Texas

  At last I have a fool-proof case against the Army at Fort Garner, and I intend to pursue it vigorously. In August of this year, when my Comanche under the peaceful guidance of Chief Matark, about whom I have written before, were trailing buffalo, they did, I must admit, stray into Texas territory. But they were behaving like the good citizens I have taught them to be when they were fallen upon by Col. Renfro and a horde of his cavalrymen. Several braves were slain, and an Indian woman was taken from them.

  I hold this to be a gross infraction of the rules which govern this area and I shall go personally to Fort Garner to seek redress for my Indians. I am leaving Camp Hope in the hands of Chief Matark during my absence, which ought not be prolonged, but I assure thee that I shall speak harshly to the Army.

  When the righteous Quaker appeared at the fort, Wetzel wanted to arrest the two Comanche braves, but Rusk made such a howl that Reed had to promise safe passage, as the Peace Policy required. The discussions continued as before, with Rusk insisting upon the peaceful intentions of his Indians, and Reed enumerating the hideous roster of Texas ranches burned and Texas ranchers slain. None of these charges, which seemed so specific to the army men, would Rusk accept as proof of Comanche guilt; instead, he launched vigorous protest against army brutality, and there the debate hung suspended, with each man accusing the other of duplicity and moral blindness.

  ‘Can’t you see, Rusk, that your beloved Indians are a gang of murderers who should be shot?’

  ‘Can’t thee see, Captain Reed, that thy men are a gang of undisciplined bullies who love to harass my Indians?’

  ‘What about the murders at the seventeen ranches I’ve listed?’

  ‘What about your men kidnapping one of my Indian women?’

  Reed stopped and gaped at the Quaker: ‘You don’t know who that woman was?’

  ‘Then thee admits the kidnapping?’

  Reed almost laughed: ‘Everyone in the world knows who she is, but you live a few miles to the north, and you haven’t heard? Rusk, are you truly innocent, or are you stupid?’

  ‘I expect to be abused at your hands, but I also expect—’

  ‘Louise!’ Reed shouted. ‘Ask Bertha Wetzel to bring the girl here.’ As might have been expected, Mrs. Wetzel, the practical frontier woman, had given the unwanted girl a temporary home, and now she grasped Emma’s hand and brought her to the commander’s office.

  Mrs. Wetzel entered the room first, with the girl lagging behind, so that Rusk could not see who was coming, but when the pair were well inside, Mrs. Wetzel stepped aside and Emma Larkin stood revealed. With the ability she had acquired to suffer anything, she kept her chin high and looked right at Earnshaw Rusk, and when he saw her he gasped. Trying to speak, he could not, and for a long moment these two stared at each other —the near-crazed child of torture and the near-godlike believer in the goodness of man. When the moment passed, Rusk stepped boldly to the girl and put his arms about her: ‘Jesus Christ has thee in His heart.’ He tried to say more, but he could not, and after a moment most embarrassing to Reed, Mrs. Wetzel and even the girl, he bowed his head and quiet tears welled in his eyes.

  He was so shaken that he had to sit down, and as he huddled there, his world falling apart, Reed said with less severity than he had intended: ‘This is Emma Larkin. Sole survivor of Bear Creek. Prisoner of your Comanche for five years.’

  Slowly Rusk regained his feet, staring in anguish first at Reed, then at Mrs. Wetzel: ‘Is this truly the Larkin child?’

  ‘It is,’ Reed said, ‘and I want you to hear her story, every word of it, without my presence or Mrs. Wetzel’s. Come, Bertha,’ and he led her away.

  ‘Sit down with me,’ Rusk said when they were gone, and in the stone-walled office built with such care under the supervision of Mrs. Reed, began the conversation which would change so much along the Red River.

  EARNSHAW: Is thee really Emma Larkin?

  EMMA (in her soft whisper): I am. I remember my family, all fifteen. Do you want me to name them?

  EARNSHAW: And thee was present at Bear Creek?

  EMMA: This is Bear Creek. This is where it happened. My father and my brothers were killed in our house not far from here.

  EARNSHAW: And thee is sure Indians did it?

  EMMA: They took me captive, didn’t they?

  EARNSHAW: But was it Matark?

  EMMA: I have lived with Matark for four summers. Matark’s sons …

  EARNSHAW: Thy ears?

  EMMA: His sons burned them off, slowly, night after night.

  EARNSHAW: That I cannot believe.

  EMMA: Look at them.

  EARNSHAW: Thy nose?

  EMMA: They would take embers from the fire, and dance around me, then jab the embers against my nose. And when the scab formed …

  EARNSHAW: Please. (Fearing for a moment that he was going to be sick, he changed the subject.) Did they beat thee?

  EMMA: Especially the women.

  EARNSHAW: The men?

  EMMA: They came at night. To sleep with me. (Such a statement embarrassed Rusk so profoundly that once more he stopped the conversation. He had never kissed a woman and deemed their behavior a great mystery.)

  EARNSHAW: Thee mustn’t speak of such things. Thee must forget them.

  EMMA: I’ve tried to. It’s you who asked the questions.

  EARNSHAW: Did no one ever treat thee kindly?

  EMMA (after a prolonged reflection): No one. But there was a white man with a lame left arm. They called him Little Brother, because he sold them guns. I think his name was Peavine.

  EARNSHAW: He was with them?

  EMMA: Often. They told him what they needed and he went back and stole it.

  EARNSHAW: Did thee ever hear them call him Rattlesnake?

  EMMA: No, but things were always better for me when he came, because he brought guns and other things and for a while they forgot me. (She weighed her next comment carefully.) He always took me aside and promised that one day I would be set free. I dreamed about that day, but it never happened.

  EARNSHAW: This man? Thee is sure he had a weak left arm?

  EMMA: They also called him Little Cripple. (Since both spoke Comanche, she could report precisely what the Indians had called their Comanchero.) He never beat me or abused me. One time Chief Matark said, and I heard him say it: “You can sleep with the thing if you wish,” but Peavine said: “I do not wish,” and that night I was left alone.

  EARNSHAW: Did thee ever ride with the Comanche when they came down into Texas?

  EMMA: Many times.

  EARNSHAW: And did thy Indians burn ranches in Texas?

  EMMA: Like here at Bear Creek. Many times.

  EARNSHAW: But that was long ago, I’m sure.

  EMMA: It was one moon ago, when the black soldiers captured me.

  EARNSHAW: Thee was hunting buffalo that time. I know thee was hunting buffalo.

  EMMA: We had all the buffalo we needed, north of the river. We came into Texas to burn and kill.

  EARNSHAW (weakly): Thee means … thy Comanche planned it that way? Strike south, then run back north?

  EMMA: Why not? Those were the rules. You made them, we obeyed them. (She spoke these sentences in Comanche, which gave them a lilting, arrogant echo which cut so deeply at Rusk’s integrity that he shuddered.)

  EARNSHAW: What will thee do now?

  EMMA: I know nothing. (She said this with such simplicity, such willingness to throw herself upon the mercy of God, that he was awed.)

  EARNSHAW: Surely thee has friends. Thee must have family.

  EMMA: I have no one. I am not like others.

  EARNSHAW: Thee has the love of Jesus Christ. And thee can be like others. Thee can wear thy hair about thy ears, and no one will see.

  EMMA: But this?

  EARNSHAW: And thee can make thyself a nose. I’m not sure how right now, but I know it can be done. (He spoke with great force.) We will make thee a nose. We will make thee friends.

  EMMA: Who would want me as a friend
? You know I had a baby?

  EARNSHAW: Good God! (He stalked about the room.) Good God, thee hasn’t told anyone, has thee?

  EMMA: Nobody asked.

  EARNSHAW: Thee had a child?

  EMMA: My moon period came. Like the others, I had a child.

  EARNSHAW (totally disoriented): Thee must not speak of this, not to anyone. (Then, overcoming his embarrassment, he regained courage.) Thee means … the Indian men? They?

  EMMA: I told you they came to my bed at night. One after another. (At this appalling news, which he had not fully comprehended before, Rusk drew away from the girl, a fact which she noticed and accepted.) I’m sorry I told you, Mr. Rusk.

  EARNSHAW: Thee knows my name?

  EMMA: We all knew your name. The-Man-Who-Lets-Us-Do-Anything they called you.

  EARNSHAW: Why did I never see thee at Camp Hope?

  EMMA: They never brought us captives …

  EARNSHAW: There are others?

  EMMA: Each tribe has many. They trade us back and forth.

  EARNSHAW: Always children? Always little girls?

  EMMA: The men they kill, always. Grown women they keep alive for a while, use them, kill them. The boys they train as young braves. They become Indians. The girls they use, like me.

  EARNSHAW: Oh, my God. What have I done?

  EMMA: My child was a boy. I do not want him.

  EARNSHAW: But if he’s thy child?

  EMMA: I did not want him then. I do not want him now. I want to forget them all.

  EARNSHAW: Does thee know what prayer is?

  EMMA: We prayed here at Bear Creek. I prayed that I’d be rescued some day.

  EARNSHAW: Will thee pray with me now? (She dropped to her knees, but Rusk caught her by the arm, the first time he had touched her, and brought her upright.) I am a Quaker, and we do not feel the necessity of kneeling. We speak to God direct.

  So the two casualties of the frontier prayed that God would give bewildered Earnshaw Rusk guidance to rectify the errors he had fostered, and that assistance would be provided Emma Larkin in the fearsome decisions she must make. He ended the prayer with the hope that Emma would find in her heart renewed love for her baby boy, but when the prayer ended, she told him bluntly: ‘The child is gone. It is all gone.’

  When he returned to Camp Hope, Earnshaw Rusk assembled his Comanche and berated them as never before: ‘Thee has lied to me. Thee has crossed the Red River not in the chase of buffalo but to burn and kill. And thee keeps hidden from me other children like Emma Larkin. And such behavior must stop.’

  Matark said boldly: ‘We will go where we wish. And we will give them the children when they offer enough money.’

  ‘Thee hides the man called Rattlesnake Peavine in thy ranks, and he is wanted for many murders.’

  ‘He is our friend. We will always protect him from the army.’

  Astonished by the boldness of the Comanche, Rusk pleaded with them to make an honest peace with the army and refrain from any further raids into Texas: ‘Noble Chief Matark, I promise thee that even now it is not too late. If thee and I ride to Fort Garner and enter into solemn promises …’

  ‘No Indian can trust their promises. They kill our buffalo. They ravage our camps.’

  ‘Up to now, yes. It’s been warfare. But warfare always ends, and peace brings consolations.’ He was speaking in Comanche, most eloquently, depicting the longed-for solution to the Indian problem, and tears came to his eyes as he pleaded: ‘Great Chief Matark, the grandest thing you could give your people, the gift that would make your name sing across the plains … peace. A final agreement to stay north of the Red River. An agreement to live a new life here on the vast reservations the Great White Father has promised thee.’

  ‘They are big now,’ Matark said with exceptional insight, ‘but they will become very small when your people want them back.’

  ‘If we ride south,’ Rusk said, imploringly, ‘even now we can arrange a peace in which all past raids will be forgiven. Thee will return the stolen children, and thee will live here happily with me.’

  ‘We cannot trust you.’

  ‘Please, please!’ the Quaker pleaded. ‘Listen to reason. For the love of God and the safety of thy own children, ride with me and let us make peace.’

  Matark’s response was hideous. Enlisting more than a hundred chanting braves, he led them deep into Texas, where they burned six isolated ranches, killing the men with customary tortures and running off with seven additional children. After they crept back to sanctuary at Camp Hope, he actually boasted in the presence of the agent: ‘We taught the Texans a lesson,’ and with insulting belligerence he refused to surrender the children, asking Rusk: ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  Now a bizarre chain of frontier incidents occurred. To the astonishment of Captain Reed at Fort Garner, Earnshaw Rusk rode south unattended and humiliated himself in the stone-walled headquarters: ‘I was deluded. I was lied to. Chief Matark is a dreadful killer who keeps numerous white children in his camps. My way was wrong. I ask thee, Captain Reed, to send thy troops into the Indian Territory and arrest this brutal man.’

  ‘Is this a formal request, Agent Rusk?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You know that your superiors at Fort Sill and Washington …’

  ‘I know they will be disgusted with me, going against our agreement. But even for a Quaker the time comes when crime must be punished.’

  ‘I will have to have this in writing, Mr. Rusk.’

  ‘And thee shall.’ Sitting at the captain’s desk, he penned a formal request for United States troops to invade Camp Hope in the Indian Territory, and there to arrest Chief Matark of the Comanche for crimes innumerable. When he signed this document, which negated a lifetime of religious training and abrogated his promises to President Grant, his hands trembled. But it was done, and then he surprised the soldiers by asking if he could see the girl Emma Larkin, for he had brought her something.

  More or less in hiding, she was still living with the Wetzels, who were beginning to see in her a sensitive human being with the merits of courage, forthrightness and a surprising sense of humor as she went about the housework which the German family assigned her. When Mrs. Wetzel brought her before Agent Rusk she noticed that the girl actually seemed happy to see him, and he said: ‘No, Mrs. Wetzel, thee must stay. I need thy help.’

  He took from his pocket a carefully carved wooden nose to which was attached two lengths of braided horsehair, and with Emma standing by a window, he placed the nose in the middle of her face and asked Mrs. Wetzel to hold it firm while he tied the horsehair braids behind the back of Emma’s head.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs. Wetzel cried with real joy. ‘Now you have a nose!’ And she hurried for her mirror, and when the girl saw the transformation that had occurred, she could only look first at Rusk, then at Mrs. Wetzel and then back at the mirror. Finally she put the mirror down and took Mrs. Wetzel’s hands, which she kissed. Then she did the same with Rusk, but as soon as she had done this she grabbed the mirror again and studied herself, and as she did so, Rusk reached out and pulled strands of her hair across the stumps of her ears, and when she saw herself whole again she did not burst into tears of gratitude. She jumped straight up in the air and gave a startling Comanche yell: ‘I am Emma Larkin. I am Emma Larkin.’

  But she was not allowed to keep her nose, because Mrs. Wetzel took it from her and left the room; when she returned she had replaced the horsehair braid with an almost invisible white thread, and now when Emma looked in the mirror that Mrs. Wetzel held for her, neither she nor anyone else could detect that it was the thread which held the wooden nose in place, and seeing this perfection and realizing what it meant—an invitation back into life—she wept.

  The men at Fort Garner lost little time in mounting a massive attack on Camp Hope, and although other Quaker commissioners at posts in the Indian Territory tried to halt this breach of the Peace Policy, officers waved Agent Rusk’s written request at them and plunged ah
ead. In a series of daring moves they caught Matark and three of his principal supporters. They also captured nine white children, whose stories inflamed the frontier so much that the court in Jacksborough sentenced Matark and his men to hanging.

  However, the Quakers were not powerless, and they stormed into federal courts, getting not only injunctions against the hanging but also an agreement whereby Matark and his men would be assigned temporarily to a low-security Texas prison. They were there only a few months when another court set them free, on the theory that they had learned their lesson and would henceforth be reliable citizens. A month after their return to Camp Hope they broke loose and raided savagely along the Texas frontier, burning and torturing as before.

  The response from Washington was swift. Gentle-hearted Benjamin Grierson would remain at regimental headquarters in Fort Sill to make way for a real fighting man, Ranald Mackenzie, who was brought in to lead one of five converging columns which would bear down on any Indians found outside their reservations. They would come at Matark and his killers from Texas, New Mexico, Arkansas and the Indian Territory, with Colonel Nelson Miles leading the force opposite to Mackenzie’s. These two fiery colonels would form the jaws of a nutcracker in which the enemy would be caught.

  When grim-lipped Mackenzie set out after Matark, Reed insisted on leading the three-company detachment from Fort Garner, with Wetzel left behind to defend the place with one company of infantry. As bad luck would have it, the Garner contingent found itself facing the most difficult part of the terrain, that series of smaller canyons which protected Palo Duro on the south, and Jaxifer told his men: ‘Seem like we march one mile down into the canyon, then one mile back up to make half a mile forward.’ Mackenzie, observing the brutal terrain the Buffalo Soldiers were struggling with, commended them: ‘You men are fighting your battle before the battle begins.’ Nevertheless he told Jaxifer: ‘Hurry them up.’