The blast echoed loudly in the slow-motion silence, as the huge Comanche warrior moved toward her. He stopped, mouth open in surprise, and the wildness left his eyes as he looked down at his chest. A hole was pretty much where his heart had been. As he dropped to his knees, the other two bolted for their horses and were gone in a swirl of dust.
Elisa didn’t have it in her to fire another shot. She didn’t need to. The big Comanche had fallen face first in the dust not six feet from her. She snapped out of her momentary trance, ran past the dying savage, knelt in the dust, and cradled Sam’s bloodied head. “Daddy! Daddy!” She stroked his face, wiping away the tears that fell on his cheeks, but it was too late. He was gone.
Minutes passed. She sobbed silently as she gently laid her father’s head on the cold, hard earth and looked around. The silence was deafening. She became aware that she was alone. Not just physically alone, but truly alone. No mother, no father, her brothers…all gone.
She wiped away her tears. Grief would have to wait. She fetched the shovel from the barn and took what seemed a forever journey to the shade of the live oak motte. She began to dig next to her mother’s grave. A groan stopped her. She looked back in the direction of the cabin.
Her brother’s hand raised weakly and then dropped. He groaned again.
“Mike?” she screamed. “Mike!”
She rushed to her brother’s side. The arrow through his ribs had broken off. He was in excruciating pain but alive. And he was breathing. Her father and brother Rob would simply have to wait for burial. She glanced at them still lying in the dust where they had fallen, but there was no time to waste on the dead.
She mustered her strength, carried little Mike to the old wagon, and hitched the mules. She prayed she’d make it to town in time…and that the two Comanche were long gone. In moments, she had the rig barreling down the trail and covering the five miles to Nuecestown as fast as the two mules could gallop.
Elisa drove the wagon around the turn into what little there was of the town, rocks and dust kicking up in her wake. She yelled as loud as she could. “Doc! Doc Andrews!”
The rheumy old man was awakened from his nap by Elisa’s shouts. “What the hell?” He roused from his drunken stupor, almost fell from his chair, but managed to stagger to the door.
Elisa had brought the rig to a halt in front of Doc’s house. The mules were sucking air and sweating. “Doc! My brother! Indians!”
By this time, a couple of local ladies had heard the commotion and rushed to her aid. Bernice and Agatha were lovely ladies with good hearts, well past their primes.
“Gently, lift him gently,” Bernice coached. They carried Mike into Doc’s parlor and placed him on a table that had been swiftly cleared of whiskey bottles and old cigars.
“Get me some hot water,” mumbled Doc, sort of half-choking on the words. He craved a swig of whiskey to soothe his throat.
“You say hot?” Bernice had a bit of a hearing problem.
“Water, dammit. Just fetch some!”
Meanwhile, Elisa stripped Mike’s torn and bloodied shirt from his body. He’d finally passed out from pain and loss of blood…and the wagon ride.
“Lucky. He’s lucky.”
Elisa wondered at what Doc was talking about. “Lucky?” she repeated softly.
“It’s more a flesh wound, darlin’. Arrow passed clean through. Hold your brother still.” He slowly and gently as possible pulled the arrow out. Mike awakened, went involuntarily stiff with pain, and then relaxed as he passed out again. “I’d be a tad more concerned with the bump on the back of his head. I think one of the attackers must have clobbered him.”
“Will he be okay?”
“I expect so. Aggie, Bernice, help me bandage this brave young man’s wound.” He turned to face Elisa. “What happened?”
“I was down at the creek doing the washing and came up the trail to see my father being scalped and Rob and Mike lying in the dust. I was lucky to be carrying a pistol like my father always said to, and I shot one of the Indians as he came toward me. There were two others, but they ran off when I shot the big one. I’m thinking they looked like what I’ve heard Comanche to look. Black paint on their faces and all.” She blurted this all out, and then collapsed suddenly in the chair next to the table. She held her hands to her face. “What am I gonna do? I need to bury Papa and Robbie. How am I going to run the farm?”
Bernice suddenly found her crystal-clear hearing. “You can stay here, sweetie.” She looked at Agatha, who smiled patronizingly. She’d become set in her ways and resented changes to her life routine. Bernice continued. “At least for a few days until you can decide what you might like to do.”
“Little Mike here’s going to be okay, Elisa. We’ll let him sleep.” Doc smiled sympathetically. “Let’s get the preacher from up the road and a couple of boys to get you back to your spread and take care of burying your loved ones. I’m sorry I can’t help more.”
There was a bit of a stir of a sudden out front of Doc’s house. A horseman had pulled up alongside the wagon. He dismounted slowly, as if in pain, draped the reins over the hitching rail, and climbed the stairs to Doc’s door.
***
Before the man could knock, Doc had the door open. “Can I help…Luke? Luke Dunn…what brings…” He looked at the hand wrapped in a bloody shirt, and then looked up. “Least it wasn’t Comanche. Looks like you still have your hair.”
Luke followed him inside. He wasn’t laughing.
Mike had been moved to the room adjoining the parlor so, except for a little blood, the table was clear. “Grab a seat on the table, Luke, and get that shirt off.”
As Luke stripped off his shirt, he noticed Elisa seated in the corner of the parlor. It was too late for any modesty, false or otherwise.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He tugged at his hat. Through everything, his hat had never left his head.
“Elisa, this here’s Luke Dunn. He’s a Texas Ranger captain of some repute. I expect your father might have heard of him. Luke, this here’s Elisa Corrigan. Her family was attacked and her father and brother killed just hours ago by Comanche.”
She wanted to avert her eyes but couldn’t help taking in this tall stranger with the broad shoulders and rippling muscles. Guilt edged its way into her consciousness as she found herself conflicted between grief over the loss of family and feelings of arousal over this handsome man. In Elisa’s thinking, the boys of Nuecestown could never hope to measure up to Luke Dunn, this real man. In spite of all she’d been through, she felt reflexive fluttering in her chest that transcended her loss. She’d never felt those sorts of deep stirrings before.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Miss Corrigan.” The deepness of his voice and heartfelt honesty of his simple words served to deepen her attraction to him.
Doc caught the dynamic at play and found himself breaking whatever spell had been cast. “Let me see to Mr. Dunn’s wounds, and then we’ll go out to your place, Elisa. Do y’all need a casket?” He turned back to Luke’s hand. “How’d this happen, Luke?”
“The guy I was chasin’ nicked me, Doc,” Luke told him. “Blew through my cup and shattered it.”
“You got lucky,” Doc said. “Scraped a bit of bone, but your tin coffee cup did more damage than the bullet. I’d guess it was from a long rifle.”
Elisa wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation. “Can’t afford a casket, Doc, much less two.”
Luke’s ears perked at Doc’s question to Elisa and her answer. “I’m sorry, miss. Have you lost someone?” In his own pain, he hadn’t heard Doc’s explanation of the Comanche attack.
“Comanche, sir. Me and my little brother Mike are the only survivors. I need to go back and bury my papa and my brother Robbie.”
Luke was typically of a quiet disposition, but something about this young girl and her distress drew upon an inner vulnerability. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He winced as Doc finished cleaning his wounds and started stitching. “How’d you escape?�
�
“I shot one.”
“That’s usually all it takes,” Luke said, “especially with a small war party. Did they take their dead brother?”
“No. They left fast.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I’d better go back to your place with Doc here. They don’t like to leave their dead behind.”
“I’d be much beholden, Mr. Dunn.”
“You can call me Luke, Miss Elisa. I’m Mr. Dunn to lawbreakers and fellow Rangers.” He looked her over, as though he were noticing her for the first time. “You’re young.”
“I’m sixteen, Mr. Du…I mean Luke.”
Doc patted Luke on the shoulder. “We’re finished here, Luke. Try to keep the wounds clean and change the dressing daily, if you can. I know you’ll be back to your work right quickly, so I won’t bother telling you to give it a rest. Once the cuts have healed, ball up a bandana and squeeze it regular-like so your flexibility and strength come back. You’ll be back to new in a couple of weeks.”
He turned to Elisa. “We’ll let Mike sleep. Bernice and Agatha can watch over him.”
“I’m much obliged to you, Luke, but if you’ve got law enforcement work to do, I don’t want to be the cause of holding you back.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Elisa. I want to be sure those Comanche are long gone.”
Elisa, Doc, and Luke proceeded to crowd onto the seat of the wagon and direct the mules up the road and back to the Corrigan farm. The priest and one of the local boys sat in the bed of the rig. Luke’s big grey stallion was hitched to the back, along with a nag for Doc and another for the priest for their return to town.
“If I may, who are you chasing after, Luke?” Elisa was curious about this Ranger. The very slight Irish lilt to his deep voice, coupled with a bit of Texas drawl, had a certain appeal, and she almost asked the question just to hear him speak again. There was something about this man.
“Fella name of Bart Strong. Some call him Bad Bart. He’s a young-un, but most are.”
“What’s he done?”
“Seems he’s killed a few folks, Miss Elisa. He’s supposed to be a crack shot, so I was very lucky that he didn’t shoot me square on.”
“Must be a good hunter, too?” Elisa smiled.
“Yes, that could be said. He sure snuck up on me.” Luke figured he really didn’t need reminding of that. He wasn’t about to let it happen again. It was time to change the subject. His hand throbbed as they pulled up to the Corrigan cabin. “You have a fine-looking cabin here, Miss Elisa.”
“My papa built it from scratch. He was good with axe and saw.” She thought about how she’d miss him. At least, it looked as though Mike would pull through.
“Think you can handle this place by your lonesome?” As Luke uttered the words, he realized it’d been a rhetorical question.
Soon enough, they were digging in the rock-hard soil alongside her mother by the live oak motte. Doc had given them some blankets to wrap the bodies in, since Elisa couldn’t afford a casket.
With his wounded hand, Luke wasn’t as much help as he’d have liked to have been. He was a bit distracted, as there was something strangely magnetic in the air so far as this young woman was concerned.
***
For her part, Elisa kept glancing admiringly at this newcomer to her life. She was barely five feet tall, so she found herself looking up to Luke. He had a broad-brimmed tan hat with a simple leather band. She wanted to reach out and touch his ruggedly handsome Irish face framed around a well-tended fiery red mustache. He wore a buckskin vest over a blue shirt with gray trousers stuffed into well-worn cowboy boots. His gun belt accommodated the Walker Colt plus plenty of ammunition. Standing out and impossible to miss was the Texas Rangers badge pinned to his shirt.
FOUR
The Comanche Way
Three Toes pulled away from his second wife behind the teepee. He felt he had to do his duty daily. He was a minor Comanche chief with three wives and about thirty horses. He was looked upon as wealthy by many, and no one ever doubted his bravery in battle. Strong as an ox and taller than most Indians go, his only defect was having lost two toes in his very first battle when an axe was dropped on his foot. It hadn’t stopped him from counting three coup and taking two scalps. From that time forward, he was called Three Toes. It didn’t seem to slow him down, especially since most fighting and hunting was done on horseback.
He was about to head into his teepee when he heard two horses galloping hard into the encampment.
The two young Comanche warriors pulled up not far from Three Toes’ teepee. They acted as though they didn’t want to face him.
“Coyote Who Runs, get over here,” Three Toes ordered. He was not about to let them avoid answering to him. Coyote Who Runs and Hawk Nose walked over with their eyes glued to the earth. “Where is your brother? Where is Bear Slayer?”
Coyote Who Runs’ eyes penetrated the ground. “He was killed after counting coup and scalping a white man.” They were touting Bear Slayer’s bravery, as if to distract from having to answer Three Toes’ question.
“How did he die? Where are the scalps you took after avenging him?”
“A white woman shot him.” They dared not admit the woman was a young girl. “She had a hidden gun.”
“And you left him to die?” Three Toes worked to contain his anger. What had become of the young Comanche warriors these days? Where was their sense of honor? “We will talk with the Council.” He waved them away. The Council would not likely result in a desirable outcome for the two. There would be some punishment. Bear Slayer had two wives and several horses. He would likely have become a chief one day.
Three Toes went inside to think. Moon Woman handed him his pipe. She was the first of his wives and exerted tight control over the other two. Three Toes was the son of the famous Comanche war chief Santa Anna. He had even come to the attention of Buffalo Hump, up to then the most notorious chief of the Penateka Comanche.
He lit the pipe and took a long draw. He contemplated the smoke as it swirled about before eventually heading upward with the draft to the vent at the top of the teepee. He caught Moon Woman’s look of concern despite its being somewhat hidden by the haze created by the pipe smoke.
“You are distressed, my husband.”
Three Toes appreciated that Moon Woman understood him so well. She could read his moods. It had served her well with his other wives. “They were frightened,” he said contemptuously, “frightened of a woman with a gun.”
“She must have been a good shooter.” Moon Woman had a way of stating the obvious. “And showed no fear.”
“I don’t want to punish them, but I must.” Three Toes puffed thoughtfully on the pipe. Finally, he put it down. “I will go for a walk and think on this matter.”
He glanced at Moon Woman and smiled before lifting the teepee flap and exiting. He was lucky to have her. She had a good head on her shoulders.
Coyote Who Runs emerged from his tent at the same time as Three Toes. They avoided looking at each other. Coyote Who Runs backed away and went to tend his horse. His fellow warrior, Hawk Nose, followed. As they curried their horses, they shared furtive glances.
The two were almost like brothers. They had grown up hunting together and learning the signs of the prairie. They learned how to track all manner of game. Coyote Who Runs was the son of Mandog, a warrior of high repute, so he usually took the lead in whatever they undertook. At nearly the same time, Coyote Who Runs and Hawk Nose made their first medicine by going on a vision quest, a rite of passage for young Comanche.
Both had proven themselves in battle by counting coup. They had been given good horses, and each had found a wife. They had been mere children when Buffalo Hump made his famous Great Raid, but they heard campfire tales of the raiding, looting, burning, and killing that characterized the raid. Buffalo Hump had raided all the way to the Texas coast. The towns of Victoria and Linnville had been looted and burned by his savage horde. Not long ago, Buffalo Hump had signed a treaty with the
white man and led his people to a reservation in a place called Oklahoma. But not all the Penateka Comanche followed Buffalo Hump to Fort Cobb. They’d felt deeply honored to follow the son of Chief Santa Anna. Thus, they were doubly honored when Three Toes’ favorite warrior Bear Slayer had invited them on a hunt that would ultimately turn into a raid. The chance to count coup―touch an enemy―and take scalps was big medicine to the young warriors.
“We should have killed the woman,” lamented Coyote Who Runs.
“She was only a girl,” Hawk Nose corrected his friend. “We should not have left Bear Slayer behind.”
“I wonder what the Council will decide?”
“Maybe we should go back to the ranch. We could kill the girl and bring Bear Slayer’s body back.”
They looked around. There wasn’t much time. There’d be hell to pay if they didn’t return in time for the Council. They carefully chose their best ponies and walked as nonchalantly as possible from the encampment. Once they felt it was safe, they mounted and galloped off toward the site of their ill-fated raid.
Three Toes had been standing off in the shadows of a nearby live oak motte. He watched them go. He felt he knew them well enough to give them their head, to not give immediate chase. He figured―or at least hoped―they’d do the honorable thing. The chief determined to delay the Council until they returned. He thought about simply awaiting their return. But then, he changed his mind. “Moon Woman, I’m going hunting.”
She fully understood the meaning in his words. She dutifully and quickly brought him his deerskin breeches, bone vest, bow with quiver and arrows, and war lance. He’d already sent his youngest wife Dark Eyes to fetch his best pony. In mere moments, he was ready to travel. Moon Woman gave him a pouch containing his war paint and another with a little food for the journey.
Nueces Justice Page 3