by Nan Ryan
Austin Brand, his full mouth thinned into a tight line, rose abruptly from his chair. “We are getting damned tired of having Washington look on us as nothing more than a nuisance, General Sherman! We’re here to tell you that it is not safe to live in this part of the country. The savages raid right in sight of this fort. That should give you some idea of the kind of respect they have for these well-meaning but woefully ineffective troops. It’s been said that the soldiers have succeeded in tracking many a smoldering campfire left by the Indians, but never managed to catch up with a redskin. Were I a cynical man, I’d have to question whether or not they actually want to catch up with the fleeing savages.”
“Now, see here, Mr. Brand, I—” The general’s face was growing red.
“No, General Sherman, you see here. It’s been less than two months since four Negro soldiers were killed and scalped on the very road you traveled today. It’s dangerous out there, truly perilous. You’re not addressing a bunch of nervous spinster ladies, afraid of their own shadow. No, sir, General, we’re here to speak of death and torture and thievery, and we damned well want something done about it!” His face colored and he put a hand up to the tight collar of his shirt and jerked it open.
The general studied the man who was so passionately pleading his case. “Mr. Brand, it’s quite late and I really must get some rest, but I assure you that when I get up to Fort Sill in the Indian Territory, I will investigate your charges that the reservation Indians are receiving arms and ammunition at the post. I find it hard to believe, but I’ll sure check it out.”
Snorting derisively, one of the delegation got up and pushed his chair back. “We might as well go. We’re getting nowhere.” He looked at the general and said coldly, “Those Indians are better armed than we are, General, and they are taking our stolen stock back to their camp. Investigate that while you’re at it!”
The unhappy delegation departed, feeling they’d accomplished very little. The clouds that had been gathering since noon had finally boiled into a spring storm. When Austin and Blake stepped out onto the porch of the general’s quarters, it was raining heavily. Dreading the ride home in the rain, they stood on the long gallery and talked, hoping the deluge might soon slacken. They were still talking quietly when an agitated young captain hurried up the steps to summon General Sherman to the fort hospital.
Even the noise of the raindrops pelting the porch’s roof didn’t muffle the conversation that took place when the general’s door was thrown open.
“General Sherman, sir,” the youthful captain spoke excitedly, “my commanding officer has sent me to dispatch you at once to the hospital.”
“What is it, Captain? It’s quite late. Has something happened?” The tired general rubbed an eye.
“Yes, sir. A wounded man has just walked into the fort. He was attacked, along with twelve other men of Warren’s wagon train. ’Twas the Indians, General Sherman. They’ve struck again.”
Blake Foxworth looked at Austin Brand. Although uninvited, both men followed the general across the muddy parade ground to the post hospital. Inside, Thomas Brazeale, in severe pain from a gunshot wound and an arrow in his foot, lay pale from loss of blood while the fort surgeon worked to ease his suffering. Fully conscious, Brazeale repeated to the horrified general the story he had told the officers gathered around.
Blake offered to help with the man’s wounds, and he listened intently to his terrifying tale. When the injured man said that he was not sure if any of the others had escaped with their lives, Blake, his stomach tightening with fear, assured himself silently that there was a good chance Luke Barnes had gotten away. He was young and strong; if Brazeale could manage to slip from the savages with a wounded foot, surely young Luke had eluded them.
Throughout the night, torrential rains continued to pour from the heavens. General Sherman, appalled at the tale of horror the injured Brazeale had told, called out Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie—the man the Indians called Chief No-Index-Finger and a man they fearfully respected—to take a force from the 4th U.S. Cavalry and ride west to the scene of the massacre.
The parade ground stood in puddles of water when Colonel Mackenzie mustered his men at dawn for the journey to Salt Creek Prairie. Soldiers longing for a few more minutes in their bunks sleepily mounted in the falling rain, unready to depart on the unpleasant mission that would take them to the theater of one of life’s bloody dramas, then on to Fort Sill in the Indian territory in pursuit of the tragedy’s villains, the hated savages.
In tones that brooked no argument, Blake Foxworth and Austin Brand had informed General Sherman that they intended to ride to Salt Creek Prairie with Colonel Mackenzie’s command.
The general looked up at both men with an apologetic expression on his full face. “I’m certain Colonel Mackenzie will be glad to have you accompany him, gentlemen. You are more than welcome to ride along with the detachment. Go as far as Fort Sill if you choose. There I shall rendezvous with Colonel Mackenzie and see that this unforgivable and unwarranted attack be fully investigated and the perpetrators duly punished.”
When Colonel Mackenzie’s command moved out into the gray dawn, their slickers pulled up around their ears, water dripping from the brims of their hats, Blake and Austin brought up the rear. Both had gone home quickly to change clothes and inform their wives of their intentions. Blake had spoken to Lydia in low tones while Suzette slept peacefully through the exchange, never knowing that her father had returned home.
Dressed and ready to return to the fort, Blake looked at his distraught wife. “Darling, please try not to worry. There’s every chance that Luke escaped. Brazeale said he has no idea who got away and who was killed. We must keep up our hopes. Luke may show up in town or at the fort before morning. Go back to bed, dear, and try to sleep. Say nothing to Suzette. She’s not expecting Luke back until sometime tomorrow, so let’s wait until we know for certain.”
Clinging to her husband, Lydia nodded and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. Fighting back her tears, she whispered softly, “Blake, I’m so frightened. Must you go with them?”
Cradling her head in his hand, he said, “I’ll wake Nate and tell him to keep watch over you and Suzette. I have to go, Lydia. If there are survivors, I may be able to assist Dr. Patzki, the regimental surgeon.”
“Of course,” she said quietly. “Maybe you can save a life. Go, darling. I’ll say a prayer.”
Blake kissed her and was gone. He rode into the fort while the troops were assembling on the muddy parade ground. Austin Brand, mounted on an iron-gray gelding he called Confederate, rode in five minutes after the doctor.
It had been exactly twenty-four hours since the attack. When Colonel Mackenzie’s men reached the sight of the massacre, the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the Texas sky was a brilliant blue. It was a glorious spring day on the prairie, but a grizzly sight greeted the horrified command.
Jaw set, nerves steeled for the worst, Blake Foxworth dismounted and went about his unpleasant task. At his side, Austin Brand fell into step, idly exclaiming under his breath, “Damn them to hell! Damn them all to eternal hell! The murdering, bloodthirsty red-skinned bastards!”
Stooping down in the mud, Blake touched the first poor soul. Stripped and mutilated, the man’s stomach had been slashed open, his intestines scooped out, and in their place were coals, the fire long since doused by the falling of the rain. The second victim they came upon had suffered similar torture. His fingers, toes, and genitals had been cut off and stuffed into his mouth. He was lying on his back in two inches of water and was horribly bloated. Identification was impossible.
Blake, crouching beside the body, shook his head in disbelief. He’d seen a lot of suffering and horror in his profession and in the war, but never had he seen anything to match the hideous scene surrounding him. When he heard a loud retching near him, he raised his head and saw his friend Austin Brand clutching his churning stomach. Austin Brand, a man who had spent four years in the Confederate Army and had s
een some of the bloodiest battles of the entire campaign. Austin Brand, a man huge in stature and seemingly fearless. Austin Brand, a frontiersman who’d spent his boyhood in the wilds of Texas, fighting wild beasts and wilder men just to survive. Austin Brand, a man Blake Foxworth always regarded as larger than life, was on his knees vomiting, tears streaming down his sun-bronzed cheeks.
Rising, Blake moved on to other victims, hoping against hope that he would find someone alive, yet knowing instinctively that all were dead—including Luke Barnes.
The next man the doctor saw had obviously put up a valiant effort to the end. For his daring, he had suffered even more than his companions. The poor wretch, firing from inside one of the wagons, had been wounded. He was then chained between two wagon wheels. A fire had been built, and the chained man had been slowly roasted alive. Blake knew the man was still alive when his torture began; his blackened limbs were drawn up, contracted.
The gruesome inspection continued. Among the spilled grain sacks, corn floated in the puddles, and arrows lay everywhere. Dr. Foxworth and Austin Brand continued the search for bodies with Colonel Mackenzie and his troops, making their way through a mass of dead mules, hats, bits of clothing, and other rain-soaked debris from the furious struggle. More bodies were located, arrows jutting from rain-swollen corpses. Any one of them could have been Luke Barnes; it was impossible to make positive identification. Still, Blake felt he hadn’t yet found the boy.
He massaged his tense neck muscles, his sad eyes sweeping across the scene of destruction. Fifty yards from where he stood, a red bandanna fluttered in the breeze.
Without a word, Blake Foxworth made his way to the body, his heart hammering. He reached Luke and slowly knelt beside him. The wet red bandanna was the only thing left on his body. His tormentors had tried to take that too; it was pulled tightly around his throat, as though in desperation they had finally given up on the tricky knot. Sadly, Blake fingered the red silk. When he saw the neatly embroidered “L,” the shock of recognition brought a groan of despair from his pain-tightened lips.
Luke had been shot several times. One hand was missing. His tongue had been cut from his throat. His once-sparkling green eyes were staring in fixed horror. His beautiful red curly hair was gone.
4
They buried the fallen men on the prairie where they had died, and the two civilians turned back for home, while Colonel Mackenzie and his men headed north to the Red River and the Fort Sill Indian reservation.
The tired, bedraggled troops reached the fort on June 4. General Sherman had been there and departed, but had left specific orders for Colonel Mackenzie to take the three chiefs responsible for the senseless slaughter back to Texas to be tried for murder.
The prisoners were turned over to the colonel on June 8. Handcuffed and in leg irons, the three chiefs were put into wagons for the journey to Jacksboro. Satank, the oldest chief of the Kiowas, a man the Quaker Indian agent referred to as “the meanest Indian on the reservation,” refused to climb into the wagon, stating he’d never be taken to Texas alive. A formidable figure of a man even at seventy years of age, Satank wore a thick moustache and beard. He was leader of the Principal Dogs, the highest military order of the Kiowa tribe; each member of the respected order swore to “return from every battle with honor, or die trying.”
Satank was tossed into the wagon by four soldiers. Two guards crawled in beside him. Satanta and Big Tree were placed in a wagon together, guards beside each one. As the wagon train rolled out, over the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the wagons, an eerie sound was heard. Satank had begun his death chant. He pulled his colorful blanket about his shoulders and head, mindless of the heat of the still June day. The two young corporals seated on the floor near Satank, their backs against the wagon bed, carbines between their legs, looked intently at the strange old savage. The hair on the backs of their necks stood up and the fingers on the triggers of their guns began to sweat.
Crouching in the folds of his blanket, Satank coolly, methodically gnawed the flesh from both his wrists, working doggedly with sharp teeth. As the train neared Cache Creek, the old chief slipped his bloody wrists free of the handcuffs, gave a piercing yell, stood, and dove at a corporal with a scalping knife he’d concealed in his leggings.
As the old chief swung into action, so did the two young corporals, somersaulting right out of the wagon, but leaving their carbines behind. Joyously, Satank grabbed a gun, leveling it at the nearest guard. The gun misfired.
A bullet ripped into Satank’s naked chest, felling him. He struggled up and tried once again to fire the carbine. A second shot went through his chest and exited his back.
Satank was dead. His body was taken from the wagon and placed beside the road. His people were allowed to take him back to the reservation for burial.
The crafty old chief had carried out his plan. At the start of the journey, he’d summoned George Washington, chief of the Caddos, who was riding near the wagon. To the Caddo scout, Satank had said somberly, “Tell my people I died beside the road. My bones will be found there. Tell my people to gather them up and carry them home. Tell the Kiowas to bring back the mules and don’t raid anymore. Do as the agent tells them.” The old chief’s lips had then turned up into a devilish smile, and he added, “You may have my scalp.”
No sooner had Satank’s body been taken from the wagon than the contingent moved on, extra guards now riding with Satanta and Big Tree. Throughout the one-hundred-twenty-five-mile journey to Jacksboro, both chiefs were closely guarded by wary young soldiers. At night the Indians were placed on the ground, spread-eagle, rawhide strips securely binding each foot and hand.
On the last night before reaching Fort Richardson, the chiefs lay on their backs on the ground, their rawhide restraints in place. Young Big Tree was asleep. Satanta’s black eyes searched the sky as he wondered if this were to be the last night he would sleep under a blanket of stars, the last time he would breathe fresh air, hear the call of the coyote, smell the smoke from the campfire. Would the white eyes hang him, or worse, cage him like some animal? Put him into their prison to rot away while his skin grew pale and his body weak? Was he never again to taste the meat of roasted buffalo, make love to a woman, lead warriors into battle?
A lone tear made a salty path down his mahogany cheek, but he couldn’t lift his hand to wipe it away.
Blake, Lydia, and Austin and Beth Brand sat on the broad porch in the twilight, the men smoking their after-dinner cigars, the ladies sipping coffee. On the lawn in front of the modest Foxworth house, Jenny Brand chased fireflies with great enthusiasm, her squeals of delight piercing the stillness each time she captured a new twinkling bug.
In her bedroom, Suzette Foxworth stood at the tall, open window, looking out at the gathering darkness of the June evening. June was the prettiest month in North Texas. The fertile prairie was splashed with vivid color, from the orange, red, and black of the wild Indian blankets to the butter-yellow of the sunflowers to the distinct hue of the bluebonnets. Morning glories and trumpet vines climbed the back walls of the house. Purple honeysuckle near Suzette’s bedroom window filled the air with sweetness. Startlingly pink crepe myrtles battled for glory with the lilac bushes along the front gallery of the house.
Birds sang sweetly each morning, their small throats opening wide in a melodic salute to the season. Colorful butterflies flitted majestically from bush to bush, drunk from an abundance of sweet pollen. Mustangs, their winter coats long since shed, glistened sleekly in the bright summer sun. Proud stallions romped in the meadows with spirited mares. In other pastures, spindly-legged colts followed close behind their mothers.
Suzette had always loved June in Texas, but this year it held no pleasure for her. It never would again. Her sweetheart had been brutally murdered. Gone forever were those sparkling green eyes, that curly red hair. No more sweet kisses in the moonlight. Never again would she be held in his long arms.
Luke had been dead for almost a month. Suzett
e’s tears had ceased. After the first outpouring of grief, she’d become strangely calm. Suzette felt that something in herself died with Luke. She would never be quite so carefree and happy again. She would go on living; she had no choice. In time she would even laugh again, care again about the events taking place around her. Not yet. It was too soon, and although Suzette hated to see her dear parents look so worried, she couldn’t shrug off her gloom and attend parties or go on picnics as though the terrible tragedy had not happened.
Since she’d met Luke, she had known exactly how her life would be spent. They would marry and raise a family and build a good solid life together, working side by side to become prosperous ranchers with a place of their own, a place that would be their pride, a legacy to leave their children.
Her dreams had been snatched from her in the blink of an eye. She wouldn’t be a wife, mother, partner. If she couldn’t be married to Luke Barnes, she wanted never to be married at all. That was the only thing Suzette was completely certain of on that June evening.
Suzette’s room was growing stuffy and too warm. Silently, she stepped out onto the side porch and inhaled deeply. Subdued voices floated to her from the front of the house. There were only male voices, as Lydia, Beth, and Jenny, who was carrying her treasure of fireflies, had gone into the house to get fresh strawberries and cream. Suzette couldn’t help overhearing.
“Austin, I’m worried about her,” her father said. “I need to get her interested in something and I’m not having any success. Last week I suggested she go to Fort Worth this autumn and enroll in college. She just shook her head and left the room.”
“Doctor, I’m sorry to hear that,” Austin’s deep voice rumbled. “Poor little Suzette. Such a terrible thing to happen to her. But she’s young; she’ll heal.”
“Of course she will,” Blake responded, “but it’s such a tragedy to waste any of her precious youth. When you get to be my age, Austin, you begin to realize just how quickly it all goes by.”
