The Texans (22 page)

“That's the first smart thing I've heard you say since I've known you.” Son slapped him on the back.

Odell tenderly ran his finger inside his mouth. “He knocked one of my jaw teeth loose. I hope I don't lose it.”

The Prussian propped his foot up on Odell's saddle. He wet the fingertips of one hand and polished at a spot on the high top of his fancy boot. “Herr Odell, you will find that none of life's lessons are free.”

Odell twisted his neck stiffly to look at the Prussian. For the first time, the strange foreigner was almost making sense to him.

A large shadow spread across Odell's back as Placido stepped between him and the fire. Odell looked up into the savage face grinning at him.

“Heap big fight,” the Tonk chief said loudly.

Odell rose gingerly to his feet with one hand on his ribs. He wasn't sure if Dub hadn't cracked one or two of them, and his tongue had already swollen until he could barely close his mouth. “Yeah, heap big fight.”

Chapter 24

E
ven though the day was warm, the commissioner dropped the sides of the tepee for more privacy. The four of them sat in the dim light around the ashes of the fire pit.

“Is this Iron Shirt a big chief, or a little one?” the commissioner asked.

“I got the impression that the Comanches here set quite a store by him. I think he's a big chief, maybe a head chief,” Captain Jones said.

Red Wing laughed out loud at their ignorance. “There is no warrior who speaks for all the Comanche, or even most of them.”

“Well, for someone who claims she isn't a Comanche, you sure know a lot about them,” the captain said.

She noticed the slight tremor in the Captain's hands. “I know that you're fools if you think getting one camp of the Comanche to come to sign a treaty will mean peace. They are a scattered people. Sometimes camps come together at certain times for dancing, raiding, or for big hunts. A respected warrior may have a great say among his own camp, or even his band, but every warrior is his own boss.”

“Are you telling us there are no chiefs?” Agent Torrey asked incredulously.

Red Wing struggled to find the words to explain the Comanche. “Not as you think of chiefs. Other tribes have many religious ceremonies and warrior societies that create positions of power and require their warriors to conform somewhat to participate. The Comanches' religion and his position among his people is a more individual thing. When a warrior wants to take to the war trail, he will let it be known. If he is a good talker and a successful fighter he can get others to go with him. No chief or group of chiefs can order him to do one thing or not.”

“How can they even live together with so little political structure?” It was plain the commissioner didn't like what he was hearing.

Red Wing laughed again. “Oh, there's politics. All Comanche warriors jostle with each other for standing. If a warrior is lucky, he comes from a large camp or a powerful band. The larger the camp, the more warriors they have to steal horses. Horses mean riches, and riches can buy respect or wives that will ally you to other wealthy camps or bands. Power in Comanche terms means victory, wealth, and prestige.”

“That still doesn't answer the question of how they settle disagreements among themselves,” Agent Torrey said.

“When an argument arises or a difficult decision must be made the men will gather in council and discuss the best solution. Most of them will come to an agreement, but those who disagree can always leave.”

“So, even if Houston can make a treaty with this bunch of Comanches, none of the warriors, even from this camp, must abide by it?” The commissioner rubbed his temples as if his head were hurting him.

“There is a saying among the Comanche that treaties are only for old beggars who love to talk,” she said.

“Will, President Houston didn't send you out here to solve all of Texas's Indian problems. All he wanted was for you to get as many of the Comanches to Fort Bird as was possible,” Captain Jones said.

“That might have to be enough,” the commissioner said.

Before the conversation could go any further an old squaw appeared in the doorway. She stared at the ground and seemed too timid to speak. After a long moment of awkward silence she unfolded a beautifully tanned deerskin dress and a pair of moccasins. She held them forth in her outstretched arms.

“It seems our hosts come bearing gifts fit for a Comanche princess,” the commissioner said.

Red Wing said something in Comanche, and from the look on the old squaw's face it hadn't been what she wanted to hear. The squaw mumbled something and Red Wing grabbed up a handful of dust and flung it at her. Red Wing was angrier than any of the men had ever seen her and she rattled off another testy burst in her native tongue. Her body was trembling when she finished. She stared at the ground and made it plain that she had nothing else to say. The old squaw laid the gifts down on the ground and backed out of the door.

“Remind me to never offer you gifts. I don't speak Comanche, but I'd say that was quite rude behavior on your part,” the commissioner said.

Red Wing remained quiet for a long time, still looking down. “Yes, it was, but they have to understand that I'm no longer a Comanche. I told her get her filthy hides and her ugly face out of my sight.”

The commissioner risked making her angrier. “Why do you hate those who raised you so much? Was your mother so bitter over her captivity that she planted a bitter seed in you?”

She shook her head solemnly. “I don't hate them. My mother lived many happy years among them, and there was a time when I was happy too.”

“Then how can you choose a life you've led for only a few years over these that should be your people?”

Rehashing old wounds was painful, and she fought back the tears welling up in her eyes. “I once had a Comanche mother and father who I loved very much. I lived among a strong camp, and we had many friends. Then the smallpox came and took my mother, and my father was killed in a fight with the Texans. Our numbers were weakened until we were few, and what was left of us scattered among the Penateka band. An old widow took me in, but she was cruel and I was little more than her slave. When Colonel Moore attacked us and captured me, I thought I would finally die, but I didn't. I was once taught to hate the Tejanos, but the Wilsons were kind to me. Their ways were strange, and it was hard at first, but they gave me back what I had lost before. After a while I had a family once more. I fit myself into a new world and gave them back the love they gave me.”

Red Wing wiped at her eyes and then raised her face to them. “You want to know why I won't go back to the Comanches, and I ask you this. If you were born in a foreign land, would you give up all those you love in Texas to go back to a life that you had almost forgotten? I may be neither one of you nor Comanche, but there is no doubt who my family is. I left here long ago, and now you have brought me back. But I want to go back to where you took me from—home. My mother is waiting there for me.”

The commissioner's companions looked back to him with shame on their faces. He cursed himself for a coward and a bully and wondered how a man of honor could blindly stoop so low. “I fear we have done you a great injustice. I can't take back my crimes, but I promise I will do all that I can to see that you aren't handed back to the Comanches. I will tell them that I was mistaken, and you were only once a captive Mexican child.”

Agent Torrey smiled at her. “That Iron Shirt didn't believe you were a Comanche anyway. Soon, we'll all be on our way back home and we can forget about this difficult journey.”

Red Wing wanted to believe that it all would work out for the best, but she had to be honest with them, no matter how they had treated her. “That dress wasn't a gift from the woman who brought it. Iron Shirt sent her.”

Captain Jones rose to his feet angrily, but the commissioner grabbed him by the wrist. “Captain, I know how you feel about Comanches, but we were wrong to take Red Wing. I've known it from the beginning, but I just wouldn't admit it, even to myself.”

“You and that girl are going to get us all killed.” The captain jerked his arm away and looked from the commissioner to Red Wing. He suddenly looked much older and very tired. “I volunteered for this expedition, but you're asking me to forget who I've hated half my life. If that chief wants her, you and nobody else can stop him. All we can do by holding out on him is to make him mad. Give her to him.”

“I'm asking you to do what's right.”

Captain Jones pulled a flask from his pocket and held it at arm's length. He took a drink and tossed the empty container against the wall. “Well, there goes the last of it.”

“I've brought us this far. Are you still with me?” the commissioner asked.

“I'll stick by you three as far as I can. Hell, we probably weren't going to make it out of here anyway. I just never thought I'd die for a mixed-up Comanche girl. It doesn't take a drunk to see the irony in that.” The captain tried to walk proudly from the tepee, but he staggered slightly at the door.

When he was gone, Commissioner Anderson looked at Red Wing. “They told me before we left Houston that he was a small man and a coward, but I'd say they misjudged him.”

No sooner had the captain disappeared than the people of the village began to shout and the dogs started barking again. The three of them barged out the door and found Captain Jones standing in their way. He was looking to the south at the large bunch of Comanches nearing the edge of the camp. They were stretched out for half a mile, appearing out of a backdrop of dust. Their ponies leaned into the weight of the Comanches' belongings loaded onto the travois they pulled. The warriors scattered out proudly in the lead and their women waved at old friends coming out to meet them from the camp.

The newcomers mixed wildly with the others and laughter and friendly banter sounded throughout the camp. A young brave raced his horse wildly in front of the people and performed several feats of horsemanship while many cheered for him.

“I've never seen such smiles,” Commissioner Anderson said.

Red Wing was surprised at his comment. “They are happy to see old friends and distant family. Sometimes it can be long between visits.”

The commissioner continued to watch the joyous celebration played out before him, and the Comanches' white teeth flashing and their eyes twinkling with pleasure. “Yes, but I don't know that I've ever been that happy.”

“To know the hardships of their life is to know pleasure in the good little things that sometimes come.” She remembered many times when she had either ridden in to such greetings or met visitors to her own camp.

“I find myself strangely envious of them,” Agent Torrey said.

“Remember too that their life can be hard. There is little mercy out here away from the settlements. The weak die, and even the strong sometimes pay a price for their freedom.” She remembered the great losses of her life just as clearly as she had the good times.

“Those are the proudest men I've ever seen. All of them pose and posture like young men going to war.” Agent Torrey pointed toward a cluster of warriors catching up on old times.

“They are Kotsoteka, and once they were the most powerful of all the Comanche. They defeated the
Pakanaboo
and the
Cuampes
until they held the buffalo grounds from the Lakota country to the river the Frenchmen call the Canadian.”

“That's about the proudest, meanest-looking Comanche buck I've seen yet.” Captain Jones pointed toward a warrior sitting a pale yellow horse and talking to Iron Shirt. He wore a buffalo horn hat, and a fresh scalp flitted in the wind from the end of his lance.

Red Wing saw Iron Shirt pointing her way, and she started to go back into the tepee. Just as she reached the door flap the warrior on the horse turned his head and his eyes locked with hers. She stumbled into the lodge with her heart hammering in her chest. She hugged herself tightly and tried to quell her trembling body and to convince herself that she hadn't just seen a ghost.

Chapter 25

T
he buffalo hunting had been good, and there was plenty of food in the camp. The Comanches feasted and visited throughout the night while the Peace Commission cowered in their tepee. Once they thought they heard a great commotion just after sundown, and Iron's Shirt's interpreter soon came to tell them that more Comanches had just arrived. He told them that there would be a council held the next day to hear the white men out. The four of them passed the night in quiet contemplation about what fate held in store for them on the morrow.

They barely had time to eat the breakfast that had been given them before the same interpreter came to guide them to the council. There was no lodge big enough to hold the number of warriors present, so the meeting was held under the shade of a small group of stunted trees on the edge of a dry streambed. The Comanche men sat in a large circle with an opening at the bottom of it. The Peace Commission was motioned to sit in the gap provided, and all of them noticed Iron Shirt sitting on the opposite side of the circle. None of them could read the looks on the Comanches' faces, but it was plain that they had already been discussing the white men in their midst.

While he waited to make sure that Red Wing was seated, Commissioner Anderson noticed another warrior sitting near Iron Shirt. It was the Waco chief, Squash, and the hateful look he was giving the Peace Commission sent cold chills up the commissioner's spine.

“I saw him,” Captain Jones said before the commissioner could point out Squash.

Once they were seated, a middle-aged warrior with a crooked eye immediately began to talk. He didn't speak long, but he pointed at them several times. When he was through the entire council looked a question their way.

“Stinking Tobacco asks what it is that you want. He says the white man always wants something when he comes to talk,” Squash said.

The commissioner got the impression from Squash's cool demeanor that his presence foretold bad things. At least he didn't have to rely on the captain's stumbling Spanish to communicate with the Comanches. He was unsure whether he should stand to give proper drama to what he had to say, but he decided to remain seated just as the crazy-eyed warrior had.

He reached into his pack and began to scatter before him the trade trinkets he had brought. He paused to let them appraise the glass beads, ribbons, hand mirrors, and the few steel knives and pots. Some of the warriors' eyes lit up with the sight of the small offering of plunder, but none of them moved or said anything.

He cleared his throat and gathered himself to give the speech he had been practicing in his head for months. “President Sam Houston has sent me here to speak with the Kotsoteka and all the Comanche who will hear. Long have we Texans and the Comanche fought, but Houston wishes those days to end. There is more than enough land for both our peoples to live in our own ways without killing each other. He asks that you come to Fort Bird on the Trinity in two months to hear his words of peace. He will give many gifts to those who come with good hearts and open ears. These few pitiful things are but tokens of his goodwill.”

Squash smirked and repeated the commissioner's words in Comanche. The warriors seemed unimpressed, and the commissioner hoped that Squash had translated him correctly. A fat warrior on the other side of Iron Shirt finally laughed and pointed at Commissioner Anderson.

Squash laughed with the fat warrior before he translated. “Poor Coyote says that Pretty Soldier has many words but forgot to say what the Comanche must give up for the gifts he promises.”

“President Houston only asks that you stop raiding our farms, carrying away our women and children, and stealing our horses,” the commissioner said.

Poor Coyote crossed his forearms over his round belly and waited quietly for Squash to relay the commissioner's answer. He grunted and shook his head and spoke again when he had heard the Waco out.

“And when there are more Tejanos and they move farther west, are the Comanche supposed to cower in their lodges like children?” Squash asked for Poor Coyote.

“Tell him we have no wish to live out here. It doesn't rain enough to grow crops, and there's a lifetime's worth of better land along the rivers to the east.”

As soon as the commissioner's words were heard, a young warrior spoke angrily. Earrings made of mouse skulls hung from each of his earlobes, and they rattled with every angry movement of his head. The wrath in his voice was just as fierce as the look on his face. Without knowing what he said, the commissioner was sure he would never come to Fort Bird to make peace.

As soon as the angry warrior had finished, Iron Shirt rose on his bowed legs. He wore a strange shirt that appeared to be made of metal. He glanced at the young warrior and then began to speak. He talked as much to the warriors as he did to the Peace Commission, and turned in a slow circle while his hands made signs to go along with the clear lift of his voice.

“I'll be damned, that's an old coat of Spanish chain mail he's wearing,” Captain Jones whispered.

Iron Shirt ceased to talk, but he remained standing. Squash waited politely until he was sure his host was finished. He smiled wickedly. “Iron Shirts thinks you a brave man to come and spit in their faces and suggest that the land to the east where you now live belongs to you. But what he wants to know is why he should believe you tell the truth about the meeting at Fort Bird.”

“Tell him that my word is good, and that I always speak the truth, just as President Houston does. Tell him I know a man like himself would see through any lies as quickly as a hawk spies a mouse in the grass,” the commissioner said.

When Squash had translated, Iron Shirt rotated once again to look at the ring of warriors. There was a sly hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He turned back to face the Peace Commission and held out a hand before him. He stood there as if waiting for something.

Red Wing met his steady gaze and steeled herself. She did not move, and he beckoned her forward with his fingers without moving his arm.

“Come to me,” he said.

She noticed the commissioner looking at her helplessly, and Agent Torrey staring at her with wide eyes. She knew she was just prolonging the inevitable and rose to her feet on shaky legs. Faking a courage she did not feel, she strode forward and stood before Iron Shirt. She did not take the hand he offered, but he stepped quickly forward and grabbed hers anyway. His palm was hard and calloused and he gripped her tight while he looked into her face.

“Woman, have you come back to the People?” Iron Shirt asked.

She understood him plainly. “I'm not Comanche. I'm Mexican.”

“I think you lie.”

It was hard to look him in the eye and lie again. There was a power about him. “I tell the truth. I do not know you.”

He held her arm outstretched for a full minute while he stared at her. Finally, he dropped her arm and turned away. When he had walked back to the far side of the council circle, he turned back and pointed his finger at her. “She is not of us. I do not know her.”

“What'd he say?” the commissioner asked impatiently.

She took her seat again and tried to breathe normally once more. “He agrees that I'm not Comanche.”

Commissioner Anderson looked away from her just in time to see the angry warrior who had spoken earlier leaning forward tensely, as were many of the council. Iron Shirt noticed too, and he held up his hands to ask for patience while he studied the commissioner calmly. His speech was short, and when he was through he strode out of the circle and headed straight for his lodge.

Squash had pleasure written all over him when he finally translated Iron Shirt's last words. “You do not tell the truth. All the warriors here know that you have come to trick us. Many Tejanos are camped a day's ride south of here and they wait to strike the village.”

The commissioner and Captain Jones jumped to their feet, and Red Wing stood behind them. Agent Torrey stayed on the ground with a bewildered, disheartened expression on his face.

“You know that isn't true. We came here to his village alone. Why didn't you tell him that?” The commissioner threw at Squash.

The Waco remained seated. “I told him you weren't to be trusted. I told him how my wife was getting better from her sickness until your four-eyed man put evil medicine inside her and she died.”

“Agent Torrey tried to help your wife,” Red Wing said, shocked and angry at the same time.

“Another lie. Three others in my village who were not as sick as my wife got worse the day you left, and they soon died too. Iron Shirt is wiser than I was to see your wicked hearts at first glance.”

“Are the Comanche so low as to murder their guests?” the commissioner shouted at Iron Shirt's back.

Squash chuckled. “An enemy is never a guest, and nobody asked you to come here.”

The entire circle of warriors was on their feet and pressing close. The commissioner and the captain put hands to their guns, but both of them knew that to lift them was to die right there. The three white men were roughly disarmed and their hands bound behind their backs with rawhide straps. Somebody struck Captain Jones a nasty lick on the head, and when the Comanches finally drug him back to his feet there was a deep cut on his forehead. The warriors marched the prisoners toward the tepee where they had spent the night. Red Wing wasn't bound but was made to come along.

“What are they going to do?” Agent Torrey's voice sounded lost and far away.

Captain Jones reared back his head to try and keep the blood running down his forehead from getting into his eyes. “I reckon they're going to kill us, Mr. Tom.”

Squash was standing halfway to the tepee waiting for them to pass. “They're going to spend all afternoon killing you, and then they will feast and dance tonight. Come morning they will ride out and kill those Rangers across the river.”

Red Wing spit on him as she walked by, and the Waco chief was brushed aside by the Comanche warriors before he could react. He wanted to kill her right then, but she belonged to his hosts. What was about to befall the white men could happen just as easily to him if he crossed Iron Shirt. The goodwill he had created by lying about the Peace Commission might protect his village from the Comanches for a year or more, and perhaps Iron Shirt would bring his camp to the Brazos to trade horses for corn.

Squash's woman had truly died, but she had been a hateful hussy and no great loss. The fact that he was sure that Agent Torrey had nothing to do with her death hadn't fit with his plans. The death of a few Tejanos was meaningless to him if it served him well. He had hated the white man ever since Jim Bowie's treasure hunters had whipped sixty of his warriors and shot off his brother's bottom jaw on the San Saba many years earlier. He couldn't believe Red Wing had dared to spit on him and embarrassed him in front of the Comanches. She had always been too sassy and proud to suit his tastes. He knew he should be riding back to his village before the Rangers got any closer, but he was going to enjoy seeing her well raped and beaten.