Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  Rafael grunted. “Them I've heard of.”

  De Villiers laughed. “Ain't everybody. Fiercer, more cunnin' horse Indians never lived.”

  “I take it you've traveled among them,” Rafael said, fascinated, for he'd heard horror stories about the Comanche on his first visit to Texas last spring.

  “I traded some horses with ‘em. They ain't like my ma's people, er most others. They don't let outsiders live with ‘em, nor use their women neither. Ya interested in tradin' with th' Comanche?”

  “I doubt it, but I've heard they roam on my land. When I begin to reclaim it, I may need to deal with them—peacefully, I hope,” Rafael replied.

  “Comanche don't do much o' nothin' peaceful,” Joe scoffed. “They don't reckon anyone owns land neither”

  “That's not what my Great Grandfather Flamenco's land grant from the king of Spain says,” Rafael replied with a superior grin.

  “Anyone been livin' on it lately—like in th' past fifty years er so?”

  “No. My grandfather went to New Orleans in 1779 to seek a bride. He married Louise Beaurivage, who convinced him she would languish in a strange land. He never returned,” Rafael said. “I imagine there's little left of the stone house his father built, but the land has a good water supply and abundant wild horses and longhorn cattle roaming free. I intend to rebuild it.”

  Joe scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Since th' People—Comanche—moved onta th' Texas plains, they kinda spread out—beat th' other Indian groups 'n drove the Mexicans out. Ain't been no white settlers able ta stand up ta 'em in my lifetime. Whereabouts is yer place?”

  Rafael grimaced in embarrassment. “I have maps, but I'm not certain. I need a guide who's familiar with the land northwest of the Brazos River.”

  De Villiers whistled low. “Could be smack in th' middle o' th' plains where th' People roam free. Say, ya got a map?”

  “Back in my room at the tavern.”

  Joe grunted. “When yer movin' easier we'll take us a look-see.”

  “Could you guide me there? I now realize I'm a ‘greenhorn,’ ” Rafael said with chagrin, recalling his stupidity on the previous night.

  Joe gave him a measuring look. “Yep. Might could be. I been mustangin' on th' plains fer years. Got me no long-thought-out plans.”

  Over the next several days Joe and Rafael formed the unlikeliest of friendships. The tough half-breed was quick and shrewd, possessing a subtle sense of humor and great empathy. Rafael knew he had much to learn about his adopted land, and a man like De Villiers could teach him, as well as guide him to his property.

  Joe described Texas weather and the lands to the west inhabited only by migrating bands of Indians. He explained how he captured wild horses and broke them to saddle. De Villiers demonstrated more of practical healing skills than most physicians in New Orleans and understood Texas history better than Rafael's university professors. Joe knew weapons and survival. Realizing dueling pistols and rapiers would not be useful in Texas, Rafael wanted to learn how to use fists, knives, and long rifles.

  “First ya gotta leave yer broke bones ta heal,” was Joe's reply to the request. “Then we'll see. I 'spect ya got it in ya ta fight ta win. You ever kill a man?”

  “Yes,” was the terse reply.

  “Thought so.”

  * * * *

  Joe watched in approval while Rafael squatted at the campfire and ate spitted rabbit roasted whole over the coals. By the end of the week he was able to ride to town with Joe.

  He paid his room bill at the tavern, collected his gear, and brought it to Joe's camp. They examined his old maps that night by firelight.

  Joe spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth and considered the map. “Yep, pretty country. Yer right ‘bout th' water, mustangs, 'n longhorns.”

  “You've been there—seen it?” Rafael's interest was excited. At first, the land grant had been only a base from which to search for Deborah. Gradually, it had become more. It would be a home to bring her to, a new start for them both.

  “I know the land. Kinda isolated. Not many Comanche cause there ain't many buffalo. Thet's not ta say it'll be easy pickins. You know thet?”

  “Let's just say I'm beginning to learn,” Rafael said, stroking the scar forming over his left eyebrow.

  Inside three weeks, they had crossed the Trinity and the Brazos Rivers, which were at low water in the dry, fall weather. The pine and hardwood forested land around Nacogdoches gradually gave way to rich black soil and oak savannah. They passed by stands of giant cottonwoods in river basins. Interspersed between the lush woodlands were vast stretches of rolling plains where the kaleidoscopic herds of wild horses and longhorn cattle ran free, legacies left centuries earlier by ill-fated Spanish explorers.

  “You could ride all the way across Europe and not see as varied a landscape as we've passed through,” Rafael said as they stopped to rest their horses in a lush canyon.

  “An’ this is only halfway ‘cross Texas,” Joe replied laughingly. “Farther west it gets real flat, hot 'n dry. Lots more cactus 'n strange-shaped mountains. Bleak but sorta beautiful, too, with all them bright red 'n purple colored rocks.”

  “Are there springs like this everywhere—even in the desert?” Rafael bent over painfully, favoring his aching ribs, to cup his hand and drink the clear sparkling water rushing down the canyon.

  “Ones in th' desert go underground a lot more, ‘specially in dry seasons like this, but they is a lot o' ‘em.”

  Joe watched as his young companion mounted his horse, doing his best to mask the pain his cracked ribs and bruised hands were giving him. Rafael slept on the hard ground, helped with camp chores, and even fired a .45 caliber Kentucky long rifle. Two days earlier he had brought down a deer, providing them with an abundant supply of meat, but at fearful cost. The recoil had jarred his broken body so painfully Joe expected him to faint. Rafael had whitened and held his breath but recovered and insisted on helping dress the deer. Never seen a blueblood with cojones like him, he thought.

  Late that afternoon, they crested a rise and looked down on a gently sloping valley with a meandering stream nestled deep in the rich bottomland. Joe could sense Rafael's excitement.

  “This is it, isn't it, Joe?”

  “See over there where the creek forks—look real close,” the half-breed instructed.

  “The house! I can see the house!” With a whoop of jubilation he spurred his wiry little mustang into a headlong gallop.

  When they reached the house, the close-up view was no surprise to De Villiers; but he feared it might be to Flamenco. The thick stone walls were crumbled in several places and the roof was completely caved in. Vines of mustang grape grew wild across the doors and windows.

  Measuring his young companion, who had endured so much to get here, Joe said, “I warned you it would be this way.”

  Rafael's eyes glowed as he envisioned the house with a stout roof, its thick walls keeping the inside cool in summer heat, warm against winter chill. “It can be rebuilt. The basic structure seems sound. And look at the site—the trees, the water. It's magnificent, Joe!” He dismounted and began to tear away the vines blocking the front door.

  Joe helped him and they entered the large front room. Even in the August heat, it was cool, just as Rafael knew it would be.

  “This will be my home, Joe,” he said reverently.

  “The home you’ll bring yer woman to? Deborah?”

  Rafael whirled. “How did you know—”

  “You were out fer a day 'n night. Even after thet I gave ya medicine ta let ya sleep. Ya talked—shit, raved in yer sleep, Rafael. I know yer lookin' fer a silver-haired woman who ran off from New Orleans carryin' yer youngun. Ya'll find 'er—if anyone can. Got a feelin'. You know Cherokee have a sixth sense. Believe in it. Believe in yerself.”

  Rafael felt a solid sense of kinship, a bond forged in the wilderness with this older man of mixed race. How remarkable that he should feel closer to Cherokee Joe than he ever had to his own father.
“I believe, Joe, I believe. I'll call this place Renacimiento—Rebirth. It'll be a new home, a new beginning for Deborah and me and our children.” He reached out and clasped the callused red hand firmly.

  They made a careful inventory of the supplies they'd need to begin restoring the buildings and starting a working ranch. Several months capturing and breaking wild horses would mean basic work stock for the ranch and also a sizable profit if they sold the excess to the hordes of settlers pouring into Texas. Now that the war was over, the new Republic was offering homestead grants of two square miles to a family. It might take years, but with this rich, hidden valley full of lush vegetation and wild livestock, Rafael knew he could build a home for his family.

  His family: Deborah and their child. Her time was near. Would it be a girl or boy? He prayed she was safe and that he would find her soon.

  On the ride back to Nacogdoches, Joe told him about his time among the various tribes of red men in Texas, especially the dominant ones—the Comanche or Nerms, who called themselves the People.

  “They paint theirselves black fer war, 'n start a mission only at night. Move quick 'n quiet. Slip in 'n kill fast. Live ta enjoy the spoils o’ victory. No dumb stand up 'n shoot in straight lines like whites do. Stupid waste o' lives.”

  “Like dueling?” Rafael asked with a grin.

  “Yep, like duelin'. Don't never fight by rules, boy. Only fight when yer back's ta the wall. Then, fight ta kill. Use yer head 'n make th' other feller lose his. 'N never show fear. I 'spect ever’ man's afraid, only a fool wouldn't be afraid ta die, but they's a mind set ta fear 'n it eats at ya. Yer enemy kin sense it 'n it gives him th' edge. Makes better puha ta bury fear.”

  “You said once I had strong puha” Rafael mused. “What is it?”

  “Nerm's word fer magic, er power. Kinda medicine that makes a man believe in hisself.”

  “And then other men believe in him too,” Rafael said.

  Joe nodded. The greenhorn was learning fast. Very fast.

  When they arrived back in Nacogdoches they headed first to Brown's Tavern for a drink.

  “Joe! Damn, I been lookin' fer yew fer weeks. Where'd yew git to so quick?” The speaker was a big frontiersman with a curly red beard.

  “Sabine!” Joe turned to Rafael as he pumped the big man's hand. “Rafael Flamenco, meet Sabine Mike Forkness. Good man.”

  They exchanged a hearty handshake. Rafael was glad his bruised and blistered hands had healed and strengthened in the past month.

  “Joe, I got word fer ya from Louisiana. Yer sister's man is real bad 'n she asks ya to come 'n help her. Here—she sent me with this.” He took a badly crumpled and water-stained packet from inside his odoriferous buckskins.

  Joe read the Cherokee script slowly and carefully, his face grave. “I gotta go, Rafael. Felice needs my help. She's my baby sister 'n I hafta take care o' her.”

  ‘‘When will you return?” Rafael asked, thinking of Lenore and knowing he'd do the same.

  “I 'spect in a month er so. Git yer supplies ordered 'n see ‘bout some men. Sabine here'll help ya.”

  The burly redhead nodded immediately. “Yep. We kin do 'er, Rafael.” He stumbled over the foreign name, then amended, “Rafe. Yep—Rafe—that suits better, huh?”

  Looking from one buckskin-clad figure to the other, Rafael Flamenco let out a hearty laugh. “How about making me all Texian—Rafe Fleming? From now on, that's my name.”

  Sabine slapped the younger man's back, jarring his almost healed ribs. “Welcome ta Texas, Rafe Fleming.”

  * * * *

  Joe departed for Louisiana two days later, telling Rafe to expect him at the ranch in four to six weeks. Sabine and Rafe were just about ready to depart, but they lacked enough men to begin the arduous task of reclaiming the land.

  He and Sabine were sitting down to dinner in Brown's Tavern with that weighty issue hanging over their heads when a smooth, low voice said in Spanish-accented English, “Pardón, señores, but I understand you look for mesteñeros.”

  Rafe looked up at the hard-faced, swarthy man dressed in simple vaquero's clothes. He looked like hundreds of other Tejanos at first glance, but there was a feral watchfulness in his eyes that struck a spark of uneasiness in Rafe. He has eyes like Georges Beaurivage.

  Dismissing the idea as fanciful, he asked, “Have you ever captured mustangs on the plains west of here?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Enrique Flores and this…” he paused to allow a squat, heavy man with a bristling beard to materialize from behind him—“is Ray Garter. We have captured, broken, and sold many herds from here to Santa Fe.”

  “Lots of comancheros use Santa Fe as a base,” Sabine said quietly.

  Flores looked at Rafe's companion gravely but steadily. “Sí, I've met a few, but who has lived in Texas and not seen them? I understood you were looking for good men and we are the best, Señor Fleming.”

  “You're right. I need experienced men,” Rafe said with finality. “We leave in two days. You can get whatever gear you need from Gareson's General Store tomorrow.”

  A week of retracing their route to Renacimiento brought them to their first dry camp. After all the spring rains that had so plagued both Mexican and Texian armies in the revolution, the late summer weather was dry in the extreme.

  “Feast er famine in Texas,” Sabine said, as several men carped about the dried-up spring where they camped. “Wait’ll ya see th' springs at th' ranch. Ole Joe said they wuz so deep they went clear ta China. Always have water there.”

  Mort Soller spat a stream of tobacco juice and nodded. “Wish we cud git cross this dry stretch quicker. I'd rest easier knowin' I's near water.”

  “Where'd Enrique go, Ray?” Sabine asked, wanting to take the men's minds off the hard, dangerous trip ahead.

  Garter looked from Sabine to Fleming. “He's scouting a shortcut. There's water south of here. A small settlement of Anglo farmers lives there.”

  “Joe never mentioned it to me,” Rafe said, looking at Ray guardedly.

  Garter shrugged. “Even Cherokee Joe De Villiers may not know everything.”

  “I don't like it, Rafe,” Sabine said in a low voice as he squatted by the fire to pour coffee into a tin cup.

  “Post an extra guard tonight. I'll wait up for Enrique myself,” Rafe responded.

  Aching and tired, Rafe sat staring into the leaping flames of the campfire, waiting for Flores to return. He dreamed of a woman with long silver hair and violet eyes.

  Suddenly, the whole campsite erupted in chaos. Shots were fired, and men cursed and yelled as blood-chilling, savage war cries sounded. Rafe leapt to his feet, but spots and blackness were all he could see. He was blinded in the dark after staring into the bright flames of the fire, something Joe had cautioned him never to do! When he felt a sinewy hand grasp at his shirt, he instinctively warded off the blow with his right arm, only to feel the sharp slash of a knife penetrate his jacket and cut his forearm.

  A sharp scream of “Aaa-hey” rent the air as he sent one man flying, only to have another pounce from the other side and grab his hair with brutal strength. Certain he was about to be scalped, Rafe twisted and dropped into a roll, thinking to dislodge his attacker; but he had not counted on the first one coming back so quickly. Both were on him, wrestling with him as he tried to pull his knife free from its sheath. Then, one of the savages struck him a sharp blow to the temple and he slipped into inky oblivion.

  All around the unconscious man his companions were falling, swarmed over in their sleep by the stealthy raiders who now systematically finished off all who resisted. Sabine was sprawled facedown across the fire from Rafe, with a red stain widening across his back. Mort Soller and José Ramirez were lying face up with their eyes wide open in death. Felix Solidad was scarcely alive, with a war lance run through his abdomen, pinning him to the ground. The screams of the dying blended with the screams of the triumphant Comanche.

  * * * *

  “Wake up, amigo. Iron H
and's men went to lots of trouble to keep you alive. You can't disappoint them,” Ray Garter's voice rasped in Rafe's ear.

  Bastards set us up. Sabine was right! Rafe thought bitterly. Why hadn't he followed his instincts about Garter and Flores? Pretending to be unconscious, he let Garter haul him up from his prone position on the ground. He wasn't tied. Good. He knew well from Joe's description what happened to captives among the Comanche!

  With a panther like lunge he sprang to life, toppling Garter backward. In a blur, Rafe ripped the knife from the comanchero's belt and plunged it into his enemy's throat. Expecting to feel the impact of a bullet or lance any instant, Rafe crouched, knife arching back and forth as he gazed at the evil assemblage.

  “I told you he had puha,” a low voice said in Spanish. Rafe whirled to confront Enrique Flores who stood next to a barrel-chested Comanche wearing a demonic-looking horned headdress. Flores's teeth flashed whitely in the firelight as he laughed. It was an eerie sound. The war chief grunted and considered how best to disarm his captive.

  “This is for all my men, Flores!” Rafe sprang to his feet and dove toward the comanchero, knife outstretched. If only I can take the bastard with me, was his last thought before he felt shattering pain in his right arm. A Comanche war lance had smashed it. The knife flew from his numb hand. Still undefeated, he rolled up and made a bare-handed lunge toward Flores, his eyes glowing with hate and desperation. It took four warriors to bring him down.

  “Alive! I want him alive,” came the war chief’s command. Rafe recognized the first word. Joe had taught him a bit of the Snake language. Knowing what being taken alive meant, he fought with increased desperation while Enrique Flores watched like a bored spectator, as indifferent to his dead partner as he was to all the other dead men he had betrayed.

  Finally, one of the warriors twisted Rafe's broken arm. The bolt of searing, white-hot pain made him drop unconscious in shock. When he came to he was tied hand and foot, slung across a war pony. Every jarring hoof beat caused another wave of agony to lance through his arm. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the information Joe De Villiers had given him about the Comanche. They had gone to great trouble to keep him alive. Flores, like Joe, had said he had puha—the Snake word for power. He might survive, if he could keep his nerve—and stand the pain.