Enemies (A Geo W. Proctor Western Classic Book 1) Read online

  They had sworn to kill each other—an Army scout haunted by the brutal slaughter of his wife and child, and a fierce Comanche warrior who’d suffered his own tragic losses. But when Black Hand and his Quahadi band of the People were finally driven in defeat to a government reservation, Jess Younkin figured he could at last get on with his life. Instead, life passed them both by, as a new, more civilized West took hold, with no place for rough riding cowboys or hot-blooded braves.

  But now Black Hand has broken free; Younkin has signed on for one last scouting mission to track him down. And it’s only a matter of time before these two enemies meet, alone on the battlefield—warrior to warrior—in a bloody showdown that can end only one way ....

  ENEMIES

  By Geo W. Proctor

  First published by Bantam Books in 1983

  Copyright © 1984, 2018 by Geo. W. Proctor

  First Edition: August 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover illustration by Gordon Crabb

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with Lana B. Proctor

  To Margaret and Willard Proctor; my mother and father—a partial return for an investment made on a son

  Chapter One: June 24, 1875

  War did not end this way. Jess Younkin mutely stared over the neck of the sorrel gelding he rode, unable to accept what his eyes perceived. Sometime during the night, the world turned over, reversing itself so that it stood on its head. If that were not bad enough, no one had seen fit to warn him of the change.

  Heavy Mexican leather creaked in dry protest when the Indian scout shifted the two hundred pounds of his six-foot-three frame to the back of his saddle. He slipped his right foot from the stirrup, swung the leg above the horse’s neck, and hooked the back of his knee around a broad, flat saddle horn. Fumbling with the buttoned pocket of his buckskin shirt for a few seconds, he eventually extracted a dark briar pipe. From a pouch slung on his belt, he filled the bowl, battered and scarred from too many years of hard use, with crimp-cut Virginia tobacco. He dug into the pocket again to produce a wooden match that he raked across the sole of a round-toed cavalry boot. His cheeks hollowed deeply while he drew at the pipe to light it.

  Normally, Jess Younkin reserved tobacco for a luxury, a pleasure to be savored quietly after a belly-warming meal, or to be used as a silent companion on nights he camped alone. Today, seated beneath an unforgiving summer sun, he needed the tobacco’s comfort to help him sort through the thoughts and memories running through his head.

  He pulled his hat’s brim lower and studied the ragged procession that shuffled before him. Wars don’t end like this.

  He conjured visions of green-growing parks. Men and women, dressed in their Sunday finest, crowded around blaring bandstands. Waving flags and shouting at one another, children with pink-scrubbed faces darted among their parents. He imagined streets hung with banners, firecrackers, skyrockets, all blending in a joyous celebration that would dim the cheers of ten Independence Days.

  Younkin sucked at the pipe, filling his lungs with blue smoke, then slowly exhaled. His head moved from side to side in silent refusal. He only fooled himself. Wars always ended this way—for the losers. Ten years ago, he learned that firsthand when he staggered his way across a Sherman-blackened South back to Texas.

  Back to the pine woods, the rolling, green hills. His teeth clamped solidly into the pipe’s stem. Back to find a wife and child he had never seen, butchered during a Comanche Blood Moon raid. Back to a state that had preferred to focus its military forces on an imagined Union invasion from California rather than protect the frontiers from savages within its own borders.

  After the tears and a river of cheap whiskey that would not drown the sorrow, he dried himself out. The past nine years had been an attempt to ease the guilt, to correct the error of an eighteen-year-old boy who ran off to fight a war he held no personal interest in and left a pregnant wife behind.

  Younkin’s gut still knotted at the thought of his stupidity. The screaming crowds, the blood-stirring speeches, they caught and held him like a candle bug mesmerized by a bright flame. What had he known about cotton and slaves? His family barely managed to feed their own. Only the rich men in Jefferson, Houston, and Austin had the money to feed the mouths of black slaves. And states’ rights? He still was not sure what that meant.

  But he knew Texas, and he knew Indians. When he finally accepted those last two victims of the War Between the States, he cleaned his breech-loading Henry and bought a saddle and horse. He then signed on as a scout for the U.S. Army with its black buffalo soldiers to join the battle he should have fought in the beginning rather than following Jeff Davis and Robert E. Lee.

  Nine years ... now it was over. Younkin’s gaze drifted over the scene stretched before him. There were too few of them to bother counting—the last stragglers, holdouts of a dead nation. He studied the gaunt, mirthless faces, the copper-hued skin drawn taut over skeletal frames by months of slow starvation. He sucked at the pipe, grateful for his own full stomach.

  The braves came first. They held their heads high even in defeat. Yet something was missing, something that was not immediately obvious to a man who knew them as well as Jess Younkin. He leaned forward, staring at the warriors’ faces.

  That something was their eyes. Dark and dull, the eyes lacked the slightest trace of pride or defiance, a trait that had marked this nation the ignorant public in the East called the lords of the plains. The eyes gazed straight ahead, never moving to glance at those who gathered on each side of the procession to watch the final steps of a defeated nation.

  At a distance of respect, the squaws trailed behind the braves, their faces hard mirror images of their men’s hopeless expressions. Younkin could smell the hunger and fear as they clutched what few belongings they managed to salvage during the long trek from the Texas High Plains to Fort Sill in the Indian Territory.

  There were no old. Younkin needed no explanation for their absence. Young mouths were fed first in harsh times. The old had been left along the trail to die in quiet dignity, their lives sacrificed so that the young might live to breed new warriors.

  Worse were the children. The long, hungry winter deeply carved its cruelty into their faces, leaving them grotesque miniatures of their parents. The majority stumbled along naked at their mothers’ sides, legs caked in dirt and grease, arms dangling limply from their bent shoulders. Those sickness and hunger weakened to the point their legs could no longer carry their bodies had been left behind with the old.

  The children’s eyes, half bulging from their sockets like the eyes of an insect, darted about, filled with fright. Still, they remained silent, even their footfalls mere whispers in the grass. No laughter, no complaints, no crying—no sound at all from their tight, small mouths.

  Children? The thought surprised Younkin. He had never considered Indian spawn as children. He had seen too many companions killed by a concealed hunting knife when in a moment of tenderness they mistook an abandoned young Indian for a child. No matter what the age, size, or sex, an Indian was an Indian and would kill given the chance.

&nb
sp; Younkin’s gaze moved over the whole procession again. He sought within himself for some stirring of pride, a cry of victory. This was what he had fought for the past nine years. Defeat, utter, crushing defeat of the butchers who had taken his wife and child—this is what had driven him during the long days and even longer nights. He had hungered for revenge. Now it was his to savor.

  He found no satisfaction. These emaciated remnants of a once strong and bloody nation did not evoke one murmuring of pride. Only a confused emptiness moved within him. That and the disbelief that nine years of bitterness could end so ignominiously with an incident that would have gone unnoticed had he not been at Fort Sill to see it.

  They called themselves the Nermemuh, the People. The Ute tribes named them Kohmahts, the enemy, which early Spanish explorers mispronounced as Komantcia. Younkin pulled another lungful of smoke from his pipe. From that stemmed the name all Texians feared—Comanche.

  For more than two hundred years, with bows and arrows, war lances, and finally rifles, the Comanches ruled a majority of the land known as Texas. They stopped the Spanish, the French, and the Texians from settling the open range and plains. They had driven other Indian tribes to the very borders of the state, if they had not killed them first.

  Now they ruled nothing, not even the land allotted them under the Medicine Lodge Treaty of 1867. For that Younkin felt a sense of relief. The Comanche now belonged to the U.S. Indian Bureau; Texas belonged to the Texians. He could go home again and attempt to build the life that had been taken from him when he donned the Confederate gray. The Comanche, the enemy, was no more, just another Indian nation confined to the reservation. The Blood Moon, the pounding hooves of mustang ponies at night, the war cries, the massacres, were now a part of the past. The Comanche could never rise from the dust they had been ground into.

  No victory ... only relief.

  The sound of an approaching horse drew his attention from the Comanches. Sergeant Abe Potter reined a lathered bay beside Younkin.

  “You were right, Jess.” The black soldier pushed his hat back and wiped at his forehead. “That was Quanah Parker who led them in. He’s the last of the war chiefs to surrender.”

  “Breeding always tells.” Younkin smiled. The joke was old, but its irony was valid. The Quahadi band of the Kwerharrehnuh Comanche, the Antelope Eaters, was led by the half-breed Quanah Parker, son of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker. Half Texian, half Indian, Quanah was the last to admit the end had come.

  “They don’t look right without horses, do they?” Potter shook his head. “A Comanche is born on horseback. He looks awkward on the ground.”

  “What happened to the horses? You find out?” Younkin examined his pipe. The bowl was cool. He tapped it on a boot sole, knocking the ashes to the ground.

  “They ate them,” the sergeant replied. “What with the buffalo gone, they ate everything they could get their hands on. Fish, birds, dogs, finally the horses ... anything to make it through the winter. Even then, most of them starved to death.”

  Once it would have pleased Younkin to learn the Comanche were forced to eat taboo meat. Now, gazing on these pitiful stragglers who had survived the winter snows, he found no pleasure in the vengeance nine years had extracted. It no longer mattered, and he could not understand why it did not.

  “We hurt them more than we realized at that canyon last September.” Abe swiped at his sweat-glistening forehead again. “Mackenzie knew what he was doing.”

  Younkin tried not to remember Palo Duro Canyon, a wind and water eroded trench that ripped into the Panhandle’s flat caprock. If it had not been for a captive Comanchero, Jose Tufoya, Colonel Ranald Slidell Mackenzie would have never known the canyon existed.

  Closing his eyes, Younkin attempted to shut his mind to those memories. It did not help. Palo Duro Canyon could never be erased. With Lieutenant William Thompson, John Charlton, and a Tonkawa brave called Job, he had been a scout for Mackenzie and his Negro buffalo soldiers.

  Only four Comanche braves died in the morning attack on the canyon, but more than fourteen hundred horses were captured, along with a cache of supplies and ammunition stored for the winter. The horses had been the real prize. Horses, the Comanche’s mobility, his measure of wealth and power.

  After giving a few hundred head to the Tonkawas in his command, Mackenzie ordered the remaining horses shot.

  The thundering rifles still echoed in Younkin’s head, mingling with the screaming of the horses as they dropped beneath the hail of bullets.

  When the final quivering spasm passed from the last fetlock, Mackenzie lit his torches. Tipis, food, clothing, buffalo robes, bows, arrows, war lances, rifles, ammunition, anything and everything left behind by Quanah Parker’s band in their mad scramble to scale the canyon walls and flee was set afire. For three miles along the canyon floor hell reigned on earth while smoke and flame billowed upward to greet the morning sun.

  Younkin took a deep breath to steady himself. That had been the last battle in the war against the Comanche. The ground had not been strewn with dying soldiers and braves, but with the carcasses of more than one thousand horses rotting beneath a Texas sky.

  Now, a year later, Quanah Parker gathered the survivors of a winter’s starvation and brought them to Fort Sill.

  “You sick or something?”

  Younkin opened his eyes to find the black-skinned sergeant staring at him strangely.

  “Or something.” Younkin reached into a sleeping roll tied behind his saddle. His hand came out wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Pulling the cork, he slugged down a healthy swallow of the amber-colored sour mash bourbon. It did little to ease his unrest, only burned his stomach.

  “Lieutenant Vardeman says I’m supposed to convince you to sign up again.” Abe took an equally large slug when Younkin handed him the bottle. “He says Mackenzie wants you to ride with him when he heads north.”

  “The war’s over, and I’m tired.” Younkin corked the bottle and shoved it back into the sleeping roll.

  “After the Comanches, the other tribes will be easy. Hell, the Sioux ain’t got the sense to fight on horseback. Only a total fool would get in real trouble with them.”

  “Then you’ll be heading to Texas?” Abe asked, watching the scout nod. “Going to look up that gal in Austin? You know ... what’s her name?”

  “Clara.” Younkin smiled, remembering the dark-haired young woman. “Might do just that. Said she’d like to keep my company if I ever decided to quit scouting.”

  Abe laughed. “One powerful female, that one. The only person that got you to bathe more than once a week.”

  “Had me smelling like a rose, clean shaven, and hair trimmed close to the ears like some Houston gentleman.” Younkin grinned widely while he flicked a hand at his shoulder-length, brown hair, then scratched a six-month growth of beard. “Felt like one of them fancy dudes when I was with her.”

  “Best watch that one. She’ll have you clerking in her daddy’s store before she gets done with you.” The look of amusement abruptly faded from Abe’s face. “What are you intending to do?”

  Younkin shrugged his shoulders. “Still got some land in East Texas. Might decide to work it, or sell it for a grubstake. Thought about trying to join the Rangers. But with the Comanches gone, I doubt if there’ll be much need of Rangers in Texas anymore.”

  “If I had any sense, I’d join you in three months when my time is up.” The black thoughtfully bit at his lower lip. “Though I doubt you Texians would take kindly to having a nigger Ranger.”

  Younkin felt the soldier’s eyes on him, as though the man expected an answer. What could he say? Abe Potter was good folk and a damn fine soldier. But the War Between the States had left a bitter taste in most Texians’ mouths. And the fact that Washington had sent black soldiers to fight the Comanche did not sit well with those in the state legislature.

  “If I decide to work the land,” Younkin said, “I’ll need a hand to help.”

  “They alrea
dy fought one war to get niggers off white farms.” The sergeant grinned, his teeth flashing broadly against the ebony darkness of his skin. “You know, I just might take me some time off in three months and see what’s happening with you. I can always come back to the Army if things look poorly.”

  “If you don’t find me in the Piney Woods, then ride down Austin ways.” Younkin smiled.

  “I just might do that ... just might do that.” Abe nodded thoughtfully to himself. “Which ain’t neither here nor there. What I rode out here for was to give you this.”

  Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a leather pouch and tossed it to the scout. Younkin hefted it in his palm. The metallic clink of coins came from within. He lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  “I called in the markers owed you last night,” Abe said. “Ain’t much. Seventy-five in gold. But it might help if the going gets rough.”

  “You didn’t need to do that.” Younkin slipped the pouch into a pocket. The weight felt good. “But thanks. I’ll put it to good use.”

  “Better than what the men would have done with it. First time they got off, they’d spend it on booze and whores.” The sergeant’s gaze returned to the Comanches. “One of them bucks has got something on his mind. He’s coming this way.”

  Younkin looked at the approaching figure. He swung his leg from the saddle horn and shoved his foot back into the stirrup. Can't be him.

  The brave looked familiar, the way he walked, the way he carried his shoulders. Can’t be. He’s dead. It could not be. The scout’s eyes narrowed to slits as he squinted at the Comanche. It could not be. His man had been stouter the last time he had seen him—gorging himself on fresh buffalo while he rode away leaving Younkin staked out in the sun.

  The brave came closer. Younkin stiffened. It’s him!

  “You know him?” Abe glanced at his companion.

  “Black Hand.” The name came like a curse from Younkin’s lips.

  “He’s the one who led—”