The arrival of Rufus Long with the body of the Tonkawa scout Joseph Williams had changed the plan.
“It was a renegade, not a raiding party,” Long had told Keel and Col. Nightingale at a meeting that had been called at once in the captain’s office where the men were having breakfast. “One of our men—one of our former men—stopped him.”
Keel had told a perplexed colonel who Hank Gannon was and explained that he had resigned and departed. Long did not add to the captain’s sketchy account. The colonel had left to arrange a march across the Colorado River, while Keel had asked his officer to stay.
“What is Gannon doing out there?” the captain had asked.
“Livin’ off the land,” Long said. “He didn’t say much.” The black man did not reveal the message he was supposed to deliver to Miss Breen. It was an unwritten law among the men that anything that wasn’t police business wasn’t Keel’s business.
Nightingale’s men were perfectly regimented in their brown uniforms and matching peaked campaign hats with wide brims to keep out the sun. The high collars were buttoned and their hands were bare. One man in the two-man line directly behind the colonel was the standard-bearer, who carried the thirty-seven-star flag of the nation. The man to his left carried the flag of Texas. The whites in Keel’s group could count on half of one hand the number of times they had ridden behind an American flag since the end of the War. Many of those men had to swallow their visceral resentment at being partnered with the banner. They were still Texicans first, Southerners second.
Compared to the white, crisply dressed members of the guard, Keel’s men were a careless mix of skin colors and casual appearance. Except for Dr. Zachary, who rode in a compact, two-wheel, one-horse ambulance wagon in the rear, all the men wore dark vests, white shirts, and badges, but some were bareheaded, and not all had shaved that day. It was not a question of respect, or Keel would have disciplined them. It was a matter of priorities. Some had just arrived from other posts, two were trackers who needed flexibility, and others did not expect to have time for grooming in the field so didn’t bother with it. If it bothered Nightingale, he did not show it. The police reflected on Keel, not on him. The citizenry who came out to see the muster were clustered mostly behind the men in uniform. Even the governor came by to see the militia off.
A parade where the parade is the honoree, Keel thought with displeasure. He remembered events like these from the War, rallies that kept fighting men from the front, where they were needed, to calm anxiety at home and in the halls of power.
But as soon as they had crossed the river bridge at the end of Brazos Street, and were away from the city, the mission took charge. The orders the colonel had given to his men were to expand the picket line to a point where the Texas Special Police would be safe to perform their duties. That meant he could go all the way to the nearest Comanche settlement without infracting his own orders.
“Commanding well is what makes a George Custer triumph at Gettysburg and a Joseph Hooker fail at Chancellorsville,” the New Jersey–born colonel had been telling Keel over lunch. “Forward thinking is essential to victory. Major General Meaney issues all of my orders with room for initiative.”
“Does that, in your judgment, mean commanding well or commanding boldly?” Keel had asked.
“They need not be exclusive, one to the other,” Nightingale had replied. “The question you should be asking, Captain, is what is the relationship between commanding well in the field or commanding well from an office?”
“And your answer to that would be?”
“They are bound together,” he had said, knitting his fingers for emphasis.
“The general in an armchair—and I use the term with no disrespect—must believe in the judgments he makes thereupon. He must trust absolutely his commanders or he has no business fielding them. That means he must know them absolutely, as well as the challenges they are apt to face—because he has faced them himself.”
“Sadly,” Keel had replied, “the armchair general does not base everything upon experience or field reports.”
“You mean political exigency,” Nightingale had said. “And the so-called fourth estate, the gentlemen of the press. The opinion makers.” He had waved a hand. “In the end, as an idealist, I believe that men in uniform will not willingly do harm to other men in uniform.”
Keel had said, “Uriah must have thought the same before King David sent him to battle to be killed.”
“I have no wife Bathsheba,” Nightingale had remarked, smirking, just before Long arrived.
Keel believed the man had quite missed his point. It was not the reason for David’s action but the complete trust Uriah had placed in his leader that caused his demise. A credible commander will convince a good soldier to follow him anywhere, be it George Washington across the Delaware or Colonel Travis into the ill-fortified Alamo. The trick, for any man—and Keel did not exempt himself from this—was to know the leaders who, like David, would play on patriotism and loyalty to gain their own ends. In that respect, he greatly respected and also feared the Comanche. They were not a hodgepodge of nationalities and ethnicities but a unified people of countless centuries’ standing. They were bound above all by tradition, which was where King David truly broke faith and earned a place in infamy.
Nightingale’s company followed the map; Keel’s officers rode alongside but followed their instincts. The two coincided until Pilot Knob came into view some seven miles south of the city. The crusty old rock complex of knolls was a place Keel liked to visit when he had the time; it was black, gray basalt with which his crusty old self felt kinship. It consisted of a quartet of hills sprawling across two miles, mounds of traprock towering above a lowland comprised of millennia-old ash and rock and Cottonmouth Creek. The ragged old volcanic cone was the largest of the projections, as well as the home of the demon who had been blamed for the drought. To its west was hilly terrain that once spilled rainwater into the Snake Water Creek, dry these last three years. The Houston and Texas Central Railway had conducted extensive blasting in the region before routing their rails another way. The railroad was the main reason for the army’s push into Comanche territory: it was due to open in two months, on Christmas Day, and Washington—not to mention local cattle ranchers, lumber mills, and other mercantile interests—wanted the expansion to continue to Dallas and then to Red River City, where it could connect with the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railroad. That would join Texas, by rail, to St. Louis, Missouri, and the East.
Keel thought, If securing that extension took the scalp of “Uriah” Nightingale, then Major General Meaney would offer it to his God, President Grant. With self-awareness but without regret, he thought, All you have to do is ask Hank Gannon about that.
“Sir?”
The speaker was Andrew Whitestraw, a Tonkawa scout who had come in from Haskell, well to the north. He had broken ranks after the river crossing to ride several yards to the west of the column. The men continued at their steady pace.
“I smell dirt,” the man said as he pulled up on the captain’s right. He pointed toward the horizon in the direction of the dead Snake Water Creek.
Keel inhaled, did not pick up any dust in the still air. “Dust devils?” he asked.
“It’d have to be a twister to smell this far, sir,” he replied.
“Thank you,” Keel said.
The captain reined his mount to the right, rode up alongside Nightingale. He told the colonel what Whitestraw had reported.
“Your recommendation, Captain?” the officer asked.
“Whitestraw thought enough to mention it,” Keel said. “That’s enough for me.”
“Very well,” Nightingale replied.
The colonel raised his right arm so the column could see it, then leveled it at his chest and swept it laterally to the right, signaling for the command to move in that direction. Kicking up their own sandy cloud, the two groups turned due west, toward the parched arroyo.
* * *
&n
bsp; Roving Wolf was leading the horse across the increasingly rocky terrain—large, dull-edged stones from a long-ago landslide in the valley to the east—when he stopped suddenly. Still riding a few paces to the rear, Gannon stopped with him.
“Feel.” It was the first word the Indian had spoken.
Gannon did not ask what the Indian meant. He saw the man’s moccasins curl at the toe very slightly, knew he was “gripping” the stones. Feeling vibrations. Gannon knew it wasn’t the Comanche party to their rear; their presence was known. The Indian was looking ahead, toward the end of the arroyo and the lowlands beyond. Gannon’s eyes were also facing northeast. He had been planning to head in that direction and make his way back to Austin with his prisoner. If someone were approaching from that direction, it was most likely a military force, either a routine United States Army patrol or reinforcements headed toward the Comancheria. But it could also be a small unit sent by Keel to investigate Rufus Long’s report of a murdering Comanche. If that were true, the Texas Special Police would not be aware of the approaching Indian party. By the time they saw the dust, all they would be able to do would be to dig in.
Roving Wolf had reached those same conclusions and resumed walking at his previous pace. Gannon started up after him, still considering his options. It was imperative that he warn whoever was coming. A fire with signals would also alert the Comanche. He had to do it in person.
Suddenly but without haste, the Indian turned to the leather sheath on the saddle, retrieved his knife, and started walking. He left the horse, he left the body, and he left with his back facing Gannon.
The former officer raised his rifle, then lowered it. He was a step behind the Indian in everything and didn’t like that. A shot would bring everyone to this spot at a gallop, the braves arriving first. They would have time to array themselves behind whatever cover the landscape offered. Fresh from battle, the Indians would have guns; mounted horsemen would stand little chance against them.
There was no time to go down and collect the horse . . . or the Indian. Pulling his kerchief up to his eyes and tilting his hat forward, Gannon rode ahead to intercept whoever was headed west.
* * *
“Lone rider approaching!” Andrew Whitestraw shouted. “And he’s in a hurry.”
Whitestraw had assumed point position and was several hundred yards from the main columns. He had risen in his saddle, half-turned, and shouted the update, simultaneously pointing to the southwest.
Captain Keel halted his men, and Nightingale did the same. He retrieved his binoculars, and a moment later the captain saw the dust and sent Sgt. Calvin forward. The former Union marksman was the unit’s best shot and also their best boxer. Whether on horseback or on foot, he would stop whoever was charging toward them.
Keel turned to his left. “Colonel, I suggest forming a skirmish line.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Could be Moses Hawthorne or Kurt Ahrens,” Keel said. There was thickness in his voice as he added, “Doesn’t look like either.”
The colonel turned his horse around, lifted his arm to his side, and crossed his chest. The men remained on horseback but formed a single line. He drew his revolver, rode to the right of the line, and gave the “ready” order. The men drew their rifles from their holsters and held them angled at the right side, prepared to go to shoulder when ordered.
By now, Whitestraw and Keel could see that the rider was neither Hawthorne nor Ahrens. But it was Rufus Long, two rows behind the captain, who saw the billowing fur cloak, “Sir—that’s Hank Gannon.”
“Your former officer?” Nightingale asked the captain.
“Yes, Colonel.”
Nightingale ordered his men to remain as they were.
The figure materialized quickly, like a knobby plant erupting from the plain. He did not slow as he neared, only swung toward the police side of the formation which remained in a column. Recognizing the figure, Sgt. Calvin had lowered his rifle and ridden in at his side. The two men stopped between Keel and Nightingale, Gannon beside his former captain. The horses of the two commanders shied, dirt swirled, but Gannon just yanked down his kerchief and fixed his dark eyes on Captain Keel.
“There’s a force of Comanche behind me,” he said without preamble. “I do not know the size but they are coming fast.”
“How do you know this?” Keel demanded.
“One of ’em was my prisoner for killing Moses Hawthorne,” Gannon replied. His eyes shifted to Long. “Same one killed Joseph Williams.”
“The one you left with?” Long said accusingly.
Gannon replied to Long, “We recovered the Comanche boy that Williams shot, unprovoked, then we parted,” Gannon said. He backed his horse from between Captain Keel and Sgt. Calvin, addressed the former. “I’m goin’ back to get the Indian in Roche Valley. I promise to bring him in.”
Nightingale had been watching the exchange with mounting displeasure. “Captain, this traitor should not be permitted his freedom.”
“He risked that freedom to warn us,” Keel said. The captain regarded Gannon. “God willing, we will see you back in Austin.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The former officer threw his erstwhile commander a quick salute as he wheeled his horse and rode off.
The hostility he left behind was thick. Like twin suns, the antagonism of both Long and Nightingale beat down on Keel, silent but fierce. Without taking his eyes from Gannon, Keel felt in his vest pocket for a cigarette. He lit it, snuffing the match with his fingers and putting it back in his pocket. It was a habit of his, not to leave a trail that winds would not cover.
“Before anybody says anything I won’t like hearing,” Keel said to no one in particular—careful not to insult a superior, “keep in mind that the last thing you want when facing a Comanche force in front is one of their braves in back.” Now he looked at the colonel. “I assume we are continuing?”
“We are going to meet those renegades and stop them, if necessary,” Nightingale announced.
“We’ll be going, too, at a walk,” Keel said, blowing a cloud from the side of his mouth. “No sense tiring the horses. Sergeant, you ride along with Whitestraw. You see anything, report back. I want it quiet.” He pointed ahead with his smoke. “Sound carries in some of those rock formations.”
“Yes, sir,” Calvin said and turned to rejoin the scout on point.
Nightingale reformed the column, and both officers moved their men ahead.
CHAPTER FIVE
October 19, 1871
The long cart was painted black with the name Breen Carpentry lettered emphatically in white block letters on the back gate and on the slats of both sides. The sturdy cart was suitable for hauling sections of lumber and the tools used to transform raw planks into homes, shelves, patios. The seat, resting on high well-oiled springs, was fit for a man in overalls, the threadbare cushion having long ago conformed to the contours of the owner’s bottom. The draft horse was brown and on the smaller side, but what it lacked in muscle it made up for with relative speed. That was important to Albert Breen, who often had to be at a farm well outside of town to repair a loft in the morning and then show up at a church in Austin to fix a spire in the afternoon. The horse was a favorite of Gary Bosley, who felt a certain kinship with any animal who was asked to do a lot, fast. Constance was also a favorite of the stableboy, which she put to good if selfish use this particular day.
Constance was not concerned with comfort or with commerce. Haste was all that mattered, not just the need to find Hank Gannon but to be well away from Austin before her father—who was still working on the house—came looking for his cart. She had hoped to buy one of her own using her own savings and the money she had tried to collect from Captain Keel that was owed to Hank. But the commander would not pay her, saying that she had no legal standing. He advised her to have Hank write from wherever he ended up and the money would be sent.
She slowed impatiently when a large wagon loaded with dented railroad
track was in front of her, drawn to the ironworks by two slow Clydesdales. She crossed the bridge in excess of the posted speed restrictions, since the rails on the side were not sufficiently solid to stop a horse from going over. And then she took a jostling that even her tightly pinned bustle could not absorb as she drove the horse west across the lumpy field. Behind her, she could hear the distant sounds of a trumpet. No doubt the guard or the police or both were being organized for a search.
She had to reach Hank first.
Constance knew the terrain around Austin for a mile or two from excursions of the Young Ladies’ Pioneer Society at church. They brought women from the bosom of the city into the wilds for the stated goal of appreciating the hardship of their forebears—but also, and more accurately, to dissuade them from leaving home themselves. Austin in particular and Texas in general needed population, and they did not wish to lose their young women to gold rushes, homesteaders, Pacific Ocean mariners, Barbary Coast gamblers, railroad surveyors, or adventurous easterners en route to Alaska, the South Pacific, or Australia. The warnings from old Miss Smith ran together in Constance’s mind. The only real lesson the girls learned was that Carol Smith—piano teacher and church organist—would leave with any one of those gentlemen she had mentioned if one were ever to ask.
However heartfelt the warnings, the girls who went on these forays were stimulated by seeing the world outside their too-familiar streets. But now that she was out here alone, even the Smith & Wesson revolver she had taken from her father’s dresser provided only slight comfort. She had learned how to use it years before, as had her mother, when Austin was less tame. The handgun was loosely bundled in a cushioning horse blanket sitting beside her; she did not know if the jostling could cause it to discharge but did not want to take that chance and kept it tightly padded.
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