Author's note: the following story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. The author wishes to express his gratitude to Copperbutterfly for her editing to make this a better story.
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It had been a long, hot summer, one of many in a chain of such summers in the north Texas heat. The year 1857 had been pretty much just like 1856 and every other year along here: too much sun, not enough rain, and very few people.
It had been almost ... hm, seventeen months, I think ... since I had last seen people, on a week-long wagon trip to Fort Worth. Well, people that didn't have naturally red skin, that is. There were roving bands of Comanche that came through the area from time to time, sometimes giving my place a wide berth but keeping out a wary eye, sometimes coming close enough to kill one of my longhorn steers. When they killed a steer, I had to give them credit; they left nothing behind but a few blood spots on the ground and some bent grass where they had worked. They took everything. I'm not sure how they used some of the parts but they weren't left behind.
If there were women in the party, one or more of them would leave dragging a travois, a contraption made of two long poles lashed to a horse, held apart by another pole or two and connected by the hide strung between the poles. The majority of the dead animal was carried on its own hide on the travois. I knew the women of the band would spend the night making jerky out of most of the meat, although I wondered what they did with the head and entrails.
On very rare occasions, the band might be just a few warriors hunting for trouble. Usually when they went on the warpath, they were fighting their chief rivals, the Apaches, who normally lived in the region the Comanche considered to be the southern portion of their range. Thus when a war party came by my place, they weren't actually out to attack me ... but as long as I was there on their way, they might as well see if they could "count coup" on me too.
Counting coup was a strange practice to most whites. They were not necessarily trying to inflict harm on the person they counted coup on, but they were showing other members of their tribe just how brave a warrior they were by darting in to the opponent, whether it be a white man or a soldier of another Indian tribe, and touching that person, either with a hand or with a coup stick, and then darting away unharmed. Of course if the opponent reacted violently, as often happened, counting coup became a matter of life or death.
The problem most opponents had was not knowing whether the attack was simply counting coup or if the attacker actually meant to kill the opponent. Thus, discretion being the better part of valor, it was a natural practice to defend one's self with whatever weapons were available.
It had taken three separate and very bloody battles for the Indians to give my place a wide berth. It was fortunate that my weapons were more advanced than theirs. Although I had single-shot rifles just like theirs, mine were breech loaders, theirs the older muzzle loaders, at least those who had them. Many of the braves still used bows and arrows, although they were outstanding at their use. Still if they got close enough, my trio of Colt revolvers with six shots each could be an effective deterrent. I hadn't escaped without my share of wounds but I fared better than the several braves that went home draped over their horses' backs.
A couple of times, I'd had to make some major repairs to my dugout home. I'd gotten a great belly laugh, afterward, at the brave who thought he could ride his horse over the top of it, only to find that, when the horse stepped on the sod roof between the rafters, there was nothing to hold him up and he had come crashing through, hoofs flailing to gain purchase. The rider had scrambled to safety, although he took a bullet in one shoulder and had a lot of damage to his pride. Fortunately the horse finally managed to extricate himself but my roof had suffered major damage. But, with a sod roof and new rafters down at either the South Wichita or the North Wichita Rivers just waiting to be cut, it wasn't too difficult a job to patch and the only cost was my time.
Now, having finished shocking -- tying - the last of my winter wheat crop into tight little bundles for drying, I would have liked nothing better than to strip down and stand under my washtub shower and cool off, but with my meat supplies running low and needing to be built up before the winter set in -- yes, west Texas does have winters, with snow and ice and winds and miserable conditions. There's a saying that there is nothing between west Texas and the North Pole and snowfalls of 10 to 12 inches were not unusual. They weren't here yet but I had to be prepared when they came. So I left the confines of my humble barn and headed toward the South Wichita, hoping to find a white tail along the greenery that marked the river's path.
Usually the deer were plentiful in this part of the state. However with the lack of rain, they had become a little scarce and I hadn't spent much time hunting since I was working diligently to get my crops in for winter supplies. However it was always better to have some meat to supplement a vegetable diet. I could have had beef, of course, but I was still trying to build up my little herd, which right now numbered only 101 - unless some of the cows had dropped a calf in the last couple of days.
Once I reached the river, I turned west ... well, a little south by west, since the river meandered, but it was more west than anything. I picked up signs of deer feeding almost immediately and kept walking, being careful to keep from stepping on sticks that would break and give away my stalking, thus ending my hunt. I also had to be careful of rattlers. This area was a haven for the diamondback rattlesnake. An encounter with one of the highly poisonous creatures could lead to my death.
I was probably four or five miles downstream when I spotted something that seemed out of place. Most animal tracks were familiar to me but this was something different, a pair of parallel tracks that looked like something or someone had dragged something with a bit of heft to it into a pile of undergrowth. Cautiously I turned to the undergrowth and inched forward.
I was more than a little surprised, when I brushed some leaves away, to find a moccasin-covered foot. After more uncovering, I realized it was an Indian woman, a Comanche by the design of her dress. At first I thought she was dead but close examination showed that she was unconscious, breathing although her breath was ragged and shallow. Her heartbeat was rapid and quick. I carefully turned her over onto her back and found the remains of a broken Apache arrow in her left shoulder, an ugly wound. There was blood all down the front of her dress so I loosened the rawhide strings that tied it together and began searching. Nothing. I lifted the skirt and looked and there, between her waist and hip, was another hole, this from a rifle ball from the looks of it.
Not being a doctor, I didn't know if I could help this woman or not. Nevertheless, I would do what I could. Carefully I lifted her over my left shoulder, keeping my rifle on my right shoulder, and started the long trek home.
I knew I had to be jostling her with every step I took and if she had been conscious, she might not have been able to stand the trip. However if I was to be able to do anything for her, I had to get her into my dugout. It seemed to take forever and it was well after dark when I finally felt my way down the steps into the darkness of my home. I eased her down onto my rather crude mattress and lit an oil lantern.
