CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BEN BAGGETT SAT at the back of the pitch-dark cave, a rifle between his knees, pondering the sudden and dramatic change that had just occurred. This place had been his comforting getaway since he and his men had settled in Palo Duro Canyon, a secret only he knew. It was here he hid his money, safely locked away in a strongbox. Here, in this place he’d discovered by chance years earlier, he could come to be alone in the calming quietness that was only his.
Now, suddenly, it was just a hiding place he hoped the attacking Indians would not discover.
While the terror was being played out in the compound, as his men were being slaughtered, he had struggled to understand what was happening until a volley of flaming arrows landed on the roof of his cabin, setting it ablaze. It was then he had slipped out the back way and run onto the narrow path only he used. Not far, hidden by scrub brush and a large boulder, was the entrance to the place he’d always privately thought of as his money cave.
He’d remained there as the shooting went on, hearing the victorious war chants, then smelling the burning flesh. Even after silence had returned, he didn’t move. He was still sitting motionless, barely breathing, when he heard new voices discussing what to do about those who had been killed. Something was said about Bootsy and Boot Hill and the word “massacre” was spoken several times.
Even when he later heard the slow grind of wagon wheels coming down the entrance path, he remained in his hiding place.
In time, his thoughts turned to what awaited him once he ventured beyond the mouth of the cave. Would he be safe? How did one rebuild his world when it had been so completely destroyed? He was still asking these questions when he finally emerged and viewed the unbelievable carnage.
The only sound was the cawing of circling buzzards still hoping for another meal until, from behind the burned rubble of a wagon, he heard a voice. “Howdy, boss.”
It was Calvin Dunning, the hand he’d made fun of just days earlier. Upon hearing the first shot of the attack, Dunning had run from the compound and hidden beneath a brush pile on the bank of the creek.
THERE WERE FEW at the cemetery when the canyon victims were laid to rest. Those who did come were there mainly to view the size of the mass grave that had taken a full day to dig. There was no prayer, no hymns sung, no Bible verses quoted.
At Clay’s request, Bootsy was afforded his own grave.
“I was of a mind these parts had seen the last of this kind of Indian raid,” Rayburn said as Pate helped him apply liniment to his healing cuts and bruises. “With the soldiers taking a no-foolishness attitude and the Oklahoma reservations operating, I thought things would quiet down.”
“Never will completely, as long as there’s Comanches and Apaches around to cause trouble,” Jonesy said. “Since the buffalo are getting harder to find, killing white folks is about all they got left to do for pleasure.”
Eli thought for a moment. “Before you know it, that fella Ned Buntline’ll be showing up to write one of his dime novels about this one. I done got his title picked out—‘Massacre at Palo Duro Canyon.’”
As he spoke, Clay entered the livery to announce that the burials had been completed.
“I have to ask,” Pate said, “why were you so set on that one-eyed fella being allowed a grave all to himself?”
“Because I liked him,” Breckenridge said. “There’s people who do bad things but still have a good heart. I believe Bootsy was one of ’em.”
THIS TIME, IT was Clay who brought up the subject. “Time we head home,” he said. Though both had lost track of time, their journey had lasted almost three months.
Pate offered no argument. He’d already begun packing his gear. “I got to be honest. I’m not going to miss this town or this tent,” he said, “but I admit I’ve come to appreciate some of the folks living here.”
So had Clay. “I got some goodbyes I want to tend to,” he said. “But first I’m going to visit the Prices and have me a shave and a hot bath.” He smiled. “Since it’s likely you I’ve been smelling of late, you might consider doing the same. Maybe ask Paul to splash a little of that lilac water in your tub.”
It was midafternoon when he made his slow walk toward the mercantile. He stopped briefly at the vacant lot where the saloon had stood, watching a dust devil stir the last remnants of ashes. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say but was far from confident.
Madge was dusting shelves, and Jennie was behind the counter when he entered. Both smiled as he tipped his hat. The smiles disappeared, however, when he explained that he’d come to purchase supplies for his and Jonesy’s return home.
The atmosphere suddenly turned uncomfortable. “I’d be happy to help you with your shopping,” Madge said, a strained formality in her tone. “What is it you’ll be needing?”
Clay was already flustered. “Some coffee . . . flour . . . uh, jerky if you got it . . . probably some hard candy for Jonesy’s sweet tooth . . . maybe a little bit of . . .” He stopped. “Truthfully, what I’ve come for is to talk with you about something other than supplies.”
“I’m gonna go out front and sit,” Jennie said, smiling as she hurried toward the door.
Fumbling with the brim of his hat, Breckenridge moved toward Madge. “I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to your future plans. . . .”
“Like you said, one day at a time. But I know I can’t go on living at the Broder house forever. They’ve been nice as can be, but, between you and me, I’ve got no use for those smelly goats they raise.”
“Have I ever spoken to you about my little farm?”
When Madge didn’t remind him that he’d bragged about it on several occasions, he began his rehearsed description. When he’d finished painting a picture of the farm, he began extolling the virtues of Aberdene, another subject he’d already discussed with her.
“It all sounds nice,” she said.
“It’s just me and Sarge,” he said. “What I’m wondering is, would you have any interest in joining us? We got plenty of—”
Madge put her hand to his lips. “Mr. Breckenridge, am I to understand that you’re proposing we get married?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I know a preacher in Aberdene, and there’s a church. . . .”
“I know. You’ve already told me.” She placed her arms around his neck. “I’ve got nothing to pack and no money to help with the purchase of provisions.”
“No need to worry,” Clay said as he let out a relieved breath and smiled.
Madge called out to Jennie. “You can come on back in,” she said. “I got good news and bad news I want you to hear.”
Jennie was giddy with anticipation as she reentered.
“The bad news,” Madge said, “is that you’ll soon be running the store by yourself. The good news is that Clay’s asked me to marry him. Wasn’t exactly the kind of proposal they write songs and poems about, but it sounded good to me.”
As Clay, red-faced and happy, left to share the news with Jonesy, Jennie broke into a jig. Then, for a second, a worried look crossed her face.
Madge anticipated her question. “I’ll have no need to get a divorce,” she said. “The Comanches solved that problem by doing away with everybody out at the canyon and making me a widow.”
Clay was beaming when he walked into the livery. “Eli,” he said, “we’ll be needing an extra horse and saddle for our trip. I’d prefer one that’s sturdy but a gentle ride.”
“Wouldn’t be for a lady whose saloon recently burned down, would it?”
Clay blushed. “It might be.”
The following morning, a small group gathered in front of the livery. Jennie was joined by her father and grandfather. Several ladies from the Sunday singing group were there, bringing freshly made bread and muffins. They had pooled their egg money to buy Madge a new bonnet. Even the Prices showed up and waved bashfully. Rayburn put on a brave front, forcing a smile as he held the reins of a newly shod and already saddled dappled gray mare named Lucy. He had also rolled and tied one of his small tents onto the back of the packhorse. His wedding gift, he said.
There were hugs, handshakes, and well-wishes. And then they were on their way, leaving one adventure behind and heading toward another.