The Hunter

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The Mid-West, 1875.

On that final morning, Charlie, as he did most days, dug through one of the several vegetable patches which punctuated the fields around the sides of the family home. Soon, if these latest crops proved as successful as the last, he would begin to expand cultivation into entire fields. He’d brought with him the plough he’d always planned on using in his smallholding back in Kansas. The prospect of hitching it to a team of strong horses and cutting furrows in this good earth was at long last a very real one. Closing his eyes, he paused in his toil and allowed himself a moment to dream a little, relishing the thought of establishing a fine working farm. Already the wheat was doing well and soon there would be potatoes and any number of Brassicaceae. His was not a labour of love, but one born out of necessity – without these crops there would be no food for his family to eat. Failure meant they would all die. This land, sprawling untouched and uncultivated, had to be tamed if it was to give up its undoubted treasures. Life in Kansas proved restrictive, with increasing bureaucracy hampering opportunities to truly thrive. The opportunities out west were continuing to attract those willing and able to put in the effort to succeed. So, determined to fulfil his aspirations, Charlie packed up his wagon and headed west, with his wife Julia, their two sons and fourteen-year-old daughter. It was a journey they should have made years before but, now that they were here, the future looked bright. All he would need to do was continue his labours until completed and the fields made ready. So, with muscles already screaming, he sank the spade deep into the soil and turned it before dropping to his knees to attack the weeds with a short-handled fork.

From inside one of the log cabin’s two newly built rooms, still smelling sweetly of freshly hewn timber, the sound of his wife singing drifted across to him. He smiled. Back in Kansas, she had sung in the church choir, and he knew how much she missed her time there. But she had always been supportive of his ambitions, her quiet strength bolstering him whenever he floundered in self-doubt.

On the far side of the wheat field, his two sons were busy erecting the fencing which separated their land from the endless plains beyond. Half a dozen years previously the constant fear of attacks by marauding Comanches meant that such endeavours would not be possible. Now, safely interned in their reservations, the Lords of the Southern Plains no longer posed a threat. Recently news filtered through that Apaches continued to fight against government forces down in southern Texas, but everyone felt assured that within a short time even they would be safely penned in. Murmurings of continuing problems in the far north made little impression on those settling on the land bordering New Mexico. Perhaps it should.

The fork hit something hard and unyielding so Charlie returned to using the spade, easing the blade underneath a stubborn rock and levering it from the soil’s embrace. He took a moment to drag his arm across his brow but did not allow his exhaustion to dampen his spirits. Soon the whole family would be working on the harvest, bringing to an end their first successful year of farming. As if to underline the good fortune with which they were all blessed, daughter Amber came drifting by, beaming broadly. “Morning, Papa,” she said, her voice as pretty as she herself. Charlie grinned his response and returned to using the fork on his assault of the weeds.

Amber went over to the well and carefully lowered the pail into the dark depths. From inside the log cabin the sound of Mary, his wife, singing at the top of her voice made this day something beyond special.

A distant noise, more of a squawk than a human voice, caused Charlie to raise his head. Frowning, he thought he saw movement on the horizon. Dust, the first indication of riders. He hauled himself to his feet, blowing out his breath loudly. Constant bending and straightening were taking its toll on his joints, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect family life. He focused in again on the smudge of brown billowing in the distance. Definitely horses. Who could they be? He’d heard rumours of disquiet amongst some of the Indians on the reservations, a yearning to return to the great days of the past, when the Comanches roamed this land before being forcibly ejected. Surely the days of senseless violence were now gone, buried along with the many hundreds, if not thousands who had lost their lives on both sides? Disquiet was leading to outbreaks of fighting in the north as the discovery of gold meant many more white folks would be encroaching upon Indian territory. He gave up a little prayer of thanks that he’d brought his family to the relative calm of New Mexico. Establishing a small-holding back east had given him enough skills and knowledge to turn his hand to full-blown farming and it looked, finally, as if things were turning his way.

“Pa, Pa, for God’s sake, get inside!”

The two riders were now fully in view. They weren’t Indians but his two sons, riding as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at their heels, beating their horse’s flanks with their hats, both boys red-faced, grimacing. “Pa, get the Winchesters!”

Charlie couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. He stood and watched, slightly bemused, as the boys brought their stampeding mounts to a grinding halt, hurling themselves from their mounts before they fully stopped, and racing into the cabin. He heard his wife shout, “Boys, take off those filthy boots, I don’t want—”

“Pa?”

Charlie turned towards the sound of his daughter’s voice. She sounded afraid and he looked at her standing beside the well, the pitcher full, water slopping over the brim. She was staring open-mouthed at something beyond his shoulder. As he went to follow her gaze, an arrow struck her in the throat and she fell in silence, a look of abject horror on her pretty face. He knew she was dead before she hit the ground, but this knowledge didn’t help galvanise him into action. Instead, he stood rooted, unable to react. He heard the thundering of approaching hooves, could taste the acrid tang of horse sweat at the back of his throat, but his limbs failed to respond. Realising outsiders were invading his land, hell-bent on destroying everything he held dear, he somehow managed to tear his gaze from the nightmare before his eyes and noticed the semi-n***d warrior leaping from his still running horse, to smash into him. Flaying about beneath the frighteningly powerful Indian, Charlie did his best to ward off a strike from a flashing hatchet. But even as he squirmed and gripped his attacker’s wrist, a burst of fire erupted in his side. The Indian whooped in triumph, spittle drooling from his mad, grimacing mouth, brandishing the knife which dripped blood. Charlie’s blood.

From somewhere, rough, strong hands were gripping him by the shoulders, dragging him across the ground. He heard a gunshot, screams. His wife’s screams. Cries and groans of pain.

Those who held him pulled him into the interior and he saw, through a mist of pain, his handsome, strong sons being disembowelled, his wife pawed and slapped, bleating warriors filling his once beautiful home, their nakedness an abomination to his eyes.

They hauled him to his feet and forced him to watch. At some point within the horrors enacted around him, he lost consciousness, only to be punched awake again, grinning faces looming close, hot blades slicing through his flesh. Dear God would it never end as those monsters danced and yelped amongst the blood.

Long afterwards, the white hunters despatched those few warriors who dawdled behind their comrades. Cougan paid for the intervention with his life and they buried him along with the others. Sterling Roose said some words but Reuben Cole, who stood in the yard and peered in the direction of the fleeing Comanches who raced away with Charlie’s stolen horses, barely heard a word of it. “I’ll do to them what they did to these poor folks,” he said through gritted teeth and rolling tears. His partner Roose sucked in a breath. “We’ll need to report back to the troop,” he said, voice distant, all of the strength wrested from it.

“You go,” said Cole, reloading his rifle. “Tell the Lieutenant what happened here and get a squad to scout in a wide arc, warning other homesteaders what could happen. In the meantime, I’ll head ‘em off. Catch me up as best you can.”

Cole went to move away but Roose held him back by the arm. “You can’t take them alone, Reuben. For pity’s sake…”

Cole levelled his gaze upon his companion. “You bet your sweet life I can, Sterling.”

With that, he strode back the way he had come, untethered his horse, and mounted up.

Roose watched his friend leave and knew that for those fleeing warriors all the furies of Hell would soon be visited upon them. He’d seen it before and knew all too well what Reuben Cole was capable of.

As he stood, his eyes never leaving Cole’s slowly diminshing form, he remembered the first time it had happened and a shudder ran through him as the memories stirred around in his mind. Having seen it before, he thanked God he would not be a witness to what Cole would do when he caught up with those Comanche raiders.