by Drew McGunn
For a moment Will questioned the strategy upon which they were embarking. Seguin rode up at that moment and saw the look of distaste on Will’s face. “Juan, are we doing the right thing? Look at them,” Will said, waving his arm toward the prisoners.
Seguin looked them over and quietly said, “They are a sad sight, General Travis. It reminds me of something that happened a few years ago. My father and I led a part of my father’s vaqueros after a Comanche raid destroyed some farms nearby. We caught up with the war party and killed some of the warriors and rescued their prisoners, our neighbors.” He lowered his voice further, and continued, “Buck, the women they captured had been raped repeatedly, and beaten. The children were terrorized. I know for a fact that several of those young ones still wake up sweating, screaming from their nightmares. Both women, who we rescued, good Catholic women, committed suicide. They couldn’t live with what they went through. They were buried in unconsecrated ground; the church makes no excuse for suicide. I owe it to those families, just as you owe it to the Parkers, to end this savage war. Look at that.” He pointed to the burning camp, drawing Will’s attention to the loot from many Texas farms, littering the ground, as the teepees were consumed by fire.
Seguin continued, “It wasn’t a complete success, either. A few of the warriors avoided our cavalry and Rangers. We think some of their women and children also managed to escape.”
Will’s spirits rose when Crawford and Wyatt came over gave their own reports. One Ranger had been wounded when trying to stop one of the Comanche women from fleeing. He had been stabbed in the leg. His companions were not able to find her, but they stopped his bleeding and brought him to the battalion surgeon. Wyatt told him three of his men had been injured by arrow fire. They too were with the surgeon and were expected to recover. The Major was positively beaming as he recounted to the other officers how his men swept across the prairie, using the terrain to their advantage as they assaulted the village.
Before the prisoners were marched away into captivity, Will freed the oldest man, who was bent with age, arthritis long ago stealing his mobility. As many of the Comanche who ranged the western reaches of the Republic, the old man spoke passable Spanish. Will asked Seguin to translate, “You are free to go. Find your fellow Comanche and tell them we have destroyed your band, killed your warriors, captured your women and children, just as you have captured our women and children. If you want yours returned to the Comanche people, all of your chiefs from all of your bands will come to San Antonio with all your captives.”
With eyes still blazing in anger, the old man spat in the dirt at Will’s feet and said something in Spanish. Then he turned on his heels and started walking west, along the Brazos. Will turned to Seguin, “What was that about?”
Despite his swarthy complexion, Seguin colored a bit, “Ah, Buck, I don’t think it has an English equivalent.”
Chapter 9
The sun hung at its zenith in a cloudless sky as a company of Seguin’s troopers escorted the Comanche prisoners. They anticipated crossing paths with militia cavalry within a day or two, and trading their prisoners for supplies. Despite the pleasant weather, the prisoners kicked up a cloud of dust, as they trudged along under guard. They were tied to each other by a rope at the waist and a shorter rope between their ankles made it impossible to take anything other than short steps. Most of the troopers wore wary expressions, keeping a close eye on their prisoners.
Will watched the prisoners as they retreated into the distance, until only a pillar of dust remained. He fervently hoped the troopers would be able to rendezvous with the militia, hand off the prisoners and hurry back. Being down by forty men wasn’t ideal, but it would have to suffice until the troopers returned in a few days. That made keeping a weather eye for any other Comanche warriors even more important. With that in mind, his army settled in to sleep until nightfall. They camped less than a mile away from the remains of the village. He had Major Caldwell deploy some of his Rangers to patrol while he sent most of his Apache allies to follow any promising trails.
That night, the Apache warriors returned as Will’s army broke camp, Flacco found Will as the army continued its northwesterly route along the Brazos. The Apache was practically dragging Juan Seguin along when he approached Will, “Traveling along this river may yet lead to another Comanche camp,” Seguin translated, “But with the current migration of the buffalo, there’s a good chance we’ll find another camp along the Leon River.”
Will asked, “How far away is the Leon?”
Seguin and Flacco discussed the answer in Spanish, “less than fifty miles.”
From their northwesterly march, the order was given, and the army veered away from the Brazos, heading to the southwest.
The next night, halfway across the prairie separating the two rivers, Will located Major Caldwell as the little army continued its trek to the southwest, “Matt, I’ve not taken the time to see how your companies are handling these scouting duties ahead of the army. Mind if I joined you tonight and observe?”
Already riding ahead of the force, Caldwell called over his shoulder, “Sure, General, if you can keep up, you’re welcome to ride along with my boys.”
He caught up with the major and rode along with him and a company of his men as they scoured the terrain a few miles ahead of the infantry’s line of march. Few clouds hid the sparkling stars and the moon was a thin sliver, low in the western sky. The prairie grass was swept by a cool northerly breeze, and the rhythmic swishing sound lulled Will into a near slumber as his horse plodded along behind Major Caldwell.
An echoing shot shattered the quiet of the night, causing Will to jerk his horse’s reins as it grew skittish. A flash of white flew by him, as he glimpsed a shadowy figure rise from the tall prairie grass. With a dawning realization, Will realized he had nearly been struck by an arrow. The company of Rangers were surrounded by dozens of darting figures, some afoot, and even more approaching on horseback. He drew his pistol and fired at the shadowy figure. He saw it descend below the top of the grass but couldn’t tell if he’d hit it.
Major Caldwell, pistol in one hand and reins in the other, circled back to his side, “General, our best bet is to pull our men into a circle. I don’t fancy our chances scattered about like we are.”
He swung down from his horse and shot at a shadowy figure who had ridden up close, bearing a heavy, steel tipped spear. The rider dropped the spear and slid to the side, as the horse raced past. Will jumped down from his mount and joined Caldwell as the major called out for nearby Rangers to join him.
Despite the dim moonlight, Will saw one of their flank riders, hatless, racing toward them, chased by several warriors, brandishing spears and bows. The Ranger hugged his horse’s neck, as he made the smallest target he could atop his mount. Arrows sped above him as he kicked his horse, urging it to go faster. Will could make out the Rangers’ black mustache and pale face as he approached the dismounted officers.
An arrow punched through his throat, blood splaying across the neck of his horse, as his arms went slack and he slipped off the back of his mount. Will stood shocked as the riderless horse reared up, a dozen feet to his front. A mounted warrior came up beside the horse and made several attempts to snatch the reins slapping in the wind. Will shook the shock from his face and hastily snapped a shot which flew through the space between warrior and horse. Breathing in sharply, he steadied his hand and fired a second time, catapulting the warrior off the back of his horse.
The multiple shots from Will’s pistol caused the other warriors following behind the first to pull up short. Rather than find out how many more rounds Will had, they wheeled about and rode back the way they had come. Will turned to Caldwell and saw the Major had found a half dozen more Rangers, who had dismounted and joined them. The Major deployed four of the men forward, with their carbines. Will straightaway recognized the small group tactics he and Lt. Colonel Johnston had been teaching to the infantry. The Rangers were not as smooth nor as coordinated as t
he foot soldiers, but Will’s lips skinned back into a vicious grin, as two of the men fired at targets well beyond the range of the revolvers, while the other two held their fire.
It was good they had done so, as several mounted warriors raced toward the dismounted men with lances lowered, thinking the Texians were busy reloading their guns. As the distance rapidly narrowed, the other two men raised their rifles and fired, toppling two more warriors from their saddles. Across the prairie, Will could hear the frustration in the voices of the Comanche warriors, still determined to press home their attack.
The ringing of a horseshoe striking a rock behind him, made Will turn his head. Less than a dozen feet from him, slinking through the tall grass, he saw a warrior, crouched low, racing toward the horses. Will snapped the gun up and fired directly at the warrior, and the hammer fell on the percussion cap, but nothing happened. The warrior sprang toward Will when he realized he had been discovered, steel bladed knife glimmering in the faint starlight. With no time to shoot again, Will threw the pistol into the warrior’s face.
Stunned, the warrior dropped his knife, but his momentum carried him into Will, and the two crashed to the ground. Despite blood running down his face from a gash to his cheek, the warrior recovered and grasped for Will’s windpipe.
As the warrior’s fingers, slick with sweat, grabbed his throat, Will saw the warrior’s head less than a foot from his own. He smashed his fists into the Warrior’s elbow, bringing the sunburned face closer. With all his might, Will swung his head forward, his forehead crashing into the warrior’s nose. The satisfying crunching sound of the cartilage breaking was music to Will’s ears as the warrior’s grip loosened. Ignoring the stars dancing in front of his eyes, Will focused on the face looming over him, and drove his right fist into the ruined nose. A sharp pain traveled from his knuckles up his arm, but the warrior attempted to roll away, as blood ran down his chin.
The warrior jumped to his feet, and saw Will’s revolver lying on the ground. As he lunged for it, Will drew his saber. The Comanche held the revolver in both his hands, pointing it at Will, and pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed down as the warrior cringed in anticipation of the explosion which would send a bullet flying at Will.
When the hammer snapped down on the empty cylinder, Will leapt forward, his saber outstretched, and caught the still cringing warrior in the stomach, driving the blade through. The grip was just a few inches from the belly when Will stopped moving forward. The warrior sank to his knees and Will retrieved his revolver from where it fell.
After the bloody work of removing his saber, he rejoined Major Caldwell where more than a dozen Rangers stood in a semicircle, weapons at the ready. A few arrows landed in front of the band of Rangers and several men returned fire. It appeared the Comanche realized there was nothing more to be gained and after a few more arrows landed harmlessly in front of the dismounted force, the shadowy figures turned and faded back into the night.
The sliver of the moon descended below the horizon, and from the direction of the main column, the blast of a bugle alerted Will and the Rangers to the approach of Seguin’s cavalry. Spread out to the north, Will watched the troopers, advancing in a long single line, stretching across more than a hundred yards.
The site of the Comanche ambush now secured by more than a hundred men, Will let Caldwell alone, allowing the commander of the Rangers to assess the damage sustained. By the time the infantry arrived, Caldwell confirmed eight of his men were dead or missing. Of the Comanche, they found four dead. Will ground his teeth, wishing he could find out how many of their dead and wounded the Comanche had made off with.
With the arrival of the infantry, Will decided they would rest until the next evening. The Rangers buried their dead, and patched their wounded. Will grimaced as the regimental surgeon sewed the cut on the back of his hand closed. It wasn’t the sutures which hurt, but the trauma inflicted by the sawbones when he dug out the bits of cartilage. Will tried to put the pain out of his mind, reminding himself it was better the fragments had come from the warrior who nearly killed him.
The next morning, as the sun crested the eastern sky, Will’s army arrived on the banks of the sluggishly flowing Leon River. Flacco and his Apache warriors had been right to think they would find a Comanche camp here, but the camp was abandoned. From the number of firepits and how much prairie was trodden, the camp had been large; possibly two hundred teepees. Now, it was just open prairie along the banks of the river.
The Comanche left a reminder of their recent departure. Hanging between two poles, less than six feet apart, was the body of one of the Rangers, who had gone missing in the previous night’s battle. His skin had been torn to ribbons, the ground below his naked body, soaked in blood. Next to him, another figure had been hung similarly. This was the naked body of a young woman, not likely eighteen. Her body was horribly disfigured, burn marks ran along both her arms and her body. Her nose had been burned off, exposing bone. Her hair was closely shorn, but unlike the Ranger, her scalp was intact. Blood caked her thighs, evidence of her lowly place within the society which had cast her aside like refuse, in its effort to put distance between itself and the Texian army, seeking vengeance.
The soldiers, who make their camp in same fields which until a day ago, contained the Comanche village, burned with anger toward the men and women who casually desecrated the bodies of their prisoners. Will worried that when they found their next Comanche village, his men would retaliate against the Comanche. He found Captain Seguin and the Apache, Flacco studying the camp.
As they discussed this, Seguin translated Flacco’s words, “They do this to terrorize their opponents. They believe if they can strike fear into the hearts of their enemy then they will be victorious.”
Flacco’s eyes followed the trail westward, staring hard, as though still following the retreating Comanche. “They have chased my people out of our hunting grounds, and forced us to rely upon the Spanish, then the Mexicans and now you Texians. We Lipan feared no man, we waged war against the Spanish and their Indian allies and they knew we were fierce warriors. When the Comanche came, in my Grandfather’s time, they made everyone fear them. This is their way. They kidnapped our children, made slaves of our women and killed our warriors, until we grew weak.”
Through Seguin, Will asked, “What now, Flacco?”
“We go now, and find the Comanche. When you next march, we will not fail you. The next camp be full of Comanche.” With that declaration, Flacco turned and strode away, and a short while later, his band of warriors rode to the west.
Will allowed his army time to rest, while waiting for the Apache to return. Two days after they rode out, a pair of Apache raced into camp and reported Flacco had located the Comanche who had fled their camp along the Leon River. Before the last glow of day slid below the western sky, Will flung his army west, as the Apache warriors led them across the prairie. For most of the night, the trail left by the Comanche was easy to follow, despite the dark sky of the new moon. Long before dawn, Will lost the trail, but the Apaches continued along, certain in retracing their route.
With the coming dawn, Will’s army made camp and waited. Flacco’s men all returned to the camp before the next nightfall, reporting the location of the newly erected Comanche village. The encampment was on the north bank of the Sabana River, a meandering tributary of the Leon.
In the darkness of predawn, Will’s army quietly approached the sleeping encampment. Before sending the Rangers around the camp, to cut off the retreat, he met with his officers. “Same as before, gentlemen. I want prisoners.” He focused on Major Wyatt. “Your boys will lead the attack. I know they’ve got their blood up, but we don’t want to kill any noncombatants. Make sure your officers pass it along.”
Sorrow crept into the major’s eyes. The brutal executions they had found earlier weighed heavy upon him. “The boys got their blood up, but I’ll make sure their discipline holds. There will be no massacre.”
***
Acr
id black smoke billowed into the sky. Nearly two hundred teepees were on fire. A company of infantry guarded their prisoners, who huddled in a circle, tired and scared. There were fourteen elderly men, fifty women and fifty-three children. The children ranged in age from infants to preteens. After watching the men of the village die where they stood, defending against the overwhelming force brought to bear against them, many of the survivors were in shock.
Will had ridden through the smoldering camp; the dead were still strewn where they had fallen. Will had watched the infantry fan through the camp, their discipline barely holding, as officers screamed the command to take prisoners. Even so, no warrior survived. No matter the orders, Will found several bodies which had been bayonetted repeatedly. The officers could not be everywhere at once, and when the angered soldiers could, they had visited back upon the Comanche warriors the same ferocity they received. It reminded Will of the terrible images played endlessly of the helicopter pilot dragged through the streets of Mogadishu. It was an image that as a soldier in the twenty-first century had plagued him and other soldiers. And now, here in nineteenth century Texas, his own soldiers hadn’t hesitated to repay the Comanche in the same brutal coin in which they had been paid.
He turned about and came back to where the soldiers guarded the prisoners. While most of the children wore vacant looks, shock still etched on their innocent faces, the old men nursed the bruises that arose on their arms and legs where the soldiers had grabbed them, forcibly propelling them to the area where they now sat. They saw an overwhelming number of soldiers surrounding them and they sat on the ground, dejected in defeat. Some women were as shocked as the children, and others as dejected as the old men, but others glared at the soldiers and cursed them in Comanche.
In addition to the seventy-five prisoners taken on the banks of the Brazos, now Will’s army had an additional one hundred seventeen. Will considered dispatching more of his mounted troops to escort the prisoners back to San Antonio, but then decided it would leave him with too small a force. He recalled what happened the previous summer when he brought his army north, unprepared for the war, and decided the main objective of capturing enough prisoners to draw the Comanche people to the peace table had been achieved.
