The Wrinkled Hand Chase

Blanco Canyon was just beginning to cool in the waning afternoon sun as Dix made his way out of Anderson’s Fort following the Freshwater Fork of the Brazos River northward deeper into the Comancher’ia. Indian and soldier sign was everywhere.  Trails crossed and recrossed, wagon tracks rutted the landscape in a haphazard fashion--so much activity was going on in the area Dix doubted anyone would pay attention to one more set of tracks made by horse and mule.  Lightning played across dark blue clouds far to the west, across Blanco Canyon and far out onto the palisaded plains. Judging distances in this environment was a guess at best but no sound of thunder reached Dix nor had One-Sock or Rainey Buck reacted to the diminishing thunderstorm. Blanco Canyon was aglow with yellows of slanted sunlight, whites of rocky outcrops, and the bluish-green of curly-mesquite grass. Here and there the red nut-like blooms of cactus added color to the landscape. Occasional bunches of Indian grass and Blue gramma added their touches to the vista.  Dix looked at Lonzo’s map once again and guided the grullo into a small narrow box canyon about one mile south of the point marked for exiting Blanco Canyon proper. The little canyon wound through three shallow easy turns and the faint trail ended at a small spring set deep at the bottom of the little steep walled gorge.  Some traveler in times past had sunk a five gallon lard can in the mouth of the trickling spring. Removing the top of the can, Dix discovered a bubbling pool of the freshest, coldest water he had ever tasted.  He filled the leather water bucket for the animals, then emptied and refilled all of his canteens.  After drinking his fill he sat back for a few moments to admire the little canyon. In the light of late afternoon he could almost imagine a peaceful family passing by, finding the water, and rejoicing with a picnic complete with romping children and yapping dogs.

Ma and Pa Joplin had taken him and his sisters out on many such pleasant outings. A quick cramp in his stomach intimated either homesickness or hunger.  Although his older sisters had dealt him no small amount of misery and vice-versa, the Joplins were a close family and he loved each of them dearly, missing Charlsie, Leota, and Bobby with all his heart. Shrugging his shoulders at things that can’t be changed, he explored about the spring for a while then spent several minutes pondering some reddish paintings he had discovered on a portion of the sandstone bluff about fifteen feet above his head.  The pictographs, one of an animal with horns, undoubtedly were not intended to be factual but stylized and were probably supposed to represent a buffalo. Two of the paintings must have been hunters that had curiously contrived headdresses and clutched spears in each hand.  In what millennium perhaps had the “Old Ones” camped by this little spring of water?  Were they here in the waning light of late afternoon and climbing to that spot by way of some long since eroded boulder and celebrating life with these paintings, had they picnicked? Had children romped and dogs yapped?

Reluctantly, Dix loaded his cache of cool water, placing five of the half-gallon canteens across One-Sock’s pack and the other on the McClellan saddle before he mounted and made his way back down the trail out of this idyllic place, turning toward the gentle slope he could see about a mile ahead. It took a while; the terrain was a broken series of deep rincons which necessitated many ups and downs. He wished there was time for more exploration. A small mesa, its flat top not more than a hundred yards wide, invited an arrow point search.  Dix would have bet money Native Americans from the “Old Ones” to the Comanche had used the little mesa as a lookout post. In his imagination he could almost smell the smoke of signal fires as he skirted the western flank.  Additional ridges and gullies hampered direct travel and nightfall was not far off by the time Dix and the animals topped out the caprock and gave Dix his first true glimpse of the high plains. He walked the horse and mule perhaps two hundred yards into the sea of tall grasses before he became aware of chill bumps racing up and down his back and arms. As far as he could see in any direction waves of grass were coming his direction on the tide of a gentle southern breeze. These plains threw a man back upon himself and his emotions ranged from a lone helplessness to a marvelous feeling of unrestrained freedom.  For a few moments his stomach lurched as if he had suddenly boarded ship in the midst of a pitching storm. Shaking his head he realized that he had only been staring at the grassy waves. He ran his tongue around lips dried by breathing through an open mouth, a mouth frozen open in awe. He raised himself quickly in the saddle and looked back at his trail. Blanco Canyon was gone. It was not there any more.  It had mysteriously filled and grassed over in just the few moments since Dix had cleared the Caprock’s rim. Panic rose in Dix’s throat; a sour bile of primal fear clutched at his being.  He jerked Rainey-Buck’s rein first to the right then quickly to the left unable to decide which way to turn around.  Swinging his leg up Dix shot to the ground to stand on quaking knees in grass to his waist.  From the north the waves were coming at him, immersed to his waist, he felt as if he were drowning and just as quickly remounted.

He sat for several minutes attempting to gather his wits. Twilight deepened. Some semblance of sanity slowly pushed into his brain and Dix began to reason again.  He walked the animals back to the west and sure enough Blanco Canyon reappeared in that direction.  It had not filled and disappeared. What a  marvel. Evidently the land sloped gently away from the caprock rim because Dix could turn, ride fifty paces further into the tall grass, and the canyon again disappeared from view, but damned if you could tell there was any slope at all.  You couldn’t feel it in the saddle or in the way the animals moved.  In every direction an absolutely flat sea of grass for as far as the eye could perceive, God-Almighty, what a place, what a humbling place. Dix had crossed tall-grass prairies that were very flat and large but all of them, without exception, had hills in the distance, trees somewhere, rocky outcrops that defined their limits--gave landmarks.  But not so this plain. Right there Dix picketed Rainey Buck and One-Sock and wondered how anyone could ever feel secure camping out in the open like this. Usually a campsite had boundar