by Tim Washburn
Reining his horse down into a small creek, he was surprised to find water. This time of the year most of the smaller creeks ran dry and the Red River slowed to a trickle. His horse dipped his muzzle into the water and drank deeply and then Seth rode up the far bank and attempted to pick up the trail on a patch of rocky ground. His father’s group appeared to be heading almost on a straight line, but he didn’t know if they had a particular destination in mind or were simply following the rustlers’ tracks. He loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace as he studied the ground, which soon transitioned from rocky to sandy, allowing Seth to pick up the trail again.
When he glanced up at the sky again an hour later it looked like a storm was forming out to the west. He watched it a moment as the clouds boiled and billowed, growing larger by the minute as the updraft pushed the top of the storm ever higher into the sky. It was fascinating to see, and Seth could’ve sat and watched it all day if he’d been anywhere else. But not here in enemy territory, especially with the threat the storm posed to Seth’s plans. If the rain washed away the trail, he’d be in a pickle.
Having never seen a map of the area—if one even existed—he had no idea of what might lie ahead. So far, he hadn’t seen any houses, or trading posts, or anything else that would indicate a specific location. Maybe that grouping of teepees was what was called a town up in these parts, Seth thought. Didn’t seem right to him. Those Indians could pack up their tents and be gone before dark, leaving nothing but open space in their wake. And it was strange to think of it that way. Seth’s grandfather’s grandfather had lived on the land where they now lived, a succession of Ridgeway families all tethered to that one location. From the looks of things up here, it appeared the Indians didn’t much care about putting down roots or anything else that would result in any sort of permanent place. And, as Seth thought about that, he began to understand why the Indians were so difficult to keep on the reservation. It was as unnatural to them as it would be for him and his family to pack up and move, then move again, and again, and again. They were two entirely different worlds, and, for a moment, Seth envied the Indians. They got to go where they wanted when they wanted, and for a boy who hadn’t been much beyond the ranch, that was a powerful thing.
Seth’s thoughts were interrupted momentarily when he spied a trio of riders headed his way. Though still too far away to discern much about them other than their clothing, that was enough for Seth to know they weren’t Indians. He sat a little easier in the saddle as his horse plodded forward, the distance between him and the three riders diminishing. He was hoping they could give him the lay of the land or what might lie ahead and, if not, it was time for him to turn back for home before the storm hit.
But what Seth would soon discover was that skin color and clothing were irrelevant when judging a man’s intentions.
CHAPTER 8
Eli Ridgeway muttered a curse word or two as he and Winfield Wilson rode single file up a game trail on the north bank of the Red River. Most of his vehemence was directed at his sister Rachel, the rest reserved for the building storm clouds to the west. He was concerned the rain would wash out the trail and he was also concerned about their own safety. No man liked to be atop a horse during a lightning storm and if it started hailing it would beat them all to hell. Eli spurred his horse into a lope and Win matched him then rode on ahead to take the point. Eli could read sign, but Win could read it and tell you who was riding which horse and how it had been since their last meal.
Eli slipped his watch from his pocket to check the time and grimaced. They might have six hours of daylight left and Seth had at least a four-hour head start. Eli loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace. The pony he was riding, a black-and-white paint, was native to Texas and could gallop all day and not give out. But it was never a good idea to let a horse run for long periods of time, despite their capability. In this country a man never knew when his life might depend on his horse’s swiftness and stamina. Eli’s only complaint about this particular horse was that he was a little shorter than most and the stirrups, and his boots in them, got dragged through the tall grass. But he’d take that, knowing his mount was sure-footed and an overachiever.
Thunder rumbled off to the west and Eli glanced up at the sky. A majority of the time the storms in the area moved from northwest to southeast and there was a chance this one could pass behind them. And that’s all Eli could hope for, knowing Mother Nature could be a bitch when she wanted to be.
Win slowed his horse to a walk and Eli did the same, easing his horse forward to ride side by side.
“Bunch of redskins off the reserve,” Win said out of the corner of his mouth. “Ride through here in the winter and all these small creeks would be crowded up with teepees.” With disgust on his face Win surveyed the area. He had no qualms when it came to killing Indians, and Eli knew why. As a young boy, Win had been working out in the field with his father when a Kiowa war party rode up on them. The Indians killed and mutilated his father and they held Win captive for two months before a trader ransomed him and returned him to his mother.
“They’ll never stop the Indians from migrating back and forth,” Eli said.
“You’re right,” Win said. He bent over and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Ought to wall off the whole damn territory and let ’em all go at one another.” Win steered his horse toward a game trail and followed it down to a small creek and both men let their horses drink under the shade of a large cottonwood tree. “Guvmint give them all this land and they don’t do a damn thing with it,” Win said, obviously not finished on the subject of Indians. “We ought to take it back. A feller could graze a bunch of cattle up here.”
“If we confiscate all of their land, where do you expect them to reside?” Eli asked.
“Six feet under works for me,” Win said. “The sonsabitches.”
Eli glanced up at the sky again and, eager to change the subject, said, “Think the storm is going to miss us?”
Win shrugged. “If we’re lucky.” He surveyed the chewed-up ground and picked up Seth’s trail again.
“With all of those hoof prints, how do you know we’re following Seth?”
Win looked at him like he was a greenhorn. He pulled his horse to a stop and pointed at the dirt. “Tell me what you see.”
Eli studied the ground for a moment then shook his head. “A bunch of horse tracks.”
Win shook his head. “I’m amazed you can find your way home. Look yonder,” he said, pointing to a hoof print ten feet away. “See that track right there?”
“I see it. What about it?”
“That there’s Seth’s horse. The left, back shoe was put on a tad cockeyed.”
Eli rode forward for a closer look. “Well, if it is, it isn’t skewed much.”
“Don’t have to be, if you knowed what you’re lookin’ for.” Win shook his head, disappointed with Eli’s poor tracking abilities.
“What else does that track tell you?”
Win touched his spurs to his horse’s ribs to get him started. “We’ve gained some ground on him.”
“How much?” Eli asked as he started his horse moving.
“’Bout an hour or so, I reckon.” Win put his horse into a lope and Eli did the same, dejected they hadn’t made up more time.
Eli looked up at the approaching storm again. The dark, rain-filled clouds were scudding across the sky and moving directly overhead. A bolt of lightning lit up the gathering gloom and a rumble of thunder rolled across the prairie. They were now on borrowed time.
They came to another small creek and Win and Eli charged down the bank, splashed across the water, and raced up the far bank. Three hundred yards farther, Win slowed his horse and walked it in a circle as he studied the hoof prints. After a moment or two, he reined his horse to a stop and looked up at Eli. “There’s three new sets of tracks in here around Seth’s horse.”
“Shod ponies?”
“Yep. Don’t mean much, though, with
all the horse thievin’ the Injuns do.” Win turned his horse and rode east for a bit as Eli watched. After a moment, he returned, his narrow shoulders slumped. “There’s four horses headed due east.”
All thoughts of the approaching storm were pushed from Eli’s mind. Although he already knew the answer, he had to ask. “Seth one of them?”
Win nodded and looked up at the approaching storm. “Let’s see how far they go before we lose ’em.”
They rode hard due east for another ten minutes before their luck ran out. Fat raindrops splattered the ground for a moment and then the storm unleashed a deluge of water. Win and Eli slowed their horses to a walk and dug out their slickers, crestfallen that Seth’s trail was already gone.
CHAPTER 9
With the storms having passed on to the east, Emma Turner decided to take advantage of the break in the weather and headed down to the river to pick some blackberries that grew wild along the bank. That was the excuse she gave her mother, but what she really wanted was some time alone, which was something hard to come by when you lived around four other families.
Red-haired and blue-eyed, Emma’s thirteen-year-old body was undergoing a transformation. Her breasts were budding out and her woman’s monthly misery had rudely surprised her last month and, as a tomboy, she didn’t know what to think about all of it. Not that she had any choice in the matter. She had a couple of friends who were close to her age who lived east of the ranch and they were already talking about men, marriage, and settling down—all things that Emma had never really considered before. And even if she did think about it the pickings were slim. Available suitors weren’t flooding the ranch to court her. Not that she wanted to be courted. But was that what was expected of her? she wondered. Settle down in a few years and start pushing out babies? That held very little appeal for Emma, who had dreams of seeing a little more of the world beyond this ranch along the river.
“Ouch,” she muttered when her finger snagged a thorn. She stuck her finger in her mouth to suck away the blood as she glanced up at the sun descending toward the horizon and tried to judge how much daylight was left. Maybe an hour or so, she decided as she moved down the bank to another thicket of blackberries. Her mind continued to churn through the new, confusing thoughts invading her brain. Maybe this is what Ma was talking about when she said being a grown-up was hard. As far as Emma was concerned, being a grown-up didn’t appear to be much different from being a kid. They all worked hard.
The water in the river was up after the thundershower and the muddy current churned with a mess of tree limbs, brush, and other discarded items that had dropped into the river upstream. Emma was just hoping the onrush of water would scour away the millions of mosquitoes that called the river home. She moseyed a little farther down the bank to another patch of blackberries as her mind drifted back to her dilemma. Her mother, Abby, always stressed the importance of education and Emma had dreams of going to college back East one day if she could find a college that took girls, that is. And she had made her wishes clear to anyone who would listen. So, marrying and starting a family had zero appeal to her. Maybe someday, but that someday was a long way off.
Hearing the snick of a horse’s hoof hitting a rock, Emma glanced up and dropped her basket of berries. She was surrounded by four Indian braves, their bodies and ponies painted for war.
“He-hello,” Emma stuttered. She pointed toward the ranch buildings and brought her hands to her chest and said, “My home.”
The dark-skinned braves, painted with black and red clay, were dressed only in loincloths and moccasins as they edged their horses closer, never saying a word. Emma backed down the bank and they formed a circle tight around her, blocking her path. She saw no avenue of escape, so she did the first thing that came to mind.
Emma screamed, took a breath, and screamed again.
The nearest Indian leaned down and grabbed Emma around the waist and pulled her onto his horse as easily as if he was plucking the bloom off a rose. Emma screamed again and began hitting, slapping, and scratching—anything to get away. The savage wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her body. Emma started kicking her legs and screaming, trying to break the Indian’s grip, but it was impossible. The Indian calmly steered his horse up the bank as Emma continued to scream and kick. She heard the Indian behind her laughing and that enraged her. She twisted one way and then the other and made no progress. Then she started kicking the horse—in the head, in the shoulders, anywhere she could bury her heels, and the horse plodded onward, unconcerned that she was kicking him as hard as she could. Her voice raw, she tried to scream again, and it came out as a croak. She paused, took a breath, and quickly calculated her options.
Trying a new tactic, she let her body go slack, hoping the Indian would loosen his grip, and all he did was squeeze her harder. Rearing back her leg, she slammed her heel down on the horse’s right ear and he didn’t even flinch. She pounded her head against the Indian’s chest over and over again and all he did was laugh. Knowing there were unspeakable horrors ahead if she didn’t get free, she tried squirming out from beneath his grasp again but it was like she’d been confined in a small box.
Tears coursed down her cheeks as the savages kicked their horses into a gallop, the ranch buildings growing smaller in the distance.
CHAPTER 10
Having seen no sight of the cattle rustlers and, with their trail now washed away, Cyrus, Percy, and the rest of the men rode into Fort Sill as the sun settled on the horizon. Cyrus led them over to the trading post and the men climbed down and tied their horses to the hitch rail. Despite the recent storm, a group of Indians were banging their drums and dancing on the parade grounds.
“If they’s doing a rain dance, it worked,” Cyrus grumbled to Percy.
“Looks like somethin’ has them irritated,” Percy replied as he brushed past his father and stepped up on the post’s porch. He removed his slicker and took off his hat to shake the residual water off.
Built along the Medicine Creek near the Medicine Bluffs, Fort Sill was a fairly recent addition to the string of frontier forts the army was building to clamp down on the marauding Indians who were raiding new settlements along a line that ran from Mexico to the Dakotas. The white man’s westward expansion demanded something be done about the Indians despite the fact the Kiowas, Comanches, and Apaches had roamed that territory for hundreds of years. Marching under the banner of Manifest Destiny, the white settlers believed their cause justified and inevitable, and the sooner the savages were subdued and put where they belonged, the better.
Of course, the Indians thought differently and thus, the continuing conflict.
Fort Sill was laid out in squares with the parade ground serving as the centerpiece. Situated around the square were the trading post, quartermaster’s storehouse, the blacksmith, stables, bunkhouses, officers’ quarters, and, opposite of where they were now, the headquarters for the post commander.
From his place on the porch of the store, Percy took a moment to survey the area. Although called a fort, there were no exterior walls, moats, or anything that might slow an approaching army, which seemed strange to Percy, who had visited his fair share of forts over the years. And the inhabitants of this fort were also different from most. Fort Sill was a menagerie of humanity. In addition to the multitude of different Indian tribes, including different bands of the same tribe, the fort was also home to the U.S. Army’s 10th Cavalry Regiment, one of two cavalry regiments reserved exclusively for black enlisted men. Better known by their Indian name, the Buffalo Soldiers were a seasoned group of hard men presently under the command of Lieutenant Colonel John “Black Jack” Davidson, a man who had visited the ranch many times over the years and whom Percy considered a good friend.
“Isaac, you and Amos keep an eye on the horses,” Cyrus said as he stepped up onto the porch. “Them Injuns’ll steal ’em in a heartbeat.” Cyrus glanced at Percy. “You comin’ in?”
“Naw,” Percy replied. “I’m goin’ to mo
sey over to headquarters and get the lay of the land from John. We stayin’ here for the night?”
“Might as well. River’ll be up with all this rain. Ask John if there’s a place we can bed down.”
“I will. Think the trader has any whiskey hidden away?” Percy asked.
“Doubtful,” Cyrus said, looking at the Indians celebrating on the parade grounds. “Them Injuns would cave the door in to get at it.”
Percy stepped off the porch and threaded his way through the Indian gathering on his way to Sherman House. The structure was a large, two-story rectangular building that featured a long porch that fronted the first level and four chimneys, each located in a corner of the building When he arrived, Percy opened the door and entered the foyer, where a private was manning the reception desk.
“Evenin’,” Percy said. “Colonel Davidson in?”
“Who’s askin’, sir?” the private asked. The young man was trim and fit with closed-cropped frizzy hair and eyes as blue as the sky.
“Percy Ridgeway.”
“I’ll check, sir,” the private said as he stood and headed down the hallway toward the back of the building.
Percy had worked around and with black men all of his life, but never as a slaveholder, like many of his fellow Texans. He couldn’t abide one man thinking himself superior to another based on skin color or anything else. And despite tremendous pressure to join his fellow statesmen in fighting for the Confederacy, Percy had refused, as did all the men at the Rocking R. That refusal was based partly on their beliefs and the other part was that they already had plenty on their plate trying to keep the Indians from killing them or stealing everything they owned.