The Texans by Brett Cogburn

elbow.
    Colonel Moore looked down at the oak boards beneath his feet for a moment and then passed a look to Commissioner Anderson. He rose and walked over to the water barrel at the end of the porch and took up the dipper there. He stood quietly with his back to them and the dipper dripping and poised halfway to his mouth.
    Commissioner Anderson cleared his throat and looked uncomfortably at Red Wing before saying to Mrs. Ida, “I’d think it best if we spoke in private.”
    â€œCommissioner . . .” Mrs. Ida started.
    â€œCall me Will. It will save you some confusion with so many men of rank present.”
    â€œWhat have you to say that my daughter should not hear? I assure you that she’s no wilting lily and is quite levelheaded and capable of listening to men’s talk without fainting or becoming confused by any complex revelations you seem to feel you possess,” she snapped.
    Commissioner Anderson winced. “I assure you that isn’t the case. Perhaps you should hear me out and then maybe you can relate what I have to say to her yourself.”
    Mrs. Ida locked eyes with him for a long moment in a test of wills and then turned to Red Wing. “Go for a walk, girl, and let me hear this silly man out.”
    Red Wing started to protest, but the fear and premonition that was steadily growing in her took the out that was offered. She passed a glance to Bud, and he gave her a slight nod as if to say that he would listen for her. She gathered her skirt and left the porch with her chin a little higher than normal. She wasn’t about to let them see her concern, and she was glad the folds of her dress hid her shaking hands as she walked away.
    She passed by the corral and although she didn’t look their way, she could feel the eyes of the men on her. The Delawares in their white shirts and homespun pants looked at her the same as the wild Waco with the tattoos on his face and one side of his hair shaved close and the other hanging long in a braid. Captain Jones had taken a seat against the wall of the barn. She nodded at him, but he had already tipped his hat down over his eyes for a nap. Once she reached the creek, she quickened her pace and circled around back of the house. She stopped and began picking flowers fifty yards away, but she could plainly hear bits and pieces of the conversation on the porch.
    â€œIf you want to help with the Comanche problem, why don’t you bring soldiers and kill all of them you can? You can’t make peace with them; they don’t even understand the word.” Her mother’s voice rose loudly and Red Wing wondered what she had missed hearing that had the woman so stirred up.
    She could hear Anderson speaking but couldn’t make out all of his words. He was talking about some Peace Commission out west, but that was all she could gather at a distance.
    â€œLord, no! Bud, give me your gun!” Mrs. Ida cried.
    There was more hushed conversation, but that only led to Mrs. Ida bawling and sobbing and the sound of a scuffle on the porch. Red Wing started back to the house.
    â€œNot my baby!” her mother cried again, and to Red Wing she sounded like she was dying.
    Before Red Wing had taken more than a few steps Placido rode around the house to her. His face was as unreadable as it had been earlier, and even the twinkle in his eye was gone. She thought maybe she had just imagined it earlier.
    â€œCome with me.” He sounded as if he thought she might flee.
    It had been almost five years, but that day so long ago came back to her as more than a memory. In fact, she felt as if she was reliving the moment when Colonel Moore’s men had charged into her camp yelling and firing and had taken her away from all she knew. Truly, she did want to run like a little rabbit in the grass, because she felt like a captive once again.
    â€œWhat do you want with me?” she managed to ask.
    Placido glanced briefly over his