Free The Texans by Brett Cogburn Page A

“What brings you and that Indian to these parts?”
    Red Wing knew the warrior at Colonel Moore’s side by more than name, as did many in the Republic of Texas. He was Hashukana, Can’t Kill Him, to the red man, and the whites knew him simply as Placido. He was a Tonkawa warrior chief of great renown, and many a Texan fighter’s right-hand man in scraps with the Comanche. Placido had fought with the likes of Old Paint Caldwell and Colonel Burleson. Most Texas Indians ran to the short side, but Placido was taller than almost anybody Red Wing knew, except for Odell. The thought of her sweetheart made her even sadder.
    Red Wing had to make herself stand her ground when all that she really wanted to do was to flee back inside the house. The sight of Placido made her hackles rise for no good reason, other than somewhere in her childhood she had been trained to hate the Tonkawas. Despite the fact that it had been the colonel and Placido who had cared for her so tenderly while bringing her to her new home years earlier, she couldn’t help the revolt she felt at the sight of an ancient Comanche enemy—wolf people and man-eaters, never to be trusted.
    â€œHi, Bird Woman,” Placido grunted and grinned at Red Wing’s mother.
    â€œHi yourself,” Mrs. Ida said with no love in her voice.
    While a woman who constantly complained about the uncivilized nature of the frontier, Mrs. Ida Wilson was a salty sort herself, despite all the ladylike manners she preached to Red Wing. She could quote Shakespeare lines and John Locke’s philosophy from memory, spit Bible verses out as if she had written the book herself, and tell you the thousand and one things a proper lady should or shouldn’t do with effortless abandon. She knew how to hold a teacup properly and was proud of her genteel upbringing in South Carolina, but the frontier had long since affected her in ways she would never recognize nor admit. She had become a settler’s woman over the years, and her tongue was as sharp as a skinning knife. The friendly Indians had aptly come to call her Bird Woman for her talkative ways and scolding chatter.
    â€œWho else have you got with you?” Mrs. Ida asked Colonel Moore.
    Colonel Moore ignored the other Indians who had dismounted behind him and were tying their horses to the corral fence. He motioned the three white men with him forward. “These men with me are here on Sam Houston’s orders. He’s given them a mission that he thinks is important.”
    â€œThat’s not much of a recommendation, even if Sam was sober.”
    The colonel let that remark slide, although he was fond of the young republic’s president. Old Sam was the hero of the Battle of San Jacinto and a hell of a Mexican fighter, but when in his cups he could be a little unpredictable about making governmental decisions. He had everybody west of the Brazos mad over his moving the government from Austin to Houston. The republic was flat broke and besieged on all sides by Mexican armies and hostile Indians, and there was a lot of talk going around about Texas giving up its independence and joining the United States. Drunk or sober, Sam Houston had his own plans about seeing Texas through difficult times, and he didn’t necessarily care who he made mad implementing his wily schemes.
    â€œHe was sober as Sunday the last time I saw him,” Colonel Moore said.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Wilson. May I introduce myself?” The youngest of the three white strangers doffed his straw planter’s hat in a sweeping wave. The rows of polished brass buttons on his blue military jacket shone in the sun like crystal.
    Mrs. Ida grunted and huffed, but was obviously pleased with the pompous show of chivalry and grand manners. “That’s a silly thing to ask.”
    â€œI’m Will Anderson, Commissioner of Indian Affairs.” He put his hat back on his head, straightened his jacket, and touched up one