The Taylor County War

by Ford Fargo

  “With the supplies will be fine.”

  Appleford shifted his view back to Marcus. “That’s a mighty fine-looking rifle case, Mr. Sublette.”

  “I thought we might get in a little hunting while we were out.” Marcus saw at once Appleford intended to twist that all out of shape.

  “And you say this is a—” he glanced at his notes. “—‘working field trip’?”

  Marcus frowned at the insinuation in Appleford’s voice. He should have stated it differently. “Hunting for food, you understand.”

  “Of course. For food.” The newspaper man’s cynical grin grated. “And I take it you’ll still be earning your full salary while on this, er, ‘working field trip’?”

  Fortunately, at that moment Josephine Miller and Frank arrived, giving Marcus the opportunity to cut the interview short.

  “Ah, Mr. Miller. We were just waiting for you.” He smiled at Mrs. Miller. “Good of you to bring him.” Josephine Miller was an attractive widow woman, and he’d be lying to deny that she hadn’t caught his eye, but so far there had been no convenient or proper way to court her. That would come, he promised himself.

  She smiled back. Was that a glint of interest in her eyes, too? “I couldn’t let him get away for a week without seeing him off.”

  He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from her –or else he might have stood there all morning with a silly look on his face. “All right, gentlemen, climb aboard. Mr. Miller, just toss your kit in the back with the others.” He was anxious to be away. Mrs. Miller was distracting, and Mr. Appleford was an annoyance he could do without.

  Up on the front seat, he unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. Ben Tolliver came over. “Have a safe trip, Marc. Keep an eye out for Kiowas. They’ve settled down some now, but you never can tell with them. I gave you two good animals there, so go easy on their mouths.”

  “Will do on all counts, Ben.” Marcus sometimes felt that he shared a special bond with the liveryman. Ann Haselton had not just been a colleague, but a close friend –and to Tolliver she had been even more.

  Marcus turned the rig from the livery. Boys and parents waved goodbye until the mud wagon rounded the corner onto North Street. Half a mile beyond the Wolf Creek Bridge, Marcus took the Breedlove Ranch Road north toward the sprawling T-Bar-B spread.

  The boys were excited. Marcus smiled inwardly. This just might be what they needed to stimulate their academic interests. A week away from the schoolhouse, yet still under his instruction, could be the ticket. At the very least, he’d get a look at the dinosaur bones the surveyors had discovered. That excited him the most. He had attempted to identify the partial skull but had found no reference to it in any of his books. He tried not to get too excited over that. Like any new field of science, paleontology was exploding with new discoveries. What appeared in a book was often out of date before the book came off the printing press.

  “Think we’ll see any Kiowas?” Ethan Hartman, who sat in the seat beside him, asked. When Marcus looked over at him, he couldn’t tell if the boy was eager or worried.

  “I expect not. If we do we’ll ignore them and hope they do the same to us.”

  “What if they don’t?” Frank asked. He and Obie were in the back seat.

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “I guess if they don’t, we’ll see just how swift these two horses are.”

  Obie chuckled, but Frank wore a serious face. “I should’ve brought Gramp’s Sharps fifty.”

  “I dare say a Sharps fifty will set you on your bottom right quick, Mr. Miller.”

  “I shot it already and done okay.”

  Marcus smiled. Frank did carry a burden for other folks’ safety. An admirable trait. Perhaps the boy was destined to be a lawman.

  The boys went back to chatting about things other than Indians. After awhile they stopped talking. Ethan’s comment about Kiowas lingered on Marcus’s mind, and all that morning he kept an eye out for trouble. Happily, he saw no signs of the warriors who had raised so much Cain a few months earlier –on the very day Miss Sloane had been traveling to Wolf Creek.

  About two-thirty in the afternoon, Marcus turned off the Ranch road onto a dusty two-rut track and stopped to study the map. “We are close, gentlemen.”

  The boys climbed down to stretch their legs.

  “That bluff over there is our marker. Next we need to find a dry wash with a mulberry tree off on the right side of the road.”

  “I’ll go scout,” Obie volunteered and trotted up the wagon rut trace.

  Frank sighed. “I better go with him.”

  Ethan climbed back onto the wagon seat and asked to see the map.

  Marcus passed it over to him, “You can be the official navigator.” He got the rig moving again, calling, “Stay where I can see you.”

  Obie and Frank waved to signal that they heard him.

  Ethan said, “Mr. Breedlove’s getting too old to run this place by himself. Look.” He pointed at a string of barb wire that had fallen over. “Pa says he’s gonna have to hire himself a real crew one of these days, or some shyster upstart’s gonna take it away from him.”

  “Your father should watch his language in front of young ears.”

  Ethan gave a small grin.

  “Does this shyster upstart have a name?”

  Ethan straightened around on the seat and stared ahead, his voice unusually strained. “Wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Well, it was none of his business. He’d heard that Tobias Breedlove had come onto hard times, although he didn’t know the details. There’d been a falling out of some sort between him and his son, Ira, whom Tobias had hoped would take over the ranch. It was a shame, Mr. Breedlove being a town founder.

  “We found it, Mr. Sublette,” Frank called from ahead. He and Obie were standing a few hundred yards up the road waving their arms.

  Two minutes later Marcus drew to a halt at the wash, checked the map, eyed the old mulberry tree, and spied faint wagon wheel tracks in the dry gravel. “Good job, boys.”

  They climbed back on the wagon and Marcus turned into the wash. A quarter mile further he came upon the broken bank where the surveyor’s wagon had pulled up out of the wash. Wheel tracks led straight to an abandoned campsite complete where a blackened stone ring still hugged the gray ashes of an old fire. A small pile of wood had been conveniently left nearby.

  ***

  Setting up camp took the rest of the afternoon. Frank and Obie scouted up more firewood while Ethan dug the latrine pit behind some nearby boulders. As evening came on, Marcus built up a roaring fire to ensure a proper bed of coals to fry potatoes and onions, and the salted beef steaks he’d packed along.

  Afterward, they sat around the campfire in campaign chairs, waiting for it to burn down. Ethan had taken to worrying again about Indians, while an unconcerned Obie joked about hearing dinosaur footsteps back by the latrine. Frank smiled quietly to himself and said little, his eyes in endless motion, scanning the moonlit ridge lines. Marcus recalled nights just like this during the war, going through the same routine. Frank had natural survival instincts that would serve him well in the future, particularly if he became a lawman.

  Ethan shivered and pushed the palms of his hands toward the heat. “I gotta put on my jacket.”

  “Me, too,” Obie seconded.

  Marcus poked at the fire with a stick, spreading out the growing mountain of coals and eyeing the big Dutch oven that waited nearby. It wouldn’t be long now. Cooking wasn’t his long suit, but he’d gotten his fair share of practice while out on a mission, just him and one or two others, hunting the Georgia and Tennessee woods for Union artillery units.

  His thoughts drifted back. The memories were both painful and pleasantly nostalgic. He’d made good friends, but lost track of them after the war. Ethan’s voice broke the spell.

  “Mr. Sublette?”

  “Hum?” He looked up from the fire.

  Ethan and Obie were at the wagon, Ethan pointing at the scuffed leather
case Marcus had set upon the front bench. “What kinda rifle you got?”

  Had the boys been reading his thoughts just then? Marcus smiled. “Bring it here to the fire and I’ll show you.”

  Ethan hauled the long case over and Marcus laid it across his knees. “What kind do you think it is?”

  The boys shrugged and shook their heads.

  “It’s a very special rifle,” he went on. “Not one man in ten thousand this side of the Atlantic Ocean has ever seen one like it.”

  That grabbed their attention like no dinosaur bone ever would have. Their eyes were saucers and their breathing might as well have stopped altogether as he unsnapped the four latches and lifted back the lid. The boys leaned forward. The rifle lay in a fitted bed of red velvet, and in the firelight the long brass tube on its side gleamed like blood.

  “Geeminy,” Ethan whispered.

  “Is it a Hawkens?” Obie wondered.

  “Nothing so common,” Marcus said lifting the piece from the case. “This, gentlemen, is a Whitworth .451.”

  “Never heard of one,” Obie said.

  “Of course you haven’t. Only a few dozen ever made it over from England, aboard fast blockade runners.”

  “What’s that thing on the side, Mr. Sublette?” Frank asked.

  “That, Mr. Miller, is what blackens a gentleman’s right eye.”

  Frank smiled broadly. “That’s what you were talking about earlier!”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said. “It’s a Davidson four power telescopic sight.”

  “A spyglass?” Obie asked.

  “Quite similar. Here, have a look.” The boys took turns peering through the sight. As they did, he explained the fine cross lines, and how to place them upon a target. Next he showed them one of the paper cartridges, lined up like cigars in a separate compartment. “These use a special gun powder and bullet, all made in England.” He demonstrated how the rifle was loaded — all but the final fitting of the percussion cap. “There. Ready to go.”

  “How far will it shoot?” Frank asked.

  “In the hands of a sharpshooter it can put a bullet between a man’s eyes at a thousand yards.”

  “Nobody can shoot like that,” Ethan proclaimed.

  “Think not?” Marcus gave a short laugh. “Tell that to General Sedgwick, why don’t you. Tell you what, tomorrow when it’s light we’ll pace off a thousand yards and see if it’s possible.”

  Ethan gave him a puzzled look. “How come you’re not acting like a teacher now?”

  “In the schoolroom I wear my teacher’s hat, but out here, I put on my fun hat.”

  ***

  “Nine hundred ninety-eight. Nine hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.” Marcus stabbed his heel into the ground. The boys carried long sticks that they teepee’d on his mark. They fastened a head-size boulder on its apex, tying it all together with a piece of string.

  “General Sedgwick’s noggin.” Obie declared, standing back to admire their work.

  “Very good, gentleman. Back to camp.” Marcus turned and stopped abruptly. The mud wagon looked toy-like far down the long slope, but that wasn’t what caught his eye and tingled the hairs at the back of his neck.

  “Who are they?” Frank’s voice held a wary edge.

  “I don’t know.” Marcus squinted. Four or five riders stood about the wagon. One afoot and looking about. “We better go see.”

  The riders spotted them right away and dismounted in a casual manner, one checking a hoof, another walking as if to stretch his back.

  “That’s Mr. Billy Below,” Ethan said when they got closer. “He rides for us sometimes.”

  Marcus knew Billy, and now he recognized Jimmy Spotted Owl and Lanny Taggart. Lanny often drove a freight wagon for the Umberto Company. The fourth man he didn’t know.

  Billy grinned as they came up. “Hi, teacher. Mr. Breedlove said you and your boys would be out looking for bones.”

  They shook hands. “Hello Billy.” Marcus nodded to the others.

  Frank and Obie drifted over to the wagon and climbed up onto the tailgate. Ethan came right up and stuck out a hand. “Howdy, Billy.”

  “Ethe. Find any bones?”

  “Not yet. We’re gonna do some shootin’ first.”

  “Shooting?” Billy laughed and looked back at Marcus. “School was never this much fun when I was going.”

  “You must have attended the wrong school, Billy.”

  Billy laughed again. He was a good-natured wrangler who made friends easily. Something of a ladies’ man, too, Marcus had heard. Billy said, “Spied your fire last night. Figured we’d ride over and see some of those big bones we heard you was going to dig up.”

  Jimmy Spotted Owl said, “Looked like the whole north pasture was ablaze.”

  Lanny came around the side of his horse, slapping dust from his chaps. “Thought those Kiowas might be getting up another war party.”

  “No war party, just the boys and me cooking dinner.”

  Billy grinned. “Judging how it lit up the place, you four must have eaten like kings.”

  The man Marcus didn’t know took it more seriously. “In this country, big fires attract unfriendly moths.”

  Marcus merely smiled and kept his thoughts to himself. He’d spent too many unfriendly nights behind enemy lines without a fire to give up the simple pleasure of one now. “But it sure lays down a mighty fine bed of cooking coals.”

  Billy stepped up onto his saddle. “We got some cows to find for Mr. Breedlove, or I’d stay and chat. Hear you’re coming to headquarters Thursday night?”

  “The boys and I have been invited for dinner.”

  “You’ll eat good. There’s no better food between here and Wichita than in Sen Yung’s kitchen. If you find any of them old lizard bones, bring ’em along for me and the boys to see.”

  “Will do. Thanks for stopping by.”

  The riders turned to leave, but drew rein at the sight of six mounted men coming on at a fast trot.

  “You expecting company?” Marcus asked.

  “Those are some of the Rolling-R wranglers.” Billy sounded worried. “Better see what they want.”

  He’d no sooner got his animal moving then all hell broke loose. With no word of warning, the strangers drew their guns and began shooting.

  Marcus grabbed Ethan and pushed him toward the wagon.

  Billy’s horse went down.

  The attack had come so suddenly, none of them had time to think. Lanny and the other man reached for their guns while Jimmy Spotted Owl headed for ground. Like Frank, Jimmy had natural survival instincts.

  The riders came on –the staccato of gunfire and gun smoke billowing like someone had opened the gates of hell. A shotgun boomed and the cowboy Marcus didn’t know flipped off the back of his horse.

  Obie and Frank were still in the wagon, bullets ripping through the wooden planks, shards of wood flying everywhere. Marcus leaped for them, feeling a sting in his right calf, grabbing both boys.

  “Under the wagon. Now!”

  A revolver shot cracked near his ear – Lanny finally returning fire. A little ways off, Billy scrambled to his feet, drawing his gun and firing over his shoulder as he sprinted for the boulders. He’d almost made it when he lurched and tumbled.

  Marcus hurried the boys under the wagon, pushing them to the ground, gunshots thundering all around them. Lanny seemed to be holding his own, and Billy had managed to regain his feet. He hobbled to the rocks, pouring hot lead over his shoulder all the way.

  Marcus felt helpless, unarmed. He glanced about, and spied the unnamed cowboy sprawled nearby, his revolver among the tawny grass.

  “Keep your heads down!” Marcus ordered. He scrambled clear of the wagon, dodging low, the fire in his leg burning hot below his knee. He snapped up the gun and, like Jimmy, went to ground.

  The riders had fanned out, shooting at anything that moved. Lanny was still returning fire, but slumping in his saddle, his shirt a patchwork of scarlet.

  From the boul
ders, Billy fired and reloaded as fast as he was able.

  Another rider careened off his horse, slamming into the ground near Marcus. He tried to get up, and Marcus put a slug through his brain.

  Lanny downed another man, and then followed him to the ground. That left Billy and Jimmy, and he wasn’t so sure about Billy. Although wounded, he was still fighting.

  Jimmy Spotted Owl made a hard target sprawled among the bunch grass, gripping his revolver in both hands and firing methodically. Three men went down before his hammer clicked on a spent cartridge.

  Gun smoke nearly obscured the sun. Marcus counted at least three gunmen but there might have been others. Hard to tell now.

  One of the attackers wheeled about and galloped straight for Jimmy as the Cherokee cowboy frantically shoved cartridges into the cylinder.

  Marcus put his blade on the rider and squeezed the trigger. The man slumped in his saddle and Jimmy slapped the loading gate shut and knocked him off the saddle.

  From out of the gun smoke a rider came up behind him. The thunder of hooves behind him was his first warning. Spinning around, he squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked harmlessly on a spent cartridge.

  There was a sharp crack. And then another. The man went limp and crashed to the ground at Marcus’s feet. Through the acrid smoke, Frank Miller stood there with his tiny palm gun still outthrust in his hand.

  The last of the attackers reined about and high-tailed it away. Billy stood from behind the boulder and emptied his revolver, but the man had ridden out of range.

  Marcus sprinted to the wagon, ignoring the fire in his leg, and grabbed up the rifle he’d left on the seat and thumbed a cap onto the nipple. As he braced the long rifle across the seat, shoving the butt into his shoulder, the years vanished and he was in another place, another time. The telescopic sight against his eye felt as natural as breathing as the crosshairs found their target. The magnification picked the fleeing target clearly, in spite of all the smoke. Instinctively, he calculated distance and speed, the information coming together in his brain in some inexplicable way no one could ever explain.