Red River Rifles (Wilderness Dawning—the Texas Wyllie Brothers Series Book 1)

by Dorothy Wiley

  The lush land here was an area claimed by both the United States, through the Louisiana Purchase of 1803, and by Spain, who claimed all the land to the Red River. The settlement was fair distance from Washington and anything official though. And Spain had bigger worries than the exact boundary line for this remote part of the Province. But Spain welcomed foreigners offering some settlers generous land grants, to encourage economic development and to help deter the aggressive and mobile Plains Indians. In other words, the Spaniards wanted the Americans to be the ones to die fighting Indians.

  Just who owned this part of the Province remained a matter of debate. It was even rumored that Mexico would soon try to take Spain’s territories from her in a revolution. And mixed in with all the conflicting claims and moving boundaries were the Indians who often exercised claims of their own.

  Some tribes only recently migrated to the area north of the Red River. Renegade bands came and established themselves without the permission of other Indian tribes or the American or Spanish governments. Lately, one such group of fierce Comanches relocated from the mountains of the northwest to the southern plains. Other tribes, like the Caddos had lived in the area since ancient times until in 1795, they moved a hundred miles to the southeast to the shores of Caddo Lake.

  With the departure of the Caddos, Samuel had learned, the area had remained uninhabited until three years ago. It was then that venturesome traders, trappers, hunters, and settlers like his father, who believed this rich land belonged to the United States, started to drift in. They all still considered themselves citizens of the United States. The ill-defined boundary line between Spanish Texas and the American Territory of Arkansas was not something that concerned any of them. They would not be restrained by such details. And apparently, officials in Washington weren’t too concerned either, because they failed to make the boundary clear.

  To Samuel, it didn’t matter who owned the magnificent and mysterious prairies and woods that stretched seemingly without end alongside the Red River’s banks. For miles upon miles, it was land lacking in civilization just waiting to be appreciated by somebody.

  Somebody like him.

  Chapter 1

  Pecan Point, Red River, Province of Texas

  September 1818

  Samuel Wyllie stared into the darkness, his instinct telling him that Indians lurked around them like empty-bellied wolves prowling in the night.

  He nudged his younger brother with the butt of his rifle. They’d both been sent by their father to stand guard over their homeplace. Their faces darkened by mud, they lay beside each other on the roof of their large horse shed. From there, a tall two-story structure, they could see a threat coming from any direction. Samuel faced north and Thomas, his nineteen-year-old brother, south. Thomas kept nodding off, but Samuel knew better than to disappoint their father, Stephen, by letting their cattle and especially their horses be stolen. The barn below them held their father’s prized stallion and six other horses, including Samuel’s own fine gelding, Samson.

  “Thomas, wake up,” Samuel whispered. “Get ready. We’re going to do a little shootin’.” No one was going to steal their horses. Not on his watch. He and his father shared a sincere love of their horses. And on the frontier, whether a man would live or die often depended upon his horse.

  Thomas came instantly awake and snatched up his longrifle. They all used Kentucky longrifles. Longrifles were lightweight, possessed graceful long lines, and economically consumed powder. But most of all, they were fatally accurate.

  “What’s out there?” Thomas whispered.

  “Just listen.”

  The many desolate miles surrounding them provided a happy hunting ground for thieves. Indians more often stole horses than cattle. In fact, Joseph English of Clear Creek lost several high-value horses. Thirteen horses were also stolen from the Pecan Point settlement not long ago. And last month, upwards of twenty horses were stolen from the other settlements along the Red River. In each case, the horses were taken without alerting the owners.

  The Spanish authorities, ill-equipped to do anything about it, could not stop the Indians from robbing the people on the river, not only of their horses and livestock but even occasionally of their household goods. Determining which tribe was responsible was often difficult because many tribes—Caddo, Kiowa, Choctaw, Cherokee, Delaware, Pawnee, Osage, and Comanche—traversed the area even though they didn’t live near here.

  And the unscrupulous rustler, who would rather steal than purchase his beef, was always a threat too. But not for long. The only authority in the area was their own longrifles. Rustlers were killed where they were found. Samuel witnessed this form of punishment when rustlers stole a dozen of their branded cattle. He’d joined his father and other men from the settlement in pursuit. The rustlers were unable to move quickly because of the cattle they’d stolen and they soon caught up to the two thieves. They’d admitted their guilt and begged for mercy.

  “It’s God you should ask for mercy,” his father had said a moment before the thieves were hanged.

  The entire event had been hard for Samuel to watch, but it put other rustlers on notice. His father was not a man to cross. Those who looked with covetous eyes upon Wyllie family cows would pay for it with their lives. Conversely, if a man asked his father for food, without hesitation, he’d give him a hearty meal and a shirt for his back if he needed it. But after that, if he wanted more, he had to work for it.

  Samuel cocked his ears and listened to the silence of the night along the Red. It was too quiet. The spotted frogs along the river’s edge, normally so loud at night he’d nicknamed them chorus frogs, had gone silent. A strange, threatening silence hung in the air—the kind of stillness that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. And the shadows of the night against the moon’s bluish-gray light gave Samuel an eerie sense that violence was coming.

  Soon one of the horses below them neighed and another whinnied. That’s when his heart quickened because a horse can smell danger.

  Too often, danger was commonplace here for they lived in a savage frontier stretching many wild, lonely miles. Life itself was a gamble in this hinterland between two countries—the United States and Spain—inhabited mostly by buffalo, the Indian, wolves, and a few daring settlers. Only those colonists brave enough to carve a home out of a raw land could live here. A place where every day, at every turn, danger lurked like a wicked member of the family.

  “Do you want me to go wake Father?” Thomas whispered.

  “No, just keep your eyes open.”

  The rest of their family—their father and their younger brothers Cornelius, age seventeen, and Steve, age sixteen, would be asleep inside their log home, their beds cushioned with buffalo hides. Their only neighbors, their close friends, Dr. Baldy Grant and his wife Melly, lived just twenty-five yards away. Both a preacher and a doctor, Baldy was one of the best and smartest men in this or any other land. He was also a fiercely loyal comrade. Samuel knew he would come running, rifle in hand, at the sound of the first shots. And Melly, who often served as the doctor’s nurse, had been like a mother to him and his brothers since they’d first met her in 1811.

  For several long moments, they remained motionless atop the barn. Tales of Indian raiders who swept down on the settlers along the Red on dark and bloody quests filled Samuel’s mind for a minute. Marauding bands of Indians often menaced their sparsely settled area. And the thought of one threatening his family unnerved him. One poor man, a trader named Pierrier, who had unwisely come alone from Natchitoches, was attacked while he was drying his clothes. They scalped him, cut off his head, and left his body for the scavengers. And that wasn’t the only time men around here had their heads removed by Indians. The thought of dying that way made Samuel shudder and he gripped his longrifle even tighter.

  He pushed the gory account and others from his mind. He needed to focus. He needed to notice every sound, no matter how small. He needed to detect every movement of brush or tree not caused by the b
reeze. All of their lives might depend on discerning the slightest aberration.

  Then he spotted his enemy through the moonlight. A crouching Osage brave, bent over at the waist, held his bow notched with a dressed-up feathered arrow. As the brave crept toward the barn, another brave followed him, a knife in one hand and a hatchet in the other. They both wore breechcloths and several beaded necklaces. Their eyelids, cheeks, and torso were painted orange-red. The hair on their heads was gone, except for a front-to-back crest, which was dyed a brilliant red. The headdress of the first brave held the withered head and feathers of a small raptor, likely a hawk. The pointed curve of the hawk’s beak was perfect for snatching up mice from the prairie. But this Indian raptor wasn’t hunting mice. He was hunting horses. Or men.

  Not wanting to draw their attention, Samuel slightly nudged his brother and pointed only a finger.

  Thomas nodded but was smart enough to wait until Samuel fired before he moved around to face the threat.

  Samuel’s eyes widened as several more Indians streamed out from the brush. He lined up his rifle sights on the first Indian and fired.

  As the Indian fell the other braves hesitated a blink of a moment.

  In that instant, Thomas turned and fired his rifle and a second brave tumbled to the ground. Then Samuel and his brother yanked their pistols out and began firing at the other braves, who were now all whirling around to flee. Hitting a sprinting brave with a flintlock pistol was far more difficult and Samuel’s first shot missed. Taking a steadying breath and carefully lining up the sights of his second pistol, he fired again and his shot struck a retreating brave. Both of Thomas’ shots missed.

  Their father and brothers thrust their longrifles through the cabin’s portholes and the sound of four other rifles exploded into the night one after the other. Meanwhile, Samuel and Thomas quickly reloaded their flintlocks in silence.

  Samuel scrutinized the area, his darting glances searching for signs of other braves. But the threat was now well-hidden in the cover of darkness.

  His father and other brothers undoubtedly realized the same thing. Seeing no further threat, after a few minutes, they slowly filed out of the cabin, their longrifles held at their shoulders and pointed toward the distant brush.

  As he predicted, Baldy came running up. “Indians!” Baldy yelled, taking in the three bodies scattered about. “I thought it might be. Everyone all right?”

  His father nodded grimly. “My boys made them scatter like a covey of quail. You’d best get back to Melly in case they circle around. But my guess is, they’ve learned we’re not an easy target, thanks to those two.” He pointed up at Samuel and Thomas, a look of respect on his face.

  Baldy waved to the two of them and turned back toward home. “Save one of those bodies for me,” he yelled back at them.

  Samuel knew the doctor meant to dissect the brave to help him learn about men’s bodies. Although Samuel understood the need for knowledge of what was inside of a man, he still found the practice grisly.

  Stephen motioned for them to come down. “Samuel and Thomas, you’ve earned a rest. Go to bed. Cornelius and Steve will take your place until dawn. I’ll check on the horses.” With that, while Samuel and Thomas climbed down, his father took long, swift strides toward the horse shed. Always cautious, his pistol was drawn.

  Samuel wasn’t surprised that his father would send his two youngest up for guard duty. Young men on the frontier grew up fast and Cornelius and Steve were both crack shots. About once a month, the four brothers would have shooting contests. It seemed like every month a different brother would win so Samuel decided they must all be first-rate marksmen.

  Six-feet tall and heavily muscular, his father possessed a natural authority. But it was more their respect for him that made Cornelius and Steve both say, “Yes, Sir.”

  “Wait, keep our pistols for the rest of the night,” Samuel said, handing his two to Cornelius. “Stay alert, they might come back.”

  Thomas handed his pistols to Steve. “Yup, better not fall asleep.”

  Samuel wanted to snicker, but Thomas’ expression was serious, almost somber.

  Cornelius and Steve nodded and scurried up the ladder and then hauled it up to the roof to keep anyone from climbing upward.

  Thomas turned and strode toward their house, his head bowed.

  Samuel glanced at the bodies of the braves and then up at his other brothers. He didn’t want to leave them out here alone. Once again, rifle at the ready, his keen eyes surveyed the brush and trees for any sign of danger.

  “I checked on George and the other horses. They’re all there, thanks to you,” his father said walking up.

  “And Thomas,” Samuel said.

  His father’s hand rested on one of the two heavy pistols that dangled from his belt. They were always loaded and always on his person or right beside him. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I think I should stay out here too,” Samuel told him.

  “No, your brothers need to learn to carry their weight. Being responsible for the safety of the horses and us is a great way for them to learn it. Besides, I don’t think we’ll see further trouble tonight. If I did, we’d all stay out here. Those braves will move on to an easier target.”

  “There aren’t many easy targets in this part of the country.”

  “Agreed. Everyone’s been on edge and alert since the last Indian attack.”

  “What about the bodies?” Samuel asked.

  “Leave them until morning. We’ll take them closer to the river and bury them there, except the one Baldy wants to examine. The Osage place their dead in a sitting posture on the ground and pile a heap of stones around the body for its protection.”

  Samuel sighed and swallowed hard. The killing left a sick feeling churning inside of him. “I’ll do it. And I’ll bury the other one after Baldy is through studying it.”

  “You did well, son. I know killing isn’t easy, but they were here to steal from us or worse. If that wasn’t their intention, they would have come peacefully during the day.” He strode over to one of the braves and pointed down. “These braves have lethal weapons in their hands that would have been used on one of us without quarter.”

  Samuel stood beside him and stared down at the sharp blade of a tomahawk. “And they died on our homeplace. We weren’t in their territory.”

  “True. The Osage homelands are far to the north. Gather up their weapons and then come inside.”

  Carrying the Osage weapons, Samuel ducked as he entered the cabin. The door didn’t quite accommodate his six-foot-three stature. He piled the weapons by the door, and then rinsed the mud from his face. After drying off, he glanced over at Thomas who sat staring into the hearth. He joined his brother, sitting down on a log stool, and gazed into the hearth too. He found the embers of the dying fire consoling.

  “Here, drink this,” his father said handing them both a couple of fingers worth of whiskey. “It will help you sleep.”

  “Why did they make us kill them?” Thomas asked, accepting the tin cup. It was the first time his brother had killed a man. He knew Thomas would not let the event pass without some earnest soul-searching.

  Their father sat down next to them. “Many Indians are honorable, noble people whom whites greatly misunderstand and often mistreat. Among some natives, however, pride, greed, and other human vices flourish just as surely as they do within some white settlers. Make no mistake, the code of honor and morality held by Indian tribes often differs from Christian values. What is dishonorable to us may be honorable to them.”

  Samuel took a long sip of whiskey. “A thief is a thief no matter his heritage.”

  “I agree,” said Thomas. “They deserved what they got.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey in one gulp and after he coughed a bit, he stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

  Despite his brave front and the whiskey, Samuel suspected his brother would have a hard time sleeping tonight. Likely he would too. His mind burned with the image of the two
braves he’d killed falling down dead. But that memory was not unexpected. Taking a life should never be easy, even when it deserved to be taken.

  Their father stood as well, his knee cracking as he did so. Although still a vigorous and powerful man, at fifty-two, the hard wilderness of Kentucky and now the dangers peculiar to the Province of Texas were just beginning to take a toll on his body. A trailblazer by nature, his father had always ventured into the most remote areas, wherever there were rivers or streams to provide water. Places where other men feared to go. His robust constitution, iron endurance, and his natural courage made him well-suited for braving the edge of the frontier.

  Samuel liked to think his father had passed those same qualities on to him. He hoped that someday he could be the man his father was. The older he got the more Samuel appreciated his father’s great courage and valor.

  And their small community at Pecan Point and the larger Jonesboro, a little further west, could both claim a great proportion of similarly heroic men. Men who came mostly from Kentucky and Tennessee. Like his father, many of their fathers eagerly followed behind Boone over the Wilderness Road or pioneered with Sevier along the Holston River. They were born adventurers, courageous, and skilled, with a knack for wringing sustenance from the wilderness. They were men like Colonel Mabbitt, brothers Adam and Alex Wetmore, Adam Lawrence, and Claiborne Wright—pioneers who knew how to fight for a new life.

  In 1818, Samuel’s family joined these men at the Red River settlements. They were among the first Americans to venture into the vastness of the Texas Province.