Saddler's Run Read online

  Saddler’s Run

  Ben Saddler, sometime soldier of the Confederate Army, has had many jobs: scout, gambler, barkeep, deputy sheriff, road agent, cowboy and now whiskey runner, and is trying to scrape a living in the Indian Territories.

  His life takes an unexpected turn when he suddenly finds himself with responsibility for a little girl. Somehow he must escort her to safety through the territories; evade capture by the law, outgun those who would kill him, and negotiate his way through an Indian uprising. Will he succeed and unite the child with her family?

  By the same author

  The Homesteader’s Daughter

  The Marshal’s Daughter

  Saddler’s Run

  Harriet Cade

  ROBERT HALE

  © Harriet Cade 2014

  First published in Great Britain 2014

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2427-2

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Harriet Cade to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter 1

  Five years after the end of the great War between the States, there was still a considerable number of restless, fiddle-footed men drifting around the country who had fought in the war and now seemed unable to adjust to the peace. It was as though excitement, danger and the risk of death were potent drugs for which these men had acquired a taste during the four years of fighting and to which they were now hopelessly addicted. Some of them rejoined the army and took part in the Indian Wars, while others worked as lawmen and scouts. Then again, there were those who turned bad and took up as road agents or robbed banks. Mostly though, these rootless young men moved from place to place, working at whatever came along. Anything other than settling down and living humdrum and routine lives. One such, a fairly typical specimen of the breed, was Ben Saddler, sometime soldier of the Confederate Army and since then scout, gambler, barkeep, deputy sheriff, road agent, cowboy and now whiskey runner.

  On a fine April morning in 1871, a light covered wagon was rattling along a dusty track leading into the Indian Territories. The driver was a lanky, fair-haired man in his late twenties who looked as though he had been around a bit. He was dressed in a pair of blue serge pants, faded and patched, and a buckskin shirt. There was a .36 cap-and-ball pistol tucked in his belt and a rifle lying on the buckboard at his feet.

  At different times over the last twelvemonth or so, Ben Saddler had brought various illicit goods into the Indian Territories, ranging from moonshine liquor to rifles. In back of his wagon today were crates of whiskey, which he was hoping to exchange for horses.

  The land hereabouts was scrubby and bleak, broken at intervals by patches of woodland, like the one ahead. Saddler reined in the horse and considered the stretch of forest through which he was about to pass. There had been ugly incidents in recent months of traders set upon and murdered for their goods and he did not aim to be another of those unfortunate cases. The wood looked a pretty fine spot for an ambush, if anybody had such a thing in mind. Reaching down for his rifle, Saddler brought it up, cocked it and set it upon his knees. Then he touched up the horses and set them towards the trees at a walk, rather than a trot.

  Some hundred yards into the wood, Saddler knew that his cat’s sense for danger had not played him false. A light wagon, smaller than his own and little more than a glorified buckboard, was blocking the road. It was not harnessed up to any horses and looked to him like a trap: a deliberate attempt to slow down any passing travellers, prior to robbing or killing them. Checking that his pistol was loose in his belt and bringing his rifle up ready for action, he pulled up ten yards or so from the wagon slewed across his way. Then he waited. Saddler’s army comrades used to josh him that he must have had Indian blood in him, he was that good at just sitting in complete immobility until the time came to strike.

  After sitting motionless for perhaps five minutes Saddler heard a soft rustling in the bushes to his right, as though someone was moving stealthily towards him. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder, took first pull upon the trigger and cried, ‘Stand to, whoever you be, ’less you want a minie ball through your heart!’

  The crackling in the undergrowth grew louder and just as he was about to fire, there came the greatest surprise of his whole, entire life when out from the bushes stepped a little girl.

  She was a solemn-faced white girl, wearing a long black dress. Her hair was neatly plaited and she could have been no more than ten or eleven years of age. The child looked up at him with wide eyes and said, ‘Are you going to hurt me?’

  ‘Nothin’ o’ the sort, honey, though you came pretty close to stopping a bullet from this here rifle o’ mine. Step forward an’ tell me how come you’re wandering here.’

  The girl made no move and Saddler realized that he still had his rifle pointing in her direction and ready to fire. He lowered it and then put it down entirely.

  ‘Come on, now,’ he said in a gentler voice, ‘Don’t be afeared. Nobody goin’ to harm you.’

  ‘They killed my mother and father,’ said the child sadly, although without overmuch emotion, like she might have been mentioning the loss of a favourite doll. ‘They stabbed them and then messed up their bodies. Why would they do that?’

  His hackles began to rise again at the child’s words. Saddler had just known that there was mischief afoot and hearing what this little girl said served only to confirm his suspicions. He jumped down in front of the girl and she winced fearfully, probably expecting him to attack her.

  ‘You got no cause to fear me,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you if I’m able. Where’s your ma and pa?’

  ‘Over yonder,’ said the child, ‘They dragged them off the road after they was killed and then did stuff to them. I don’t rightly mind what.’

  ‘Stay here, now. I’ll see what’s what.’

  He went over to the other wagon and soon found what he was looking for. Just off the road were the bodies of a man and woman. Both had been stabbed to death and then mutilated. He had seen such things before, more than once, but it still made him grimace. There was a sound behind him and Saddler turned to find that the child had followed him and was staring dispassionately at the bodies of her parents.

  ‘Come away,’ he said,’ this ain’t a fittin’ sight for you.’ He led her back to his own wagon, glancing in to the back of the cart straddling the track. There were wooden boxes inside, which had been carelessly smashed open and the contents strewn everywhere. There looked to be only books and he picked one up and leafed through it. It was a Bible.

  When they got back to his own wagon he lifted the little girl up on to the seat and then climbed up beside her. ‘What’s with all them Bibles?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother and father were taking them into the territories. They were for the heathens who live there.’

  ‘Missioners, hey? How come you didn’t fall prey to the same fate as them?’

  The girl’s face grew animated as she told the story. ‘My father heard some riders coming up behind us. He had a fear that something was amiss and so he told me to jump down and hide in the bushes until he knew what the case was.’

  ‘Well,’ said Saddler. ‘And what was the case?’

  ‘It was a bunch of Indians. They did not stop to parley, just lit right in and killed them. I was hiding and watched the whole thing.’

  ‘When was this? How long ago, I mean?’

  ‘It was yesterday. I
have been hiding ever since.’

  ‘That’s the hell of a thing for a little girl like you to go through,’ he said.

  ‘My father says that using “hell” like that is what you call strong language,’ said the girl, primly.

  It was on the tip of Saddler’s tongue to observe that not any more her father didn’t, but just in time he recollected that he was speaking to a child who had just lost her folks.

  Instead, he said, ‘Truth to tell, I never thought “hell” as being strong language. Leastways, I heard stronger.’

  ‘My father says that bad language and such can lead to worse things later.’

  ‘In my case,’ said Saddler, ‘the boot’s on the other foot. I begun with the worse things until now I’ve ended up just cursing.’ The ghost of a smile flickered on the girl’s mouth and he felt pleased that he had taken her mind off the horror she had endured. ‘Question is,’ he mused, ‘what’s to be done with you now?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see, the Lord has sent you to take care of me? Everything will be fine now.’ Her face radiated complete and perfect confidence in Ben Saddler’s ability and intention to tend to her needs.

  ‘The Lord don’t enter into the equation,’ he said, ‘ ’T was only chance fetched me up here, nothin’ more.’

  ‘That doesn’t signify. The Lord uses all sort of folks. Just look at Jael the Kennite. In the Bible, you know.’

  ‘That’s nothing to the purpose,’ said Saddler. ‘Me and the Lord haven’t been on good terms for some time. It ain’t in reason that he’d ask now for my help. Still and all, I can’t leave you here alone. There’s a tradin’ post a day’s ride from here. I’ll take you there an’ leave you. They’ll deal with this situation a sight better than I am able.’

  After pushing the other wagon to one side, Saddler succeeded in manoeuvring his wagon past that of the dead missioners. He asked suddenly, ‘What become o’ the horse as drew that thing?’

  ‘The Indians took it,’ said the girl.

  ‘I reckon I should introduce myself. My name is Saddler, Ben Saddler.’

  ‘I am called Abigail, sir.’

  ‘There’s no occasion to call me sir. Ben’s my name.’

  They rode along for a space, Saddler brooding about the likelihood of an attack from the same crew who had killed the girl’s parents, and the girl just sitting there with her hands folded in her lap. She did not fidget or chatter the way most children whom he had encountered seemed to do. The prolonged silence did not appear to discomfit her in the least degree, but it began to irk Saddler, who remarked after a space,

  ‘For a child of your years who’s lost her ma and pa, strikes me as you’re mighty composed.’

  ‘My father said that it was sinful to grieve for good people who die,’ said Abigail. ‘He said that if somebody has been promoted to glory, then it is heathenish to bewail their fate and cry and suchlike.’ She paused for a moment, before adding, ‘Anyways, we are not much given to showing our feelings in my family. I am grieved at my loss, but there is nothing to be done about it.’

  This all seemed to Saddler positively unnatural in one so young, but he knew little enough of the ways of children and so kept his own counsel.

  For the next half-hour the two of them sat silently as the wagon jolted and bumped its way along the rough track. There was no sign to indicate that they had entered the Indian Territories and so passed into another jurisdiction. The crates of liquor had, as they crossed the invisible border, undergone a sudden transformation; from being the legitimate possessions of a man partial to a drop of whiskey they had been transmuted into illegal contraband rendering the owner liable to imprisonment.

  Saddler saw the party of horsemen heading straight towards them when they were still a couple of miles away. He said nothing, hoping that the girl had not noticed them. When the men were about a half-mile away they broke into a gallop, clearly intent upon intercepting the wagon. He picked up the rifle and cocked it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said the child. ‘Is that Indians coming this way?’

  Saddler glanced at Abigail, whose face had gone chalky white. ‘Don’t fret,’ he told her. ‘Like as not they mean us no harm.’

  As the Indians rode down on them the man in the lead raised his rifle and fired it one-handed into the air. The girl clutched at Saddler in fear and he clucked reassuringly. Then the whole group divided into two and swept past on either side of the wagon, giving blood-curdling war cries as they did so. They thundered off until after a spell there was silence again.

  ‘Why didn’t they attack us?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Well, I know those boys.’

  ‘They are friends of yours?’

  ‘Hardly that,’ said Saddler. ‘I make no doubt that they’d cut my throat if they didn’t need me. I sold ’em those rifles they was carrying.’

  Abigail sat up and moved away from him. ‘You are one of those who supply the Red Man with guns? My father had a deal to say about men such as you.’

  He shrugged. ‘A man has to make a livin’ somehow.’

  Abigail answered readily enough any questions that were asked of her, but essayed none of her own. This made conversation stilted and awkward and Saddler was not sorry when the trading post came into sight.

  Scattered throughout the territories were various establishments whose owners somehow contrived to make a living from either the Indians or from the white men who had business in those parts. Some, such as the place where Saddler hoped to offload the child he had found, served the needs of both red and white men. The owner, Joe Abbot, bartered cheap pots, pans, utensils, tools and other ironmongery for hides and anything else the Indians might have to offer. He also ran a drinking den at the back for the convenience of passing white men.

  Abbot’s place was not like a regular saloon, but more like a Mexican cantina. It was little more than a dingy shack leaning against the stone wall of the dwelling-house where Abbot and his wife had their home. There was room for maybe a dozen men in there and most of those who frequented the place knew the others whom they saw there. A man might not visit for two or three months, but when he did drop in he was sure to see familiar faces. Nigh on all those who visited Abbot’s place were living on the edge of the law as moonshiners, gun-runners and so on. They tended to trust only others of the same brand.

  When Saddler walked though the door there was a moment’s silence, a pause as those inside assured themselves that this was a known and trusted associate, rather than a stranger or, even worse, a lawman or soldier. As soon as they recognized Saddler there were boisterous shouts of welcome and invitations for him to come and join one or another group of the men seated round the tables. The noise died away utterly as they saw the neatly dressed little girl who followed him into the cantina.

  Joe Abbot was serving food at the planks laid across two barrels that functioned as a bar in his place. He greeted Saddler affably enough, figuring that he would soon learn what the game was. It was the first time since he had opened this drinking hole that a child of such tender years had been seen there and, like everybody else, he was just itching to know how a man like Ben Saddler had come to be entrusted with the care of a minor.

  The men at the tables resumed talking, but in a far more restrained and civil fashion. A minute earlier and both the content of their conversation and their mode of expressing themselves would have made a sailor blush. Now, the presence of a child – and a girl-child at that – caused them to moderate severely their language and conduct.

  Abigail stood uncertainly in the doorway while Saddler talked to the owner of the bar. One of the men sitting at a nearby table coaxed her over and invited her to sit down. This fellow was a regular desperado, as villainous a type as you could wish to encounter, but in the presence of women and children he became as respectable as a parson.

  ‘Come, little one,’ he said. ‘Sit here now and rest your feet.’ Abigail smiled shyly and sat at his table.

&nbsp
; Saddler was not having a deal of luck with his efforts to rid himself of his unwelcome charge.

  ‘Truth is, Abbot, I need a favour . . .’ he began.

  At the ominous word ‘favour’, Joe Abbot began shaking his head regretfully. ‘If this talk of favours is tending towards the granting of credit or anything of that nature, then it will not answer. I am running this place at a loss already. Some of you boys seem to think that this is a charitable undertaking and I am like one of those wealthy philanthropists that you hear tell of. Sorry, Saddler, it can’t be done.’

  ‘Will you shut up a minute an’ listen? This has no reference at all to money.’

  This reassurance caused Abbot to fall silent and see what would follow next.

  ‘You see where I brought in a child with me?’ said Saddler.

  ‘I observed it,’ replied the other warily.

  ‘Now I found her a ways back, it don’t matter how or where. She’s an orphan an’ in my line o’ work, travelling hither and thither as you might say, I can’t be expected to have a little girl tagging along with me. You must see that it’s absurd?’

  Abbot shrugged noncommittally. ‘If you say so. It’s no affair of mine who you take with you to your work.’

  ‘That being so,’ continued Saddler, ‘I thought you might not mind allowin’ the child to stay here with you for a spell. You could send her off with the next passing missioner.’ He looked hopefully at Abbot, who was in turn staring at Saddler as though he had taken leave of his senses. Indeed, he intimated as much.

  ‘You have been out in the sun too long, Saddler. Either that or you have lost your mind. It is not to be thought of. How the hell can I engage to look after a child here?’

  ‘She might be useful to you. She could wait at tables an’ such.’

  ‘I am sorry not to oblige, Saddler. You are a good customer and have always dealt here pretty regular but I can’t have a little girl here. No, it can’t be done. There is an orphans’ asylum at Greensborough. You could take her there.’