by Mike Kearby
Parks could see that Jubal was stumped as to his course of action. He prayed the whiskey had blurred the sheriff’s ability to think straight, and he wouldn’t consider simply walking over to Free’s cell. Parks knew if he did, the plan would go up the flume. “Com’on Jubal,” he whispered. “Go inside your office.” He watched the sheriff fix a gaze on the jail door, shake his head like a mad bull, and stagger onto the boardwalk, fumbling his Colt from its holster.
“All right, Sergeant, I’m fixing to show you a hard case!”
Parks eased around the corner as Jubal raised a boot and kicked in the jailhouse door.
“Put that gun down, Sergeant!” Jubal screamed, and the ring of gunfire filled the air.
Parks hurried through the shattered door, stopping inches from the sheriff’s back. He wanted a confused Jubal to know who was behind him and whispered in a quiet voice, “Boca Chica.”
“Huh’,” Jubal muttered.
As the Sheriff turned toward him, Parks brought the long barrel of the Colt down on top of his head. Jubal moaned and careened back against his desk and to the floor.
“Sweet dreams, Sheriff,” Parks said while reaching down to remove the cell keys from his pant loop.
Keys in hand and partially hidden by the busted door, Parks looked across to Kelley’s. The onlookers had moved to the boardwalk and were walking in a tight formation toward the street. From the darkness, Parks shouted in a deep voice. “Everything’s OK here! Get back to your drinking!” He kept the Colt in hand until he saw the group turn and move back to the saloon door.
As soon as the street was clear, Parks dashed for Free’s cell. Rounding the corner, he heard Free shout.
“Parks! What’s going on? I heard gunfire!”
“Easy, Free. That was just Jubal showing off for the crowd at Kelley’s.”
Parks stuck the key in the padlock and opened the cell door. “Hurry, and help me get Jubal in here.”
Several minutes later, Parks leaned the sheriff against the back corner of the cell. As he turned to leave the cage, he noticed Free standing next to him, a set of shackles in his hands.
“I owe Jubal a shackle fitting,” he said.
“Well hurry and lock him in because we need to be riding out pretty quick. I don’t know the whereabouts of Jubal’s Riders, and it doesn’t seem smart to tarry too long.”
“Don’t worry about them. They left town the morning of my trial. I have a pretty good idea where they’re headed and when they’ll return.”
Parks looked on grimly as Free locked the sheriff’s arms and legs in the shackles.
“I wore these earlier in the week courteousy of Jubal. It only seems right to return the favor.”
Untying Horse, Parks looked at his friend, “We best figure our next move.”
“The way I see it, the only way to ever clear my name in this matter is to find The Riders. They’ll be carrying proof of my innocence,” Free explained.
“What do you know?”
“I heard them talking the first day on the trail. I was a little played out, but I’m pretty sure they spoke to having rustled cattle grazing toward New Mexico way.”
“Do you have an idea of where the cattle might be put?”
Now in front of the Sheriff’s office, Free stepped into Comida’s stirrup. “Best I can tell it has to be around the Kiowa Arroyo. That’s where they ambushed me and met up with some Kiowa braves.”
Parks lifted the tobacco pouch from around his neck and tossed it toward Free. “A man deserves a chew after a fuss like tonight.”
Parks watched Free cut off a plug of tobacco and poke it in his jaw.
“There’s someone I need to see before we light out.”
“Can’t say that I blame you, Sergeant. But let me warn you, if you get seen with Clara tonight, after all of this,” Parks pointed back toward the cell, “you’re going to have the sheriff and Mr. Jenkins wondering as to her part. I know it’s hard, but she’s safer without being around us right now.”
“Maybe we should take her with us.”
“Sergeant, we’ve got a ride ahead that would drag out the most seasoned cowboy. It wouldn’t be right to put Clara through that.”
“I know you’re right, Parks, but it sets hard in my belly leaving her like this. If anything happens’.”
Parks turned Horse to the west and glanced over to Free. “Let’s find The Riders; then we’ll be back for Clara.” With a quick kick, he set spurs to the mustang. “And after that, you can settle the score with Jubal once and for all.”
Chapter 19
The Flats, Texas 1868
Avoice from deep inside a well called out. The jumble of words, distant and foreign, caused a wave of confusion to build in Jubal’s mind.
“Jubal!”
He tried to open his eyes, but the morning brightness caused tiny ripples of pain to tingle across the top of his head.
“Jubal! Are you OK?”
The sheriff sensed that he could avoid the pain if he kept his eyes partially closed, looking at the blur of the world through his eyelashes.
“Jubal!”
He turned toward the sound and noticed a dark figure standing above him. Gripping the bars for leverage, he tried to pull himself up, as visions of the previous night began to dance in his thoughts.
He looked toward the gradual focusing figure of Von Riggins.
“Jubal! What happened? Where’s the colored?”
“Von!” Jubal struggled to right himself; he could feel the rising panic in his voice. “Get me out of here!”
“Where are the keys, Jubal? Your office is busted to hell, and I can’t find the keys anywhere.”
Leaning against the cold steel of the cell, Jubal howled. “Get Samuel down here with some tools and bust this thing open!”
“Do you want me to find Clara and have her come over to tend your cut?”
“Just go, Von! I’m not of a mood to answer all your questions! Git!”
An hour later, after Samuel and Von took turns hammering the lock apart with a smithy sledge and chisel, the door to the cell opened.
“Get these irons off of me!” Jubal screamed. “Get them off now!” He held his arms outward as Von removed the shackles from his wrist and feet. “Son-of-a-!” He looked at Samuel, wincing with every word. He touched the wound on his forehead, feeling the caked blood. “You!” He pointed to the livery owner. “Get Clara over here now! Tell her to bring a needle and thread.” He rubbed his forehead gingerly as he watched Samuel move off in a hurry and then turned to Von. “Get me some grub and coffee from the hotel, I’ve got to sit down for a spell and think. I’ll be in my office.”
Minutes later Clara stood over Jubal. “This is a deep wound, Sheriff.”
“Just get me stitched up quick-like, Clara.” Jubal stared at the busted door leaning against the inside wall of his office. “The sergeant had some help.” He spoke aloud. “Did you notice any strangers in town last night, Clara?”
“Sheriff, please be still while I clean this wound,” Clara answered. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I have to.”
He watched her soak a wool rag in whiskey.
“Jesus!” Jubal screamed as the soaked rag touched his head. “I thought you didn’t want to hurt me!” He squinted, his face in pain, and he saw that Clara had jumped two feet away.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t mean to hurt you any, but that wound has to be cleaned.”
Jubal saw her fear. “It’s all right; just get back over and finish up, pronto.”
The pain seemed to bring his thoughts into clear focus. “Von! Is the preacher here?” he asked the deputy.
“He arrived this morning Jubal.”
“Well, you put him up in the hotel, and don’t let him leave.”
“I don’t figure he’s going to want to stay now.”
“I don’t care what you think, Von! You put him up at the hotel and don’t let him leave. Tell him the sheriff says he is not to leave The Flats. Un
derstood?” Jubal could feel the heat building in his neck. “We’re still going to have that hanging! Only there might be more than one body for him to pray over!”
“Jesus!” Jubal hollered as Clara pulled the first loop of stitch. “You’re rough as hell, Clara.”
“Sorry Sheriff, I’m doing my best,” Clara replied.
“Well, hurry it up will you! I’ve got business that needs my attention!”
Trying to throttle his anger, he spoke to Samuel, “What time did that colored come to the livery?”
“Right at dark, Jubal.”
“How the hell did he get out of that cell?” Jubal wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, Jubal, but he had a pistol with him. Threatened me, he did.”
Jubal stared hard at the livery owner. Something was not right, but he was stumped as to what. “Samuel, I need help in hunting down the colored and his accomplice. Ride out to the Dodge place, and tell Randolph I need to put a posse together.”
“It’s calving season, Jubal. I don’t think Mr. Dodge is going to be receptive to letting men leave right now. What if he says no?” Samuel asked.
“You tell him I said to send some men! Tell him we’re going after the men who stole his damned cattle!”
“I’m finished, Sheriff,” Clara said. “That wound needed seven stitches to close.”
“About time.” Jubal stood and with great care placed his hat on his head. “You get on back to the hotel now.” Hewalked behind her, and as he reached the door, he remembered a voice from the previous evening. Two words. “Boca Chica.” And then he realized the identity of the sergeant’s accomplice.
At mid-afternoon, Jubal stood on the boardwalk outside of his office. Even with a pounding headache and seven stitches, he was amazed at his good fortune. The two men he swore revenge on were heading straight for his Riders. He figured it didn’t really matter who killed who. For when he arrived with the posse, he would take care of anyone left alive. From across the street, he saw Murph Jenkins hurrying his way.
“Here’s enough grub for a week, Sheriff.”
Jubal reached out and accepted a flour sack, rolled flat. “What do we have?”
“Mainly biscuits and hard tack.”
Jubal tossed the sack behind the saddle of his packhorse and tied it with two rawhide straps. “Clara got you doing the deliveries today?”
“No, she’s finally getting around to yesterday’s chores. Now I know you have a lot on your mind, Sheriff, but if you’re going to use the girl, I wish you would at least tell me so I can make my arrangements.”
“What did you say?”
“Let’s not get into a fuss over this, Sheriff. I’m just saying’.”
“No. Tell me why Clara didn’t get her chores done?”
“She said you worked her yesterday afternoon. That’s why she didn’t get to the hotel until after dark last evening.”
Jubal glared toward the hotel. “The little’! Where is she?”
“She’s over cleaning the upstairs rooms. Why? What’s going on?”
Jubal brushed by the proprietor and ran across the street to the hotel. Inside, he bounded up the hotel stairs in a fury. At the top hallway, he saw Clara exiting one of the rooms. He rushed toward her.
“Hello, Sheriff. How are you feeling?”
“I should have known better than to let two ex-slaves get friendly with one another.” He grabbed her by the upper arm.
“Wha’!”
“Helping a prisoner escape is a hanging offense!” He could feel her strength as she attempted to pull away. “This is thanks I get!” Releasing his grip, he swung a fist with all his force into her jaw. With no attempt to catch her fall, he watched her unconscious head bounce off the wood floor. “You made a big mistake, missy!” Reaching down, he hoisted Clara over his shoulder in one powerful motion. He could feel the anger churning in his belly as he walked down the stairway. At the bottom of the stairs, he encountered Jenkins. “Don’t say a word! She’s coming with me!” He pushed past the hotel owner and continued into the street.
Outside, four cowboys tied reins to the hitching post. The oldest of the bunch called out. “Mr. Dodge said you could use our help Sheriff.”
“All of you, follow me.” Jubal snarled and continued to walk toward his office.
As he reached the packhorse, he threw Clara’s limp body over the saddle. “Tie her down! And make sure she’s tied tight!”
The lead cowboy straightened Clara upright and bound her hands to the saddle horn. “What’d she do, Sheriff?”
“She pissed me off, that’s what! Now, all of you raise your right hands.” Putting boot to stirrup, he swung up on his horse and watched as each man lifted his hands, “Do you swear to uphold your duty as a deputy on this posse?”
He took account of each cowboy’s nod. “Good.” Reaching into his shirt pocket, he fished out four tarnished badges. “I pronounce you deputies for The Flats.” He passed the stars to the men. “Put these on.” He swung his gaze to the west. “And remember, the men we’re after are sentenced to hang, but if they resist us, we’ll shoot ’em where they stand.”
Chapter 20
The Mescalero Escarpment, New Mexico 1868 T
The caliche dust of the Staked Plain spun upward in a great circular motion. Galloping hooves, pounding on the earth, broke the upper crust, causing the heavy powder to spiral like a dust devil. The air borne dust clung to horse and rider alike unfazed by the prevailing wind blowing strong from the southwest. The landscape, devoid of tree and bush, looked the same in every direction. The only visible sign of life Free could discern was an occasional prairie dog, barking from his burrow, as if to warn of danger.
Ahead, Parks kept his spurs to Horse, running the mustang at a torrid pace. They had been riding for two hours straight across the desert landscape and away from the Kiowa Arroyo. Deep inside, he knew the image of the slaughter they had found there would be hard to escape, no matter howfar they ran.
Arriving at the canyon in the earlymorning, they found the landscape littered with buzzards. The Riders had killed the ten Kiowa braves and their horses. All of the Indians had been disfigured and left nude so they could not enter the spirit world whole. It had taken the better part of themorning to bury the braves in a mounded grave of sandstone. As they finished, Parks hung the leader’s brilliant war shield on a lance to mark the site as sacred.
Life’s hard enough, Free thought, Seems a man, no matter his business, deserves some peace in death.
After the burial, Free felt sullen and angry. Hard thoughts occupied his mind about the days ahead. There were bad men riding ahead, who left carnage behind them and who needed stopping. And Free was determined not to bury anymore of that carnage.
Riding to the farthest edge of the Llano Estacado, they reached the sheer cliffs of the Mescalero Escarpment. In front of them, rippling waves of heat rolled across the air like a raging river. The cliff walls, exposed by a million years of uplifting, exhibited gradient shades of red streaking horizontally across the entire length of the canyon. Two hundred feet below, a herd of cattle milled about lazily in the dry bed of the Rojo Grande.
Looking through field glasses, Free surveyed the scene below them. “I count five. It would be a real coincidence if that wasn’t The Riders.”
“I don’t think there can be a doubt,” Parks replied, looking around the canyon walls for any chance movement. “But we’re missing one.”
Free pulled back on Comida’s reins and walked the horse away from the rim of the cliff. “I reckon they came into the canyon floor back to our south. If they did, I’m sure the sixth man is hidden in the cliffs there, waiting for the buyer to show.”
“That would make the most sense. The walls here are too high to shoot down with any accuracy. The Riders can avoid an ambush at their present position,” Parks answered.
“So the Mexicans have to enter from the south, and if they try anything funny.”
“The Riders will run the cattle on t
op of them.” Parks shook his head in respect. “This bunch is smarter than we thought. And how they left those Kiowa in the arroyo shows they carry very little conscience.”
“They’re a hard bunch, that’s for sure,” Free rubbed his chin and looked back south. “What are you thinking right now?”
“The way I see it, we better find a position somewhere above both groups, but still close enough to use the Henrys. Wherever that spot is, it’s to our south. And I hope to hell we don’t run into the Mexicans or the lookout trying to find it.”
Free looked down into the canyon and watched the rustled cattle calmly milling about. “Parks, is there always this much fuss in a free man’s life?”
Parks leaned forward in his saddle and reached for his canteen. “That seems to be the hardest part of freedom.” He pulled a long drink from the bladder. “There’s always someone wants to fight you for it.”
Minutes later, Parks and Free backtracked several miles to the south, staying as far off the canyon rim as possible. Here the escarpment began a gentle drop to the southeast. As the cliffs became less sheer, Parks spied a game trail falling off to his right. Winding down the perpendicularly canyon wall, the trail was narrow, no more than a foot across, but well traveled.
“Most likely big horn.” Parks studied the rutted ground. “They probably use the trail to come and go out of the canyon floor.” He removed the tobacco pouch from around his neck and cut a chaw. “I know that Horse can go wherever a sheep can go.” He tossed the pouch to Free. “How about Comida?”
Free cut a large sliver of tobacco from the plug and peered over the steep path. “This horse? He’ll follow like a Missouri mule tailing a broken sugar sack.”
Parks eased his spurs into Horse’s flank, guiding the mustang cautiously down the right edge of the canyon. Loose gravel rolled under the pony’s hooves as he negotiated the worn path. “Keep a tight pull, Free,” he yelled over his shoulder. “And don’t let your hat get over his shoulders or you’ll both go head over heels to the bottom.”
In the lead, Parks followed the winding trail down into the depths of the canyon. Away from the rim, the air had become stale and unmoving. Just forty yards down, the heat became stifling, causing an endless flow of sweat to leak from under his hat and onto his face.