The Rocking R Ranch. Tim Washburn

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      “I will. Think the trader has any whiskey hidden away?” Percy asked.

      “Doubtful,” Cyrus said, looking at the Indians celebrating on the parade grounds. “Them Injuns would cave the door in to get at it.”

      Percy stepped off the porch and threaded his way through the Indian gathering on his way to Sherman House. The structure was a large, two-story rectangular building that featured a long porch that fronted the first level and four chimneys, each located in a corner of the building When he arrived, Percy opened the door and entered the foyer, where a private was manning the reception desk.

      “Evenin’,” Percy said. “Colonel Davidson in?”

      “Who’s askin’, sir?” the private asked. The young man was trim and fit with closed-cropped frizzy hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

      “Percy Ridgeway.”

      “I’ll check, sir,” the private said as he stood and headed down the hallway toward the back of the building.

      Percy had worked around and with black men all of his life, but never as a slaveholder, like many of his fellow Texans. He couldn’t abide one man thinking himself superior to another based on skin color or anything else. And despite tremendous pressure to join his fellow statesmen in fighting for the Confederacy, Percy had refused, as did all the men at the Rocking R. That refusal was based partly on their beliefs and the other part was that they already had plenty on their plate trying to keep the Indians from killing them or stealing everything they owned.

      The private returned and said, “Follow me, sir.” He led Percy down a long hall and out onto the back porch, where Lieutenant Colonel John Davidson was standing near a couple of chairs, a bottle of brandy and two glasses situated on a small table between them. Davidson shook Percy’s hand and waved to the opposite chair and both men sat as the private retreated. A coal oil lamp flickered on the opposite end of the porch, drawing a horde of insects and casting a wan light that washed over the two men. Davidson poured, and the two men clinked glasses. Percy drained his glass in one long swallow and said, “What are the Indians celebratin’?”

      Davidson poured more brandy into Percy’s glass. “Got a couple of Kiowa chiefs locked up in the stockade. Appears to have made some members of their tribe angry.”

      “You goin’ to turn ’em loose?”

      “Not up to me, but I hope not.”

      “Why? Afraid they’ll start raidin’ again?”

      “Of that, I have no doubt,” Davidson said. “General Sherman is fit to be tied. I have a feeling a day of reckoning is quickly approaching, though.” Davidson drained his glass and refilled it.

      “How quickly?”

      “Spring, maybe. The buffalo herds are already thinnin’ out. Once their food source is gone, they won’t have any choice but to return to the reservation.”

      “Still a lot of buffalo roaming the plains,” Percy said.

      Davidson glanced over at Percy. “I didn’t say the Indians wouldn’t need some persuadin’.” He took a sip of brandy and stared out into the darkness for a few moments. Known for being a stickler for details, Davidson was thin-framed and had a long mustache that extended well beyond his face, along with a narrow goatee. “I’m tired of Indian talk. What are you doin’ up this way?”

      “Tryin’ to track down a couple of rustlers.”

      Davidson arched his brows. “Your father’s idea?”

      “How’d you guess?”

      “How many cattle are you running down there?”

      “About ten thousand head at last count.”

      “And how many cattle were stolen?”

      “Two.”

      Davidson smiled. “Ole Cyrus won’t give an inch, will he?”

      “Nope,” Percy said. “We lost their trail in the rain, so I guess they got away this time, much to my father’s dismay.” Percy took a long pull from his glass and then said, “What’s life like commandin’ a Negro regiment?”

      Davidson turned slightly in his chair so that he could look at Percy. “I’ll tell you, Percy, the vast majority of them are illiterate, but they’re some of the hardest-workin’ troops I’ve ever been associated with. They might not be book smart, but they damn sure know how to fight. And I’ll take a fighter any day. They seldom complain about anything and I’ve had troops do nothing but complain about all sorts of things. So, all in all, they’re a fine group of soldiers and their skin color doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

      “I’m assumin’ you know what others call you?” Percy asked.

      “Black Jack? Yeah, I heard. Nicknames don’t mean a damn thing to me.” Davidson pulled a couple of cigars from the pocket of his unbuttoned army tunic and offered one to Percy, who accepted. Davidson flared a match and lit both, fanned the match out, and refilled their glasses. Taking a long draw from his cigar, Davidson settled back in his chair. “Although I’ve been to the ranch several times, a report of a recent raid down your way got me to wonderin’ about somethin’.”

      Percy blew out a stream of smoke and said, “What’s that?”

      “With all the Indian depredations that have happened in Texas over the years, the Ridgeway clan remains relatively unscathed. Why do you think that is? I know that wagon you had built is one hell of a deterrent but that can’t be the only reason, can it?”

      Percy shrugged and took a deep draw from his cigar. “Call it mutually assured destruction, John, or maybe mutual respect. As you know, we’re not short on firepower and the Indians have learned over the years that we fight back, and our response is often swift and deadly. We take a firm but fair approach with them, and if we leave them alone, they generally do the same with us. And if they’re hungry we’ll cut out a steer or two for them on occasion and we’ve traded with a lot of them over the years.”

      Davidson rolled his cigar between his fingers and tapped off the ash. “They don’t steal from you? They’ll steal anything not tied down around here.”

      “They’re a thievin’ bunch, for sure, and you’ve gotta nip that in the bud in a hurry or they’ll steal you blind. We lose a few cattle every year to ’em, but it’s an unsubstantial number in the bigger picture of things.”

      “Yet you’re up here chasin’ after a couple rustlers who stole two steers.”

      Percy shrugged. “That’s part of the nippin’ in the bud I was talkin’ about.”

      Davidson smiled and took a sip of brandy. “You can talk about mutual respect, but I don’t know, Percy. The only signs of Comanche respect I’ve seen was when they had a loaded gun pointed at them.”

      “Like I said, we’re not short on firepower. Lawrie Tatum still the Indian agent round here?”

      “Nope. Moved back to Iowa after resigning his post at the end of March. Got a new fella now. Name’s James Haworth, another Quaker, like СКАЧАТЬ