at Camp Wichita.
“Where’s Captain Richards?” Josh asks a random trooper.
The soldier points toward the commander’s quarters.
Josh nods his thanks, and half limps half drags himself to the building where the soldier indicates.
He ties Stubborn to the post, painfully climbs the steps and raps on the door.
“Enter!”
Taking a deep breath for strength, he opens the door and feels so much relief seeing a friendly face, he fights tears. Richards is concentrating on what he’s writing and doesn’t look up immediately. Josh throws his hand up in salute. “Sargent Josh Jacobs, reporting as ordered, sir.” He waits for the captain to return the salute.
Richards, upon hearing the name, looks up and his face drains of blood. “Jacobs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re alive?”
Is he alive? Was he really left behind as dead? Did John even try to find out if he was still alive? “Barely, sir.”
“You well?”
“No, sir, I’m hurting pretty bad.” And he is. His hand and arm are starting to shake badly.
Richards rushes around his desk and shoves a chair toward Josh as he goes by. “Sit.”
Josh was never so thankful to obey a command as he dropped his salute and gingerly sank into the chair.
The captain yanks the door open. “Private! Get the surgeon, NOW!”
Josh barely hears the man say, “Yes, sir.”
By the time Josh finally finds a somewhat reasonably comfortable position, Richards is kneeling beside the chair.
“What happened, Jacobs? At Crecilla? What HAPPENED?”
His strength beginning to fade, Josh begins his tale. He leaves nothing out.
At some point, the surgeon has joined them. “He did a fairly good job, considering what he had to work with,” the camp physician explains, “but I’m gonna have to re-locate his shoulder, re-break his arm and set them into a splint correctly.”
Josh groans. That is definitely not what he is wanting to hear. Through gritted teeth, he says, “Do what you need to, doc.”
Without looking at the captain, the surgeon nods.
“Captain,” Josh says. “What about John? Is he alright?”
Deputy at Large Page 1