“Fists are good enough for me. If Dub there wants a licking, then I’ll give him one,” Odell said.
Dub smiled, but his eyes were crazy. “You’ve got to come out from behind all these skirts if we’re going to hug.”
The Prussian scowled at Odell before lowering his pistol and stepping aside. “Let him loose, Son. These men seem bound and determined to butt heads.”
Son winced at Odell before stepping away. “I’m telling you, it’s gonna hurt.”
Odell cracked the knuckles of both his fists and loosened his big shoulders in his shirt. “Don’t worry, I like to fight.”
“Uh-huh.” Son nodded his head and motioned Odell toward Dub with a grand sweep of his hand. “Have at it, Killer.”
Nobody was quite sure what Odell expected, but it was obvious that what he got was no part of his thinking. Maybe he thought he and Dub would scratch their feet in the grass, or spit across a line in the dirt before fighting. However, he learned in a hurry that Dub had done all the talking he intended to do. Just as Odell was about to spout off something tough-sounding, Dub charged forward swinging both fists. Whatever it was that Odell was going to say was stopped by one of Dub’s meaty, scarred fists planting itself on his cheek. It was as if a mule had kicked Odell in the head; somehow the sawed-off brawler managed to kick him on the knee and slug him in the face once more as he was falling.
Odell hit the ground flat on his back, and he was dimly aware of Dub’s boots impacting with his torso. The punishment was mercifully short and Odell was soon left where he lay. His head felt like it had been busted wide open, and everything in his body screamed at him to just stay down. He rose to his hands and knees and turned his head enough to see Dub’s boots a few feet away. He knew that as soon as he attempted to stand Dub would be on him again, but his shame was as great as the anger rising up in him.
“Stay down, kid. You don’t want any more.” There was a hint of laughter in Dub’s voice.
Odell managed to get one leg under him and lurched to his feet. Dub immediately closed with him and Odell barely managed to duck enough to take a punch off the top of his head. His brain refused to think properly, and his legs seemed to have lost all their strength. He fell into Dub, trying to smother the swinging fists and to use his size to his advantage. He caught Dub’s thick neck under his left arm and grasped the back of the man’s belt with his other hand, hurling him across the fire. He staggered through the shower of embers and landed a long, looping right hand to Dub’s ear that tore it half off. Dub bellowed like a bull and bobbed and weaved and ducked so that Odell busted his left fist on the top of Dub’s head.
Odell had never hit anything that didn’t go down to stay, and he cocked his right fist for a mighty blow that would have downed a horse. He intended to end the fight right then and there, but he was way too slow. Dub stepped inside the ponderous swing and hit him twice to the body and head-butted him under the chin. It was as if every time Odell got the space and time to throw a punch, one of Dub’s was already hitting him. They grunted and strained in the smoky dust, and Dub’s blows landed with dull, meaty thuds. In a matter of seconds, Odell lay on the ground once more with his face in the dirt.
“Stay down, Odell.” Son took a hesitant step forward.
Odell heard none of them. He scooted his knees up under him and struggled to push himself up with his forearms. There was something in his eyes that might have been his own blood. He recognized what he thought were Dub’s knees and lunged weakly forward. Dub laughed and dodged easily back and let Odell fall on his face again.
“You ain’t worth the trouble.” Dub dusted off his hands and spit at him.
“We ain’t done yet,” Odell croaked.
“You just get up again,” Dub jeered. “You’re going to fiddle around and make me mad.”
“He’s had enough,” Son said. He and the Prussian stepped forward and grabbed Odell’s arms as he wobbled to his feet.
“That kid’s lucky I didn’t give it to him worse. He better walk softly around me from now on, or I’ll finish what I started.” Dub turned his back.
Odell was too weary to put up much of a fight against the hold Son and the Prussian had on him, but he leaned out with his battered face jutted forward. “You come back here. I ain’t licked yet.”
Dub ignored him and walked away. The Prussian and Son guided Odell to his saddle, and the young man slumped down on it with his forearms propped on his knees. Everyone was staring at him, and he wiped the blood and the slobber from his face and stared back. His right eye was already swelling badly, and blood poured from his mouth where he had bit his tongue.
“I guess they’re all laughing at me,” he said after a long while.
“Nobody’s laughing at you,” Son said.
“Dub ain’t near as big as me.”
“Yeah, but he’s twice as mean. None of us doubt your grit.”
“I sure didn’t put up much of a fight.” Odell’s breath was still coming in ragged gasps, and his sore tongue made it even harder to talk.
“I’d say you made a fair showing. At least you busted his ear. That’s something,” Son said. “Hell, there ain’t a man here that can whip that cranky sonofabitch, as bad as many of them would like to.”
Somebody sat Odell’s hat on his head, and a few more men walked by and nodded at him in passing. It came as a shock to him, but truly, nobody seemed to be laughing at him. In fact they seemed to approve of something he had done.
“Get up and dust yourself off,” Son said, “and don’t be trying to hide your marks. You earned ’em.”
“I’ll get him next time,” Odell muttered.
“By Gott, I believe you do love a fight.” The Prussian chuckled.
Odell examined his swollen face with his fingertips. “I reckon I’ve still got a bit to learn at that.”
“That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say since I’ve known you.” Son slapped him on the back.
Odell tenderly ran his finger inside his mouth. “He knocked one of my jaw teeth loose. I hope I don’t lose it.”
The Prussian propped his foot up on Odell’s saddle. He wet the fingertips of one hand and polished at a spot on the high top of his fancy boot. “Herr Odell, you will find that none of life’s lessons are free.”
Odell twisted his neck stiffly to look at the Prussian. For the first time, the strange foreigner was almost making sense to him.
A large shadow spread across Odell’s back as Placido stepped between him and the fire. Odell looked up into the savage face grinning at him.
“Heap big fight,” the Tonk chief said loudly.
Odell rose gingerly to his feet with one hand on his ribs. He wasn’t sure if Dub hadn’t cracked one or two of them, and his tongue had already swollen until he could barely close his mouth. “Yeah, heap big fight.”
Chapter 24
Even though the day was warm, the commissioner dropped the sides of the tepee for more privacy. The four of them sat in the dim light around the ashes of the fire pit.
“Is this Iron Shirt a big chief, or a little one?” the commissioner asked.
“I got the impression that the Comanches here set quite a store by him. I think he’s a big chief, maybe a head chief,” Captain Jones said.
Red Wing laughed out loud at their ignorance. “There is no warrior who speaks for all the Comanche, or even most of them.”
“Well, for someone who claims she isn’t a Comanche, you sure know a lot about them,” the captain said.
She noticed the slight tremor in the Captain’s hands. “I know that you’re fools if you think getting one camp of the Comanche to come to sign a treaty will mean peace. They are a scattered people. Sometimes camps come together at certain times for dancing, raiding, or for big hunts. A respected warrior may have a great say among his own camp, or even his band, but every warrior is his own boss.”
“Are you telling us there are no chiefs?” Agent Torrey asked incredulously.
Red Wing struggled to find the words to explain the Comanche. “Not as you think of chiefs. Other tribes have many religious ceremonies and warrior societies that create positions of power and require their warriors to conform somewhat to participate. The Comanches’ religion and his position among his people is a more individual thing. When a warrior wants to take to the war trail, he will let it be known. If he is a good talker and a successful fighter he can get others to go with him. No chief or group of chiefs can order him to do one thing or not.”
“How can they even live together with so little political structure?” It was plain the commissioner didn’t like what he was hearing.
Red Wing laughed again. “Oh, there’s politics. All Comanche warriors jostle with each other for standing. If a warrior is lucky, he comes from a large camp or a powerful band. The larger the camp, the more warriors they have to steal horses. Horses mean riches, and riches can buy respect or wives that will ally you to other wealthy camps or bands. Power in Comanche terms means victory, wealth, and prestige.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question of how they settle disagreements among themselves,” Agent Torrey said.
“When an argument arises or a difficult decision must be made the men will gather in council and discuss the best solution. Most of them will come to an agreement, but those who disagree can always leave.”
“So, even if Houston can make a treaty with this bunch of Comanches, none of the warriors, even from this camp, must abide by it?” The commissioner rubbed his temples as if his head were hurting him.
“There is a saying among the Comanche that treaties are only for old beggars who love to talk,” she said.
“Will, President Houston didn’t send you out here to solve all of Texas’s Indian problems. All he wanted was for you to get as many of the Comanches to Fort Bird as was possible,” Captain Jones said.
“That might have to be enough,” the commissioner said.
Before the conversation could go any further an old squaw appeared in the doorway. She stared at the ground and seemed too timid to speak. After a long moment of awkward silence she unfolded a beautifully tanned deerskin dress and a pair of moccasins. She held them forth in her outstretched arms.
“It seems our hosts come bearing gifts fit for a Comanche princess,” the commissioner said.
Red Wing said something in Comanche, and from the look on the old squaw’s face it hadn’t been what she wanted to hear. The squaw mumbled something and Red Wing grabbed up a handful of dust and flung it at her. Red Wing was angrier than any of the men had ever seen her and she rattled off another testy burst in her native tongue. Her body was trembling when she finished. She stared at the ground and made it plain that she had nothing else to say. The old squaw laid the gifts down on the ground and backed out of the door.
“Remind me to never offer you gifts. I don’t speak Comanche, but I’d say that was quite rude behavior on your part,” the commissioner said.
Red Wing remained quiet for a long time, still looking down. “Yes, it was, but they have to understand that I’m no longer a Comanche. I told her get her filthy hides and her ugly face out of my sight.”
The commissioner risked making her angrier. “Why do you hate those who raised you so much? Was your mother so bitter over her captivity that she planted a bitter seed in you?”
She shook her head solemnly. “I don’t hate them. My mother lived many happy years among them, and there was a time when I was happy too.”
“Then how can you choose a life you’ve led for only a few years over these that should be your people?”
Rehashing old wounds was painful, and she fought back the tears welling up in her eyes. “I once had a Comanche mother and father who I loved very much. I lived among a strong camp, and we had many friends. Then the smallpox came and took my mother, and my father was killed in a fight with the Texans. Our numbers were weakened until we were few, and what was left of us scattered among the Penateka band. An old widow took me in, but she was cruel and I was little more than her slave. When Colonel Moore attacked us and captured me, I thought I would finally die, but I didn’t. I was once taught to hate the Tejanos, but the Wilsons were kind to me. Their ways were strange, and it was hard at first, but they gave me back what I had lost before. After a while I had a family once more. I fit myself into a new world and gave them back the love they gave me.”
Red Wing wiped at her eyes and then raised her face to them. “You want to know why I won’t go back to the Comanches, and I ask you this. If you were born in a foreign land, would you give up all those you love in Texas to go back to a life that you had almost forgotten? I may be neither one of you nor Comanche, but there is no doubt who my family is. I left here long ago, and now you have brought me back. But I want to go back to where you took me from—home. My mother is waiting there for me.”
The commissioner’s companions looked back to him with shame on their faces. He cursed himself for a coward and a bully and wondered how a man of honor could blindly stoop so low. “I fear we have done you a great injustice. I can’t take back my crimes, but I promise I will do all that I can to see that you aren’t handed back to the Comanches. I will tell them that I was mistaken, and you were only once a captive Mexican child.”
Agent Torrey smiled at her. “That Iron Shirt didn’t believe you were a Comanche anyway. Soon, we’ll all be on our way back home and we can forget about this difficult journey.”
Red Wing wanted to believe that it all would work out for the best, but she had to be honest with them, no matter how they had treated her. “That dress wasn’t a gift from the woman who brought it. Iron Shirt sent her.”
Captain Jones rose to his feet angrily, but the commissioner grabbed him by the wrist. “Captain, I know how you feel about Comanches, but we were wrong to take Red Wing. I’ve known it from the beginning, but I just wouldn’t admit it, even to myself.”
“You and that girl are going to get us all killed.” The captain jerked his arm away and looked from the commissioner to Red Wing. He suddenly looked much older and very tired. “I volunteered for this expedition, but you’re asking me to forget who I’ve hated half my life. If that chief wants her, you and nobody else can stop him. All we can do by holding out on him is to make him mad. Give her to him.”
“I’m asking you to do what’s right.”
Captain Jones pulled a flask from his pocket and held it at arm’s length. He took a drink and tossed the empty container against the wall. “Well, there goes the last of it.”
“I’ve brought us this far. Are you still with me?” the commissioner asked.
“I’ll stick by you three as far as I can. Hell, we probably weren’t going to make it out of here anyway. I just never thought I’d die for a mixed-up Comanche girl. It doesn’t take a drunk to see the irony in that.” The captain tried to walk proudly from the tepee, but he staggered slightly at the door.
When he was gone, Commissioner Anderson looked at Red Wing. “They told me before we left Houston that he was a small man and a coward, but I’d say they misjudged him.”
No sooner had the captain disappeared than the people of the village began to shout and the dogs started barking again. The three of them barged out the door and found Captain Jones standing in their way. He was looking to the south at the large bunch of Comanches nearing the edge of the camp. They were stretched out for half a mile, appearing out of a backdrop of dust. Their ponies leaned into the weight of the Comanches’ belongings loaded onto the travois they pulled. The warriors scattered out proudly in the lead and their women waved at old friends coming out to meet them from the camp.
The newcomers mixed wildly with the others and laughter and friendly banter sounded throughout the camp. A young brave raced his horse wildly in front of the people and perfo
rmed several feats of horsemanship while many cheered for him.
“I’ve never seen such smiles,” Commissioner Anderson said.
Red Wing was surprised at his comment. “They are happy to see old friends and distant family. Sometimes it can be long between visits.”
The commissioner continued to watch the joyous celebration played out before him, and the Comanches’ white teeth flashing and their eyes twinkling with pleasure. “Yes, but I don’t know that I’ve ever been that happy.”
“To know the hardships of their life is to know pleasure in the good little things that sometimes come.” She remembered many times when she had either ridden in to such greetings or met visitors to her own camp.
“I find myself strangely envious of them,” Agent Torrey said.
“Remember too that their life can be hard. There is little mercy out here away from the settlements. The weak die, and even the strong sometimes pay a price for their freedom.” She remembered the great losses of her life just as clearly as she had the good times.
“Those are the proudest men I’ve ever seen. All of them pose and posture like young men going to war.” Agent Torrey pointed toward a cluster of warriors catching up on old times.
“They are Kotsoteka, and once they were the most powerful of all the Comanche. They defeated the Pakanaboo and the Cuampes until they held the buffalo grounds from the Lakota country to the river the Frenchmen call the Canadian.”
“That’s about the proudest, meanest-looking Comanche buck I’ve seen yet.” Captain Jones pointed toward a warrior sitting a pale yellow horse and talking to Iron Shirt. He wore a buffalo horn hat, and a fresh scalp flitted in the wind from the end of his lance.
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