was a man of action and he began barking orders. “Eli and Win can handle Seth, maybe. Wilcox, take Amos and Isaac with you to see if you can cut the Indians’ trail. Percy, you, Jesse, and Hendershot head back to the ranch and hitch up the wagon. It’ll slow us down but we’re going to need it. Load on some more ammunition and, Percy, tell your ma to pack enough supplies for a couple of weeks.”
Cyrus gave little thought to consoling his daughter Abigail, nor did Isaac appear to give much thought about consoling his wife. And there was no question about which wagon to hitch up, because they all knew which one Cyrus was referring to.
Cyrus looked at Jesse. “Any idea which band of Injuns took her?”
“Didn’t find no arrows or nuthin’, but I’m bettin’ Comanche since they rode west.” Jesse thought a little longer then said, “Could be Apache, though.”
“Two feathers of the same bird,” Percy mumbled.
“They’re all nasty and mean,” Cyrus added. “Jesse, you and Hendershot trade out for fresh horses.” He glanced at the position of the sun to gauge the time and guessed it was somewhere around ten in the morning. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”
“What are you, Luis, and Arturo goin’ to do?” Percy asked.
“We’re going back to Fort Sill. I’ll report Emma’s kidnappin’ to the army and the Indian agent then we’re goin’ to roust some of them redskins and see if we can maybe find out where their kin is camped. A bunch of the Injuns speak a little Spanish so Arturo or Luis can help with that.” Cyrus paused a moment to mentally calculate the logistics of everything. The wagon was going to slow everything down, but that couldn’t be helped. “Jesse and Clay, I want you two to hang back at the ranch and keep an eye on things. Try to get the rest of them calves branded so we can start a drive up north to the railhead. For the rest of you, we’ll meet in two days where Wildcat Creek feeds into the Pease.”
The men were starting to ride away when Cyrus rethought his strategy. “Wait,” he shouted. “Percy, you rode all over this country when you was rangerin’. You might ought to go with Wilcox, Isaac, and Amos. Each of you grab an extra horse to take along with you.”
“Who’s going to get the wagon?” Percy asked.
Cyrus looked at the two Mexicans he employed. They were good men and would stick to a task until it was done, regardless the circumstances. “Arturo, you and Luis go get the wagon. Jesse and Clay, you help ’em get her hitched up. I’ll ride back to Fort Sill myself.”
“Sí, patrón,” Arturo Hernandez said.
“Make sure you get plenty of ammo,” Cyrus ordered, “and tell Señora Frances to pack some grub.”
“¿Dos semanas?” Arturo asked.
“Sí,” Cyrus replied. “Could be longer, but who the hell knows.” Cyrus, usually a very decisive man, was having trouble wrapping his mind around who needed to go where. He shifted in the saddle, feeling the pressure of time slipping away. The major sticking point was trying to decide the best use of Percy’s skills. And guarding the wagon would be paramount. “Scratch that. Percy, you go with Arturo and Luis to get the wagon. Tie on a couple of water barrels, too. I got a feelin’ we’re headed into dry country.”
“Okay,” Percy said, an exasperated tone in his voice. “We set now?”
“We’re set,” Cyrus said. “See ya’ll in two days.”
The men separated and rode off in three different directions. Percy and his crew rode hard toward the ranch, arriving early in the afternoon, after changing horses several times during the ride. The men stripped their saddles from the worn-out horses and Percy asked Hendershot and Jesse to round up the wagon team and some fresh mounts. As they dispersed to saddle fresh horses, Percy headed toward his mother’s house to ask her to pack up some grub. On the way, Abby and Rachel came outside to meet him and fell in step beside him. Abby looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink since Emma had disappeared.
“Where’s everybody else?” Rachel asked.
“Most went west to see if they could cut the Indians’ trail. Pa rode back to Fort Sill to report Emma’s kidnappin’ and to see if he could dig up some information about who might have taken her.”
“What are you doin’, Percy?” Abby asked. “You’re going out to help find her, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I came to get some supplies and to grab the wagon.”
“What wagon?” Rachel asked, then she answered her own question. “Oh, that wagon.”
“Yes, that wagon,” Percy said. He looked ahead to see his mother stepping down off the back porch of the main house.
“How long are you goin’ to be gone?” Rachel asked.
Percy shrugged. “Pa’s planning on a couple of weeks.”
Abby reached out her hand and pulled her brother to a stop. “I want to know what you think, Percy. You’ve ridden out to that part of the country.”
Percy really didn’t have time for all these questions, especially when he didn’t have any answers his sister would want to hear. He knew how difficult the task ahead of them was. The area they were heading into was a sea of nothingness that stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions. Looking for a single band of Indians was going to be like looking for a single needle in a barn full of them. “I don’t know, Abby. I can promise you we’ll do everything we can.”
Percy awaited the arrival of their mother and she slipped an arm around her son’s back and squeezed a hug.
“What do you need me to do, Percy?” Frances asked. She had lived long enough on the frontier to know exactly what was going on.
“Need some grub, Ma, and plenty of it,” Percy said. “We’ll hunt game for meat, but we could sure do with some flour, coffee, and whatever else you think we’ll need.”
Frances looked at her two daughters and said, “Grab anything you can from your two kitchens and bring it to the house. Don’t worry if you’re runnin’ low because I’ll send somebody to Red River station for supplies later.”
Once Rachel and Abby were out of earshot, Frances put a hand on Percy’s arm and said, “I know you don’t know how long you’ll be gone, but you need to spend a moment with Mary before you leave.”
“How is she today?” Percy asked, his face crinkling with new worry.
“Not good, son. She can’t get out of bed.”
Percy looked off in the distance for a long spell. “You’ll watch after the kids?”
“Of course,” Frances said.
Percy blew out a long breath. “Okay. Let me get the wagon squared away and I’ll look in on her.”
Frances patted her son on the arm before turning for home.
Percy, as hard as it was, turned his mind back to the task at hand. He walked around to the side of the barn and slid open the wide door. Inside was the wagon. Built by the Peter Schuttler Wagon Works Company out of Chicago, the wagon had oversized wheels, a beefed-up frame, and a bed that was designed to float the river crossings without wetting the contents. And it was those contents that made this particular wagon so special. It was the equalizer that kept any marauding Indians at bay.
Mounted at the front of the wagon, with a 360-degree field of fire, was a Gatling gun. A hand-cranked rotary cannon, the gun’s six rotating barrels could spit out two hundred rounds per minute. The original gun shipped with a forty-round, gravity-fed magazine that slipped into a slot at the top of the gun. The Ridgeways increased the rate of fire by adding a drum magazine that held two hundred .50 caliber rounds. And if that wasn’t enough to get the job done, there was an even more sinister weapon mounted on the back of the wagon—the M1841 mountain howitzer. Loaded with canister shot, the weapon