Burleson arrived with his men. What caught Webb’s attention most was the contingent of Tonkawas, all afoot and stripped to no more than breechcloths and moccasins, their bodies painted for war. They wore white cloths tied on their arms so the Texans would not mistake them for Comanches in the excitement of battle. Most did not know one Indian from another.

Distant firing indicated that the fight had opened, though Webb could not see the action and had no idea which way the contest might be going. A contingent of Comanches charged upon Webb’s group, yelling, firing what rifles they had, loosing arrows that made a peculiar singing sound as they flew. Their initial strategy was clear: to pin down the Texans while the main body escaped with the women and children, the booty-laden horses and mules.

Webb had never seen a more splendid spectacle, savage though it was. One Indian cast aside an umbrella he had carried to shade himself from the sun. He came in a run, waving a war club. On his head was a beaver hat with red ribbon tied around the crown. A ribbon of the same color streamed from his horse’s tail. Webb found himself so fascinated, watching, that he did not take aim. The Indian was within twenty yards when someone’s rifle brought him down. The beaver hat rolled on the ground. The Indian reached for it, but the wind carried it away. His fingers clawed the ground, and he died.

Shannon shouted, “If you ain’t goin’ to use that rifle, give it to me.”

“I’ll tote my load.” Webb bore down on a warrior who wore antelopehorn headdress. Hit, the Indian twisted and laid forward on his horse’s neck but managed to hold on as the horse galloped away from the fight.

Webb lost sight of the overall battle, for he was concentrating upon his own small part of it. He could hear firing all around him, the exuberant yelling of the Texans sensing victory, the war cries of the Comanches. The Tonkawas, though on foot, charged into the fray with a fury like hell unleashed, slashing, clubbing, scalping their enemies while they still breathed. It was enough to turn Webb’s stomach had he not been too busy to let the horror of it soak in.

Soon the confrontation was less a battle than a runaway. Unaccountably, the Comanches seemed to have been caught off balance and unprepared. Any semblance of unity was lost. The big caballada of horses and mules was scattering to the winds, many losing their packs, littering the open prairie with all manner of white-man store goods.

Comanches, dead and dying, lay along the trail. Webb had to spur to keep up with the race.

Ahead of him he saw an Indian woman on a sorrel mare, holding a small boy in front of her. A Comanche warrior rushed to overtake her. A husband bound on protecting wife and child, Webb thought. He brought his rifle up, though it was next to useless from the back of a running horse. He felt a pang of conscience for having even considered leaving woman and child without a husband and father.