The Texans

by Brett Cogburn

  He was lost in his thoughts and the buffalo came very near to him on the upwind side before he even knew they were there. It wasn’t a large herd, just stragglers from the massive yearly migration north. They passed before him single-file like phantoms. Their humped shadows, bovine grunts, and the brush of their hooves in the grass were all that connected them to the earth. Although the herd was just an old bull and a half dozen cows and calves, he swore that he could feel the heat off of them and smell the musky earth matted into their wooly heads.

  The wind must have shifted or they finally noticed him for what he was, for the ghosts lifted their tails and stampeded straight into the moon. Their dust floated up in the moonlight like a thin black veil on the backlit skyline, and he waited to breathe until the dull throb of hooves was gone to his ears and vibrated no more in his heart. Somewhere in the way off, coyotes yipped and yapped until a lone wolf answered them with a long, low wail. And then there was silence once again except for the occasional creak of his saddle when Crow shifted beneath him.

  He sat long before the moon until the bawdy laughter of the Texans and the raspy voice of Son Ballard lifted from the camp. Sound carried well in the night, but Odell only half paid attention to the goings-on at the campfire far behind him. He didn’t have to catch every word to know what kind of stories Son and the other men were telling. It would be tales of brave men come to hard ends and violent deaths, of bitter fights with Indians and weather, of bad horses too wild to tame, and of abandoned homesteads and starved-out pilgrims too soft for Texas. Like all good frontier sorts, the Prussian’s party scoffed at destiny and consequences and the fickle twists of fate that could take your life just as quickly as it brought you fortune. Laughing at what could kill you didn’t make you stronger, but it passed the time and made such men bolder by the telling.

  Odell was in no mood for storytelling. Somewhere out in the black, Red Wing was waiting. He turned Crow around and started at a slow walk back to camp. Just beyond the edge of the firelight he spied the shadow of a man afoot.

  “You should be careful about wandering so far from camp in Indian country, Herr Odell. I would’ve thought you’d learned that by now,” the Prussian said. “You know that is a Comanche moon.”

  “I didn’t see any Indians about.” Odell stopped Crow beside the Prussian’s shoulder.

  “What did you see?”

  Odell waited long to answer. “I don’t know just what I saw. I don’t think I’ve the words for it.”

  The Prussian dragged hard on his pipe until the red glow of it faded and died. “Just the same, a man could get himself killed wandering around in the dark.”

  Odell waited again to answer. He could just make out the Prussian banging his pipe against his palm and dumping his tobacco ashes out.

  “You should be careful yourself, Karl. A man can start a fire if he isn’t careful.” Odell rode on into camp and didn’t hear the Prussian’s answer, if there was one. He went to sleep on the ground with Crow’s hackamore rope in his hand and the black horse standing over him like a sentinel.

  Chapter 19

  Much to Agent Torrey’s relief, none of the Wacos died from his treatments, but Squash’s wife was still weak and the chief refused to leave her behind to go wandering after Comanches. As a result, the escort Squash had promised the Peace Commission never materialized. After two days in the Waco village the expedition rode off up the Brazos River without reinforcement and minus their Comanche translator.

  Five days northwestward they reached the western edge of the Cross Timbers and rode out into more open country. For some reason game was scarce and the expedition was soon living off nothing but mush and hard cakes made from coarse-ground Waco corn. Hungry bellies led to bad tempers, and when they reached the Wichita River, Commissioner Anderson argued with the Delawares that it was the Red. Insults were exchanged and for a while it looked like the scouts would quit and ride away. All the men soon became silent and brooding, the corn ran out, and the stringy jackrabbit and screech owl stew Agent Torrey managed to procure for the supper pot did little to lift their spirits, or alleviate the hunger that threatened to put an end to the Peace Commission before it even got good and started.

  Twice the Delawares reported that they had come across the tracks of Comanche hunting camps on the move, but the sign was at least a week old. To make matters worse, a spring storm front blew in on them, and they huddled miserable and wet for two days on the south bank of the Red. Their last night on the river, thunder and lightning preceded an enormous roaring wind. The little canvas tent Commissioner Anderson had provided for Red Wing blew away, and she had to join the men under the limbs of a huge elm tree with her saddle held overhead to fend off the falling hailstones, some of them as big as silver dollars. They woke up to find their horses stampeded and a mile-long swath of nearby bottom timber felled by a small tornado that seemed to have just skipped over them.

  The Delawares went out and rounded up the horses, but the two pack mules weren’t to be found. There had been no food for the contrary animals to carry for days, but the entire party still considered it a great loss. The trade trinkets intended for the Comanches could be divided among each rider, but the mules themselves couldn’t be replaced. Only the night before the tornado had hit they had all agreed to butcher one of the long-ears for breakfast. Captain Jones had assured them that the Apaches in New Mexico loved such meat, and that the mules would be more than enough sustenance to see them through two more weeks of travel.

  When they were still back in the settlements, all of them but the Delawares would have curled their lips at the mention of eating mules, but none of them had ever gone so many days without a true meal either. Needless to say, the disappearance of the mules almost broke their spirits. Captain Jones seemed to dwell on their loss the most. A day later he was still telling the dream he had where the mules had been blown to New Mexico and the Apaches had eaten them lightly sautéed in a bath of pork fat with green onions. Everyone was in a foul mood, so it wasn’t safe for any of them to mention to him that it was common knowledge that the tornados in Texas didn’t move west, nor did a savage tribe probably express such delightful culinary skills. Normally, Captain Jones was smart enough to know that himself, but he was a portly man and perhaps valued regular meals even more than the rest of the party.

  By the time the expedition reached the Washita, the question on everyone’s mind wasn’t whether they could survive to find the Comanche, but if they could keep from starving long enough to make it back to Austin. Commissioner Anderson continually attempted to fortify their will with speeches of duty and heroic endurance, but even he was showing the effects of hardship. His fancy clothes were soiled and torn and he had long since ceased to find a reason to shave every morning. He sat each night with his raw red eyes staring into the fire, and his sunken cheeks made gaunter by the clench of his grizzled jaws. He was a stubborn man, but it was plain to all that he was just about ready to quit.

  On the afternoon when the commissioner had finally decided to give up their mission, Jim Pockmark rode into camp and asked for help hauling in the meat from a buffalo he had killed. The formerly weakened and sluggish men moved with the electricity of a pack of wolves, and soon breakfast was cooking over the fire. The Delawares had immediately satisfied some of their hunger with raw liver, but the Texans were a little more squeamish, and waiting for the meat to cook was slow torture.

  Captain Jones was the first to reach for a portion, and he cut himself a large chunk of backstrap and tore at it with his teeth. He swiped at the bloody juice burning his chin, but his eyes almost rolled back in his head with pleasure as he worked the hot bite around in his mouth. Soon, the rest of them were clutching pieces of half-raw meat. The buffalo had been a lone old bull, and even the tenderest portions were so tough they were nearly impossible to chew. A calf or a young cow would have been much preferred, but none of them were complaining. They tugged at the meat wit
h their teeth, using their knives close to their mouths to cut a portion free.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good,” Agent Torrey smacked.

  “Even poor bull meat is good when you haven’t had any meat in nigh on a week,” the commissioner said.

  Red Wing ate slowly, savoring the flavor and letting the food warm her stomach. She had starved before, and remained silent while the men celebrated breaking their fast. There had been times among the Comanche camps when the store of meat didn’t last the winter, or stretches where enough game couldn’t be found. All the creatures of the wild knew the pains of hunger.

  “I mind the time when me and Captain Jack were surveying up the Guadalupe,” Captain Jones said around a tough mouthful of bull meat. “Our powder got wet crossing high water, and we couldn’t shoot any meat. We rode two days back to San Antonio with nothing to eat but a couple of rattlesnakes we caught sunning.”

  “Rattlesnake isn’t bad if you know how to cook it,” Red Wing said quietly.

  Captain Jones gave her a skeptical look as if he thought it out of place for a woman to barge in and one-up his manly tale. “So, you’ve ate those slithery old coontails?”

  “There are worse things to eat,” she said.

  The men began to swap rattler stories, but Red Wing barely heard them. The food in her belly was making her sleepy, and she stared dreamily into the fire while her mind wandered back to her memories of the Comanche village on the move. She remembered the young boys scattered out and beating the brush for small game. They shouted and laughed when they cornered a snake or a rabbit, dispatching it with their little bows and racing back to the caravan proudly displaying their kill. All of the adults would laugh and praise the small warriors so determined to learn the ways of the hunt. Food was always something to rejoice about, and the children were the future of the people.

  “What say you, Commissioner? Do we push on as we are, or try and double back to the Red to resupply? Abel’s Trading Post can’t be more than a three-day ride downriver, and we might even luck out and run across a few Comanches trading at the store,” Captain Jones said. “It might be that we could get one of them to lead us to his village and translate for us.”

  “I think the game is stirring better the way we’re headed, and Jim Pockmark speaks a little Comanche,” the commissioner said. It was plain from the look on his face that he had already been contemplating detouring to Abel’s but had disregarded that option.

  “Jim might know a few words, but he doesn’t speak their language. Comanche is the trade lingo out here, and most of the Indians in this country know a little. But that’s a far cry from speaking Comanche, and I don’t intend to get killed because somebody translates something wrong,” Captain Jones said.

  Jim Pockmark nodded. “Nobody speaks Comanche but Comanche. They are hard to understand, and want to fight all the time.”

  “We’ll push on for another day or so and see if we can keep ourselves fed. Jim says we’ll reach the Canadian tomorrow,” the commissioner said.

  “What about you, Agent Torrey? What do you have to say about all of this?” the captain asked.

  Agent Torrey was already wrapped in his wool blanket and sound asleep. The long day’s ride and a full belly had him snoring softly.

  “That’s the way it’s going to be, Captain. I’ll remind you that you volunteered to accompany this expedition under my command,” the commissioner said coolly.

  Captain Jones didn’t grumble, but it was plain that he didn’t like being reminded of his position in the party. Red Wing had long since come to believe that the captain felt it was he who should have been in charge and not young Will Anderson. From the beginning of their journey, he had made a big deal of his service carrying the mail from Austin to San Antonio, and told numerous hair-raising tales of Indian encounters. He was quick to point out the fact that he had led a militia force to head off the Comanches after the Great Raid and the sacking of Victoria and Linneville, no matter that it was common knowledge that he and his company had missed the hostiles by twenty miles and never even made it to the fight at Plum Creek. However much his Indian fighting résumé may have been exaggerated, he obviously felt it superior to that of the stuffy, vain youth President Houston had appointed to lead the expedition.

  “Maybe you ought to lead this party, Captain. It sounds as if your plan is the much safer and more practical course,” Red Wing said. Anything that delayed their journey was a moral victory for her.

  The captain puffed himself up and started to expound upon his merits, but noticed the commissioner glaring at him across the fire. He quickly deflated his expanded girth and shook his head as if saddened by her doubt of the commissioner’s leadership.

  “It’s only natural that you should give such credence to my suggestions, considering my years on the frontier and military experience, but the president sets great store by Will. It’s his mission to command, and I can but offer my counsel when needed,” he said quietly.

  The commissioner stared long at the captain, and then quickly rose and marched from the fire. The captain watched him disappear into the dark, and then jerked his attention back to Red Wing.

  “Girl, don’t you try to get me crossways with him,” he hissed.

  “Why, Captain, I am trying no such thing. Forgive me if I would feel much more comfortable with a man such as you leading us,” she said in her most demure tone.

  “Maybe, but I have no intention of ending up in a pistol match with him because he got his feathers ruffled. My brother served under Will’s daddy for two years aboard ship, and I know just how fine-edged that family’s sense of honor is,” the captain said.

  “Seriously, Captain, I doubt the commissioner is going to want to shoot you over questioning his decision making.”

  The captain looked to where the commissioner had disappeared, and then leaned close to the fire. “Will Anderson may seem like a perfect young gentleman, but don’t let his fancy ways and that twenty-dollar smile fool you. The word down on the Gulf has it that he shot his coonass sweetheart’s brother in New Orleans, and I know for a fact that he killed a navy officer in a pistol duel on a sandbar at Padre Island. Some say a prominent family paid him to pick a fight with that navy gent.”

  Red Wing weighed what she had just heard against her impressions of the commissioner. “Surely, the rumors are exaggerated. I would be the first to claim that he is a complete scoundrel, but he does not seem like a murderer.”

  “You think what you want, but don’t try to put me at odds with him. Those fancy pistols tucked in his sash ain’t just for show.”

  “I told you I was trying no such thing.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re a little squaw trying to play with men, and it’ll get you in trouble. Why don’t you just keep quiet and hope Will can’t find the Comanches he’s looking for? Then maybe you can go back and play like you’re a white girl again.”

  Up to that point Captain Jones hadn’t said much to her during their long travels, but his prejudice came as no shock. The mocking scowl on his face every time he looked her way had never been hard to read. “Pardon me if I’m not bothered by your insults.”

  The captain rose to his feet. “Will can fawn around you playing games like you’re some real lady, but I’m too old for anything but the truth. And the truth is, you can dress up a pig and teach it to talk, but it’s still a pig. For all your pretty dresses and fancy talk, you’re still a dirty redskin.”

  “Does the color of my skin bother you so much?”

  “I think you ain’t dangerous no more, but even at the best, you’re no more than a tame Injun like old Jim Pockmark over there and his buddies. If giving you back to the Comanches that raised you will get them to quit raiding for a while, then I’m all for it.” Captain Jones started off in the direction the commissioner had gone.

  “You hate me, don’t you?�
� Red Wing asked.

  The captain didn’t turn around, but he stopped at the edge of the firelight for a moment. “I hate you and your kind more than you will ever know. The Comanche killed my woman and smashed my baby boy’s head against a tree because he cried too much. If I was half the man I ought to be, I’d have already wiped them from the face of the earth.”

  When the captain was gone, Red Wing shifted her focus to Jim Pockmark sitting wrapped in his blanket. There was a smile on his face and a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t let the fat captain bother you,” Jim said. “The commissioner laughs at him, the Indians laugh at him, and the Tejanos laugh at him. He is an old fool with a bellyful of lies. He thinks he is the man he tells us he is, but all can see the truth. Right now he is going for the whiskey he keeps in his saddlebags.”

  The Delaware’s words didn’t comfort her. In fact, the look on his scarred and pitted face scared her more than the captain’s venom. His dress was a mixture of both the white man and the red, as if he’d taken all the savagery of both worlds for his own. The white cotton shirt belted over his breechclout, and the Mexican straw sombrero atop his long braids might make him seem more trustworthy to some folks, but she felt the renegade in him. It was plain in his calculating gaze, and the cold stillness of his monstrous face.

  “I could get you away from these men,” he said.

  “Oh?” Despite wanting nothing more than her freedom, she was sure she wanted no part of what was working behind his glittering eyes.

  “Do you doubt this?” He chuckled softly and smiled at the other two Delawares around him, as if any question of his prowess were laughable. “The fat captain will be drunk before long. I could slit his big belly open and choke him with his own guts before he even knew I was there.”