Avenge

AVENGE

by Richard Puz

E-Book Edition

Published by East 74th Street Press*Washington at SmashWords

Copyright © 2011 by Richard Puz

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover by Julie Puz-Wilson

ISBN: 978-0-9799604-4-4

ISBN: 0-9799604-4-4

– Dedicated to the love of my life –

Table of Contents

Eldest Son

1853

Lost Creek Valley, Missouri

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The Brothers

1855—Two Years Later

Seneca, Missouri

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

The Reaper

Nebraska Territory

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Author Notes

Other Richard Puz Books

ELDEST SON

1853

Lost Creek Valley, Missouri

Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure if they have it till the test comes. And those having it in one test never know for sure if they will have it when the next test comes.

–Carl Sandburg

Chapter 1

The loud baying of his hound and the neighing of his troubled horses sounded the alarm as Curtis jumped out of bed in the middle of the night. Fumbling in the dark, he found his canvas pants, stumbled after getting one leg through, and fell to the plank floor, striking his head. Momentarily, he lay dazed. Again, the sounds of his agitated animals came from the corral, followed by a yelp from his hound and a gunshot.

Dadgum it, who’s out there shooting? he shouted. You’d better not hurt my dog or my horses, he muttered, finally rolling over so he could thrust his other leg through. Quickly standing, he grabbed his Hawken rifle and flew out the cabin door.

He heard another shot from the direction of his corral, instantly followed by the sting of wood splinters hitting his face as lead struck the cabin door. Ducking low, he zigzagged, running for shelter behind the thick-wooded water trough near the corral.

Who in thunder is out there, he yelled, clutching his gun. What’re you doing on my land? Peeking above the trough, he saw a man with a flaming torch among the moving horses and shadows.

Another gun blast hit the trough in front of him, drenching him in a shower of water.

Fence is down, someone loudly yelled from the corral. Ya got the lead ropes on them horses? Then, let’s get.

Curtis watched as the burning torch curved overhead in a high, flaming arc against the night sky and then landed on the peak of his small barn. Immediately, the thrush roof erupted in flames.As the heavy beat of hooves faded, he carefully lifted his head and saw faint shadows disappear into the dark. Running to the corral, he found it empty. Well, I’ll be a . . . he muttered. His prized coal-black Tennessee Walker and his black and white pinto were gone.

Damnation, I didn’t even get a shot off, he grumbled loudly to the now empty night as he ran to the barn. The blaze was roaring, and Curtis worked fast to save saddles and equipment before the roof caved in on his stored hay and grain.

His initial frenzied activity finally gave way to inaction, and a deep, smoldering anger began to well up within him. Searching among the items pulled from the barn, he found a lantern and lit it with a phosphorous-on-sulfur Lucifer stick.

Hurrying back to the corral, he held the lantern high, carefully examining the horse tracks left behind. There were six including mine, he figured. Holding the lantern higher and looking around, he saw his hound lying crumpled in the dust. Aw, you bastards, he said, kneeling beside the dog, a raging cloud of anger now seething through him.

Loudly he shouted to the night sky, "Them polecats—they ain’t seen the last of me. Those horses are mine, and mine they’re going to stay or my name ain’t Curtis Sommer."

* * *

Before daybreak, Curtis was pounding on the door of his father’s cabin.

Who’s out there? Andres called out.

It’s me, Pa. Curtis. He heard the shuffling inside as his father made his way to the door.

What in tarnation are you doing up this early in the morning, son? his father asked as he opened the door, holding his camphene lantern high.

Last night, rustlers stole my horses, killed my hound, and burned down my barn. Pa, I’m going after them, and I want to borrow your sorrel horse.

Curtis could see the shocked expression on his father’s face. His mother, Ilse, was standing behind with a quilt wrapped around her nighttime shift to ward off the morning chill. Seconds later, he heard the sound of bare feet traipsing down the ladder from the loft above as his brothers and sisters crowded around the doorway.

Come in, boy, his father said. Turning, he moved to stoke the fireplace. Jonah, you and Marion scurry up some kindling and split wood. Let’s warm this cabin up.

His mother looked at the red bruises on his face and let out a cry of concern. How’d you get them cuts? she asked.

Curtis shrugged and wiped away a trickle of blood. There was gunfire, and splinters hit me.

Well, you sit right down at the table and let me tend to your face.

Impatiently, he reluctantly sat, as she ministered to him. At age twenty-five, he stood medium height, yet his wide-shouldered frame was muscular. Topped off with his mother’s traits—dark hair, eyes, and complexion—his features were ruggedly mannish. He sat impatiently, dressed for his travels in a buckskin blouse that was loosely held together at the neck with a leather thong, tan canvas pants, and black boots to go with his hat.

He observed his mother as she cleaned his wounds. Her strong hands were coarse and reflected many years of hard work as mother, gardener, and healer among a seemingly endless list of duties. She dabbed at her son’s face with a wet cloth and then rubbed a fresh garlic clove over several areas containing splinters. Magically, the wood seemed to pop out of his skin.

It’s nothing, Ma, Curtis said, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell. I’ll be all right.

Nonsense, young man, you sit still and let me finish, she ordered gently. Why if’n those splinters had been another fraction of an inch closer to your eye, they would’ve . . . She stopped, her voice trailing off.

Ma, I’m all right. I’ve got to be getting after them varmints that stole my horses and killed my hound. Seeing the fixed look on his mother’s face, he knew it would be faster to let her fuss over him, so he continued to sit there. Pa, can I borrow your sorrel? he asked again.

Ja, his father replied, in his European-accented voice.

Though disheveled in his nightshirt, Curtis thought that his father’s appearance was striking. I wish I had Pa’s light coloring. Well, at least God gave me Pa’s strength and willingness to work.

With concern evident in his voice, his father asked, How many were there and which way did they go?

Besides my horses, there were four others, all heading west.

Were they Injuns? his father asked.

Curtis saw his mother’s look of alarm and the wide-eyed stares of his brothers and sisters. I’m not sure, he replied. Some horses could have been Injun ponies, but two were shod. Besides, those gents fired a couple of shots, so I’m guessing they weren’t Injuns. More likely, they’re no-good rustlers.

Ja, probably hiding out in Injun Territory, his father commented.

Several miles west of their farms lay the lands designated as Indian Territory. Curtis knew it was a vast slice of American, surrounded by Texas to the south, Nebraska Territory on the north, and unexplored lands to the west. One of his early schoolmarms had relayed the fact that the region was big enough to hold more than half of the original thirteen American colonies.

It’s possible that Injuns stole the horses, Curtis reasoned. If so, it may have been a renegade bunch that just happened by. More likely, they were white men—known as bushwhackers in these parts, the young man decided, sitting silently at the family table while trying to be patient. It would be just like them misfits, traveling in gangs, stealing from lone riders and remote farms, and hiding in caves along the Missouri border.

For a moment, memories of his hound filled his head. We followed many a trail, old boy, he recalled, saddened by the loss of his constant companion. And they stole my horses that I raised from colts and burned my barn that took most of the last summer to build. Well, they’ll have me on their trail in the next hour.

When you fixing to leave? asked his father, with a worried look on his face.

I’m starting out right after I pick up a few things at my cabin and say my farewells to Judy Beth. Mentally running through his list, he figured, my food and fire starter kit are ready to go. I’ll also need my bedroll, rain slicker, Hawken rifle, powder horn, and the possible bag. I’d better check it to make sure it’s full of lead balls, powder patches, and percussion caps. The camp gear is packed, and I already filled the canteen. I must remember to take coffee beans. There’ll be sparse outposts where I’m going.

What about your crops and animals?

Bowled over that his anger had driven even everyday chores from his mind, he replied, I plumb forgot about them, Pa.

Don’t worry, son, his father answered, stroking his light-colored beard. Your brothers and I’ll tend to them.

Pa, Curtis is going to need help running down those bushwhackers, Jonah said. Let me go with him.

Curtis saw the look of excitement on his younger brother’s face. He thinks I’m going on an adventure and plays down the unknown dangers that’ll be out there. Jonah was nearing eighteen and had his father’s looks, yet standing over six feet in his long johns, he was the tallest in the family. Curtis had heard that some of the women at church thought him handsome with his square build and jaw.

I want to go, too, Marion chimed in. Can I, Pa, can I go? pleaded his barefooted halfboy, half-man gangly brother.

You’re both needed on the farm, and we got to take care of Curtis’s place while he’s away, replied Andres. Besides, chasing after bushwhackers is dangerous.

Oh, Pa, lamented Marion.

Now see here, boys, its bad enough that my eldest son is taking after four outlaws without you whining. Turning to Curtis, Andres again expressed his worries, Son, I know you raised those horses and love them, but do you really figure on facing four outlaws alone? That’s a mighty big load for one man. Pulling on his beard, he slowly continued, Maybe, this once, you ought to let it be.

Lifting his eyes to his father, Curtis was calm but firm. There’s no way that them rustlers are going to get away with stealing my horses . . . even if it takes me across Injun country into Texas . . . maybe even clear south to Mexico. Besides, I have in mind asking Braided Hair to ride with me.

I’ll pray that the good Lord also rides with you, son. Come back to us soon.

Chapter 2

It was daybreak by the time Curtis rode west to find his Indian friend, Braided Hair. He marveled as the sun rose and cast light on the distant hills, turning the land from deep shadows to wonders of nature. Everything is fresh at this time of morning. If’n I wasn’t hunting them outlaws, I’d think everybody was at peace.

I know Pa was seeking cheap farmland when the family came to southwest Missouri, but I wonder if he had any idea how good this land would be for farming. He thought back to the journey twelve years earlier, when the Sommer family had traveled across two thousand miles on flatboats, down the great rivers of America from Ohio. As the eldest of ten children, he had worked beside his father, helping him carve out their new life on the Missouri frontier.

He had toiled with the demands of farming ever since he could remember, first for his father and now on his own. When he was not much older than his brother, Marion, Curtis had often made the ninety-mile journey by wagon to the larger town of Springfield. He became an excellent shooter with the muzzle loaded long gun and kept it nearby as he spent lonesome nights on the trail, usually settling in the crook of a stream or river. The water provided some protection and helped alert him to any dangers.

I began making them trips as a young whippersnapper. I learned to handle my fear of darkness and being alone. Pa must have believed in me, even as a youngster. Then I started earning money by hauling to Springfield and returning with goods for our neighbors or Pa’s trading post. It’s my guess that I’ve transported more grain, corn, chickens, and greens than anybody else in the county.

I saved enough money to buy me a Hawken rifle at Mr. Sparks' General Store down in Fort Smith, and it cost me more than two month’s wages. The gun‘s accuracy is exceptional. I’ve brought down many a deer at two hundred paces or more. Surprisingly, I’ve grown to like the double triggers, too. You can fire the rifle using the forward one, but pulling the rear sets up the front as a hair-trigger. Yep, it’s handmade, and the curly-maple stock makes it a beauty.

When chores permitted, his best friend, Seneca, went along. Growing up in Ohio and Missouri, he and the older half-breed Indian were inseparable until his friend’s sudden death, several years earlier. Seneca, a natural-born hunter, had taught Curtis how to track game and to use the bow and arrow. With practice, Curtis became one of the best trackers in the region—and could drop a running deer with an arrow at fifty yards, making him an excellent marksman with both the bow and the long gun.

And I also purchased eighty acres of virgin prairie farmland from the government—and I wasn’t even eighteen at the time. At five bits an acre, it took a hundred dollars of my savings. Not too shabby, I reckon, for a wet-behind-the-ears buck, he reasoned, reflecting the pride he took in being self-reliant. And it won’t be long before I’ll be asking Judy Beth to be my wife, because my farm is nearly complete. With help from my family, most of the land is now cleared, and I built my one-room cabin, the corral, and the barn.

His face hardened as he recalled his barn being torched. Now I’m going to have to rebuild it, and that’ll delay me asking Judy Beth. Those bushwhackers have changed everything. They singled me out, and until I return the favor, nothing will be right. Again, he felt himself bristling with anger and the determination to find his prized horses.

* * *

Curtis reined in the sorrel at the top of a hill. Below, rows of corn were growing, with long green leaves swaying in the breeze. Squash plants grew beneath, planted for food and to deter some corn-loving varmints. Beyond the field, smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin. This was the home of Flower on the Water, Seneca’s widow.

His friend had been killed a year after their marriage, on the day when the nearby town was celebrating its founding. During the festivities, beer-laced rowdies had insulted Seneca’s wife, and one had begun lashing the half-breed with a bullwhip. As the fight had progressed, Seneca had bested the man, only to be shot by another drunken rowdy. It was after this tragic incident that the small community had taken the name Seneca to honor his murdered friend.

Curtis slowed his horse as he saw the lovely woman standing outside the cabin, washing clothes in a wooden tub. Besides Judy Beth, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, he thought. Her long, black hair fell down her back over a red, loosely draped blouse, which was belted around her waist with woven lengths of rawhide. The soft, elk-skin skirt reached to her high-top moccasins. She continues to live here with her brother, Braided Hair, on the land staked out by Seneca years ago.

Hello, the cabin, he called.

"Hau, she responded with the traditional Indian greeting and a welcoming wave of her hand. Holding the horse’s bridle as he dismounted, she smiled. I heard you on the trail when you were still beyond the crest of the hill. It surprises me, because of your hunting skills, yet every critter within the range of an arrow is now hiding."

Chuckling, Curtis dismounted and hugged the long-haired beauty. You’ve been well? Standing back, he continued, You’re looking very fit to me.

Your words are kind, and I’m fine. There’s always work to be done around the farm. You see, she said, pointing with pride. My corn grows strong, like Seneca taught me and just as your ma taught him. It’ll be knee-high by July and reaching for the sky in the fall.

Yes, it looks like it’ll be a fine crop. Looking around, he asked, Any strangers pass by lately?

No, she replied. Why do you ask? But where is my proper welcome? Come to the cabin and help yourself to some water from the crock. You’ll stay for supper and spend the night, won’t you?

Curtis paused, keenly aware that the outlaws were already a half-day’s ride ahead. Seeing her beautiful smile, he nodded. I’d like that, because I want to talk with Braided Hair. But in the morning, I need to leave before daybreak. Sipping from the dipper, the water was refreshing.

He’s off hunting, and I expect him back any time. How are your folks?

Right well, thank you.

Mention that I asked about them, the next time you’re in Seneca.

I’ll do that.

She looked at him for a long moment. I’ve seen no strangers hereabouts, she said.

* * *

After a supper of venison, winter potatoes, and chard, Curtis heard hoof beats approaching the cabin as Braided Hair rode up.

Entering, the Indian hung his bow and arrow pouch on a peg and then saw Curtis. Smiling, he raised his arm, and said, "Cur-Tish. Hau. My friend well?"

Years earlier, Seneca and Curtis had taught both to speak English, but Braided Hair only caught on to so much, while Flower on the Water, eager to learn her man’s language, had become fluent.

I’m right well, Braided Hair. Curtis spoke, while also giving hand signs to convey his meaning. Men steal my horses last night. I chase them.

Curtis saw the surprise on the woman’s face, but his Indian friend only nodded.

You want me go, Cur-Tish? he asked. In the traditional Osage Indian way, his head was shaved except for a single roach of hair along the top, stiffened with bear grease to make it stand upright, while his longer mane at the back fell to his broad shoulders. He was nearly six foot tall and wore his buckskins with an easy grace —a loose fitting top with fringed sleeves to help shed rain, skin leggings, and moccasins made from buffalo hide.

Yes, old friend, replied Curtis.

White men?

Curtis nodded.

When leave?

Before sun rises.

First moon rise, his friend said, signing. We go then.

Flower on the Water watched and listened, finally asking, How many men are there?

Four.

The woman gazed for a long moment at both her brother and Curtis before saying, Best you rest now. I’ll wake you when the moon is high.

Chapter 3

For the next two days, Curtis followed the tracks of the horse thieves with his Indian friend by his side. The bushwhackers had pushed hard before crossing into the Creek Nation, located deep within Indian Territory. By midmorning of the third day, they came to the thieves’ deserted camp. Curtis dismounted, looking for anything that would help identify the rustlers.

Testing the warmth of the doused fire with his finger, Braided Hair stood. We close, CurTish. We catch before sun go down. Looking up at the sky, he continued, No rain. That good.

Checking the girth cinch of his saddle, Curtis looked at Braided Hair and smiled. You, me, Curtis continued, using hand signs, we first talk sitting under stars by campfire. You remember?

Nodding, the Indian said, Me remember good. Night of falling stars.

You teach me Osage talk.

You teach me white man talk, Cur-Tish. Good time.

Smiling, Curtis said, You learn talk good.

Nodding, the Indian replied, You speak Osage good.

Looking at him, Curtis continued, Flower on the Water has no warrior by her side. I fear she troubled.

She happy. Think Seneca spirit live on land. Maybe more moons, he replied with an arching gesture of his arm, other brave come.

Looking at the tracks in camp, Curtis asked, Men we follow—some Injun?

Me no think so, Cur-Tish. White man camp. No moccasin tracks.

Curtis nodded and continued searching the campsite.

Braided Hair knelt to study the signs. Cur-Tish, he said, pointing eastward.

There was a lone set of horse tracks departing from the camp, heading back toward Missouri. The men looked at one another and then his friend swung onto his horse, following the trail.

Curtis continued walking around the campsite and stopped at a log that looked like it was covered with dried blood. Moving it with his boot, he was startled to see two human fingers lying on the ground. They had turned a pasty, gray-blue and still showed dirt embedded beneath the fingernails. This gang has had a falling out, for some reason. I wonder what happened.

His friend rode up and said, Cur-Tish, blood on trail. Man no return.

Curtis showed him the fingers. Both knew there was one less bushwhacker ahead of them.

We follow man or horses, Cur-Tish?

Horses.

Riding hard, the trail freshened. Just before dusk, they noticed a wisp of white smoke rising beyond a low knoll. Dismounting, they slowly crawled to the brush covered crest.

Pushing back his hat from his dark hair, Curtis slowly parted the greenery and looked down at the camp below where two men sat on logs near the fire, drinking coffee. The horses, picketed beyond the camp in a grove of trees, stood quietly. Probably figuring anyone on their trail will have given up by now, Curtis guessed, as the delicious smell of coffee, bacon, and wood smoke mingled and wafted in the air.

This was the first time that he actually saw the bushwhackers in the daylight. One looked to be middle-aged, wearing a dirty coat and badly stained, leather leggings. His unkempt black beard and hair gave him a wild, mean look. The other was a lanky, redheaded man about Curtis’s age. There was no sign of the third man.

Backing down the slope, both pursuers untied their bows from the horses. Bending the stiff but yielding hickory wood, Curtis strung his bow, and the Indian did the same.

With hand signals, Curtis conveyed his simple plan. His Indian friend would go around the hill to the right while he went left. When Curtis was in place, he would give a mockingbird call, and Braided Hair would respond, just as they had done many times before. In the fading light, the two hunters nodded, and each circled toward the outlaw camp.

With the Hawken strapped to his back and an arrow fitted to the bow, Curtis stepped carefully in the dense