A.R. Matlock

The deep tracks of the heavily loaded wagon appeared to have no definite destination. The hills of southeast Indian Territory are crisscrossed by small streams and groves of black jack oak covering the canyon sides, no easy drive by any measure. One would almost believe that the two men sitting on the spring seat were waiting for someone to find them. It made us almighty curious.

Elias Rector, Federal Marshal for western Arkansas and Indian Territory gave Price Phelps and me the job of delivering Jim Walking-stick, a Cherokee, to the Tribal Marshal in Tahlequah. It seems that Jim was wanted for assault and battery. We were about 15 miles west of Fort Smith when we ran across the tracks. Since they appeared to be going toward Tahlequah we just naturally kept our eyes open and followed along.

Since the Cherokee removal of 1839, wagons had kept the ferry busy crossing the Arkansas River into the Territory. Cherokees were still coming to settle in their new land. Now, four years later, there are still Cherokee families moving across the river. However, a lot of the traffic is made of thieves and outlaws running from trouble with the law and some running whiskey and guns to renegade Indians. The territory was getting crowded with people, who were not law abiding.

Price and I made camp on the first night out, by a little stream that ran crystal clear water. We sit down to a bacon and biscuit supper. It’s real tasty, especially when it’s washed down with clear water and chased with a strong cup of coffee. After supper Price tied Jim Walking-stick to a cottonwood tree. We didn’t want him wondering off.

Price suggested, “What if that wagon we’ve been trailing is up to no-good?”

“I’d say that’s a good possibility. They seem to be meandering toward Tahlequah, but I think they’ve got a meeting somewhere south of there. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

The sun found us hiding amongst a grove of blackjacks, looking at the wagon about a hundred yards away. The two men were dressed like two farmers on their way home from the store, except the wagon was packed with small barrels. It didn’t appear to be flour and sugar.

We backed off and let them get a head start on us, not wanting to scare them off.

The sun was baring straight down on us when the wagon pulled away from the trail and stopped. It looked like they were setting up camp to wait for company.

“Price lets head on into Tahlequah and drop ole Jim off, then come back out here to see who their company will be.”

The sun was getting low by the time we got back and bellied up on a little rocky knoll. Price said, “Those ole boys appear to be real comfortable.”

“Not for long! Company is here.”

The two men stood up, caught off guard by the two Kiowa renegades. It appeared they might be amateurs in this business. Some words were exchanged and they began to break camp. “I think the main body of Kiowa are waiting for them nearby. Let’s trail along.”

Price and I stayed our distance for a couple of miles. We could hear the whooping and hollering as the renegades welcomed the group to their camp. After they punched a hole in one of the barrels and started it around, things began to really get lively.

Price always comes up with good questions and now was no exception, “What do we do now? There are twelve of those skunks. I’d say we’re out numbered.”

Things had been going pretty well for us, up and until now. We tied our horses in a grove of blackjacks about a hundred yards from their camp. My horse picked a bad time to be friendly. The Indian ponies responded and our luck changed. Price said, “I don’t think they want uninvited guests”. To say the Kiowa were not happy is an under-statement.

Moving as fast as we could through bushes and briars’ to save our hides was not an easy task. I hoped we were fast enough. The Kiowa were within spitting distance by the time we got to our horses. Except for all the briars and thorns, we were lucky to reach our horses without a scratch.

Our horses were skid-dist with all the hoopla and hollering going on. We had a tough time getting into our saddles. The Kiowa were all over us. We got off a couple shots, but shooting from the back of a horse isn’t easy. Trying to ride a horse through scrub blackjack oak trees and keep from getting knocked off, by low lying limbs, is not an easy thing to do either, especially when there’s bullets or arrows to dodge, we had both.

They came at us from the trail, so I headed in the opposite direction, which was right through the brush toward their camp. I yelled for Price to follow. The Kiowa began to let fly with their arrows, which were not effective in the brushes.

My horse cleared the bushes and I was in their camp. I leaded over and picked up a piece of firewood, tossed it into the wagon and headed back toward where I thought Price was. Looking back the wagon was on fire. At least that whiskey wouldn’t be enjoyed. The two bootleggers were moving as fast as they could away from the fight. They had a long walk to town.

Price was heading toward me and I motioned towards the trail, he followed. We were moving but not fast enough. I knew they were going to try to get ahead of us and if they did we would be cut off.

My horse wasn’t a cow pony, used to twisting and turning on a button, but he was doing his best. Trying to angle back to the trail I figured we would have fewer heathen to deal with. I yelled to Price, “Head for the trail!” I started pulling that way. The limbs were whipping our faces and it seemed like the trail was a mile away.

Two Kiowa was coming right at me, I got a lucky shot on one and the other lay onto the offside of his horse and the horse veered away scraping the Kiowa off his back against an oak tree. Price was behind me as we came out onto the trail and ran into the rest of the Kiowa.

Our horses plowed right into the middle of those renegades. We just kept pushing, dodging clubs, and doing some swinging ourselves. I thought we were going to make it through the gauntlet until two Kiowa pulled Price from his saddle and knocked him cold and another jumped on my horse behind me.

I woke up sitting in the middle of the trail with my hands tied behind my back and Price was shaking his head trying to clear it from the clubbing he got.

The Kiowa were pulling us to our feet when suddenly, and neat as anything you ever want to see, this gent came out from behind a grove of persimmon sapling. His large horse must have stood seventeen hands and was coal black. The man was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black string tie. His hat was black, wide brimmed and pulled down over his eyes.

The reins were looped around his saddle horn and his hands were filled with two Colt Paterson revolvers; he appeared to know how to use them. He began talking in the Kiowa language and they understood exactly what he was talking about. In fact they looked down right scared and for a Kiowa to be scared there must be something awful mean around.

After they cut us loose, he said “gentlemen, if I were you, I would catch up my horses and get your guns quickly and be on my way. Now let’s just back ourselves out of here, before some of them get brave enough to come at us. With a slight pressure of the rider’s knees, his horse backed out of that situation like he was listening to the conversation.

Wasting no motion or time Price and I took our guns from the not so friendly braves and hit the saddle and raced after that big black. We rode fast and hard for couple miles until the man slowed down so as we could catch up. He said, “Folks call me “Preacher, let’s go a couple more miles and find us a site for a fire and make some coffee.”

He led us into a small creek that we followed for a long mile, before we settled on a campsite, in a grove of cottonwoods, where the creek made a bend and hidden from the main trail. We were in a small canyon with trees covering the opening and a little spring flowing down into a small pool.

The Preacher made a small fire in under low hanging limbs, dissipating any smoke. In a few minutes we each had a cup of good coffee in our hands. “Preacher I sure want to thank you for getting us out of that mess. My name is Zach Watts and this red head is Price Phelps, we’re Deputy Marshals out of Fort Smith. We were escorting a prisoner to Tahlequah and accidentally ran across the trail of those two. We have been trailing along behind them and were trying to catch them selling rotgut whiskey to those Kiowa. Now I don’t know what bought you along that trail but you saved our bacon and anything we can do for you, just say it.”

As I set across the fire from this man he had deep penetrating eyes. He had to stand at least six feet four inches and had axe handle wide shoulders and his black hat hid most of his thick black hair. His face was smooth shaved and had a few lines, not from worry, but just from seeing hard times.

He said, “I came down from southern Kansas and came by Tahlequah yesterday. I set up camp on this side of Tahlequah thinking I would ride in to Tahlequah from the south this morning. I could see you gents trailing after the wagon and was just little curious. So I guess you could say my curiosity saved your lives.”

And I was just little curious as to why he didn’t stay in town instead of out on the trail. Asking would have been prying. However, Price had no reservations about inquiring. “Preacher why didn’t you just stay in town rather than camp out?”

“Now that’s a fair question, I just enjoy being to myself, I guess. Plus I wanted to come into Tahlequah in daylight because I’m looking for someone and I didn’t want to miss him,” His eyes became focused with a sharp, deep and dark penetrating stare. Something foreboding was to be read there. Was it of the past or was it the future?

I asked him about his horse “Preacher I never hear you give your horse any command. He sure is well trained. What’s his breed?”

The Preacher kind of got a faraway look in his eye like he was remembering something he hadn’t thought of in a while, he said, “I’ve been told Water-maker is a cross between a Morgan and a Tennessee-Walker. He saved my life on several occasions, so we have a partnership, an understanding with each other. He trusts me and I always trust him.”

He had my interest now and I ask him “how did you come by him?”

Again Preacher was reflecting back, “I had a little homestead in southeast Kansas and I was tracking a buck down in a canyon and had set up at a watering hole waiting to catch this buck coming to drink.

Sitting there backed up against the canyon wall, I heard a sound coming from a little ways down the canyon. I knew with that sound going on, no buck was coming so I began looking to see what it was. It was coming from a grove of cottonwoods right up against the wall of the canyon. I looked in there but I couldn’t see anything, but I could still hear the sound like hard breathing. Now you don’t go poking around in brushes when you hear a sound like that, you never know what it might be.

I was real careful, taking my time I went up on the side of the canyon wall as high as I could get and edged along, till I was right above the grove. What I saw was old Water-maker lying on his back, with his legs pointed up the canyon wall, wedged between the wall and three large cottonwood trees.

The horse you see standing over there, is not the horse lying on his back in those trees. No telling how long he had been there, but he was so weak from struggling to get up, he couldn’t even raise his head when I come down to him. The bark was completely rubbed off those cottonwoods.

He had a brindle on or what were left of it, but no saddle. Cuts and bruises were all over his body and his legs were in terrible shape from kicking. Rolling down the side of the canyon and bouncing off of trees and rocks, no telling what was in his way. It’s a wonder there was no broken bones. His will to live kept him breathing.

He was dehydrated, so I dribbled some water down his throat. I knew it was going to be tough on him getting him up, but I got my horse, put a rope around Water-maker’s neck, pulled him up to where he was sitting on his bottom and when I let up on the rope, he was so weak it was like a calve trying to walk for the first time, he flopped out from behind those trees. He just laid there breathing hard but couldn’t get up.

I made camp and built my fire really close and covered him with a blanket, I was afraid he might develop pneumonia sweating like he did and going without water so long. The sun was coming up the next morning before Water-maker even attempted to raise his head. I had massaged his muscles most of the night and continued to give him water, but I knew he had to get up on his feet real soon. I started pushing him up and he began trying on his own, it took a while but he finally made it.

After he got steady on his feet, he took a few steps and did something I will never forget? He took two steps and took a nimble at my shirt like he was thanking me. I stayed there with him for a couple days, putting salve on his cuts and massaging his muscles.

The second night I had just spread my ground sheet and blanket, when two rotten low down coyotes that called themselves trappers came up on me from downwind and had me under their guns before I even knew they were around.

I thought I had bought the farm until ole Water-maker came thundering down on those two and knocked them two days from Sunday giving me enough time to put a ball in each of them. Until this day I’m not sure how he knew or why he came to my rescue, but he sure saved my bacon. We’ve been partners ever since. I don’t know where he had come from or who his owner was, I asked around but no one knew of anyone losing a horse.”

I had to ask, “Why do you call him Water-maker?” He laughed and said, “When those two coyotes jumped me and ole Water-maker came to my rescue, one of those varmints had an urge to make water in his britches. When you see that horse coming at you breathing fire, you get the urge to make water, that’s why I call him Water-maker.” I laughed along with him and decided I liked this man called Preacher.

Who was this man? Why his name? I figured that might be for another time.