September, 1880

He came to us, it seemed on a pack mule borne by the west wind. We called him Packy, and he was the only paw I ever knew.

Packy wore a polka dot bandana that seemed to dance with the wind.

At first, he helped with the stock, then with planting crops. He pulled that stubborn old mule of his, and I broke up the clods of dirt.

He and maw got close, then got closer. He let me call him Paw, but Packy was the name I used.

Packy was the world to me.

He carried an 1873 Springfield Carbine, and he taught me to shoot it, and hit what I aimed at.

Packy and me, we went after whatever game was available, and he let me bag my share.

Life was fun, exciting, in the hill country of Texas in those days, and any day with Packy was a true adventure, that is, when we weren’t plowin’ or seedin’.

Life also was hard in the hill country of Texas, and I want you to know, I don’t blame Packy for what he did.

At mealtime, Packy always said Grace. We were to eat solemnly, as Packy said he had great reverence for The Lord. He always thanked Maw for her time in preparing the meal, and the only frivolous action would be a slight kiss on her cheek.

Afterward, he would tell stories of his brave and colorful past. Mostly they were stories of the Injun depravity and the hair-raising adventures he found himself in.

More than one amigo of his had his head scalped by a tomahawk, and his stories of the Injun assaults upon women made maw shiver and thank The Lord for sending a man such as Packy to our home.

The Comanch’ were his greatest enemies. They would swoop down on the settlements, commit murder, and were a plumb terror to all. Some of their depredations were too horrible to speak of.

On one occasion, a young girl, Nadine,  went into the woods to gather pecans for one of her mom’s pies. A party of Comanch’ came upon her. Nadine made for her home, but never got there.

What was left of her body was discovered by Packy and his pards.  Ripped to shreds, not spared a thing, her head buried in the muck. They rode to the Injun camp, guns a’blazin’, and took revenge for the young girl’s life.

The Injuns let out screams like a banshee and dropped in pools of crimson.

Packy and the others expressed shock that the Injuns bled in the same color as white men.

On another occasion, he and a party of five encountered redskins, to hear him tell it, at least fifty, while riding through the Guadalupe Mountains.

‘Twas high on a mountain peak, a war party, slinging spears and arrows with a sinister chanting.

After a spell, they began hurling rocks and several of them would roll a boulder down to Packy’s camp.

One of the five broke out in a cold sweat and began shouting he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die.

He covered his face as tears began to fall.

The following instant, an arrow pierced his side, and he slumped downward, hurled into eternity.

There was a true Texas standoff for twenty-four hours. Then, the rest decided they’d rather die fightin’ than starvin’.  Packy and the four rode straight into the Injun camp, downing at least half of them. The others shed their arms, jumped on their horses and galloped away in the opposite direction.

Yes, It sure eased Maw that we had a man like Packy around.

Sometimes at night, me and Packy, we’d just gaze at the stars. Packy would tell me stories about them. How they formed strange pictures in the heavens, mighty hunters, strange animals, and how there’s a special star up there that shines just for us.

Packy told me some Injuns say the Heavens were created for them and they are special people to their Great Spirit, who blessed them with our land and all that goes with it. He said never trust an Injun, as they will torture you and take all you have and then vanish with the wind.

Through bartering, Packy picked up a pair of sad looking hounds.

“The trick is to keep them hungry,” Packy said. “Train ‘em to accept tidbits only from you, and just enough to keep ‘em starving. When any Injun comes near our smokehouse, them hounds will let us know!”

One night Sheriff Peters paid us a visit. Them dogs seen him and barked and howled away. Packy thrust out his rifle and blasted into the air.

“Here, here!” yelled the Sheriff. “It’s me, Peters! Y’wanna kill somebody? Watch out with that thing!”

“It’s our protection,” said Packy. “No injun’s gonna come and steal our hard-gained meat!”

“Well then,” said Peters, “Make sure you know who you’re blastin’ at, first!”

It was around harvest time that year. Off in the distance, tendrils of black smoke reached into the air. Maw was hanging out clothes at the time.

“The Emersons!” she shouted, “The Emersons!”

Packy jumped on his mule and lit out.

He returned an hour later, shaking his head in disbelief. “You couldn’t hardly recognize ‘em!” he said, all red-eyed. “They was burnt beyond belief!”

Then Packy stamped his feet and pounded his fists into our shed wall. He kept the hounds extra hungry that night.

Packy rattled on about the Comanch’ long afterward.

One night, after voicing his revilement, Packy stormed outside. Maw called me over, held me close to her and said, “Son, I’ve got a secret to tell you. This is forever to be between me and you.”

“Yes, maw.”

“You’re a good son, and you’ll grow to be a fine man, but…”

“But?...”
“But, son, Packy, he ain’t all that you want him to be. He makes…mistakes…just like all of us!”

“Why are you telling me this, maw?”

“Because Polly Persey, you remember Polly. I ran into her the other day. She spoke to Ma Emerson before she died.”

“What’s that got to do with Packy, maw?”

“Now, you’re not to tell a soul, son. She told me Ma Emerson said ‘tweren’t the Commanch’. ‘Twere the biscuits what did it!”

Stove fires were not uncommon in those days.

“Why, maw? Why would Packy tell such a tale?”

“You and me, we gotta give Packy some leeway, son. He been through a lot. We gotta understand. He’s been a good provider.”

That was the closest I ever felt to maw, and I never opened my mouth to Packy.

That year, Packy and I hunted together, fished together, did the chores together, and laughed together.

Packy was a great guy when you got to know him.

One day, the dogs began barking, but Packy showed no alarm. He ran to the door and greeted an old friend.

“Bearskin!”

“Packy, you old son of a gun!”

Packy introduced his friend to us.

“Meet Bearskin. We had many an adventure together, in the olden days of Texas.”

“How’d you find me out here?”

“ 'Twere the sheriff what told me!”

“Peters? So that old coon is good for somethin’ after all!”

Maw invited Bearskin to supper and fixed up an old cot in the barn for him.

Maw cooked a mighty fine supper that night. She broke out her canned peaches for a real treat.

Following supper, Packy and Bearskin got a’talkin’, trading stories about the olden days.

“Say, Packy, ol’ rascal, you remember the time we held them Injuns up tar on Guadalupe Mountain?”

“Sure, sure! We faced death straight in the eye that day!”

“If it ‘tweren’t for that troop o’ calvary, we would’ve been done for, I promise you!”

Packy laughed and they drank some red eye.

Packy had forgotten he told me it was him and five others.

I kept my mouth shut once more. Maw shot me a slight smile when she thought Packy wasn’t looking.

That night, I slept in my room, by an open window closest to the barn. I could hear Packy and Bearskin swapping stories of demon Injuns and the terror they spread over the prairie.

“Them Comanch’ know better than to come within a hundred yards of my dogs!” laughed Packy.

The following morning, before Bearskin departed, he and Packy went into the woods for a hunt.

Packy returned, much later.

“Bearskin sends his regards, and thanks!”

“How’d the huntin’ go?” I asked.

“Fair to tolerable. Most of the game were scared off. There was Injuns in the distance. We herd them yelpin’ and cavortin’!”

“Gosh! What’d you do, Packy!”

Packy winked at me and made a motion like he was pointing his rifle.

“A few blasts of ol’ Betsy and them redskins was scared off!”

That incident, minor as it might have been, seemed to signal a change in Packy.  We didn’t go out at night to view the stars. “You never know what’s in the distance,” said Packy.

When we worked the crops, Packy always seemed to be staring into the horizon, as if expecting something terrible to strike from the distance.

One night, we found the hounds laid out, dead. Packy said it was the Injuns that did it. I know that they were starved to death.

With no barking to warn us, Packy began to sleep with a rifle cradled in his arm.

Then, it was the crops. First, Packy said some of the corn was taken. Then, the oats, followed by the rye.

Packy said Injun war parties are beginning to strike our land. I could’ve told him it were some hungry vagabonds or roaming animals.

Then, Packy began stringing fence with one hand and holding his rifle with the other.

The hill country is chock full of caves and Packy was convinced savages were hiding themselves in each one.

I was forbidden to roam outside of the wire. Maw was a prisoner in her own home.

Packy said it was for the best, that no Injun would deprive him of the family he loved.

From then on, while saying Grace, Packy always added a bit about The Lord protecting us from our brutal enemies.

At night, when he thought maw was asleep, Packy took to drinking heavily. He said drink was a man’s right when he had to spend all his time protecting his family.

I don’t know if Maw clung to him because she still loved him, or for me to have a paw, or because she didn’t know what else to do.

One night, it happened.

It had been seven years since Packy became my paw. Mom celebrated by baking her special berry pie.

We were about to dig in, when the sounds drifted towards our cabin, like the hellish howl of a rabid wolf.

Packy rose and grabbed the rifle. “Comanch’!” he screamed. “Blasted Comanch’!”

That purely evil sound grew closer. Soon, they were just yards away from our door.

Packy ran out blasting, his bandana whipping like it was caught in a whirlwind.

There were four of them, and Packy hit the target each time.

Then, Packy must have gone out of his mind. He tore off into the woods, a screamin’, a hollerin’ and a hootin’.

We never saw Packy again.

It was only later, when the Sheriff came a visitin’, that we learned the Indians were a peaceful lot, the Dotchetonne, the last survivors of settlers on the lower Natchitoches, by the Red River. Their tribe had been decimated by disease and war. They had all but lost their identities, and were most likely seeking new grounds, singing a prayer to their God.

September 2024

The archaeological students from the nearby University, searching for Native American artifacts, came upon the scattered bones, purely by accident. Tiny shreds of a polka dot bandana lay by the bones.

“Gosh!’ said one of the students. “A dead body!”

Another said, “Probably a victim of Indians. They were very ferocious in those days!”