Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  Chapter Thirty

  Buffalo Wallow, Texas, September 1874

  Billy dove into the small depression shoulder first and rolled up so he faced the Kiowa horde with his rifle readied. “Com’on sergeant, no time to be lazy, show us your legs!” he called for Woodhall to join him in the wallow.

  The sergeant tried to ignore the pain from the bullet lodged below his ribs and pushed himself from the blackened earth. He planted the stock of his rifle against the crisp grass and wrapping both hands around the barrel, hobbled for the protection of the wallow under a hail of arrows and gunfire. After a lifetime of running, he crumpled into the foot-deep depression and dropped beside Dixon. Breathing with great labor, he looked over the depression and fixed an anxious stare on the Indians.

  “Wish a larger buffala would have rubbed here, Billy.”

  “Best start digging with your hands or knife, Sergeant. We need to raise a breastwork around us and quick. I’ll cover the others as they make their way over.”

  The sergeant nodded and pulled a long-bladed knife from his boot. Within seconds, he slashed at the loose sand and began piling it on the lip of the wallow.

  “Amos,” Billy shouted to his friend, “can you make it to me? There’s no telling when that bunch will ride down on us again!”

  “My knee is busted up pretty bad, Billy! There’s no way I can make it on my own! Get the others in!” Amos hollered in a pain-ridden voice.

  Billy slapped the ground above him and cursed, “Damnation!” He focused on Pvt. Rath who lay near the body of Pvt. Smith. “Rath!” he screamed. “Can you get to your feet, soldier?”

  “I’m carrying a fair-sized cartridge in my hip, sir!” The private yelled, “I think I best rest here awhile!”

  “What about Pvt. Smith?”

  “I reckon him to be deceased!”

  Billy rolled onto his back and stared at the sky, “Stay close to the ground, Rath,” he called out. “We’ll get you out of there soon.” He twisted to his left and watched in amazement as Pvt. Harrington slithered across the prairie as fast as any sidewinder traveled.

  The private reached the wallow in quick haste and flashed a wide grin as he dropped into the depression. “I didn’t figure to wait on your invite, Mr. Dixon,” he beamed.

  “Glad you made it, Private; now help the sergeant with the breastwork.” Billy glanced back at the Kiowa. “I think our friends out there are ready to make a run at us again.”

  By late afternoon, building clouds rose in the northern sky and signaled the possibility of an approaching storm. Billy ventured across the prairie several times and finally managed to help both Amos and Pvt. Harrington into the wallow. The men had repelled one attack after another from the Kiowa, but the civilian scout felt certain the Indians were wisely making them expend their precious ammunition with each probing charge.

  Billy noticed that each wounded man was slumped against their fortification, and their breathing labored. The sand basin turned a darkish brown, discolored with the blood that oozed from each man.

  “Sit up tall, gents.” Billy offered, “If those savages recognize our condition, they’ll try to overwhelm us all at once.”

  Amos looked up wearily and licked his dried lips, “I never thought I’d die in a buffalo wallow, Billy.”

  Billy looked at his shot-up friend and laughed hysterically, “Me, I never thought I’d be buried in one, Amos.”

  Amos managed to let a smile widened across his mouth and pushed his back straight against the wall of the depression. “I guess the time for feeling self pity is over. I don’t aim to let those Kiowa take my scalp today.”

  Billy slapped his thigh at the resurgence in Amos’s voice, “That’s the spirit! Let’s take a few more ponies from under those boys!”

  “It will be very few, Billy,” Amos replied. “I’m down to three cartridges. How about you?”

  “Pretty near the same.” Billy looked out to where the dead private lay. “One of us needs to get Pvt. Smith’s rifle and ammo.”

  White Horse was atop his pony several hundred yards from the wallow when the rain stormed rushed over the prairie. The early blue norther unleashed a fury of lightning and bitter cold rain that caused the Kiowa chief to wrap himself in a blanket and calculate with angry eyes if Lone Wolf and Maman-ti had been given enough time to cross the Washita with the women and children.

  He stared at the five soldiers sitting tall in the wallow and exhaled in exasperation. The prairie in front of him ran like a river, and the September rain continued to drop in blankets of gray. White Horse pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and considered one more charge on the soldiers. The ta-’ka-i must be weak from loss of blood. He urged his pony forward and glanced over the animal’s shoulder at the flooding ground. The water swirled a foot up on the horse’s leg. The rising water would slow their mustang’s speed and make them easy targets for the soldier’s guns.

  Near sundown, a blowing chill spread across the prairie and caused Indian and white alike to shiver in the frosty twilight. Angry for not finishing the six quickly, White Horse signaled for the warriors to disperse. In the ghostly evening and using incredible quickness, the Kiowa vanished from the prairie battlefield undetected.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Quitaque Valley, Texas, September 1874

  Free rode along the sandy bluffs of the North Pease River through the Quitaque Valley. Small streams and springs dotted the landscape, and the recent drought-breaking rains had transformed the entire area into a giant marsh. He and Parks maintained a day’s ride ahead of the Fourth Cavalry and hoped they could cut sign of the Kiowa or Comanche before Mackenzie’s Tonkawa scouts.

  Across the valley, the Red River demonstrated its awesome power as cliffs and craggy rock formations of red, brown and white thrust skyward. The canyons, cut by the massive forces of raging floodwaters over many eons, offered a terrifying decision for any military commander who contemplated battle on the canyon floor.

  Free stared at the formidable geography and studied the rugged slopes of sandstone spread before them. “That’s where I would go.”

  Parks looked over at Free. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s where I would hide in if the army were chasing me.”

  Eight hours later, the men rode upon the limestone cap above Mustang Canyon.

  “Whhheee www!” Parks whistled, “That’s some drop.”

  Free studied the nearly vertical sides of the canyon wall. “It must be five hundred feet straight down.”

  “Most men would break their necks before descending five feet.” Parks jumped off Horse and picked up a handful of pebbles. “It would be easier walking on a cliff of marbles.” He tossed the handful of stone back into the canyon.

  “But a perfect place for Indians,” Free shrugged.

  Parks remounted, clicked his tongue, and shook the reins gently, “All right, Horse. Let’s find us an Indian trail.” He urged the pony forward along the rock bluff.

  Free dismounted and wrapped the mustang’s reins around his hand. With careful steps, he walked along the outcropping, searching the rugged slopes of juniper and cedar for any kind of trail leading down to the floor of the canyon.

  After a mile of tedious searching, an eagle screeched overhead and circled gracefully before descending toward the opposite cliff wall. Free took his eyes off the path to admire the great bird when he lurched forward unexpectedly and found himself falling toward the hard rock surface. Instinctively, his hands flew out to break his fall, but the tightly wrapped rein pulled against his right hand and rolled him to the left. The Comanche mustang balked at the pressure and tried to back away. With his movement restricted, Free hurtled into the cap rock and banged the tip of his shoulder on the jagged limestone. “Owwwhh!” he screamed in pain.

  Parks turned in the saddle and saw Free lying on the ground. “Free!” he called out and quickly scanned the cliffs around them, “What happened?”

  Free rubbed his shoulder and made
a pained face, “I caught my heel in the limestone,” he winced.

  And then a soft moan drifted from below the canyon rim.

  Free froze and lifted slightly. His pain an afterthought, he pushed his left ear toward the ledge.

  “What was that?” Parks reached for his Colt. “Shhhhh.” Free pointed over the rim. He looked at Parks and held his index finger to his lips.

  “Uummmhhhhh.” The distressed groan sounded again.

  Free inched forward and gazed over the cap rock. From his stomach, a small path now became visible under the first branches of the junipers and the cascaded layers of rock. “Parks,” he turned in stunned realization, “I think I found our trail.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Mustang Canyon, Texas, September 1874

  Free unwound the reins from around his hand and unholstered his Colt. “Help me over this ledge.”

  He stared at the steep descent before him.

  “Uuuummmhhhhh.” The groaning cut through the junipers’ thick green vegetation.

  “Whataya figure?” Parks rose in his saddle and gazed over horse’s shoulder into the great canyon below.

  “I can’t say for sure.” Free gripped Park’s right hand and with great care slid over the canyon rim, kicking an avalanche of small pebbles downward on his descent. Four feet down, his boot touched a small foothold, and he released Park’s hand. He studied the uneven rock face that surrounded him and dropped to his seat. The jagged cliff wall dropped abruptly beneath him to the game trail below. He surveyed his surroundings and realized the only way to the reach the trail was to travel across fifteen feet of steep incline.

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered and pulled his boots in one quick motion toward his body. The action sent him sliding forward, and he quickly built momentum down the slope. Falling fast, he threw his left hand behind him and tried to brake his rapid freefall toward the narrow trail. Pebbles and broken pieces of juniper branches raked under his hand and caused his palm to burn. He pulled his hand from the ground and continued his uncontrollable slide directly into the trunk of a large juniper. With eyes wide and a racing heart, he kept his Colt drawn and ready to fire at any hint of trouble.

  Afloat on a sea of loose rock and dirt, Free grabbed for the trunk of the twisted evergreen and encircled the tree with both arms. He ducked his head slightly and peered under the wind-bent limbs to a small trail that crisscrossed the cliff and appeared to lead to the canyon floor. He released his grip on the tree’s trunk and slid the next few feet necessary to reach the path. He came to rest in a heap and rubbed his bloody left hand against his pant’s leg. “Whhooooo!” he exhaled loudly.

  As he dusted his clothing, the groaning reached a clear pitch and indicated the voice’s obvious distress.

  “Ohhhhhhhmmm.” The utterance seemed small and frightened.

  From above, Parks hollered, “Free! Are you OK?”

  Free turned his ear down the trail and listened intently, hoping to hear the groan once more.

  “Ooooouuuuhhhh.” A long moan resounded from further down the trail.

  Free searched frantically below him and then shouted to the cap rock, “Parks! Toss me a rope! I think there’s a hurt child down here!”

  A length of rope slid past the low-lying juniper branches and straight toward Free. Three loops secured a large rock that worked as an anchor to pull the rope past the vegetation.

  “I’ve got it!” Free hollered toward the rim.

  “ The other end is tied to my saddle.” Parks called down, “Just tug when you want me to pull you up.”

  Free loosened the rock weight and looped two turns of rope around his midsection. “Give me plenty of slack,” he called to Parks and then gathered his feet. He studied the task ahead and, with great care, started down the narrow trail. The path was wide enough for one man and ran from north to south zigzagging along the cliff every hundred feet.

  Free pressed one hand against the cliff face for balance and carefully began to traverse the incline’s switchbacks. The gravel path fell away with each step and carried him down the winding path. Fifty yards down the trail, he spotted a small patch of mountain thistle. Hidden behind the thorny bush, a young Comanche boy thrashed about the ground with a pained look on his face. The boy, dressed in loincloth and moccasins, rolled about in a panic and rubbed at his upper body. Bright red welts dotted his chest.

  Free approached with apprehension and knelt beside the suffering boy. “Haits,” he uttered the Comanche word for friend.

  “Oooo wwwhhhhhhh .” The boy continued to groan in pain . He tried to rise and unable to do so, kicked out in desperation at Free.

  Free grabbed the boy’s flailing legs and held them firmly against the ground. “Unha hakai nuusuka?” he asked in regards to the boy’s condition.

  “Wobi pinna unu!” The boy screamed out and pointed to his welts.

  “Haa!” Free called out in excited understanding and snatched a long bladed knife from his boot.

  The boy recoiled in fear at the knife and rolled to his stomach. He kicked at Free and tried to gain his feet in a desperate attempt to flee.

  Free kept a firm grip on the boy’s legs and flipped him to his back. With a great sense of urgency, he scrambled up the frightened youth’s legs and straddled the boy’s midsection. Steady and careful, he began to run the flat side of his knife against each growing welt. With each pass of the blade, the knife unloosed a number of venom-pumping stingers.

  The boy quieted as Free extracted a dozen or more bee glands. “Ura,” he offered his thanks, and exhausted, closed his eyes and lay still.

  After several minutes of work, Free took a careful survey of the boy’s chest and face. Not able to find a stinger, he flipped the boy to his stomach and inspected his back. “You’re clean,” he uttered with a sigh of relief. Worn-out, he slid off the boy and took a deep gulp of air.

  The Comanche boy looked at Free and smiled.

  Free dragged a shirtsleeve across his brow and swallowed dryly, wishing he had a canteen. He glanced back at the young Comanche and furrowed his brow in confusion. The boy’s eyes suddenly rolled back toward the sky and remained fixed. With a sudden fear, Free dropped to both knees and looked at the boy’s wide-eyed stare. The youth clutched at his chest and his breathing quickened. The speed of the boy’s distress panicked Free, and without an afterthought, he scooped the boy into his arms and tugged at the rope wrapped around his stomach.

  “Parks!” he screamed, “Pull us up!

  Pull us up!” The lasso tightened immediately and jerked him forward. Free leaned back in an effort to keep a taut pull against the rope and in an instant raced up the ledge and toward the cap rock with the unconscious boy pushed deep into his chest.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Mustang Canyon, Texas, September 1874

  Parks hoisted the Comanche boy to the cap rock and laid him on the limestone. He glanced at the red welts and tightened his jaw. “What’s he gotten into?”

  Free pulled himself hand over hand along Park’s rope and appeared from below the canyon ledge. As he rolled onto the cap rock, he nodded at the boy, “Bees. He must have gotten into a mess of them; and by the welts, it appears he made them plenty mad. I reckon the cliff wall didn’t offer him anywhere to run once they started stinging.”

  Parks looked at Free and placed his palm against the boy’s forehead. “Well, we best get him cooled down before he boils. He’s as hot as a pepper right now.”

  Free hurried for the Comanche horse and grabbed his canteen. He splashed cool water from the canteen onto his bandana and then charged back to the stricken boy. He placed the damp rag against the boy’s forehead and tried to soothe the fever. “What are we going to do, Parks?” he asked with uneasiness in his voice.

  Parks reached inside his shirt and removed the tobacco pouch hanging around his neck. He plucked a considerable plug from inside and pushed the chaw deep into his jaw. “We best get a tobacco poultice ready. It’s the only thing that’ll dr
aw the poison out.”

  Free nodded and grabbed for his pouch. Within minutes, both men were applying the chewed tobacco on the boy’s stings.

  Quickly, large dark brown blemishes covered the boy’s body. Free placed his own bedroll under the sleeping boy’s head and then sat back. “I guess all we can do now is wait.” He looked at the boy and stiffened his lip. “He’s young, Parks.”

  “Don’t let that youthful appearance fool you, Free.” Parks leaned back against his outstretched arms and rolled his neck from side to side. “I take him to be eight or nine years old. But he can already shoot an arrow with deadly aim and kill what he shoots at.”

  Free shook his head. “I know, but all I see right now is my own boy lying there.”

  Parks smiled. “We did the best we could with what we’ve got, Free. That boy is Comanche and comes with a built-in toughness that we could never have. If anyone can survive that many bee stings, it’ll be him.”

  Free nodded. “I hope so.”

  Parks pulled his arms back in front of him and rubbed his elbows, “We best get these horses rubbed and let them look for browse.”

  Free glanced once more at the sleeping boy and then rose from the limestone. “You know his camp must be close by,” he offered. “Maybe we should locate it and take him there.”

  Parks looked out over the canyon ledge and in a tired voice replied, “Most likely they already know we’re here.”

  Free searched the canyon around them and sighed heavily, “You figure they’ll come to call?”

  “Let’s just hope that boy pulls through OK.” Parks gestured at the boy and then pulled a woolen rag from his saddle pouch, “Otherwise you and me are going to have a time of it.”

  By late afternoon, the dried tobacco poultices tightened around each welt, and the boy’s breathing seemed steady and regular. Free touched his hand to the boy’s forehead and was relieved to find the fever had broken.