Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  “The Great Spirit is not with the Kiowa for this fight,” he remarked in passing to each Kiowa brave. “It is best we go back to Elk Creek and join Maman-ti and the sun dancers.”

  Quanah watched the Kiowa depart Skunk Ridge in a slow pro cession. He knew many of the Cheyenne and Comanche would follow Lone Wolf’s decision. Esa-tai’s medicine was now known to all of the bands as ineffective and weak against the hide hunters. He rose and setting aside the pain of his bullet wound, strode confidently over to his horse and jumped on the steed’s back.

  The older white haired chief looked up from the council circle and blew smoke from his pipe. “Where are you going, Quanah?”

  “I want to ride there,” he pointed, “to the flat top mountain. I want to observe the source of the hide hunter’s medicine.”

  “Take Esa-tai with you.” The older chief drew upon his pipe, “and let him observe as well.”

  Quanah nodded and looked over to Esa-tai who sat atop his horse staring with an open mouth at the departing Kiowa.

  “Hey Comanche medicine man,” one of the Kiowa braves called out, “maybe you are the pole cat the Cheyenne should have eaten.”

  The rest of the Kiowa laughed loudly at the remark and passed the joke down the line to each brave.

  On the small butte east of the Adobe Walls Creek, Quanah sat with a delegation of twenty warriors. He pointed to a stand of plum trees south of the hide hunters’ buildings.

  “If we keep inside the cover of the plum thicket and stay west in the high grasses we can avoid the long rifles and kill the hunters as they come to their well for water.”

  Stone Calf sat next to the Comanche leader and nodded his approval. “They have no horses to ride away and they must have water soon.”

  Quanah continued, knowing he might salvage the raid if they could kill the hunters. “And if we keep others from riding to their aid, we can still win this siege.”

  The other warriors murmured in excitement at Quanah’s confidence.

  “What about him?” Stone Calf pointed to a distant Esatai.

  “He has suffered humiliation enough for one hundred warriors.” Quanah glanced quickly at the Wolf Prophet, “His medicine is gone.”

  “And what of you, Quanah?” Stone Calf asked.

  Quanah leaned toward his warrior friend, “I am a warrior. No matter what happens here, there will always be another day to fight.”

  The distinct but faint sound of a long rifle echoed from the buildings.

  Quanah threw a searching gaze toward the last building in the settlement line. A wispy puff of smoke issued from a small slot in the adobe wall. He looked back at the assembled group, and laughed, “Look! The hunters think they can hit us from so far away!”

  Before he finished, a warrior on the far right of the group slumped and fell from his horse. Instinctively, the remaining warriors turned their ponies and rushed for safety below the crest of the butte. The startled braves stared in amazement toward Adobe Walls and then watched helplessly as the downed warrior writhed on the ground.

  “The medicine guns can shoot for a mile and kill The People.”

  Quanah listened to the whispers from the warriors around him and heard the fear in their voices. Even in the oppressive morning heat, a passing breeze chilled his back and a dream clouded his vision. He turned and looked at his fellow brothers, but all of his friends were gone. He stood alone on the butte and stared at a building cloud of dust on the eastern horizon.

  Buffalo, he smiled. He shaded his eyes to watch the lifeline of the People returning to the Kwahada. His heart felt happy and he offered a silent prayer to the Great Spirit.

  Above, a small cloud appeared under the sun and a spreading shade moved quickly across his back. He stared at the sky and laughed. “This is a good day!” he declared. He tossed his gaze back to the buffalo and opened his arms wide to the warmth of the sun.

  However the sun turned cold, and his smile turned to sadness. For out of the giant dust cloud an endless line of covered wagons now appeared and rolled west.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

  Free had watched many spectacular displays of marksmanship in his life, but none could match the shot Billy Dixon threw up at the

  Indian sitting horse back on the butte overlooking Adobe Walls.

  Parks looked through the rifle port and watched the startled Indians scramble for safety. “That shot will do more for our cause than anything else we could have attempted this morning.”

  Free jerked opened the oak door and stepped into the morning sun. He glanced south to Rath’s and shouted, “Billy Dixon! Now that was some shot!”

  Parks followed Free outside, grinned and said, “Amen to that!”

  Billy Dixon exited Rath’s store and squinted in the bright sunlight. The other hide hunters strolled behind him and patted his back in appreciation.

  “How’d you know it was me made the shot?” Billy surveyed the surrounding landscape and greeted Free with a boyish smirk.

  “I reckoned no other man in Rath’s would waste two bits worth of ammunition to attempt such a shot.”

  “That’s a fair assessment for sure,” Billy said and began to laugh.

  Parks looked west, searching for any sign of Horse and issued a series of loud whistles. “Horse!” he hollered. “Com’on Horse!”

  “You really think he survived the Comanche?” Billy asked.

  Free met Billy in the street, midway between Hanrahan’s and Rath’s. “You’d be surprised about that pony. He’s as sneaky as a government politician.”

  Parks stared west and whistled again, “Com’on now, Horse!” He looked over at Billy and shook the buffalo hunter’s hand. “Your shot will have that war council rethinking Quanah’s wisdom of a war party.”

  “I sure hope so.” Billy looked toward the butte. “How far you think that is?”

  “Three quarters of a mile at least.” Free said, “A long way in anyone’s book.”

  “It’s about time.” Parks observed a cloud of dust kicked up on the western horizon.

  “Well I’ll be darn!” Billy removed his hat and scratched his head.

  “What did I tell you?” Free said, amused. Suddenly the day seemed brighter and he knew their chances of making it out of The Walls alive were dramatically better than just an hour earlier.

  Parks stepped forward and focused on the fast approaching cloud. “Now that’s a well trained pony.” He shaded his eyes, “Even if I do say so.”

  Horse slowed to a trot as he approached the backside of Rath’s store. He maneuvered through the alley and walked with a swagger up to Parks.

  “Horse!” Parks turned his head sideways and looked at the animal. “Where you been for so long?”

  Horse nodded his head rapidly as if to scold Parks. He whinnied, showed his teeth and bumped his owner playfully with his nose.

  Parks rubbed the mustang’s ears and grinned. “Good boy, Horse. Good boy.”

  “So what do you think these Indians will offer now?” Bat Masterson asked as he walked toward the assembled group of men.

  Parks turned back to the east and reached for his tobacco pouch. “More than likely, they will stay in the high grass and not offer a target for your Sharps. I think they understand the message Billy delivered to them this morning.”

  “The farther away the better,” Bat said and surveyed the hills behind The Walls.

  “It will definitely hold in our favor if they do keep their distance,” Free said, relieved. “I’m still beat as to how that door in Hanrahan’s stayed put.”

  “I think there’s one little flaw in your theory, Parks,” Billy grimaced.

  “What are you talking about?” Parks looked over at the hunter, concerned.

  “Well, If I’m not mistaken” Billy pointed to the southeast. “That appears to be a Comanche brave riding to beat the devil toward us.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

 
The lone Comanche brave approached Adobe Walls in a courageous display of power and primitive savagery. The brightly painted warrior both frightened and enthralled the hide hunters watching from the street.

  “Everybody, hold your weapons.” Free stepped forward. “What do you figure he’s doing, Parks?” he asked calmly.

  “Riding in alone, I figure he’s game to fight or wants to palaver a bit.”

  “Well he’s got grit, that’s for sure.” Billy Dixon stared suspiciously at the Comanche.

  “He will gain a great coup riding in here unannounced and alone,” Parks offered in respect.

  The warrior stopped a hundred yards from Rath’s and paraded his pony in an easterly direction for several paces. In perfect harmony with his mustang’s gait, he swung his shield high across his face and then lowered it to his side. A circle of eagle feathers decorated the finely tanned shield and a series of black stripes covered half of the armament. The brave’s face glistened with blackened grease that streaked horizontally across his eyes and forehead. Turning his pony back west, he trotted the animal like royalty and shouted to the assembled hunters, “Which of you is brave enough to fight me like a warrior?”

  “Appears to be makin’ a challenge,” Bat Masterson declared.

  “Killing so far away is not an honor!” the brave shouted. “Face to face! That is the way a warrior fights his enemies!

  Free became quiet and sized up the Comanche warrior.

  “What’s running through your head?” Parks asked.

  “I figure I’ll need his horse if I aim to make it home anytime soon.”

  Parks looked startled. “You’re not really considering fighting him, are you?”

  Free shrugged. “I rather fight him afoot than on horse back. The Comanche are heap more frightening mounted than on the ground.”

  “Is there not a warrior among the hide hunters?” The brave stabbed his lance into the ground. “Not one of you has the courage to answer the challenge from The People’s warrior, To’sa-woonit?”

  Free stepped forward and dropped his gun belt. “Step off your horse, To’sa-woonit, and I’ll honor your request!”

  To’sa-woonit hopped from his pony with little effort. He dropped the reins and allowed the animal to graze unstaked. Unlike most Comanche warriors, he was tall, close to six feet in height and dressed in breechcloth, moccasins, and leggings. “I have taken many scalps but never from a buffalo man.” He motioned for Free to join him at a distance from the others.

  Free stepped purposefully toward To’sa-woonit in long graceful strides. “How do you wish to proceed?”

  With a startling shriek, the Comanche rushed Free brandishing a war axe.

  “AAAiiihheee!” He sprinted forward, slapping the stone head of the weapon on the top of Free’s shoulder, spoke softly into his ear, then charged on.

  Free felt lightning spread across his back and his stomach heaved. Before he could think, he dropped to one knee and grabbed for his shoulder. Slender white flashes danced across his eyes.

  To’sa-woonit stopped, tilted his head and smirked at the hide hunters before turning back to Free. “The buffalo man goes down easy,” he called out.

  Free struggled to his feet and realized he had no sensation in his right arm. Steadied, he backed up and circled to his right, trying to keep his left arm close to the brave. “I’ll do better next go ‘round,” he offered.

  To’sa-woonit raised the war axe and rushed forward with the quickness of a big cat. “Haa!” he shouted.

  Free crouched slightly and waited. As To’sawoonit prepared to strike, Free dropped to the ground, swept his right leg across the back of the Comanche’s left ankle and upended him in a flailing of arms and legs.

  Unprepared for this tactic, To’sa-woonit hit the ground with a deafening thud. As his head slammed against the hardened summer earth, the stone axe bounced from his hand and landed several feet away.

  Free regained his feet quickly and stood over the downed warrior. He rubbed his shoulder in a kneading motion hoping to return some feeling to his arm. “Get up!” he screamed.

  To’sa-woonit threw open his eyes, rubbed the back of his head and searched for his axe.

  “It’s over there!” Free pointed to the weapon. “Is To’sa-woonit afraid to fight like a warrior or does he need his axe for bravery?” he taunted.

  To’sa-woonit screamed in anger and jumped to his feet. His eyes blackened with the hate of a caged animal. He lowered his shoulder and rushed Free once more.

  Free knew if he stood still, To’sa-woonit’s force would drive him to the ground. Without hesitation, he screamed and raced headlong for the Comanche. As the two collided, Free grabbed To’sa-woonit around the neck and tried to wrestle him down.

  Better prepared now, To’sa-woonit lifted his shoulder hard into Free’s chest and flipped him helplessly to the prairie floor.

  Free felt the breath rush from his lungs and a burning pain spread across his chest. He gained his feet and circled warily around the Comanche desperately gasping for air.

  To’sa-woonit snarled and pulled a long-bladed knife from his waist. He waved the blade back and forth to show the sharpened edge and let a wide grin come across his mouth. “I will take your scalp, buffalo man and hang it with pride from my pony’s mane!”

  Free moved in closer and watched the knife’s movements. He knew the Comanche would slice him with small strikes so the pain and blood would last longer. His right arm began to ache, a signal the feeling would return soon. He feigned right with his upper body and then swept his right leg against the back of To’sa-woonit’s left knee. Once more, the Comanche warrior hit the ground in a heap. Anger seethed from eyes.

  “AAAiiihheee!” To’sa-woonit howled and sprang to his feet.

  Free knew the warrior’s fury would work to his advantage. He circled the Comanche once more and waited patiently. To’sa-woonit set on him again with the knife raised high above his head. Free ducked and feinted right again. To’sa-woonit, expecting the leg whip, hopped to his left and glanced at Free’s right leg.

  Seeing To’sa-woonit’s head glancing downward, Free swung his left arm in a wide arc and hit the Comanche with a powerful fist to the nose. To’sawoonit went limp and fell straightaway to the ground. With blood gushing, he lay still and stared blankly at the sky.

  Free stood over the brave for several seconds to make sure his foe wasn’t feigning. When To’sawoonit didn’t move, Free rubbed his shoulder and walked toward the Comanche pony. “Easy,” he whispered to the horse and reached carefully for the lead rein, “you and I are going to become friends.”

  Parks and the rest of the Adobe Walls inhabitants rushed toward Free. “Are you OK?” Parks grabbed for his exhausted friend.

  “I reckon I’ve felt better.”

  Billy Dixon reached for the Comanche horse’s reins and offered a shoulder to Free. “That was some exhibition.”

  Free glanced back at the still lifeless Comanche. “I was lucky.”

  Bermuda Carlisle walked rapidly toward Free and frowned. “Why didn’t you kill him when you had the chance?” He charged by, reaching for his knife as he went.

  “I didn’t kill him on account, Bermuda, and neither will you!” Free turned from the helping hands of Parks and Billy and grabbed the unpredictable hide hunter by the collar.

  Bermuda slapped Free’s hand away and gripped the handle of his Colt. “On account of what, Indian lover?” he shouted, provoked to act.

  “On account, that Comanche is a white man! That’s what!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adobe Walls, Texas, June 1874

  The group sidestepped as Free turned to face Bermuda. “Leave it be, Bermuda,” he said icily. The hide hunter tightened his grip on the Colt and then thinking the better of it removed his hand. “Aw, to blazes with you, Indian lover.”

  “Are you sure?” Parks moved between Free and Bermuda and glanced at the prone figure lying in the tall grass.

  “I’m sure.”
Free kept a watchful eye on Bermuda.

  “How? How are you sure?” Billy Dixon let his jaw go slack and shook his head.

  “Yeah, Cowboy. How?” Bermuda looked around Parks.

  Free stared hard into the faces of the hunters who now formed a circle around him. “Blue eyes,” he said, “He had blue eyes.”

  “Wha? What kinda nonsense are you speaking?” Bermuda said and stood openmouthed.

  Parks moved within inches of Free’s face and spoke deliberately. “You’re sure?”

  “I was as close to him as you and I right now. He may be living with the Comanche, but he’s a white man.”

  Parks looked back to where the brave lay. “Appears he’s left us.” He searched quickly around the prairie and issued a low whistle.

  “What?” Free turned, incredulously.

  “Your white Comanche is up and gone.” Parks looked carefully for the movement of any grass stalks.

  “No white man moves like that.” Billy Dixon scanned the prairie. “I’ve always heard a Comanche could untie a staked horse in a crowd of white men and never be noticed.”

  “Snake people.” Parks placed his hand around his Colt handle, “that’s what the other tribes call them.”

  “Blazes!” Bermuda cursed, “I knew better than to let him go.”

  “Let’s all keep our senses and move back to Hanrahan’s.” Parks continued to search the prairie beyond them.

  “I can’t.” Free grabbed for the Comanche pony’s reins. “I need to head out now.”

  “You can’t leave with this horse.” Billy seized Free’s wrist. “We need to send more riders out for help and that horse offers us another chance.”

  “Take your hand away, Billy.” Free tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “If you need a horse get one the same as I did!”

  “Have you gone loco?” Billy turned to Parks for help. “What’s got into him?”