The Girl
Today was the first day that led to this legendary pursuit which ended in so much contradiction. People were never surprised that a grown man like Tom would ride out before winter to avenge his family’s blood, and what passed with little comment was that the girl held captive by the man he hunted—thirteen years old—was not his concern. It did not seem so strange then, though I will say it did not happen every day.
Yet it mattered to me.
I was that girl.
Autumn was winding down, and the Texas Panhandle had donned its golden coat of buffalo grass. The humid airs of September and October had surrendered to the embrace of a crisp, clear day. The sky stretched wide and blue, akin to a lark’s egg. The kind of day that lured men into thinking that the world might be all right, before it turned on ’em like a rattlesnake with a grudge.
From a distance against the remote vastness of the land, Tom McCloud moved through the chinkapin oaks and scented cedar trees that freckled the rolling plains. Wearing a creased, flat brimmed hat, a yellow bandana, and a tanned deerskin jacket, in his seasoned hands, he cradled a percussion hunting rifle.
Silently, he stalked his prey, his senses sharp, each step carefully placed, each movement deliberate. It was while stooping down to check the freshness of a deer sign that he looked up.
Something in the air.
Then he heard the clatter and thunder of approaching hooves.
Riders. Three of ’em. Coming fast and hard, they intruded upon the solitude. He lifted his head to have a wary look-see at who was coming.
From the depths of the scrub trees behind him, a lone white girl came running like she had fire in her veins. His instincts told him trouble was brewing.
Three Indian riders emerged behind her on mustang ponies, their steeds’ hooves pounding the earth like war drums. In skillful pursuit, they closed in on her. She ran among the slender trees, her feet swift and nimble, determined to outpace her pursuers.
Tom saw she bore a fiery spirit, even pausing to sling a rock at one of her assailants, connecting with a solid blow to the forehead. It must have hurt. The girl possessed gumption. Yet her daring action now threatened to lead her straight into the clutches of the braves. Skilled riders, they looked to have her, dead to rights.
They came like a storm, thundering on bareback. Each brave chased the girl who ran before them like the wind. The first rode a painted pony, leaning forward with an arm outstretched, the girl just beyond his reach, zig-zagging quick as a jackrabbit. Behind him, another brave urged his black mustang over the rough ground without missing a beat, muscles rippling with each stride.
But she was still flying—her feet scarcely kissed the ground, her hair of gold streaming behind, torn dress, always a step ahead.
The third drove his chestnut crashing through brush and stone alike, close enough to snatch her if she made one wrong step. She didn’t. Just veered between two narrow trees he couldn't follow through. Two riders split right. One split left. She went left.
The one though was now gaining, but the girl was all instinct—legs flying, changing course. She wasn’t done yet.
With his rifle held steady, Tom watched in no particular hurry to make his presence known. In this vast expanse of Kiowa raiding territory, encountering braves was no trifling matter. They’d been leaving their reservation for the last couple of years to raid Mexico for horses, steal cattle here or illegally hunt buffalo.
Yet he soon realized that these were not Kiowa, as the Kiowa rode shirtless. No, these were Comanche, a tribe feared above all, their very name synonymous with “enemy.” They had even driven the feared Mescalero Apache back into the Guadalupe Mountains.
As the thunderous hooves of the horses merged with the cool breeze, the girl spotted Tom. She veered toward him. A fleeting glimmer of hope as she made a beeline for him. Too straight. It was all the closest brave needed. He reached out and snatched her up, kicking and fighting.
Tom made himself visible then and raised his rifle, aiming at the Indian holding the girl atop the brown and white pinto. He had a daughter once. Hair about her color. Killed and scalped—maybe by these three.
“I’d let her go if I were you.”
The three buckskin-clad Comanches halted their horses, their faces registering surprise at the sight of him. One clutched an old Henry rifle, prompting Tom to shift his aim to discourage any attempts by him.
For this year alone, twenty souls had met their end at the hands of raiding Indians, and Tom had no intention of becoming the twenty-first.
“Seems you’ve ventured quite a distance from your reservation,” Tom remarked, his voice measured. Then his eyes narrowed. “Not many of you live to tell about it, anyhow.”
They took him and his rifle in, their eyes darkening.
“I imagine the girl has friends who’ll miss her," he added. "Just as I imagine you have friends who’ll mourn you. Make the right call now, and everyone goes their separate ways.”
The girl struggled to escape but the defiant buck did not release her. Though Tom knew that challenging these braves could mean death, that was a two-way path. He held his ground.
“Of course, I ain't fixing to kill you first,” Tom added to the buck in a calm, unflinching tone—and one not easily intimidated. “I'll start with him,” he motioned his head towards the one with the Henry. “Then you'd be next. Or you can just let the girl go and leave. You’ll live one way or die the other. But either way, you’re leaving. The decision's yours.”
But the other still didn’t do as told. Instead, he answered defiantly in broken English. “Who you be, buffalo hunter?”
His eye had found Tom’s Mississippi rifle, the weapon of a buffalo hunter.
“Buffalo hunter? I’d have to be plum loco to be hunting buffalo in these trees,” he replied. “The buffalo are all out on the plains back yonder. I aim to get rich raising cattle here. The name’s Tom McCloud, at your service.”
“We despise buffalo hunters!” the brave spat, unimpressed.
Tom studied the ponies, searching for a particular sign, a prize of long, blonde girl's hair. “I don’t see any buffalo hunter scalps on your belts,” he noted. “Seems you haven’t fared too well if that’s your claim. What you braves ought to be doing is raising cattle before the buffalo vanish.”
The Comanche brave remained resolute, holding the girl ever tighter.
“Shoot him!” she implored, still struggling. “Kill him!”
By the sharpness in her voice, she wasn't pleading. She was demanding, her whole body writhing and fighting with fury.
Tom was in no particular hurry to start an Indian war and suspected they weren't either. This land, lying between Hubbard Creek and Snailum Creek, should have been devoid of anyone, save for the whispering wind and the call of wild creatures.
Tom McCloud knew this well. He also knew they’d either ransom the girl or make her a slave. Neither suited him.
"Shoot him!" she hollered again.
He issued her a stern warning, his gaze unyielding. “Just hold your horses," he told the girl, while still holding his aim. “We’re just talking business.”
Addressing the Comanche once more, he offered, “Now, I don’t take pleasure in this, but I ain’t gonna let it go on either.” His tone remained stout. “I’ve never killed an Indian before but in your case, I’m willing to make an exception. What will it take to trade for the girl?”
Since the brave was reluctant to release her, a trade was the only way out.
The offer piqued the Comanche’s interest. “You got whiskey?” he asked.
“No whiskey,” Tom replied, firmly holding his aim. “Just this here lead. It’s got your name on it. If you fancy it, speak up!”
“One bottle.”
“I said I got no whiskey but I got this here bullet. You want it, just say the word.”
While he was offering this brave his life in exchange for the girl, Tom knew that wasn’t how Indians thought. If they don’t get something back in trade, they think they’ve been cheated.
“Tell you what,” Tom offered. “I’ll give you my hat for her.”
“Your hat?!” the young girl exploded angrily and struggled all the harder. “I’m worth more than a damned hat!”
“It’s a Stetson hat,” he answered. “And it’s worth a damned sight more than you are! So what’s it going to be, Chief? My hat or this bullet?”
For a moment, there was silence—just the faint rustling of the trees and the shifting of ponies.
Finally, the lead buck looking down the barrel of the rifle nodded to the one with the Henry, who came forward on his horse to take the rare hat. He took it back to the one with the girl, who released her to take it.
The girl ran clean away from him but not in Tom’s direction. She seemed to be trying to face them all at once like she didn’t trust Tom either.
The brave didn't even notice. He was busy taking off his headband to put on the prestigious hat. The other two watched with nods of approval, envious of the trade as he smiled and turned his head from side to side for them and smiled broadly to show it off.
The brave now took the hat off, inserted his headband feather in it, then proudly put it back on, grinned, laughed, and showed off his hat again.
The three Indians turned their horses around and rode back north at a slow, satisfied pace. Tom watched them go and did not lower his rifle until they disappeared into the trees.
His grip on the rifle slowly loosened. He drew breath, the kind that comes after trouble—and before the next kind.
Tom turned partway around to find the girl about thirty paces away. That's where she ran after the brave let her go. He was fine with that as he didn't want her coming between him and his aim. Her still being there surprised him. He expected her to have lit out for wherever she came from.
Yet now she stood defiantly eyeing him. She'd found and fetched up another rock and faced him with it, ready to bean him with it.
Looked like trouble.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” she warned, chin raised. “Don't you dare! I'll defend myself if you do!”
Tom was no longer even looking at her. He’d noticed her dressed in Mexican peasant white with straw blonde hair, but nothing more.
He'd gone back to checking once again to make certain those three Comanche were gone for good. They were more of a threat than her with a rock.
It seemed they were.
As he lowered his rifle, his eye returned to the thin, young stick of a girl.
“Don't flatter yourself, Missy. I've seen better figures on fenceposts. I wouldn't touch you with a borrowed hand,” he said in turning to return to his tracking. “And you owe me a hat!”
He walked away, leaving the girl lingering alone behind him. When she didn't answer, he called back, "And you're welcome!"
That’s when the rock hit him square in the back. Tom stopped, turned, and found the girl standing there with a scowl and another rock already in her hand. She held it like she meant it.
She had a good aim, too. He gave her a hard, warning look. He was a big man, and his shadow fell over her.
That did it. The girl backed up, then turned and bolted into the trees like a deer. Tom watched her go, more irritated than concerned. What was she doing out here, anyway?
He wasn’t about to chase her. Too wild, too fast, and he was too old for that nonsense. She’d find her own way home.
Satisfied she was gone, he went back to tracking—until another rock clipped him from behind while checking spoor sign.
Now he lit out after her.
When she saw him coming, her eyes widened in alarm and her mouth formed a perfect “O” before she took off again. He had no idea any girl could run that fast. No wonder those braves couldn’t catch her. She was light on her feet. That much was for certain. It took all the speed he could muster just to keep up before he finally brought her down.
She fought then like a wildcat, screaming, “Don’t you dare!” until he let her go. She sprang back up, barefoot, scratched up, fire in her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You little hellcat! You’re lucky I didn’t let them take you!”
“You insulted me!” she snapped, rock in hand again.
Tom backed off. He could throw a rock, sure, but she never missed.
He retreated toward his rifle. She followed at a distance, still fuming, until she suddenly stopped and blurted:
“So are you just going to leave me out here?!”
The words came sharper than she meant. The rocks, the fury—it wasn’t about him. It was about not being left alone. So was she lost?
Tom looked back at her, gruff gone. “Where are you headed, anyway?”
