The Texians 1 Read online

  “Two of them grabbed me and held me on the ground while a third tore my clothes ... ” Marion Hammer’s mouth drew closed in a tight, thin line.

  There was no need for further details. Among themselves, the Comanches did not permit rape to exist. But they used captive women, white or red. Mrs. Hammer had been taken eight times by her captors, Sands realized, if not more. That she still lived was a miracle. Comanche raiding parties normally eviscerated older female captives when their lust was spent, laughing at the women’s dying agonies.

  Marion Hammer eventually took a deep breath and began again. After killing her infant daughter, apparently because the child’s cries annoyed a brave, they ransacked the wagon.

  “They found a few gold pieces and a jug of whiskey Felix had brought along for medicinal purposes,” she said.

  She described how the braves had stoked the fire for the night, then spread buffalo robes on the ground and passed the jug between them until it was drained, and they were in a drunken stupor.

  “One of them took Jamie and made him lie beneath one of the robes with him. They left me sitting there cold and unprotected. I suspect they didn’t think I would try anything.” She paused again to sip the coffee.

  Sands did not question her evaluation of the situation. The braves were probably confident a white woman would be helpless in the desolation of the hill country. That Marion Hammer escaped her captors bespoke of a courage not immediately apparent when looking at the delicate woman.

  “I remembered Felix mentioning there were settlements to the south of the camp. When the braves fell asleep, I ran for help,” she continued. “I followed the stream until I found you.”

  Jack poured her another cup of the pan-brewed coffee. “How far do you think you ran?”

  She shook her head. “I ran for about four hours. I was afraid to stop ... afraid they might be following me.”

  Captain Hays sat motionless for several long moments as though he absorbed and sorted through all she had said, then he turned to his men. “Mrs. Hammer needs clothing and food. See what you can rustle up for her.”

  The men scattered, moving to the horses and their saddlebags. Minutes later they returned with a wide assortment of proffered clothing in various degrees of cleanliness.

  Marion Hammer accepted a pair of pants from Shorty Green and one of Willard Brown’s store-bought, flannel shirts. A pair of moccasins taken by one of the men as a souvenir of a previous patrol served in the place of shoes.

  Accustomed to Hays’ cold-camp rule, the rangers’ had little to offer in the way of foodstuffs and variety was non-existent—hardtack and venison jerky. Marion Hammer accepted a portion of each. Her action apparently stemmed from politeness rather than hunger. Sands noted she ate neither.

  Jack gathered the men by the fire again and directed Mrs. Hammer to the willows. Blanket clutched about her, she rose and walked into the veiling shadows.

  Sands followed, then averted his eyes when he realized her intentions. He felt a strange emptiness within him. For the first time since Marion Hammer stumbled into camp, she did not cling to him. He sucked at his teeth, unable to fathom his reaction to that brief period of dependency on him.

  “I want to thank you and your men for their kindness,” she said when she returned dressed in the borrowed clothing.

  “Thank my men when we get your son back,” Jack said as he spread another bed roll in front of the fire for her.

  Without hesitation, she stretched atop the blanket and covered herself with the one she carried. Sands watched her, attempting to pair such an able and clear-thinking woman with such a fool as Felix Hammer. He could not understand, nor would he ever comprehend, the method women employed to select a husband. Whatever feminine mystery moved her to choose Felix Hammer, it had been wrong. A fact she would never be able to forget.

  For several minutes, he could see her fighting sleep, then the whiskey and exhaustion won out. The tension gripping her facial muscles relaxed; her breathing shallowed to a steady gentle rhythm.

  Sands stood and glanced at Jack who motioned him from the sleeping woman’s side. “How far you reckon a woman in that shape could travel in four hours?”

  “Another woman wouldn’t have tried what she did.” Sands shrugged. “Even moving barefoot and naked down that cold creek, I don’t think we should underestimate her. She could have easily covered ten miles, maybe more, maybe less.”

  Jack agreed. “I was also thinking the Comanches probably haven’t noticed she’s gone, or they would have chased her down and killed her. With luck, they won’t notice until they wake in the morning.”

  “That’s when you want to hit them?” Sands asked.

  “Even with a full moon, it’s too dark to attempt anything before then.” Jack surveyed the sky. “Josh, I want you to scout the camp. Take the two Lipans and another man with you.”

  Sands glanced about him and signaled the two Lipan Apache scouts Nantan and Beasos. Sands’ gaze then traveled over the other men in the patrol. Anticipation stood out on Willard Brown’s face. Sands pointed to the young man. The three pushed through their companions to Hays’ side to listen to the captain reiterate their assignment.

  “I’ll leave two men with Mrs. Hammer and follow you upstream in two hours,” Jack concluded. “Be careful. Their bellies might be full of whiskey, but they’re still Comanche. Don’t try rescuing the boy until we can attack full strength.”

  Sands nodded and once more looked at the sleeping woman. Then he walked to the horses. If luck rode with the patrol, by daybreak they might return to Marion Hammer a portion of what her husband’s foolishness had robbed from her.

  Chapter Two

  The ride along the creek was like betting a pair when a man knew his opponent held a full house. Sands had no way of determining how far Marion Hammer had run during her escape. Nor did he have a guarantee that with the next bend of the stream they would not be standing in the middle of the Comanche camp. Despite the January cold, a hot, uncomfortable sweat prickled over the ranger.

  “How far you reckon we’ve come?” Willard Brown leaned in his saddle to whisper to Sands.

  “Nine, maybe ten miles.” Sands held up a hand to halt the three men with him. “I think we should continue on foot from here. Horses make too much noise on these rocks.”

  Silently, the four dismounted and tied their reins to a stunted oak growing ten feet from the creek. Sands studied the sky. The moon rode near the western horizon; morning was not far away.

  “Willard, I want you to remain with the horses.” Sands turned to the youth as he once more checked his weapons. “When Jack and the men come, tell them to wait until a half hour before sunrise. If we’re not back by then, I doubt we’ll be coming back.”

  He discerned the young man’s scowl. Sands understood Willard’s disappointment in being left behind, but it did not matter. He could not trust the inexperienced youth if anything should happen when they found the camp. He needed men who knew how to handle a Comanche brave bent on taking a scalp. The Lipan Apaches had fought a blood feud with the Comanche for generations. He did not doubt Nantan’s and Beasos’ ability. Both had taken scores of jet Comanche manes back to their tribal camp.

  Before Willard could voice a protest, Sands led the two Lipan scouts upstream. He looked back once to see Willard, rifle in hand, watching their departure.

  The drowsy coat of cotton that had clouded his brain all night suddenly slipped from Sands’ mind. His senses came alive. Ears, eyes, even his feet felt a new awareness of his surroundings.

  Without consciously focusing his attention, he saw the scrub cedars about him shifting in the rising southerly breeze. His ears filtered the night sounds, separating the rustle of dried leaves from the movement of a jackrabbit that darted through the buffalo grass. His feet sensed the terrain beneath him, placing each step so that he walked as silently as the Indian scouts beside him.

  A quarter of a mile from Willard’s position, the creek took a ninety degree turn
to the east. The high, eroded gully fell away to a rolling rise of rock and earth two feet high.

  Sands halted and dropped to his knees, as did the Apaches. Fifty yards ahead stood the wagon. Dark mounds, like elongated ant hills, rose in front of its wheels—the Comanche braves wrapped in their buffalo robes.

  The ranger stifled a curse that hung on his tongue. They could proceed no further, and their position lacked a full view of the camp.

  Beasos touched Sands’ shoulder. The Lipan pointed to the left. A hundred feet beyond the creek bed a hump-like bluff rose thirty feet into the air. Sands smiled and nodded silent approval.

  The two scouts dropped back to retrace their steps around the stream’s bend with Sands on their heels. Once out of sight of the camp, they climbed the bank and scurried up the backside of the rise. Reaching the top, the three dropped to their bellies.

  Sands stared below, taking the camp in with one quick glance. He could not withhold the curse that twisted his thin lips in a low hiss.

  The wagon stood in the center of a small valley formed by three sloping rises. Behind the Hammer wagon was a cedar break that ran up the side and covered a long hogback. Acres of the tightly grouped trees darkened the landscape. He did not like it, nor would Jack.

  “They sleep.” Nantan pointed to the Comanches who lay in a circle about the remnants of a fire. “No guards.”

  The ranger counted the dark bundles. Marion Hunter had been correct; there were eight braves. Sands could not locate the boy, Jamie.

  “At the head of the wagon, near the front wheel,” Nantan said with a nod. “The boy.”

  Sands squinted, barely able to make out the child’s blond head poking out beneath a buffalo robe. He had hoped Marion Hunter had been wrong on that count. She was not, which only complicated an already tangled situation.

  The brave also beneath that hide blanket had apparently claimed the child as his own, a white son to be raised as a Comanche. Or, perhaps, an item to be sold back to the Texians for a profit.

  The thought was unsettling. The Comanches had been quick in learning to exploit the anguish that the captives caused settlers. The more abused a captive appeared, the higher prices whites were willing to pay to have him—or her—returned.

  Sands’ attention was caught by the horses, still in harness, standing before the wagon. Apparently the braves had been too drunk to unhitch the team, or they intended to drive the wagon and its contents back to their band.

  The ranger’s gaze roved over the camp again, alighting on sixteen horses staked near the creek. Were the eight extra mounts recently stolen, or were they spare ponies should the braves have to do some hard and fast riding?

  Often when pursued, a Comanche would ride one horse until it dropped from exhaustion, then swing onto the back of a pony that he led beside him. A brave could cover a hundred miles in a night by that method, if the situation warranted it.

  Sands turned to the Lipans. “Their horses, can you handle them?”

  Neither Apache stirred, but stared stone-faced down on the camp. After a few long, silent moments, Nantan looked at the ranger. “We claim ten of the ponies for ourselves.”

  The Lipans served as scouts and not fighters, and damned well knew it, Sands thought. To endanger themselves beyond the normal risks of their duties, they expected a share of the Comanche loot. Ten mustangs was a high price. Yet, if the Comanche braves ever got to the horses once the attack began, it would be impossible to stop them.

  Sands nodded his silent agreement to the terms.

  Broad, greedy grins spread across the Lipans’ faces. Nantan said, “Tell Captain Hays not to attack until first light. By sunrise, we will be by the ponies.”

  Without further comment, the scouts crawled backwards. Once off the crest of the hill, they ran in a crouch. Sands watched them swing westward in a wide arc. He lost their dark forms when they dropped into a previously unnoticed gulch.

  Satisfied he had seen all there was to see of the camp, Sands scooted from the rise, then made his way back to the creek. With a final glance at the wagon, he started the trot back to Willard’s position.

  Jack’s assurances to Marion Hammer appeared less promising to fulfill by the moment. While Jamie remained with the brave, it would be touch and go. When the patrol attacked, the brave might decide it would be easier to rid himself of his extra baggage with the single slash of a hunting knife across the boy’s throat.

  Sands tried to convince himself it would be better if the brave escaped with Jamie. The ranger’s lies to himself did not help. He had seen what Comanches could do to their captives. That Jamie was but four years old would carry no weight with either Comanche braves or squaws. All that would matter was that the child was white and a Tejano.

  Sands’ pace dropped to an easy walk as he neared Willard and the horses. When he saw their dark silhouettes, he stopped and called out as softly as possible. Willard waved him forward. Sands joined the youth and gave him a quick description of the camp.

  “Then Jack was right. We’ll have to attack,” the young ranger said.

  “Either that or let them take the boy.” Sands pulled out his tobacco pouch and offered it to Willard.

  This time, the young man accepted the bourbon-soaked leaves and stuffed a large wad into his mouth. With a sudden determination, he chewed and spat.

  Sands left him alone with his thoughts. Allowing the braves to return to their tipis with Jamie Hammer would not be acceptable to Jack. Willard had been correct, the ranger patrol would attack.

  Out of the corner of an eye, Sands studied the young man at his side. It would be Willard’s first skirmish with the Comanche, and nothing Sands could say would make it any easier for the youth. A man had to find his own peace with himself and with God when he faced possible death.

  Pinching a chaw for himself, Sands squatted beside the creek and waited. The night seemed quieter than it should. Not even the shallow stream murmured. With morning so close, he expected to hear the stirring of birds, the last cries of coyotes returning from their nightly forage. His head lifted and he stared at the sky, watching the slow progress of blue-gray spread across the night’s blackness to announce the coming dawn.

  The sound of hooves cracking on stone drew him from his thoughts. Jack and the rest of the patrol approached. Signaling Willard to mount, Sands swung astride his black gelding. He was briefing Jack on the situation when Willard joined them.

  “If they reach the cedars, we’ve lost them ... and the boy,” Sands concluded. “Even if the Lipans take their ponies and leave them on foot, I doubt we’d ever find them in that thicket.”

  Jack sat silent, pondering the information. The captain was not a man Sands would describe as ruthless. If anything John Coffee Hays was one of the gentlest men Sands had ever met.

  But when it came to Indians, Hays was the most practical and thorough fighter in the Republic of Texas. Whenever possible, he believed in striking a Comanche camp while it slept.

  Ranging was not a matter of sportsmanship, but survival. For each brave killed while wrapped in his buffalo robe, there was one less warrior to fight against the patrol and less possibility of losing a man to a Comanche arrow or bullet.

  Sands approved of the policy. It might be brutal and bloody by what some men labeled civilized standards, but Texas was not a civilized nation. It was a rag-tag republic fighting for its life against savages who butchered women and dashed out the brains of infants on wagon wheels.

  Jack’s tactic might be as barbaric as those of the enemy he fought, but they were effective.

  “The way I see it, we hit them quick and clean,” Jack finally said. “We’ll attack from three sides. I want it done Comanche style, boys, with you screaming your fool lungs out. When they wake, I want them so confused and frightened they won’t know which end’s their heads and which end’s their asses!”

  He paused, his gaze falling on Sands. “Josh, you’re responsible for the boy. You’ll have to take the brave without a gun, but I ha
ven’t got a man better with a knife than you.”

  Sands nodded his acceptance. His right hand moved of its own volition to the blade strapped to his hip.

  “The rest of you men stay clear of the brave at the head of the wagon.” Jack’s voice was firm as he turned to the rest of the men in his command. “I don’t want a shot anywhere near that buck. I’ll have the hide of the man who accidentally shoots that boy. Understand?”

  The rangers nodded and murmured their understanding of the orders. Jack’s eyes slowly traveled over his patrol for emphasis.

  Sands knew the look, a stare that pierced each man it fell on, as though Jack’s words were directed at that individual alone. Perhaps that was the secret of the young captain’s success, his power to command men twice his age without any questioning of his ability.

  “All right,” Jack said. “Follow Josh and fan out quietly when he gives the signal. I’ll sound the charge with a single shot. Don’t waste ammunition. Hold your shots until they’ll do some good.”

  Jack tilted his head to Sands, who nudged the gelding’s flanks and moved forward. The hooves striking an occasional stone, the creaking of saddle leather from the fifteen riders behind him sounded like a full cavalry company to Sands. His steel-blue eyes darted about, expecting to find the Comanches to come whooping down on the patrol, warned by the riotous noise of their movement.

  There were no Indians, only the morning’s stillness. When the patrol reached the bend in the creek, Sands raised an arm, signaling the men to take their positions.

  Chapter Three

  The rangers divided a hundred yards from the wagon, forming a sweeping semi-circle about the camp. Sands surveyed the formation. In the dusky dimness of predawn, the riders blended with the shadows cast by the gnarled oaks and bushy cedar that dotted the rugged landscape.

  Sands sucked a deep breath between his teeth. The waiting started again, the hated waiting. Worse now—action and possible death awaited when the waiting finally ended.

  The ranger’s gaze swept over the Comanches and their mustangs. He saw no sign of the two Lipan scouts Nantan and Beasos. A niggling doubt ate at his mind. Had they circled the camp as promised, or had they decided to flee?