Read Online Ralph Compton Comanche Trail by Carlton Stowers - Free Book Online Page A

Kansas-Missouri border during the early days of the Civil War, they had ambushed Union patrols and attacked the homes of pro-abolitionist civilians. Stallings had never understood the reluctance of Confederate leadership to embrace their efforts, instead referring to them as cowardly bushwhackers. In his mind, the bloodshed for which he and his fellow raiders had been responsible for had been a patriotic service to the South.
    Still, for Big Boone, his days with Quantrill had been a valuable education and served him well once he’d assembled his own small gang of social misfits and begun to boldly rustle cattle, steal hides from buffalo hunters, and hide in wait to rob stagecoaches. He had been
somebody
back then. Maybe not famous, like the James brothers or the Youngers, but a man of some reputation. Always with money in his pocket, he drank good whiskey, had whores whenever he wanted, and took great pleasure in being feared by all—even those who hired out to ride with him.
    Then, on a long-ago night in Lawrence, a drunken argument had erupted during a card game. Pistols were drawn and soon the saloon was filled with the acrid smell of gun smoke and the screams of men being shot. Before killing those who had accused him of being a cheat, Stallings had been seriously wounded, bullets tearing into his chest, leg, and shoulder.
    Well after one of his men had helped from the scene of the carnage, it was learned that among the dead left behind wasa highly regarded Kansas City politician. With the shot that had killed him, Stallings had earned the reputation for which he’d long strived. Wanted posters went up throughout Kansas, offering a reward for his capture, dead or alive.
    He’d slowly healed, tended by a rural doctor who cared little about who paid for his services, and had lain in the bed of an old chuck wagon, spirited away to a hiding place in the Indian Territory. “Boss,” one of the men who had accompanied him on the torturous journey said, “you’re mighty lucky to be alive.”
    Stallings wasn’t so sure. His breath had come in sporadic bursts and even the constant sips of whiskey his companion provided had failed to dull the pain. One arm had no feeling. The doctor had warned that in all likelihood he would be an invalid for the rest of his life
    And so it had come to this.
    In a small hillside clearing sat a cabin hastily built from native timber. From its front door one could look out on a row of shabby tents where his men slept, a weather-beaten barn, the corral, the chuck wagon stolen long ago from cattle herders, an outhouse, and a still. The most unusual structure stood on stilts, towering above the trees. Atop it was a platform from which sentries stood constant guard, watching for intruders.
    Old before his time and infirm as he was, his wounded body bloated to the point where he could no longer even mount a horse, the only remaining thing of value to Stallings was his own miserable life. Selling rifles and whiskey to Indians, buying their stolen goods, and directing one of his few trusted men to resell them for small profits, this had become, in itself, a form of imprisonment.
    In truth, the day and night guard was an unnecessary precaution. The legend of the Cookson Hills was such that no law-abiding citizen would venture along their trails. Most lawmen considered the region too dangerous to approach. Few Indians even dared go into the Hills. It was a no-man’s-land, an isolated parcel of the frontier that had been given over to the most desperate and feared of society.
    There Big Boone had grown into a pained and constantly paranoid man.
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    He was not the only one in the Indian Territory struggling with paranoia. The young Comanche warrior who had just left was also troubled by self-doubt. Members of his tribe called him Hawk on the Hill, but Stallings knew him only as Hawk, an ill-tempered renegade with an enormous