54Chapter Two
The Comanche rode hard all that day and night. They stopped twice to rest the horses. The first time, they dragged me off the palomino and removed my boots and pants. The boots were tossed into the brush and may be resting there yet. The pants were stuffed into a saddlebag for what future purpose I did not know.
The second time we stopped, I was not permitted to dismount. I sat naked and watched in anger and frustration as the Indians sipped water from buffalo skin pouches. No water was offered to me.
Comanche warriors were trained to go days without food or water and intentionally choose routes that had no water. This helped them escape the Army soldiers and Texas Rangers sent to pursue them.
However, I suffered immensely. By the second day my back and shoulders were sunburned and blistered. The insides of my thighs were rubbed raw. My body ached from head to toe. I was lightheaded and parched. Hunger tormented me, but thirst proved my greatest enemy. Thoughts of water consumed my mind. I thought, surely, I would die from lack of water.
Late that afternoon we came to a swift moving river. The Comanche dismounted and forced the stolen horses into the icy waters. The horses plunged into the river and swam across. The Indians led their ponies into the water and swam beside them. I was forced to stay mounted. My captor swam beside the pony and kept a watchful eye on me and the river. The currents were strong and thus, his attention became focused on the river and not me. I seized the opportunity and splashed great handfuls of water on my face and body. The icy water was a balm to my scorched skin. I even managed a handful of water for my thirsty mouth. Those few drops were a gift from God. They revived my body and my spirit.
On the opposite bank, the Indians held a brief council. Soon after, they separated into two bands and headed in different directions. This tactic was designed to confuse pursuers. My band took half the horses and continued in a northwesterly direction. We traveled at a good clip and took frequent breaks to rest the tender-footed horses.
Around midnight the Indians stopped. Someone had spotted an antelope and made the kill. My captor slid off his pony and motioned me to do the same. I was anxious to part ways with the pony and immediately swung a leg over the buffalo-hide saddle. However, my body was numb from two days of constant riding and I fell to the ground. The Indians laughed. I tried to get up, but my body refused to cooperate. It simply would not, or could not, carry out my mental commands.
I lay there in despair, my body an aching, throbbing mass. I searched the heavens and my eyes started to tear. Hundreds of stars glittered in the dark sky. How could such beauty exist above so much pain and misery? Thoughts of home and family filled my mind. Did mother and father know what had happened to me? Had they organized a search party? Perhaps a rescue posse was tracking my captors now as I lay on the cold ground, a rock poking me in the back.
Thoughts of Texas Rangers and soldiers in hot pursuit gave me hope. I grabbed onto that hope, clutched it like a lifeline, and didn't let go. I swore to God, and mother and father, that nothing would break my grip. I would not let go of that hope. Someone, someday, would find me. I would be returned to my family. If not rescued, then the Indians would likely ransom me. They ransomed women and children all the time. Mother and father would pay any price to get me back. They would sell everything they owned if necessary. I knew this to be fact. My heart told me it was true.
I had to stay strong a little longer. Father's words came to me, words he had spoken when I was troubled or dejected, usually over a perceived failure on my part, "Never give up, Ned. If you lose hope, you've lost everything. Absolutely everything. A man without hope is a man who's already dead."
Father was right. I made a promise that night to never give up. One day, I would return home. One day, I would stood in the doorway of my family's cabin and greet them with loving arms.
With the promise made, my body gave out and I fell asleep.
How long I slept, I do not know. The smell of cooked meat woke me. The Indians were huddled round a small fire, their voices low and their conversation relaxed. Each man was the master of his meal. Some roasted chunks of meat over the flames while others ate it raw.
Hunger brought me fully awake, and again, I tried to stand. My luck was no better this time. I fell and flopped about like a fish out of water. These antics set the Indians to laughing again.
I kept working my body and got my legs under me. I took a step and fell flat on my face. Blood spurted from my nose and ran down my chin. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. The Indians howled with laughter. Some slapped their bare thighs. It seemed, I was the nightly entertainment.
After the laughter died down, my captor brought me a piece of raw, bloody meat. Given my circumstances, and hunger, I snatched it from his hand. I'd never eaten raw meat before and it did not sit well with my stomach. It came right back up. My captor brought another chunk of raw meat and motioned me to eat it. Hunger drove me to try again. And again, I vomited.
My captor and I repeated the process until the meat stayed down. How many times we repeated that wretched ritual, I do not know. My meal, if one could call it that, left me exhausted and I fell into a thankless, dreamless sleep.
I awoke, cold and shivering, in the dark. Sunrise was still a few hours off. I was curled in a tight ball, my arms wrapped around my bent legs. My teeth chattered violently. I'd slept naked and uncovered on the ground.
Around me, men yawned and stretched. Some wandered into the brush and urinated. Buffalo skins and blankets were rolled and tied to saddles. Shields and quivers were slung onto backs. The Indians were breaking camp. I got to my feet and prepared to face the day, to accept what lay ahead.
We mounted the ponies and started out before the sun crested the horizon. We continued on our northwesterly course and, after several hours of hard riding, came to a stream. Here, the Indians stopped and set up camp. Our band was six men strong. Two were sent back to check for pursuers.
Everyone dismounted, including me. The ponies and stolen horses were released to graze on the open plains. The Indians went to the stream and filled their water bags. I shielded my eyes with a hand, squinted, and scanned the plains for Diamond. I found her leisurely grazing, a sturdy bay by her side. She seemed content and the bay seemed protective of her. He lifted his head and neighed a warning when another male approached. It did my heart good to see Diamond and to know she was fine. And unlike me, she had a friend and protector.
The Indians showed no interest in me and I decided to meander down the stream, to get away from them. I had noticed my missing saddle, it no longer rested upon Diamond's back. It now graced the back of one of the Indian's ponies. Fury and anger born of hate rose up in me. My hands fisted of their own will and I blew out a hot breath. The Indians had taken everything from me – my family, my home, my horse, my saddle, and my clothes and boots. Nothing was left, absolutely nothing, and at that moment, I hated the Indians beyond all reason.
I hated myself, too, for getting captured, for leaving the cabin without my rifle. That had been foolish and stupid. When confronted by the Indians, I'd had no way to defend myself or Diamond. I vowed that would never happen again. If ever I got hold of a weapon, it would become my faithful companion. It would never leave my side.
I stumbled along the stream, wandered past briar bushes and mesquite trees, and came upon a mud hole. Insects buzzed above it and landed on the murky water. I got on my hands and knees. Insects landed on my sweaty body. I swatted them away and pushed my face into the mud. It felt great, a blessed relief. I slid into the mud and rolled in it like a pig, covered myself with it – face, chest, arms, and thighs. The mud soothed my sunburned skin and eased the pain of the sores I had developed over the past few days. I lay there a long, long while enjoying that wonderful, blessed mud.
I was loathe to leave that mud hole. Only the sound of the Indians' angry voices got me out of it. Logic said they were looking for me. I thought it best to return of my own accord. I feared a punishment if they thought I had attempted an escape.
I came around a mesquite tree and startled the Indians. I was quite a sight. Mud caked face and body, hair standing on end. The Indians stared open-mouthed for about half a second and then one snickered. Another laughed. By this point, I was tired of being laughed at. Actually hated it.
The one who had captured me, and thus owned me as I would soon find out, threatened me with his quirt. He lifted it and yelled at me. His threat failed to scare me. I was tired, hungry, thirsty, and covered with sores. Every movement brought intense pain. What more could they do to me? Death, at that moment, would be a welcome relief.
I snarled and motioned for him to hit me. Do it! I moved my arms in big, exaggerated gestures. C'mon, beat me! Get it over with.
This response surprised him and the other three Indians. He lowered the quirt and looked to his companions for advice. The men talked rapidly, their words overlapped, each man wanting his opinion heard. The occasional narrowed-eyed glance was shot my way. Their heated conversation and gestures indicated that some wanted to kill me while others argued against it.
At last, the discussion ended and the four Indians lined up in front of me. One drew a bow and arrow. Another drew a pistol. Both took aim at my chest. The one with the bow notched an arrow and drew it back. I lifted my head in defiance. Let it be, I thought.
I closed my eyes and waited. Which would pierce my body first? The arrow or the lead ball? I willed myself to be strong. Do not flinch. Stand straight and tall. Be stoic and brave.
I waited, but nothing happened. What were they waiting for? Why didn't they shoot? I opened my eyes and saw them lower their weapons. What now? Another change of plans? Couldn't they make up their minds?
Now I was mad, seething. I sneered at them beneath a furrowed brow. Cowards!
An Indian rushed up and punched me in the stomach. He had checked his swing at the last second, but still, a torrent of pain flooded my body. Hot tears stung my eyes. I coughed and choked and gasped for air. But I remained on my feet. I would not fall. I would not beg for mercy. These savages would not have that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.
My captor stepped forward. He was of medium height and broad shouldered. His face carried the nicks and scars of many a battle. I squared my shoulders, steeled myself for another blow. This one would surely put me on the ground for good.
My captor lifted a hand and reached out. He grabbed my muddy, sunburned shoulder and smiled. In broken English, he said, "Make good warrior."
A high compliment, but one I did not fully appreciate at the time. Then, I was naïve to the ways of the Indians. Unbeknownst to me, I had taken the first step in becoming a Comanche warrior.
A/N: I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised, and heartened, to see there is some interest in this story. I extend a huge thank you to those kind enough to leave a review. Hopefully, this chapter keeps you interested. Thank you again for the reviews.