Vengeance Trail (21 page)

“A pilgrim’s wagon,” said Pete.

Hanging from the wagon were an assortment of pots and pans glinting in the sun. They clanged and
banged and rattled against one another with every jostling step taken by the team of mules that pulled the wagon.

A hundred yards distance, they could see that the team was being driven by a man—a woman sat by his side. Atop all the noise
that the clanging pots and pans were making, the man was bellering a song—either that or he was cussing out his mules in a
steady litany.

“Damndest looking salvation I have ever seen,” said Pete, grinning at her.

The wagon came on, directly toward the arroyo. Pete and Katie struggled up the embankment and toward the oncoming contraption.

The driver of the wagon, a fellow whose beard was long and bushy enough to store supplies in, hauled back on the reins and
brought the mules to a stiff-legged stop.

Next to the man was a dark-skinned woman as plump as a bullfrog. She had a moon face and narrow eyes. It was plain to see
that she was Indian.

“Hullo and high hell!” called out the driver as he eyed them both. “Looks like you got yourself plum lost and busted up. A
bad combination for these parts!”

Pete had been fully prepared to commandeer the wagon if need be.

“I’m a Texas Ranger on legal business,” said Pete to the inquiring gaze of Bushy Beard. “We’ve run into some trouble a while
back—renegade Comanches. We could use your help.”

“Seems like you must have gotten the best of them!” shouted the teamster.

“How so?” asked Pete.

“Well, you ain’t murdered!” Bushy Beard cut loose with a great laugh that exposed a wet hole of a mouth. When the spasm passed,
he leveled a more serious look and said, “It does look like they got your horses, though. Them Comanch, the one thing they
love almost as well as riding horses is eatin’ them.”

“No sir, they didn’t get our horses,” said Pete. “I shot them for breastworks.”

“Well then, you denied them all the way around, good for you, son,” said Bushy Beard handing the reins to the woman seated
next to him before climbing down from the wagon.

“I’d say,” he said, coming close to examine the Ranger’s wounded shoulder, “that you’re in need of some of Sister McKnight’s
medical care and maybe a swaller or two of her
Sorrowful Plains Elixir.
That’s Sister McKnight, sitting up there in the wagon.”

The woman’s moon face remained stoic throughout the introduction.

“She’s my wife, travelling companion, cook and confidant, and mother of several children, all of which have growed and turned
wild and are scattered from here to the great ocean. She also makes the only curative known to revive man and beast alike
and comes with a money back guarantee. She’s part Apache and part Arapaho, but mostly Apache—too bad because it sometimes
gives her more of a temper than is tolerable. But she’s a good woman all around and knows most things I do, and a few I don’t.
Ain’t that right darlin’?”

The stolid features of the woman gave way slightly to a coppery smile showing few teeth.

“My name is Billy Bear Killer, at least that is what
she
calls me,” he said, jutting a thumb back over his shoulder toward Sister McKnight.

“My true name is Marion Brewster, but that ain’t no sort of name for a plainsman, like I am. Especially so, if you are married
to a woman that is part Apache and part Arapaho. You can just call me Billy.”

Pete extended his good hand to the solid beefy grip of the teamster.

“I’m Pete Winter, this is Katie Swensen, and we are glad as we can be to make your acquaintance.”

“That shoulder of yours looks gruesome,” said Billy Bear Killer, taking it upon himself to examine the wound. “I’d say it’s
best you climbed up in back of the wagon and have Sister McKnight practice her medical abilities on it. You’ll feel much better
once she has.”

The Ranger looked down at Katie with eyes that fought off tears.

“Mister, I’d appreciate it if you could find some grub for Katie.”

“Well sir, grub is just exactly what I had in mind. This looks like a good a spot as any to set down stakes for the night.
Looks to be a purty sunset if those clouds stay off to the west like they are now. I’ll prepare a fire, and soon’s Sister’s
had a look at you, we’ll put on the feedbag, and you can tell me more about them Comanches you run into.”

Pete watched as Sister McKnight lowered her ample bulk down from the wagon and came and took him by the hand and led him to
the back of the wagon. Wordlessly she motioned for him to climb in the back and lay down upon the quilts that were spread
there.

Outside, he could hear Billy Bear Killer tell Katie: “Here’s some lye soap and fresh water, I reckon you’ll want to freshen
up some for supper.”

Then, he heard Billy Bear Killer begin his singing once more as he undid the traces of the team of mules. The teamster’s voice
was like faraway thunder rolling out across the prairie.

It was as soothing as good liquor, as sweet as rain.

Eli Stagg maintained a steady pace for three days running on his journey southward. He did not trust lawmen—injun, or otherwise—they
were snoopy. As far as he was concerned, that half-breed lawman might have let his suspicions cause him to to some checking
with Ft. Smith. If that was so, then it would be plain as a spinster’s face that there wasn’t any Eli Stagg held in the employ
of the U.S. Marshal’s office.

It was lonesome, ugly country, as far as the bounty hunter could see. The only spark of color was the bluebonnets that dotted
the low rolling hills. The days turned hot and humid, and once he had to hole up because of a terrible downpour. And if that
were not enough, his mount had turned up sore-legged to the point he had had to dismount and walk the animal for a day until
he reached a small Mormon settlement and was able to buy a bottle of liniment to rub on the horse’s foreleg.

Seemed like the farther away from the Ozarks he got, the more inhospitable the land became. It was not a place he would ever
care to live, he told himself.

Caleb Drew was glad he had bought an extra mount in Ardmore. By changing horses every few hours, he
always kept one of the mounts fresh and was able to maintain a good steady pursuit of his quarry.

The thought of turning back was never one he gave serious consideration to. Although, with each passing day, he had to admit
to himself that he much missed his wife and children. But, what could he say to them, or to anyone else, if he came back empty-handed,
knowing that he did not do his best. No, the pursuit had become something more than simply going after a killer, it had become
personal.

He came to a small settlement and decided to ride in rather than go around.

A man wearing black clothes and a soiled white shirt came out to greet him.

“Welcome, friend,” said the man in the black clothes. The man wore spectacles, a broad brimmed black hat and scuffed brogans.
Caleb noticed that a number of community members hung back, stood in their doorways, or leaned over fences watching the encounter
between him and the greeter.

“How do,” replied Caleb. “I wonder if I might water my horses and buy a little grain for them?”

“You are welcome to water your animals, and we have some spare grain that we can give you. Food for yourself if you like.”

Caleb Drew became aware that all the men were dressed similarly to the one he was talking to, as well as the boys, and that
the women wore long black dresses and bonnets.

“We are Mormons,” said the man in answer to the unasked question that lay in the gaze of the lawman. “We never made it to
brother Young’s camp in Utah, not all do. We find this place to be one of good
grass and fair weather and rich soil. A place of solitude and peacefulness as well. It will do for us.”

“Thank you for the hospitality,” said Caleb, dismounting and leading the two horses to a water trough. The man followed along
behind, joined now by several other men and boys whose curiosity drew them out. The women and young girls remained near the
houses.

Caleb noticed several fair-sized vegetable gardens, some sheep pens, corrals, out-buildings and some farming equipment—all
neat as a pin.

He loosened the saddle on the mare he had been riding while she and the other horse drank at the trough.

“It looks like you all have made a nice place for yourselves here,” said Caleb. “I don’t reckon there are many Mormons in
Texas,” he commented further as a way of conversation.

“More than you might think,” replied the man who then extended his hand. “I am Joseph Tinsdale, Elder. It is always good to
have guests. You are welcome here.” Caleb shook the hand, noted the strength in it.

“I’m Caleb Drew, federal marshal from Ft. Smith over in Arkansas.” Caleb saw a flicker of caution pass through the elder’s
eyes.

“Not to worry, Mr. Tinsdale. I’m only passing through this way. I am in pursuit of a man who murdered a deputy of mine. I
believe that he would have passed this way sometime in the last day or two.”

The look of caution in Elder Tinsdale’s gaze was replaced by one of recognition.

“A stranger did pass this way early yesterday morning. He purchased a bottle of liniment for his
animal—sore legs, he mentioned. Not a friendly man. We offered him what we would any traveller: food, rest, water. But, he
seemed not inclined to partake of our offerings.”

“Tell me, Elder. Was this man big-chested with stumpy legs? Did he wear buckskins and carry a big bore rifle?”

“It does sound like the man, yes.”

“Good, then I am gaining ground on him.”

“You are welcome to stay for lunch,” said Elder Tinsdale.

Just the mention of food renewed a forgotten hunger within the lawman. Trail grub was at best merely sustenance. Usually hardtack
and salt pork and occasionally beans. He had given no time for the hunting of meat. None could be afforded in the pursuit
of the killer.

Now, he weighed the desire to eat a good meal, with the need to continue the trail without let up. He decided that he could
stand the nourishment and make up what ever small amount of time it might take to eat with these kind folks.

“I’d be obliged to sit down to lunch with you, Elder. I have not had a good meal since leaving Ardmore, three days ago. My
missus is a good cook and I sorely miss the taste of well-prepared victuals.” The decision seemed to please Elder Tinsdale
for a broad smile creased his kindly face.

He was placed near the head of a long table that stood in the front yard of one of the main houses. All the men and boys removed
their hats and sat with their heads bowed while a prayer was spoken by Elder Tinsdale. After which, the women and girls
served them bowls of lamb stew, hot biscuits, fresh vegetables, and cold buttermilk.

It was as satisfying a fare as any he had ever eaten, and Caleb Drew found himself cherishing each bite. The men ate silently
and with purpose, it seemed. Little or no conversation took place at the table. After all the men and boys had been served,
the women and girls had taken places at a second table and ate in equal silence. Only the smallest children made any show—theirs,
one of happy laughter.

Afterwards, they had invited him to dinner and to stay the night. He thanked them, shook several hands of the men and declined
to stay longer.

“Elder Tinsdale,” he said, as he prepared to mount. “You have a good community here. I wish you the best of luck for the future.
I am willing to pay you for the meal, the water, and the grain you have given me for my horses.”

“No need for payment, Mr. Drew. We cannot accept payment for the Lord’s bounty. What we have was given to us by Him and we
share it gladly. It is the Lord’s way to help where we can. We will remember you in our evening prayers and wish you God speed
in your journey. I hope that it does not end in violence.”

“So do I, Elder, so do I.”

He glanced back as he rode away from the small settlement, many of them waved their goodbys and he tipped his hat to them.
He felt at once renewed by their kindness and refreshed by their generosity. And for once, his mind did not dwell on the task
directly before him.

Eli Stagg had tracked both animals and men long enough to know when he himself was being trailed. There was nothing physical
to indicate it, no sight or sound behind him to prove it. But, instinct told him that someone was on his trail. How far back,
he could only guess. Who was tracking him was also just a guess.

Several times he had paused and waited, hoping that whoever it was on his trail would make the fatal mistake of being too
close. But, no one came. Perhaps he was just being overly cautious he told himself, but then, it paid to be overly cautious
and so the feeling would not leave him.

He had maintained such caution as well when passing others on the road, refraining from contact or casual conversation. He
had no desire to be delayed or encountered. But, as the nagging suspicion grew that he was being trailed, he knew that he
must stop long enough to lay an ambush for whoever it was behind him.

He maintained an eye for a place that would afford him hideout along the trail, a place where he could observe but not be
seen. Unlike the wooded hills of Arkansas where ambushes could easily be laid, this Texas country seemed spare of any such
opportunity.

He purposely slowed his pace in order to scout for spots from which to set an ambush in hopes that whoever it was behind him
would catch up.

He eventually came to a broad but shallow looking river, the brown muddy flow broken only by the white riffles where it was
most shallow. A small stand of cottonwoods lined the far shore. It would be the proper place for an ambush.

He touched heels to the horse, walking it into the river. The water rose only to his stirrups before receding again. He walked
the horse onto the far muddy bank and in among the cottonwoods.

After hobbling the horse, he removed his saddle and gear, and placed them on the ground near the base of a good-sized cottonwood
that afforded him both a clear view from whence he had just come and concealment.