The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Well, it didn’t hurt to ask.”

  The two men chatted all the way back to the main trail, where Cyrus took his leave. He covered the eight miles back to Fort Sill and dismounted at the trading post to restock his supplies. Cyrus stuck a fist against his lower spine and arched his back. The thought of spending the next couple of weeks in the saddle only made his back ache more. He pushed his hat back on his head, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and mopped the sweat and dirt from his face. As he returned his handkerchief to his pocket, Cyrus spotted a large, handsome black stallion tied to another hitching post at the far end of the store’s porch. He walked over and studied the horse for a moment, wondering whom it belonged to. That question was answered shortly after Cyrus entered the store.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man with long, dark hair, a droopy mustache, and wearing buckskin pants was standing near a long, narrow counter, a new Colt Peacemaker in his hands. He was wearing his flat-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat, tall leather knee boots, and a blue-checked flannel shirt with a red neckerchief tied loosely around his neck. Cyrus walked a little closer, but not too close. Walking too close to the man at the counter could cost a man his life. Stopping a few feet away, Cyrus got a look at the man’s two ivory-handled Colt Navy 1851 revolvers tucked into a sash around his waist, the butts of the pistols pointing forward. “You ain’t thinkin’ about gettin’ rid of them old Colts are you, Bill?”

  The man looked up slowly and smiled. “I’ll be damned if it ain’t Cyrus Ridgeway.” He laid the pistol on the counter, stuck out his hand, and they shook.

  “How ya doin’, Bill? Last I heard you was workin’ as a lawman up in Abilene.”

  Wild Bill Hickock shrugged. “Yeah. Ain’t nothin’ last forever, Cyrus. Except you and your big spread down there south of the river. How’s Frances?”

  “Still alive and kickin’. Whatcha doin’ down this way?” Hickock had stopped at the ranch many times on his travels through the area. It was one of the few places Hickock could go and let his guard down.

  “Doin’ a little scoutin’ for the army and workin’ as a guide for some rich Russians wanting to hunt buffalo on occasion.”

  “Can’t them Russians find the buffalo all on their own? Damn, it can’t be that hard.”

  “Ain’t the buffalo they’s worried about, Cy. They’re scared to death of bein’ scalped by an Injun.”

  Cyrus chuckled and leaned against the counter. The two men caught up on recent events for a few moments. Hickock was a legend all across the country, mostly due to his own making. Bill had never been one to shy away from a magazine or newspaper reporter, and Cyrus didn’t like that part of him, but they’d been friends for a long time.

  “Heard you was doin’ some actin’ with Bill Cody.”

  Hickock frowned. “Tried it for a spell and didn’t much like it. Thinkin’ about driftin’ up to the Dakota Territory when I finish up down this way.”

  “Sounds cold to me, Bill. You been out scoutin’ lately?”

  “Some. Why?”

  “Lookin’ for an Injun named Quanah Parker.”

  “So’s the army. He’s a hard one to find.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “How far west you been, Cy?”

  “Only as far as I needed to go. I hear it’s rough country. Percy went out that way when he was rangerin’.”

  “How’s Percy?”

  “Gettin’ older like all of us. Tell me what you seen out there.”

  “You can travel forever and you’ll feel like you ain’t goin’ nowhere. That’s what protects the Comanches and Apaches. All that space. It’s about the most unfriendly place I’ve been. Not just ’cause of the Injuns, neither. Water’s scarce and the weather can turn on you lickety-split. You’ve got your work cut out for ya, Cy.”

  Cyrus rolled that around in his mind for a few moments then said, “Wanna earn some extra money? I’ll pay you well to act as our guide.”

  “Can’t, Cy. Meetin’ some duke of somethin’ outa Russia at the railhead in Kansas this time next week for a buffalo hunt. Percy’ll be with ya, won’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re in good hands, then. Ain’t much changed out there in the last few thousand years or so.”

  The two chatted another few minutes then shook hands again. “Take care of yerself, Bill,” Cyrus said.

  “I’m tryin’, Cy. Ain’t so easy sometimes. Someone’s, usually the young studs, always wantin’ to try their hand with me.”

  Cyrus wanted to say that he was partly to blame for that, but he didn’t. “Well, Bill, keep them pistols of yours oiled up.”

  Hickock smiled. “First thing I do every mornin’, Cy.”

  Cyrus and Hickock parted and Cyrus quickly purchased the supplies he needed and stepped outside. After stowing the goods in his saddlebag, Cyrus untied his horse, put his left foot in the stirrup, and groaned as he pulled himself up. He turned his horse and rode away from the fort, wondering how long it’d be before his old friend ran up against a gun slinger he couldn’t beat.

  CHAPTER 27

  Emma had a new pain and it resided in her right breast. Her ride for freedom had ended abruptly when Big Nose caught up to her before her horse had gone a hundred yards. To show his displeasure, he had grabbed her right breast—sunburned and already blistering—and pinched and twisted until Emma almost passed out from the pain. Now bruised and already swelling, her breast ached something fierce and, with her hands retied, she couldn’t rub it to try and soothe the stinging, burning pain that radiated all the way up to her jaw. Emma knew the pain would eventually fade, but what wouldn’t fade away was her extreme thirst. The Indians had refilled their water skins from a barrel on one of the wagons and, as further punishment, guzzled water in front of her, without offering her one tiny sip.

  She thought she saw a look of pity wash across Shorty’s face and she filed that away in her memory for future use. The braves tied some of the unspooled colorful fabric to their horses’ tails and remounted their horses. Each had a freshly taken scalp dangling from the belts that were used to hold up their breechcloths and the braves had donned some of the clothing they’d taken off the bodies of the dead wagon drivers. Big Nose had on a large sombrero on which he’d tied a long strip of bright red fabric that draped down behind him and fanned out across his shoulders. The four savages looked like devilish fiends who’d just ridden straight through the gates of hell and up to the surface of the earth.

  The Indians walked their horses away from the massacre site without a care in the world. They drove the mules from the wagons into their growing herd of stolen horses and pushed them out ahead, allowing them a chance to graze at a slow, easy pace. Big Nose was leading Emma’s horse and Scar, the evilest of the four, dropped back beside her and reached across with his left hand and started fondling her breasts. Emma allowed him the luxury for a few seconds and then she opened her mouth and clamped down on his forearm. She dug her teeth in until she tasted blood and then, like a dog with a snake, she jerked her head violently from side to side until a large chunk of skin and tissue tore free in her mouth. Scar was screaming and jerking on his horse, trying to free his arm as Emma looked up, smiled a bloody smile, took a deep breath, and spat the clump of skin and tissue onto his lap.

  Enraged, Scar yanked the lead rope out of Big Nose’s hands and reeled in her horse until Emma was only a foot away. He reared back his right hand and punched Emma in the mouth. Stars exploded in Emma’s brain and she wobbled and would have fallen if not tied on, but Scar wasn’t done. He pried her mouth open and shoved the piece of skin deep into her mouth then clamped her jaw shut with his palm and reached two fingers up and pinched her nose closed until she could no longer breathe. With no other alternative, Emma swallowed—or tried to. Her mouth was so dry she didn’t have enough saliva to wash it down and the flap of tissue hung up in her throat. She couldn’t open her mouth and she couldn’t b
reathe, and within seconds, she began to panic. Is this how it’s going to end? she wondered. She tried shaking her head, but Scar’s grip was like a piece of iron strapped across her jaw. She tilted her eyes down to see if Scar was still holding the lead rope and discovered he wasn’t. She kicked out her legs and rammed her heels into the horse’s ribs as hard as she could and the pony jumped forward, breaking Scar’s grip.

  Emma was free of Scar, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. She coughed and hacked, trying to dislodge the chunk of skin. With her hands tied, she was unable to stick a finger down her throat to make herself vomit so she tried swallowing over and over again, but the obstruction remained. Emma felt her horse moving and looked up to see Scar pulling the lead rope again. He hauled her up close again as blood ran in rivulets down his arm. Once again, he jammed her lower jaw shut with his palm and pinched her nose closed. Instead of fighting this time, Emma locked eyes with Scar and sat as still as she could. She refused to give him the satisfaction he was seeking. Emma did not blink, and she did not move, despite what her brain was telling her to do. After a minute of this, Emma’s lungs were screaming and darkness was creeping into the outer edges of her vision. She didn’t know how long she had before she passed out or died, but she was determined to keep her eyes locked on Scar’s. Out of the blue, someone shouted something in Comanche and Scar held her gaze a moment longer before turning to look at whoever had shouted. Scar replied, saying something, and then there was more shouting from the other side. It was Big Nose’s voice, but she had no idea what they were saying. Emma’s shoulders sagged and she could feel herself slipping away. Scar shouted something else, turned to sneer at Emma, and finally loosened his grip.

  Emma sucked in air through her nose and began coughing and hacking again. She was back in the same predicament—unable to swallow Scar’s chunk of skin and unable to cough it up. She was afraid the obstruction would slide lower in her throat and completely close off her airway. She tugged futilely at the rope binding her wrists and shot angry glares at her captors. Finally, Crooked Finger, so named because the tip of his pinky finger turned inward, nudged his horse forward, held up his water skin, and dribbled some water into Emma’s mouth. It was just enough to allow her to swallow, and she did, Scar’s skin and tissue included. She nodded at Crooked Finger then, in a taunt, opened her jaws to show Scar her empty mouth. She had no doubt that if given the okay, Scar would torture her mercilessly before killing her. But she didn’t think that would happen—yet. She was much too valuable alive.

  Scar angrily bound his wound with a piece of cloth and the Indians started their horses off, Big Nose back in control of her horse. Crooked Finger’s dribble of water did little to quench Emma’s immense thirst, but she was hoping he’d offer more later. Emma wondered if the Indians had found any food in the wagons because, if they did, they certainly hadn’t shared any with her. But Emma’s hunger was way down the list of her present ailments. Her breast still ached, her skin felt like it was on fire, and Scar’s fist had split her bottom lip wide open and she could feel the warm blood dribbling down her chin and neck.

  Despite her misery she couldn’t help but celebrate her one moment of triumph when she had bitten down on Scar’s arm. She’d have to keep her eye on him for the rest of her days in captivity, although there was little she could do to ward off any punishment he decided to dole out. The only thing she could do would be to curry more favor with Big Nose, who appeared to be the leader at this particular time. She didn’t know if the roles would change among the four savages or if there were certain hierarchical standards they adhered to. Not that it mattered to Emma as long as Scar wasn’t the one calling the shots.

  After walking the horses for a while, the Indians kicked their ponies into a lope. Scar and Shorty pushed ahead and started the herd of stolen animals moving at a more rapid clip. Emma had no idea how long they planned to run the horses, but they obviously had a destination in mind. To her, the last mile looked exactly like the next mile and what the Indians were using for navigational guideposts remained a mystery. The only good thing she had going her way was that Big Nose had tied her so tightly to her horse that she was no longer bouncing up and down. It didn’t necessarily make it any less painful, because her thighs were rubbed raw, but she was hoping it would aid in slowing or stopping the blood that continued to leak from inside her.

  Glancing up, she spied another—larger—dust trail off to her right. As far as she knew it could be a herd of buffalo or a pack of wild mustangs although that thought did little to dampen the surge of hope that flooded her brain. It was large, whatever it was, and Emma began envisioning what it might be. A posse coming to my rescue? Or maybe it’s the army out on patrol? Maybe more freight wagons and more people? But then another thought struck her. My captors surely have to have seen it by now and they aren’t taking any evasive maneuvers. Why is that? Wouldn’t they be looking for a place to hide out like they did last time? It had Emma stumped as the Indians rode on seemingly unmoved by the dust cloud’s presence. Emma was riding behind Big Nose and couldn’t see the expression on his face, but if he was unaware of the situation, Emma certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. Unless . . . no . . . no . . . no. It can’t be. Please, God, not that! But it was the only thing that made sense and Emma’s heart plummeted at the thought. Please, God, don’t let it be that. Please?

  Despite her mental pleadings, Emma’s worst fears were realized moments later when Big Nose and the others started whooping it up as a very large contingent of painted-up savages rode into view.

  CHAPTER 28

  Other than the one discussion of who was quicker—Percy on the draw or the men reaching for the sky—Percy deemed the matter closed and there was no more talk about the conflict. Despite what Percy said to the others, he did spend a few moments mulling over the situation. That man hadn’t been Percy’s first kill and over the years there had been others at different times and different places, but it had been a long time since Percy had been in a gunfight. The last had been seven or eight years ago when he got the drop on some rustlers and one foolishly went for his pistol. That one ended the same as this one—a man dead while Percy walked away unscathed. But Percy didn’t consider himself a gunfighter and he knew there were plenty of men faster than him and that didn’t bother him one iota. He wasn’t out to make or maintain a reputation and he took life only as it came. If that involved gunplay, then fine, but if it could be avoided, he was all in. Life was hard enough without looking over his shoulder all the time—at least any more than they all did where they lived—wondering if someone was going to come gunning for him. As far as he was concerned, the fewer people that knew Percy Ridgeway existed, the better.

  With the wagon along, the pace never got beyond a walk and Percy estimated they’d covered about seven miles since daybreak with a whole lot more to cover if they were going to make the rendezvous point in time. Win was riding about a mile ahead, cutting sign. So far, they hadn’t been successful in finding the trail of Emma’s captors, but Percy wasn’t too worried. It hadn’t rained since the day of Emma’s kidnapping and if the rain held off, the trail would be there.

  There was one matter that did cause Percy some concern—he wondered if they were making a mistake not to have invited a few friendly Indians along. There was a reason the Rangers and the army employed Indian scouts and that was because nobody knew more about the surrounding territory than those who’d lived in it for years. Yes, Percy had been born on the ranch and grew up there, but they had never strayed far from home and, other than the few times he traveled out this way with the Rangers years ago, he knew there had to have been changes. Not drastic ones, because the landscape had remained basically the same for an eternity, yet they could expect subtle changes and some, such as dried-up water holes, could prove deadly. He took some comfort in the fact that Wilcox had traveled all over this harsh ground when he was working as a scout, but even with all of
his experience no one knew the land like the natives who’d migrated after the buffalo herds for thousands of years. Percy decided all of the worrying was giving him a headache and it was all water under the bridge now anyway.

  Glancing ahead, he caught sight of Win in the distance and he was standing in his saddle and waving his hat. Probably not a good thing, Percy thought as he spurred his horse into a lope. He covered the distance quickly and reined his horse to a stop. “What’d you find?” Percy asked.

  Win pointed at the ground and said, “Fresh sign not more than a couple of hours old.”

  Percy studied the ground for a moment and then looked up at Win. “How many you figure?”

  “Fifty, sixty, maybe.”

  “A mix? Women, braves, and kids?”

  Win shook his head. “Nope. That there’s a war party. Looks like they’re headed south. More’n likely lookin’ to do a little raidin’.”

  “What are the odds there are more comin’ and they’ll cut our trail?”

  “Don’t know,” Win said. “Probably ought to keep a close eye out. I doubt they’d tangle with us oncet they got a look at what was in the wagon. But a man don’t ever know for sure. Could circle back and try to pick us off around dark. That’d be how I’d do it if I was a Injun.”

  “Well, there ain’t nothing we can do about it but keep goin’,” Percy said. “Ride north a ways to see if you can spot any dust trails.”

  “I will, but I’m mighty partial to what hair I do got left. You hear me shootin’ you get that wagon there quick.”

  Percy smiled. “Will do, but I’m hopin’ there isn’t any shootin’. I’d just as soon not tell ’em we’re here.”

  “Me, too,” Win said. He turned his horse and rode off and Percy took a long look around before drifting back to the wagon.

  “¿Qué pasa con él?” Arturo asked.

  “Injun tracks,” Percy replied.

  “Magnífico,” Arturo muttered facetiously. “¿Reciente?”