Something, a sharp, short sound maybe like a stick snapping, had pulled him from sleep. He remained very still as he cleared the fog from his mind, tried to remember where he was and how he’d gotten here.
It came back to him. He, Philby and Stanton had been to Fort Perry where they’d encountered and rectified a situation. Now they were on the north bank of the Canadian. The river was up so they hadn’t forded.
He was on watch, so he shouldn’t have been asleep. He shook his head. Once this was settled, whatever it was, he’d rouse Philby and get a few hours’ shuteye. It was still another six or seven hours to Amarillo.
He listened carefully, unmoving.
After a time, he thought what he’d heard probably had been only the wind in the brush. The night was calm when he’d first settled down, his back to a large cottonwood. But the wind had picked up, apparently, while he was dozing.
Now it was unrelenting. That had to be it. The wind whipping through the brush.
Still, he was sure whatever had pulled him from sleep was a sharp sound. It would take a pretty hard wind to create a sound like that. He grinned. If you had a wind that hard, you’d have bigger problems than the noise it was making.
He continued to listen, but a few minutes later he was starting to feel drowsy again. Probably he should go ahead and wake Philby. Stanton was younger, but Philby was the more seasoned Ranger.
Philby would be more likely to keep them alive through this night. Then they’d have more time to train Stanton later, when there were more Rangers around or when they weren’t trapped on the wrong side of a river.
He listened again for a long moment, but there were no sounds beyond the rushing of the river in the background. He wondered when the flood would abate so they could get across. They might have to ford farther down.
He shook his head and dug his heels into the mulch at the base of the cottonwood tree to push himself up. He lowered the hammer on his Colt and as he stood, he slipped it into his holster.
Something dark and heavy crashed out of the brush to his left, grazing his left knee and almost knocking him down.
Off balance and leaning to his right, he pulled his Colt, cocked it and fired. Something grunted hard, and there was another loud crash in the brush. That was followed by some rustling noises, then silence.
Court had regained his balance. He kept his Colt leveled in the direction the thing had disappeared, his knees bent, his other hand out for balance, sweat pouring off his forehead.
“Court!” Philby yelled, then rushed into the clearing, wide eyed, followed closely by Stanton. Both had their Colts drawn and cocked.
Philby saw Court. “You all right?”
Stanton had assumed a stance similar to Courts and was still peering around the clearing, his Colt leveled.
Court nodded, but continued looking in the direction he’d fired. “I’m fine. I heard somethin’, or thought I did. I listened awhile and waited, but the sound never repeated. I was just about to come get you to spell me on watch when all hell broke loose.”
He grinned. “I’ve got a feelin’ I shot one’a them wild hogs in the butt.” He gestured with his Colt. “Went right through there. From the sound of it he only made it about twenty yards.
“You boys want some hog meat, that’s where you’ll find him. Either that or a dead Comanche midget. Whatever it was, it wasn’t quite two feet tall. Movin’ pretty fast too.”
Philby lowered the hammer on his Colt, then holstered it.
Stanton followed his lead, the moon illuminating a broad grin on his face. He kept his thoughts to himself.
Philby said, “You wanna go get some shuteye, I’ll take the watch. I don’t reckon I could sleep anymore right now anyway.”
Court shook his head. “That was the plan, but dancin’ with that hog changed my mind. I don’t think I could sleep now on a dare.”
Still looking around, Stanton shook his head. “Me either.”
Philby was looking up at the sky. “You know, judgin’ from the Dipper, it’s only maybe another two hour ‘til sunrise anyway.” He gestured toward the sound of the rushing water. “Sounds like the river ain’t calmed down any. Chances are we’re gonna have to ride on downriver on this bank anyway for awhile.”
Court took his meaning. “You thinkin’ we ought’a saddle up an’ head out?”
Philby said, “You’re the one ain’t had no rest. If you’re good to go, I’m ready.”
Court turned to Stanton. “Blake?”
Stanton continued to watch the brush. “Sounds good to me.”
Court turned back to Philby. “I guess it’s unanimous. Let’s break this non-camp and head on downriver. Be good to get back to Amarillo anyway. We find a ford, we could be there by mid-afternoon.”
* * *
When Four Crows and his band reached the Canadian, he reined in and looked at Twin Deer. “Have them water the horses. We will cross about a mile down. Then we will have a hard ride until almost sundown.”
Twin Deer dismounted and gestured, indicating the others should do the same. As the other braves let their horses drink, he relayed the message from Four Crows.
One young brave who had joined them at Red Hawk’s village frowned. “Will we not kill these animals if we continue in this way?”
Twin Deer said, “You just do what—”
“You have met Red Hawk, yet you have seen nothing.” It was Takes Leaves. “Red Hawk is a great chief, yet he himself would ride with Four Crows if he were younger. I heard him say so.”
Twin Deer glared at him.
Takes Leaves flushed. “I was outside, just passing by.” He turned back to the other brave. “I have seen Four Crows do things no other Comanche could do, brave or chief. It is magic. He is able to do these things because he believes he is able to do these things. Trust in his judgment, and you will see for yourself.”
The brave looked at Twin Deer.
Twin Deer glanced at Takes Leaves, then looked at the other brave and nodded. “It is true. If you trust, you will not be disappointed. Someday you will tell your grandchildren of this chief, and that you rode with him.”
Another brave in the crowd muttered, “If you live to have grandchildren.”
Twin Deer spotted him. “Yes, or if you are able to make grandchildren.”
The others laughed, one jostling the shoulder of the brave who had spoken.
When everyone was mounted, Four Crows moved up to face them. “Some of you do not know me yet. I appreciate you joining our band on faith. What we are doing will not always be easy to know, but I have learned hard lessons from the best of our warriors. I will not lead you astray. When there is time, I will explain. Now is one of those times.
“After we ford the river, we will ride hard for another two hours. There we will exchange horses. Our horses will rest, but we will not.
“Many will meet us at the west end of a long lake. From there, we will ride on a vengeance trail for Iron Bear, my chief and the brother of Red Hawk. Before another full day has passed, we will have that vengeance.”
His target was set. He would reach Amarillo while it was minimally defended. Even if the Rangers from the fort had returned, they would be weary from their trip.
He would burn Amarillo, and as the Rangers had killed his chief, so would he kill theirs.
His horse wheeled around, and he faced them once again. “Follow me!”
He turned his horse and rode away. The other braves, laughing and whooping and calling to each other, followed.
A mile later they forded the Canadian River, then turned southwest.
* * *
With the river still swollen and running heavy, Corporal Edwards led his Rangers north about a quarter-mile to a trail that ran along the north bank of the Canadian. From there they could more easily identify and investigate each fording opportunity. They turned back west and urged their horses up to an easy canter.
After almost an hour, Philby rode up alongside the c
orporal. A thought had been nagging him. “Hey Court, you know that main ford downriver, maybe fifteen miles from here? Right near that small place the old guy calls a trading post?”
Court thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think I know the one you mean. Johnson’s Ford, he calls it. That’ll take us a couple hours out of the way from a direct route to Amarillo, though.”
“Yeah, I know, but I think that’s where we’re gonna have to cross. I think that’s the first place where the river’s wide enough and shallow enough to cross when it’s floodin’ like this.”
“I think you might be right about that.”
Stanton had moved up alongside Philby. “Right about what?”
Philby said, “There’s a really wide ford with a pebble bottom about three hours from here. We’re thinkin’ about headin’ on down there instead of lookin’ for a ford here.”
Stanton frowned. “What’s the difference?”
Court said, “We cross here, it’s another six or seven hours to Amarillo straight southwest. We spend the three or four hours it’ll take us to go due west to Johnson’s Ford, it’ll still be another seven hours or so to Amarillo.”
Stanton shrugged. “Either way’s good for me.”
Philby said, “Your call, Court. Overall we might save more time just goin’ on down to Johnson’s Ford instead of poking along here hopin’ to find another crossin’.”
Court said, “I imagine you’re right. I’d have preferred a straight shot home, especially after the long day we put in yesterday, but we can’t help the river bein’ swelled. We’ll head on down to Johnson’s Ford.”
* * *
Talbot had ridden through the night, resting in the saddle when he had to. When he reached the cabin near the wide ford on the Canadian, the sun was still a couple hours from reaching the top of the sky. He dismounted out front and tapped on the door, then worked the latch and pushed it open.
“Anybody home?”
Sunlight streamed in ahead of him, illuminating the dust in the air and slicing across the floor. An old man was seated behind a long, narrow table, his right side toward the door. Without looking up, he said, “Hey, prop that open, would’ya? More light might be just what I need to finish this thing.”
In his left hand was a figurine. In his right was a small knife.
Talbot glanced down. A large black rock lay on the worn, splintering wooden plank floor. He used the toe of his boot to slide it over against the door, then looked up. “What’cha got there, Crate?”
The old man turned his head. “What?” He held his right hand up to shade his eyes, the blade of the knife coming close to the outer corner of his right eye. He glanced at his left hand, then held it up in front of him. “Oh, it’s a figurine. Whittlin’ a figurine. The Injuns seem to like ‘em, an’ ever’ now an’ then I sell one to a white-eyes.”
He peered toward Talbot, squinting. “You know me?”
“I’m Jade Talbot.”
“Oh Jade. Sure. Been awhile.” He laid the figurine and the knife on the table, got up and walked around the end.
Jade nodded and proffered his hand. “A few years, I think.”
As they shook hands, the old man frowned. “Whooee! Who done that to your face?”
“Guy who’s gonna live to regret it. Listen, any Texas Rangers come through here lately? Probably headin’ north to south?”
“Rangers? Wasn’t no Ranger done that to you, was it? I known a few Rangers in my time, but I ain’t never known one that’d do somethin’ like—”
“No, no. Nothin’ like that. I crossed trails with a few Rangers yesterday. I was a ways behind ‘em, but I figured if they were on their way home they’d come through here.”
Crate Johnson shook his head. “Nope, nope. Not unless they went by real quiet like. Most often, though, I hear anybody goin’ by even if they don’t stop an’ come in.”
Talbot nodded. “All right. Well, hey, it was good seein’ you again. Guess I’ll head on down to Amarillo.”
“Interest you in some jerky? I got antelope an’ I got jackrabbit. Jackrabbit’s lookin’ a little green though. Might not’a cured right.”
Talbot grinned. “I reckon not. Maybe next time I’m through.” He turned for the door.
Crate walked back around the table. As he sat down he raised one hand. “Suit yourself.”
Outside, Talbot mounted, then turned his horse west. A hundred yards downriver, he rode carefully into the swiftly moving Canadian. As they forded, with the water belly deep on his horse, he considered the situation with the Rangers.
He had assumed they were heading for this ford, so he hadn’t bothered tracking them. Instead, he had ridden hard all day, hoping to catch up with them. But he hadn’t seen them again, and they hadn’t crossed ahead of him, at least not that the old man had noticed.
There were only two possible scenarios. Either they had crossed elsewhere on the river, farther upstream, or they hadn’t arrived here yet.
Crossing farther upstream would make sense if they were riding on a beeline from Fort Perry to Amarillo. On the other hand, Johnson’s Ford was usually only about a foot deep. Judging from the depth of the water here and how rapidly it was running, the Rangers probably had not been able to negotiate the deeper, more narrow fords upstream.
Then it dawned on him. “I’ll be damned.” Not quite to the midpoint of the river, he stopped. “They’re coming downriver. They were gonna cross farther up, but they couldn’t. They’re coming downriver.”
And he’d cut the corner off their route. If they stopped for the night, they wouldn’t be here for another two or three hours.
He turned his horse around and retraced his path back to the north bank. When he splashed out, he walked his horse due north. The old man would think he had forded the river and gone on to Amarillo.
His current path would bring him out a hundred yards west and a quarter-mile north of the cabin. Then he’d turn back east and find a good place to lie in wait.
He took his time, allowing his horse to walk east along the river trail. It would be at least two hours before the Rangers would be here. He’d seen two or three passable ambush sites nearer the cabin, but he’d bypassed those, preferring to find a site at least a mile away.
From that distance, he hoped the cottonwoods and other foliage along the river would deaden the sounds of gunfire, or at least deflect it enough so old Crate wouldn’t be interested. He’d hate to have to kill the old man too.
Talbot didn’t notice the trail was gently ascending as he continued east. For a couple hundred yards around the cabin, it was only a few feet above the level of the river. But here, a mile from the cabin, it was a good eighty feet above the water.
When he was about a mile and a half away from the cabin, ahead of him the trail led over a low rise. There was a sheer dirt cliff to the left and a gradual slope to the right for about thirty yards. Then the land disappeared into the river gorge.
As he approached, Talbot looked at the rise. That might be the perfect place to set an ambush. Riders coming from the other direction would be slower there as they topped over the hill.
He might even set up on the other side of the hill. That way he could catch the Rangers as they were ascending, and the hill itself would deflect the sounds of the gunshots. That would be the way to go. He’d make short work of the Rangers, including his faulty ex-friend. Then afterward he could continue on his way west to—
Just before he topped over the rise, the sound of horses’ hooves suddenly echoed off the wall to his left.
It was too late to rein in, and there was no place to hide. He hoped it was someone else. The Rangers shouldn’t be this far west yet. They couldn’t be.
But they were.
*
The first man he’d seen through his telescope the previous day came around a bend and started up the hill from the other side. The younger rider, the third rider from the day before, was just behind him on his left. Talbot’s old friend,
Morgan Powell, was just behind the leader to his right and pulling even. He was leaning forward and left in the saddle as if he was about to say something to the first man.
At the sight of his ex-friend wearing a Ranger badge, an unbridled rage built in Talbot’s gut and spread outward. His skin seemed to stretch with the force. The right side of his forehead and his right cheek were suddenly on fire again, and it was excruciating.
Without realizing he was doing so, he spurred his horse hard and it broke into a panicked gallop. He put his weight on the stirrups, leaned forward in the saddle, and drew his Remington. As he pulled the hammer to the rear, he yelled, “Powell, you rotten son of a bitch, die!”
He squeezed the trigger, and the Remington exploded and bucked in his hand.
Court’s eyes grew wide when he saw the man break into a gallop and draw his revolver. As the man was bringing his revolver to bear and yelling something about a guy named Powell, Court frowned. He was thinking that a case of mistaken identity could easily cost a man his life. At the same time he was drawing his Colt and leaning low to the left over his horse’s neck.
Behind Court to the left, Stanton had drawn and cocked his Colt and was beginning to level it.
Behind Court to the right, Mason Philby instinctively reached for his Colt, then stopped. He frowned, sat up straight in the saddle and quietly, he said, “Talbot?”
The slug took Philby in the center of the chest, knocking him backward out of the saddle.
Talbot fired again. The bullet scalded a line through the empty space just above Philby’s still oncoming horse.
Court’s first round burned a red line across Talbot’s right cheek.
Stanton’s Colt exploded and the bullet passed a few inches to the right of Talbot’s second shot, tearing a hole through Talbot’s shirt and scalding his shoulder.
Talbot fired again. Then, as he felt the fire in his left shoulder, he pulled hard right on the reins and raced through the scrub oak and creosote bushes.
Court and Stanton reined left and followed him.
Court leveled his Colt and fired, and Talbot flipped forward out of the saddle. He disappeared.
Talbot’s horse had stopped cold. It was covered in lather and trembling.
Court and Stanton slowed their mounts and veered around Talbot’s horse, Court to the left and Stanton to the right. They meant to finish the pursuit and find the gunman, but there was something unusual about the way Talbot’s horse was just standing there.
The Rise of a Warrior Page 16