The Wrinkled Hand Chase

By Max Ratheal

The Wrinkled Hand Chase11 is the story of Pvt. George Washington Dixon Joplin, dispatch rider for Brig. Gen Ranald Mackenzies 4th Cavalry, and his assignment to deliver a history-altering message to General Mackenzie. The problem? Dix is at Fort Concho, Mackenzie is hot on the heels of the Comanches up in the Texas panhandle.

Dix Joplin is a Fort Worth native and 1872 graduate of the Weatherford Masonic Institute (Weatherford College). A story within the story explains why a bright young man with an acceptance to the Harvard School of Medicine is now a private in the army

During the trip north Dix encounters many obstacles, situations, and ironically, a Comanche that has been charged with a similar message for Kwana Parker. Together the two try to stop the Red River War or as the Comanche called it--The Wrinkled Hand Chase.

The reader will meet characters such as Colonel Douglass, the wiley curmudgeon Joedean Overstreet, the surly Muley Jones, Lonzo the Harvard graduate, and Major Anderson. Along with Topusana, Kwana Parker, and Gen. Mackenzie. Youll also get to know Rainey Buck, the fastest horse on the plains and One-Sock, the bird-dog mule.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 4, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463486778

Max Ratheal

At sixty-One, the author is a husband of 36yrs. Father of three grown children and grandfather to 7 grandaughters. He was Professor of Chemisty at Weatherford College for thirty-One years and Director of the Weatherford College Forensic Laboratory. He is now retired. Ratheal is a part-time radio/TV/stage actor, and is currently employed part time with a local energy Company.   In addition to this novel, he has published newpaper commentaries, magazine articles and several short stories.   Ratheal loves camping, backpacking, hiking, river rafting and participates in archeological projects with both the Sierra Club and the Tarrant County Archeological Society.   His Favorite Thought: We only have one Earth, with one environment, protect it at all cost lest we have but a lone tree left to hug.

Book preview

The Wrinkled Hand

Chase

By

Max Ratheal

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Max Ratheal. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 01/27/05

ISBN: 1-4208-2118-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-8677-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Note:

1 Assignment and a Scratch Shot

2 A Bird Dog Mule and Self Doubt

3 The Great Willow Creek Raid

4 Mule Manure, Snake Bite, and Topusana

5 Rain Skittish Horse and a Stampede

6 Warm Sun and a Horse Race

7 Dead horse and Big Plains

8 A Bear and a Tornado

9 Comical Animals and a Rape

10 Thunderstorms and Cougars

11 Stitches and a New Friend

12 Mangomhente and Cultural Exchange

13 Cut-faced soldier and Muley Jones

14 Hoodoos and Turning Trees

15 Reflections and Drunks

16 Of Turning Trees and Kwana

17 Palo Duro and General Mackenzie

18 Back Home

Afterword

Travel Notes:

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my deep appreciation to Sue Coody, Professor of English at Weatherford College for friendship, her editing, and persistent encouragement. At times I would have given up without her. Thanks also to Dr. Barbara McGregor of Weatherford College who aided in getting my writing career started. Many thanks to my friend Nancy Mcvean for proof reading and her much needed advice.

Many thanks too to my long suffering wife, family, and friends who have had to listen to the talk of this book for years.

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Foreword

The Wrinkled Hand Chase is historical fiction based during the last significant military campaign against the Southern Plains Indians, specifically; the military actions referred to in the history books as the Red River War. I have woven the tale in and around that part of the campaign led by Brigadier General Ranald Mackenzie. Because Mackenzie was more interested in getting a distasteful job done than in gaining publicity for himself, his were the least documented of all the actions. His campaign culminated in an engagement during the early morning hours of 28 September 1874, with several bands of American Indians camped at Palo Duro Canyon in the Texas Panhandle. The aftermath of this engagement represented the end of an era for the free ranging Comanche society.

In all places possible I have used actual locales described from personal observation, historical records, and maps. Where-ever known, I have used the historical name for rivers and landmarks, including the Comanche name when I could find it. Dates, times, weather, and even the phases of the moon are correct. Troop designations, Officers in command and their gear are actual.

References requiring Comanche language were obtained from the Comanche Dictionary and Grammar published by the Summer Institute of Linguistics and the University of Texas at Arlington. I have to admit that I could not find accepted Comanche spellings of all the terms so forgive me if I used a few older word forms from other historical accounts.

Kwana Parker’s mother Nadua (Cynthia Ann Parker) gave birth to a child shortly before she was rescued at Pease River. The youngster’s name was Topusana. Topusana and her mother Nadua languished and died within days of each other shortly after their rescue. I have used this daughter’s name in my story as a special memorial to this young life that was not to be.

It is particularly important for me that my readers understand my attempt to portray the ordinary American Indian, Texan, Anglo, and Mexican as they really were. The real people of that time bear little resemblance to the characters movies have portrayed, nor were they the insensitive, ignorant brutes novelists have led us to believe. Atrocities perpetrated by both the Anglos and the Indians have been well documented. They happened, yes, but they were much, much the exception rather than the rule. Every society has some small percentage of cruel criminal types and we have been told every blown-out-of-proportion story of their dastardly exploits. In the grand scheme of life most all people are alike in their pursuit of happiness, love of family, and in their adherence to the traditions of their culture.

Keep in mind, at the time of this story, cattlemen had been trailing herds north via the Goodnight-Loving, Chisum, and Western trails for almost ten years. Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving were trading cattle in New Mexico up and down the western extremities of the LLano Estacado. The pressure brought to bear by these cattlemen was being listened to in Washington. The cattlemen were partly responsible for the Comanche having tradable goods (namely: stolen cattle) with which to do business with the Comancheros out of Sante Fe.

The Wrinkled Hand Chase is a tale of ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances and extraordinary people in ordinary circumstances.

Note:

The map portrayed on the inside page can be found in the Special Collections Division, University of Texas at Arlington Libraries. The map was produced in 1875 by the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad and would be a close copy of the army’s maps of the day. In many details it is inaccurate but should give the reader a feel for the country as well as an appreciation of the frustration of those who had to use it. I have overlain the map with the story’s places of interest and the travels of the character. Please note that the top of the map is not the top of the Texas panhandle.

1 Assignment and a Scratch Shot

With all four feet planted in the mire of the corral the little mustang trembled slightly and looked defiantly at the soldier whose bottom was buried several inches in the smelly mud. It appeared the little mustang did not respond well to either the rough movement-confining action of the walking-W fitted over its neck and to each foreleg nor the high port angle of the bit the trooper had being trying to cram into the mount’s mouth. The men in the blacksmith shop adjacent to the corral laughed out loud when the burly trooper awkwardly arose trying in vain to incur no further soiling of his clothing or dignity. As the butt-soiled horse handler gave up, slipped the bridle from the pony, untied the walking-W and waved him disgustedly away, the men next door nodded at each other in agreement, the frustrated trooper had gotten what he deserved. Grinning at each other, the men returned to their work.

A few minutes later a small divot of the greenish muck of the rain-saturated corral splattered forward to disappear into the dry dust of the blacksmith’s shed as a self-important looking second lieutenant squished through the drip line of the center door.

Private Joplin! On your feet trooper.

From a kneeling position where he had returned to shaping a hoof with a rasp, Dixon Joplin laid aside the tool, stood, and in one fluid motion executed a smart military turn. Recognizing the lieutenant’s rank he snapped to attention—fingers vibrating at the edge of a black fatigue hat sitting atop his narrow face as his elbow locked to salute position. The click of his heals had been audible above the shuffling of the horse, agitated at the sudden intrusion.

Sir, Yes Sir, Dix answered in a smooth voice. A confident good-natured voice. The voice of a man accustomed to conversing with other men on equal terms. The Lieutenant had no hint that the man was so good at hiding the flash of ire that kindled at the edges of his eyes. The result of a natural rebellion evoked at being spoken to sharply. Dix had to work hard at curtailing this trait, and nurtured his fix carefully because his quick temper had caused trouble for him before. He discovered by slow painful experience that his quick temper, channeled properly, could actually prove an asset.

The lieutenant returned the salute in kind and in a more modulated tone continued, Private Joplin, make your self presentable and please report to the post commander’s office in ten minutes.

Yes Sir. May I ask the reason for the summons, Sir?

Major Douglass did not divulge his intentions to me, Trooper. Just get your self over there, the lieutenant added with finality but in a completely conversational tone.

Sir. Yes Sir, Dix snapped another salute.

The lieutenant returned the salute more casually this time, turned on his heal, and squished into the mud of the Farrier’s corral.

Dix retrieved the tools he had been using and carefully arranged them on the shelf along the back of the shop. He naturally liked things neat; it reduced the frustrations experienced looking through piles of tools for the one needed. This neatness was just another way of keeping yourself happy—not letting yourself get frustrated. He removed his farrier’s skirt and hung it on a nail for that purpose. Stopping for a moment to brush some of the dirt from his soiled knees he nodded to the troop’s farrier and strode out the shed’s north end. He skirted the muddiest part of the corral’s center and made his way out the rough gate. It was only a few yards to the west end of the enlisted men’s barracks temporarily assigned to the 4th Cavalry.

Any time an officer called him to appear in their presence he couldn’t help that the situation made him a bit edgy. He had perpetrated no known infractions of rules, had left no duties undone, and as far as he knew, for the past few days, and had dispatched with aplomb the duties of farrier’s helper. Being summoned before a command officer made him fidgety. He guessed that it probably did the same to all men.

This time especially. He had to see the Post’s ranking officer, Major Henry Douglass of the 11th infantry and acting post commander. The clean pecan wood floors of the barracks didn’t make a squeak as he walked to his bunk and shucked his soiled uniform—muddy boots first. Had the army found out that he had told a small white lie when he enlisted? All he had done was invert a nine to a six so his age appeared three months older than he actually was. (At the time of his enlistment, George Washington Dixon Joplin had been seventeen instead of the eighteen the fixed birth date indicated.) Many young men gained early admission to the service by falsification of their date of birth, most of them by a lot larger margin than had Dix. Fact was, Dix’s grandfather and namesake entered the army during the War of 1812 at only sixteen, served in the Field Company of the Virginia Militia, and did so with distinction. Thus, at the time of his enlistment, Dix reasoned he had some family precedent for what he had done.

After washing up at the communal basin near the stove in the center of the rectangular building, He walked back his cot, chose his best pair of yellow-stripped trousers and hung a clean blouse over the iron rail at the end of his bunk.

No, he didn’t think that the Major had summoned him due to some infraction. The Major probably had some extra duty he needed him to perform. He hoped it was another courier assignment, but then again, usually the Major would give the order to the Lieutenant, who would then pass it to the Sergeant and the irascible, perpetually out-of-sorts Sergeant of this company would then come stomping in, call him to the west end of the barracks to his sergeant’s quarters and reiterate that order in his high squeaky overloud, overbearing voice. Dix was glad that it hadn’t happened that way. The braying sergeant frayed his nerves and always managed to do it in a very short span of time.

Major Douglass’ mild-mannered aide-de-camp had delivered this order curtly but then almost like a request. Curious. Dix slipped on the clean trousers and blouse, tucking the shirt tail in tight, shrugging suspenders over each shoulder and buckling the belt through the brass buckle marked

U.S. He picked his dress boots out of the foot locker and sat on a small bench situated to the left of the barracks door. There was a cool breeze coming through and it mitigated the moldy, smelly aura of the building giving him a chance to gather his thoughts before heading over to Major Douglass’ Office. He stomped the clean boots into place.

Fort Concho was not considered one of the more amiable frontier posts. Located on a grubby point of land at the confluence of the Concho and North Concho rivers. Unlike most rivers in this region of west Texas, these waterways were spring fed and flowed year round. The country around these rivers was classified as arid to semi-arid and usually hot, dry, and exceedingly dusty, but the past few weeks had been the wettest anyone had experienced.

Even though Fort Concho was considered lousy post duty, the reputation of the 10th Cavalry and 11th infantry Negro soldiers permanently stationed there was quickly sweeping the frontier. Anglo units in the United States Army of the West, like Dix’s unit of Mackenzie’s 4th Cavalry, temporarily headquartered here, were hard pressed to serve as well. Dix had been on the post only a few days, coming off his last courier’s assignment from Fort Belknap. Riding along with a small contingent of replacements for General Mackenzie’s 4th Cavalry, he had brought in the military pouch. Having no further immediate dispatches to deliver, he was on temporary duty with the regimental farrier.

It was early fall of 1874 and the Texas frontier was in major turmoil with campaigns against the Comanche, Kiowa and Cheyenne in full operation and army rumors and campaign stories abounded. One of Dix’s favorites concerned Colonel Shafter’s (a former post commander) foray onto the Llano Estacado.

A couple years back, Shafter had left Concho, moving north with six companies of black Cavalry, 65 six mule team wagons, a train of 700 pack mules, and a herd of beef. His expedition resulted in the destruction of eleven Indian camps and some two to three hundred Indian horses. In the only actual enemy contact fighting, a dozen or so Indians were killed or wounded to only two of the buffalo soldiers. The remarkable part of the saga occurred after the Comanches had abandoned the fight and the Cavalry unit embarked on the return trek. During the fracas and subsequent chase, two companies of buffalo soldiers lost contact with their supply train and had to return across the Llano on their own. At one juncture the men and animals spent eighty-five hot summertime hours without water, yet they lost only three animals and no troopers. Dix had already decided that regardless of what the average white man thought of these black soldiers, they were a group of very tough and resourceful hombres. Statistics indicated four white trooper desertions and AWOL’s for each such occurrence from the black companies. In most situations one would have thought it would have been the other way around. The black regiments, by and large, received the poorest rations and supplies, the oldest weapons, scarce supplies of ammunition, and the lousiest horses. Sometime being so poorly mounted that at any given time a full ten-percent of the troopers would be afoot. Being afoot was ultimate insult to a cavalryman.

Between duty time at Forts Belnap, Griffin and now at Fort Concho, Dix had witnessed several parade formations but he couldn’t recall any that were more sharply carried out than those of the 10th Cavalry under their current commander, Major Douglass, this in spite of the fact that Major Douglass was an infantry officer and only an interim commander. Decked out in trooper’s navy blue jackets—five brass buttons gleaming, sky blue kersey trousers, and gleaming black boots—the 10th Cavalry formation of Stand to Horse was exceptionally stirring. One could pop a chalk line along the trooper’s toes. Since joining the service, Dix had learned that the striping on his clean trousers and around his saddle blanket was much more than decoration. The yellow striping originally indicated a temporary unit, later it came to be the symbol for all light horse cavalry. Now all United States Cavalry was light horse. A few other non-cavalry army units were also mounted but the mounted dragoons trimmings were in orange, and the mounted rifle brigades used green. These units rode to battle but fought on the ground and had been deemed useless against the Plains Indians.

The Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches had dubbed the black troopers Buffalo Soldiers, because the troopers’ hair was curly and black, much like the buffalo. Now-a-days most Comanches would not scalp a black soldier partly out of respect for the troopers and partly because the black soldiers were considered to have some mystical connection with the buffalo, the Indian’s commissary.

Dix snugged down his parade cap. It was time to meet with Major Douglass. He bogged mud and skipped around puddles on the parade grounds as he crossed from the enlisted men’s barracks in the northwestern corner to the temporary post headquarters housed in the hospital. Located in the extreme southeastern corner of the post proper, the hospital was the most impressive building on the post. Completed back in ‘72 it was a massive two story affair with wide sweeping verandas on all sides. Fort Concho was a non-stockaded fort designed to be in the shape of a large U: enlisted men’s barracks, corrals, and stables on the north, a line of officer’s quarters along the south side, with the post hospital at its extreme east end. Administrative row was along the east side of the fort with the buildings facing west. The commissary and quartermaster’s storehouses on the east side were the fort’s oldest buildings, reflecting the army’s way—first build a place for the food and guns, then the horses. Officers and men could wait.

A new, impressive two-story stone structure facing west was well under construction. This new building situated on the south end of administrative row was to be the permanent post headquarters. Along with company offices and rooms for company briefings and meetings, it would eventually house the post commander and his family. Dix marveled at the enormous pecan wood beams that were being hauled in from Ben Ficklin, a settlement about fifteen miles south of Concho. Many of the beams were so long and of such dimensions—12 X 24 X 30’—that it took two sets of wagon wheels affixed under each end and a six-mule hitch to freight just one beam that fifteen miles. Indeed there was much construction activity going on all around the fort and the engineers, carpenters, and stonemasons gave the area a civilian population several times larger than the post military personnel.

It was much dryer inside the thick stone walls of the hospital. The Aide-de-Camp greeted Dix and gave him time to brush his shoulders and trousers and stood amused as Dix carefully cleaned the slick clay from his freshly shined boots. He then escorted the young private to his right through a heavy wooden door to Major Douglass’ office.

Sir, Private George Washington Dixon Joplin reporting as ordered, Sir. At attention Dix saluted smartly, finger tips at cap edge just so.

Well. At ease Private George Washington Dixon Joplin, Major Douglass replied with a grin and executed a precise formal salute of his own. You are as honed in presentation as I’ve heard. But let’s drop this formality and speak candidly of a request I have to make of you. Understand you may speak freely. This is a gentleman’s conversation.

Thank you, Sir. Dix was puzzled and sighed as he sat in the cane-bottomed arm chair the Major indicated. He had never had a ‘Gentleman’s conversation’ with an officer.

Dix. I’ve heard of your reputation of grit and intelligence. Then as if he had suddenly remembered something else Major Douglass, tapped his forehead, hesitated slightly, and began again. By the way, this has nothing to do with my calling you here but what was your part in the altercation that occurred evening before last in Morris’ saloon? I’ve heard the official explanation. Now I’d like to hear just exactly what actually transpired. Speak freely, this is just between you and me and completely off the record.

Thinking back over the events, Dix replied, "Really, there wasn’t too much to it Sir. As you know Morris’ place is where most of the soldiers go over in San Angelo when they have a dollar or two and a day off. I had gone in to partake of a bowl of Morris’s famous four-alarm chili. Well, a couple of the buffalo soldiers were quietly enjoying a drink and some chili when Captain Sparks and three of his Texas Rangers came in. I guess it was the first time they had to deal with the buffalo soldiers on a one-to-one, equal-to-equal basis. After a few drinks at the bar, one of the rangers uttered a few choice derogatory phrases that I think were intended to incite the two black soldiers’ wrath. When they didn’t take the bait, the buddy of the ranger making the remarks called the two ‘Shiftless Niggers’ and indicated that they should leave the premises. At this affront, both soldiers took umbrage and one decked the rude ranger. Well, Sir, that started the combat between the two troopers and the two rangers. It was a good brouhaha too, with each side getting in a fair number of telling blows. My part? When the third Ranger endeavored to enter the fracas I sidled over a bit and somehow or another this third ranger fellow managed to prop his nose on the muzzle of my Colt.

At this point, Captain Sparks stepped in and quelled the skirmish. Then at the Captain’s suggestion the four combatants went out back and tried to settle the question with a mumblety-peg contest, rangers using bowie knives, soldiers using bayonets. When it became apparent that neither side was going to flinch before toes or feet were severed, the four agreed to have a little more respect for one another and went back inside. The two offending rangers bought drinks for the house and declared the black soldiers fit to ride-the-river-with. The soldiers allowed that as soon as the rangers had a bath, they too would do to ride-the-river-with."

Major Douglass looked at Dix over the top of his cigar, I thought that was probably about the size of it. According to my nervous-nellie Officer-of-the-day, who’s also (in polite language) a ninny, we had a major problem of troop relations, out of control civilian lawmen, and a near killing. He recommended immediate martial law.

Just a typical barroom to-do, Sir.

Fine. Now to the matter at hand. I suppose you noticed that I didn’t send for you through normal channels?

Yes, Sir, I noticed, and thanks, that Sergeant gets on my nerves.

"I know which Sergeant you’re talking about and he is a loud mouth. But I’ll tell you, son, in hand-to-hand you would want that son-of-a-bitch at your back. Get my drift?

Yes Sir. I know he is a good soldier, Sir, it’s just that manner—-, Dix let the thought trail away.

Major Douglass just squinted his eyes a little at Dix’s remark, spat toward the spittoon near the edge of his desk and continued. "As you probably know, Dix, I’m very shorthanded. My own infantry troops and most of our cavalry and especially their mounts are worn out. Since you’re not directly under my command I don’t want to give you a direct order but I have a dispatch that urgently needs to get to Brigadier General Ranald Mackenzie up on the Llano.

I’ll be glad to ride it out to him Major. Just say so.

You don’t understand just what you’ll be getting into, Private Joplin. Major Douglass leaned a little closer and a got lot more serious, "General Mackenzie was last reported north of Yellowhouse Canyon and is likely by now to be getting near the Canadian River way up in the panhandle, probably in the vicinity of Tule or Palo Duro canyon. As the crow flies, close to three hundred and fifty miles north-northwest of here.

I just came in from Fort Belknap, Sir Dix interjected, and that is over three hundred miles, Sir

No. You still don’t understand, Private. I’m going to ask you to ride three hundred and fifty miles. Alone. No. No, I can’t spare a single man. Can’t even send Mackenzie’s replacements with you. Don’t have enough horses. You’ll have to cross some of the most god-awful country ever laid foot on by a human being. Everything in that country scratches, bites, pokes, sticks and eighty percent of that injects a poison of some kind or the other. Son, there are stretches of country up there that are so dry that most of the time the catfish in the streams don’t even know how to swim. Then again, with as much rain as we have been having this year the streams will be raging He grinned slightly adding, probably chock full of drowned catfish. The Comanches are as savage as the country and if they don’t lift your hair, you’ll probably get blown away by a cyclone or beaned by a hail ball. You’ll be alone, right smack in the heart of the Comancher’ia, homeland of the Comanches.

If it will be that difficult and dangerous, why go at all, Sir?

Major Douglass chewed his now unlit cigar, worried it back and forth to opposite corners of his mouth. "This dispatch contains documents General Mackenzie requested from Washington. When Mackenzie signs them they will, for negotiation purposes, officially recognize Kwana Parker as acting chief of all the Comanches and will give him a pass to all the plains territory. This will let him and his band of Kwahadis Comanches travel around enlisting the support from the other tribal groups. I think we can settle the Comanche question if Mackenzie gets these orders. I believe that Kwana can even get old chief Black Horse to return to the reservation in Oklahoma.

Won’t General Mackenzie just tell Kwana that the Big White Chief in Washington wants him to do this and explain that the appropriate papers will be signed later, Dix queried.

Can’t do it that way. Mackenzie is under other orders unless he sees this dispatch. It’s Big White Father in Washington. I’m not going to go into a political discussion as to the how’s and whyfor’s. He needs this dispatch. This mission is going to require someone who is resourceful, intelligent, and who possesses a huge chunk of common sense. I think you’re the man to carry it to him. Even if you did join up before you were eighteen, I like your reputation for dealing with sticky situations. Believe me soldier; you are apt to experience some god-awful situations.

Dix gulped a bit at the revelation as to his early admission to the army but replied in his best military manner, I’ll do it, Sir. I joined the Cavalry and requested posting to the frontier just for this purpose. To see the country, meet its people, and take its measure. Yes Sir, I’m your man, Sir.

Damn! You’re scary, Private. No one should be so enthusiastic about risking his hide. Major Douglass rolled his dead cigar again, champing it between his big white teeth.

When do you want me to leave, Major? Dix grinned.

The day before yesterday, Douglass replied, but since that isn’t possible, I guess as soon as possible from this moment. Come over here and let me give you an area map. Our best cartographers produced this map from all the past forays and scouting reports. The Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad had a hand in its preparation and will publish it next year, All the information we have, any that the settlers have supplied, and a bunch of details from our Tonkawa Indian scouts have been included.

Dix had heard stories of the Tonkawa scouts. It was purported that they could track buzzards through a snow storm and the Comanche hated their guts.

Major Douglass unfolded a field map drawn on waterproof canvas. I would suggest that you leave here and proceed northwest along the North Concho River, first to Stone House then to Rendlebrock Springs. We have a small supply camp at Rendlebrock. Distances will dictate that you spend the night each place. I’ll give you a letter allowing you to draw any supplies you should reasonably need. You can pick up a pack mule there and stock him well. Listen up when the saddler tells you about fitting and maintaining the packs for a pack animal. From Rendlebrock Springs work your way northeast to the Colorado river. the Major pointed with a long finger. Here just above the junction with Beal’s Creek. It would be my suggestion that from the Colorado you trek due north across this expanse of rolling plains until you cross the Double Mountain fork of the Brazos. Again Major Douglass indicated the places mentioned with his pointer finger. You’ll be able to see the Double Mountains to the east. Try to keep them just on your eastern horizon. If you work it pretty much this way you should contact the Llano Estacado about here. Major Douglass again pointed to a specific place on the map. The spot indicated was marked Yellowhouse Canyon. Get too far east and you’ll have to cross some hellish river bogs. Some of the damn stuff is worse than quicksand. From Yellowhouse work your way around the caprock to the east and you’ll come up on Mackenzie’s main supply camp. He calls it Anderson’s Fort, at the mouth of Blanco Canyon. Here.

Dix noticed that the map’s detail thinned out drastically above this northern extremity. Although there were other names of places on the outline of the plains, there were a lot of blank places too. He surmised that as the details dropped off so did the accuracy of the rest of the information.

Private Joplin, do you understand your instructions? Major Douglass handed him the sealed military pouch.

Sir, Yes Sir. Dix replied, giving that spiffy snap-to salute again.

Good! Get there as quickly as good sense will allow. Draw our best mount. Your choice, except for Dutch Boy, he’s mine, and good luck Dix Major Douglass extended his hand, Dix shook it and said Thank You, Sir.

Spinning on his heel perfectly, Dix strode out into the cool damp afternoon sun. He paused on the veranda, sharp chin and slightly oversized nose pointed toward the western sky as he habitually took stock of his surroundings. Running his hand through short hair Dix sat his dress cap in place, cocked slightly over his right eye, and started back across the parade ground. Wide shoulders above narrow hips, Dix Joplin walked with the pace of a confident—but not arrogant—man. Inside he felt a streak of cold fear thread its way up his gut causing his stomach to clinch and give a mild heave. Dix thought, What the hell have I got myself into this time? Weeks of travel alone through hostile territory that I don’t know a fetched thing about. Now, Pa always says to take difficult assignments one stage at a time. Alright, I’ll do that. Deal with each situation as it arises and don’t assume that things are just going to keep getting worse. The next bend in the road may bring sunshine instead of a storm. Swallowing the bit of bile the heave had produced, Dix hitched his pants a notch, vowed to keep a cool head and turned his attention to selecting a mount.

He knew that although officers like Major Douglass could provide themselves with their own mounts and often did so with stallions or mares, that the army’s trained cavalry horse would be a five to eight year old gelding, somewhere between 15 1/4 to 16 hands high, its weight between 950 to 1150 pounds, and would be very nearly uniform in color. The army did not buy white, spotted or paint horses. The army had very few mustangs because of the height requirement. It was felt that even though the native breed was tough and tenacious, they were not big enough to hold up under a trooper and all his gear.

Spindrifts of moisture spun their way across the parade grounds as the gentle afternoon winds stirred the cool air. The mud was a problem but not nearly as uncomfortable as the usual dry heat and dust that was normal for this part of Texas. Dix had seen little whirlwinds—some called them dust devils—grow to be hundreds of feet high and two or three hundred feet across, just like a miniature tornado. If a person got caught in one it felt like being in a blast of shotgun pellets. Right now the rainy weather carried the acrid odor of wet dung from the stables toward which he was headed.

He looked over the serviceable stock. The mount that had brought him in from Fort Griffin along the military road had been a round-bellied plodding creature that performed well enough but Dix could have outrun it afoot. No. This time he needed speed and stamina and a mount that would ford creeks and rivers. One that wasn’t afraid to swim. After much discussion with the saddler on duty, Dix chose the grullo colored mustang that had seated the trooper in the mud earlier, he liked the horse’s fire. Grullo being a very neutral brownish-gray, what many horsemen referred to as mouse colored, would not stand out too badly with the approaching shades of fall. The spirited gelding had white markings called a star, strip, and snip on its well-formed intelligent head. The only other marking was a left fore half-pastern white. Heaven knows Dix would need all the cover advantages he could get to travel alone in hostile territory without getting his hair lifted. Big for a mustang, the mount was at the small end of the army’s size requirement and was just about a perfect match for Dix.

Physically, at 5’ 8" and 160 lbs, Dix was a rather ordinary young man. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. He wasn’t particularly handsome although women hadn’t referred to him as ugly either. An altogether workaday person until you looked into his steel grey eyes and experienced the strength and intelligence that lay behind their striking color. Dix’s parents, Jody and Bessie Joplin had recognized early on that Dix might be something rather special and encouraged his schooling at every turn. Pa Joplin ran a small freighting service out of Fort Worth through Weatherford to Fort Belnap and had enjoyed moderate success; thus when his son had shown intellectual promise he had spared no expense in Dix’s education. By the time the lad was fifteen he had exhausted the usual eleven grades with the highest average the Fort Worth schools had ever experienced. Then in Weatherford, Dix earned a Bachelor of Science degree in just two years from the Weatherford Masonic Institute. He had enjoyed the years in college. At this time in history it was still unusual for a young man of normal means to attend school past the eighth grade. The summer after graduation the school changed hands and became Weatherford College but it didn’t make Dix any difference, he liked the Masonic connotation of his diploma. Jody and Bessie hoped that their sagacious son would attend