Winter Rain

There wasn’t a grumble, not a word one as Coffee put that outfit into motion again. Nothing but the creak of saddle and holster leather, the plodding of hooves and the silence of men in their own thoughts of what lay ahead. Still, one thing was plain as the sky overhead: Hook could see that this bunch would follow their captain not only to hell and back again, but six times around the devil on the way.

A good leader was like that, able to lead men against daunting odds where a lesser man couldn’t budge his troops. It was just the way a certain gentleman general had led the fight of the Confederacy through all its battles, over all those years. In the end these sons of Texas shared the same feelings about just such a leader as Robert E. Lee, gone peacefully to the ages barely five years after he had handed U.S. Grant his sword at McLean’s farmhouse. These sons of Texas followed a good man in Lamar Lockhart. Bound to follow him now into the jaws of hell.

A February sun continued its climb toward midsky, then fell back to their left as they pressed on, the trail they were following become fresher, the fire pits a bit warmer, the pony dung not near so dry. It was late afternoon when Two Sleep rode up, doing his best not to bring attention to himself, and signaled Jonah in the sign dance of the plains.

Hook in turn pushed his horse ahead until he rode beside Lockhart. “Cap’n, seems we’ve found something ahead.”

“Your Snake?”

“He run onto a Comanche pony. Calls the Comanche ’yellow jackets.’”

“Let’s go have ourselves a look, Jonah.”

After crossing the crest of that last hill, Hook spotted the animal more than half a mile away, even before Two Sleep pointed.

“I see him,” Lockhart said without being asked.

The miserable creature stood with its head hung among the refuse of an old campsite: a pitiful few rings, many fire pits, scraps of meat and hide and ruddled bone the porcupines and magpies continued to work over until the white men drew too close and stopped. Only then did the predators and scavengers scatter, and all was silent again, save for the hiss of the wind in the scrub cedar and the bare, skeletal branches of the mesquite.

Jonah’s eyes followed the moccasin tracks, the growing number of hoofprints. Another bunch had evidently joined up here at this campsite. And still the village moved north, rejoining in anticipation of the spring hunt. He gazed off at the path scoured in their leaving this place: a trail more than thirty feet wide pointing toward the Pease River country. Slowly he moved back and forth across the site with Two Sleep, absorbing every ring and pit, every gnawed bone and scrap of hide or discarded moccasin.

He had to admire them—no matter they were savages. If this was truly the bunch caught in the Palo Duro by Mackenzie’s Fourth Cavalry more than four months back, then Quanah Parker’s Kwahadi were something, all right. Starting the winter with next to nothing, for them to come out this well the following spring. How he prayed the boys were alive. Prayed they were with Parker’s fierce and hearty holdouts.

Eventually he walked back to the old pony the village had abandoned there when it had put to the trail once more. The animal suffered what looked to be a festering bullet wound low in the neck. The way the pus and blood had clotted and oozed around the bullet hole told the story.

“This bunch been fighting its way north, Cap’n,” Jonah explained. “Likely this pony got hit on a raid and stayed strong enough to carry its warrior back to the village. But the Comanche plainly saw what you and me can see: this critter’s dying.”

As Hook inched over to the pony, it vainly tried to move away, although it had strength to do little more than stay on its four wobbly legs. Carefully, moving slowly, Jonah inched up to stroke one of the forelegs before picking it up to inspect the hoof. He set it back down, patting the animal’s neck with one hand as he brought his pistol out.

That country proved flat enough that it swallowed his gunshot in the time it took the pony to fall without a struggle.

“What did the hoof tell you, Hook?”

He gazed up at Lockhart. “This bunch has been running. That hoof was sore and bleeding. Near worn out. Some of their stock didn’t fare the winter so well. And still, this bunch is fighting on.”

“Kwahadi, Mr. Hook,” Lockhart said respectfully.

“Yes, Cap’n. I’ve come to know just what you mean.”

“How long since they broke camp?”

He returned to the pony, rubbing his hand along the inside of the rear flanks, under the neck. The dampness of the hide and the heat of the animal gave him something to make his best guess.

“We’re behind ’em less’n two days now.”

Two Sleep came up. “Two days,” he agreed.

“They find out we’re back here, they’ll bolt,” Lockhart said to no one in particular.

Jonah shook his head. “I don’t expect this bunch will get worried all that much about our outfit.”

“You don’t think they’ll make a run for it—try to outdistance us?”