"WICHITA"
Part 10
"The Road to Nowhere"
Ma had made sandwiches and the four of us sat on the stoop eating, talking and drinking lemonade. The weather was warm and the lemonade, made with cold water, (no ice) was refreshing, at least to a certain point.
A rider was coming down the road to the house. The way a horse kicked up dust it was as good as a doorbell, providing somebody was on the stoop watching.
Marshal Sam Wilcox wasn't one to go visiting unless he was in pursuit of an outlaw, or looking for information. But here he was just a coming, and riding hard, right towards us.
There was a hold-up in Wichita. Actually, it was a robbery of major importance. No, it wasn't the bank, as one might expect; it was the General Store.
"What made the robbery significant was not the taking of goods, (which did happen) but rather the grabbing of the stacks of large bills that Clarence kept in a safe beneath the counter. The safe was out of sight from customers and onlookers," said Marshal Sam. But dang blasted somebody knew about it.
That money in safe was used to pay Companies for housewares and farmers for the produce they brought to town weekly. If the robbers are not found and the money returned, the General Store may close and go out of business. Clarence couldn't pay anybody.
There was, one other merchant, but not sufficient for the volume of folks living in Wichita. The Marshal took time explaining something the town folks already knew.
"My word," This is just terrible, but what can you do?" asked ma being quite serious.
"I'll come right to the point, ma'am. I need Jack to track these varmints. They were riding Indian ponies and impossible to track in Comanche country, unless you know what to look for. Jack, I know, can do that."
"How long do you think it will take?" I asked, catching myself realizing the unknown, is really a dumb question.
"I reckon three or four days. They won't expect anyone searching Comanche country, so they won't be far away," said the Marshall.
"Yeah, I'll do it," said Jack, providing, I can be gone from the farm. Here is my job, and here is where I'm obligated."
Jack looked at me and I read his eyes, he was looking for support. I knew he loved tracking, and was best for the job, on that point, we all agreed.
"When do we start?" asked Jack.
In the morning at first light, I'll send out your side-kick with an Indian pony for you to ride. That will look normal to Comanche scouts. Leave your horse here," said the Marshall. Food, water, and bed-roll will all be on the horse.
The plan was simple. Jack with a side-kick, named Jensen, would locate the outlaws with a posse of men following unseen, a mile behind them. Jack and Jensen only had to find them, and the posse would do the rest.
That evening, Jack turned in earlier than usual. He was excited to go tracking. I hoped that pa could spare the both of us; I wanted to go too, however, it didn't work out that way.
The next two weeks taught me a great deal about human behavior. The Marshal was correct about timing. The outlaws were caught in four days and currently sitting in jail. The money (most of it) was recovered and things returned to normal.
The first night returning to Wichita with the posse, Jack and Jensen camped out overnight hunkered down near a camp fire.
In the morning Jack was not there. His gear, and the horse he was riding, was gone. The posse searched several miles in every direction thinking perhaps he was taken by the Comanche's. It didn't make sense. I knew right off, that would never happen. Jack was too smart for that, being part Comanche himself. There was no indication he was killed, just simply missing.
Missing and not wanting to be found, was the Comanche way of doing things. There had to be some meaning to it.
A month went by and then another. Summer was moving closer to autumn, and things remained the same.
I had a strong yearning, for "What can I do." However, there was nothing one could do. Truthfully, my anger was heavier than my hurt. Here was the original meaning of not being my first rodeo.
I learned a valuable lesson discovering that some cowpokes have two sets of standards, and when something ties them down, they run, to start over. Not good, disappointing the folks left behind. Time catches up to you settling the score for everybody.
The stage came through Wichita three times a week, always in the afternoon. I would finish my chores in the morning, and ride into town to greet the coach. There was never anybody I knew getting off the stage, but I was stuck in the past.
I plunked myself into a chai familiar to me, waiting for the next coach to arrive. Sitting close was a young man who spoke to me.
"Yuh meeting somebody? He asked.
"Yeah, my brother," I barely mumbled.
"Hi'ya, I'm Danny, I remember you," he remarked, very sure of himself. "You are Curly, everybody knows the chicken and egg man."
"I suppose so," I replied wishing he would stop talking.
Danny didn't say anything more, and that was passable with me.
I watched as folks leaving the coach, separated going their own way. I relaxed knowing this brooding behavior was ridiculous, and it had to stop.
There was a time when a person's word meant something. Heck just shaking hands in agreement, made it binding. We did a heap more than hand shaking. I lovingly heard a lot of words. Just the same, I wasn't meant to be one of the lucky one.
I told myself the truth, anyway you look at it; we just didn't make it. It surly was a bumpy ride. - I'll remember it always...