Ralph Compton Comanche Trail (19 page)

In the kitchen, Juanita had regained consciousness and was slowly getting to her feet. Without a word, Kate Two swung the butt of the rifle against the housekeeper's face and
she fell to the floor. Kate Two ran to the barn to saddle her horse. With everyone distracted, she hoped to distance herself far from the ranch before anyone knew she was gone.

She retrieved a saddle from the tack room and began to search the stalls for her horse. Then she stopped. Though time was short, it occurred to her that the old housekeeper and Ruben, both blindly loyal to their boss, could not be left as witnesses to her departure.

She turned toward the house.

•   •   •

Barclay cursed the growing light of day as he kneeled behind a watering trough, watching for signs of movement in the bunkhouse. His bad leg throbbed and the foul smell of smoke and coal oil lingered in his nostrils as he aimed his shotgun at the doorway. His plan was simple. As soon as anyone came into view, he would shoot.

Inside, de la Rosa, alerted to activity up at the house by Juanita's scream, peered from a darkened window to see a man crouched and moving toward the bunkhouse. He appeared to be carrying a shotgun. If he was to carry out his boss's wishes, he needed to be at the house. But his path was blocked by an unknown enemy.

His choices were few. He could remain in the bunkhouse until it was light enough to clearly see his target and hope that his aim was good. Or he could take advantage of the night that remained and escape through the back door, which opened onto a path leading to the privy. Even if he did that, the open space to the ranch house would make him an easy target. Sweat began to bead across his forehead.

Then he saw another figure carefully moving in the direction of the barn, gun in hand. Ruben was unable to make out
his face but immediately knew who the man was when he saw the hat was far too large for his head.

“I told Buck we should have left 'em dead,” he said to the empty room.

•   •   •

By the time Taylor reached the barn, his heart was racing. Daylight was fast arriving. He could see his partner in the distance, gesturing toward the bunkhouse. Inside the barn, it was still dark as a cave. He pressed himself against the side of the building and listened. The only sound was made by the stirring of the horses. Thad took a deep breath and called out, “I know you're in there, and I'll not be leaving until you come out and show yourself.”

The response was a rifle shot that buried itself into the wall above him, sending splinters of wood flying. Taylor ducked and raced through the doorway, reaching the cover of a stack of hay bales before a second shot came from the darkness.

“Who are you?” a woman's voice called out.

As she spoke, Ruben burst out of the back of the bunkhouse and ran toward the house. Barclay stood and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. De la Rosa stopped and fired his pistol. At the same time Barclay squeezed the trigger of his weapon.

Both men fell to their knees. From his hiding place, Taylor heard a second shot from Barclay's shotgun. Then silence. “You okay out there?” There was no reply.

“You don't remember me?” he yelled into the darkness of the barn. “We met up back in Kansas where you once lived with your crazy family. I've come a far distance to make you pay for what you done.”

Kate Two lay prone in one of the dark stalls. She had no
idea who her adversary might be. She responded with another shot that buried itself into one of the hay bales just to Taylor's side. She knew she had the advantage of invisibility. The gray light that had begun to filter through the doorway of the barn gave her an advantage. She could occasionally see the tip of the man's hat. She would need to be patient.

“If you'll toss aside your rifle and show yourself,” Taylor said, “I might decide not to kill you.” He fired a flurry of pistol shots into the darkness and heard the high-pitched sound of an animal in pain. A saddle horn brushed against Kate Two's leg as the wounded horse fell beside her.

“I don't know you.” She fired another shot that hit his shoulder. When she heard him cry out, Kate Two jumped to her feet and ran in his direction.

The pain felt as if a hot branding iron had been pressed against his back, momentarily knocking his breath from him. His vision blurred and nausea overwhelmed him. He looked up to see the woman pointing a rifle at him. Blood began to soak his shirt.

Kate Two looked down at the man, trying to recall having seen him before. After a moment she nodded. “It was you who came looking for your father, the simple old doctor who wished to reach out to his dead wife.”

“And for that you killed him?” Taylor slowly got to his feet, showing no concern for the rifle pointed at him.

She laughed. “It was more the fact that he had money we wished to relieve him of, as I recall.”

“He would have given it to you without your killing him.”

“But that would have taken the fun from it.”

“And what of Brother Jerusalem?”

She sighed. “Such a tiring fool. I wearied of his company
quickly, listening to him praying for my soul and quoting scripture. For my own peace of mind I shot him while he slept, and I delighted in burning his Bible.” She aimed the rifle. “Speaking of which, it might be a good time for you to say a short prayer.”

Taylor lifted his gun with an unsteady hand. He was pointing the Colt, hoping to squeeze the trigger before she fired, when a thundering blast came from the doorway.

Kate Two's face suddenly turned raw and bloody. Torn flesh embedded in her hair, and bits of teeth spewed from where her mouth had once been. Her body convulsed. She was still gripping the rifle when she sank to the dirt floor.

Thad turned to look at Barclay. Whiffs of smoke still rose from the barrel of his shotgun. The front of his shirt was stained with blood. Taylor ran toward him. He said, “You shot bad?”

“Reckon I am,” Tater said, his voice weak, the words labored. “Not as bad as that other fella, though. I give him what was coming after the beatin' we was given.” He attempted a smile as his eyes rolled upward. “Best I get off my feet.” His knees buckled.

Taylor sat beside him, cradling his head in his lap, stroking his hair, as Tater Barclay died.

•   •   •

When he walked back to the ranch house, he took a seat at the kitchen table and let Juanita care for his wound. Kate Two's shot had entered the back of his shoulder and exited just below his collarbone. After applying salve and bandages, she moved to her ironing board and handed him one of Guinn's shirts.

“Vamos,”
she said.
“Ándale.”

Taylor nodded.
“Gracias.”

He led Barclay's horse to the barn where he'd wrapped his friend's body in a blanket he found in the tack room. Somehow he managed to lift him across the saddle, tied him down with rope, and stuffed his hat into a saddlebag.

“Time we headed home,” Taylor said.

As he rode away, Barclay and his horse following, the distant glow of the fires had turned to faint pillars of white smoke rising into a cloudless new day.

By the time he reached the Brazos and located a shallow place for crossing, Taylor felt feverish, and his shoulder throbbed. The long night had seemed endless, a nightmare he could only fully believe after repeated glances back at Barclay's body. He was relieved to finally see the water tower of the Patricia settlement ahead.

Jeb Donovan, straddling one of his mules, rode to meet him. “Didn't expect seeing you boys back so . . .” He reined his mount in when he saw the body draped across the horse.

“I'm in need of some help,” Taylor said. “You might want to ride ahead and tell your wife and the boys to remain inside the house until I can get us into your barn.” He watched as Donovan rode ahead and ordered the boys from the yard, then hurried toward the barn to swing open its door. Once he'd joined him, Taylor slowly dismounted.

“I must say, you look a bit worse every time you arrive,” Donovan said as he noticed the large red stain on the rider's shirt. “Best let my wife take a look.”

Taylor shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I'll be needing to get on my way as quickly as I can.”

“What is it I can do for you? You being followed?”

“I recollect you've got a good amount of coal left by the train,” Taylor said, “and I'd appreciate the loan of some of it. And maybe some salt if your wife's got it. As you can see, my friend here's dead and I plan on taking him home for burying. What I need to do is pack his body proper so the wolves and coyotes don't pay him undue attention along the way.”

Donovan considered the situation. “You'll be needing a wagon as well. That, or maybe we can fashion a sled of some kind that can be pulled along behind your horse.”

“I'll not take your wagon,” Thad said, “but the other idea seems a good one.”

“You go on up to the house and get yourself tended to. I'll see to things here.” He placed a hand on Taylor's good shoulder. “Don't worry about frightening the boys. Just be forthright and tell 'em what you feel's right about what happened. They're grown enough to understand.”

Patricia Donovan was already waiting on the porch as Taylor slowly made his way toward her. She helped him into the cabin, then directed him to sit at the kitchen table and remove his shirt. She cleaned the wound and examined the holes where the bullet had entered and exited. “What we'll now need to do is going to be a bit painful,” she said, “but necessary if you're to avoid infection.”

She placed her sewing basket on the table and began to thread a needle. Then she handed Taylor a wooden spoon. “You'll want to bite down on this.”

The boys watched in silence as she stitched the wounds shut with small, steady hands. When she finished, she gently rubbed salve over her handiwork and found a clean cloth that she tore into bandages.

Taylor looked across the room at the two youngsters. “We met up with the folks we've been seeking,” he said, “and a good deal of shooting took place.”

“Where's your friend?” the oldest asked.

“I'm sorry to say that he's dead.”

After a long silence the other finally asked, “Were the bad people killed as well?”

Taylor nodded.

Except for the time he spent tending the trains, Donovan busied himself in the barn. He removed Barclay's body from the horse and laid it on a sheet of canvas on which he'd spread a thick layer of coal. He shoveled more coal atop the body until it was covered. He went into the house only long enough to get a small sack of salt from the kitchen and poured its contents over the coal. Finally he wrapped the body tightly with rope.

Inside, Taylor had forced himself to drink a cup of tea Patricia had prepared before falling into a deep sleep on the Donovans' bed.

By the light of a lantern Donovan worked late into the night. With small trunks cut from saplings, he fashioned a sled on which to lay the body, lashing the poles with strips of leather and greasing each knot to ensure that they would not work loose. He cut rope the proper length to allow it to be connected to the saddle. Then he gently rolled Barclay's body onto the cradle-looking bed and bound it tightly.

“Mr. Barclay,” Donovan said, “it was a pleasure knowing you. I believed you're now ready to continue your travels.”

The Donovans were on the front porch the next morning when Taylor appeared in the doorway. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon. Jeb, tired from his long night, nodded and said, “I hope you're feeling better.”

Thad forced a smile. “I appreciate all you folks have done. My friend would as well.”

The two men walked toward the barn, where Magazine was already saddled and the sled attached. “Want me to saddle the other horse, or will you allow him the comfort of traveling bareback?” Donovan asked.

His sons had followed, and the stood in the doorway. Taylor looked back at them. “These young'uns can't be riding mules all their lives,” he said. “This here's a fine animal, strong but gentle, and I think my friend would be pleased for them to have him. The saddle as well.”

They ran toward where Barclay's horse was tethered. Donovan smiled at Taylor. “You're sure on that?”

“I know they'll give him good care.”

From the end of the barn, the eldest called out, “What's his name?”

“Odd as it might seem, he ain't got one. But I'd offer a suggestion.”

“What's that?”

“You might think on calling him Tater.”

Kole Guinn paced the bunkhouse, his muddy boots pounding the floor with every step. Around him were gathered several of his hands, tired and dirty from firefighting and fence mending. The others had been sent to round up the escaped cattle.

“Nobody . . . does this . . . to me,” he said, his voice rising with each word.

He and his men had returned to the ranch house near sunset. They rode up on Ruben's body, which lay on its back, a gaping hole torn in the chest. His eyes were open, he still clutched his pistol, and his boots lay nearby. “Blowed him plumb outta his boots,” one of the hired hands whispered.

Another of the men found Kate Two and summoned his boss to the barn. Guinn waved him away and stood silently for some time, looking down on her, trying to summon some memory of what her beautiful face had once looked like. Only after he'd regained control of his emotions did he walk into the yard and summon Buck.

“First thing in the morning I want you to hitch up a wagon and ride into town,” Guinn said. “We'll be needing two
caskets. Send a couple of the boys down to that grove by the creek and have them begin digging graves for a proper burial. And see about locating a preacher who can say a few words.” Buck was already walking away when his boss added, “And stop at the hotel and bring the old man back with you. I want to speak with him.”

•   •   •

Eli Stampley sat between Buck Lee and an elderly priest as the wagon made its way toward the ranch. None of the men had spoken since leaving Waco. The hotel owner's hands trembled as he gripped his cane, and he wondered about the purpose of the two wooden caskets behind him.

Guinn was standing on the front porch when they arrived. He waved Buck and the priest away to tend to preparations. “Come and sit, Eli,” he said. “I've got a burying to attend shortly, but first we've got some talking to do.”

The two men sat, and Guinn described the events that had taken place. “This was done by those two men you told me about and I intend to see that they pay for it. In your speaking with them at the hotel, you didn't make mention of the woman who was visiting, did you?”

Stampley shook his head. “I told them nothing, Kole. Not a word about you or your business. God's truth.”

The fear in Stampley's eyes told Guinn that his old Ranger comrade was lying. But he would deal with that later. “Did they make any mention of where they'd come from?”

“Nothing of a specific nature. Seems one of 'em might have spoke of Kansas, but I ain't sure. All I recollect is that they rode here from someplace up north, looking for folks, a man and a woman. I told you soon as I learned of it.”

“That you did,” Guinn said as he patted Stampley's bad
knee. “And I take it you never seen or heard of them again after they took leave of the Captain's Place?”

“There was some talk that they was beat up pretty bad,” Stampley said. “On your orders, I 'spect. It was my guess that they left town as soon as they was able to get on their horses.”

Guinn stared at the old man. “Apparently that wasn't the case.” He rose and stood by the porch railing. “Long as you're here,” he said, “you might as well stay on for the funeral.”

“Who is it that passed?”

“Ruben and the lady they were in search of. Both shot.”

Stampley felt a dryness in his throat as Juanita appeared on the porch with coffee. Guinn gently draped an arm over her shoulder. “Those men even laid hands on this poor woman,” he said, calling attention to the bruise on her forehead. “They're clearly bad people in need of killing for what they done.”

Coffee spilled from Stampley's cup as he attempted to lift it to his mouth.

•   •   •

Thad Taylor leaned forward, his head down, as he rode into a cold north wind. The going had been slow since he left the Donovan place, Magazine snorting his displeasure at having to pull the heavy load across the uneven terrain.

There was a smell of oncoming snow in the air.

Thad's grief was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Occasionally he talked to his dead friend.

“I ain't shying from no blame for what's happened,” he said, “but if you'd been less eager to accompany me on this trip, things might have turned out better. Course I'd likely be dead too, long ago, without you being along.” His words
disappeared into the wind and he tugged his hat tighter onto his head. “All I'm saying is I'm sorry for all the bad that took place. Looking on it now, I ain't certain it even makes much sense.”

And he repeatedly replayed the scene in the barn, realizing that he had felt no real satisfaction in the fact that Kate Two was dead. When he had finally come face-to-face with her, pointing his Colt at her breast as she aimed her rifle at him, could he have pulled the trigger? Could he have killed a woman, even one so evil and with no hint of remorse? Barclay, in his own dying moments, had put the question to rest by tending to the chore himself, a final favor.

Though he was anxious to reach Dawson's Ridge, the shortened days made it necessary to make camp early. Nightly seeking shelter beneath outcroppings that would break the wind. He gathered branches and made a fire, not only for his own warmth but to keep curious predators away. He slept little, his rifle always across his lap as he served as protector of his friend.

So haunted was he by the past, he gave little thought to the possibility of encountering hostile Indians or roaming bandits. The thought that the man whose ranch they had set fire to might seek revenge barely crossed his mind.

It was on the fourth day when he heard the children singing. Even from a distance he recognized the hymn. As he approached the community, dreading the news he would soon have to deliver, pellets of sleet danced against the brim of his hat. He stopped atop the ridge and looked toward the large tree near the creek, now bare of leaves, and realized that the children had abandoned their outdoor lessons and were inside the Social Center. There were no people moving about.

For a time he sat astride Magazine, listening to the young voices.

•   •   •

At the Guinn Ranch, Buck Lee and two other hands were in the barn, saddling their horses, as the boss stood nearby. The rancher's glowing anger had not subsided. Even during the brief funeral he had constantly ground his teeth and dug at the ground with his boot. Eli Stampley had stood nearby, head bowed in an effort to avoid eye contact with his old friend.

“Seeing as how there was blood from more than one here in the barn,” Guinn said, “there's a good chance that one of 'em was shot. That being the case, I'm guessing that they'll be traveling slowly.” He had thought of little else but the two nameless men since his return to find Kate Two and Ruben dead. He was certain they would not risk going into Waco, where people kept watch for him. “Likely they've headed north.

“What trail they might be taking, I can't say, but you're not to return until you find them.”

He approached Buck and handed him the rifle that had lain beside Kate Two's body. “When you do catch up to 'em,” he said, “see to it you use this.”

•   •   •

The sled trailing Magazine left two long tracks in the sleet that had begun to cover Dawson's Ridge's lone street. No one rushed into the foul weather to greet him.

His legs stiff from the long ride, he stood in the doorway of the Social Center for some time before one of the children noticed him and called out, “The marshal's back.” Joy Chadway quickly turned toward him, her expression like that of someone seeing a ghost. Then she smiled.

The look on his face answered her question even before she reached him. “We thought we might never see you again,” she said. There were giggles from the youngsters as she reached out and touched his shoulder.

She said, “Where's your friend?”

Taylor removed his hat, small pellets of ice falling to the floor. During his ride he had tried to think of how he might break the news but had come up with no satisfactory plan. “Barclay's dead,” he said. “And I'm sorry to say so's your father.”

Joy burst into tears as the room fell silent. Taylor stood awkwardly before her, searching for words of comfort that didn't come.

Soon the Social Center was filled with people, smiling as they welcomed Taylor back, then somber as they heard the news. Several of the women began preparing a large pot of stew while others gathered around Joy in an effort to console her. Taylor drank coffee while someone volunteered to take Magazine and Barclay's body to the livery.

Mayor Dawson arrived and shook Taylor's hand. “I'm sorry that you lost your friend and that Brother Jerusalem is gone. But I'm mighty pleased to see you back safe. How is it you became involved in such tragic events?”

Thad knew the mayor would persist until he had answers. “The woman the soldiers rescued and brought here,” he said, “was who me and Tater were looking for. She was responsible for a number of killings, including that of my father back in Kansas. We found her hiding out down near Waco. Before she died for her sins, she told of shooting the preacher somewhere along the trail. She never said where it occurred, so it's unlikely we'll ever be able to locate his remains.”

“Was it she who murdered your friend?”

“No,” Taylor said, “it was a man who was trying to protect her. She was about to shoot me when Tater killed her and saved my life.”

Mayor Dawson shook his head and placed a hand on Taylor's shoulder. “I'll not ask you to tell me more,” he said. “I can see these events have been painful for you.”

Thad could only nod.

•   •   •

The wind was howling by the time he walked to the livery where Magazine had been fed and groomed. A fire was burning in the potbellied stove, and against the wall Barclay's sled had been covered in blankets. Taylor realized he was exhausted.

On the bunk lay two saddlebags, his and Barclay's. He pulled off his boots and reached toward the one that contained Tater's belongings. Unbuckling the strap, he reached inside and removed the eyeglass, Jeb Donovan's shears, several loose shotgun shells, a pouch that contained a few coins, and a small wooden frame. In it was a faded photograph of a smiling young woman, pretty and posed in a frilly dress. Though he'd never seen it before, Thad knew immediately who she was.

Spreading the opening of the saddleback to look inside, he saw that all that remained inside was a folded piece of paper.

He moved closer to the lantern to see the words written on it.

For Thad Taylor, to reed win I have gone to meet my maker.

First off I want to say this is the only letter I ever rote.

Next I want to say it has been my honor to have got to no you. You are a good man. I wisht I could say as much for myself.

I got no way to know what took place to cause you to be reading this but I want you to know I figgered it might happen. It's a nuther of them things I told you about that folks jes come to know when they git older.

If I am still in one peece and it aint too much of a bother, Id admire to be berryed back in Kansas, along side of my brother and his family. Don't go doing nothing extry like a head stone, Jes lay me out next to my kin. Theyre restin under a big tree on the place they used to call home before the injuns came. I tole you about it so it won't be to hard to find.

I got little to leve behind. Theres a few dollars in this bag. If someone aint done stole it you can have it. You might think on spending a bit of it on a taist of whiskey for ol times sake.

My place back home aint much but the house and barn are sturdy. The water well is deep and the land is purty good. You might ax the Barstow lady if she would like to have it as a place to settle on. I spect she an her boy won't be wantin to go back to where her husband got kilt by those injuns.

Tell miz Chadway for me that Im sorry we dint save her pa. Seems to me he was plum crazy but he dint disurve to get kilt. If there really is a heven hes likely up there talking away and happy like he had good since. I sur hope so.

Lastly, I got my regrets though its a bit late to worry on that. Jes figgered Id make mention of em.
May be if that lady Id hoped to marry hadn't turned me away and maybe if I hadnt drunk so much or shot so many folks I would of turned out a better man. All I can do now is leeve that up to your doing.

Your frend, Tater Barclay

Taylor was still staring at the letter when he heard a woman's voice. “Marshal, it's Joy and July Barstow. Are you decent?”

“Decent as I'll ever be,” he said as he quickly pulled on his boots and tried to smooth his tangled hair.

Joy's eyes were red, but there was a faint smile on her face. July cradled a pan of corn muffins in her arms. “If you're too weary and wish to sleep, we can come back tomorrow,” July said. “I was with the children, trying to teach them to add and subtract, when you arrived. I just heard that you were back.”

“It's good to see you up and about,” Taylor said. “I take it you're feeling better than the last time I seen you.”

“Much better, thank you. In many ways I'm feeling my old self. And for that I'm forever indebted to you and your friend.” She glanced toward where Barclay's body lay. “I've come to tell you how sorry I am that he's dead.”

Taylor nodded. “Too much of that's been occurring of late.” He handed Barclay's letter to July. “Something here you might want to think on.”

As July read, Joy moved toward the bunk and sat next to him. She took his hand. “I'm afraid I didn't conduct myself as properly as I should have earlier. In my sadness over the news of my father, I didn't make clear the fact that I'm glad you're back and safe.” She bent toward him and kissed him
lightly on the cheek. “You've been in my thoughts a great deal. I prayed daily for your return.”