* * *
* * *
BOOTSY’S BODY WAS found in the vacant lot where the saloon had stood. He had been scalped, and his one good eye was gone.
“So it was Indians that Price saw,” Pate said. “Pretty mad ones, I’d say.”
Breckenridge’s worst fear had been realized. The Comanches, angry over the rustling of their cattle, had telegraphed that this manner of revenge would happen when they slaughtered the trail drivers.
“I guess we’ll need to take a ride out and see what’s happened,” he said, “though I’m guessing I already know.”
Several farmers joined Clay, Jonesy, and Rayburn on the trip to Palo Duro Canyon. The stench of burned flesh greeted them long before they reached what had once been the headquarters for the Baggett gang. At first sight, the carnage seemed like something from a high-fever nightmare.
All that remained were the skeletal remains of burned-out buildings, the still-smoldering pile of human remains, and the carcasses of dead animals. The only sound was the slow-turning blade of a windmill. Vultures were already gathering.
“Good thing is there won’t be no more cattle rustling,” Eli said. “Bad thing is we’ve got to decide what it is we’ll need to do with the deceased. Ain’t no way to identify anybody, but we can either bury them here or take them back to Boot Hill. Whatever we decide, we’re gonna need to get busy with the grave digging.”
Clay stepped closer to the charred mound of bones and flesh, holding the sleeve of his shirt to his face. He was looking for the remains of Ben Baggett, but there was no way to recognize anyone.
A vote was held, and it was decided volunteers would help transport the victims of the massacre to Boot Hill.
“How many graves you thinking?” Pate asked.
Rayburn looked back at the mound of bodies and again shook his head in disbelief. “One,” he said. “A big one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BEN BAGGETT SAT at the back of the pitch-dark cave, a rifle between his knees, pondering the sudden and dramatic change that had just occurred. This place had been his comforting getaway since he and his men had settled in Palo Duro Canyon, a secret only he knew. It was here he hid his money, safely locked away in a strongbox. Here, in this place he’d discovered by chance years earlier, he could come to be alone in the calming quietness that was only his.
Now, suddenly, it was just a hiding place he hoped the attacking Indians would not discover.
While the terror was being played out in the compound, as his men were being slaughtered, he had struggled to understand what was happening until a volley of flaming arrows landed on the roof of his cabin, setting it ablaze. It was then he had slipped out the back way and run onto the narrow path only he used. Not far, hidden by scrub brush and a large boulder, was the entrance to the place he’d always privately thought of as his money cave.
He’d remained there as the shooting went on, hearing the victorious war chants, then smelling the burning flesh. Even after silence had returned, he didn’t move. He was still sitting motionless, barely breathing, when he heard new voices discussing what to do about those who had been killed. Something was said about Bootsy and Boot Hill and the word “massacre” was spoken several times.
Even when he later heard the slow grind of wagon wheels coming down the entrance path, he remained in his hiding place.
In time, his thoughts turned to what awaited him once he ventured beyond the mouth of the cave. Would he be safe? How did one rebuild his world when it had been so completely destroyed? He was still asking these questions when he finally emerged and viewed the unbelievable carnage.
The only sound was the cawing of circling buzzards still hoping for another meal until, from behind the burned rubble of a wagon, he heard a voice. “Howdy, boss.”
It was Calvin Dunning, the hand he’d made fun of just days earlier. Upon hearing the first shot of the attack, Dunning had run from the compound and hidden beneath a brush pile on the bank of the creek.
* * *
* * *
THERE WERE FEW at the cemetery when the canyon victims were laid to rest. Those who did come were there mainly to view the size of the mass grave that had taken a full day to dig. There was no prayer, no hymns sung, no Bible verses quoted.
At Clay’s request, Bootsy was afforded his own grave.
“I was of a mind these parts had seen the last of this kind of Indian raid,” Rayburn said as Pate helped him apply liniment to his healing cuts and bruises. “With the soldiers taking a no-foolishness attitude and the Oklahoma reservations operating, I thought things would quiet down.”
“Never will completely, as long as there’s Comanches and Apaches around to cause trouble,” Jonesy said. “Since the buffalo are getting harder to find, killing white folks is about all they got left to do for pleasure.”
Eli thought for a moment. “Before you know it, that fella Ned Buntline’ll be showing up to write one of his dime novels about this one. I done got his title picked out—‘Massacre at Palo Duro Canyon.’”
As he spoke, Clay entered the livery to announce that the burials had been completed.
“I have to ask,” Pate said, “why were you so set on that one-eyed fella being allowed a grave all to himself?”
“Because I liked him,” Breckenridge said. “There’s people who do bad things but still have a good heart. I believe Bootsy was one of ’em.”
* * *
* * *
THIS TIME, IT was Clay who brought up the subject. “Time we head home,” he said. Though both had lost track of time, their journey had lasted almost three months.
Pate offered no argument. He’d already begun packing his gear. “I got to be honest. I’m not going to miss this town or this tent,” he said, “but I admit I’ve come to appreciate some of the folks living here.”
So had Clay. “I got some goodbyes I want to tend to,” he said. “But first I’m going to visit the Prices and have me a shave and a hot bath.” He smiled. “Since it’s likely you I’ve been smelling of late, you might consider doing the same. Maybe ask Paul to splash a little of that lilac water in your tub.”
It was midafternoon when he made his slow walk toward the mercantile. He stopped briefly at the vacant lot where the saloon had stood, watching a dust devil stir the last remnants of ashes. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say but was far from confident.
Madge was dusting shelves, and Jennie was behind the counter when he entered. Both smiled as he tipped his hat. The smiles disappeared, however, when he explained that he’d come to purchase supplies for his and Jonesy’s return home.
The atmosphere suddenly turned uncomfortable. “I’d be happy to help you with your shopping,” Madge said, a strained formality in her tone. “What is it you’ll be needing?”
Clay was already flustered. “Some coffee . . . flour . . . uh, jerky if you got it . . . probably some hard candy for Jonesy’s sweet tooth . . . maybe a little bit of . . .” He stopped. “Truthfully, what I’ve come for is to talk with you about something other than supplies.”
“I’m gonna go out front and sit,” Jennie said, smiling as she hurried toward the door.
Fumbling with the brim of his hat, Breckenridge moved toward Madge. “I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to your future plans. . . .”
“Like you said, one day at a time. But I know I can’t go on living at the Broder house forever. They’ve been nice as can be, but, between you and me, I’ve got no use for those smelly goats they raise.”
“Have I ever spoken to you about my little farm?”
When Madge didn’t remind him that he’d bragged about it on several occasions, he began his rehearsed description. When he’d finished painting a picture of the farm, he began extolling the virtues of Aberdene, another subject he’d already discussed with her.
“It all sounds nice,” she said.
<
br /> “It’s just me and Sarge,” he said. “What I’m wondering is, would you have any interest in joining us? We got plenty of—”
Madge put her hand to his lips. “Mr. Breckenridge, am I to understand that you’re proposing we get married?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I know a preacher in Aberdene, and there’s a church. . . .”
“I know. You’ve already told me.” She placed her arms around his neck. “I’ve got nothing to pack and no money to help with the purchase of provisions.”
“No need to worry,” Clay said as he let out a relieved breath and smiled.
Madge called out to Jennie. “You can come on back in,” she said. “I got good news and bad news I want you to hear.”
Jennie was giddy with anticipation as she reentered.
“The bad news,” Madge said, “is that you’ll soon be running the store by yourself. The good news is that Clay’s asked me to marry him. Wasn’t exactly the kind of proposal they write songs and poems about, but it sounded good to me.”
As Clay, red-faced and happy, left to share the news with Jonesy, Jennie broke into a jig. Then, for a second, a worried look crossed her face.
Madge anticipated her question. “I’ll have no need to get a divorce,” she said. “The Comanches solved that problem by doing away with everybody out at the canyon and making me a widow.”
Clay was beaming when he walked into the livery. “Eli,” he said, “we’ll be needing an extra horse and saddle for our trip. I’d prefer one that’s sturdy but a gentle ride.”
“Wouldn’t be for a lady whose saloon recently burned down, would it?”
Clay blushed. “It might be.”
The following morning, a small group gathered in front of the livery. Jennie was joined by her father and grandfather. Several ladies from the Sunday singing group were there, bringing freshly made bread and muffins. They had pooled their egg money to buy Madge a new bonnet. Even the Prices showed up and waved bashfully. Rayburn put on a brave front, forcing a smile as he held the reins of a newly shod and already saddled dappled gray mare named Lucy. He had also rolled and tied one of his small tents onto the back of the packhorse. His wedding gift, he said.
There were hugs, handshakes, and well-wishes. And then they were on their way, leaving one adventure behind and heading toward another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LONNIE LOOKED AS if he’d grown a foot. He was deeply tanned and bathed in sweat, mending one of Nester Callaway’s fences when they arrived. When he saw the horses approaching, he immediately dropped his hammer and began running toward the cabin. The Callaways were already on the front porch, shading their eyes against the noon sun in an effort to see who was coming.
It was Cora Callaway who first recognized Jonesy and began clapping her hands. “They’re back,” she told her husband. Then she yelled out to the boy running from the field, “Lonnie, honey, they’re back.” She was hugging Clay before he could get completely down from his horse.
Nester, more frail-looking than he’d been the last time they’d seen him, was smiling. “Seems it’s been a coon’s age since you was last here. Welcome back.”
The most excited was Lonnie. He didn’t know whom to reach out to first. Finally, Jonesy solved his problem by slapping him on the shoulder, then wrapping an arm around him. “Good to see you, boy,” he said. “Looks like they’ve been feeding you extra helpings while we’ve been gone.”
Pate stepped back so Clay could say hello. “We missed you,” he said, putting his hands to Lonnie’s face. Then he turned to Nester and Cora. “We missed all of you.”
Madge viewed the reunion from horseback until Clay helped her down and introduced her. “This lady,” he said, “is going home with me. We’re gonna get married once we get there.”
Cora wiped tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Oh, my, isn’t that the most wonderful news?” she said, then reached out to hug Madge. “Don’t mind me. I cry at just about everything.”
“I’ve heard so much about you folks, I feel I already know you,” Madge said as she shook Nester’s hand. Then she turned to Lonnie. “Especially you,” she said.
Lonnie smiled bashfully and took the reins from her. “Go on inside and cool off,” he said. “I’ll see to the horses.”
As they walked toward the cabin, Madge whispered to Clay and Jonesy, “He’s a fine-looking young man. I see now why you were so anxious to get here.”
Cora had just taken an apple pie from the oven, and Madge helped her prepare plates for everyone. Nester urged Clay and Jonesy to take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Before the boy gets in here, I want to do some bragging on him,” Callaway said. “I’ve never seen a harder worker in my life. This place looks better than it ever has. Holes in the roof of the barn have been patched, fences repaired. Ain’t no weeds in the garden, and he does the milking and a right smart of plowing without even being asked. Sometimes even helps with the cooking. He doesn’t know when to quit.” The halting manner of his speech and the struggle for breath made it obvious that Nester’s health had seriously declined. “Don’t know what we’d have done without him. My wife calls him a godsend.”
“The hard work will soon be over,” Cora said as she placed pie and cups of coffee on the table. “We’ve reached a decision to sell the place and move into town, where Nester can be closer to the doctor . . . and I can be less worried and nearer church services.”
Her husband explained that a neighbor had offered him a fair price for his livestock, “which you folks kindly rescued for us,” and the banker in town was searching for a buyer for the property. “He came out and looked it over a while back and seemed impressed with the upkeep. He says more and more folks are moving out this way, looking for land to buy.”
“I guess you’re gonna miss it,” Pate said.
Nester began coughing, then took a sip of coffee. “Not as much as you might expect,” he said. “When folks get up in years, they get kinda worn-out, and their attitudes change. The notion of sleeping late and napping on the porch in the afternoons doesn’t sound all bad.”
As he spoke, Lonnie entered, still smiling. He was anxious to hear about the trip his friends had made. “Were you able to get done what you wanted?”
“Yes,” Clay said, “though it took a little longer than we’d expected.” He offered no details, which disappointed Lonnie. But instead of asking more questions, he ate his pie.
They sat, enjoying one another’s company long after the plates were empty and the coffeepot had been drained. After Madge helped Cora clear the table, she approached Lonnie. “If you’re not too tired from your fence mending, I’d like to take a tour of the place,” she said. “I understand you’ve done considerable hard work.”
Lonnie was quickly on his feet, putting on his hat.
Once they were out the door, Jonesy cleared his throat and began outlining his plan.
“Since we were last here, I’ve given thought to what might lie ahead for Lonnie,” he said, “and the best idea I’ve come up with is for him to come live with me and my wife. We’d take good care of him—just like you folks have—and see that he gets proper schooling. My wife was once a schoolteacher and places high value on education. Though you’d never believe it from being around me, so do I. We ain’t rich by no means, but we can take care of any needs he’ll have.
“My wife—her name’s Patricia—loves young’uns, and I know she would be proud to have Lonnie as part of our family. We’ve never been able to have children of our own, which is one of her great sorrows.”
Clay entered the conversation. “We’re neighbors, me and Jonesy. Our places are just a few miles apart, so it would really be like Lonnie having two homes if he’s of a mind,” he said. “I think highly of the boy as well and would like having him around. He’d even be welcome to come live with me and Madge. We’ve discussed it, a
nd she has no objections.”
“Praise the Lord,” Cora said. “How I’ve been praying for this. We’ve come to love Lonnie like our own, but there’s going to soon come a time when we can’t properly care for him. What’s best for him is what we want, even if it means having an ache in our hearts from missing him.”
“I bet we could arrange an occasional visit,” Pate said.
Cora came around the table and hugged him, then Clay. “I doubt convincing him will be difficult,” she said.
Madge could tell the conversation had gone well when she returned to the cabin. “Lonnie’s seeing to chores in the barn,” she said to Jonesy. “I told him you would be there shortly to discuss something with him.”
Pate, usually outgoing and confident, suddenly appeared nervous. “What if he doesn’t like the idea?”
Madge laughed. “He will.”
“You want to come with me?”
“Nope,” said Clay. “This should be a private matter, just between you and the boy.”
Lonnie was stacking cedar posts when Jonesy entered the barn.
“The Callaways tell me you been behaving yourself and earning your keep,” Pate said.
“They’ve been mighty nice, though I worry about Mr. Callaway’s health. He’s not doing too good.”
“I guess they’ve talked with you about their plans for moving into town.”
“I guess it’s the smart thing to do,” Lonnie said. “They’ve told me I’m welcome to come with them, but there’s been no mention of what I might do about Maizy.”
Jonesy had seen Lonnie’s mare grazing in the pasture as they’d arrived. Her coat was smooth and shiny, bringing to mind the time they’d found her after the flood, covered in mud and river debris. She was a beautiful horse, and Jonesy could understand the youngster’s attachment to her.
“I got a proposition that might work for both you and Maizy,” he said. “Take a seat and hear me out.”
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