by Mike Kearby
“Oh no! No!” She watched the flames soar skyward, burning through the newly constructed corral, “Mother Anderson! Fire! The corral’s on fire!” She sprang from the bed, threw on her work clothes and hurried to the kitchen door.
Outside, the heat of the blaze kept her well away from the now fully engulfed structure. From behind, she felt arms surround her. Weeping, she cried, “The horses, Mother! What about the horses?”
“Make no mistake, Miss. I ain’t your mother.”
Clara felt the hands tighten on her shoulder. Using all her strength, she turned and stared into the face of a huge man, his fire-lit face was that of the devil. “Who are you?” she stammered.
Grasping her with one hand, the man removed his hat, “The name’s Tig Hardy.”
Clara watched the man replace his hat and then looked on helplessly as a massive fist came her way.
Clara felt a sticky wetness on her lips. She tried to move her tongue, but it seemed stuck on the inside of her cheek. A rough grit scratched her jaw, and for some reason, the world seemed sideways. Focusing toward the illuminated prairie, she could see the Indian dog facing her. Strange, she thought, it’s as if the lance is sticking out of his side. She pushed her chin down against her chest and saw the last of the flames burning out in the corral. Thank God, the fire’s out. Then she was lifted up.
“You might want to watch this, Ma’m.”
In shock, Clara turned toward another face, “Who are you?” she asked.
“Name’s Jordie.” The man removed an unused safety match from his mouth. “Here’s something to remember me by.” He poked the match into her shirt pocket.
“But what are you—.”
“Shhh. Now just watch, there.” The man shook her toward the corner of the house.
Clara tried to focus on the spot. Blinking her eyes to clear her vision, she saw Martha lying on her back, the bigger man straddling her.
“Now, Miss,” the big man spoke to her, “where is your man?”
“What?” Clara tried to make sense of the goings on.
“Wrong answer.”
Clara watched as the man brought his huge fist down on Martha’s face.
“Noooo!” Clara screamed, struggling against the man holding her, “Leave her be! Leave her be!”
“I’ll ask again. Where’s your man?”
“Don’t you tell this man anything!” Martha shrieked.
“Why are you doing this?” Clara screamed.
“Wrong again.” The man delivered another heavy blow to Martha’s cheekbone. A wide circle of red welted up on her face, visible even in the night’s darkness; a river of blood flowed from her left nostril. “We can do this all night, Miss, but to tell you the truth, I don’t think the old lady is gonna hold on for very long.”
Clara struggled, trying to tear free from her captor. “Hold on! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Just don’t hurt her anymore!” The thought of giving away Free’s location pained her heart, but she knew Martha could not suffer through another battering from the hulk atop her.
“Now that’s better.” The big man grinned. His countenance showed a terrifying evil. “Where is he?”
“He’s at Fort Concho.” Clara felt her shoulders dip as she cried from both anguish and pain. The big man stood, leaving Martha writhing on the ground.
“That’s too bad,” he said and walked toward Clara, “He’s a far piece from here.” Tig stopped in front of her and took a moment to think. “I’ll take her Jordie,” he grabbed for Clara, “You burn the house to the ground.”
The three-room house caught quickly. Tied to a horse, Clara could only stare down at Martha. Was she dreaming? From out of the veil of fog and tears she heard the big man speak to Martha and knew this was no nightmare.
“Ma’m, you need to hang in there and don’t die too soon. I need you to give the colored and his cowboy friend a message. I need you to tell them Tig Hardy has his woman, and I’ll meet them out west in the Guadalupes. You hear? I need for you to be sure and tell them that.”
Suddenly, Clara felt her body jerk backwards as a loud whoop from Tig Hardy set her horse running. Then the blackness of the Comancheria surrounded her.
Chapter 6
Clear Fork Country, Texas December 1868
Although he knew the better, Free kept Spirit on the move all night. Running a horse across a moonless prairie was a foolish and downright dangerous folly. But he knew he would not have been able to sleep anyway, so he left camp and plied his time walking and leading Spirit over the darkened landscape. A per sis tent dread unnerved him. The image of Tig Hardy harming his family had clamped onto his thoughts like a Clear Fork snapping turtle.
As the first sign of light pushed through a generous sky of clouds, he mounted and took Spirit on a hard run along the upper bank of the Clear Fork. The slender native grasses separated with a whoosh as he rode by, spraying seed head along the ground. Usually alert to his surroundings, he kept a singular focus on home, not sure of what landmarks he passed along the way.
By noon, he saw the rising smoke from the bakery at Fort Griffin and knew he was only miles away from Clara. “Com’on Spirit,” he pleaded, and once more he implored the reins to hasten the mustang toward home.
Around the last bend of the Clear Fork, just before his stake, he pulled hard on Spirit’s reins and drew back in the saddle. He stared ahead in total disbelief at the smoldering remains of his house and corral. His home lay reduced to piles of charred rubble. The dull, overpowering smell of charcoal hung in the air and plowed its way through his nostrils. “My God!” he shouted, and then, “Clara!”
He frantically took spurs to Spirit and galloped across the plain. “Clara! Mother!” he screamed at the sky.
He rode through the farmyard in a spray of dust. Where the kitchen once stood, he saw a shape lying lifeless on the ground. “No! No! No!” he cried and jumped from the saddle before Spirit could stop. The sudden leap propelled him forward, causing him to stumble and fall several feet in front of the form that was his mother. “Mother!” His anguish and anger penetrated and hung in the dust filled air. “Who did this?” He knelt over his mother and looked at her mangled features. A huge swelling engulfed the entire left side of her face and caused her left eye to close. Her nose lay flattened against her right cheek, and an eerie rattle accompanied every breath. With great care, he lifted her head and held her in silence, his eyes closed in fear.
“Free?”
Free opened his eyes and looked down at his mother’s face. “Mother! It’s going to be OK.” His lips mouthed thank you God as tears filled his eyes, “It’s going to be OK, now.”
“Free.”
“Shhhhshh.” He whispered. “Don’t talk. It’s OK.”
“They took Clara.”
Free looked all around the property and realized Clara was nowhere to be seen. “Who, Mother?” he pleaded, “Who took her?”
“He said to tell you he was going to the Guadalupes.”
Free knew the answer, but he felt compelled to hear the name vocalized, “Who, Mother? Who was it?”
“He called himself Tig Hardy.”
Free constructed a lean-to shelter from a piece of charred roof and placed his mother underneath, laying her on Spirit’s saddle blanket. The wood reeked of smoke, but the structure offered protection from the afternoon sun. Using his bandana and water from his canteen, he gently cleaned her bloody face and then lowered her head back onto his bedroll. He stared at her once smooth features now disfigured by the bruises and swelling.
Staring west, he faced a dilemma that tore at his soul. Clara was kidnapped and taken to the far reaches of West Texas. His mother, badly hurt, could not survive the afternoon without a doctor’s help. Fear encased his heart. He was afraid to leave his mother’s side, and he was afraid to stay. This inner turmoil caused his belly to ache and his head to pound. Left with no good choices, he remained, wiping her head with his damp bandana and talking quiet-like to her.
; Later, with his mother sleeping, the disposition of the day turned to silence. The only lull in the strange calm was the quiet whisper of a soft wind blowing from the north. Carried within the air current came the low whimper of what sounded like a dog. Free raised his head and held his ear to the sound. The weak cry was pitiful and unnerving. He looked into the north wind and held sight of the Kiowa offerings several yards into the prairie. There in the grass he saw the Kiowa lance waving in the wind.
He hurried out to the sacred spot and saw the dog. The animal was pinned to the ground by the lance. Free stroked the animal’s head and spoke in a comforting voice. “Easy there, fella. I’m just going to see if we can get this spear out of you.” He felt the dog’s side and saw that the lance had pushed through the animal’s hide from the rib cage to the backbone, but it had not penetrated beyond the flesh. Reaching under the dog’s back, he held the lance above its imbedded point and snapped the wooden shaft. With the lance tip removed, he pulled the shaft from the dog’s side. “How’s that?” he asked. The dog turned his head toward the wounds and began licking the punctures with long sweeps of his tongue.
Free issued a low whistle causing Spirit to perk up his ears. “Com’on Spirit,” he called. “We need some water over here.” The mustang nodded his head and snorted, and then moved toward Free.
Free removed his canteen and knelt beside the dog. He poured water into an open palm held at the dog’s mouth. The animal lapped at the water with a wolfish thirst. When the dog had his fill, he continued to lick Free’s hand. Free stood and turned back to Spirit. He removed a small piece of dried beef from his saddle-pack and offered it to the dog.
The dog smelled the meat and tried to rise but could achieve only a half-sitting position. “You rest,” Free said as he fed the beef to the dog. “You can get up later.”
Seeing he had done all he could for the animal, he moved back to his sleeping mother’s side and sat beside her. Once seated, a rush of images of Clara overwhelmed his mind and created a melancholy that tore at his soul.
Later, the anger came. Anger at his helplessness. Anger at his mother’s condition. Anger at Clara’s kidnapping and, most of all, anger that he now owed Tig Hardy a debt of blood and revenge.
“Free?”
At the sound of his name, Free’s eyes popped open. He turned to his mother. He noticed her eyes gazed upward on the lean-to.
“Free, where’s the sky?” she asked.
Free struggled to rise, aware he had finally given in to his need for sleep. Gaining his balance, he tried to make sense of her question. “What is it, Mother?”
“Free, I want to see the sky.”
He gently brushed the top of her head and took a measure of her eyes. Both pupils appeared light and glazed. “Sure, Mother.” He pushed the lean-to away, exposing an endless blue. “There you go. It’s a beautiful sky today.”
“Free? Where is it? I can’t seem to find it.”
Free felt a wave of tears engulf his vision. He lifted her head and held her tight against his chest. “It’s right there, Mother.” He gazed skyward, “It’s all blue today. It’s as fine a day as we’ve had in awhile.”
“Free.”
He leaned in close, trying to comprehend her nearly inaudible words, “Yes, Mother?” He watched as one faint tear balled up in the corner of her swollen eye. Garnering all his strength, he tried hard to keep from choking on his emotion.
“Free, Clara’s with child.”
“What…?” He pulled her tight into his chest.
“Clara’s going to have a baby?”
“A baby, Free…A grandbaby.” Martha stared blankly at the sky and released a small gasp of breath.
Free lifted his mother against his chest and slowly rocked her back and forth. It was the same way she would rock him as a child when he was frightened or worried. He remembered her touch, strong but soft, and he recalled her soothing voice when she would sing the slave lullaby, “I Live in the Other World.”
He began to hum the song to his mother in a crackled whisper. After a short time, he looked down on her face, the lines of time though etched deeply, provided her with striking beauty. Through his tears he saw a peaceful gaze settled over her. He looked away, unable to watch her eyes roll upward toward the heavens.
“No!” He cried aloud. “Mother! You can’t leave me now! Not now!”
Below the charred ruins of his house and near the river, Free laid his Mother to rest among a stand of pecan and black walnut trees. He wrapped her in his bedroll and mounded the grave with river rock to keep her safe.
He recited the Twenty-Third Psalm, then walked back to the burned out house and carved a message onto the charred lean-to with his knife.
Parks
Mother is killed and Clara is taken to the Guadalupes
I am riding there to find her
Free
December 20.
Chapter 7
Agua de Mesteño, Texas December 1868
After riding all night and most of the morning, Tig surveyed a junction of small tributaries belonging to the Colorado. The broken land, interspersed with thickets of scrub and prickly pear, held a stream of water forty feet across and not much deeper than a man’s ankle. The Spanish called this place Agua de Mesteño. Below him, the trading tent of Nathan Polk remained open for business even though the season grew late. Tig knew this was the last chance for whiskey and jerked beef before completing the crossing into New Mexico and then down to the now deserted old Pinery Way Station.
He glanced back at Jordie and the woman who were stopped several yards behind. It would be foolish to ride into Polk’s with the woman. Holding a female captive, no matter her color, didn’t sit well with most men who rode the trail, and he sure didn’t need that reputation following him through West Texas. His dilemma was he couldn’t trust Jordie to ride into Polk’s, and he couldn’t trust him to stay with the woman. I probably should have shot him the day he rode into the Guadalupes, he thought.
“Jordie!” he called out.
“Yeah, Tig!”
“I’m going to ride down to Polk’s. You stay here with the woman and set up a camp. You tie her up and watch her close. I should be back before dark.”
“I’ll watch her, Tig. Just like you say,” Jordie called out.
“And, Jordie, you keep awake until I get back!”
The trading tent of Nathan Polk was no more than a lean-to covered in deer hide. In front of the structure, Nathan Polk relaxed on a large, square rock and whittled on a piece of river wood.
Tig rode into the camp and looked about with a caution.
“Welcome, Tig,” Nathan said without looking up, “word up the trail has you behind bars in the Fort Concho stockade.”
Tig looked at the trader, and snarled, “Appears not, Polk. Appears I’m here.”
“So you be.” Nathan smiled. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m in need of some goods, but first I need a pull of Lone Jack.”
“I think I can help,” The trader pointed to another rock close by. “Tie up your horse, and sit a’spell.”
Clara, free of the saddle, but still bound at the wrists, sat on the cold, rocky ground. Jordie knelt at her feet tying her ankles together.
“This oughta keep you from running,” he smiled, and patted her secured feet.
Clara looked around her surroundings. She was exhausted from the ride through the night and most of the day, but with Tig gone, she knew this might be her only opportunity for escape. “You know he’s going to kill you, Jordie,” she stated matter of factly.
Jordie, now gathering twigs and scrub to start a fire, stopped and looked over. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Tig needs my help.”
“Think about it, Jordie, as soon as you point out my husband and Parks, Tig’s going to kill you too.”
Jordie looked back to his fire kindling, “I ain’t listening to you no more; you’re just trying to scare me.”
“You should be sc
ared, Jordie. You know Tig. Do you really think he’s going to let the cowboy who ran while his brother died just walk away? I hope you’re smarter than that, Jordie.”
Jordie stopped and gazed in the direction of the trading tent. He pursed his lips and wrinkled his forehead.
“Your only chance is to run, Jordie. You better run now while Tig’s down at the traders.”
Jordie looked over to Clara. “He’d hunt me down.”
“He’s going to do that anyway. You need to run while you have time to put some distance between you and him.”
Jordie glanced once more to the trader’s tent. “And what about you?” he asked.
“You best carry me with you, Jordie,” Clara spoke in a firm voice. “Otherwise, I’ll tell Tig of your plan.”
After several shots of whiskey, Tig looked at the trader’s lot. In front of him on the riverbank lay two buffalo hides filled with a mixed bag of goods. To his right, the hide held an assortment of wampum, whiskey and brightly colored cloth for the Indian trade. Tig looked to his left and saw the whiskey, jerked meat and other dry goods for the whites.
“I’ll be needing two days worth of beef, a bag of flour and a bottle of your whiskey, Nathan.”
“I can furnish you with that.” The grizzled trader stood, stretched his back and moved toward the buffalo hide. “You heading far?”
“I always thought you were a man smart enough to mind his own affairs.” Tig threw a hard stare at the trader.