Ralph Compton Comanche Trail

Prologue

There was a clean sweet smell to the predawn air as the man stepped from the cabin porch and walked toward the barn. Inside, his wife and children still slept, warmed by the fire he’d just stoked.

The time before the sun rose was his favorite, the autumn solitude broken only by the sounds of early-rising birds. With the soreness of his muscles relieved by a night’s sleep, he contemplated another day’s work. He would feed his mules, milk the cow, and spread grain for the laying hens before the aroma of biscuits and brewing coffee lured him back to the house. Then there would be wood to cut, the field to till, and repair of a wheel on the wagon to be tended.

In the year and a half since they had arrived from Arkansas and staked their small claim, the work had been hard, the harsh frontier environment a daily challenge. But now times were better. He’d finished building the cabin and barn, dug a well, and removed rocks in order to plow a small sandy loam field where stands of corn and grain were beginning to flourish. The family, like so many other ambitious pioneers moving west, had begun to feel they were home.

He was emerging from the wide doorway of the barn, milk pail in hand, when he saw shadowed movement in the nearby stand of trees and heard the impatient pawing of unshod hooves. Even as he dropped the bucket and raced to get his rifle, the clearing filled with a dozen mounted Comanches, their faces lined with war paint. A yell was followed by the leader’s first wayward shot, which struck the wall with a loud thud.

The farmer kneeled behind the wagon and returned fire as the horsemen moved in his direction. A round smashed into the chest of the nearest attacker. As the Indian fell from his horse, a volley of return fire ricocheted through the barn.

With only the interior darkness for cover, the man was trapped as the attackers began to circle the building, their war cries growing in volume.

Inside the cabin, his family was wakened by the shouts and gunshots. His wife directed the children to hide beneath the bed, then raced toward the front door where her husband’s pistol hung. She had just taken it from its holster when the door swung open and a bare-chested form filled the entryway. Holding the gun with both hands, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. A rifle fell from the hands of the Comanche as his face turned red with blood that gushed from one eye.

Even as he was falling, another stepped over his body and shot the woman. From the barn, her husband heard the screams of his children. He left his makeshift fortress and raced toward the house. A hail of bullets and arrows struck him and he fell forward after only a few steps. He managed to get to his knees, dizzy and gasping for breath, before one of the raiders kneeled beside him and drew a knife across his throat.

The Comanches dragged the bodies of the woman and children into the yard and laid them beside the man. Then they pillaged the two small rooms, collecting the few items of value they could find. That done, they lit torches from the fireplace and set the cabin on fire. Across the way, others had led the two mules and the cow from the barn, spread coal oil from the farmer’s lantern, and set the building ablaze as well.

Angered by the deaths of their own, the savages scalped the man and woman, then set about mutilating their bodies. The Indians formed a circle around their victims and began to chant their war cries as they repeatedly shot arrows into the remains. The children were thrown down the nearby well.

Then, with their two fallen warriors lashed to the stolen mules, the Comanches rode away as black smoke curled against the rising sun.

No neighbors were close enough to hear the gunfire or the death screams. It was the smoke that alerted the dead man’s brother, whose cabin was on the other side of the valley. By the time he arrived, his horse lathered in sweat, only smoldering ashes remained.

When he found the tortured bodies that lay in the dusty yard, he fell to his knees and retched. He searched frantically for the children, fearful that they had been abducted. Only when he saw the girl’s rag doll near the well he’d helped his younger brother dig did he know where to look. What he saw as he peered into the cool darkness caused him to let out a pained cry that echoed across the valley.

He dug through the ashes of the barn and found a charred pick and shovel. With them he dug graves in the shade of the nearby trees.

He knew no words to say once his work was done, so he stood alone in the morning silence, his tears a final farewell to the only kin he had.

Part One

Chapter 1

Kansas, summer 1873

Thad Taylor’s lanky body throbbed with pain and the bright morning sun forced him to shield his eyes as he stepped from the front door of the jail. His recollection of the previous night was hidden away in a drunken fog—too many whiskeys and an argument in Stubby’s saloon down the dusty Independence, Kansas, main street, a flying chair or two, then a full-scale free-for-all. The fact that one eye was almost swollen shut, his knuckles were raw and blood-crusted, and his ribs felt as if an anvil had been dropped on them was all the hungover Taylor needed to realize he’d been on the losing end of whatever fight he’d likely instigated.

It wasn’t the first time.

He was making a futile attempt to smooth his tangled rusty brown hair and wipe the dried vomit from his torn shirt when he saw his sister glaring at him from a nearby buggy. Once again the sheriff had called her to fetch him and, despite earlier vows that she would never again do so, she had come to take him home.

Thad nodded in her direction, aware that a tongue-lashing was soon to come.

Get in, Thaddeus, Sister said, hoping passersby would not take notice and quickly spread the word that the doctor’s boy had again gotten himself in trouble with the law.

He ran his fingers through his hair again. Gotta find my hat, he mumbled through swollen lips.

"Get in . . . right this minute." Her tone made it clear that finding his hat would have to wait.

They rode in silence on the trip out to the Taylor Farm, sweat beading on Thad’s forehead despite the cool morning breeze. Sister kept her eyes focused on the mare in front of her, her knuckles white as she held tightly to the reins and her temper.

The weathered old farmhouse was in view before she finally spoke. Thaddeus, she said, careful not to look toward him, "you’re past your twentieth year and still whoring and drinking and carousing, doing absolutely nothing worthwhile with your life. It’s a shame, if you ask me. Are you ever going to amount to anything?" A tear ran down her cheek as she spoke.

Reckon not. He was sorry for his response as soon as the words escaped his mouth. Where’s my horse?

Unlike you, he came home last night, Sister said. I unsaddled him and put him in the barn. She gave him a stern look. Just like I always do.

He okay?

Much better than you. I’m just glad Daddy’s away and not here to see what a frightful mess you are.

After cleaning up and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot that hung above the fireplace, Taylor declined Sister’s offer of breakfast. His stomach churned at the very thought of food. Instead he headed toward the barn and the small room he’d converted from what was once a place for storing saddles and tools back when the home place was still a working farm. It had only a bed and a small chest, most of its faded paint peeled away. But the place provided him solitude, away from the big house that he’d stormed out of three years earlier, following yet another argument with his father.

He fell onto the bed, resting an arm across his eyes, hoping the dizziness would soon go away. And, as was his routine following each of his boozy misadventures, he took stock of his miserable station in life. As was always the case, he didn’t like the scenes that played in his mind.

His father, Independence’s only doctor, was one of those bigger-than-life characters. He’d lost count of how many children, his own included, he’d helped bring into the world, how many broken bones he’d mended and lives he’d saved. If the stories Thad had heard since boyhood were true, Dr. Winslow Taylor, a portly Scottish immigrant with a booming voice, had been a fun-loving man in his younger days. He was quick to help out friends and neighbors, ever ready to buy the first round on Saturday nights, loved dancing, playing the fiddle. And, above all, his wife.

That he had been unable to save her life when complications developed following his son’s birth had changed Dr. Taylor forever. His good nature disappeared, his delight in the company of others waned. While he continued to carry about his medical responsibilities in a professional manner, he was never the same after Maggie Taylor was buried. Doc Taylor became a bitter man. Often, on late nights when he sat alone in his library, sipping whiskey and smoking his pipe, he would quietly talk to himself. His words, part curse, part an expression of haunting disbelief, were always the same: I can heal others but couldn’t save my own.

The only thing that brightened his spirits was his daughter, Peggy, whom everyone had begun calling Sister even before her younger brother was born. She had her mother’s features—high cheekbones, eyes so blue as to be almost hypnotic, shiny auburn hair—and a warm, generous nature. In Sister’s company, Dr. Taylor was able to think back on happier times.

Thad, on the other hand, was a constant reminder of the darkest day in his life. And, while the doctor had never said as much, his son was certain that he was blamed daily for the death of his mother. Thad had long since resigned himself to being the family curse, robber of all of his father’s joy. He’d so balked at the doctor’s insistence that education was the path to a man’s success that when he’d stopped going to the schoolhouse, no argument was offered. Whatever small effort at guidance the elder Taylor had tried ended in such grand failure that he’d long since halted the useless exercise. By the time Thaddeus reached adulthood, he couldn’t even remember when he’d finally given up on any effort to win the doctor’s approval.

In exchange for doing handyman jobs around the farm—milking, mucking out stalls, carpentry when the roof of the house leaked, clearing brush, and tilling Sister’s summer garden—he lived on the family place and enjoyed his sister’s cooking. Otherwise, he and his father were as distant as strangers, seldom speaking, seeing each other rarely, and then only from a safe distance.

What little money Thad earned came from odd jobs he did for folks in town who occasionally tried to reach out to the young man whose life they perceived to be painfully lonely, filled with anger, and without real purpose.

If Independence had a bona fide outcast, it was Thaddeus Taylor.

•   •   •

The day was nearing an end under a gray sky that was forewarning a thunderstorm by the time he was wakened by a gentle knock at his door and the sound of Sister’s voice. You feeling good enough to eat something? On her arm was a basket that held a plate of tomatoes, corn bread, beans and bacon, and a large slice of apple pie.

Looks like I’m gonna live, he said as he realized that his appetite had returned.

Sister sat silently watching her brother as he began to eat ravenously. He wasn’t exactly a handsome man, she thought, but if one looked beyond the bruises, swollen eye, and unkempt hair, overlooked his need for a shave and new clothes and another ten pounds on his skinny frame, there was something about Thaddeus Taylor that she assumed women might find attractive. Not just whores, but good women like those who attended church at the Calvary’s Cross Baptist. She was certain she wouldn’t always be the only one to love her brother—if he straightened up.

I’m sorry about what I said today, she said.

Thad smiled for the first time since he’d been released from the jail. I’ve heard worse, he replied as he buried his fork into the apple pie.

After gathering the emptied plates, she sat beside him on the bed. You up to talking for a bit? I’ve got something on my mind that—

I know I’ve said it before, but this time I swear on the Good Book that I ain’t going back to Stubby’s.

That’s not what’s worrying me.

What, then?

It’s been over three weeks since Daddy left to go visit Uncle Dalton in Fort Scott. Dalton’s getting up in years, you know, and he’s not at all healthy, so Daddy felt it was time to look in on him, maybe talk him into coming here to live with us. But he told me he wouldn’t be gone more than two weeks, since Julie Simpson—you know her, she works at the grocery in town—is going to be having her baby soon. It’s not like him to delay his return and ignore her needs.

Didn’t even know he was gone, Thad said.

Anyway, the last couple of nights I’ve been having these awful dreams. In them, bad things are happening to Daddy, like Indians getting him or some outlaws knocking him in the head and robbing him. I know it sounds crazy. But the truth of the matter is I’m getting really scared.

And just what is it you want me to do about it?

I want you to go find him.

•   •   •

A bright eruption of stars had filled the moonless, cloud-free sky after the rainstorm. It was still a couple of hours before daylight and there was a clean, newly washed smell in the prairie air as Taylor stood at the entrance of the barn, a packed saddlebag draped over one shoulder.

He’d slept little. Instead he had listened to the gentle rhythm of the rain on the roof as he contemplated his sister’s request. Go find him. Where? How? And, perhaps most puzzling of all to him, why?

He was saddling his sorrel, Magazine, when he sensed that he was not alone. In the flickering light of a nearby coal oil lantern, he made out the image of his sister standing in the doorway.

You’re going to do it, she said.

Her brother shrugged. Got nothing better to do.

Come up to the house before you leave. Coffee’s about ready.

Carefully laid out on the kitchen table was a knotted bandanna filled with freshly baked biscuits, a hat her father wore when he was making his rounds to visit patients, and his hunting rifle.

And there was a small gold-framed photograph of their mother and father. Could be that you might need this if you need to make inquiries, Sister said. Of course, it was taken when he was considerably younger, but it’s the only likeness I have.

Taylor gave the picture only a glance. Instead he focused on the Winchester and laughed. I couldn’t hit the side of a sizable barn with that thing. I ain’t exactly got a reputation as a gunfighter, you know. The fact was, he’d never even owned a sidearm.

I doubt it would be a barn you’d be aiming at if you found yourself facing some kind of serious trouble. She handed him a pouch filled with ammunition, then reached into her apron and produced a small white kerchief knotted around a fistful of coins.

Her brother sipped from his coffee cup and shook his head.

You take it and don’t argue, she said. But don’t you dare go spending it all on whiskey and foolish amusements. She put her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder. I’m expecting you back real soon, you hear?

He reached for the doctor’s hat and wasn’t surprised when it fell across his bruised forehead and rested against his ears. He sighed. Figures that it’d be too big.

Sister put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

Chapter 2

Aside from a lone coyote that appeared from an alley and stopped in the middle of the muddy street to watch him pass, Independence was quiet as Taylor began his northward journey. Even the morning birds had not yet begun to sing, and no rooster’s crow had signaled the arrival of a new day. Whoever might have taken his place in Sheriff Henry’s jail was still lost in tortured sleep, and the saloon was dark and quiet. Thad welcomed the solitude as he passed the deserted general store, the livery, and the hotel, making his way toward the open plains.

He was without any real plan, aside from following the trail that led north toward Fort Scott. Once the route of Indians following buffalo herds, it would take him along the Kansas-Missouri border, across miles of flatlands, past an occasional way station and a few small communities established by ambitious settlers. Depending on Magazine’s willingness, Taylor judged that it would take him three days to reach the home of Uncle Dalton, a man he’d not seen since he was a child.

Likely as not, he would arrive to find his uncle and the doctor sitting on the front porch, sipping whiskey, talking of old times, and arguing the virtues of Dalton taking leave of his home to make the trip back to Independence. Taylor would make his father aware of Sister’s worry, urge that he consider a prompt return, and offer to help with the loading of Uncle Dalton’s belongings in the event he’d decided to take the doctor up on his offer.

Once the sun rose, its warmth felt good on his aching body, and he’d begun to sense a small measure of purpose to his journey. While he didn’t share his sister’s concern for the well-being of his father, believing that his delayed return was nothing more than a matter of his own choosing, the rider was enjoying the sights and sounds of the flatlands through which he was traveling. He’d not seen another person or even a settler’s cabin since sunup.

By noon he reached a small creek and dismounted to allow Magazine to drink and graze while he sat in the shade of a small stand of mesquites, eating a couple of the biscuits Sister had sent with him. Taylor had closed his eyes and was about to doze when he suddenly felt the presence of someone standing over him.

It was a boy, no more than ten or twelve, wearing overalls and a frayed straw hat.

That’s a mighty big hat you’re wearing, mister, the youngster said.

Taylor smiled. Borrowed it off a giant. What brings you here?

Been fishing since sunup. Pa said it would be okay if I promised to bring home enough catfish for supper.

Catching anything?

Come on, I’ll show you.

The boy introduced himself as Jakey Barstow as they made their way down the creek bank, where he lifted a length of rope from the muddy water to display half a dozen fish.

By the look of things, I’d guess you’re a pretty fair fisherman. Where’d you come from?

Our cabin’s ’bout a mile past that ridge, he said, pointing to the west. Me, my pa, and Ma come here from Tennessee.

Well, then, welcome to Kansas, Mr. Jakey Barstow. We’re glad to have you and your folks settled in our fine state.

My pa says we’re likely to have neighbors real soon, maybe even a town one of these days. He says there’re gonna be lots of folks moving this way.

You got no worry about Indians, being out here all by your lonesome?

Jakey shook his head. Pa says the soldiers moved ’em all down south to the reservations where they’ll mind their own ways and leave civilized folks alone.

As the boy chewed on one of the biscuits offered him, he cast an eye toward the rifle strapped to the back of Taylor’s saddle. You fearing you might come up on Indians along your way?

Nope, Taylor said as he mounted Magazine. But I am gonna be on a careful lookout for rabbits and squirrels intent on making any trouble.

Jakey grinned and waved as Taylor tipped his oversized hat and rode away.

•   •   •

Fort Scott, Kansas, had changed dramatically since the days when it was garrisoned by army troops charged with protecting the frontier and negotiating treaties that called for Indian tribes to take leave of their land and move farther west. For years there had been more fighting than negotiating as the Removal Act, which President Andrew Jackson had signed into law, dissolved into all-out war.

Finally, after a great amount of bloodshed, the spirit of the tribes and their leaders was broken, and most survivors had been driven away. All that remained were scattered bands of angry young warriors who continued to occasionally raid white settlers, stealing livestock, burning homes, and leaving unspeakable death in their wake.

The danger, though still real, was no longer considered grave enough to keep Fort Scott active.

Long before it closed in 1853, Dalton Taylor had resigned his position as legal attaché for the military, convinced that the Indians were being treated unfairly. A gentle, well-educated man who could not embrace the bloodlust of either the soldiers or the Indians, he sought to distance himself from what he perceived as unchristian cruelties by all parties.

He opened a law office, and when the military buildings were eventually sold at auction to discharged soldiers and newly arriving settlers, he purchased one of the clapboard officers’ quarters and made it his home. And from that vantage point he’d spent two decades watching Fort Scott grow into a thriving