The Texians 1

by Zack Wyatt

  “What in the hell’s regular militia doing out here?” Sands asked after a brief greeting.

  “Security,” Norwood answered. “Orders from the secretary of war. We’re a scouting force. A company of infantry is about a mile to the rear.”

  “Security?” Sands asked.

  “Colonel Fisher isn’t taking any chances with the Comanches,” the lieutenant said. “Can’t blame him none. Even if them damned redskins say they’re coming in for a peace parley, I don’t trust them none.”

  Peace Parley. The pronouncement rolled through Sands’ brain. And who is this Colonel Fisher? He hadn’t heard anything about any Comanches or a Colonel Fisher coming to San Antonio. But then, Colonel Karnes didn’t tell him everything.

  Chapter Twelve

  The morning of March 19th found Sands standing outside the ranger garrison with his mouth agape in disbelief. The startled commotion from his companions within the old bunkhouse echoed his disquiet. Running a hand over his eyes, he stared northward through the harsh yellows of the, early hour. The ineffectual gesture did nothing to remove the scene or abate his surprise.

  Since Colonel Fisher and a company of Texas regulars had escorted the other two members of the treaty commission—Fisher, himself, being the third member—into town three days ago, rumors had run rampant through San Antonio. Everyone was only too willing to share their speculation about Moor-war-ruh, whether he would return. Sands had suspected that the old par-riah-boh and his two companions would never be seen again. And if they did return, it would be at the head of a raiding party. Never in his wildest imaginings did he envision this!

  Sands’ mouth twisted to the right and his lips pursed tightly to spit a thin, brown stream of tobacco juice: His eyes narrowed skeptically and shifted over the Comanche camp that now was erected on the very edge of town. He spat again. The tipis were out of place this close to the buildings of San Antonio.

  “Lord, there’s so many of them.” Will Brown walked from the garrison. “Moor-war-ruh apparently expects the council to take up some time.”

  “Sixty-five in all,” Sands said and punctuated the remark with another expelled stream of dark brown juice.

  He had counted every one of the coppery-red faces. Moor-war-ruh had brought more than two other chiefs with him this time. Twelve war chiefs rode with the par-riah-boh. And each of those traveled with their squaws and children ... and their dogs, mules, and horses.

  Will was right; from all appearances the Pehnahterkuh had come for more than a morning’s visit. Their camp had a look of permanence about it. A fact that boded well for the treaty council. A Comanche didn’t bring his family along when raiding was on his mind.

  The crunch of sand and stone beneath boots drew Sands’ attention to the right. Hays, Karnes, and the Lipan Beasos approached. The three paused momentarily as they strolled toward the Comanche lodges. Sands couldn’t hear the words Hays and Karnes exchanged, but Hays nodded after a few moments and walked toward the garrison.

  Before Sands could inquire as to how things proceeded within town, Hays waved him off and said, “I’m not sure what’s happening ... just that it is. Karnes and I are going to take Moor-war-ruh and the other chiefs to the courthouse. The commissioners are ready to begin the council.”

  Sands did not comment. The Indian Commission appointed by President Lamar was a hard one—Colonel William G. Cooke, presently the acting secretary of war since Johnston had resigned for military service, Colonel Hugh McLeod, the Texas adjutant general, and Lieutenant Colonel William Fisher of the 1st Texas Regiment. All three shared the President’s never-give-an-inch policy toward redmen within the republic.

  Jack shook his head. “It’s tense, Josh. Seems Lamar has said there will be no bartering for the return of captives. No ransoms will be paid ... ”

  Sands drew a deep, uncertain breath. Presenting Indians, especially Comanches, with gifts during a council was a long established tradition. The English had begun it when they first came to Texas, and it had been continued by the French, Spanish, Mexicans, and the Texian governments.

  “… Fisher’s also acting strange,” Jack said, his gaze turning to the tipis. “I think he’s hiding something. He won’t talk about what Lamar said to him. He’s like a man on needles.”

  Sands slowly released the breath. The standard military grapevine had been abuzz the past few days. The government’s peace terms were known even to the lowest private. Peace would come if the Comanches agreed to remain west of a line drawn through Central Texas, never again approach white settlements, and not interfere with the settling of vacant lands anywhere within the republic.

  The three demands sounded more like an ultimatum to Sands than contingencies for peace. However, with all the military men on the commission, he suspected the strong position was just a starting point to begin negotiations. Unless the commissioners displayed a bowed neck and a stiff spine, they’d get nowhere with the Nermernuh. Comanches could sense weakness in a man, and when they did, it was like a pack of wolves attacking a wounded deer. They were relentless until they had him hamstrung and helpless. Then they went for the jugular vein.

  “What about captives?” Sands asked, remembering the council had been called on Moor-war-ruh’s promise to return all the Comanches’ white captives.

  “They’ve released two ... a Mexican boy and a white girl. The girl, a Matilda Lockhart, is with a group of ladies at the Maverick home now,” Hays said. “I want you two to go over there. The commission is waiting to hear a report on the girl’s condition before starting the council. And, Josh, do it quick!”

  Jack threw a thumb over a shoulder to emphasize “quick,” then turned and rejoined Karnes who stiffly strolled toward the tipis where Moor-war-ruh and the other chiefs waited.

  Sands glanced at Will who only nodded for his friend to lead the way into town.

  Mary Maverick, wife of San Antonio’s prominent merchant Samuel Maverick, waited for them outside her home. One glance at the petite women told Sands all was far from right. A blush of scarlet anger colored her cheeks, and distance deeply furrowed her forehead.

  “By God Almighty, no human being, man or woman, should have to suffer the torments she’s been through,” the woman’s voice came tight and strained as Sands and Will escorted her toward the town’s main plaza and the courthouse. “She’s only sixteen! She won’t even look at the other women. She says she’ll never be able to hold her head up again after what they did to her!”

  Mary Maverick hastily detailed what Matilda Lockhart had told the town ladies as the womenfolk bathed and dressed the girl after her release. Matilda and her three-year-old sister had been carried away by a raiding party in Thirty-Eight.

  “Her head and arms and face are nothing but bruises and sores,” the woman said. “And her nose—it’s been burnt off to the bone ... both nostrils are wide and denuded.”

  As delicately as possible Mary Maverick recounted the sexual abuses the Comanche braves had heaped upon Matilda Lockhart. When they finished with the girl, she was turned over to the squaws who held torches to her face, delighting in her screams of agony. Matilda Lockhart’s emaciated body now bore a myriad of scars—scars inflicted by searing tongues of flame.

  Mary Maverick repeated the horrors for the commissioners when they reached the main plaza. The three listened without comment, although their eyes narrowed and their faces hardened.

  “Matilda’s an intelligent girl. She learned to speak Comanche,” Mary Maverick concluded her second telling of Matilda Lockhart’s tale of torture and degradation. “She says there were fifteen other white captives in the camp where they kept her. The savages didn’t bring them here.”

  The seething fury that raged within the commissioners was visible in their expressions when they turned at the sound of the approaching Pehnahterkuh procession. Sands felt more than the tension Hays had mentioned. He could almost smell a bloodlust exuding from the three.

  Surely they didn’t expect anything else, Sands thought
. The tortures of Indian captives, man, woman, and child alike, were well-known to all. Matilda Lockhart was the rule, not the exception. As cruel as it was, it was a reality that had to be accepted when dealing with the Comanche.

  Nothing would be achieved by dwelling on what had been. The past was past, and its victims could be comforted, not reclaimed.

  Today Moor-war-ruh and his chiefs had come in peace, protected by the inviolate sanctity of a treaty council. Although the commissioners might desire to right what Matilda Lockhart had suffered, it was beyond their power. They could, however, secure the release of all the captives the Nermernuh presently held and assure there would be no further captives and atrocities.

  Simply put, there was nothing the three could do this day except talk with Moor-war-ruh and the chiefs. However, from the unyielding granite hardness of the commissioners’ faces, Sands felt any words that passed their lips would be a total waste. Matilda Lockhart’s tale had killed any hope of negotiations ... at least for today.

  But then, a council this important would not be a one day event. The fact that the Pehnahterkuh band had erected a camp on the edge of town indicated they recognized the time that would be needed to mold a workable treaty.

  Sands glanced at the Comanches. Moor-war-ruh and the twelve war chiefs filed into the white limestone courthouse. As with their first appearance in San Antonio, the braves wore only their finest regalia—long-fringed buckskins, brightly colored stone and glass beads, and eagle feathers in their long, buffalo grease-slicked hair.

  Outside the courthouse the warriors’ squaws, painted and also dressed in their most colorful costumes, squatted on the ground to await the return of their men. Here and there groups of young Comanche boys played at the games of their elders—war.

  A large crowd of curious onlookers, white and Mexican alike, gathered close to glimpse the faces of their feared enemies. Men reached into their pockets and tossed coins to the ground as targets for the Comanche children’s miniature arrows.

  At least they’re not hostile, Sands thought as he followed Hays and Karnes into the limestone building. The last thing this council needed was a hostile mob screaming for Indian blood. Those gathered today were merely curious, each wanting to see the strange and dreaded Comanche.

  Inside, the chiefs settled cross-legged to the packed earth floor. Their dark eyes impassively watched the three commissioners and other whites who entered to stand across from them along the opposite wall of the building.

  “Moor-war-ruh ...” Colonel Cooke began as the last man walked through the open courthouse door.

  Sands cringed inwardly. Cooke ignored common courtesy by immediately opening the council. The Comanche way was almost leisurely to the white. There was supposed to be a polite period of silence for all assembled to clear their minds. Then they would discuss less important matters like the weather and the buffalo herds this spring. Perhaps those who had come to council would share tobacco to show their intentions were honorable. Then and only then would the real negotiations begin.

  Often this was slow and time consuming to whites, but it was the way of the Nermernuh, and it had to be respected if the commission hoped to achieve anything.

  Cooke continued, “… why have you not brought more captives here as was promised when you first met with Colonel Karnes two months ago? The return of white captives was expressly given as a condition for this council.” Moor-war-ruh’s bald head slowly rose. Sands detected a sadness in the old par-riah-boh’s eyes when they turned to Cooke, as though he mourned the loss of the courtesy due him. His gaze methodically moved along the line of whites, staring into each of the faces that gazed at him. When he spoke, it was in his own tongue. Beasos served as an interpreter quickly translating each sentence.

  “My people hold no other captives. The others belonged to other bands. I do not control those camps ...” The great par-riah-boh of the Pehnahterkuh spoke eloquently. Also elusively, Sands realized. While he was certain Moor-war-ruh did not lie, the old leader sidestepped the truth about the fifteen captives Matilda Lockhart had spoken of. While the captives might have been in Moor-war-ruh’s custody they were considered the property of other bands and not in his “control.” Although considered an uncivilized savage by the Texians he faced, Moor-war-ruh had the soul and silver-tongue to match any politician in the republic.

  “The other camps have promised their willingness, to ransom the whites they hold.” Moor-war-ruh continued for thirty minutes with a detailed outline of the dry goods, ammunition, blankets, and vermilion the Comanche bands would accept for the return of the captives. He ended his lengthy oration with a single calm question. “How do you like that answer?”

  Sands detected no more than the usual Comanche arrogance in Moor-war-ruh’s question. He simply inquired if the demands for the captives were suitable.

  The commissioners didn’t like the Pehnahterkuh’s answer at all. Whether they read something into Moor-war-ruh’s answer that wasn’t there, Sands couldn’t tell. But Colonel Fisher answered the par-riah-boh by ordering a file of infantrymen into the room.

  What in hell? Sands stared incredulously as the soldiers took positions along the walls. A sentinel defiantly stood blocking the open door to the courthouse.

  Like Sands, Moor-war-ruh and his chiefs stared at the soldiers and stirred restively as the uniformed men filed into the room.

  Colonel Fisher leaned toward his two fellow commissioners. When the three turned back to the Comanches, it was Colonel Cooke who spoke to Beasos; he made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice.

  “Inform Moor-wat-ruh and the others that they are Colonel Fisher’s prisoners by order of President Mirabeau Lamar ... that they will be detained until every white captive held by the Comanche tribes are returned. Only after the release of the captives will it be proper to discuss ... presents for savages. Texians will not be held for ransom!”

  Beasos’ deep coppery hue paled. His dark eyes grew saucer round, then narrowed to mere slits.

  Sands could see the tremors of fear quake through the former Comanche captive. The Lipan Apache’s head vehemently shook from side to side in refusal of Cooke’s order. When he spoke, his words came clear and firm:

  “You cannot do that! They will not stand for it, sir. These are Comanche warriors. They will fight to the death before they allow themselves to be taken prisoner.”

  “Tell them, man!” Cooke was adamant; his tone was tinged with outrage that Beasos questioned his command. “I demand that you tell them every word that I said. Every word!”

  Beasos glared at Cooke. His lips parted, but he uttered no sound.

  “Tell him! Tell Moor-war-ruh everything I said!” Cooke demanded, his voice rising to a shout.

  Beasos’ head turned to the Pehnahterkuh par-riah-boh. He sucked in a deep steadying breath. His tongue nervously licked at his lips. His voice trembled, the Apache scout did as he was told. Slowly and distinctly, he translated Cooke’s words—every word.

  Then without so much as a glance to the three members of the commission, or any other man in the room, Beasos ran. He shot toward the courthouse door, shoved aside the soldier standing there, and bolted outside before anyone could react.

  In the next instant, Sands and every other man in the small low-slung building completely forgot the scout.

  Shrieking war cries echoed from the bare limestone walls, rebounding on themselves. Thirteen Comanche chiefs as though of one mind bounded to their feet.

  No more than three strides behind Beasos, a warrior who streamed long black braids dashed after the Lipan. Sands saw a glint of silver flash in his coppery hand, only to disappear into the stomach of the sentinel barring the door. The soldier groaned, dropping his rifle as he clutched at the knife hilt that jutted from his midriff. Dark crimson welled in a flowing current from around the buried blade as his knees buckled and he collapsed face down on the packed-dirt floor.

  From outside Sands heard the escaped warrior’s cries of treachery as h
e reached the town plaza.

  Then there was another voice, one from inside the courthouse—a white voice screaming out for the soldiers to open fire. Sands jerked around searching for the voice’s owner; he found no one.

  The soldiers responded without question. Thunder rolled through the crowded courthouse in a resounding chorus. Smoke, billowing clouds of exploding black powder, filled the room and the whine of lead ricocheted off limestone and whistled about Sands.

  For the first time in his life Joshua Sands felt sheer panic. His mind refused to accept what his eyes saw. His body balked though his brain screamed for it to run for the door.

  Red and white fell, cut down by the rifle balls. From the corner of an eye Sands saw fellow ranger Matthew Caldwell, who was an unarmed onlooker like himself, grab his leg. Scarlet blossomed on the thigh of his breeches. Pain and anger twisted Caldwell’s face. Wounded as he was, he reached out and wrenched a rifle from the hands of a chief who darted for the unguarded door. The ranger then turned the weapon on its owner, blowing the Comanche’s head away.

  When Sands’ eyes turned from the bloody scene, Caldwell was using the rifle’s butt to batter in the face of another of the chiefs.

  Across the room, Sands saw old Moor-war-ruh drive his knife into the side of Ranger Captain Tom Howard. In the next instant the par-riah-boh fell, cut down by one of the soldiers’ rifles.

  Sand’s mind and body suddenly broke free of the bonds of horror that gripped them. He moved. Grabbing Will and Jack, who stood unarmed like himself, he dragged them through the courthouse door before a ricocheting rifle ball could find them—or him.

  Outside was no better than within. Several of the chiefs had made their way to the plaza where their cries had aroused the fury of the Comanches who waited there.

  Squaws and children fought with the same ferocity of their men. Yanking weapons away from the hands of onlookers, they turned them on the confused crowd. Miniature arrows, mere toys but a moment ago, shafted into the town’s citizenry. Sands saw a circuit judge collapse with one of the small shafts jutting from his heart. He was but one of several men who paid with their lives to learn that Comanche children’s arrows were just as deadly as those used by their fathers.