Ralph Compton Comanche Trail by Carlton Stowers Page A

to leave folks be. It ain’t likely to happen till every last one of them savages is dead and gone.”
    Taylor nodded.
    â€œTruth be known,” the marshal continued, “I can’t rightly say why a man would take leave of a safe place to come out here, bringing a wife and young’uns to this godforsaken country. I’ve taken to wishing I’d never come West myself.”
    The marshal leaned forward and spat another stream of tobacco juice into the street. “Now, son,” he said, “I’m hoping you’re here to tell me you’re planning to return that rig and then be gettin’ on back home without delay.”
    â€œReckon you could direct me to Barclay’s place?”
    â€œSure.” The marshal paused. “Did Tater tell you much about himself?”
    â€œNo . . . why?”
    â€œWell, there’re a few things you should know about him.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Tater Barclay had just finished dressing out a deer and was hanging meat in his smokehouse when he heard the clatter of the wagon approaching. Bare to the waist and sweating, he wiped his hands on his leather apron and waved to Taylor.
    â€œWasn’t expecting you back quite so soon,” he said.
    â€œI figured you might be needing what you were kind enough to lend me.”
    Taylor surveyed the landscape of Barclay’s spread. There was a small, weather-beaten cabin, built of native wood, a barn barely large enough to accommodate the cow and twohorses he owned, the smokehouse, a well, and a garden. There was no sign of a woman’s hand or the presence of children.
    He had never been married, the marshal had told Taylor. And none who knew him were aware of his life before he’d come to settle in eastern Kansas. Aside from his once-a-week visit to Thayer’s saloon where he routinely imbibed to a point where most doubted his chances of finding his way home, Barclay preferred his own company. He never participated in town dances or holiday celebrations and rarely spoke unless spoken to.
    It was during his occasional visits to jail for sobering up that he and Marshal Thorntree had established a friendship. The marshal was in need of someone he could swear in as a deputy from time to time, a man who would strike fear in and demand respect from rowdies and lawbreakers, and Tater Barclay fit the bill. His huge arms, barrel chest, and a no-nonsense stare that could wilt a live oak made him an able sidekick for the slight and aging marshal.
    Only Thorntree knew of his previous life as an Indian fighter and buffalo hunter. Or of the turn of events that had caused him to choose to homestead outside Thayer. Barclay had only spoken of it once, on a snowy winter night as he’d sat on the bunk of the marshal’s jail cell.
    There had been a pretty young woman up in St. Joseph, Missouri, the daughter of a ranking army officer, whom he had courted with great enthusiasm. He’d begun to think of asking her to become his wife but realized he had little to offer a bride used to life’s finer comforts.
    To make himself a proper husband, he had set out on a yearlong pursuit of buffalo. Despite dwindling herds, he’dmanaged to collect enough pelts to earn himself over five thousand dollars. He’d hoarded his money, slept in the open, and eaten only the meat of the animals he’d killed and skinned.
    Finally, with what he judged a proper stake, he had made his way back to St. Jo, intent on proposing. So grizzled had he become during his travels, the woman didn’t even recognize him when he appeared on her front porch. He’d grown a beard that was tangled and unattended, his clothes were ragged, and his foul smell caused her to demand that he be gone; then she slammed the door in his face. He soon learned that in his absence she had agreed to marry a young man under her father’s command.
    Barclay had stayed drunk for weeks before