The Texans (23 page)

Chapter 26

T
he old lobo wolf came trotting out of a draw about a hundred yards away. He was a big, rangy devil with outsized feet and a hide the color of dull steel. He had his nose to the wind, but he traveled without a care in the world. He stopped from time to time to piss on a bush or sniff around for packrat nests and rabbit holes as he made his way toward where Odell, the Prussian, and Placido lay on their bellies on the lip of a canyon.

Odell eased his rifle forward and found the lobo in his sights before a large brown hand clamped around his double barrels and blocked his view. He looked up to see Placido shaking his head with a stern look on his usually unreadable face. He held on to the gun until Odell eased his hammer down.

“Sorry, do you think there are Comanches about?” Odell asked.

“Tonkawas don't kill wolves for sport,” the Prussian said while he studied the rough breaks of the Pease River with his spyglass. “They call themselves the Wolf People, and only use their hides for warrior ceremonies and to grant them power in battle.”

“Wolves chose my people long ago.” Placido didn't seem mad at Odell, but he kept his eyes on him long enough to make sure that the young man had heard what he said.

The lobo must have winded them, for he stopped in his tracks and looked up in the direction of where they lay before he bolted away. Odell would have liked to have had the lobo's pelt. Placido wore a tanned wolf hide over his head and down his back, and Odell thought it looked pretty fetching. The Prussian had a sword and Hatchet Murphy had his hatchet. Odell had the hatband he had made out of the rattlesnake that bit him and the Bowie knife, but felt it wouldn't hurt if he had something more to make him look equally fierce. He thought that maybe his lion pelt might make a fine-looking hat or robe.

“What do you think that is between the river and those hills to the north?” The Prussian offered Placido his spyglass.

“Many tepees,” Placido said without taking the Prussian's optics.

Odell found it hard to believe the big Tonk could see so far with his naked eye. The area the Prussian pointed out was at least six or seven miles across the river. “I don't see anything.”

“Do you see those hills?” Placido asked.

Once the rough breaks of the river ended miles to the north, there was nothing but a flat plain leading all the way to the horizon. Four low, cone-shaped hills rose up out of that plain.

“Placido told me the Comanches believe those hills are magic,” the Prussian said. “I guess they're medicine mounds, or something like that.”

“Big medicine,” Placido grunted.

“How many tepees do you see?” Odell asked.

“They are too far to count,” Placido said, and the Prussian agreed.

“Do you think it's a big village?” Odell wished he could see as far as the Tonk.

“We can ask the scouts.” Placido pointed to the maze of gullies and canyons on the south bank of the river.

After a long search Odell finally picked out the three Tonk scouts ghosting along below them afoot. The Tonks were as comfortable on their own legs as they were horseback, and their wiry, tough bodies and cast-iron lungs could easily keep up with trotting riders on long marches. He was ashamed he hadn't noticed them without having them pointed out. They could have just as easily been Comanches stalking him.

“What do you reckon they've learned?” Odell asked.

The Prussian gave him a sour look. Lately, he had grown very impatient and more than a little on edge. “Herr Odell, you ask too many questions.”

Odell too had long since lost what little patience he possessed. He had left his home almost a year before, with nothing to show for it but months of hard living. He had done nothing to avenge his pappy's death, and he was beginning to doubt he would ever find Red Wing in time to save her. It often seemed to him that he was fated to fail those who he loved.

They wormed backward until they were sure they wouldn't be sky-lined atop the canyon rim, and then stood and went to their horses. They loped back to where the men were dismounted for a midday siesta to rest their horses and allow them to graze a little. Soon after they joined the men, the three Tonk scouts came running up. Despite their long journey to those medicine hills and back, none of them even seemed tired.

Placido spoke with the trio for several minutes and then came back to the Prussian. All the men ceased their casual conversation and storytelling to hear what Placido had to say.

“There's a very big camp of Comanches between those hills and the river,” Placido said. “There are many warriors.”

“How many?” the Prussian asked.

Placido had never quite learned all the white man's numbers, and he was unsure if what he was about to say was correct. “It is the biggest camp we've seen since Buffalo Hump brought the Penatekas down the Colorado years ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“It would take three or four of our war party to equal the warriors they have.”

The men began to question Placido and to discuss the discovery of such a large Comanche encampment. Before they grew too worried with their own speculations, the Prussian asked them to hear him out. He waited until he had all their attention before he spoke.

“We've found the Comanche village we were looking for, and I say we ride across the river and attack it. We are outnumbered but we are not outmanned. Any one of you is worth ten of those Comanche, and if we fight smart I promise you we will deal those savages a hard lick. What say you?”

Every man one of them had come for a fight, and the Texans all nodded in unison. As for the Tonks, they were already painting their faces for war. They needed no speeches and were impatient to fight and plunder their age-old enemies.

“The scouts say there are white men in that camp,” Placido said.

The Prussian snapped to attention almost as if he were on a parade ground. “How many? Could they be the Peace Commission?”

Placido shrugged. “My warriors couldn't get close enough to be sure of their numbers, but they saw the Comanches beating three white men.”

“Did they see Red Wing? Did they see a woman?” Odell asked.

“They saw a dark-skinned girl in a long, white woman's dress,” Placido said.

“Well, what are we wating for?” Odell tightened Crow's cinch and swung into the saddle without touching the stirrup.

“By
Gott
, don't go off half-cocked,” the Prussian growled. “You follow me.”

Odell freed his rifle from the saddle horn and found his stirrups. “If you're going to lead, you'd better get on your horse and ride. Red Wing's over there across the river, and I don't aim to wait for anybody.”

“You listen. The odds are those Comanches know we're prowling around their stomping grounds.” Son Ballard worked his chew around in his jaw and contemplated a hole in the sole of his moccasin. “If that gal is over there we won't do her any good getting ourselves killed. I don't care how tough we are, we ain't going to whip a whole damned passel of Comanches easily. Rein in a little and let's hear how the Prussian intends to skin this coon.”

Chapter 27

T
he men sat stark naked on the ground in front of their former tepee with their hands bound in front of them and their ankles tied together. All but a dozen of the warriors had left them, and those remaining had built a fire. They had pierced cuts of buffalo meat with sticks driven into the ground at an angle over the flames, and they hunkered over their cooking and laughed at the discomfort of their captives.

Agent Torrey covered his genitals with his bound hands and squeezed his scrawny shoulders in toward his chest until he was half his normal size. “I find our current situation to be highly embarrassing and uncomfortable to say the least. I never imagined that such things happened in Texas.”

“It will only get worse,” Captain Jones said. “Our death won't be easy.”

It was disheartening to hear the captain. Despite the man's cynical personality, Agent Torrey was usually impressed with his dry wit and self-assured demeanor. The agent had come to lean on the more experienced man when the trials of the wilderness became too much. But the undignified nature of their captivity made him appear as someone else altogether. He didn't look like a captain anymore sitting there with his pale, pudgy flesh exposed, and his bald head turning red under the sun. The fear on his face was a match for what Agent Torrey supposed was on his own.

“At least old age has already taken my scalp and robbed the Comanches of that pleasure,” Captain Jones said.

“That's enough of that, Captain. Scaring Agent Torrey doesn't help matters,” Commissioner Anderson said.

Agent Torrey was surprised that the commissioner still looked important and commanding even though he was as naked as the rest of them. He thought that perhaps it was because the commissioner was not fat like the captain. Slender people looked much more dignified naked, and it seemed to him that they had an unfair advantage when it came to Indian captivity.

“If the Comanches are right, there's a company of Rangers somewhere nearby,” Agent Torrey said.

“They'd better come quick, if they're coming at all,” the commissioner said.

“You two don't get your hopes up for any Rangers to pull our fat out of the fire. If they hit this village, it's just going to get us killed quicker,” Captain Jones said.

“It doesn't hurt to hope,” Agent Torrey said.

Captain Jones recognized one of the guards for the quieter of the two Comanches that had guided them to the camp. “You're a fine, trustworthy bastard. Judas hadn't anything on you.”

The warrior grinned at him and said something that the other Comanches obviously found very funny. Then the comedian took one of the cooking sticks and held it toward the captain. Only the outside of the steak on it was charred, and the half-raw bit dripped hot, bloody juice. It was plain that the Comanche was offering the captain or his friends something to eat.

“They offer us food? Perhaps they intend to ransom us.” Agent Torrey was willing to grasp at any hope, no matter how slim. He still wasn't certain that Squash had told the truth. “Surely the Comanches wouldn't murder emissaries of the republic who brought gifts and offerings of peace.”

“To hell they wouldn't,” Captain Jones said.

Commissioner Anderson motioned with his chin and held out his bound hands with palms turned upward to let the Comanche know he would take the offered meat. “The condemned man deserves a last supper, and I was foolish enough to pass on breakfast.”

The Comanche grinned and flung the meat off the stick, slinging hot grease across his victim. The bit of sizzling steak hit the commissioner's leg and he flopped around wildly to get it off of him. When he was through, there were red specks across his chest and a deep burn on his thigh.

The rest of the Comanches joined in. While chewing their own meals lustily, they would take up a stick and dexterously fling a piece of meat at the prisoners' bare flesh. No matter how hard the captives tried to avoid being burned, the flying chunks hit home. The three men were soon flopping around on the ground like fish out of water while the Comanches laughed as if it were the funniest thing they had ever seen.

“The blackhearted bastards are devilishly good aims,” Captain Jones said during a break in the action.

The commissioner was trying to reach a particularly nasty burn on his shoulder with his mouth to cool it and didn't answer him. The warriors seemed to have lost their enthusiasm with the game and had turned to the sole focus of filling their bellies with large quantities of meat. Captain Jones said a small prayer of thanks that maybe the ordeal was over, but it turned out to just be an interlude. The Comanches went back to their torturous antics just as soon as their hungers were thoroughly satisfied.

The commissioner and the captain sacrificed their hands to fend off many of the hot pieces, or to at least knock them off their skin, but Agent Torrey refused to let go of his genitals. The warriors found his modesty even funnier than his epileptic attempts to dodge, and as a result, he took the worst punishment of the three.

The warrior who had begun the fun and games walked over and took the glasses off Agent Torrey's face. He put them on himself and made a big show of acting dizzy. The rest of the warriors passed the spectacles around, each of them trying them out and going through the same little act to loud laughter. When the new had worn off the glasses, they went back to flinging hot meat at Agent Torrey.

“Dammit, Mr. Tom! Let go of your taproot and protect yourself,” Captain Jones said.

But Agent Torrey was far too modest for his own good. By the time the Comanches were through, the agent's body was covered in small burns where the hot grease had burrowed itself into his flesh. He curled up on his side in a fetal position and tried to forget where he was at. He thought that if he squeezed his eyes shut tightly enough, perhaps he could make the Comanches disappear.

The hot sun and their full bellies made the Comanches sleepy, and soon they went off to a brush arbor nearby. Most of them proceeded to take naps, but a few of them began to gamble with a set of carved trinkets thrown onto a blanket. They looked up from their game occasionally to check on their prisoners but seemed content to leave off their torture for the time being.

The commissioner's raw wounds stung fiercely, and the sweat running into them and the constant attack of the swarm of flies buzzing around made the pain worse. He tried to ignore his suffering body and reached out and took a piece of meat from the ground. He brushed away the worst of the grass and dirt and tore off a bite of it. Captain Jones watched him chew for a while, and then found himself a morsel and did the same.

“Agent Torrey, you should eat while you have the chance. We need to keep up our strength,” the commissioner said.

Agent Torrey seemed not to have heard him, for he remained curled up in a ball. His two companions felt bad for him and understood his state of mind. Neither of them had any doubt that the Comanches could find a way to break them too.

* * *

R
ed Wing listened to the men's torture from inside the tepee. She was helpless to aid them and knew that it was just a matter of time before her own trials would begin. The suffering of captives was an old story to her, and she waited to hear the sound of footsteps at the door. She had gotten Iron Shirt to confirm that she wasn't Comanche, but there was a price to be paid for that. Her own stubborn and clever plotting had kept her status as an outsider, but soon some warrior or warriors would come to treat her as such.

The Comanches outside had grown quiet, and she took a quick look out the door. It would shame the men for her to see them naked and abused, but she had to know how serious their injuries were. The warriors wouldn't kill them yet, but that didn't mean that the little games they thought up to pass the time wouldn't be dangerous. She was glad to see that the commissioner and the captain seemed little worse for the wear, but her heart went out to Agent Torrey lying there. Except for the rise and fall of his ribs, she might have taken him for dead.

The cowardly instinct for self-preservation urged her not to draw attention to herself, but the sight of the men suffering under the hot sun worked at her more strongly. She took up the Mexican water jug hanging above her and went out the door before she lost courage. She didn't look toward the Comanches under their arbor, but she could feel their eyes on her. It was only a few yards to where the prisoners were, but the distance seemed like an eternity. She expected the warriors to stop her at every step.

She went to Agent Torrey first and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sit up, Mr. Torrey. I've brought water for you.”

He flinched under her hand. “Go away, Red Wing. You shouldn't see me like this.”

“I only see only a friend lying out in the hot sun,” Red Wing said.

He stirred slowly and wouldn't look at her when he finally sat up. She held out the water jug to him, but his bound hands were unable to hold it. Seeing his predicament, she held the rim to his lips and he drank greedily until he could hold no more. He stared at her strangely, and she assumed that he was almost blind without his glasses.

He squinted into the sun and tried to focus on the blur of her face. “I'm not sure you aren't an angel.”

“It's just me, Mr. Torrey.”

She started to rise, but he laid a hand on her forearm. “Thank you.”

She moved on to Captain Jones, who managed the jug on his own. She averted her eyes and knelt by him while he drank his fill. He had nothing to say, and when she felt the jug pressed against her hands, she moved on.

Commissioner Anderson's curly blond locks were tangled with grass and dirt, and burn blisters speckled one side of his face. He never looked away from the Comanches under the arbor while he drank.

“I'm sorry it's come to this,” he said when he was through.

She blamed him for their troubles, but she couldn't find her anger. It would have been a lie to tell him he was forgiven, but there was no pleasure in torturing him further. “You have been wrong, but you're a brave man.”

He had enough spirit left in him to laugh. “No, we wouldn't be here if I had been braver.”

“Look over there and see how those warriors glare at you. It's because they see your courage.”

“Appearing brave has almost been a profession with me. Now that I'm to die without anyone to see, it remains to be seen if I can keep up the act,” he said. “Agent Torrey cringes and cowers, but I wonder if he isn't braver than I am to be so truthful with himself.”

The gambling warriors seemed annoyed enough by her kind attentions to quit their game, and Red Wing got to her feet. “I have to be going. It will mean no good for you if they come over here.”

“Had things been different I would have liked to walk with you along the streets of New Orleans, or even Charleston. There are places beyond Texas where a gentleman and a fine lady belong. I see no place out here for beautiful things,” he said quietly. “The world here is turned upside down.”

Two of the Comanches were coming her way. She left the water jug beside the commissioner and walked quickly back to the tepee. She heard one of the warriors kick the jug away just as she ducked inside.

She sat alone in the shadows at the back of the lodge and wished she could see her mother one last time. Somewhere far across Texas, Mrs. Ida would be sitting on her porch waiting for the boys to come in from the fields. The lightning bugs would be flashing in the yard, and the bullfrogs calling from the river. Red Wing longed to sit at her mother's feet and feel her fingers gently twine her hair. Bud and Mike would make them laugh over supper, and then they would all go back out on the porch to listen to the night and to cool themselves in the breeze.

Her longing was interrupted by the sound of someone at the door. She looked up into the ghostly face she had seen the day before. Older memories came to her in a rush, and all that she had come to believe battled against the evidence before her. The buffalo horn hat was gone, but it was him just the same.

Little Bull stopped just inside the doorway. His fierce face was painted black for war, but there was a slight awkwardness behind the mask. “Hello, Sister.”

“I thought you were dead. I saw you ridden down beneath a Tejano's horse.”

She couldn't believe what her own eyes told her.

“I thought when the white-haired colonel took you away that I would never see you again,” he said.

For an instant she wanted to hug him, but there was a strangeness between them that shouldn't have been there. She struggled to bridge the gap between the man she saw before her and the boy who had been her brother. The flashing eyes, the war paint, and the angry tenseness apparent in his scarred muscles were no part of her memories.

“I have avenged your death many times,” he said.

“I never forgot you.”

“And yet you come here dressed like a white woman to deny your people?”