A cigarette dangled from his thin lips. It was shredded Mexican tobacco rolled in cottonwood leaves. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its tip past the dark scarred face until it dwindled above his raven black hair. The Comanche was impassive as he watched one of his band toy with an American captive. The American was an old man. His long white hair whipped behind his pale forehead as he fled from his pursuer. Most of his clothing had been stripped from his thin body until all that remained was an old pair of patched long johns. The Comanches had been amused by the underwear and had permitted him to keep it on. Laughing at the joke, the Comanche chasing him angled his war spear at his back until it brushed a long bloody wound across his shoulders.
Te-qu-bon-wey was an older warrior in the band. He was nearly thirty summers. He favored the lance, though it was a weapon long abandoned by most Comanche. It was thought that he chose the lance because he had a knack for wielding it. The leader of the band, a middle-aged warrior called Shoeny-tak-quo, the man with the cigarette, knew that Te-qu-bon-wey had chosen the lance because it was dangerous to use it. It was a weapon that required close combat with the enemy. Most Comanche preferred the bow, or the rifle, since these weapons could kill safely and surely from a distance. Te-qu-bon-wey boasted about his personal courage and confirmed it daily with the use of the lance.
The head of the lance was a piece of metal Te-qu-bon-wey had found in a raid and had fashioned into a sharp, cutting point. The white man was bleeding from half a dozen wounds that the lance-bearer had already inflicted. The other Comanches jumped up and down in merriment as they watched the grisly entertainment.
His breath coming in desperate gasps, the white man suddenly bent over and palmed a rock. Cursing, he hurled the stone at Te-qu-bon-wey, and was fortunate enough to strike the Comanche warrior on his left shoulder. The lance-bearer's black eyes lit up with anger, and he urged his pony down on his victim. Realizing the foolishness of his act, the white man tried harder to run away. There was no where to go. The Indian pony quickly closed the gap. Te-qu-bon-wey lowered the had of his lance and targeted the pocket of the white man's underwear just over his rump. The spear entered his back and ripped a red exit in the man's lower abdomen.
The white man stumbled and fell. Te-qu-bon-wey expertly twisted and pulled his lance free of the falling body. An arch of blood followed the lance as it spun up into the air and caught the glare of the sun on its dull metal head. The white man rolled on the ground. He clutched his stomach where a red river was flowing out onto the dusty ground. The last thing he heard were the rasping laugh of the Comanches as several of them used his dying body as archery practice. Most of them lamented that they had no time to properly torture the white fool to death.
Several of the warriors laughed at Te-qu-bon-wey and mentioned that now all stone would carry a bad spirit for the lance-bearer. It was probable that Te-qu-bon-wey would die by stone. Te-qu-bon-wey shrugged and smiled as he enjoyed the white man'
s death.
Shoeny-tak-quo turned away from the spectacle of life and death. He looked at the burning farmhouse and several other bodies in the dirt. There was no mercy in his black eyes as he mused over these results of his preditoriness. One of the young warriors pushed their only captive at the feet of his pony. It was a yellow haired girl. The one person spared in the raid.
"Bind the her and throw her over a pony. She will serve us well on the trail, and when we are done with her we might still sell her to the Comancheros. Keep this in mind when handling her. She must be in shape to sell when old Manchito sees here," said the band leader.
"What can we get for this scrawny white girl?" asked the boy. He was one of the reservation boys that Shoeny-tak-quo had picked up to replenish his band. As yet, he was not knowledgeable in the ways of true Comanches or their aides, the Comancheros.
"You still wear the peasant white clothes of the white man, boy. Don't question my orders. Do what I say and perhaps you will learn something before you die," said Shoeny-tak-quo harshly. The boy wore a shapeless white shirt and trousers. He was dressed as a Mexican peon. Shoeny-tak-quo had never worn a white man's pants. It was the middle of summer and his body was nearly naked except for a breechcloth covering his loins and the moccasins on his feet. His short, muscular body was burned deep red brown by the sun. Next to his wild fierceness, the reservation boy was like a lamb.
As the boy complied with his orders, Shoeny-tak-quo bit on an apple he had stolen from the kitchen. Then a wave of his hand ordered his band away from the carnage they had laid upon the farmhouse and its inhabitants. Within minutes they were gone and behind them were only the dead.
When he heard Cookie's bell ring, Johnny glanced at the main house with surprise in his blue eyes. It was too early for supper. On John Chisom's ranch the hands only took two meals. One in the morning and one at the end of the work day. While the sun was still up the work day wasn't over. Puzzled, Johnny walked toward the main house. His hands slid down his side and sought the twin colts that customarily hung there. He had been living peacefully for the last four months on Chisom's ranch. Working as a simple cowboy, there had been no need to carry the tools of a gunfighter. Johnny wondered if some lawman had discovered that the Rawhide Kid had come to work for Chisom. If that were true, Johnny would be helpless without his colts. If it were not true, he would arouse suspicion if he went to the meeting with his fighting guns strapped to his hips. He decided to take the chance and kept away from the bunk house where his colts were packed away.
As he rounded the corner of the barn he regretted his decision. Several gaunt men on horseback were waiting in the open area just before the big house. Johnny recognized one of them and that was enough for him to identify the men as Texas Rangers. If they had come to Chisom's ranch for him, then he was as good as caught.
Johnny kept to the rear of the gathered men, and hoped that the rangers wouldn't notice him. Old man Chisom introduced the rangers and told his men why they had come. A band of renegade Comanches had begun to raid some of the small farms along the edge of the big ranches. These rangers were on their trail and needed supplies and perhaps some help in dealing with the renegades. They had already lost several men and were down to five men. They were asking for volunteers.
Most of the ranchhands were not inclined to go hunting a few renegade Comanches. They looked at Chisom for his word on the matter.
"I'm down to a light crew, these days, Captain Stein. Although I'll not stop any man from joining your worthy cause, I'll not encourage them either. I thought we had the Comanche whipped," said Chisom in his deep commanding voice.
"Most of them are vipped," said the Ranger captain in a mild German accent, "but a few persist in raiding and raping. It is my job to hunt them down and kill them, Mr. Chisom."
None of the men volinteered for the mission. This placed a specter of awkwardness on Chisom and his crew. It was Western etiquette that some help be provided. It was a matter of Texas pride. It need be only one man.
Stein solved the problem himself. His cold blue eyes swept the crew and rested on Johnny Bart. A smile cracked his craggy face. He dismounted and walked over to the Rawhide Kid.
"Vell, Johnny, I haven't seen you for some time," said the captain as he extended a hand. "You are gut?"
Johnny straightened up with respect for the older man. This ranger had been a good friend of his uncle Ben, and Johnny had known him since he was a little boy. The old German was a tough, but fair lawman. Now Johnny was glad he wasn't wearing his colts. He wasn't sure he could draw them against this man.
"Yes suh, Ah am. Glad to see yuh are still kicking," replied the Rawhide Kid. He took Stein's square hand and shook it.
"I need help, Johnny. I am glad to see you here. You are just the man I'm looking for. Care to join our party for old time sake," asked the Captain. His steely eyes bore into Johnny's and dared the Kid to refuse.
"Ah guess Ah can, if Mr. Chisom can spare me, sir," said the Kid slowly. He reminded himself that no matter how had he tried to live peacefully, fighting was still his business.
Chison was quick to agree. Losing only one man was a good solution to the problem presented by the Rangers' request for help. Johnny was a new man, and thus was easier to lose than one of his steady hands.
"Very gut, Johnny. Go get your gear. Ve leave shortly," said the Captain brusquely. With the matter settled he turned his horse toward one of the several water troughs by the barn.
Before he went to the bunk house to get his gear, Johnny said good-bye to some of his work mates. He asked that he borrow a horse from the ranch, because his own stallion, Nightwind, was suffering a slight limp from stepping in a gopher hole. Johnny didn't want to expose his beloved stallion to the hardship of the trail before the injury was healed. Chison granted the Kid's request gracefully, and advised him to take the best cow pony he could find in the corral. Less than an hour later he was riding out with the Rangers.
There was little time for idle conversation, so the Kid never got to learn much more about his new companions other than their names. Captain Stein was the only man who paused to talk to the Kid as he made an effort to catch up on what had happened in the Kid's life since he had last seen him many years ago.
"Texas lost a gut man vhen your Uncle died, Johnny," said the Captain. Stein was from one of the many German settlements in Texas. He had joined the Rangers as a boy in the 40s after his brother had been killed by Comanches. He was a thick set man of medium height with a reputation for strength and toughness. And like all Rangers who had endured a long career on the frontier, he was a good hand with guns and horses.
"Yes sir, Capt'n. Uncle Ben took me in when no one else would. Made a man out of me," replied Johnny Bart. It still hurt a little to remember his uncle's senseless death at the hands of a fool. The Kid preferred to remember the good times and steered away from the sight of his uncle's dead, white face.
"Taught you fightin' vays, Johnny. He told me once that you'd make a gut ranger. I'm sorry that you fell on the wrong side of the law," said Stein.
"Ah don't regret muh life or muh choices, Capt'n Stein. Ah was raised to be a fightn' man. But Ah ain't no outlaw. When Ah had to kill, muh kills were clean."
"I believe that, Johnny. If I didn't you vouldn't be mit us now. I need you on this trip. One comanche ve are trailing is that devil, Snake Bite. One of the old boys with still a lot of bite in him. Shuns the rifle and prefers the bow. And he's a deadly killer with it," reported the Captain with a frown. He was silent for a few minutes as he chewed on a piece of dried beef.
"Reckon we'll actually catch up to him, Capt'n?" asked the Kid.
"I have hope, Johnny. Ve brushed up against them two weeks ago. I lost five men in that battle. Only one Indian was killed," said the Captain. The Kid heard the older man's unspoken words. Captain Stein blamed himself for whatever damage the Comanches had done after that ill fated skirmish. He was hard driven to catch and kill the Comanches.
The Captain stood up. His broad, muscular form was blocked out the sun behind him. Johnny remembered his Uncle telling him that the Captain's name meant stone in German. At that moment he looked like a man cut out of stone. And like a stone rolling down a mountain, he wouldn't stop moving toward the Comanche until he hit a hard place. The Kid rubbed the handle of his right colt unconsciously as he wondered where that hard place would be.
"Let us go!" barked the Captain. They returned to the trail.
"Ve got them!" he gasped. Apparently the Indians had been unaware that the rangers were trailing them. There were no signs of an ambush on the open plain. It was only a matter of closing the distance between the two groups.
The number of the war party was eight Comanche. The rangers had only six men. Stein looked back over his shoulder at Johnny Bart and wondered if the Rawhide Kid was enough of a gunfighter to give the rangers the advantage. It really didn't matter, because the rangers had not come all this way to let the Comanche ride away.
Once again their weapons were checked. Then Captain Stein gave the word and they spurred their mounts toward the Comanche.
One of the braves shouted a warning. Shoeny-tak-quo turned on his pinto and squinted at the charging rangers. Comanches were known for their poor vision, but Shoeny-tak-quo was an exception. It was one of the factors that made him a superb bowman. A wide smile cracked the black and red war paint on his face. The Comanche wouldn't try to escape. They outnumbered the rangers. Lightning flashed and thunder roared behind the rangers as Shoeny-tak-quo made a decision to fight. He didn't want to lose the cattle, and he thought he had a very good chance to win.
Like the rangers, the Comanche were a long way from home. Love of fighting and the high status that successful raiding gave each individual made these men extremely warlike. Screaming into the wind, they swooped down on the rangers and met the white men on a broad, flat grassy plain. Thunder rolled as gunfire heralded the smashing together of the two war parties. Arrows thudded into flesh and bullets tore gaping holes in red-brown hides.
Several of the Comanche used stolen rifles to pump lead back at the rangers. Gone were the days when the Rangers had the advantage of repeating firearms. Now it was lead and courage against the same.
Often battles between armed parties such as these had resulted in only some injuries and few fatalities. The fury of this battle was different, and men began to drop to the ground wounded to death. The clouds opened up and a torrent of rain bombarded the fighting men. Horses bumped together as war clubs swung against rifle butts. Pistols and bowie knives yearned for blood.
Te-qu-bon-wey, the lancer, spotted Captain Stein and charged him through the pouring rain. His home made lance head struck the German ranger in the upper chest, stunned him, and would have lifted him clean off his saddle, had not Stein grabbed his saddle horn with both hands. In doing so, the ranger captain dropped his colt. Stein pawed at the lance with one of his hands as Te-qu-bon-wey tried to drill it deeper into his square body. The German gathered himself and seized the lance shaft with both hands. With a screaming surge of power, Stein twisted and pulled at the spear until both he and Te-qu-bon-wey were knocked from their horses. As he landed, the lance broke and the point remained embedded in his upper pectoral. Te-qu-bon-wey leaped to his feet, and pushing several horses out of his way, found his way to Stein with his knife in hand. Reaching down, Stein grabbed a large rock and smashed it into Te-qu-bon-wey's head as the Comanche's knife sliced into his belly. The Indian fell on top of the German with a shattered skull. With the rain washing away the blood that was pouring from his wounds, Stein pushed away Te-qu-bon-wey's body and struggled to sit up. His strength failed him and he fell backwards with a groan.
The Rawhide Kid's colts blazed death.Though the driving rain made it more difficult, five Comanche warriors were killed by the Kid. Amid the death and carnage around him, the Kid remained cold and deadly. Fighting was his business. Years of experience had added to a boyhood of training until a specter of pure genius was imposed on the Kid's body. The storm intensified, and the wind howled until the two parties broke off their hostilities. The Kid leaped off his horse and searched for Captain Stein. When he found him, the captain was nearly dead. The Kid started to drag his body away from the battle site in the hope that his Uncle's friend might still survive. No one interfered. The battle was over. The few Comanches who still lived had withdrawn.
"Anyone else alive, Johnny?" rasped Stein.
"Just us, Capt'n. The rest of the boys are dead."
"And the Comanches?"
"Ah think a few are alive and kickin'."
"What about their captive? The girl?"
The Kid looked over the small slope of dirt and grass that was formed by the shallow depression in the flat prairie that they had taken cover in. "She's still alive. Those Indians are just waiting there. Ah guess for the rain to stop."
"Ve got to save her, Johnny." Stein tried to sit up. He was too weak.
"Ah recon Ah'll do that directly," said the Rawhide Kid.
The rain had all but stopped. Stein groaned and dropped his head to the ground where it rolled loosely in death. The Kid stepped out of the natural foxhole he was in and walked over to one of the cow ponies that had stayed by the bodies of the rangers. The pouring rain had washed most of the blood off the bodies. Lying in the mud they were just lifeless debris with red bullet holes or arrows sticking out of them. An hour ago these men had been alive. Johnny wondered at the senseless futility of life.
The Rawhide Kid checked his guns. Life was for the living and the strong. He squared his white hat and mounted the cow pony. Then he started toward the Comanches at a slow trot.
Shoeny-tak-quo, the deadly Comanche the white men knew as Snake Bite, sat on his pinto and watched the Kid coming. Behind him, his last two warriors stood by the tow headed girl. She was staked by a rope around her neck to the ground. Her blue eyes were dull with suffering and pain. One of the young bucks held a war club over her as if he were going to brain her at any moment. That moment depended on Shoeny-tak-quo who still watched the Kid impassively.
The Kid held his rifle in his arms. He saw the short muscular Comanche on the pinto make a hand signal to one of the boys behind him. The young brave lifted his club with a devilish grin. The Kid's rifle fired once, and the young brave joined the dead.
Rawhide didn't wait for the second boy to move. He just shot him before he became a threat to the girl.
Shoeny-tak-quo continued to stare at the Kid. He saw the blue-black clothing, and in a moment of reflection realized how similar it was to the red and black paint on his own body. Both symbolized war. He experienced a feeling of kinship with the white man until a wave of death washed his fighting spirit clean of sentiment. If there had been time for it, Shoeny-tak-quo would have sung his death song.
Not that he was afraid to die. Nor was he afraid of the Kid. It was just that in the Rawhide Kid this experienced warrior recognized a one in a million fighter. Shoeny-tak-quo smiled. It would be good to fight this man.
With a shrill war cry, the Comanche heeled his pinto toward his enemy. Rawhide sheathed his rifle and drew his right colt. He spurred his pony to meet the Comanche head on. Shoeny-tak-quo heard the bark of the Kid's colt and felt shock and pain strike his chest. Steeling himself against the wound, Shoeny-tak-quo fired an arrow at the Kid's horse, which he thought was his only chance of success against so great a marksman. The cow pony folded underneath the white man. The Kid sprang from the stumbling horse and landed in the prairie grass in a roll. He came up firing and pumped two slugs into the Comanche's head. Few other men could have shot so swiftly and surely at a moving target as the Rawhide Kid did that day. Shoeny-tak-quo jerked off his pinto and fell heavily to the ground.
The Kid checked on his pony, and when he saw that it was hopeless, he killed one more thing that day. He jogged over to the girl and cut her free with a pocket knife. Shock and horror were ghosts on her face and in her eyes. The Kid covered her with a saddle blanket and spoke a few comforting words to her. Only time would heal the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her savage captors.
The Kid walked away to round up some mounts for the two of them.
THE END
Johnny Bart twisted the wire around the fence post and fastened it with a nail. He saw more and more wire being strung up on cattle spreads these days. Even the old time ranchers were using it to keep their cattle from straying. Johnny didn't like wire, not because he was inclined to the traditional western view of keeping the wide open spaces open, but because it reminded him of captivity. Captivity was something he was always running away from.
They rode for days with little stopping. Texas was a large country, and their mission to find the latest band of Comanche raiders was like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack. Their only clues were the devastation the Comanches had left in their predatory sweep of western Texas. A secluded farmhouse, stagecoach, or small ranch that had been broken by the Comanche lance kept the trail open for the Rangers.
With each new victim, Captain Stein grew more determined to find the Comanches, though he knew from experience that his chance of doing so was shallow. Already the Indians were heading west, into the wildlands of the Plains. If they didn't catch them soon, they probably would never do so.
They caught two cowboys tending to a small group of strays. After killing the white men, the Comanche decided to keep the cows and herd them back to their big camp. Shoeny-tak-quo had decided that they had done enough on this particular raiding adventure. It was time to go home. It was a long journey back to his home in Oklahoma even for a group of men nearly born on horseback. First they would stop off in New Mexico and trade some of the things they had taken from the white man for goods provided by unscrupulous traders that dealt with the Comanche, Kiowa and Apache. It had been a long time since Shoeny-tak-quo had tasted good whiskey.
One of the older rangers, Dermond Grafton remarked that the Kid must be a good luck charm. It was sheer good fortune that the Rangers came upon the cowboy kill. It was still fresh, and now that the Indians were herding cattle, they might be slowed down enough for the Rangers to catch them. If nothing else, the cattle would clearly etch their trail in the prairie dust. This picked up the spirits of the gaunt, trail weary Rangers. They were eager to find the enemy and destroy him. Most of them checked their weapons after leaving the site where the cowboys had been killed.
Black clouds rolled into the late afternoon sky. The air was thick with moisture, and it would rain soon. One of the older rangers claimed his bones were telling him that it would rain hard. Stein grunted and raised a blunt finger to point at the Comanches who could now be seen only a few hundred yards away.
The savage summer storm abated. The Kid squatted by Captain Stein and watched the old ranger's life dwindle away. He had done his best to tend to Stein's wounds, but they had been too deep. Only the captain's relentless physical vitality had kept him alive thus far.