The Moon Wolf Legend
By Wayne Bethard
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Wayne Bethard
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Preface
The annals of Native American history may never be written. Being a vast mass of tradition and imagination, facts traveled from tongue to memory over land and time never to be recorded. Throughout the ages red and white men of fact lived their lives within their own physical existence yet had their celebrity run rampant across campfires, beneath shelters and within minds. Impossible feats attributed to them were seized by the most respectable of tribesmen to be passed on in the spoken word with the care of true historians. In the end some men became revered and recorded traditionally in the archives of memory as legends.
Chapter 1
October 2, 1873
U.S. Army Supply Depot
Department of Missouri, St. Louis.
Not every officer in the Union Army charged across the battlefield on his favorite horse. Colonel Artemis Earl Anderson had his tied to a desk. For the past fifteen years Earl fought for the Union using ledgers and notebooks and freight lines. He worked under General William H. Blair a likewise paperwork administrator. General Blair spent his time in Washington preparing budgets, appropriating money and negotiating contracts to make sure the wheels of the Union Army kept turning. Once the General got his budgets and appropriations, he turned things over to Colonel Earl Anderson who spent it on food, weapons and salaries and saw, or tried to see, that these provisions made it to where needed most. The Union won the war but they did it on a shoestring. Earl had always said that all his hair fell out because of everyone pulling on it from one direction or another. Food provisions were his most stressful quandary. An inordinate amount of time had to be spent fielding complaints about stolen shipments. Whether it was meat, beans or coffee, the cases shipped seldom reached the troops and many that made it were adulterated. Coffee and dry beans arrived mixed with small rocks. One shipment Earl himself examined passed inspection in St Louis, but on arrival the entire shipment contained sacks of pea-sized pebbles. Flour and Cornmeal got continually infested with tiny insects. Salt pork and bacon, their staple meats, were highly desired within the ranks as bartering agents for the army's most dreaded curse—the wicked temptation of whiskey. Even the most trusted quartermasters were guilty of oiling the squeaky wheels of that commerce. Administrating had practically every nerve in Earl's body frazzled. What would he be next May sixty? That’s too old for this kind of responsibility. The time had come to turn things over to someone younger who still had piss and vinegar in their veins. He tapped a pencil to his lips and was staring out the window from his desk when quick paced footsteps clanked on the outer office floor and a soft tap came on the door. His Corporal secretary was a man young enough to be his grandson, a male who hadn't fully tasted life, its sweetness or its bitterness—the words to the book of his future hadn't been written past the introduction let alone the first chapter. The Corporal hurried and turned the knob. An elderly, immaculately dressed woman stood centered in the doorway.
“Morning Ma'am, Can I help you?” The Corporal asked.
"I’m looking for Artemis Anderson.”
Earl heard her voice and met her half way. “Ernestine? My word, what brings you here to St. Louis?” After a friendly hug he led her to a chair beside his desk. He hadn’t seen his sister in over two years. For her to have come all the way to St. Louis in this weather, it had to be something important. She wasn’t known for traveling if she didn’t have to. The young Corporal stood just inside the door and peaked around. “Be at my desk, Sir."
“Thank you,” Earl replied.
"Have a seat, Ernestine,” and he gave her his undivided attention. She touched a handkerchief to her nose. Her eyes were swollen. “Samantha is missing, Artie. It’s getting to where nobody’s safe traveling in this country anymore.”
The Colonel disliked being called Artie. “Artie” wasn’t so bad during his childhood. Everyone in his immediate family addressed him that way back when. Any time adults referred to him as Artemis when growing up he was no doubt in trouble. Artemis, um um um, sounds so, so Biblical and prehistoric, and Artie so childish. 'Earl' is what his grown friends called him now. He would, however, allow Ernestine to call him anything she wanted.
She went on to relate that the buffalo soldiers at Fort Mc Kavett had found the stage Samantha had been on and buried the scalped dead; she never made it to Austin to visit her cousin. It had taken several weeks for the news to travel back to the family. The soldiers suspected Comanche.
Earl understood the Indian problems in West Texas. The plains Indians had run amuck and rampant, raiding and murdering while Union forces labored to defeat the Confederates. Before he could think best how to reply, his sister placed a hand on his forearm and said, “You’ve got to go find her Artie.” The age lines in her face caught more shadows since he last saw her. Concern softened his heart and hardened his spirit for he knew finding his niece in that wide-open country would be highly improbable, she was most likely dead by now. The Comanche seldom captured a grown woman and allowed her to live for long; children yes, but not mature women. He envisioned images of little Sam running around, playing with dolls, laughing and skipping. To him she was still a child even at seventeen, but by society’s standards she was considered full-grown. He couldn’t imagine what horror she must have endured before she died, and in all likelihood, she had died by now. Maybe he shouldn’t reveal his true thoughts. His sister gained his full attention again when she told him that a buffalo hunter told some soldiers at the fort he saw an Indian squaw with blond hair in the vicinity where Samantha disappeared. Having heard that, his sister insisted he do something, send soldiers, anything to get her back. He forced a smile from his besieged heart. To console would be difficult. Even if they had seen a captive with blond hair, the odds of it being Samantha were slim, very slim.
The two visited a while longer, her sniffling and blotting red wet eyes, him holding her hand and promising to do everything he could. After Ernestine left he removed his boots and strolled to a window. Sock footed he ambled back from the window to his chair and sat. Dear little Samantha: so precious a child, so pretty, energetic, argumentative, and independent. She was a child of her own mind for sure. Pranks and mischief were the little girl's forte. The kid would talk her old aunt's and uncle’s ears off and they enjoyed every minute of it. Earl missed having someone like his sister, Ernestine, to talk to, someone to confide in.
The ashes of war left a bitter taste in Earl Anderson's mouth. He felt that when the Lord looked away the devil rounded up strays. Reconstruction became a nightmare for all commanders. Though the Union won, the opposition continued. The slave situation had gotten way out of hand too. Slaves weren't prepared to drink from the unrestricted well of hope freedom provided. Many starved to death. Racist killed some. This whole defending-the-west mess had gotten way out of hand. At his age Earl's nerves were frazzled and he had grown tired, the kind of tired sleep couldn't repair. If the pleasure of life lies in varying the possibles a man recognizes in himself Earl wasn't experiencing much pleasure. All men are marked with a degree of courage and daring, yet there are moments when suppressing these assets becomes overwhelming. Earl had reached a summit in his life, a discouraging one— that of fighting battles with superiors he couldn't win.
His niece came to mind again, sweet images, haunting images. His longing to get out of this pressure cooker had become greater every day, and now this. A warmer climate wouldn't hurt his rheumatism either. He should retire. He had put in his time. He often thought of going west, claiming a parcel of land and setting up a ranch of his own to breed horses and cattle. If he quit this command he could hire a few good men and go look for Samantha. He might, under the pretense of needing to check on things at Fort Mc Kavett, go with a company of carefully selected soldiers and search for her. That thought troubled him. If General Blair discovered his real reason for going he might be court marshaled too. No, he wouldn't risk his retirement; his best bet would be to resign. He had family money. His sister had more than he did and she would pay anything to get Samantha back.
Ernestine was six years older than Earl. Her husband, a politician who pocketed well during the war, died of consumption and left her with substantial holdings in Ohio. She and Earl outlived the rest of their family. The only thing the old woman had to live for was her niece.
He could assemble a hand picked crew and go look for Samantha. That thought haunted the recesses of his mind when the thunder of horses drew his attention to the window. His horse, Mischief, got excited when the mares passed. Earl had ridden earlier and was giving the stallion time to cool off.
Mischief was a purebred Union Morgan. The best the army had to offer. This breed he would like to use to get a start on a ranch of his own. The hoof beats of a passing remuda faded and he turned back to matters at hand. The last time he felt depressed like this, a hot, soapy bath helped relax him, so relaxed that he fell asleep in it. As if on a forced march he headed for the bathhouse. He watched the Chinaman draw a steaming tub of water and thanked him.
One distorted foot, the other Earl eased into the water, pausing, wincing and sucking in air around his cigar. He relaxed to near ecstasy, tilted his head back and slipped into a yielding periphery of sleep where a dazzling conglomeration of images formed and dissipated. In the visions he saw a six-year-old girl with a pink ribbon in her long blond hair. Try as he might he couldn't see her face. Every attempt to lean to view the girl from the front was met with a giggle and the turning of her head. Sharp leg pains jerked him back to the present. During every waking moment he experienced constant pain in his knees. Relief came only with sleep. He had tried medications—willow bark tea and laudanum. The narcotic worked wonderfully but caused dullness inside his head, disorientation he couldn't describe—a profound disengagement of mind, so he quit taking it. The tea helped without the consciousness involvement. Tolerating the pain had become a normal phase of existence.
If he did decide to go look for his niece he would need a tracker and two or three experienced fighting men. A scout named Matia, a Caddo Indian half-breed, came to mind. Who did he know with experience in Indian warfare? There was that ex-Texas Ranger, Chase Bennett. According to reliable sources, Bennett got tired of the State of Texas never paying him so he left the Ranger service and came home to St Louis. Bennett was reportedly ruthless, a man who found it easier to kill the outlaws he had orders to bring in than worry with them getting away. Draped across a saddle was much less troublesome. Bennett presently served as a deputy sheriff a few miles from here. The ex-ranger would be good. He had grit and was familiar with the area. Fighting Indians and getting paid for it would fit right in with his reckoning. You didn’t have to arrest and bring in renegade Indians. Experience in that respect would be invaluable. If indeed they found Samantha, the Colonel would not have much sympathy for her abductors. Bennett most likely wouldn’t either.
Two days passed. What his sister said made his contemplations of going a sobering concern. The more he reflected on it the more interested he became. As for the army, the curtains of reality had blinded the manipulators of the strings attached to every limb of his being, a lesson it took years to learn. The weight of that reality had finally grown unbearable. Breakfast eaten, head down, heavy of foot he headed to his office. He stood at the window looking out across the parade grounds, contemplated his decision and walked the floor considering the execution of it. At his desk, he pulled out a clean piece of paper, sat and wrote out his resignation.
Earl's was a dogged determination. Once he committed, indecision was out of the question. His militant spirit was a whip that spurred him to the end of any means. That end being success, the means being whatever it took to ride it to fruition even if it bordered on unscrupulous manipulation. The following week he was headed to talk to an ex-Texas Ranger, named Chase Bennett.
He and Mischief headed southwest to the little town of Farmington. William Murphy, a Kentuckian, originally established the settlement. His relatives still ran the town. Murphy’s nephew presently held the office of Sheriff. Since the war, the area had been plagued with rampant outlaw activity. Murphy knew about Chase Bennett’s reputation down in Texas. Bennett and Murphy went to grade school together. Murphy talked to Bennett at the local saloon one night, bought him a drink, laughed about old times and convinced him to become his deputy.
The town of Farmington had long been a raucous place with fighting, cheating gamblers, and loose women. Bennett single handedly killed two men who had been a thorn in Murphy’s side. Men who Murphy couldn’t prove murdered two local Union sympathizers but boasted about it to several citizens. Bennett used worn wanted posters to back up his reasons for taking them out. Murphy fully understood these were not the men on the posters, but someone had to do something. Bennett’s bold actions then and later had cleaned up the streets of Farmington. He met rowdies’ head on. They either left town, or Murphy hired the undertaker. Word spread throughout the area that if you wanted to settle in Farmington, Missouri, it was now a safe place to live. Two new churches were built, and a schoolhouse.
The Colonel, or rather, Mr. Earl Anderson, the civilian, pushed open the batwing doors of the Farmington Saloon and walked to the bar. In the back corner four men sat playing poker, save for one, they all wore various arrays of business suits. The bartender met Earl with a smile on his face and a towel in his hand.
“What’ll it be Mister?”
"I’m looking for a man named Chase Bennett.”
The bartender’s smile went flat. The room fell silent. “What might your business be with Mr. Bennett?”
A man at the poker table stood and adjusted the pistol on his hip. The others grabbed their jackets and headed for the door.
“I’m Bennett. What do you want?”
Earl decided it best to stand where he was. The tension in the room was taut as a water moccasin preparing to strike. He was glad he wasn’t wearing a gun. “Names Anderson, Earl Anderson, Colonel Earl Anderson. I would like to talk to you about a job.”
“You must have me confused with someone else, Mister. I ain’t hiring anybody.”
“No no. I came to see if you would consider working for me.”
The bartender’s frown relaxed. So did Bennett’s. “Come on back. Have a seat.” Bennett then addressed the bartender, “Ed bring him a glass. A clean one please.” He turned back to face Earl. “I ain’t joining no army, if that’s what you came for.”
“I’m not recruiting. In fact, I’m retired.”
Earl and Chase talked through three drinks. He told Bennett about Samantha, and his intentions of finding her and maybe acquiring a ranch and raising horses and cattle. Bennett listened. He let Earl know what he already knew. That it wasn't likely she was still alive and finding her even if she was wouldn't be easy. Earl agreed and they sat in silence sipping and staring into the distance. They both wanted something out of this and were trying to figure how to relate it to the other. Earl wanted his niece back, but he also wanted to see that country. He was burnt out on the army. It was time to look out for Earl for a change. Chase wanted to get back to Texas, possibly as a Ranger. Claiming some land sounded enticing too. When Earl got to the money offerings, Bennett leaned closer, at the mention of how much, his Adam’s apple jiggled.
Bennett talked on to verify hearsay for the reason he left the Texas Rangers. Had he been paid, he likely would still be with them.
“Well, you can do what you do best, and get handsomely paid for it. There’s also lots of open land just waiting to be claimed out there. We find my niece and get her back, I’ll guarantee you a substantial reward too, in addition to your salary.”
Bennett pushed back from the table. “When do you plan on doing this?”
“Soon as I get supplies rounded up. I need to talk to a couple others. We take on the Comanche we’ll need all the help we can get. If you know any good men you’d trust to go with us, I’d be glad to talk to them.”
“Let me contact a couple of guys. Where you staying?” As an afterthought Bennett added, “You gonna pay them the same salary?”
“Yes… I take it you’ll go then?”
“Mister, for that kind of money I’ll dig ditches for you.”
“Where is a good place to rent a room here?” Earl asked.
“Mattie’s rooming house. Tell her I sent you. She’s also the best cook in town. Give me day or so. I’ve got some riding to do.” Chase Bennett then gulped his glass empty. He left Earl sitting at the table alone. Earl sipped the last of his drink. His head swirled. He hadn’t had this much alcohol in a long time. Contented with Bennett’s acceptance, he said to himself, One down.
Earl spent the night at Mattie’s. He feared Bennett might return the next day and him not be here, so he told Mattie to tell the ex-ranger he would be back as soon as possible. He trusted Bennett would understand. Chances were Earl would be back before Bennett anyway.
Chapter 2
Chase Bennett headed for his room behind the jail, threw a slicker, a bag of ground coffee and some other possibles into his saddlebags and left. The past two weeks as a deputy hadn't been the best days of his life. It had been raining off and on for what seemed like a month now. Earlier in the day he considered thumbing through the wanted posters to see if any descriptions resembled someone he noticed in town, but nothing even came close. Very few new faces had shown up lately. Just this morning, while he sat at a desk listening to thunder rumble and rain drum on the roof; the thought occurred that he didn’t know how much longer he could continue at this deputy business. This Colonel Anderson caught him at a vulnerable time.
Chase wanted first to find out if this Anderson fellow was trustworthy. A quick stop at the telegraph office to contact a friend in St. Louis, and he was on his way to visit with the Adams Brothers. Mike and Caleb Adams served in the Confederate army. An errant musket ball put the third brother, Don, in God’s arms. Don, like many relatives in the Civil War fought for the other side. Chase met the boys while rangering down in Texas. They were both God fearing, hard working boys who at one time considered becoming rangers. The two were raised on a farm north of Farmington. After the war they came back to rebuild. Someone had burned down the farmhouse; opportunist hauled off everything else. They spent several weeks and what money they had fighting efforts to confiscate their homestead by land thirsty speculators and devious politicians.
Chase heard the boys were having a hard time. Heavy rains had flooded their farm. Save for a small garden, their crops—corn and wheat—rotted in the meadows. The last time Chase talked to Mike Adams in Farmington, Mike told him they were hanging on by a corn silk thread and a prayer.
Caleb Adams sat on the porch. Chase rode up and pulled rein close enough for his horse’s nose to be in Caleb's lap. Caleb reached and petted the animal's forehead. “Good after morning Chase Bennett, what brings you to El Rancho Not so Grande?”
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Gotta laugh sometimes.”
“Still pretty bad, huh?”
“Naw. Not if you don’t mind eating pine bark stew and boiled bull nettle seeds.”
“Where’s Mike?”
“Hunting hogs in the river bottom.” Caleb looked past Chase toward a dense forest. “Here he comes now.”
Mike Adams appeared, arms straight, body leaning forward, a monstrous limp hog dragging behind him at the end of a rope. “I'll be damned if it ain't Chase Bennett,” he said on approach. "We’ve been out of meat for three days,” Mike added. “Eat well tonight. Give us a hand?”
Chase dismounted and hurried to help. The hog stunk like an outhouse. He knew he hadn’t the strength to drag such a huge thing by himself, not the way Mike had.
Mike Adams was the smallest of the Adams brothers, thin and wiry--stronger than he looked. The back of his neck had deep crisscrossing groves like dried brown mud. He shot a pistol better than any man Chase had ever seen. He wasn’t a quick draw. His method was unhurried, focused and deadly. Back in Texas, Chase witnessed him hitting a lance wielding Comanche between the eyes at forty yards. Mike joked that he liked those skull shots. You only wasted one bullet. If Chase went to try and recover a captive from the Comanche, he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather have at his side. You give Mike a two second advantage with a gun and you didn't live to tell about it. He was fearless as a badger, calm as a summer breeze, and as composed as an alligator sunning on the riverbank. Grit and backbone weren’t just words on his chalkboard.
They dragged the hog to a massive oak and after Mike threw a rope over a large limb, together the three heaved it into the air. Mike and Caleb had it half skinned when Caleb asked, “What brings the great Chase Bennett, hero of Farmington, out our way? You haven’t come to arrest us I hope.”
Chase smiled. He forgot he still wore his badge.
“If I did you might eat better.”
“I hear that. Not tonight though. We’ll go to bed with a full belly this evening. You stay for supper?”
“No thanks. But when you get through tending to your meat, we need to talk.”
Caleb boiled a bucket of fresh coffee Chase brought. The two washed the blood from their hands then took seats around a rickety table. Chase did the talking, the others the listening. He first asked if they had ever heard of a Colonel Earl Anderson. Neither had. Chase’s further account explained everything the same way the Colonel had. The mention of how much money peaked the brother’s brows.
Caleb asked, “You don’t reckon this Colonel would give us a little up front do you? The pot we pee in at night has a lard bucket lid on it. Our boot soles are so thin you can read a newspaper through them. We don’t cotton to chasing Indians on borrowed mules either.” His grin became laced with desperation and hope.
Chase had been studying the two and their Spartan cabin. Had he his druthers he'd take Mike and leave Caleb to tend the farm. But he doubted one would go without the other. Caleb had always seemed a bit on the lazy side, evident by the lackadaisical manner in which the farm had been kept up. Daylight showed between the logs. A bucket sat on the floor half full of water from an earlier downpour. The dilapidated structure had a dirt floor and no porch. Where rain blew in the front door, little shallow spots, smooth and ringed with dried floating sediment followed a path of gravity down one inside wall. These were things that could have, should have been taken care of while Mike was hunting and plowing and sweating.
Caleb Adams forehead had a "v" shaped indention where a hairline once existed. He stood six foot four and had gangly arms. He had lost thirty pounds since Chase last saw him. He looked to be strong as an ox but the only time he did physical labor was when Mike insisted or asked for his help. Mike had become much more lenient toward Caleb's laziness since their brother, Don, got killed in the war. Both men’s clothes told of genteel poverty, threadbare homespun cotton, thin at the knees and elbows, frayed at the collars. Chase had put back a goodly chunk of his meager deputy salary during the past year. He had enough in the Farmington bank to get the two equipped for the job, plus a little to update his own outfit for the road. Should the Colonel refuse to stake them, he would do it himself and let them pay him back.
“I think we can manage things one way or another," Chase said, "You interested in going with me per chance I get this worked out?”
Mike looked at his brother, his brother looked back. “Does a hound dog piss on fence post?” Mike joked.
Caleb added, “Hell yes we’ll go.”
“I sent a telegram to check this Colonel out. If the news is good I’ll bring him out to meet you. If not, I’m sorry I said anything. Either way I’ll let you know something in a couple of days. ”
Chase could sense uneasiness in Mike's stance. Caleb voiced his concern before Mike had a chance. "You do remember we fought for the Confederacy. This Colonel is or was Union right?"
That's something Chase hadn't considered. "The war has ended," he said.
"Not for some," Mike added.
"You two don't think you can work for him I'll understand."
"Won't be us that's the problem," Mike offered. "Remember, Don was our brother and he fought for the Union. As far as we're concerned the war is over and done. But you better make sure this Colonel of yours is okay with us going."
Chase now had something serious to ponder on his way back. He left the two standing in their dilapidated cabin’s doorway. The telegraph office would be his next stop. Anxiety made him jittery. He hoped for his and the Adams boy’s sake this Colonel’s offer was reliable.
Chase's days with the Texas Rangers had been good ones. He missed rangering but he longed to be back in Texas more. The hill country had gotten into his blood. He yearned for campfires and starlit skies, owl hoots and coyote cries. He hoped the Colonel would have no problem hiring two ex-Confederates, but that could put a kink in this situation.
***
Earl Anderson had been told the scout, Matia, lived in a village several miles west of Farmington. What he found made him uneasy. The community sat back on a creek bank near a dense forest. Goats bleated in the distance. A hen cackled nearby. The smell was a cross between dirty feet and pine knot smoke. Shorthaired and pot bellied, with thin legs and naked bodies, little Negro children gathered in clusters with their black eyes fixed on him. A young woman in a loose fitting, frayed dress came toward him, solemn faced, arms folded across her chest. “What chew want here?”
“I’m trying to find a man named Matia.”
She pointed. “Las shack pass the chopped wood pile yonder.”
Earl tipped his hat and smiled. She didn’t respond. He heeled Mischief and placed his weight on his left leg to shift and glance over his shoulder. Her eyes held a malicious glower. She folded her arms again across her flat chest and continued to observe his every move. Several adults migrated toward him, paused and stood watching. No one smiled. Earl smiled at another woman. She only nodded. He wished he knew what they were thinking. He could sense their stares penetrating his soul. The hair on his neck began to tingle.
Most of the men were shirtless and bare footed and it was cold by Earl's standards. Some had soot-black skin, some a cream chocolate color. He pulled rein before a picket-sided shack. A woman sitting on a stool beside it milked a goat. She stopped to watch. Matia sat weaving a basket with his legs folded. As if the effort to rise might cause inconvenience he remained seated, his smile his only movement. He wore shin high moccasins, leather leggings, and a blue denim shirt. His reddish brown skin, like pan-fried chicken, glowed in the bright sunlight. His braided hair shined nearly blue. A flat-topped hat sat on his head. He was out of place here, like a redbird among crows.
“Colonel Anderson? What brings you of all people out here to this place?”
Earl dismounted. The crowd began to grow. He turned back to Matia. “I have a little project I’m working on and came to see if you'd be interested in helping me with it?
“I would offer you a chair, but you see we don’t have any. “ Matia's voice projected clear and deep and sharp, his diction perfect. “You’re welcome to join me. Have a rock and sit. What’s up, Sir?”