The Texians 1

by Zack Wyatt

  The quill stopped. Karnes looked up and he tilted his head to Hays.

  The ranger leader pulled his hat from his head and began, “I have no idea what Moor-war-ruh and those other two wanted. I would like to believe that we have finally worn them down. That they’re as tired of fighting as we are. However, I just can’t believe the Comanches, even if it’s only the Pehnahterkuh, are willing to call it quits. They’ve been fighting us too long to just toss down their war lances.”

  For almost two centuries, Sands thought. The Comanche bands had effectively blocked the western settlement of the continent for nearly two hundred years. The French, the English, the Spanish, and the Mexicans had faced the Comanches and been stopped in every attempt to settle the Great Plains that gave life to the massive herds of buffalo.

  The true barbarian, the Comanche was ever at war, if not against whites whose settlements encroached on the borders of Comancheria, then on other Indian tribes. Legend held that the Comanche had completely butchered other tribes, wiping them from the face of the earth. Sands could not verify that, but he did know that the Comanche war parties had driven other tribes to the far borders of the republic.

  “My sentiments exactly, Captain. My first impulse was to have Moor-war-ruh and his companions arrested when I heard they were here.” Karnes nodded with approval of Jack’s comments. “I’ve just written that very thing to Johnston. My hesitance stemmed from the fact that the three were too few to assure our future. Far too many of the murdering savages would have remained free to guarantee the tribe’s peaceful conduct. Especially where it concerned hostages they hold.”

  Karnes paused and his eyes turned to the rough-hewed ceiling of his office. “Also I had to consider the reaction of those in our cities. You realize there is a powerful contingent of merchants who believe we can establish open trade with the Comanche tribes.”

  “We’re Texians, not Comancheros!” Hays’ response came sharp and harsh.

  Sands felt a deep-seated anger boil up within him at the mention of that single word—Comancheros—those hated traders in northern New Mexico who openly dealt with the Comanche. The Comancheros represented an open avenue for firearms and supplies to the Comanches; Guns they turned on Texians.

  At the same time, Sands begrudged a slight touch of respect for the settlers of the New Mexico Territory. They, and only they, had ever reached a working peace with the Comanche bands. The New Mexicans had one man to thank for that, the Spanish officer Don Juan Bautista de Anza.

  De Anza was a rarity among men on the frontier—one who immediately grasped the nature of the Comanche and understood how to deal with them. Wearied and angered by the relentless attacks of settlements under his jurisdiction, de Anza resolved to fight the mounted indios with their own methods.

  In the fall of 1779, de Anza brought together a force of lancers, armed civilians, and an army of six hundred, including an auxiliary of more than two hundred fifty Indians from other tribes. When he moved against the Comanche, he moved like the Lords of the Plains themselves. Before his troops traveled wide-ranging Indian scouts, relaying all reports of Comanche movement back to de Anza. The officer then routed his forces via the most devious routes he could find to avoid Comanche detection.

  Thus de Anza cut deep into the heart of the eastern Colorado plateau—all the way to the camp of Kuhtsoo-ehkuh, the great war chief the Spaniards called Cuerno Verde—Green Horn. The fact Kuhtsoo-ehkuh and his warriors were away raiding did not hinder de Anza. He attacked. Women and children were killed. Lodges were torched. The village was completely destroyed—obliterated.

  De Anza then turned back to Santa Fe—or at least rode part of the way back to the city. By a mountain that now bore the name Greenhorn Peak, the officer set his trap—an ambush for the Kuhtsoo-ehkuh and his victorious warriors who returned from a bloody raid on Santa Fe.

  When de Anza struck, he gave definition to the word massacre. Kuhtsoo-ehkuh was killed, cut down with the rest of those who rode in his raiding party. The few warriors who escaped were those who fled for their lives when the Spaniards attacked. They carried the tale of the powerful Spaniard back to Comancheria.

  For four years, de Anza found his hands tied in his campaign against the Comanche—a time Spain was preoccupied with its war against England. But during 1783 and 1784 de Anza once again lead his lancers against the Nermernuh. Again de Anza used Comanche tactics against the Indian bands—striking deep into the heart of Comanche territory and butchering isolated bands of Indians wherever he found them.

  In 1785, the Comanche rode into New Mexico under a flag of truce, bearing an offer to make peace. It was a peace de Anza refused until he had the promises of all the bands raiding his jurisdiction, which included both Yamp-ahreekuh and Kuhtsoo-ehkuh Comanche.

  The Comanche did not take these promises of peace lightly. They had honored them since 1785. Comanches now rode into Spanish settlements to trade. And New Mexican traders traveled safely on the Comanche plain—allowed into Comanche camps with their goods and their wagons. Thus de Anza had shown a blind world the manner in which to deal with the Lords of the Plains.

  And thus had he also created the traders known as Comancheros.

  Colonel Karnes’ gaze slowly rolled from the ceiling back to Hays. “I did not say that I supported a trade agreement with the Comanche, Captain. I was just ascertaining whether you were aware of the strong support for such an agreement within our republic.”

  “I’m aware,” Hays replied tersely. “I’m also aware that the fools back on the coast are too far from the frontier. They don’t remember what a Comanche raiding party can do.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Captain.” Karnes nodded, then turned to Sands. “And you, Mr. Sands, what did you make of this morning’s meeting? Captain Hays had lead me to understand that you speak Comanche.”

  “Yes, sir. Enough to follow what went on in the courthouse today.”

  “And your judgment of what transpired?”

  “I think Jack ... uh ... Captain Hays and I pretty much agree when it comes to the Comanche,” Sands said, wishing he weren’t within the office.

  Dealing with government officials left him uneasy. It was as though they were searching for some way to twist a man’s words to their ends no matter what a man meant. Whatever Jack or he said would have little influence on Karnes’ final decision. If this were a gaming table he would place his money on the odds that Karnes had reached a decision before Jack and he had entered the office.

  Sands continued, “I can’t see any harm in listening to what the Pehnahterkuh have got to say, but I wouldn’t expect much to come from what happened here today. Still if there’s a possibility of freeing any of the captives the Comanche have taken over the past four years, it’ll be worth our time.”

  “You have a keen sense of the situation, Mr. Sands.” Karnes leaned back in his chair. He extracted a long, black cigar from a box on the desk and lit it, then flipped the lid to the box closed without an offer for the rangers to join him. He blew a thin stream of blue smoke into the air above his head.

  “Your summation of the situation is exactly the conclusion I’ve reached. The republic is outraged by these savage criminals who have raided, raped, and kidnapped our citizens. It is my duty to take all steps necessary to secure the release of captives and return them to their families ... if at all possible.” Karnes drew another deep puff from the cigar. “That is why I’m recommending to the Secretary of War that he appoint a commission to deal with these Moor-war-ruh.”

  Karnes leaned forward, his elbows planted firmly on his desk. “I’m also recommending that this council be empowered to act decisively, if the situation warrants ... that troops of the regular Texas army be sent to watch over the council. I’ll urge that if the Comanches do not surrender the prisoners as was agreed here today that all Indians who attend the council be seized and held as hostages until all their white captives are released and returned to us.

  “I believe the secretary will
agree fully with my proposals.” Karnes smiled then once more sent a thin stream of smoke into the air. “Captain Hays, Mr. Sands, I want to thank you for your attendance this morning. Your aid and cooperation will be duly noted in my report to the secretary.”

  Once more the quill rose, and Karnes dipped it into an ink well. The scratching of shaved feather tip on paper began anew.

  Jack tilted his head toward the door, signaling the meeting was over. Sands reached out, opened the door and stepped from the office. He released an overly held breath, one that he had not realized he had been holding. It came from his lips as a sigh of sheer relief. Offices and politicians made him nervous.

  “I think Karnes has more savvy than I gave him credit for,” Hays said as he closed the office door behind them. “The man understands we’re dealing with Comanches here and not Tonkawas or Wacos.”

  Sands nodded, though he was uncertain whether Karnes understood the situation or was a man who just hated the Comanche. Though the methods used by both types of men were often the same, there was a difference. Captain John Coffee Hays understood the Comanche. And like the Spaniard de Anza, he used the Comanche’s own tactics against him. But there was no hatred, just a job that had to be done—and had to be done right.

  As for Colonel Henry Karnes? Sands didn’t know. Nor did he expect he would ever know. At least as far as Moor-war-ruh and the parley in the courthouse was concerned, Sands doubted that the Comanches would ever return to San Antonio, in spite of their promise to be back in twenty days.

  “Jack, if it’s all right with you, I’m heading for Netty Barnett’s boarding house. I promised Mari ... Mrs. Hammer I’d help her find a place to graze her stock today.” Sands turned to his captain.

  “Sure ...” Jack began, then stopped. “Wait up, Josh. There’s something I want to show you first. Something that just might be the edge we need to convince the Comanche to turn their raiding elsewhere.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sands hastily took in the interior of the ranger garrison. Jack’s secret edge on the Comanches wasn’t meant for his ears alone. The whole patrol was assembled.

  Sands looked at Jack with eyebrows arched. “What is this?”

  Jack’s head tilted to a small man dressed in a black suit and stovepipe hat at the center of the bunkhouse. “This gentleman’s got a new pistol. I want him to show ya’ll.”

  “Pistol? I’ve got two good pistols! What do I need with another pistol?” Sands answered incredulously.

  “Ah, sir, I can understand your doubt,” the man in black said in a surprisingly deep voice. He lifted a small case from the floor and placed it atop a table next to him. “But this is no ordinary pistol. Captain Hays, would you care to brief your men on this model?”

  Jack waved the man off. The ranger then turned to his men. “I do want ya’ll to listen up. This is important!” Jack’s voice commanded every head in the room to turn back to the man in the black suit. Sands muttered a disgruntled curse. Jack delayed his meeting with Marion for this—a traveling firearms salesman!

  “Gentlemen, as I mentioned, this is no ordinary pistol,” the man in the stovepipe began. His thumbs flicked open the wooden case’s flip catches. Opening the lid, he turned the case toward the rangers. “What I have here is revolutionary to the world of personal side arms—a six-shot revolving pistol. The red-velvet lined box looked like innumerable pistol cases. The weapon that lay nestled within did not. In fact, the pistol looked like nothing Sands had ever seen before. His skepticism grew as he stared at the pistol.

  The salesman lifted the pistol and broke it down into three parts. “Six shots can be loaded into the chambers of this revolving cylinder. I repeat, six shots. The advantage to carrying such a multiple-shot sidearm over single shot weapons is readily apparent. With one simple loading, a man can now carry the equivalent firepower of six pistols.” Sands still wasn’t impressed. Stovepipe should try breaking down his pistol on the back of a horse while fleeing a pack of howling Comanches, he thought. He could visualize those parts tumbling from jarred hands and scattering uselessly across the Texas plain.

  The history of man’s attempts to design a practical multi-shot pistol, or rifle, was as long as the history of firearms. The success was obvious. There simply wasn’t any success, or every man on the frontier would be carrying one tucked into his belt.

  “What kind of load does she take?” this came from Shorty Greene.

  “Thirty-four caliber,” the salesman replied while he awkwardly reassembled his revolving pistol.

  Sands snorted under his breath. It was too small, too light. A man needed a larger bore weapon when he was ranging. Even a Derringer carried a bigger kick than Stovepipe’s pop toy.

  “You fire it this simply.” Stovepipe eased back the pistol’s hammer with his thumb, pointed the unloaded weapon at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a click upon an empty chamber. Stovepipe smiled out at his captive audience. “We’ve named this model the ‘Texas’.”

  Sands’ attention was on the revolving pistol’s trigger mechanism. It was unguarded. That appeared a mite dangerous. Secondly, the trigger disappeared into the body of the pistol when it was squeezed.

  “Gentlemen, if you would care to take a closer look at this six-shot revolving pistol, I’ve arranged some practice targets outside,” Stovepipe continued.

  No one in the garrison made a move.

  “All of you had better take the gentleman up on his offer. I want ya’ll to get used to the feel of this pistol. You’ll be using them,” Jack Hays said. “I’ve placed an order for each of you. You’ll be expected to foot the bill from this month’s pay.”

  “What the hell!” Sands’ anger flared at the announcement.

  A man accepted to the rangers had to provide his own horse, saddle, pistol, and rifle as it was. But to be ordered to buy a new pistol—one a man wasn’t even certain he liked—was going too far.

  “Ain’t no hell about it. If any man here wants to continue riding with me, he’ll be traveling with one of these.” Jack’s voice tone was firm and cool, signifying he’d take no argument from any of his men. “Those who don’t like the idea can pack up and leave right now. I got no use for them.”

  Sands studied the small Tennessean’s face. There would be no argument, he could see that. He either dug into his pocket and paid the bill or he gathered his belongings and left for ...

  Where? Sands could find no answer. He had no family, no home, no trade. The ranging was all he knew. There was nowhere else to go.

  He reluctantly shrugged and turned to Stovepipe. “Guess I’d better take a look at that contraption.”

  With another wide grin, the salesman lifted the gun case and walked outside the bunkhouse. There he handed Sands the weapon and carefully instructed him on disassembling the pistol and loading its six chambers.

  The task was as awkward as it looked. It would be worse on horseback. Although Sands admitted that it wasn’t that easy loading his pistols or rifle while astride a running, or even a galloping horse.

  Hefting the weapon in his right hand, he lifted it, pointed at a newspaper target held to the side of a manure pile with rocks, and drew a bead on a small drawing near the center of the paper. His finger curled around the trigger and squeezed.

  The report was loud and the kick was what one expected from a small caliber weapon. And, of course, there was the cloud—a minor thunderhead of smoke that always accompanied a black powder explosion.

  Sands sidestepped the smoke and glanced at the paper. A smooth round hole lay dead center of the newspaper drawing. Sands nodded to himself, and shifted the revolving pistol to his left hand, and fired once again. When the smoke cleared, the single hole had grown larger by a fraction of an inch.

  “Superb marksmanship! Exceptional ...”

  Sands ignored Stovepipe’s adulation and turned the pistol over in his hand. It was light and ill-balanced. He examined the manufacturer’s name on the side of the pistol and shook his h
ead. Mr. Colt of Paterson, New Jersey had a long way to go before he developed a real pistol a man could use on the range.

  Had any man ordered him to buy the pistol except Jack Hays, he would have left that man flat on the ground with a bloody nose. But Hays was Hays, and there was no man Sands respected more, except for maybe Sam Houston.

  Handing the pistol to Shorty Greene, Sands dug into his money pouch. He turned to Hays. “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars,” the captain answered with a hint of a smile.

  Sands extracted a single gold coin from the pouch and dropped it into Jack’s waiting palm. “You’re damned lucky I’ve got credit at the Casa de Chavela. That’s the last penny I’ve got to my name.”

  “And you’re damned lucky I found these pistols,” Jack replied with no sympathy in his voice. “Only you don’t know it yet. In two weeks when the shipment arrives, you’ll see.”

  Sands grimaced and shook his head.

  “Didn’t you mention something about finding pasture for Mrs. Hammer’s stock?” Jack asked without disguising his disgust at Sands’ lack of faith.

  Sands nodded and started away as Shorty Green squeezed off a shot. The prospect of spending the afternoon with Marion Hammer was far more appealing than watching men test a weapon they had no interest in—a pistol Sands was certain would make John Coffee Hays look like a jackass to the rest of the ranging companies in the republic.

  The team horses tentatively plodded from the barn into the open pasture as though unaware the restraints of man had been removed. Sands watched their heads lift and dark eyes shift as they sized up the situation.

  It was a sleek-looking bay mare that first realized the new found freedom. With a snort and a kick of her heels, she tucked her head low and galloped off. An instant later, the remaining three followed.

  “Kind of makes you feel guilty about ever breaking them to harness, doesn’t it?” This from a short, mustached rancher to Marion’s left. “They always act like young colts when you set them loose.”