RESCUED: CHAPTER 13
By the end of the second day, there was no reason left to guard the bank. Harry Bodkin let his two exhausted clerks go home at five o'clock, ready to close for the day just like old times. Matt and Charlie watched him carefully lock the big safe and put the closed sign in the window. Then beaming, he turned toward them and made the announcement they'd been waiting for.
"Forty thousand dollars, gentlemen! Can you possibly believe that? Forty thousand dollars cash into the rescue account in two days! It's beyond my wildest dreams! Some of my most valued customers came in here and made big deposits, and that for a bank they couldn't make a withdrawal from until we get money from Kansas City. It's a miracle, I tell you, a miracle, the way these people stepped up! Why, even Major Harris from out at Fort Dodge made a donation, and right out of his own pocket!"
"Major Harris?" Matt's eyes widened in disbelief. "What possible reason could he have for doing that? They have their own payroll."
"Precisely, Marshal. He said he needed the saloons to be open on payday!"
Matt laughed. "Guess I had a hand in that part, at least. We'll re-open them by then."
"Withdrawals?" Charlie added.
"Seven thousand. All the families camped down by the river and most of the citizens of Dodge who live payday to payday. We're home free for the time being. Thank you, gentlemen. And Marshal, thank Kitty for me again, will you?"
He nodded. "I will, Mr. Bodkin. Now you lock up here so the law in this town can get some rest."
"Right now, Marshal." He walked with them out the door and locked it behind him. "Bankers need some rest too."
As the two men walked slowly back to the house, Matt broke the silence.
"Frank's been gone way too long Charlie. Something went wrong, he's better than that. He could have ridden all the way to Pueblo and back by now.
"Didn't think it was any of my business to bring that up, Matt. I don't know the man."
"A deputy like Frank doesn't just disappear, Charlie. He's the next marshal for Kansas if I have anything to say about it. There's nobody better. I'd stake my life on it."
No one was as good at reading the big man's mind as Kitty was, but Charlie Cole had a way.
"You're going out yourself to find him, aren't you?"
"Have to. He'd do that for me in a heartbeat. I'll leave in the morning if you'll watch this."
"I'm good. Do what you have to do."
"And Charlie, don't say anything to Kitty tonight. I'll tell her in the morning."
"Been there, Matt. Been there."
XOXOXO
"Matthew, let me go. I kin find a man better 'n most guys kin find thar boots, ya' know that. Us Haggens wuz born to it. Ya' ain't never had no complaints . . ."
"Festus," Matt interrupted. "When a deputy's in trouble, it's up to his boss to step in. I know you'd go. I'll find somebody down that way who's seen him. The trail's not that cold. Besides, it's probably a wild goose chase. He doesn't know a thing about the bank problems. He's likely fixed the dispute and found some sweet young thing to spend a couple days with. He'll send me packin' and tell me to mind my own business. Wouldn't want that to happen to you."
Matt tossed all his gear up on Buck's saddle, then checked the cinch one last time. Festus remained oddly quiet, knowing he'd been outranked. It was no mystery that Matt loved Frank like a brother. He held the corral gate open for his boss, then watched him mount. Matt turned back as he rode through the gate.
"Keep a good eye on things here."
"Don't fret none about that. Me n' ol' Charlie git along real good an' . . ." his voice trailed off as Matt rode away, with nothing more to say. "Keep a good eye on things here" was a badge of trust he didn't take lightly. Never had. He glanced up toward the house. With the lantern still on in the bedroom, even in the pre-dawn light he could see Kitty watching from the window.
The prairie was alive with activity by mid-morning this time of year. Grouse flew up in front of him, all manner of nondescript birds chattered while they scurried around on the ground in search of insects, and a few stray antelope bounded away as he and Buck approached. It was the kind of morning that made a man's mind wander, reminding him of the times when he and Frank were kids trailing cows, just happy to be out and be free. Maybe he shouldn't have given that up. Sure beat being a lawman and facing one two-bit lowlife after another. But cowboys didn't have homes or families. His mind roamed to Sara and the feel of her trying to stand, holding onto his leg, trusting him, her favorite new skill to practice with him. Pretty soon she'd be walking. Right after that she'd probably want her own pony and he'd be teaching her to ride. His thoughts gave him a chill that didn't last long with the sun radiating on the old wagon road in front of him, its heat creating billows that rose from the ground like waves alternating with the remains of the night's cool. Buck's neck sported enough wet hair now that summer had definitely returned. He pulled the big gelding up, stepped down and took his coat off, tying it over his bedroll. How could a place so cold at night get so hot in the sun?
Judging from the position of the sun, he hit the very north point of Bluff creek just after noon. This late in the year it ran shallow, barely enough depth for Buck to get a good drink, so he dug out a pool and let the horse enjoy his fill. He sat cross-legged under a tree, the first one they'd seen since Dodge, and feasted on jerky and hardtack while Buck found grass by the stream. The silence was exhilarating. He hadn't heard silence in almost two weeks and vowed to himself that he'd never take it for granted again after the hubbub of San Francisco and all the chaos at the bank. The only sweeter sound in all the world was the sighing of his wife while he pleasured her. He took a few quick minutes to stretch out in the grass and replay that sighing in his head: the only joy she could give him out here.
Mid-afternoon and he and Buck had already passed the road off to Dave Henry's place. Still no sign of Frank, and now there were a lot more tracks on the main trail, annoyingly mixed in with Frank's. Seemed like they were all heading south away from Henry Ranch. At least they held the promise of other travelers, perhaps even someone who could give him a clue. It was downright hot now, and he wiped his face repeatedly with his bandana to get rid of the sweat that dripped down from his hatband, releasing the top three buttons on his shirt to welcome in what little breeze there was. The creek was much better here, so he stopped to refill his canteen and let Buck have all the water he wanted. Standing there next to the softly flowing creek it was hard to be sure, but he thought he heard something off in the distance, so he snugged his cinch up, stepped on, and trotted back up into the open. The sound was distinct up here, well off in the distance, the unmistakable bawling of cattle. LOTS of cattle! He eased Buck into his ground-covering jog, watched, and waited. It wasn't long: He was headed straight for a lone cowboy on a big palomino, a color many point riders rode because they were easy to see. He waved at the man, knowing he'd have to fall in step next to him to talk. Point riders had to keep moving.
"Howdy!" He turned in next to the man, matching his stride northbound. "I'm Matt Dillon, United States Marshal out of Dodge City."
"Howdy, Marshal. I remember you. You're comin' all this way to warn us about the tight town you run up there." The man's broad smile belied any hostility, it was all in good nature. "I'm Pete Burrick. I ride for Martin Ranch out of Lubbock." He offered his hand for a shake, which Matt reached out and returned while the two rode along together.
"Nope Pete, nothin' like that. Lookin' for my deputy riding down here somewhere. Guy named Frank Reardon. He's six two, 200 or so. Rides a real sharp-lookin' bay gelding."
Burrick shook his head slowly. "Haven't seen him, Marshal. You need more than a deputy workin' down here though. This country we just rode through is a mess with barb wire. Pilgrims screamin' at us and tryin' to turn our herd away from it, guys threatinin' they're gonna shoot us! You Kansas law guys got to do somethin' about this wire mess down here. Seems like any place they can dig a well they put up their damned fence and claim the land. This is open range. We been comin' right up through here every year on our way to Dodge. This year we don't know where the wire is till we're right up on it. It's never been so hard to get through Kansas."
He wanted to tell the man how the open range of Kansas was disappearing. It would have been a good conversation to have around a campfire with Pete and the other guys from the Martin outfit, but unfortunately he had to keep riding next to the man, and all of it in the wrong direction to find Frank.
"All right, much obliged for the information. I'll see what I can find out about that wire while I'm down here."
The cowboy nodded. "Behind me is one more point guy on a sorrel gelding. When you meet up with him, you'd better be ready to make a real wide turn east out of his way, cause he's got two thousand Texas Longhorns spread out behind him."
Matt tipped his hat at the man, understanding all too well the pickle he and the big buckskin would be in if they didn't get out of the way. He peeled off and headed back south, angling well out onto the prairie away from the creek and the advancing herd. A herd traveled slowly, a lot slower than a solitary man on horseback, but reckoning with a wall of cattle that size was like standing in front of a tidal wave. They wouldn't make Dodge for a couple of days, and when they held herd just outside of town waiting for the buyers and the trains, he hoped Festus and Charlie had the saloons open. His next thought was the bank. Bodkin just HAD to have that bank re-stocked for the buyers!
He waved at the second point man and gigged Buck into a soft lope well to the east before they eased back to a walk. The massive herd stretched out in the distance for several miles, kicking up a cloud of dust that only a cowboy could fathom. Frank's trail was cold now, and would be until he could get back near the creek. And of course, there'd be no sign of Frank this far out. Before the dust had settled, he saw some sort of settlement off in the distance. Might be a good place to stop and ask for information. He asked Buck to lope.
But information was not about to be had. A hundred yards from the place, he could see the hideous signs. Years of working the law had taught him to approach cautiously, so he pulled Buck back to a slow walk, scanning the periphery carefully for any signs of a trap. Many a lawman had been ambushed at what looked like a harmless scene. He circled the place slowly from a distance, his rifle in hand. Finally convinced the place was abandoned, he slowly circled in closer to the buildings, trading his rifle for his .45.
There was plenty of barb wire everywhere, all right, and a substantial amount of it coiled on the ground where the makeshift posts had been ripped or mowed down near the shabby outbuildings. He saw a dead cow and three human corpses near what had been a corral. A few dozen sheep lay lifeless in the periphery. The only movement was the ever-present flock of chickens pecking the ground as if nothing had happened. He stepped down and tied Buck to the well frame so he had no chance of losing his transportation way out here, then began the grim task of examining the bodies: one man, one woman, and a boy who looked to be in his early teens, each shot at close range with the blast of a rifle. Three dead human beings, their lives given up in a dream of a better life.
He pushed his hat farther back on his head as if it helped him think and studied the main farmyard even more carefully. It sure wasn't cowboys who'd massacred these people. Drovers might have been angry about the wire, but they were common, hard-working men who would never resort to barbarism like this. Looters were out of the question: There was nothing of value to be had, and the little homestead was too far from anything to be worth the ride. The dismal dugout these people lived in was barely roomy enough for two, much less a family of three. There was one armload of wood, and one small stove. The lean-to yielded another question when he looked inside: There was a single harness hanging on the wall. Oddly, the mow had enough hay left in it to feed the cow and at least one horse, but there was no horse anywhere around, just the harness. No one could live out here without a horse, not even sheepers, which these people appeared to have been. He walked the bleak farmyard slowly. The milk cow had succumbed to two of the rifle shots. But when he got to the closest group of lifeless sheep, the mystery deepened. None of these animals had been freshly killed. Most of them were bloated, and many of them had already been ravaged by coyotes, the stench of death strong. All looked to have been dead for days, and there was no sign of them being shot, not a drop of blood on any of them. At this distance from the farmyard a clue caught his eye. Mixed into the scrubby dried grass and dirt were the tracks Festus would have found instantly: tracks from unshod horses. Most of these pilgrims rode unshod horses because there was no blacksmith closer than a day's ride, and they were too poor to afford the service anyway. But these people didn't seem to have a horse, and there were a lot of tracks. The Comanches had rifles now, thanks to the gun runners. And they would never leave a horse behind. Not ever.
He sighed and looked at the waning sun. Had to get these people buried soon, and head back toward the creek to make camp so Buck could get some grass. He found a shovel in the lean-to and struggled to dig one shallow grave in the hardpack. He buried the woman, knowing the man and boy would likely have made the same decision under duress. Then he dragged the man and boy into the dugout where the birds and coyotes wouldn't have their way, and pondered his predicament. He could ride south tomorrow and be in Ashland before sundown, where at least a telegraph was available. If he didn't find Frank by then it'd be pointless to go on. And he'd already wasted far too much time at this farm: The cold would be setting in before he got back to Bluff Creek. Time to go. He pulled Buck's cinch up and stepped on, heading for a break in the wire behind one of the shabby outbuildings. Just as he rode through it, Buck abruptly shied from something on his right. Matt whirled around and saw it: An Indian lancet, its feathers fluttering in the breeze, and another lifeless body on the ground under it. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked through Buck's pinned ears. He scanned the horizon again, almost refusing to believe he was alone. A lancet was always a sign of Comanche triumph in battle, usually planted when it was over, but still . . . an ambush here would mean no one would find him, or Frank, and God forbid, he'd never see Kitty again. Buck didn't want to move forward, but he sank spur and the big gelding reluctantly yielded until they got close enough to see what the Indians had celebrated.
FRANK!
He stepped off Buck and hung securely onto his reins, knowing he had to keep the horse quiet and pretend he wasn't scared. He knelt down over his deputy's motionless body and tried to keep his wits about him. His shirt had been ripped off and hideous warpaint was smeared across his chest in colors that matched the top of the lancet pole, signifying victory. They'd taken his badge and pinned it into his flesh right where it would have been on his shirt, a pencil-thick stream of dried blood crusted just below it. Gently, he laid his index finger under his nose. Hope prevailed: Frank was breathing. Matt's fear morphed instantly to rage. He cautiously released the clasp and in one fleeting motion, he ripped it from Frank's chest and threw it on the ground, startling Buck so much that the horse tried to pull back. But no more blood came, nor did any sort of groan he was expecting from the motionless deputy.
His eyes moved down his best friend's body. Instantly, he saw why Frank hadn't been able to extract the badge. His hands were useless, his wrists covered in blood, brutally bound together with strands of the barb wire. His boots were missing to allow for more of the noxious metal to be wrapped snugly around his ankles. No man could have fought such trappings, but from all indications Frank Reardon had sure made an effort.
What to do? His mind was racing. Make a checklist like he'd always done. Water, shelter, food. He stood slowly and retrieved his canteen from his saddle, then bent down and dabbed a few drops on Frank's lips, which were swollen and blistered beyond belief from days in the brutal sun. He walked to the well and drew a bucket so he could splash some on Frank's face. But the bucket yielded another gift from the Comanches: the already putrid liquid was laced with blood and animal fur. Food was out of the question until Frank regained consciousness, if he ever did. Okay: shelter. He drew a deep breath, knowing he couldn't risk dragging Frank into the lean-to with all that wire wrapped around him. He untied his bedroll, opened it wide, set aside all the gear he had packed inside, and covered Frank to the waist with the thick blanket inside it. Then he dug around in his saddlebags until he found his gloves and his always present jackknife. He opened the tool and wiped the blade as clean as he could with a dab of the water from his bandana, then set about the arduous task of removing the wire from Frank's wrists. The work was slow so it could be done carefully, but barb by barb he plucked wire from the delicate flesh, and wrap by wrap, he was finally able to slide it gently away. Problem was, the darkness and cold were upon them.
He struggled to his feet, unaware until he tried that his knees had been bent for over an hour. He patted ever-loyal Buck, then fashioned a halter out of his lariat and secured him through one of the gaping slats in the outbuilding. That done, he retrieved an armload of hay from the lean-to and piled it in front of Buck, then collected all the firewood that had been left in the dugout and returned to the scene of the crime. He had to pull his heavy coat on now, the prairie dark and cold suddenly unforgiving. It made him wonder how Frank had ever survived. It wasn't hard to get a fire going with a handful of the hay under the firewood. Once again, God had provided a way for a cowboy to work by night. He looked around one last time before going back to his knees to start in on Frank's ankles. He glowered at the lancet still buried in the ground and ripped it down, snapping it over his knee into shards of kindling, then tossed it onto the fire in a ceremony of his own. One way or another, he and Frank were going to survive.
He was sure it would be the longest night of his life. The firewood all became ash, thankfully not before he'd managed to extricate the remaining spirals of wire from Frank's ankles. His lifelong traveling partner the North Star said it was around midnight, so he needed a new plan to keep Frank warm. The thought of dragging Frank into the dugout with those dead bodies turned his stomach, and besides, untold amounts of dirt would have impacted his wounds on the trip. So he ripped as many slats as he could off the outbuilding and broke them into small pieces under repeated blows from his foot, managing to toss enough on the pile to ignite it again. He poured a few drops of water on Frank's unresponsive lips, then allowed himself two sips from the canteen. He snarfed down a couple pieces of jerky from his saddlebags, then two more sips of water, and that was supper. He wrapped his coat around Frank, pulled the blanket up over that, and crowded in next to the man he'd come to rescue, both of them cocooned under the weatherproof tarp from his roll. While he fought to coax sleep that refused to come, he punished himself for not recognizing the signs right off. The fence torn down, close range rifle fire, missing horses, unshod hoof prints everywhere, of course it was a Comanche raiding party! They'd been more and more active down here in the past year as their hunting ground disappeared in favor of these homesteaders, leaving them powerless to feed their women and children. Jake Wirth had tried to warn both of them about the encroaching barb wire and the homesteaders when they'd sat together in his parlor over three years ago. Somehow Frank had tried to help these people and had ridden into an ambush. "White man's law," they called anyone wearing a badge, and their hatred knew no bounds. More than once Frank had said "a furious white man shoots a white man and kills him. A furious Indian is the master of torture." And here he was, a victim of his own prophecy. Only Frank would be able to tell the story.
But first he had to survive.
tbc
