For a few minutes neither side advanced. Felix Huston could tell he was outnumbered three or four to one, and held his men in check. The Comanches screamed taunts at the Texans. Some performed exhibitions of riding skill up and down their line. Then a chief, conspicuous by his feather warbonnet and bone breastplate, rode forward. The Comanches cheered—only to fall abruptly silent as a rifle spoke from somewhere along the Texan line and the chief tumbled off his pony, shot through the heart.
Felix Huston looked at Captain Caldwell, who lowered his smoking rifle. "Charge them now, General!" said Caldwell. "Do it this instant and we'll have them whipped!"
Huston gave the signal. With a savage roar the Texans surged forward, guns blazing. At that moment Burleson and his men appeared, most opportunely, on the Comanche flank. The horse herd stampeded, and after a brief and bloody affray, the warriors broke, scattering, with the Texans hot on their heels.
In the aftermath, eighty Comanche dead were located, many on the prairie, some in the creek, others in the thickets where they had tried in vain to elude their relentless pursuers. Only a handful of Texans had lost their lives, and a few more had sustained wounds. Of the four captives taken by the Comanches during the raid, three were recovered. The fourth, Mrs. Crosby, descendant of Daniel Boone, was killed by her captors.
Plum Creek was a decisive defeat for the Comanches. Satisfied with their work, the Texans disbanded, returning to their homes secure in the knowledge that they had taught the hostiles a lesson they would not soon forget. The great raid was over.
They had no way of knowing that on the very morning of the big scrape at Plum Creek, a force of nearly one hundred Quohadi warriors struck the settlement of Grand Cane.
Chapter Fifteen
The Comanches first appeared at the farm of Jellicoe Fuller, two miles south of Grand Cane.
When he'd first moved onto the section which Captain McAllen had deeded to him out of the republic's generous land grant, Fuller had turned over forty acres of partially cleared land with a bar-share plow and then, with an eye on the future, proceeded to clear approximately forty acres more closer to the river. This meant cutting down trees a foot or less in diameter and "deadening" the rest, which was accomplished by girdling the trunk all around to the depth of six inches or so. In the intervening years all of these trees had died. Windstorms had stripped them of most of their limbs, providing plenty of firewood for the Fuller family. This spring, with the corn already planted and sprouting, Jellicoe Fuller was tackling the big job of felling the dead trees and burning out the stumps. Now, at least, his fourteen-year-old son, Billy, was big enough to wield an ax and lend him a hand.
Billy was hacking away at a tree about thirty yards from where Jellicoe was building a slow fire in a hollow space carved out of a stump when the elder Fuller heard a sound resembling thunder. Perplexed, he looked up at a clear blue sky. Then the blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice. Picking up the percussion rifle that was seldom out of reach, Fuller called his son to him. His voice was calm but firm.
"Boy, you run on up to the house fast as your legs can carry you, put your ma and sister on the back of the plow mare, and light out for town like the hounds of hell are snappin' at your heels."
"What's the matter, Pa?" Billy was looking up at the sky, searching for thunderclouds.
"Just do what I tell you. Go, now."
Billy caught on then. He wasn't slow-witted. His eyes got wide. "Is it. . ."
"Run, boy. Run!"
Turning pale, Billy Fuller ran.
Jellicoe watched his son go, knowing he would not live to see Billy or his wife or daughter again. At least he had known the joys of married life and fatherhood for a few precious years. That was more than he'd expected or deserved. There was a time to live and a time to die, and when it came right down to it a man had very little say in the matter.
The thunder was getting louder. For once, mused Fuller, Captain McAllen had miscalculated. The Indians were coming from the south, not the west or the north. He could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet. He moved as quick as his game leg allowed. A Seminole arrow with a poisoned tip had made a cripple of him—it was thanks only to Dr. Tice's quick work that he had survived. He and the rest of the Black Jacks had been chased through the swamps by a hundred howling red devils for three days, but nary a man had even suggested that Jellicoe Fuller was slowing them down and ought to be left behind. Now it was time to pay the boys back. He would do whatever he could to hold the Comanches here as long as possible.
Dragging his stiffened leg behind him, Fuller cut across the cornfield in the warm spring sun and reached the cabin just as the Comanches came swarming out of the woods in the direction of the river. Spotting Fuller, they cut loose with bloodcurdling war whoops. Fuller checked to make sure his family was on their way to Grand Cane. He was relieved to find the cabin empty, the plow mare gone. He had but one regret—that he hadn't been able to tell his wife and little girl good-bye.
Standing on the porch, he watched the Comanches, who had paused at the edge of the woods. He figured there had to be nearly a hundred of them. What were they waiting for? What if they decided he wasn't worth the trouble and went right on around him to Grand Cane? That wouldn't do. Grimly, Fuller lifted rifle to shoulder and aimed at a knot of warriors he took to be leaders on account of their warbonnets. Squeezing the trigger, he fired and then stepped sideways out of the powder smoke to see if his aim had been true. He was gratified to see one of the Indians slump forward and then slide off his pony. Yelling like banshees, the rest of the Comanches surged forward across the cornfield.
As Fuller reloaded, a dozen arrows seemed to sprout from the cabin wall behind him. He turned to go inside. That was when an arrow struck him high in the back. Gasping, he stumbled into the cabin, shut and bolted the door, closed the shutters on the windows, and lit a candle. He broke the shaft of the arrow in his back, hissing at the pain. The Comanches were all around the cabin now. In no time at all there were several at the door and windows, hacking at the stout timber with their hatchets and war clubs. There were a few more on the roof, trying to cut a hole through the cedar shingles. Resigned to his fate, Fuller smashed the lid of a small cask of black powder and set it on its side on the table so that some of the powder spilled out. Sitting at the table, he primed and loaded a Collier flintlock pistol and waited. Every breath was agony and he wondered if the arrowhead had punctured one of his lungs. Not that it really mattered.
He didn't have long to wait. The Comanches on the roof got in first. Fuller shot the first one dropping down through the hole, killing him before he hit the ground, using the Collier. He plugged the second one through with his rifle, and was reloading the long gun when the door came off its hinges and a swarm of them came through. He used the rifle like a club to drop one of them, and then turned to knock the burning candle into the powder cask as the rest of the Comanches closed on him, swinging clubs and tomahawks. Jesus, forgive me my sins, he prayed. . . .