Red River Rifles (Wilderness Dawning—the Texas Wyllie Brothers Series Book 1)

by Dorothy Wiley

  Before departing Kentucky, his father had gifted his large cattle operation and his land to his two daughters and their husbands, knowing their children would need the land to survive. Land in Kentucky, especially acreage large enough to support cattle operations, had grown expensive and scarce. But Stephen believed he was quite capable of acquiring more land for himself and his four sons. They just had to be willing to go get it.

  And they did. On a peninsula formed by a loop of the Red River, they claimed six square miles. To the south, a fork of Pecan Bayou marked their southern boundary. In between these two waterways, monstrous trees stood like stoic giants, taller than any he’d seen in Kentucky or Louisiana.

  As soon as they arrived at Pecan Point, the seven of them built a sturdy home for themselves and one for the Grants. Then they’d built a sizable shed for the horses with a room above and a spring house. In this land of dugouts and rickety shacks, their large log cabins with wrapped around porches were actually quite grand.

  Some of the settlement’s other first arrivals were Indian traders intent on profiting off the steady influx of new settlers and from trading with the Indians. If the traders were not poachers, they were not killed by the Indians. In fact, approved traders were even encouraged by the Indians.

  But profiting from trade was not Samuel’s intention. He intended to earn a living, as his father had successfully done in Kentucky, from raising and selling cattle. He merely wanted and needed grazing land for their cattle.

  There were a lot of reasons behind his father’s decision to leave Kentucky with his four sons. The most important one was that everywhere his father turned at their Wyllie Cattle Farm, located north of the Cumberland River, there were reminders of Samuel’s mother, Jane. Those reminders were like a millstone hanging from his father’s neck. His father still loved Jane deeply and everyone knew he could never be completely happy again until he left and started a new life free of bittersweet remembrances.

  His father also wanted to acquire more land for his sons. And the northernmost part of the Province of Texas, with its vast prairies and endless hills, offered land just for the taking. The very fact that it was a favorite grazing spot for buffalo proved that it would make first-rate cow country. The only problem was that where buffalo were, Indians were close on their hides. They’d also read that immense herds of wild cattle and horses roamed the Great Plains and there was a large market for them in the thriving trading centers located at Natchitoches and Nacogdoches.

  But there was one more reason for their leaving. And it was the reason his parents had migrated in the first place, before Samuel was even born, from New England to Kentucky. Stephen Wyllie was a man who would always be tempted by the call of adventure. As other men were tempted by women, strong drink, gambling, or other vices, his father was seduced by the unknown. It wasn’t merely the land that called to him. It was the quest, the journey, the excitement of a new venture.

  As for himself, Samuel needed no other inducement to come to the Province but the urge to go—to see the next prairie, the next mountain, the next river. He liked to think it was the same spirit his parents had as they crossed the Alleghenies. They said he’d been conceived on their thousand-mile journey to Kentucky. Maybe that was the reason he was always eager to see new places. And why he embraced being a cattleman rather than a farmer because he could never be content to plow a few acres. He needed wide open spaces.

  He needed the West.

  So they had come to the Province on their own initiative and bore their own expenses. When they arrived, there were no agents or Spanish officials authorized to convey titles to put them in legal possession of their land. Each settler simply appropriated the land he preferred by marking his boundary trees, making notes of the waterways and or other landmarks, building a dwelling, and making other improvements. Thus, six months ago, between Pecan Point and Pecan Bayou they had claimed four-thousand acres, the amount normally allotted for a family.

  It was his father’s intention to give each of his four sons a thousand acres whenever they married. But their life at the settlement left little room for romanticism. It was a life that tended toward realism.

  For Samuel, the prospect of marriage held little interest even though he was twenty-one and well past the age most men married. His fathers and brothers needed him, and he intended to stay with them at least until his youngest brother, Steve, put in a few more years and grew a few more inches.

  For a minute, he watched a low fog creep into the riverbed. Then he turned the wagon toward home, only about a hundred yards away, to swap it for Samson, his big-hipped gelding. When he arrived at the horse shed, he hurriedly unhitched the wagon team and then let his father know he had finished the burial and was about to go out to join Thomas to watch over their herd.

  “Eat breakfast first,” his father said glancing up from the letter he was writing to his brothers in Kentucky. “I don’t think we’ll have any further trouble from the Indians during daylight.”

  “I’ll just check on Thomas first and afterward I’ll come back to eat.”

  His father nodded. “I sent Cornelius and Steve to sharpen the scythes and then to cut grass for a couple hours. We need to stockpile fodder before winter hits us hard.”

  “It will be our first full winter here,” Samuel said. “Wonder how much snow we’ll get.”

  “Less than Kentucky, I believe, but the winds may blow even colder.”

  Samuel stepped outside where it was still warm in September. Steve, who took care of their horses, had already let them all out to graze on their grassy, hillside paddock next to their shed. Their brood mare foraged while followed by her little long-legged filly. Soon, before winter, the foal would need to be weaned. Sired by their father’s stallion, George, the filly would likely become a fine horse. Steve was going to enjoy raising and training her.

  He whistled and Samson raised his head. The gelding’s red coat glowed in the morning light and he flicked his tail and tossed his mane before walking toward him. More like a good friend than a mere mount, he loved that horse and he grinned as Samson presented his muzzle for a rub.

  Samuel hefted a saddle onto Samson’s back and within minutes, he rode south toward the pasture behind their home where their cattle would be grazing. Riding helped to empty his mind of his morose morning task. A light wind brushed against his face and stirred the branches of tall pines and the grass on meadows where few, if any, white men had trod before his family settled here. Only deer, buffalo, and natives.

  Their cattle, both those they brought with them and the cows they’d caught roaming free, grazed on the abundant grass. They’d purchased some of the cattle, about fifty head, in Louisiana. The sturdy cows were descended from Mayflower stock, or so the man who sold them said. Some of the others were Louisiana breeds of French origin.

  The rest of the cows, another two hundred and fifty head, they’d caught running wild. These were likely descended from cattle brought to Mexico by Spaniards and then abandoned to multiply over decades. Unbranded, they were what his father called “slicks.” After ensuring that they didn’t belong to any of the locals, he and his brothers branded them as their own. A brand was the cattleman’s equivalent to a coat of arms. Their distinctive brand, a W with a horseshoe shape in the middle of it, distinguished their cattle and horses from another man’s.

  Regardless of their origins, the cattle were all fat and fleshy with stomachs as round and curvy as large barrels. The bred cows were often so wide they walked sluggishly with their bellies swaying from side to side. It was no wonder since the calves they carried around in those bellies often weighed about seventy-five pounds at birth. Out of a large, mature cow, calves sometimes even weighed ninety pounds.

  Like David in the Bible, one day Samuel hoped his Red River Cattle Company would have cattle upon a thousand hills. Well, perhaps a hundred would be more reasonable, he decided. The grass was good and water plentiful, so he guessed it was possible. It even seemed likely as he admir
ed some pretty, fat calves playing together in the tall grass.

  He rode up to Thomas and joined him.

  “About time you got here,” Thomas said.

  “Had to bury those Indians we killed.”

  Thomas nodded gloomily. “I should’ve helped you, but, I couldn’t wake up this morning. I didn’t sleep well. When I woke up, you were already gone, and Father sent me out here.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Yup. Kept seeing all those Indians sneak up.”

  “There were only six of them,” Samuel pointed out. Raiding parties tended to be small since their intent was horses, not battle.

  “That was six too many as far as I’m concerned.”

  Samuel pointed toward their herd. The strong rays of the morning sun had already burned off all the fog. Sunrays now lit the backs of the cows and made the dew-covered grass they munched on sparkle like thousands of tiny stars.

  “Take a look at that,” Samuel said, “it will clear your mind.” Like his father, his love for the land and raising cattle was far more serious than that of most men.

  “That may be the greatest pasture known to man,” Thomas said.

  “Father once called Kentucky ‘God’s Own Pasture’ and it was a fitting description,” Samuel told him and smiled as he gazed upon their land. “But I think that Texas might be called God’s Own Country.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it will be a country someday.”

  “Indeed,” Samuel agreed. “Or at least a state.”

  “Did you eat?” Thomas asked. His man’s body still filling out, it was never long before food crossed Thomas’ mind. “I did and it sure was good.”

  “No, didn’t eat. Got up, got the wagon, got the bodies, and gathered rocks for an hour. Didn’t take long to get the task done after that. Then I came straight here. After that Indian visit, I wanted to check on you and the herd.”

  “There’s was no sign that they were stirred up during the night,” Thomas said, “so I think those braves were only after our horses.”

  “That’s what Father said,” Samuel told him.

  “Go eat breakfast, you can send Cornelius or Steve back.”

  “Cornelius and Steve are cutting grass for fodder.” Samuel didn’t want to leave but his stomach did.

  “Melly’s made a batch of her butter biscuits,” Thomas told him and licked his lips. “If there are any left after you eat, bring them back here. I’m hungry already.”

  “All right, I’ll go. Are both your pistols loaded? And your rifle?”

  “Of course they are,” Thomas said, sounding affronted. Although only nineteen, Thomas could handle cattle and horses like a veteran. But could he handle Indians?

  “Keep your back to that big tree and keep a sharp watch out. If you see any sign of Indians, don’t try to fight them alone. Fire a warning shot and then race that horse back home.” Like Samson, Thomas’ horse was a tall, fast gelding.

  “I will.”

  “I’ll be back soon.” Samuel turned his gelding back toward the cabins. Melly always cooked for them and for that Samuel was grateful because her cooking was darn good. And no one could beat her strong coffee.

  As he arrived home, he thought he heard something. Samson did too because the gelding’s ears flicked forward. Accustomed to paying attention to strange sounds, like the bawl of a lost calf or Indians or wolves on the prowl, he stopped Samson and listened. It sounded like a cry for help. Two voices. A woman’s and maybe a boy’s? Their desperate cries were coming from the Red.

  He nudged Samson’s sides and leaned forward in the saddle, taking off at a gallop. He rode to the edge of the river and peered down. Not far from the riverbank, a woman and a boy, wearing only their underclothes, were waving frantically at him. They were filthy but the woman’s abundant long blonde hair sparkled in the sun.

  “Help!” the woman called. “Quicksand!”

  Samuel could see that the quicksand was already up to the boy’s thighs and the young woman was in up to her hips.

  Speedily, he urged Samson down the buffalo trail and then along the river’s edge. He dismounted and snatched his rope off his saddle. A decade or more of working cattle had made him skillful with a rope. First, he made a loop in the end and then with a swirl of his arm he tossed the rope and it landed directly in front of the woman.

  He’d sent the rope to her first because she was in deeper. But she snatched it up and tossed it over to the boy. The child put the loop over his head and then chest before he gripped the rope.

  “Get him out!” she yelled.

  Hand over hand, Samuel began tugging on the rope and the boy was soon out and standing beside him.

  “Save my sister,” the child cried. “Save her!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll save her.” Samuel untied the loop. She would have to just grasp the rope. Since she was sunk deeper into the sandy mire than her brother had been, he feared that a loop around her chest would put too much pressure on her lungs or heart. He tossed the rope and once again it landed directly in front of her.

  She grasped the rope and looped it around her hands. “Hurry!”

  Leaning back and using the strength of both his arms and legs, he began to pull. She didn’t budge. The pressure on her legs was too great.

  Her luminous eyes widened in fear. “Please, pull harder,” she cried. He could hear the desperation in her voice.

  “Bring my horse over here,” Samuel told the boy.

  When Samson stood next to him, he looped the rope onto the saddle and tied it securely. Then he made the clucking sound that meant back up to the horse. Samson took a step backward and the gluey mud and sand still didn’t release the woman.

  The rope grew tauter and from her grimace he could tell it was burning her hands.

  “Hold tight to that rope and I’ll back him up another step or two. I know it’s going to burn your hands, but you have to endure it.”

  She nodded and he urged Samson back. He saw her grimace as the quicksand sucked at her legs reluctant to release its hold on her. Finally, the pressure on her legs let go and she popped upwards a little and then fully emerged when Samson took a second step backward. Stretched out fully on her stomach, she kept her anxious eyes fixed on him.

  “Keep a tight grip on that rope,” Samuel yelled as he took hold of the rope himself and slowly pulled her up to the edge of the riverbank.

  “Thank God,” she muttered as she reached him.

  He stepped into the shallow water, bent down, and scooped her up in his arms. Even wet and covered in mud she was the most beautiful, perfect woman he’d ever seen. Scantily clad in a clinging shift, her woman’s curves were readily apparent and voluptuous.

  Her blue eyes, filled with gratitude, gazed up at him. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice was soft and delicate, just like her slight body.

  He had about a dozen questions he wanted to ask her. “I’m Samuel. What’s your name?” he asked first.

  “Louisa.”

  “And I’m Adam Pate,” the boy said. “Her brother.” He had a mass of unruly brown hair, but the child’s cheeks were sallow, and he looked far too thin. “Our home was attacked by Indians. They killed my dog, Buddy, and Louisa’s old horse.”

  That reminded Samuel that they needed to get out of the river. They were far too vulnerable here. The rest of his questions would have to wait. “Adam, we need to get your sister to safety. Gather up my rope and then lead my gelding up the bank. I’ll carry your sister to my home. It’s not far.”

  “I can walk,” Louisa said, but her weak voice said otherwise.

  “I’ll carry you. Something tells me you haven’t had a very good morning.” Based upon her threadbare shift and how thin she was, Samuel suspected she hadn’t had a very good life either.

  Fatigue shown in her tired eyes as she nodded. But what concerned him even more, was the shadow of sadness, fear, or something else that shrouded her beautiful face like a veil.

  He trudged up the soft earth on the riverba
nk with Adam leading Samson behind him. It occurred to him that he was carrying a woman in his arms for the first time in his life.

  Chapter 4

  “Adam, I assume you can ride?” Samuel asked when they reached the top of the riverbank.

  The boy nodded. “Yes, Sir. As long as the horse ain’t too wild.”

  Samuel pointed in the direction of their cabin. “Ride Samson to that house and tell my father what’s happened.”

  “What’s your father’s name, Sir?”

  “Mr. Wyllie. Stephen Wyllie.”

  “And your name, Sir?” Adam asked. “So I won’t have to keep calling you Sir?” The boy was so dirty it would take all the water out of the Red to get him clean again. But Samuel had to admire the lad’s confident manner.

  “I’m Samuel,” he said as he gazed down at Louisa. “I’m Stephen Wyllie’s eldest son.”

  “Thank you, Samuel, for helping us,” Adam said before he took off on Samson.

  Samuel wanted to ask Louisa what caused her to be out in the middle of the river in only her shift, but he thought she might be too exhausted to talk. Her head rested against his shoulder and her eyes were closed so he started toward home.

  As he walked, he watched Adam ride toward their cabin, tie Samson on a porch post and knock on the door. His father listened to the boy talking excitedly for a moment and then Adam pointed toward them.

  At once, followed by Adam, his father set off taking long strides and soon joined him. “The boy said Indians attacked their home during the night. Is she injured?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But she and her brother were both horribly stuck in quicksand. As soon as I got her out of the riverbed, she passed out.”

  “Apparently, those Osage that came here last night left here, crossed the river and went to their place.”

  “They weren’t Osage, Sir,” Adam said, struggling to keep up with Samuel’s swift strides. “They were Comanche.”