back on the old standard—issuing orders. “Go on, now. You’re wastin’ time.”
Seth glared at her a moment longer then turned and walked away without saying a word. For Rachel that was even more unsettling, and she immediately felt a need to call him back—to repair the damage before it had a chance to take hold. But she didn’t. And that was something she would soon regret.
CHAPTER 5
Riding through land granted by treaty to the Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache tribes in 1867, Cyrus raised his hand and called the group to a halt as Moses Wilcox studied the ground, searching for the rustlers’ trail. Percy pulled out his pipe and filled it with tobacco as he watched Wilcox work.
A tall whip-thin man in his late forties, Wilcox had scouted for the army for years until he called it quits when the soldiers turned their focus from war among the white men to killing or capturing Indians. The child of a white man and a full-blooded Chickasaw woman, Wilcox was raised among the Indians and didn’t much like pointing out his distant kinfolks for the army to slaughter. He joined up with the Rocking R four years ago and stuck.
Percy flared a match and lit his pipe as Wilcox climbed back aboard his horse.
“The rustlers look to be headed up toward Fort Sill,” Wilcox said. “Could be they’re plannin’ to sell them steers to the army.”
“Not with my brand on ’em, they ain’t,” Cyrus said. “Just the two of ’em?”
“Yes,” Wilcox said. “And they’re riding shod ponies.”
“Probably stole them, too,” Cyrus grumbled. “Still don’t mean they ain’t Injuns.”
Percy took a draw from his pipe then said, “If they’re smart, they’ll change the brand. Make the R a B or hit it with a three-quarter circle and they’d have the Circle R brand.”
“When’s the last time you heard of an outfit called the Circle R round these parts?” Cyrus asked. “Or a Rockin’ B? Them soldier boys are smarter than that.”
Percy turned to look at his father. “Might be smart enough to see a good deal, too. A couple of steers at about half what they’re worth?”
Cyrus looked up at the sun high overhead, sweat trickling down his face and into his beard. “It’s hotter’n hell and we’re wastin’ time with all this speculatin’. Things fall our way, we’ll likely be home fore dark. Let’s ride.” He spurred his horse into a walk.
The terrain was flat and the few trees, mostly blackjack oaks and cottonwoods, were bunched along the banks of the small creeks that cut through the landscape. What the place lacked for trees, it made up for it with the number of insects flying about. Grasshoppers by the hundreds fluttered up at each clop of the horses’ hooves. And if they weren’t flying, they were perched in the grass and weeds, rubbing their hind legs in a symphony of fast clicks. In addition to the constant noise, gnats swarmed, flies were thick enough that they matted the horses’ rumps, and the mosquitoes were merciless, attacking any hint of bare skin. But for Percy, this was all too familiar.
After leaving the ranch at the age of seventeen to see what was beyond the horizon, Percy drifted south, visiting the young city of Dallas for a spell before moving on, searching for what, he didn’t know. The one thing he did know was that he wanted to see the ocean, and his travels led him to Houston then down to Corpus Christi, never staying in one place more than a week or two. As his grubstake began to dwindle, he moseyed up to Austin to see the capital of their new state. And while there and desperate to find work, Percy, a good shot with a pistol and a rifle, signed up as a new recruit for the Texas Rangers in 1851. It didn’t take him long to figure out shooting at bottles and cans was much different from shooting at another human who was shooting back. But under the tutelage of Ranger Captain William (Bigfoot) Wallace, Percy had learned, and learned quickly, as his unit skirmished with Comanches, Apaches, and Mexican bandits. And over the years and through many battles Percy became a highly skilled warrior and a dead shot with either rifle or pistol. Members of his troop had boasted that Percy was the most lethal man in Texas. Not that it mattered much to him.
Startled from memory when a grasshopper jumped on his hand, Percy flicked it off, tapped his pipe on his leg to empty the ashes, and slid it into his saddlebag. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his face. The heat was oppressive, and the tall, browned stalks of grass stood undisturbed. It was unusual not to have some type of breeze and when it didn’t exist it was noticeable. Percy shifted in the saddle, trying to find a more comfortable spot. When he turned to check their back trail a moment later, he spotted a dozen riders off to the east and headed their way. He spurred his horse into a trot and rode forward to consult with his father.
“Think they’re looking for trouble?” Percy asked his father as he eased his rifle out.
“Naw,” Cyrus said. “I’m bettin’ they’re Montford Johnson’s boys. Looks like some Injuns and Mexis without a white man in the bunch.”
“How does that make ’em Johnson’s men?” Percy asked.
Cyrus looked over at Percy. “Montford is a full-blood Chickasaw and he struck a deal with the Kiowas and Comanches, tellin’ them he wouldn’t hire no white riders to herd his cattle. I hear them savages do a fair job of lettin’ him be ’cause of it.”
The riders drew to a stop about twenty yards away and Percy and Cyrus rode forward to meet them. Cyrus studied the group then smiled and pushed his hat back “How you doin’, Joe?” he asked the leader of the group.
“Good, Cyrus. You?” Joe asked as he removed his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s hotter’n half-price day at the whorehouse.”
Cyrus chuckled. “That it is.”
“Whatcha doin’ up this way?” Joe asked as he put his hat back on.
“Lookin’ for a couple of rustlers. Stole two of my steers. You ain’t seen ’em, have ya?”
“Nope, but someone stole two of our horses day before last and we ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’em.”
“Probably your horses the rustlers are riding,” Cyrus said. “Bastard thieves.” He uncorked his canteen and took a swallow of water then pointed that canteen at Percy. “Joe, this here’s my oldest boy, Percy. Percy, meet Joe Twofeathers. He’s been ridin’ up in these parts forever.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe,” Percy said.
“Likewise,” Joe said. “I heard the name afore. Rode with the Rangers for a spell, didn’t ya?”
Percy nodded. “Been a while.” He pushed his rifle back into his scabbard and said, “Only thing I hunt after now is a few stray cattle or a rustler or two on occasion.” Although Percy had ridden across the river and into Indian Territory many times, it wasn’t his favorite place to loiter. His motto was to get in and get out as quick as possible.
Joe shifted in his saddle. “I wish you’d do a little more manhuntin’ while you was up here, Percy. All kinds of bad folk ridin’ round these parts.”
“Not my job anymore,” Percy replied. “Most of them will likely meet a bad end if they keep at it long enough. There’s always someone meaner and tougher.”
“I guess you’re right, there. It can’t be too soon for some of ’em.” Twofeathers turned to Cyrus. “Ride with a keen eye, Cy. Comanches and Kiowas is all riled up.”
“Ain’t they always?” Cyrus said.
“Not like this,” Twofeathers said. “Scent of blood’s in the wind. I can smell it.”
“What’s their issue this time?” Percy asked.
“Hell, ’bout half of ’em’s starvin’. Indian agent’s always cuttin’ their rations. And a hungry man will get real damn mean right quick,” Twofeathers said.
“Hell