by Mike Kearby
“What is it, Free?” Parks moved between the two men.
“It’s something To’sa-woonit said out there.” “What?
What could he have said to get you so riled?” Billy Dixon backed up two steps.
Free slipped the lead rein over the mustang’s ears and swung up on the pony. “He said a medicine man called Maman-ti was sending a band of Kiowa for my family.”
Chapter Eighteen
Anderson Farm, Texas, July 1874
A sweltering heat simmered in the morning air and boiled over onto the Texas landscape. Unseen moisture dampened skin and cloth alike, smothering all that drew breath under its soggy weight. Clara Anderson labored in what little shade the west side of her home afforded. She looked skyward and prayed silently for a gentle wind, God’s little gift, her mother called a cooling breeze.
The day was remarkably still for West Texas, and a dark foreboding twisted in her thoughts, keeping her disturbed as to the reason. She worked diligently with needle and thread to mend one of Free’s shirts in the hope that the work would keep the uneasiness at bay.
The years following the war had been good to Clara. Born an Alabama slave, her realized dreams of marrying a man of her own choosing, giving birth to free children, and living as a freed woman, once seemed an unreachable blessing reserved only for other people.
Alone and absorbed in her sewing, Clara felt a small breeze meander through the shade, bringing an immediate, if only brief, relief from the heat. Thank you, Mother. She smiled and then allowed her thoughts to wander back to her first master, Mr. Browning.
As a slave child, she found him to be a tolerable owner. As a woman, she knew him to be an insufferable mean man. She recalled one particular morning in the Browning kitchen. After cleaning the dishes, Mrs. Browning offered her a slice of fresh baked cake. She had never seen cake before and the sweet smell that drifted through the kitchen that morning was as fragrant as honeysuckle. She had stared at the cake sitting on its white plate for the longest time, afraid to spoil its simple beauty with a fork.
And while she hesitated, Mr. Browning entered the kitchen. “What’s this?” He looked at Mrs. Browning and lifted the cake from the table.
“Get out, Clara!” he ordered, “You know better than to sit at the table!”
She fled from the kitchen that morning thinking she had done wrong, and even today, she could still hear Mr. Browning’s harangue, “Don’t be bringing cake out to the slaves, Anna! They’ll just get a likin’ for it and its unlikely they’ll ever get to taste it again!
Now, so many years later living without the obligations of slavery, she came to make sense of Mr. Browning’s words. Just like cake, once a person tasted freedom, the more freedom that person wanted. Untroubled freedom.
She came to appreciate the small freedoms gained, but the toilsome effort of protecting those freedoms greeted her each day like the rising sun. And with Free gone for so much of the time to earn money, she had become both the sole parent and protector for their son and their home. It was a responsibility she loved, but it was unceasing and relentless. A small tear formed at the corner of her eyes and the pangs of loneliness clinched her tightly. Quit your complaining, Clara Anderson, she scolded, and be happy for the things that most folks take for granted.
Five year old William Parks and Dog raced from the corner of the house toward the mustang corral scattering guinea hens along the way. Oblivious to the morning heat, William Parks jumped on the second rail of the corral and peered between the bars at the horses inside.
“Heyahh!” he swung an imaginary rope at the ponies. “Gitayup now!” he mimicked his father’s calls.
Dog, a gift from the Kiowa in 1868, had saved Free’s life twice that year and was William Parks’ best friend.
“William Parks Anderson!” Clara dabbed her eyes and called from her perch, “You be careful over there and do not nettle those horses!” She ducked her head and smiled, So much like his father.
Free and Parks had left two weeks earlier to deliver horses to Camp Supply and although their journeys often kept them away from home much longer something felt wrong this morning. Quit worrying so, Clara. She pursed her lips and tried to concentrate on her sewing. But she could not stop her mind from churning in concern. Unknown to Free, she carried their second child and lately she seemed to be all emotions.
She finished a series of stitches and then let her gaze wander to the corral, but William Parks had already moved on and was not in sight. “William Parks!” she called out, “You get back where I can see you, young man!”
William Parks dragged a willow branch in the dirt on the far side of the mustang corral. He watched in great concentration at the squiggly line that trailed his every step. Dog followed at his heels and tried to make the boy play with him by snapping at the stick. William Parks laughed at Dog’s antics and held the branch teasingly underneath the dog’s nose.
Dog clamped his powerful jaws on the branch and held it securely. He growled playfully at the boy and urged him to play tug. William Parks grabbed one end of the stick, shook it back and forth, and then let go. Dog growled, shook the branch rapidly from side to side, and dropped to his belly, contented to chew on the bark.
William Parks laughed, reached down and grabbed the stick again. Dog growled in mock anger, jumped to his feet and turned his head away from the boy. William Parks held on with a firm handhold and proceeded to shake the stick from side to side once more all the while howling in laughter.
Clara heard her son’s contagious laugh and let a wide grin cross her face. “What’s so funny, William Parks?” she laughed aloud.
The five year old lifted his head at his mother’s voice and held a finger to his lips. “Shush,” he whispered and then yanked the branch from the unsuspecting dog’s mouth.
He held the stick as high as he could into the air and turned in a small circle on his tiptoes, trying to keep it away from Dog. Dog jumped at the extended hand and tried to reclaim the branch. Unable to latch onto the stick, he crashed against
William Parks’ chest and knocked the boy to the ground.
William Parks landed in a heap and lay his head in the dirt. He laughed hysterically and called out, “Bad Dog!” He shook his finger in mock anger, “Bad, bad Dog!” he frowned.
Dog sat back on his haunches and stared at the boy with his head turned sideways. William Parks pushed himself to a sitting position and held the branch toward Dog.
Dog straightened his head and looked past the stick. He opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a frightening display. A low guttural growl rumbled in his chest.
William Parks became quiet as a shadow darkened the ground in front of him. Thinking a cloud covered the sun, he looked up only to see a clear sky.
Dog rose from his haunches and exposed his canines in a primitive warning of stay away. “What is it, Dog?” William Parks turned to see what stood behind him. Blinded by the morning sun, he could only make out the outline of a crouched solitary figure.
“Bang! Bang!” he pointed the stick at the silhouette.
The shadowy impression, dressed in a long shirt belted with silver, leaned over so he was face to face with William Parks. The man had flowing black hair braided on one side with a beaded eagle feather. His face was sun worn and appeared leather-like. A series of black concentric circles covered one side of his bare chest.
Dog started toward the man. Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth and the hair on his back stood stiffly at attention.
The man shot a quick glance at Dog and bared his teeth. He pointed a finger at the animal and issued a firm whoosh. Dog stopped, unsure as what to do and then quieted. The man looked toward a stand of cedar a hundred yards to the south and waved an arm back and forth across his head. Turning back to William Parks, he asked gruffly, “Where is your father, boy?”
Clara stood straight-backed and stern faced at the Tonkawa and twenty soldiers in front of her. She motioned for William Parks to take a position behin
d her. The boy stared up at the Tonkawa who held his hand firmly. The Tonkawa released his hand and William Parks raced for his mother without hesitation and hid behind the safety of her dress.
“Who do you think you are?” She shouted angrily at the Tonkawa. Her initial shock had now changed to anger. “You do not ride on my land and take hold of my child!” she stomped the ground to emphasize her point. “And you,” she pointed to the mounted soldiers behind the Tonkawa, “You should know better than this!”
The Tonkawa took a step forward, “I am Job.” He proclaimed proudly, “A friend.” He patted his chest several times.
“I know who you are!” Clara replied. She was familiar with the Tonkawa. Their camps were nearby and many of the braves worked as military scouts for the regiments at Fort Griffin. “What do you want here?”
William Parks peered around his mother’s skirt and watched the soldier’s wince at his mother’s anger.
“Ma’am, We’ve come here...”
“Don’t you Ma’am, me, soldier!” Clara interrupted, “just tell me what you want!”
A young soldier, no more than eighteen, straightened and said, “We’re here to see your husband.”
Clara relaxed slightly, but kept the edge in her voice. “About what?”
“Colonel Mackenzie would like a sit down with him, Ma’am.”
“What did I tell you about Ma’am’ing me!” Clara scolded once more.
“Sorry, Ma’ . . . Mrs. Anderson.” The clearly uncomfortable soldier corrected himself. “Would Mr. Anderson be home?”
“He’ll be returning shortly. I’ll make sure he receives the message.”
“Thank you, Ma’ . . . Mrs. Anderson.” The soldier tapped the brim of his hat. “I guess we’ll be taking our leave then.”
Clara watched the soldiers turn their horses back toward Fort Griffin. “Where does your colonel want to meet with my husband?” she called out.
“We’ll be heading back to Fort Concho today, but the colonel will be back in the area by month’s end,” the young soldier replied.
Job grinned, “The little Anderson is a brave son.”
“Go on!” Clara motioned for the man to leave. The Tonkawa chief re-mounted and rode out slowly with the detail of soldiers.
As the group departed, Dog strolled over to Clara and stood by her side.
“And you!” she glared at the dog and scolded him with a shaking finger. “Where were you while this was all going on? You better start doing your job!”
Dog arched his back high in the air, lowered his head and moved off with his tail between his legs.
“Goodness.” Clara pulled William Parks from behind her skirt and held him tightly. “Don’t ever scare your mother like that again,” she whispered then kissed the top of his head.
William Parks kissed his mother’s cheek and pointed at Dog. “Bad dog!” he mimicked his mother’s voice laughingly.
Big Bow and three Kiowa braves sat on a small rise above the clear fork of the Brazos. He watched the Tonkawa and horse soldiers converse with the buffalo man’s woman.
“So the buffalo woman has the protection of the Ta-’ka-i.” He loosened the rein and turned his pony’s head northward. “There is nothing more to be done here,” he said impassively. “Let’s ride back and join the Owl Prophet in his sun dance. After that, maybe the Kiowa can finally soak the land in blood.”
Chapter Nineteen
Palo Duro Canyon, Texas, July 1874
Under a forbidding green sky, Free raced To’sawoonit’s pony through the juniper stands and across the red and yellow-layered cliffs of the Palo Duro canyon. Parks rode fifty yards back and kept a watchful eye on their trail and the building storm.
Free had figured the quickest and safest way home was to skirt the bands of Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne raiding parties spread around Adobe Walls and the surrounding buffalo grounds. He had avoided a possible confrontation with Billy Dixon earlier in the day when a large group of buffalo hunters straggled into the Walls, most with horses.
A large raindrop splattered on Free’s shoulder, and thunder rumbled across the sky. Free pulled rein on the Comanche pony and stopped near the canyon rim. He looked over the pony’s shoulder to the distant floor below.
“What do you reckon that sky is going to do?” he asked as Parks rode up even with him.
Parks appraised the billowing clouds as a single raindrop hit Horse’s neck. “Looks to be carrying lightning and hail.”
“More fuss I suspect.” Free scratched his head in frustration. “After fighting Indians for two days, you’d figure a man alone on a stretch of vacant openness might face the prospect of a little peace.” He held his palm up to the slowly increasing rainfall. “But now it appears nature itself is itching for a fight.”
Parks lowered his head and flashed a scant grin. “Probably not a good idea for us to be sitting exposed on this canyon rim.”
Free nodded and searched for any sign of tracks leading into the canyon. A charge of lightning flashed in the west, and the early afternoon sky darkened. “If we can discover a trail, we might find an overhang to shelter in until the storm blows by.” He moved the Indian pony slowly along the rim and searched intently for a way down. “Here!” he shouted, “looks like a deer trail!”
Parks shot a quick glance at the western horizon. Great sheets of rain pushed across the prairie and raced for them, accompanied by an unfriendly wind. He looked over to Free and then threw a quick glance down the deer trail. “That’ll do,” he said.
Both men dismounted and with urgent caution led their ponies down into the great canyon with a soaker on their heels.
A stream of muddy water rushed down the small deer trail swirling around the men’s ankles and making each step a treacherous undertaking. The sudden and violent downburst fell with such menacing force that the path was becoming impossible to navigate.
“We’ve got to find some cover!” Parks screamed over the roar of the storm. “We best not go down to the floor! I reckon it’s a river by now!”
A crack of lightning lit up the darkened sky and briefly exposed an outcropping of rock a short distance down the trail.
“Look!” Free hollered and pointed to the cleft of flat stone jutting from the wall of the canyon. “We’re in luck!”
They inched their way down into the canyon with great care. Free held the reins tight in hand on the Comanche mustang and kept the horse’s head close against his shoulder. Parks followed tentatively, leading Horse, he trudged in the gray muck blended under the hooves of To’sa-woonit’s mustang.
The overhang extended five feet above the canyon and served as a canopy for a small entry-way not visible from the trail. Free stared at the cave opening and turned back to Parks. “There’s an opening here but it will be a tight squeeze getting the horses inside.”
“Give it a try! If your pony can’t get through we’ll stake both of them outside. We don’t have any other choice.”
Free nodded and after a little coaxing disappeared through the opening pulling the pony behind him.
Inside, complete darkness faced the men. A gray shaft of light from the opening exposed enough of the natural enclosure to indicate they stood in a very large cave.
“Can you see the back wall?” Parks asked. He advanced forward furtively in the enveloping blackness.
“This blackness is thicker than a blanket,” Free answered. “I can’t see anything.”
Parks tried to locate any obstacles in his path by holding his right hand away from his body and waving it back and forth. After several steps, his knee knocked against a solid object that sounded like wood. “Blazes!” he shouted and grabbed his leg.
“What is it?” Free turned back, “Are you OK?” “He probably bumped against my gun crates.” A voice filled the blackness. “There is a torch and matches on top of the crate, señor. Why don’t you light it and turn toward me with great care. I have always thought it rude to kill a man before I’ve seen his face.”
> Chapter Twenty
La Cueva de Comanchero, Texas, July 1874
The noxious odor of rotten eggs accompanied a plume of black smoke toward the cave ceiling. The torch gradually danced into a yellow flame illuminating the surrounding blackness.
“Gracias señors, gracias.” The ghostly voice wandered across the cave. “Buenos tardes.”
“Who are you?” Free asked.
The figure lit a torch ensconced on the cave wall behind him, “I was here first, señor. Who are you?”
As the torch turned into flame, a short, slender figure grew out of the darkness. The man held a pearl handle Colt in each hand.
“I’m Free Anderson, and this is my partner, Parks Scott.”
“Well, Free Anderson, have your partner, Parks Scott, place his torch in the crevice behind him.”
Parks did as he was ordered and then turned, studying the man carefully. “Comanchero?” he asked.
“So many questions señor. The both of you, raise your right hands and slowly unbuckle those gun belts with your left hands. Slowly, por favor.”
“We only stopped here to get out of the storm,” Free explained.
“Shhh. Now walk over there.” The man motioned toward the back wall. “Face the wall with your hands up and keep very quiet.”
Free and Parks obliged the man and moved away from the horses. Against the wall, Parks wheeled and stared at the figure. “You’re trading guns to the Comanche,” he stated.
The man smiled at Parks while he grasped the willow hoop woven into the Comanche pony’s mane. “I know of this horse. How did you gringos come by him?”
“A friend let me borrow him,” Free replied.
“A friend?”
“Yes, a friend.”
“How long you know this friend, señor?” The man picked up the discarded gun belts.
“Long enough to borrow his horse.”