Texas Rifles (5 page)

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Authors: Elmer Kelton

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Barcroft shook his head. “The trip back will take care of itself. A man on his way home can always find the
strength to keep going a little longer. The hard part is this, the search.”
Cloud heard complaining as the captain pointed the scouts ahead after the noon rest. But looking back, he saw the captain silently ride out, his grim eyes fixed straight ahead. And the whole command followed him.
Cloud said, “I don't know how he can keep drivin' 'em on.”
Soto replied, “He don' drive them, my friend. He
leads
them.”
 
The smell of woodsmoke was the first sign. Cloud and Soto caught it at the same time, and they reined up to sniff the wind.
“There's water up yonder someplace,” Cloud said. “You notice how them buffalo trails been anglin' closer together all the time? They're pointin' in to water like wheel spokes point to the hub.”
Miguel nodded. “Water and smoke. And Comanches.”
Cloud squinted, but he could see nothing ahead except the continuing roll of the brown-grass hills. As the two men waited for the company to come up, their horses began to paw impatiently. They smelled water.
The captain had caught the scent by the time he reached the scouts. His shoulders had squared, and an eager light began to show in his eyes. He ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips. The solid grip of confidence was in his dusty face.
“Where there's a village, there's bound to be water,” he said.
Dourly, Cloud reminded him, “And there's bound to be Indians.”
The captain ignored Cloud's dislike of him. “I'll hold the men here out of sight, while you two go on and scout out the village. See how the camp is laid out. Try to estimate
how many Comanches there are. And Miguel …” The Mexican lifted his chin to listen. “Miguel, see if there are children.”
Cloud asked, “What if there's too many Indians for us, Captain? We've got awful close to water to turn back now.”
“Sometimes you just have to depend upon Providence.”
“Providence is all right,” Cloud responded dryly, “but I'd rather depend on somethin' I can see a little plainer.”
Together the two rode out while the Rifles dismounted to rest their horses and check their guns. Like the captain, the men showed a lift to their shoulders, a new vitality that had come from within. The smell of water had even perked up the horses a little.
Cloud and Soto rode into the wind, rifles balanced across their laps. Soto had the bow ready, too, the quiver slung across his shoulder Indian-style. They angled between the gently rolling hills the best they could, trying to avoid being skylined. An Indian could tell the look of a
Tejano
hat almost as far as he could see the rider.
The smoke smell became stronger. The two men passed between two hills and found a line of brush leading out through a summer-parched swale. Cloud nodded toward it, and they silently edged into the brush for cover. A horse nickered somewhere ahead. Cloud's horse almost answered, and Cloud had to drop quickly to the ground and stop him. He stood there a moment after it was all over, still gripping the animal's nose, his heart high in his throat. He looked up at the grinning Mexican and tried to say something, but it wasn't there. Cloud wiped the cold sweat from his face as the tension slowly ran out of him.
Soto swung down, the bow in his hand. He and Cloud led their horses through the brush, careful to make no noise. Finally they could see the village ahead. There were
twenty-five or thirty buffalo-skin tepees, strung out down a green-banked little creek fed by a spring somewhere above. The openings all faced east, away from the afternoon sun. Smoke curled from several outdoor fires, for in this hot weather the cooking was being done outside. Under a scattering of brush arbors, the bucks and most of the squaws loafed in the shade. Children played under the arbors and around the tepees. A few splashed in the creek.
“It's quiet down there,” Cloud observed. “Maybe too hot for them to stir much. Don't look like a very happy camp to me.”
“Those Indians we chase, they bring bad news. This is a waitin' camp. Here is where the raidin' bands, they split up to go south. Squaws and children, they mostly stay here. A few young squaws, they go to watch. Later on, the raiders meet here again. I think not all the bands have come back.”
“How many fightin' bucks you reckon is in that camp?”
Soto squinted as he gazed off in the direction of the pony herd, loose-held down the creek by a couple of young boys who loafed in the shade, their own horses cropping the green grass of the creekbank.
“Hard to say, except by the pony herd. Not too many for us, I think.”
Brush crackled behind them. They whirled, wide-eyed. They saw a Comanche warrior at the moment he saw them. Afoot, he had a bow and arrow and a string of three or four dead rabbits he was taking into camp. For just a moment he stared in surprise. Then he opened his mouth to shout.
Cloud brought up his six-shooter but realized suddenly he could not afford to shoot. He saw a blur of movement from Soto, then heard the slap of a bowstring, the solid plunk of Soto's arrow driving into the warrior's body.
Instead of the shout, there was only a groan. The Comanche sank to the grass and died.
Quickly Cloud looked back toward the village again, sweat breaking on his forehead. There had been little noise, and he doubted that it had carried to the camp. But you never knew … .
He saw no change in the village, no sign anyone had heard. Not even a dog barked.
Soto motioned for him to pull back. Cloud took one last wishful glance at the creek. “I'd give my eyeteeth for a drink of that cool water.”
“And your hair too?”
It took a while to get back to the company. Miguel briefly told the captain what they had seen. Cloud could see the men's faces light up as Soto told about the creek, about the racks of meat they had seen drying.
“Nocona band, you say?” the captain spoke. “And you saw women and children in the camp?” Cloud saw anxiety in the man's eyes.
“Sí, Capitán.”
Barcroft's hands trembled a little. He turned to the men who had gathered up close around him. “There's one order I want all of you to hear. I don't want any of those children hurt, do you understand? Not under any circumstances. If you have to pass up a shot at a warrior to keep from hitting a child, then pass it. And as we charge in, take every pain to keep from running a horse over a child. Is that understood?”
He turned back to the Mexican scout. “Now, then, let's draw a plan of that village here in the dirt.” Soto did, with help from Cloud, who otherwise had said nothing and offered nothing.
The captain nodded over the crude map. He glanced up at the sun. “We'll have to get on with it to be finished and out of here before dark. But it doesn't look too difficult,
so long as we can take them by surprise.”
He glanced up at Cloud. “You seem to be good at stampeding horses. I want you to take a couple of men and run off that horse herd. That's for diversion. Make plenty of noise. It'll draw the warriors out into the open. The rest of us will work around the other end and outflank the village. As you hit the herd and the bucks come running out, we'll ride in and make a fast, clean sweep straight down the line of tepees. A minute or two, that's all it should take. I want every warrior dead.”
He stood up and looked around him. “When that's done, we'll go back and circle the village. Chances are the women and children will scatter like quail. I want them rounded up and brought back in, all of them.”
Cloud stiffened. In a hostile voice he demanded, “What you aimin' to do, Captain, shoot all the squaws?”
Barcroft's eyes flamed. For a moment Cloud thought the captain was going to hit him. He wished the man would.
Crisply Barcroft said, “You were sent here under my command, Cloud; don't you forget that. What I did yesterday was out of necessity. I don't kill squaws unless I have to.”
“But you don't seem to mind doin' it.” He turned away from the captain. “Guffey, how about you comin' with me? Bring somebody you know.”
The three split away from the company and followed the route Cloud and Soto had reconnoitered. The last part of the way they made afoot, carefully working down into the brush overlooking the village. The horse herd was still where it had been, and the same two boys were watching it. But now the sun had lost some of its heat, and the boys were out in the open, sliding up and down on their gentle ponies' backs.
Cloud said, “We'll wait a spell, give the others time
enough to get ready. I'd hate to ride off in there and find out I was by myself.”
Guffey was hungrily eyeing a meat rack down in the camp. “I just hope some fool don't ride a horse into that rack and spill all the meat.”
Guffey had brought along a boy of seventeen or eighteen named Tommy Sides. The youngster was not old enough to have grown any whiskers of account during the days of march. He said, “Guffey, that there's Indian meat. Flies been all over it. You mean to tell me you'd actually eat that stuff?”
“Boy,” said Guffey, “if I was hungry enough, I'd eat the Indian hisself.”
The boy swallowed, wondering whether to believe it. Cloud smiled. The kid was green, but he had nerve. He was putting up a brave front even though he was light-skinned and suffered terribly from sunburn. There were some who said this Texas sun wasn't meant for a white man.
Finally Cloud said, “They ought to be ready by now.” He brought up his rifle. “Guffey, let's you and me shoot the horses out from under them two boys yonder. Ain't no sense in hurtin' the boys. Then we'll run the horses down the creek, away from camp and out of the hands of any bucks that might get through.”
He went to the end of his stake rope, as did Guffey. They leveled their rifles across tree limbs to hold them steady. “Now,” said Cloud. The rifles spoke together. The two horses fell. One boy was pinned down. The other scrambled away from his kicking pony. Quickly then, Cloud and Guffey ran back to their horses, coiling the ropes as they went. They swung up and spurred out after the herd.
T
HEY FIRED THEIR PISTOLS AND SQUALLED LOUDLY. The Indians' horses broke into a hard run down the creek. One of the herd boys was still trying to fight his way out from under his fallen pony. The other shouted angrily at Cloud. He stooped and picked up a rock, hurling it and striking Guffey's horse.
In the village, every dog was awake and barking. Men shouted. Squaws screamed. Cloud slowed and looked back over his shoulder. Comanche men came running out from under the arbors and from the tepees. A couple or three who carried rifles fired futilely at the
Tejano
horse thieves. Several braves came running afoot. Two had horses staked near their tepees. These swung up and struck out after the horse herd, short-bows in their hands.
“Guffey, Tommy, look out,” Cloud shouted. He stopped his horse and wheeled about as the first of the braves came riding. Cloud's rifle was empty, for he hadn't
taken time to reload. He fought his mount to a standstill, held up his left arm and steadied the pistol over it with his right. He fired and saw the Indian go down.
The kid was on the ground and running to the end of his stake rope, rifle in hand. He brought up the rifle just as the second Indian rider let loose an arrow. The arrow pierced the boy's arm and he went down with a cry of pain. Guffey turned around and stepped off his horse, grabbing up the boy's rifle. As the Indian brought down his bow for a second shot, Guffey fired. The Comanche's mount fell kicking. The arrow plunked harmlessly into the creek mud.
The Indian scrambled to his feet and grabbed up the bow. He pulled another arrow from the quiver and was fitting it to the bowstring when Cloud spurred back by him, pistol in hand. The pistol flashed. The Comanche fell.
By then, gunfire had erupted at the far end of the village. The Comanche warriors who pursued the horses afoot turned and faced the terror that came galloping at them, twenty shouting
Tejanos
with guns ablaze, sharp hoofs cutting deep into the foot-packed sod. Barcroft was in the lead, pistol spitting fire. Warrior after warrior fell beneath the savage hail of bullets.
On either side of the creek, women and children ran for the brush, screaming, crying for help. Some warriors followed suit, only to be cut down by a relentless wave of angry Texans.
Cloud saw Barcroft signal the men to swing about and circle the outside of the camp. Cloud then spurred out around the horse herd and began slowing it down. With Guffey's help he soon had the horses milling. Slowly the pair of them started the horses back toward the village.
Gunfire had stopped. The surprise had been complete. So had the victory.
As the horses came up even with the fallen kid, Cloud signaled Guffey to hold them up. Then he rode out to the boy and dismounted. Tommy Sides sat on the ground, face twisted in pain. He held the wounded arm, blood flowing out around the wooden shaft.
Cloud examined the stone arrowhead. “Went clean through.” He realized the boy knew it well enough without his saying it. With a sharp bowie knife Cloud whittled the shaft off well above the head.
“Now,” he said, “I'm goin' to pull it out. Yell, cuss, do anything, but just see that you hold still. It ain't goin' to be fun.”
He yanked, and the bloody shaft drew out. The kid gave a sharp cry of pain, then sobbed quietly. In a moment he managed to stop. “I'm sorry,” he choked. “I'm actin' like a baby.”
Cloud shook his head and gripped the boy's knee with a touch of pride. “When a man hurts, he's just naturally got to make a little noise. That takes the edge off of it. Grown men cry too, so you don't need to worry over that. Now the bleedin' ought to've washed that hole clean. We got to stop it before it drains the life out of you.”
He had nothing to wrap with except the handkerchief in his pocket. It was dirty, but he had to use it. He bound the wound tightly.
“Come on,” he said, “I'll take you in and see if somebody's got somethin' better to do the job with.” He turned back to Guffey. “Think you can hold them horses by yourself?”
Guffey nodded. “I've got 'em. You take care of the kid.”
Tommy paused, despite his pain, to pick up the arrowhead and the whittled-off shaft. Something to show his grandchildren someday, if he lived to have any.
In the village, Texans were rounding up the women and
children, moving them into the center of camp. From the far side of the creek, from out of the brush, they came herding the crying squaws and squalling children like so many cattle. One Indian boy five or six years old hit a trooper in the face with a rock. The trooper swung down and grabbed up the boy. He bent him over his uplifted knee and thrashed him as he would his own.
Passing the bodies of their fallen men, the squaws would drop to their knees and begin to cry out a painful chant. The Rifles would let them carry on a moment or two, then would make them get up and go on with the others.
Cloud rode up to the captain. “We got a hurt boy. Anybody here better than average at fixin' 'em up?”
Barcroft motioned with his chin. “Back yonder somewhere. Walt Johnson's a doctor of sorts. He's taking care of the wounded.”
Young Walt Johnson had his hands full. A Texan shot low in the chest lay dying on an Indian buffalo robe Johnson had spread out beneath a brush arbor. Other men with lesser wounds sat patiently waiting while Johnson gave his attention to the dying man.
Tommy Sides, pale from shock, said, “I'll make it, Mister Cloud. You don't have to worry about me no more.”
Cloud touched his shoulder. “Good boy.” He turned away.
By twos and threes, the men were moving up the creek to water their horses and drink a fill for themselves. One corner of the meat rack had gone down, just as Guffey had said, but most of the meat still hung above ground. The Texans were taking it. In some of the tepees they also found Indian pemmican tied up in gut casings.
Captain Barcroft looked over the group of women and children. There must have been fifty or sixty women, and even more children than that.
“Are you sure this is all of them?” he asked Elkin.
“All that've been found, Captain.”
The captain turned to Miguel Soto. “Tell them to form a line. I want to look over these children.”
Soto barked something in Comanche. The women were slow to comply, and he said it again, rougher this time. They strung out in a long line, clutching their children to them. Some of the women wailed as they stood there. A plaintive chant began.
“They think we shoot them,
Capitán
,” Soto explained.
Barcroft nodded grimly. “They know that's what would happen if we were Comanches and they were white women. That, or worse.” He stepped forward. “All right, Miguel, let's see these children.”
Cloud stared in wonder as Barcroft started at one end of the line, carefully looking over the children. Seeing Elkin nearby, Cloud edged up to him and said, “What's he up to?”
“Looking for captive children,” Elkin replied. “Any captives, but especially his own.”
“His own?” Cloud's mouth dropped open.
Elkin nodded. “About three years or so ago, it was. The Comanches captured the captain's wife and his three-year-old daughter. He found his wife later, up the trail. She was dead.” Elkin dropped his chin, staring at the ground. “He never did find his daughter. But he's still looking, Cloud, still looking.”
Cloud turned back toward the tall, grim man who slowly moved down the line, examining the children. Cloud let his own gaze streak swiftly ahead, at the rest of the line. There wasn't a fair-skinned child in the bunch. But the captain wasn't letting himself do it that way. He was looking the children over, one at a time. He probably already knew; his child was not here. But he wasn't admitting it to himself. He was slowly, painfully working
his way down this ragged line, avoiding as long as he could the admission that he was looking for something he would not find.
Cloud felt his throat tighten, and he turned away. This, then, was the torment he had seen in Aaron Barcroft.
“Miguel,” he heard the captain say, “this girl doesn't look Comanche. I think she's Mexican.”
Cloud faced back to see. Stark fear lay in the black eyes of a girl seven or eight years old. A squaw had a tight grip on her arm. Miguel touched the squaw's hand and spoke sharply. The squaw loosened her hold, and the girl suddenly ran forward, throwing her arms around the captain's legs. She began to sob out something in Spanish.
Barcroft leaned down and touched his hand to her hair and looked to Miguel. Miguel listened to the girl cry out her story. Finally he said, “She is captive,
Capitán,
many months. She begs for us to take her home.”
“Where is her home?”
“Mexican settlement west of San Antonio. The Comanches they take her last spring.”
What Cloud saw then made him shake his head in.disbelief. A tear worked a thin trail down the captain's dusty cheek. Barcroft's voice went soft. “Tell her we'll get her home.”
The captain didn't finish looking at the children. He seemed to know he wouldn't find what he had been searching for. He stood with his eyes closed, his hands gentle on the shoulders of the little Mexican girl.
Cloud turned and walked away, wondering how he could so misjudge a man.
Later, when the men had eaten and filled their canteens and drunk all the water they wanted, the captain said, “We'll catch fresh horses and take that herd back with us. But first, search out all these tepees. Anything that can be used for a weapon, bring it and pile it up here.”
In short time there was a small pile of lances, bows and arrows. What rifles and other firearms the men found, they kept for their own use.
Miguel brought out a hide bag of poor gunpowder he had found in a tepee. He poured this over the pile. The captain said, “Is that all?” No one had anything else to add, so he said, “Burn it.”
Miguel fired his pistol into the powder and set it ablaze.
As the flames licked up into the pile of weapons, the captain turned to Elkin. “Originally I had thought we'd burn all the tepees and make it a clean sweep. But with all their men dead, I suppose we can afford a little mercy for these women and children.”
“Maybe it will teach them to have a little themselves,” Elkin commented.
“Never,” Barcroft gritted. He moved away from the fire and walked toward the arbor where Johnson had been taking care of the wounded. Hesitantly, Cloud followed after him.
“How're they doing, Johnson?” Barcroft asked.
The young medic replied, “Rough in spots, but I suppose they'll be able to travel. All except one. He just died.”
Barcroft nodded grimly. Then he looked at Tommy Sides as he said, “It won't be easy, but a man can take a lot when he's riding in the direction of home.”
Pale, his eyes sick with shock, the kid managed a weak smile. “Yes, sir, I'll make it.”
“Sure you will. You've made a good soldier, son.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy whispered.
As Barcroft turned away, Cloud said uncertainly, “Captain, I'd kind of like to have a word with you.” He motioned with his chin. “Over here someplace.”
The stiff reserve was still in Barcroft's eyes as he looked at Cloud. But he said, “I suppose so. Why not?”
They walked together out away from the tepees. Barcroft found a place on the green grass of the creekbank and sat down. Cloud squatted on his heels. He fumbled a little, hunting for the words.
“You see, sir, well … I sort of got started on the wrong foot, so to speak. I think maybe you got an apology comin'. What I mean to say is, I said some hard things. I thought some things even harder than what I said, after what happened about that squaw. I sort of got the notion you had a big chunk of lead instead of a heart … or somethin' like that.
“I didn't know about your wife and your little girl then. Man goes through a thing like that, he sees things different from other folks, I guess.”
Barcroft didn't look at Cloud. A vague wall still stood between them. Cloud guessed it always would.
“Cloud, killing that squaw was a thing somebody had to do, and I did it. I took no pleasure in it. But I've not let it haunt me, either. What
does
haunt me is the way my wife looked when I found her. It wasn't the bucks who finally killed her. They turned her over to the squaws. It was a terrible death.”
Barcroft rubbed his face, and Cloud could see the bone-weariness that had settled over the man. Barcroft said, “They're still women, and I try to avoid killing them when I can. But if I have to do it, I don't back away. When I look at a Comanche—man or woman—I can still see my wife the way she was that day.”
Cloud pulled his gaze away from the captain's face. “What about the little girl? Have you ever found any trace of her?”

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