While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Mary's round face showed her surprise, not only at the profanity but the familiarity it betrayed, and she shot Beth a curious look. By sheer willpower Beth managed to keep her features polite despite the strong urge to shout back at him. Smiling coolly, she said, "Mr. Maverick wanted to show Nathan a horse that he owns and thinks is suitable for breeding. I believe that they will return in just a moment."

  He hadn't meant to snap at her like that, and certainly not in front of someone else. Recovering himself, he said in a quieter tone, "Forgive me. I am not particularly amiable today and spoke without thought."

  Mary asked anxiously, "Your meeting did not go well?"

  "No. I just wasted my time and everybody else's. I can only hope I am being pessimistic."

  Sam Maverick and Nathan returned and the conversation again focused on Rafael's meeting with the Commissioners. Rafael gave the two men a brief accounting and ended by saying, "If you're ready, Ridgeway, I suggest that we start toward the courthouse—there is bound to be a crowd, and if you want a good view we had better be there early. Are you coming, Sam?"

  Sam Maverick shook his head. "No, I have other things to attend to. I expect Mary will fill my ears with all the points of interest."

  Mary smiled at her husband and, after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she said to Beth, "Well, my dear, I think we, too, should be off to join the other women."

  Painfully conscious of Rafael standing by her husband, Beth crossed over to Nathan and, gently touching one of his hands, murmured, "You will be safe? If there is any trouble, as Senor Santana fears, you will leave at the first sign?"

  Nathan looked fondly at her. "But of course, my dear. I think you refine too much on any danger. Now run along with Mrs. Maverick, I'll see you later."

  She sent him a strained smile; moved by something she didn't understand, she kissed him sweetly on the mouth. Not glancing at Rafael, she hurried away with Mary Maverick.

  Meeting two other ladies who were also on their way to offer their services, Mary and Beth discovered that one of the houses near the courthouse had been settled upon as the place where the returned captives would be taken. It was on her way there that Beth noticed Lorenzo Mendoza standing near one of the buildings next to the courthouse. Her step faltered, but she quickened her step, and to Lorenzo's greeting of "Buenos dias, Senora Ridgeway," she merely inclined her head and kept right on walking beside Mary.

  Once they had passed him, Mary muttered, "I am glad he did not choose to acknowledge my presence. I know he is related by marriage to the Santanas, but I cannot like him. You were wise not to tarry in conversation with him—he does not have a good reputation for all his grand airs and connections."

  "But I thought it was Rafael who was held in low esteem," Beth blurted out. "Isn't he called 'Renegade'?"

  "Oh, yes, there are those who dislike him and view his Comanche blood and continued association with the Comanches with deep suspicion. My husband and I are not among them, nor are many others in San Antonio. Texas has a good friend in Rafael Santana, and while not everyone feels that way, there are many of us who see more clearly into his character." Her face hardening just a little, Mary added, "Those who think Rafael a villain would do better to look at his grandfather, Don Felipe."

  There were at least a half a dozen other women at the house when Beth and Mary arrived. Conversation between them all was concerned and speculative, no one certain what they could expect—how many returned captives there would be, nor in what condition they would be.

  As Rafael had surmised, the Pehnahterkuh brought only two captives—a Mexican boy who meant nothing to Texans and a sixteen-year-old girl, Matilda Lockhart, who had been captured with her three-year-old sister in 1838. The Comanches had chosen unwisely in Matilda Lockhart; it would have been far better if they had brought in no captives.

  Beth's first sight of the girl almost made her scream in horror, for the child had been savagely and hideously abused.

  Matilda's appearance was, as Rafael had tried to warn her, enough to make even the stoutest stomach quail, and two of the women present had to leave the room. Beth wasn't one of them. As she helped wash away years of filth and dirt from the thin, scarred body, her tender heart bled for the plight of the poor girl, and she experienced a bitter fury against the creatures that had done this to a mere child.

  Matilda's head, arms and face were horribly scarred and full of bruises and ugly sores; her nose had been burnt off to the bone. Matilda Lockhart was an example of the horror of Indian captivity, and there wasn't a woman there that didn't thank God that she had been spared...

  The girl was aware of the revolting sight she presented and she begged piteously to be hidden away from curious eyes. Mary, Beth, and a few of the other ladies attempted to soothe her, but looking at them through tear-drenched eyes, Matilda cried, "You do not understand! You can never understand! Yes, they held torches to my face to make me scream—look at me! My whole body bears scars from fire, but I am utterly degraded. The warriors shared me as if I were no better than a whore." Sobbing uncontrollably, she turned her ruined face away, "I shall never be able to hold my head up again—my shame is complete."

  Beth felt frozen inside, wondering how the girl had managed to survive as she told of the further horrors she had been forced to endure, how the squaws had beaten her and how they would awaken her from sleep by sticking a chunk of fire to her flesh, especially her nose. She could not bring herself to speak further of her sexual humiliations. Every woman there was torn between pity and outrage at her story.

  Unfortunately for the Comanches, Matilda Lockhart was an intelligent girl, and during her years of captivity she learned the Comanche tongue. She had overheard some of the warriors discussing their strategy for the release of the other captives. Mary sent for Colonel Fisher, and with growing fury he listened to Mary's account of the tortures the girl had suffered before he spoke with Matilda. From her he learned that there were at least fifteen other white captives she knew of, and that the Comanches intended to strike expensive bargains for them. His face set and grim, Colonel Fisher thanked Matilda for her information and praised her for being a brave girl. Pivoting on his heel, he marched out of the house. Watching him go, Beth suddenly wished that Nathan hadn't wanted to attend this wretched meeting. If the colonel's expression was anything to go by, violence was in the wind.

  The council opened in the one-story limestone building adjacent to the San Antonio jail on the main plaza. It was a small building—and the courtroom itself had a packed earth floor, it was not a pretentious—but a building that from this day forth would always be known as the "Council House."

  Rafael and Nathan were standing near the door when the twelve war chiefs, led by the bald, old head man, Mook-war-ruh, the Spirit Talker, filed past them in their finest attire, the copper faces painted brightly in honor of the ceremonial occasion, and Nathan stared goggle-eyed. As the door shut behind the last Indian, Rafael stirred—Comanches did not like closed-in places; it was a feeling he understood.

  The chiefs squatted on the dirt floor and exchanged greetings with the Texan officials through an interpreter. Outside the courthouse all was calm—the Comanche women sat patiently by the building, the warriors staring aloofly into the distance, the young boys playing war games in the dusty streets. The onlookers, a mixed crowd of Texans and native San Antonio Mexicans, gathered to watch the proceedings. Beth and Mary, their help no longer needed with Matilda, were among them.

  Curiosity seemed to be the mood of those outside, everyone wanting to see the feared Comanches. But Beth was not as curious as she might have been; the sight of poor Matilda Lockhart's face and body would stay with her for a long time, and she was incensed at what, even some of these Indian women sitting in the hot sun in front of the courthouse had done to her. As for the sexual humiliations inflicted by the warriors, she was almost physically ill thinking of what the young girl had been made to suffer. Remembering the fierce, terrifying faces of the warriors, Beth shudde
red.

  Inside the Council House, Colonel Fisher quickly shared with the other two commissioners what the Lockhart girl had told him. He spared no detail of her conditions and mistreatment at the hands of the Comanches, and as word spread, the temperament inside the room was one of seething wrath. Most Texans were from the southern states; they had all fought Indians at one time or another, but most had never encountered the brutality and cruelty of the Comanches. The "semi-civilized" tribes of the east and south, capable of their own brand of savagery, had never in the past hundred years abducted, raped, and killed white women; the Texans were aroused to a hysterical fury by these acts.

  The Comanches were unaware of the reactions of the Texans in the room—the treatment of the Lockhart girl had been no worse than that of any other captive. Every woman captured by the Comanches was raped by the entire raiding party once they had made camp for the night—it was a ritual they found effective in bringing about utter and total obedience. As for passing her from man to man, they shared their wives with their brothers, why shouldn't they also share a captive woman?

  By the time the Indians were finally settled and the customary greetings were exchanged, Colonel Fisher wasted no time in further formality. Standing in front of the impassive Comanches as they sat before him, some of them unconsciously caressing their favorite weapon, he demanded through the interpreter, "Why were there only two captives returned? We know of at least fifteen other captives—where are they?"

  Spirit Talker, the old civil chief, his black eyes un-blinkingly on Fisher, said through the interpreter, "It is true that there are many other captives—but these are in other camps of the Nermernuh, over which we have no control." He spoke a partial truth, although none of the Texans believed him. The white man had always had trouble understanding the autonomous nature of the Comanches—each band was a law unto itself.

  Spirit Talker spoke eloquently for some minutes, the interpreter, a Mexican youth, a former Comanche captive, quickly translating the guttural language into English. Much of what Spirit Talker had to say was of no interest to the Texans in the room, but finally he said something that everyone had been waiting for. Glancing around the packed room, certain he had the full attention of all who were there, he said slowly, "I believe that all the captives can be ransomed for a great price—for many goods and ammunition, for blankets and much vermilion."

  The Comanches had thought out their strategy well, but they made a grave mistake in thinking the Texans, like the Mexicans, were willing to have peace with them, and their captives returned, at any price. The Comanches viewed the captives as the spoils of war; it was incomprehensible to them that the Texans assumed any inherent right to the captives.

  Certain the Texans would see the logic of their demands, Spirit Talker regarded the crowd confidently and ended his oration by questioning calmly, "How do you like that answer?"

  There was a mutter of anger at the arrogance of his reply, and Rafael tensed. He judged the distance to the door, and ruthlessly began to maneuver Nathan toward it. Nathan, however, proved difficult and he demanded, "What the devil are you doing? I don't want to miss any of this; I can't concentrate with you pushing and pulling at me."

  Rafael gritted his teeth and, barely controlling his temper, he snapped, "I'm trying to save your life! In this crowd, in the temper they're in, anything could happen, and you're leaving now whether you like it or not."

  The delay had cost precious seconds. Colonel Fisher's face stiffened at the insolence of the old chief. Grimly he showed how he liked the answer by ordering a file of Texan soldiers into the Council House. Quickly the soldiers took up positions along the walls, one now guarding the door Rafael had been making for. Rafael's mouth tightened and, despite the crush and the crowd, he steered a resisting and contrary Nathan in that direction. They had just about reached the door and Rafael was on the point of breathing a sigh of relief when Nathan surprised both of them by deftly twitching his arm free, saying, "I am not leaving. You may do so, if you wish." And he turned back to watch the proceedings.

  Rafael considered deserting Nathan, but remembering the anxious look in a pair of lovely violet eyes, he cursed under his breath. There was going to be trouble, he could smell it, and any hope he had cherished that the meeting would be a success had died the instant Colonel Fisher had ordered the troops into the already packed room. The hatred and violence that each people felt for the other was tangible, and Rafael eased his Colt pistol from the holster strapped to his thigh.

  As soon as the soldiers had marched into the room, the Comanche chiefs began to move restively, one or two even rising to their feet, others clasping their knives and bows and arrows more aggressively than before. Colonel Fisher said tersely, "I do not like your answer! You were told not to come here for council unless you brought in all captives. Your women and children may depart in peace and your warriors may go so that they may tell your people to bring in the other captives. When all the captives are returned, then we will speak of presents and then you and the other chiefs here today can go free. Until then you are our prisoners."

  The interpreter blanched, his fright obvious and he refused to deliver such a message. His brown eyes dilating with fear, he said agitatedly, "The chiefs will fight to the death before they will allow themselves to be taken captive. You cannot capture them without a fight—a bloody fight!"

  Colonel Cooke, the senior officer, came over to stand near Colonel Fisher and, his face darkening with anger, he demanded furiously, "Do you dare to tell us how to conduct this affair? Repeat the message as stated, you insolent dog, and do it now!"

  Rafael's blood ran cold and, forgetting Nathan, he surged through the crowd, determined to make one last attempt to avoid bloodshed, but he was too late. Even as Rafael fought his way toward the front of the room, the interpreter shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and translated Colonel Fisher's reply. Then, before anyone could stop him, he bolted from the room, his unexpected rush catching the guard in front of the door by surprise as he pushed him aside and ran out into the street.

  The interpreter's words stunned the chiefs, but as their import sank in, as one they leaped to their feet, terrifying Comanche war whoops vibrating in the air. Thinking to follow the path of the interpreter, one chief lunged for the door and, meeting the soldier who guarded it more zealously this time, he plunged his knife into the guard; the man, badly wounded, fought back, his revolver dispatching the Comanche.

  Someone yelled for the troops to fire and the courtroom was filled with gun smoke and the shrieks and cries of the wounded. In the confined space there was no escaping for anyone; both Comanches and Texans were hit by the fusillade. The room was in chaos, shouts and screams and the sound of musket fire shattering the air, the smell of smoke and hot blood permeating every corner of the room.

  It was a deadly melee and Rafael was caught in the middle, unable to fire on the Comanches and equally unwilling to shoot at the Texans. He fought a defensive action, using the butt end of his pistol to clear his way toward Nathan and the door. Like several others, Nathan was unarmed and unprepared, his gray eyes starting from his head in fright as he stood frozen where Rafael had left him. There were horrors happening right in front of him and, like a rabbit staring into the hypnotic gaze of a rattlesnake, he couldn't look away.

  Mook-war-ruh, shrieking his outrage, his knife glittering in the gloom of the room, tangled with a Ranger captain. In the struggle the captain was stabbed in the side. His military sword proved ineffective in such close quarters, and, nearly fainting from the loss of blood, he captured Mook-war-ruh by the hand and shouted to one of the soldiers to fire at the Comanche. A second later the old civil chief lay dead upon the dirt floor.

  Bystanders and soldiers alike fought for their lives. Judge John Hemphill, the District Judge, efficiently disemboweled with a bowie knife one of the chiefs as they grappled in a mortal fight. The Council House rang with shots and the screams of the wounded and dying; the powder smoke was heavy in the confi
ned space.

  Rafael managed to avoid killing anyone; there were several men who were going to wonder who the hell had tapped them with less than gentle force on the head as he struggled to Nathan. Reaching Nathan's side, he shoved Nathan up against the wall and, positioning his body in front of the smaller man, he snarled over his shoulder, "Stay there! If you so much as move an eyelash, I'll gut you myself."

  Nathan stayed, not daring to move a muscle, more frightened of Rafael than of any Comanche in the room. The sight of a painted savage figure, appearing out of the smoke and shifting crowd, leaping for Rafael caused him to moan with terror and shrink closer to the limestone wall.

  Rafael met the Comanche's charge easily, one steel-fingered hand capturing the upraised arm that held a bloodstained knife. Nathan heard him say something harshly in the guttural tongue of the Comanche, and peering over Rafael's broad shoulder, he saw the Indian's black eyes widen in startled recognition.

  "Stalking Spirit!" the Comanche cried joyously. Without warning there was deafening reverberation and the man's face changed as he crumpled to the floor, shot in the back by one of the soldiers. His face blank, Rafael stared across at the young soldier holding the smoking musket and then at the body on the floor. He didn't say anything; he couldn't. His own role in the tragedy strangled speech.

  The chiefs fought a bloody valiant battle, but they were outnumbered. One by one they were struck down, the last few breaking through the door and spilling out into the streets of San Antonio. As they emerged, their shrieks and screams alerted the Comanches outside.

  The squaws and children joined the remaining warriors in fighting for their lives. Seizing any weapon available, their hideous cries of rage splitting the hot sunlit day, the Indians turned on the stunned, hapless citizens of San Antonio. An Indian child shot a toy arrow into the heart of a visiting circuit judge, killing him instantly, a second before the reserve soldiers, who had been kept in the background, opened fire. In the confusion, in the milling and mingling of both Indian and white, both sides suffered losses as the soldiers opened fire.