Ride The Desperate Trail

by Mike Kearby

  “I’ll protect you as best I can from here!” Parks hollered to the man below.

  “Any help is much appreciated!” the man called back. “I’m out of ammo, and I’m carrying an arrow in my leg!”

  Parks pulled cartridges from his belt and began a frantic reload as the Comanche hurried from the scrub cover to the wagon. Within seconds, a group of seven braves had crossed the landscape and pounced on the hapless man.

  Parks managed to load only three cartridges before needing to scatter the Indians off their victim. With military precision, he fired into the crowd of Indians, hitting two of the braves.

  He began to load anew. He watched as two of the Comanche unhooked the oxen and used the great beasts as cover to depart to the north. Two more of the group gathered their dead and followed the oxen. Parks shot three more times toward the fleeing band. With the Indians back in the scrub, he returned his gaze to the wagon. The man lay face down on the far side of the schooner. One of the Comanche, his face hidden by the sideboard, held a knee in the man’s back. In horror, Parks watched as the brave pulled the man’s head up and deftly made a quick slice with a long knife. The wagon owner’s screams filled the land as the brave pulled hard on the man’s scalp and removed it from his head. The Comanche leapt off the man’s back and began a rapid sprint for the safety of his band. The warrior shouted and screamed, shaking the bloody scalp as he ran.

  Parks drew a bead on the fleeing warrior and placed a well-aimed bullet to his back, sending the Indian head over heels to his death.

  Rising from his position, Parks jumped on Horse and spurred the mustang down the incline, firing the Winchester into the scrub as he rode.

  Horse sent a splay of water upward as he galloped through the river stream. Parks directed the mustang to the far side of the wagon and found the man attempting to sit up.

  “We need to make cover!” he yelled, “I’m not so sure this bunch is gone!”

  The man pulled himself up with one hand, the other hand pushed against his forehead to keep the skin from falling down around his face. “Whataya got in mind?”

  “Move around the wagon! I’m going to pull her over!” Parks looped his rope over one of the sideboard hooks and then positioned Horse on the opposite side of the Conestoga. “Watch out!” he called and then encouraged the mustang to back up toward the stream.

  The wagon flipped in a resounding crash. The angle of the creek bed caused the wooden transport to roll once, landing with its wheels skyward.

  “Grab cover!” Parks yelled to the man.

  With his back pressed hard against the wagon’s wheels, Parks began pushing cartridges into the Winchester. He knew it was vital to load a full magazine in the repeater. As he forced the shells into the gun, he looked over to the wounded man. “Name’s Parks Scott,” he offered.

  “Nathan Polk,” the man replied. “I’m a trader who’s set camp here for ten years and never once had savages attack. I always made sure to give the Comanche their beads and beef, and this is how that crazy Mow-way pays a man back. I ’spect it has to do with those two dead Comancheros over there.”

  Parks threw a glance to the two dead bodies. “As soon as I know those Comanche are gone, I’ll tend to your leg.” He glanced back over his shoulder into the scrub, “They might not be so quick to leave since the brave who lifted your scalp lies dead just beyond us.”

  Polk, held his forehead skin up with his left hand and stared at the dead Comanche brave. “I aim to retrieve my top-notch,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t carry a rifle?” Parks asked suspiciously.

  “It was stolen only yesterday.” Polk continued to look at his scalp fluttering in the breeze.

  “Stolen? You were robbed?”

  “That I was. A colored fellow bushwhacked me in this very spot.” Polk turned back and pointed toward the ruffians. “Same fella killed those two as well.”

  “What did this fellow look like?” Parks asked.

  “He was tall, muscular and mean as a mother coyote. He had a dog with him who took to my arm.” Polk held out his right arm, allowing the loose forehead skin to fall over his eyes.

  “This fellow have a name?”

  “None that he offered. But he rode a marked Indian pony.”

  “Marked you say?” Parks slid closer to the man.

  Polk pushed the loose skin against his forehead once more. “Yes sir, the beast was marked with an Indian pipe through the ear. That’s a spirit sign they say.”

  Parks pointed the Winchester at Polk. “That man is a friend of mine, Polk! And I’ll bet a day’s pay; the bushwhacking was the other way around!”

  “You’re wrong! That colored bushwhacked me I tell you!”

  “Where is he?” Parks demanded.

  “I don’t know! It ain’t my job to keep up with every low-life that hits the trail!”

  Parks shoved the rifle barrel in Polk’s chest. “Polk, I rode into a heap of Comanche today to save your sorry old hide, and all you owe me as debt is the truth. Now, I’m only going to ask you once more, where’s my friend?”

  Polk swallowed hard and gazed down at the Winchester. “All right!” he shouted. “Your friend is headed for the Sand Hills. He said he was looking for Tig Hardy.”

  “You know Hardy?” Parks asked.

  “I know enough to stay out of his affairs.”

  “How long ago did my friend leave?”

  “Yesterday in the afternoon, and that’s all I know.”

  “Was Hardy here before?” Parks asked.

  “Yeah, he rode in two days earlier than your friend.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “I’ll tell you like I told your friend; Tig Hardy rode into this camp alone.”

  “He didn’t have a woman with him?”

  “He was alone. He rode in alone, and he rode out alone. I don’t know anything about a woman.”

  Parks was baffled. Where was Clara? Parks’ first order of business was to get to Free. From his war days, he knew a man going into a fight with anger set in his mind made mistakes. He needed to be there when Free confronted Hardy. He looked back toward the scrub, “I aim to treat your leg and bandage your head, Polk. After that you’re on your own.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anymore.” Polk spoke through his teeth. “But I would be obliged to some of your Colt cartridges.”

  Parks threw a hard look at Polk. “I think I’ll be keeping all my cartridges, Polk. If you need ammo, you can take it off those two over there.” He nodded his head toward the two ruffians.

  The landscape quieted by late afternoon. Parks reckoned the Comanche were satisfied with the oxen as reward and decided to depart the area. As he scanned the scrub once more for any movement an ironic smile came to his face. Somewhere out on the plain, the body of the brave who scalped Polk was missing along with Polk’s scalp.

  “Appears your top notch has gone missing, Polk.” Parks motioned to the ground outside the wagon.

  “What?” Polk scanned the prairie. “How the—”

  “You best be careful out here alone; those braves could sneak up on a man in his sleep and cut his throat.”

  Polk swallowed hard. “But look at my wagon, it’s all busted up from you turning it over and my oxen are gone! How the blazes am I supposed to get out of here?”

  “I figure you’ll be riding shank’s mare back to civilization, Polk. And that’s probably better than you deserve.”

  “How’d you arrive to that notion?” Polk replied with agitation in his voice.

  “Because you’re still holding air in your lungs.” Parks mounted Horse and started toward the river stream. He was at least a day back of Free; the only way he could make up the time was to race the mustang all night. He reached down and patted the horse’s neck. “It is time to run, Horse,” he said.

  In perfect understanding, Horse snickered, kicked his hind legs, and galloped up the plateau, south toward the Sand Hills.

  Chapter 16

 
; Near Lost Creek, Texas December 1868

  Amyriad of stars flickered in the moonless December sky. Free lay on his back in the shadow of a dying fire and watched as an occasional shooting star blazed across the heavens. The approaching nightfall waylaid the prospect of journeying any further. It was just too dangerous.

  With barely enough daylight left to set up camp, Free stopped outside the Sand Hills near Lost Creek. Fatigued, he unsaddled Spirit and gave the mustang a good rub, then built a small fire in the wallow of a wild hog. Right before nightfall, he had the good fortune to kill a jackrabbit in the scrub. He skinned the long-eared beast and roasted it on a stick over the fire. When the rabbit was fully cooked, he ate his fill, grateful for the fresh meat and protein.

  The Kiowa dog anxiously paced back and forth twenty yards to his north. After leaving Agua de Mesteño, the dog had kept a safe distance and followed Spirit to the present campsite. Watching as the rabbit cooked, he fidgeted, first standing and then sitting, salivating for a share of the rabbit bounty. When a fair portion of one hindquarter came his way, he caught the meat in mid-air and swallowed the morsel in one bite.

  Afterward, with his stomach filled, he remained vigilant to the West Texas night’s orchestra. Listening to the music of the coyote and screech owl, he instinctively joined in the harmony with his own howls and yips. Only after Free lay on his back did the dog take to the ground, placing his head between outstretched paws and keeping a watchful eye on the trail leading north.

  Free had used the day’s saddle time to rethink his plan of action. In retrospect, he felt sure Clara was alive and with Hardy. If the outlaw meant to kill her, he would not have left the message about the Guadalupes. Free had encountered the Tig Hardys of the world before, and he found these men incapable of valuing life. They killed at the slightest provocation, and the killings were always justified in their own distorted way of thinking. No, Tig would keep Clara alive, of this Free was now sure. He wants her to watch me die first, he thought.

  Most likely, Hardy had left her tied up when he visited the trader’s camp. That had to be the reason why Polk was adamant that Tig rode in alone, he concluded. His gaze caught another flaming streak light the sky. The split second flare brought back a rush of memories. He remembered sitting on the cold Missouri ground outside the slave quarters where he and his Mother would watch shooting stars race across the winter sky. Those are lucky stars, son. Her voice came alive in his head. Make a wish before they burn out and that wish will come true someday.

  He gazed intently into the sky and waited. And when another star blazed through the heavens, he quickly offered his wish. A wish for Clara and their child and a safe reunion. With the wish completed he slumped, his eyelids were heavy and he desperately needed sleep. But no matter his tiredness, the thought of Clara with child and alone in the desert would make sure that what rest he did get would be fitful.

  An hour before dawn, in the gray time between darkness and light, the low growl of the dog roused Free from a restless night. He lay still and listened to the surrounding prairie; a strange silence had spread over the land. Although all seemed quiet and calm, something had the dog riled. Free reached behind his head and pulled the Henry from its scabbard. He rose from his bedroll and levered the rifle in one continuous movement.

  The dog rose with him and began a warning growl toward the charcoal prairie to the north. In between the increasingly deeper barks, the dog held his nose high into the morning’s approaching dawn, agitated by someone or something beyond the fringe of the camp. Free reckoned this was more than just a skunk or armadillo scavenging for insects. The dog’s racket foretold trouble.

  He moved to Spirit while keeping his vision on the northern skyline. He reached down and pulled hard on an oak peg that kept the mustang staked during the previous evening. “Easy, Spirit,” he whispered.

  The mustang eyed the dog and mimicked the animal’s aggression, snickering and bouncing his head up and down. Free grasped Spirit’s bridle and turned the mustang’s head toward the west. He let the animal’s body act as a shield between him and the coming danger. In total concentration, he laid the Henry gently across the mustang, using the horse’s ample back as a gun rest. He stared down the rifle’s sight and watched as the grayness gradually turned to daylight.

  As if on command, the Kiowa dog broke north sprinting at full speed toward the still unseen intruder. Far beyond Free’s sight, but within hearing range, the dog ratcheted up his aggression with a warning that told the trespasser to stay away. Free visualized the dog circling the interloper, showing his teeth, ready to defend his territory.

  Looking beyond the pale, Free saw the outline of a figure, dark against the northern sky. He closed his left eye and focused down the sight, letting his finger linger near the trigger.

  “Is this your dog, Sergeant?” A familiar voice hollered over the incessant yapping. “He’s full of vinegar, that’s for sure.”

  Free smiled, relieved at his friend’s voice. “He’ll eat you alive, Parks.”

  Now in plain view atop Horse, Parks walked the mustang in a meandering gait toward the camp.

  “Com’on, dog!” Free slapped at his thigh, “Com’on, boy! It’s OK!” He looked at Parks and said, “You’re a welcome sight.”

  Parks pulled reins on Horse several feet from Free. “I feel like I’ve tasted most of the land between here and The Flats.”

  Free walked toward Horse and rubbed the animals jaw. “I knew you’d come, no matter what.” He looked up at Parks.

  Parks dismounted and used his hat to dust his pants. “I’m sorry about your mother, Free. She was a good woman and I loved her as family.”

  Free swallowed hard and a tear dotted his eye. “Thanks, Parks.”

  Parks set his hat back on his head. “And I feel as bad as a man possibly could. I have a sense that much of the blame is my fault for riding us down to Fort Concho…maybe none of this would have happened if I hadn’t shot that cowboy…”

  “I won’t hear any of that, Parks. There’s only one man who is due blame in this matter and he’s somewhere out there in the desert among those dunes.” Free searched the vast sea of sand in front of them and tried to discern any movement.

  Parks stared out at the now brightly lit morning sand with a determined look. “I can’t say what I’d do in your boots, but I can tell you this, I’m here to help with whatever it is you’ve decided.”

  Free pointed into the endless white of the Sand Hills, “They’re out there somewhere, Parks. My Clara and Hardy. And Parks, Clara’s with child.”

  “Clara’s pregnant?” Parks turned, stunned by what he heard.

  “That’s what my mother told me right before she died.”

  Parks walked over to Free and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He wants us first, Free, and he needs her alive to bait us to him.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Either way, Tig Hardy owes me a debt.” Free stared at Parks with blank eyes. “A debt that can only be paid one way.”

  Free’s words caused Parks to shiver, sending a chill the length of his backbone. He knew there was nothing more he could possibly say to his friend. His mind was set, and no matter Hardy’s crimes, in Texas the law did not recognize an ex-slave’s right to justice. Free was prepared to ride a desperate trail, even knowing there would be hard retribution to follow.

  Free turned away from the Sand Hills and walked toward the campfire. “I know you’ve ridden through the night, Parks. You best grab some shuteye. When you’re rested, we’ll move through the desert and up into the Guadalupes.”

  Chapter 17

  The Apache Seep, Texas December 1868

  Clara hurried back into the scrub. She knew it was urgent to get McCaslin on his feet and out of the seep. Letting the horse go was a risky move and she prayed her action had not cost the both of them their lives. But deep inside, she knew the chance of outrunning Tig and Jordie on one horse was a fool’s folly.

  “Mr. McCaslin.” She pushed ge
ntly on the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Mr. McCaslin, you need to wake up!”

  “Huh?” McCaslin, startled, tried to rise, but a stabbing pain along his spine forced him back to the ground. His emaciated figure, shirtless and welted by the ordeal made him seem helpless and small. “What is it?” He looked wide-eyed at Clara.

  “We need to move. You must get up. We need to ross over the dune behind us.”

  “Is someone here?”

  “Not yet. But just minutes ago I heard a gunshot.” She placed her hand on the man’s forehead to check for fever. “The men following me may be close. We need to move now!”

  “Help me up!” McCaslin placed both hands behind himself and pushed against the sand.

  Clara grabbed McCaslin’s forearm and helped pull the man to his feet. “Good, now let’s hurry.” Reaching down, she grabbed the Winchester with her right hand while supporting McCaslin with her left. “Through here,” She pressed her back against the dense brush of the scrub oaks, creating an opening so the wounded man could squeeze through. “We need to get on the other side of that dune.” She pointed to a massive sand hill fifty feet or higher thirty feet in front of them.

  McCaslin exhaled a low whistle as he stared at the formidable mound of sand. “This may take me awhile,” he mumbled.

  “We don’t have that kind of time!” Clara said urgently, “We need to go quickly!”

  The morning sun reflected waves of light off the mountainous sand dunes in the sand hills. The resulting whiteness spread evenly across the desert and blinded any unfortunate human left to wander in the desolation.

  “Blazes!” McCaslin huffed. “I can’t see that we’ve made much progress, Clara.”

  “Just keep trying, please!” She held McCaslin’s upper arm with her right hand. Her left hand used the Winchester as support in the constantly sliding sand.