My “cat bird,” as that lowdown Dunbar called it, left a trail of footprints in the sands of San Marina, signaling that my time with the posse had come to an end. I had left ol’ Chip, Dunbar, and Diamond to their own flight toward the grassy hills of El Sobrenatural.
The fact that I’d always been reluctant to be a part of that so-called non vendetta chasin’ posse only exasperated the situation. Our alliance would never have survived our grief for the giant shadow hanging over us—the death of a legendary figure we had picked up along our way.
Giant Chief’s legend goes that back at Fort Cross, when he left me in the saloon and stepped on the bridge to go answer nature’s call, he was lured to the grassy plains by a faraway inferno, white and a-fanned upon by a spirit as ancient as the wind. The guards, whom he passed on his way, dared not disturb his gaze for the purposefulness which filled it.
When Chief reached the haze, a horse neighed, and on it sat light entity, Taiowa, with a headdress, copper face, and scowl. “You have strayed, Owl. The path of least resistance has never been one for the Comanche.”
“You know, I not really Comanche, not by blood. I born Spanish. Comanche raid my town, kill my family, and take me, because even when I was young boy, I was so big. They had use for me.”
Taiowa tried to interject, but Chief forced his tale onward. “They lay cooked meat and raw meat in front of me. I knew it was test. If I eat cooked meat, they kill me. If I eat raw meat, that mean I one of them. I became one of them for many years. Kill for them. But at night, I so sad for state of tribe and world, until you come to me in visions and show me Comanche can be better; world can be better. When I become leader of Nagawitchi band, I make peace with pale faces, Mexicans, and other tribes—as much as I could.”
“You lived and led well. We both know that’s not what I’m here to dispute.”
“Taiowa, I not want to hear what you say!”
“You will hear it. If Apollo dies because of you, it will tilt the balance and damn you for it.”
Chief chopped at the air in protest. “Light entities, those like you, tell me any sacrifice of mercy is acceptable.”
“If after all my lessons, I one more time must remind you the difference between that which is acceptable to light entities and that which brings balance back, I will. Does it bring balance back to let Doc Apollo die? He’s the one you shared a moment at saloon with. If he refused the strong drink, does he not have hope?”
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Chief tugged his curls over his face and growled in agony. His voice bellowed into the night for all guards to hear. “Go away, Taiowa. Go away.”
The same giant hands which tugged at his hair, spared me at the Rio Grande.
***
General Jones had traveled many miles down the Camino Real to return the chief’s body to Nagawitchi. He hadn’t been that way in a long time, but heard tale that some years ago, Comanches had raided Grand Jose and started a war.
He resolved he’d meet with the savages, after sending ahead messengers, peaceful and civil Nagawitchi—those who followed after Giant Chief’s way. They’d mediate his transport of the casket to the tribesmen.
His battle plan was to gain their trust, stun them, and then attack, manifesting destiny by ridding Texas of the Indians who attacked one of his favorite American territories. After all, the one who knows his name didn’t heal his eye for no reason.
The meeting was set up in the fields near a Nagawitchi camp. When Jones arrived with the broken glass lidded casket, some tribesmen bragged, “We told Chief he would pay for trusting those pale faces.” Others mourned, while yet more stood quiet. When Laughing Heart came forward, they put spears on her.
Their last English-speaking combatant, the one who led the raid of our mule train, said, “Who told you to get this close, woman who always acts crazy. We warriors will handle his burial.”
She touched the Comanche fighter’s face, laughing, while General Jones and his men shared glances of bewilderment at her behavior. She said, “There’s no need to be so angry. It makes you less wise in battle.”
They let her pass, warning her to hurry, then she opened the coffin. When she peaked in, she laughed to the light blue heavens; even the clouds seemed to curl up in a smile. She nearly fell over backwards in a fit. “His body is not in there. He must have died in valor and risen a light entity like Taiowa!”
A concerned tribesmen darted forward, threw the lid open, and shot a glare over at General Jones.
A couple soldiers fired their muskets, but they only smoked up cactus laden fields. The Indian had ducked behind the coffin, and as soon as those first bullets cracked, a war cry from Nagawitchi horsemen emerged in nearby hills.
The Indians’ singing that hit unheard of notes, Laughing Heart’s joy under duress, and the disappearance of Chief’s body struck fear in General Jones’ army. They’d underestimated the strategy of these people, and precision from bows and arrows became their demise. Jones lay on his back impaled. His last words were, “I’ve been duped.”
This oral story has come to be known as the legend of the Laughing Battle. Whether you believe it or dismiss it as the imagination of savages, whom I’ve never known to justify themselves, is up to you, but I’m a-making a record and oath right now—Our West was and is a place altered by entities, a place not quite right, and there’s only more on these matters to come, especially in regard to my secondhand but detailed account of the events that occurred in El Sobrenatural.
