by Zack Wyatt
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
They were young, proud—and they were all that stood between defenseless settlers and the warring Comanche. They were the Texas Rangers, struggling to bring law and order to the infant Republic of Texas.
Josh Sands is only twenty-two years old, but has been with the rangers for ten years. Ever since he was orphaned. Ever since he saw his family slaughtered by a Comanche raiding party. He has committed himself to ride with the Rangers until he can no longer sit astride a horse... or until a Comanche arrow stops him.
Captain Jack Hays is a veteran, the greatest Indian fighter in the West. He knows that the only way to fight the Comanche is with their own brutal means, with Indian cunning.
This is their story. The story of the winning of the West.
THE TEXIANS 1
By Zach Wyatt
First published by Pinnacle Books in 1984
Copyright © 1984, 2018 by Geo. W. Proctor
First Smashwords Edition: June 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Cover illustration by Gordon Crabb
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with Lana B. Proctor
To the original HA.C.s Neal Barrett, Warren Norwood, and Pierce Watters.
Chapter One
Joshua Sands hated the night ... the waiting.
His anxious disquiet stemmed from his patrol duty along the frontier of the San Antonio region. Like any ranger, he cursed the long hours in the saddle, the hundreds of fruitless trails, the unpredictable Texas weather, the rocky terrain, and the cold camps. But they were bearable. The night and the waiting were an eternity unto themselves that a man endured each twenty-four hours.
An impatient sigh worked free from deep within Sands’ chest as he rolled on his back. Gazing at the star-sprinkled sky, he tried to forget the Comanche raiding party whose trail the patrol had followed for two days. There was no assurance the Indians still ran before them. Comanches had the habit of circling back on pursuers when least expected, turning the hunter into the hunted.
Sands reached inside his coat to dig two fingers into the breast pocket of his buckskin shirt and pulled out a gold watch. He thumbed it open. The moonlight played across its face. A quarter to midnight, fifteen minutes until he had to relieve young Willard Brown from the night watch—an additional four sleepless hours atop those he had just tossed through.
Snapping the timepiece shut, he ran his fingertips over the intricately engraved design ornamenting the case. A rider in full English fox hunting attire clung low to his mount’s neck as the horse bounded over a hedgerow.
Irony twisted the corners of the ranger’s mouth. The pocket watch once belonged to his mother’s great grandfather, a Cornish country squire. Civilized gentlemen chasing fox were a far cry from tracking Comanche across the arid Texas hill country.
Sands tried to recall his mother’s stories about her family’s journey from England to Tennessee. His memories failed him. His only vivid recollections of his twenty-two years were of Texas. He could not imagine the Tennessee hills, let alone the English countryside.
With a wistful shake of his head, Sands sat up. He neatly rolled and tied the blanket that had covered him. The night’s chill edged deeper into his body. Rippling waves of gooseflesh moved up his back and down his arms. The bite of the night, or apprehension? He did not know.
Methodically, he checked the single-shot pistols tucked in his belt, then lifted a cap and ball rifle from the ground beside him to give it the same careful attention. The rifle was his pride, hand-crafted by a Mexican gunsmith in Corpus Christi. In five years, the weapon had never failed to fire. A fact that meant the difference between life and death when facing a charge from war-painted, howling Comanches. The brace of pistols and the rifle gave him three shots before having to reload.
Finally his right hand reached down to touch the familiar handle of a long, wide-bladed hunting knife slung on his hip. The knife was smaller than the legendary blade Jim Bowie had carried. True Bowie knives were a rarity, in spite of numerous claims to the contrary by traveling weapons salesmen.
The ten-inch blade, honed to a razor-sharp cutting edge, scabbarded at his waist was enough for Sands’ purposes. He had proved that on several occasions when three shots had not been enough to drive off attacking Indians.
The knife was also balanced for throwing, half a turn every six feet. Although, Sands thought, only a fool would throw a knife in hand-to-hand fighting. Once a blade was tossed, a man was weaponless and as good as dead.
Pulling the collar of his coat high about his neck and drawing a wide-brimmed hat low to his face, Sands tucked the sleeping roll under an arm and stood. The eighteen other men on the ground around him did not stir. He smiled, wishing he had their ability to push thought from the mind and sleep. If lucky, he might be able to grab a few hours of shut-eye after he was relieved at four.
Weaving quietly among the sleeping men, Sands worked to a clump of willows growing on the bank of a shallow creek that skirted the edge of the camp. Twenty horses, saddled for action, stood tied to the drooping branches.
Sands gave his silent approval. Jack Hays, his captain, was a natural-born Indian fighter. Though but twenty-three years old and a native of Tennessee, Hays had an uncanny grasp of his enemy. He learned all he could about Comanche lore from his Lipan Apache Scouts, then used that knowledge against the Comanches.
The constantly saddled mounts were one of Hays’ innovations for ranger patrols—one directly taken from the enemy. It was an old Comanche raiding party trick to keep ponies ready for a hard ride in case of unexpected danger. Hays’ men now kept their mounts in the same state of readiness. A simple measure to be certain, but no white man had even considered it before Captain Jack Hays!
Turning from the horses, Sands climbed the water-and-wind-eroded gully that rose fifteen feet above the creek.
Willard Brown sat on a jagged outcropping of limestone, partially concealed by scrub cedar growing around the boulder.
“Midnight,” Sands whispered when he reached the youth’s position. “Best get some rest. Sun’ll be up before you know it.”
Willard slid from the rocky perch to allow the older ranger access to the boulder. Sands tossed his sleeping roll atop the limestone then scrambled up to sit on the makeshift cushion.
“Blood Moon.” Willard stood, his head craned back to stare at the full moon overhead. “Josh, is it always like this? Do you get used to it?”
“Never ... just learn to accept it.” Sands understood the seventeen-year-old’s unrest. All Texians did. When the full moon hung over the land, Comanche raiding parties rode, smearing blood on the moon in their wake.
Sands eased a pouch of bourbon-soaked tobacco from a coat pocket. He stuffed a pinch into his mouth and slowly chewed. He preferred a pipe, but when ranging, it was too dangerous. The flame from a match could be seen for miles in this open country. He offered the young man the pouch.
Willard waved the tobacco away. “I thought the Comanche didn’t ride in the winter. What are they doing raiding in early January?”
“The name of the month doesn’t mean it’s winter in Texas. You know that.” Sands spat a stream of tobacco that looked ink black in the frosty moonlight. “Winter’s
been too mild. Until a blue norther sweeps down and puts ice on that stream, the Comanches will keep raiding.”
“It feels like winter to me.” Willard rubbed his arms to increase the circulation.
Sands didn’t argue. It was cold, but not winter cold. Eighteen forty was seven days old, and the new decade had yet to see its first freeze. When the ice and perhaps snow came, the raids would stop ... until Spring. Then the Blood Moon would rise over Texas once more. Sands spat another thin stream of tobacco juice.
“How long you been ranging, Josh?” Willard still stared at the moon.
“Off and on for seven years,” Sands replied. “Joined Johnson’s ranging company when I was fifteen. Been riding against the Lipans, Tonkawas, Cherokee, and Comanche whenever there’s been a call for rangers.”
“This is my first time ... my first patrol,” Willard said softly.
“You’re pulling your weight like any other man in the company.” Sands remembered his first ride and his own lack of confidence. “But if you don’t get some sleep, you won’t be worth a tinker’s damn in the morning.”
“I guess you’re right ...” The youth’s words faltered. His head jerked to the right, upstream.
Sands heard it too. Splashing water! His thumb eased back the hammer of his rifle. The sound moved closer. The older ranger spat his chaw to the ground.
“Could be an animal ... antelope or deer,” Willard offered while Sands slipped from the outcropping.
“Could be. Only one way to find out.” Sands motioned for the young man to follow him to the creek.
For a moment, Sands considered waking the other men, then discarded the idea. If it were Comanches, there were no more than one or two of them. The splashing was not loud enough for a large raiding party. Willard might be right. It could be an animal. Deer were plentiful in this region of Central Texas.
The woman stumbled into view before the two men reached the willows.
Sands froze in mid-stride, his jaw sagging wide. The woman was totally naked, her bare skin glowing ghostly pale in the moonlight.
“My God!” Willard voiced Sands own surprise. “It’s a white woman!”
The woman swirled around to face the two men. She screamed, her voice high-pitched and panicked. Her hands flew out as though to fend off an attack as she stumbled back through the chilling water. She screamed again. Her feet went out from under her. Hands flailing the air for nonexistent support, she tumbled into the creek.
Sands tossed his rifle to Willard and covered the distance to the stream in two strides of his long legs. The woman regained her footing before he reached her. She spun about in a feral crouch to face him.
“Noooooo!” The single word came in a sibilant growl. Without warning, she lunged forward, hands raised like taloned claws aimed for the ranger’s eyes. “I’ll kill you! Kill you!”
Sands deftly ducked beneath one raking arm and grabbed the other with his left hand. Simultaneously, his right swung upward. A sharp crack echoed through the gully when his open palm smacked smartly against her cheek.
The woman whimpered, jerked back rigidly, and stared at the ranger in disbelief. Her eyes went wide and round. “You’re ... you’re ... white!”
Before he could reply, she collapsed in his arms, her body flaccid, then shuddering in violent spasms. Her tears came in an uncontrollable flood.
Awkwardly aware of her nakedness, Sands held her as she pressed herself tightly against him. Her diminutive body was almost lost beside his lanky six-foot frame. He did his best to provide what comfort and protection he could. Soothing words fled his mind. All he could do was stroke the gentle curve of her back and repeat over and over. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.”
“Josh, what the hell are you doing? That creek’s cold!” Sands glanced over his shoulder. Jack Hays and the rest of the patrol stood at the water’s edge.
“Bring her here before she catches the croup!” Jack waved the ranger from the water.
Maneuvering the sobbing woman toward the bank, Sands heard Jack break his own rule about cold camps by ordering Hap Ingram to light a fire. The ranger captain threw a blanket around the woman’s shoulder when Sands led her from the creek. Somehow, without ever releasing her clinging arm from Sands’ waist, she managed to wrap the blanket about to conceal her nudity.
While Jack called for someone to brew coffee, Sands edged the woman through the rangers toward the beginning flickers of a campfire. Willard Brown spread a bed roll before the flames and Sands seated his ward atop it. When he tried to step away, she clutched at his arm with a desperate strength. He did not question her grasping need for human contact, but squatted beside her on the blanket.
“Beeman, Williamson, Grant, Utley, and Wayne ... spread out around the camp. Keep your eyes open. If there’s a Comanche within ten miles, this fire’ll draw him like a candle bug to a flame,” Jack shouted as he lowered himself to the woman’s opposite side.
“This ain’t coffee, but it might help her some.”
Hank Ferris’ bearded face appeared to Sands’ right. The man held out a tin cup. The distinctive odor of sour mash whiskey invaded Sands’ nostrils.
“Ma’am, try drinking this.” Jack took the cup and placed it in one of the woman’s delicate hands. “It’s strong, but it will make you feel a mite better ... and warmer.” Tears still streaming down her cheeks, the woman’s head lifted. She gazed blankly at the ranger captain, then turned questioningly to Sands. He nodded. Lips tentatively touching the cup’s rim, she took a deep drink.
Abruptly, her crying ended. A startled gasp rasped from her throat, followed by an equally surprised chorus of hacking coughs. Jack patted her back and grinned. Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s not sherry meant for the refined taste of womenfolk, but it will help,” he assured her. “See if you can finish it.”
She sucked in a steadying breath and sipped. Bit by bit, she managed to down the whiskey and handed the empty cup back to the captain. She looked at Sands, then Hays. “Who are you?”
“John Coffee Hays, ma’am.” The ranger leader touched the brim of his hat. “These men are rangers under my command. We’re out of San Antonio.”
She sat motionless, staring at the growing fire as though Jack’s words had not penetrated her mind. Then she nodded solemnly.
Sands studied her face in the flickering light of the campfire. The ghostly whiteness of her skin had vanished as the whiskey brought a slight blush to her cheeks. She appeared younger than he had originally estimated. Twenty, twenty-two, he decided. Despite the dirt and scratches covering her face, she was pretty.
He imagined her hair clean and soft rather than wet and plastered to her head. It would be long, silky, and as red as the flames warming her. He guessed her height at five feet six inches. And as to what was hidden beneath her makeshift blanket-robe, he didn’t have to guess. A handsome woman in any man’s eyes.
A thousand questions crowded Sands’ mind. What was she doing out here alone? And naked? A woman like this had to have a man. Women, even mud-ugly ones, did not remain single long in Texas, especially on the frontier. There were too many men hungry for a woman. Each one with tongues adangling, aching for a woman to share his life and bed, to bear him sons and daughters.
Sands’ head moved slowly from side to side. No man in his right mind would leave a woman alone in this country. No man that was a man.
“Ma’am?” Hank Ferris poked his whiskered face around Hays. This time he held a steaming cup of coffee. “Ain’t making no claims as to the taste, but it’s coffee and it’s hot. It’ll take the chill off.”
The woman’s hand rose to accept the cup. It stopped halfway there, fingers trembling. Her eyes went wide and wild. Her head twisted to Sands. Desperation tautened the features of her face. Both hands grabbed the ranger’s arm, digging in like vises.
“Jamie! My baby!” She screamed at him, renewed tears flowing from her green eyes. “They killed my baby, and they’ve got Jamie! You’ve got to save
him. You’ve got to save him before they kill him too!”
“Jamie? They?” Sands asked gently, wanting answers, but afraid of edging her into hysteria again.
“Jamie ... my son ... four years old,” she answered between sobs. “Comanches have him ... they killed baby Sara ... she was crying too loudly ... one of them picked her up by a leg and swung her head against ...” She broke down again, her whole body quaking violently as she buried her face in her hands and wept.
Between Sands’ comforting arms and Hays’ gentle reassurances that the patrol would do all that was possible to save her captive son, she quieted once more and accepted the coffee. For several minutes, she sipped in silence. Sands watched her carefully. He saw the transformation—a determined strength she gathered in preparation to recount what she would rather forget.
“My name is Marion Hammer. Felix, my husband, and I made camp upstream about a half hour before sundown. They rode over a rise and were on us before we knew they were there.” She paused, her voice quavering. She took another scalding sip to hold back threatening tears. “There were eight in all ... faces painted red and black ... and screaming at the top of their lungs. One of them ran Felix through with a lance as he tried to get his rifle from the wagon.”
“What about the others?” Jack asked.
“The others?” She looked at him as though she did not comprehend his meaning.
“The people in the other wagons,” he said. “Were they killed too?”
She shook her head. “There were no other wagons. We were alone. Felix had a job offer in El Paso bank. He could speak Spanish. He was college educated.”
Book learning or not, Felix Hammer had been a fool, Sands thought. No man traveled the frontier alone or endangered his family by leading them unprotected through Comanche territory. A man invited disaster if he did—the type of disaster that had struck the Hammer family. And like most foolish men, Felix Hammer’s mistakes hurt more than just himself.
