The Last Ride of Caleb O'Toole (6 page)

“Ya, Dusty!” yelled Julie, giving the reins a mighty shake. Dusty shot down the street. As they raced away, Caleb looked back and saw the wounded Henderson trying to mount his black stallion. Henderson, hit in the leg, went down under the thunder of the Blackstone guns. In a split second, Caleb made his decision.

“Turn back!” exclaimed Caleb as he scrambled in front with Julie.

“No, Caleb!”

“They'll kill him, Julie! He saved our lives!”

Julie yanked Dusty around and sped back the other way. Lights were already appearing in the night as the townsfolk raised the cry for fire. As they pulled up to the barn, Caleb leaped off the wagon and ran to Henderson. Blood was pouring down the gunfighter's forehead. Henderson struggled to get up, but fell into Caleb's arms. The Blackstones fired from within the burning barn, trying to escape the flames. Hands broke through the splintered door and yanked at the bridle that held it shut. Caleb tried with all his might to drag Henderson to the wagon. In moments, the Blackstones would break free.

“Julie, help me!” cried Caleb. Julie reached down under the driver's seat and came up with the Colt. She fired the pistol at the barn door as she ran to help Caleb. Together they heaved Henderson into the wagon. Caleb vaulted in front and grabbed the reins.

“Hang on!” yelled Caleb as he shook Dusty's reins, driving the buckboard out the west end of town. Henderson, bloodied and unconscious, but alive, lay facedown next to Tumble. Julie clutched Tilly hard to her chest in the back of the buckboard. Shouts of “Fire!” echoed in the street and drunken cowboys staggered out of the saloon. Caleb urged Dusty on as fast as the horse could go. He dared not look back. He could imagine the Blackstones' rage. Mountain Man was dead. Caleb had wounded Snake. But right now, his main concern was to get them out of Dobytown!

***

On they galloped through the night as Dusty pulled the little wagon along the Oregon Trail. They stopped for nothing as mile after mile disappeared under the mighty gait of Caleb's faithful horse. Caleb's heart pounded out a beat to Dusty's flying hooves, fearing the Blackstones were not far behind. Finally, miles away from the rat hole called Dobytown, in the light of the moon and heading west, Caleb looked back. As he slowed Dusty, he thought he could hear the soft thunder of a horse's hooves. His breath caught as a dark shape galloped easily toward them. Caleb grabbed his Sharps. He brought the heavy rifle to his shoulder and sighted on the shape as it came alongside the wagon. Then he relaxed.

It was Henderson's horse. The black.

Two days later, Caleb urged Dusty through a small cluster of trees in the early light of dawn. Henderson's horse was tied to the wagon. They had pushed hard along the Oregon Trail and had covered thirty or forty miles. Dusty was breathing hard and needed a rest. There had been no sign of the Blackstones. Once, they spotted a small band of Indians against the distant sun. Fearing for their lives, Caleb and Julie grabbed their guns and watched breathlessly as the Indians rode to within a few hundred feet of the wagon. One of them raised his hand. Caleb raised his hand in return. The Indians walked their horses slowly toward the wagon across the flat, endless plain. Fortunately, they turned out to be friendly Pawnee, not the fierce Sioux. They were just curious and looking to trade. There had been no sign of other travelers, no wagon trains in sight. A lonely graveyard of trash and broken-down wagons dotted the road. Folks often lightened their loads as the miles went by on the Oregon Trail. The strewn items were ghosts of pioneers past. There was even a rocking chair sitting forlornly alongside the road.

It was nearly sunrise when Caleb carefully surveyed a little farmhouse they had come upon. Beyond exhaustion, he weighed his options. They needed food and sleep. Henderson had to have a doctor or he would surely die. It was a wonder how a man could lose so much blood and still be alive.

“I think we should see if they can help,” whispered Julie as she held little Tilly beside her next to Caleb. “Besides, Tilly needs to stop for a while and rest. She's not feeling too well.”

“All right, I'll go down there and see.” Caleb picked up his Sharps.

“Better let me do it. They see you with that gun, they might get nervous. Keep watch here.” Then Julie pocketed the Colt and jumped off the buckboard.

Caleb nodded and settled in with his rifle and put his arm around Tilly. He felt her forehead. It did feel hot. He glanced at Henderson. He was unconscious, but still breathing. Try as they might, they couldn't stop the flow of blood from his wounds.

Julie was at the door in mid-knock when it suddenly opened, a light flaring up from the inside. An old, skinny farmer appeared, gripping a single-shot Enfield musket that was probably left over from the Civil War. Julie turned and pointed toward Caleb. The farmer nodded and went inside. Julie signaled Caleb to head down.

***

“It was Indians, you say?” said the farmer's wife, Mrs. Whitticker. She was a very stout older woman with a pleasant face. The farmer's son, Billy, stood in the corner. He looked to be about seventeen. His ears stuck out and his face was covered with pockmarks. Farmer Whitticker was busy tending to Henderson, who was lying in a bed. The gunfighter's shirt was torn open and the gaping bullet wound in his side bled heavily. Henderson's pants were ripped up the side. That last bullet had smashed the bone in his leg. The farmer had wrapped a cloth around the wound to stop the bleeding. The crease of Henderson's head wound revealed the white of his scalp, but at least it didn't bleed much anymore.

“Yes, ma'am,” said Julie.

“Mrs. Whitticker,” the farmer said as he picked out a piece of the bullet from Henderson's side and placed it into a china bowl with a clack. “Why don't you take these girls into the kitchen for some of that stew you made last night? I'm sure they could use a bite. Look pretty hungry. And that young'un don't look too good.”

“No, she don't, Daniel.” Mrs. Whitticker felt Tilly's head. “She's fevered. Come along, Julie, is it? We'll fix up something.”

“Yes, ma'am, thank you for your kindness.” Julie took Tilly's hand and followed Mrs. Whitticker out the door.

“What's your name, boy?” said Mr. Whitticker as he cut away Henderson's shirt.

“Caleb O'Toole, sir.”

“You say you're out of Great Bend? Where you headed?”

“Montana. Up in the Bitterroot.” Caleb grabbed a cloth and swished it around in a bucket of clean water and handed it to the farmer, who continued to clean Henderson's chest and arms.

“Long way, the Bitterroot. Long way. So you say some Indians ambushed you on the trail?” The farmer tied off a stitch in Henderson's side. He then ran a cloth down Henderson's arm, searching for farther damage.

“Yes, sir. Over by Little Blue River.” Caleb watched the man's expression change as he examined Henderson's hands. Brutal scars around Henderson's wrists revealed years in prison.
Fort
Leavenworth
prison
, Caleb thought as he remembered the story of Henderson's past. Caleb watched the farmer as he studied Henderson's scars.

“Well, this man needs a doctor. I've done all I can for him.” Whitticker checked the bandage on Henderson's side and then washed his hands in the bucket. “Billy.”

“Yeah, Pa?” said the big-eared son.

“Head over to the depot and telegraph over to Kearney. Then see if there's a doctor handy at Fort McPherson. Might get one over here in a day or so.” Whitticker looked hard at Henderson. “Boy, it would be a good idea if you stay in here and keep an eye on your father.”

“Yes, sir,” said Caleb as the farmer and his son left the room. A warning bell went off in Caleb's head. Something in the farmer's eyes left him wondering if the Whittickers believed their story. He tried to sort out what to do when Henderson's hand shot up and grabbed Caleb.

“Get us out of here, boy,” Henderson whispered weakly as he bent Caleb's ear close to him.

“We can't move you,” replied Caleb quietly. “You could bleed to death.”

“Listen to me,” Henderson gasped as he pulled Caleb closer. “We've been lucky so far, but that farmer's kid is going to stir up Sheriff Wayne and the Blackstone gang once he starts banging away on a telegraph, not to mention that Sheriff Winstead from Great Bend, who's probably on my tail. Blabbing your name and all. That happens and we're all sunk. Word gets out, there won't be a town or Sheriff around that won't be on the lookout for me. Or you.”

“But you didn't do it,” insisted Caleb. “It was the Blackstones that killed the Thatchers. I saw it.”

“And you and that little one are witnesses. You got it, boy?” Henderson coughed and grabbed his side. Blood oozed from the bandage. “There's no telling how close the Blackstones are right now, and they'll be scouring the country for you. They'll check every telegraph office there is. They'll see all of us dead before they die themselves. You can count on it. I know the kind.”

Suddenly, Billy galloped past the window on his horse. Henderson was right. They had to get out of there. Mountain Man was dead, they were witnesses to two murders in Great Bend, and he himself had shot the ear off Snake. Caleb decided he'd better get Julie, gather everything, and get back on the trail fast. He hustled to the kitchen. Julie was sitting on the floor against the opposite wall next to the kitchen table, Tilly curled beside her. Julie tried to signal him with her eyes when the cock of a rifle was heard.

“Now move over there by the wall with your sisters and we'll just wait.” Farmer Whitticker emerged from the little mud room to the right of the kitchen, his wife following close behind. He held the Enfield musket steady as a rock as he motioned Caleb over to the wall. Caleb moved slowly toward his sister, then stopped midway when he caught her eye. He had to think fast.

“I don't know what you're up to, but I bet no good,” said Mr. Whitticker. “Man nearly shot to death by Indians? Over at the Blue River? Mostly just Pawnee around these parts and we ain't had trouble with them for some time. We'll just see what Sheriff Wayne has to say over in Kearney. Troops from Fort McPherson will likely get here by tomorrow. Lots of bad folks on the trail stealing and robbing and we don't cotton to any. Who's to say you ain't some of them?”

“It's all right, we're not thieves,” said Caleb as he took two steps to his left toward the pantry. “Could you see yourself to just let us go? We won't be any trouble.”

“No. You just sit over there, now,” sniffed Whitticker as he motioned Caleb with his gun. “Don't care how long it takes. We'll get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes, we will,” said Mrs. Whitticker with a huff, nodding in the direction of Henderson and the bedroom. “We don't stand for his kind. Man's been in prison, I know it.”

“That's a nice rifle. Bet you fought in the war with it, Mr. Whitticker? A single-shot Enfield, right?” said Caleb as he gave Julie a look. He carefully backed away another step toward the pantry, opening the space between him and Julie.

“That's right. And I'm a dead shot with it too.” Whitticker moved toward Caleb.

Caleb took a breath, hoping that his sister would take his clue. He need not have worried. The
CLICK
of Julie's Colt cocking might as well have been a thunderclap in the little kitchen.

“Mr. Whitticker,” said Julie calmly. “I have a Colt pistol aimed right at the back of your head. Six shots. Please don't make me nervous. Put your rifle down.”

“She does, Daniel,” said Mrs. Whitticker in a shaky voice. “Better do as she says.”

The knuckles of the farmer's fingers were white with fury as he gripped his Enfield musket. He was trapped. Six shots to one were not good odds at all. Slowly he leaned his rifle against the stove.

“Go on then. Get yourselves out of here,” said Whitticker as he went over to his wife.

“Now, the two of you get in the pantry. You'll be fine in there until your son gets back.” Julie motioned the old couple with her Colt. Defeated, Farmer Whitticker led his wife into the pantry.

“I'll get Dusty and the black ready.” Caleb shot into action. “Then I'll come back in and we can get Henderson in the wagon.”

“Hurry, Caleb,” said Julie as she shut the pantry door and gave the latch a twist.

Caleb picked up the Enfield and ran outside. He tossed the rifle to the side of the barn. Then he hitched up Dusty. The black knew something was up and stomped in anticipation. Tumble vaulted into the wagon and began to bark up a storm. Caleb bolted back inside to get Henderson. Julie had him sitting up. He groaned in pain as he tried to stand. He sagged suddenly, and the two of them moved to either side of him, catching the big man before he fell. With his leg shattered but bound and his side roughly sewn by Farmer Whitticker, Henderson was in pretty bad shape. Finally, they half dragged the gunfighter outside and helped him into the back of the wagon. Julie grabbed Tilly and lay her beside Henderson, covering her in a blanket. Then she hopped aboard and took her place beside Caleb.

“That was quick thinking back there, Caleb,” said Julie as she checked her Colt. “Where should we head now?”

“West.” Caleb gave the reins a shake. “Dusty, ya!”