Netta Druce, refreshed from her night’s sleep, walked into the kitchen of the home she shared with her husband on the Red River Agency. There was still an early morning chill in the spring air. Netta instinctively pulled the shawl on her shoulders tighter. “Isn’t the fire built up yet?” she asked her young Mexican housekeeper Inez.
“No, Señora,” she answered. “I am putting the wood in the stove now.”
“Mr. Druce will be cranky if his coffee is late,” Netta complained.
Inez, a feisty nineteen-year-old, shrugged her indifference. “There is no water anyway.” The young woman had spent three years as a captive of the Chogolas. She’d been virtually unnoticed in the village because of her dark skin coloring, but several soldiers from Fort Alexander had finally become attracted to the pretty girl. They were the ones who found out Inez was Mexican. She had learned to speak a bit of English because of living near the Texas border. A brief conversation alerted them to her true position in the tribe. The troopers wasted no time in informing their company commander of the situation. Consequently, a great effort was launched to free her. When the Indians finally agreed to let Inez go, everyone involved was surprised when Inez strongly expressed her desire to stay at the agency rather than go back to her home village in Mexico.
She had been captured during a bold Comanche raid on a market town in Chihuahua. After being carried off and raped, she was kept as a squaw by a Chogola warrior. Inez knew that these unhappy circumstances, though beyond her control, would make her considered no less than a whore by her own people. Even the young Mexican woman’s parents would have had nothing to do with her, and none of the young men would have taken her as a wife. If she did go back to Mexico, there was every chance that she would have eventually been driven into prostitution. At least at the agency she had the opportunity to meet lonely soldiers. With a bit of luck she knew she would eventually be married to one. Washing clothes on Soap Suds Row was preferable to life in a bordello crib.
Netta joined Inez in the morning chores. She liked working in the kitchen. The tasks kept her hands busy and allowed her mind to dwell on other things such as daydreaming about the handsome Sergeant Guy DuBose. Although she’d denied it to herself for many months, Netta finally had to admit that she was profoundly and seriously attracted to the soldier. His good manners, soft manner of speaking, and courtly grace were irresistible to even this devoutly Christian woman.
Her husband Palmer was an impatient, excitable man. The slightest break in routine or even a small mistake on her part in running the agency store would set him off into hours of scolding and complaining. He constantly monitored her classes with the Indian children and found fault in every lesson she taught. Their evenings were filled with hours of criticism and petulant lectures that drove her to tears. Netta always promised Palmer that she would try harder, but no matter what effort she made, he was never satisfied. She had been brought up to be obedient to her husband, but many times she found this devotion sorely tried.
Sergeant Guy DuBose, on the other hand, was the emotional opposite of Palmer Druce. Quiet and sure of himself, he seemed to move through his martial life with everything under his control. Even when giving orders to his soldiers, he remained remarkably low-keyed and calm. Netta, to her utmost shame, had even wondered what it would be like to be a wife to the sergeant and share his bed.
Several times, Guy DuBose had spoken to her. The manner of his approach had been one of offering friendship and an opportunity to allow whatever association was possible between them to develop to its fullest. Netta, despite her naiveté where men were concerned, could recognize the chance for romance. But painful shyness always made her feel stupid and ugly. She knew she was far from beautiful, but on the frontier there was no competition from other women. It was her most secret and most wonderful private thought that if she could overcome her timidness she could have a liaison d’amour with Guy DuBose. During periods of anger at Palmer, she enjoyed creating fantasies in her mind in which she and Sergeant DuBose ran off together to live in delightful sin and carnal pleasure ...
“Señora,” Inez said interrupting her thoughts. “I talked with Two Pony’s woman yesterday. She will bring the corn meal today. To make tortillas. I promised, remember? You said you wanted to learn.”
“What?”
“Ay! You are not listening to me, eh? Where is your mind, Señora?” Inez smiled and winked. The Mexican girl had noticed Netta’s furtive glances at the gringo sergeant. “Do you have a man you think of?”
Netta’s anger and guilt quickly boiled to the surface. “Of course not, you stupid girl! What a terrible thing to say!”
Inez, unbothered, shrugged. “Y que? What’s so wrong with that? A husband can be tiresome while a handsome man is not to be wasted even in one’s mind, no?”
The statement came so close to the truth that it made Netta’s face flush. “Get back to your work!”
But Inez persisted in her teasing. “Tell me. Who is he?’
Netta faced the girl with a face as hard as granite. “You are accusing me of unchristian behavior!”
“Gringa fia!” Inez said under her breath.
Netta’s conscience reacted again when her husband Palmer joined them. “Good morning, ladies,” he called out. “Am I in time for a nice cup of fresh coffee?”
Inez, still smiling to herself, remained silent. Netta picked up the wooden bucket and handed it to her husband. “Please, Palmer. We’ll need some water for coffee.”
“No coffee?” he asked. “Now really, Netta! You know how I like a hot cup when I first arise. You should have had some brewing by first light this morning.”
“I didn’t think about it,” Netta said. “I am sorry, Palmer.”
“Sometimes you are very disappointing, Netta,” Palmer said in a solemn tone.
“Please, Palmer. Get the water,” Netta said.
“This most certainly is not the end of this situation, Netta,” Palmer Druce said firmly.
“Inez should have known enough to get water for coffee,” Netta said defensively.
“Do not blame her, Netta. You are the mistress of this particular castle,” Palmer said. “We shall speak of this later. Meantime, I shall fetch the water.” He made a dignified exit from the house.
Inez turned and smiled. “Daydreaming is nice, no? You don’t have to tell me, Señora, I know who he is. It is the handsome sergeant, no?”
“You wicked, wicked girl! Be quiet!” Netta exclaimed. She gave her full attention to slicing the bacon. She’d barely started when Palmer burst back through the door. He didn’t have the bucket.
“Please Lord save us all!” he cried out.
“What is the matter, Palmer?” Netta asked in terror. Inez, fearful, looked at him with her dark eyes opened wide.
“There are missing lodges in the Chogola camp,” Palmer said. “I counted them. At least a third are gone. I must hurry to Fort Alexander.”
“No, Palmer!” Netta begged. “The Indians will come here and kill us.”
But Inez had calmed down. “Do not worry,” she said in a relieved tone. “If the lodges are gone, so too is Lame Elk and his warriors. There is no danger at the agency.”
Palmer spent no more time in talk. He left the women and rushed to the stable to saddle his horse. Within a few minutes he was galloping through the ford on the Red River, headed directly for the army post.
Druce pounded across the rolling plains country unmindful of prairie dog holes or other dangers to his mount. By the time he reached the fort’s main gate, his eyes were wide with growing fear. The guards, recognizing him, did not challenge the visitor. Their attempts to slow him down to find out what was wrong were in vain as he sped past them and wheeled toward regimental headquarters.
The frantic man did not bother to tie his horse at the hitching rail in front of the building. He leaped from the saddle and bounded up the steps, rushing through the door past the startled sergeant major’s desk. He bounded into Colonel Gatley’s office, then came back out just as fast.
“Where is the colonel, for the love of dear God?” he demanded.
“Calm down, Mr. Druce,” Sergeant Major Bradley said. “I’ll have his orderly fetch him.”
The young soldier, just back from eating his breakfast, was seated in a chair by the door picking his teeth. “What’s the matter, Mr. Druce?”
“For the love of God!” Palmer yelled. “Go get the colonel!”
The soldier smirked. “Colonel Gatley don’t take kindly to being fetched.”
The sergeant major exploded. “Get off your butt and get the colonel!”
The orderly leaped up and rushed off to fetch the commanding officer. The sergeant major tried to calm the excited man. “I think you better sit down, Mr. Druce.”
“Sit down?” Druce cried. “Lame Elk has taken a full third of the Chogolas with him and fled the agency.”
“Shit!” the sergeant major snapped. Then, remembering that Druce was a man of the cloth, he apologized.
But Palmer Druce didn’t notice. “Where is he? Where is he?”
“The colonel will get here as quick as he can,” Bradley said.
Druce, pacing back and forth, kept glancing out the window. Finally he yelled, “Ah!” and raced to the door, throwing it open. “Colonel Gatley, please hurry!”
The colonel, alarmed, entered the building. He ignored Sergeant Major Bradley’s salute. “What the hell is the matter, Mr. Druce?”
“Colonel, Lame Elk has taken a third of the Chogolas with him and left the agency,” Druce said.
Gatley sighed. “So it’s started, hey?” His voice was calm. “Now we know for sure how we’ll spend the summer.”
Bradley stepped forward. “Shall I have the duty trumpeter sound Assembly, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant. Immediately, if you please.”
“Yes, sir!”
A flurry of activity began around Fort Alexander. The well-drilled regiment formed up quickly to receive their commander’s orders. There was no danger to the post or the agency at the moment. The hell that was to roll across Texas was already on its way south, and it was in that unhappy place where the first violence would play out in the drama of that summer.
The First Squadron, with Company C in the vanguard, was the leading unit dispatched to the field. This time, in a newly purchased slouch hat with a broad brim and sporting a fresh, bright bandanna around his neck, Captain Gordon Blackburn rode at the head of the command with the guidon bearer and Trumpeter Benito Pullini to his immediate rear. Just behind them, leading his section, Sergeant Guy DuBose sat ramrod straight in the saddle, his body moving easily with the cantering of his horse. Behind that section, Sergeant Harry Tate led his own men.
C Company, which by the official organization of the army should have numbered more than sixty, had barely mustered thirty soldiers to answer that morning’s trumpet call to action. Under-strength units like this one were the result of public apathy and a stingy congress. Sergeants earned seventeen dollars a month while corporals were paid fifteen and privates thirteen to enforce a giddy, inconsistent police toward the unconquered Indians.
This time Private Donovan’s expertise in tracking was not needed. With so many women and children, belongings, and the buffalo skin lodges, the Chogolas left an easy trail. The travois and tracks of many moccasins and horses created a twenty-foot wide swath through the grass.
Later, as the spore became fresher, Guy spurred his horse and rode up to the company commander. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
“Yes, Sergeant? What is it?”
“I suggest flankers and an advance guard, if you please,” Guy said. “We’re drawing closer to the hostiles. They may spring an ambush to give their families a chance to break loose and gain more distance from us.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Sergeant,” Blackburn said wisely.
“Yes, sir.” Guy sent some of his own men forward while Tate donated three to each side of the column. These outriders, all good soldiers with excellent eyesight, kept a constant vigil on likely spots from which attacks could be sprung up close. They also scanned the horizon for the sight of the Chogola’s version of a full-mounted charge.
The pursuit continued more slowly and with more care. After three long hours a smudge of smoke was sighted on the horizon. Blackburn was delighted. “Sergeant DuBose! Front and center!”
Guy rode up to the officer. “Yes, sir?”
“Is that an Indian signal fire? I’ve read about such things back east. Perhaps it’s a message to attack the column.”
Guy shook his head. “No, sir. More than likely some isolated farm or ranch has been raided by the Chogolas.”
“Then let’s hurry forward to do our duty,” Blackburn said. He waved to Pullini. “Sound the Charge!”
Pullini, who spoke Italian when he became especially excited, acknowledged the order with a curt, “Si, Signore Capitano!”
“Hold it!” Guy shouted.
“What the hell do you mean?” Blackburn demanded.
“It will be too late, sir,” Guy replied in a tone of resignation. “This is the part of Indian warfare that I hate the most.”
“Explain yourself, Sergeant.”
“There will be nothing to do but bury the dead, Captain,” Guy explained. “Or at least what is left of them.”
Blackburn started to get Pullini’s attention again, then he quickly changed his mind. “Very well. Let’s investigate.”
The column moved forward once more. It took an hour to reach the smoke, which by then had dissipated into weak, restless wisps whipped around by the breeze. Guy had been correct. A farm house, burned to charred sticks, sat in a circle of scorched grass. Two white blobs, looking like red painted porcupines, lay punctured with countless arrows.
When the company reached the vicinity several men, including Captain Gordon Blackburn, quickly slid out of their saddles to vomit. Two males had been mutilated beyond imagination. Nothing but bloody meat remained where the victims once had faces. Their genitals, chopped away, had been laid in the cavities of their disemboweled stomachs.
“Corporal Hansen!” Guy called out. “Take two men and look around. See if there are more bodies or possibly survivors.”
Hansen spat. “There won’t be no damn survivors, Sergeant. You know that.”
“See what you can find,” Guy said.
Blackburn, his eyes watery, rinsed out his mouth with a drink from his canteen. “Do those devils always do that?”
“Yes, sir, when they get a chance,” Guy said. “They believe enemies that are mutilated go to the afterlife to spend eternity in such a state.”
Blackburn, to his credit, forced himself to take another look. “One is—was—a man,” he said. “But the other couldn’t be more than a boy of ten or twelve.”
Hansen returned from his task. “They ain’t nobody else, but I seen some stuff that a woman or girl might have owned. I seen some dresses and a mirror.” He shook his head. “Them Chogolas prob’ly took her away wit ’em. Poor woman!”
Blackburn’s face hardened. “God! I’ve love to catch up with those heathens.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Guy said. “Before tomorrow’s sunset you’ll be a fully-qualified Indian fighter.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the squadron. Over a hundred and twenty troops moved into the small farm yard, making their number appear even larger.
The commanding officer dispersed his men around the area in the unlikely event that the Indians might return. Company C, now back in the larger group, moved to its usual position within the large column.
A squadron trumpeter sought out Captain Blackburn. “Major Scott’s compliments, sir, and would you please report to him immediately.”
“Well,” Blackburn said. “It looks like this war is really starting to roll along now.” He nodded to Guy. “Sergeant DuBose, take over the company until my return.”
“Yes, sir,” Guy replied. He went immediately to personally inspect each man on the defensive line. This was done not out of necessity or a devotion to duty. Staying busy at anything helped keep the constant thoughts of Pauline at bay.