War Valley

by Lancaster Hill

  “I understand,” Keel had replied. “But if it becomes necessary, will there be time for them to acclimate to our geography and the Comanche way?”

  The governor had shrugged. “Unfamiliar terrain and adversaries were a constant challenge during the War,” he had said. “This is no different.”

  Indeed it is not, Keel had thought of the time, though he did not broach the subject. But Southern boys were fighting in the South and the Union simply threw body after body at any problem they could not win by tactic. We have neither luxury in our war with the Comanche.

  And so now they were pinned down here, with no one except a token force left to defend Austin should their own line fail. It seemed absurd, insane, but it was conceivable that with a victory here, a war party of Comanche could ride virtually unopposed into the streets of the state capital. Keel was so fond of his men during the War that he refused to consider the worth of the Prussians, the Bavarians, the Russians who populated the remaining force. He would have given his good eye to have them in the field with him now.

  “Good evenin’, Captain.”

  That good eye shifted to the speaker who was above him, looking down with a crooked smile.

  “Sergeant, how many hours until the daybreak?” Keel asked.

  “Four and a bit,” he said. “Why, sir?”

  “Not enough time,” Keel said.

  “For?”

  “To send a rider to Austin . . . federal troops,” he said. “I have been . . . thinking . . . we must stop . . . the Comanche here. Must,” he said, with an emphasis that caused him to cough.

  Dr. Zachary leaned in and rested his palms on his chest, applying very light pressure.

  “Sir, speaking stops you from breathing, which stops you from healing,” the medic said. “’Less you got something urgent, keep it to yourself.”

  “Captain,” Calvin said, “we believe that Gannon” —he paused, and added out of respect for the man’s courage—“Officer Gannon has inflicted some injury on the enemy and possibly escaped with the girl. We are watching and listening for him now.” “Is . . . is it possible?” Keel said, drawing the displeasure of the doctor.

  “There was a sudden, big fire in the camp,” Calvin informed him. “Rifle fire. Whatever happened, sir, we think the Injuns are just sittin’ tight till mornin’.”

  Keel was about to speak, saw the doctor’s black shape over his good eye, simply nodded twice. That information was the best tonic he could have received.

  “With your permission, sir, I will reinstate the officer upon his return.”

  Keel nodded again.

  Calvin smiled thinly. “Will you rest now, Captain?”

  Another nod, then the officer reached up, grabbed Calvin’s sleeve. The sergeant’s smile broadened slightly.

  “I will inform you, promptly, with any news,” he promised.

  Keel lay back, relaxed, and felt a wash of both pride and shame for everything Gannon had undergone this past season. It had started with that unfortunate argument begun by the girl’s father Albert when Constance declined to dance with that state legislator at a social. The civil servant, who was both lawyer and dandy, invoked Hank Gannon’s name with something just shy of contempt, a sentiment vouchsafed, with a look and a nod, by the elder Breen. None of that was what stuck with Keel—save his own reprehensible silence upon overhearing the dignity of one of his men derided. He did not want to insult a Democrat who was deeply in the governor’s favor. Instead, he had dishonored himself.

  Keel could imagine Hank Gannon, out in the lowlands, helplessly reliving that, and his dismissal, and many other, smaller injustices. Keel felt miserable for his part in what had brought them here and prayed to God for his life—at least long enough that he might see his wife again and also make amends to Gannon.

  If Gannon survived.

  If Constance Breen survived.

  If any of them survived.

  * * *

  Roving Wolf had not slept.

  Though weary of mind and limb, he would have been able to had he permitted himself to do so— but he did not. He would not. It was not unlike his younger years, when he had first gone to the prairie to learn the spirit skills, starting with skin walking. Alone in the foothills above Wildhorse Creek, to the north, near Tonkawa territory to show his courage, Roving Wolf had earned his name by taking the Great Wolf as a spirit guide. In the dark, chewing the dried mushrooms given to him by the medicine man, he had let the animal enter his body and command his walk and movements and voice. He had padded across ledges that, in the dawn, he could not remember having crossed—and with no practical knowledge of how he might have crossed them, so thin and unforgiving were they. He knew that the Great Wolf had done it, and that it would never leave him. When needed, all he had to do was retire his human spirit and let the other in. That was what allowed him to stalk and track, to fight, to hunt, to become one with the land and the pack that was outside his vision—but through whose senses he could smell and listen and see.

  Roving Wolf did not invoke that spirit or that pack now. He was still weak from loss of blood, and still wounded. He must rest his body if not his mind. It was also necessary for him to think like a man, to understand what this man and his fellow warriors would do. Only when it became time to fight.

  How he yearned for the simplicity of combat. Even against the Tonkawa, questions and challenges were never complex. Loyalties were clear and goals equally so. If you did not defeat the enemy, and if you survived, you went home shamed and hungry. In either case, the tribe would move: away from lost territory, or into more fertile lands. Combat itself was not firepower but skill. How you rode, how you fired your arrow, how you swung your hatchet or club, how you worked your lasso, how you slashed or thrust or parried with your blade when you and your foe were no longer on horseback.

  These were skills passed down by fathers and their fathers, essentially unchanged since the earth was new. Guns—he understood them for fighting the white man. But then, during the conflict of white brother against white brother, he learned of the weapons that fired endless bursts of death. Bullet, bullet, bullet, bullet, one after the next, as if they were gold coins being counted from a sack, ching, ching, ching, ching. The thunder and lightning that exploded after tracing a black rainbow through the sky, killing all around it. That was not combat, that was slaughter. This was not the spirit of the wolf or eagle or snake, it was not something to give the children of your children. It was a means to demolish flesh and land and spirit. That was what the white man brought to the West. That willingness to destroy utterly and without honor was the enemy of Roving Wolf and his people.

  The Comanche had never before faced a dilemma like this. The white man might not have realized it, but he had assured his survival by not binding the Indian. Perhaps the officer was too tired, too pained, too protective of the lady to think beyond any of that. The fact remained, it would be dishonorable to kill him while he slept. That was where the wolf ended and the man began; a brave had more than food and drink to consider. That was why the animal was merely a guide, not a conquering spirit. And the spirit did not free the Indian from his own human duties and loyalties.

  This man could not have escaped without killing my brothers, Roving Wolf thought. His own party butchered Wild Buck. Sparing my life does not pay any of those debts.

  Roving Wolf also had to rejoin the war party. That weighed on him as well, to fight and if need be die alongside his tribe.

  Rising, his neck burning all along the wound—but not bleeding very much—he raised his arms to the Big Father to ask for guidance. He did not speak, not even in his mind. The vision would come, the future that was to be.

  * * *

  It was the rustling along the valley floor that caused Gannon to wake. He had become accustomed to the occasional stirring of the two horses, which were tethered side by side well north of the dead one. He had become familiar with, and relaxed by, Constance’s breathing. She slept, and he could only hope that her d
reams were of something other than this day.

  What woke him was a sound he had heard before, the coyotes—only moving faster than before. To the north, away from the Indian encampment.

  They are coming.

  Probably not all, but some. He did not think the war party would commit their full number to a nighttime assault on trained, armed officers who would have their weapons and manpower trained on the valley bottleneck.

  Gannon was sitting and Constance was resting against him, surrounded by his arms and by his cloak. He gently moved her to a reclining position, causing her to stir and mutter but not to waken. He noticed, as he did this, Roving Wolf standing by his ledge, his arms upraised to the skies. He had no weapons, he was wounded; he had to be praying, or whatever Comanche did that was like prayer.

  Gannon withdrew his knife and padded to the valley wall, south of the dead horse and the upright Comanche. If there were braves, he did not think they were coming from above; that would not have caused the coyotes to run. Perhaps they had seen the fire or the smoke, despite his best efforts to block it. Gannon knew that saving the damned redskin would come to no good end. In addition to enemies to the south they had an enemy in their midst. Constance had needed to redeem her sense of dignity, he understood that. They should have found another way, like cutting out Roving Wolf’s heart to pay for the sins of his people.

  He considered where he was, where Constance was, where the horses were. It might be possible to get her out—if Roving Wolf did not intervene. That would be his first thing to do.

  But they know you have a horse, he thought. They have guns. That will be their first target.

  He had to wake her and get her out of here now, before they arrived. If the worst should happen, if he should be outnumbered, under no circumstances could he allow the Comanche to take her again. If they were trapped here, getting to her would be his only priority. And getting to her, he would push his knife into her breast, into her heart—and then his own.

  Still listening, he crept to the woman’s side. Noise could not be helped. Rocks tumbled annoyingly, each of them a little rattle signaling just where he was. He reached the girl’s side, and as gently as possible, he shook her. She came awake with a start and a small cry.

  “It’s Hank,” he whispered urgently. “Hank!”

  “What—?”

  “Get up and go to the police pony,” he interrupted with a whisper.

  “Why?”

  “The Comanche may be out there. You will have to risk a break for the other side of the valley. At least be ready for it.”

  “You will come!”

  “I will hold them off,” he said. “No argument, Constance. Please.”

  She had begun to get to her feet. Any disorientation she had felt a moment before was gone. “Where is the other one?”

  She meant Roving Wolf, he presumed. “Behind us, where we left him. He is praying.”

  She nodded, looked into the dark for the pony. “The horse is near the brave.”

  “I know. I’ll come with you.”

  Gannon took his cloak to lighten her load. Together, they began walking into the pitch black, feeling their way with sore feet, Constance stumbling several times, her dress cushioning her fall. Each time Gannon helped her with his left hand, he kept his right hand ready with the blade. He still did not see movement, either before him or from Roving Wolf. He wondered if the brave were in some kind of trance.

  Gannon wished he could stop thinking. He had lost so much and gained so little. More than ever he felt detached from the society of men he once embraced, from the civilized man he once was. Like Constance, and regardless of Constance; like Florida and the rest of the South; he wondered if he could ever go back to what was, to what he was.

  He also wondered if he should rush over and kill Roving Wolf. The Comanche’s death would mean one less flank to worry about. He considered, then dismissed, the idea. She had said herself she did not want to be like her attackers. And Gannon still did not know for certain that anyone was out there. For all he knew he had dreamt the coyotes—

  Rocks fell to the south. Softly, and just a few, but enough. The Comanche were out there.

  “Hurry,” Gannon urged, taking her small, fine hand and holding it tightly. It was as much an anchor for him as he was for her.

  There were only about fifty feet between them and the pony. Even it was anxious now, tugging lightly on the rein lashed to the rock.

  “You not leave.”

  Roving Wolf’s voice broke the night like a blacksmith’s mallet. He lowered his arms, scooped up a rock in his right hand.

  “Let her go,” Gannon demanded. “I’ll stay.”

  “Both stay. She understand need. Say so.”

  “You are most vile,” Constance hissed at him.

  “Step away or die,” Gannon told him.

  “No die,” the brave replied.

  Just then, four Comanche ran at them from the center of the valley.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  October 21, 1871

  “Sergeant Calvin?”

  The high voice belonged to Corporal Evan Bosley, one of Nightingale’s men. He was five-foot-six and had a round face with freckles that made him seem even younger than he was. The guardsman carried a sidearm, his collar was buttoned to the top, and he was permitted to not wear the regulation hat in order to keep his ears free of impediments. The young guardsman had run the few yards to where Calvin was sitting on a rock. It was the only spot that gave the temporary commander a clear view of both walls of the valley as well as the opening.

  Bosley was a telegraph operator. During wartime, he had been skilled at cutting into wires on the trail and sending false information. He still tapped into wires to send messages when it was necessary; unfortunately, there were none out this way to summon reinforcements from the garrison. He had been positioned just inside the valley, it being the colonel’s idea, and anyway, he had wanted one of his men on point.

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  Bosley still had an ear turned to the valley as they spoke. “There’s voices coming from the other end of the valley,” he said. “Not yelling . . . quiet. Can’t say what they’re talking. Could be English or Comanche.”

  “That is not a lot of information,” Calvin replied.

  “Regrettably,” Bosley agreed.

  “Male or female?”

  “I heard male, but ladies talk soft.”

  The experience of young Bosley with women was obviously different from his own. But the point was well taken. It could be Gannon and the lady, if she were even capable of speaking now; it was unlikely the Comanche would be speaking. They tended to sign, even in the dark, to avoid being overheard.

  “It could be Comanche trying to make us think they’re not,” said Garcia, who was listening nearby. “I once heard ’em blow a bugle they had captured, make us think it was cavalry.”

  “They are canny,” Calvin agreed.

  As far as the sergeant was concerned, nothing had changed sufficiently to warrant an expedition into the valley. He remained conflicted; no man could fail to be. But the mission was the Comanche, not a rogue officer and his lady.

  “Report if you hear anything further,” Calvin said.

  Bosley hesitated.

  “Was there something else?” the sergeant asked.

  “Can I go in the valley, Sergeant? Get closer?”

  “We cannot cover you in the dark, Corporal. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I cannot allow it.”

  “Yes, sir. But it’s like when I climb a telegraph pole—sometimes, I cannot do my job from where I’m stuck.”

  “Again, thank you—but go back to your post.”

  The young man hesitated. Then he nodded and left.

  “He’s saying what we all feel,” Garcia remarked.

  “Me, too,” Calvin assured him. “You know I’m not a patient man. But that’s why we have missions. Because men who join any force, police or military, are men of action.”

 
“I suppose that’s true,” Garcia said. “Though wars’d be pretty short if we all just fought and got things over with. Maybe save some lives, too.”

  “You can put it in the suggestion box when we get back,” Calvin told him.

  “We have a suggestion box?” Garcia quipped.

  Calvin ignored the remark. His eyes wandered, settled on young Bosley. Garcia caught his gaze.

  “I’m thinking the kid lied about his age to get in,” Garcia said. “He’s sixteen if he’s a day.”

  Calvin had no opinion about that, just a thought.

  He hoped the kid obeyed orders so he would make it to seventeen.

  * * *

  “Swine! Animal!” Constance screamed at Roving Wolf.

  The Indian grabbed the reins of the two horses; all he needed to do was delay the departure of the two whites and they would be caught. This was not what he had desired; but as it was here, as the Big Father had sent it, the only course of action was to join his braves.

  For his part, Gannon would have given a limb for the rifle Constance had tossed aside back at the encampment. Yet even possessing a gun, he would have saved the knife blade for Roving Wolf. He wanted that creature’s blood.

  The couple stood for a moment, Constance resolute and ready to follow Gannon, the white man considering what was best among two poor options: fighting for the horse or fighting the oncoming Comanche, whose numbers he still did not know for sure. If he was sure anyone would hear and could get here in time, he would have shouted for help and hoped Captain Keel and his men heard.

  And then Gannon remembered that he had a fourth option.

  “Come!” he said, tugging Constance toward the valley wall.

  The woman half-ran, half-tripped where he was pulling. When they stopped, suddenly, and she realized where they were, he grabbed her about the waist.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  “No time to remove your dress,” he said, pulling her forward. “The water is straight down, I’ve seen it. Lie back when you strike the surface. I will follow.”