The Last Comanche Moon

“Why does everyone always warn us to stay away from the mounds?” Emma asked. “You’re not supposed to know. You’re too young.” “No, I’m not. You’re just sayin’ that to get me mad,” Emma said. “Pa says this stretch of the Cimarron used to be a Comanche camp along in here. He says those are Comanche burial mounds.” “You mean there’s dead Indian bones under there?” Emma said in dramatic fashion. “I believe so,” Cade said, giving them a wide birth. “You’re not afraid of them, are you?” Emma teased. “Of course not. Don’t be silly, Sis. It’s just that you’re supposed to respect the dead.” “I know. I’m just teasin’ you. Don’t you just wonder, though, who is buried there?” “I don’t care,” Cade said, walking faster to get to the river. In a short time, he had a line in the water. Emma sat nearby and watched. “Aunt Bess said she thought she heard drums beating last night. Uncle Thurman said she dreamed it.” “I didn’t hear anything,” Cade said, retrieving and tossing his line back out. “I thought I did,” Emma said. “But I’m not sure now. Pa says I have a good imagination.” “If you don’t talk a little quieter, Sis, you may have to imagine us up supper,” Cade said with a friendly smile. “I’m sorry,” Emma whispered. “Look, you got a bite!” An hour later Cade had caught five nice-sized brook trout. He placed the last wiggling fish on the string and held it up to admire it. “Now there’s one fish for everybody,” Emma said. That evening, after a wonderful meal of baked trout, Cade and Emma joined Uncle Thurman and Aunt Bess for evening Bible reading and prayer time. When they had finished, Emma went to her room and got into her night gown. She knelt beside her bed and prayed for her Pa then drew back the covers and crawled into bed. She loved having her own room, especially one with a window that faced the east. In the spring and summertime, she loved to open her window beside her bed and listen to the night sounds and feel the fresh breeze in her face. Tonight, as she lay still, she could hear the warning slap of a beaver’s tail on the surface of the water as it swam in the Cimarron. Emma watched as the big beautiful full moon rose above the crest of Owl’s Roost Mesa. As it climbed higher, it bathed the cottonwoods and the land beneath with a wash of soft white light, finally spilling through her window. It was a true Comanche Moon. Outside, a raccoon scurried along upon a fallen cottonwood tree on its way to the river. Not far away, a mule deer doe and her two fawns nibbled on green apples below the apple tree. Emma listened to their crunching on the apples as cicadas buzzed, as always, up in the trees. Emma lay awake, watching and listening. She was eleven now and didn’t want to be afraid of the full moon any longer, but she couldn’t help it. She still held the memory of her Ma’s death and the stories of the Wagnor raid fresh in her mind. She wished her Pa were here tonight watching over them, but he wasn’t. He was miles away, sleeping in some canyon by himself. Emma hadn’t held her doll she called Dolly for over a year now, but she held her tonight for an extra measure of comfort. Sometimes she thought she could still smell her mother’s scent on the old dress rags from which the doll had been made. Tonight, she found herself worrying about Spotted Horse; the Comanche warrior who had killed her Ma. As she lay there, Emma began thinking about the mounds of dirt on the ridge above the river. She wondered who was buried there. As she thought about it, she began to hear the soft tum-tum-tum of a drum beating down by the river in the direction of the mounds. “It’s just my imagination,” she told herself. The deer she had been watching earlier were now peering in the direction of the beating drum. They continued to stare for some time with their large mule-like ears twisted forward in the same direction. Suddenly, the drumbeats stopped. A short time later, the deer turned and bounded off as only mule deer do. Emma pulled the covers over her head and began to sing a new song her mother had taught her just before her death. Singing it seemed to bring her comfort, so she sang it softly now. “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, they are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.” After a time, Emma poked her head out from under the covers and listened. She could no longer hear the drumbeats, and she felt a little more peaceful. The curtains continued to brush against her cheek in the breeze. Finally, she turned away from the window onto her side and closed her eyes. As she lay there breathing softly, a large figure suddenly stood at her window, its shadow blocking the moonlight. An instant later, the dark-skinned arm of a Comanche reached through her window and tightly covered her mouth so she could not scream or call out. Emma opened her eyes in horror. Standing over her was a terrifying Comanche. His face was blackened with paint, making him look like the devil himself. It was Spotted Horse. The same man that had attacked her Ma. He looked much like he did in her dream but even more real and terrifying. Emma began to kick and fight as the strong brave quickly jerked her from her bed and slid out through the open window. Just as quietly as a shadow melts into night, Emma was gone.