[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (5 page)

The number had increased; that was evident. "There are still far more of us than of them."

Feared by His Enemies held up three fingers. "It has been three days, and they have not given up."

"They will, or we will destroy them when we get back into our own country."

Before camping that night, Buffalo Caller noted where Antelope located himself and found a place far away for Whippoorwill and the red-haired boy.

The next morning was the fourth since they had chased the boats into the big water. The column had been traveling on gradually rising ground. The air was drier and less oppressive than at the coast, though the summer sun began spreading its heat soon after its rising. He could not yet see them, but Buffalo Caller could visualize the limestone hills not far ahead. Soon The People would be back in their own environment. The raid had been more than satisfactory, especially in terms of the wealth they had taken, but it would be good to breathe the familiar air of home.

The unexpected approach of four Texan horsemen seemed more an affront than a threat. Surely they would turn back when they saw the full strength of the Comanche force. But they did not. Antelope gave a shout and led several rear-guard warriors in a charge. One of the Texans fired, and a warrior fell. The charge broke up in the face of unexpectedly fierce gunfire. The warriors turned back, rejoining the rest of the rear guard.

The Texans kept coming.

From a flank, a second group of Texans broke out of a fringe of live-oak timber and quickly halted, seeming surprised by the number of Indians they faced. They turned back into the trees. This time Buffalo Caller joined other warriors in pursuit. Yelling for blood, they charged into the timber. The Texans retreated, though one somehow lost his horse and ran after his companions afoot. In their haste to get away they appeared unaware of his predicament.

He turned with terror in his eyes to meet death as the warriors rode him down. They celebrated over his scalp, but the celebration was short-lived. Gunfire erupted farther ahead. A larger Texan force plunged into the exposed flank of the main column. Buffalo Caller heard shooting, loud shouting, cries of dismay.

The herd panicked, breaking into a wild stampede. Thousands of hooves drummed against the prairie sod. Some of the pack animals lost their loads, the contents bouncing as they struck the ground. Long bolts of colored cloth came unfolded, dragging along behind them in the dust and the grass.

Unbelievable! There could not possibly be that many Texans. Buffalo Caller looked around with wide eyes, confusion giving way to fear. His wife and the red-haired boy were up there where the Texans were on the attack.

It was his place to stand his ground and fight, but he could not. He had to see to Whippoorwill's safety, and the boy's. He put his horse into a hard run, passing the rear-guard warriors, flinging an arrow at a Texan who popped up ahead of him. He missed and had no time for a second try.

Though the whites had trailed for four days, their sudden hold attack had taken the column by surprise. Some warriors were trying without success to stop the stampede of the loose horses and mules. Very quickly they had to give up that attempt and fight for their own survival against the yelling, fighting
teibos
who seemed now to be everywhere.

Just ahead, the women and children were fleeing, surrounded by a thin guard of warriors. Some were already falling behind and being swallowed up by the rapidly advancing Texans.

The Comanches' supreme confidence seemed to have evaporated. They were caught up now in a wild rout, no longer an organized force but a thousand individuals running for their lives.

Antelope appeared like a vengeful specter out of the choking dust. His stovepipe hat was gone, his face twisted in fury. "I told you!" he shouted. "That red-hair has brought this calamity down on us."

His intention was clear. "No!" Buffalo Caller protested. He fitted an arrow to the bowstring. He could not kill Antelope. For one Comanche to kill another was unthinkable. But he could kill Antelope's horse.

He heard the thud of a bullet. His own horse faltered, missed a stride, then went down. Buffalo Caller rolled away from him in the dry grass. He pushed to his feet, the dust burning his eyes, choking him. He felt around desperately for the fallen bow and found it. He looked up but saw Antelope nowhere. The warrior had disappeared in the brown cloud raised by all those pounding hooves.

He tried to catch a riderless horse but was bumped hard and flung aside, falling to his knees. Another loose horse leaped over him, a sharp hoof striking his head. Buffalo Caller fell on his face, stunned, spitting out dirt and dry grass. He tried to push to his feet but could not. His scalp burned like fire.

He heard a shout and saw a Texan bearing down upon him, a pistol extended at arm's length. Buffalo Caller tried to roll out of the way. He saw the flash and felt the hard shock as a bullet drove into his ribs.

A blanket of darkness descended over him, but not before he gave way to despair. He was powerless to save the red-haired boy from Antelope's vengeance.

* * *

Warren Webb could only guess at the number of volunteers and ranging companies who had gathered to challenge the Comanche invaders, but he feared they were not enough. The new Republic of Texas had little in its national treasury except hope, and it could ill afford to pay the number of rangers it needed to patrol its broad frontier. Webb and Michael Shannon had once answered a call to enlist in a minuteman company during an Indian scare but had never received the promised wage. Even those officially enlisted as full-time members of ranging companies were sometimes obliged to pay their own way. They had little advantage over civilian volunteers except their official-sounding titles.

Webb had never been this far inland, so the country was new to him. The word had been spread that all available Texas forces-organized ranging companies as well as volunteers-would gather at Plum Creek, which lay ahead. There, win or lose, they would stage the confrontation before the Indians could reach their hill-country sanctuaries.

Shortly after dawn, scouts had come into camp to report the Indians were just a few miles away. Webb and Shannon had attached themselves to a group of volunteers headed by Captain Matthew Caldwell, known as "Old Paint" for the white splotches in his beard. Caldwell gathered his company around him and made a rousing speech. They knew him as a battle-seasoned veteran of the revolution against Mexico, a man always cocked and primed for a fight.

"Boys," he declared, "there are a thousand Indians. They have our women and children captives. But we are eighty-seven strong, and I believe we can whip hell out of them!"

An approving murmur arose from the men.

Caldwell shouted, "What shall we do, boys? Shall we fight?"

Loud cheers gave him the answer.

A biblical phrase came to Webb's mind:
the faith of the mustard seed
. He thought it more likely that the Texans would be the ones who got hell whipped out of them, but the infectious enthusiasm among the settler congregation convinced him that to voice a contrary opinion would be to cry out in the wilderness, a voice lost in the wind.

Mike Shannon said, "Better cinch your saddle up tight, Preacher. We're fixin' to have ourselves a run, 'y God."

But in which direction?
Webb wondered. He took some comfort in the knowledge that Caldwell's eighty-seven were only part of the force converging for the fight. It had been reported that Colonel Ed Burleson was on his way up from the Colorado with a large company including Chief Placido and several "Ionkawa Indians, blood enemies of the Comanche. But even so, the invaders would still be greatly superior in number.

Though most of the men favored Caldwell, Old Paint acceded command to Felix Huston, a major general of the Texas army. Under Huston's orders the Texans moved into concealment to await Burleson's arrival. The Indians appeared first, a long, thin column stretching for several miles across the prairie, people and animals moving in and out of the dust like spectral figures, seen a moment, then disappearing.

Shannon said, "They have to know we're somewhere about because they've been trailed the whole way. Talk about arrogant ... they must figure they can swat us away like so many horseflies."

Maybe they can
, Webb thought. But he began to take hope. It occurred to him that the Comanches did not seem to know much about large-scale military tactics. They should realize their strung-out column was vulnerable to being flanked, cut, and diced into sections. They must regard themselves as invulnerable because of their number.

Pride goeth before a fall.

He tried to make a rough count of the horses and mules but found it impossible. There might have been two thousand, even three. A considerable number carried plunder the Comanches had acquired in Victoria and Linnville.

Burleson arrived with his men. What caught Webb's attention most was the contingent of Onkawas, all afoot and stripped to no more than breechcloths and moccasins, their bodies painted for war. They wore white cloths tied on their arms so the'Icxans would not mistake them for Comanches in the excitement of battle. Most did not know one Indian from another.

Distant firing indicated that the fight had opened, though Webb could not see the action and had no idea which way the contest might be going. A contingent of Comanches charged upon Webb's group, yelling, firing what rifles they had, loosing arrows that made a peculiar singing sound as they flew. Their initial strategy was clear: to pin down the Texans while the main body escaped with the women and children, the booty-laden horses and mules.

Webb had never seen a more splendid spectacle, savage though it was. One Indian cast aside an umbrella he had carried to shade himself from the sun. He came in a run, waving a war club. On his head was a beaver hat with red ribbon tied around the crown. A ribbon of the same color streamed from his horse's tail. Webb found himself so fascinated, watching, that he did not take aim. The Indian was within twenty yards when someone's rifle brought him down. The beaver hat rolled on the ground. The Indian reached for it, but the wind carried it away. His fingers clawed the ground, and he died.

Shannon shouted, "If you ain't goin' to use that rifle, give it to me."

"I'll tote my load." Webb bore down on a warrior who wore antelope-horn headdress. Hit, the Indian twisted and laid forward on his horse's neck but managed to hold on as the horse galloped away from the fight.

Webb lost sight of the overall battle, for he was concentrating upon his own small part of it. He could hear firing all around him, the exuberant yelling of the Texans sensing victory, the war cries of the Comanches. The Tonkawas, though on foot, charged into the fray with a fury like hell unleashed, slashing, clubbing, scalping their enemies while they still breathed. It was enough to turn Webb's stomach had he not been too busy to let the horror of it soak in.

Soon the confrontation was less a battle than a runaway. Unaccountably, the Comanches seemed to have been caught off balance and unprepared. Any semblance of unity was lost. The big
caballada
of horses and mules was scattering to the winds, many losing their packs, littering the open prairie with all manner of white-man store goods.

Comanches, dead and dying, lay along the trail. Webb had to spur to keep up with the race.

Ahead of him he saw an Indian woman on a sorrel mare, holding a small boy in front of her. A Comanche warrior rushed to overtake her. A husband bound on protecting wife and child, Webb thought. He brought his rifle up, though it was next to useless from the back of a running horse. He felt a pang of conscience for having even considered leaving woman and child without a husband and father.

He realized suddenly that the man was swinging a war club, and the woman was trying to avoid him. She leaned over the boy, holding her arm out to deflect the blow. He heard her scream.

Webb could not believe what he saw. The man was trying to kill the youngster.

The mare stumbled, pitching woman and child out into the grass. The warrior's speed carried him past them. He wheeled his horse about and started back. She screamed again, trying to shield the boy with her body. She brought up a knife, brandishing it at the man.

Webb had no time to consider options. He drove his horse forward to intercept the warrior, who seemed so intent on the boy that he did not see the larger enemy until it was too late. The Comanche's eyes met Webb's, and he raised the club.

Momentum slammed the two horses together. Webb felt himself catapulted out of the saddle. He rolled in the dry grass and grabbed frantically at the rifle. He brought it up and pulled the trigger, but impact had spilled powder from the pan.

The Indian had managed to stay on his horse. He reined it around and came hack, holding the club high. Webb instinctively raised the rifle, trying to let it take the blow. The club came down hard against his left arm. A sharp stab of pain told him the bone was broken.

Mike Shannon appeared suddenly, coming up behind the Comanche. Wild-eyed and shouting, he jammed the muzzle of his rifle against the painted body and fired. Blood spurted from the Indian's stomach as the bullet tore through him and exited. He tumbled from his horse and writhed on the ground, pressing his hands against a huge hole that gushed red. He struggled, then lapsed into a quiet quivering as life drained away.

Broken arm throbbing, Webb turned quickly to look for the woman. He saw her on hands and knees, gasping for breath lost in the fall. The knife lay on the ground beside her right hand. The boy stood beside her, bewildered.

Only then did Webb notice that the child's hair was red, his frightened eyes blue. He wore the homespun clothing typical in poor farm families. A white captive, Webb realized, probably taken in Victoria or Linnville. He looked as if he might be two years old, perhaps three.

"Come to me, lad," Webb said.

The boy hesitated. The Indian woman cried something and reached toward him. Webb knew Comanches often killed their captives when they were under pressure, so he kicked the knife away. He placed himself between the child and the woman, lifted the boy with his right arm and turned to catch his horse. The youngster clung tightly to his neck.