Читать книгу The Rocking R Ranch - Tim Washburn - Страница 12

CHAPTER 7

Forbidden from riding north into Indian Territory, Seth was now traveling in unfamiliar lands. It wasn’t much different from his side of the river—it had the same flat terrain, the same gnarly branched blackjack trees bunched along the creek banks, and the same tall clumps of blue grama grass—but what made this side different was the fact that he was now trespassing on land owned by the Indians. And when he thought about that, his heart rate accelerated a bit. He soon gave up on trying to remember any of the landmarks and focused his full attention on following the trail left by his father’s group. It wasn’t a difficult task because the tracks were still relatively fresh. The few times he had trouble were when the group ahead hit a patch of rocky ground or had crossed a creek and drifted downstream before riding back out. But with a little practice he was able to pick up the trail and continued on.

Heat waves shimmered in the distance and, as soupy as it felt, Seth knew a summer storm wasn’t out of the question. And storms in these parts could boil up quickly and, just as quick, turn into violent, lightning-infused monsters. He glanced up at the sky and didn’t see any storms forming, but he knew it was early yet. He nudged the bay gelding with his spurs to quicken the pace. Although he didn’t really like storms, his main fear was the possibility of the trail being washed away and not being able to find his way back home.

He looked up and spotted a grouping of teepees in the distance and adjusted his course to avoid them. Seeing Indians was nothing new for Seth. Living where they did, Indians came and went, trekking back and forth across the ranch land almost on a daily basis. Most were peaceable and more than a few would stop by the main house to trade leather goods or hides for groceries or something they needed. And if they were really hungry his grandpa would trade them a steer or an injured cow in exchange for some work he might need.

But Seth was also well aware that there were other types of Indians nearby—the ones who would kill or kidnap him in an instant. And the biggest problem with that, as far as he was concerned, was that you couldn’t tell the difference between a friendly Indian and an Indian with bad intentions. The only way to know if they were friend or foe was to wait and see their reaction and by then it was usually too late. To compensate, Seth’s intention was to avoid all Indians, period. And that was hard to do because he was currently riding through lands owned by the worst of the worst—the Kiowas and the Comanches. From the stories he’d heard, the Comanches were the meanest Indians to ever ride the earth.

Thinking of the Comanches and the possibility of a storm popping up had Seth worked into a lather. Why would they care about a twelve-year-old boy? But then his mind drifted to the stories of Comanches kidnapping other children and the horrors they’d faced. And he’d even overheard some of the ranch hands talking and they’d said the Comanches’ favorite forms of torture often began with some combination of fire and knives and ended with severed body parts. And as Seth thought about that, fear spider-walked down his spine and he twisted in the saddle, searching the area for lurking Indians. None were visible, but that didn’t necessarily slow his heart rate any because everyone knew an Indian could sneak up on you without making a sound.

Seth tried to force his mind to think about something else and he focused his attention back on the trail, hoping—praying—he’d catch up with his father’s group sooner rather than later. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his mind from clicking back to the Comanches. He thought he recalled his father saying that most of the Comanches, or at least the most dangerous ones, were not and had never been on the reservation, but he couldn’t remember if it was them or another tribe. And there was a big difference between a Comanche and a Cherokee.

Reining his horse down into a small creek, he was surprised to find water. This time of the year most of the smaller creeks ran dry and the Red River slowed to a trickle. His horse dipped his muzzle into the water and drank deeply and then Seth rode up the far bank and attempted to pick up the trail on a patch of rocky ground. His father’s group appeared to be heading almost on a straight line, but he didn’t know if they had a particular destination in mind or were simply following the rustlers’ tracks. He loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace as he studied the ground, which soon transitioned from rocky to sandy, allowing Seth to pick up the trail again.

When he glanced up at the sky again an hour later it looked like a storm was forming out to the west. He watched it a moment as the clouds boiled and billowed, growing larger by the minute as the updraft pushed the top of the storm ever higher into the sky. It was fascinating to see, and Seth could’ve sat and watched it all day if he’d been anywhere else. But not here in enemy territory, especially with the threat the storm posed to Seth’s plans. If the rain washed away the trail, he’d be in a pickle.

Having never seen a map of the area—if one even existed—he had no idea of what might lie ahead. So far, he hadn’t seen any houses, or trading posts, or anything else that would indicate a specific location. Maybe that grouping of teepees was what was called a town up in these parts, Seth thought. Didn’t seem right to him. Those Indians could pack up their tents and be gone before dark, leaving nothing but open space in their wake. And it was strange to think of it that way. Seth’s grandfather’s grandfather had lived on the land where they now lived, a succession of Ridgeway families all tethered to that one location. From the looks of things up here, it appeared the Indians didn’t much care about putting down roots or anything else that would result in any sort of permanent place. And, as Seth thought about that, he began to understand why the Indians were so difficult to keep on the reservation. It was as unnatural to them as it would be for him and his family to pack up and move, then move again, and again, and again. They were two entirely different worlds, and, for a moment, Seth envied the Indians. They got to go where they wanted when they wanted, and for a boy who hadn’t been much beyond the ranch, that was a powerful thing.

Seth’s thoughts were interrupted momentarily when he spied a trio of riders headed his way. Though still too far away to discern much about them other than their clothing, that was enough for Seth to know they weren’t Indians. He sat a little easier in the saddle as his horse plodded forward, the distance between him and the three riders diminishing. He was hoping they could give him the lay of the land or what might lie ahead and, if not, it was time for him to turn back for home before the storm hit.

But what Seth would soon discover was that skin color and clothing were irrelevant when judging a man’s intentions.