Stands a Ranger

by Cotton Smith

  Two-Wolves repeated his earlier assessment of the physician word for word to make certain it was understood and added, “Doc-tor Rem-eeng-ton Hold-den mucho bad hombre. Want to take land from Frau Von Pearce. Und her cows. No one help. Nein. Fear medicina. Mag-ic. Kia. Ja. May-be.”

  Carlow held back a smile at Two-Wolves’s inclusion of German and Spanish words. Quite a mix of sounds, he mused to himself and realized the man thought his non-Comanche words were all from the same language. But Two-Wolves’s face pinched in worry, and he explained that a week before, Holden’s men had surrounded the Von Pearces’ major pond and wouldn’t let the Cradle 6 herd get to the water.

  “Ich want go with cows. Ja. Ich . . . haff fear . . . Doc-tor Rem-eeng-ton Hold-den come when Ich not here.” Two-Wolves finished his assessment.

  The Comanche’s eyes now showed frustration, then changed into the look of a warrior ready to stand and die in battle. A glimpse of his soul. But there was always a look of sadness there. Deep sadness, Carlow thought, even earlier, when he was happily talking about the buckskin.

  Chapter Eight

  Trying to understand more about this physician and his wife, Carlow asked what Two-Wolves meant by “cut off hand and say it must be.” Most likely, this was a description of a surgery and the Indian wrangler had misunderstood its purpose.

  His dark eyes glistening with anger, Two-Wolves rattled off a story of a cowboy, who had worked for the Von Pearces, being captured by Holden’s men and that the doctor had cut off the cowboy’s left hand as a warning to the others. His own branding iron was used to cauterize the wound. He said a big man with fiery hair had dragged the severed hand around on a rope while other gunmen with them laughed. Bea would not let Two-Wolves go after them. She cried when she saw the man without a hand. He did not die but left the ranch soon after.

  Carlow was stunned. Had he heard correctly? Two-Wolves had carefully supported his explanation with sign language and Carlow knew it well from being with his Apache friend. Surely there had to be another reason for this action by the doctor. Surely the cowboy had injured his hand in a way that it had to be removed or gangrene would have set in. Surely.

  Before Carlow could ask further, the Indian wrangler knelt and drew a circle in the dirt with his finger, adding marks that extended beyond it. Carlow knew this was a symbol of the moon and its strange power. Beside this crude design, he made a stick figure of a woman and expounded on the doctor’s wife. He was certain her power came from the moon, which was also feminine in his view. With this lunar guidance, she could see things before they happened and could call on the spirits to join her.

  The late Herman Von Pearce had told him that she had even killed two friends of his and Bea’s. Carlow thought this had happened two years ago, if he understood the Indian correctly. The couple had owned a small ranch not far from here, but the doctor owned it now. Two-Wolves said an ear was cut off each body and the mark of the moon was made on their faces. In their own blood. He said they had come from the same place across the Great Waters that the Von Pearces had come from. Then he cautioned that he hadn’t seen this himself; only heard about it from Bea’s late husband, who was a friend of that family. With a shake of his head, he added that Comanches were blamed for the murders.

  Carlow couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He bit his lower lip and tried to make meaning of it all. His uncle would have readily agreed that the moon was a mysterious force to be reckoned with. Maybe the Indian wrangler had become unbalanced after the death of Herman Von Pearce, a man he obviously liked and trusted—certainly, such a mental state could occur. It had happened to him after his Ranger friend was mur dered. Maybe he had misunderstood Herman’s story. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had heard words from another language and come away with the wrong impression.

  As if he were no longer interested in the subject, Two-Wolves pointed at Carlow’s wolf-dog, who was sitting quietly on his haunches. Carlow had forgotten about him and quickly glanced at the barn. No chickens were in sight.

  “Where you get? Tuhtseena?”

  “He’s only part wolf. Chance, that’s his name. Don’t know what the other part is, though.”

  Trying to forget Two-Wolves’s wild stories, the young Ranger explained the animal had come to him while he was on his way to avenge his best friend’s death. He told about having just visited his friend’s grave but didn’t mention leaving his uncle there, pleading with him not to go and seek revenge. He thought the explanation might help the Indian express his feelings about his boss’s being killed.

  In his distinctive mixture of languages, Two-Wolves said authoritatively, “Wolf is strong puha. He is spirit of your amigo. Ja, it is so. Wolf is your puhahante. Spirit helper. Give you mucho wisdom. Courage. Guide you to spirit world. Strong puha against Doc-tor Remeeng-ton Hold-den und his wife. It ist so.”

  “Well, my uncle would agree with you,” Carlow responded, rubbing the open palm of his right hand with his left fingers. “He’s an Irishman, through and through, and believes that . . .” He stopped the thought, knowing its completion might offend the man, and changed subjects. “What about little Hattie? What happened to her parents?”

  Two-Wolves wasn’t ready to leave the subject of the wolf and its spiritual significance. His own name and his spirit medicine had come from a vision where a pair of wolves appeared and told of many things that would happen, including the fall of his people. He shut his eyes for a moment and added that he feared his spirit helpers had abandoned him, as the buffalo medicine had left the Comanche. Solemnly, he advised that Carlow’s wolf medicine would go away if it was not cared for; the Comanche took the buffalo for granted, and it went to the spirit world.

  Shaking his head for emphasis, the Indian wrangler said he had not mistreated his wolf helpers but thought they walked with their buffalo brothers to another land far away. He wasn’t sure. Even Mother Earth had turned away from the Comanche now. All the buffalo were gone, and the Comanche were locked inside tiny lands no one wanted. Even Quannah Parker was in chains.

  “Once, we ride like mucho storm. We are Noomah, ‘The People.’ Mother Earth happy to give us what we need. Ja. Live strong. Mucho pony herds. Mucho warriors. Mucho happy. All fear Kwahadi. Happy wives and children. Now we ist dust. Huhkupy,” Two-Wolves said, looking down at his boots. He dragged the right one in front of the other. “Mein wife. Mein sons. They be burned to death by bluecoats. Muerto. Ich get this but nein save them. Nein.” He touched the scarred side of his face.

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Swallowing away the returning grief, his Comanche words came fast and blurred, but Carlow thought the man had tried to commit suicide after losing his family. Soldiers rounded up the remaining tribesmen and marched them all the way north to the Fort Sill reservation. Southern tribes were placed on a defined area of barren soil and told they must live there, learn to plow, and forget about the medicine of the buffalo, the wolf, and the eagle.

  Carlow’s eyes blinked with pain; soldiers had attacked Kayitah’s small village on the pretense of gathering them for movement to the same reservation. His friend had died fighting for freedom. Freedom! How could the Ranger’s countrymen do such things? He swallowed the bile of bitter memories.

  Two-Wolves said something to Chance that the young Ranger didn’t understand. The wolf-dog bounced upright and came over to the Comanche warrior. He grinned and rubbed the dog’s face warmly and said again, “Strong puha. Ja. Mucho.” He patted Chance firmly on the back. “Star warriors of Tehannas fight mein people. Ich believe you come for me. Ich believe we must fight.” His reddened eyes sought Carlow’s. “Ich know this ist not so. It ist well.”

  Chance licked the Indian wrangler’s hand and triggered a faint smile on his bronzed face.

  Watching in silence, Carlow knew isolated war parties of Comanche, Kiowa, and Southern Cheyenne rode through Texas and the Nations, cutting into civilization wherever and however they could, but their tribal strength was forever broken. He searc
hed his mind for words that would comfort. Nothing came at first.

  “Charlie Two-Wolves, you are a great warrior. I am proud to know you,” Carlow finally said. “I am glad we did not meet in battle.”

  “Kaaty made it so. Pabo taiboo’s Jesus did agree.”

  Carlow nodded his acceptance of Two-Wolves’s view that the Comanche God and the Christians’ Jesus had guided their acquaintance.

  The Comanche wrangler shrugged his shoulders. “After bluecoats leave, Ich bury mein wife and sons. All me kamakuru . . . muerte. Start them on spirit trail. Ich ride mucho days. Nein care. Nein eat. Kaaty bring me here. Ich stay. Ich fight. Ich die here. So be it.”

  Carlow was moved by the man’s simple declaration of courage. If what Two-Wolves said was true, it was obvious this ranch wasn’t going to remain in Bea Von Pearce’s hands long. How could it? She was outnumbered and outgunned. Before long she would have no more riders, then no cattle. Then it was only a matter of a few more days before this Dr. Holden, whoever he was, and his men came calling.

  Surely, the Indian wrangler was wrong, for the scenario running through Carlow’s mind was void of any optimism. The Comanche wrangler had to be mistaken. He had been through a lot and was probably seeing everything through that terrible agony. Seeing every action as evil, every situation as dire. Who wouldn’t? Didn’t he say that he first thought the young Ranger had come for him?

  Two-Wolves began to speak, interrupting Carlow’s musing. As if the question had just been asked, Two-Wolves explained that Hattie’s parents had died of fever when she was an infant, and she had lived with Mrs. Von Pearce since she was three.

  “Mrs. Von Pearce is lucky to have haitsii like you,” Carlow said, pronouncing the Comanche word for “friend” carefully so he wouldn’t misuse it.

  Two-Wolves smiled at the compliment, then asked, “Why pabo taiboo’s Jesus listen to Doc-tor Rem-eengton Hold-den und his wife who loves der moon und her spirits?”

  “I don’t know, my friend,” Carlow said, watching Two-Wolves continue to whisper to Chance, and decided to tell him about the unfairness of both his friends, Kayitah and Dornan, dying young.

  Before he could start, Two-Wolves motioned toward the knife held in Carlow’s leggings. The Indian wrangler had studied the Ranger’s gunbelt earlier without comment. “Comanche. Remembered fight?” It was a question of interest and not threatening.

  “A gift from my friend. Kayitah. He was Mescalero. Said it came from a fight. In the mountains, I think.”

  “Apache. Si. Mucho der fights . . . Comanche and Apache.” Two-Wolves grinned. “Comanche always win. Push Apache into mountain. There be remembered fight, ja?”

  Carlow leaned down, withdrew the blade, and handed it, hilt-first, to the Indian wrangler.

  As if to verify the friendship, Two-Wolves withdrew the large knife at his belt and handed it to Carlow in the same way.

  Examining the sharp edge of Two-Wolves’s knife, Carlow told him that Kayitah had been shot down by U.S. cavalry in an attack on his village. Carlow heard about it and had immediately sought his body for proper burial. With Kileen’s support—and McNelly’s—the army unofficially allowed him onto the site of the pitiful massacre. Carlow’s best friend, Shannon Dornan, had joined him. They found Kayitah’s favorite horse and took it with them to a cave where Kayitah’s body was prepared and laid. It wasn’t quite an Apache burial, but they feared reprisals by angry soldiers. They killed the horse so his friend would be mounted in the afterlife, as was Apache custom. Less than two years later, Carlow said Dornan died in an ambush by the Mallow gang. He didn’t mention that he was badly wounded in the same battle.

  “Kayitah lucky to have haitsii like you.” Two-Wolves stood, repeated Carlow’s earlier compliment about him, and returned his knife.

  Handing back the Indian wrangler’s knife, Carlow opened his mouth to answer, but Bea Von Pearce’s clarion announcement from the porch stopped the conversation. “Ah, Herr Ranger Carlow, here ist gut food. Keep yah strong. Sausages und biscuits. Apples. Some for der sweet tooth being there, too. Ja.” She held a canvas sack with both hands.

  Hattie peeked around the open door and giggled.

  “Sounds good to me,” Carlow said, and touched Two-Wolves’s arm. “I’ll see you again, haitsii.”

  “Kaaty make it so. And pabo taiboo’s Jesus, haitsii. Ja.”

  Carlow told the wolf-dog to remain with the Indian wrangler. The beast’s tail wagged and Two-Wolves rubbed his ears and head.

  Walking toward her, Carlow frowned. “Ma’am, Charlie Two-Wolves tells me you are facing some tough times. I’d like to help you if I can.”

  Her reaction was not the one Carlow expected. Bea’s expression rejected his question as if it were a slap in her face.

  “Herr Ranger Carlow, Charlie should not be telling of such stories, Ich think. Nein. Fine are ve doing. That old Indian ist seeing der things. Or his speaking nein so gut und yah not hear true. Maybe he has found mein Herman’s whiskey.”

  “What about this Remington Holden? The doctor? Sounds like he’s trying to take your land.” Carlow glanced back toward where Two-Wolves had been standing, but the Comanche wrangler was nowhere in sight. Almost as if he had been a figment of the young Ranger’s imagination. Only Chance remained, sitting on his back legs.

  Holding the sack against her bosom, she glanced back at Hattie before answering. “Nein, Dr. Holden ist nein doing so. Mein Gott, he to bring doctoring and medicine to all of us. Ist rich man, it ist so. He haff hotel in town und medicine store—und big ranch. Ja, much so der biggest for many meiles. His mutter and vater pass, him become rich. He und his beautiful frau.” She shook her head to emphasize the woman’s beauty. “Ven mein Herman be shot, Dr. Holden come to see if he could be of helfen. Too late, it vas. Comfort to me, he give.” She hesitated and added, “He offer to buy ranch to helfen me.” She swallowed to hold back the released anguish.

  “What about the trouble at your watering hole? When Holden’s men turned your cattle away?” Carlow pressed.

  “There vas, how yah say, a mix-it-up at mein pond. Nothing, it vas. Nein to involve Dr. Holden, anyway. He vas nein there. At mein pond vas other neighbor’s men.”

  “Charlie says you’ve only got five riders with your herd now, and this man is stealing . . .”

  “Ooch, that Charlie. He to be teasing yah, Herr Ranger.” She smiled. “Comanche joke, Ich am believing. Cradle 6 riders are zehn. Ah, ten. They be gut men, mein Herman hire them all.”

  “But your man getting his hand cut off? Didn’t . . .”

  Bea’s frown stopped his question. “Der doctor to save his life, he did. Der gangrene was about him. Terrible. Dr. Holden ist gut man.” Her expression didn’t quite match her words, as if it didn’t feel right to be saying them. Was that fear glistening in her eyes for a moment?

  Carlow was puzzled by the contrast in descriptions. Bea pushed the food sack into his arms. “Now, off vit yah, Herr Ranger Carlow. Vorry no more of Charlie’s words. He gets things in wrong places all der time. He ist Comanche, yah know, and they not be seeing our world so much.”

  Holding the food with care, Carlow continued to search Bea’s face for the truth.

  She smiled again and her eyes laid their warmth on the young Ranger. “Charlie come riding in hier one day, ask for job. Mein Herman hire him, and he tell me Charlie Two-Wolves ist der best man vit hosses he has ever been seeing. Charlie ist gut man also, besides . . . but does not to be knowing our ways. Ich forgive him.” She crossed her arms in finale.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you about it,” Carlow said.

  “Mein buckskin vill carry yah far and fast. Your fine black horse vaiting it be vhen yah return.” Her hand went to her mouth as she remembered something. “Oh, Ich write der bill of selling for der buckskin and place in der sack. If someone should be asking of it. And Ich hope yah can next time stay for der supper, Herr Ranger Carlow.”

  Hattie slipped past Bea and went immediately to Chance, presenting
him with two small pieces of sausage. Kneeling, the little girl was preoccupied with petting the wolf-dog, who acted more like a puppy than a fierce wild animal. She leaned over and kissed his ear, looked up at Carlow, and asked, “Ranger Carlow, do you like to play make-believe?”

  The young Ranger glanced at Bea and turned back to the blond-braided girl. “Well, Miss Hattie, I suppose I do.”

  “Oh, good! I like to play it, too. What do you like to pretend to be?”

  He laughed. This wasn’t a line of questioning he was used to hearing. “Now, that’s a good question. What do you like to pretend to be?”

  “I asked you first.”

  Carlow grinned. “Yes, you did. Let’s see,” he answered, “I . . . ah, I like to pretend I’m a mountain man. With a big grizzly bear coat.”

  “Oh, that is a good one. I like to pretend that I am a fine lady, and one day a handsome cowboy comes and wants to marry me.”

  “Well, that’s a good one, too, Hattie,” he said. “Such a beautiful—and smart—girl will have her pick of cowboys, I reckon, when the time comes.”

  “Will you come?”

  His face reddened. The older woman knew he was coming back only for his black horse, and so did he. What do you tell a little girl?

  “I’ll sure do it if I can,” he finally muttered, glancing at Bea.

  “That’s a promise, you know,” Hattie added, her bright eyes seeking reasssurance in his expression.

  Chapter Nine

  Out of sight of the ranch, the young Ranger tested the buckskin’s training by pressing and releasing his legs against the animal’s belly. The horse reponded instantly with a trot. More pressure brought a lope. Laying the reins against the right side of the buckskin’s neck turned it in that direction. A good sign, one of training. A spoken “whoa” brought it to an immediate stop without pulling on the reins. Carlow acknowledged to himself that Two-Wolves was, indeed, a good horse trainer. He pressed the horse’s sides again with his legs and the smooth lope resumed.