A Man Called Montague

By John Hardy Morris

The Montague family moved west with a small wagon train from Tennessee after the Civil War. After his family is massacred and his younger brother was captured by Comanches, John Montague is raised by a man on the frontier. He learns hunting, tracking, and self-defense skills. He becomes proficient with weapons. He moves farther west always accompanied by his black stallion and faithful dog, where he works as an army scout, which changes his vengeful attitude about Indians.

He gets a job as a deputy sheriff and tracks down a vicious killer. He finally works as a cowboy on a large Texas ranch where, as a trail boss, he leads a cattle drive from Texas to Dodge City facing weather, rustlers, killers, and gunfighters. Over the years, he runs into his brother a couple of times. The brother is now a Comanche warrior with a hatred for Whites. John tries desperately to restore their relationship. At the ranch, he also meets the love of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662437472

Book preview

Chapter 1

The matched team of four black mules plodded along side by side on the Butterfield Trail before the covered wagon loaded with the family of Harold and Martha Montague and all the belongings they had in the world. They were among six wagons of families left from an original number of ten that had left the old state of Tennessee. They were filled with the hope of a new start on land in the Fort Griffin area of the great expanse known as Texas. The Montague family was among those seeking a new beginning by settling on the frontier in the years following the War between the States.

Once they had crossed the Red River into Texas, they had moved from piney woods to open prairies, where they now found themselves. Harold held the reins loosely in both hands and stared aimlessly at the harnessed backs of the four big mules that pulled ahead. Puffs of dust boiled up from their hooves as they made their way west at a slow but deliberate pace. Occasionally, one of the mules would swish his tail at an annoying horsefly that plagued the big animals as they walked.

Harold had chosen mules rather than oxen or horses to pull their wagon. Though oxen were cheaper and could feed off the native vegetation, their uses were limited. They had docile dispositions, but they were much slower than horses or mules. The main disadvantage of oxen was that they did not tolerate heat well, and the southwest, at times, could be stifling. Horses were the most versatile of the animals for pulling the wagon, but they were also the most expensive. They could pull the wagon faster than mules or oxen, but speed was not a factor in this long trip. They were not as strong as mules or oxen and had to be fed grain along with natural grass. The needs of the Montague family were best met by long-eared, white-nosed mules. Although they could be cantankerous, they had been affordable. They were stronger than horses and could keep a good pace. Despite the fact that they needed grain along with grass, heat did not bother them. Though they might stray if without harness, they would not run far away like horses. Additionally, they would be good work animals on a farm.

The wagon was not large as wagons went. Harold had not been able to afford a big carrier. The massive Conestoga wagons were built mostly for hauling freight and heavy loads. It also cost more money than Harold could raise. The wagon carrying the Montague family was a covered wagon commonly referred to as a prairie schooner. It had a wooden bed of some ten feet in length. It was four feet across and had sideboards about three feet high. The wagon bed was covered with bent arches made of hickory wood that were stapled to the outside of the sideboards. The framed arches were then covered with a coarse canvas that had been waterproofed with a linseed-oil coating. The covering was stretched over the frame, forming a canopy. It was tied with ropes to the side of the wagon so it could be removed at times for circulation of fresh air. It did offer protection from rain and the sun.

The ride was not smooth. The vehicle had no springs, so every bump was a shock to the passengers. The wheels had to be sturdy to withstand the rugged travel conditions. The wheels had strong wooden spokes surrounding sturdy wooden axles. The outside rim of the wheels was covered by an iron strip about four inches wide. Extra spokes, strips, and wheels were lashed to the underside of the wagon for repairs or replacements. A large iron chain dragged along behind to be used to lock wheels to slow the wagon on downhill slopes because there was no brake. Even though the Montagues did not have a lot, the loaded wagon weighed more than a ton. Because of the wear and tear on the mules, the sheer weight of the load required one or more of the family to walk alongside some of the time. On a good day when weather was agreeable and there were no breakdowns, the wagon could travel up to thirty miles. Adverse circumstances reduced the distance traveled.

This trip was not for the faint of heart. It took weeks of slow, hard travel. There was not the normal shelter each day. It was spring, which meant that most days were mild but there was the occasional rain. To stay as dry as possible, the travelers would wear clothing that protected them as they rode or walked. At night, the rain would cause families to sleep under their wagons or inside the wagon bed if there was room. Some of the families were too large to all get inside the wagon. Some days were cool especially in the early morning and evening or when the wind blew. Clothing was worn until it just had to be changed. Bathing was from a bucket or container of water, which was used sparingly. Occasionally, they happened upon a pond or stream where there was more water available, and it was always cold.

Harold’s wife was in the back of the wagon tending to the needs of one of their three children. Seven-year-old Elizabeth had been running a slight fever during the day. Martha was busy applying wet cloths to the girl’s forehead, and the little girl was responding to the loving treatment. Thomas, eleven, was restless and anxious for wide open spaces in which to play and move about. Even so, he was enjoying right then.

Twelve-year-old John Montague tried to make himself feel like a man as he proudly sat on the wagon seat beside his father in the early afternoon of a beautiful spring day in North Texas. The boy wore a light-blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows in the pleasantly warm weather. His brown cotton trousers stretched almost to the top of his worn high-top leather shoes. A small, tightly-wound rope secured the pants to his waist. The clearance between the end of the trouser legs and the tops of the shoes was a sign that that the teenager had hit a growth spurt. It would not be long before the legs would require longer trousers. His handsome young face was just beginning to show the marks of adolescence as several small red bumps dotted the skin of his forehead and around his nose. A brown hat with a floppy brim shaded his face and kept the sun’s rays from making a direct hit. He and Thomas had been walking earlier but for the time being, were now riding. Father and son made light conversation, helping the time pass. The son wanted to know about his father from earlier years.

Tell me more about you, Papa, stated the boy.

I can tell you something about me at a later time. See how your mother is doing with Elizabeth.

The father was cautious when it came to talking about himself because so much of his last few years had involved being a soldier in the 7th Tennessee Infantry Regiment. Of the 190,000 Tennesseans who had fought for the Confederacy, Harold had not joined when the regiment was formed in 1861 because he was farming with a wife and children to support. As the war moved closer to home, he felt the call to arms. He was not an aggressive man by nature, but he did not hesitate to protect what was his. He was a proud man. He had worked hard for what he had. He wanted to keep it. He wanted his family safe and secure. The regiment had begun with over 1,000 volunteers. Toward the end of the conflict, it had joined with the remnants of other units to make up the Army of Northern Virginia commanded by General Robert E. Lee. Harold had been counted among the less-than-sixty Tennessee natives who were with Lee at the general’s surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. He was heartbroken when the order came to lay down his arms. Though he had hated the war, he loved his South and was more than willing to fight to preserve his way of life. He had lost so many close friends. He had seen the lives of so many young men destroyed by the horrors of war. Harold was one of the precious few who had endured combat to survive the war with minor wounds—that is, physically. The mental scars were deep. His family had nearly starved while he was gone. He was hoping a change of environment hundreds of miles away from the places where he had known so much misery would help put the past behind him.

Young John was also inquisitive about family history and ancestors. He had an insatiable interest in where he had come from. The questions about relatives that had gone before were a welcome opportunity for Harold to discuss something other than himself. As Harold told him the story of the family tree as he knew it, he explained about their name. It was of European origin.

The father told his oldest child, "Many people mispronounce our name. They say Mon-ta-gue. It is Mon-tague with a long a. Don’t let others say your name wrong. Be proud of it and politely correct them when they say it with a goo at the end."

Now in their second day of travel within Texas and nearing their destination with excitement, the Montague family was thankful for the good traveling weather and the fact that they were together. They were so unsuspecting and filled with dreams. Nothing hinted at the horror that lay ahead of them.

Chapter 2

The first bloodcurdling whoop came from the left and slightly behind the wagons that were traveling in a line one behind the other. The scream pierced the afternoon air. It was not a long, continuous scream, but a short shrill sound that was followed by another similar to it. Suddenly, there were many of the yells occurring at once. It was an Indian attack. Though the wagons were in an open area, there were groves of trees nearby. The Indians had been watching and following the wagons for a while. They were waiting for the right time to begin their assault. The first yell signaled the attack. Not only were the screams signals but they also gave the savages more courage and motivated them as they charged their prey.

Some of the folks were riding, but most of the adults and older children were walking. Almost before anyone realized what was happening, an arrow jammed with a sickening thud into the back of Aaron Jensen, who was walking just behind the Montague wagon while his older son drove their team. Mr. Jensen stumbled forward and fell. His knees hit first, then his face crammed into the dirt. His black floppy hat fell from his head. He got to his feet and staggered up alongside the Montague wagon, gasping for help. It took Harold just a second to realize what was happening. Jensen fell dying on the ground. His lifeblood began to form a dark red spot on the back of his shirt as the oozing fluid left his body. Unfortunately for the wagon train, the ten to fifteen Comanches had planned their attack well and beset their victims quickly. The darkly tanned, partially-clad savages hit the train with an animal-like ferocity.

Arrows whizzed through the air. Some found their targets. Others sailed on into empty space. Warriors on ponies rode up alongside the wagons. Some were swinging tomahawks at the terrified pioneers. They made no distinction among men, women, and children. All were invaders of the land of the Native Americans. The once hopeful travelers were hysterical as they ran with frantic abandon. Some tried to shield themselves. Walkers went down as sharp edges of the stone axes crunched against the heads of some of them. Blood and bone flew into the air. Wounded and dying bodies littered the ground. The long-barrel firearms of the settlers were in the wagons. The couple of sidearms carried by some of the men were barely brought into play. A couple of wild but harmless shots were fired. Indian braves leaped from running horses onto the fleeing wagons to finish their barbaric work. They were defiant and angry. They were in want. These uninvited people had what they needed, and they were going to take it. The strong would survive. The weak would perish. It was a harsh land with harsh realities.

Harold told John to call to the others to make a run for the trees and gullies ahead as he goaded his mules to a faster pace. The Montague mules were now almost in a full run as Harold swung the team to the left sharply to avoid a large rock. Their long ears were laid back, and their nostrils were flared. They were as panicked as the humans. Just then, an arrow pierced the side of the one of the beasts. The big mule stumbled. He tried to continue forward but went down. There was screaming from the travelers and whooping from the attacking savages as the wagons tried to get away. Harold Montague jerked the reins violently, trying to straighten the wagon. It tipped to the right, and young John was flung into the air and away from the tumbling wooden carrier. The boy hit the ground hard and rolled head over heels down a gully into heavy underbrush. The last thing he remembered was hurting all over as he drifted into the darkness of unconsciousness.

John did not know how much time had passed when he came to, but it was still daylight. His head throbbed. His body was covered in scratches and filled with thorns from the underbrush in which he now found himself. When he first tried to stand, he could not. With much effort, he struggled to his feet, pulling at the thorns in his skin. He heard nothing, but his nostrils immediately caught the scent of smoke. The boy scrambled up the side of the gully.

What young John saw was wrecked and burning wagons with the bodies of some of the mules lying dead and still hitched to their wagons. A few of the mules had broken free and strayed off. Men, women, and children alike lay dead in this desolate area of North Texas. Though he recognized his family’s burning wagon, he did not immediately see any of his family members, creating some hope that some or all of them might be alive. His hope did not last long as he limped painfully to their destroyed wagon. His heart sank as he recognized the legs and blue gingham dress of little Elizabeth protruding from under the wagon, which had crushed her when it overturned. He dragged himself around the other side of the wagon where he beheld the most horrible sight a young boy’s eyes could imagine. There were the bodies of his parents piled grotesquely against each other with several arrows sticking out of each body. Two bloody heads revealed that the Indians had mutilated the bodies by taking trophies from the slaughter. John became violently ill and turned his insides out by vomiting onto the grass. Tears welled up in his eyes as he fell to his knees, feeling violent anger and sadness. He began crying uncontrollably while pounding on the ground and kicking his legs in an emotional tantrum. After several minutes, he stopped. Slowly, he raised his head. He reached out to the bodies of his parents. He touched the lifeless corpses. He even had the hope that they might be alive and would get up if he touched them. His emotions were running wild. When the dead bodies did not move, he fell back and stared at them for a period of time. The sobbing had stopped, but he still had tears streaming down his cheeks. What was he to do now? His world had been shattered in just a few minutes. He just sat.

Upon gathering himself, he realized Thomas’s body was not to be found. He looked among all the dead bodies, but Thomas was not among them. There were three conspicuously absent bodies from the group. Becky Jensen and Rachel White, both attractive young teenage girls, and brother Thomas were not among the dead. The realization suddenly hit John that these three might have been taken away by the Indians. It was too terrible to even think about.

There was no sign of life about. The Indians were long gone with their plunder and perhaps their captives. Fires were smoldering and dying away. Nature went on around the solitary youngster as if nothing had happened. A light breeze whistled gently through the trees, rocking the leaves and smaller branches. Birds chirped and flew from tree to tree, unaffected by the carnage that spread across the prairie below them. Puffy white clouds drifted slowly across the sky on their endless journey. The late afternoon sun still headed for the western horizon and the end of another day, but this was not just another day. This was a day when time did not simply pass, and the next day would be like this one. This was a day after which young John Montague’s life would never be the same. This was a day when the Creator had included in his incomprehensible plan the death and disappearance of every living relative the young man knew.

The shock of the tragedy slowly but gradually consumed the child. He was helpless. He did not have the immediate ability to form a constructive thought. Sadness and loneliness overwhelmed him. He could not even conceive a plan of self-preservation.

Nightfall approached as a thirteen-year-old boy stood alone on a Texas prairie staring at nothing, without knowing what to do or think. His red eyes, which were no longer filled with tears, were fixed on a zone of emptiness. He looked, but he did not see. He breathed, but he did not feel alive. He hurt, but he felt no pain. He slumped down next to the wrecked wagon and pulled his knees tightly to his chest. Strangely, he did not fear nor even care about the ever increasing darkness and the sounds of the night. Even death right then might have been a welcome visitor.

Chapter 3

The next morning saw the sun begin its ascent in the eastern sky as John Montague raised his head off his knees because during the night, he had fallen into some sort of fitful sleep. As his head cleared and the sleep was leaving his eyes, he looked at the bodies that were once his parents, which let him know this was no dream. The tragedy was all too real. He hardly noticed that he was covered in the light morning dew, which had fallen, and that several red bumps had appeared on his face and arms as the insects and pests of the night had made their presence felt. He slowly stood while being affected by his aching and stiff body. He all but ignored the growling sounds coming from his empty stomach.

As he stood and stared in shock, suddenly the image of his father appeared before him. He could clearly see the handsome and sincere face of his paternal parent. The apparition looked him straight in the eye and spoke, John, you are my oldest son. Trust in God and be strong. Remember all you have been taught. The boy reached out desperately for his father. But his hands touched only air, and the image was gone. John wanted to cry, but he suddenly took heart from the vision. His mind began to work. He would not disappoint his father. The remembrance of the man he had most admired in his life suddenly inspired the lad. He would be the person his dad had wanted him to be.

First, he would give his family as decent a burial as possible. They deserved that much. He began looking through the wagon for the shovel he knew his father had loaded for the trip. The Indians had taken every usable weapon and most of the supplies. They left mostly things that were too heavy to carry. Very little was left. During his search, he did find a leather bag partially filled with water. He opened the bag and took a drink. The tepid water did not have a very good taste, but it was wet and soothed his parched throat. He found the shovel.

He went to a grassy spot not too far from the wagon and began to dig. The spring rains had made the Texas ground soft enough that the spade could cut into it. The digging was not so hard, but he was weak, tired, and hungry. The digging was slow. He dug most of the morning. When the sun was almost directly overhead, he had completed a hole some three feet deep, about five feet across, and almost seven feet long. He was exhausted, and this would have to do. He took both his father’s lifeless hands in his own and dragged him toward the grave. He did the same thing with the body of his mother. He paused to reminisce.

John next tried to move the wagon so he could retrieve Elizabeth’s body. The wagon hull was just too heavy. He stood in frustration and knew he had to get Elizabeth from under the wagon bed. Thinking of his father’s teaching, he went around to the front of the wagon. He removed the wagon tongue and used it as a lever over part of a broken wagon wheel to pry the wagon up.

When he could see the complete body of Elizabeth on the ground before him, it took his breath away. The white-hot anger for the monsters who had done this boiled inside him. This was his little sister lying there. She had been a smiling, happy child not having known the cares and troubles of the world. Now the opportunity to blossom into the image of her mother had been snatched away from her by this savage land.

He did not drag her to the resting place. He lifted her gently in his arms and carried her as if she were a treasure. He placed her carefully atop her parents and even took time to straighten the front of the blue dress. He gently caressed her forehead with the back of his hand in a final farewell gesture.

After covering the bodies with a piece of torn canvas from the wagon, he returned the dirt to its former place. When finished, he found six sticks and fashioned three crude crosses, which he drove into the ground with the spade of the shovel. He then stood for several minutes staring at the ground that now held what had once been his whole world. He thought he should say some kind of prayer, but when he turned his eyes to the sky, he could not bring himself to call upon the God who had allowed such a terrible thing to happen. His understanding was too shallow. He did not know what to say or how to say it. All he could do was walk away.

He threw the water bag over his shoulder. He took the shovel along as a walking stick or weapon, picked up his father’s hat, and placed it on his undersized head. He began to walk slowly away in the direction the wagon train had once been traveling. Before he got too far, he turned and saw that several buzzards were now on the ground near some of the exposed bodies of his former friends. At least the filthy scavengers would not get to his loved ones. He resumed his walking, never to look back again. That part of his life was gone forever.

Just before dark on that first day of walking, John came upon a small creek of running water. He thought it was as good a place as any to end his day. His feet hurt. His body ached, and most of all, he was hungry. He still had the presence of mind to find a place to sleep away from the creek so he would not be in the proximity of any wild animal that might come to the creek during the night to drink. Even though he was carrying the shovel, he was still virtually helpless against a hungry animal of any size that might wish to select him for a meal. He found an area with a grassy bank so that he could have some protection from anything coming at his back or surprising him before he was ready. He shaped some grassy sod into something like a pillow on which he could rest his head. The night was cool, so he tried to cover himself with leaves to get some warmth; but he did not sleep. The shock of the death of his family was wearing off. He was now aware that he was a young boy alone in a dangerous country with hardly any protection but his wits and an old shovel. Because he realized how desperate the situation was, he could not close his eyes for a long time. Every noise and movement he sensed as danger. Finally, his body and mind gave in, and sleep came involuntarily.

The next day appeared to be the same as the day before. There was beautiful weather with no signs of life and lots of open spaces. He had no choice but to walk toward the southwest, hoping he would come upon someone or something that would offer aid for him. He set out right after daylight. The insect bites and scratches on his body were beginning to itch and burn. He tried not to scratch them for fear of getting them infected, but the effort was futile. He did make some mud and put a sort of poultice on those that were irritating him the most. His stomach growled constantly from the emptiness. Any kind of food would be such a blessing.

The second night came, and he seemed no closer to anywhere. He was becoming discouraged. He tried to remember what the image of his father had told him: Trust God. Be strong, and remember what you have been taught. He recalled from church the Bible story of Jesus wandering in the wilderness for forty days while fasting and being tempted by the devil. This had to be as bad as that and; after all, he was not Jesus. Though he could not see or hear him, John thought the devil had to be around somewhere, watching him starve to death and enjoying it. That night when John laid down to rest, he did look toward the star-filled heavens. His prayer was God, I know Papa, Mama, and Elizabeth are there with you. You all must be looking down on me and know what a hard time this is. Please give me some help. I can’t make it by myself. But God, most of all, I want you to take care of Thomas, wherever he might be. I really miss him and want you to protect him. Good night, God.

The next day