The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  “That’s a mighty big risk, Free. There’s no telling what kind of reception those Indians might hold for either of us. And they sure don’t seem to be anxious for a powwow right now.”

  “Well, I reckon it’s die in here among the cedars or die out in the open prairie. I’m game for either, but I prefer the open.” He looked out to the prairie while untying his bandana. “And for the first time in my life, not being white might give me a little edge.”

  “I reckon you’re right, Sergeant. If we can communicate to the chief that we buried his own, it might defuse this situation. But unless you speak Kiowa, you best let me go. I learned a little of the language from my daddy.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Lieutenant. It’s high time that I started carrying some of the load here. I’m going out there.”

  “Well, if you’re determined to go, give me the Henry and keep a shot open between you and the chief. If things go bad, I’ll shoot him first. It will buy us a little time.”

  Free pushed the rifle toward Parks and picked up the Colt. Rolling on his back, he slid the pistol into his waistband. “Wish me luck.”

  In a slow and deliberate manner, Free stepped from the cover of the cedars. He had tied the blue bandana to a rawhide strap on his hat, hoping to make the cloth readily visible to the Indians. As he exited into the open prairie, he began a series of rapid arm movements, waving the hat back and forth across his body.

  He saw the Kiowa braves, one by one, begin to appear from the knee-high prairie grasses. As each stood, he could hear their shrill war cry. a series of yips that was devastating to a man’s courage. Hoping they understood some English, he began to yell. “Friend! I wish to talk! I am a friend!” From a few yards to his right, a brave charged, bow in hand. Free continued his frantic waving. “Friend! Friend!” The savage, on a mad run, strung an arrow and prepared to shoot. Figuring he was done in for sure, Free dropped his hat and grabbed for the Colt. He swung the pistol from his waistband and held it head high on the advancing Kiowa brave, ready to cut loose.

  Chapter 24

  The Comancheria, Texas 1868

  Parks watched as the Kiowas set on Free. Seeing the Sergeant had his Colt on the closest brave, he swung his rifle toward a grouping of braves to the left. He readied his finger on the trigger, about to pull, when the rushing Kiowas abruptly stopped and commenced with a series of rhythmic chants that filled the whole of the prairie.

  “Aungaupi! Aungaupi Ch`i!”

  Parks glared as Free lowered the Colt and stood perfectly still. The raiding party now began a slow procession toward him, their weapons pointed downward. Parks listened intently to the individual chants of the braves as they encircled Free.

  “Aungaupi Ch`i!”

  With a sense of relief, Parks watched Free drop his hat and pistol, holding both hands palm up. He rose from his position in the cedars in amazement, watching the first brave rub Free’s head.

  “Aungaupi Ch`i,” The brave sang.

  Within seconds, all of the Kiowa had closed ranks on Free. Each seemed intent on rubbing his head and touching his clothing.

  “What’s going on?” Free hollered to Parks.

  From the stand of cedars, Parks called out. “Just be still, and we might leave here with our scalps. They say you’re the buffalo man.”

  “Ha chò.”

  Parks walked with authority toward the Kiowa braves, knowing the Kiowa did not tolerate fear, especially in their enemies. The Indians sat with crossed legs in a circle around Free. He could see the confusion set on his friend’s face. “It’s OK,” he whispered to Free while approaching the Kiowa chief. He showed respect, holding his hands away from his body, palms up. Offering no threat, his holster hung empty on his hip.

  “Ha chò,” the chief replied.

  Parks stopped several feet short of the band, watching as the warrior with the war shield stood. Like many of the Kiowa, the chief was tall, standing well over six feet. Parks took a close look at the painting and feathers on the war shield. It was indeed the same one from the arroyo.

  Parks shot a glance at Free. “The buffalo is a very sacred animal to the Kiowa. And they think your hair is that of a buffalo. You are a very strong sign to them, part buffalo and part man. It’s the only reason we’re alive right now.”

  Parks took his focus back to the chief. “Do you speak English?”

  “I know some of the white man’s tongue from the time before the Medicine Lodge Treaty.”

  “And I speak some Kai-gwu.”

  “How is it a white man can speak the Kai-gwu tongue?”

  “It was taught to me by my father. He was a Texas Ranger, who fought the Kiowa north near the Red River. He spoke of what great warriors the Principal People were.” `

  `Aho. You hold the tongue well, Son-of-a-Ranger. “ I am Tsen-tainte.”

  “I am Parks.”

  From the corner of his mouth, Parks spoke to Free. “He is known as White Horse. I’ve heard of him; he’s big medicine. After Medicine Lodge, he cast his braves with the war faction of the Kiowa.” His gaze still set on the chief, Parks made a circle around his heart with his right hand, then formed a cross inside the sphere. “Tsen tainte, you are well known to us. We only wish to pass through the Kiowa land. We mean no harm to any Kiowa.”

  “But the whites have already done great harm to the Kiowa. The whites trick my brother, T`on syan. The whites promise repeating rifles to hold cattle at the Buffalo jump. And then the whites kill the Kiowa brothers.”

  Parks clenched his jawbone as White Horse shook the war shield violently. “Tsen-tainte, Aun-gaupi Ch`i, and I came after the murder of your brother. We . . .,” Parks used one finger to gesture toward Free and then back to himself; “gave T’on-syan and his braves a proper burial.” He pointed his hand skyward holding his wrist. “So the crow and vulture would leave their bones in peace. We placed the war shield of T`on-syan on the burial mound to show this was a sacred spot.”

  "Aho."

  Parks observed White Horse make a series of hand signals. When he finished, the raiding party all rose and marched toward the Clear Fork.

  “What did he say?” Free asked as two of the Kiowa braves walked behind them.

  “They’re going to take council with the wind, and after that he’ll let us know our fate. And these two,” he motioned to the braves at their backs, “are to make sure we wait around for White Horse’s verdict.” Parks sat on the bank of the Salt Fork next to Free. Below them, he viewed the Indians kneeling in the sandy riverbed, singing and chanting. The Kiowa had built a small fire on top of several flat rocks from the riverbed. As the fire burned down, White Horse placed dampened prairie grass on the coals. The wet grass caused the fire to issue a white smoke.

  From the cedars behind them, Parks heard the tree branches rustle in the wind. Brushing against each other, they created a drum-like rhythm. As the smoke climbed from the riverbed, the gusty wind sweeping in from the prairie shaped the smoke into a dancing figure. The white plume flattened, drifted west, and then rose in a column before drifting back to the east.

  “Do you still have the pistol?” Parks whispered while staring at the rising smoke.

  “In my waistband, under my shirt.”

  “Well, after their council, if White Horse makes any motion with two fingers across his eyes, be ready to let that Colt fly.”

  “What do the two fingers mean?”

  “It means the wind has told them we are not friends of the Kiowa. And the Kiowa always kill their enemies.”

  “I could open up on the two behind us. You could mount Horse and be a long way from here. You know no Indian pony can catch him.”

  “As much as I don’t want to die out here today, I can’t imagine living with the knowledge I ran out on a friend.”

  “But you don’t even have a gun?”

  Parks looked down at the Colt in Free’s waist. “I’ll manage. If things go bad, just make sure you count six Kiowa coup starting with these two.” He nodded his hea
d backwards.

  After twenty minutes of observing the wind, Parks watched White Horse pick up two handfuls of river sand and cast it into the coals, extinguishing the fire.

  “Looks like they’re finished,” he whispered to Free.

  “What’s the chance we’re going to survive with our hair?”

  “It all depends on how he read the smoke.”

  The chief and his party walked up the bank from the river below. As they approached, Parks stood, noticing Free’s hand resting on the Colt’s handle through his shirt.

  “The wind has given us a great sign. Aungaupi Ch`i is a brother to the wind.” The chief swung his arm in a wide arc from his right to his left. “From the west to the east, he will lead the Aungaupi against the whites. And the Kiowa will sing his song for many years to come. The wind has spoken. You are free to ride this land.”

  “`Aho.” Parks nodded. “But Tsen-tainte, the Kiowa have by accident killed Aungaupi Ch’i’s tséeyñ. And now he is afoot.”

  “This is true.” White Horse responded. “Aun-gaupi Ch`i is free to choose any tséeyñ from our string. The pony Aungaupi Ch’i chooses will be marked with his medicine sign. This will tell all Kiowa he is a sacred being who rides the Principal People’s lands unharmed.”

  Free walked a tight circle around the Indian pony he had chosen from the Kiowa string. The animal, high in the withers and long boned below the knee, was a magnificent brute. He was captivated watching the Indians prepare the mustang for marking. One of the Kiowa braves held the pony’s upper lip between his teeth while another brave punched a hole through the mustang’s ear with a slender piece of bone. The pony remained calm throughout the procedure.

  “Pinching the lip keeps them from jumping around,” Parks remarked.

  Free moved close to the pony’s head and watched as White Horse removed a decorative string of hair from a pouch around his neck. The Kiowa Chief pushed the hair pipe through the pony’s ear and looped it around itself. Using a woven piece of hair from the mustang’s tail, he fixed the ornament in place. This was the medicine sign that allowed him safe passage through Kiowa land.

  With the pony marked, White Horse stepped back, slapped his chest three times, and with a catlike vault, mounted his horse. Uttering a series of yips, the chief called his party to leave. Heading north, and without looking back, Free heard him sing.

  “Your choice in ponies is good, Aungaupi Ch`i.

  The Kiowa must leave you now,

  but we await your medicine.

  Till that day, stay strong.”

  “That was mighty quick.” Free watched the departing Kiowa disappear into the prairie.

  “When the Kiowa are ready to move on, they go quickly. I’ve heard tales that a Kiowa band can break their camp and move in as few as twenty minutes. Appears they have no concept of small talk.” Parks studied Free’s new pony. “I hope you prize what you’ve just gained.”

  “What’s that?” Free threw Comida’s saddle blanket over his new mustang.

  “You became a friend of the Kiowa and by association a friend of the Comanche. You’ve traveled a long road, Sergeant. To arrive at this place, at this time, is a fine accomplishment.”

  Free tossed the saddle over the pony’s back and cinched the girth under the horse’s belly. “Well, if I’m not able to show my innocence soon, the only road I’ll be traveling is the road to a hanging.”

  “The time for that is nearly on us,” Parks held out Free’s retrieved Colt and Henry. “I figure we’ll see some sign of Jubal and his posse no later than tomorrow, maybe this afternoon.”

  Finished with the saddle, Free placed the bridle and bit to the pony and taking hold of the Colt, slid the pistol into his waistband. “I reckon we best get ready then,” he slipped the Henry into his saddle ring. “I can’t see Jubal riding all this way just to arrest the two of us.”

  “What he can’t know is we’ve already put a spoke through his wheel.”

  “How’s that?” Free held the pony’s reins in hand and led the horse toward the cedars above the river.

  “He has to be thinking he can box us in from the east, while his Riders trap us from the west.” Parks walked Horse into the first line of cedars and tied him to a large branch, the animal’s hindquarters exposed to the prairie behind them.

  “How is he going to explain the saddle pack of money we’re going to offer the posse?”

  “Think about it, Free. He’ll kill anyone he needs to, just so he can continue his lawless scheme. I reckon that posse will never leave this prairie alive, and we’ll be left to carry the blame.”

  Free wrapped his reins around an overhanging limb and secured the pony next to Horse. “Then we better make them see what side of the law Jubal is riding on.”

  “I suspect the locals don’t care much for the sheriff or his Riders. I’m hoping the posse doesn’t either. Given the opportunity, I think we can show them the real Jubal Thompson.”

  Free let his gaze wander to the east, down the Clear Fork. “You figure he’s going to ride right down the riverbed?”

  “He’s too cautious for that. They’ll probably stay on high ground trying to avoid any ambush. Most likely, he’ll ride down the north bank since it has the higher elevation.”

  “He’ll be riding straight to us.”

  “I’m counting on it. It’s the smart play.”

  Free moved from the cedars and faced Parks. “Let me guess; we’re going to hide in the prairie grass and let him ride up to our horses, tied up in plain view.”

  “If we’re going to get the opportunity to state our case, we best get the bulge on the posse.”

  Free gazed out to the prairie grasses bending in the breeze and glanced back to the lieutenant. “Well, it certainly worked for White Horse and his bunch.”

  “And we have one other worry.”

  Free looked into Parks’ eyes. “What else?”

  “That southeast wind that’s been digging into us all morning looks to be building moisture from the gulf.”

  Free took a quick look skyward. “Rain?”

  “Not just rain. With the temperature rising and the north sky turning green, I figure we’re due some thunder boomers by late in the afternoon.”

  Free paused and then gestured toward Parks’ tobacco pouch. “More of that fuss, I reckon.”

  Chapter 25

  The Comancheria, Texas 1868

  The rain fell in deafening sheets of gray. Overhead, Free listened to the menacing rumblings of thunder growling fair warning of each impending bolt of lightning. As far as he could see, great streaks of electricity danced crosswise in the sky before plummeting to earth with tremendous concussion, leaving the burnt stench of sulphur in its backwash. With every crack, his body stiffened tightly, maddened by nature’s assault.

  Sitting under a great expanse of cedar limb, he kept a steady gaze to the northeast. At his back, the nearly dry riverbed had become a swirling current raging from bank to bank. He set the field glasses on the ground, as it had become impossible to see through them in the downpour. “You think Jubal will stop on account of the rain?” he yelled over the loudness, spitting water with each word.

  “There’s nowhere to stop on the prairie. They have to keep moving toward the north bank where they might find cedar cover!”

  Free watched a waterfall of rain leap from his hat brim and puddle between his legs. “How long do these storms last?”

  “Depends on the wind! I reckon this one will blow by us quick now. There’s some blue showing in the north!”

  Free wiped at the continuous stream of water running from his face, then looked back to the east. “Hopefully real quick!” He nudged Parks, while pointing to the wide turn of the Salt Fork where it began its long jaunt north. “There are riders coming!”

  “Can you tell how many?”

  “I count six!”

  “We best work our way into the grass; they’ll be on the overhang soon!”

  Free rose and peered from the cedar
s. A gradual slope from the overhang would hide the posse’s viewmomentarily. He felt Parks’ hand slap his back.

  “Let’s go!”

  Free ran, slightly hunched over, to a spot thirty yards in front of the stand of cedars and dropped to his belly. Almost on cue, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

  He looked over to Parks lying on his belly, his head turned toward the northeast. From out of the now fallingmist, the first rider’s horse appeared,walking at a slow gait. The rider, wearing his slicker, leaned forward over the saddle, his head lowered toward his chest. One by one, in single file, the posse crested the incline to the level ground of the overhang.

  Free flattened his body hard into the rain-soaked ground. His head, raised only inches above the prairie, surveyed the approaching riders.

  With the hard rain ceased, the lead rider lifted his chin and looked about the overhang. With a slow pull on his reins, he stopped his mount and signaled to the left. Free could see he was pointing to the horses tied in the cedars. The posse all dismounted with care, their heads on swivels studying the surrounding landscape. From the back of the line, a short figure moved with caution toward the horses, gathering in the reins of all six.

  “That’s got to be Jubal,” Free whispered. He watched the sheriff point to different locations along the stand of cedar. Four of the posse members nodded at his directions and moved apart, walking in measured steps toward the interior of the cedar thicket, each lifting a Colt from under his slicker as he went. Jubal held the remaining rider by the neck and eased back toward the incline, the horses in tow.

  “What do you make of that?” Free watched the two move behind the horses and out of view from the trees.

  “I don’t know, but we best move now. Those cowboys will be coming out of the trees shortly, knowing something’s cockeyed. I’ll head for the cedars, and you come up behind the other two.”

  Free nodded and began backtracking in the grass, keeping himself between the posse’s horses and Jubal’s vision. He crawled toward the incline, moving down the hill to position himself directly behind the sheriff. As he began inching forward toward the two figures, he heard Parks shout, “Put down those Colts! Or fear for your life!”