The Lone Star Reloaded Series Box Set

by Drew McGunn

  Davis looked toward the pile of bodies and then back toward the imprisoned Comanche. “But, General, sir, they’re just Indians.”

  The young officer was about to continue as Will cut him off. “What about you, Lieutenant? What does it make you?” Will pointed to the women behind the fence, “Never mind about them. What does it say about us if we casually burn their bodies. In front of their women. Is that a story you’d want your folks to read about in the newspaper?”

  A light came on behind Davis’ eyes as they grew large. “Ah, I didn’t think about it like that. No, sir. I don’t recon I’d like my folks reading about that.”

  Will glanced between the prisoners and the pile of the dead. “I don’t really care how you think of the Comanche. There’s much I admire in their fierce warrior spirit and their determination to protect what they see to be theirs. But the way we treat their dead says absolutely nothing about them, and everything about us. I’m not asking you, Lieutenant, to treat their bodies with any compassion out of respect for them, but out of your own decency.”

  Nodding, Davis said, “I see your point, sir. What do you want me to with them?”

  “Bury them. A common grave is fine. But do it away from the corral.”

  The next day, the Protestant soldiers who died in the battle were laid to rest in a new cemetery, east of the fort. President Crockett had signed an order creating Texas’ first national cemetery for the men who died serving under the Republic’s flag. A single ceremony was held for the thirty men buried there. It was conducted by the 1st Texas Infantry’s Methodist chaplain and a Baptist preacher, serving with McCulloch’s militia. The ceremony’s simplicity was in its brevity. The Baptist preacher read from the epistle of John 15:13, “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.” He closed his Bible, and looked around at the soldiers gathered around, “These men we bury today are gone from among us, they now stand before the throne of the Almighty. Each of us should look to their example, as Jesus said, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Those who knew these men well, I trust will take comfort in this, that each man did his duty to God, Texas and his comrades.”

  After the end of the service, Will hurried back to the Alamo, where he collected his horse and, along with Lt. Colonel Johnston, rode into town, in time to attend the Catholic service, held in the cemetery of the Church of San Fernando, near the square. As they rode out of the Alamo, deep in their own solitude, Will’s thoughts went to the brief words from the preacher. Even before, during his time in the Army and then the National Guard, chaplains reminded their flocks God was on their side. He was sure the medicine men among the Comanche promised the war bands the Great Spirit was on their side. As long as men rode to war, they claimed the mantle of God.

  Since first joining the army after 9/11, his interest in church had waned. While the transference into Travis’ body led him to think about what caused him to be flung into the past, it was taking responsibility for raising Charlie which had brought him back to his Methodist roots. When he had taken the boy in, they began attending the small Methodist congregation in San Antonio. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his renewed faith or despite it, but Will decided God was less interested in the affairs of nations than in the condition of the human heart. It left him no closer to explaining why God would transfer his mind and thoughts into William B. Travis, but he’d long ago given up rationalizing that thought.

  The service at San Fernando, while very different from the one earlier, with the priest intoning in Latin, Will was still struck by the similarities. The sixteen caskets were already in the ground, mounds of dirt to the side of each grave. A majority of those in attendance were Tejano, but the diversity of the crowd of soldiers reflected the diverse composition of the Texian army. Irish and German-born soldiers were mixed in among the Tejanos, as the men from Gregorio Esparza’s cavalry platoon were laid to rest. Scratching below the surface, Will found no fundamental difference between the Catholic service or the Protestant service he watched earlier. Sure, the Latin rites spoken were different than the preacher’s words, but their intent was the same; to give those who remain the opportunity to say goodbye to those who had died. At the heart of the matter, Will realized, they said the same thing.

  ***

  Spirit Talker rode beside Buffalo Hump. Both men had journeyed the last few hours in silence. Behind them came the remnants of their war band. Like a wet blanket, defeat lay heavy upon the warriors. As he glanced over at the war leader, Spirit Talker could scarcely imagine at the turn of events which had led to the People suffering their worst defeat in memory. Before they had ridden from the Comancheria, he had tried to warn Buffalo Hump of the inherent risk of an attack on the Texian fortress in Bexar. But Buffalo Hump had stubbornly refused to listen, and had told him, “Our warriors demand blood for the attacks by the Texians. They are old women, hiding behind their walls. Our warriors are brave and fearless. We shall ride into their town, with all our bands. Once we free our people held by those cowards, we shall loot and kill those we find in their town.”

  He shook his head at the memory. Buffalo Hump turned and said, “You were right. They were ready for us. How could our attempt to rescue those captured go so wrong?”

  In a universal sign of resignation, Spirit Talker shrugged. He had warned the younger war chief, but decided now was not the time to remind him of that. “The Texians are growing in power, my young friend. We are not. Every day, wagons cross the rivers or ships enter their ports. All of them bring more white men. They will have our land, no matter what we do.”

  The heavy sigh which escaped Buffalo Hump’s mouth was loud. “If it hadn’t been for those pistols and rifles we would have won. Those pistols their horsemen carry have killed too many of our warriors.”

  Spirit Talker did the only thing which made sense. He nodded. After a moment, he said, “It isn’t just the weapons, though. Those who fight on foot are not the cowards we thought. I watched them stand against our attack. Our arrows killed or wounded many of them. But they stayed and fought. Each man worked with his friends, so that someone was always ready to shoot at us.”

  The war chief said, “But even their guns, they fired them fast, far faster than our men with muskets can fire.”

  The old peace chief brushed aside the comment, “Their new rifle is formidable, I agree. But don’t forget how each little group worked together, far more closely than anything I’ve ever seen before by those who fight on foot.”

  Both men fell silent as they urged their horses forward, moving to the northwest, back into the land of the Comancheria. How much longer they would be able to lay claim to the land was something Spirit Talker could no longer predict. Of the eighty warriors who had ridden with their band toward San Antonio, now only fifty were able to fight. Every other band was in a similar or worse situation. Behind them, more than a mile to their rear, Texas Rangers shadowed their retreat since the previous day. They were few in number, no more than a dozen. But even Buffalo Hump was reluctant to lead his warriors to what seemed likely to be certain death. The Texas Rangers’ mastery of the pistol with many shots had thoroughly changed the dynamic of warfare on the plains now.

  Fifty winters before, he recalled his first raid. He was more than a boy, but not yet a man. The Apache were terrified of the Comanche. It was good. Horses were easy to raid. The Spanish gave them horses and grains to keep the People from attacking. The Apache cowered in fear.

  “Yes,” Spirit Talker thought, “It had been good to be one of the People.”

  The empty saddles accompanying the band didn’t just represent remounts. No, they were a heavy reminder that one of every six warriors who rode to San Antonio was now dead. Before the latest war, the Comanche were to be feared. Now, the People feared the Texians.

  As if reading his mind, Buffalo Hump said, “The Texians hound us even now.” He pointed to the small cloud of dust behind them. “They attack
our camps and take our women and children.”

  It was simply the truth, Spirit Talker thought. “They learned well from us.”

  As the sun kissed the western horizon, the two chiefs watched two horsemen approach their camp. Both wore the wide brimmed hats favored by the Rangers. At their hips were the pistols which caused the People so much grief. One of the riders was pale skinned; a white man. The other, darker complexioned. He was a Tejano. Waved forward, the two men approached, holding their hands in the sign of peace. The dark skinned one spoke in the language of the Spanish. Both chieftains understood.

  Spirit Talker called back, “What words do you have for the Penateka?”

  The Ranger replied, “Pass word to all the bands of the Penateka, riding the Comancheria. Texas seeks a treaty, an end to the violence which has taken too many of your people already.”

  Buffalo Hump grumbled at his side, “There are only two of them. Give me a chance and I’d have both their scalps hanging on my teepee.”

  Spirit Talker eyed the younger chief and saw only resignation. His were empty words.

  The Tejano Ranger continued, “Meet with us where the river we call the Bosque meets with the Brazos on the second full moon from today. There is a Ranger fort there, named Bee.”

  The Ranger waited until he saw Spirit Talker’s nod of acknowledgement and then the two men wheeled around and galloped to the east.

  This scene was played out across the Comancheria a half dozen more times, as other war bands were given the same message.

  Chapter 14

  The hot July sun beat mercilessly down on Will’s head. His hat rested on the saddle horn as he looked through the telescoping spyglass at a Comanche war party approaching Fort Bee at a slow gait. Even their ponies looked tired and exhausted in the wilting heat. So far, nearly a dozen bands had arrived over the past twenty-four hours. Although the warriors’ countenance remained fierce and defiant, their chieftains, older and wiser, carried an air of resignation as they made camp at the confluence of the Brazos and Bosque Rivers.

  Watching over the gathering were the Texas Rangers. Company B normally had thirty men assigned to it, but in the week leading up to this gathering, Major Caldwell had arrived with an additional sixty from the other forts along the frontier. Additionally, Captain Seguin and his remaining company of cavalry trailed behind Will, as they escorted President Crockett to the meeting.

  Fort Bee was a typical frontier fort. Four wooden palisades surrounded an area which contained a small parade ground and a corral for the Rangers’ horses. Two blockhouses were at opposite corners of the fort, providing a three-hundred-sixty-degree field of fire. Along each side of the fort, a few cabins were built into the side of the interior walls. Also interspersed between the cabins were narrow wooden platforms, where riflemen could stand to fire through slits, cut in the wooden palisades.

  While Seguin’s cavalry bivouacked outside the fort’s walls, Will joined Crockett and Major Caldwell on the ground floor of the blockhouse nearest the gate. The room took up the entire bottom floor of the building. A rough wooden table had been set up along one wall, and a cot for the president along another. As Crockett settled into a chair, which creaked as he sat, he said, “Major, how are things along the frontier?”

  Caldwell sat at the table, cleaning supplies scattering before him, as he cleaned a spare cylinder. He looked up when addressed. “Mostly quiet, sir. I’ve received reports from our fort on the North Fork of the Trinity saying they’ve seen signs the Wichita have crossed the Red River, heading north. If their client tribes see the writing on the wall, then I hope even the Comanche should see reason. Otherwise, why would so many of their chieftains show up here?”

  Will was about to add his own thoughts to the conversation when the door swung inward. Sam Houston stepped into the room, accompanied by a slender Cherokee, dressed in brown wooden pants and a gray jacket, and closed the door behind them. “Gentlemen. The Cherokee have arrived.”

  Both Will and Caldwell were surprised to see the Texian commissioner to the Cherokee show up. Crockett climbed to his feet and offered his hand to his fellow Tennessean. “Sam, I’m glad you got my letter. How many men were you able to bring?”

  As Houston sat on the edge of the Table, he said, “We raised a company of Rangers, by God. And I’ve brought them with me. I’d like to introduce De-ga-ta-ga Waite. He’s just arrived from Georgia, leading more than a thousand of his people west. The Cherokee counsel of Texas has appointed him commander of their militia.”

  Will stared at the dark-skinned man before him and saw a soldier. The gray jacket he wore bore Georgia militia buttons. His hair was combed back and cut below the collar. For reasons he couldn’t put his finger on, Will felt as though he had seen the Cherokee before, but no amount of sifting through Travis’ memories brought an answer to the niggling question of who he was.

  As Houston took the last of the four chairs, the Cherokee extended his hand to Will. “De-ga-ta-ga is ‘one who stands.’ My Christian name is Isaac Stand Waite.”

  As Will shook his hand, the name connected in his mind. There was a Confederate general in the Civil War named Stand Waite. He was the only American Indian to rise to the rank of general during the war. Will wasn’t sure he was the same man, but at thirty years of age now, it was certainly possible.

  “We had been evicted from our homes in Georgia, and were on our way to the Indian Territory to the north, when the Raven here,” he indicated to Houston, “implored us to come to Texas. He said Texas would protect our property rights which Georgia has failed to do.”

  As the meeting broke up, Will was joined by Waite in the small parade ground. “I’ve heard much about you, General Travis, over the past year. Even during the tragedy of our eviction from Georgia and our travel west, I heard of your victory against Santa Anna. Since our arrival in Texas, your exploits against the Comanche have been warmly received in our towns.”

  As the two officers, one white and the other red, stood under the night sky, talking, it was clear Waite was articulate and well-educated. Will liked him. As they walked across the parade ground Will learned Waite had also brought a few volunteers who wanted to serve in the Texas army. Will’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “Hell, yes, Mr. Waite. You bet I can find a place for them to serve.”

  ***

  The following morning, all the significant bands of Comanche were represented by a total of fourteen chiefs. They were assembled beneath a tall live oak tree, growing beside the languidly flowing Brazos. They sat on blankets in a wide semicircle. Across from them, also under the branches of the same live oak, Crockett, Houston, and Will sat in wooden chairs. Behind Will stood Juan Seguin, who could translate from Spanish. Houston had brought a Cherokee youth with him, who stood by his side. The teenager had been captured by the Comanche several years earlier, but traded back to his own tribe later. He spoke fluent Comanche.

  Houston leaned toward Crockett and whispered loud enough for Will to hear. “Always pays to know what they’re saying. A lot of them speak Spanish and I’m sure we could negotiate with them in that language, but this way seems better, don’t you think?”

  Crockett rose from his chair and stepped forward. “I am David Crockett. I am the elected chief for all the people of Texas. I have come here to meet with you, the chieftains of the Comanche People, in the hope that we can find peace between our peoples.” When this was translated he sat in his chair and listened as the Cherokee youth translated each chief’s introduction and greeting. The last to speak was the eldest. “I am called Spirit Talker. It has been more than fifty winters since my first raid. I agree with your chief. We want peace, too. But peace should start with goodwill. Show us your goodwill by freeing our wives and children. It isn’t right for the Comanche to be imprisoned behind your walls.”

  When the youth finished translating, Crockett tilted his head in agreement. “Chief Spirit Talker, I have heard you give good counsel to those in the Comancheria who will listen. Over the many years y
ou have served your people, the Apache and Cheyenne have learned to fear your name. I share your desire to see all prisoners returned to their families; both yours and ours.”

  Spirit Talker nodded his agreement. “We agree to release those of your people who we have taken captive. Our chiefs have decided all our white prisoners will be released as soon as you release our wives and children.”

  Crockett turned and sat back in his chair. “It isn’t enough. War between your people and ours is inevitable as long as we look at the same land and say it is ours. We have defeated the mighty Mexican army and our treaty with them defines our boundary. The people of Texas will not rest until all of the land south of the waters we call the Red River is under our flag.”

  As the youth finished translating this into Comanche, Crockett’s words were met with dark looks and scowls. Another stood up and spoke, “I am Buffalo Hump. I command the war band of the Penateka Comanche. You cannot eat a flag. We follow the buffalo, and it provides all our needs. We have always followed the buffalo and without it, you would have us die.”

  After hearing the translation, Houston laid a restraining hand on Crockett’s arm. “May I, David?”

  As Crockett acquiesced, Houston rose and walked to the middle of the circle made by the two sides. “I am called the Raven by my brothers among the Cherokee. Among the Texians I am called Sam Houston. Until recently I was the war chief of my people. I see things differently than you, Buffalo Hump. If the buffalo provide your every need, why do you wear that calico shirt?” Turning to another chief, he pointed, “Why does he wear a leather belt and carry a steel knife?” He pointed to a third and said, “Even the horses you ride originally came from the Spanish.”

  As he watched the Comanche grumble, he resumed, “If the buffalo is the only thing the Comanche need to survive, why do you burn our homes to the ground and carry our women and children into captivity? I have checked, and let me tell you, they are not buffalo!” As the words were translated, several chiefs glared back at him, while others laughed at his wit.