Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (10 page)

Taylor placed Barclay on a bed as Reynolds's wife brought a basin of hot water and towels from her kitchen. Reynolds cleaned dried blood away from the wounds and saw that the shot to the shoulder had entered the front and exited the back. “That would be the good news,” he said. “The bad news is that there's still a bullet in his leg that will need to be removed.”

He looked at Taylor. “Hurry over to the Social Center and tell them we'll be needing a jug of whiskey.”

Minutes later, as Reynolds's wife applied damp cloths to Barclay's forehead in an attempt to reduce his fever, Taylor held a tin cup to his lips, urging him to sip the whiskey. Tater swallowed and managed a pained grin. “That,” he whispered, “is about the only good thing that's occurred all day. Aside from the fact that I didn't get myself scalped, of course.” Then he removed the towel from his forehead and put a corner of it in his mouth and bit down.

Once Barclay was drunk and a knife sterilized, Reynolds removed the bullet, then began stitching the wounds with needle and thread from his wife's sewing basket. “He seems a hardy fella,” he said. “If we make sure the bleeding don't start up again and keep him lying still, there's a good chance he'll be okay.”

Taylor was bathed in sweat as he walked from the cabin. He could barely move. The events of the day—the gun battle, the race to get back to Dawson's Bluff, and the ordeal he'd just viewed—had left him so weak that he needed to brace himself against the railing on the front porch. Townspeople
stood waiting to learn what had happened. Mayor Dawson stepped forward and placed an arm across his shoulder.

“We was ambushed,” Thad said, “Made fools of. Me and Tater were the only ones to get away. I can't rightful say what the Indians are of a mind to do next. Some of them died as well. But we'll need to continue careful watch, day and night, should they choose to attack.”

With that he returned to Barclay's side, where he would remain for the next two days and nights.

Despite the offer to stay at the Reynoldses' cabin while he recuperated, Barclay insisted that he be helped back to the livery where his cot awaited. Though still in pain and not yet able to walk, he had regained his senses and ill temper—a good sign, Taylor felt. Reynolds checked on him several times a day, applying fresh bandages and making sure there was no infection. Women of the town arrived with broth and loaves of warm bread.

And as the days passed, a quiet settled over the community. Though the guard posts were constantly manned and the blockades stayed in place, there was no sighting of the Comanches.

It was early evening when the mayor appeared at the livery, carrying a small jar of whiskey. “Seemed to me it was high time to drink to your good health,” he said as he handed cups to Barclay and Taylor. The three men drank in silence before Dawson continued. “I've got something on my mind that I'd admire to get your opinion on,” he said as he looked at Taylor. “As you're no doubt aware, folks are nervous about the possibility of the savages killing more of our people. The folks of our fine community are of good, strong stock—to be
sure—but my worry is that nervousness is likely to cause some unwanted behavior. Can't say what form it might take, but it gives me cause for concern. From what I hear, there's been more drinking down at the Social Center of late and tempers have occasionally flared.

“It's that, and the fact that we're in need of leadership I'm not qualified to give that brings me here with my question.”

Taylor glanced down at Barclay, who only held out his cup for a refill.

“Mr. Taylor, I find that what we're in need of is a town marshal, someone folks can look up to in this dangerous time. Is it possible that in your background is some experience as a lawman?”

Barclay responded first. “Back in Kansas,” he said, “he was once officially deputized. Seen him sworn in myself. I reckon that still holds even if he's lacking a badge. You want my opinion, he'd make a right fine town marshal.”

“In that case,” Dawson said, “I'm officially offering you the job. Just what we might be able to pay for your services, I can't for sure say.”

Taylor looked at both of them and was silent for a few moments. “I'll need some time to think on it,” he said. “And if I do agree, it will be only for a brief time, until this matter with the renegades is resolved and my friend here is back in good health. We've still got matters to tend to that have nothing to do with Dawson's Ridge.”

“Fair enough,” the mayor said. “Sleep on it and we'll talk again in the morning.” With that he raised his cup in a farewell salute and departed, leaving the half-full jar of whiskey behind.

Barclay grunted. “Well, well, well . . . I 'spect you'd better pour me another,” he said, “so I can properly drink to the fact that I'm now ridin' with a man of the law.”

“You know better than any that my qualifications are slim.”

Barclay's expression turned serious. “Since my mind's cleared,” he said, “I've been lyin' here doing a lot of thinking. First off, I ain't properly thanked you for saving my life. Not that it's worth all that much, but I do appreciate it. Second, I was wonderin' about your thoughts on what occurred up in that canyon.”

“We should never have allowed ourselves to be drawn into that kind of trap.”

“I'd say that was more the responsibility of Sergeant Murphy—God rest his soul—than any concern of yours. I was right proud of the way you handled yourself once all the shootin' started.”

“Truth is, I was scared to death.”

“Which is a natural thing,” Barclay said. “What I was mostly wonderin' about was your feelings over havin' to kill somebody, even though it was only an Indian. My guess is that was your first time.”

Taylor nodded.

“I'd be surprised if it's the last before we get ourselves back home,” Barclay said.

•   •   •

In the distant canyon, the dead Comanche warriors had been wrapped in buffalo skins and buried beneath mounds of rocks. Late into the night mournful chants rang through the encampment. Kate Two called the remainder of her followers together and praised their victory, then asked for silence as
she reached out to the souls of those who had lost their lives. “They are in a happy place,” she said, “sitting at the sides of their fathers and preparing to follow the large herds of buffalo. You are not to worry about them. There are no white devils for as far as their eyes can see.”

The ceremony came to an end when the disemboweled bodies of the soldiers were thrown into a ravine and set ablaze. Nearby, the hides of their slaughtered horses were already stretched on frames and drying.

In the days following the massacre of the soldiers, the mood of Dawson's Ridge was far calmer than Thad Taylor had anticipated. The barricades at each end of town remained in place and the routine of standing guard was continued by the men while the women went about their daily chores in small groups, their children never out of sight. Still, with each passing day the threat of an attack seemed a more distant concern. The townspeople appeared to be resigned to the situation and had chosen to view it more as a short-term inconvenience that would soon be resolved.

Tater Barclay was a different story. As he slowly mended, his arm in a sling and walking with a crutch, he had begun turning away the offers of food brought by the women, complained when Sloan Reynolds would appear to redress his wounds, and hobbled about town with a constant scowl on his face. “Being stove up like this,” he confided to Taylor, “makes a man of no use.” He had begun spending hours in the Social Center, drinking whiskey while the rest of Dawson's Ridge went about its business.

One evening, after making his rounds to see that armed
guards were in their places and women and children were safely inside their houses, Taylor sought out his traveling partner and found him seated alone in a darkened corner of the Social Center. His head rested on a table and he was snoring loudly.

Thad put his hand on Barclay's good shoulder and shook him awake. “Time we get on over to the livery,” he said.

Barclay slowly raised his head. “Well, if it ain't the marshal come to fetch the town drunk,” he said, his watery eyes squinted as he looked up. “This makes me feel right to home.”

The night air had helped sober him by the time they reached the livery. Barclay sat on his cot. “I apologize for not bein' much use to you of late,” he said. “Never been crippled up before and I'm havin' a devil of a time dealin' with it.”

“Seems you're dealing with more than being stove up,” Taylor said. In the weeks they had ridden together, he had come to recognize his partner's moods. And since the nights when he'd sat beside Barclay's bed, wondering if he would survive, there was a question he'd wanted to ask. Now was as good a time as any.

“I got something to speak with you about that's likely none of my business,” he said.

“Speak away. I got no secrets worth keeping.”

“Back when you was fighting your fever and talking crazy in your sleep, you kept calling out to somebody name of Ray Boy. I kept thinking maybe it was kin I'd need to be in touch with if you took a turn for the worse and died on me.”

Tater bent his head into his hands and didn't reply for quite some time. “He was my brother,” he said. “My younger brother.”

“By your speaking in the past tense, I get the strong impression he's no longer living.”

Barclay shook his head and told of accompanying his brother and his family from Arkansas to stake claims in Kansas. “They found them a nice little place and after I helped 'em get settled in, I went lookin' for me a spot of my own, the one you seen when you returned my wagon.

“It wasn't no more than a couple of miles away from 'em, but it was distance enough to give us both our privacy. I'd ride over and visit on most Sundays, playin' with the young'uns and helpin' Ray Boy with whatever needed an extra hand. His wife was a fine cook and would always serve up a good meal before it was time for me to head home.

“They were about as happy as folks got a right to be.”

Taylor had left his chair and stood leaning against a wall.

Barclay recalled the morning he'd seen the distant smoke rising from his brother's place and of arriving to find the entire family dead, their house and barn reduced to ashes. “Never in my life, before or since, have I felt the kind of anger I did that day. That was the cause for me to join up and become an Indian fighter for a time to see that every last one of them no-good savages died a terrible death. The sad feelings never went away—still haven't—but after a while I just got plumb weary of carryin' around all that hate. No matter what I might do, it wasn't gonna bring Ray Boy and his family back. I ain't sure I'm proud of it, but what I chose to do was give up on the idea of revenge and see if I could move on with my own life.

“Then you showed up talkin' of the killin' of your pa and the kidnapping of that boy's mama, and I understood what it was you were feeling. All of what I'd tried to put away—
losin' my only kin, my feelings for the Comanche devils—returned. Like it had been just hiding in the back of my mind, lookin' for a way to come forward again. And it has. I don't rightly know how to deal with the feelings, but they now come to me in my sleep and accompany me through my days. Like somethin' ain't been finished and needs to be.”

Taylor felt a sadness sweep over him as he listened. He finally understood Barclay's willingness to travel along with him. He'd never for a minute considered it a “fool's journey.” Rather, it was something he'd long waited to do.

“Maybe together,” Taylor said, “we can see it done.”

Barclay stretched out on his cot. “Not till I can get to where I ain't walkin' around like I'm a hunnerd years old.”

“Ornery as you seem to be, I'm betting that won't be too long.”

For the first time in days, Tater was smiling as Taylor left the livery to go check on those standing watch.

•   •   •

The following morning Barclay awoke to the sound of a bell ringing, at first thinking it was his imagination or perhaps the lingering effect of the previous evening's whiskey binge. Getting to his feet, he reached for his crutch and hobbled into the street.

A pretty young woman, her hair the gold of fresh hay, sat astride a mule, ringing a hand bell as she rode toward the middle of town. Following behind was a man dressed entirely in black, his deep-set eyes looking out from a face that was almost skeletal. He was holding a Bible against his chest.

Only after a small crowd had gathered did the bell-ringing cease. Staying in his saddle, the man tipped his hat, then
spread his bony arms wide. “I am come to bring God's word of salvation, directed to your fine town by the Holy Spirit's guiding hand,” he said. “I'm the Reverend Jerusalem Chadway, and traveling with me is my daughter, Joy.” With a smile he added, “And you can rightfully believe me when I tell you she is most aptly named since she has accompanied me on this long and difficult mission that's taken us from town to town, buffalo camps to way stations, tawdry saloons to even the most vile of houses of ill repute.”

Taylor was returning from the pasture where the cattle were being watched over and brought Magazine to a halt near Barclay. “What's all the commotion about?”

“Seems we're bein' visited by one of them saddlebag preachers,” Barclay said. “I only heard a bit of what he has to say, but I'm already right certain he's crazy as a snakebit donkey. No man with a whit of good sense would bring his daughter along with him into these parts.”

Even Mayor Dawson hesitated before approaching the strange-looking man. “All travelers are welcome to Dawson's Ridge,” he finally said as he extended a hand. “If it's preaching you're here to do, I 'spect you're likely to find a good number of listeners.”

Reverend Chadway bowed his head. “It isn't always that we're so well greeted.”

Taylor made his way through the crowd for a closer look at the preacher, who was using his hat to beat the dust from his threadbare suit. “I'm wondering which way you folks came from,” he said, “and if you've seen any sign of Indians about.”

“Oh my, yes. Our travels have taken us onto the reservations where we've told the heathens of the Almighty's glory.
I'm not claiming that we've succeeded in enlisting a great number of followers yet, but it is our calling to try.”

“I ain't speaking of reservation Indians, Reverend. I'm talking of those who roam these parts and wish harm to white folks.”

Chadway nodded. “Unfortunately I hear there are those about, though it has been God's will that we have not crossed their path. There was some mention just a few days back of a stagecoach that was waylaid and robbed as it was making its way to Lone Oak. I'm told that the driver and those aboard met an unfortunate end.”

As he spoke, the women were escorting his daughter toward the Social Center and urging the preacher to follow. “Let's get you folks out of the heat,” the mayor's wife said as she took Joy's arm and led the way.

It was clear the ladies of Dawson's Ridge were far more excited than the men over religion coming to town. At the wives' urging, two of the unused army tents were moved to a spot near the livery, the visitors' mounts were tended, and basins of water for bathing delivered. The preacher and his daughter were invited to share the evening meal with the Reynolds family.

“How long will you be staying?” Katie Reynolds asked after Reverend Chadway blessed the meal and gave a lengthy thanks for the hospitality that had been extended.

The preacher was not a man of short answers. “Our schedule is not of our making,” he said. “Rather, it is dictated by a higher power. It is my responsibility to tend the needs of those I meet along the way. Some, it seems, need more than others. If the folks here are of a mind, I'll gladly do preaching on Sunday, morning and evening, And I have no doubt
my daughter can be persuaded to lead a bit of singing. She has a voice to be envied, as you'll soon learn.”

And while no one asked, he was soon off on his personal history. His grandfather and father had been preachers, he said, helping build churches in small communities throughout Louisiana. “I took to the pulpit myself at age thirteen,” he said. He was almost fifty when called to serve as a circuit rider, and for the past two years he had traveled through the eastern and central parts of Texas and up into Indian Territory. “My wife, a refined and genteel woman, did not embrace my new calling and simply wished me well. Last I heard, she was living somewhere near New Orleans in the company of a wealthy lumber mill owner. I pray for her soul nightly before I sleep.”

He looked across the table at his daughter, who had not said a word since the meal was served. “Others better understood the nature of what I was asked to do and agreed to accompany me. Praise be to God.”

•   •   •

Taylor had made the first of his nightly rounds of the lookout stations and was on his way to check on Barclay when he saw the preacher sitting on a stool in front of his newly pitched tent, puffing on a corncob pile.

“Mighty fine evening,” the preacher said.

“So far.”

“I spoke with Mr. Reynolds earlier in the evening and he told me of your concern that renegades might be planning to attack. That explains the barricades we faced as we entered town and the fact that all the menfolk are carrying guns. As you likely know, it goes against my beliefs and preachings to
bear arms. Thus, aside from praying mightily for the town's safekeeping, I fear I can be of little use in this matter.”

Before Taylor could respond, another voice spoke. “Mr. Reynolds also said that you've been recently picked to be the town marshal,” Joy Chadway said as she stood in front of the adjacent tent, running a brush through her hair. “It was my impression that he feels much better with you now keeping watch over things.”

Her voice instantly reminded Thad of his sister, and he couldn't recall when he'd seen a woman so pretty. But before he could even tip his hat in response, she disappeared into her tent.

Only as he was riding away did it occur to him that he'd failed to ask the preacher if he'd heard any mention of a woman leading the stagecoach attack he'd spoken of earlier in the day.