Ride the High Range Page 2

  Lieutenant Carrington gave the elflike scout’s words a few moments’ thought before deciding. “It sure looked to me like he was leading the attack.” He shrugged indifferently. “At any rate, he was riding with them, so we’ll take him on back to Fort Riley for trial.” He ordered two troopers to take Jim over by the barn to guard him while the rest of the patrol chased after the four escapees. He then went back to the house to reassure the Thompson family that they were safe.

  An interested bystander to this point, Johnny Hawk studied the wounded boy carefully. He didn’t strike the scout as typical of the trash who rode with the outlaw bands. He followed the soldiers over to the barn. “I’ll take a look at the boy’s wound,” he said. “See how bad it is.”

  “Suit yourself,” one of the soldiers said. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

  Jim sat down with his back against the wall of the barn, his shoulder now starting to throb. Still, he had not spoken a word, resigning himself to the turn of events that had placed him in this situation. His two guards made themselves comfortable on one side of him, content to be spared further time in the saddle. Jim glanced up when the scout stood over him for a few moments. “Let me take a look at that there wound,” Johnny said. When Jim made no reply, he asked, “You ain’t gonna bite, are you?” Jim paused for a second, considering the gray-bearded little man before slowly shaking his head. “You was pretty wild lookin’ when you come chargin’ in here,” Johnny continued. “Looked like you was bein’ chased yourself.”

  “I was,” Jim said, speaking for the first time.

  “Now, why would I wanna believe a tale like that?” Johnny asked, just to test the boy’s reaction.

  “It doesn’t make much difference whether you believe it or not, does it?” Jim replied stoically.

  Johnny studied the clear dark eyes that met his gaze defiantly, never blinking or avoiding contact. He had a feeling about the boy, yet he was not one to be easily misled. “Why was that bunch chasin’ you?” he asked. “They were all your friends, weren’t they? How come they was shootin’ at you?”

  Jim merely shrugged, convinced that nothing he said would be believed, so Johnny pressed further. “It wasn’t like you was tryin’ to warn these folks here.” Jim did not reply, but his eyes confirmed what Johnny suspected. He finished tying Jim’s bandanna across the boy’s shoulder and under his arm, then stood up to fix him with his gaze. “I figure you was tryin’ to warn these folks before that bunch hit ’em. Is that about the size of it?”

  Jim’s expression shifted from one of morose resignation to that of mild surprise, causing him to wonder why the scout was even interested enough to question him. “That’s about the size of it,” he replied, and studied the curious man intently. He was an odd little man, standing a hair under five feet tall, Jim estimated. His face was covered from his ears on down with a gray set of whiskers. And his lower jaw protruded beyond his upper lip, causing a prominent display of the lone front tooth on the bottom. Jim was reminded of a picture of a leprechaun in a book his grandfather had once been reading.

  “What’s your name, son?” Johnny asked.

  Jim hesitated, wondering if he should tell him or not, before finally stating, “Jim Moran, Quantrill’s Raiders.”

  Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “Quantrill, huh? How long have you been ridin’ with this bunch that chased you in here?” Little by little he was able to increase the boy’s responses until finally he was successful in piecing together Jim’s history as a member of Quantrill’s Raiders. The conversation was ignored by Jim’s guards, who were unconcerned with the guilt or innocence of the prisoner. Johnny continued, “So you found yourself ridin’ with a gang of outlaws after the war was over?”

  “That’s about it,” Jim said, as Lieutenant Carrington came from the house, accompanied by William Thompson, effectively ending Johnny Hawk’s interrogation.

  His two guards jumped to their feet as the officer approached and Johnny stepped aside.

  “So that’s one of the scum that was plannin’ to murder my family!” Thompson blurted as he marched up to stand over Jim. “Why, he ain’t much older than my boy, Edgar.” He turned to Carrington. “What are you gonna do with him?”

  “We’ll take him back to Fort Riley for trial,” the lieutenant answered.

  Thompson looked around at the bodies lying in his farmyard before asking, “Why don’t you just shoot him now . . . or hang him? I’ve got plenty of good rope in the barn and a stout beam to string it over.”

  “That would be a lot less trouble for me, but I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Carrington replied. “I have to take him back to be tried.” He glanced down at Jim. “I’ve no doubt they’ll hang him afterward for killing one of my men. I can understand how you feel, but that’s the way it’ll have to be unless he tries to escape. Then I guess we’ll have reason to shoot him.” The last comment was for Jim’s benefit, in case he might be entertaining thoughts of escape.

  Thompson, staring down again at Jim, goaded him. “Why don’t you try to escape, boy? Just take off runnin’. Maybe they’ll miss.” He punctuated his taunting with a kick to Jim’s leg.

  Silent until that moment, Johnny Hawk decided to speak. “I can understand why you got your backbone up, mister, but you’re maybe owing to this young feller more’n you think. He was tryin’ to head them outlaws off and warn you and your family.”

  Thompson immediately looked to Carrington for confirmation, but the lieutenant simply shrugged, unconvinced himself. “How do you know that?” Thompson asked Johnny then. “Is that what he told you? Hell, he’d say anything to save gettin’ his neck stretched.”

  “Mostly that’s what I saw for myself, since he was so far ahead of the others, and the shootin’ had already started before the soldiers came chargin’ outta the barn.” He reached up and stroked his chin whiskers as if giving the matter serious thought. “Add to that the fact that I just bandaged his wound, and the bullet went in the back of his shoulder . . . tells me he wasn’t hardly hit by a shot from the barn.”

  The scout’s comments were enough to give the lieutenant pause, but he was still reluctant to accept Johnny’s version of the events just witnessed in the barnyard. After a few moments’ consideration, he said, “That’s not my responsibility to decide. We’ll let a judge decide. All I know for sure is that he came charging in here at the head of that outlaw gang and one of my men was killed. Somebody will have to pay for that.” He grinned at Johnny Hawk then. “I believe you’re getting softhearted in your old age, Johnny. Maybe that’s the reason you said this was your last patrol for the army.”

  “Maybe so,” Johnny replied with a chuckle. He had no intention of scouting for the army six years ago when he passed through Fort Riley on his way back to the high country in Montana. Recognized by the commanding officer, who had employed him as a scout some years before in Wyoming Territory, he had been persuaded to accompany a regimental campaign against a hostile band of Sioux. He had been threatening to quit and head west ever since. This time he had made it final. Now he was asking himself why he gave a damn one way or the other what the army did with this wounded young man. It just struck him that somehow it didn’t seem fair to hang him when he was convinced that Jim had been trying to do what he thought was right. He decided to make one more attempt to influence Carrington’s decision. “You know, Lieutenant, that boy ought’n be treated no different from any other prisoner of war, and most of them has already been let go to go back home. Hell, there was a whole lot of boys—boys younger′n him—that fought with the Rebs durin’ the war.”

  “This is different,” Carrington replied, obviously weary of discussing the matter. “This was no military unit he was riding with. He’s no more than a common outlaw, and young or not, he has to answer to a court. Then it’s their decision as to what punishment is justified.”

  Johnny nodded, thinking that Carrington’s stance was typical of most military points of view. Like so many officers, the lieutenant seemed incapable
of thinking outside the book, when he could just as easily have let the boy go and no harm done. Well, he thought, it ain’t no concern of mine. Maybe Carrington’s right. Maybe if he let him go, the boy might sneak back and take a few potshots at the soldiers. He returned his thoughts to his decision to quit his job as an army scout. “I reckon this little business is finished,” he said to the lieutenant. “You don’t need me no more. You’ll be headin’ back to Riley when your men get back, and I expect I’ll be headin’ the other way. By the way, your prisoner′s name is Jim Moran, in case you wanna know.”

  “Jim Moran, huh?” Carrington responded, making a mental note of it. “You sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked. “You’re the best damn scout in the regiment, and you’re not ready to retire yet. What are you gonna do?”

  “I’ve got a heavy cravin’ for the high mountains,” Johnny replied. “This flatland gets to a man after a while, and I wanna see some things I ain’t seen yet while my eyes are still sharp enough to see ’em.” He didn’t mention the strong desire to see a wife who waited for him in a Crow village near Fort Laramie. It had been over a year since he had seen her and he wasn’t too old to have cravings in that direction as well.

  “I guess there’s no use trying to convince you to stay,” Carrington said, and extended his hand. “Good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He was sincere in his wishes. He had never ridden with a scout as capable as Johnny Hawk.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Johnny said. “Same to you.” He cast one more brief glance in Jim’s direction before turning to leave. The boy nodded in response as if to express his appreciation for the scout’s efforts, and Johnny returned the nod in acknowledgment. Then he walked briskly away to collect his horses, a spotted gray and a sorrel packhorse.

  Carrington turned his attention back to his prisoner, who was still sitting quietly with his back against the barn wall. He studied him for a moment, Johnny Hawk’s words still in his mind. Maybe the scout was right about the boy. He quickly discarded the thought, once again deciding there was no alternate course of action for him. “Maybe you’d better tie his hands behind his back,” he told the two privates. Then he changed his mind. “Might be too painful for him with that shoulder wound, though.” He hesitated, thinking the prisoner should be bound in some way. “Tie his hands, just leave them in front.”

  “’Preciate it,” Jim said, surprising the lieutenant. His shoulder was already throbbing. It would have been uncomfortable indeed to have his arms tied behind his back.

  “Don’t get the idea I’m going to be easy on you because of your age,” Carrington quickly responded. “You’re just a common thief and murderer as far as I’m concerned, and the court will deal with you appropriately.”

  It was late in the afternoon by the time the rest of the patrol returned to the Thompson farm, horses hot and weary from the chase. Much to Carrington’s disappointment, none of the four escapees were captured. After the bodies of the outlaws were tied across the saddles of their horses, it was too late to start back to the fort that day, so the lieutenant gave orders to make camp at the edge of the barnyard, leaving the outlaws’ horses to carry their loads overnight. Fires were built and the troopers prepared their supper. Extra coffee and fresh-baked biscuits were provided by Esther Thompson, much to the delight of the soldiers. With Thompson’s permission, the prisoner was locked in the smokehouse behind the barn with one soldier stationed at the door as guard.

  Inside the house, William Thompson sat down by the stove to finish his coffee, conversing with his wife about the excitement of the day. “I reckon we can thank the Lord that the soldiers knew that gang was headin’ our way,” he said. “Four of ’em got away, but I doubt they’ll stop till they get to Texas. I hope they’re plannin’ on leavin’ out of here early in the mornin’, though. All them dead bodies might start to stink before long.”

  A compassionate woman, Esther Thompson expressed a curious thought about the prisoner. “You said that wounded man wasn’t much more than a boy.”

  “That’s a fact,” her husband responded, “maybe a year or two older than Edgar.”

  At that moment, Edgar and his younger brother came in from the yard where they had been talking to the soldiers as the troopers ate their evening meal. Still thinking about the prisoner, their mother asked, “Did anybody feed that boy in the smokehouse?”

  “I don’t know,” Edgar replied. “I don’t think so—least I didn’t see nobody takin’ no food to the smokehouse. Did you, Peter?” His brother shook his head.

  Noticing the look of concern on his wife’s face, William said, “I’m sure the soldiers know what to do about their prisoner. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business. I still think they oughta just shot him and been done with it.”

  “Edgar heard them talking about what that funny-looking little man dressed like an Indian said,” Esther went on. “He thinks the boy was trying to warn us. What if he was? And him sittin’ out there in that dark ol’ smokehouse.”

  “Esther,” her husband insisted, “it ain’t for us to worry about.”

  “I don’t care if he is a Rebel,” she firmly announced. “There’s no reason to starve the boy.”

  ”Esther . . .” William protested, but she ignored him. Taking a couple of biscuits from a plate on the kitchen table, she then went to the pump, filled a fruit jar with water, and proceeded out the door.

  Over by the fire at the edge of the yard, Lieutenant Carrington paused when he saw the woman heading toward the smokehouse behind the barn. Placing his cup on the ground next to his saddle, he quickly cut through the barn to head her off. “Mrs. Thompson,” he called, “we’re holding the prisoner in the smokehouse. Is there something in there you need?”

  “I know you’ve got that boy in there,” she answered. “Did you give him anything to eat?”

  “Well, ah, no,” Carrington stammered. It hadn’t occurred to him, and the prisoner had not complained.

  “Well, there’s no need to starve the boy. Here’s some water and a couple of cold biscuits.” She handed them to the guard by the smokehouse door. “Give him these,” she said, then turned to leave.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the private said, and slid the bar back to open the door.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The words came softly from the darkened building, causing Esther to pause a moment before continuing back to the house. She shook her head slowly, thinking of her own son, and how the mother of this boy must be worrying herself sick wondering if her son was safe that night.

  Inside the windowless little outbuilding, the object of her concern eagerly accepted the food from the guard. There was no mother worrying about him. She had left him with his grandfather and gone to Nashville when his father went off to war. He had heard nothing from her since, and there was no mention of her in his grandfather′s house. The old man had never had much respect for his daughter-in-law, and felt justified in his opinion of her when she abandoned her son.

  Trying to take his mind off his aching shoulder, he thought about how quickly his fortunes had changed—from bad to worse, he had to admit. The words of warning from Amos Barfield returned to his thoughts. He had cautioned him about the designs of Butcher and Joe Coons, but he had told him to be especially careful about Quincy. “That man’s got a black heart,” he said. “He’ll likely move to take over the leadership of the gang, and he’ll probably have to kill Butcher, and maybe Joe, to do it.” Jim remembered then, looking back over his shoulder and seeing the first gun aimed at him in Quincy’s hand. Less than twenty-four hours before this moment, he had harbored no ideas of betraying the band of guerrillas he had ridden with for a year and a half. Even with the turn of events that now placed him in custody of a Union cavalry patrol, however, he knew that what he had done was the right thing. He never considered himself anything less than a warrior, and although he had been slow in realizing it, the war was over. And yet he had no intention of being incarcerated in a federal prison, so escape was foremost
in his mind. He resigned himself to wait for the opportunity, for there was none for him under the present circumstances.

  The hours passed slowly as he sat in the dark hut, listening to the sounds outside that told him the noisy camp was gradually winding down to sleep. Finally all was silent until he heard the changing of the guard outside the door, and he guessed that it was probably midnight. He could hear nothing but the shuffling around of the new guard for a few minutes; then the quiet returned, broken only a short time later by the sound of snoring. It would have been his opportunity to escape, had not the smokehouse door been bolted on the outside. He settled down once more, trying to sleep.

  His attempts to sleep proved hopeless, however, so he sat and waited for morning, hoping there would be some time when he could make a run for it. It couldn’t have been much more than an hour when he heard the bolt slide back on the door. A moment later, the door swung slowly open with a soft complaint from the rusty hinges. Framed in the opening, silhouetted by the moonlight behind him, stood the short, square form of Johnny Hawk. “Come on,” he whispered, “let’s get outta here before the guard wakes up.” He then drew a knife from his belt and stepped into the hut. After making quick work of the rope binding Jim’s wrists, he whispered, “Can you stand up all right?”

  Astonished by the sudden appearance of the little man, Jim replied without hesitation, “I sure can,” and got to his feet.

  “Be quick and don’t make a sound,” Johnny cautioned, “’cause if that guard wakes up, it’s gonna be hell to pay for both of us.”