The Austin Chronicles, Book 2: The Abilene Trail

The Austin Chronicles, Book 2:

The Abilene Trail

by Stan Paregien

The Abilene Trail is Book 2 in the Austin Chronicles, a series of Western novels featuring the Austin family as they face circumstances requiring heroic action.

The Abilene Trail is a novel, a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are products of the author's creative imagination or are used entirely fictionally. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311101624

Copyright 2014 by Stan Paregien Sr

All rights worldwide are reserved by the author.

Bradenton, Florida: Paregien Enterprises, 2014.

Cover design by Stan Paregien Sr

Smashwords Edition, License

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work and legal rights of this author.

Dedication

This book is respectfully dedicated to the first teacher in my life who encouraged me on my journey to becoming a writer: the late Ruth Percy of Fillmore (California) High School.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

One of Life's Detours

Chapter 2

Cheyenne Hospitality

Chapter 3

Romantic Intrigue

Chapter 4

Cow Punchers, One and All

Chapter 5

Stampede!

Chapter 6

Long Days, Short Nights

Chapter 7

Indian Trouble, Again

Chapter 8

Stolen Horses

Chapter 9

When Good People Suffer

Chapter 10

River Crossing

Chapter 11

When Good People Die

Chapter 12

A Lawman & His Prisoners

Chapter 13

That Damned Prairie Wind

Chapter 14

Entering Kansas

Chapter 15

Action in Abilene

Chapter 16

The Smell of Plum Blossoms

Chapter 17

A Slight Misunderstanding

Chapter 18

Jailhouse Justice

Chapter 19

A Game of Cat & Mouse

Chapter 20

Father Marius Thibodaux

Chapter 21

A Dance of Death

Addendum A

Other eBooks by Stan Paregien

Addendum B

Stan Paregien's Biography

Chapter 1

One of Life's Detours

The three white men expected their scalps to be hanging from Cheyenne war lances within the hour. There was no doubt in their minds that the small scouting party had seen them from the knoll of a hill just to the west of where they stood.

What was curious, though, was why the four Cheyenne warriors had not immediately attacked these three white men who were walking across the prairie with no rifles, no knives, no revolvers, and no clothes on except for their hats. The three naked men knew the answer would come soon enough.

Uncle Frank, what's the use of walking anymore? the husky sixteen-year-old boy asked dejectedly. You know they're coming back to kill us. What's the use?

Take it from a feller who's been close enough to hell to smell the smoke, David, you got a heap to learn about living and dying, the old man grimaced, his whiskered face and every other square-inch of skin blistered by the boiling sun.

"Chances are they'll be back to invite us to a party we won't forget. Now that's likely the way it will be.

But they might lose their way, get run off by soldiers, or find a wagon train that would be a better prize. Point is, we ain't dead. Not quite yet. And they ain't back. So we'll keep walking until we find shade and water. And that, folks, is . . . is the naked truth.

The third naked man, twenty-one-year-old Daniel Philip Austin, was in no mood to laugh at his uncle's feeble attempt at humor, not even when his brother David was the butte of the joke. His lips were parched and sunburned, and his stomach ached from the handful of wild berries he had eaten for breakfast. He let the joke die a silent death, and he kept walking.

As he walked, he thought about the strange course of events which brought them to this hostile land. He remembered the day he and his father had returned to their Tennessee home when the war ended in 1865 only to find that Union renegades had burned it to the ground. His father moved the family to west central Arkansas, where his brother, Benjamin Franklin Austin, had offered him a section of his 1,900 acres. And not long after they had built a new log home, a gang had come through and killed his parents and took David and Amanda, his sister who was only sixteen at the time, with them.

Then he and Uncle Frank and a neighbor named Shorty Russell had tracked the gang to the Indian Territory. After a gun battle in Devil's Den and in Boggy Depot, they rescued David and Amanda. But the leader of the gang, a Memphis businessman named Shawn O'Fallon, had escaped their pursuit and had returned to Tennessee. That was just a little over two years ago, back in August of 1865.

Damned rocks, Dan said as he stubbed his toe against a rose colored rock. The interruption in his thoughts brought him back to the present and he studied the hills ahead of them, expecting Indians to charge over them at any moment.

Presently, he returned to thinking about how they had gotten in such a predicament. After the rescue of David and Amanda, they had returned to Gravelly Hills. They put in their fall crops and then in January of 1866, they had gone to Memphis to find a big-time crook named Shawn O'Fallon and to free their former family slaves from his bondage. The trip turned out to be a successful one, but long, bloody, and complicated.

The Austins found out the hard way that O'Fallon had the law and several city officials on his payroll. His regular businesses, including his hotels and restaurants, could have provided an income enough to satisfy most people. But he made a far greater fortune each year through his illegal operations. He was the mastermind of an extensive crime ring dealing in prostitution and the sale of guns, whiskey and slaves to the Indians in the Indian Territory and points west.

The end result of their fight, though, was that O'Fallon and two of his hand-picked city councilmen were convicted of everything from embezzlement to murder.

The Austins trio and Hoss and Aunt Bessie Austin and their son, Aaron, returned to Gravelly Hills immediately after the conviction was handed down. And it was weeks later that they learned O'Fallon had managed to escape and supposedly had headed west. The word on the street was that he had simply bribed the right people and he was quietly released to go on his merry, deadly way.

By this summer of August, 1867, they had managed to get their respective farms in order. And Amanda had decided to join neighbor Rhonda King in going off to Bethany College in Bethany, West Virginia.

Women. Who can understand them? Dan thought to himself. He was still in love with the King girl, but when she learned that he was taking a long trip west, rather than proposing marriage to her and settling down, she flew off the handle.

Daniel Philip Austin, I don't ever want to see you again, she had snapped at him the night he called on her to explain.

He had tried to convey his situation to Rhonda in a calm and logical manner, but the more he talked the more she fumed. And as much as he loved her, he couldn't make the kind of commitment she wanted at this time in his life. Not when he was on the verge of making a journey west that most men could only dream about.

It's over, then, Mr. Austin, she had said in icy tones. You may see yourself to the door. I bid you goodnight and goodbye.

She had whirled about, walked defiantly up the winding stairs to her room and slammed the heavy walnut door. The date had been burned into his memory. August 28, 1867.

Two days later, Dan and his brother and their Uncle Frank had left Hoss and his family in charge of the farms and started out to accomplish Frank's dream of retracing his previous trips to Oregon.

The Austins had made good time as they rode west from Arkansas to Boggy Depot in the Indian Territory. That's where they had rescued David and Amanda, and riding through the town did not bring back pleasant memories.

They did stop to see the Rev. Alan Wright and to enquire about their friend Sampson Twofeathers. They learned ol' Sampson had died two months earlier. He was out hunting when he stepped on a thorn-laced briar branch, was slow about caring for the wounds, and died of blood poisoning. It was not a very glamorous way for a warrior to die.

Soon they turned northwest and rode across the Territory.

Then it happened.

They had been riding down through a small canyon where the narrow, steep walls of red earth forced them to ride single file. And as they made their way along the canyon floor, they came face to face with two men who had positioned themselves behind outcroppings of rock. In his memory, Dan could still see and hear exactly what had happened to them.

Stop gentlemen, or vee vill shoot, one of them ordered with a thick French accent. Do not even tink of trying to run, or mah men vill cut you down. I gar-un-tee. Drop your wea-pons and ride for-ward.

Dan had thought of making a break for it, until he heard pebbles rolling down the canyon wall and looked up to see two heavily-armed, dark complexioned men on the south rim and two more on the north rim. They were trapped tighter than bark on a tree.

Vee have no de-sire to keel you, mah friends, the leader had said. Onless vee must. Stop your hor-ses and dis-mount. Leave dem and walk yourselves over chere.

The man who had done all of the talking slowly stood up. He was at least six-foot-three-inches tall and weighed over two-hundred-thirty-five pounds. His eyes were as black as store-bought licorice candy. He wore traditional trapper's buckskins and had a flaming red scarf tied around his muscular neck.

Look here, neighbor, Frank Austin had said, We ain't looking for no trouble. We're just passing through on our way to Oregon.

O-re-gon? You go to O-re-gon? Iz a very long way for' t'ree men to walk.

The other five bandits, apparently also French, had laughed long and hard at that remark, knowing what was to come. Their evil laughter had echoed off the bolder-lined canyon walls.

Mister, you're not really going to take our horses, are you? young David had asked, wishfully.

Wee. Dat iz da t'ing vee do, may lit-tle friend. The old man may not make eet, but you and your friend are young. Why, you may live, maybe t'ree or two days on dis prairie. Dat iz if dem Cheyenne don' find you first.

One by one the men on the canyon rims had climbed down and gathered up the guns and horses.

Now, mah friends, dere iz one mo' t'ing fo' we go. Sit down yourselves and take your clothes off. All of dem.

Like hell we will, Frank had growled in return, feeling he and his nephews had been pushed too far already. His brown eyes danced with anger and he nervously stroked the gray stubble on his face.

The Frenchman said, Ho, mah friend, have you not read in da Bible: `Ask and you shall receive'? Vee ask fo' your clothes. You give, wee?

Go straight to hell, you son-of-a-bitch! Frank muttered as his temper flared.

One of the men behind the Austins reached over and slammed the butt of his rifle against the back of Frank's head. The old man dropped to his knees, moaning and holding his head. His thick shock of solid white hair immediately began to redden as a rip in his scalp freely oozed blood as red as a cardinal's breast.

There was no call for that, Dan objected with a glare in his eyes. He was more than ready to tangle with any one of the thieves, even though he was only 5' 8" by 145 pounds. He figured he was big enough and quick enough to mix it up with most men. But one thing he was not. He was not foolish.

Mah men are sometimes . . . how you say . . . unpatient. Me, I can wait all de day long. But I won't. So take all your clothes off, and da old man's, too. Now, mah friends.

Dan and David did as they were ordered, stripping to their birthday suits and helping Frank to do the same. And their tormentors began laughing and making jokes about their lily-white bodies. That was the final humiliation.

"Ah, no dis vill not do. You gentle-men vill need your hats, so take dem. And do not worry, vee take good care of your guns and hor-ses . . . until we can sell dem.

Perhaps vee meet again. If so, I . . . Father Marius Tibideux . . .vill buy you drinks. Beaucoup drinks. Adieu mah friends, adieu.

Then the thieves had bundled up the Austins' clothes and led their horses down the trail and out of sight.

Boys, Frank has said after the robbers were out of sight, let's stay here a spell, until they are sure 'nuff gone. There ain't no use going back where we came from, because we're a hell of a long way past the Washita River. If we head on west, we might get to Warren's Trading Post down on the Red River. That's our best bet.

Dan recalled that after a long wait, they had gingerly walked down the canyon trail. Each step jolted their nervous systems, since none of them had walked anywhere barefoot in years. But all of a sudden their lives depended upon being able to walk barefoot across a land littered with rocks, burrs, scorpions, rattlesnakes, stinging ants, and cactus.

However, the sun turned out to be their worst enemy. The brassy glare of the sun created shimmering heat waves across the horizon. It beat down on them and turned their white skin to pink and then to red.

Damn bonfire, old Frank cursed as he squinted at the glowing sun. Makes me feel like a wiggle worm in hot ashes. It's hot enough to raise blisters on army boots. And that's the pure-dee old truth.

They had walked until well after noon that first day, finally stopping in the meager shade of a scrub oak. They had not found a single drop of water all morning. Not a sip. And the arid land ahead did not look promising. They watched as a small cotton patch of clouds slowly crawled across the sky.

We got to stay here in the shade until the sun is about down. Else wise we're gonna cook worse than a fat roasted calf. Need to rest our goddamned feet, too, Frank said as he carefully brushed the leaves and sticks from a spot where he wanted to plant his tender rear end.

If I ever get my hands on those men, I'll beat 'em senseless, David promised as he rubbed his raw, blistered feet. No, on second thought, anyone who would play such a joke should be horse whipped.

Joke? Boy, they didn't play no joke, Frank said, wishing he had a plug of tobacco. They knew damn well our chances of living are down to just two: slim and none. They figured no one will think we were murdered when they find our bodies with no wounds on 'em. Folks will think we went crazy with the heat. This is just a right smart way of killing us without firing a shot. I don't call that a joke.

Dan remembered how the three of them had sat in the shade of that scrub oak until nearly sundown, then they continued their painful trek west toward the plum colored horizon. They walked for two more hours and, after finding no water, they had decided to sleep until morning. They bedded down on the sand of a dry creek bed. The millions of stars twinkled like lanterns above them.

It had been a fitful night's rest. All three of the men found it impossible to get into a comfortable sleeping position. The sand was simply too gritty and coarse for their tender, sunburned skin.

And then there were the mosquitos. Little ones. Big ones. Mean ones. All of them persistent. The Austins suffered greatly each time they found it necessary to slap a blood-thirsty mosquito on their tender skin.

The next morning, with the sun just started rising like a large pink fireball, they had gotten up and begun walking. The first mile brought excruciating pain as they stretched their aching muscles. Before long, their bruised and blistered feet began bleeding as they stumbled across the prairie. And their cardinal-red bodies, sunburned over every spot where the sun shines, tingled with renewed agony.

And then, less than twenty minutes ago, Frank announced he had seen some kind of movement on the ridge of the small hill just west of them. It turned out to be the four Cheyenne scouts who observed them for a couple of minutes and quickly disappeared behind the hill.

Frank stopped walking and he pointed toward the ridge and a large number of figures silhouetted there: If you boys know any good prayers, you better say 'em. And damned quick. We got lots of company.

Chapter 2

Cheyenne Hospitality

Stand straight and look 'em right in the eye, Frank said to his nephews as he pulled his battered old hat lower on his forehead.

The grassy hill above them was covered with a whole band of Cheyenne Indians. Men, women and children swarmed over the ridge like ants swarming over a dead grasshopper. The band, nearly two-hundred strong, was assembled in array as if to attack.

A sound like a clap of thunder erupted from among the Indians. It was a strange sound, far different from the war hoops which Frank had heard many times before. Then it came to him. They were laughing. Here and there along the line, Indian braves doubled over with laughter. The women and children, too, snickered and pointed at the naked white men.

A tall Indian on a spotted pony rode down the hill with six warriors right behind him. The leader made the hand sign for peace, although their rifles were kept aimed at the unarmed and undressed white men.

Frank Austin responded with a similar peace sign, and then began the task of further communication. He had learned bits and pieces of the Cheyenne language years before, and he hoped it would be enough to save their hides.

He explained in sign language, sprinkled with a few Cheyenne words, who they were and that they were bound for Oregon. He also recounted their experience with Marius Thibodaux, and he spoke of a friend he had once known among the Cheyenne, a chief named Big Owl.

The Indian leader's facial expression did not change, but his eyes reflexively widened as though Frank had struck a chord with him. The question now was whether that was good or bad.

The leader turned to the other warriors and exchanged glances and grunts. Then he turned to the Austins and identified himself as Black Kettle, the chief of this band of the Cheyenne. Big Owl, who had died two years ago, had been his father. He told Frank there would be no fighting on this day.

Or at least that's what Frank though he said. Frank wouldn't have bet his rifle on that interpretation, not even if he had a gun.

The chief signaled for his followers to come down the hill. And in a matter of minutes they had surrounded the Austins and had set up a temporary camp. Squaws worked over a fire to prepare a meal for their guests. And the younger Indian women giggled at the exposed manliness of the Austins, taking a special interest in Dan's lean, muscular body.

Soon the chief had an old squaw bring moccasins, pants and shirts for each of the Austins. She unceremoniously dumped the stack of clothes on the ground in front of them. And she grunted something as she left, something which caused the Indian men to break into unbridled laughter.

The old woman, Black Kettle explained to Frank in sign language, she thinks the young boy should be called `Short Stick'. She says the young man should be called `Big Stick'. And she says your name should be `Broken Stick'.

The Indian men broke out in renewed laughter at Black Kettle's repetition of the old woman's remarks. To them the joke was even better the second time around.

She is a wise woman, Frank replied with a smile which showed his crooked, yellowed teeth. But tell her my stick is not broken; it is only bent from so much use.

The Cheyenne men laughed even harder. Even Dan and David laughed as hard as they could, although they had absolutely no idea what had been said. They just didn't want to appear unappreciative of whatever it was their hosts found so amusing.

Chief Black Kettle, seeing the terrible condition of the white men's skin, summoned his resident medicine man. When the barrel-chested Indian arrived, though, he did not want to practice his art upon the white men. The chief finally prevailed and the tribal doctor shook a gourd rattle above their heads and chanted something. Frank had no idea what he was saying.

Next the medicine man had his wife and teenage daughter bring from their travois