by Mike Kearby
“He’s going to be fine,” Parks reassured Free. He recognized his friend’s concern for the Comanche boy, “I told you he was a tough one.”
Free smiled and nodded, “Now we’ve got another problem.” He gazed at the rapidly setting sun.
“What’s that?” Parks raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Free pointed to the west. “We’re a good ride from the Fourth, and it’ll be dark soon. I figure we’re going to be stuck here on the cap rock to -night.”
Parks tightened his jaw and stared at the sun’s position over the canyon. “It appears you and I will be enjoying another dry camp, Free.”
Free studied Park’s face closely and grinned, “Let’s see. We’re a good day’s ride from any help, trespassing in the Comancheria, and . . . we’re holding a stolen Comanche pony and a lost Comanche boy.”
“No one can ever say we do things the easy way.” Parks tipped his hat back and re-saddled Horse.
“More fuss, I reckon.” Free drew a deep breath, “Just more fuss.”
Later, under a graying sky, Free chewed on a piece of hardtack and listened to the sounds of the night.
Parks sat nearby and took in the moonlit night of the Palo Duro. “This is some country.”
“It is at that.” Free spoke without looking up, “It’s a big country. So large, that two groups of people could live here and never see one another.”
Parks nodded his agreement. “That is a fact.”
“And yet, men seem bent on trampling wherever another man wants to lay his hat.”
Parks stretched his arms at shoulder level, “I guess that’s one of the shortfalls of being a man.” A yawn formed at his mouth, and tiredness came over his body. “We best get some shut-eye while we can.”
Free looked back at the sleeping boy. “You go ahead. I’m going to spend a little time gazing at those stars.” He pointed skyward, “I figure they were put there for the watching.”
Parks settled back against the hard limestone of the cap rock and placed his hat over his face. “Free?”
Free turned toward his friend, “Yeah?”
“Don’t be surprised if that boy is gone by morning.”
“What?”
“All I’m saying is he’s Comanche. When he’s ready to leave, he’ll just up and be gone.”
“Snake people?”
“Uh huh.”
In the early morning hours, a wave of weariness settled in Free’s eyelids which caused him to lean back onto the hard rock bed of the cap rock. A faint smell of rain accompanied a rising north wind, causing him to tuck his arms close into his body. Across from him, Parks snored soundly, while the Comanche boy’s steady breathing eased the tension of being far from home in a dangerous land. Unable to resist his body’s need for rest, he closed his eyes and pictured Clara and William Parks. Thoughts of his wife and child brought a smile to his mouth and allowed the needed sleep to relax his muscles. His eyes blinked occasionally as his mind continued to struggle against the on-coming blackness, but lacked the strength to fight his body’s desire.
As his mind finally surrendered, a strange and familiar voice swam lazily through his head, and a thin coolness tickled his throat. Free tried to scratch at the light sensation, but his hand was heavy and would not budge. Half asleep, he licked at his lips and pushed with all his might against the weight of his eyelids.
It was only after the slight whisper repeated itself that his eyes startled open in recognition of the voice.
“You are very brave or very foolish, buffalo man. You steal my horse and now my child.” To’sa-woonit pushed the blade of a flint-tipped knife deep against the flesh of his throat.
Chapter Thirty-four
Mustang Canyon, Texas, September 1874
Free blinked rapidly and tried to adjust to the darkness and prevailing confusion. To’sa-woonit knelt on one knee directly to his right and the two stared at each other through the darkness. Suddenly, the powerful Kwahada warrior grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked him to an upright position. To’sa-woonit flashed the knife before his eyes and snarled in animal-like fashion. “Which is it?” The Kwahada Indian’s breath carried the smell of raw liver.
Free threw a quick glance around the camp. Charcoal figures moved in and out of his vision. Farther right, several shapes materialized into Kwahada warriors. Several feet away, Parks sat upright and stared unflinchingly straight ahead. Two warriors held long spears against his back.
Free looked back at To’sa-woonit and noticed the boy stood behind his father. The boy tugged at his father’s shoulder and spoke rapidly.
To’sa-woonit jerked his head toward the boy and pushed him away. The two began a lengthy argument with words flying back and forth so rapid that Free could not follow the conversation. After much bickering, To’sa-woonit’s face reddened and he gestured violently toward Free and Parks.
The boy drew near his father once more and continued to plead with animated insistence, pointing to his welts and the dark sky.
After several minutes of banter, To’sa-woonit growled at Free with bared teeth, “What are you doing on Kwahada land, buffalo man?”
Free swallowed and carefully gauged his words. “We came here,” he nodded toward Parks, “to warn the tribes of the Cavalry’s intentions.”
To’sa-woonit pulled his head back and howled in laughter. The rest of the raiding party roiled at their leader’s provocation.
“We know the taibo’s intention, buffalo man!” Tiny streams of spittle hit Free’s cheek. “They wish to send us to the reservation. They wish to make us live like women.” The knife blade pressed deep into the bridge of Free’s nose and a small drop of blood appeared. “You cannot tell us what we already know!”
The Comanche boy jumped to his father’s side and tried mightily to pull his knife hand away from Free. “Kee,” he pleaded, “Kee.”
To’sa-woonit stared at his son for some time and then reluctantly removed the knife. He turned his back to Free and slammed the knife onto the cap rock with a resounding clang. “You are lucky, buffalo man, that I respect my son’s words.” He pulled the boy to his side and ran a hand down the boy’s long, dark hair.
Free sat silent, wiping the blood that now dripped off his nose and onto his lips.
To’sa-woonit signaled for the warriors to release Parks. The Kwahada warrior walked back and forth in front of Free and gently pounded one hand into the other. After several minutes of contemplation, he took a seat on the limestone and crossed his legs and then his arms. The rage that earlier simmered across his face receded and a look of grave intent took its place. “My son is called Spotted Horse. He tells me you saved his life.”
Free relaxed and gathered his thoughts. “He was stung by many bees. I have my own son, To’sa-woonit and I know how it feels to see a son in pain. I could not watch any man’s son suffer so.”
To’sa-woonit grunted, “So now I owe you a warrior’s life. That is a strong debt to a Kwahada.”
“Are you truly Kwahada?”
To’sa-woonit smiled, “Are you truly a man?” Free raised his eyebrows at the question. “Of course,” he smiled.
“But once you were a boy.”
Free scratched his chin and nodded his head in understanding.
“I was once taibo, but now I am Kwahada. These are my people.” He gestured to the warriors standing behind him.
“Then believe me when I tell you many soldiers are coming. More soldiers than the Comanche, Cheyenne, and Kiowa people combined.”
“We have seen these soldiers, buffalo man. We have stopped Miles just east of here. The Kiowa have halted his returning supply wagons. And your friend from the Adobe Walls, Dixon. He and his detail are at the great supply camp. Their bodies all carry the marks of copper. Even the squaw man, Chapman is there. We know of these soldiers and are not afraid.”
Parks sat taller at the mention of Chapman. “Amos Chapman?” he asked.
To’sa-woonit turned and gazed at Parks. “Yes,
the squaw man. He now walks on one leg.”
Free shot a quick glance toward Parks and wondered briefly about Amos and Billy. He looked at the boy and decided to try once more to make To’sa-woonit understand the retribution moving for them. “Mackenzie is coming, To’sa-woonit,” he said with a stark face. “He’s coming for the Kwahada.”
“Three-fingers?”
“Yes. He is a day’s ride behind us.”
To’sa-woonit rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger and appeared deep in thought. “Mackenzie is a great warrior. The People respect his courage.”
“Take your families and ride from the Palo Duro. Otherwise, Mackenzie will kill many Comanche. Tell Quanah and the great chiefs that Mackenzie comes with orders to force you to the reservation or kill you all.”
“The Kwahada will not be forced to do anything, buffalo man.” To’sa-woonit looked up and gritted his teeth. A mixture of sadness and anger clouded his eyes.
“Tell the Kiowa and Cheyenne they must leave the Palo Duro.”
“The Kiowa will not listen. Their prophet, Maman-ti, has predicted many victories and gained his people’s respect. He has traveled to the dead village of dreams. His owl puppet has guaranteed their safety in the canyon.”
“Then leave the women and children and have the warriors go west,” Free pleaded.
To’sa-woonit’s swallowed hard. “Once our women and children would be safe from our enemies. But Custer changed that on the Washita. He showed all The People that the taibo seek to take the fight out of us by killing our women and our children. Since that day, no Kwahada would ever leave their women and children behind.”
Parks cleared his throat and looked at Free. “It’s what I told you about being burdened, Free. The Kwahada are warriors. They will live or die as warriors. Nothing you or I can say will change that.”
To’sa-woonit nodded and spoke with great calm, “Listen to your friend, buffalo man. I owe you a warrior’s life. So take my horse and take your life. Go back to your son and stay out of these matters for after today, I no longer owe you any life.” To’sa-woonit waved his finger back and forth across his chest. “That is my word.”
Free realized he had done everything possible to warn the Indians. “Then I will leave the Kwahada land.” He rose and placed a hand on Spotted Horse’s shoulder, “I wish peace for you and your family.”
To’sa-woonit narrowed his eyes and twirled his forefinger three times. The warriors seemed to melt into the blackness at the signal.
“And thanks for the mustang,” Free spoke to the empty cap rock.
A disembodied voice hung in the darkness, “Don’t worry, buffalo man, when I am ready, I’ll return for my horse.”
Chapter Thirty-five
South of Tule Creek, Texas, September 1874
Free poured a thick layer of burnt coffee into his army issued cup and took a small sip, “Whuuu.” He shuddered and then remembering army etiquette remarked with a forced grin, “Now that’s good coffee.”
A majority of officers gathered near the fire and waited for the arrival of the Tonkawa scouts. During the past half hour, a consistent bird-like warble whistled from the north and alerted First Battalion of the scout’s approach.
Under a brilliant Comanche moon, silhouettes appeared along a low butte a hundred yards from the camp. Free noticed the outlined forms and pointed to the moving figures, “That must be them.”
Col. Mackenzie and Capt. McLaughlen turned toward the north at Free’s announcement and viewed the approaching riders. As the outlines came closer, Col. Mackenzie stood and straightened his uniform.
Soon, the dull thud of mustang hooves carried into the camp and the Tonkawa scouts, Johnson and Job, rode into the bivouac at a slow gallop. Behind them, a third horse appeared. The horse, led by Johnson, carried a man whose hands were bound to the saddle horn.
Under the light of the full moon, Free recognized the prisoner at once. He took a final sip of coffee as the Tonkawa dismounted and nudged Parks with his elbow. “See who that is?” he uttered from the side of his mouth.
“Uh-huh,” Parks exhaled.
“Haw-lo, Kenzie,” Johnson called out.
Col. Mackenzie moved from the fire and walked out to greet the scouts. “Who do you have there, Scout Johnson?” The colonel took a final drink of coffee and splashed the remainder to the ground in a wide sweeping motion. “He doesn’t look to be an Indian.”
“Kenzie.” Johnson spread his lips to form a wide smile, “He is better than any Indian. Better than any Comanche.”
Col. Mackenzie strode over to the captive and studied the man’s face with careful discern. “Who is this man?”
“This is a big man, Kenzie. The Comanche call him Tafoya.”
“Ahhhh.” Col. Mackenzie strained until a slight smile appeared, “The Comanchero, Tafoya.”
Johnson nodded and pulled Tafoya from his horse. “He knows every Comanche camp from here to Fort Concho.”
“So tell me, Señor Tafoya,” Col. Mackenzie approached with a welcome smile and placed his good hand on the man’s shirt collar, “are you here to trade with the Comanche?” He pressed the collar between his thumb and index finger as if to remove the wrinkles.
Tafoya’s eyes widened at the colonel’s question. “Yo no comprendo?” he issued in ignorance.
The colonel’s smile widened and he patted Tafoya’s shirt, “I asked, Señor Tafoya, if you know where the Comanche camps are located?”
Tafoya looked around in mock confusion. “Perdón, no comprendo.”
Col. Mackenzie lowered his head slightly and bit on his bottom lip. “Does anyone here speak Spanish well enough to communicate with this man?” he asked in frustration.
“I can speak the language, Colonel.” Parks stepped to the colonel’s side and took a quick glance at the Mexican trader.
“Good. Ask him where the camps are located.”
Parks faced Tafoya and showed a tight smile. “¿Donde está el campamento de la Komantcia?” he asked.
“Valiente amigo.” Tafoya looked past Parks with his response of “some friend.”
Parks nodded. “Sin elección, amigo.”
“What are you two saying, Mr. Scott?” the colonel asked impatiently.
“Small talk first, Colonel.”
“Well get to it, sir.” Mackenzie ordered.
“¿Donde está el campanmento?”
“Yo no se donde está.” Tafoya shrugged feigning ignorance of the Comanche stronghold.
Parks turned to the colonel and raised his brow. “He says he doesn’t know, sir. I don’t think he’s going to say anything else but that.”
Colonel Mackenzie pursed his lips and shook his head in disdain. “Very well.” He glanced back at the fire and became lost in his thoughts for a time. When he turned to face the prisoner once more, every muscle in his face was stretched tight. He pointed to an empty supply wagon and barked out a command. “Capt. McLaughlen, have some of your men tip that wagon to the ground.”
McLaughlen saluted and barked out, “Sergeant, you heard what the Colonel said. Tip that wagon tongue skyward!”
Without hesitation, a group of soldiers moved around the back of the wagon and pushed down on the backboard.
Mackenzie gazed at the suspended tongue and swiveled back to Tafoya. “Now, Captain. Please escort Señor Tafoya to the wagon.”
McLaughlen swept his arm toward the Comanchero and gestured with his index finger. In seconds, a group of soldiers carried a reluctant Tafoya to the wagon.
Mackenzie stared hard at his now confused prisoner. “Mr. Scott, please ask Señor Tafoya once more where the camps are located.”
Parks swallowed hard in realization of what Mackenzie planned for the Comanchero. “Amigo.” Parks shook his index finger toward the man, “Es muy importante! Es necesario responder a pregunta anterior!”
Tafoya shrugged once more, “Yo no se.”
Col. Mackenzie folded his arms across his chest to show his impatience. �
�Well, Mr. Scott?”
“He says he doesn’t know of the camp location, Colonel.”
Mackenzie tapped his foot in restless irritation. “Captain, set me a loop of rope around that tongue.” His order was made with a strange calm in his voice.
Tafoya fidgeted, uncertain if the colonel was bluffing. He uttered to no one in particular, “Yo no se.”
With the rope set around the wagon tongue, Mackenzie nodded at McLaughlen.
The captain understood and formed a quick noose with the free end of the rope.
“Proceed,” Mackenzie ordered.
Capt. McLaughlen placed the noose around Tafoya’s neck and pushed the knot tight.
“Yo no se!” Tafoya cried, “Yo no se!”
Mackenzie eyes blackened and the sound of his teeth grinding against one another issued to the now gathered First Battalion. “Go ahead, Capt. McLaughlen.”
McLaughlen tossed his hand skyward and two soldiers began hoisting Tafoya toward the wagon tongue.
Free started forward but a hand swung across his chest barring his motion. He turned toward the outstretched arm and saw Parks shaking his head no.
“Wait,” Parks whispered.
As Tafoya’s boots cleared the ground and the noose tightened, the Comanchero’s eyes and cheeks bulged into a grotesque distortion.
“OK!” Tafoya cried out in a choked voice, “OK! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Just get me down!”
Chapter Thirty-six
Cita Creek, Texas, September 1874
The winter encampments in Mustang Canyon stretched for miles along the head-waters of the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River. Each fall, wintering bands of Comanche, Cheyenne, and Kiowa arranged their lodges on the floor of the horse shoe shaped upper canyon. The Comanche deemed the Palo Duro as a gift from the Great Spirit. The canyon sheltered and protected The People from their enemies by five hundred feet of vertical cliff and steep trails that offered any trespasser a life threatening descent.
As was their custom, the Comanche arrived first into the canyon and camped along the junction of Cita Creek and the Prairie Dog Fork. The small clear stream offered clean water for all of the bands.
