Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04

by Quanah Parker

  Nocona grunted with satisfaction, then stepped out from his cover, Quanah right behind him. Wading in the creek, the older man walked to the nearer of his two kills. The buck was staring vacantly, its head stretched out on the grass, its hindquarters still quivering. Turning to his son, Nocona said, “Run and get the horses.”

  He watched as Quanah slipped through the underbrush and disappeared, then turned to the business of butchering. Drawing his knife, he knelt on the sandy bank and started the grisly work.

  By the time Quanah returned, the horses tethered together and following in his wake, the water was red with blood. The buck had already been gutted, and Nocona was working on the doe. Quanah turned away, but couldn’t help peeking over his shoulder to watch Nocona eviscerate the doe. Normally, he would have brought the entire carcass home, but he didn’t want to overburden the pack horse. The liver was a delicacy, and he would pack it separately, using a parfleche he’d brought for the purpose.

  “We’ll have plenty of meat,” he said, grunting as he bent over the limp form of the doe.

  He wiped his knife on the grass, then dipped it into the current and swished it clean before drying it on the grass and tucking it back into its sheath.

  The carcasses were heavy, but Nocona handled them easily, his broad back and shoulders taking the heavy load easily as he hoisted the buck onto the pack horse. He lashed it in place with buckskin thongs, then did the same with the doe. Together, the two deer made for a heavy load, but he had chosen the pack horse carefully, and didn’t want to ride double. If they ran into trouble, it would be better if he and Quanah had separate mounts. He could always hunt another deer, and cutting the pack horse loose would be a small price to pay for survival.

  When the deer had been securely lashed, he turned to his son, who kept looking at the deer, then at his father, then at the swirls of blood still curling away from the clotted mound of viscera murkily visible under the surface of the creek.

  Nocona patted him on the head. “Patience,” he said. “That’s the secret.”

  “Will we go home now?” Quanah asked.

  Nocona nodded. “We don’t want the meat to spoil, do we?”

  “But the other deer got away.”

  “We don’t need them. A good hunter always leaves some game for the next hunt.”

  “When we hunt the buffalo, we kill a lot more. Why not the deer?”

  “We hunt the buffalo to feed ourselves all winter. Besides, there are many more buffalo than deer. You know that very well. You have seen the herds of buffalo, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen that many deer at one time?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “There you are, then. Let’s go.”

  Nocona hoisted the boy onto his horse, climbed onto his own mount, and nudged it through the brush and out into the broad, green valley. As they started up the gentle slope toward home, they were forced to move slowly, the pack horse laboring under its heavy load. Nocona was watchful. An enemy would see how slowly they were moving, and would know they were vulnerable to attack. Surprise would give the enemy a distinct advantage, and the worst he would have to show for his effort would be a pair of freshly killed deer and a good horse, reason enough to take on a solitary warrior and a small boy.

  The sun was well on its way toward the meridian now, and the late morning was hot. The meadow was full of flowers, and there seemed to be a dozen bees for every bloom. The whole valley throbbed with the collective humming of a million tiny wings.

  When they reached the ridge, Nocona stopped to scan the floor of the next valley. Like the one behind, it was full of bluebonnets, but there was no creek and no cotton-wood stand. That meant there was little cover, small enough problem if they hadn’t been hampered by their catch. Satisfied the valley was deserted, Nocona started down, turning to wave for Quanah to follow him, when he spotted something moving among the trees near the creek.

  At first, he thought it might have been more deer, coming late, waiting until the interlopers had left. But he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t afford not to be. Tilting his head toward the valley ahead, he said, “You go on.” Handing the lead rope of the pack horse to Quanah, he realized the boy wouldn’t be able to hold it if the pack horse bolted, and fashioned a quick loop in the long lead and draped it over the neck of Quanah’s pony.

  “What’s the matter, Father?”

  Before Quanah could answer, a sharp crack shattered the stillness. A moment later, three horses burst through the underbrush along the creek, and Nocona yanked on the pack horse’s lead, swung it free of Quanah’s pony, and slapped its rump with the free end. To Quanah, he shouted, “Ride. Ride home. I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

  “But what …?”

  Taking the bow from his shoulder and jerking an arrow from his quiver, he snapped, “Do it!”

  As soon as he was sure Quanah had obeyed, Nocona turned his horse and notched the arrow. The three horsemen were charging uphill straight toward him. They were Anglos, probably Texans, and he saw immediately that all three were armed with rifles. The one who had fired the shot was trying to reload on horseback, not the easiest thing to do, and he was lagging a bit behind. The other two men were waving their rifles and shouting.

  He wondered how long they had been watching him, then, knowing it didn’t matter, he drew the bow. The first arrow sailed long, and he quickly notched a second at the same time he kicked his pony and started downhill toward the attackers.

  A second rifle shot cracked the silence, and Nocona heard the whistle of the bullet as it sailed past his head, high and to the left. More used to firing from horseback, the chief had a slight advantage. He could also fire several arrows for every bullet from the clumsy muzzle loaders, but there were three of them, and the men probably had pistols, as well.

  His next arrow struck the lead horse dead center in the chest, and the horse broke stride, stumbled and fell, spilling its rider over its mane. The man shouted something, rolled over several times and scrambled to his feet as his companion fired.

  Once more the bullet sang nearby, and the unhorsed rider tugged at his waistband. Nocona drew the bow once more, this time holding for a split second to be sure of his aim. He heard the moist whack of the arrow as it struck the white man in the ribs. He was using hunting arrows, rather than war arrows, and the placement of the arrowhead made it harder to find a gap in the ribs, but this one managed. The man fell backward, his hand clutching at the arrow half buried in his left side.

  The man in the rear had reloaded now, and Nocona watched the bobbing muzzle of the long gun as the attacker tried to hold his aim. The other horseman was still charging ahead, and Nocona jerked the bridle of his mount and dashed downhill at an angle, causing the charging men to turn and disrupting their aim … but not his own.

  Launching a fourth arrow, he saw it narrowly miss the nearer of the two horsemen, who ducked sidewise as it flew past close enough to scrape his shoulder with its feathered fletching. Another arrow and another, neither finding a mark, and another gunshot.

  Nocona was downhill now, circling around behind. The two survivors were trying to wheel their mounts, but the big American horses were less maneuverable. The slope didn’t help matters, and Nocona was now on their tails, urging the pony back uphill, an arrow drawn all the way to the head. He let it go and saw it strike one of the men in the biceps and pin the arm to his body as it pierced the fleshy part of the arm and burrowed on into the right side of his chest.

  Instinctively, the man jerked his arm and yelped in pain as the arrow came free, tearing a hunk of flesh loose with its barbs. It flapped now as the man waved his wounded arm, snapped the arrow off with a shriek of rage, then jerked it free, sending the blood-smeared shaft in a tumbling arc as he tossed it away.

  Nocona already had another arrow nocked, drew and fired in one fluid movement as his pony narrowed the gap. Preoccupied with his wound, the man looked surprised when the second arrow hit him
, this time dead on, just below the collarbone on the left side. He fell backward off his horse, his lips pursed as if to shape a question. But he said nothing as he fell, then let out a whoosh of air as he landed flat on his back, just in time to receive a third arrow as Nocona galloped past. This one pinned him to the earth.

  The third man had already turned tail, but Nocona thundered after him, drawing his bow once more. He held the arrow at full draw until fifty yards became forty, then thirty. Only when he had closed to within twenty yards did he snap the string.

  The arrow struck bone with an audible crack as it shattered a shoulder blade and knocked the last of the three attackers from his horse. Nocona closed hard, leaping from his horse and drawing his knife while in the air. The man lay on his stomach and was crawling through the grass, one hand curled around the arrow shaft, his legs and remaining arm clawing, making him look like a crippled insect.

  Nocona landed on the man’s back with his knees, snapping the arrow as he grabbed the man by a fistful of greasy hair and hauled the head back far enough to jerk the knife once across the exposed throat. The taut tendons parted with dull snaps and a horrible gurgle gushed in a spume of bloody froth from the severed windpipe. Slicing once more, Nocona lifted the scalp, jumped to his feet and held the bloody flap of skin and hair high overhead as he shrieked in triumph.

  Moving quickly, he raced on foot to another of the attackers, took a second scalp, then darted toward the third body. He had the hair in his hand and the knife poised when something caught his eye on the ridge. He looked up then, frozen, to see Quanah watching. He looked down at his victim, hesitated a moment longer, then took the scalp.

  This time, though, there was no shriek of triumph. Only a grunt of grim satisfaction.

  Chapter 16

  Summer 1858

  TEXAS WAS VAST, SO vast that the Comanche had been relatively secure in the Llano Estacado. They had been free to wage their kind of war, lightning-fast raids on small settlements, isolated homesteads, the occasional wagon train on the way down the Santa Fe trail. But their own haunts had been relatively free from intrusion except for an occasional raid by a small band of Texans. Although treaties had been signed, and the U.S. Army had received permission in those treaties to establish military posts, the army presence had been all but nonexistent.

  But 1858 would be the year that would see all that change. Fed up with the incessant raids, frustrated by the Comanches’ ability to strike where and when they pleased and to escape unpunished into the huge, barren void of the Llano, Texans set up a clamor that finally caught the ear of newly elected Governor Hardin Runnels. Anxious to please his constituents, he appointed John R. Ford, known to one and all as “Rip,” the supreme commander of the Texas Rangers, with the rank of senior captain. Ford was given the authority to raise a company of a hundred tested men, orders to wage the war his way, and instructions to punish the Comanche and drive them out of Texas if possible.

  Not one to take so daunting a challenge lightly, Rip Ford set to work immediately, exchanging frequent letters with the governor to make sure that his orders were explicit and unequivocal, and to ensure that support would be unwavering. Too often in the past, as Ford well knew, outrage sputtered out like an untended fire, and men hastily dispatched to the field found themselves suddenly cut adrift, wage commitments revoked, supplies short or unavailable and support withered and blown away even before the enemy had been sighted. Rip was determined that wouldn’t happen again, not this time, and sure as hell not to him.

  Particular to the point of fussiness in his choice of Rangers, and intent on doing things right if at all, he made his selections quickly, but not hastily. By midspring he was ready to go. But Ford knew that his chances of finding the Comanche would be considerably enhanced if he had the benefit of Indian assistance, particularly with tracking, and he arranged for a contingent of Tonkawa, numbering more than a hundred, under the leadership of their chief, Placido, to join the expedition. The Indian Agent, Ranger Capt. Lawrence Sullivan Ross, better known as “Sul,” had used his good offices with the Tonkawa, and his son, Shapley, also a Ranger captain, was given command of the Indian forces.

  The Tonkawa were mortal enemies of the Comanche, having been driven out of their lands by the latter as they drifted south and east from their original hunting grounds in Colorado. The Comanche also believed the Tonkawa were cannibals, with some reason, and despised them as they did no other Indian enemies, even the hated Osage and Apache.

  The expedition started up the Brazos River heading toward Comanche lands, picking up volunteers on the way, angry ranchers and their hands who over the years had lost thousands of head of cattle and horses, and more than a few friends, to the marauding bands of Quohada, Noconi and Peneteka Comanche.

  The punitive force was well supplied and borrowed more than a little determination from Rip Ford, who was no more tolerant of failure in others than in himself. Tonkawa scouts were sent out well in advance of the main force, with orders to gather as much intelligence as possible but not to tip the Comanche as to what was coming.

  Cutting toward the Red River, Ford led his men along the western edge of the Wichita mountains then heading toward the Canadian River and the Antelope Hills, a favorite Comanche camping and hunting ground not far from the Indian Territory border with Texas.

  The hills were an ideal defensive position, and the big U-shaped bend of the Canadian River gave them plenty of water and provided a defensive perimeter behind which the Comanche would retreat after a raid into Mexico or eastern Texas. It was to this region that the raiders brought their Mexican captives, of which they had more than a few, and where the stolen horses, cattle and mules were herded. The livestock was often used in trade with other tribes, especially the cattle, which were less highly prized than good horses.

  Believing themselves secure in their stronghold, the Comanche were unaware of the approaching army. On May 11, two scouts reported the presence of a large band of Comanche, and Ford sent Anglo spotters out to check on the reports. Establishing a camp on the Washita headwaters, Ford rode out in the company of Ross and several Tonkawa. From a high ridge, they watched as a small hunting party of warriors chased a small herd of buffalo in a valley dead ahead. He had found his quarry. Now all he had to do was run them to ground.

  Ford returned to camp, already intent on launching an attack at sunrise the following morning. He still hadn’t seen the main Comanche village, and had no knowledge of which band it belonged to. But to Ford, such distinctions were arbitrary and, in the present circumstances, beside the point. Comanche were raiding Texas ranches, and Comanche would pay the price. He knew enough about them to know that they all hated Texans, and made a distinction between Texans and Americans. The Peneteka had honored their treaties with the Americans, but believed Texans were different, worse than the hated Mexicans, and neither party to the treaties nor deserving of their protection.

  Up well before sunrise, Ford was giving his plans one final consideration and apprising Shapley Ross of his responsibilities. Satisfied that everything was in order, Ford gave the order to move out, and two hundred and fifteen men, red and white, began their march. Ford wanted to strike just at sunrise, when light would be sufficient to distinguish between Comanche and Tonkawa, but just to make certain, had instructed Ross to keep his Tonkawa force to the left, and made sure that the Rangers knew of the deployment.

  Approaching through a shallow valley, the Rangers found a small camp, only five tipis, and immediately launched a surprise attack. In the one-sided confrontation, the lodges were burned and several Comanche killed or captured, but two warriors managed to escape and raced ahead to warn the main camp of the impending assault.

  Ford followed as quickly as he could, and when his forces crested the last rise before the Comanche village, he held his breath for a moment. He said later it was the most beautiful Indian village he had ever seen. The tipis, some bleached nearly white by the sun, others still the soft beige of more recently prepa
red skins, some splashed with bright color, lay in perfect symmetry under the rising sun.

  The Noconi, under the chief Pohebits Quasho, were ready and waiting. The old chief, whose name meant Iron Jacket, possessed a full set of Spanish armor, which he donned for the occasion, and in which he had implicit faith. Backed by dozens of warriors, he approached the deployed Rangers and Tonkawa, taunting the latter with insults and challenging them to single combat.

  Unable to resist the challenge, several of the Tonkawa broke ranks and moved into the open. Like the Comanche, they were in full regalia, brightly smeared with bands of red, yellow, blue, black, and green paint, the feathers fixed to their bows, shields and lances fluttering in the morning breeze.

  Ford and Ross watched with mouths agape, almost unable to comprehend what they were seeing. Time and again, a pair of warriors, one Comanche and one Tonkawa, would goad their mounts and charge headlong, lances lowered, and earsplitting war cries shattering the morning stillness. Beyond the combatants, women and children were retreating while the rest of the Comanche, following Iron Jacket’s lead, arrayed themselves in a defensive wall between their families and their enemies.

  As yet another pair of warriors closed, Ford said, “For God’s sake, Ross, it’s like something out of medieval times. Like knights in shining armor.”

  Sensing that the advantage of surprise was rapidly dissipating, he ordered a volley, and the sudden sputtering of pistols and rifles drowned out the thunder of hooves. Designed to ward off the blows of swords, the armor failed and Iron Jacket, riddled with rifle balls, fell to the ground. As if the old man’s death had been a signal, the Rangers and Tonkawa charged ahead, and the Comanche warriors rushed into the field to avenge him.

  The initial attack was furious, and the Comanche, armed only with their traditional weapons, were seriously disadvantaged. Their bows were no good at long range against the far more accurate, and far more deadly, rifle fire of the Rangers. Iron Jacket’s replacement knew instinctively that the best he could hope for was to cover the retreat of the women and children, raced back and forth along the line of battle, shouting instructions to the warriors, commanding them to hold as long as they could.