by Tim Washburn
Abby sighed, stood, and shuffled over to the rocker in front of the fireplace and sat. Percy and others had set out a little earlier in the war wagon, but she knew the difficulties they faced and also knew it would be days or even weeks before she heard anything. She turned and picked up a pair of pants that needed mending from a basket on the hearth, held them in her hands a moment, then tossed them back. Then she picked up a book she’d been reading before Emma’s abduction and the words ran together on the page. Tossing the book on the floor, she rubbed her face and wondered, why now? Why did the Indians, who usually cut a wide berth around the ranch, come in and kidnap her daughter? Every savage in the Territory knew her father gave no quarter.
The only thing that made sense was the four Indians were a bunch of young bucks who didn’t know the Ridgeways fought back—blood for blood. Even if they did know, would that deter them from harming Emma? Those questions piled on top of a hundred others, but they were all unanswerable and wondering about them was only going to drive her crazy. Instead, her thoughts turned to her husband, Isaac. If he hadn’t gone chasing after those rustlers, she thought, he’d have been home, and Emma would never have been kidnapped. Or that’s how she reasoned it. Just one more thing to add to her list of things Isaac had or hadn’t done.
Several times she’d thought about quitting the ranch altogether—take the kids and move down to San Antonio or even Galveston or anywhere where she wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder every single minute of every single day, wondering if a group of Indians or a gang of outlaws were riding up with no good on their minds. But she hadn’t and, now that her parents were growing older, the prospects grew dimmer. Already tired of sitting and getting hot inside the breezeless house, Abby pushed to her feet and shuffled toward the front door, thinking she probably should find out where her other two children were.
Being outdoors wasn’t much of an improvement. The heat settled around her as she stood on the porch—an unescapable misery that simply had to be endured. As sweat trickled down her spine, she surveyed the distance, but there was no sign of Amelia or Wesley. In fact, there was no sign of much in the way of humanity at all. Cows and horses, yes, but the late afternoon sun beating down upon the earth had driven everyone else to shade. Abby stepped off the porch and headed for Rachel’s house, unsure if she was up for much conversation.
At Rachel’s, she knocked and entered without waiting for an answer. That was how it was for all of them. Any hope of privacy was long gone. Rachel was sitting on the sofa thumbing through an old catalog from a jewelry store in New York City. She looked up when Abby entered and stood to greet her, opening her arms wide. Abby collapsed into her sister’s embrace.
“How are you holding up?” Rachel asked as she rubbed Abby’s back.
“Barely,” Abby said. She felt like crying but her well of tears was as dry as the dirt outside. She shuffled over to an arm chair and sat as Rachel returned to her seat.
“I’m afraid Emma will be all hollowed out inside. That’s the way all the Indian captives are when they come back.”
“You don’t know that,” Rachel said. “Emma’s a strong girl.”
“Not strong enough to fight off a bunch of savages,” Abby said.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“Not hungry.” Despite her answer, Rachel turned to look at Consuelo in the kitchen and nodded.
Abby was apparently going to get a plate of food whether she wanted one or not.
“How’s Seth?”
Consuelo walked over, gently rubbed Abby on the shoulder, and handed her a plate of leftover biscuits and bacon.
“Three men roughed him up and then had the gall to brand him with a brandin’ iron.”
Abby turned to look at her sister, her brow arched in surprise. “What?”
“The bastards branded a big ole X about the size of a four-inch square on his butt.”
“Why?” Abby asked. She broke off the edge of a biscuit and put it in her mouth.
Rachel shrugged. “No idea. Seth said they were drunk.”
“No excuse to do that to a twelve-year-old boy.” Abby broke off a little more of the biscuit and chased it down with a slice of bacon. “Did Pa send someone up to exact some revenge?”
Rachel shook her head. “No need. Win and Eli took care of it.”
“What do you mean, ‘took care of it’?”
“They shot the three men.”
“Eli?” Abby asked, her eyes widening in surprise.
“I know,” Rachel said. “Eli’s always been slow to anger, but once he’s a-burnin’ there’s not much you can do to stop him.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“Nope. Don’t care, neither. They got what was comin’ to them.”
Abby picked up the remainder of her biscuit and paused, turning to look at her sister. “I hope those savages that took Emma get the same punishment. I wish Percy would start that Gatling gun and not stop killin’ Indians until they were all exterminated.” Abby tossed the rest of the biscuit in her mouth and chewed. “Seen Amelia or Wesley?”
“Yep. Down at Ma’s house with my two youngest. She’s got Percy and Mary’s kids, too.”
“Bless her.” Abby picked up the last piece of bacon, doubled it over, and put it in her mouth. The two sisters sat in silence as Consuelo puttered around the kitchen. After a few moments, Abby said, “I can’t stop thinkin’ about all the bad things that might be happenin’ to my Emma.”
“You ain’t gonna stop, either. But you can’t let it eat you up. They’re gonna find her.”
Abby looked at her sister and said, “That part’s botherin’ me, too. What exactly are they goin’ to find when they do?”
CHAPTER 20
Riding toward the southwest, Percy and Winfield Wilson were ranging out a half a mile in front of the wagon, trying to cut the trail of Indians who’d taken Emma. Leaving late yesterday afternoon had been a mistake because they hadn’t made it far before darkness had overtaken them, forcing them to make camp at the eastern edge of the ranch. Back in the saddle at daybreak, they were now detouring around a large southerly bend in the river rather than having to cross it twice. It was out of the way, but it was better than taking a chance on burying the war wagon in a patch of quicksand. So far there had been no sign of the Indians’ trail and they weren’t really expecting to find anything until their course turned more north and west. Win was thinking they might pick up the trail somewhere around the area where Wildhorse Creek fed into the Red River—three hours ahead if they were lucky.
Arturo Hernandez and Luis Garcia were manning the wagon and all four had their heads on a swivel. This was dangerous territory and it would become much more treacherous the farther west they rode. Comancheria is what the whites called it but the Comanches called it home after driving the previous natives out of the area generations ago. Bordered on the east by white settlements and the picket line of frontier forts, the area stretched north to the middle of Kansas and Colorado, south to the Rio Grande, and west all the way to the Pecos River in New Mexico Territory—an area covering over ninety thousand square miles. And trying to find anything in such a vast area was damn near impossible.
The specially built wagon wasn’t the fastest form of transportation, but it was a marvel of engineering. In addition to the two swivel mounts for the Gatling gun and mountain howitzer that allowed a 360-degree field of fire, the builders had assembled a quick-release canvas cover that could be released in seconds with a push of a spring latch.
And the wagon wasn’t the only thing the Ridgeways had bought from the Peter Schuttler Wagon Works Company. Inside the second story of the main house back at the ranch was another marvel of engineering. It was a uniquely designed platform that could be raised and lowered through a hatch in the roof. This wasn’t a platform that was slapped together with scrap two-by-fours, it was engineered to precise specifications and armored with thick timber around the bottom half that shielded a majority of the operator’s
body from enemy fire. In the center of the platform and, mounted on another swivel head, was the ranch’s second Gatling gun. The unit could be deployed in under two minutes and had been used—so far—a total of two times. The only weakness in the design was the threat of an enemy torching the house, but with that weapon it was highly unlikely anyone would ever get closer than five hundred yards, well outside the reach of torch throwers or flaming arrows.
A couple of hours later the four were closing in on the area where Wildhorse Creek fed into the Red. Much like a snake trail in the sand, the Red twisted and turned, the water seeking the path of least resistance. And after hours of riding, the group was only about twenty miles from the ranch as the crow flies.
Win was about a half a mile ahead when Percy looked up to see him riding back toward the wagon. He rode out to meet him.
“Four riders just rode down the north bank of the river,” Win said.
“Headed this way?” Percy asked.
“Don’t know yet. But they’ll be on us quick if they are.”
“Let’s drift back to the wagon just in case.”
Win and Percy’s worst fears were realized when the four riders rode up the near bank and headed directly toward them. The four men appeared to be white or of mixed race and they stopped about twenty yards away and fanned out in a line until they were abreast. Percy and Win sat easy in their saddles while Arturo, sitting on the wagon seat, pulled his shotgun onto his lap. The clothes of the four men facing them were worn and dirty and all looked to be hard men, their holstered pistols in plain view. After a general overview of the group, Percy took a moment for closer study of each individual while mentally calculating how the scenario might play out. The man in the center was packing two pistols, their butts pointing forward. His mouth was hidden behind a face full of black whiskers and his long, greasy hair snaked out from under his black, flat-crowned hat. Percy pegged him as the leader and decided if this encounter escalated to gunplay he would have to be eliminated first.
Percy’s assumption that the man with two pistols was the leader was affirmed when he was the first to speak. “Got you a mighty nice wagon there.”
“Thank you,” Percy replied. “We’re mighty fond of it.”
“I bet you are,” the man said. He stood tall in the saddle and craned his neck one way then the other, trying to get a look inside. “Whatcha got in there?”
Remaining cool and calm and with his hands resting easy on the pommel of his saddle, Percy said, “That’s none of your business.”
“What if I make it my business?” the man with two pistols asked as the other three strangers laughed.
“Where you fellers from?” Win asked, joining the conversation.
“Got a place up in the Territory.”
“That’s mighty strange,” Win said. “I thought white folks couldn’t do that.”
The leader smiled and said, “I ain’t say it was permanent.” The man then turned his gaze on Arturo and Luis, who remained seated in the wagon. “You two Mexis get on down, now.”
Their only response was Arturo’s cocking of the two hammers on the double-barrel shotgun. The two clicks were loud in the silence.
“We’re not looking for trouble,” Percy said. “Best you ride on.”
The leader smiled again. “Well, looks like trouble done found you.”
Percy locked eyes with the leader and said, “What’s your name, pardner?”
“Why? Don’t matter none.”
“It does to me,” Percy said.
“Why’s that?”
Percy continued to stare. “Because I always like to know the names of the men I kill.”
The man broke eye contact first, and Percy could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down when he dry-swallowed. But Percy knew the man thought of himself as a gunhand and was unlikely to back down. Flexing the fingers of his right hand Percy waited. He wore his pistol on his left hip with the butt facing forward for a right-hand cross-draw. He studied the man’s body language, waiting for the tell.
“Well,” the man said, “I don’t much care ’bout names.” The man made a show of counting the assembled men and said, “Looks like a square fight to me.”
With his gaze still centered on the man with the two pistols, Percy spoke out of the side of his mouth and said to Win, Arturo, and Luis, “I’ll take the two on the right. Other two are yours.”
The man in front of Percy dry-swallowed again, and the other three strangers shifted in their saddles. Win applied a little more pressure. “You fellers can ride on now and we’ll let it be.” Win turned to look at the man with two pistols and said, “You might fancy yourself a gun hand, but I’ll tell you, my friend, yer takin’ yer last few breaths on this here earth.”
“Is that so, old man?” the stranger said.
Win nodded and said, “Yes, sir. I reckon it’s up to you if this here’s the day you want to die.”
One of the other strangers found his voice and said, “C’mon, Wade. Whatcha goin’ to do with that wagon?”
“Shut up, Charlie,” the man now known as Wade said.
“Might ought to listen to your friend, Wade,” Percy said. “But either way you’re wastin’ our time.” Percy saw Wade’s body tense when he reached for his gun. In one fluid motion, Percy pulled his pistol, cocked the hammer, and fired before Wade’s pistol could clear leather. Re-cocking his revolver, Percy pivoted to the second man, wondering in the back of his mind why he hadn’t heard the shotgun. The answer came when his eyes fell on the second man, who had his hands up. In fact, all three had their hands held high. Percy eased the hammer down on his pistol and slid it back in his holster. The next sound heard was Wade’s body slipping off his horse and thumping to the ground.
“You can lower your hands,” Percy told the men. “I want you to ease your pistols out and toss them as far as you can into the field.” The three remaining strangers complied then Percy ordered them to do the same with their rifles. Once the men were unarmed, Percy said, “Tie your man on his horse and get.”
The three men climbed down from their mounts and went about their task. It was a struggle for them to get the body lifted up and slung over the saddle, but they did and quietly remounted. “What about our guns, mister?” the man known as Charlie asked.
“You can ride back and pick them up later.”
Charlie nodded. “But, mister, I gotta warn you, Wade’s got some mighty mean kinfolk.”
“So do I,” Percy said. “I’ve got a warning for you, too. All three of you. I don’t tolerate thievin’. If I ever see any of you again, you better be reaching for your pistols. Now get.”
The three men reined their horses around and rode off. Once they were far enough away that they couldn’t return quickly to gather their weapons and bushwhack Percy and the others, they restarted the wagon and continued on their journey.
There was some talk later on about which was faster—the three men reaching for the sky or Percy on the draw.
CHAPTER 21
The next morning, about eight miles east of Fort Sill, Charlie Goodnight turned his wagon off the main trail and steered toward a V-shaped bend in Medicine Creek. Wooded on both sides, the oak, walnut, and elm trees provided abundant shade—a welcome relief from the blistering sun. As they rounded the bend and broke into the clear, the hair on the nape of Cyrus’s neck stood at the first sight of the Indian lodges that lined both sides of the creek and stretched for as far as the eye could see. Cyrus turned to look at Goodnight, his brows arched in surprise. “How many Injuns are up in these parts?” Cyrus had spent a lifetime living around Indians, but he’d never seen so many teepees in one place.
Goodnight shrugged and said, “There’s a passel of them, that’s fer sure. Probably be three times this many come wintertime.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cyrus said in a low voice. “There’s enough Injuns here to kill all the whites ’tween here and San Antone.”
“Probably right,” Goodnight said, without a hint of conce
rn in his voice. “Most of ’em are just plain tired of fightin’.”
Cyrus waved a hand at the lodges spread out before them. “These all Kiowa and Comanche?”
“These here are mostly Kiowa. There’ll be a few others in the mix, maybe an Apache or two, maybe a few more from other tribes. You damn sure won’t find any Tonkawas anywhere around here.”
“Why’s that?” Cyrus asked.
“These here tribes will kill a Tonk as quick as they see ’em.” Goodnight pulled on the left rein and the two-horse team veered to the left, around a grouping of trees as the Indian dogs started up a ruckus, barking and snarling and running around. “Know what a cannibal is, Cyrus?”
“A man that’ll eat another man?”
Goodnight nodded. “Yep. Tonks got a taste for human flesh.”
“That’s just downright disgustin’.”
“Don’t seem to bother the army much. Got a big bunch of Tonks workin’ as scouts. Think that’s another major reason these here Indians don’t like ’em much.”
“This Kicking Bird we’re goin’ to see, he a chief?”
“Yep. Kiowa. The wild Injuns don’t like ’im much, either, but he pretty much calls the shots round here when it comes to Kiowa doin’s.”
They rode in silence for a few more minutes before Goodnight steered toward a larger teepee set off a short distance from the others. At the sound of the approaching wagon, a short, squat, bowlegged Indian threw back the cover concealing the opening to his lodge and strode out. His long dark hair was parted in the middle and gathered into two pigtails on either side of his head, and he had a large nose that dominated his other facial features. He smiled when he saw Goodnight. Returning the smile, Goodnight said something in the chief’s native language and Kicking Bird replied. Cyrus had no idea what was said, but he looked around and didn’t see Indians drawing back their bows.
Goodnight and Kicking Bird continued to speak, and, after a few moments, Goodnight turned to Cyrus and said, “The chief has invited us into his lodge.”