Winter Rain

Seemed such a simple thing as taking a pee was getting harder every year. His body growing older, the pounding his kidneys took of the trail felt more magnified with each successive season.

On the far side of camp from where the animals had been hobbled, Hook stopped near some clumps of winter-brittle grass and unbuttoned his fly. On a scout like this in country where they would likely come quickly on the enemy, a plainsman had to practice all varieties of precaution: even to using the heel and toe of his tall stovepipe boots to scoop out a shallow hole quickly at the base of some stunted scrub. He would then pee in that hole. Done, Jonah used his scarred boot to cover up best he could the sign, and that telltale odor, of a white man’s passing. Buttoning up as—

“Jonah.”

He turned with a jerk, finding Lockhart and Coffee. “Surprised me, Cap’n.”

There was no nonsense on that face with its bushy black mustache. “Want you to come with us. Get that Snake—Two Sleep—to come with you.”

Following the two Rangers back into the midst of the camp, Jonah motioned for the Shoshone to follow. Through the scrub where the herders had hobbled the stock and were cross-lining the pack mules, Lockhart and his sergeant moved on into the waning light. As they rounded the base of one of the rolling hills, Jonah saw Billy Benton. The man rose when he heard the rest coming.

“You find anything more of interest, Billy?” Lockhart asked.

“Nothing but the tracks, Cap’n.” His was a pointed, prying type of nose set between friendly eyes. The man dusted his hands off on the front of his britches, then straightened.

“Billy here came out to have himself a look around before he took up his guard post ’top that hill,” Lockhart explained, turning to Hook and the Shoshone. “And in the late light he came upon something I want you both to have a look at.”

“You got sign?”

“Look for yourself, Jonah. Tell me what you fellas think.”

The graying man pointed at the ground, his beard and mustache tobacco-stained like Deacon Johns’s. Benton moved his hand back and forth, then once around in a circle, before he stepped back out of the way as Jonah nodded for Two Sleep to join him. Side by side they knelt, studying the ground.

After a moment the Shoshone rose and moved off a few yards in the direction taken by the trail. Jonah glanced at the sky. The tracks headed north. Hook stood and turned to the three Rangers.

“What’s south of here? Maybe not far as Griffin.”

“You know, Sergeant—that’s what I like about Mr. Hook here,” the captain began. “I’m glad you’re still with us, Jonah. So what’s south of here? And well this side of Fort Griffin … why, it’s Cedar Lake.”

As Coffee and Benton grunted what sounded like approval, Jonah asked, “What’s Cedar Lake?”

Lockhart grinned slightly, some of his teeth showing. “Seems it’s an ancient place the Comanche go. They wander there from time to time over the years.”

Coffee nodded, removing his hat and scratching that red scalp of his. “It’s a place that the interpreter up to Fort Sill, fella named Phil McCusker, says the half-breed Quanah Parker his own self claims he was borned.”

“They’re moving north,” Jonah said, again looking into the distance where Two Sleep rose from the ground and began heading back slowly.

“Back to the White River gate,” Coffee added. “Like we figured all along. You was right, Cap’n.”

“I guess we were, Sergeant,” Lockhart said. “Only thing we had wrong was we got there way too early. How old are those tracks, Jonah?”

Hook turned to Two Sleep, moved his hands in the question at the same time he asked it in English of his saddle partner. “How old the tracks?”

“A week. Maybe little more.”

Lockhart nodded, moving forward a step, motioning along the ground. “From what I see, doesn’t seem they were in any hurry.”

“Nope. No rush.”

“How many you figure on?” asked Niles Coffee.

“Eight. Maybe ten,” he answered, looking at Two Sleep. The Shoshone nodded to confirm it.

“No travois, though,” Lockhart grumbled.

“Likely a raiding party,” Jonah ventured. “Maybe out hunting.”

“Scouting the way north, out ahead of the whole village?” Coffee inquired.

“Could be,” Jonah said, looking at the deepening sky. “We can tell more come morning.”

“C’mon, then,” Lockhart ordered. “Let’s get back and get supper in our bellies. I’ve made my decision to move on a few miles after we eat and before we bed down.”

“Makes more sense to have a cold camp now,” Jonah replied.

“Damn right, Captain,” Coffee agreed. “This ground rightly swarms with Comanch’. If them Kwahadi are up and about at long last, I don’t want no wandering scalp party finding sign of us. Them sonsabitches worse’n red ants swarming over my mama’s slop bucket back of her stove.”