The Texans

by Brett Cogburn

  “Iron Shirt has big medicine. He believes he can blow our bullets aside,” Placido said.

  Iron Shirt continued to taunt the Texans, blowing big puffs of red smoke at them from behind his shield. It seemed as if he could indeed blow the marksmen’s bullets aside, for lead kicked up dust around him or flew over his head.

  “To hell with him.” Odell spent a long time aiming and then squeezed his trigger. His bullet did no apparent damage to the Comanche with the big medicine.

  “Danged fools, you ain’t going to get a bullet through that bull-hide shield at this range,” Son yelled down the line.

  “He’s wearing some kind of armor,” somebody added after another failed shot and a string of profanity.

  Odell dropped his rifle butt and began to reload. He had experimented with a heavier load while hunting buffalos, and he poured a premeasured charge down the rifle barrel from a hollow piece of switch cane. After ramming a bullet home he primed his pan and leapt up on top of the creek bank. He knelt and aimed the gun with his left elbow propped on top of his thigh.

  “You’re a stubborn sort, ain’t you?” Son asked.

  Odell ignored the remark and focused on the rifle sights on his right-hand barrel. He had increased the powder charge by half again and hoped his gun would hold together as it had with the few test shots he had fired. His earlier experience with the toughness of Comanche shields had taught him that he was going to need a little more oomph. The Bishop hit about three inches high and a little to the right at a hundred steps with the heavy load. He didn’t have a clue how that would correlate at over twice that distance, but he took a fine bead a little to the left and to the bottom of Iron Shirt’s shield. His right eye was still swollen some from the beating Dub Harris had given him, and he squinted it open and closed a few times to try to clear his vision.

  Apparently, Odell had done a poor job of calibrating his crude powder measure, for he was sure his gun had exploded the instant he fired. It was if he had touched a cannon off. His footing on the edge of the creek had been precarious, and the recoil kicked him back down the bank to land on his butt. His ears rang from the concussion, and it took him a count of three to remember just where he was. He stared dumbly at the strange faces looking down at him until he finally recognized Son and the others laughing at him.

  Miraculously his gun was still in one piece, but his shoulder and cheek felt like a mule had kicked him. The Tonks and the Texans who weren’t laughing at him were cheering wildly and pointing toward the Comanches. He scrambled back up the bank just in time to see Iron Shirt tug himself free of his dead horse.

  “By Gott, Herr Odell, I swear on my father’s beer and my mother’s chastity, you are the greatest horse killer in Texas,” the Prussian roared.

  Odell felt more than a little embarrassed, but the men’s enthusiasm soothed some of the sting of being knocked on the seat of his britches by his own gun. He watched as one of the braves led a spare horse out to Iron Shirt. The red ochre dust that the medicine warrior had spewed from his mouth was smeared all over his face, and he looked at the Texans with a dazed expression on his face.

  “That’ll learn that heathen some manners,” Son said. “He won’t pull that act again with Odell here to shoot at him.”

  “I wasn’t aiming for his horse,” Odell muttered.

  “Keep a-shooting, Odell. You’ll soon have ’em all afoot,” Kentucky Bob Harris called out down the line to him.

  Odell’s dismounting of Iron Shirt had the Tonks’ blood up, and many of them were soon standing on the edge of the creek and shouting taunts of their own and flashing insulting hand signs. A Tonk named Crazy Bug lifted his breechclout to show his bare ass and cawed like a crow at the Comanches. Soon, all the Tonks were up out of the creek bed and joining the ruckus.

  For the first time, Odell noticed the white cloth armbands every one of them was wearing, and looked to Son. “What are the white rags for?”

  “The Prussian had them tie those on. He figured in the thick of things that one kind of Injun might get to looking like the other to our boys,” Son said.

  Another Comanche brave rode out alone and called to the Tonks. Odell was surprised when Placido, who had seemed calm to the point of boredom up until that point, went to his horse and started out to meet the Comanche. His massive shoulders were slumped, and his long legs dangled almost comically beneath his little mustang’s belly. A small shield was on his left arm and an ancient, battered musket propped up on his right thigh.

  The Comanche screamed something at the Tonk chief and let go his rearing, lunging horse to lope a big circle around the battlefield. Placido kept his ugly little mustang to a slow, shambling walk until he pulled up halfway between the two fronts. The little nag seemed to have even less energy than his master and immediately rested one back leg as if he intended to take a nap. Only Placido’s head moved as he followed the Comanche’s progress around him.

  When the Comanche had circled all the way back to his line, he suddenly turned and came straight at Placido at a dead run. He angled slightly to Placido’s left and ducked low behind his shield. When the Comanche had neared to within a hundred yards of him, Placido stepped quickly from his horse. The Comanche veered wide at the last moment and fired an arrow in passing. Placido turned the arrow with his shield and spun slowly around to meet the Comanche’s next charge from the opposite direction. The Comanche fired another ineffectual arrow and ducked off again.

  The Comanche started a third pass, obviously intending to repeat his technique of veering wide with his shield in between himself and Placido’s gun. But before he could alter his direction, Placido let go his rein and ran ten steps to his left. His move either forced the Comanche to pass much closer to him, or go the other way with his unshielded side exposed. The Comanche chose the latter and Placido quickly raised his musket and shot him off of his horse.

  The Comanche was seriously wounded but not quite out of the fight. He lurched to his feet with a tomahawk in his hand. Placido reloaded and then went to his horse and hung his musket from the saddle. He slipped a massive, stone-headed war club from his belt and stalked toward the Comanche at a jog. The two of them crashed body to body, and their grunts of exertion could be heard between the striking of blows against their shields. In the matter of a few short seconds the Comanche was down on the ground and Placido had taken his scalp.

  The Texans cheered as loudly as the Tonks when Placido walked slowly back to his sleepy mustang. He never even looked over his shoulder at the Comanche line, as if he deemed them unworthy of his attention. His ride back to the creek was as slow as his earlier departure.

  Placido’s victory emboldened his warriors even more. Over the course of half an hour two of them answered challenges to single combat. However, they weren’t the wily fighters their chief was, and the Comanches made short work of them both.

  “Those Tonks saw old Placido take him a scalp, and now they all think they’re a match for the Comanches,” Son said as they watched the fighting. “There’s nobody more crazy brave than an Injun with his mad up.”

  “Lucifer’s balls, we may have to charge the Comanches before we lose all our Tonks,” the Prussian said.

  Odell only half heard him. Another Comanche was sitting his horse alone on the battlefield. He called out loudly to the Texans.

  “He wants to fight the Running Boy,” Placido said.

  “Which one is that?” The Prussian was looking to his Tonks to see which one of them was preparing to do battle next.

  Placido shook his head. “He asks for the running boy with the powerful gun that knocks down before and behind.”

  The men that had heard Placido turned to look at Odell, but he didn’t notice their attention. He only had eyes for the Comanche. He recognized the same warrior who he had seen back home before his pappy was murdered and the same one who had killed Israel Wilson right before his eyes. Odell l
urched to his feet and headed for his horse.

  Son blocked Odell’s way to the horses. “Don’t let that Comanche egg you into going out there. He’ll chew you up and spit you out in a horseback fight.”

  “If he wants a fight with me, he doesn’t have to holler twice.” Odell brushed by Son and took hold of Crow’s bridle.

  “Dying proves nothing,” the Prussian said.

  Odell stepped into the saddle. “To hell it don’t. I know that sonofabitch out there, and either him or me has had it coming for a long time.”

  Before Odell could ride away Son held up two holstered pistols to him. “Take these.”

  Odell looked down at them impatiently. They were strange-looking weapons, and he hadn’t seen their like before. “Keep your guns.”

  Son thrust them at his belly. “I won these Colt pistols from one of Captain Jack Hays’s Ranger boys. They’re slow as hell to reload, but there are ten shots between the two of them before you’re empty.”

  Odell held the pistols in his hands and frowned at them. “They don’t even have triggers.”

  “Just cock them and the triggers drop right down,” Son said. “There are two extra cylinders for them in those pouches, and all you have to do is knock out the cross pin and pull the barrel forward to change them out.”

  “I can’t take your guns.” Odell offered them back.

  “Those things are too fancy for an old man like me. I’ll stick to old Potlicker here to fetch my meat.” Son patted the stock of his long rifle.

  Odell took the belted guns and cinched them around his waist. The pistol barrels were almost as long as his forearms, but the weight of them hanging on his hips felt good. He didn’t trust weapons he didn’t know, but the thought of five shots each without a reload was pleasing. He rode out onto the prairie without another look back. He only had eyes for the warrior in the buffalo horn hat waiting for him.

  “That Comanche has Odell plumb pissed off.” Hatchet Murphy cackled.

  The Prussian watched Odell carefully. “Yes, Odell doesn’t forget.”

  * * *

  Little Bull had watched Iron Shirt get his horse shot out from under him with some satisfaction, but the humor was short-lived. He recognized the Tejano marksman who had made the shot, and his blood began to boil. It was Running Boy and his big gun.

  He raced his horse toward the Texans and pulled his horse to a sliding stop just out of easy gunshot range. He stabbed his lance into the ground and lifted both of his arms high and wide.

  “Running Boy, come out and fight me,” he yelled.

  There was no answer from the Tejanos, and he continued to shout challenges and insults. He remembered how the big Tejano had shamed him twice, and his body shook with anger. Three times over the winter he had dreamed of Running Boy charging across the prairie with his big feet hitting the ground like thunder, and his hands full of fire and smoke. No matter how many arrows he fired, Running Boy kept coming. Little Bull had awakened after each dream in a cold sweat, and his fear shamed him.

  It seemed like forever before Running Boy came out of the creek bed straight toward him, but he wasn’t on foot like he had been in the dream. Instead, he rode a black horse with the wind under its feet. He was even bigger than Little Bull remembered him, and all the people would sing of the fight to come. He would scalp Running Boy and drag his body by its heels through the village for all to see that he was not afraid of Tejano giants.

  He kicked his horse to a run, and was pleased that Running Boy did the same. The distance closed swiftly between them, and he saw that Running Boy had no fire in his hands. Only shamans and weak-minded fools believed such dreams.

  Chapter 32

  The two horses were close enough that Odell could plainly see the face of the muscled little warrior charging him, and it was like looking into the eyes of a black-faced demon. Odell gritted his teeth and leaned slightly forward in his saddle. He tried to get a bead on the Comanche with his rifle, but the warrior was zigzagging his horse too rapidly make good aim. Odell kept to a beeline course, committing to a game of chicken that could get him killed.

  The Comanche snapped a shot from his bow and Odell barely managed to bob to his right enough to dodge the arrow that flew by his left shoulder. No sooner than he righted himself in the saddle than the warrior veered his horse sharply to Odell’s left and another arrow ricocheted off Odell’s cantle. He tried a snap shot with his shotgun barrel but missed wildly at almost point-blank range.

  The Comanche’s horse was a runner, but he didn’t handle as good as Crow. Odell stopped short, and rolled the good black horse back the way they had come. The Comanche was turning around, but in a far looser turn than Odell had made. For a brief instant the warrior’s body was visible without his shield in the way. Odell shot again without thinking and knew instantly that his aim had been off.

  The Comanche twisted around and let go another arrow with his bow held crossways over his horse’s rump. Odell felt the arrowhead cut across the side of his neck before his mind could even recognize what had just flown by him. The Comanche’s rate of fire was amazing, and Odell tensed for another arrow coming his way. He tried to keep Crow in behind and slightly to the right of the Comanche’s horse in order to make it harder for the right-handed warrior to get in position with his bow.

  Without slowing, the brave hung his bow over his back and snatched up the lance he had left stuck in the ground. Odell stopped Crow and reached for his powder horn while he watched his adversary turning back to him in a tight arc. He managed to get a charge poured home but realized that he was never going to have time to finish reloading. The Comanche was fifty yards off and coming at a dead run with his lance pointing the way.

  Odell thumped his spurs into Crow’s side and went straight at the Comanche. He thought of his pappy and tried to steel himself against the bite of the lance. The Comanche was going to pass on his left. He waited two more heartbeats and then swung his left leg over the saddle. He balanced in his right stirrup and ducked beneath the lance while he reined Crow hard to the left. The two horses crashed head-on at a dead run, and the impact sent Odell flying through the air. He rolled to his feet well beyond the thrashing animals and picked his rifle up from the ground.

  Somehow, the Comanche was still astride his horse, although it was down on its belly and fighting pitifully to get up. Odell took a two-hand grip on the stock of his rifle and charged like a mad bull. The Comanche’s horse managed to regain its feet just as Odell reached its side. He swung the rifle as hard as he could. His blow took the Comanche in the shoulder, and he felt the gunstock and the warrior’s bones crack all at the same time.

  The mighty lick knocked the Comanche off the other side of his mount. Odell fumbled for his knife handle while he tried to come around behind the horse. The frightened, injured animal kicked out and fell back to the ground. One of its hooves struck Odell squarely on the top of his thigh, knocking him to the ground. He fought his numbed leg and somehow scrambled to his feet in time to watch the Comanche fleeing on foot with his left arm dangling limply like a broken wing. The warrior threw one last hateful look back over his shoulder at Odell as two other Comanches raced in to gather him on the back of one of their horses. Odell remembered the pistols at his side and clumsily tugged at the right hand holster. Just as he cleared leather guns began to crack like it was the Fourth of July.

  He looked back to the creek and saw the Prussian charging across the prairie with his skull hat on, and his carbine held aloft like some kind of banner. Behind him came the entire force with their guns popping and the Tonks screaming bloody murder. Even the Texans yelled war cries of their own.

  The Comanches were coming out to meet the Texans at an equal pace, if not faster. Odell looked for his horse just as Placido rode up with the animal in tow. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t crippled Crow, but there was no time to check him out. He made his saddle just as the Texans roare
d by them.

  The Prussian stopped his men in a skirmish line and their rifles almost fired as a single volley. The Comanches faltered and pulled up within bow range of the Texans’ empty guns. Someone shouted for the Texans to fall back, and Odell and Placido raced in the middle of the retreating men. Arrows flew hot and heavy, and Odell saw the man to his right slump in the saddle with a fletched shaft buried deep in his back.

  The Texans poured charges from their powder horns while at a dead run, and spat patch-less round balls down their rifle barrels. After a quick jab of their ramrods, they whacked the butt of their rifle stocks on their saddle horns to make sure the bullet was seated in the bore. A quick dash of powder in their flintlock pan or a percussion cap from a leather strap at their waist had every gun in the force loaded again. The act of reloading from horseback while at a dead run looked fairly simple when viewing it, but Odell knew from experience that it was closely akin to rolling a cigarette while being rolled downhill inside a barrel.

  When almost back to the creek, they turned around to face the pursuing Comanches once more. The Prussian shouted for some of them to hold their fire so that they weren’t caught with all their guns empty at once. What the Texans lacked in numbers, they made up for with marksmanship. Their rifles turned aside the pursuing Comanches. The mass of warriors split to either side of them, some of them ducking in close to let fly their arrows. Men and horses went down on both sides as the fight grew hotter by the minute.

  When the Comanches finally turned back to contemplate things, the Prussian saw a chance for counterattack and charged again. Back and forth across the level prairie this take and give, charge and retreat was repeated. The Comanches tried to overrun the small force, but each time the Texan rifles broke their will before they closed. After ten minutes of fierce fighting the Comanches gathered their dead and wounded and regrouped at a distance. Odell had one of the Colt Paterson revolvers in his hand but had thus far not fired a shot. His targets had been too far away and moving too fast to waste a bullet, and he had held his fire in case he needed to cover the other men while they reloaded.