by Tim Washburn
But the more Percy rode up and down that side of the river the more puzzled he became. If there was travois trail on this side, he couldn’t find it. And he knew the Indians hadn’t just materialized out of thin air. The only thing that made sense was the Indians had covered their tracks and that only added to his puzzlement. Why did they obscure their tracks on this side and not the other? Were they in that big of a hurry to depart? He mulled that over as he rode back to camp. Although most thought the Indians uncouth and uncivilized, Percy had learned over the years that they might be uncivilized, but they were masters of deception. With that in mind, he thought the trail he had discovered was probably a diversion. And that sapped his spirits a bit as he climbed down from his horse. He knew finding the Indians was going to be difficult, but that impressed upon him the enormity of their task.
CHAPTER 48
Riding along the south rim of the canyon, Cyrus, Wilcox, and Isaac were searching the interior for any sign of Indians. No one wanted to venture into the canyon and risk running into a crowd of armed enemies. Yes, the canyon was vast, but the sheer, rocky cliff walls that lined portions of the space severely limited egress points. If they got caught down on the floor of the canyon by a large Comanche war party they’d literally have to run for their lives. Cyrus understood that, but he was tired of pussyfooting around. They were burning through time they didn’t have.
“I ain’t seen an Injun yet,” Cyrus said. “I say we ride on down there for a closer look.”
“I don’t know, boss,” Wilcox said. “We cut a lot of sign up here and there’s lots of places to hide down yonder.”
“You couldn’t hide a big passel of Injuns down there without us seein’ ’em. Hellfire, we’re so far deep into their territory I reckon they’d be camped in the open. And I ain’t seein’ a bunch of damn teepees, either.” Cyrus brought his horse to a stop and Isaac and Wilcox did the same. “Ain’t no Injuns, ain’t no Emma, fellers.”
“Well, we ain’t covered all the canyon yet,” Wilcox said.
“And I don’t want to ride on and take a chance at missin’ her if she’s here,” Isaac said.
“Well, she ain’t gonna be sittin’ down there by her lonesome, is she? And we can see a lot of the canyon from here. You even seen any smoke?”
“No,” Isaac said, “but they would have seen us comin’ for miles. Could’ve snuffed all their fires.”
“Okay, I’ll grant you that,” Cyrus said. “But they couldn’t make their whole damn camp just disappear, could they? I know the Injuns can be sneaky sonsabitches, but they ain’t that damn sneaky. And you said it yerself, Isaac. They woulda had riders out and probably woulda seen us comin’ for days. I reckon if they were here at all, they’re gone now.”
“So what do you want to do?” Isaac asked.
Cyrus looked up to gauge the sun’s position then turned his horse and spurred him into a walk. “It’ll be dark about the time we get back to camp. I reckon we can talk about it and see what we can get figured out.”
As they were riding back to camp, Cyrus kept an eye on the rim on the other side, hoping to signal the other group to head back. If he had been anywhere else, he would have pulled out his pistol and fired a shot in the air. But not here. And especially not with the war wagon so far away. Cyrus didn’t know how many Comanches there might be out here in the wild, but he guessed they had to number in the thousands. And firing a pistol to announce their present location might well have caused them to lose their hair.
With all the open space around them, there was a persistent breeze but all it did was stir around the heat. Add in the fact that the horses hadn’t had a drink since morning when they left camp and Cyrus didn’t think they could do more than walk the horses back. He was slightly concerned about being caught out in the dark although he knew that cut both ways, either as an advantage or a disadvantage. What concerned him more was Percy’s situation. Keeping an eye on things was easy to do in daylight. Not so much at night. Cyrus checked the position of the sun again and judged they probably had an hour before full dark.
* * *
Back at camp, Percy fished out his watch and popped the lid to check the time. If it didn’t cloud up, he thought he might have half an hour before it became too dark to see. He had built a small fire at the base of a small ridge that was sheltered from sight by a couple of mature juniper trees. Nestled in the coals was a fresh pot of coffee and another large pot of beans with some shredded beef jerky mixed in. As Percy worked around camp, he had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. And not by friendly eyes, either. His hackles up, Percy’s movements became determined and precise. He turned his head slightly and took a quick peek at the wagon. It would have to be pulled out if it was going to be of any use. With his right hand he reached up to make sure his pistol was seated and scanned the surrounding area with his eyes, searching for his rifle. He spotted it leaned up against the front of the wagon and he judged the distance. He figured it would take him three long strides to grab the rifle and another second to have it up in a firing position. So, five, maybe six, seconds, he thought. Doable. But what he really wanted was the wagon.
Mouse was still saddled but he didn’t know if she had the strength to pull the wagon out by herself. The ropes affixed to the tongue would be easily accessible, so Percy walked through the remaining steps in his mind. If, and it was a big if, Mouse could pull the wagon by herself then he calculated the entire maneuver would consume somewhere close to thirty seconds. That gave him a good idea of how long it would take, but the most important variables were unknown—how far away the enemy was and their exact location.
Percy shook his shoulders to loosen them and walked nonchalantly toward his horse. There was some concern that his father and the rest of the crew would be in the line of fire, but Percy assumed they would get to cover as soon as the first shot was fired. Or that’s what he hoped. He wouldn’t be able to operate freely if he had to expend any mental energy on their welfare. When he reached Mouse, he talked softly to her as he grabbed the reins. He walked through the steps again in his mind. He had tied a loop at the ends of the ropes so he’d have to pick up those, slip them over the saddle horn, and then slap Mouse across the butt and hope she could do the job while he raced over and jumped behind the Gatling gun. There were so many ways it could all go wrong but trying to fend off an attack by himself without those weapons would be madness.
Percy slowly walked Mouse over to the wagon. He grabbed his rifle and eased it up on the wagon seat. He made sure his knife was easily accessible because he would have to cut the ropes to free Mouse so she could get out of the line of fire. A thousand other thoughts bombarded his brain and he took a deep breath to clear his mind. A cluttered mind could get a man killed. Pulling the horse around until she was facing away from the wagon, he lined her up as best as he could and tried not to think about what would happen if Mouse failed to move the wagon. After bending down to pick up the ropes, he slipped them over the saddle horn and checked the saddle to make sure it was cinched down tight as his eyes scanned for threats.
He still hadn’t seen any sign of the enemy and he was working on instinct, although he’d learned over the years that he had been right more often than not. Taking a moment to rethink everything, he pulled the ropes from the saddle horn, took out all the slack, and retied the loops and put them back on. That would help to reduce the possibility of a broken girth strap while Mouse pulled. And he also decided to ease Mouse into it rather than slapping her on the butt. He hurried around to the back of the wagon and leaned his shoulder against the tailgate. Clucking his tongue, he ordered Mouse to walk as he put his weight behind his shoulder and pushed. Nothing happened at first, then the back wheel moved about six inches and stopped. He eased up, repositioned his feet, and shouted at Mouse to move as he pushed with all of his strength. Just when it looked as if nothing was going to happen, the wagon began to move.
But his happiness was short-lived. The Indians took exception to his efforts
to move the wagon and Comanche war cries filled the air.
As Mouse continued to pull, Percy jumped into the wagon and scrambled forward to the Gatling gun. It was too dark to see much other than movement, but Percy thought that if the Indians were smart, they’d have surrounded the wagon to increase their odds. He grabbed the handle and started cranking as he walked a tight circle, swiveling the gun around as he walked, the wagon still moving forward. There were no warning shots this time—Percy was shooting to do as much damage as possible. He paused cranking as Mouse came into view in the sights then started back up once he was clear of his horse. He took a quick look to see if the wagon was clear of any obstructions, paused cranking, yanked his knife out, and cut the rope, freeing Mouse. Then he was back on the gun. He walked three complete circles, cranking the handle. He wasn’t looking for specific targets, he just poured on the lead. On the third time around, he paused. His ears were ringing so hearing anything was out, so he swept his gaze around to see if the Indians wanted any more.
He saw several dead horses in the deepening gloom and assumed they once held Indian riders. Whether they escaped the gun’s withering firepower didn’t really matter to Percy. For good measure, he hurried back to the cannon, swung it around until it was lined up on the area where he’d seen the dead horses, adjusted the elevation a tad, then pulled the rope. The cannon roared, the wagon shook, and the muzzle blast stretched about ten feet beyond the end of the howitzer’s barrel. And that was all Percy saw before he hurried back to the Gatling gun as smoke enveloped the wagon. He hadn’t really aimed the cannon and thought it more important to demonstrate the wagon’s prowess rather than effect wholesale slaughter. As the ringing in his ears began to subside, he heard sustained rifle fire in the distance and assumed the Indians were on the run. But that didn’t mean he was leaving the gun anytime soon. He checked to see how much ammo was left and thought he ought to open a new crate, but not yet.
Percy was still behind the gun when the last hints of daylight faded into darkness. And he remained there until he heard the calls from the retuning men. Only then did he step out, although he didn’t go far before he grabbed his rifle from where he’d stowed it on the wagon seat. “All clear?” he shouted into the growing darkness.
“All clear,” he heard his father say as he rode into camp. “You okay?” Cyrus asked.
“Yeah. They all gone?” Percy asked.
“Think so,” Cyrus said. “Wilcox is gonna ride a circle to see for sure. So keep that rifle o’ yours handy.” Cyrus pulled his horse to a stop and climbed down from the saddle. “You got coffee on?”
Percy smiled at his father’s steady, unflappable nature. “Yep. Beans, too, if you’re hungry.”
Cyrus tied his horse’s reins to the wagon wheel. “I could eat.”
CHAPTER 49
While Percy was busy fighting off Indians, his mother, Frances, was busy rustling up supper for his children. It had been a long time since Cyrus had been gone this long and she was worried about him. She pushed the steaks around in the pan while she ruminated. Although still strong enough to outwork two men on a normal day, she knew her husband had his ailments. Hard not to live as long as they both had and not feel it in your bones. But it wasn’t Cyrus’s bones that had her concerned at present, it was the organ that resided inside that framework that worried her. A few days before he left, she noticed him rubbing his chest. He hadn’t said anything at the time, nor would he, but she was concerned he was having chest pains. Not that there was anything they could do about it, but she didn’t want him to start feeling poorly so far from home.
Frances forked the steaks onto three plates, added a scoop of mashed potatoes, poured gravy over everything, and carried the dishes over to the table. She didn’t have much of an appetite and instead poured a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table. Amanda was in a good place after her mother’s death and had recently struck up a friendship—or maybe more, Frances hoped—with one of Dan Waggoner’s men who had come over during the branding. His job had been to cut out the reversed three-D cattle and then herd them back to the home range, but he’d spent the last two Sundays calling on Amanda with Frances acting as chaperone.
Chauncey still seemed indifferent to the whole situation and Frances didn’t know if that was a defense mechanism that would eventually fall by the wayside over time or if he had difficulties expressing or understanding empathy. It did bother Frances some that both he and Seth ran off to the river to shoot pistols every chance they got. She didn’t have a problem with them learning how to handle a weapon but did wonder if they were overdoing it sometimes. She couldn’t remember if Percy went through a similar phase or not. Eli certainly hadn’t and he still didn’t have much to do with guns. Surreptitiously watching Chauncey saw through a piece of steak with his knife, Frances decided both he and Seth warranted closer observation. It was much easier to correct troubling behavior if it was caught early.
Franklin, on the other hand, was still openly grieving. He had periodic bouts of crying, but those had lessened over time. Although Franklin favored Percy, he had the inquisitive nature of his uncle Eli. Frances had answered more questions about death over the last two weeks than in her previous sixty-four years of life. The questions ranged from the afterlife to body decomposition and Frances was forced to consult a few of the books in her well-stocked library for some of the answers. She had zero concerns about Franklin’s further development.
She did, however, have concerns about her own daughter Rachel. And they weren’t worries about her development, because she was a mature woman with children of her own. No, what peeved Frances were her daughter’s recent choices. She didn’t know if there was something going on between Rachel and that Texas Ranger Leander Hays but he’d been lurking around the ranch on and off for two weeks. Although Frances hadn’t caught them in any compromising situations yet, it just didn’t pass the smell test. And it wasn’t that Frances was a prude. She’d gone through her own brief period of promiscuity back in New Orleans prior to marrying Cyrus and she understood the butterflies-in-the-stomach feelings that came with new flirtations and shared mutual attraction. But Frances thought Rachel needed to look beyond that because the problems caused by an illicit affair significantly outweighed the benefits. She had seen it time and time again with her own parents, specifically her father, who was a serial philanderer who’d bed anything with two legs and tits. And it was a disgusting thing to see, and why her mother put up with it was a mystery and remained a mystery long after her death.
The more Frances thought about it, the angrier she became. “Amanda, keep an eye on your brothers.”
“Where are you goin’?” Amanda asked.
Frances stood, carried her cup over to the wash bucket, and dropped it in. “I have something that needs doin’.” Frances exited the house and made a beeline for Rachel’s place. As she walked, she rolled a few ideas around in her mind in an attempt to predict how the upcoming conversation would go. She knew her ability to control what Rachel did was long gone so she searched for a different approach, one that would allow Rachel to see the error of her ways. The key, Frances thought, was to keep the conversation low-key and not let it escalate into confrontation. Rachel had always been high-strung and somewhat volatile when prodded, and a shouting match wouldn’t accomplish anything.
Frances stepped up on Rachel’s porch and took a deep breath before knocking on the door. Without waiting for a response, Frances opened the door and stepped inside. Rachel was lounging on the sofa while Consuelo served supper to the kids. “Rachel, will you join me in a walk?” Frances said.
“Right now?” Rachel asked.
“Sure, unless I need to make an appointment to take a walk with my daughter,” Frances said, her anger already bleeding into her words despite her own admonishments.
Rachel stood. “Well, if you put it like that, I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”
Frances was already kicking herself for letting her anger get the better
of her. “I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.”
“No?” Rachel asked as she stepped around the sofa. She shoved her feet into a pair of deerskin moccasins and brushed by her mother on the way out the door.
Frances sighed, turned to follow, and closed the door behind her.
“Where are we walking to?” Rachel asked. “Shall we stroll by the cattle pens so that we might imbibe the aroma of fresh cow shit?”
“Hush, now,” Frances said softly as she linked arms with her daughter. “I’m sorry.” She steered Rachel away from the horseshoe-shaped array of homes and toward the river. “How’s Seth doing?”
“Did you invite me on a walk to talk about Seth?” Rachel asked.
“That and other things,” Frances said as they ambled along, in no hurry and with no real destination other than to put some distance between themselves and prying ears.
“Why don’t we skip the that and get on with the other things,” Rachel said, her angry undertone subdued, but there.
“In a bit,” Frances said. They walked in silence for a few moments. Frances glanced over at the guest cabin to see a lantern glowing inside and that meant the current guest, Leander Hays, was currently in residence. The log cabin was small—one room—and had been the first home built on the ranch all those years ago. Situated closer to the river, it had been abandoned when the family expanded beyond its capacity. Frances had cleaned the place up and made it inhabitable again to accommodate cattle or horse buyers who visited or other guests who happened along.