The Trail

by M L Dunn

  Black Horse walked the child down the ravine to Flathead, where Flathead wrapped a blanket around her and led her even further away from the young warriors. He gave her food to eat and set her on the ground wrapped in a blanket, but the girl was exhausted, ate little and fell quickly asleep.

  “Why do you want this child?” Black Horse asked, sitting down next to Flathead.

  “I want to give her to Little Bird.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s given you two sons, let Little Bird have this child for a daughter,” Flathead explained.

  “Why this child?”

  “She reminds me of Little Bird,” Flathead claimed, thinking back to when he had found Little Bird abandoned on the plain years before. “She looks much like her. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t much remember,” Black Horse said, although he did.

  Years before, Flathead had found Little Bird in the back of wagon. He’d spotted some vultures descending from the sky and followed them to the lone wagon sitting on the open plain. After chasing the unsightly birds away, he pulled the flap of the wagon back and found child inside. Her father was in the wagon too, but he’d been dead for a day and the child sat with her hand intertwined with his. Outside the wagon were two small graves - the child’s siblings Flathead figured, and close by was a pile of dirt and brush meant to cover the rotting remains of an ox.

  Flathead left the child there and went and caught several quail. As night fell he built a small fire away from the wagon, close enough though that the child probably sat watching its flames. He roasted the birds, and after filling himself, returned to the back of the wagon and threw some meat inside. The child reached for it and began eating so he figured whatever sickness had befallen the rest of her family had spared this child - maybe for a reason.

  The next day, he scouted the area, and found where two people, a few days to a week before, had walked out on foot. One set of prints belonged to that of a woman, the other a child. When he returned to the wagon, he found the vultures sat atop it now. He chased them off and found the child huddling inside. It took some effort to coax her out - he did not care to enter the wagon himself - but after she emerged he set her astride his horse. With a dying ember from his fire he set the wagon ablaze.

  Little Bird dyed her hair black now and her skin was tanned as dark as any Comanche, but Black Horse did remember how she’d looked when she’d first come among them. She would like to have a girl Black Horse knew, and a white child that reminded Flathead of her seemed a promising choice.

  When the young warrior, Owl Feather had sent back to look for sign that they were being followed, returned, it was dark and only Owl Feather remained awake. The woman still lay in the grass and Flathead and Black Horse and the child were camped a ways down the ravine. The night air was cool and the young warrior thought there might be a small fire going, but Owl Feather hadn’t allowed one.

  “See anything?” Owl Feather asked, but the warrior shook his head and Owl Feather nodded and lay down to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  July and the others were able to follow the Comanche until dark, but then the wind picked up and covered their prints. Their horses were near ruin and Sam Bartlett pleaded with him to stop and rest the horses, but the sheriff wouldn’t allow it. They did for a while walk the horses, but then July told them to remount and they started off briskly again, riding apart, looking for some sign of the Comanche. Not long afterwards Steam Carter’s horse stumbled and fell, throwing Steam to the ground.

  “You all right?” July asked circling back around toward him.

  “Yeah,” Steam said standing and dusting himself off.

  “I doubt you could get that horse to rise,” Sam Bartlett said riding up with Caleb and the deputy. “Maybe, but even then another mile would kill it. All these horses need rest or we’ll be walking back.”

  “If we don’t find them soon we never will,” July said. “I suspect there around here somewhere and we’ve got till morning to find them Comanche before they start off again.”

  “We could rest these horses awhile and pick up their trail come morning. We would catch up to them in a couple of days, a week at the most,” Sam offered.

  “We’re not outfitted to keep after them for a week, or even a couple of days,” July said. “There better mounted than us and likely to split up or they might suddenly change direction to throw us. We need to catch them soon and if we have to kill a horse or two so be it,” July argued upsetting Sam Bartlett.

  July stood for a moment, thinking. “All right Sam, you and Steam stay here and rest your horses. If you don’t hear from us by noon tomorrow, start back towards the High Water and find them hands and lead them after us. Me, Caleb and Tom will keep going.”

  They parted company. July leading them a slow pace for the next mile as he tried to decide if they should head straight towards the Cimarron or scour the nearby area looking for the Comanche camped for the night. They rode in silence; the only sounds that of the wind and the labored breathing of the horses. Then Tom’s horse buckled and fell over like a timbered tree. Tom’s ankle was caught underneath the horse as it fell and July hurried over to help him.

  “You hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Tom said.

  July walked back over to Caleb. “That’s it for Tom’s horse. It can’t go any further tonight,” he told him. “I thought them High Water hands would have caught up to us by now,” he said looking at the darkness behind them. “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care to come along,” Caleb said sliding off his horse.

  “They’re coming. Mr. Schott would gladly send some men after us,” July said. “It’s possible we passed the Comanche in the dark. Aaron Hilliard’s Morgan wouldn’t be able to keep pace with their ponies unless they slowed down considerably and we haven’t seen sign of it being left behind.”

  “I don’t know,” Caleb said.

  “I don’t think my horse could make it much further either,” July said looking at his horse. “It’s still a ways to the Cimarron I guess, but that pony of yours can make it there. It will be light in a couple hours. If the Comanche are there they won’t be after sun up.”

  “I’ll make it there,” Caleb said, remounting his horse.

  July grabbed his arm. “If you want lend me your horse and I’ll go. You can stay with Tom.”

  “No, I’ll go.”

  “They’re probably camped next to the river,” July said. “They probably figure we’ve turned back by now. If you find them, hide yourself and throw some shots into their camp and they’ll probably run off and leave Mattie behind.”

  “All right.”

  “I sure would feel better if you’d let me take your horse.”

  “No,” said Caleb sliding atop his horse. “I’ll go.”

  “I mean it,” July said. “Let me do this for you.”

  “No,” Caleb said. “Like you said they might be around here, maybe you’ll spot them come morning.”

  July watched Caleb start away before looking around. A small sandy ridge about the height and width of a small house stood dark and sinister in the dim moonlight nearby.

  “Let’s head over to that ridge,” July told Tom, pointing at it. “Maybe we can see something from there.”

  He hobbled Tom’s horse where it lay, poured some water from his canteen into his palm and let the animal drink. He did this for a full minute and then he and Tom walked over to the ridge. July pulled the saddle off his horse and let it drink and then they climbed to the top of the ridge and took a long look around, but saw nothing. July said they should rest then, and Tom spread his blanket out near the top of the ridge hoping to catch more of a breeze there.

  Chapter 9

  Tom Durrant was awakened. The sun was just about to appear on the horizon and the plain was just beginning to become distinguishable from the darkness covering it. Soon he would be able to see a fair distance. Something making a commotion nearby had woken him. He’d been h
aving a nice dream of home and wanted to go back to it, but he slept neither often nor deeply on the open plain and the little amount of noise had disturbed him. Figuring the sheriff would want him awake before the sun rose; he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and found two small yellow birds studying him. The birds seemed to be looking at him with a jaundiced eye - if a bird was capable of such a thing. Satisfied they flew off, executing sharp and acrobatic turns and diving at each other. They sat on opposite bushes some distance from him before setting off again and the deputy’s eyes followed them as they darted further away. Beyond where the birds disappeared from view, he saw something move, but lost sight of it, like a fish seen darting through deep water. He rubbed his eyes and waited for the light to grow and when he spotted the Indians, he went to wake the sheriff.

  Tom poked at the sheriff with his finger like you would a man you suspect is dead. The first time he had ever woken the sheriff from a deep sleep the sheriff had reflexively reached for his weapon. July’s eyes opened.

  “They’re here,” Tom said softly, pointing over the ridge.

  At first July thought he meant the High Water hands, or maybe Steam Carter and Sam Bartlett, but then he realized his deputy meant the Comanche. July rose quickly and crept up the ridge after Tom to lay down flat on his belly and look where Tom was indicating more than a thousand yards away. The sheriff could make out figures moving, but they were just blurry images.

  “I can’t see very well that far,” July told Tom, “Can you make out Mrs. Hilliard or Mattie Evans there.”

  “I see a child there,” Tom said after a moment “I don’t see Mrs. Hilliard.”

  “If we had known they was there last night we could have easily have jumped them.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Best thing we could do now is just approach them slowly, and see if we could trade for Mattie Evans and Mrs. Hilliard if she’s there,” July said.

  “You wanna just go up to them?” Tom asked concerned.

  “We’ll be fine if they think there is something to be gained,” July explained. “I’ve done it before, although I admit I wish there were more than just the two of us.”

  He asked Tom how he’d come to spot the Comanche, and his deputy explained some birds had woken him.

  “Good job spottin em,” July said as the boy started down the ridge and then began rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously. “I used to have eyes like yours,” July said following Tom down the hill, thinking a little conversation might help. “What kind of birds was it that woke you?”

  “Meadowlarks.”

  “Them are pretty birds,” July said. “I wouldn’t have thought meadowlarks would be found out here.”

  “They’re just passing through,” Tom said, probably remembering he’d meant to do likewise.

  Tom Durant had left his parent’s home two springs before with a singular goal in mind – to arrive in Boston before fall so he could study medicine at the university there. Though he’d set out east from Indiana, somehow he’d ended up more west from his destination than from where he’d started. Somehow he found himself in Kansas, at a particularly dusty and desolate part of it, prepared to carry out his current duties which presently required him to face hostile Indians that he had no personal grudge against. He just couldn’t understand how he had let this happen to him.

  July knew he’d played some part in it, and he wished, right then, he could rectify it by putting the boy on an east bound train. The boy spent little of his pay saving to make the trip. That spring, the boy had found a valuable stallion that had slipped away from Mr. Schott. He spent most of his free time for several days scouring the plain for it and when he found it he returned it to Mr. Schott, and was generously rewarded.

  July turned down the boy’s offer of half the reward money and now Tom had nearly enough money to get him to Boston. Until then July had not wanted the boy to go. He’d even been working on persuading him not to, at least for a while yet. July was fond of whiskey and gambling, of whores and swearing; things Tom would never indulge in and something about partnering with him lent July a sense of integrity and honor. July thought about leaving Tom behind on the ridge, but he needed him for real just then, and besides the boy wouldn’t have wanted it.

  Looking toward where he had hobbled Tom’s horse the night before, July saw the horse standing again and looking recovered. July asked how Tom’s ankle was and upon learning it was healed as well he told Tom to hurry and bring his horse over. While Tom led the horse back, the sheriff could make the boy’s lips moving in prayer. July, though his parents had brought him up to pray each morning, night and over every meal, had long ago thought he and his Creator had come to some kind of understanding and that nothing more needed to pass between them.

  “Cinch it tight,” July directed Tom saddling his horse. “Go pee if you have to.”

  “I did already.”

  “I’d better too,” July said heading off to do that. “Check your loads.”

  Minutes later they were leading their horses around the ridge into the open as the sun rose behind them. It would have been easy to dismiss the idea that just the two of them should approach the Comanche, and should instead wait for Mr. Schott and his men, but July doubted they’d get a second chance.

  As he and Tom moved toward them, July slipped his extra revolver behind his back. They were spotted while still some distance off and they watched as the Comanche gathered their horses and stood next to them holding on to their ropes tightly, but they did not flee or attack. After looking at one another and back at the two men approaching, they began to spread out along the ravine to wait.

  July kept on coming closer until one of the Comanche signaled for him to stop when they were about twenty paces apart. Tom stood just behind him holding tightly to the reins of his horse.

  The sheriff counted nine Comanche well fanned out along the ravine, most of them hidden behind their ponies. Two more were considerably farther down the ravine, which cut a wide trough two feet below the rest of the plain and Mattie Evans stood between them. That made for eleven. The Comanche held their lances and bows at the ready, and two of them carried rifles, although both rifles were just single shot. Some of them had smeared war paint on their faces.

  July could see her breathing, her eyes open, but Mrs. Hilliard lay motionless in the middle of the ravine, and seemingly was not aware that he was there to rescue her.

  Most Comanche understood some Spanish the sheriff believed, and he pointed at Mrs. Hilliard and Mattie Evans and asked to trade for them, patting his horse to demonstrate he’d give them it as his part of the exchange. He pointed at Tom’s horse too and carefully patted the butt of his rifle. Probably more generous than he needed to be, but July wanted things to go as smoothly as possible. The leader of the Comanche seemed eager to accept his proposal, nodding his head, but still he turned and walked all the way to where the two Comanche by Mattie Evans stood, while the others waited and shifted about uneasily.

  Looking on, it seemed, inexplicably, one of the two near Mattie Evans did not want to return her. The brave stood shaking his head at the other two, but they seemed to wave him off. Soon the Comanche leader came back down the ravine signaling that a deal had been struck.

  July led his horse into the ravine, dropped the reins on the ground and starting removing his saddle and things and motioned for Tom to do the same. Tom brought his horse closer. Soon the sheriff had removed his saddle and withdrew his rifle from its scabbard and handed it to the Comanche leader, who began looking it over. July pointed at Mr. Hilliard’s horse and indicated he’d like it back, and the leader of the Comanche seemed happy for him to take it off his hands.

  “Go get that Morgan,” July ordered Tom as he started towards Rebecca Hilliard.

  As he approached her, she lifted her eyes to consider him, but she either did not recognize him or because of what the young warriors had done to her - she sprang up and began running.

  “No,” July said.
“I’m gonna take you home,” he said dropping his saddle and chasing after her. “It’s over. It’s all over, we’ll have you home soon.”

  July caught her arm and Rebecca Hilliard fell to her knees and started to sob as the sheriff took his coat off, placed it around her torn clothing and stood patting her shoulder. She was sunburned and had bruises about her face and back and several cuts along her arms and legs from having been drug through the sharp grass. Her wrists were still bound by leather strips and July cut them off with his knife before starting down the ravine toward Mattie Evans, who looked tired, but unharmed. July motioned for her to come to him, but then hearing something behind him he turned back around and saw Tom engaged in a wrestling match with two young Comanche near the Morgan horse.

  A third warrior joined in and the three of them pinned Tom to the ground. They soon released him, but stood over him, shoving him when he tried to get up. July shouted in Spanish for the Comanche leader to keep his warriors in line as Tom knocked one of the young warrior’s hands away and brought the warrior to the ground.

  The fight might have ended then if Tom had not struck out at another of them, but he did and soon the three Comanche had him pinned to the ground again. July started towards them. The dispute had escalated, punches were thrown and when the sheriff saw one of the warriors unsheathe a knife - he drew his pistol and fired.

  The bullet nicked the brave’s shoulder, striking just where the July had intended and the young brave fell back gripping his shoulder, but not seriously injured. July thrust his hands skyward to show he wanted no more trouble and had only wanted to prevent his deputy from being cut. Making eye contact with each warrior in turn seemed to demonstrate his intention, but turning he caught a brave pulling back the string of his bow.