Oh hai, I heard that you liked bandom.
So after long days of fighting with myself on whether or not to jump on the bandwagon (OH HO HO, YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? PREMEDITATED PUNNERY) I finally took the plunge, and here you go.
THE RESULT OF BELLZ DECIDING TO WRITE BANDOM, CHAPTER 1.
or:
My Chem goes Old West
"Josh Deets. Served with me 30 years. Fought In 21 engagements with the Comanche and the Kiowa. Cheerful in all weathers. Never shirked a task. Splendid behavior."
-Woodrow Call, Lonesome Dove
For the first time in nearly eleven months, it rained on the llano. On any other day, it would have been a welcome shift in the weather. Today, it successfully added insult to crippling injury. It was barely morning--the sun shone through the hazy plain, mixing purples and golds with the gray plumes of smoke that rose from the ranger camp, a mile off, as what remained of the tired regiment squatted under the cover of a rolling hillside. They were mostly unarmed, without food, and exhausted. The rain reduced the blaze on what remained of their provisions into a smoldering wreck that even the red men didn't touch. Though the men couldn't see the Indians from where they hid, the war cries they made were uncomfortably audible.
Frank Iero, the littlest of the remaining Rangers, was restless. He tipped his hat down to keep the streams of water from getting in his eyes, listening to the unearthly howls of the Comanche that had burned their camp to the ground. He was not one to be afraid of the Indians, despite his age, but had a hard time shaking the creeping feeling of dread that moved like a contagion between the men. He was seventeen, and had yet seen the power of the Comanches that roamed the plains. He'd heard stories, mostly from the excitable young men that made up the rest of the troop, about scalpings and castrations performed on the white men only after they had been brutally tortured, and inevitably murdered. These stories did nothing but add fuel to Frank's desire as he sat, gun in hand, by the fire at night. This was why he had joined the Rangers in the first place--the action, the excitement, the duty of the liberation of the great state of Texas. It was his job to erradicate the red menace.
At least, it had been. Now his sole duty was to stay alive long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Their best scout, Raymond, was sent away to retrieve the remainder of the Rangers that had separated two days prior to search further down the Nueces for Standing Rock and the band of Sioux he led. Apparently the chief had invaluable information that would assist the Rangers in finding Son of the Bear, leader of the Comanches and white man killer. The Sioux chief would be bound to give this information in exchange for food and guns, both of which were long gone now.
Captain Ennis Jackson was the only mounted man, and he appeared to be reconsidering this fact. He had been sleeping fitfully only a few hours earlier, his stomach cramps from the alkaline water keeping him from dreaming. Many of the men in camp had been suffering from the same problem--the water in the Nueces this time of year was intolerable. The Captain had stumbled out of camp to relieve himself only minutes before the band of warriors had struck. He assumed that the only reason he'd been able to flee with his horse, Blackjack, was because the Comanches had not been watching him very closely.
The other mounts were killed in the raid, their throats slashed or ankles cut, to keep the men close when the remaining did flee. Blackjack was the only one left, and he was tired from the run. Luckily the morning was cool, and the rain falling. The horse grazed as the Captain sat awkwardly on his saddle blanket, with a pair of old binoculars to his face. His saddle had been left at camp, in his rush to escape, and he was unaccustomed to riding bareback.
"There's about sixteen of them, boys." Jackson said, without looking away from the Comanches that were at work gutting the horses they had slaughtered. "Having themselves a feast."
Frank tipped his hat back up, and glanced sideways to the Way brothers, who were shoved deep in the lip of the hill. Michael, the younger one, looked dismayed at the news.
"They got Butterscotch." He said, certain of it, "he was hobbled."
Since the incident a week before, where Michael's horse had slipped out of his ground tie and wandered away to graze, setting the expedition back nearly half a day, Michael had been absolutely meticulous in hobbling his mount every night he wasn't on guard duty. The effort had been a successful one--Butterscotch had been unable to free himself to wander off again. Now, because Michael had been so careful about his horse, he was now dead at the hands of their attackers. The thought made him cringe.
His brother turned his head to sneak a look over the hilltop. He could see something, that was for sure--the camp looked like a miniature set, with tiny Indians and toy horses, gutted and steaming in the morning air.
"Uh, Captain?" Gerard ventured, glancing back to him. "Are they eating them horses raw?"
He had never heard of such a thing, and a murmur went up throughout the surviving men.
"I reckon they're starved." Ennis Jackson replied, lowering the glasses and pulling a square chaw of tobacco from the pouch he had managed to save and stow under his saddle blanket. "Ain't no buffalo out here anymore. Settlers chased 'em out."
Gerard grimaced at the thought of anyone eating raw horseflesh--it was tough enough to chew when it was cooked. He looked to Frank, who was ignoring the proceedings over the hill. Instead he had retrieved his pistol, and was cleaning it meticulously, in case the time to use it was nigh.
"You ever et raw horse, Frank?" He asked with a grin, momentarily forgetting his terror.
"I never et raw anything." Frank retorted, not taking very kindly to the distraction. "I don't reckon I ever will, either."
"That why they attacked us, Captain?" Michael mustered, looking a little pale at the idea of his favorite horse being consumed by Comanches. "They needed the food?"
"Maybe." Jackson replied, returning the binoculars to his eyes. He could see the the Indians, about four of them per carcass, pulling out the insides of the horses and stuffing them into their greedy mouths. Blood slicked everything. "It's a wonder they haven't come this way yet. They know we're here."
At first, Michael assumed this comment was one of the Captain's ramblings. About six months before, at the beginning of their journey, the Captain had been kicked in the head by his mount as he tried to hobble him so he could sleep. For two days, the normally standoffish Ennis Jackson had rambled about nothing in particular; the weather, the proper way to identify a rattlesnake hole, the finer points of whoring--but after a few days, he began to slowly revert back to his usual self. Now he was almost back to normal, save for the occasional comment that didn't quite fit into his train of thought. Upon closer inspection, Michael realized that the Captain was watching something in particular that had set off this observation, and he turned to watch, squinting his eyes to get a better look.
Beside the other warriors, all wrist deep in blood, was a single Comanche, sitting atop a horse. His hair was long, reaching far past his shoulders, and the paint on his face designated him the chief (or at least the leader of this particular raid). Michael nudged his brother.
"Look," he said, never taking his eyes off of the man, who hadn't touched the slain horses, "Who is that?"
The Captain overheard the question, and said, without hesitation, "That's Son of the Bear."
Gerard was no longer smiling.
"The Son of the Bear?"
The Captain nodded grimly.
"Afraid so." He muttered, lowering the binoculars again. "You boys might want to take after young Iero here and start checking your guns."
Frank didn't like attention being called to his actions, but there was no way of avoiding the twelve sets of eyes that fell on him a second later. He focused on the pistol in his hand, and old colt he had gotten in a pair from the trading post back in Laredo for six dollars. It was all he was able to afford, and only after they had left the town for the prairies did he realize that two ancient guns were not going to protect him from much. But until today, they had sufficed.
The remaining men were these: Richard and Jordan Blasco (a father and son), who had joined the Rangers to avenge the burning of their home; Jeb Summer (the laziest cowhand), who spent his days sleeping, even while on horseback; Jeffrey Bean (or, to his friends, just Bean), who was the most intelligent of the troop; the aforementioned Ways; Tagg (no one knew his last name), a Pawnee scout that served as their translator; Clayton Jethro and his brother, Little Vint Jethro, who were drunker, louder, and ruder than anyone else in the regiment; and the silent, stoic Cisco Jones, the old mountain man who was hardly there at all, even when in plain sight.
"'I god, Clayton," Little Vint said to his brother, pressing himself closer to the wet ground, "We didn't even need to go looking for him. He came looking for us."
Clayton shook his head, picking something out of his ear and flicking it away.
"I knowed this was a bad idea." He said gravely, following his brother's example and laying flat on the grass, "no one ever listens to me."
"They still out there, Captain?" Michael asked, feeling suddenly naked without his own gun. When he and Gerard had come from the East, they had brought enough money to keep them settled for a while, and as a result had been able to afford decent weapons. Michael had settled on an aged Whitney rifle, while Gerard had gone for the flashier Winchester flintlock. It made sense, as during their time traveling to Texas, Gerard had peppered off more shots at deer and rabbits than Michael ever could. He felt at ease with weapons, and had honed the skill well. Most nights, when provisions were low, Gerard and Cisco Jones would go off to bring back game for their cook to prepare for the men. The thought saddened Michael a little--he had seen the arrow fly that killed their cook, a kindly old negro they all called Slim. Slim had been fat, and now he was dead. It was a shame, too--he could make anything edible. Many a night he would sit by the fire with a pot of rabbit, or prairie chickens, or if they were lucky, antelope, stirring away and singing low, sad-sounding songs. No one minded--in fact, the songs were soothing.
"Hurm," replied the Captain, not much of a response.
Michael turned to Gerard.
"You reckon that means 'yes'?" He whispered.
Before Gerard could reply, the sound of hooves filled the air, and the brothers froze.
Frank looked up, over the hilltop. The tiny Indians were no longer tiny. Still covered in gore, they had all mounted, and were riding steadily closer to where the tired troop lay, trapped. Their cries grew louder as they advanced, hooves kicking up dirt and blood as they raced forward.
"They're coming, boys." Frank said, though he wasn't sure if anyone heard him.
THE RESULT OF BELLZ DECIDING TO WRITE BANDOM, CHAPTER 1.
or:
My Chem goes Old West
"Josh Deets. Served with me 30 years. Fought In 21 engagements with the Comanche and the Kiowa. Cheerful in all weathers. Never shirked a task. Splendid behavior."
-Woodrow Call, Lonesome Dove
For the first time in nearly eleven months, it rained on the llano. On any other day, it would have been a welcome shift in the weather. Today, it successfully added insult to crippling injury. It was barely morning--the sun shone through the hazy plain, mixing purples and golds with the gray plumes of smoke that rose from the ranger camp, a mile off, as what remained of the tired regiment squatted under the cover of a rolling hillside. They were mostly unarmed, without food, and exhausted. The rain reduced the blaze on what remained of their provisions into a smoldering wreck that even the red men didn't touch. Though the men couldn't see the Indians from where they hid, the war cries they made were uncomfortably audible.
Frank Iero, the littlest of the remaining Rangers, was restless. He tipped his hat down to keep the streams of water from getting in his eyes, listening to the unearthly howls of the Comanche that had burned their camp to the ground. He was not one to be afraid of the Indians, despite his age, but had a hard time shaking the creeping feeling of dread that moved like a contagion between the men. He was seventeen, and had yet seen the power of the Comanches that roamed the plains. He'd heard stories, mostly from the excitable young men that made up the rest of the troop, about scalpings and castrations performed on the white men only after they had been brutally tortured, and inevitably murdered. These stories did nothing but add fuel to Frank's desire as he sat, gun in hand, by the fire at night. This was why he had joined the Rangers in the first place--the action, the excitement, the duty of the liberation of the great state of Texas. It was his job to erradicate the red menace.
At least, it had been. Now his sole duty was to stay alive long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Their best scout, Raymond, was sent away to retrieve the remainder of the Rangers that had separated two days prior to search further down the Nueces for Standing Rock and the band of Sioux he led. Apparently the chief had invaluable information that would assist the Rangers in finding Son of the Bear, leader of the Comanches and white man killer. The Sioux chief would be bound to give this information in exchange for food and guns, both of which were long gone now.
Captain Ennis Jackson was the only mounted man, and he appeared to be reconsidering this fact. He had been sleeping fitfully only a few hours earlier, his stomach cramps from the alkaline water keeping him from dreaming. Many of the men in camp had been suffering from the same problem--the water in the Nueces this time of year was intolerable. The Captain had stumbled out of camp to relieve himself only minutes before the band of warriors had struck. He assumed that the only reason he'd been able to flee with his horse, Blackjack, was because the Comanches had not been watching him very closely.
The other mounts were killed in the raid, their throats slashed or ankles cut, to keep the men close when the remaining did flee. Blackjack was the only one left, and he was tired from the run. Luckily the morning was cool, and the rain falling. The horse grazed as the Captain sat awkwardly on his saddle blanket, with a pair of old binoculars to his face. His saddle had been left at camp, in his rush to escape, and he was unaccustomed to riding bareback.
"There's about sixteen of them, boys." Jackson said, without looking away from the Comanches that were at work gutting the horses they had slaughtered. "Having themselves a feast."
Frank tipped his hat back up, and glanced sideways to the Way brothers, who were shoved deep in the lip of the hill. Michael, the younger one, looked dismayed at the news.
"They got Butterscotch." He said, certain of it, "he was hobbled."
Since the incident a week before, where Michael's horse had slipped out of his ground tie and wandered away to graze, setting the expedition back nearly half a day, Michael had been absolutely meticulous in hobbling his mount every night he wasn't on guard duty. The effort had been a successful one--Butterscotch had been unable to free himself to wander off again. Now, because Michael had been so careful about his horse, he was now dead at the hands of their attackers. The thought made him cringe.
His brother turned his head to sneak a look over the hilltop. He could see something, that was for sure--the camp looked like a miniature set, with tiny Indians and toy horses, gutted and steaming in the morning air.
"Uh, Captain?" Gerard ventured, glancing back to him. "Are they eating them horses raw?"
He had never heard of such a thing, and a murmur went up throughout the surviving men.
"I reckon they're starved." Ennis Jackson replied, lowering the glasses and pulling a square chaw of tobacco from the pouch he had managed to save and stow under his saddle blanket. "Ain't no buffalo out here anymore. Settlers chased 'em out."
Gerard grimaced at the thought of anyone eating raw horseflesh--it was tough enough to chew when it was cooked. He looked to Frank, who was ignoring the proceedings over the hill. Instead he had retrieved his pistol, and was cleaning it meticulously, in case the time to use it was nigh.
"You ever et raw horse, Frank?" He asked with a grin, momentarily forgetting his terror.
"I never et raw anything." Frank retorted, not taking very kindly to the distraction. "I don't reckon I ever will, either."
"That why they attacked us, Captain?" Michael mustered, looking a little pale at the idea of his favorite horse being consumed by Comanches. "They needed the food?"
"Maybe." Jackson replied, returning the binoculars to his eyes. He could see the the Indians, about four of them per carcass, pulling out the insides of the horses and stuffing them into their greedy mouths. Blood slicked everything. "It's a wonder they haven't come this way yet. They know we're here."
At first, Michael assumed this comment was one of the Captain's ramblings. About six months before, at the beginning of their journey, the Captain had been kicked in the head by his mount as he tried to hobble him so he could sleep. For two days, the normally standoffish Ennis Jackson had rambled about nothing in particular; the weather, the proper way to identify a rattlesnake hole, the finer points of whoring--but after a few days, he began to slowly revert back to his usual self. Now he was almost back to normal, save for the occasional comment that didn't quite fit into his train of thought. Upon closer inspection, Michael realized that the Captain was watching something in particular that had set off this observation, and he turned to watch, squinting his eyes to get a better look.
Beside the other warriors, all wrist deep in blood, was a single Comanche, sitting atop a horse. His hair was long, reaching far past his shoulders, and the paint on his face designated him the chief (or at least the leader of this particular raid). Michael nudged his brother.
"Look," he said, never taking his eyes off of the man, who hadn't touched the slain horses, "Who is that?"
The Captain overheard the question, and said, without hesitation, "That's Son of the Bear."
Gerard was no longer smiling.
"The Son of the Bear?"
The Captain nodded grimly.
"Afraid so." He muttered, lowering the binoculars again. "You boys might want to take after young Iero here and start checking your guns."
Frank didn't like attention being called to his actions, but there was no way of avoiding the twelve sets of eyes that fell on him a second later. He focused on the pistol in his hand, and old colt he had gotten in a pair from the trading post back in Laredo for six dollars. It was all he was able to afford, and only after they had left the town for the prairies did he realize that two ancient guns were not going to protect him from much. But until today, they had sufficed.
The remaining men were these: Richard and Jordan Blasco (a father and son), who had joined the Rangers to avenge the burning of their home; Jeb Summer (the laziest cowhand), who spent his days sleeping, even while on horseback; Jeffrey Bean (or, to his friends, just Bean), who was the most intelligent of the troop; the aforementioned Ways; Tagg (no one knew his last name), a Pawnee scout that served as their translator; Clayton Jethro and his brother, Little Vint Jethro, who were drunker, louder, and ruder than anyone else in the regiment; and the silent, stoic Cisco Jones, the old mountain man who was hardly there at all, even when in plain sight.
"'I god, Clayton," Little Vint said to his brother, pressing himself closer to the wet ground, "We didn't even need to go looking for him. He came looking for us."
Clayton shook his head, picking something out of his ear and flicking it away.
"I knowed this was a bad idea." He said gravely, following his brother's example and laying flat on the grass, "no one ever listens to me."
"They still out there, Captain?" Michael asked, feeling suddenly naked without his own gun. When he and Gerard had come from the East, they had brought enough money to keep them settled for a while, and as a result had been able to afford decent weapons. Michael had settled on an aged Whitney rifle, while Gerard had gone for the flashier Winchester flintlock. It made sense, as during their time traveling to Texas, Gerard had peppered off more shots at deer and rabbits than Michael ever could. He felt at ease with weapons, and had honed the skill well. Most nights, when provisions were low, Gerard and Cisco Jones would go off to bring back game for their cook to prepare for the men. The thought saddened Michael a little--he had seen the arrow fly that killed their cook, a kindly old negro they all called Slim. Slim had been fat, and now he was dead. It was a shame, too--he could make anything edible. Many a night he would sit by the fire with a pot of rabbit, or prairie chickens, or if they were lucky, antelope, stirring away and singing low, sad-sounding songs. No one minded--in fact, the songs were soothing.
"Hurm," replied the Captain, not much of a response.
Michael turned to Gerard.
"You reckon that means 'yes'?" He whispered.
Before Gerard could reply, the sound of hooves filled the air, and the brothers froze.
Frank looked up, over the hilltop. The tiny Indians were no longer tiny. Still covered in gore, they had all mounted, and were riding steadily closer to where the tired troop lay, trapped. Their cries grew louder as they advanced, hooves kicking up dirt and blood as they raced forward.
"They're coming, boys." Frank said, though he wasn't sure if anyone heard him.