Home of the Brave

by Jeffry Hepple

  Thomas was alone on the path but the vaqueros and Jane had spread out through the cedar trees on both sides of the path, several yards behind him. Jane showed herself, which caused some movement and discussion among the warriors. She had a rifle in her hands but was holding it across her body in a non-threatening manner. “Okay?” she shouted.

  “Yes,” Thomas called back.

  “Are their bows strung?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think they’re sending for someone that speaks Spanish.”

  “Try to hire him.”

  “I will.”

  “Offer one pouch and then wait while they debate,” she shouted. “If you bargain badly they’ll lose respect for you and we’ll have to fight.”

  “You already told me that,” he called back, trying to watch the warriors. “Stop talking. You’re making them nervous.”

  She stepped back into the darkness of the cedars.

  Thomas met the steady gazes of the small, squat men in front of him until, at last, the messenger returned with a tall woman who had none of the facial tattoos or physical appearance of the Indians. She moved to the front of the group to stand beside an older man who spoke to her briefly. “The People want to know what you are doing here,” she said in strangely accented Spanish.

  “We are looking for the Texas Rangers,” Thomas replied.

  The woman translated to the older man then listened for a moment. “The People do not want you here.”

  “We do not want to be trouble to the people here. We only want to find the Texas Rangers.”

  She spoke again to the older man, listened then nodded. “You must leave now.”

  “I have nearly a hundred men with firearms in the trees behind me,” he lied. “Each man is aiming at one of these warriors. Tell your chief that if he wants war, we will kill every man, woman and child and then we will burn the village.”

  She translated and waited as a heated discussion erupted and a decision was reached. “Two of those you seek crossed at the ford and went toward the sunset.” She pointed west.

  “We are also looking for an interpreter,” Thomas said.

  She didn’t translate that. “I am a captive here. If you buy me, I will be glad to go with you.”

  Thomas took a wampum pouch from his belt and pitched it underhand up the hill. “See if that will be enough.”

  She explained what had been said then walked forward, retrieved the pouch and knelt in front of the line of warriors to pour the beads out onto the dirt.

  The conversation that ensued among the Indians soon developed into an argument between several factions that went on and on.

  “Jane?” Thomas shouted, finally losing patience after several minutes.

  “Yes,” she answered from the trees.

  “Pass the word for every second man to show himself. The rest are to shake the bushes on each side of them.”

  “My Spanish isn’t good enough to say all that.”

  Thomas repeated what he’d told her loudly in Spanish and a moment later the Hueco warriors, who were dividing their attention between the wampum, the argument and the tree line, saw the armed vaqueros and reacted in alarm.

  “Tell him that you are going with us,” Thomas shouted to the interpreter in Spanish. “He can have the pouch in exchange, but there will be no more talk.”

  She translated but the older man growled a reply then shouted something that resulted in the warriors fitting arrows to their bow strings.

  Thomas raised his arm over his head. “Prepare to fire!”

  He was answered by the rattle of muskets or rifles being cocked and raised to a firing position.

  The leader of the Indians spoke again and the warriors lowered their bows.

  “I am to gather my possessions and go with you,” the interpreter said.

  “I will wait for you at the bottom of the trail,” Thomas replied. He walked as casually as he could, back down the hill. As he reached Jane, the Indians in the village began to shout and whoop. “I wonder what that’s about.” Thomas mounted his horse.

  A vaquero rode down from the high ground on the left. “They killed that woman, Patron.”

  “What woman? The interpreter?”

  “Yes, Patron. They beat her to death with war clubs.”

  “Let’s move out,” Thomas said. “We’ll cross at the ford. I want some distance between us and this village by nightfall.”

  “We have enough men and guns to kill them all and burn the village, Patron,” the vaquero suggested.

  Thomas shook his head. “If they had killed one of ours, that is exactly what I would do, but by killing that woman, they only cheated us out of a pouch of wampum. It is not worth the bullets, the time or the risk. Let us get back to the others.”

  August 29, 1829

  Comanche Territory, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas

  “Señor Tomas,” the vaquero said breathlessly. “Comanches,” He pointed over a hill to their right.

  “How many?” Thomas asked.

  “Twenty, maybe.”

  “Are they coming this way?”

  “No, Patron. They are attacking someone.”

  “I’ll go to the top of the ridge and take a look,” Thomas said to Jane. “Send me every man with a rifle. You stay with the herd.”

  “Okay,” she replied.

  Thomas kicked his horse into a run and reined him in at the crest of the hill. Below, in a narrow valley, a large band of Comanches was riding in a circle around one man who was pinned down between his dead horse and his saddle. Thomas quickly pulled his rifle from the scabbard, aimed carefully to avoid hitting the downed rider, fired and began to reload. When he looked up one riderless horse was still circling and the rest of Indians were racing angrily toward him.

  Thomas looked back over his shoulder, saw that at least ten of the vaqueros were headed his way, and then aimed his rifle and shot the Indian that was leading the charge. By the time Thomas was reloaded, the vaqueros were beside him and firing at the approaching Indians. When the third and fourth Comanches fell, the band suddenly veered to the left and raced toward the trees. The vaqueros took two more before the Indians reached cover.

  “Stay here and cover me,” Thomas said. Then he started his horse down into the valley. As he drew closer to the dead horse, a man stood up and raised his hand.

  “Howdy do?”

  “Fine thank you,” Thomas said. “How are you?”

  “Right as a spring rain.” The man had an arrow through his left bicep.

  Thomas dismounted and led his horse closer. “You must be one of the Texas Rangers we’ve been looking for.”

  “Captain Josiah Whipple.” The man offered his bloody right hand.

  “Thomas Van Buskirk.” He shook the Ranger’s hand. “Can you get onto my horse with that arm?”

  “The arm won’t bother me much for a while. I’d be obliged if your men could catch me one of them Comanche ponies.” He had a wrinkled face, darkly tanned by the sun and hair so blond that it was nearly white.

  “We have a string of saddle-broken horses with our cattle.” Thomas pointed up to the ridge. “I’ll send someone to fetch your gear while we see about taking that arrow out of your arm.”

  “Okay. Get on up on your horse and gimme a stirrup. I’ll swing up behind you.”

  Thomas mounted and then took his foot out of the stirrup. “Tennessee Militia?”

  Whipple mounted with a grunt. “Marines. I hail from Kentucky but I served with General Jackson and your Pa at New Orleans. How’s he doin’?”

  “My father?” Thomas turned the horse toward the vaqueros. “He was fine when I left him in New Jersey.”

  Whipple pointed. “I think that’s my hat, yonder. Could you ride that way so as I can pick it up?”

  ~

  “Why are you out here all alone?” Jane asked, as she bandaged Captain Whipple’s arm.

  “I wasn’t alone when I left the company, bu
t the scout that was with me run off.”

  “One scout hardly makes a difference,” she observed.

  “We was lookin’ for that band of Comanches so me and the scout rode up to the Waco village to ask them if they knew where they was. I was plannin’ to rejoin the company when I got jumped.”

  “How many in your company?”

  “Another officer, eighteen rangers and five scouts.”

  Thomas walked up to join them. “How is your patient?” he asked Jane.

  “I think the arrow shaft came out cleanly,” she said.

  “Your lady damn near killed me,” Whipple complained. “Poured whiskey on the danged arrow before she pulled it through.”

  “Jane thinks that whiskey minimizes infection,” Thomas said.

  “Sure burns like fire,” Whipple replied. “Did ya say you was out here lookin’ fer me?”

  “Yes, my wife shot a vaquero who was threatening us with a rifle and she wanted to report it to you.”

  “Do you know his name and where he was from?”

  “Yes,” Jane said.

  “Okay. I’ll file a report with Colonel Austin when I see him.”

  “Did you hear that?” Jane said to Thomas. “He said ‘okay’.”

  “Captain Whipple served with General Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans,” Thomas replied.

  “How comes you to be up here on the Nashville Grant in the first place?” Whipple asked.

  “It’s not the Nashville Grant any more,” Thomas said. “I’m surveying it for Mr. Austin and we’re gathering a herd for our ranch in the process.”

  “Yer wrong, it’s still the Nashville Grant,” Whipple contradicted.

  “The change has been recent,” Thomas said.

  “You been back in the last two weeks?” Whipple asked.

  Thomas shook his head.

  “It’s the Nashville Grant.”

  “No,” Thomas shook his head again. “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding and Mr. Austin has reapplied to the State.”

  “There’s been some kind of misunderstandin’ or another about this here parcel of land from the get-go,” Whipple said. “The original application fer the grant was made in 1822 by some seventy-odd folks from Nashville, Tennessee. They called themselves the Texas Association, but Colonel Austin’s map showed it as ‘the Nashville Company’.”

  Thomas and Jane both nodded.

  “Well, as usual it took the Mexican government over two years t’ approve the application. But by then the money had done run out so the lawyer for the Texas Association, a man by the name o’ Robert Leftwich, paid the fees his-self and in 1825, he sold the grant t’ a group o’ Tennessee investors.”

  “Yes,” Jane agreed. “There’s another map among those that Mr. Austin gave us that refers to this parcel as Leftwich’s Grant.”

  “That’s ‘cause by the time that the Tennessee group was about ready t’ start bringin’ settlers in, the Mexican legislators done revoked the permit.”

  Thomas nodded. “Colonel Austin explained all that to me. Before I left he told me that he was preparing to go to the Coahuila State Capitol where he intended to reapply for the original Nashville Company grant in his name and – someone...” He looked at Jane questioningly. “Do you remember Austin’s partner’s name?”

  “Samuel May Williams,” she said. “I think he’s Mr. Austin’s secretary, not his partner.”

  “Well see,” Whipple said with a grin, “that there’s the problem. Colonel Austin was supposed t’ apply for the grant in the name o’ the group in Tennessee that bought the contract from Leftwich. Now some fella from Tennessee name of Sterling C. Robertson is suing the Mexican government and Colonel Austin over it.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Jane asked.

  Whipple shrugged. “I sure ain’t no lawyer, but I been in Mexico since the war ended and I can tell you that the courts here are real, real slow. It could be ten years before y’all have title to yer land. If ever.”

  “What are we going to do, Thomas?” Jane asked.

  Thomas shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “The summer’s almost gone,” she said. “We have to find a place to build a winter camp.”

  “If it was me,” Whipple said, gesturing with his good arm, “I’d just go west and lay claim to some land this side of the Colorado. It’s real pretty country. Real pretty.”

  “That’s not included in any of the land grants,” Thomas replied.

  Whipple nodded. “I know.”

  Thomas looked confused. “How would we perfect title to the claim?”

  “If the truth be told it all belongs to the Comanches anyways,” Whipple said, “but the Mexican government ain’t never gonna recognize that.”

  “So what does that mean to us?” Thomas asked in confusion.

  “You just take what you want from the Comanches, claim it as yours by right o’ conquest, and then argue in front of a judge ten or twenty years from now when somebody tries t’ take it away from y’all.”

  “What if we lose in court?” Jane asked.

  “If y’all last twenty years and gather all the cattle over there you’ll be so stinkin’ rich that y’all can appoint yer own judges or hire yer own army,” Whipple said. “Hell, y’all can start yer own country, if y’all want.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Thomas asked.

  “Me? I’d go loco if I had to live under a roof for very long. I like this life I’m livin’.”

  Thomas looked at Jane. “What do you think?”

  “I’d like the idea better if we had more men. You won’t be able to convince the Comanches that our twenty vaqueros are a hundred like you did the Huecos.”

  “Do you have the money to pay for a hundred men?” Whipple asked.

  “Yes,” Thomas replied. “We have enough to pay another hundred for four years or two hundred for two years.”

  “That’s if we don’t sell any cattle,” Jane said. “And we have a decent herd already. Barring disaster, money should be no problem. What are you thinking, Captain?”

  “I’m always getting’ men comin’ t’ me wantin’ to ranger,” Whipple replied. “But we’ve got a full complement so I have t’ turn ‘em down.”

  “What kind of men?” Thomas asked.

  “Soldiers, mostly. Militiamen from the southern states and a few regulars that don’t wanna go back north.”

  “Deserters?”

  “Could be.”

  “I don’t care,” Jane said. “Send them our way.”

  “I can do better than that,” Whipple said. “I’ll go with y’all. But we’ll need to take a little detour t’ pick up the rest of my company first. The Comanches won’t be happy t’ see us.”

  “Why would you risk your life and the lives of the men in your company for us?” Jane asked in amazement.

  Whipple gave her a grin. “That’s what I get paid t’ do. Besides, Colonel Austin told me that he wants the Comanches pushed clear out of the state of Coahuila or defeated. Since the Comanches don’t take so good t’ bein’ pushed, defeatin’ ‘em will be a whole lot easier if they come t’ me.”

  August 30, 1829

  Montauk Point, New York

  “His name is Quincy,” Anna said defiantly, “and I don’t care if you like it or not, Father.”

  “I didn’t mean that I didn’t like the name,” Yank protested. “I just meant that I’ll need to teach him to fight by the time he can walk so that he can defend himself from all the other little boys that’ll tease him for having such a sissified name.”

  Marina had the infant if her arms. “You can call him whatever you like but if he ever calls me granny, grandma, grandmother or anything similar, it’s you I’ll be coming after, Anna.”

  “Why couldn’t I have been born to normal parents?” Anna asked.

  “Just lucky, I guess.” Yank walked to the window and looked out to watch Paul Van Winkler who was currying Yank’s horse. “What does Paul think of your Quincy?”


  “Who knows?” Anna answered. “He’s a near mute. One day I decided not to speak to him until he spoke to me. He said good morning as I came down for breakfast and good night when he went up to bed.”

  Marina carried the baby to the window beside Yank. “Why is he brushing your horse?”

  “He probably doesn’t think the animal’s properly cared for,” Yank replied.

  “No, that’s not it,” Anna said. “When the sun’s up he thinks that he has to be working. He knows that it would be rude to go into the barn and start pitching hay while you’re here so brushing your horse is his compromise.”

  Marina chuckled. “He’s the neatest man I ever saw. When we got here he was arranging things in the pantry like it was a store display.”

  “Oh, I drive him mad by putting things in the wrong place,” Anna said with a giggle. “He simply cannot understand why I would do such a horrible thing. He’s dismissed a dozen Montauk cooks because they were too messy.”

  “I guess we know why he never got married,” Yank said.

  September 17, 1829

  Colorado River, Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas

  “I think I may have died and gone to heaven,” Jane said breathlessly. “I never thought I’d ever see a place more beautiful than Montauk Point, but this is it. Look at that grass. And it’s autumn. Imagine what it’s like in the spring?”

  “No ocean,” Thomas said dryly. “Other than that, it’ll do.”

  “We can build the ranch house there.” She pointed. “And we’ll take the trees from there to open up that meadow behind it. We can build a water-powered lumber mill on that stream and just float the logs down to it.”

  “You may have to settle for a log cabin. Most of the men we’ve picked up are soldiers. I doubt any are experienced carpenters.”

  “They’re all first or second generation pioneers, Thomas. I’d be surprised if any of them would be daunted by house building.”

  “Before we do any house buildin’ we need to put ‘em to stockade buildin’,” Captain Whipple said. He pointed. “We’ll start by enclosin’ that pasture.”

  “I’d suggest guard towers at each entrance to the valley,” Thomas said. “We can post lookouts on those high points in line of sight and they can communicate with lanterns or signal mirrors.”