Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (15 page)

As if on cue, the housekeeper arrived on the porch, steam rising from the two cups she was holding.

For a moment, Kate Two silently watched as a cow led her calf to a watering trough, then turned to the rancher. “You have a beautiful place here, Mr. Guinn. I expect you're quite proud of it.”

“That I am.” He cleared his throat. “I had an interesting talk with a friend while visiting in Waco. According to him, there're a couple of men in town looking for some folks. A woman and a man—outlaws, I suppose—they've tracked this way. Since it isn't too often that a lady comes riding into these parts . . .”

“It can't be me they're looking for,” she said, a clipped tone in her voice. “They'd have no reason. I've done nothing wrong. And, besides, I'm traveling alone.”

Guinn took a seat in a nearby rocking chair. “I understand. I was just passing the story along to make conversation. What those fellas are up to is of no matter to me. Nor should it be to you. You're safe here and welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Kate Two's only response was to lean toward him and gently place a kiss on his forehead.

Guinn smiled and looked up at her. “I'd appreciate it if you'd take to calling me Kole.”

•   •   •

Miles away, a tired and riderless horse, its saddle hanging to one side, slowly made its way down the main street of Dawson's Ridge.

“I don't think he's bein' truthful,” Barclay said as he brushed crumbs of corn bread from his beard and pushed back from the table. Eli Stampley had just walked out of the dining room.

“And why is that?” Taylor had sensed Stampley's discomfort but had felt no reason to question what he'd said.

“It's one of those things that comes with gettin' up in years—and being around liars for much of your life. You learn to pick up on things. That man was so nervous he was near soilin' his britches. And you noticed he wasn't as glad to see us as he was yesterday. Kept lookin' away when he spoke. And nobody who properly runs a hotel suggests that paying customers ought to think about movin' on.”

Stampley had told them that he'd spoken with the town marshal, who knew nothing of the whereabouts of the travelers they had mentioned, nor had he received communication from any other agency looking for a man and woman who might be on the run. “Fact is,” Stampley told them, “the marshal seemed more interested in who you folks are and what your future plans might be. I tried to assure him you were law-abiding gentlemen, of course.”

He'd also visited Six-Shooter City, asking if any new faces had been seen lately, particularly a woman. “No luck there neither. It's my opinion that you boys are wasting your time looking in the wrong place. Much as I'd like to continue renting you that room and taking your meal requests, I'd suggest you be on your way before those you're tracking get too many more miles ahead of you.”

•   •   •

Guinn sat at the large desk in his office, eating a bowl of chili with extra jalapeños, his traditional cure for a hangover. “Juanita,” he called out, “where's Ruben and Buck? They get lost?”

The housekeeper peeked through the doorway. “One of the men just left to go get them from the back pasture. I'm sure they'll be here soon. You want more chili?”

“My taste buds are done paralyzed.”

There was the sound of horses outside, and moments later, the two men who had seen him home from the saloon appeared in the doorway.

Buck Lee and Ruben de la Rosa had been small-time cattle rustlers along the Mexican border before they'd become acquainted with Guinn and gone to work for him. They were both broad-shouldered and brawny. Buck, in his thirties, wore a reddish brown beard. Ruben was smooth-shaven and younger. They stood stiffly in front of their boss's desk as he outlined what he wished them to do.

“Word is there're a couple of men in town, looking to find some folks, a woman and a man traveling together. Find out more about who they are and what it is they're up to. Old man Stampley can fill you in on what details he's learned since they've been staying at the Captain.”

They nodded. “Is it possible she's who they're looking for?” Buck asked, pointing toward the guest room at the top of the stairs.

Guinn looked at both men for a moment. “They're not to know she's here. Is that clear?”

Again both nodded.

“What would simplify this matter,” Guinn said, “would be to make sure these gentlemen, whoever they are, have good reason to get out of town and take their business elsewhere.”

“Be okay if we clean up a bit before we head out?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn't want you arriving in town looking like a pair of outlaws,” Guinn said. “And here—enjoy yourselves a bit afterward.” Her tossed several silver dollars at the table.

Buck grinned. “That's what we was thinking to do.”

Listening from behind his office door, Kate Two smiled.

•   •   •

A chilling wind blew and the day was clabber gray as Taylor and Barclay left the Captain's Place and walked down the main street. “I hate giving him the feeling he's running us out of town,” Taylor said.

“Maybe that ain't to be the case. Seeing's how we got no other plan to pursue, I'm of a mind that we spend a little more time here before we move on. What I'm thinkin' is we fetch our horses and give the appearance of taking our leave—but for only a short distance. We can find ourselves a campsite somewhere along the Brazos and wait a bit. Come nightfall when this place called Six-Shooter City gets busy, we might pay it a visit and ask some questions ourselves. If anyone's to know of folks on the run or hidin' out, it'll likely be those who ain't exactly the best of this town's society.”

“Takes one to know one, you're saying?”

Barclay smiled. “Someone lies to you, he's hidin' something he don't want you knowin' or gettin' too close to.”

Taylor found his friend's upbeat mood puzzling. He had made no mention of it, but he was becoming discouraged to the point of suggesting that it was time they turned back. He had no good reason to believe they were any closer to finding Kate Two than they were when they left Dawson's Ridge. Winter was coming, no time to be on the trail. And he felt a growing guilt that he'd lured Tater into a pursuit in which he had no real stake. He'd already been shot and was now gimp-legged because of him. Most likely Reverend Chadway was dead or soon would be, another event Taylor considered his doing.

As they reached a corner where people were hurrying in and out of a mercantile, they saw an old man sitting on a blanket, leaning against the wall, his head down and eyes closed. Neatly spread in front of him were his wares.

“Hope he ain't dead,” Taylor said as he looked down on the frail figure.

“No, still alive,” the man said, lifting his head and smiling as he looked up at the men through watery eyes. He was Indian. “I am Huaco Joe.”

For years he had been a fixture in Waco, a descendant of the tribe after which the city was named. When the treaties with the United States government had been agreed to, the few remaining members of the Huacos tribe had dutifully made the trek north to an Indian Territory reservation. All but Huaco Joe, who had chosen to stay behind, living what remained of his life in freedom. For years he had roamed the Waco streets, judged by most to be crazy but harmless. He slept in alleyways, ate
little more than what a benevolent café owner offered him from his back door, and sold his handmade relics.

On his blanket were a dozen small circular reeds, draped with beads and feathers, all held together by a spidery weave of strings.

“What are these?” Taylor nodded toward the display.

“Man With Big Hat does not know magic of the dream catcher?”

“Reckon not.”

In broken English, the old Indian explained the spiritual legend attached to his crafts, telling how for centuries the dream catcher had offered protection to its owner, warding off evil spirits and capturing nightmares, all manner of danger and bad ideas. Trapped in its web, all negative things disappeared. “Dream catcher promises future safe and happy,” Huaco Joe said.

Barclay bent down and held one in his hand. “Might be a good idea I get me one of these,” he said as he pulled coins from his pocket.

“It would be wise to share with Man With Big Hat,” the Indian said as he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“Now, don't that beat all! I never figgered on gettin' friendly advice from no Indian,” Barclay said as they walked away.

•   •   •

Before noon they rode west along the Brazos River, a few miles out of town. They made camp beneath a limestone outcropping on the riverbank, lit a fire, and waited for the remainder of the day to pass. It was dusk when they saddled their horses to begin the short trip to the part of town called Six-Shooter City. Barclay hung his dream catcher on his
saddle horn. “Can't never be too careful,” he said. A fog had settled over the Brazos and a light mist was adding to the chill in the air. From across the river, an owl hooted.

Six-Shooter City was nothing more than one long dirt street on the southern edge of town with a dimly lit string of clapboard buildings. Most had hand-painted signs above their doors with names like the Watering Hole, Trail's End, and the Roost. Those with less imagination simply advertised their establishments as a saloon. Close by were a few smaller buildings without names, their purpose easy to determine by women standing in their doorways, flashing tired smiles to passersby.

Despite the foul weather, horses were tethered at every rail and the noise of laughter and loud talk could be heard up and down the street. Somewhere in the distance a woman's off-key voice was singing a plaintive song about the pain of a man whose son had died.

Taylor pulled his hat farther down on his forehead to ward off what had turned into a gentle rain. “Aside from getting drunk, what's our plan?”

“A sip or two sounds nice,” Barclay said, “but there'll be no gettin' drunk. Don't want nobody finding us lyin' dead in the street come morning. And I'd strongly advise stayin' clear of them whorehouses if you don't want to get knocked in the head and robbed of what little money you got.”

“Any idea where we might start?”

“First one we come to. I'm not expectin' we'll walk in and find the Bender woman and the preacher standing at a bar, having theirselves a high old time, but maybe if we can strike up a conversation or two, somebody might know something useful to us.”

Neither noticed the two men who followed behind them
as they made their way through the door of the Watering Hole.

•   •   •

Several hours later, they stood at the bar of a nondescript saloon. From one place to another they had surveyed the clientele—wranglers and farmhands mostly, drifters and sad old men begging for drinks. Occasionally a few of the whores would parade through, flaunting their worn-out bodies. None whom Taylor and Barclay spoke with had heard anything about a pretty woman and a preacher passing through. “Fact is,” one man said, “we don't never get no
pretty
women down in this part of town, unless of course you're too drunk to know the difference. And I'm bettin' no preacher's
ever
bothered coming here attempting to save somebody's soul.”

It was late and the rain had turned to tiny pellets of ice when they decided to leave. “For all the good we done,” Barclay said, “we just as well had got drunk.”

As they reached their horses, they heard a raspy voice call out, “You boys lookin' for somebody, I hear.”

As Taylor turned, a fist slammed into the side of his face and his hat fell away. On his knees and trying to shake off the sudden dizziness, he didn't see another man swiftly appear and send Barclay sprawling into the muddy street with a blow to the back of his head. As Taylor tried to get to his feet, a boot crashed against his rib cage.

A couple of men, their arms around two laughing whores, staggered past, showing no interest in what was taking place.

The attackers dragged Taylor and Barclay into a darkened alleyway, where the beating continued. Thad tasted blood and screamed as his hand was stomped on. Barclay shielded his face with his arms, allowing the other man to deliver a series
of sharp blows to his midsection. “We don't want 'em dead,” the older assailant said. “They need talkin' to before we finish our business.”

They lifted their near-unconscious victims into sitting positions against the wall of the saloon. “You boys been asking about things that are none of your business,” Buck said. “Ain't nobody here that's of interest to you. Understand what I'm saying?”

Neither Taylor nor Barclay could acknowledge.

“We're gonna leave your horses tied in front as a friendly gesture. When you're feeling up to it, best you mount up and get moving out of here, fast as you can. Don't be looking back or coming back, lest we have to show how bad things can really get.”

The two men walked away in the direction of one of the whorehouses. Taylor lay unconscious. Barclay groaned, vomited, and passed out next to him.

•   •   •

When they came to, a shadowy figure stood over them, arms folded to keep a blanket tight against his skinny body. It was Barclay who first recognized him.

“I'll be wantin' my money back,” he said, his mouth so swollen that his words were little more than a mumble. “That dream catcher thing don't seem to work.”

“Because you are fool,” Huaco Joe said. “You make white man boss angry. He send men to bring message.”

“White man boss?”

“He who owns much land and many cattle. He who is evil and feared. Guinn.”

Taylor woke and tried to focus. Putting a swollen hand to
his head, he winced. “Seems I done lost my hat again,” he said.

•   •   •

Barclay and Taylor staggered to their horses and made their way out of Six-Shooter City, the drunken laughter of the late-night revelers echoing behind them. Once back on the riverbank, they were too weak to even build a fire, instead wrapping themselves in blankets to ward off the sleet and cold.

After two days mostly spent sleeping, Taylor built a fire beneath the overhang. “I'm gonna ride into town for supplies,” he said. “I'm not sure how much I can chew with this jaw I fear might be broke, but ain't no use us lying around starving to death.”

Barclay attempted to get up, but a sharp pain in his rib cage made it too difficult. “I reckon I'll wait here so long as you promise not to go lookin' for more trouble,” he said.

Taylor tightened a wool scarf over his head and ears. “Don't worry. I'm 'bout troubled out.”

•   •   •

Huaco Joe sat on the same corner where Thad had first seen him, his wares spread on the wooden sidewalk. Again he seemed to be sleeping, an oversized hat pulled down to hide his face.

“Fine-looking hat you got there,” Taylor said as he nudged a boot against the Indian's leg.

Huaco Joe raised his head and opened his eyes. “Belonged to a man I believed would now be dead.”

“Not quite.”

“You feel better?” He smiled as he lifted the hat from his head and handed it to Thad. “And your big friend?”