by M L Dunn
Caleb said he was. He figured he owed Mr. O’Hara more than a couple dollars for having forced him out onto the plain. He went to his saddlebag and took out the purse Allison had given him, which he hadn’t really looked in until now, the contents of which he poured out on a blanket and shifted around with his fingers. He discovered he was worth about one hundred and twenty dollars, most of it paper money. He noticed his pocket watch there and was surprised to find Allison’s wedding ring in the midst. A few dollars and Allison’s ring he held back, but the rest he gave to Sweet Time.
“It ain’t a whole lot, but I can get more,” Caleb told Mr. O’Hara. “I’ve got a good crop coming in this year.”
“You farmers always do,” Sweet Time told him.
“There’s a nice pocket watch in there.”
“I ain’t much for keeping time,” Mr. O’Hara claimed, walking away.
“Looks like you’re keeping mine,” Caleb muttered.
The Kiowa led them to the banks of a dry streambed and then, since it was late in the day, Mr. O’Hara told them they’d camp there that night. The Kiowa left, telling them they’d return the next day with the rest of their band.
“How long do you think it will take us to find the Comanche that stole Mattie?” Caleb asked Mr. O’Hara that night.
“Hard to say, they’ll have to find us, but if we let enough people know we’re out here, word will get back to them sooner or later.”
“We already tried once to trade with these Comanche,” the sheriff, overhearing their conversation, mentioned.
“Thing didn’t go well, I take it,” Sweet Time said, unsurprised.
The sheriff agreed.
“They’re not always easy to deal with.”
“The point is they’ll recognize me and probably Caleb too.”
“Well that does make things more complicated,” Mr. O’Hara claimed. “Might not hurt for you both grow out your beard and hair, make it a little more difficult to recognize you,” he suggested. “There’s no reason they shouldn’t sell your child to me. Stealing captives and selling them back is a business to them just like trading or farming is to us.”
Sweet Time started towards his mules then, starting to whistle Yellow Rose of Texas, but then realized something. He stopped and turned around. “Where’d you get that horse of yours?” he asked Caleb.
“I took it off one of their dead.”
“Then you don’t want to come riding into their camp with it do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Get rid of it then. Someplace where it won’t be discovered.”
That night Caleb rode out of camp on the sheriff’s horse dragging the Comanche pony behind him on a rope. It took him some time to find a spot of grass deep enough to conceal the horse. He had not liked the way Patrick O’Hara had watched him leaving. He slid off the sheriff’s horse, but never let the rope to the Comanche pony slip out of his hand. He’d seen plenty of horses killed during the war, but never had to destroy one himself, especially one that was not even injured. It wasn’t easy, he found.
Off in the distance he spotted a dust devil crossing the plain, sucking up dirt and debris and spitting it out somewhere else. He felt like something similar had gotten hold off his life.
He lifted his pistol and shot the pony between the eyes. It staggered sideways and fell - he shot it again. Then he rode back into camp. He would have to ride in the back of the wagon now.
Late the next day a party of nearly forty Kiowa rendezvoused with them. Mr. O’Hara was glad to see they had pelts and leather goods, even some dollars to trade with and he gladly swapped them Spencer rifles and whiskey for their goods.
While Jonas wondered what might happen to him if it was discovered he’d forced Sweet Time O’Hara out onto the plain to deal in contraband goods – July’s concern was more immediate. Surrounded and outnumbered on the open plain by a band of Kiowa that wanted to trade for whiskey and guns seemed an unenviable position, but Mr. O’Hara was able to keep things friendly, trading with the Kiowa and offering them food and small amounts of liquor and generally letting them put themselves in a good mood.
When they mentioned they were looking for Big Bear, the Kiowa offered various accounts of what had happened. It seemed the band had disintegrated into fragments. Some had gone to the reservation near Fort Sill, while others wandered the area between the Canadians, and the most defiant, the Kiowa claimed, had disappeared into the remotest and most desolate part of the Comancheria where you could never or would ever want to follow.
One young Kiowa tugged on Mr. O’Hara coat and pointed south, claiming he’d seen a group of Comanche headed that way some weeks before. When Sweet Time asked him if a child was with them, the boy nodded after trying to remember.
Mr. O’Hara went to talk with the sheriff then.
“He say how many was in the group?” July asked when Mr. O’Hara repeated what the boy had said.
“More than a half-dozen.”
“That sounds about right,” July said. “And he says they was Comanche?”
“That part he was certain of,” Mr. O’Hara replied. “The rest he might just be telling us what we want to hear.”
“Which direction was they headed?”
“South,” Sweet Time said pointing the same direction as the young Kiowa had.
“Ain’t much to go on,” Jonas said.
“But it’s all we have. I’ll let Caleb know where we’re headed,” July said, heading off to talk with him.
While the Kiowa were visiting, Patrick O’Hara kept his distance from them. He’d once traveled to Kansas City with his father and mother where he saw a man enter a pen of rattlesnakes as part of a carnival. The man moved among the rattlesnakes barefoot, treading slowly, careful not to step on any of the crowded snakes. When they rattled or hissed, the man would stop and slowly back away. Some of the onlookers hoped the man would be bitten, but eventually, to Patrick O’Hara’s relief, the man emerged unharmed. He felt like that man now - the Kiowa stared and pointed at him like he was some curious exhibit. He was not comfortable serving as an object of attention, and he did nothing to attract such notice; employing just the opposite approach - keeping his distance, backing away when they were close, the same way the man with the snakes had.
Chapter 21
Two days after parting company with the Kiowa they reached the banks of the Canadian river. The amount of water sloshing inside their water barrels had begun to concern Sweet Time, so he sent Caleb and the others with buckets to fill at the river’s edge. Where they stood, the river flowed between the open plain and a tall, crumbling bluff. As they worked carrying buckets of river water back to the wagon, they were forced, every few seconds, to swat at some biting insect that wanted a piece of their flesh and Jonas was certain Sweet Time had led them to this particular spot to get back at them some.
Most of that day was spent purifying river water; boiling it, skimming off the top, and stirring it. Then for the next two days they followed somewhat closely the course of the river. Mr. O’Hara favored the open plain a half mile or so away from the river, since they were less likely to surprise some band of Indians or den or outlaws from there. Best if either party gave plenty of notice they were planning on visiting by having to cross a swath of open plain first, he explained.
Then one morning they awoke in the midst of a fog. They rose and went about the routine they had fallen into. Caleb helping feed and hitch up the mules while Jonas helped Joe packing the wagon or greasing the wheels and such. The sheriff helped with the cooking, but only the preparing part, leaving the dirty pots and dishes for Patrick O’Hara to take care of.
Patrick O’Hara was the first to see that they were being watched. He stretched out his arm and pointed at the three figures on the plain and softly called his pa. He seemed particularly incapable just then of speaking, even more than was his usual difficulty.
After conferring with Joe, Mr. O’Hara and Joe walked out towards the Indians. Joe ventured o
ut a little ways from camp with his shotgun and then Mr. O’Hara went on alone, unarmed. He began signaling to them using hand signals, but then spoke to them when he was within shouting distance.
For once the unconcerned manner Joe and Mr. O’Hara displayed out on the plain escaped them. When Sweet Time came back, Caleb learned why; Mr. O’Hara informed them these Indians were different from the other they’d come across - they were Comanche.
Sweet Time quickly gathered up a few items from out the back of the wagon and inviting Joe with him again, they crossed the hundred yards between them. This time he had to walk all the way within reach of them in order to hand them their gifts. Mr. O’Hara spoke with the braves as the fog burned off and their horses pawed the ground. Suddenly the Comanche turned and rode off without the slightest gesture of farewell.
“They’re not from Big Bear’s band,” Mr. O’Hara said coming back looking as relieved as a soldier returning from across a field of battle during a lull, after having delivered a particularly unwelcome message to the enemy. “But they said that Big Bear was camped on the Llano Estacado near the South Canadian a few weeks back.”
“What is the Llano Estacado? Caleb asked.
“It means staked plains,” Sweet Time said not very friendly. He was a little irritable from having had to risk his scalp, and only his, to go and greet the Comanche. “Out here things are named to mean something.”
“Seems like we should have seen some Canadians along this river then,” July joked.
“How far away is the South Canadian?”
“Two, three days.”
It took them half a day to find a suitable place to cross the river, at least in Mr. O’Hara’s opinion – the sheriff thought they had passed several already - and then for two days they headed south. Their course brought them back out on the open plain; away from even the few trees and uneven ground along the river that could be withdrawn to should a threat arise. Caleb was as dutiful scanning the ground ahead with Mr. O’Hara’s binoculars, looking for sign of the Comanche, as was a sailor in the crow’s nest of a ship known to be sailing among dangerous shoals. When they reached the South Canadian, they camped on a large bluff, the wagon able to seen for some distance.
“All of us are starting to smell a little ripe,” Mr. O’Hara announced the next morning when they were gathered around the campfire. “So I won’t charge you for the use of some of my soap.”
Kneeling beside the river, Caleb caught a glimpse of himself in the still water and was surprised by his transformation. He was sun and wind burned and although they ate regularly his face looked thin and gaunt. He’d aged much in a short amount of time.
Both he and the sheriff had let their hair and beards grow out at Mr. O’Hara’s request and looking at his reflection in the water now, Caleb was reminded of John the Baptist in the wilderness. The likelihood that the Comanche would recognize either of them seemed remote.
Mr. O’Hara had given him a wool undershirt to replace the torn and thread-bare clothing, more suitable for a scarecrow, that he’d been wearing. The wool shirt was heavy and meant to be worn underneath another shirt for the cold Colorado nights, but he wore just it and found it comfortable except for the hottest part of the day.
He spotted a heron hunting frogs along the marsh lining the river and he watched the brightly colored bird as it crept slowly among the grass, often disappearing from view for long stretches of time, until tiptoeing back into sight in a manner as though it hoped not to draw attention to itself despite its obvious lack for camouflage. After a while the bird lifted itself slowly into the sky and flew along the course of the river and disappeared. An encouraging omen Caleb thought – for it seemed something beautiful could survive out here and he hoped Mattie would surprise the Comanche similarly.
The next day they saw a solitary rider some distance from them. At first they thought it was the sheriff, who as usual was out away from the wagon, but Patrick O’Hara, who had a fine pair of eyes, said the horse was an Appaloosa - nothing like the sheriff’s. The rider stopped and watched as Mr. O’Hara tried to wave him in, but the rider did not respond to his invitation. Instead, after a couple of minutes of studying them, the rider rode off. All of them assumed, incorrectly, that the wagon didn’t interest him any.
For the next two days they traveled only four or five miles a day, moving westward along the river. Each night they camped where they were easily seen and built a large fire. Caleb thought they might cross paths with a trail herd making its way North and he would have liked to send a letter with them if they was to run into one, but Sweet Time said no outfit would stray this far west if they knew what was good for them. It just so happened the next day, after they had made camp, that Caleb spotted a good number of riders west of them. They were not Indians, he figured, because, although they were far off, he could see they all wore hats. Right then the sheriff and Jonas were not in camp, having ridden out to do some hunting, so Caleb walked over to Mr. O’Hara and told him they were not so far west a trail herd would not cross paths with them, because, Caleb said lifting his arm up to point at them - was part of one.
Mr. O’Hara quickly turned around and stared at the men just a moment before hurrying to the back of the wagon. He grabbed his field glasses and eyed the riders a second time through them, nearly a thousand yards away.
The first thing he discovered was that they were eyeing him right back with their own set of field glasses and seemingly satisfied with their quarry, they spread apart and lined up in a row. Mr. O’Hara counted eleven of them as they started their horses walking in a neat line and sped up to a gallop. He saw their guns in their hands.
“We’re in trouble,” Mr. O’Hara said his hands shaking.
“What’s the matter?” Caleb asked, but Mr. O’Hara was looking around for Joe and ignored him.
“Get your gun!” he told Joe, pointing at the dust cloud coming their way. Mr. O’Hara turned toward Caleb then and looked at him coldly. “Where the hell are your friends?” Then he shouted for his son to come toward him.
Joe ran to the back of the wagon and found his shotgun as he looked at the riders coming on fast. He climbed inside and moved toward the front, so that he was facing the oncoming riders.
Mr. O’Hara kept a pistol handy by the wagon seat and he hurried and grabbed it and fired three shots into the air. He yelled at his son to get his shotgun and hide under the wagon. Caleb grabbed his rifle and slid between the wagon and some crates. The riders were five hundred yards out and coming fast when Caleb fired his first shot and then a second.
Neither hit their mark as the riders slid to the right or left when they saw him aiming at them. It was evident this was not their first time charging an enemy; they were moving fast and pressed down low against their mounts.
July’s back was to the wagon when he heard the three signal shots and he quickly turned his horse around. He’d been watching Jonas trying to frighten a rabbit out of its hole. When July heard Caleb’s rifle just seconds later he spurred his horse back toward camp. At first he did not see the attackers riding toward the wagon because the light was fading and there was a strong wind at their backs that carried their dust along with them like an approaching storm, but then they started firing.
The riders let loose with a barrage of gunfire as they came at the wagon at full sprint. Bullets tore through the wagon, hitting pots and pans, splintering the wood at the front of the wagon and smashing into boxes set on the ground.
The mules began to kick and bray loudly. They were held in place by small ropes tied to a larger rope which extended from the wagon to a stake driven in the ground. One mule was hit. Their braying mixed with the gunfire and beating of the oncoming horses to make a deafening clatter.
Caleb dropped to the ground and fired and this time hit one of the riders, who pulled up as Patrick O’Hara crawled past Caleb and rose up in front of him. He had a knife in his hand and he cut the rope tying the mules to the wagon, freeing them to dart around. The mules were
still tied together, except for two that snapped their lines and rushed towards the riders, causing them to swerve around them. Having done this Patrick O’Hara went to duck under the wagon again, but something slammed him into the wagon and he slumped against a wheel trying to keep himself from slumping to the ground. Caleb reached for him and dragged him under the wagon just as the riders passed by them.
The riders were forced to swing wide around the camp on either side in order to avoid becoming entangled with the string of mules. The mules caused them to pass by much farther out from the wagon than they had wanted and the riders had to keep one eye on them, which helped divert their attention from the men in the camp.
Still, the firing was so intense Caleb did not dare lift his head up. He lay as flat as he could; his face pressed so close to the ground that he breathed dust, while the crates around him were quickly being reduced to kindling. He lifted his gun over his head and fired blindly at the riders just to keep them away some. He managed to pull a crate closer to Patrick O’Hara to protect him.
Joe lay flat in the wagon, not wanting to lift his head up either, but he held his shotgun out the wagon and fired. None of the attackers were hit, but the blasts did keep them wary of riding right up to the wagon and did add plenty to the clamor and confusion. The riders passed by quickly and rode out the other side. A cloud of dust followed them and hung over the camp like a fog.
At full speed July charged toward the riders. He was at a right angle to them and they had not spotted him coming toward them, as they were looking intently toward the camp. The riders deftly brought their horses to a halt and were preparing to charge again as soon as they could reload their pistols. A few emptied their last bullets into the camp to keep the men there cowering.
July was less than hundred yards away when he began firing both handguns while holding his reins in his grip still. The men were lined up in a nice row for him to shoot at and some were caught with empty guns even. He hit two of them before they realized where the shots were coming from. One somersaulted off the back off his horse and fell to the ground. The other just kind of slumped and fell off his horse.