The Last River

by Leon Loy

  As she rubbed the soap over her bruised abdomen, she stifled a sob and fought back the fear. Whatever these men planned to do with her, she had to remain strong. She would live through it, as she had lived through all the hard things that had happened to her in her young life. She must not give in to despair because she knew Caleb would find her. She had to stay alive.

  She could feel their hungry eyes feasting on her. She refused to look at them, staring instead at soap suds, which drifted on the surface of the water. Tiny bubbles wound their way through the twisting channel, disappearing as the creek flowed through the shade of the cottonwoods, and out into the river beyond.

  10

  Eb rode north to Doan’s Store at the Red River crossing, his horse nearly spent by the time he reached the small adobe building in mid-afternoon. He camped for the night among some oaks in view of the store, finally getting up enough nerve to approach the store near noon the next day.

  Two men sat on a long bench outside, shielded from the sun by an awning of buffalo hides draped over mesquite posts. Corwin Doan, the store owner, and an aging buffalo hunter named Shadrack watched as Eb walked slowly toward them, leading his horse.

  “Well, here he comes,” Shadrack said, spitting his chaw of tobacco at a horned toad. The rancid brown projectile struck the toad’s spikey head, flipping it over in the dust. The toad promptly righted itself and scurried away.

  “Is the fool naked?” Corwin said.

  Shadrack squinted, his eyes not what they used to be. Even so, his eyesight was sharper than Corwin Doan’s. “Ain’t far from it,” he said. “’Pears to be barefoot as well.”

  “Wonder why he sat out there all night alone? He could have come in any time.”

  “In a minute you can ask him,” said Shadrack, cutting off a new plug of tobacco with his large skinning knife and pushing it in his jaw.

  Eb slowed to a cautious shuffle as he neared the men on the bench. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  The buffalo hunter grunted while working his chaw. Corwin gave the shirtless stranger a good looking over.

  “What size shirt you wear?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “What size shirt do you wear? I could sell you one. You look like you’d take a child’s size, or a woman’s.”

  Eb scoffed. “I don’t wear women’s clothes,” he said.

  “You don’t appear to wear clothes at all,” Corwin answered.

  “Took your time getting here,” Shadrack said. “We seen you camped out there.”

  Eb fidgeted with the reins in his hands. “I was resting my horse. Going to cross the river in a bit.”

  “You’ll need a shirt,” Corwin said. “Boots and a gun, too, if you’re going through Indian territory.”

  “I ain’t got no money,” Eb said. “Or anything to trade.”

  Shadrack stood stiffly, straightening in degrees. “You got a horse,” he said. “Looks to be sound enough.”

  “Mister, I can’t let go of my horse. I have to travel.”

  “Where you travelling to?” the buffalo hunter asked, raking his fingertips through his long gray beard.

  Eb stared at him.

  Shadrack spit a yellow stream within an inch of Eb’s bare foot. “There ain’t nothing between here and Camp Supply but prairie and Injuns,” he added.

  “To Dodge City,” Eb said.

  Corwin and Shadrack exchanged glances, and laughed. Corwin said, “You going to Dodge City with no shirt, no boots, and no gun. Who’s after you, son?”

  “Ain’t nobody after me,” said Eb nervously. “I’m going to see my sick mama.”

  That evoked more laughter. “If you got a sick mama in Dodge City, then I got a cur hound that shits gold bricks,” Shadrack said.

  “I tell you true,” Eb said. “Look here, fellers, I’m in a bad way. Robbers took my shoes, and money. I was hoping you could find it in your hearts to spare something.”

  “Guess they took your shirt, too,” Corwin said. He got up from the bench and stood beside the buffalo hunter. “Robbers took your shoes, and shirt, and left your horse? Now, how stupid do you think we are?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, at all. I’m just tellin’ you like it happened.”

  “Son, I don’t know what you done to git yourself in such a quandary, but I done heard all I need to hear,” Shadrack said. There was something unsettling about this shoeless, shirtless man, and he thought it best to put him on his way. If there was someone coming after him, let them catch him somewhere else.

  “You ain’t turning me away empty-handed, are you?” Eb asked.

  Shadrack turned to Corwin and said, “Cor, I got an old pair of moccasins I can give him, and a blanket I’ll throw in.”

  Corwin shrugged his shoulders. “I got that old Hawken rifle Billy Dixon left here,” he said. “It’s that one he took from a dead Cheyenne at Adobe Walls. The barrel is tied to the stock with rawhide, and it ain’t seen oil in a while. I never even fired it. He can have it, and the old powder horn and lead that come with it.”

  “I ain’t eat in three days,” Eb said. “I’m nigh starved to death.” Which wasn’t too far from the truth. He hadn’t had anything to eat but wild berries since leaving Fort Griffin.

  “You do look poorly. About as poorly as any white man I ever seen. You are white, ain’t you?” Shadrack asked.

  “I ain’t no Ind’, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I knowed you weren’t no Injun,” said Shadrack. “You might be Mex’can, though.”

  “Well, I ain’t no Mexican, either. I’m Texas-born and -raised.”

  Shadrack spit a line of juice in the dirt, wiping some off his beard with the back of his hand. “Texas is breeding some mighty poor stock these days.”

  “I’ll wrap some jerky in something, and you can take it with you,” Corwin said. “I don’t want you camping here tonight. That understood?”

  “I’ll be long gone before night,” Eb replied.

  The store owner turned and went through the door. Eb started to follow, but the buffalo hunter put out an arm and stopped him.

  “You wait out here,” he said.

  “I’m burnin’ up, mister. Can I at least stand there, under the shade?”

  “No, Sir, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause you stink worse than a dead possum. Stay over there by your horse.”

  “All right,” Eb said, backing away. The grumpiness of the old man irritated him. What harm could it do to let him stand in the shade? The sun had already burned blisters on his shoulders and back. Besides, the man casting the insults didn’t smell too fresh himself.

  “Y’all got something against being hospitable to strangers?” he complained.

  Shadrack hawked and spit in the dirt. He squinted one eye at Eb, and placed a hand on the bone handle of the skinning knife in his belt.

  “Hospitable!” he said. “Son, we are toleratin’ you out of Christian charity. But make one more unsavory remark, you lousy little varmint, and I’ll lift that scalp of your’n, tie you to that pole over there, and let the sun boil out what little brains you have left.”

  Eb backed a step closer to his horse, and refrained from any more comments.

  The old wool blanket Shadrack donated had enough holes, so Eb put his head through one and his arms through others and wore it for a shirt. In the afternoon heat, it was uncomfortable, and chafed his blistered skin, but at least it shielded his shoulders from any more sun damage. The oversize moccasins he secured to his feet with strips of rawhide and he slung the Hawken rifle to his back with a piece of rope. For his head, Corwin Doan had donated an old soldier’s floppy hat, which had part of the brim chewed off by rats.

  Gnawing on a tasty strip of buffalo jerky, all in all, he felt things were looking up as he rode away from Doan’s Store.


  The wide, rutted cattle trail was easy enough to follow across the Red River and northward on the level prairie, but the next day, when he reached the low mountains bordering the North Fork of the Red River, he struck the south bank too far west, and missed the trail crossing. For three days, he wandered in a northwest direction, hoping to pick up the trail to Dodge City.

  On the morning of the fourth day out from Doan’s, he was awakened from his sleep by voices. Eb opened his eyes to see a gaunt-looking Indian standing near him, holding the reins to his horse. The man’s ribs were sticking out, as stark as a washboard, and his bony pelvis barely held up the filthy trousers he was wearing. A bow, and a quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder. He was talking to a second Indian, mounted on a spotted pony behind him. Both men were so haggard, he couldn’t tell if they were young or old.

  “That’s my horse,” Eb said, sitting up.

  The Indian standing near him, said, “Kiowa land. Pay to pass through.”

  “Look here, I didn’t know I was trespassing,” Eb explained. “I got lost. You understand?”

  The Indian swept his arm in a wide arc, and repeated, “Kiowa land.”

  “Alright, Kiowa land. I ain’t going to argue that point.”

  “Pay now,” the Indian said.

  “What is the charge for trespassing?”

  “Horse,” the Indian said.

  “Now, wait a minute. I need my horse. Here, you can have this fine Hawken rifle.” He reached for the Hawken, but the Indian kicked his arm with the toe of his worn moccasin.

  “Oww!” Eb said, snatching his arm back. “I was just going to show it to you.”

  The Kiowa bent over, picked up the rifle, and gave it a quick looking over. He held it up for his companion to see. The companion leaned out over his horse, looking at it, and then frowned, and shook his head.

  “No good,” the Kiowa said, throwing the rifle in the dirt. “Take horse, now.”

  To Eb’s reckoning, these Kiowas were about as hungry as he was. He could see they had only the one horse between them. They had probably already eaten the other’s horse. Now they wanted to eat his horse, too.

  He tried to stand, but the Indian pushed him back down with his foot.

  “Well, take the blasted horse,” Eb said. “I don’t guess I can stop you.” The Indian grinned, and patted Eb’s horse on the nose.

  “Can you at least tell me how to get to Dodge City?”

  He got a blank stare from the Kiowa.

  “Dodge City,” Eb repeated. “Where all those cattle get taken. Cows. Dodge City. Kansas.” He placed a finger on each side of his head, and made a mooing sound.

  This prompted some discussion between the Kiowas. Finally, the one nearest him laid three fingers across his forearm and said, “Three rivers.” Then, he gestured in a northerly direction, “Cross three rivers. Many days’ walk. We take horse now.”

  With that, he effortlessly leaped onto the back of Eb’s horse, and rode off with his companion.

  “Many days’ walk,” Eb repeated, muttering. “I’ll be damned and hell-bound if I’ll walk to Dodge City.”

  He snatched up the Hawken and began pouring powder down the muzzle. Twice he dropped the ramrod as he attempted to load patch and ball. He had only fired the rifle once before, missing a rabbit at forty yards. The chance that he might hit one of the Indians from this distance of over a hundred yards, and getting further each second was slim to none, but he was desperate to get his horse back.

  He fixed the percussion cap on the nipple, and propped the rifle on the bare branch of a dead cedar near where he had been sleeping. He waited until the Indians topped a rise, giving him a clear view. The front sight of the rifle had been badly bent, rendering it useless, so he aimed as best he could over the strands of rawhide which bound the barrel to the stock. Hunger had given him the shakes, and it took a few seconds for him to calm his grip. Thumbing the hammer back, he took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

  When the cloud of powder smoke cleared to where he could see, there was one Indian mounted, and the other was on the ground. The horse had bolted when the Indian pitched off him, and was trotting back in Eb’s direction. The fallen Indian wasn’t badly wounded, for he managed to leap onto the back of his companion’s horse and hold on as he kicked his pony into a gallop, and away from Eb.

  Eb started laughing hysterically, dancing a jig in the dirt. “You should have taken this old gun, you red devil, not my horse!” he shouted.

  Half an hour later, he was mounted and heading north toward the three rivers, and Dodge City.

  11

  Following the cattle trail north through Indian territory, Caleb reached Camp Supply in five days. Though Charles Rath’s chestnut stallion had performed gallantly on the long ride, it was spent. Caleb knew he would have to acquire a fresh horse to continue to Dodge City without delay. As he was bargaining with a horse seller at the door of the livery, a lieutenant overheard, and interrupted him.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “Did I hear you say your name was Caleb Thomason?”

  Caleb was a little wary. “Yes, that is my name.”

  “Of Dodge City?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A courier from Fort Dodge came through a few days ago, with a message for you. We were told you were with Charles Rath in Sweetwater, so a courier was sent to Fort Elliott.”

  “I never got the message. What was it?”

  “I don’t have it word for word, Mr. Thomason, but it had to do with your wife. I believe it said she had been….” He paused to find the right words. “I’m sorry to say, Sir, I believe the message said she had been taken.”

  Taken, Caleb repeated the word, silently. The exact fate she had warned him could happen had.

  “How? Who took her?” he asked.

  The lieutenant noted the anxiety in Caleb’s response. “Here, Mr. Thomason, follow me to headquarters. The major will have that message in its totality.”

  Caleb followed him as they walked over the hard packed dirt of the road, through the garrison stockade and across the parade ground to the officer’s headquarters. He could hardly contain himself as the officers trudged through their obligatory salutes and greetings.

  “Come in, Mr. Thomason,” the major said as Caleb was ushered into his cramped office. He seemed surprisingly young for a major, Caleb thought. “I am Major George Tolliver. Have a seat.”

  Caleb remained standing. “You have a message for me?”

  “We were told you were in Sweetwater.”

  “I was. But now I’m here, Major. What is the message? I would appreciate haste.”

  “I understand,” the major said, unfolding a sheet of paper on his desk. “This is a copy in my own handwriting. The original note was sent…”

  “What does it say, Major?” Caleb asked, impatiently.

  “I will read it to you.”

  To the officer-in-command, Camp Supply,

  Sir,

  T.L. McCarty, physician, suffered injuries Monday afternoon the 14th while unsuccessfully trying to prevent the abduction of a Mrs. Sparrow Thomason. McCarty was able to identify the assailants as Buck Hester and Joe LeBouef, who had an altercation with Mr. Caleb Thomason last October. Hester was jailed for a period of time and then ordered to leave town, and was thought to be in Texas. A detachment from Fort Dodge and marshals from the town of Dodge City are seeking the whereabouts of Mrs. Thomason. It is believed the abductors have fled the county. Mr. Thomason is in Sweetwater with Charles Rath. Please dispatch a courier with this message and should you locate Mr. Thomason, assure him that all is being done to recover his wife and return her to safety, but he should return to Dodge immediately.

  Dutifully yours,

  James H. Kelley,

  Dodge City Mayor

  He handed the message to Caleb wh
o read it again, silently. His face burned at the name, Buck Hester, and he regretted that Doc Holliday’s shot had only wounded the man, instead of killing him. Even more deeply, he felt shame at having left Sparrow alone in Dodge City while he was off seeking vengeance on a man who was no longer a threat to her. The satisfaction he had savored at destroying O’Riley now left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “May I keep this?” Caleb asked the major.

  “Of course. If you need an escort to Dodge City, I can spare a detail.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Caleb said, folding the note and stuffing it into his vest pocket.

  “I am sorry about your wife, Mr. Thomason. I will say a prayer for her safety and speedy return. If they come in this direction, I feel confident we will intercept them.”

  Caleb nodded, and left the office quickly. Outside the headquarters building, he stopped and stared blankly at the ground. Knowing Sparrow had been taken by Buck Hester intensified the sense of dread that had been weighing on him so heavily these past several days.

  He felt as low as he had ever felt before, even lower than after accidentally shooting and killing that cattleman in San Antonio. His fingers ran over the hawk’s claw hung around his neck and he wondered if there was anything to what Job had said about it. Even if there was some mystical Indian power or protection for him, how could that help Sparrow?

  All the regret in the world would do nothing to change what had happened. He had to focus on what he could do to get her back, beginning with figuring out where she had been taken. When Hester had been escorted out of town after his release from jail, he must not have gone far, certainly not all the way to south Texas. According to the message from the Mayor, he had returned within a couple of months, seemingly with the purpose of taking Sparrow. If Buck Hester had wanted to kill Sparrow, he had the opportunity, but he took her instead. Where would he take her?

  He stepped out across the parade ground, retracing his steps to the livery barn. A soldier passed by and spoke to him. But Caleb never saw, nor heard him.

  At the livery, he hurriedly looked over the horses the trader had brought in from the corral.