The Last River

by Leon Loy

  The Last River

  A Novel by Leon Loy

  Leon Loy

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54391-031-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54391-032-2

  © 2017. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Kansas State Prison

  Lansing, Kansas

  1881

  1

  The guard had looked away from the inmates when a blackened fist slammed into the back of his neck. He staggered, losing his grip on the shotgun, which clattered on the brick walkway. He clutched the whistle hung around his neck, and attempted to put it into his mouth.

  “No, you don’t!” the one who struck him said, and struck him again with both fists. This time, the guard pitched forward to the ground, unconscious.

  Two inmates scrambled on top of him, moving awkwardly because of the chains on their ankles. The striped uniforms they wore were soiled almost solid black. Their faces were covered in grime and coal dust, the whites of their eyes flickering like blinking lights.

  One of them was a large muscular man with hair the color of oranges beneath the coal dust, and hands the size of hams. The other inmate was smaller, moved quicker, and was marked with an ugly red scar across his chin. He kept looking nervously behind them.

  “Search him,” said the smaller guy. “He has that key on him somewhere.”

  “Got it, Buck,” the big inmate said, holding up the key.

  Buck took the key and unlocked the shackles on his own ankles, and then the other inmate’s. He picked up the shotgun on the brick walkway, rummaged through the guard’s pockets, and found four shotgun shells, which he kept.

  “Let’s go, George,” he said.

  The inmates ran crouching through the coal yard, dodging piles of dirt from the recently constructed coal shaft. Earlier that year, the shaft had been sunk next to the main yard of the prison. The mine kept the prisoners busy, and the coal supplied energy to the prison as well as other government buildings in the state.

  Buck had been planning his escape for six months, noting the routine of the security details, which accompanied the work crews to and from the shaft. Two weeks earlier, realizing he would need an accomplice, he had enlisted the help of George. The guard had been escorting them from the main work crew in the shaft to the latrine, when they got the jump on him.

  Within minutes, the inmates crossed the coal yard and reached the stone wall, which stood fifteen feet tall. Buck had studied this section of the wall carefully for months. Passing near it on the way to and from the coal mine, he had noted every feature in the eroding stone blocks; every indention, crack, and crevice. On the other side of the wall, there would be two guards. Beyond them, a cleared strip of woods, mostly stumps and burn piles, and railroad tracks.

  “You sure we can climb this?” George asked, running a hand over the stones. “It don’t look easy.”

  “Ain’t nothing easy,” Buck said. “It can be done. I’ll go first, George, like we planned. You watch where I put my feet and follow. Now, give me a lift.” George held his hands together and Buck stepped into them. “When I get to the top, hand me the shotgun. If those guards see me, I’ll have to take them out fast.”

  “I sure hope that woman of yours is worth all of this,” George said. “From what you told, she must be the purtiest whore in Dodge City.”

  “Prettiest woman I ever seen, anywhere,” Buck said, “She’s waiting for me.”

  “And you don’t mind sharin’ her with me?”

  “She’s a whore, ain’t she?”

  “I always been shy around women.” George tried again to picture the woman Buck had described to him many times.

  “We won’t ever get to her unless you stop talking,” Buck said. “Lift me up.”

  Having been lifted nearly half the distance up the wall by the big inmate, Buck dug his fingers into a wedge between stone blocks and found a place for the toe of his shoe. Exerting great effort, he pulled himself up one stone block at a time. Once, his foot slipped and his body hit flat against the wall, but he held on with his fingertips. A shower of sand and dust fell on George’s head below.

  Finally, Buck reached the top of the wall and climbed onto it. Lying flat, he reached down toward George.

  “The shotgun,” he said.

  George held the gun by the stock allowing Buck to grasp the muzzle and pull it up. With the gun in his hands, he looked down at George, who was trying to find a foothold in the wall. It was apparent he wasn’t going to be successful.

  “I want to thank you, George,” Buck said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  George said desperately, “You just wait on me, you hear. I’ll get up this wall, too.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Damn you, Buck Hester,” the big inmate said, “You never intended for me to get out of here, did you?”

  “Well, George, climb on out of there if you can. I ain’t waiting on you.”

  Buck dropped the shotgun over the other side, and slid over the edge. He tried to find a toehold, but there was nothing to grip and he went down hard. He landed on his feet, but felt sharp pain shoot through his legs. He folded and went down, muffling a cry. Stretching his legs out before him, he felt his ankles. Nothing was broken, but he felt like his right ankle was on fire.

  George was cursing a blue streak on the other side. Damn him, Buck said to himself. The idiot is going to ruin it for me.

  He gathered the shotgun, slipped a shell into the chamber, and stood flattened against the wall. Because this section of wall was at the back of the coal yard, only two guards were assigned to it. He limped alongside the wall until he caught sight of one of the guards about forty yards away. The guard was sitting cross-legged against a tree stump, and appeared to be napping. The other guard was just out of his view. Beyond them, and beyond the strip of cleared woods, were the railroad tracks and the train of freight cars loaded with coal waiting to be hauled to Kansas City—Buck’s way out of Lansing.

  The engine was building steam, its tall, black smokestack belching out boiling, gray clouds. It would be ready to leave within minutes. Once he reached the train, he knew he would have to climb onto one of the coal cars and bury himself in the coal to avoid being seen.

  He had timed it perfectly, providing he could get past the guards. Engaging the guards in a gun fight would most certainly draw attention from the engineer, or fireman, both of whom he could see working in the engine.

  He was still working it all up in his mind when his dilemma was resolved. He could hear whistles going off inside the prison. Either the guard he had left unconscious had
been found, or George had talked, which meant his escape had been detected, and now the alarms were being sounded.

  The two guards some yards away left their posts and set off toward the main gate, in the opposite direction from where Buck was crouched by the wall.

  He counted to ten, and then set out toward the train, running as fast as his injured ankle allowed. It hurt like hell, but Buck covered the hundred yards to the tracks in less than two minutes. Then, scrambling up the iron ladder on the closest coal car, he jumped into the bin of coal and rolled down the pile of coal far enough to be hidden from view. Then he waited, his chest heaving, and his breath stirring coal dust around him. Somehow, through all this, he had managed to hang on to the shotgun.

  Buck thought he heard loud voices, but right then, the car jolted and the engine began pulling the loaded cars forward. The shrill whistles from the prison alarms were now drowned out by blasts of steam from the train engine and the metallic clacking of churning wheels on the tracks. Within minutes, the train was speeding away from the Kansas State Prison.

  Dodge City

  1876

  2

  “Your heart is normal and your lungs are clear. You are lucky to have that arm,” Dr. McCarty said upon completing his inspection of the fresh scar on the patient’s shoulder. “I probably would have amputated.”

  “The Tonk scout knew what he was doing,” the patient said. “Can I put on my shirt now?”

  “Sure, sure,” the doctor said, sliding back on his stool to give the patient more room. “I would go easy for another month or two, though. Give the shoulder time to heal completely. But you should regain full use of your arm.”

  He saw the look of relief on the woman’s face. She was younger than the patient by several years, and appeared to be part Indian, or Mexican, he wasn’t sure. Beneath the dirt and dust on her face, she was very pretty, with long auburn hair, and intelligent, hazel eyes.

  “Did you assist in treating the wound?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said. “He had fever for three days. He was very sick. Job used Tonkawa medicine.”

  “The Indian scout removed the arrowhead, sutured the wound, and treated it with native remedies?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes. He saved Caleb’s life,” she said. The doctor noticed her accent, and decided she must be Indian.

  The patient finished buttoning a worn-out vest over his shirt, neither of which appeared to have been washed recently. He dug into a pocket and handed the doctor two dollars in coins.

  “That’s all I have,” the patient said.

  Dr. McCarty took the coins and stood. “May I ask your full name, Caleb?”

  “Thomason,” he said. “Caleb Thomason. This is Sparrow.”

  “What brings you and the missus to Dodge City, Mr. Thomason?” the doctor asked as he replaced his instruments on a small table. His office consisted of two rooms on the second floor of the newly constructed Springer’s Drug Store, one for examining and performing operations, the other for his desk and books. The pungent odor of green lumber in the newly constructed drug store still lingered strongly.

  “She insisted I see a doctor,” Caleb said. “I made the mistake of telling her about the marvels of modern medicine. We arrived this morning.”

  “From where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Caleb and Sparrow exchanged looks. The doctor noticed their reluctance to answer.

  “That’s alright, Mr. Thomason, it is none of my business,” he said. “Forget I asked.”

  Then changing the subject, he said, “If you plan to stay in Dodge, you will need lodging.”

  Caleb nodded.

  “There is a room here, behind the store on the first floor,” the doctor continued. “It served as my lodging until our house was completed. I was going to use it for storage. The room is still furnished, not elaborately, I’m afraid. But there is a bed, a washstand, small table and chairs, and a stove.”

  “I don’t have anything to pay you.”

  The doctor looked first at Caleb and then Sparrow. “You can stay there until you are able to work,” he said. “We can discuss the rent when you find employment.”

  Sparrow smiled and squeezed Caleb’s hand. “That is good?” she asked, searching his eyes.

  “Doctor, we’ve been sleeping on the ground so long…” began Caleb but wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He could see the weariness in Sparrow’s face. She would never complain, but the past month on the trail through the panhandle of Texas had been hard on them both. “I’ll pay you back for anything I owe,” he said.

  Dr. McCarty held out his hand to Caleb, who shook it. “Glad to be of help to you, young man. The room has its own door—I’ll give you the key. You can bring in your things when you are ready. There is a well out back. No charge for the water.”

  He thought of inviting the couple to dine with him and his wife at the Dodge House hotel restaurant, but hesitated. The locals didn’t welcome Indians on the north side of the railroad tracks, which might be an issue for Caleb’s wife, though with a little attention, he thought the girl could almost pass off as white. And his good wife, Sallie, would welcome a challenge like that—to makeover the girl and pass her off as white.

  “My wife and I would love for you to join us for supper, at our house,” he said. “It’s two streets behind this one, just up the hill. It is the only house painted yellow in Dodge City. My wife’s idea. Say, about seven?”

  “Thank you for the invitation, doctor, but I don’t believe that is possible.”

  “Do you have another engagement?” Dr. McCarty asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

  Caleb glanced at Sparrow and said, “All we have to wear is what we have on. As you see, we’re a bit ragged.”

  “You gave me your last two dollars, is that right?”

  “That was all I had left,” Caleb said. “I had to pay fifty cents to come across that toll bridge, and two bits to stable our horses.”

  Dr. McCarty ran his fingers through his thick whiskers, and said, “Just one moment.” Then, he walked out of the examination room into his office, and returned in a few minutes. “Here,” he said, handing ten dollars to Caleb. “Stop by Charles Rath’s store just down the street here. I believe you will find something fashionable to wear. Tell him I sent you.”

  “That is very generous of you, doctor, but I don’t...”

  “You can pay me back when you find a job.”

  Caleb didn’t want to take the money. He’d never been one to accept favors from people. When the scouts from Fort Griffin insisted he take one of their horses for Sparrow to ride, he had swallowed his pride for her sake. But he had promised to repay them. And despite not wanting to take the money, he did the same now. “I’ll pay you back every cent,” he said.

  Sparrow smiled at the doctor and said, “Thank you.”

  He returned her smile. “You are welcome, Mrs. Thomason. See you both at seven.”

  After supper, the men went to sit on the porch to smoke while Sallie McCarty took a lamp upstairs. After tucking their three-year-old son, Claude, into bed, she led Sparrow to a bedroom. There was a dresser with a large mirror above it against the far wall. Sallie guided her toward it.

  Sparrow stared at her image in the mirror for a long time, unable to speak.

  “Mrs. Thomason,” Sallie said, “May I do something with your hair?”

  Suddenly at loss to understand what the hostess may have meant, Sparrow clasped a handful of hair and sniffed it. She had, after all, washed her hair with hand soap and cold water from the washstand in their small room behind the drug store.

  “I mean, may I put it up? Like this,” Sallie said, taking Sparrow’s hair behind her neck and lifting it. She held it in a pile above her head, and within seconds, pinned the hair in a bun. Small strands dangled to her exposed shoulders. The new dress Caleb had picked out for he
r was cut low in the front and back, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. But she had refused to wear the corset and bustle Caleb said was part of the wardrobe. He relented but insisted that she have a day dress as well, which came with a high collar that reached her chin.

  “May I?” Sallie said, bringing a soft brush to Sparrow’s cheek. Not waiting for a reply, the doctor’s wife made a few daubs on each cheek, adding a little rose color.

  “You have such a beautiful complexion,” she said. “Your lips are very nice. Let’s add just a little of this.” And with a small brush, she gently applied a touch of bugloss with red die on Sparrow’s lips, and wiped the edges of her mouth with a napkin. Then, she leaned back to examine her work.

  “There’s just one more thing,” she added, and pulled out a bottle of salve and squeezed some between her fingers. Then she touched Sparrow’s eyelashes, causing her to flinch.

  “This is going to make those pretty eyes even prettier,” Sallie said. “You’ll see.” After applying the salve, she took a tiny brush, dipped it in a small tray of black powder and brushed the lashes, and the powder began sticking to them. Finished, she turned Sparrow around to face the mirror. “There,” she said.

  Sparrow gasped. The image in the mirror seemed to be that of another woman. This was not the plain Indian girl who rode on horseback into Dodge City earlier that day, hair all over the place, dressed in a man’s shirt and trousers. She reached out and touched the face in the mirror.

  Sallie laughed and said, “My, Mrs. Thomason, aren’t you beautiful! Let’s show your husband.” She had turned toward the door when Sparrow took her arm and stopped her.

  “No,” she said, frowning.

  “Why, what’s wrong?” Sallie asked. “Don’t you want him to see you like this?”

  Sparrow stepped away from the mirror. “He does not know this Sparrow. Maybe he will not love this Sparrow.”

  Sallie gave her a hug. “Sweetie, if he loves you at all, he will love you like this. Believe me; he will adore you like this.”

  Dr. McCarty and Caleb were sitting on a long bench on the back porch of the house, enjoying the cool September evening. Caleb was careful with his new wool suit, not wanting to rip it on the rough corners of the newly made bench. He loosened the tie and collar of the new shirt, and inhaled the fresh air. Being inside the doctor’s small dining room had left him feeling claustrophobic. Living indoors again was going to be an adjustment.