Comanche War by Robert Vaughan

Author:Robert Vaughan [Vaughan, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641194471
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2018-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

13

“Mr. Adler, good afternoon to you. Welcome to the cantonment.”

Major Cavanaugh carefully sized up the man who stood before him. The late afternoon sun was low on the horizon, and the buildings cast long rectangular shadows. Sam Adler’s face took on a blood-red tinge in the fading light. Despite a week’s growth of whiskers, the wagon boss’s features were sharply etched. It was the face of a man in his mid-thirties who’d ridden dangerous trails for a long time. Stubborn lines perched above the bridge of his hawk nose, and his eyes were like little holes scorched into rawhide.

“Major Cavanaugh? Well, howdy.” Adler waited patiently for the man who was accompanying him to catch up. The individual was elderly as well as fat, and it was clear why he couldn’t keep pace crossing the yard. He looked exhausted. The fringe of hair under his slouch hat was scanty, and his hand shook as he extended it to be shaken. Marcus obliged.

“Meet Ezra Chandler, Major,” Adler said. “The Reverend Chandler, a real fire-and-brimstone preacher when he ain’t plowing a field. Organizer of the train at its starting point, St. Joe. He’s been feeling peaked lately, but the spirit remains. Ezra, this here’s Major Cavanaugh.”

“Reverend,” Marcus acknowledged.

“Praise the Lord, Major Cavanaugh,” Ezra Chandler said. “We in the train have reached a far point on our long, long journey. What Mr. Adler says is true: I’ve been a farmer all my life, not a traveler. But the land’s used up back in Ohio, no more chance for a man there. The spirit came to me saying to head out west. And here me and my family members are — two sons and their wives and all the children they’ve had. And our bunch picked up still more members in Missouri — strangers then, but all fine folk. We’re eighteen prairie schooners in all, Major. And when we find the land we want, we’ll settle and raise us some crops.”

“It’s a grand idea, Reverend Chandler,” Marcus said. “I’m afraid you have a way to go, though. The rainfall in these parts pretty much inhibits agriculture. I’ve seen the vegetables that our trooper gardeners raise, and they’re rather stunted.”

“Ah, irrigation may be the key then, my boy! We’ll talk again on the subject when I’m rested more. These long days ...” The resonant but weak old voice trailed off.

Marcus’s gaze roamed past the two men and the buildings to the open land that stretched downstream along Sweetwater Creek. The big wagons and their teams rolled through a pall of yellow dust. One by one the bonneted Studebakers came to a stop in a planned formation. The train used much the same formation as a military squadron’s supply wagons — a giant circle of vehicles abutting end to end. It offered the most protection against Indian raiders. Emigrants learned it fast or perished. The men on the seats bullied the laboring horses, some clearly more skilled than others. But the horses were tired, and the people were tired.

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