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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Greybow, Comanchero Hunter
Tom Sheehan
The firestorm of Comanchero raids was increasing and something drastic needed to be done before this end of the country was paralyzed by the ongoing events. There was no available militia, and the local law was a one-man band, the Quipilanta sheriff, Boyd Lister, who kept seeing an impossible task staring at him in return, at which he often drew back if not withered at the thought of a confrontation … it was not a situation for one man, for the raids brought death, carnage, abuse, and relentless fear.
But there existed, by reputation, a hope, a savior for Quipilanta, though he was not yet in the general area.
Folks in the northern part of the territory, for some years now, had simply called this savior Greybow, for that name had grown out of his Indian upbringing and his association with a dozen or more miracle skirmishes. There never seemed to be an encounter with any foe declared less than a win on his side. Never so in any estimation. Tales followed him, of course, no matter where he went. As a baby, it was bandied about with some authority, he’d been taken from a wagon train by an Indian brave who might have been Pueblo, Comanche, Kiowa, Navajo or Apache. No one was ever sure, but he was taken again in following fights between the tribes and went from village to village, tribe to tribe, with the passage of a special locket.
The indisputable note in those tales was the locket that was taken from his birthmother by the first brave to hold him was placed around the baby’s neck. It was learned that the locket, as some kind of talisman or totem honored by the different tribes, should never have its ownership disturbed less the Gods of the Mountains and the Holy Waters brought down a terrible scourge on the family that stole or ruined the locket. Or did not let it run to destiny. That first act of the locket’s adornment had to continue the intention of the first brave to hold him. Many thought it to be a directive from on high.
So the talisman’s importance grew with every story, shared at first by Indians who set store in such things and by western folks who loved some inherent mystery in talks and tales of heroes and escapades of men like Greybow, the kind that found their way into the heart of dangers.
Tales, even the inordinate ones about Greybow, the ones full of courage and honor and fidelity, his promises unbreakable, his word fast as iron, also resulted in innumerable face to face confrontations with those drunk-with-odd-vinegar nights at campfires, became episodic legends for they’d hang on until a new page of the legend came around the corner in full force.
And those early tales found a newer twist when he was taken in tow by Father Leonides Le Pridom, a Jesuit, and where, after learning to read, Greybow first understood the words beneath the locket picture of a couple holding a baby, which said, “Paul and Ora with our son, Chance, TYOOL 1848.” Those words were scratched into the grey field beneath the picture.
As it was, Chance Greybow had a near-holy life put into his own hands.
A crop of blond hair, like a mass of cotton balls, set off his blue eyes and welltanned skin, and one cheek, across to the left ear, carried the thinnest imaginable trace of a scar, so faint it was only visible in firelight, which had given many Indians another sign of his destiny. His handsome features were further extended by the sense of mystery the scar evoked. It made them think of otherworldly things, the faint scar along with the more-than-holy locket exhibited by the handsome young man that the Nations called Greybow.
Yet he was comfortable in leggings, tunic or dressed as an average drover in the midst of a long drive.
He became an efficient hunter of evil men who vandalized, plundered, abused or murdered innocent folks in their quest for gold, goods or their own vision of glory. The wild Comanchero renegade gangs were high on his list because they plagued white settlers without mercy while using Indian tactics to get things done; one part off it twisted his pain because he was a white boy who had been raised generally by honorable Indians who saw to his tribal education and taught him the way of the Indian.
When Greybow entered towns, he’d measure all the folks there according to all the types of people he had known elsewhere; met, brushed close to in saloons, barbershops, the liveries, and now and then the associated jails. He had the ability to check them off as to whom and what they were, what part of town life they took on or acted within. There were definite similarities for these were cow towns, probably between cattle drive arrivals and not another drive seen coming up the trail for the next month or so. And if there wasn’t another one after that, why winter would jump right in on top of them, take them prisoners, hold them there without parole or any hope of release … until a bird would tell them in the spring that the clock had changed, the season had changed, that all Earth itself had changed from the flat grass for untraveled miles, the blocked-out structure of canyons caught and quartered by Mother Earth in one of her wild, spasmodic and reformative accidents --- to become once more, once again, a vision of life on the hoof … cattle and horses and the predators, man or animal, that preyed on them incessantly.
For it was then that travel ensued, carriages came, stagecoaches, freighters too, and the odd saddle tramps or poor souls winter had beaten near to death --- and only the spring bird had brought the conciliatory alarm, the warning of rescue coming their way.
But what loomed larger in this current escapade appeared in an article in the “The Bright Star,” a weekly newspaper printed and issued in the small town of Quipilanta in the cow-rich west. The article on the bottom of the front page simply said, “Local officials have summoned a person of authority to come to the town to investigate the murderous raids on area ranches and catch, punish or stop the guilty bands pursuing these inhuman activities. It is the successful lawman, Chance Greybow. It is not known when he will arrive in Quipilanta.”
The article created and stirred the conversations in the saloon, the general store, and the sheriff’s office, of course, for almost two weeks. The move was received with hope, but belief that one man cold do the job remained in constant question.
Quipilanta’s sheriff, Boyd Lister, was not too enthusiastic about the assignment seemingly taken entirely from his hands, but he realized that he had not accomplished much against the raids. Though he was an honest and deliberate man at his profession, huge and complicated tasks daunted him, left him feeling astray. So the new approach was eventually comfortable with him, and logical, to see the promise of help for Quipilanta and its surrounding territory.
So he promised himself to meet Greybow when he came into town and welcome him. He didn’t know it yet, but Greybow was already in Quipilanta. He’d been there more than a week, registered at the hotel as “Forest Parker, Kansas City, traveling, looking for a good job doing good work, and experienced in many tasks peculiar to the west.”
Greybow, not in disguise at any time, was adept at being someone else for a purpose. His initial aim, in every such commission, was to discover some trustworthy and honorable, and brave men. The more the better.
Despite all the notoriety, Greybow knew he was not a one--man army sent from the gods.
To date, he had already found one die-hard true man he could trust to the end of anything, a freighter by the name of Josh Merrill … lanky, thoughtful, one-time captain of infantry, noted for bravery, believed in the good ideals some people dream of, and still on the lookout for the woman due him in this life.
The new man in Quipilanta spotted Merrill, in of all places, the saloon where he heard what the man had to say in several discussions, believed him, kept watch on him; standby-help is always welcome, and Greybow knew he never accomplished much without help; he was not a one-man force of law, but an organizer, a planner, a student of men who came under mortal pressures, who possessed a good brain, imagination by the ton, and an unfathomable desire for justice.
For this action, Josh Merrill fit the bill, all the way.
And this day, on returning from a downriver delivery, Merrill, hands loose on the reins, his mind provoked by good memories of lost friends, thought the scenery about the road to be spectacular or a sunny day, the action slow and full of silence, until a flurry of many horse tracks caught his eye where they had come out of the brush beside a canyon opening and crossed the trail.
A quick and vital thought came to him -- do not stop here -- do not investigate. He made sure he didn’t stop, because awareness brought back, atop the high ridge, a single horseman’s silhouette. He thought perhaps the figure to be a scout or a sentinel belonging to the Comanchero band. He could be watching this trail.
Merrill kept moving his wagon on its course very conscious of getting through this present point without showing any overt interest in the tracks, make believe he had not seen them at all. To advise Greybow as soon as possible what he had seen was important - and what he had seen on his previous trip when another raid had taken place that which gave him cause to see the development of a routine the Comanchero band. Might have been exercised to avert early detection. He thought he knew where the next raid would take place, if it already hadn’t; in his haste he could not tell in which direction the tracks went.
When Merrill pulled up in front of the general store, he yanked hard on the reins, caused a skittish reaction in his team and yelled a couple of times, rather loudly, “Who, Tiger! Whoa, Tiger!” It was a signal to Forest Parker (Greybow) that he must talk to him.
When his delivery was complete, his team cared for, Merrill wandered into the saloon, nodded to Parker an end of the bar talking to another man. Eventually, they sat together a table.
Keeping his voice low, Merrill, said, “I spotted the tracks of many ponies crossing the trail below the Windhover spread. I couldn’t tell which way they were going because I had seen a rider on the skyline apparently watching the trail, I suspect they were on coming from a raid or going to one. The strange thing is I saw the same kind of tracks a week or so ago, near the time of the raid at Heifer Hill.” He paused, thought carefully, and qualified what he was about to say: í can’t swear to it, but that last time I keep thinking I saw another sentinel like that, watching the trail. I was coming from Tuleford that time, and that’s northwest of here.”
Merrill tossed in his hole card: “I hope it’s not a foolish idea on my part, but the other raid was southeast of here, and that lays out a chart for me, or a nap of some of the spreads around here.”
Greybow nodded and offered, “Nothing wrong with that, Josh. Some of the best Indian leaders plot things with the compass in mind. If it’s really true, fully logical, the next raid will be to the southwest of here. What lies out there? A spread of any size? Many in the crew?”
Merrill watched Greybow’s stoical face, but saw the light, a shade of daylight blue, in his eyes. “One is Jess Satterby’s place, The Double Tees. I’ve made two deliveries out there. He has a nice cabin, a small bunkhouse, one barn, some sheds, and about four or five men until it come to roundup time. There are usually about eight or nine folks there including his wife Pearl and two young boys.”
With a special look transforming his face, Greybow asked, “Are there any high areas nearby, hills, shallow peaks, or ridge lines?”
With expert detail, Merrill gave him the lay of the land, so that he noted Greybow nodding at each particular point of information of a possible sentinel or watch stand area … and what kind of cover was available at each spot. Greybow’s nods were continuous.
Greybow stood up suddenly and said, his voice exceptionally loud, a surprise in it, “Well, hell’s bells, Josh, that beat my guess by a hundred miles. C’mon, let me buy you a drink for that before you catch up on your sleep.” He grasped his hand and yanked him toward the bar.
The whole saloon crowd smiled at the exchange.
At the hotel counter in the latter part of the night, the clerk, sleepy-eyed, said, “I hope you had a good stay, Mr. Parker, and have a good trip. Where you bound for now?”
“Oh,” came the reply, “it’s like I said before, I’m on kind of a wandering holiday and still looking for the best job I can find, and I didn’t find it here, though you have a nice little tow, but not without some troubles.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, “but I heard that will all be taken care of pretty soon. Yes, sir, pretty soon. The council has sent for a special kind of lawman. That’s what I’d guess you call him. Yes, sir, a special kind of lawman. He’ll take care of them Comancheros. Yes, Sir.”
He watched the slow and practically stealthy departure of his short time tenant as the door closed with a whisper behind him.
Greybow was at last at his commission; his senses came as alert as they’d ever been, his mind clicked way at possible scenes, images, departures from the normal. Clear of the edge of town, his magnificent steed speed away to the southwest. The moon was still shining on another part of the Earth, a few clouds came across the sky like timid animals entering the barnyard, and the soft breeze came in gentle ripples.
Once in the hills, one of those ripples brought to him a familiar odor, of meat atop flames, a meal being prepared or warmed up. The warning was highly appreciated y Greybow
In the darkness, afoot, traveling like he was born amid rocks and roots and scrub brush and blow-downs still with a breath in them, his moves drawn by the odor of an unseen fire, believing he smelled venison and some berry additions floating on the air, Greybow found the first of two sentinels he had spotted. He crept up on him and took him captive with apparent ease, the guard never expecting any kind of visitor or intruder in the night.
In a touch of Mescalero and Chiricahua Apache languages, a near hush sitting with his breath, he told his captive, “No harm will come to you if you obey. Naiyenesgani sent me. I am Greybow and I carry his knife of revenge if you disobey. I will let you live as I leave you, but from today on Naiyenesgani says nothing will be the same for you if you disobey him. I come from Naiyenesgani and am the peacekeeper but also the avenger.” He momentarily placed his cherished locket on the Indians forehead and mumbled some inaudible words, the intent on purpose, and the unheard garble of words sounded ghostly, and full of dire warning.
At the touch of the locket, at the mix of words in Greybow’s throat, as though they were said in a chant, the Comanchero froze in place. His eyes caught two faint stars that stayed in place and his eyes did not blink for long seconds; mesmerization in its native form.
Greybow, with the same method of approach after discovering the second guard, captured and tied him up and gave him the same treatment. The frozen result was the same.
With two guards now disarmed and unable to provide warning to the Comancheros, Greybow retrieved his horse and rode into the Double Tee’s spread, woke the house and gave orders essential to the well-being of all. When they had evacuated the house, at his insistence, and lined up equally on both sides of the entrance to the property, they caught the Comancheros in a deadly crossfire as they started a rush on the ranch house with a single light left burning in one window.
The raiding party, thus surprised, was nearly decimated, its leader killed along with a few others and those still alive were driven from the ranch.
When it all caught up with Sheriff Lister, the man he had known as Forest Parker was really Chance Greybow and he had vanished from town as though he had never been there.
The Comanchero raids near Quipilanta went into a steady decline.
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