Comanche Sunset

by Rosanne Bittner

  He was called Wild Horse, and the name was respected by the Comanche, feared and hated by whites. Both factions believed that his mixed blood only made him meaner, more determined to show just how Indian he really was in spite of his blue eyes. At fifteen he had taken the test of manhood, suffering the exquisite tortures of Comanche men and women alike, proving he was as worthy a warrior as any full-blood.

  Bloody raids against whites and Mexicans, and a reputation of having stolen more horses, killed more of the enemy, and captured an equal number for slavery and torture than any other warrior, had earned him leadership status among the People. Especially since he came of age during the time that whites began to gradually hunt down the Comanche and put them onto reservations. Wild Horse grew to become one of the most wanted Comanche leaders, hated and hunted by citizens and soldiers alike.

  Now, with the white man close to war in the East, soldiers were being removed from the West. Wild Horse was smart and cunning. He still had not been caught, and when he realized only skeleton crews of soldiers were being left at the forts, his raiding intensified. No settler in outlying areas was safe, and the stagecoach ran intermittently, depending on where it was suspected Wild Horse might strike next.

  Wild Horse was an angry man. He hated his white blood, and seemed to be always trying to prove it meant nothing to him and did not make him weak. And he hated the white man, who had tricked and lied to the Comanche for years. There had been times when the Comanche had tried to settle matters, but always something went wrong and blood was shed. Now, for fear of starving to death and being shot down to the last man, most Comanche had given up.

  But not Wild Horse. He was vowed to never turn himself in, never to die on a reservation. He would die fighting. Those who felt the same way held out with him, renegades who kept to the hills, moving out to strike in unexpected places, leaving behind tortured, raped, mutilated bodies, burned homes and crops, taking male prisoners, from whom the Comanche believed they drew strength and power through torture. He did not understand that when whites found these nearly unrecognizable victims, their wrath knew no bounds. To Wild Horse and his people, torture and killing were as ingrained a part of their lives and beliefs as breathing.

  Such behavior was expected by the Comanche. If their own were taken by enemy whites, the Indians expected they would be treated the same way in return. Wild Horse and the others could not understand why, at treaty councils with the whites, when white prisoners were brought in, beaten, scarred, and noses burned off, the whites suddenly would not continue the talks. Always they turned on them, making demands that were not originally agreed upon, arresting men, women, and children on the spot. Instead of being happy to get back their captives and paying the Comanche in promised food and tobacco and the like, the whites would become angry and turn their guns on the Comanche. This perplexed and angered Wild Horse, who had vowed never to turn himself in to anyone and get caught in that same trap.

  He sat on a rise now, watching a house burn. A woman who had already been raped lay dead, pinned to the ground with a lance. A little girl also lay dead, and a young boy of perhaps eight years sat in front of one of the other warriors, crying. He would be taken and kept, to grow into a man and be trained to hunt for the tribe, to be a slave and help any warrior or Comanche woman who needed it. His father hung from a fence, his arms lashed to the crossbars, his body bloody from torture. The Comanche men had not taken much strength from that one. The man had done too much screaming, shown too much weakness.

  Now, horses loaded with food and supplies stolen from the settlers, Wild Horse and his renegades were ready to ride back to their hideaway in the Barrilla Mountains, where they would rest and make preparations for more raids. Wild Horse had no fear that the soldiers would find them. No one could hide like the Comanche, and the rock-hard ground and mountain streams made tracking next to impossible.

  They rode off, taking the boy and a few stolen horses with them, leaving behind the dead settlers and their burning cabin.

  Jennifer leaned on the railing of the steamboat. Her first few nights on the boat had been hard, filled with memories of the last time she was on such a boat. She remembered the pain of the fire and the horror of realizing the boat had blown up and her parents were dead. But being away from John Andrews, being free and bravely striking out on her own helped to ease the bad memories. Her heaviest sorrow now was for Aunt Esther, but even that sadness was overwhelmed with the bigger worry that Uncle John might find a way to track her down.

  After six days, she was certain the man had by now torn half of St. Louis apart looking for her. She hoped he had not questioned Mattie too harshly. But then Mattie was a smart, somewhat hardened woman herself. She was probably right when she said she could handle Uncle John. Jennifer hoped the woman would be able to find another job and get away from the man completely.

  Would Uncle John check at the docks? If he did, he would not find anyone with her name registered for any trips. But would the ticket master who had sold her the tickets remember her by description? She hoped her cape and hood had kept her enough in the shadows that the man would not be sure. Even so, Uncle John would have to catch up to her first before he could do anything, and she had a good head start.

  She determined that if she kept to herself and made no trouble, that even if she was hunted down by description, the authorities in other states would have no right to detain her on something that was only suspected, not proven. She was eighteen years old, and she had paid for this trip with honest money. She had Sergeant Enders’s letter, proving that this trip was legitimate and that she was going to Texas to be married. She was old enough to make that decision, and no one could stop her.

  The steamboat let out a long whistle, and Jennifer watched the passing scenery, feeling more and more at peace with every mile she put between herself and her uncle. She studied the lush green countryside, listened with new awareness to the songs of the birds, enjoyed the smell of budding spring flowers and blossoming trees. Leaving the only home she had known since losing her parents had not been hard, once Aunt Esther was gone. If the woman had lived, Jennifer reasoned she probably would never have left, at least not to go far. Eventually she would have been old enough that Uncle John could do nothing about her seeing other men. She would have married and would have wanted to establish a home not far from Aunt Esther.

  But all that was changed. Now she would marry for very different reasons, and there would be no Aunt Esther to help her with her decisions. She was on her own.

  With every passing day, Jennifer grew more confident. She had met a married couple and befriended the young woman, partly because she truly liked her, and partly to have someone to be with along the journey for protection. When she was with the Hartleys, no one bothered her. When she was alone, she was occasionally approached by men who realized she had no escort. She remained cool toward them, quickly telling them with her eyes and remarks that she was not interested. She kept her cabin door locked and reread Jane Eyre, taking strength from the bravery of the heroine.

  She wondered sometimes about some of the men who approached her, especially the young ones. Uncle John had not allowed her to be courted, but she had talked to young men at church and certain gatherings, and she was as fascinated as anyone her age would be about the mysteries of man and woman. Uncle John had made Aunt Esther’s gentle description of womanhood seem ugly, and now Jennifer was confused over whether being with a man should be beautiful or dreadful. Being married to a man like John, she wondered how Aunt Esther had managed to keep the beautiful part alive. Perhaps it had once been that way for her, before Uncle John started drinking so much and letting himself turn to fat.

  She imagined that mating might be pleasant, if a woman could get over the humiliation of it—perhaps if it was done in complete darkness. But it seemed it could only be that way if the woman truly loved the man she took as a husband. That was how Aunt Esther had said it should be. Would she learn to love Sergeant Enders? Would he wait
for that to happen before insisting on marrying her? Could she bring herself to marry the man out of pure obligation?

  She tried not to dwell on such thoughts too intently. For now she had to think about surviving her trip, watching out for herself, being careful of how much money she spent. She would worry about Sergeant Enders when she arrived at Fort Stockton.

  She left the Hartleys behind at New Orleans, which was their final destination. It had been pleasant meeting new people. Now she was on her own again. She picked up her bags and boarded the boat that would take her through the Gulf to Galveston, Texas. Still, no one had stopped her to ask questions, and every night she thanked God she still had not been caught. She thought again about Mattie. She would like to wire the woman, but Uncle John might intercept the message. She had to wait until she was at the fort.

  She missed Mattie, missed the house, missed Aunt Esther. Some nights the tears would finally come, no matter how hard she fought them. Her whole life would be changed now and forever. There would be no going back. She was proud of how bravely and intelligently she had planned this trip. But she was also afraid of what lay waiting for her in a desolate land from which there would be no return. She wondered sometimes if a fate worse than Uncle John lay waiting for her—if she had naively planned this venture, only to be carried off and horribly abused by Comanche Indians.

  “Damn Comanche are at it again in west Texas,” she overheard one man telling another in the dining area of the steamboat. She ate quietly, keeping to herself but listening intently. The man talking about the Indians looked as wild as any she had ever seen, with his gray hair long and tied at his neck. He sported a beard and buckskins, and he clamped a pipe between his teeth as he talked. He wore a knife on a colorfully beaded belt around his waist.

  Jennifer had seen men similarly attired in St. Louis, but she got out of the house so little that she had seen only one or two, and none quite as wild looking as this one. Because St. Louis was the primary center of trade and travel to the west, such men were often seen there; but Uncle John had kept her sheltered from such things. Jennifer found the man intriguing, wishing she could ask questions of him herself, find out if he knew about Fort Stockton and what it was like there. But to speak to him would be much too bold. The man sitting with him looked like some kind of businessman. She sipped her coffee quietly.

  “You think you can safely get goods and supplies through west Texas,” the businessman was asking.

  “Oh, it can be done—with enough men. The biggest problem is a renegade called Wild Horse. He’s a half-breed, which makes him even meaner. I’ve never seen him myself—just the results of his raids, and it ain’t pretty, let me tell you. What them Comanche can do to captives is somethin’ I wouldn’t dare go into here where people might overhear me, expecially women.”

  Jennifer kept her eyes averted, but she sensed they were looking at her.

  “Well, it would be very profitable for me if I could hook up with Morrow’s Freighting Service,” the businessman answered. “I’m meeting one of his sons in San Antonio. A line all the way from New Orleans to San Diego would be quite a venture.”

  “I’ve scouted for Morrow a time or two. He’s so well known in southern Arizona and New Mexico that he doesn’t have too much trouble with the Indians through there. But a freight line through west Texas would be new to the Comanche, and those renegades are starving and in need of a lot of things. A supply train would look mighty good to them.” The scout puffed his pipe a moment longer. “Which son are you meetin’?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is someone is supposed to meet me there.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if it’s an Indian.”

  “An Indian!”

  “Morrow’s got an adopted son in his mid-twenties, I’d say. He’s half Comanche. Morrow’s wife found him as an abandoned baby years ago when Morrow first came west. She couldn’t bring herself to let him die, so she took him in. He’s pretty well respected by those that know Morrow, but he’s had some pretty hard times, bein’ part Indian. I ain’t sure how he’ll be accepted in Texas, even if there’s nothin’ Indian about him but his looks. Folks in Texas don’t much care. To them a Comanche is a Comanche.”

  The businessman lit a cigar. “Interesting. I’ve never met any of the really wild Indians, the ones still living free under their old customs. Don’t see many in settled places any more.”

  “Most of the Comanche are up in Indian Territory north of Texas. But there’s plenty left like Wild Horse to keep givin’ Texas problems. And, of course, farther north the Cheyenne and Sioux are givin’ the people in the central plains a lot of trouble. The Apache ain’t settled yet, either.”

  The businessman ordered more wine for them both. “Well, I’m not sure the perils involved warrant me getting involved with Morrow Freighting.”

  “It would be his problem, not yours. There’s also the possibility of war back East. Somethin’ like that could bring you a hefty profit.” The scout laughed. “Listen to me. We meet over a card game and here I am pitchin’ Morrow Freighting to you.” He puffed his pipe. “I’ll let Morrow’s son finish that. I can tell you, though, that they’re a good outfit. Lester Morrow is an honest, trustworthy man. If he says he can get your goods from New Orleans to San Diego, you can pretty well count on them gettin’ there. I rode with them for a couple of years, but the half-breed son does most of the scouting now. His first name is Wade. Ridin’ that country suits him, I guess. A friend of mine, Gabe Sanders, he’s worked for them, too. Had to teach Wade Morrow Indian ways, the Apache and Comanche tongue—ain’t that somethin’? The kid is half Comanche and had to be taught their language and customs by a white man.”

  Both men chuckled. “Interesting,” the businessman replied. “I kind of hope that is the son I meet.”

  Jennifer rose and left her table, and the two men watched after her. “Kind of strange, isn’t it,” the businessman said then. “I’ve been watching that young lady. Seems awfully young to be traveling alone, especially knowing this boat is headed for Texas. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place a young lady would go by herself.”

  “I was thinkin’ the same. I thought maybe she’s one of them ladies you don’t really call a lady, but there’s somethin’ about her that makes that hard to believe.”

  “I agree. She’s a proper lady, all right, which makes her being here alone all the more curious.” He sipped some wine. “Oh, well, I guess it isn’t our business.”

  “Guess not.”

  Jennifer hurried on to her room, suspecting the men were talking about her. She wondered if she should have thought of some other way to leave Uncle John. It was too late now to wonder, and she had no money to go back and change directions. Besides, there was still a man waiting for her at Fort Stockton who had sent her a great deal of money to come to him.

  She closed the door and walked to a window, looking out at the passing scenery. She thought about the conversation she had overheard, and the half-breed the men had discussed. What must it be like to be of mixed blood? She knew nothing about Indians, had still never even seen one. She was fascinated by men like the scout, who had been so many places and knew so many things. It was obvious the people in Texas were going to be quite different from any she had known before. Soon she would be in Galveston, and would board a stagecoach bound for Fort Stockton and a future husband she had yet to meet. He had lived in Texas most of his life and had fought Indians. What would such a man be like?

  Chapter Four

  Staff Sergeant Anthony Enders led his squad of ten men down the ridge to the smouldering ruins of another settlement that had been attacked by Comanche renegades. The men rode slowly, eyes constantly watching the surrounding hills, Spencer repeating rifles drawn and ready. Nostrils curled from the smell of burning debris and bodies, two of which Enders spotted lying in blackened heaps on what was left of the porch of one of the houses.

  Corporal James Deaver, who rode beside Enders, curled his nose. “Jesus, you can’t h
ardly tell if they’re man or woman.”

  “A little bit of hair left out away from that one body. Must have been a woman,” Enders answered, his eyes sparkling with hate. “I remember these people came here from Houston—wanted a lot more land. Wasn’t much worth it, was it?”

  “Guess not.” Corporal Deaver took off his hat and wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his blue shirt. His naturally short, rotund body seemed to sweat more easily in this desert, and he hated the constant danger of Indian attack; but being here was better than being in jail back in New Orleans for robbery and assault. He had got out of there just in time, before his hotel room had been ransacked by the law. He wondered if the old man he had bludgeoned could have died. If so, that was even more reason to keep himself buried in west Texas with these other volunteers, most of whom had similar backgrounds.

  Men didn’t generally volunteer for this kind of service unless they were running from something or had reached the end, with no other way of survival. Service in this desolate land was a good way to eat and get a little pay, and hide from a fate that could be a lot worse than eating dust and baking under the hot sun.

  For the moment, enlisted men were all that was left at Fort Stockton, except for Captain Bradley Howell, their leader, and First Lieutenant Michael Brown, the only commissioned officers left at the fort. Anyone of any real intelligence and importance had been called back East, where war could break out at any time. Several of the volunteers at the fort had run off, deciding that if there was going to be war, they would fight for the South, not the Union. That was the general feeling of most people in Texas, firm believers in states’ rights.

  Deaver couldn’t care less, and he was not about to quit or go back East and draw attention to himself. Neither was Enders, who was wanted under another name back in Houston for shooting a gambler with whom he had been playing cards. He had taken the dead man’s winnings for himself.