Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “That’s Yellow Flower,” Sam said, motioning to her, and they all sat down. “She’s half Delaware, half Cherokee, and mean as a badger.” He ducked when she went past him with butter and a knife for the bread. Then he laughed and, over a smile, she made a put-out face at him.

  “Coffee will be done soon,” she announced.

  Ed thanked her. They pitched into bowls of potatoes, gravy, and sliced, smoked ham. Ed savored her sourdough bread and the pale, winter butter. The sweet sourness filled his mouth and he savored each bit, then he filled his plate.

  Conway had begun asking questions about Heartkiller’s place between bites.

  “It’s a two-story house and a big barn. Used to belong to a chief. Was a fine place back then. He had slaves. There’s a patch of timber behind it and we can come up through it.”

  “Can we in the dark?” Conway asked, pointing his fork at Sam. “What about dogs?”

  “I got a bitch we can take with us that will take them damn dogs out of the country chasing her.” Sam grinned at the notion of his plan.

  “Just so they don’t warn them,” Conway said.

  Sam dismissed his concern with a head shake. “They won’t.”

  “That bunch might fight like wildcats,” Brown said. “They don’t have much to lose ’cept hanging.”

  Ed heard it all. His mind was in Texas, wondering how they were going along getting ready for the drive. As much as he dreaded it, he felt consumed to make this the safest drive he ever took. Damn, it would have been lots easier staying drunk in San Antone. What did he say? Sam had said something and he was so busy feeding his face that he’d missed it.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Ed said to Sam.

  Beside him, Brown wiped his mouth on a kerchief and then whispered, “He said that three of them outlaws came by, jumped his wife, and gang-raped her while he was gone to Kansas two weeks ago.”

  Ed nodded at Sam to show that he’d heard what he said, and shook his head. Jerky was right—they were a shit-pot load of worthless humanity. He could recall that first night Dave Ivy came by his place, when tin cans were all plinking with water from roof leaks, and him talking so big about cattle drives to Kansas. He had a score to settle, as much as the man behind the full beard with his coal-dark eyes staring off at the far wall. Eating at his guts—like it did his own.

  “The plan is to get up after midnight, ride over there, and be in place at first light,” Conway said, looking around the table at them.

  Ed agreed with the others about the plan. Three tough men who no doubt had been under fire before with him. They’d take the Bradys if all went well.

  Chapter 15

  At midnight the rain started. A cold drizzle was falling when Sam hissed them awake like the outlaws might hear him. The three of them had been asleep in his shed on some hay. The horses in the pen were gathered with a candle lamp and saddled under the shed. Ed used his slicker to keep the saddle dry while he ate and looped the reins over the yard fence, then splashed through some puddles to wipe his feet off on the porch. Too dark for a bat to see, he decided except for the lamps inside.

  “Morning,” he said to Yellow Flower, hesitant to walk on her rugs, which he knew were laid over the dirt floor.

  “Come in,” she said, and held the door open for the others.

  “I want to pay you for our food, too,” he said.

  She shook her head, but he insisted she take two dollars. At last she forced a smile, accepted it, and closed the door after Brown, who was the last one to come in. “I will buy some new hens with this money. A coon’s been killing mine.”

  “Fine. Thanks for all you’ve done for us.”

  She nodded and hurried off to get the breakfast on the table.

  They ate in silence as if the task ahead, along with the wet weather, had dampened their spirits. It was no time to wait—the outlaws might already have word that a marshal was in the area. Conway had explained that to him coming up—word of a lawman’s presence was telegraphed around quickly once he arrived in a district.

  After the big meal they thanked Yellow Flower and went outside for their horses. Sam, in a poncho and great felt hat, got the small gyp and carried her on the saddle across his lap. He rode in the lead. The light drum of the rain reminded Ed of the war and marching in Mississippi. Blacker days for him even than the cattle drives; his life had become a pattern of burying folks that he liked. Rangers, soldiers, drovers; he’d done those details, and now they were on another campaign in the darkest night he could ever recall. Rain ran off his hat brim.

  Hours later, after crossing small, gurgling streams and winding through the wooded hills, they reached a place where Sam told them to dismount and hitch their animals. It was hard to tell where they were. Ed could see little of the outline of the post oaks close to him. The rain slacked some, but a wet mist on the growing wind swept his face and he shivered from the penetrating cold, even under the coat and slicker.

  “Sam’s going to bait their dogs off with his gyp,” Conway said. “Then we can move in and be ready for first light. Cloudy as it is, that may be late too.”

  Ed and Brown agreed. From the scabbard, Ed slid out the .44/40 Winchester and listened. In a short while he heard dogs fighting in the distance, and then he listened as the gyp led the merry pack after her, over the hill for home.

  “Sam had scent he put on her,” Brown said.

  “I figured so,” Ed agreed and nodded, wishing the time for it to get light would come up. They went single file, picking their way after Conway. He stopped them at the edge of the woods and the close-cropped hay field.

  “Ed, you take the barn and corrals and cut them off from their horses. Sam, Brown, and I can take the house.”

  “Keep your head down,” Ed said after them. Rifle in his hands, he hurried downhill to the tall, once-white barn that showed up in the inky night. Must be getting closer to light. He eased the side walk-through door open with a creak and was inside the barn’s dark interior that smelled of musty hay. That and the sharper whang of horse urine filled his nose as he stood in the darkness, listening to grunting horses sleeping at the tie racks. He felt grateful to be out of the wind and rain.

  After hours of waiting, by his mental clock, dull light began to spread over the ridge and open pasture. He could see the second story of the house under the hill. Gunshots began to pop and the shooting sounded fierce. Did they need some backup? Conway wanted him to block anyone escaping—maybe he should turn the horses out; then they’d be harder to catch and ride off. More shots.

  He decided to take a look and left the barn. On the brink of the slope, he saw a man running away from the house.

  “Stop,” he shouted, cocking the rifle and drawing it up.

  “Hell with you—”

  Ed threw the butt to his shoulder, squeezed the trigger, and the muzzle blast of black powder swept his eyes. The outlaw went down. More shots inside diverted his attention. Someone was moaning that they were shot. He could hear a turkey gobbling, but it wasn’t a real one.

  The bearded face of Sam came to the back door and waved for him to hurry to the house. The big man was jamming cartridges into a six-gun and spilling some on the floor in his haste.

  “Ain’t good. Conway’s been shot and I don’t know where Brown is at. Two of them’s dead, but I don’t think the Bradys are here. Bo’s upstairs, barricaded in,” Sam said in a coarse whisper, and spun the cylinder to check his work.

  “How bad’s Conway?” Ed asked.

  Sam shook his head. “He’s laying on the stairs. I can’t tell, and Bo shot at me every time I tried.”

  “You keep him pinned down. I’ll get Conway off the stairs and see if we can do anything for him. You figure they got Brown too?”

  “Jesus, I can’t tell. It all happened so fast.”

  “Easy,” Ed said. “Cover me. I’ll get Conway.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Rifle in his arms, Ed stood against the wall and listened for a sound. Nothing. Whe
n he dared to stick his head around the doorway, a shot splintered the pine facing and fragments stung his face. Sam moved past him, took aim at the top of the stairs, and fired.

  “Now!”

  Ed broke past him through the eye-tearing, acrid gun smoke and saw Conway sprawled on his back halfway up the steps. He ignored the ear-shattering next shot Sam made to contain Bo. In a scramble, he reached the marshal and shouldered his limp body. Overbalancing, he caught the side of the wall and righted himself at the last second before falling with Conway. Then, quick as he could, he rumbled down the steps in his wet boots and ducked into the kitchen. There he sprawled the still lawman out on the table.

  “Is he alive? Is he alive?” Sam asked, keeping guard at the door.

  Ed felt for his pulse under his chin. Nothing. “No.”

  “Sumbitch—you sumbitch, Bo. I’ll get you, you little stinking bastard!”

  “Easy,” Ed said, putting his hand on the big man’s shoulder and listening to the turkey call again. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Cherokee death call. He’s saying ‘I am ready to die or kill you—come on, get me.’ ”

  Ed removed his six-gun to check the loads. “Cover me. I’m going up there.”

  Sam caught him by the shoulder. “We can burn him out. Burn the whole goddamn place down—him too.”

  “No. Brown, or his body, is in here someplace. So is Conway’s. They deserve a burial.”

  “That no-good devil upstairs—he ain’t worth dying over.”

  “I’m going to try. Cover me till I’m near the top of the stairs.”

  “You’re crazy—”

  “Cover me.”

  “I will.”

  “Bo, it’s your last chance to give up,” Ed shouted.

  His answer was a wavering gobble.

  Ed rushed across the room and slammed his shoulder to the wall at the base of the staircase. Gun ready, he watched the head of the stairs. Before proceeding, he shared a grim nod with Sam. Then he made his first step, the grit on his soles sounding loud. Step by step he advanced until he was at the head of the stairs and could peer down the hall. A familiar prone body lay on the pine flooring in the hallway—Brown’s. A thin, bitter gun-smoke haze filled the narrow passageway. The first doorway was open. . . . Then the gobble came again and Ed knew his man was in the back bedroom on the right.

  How to approach him? Bo’d be triggered on the open doorway. Somehow Ed needed to distract him for a moment. Nothing, nothing came to his imagination. Cap’n, where are you? In his grave under a granite stone, where he belonged. He had passed away in his sleep after a long career of law enforcement.

  If he knew where in the room Bo was stationed—no help. He gritted his molars and switched hands with his gun to dry his palm on his pants. Then a notion came—toss the slicker in the room as a ruse and then come, guns ablazing. The only way he could throw it in was with his left hand. Then he must bring his right around to shoot at Bo. He’d only get one chance.

  The Colt stuck in his waistband, he shucked the slicker as quietly as he could. His stare glued on the doorway, he balled the slicker up and held it in his left hand. Slow like he tiptoed closer—then Bo gobbled. He moved and threw the slicker into the room.

  The blast he expected came. Instantly, he stepped into the doorway, standing sideways, making his first shot at anything. Bringing the muzzle up, he cocked and aimed at a snarling face in the veil of smoke. The vision disappeared and he shot again into the gray fog. His ears rang so loudly they pierced his thoughts.

  Bo was down and what Ed had on was burning—his wool shirt was afire. He could smell it. He shoved the gun in his waistband and raised his left arm. The smoke was coming from that side as he beat it out with his palm, but the bullet had missed him.

  “You all right?” Sam was in the doorway, gun ready.

  Ed backed up against the door facing and nodded woodenly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You got Bo,” Sam said, kneeling by the outlaw’s body. “He won’t rape no one else’s wife.” Rising, he gave the still body a swift kick. “Sumbitch, you—”

  “I count four outlaws. One I shot running off is in the yard—”

  “Naw, there’s five. One more dead in this other bedroom,” Sam said from across the hall. “Damn, I hate it about Brown. He was a good guy. Best horse breaker in the country.”

  “I hate worse telling his widow. She warned him about this happening.”

  “That’s the trouble with being married to a damn squaw. They can tell your fortune.” Sam had his hat off and was scratching his head. “Guess I better get an ax.”

  “What for?”

  “There’s a reward for all these guys. We need to put their heads in gunnysacks and you can deliver them to Judge Parker.”

  “Me?”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, they’d never believe me. But I’d split it with you.”

  “How much reward?”

  “I don’t know what they got Bo’s up to, but I’d bet it’s close to two hundred for him alone.”

  “I’ll need their names.” He holstered his six-gun and caught Bo by a bare foot. He dragged him and followed Sam, who tossed the other outlaw down the stairs. Then the big man scooped up Bo with a roar in his throat. Sam raised him over his head to toss like something he detested off the top of the stairs, and he crashed on the floor below.

  “Now we better carry Brown down,” Ed said, realizing that anger still raged in the big man.

  Sam agreed, and they packed him down to the kitchen to lay him on the kitchen floor. Straightening, Sam shook his head. “Been a helluva day, and we missed them damn Bradys.”

  Ed nodded. “They’ve lit a shuck by now. Was she here?”

  “Guess not. You and me can share the loot and horses, huh?”

  “What’s legal?”

  “Kinda unspoken. The marshals get their horses and the money in their pockets that ain’t loot.”

  Ed shook his head and grinned, amused at him. “How do you tell that?”

  “Well, like if it was in a strongbox or money bag, then they turn it in. The rest is theirs.”

  “If I take their heads in, I want to split the reward between you and Brown’s woman. She’ll need it.”

  “What about you? You came a long ways and offered to pay all of this . . . Lordy, you gave her two dollars for food.”

  “I’m all right. You split with Brown’s widow what you get for the horses, saddles, and guns, and bury the bodies.”

  “I’ll do that. What about Brown and Conway?”

  “I’m going to wrap them up. I’ll take Brown by his widow, and Conway to Fort Smith. He deserves a hero’s burial.”

  “They was sure brave.”

  Ed closed his eyes and nodded his head. “They were.” Like all the rest he’d buried—too damn brave.

  Chapter 16

  Ed rode up and stretched his sore back. The dogs were raising enough hell that he knew she could hear them. He’d been in the saddle all night and his eyes felt full of sand when she cracked the door and looked past him.

  Ed dropped heavily from the saddle and held the horn to get his sea legs working.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, wrapping a blanket tight around her.

  With a knot in his throat he turned to face her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh,” she shrieked. “I told him not to go! Goddamn you!”

  He caught her fist before she struck him and ducked a foot aimed for his shin. “Hold on. He made the choice, not me.”

  Her sinewy wrists in his grasp, he strained to contain her attack.

  “You—you killed him.” A mask of fiery madness faced him as she squirmed and twisted to free herself. Cuss words rolled off her dark lips as she strained and groaned.

  “Stop! He’s dead. This won’t bring him back.”

  She collapsed to her knees in defeat. He did the same to hold her in case it was a ploy and she went back into the mad business.

  Her large brown eye
s began to flood. Her lower lip curled against her teeth and she began to sob. He reached around her and hugged her. “I’m sorry. He was a very brave man. The ones who killed him are dead.”

  She straightened, wiped the tears off one high cheek, and nodded. “His friend—the marshal?”

  “Dead too.”

  “Where will you take him?”

  “I’m taking Conway to Fort Smith.”

  In the weak sunshine, he dropped back on his heels. “You want me to help you bury him?”

  “No. I will dress him and call my people in to help me. I don’t want any bad spirits in his grave with him.” She looked at her hands and wrung them.

  “There are some rewards—some of their horses that Sam Belham will sell and bring you the proceeds, half of them. I will have the federal rewards split between you too.”

  She pushed the long, raven black hair back from her face and then nodded to indicate she’d heard his words. “I don’t even know your name?”

  “Ed Wright.”

  “I am Bird Woman, Ed Wright. I would fix you some food.”

  He shook his head. “No. If you’re all right, I must ride on hard for Fort Smith.”

  She struck her breasts with a fist. “I have a big hole in my heart, but I will be fine.”

  Ed rose, dug out the money they’d taken from the pockets of the outlaws that he’d split with Sam.

  “Here’s twenty-three dollars and some change,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “God be with you.”

  The money tied in a bandanna in one hand, she nodded in approval, holding her fingertips to the spot he had kissed. “May the Gods go with you, Ed Wright.”

  “I’ll need help,” he said, checking his cinch, then mounting Baldy. With a nod he reined the horse around, reached out and caught the lead to Conway’s horse bearing his canvas-wrapped corpse, and started out.

  When he looked back she still held the reins to her husband’s bay and waved to him. He booted Baldy into a trot. It was a long ways to Ellie Schaffer’s and he rode with dread in his heart over that meeting. Why him?