The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  Parks looked back and saw the men of the 7th running to the lieutenant colonel, grabbing Dandy’s bridle and helping the steed come to a stop. Lieutenant Colonel Custer rolled off Dandy and cursed loudly.

  Parks dismounted and rubbed Little Star’s ears. “Good, Little Star. Good.” Parks dropped the reins, and Little Starwalked, head down, back to the string.

  “A truly amazing display of the Indian pony, Parks. I was skeptical, but I will not argue with what I witnessed here today.”

  “Thank you, General Hancock.”

  “Let’s leave the lieutenant colonel to his own and move back to my quarters for a talk.”

  “Yes sir.” Parks looked back over his shoulder to see if he could determine the depth of Dandy’s leg injury.

  Inside the general’s quarters, Parks sat in a cowhide high-back chair. The general walked over to a small tablewhere a glass canister containing his favorite Scotch sat. He held the bottle toward Parks. “Drink?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “My God, Parks! I am impressed. Those ponies of yours travel sixty miles in eight hours, take a two-hour rest, and beat the best we have to offer handily. No wonder we can’t keep up with the savages.” He took a long drink of his Scotch. “It troubles me to say so, but I cannot and will not purchase any of those animals, son.”

  Parks looked at the general confused.

  “As much as I agree, those animals are significantly better mounts than what the 7th currently rides, I am still of the belief that this Indian engagement will be won by showing the cavalry’s might. I find it hard to believe we will show our might riding into battle on small ponies, no matter their endurance.”

  “General, you are the one judged by your decisions. I learned many years ago not to declare opinions as to another man’s thinking.”

  “Thank you, Parks. You are as Colonel Ford said I would find you.”

  “I appreciate your compliment, General.” Parks rose from his seat and walked over to shake the general’s hand. “I will ask your leave now. I think it’s time to get back to Texas.”

  The General tipped his glass toward Parks. “Ride safe.”

  As he walked across the lower parade ground toward his string, Parks noticed Wild Bill admiring his horses.

  “So, Parks, how many will the general take?” The army scout rubbed Little Star’s ear gently.

  “None at the present. The general feels these ponies do not fairly represent the U.S. Cavalry’s might.”

  The army scout looked bewildered. “Well, I am in disagreement but not surprised. I learned a long time ago to judge neither man nor beast as to their appearance. Things do not survive in the frontier because of their size. But, each man is entitled to an opinion as to the solution for the Indian problem. What do you think Parks?”

  “I find a man has little fuss in his life if he sticks to his own business.”

  “You may be wise beyond your years. Where to now?”

  “Back to Texas. But I would ask a favor.”

  “I think I could give you that. What do you need me to do?”

  “I would ask that you present Lieutenant Colonel Custer with a gift as the opportunity would present itself. It appeared his mount may be crippled.” Parks cut loose the taller of his ponies, a multi-colored horse with a dark splay on his forehead. He handed the rein to Wild Bill. “His name is Morning Sun. Please ask Lieutenant Colonel Custer to accept him with my best wishes.”

  “That I will do, my friend, but do you really think this gift is going to soothe the lieutenant colonel’s anger?”

  Parks knew Wild Bill was correct. He had no choice but to defeat the cavalry mounts, but he might have created a bigger problem with selling future ponies to the calvary by embarrassing the lieutenant colonel. He was sure of one thing; he had created an enemy today. An enemy with the United States Cavalry square at his back.

  Chapter 8

  Clear Fork Country, Texas 1868

  Free moved the remuda herd cautiously through a small ravine near the Clear Fork of the Brazos. He looked up the trail and could see that Mr. Goodnight had skirted the main herd to catch up with the chuck wagon. The Clear Fork was at its widest here, and the clean water flowed quickly over a bed of gravel and small rocks.

  “Free!”

  He could see Goodnight signaling for him to move the remuda herd up to the evening campsite.

  Free whistled loudly and directed the herd up the opposite side of the ravine and onto a wide grassy area that sloped down toward the river. The horses, heads down, eagerly pulled up the fresh slips of spring grasses.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Goodnight?”

  The slender veteran of the trail walked up to his wrangler. “Coyo tells me there should be buffalo just beyond the next rise. He says they run this area every May for the clover. You think the men would enjoy a bison steak this evening?”

  “Oh yes sir, Mr. Goodnight.” Free could feel the saliva take hold in hismouth at themention of steak.

  “Well, take my Henry and see what you can find.” Goodnight handed the pristine buffalo gun up to Free’s out-stretched hand. “I’ll watch the re-muda. You just be careful and make sure you stay downwind from us. I don’t need any cattle running this evening.”

  “Yes sir.” Free positioned the heavy rifle across his saddle.

  “And, Free, that barrel will get hot as a skillet the more shots you take, so my advice to you is make your kill with one shot.”

  Free grinned at the trail boss. “I understand, Mr. Goodnight. I won’t be back with any blisters.”

  Goodnight looked back to the east. “I think Bose is about an hour back the trail, so you best hurry. You need only cut out the back-strap and the hindquarters. The coyotes might stay quiet tonight if we share a little of our bounty with them.”

  Free nodded his head and put his spurs gently to Hiram Anderson’s horse, now known as “Co-mida.” One of the Mexican drovers, Georges, took to calling the animal by this handle as it took every opportunity presented to eat. The rest of the group, even Mr. Goodnight, who was usually business only, had laughed and taken to calling the horse by its new Mexican name. Free joined in the good-natured fun, as it seemed to make his acceptance in the group go easier.

  “Let’s go, Comida.” He pushed the horse west. Nearly a mile or so from the chuck wagon, Free came upon a site that would silence even the most grizzled buffalo hunter. Set in front of him in a small valley were thousands and thousands of buffalo. The whole of the valley was dark with the curly-haired beasts. He pushed up in the stirrups to stretch his back and saw a young bull forty or so yards downhill from him. Free quieted Comida and stepped down from the saddle. He pulled down on the horse’s reins and at the same time pushed on his hindquarters. Comida slowly bent his front legs and set his belly on the hard ground. Free moved toward the horse’s middle and lay the Henry over the saddle, holding the reins tight in his left hand. “Easy, Comida.” He whispered to the horse as he drew his sight on the unknowing bull. With a squeeze of the trigger, the great beast went down to his knees. Comida, startled at the shot, kept his voice, but took to his feet instantly.At the same time, Free put a boot in the stirrup and was on the horse. No member of the great herd moved or seemed startled as he rode down the hill to his kill.

  His shot had been true, hitting the buffalo behind the left shoulder. Free stepped down from Comida and removed a skinner’s knife from his boot. He knelt near the buffalo and started a straight cut down each side of the animal’s backbone. He made cuts above the ribs and moved the knife upward until he could cut away large chunks of meat two feet long by six inches wide. As he prepared to lay the meat hide side down on the back of his saddle, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Silhouettes, highlighted against the western sky, moved slowly in column from north to south. He stayed in a crouched position behind Comida and counted six figures moving across the horizon on the far side of the valley. “Easy, Comida,” he whispered to the animal.

  The figures didn
’t show interest in the buffalo or the rifle shot. But Mr. Goodnight had warned him before, that riders moving around a drive herd almost always meant no good for the cowboys. He figured he best get back to camp and warn the trail boss. Working feverishly, he took his knife to the animals’ hindquarters and cut out each roast. He reckoned each weighed ten pounds. He loaded all the meat into a burlap sack and hung it over his saddle horn. In a matter of minutes, he was heading back toward the chuck wagon with a strange sense of dread stirring around in his head.

  Free rode Comida hard into camp. Alather of foam dotted the horse’s bit. He heeled the animal so strongly that Comida’s hindquarters nearly touched the ground, kicking a splay of dust into the air.

  “Whoa!” Coyo yelled at the horse and rider. “What’s gotten into you, Free?”

  Free let up on the reins, allowing Comida to right himself. “Where’s Mr. Goodnight?” he asked urgently. He tossed the burlap sack of meat to the Indian cook.

  “Trouble?” Coyo asked as he caught the sack.

  “Could be. I don’t know.” He turned Comida’s head to his right and located the trail boss. He was moving in a hurried pace up from the banks of the Brazos.

  “Trouble out there?” Goodnight called out.

  Free pushed his hat back and dismounted Co-mida. He recognized the noticeable concern in Goodnight’s voice. “There are riders out there, sir. Six at least, maybe more.”

  “Damn!” Goodnight slapped his hat across his thigh. “Could you tell if they were Indians or others?” he asked, his head turned to the east.

  Free reckoned Goodnight’s thoughts were on the herd some half mile back on the trail.

  “I don’t mind the savages; they usually only want some beeves. It’s the other that always concerns me.”

  “I couldn’t tell, sir. I could only see their silhouettes against the sun.” Free looked back from where he rode and pointed slightly south of the clover field. “They were coming around our south flank, or that’s what it looked like to me.”

  “Coyo, you better get the ammo box out of the wagon. Much as I hate having guns around the herd, we’re not left with any other option tonight.”

  Free knew from his few conversations with the drovers, that Goodnight’s biggest fear was not Indians, rustlers or lightning, but the chance that a young drover might accidentally discharge a pistol around a thousand head of cattle. “You need for me to ride back to get Bose?”

  “We’ll both go,” Goodnight answered. “Keep that Henry with you for now.”

  Free nodded in understanding.

  “Coyo, hurry up with that ammo box, and, Free, you best fill your pockets with shells.”

  Ammo in hand, Free and Goodnight set spurs to their mounts, leaving camp with intent purpose. They rode abreast at a hard gallop, heading for the front line of the drive herd. A half mile out of camp, Free saw the string of longhorns spread over amile or more of landscape. At the sight of the herd, he gently pulled Comida’s reins right, making sure the horse skirted the herd’s flank in as wide an arc as possible. He could feel Goodnight in close tandem.

  The two men brought their steeds to a halt at a small cluster of cottonwoods.

  “Free, get Bose and Shorty’s attention. Call ’em up to join us,” Goodnight instructed.

  Free stood high in his saddle and began gesturing a series of signals toward the front line drovers. Bose Ikard, also an ex-slave, had obviously seen the approaching riders, for Free could see him moving toward the cottonwoods, Shorty Anson, the drive ramrod, in tow.

  “What’s the fuss?” Bose asked.

  Free listened as Goodnight explained their situation to the mounted group.

  “Free saw riders to our south and west. That could mean they aim to flank us. It might be nothing, but I’ve got too much invested in this drive to sit on my hands.”

  “What do you aim to do, Charlie?” Shorty asked.

  “It looks like we might need to do a little scouting at sunset this evening,” Goodnight answered. “Shorty, I’m going to take Bose and Free with me. We’re going to find those riders Free saw. I don’t think any of us can be at ease until we know who they are and what they’re up to. You best stay and look over the herd. We can’t afford to have us both out riding into who knows what.”

  Free felt a wave of pride spread across his chest. He felt useful, like every man ought to feel.

  As the sun’s last rays shone across the West Texas sky, Free rode slowly away from the main cattle herd and followed Goodnight’s and Bose’s leads. He maintained the back position as they crossed the Brazos in single file and headed up a small embankment on the far side of the river. Free kept a tight rein on his mount as the night promised a quarter moon, and he didn’t want to be surprised by a low hanging limb or a Mexican ground squirrel burrow.

  “Look for the glow or smoke of a fire,” he heard Goodnight whisper. “I’ll feel a little better if I know this bunch is in their camp and not out scouting our herd. And remember we are upwind of the herd and hopefully downwind of those six riders. Once we are out of the herd’s range, we might be able to hear voices from the rider’s camp, so no talking, only hand signals from here on in.”

  Free nodded his head in understanding. He made sure he stayed within a saddle length of his companions so their outlines remained visible in the darkness. Amile or so from the herd, he picked up the first sounds of the night. The words were unintelligible, but it was conversation from men. He saw Goodnight, riding the middle position, pull up his hand and form a fist. Free pulled back hard on Comida’s reins at Goodnight’s signal.

  “Free,” he heard Goodnight’s raspy voice. “You and me are going to go on foot from here. Bose, you stay with the horses and be ready to help if things get cockeyed.”

  Free dismounted and handed his reins to Bose. He could see Goodnight’s figure beginning a methodical walk toward a small rise ahead of them. The moon cast just enough light to shadow small mesquites and brush on the prairie. At the bottom of the rise, the conversation issuing from the camp became clear. Free followed Goodnight’s lead, crouching low, inching his way to the top of the hill. At the top of the rise, he could see the orange glow of a fire illuminating the camp below.

  “Free, I am going into the camp. You stay here and keep that Henry handy.”

  Free nodded a silent yes, then pulled the rifle up and placed it over his left arm. “Be careful, sir,” he warned the trail boss.

  Goodnight stood and started down the rise toward the camp below. “Hello the camp!”

  A rush of activity became apparent in the camp, as Free could see men moving around frantically. He reckoned they were caught unaware.

  “My name is Charles Goodnight. I’m driving a herd of long-horns to Cheyenne.”

  There was a moment of silence before a voice penetrated the darkness. Free turned his head toward the sound as the voice had a familiar ring to it. He couldn’t identify it as to the speaker, but he had definitely heard it before. “Come on in, Mr. Goodnight. You are well known in these parts.”

  Chapter 9

  Clear Fork Country, Texas 1868

  Free lay on his stomach watching as Goodnight walked into the riders’ camp. The cover of the night and a large clump of prairie grass, only twenty feet away, protected his position. He took a quick accounting of the six men now standing across from his trail boss. All appeared well heeled. With military precision, he moved the Henry across each of the men, sighting their positions in the event troubled boiled over. Even by campfire light, he could see they all carried the look of hard men. Abrown mixture of dust and sweat painted their faces. Their tattered clothing showed the wear and tear of being on the run. He moved his eyes back and forth across the crew looking for any misstep and caught sight of a small, squat of a man stepping away from the bunch and toward Goodnight. The man’s face was partially obstructed by his hat, hung low across his eyes. Free reckoned this man to be boss of the outfit. He moved the Henry’s sights over the man’s chest, his finger
set lightly on the trigger. No matter what this outfit’s story, Free knew they were up to no good.

  “Come in, Mr. Goodnight.” The stocky man reached toward the fire, pulling a pot from its edge.

  “Coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Goodnight kept his words friendly.

  Free slowly closed his left eye and took aim down the Henry’s barrel. He could see the five other men, ever so slowly, moving apart as Goodnight reached out to accept the offered coffee. Free kept his sight steady, his eye unblinking. Looking down the rifle barrel, he could see a half smile cross the boss’s face. Why does that smirk seem so familiar? He tried to think back, but his concentration would not allow him to move his focus from the man.

  The still night carried the conversation of the camp to where Free lay. “What brings you off the herd on a dark night, Mr. Goodnight?” The man leaned down and set the pot back into the fire’s coals. “It seems a might dangerous.”

  Free noticed that Godnight had moved a little bit to his right giving him an unobstructed view of the boss. “Well, sir, I could hear conversation drifting with the wind and thought it might be polite to let you know we did have our herd downwind from you.”

  Free could see the wide smirk come across the stocky man’s face once more. “You wanted to make sure none of us got soaked and began shooting our pistols?”