The Texans (25 page)

Chapter 30

A
gent Torrey listened to the awful drumbeat. He was sure that something terrible was about to happen to him, and the cries of his friends told him that they were already suffering. Staring into the midday sun without his glasses, he was all but blind, and he could only guess what was happening around him. He had been on the frontier just long enough to hear plenty of stories about what Comanches did to torture their captives. Whispered recollections of the horrible things suffered by pioneers at the hands of savage Indians were almost a hobby of sorts in Texas. He almost wished he could see what was actually going on, as it couldn't be near as bad as his imagination.

Commissioner Anderson had admonished him to be brave as they were marched out and tied to the posts, but Agent Torrey couldn't remember a time when he wasn't scared of almost everything. It was too late to change and had he not been tied up he would have curled up in a ball again and closed his eyes. Dying well was for men who were concerned about their dignity. He had never felt dignified in his entire life.

Surprisingly, his legs hadn't failed him, even though his heart hammered wildly like a runaway horse on hard ground. But having a little more control of his muscles didn't mean that he had found any peace and calm with the acceptance of his impending death. He leaned forward against his bonds and strained to make out what was going on, but all he could see was blurred images that appeared to be dancing in some strange ceremony. Common sense and habitual pessimism assured him that it wasn't his kind of party.

The heat was beginning to get to him, and his vision became even worse. He could hear the dancers nearing him. As if by magic, a painted Comanche face loomed in front of him like a horrible mirage. A wickedly long and pointed knife waved under the agent's nose, and his body became paralyzed with fear. He felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate, but his bladder was too empty to foul himself. The hot sun was almost unbearable, and his mind couldn't hold on to the present.

The face before him changed to the fat little woman he had once considered marrying back in Baltimore. She floated before him with an airy lightness that defied the weight of her plump thighs and broad hips. Her plump cheeks smiled at him, and her little pug nose was the same as it had been all the long years ago. She stayed with him for a long time, comforting him, and her hands were cool on his face. He couldn't help but return her smile. He felt featherlight himself and about to float away.

She faded slowly and was once more replaced by the blinding sun, watering his eyes. The drum had ceased to beat, and he couldn't tell if it was the lack of music or her leaving him that made him feel so sad.

* * *

S
omehow the scouts had let the Tejanos get within five miles of the Comanche camp without seeing them first. Little Bull looked across the distance to his tepee and saw that Buffalo Butt was already catching up his war horse while Speckled Tail went inside for his weapons. The word had passed among the camp, and the horse herd was being brought in and children located.

Little Bull turned to Iron Shirt when the drum started pounding again. “Let's end this. There's no time for games with the Tejanos so close.”

The drumbeat was much quicker this time, and the dance wilder. War cries went up from almost every warrior. Instead of a winding, snaking path to the prisoners, the Comanches cut a beeline straight to them. The beat sped up even more, until it throbbed like a mad pulse in the warriors' veins. The dance's earlier restraint was gone, and the warriors were in a fury by the time they reached the captives. Knives and war clubs flashed in a brutal flurry. When the drum finally stopped, the white men were dead.

Little Bull passed two warriors dragging the four-eyed man back to camp as he ran for his own tepee. Everywhere women were taking down their lodges and frantically packing in preparation to strike camp. The old men and boys would start them west out of harm's way while the warriors like Little Bull went out to give battle to the Tejanos.

Buffalo Butt held his horse while he jumped on, and Speckled Tail handed him his bow and quiver of arrows. He slung the weapons across his back and took the shield and lance she offered next. The lance was twelve feet long, and two of that was blade. The lance head was made from a broken Mexican cavalry saber, and ground to shape with a rough block of stone. He kept the steel sand-polished to a silver sheen, and its point needle sharp.

Pony Heart was watching him with an eager expression, and already the small bow in his hands had an arrow fitted to it. “Don't worry, Father. I will protect the women.”

Little Bull smiled and nodded to the boy, and then he and Buffalo Butt passed a look between them. She laid her hand on his leg, and he put his on top of it for a brief moment.

“Come back to me,” she said.

“Take care of our son if I do not.”

He rode his horse over to where Red Wing sat in the dust with her hands in her lap. She was staring at the bodies of the captives still tied to their posts in the distance. There were tears in her eyes when she finally looked up at him.

“Sister, if you cry so for two white men, then you will cut your hair and scar your flesh before the sun sets. For the ground will be red with Tejano blood.” He rode his horse around her in a tight circle.

She noticed for the first time the silver chain and heart locket hanging around his neck beneath his bison-tooth necklace, and her eyes fell to one of the scalps dangling from his shield. The hair was the deepest red, and it shone like polished copper. Nellie Young had been her friend and neighbor since she first went to live with the Wilsons. Nellie had been a pretty girl, and Red Wing had always envied her beautiful red hair. Nellie's daddy had given her the locket Little Bull was wearing not long before the night the war party slaughtered the whole family and killed Pappy Spurling.

She looked away from him. “There will come a time when your hatred will kill you, and I will weep again as you've made me weep this day.”

It seemed to him that he had been battling the world itself ever since he was a boy, and then she showed up just when he thought he might be finally winning. He wanted to strike her with the butt of his lance, to hit her until she was what he needed her to be. “Don't cry for me if I die fighting as our father did. Cry for yourself if you can't live as he taught us.”

Before she could answer him he loped away to join the mass of warriors already leaving camp in a long, scattered front. Feathers fluttered in the wind, and the little hawk bells braided into the manes of many of their horses rang the cadence of their strides. Watching him ride away was like looking back over her shoulder all the long years before, when war and misfortune had cleaved them apart with a dull blade until they were a family no more. Her brother was just a memory that she couldn't hold on to, but losing him didn't hurt any less the second time.

Loss, loss, and more loss—her heart was full of more dying than living, and she wanted to live more than anything. She wanted to play her piano again and to read the books that had become her good friends. She wanted to hear her mother softly singing over her cooking, and she missed the sturdy log walls and plank door of the Wilson cabin locking her away against the bad things that trod the earth. Most of all, she wanted to see her Odie again, and to have him look at her the way he always did. He never demanded that she be either White, Comanche, or mongrel half-breed. He asked no more than what she could give, and she needed that kind of love. She was weary of straddling two worlds.

Buffalo Butt took her moccasin toe and nudged Red Wing in the back. “You will help us pack, and then we must be gone.”

Red Wing wiped her eyes and rose to her feet. It had been long since she had done such work, but she remembered. Her first mother had taught her well. Little Bull's wives frowned at her and thought her slow and clumsy for one supposedly raised among the People.

But Red Wing's work was purposely slow, for she was stalling for time. The two squaws were obviously scared, and that meant it was a considerably large force of Texans that were coming—perhaps large enough to rescue her. Seeing the commissioner and the captain murdered had almost broken her, but something inside her wouldn't let her give up, no matter how hard her mind tried to convince her otherwise. There was hope yet, no matter how slim, and she knew she would have to be stronger than ever.

While she worked she cast a glance at the gray buffalo runner tied nearby. The horse looked swift, but it would be hard to steal him with the two squaws watching her. She would bide her time as long as she could, and when an opportunity arose, or the situation forced her hand, she would have to act quickly and decisively.

She had seen Agent Torrey led away alive. No matter that he had been one of the party who brought her to the Comanches, he was the only one of them she didn't blame. He was as much a victim of circumstance as she was, but trying to free him too would only get her caught. The thought of the gentle bookkeeper dying as the others had was terrible, but there was nothing she could do to save him. She was strong enough to face the cold truth, but she hated the decisions survival pushed on her. If she wanted to go back to her family, she was going to have to be as hard and cunning as her captors. To live as a civilized woman once more, she was going to have to think like a Comanche.

Chapter 31

I
nstead of coming across the plains to the east of the Comanche camp, the Prussian's Texans chose to cross the Pease River at a huge horseshoe bend miles to the south of the four medicine mounds. The maze of canyons and eroded ridges made for hard traveling, but they also offered the chance to possibly sneak up on the Comanches. The Tonks went ahead on foot to make sure they weren't ambushed, and the rest of the party rode slowly so as to stir up as little dust as possible. The men were quiet, and Odell saw them cringe when a shod hoof struck a rock too loudly, or someone's canteen thumped against their saddle swell.

They angled toward the river where it turned north, expecting at any minute to be ambushed or spied out by some Comanche hunter. They purposely held to the roughest, least-likely-to-be-traveled terrain until they finally reached the edge of the plains some two miles from the Comanche camp. Sporadic gunfire began to pop ahead of them, and the Prussian quickened their pace. The Tonks had obviously found the enemy, or the enemy had found them.

The Prussian led them forward at a trot until they came down the canyon to where its broad mouth emptied out onto the plain. A narrow creek cut across their front, east to west, and the Tonks had taken a position behind the high north bank. Just across the drainage from them the Comanches darted back and forth on their horses. The wind carried puffs of black powder smoke across the creek like little clouds as the Tonks tried to keep the growing numbers of the enemy at bay.

“By
Gott
, ride like hell for that creek!” the Prussian shouted.

Not only were the Tonks in trouble, it was plain to all that the position they held was of strategic importance. The Prussian stuck his spurs to his Kentucky horse, and the rest of them followed hard on his heels. They crossed a quarter mile of open ground at a dead run and plunged down the steep banks to join the Tonks at the bottom of the creek bed. The creek itself was only a narrow, sandy trickle, but the channel was forty yards wide and as much as eight feet below the level of the prairie surrounding it. The Tonks were using the north bank as a breastwork and taking occasional long rifle shots at the Comanches. Most of the Texans dismounted and joined them, while others remained to hold the horses.

Odell looked over the lip of the bank at the line of Comanches forming four hundred yards away. The scouts had reported a large camp of them, but he had never envisioned so many. There were at least one hundred warriors formed up, and more still coming from the camp. He had sworn vengeance against the Comanches, but he couldn't help but admire their wild, gaudy trappings of war. Feathers, bells, and beaded strings swung and fluttered in the wind. Even at a distance, the bright-colored symbols and patterns painted on warriors and horses were visible. While some shouted taunts and challenges to work up their courage, other warriors dashed back and forth between the two armies, hanging off the far sides of their running horses and purposely trying to draw the Texans' fire. The whole scene was like some crazy, wicked circus.

“They're madder than a tomcat with his ass on fire,” Son Ballard observed.

“Gonna be a heap big fight.” Placido had a happy, almost dreamy look about him.

Odell strained to try to make out the Comanche camp a mile beyond the warriors. Although most of the buffalo-hide tepees were darkened by weather, there was still enough contrast between their pale cones and the color of the dry grass to make them stand out. The squaws were taking down some of the lodges as he watched, and boys were catching horses from a huge herd driven to the edge of camp. Odell couldn't begin to number the herd but guessed that there were over a thousand horses milling in the dust their hooves created. It was too far to make out individuals, but he frantically searched for signs of Red Wing anyway.

“They're tearing down their village,” he worried aloud.

“Yep, they're getting ready to run while the warriors give us hell,” Son said.

The thought of Red Wing being carted away while the braves kept him pinned in the creek bed was almost more than Odell could bear. He had come too far to see that happen. “We have to charge through to the camp.”

Both Son and Placido squinted at him like he was crazy. Neither one of them looked especially scared, but they didn't seem willing to charge either.

“Red Wing may be in that camp,” Odell said.

Son considered the girl's predicament, if she was indeed a prisoner. He had seen the Comanches kill their captives rather than lose them during retreat. If the badly outnumbered Texans managed to rout them and put them on the run, there was a danger that all Odell would rescue was her body. He decided not to mention any of his thoughts. There was no sense in adding to the boy's worries.

“I agree with the Prussian. The Comanches won't wait long to attack us, and we should fort up here to take their best shot,” Son said.

“That Prussian can sit on his sword for all I care. I ain't coward enough to sit here while the Comanches carry Red Wing off,” Odell said hotly.

No sooner had the words left Odell's mouth than the Prussian stepped up beside him. A tall black soldier's hat that was more like a flat-topped helmet with a bill was on his head, and a shiny tin skull and crossbones was pinned to the front of it. He glared at Odell and held his saber point just inches from the young man's chest. With his black hat and black silk shirt, all he needed to look like the Devil himself was red eyes and smoke rolling out of his nose.

“Herr Odell, you must learn to curb your tongue or face the consequences of your words,” the Prussian said. “If the Comanches do not kill you first, then I will ask for satisfaction for your insults.”

Odell studied the sharp blade wagging beneath his nose. “You do whatever you're of a mind to when this is over.”

“You are such a fool it won't bother me so bad to kill you.” The Prussian lowered his saber slowly.

“Where the hell did you get that hat?” Son asked in an attempt to break the tension.

The Prussian's eyes rolled up to the bill of his hat, as if he had forgotten what he wore and could see it from that vantage point. “First Life Regiment, Death Head Hussars, the finest light cavalry the world has ever known.”

“Is that what you've been carrying in that box strapped to your saddle?” Son seemed truly interested in unique headwear.

“Yes,” the Prussian said impatiently.

“Well, wearing hats like that is probably why you were fighting all the time back where you came from,” Son said.

“How is that, Herr Ballard?” The Prussian spoke better English than any of them when he wanted to, but he hadn't mastered all the nuances of the language. Some things flew right over his head or confused him.

“Ah, nothing. I was just speculating on how it must be open country over there in Prussia, else wise you boys couldn't wear those hats,” Son said. “You couldn't get through the brush with that stovepipe strapped on your noggin.”

“Are you trying to be funny, Herr Ballard?”

“No, I was just admiring your hat. If that thing doesn't strike fear in the Comanches, then nothing will.”

The Prussian scowled as if he were not quite sure whether he should be mad at Son or not. He gave Odell a curt nod. “We'll settle our difficulties at a later date.”

“I won't be hard to find,” Odell said.

“Those heathens out there might do for us all, and rob you two of your pleasure.” Son pointed to the Comanches.

“We can defeat them if we are disciplined.” The Prussian went up and down the creek spreading fighting words to the men.

Everybody along the Texan line was counting Comanche heads, and trying to convince themselves that the Prussian was right. While they watched the enemy a Comanche on a dun horse rode out almost halfway to the creek. He gestured wildly and shook his bow at them. He shouted at the Texans while he walked his horse slowly back and forth in front of them. One of the Tonks had enough of the Comanche's mocking insults and took a shot at him. The range was barely two hundred yards, and shouldn't have been that difficult of a shot for a sure-enough shooter with a good rifle.

The Comanche continued to parade back and forth as if the Tonk's bullet had come nowhere close to him. His antics caused several of the Texans to lose patience and fire at him. None of their potshots found their mark, and the warrior stopped his horse facing them and lowered his shield. He reared back his head to the sky and blew a great breath of air out. Red smoke issued from his mouth.

“Iron Shirt has big medicine. He believes he can blow our bullets aside,” Placido said.

Iron Shirt continued to taunt the Texans, blowing big puffs of red smoke at them from behind his shield. It seemed as if he could indeed blow the marksmen's bullets aside, for lead kicked up dust around him or flew over his head.

“To hell with him.” Odell spent a long time aiming and then squeezed his trigger. His bullet did no apparent damage to the Comanche with the big medicine.

“Danged fools, you ain't going to get a bullet through that bull-hide shield at this range,” Son yelled down the line.

“He's wearing some kind of armor,” somebody added after another failed shot and a string of profanity.

Odell dropped his rifle butt and began to reload. He had experimented with a heavier load while hunting buffalos, and he poured a premeasured charge down the rifle barrel from a hollow piece of switch cane. After ramming a bullet home he primed his pan and leapt up on top of the creek bank. He knelt and aimed the gun with his left elbow propped on top of his thigh.

“You're a stubborn sort, ain't you?” Son asked.

Odell ignored the remark and focused on the rifle sights on his right-hand barrel. He had increased the powder charge by half again and hoped his gun would hold together as it had with the few test shots he had fired. His earlier experience with the toughness of Comanche shields had taught him that he was going to need a little more oomph. The Bishop hit about three inches high and a little to the right at a hundred steps with the heavy load. He didn't have a clue how that would correlate at over twice that distance, but he took a fine bead a little to the left and to the bottom of Iron Shirt's shield. His right eye was still swollen some from the beating Dub Harris had given him, and he squinted it open and closed a few times to try to clear his vision.

Apparently, Odell had done a poor job of calibrating his crude powder measure, for he was sure his gun had exploded the instant he fired. It was if he had touched a cannon off. His footing on the edge of the creek had been precarious, and the recoil kicked him back down the bank to land on his butt. His ears rang from the concussion, and it took him a count of three to remember just where he was. He stared dumbly at the strange faces looking down at him until he finally recognized Son and the others laughing at him.

Miraculously his gun was still in one piece, but his shoulder and cheek felt like a mule had kicked him. The Tonks and the Texans who weren't laughing at him were cheering wildly and pointing toward the Comanches. He scrambled back up the bank just in time to see Iron Shirt tug himself free of his dead horse.

“By
Gott
, Herr Odell, I swear on my father's beer and my mother's chastity, you are the greatest horse killer in Texas,” the Prussian roared.

Odell felt more than a little embarrassed, but the men's enthusiasm soothed some of the sting of being knocked on the seat of his britches by his own gun. He watched as one of the braves led a spare horse out to Iron Shirt. The red ochre dust that the medicine warrior had spewed from his mouth was smeared all over his face, and he looked at the Texans with a dazed expression on his face.

“That'll learn that heathen some manners,” Son said. “He won't pull that act again with Odell here to shoot at him.”

“I wasn't aiming for his horse,” Odell muttered.

“Keep a-shooting, Odell. You'll soon have 'em all afoot,” Kentucky Bob Harris called out down the line to him.

Odell's dismounting of Iron Shirt had the Tonks' blood up, and many of them were soon standing on the edge of the creek and shouting taunts of their own and flashing insulting hand signs. A Tonk named Crazy Bug lifted his breechclout to show his bare ass and cawed like a crow at the Comanches. Soon, all the Tonks were up out of the creek bed and joining the ruckus.

For the first time, Odell noticed the white cloth armbands every one of them was wearing, and looked to Son. “What are the white rags for?”

“The Prussian had them tie those on. He figured in the thick of things that one kind of Injun might get to looking like the other to our boys,” Son said.

Another Comanche brave rode out alone and called to the Tonks. Odell was surprised when Placido, who had seemed calm to the point of boredom up until that point, went to his horse and started out to meet the Comanche. His massive shoulders were slumped, and his long legs dangled almost comically beneath his little mustang's belly. A small shield was on his left arm and an ancient, battered musket propped up on his right thigh.