The Rocking R Ranch. Tim Washburn
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his course to avoid them. Seeing Indians was nothing new for Seth. Living where they did, Indians came and went, trekking back and forth across the ranch land almost on a daily basis. Most were peaceable and more than a few would stop by the main house to trade leather goods or hides for groceries or something they needed. And if they were really hungry his grandpa would trade them a steer or an injured cow in exchange for some work he might need.
But Seth was also well aware that there were other types of Indians nearby—the ones who would kill or kidnap him in an instant. And the biggest problem with that, as far as he was concerned, was that you couldn’t tell the difference between a friendly Indian and an Indian with bad intentions. The only way to know if they were friend or foe was to wait and see their reaction and by then it was usually too late. To compensate, Seth’s intention was to avoid all Indians, period. And that was hard to do because he was currently riding through lands owned by the worst of the worst—the Kiowas and the Comanches. From the stories he’d heard, the Comanches were the meanest Indians to ever ride the earth.
Thinking of the Comanches and the possibility of a storm popping up had Seth worked into a lather. Why would they care about a twelve-year-old boy? But then his mind drifted to the stories of Comanches kidnapping other children and the horrors they’d faced. And he’d even overheard some of the ranch hands talking and they’d said the Comanches’ favorite forms of torture often began with some combination of fire and knives and ended with severed body parts. And as Seth thought about that, fear spider-walked down his spine and he twisted in the saddle, searching the area for lurking Indians. None were visible, but that didn’t necessarily slow his heart rate any because everyone knew an Indian could sneak up on you without making a sound.
Seth tried to force his mind to think about something else and he focused his attention back on the trail, hoping—praying—he’d catch up with his father’s group sooner rather than later. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind from clicking back to the Comanches. He thought he recalled his father saying that most of the Comanches, or at least the most dangerous ones, were not and had never been on the reservation, but he couldn’t remember if it was them or another tribe. And there was a big difference between a Comanche and a Cherokee.
Reining his horse down into a small creek, he was surprised to find water. This time of the year most of the smaller creeks ran dry and the Red River slowed to a trickle. His horse dipped his muzzle into the water and drank deeply and then Seth rode up the far bank and attempted to pick up the trail on a patch of rocky ground. His father’s group appeared to be heading almost on a straight line, but he didn’t know if they had a particular destination in mind or were simply following the rustlers’ tracks. He loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace as he studied the ground, which soon transitioned from rocky to sandy, allowing Seth to pick up the trail again.
When he glanced up at the sky again an hour later it looked like a storm was forming out to the west. He watched it a moment as the clouds boiled and billowed, growing larger by the minute as the updraft pushed the top of the storm ever higher into the sky. It was fascinating to see, and Seth could’ve sat and watched it all day if he’d been anywhere else. But not here in enemy territory, especially with the threat the storm posed to Seth’s plans. If the rain washed away the trail, he’d be in a pickle.
Having never seen a map of the area—if one even existed—he had no idea of what might lie ahead. So far, he hadn’t seen any houses, or trading posts, or anything else that would indicate a specific location. Maybe that grouping of teepees was what was called a town up in these parts, Seth thought. Didn’t seem right to him. Those Indians could pack up their tents and be gone before dark, leaving nothing but open space in their wake. And it was strange to think of it that way. Seth’s grandfather’s grandfather had lived on the land where they now lived, a succession of Ridgeway families all tethered to that one location. From the looks of things up here, it appeared the Indians didn’t much care about putting down roots or anything else that would result in any sort of permanent place. And, as Seth thought about that, he began to understand why the Indians were so difficult to keep on the reservation. It was as unnatural to them as it would be for him and his family to pack up and move, then move again, and again, and again. They were two entirely different worlds, and, for a moment, Seth envied the Indians. They got to go where they wanted when they wanted, and for a boy who hadn’t been much beyond the ranch, that was a powerful thing.
Seth’s thoughts were interrupted momentarily when he spied a trio of riders headed his way. Though still too far away to discern much about them other than their clothing, that was enough for Seth to know they weren’t Indians. He sat a little easier in the saddle as his horse plodded forward, the distance between him and the three riders diminishing. He was hoping they could give him the lay of the land or what might lie ahead and, if not, it was time for him to turn back for home before the storm hit.
But what Seth would soon discover was that skin color and clothing were irrelevant when judging a man’s intentions.
CHAPTER 8
Eli Ridgeway muttered a curse word or two as he and Winfield Wilson rode single file up a game trail on the north bank of the Red River. Most of his vehemence was directed at his sister Rachel, the rest reserved for the building storm clouds to the west. He was concerned the rain would wash out the trail and he was also concerned about their own safety. No man liked to be atop a horse during a lightning storm and if it started hailing it would beat them all to hell. Eli spurred his horse into a lope and Win matched him then rode on ahead to take the point. Eli could read sign, but Win could read it and tell you who was riding which horse and how it had been since their last meal.
Eli slipped his watch from his pocket to check the time and grimaced. They might have six hours of daylight left and Seth had at least a four-hour head start. Eli loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace. The pony he was riding, a black-and-white paint, was native to Texas and could gallop all day and not give out. But it was never a good idea to let a horse run for long periods of time, despite their capability. In this country a man never knew when his life might depend on his horse’s swiftness and stamina. Eli’s only complaint about this particular horse was that he was a little shorter than most and the stirrups, and his boots in them, got dragged through the tall grass. But he’d take that, knowing his mount was sure-footed and an overachiever.
Thunder rumbled off to the west and Eli glanced up at the sky. A majority of the time the storms in the area moved from northwest to southeast and there was a chance this one could pass behind them. And that’s all Eli could hope for, knowing Mother Nature could be a bitch when she wanted to be.
Win slowed his horse to a walk and Eli did the same, easing his horse forward to ride side by side.
“Bunch of redskins off the reserve,” Win said out of the corner of his mouth. “Ride through here in the winter and all these small creeks would be crowded up with teepees.” With disgust on his face Win surveyed the area. He had no qualms when it came to killing Indians, and Eli knew why. As a young boy, Win had been working out in the field with his father when a Kiowa war party rode up on them. The Indians killed and mutilated his father and they held Win captive for two months before a trader ransomed him and returned him to his mother.
“They’ll never stop the Indians from migrating back and forth,” Eli said.
“You’re right,” Win said. He bent over and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Ought to wall off the whole damn territory and let ’em all go at one another.” Win steered his horse toward a game trail and followed it down to a small creek and both men let their horses drink under the shade of a large cottonwood tree. “Guvmint give them all this land and they don’t do a damn thing with it,” Win said, obviously not finished on the subject of Indians. “We ought to take it back. A feller could graze a bunch of cattle up here.”
“If we confiscate all of their land, where do you expect them to reside?” Eli asked.
“Six feet under works for me,” Win said. “The sonsabitches.”
Eli glanced up at the sky again and, eager to change the subject, said, “Think the storm is going to miss us?”