by Lyn Cote
The day after the Comanche had shown himself to the women, Carson, Quinn, and Meuserbach rode out to make peace with them. Or at least try. And survive. Leaving Tunney and Emilio to guard the Germans still building cabins, Carson and his father had picked up the Comanche trail right away.
Tracking always made Carson’s neck tense, his nerves taut. His eyes began their accustomed scanning, his ears tuned to catch the whisper of an arrow slipped into a bow notch.
Quinn was explaining the Comanche to Meuserbach: “When dealing with any tribe, you must take nothing for granted. Comanche, Apaches, Waco are not like whites in how they think, in what they consider important. The main thing you must understand, especially with Comanche, is they live in war.”
And that keeps us at war all our lives. That made me a Ranger. Carson let his horse fall behind theirs. He didn’t want to be distracted. His father was counting on him as his extra eyes and ears. Both of them knew they could be leading Meuserbach into a trap. Carson’s rifle rested across his lap, at the ready.
“What does that mean, that they live in war?” the German asked, looking puzzled.
“It means that the young men can only advance in rank or respect by how good they are at stealing horses, taking scalps, or counting coup—”
“What is that coup?” the German interrupted.
“Counting coup is touching one’s enemy in battle and then riding away without being caught.” Quinn looked downward, still tracking.
The German gave Carson’s father a startled look.
I’ve never counted coup. Or took a scalp. Many Rangers sported a scalp or two on their belts as a warning not to be taken lightly, but Carson had not been forced to use this tack. All he had to do was mention that he was the son of Quinn.
Meuserbach shook his head. “That is no way to live. Killing people.”
Carson let a bleak, cold breath whistle through him. He felt empty, hollow. It is how I live, how Emilio lives. Or how Emilio has lived. Will he quit the Rangers now that he has proposed to Sugar?
Quinn’s voice became harsher. “On the frontier, killing is more common than probably anywhere else you have ever encountered. I have never been farther east than New Orleans. Yet I think I speak the truth.” Quinn shook his head. “In Texas and Mexico, white men take scalps too. In Sonora, the Mexican government pays one hundred dollars for a brave’s scalp, fifty dollars for a squaw, and twenty-five dollars for a child under fourteen.”
Meuserbach looked horrified.
Glancing skyward, Carson watched a lone eagle riding the warm air high, high above them. Carson thought back to images from his Ranger life—of tracking, then shooting, the enemy, their shocked faces and their bodies falling. These images melted into a stream of black gun smoke, sand, and gore. I don’t even know how many lives I’ve taken. The realization desolated him.
A flock of squawking crows lifted from nearby dogwood trees. Carson gripped his rifle. What had spooked the crows?
His mother predicted that a time would come—within his life—when all native tribes would be forced out of Texas, just as Jackson had forced the Cherokee out of Georgia in ’38. To Carson, that still seemed far-fetched. Nevertheless, Texas wasn’t Texas anymore. It was U.S. territory now.
Carson shifted in his saddle, still tracking the flight of the soaring eagle along with the black cloud of crows. If all the tribes were forced out of Texas, would Texas need Rangers then? Did he want to spend the rest of his life Ranging?
Quinn went on attempting to explain. “This way of life, getting respect from being good at fighting, stealing, and killing, causes the Comanche—all western Indians—to live in a constant state of warfare. Not only against the whites but against other tribes as well.”
Carson strained, trying to see what might have set off the crows. And was that a cloud or a wisp of smoke ahead, a sign of a Comanche camp?
“The Comanche first lived farther north. They learned to tame and ride Spanish horses. Became buffalo hunters and horse thieves.” Quinn glanced up at the eagle too. “Then they came to Texas and were even able to force the Apache farther southward into Mexico. And if you knew the Apache, you would know what a feat that was.”
“Does that mean that they will not make peace with us?” Meuserbach asked.
Carson heard the fear just under the surface of Meuserbach’s words. This man didn’t want to live like Carson had, always keeping a rifle by his side. Uneasy about the crows and the wisps ahead, Carson gripped his rifle with one hand, ready to swing it up. What would that feel like, to live in peace? What would I do if I weren’t a Ranger? The question gave him an odd sensation, a feeling of loss, of loneliness.
“No, peace is possible, at least for a time,” Quinn said, scanning the surrounding area and acknowledging the wisp with the barest of nods to his son. “I think we might be able to get an agreement with this band of Comanche, the Penateka, the honey-eaters. But you must remember that different bands of a tribe don’t all follow the same treaties.”
The wisp wasn’t a cloud; it was faint mesquite smoke from a camp. They were close now, close to parlay or fight. If they were attacked, would the German know how to use his rifle?
“You mean like in Germany we have many princes but no king?”
Quinn looked at Meuserbach. “What does that mean?”
“Germany is not like England or France, with a central government. We have many small princedoms though we all speak the same language.”
“I didn’t know that,” Carson murmured.
Ahead of them, on one of the craggy hillsides, a lone armed Comanche had stepped out to be seen. Carson straightened in the saddle, staring at the Comanche. Out of the corner of his eye, Carson saw Meuserbach stiffen.
“Now,” Quinn said in a lowered voice, “follow my lead. Say nothing, do nothing unless I tell you to.” Then Quinn greeted the brave in Comanche and asked permission to meet with the chief of the band. As they followed the sentry toward the Comanche camp, Quinn added, “Also do anything I tell you to without hesitation.”
“Ja.” The German’s voice was tight.
Carson let Meuserbach precede him, and the three of them rode single file into the camp. It seemed that they had been expected, leading Carson to understand that the Comanche’s appearance before the women at the river had indeed been an invitation to parlay. The Comanche were curious, but, as always, dangerous.
The head of the band was waiting for them outside his teepee, his arms folded, his expression proud and forbidding. The warm sun was high overhead now. Carson focused on what they had come to do: Make peace. Survive the parlay.
The tribe swiftly gathered around to watch the show. Quinn greeted the chief in solemn tones. His greeting was returned with curtness, a show of superiority. Quinn tried to introduce himself, but he was cut off. The chief had heard of the half-breed Cherokee Quinn. Carson thought dryly, I’ll bet they all have.
The matter of the horse Quinn had stolen came up. Quinn dismissed it, saying that the marauders had been foolish to steal from him. It should be a lesson to the young braves to first find out who they were stealing from.
There was a tense pause after this. It ended with the chief’s agreement that young men were often heedless.
The chief invited Quinn and his companions to dismount and sit with him. After the smoking of the ceremonial pipe and other courtesies, the chief asked about these new people who had come onto Comanche land. Just this winter, the Comanche had signed a treaty drawing a line between the Comancheria and Texas. Was Sam Houston allowing that treaty to be violated so soon?
Carson let the wind stroke his skin as he gazed at all the intent faces grouped around them. As usual, he couldn’t stop himself from choosing which of the braves around him he should strike first if negotiations suddenly turned sour.
Quinn explained that the newcomers had come not from America but from a distant land over the far eastern sea, and that they wanted to live on the edge of the Comancheria and be good neighbors
to the Penateka.
The chief looked thoughtful. Carson’s hand didn’t leave the rifle across his lap.
Then Quinn told the chief that this man Meuserbach, the leader of these people, had with him a sample of the many gifts he had brought to the Penateka from far away.
At his father’s nod, Carson rose and went to the horses. He brought back two bulging saddlebags. Quinn said, “Meuserbach, please open the right one and draw out the shawl first. That will make a good impression.”
The German drew out a fringed shawl made of fine red silk. The cloth caught the light and shimmered. Then, at Quinn’s nod, Meuserbach drew out several intricately carved pipes, more fabrics—many of them intricate tapestries—and a few well-made knives. Each gift was greeted with increasing murmurs of approval. Then he pulled out a tightly bound wooden box. Opening it, he lifted out of the straw and paper packing the finest gilded wineglasses Carson had ever seen. The chief took one in his hand and marveled at it.
Then Meuserbach looked into the chief’s eyes. “Quinn, I want to speak to the chief about why we have come. Please tell the chief that we have come this long way because life in Germany is too hard. There are too many people, not enough land or food. We have come all this way to find a place where we can live and raise our families.”
Meuserbach waited until Quinn’s translation ended. “After coming so far, we just want to settle down and farm the land. We do not live like the Comanche do, roaming free on horses, hunting buffalo. That is not our way. So that should make us good neighbors. But the Comanche were here first. So we must meet them and make an agreement to live side by side. In peace.”
Listening to Quinn’s translation, the chief studied Meuserbach and said nothing.
The German continued, “When I was young, I was a soldier. I commanded many other soldiers against the French, who attacked us. I won many battles. Not long ago I decided that the best way to protect my people was to find a better place for them.”
Quinn nodded in agreement as he translated. Even Carson was impressed with the newcomer’s argument.
Meuserbach gestured toward the articles he’d brought out. “If we can come to an understanding, I will bring many more gifts like these. The Comanche will go on living as they do. All we want is to live nearby in our way, but with respect. And, I hope, friendliness for our neighbors. Can this be?”
Seven
Soon Carson, Quinn, and Meuserbach mounted their horses and bid the chief a formal farewell. The chief had promised to consider the matter. At Quinn’s suggestion, Meuserbach had packed up all the gifts, leaving only the knives and a few pieces of cloth as tokens of friendship. Carson rode out in the rear position, feeling the gazes of the band on his back like hot sun.
When they were out of earshot, Meuserbach asked, “What do you think? Will they decide to make peace with us?”
Quinn said, “Maybe. Maybe not. We did our best. I think the quality of the gifts and the fact that they were different from anything the Comanche had been offered by whites before made an impression.”
“Yes,” Carson joined in, “and your speech about how Germans live differently and how you had been a soldier was very good. It explained much to them but informed them that you shouldn’t be dismissed as harmless.” A good fighter is the only kind of man they respect.
The trip back took less time. They weren’t tracking, and they wanted to get back to the settlement fast. The thought of a well-prepared meal beside a fire beckoned. Twilight had settled over the horizon when they sighted the smoke from many cooking fires. Finally, all Carson’s tension slid down his neck and shoulders and vanished.
Just before they reached the camp, Meuserbach turned and looked Carson in the eye. “I will come to talk later. With you.”
With me? Carson lifted an eyebrow. What now?
That evening a touch of spring dampness drew Carson nearer the fire. He sat motionless on a downed log, waiting for Meuserbach to come. He tried to calm the churning of his stomach. What did the German want to talk to him about?
Her face smudged from a day of play, Erin came out of the wikiup. She sat next to him and murmured, “I think Emilio, Mother and Father are discussing Sugar and him getting married. They told me to go outside and play. Why? I want Emilio to marry Sugar. I love weddings. Our cocinera will bake a special cake and cookies. And we’ll have dancing and music.”
Carson shrugged, trying to look interested in the wedding. Erin chattered on, discussing the possibility of a new dress for Sugar’s wedding. The fire crackled. Carson added another log and a few branches. From a distance, he glimpsed Meuserbach coming toward the wikiup, working his way through the campfires, pausing here and there, answering greetings.
Mariel was of course by the Braun fire. Carson forced his gaze from her. Nearby, Tunney was flirting with the widow he’d taken a shine to, cutting wood for her fire and grinning. Carson wondered if this former Ranger, who must be near his father’s age, would finally give up war and settle down here in this valley. For a moment, he imagined doing that himself. Yet that was not possible now with a war about to begin.
Meuserbach reached him. “Guten Abend, mein Herr.”
Carson waved the man to sit on the log beside him. “Erin, why don’t you get your book from the wagon and read here by the fire. There are matters I need to discuss with Mr. Meuserbach.” Lifting the kettle from the trivet at the edge of the fire, Carson poured a cup of coffee for himself and one for the German.
Erin looked as if she wanted to argue. However, she did as she was told, though he noted that she moved nearer the wikiup, probably trying to eavesdrop.
“I appreciate much your help and your father’s today.” Meuserbach accepted the cup. “We are much in your father’s debt.”
“My father is always ready to help.” An owl hooted in the distance.
“He is a special man. He knows much. He does much.”
The German’s unexpected words hit Carson with a snap. This was a rare occurrence. White men rarely appreciated Quinn’s expertise; they usually resented both it and Quinn unless they needed him. Somehow Meuserbach’s words uncapped a well of words. Carson couldn’t stop from saying, “When I had barely learned to walk and talk, my father began teaching me—how to track men and game, how to fight with my fists and sword, how to shoot a gun and bow, how to navigate my way by knowing the stars. He taught me sign language along with my first words of English. Then he taught me to speak Cherokee, Comanche, and Spanish.” Recalling this, Carson’s love and respect for his father warmed him, strengthened him.
Meuserbach shook his head ruefully. “Next to you, I am ein Kind, a child here.”
“I know what you mean.” Carson glanced at Erin, whose lips were moving as she read. “This land changes so swiftly that a man must know more, always learn more. In the thirty-five years since my parents settled here, Texas has gone from a Spanish colony to independent Mexico with a constitution to a Mexican dictatorship to free Republic of Texas and now a U.S. state. And a war may be about to start.”
Meuserbach made a noise of surprise. “Krieg? War?”
“Yes, another war with Mexico.” The word was a knot in Carson’s chest. “Because of all this change, both my parents said I must be ready for anything. My mother taught me white manners, the Bible, and some Latin, along with history and Shakespeare. She told me I must learn both ways—the way of whites and the way of the frontier. You have just come here. I warn you don’t expect this land to stay the same as it is now. It doesn’t.”
If war did come and Mexico won, would his parents lose their land, their home? I won’t let that happen, Carson thought to himself.
Meuserbach sipped his hot coffee pensively and nodded.
Though worries of war gnawed Carson, he sensed that Meuserbach had something more he wanted to say, dreaded to say. Carson waited, listening to the muted voices rising and falling all around.
Finally the words came. “I hear there is a rumor about the widow Frau Wolffe.”
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br /> Jolted, Carson forced himself to keep a straight face. “Oh?”
“Yes, some say that Frau Heller accused her of trying to…” The German had been speaking quickly before, but now he groped for words. “…lure her husband into…Indiskretion, indiscretion. Others say that she caused a fight between Heller and you over her favors.” Meuserbach stared into his face.
Anger flamed up inside Carson. “That’s ridiculous. Anyone can see that she is a good woman.”
Meuserbach shrugged. “I think the same. Still, this will be a problem. I suggest to Herr Braun that he marry her and end the rumors. She seems to have become friends with your family.” The German studied Carson, as if wanting something, an explanation, a suggestion.
Carson didn’t respond outwardly by so much as a blink. But chaos ripped through him. Why should Mariel have to marry a man she barely knew just because people liked to gossip? And the idea of Mariel belonging to another man…The sensation of kissing Mariel seared through him like the heat of an adobe oven.
“I thought you should be told,” Meuserbach said as he rose. He handed Carson his empty cup, bid him an abrupt good night, and ambled away.
Carson gripped his tin cup tighter. In the shadowy distance, he watched Mariel bed down the two little Braun boys. Braun hovered nearby, casting worried glances toward Mariel. She rose from the children and gazed around. Everyone looked the other way. Carson felt the tin cup in his hand give; he’d squeezed it too hard. Lukewarm coffee splashed on his hand. He stood but halted. He almost went to her.
But he was still a man who served Texas. His Ranger captain would expect him back soon. His leave to go visit family was nearly spent. A possible war loomed. Perhaps, whether Mariel liked it or not, he should tell the truth publicly about what Heller had tried to do to her. Would that help or damage her reputation more?