The Rise of a Warrior

by Harvey Stanbrough

  Stilson got to him first. He raised Reeves’ shoulders and cradled his head as well as he could.

  Reeves stared at him, frowning as if confused. Blood was running in three separate muddy streams down his face. “I just... I just wanted... to get Ricky.” His frown deepened with pain, and he convulsed.

  Then his head jerked violently left and he emptied his stomach of blood. With his last breath he sighed, “So... sorry.”

  Connolly looked at Philby. “Take Stanton and go up top. Be careful. I’m sure both horses are long gone. Bring what’s left of Mimbres down here and we’ll bury the two of ‘em.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Philby and Stanton turned away to walk up the trail.

  Something came sailing over the edge and landed on the trail just in front of Philby.

  His eyes grew wide. “Oh Jesus! Jim, c’mere.”

  Connolly looked up. “What is it?”

  Philby was still staring at the ground in front of his feet.

  Stanton looked, then turned around. “It’s an eye, Corporal.”

  Philby said, “It’s Mimbres’ eye. It’s Mimbres’ damn eye.”

  “All right. Leave it there for now if you want. Go on up and get the rest of him.” Connolly turned to the remaining two. “Let’s get to diggin’.”

  Stilson said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Corporal, you sure we shouldn’t go after that rotten Comanche son of a bitch?”

  “No, goddamnit!” He stopped, took a breath, then said, “No. No, I’m not. But if we do I guarantee you he’ll lose us. And that’ll come after a few days of wearin’ us down out there an’ maybe pickin’ us off one by one. No, we won’t get him today, but you can bet we’ll see him again. And I have a feelin’ it won’t be long.”

  Two hours later they had dug two graves along the uphill side of the arroyo and buried their lost friends. As they were placing the final few stones over the graves, Reeves’ horse came down the trail from the top.

  Corporal Connolly looked up. “Well I’ll be.”

  The horse cantered over to the men and stopped. He neighed lightly, as if saying he was glad to see them again. He was lathered up, as if he’d been galloping hard for awhile.

  Stilson looked him over. “No worse for wear. Looks like he broke himself free.”

  Connolly thought for a moment, then patted the stallion’s neck. “Well, I thought I was gonna have to tell Mr. Billings I’d lost two of his horses, but I guess it’ll just be one now.” He looked at Philby. “Reeves didn’t have any family, did he?”

  Philby shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Stilson said, “No, I’m sure he didn’t.” He ran his hand over the horse’s mane. “That ol’ stallion we left back at Billings’ place was about it.”

  Connolly nodded. “Well, I think when we get back I’ll just let Mr. Billings keep him.”

  The others agreed that would be a good idea.

  The formerly insignificant area of that particular arroyo stretching across the North Texas landscape would become known as Boquillas Draw after the battle that was fought there.

  It’s better, sometimes, to go ahead and name a place where twenty men lost their lives. Maybe naming such a place even lends it an air of dignity.

  Of course, it was also the place where a new war chief was born.

  * * *

  After he killed the traitor and the white-eyes on the lip of the arroyo, Four Crows remained on the traitor’s horse, gathered the reins of his own horse, and rode hard away.

  Probably they wouldn’t come after him. For all they knew he might have a hundred braves waiting only a few miles away. Still, it was better not to take chances, especially when he was outnumbered. Besides, time was on his side. He would gather the men he needed and he would drive all who did not belong from Comancheria.

  The only concern was those repeating rifles. Such weapons gave the Rangers a great advantage. He would have to work on getting those for his men. He had heard Iron Bear and others talk. There were other ways of getting such firearms without taking them off a dead enemy.

  Once he was certain the Rangers were not following him, he would make for his own camp. There he would tell a few of this battle and gather those who wished to follow him. Twin Deer would ride with him, as would his brother Young Elk and their friend Takes Leaves. Perhaps a few others would go as well.

  When they left they would circle around to Red Hawk’s camp. There he would deliver the news of Iron Bear’s death, but also proclaim his own rebirth in the image of Iron Bear himself.

  Even as he had watched the great chief flip backward off his horse, Four Crows had sensed Iron Bear’s spirit flashing up over the edge of the arroyo.

  It had hovered over him for a moment. Then it had settled into him, filling him with the abilities and wisdom of his predecessor as well as a terrible resolve.

  It was Iron Bear’s patience and ability to move more softly than a breeze that had enabled him to come up behind the traitor undetected.

  It was Iron Bear’s strength that had created within his left hand and arm the might to nearly tug the traitor’s head from his shoulders and to lift the much larger white-eyes to his tiptoes.

  It was Iron Bear’s artistry with the knife that crept through his right hand and took his first two scalps cleanly and effortlessly.

  And it was Iron Bear’s will that formed the smirk on Four Crows’ face as he spoke disrespectfully to the Rangers, proclaiming himself their greatest antagonist.

  Few could have withstood Four Crows’ assault even without the infusion of Iron Bear’s spirit. Now he would be unstoppable.

  * * *

  After Wes and Mac saw the Rangers leaving Mr. Billings’ place, they had decided to join up, but before they’d gotten back to the house that evening, Wes had talked Mac into thinking it over.

  For the next full day, everywhere they went, whether they were fishing a stock tank for catfish, sitting down at the general store or just out wandering the countryside, the topic seemed to have a life of its own. When they were fishing, Mac wondered aloud whether the Rangers stopped to fish and hunt when they were out or whether they always bought rations to carry along with them.

  When they had pulled up after racing their horses across the plains, Wes, grinning and gasping for breath, said, “Y’know, I bet if we were tryin’ to outrun a Comanche huntin’ party, these ol’ horses would run just a little faster than their fastest.”

  When they were mucking the stalls in the lean to on the side of the barn, Mac leaned on his pitchfork for a moment and said, “Wes, you reckon Rangers feed their horses only oats all the time? I bet they feed ‘em somethin’ special like that for sure. Prob’ly oats an’ honey or oats an’ molasses or somethin’ like that.”

  They considered the hardships too, or at least the ones they could imagine. They would have to spend days on the trail, but they’d camped out before. They considered all the hours they would have to spend in the saddle, but they’d both spent several hours in the saddle at a stretch often enough that it wouldn’t be anything new to either of them.

  They considered the relationships, or possibly the lack of relationships, they would have with other people, especially women, though neither of them gave voice to that aspect of it. But both of them made acquaintances easily and released them just as easily. So relationships also would not be something to be concerned about, at least for the foreseeable future.

  Three days after they’d seen the Rangers, they wandered into the general store. Wes stopped at a counter and was looking at some sidearms. The Remingtons seemed lacking in some way, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But the Colts—he’d be absolutely pleased with any of those that were showing.

  As they turned the corner up the street from the store and headed back for the house, Wes said, “Mac, about the Rangers... only thing I can think of that we need and don’t have is guns.” He cocked his head and looked up at Mac. “But now I got a feelin’ th
e Rangers prob’ly would help us out in that regard, don’t you think? Like maybe they’ll advance us enough pay so we can get a Colt an’ maybe a Henry carbine an’ ammunition an’ all that?”

  Mac looked at him. “I didn’t think about that. You think they will?”

  “I’m sure of it. Guess they might even issue us a sidearm. I hope they use Colts, though. I’d a lot rather have a Colt than a Remington. An’ them others, them foreign jobs, they look like they’d just shake apart if you fired a bullet through ‘em.”

  Mac nodded, but he wasn’t really listening. He stopped walking and looked at his friend. “Wes, listen. It’s been three days. I think it’s time we make up our minds. Can you think of anything we haven’t thought about yet?”

  Wes shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything under the sun we haven’t thought about and talked to death, Mac. I think it’s either do it or don’t.”

  Mac nodded. “Good enough, then. Let’s do it.”

  And with that they crossed the street and stepped into the broad yard of the house that had been Mac’s home for most of his life and Wes’ home for the past several years.

  *

  The rickety old house on the outskirts of Watson, Texas, an odd combination of salvaged wood and canvas, was covered with a permanent layer of North Texas dust. There was even a dust drift in one corner of the only window sill on the front of the house, a remnant of the last dry storm that had come through. One pane was missing from the six-panel window, but the owner, Herbert Otis McFadden, saw no reason to fret over it at the moment. July in Texas is a good time to have all the windows open anyway.

  The house was simple, with a front room, a kitchen, a back room and, off to one side behind the kitchen, a bedroom. Herbert thought of the bedroom as his wife’s room, and when she’d passed away, he’d started sleeping on a cot in what had been the living room.

  The boy, Otis, had used the back room for his bedroom, but when his young friend, Wes, had come to stay with him, the two of them had moved out to the barn. They slept on cots in an old tack room in the winter, and they most often stayed in the hay mow during the summer.

  When the boy moved out, Herbert turned the back room into a kind of shop. It’s where he skinned out his hides. The back door opened off the back room and had a simple turn latch that swiveled on a nail. At the front of the house, there was a regular door with a doorknob, though it didn’t work right all the time, and a screen door. The screen door set ajar, the top hinge loose on the rotted wood door jamb.

  The porch creaked when Mac stepped up on it with Wes right behind him. Mac crossed the porch, gripped the handle on the screen door, then lifted the door and swung it aside. As he stepped through the opening, he called, “Pappy?”

  Four steps into the room, he stopped and wagged his hand in front of his face. “Holy— Damn!”

  Wes bumped into him from the back, then backed up a step. “Mac, what in the world is that smell?” He turned around, gagging and laughing. “I’m gettin’ outta here.” Wes almost leapt through the door.

  Mac was right behind him.

  Both boys continued down off the porch, dust billowing up in small clouds around their feet. In the yard they both stopped and concentrated on breathing fresh air.

  Wes looked up at Mac, still grinning. “Man, that was disgusting! Think he’s got somethin’ dead in there?”

  Mac shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know. I ain’t gonna go back in there an’ find out, either.” He looked toward the house and cupped his palms around his mouth. “Pappy?” A breeze whipped around the house and out in front of the boys, carrying the same scent they’d encountered in the house.

  Mac gagged, pulled his hands down and looked at the ground. “Whew! That stuff’s nasty.” He stepped a few feet to one side and cupped his palms around his mouth again. “Pappy, we need to talk to you. You in there?”

  In the back room, Herbert McFadden looked up from the rabbit he was skinning out. Under his breath, he said, “Sounds like somebody’s scaldin’ a cat out there, all that yellin’. Wonder if it’s too late to change my name?”

  He got up, put down his skinning knife, and wiped his hands on a stained dishtowel.

  The rabbit’s head, which he’d severed but hadn’t yet tossed out, was staring at him from the corner near the window.

  He looked at it. “Be back in a minute. Wait right there.” Then he laughed and turned to walk through the kitchen and the living room.

  He looked up and saw that the screen door was open and sitting at an odd angle. Somebody must have come in and forgot to close it when they left. Or had he left it that way? Seeing it propped open like that spurred a memory.

  *

  Back when McFadden’s wife was still alive, the wood in the door jamb was still good and the screen door still hung right, mostly. Back then, the pastor, Reverend Perot, sometimes came around to visit. After all, Edith was one of his more loyal parishioners when it came to tithing.

  It was important to her that the house looked good as people approached, or at least as good as it could. So every now and then Herbert and his boy Otis would scrounge a pail of whitewash and paint the plywood walls. And every now and then he would fill the nail holes beneath the hinge on the door jamb with wood slivers, then drive new nails so the screen door would hang right, or at least close to right.

  On the occasions of the pastor’s visits, if the screen door had worked loose again, Herbert would prop it open with a rock so it wouldn’t embarrass Edith. He always meant to get around to fixing it permanently, putting in a new frame, jamb and all, but Edith had passed away five years ago and his desire to fix the screen door had gone with her.

  Besides, nobody ever visited, and Herbert didn’t miss the company. The good reverend himself had been around only one time since Edith had died, ostensibly to offer his condolences and check on Herbert. He’d seen it as a duty.

  It had been three days since the funeral and nobody had seen Herbert around town. The investigation of his disappearance had fallen to the reverend. That afternoon, the pastor had stepped up on Herbert’s porch and rapped on the door jamb three times. Receiving no response, he turned the doorknob—he found he had to press down on it while he was turning it—and discovered Herbert was home, but he was also much deeper in his cups than usual.

  The reverend rushed to his side. He allowed his right hand to hover over the man’s sweaty, hairy shoulder, but decided not to touch him unless doing so became absolutely necessary. After all, he didn’t want to startle the man. He bent until he was near Otis’ ear. “Brother McFadden?” he said quietly.

  But Brother McFadden was not lucid enough to be startled.

  Dressed in his usual overalls without even an undershirt, he was slumped in a hand-made chair with one short leg. To keep it from going cockeyed, he had propped his left forearm across the back of it. Sweat trickled in rivulets down his left side from his armpit, darkening the thin, faded-blue fabric of his overalls where it soaked in.

  His neck was bent, his head facing the bulge of his ample belly.

  For a moment the reverend thought he was asleep, but on closer inspection he saw that Brother McFadden’s left eye was open and his right eye was half-open.

  In addition to the sweat running down his sides, it also was trickling down from his throat through the coarse, curly, red and grey hairs on his chest. Beads of it lay among the diamond shaped wrinkles on the back of his neck and the close-cropped red and grey hairs on the back of his head. Likewise on the bald spot at his crown.

  McFadden’s right forearm was resting on the small table that had served as the dining room table in better days. The fingers of his right hand were curled around the neck of a mostly empty bottle. It was laying on its side, the amber liquid filling only the bottom quarter-inch of the side of the bottle.

  The reverend began ministering to him.

  “Of course, Brother McFadden, I am distraught to find you in this condition. On the other hand, I c
ertainly realize your entire world has come undone, yea verily, even been devastated, and I fully understand the need of a weak man for drink.

  “You know, it’s no secret even to someone of my breeding, that sometimes the temptation to the devil’s juice is simply too difficult to resist, dulling, as it does, the excruciating pain of having lost a loved one.”

  He leaned forward a bit and quieted his voice an appropriate degree. “Truth be told, Brother McFadden, if I myself had recently suffered the loss of a good wife and companion of forty-three years—especially such an excellent wife and companion as Mrs. McFadden was—well, I might even be tempted to imbibe a bit myself, strictly as a result of my abject misery, you understand.”

  He straightened and adjusted the volume of his self-righteousness accordingly. “So take heart, Brother McFadden.” He wagged one finger in the air. “Now I’m not giving my approval of such acts, mind you, but I am saying that it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

  Then he clapped Herbert on the back and said, “However, Brother McFadden, it appears to me you’ve been mourning under the influence of this remedy for some time. As you well know, there comes a time when a man has to put the miseries behind him and get on with his life.”

  He drew himself up and shook his head and wagged his finger with authority, just as if Herbert could see him and would care. “You can’t just go on living in the past, mourning your good wife and all the wonderful times you and she shared. And you can’t just go on drowning your sorrows in the bottle. Oh no, Brother McFadden, you’ve got to be getting past the bottle, and soon.

  “You have to grab life by the horns, man! You’ve gotta get back into the flow of everyday things, everyday life. You still have a church family who needs you and your donation. And don’t forget, you’ve a boy to raise. Now I know there ain’t nothing easy about raising a boy by yourself, but the thing is....”

  The reverend continued talking as Herbert began to emerge from his fog.

  In the wake of feeling the slap on his back and hearing the reverend’s voice, which was beginning to rasp from overuse, he came to realize there was someone else in the room. With difficulty, he found a way to raise his head and twist it around and up to his left to look at the reverend, who at the same moment bent at the waist to peer more closely at him.