Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

“And this friend, he has a name?”

  Free stared straight into his captor’s eyes, “To’sa-woonit,” he replied nonchalantly.

  The man studied the Comanche pony once more and then sat on the rifle crate. He chewed on his lower lip, deep in thought. “I know this Comanche, To’sa-woonit, señor. I have never known him to be so kind.”

  “Well, he was kind enough to warn me of a raid upon my family.” Free shrugged, “My horse was stolen, so he allowed me to borrow his.”

  “I don’t know, señor. It still does not sound like the Comanche I know.”

  “If you know him and if you do trade guns with the Comanche, then you also know To’sa-woonit would not like his friends treated so.”

  The man looked out the cave entrance and exhaled a deep breath. “Maybeso, maybenot. This I know, two men show up at my hiding place for rifles. Rifles that I trade to the Indians. This has not happened in my eight years of being a trader. You, señor, tell me it is just a coincidence. Maybeso, but maybenot. I am, how you say, between the fence and the mustang.”

  “We’re just trying to get back home. That’s all,” Free said coolly.

  The man frowned, “And where is this home, señor?”

  “On the old Comanche reservation. My wife and son are there.”

  “It is not wise for a man to leave his woman in such a hard land, señor. No?”

  “Lucky, we are friends to both the Comanche and the Kiowa,” Free stated matter-of-factly.

  The man nodded slowly. “The storm has moved on. Maybe you two should do the same.”

  Free and Parks rotated from the wall, relieved.

  “Much obliged,” Free exhaled quietly.

  The man hung the gun belts around Horse’s saddle and then moved back to the south wall. He motioned with his Colt for Free and Parks to leave. “Vaya con dios, señors. And if by chance you accidentally seek shelter here again, know that I will kill you both.”

  Free nodded his gratitude and followed Parks, stopping before he exited. “I didn’t catch your name, mister.”

  “Tafoya. Jose Piedad Tafoya.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Clear Fork Country, Texas, July 1874

  Northwest of the Anderson homestead, a covey of quail broke the late afternoon silence in a sudden rush of flight. Startled by the noisy thrashing, Dog sprang to his feet and thrust his nose high into the air. He sniffed rapidly in several directions all the while growling in a low, continuous rumble. Agitated by the birds and vexed by his inability to detect a strange scent, he grumbled once more and lay back down with an uneasiness that kept his ears at attention.

  Clara heard the prolonged growl and looked out the kitchen door. She gazed past the roused dog into the distance as the spooked quail jumped again. She pushed at the screen door and stepped outside. “What is it, Dog?”

  Dog shared Clara’s apprehension, he stood and raised the hair on his back. He paced on the porch, disturbed by the unseen intruder and pulled his mouth taut exposing his canines. Out on the prairie, the quail spooked once more and flew from the ground. Dog stuck his nose into the air and honed in on a scent that rode on the wind from the northwest. He growled deeply and with an explosive charge sprinted into the open prairie with a loud series of barks that warned any stranger to stay away.

  Clara shaded her eyes and looked toward the horizon. A cold shiver tingled along her spine, a reminder of the danger that might be lurking close by. Dog had stopped forty yards out, and his incessant yipping served only to increase her fear. He alternated between sitting and standing, but his vocalization was unvarying and continuous.

  Suddenly, he became quiet. As if on command, Dog sat and wagged his tail from side to side. He started forward several times only to stop and sit back down. In each instance a high-pitched whine issued from his throat.

  Clara studied Dog’s posture with a careful eye and then scanned the horizon for any movement. After several seconds of deliberation, she walked back to the open kitchen door and called inside, “William Parks Anderson. Hurry outside. Your father has come home.”

  Clara brushed William Park’s shirt and holding the boy’s hand walked at a quick pace to the edge of the prairie. She ran her free hand down her shirt and onto the front of her denim pants trying to press the wrinkles from the garments.

  William Parks held his mother’s hand and searched the flat land before him for any sign of his father. With his free hand, he petted Dog in long sweeping strokes and questioned, “Where’s Daddy?” Dog sensed the boy’s excitement and wagged his tail rapidly while sniffing at the air.

  Within minutes, two shadowy figures dotted the horizon, running toward them atop the unmistakable gait of mustangs. Clara touched her chest and squeezed gently on William Park’s hand.

  William Parks, unable to contain his energy any longer, wrested his hand from his mother’s grip and raced for the pair shouting, “Home! You’re home!” Dog bolted with the boy and raced beside him, barking with each shout.

  Free dismounted in one quick motion and picked up his son. He swung the boy into his arms and beamed broadly. “William Parks! Your daddy’s come home!” Dog ran circles around the two and with an open mouth begged for attention.

  Free held the boy at arm’s length and kissed his cheek. “William Parks! Look at you! You’ve grown a foot since I’ve been gone!”

  “Dog was bad.” The boy offered. “Bad dog!”

  “Dog was bad?” Free laughed.

  William Parks nodded his head as response.

  “Free!” Clara approached on a run.

  Free lowered William Parks to the ground and raced toward her. “Clara!” he drew her into his chest and held her tightly, “Am I glad to see you!”

  Clara smiled and held her head tight against Free. “Welcome home,” she whispered. “It seems like you’ve been gone forever.”

  “Are you and William Parks OK?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “No questions now.” She stared into his eyes, “Kiss me.”

  William Parks bent slightly at the waist and laughed loudly, “Mommy and daddy are kissing.”

  Free and Clara both laughed at the boy’s declaration and broke away from their embrace. Free tickled the boy’s stomach. “You think that’s funny?”

  The boy laughed, shook his head rapidly and then ran toward Parks.

  Free turned back to Clara and gazed into her eyes, “It’s just that, we ran into some trouble with Indians along the way and one threatened that...”

  “Shhh,” Clara placed a finger against his lips. “There will be plenty of time for that talk later. Right now let’s get you some food.” She looked at Parks and smiled, “Welcome home.”

  Parks tipped his hat and dismounted. “Hello, Clara.” He lifted William Parks into his arms and swung him around in a wide arc onto Horse’s back. “Sorry, I kept your husband away so long.”

  “I have a suspicion it was not your doing, Parks. Come to the house with us and let me fix you men a decent meal.”

  “Thanks, Clara, but you two need some alone time.” Parks reached for the Comanche mustang’s reins, “I’ll put up this pony, and then I’m heading to The Flats for a hot bath and shave.”

  “Where’s Spirit?” Clara stared at the strange mustang.

  Free placed his finger against her lips and whispered, “Shhh. Remember, let’s get some food in me first.”

  Later, after William Parks was asleep, Free and Clara sat at the kitchen table and over coffee shared their experiences of the past two weeks.

  Clara reached across the table and placed both her hands on top of Free’s left hand, “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Free set his coffee down and stroked her hands with gentle affection. “I’m afraid the Kiowa and the Comanche are riled by the buffalo hunters and aim to shed blood.” He slowly looked up and let his gaze rest on Clara. “Truth is, I think I’ve stepped into the middle of this fight because I tried to help one side take care of their dead.” Free pulled his hands away
and leaned back in his chair. “Parks warned me not to get involved.”

  “Helping those in need can’t be avoided so easily. You know that, Free.”

  Free winced and thought back to the time, Clara had risked her life to help him. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so much of the time, and I’m sorry I’ve got us all into this mess. It seems life keeps handing us one problem after another.”

  Clara frowned and clasped Free’s hand, “You will not think like that, Free. You’ve never felt pity for yourself or for us since we met, and I will not let you start now.”

  Free leaned forward and intertwined both their hands together. “Well be warned then; I suspect this Col. Mackenzie is going to ask Parks and me to lead them to the Comanche and Kiowa camps.”

  Taken aback, Clara studied her husband’s face and then asked, “And what will you tell him?”

  Free shrugged,

  “I don’t know. If I say no, we’ll be called Indian lovers and shunned by the military and all our neighbors. If I say yes, then the Kiowa will say I betrayed them and place a bounty on my head. I can’t see that either answer benefits us.”

  “Can’t you just say you don’t want to be involved?”

  Free exhaled a soft breath and dragged his hand across his mouth, “This country was born of fighting, and I reckon it can’t grow up until it gets its fill of battle. And whether I like it or not, it requires men like Parks and me to get our hands bloodied on a regular occasion . . . And there’s something else.”

  “What?” Clara leaned in close. “What else?”

  “If we don’t honor the army’s request, you can bet the government will never buy another S&A mustang.”

  Clara lowered her head and softly kissed Free’s hands. “Free.”

  “Yes, Clara.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What?” Free squeezed Clara’s hands.

  Clara raised her head and gazed into Free’s eyes. “I’m going to have another child.”

  A glow brightened Free’s face. He pushed his chair from the table and hurried to Clara’s side. In a quick motion, he lifted her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “That’s wonderful, Clara.” He hugged her tightly, “I couldn’t be happier.”

  Clara pushed away slightly and stared into his eyes. “We will make it through this, Free. Somehow, we always do.”

  Free pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I best get this work done for the army, because once I’m finished, I’m coming home, and I’m not leaving you again.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Elk Creek, Indian Territory, July 1874

  Maman-ti glowered as Kicking Bird departed Elk Creek with a long trailing of Kiowa people. At the sun dance’s conclusion, Kicking Bird had persuaded many of the bands to forgo any further hostilities with the military and return to the reservation at Fort Sill.

  Lone Wolf stood next to Maman-ti, Big Bow, and White Horse. He watched the great line of Kiowa trudge solemnly east. “What does the Owl Prophet see for my nation?” he asked, somberly.

  Maman-ti’s voice carried a measure of sadness, “They seem to have lost their way. They follow Kicking Bird in the hope they can live in peace with the But the Great Spirit abandons people who lose their path. The owl puppet tells me they will forever be known as the People who eat horses.”

  Lone Wolf wrinkled his forehead and kept a fixed gaze on the departing mass. “And for our kind, Owl Prophet? What does your owl medicine say?”

  Maman-ti gazed at the assembled fifty warriors mounted behind them. “The owl puppet tells me fifty of the greatest Kiowa warriors stand with us. Fifty that fight like one thousand. My dreams show me seven hills near the Salt Creek. It is there that we will lure the into a trap and share a great victory!”

  The Salt Creek Prairie was a rough and rocky strip of land. Thickets of mesquite, post oaks, and black jacks dotted a rolling terrain of small hills and wagon sized boulders. The Kiowa had run their ponies hard on the journey into Texas riding two hundred miles in less than two full days.

  Maman-ti and Lone Wolf led the war party into a steep ravine with running water where the warriors could slake their thirst and rest in the shade, out of the oppressive July heat.

  While the warriors relaxed, Maman-ti rode out of the ravine and surveyed the open prairie. This was a spiritual land. The ta-’ka-i called it Lost Valley, but to him, the land held strong medicine. He planned well in his decision to bring Lone Wolf and the fifty warriors to this place. For it was here that he planned the raid on the Warren wagon train. And it was here that he and the twenty-five killed Britt Johnson. The Salt Creek Prairie had always given scalps to the Kiowa and tomorrow would be no different.

  Maman-ti pulled the Spencer rifle from his scabbard and chambered a cartridge. He held the gun at eye level and focused the sight on an imaginary target. The rifle was well balanced and felt good in his hands. You have done well for the Kiowa, Tafoya, he thought. The gun could fire seven cartridges before reloading and would kill many and ta-’ka-i.

  “This is a good place for the Kiowa, Owl Prophet.” Lone Wolf rode alongside the Kiowa medicine man and stared across the desolate prairie.

  “The Great Spirit will confer a great victory tomorrow. I see a fresh scalp hanging from Lone Wolf’s shield, and many enemy horses will perish.”

  Lone Wolf uttered a vicious growl, “It will be a good day to be a warrior.”

  Maman-ti forced a weak smile. “Yes, it will be a good day for the Kiowa.”

  Lone Wolf studied the medicine man’s face. The Owl Prophet’s eyes scrunched in great thought and lines furrowed his forehead. “I have known you for many winters, Maman-ti. What is it that troubles you so?”

  Maman-ti breathed deeply, his focus remained on the tall grass waving in the breeze. “We will have our victory tomorrow, Lone Wolf. This I know.”

  Lone Wolf laughed slightly, “Then what causes you so much thought? It is as we hoped!”

  Maman-ti turned to his warrior friend, “But after tomorrow has drifted away, the ta-’ka-i will return with more of their kind.”

  “It has always been that way, Maman-ti. We have always fought greater numbers of our enemies. It is what makes us strong as a people.”

  “But with the soldiers will come the The ta-’ka-i can be reasoned with after battle, but the are a soulless people who carve up the land and kill for pleasure. These are people I fear.”

  “We will fight them until we are none,” Lone Wolf snarled.

  “Yes, we will, Lone Wolf,” Maman-ti turned toward his old friend, “But what of our people? What will happen to them after we are none? They cannot keep their souls when they are forced onto government lands. How will the Kiowa warriors survive without the hunt? Will Lone Wolf eat the horse meat the ta-’ka-i throws at your tipi?”

  “Drive these thoughts away, Maman-ti. The warriors trust your medicine. Do not give them doubt with your blessings tomorrow.”

  Maman-ti nodded, “A

  , Lone Wolf. My words will be as strong as the buffalo bull, and the Kiowa will see a great victory tomorrow. But remember, I am forced to see many tomorrows, and sometimes that dulls my vision of today.”

  The sun rolled onto the morning sky in a fiery show of yellow. Maman-ti led the war party across the upper ridge of the seven hills the owl puppet had showed him in his vision. The warriors moved through the mesquite and boulders without a flitter of grass or leaf.

  Across the prairie, a gleaming of sunlight reflected from the rifles and pistols of a large party of men riding out of the dry creek bed to the south.

  Maman-ti’s eyes darkened at sight of the group, and he showed his teeth. “It is the Rangers.” He looked at Lone Wolf, “Good. They have found our trail.” Maman-ti waved his hand and motioned for the warriors to spread out in a semi-circle around the rocks. He maneuvered the warriors so that half would be behind the hated Rangers. “Lone Wolf, you and I will go into the valley and s
how ourselves to the ”

  Lone Wolf smiled. His decision to follow Maman-ti was not made because he believed the medicine man’s claims of prophet, but instead because he knew Maman-ti to be the greatest battle planner of all the Kiowa. Each battle success made Lone Wolf a stronger chief within the Kiowa nation and a hated foe of the

  Maman-ti turned and spoke to two warriors, Mamadayte and Hunting Horse, “Wait until the Rangers give chase. When they reach the mid-point of the valley floor, bring half of the warriors down upon them. Leave the other half in the rocks to rain bullets onto the Rangers. Do as the Owl Prophet says, and we will have our promised victory.”

  Both warriors nodded their understanding. Mamadayte had ridden with Lone Wolf during the previous year when the chief’s son, Tauankia, and his nephew, Guitan, were killed by the ta-’ka-i Fourth Cavalry. He understood the fire of revenge that dwelled in Lone Wolf’s heart, and he was determined to make their raid today a success for his friend and chief. Mamadayte issued the Owl Prophet’s instructions in a series of hand signals to the hidden Kiowa warriors.

  Maj. John Jones, along with Capt. G. W. Stevens, and a group of twenty-seven young, shave tail Rangers of the Frontier Battalion trailed a set of unshod pony tracks. The major had pushed his men out the day before on word that Comanche were raiding in the area and had attacked a group of cowboys near Oliver Loving’s ranch.

  Earlier that morning, the Rangers had discovered a large set of pony and moccasin prints near a small pool of water fifteen miles to the south of Lost Valley.

  “Major,” Capt. Stevens called out. “I don’t think we’re following the same Indians who killed that cowboy out on the Loving spread.”

  “Why’s that, Captain?”

  “There are too many prints.” Capt. Stevens pointed to the ground, “This here is a big group, and they don’t appear to be worried about leaving sign.”

  Maj. Jones studied the tracks and rubbed his chin deliberately, “You might be right.” He glanced cautiously at a rock monument situated on a small hill to his right. He recognized the marker as a memorial that covered the remains of the Warren wagon train dead. A small shiver tingled along his spine as he realized his battalion rode on the same trail where the seven teamsters had been massacred and defiled by the Kiowa.