The line of riders, thirty-six well-armed men, had been on the trail for several days. Not one of them, not even their leader, knew exactly where they were. No one had ever hunted this deep in Comanche country before, and having come this far, they found their thirst for retribution growing stronger with every mile that fell behind them. All were united in a single, common desire — to make the earth run red with the blood of those that had retarded the taming of the frontier for decades. They had answered the call of their kinsmen, the confederation of merchants and ranchers and farmers who lived in a long string of settlements along the eastern edge of the Comanche barrier.
Each man in the band of rangers had lived wildly imperfect lives, and even a cursory review of their backgrounds would have led one to the conclusion that they were an unsavory group. Some had operated outside the law when it was convenient, some were shackled with impoverished intellects, some were ruled by homicidal instinct, and some, like their leader, a gaunt, black-bearded man who occasionally preached damnation in stark, airless structures when the Sabbath came around, were guided by visions of mass adulation.
But who they were, where they came from, and how they lived did not describe them as clearly as what had brought them together. Each had stepped forward when the civilization that spawned them offered a free and clear license to kill.
In idleness the thirty-six men might easily have been at the throats of each other. The seemingly limitless stock of liquor most of them had swilled from the outset of their journey would have spurred offhand insults or tangled misunderstandings, setting the murderous natures of some free to rampage. But the simple purpose of their mission kept them focused on the potential prey awaiting them farther out on the prairie. Though the majority passed each day in an alcoholic haze, there was no quarreling and no violence in their ranks.
On the trail they stayed attuned to every variation in the country they passed over, ever-watchful for a glimpse of their quarry and the chance to chase and kill it.
When they made camp for the night they were careful to throw out a perimeter, keep their cookfires small, and speak in low tones, no matter how often they tugged at the ever-present bottles. Even their conversations, bound to be rancorous and abrasive in the more civilized setting of an established drinking place, were free of conflict. The tales they shared as they ate their dinners and smoked their pipes and kept their weapons clean followed, with few exceptions the wealth of each man's experience on the subject of gore.
Stories of men staggering about with entrails in their hands, shattered bone jutting from sheaths of skin, cleaved heads that afforded close-up views of the fissured brains inside, blood spurting in jets from severed arteries, limbs dangling by the slender thread of tendons, exploding faces, holes as big as melons, whimpering pleas for mercy — any anecdote remotely related to the carnage they loved to inflict was discussed with boundless relish and good humor.
The singular pursuit of slaughter in every imaginable form was at the forefront of every ranger's mind, and its careful cultivation, over days of searching, culminated in the discovery of a good-sized village.
One of the flankers had glimpsed the tops of the lodges as he passed a thick stand of elm situated not more than half a mile from the village. He watched for a few seconds, long enough to see that the target was located on flat terrain at the confluence of two streams. Then he galloped back to the main group, certain that he had not been detected.
The gaunt leader, addressed always as "Captain," though he had never served in a formal military body, quickly brought his men to the elm grove and, sighting through a field glass, ascertained that the village was totally unaware of their presence. Ponies were scattered in front of the Indian town but there was no massed herd. In the minutes the captain scanned his objective he saw no more than half a dozen human forms outside the tents, and it was obvious that none of them suspected the wrath about to befall them.
Twelve men were selected to circle wide of the village and position themselves behind it, there to kill as many of the escaping enemy as possible. They were given thirty minutes to get in place, before the main force of rangers would assault the village head-on.
"You rangers who wish to fortify yourselves do so now," the captain intoned solemnly, and a score of men hastily brought their bottles to their lips.
“Don't waste rounds on them animals out yonder," the captain cautioned. "We'll take 'em home afterward. Let's get the people first. Now," he grunted, digging through one of his saddlebags, "I've got a shiny new Colt I'm offering." He held the pistol up with both hands, waving it back and forth in front of the eyes of his followers as though it were solid gold. “This goes to the first man who kills and scalps one of them heathen scum." Then he added with a wink, "Babies without hair don't count.”
The roar of laughter such high wit would normally have elicited was stifled by the rangers, hands, many of which flew coquettishly to their mouths lest the guffaws carry in the pleasant breeze blowing toward the treasured target.
"You men go ahead now," the captain ordered and the twelve selected to cut off escape filed out of the grove. When the squeak of saddle leather and the footfalls of the horses had faded to nothing the gaunt leader straightened in the saddle and cleared his throat.
"Boys, I'm a man for prayer. I could quote scripture to you right now for I'm tempted. What we're about to do's got it bubblin' up in me. But I think all I got to say is let's check our weapons over one more time. One more time won't hurt us now and I'd hate to see anybody miss out on the fun 'cause his weapon wasn't right."
The rangers jumped down from their horses. They tested their cinches, unloaded and reloaded their firearms, and filled the silence of the grove they stood in with the sound of knife blades passing rhythmically to and fro on their whetstones, all the while inwardly damning the slowness of time.