The Moon Wolf Legend

By Wayne Bethard

The annals of Comanche history may never be written. Being a vast mass of tradition and imagination, facts travel from tongue to memory over land and time. Throughout the ages men of fact can live their lives within their own physical existence yet have their celebrity run rampant across campfires, beneath shelters and within the mind. Impossible feats attributed to them are seized by the most respectable to be passed on with the care of true historians. In the end these men become revered as legends.
The legend of a white man called No-Hair (Earl Anderson) and an Indian half-breed known as Moon-Wolf (Matia the tracker), did not begin with their journey to the Texas hill-country, even though the trip proved to be dangerous travel. Neither did their fame begin with their first encounter with savage renegades on the road. What lit their fire of immortality began with a simple rescue effort gone amuck and continued even after they completed their mission.
Colonel Earl Anderson sets out to rescue his young niece who has been captured by the Comanche. He organizes a group of experienced frontiersmen and heads for Texas. Having been a Union Colonel he discovers that even though his side won the civil war, the fighting is far from over. His rescue is successful, but the niece they recover is not the niece they expected to find. They had no clue that during the liberation process they became legends in the eyes of the Indian Nations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Bethard
• Release date: Jan 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466069244

Wayne Bethard

A pharmacist by trade, Wayne Bethard is the truest of drugstore cowboys. A graduate of the University of Texas, he resides, practices, and writes out of his home in Longview, Texas.

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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