Hoof Prints on the Canadian

By Wallace C. Moore

Hoofprints on the Canadian is a book that is made up of several short stories about the life and times of African Americans in the West.

Each story has its own hero and villain. The thing that ties them together is the attempt to showcase African Americans in a different light. The stories prove that the color of a man’s skin will not tell you if he is good or bad. It also will not tell you if he is brave or heroic or if he is a sniffling coward.

Several of the stories depict Black outlaws who take on the character of Robin Hood. These are men who strike a blow against society on behalf of the downtrodden. Several stories deal with love and expose it to be what it really is—something that drives men to the brink of insanity and yet they cry out for more. It also deals with the common man who is forced into the limelight simply because he is at the wrong place at the right time.

Most of these stories are set in the Indian Territory, now the state of Oklahoma. They help to showcase the rich racial makeup of the state. The fact that all of these men are basically the same—some good and some bad.

Hoofprints on the Canadian is a title that was conceived by the author at the tender age of twelve. It has traveled around the world, sometimes in print and other times in the dark recesses of his mind. At last, these stories will be brought to light for the world to share. To truly access these stories, all you have to do is simply follow the hoofprints left in the soft sand on the banks of the Canadian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662450037

Book preview

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Hoof Prints on the Canadian

Wallace C. Moore Sr.

Copyright © 2021 Wallace C. Moore Sr.

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-5002-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5003-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Outlaw

Water Hole #5

Thumper

The Adventures of Robinson McNac

Red on the Head

One Last Fight

One Question Too Many

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 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandparents, Lawrence and Betty Rhodes. After their children were grown, they took on the responsibility of raising me. My grandmother was a very serious God-loving woman with not much of a sense of humor. From her, I learned to love God, fair play, and morals. My grandfather was a hardworking, carefree farmer who was the family comedian. From him, I learned to ride, hunt, and shoot. They were a perfect match for me. All of what I am today is a direct result of what I learned from them. They have long since passed away, but not a day goes by that I do not think of them and quietly say, Thank you.

The Outlaw

Wallace Moore

A young outlaw grew up in the Seminole Nation, hard and alone, the people loved him because with them he would often share the loot that he stole.

He was just a killer and a thief, but the locals thought of him as a Robin Hood, who made his home on the banks of the Canadian in the land of the Seminole.

On a dark and rainy morning, the love of his life led him across the Canadian River into an ambush. The lawman shot a horse and a man all full of holes.

They never found the body, just a bloodstained Colt revolver. They all swore that it belonged to the outlaw, who made his home on the banks of the Canadian in the land of the Seminole.

To celebrate his death, there was a mock funeral. The locals will tell you that there is nothing in the grave, it is just a deep, dark, and empty hole.

Everyone knows that you can kill a horse. Everyone knows that you can kill a man, but they also know that you cannot kill a legend. That’s how everyone knows that they never killed the outlaw who left his hoofprints on the banks of the Canadian in the land of the Seminole.

Foreword

The author of this fascinating story on the Indian Territory has developed a reputation in Oklahoma and the Southwest for storytelling and poetry as it pertains to the African American experience on the Western frontier. I am speaking of my good friend for many years Wallace C. Moore.

Wallace had an outstanding career in the US Army, where he became a top sergeant, but his early years in Oklahoma as a youth prepared him well to be a cowboy poet and raconteur of the Wild West. After hearing some of Wallace’s presentations and his poetic deliveries, I decided to have him write an original poem for my biography on Deputy US Marshal Bass Reeves. The poem was superb and gave the book just the right introduction for the great lawman’s legacy to be told and recounted. I next asked Wallace to write an original poem for the intro to my biography on Cherokee Bill. Again, he composed a marvelous poem that led us down the outlaw trails of the Indian Territory.

In this book, Hoofprints on the Canadian, Wallace has composed a historical fiction story of the Creek Indians that begins with the Red Stick War in Alabama and moves to the Indian Territory, telling a story of several families. The book also touches on the aspect of chattel slavery as practiced by the Creek Indians, both pre- and post-removal to the Indian Territory, and the effects of the Civil War on the Creek Nation.

Wallace is a storyteller of the first order, and you will be drawn into all the feelings and emotions that the families go through while they are on this journey of survival and challenges in the nineteenth century. The story is fiction but is placed in a historical setting of reality that affected the African American and Native American members of the Creek Nation during that frontier era.

Wallace C. Moore is the preeminent African American cowboy poet today and is a card-carrying member of the Creek Nation in Oklahoma. Wallace knows the Creek Nation in Oklahoma well. He is a descendant of Wallace McNac, who was a captain in the Creek Lighthorse Police and a deputy US marshal in the Indian Territory. Wallace will lead you to places you probably have never been before and open your eyes to a frontier reality that is not taught in school. It is a journey well worth riding, and Wallace is a great writer to make that ride with. Saddle up, and ride the dusty trails of the Indian Territory.

Art T. Burton, author/historian

Water Hole #5

The soft glow put off from the embers of the dying campfire lit up the dark night like a fallen star. On the edge of the fire, there was a dented and smoke-stained coffeepot tilted on a rock. It had been dark for some time now, and those who hunt under the cover of darkness were already out and about. Several bodies could be seen lying about, deep in slumber. They were all members of the famed Tenth Cavalry, the all-Negro regiment that was called the Buffalo Soldiers.

His name was Jesse Lee Thomas, but now they called him Trooper Thomas. He was the newest member of B Company, Tenth Cavalry. When he first arrived, his squad members put him through several weeks of hazing. It was an old and outdated idea, but it was lots of fun—that is, for everyone except the new guy. He was called several different names, but the name New Fish was the one they seemed to like the best. At first, he would try to correct them and tell them what his name was, but this only made it worse. He soon figured out that if they wanted him to be New Fish, well, that’s just who he would be.

Back in his little hometown of Hamlet, North Carolina, he spent hour after hour dreaming about what the cavalry was going to be like. Every day would be part of some kind of grand adventure like fighting Indians from horseback. He could hardly wait.

He was stationed at Fort Davis, Texas. He was just about to finish his third week in the cavalry. This was not a friendly place. All the sergeants seemed to be in a bad mood all the time. His squad members made him the butt of their little practical jokes. This kept his nerves on edge and prevented him from getting much sleep. There was nothing like finding a rattlesnake in your bed to keep you up all night. The food was the worst that he had ever had, but it was the bugle calls that were his worse problem. They never seemed to stop. He was not sure just how many there were. Every time one would blow, he would get growled at by some sergeant about not being at the right place or about not doing the right thing. The grand adventure that he had dreamed about had not happened yet.

He was issued everything that he would need—weapons, clothing, boots, a blanket, and his very own horse. In the cavalry, they were called mounts. His new mount was named Rocket. He was anything but new. Rocket was going on ten years old and was about ready for retirement. He was told that he would probably be his last rider. When his squad members offered him advice about ole Rocket, he was not sure if they were trying to help him or setting him up for another practical joke. They told him that Rocket was just the mount that a new fish like him needed. It was the stable sergeant who gave him the facts.

Son, he’s a good ole hoss, but there are just a few things you ought to know about him. He can’t hear very well because of all the gunfire that he has been exposed to. Don’t ever walk up behind him, or he will kick your lights out. When he’s eating is when he’s the meanest. Just leave him alone till he is finished. If you don’t, you just might get your hand eaten off. He’s got to be rubbed down really good after you ride him. He’s got a sore back. Also, he has a sore jaw tooth on the right bottom, so put the bit in his mouth with care. Other than that, he’s just what you need. He knows every formation and bugle call in the cavalry.

His squad leader was Cpl. Amos Jackson. He looked like most of the others except he was older, short, and about 150 pounds with short nappy hair that was starting to get gray at the temples. His most noticeable feature was a bad scar that ran down the right side of his face. How he got it was the subject of many stories that were told around the campfires at night. None knew for sure, but that didn’t stop the storytellers. It was rumored that at one time he had been a first sergeant in the Ninth Cavalry but got busted down. Everybody said that he was a good man to have around if you got into a fight.

There were four other men beside Trooper Thomas and Corporal Jackson in the little squad. The oldest member besides the corporal was Trooper Calvin Bishop. He was quiet and kept to himself most of the time. Everybody said that he would probably make corporal soon because he was a good trooper and he could read and write. Next, there was Trooper Johnnie Boggs. He had really fair skin and was sometimes teased about it. Before Thomas arrived, he had been the new fish. He had a beautiful voice, and at night he would sometimes sing those old Negro spirituals. The other two were trouble makers. Troopers Frank Covington and Charley Hunt neither had any special skills other than trying to get out of any work that came their way. They spent most of their time teasing and playing practical jokes on the other squad members. Thomas was their favorite target.

One morning after breakfast, Corporal Jackson got everybody together for a squad meeting.

"Men, I guess you have heard the word by now, tomorrow at first light, we will be moving out on a little scout. Well, that word is true. There have been several Apache raids down south of here near the border. They think that Victorio has come up from Mexico and is the one causing all the trouble. I don’t know how long we will be out, could be all winter. All I know is that it takes an Apache to catch an Apache, so we most likely won’t see nothing. This part of Texas don’t have much water and everybody. Even Apaches have to drink. This time, we won’t be chasing them. We goner let them come to us. Our orders are to guard the water holes and deny them water. We are ordered to guard Water Hole #5.

Now some of you are probably thinking that all we goner be doing is laying around on our backsides taking it easy. Well, I got some news for you. If the Apache wants that water, he’s goner come and try to take it. If he finds us napping, well, later somebody will find what’s left of our bodies. You got the rest of the day to pack up and get ready to move out tomorrow. Just don’t forget what I said about the Apaches. They play for keeps.

After a week’s travel with the main column, Corporal Jackson and his little squad broke off and headed for their objective. They found the little water hole just before dark. Two men were sent forward on foot to look it over. They found a few tracks that were made by the local wildlife. The water hole was deserted. They moved in, picketed the horses, and settle down for the night.

A week had come and gone. Nothing had happened. Late one afternoon, they saw dust off to the west. They all went on the alert. Nothing happened. Whoever it was passed them by. Life had become a dull routine. The worst time for them was at night. Cook fires were put out at dust, and two guards were posted for the night. One was posted until midnight, and another came on at midnight to relieve the first guard.

On this night, the moon spent most of it covered by clouds, so it was the darkness that covered Water Hole #5. Trooper Thomas was on guard from midnight till dawn. He didn’t like being alone at night. The Texas desert was a spooky place after sundown. As he stood there in the dark, he tried to remember the advice given him by Corporal Jackson the first night he pulled guard.

Trooper Thomas, you got nothing to fear. I will be just over there if you should need me. Keep in mind that things look a lot different at night. Do you see that little bush over yonder? Well, at night, if you look at it long enough, it might move. That will just be your mind playing tricks on you. Pay it no mind. Stand here with your back to this big rock. That way nothing can get behind you. Everything’s goner be okay.

Most of the night passed, and nothing happened. He had about two more hours to go, and it would be dawn. That’s when things started to go wrong. He was not sleepy, but he had started to get tired. He knew better than to sit down. Everything on the ground stuck to you, stung you, or bit you. Just as the moon slipped behind a cloud, he thought he heard something.

It was an unmistakable sound. Something has stepped on a small dry stick out in the dark in front of him. Again the moon slipped from its hiding spot and changed the night from pitch black to soft yellow. The shadows stretched out across the desert floor like snakes. They gave him the woolies. He was sure that he would never get used to them. When he looked over at the picket line he could make out the outline of old Rocket standing there, sleeping. His bottom lip always hung down about an inch below the top one whenever he was asleep. Rocket was an ugly animal, even for a cavalry horse. As he stood there smiling to himself about how even Rocket’s shadow was ugly, he heard it again.

All of a sudden, the old bay was awake. At first, he thought that Rocket was looking at him, but then he realized that he was looking straight past him into the darkness. Slowly he turned his head, expecting to see something. He saw nothing. He moved his left hand along the face of the big rock to the spot where his carbine was leaning. As his fingers touched the barrel, the weapon slipped down the side of the rock falling to the ground. His Colt pistol had been left tucked under his saddle blanket back in camp. This left him unarmed and at the mercy of whatever was out there. He knew that it was moving closer. He started to bend down and pick up the carbine. As he did, whatever it was moved again. Rocket snorted. Something had the old bay spooked.

He tried to remember what Corporal Jackson had told him about his night vision.

When it gets hard to see in the darkness, just close your eyes for a bit. When you open them, you will be able to see much better.

As he opened his eyes the moon moved from behind a cloud, and suddenly the night was bright. A man stood about six feet in front of him. He knew he was an Indian even if he had never seen one up close before. He also knew that this one was an Apache.

He was of average build, about 160 pounds. His most striking feature was his eyes. They were black—cold black. It seemed as if he could look right through you. He had shoulder-length hair that was the color of a raven’s wing. His shirt was buckskin, and around his waist was a web belt with several cartridges in it. His old cavalry pants were tucked into his high-top buckskin boots. In his right hand was an old Sharps carbine. The most important thing was that the Apache showed no sign of aggression.

Fear closed in on Trooper Thomas like a flash flood. He knew that if he said or did the wrong thing, it might cost him his life. He started to talk, but he could not believe what he was saying. The words came rolling out of his mouth like a runaway train.

How, I mean to say, hello. My name is Jesse, Jesse Lee Thomas. They call me New Fish, but you can call me Trooper Thomas.

There was a short awkward moment where neither man spoke. He feared that they would not be able to communicate at all. What happened next surprised him. The Apache spoke. It was broken English, but it could be understood.

You are one of the black White men. Some call you the Buffalo Soldiers. We met your kind earlier this day at the place that you call Rattlesnake Springs. There were many of you there. You were led by your Eagle Chief. The one who does not like to ride, that you call Grierson. You were guarding the water, and if we wanted to drink, we would fight. We had our women and children with us. The fight would have cost many lives. We were not afraid to fight, but it just made good sense to have this fight another day. I sent my people away in small groups. We know of many small water holes in the desert. We would all meet up back in Mexico. The time will come when we can come back together and raid through Texas again.

Thomas listened with patience to the words of the Apache. His night vision began to clear up. As it did, he could make out the images of a woman and two children. This was not a war party, just a man and his family. He picked up his carbine and stood very still with his back to the big rock. He had just about convinced himself that none of this had happened when the Apache spoke again out of the darkness.

Buffalo Soldier, do not drink too much of the water from the hole that you are guarding. An evil spirit lives in it. If you and your horses drink too much of it, you will all die.

The voice fell silent. Like smoke in the wind, they were gone. The rest of the night went by quickly. The coming of dawn was never more welcome than it was this morning. In the distance, he could make out the dust from a rider on the hillside. He called out to Corporal Jackson, and everyone grabbed their weapons and stood by, ready to go into action if need be. The rider turned out to be a trooper like himself. He rode up and stopped. He and the corporal talked for several minutes. Soon he rode off again. Corporal Jackson walked over to where Thomas was standing. He had brought him a cup of coffee.

How was your night? I have been in the cavalry for some time now, and I ain’t never liked pulling guard at night. You can see and hear some strange things at night. I brought you a cup of coffee. Nothing like a cup of cavalry coffee to wake a man up.

I know that coffee ain’t like your maw use to fix, but it’s all we got just now. The reason that it tastes a little funny is because of the alkali. If you don’t drink too much, it won’t do much more than give you a bellyache. That rider brought news about a little fight that the Tenth was in yesterday. It seemed that they turned a group of Apaches away from the water at Rattlesnake Springs. A few shots were fired, but it didn’t turn out to be much. The good Tenth carried the day. You had best get on back to camp and fix yourself a quick bite of breakfast. We got orders to join back up with the company. It will be boots and saddles in fifteen minutes.

The corporal started to walk away, then he stopped and looked back.

The rider also said that it was Victorio who was leading that bunch at the springs yesterday. The captain thinks that he is with his woman and two kids. They will probably try to sneak past us back into Mexico. I told that trooper that we ain’t seen hide or hair of nobody since we been here. That is right, ain’t it, Thomas?

He was busy saddling ole Rocket when Trooper Covington walked up and started to talk to him.

"Hey, New Fish. Who was you talking to out in the dark this morning?

Before he could speak, Trooper Hunt cut in.

"The new fish was talking to the boogieman, ain’t that right, New Fish?

Before things could get out of hand, Corporal Jackson ordered for them to mount up. Soon the little squad of cavalry was on the move. Thomas was having a little trouble with Rocket. His problem was the old bay couldn’t stand being the last horse in the formation. This morning they brought up the rear. After a while, all that could be heard was the noise made by tin cups as they bounced against the saddlebags.

They rode at a canter for about two miles, then they slowed to a trot. After another two miles, they stopped, dismounted, and led their mounts for two more miles. This was their pace for the entire day.

Late that afternoon a large dust cloud could be seen off to their right, just over the horizon. The dust was being made by a long line of supply wagons. These wagons were called the trains. They were the lifeblood of the cavalry. Most of the time they were guarded by a company of infantry. Their mission was to carry the supplies that were needed by the men while they were in the field. They carried all the things that were needed to sustain life. Food topped the list. Food for both horse and man. Ammunition, horseshoes, and first aid supplies were also carried. Most of the time they moved along at a snail’s pace far behind the cavalry units.

A sergeant sat on the seat of the lead wagon next to the driver. Corporal Jackson rode over to talk with him. The two men talked briefly. He returned with the news that the Company was just up ahead a bit. They fell in behind Company B. Now they were part of a long line of men and horses that moved like a giant blue snake back toward Fort Davis.

This campaign was over, but it did not signal the end of the Apache Wars. It was not long before many at Fort Davis celebrated the good news about the death of Victorio. It was believed by the Apaches that the great Apache god Ussen removed his