The Uninvited Visitors

The leaves rustled in the breeze and the Georgian sniffed the crisp night air. He loved living in Texas. The golden grass, blue skies, untamed wilderness, all wonderful. A hard life at times to be sure, but all the misfortunes were a minor consequence to living in such beauty.

Tonight was a good night to be out, with countless stars twinkling brightly in the Milky Way. It was good night for an Indian raid. He shivered in fear. The only reason he was out here instead of his cabin was to raise the alarm if the Comanche struck again. They had lighted fire to the barn and tried to burn the cotton stores.

The damage to the barn was repairable, by all means, but it would take time to rebuild half the barn and to gather more cotton from the fields. He'd have all his slaves working the fields tomorrow, he decided with a slight nod to himself as he shifted position on the log. Maybe his wife would cook a fresh, steaming loaf of bread and they would eat it with butter from his cow tomorrow. Her bread was delicious.

The farmer felt tired, but it was still another three hours or so before his watch ended. Maybe, maybe he'd close his eyes for a bit. Yeah, just for a little while. His chin began to lower to his chest and his eyelids were slowly beginning to droop. It would be a short rest, then he'd be more... alert.

Snap.

His head whipped up toward the direction of the sound but his senses were still fogged with sleep. He blinked and tried to focus. When a bush suddenly rustled---whether it was by the wind or something else, he wasn't sure---adrenaline began to course through his blood, sharpening his senses.

The man stood, ready to face the threat, but the shadows cast around in the bushes hid whatever had broken the twig. He began to regret building his house among the trees. Just as he was about to return his thoughts towards tomorrow's plans, he saw a flash of silver down on his right and stood, facing in that direction, when leaves were suddenly scuffed to his left. He felt sweat bead on his forehead as he wheeled around on his heel, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as another stick snapped directly in front of him, but nothing was in sight. The man nervously clutched the handle of the ten-inch Bowie Knife he always kept with him. It had been given to him as a gift from a friend that had bought it from James Black himself a few years back. The blade's tempered steel whispered as it slid smoothly from its sheath.

Something shifted underneath a large bush and the usually mild-mannered Georgian slashed in the direction of the movement wildly, attacking the bush as he screamed an unbroken chain of profanity at nothing in particular until he was gasping for breath, his throat sore. The bush was no longer a bush.

He laughed softly at himself, feeling humbled by his foolishness when he saw a deer's silhouette as it bounded erratically away, sticks snapping occasionally under its hooves. A raccoon tail caught his eye as it disappeared behind a tree. That was all it was, some dumb animals. And he had thought they were Comanches. It was amazing what the imagination could do the mind during the dark of night.

This will be an interesting story to tell the boys, he thought, as he slid the Bowie Knife back into its sheath and glanced around mildly, wondering if his wife heard him.

"John, are you there? John?" His wife was yelled frantically for him.

John sighed, irritated, and turned towards the cabin, cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, "It's alright Mary, just a coon is all. You an' the boys can go back to sleep now."

"Okay, g'night."

"Goodnight, Mary."

John turned back towards the woods when a large shape unexpectedly exploded towards him from the mangled bush and tackled him. Desperately, he jabbed his elbow back randomly behind him and was rewarded by the clack of teeth striking against each other and a muffled grunt. His victory was sort-lived, however, as gravity brought them into contact with the ground. His assailant---a Comanche---managed to gain the advantage almost instantly, with fatal consequences. The merciless Indian bought his arm around the farmer's neck before he could yell out a warning and cleanly slit John's throat below the larynx, assuring a silent death and stopping him from raising the alarm.

The Comanches then moved on to set flame to the cabin and the ill-omened white inhabitants within. They calmly walked away as a woman began to scream. She won't be able to escape the cabin, the fire had spread and was already engulfing the house. White man will not be permitted to encroach upon their sacred lands any longer and will regret their mistakes. They will teach white man a lesson not to be forgotten.