The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  The private returned and said, “Follow me, sir.” He led Percy down a long hall and out onto the back porch, where Lieutenant Colonel John Davidson was standing near a couple of chairs, a bottle of brandy and two glasses situated on a small table between them. Davidson shook Percy’s hand and waved to the opposite chair and both men sat as the private retreated. A coal oil lamp flickered on the opposite end of the porch, drawing a horde of insects and casting a wan light that washed over the two men. Davidson poured, and the two men clinked glasses. Percy drained his glass in one long swallow and said, “What are the Indians celebratin’?”

  Davidson poured more brandy into Percy’s glass. “Got a couple of Kiowa chiefs locked up in the stockade. Appears to have made some members of their tribe angry.”

  “You goin’ to turn ’em loose?”

  “Not up to me, but I hope not.”

  “Why? Afraid they’ll start raidin’ again?”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” Davidson said. “General Sherman is fit to be tied. I have a feeling a day of reckoning is quickly approaching, though.” Davidson drained his glass and refilled it.

  “How quickly?”

  “Spring, maybe. The buffalo herds are already thinnin’ out. Once their food source is gone, they won’t have any choice but to return to the reservation.”

  “Still a lot of buffalo roaming the plains,” Percy said.

  Davidson glanced over at Percy. “I didn’t say the Indians wouldn’t need some persuadin’.” He took a sip of brandy and stared out into the darkness for a few moments. Known for being a stickler for details, Davidson was thin-framed and had a long mustache that extended well beyond his face, along with a narrow goatee. “I’m tired of Indian talk. What are you doin’ up this way?”

  “Tryin’ to track down a couple of rustlers.”

  Davidson arched his brows. “Your father’s idea?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “How many cattle are you running down there?”

  “About ten thousand head at last count.”

  “And how many cattle were stolen?”

  “Two.”

  Davidson smiled. “Ole Cyrus won’t give an inch, will he?”

  “Nope,” Percy said. “We lost their trail in the rain, so I guess they got away this time, much to my father’s dismay.” Percy took a long pull from his glass and then said, “What’s life like commandin’ a Negro regiment?”

  Davidson turned slightly in his chair so that he could look at Percy. “I’ll tell you, Percy, the vast majority of them are illiterate, but they’re some of the hardest-workin’ troops I’ve ever been associated with. They might not be book smart, but they damn sure know how to fight. And I’ll take a fighter any day. They seldom complain about anything and I’ve had troops do nothing but complain about all sorts of things. So, all in all, they’re a fine group of soldiers and their skin color doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

  “I’m assumin’ you know what others call you?” Percy asked.

  “Black Jack? Yeah, I heard. Nicknames don’t mean a damn thing to me.” Davidson pulled a couple of cigars from the pocket of his unbuttoned army tunic and offered one to Percy, who accepted. Davidson flared a match and lit both, fanned the match out, and refilled their glasses. Taking a long draw from his cigar, Davidson settled back in his chair. “Although I’ve been to the ranch several times, a report of a recent raid down your way got me to wonderin’ about somethin’.”

  Percy blew out a stream of smoke and said, “What’s that?”

  “With all the Indian depredations that have happened in Texas over the years, the Ridgeway clan remains relatively unscathed. Why do you think that is? I know that wagon you had built is one hell of a deterrent but that can’t be the only reason, can it?”

  Percy shrugged and took a deep draw from his cigar. “Call it mutually assured destruction, John, or maybe mutual respect. As you know, we’re not short on firepower and the Indians have learned over the years that we fight back, and our response is often swift and deadly. We take a firm but fair approach with them, and if we leave them alone, they generally do the same with us. And if they’re hungry we’ll cut out a steer or two for them on occasion and we’ve traded with a lot of them over the years.”

  Davidson rolled his cigar between his fingers and tapped off the ash. “They don’t steal from you? They’ll steal anything not tied down around here.”

  “They’re a thievin’ bunch, for sure, and you’ve gotta nip that in the bud in a hurry or they’ll steal you blind. We lose a few cattle every year to ’em, but it’s an unsubstantial number in the bigger picture of things.”

  “Yet you’re up here chasin’ after a couple rustlers who stole two steers.”

  Percy shrugged. “That’s part of the nippin’ in the bud I was talkin’ about.”

  Davidson smiled and took a sip of brandy. “You can talk about mutual respect, but I don’t know, Percy. The only signs of Comanche respect I’ve seen was when they had a loaded gun pointed at them.”

  “Like I said, we’re not short on firepower. Lawrie Tatum still the Indian agent round here?”

  “Nope. Moved back to Iowa after resigning his post at the end of March. Got a new fella now. Name’s James Haworth, another Quaker, like Tatum. What he knows about Indians, I don’t know. Seems to want to befriend them all and doesn’t want the military involved in Indian business.”

  “How’s that workin’ out for you?” Percy asked as he took another draw from his cigar.

  “Not worth a damn,” Davidson said as he tossed the nub of his cigar onto the porch floor and ground it out with his boot. “I don’t know why they keep bringin’ these Quakers in an attempt to pacify the Indians. Haworth had the gall to ask me to remove the guard from the provision’s warehouse as a show of trust.”

  “Did you?” Percy asked.

  “I did. A group of Kiowas went in and stole everything there was to steal. Then he thought having a guard wasn’t such a bad idea. I’ll tell you, Percy, the only way we’re goin’ to get a handle on this Indian situation is by the use of force, and the sooner, the better. Sheridan and Sherman are in agreement, but they can’t get the folks in Washington to agree. Let the Indians take a few more scalps and I guess we’ll see what happens.” He turned and looked at Percy. “In the meantime, I’m just hopin’ one of them is not yours.”

  “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Having lost Seth’s trail in the rain, Eli and Win continued riding through the growing gloom, hoping to stumble upon him. Despite the recent rain, the heat was back in full force and only added to the misery of riding around in wet clothing, where everything rubbed in all the wrong places. The slickers they had donned proved useless against the deluge and did a better job of trapping the heat, which was the last thing either man wanted, so off came the slickers.

  Win led them across Cache Creek and onto a broad plain that spread far ahead into the growing darkness. Crickets chirped, cicadas buzzed, and the mosquitoes were as thick as flies in an outhouse. All they could do was keep traveling east, hoping to find some sign of Seth or a fresh trail.

  Before it got too dark to see, Win pulled his horse to a stop and climbed down for a closer look at the ground. He walked a wide circle, his eyes searching the grass for bent stalks and the sandy areas for faint impressions that might have survived the rain. Spotting something, he knelt down for a closer inspection. “Found something. Looks like we’re headed the right—”

  A distant gunshot shattered the stillness.

  Eli turned his head, trying to pinpoint its origin as the shot echoed across the prairie. “Sounded like it was due east of here. Not sure of the distance.”

  “Half a mile or more,” Win said as he climbed back on his horse.

  Eli spurred his horse into a trot as he scanned the horizon. A little further along, he spotted the yellow-orange glow of a campfire and slowed his horse to a walk. They rode as close as they dared without knowing the particula
rs and stopped, slipping down from their horses. After sliding their rifles out, they tied their horses to a small bush and crept closer. It appeared to be four people, one of them tied to a tree. Eli didn’t know if it was Seth, but he had a sinking feeling that it probably was.

  Win moved off to the right, angling to get behind the group, and Eli followed. When they were about twenty yards away, they stopped and squatted down to survey the scene. Three older men were standing around the fire, hooting and hollering as they passed a whiskey bottle around, and tied to the tree was Seth. Eli couldn’t make out specific details, but it looked like the men had roughed him up some. For what purpose, Eli didn’t know. But three men against one small boy was far from a fair fight.

  It was full dark now and the place the men had picked to build a fire was surrounded by high grass, making it difficult to see much of what was going on. It looked like there was a small creek on the other side of the fire and Eli was wondering if it might be a better approach, when Win leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Let’s move closer.”

  Eli nodded and both men stood and crept forward about fifteen yards and squatted back down. It didn’t help much with the line of sight, but it did allow them to hear some of what was going on. Most of what they heard were alcohol-fueled stories with no hints about why they’d abducted Seth. And Eli could draw no logical conclusions from the scene before them. Why three white males, who looked to be in their late forties or early fifties, had taken Seth and tied him to a tree and then all but ignored him was mystifying. Then Eli’s mind dove to a deeper, darker place searching for answers, and a gear clicked another gear and he had a probable answer. It would explain why they were getting liquored up before starting, and Eli couldn’t bear to think what would have happened to Seth if Rachel hadn’t convinced him to go looking for her son.

  The next series of events happened so quickly and were so insane that Eli and Win couldn’t have anticipated them and therefore didn’t have time to react.

  One of the men walked over to Seth, loosened the rope, and turned him around, and then pulled his pants down and held him while another man pulled a branding iron from the fire, walked over, and branded Seth on the butt.

  As Seth’s cries of anguish and pain filled the night, Eli’s anger flared hot. Win turned and said, “I’m gonna kill them sonsabitches.” Win pulled back the hammer on his rifle and stood, tucking the stock tight to his shoulder. He fired and one of the men jerked around and fell. Win was already levering another shell before Eli could get to his feet.

  The other two men tried to make a break for the creek, but in their drunken state, couldn’t do much more than flounder around. Eli raised his rifle, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. The nearest man dropped like his legs had been cut from under him. Eli felt no remorse as he levered another shell and looked down the barrel for the third man, the hot blood surging through his veins. Off to his left, Win fired two quick shots and just like that it was all over. The other men never got off a shot. Win pulled his pistol and walked over to make sure the three men were dead while Eli hurried over to Seth.

  “Seth,” Eli said as he slowly approached. “It’s Uncle Eli, Seth. It’s all over now.” Eli grimaced at the burned skin. “Okay, Seth?”

  Seth whimpered.

  Eli gently pulled Seth’s pants up, untied the rope, and slowly turned Seth around and knelt down so he could look in his eyes.

  Tears were streaming down Seth’s cheeks. “Why . . . would . . .”

  Eli wrapped his arms around him. “Shh, you’re safe and that’s all tha—”

  His words were drowned out by Win’s pistol shot.

  “It’s okay,” Eli said. “They won’t be hurting anyone ever again.”

  Seth nodded his head against Eli’s chest.

  When the crying finally slowed to an occasional sob Eli asked Seth if he could walk.

  “I reckon so . . . but not sure . . . I can sit a . . . horse.”

  “Don’t worry about the horse right now. But we do need to get away from here.”

  Seth nodded.

  Win came over and squatted down next to Eli and said, “We need to git gone.”

  “I know,” Eli said as he stood and took Seth’s hand. “Win, grab the horses and Seth and I’ll mosey on along behind you.”

  Win kicked out the fire, grabbed Seth’s horse, and went after the other two horses.

  They walked west for a good hour or so, trying to put some distance between them and the three bodies. Eli had no idea who they had been, nor did he care. And if they had families or loved ones concerned about their whereabouts that was just too damn bad.

  Seth was limping from the pain and finally—mercifully—Win led them through a small copse of trees and into a clearing near the creek they’d been following. Win unrolled a bedroll and Eli knew it would be too painful for Seth to sit. “Lie down on your stomach, Seth.”

  Seth nodded and lay down on the blanket. Both men unsaddled the three horses and hobbled them so the horses could graze and drink from the creek without fear of them running away. Eli retrieved a bag of jerky from his saddlebag, grabbed his canteen, and offered both to Seth before taking a seat next to him. Seth refused the jerky but he eased up on his side and took a long draw from the canteen as Win gathered wood for a fire. Eli pulled off his still-wet shirt and spread it out on the grass to dry.

  The night was hot and muggy, and they certainly didn’t need a fire for warmth, but Eli did need the light to better examine Seth’s face. As they waited for the fire to take hold, Eli dug around in his saddlebag, looking to see if he had anything to give Seth for the pain, and came up empty.

  “Why did they do that to me, Uncle Eli?”

  Eli suspected the branding was one part of a larger ritual that he and Win had interrupted and could only guess what the men had in store for Seth. But three men, a bottle of whiskey, and a young boy was a recipe for all types of deviant behavior. But telling Seth that would open the door to more questions Eli had no interest in answering.

  “Evil lurks among men, Seth. And there is no viable answer to that question. Just take comfort in knowing they’ll never do it again.”

  “But why me?”

  “You were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, Seth. They chose you because you were available at a time when they were seeking to fulfill their evil desires.”

  Seth thought about that for a few moments and then said, “I’m glad you and Win killed ’em. You sure they’re dead?”

  “Rest assured, they’re dead,” Eli said as he pulled a rag from his saddlebag and dampened it with water from the canteen. “Roll up on your left side, Seth, and let me examine your face.”

  Seth rolled onto his side, and Eli gently cleaned his face. “You have some scrapes and some bruising but no deep lacerations.”

  “Lacerwhat?” Seth asked.

  “Lacerations. Cuts.” Eli scooted back and said, “You can lie back down now.”

  As they settled in for the night, it finally dawned on Eli that he’d killed his first man and he wondered if he’d have to deal with mental recriminations later because, at the moment, he felt no remorse whatsoever.

  CHAPTER 12

  Abigail Turner was getting worried. It wasn’t unusual for Emma to stay out after dark catching fireflies with her older cousins or whatever else they could find to do to occupy their time. But she couldn’t remember Emma ever staying out this late. Although she had been trying to allow Emma more freedom, staying out until eleven p.m. was going too far. She pulled a lantern off a peg near the door, lit it, and stepped out into the dark night.

  Abby decided her first course of action was to check her mother’s house, hoping Emma had decided to stay over. When Abigail reached her parents’ house, she climbed the steps up to the porch that fronted the house and eased the front door open. Over the years, as the Ridgeway clan grew more prosperous, additions were made to the main house and it now contained six bedrooms, a parlor, the main living area
fronted by a large fireplace, and a large kitchen. Hoping not to wake her mother, she shifted the lantern to her left hand so that her body would shield most of the light.

  Stepping lightly across the yellow pine floors, she walked toward the rear of the house, where three of the bedrooms were, the others, upstairs. Despite her best attempt at being quiet, she heard her mother say, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Ma, Abby,” she said as she walked toward her parents’ bedroom in the far back corner of the house.

  There was a rustle, a squeak, then the sound of feet on the floor. “What in the world are you doin’ prowlin’ around the house in the middle of the night?” Frances asked, stepping out in the hall as she belted her robe.

  “Lookin’ for Emma.”

  “She’s not here, Abby. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “At supper. Have you seen her since then?”

  Frances shook her head. “No. I saw her earlier in the day. Think she might have decided to spend the night with one of her cousins?”

  “Not without asking. She knows better than that.”

  “Check the barn?”

  “Not yet. Thought I’d try here first.”

  “Let me put on some shoes and I’ll help you look,” Frances said. She ducked back into her bedroom and returned a moment later, wearing a pair of moccasins an old Ponca woman had given her.

  Abby followed her mother through the house as her mind spun with possible locations where Emma might be. The bunkhouse was off-limits to any and all children and there were several other shacks scattered across the ranch, but none close enough to walk to. That left the barn, or the other three houses owned by her brothers and sister. Abby’s mind returned to the present when her mother reached above the fireplace and took down the double-barrel, ten-gauge shotgun.

  A tingle of dread raced down Abby’s spine. “What are you thinkin’, Ma?”