The Texans (2 page)

Chapter 2

O
dell's home was dark and lifeless, and for a minute he contemplated bypassing it entirely and going straight to see Red Wing. However, the glowing coal of his grandfather's pipe brightened and dimmed in the darkness in some strange symphony with the lightning bugs' pulses as they flitted about the yard. The old man must have drawn especially hard on his pipe when Odell neared the porch, because for an instant he could plainly see the seamed and cracked lines of his pappy's face.

“Where've you been, boy? I was getting worried about you.” Years of smoking and corn liquor had made Pappy's voice more like a growl.

“I got to hunting and ended up farther away than I planned.” Odell leaned against the corner of the house at the end of the porch.

“The moon's damned near full tonight, and you ought to know by now that the Comanches like to ride by the light of the moon.”

“I saw me a Comanche . . .” Odell had intended to impress, but he regretted his words just as soon as he let them slip out of his mouth.

“You saw a Comanche?”

“Yeah, I saw him over on that little creek just across Mustang Prairie. I was fifty yards from him and he never even knew I was there.” Odell thought recounting his prowess in getting the drop on a Comanche might help his grandfather forget the folly of his losing the horse not so long before.

“I didn't hear any shots,” Pappy said.

“Aw, he ran off when he finally spotted me.”

If there was one thing Pappy Spurling could do exceptionally well, it was cussing. He got up so fast that his rocking chair almost tipped over, and he let out a long string of the vilest, most imaginative profanities while he stomped half the length of the porch and back. “Dammit, boy, that Comanche buck could be prowling around here right now waiting to steal our stock or scalp us in our sleep. Ain't you ever going to get a lick of common sense? If you see a Comanche, you shoot the sonofabitch and don't give it any more time nor thought than you would killing a rabid dog.”

“I reckon I spooked him off, and he'd be scared to try anything around here now with us knowing he's around.”

“I swear, sometimes you make my ass want to dip snuff. Comanches ain't scared of nothing. You don't shoo them off like chickens under your feet.”

“It was just one Comanche buck, and not much more than a boy at that.”

“Comanches are like fleas. When you see one, there's bound to be more around. And besides, one Comanche can raise more hell than ten of any other kind of Injun I ever knew.”

Pappy was pulling at his long, white chin whiskers like he did when he was worrying over something and reached inside the front door and pulled down his old Kentucky rifle from its pegs, his practiced hands finding it quickly even in the dark. He sat back down in his rocking chair with that long rifle across his knees and rocked fiercely while his pipe worked like the furnace on a highball locomotive. He had fought the Creeks with Andrew Jackson in Alabama, and his eyes strained into the dark around the cabin looking for Comanches sneaking up on him.

While Pappy rocked, he considered the long shadow of his grandson beside him. Odell was a good kid, but the fact that he was a kid was half of what kept Pappy put out with him. There was a seventeen-year-old trapped in a man's body, and Odell's teenage mind couldn't understand why he wasn't treated like the man he appeared to be. Pappy figured that maybe time and patience were the only things that would ever make a man out of Odell, but those were two things that Pappy had little of. His old bones had just about run their life's course, and he'd never had much patience even when he was younger.

A stubborn stump that had to be dug out of a field, a cranky mule that needed shod, or any other kind of hard work was something he could butt his head against until the job was done. He didn't mind things that got in the way of his plans, as long as he could lay hands on those problems and bend them to his will. He was sure he would eventually carve a good farm out of the brush, but he was by no means confident where anything concerning raising children was concerned. You could butt heads with kids all you wanted and not get anywhere for your troubles. He felt he had done a terrible job with his own children, evidenced by the fact that his only son was so inept as to be unable to even travel from Georgia to Texas without getting himself killed, thus leaving Pappy with Odell to raise.

“You turn in, but sleep light. I'll wake you later and you can relieve me on the porch,” Pappy said.

“I was planning on going over to the Wilson place.” Odell thought Pappy was getting all shook up over nothing.

“You're going to do what? Are you out of your mind?”

“Somebody needs to warn the Wilsons.” Odell was instantly proud of himself for thinking up such a quick and commonsense excuse to leave.

Pappy grunted begrudgingly. “You go ahead, but hurry back here as soon as you've given them word.”

“Can I take your horse, or at least one of the mules?” Odell asked. It was four miles to the Wilson place.

“No, you'd just lose whatever you rode,” Pappy said. “Anyway, those long legs of yours are about as fast as any saddle horse can walk.”

Odell knew there was no sense arguing and started along the trail that led up the river. The moon was bright enough that he could see his way as plain as day.

“Don't you get to mooning over Red Wing and forget to come home,” Pappy called after him. He chuckled to himself after the boy was out of earshot.

Odell would have mumbled some smart-alecky remark but thought he had better not risk it. Pappy was hard of hearing if you were trying to get his attention for something you needed, but sure enough, if you were a hundred yards from him and mouthed off in a whisper, he would hear you. Odell spent the first two miles grumbling to himself about that crotchety, cantankerous old coot. He was danged near a grown man, and it was high time he left home. He was bigger than any Texan he'd ever met, and he didn't need anybody bossing him around like he was some snot-nosed kid.

His temper and his desire to see Red Wing put wings on his feet, and it took him just half an hour to reach the Wilson place. His mood brightened when he came within sight of the house. The moonlight was so bright he could even make out somebody on the front porch. His heartbeat quickened. She was waiting on him like she had for most nights during the last month.

His lifted spirits were short-lived when he noticed the horse tied to the corral beside the house. The Prussian had beaten him there, and his hopes of stealing a kiss would have to wait for another night. He stopped in front of the porch and studied the shadows of Red Wing and the Prussian sitting side by side with their feet in the grass.

“Hello, Odie.” Red Wing always called him that.

“Herr Odell, it's good to see you.” There was something about the Prussian's strong accent and buttery voice that made Odell envy him. It was smooth as a kitten's purr.

“It's good to see you too.” Odell thought nothing of the kind. For some reason he always felt belittled in the Prussian's presence. He was pretty sure he could lick him, but then there was that damned sword that the Prussian always had at his side.

“I'm glad you came,” Red Wing said.

Even with the moonlight, Odell couldn't see her in detail, but he knew that face just the same. He thought about smooth brown skin and those soft doe eyes. Her hair was as black as the darkest night, and she would be wearing the red ribbon he'd given her to tie it back.

“Herr Odell, what brings you on such a long walk in the night?” the Prussian asked.

“There are Comanches about.” Odell was sure that damned foreigner knew good and well what he'd come for. The Prussian was just rubbing it in that he'd gotten there first.

“Comanches? I hope there will be a time when we've rid the country of those thieving, killing devils,” the Prussian said, or at least that's what Odell thought he had said. The Prussian's accent was so strong that Odell couldn't always understand him, and half the time he mixed his native German tongue into what he said.

“I did a little scouting and crossed the trail of one this evening.” Odell saw no sense in giving his story any more detail. It wouldn't do to have the Prussian know he'd let a Comanche pass through his sights without firing a shot. Odell had come to learn that most Texans were pretty much of a similar opinion when it came to Comanches.

“By
Gott
, those gut eaters are probably stealing my horses and burning my house right now.” The Prussian stood angrily with his sword sheath rattling against the porch.

Odell thought it rude and highly insensitive for the man to be talking so harshly about Indians in Red Wing's presence. While true that she wore pretty dresses, played the piano, and sang beautiful folk songs, the blood in her veins was Comanche. Colonel Moore had captured her on a raid against the Comanches sometime around the Battle of Plum Creek. He had given her to the Wilsons, and half the white pioneers along the Colorado River had curled up their noses at them for taking in a savage child.

The Wilsons were about the richest folks in the country, but their money never had been able to buy them a daughter, and Mrs. Ida Wilson wanted one more than anything. They took Red Wing in and started raising her like a lady. Four years later, very few who didn't know her would have guessed she had been born a Comanche. Her adaptation to the white man's ways had been remarkable in such a short time, and she was nothing if not beautiful. Most folks had conveniently forgotten her heritage, especially the overabundance of bachelors in a land short of women. She spoke better English than any Texan was expected to and had already read more books than Odell ever knew were written. The only sign of her former life was the fact that she insisted on keeping her Comanche name, even if a roughly translated Texas version of it.

“Do you think the Comanches will come here?” There was no hiding the terror in her voice.

“There was just one of them. I don't think there's anything to fear.”

“There will be more of them,” she said quietly.

“Don't worry, Frau Red Wing. I will stay here to fight for you if need be. There are enough of us here to stand off many Comanches,” the Prussian said.

Odell didn't like that at all. If anybody was to do any fighting for Red Wing, he intended to be the one to do it. The Prussian had his left hand on the pommel of his sword just like he always did, and Odell couldn't help but wish he had one too. He had to admit that the weapon made a man look far more impressive than a Bowie knife or just a plain old butcher knife stuck in a belt. The Prussian cut quite a figure in his fancy coat and ruffled shirt and with that sword rattling against his leg. Supposedly, he had killed two men with that blade. That might have just been talk, but what was indeed a fact were the two Lipan Apache skulls stuck on top of fence posts at the Prussian's corral. The two Indians had made the mistake of trying to steal his horses.

“What's this about Comanches?” Israel Wilson stepped out on the porch, followed by the rest of the clan.

“Odie saw a Comanche,” Red Wing said.

He wished she would quit calling him that in front of everybody. “There was just one.”

“Why didn't you shoot him?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

“We'd best put the chain and lock on the corral,” Israel said. They had built a tall picket pen to enclose their stock at night. “The dogs will smell them out if they get close.”

“Bud, go fetch me my pistol gun,” Mrs. Wilson said to her oldest son.

“Honey, you don't need your pistol. Me and the boys and Major Karl have enough guns to protect you.” Israel Wilson put his arm around his wife's waist.

The old lady shoved him away gently and took the pistol her son brought her. “Ever since I saw what those Comanches did to Jenny Wilbarger, I vowed I won't be caught without my gun when Indians might be at hand.”

Odell had always been pretty impressed with Mrs. Ida, if in fact a little intimidated by her. She never failed to have something to say to him, or anyone else for that matter. She had a sharp tongue and a low opinion of most men's ability where any kind of thinking was concerned. Life had taught her that men did little but suffer women with babies, scratch themselves, and wander off to play at the least excuse. She had birthed and raised two sons in a one-room log cabin without another woman within twenty miles to comfort her and felt that she was more than a match for any man who liked to puff himself up by making pioneer talk. While she often sounded as cranky as a wildcat with its tail being twisted, she wasn't near as mean as she let on.

“Mama, quit being so dramatic. None of us are going to believe you'd shoot yourself to keep the Comanches from getting you. You couldn't stand the thought of missing out on scolding them a little while you had the chance.” Bud was already ducking out of her reach when he said it. He was the joker of the Wilsons, if a little on the slow side, and always willing to risk his mother's wrath for the sake of fun.