Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  “No harm intended, Tig,” Nathan tied a rawhide string around the bundle of dried beef. “Just wondering if you heard the news that Custer massacred a village of Cheyenne on the Washita. Killed old Black Kettle himself. The savages are on the warpath down here because of it. A man traveling alone needs to be extra careful.”

  Tig took the meat and stuffed the bundle into his saddle pack. “How much do I owe you, Nathan?”

  The trader held out the whiskey and flour, “Ten bits ought to do it.”

  Tig stared down at the trader and then reached for the flour, “Might high, aren’t we, Nathan?”

  “It’s the season’s end, Tig.” The trader shrugged his shoulders and then he looked toward the north, “The cold fronts will be moving in regular-like from here ’til spring.”

  Tig reached into his shirt and pulled out a few coins, “I thank you, Nathan.” He flipped the coins toward the trader and then reached for the whiskey, “I’ll carry this with me.”

  “Good luck to you, Tig.”

  Tig pulled himself up in the saddle and then looked down at the trader, “I trust you understand what I said about minding your own affairs.”

  Nathan looked up at Tig, “I think I understand plenty.”

  As the evening began its descent upon the land, Tig felt the chill of the late December air settle down his back. He spurred his horse up the modest hill that overlooked the trading post and anticipated the warmth of a scrub fire.

  He cleared the incline up the hill and looked toward the place where he had left Jordie and the girl. “Jordie,” he mumbled in anger. The small stand of scrub was dark. He couldn’t smell smoke from the scrub or see the flicker of a fire. “Jordie!” He screamed out, “You better be working on a fire!”

  Tig slapped the reins across the horse’s shoulders and galloped for the scrub. In the small stand of oak, he dismounted and surveyed the area. There was no sign of fire makings or of Jordie and the woman. But in the settling darkness, he could just make out two sets of prints heading back south. Realizing what had happened, he threw his head toward the purple sky, “I’ll be coming for you, Jordie! I’ll be coming!” His voice filled the dark expanse.

  Chapter 8

  Clear Fork Country, Texas December 1868

  Parks laid spurs to Horse’s flank and urged the mustang to a full gallop. Exhorting the animal down the main thoroughfare of The Flats, Parks pulled the reins sharply in front of the Jenkins House. With the abrupt stop, a swirl of dust swept over the pair and settled on the recently white-washed porch.

  Parks bounded out of the saddle and flipped Horse’s reins over the cedar hitching post. With a jump, he hurried up the steps to the hotel where he confronted Milt Jenkins in the doorway. Milt’s face creased with a look of trouble.

  “What is it, Milt?”

  “Parks, thank goodness you’re back.” Milt kept his head down and gazed intently at the boardwalk.

  Parks reached out and grabbed the hotel proprietor by the shoulders, “What’s going on, Milt?”

  “It’s Free,” Milt began, “Josh Simpson’s boy was out hunting rabbit near the Old Comanche Reservation this morning…”

  “Get to it, Milt. Tell me what’s happened?” Parks shook the man’s shoulders, “Tell me!”

  “The boy came back in a fuss, Parks. He said Free’s place was burnt to the ground, and no one was to be seen around the place.”

  Parks released his grip, stepped back and leaned against an oak column under the hotel entrance overhang. “The boy didn’t see anyone?”

  “A group of us was preparing to head out there, Parks, just as you rode up.”

  “Where’s the boy, Milt? I need to speak with him.”

  “Won’t do you much good. He’s scared as all get out. He did comment on a wood lean-to with scribe on it.”

  Parks looked up puzzled, “What did it say?”

  “That’s what we were going to find out. The Simpson boy can’t read a lick. We thought it might be a note from Free.”

  “I’m going out there, Milt. You stay put for now.” Parks rushed down to Horse. “I’ll find out what’s happened.”

  “Parks.”

  Parks jumped up in the stirrup and looked back, “What is it, Milt?”

  “This came from the fort while you was away,” Milt removed a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Lieutenant Swafford brought it for you.”

  Parks reached down and took the paper from the man’s outstretched hand. He opened the paper and read the note carefully.

  Sir,

  We have a need of fifty Indian ponies immediately. Please make way to Fort Riley with mustangs in quick haste.

  George A. Custer

  Lieutenant Colonel 7th Cavalry

  Parks crumpled up the paper and let it drop to the dirt street below. “Tell Lieutenant Swafford, I am engaged in other matters and will not be able to fulfill the lieutenant colonel’s request at this time.”

  Milt stared at the paper on the ground and without looking up said, “There’s one more thing, Parks…the Simpson boy also said there’s a fresh grave out at Free’s.”

  An hour later, Parks stood over the lean-to and read the message from Free. Torn as to his course, he knew the quickest way to the Guadalupes might be along the southern trail. With Horse’s endurance and speed, he could be there in two days. But riding south meant Free would be all alone until they met up in the Guadalupes. He read Free’s message once more and then he gazed out toward Martha’s grave. After several minutes, he lifted the reins back over Horse’s head, stepped up in the stirrup and turned the mustang west.

  Chapter 9

  The Comancheria, Texas December 1868

  Free rode west into the Comancheria, away from his burned out homestead. Images of his mother consumed his every thought. Her battered face, etched deep into his mind, brought forth a welling of tears and pain in his heart. The anguish was so great that he chose to close his eyes to the world around him and allowed Spirit to walk, trot or gallop as he pleased.

  As darkness enveloped the country, his body felt the effects of the saddle and the exhaustion brought on by the passing of his mother. Again and again, the unrelenting call to sleep forced his eyelids to sag, and with each closing, his chin dropped wearily to his chest where his eyes would pop open and startle him awake. After several hours of riding in this state, he surrendered to his body’s requirement, dropped his reins, and slid off the saddle to the prairie grass below.

  The December morning chill shivered Free awake. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake the unsettling images he had dreamed from his foggy mind. Relieved to be awake, he viewed Spirit grazing nearby and suddenly realized he lay on the hard ground of the Comancheria. Jerking upright, the previous day’s events rushed back in a flood. This was no dream. Now purged of tears, he stood unbound to his grief.

  He was unsure of the distance he had traveled into the Comanche land since sorrow had been his only guide. He stared out at the vast open prairie, committed to a singular purpose, the safe return of Clara.

  As he rose from the damp ground and dusted his pants, he heard a high-pitched warning from Spirit. Agitated, the roused horse motioned his head up and down and mouthed his bit. Free swiveled his head to the northwest in an attempt to locate the source of the mustang’s anxiety. He watched a rider approach at a torrid pace over the horizon.

  Free grabbed for his Colt and then reached for Spirit’s reins.

  “Whoa, Spirit,” he spoke to the mustang, “Let’s see what this is about.”

  Fifty yards out, Free heard the rider call, “Comanch! The savages are on the raid!”

  Taking heed of the rider’s cry, Free topped Spirit just as the approaching horse reined to a stop. Face to face, he saw that the rider was only a boy, probably not more than ten years of age. “What is it, son?”

  “Comanch, sir! They’re raiding our house back down the Salt Creek! My pa sent me to warn the other families in the settlement line
! You best make your way to safety, sir!”

  “Who’s with your pa?” Free looked back to the northwest.

  “Just my ma and two sisters.” The boy looked to the south, “I’ve got to ride, sir.”

  “Get about it then, son, and good luck.” Looking west, Free’s thoughts dwelled on Clara and of his commission. After a moment’s reflection, he turned Spirit northward and yelled to the departing boy, “I’ll be going to help your pa now, son.”

  Free followed the boy’s tracks to the Salt Creek until he heard the clamor of gunfire. He spurred Spirit forward and covered the remaining ground to the siege in little time. From a point fifty yards from the battle, Free pulled reins and stopped Spirit so he could survey the proceedings. A chaotic scene lay in front of him. He saw settlers inside a small frame house encircled by a line of oak pickets. He then heard the distinct roar of two rifles. By the report, it appeared the forted-up settlers fired repeaters.

  The Comanche lay entrenched along the west bank of the creek, only two hundred feet or so from the house. Free watched several braves crawl forward each time the settlers reloaded. He figured the Comanche were trying to get close enough to set the house on fire and force the settlers to take the fight outside.

  He turned Spirit back east and began a fast ride toward the fortified house. He reckoned it made more sense to enter the pickets on the far side of the Indian positions.

  After a quarter mile ride east, he turned Spirit to the west and spurred the mustang hard for the backside of the pickets. Upon reaching the house, he began yelling to the settlers inside, “I’m here to help! Don’t shoot!”

  A voice from inside hollered, “You best get inside, sir, or be killed by the savages!”

  Hidden from the Comanche’s view by the house, Free called back to the settlers, “I met your boy on the prairie! I’m here to help, so hold your fire while I make a run on the Indian position!”

  “That sounds foolhardy, sir! Please come inside where we might hold the savages at bay!”

  “They aim to burn you out! Just let me have a chance!”

  “It’s your skin! Have at it!” the voice from the house called back.

  Free dismounted and pulled the skinning knife from his boot. He made a long slash along his palm and then watched as blood oozed from the cut filling his hand in crimson. He moved to Spirit’s rear and pressed his bloodied hand against the mustang’s hide. Then he repeated the process on the animal’s opposite flank. His task completed, he jumped up in the saddle and maneuvered Spirit to the north. He stopped one hundred yards up the creek from the Comanche position and held his gaze on the fighting below him.

  “OK, Spirit, if you’ve ever run, now is the time.” He dropped his hat to the ground, slapped the reins and took spurs to the mustang’s flank. Spirit pushed his head into the wind and began a dead sprint down the bank of the creek, running through hanging grapevine and cottonwood branches. Midway to the Comanche attackers, the mustang hit full speed and with powerful strides blazed a path through the landscape. Free felt the mustang’s power and whipped the reins hard across the pony’s shoulders urging him by the Comanche under a hail of arrows. As he blared by he yipped, “Maruaweeka!” in a booming voice. Free felt certain the bloodied handprint on the mustang’s flank and his bare head caught the attention of the Comanche.

  From the creek bed came the astonished cries of, “Cuhtz baví!” As Kiowa allies, the Comanche knew of the Buffalo brother.

  Free heard the shouts and turned Spirit around. He pushed the excited pony back north screaming louder, “Maruaweeka!” a greeting of hello.

  The returned shouts of, “Cuhtz baví!” once again carried the whole of the creek. The Comanche emerged from their hiding yipping and shaking their bows in the air.

  Free counted fifteen braves in paint all standing on the banks of the Salt Creek. In a flash, he turned the mustang and rode toward the warriors. The Indians rushed him with a great clamor and encircled Spirit. Each of the warriors took great pride in touching the bone pipe hanging from the mustang’s ear and patting the horse’s flank.

  Free looked down at the band and struck his chest, “Buffalo brother.” He called out.

  “Cuhtz baví!” The braves echoed.

  Free dismounted Spirit and looked at the Comanche around him. The warriors were slender, and all wore a weave of feathers in their hair. “Do any of The People speak English?” he asked.

  One warrior stepped forward and spoke.

  “Haa!”

  Free knew a few Comanche words and understood the speaker to say yes.

  “What band?”

  “Kotsoteka.” The brave answered, “You are the buffalo man?”

  “Haa,” Free replied. “And this place is sacred to the buffalo.” Free knew the Kotsoteka were one of several bands of Comanche who ranged out of Indian Territory, following the buffalo and calling themselves The People. “If The People fight on this land, the buffalo will go away.”

  The warrior chief seemed deep in thought at the pronouncement. After several minutes he announced, “I am Mow-way.”

  Free moved toward the picket gate of the settlers’ home with the Comanche following close. When he reached the gate, he made a fist several times causing the blood to flow once more in his palm. He looked to Mow-way and then pressed his bloodied palm onto the picket gate. “The buffalo man asks the great warrior, Mow-way, to leave this place in peace from this time forward.”

  The chief stared at the bloodied imprint and then nodded his head. “As long as the buffalo are plentiful, the Kotsoteka will honor this place.”

  “Ura!” Free smiled.

  “Haa!” Mow-way answered with a loud whoop and then motioned to his braves. The band walked back to the creek and mounted their ponies. As they rode north, Free heard Mow-way shout back, “Noo nu puetsuku u punine cuhtz baví!”

  Free understood the chief’s message, I’ll see you again, buffalo brother.

  From the rifle cut-out of a shuttered window, Erath Good stared in wonderment at the scene outside. The black cowboy stood face to face with the Comanche chief in front of his picket gate. After several minutes, the cowboy pressed his hand to the front of the picket gate, and the chief nodded as if in agreement. There were a few more words, and then the Indians moved back toward the creek and their ponies.

  Satisfied as to the safety of his family, Erath opened the front door and spoke to the stranger outside. “I don’t know who you are, Mister, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen the Comanche talked out of a fight before.”

  “Just lucky, I reckon,” Free answered.

  “How is it you know the language?” Erath asked.

  “I’ve picked up a few words over time,” Free replied.

  Erath walked to the picket gate and stared at the bloody print set on the wood. “What’s this mean?”

  “It means that particular band of Comanche won’t be bothering you or your family again.”

  “Well, I’ll be hanged.” Erath looked carefully at the man before him. “My name is Erath Good.”

  “Free Anderson.” Free extended his hand. “I’d shake with you, but you might get a bit bloodied.”

  Erath grabbed Free’s hand and shook it with a sturdy grip. “I’d be honored if you’d come inside, Free Anderson. Least I can do is offer you food and drink.”

  “I appreciate the hospitality, Erath, but I have urgent affairs that need attending,” Free replied.

  Erath saw a pained look on Free’s face, “Please, at least come meet my wife and daughters.”

  Free looked at the settler and nodded yes. “I would be pleased to do so, Erath.”

  Free held a hot cup of coffee in both hands and inhaled the dark aroma. Erath Good sat across from him at a small cedar table. “This coffee is a joy to smell, Miss Rebecca.” Free looked up at Erath’s wife.

  “So tell me, Free,” Erath asked, “How is it those Comanch listened to you?”

  “It’s a long story, Erath, and I hate to be rude, but as
soon as I finish this coffee, I must be riding out.”

  “Free, I owe you my life and the lives of my wife and children. If you are heading out toward difficulty, I would be obligated to help.”

  “Erath, my wife has been kidnapped and my farm burned to the ground by a hard case who goes by Tig Hardy. I would not oblige you to follow into that kind of trouble.”

  “But with the Comanch gone and the promise not to bother our place again, I insist, Free.” Erath’s intentions were clear.

  “One thing you need know, Erath. The Comanche are not like the Kiowa. They travel inbands, uniting as they see fit for battle. The only thing I can promise you is that band, the Kotsoteka, will not bother you again. I can’t speak for any other bands roaming the Comancheria. So you best keep with your own and be watchful everyday. Don’t let yourself be caught in the open without a weapon and most of all, Erath, keep a keen eye on your girls. The Comanche can grab a child and be twenty miles away before you know they’ve gone missing.”

  The settler nodded and extended his hand. “I still have an obligation to repay you some day, Free.”

  Free shook the settler’s hand and stood, ready to depart. “The only thing I would ask Erath is that you welcome a friend who might ride your way. His name is Parks Scott. If he comes, I would ask you point him to my trail.”

  “That I will do, Free.”

  “Mr. Anderson,” Rebecca said, “At least carry some dried pork with you.” She held out a cloth wrapped with a large portion of meat. “This, I will insist.”

  Free nodded his head as show of thanks, “Much obliged, Miss Rebecca.

  Outside, mounted and ready to press forward, Free bade farewell to the Good family. He cast a long gaze at the two young girls who waved goodbye with overflowing enthusiasm. This was tough country for children to grow up in. He hoped the girls survived the next band of Comanche. Knowing he had done all he could for the Goods, he turned Spirit west and rode toward New Mexico packing an uneasy feeling of being trailed.