CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SILVER HAWK CONTINUED to brood over the rustlers’ midnight attack on his village and the deaths of his three young warriors. In time, he left on a solitary trip into the Indian Territory wilderness to seek counsel with the spirits.

The small band of hostile followers who had joined him in escaping the confines of the reservation and the restraints of the white man’s government anxiously waited for him to return and provide guidance.

One of the tribe’s most revered war chiefs, he had been shamed, and the only way he could restore his reputation was to take bloody revenge on his enemy. He summoned rebel leaders of several other Comanche camps for a council meeting to discuss combining forces and attacking an enemy hidden away in a High Plains place called Palo Duro Canyon.

When he returned to the village in full battle gear, chants promising death to the white devils went up from the braves. Then there was a ceremonial bonfire and prayers to the War Gods that their aims would be true.

In the generations before, Comanche warriors had fought battles against the white man in a spontaneous and near-suicidal way. There was no planning and very little concern for the number of casualties that might be suffered. When young braves died, others simply stepped up to take their places. Such was the Indian tradition of range war in the early days of the new West.

Guidance and tactics were delivered by the spirits.

Then the soldiers brought a new style of warfare. Their military approach featured careful planning and strategy, measuring of all odds and advantages before the first shot was fired. Tribal leaders, weary of losing battles, soon began to adopt the white man’s battle plans.

Though he had never been to Palo Duro Canyon, Silver Hawk could see it clearly in his mind. Scouts, traveling in pairs, had been there and returned to the village with details of everything from the jagged walls to the number of men living there. What they described was an ideal place for a surprise attack. For the unsuspecting white man, it was a death trap.

The first shot fired was symbolic—a flaming arrow that arced high in the twilight sky before landing on the roof of one of the cabins. Afterward came a barrage of rifle fire.

Silver Hawk’s raiding party, almost fifty warriors strong, had split into two groups that lined the canyon on both sides of the Baggett encampment. The order was simple. They had come to take nothing but the white men’s lives, avenging the loss of their fallen brothers and the theft of their cattle. What they could not kill, they would burn.

So sudden was the attack that several men fell dead even before they had time to search for cover. Others began firing harmless shots toward the canyon rim. Those who looked toward the trail that led out found that it was already blocked by rifle-bearing Indians.

Ben Baggett frantically raced about his cabin. “Who are these people?” he yelled from a window. He held a gun, but had no idea where to aim it. “Who . . . are . . . these . . . people?”

A rifle shot tore away the canvas window curtain near him, and he ducked to the floor. “Somebody do something,” he said in a childlike voice.

Bootsy was trapped under a wagon with a couple of other men. With no visible enemy, none had yet fired a single shot.

“Why don’t they show themselves?” one of the men asked.

“Why should they?” Bootsy replied. “They got every advantage. We’re no more than target practice.”

The Comanches had planned the assault for the evening of a full moon, so even after nightfall, visibility remained good. Adding an eerie glow were the flames licking at the roofs of several cabins.

“How many dead you think we’ve got?” said one of the men crouched beneath the pavilion table.

“Maybe half,” someone said. “And more to come. This ain’t no fair fight . . . and I fear it’s likely to end pretty soon.”

“What if we surrender?”

“That ain’t what these folks have come here for.”

Even as he spoke, the attacking warriors began to descend from the walls of the canyon. If their prey insisted on hiding, it was time for hand-to-hand fighting to begin.

The Comanches knew they had the upper hand and were emboldened. The drone of war chants began to echo through the canyon as the warriors neared its floor. Down the trail, additional attackers were coming on horseback.

As they ran through the compound, they would occasionally stop to fire shots into the bodies of those already dead. Scalping and mutilation could wait until later.

Despite a volley of fire, they charged the barn, where several of the cowboys were making a stand. The defenders were quickly overwhelmed. Some were shot point-blank; some had their throats cut. And when the last white man was dead, the building was set afire.

When Bootsy saw three warriors headed toward him, he got to his feet and took aim. “Might as well get this over with,” he said. He got off only a single shot before a bullet tore into his stomach. Another hit him in the neck. Choking and spitting blood, he fell to the ground and was soon dead.

A few tried to run, but escape was impossible. If anyone mounted a horse in an attempt to ride away, the animal was shot from beneath him.

Finally, when the last spattering of gunfire ended, the warriors began a methodical search of each cabin, tent, and outbuilding, looking for survivors. When none were found, the structures were also set on fire.

Ben Baggett’s cabin was already ablaze when braves checked it for occupants. Finding no one inside, they walked away and let it burn.

The fires gave an orange glow to the night sky as the attackers gathered the dead and piled them in the middle of the now silent compound. They, too, were set afire. All except the one-eyed man.

Silver Hawk instructed two of his braves to take the body into the place called Tascosa. It would send a message. The tribal leader wanted it known what had just happened in the canyon: that revenge had been taken. He also wanted to show he had no interest in causing the deaths of the innocent townspeople he had no grudge against.


BOOTSY’S BODY WAS found in the vacant lot where the saloon had stood. He had been scalped, and his one good eye was gone.

“So it was Indians that Price saw,” Pate said. “Pretty mad ones, I’d say.”

Breckenridge’s worst fear had been realized. The Comanches, angry over the rustling of their cattle, had telegraphed that this manner of revenge would happen when they slaughtered the trail drivers.

“I guess we’ll need to take a ride out and see what’s happened,” he said, “though I’m guessing I already know.”

Several farmers joined Clay, Jonesy, and Rayburn on the trip to Palo Duro Canyon. The stench of burned flesh greeted them long before they reached what had once been the headquarters for the Baggett gang. At first sight, the carnage seemed like something from a high-fever nightmare.

All that remained were the skeletal remains of burned-out buildings, the still-smoldering pile of human remains, and the carcasses of dead animals. The only sound was the slow-turning blade of a windmill. Vultures were already gathering.

“Good thing is there won’t be no more cattle rustling,” Eli said. “Bad thing is we’ve got to decide what it is we’ll need to do with the deceased. Ain’t no way to identify anybody, but we can either bury them here or take them back to Boot Hill. Whatever we decide, we’re gonna need to get busy with the grave digging.”

Clay stepped closer to the charred mound of bones and flesh, holding the sleeve of his shirt to his face. He was looking for the remains of Ben Baggett, but there was no way to recognize anyone.

A vote was held, and it was decided volunteers would help transport the victims of the massacre to Boot Hill.

“How many graves you thinking?” Pate asked.

Rayburn looked back at the mound of bodies and again shook his head in disbelief. “One,” he said. “A big one.”