been in the river alone, for all he could tell. But he was in it: there was nothing to do but cling to the horse’s tail and try to keep from drowning.
When Call was halfway across, he caught a glimpse of something coming toward him, on the reddish, foaming flood. It seemed to be a horse, floating on its side. Just at that time he went under?when his head broke the surface again he saw that it was actually a dead mule, all bloated up, floating right down at him. The little bay horse was swimming as hard as he could?it looked, for a moment, as if the dead mule was going to surge right into them. Call thought his best bet might be to poke the mule aside with his rifle barrel; and he twisted a little and brought the rifle into position, meaning to shove the mule away. Just as he twisted he saw two eyes that weren’t dead and weren’t mule’s eyes, staring at him from between the stiff legs of the dead mule. The mule and the Indian boy floating down with him were only five feet away when Call fired. The boy had just raised his hand, with a knife in it, when the bullet took him in the throat. Then the mule and the body of the dying boy crashed into Call, carrying him under and loosening his grip on the bay gelding’s tail. Call went under, entangled with the corpse of the Comanche boy he had just killed. The red current rolled them over and over? all Call knew was that he mustn’t lose his musket. He clung to the gun even though he knew he might be drowning. He was so confused for a moment that he didn’t know the difference between upand down. It seemed to him he was getting deeper into the water; it was all just a red murk, with sticks and bits of bushes floating in it, but then he felt himself being lifted and was able to draw his breath.
The clouds had broken, while Call was struggling under water? the sunlight when he broke the surface, bright sunlight on the foam-flecked water, with the deep blue sky above, was the most welcome sight he had ever seen.
“Don’t try to swim, just let me drag you,” a voice said. “I believe I can get you to the shallows if you’ll just keep still, but if you struggle we’ll likely both go under.”
Call was able to determine that his rescuer was the tall boy from Arkansas, Jimmy Tweed. Unlike the rest of the Rangers, Jimmy had declined to dismount and cross the river holding on to his horse’s tail. He was still in the saddle, which was mostly submerged. But his horse was a stout black mare, and she kept swimming, even though not much more than her nose and her ears were above the stream.
Jimmy Tweed had reached into the river and grabbed Call’s shirt collar, which he gripped tightly. Call managed to get a hand into the black mare’s mane, after which he felt a little more secure.
“Watch out for dead mules?there’s apt to be Comanches with ‘em,” Call informed him. Jimmy Tweed seemed as calm as if he were sitting in church.
“I seen you shoot that one,” Jimmy said. “Hit him in the neck. I’d say it was a fine shot, being as you was in the water and about to drown.”
Just then something hit the water, not far from Call’s shoulder, with a sound like spitting. They were not far from the east bank, then?Call looked and saw puffs of smoke from a stand of trees just above the river.
“They’re shooting!” he said?another bullet had sliced the water nearby. “You oughtn’t to be sitting up so tall in the saddle?you make too good a target.”
“I guess I’d rather be shot than drownt,” Jimmy Tweed said. “If there’s one thing I’ve never liked it’s getting water up my nose.”
In another moment, Call felt his feet touch bottom. The water was still up to his chin, but he felt a little more confident and told Jimmy that he could let go his grip. Just as Jimmy let go, Call saw a Ranger fall. One of the new men had just made it to shore and was wading through the mud when a bullet knocked him backwards.
“Why, tiiat be Bert,” Jimmy Tweed said, in mild surprise. “He sure didn’t pick much of a place to land.”
“We can’t land here, they’ll shoot us like squirrels,” Call said. “Slide off now, and turn the horse.”
“I expect Bert is dead,” Jimmy said calmly?the fact was confirmed a moment later when two Comanches ran down the muddy riverbank and quickly took his scalp.
Call managed to point the black horse downstream?he was able to feel his way behind him, clinging to saddle strings and then to the horse’s tail, until he had the black horse between him and the riverbank. With only a bit of his head showing, he didn’t figure a Comanche marksman would be very likely to hit him. Jimmy Tweed, though, flatly refused to slide off into the water.
“Nope, I prefer to risk it in the saddle,” he said, though he did consent to lean low over the black horse’s neck.
They heard fire from the near bank and saw that Shadrach, Bigfoot, and Blackie Slidell had made it across and taken cover behind a jumble of driftwood. Call looked up and saw what looked like a muskrat in the water, not far from where the Rangers were forting up. On closer inspection the muskrat turned out to be the fur cap procured by Long Bill Coleman before he left San Antonio. Long Bill was underneath the cap. He was walking slowly out of the river, though the water was still up to his Adam’s apple. There was no sign of the horse he had tried to cross the Brazos River on.
By the time Call and Jimmy Tweed struggled out of the water and took cover behind the driftwood, the firing had stopped. Bigfoot had walked downstream a few yards, in order to pull a body out of the water. Call supposed a Ranger had been shot but was surprised to see that the body Bigfoot pulled out of the Brazos was the Comanche boy he himself had shot. Several more Rangers began to struggle out of the flood, some of them clinging to the bridle reins or tails of their mounts. Others were without horses, having lost hold of their mounts during the swim.
“Well, you got him,” Bigfoot said, looking at Call. “I forgot to tell you to look out for dead animals?Comanches will use them for floats.“Call was surprised at how young the boy looked. He could have been no more than twelve.
“You’re lucky your gun fired,” Shadrach said. “Them old muskets will usually just snap on you, once they get wet.”
Call didn’t say anything. He knew he had been lucky?another second and the dead boy would have had a knife in him. He could remember the boy’s eyes, staring at him from between the legs of the dead mule.
He didn’t want to look at the corpse, though?he turned to walk away and noticed that both Shadrach and Bigfoot were looking at him curiously. Call stopped, puzzled?their looks suggested that he had neglected something.
“Ain’t you going to scalp him?” Bigfoot asked. “You killed him. It’s your scalp.”
Call was startled. It had never occurred to him to scalp the Comanche boy. He was a young boy. Although he was glad that he had escaped death himself, he felt no pride in the act he had just committed?the boy had been daring, in his view, to float down a swollen river, armed only with a knife, clinging to a dead mule in hopes of surprising and killing an armed Ranger. The reward for his bravery had been a bullet wound that nearly tore his head off. He would never ride the prairies again, or raid farms. Although he had had to kill him, Call thought the boy’s bravery deserved better than what it had got him. There would be no time to bury the boy, anyway?the thought of cutting his hair off did not appeal.
“No, I don’t want to scalp him,” Call said.
“He would have scalped you, if he could have,” Bigfoot said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Call said. “Scalping’s the Indian way. It ain’t my way.”
“It’ll be your way when you’re a year or two older, boy?if you survive,” Shadrach said. Then he casually knelt by the Comanche boy and took his scalp. When he finished, he pulled the boy well back into the current and let him float away.
“I should have buried him?I killed him,” Call said.
“No, you don’t bury Indians,” Bigfoot informed him. “They gather up their own dead, when they can. I guess Shad wants to make them work at it, this time.”
Shadrach had just turned and started back toward the shore, when they heard a scream from far down the river.
“Oh Lord, it’s Rip?he went downstream too far,” Long Bill said. “I believe he’s bogged.”
“Puny horse,” Bigfoot commented, raising his rifle. Rip’s horse seemed to be bogged, some twenty yards out into the stream. Five Comanches, screaming their wild cries, raced out of the scrub oak toward the river. Bigfoot shot and so did Shadrach, but the range was long and both missed. Just then a rain squall passed over them, making it hard to see well enough to shoot accurately at such distances. Rip screamed again and flailed at his horse, but his horse was too weak from his long swim to pull out of the thick river mud. The first Comanche had already splashed into the edge of the river. Call had reloaded his musket?he took careful aim and thought he hit the
