Child of the River

by Wanda T. Snodgrass

  “What’s your name, lad?” he asked in a gruff, almost threatening tone.

  “Uh…it’s William, sir. William Lawson.” The boy’s face reddened making freckles stand out even more prominently.

  “What’s this about a massacre?”

  “It’s real awful,” William explained. “Comanches…no tellin’ how many. They scalped a bunch o’ people. I come to get the army. Them Indians may be headed for Menard by now.”

  “Did you now? You came for the army?” The Colonel’s voice was sarcastic. “Tell me, William, did you pass a sign on the outskirts of town reading Free State of Menard?”

  William shuffled his feet, and his face got even redder. “Uh…yes, sir.” He gulped and swallowed. “Yes, sir, I did.”

  Pursing his lips, Col. Winters strode grandly over to the window before firing the next question. “Who put up that sign?”

  “Uh…I…I don’t know.”

  “Of course you know, William. Everybody in town knows. They think they can make jackasses out of the United States Army.”

  “Please, Colonel,” William told him earnestly while twisting the brim of a hat. “They told me…they told me to get the army quick.”

  Col. Winters glared at the lad. “Your people want us to protect the town? One would think the Free State of Menard didn’t need help from the military.”

  “Oh yes, sir,” William cried. “We do. We need the soldiers. I don’t know who puts up them signs. Nobody ever told me. All I know is them Comanches are on the warpath. They killed a lot o’ people, and I was sent to fetch the soldiers.”

  Col. Winters let the youngster sweat for a few minutes while he signed some papers before he spoke again. “William, you go back to Menard and give the people my regrets. Tell them that Ft. McKavett soldiers are army engineers with strict orders from Gen. R.S. McKenzie to construct a fort. We are not here to fight Indians.”

  “But, sir….”

  “If my soldiers leave the post every time there’s a little Indian skirmish, we’d never get the job done before the 4th Cavalry arrives. You go back and tell the citizens of The Free State of Menard that Indian fighters will arrive in a year or so. You tell them that I said the Army Engineers are here to build Fort McKavett.”

  The boy’s face fell. “You mean the army won’t help?”

  “I didn’t say that, William. If the Comanches happen to come by this way, of course, we’ll detain them. If perchance they come by way of Peg Leg….”

  “But they said the Comanches will come from the north.”

  The Colonel shrugged. “Too bad. We’re under orders.”

  Before issuing another order, the officer watched in silent amusement while the detail he ordered to escort William home rode out of the compound. Then his voice boomed, “Lt. Muldoon, sound assembly! Take all the men we can spare. Take the Toenail Trail and intercept the Comanches north of the river. Hunt those murderers down, find their camp and destroy them. Stay between the village and the Comanches at all costs! That’s an order. It’s our duty to protect those bull-headed Rebels, like it or not.”

  Chapter 21

  Author’s note:

  (In the weeks and months that followed, there were many Comanche raids across the entire Texas frontier. An all-out war for survival raged across the Concho Valley, Edwards Plateau and the Texas Hill Country.

  Bogus calls of night birds, Indian flames and smoke signals in the distance alerted families on the frontier’s edge, breaking the tranquility of back porch storytelling on many a starry night. The stouthearted pioneers barricaded their homes as best they could. They loaded pistols and rifles, knowing an attack could come at dawn. War-painted, mounted Comanches attacked ferociously with everything they had…guns, knives, tomahawks, bows and arrows and spears.

  A few Menard County ranchers moved their families to the safety of Fort McKavett. The men stayed to protect the property and livestock. Others families took refuge in the village. Some daring wives and loving daughters braved the danger alongside their men in isolated ranch houses. Because of its strategic location on the Comanche trail through the foothills to the Hill Country, Menard County lay in the wake of many Central and South Texas raids.

  Buckskin-clad frontiersmen frequently hunted down and attacked Comanche camps, retrieving some of their livestock. The pioneers chased the survivors as far north as the Concho River. Old-timers’ insisted, according to history annuls, that the soldiers followed as far as two or three days behind them in this effort. The army tells another story.

  The Comanche chiefs‘ pow-wowed with war councils of the Kiowa and Cheyenne against their common enemy. White people spread like a galloping plague across Indian land, killing buffalo, claiming their land. The great chiefs filled war pipes with kinnikinnick while painted warriors danced the dance of death. Perhaps they said something like this:

  “No longer does the sun shine on red men,” the chiefs reasoned among themselves. Among them were Quanah Parker, half-breed chief of the Comanches and son of captive Cynthia Ann Parker, Sitting Bear, chief of the Kiowas and Black Kettle, chief of the Cheyenne. “Our children shrivel and die before our eyes because the white eyes kill our buffaloes for the hides and leave their carcasses rotting in the sun. The blue Buffalo soldiers hunt us down like coyotes. We retreat farther and farther toward the little desert flatland where there is drought. Soon there will be no food, no hides for teepees to shelter us from the cold north wind of winter or to clothe us. Indeed, our people will starve.

  “The Buffalo soldiers and angry white men raid our villages and burn our teepees. It is time to attack! Time to fight to the death for our beloved Summerland!”

  Medicine men from all the tribes danced and chanted and prayed. They shook dried, painted gourds to ward off evil. “Oh, Great Spirit,” they chanted, “let the war paint protect our brave warriors in battle. Claim the spirits of those who must die so that other generations of red men may live. “

  The war dance continued far into the night with chants and sounds of “Death to the Tejanos! Death to the white eyes!” More and more of the warriors dipped their fingers into the war paint. At sunrise, huge bands of mounted braves took to the war trails with brightly colored feathers blowing in the wind.

  The danger horn sounded frequently in villages along the entire Texas frontier as homes and villages were attacked. Painted warriors drove off more than 30,000 head of cattle from Menard County alone in one wide sweep as the wild men retaliated for dwindling buffalo herds. One starving tribe held a huge barbecue feast at the twenty-mile crossing on the San Saba River east of Menard. Ranchers found the bones of seventeen horses in one big pile. The Comanches had to be starving. They were the most skilled horsemen on the face of the earth. They loved their mounts almost to the point of worship. They called horses “ god dogs” and their prestige in the tribe depended upon how many horses they owned.

  The renewed outbreak of Indian Wars prompted the U. S. Government to send more troops to protect settlers. Camp Hatch (later called Camp Kelly and finally, Fort Concho) was established some sixty-five miles to the north of Menard. Two new villages, Ben Ficklin and San Angelo, were born nearby. More cavalrymen were sent to reactivate Fort Mason, thirty-five miles to the east, and reinforcements were sent to the unfinished Fort McKavelt. Soldiers bivouacked in lieu of housing. June passed, then July, August and September while the dreaded Indian raids continued. In October 1867, the government made a peace treaty with the warring tribes but some bands refused to stop fighting or to surrender, including Chief Quanah Parker and his Comanche braves. White men called them renegades…those wild ones who refused to stay within the boundaries of reservations. They kept returning to the San Saba River country hunting ground where childhood memories were built. Better times, the Indians reflected, when their ancestors had control. Happy, peaceful, wonderful days before the white men came.

  Daring Comanches frequently slipped unseen through the bottomland pecan forest for a glimpse of their favorite campsite at P
eg Leg Crossing now controlled by the military. Perhaps the Indians relived old memories there. To the chagrin of the U. S. Army, the skillful thieves boldly stole horses and mules in daring daylight raids from Peg Leg without detection. Perhaps an old Indian legend best recounts their reasons for returning. “He who tastes Summerland waters and goes away will be forever thirsty until he returns to the same river.”

  After the peace treaty, the raids in Menard County became fewer and farther between, but danger still lurked. The thirsty renegade bands were smaller in number. They were poor and gaunt with a bounty on their heads. Yet, the proud and angry red men fought with a vengeance far beyond their strength, for they had nothing to lose.)

  October was decision time for Dayme. Consciously, she conceded that Benjamin wasn’t coming, but her heart refused to lose hope that perhaps tomorrow…always tomorrow. She considered selling the ranch in view of the odds against her but decided against it. There is nothing in Vicksburg for me, she reasoned, without Benjamin. The woman studied her options. She could always go back to work for Tom Macy, but that wouldn’t command her two sons’ respect. She considered teaching school again. The pay was too small.

  “Benjamin isn’t ever coming.” The spoken words echoed inside her brain until her head ached and her heart ached with the finality of verbal acknowledgement. “Obviously,” she forced herself to say, “he chose Molly. I think I always knew that he would. The ranch is my only hope for success. My children must harvest the roots I plant here in this good land.”

  The sky was dark and dismal, and a hard rain pounded the roof of Morgan’s cabin. Daniel Lee began to whimper, and Dayme took the child in her arms to nurse. She rocked him in the rocking chair that Morgan fashioned from willow branches. “Don’t cry, little one…you beautiful little baby picture of Benjamin. Don’t cry. Mama loves you,” she cooed. Intermittently, she hummed a lullaby and talked to the baby as she rocked. “I’ve made up my mind, Daniel Lee. We’re staying here, you and me and Alexander. Here on the frontier where people don’t look down on Mama, where people love and respect us.” Bending to kiss the child on the temple, Dayme hugged her son closer. “Don’t know how we’ll make it, little one, but we will.” Bitter tears spilled down like the rain outside while she smoothed the baby’s hair and talked to him. “He’d come, Daniel Lee. Oh yes, your father would come running if he knew about you. The honorable Benjamin Atwood Farrington would come even if it meant leaving his precious Molly Allison forever. That’s the way he is. He’d marry me in a minute because of you. He’d risk ruining his political career by marrying me for the sake of his so-called honor.”

  She brushed the baby’s head with her lips. “But, we won’t tell him about you. He’d feel all sanctimonious and righteous and insist on doing the right thing. No… sweet baby, no. Your father will never hear about you from my lips.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “You see, Daniel Lee, he doesn’t love me. We will never accept his pity.”

  Sensing his mother’s heartbreak, Daniel Lee’s lower lip primped to cry, too. Dayme hugged the child closer and hummed until his heavy eyelids closed. Gingerly, she arose from the rocker, swaying the baby in her arms as she gently laid him down in the double crib Morgan built especially for the babies. Alexander had awakened, happy and playful as usual. He smiled at her, revealing a brand new tooth. She gathered him in her arms and hugged him before placing him on a pallet to play with a rattle.

  In retrospect, Dayme knew she didn’t fit into the realm of the Farrington social status. The aristocratic English family had old money and was influential throughout the South. Benjamin’s forefathers didn’t come over on the Mayflower, but his ancestors owned a fleet of ships that brought pilgrims to America shortly thereafter. His blue-blooded English roots went back to William the Conqueror and Charlemagne.

  In comparison, her family had always been working class. Her father was a storekeeper. She had no idea of her ancestry beyond her great-grandparents. Her father claimed to be Irish and Welch. Her mother’s people were Austrian, French and Irish.

  Perhaps it was the dismal, rainy weather causing part of the melancholia. The cabin was dark. The only light came from the glowing embers in the fireplace.

  “I tried so hard,” she muttered while rocking and cuddling Alexander, “to be what he wanted me to be, but I can’t be somebody else. I’m me…just me. I don’t want to be anybody else.”

  Anger overwhelmed her at that moment for the unhappy turn of events in her life. “Damn you, Benjamin!” she cried bitterly. “Get out of my life! Get out of my heart! I hope I never see you again!”

  The words were hers, but they were untrue. Instinctively, her finger touched her lips, recalling their lovemaking on the bank of the Mississippi River. She remembered touching his smooth-shaven face, feeling the tiny half-moon scar on his cheek, running her finger across his lips, the clean, manly scent of toilet soap and hair tonic. A tingle raced through her body, remembering her lover’s touch…the way he held her face between his strong hands, the sound of his voice whispering lovely secret words meant for her ears alone.

  “Oh Benjamin,” she whispered, softly. “Please move out of my heart so I can forget you. I wish I could hate you, but Idon’t. You see, my darling, you gave me a gift more precious than all your possessions…a tiny, miniature, smiling part of you. Thanks to you, I’ll never be alone again. I have my son to love me.” She smiled wanly at Alexander. “And a bonus to boot…you, Alexander. You’ll grow up loving me, too.”

  Talking when she was alone was getting to be a habit. “Morgan should be coming home. It’s late. He’ll be soaked to the skin.” She threw another log on the fire. So much rain bothered her. She prayed Morgan wouldn’t be caught in the bottomland. She stood vigil at the door until the dim silhouette of a horseback rider appeared through the downpour.

  Morgan was dripping wet as he handed her a chilled, spotted deer fawn. She wrapped the baby deer in a blanket and placed it on the hearth where it was warm. Morgan wiped his muddy boots with a tow sack and scraped the thick, sticky, gray-black mud off the soles with a hunting knife. Dayme tossed him a towel and petted the tiny animal. “Poor little fellow. Where…?”

  “I rode with “Scat” Lattimer in his buggy today. We came across the wounded mother who’d been left to die. I finished the doe, and we butchered her. We couldn’t leave this little fellow behind.” He poured milk into an empty whiskey bottle and pulled a long homemade rubber nipple over the opening. “We’ll turn him loose when he’s older.”

  “Take off those wet clothes, Morgan, before …”

  Morgan stoked the coals with a poker. “Nah…I’ll dry out.” He gazed into the glowing embers and chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Aw, just something old man Janky said.”

  “The man who uses the wrong words? That sound close to the right word but completely bypass the meaning?” Dayme was in a kneeling position beside the fireplace caressing the orphaned fawn. The flickering firelight enhanced the red tones in her long, shining auburn hair. Morgan’s grin faded as he tenderly placed a hand against her soft cheek. His brown eyes reflected deep feelings for this girl from the past who had been a guest in his cabin since the massacre. “How was your day?” he asked.

  Dayme sighed, not wanting to talk about it. “Lonely,” she finally replied. “I could use a good laugh. Tell me about Mr. Janky.”

  “We arrived there close to noon. Mrs. Janky insisted that we stay and dine with them after “Scat” unloaded her order. When “Scat” finished eating, he leaned back in the cane-bottomed chair and rested his head against their newly papered wall. I noticed the greasy spot and I could see Mr. Janky’s face getting red. He squirmed for a few minutes like he was going to bust. Then he blurted out apologetically, ‘Mr. Lattimer, I don’t mean to defend you in any way but your hair oil is demonstrating my wallpaper’.”

  Morgan laughed heartily. “It was hard to keep a straight face. I had to cough so I could cover my mouth. The funniest
part was how fast Scat moved his head and that chair. He was still apologizing to Mrs. Janky when we left.”

  Dayme giggled. “You should write a book in Mr. Janky’s language. Poor old fellow never can get his words straight. You have to know what he’s talking about to understand his lingo.”

  “Just as we were climbing into the buggy, Mr. Janky…I reckon he was trying to make Scat feel better. Anyway, he said, ‘I sure do ignore those boots you have on.’” Morgan dried his hair with a towel. “Doesn’t that rain sound good? Hope it rains all night.”

  The woman chuckled but looked puzzled. “If it keeps raining like this, it’ll flood the town, silly. Morgan, you are an absolute nitwit. First person I ever knew who’s happy when the river floods. Why?”

  “Gold nuggets, gal,” he replied with a grin. “I don’t want a full-fledged flood. A small rise will be sufficient.”

  “Gold? Thought you were looking for silver.”

  “I’m looking for treasure. Don’t care what color it is. I find gold nuggets in the river after a rise.” He reached high over a rafter in the unfinished ceiling and produced a leather pouch with some nuggets. “Found these while I was pearling. Have a hunch they washed out from a hidden underground river when the Indians changed the San Saba’s course.” Morgan’s enthusiasm was contagious. His dancing brown eyes glittered with excitement. “I’ve found only a few nuggets downstream. Most come from upstream. Does that tell you anything?”

  “No. Is it supposed to?”

  The man’s exuberance mounted. “That old mission is the key. The source of the gold is close. So close, we could damn well be sitting on it. I told you that old treasure map points northwest of the mission for the location of the Lost Bowie Mine?”

  “Now, we’re back to silver,” Dayme teased.

  Morgan grinned, happy to see a smile on Dayme’s face. No matter that it was at his expense. “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, prospectors have searched for three decades, and nobody’s ever located the horseshoe rock formation indicated on the map. It’s not to be found anywhere up or down the San Saba. I can’t find it near the creeks either.”