Home of the Brave (18 page)

June 14, 1829

Washington, District of
Columbia

“Coming,” Marina shouted, as
she groped in the dark for her robe. She got one arm in the robe
then shook it back off to light a candle as the insistent knock
repeated. “I said I’m coming.” Carrying the candle from the bedroom
through the parlor, she stopped at the front door. “Who is
it?”

“Peggy.”

“Peggy?” Marina fumbled with
the lock and finally managed to open the door. “What’s the
matter?”

Peggy pushed Marina aside
and came in, closing the door behind her.

“What’s the matter?” Marina
repeated.

Peggy shook her
head.

“Why are you crying? What’s
happened?”

“I’m not crying,” Peggy
gasped. “I’m laughing.” She wiped tears from her cheeks.

Marina turned away and began
lighting lamps. “You’ve finally lost your mind.”

Peggy plopped a newspaper on
the coffee table. “Senator Carver was arrested last night for
obscene and lascivious behavior.”

“What time is it?” Marina
sat on the couch and pulled her bare feet up under her
nightgown.

“Nearly seven.” Peggy sat
down next to Marina and picked up the paper. “The police responded
to a complaint about a woman screaming at the Foster Hotel. When
they broke in, they found a naked girl tied to the bed and Senator
James Carver with a whip in his hand standing over her. Except for
a mask, he was equally naked.” She giggled.

Marina yawned. “Seven is
much too early. Why are you out and about at such an ungodly
hour?”

“I’m a politician’s wife. I
read the papers every morning as soon as they’re delivered.” Peggy
waved the newspaper. “You did this?”

“I did what?”

“Ruined Carver.”

“I did no such
thing.”

Peggy tried to read her
face. “Honestly?”

“What do I know about whips
and such things?”

“So this is just a big
coincidence?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe
you.”

“I’m going back to bed. Make
yourself at home.”

August 9, 1829

Hueco Village, Coahuila,
Mexican Province of Tejas

At the bend where the Brazos
turned abruptly west, the terrain flattened and the river spread
wider. The flood plain, heavily wooded with live oak and cedar,
soon gave way to cliffs that once again captured the river in a
narrower flow.

The Hueco village, which
consisted of about sixty very large thatched, conical huts and as
many lean-to type buildings, was located on the plateau with a
narrow ravine as its only apparent entrance.

“Does anyone speak English
here?” Thomas asked.

The tattooed,
hostile-looking men that were arrayed to block his entry to the
village were silent.

“Spanish? Does anyone speak
Spanish?”

This generated some
discussion until one of the men trotted back toward the
village.

Thomas was alone on the path
but the vaqueros and Jane had spread out through the cedar trees on
both sides of the path, several yards behind him. Jane showed
herself, which caused some movement and discussion among the
warriors. She had a rifle in her hands but was holding it across
her body in a non-threatening manner. “Okay?” she
shouted.

“Yes,” Thomas called
back.

“Are their bows
strung?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going
on?”

“I think they’re sending for
someone that speaks Spanish.”

“Try to hire
him.”

“I will.”

“Offer one pouch and then
wait while they debate,” she shouted. “If you bargain badly they’ll
lose respect for you and we’ll have to fight.”

“You already told me that,”
he called back, trying to watch the warriors. “Stop talking. You’re
making them nervous.”

She stepped back into the
darkness of the cedars.

Thomas met the steady gazes
of the small, squat men in front of him until, at last, the
messenger returned with a tall woman who had none of the facial
tattoos or physical appearance of the Indians. She moved to the
front of the group to stand beside an older man who spoke to her
briefly. “The People want to know what you are doing here,” she
said in strangely accented Spanish.

“We are looking for the
Texas Rangers,” Thomas replied.

The woman translated to the
older man then listened for a moment. “The People do not want you
here.”

“We do not want to be
trouble to the people here. We only want to find the Texas
Rangers.”

She spoke again to the older
man, listened then nodded. “You must leave now.”

“I have nearly a hundred men
with firearms in the trees behind me,” he lied. “Each man is aiming
at one of these warriors. Tell your chief that if he wants war, we
will kill every man, woman and child and then we will burn the
village.”

She translated and waited as
a heated discussion erupted and a decision was reached. “Two of
those you seek crossed at the ford and went toward the sunset.” She
pointed west.

“We are also looking for an
interpreter,” Thomas said.

She didn’t translate that.
“I am a captive here. If you buy me, I will be glad to go with
you.”

Thomas took a wampum pouch
from his belt and pitched it underhand up the hill. “See if that
will be enough.”

She explained what had been
said then walked forward, retrieved the pouch and knelt in front of
the line of warriors to pour the beads out onto the
dirt.

The conversation that ensued
among the Indians soon developed into an argument between several
factions that went on and on.

“Jane?” Thomas shouted,
finally losing patience after several minutes.

“Yes,” she answered from the
trees.

“Pass the word for every
second man to show himself. The rest are to shake the bushes on
each side of them.”

“My Spanish isn’t good
enough to say all that.”

Thomas repeated what he’d
told her loudly in Spanish and a moment later the Hueco warriors,
who were dividing their attention between the wampum, the argument
and the tree line, saw the armed vaqueros and reacted in
alarm.

“Tell him that you are going
with us,” Thomas shouted to the interpreter in Spanish. “He can
have the pouch in exchange, but there will be no more
talk.”

She translated but the older
man growled a reply then shouted something that resulted in the
warriors fitting arrows to their bow strings.

Thomas raised his arm over
his head. “Prepare to fire!”

He was answered by the
rattle of muskets or rifles being cocked and raised to a firing
position.

The leader of the Indians
spoke again and the warriors lowered their bows.

“I am to gather my
possessions and go with you,” the interpreter said.

“I will wait for you at the
bottom of the trail,” Thomas replied. He walked as casually as he
could, back down the hill. As he reached Jane, the Indians in the
village began to shout and whoop. “I wonder what that’s about.”
Thomas mounted his horse.

A vaquero rode down from the
high ground on the left. “They killed that woman,
Patron.”

“What woman? The
interpreter?”

“Yes, Patron. They beat her
to death with war clubs.”

“Let’s move out,” Thomas
said. “We’ll cross at the ford. I want some distance between us and
this village by nightfall.”

“We have enough men and guns
to kill them all and burn the village, Patron,” the vaquero
suggested.

Thomas shook his head. “If
they had killed one of ours, that is exactly what I would do, but
by killing that woman, they only cheated us out of a pouch of
wampum. It is not worth the bullets, the time or the risk. Let us
get back to the others.”

August 29, 1829

Comanche Territory,
Coahuila, Mexican Province of Tejas

“Señor Tomas,” the vaquero
said breathlessly. “Comanches,” He pointed over a hill to their
right.

“How many?” Thomas
asked.

“Twenty, maybe.”

“Are they coming this
way?”

“No, Patron. They are
attacking someone.”

“I’ll go to the top of the
ridge and take a look,” Thomas said to Jane. “Send me every man
with a rifle. You stay with the herd.”

“Okay,” she
replied.

Thomas kicked his horse into
a run and reined him in at the crest of the hill. Below, in a
narrow valley, a large band of Comanches was riding in a circle
around one man who was pinned down between his dead horse and his
saddle. Thomas quickly pulled his rifle from the scabbard, aimed
carefully to avoid hitting the downed rider, fired and began to
reload. When he looked up one riderless horse was still circling
and the rest of Indians were racing angrily toward him.

Thomas looked back over his
shoulder, saw that at least ten of the vaqueros were headed his
way, and then aimed his rifle and shot the Indian that was leading
the charge. By the time Thomas was reloaded, the vaqueros were
beside him and firing at the approaching Indians. When the third
and fourth Comanches fell, the band suddenly veered to the left and
raced toward the trees. The vaqueros took two more before the
Indians reached cover.

“Stay here and cover me,”
Thomas said. Then he started his horse down into the valley. As he
drew closer to the dead horse, a man stood up and raised his
hand.

“Howdy do?”

“Fine thank you,” Thomas
said. “How are you?”

“Right as a spring rain.”
The man had an arrow through his left bicep.

Thomas dismounted and led
his horse closer. “You must be one of the Texas Rangers we’ve been
looking for.”

“Captain Josiah Whipple.”
The man offered his bloody right hand.

“Thomas Van Buskirk.” He
shook the Ranger’s hand. “Can you get onto my horse with that
arm?”

“The arm won’t bother me
much for a while. I’d be obliged if your men could catch me one of
them Comanche ponies.” He had a wrinkled face, darkly tanned by the
sun and hair so blond that it was nearly white.

“We have a string of
saddle-broken horses with our cattle.” Thomas pointed up to the
ridge. “I’ll send someone to fetch your gear while we see about
taking that arrow out of your arm.”

“Okay. Get on up on your
horse and gimme a stirrup. I’ll swing up behind you.”

Thomas mounted and then took
his foot out of the stirrup. “Tennessee Militia?”

Whipple mounted with a
grunt. “Marines. I hail from Kentucky but I served with General
Jackson and your Pa at New Orleans. How’s he doin’?”

“My father?” Thomas turned
the horse toward the vaqueros. “He was fine when I left him in New
Jersey.”

Whipple pointed. “I think
that’s my hat, yonder. Could you ride that way so as I can pick it
up?”

~

“Why are you out here all
alone?” Jane asked, as she bandaged Captain Whipple’s
arm.

“I wasn’t alone when I left
the company, but the scout that was with me run off.”

“One scout hardly makes a
difference,” she observed.

“We was lookin’ for that
band of Comanches so me and the scout rode up to the Waco village
to ask them if they knew where they was. I was plannin’ to rejoin
the company when I got jumped.”

“How many in your
company?”

“Another officer, eighteen
rangers and five scouts.”

Thomas walked up to join
them. “How is your patient?” he asked Jane.

“I think the arrow shaft
came out cleanly,” she said.

“Your lady damn near killed
me,” Whipple complained. “Poured whiskey on the danged arrow before
she pulled it through.”

“Jane thinks that whiskey
minimizes infection,” Thomas said.

“Sure burns like fire,”
Whipple replied. “Did ya say you was out here lookin’ fer
me?”

“Yes, my wife shot a vaquero
who was threatening us with a rifle and she wanted to report it to
you.”

“Do you know his name and
where he was from?”

“Yes,” Jane said.

“Okay. I’ll file a report
with Colonel Austin when I see him.”

“Did you hear that?” Jane
said to Thomas. “He said ‘okay’.”

“Captain Whipple served with
General Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans,” Thomas
replied.

“How comes you to be up here
on the Nashville Grant in the first place?” Whipple
asked.

“It’s not the Nashville
Grant any more,” Thomas said. “I’m surveying it for Mr. Austin and
we’re gathering a herd for our ranch in the process.”