by Judith Pella
But while sadness tugged at her from behind, anticipation and hopefulness drew her forward. She was on her way to her very own home! Where a new life awaited her, where her children could grow and be nurtured, and where she herself could continue to become the kind of person God intended her to be.
Part 7
New Beginnings
66
Deborah reined her mount as she topped a small rise. The gray stallion, recently christened “Pepper” by Carolyn because of the smattering of black hairs in his coat, whinnied and stamped his foot impatiently at stopping when there was such an inviting stretch of flatland on which to run. He had only just begun to stretch his strong legs.
Glancing over her shoulder, Deborah smiled at the cloud of dust raised by her military escort. The gray whinnied again, and Deborah was certain he, too, glanced back.
If it was flat terrain that the gray wanted, then he should have been more than satisfied in Deborah’s new home. These lands on the northern Brazos in west Texas were one flat plain after another, with hardly a tree or a plant interrupting the grassy expanse. Only the azure sky overhead was more extensive in its reach. This rise on which Deborah now paused to survey the countryside was likely the tallest hill around. She supposed, by some estimates, the land was monotonous, even barren. But she never failed to be thrilled by it. Perhaps part of that was because as far as her eye could see, this particular stretch of real estate belonged to her!
And tucked safely in her saddlebag was indisputable proof of that fact, obtained just yesterday from the postmaster at Fort Griffin. But the deed from Mr. Farley, now legally bearing her name, represented only a part of her acquisitions. Immediately upon arriving at the fort last November, she had begun purchasing other land in case the deal with Farley somehow fell through. Land was cheap, and she quickly learned that much more was needed to support even an average size herd than she had imagined. By various means she had come into possession of another five thousand acres and was working on a deal to purchase four thousand more. With Farley’s land, it would give her a total of fourteen thousand acres—a sum that continually astounded her, being many times larger than anything even imagined in Virginia. If she started riding at dawn, it would take her until noon to cross her property at its widest point.
Deborah realized, of course, that by Texas standards her tract of land was only average. Under the best of conditions, she could graze no more than five hundred head of cattle on the entire portion, but the open range gave her additional space. She was not blind to the reason why the land had sold so cheaply. Not only was the land relatively barren, there were also the Comanche—though, thus far, since her arrival, she had encountered no trouble with them.
Nevertheless, the commander of the fort had upbraided her soundly for the foolhardiness of settling that far west, reminding her, as if she didn’t know, that the fort was forty miles away, and it would easily take two full days to summon and receive help from that source.
Deborah recalled her most recent visit to the fort, from which she was now returning home. The commander, a Captain Ludlam, still managed to find opportunity to browbeat her.
“You don’t mean to tell me you rode here all by yourself!” he had exclaimed upon seeing her.
“I did.”
“I thought you was maybe a mite crazy before, but now I see you’re just plumb deranged. What were you thinking of?” He waved his hands in the air with frustration. “We got hostiles out there, Mrs. Graham. Why, just a week ago, Comanches raided a homestead east of you. Everyone, to a man, was killed—not just killed, but butchered. Do you understand? Men, women, and children, excepting for a little girl they took captive. God only knows what’ll become of her!” He paused, suddenly realizing the impropriety of his words spoken to a lady. But deciding this stubborn woman needed to be shocked, he forged ahead. “I buried them folks myself, ma’am. I been fighting Indians for years and I have never beheld the horrendous atrocities that were performed upon those poor souls. So maybe you’ll excuse my fit of temper when I hear you’ve been prancing over the plains like you owned the world.”
“Listen, Captain Ludlam, what you have told me about the raid makes me heartsick,” said Deborah with intense sincerity. “But it also makes me more certain that I did the right thing in coming alone. I have three men working for me—all crack shots—and a Mexican woman caring for my children. She could handle a gun if need be. However, one of my men is down from a snakebite; I nearly lost him. That leaves two men—possibly three in a pinch—and a woman to defend my place and my children. There is no way you can convince me I should have taken any of them from the defense of my home and family.”
The captain clamped his mouth shut, ceasing any further protests. Deborah continued. “I have a horse that can outrun any Comanche mount on these plains, and I am a pretty fair shot myself, otherwise I would not have taken such a risk.”
She no doubt left him thinking she was just as crazy as before, but she had noted a new respect in his voice as he concluded the interview.
“I will be happy to dispatch six of my troopers to accompany you back home, Mrs. Graham.”
“Thank you, Captain; you have made me nervous enough to accept.”
The troopers were trailing behind her now, two of them looking rather disgruntled as they trotted up next to her. Having heard her boasts about the gray, they had challenged her to a race and were now regretting their cocky bravado. The fact that two trained cavalry troopers had been beaten by a woman would be a hard defeat to live down.
“Mrs. Graham,” said one of them with the utmost respect, “now that we are so far distant from the fort, I feel it would be wise to ride in close formation.”
“All right, Sergeant Butler, I’ll try, but sometimes it is hard to hold Pepper back.”
Of course, her statement was pure bunk. She had complete control of the gray even when they were galloping full-tilt over the plains, but she couldn’t tell these soldiers, who were only following orders and trying to be helpful, that their company made her as nervous as riding alone in hostile Indian territory. She wondered if she would ever feel quite comfortable around bluecoats.
But while she was at the fort, it hadn’t been the soldiers that had disturbed her most. Rather, it had come from a group of settlers gathered in the Sutler’s store, similar to the one in Fort Dodge. One man in particular had seemed bent on harassing her—a man named William Yates. He was tall and husky, and no doubt had earned his nickname of “Big Bill” Yates for that reason. He was in his mid-thirties and had a broad, round face toughened by years of outdoor labor. He started in on Deborah barely a moment after she entered the store.
“Ain’t you that woman that bought the Farley place?” he asked, though the tone of his voice and the glint of his cool gray eyes indicated his words were a demand, not a question.
Deborah was immediately put on her guard. But these men were her neighbors, even if some of them were more than a day’s ride away from her, and she felt it necessary to be friendly.
“Yes, I am. I arrived last winter. I don’t believe I have met you, sir. My name is Deborah Graham.”
“Name’s Yates. I came here a year ago.” He stated this as if it were of great significance that his arrival predated hers.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Yates.” She extended her hand, but Yates ignored it. She spoke again, tightly, but still determined to be neighborly. “Whereabouts is your place?”
“North of you.”
Much to Deborah’s relief the conversation temporarily waned and she took the opportunity to place her order with the storekeeper. But Yates wasn’t through with her.
“You the one with the half-breed kid?” he asked, or rather barked.
All of Deborah’s Christian virtues could not prevent her from rankling at this, but her tone remained even as she answered, “I have a son who is half Cheyenne.”
“Well, I’m going to be blunt with you,” he said, as if this were news. “I was neighbor to
the family that was just massacred by them murdering Injuns. I knew Pete Cook personally.”
“You have my sympathies, Mr. Yates. The whole incident is simply dreadful.” Somehow, though, Deborah did not think it was sympathy that Yates was looking for.
“I don’t like Injuns, Mrs. Graham. I hate them. I’ll kill any on sight and ask questions later. You understand?”
“I don’t know why you are telling me this.”
“You just keep that Injun kid of yours in tow. He’ll get nothing but trouble here if he tries anything.”
“My son is two years old, Mr. Yates!” exclaimed Deborah with utter revulsion.
“Ma’am,” said another man, “we don’t mean to be un-neighborly, but these days we’re all pretty touchy about Injuns. We just figured you’d want to be fairly warned.”
“Warned—!” Deborah’s fury momentarily tied up her tongue and she could not speak.
“We don’t blame the boy,” said this new speaker. “It ain’t his fault what’s in his blood—” This was spoken with such haughty self-righteousness that Deborah began to sputter again, but to no verbal effect. “Especially seeing as how the boy is just a baby,” the man continued. “But he ain’t going to be a baby forever. And so you might say we’re just concerned about the future.”
Deborah had absolutely no ready response for this. She wanted to tell them what foolish bigots they were, what imbeciles. She wanted to accuse them of being the cause of all the Indian problems. She wanted to scream, she wanted to physically attack them. But she did none of these things. Instead, she spun around on her heel and left the store.
It had taken half the ride back home for her to simmer down after that encounter. She had welcomed the race with the soldiers as a much-needed release of her pent-up emotions. And she had to admit she had gloated in her victory more than she normally would have.
The sun was low in the western sky when they crossed onto Deborah’s land. They had left the fort at dawn, and it would be another hour before reaching the ranch house. Deborah realized more acutely than ever how isolated she was. Seven well-mounted riders could make the trek in a day at a brisk pace; an entire company, with provisions, would take two days at best. Besides the fort, Deborah’s nearest neighbors—two brothers and their wives, with a handful of children—were twenty miles away. She had sought isolation and found it, but with it came risks as well.
The afternoon sun had dropped out of sight when they passed a scraggly post oak that stood as a landmark of sorts indicating only five more miles to the house. There, Deborah first noticed that the sky was becoming streaked with gray. She thought it was the sunset, or perhaps one of those sudden spring storms the area was so famous for.
Sergeant Butler drew up next to her, his nose twitching in the air. “You smell something peculiar?” he said.
The gray stallion had been growing progressively skittish, but Deborah attributed this to the nearness of home. Now, she also sniffed the air. It was definitely a pungent, burning odor. Deborah glanced at Butler, perplexed and alarmed. They rode on at a brisk pace, Deborah and Butler now several lengths ahead of the others. Then they heard it.
Gunfire!
Deborah gave no thought to consequences; all she heard echoing in her mind were Captain Ludlam’s words: “I have never beheld the horrendous atrocities that were performed upon those poor souls.”
Her children were in danger, perhaps already at the mercy of raiding Comanche. That the continuing sound of gunfire indicated her men were yet giving fight provided little comfort. All she could think of was her children in the midst of battle and fire, just like Washita. They had been spared then, but what would prevent them from being taken now?
“Oh, God …” she cried. “Not now, God … !”
She dug her heels into the gray’s flanks, and as the stallion responded to her urging, Deborah drew her rifle and charged as if she were the entire Tenth Cavalry. Her six companions were galloping right at her heels, rifles and Colts also drawn and ready for action.
67
Two dozen Comanche warriors surrounded Deborah’s house. Half a dozen Indian bodies lay fallen in the yard.
As Deborah galloped onto the scene and saw the fierce warriors, she was in no frame of mind to make a rational count of her enemies. There could have been a hundred of them, or merely ten. What mattered was that they were attacking her home, her family! They had already set the barn ablaze and the flames, as they licked up toward the cloudless sky, had ignited a fire in a corner of the house.
Deborah fired five shots in rapid succession, loading her Sharps breech-loader each time faster than a single breath. Two Comanche braves fell, but she couldn’t be sure if it was due to her fire or that of the bluecoats, who were now lending a lethal support to the battle.
The arriving reinforcements placed the Comanche in a precarious position. Previously they had been assured of victory. Another torch to the house, if only the staunch defenders would allow them to get close enough, would have sealed the end of the battle. But suddenly the Indians found themselves sandwiched in on two sides. Moreover, they had no idea if the arriving cavalry were the vanguard of a larger force. In moments they could well find themselves facing an entire company!
Their only hope was to recover to a more advantageous position. But Sergeant Butler, a seasoned veteran of the Indian wars, second-guessed the Comanche. He realized a divided force was usually weakened, yet he also knew a two-front battle was just as tenuous. Surmising immediately that the defenders of the besieged house were excellent shots, and the risk to his men of being cut down by “friendly fire” was minimal, he decided to maintain his position and literally put the squeeze on the warriors.
Two more Indians fell, but the gunfire from the house was also diminishing. They could well be running out of ammunition.
It became a battle plan that had to be measured in minutes, not hours, for soon the Comanche would realize no more white reinforcements were coming. If the Indians were not routed quickly, both the soldiers and the residents of the house would be lost. Butler and his men, with Deborah’s able support, returned a ferocious barrage of fire in the next five minutes. They were free enough with their ammo to further encourage the assumption that a larger force of soldiers was on the way.
Three more Comanche lay dead, but one of Butler’s men also fell before the Comanche made good a hasty retreat.
A loud whoop rose from the soldiers and Deborah could hear cheers from the house also. Without pausing for a breath, Deborah galloped to the house where the residents were already filing out of the smoky quarters.
“Children!” Deborah cried, leaping from the gray’s back and racing on foot the rest of the distance to the house.
“Mama!” they called in unison.
Sky first ran into her anxious arms, with Carolyn right behind her brother.
The girl was weeping as she clung to her mother. “Mama, why were the Indians shooting? Don’t they know we are friends?”
The simple question burned into Deborah’s heart. “I know it’s confusing, dear, but …” That was all she could say, for it was too complex even for Deborah to comprehend.
In the meantime, the soldiers, with the assistance of Griff and Longjim, were busy dousing the fire in the house. A frustrated Slim, immobile from a snakebite, had been able to sit by a window and lend gun support to the Indian battle, but he was helpless to assist in the cleanup. The barn had already burned to the ground. But fortunately, by the time the last flame was quenched, only a quarter of the house had been lost. The kitchen and front of the house were intact. A bedroom in back, the only other room in the house, had been totally destroyed. Yolanda, Deborah’s nurse for the children, quickly set about wiping away the ashes from the kitchen and began preparing supper for the household and the heroic soldiers. With this task in good hands, Deborah turned to more grievous work.
Leaving the children with Yolanda, she headed out to the barn. Griff was already there, shaking his head miserab
ly.
“We were pinned down when they torched the barn, Deborah,” he said remorsefully. “I tried to get out to save the horses but …” He paused, wiping a hand across his grimy, sweat-streaked face. Deborah noticed blood running down the back of his hand.
“Griff, you’re wounded!”
“Just grazed a mite. Ain’t nothing. It’s the loss of the horses that hurts more.”
“All of them?”
“Except for Longjim’s. He was out on the range when the shooting started. He rode in and slipped into the back door of the house; I reckon—leastways I hope—his horse wandered off somewhere and is safe.” Griff’s voice was tight with emotion. Deborah had never seen him like this. “Deborah, I had that palomino of mine for a lot of years. Why, he was a better friend to me than most humans!”
“I am so sorry, Griff.”
“I coulda killed every one of them Injuns for that alone.”
“Oh, Griff …”
Suddenly ashamed because of his harsh words, Griff quickly added, “Forgive me, Deborah. I forgot for a minute how you feel ‘bout Indians.”
She gave a sympathetic shake of her head. “I could have done the same, Griff, when I saw my children and my friends in danger. God forgive me, but in an instant I forgot all those years of love.”
“It’s only natural.” Griff tried to comfort her, but with little success.
“I’m confused, Griff. I hadn’t let myself think of it until now, but I have made myself the enemy by moving here, by taking over Indian lands. I’ve done to these Comanche just what other whites did to the Cheyenne.”
“Now you ain’t being fair to yourself at all!” argued Griff. “You’re entitled to land and a home, too. There’s plenty for everyone.”
“But don’t you see? I just came and took it over. Why didn’t I ask them first—”