Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (5 page)

Taylor had lost track of the number of days that had passed since his journey began. He lazily rocked with the lurches and sways of the wagon, his hat pulled low to ward off the sun. And he found himself thinking of the cargo riding along with him. Whatever chance there might have been for him and his father to ever find common ground was now gone forever. He strained to summon any memories of good times between them, a moment of praise, an embrace, or a time of shared laughter, but couldn't. And the knowledge both saddened and angered him.

As he neared the short trail that turned toward the Bender place, he hurried Barclay's mare along. Glancing toward the way station, he saw that several people mingled outside the cabin and barn and down by the orchard. The Bender Farm, he suspected, was to become a dark landmark, a destination for scavengers and the morbidly curious.

Someone had already posted a crudely made sign that pointed the way to “the Homestead of the Bloody Benders.” Taylor muttered a curse and rode on.

•   •   •

The rains had given new life to the sprawling Kansas grasslands. Parched and brown during his dusty ride northward to Fort Scott, it was now an endless sea of green and there was a fresh smell to the air as he retraced his route. Taylor marveled at how quickly things could change.

He was still two long days away from Independence before his strength began to return and he felt any real urgency to reach his destination. Delivering the unwelcome news to his sister, he decided, was best done and over with as soon as possible. Then there was the matter of Marshal Thorntree's posse, which he was determined to soon join.

The need for vengeance that had begun to stir in him the moment his father's body was lifted from its muddy hiding place might have been puzzling had he given it more careful thought. Instead he simply kept his course, carrying out his responsibility to bring the doctor home.

So lost in thought was he that he was unaware the sun had disappeared and dusk was fast approaching. Taylor steered the wagon toward a stand of trees and stepped down to stretch his legs. He unhitched the mare and freed Magazine and they quickly moved side by side toward a shallow pool of water left from the recent downpours.

While the horses leisurely drank and grazed, Thad stood near a wild blueberry bush, filling his hat with the fruit. It was the first time he'd felt a need for nourishment since leaving Thayer. Soon he was lying beneath a star-filled sky, his sleep filled with raw and ugly dreams.

He woke at dawn to the warm breath of Magazine nuzzling his face, the high-pitched arguing of a pair of nearby crows, and the faint smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

Beyond a distant rise he could see a black cloud rising
against the mottled gray sky. Thad saddled his horse, tethered the mare, and reached into the bed of the wagon to retrieve his father's Winchester. He placed a hand on the wooden coffin. “We'll be back soon,” he said.

•   •   •

As he rode into the valley, Taylor saw the smoldering remains of a small cabin. Only the frame of the doorway was still standing, flames still spitting from its charred wood. It too crumbled into the heap of embers as he neared. The barn had also been destroyed by fire, and the gates of a corral and hog pen hung open. Nothing moved as he called out.

Shouldering his rifle, he surveyed the destruction. A garden had been trampled and near where the barn had once stood were the skeletal remains of a buckboard, a dark mass leaning against one of its wheels. Moving closer, Taylor was able to make out a human form. The swelled body, tied to the wheel and badly blistered by fire, was that of a man. Arrows protruded from his bared chest. He had been scalped and his tongue cut away.

Taylor had heard stories of raids on settlers by renegade bands of Kiowas and Comanches. Instead of going quietly onto reservations, they wandered the plains to kill and plunder. But he had never before seen their savagery firsthand. And for the second time in a matter of days, bile welled in his throat and he knew he was going to be sick.

Afterward, standing in the eerie silence, a gentle breeze swirling the smoke into wispy patterns, he let his eyes roam over what had once been an idyllic setting. Nearby was a creek, ashes settling onto its surface before being carried away.

It was, he realized, the same stream on which he'd encountered the boy fishing on a day that now seemed a lifetime ago.

Taylor searched the rubble but found no sign of other family members who had once called the destroyed place home. He assumed they had somehow escaped or, more likely, were carried away by the attackers.

He mounted Magazine and nudged him toward the water's edge. Moving slowly along the creek bank, he refrained from calling out for fear Indians might still be nearby. Instead he watched the still-damp ground for signs that someone might have managed to flee from harm. He was hardly a trained tracker, and was surprised when he saw a series of small footprints. Only then did he remember the youngster's name.

“Jakey . . . Jakey Barstow . . . You here, boy? I reckon it's safe to show yourself. The Indians are long gone.”

Nearby, bushes rustled and the boy appeared, cold and shivering, the same overalls he'd been wearing days earlier now covered in mud. He was crying as he looked in Taylor's direction.

“You here to help me, mister?” he asked.

“Reckon I am,” Taylor said, hoping there was reassurance in the sound of his voice. “You here by your lonesome?”

“They took my ma with them,” Jakey said.

Taylor extended a hand and pulled the boy onto Magazine's rump. The two rode in silence toward the campsite where Tater Barclay's wagon and mare waited.

•   •   •

Jakey sat against a tree, wrapped in a flannel shirt Taylor had pulled from his saddlebag, watching as his rescuer hitched the wagon. “Where you heading, mister?”

“Home. And, unless you're of a mind to stay here, you're welcome to come along.”

“I don't want to stay here, that's for certain.”

“Then I reckon since we'll be traveling together, you ought to be calling me something 'sides ‘mister.' Name's Thaddeus Taylor. Most call me Thad and you can feel free to do the same.”

“It's mighty nice to meet you again, Mr. Thad. And I thank you kindly for your willingness to help me. I wasn't at all sure what I was planning on doing till you came riding up.”

“Best we get on our way. You can ride the horse and trail behind or sit up on the wagon alongside me.”

Jakey approached Magazine and rubbed his hand along his flank. “If it's all the same,” he said, “why don't you relieve him of his saddle and I'll ride up in the wagon?”

Taylor, who had spent little time in the company of children, was surprised by the adult manner in which the boy spoke.

“How old are you, boy?” Taylor said in an attempt to break the silence as they made their way toward the trail.

“I'll be nine on my next birthday.”

“Seems to me you're mighty well-spoke for being so young.”

“My ma's been teaching me. It was her plan that whenever a town got built and a schoolhouse was opened, she would make it known she wanted to be the teacher.” At the mention of his mother, a look of despair filled the boy's face. Despite the fact that the sun had dried his clothes, he again began to shiver, pulling Taylor's shirt tight against his slight body.

They had been on the trail almost half a day before he spoke again.

“I was up before daylight, planning on doing some more
fishing,” he began. “I had just made it to the first brake of trees when they came riding in, all painted up and screaming and firing their rifles into the air.

“It was when they set fire to the house that Ma and Pa came running out, not even fully dressed from their night's sleep. One of the Indians shot my pa two or three times and a couple of others grabbed Ma and started dragging her away. She was screaming and begging them to let her go see to my pa, but they paid her no mind.

“They put her on one of the horses while some others began herding our milk cow and the pigs and Pa's team of mules down toward the creek. . . .” He told the story in a halting manner, staring straight ahead as he spoke.

“How many of them?” Taylor asked.

“I was so scared I don't rightly know, but I figure there were six, maybe eight. Some had feathers on their heads and they were all riding bareback, even the woman who rode up with them.”

“You seen a woman among them?”

Jakey nodded. “But I don't think she was an Indian even though she had long black hair. She was right pretty and was dressed like white folks. All she did was sit on her horse, smiling and watching as the commotion was taking place.

“I'm not sure what else might have happened. I just took off running fast as I could, looking for a place I could hide.”

Taylor bit against his bottom lip as he listened. “I reckon I might know who the woman was,” he finally said, his thoughts flashing back to the foul taste of turnip soup, the long shiny black hair, and the peasant blouse worn by a woman who had claimed to be a spiritualist.

“Who might that be?”

“Somebody more evil than the Devil himself. Somebody who I suspect likely watched the killing of my father as well.”

For the first time since they'd begun their ride, Jakey glanced back at the wooden coffin tied down behind them. “Don't seem neither one of us is having much good luck these days,” he said.

“That, son, is about as right a statement as I've ever heard,” Taylor said. “And it's my thinking that something sorely needs done to see that things change.”

•   •   •

Sister took the news of the doctor's death far better than Thad had expected. She cried and excused herself to her room to spend some time alone, but soon reappeared to begin making a fuss over the youngster who had accompanied her brother home, seeing to it that he had a bath and a hot meal.

Long after Jakey had fallen asleep in their father's bed, Thad and Sister sat on the front porch, the full moon overhead causing playful shadows to dance in the yard. It was the first peace Taylor had experienced in days.

“I've been preparing myself, you know,” she said. “I figured when neither you nor Daddy returned directly that my prayers wouldn't be answered and something bad must have happened. I'm just glad you made it home safe.” Her disturbing dreams, she told him, had ceased.

Thad spared her details of the discoveries at the Bender Farm, telling her only that their father had been robbed and killed by a family of murdering thieves. He was a bit more graphic in his description of the scene he'd ridden up on following the Indian attack but avoided the manner in which the raiders had desecrated the body of Jakey's father. He was relieved when Sister did not press for more information.

“I'd admire to hear your thoughts on what I should do about the boy,” he said. “I don't reckon he's got any other kin, least not until somebody catches up to his mother and sets her free from her captives. He's a lot more scared than he lets on.”

Sister reached across the porch swing and placed her hand on her brother's shoulder, then leaned forward to brush a kiss against his cheek. “He's welcome to stay right here,” she said.

He smiled. “I got a strong impression that he liked your cooking.”

They talked late into the night. He told her of his plan to soon leave again, this time to return Tater Barclay's rig and join Marshal Thorntree's posse. “I'm thinking,” he said, “that if we can catch up to those who killed our father, we might also learn the whereabouts of Jakey's mama.”

“But you'll be staying here until we can have a proper funeral for Daddy,” she said. “First thing tomorrow, I'll see to it that things get set in motion.”

Her brother slapped his hands against his knees, nodded, and rose. “Fair enough.”

He had taken only a few weary steps in the direction of the barn when Sister called out, “Seeing as how you're now the man of the family, maybe it's time you moved back into the house.”

Taylor waved an arm in response. “I'll think on it,” he said as he continued walking toward his makeshift room.

•   •   •

The funeral of Dr. Winslow Taylor was the largest anyone in Independence could remember. A caravan of buckboards and horses made its way to the farm, where people gathered in the shade of two spreading oak trees. Women fanned
themselves, men shuffled uncomfortably, and children whom the doctor had helped bring into the world played nearby. Members of the church choir sang “Old Rugged Cross” and “Amazing Grace” and the preacher read scripture and used words like
beloved
and
respected
as he eulogized the departed.

After the casket was lowered into the ground, guests were invited to the house, where ladies of the church helped Sister serve lemonade and cake.

Jakey, attending his first funeral, stayed close to Thad's side. “Seems folks really admired your pa,” he said.

“Seems so.”

“I wish my pa could have had himself a proper burying.”

Taylor placed an arm across the youngster's shoulders. “Boy,” he said, “I'm gonna see to that right soon. Come first light, I'll be heading out to tend some business. And it's my plan to stop by your folks' place on the way.”

As he spoke, Stubby June, having closed his saloon to come pay his respects, approached. “I'm mighty sorry 'bout your daddy,” he said. In his hand was the hat Taylor had lost in his last drunken skirmish. “It's a bit stomped on, but I was thinking you might be needing it.”

Taylor smiled. “Won't be,” he said. “I've got me another.”

The smell of charred wood still hung in the hot air and buzzards glided in lazy circles over the small clearing where Jakey and his parents had lived. Coyotes and rats had also visited, leaving little more than a grotesque skeleton for Taylor to find upon his arrival.

He tied a bandanna over his face in an effort to mask the stench, then lifted a pick and shovel from the wagon and walked toward the soft ground where the family's garden had been before it was trampled by Indian ponies. There, in the eerie quiet, he began to dig a final resting place for a man he'd never known.

He cut the leather bindings from what remained of the body, wrapped it in a tarp he'd brought along, and dragged it to the grave site.

His father had been a devout Presbyterian, but Thad was not a religious man, so he knew no scriptures to recite, no prayer or proper words to say. Instead he silently went about filling in the grave, anxious to have the task done and be on his way.

He was halfway back to the wagon before he stopped,
turned, and slowly returned to the fresh mound of dirt that rose where vegetables had once been grown. “I promise to see to your son as best I can,” he said.

•   •   •

As he rode into Thayer, he was surprised to find Marshal Thorntree sitting in his chair outside the jail, a large chaw protruding from the side of his mouth. “I see you've brung Tater's wagon back,” he said, “thus making me into an unholy liar. Told him he wasn't likely to ever see it or you again.”

Taylor climbed down and rested one foot against the boardwalk. “Didn't figure on interrupting your rest, Marshal. I must say I'm a bit taken aback that you ain't out on the trail.”

“I was. We just come back last evening. Seems our work got done for us.”

The marshal and his posse had wasted little time beginning their pursuit of the Bender clan. “We'd gathered provisions for a long ride,” he said, “but we wasn't but a day and a half out before we caught up to 'em. We rode up on the Fall River down south and seen their horseless wagon stuck up to the axles out in the middle of the water. They had to be plumb crazy to try to ford when it was on such a rise from the recent rains.

“That's where they met their due.”

“You saying they drowned?”

The marshal shook his head. “That would have been too kind an ending to their story. They were attacked and killed by a party of renegade Indians.”

The posse had found John Bender and his son lying side by side on the riverbank, both scalped, skin peeled from their naked bodies. A dozen arrows had been shot into each one. “They
also had their arms cut off,” Thorntree added. “The old lady, we found her floating in a shallow downstream, gutted like a boar hog, her eyes poked out.” The marshal turned and spat off the porch. “Given their murdering history, I'd say they got a more proper justice than we could have provided.”

Taylor pondered the surprising turn of events. “And the daughter?”

“The pretty one you spoke of? She wasn't among the dead. Probably got herself taken away to a life of grinding corn, scraping hides, and pleasuring young savages. I don't relish thinking what's to become of her. At any rate, what's done is done. I reckon we can now set the matter to rest and go back to tending to more ordinary business.”

“I ain't so sure.” Taylor began to tell the marshal about the raid on the Barstow cabin. He ended his story with young Jakey's description of the woman he'd seen. “From what he says, it didn't appear she was no Indian and wasn't likely being held hostage.”

“And you're figuring this was the other Bender woman?”

Taylor nodded. “Kate Two, she said her name was. Spiritualist with a talent for talking to the dead.”

“Even the spirits of Indians who have passed on to their happy huntin' ground, you reckon?”

“I'm guessing that's the very thing she wants them believing.”

The two men fell silent.

“I suppose we've all been reminded of a lesson we might should be taking to heart,” the marshal finally said. “It's for certain you've had enough misery of late. This here's still hard country, despite all the government's promise. Too many scalawags and outlaw types coming this way to take
advantage of honest folks by stealing and killing. You seen that firsthand with what happened to your pa.” He turned and spat again. “And what we seen down by the river got me to thinking that it makes no matter what they offer the Indians to leave folks be. It ain't likely to happen till every last one of them savages is dead and gone.”

Taylor nodded.

“Truth be known,” the marshal continued, “I can't rightly say why a man would take leave of a safe place to come out here, bringing a wife and young'uns to this godforsaken country. I've taken to wishing I'd never come West myself.”

The marshal leaned forward and spat another stream of tobacco juice into the street. “Now, son,” he said, “I'm hoping you're here to tell me you're planning to return that rig and then be gettin' on back home without delay.”

“Reckon you could direct me to Barclay's place?”

“Sure.” The marshal paused. “Did Tater tell you much about himself?”

“No . . . why?”

“Well, there're a few things you should know about him.”

•   •   •

Tater Barclay had just finished dressing out a deer and was hanging meat in his smokehouse when he heard the clatter of the wagon approaching. Bare to the waist and sweating, he wiped his hands on his leather apron and waved to Taylor.

“Wasn't expecting you back quite so soon,” he said.

“I figured you might be needing what you were kind enough to lend me.”

Taylor surveyed the landscape of Barclay's spread. There was a small, weather-beaten cabin, built of native wood, a barn barely large enough to accommodate the cow and two
horses he owned, the smokehouse, a well, and a garden. There was no sign of a woman's hand or the presence of children.

He had never been married, the marshal had told Taylor. And none who knew him were aware of his life before he'd come to settle in eastern Kansas. Aside from his once-a-week visit to Thayer's saloon where he routinely imbibed to a point where most doubted his chances of finding his way home, Barclay preferred his own company. He never participated in town dances or holiday celebrations and rarely spoke unless spoken to.

It was during his occasional visits to jail for sobering up that he and Marshal Thorntree had established a friendship. The marshal was in need of someone he could swear in as a deputy from time to time, a man who would strike fear in and demand respect from rowdies and lawbreakers, and Tater Barclay fit the bill. His huge arms, barrel chest, and a no-nonsense stare that could wilt a live oak made him an able sidekick for the slight and aging marshal.

Only Thorntree knew of his previous life as an Indian fighter and buffalo hunter. Or of the turn of events that had caused him to choose to homestead outside Thayer. Barclay had only spoken of it once, on a snowy winter night as he'd sat on the bunk of the marshal's jail cell.

There had been a pretty young woman up in St. Joseph, Missouri, the daughter of a ranking army officer, whom he had courted with great enthusiasm. He'd begun to think of asking her to become his wife but realized he had little to offer a bride used to life's finer comforts.

To make himself a proper husband, he had set out on a yearlong pursuit of buffalo. Despite dwindling herds, he'd
managed to collect enough pelts to earn himself over five thousand dollars. He'd hoarded his money, slept in the open, and eaten only the meat of the animals he'd killed and skinned.

Finally, with what he judged a proper stake, he had made his way back to St. Jo, intent on proposing. So grizzled had he become during his travels, the woman didn't even recognize him when he appeared on her front porch. He'd grown a beard that was tangled and unattended, his clothes were ragged, and his foul smell caused her to demand that he be gone; then she slammed the door in his face. He soon learned that in his absence she had agreed to marry a young man under her father's command.

Barclay had stayed drunk for weeks before finally beginning an aimless journey westward that had brought him to the settlement of Thayer. With no plan and weary of traveling, he had decided to stake a claim and call it home.

•   •   •

“I was just fixing to fry up some venison,” he now said. “Climb down and make yourself to home. I bet I got an extra plate somewhere.”

After they had unhitched the wagon and freed the mare and Taylor's horse to graze, the two men entered the cabin, where they ate in silence. “Ain't real proud of my cooking,” Barclay said as he brought two cups of coffee from the stove.

“You got no need to apologize,” Taylor said. “The task of boiling water's a bit of a mystery to me.”

“I'm guessing you didn't come all this way just to bring my rig back and taste my cooking,” Barclay said.

“I was planning on joining up with the posse that was going looking for the Benders, but the marshal tells me that
situation's done taken care of.” He paused. “But it appears there're other things that still need tending.” He told the story of the raid that had occurred at the Barstow place.

“So it's your belief that the Indians made away with two women, one who likely joined them willingly and another they captured?”

When Taylor only nodded, Barclay continued. “You know, when we was riding down to Fall River, the marshal expressed his concern for you. Said he'd taken a liking to you but figured you had no experience at such things as tracking outlaws and felt it best you stayed out of harm's way. The reason we set out after those folks as quick as we did was to get on the trail before you could get back.

“Now, son,” Barclay said, “I'm wondering what your current plan might be.”

“I'm gonna try to find them.”

“Save one and kill the other, I suppose.”

“Something like that.”

•   •   •

Taylor was in the barn, grooming Magazine, when Barclay appeared and leaned against the doorway. “Most likely, it was Comanches who killed the Benders and probably was responsible for the other raid you spoke of,” he said. “A bunch of young renegades who haven't taken kindly to the government's notion that they should live in peace on land parceled out to them. They roam these parts and even down into Texas, causing their destruction just for the pure meanness.

“My guess is that they're headed south now, down into Indian Territory, to see if they can sell the livestock they stole. There's plenty of a sorry kind in those parts who wouldn't bother to ask questions about where a cow or a horse might
have come from. After that, ain't no telling where they might have gone.”

“You know something of Indian thinking?”

“A mite. Only thing I can say for certain is that they have no remorse about killing white folks, be they man, woman, or child. And that includes anyone of a mind to go seeking them out.” Barclay approached Magazine and began to scratch behind his ears. “Fine animal you got here,” he said.

“Truth is, he's not rightly mine,” Taylor said. “He's the property of my father. He just allowed me use of him.”

“As I recall, your daddy's dead now, ain't he?”

Taylor nodded.

“Then I 'spect that horse is now rightfully yours by inheritance.”

The barn fell silent except for the horse's occasional impatient pawing at the hardened sod floor.

“If you're of a mind to make this fool's journey,” Tater said, “it occurs to me you might find some company of use.”

“I can't be asking you to do that,” Taylor said.

“Didn't hear that you did,” Barclay said. “I got nothing and nobody keeping me here. I figure in exchange for what's in the smokehouse and ripening in the garden, not to mention the half jug of whiskey I got hid in the house, a neighbor across the way will agree to tend things in my absence. We can be on our way at first light tomorrow.”

“And you're right sure about this?”

“Of that, and one other thing.”

“What else might that be?”

Barclay broke into the first smile Thad had seen since his arrival. “Most probably,” he said, “we're gonna get ourselves kilt dead before we can ever get back home.”

•   •   •

The early-morning sun was just beginning to erase the shadows from Thayer's lone street as the two men rode side by side. Neither had spoken since saddling their horses and leaving Barclay's place. As they passed the jail, Taylor was relieved to see that Marshal Thorntree, who would no doubt argue his disapproval of their plan, had not begun to stir.

It was not until they neared the small clapboard church on the edge of town that they heard a voice. Brother Winfrey was hurrying from the doorway, waving in their direction.

Taylor reined Magazine to a stop. “Morning, Pastor.”

“I can see that the marshal was right when I spoke to him yesterday,” Winfrey said. “He figured you were planning on going looking for some Indians who are likely hiding out one of the people who caused all that evil down the way. Against his strong warning, I understand. That right?”

Taylor nodded.

“A dangerous mission, I must say. But it appears you've got your mind set.” He glanced at Barclay, a man who had never set foot in his church or heard a word of any of his sermons. “Seems you've enlisted help that's most qualified. I'm highly pleased to see it.”

Barclay grunted.

The preacher approached Taylor. “If you're going to carry out your plan,” he said, “it might be that you could use this.” He held out the Colt he'd carried on the posse's visit to the Bender Farm. “Truth is, it isn't particularly Godly for a man in my position to have it. I think members of my congregation will be pleased to know it's gone from my possession.”