Trail of Adventures: Trail of Fire

By M. T. Deason

M. T. Deason is a native of Oxford, Alabama. He is a man that likes to live life to the fullest. He has raced cars, raised horses, and worked in public service fields for local and federal agencies. He is a man that loves a good story and wants to tell one that his readers will enjoy. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648955013

M. T. Deason

M. T. Deason is a resident of Oxford, Alabama. He has a love for the old west and adventure. He has worked in public service for close to thirty years. He hopes to continue writing and entertaining his audience with more adventures.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgments

Dedicated to the loving memory of my grandfather C. B. Deason, my aunt Brenda Deason, and Cliff Hayes, my best friend and brother (Doc).

Chapter 1

It was just after dusk when Doc and I saw the campfire in the distance.

We had been on the trail of the wagon train for several days, wishing to catch up with it for grub and company. Our vittles were mostly gone, and we sure hoped we could get some grub at the camp.

We hailed the campfire and were told to come on in. The first person we met was a tall heavyset man in his sixties. Come on in, men, light and set, he hollered. Name’s Captain Gregory.

I pointed to my right and said, This here is Doc, and I’m Toab.

Captain Gregory asked, Are you fellows hungry? We got a decent cook.

I said, Don’t mind if we do. We haven’t had had anything since yesterday, and that was just a couple of rabbits that Doc shot.

The cook was a young man that had been appointed to keep store of food and to prepare meals for the men who didn’t have women with them or those who just wished to have someone else cook for them. This way, they could keep track of the food supplies and make sure they didn’t run out.

When Captain Gregory introduced us to Nate, the cook, we figured we must have found the right place for food. Nate was also a big man, over six feet, and my guess was around three hundred pounds. With Nate and the captain, we knew they weren’t starving.

After we ate, we joined several people at one of the campfires, and we listened in on their conversations.

We were west of the Brazos River in the northern plains of Texas. The wagon train was heading west into New Mexico territory and then north through Colorado and Wyoming. Some wanted to go on a southern route to California while others wanted to go north, then go to Oregon.

Doc and I had already planned on going to Wyoming, or there was a place in the New Mexico Territory we were always welcome. There was nothing written in stone. We just wanted to see new lands and some old ones, being free to go where we pleased.

It seemed to us if they were going to go in our general direction, it might be good to stay with the wagon train till we decided otherwise. It would provide needed safety going through Indian Territory. It was 1872, and there were still a lot of Indians that would love to take our scalps. We believed the more guns, the better. Doc was a good hunter, and we both could bring in food. We also knew the land from some of our other travels and from listening to others that had gone this way before. We could scout out the trails for the wagon train to help them get to where they wanted to go.

After the talk died down and we were getting ready to settle in for the night, Doc and I headed to our horses to get them picketed out, also to get our bedrolls. We knew with a full belly we would sleep well tonight, but once again it would be on the cold hard ground.

In wild country, you just had to expect the unexpected, Doc and I had surely been in wild country before. We had met during the war, and ever since trouble had followed us.

We had met in 1863 when Doc joined up with the Confederacy; he was only fifteen but had told them he was older. I was twenty-five, and at first, I had tried to look after him some. He was reckless and daring, dashing off to fight. He was good with a gun, and there wasn’t any backing up in him, so I did my best to watch his back and keep him out of trouble.

The thing about it, he wound up saving my life. In July of 1864, I got shot in a skirmish in Macon, Georgia, during the fighting with Sherman’s men. I was hit three times, once in the upper part of my stomach by a big bore musket, and two in the side by a .36 Navy revolver. Lucky for me, their powder was bad or something because the lead didn’t go in very deep and get to anything vital. Doc got me to a farm, and the lady of the house let us come in and gave me a place to lie down. Doc then removed the lead from me with his knife as I was out from pain and lack of blood.

Doc had earned his name there, though he was already known by it. He had already shown medical knowledge on the battlefield helping with the wounded when the fighting was over. His family had wanted him to be a doctor when he grew up, and they had the money to get him some training before he ran off to join the war, though we didn’t find this out till later. The bad part for his family, he had too much fight in him, and he wasn’t going to be tied down the way they wanted.

I was laid up for about three weeks before I could ride, and I had stayed at the farmhouse where I had been taken after I had been wounded. The lady of the house was the wife of a Confederate officer, engineer by training and trade. She did her best to take care of me while I was down.

It took me about a month to find my unit and join back fighting the Yankees. Doc was there, and from that point on, we stuck together throughout the war.

After the war, we went our separate ways, going back to what was left of our homes—Doc to Georgia and me to Alabama.

Then a little over three years ago, Doc comes up to my place, where I was raising horses with an old friend of mine. I was in bad shape financially, and Doc said he was heading west, so I told Doug that I was pulling out, that when I had enough money, I would be back to pay him off and the other debts I owed.

I took two of the best horses, one was a big paint gelding that was about four years old, sixteen and a half hands, and between 1,200 and 1,500 pounds, definitely not the average cow pony. The other was his sister, another beautiful paint mare a year younger and not quite as big, only about fifteen hands, I didn’t know she had been bred at the time, and while we were gone, I got a big surprise in another paint colt.

Over those three years Doc and I did some mining, rode shotgun for a stage line, did some bounty hunting, anything to make some money.

We had just gone back and paid off my debt and were going back out west when we had come across the wagon train’s trail.

We were also fortunate to find that there were people we knew on the wagon train. We hoped this would ensure a good trip for everyone.

The next morning after breakfast, we lit out heading west. Tye, my big gelding, didn’t like following, so we went out first to scout out our trail.

Doc, riding out on Malaby, my mare, went off hunting for food to kill. There were about forty people on the wagon train, so even with the supplies there, we would still need to replenish what had been eaten. You did not want to run out of food out here.

My other horse, Regal, was tied to one of the other wagons, and he carried mine and Doc supplies.

You had to take care of your horses because you never knew when you were going to need them for a fast getaway or just to get you from one place to another. I took care of my three, but I also had a special bond with them. To me, they were like my children. I had raised them since they were born. I didn’t have a wife or kids, so they along with Doc were my family on the trail. Doc’s horse had been shot out from under him by Indians, so until he could get another, he had the use of Malaby with the understanding he must take care of her and keep her safe.

With the wagon train being the size it was, travel was slow, and we were lucky to get twenty miles a day. As I scouted, I tried to find the easiest way possible for the wagons to go over, and the best places to cross the rivers and creeks. Most of the men on the wagon train had never been west, or had done any kind of traveling like this, especially with their families in tow, ready for a new start on life.

They were proud men, but even seven years after the war, things were still bad for the south. They had stayed to try and make things work, but had not been able to. The carpetbaggers and scalawags had finally driven those men away from their homes. Now they searched for a new beginning in what they hoped was a better place. They were tough and steady men who could build up and make a place where others could one day settle. These were the kind of men that make the way for others to follow. Without men like them, the country could never grow. These men dared to dream and live that dream by leaving behind what they knew and loved for the unknown future. They were men the country could be proud of.

As I scouted out the land, seeing the beauty of it and how striking it was could almost make you forget everything else. All the vegetation was in bloom as it was mid-April. It made a man think and contemplate the things in his life. Only thing, you better not let your mind wander off too far or you could be in a world of trouble, and that’s what happened to me.

Looking out over the land, I was letting the sun warm me, with my mind thinking of another place and time. There was a shot that rang out. The bullet missing me by inches as I turned. Swinging around, pulling up my Winchester, I saw three Comanche heading toward me at a dead run. I fired one quick shot and headed Tye back toward the wagon train. Tye is a big horse, but he’s fast also, and I knew once I was over the rise at the nearest hill, I could get away.

They were shooting as they chased me. I had bullets flying by me. One bullet burned my neck, but it was only a graze. As I topped the rise, Doc came running up on Malaby heading toward those Comanche. He had a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun he preferred that was sawed off; Doc fired one of the barrels, then the second one. I saw one Indian fall. They pulled up short seeing Doc running toward them like he did and not knowing if there were more where he came from. I turned Tye around and sighted in on one of the Indians, hitting him in the chest. The other one started to run, but his horse missed a step and he went off the horse into the brush. Doc had reloaded and put some buckshot into the brush. If he hit anything, we didn’t stick around to see but went back toward the wagons.

Captain Gregory and some of the other men met us, as they were riding out to help after hearing the shots in the distance. We explained what happened, and Captain Gregory sent out men to watch for Indians.

Captain Gregory asked, You think they’ll attack?

I said, looking around at the terrain, It was probably just a hunting party out rounding up grub. I doubt there’s any more close by, but we still need to be careful and keep a watch out for any more just in case.

Doc looking over at me said, I can’t leave you alone no time without you getting shot.

What? I asked.

Your neck, Doc said, grinning.

I reached up and felt my neck. There was blood and a nice little groove about half an inch above where my neck and shoulder came together. Oh, that’s just a scratch, I don’t even count that, I said, rubbing my neck.

Doc said tauntingly, Well, I think you just did it to get attention from the women. There are a few nice-looking ones in the group.

I said, grinning, You’re just jealous you didn’t get shot. Next thing you know, you’ll go pick a fight with the whole Comanche nation so you can get scratched and get some attention too.

Doc said, I might do it. Not for the attention, mind you, just where I can get in a good fight.

I said, shaking my head, Boy, you and your fighting. If you make it to old age, it will be beyond me.

Doc said seriously, Who said anything about making it to old age?

Not us, that’s for sure! I said. Come on, let’s get back to the wagons.

After midday, the wagons stopped to let the horses and other animals rest. Nate began to build a fire to get something cooking, while others did the same preparing their meals. We were all alert, but Captain Gregory set up sentries to watch for Indians, then he came to me asking about the land and what they might need to do.

I told him, I would head a little southwest from here and try to pick up one of the Goodnight-Loving trails that go up through New Mexico. If we reach it, travel will be a little easier with watering holes and grass for our animals, if some of the herds haven’t eaten it up. It might make the traveling easier for the wagons too, I said as I thought about it.

Captain Gregory asked as he scratched his head, That’s what I was thinking too, but aren’t there a lot of Injuns going that way?

Yep, I replied, we’ll have to travel through Apache country and some desert land. Then there are other tribes and bandits. There’s no doubt it’ll be rough going, but we can make it.

One of the men came up and asked for Captain Gregory to come with him, so they excused themselves and went toward one of the wagons. I started back toward where Doc was talking to Nate, then I heard a voice ring out, Toab!

I looked to my right and saw a woman coming toward me, saying, Toab? Toab Harris, is that you?

I could not believe my eyes. It was Mrs. Jameson. Mrs. Jameson was the lady Doc had taken me to during the war when I was shot. While I was there, we had become good friends. In a way she was like a sister to me. We had not been in touch since I had left her place during the war, but while I was there, we had talked a lot and I thought very well of her.

I went up to her and said, Claries Jameson! I didn’t think I would ever see you again.

She said, My husband, John, and I are heading west. We just couldn’t take things the way they were becoming.

I sighed. I know what you mean. I got Doc’s attention and had him come over.

I asked Claries, Do you remember Doc? He’s the one that brought me to your place.

Yes, yes, I do, she said, smiling.

I told her, Well, we’ve been traveling a lot the past couple of years. I was in debt partly by the Yankees and partly by my fault. I paused. Plus both of us had women trouble, and it looked like the time to leave.

Claries saw my neck where I had been grazed by the bullet. She asked, Were you the one that got hit today? I heard someone had.

Yes, it was me. I grinned. I guess the only time I ever see you is after I’ve been shot. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if that’s the case, I would just as soon not see you.

She said after she punched me, Toab, you know that doesn’t have anything to do with you seeing me.

You couldn’t prove it by me. I smiled, saying, Women have been bad luck for me since I can remember.

A man that was slim, about my height, and balding walked up. Claries said, Toab, this is my husband, John.

I reached out to shake his hand and said, Nice to meet you, sir.

Claries added, This is Toab, the soldier I told you about who was brought to our place and I nursed back to health after he had been shot.

John said as he shook my hand, So you are the soldier my wife told me so much about?

I said, grinning, I hope it was good. I’ve had enough bad things said about me lately.

John said seriously, Of course it was, she thought mighty highly of you.

I smiled, saying, Truth be known, I thought highly of her too.

John changed the subject, I am writing a book about the war. Maybe we could sit down and talk sometime and you can tell me about some of your experiences, so I could add them to the book.

I said, shrugging my shoulders, I don’t know if I could tell you much, just a lot of fighting and sitting waiting for more fighting.

John nodded and asked, I know it would be interesting. What outfit were you with?

I answered, I was in the Tenth Confederate Calvary company C under Captain Slaughter during the first of the war.

John stated, It was a tough unit. I know it would be interesting to talk to you.

Well, John, Claries, I guess I need to go see if there is anything Doc and I can do to help. I winked, adding, I got to keep Doc out of trouble. See y’all later.

After we headed back out, Doc and I went out ahead of the wagons. Doc was itching for some more action, hoping this time he could steal one of the Indian ponies. He was ready to have one of his own instead of using one of mine.

About an hour before dusk, it started looking cloudy. It was April, and storms were likely, so we went back to the wagons to settle in for the night.

Luck held up till after we ate, then the rain set in.

We found a spot under one of the wagons and managed to stay semidry as the rain fell. Thunder sounded though the night, and lightning hit close by. The horses and other livestock were restless and made it hard to sleep. When morning came, we were a lot wetter, but the sun came out and started drying things up.

That morning, we started for Fort Concho to get supplies needed for the long trail ahead.

Chapter 2

Our trip toward Fort Concho was uneventful except for a few wagons getting stuck in the mud from the frequent rains. Even with the rain, the traveling was good because the rain didn’t last long. The days were warming up, but at night it remained cool. It took us a week to get to Paint Rock, which was close by Fort Concho. It was the first of May when we arrived, and the sun was starting to set. We were all tired from the long drive, and it had been decided we would stay at Paint Rock for a few days till we headed out back on the trail.

Doc and I stayed to ourselves most of the time. We had met most of the people on the wagon train, but most weren’t warming up