A Time for Leaving Part IV

 

Dale looked out across the miles of desert to the mesas beyond. Their upper walls and rims were aflame with the glow of the setting sun. The tall, flat topped rock formations that erosion had left behind, stood stubborn and proud against the desert background. The valley was beginning to welcome the cool of evening shadows, that grew longer with each passing minute. It was the rugged spaciousness of this land that Dale loved the most. Here, there was freedom to ride for days and not see a settlement… or another living soul. Wide, wild, rugged and free, that was this land in a nutshell. He never tired of it, he only loved it more with each passing year.

This was not the Dan River area of Virginia with its great plantations, rolling hills, and valleys. That was the beautiful place where he had been born. But that place wasn’t the same after the war, and never would be. And it was becoming crowded. He had come west looking for room, and he had found it, he thought, as he began riding down a ridge, to the floor below to look for water.

It was when his horse, Stonewall, snorted and raised his ears, that Dale noticed the shadow in the distance. Dale was heading for a grove of trees to make camp. It was later than usual for him to start camp, but he had pushed hard through the day. He was heading to Mexico and had been delayed a day by the business he and Willie had attended to. Rescuing those young women from kidnappers took priority over his original travel plans of course, but now he needed to make up for lost time. He sat silent on Stonewall and eased closer to the boulders where the outline of a horse took shape. As he got closer he could see that the horse was saddled. It wasn’t tied, and no rider was in sight. Stonewall kept fidgeting and flaring his nose occasionally . “Something’s not right, is it ole boy?" Dale whispered as he patted his mount. He eased off Stonewall, and quietly slid his rifle from its scabbard.

Dale looked all around him as his senses heightened. Carefully, he walked towards the horse and listened for any sounds around him. As he rounded a sage bush, he could see what appeared to be a body with a foot in the stirrups of the saddle. He cautiously moved at an angle to the horse, looking in all directions as he moved forward.. He soon saw that the body was a young man in Mexican vaquero gear. Satisfied that there was no one else waiting in ambush, Dale moved out to the horse and body.

“Well, he’s alive Stoney” Dale said to his horse, “but he ain’t gonna’ to be hat dancin’ anytime soon.” He looked the man over and discovered much blood on his jacket. Closer examination found a shoulder wound that looked like that of a rifle shot. Four years of war had taught him to recognize and care for all types of gunshot injuries. The mans shirts had clotted off the bloody area, so Dale applied his wild rag in a soft knot to keep the wound from opening again. He also noticed an ugly abrasion on his head, whether from the fall or from a deliberate blow to the head, Dale couldn’t be certain. The vaquero did not waken as Dale washed the wound and wrapped his head in the Mexicans' bandanna.

Dale went to the grove and gathered some limbs. With his rope and blankets, he fashioned a travois behind the mans horse, placed the young man on it, and covered him. Dale could see from his clothes and saddle that this Mexican cowboy came from money.

The horse was well bred and the saddle was adorned in silver and turquoise. The gun the vaquero carried was a Colt, and it was housed in a finely engraved holster. His boots were not over-worn and were well made. Dale looked out toward the horizon. This horse had been headed toward water and food. Dale decided to let the horse lead the way. He gave the animal a gentle slap on the rump, and fell in behind him as he headed west into the evening sun.

After about an hour of travel the vaquero began to moan. Dale stopped the horse and carried a canteen of water to the man. The barely lucid man took a few swallows and said “Apaches..kitchen” then faded back into unconsciousness. Dale checked the wounds again. Dale wondered at the mans words. He knew he was in Apache country, and they had been a bad lot to deal with since the Army had pulled out. But he couldn’t understand why Apaches would leave him alive, or not steal his saddle and horse. He had no idea what the Mexican might have meant about the kitchen. He started the mans horse on through the darkness. It was well nigh two hours later when Dale heard barking dogs in the far distance.

These were hunting dogs Dale knew. The sound of the howling that faded and rose told him that the dogs were running on a scent. Tracking a cougar perhaps. The sound faded after a bit, and he figured the trail had gone cold. But the sound of the hounds had meant that there was a ranch near.

Dale was suddenly very tired. He and Stonewall had put many miles behind them today. The horses kept a slow and steady gait. He slowly drifted off to sleep.

“Everything alright Cap’n?” Dale nodded yes, “Fine, Sergeant Major, just surveying the Field.” Dale looked at the devastation that lay below the ridge. Horses and men lay in grotesque, twisted positions of death. Some men were still barely alive, and begging for help, while those who were able stumbled along and looked for help. Wagons and caissons were shattered, splintered wrecks. The air was mostly clear of smoke now, but the smell of gun powder yet lingered in the air. Uniforms of blue, gray, and butternut covered the ground in front of him. Some of the uniformed men were horribly mangled from rifle and cannon shot, while others looked as those they had only lay down to rest.

“It was a grand day for Old Virginia today, Sir,” said the Sergeant Major “ We put those Yankees to flight, yes Sir! What is before us is a glimpse of glory to come. We will win this war, and soon.” Dale looked down at his saddle and sighed. He looked out again over the scene before him, “Sergeant Major, if this is a glimpse of glory, then Almighty God spare me  from a glimpse of hell.” The old sergeant took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He replaced his hat, and looked over at his Captain, whom he greatly admired , then back over the field. “ Yes, Sir” was all he said.

The groans of the men suddenly became more audible, and then a shot rang out.

Dale awoke suddenly. He was re-oriented by the time of the second blast. He heard the dogs, and recognized the sound of animals on the attack. He dismounted and tied the horses to a deadfall. As he worked his way around the rocks, three men with lanterns came in to view.

The men were calling off the dogs and pulling them back. “Big cat” was all he could make out from voices in the distance. Light rolled up and down the trees and rocks like glowing waves upon a craggy shoreline, as the lanterns swung back and forth in the men’s hands.

Dale returned for the horses and rode around the rocks toward the men.

As he approached, he shouted “ Hello up ahead.” Dale didn’t want to come upon the men unexpectedly, that was a good way to get shot. The men turned and held the lanterns out to catch a glimpse of who was coming. “ I’ve got a wounded man here. I’m comin’ in.” “Come on in then,” came the reply. Dale noticed the man with the scatter gun was reloading, and holding it at the ready. Dale ambled up and looked down at the older man who appeared to be in charge. “I’m Dale Armstrong” he said as he lowered his hand to shake, "big cat there". The man returned a firm grip
“ Calf killer... I'm Bob Kitchen, these are my boys, Henry and David” The young men came and shook Dales hand.
Bob Kitchen was a tall,thin man with a mustache that hung nearly to his chin. he had the look of man that was quite confident in his abilities. This man was no slouch.

Bob started for the travois, “ I know this horse. Say you have a wounded man? What happened?” He carried the lantern over, and held it up to get a look at the wounded vaquero. Dale got down as the other two came to join them.

“Can’t say for sure what happened” Dale said. “ I came upon him eight or nine miles back. He had a foot caught in the stirrup, but I don’t think the horse drug him very far. He came to just enough to mumble something about Apaches and… what did you say your last name was?” “ Kitchen”, Bob replied.
Bob Kitchen took off his big hat and brushed his pant leg with it. He turned to look at his oldest son and said ,“It’s Jorge”.