The covered wagon crawled across the arid and sparsely vegetated plain; following a dusty track which was all but indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The two oxen drawing the wagon plodded along as slowly as they were able, only speeding up very slightly when the driver touched them both with his whip, before resuming their earlier and more leisurely pace a few seconds later. The man on the buckboard was a rugged-looking individual of perhaps fifty or sixty years of age. Getting on in years he might have been, but he was still hale and there was a look about his face which suggested that he was not a man to be crossed lightly. This was somebody who knew how to handle himself and was not one to allow others to impose their will upon him.
Seated next to the fellow holding the reins was another person, who was at first harder to read. She had a womanly figure, but there was a coltish awkwardness about her, which suggested a child, more than it did an adult. Combined with the fact that her skirts did not reach down to her ankles and that she had not yet begun to put up her hair, the impression was given that here was a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Her name was Hannah Merton and she would, if she were spared, be celebrating her sixteenth birthday in something over a month’s time.
The visage of the man seated beside the girl might have habitually worn an expression of grim determination, but when he glanced sideways at her, his face was transformed. It was a little like watching the sun rise, as the pleasure and pride, which he obviously felt in her, drove away the stern lines and watchful look in his eyes. She caught him looking at her and said smilingly, ‘What ails you, pa? Something amiss?’
‘Not a thing. I was just thinking how much you’re getting to resemble your ma, God rest her, as you get older.’
Hannah looked thoughtful and then said, ‘I can’t hardly recollect her, you know. Just the look of her eyes, I think, and a smell of lavender. That’s the sum of it.’
‘You were but knee-high to a grasshopper when she was promoted to glory,’ said her father, ‘It’s not in reason that you should remember much at the age you were.’
‘You reckon we’ll reach that little town you talked of by nightfall?’
‘It’ll be a blessing if we do.’
When Abednego Merton and his daughter had set off from Fort Smith, in Arkansas, forty days earlier, it had been spring. Now, summer was here in earnest and they were still not halfway to their destination; which was California. It had been Abe Merton, as he was generally known, who had decided that they might make a better fist of things in the west than they had been doing, scraping a living on a smallholding in Arkansas. So it was that he had sold up, fitted out a wagon and struck out from Fort Smith, heading along what was once the Butterfield Overland Mail route running through Texas and into the New Mexico and Arizona territories.
The three years since the end of the War between the States had been lean ones for many and Abe did not complain. He knew though that if his daughter were to have the opportunity to fulfil her promise, then she could better achieve that end in a young, energetic place like California than she would grubbing out her life in the fields of Arkansas. Hannah was sharp as a lancet and it was Abe’s hope that it might somehow be possible for her to study, perhaps at college level, in one of the big cities such as San Francisco. It was a dream, and he had no idea if it was an attainable one, but he surely meant to try. After all, he thought, what else are our dreams for, if not to lead us on and encourage us to try and improve our lot? Despite his deep-seated religious faith, Merton was not one of those who believed that a man should labour on, thankful in the station in which it has pleased the Lord to place him. Although he seldom voiced the view out loud, he was a firm believer in the dictum that the Lord helped those who helped themselves.
Abednego Merton had never been a one for depending on other folks and so had not even considered joining a wagon train when he made the fateful decision at the beginning of 1868 to uproot him and his daughter and head west. He relied on nobody and wanted nobody, other than his child of course, to rely upon him. He had bought and fitted out a wagon, secured a post as an engineer at a manufactory on the west coast and then, with no more ado harnessed up a pair of oxen and taken to the trail. They were now something in the region of a hundred and fifty miles east of El Paso, which would mark roughly the halfway point in their journey.
Even while he was chatting amiably with his child, Abe’s eyes were constantly scanning ahead and to the side, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Thus it was that he caught sight of what he guessed to be a party of riders when they were still some miles off. Judging from the amount of dust being kicked into the air and one or two other points, he calculated that there were at least a half-dozen men and that there were heading straight for the wagon. This made him a mite uneasy, for the riders were not following the track, but were moving towards him from the side; almost as though they had it in mind to intercept the wagon.
‘Hannah,’ said Merton, ‘You get into the wagon, if you please, and hunker down, so’s you can’t be seen.’
‘Is something wrong, pa?’
‘I hope not, but better safe than sorry. Go on now, quick as you like.’
Casting a scared look at her father, Hannah scrambled into the back of the wagon and crouched among the household goods which were stowed there.
He had no rifle or shotgun or else Merton would have had it cocked and in his lap by now. He contented himself with loosening the pistol which he was tucked into his belt and making sure that he could withdraw it swiftly, should need arise. There was no special reason to expect trouble, but this part of Texas nigh to the Rio Grande, which marked the border with Mexico, had somewhat of a lawless reputation and Abe Merton didn’t aim to take any chances. He halted the wagon and then sat waiting for the riders to approach. Maybe then he would see what they were about.
All Abe Merton’s hackles rose as the men came close enough for him to see them clearly. There were seven of them and if they weren’t on the scout then he was Dutchman. They had that careless look about them, as though they didn’t need to worry in the slightest degree what other folk cared to think of them. A couple of them had coppery skins and looked like half-breeds. One of these had hair as long as a woman’s, flying free. Two of the other men also had long, shaggy locks and all except the breeds were sporting mustaches. Although they looked pretty wild, it was clear that these boys, none of whom could be much above twenty-five years of age, weren’t cowboys, ranch-hands or aught of that kind. They weren’t dressed for hard work and all were armed to the teeth. By the time they were within hailing distance, Merton could see that half of them had bandoliers of cartridges slung across their chests and he could see scabbards at the front of their saddles which contained rifles. One or two also had rifles slung over their backs on slings. His heart sank as they slowed to a sedate trot and spread out as they came closer to the wagon. Pulling his piece would simply result in his death, he was that outnumbered. Then where would that leave Hannah? At the mercy of these scallywags, that’s where.
When they were five or ten yards away, the riders halted and one of them greeted Merton in a cheerful enough fashion, saying, ‘Afternoon, pilgrim. Where you headed?’
‘Over yonder.’ replied Merton, gesturing vaguely to the west.
‘Cautious sort of fellow, ain’t you?’ Said another of the men, which elicited laughter from the rest, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you care for our company?’
‘I don’t want for company,’ said Merton levelly, ‘I’m just hoping to carry on down this track, is all.’
‘What you got in that there wagon?’ asked one of the riders, ‘Something valuable, I’ll be bound.’
‘Not hardly. Just bits and pieces from my home, as was. I’m removing to California and taking my furniture and suchlike along of me.’
‘That a fact?’ said one of the other men, mockingly.
‘Yes, that’s a fact. If you boys’ve got no objection, I’ll be carrying on now.’
‘Mind if we look at your gear? Happen we might be able to trade, you know, a bit of buying and selling?’
It struck Merton that one or two of these young men spoke with a slight accent. Not strong, but definitely there all the same. One thing was certain-sure; it was as plain as the nose on his face to Abednego that these fellows had murder and robbery in mind and he saw no way out of the situation. Whether he waited for them to make their move or if he brought matters to the point himself made no odds. Either way, matters were likely to end in the same way. He could see no way of saving Hannah, but now he was out of time, because the riders were edging forward, clearly preparing to attack.
If there was to be gunplay, then Abe Merton wanted it to be as far from the wagon as could be. That way, there would be less chance of his daughter being struck by a stray ball. Without giving any sign of his intentions, Merton leapt to his feet and jumped from the buckboard. His action took the men surrounding the wagon by surprise, as did Merton’s next move, which was to run straight at the them; passing between two horses before any of them even realised what he was about. As he ran, the desperate man drew the Colt Navy from his belt, cocking it with his thumb as he did so. Having done so, he stopped dead in his tracks, whirled round and fired twice, hitting one of the riders smack between his shoulder blades.
The amazement occasioned by the actions of the man whom they had supposed that they were about to kill, wore off with the first shot and one of the breeds slid the rifle from where it nestled at the front of his saddle. He had done this even before Merton fired and had already worked the lever, feeding a cartridge into the breach when the sound of the shot came. He didn’t need to turn his horse, instead he simply swivelled round at the waist and fired straight at the man whose wagon they were determined to loot. He had the satisfaction of seeing the man’s shirt whip up as the bullet struck him in the chest, before he dropped lifeless to the ground.
The man who Merton had shot had by this time slumped from his horse. One of the others, who was his particular friend, jumped down to attend to the wounded man, but the case was hopeless. A gout of bright blood had overflowed from his mouth and run all over his chin. From the vivid, crimson hue, it was a fair guess that this blood had come from a wound to the lungs, which meant that there was little hope. This was confirmed when as soon as his friend clasped him in his arms, the fellow who had been shot gave a quiet grunt and promptly died, without opening his eyes.
Laying his dead comrade gently to the ground, the man who had just lately cradled the dying man in his arms stood up and walked over to where Abednego Merton lay motionless and then swung his boot at the prone man’s head. Merton’s shirt was all over blood at the front and there was every sign that he was dead, but the angry man kicked him again and again. Then somebody shouted to him, ‘Rafe, come over here now. This’n will maybe soften your sorrow!’
The others had now dismounted and were clustered around the back of the wagon. They were peering in with looks of delight upon their faces, for there, cowering within, was a frightened young girl. Crude exclamations of pleasure and delight were being made, before the man who was nominally in charge of their party said, ‘Come, get her down now. See if there’s anything else worth having here. It looks to me like a heap o’ shit.’
After the girl was dragged screaming from the wagon, her cries redoubling in intensity when she saw her father laying on his back, covered in blood, the men clambered up and began throwing out the Mertons’ belongings. Items such as bedding and a few meagre pieces of furniture, they contemptuously discarded. Their only interest lay in cash money or valuables such as jewellery. Finding nothing of the sort, they abandoned the search and turned to look at the girl, who was being gripped firmly by the arm, lest she attempt to flee.
‘None o’ that,’ said the man who was directing the scouting party, ‘Not a one of you need think it for a moment.’
‘We can touch her though,’ observed one of the others, ‘That won’t spoil the goods.’
‘Not while I have breath in my body, you won’t,’ said the leader, ‘I seed with my own eyes where this ‘touching’ ends and the last time it cost us all dear. Leave her be, I say.’
For a moment when she heard these words, Hannah Merton thought that she had found a protector; one among these inhuman wretches to whom she might appeal to behave with decency, but she was all too soon disabused of this notion. The man who had forbidden any of the others to touch her, went over to his horse and, after rummaging in his saddle bag, returned with a length of rope. While two others held the girl securely, he lashed her wrists together and then ran the rope down to her ankles and tied them also. This process was accomplished with as no more acknowledgement of the girl than if she had been a mustang or hog. After checking the knots, the leader picked up the girl, who was too frightened to resist, and slung her over the front of his saddle. He said, ‘Let’s go, boys!’
The band of men mounted and then made off, back in the direction from which they had come. Hannah Merton lay face down, her arms dangling on one side of the saddle and her legs on the other. What was to become of her, she had not the faintest idea. Her thoughts turned to her father, laying in the dirt and covered in blood, and she began to weep; hopelessly and without restrain, like a child.
It was late afternoon, two hours or so after the ambush. The contents of the wagon lay strewn about. Some articles, such as the beautiful pendulum clock, which had been a wedding gift to the Mertons on the occasion of their marriage seventeen years earlier, lay smashed in the roadway. In their anger at finding nothing worth stealing, the bandits had kicked and thrown around the precious belongings; wantonly destroying for the pure sake of it. A cloud of flies swirled in a lazy cloud over the figure laying some way off from the looted wagon. They were feasting on the blood which had oozed from the man’s face and saturated his shirt. In another hour or so, they would be laying their eggs there.
To any observer of the scene, what happened at this point would have looked like some latter-day Lazarus, arising from the tomb. The man groaned and then raised his arm to shoo the flies from his face. Then, after a pause of a minute or so, he sat up. It came as a great surprise to Abednego Merton to find that he was still in the land of the living and for a while, he couldn’t make the thing at all. He had a distinct recollection of being shot in the heart and also of being kicked in the face. It was that blow which had rendered him unconscious, but he had already decided that he was about to die from the wound to his chest. It was all most perplexing.
Slowly, and with great pain, Merton moved his hands to his chest and felt around a bit. Every breath he drew was agonising, but there could be not the least doubt that he was drawing breath and was therefore not dead. His ribs were excessively tender on the left side, right above his heart and Merton feared to look. Never the less, he slowly undid his shirt and looked down at his chest. There was a deal of blood, but not as much as he would have expected, had his heart been smashed to atoms by a minie ball; which was what he had supposed to have happened. Spitting on his fingers, Merton smeared away some of the congealed blood and the mystery was solved. The ball had not struck him not full in the chest, which must inevitably have resulted in his death, but had rather taken him at a shallow angle. It had certainly cracked a couple of ribs and gouged a deep furrow in the muscles and flesh of his chest, which accounted for the great amount of blood, but he was otherwise whole.
Having established that he was alive, Abednego Merton lurched to his feet and stumbled across to the wagon, seeking any sign of his daughter. There was none; the child had evidently been taken by those who had accosted him. As usual when he was troubled, Merton turned to God for guidance. Moreover, he thought it only fitting to give thanks to the Lord for his deliverance. Carefully and with several cries of anguish at the pain in his injured ribs, he managed to kneel there on the dusty track and addressed the deity in the following words, ‘Lord, I thank you for sparing my life, which was unlooked for. I should o’ shot my child, ‘fore I let her be took off by those villains for who knows what purpose. I’m greatly to blame for not having thought on it. I beseech your help now Lord, in tracking down those as did this dreadful thing and rescuing my little girl from their clutches. And I swear now, I will kill every one of those who had any hand in this matter. Amen.’
The wounded man remained on his knees for a spell, to give the Lord time to respond, if He was so minded, but there was only silence. The question now was what course of action should he now follow? It would be madness to follow riders on foot, that much was certain. No, Merton knew that his first task was to acquire a horse. He looked at the two oxen and shook his head. Even at their fastest, oxen are among the slowest of God’s creatures and riding one of them would be no better than going by shank’s pony. The town to which they had been heading was perhaps five miles away and even as he was, Merton guessed that he could do that in better than a couple of hours.
Before leaving the site of the disaster which had befallen him and his girl, Merton turned loose the oxen and then, using some of the linen which had been scattered on the ground, he bound up his ribs as tight as he could bear. It eased the pain when he drew breath a little, although it was still going to be a hard journey. Then he started walking west.
It was heavy-going, for apart from his ribs, there had been a nasty blow to his head with a boot, which had left Merton with a terrible headache and the fear that the kick had effected some mischief to his skull. There was little to be done about it though. Worse than the physical pain was the mental anguish of knowing that he had failed his daughter in the worst possible way. If only he had thought to end her life before she had been captured, rather than pointlessly shooting one of the band. He would have to live with this guilt, he supposed.
In spite of the pain he was in, it took Abednego Merton just an hour and a half to reach the hamlet or town for which he and his daughter had been headed. To his surprise, Merton saw that there was an army encampment by the town and this gave him reason to hope that he might get some assistance in recovering his daughter. Before entering the town, he approached the sentry standing guard at the line of tents and asked if he could be conducted to their commanding officer. The man on guard duty called to a passing trooper and asked if he would show this civilian gentleman to the major’s tent.
Major Travers listened gravely to Abe Merton’s account of what had befallen him. At the end of it he said, ‘It’s a damned shame and that’s a fact. But I don’t quite see why you’ve come to tell me about it. This is a civil matter, you want a sheriff or marshal.’
‘You have men here who could ride after those men, don’t you?’
‘To put the case bluntly, I’ve other fish to fry. I’m sorry, it can’t be done.’
‘She’s an innocent child!’ said Merton wonderingly, ‘You won’t raise a hand to help her?’
The major did not like being blustered or buffaloed in this way by a civilian, but all the same, could not help but feel sympathetic. He said slowly, ‘Truth is, we’re on the track of people like those who took your daughter. They’re most likely Comancheros, working with the Kiowa hereabouts. There’s nests of ‘em all over this part of Texas.’
As Merton began to interrupt, suggesting that in that case their aims coincided, Major Travers held up his hand and said, ‘Wait now. Listen to what I say. I can’t go haring after one group or another of those fellows. They’re holed up in some canyons with their Indian friends. I’d need a damn’ sight more men than I have here, and a couple of field guns into the bargain, were I to want to launch a frontal assault on them. I’m skirmishing with them though and waiting for Washington to order reinforcements. ‘Til then, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘Why do you think they took my girl?’ asked Merton in a dull and flat voice, ‘Apart that is from the usual reason men like them snatch women and girls.’
‘Sometimes, they ransom their captives,’ said the major, ‘See if the relatives can raise a tidy sum, you know.’
‘I ain’t got but a few dollars to my name. What do they ask in such cases?’
The major shrugged. ‘It depends. A few hundred dollars at the very least.’
‘And if they don’t get it?’
Major Travers fidgeted and seemed reluctant to answer the question. Merton stared silently at him, until the major finally said awkwardly, ‘There’s a, ahem, you might call it a market for girls, specially young ones. Across the Rio Grande, you know.’
‘Market? What are you talking of?’
‘To set the case out plainly, young white girls, such as have never laid with a man, well, they fetch a fair price in some…establishments down in Mexico. They smuggle them across the river, near El Paso. Here, hold up man!’
This last remark was caused by Abednego Merton turning dead white and staggering, as though he were about to fall. The major said, ‘Rest here a while, from the look of you, you’re in no fit state to do anything right now.’
Casting the soldier a look of blazing contempt, Merton straightened up and said, ‘I’m a going for to fetch my daughter back. You say you won’t help. All I can say is that young men today are a sight different from what they once were. Won’t even go to the aid of a helpless child.’ Having delivered himself of these parting words, he turned on his heel and left the tent.
Make sure Merton brings a good skinning knife.