The Comanche

Season: 2 \ Episode: 3

Most stories of the Comanche are written from the white man’s point of view—heartless, brutal savages. But there’s more to them than that. In this episode, we reconstruct what the daily life of a Comanche warrior was really like: their training, spirituality, and family life; how they loved and lost; and the code of honor that guided everything they did. 

From childhood to marriage to thrilling raids under the Comanche Moon, this is life at full gallop on the hard edges of a changing frontier.

Comanche Feats of Horsemanship, 1834-1835. George Catlin, Oil on canvas. Smithsonian American Art Museum.

Email us your questions, comments, or suggestions

Produced by legendary cattleman Colonel Charles Goodnight, this film presents a narrative of his relationship with the Kiowa tribe who inhabited the area in and around Palo Duro Canyon and the JA Ranch. The film documents scenes from bison hunts, daily life in the Kiowa camp and the JA Ranch, and rituals and customs of the tribe. Included is footage of the last buffalo hunt that Charles Goodnight held on the ranch and invited the Kiowa to attend. Texas Archive of the Moving Image.

Map showing approximately the area, known as Comancheria, occupied by the various Comanche tribes prior to 1850. It's made using "Reynolds's Political Map of the United States" (1856) from Library of Congress collection (public domain).

Beadwork moccasins, supposedly owned by Comanche chief Quanah Parker. On display at the Julian Bivens Museum, Boys Ranch, Texas. Photo by Jody L. Slaughter.

Comanche bow, arrow, and war club. On display at the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Canyon, Texas. Photo by Jody L. Slaughter

Untitled [Battle of Adobe Walls], circa 1930. H. D. Bugbee, Ink on paper. Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, H. D. Bugbee Estate. Photo by Jody L. Slaughter.

Rudolph Fischer and Comanche Chiefs, before 1916. The photo features (left to right): Rudolph Fischer, Es-ch-ti (Isatah), Tu-kumah (Black Horse), and a seated Quanah Parker on the far right. Photographer known as "Degan," photographic print. Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Gift of Howard Hampton.

The Sharps Model 1874 rifle was a large-caliber, long-range rifle favored by buffalo hunters in the 1870s. The Second Battle of Adobe Walls in 1874 is particularly famous for the "long shot" made by buffalo hunter Billy Dixon with a Sharps rifle, which is said to have broken the siege by intimidating the Comanche and Kiowa warriors. Collection: Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Gift of H.H. Kiffey Estate, photo by Jody L. Slaughter.

"An artistic rendering of the Battle of Little Robe Creek in 1858, depicting Texas Ranger Captain John S. 'Rip' Ford and a ranger private confronting Comanche chief Iron Jacket." Artist unknown.

SHOW NOTES

Cold Open

• Yellowfish, a Comanche teenager, prepares for his first warpath, but first he must find his puha (power) through a vision quest.

• He goes alone, purifying himself, divesting belongings, and fasting for four days on a hill.

• On the fourth night, a spirit guide appears, instructing him on specific procedures to follow for life, tied to the power of the bison.

• He is shown an emblem for his shield and instructed to take a stomach stone from a specific buffalo to become invincible.

• Yellowfish awakes, follows the spirit's instructions, finds the buffalo, and sings the song gifted to him. He is ready.

Intro

• Host Jody Slaughter welcomes listeners to "West Texas," introducing this episode as part of Season 2's "prequel trilogy," focusing on the Comanche.

• The episode aims to explore daily Comanche life, spiritual beliefs, and social organization, rather than well-known historical conflicts.

• Given the lack of written Comanche records, the episode draws on interviews with reservation Comanches from the early 1900s, as detailed in The Comanches: Lords of the South Plains.

• The narrative uses fictional characters (like Yellowfish and his family) to thread together real traditions and rituals for easier understanding.

Preface: Moving to Texas

• The Comanche refer to themselves as Nʉmʉnʉʉ ("The People"); the word "Comanche" is a Ute word meaning "enemy."

• Linguistically and culturally, the Comanche descended from the Shoshone of Wyoming, Idaho, Nevada, and Utah.

• Comanche tradition places their origins in eastern Colorado and Western Kansas, north of the Arkansas River.

• By the early 1700s, they began incursions into Spanish New Mexico, and after a Spanish defeat against French and Native allies, the Comanche moved south, establishing a presence across the Southern Plains.

• Their move south was intentional, driven by the abundant supply of horses in the region, a sea of grass, and plentiful game, establishing "Comancheria" as a paradise for nomads.

• They also leveraged the barren Llano Estacado as a defensive retreat, raiding settlements south of the Rio Grande for horses.

Chapter 1: Childhood

• Yellowfish was born into the Kwahadi band, the Antelope Eaters, who lived atop the Texas Caprock.

• His childhood was defined by the tipi, the constant work of women (like his mother, Bluebird), and the centrality of the buffalo for all necessities.

• Comanche children learned to ride almost as soon as they could walk, becoming adept horsemen.

• Boys practiced war skills through play, learning to snatch objects from the ground at full gallop, and to hide themselves on the side of their horses while firing arrows.

• Evenings were for feasting, dancing, storytelling, and gambling among the men.

• Yellowfish's grandfather, Gray Eagle, primarily taught him hunting and stealth, as his father, Iron Jacket, was often away.

• Comanche life was unpredictable, instilling in children the need for quickness, strength, and adaptability.

Chapter 2: The Great Hunt

• Yellowfish's training culminated in his first great buffalo hunt, under the shadow of his father, Iron Jacket.

• Iron Jacket earned his name from a Spanish coat of mail he found during his own vision quest, which made him appear invincible to arrows.

• Weeks before the hunt, scouts located a herd, and the tribe prepared, with songs and rituals filling the camp at night.

• Yellowfish joined the hunt, singing his spirit song as he plunged into the chaos of thousands of bison.

• He chose to hunt the largest bull, as commanded by his spirit guide, successfully killing it and performing the rituals of burying the heart and taking the stomach stone and horns.

• He also saved a fallen comrade, a deed of great honor among the Comanche.

• Back at camp, the women processed the buffalo, and the men celebrated.

• The Buffalo Tongue Dance followed, where an unmarried girl served roasted tongues, and men publicly affirmed their truthfulness after a pipe ceremony.

• Yellowfish declined the tongue due to his medicine's restrictions, but his interaction with Prairie Flower, the maiden who served him, marked a significant moment.

Chapter 3: The First Raid

• Yellowfish, now an accomplished hunter, prepares for his first raid, targeting Mexican settlers on the Pecos River for their horses.

• Horses were vital to Comanche life, representing wealth, freedom, and power, transforming them into formidable cavalry.

• Yellowfish joins Iron Jacket on the raid, with the war party traveling hundreds of miles.

• Under the "Comanche Moon," Yellowfish infiltrates the corral, cutting ropes and herding horses.

• He spots and chooses a prized appaloosa mare with a silver bell, named Silverbell, who becomes his war mare.

• The raid is successful, with the Comanche escaping before the settlers can effectively respond.

• Yellowfish is celebrated as a raider, having conquered all tasks set before him, fully earning his place as a Comanche warrior.

Chapter 4: Counting Coup

• Yellowfish, now in his early twenties, has gained significant reputation through raiding and hunting, always accompanied by Silverbell.

• Camp life includes feasting, dancing, storytelling, and gambling, where reputation is paramount.

• Comanche warfare is also a "game" with a scoring system called "coup," earned by acts of bravery in close proximity to the enemy (e.g., touching an enemy, seizing a horse).

• Killing was not always necessary for honor, and honor could be won without killing.

• Yellowfish recounts his feat of counting coup on twenty Apache warriors by stealthily touching each one in their lodge without being discovered.

• His friend Red Moon, not to be outdone, later stealthily abducted a sleeping white settler woman from her bed.

• Both deeds became legends, solidifying their reputations and showing that to the Comanche, war was a game, and coup was the ultimate score.

Chapter 5: Prairie Flower

• With his growing reputation and wealth in horses, Yellowfish considers marriage, which typically occurs in the mid-twenties.

• Marriage among the Comanche is sealed by the exchange of horses as a bridal gift.

• Yellowfish chooses Prairie Flower, a sixteen-year-old known for her beadwork and strength, and sends Red Moon as an intermediary to present the horses to her father.

• Her family's acceptance of the horses signifies the marriage; no ceremony or feast is required.

• Prairie Flower becomes Yellowfish's first and chief wife, leading the household.

• Their life together begins, establishing Yellowfish's new role as a husband and soon-to-be father.

Chapter 6: Iron Jacket’s Triumph

• Iron Jacket calls for a war party against white settlers in the Cross Timbers.

• Yellowfish joins, and the warriors perform war dances and prepare for the long ride.

• Iron Jacket leads the charge, his chain mail deflecting musket balls, appearing invincible to the Comanche.

• The raid is a success, with horses taken, homes burned, and scalps claimed.

• Back at camp, Iron Jacket boasts of his invincibility, though Prairie Flower expresses quiet concern about tempting the spirits.

• Prairie Flower shows compassion to a captive woman, offering water and food.

Chapter 7: Life Between Raids

• The camp celebrates Iron Jacket's triumph, and his reputation for invincibility grows.

• Prairie Flower is visibly pregnant, and Yellowfish anticipates becoming a father, looking to Iron Jacket for future guidance.

• Captives from the raid adjust to their new lives, some assimilated, others becoming slaves.

• Daily life and family rhythms continue amidst the cycle of raiding, but an unspoken threat of future conflict remains.

Chapter 8: The Trap Raid

• Iron Jacket calls for another raid against Texans along the Canadian River, despite Prairie Flower's premonition and plea to Yellowfish.

• The Comanche follow their usual scouting and mapping procedures, unaware that the Texans have also mapped the land.

• The raid turns into a trap as the Texans, organized with volleys of rifle fire, ambush the Comanche.

• Iron Jacket, despite his chain mail deflecting initial musket fire, is killed by a long rifle ball that penetrates his armor.

• Yellowfish bravely retrieves his father's body, but the Comanche suffer a heavy defeat, realizing the "shape of the fight had changed."

• The camp is filled with mourning, signaling the end of the age of invincibility for the Comanche.

Chapter 9: The Funeral

• Iron Jacket is buried the next day after a traditional Comanche funeral.

• Bluebird and his other wives mourn him, cutting themselves and wailing.

• Iron Jacket's body is washed, dressed, and bound in a fetal position, then wrapped in a blanket.

• His tipi is burned, and his possessions are laid with him in a grave facing east in the high rocks overlooking the plains.

• Dozens of his best horses are slain at his gravesite, to carry him to the afterlife.

• Gray Eagle reminds Yellowfish of Iron Jacket's own words: "A warrior wins not because he strikes, but because he returns," placing the burden of leadership and survival on Yellowfish.

Listen to the Full Episode:

A life told from inside the lodge: training, medicine, horses, love, honor—and what “returning” meant on a frontier that kept shifting under hoof.

WTX: A History of West Texas takes you into Comancheria at ground level, from the vision hill to the funeral ridge.

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Further Reading

• The Comanches: Lords of the South Plains — Ernest Wallace & E. Adamson Hoebel (University of Oklahoma Press)

• The Comanche Barrier to South Plains Settlement — Rupert N. Richardson (Arthur H. Clark)

• The Great Plains — Walter Prescott Webb (Ginn & Co.)

• Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians — George Catlin

• Empire of the Summer Moon — S.C. Gwynne

Credits: 

Writer: Jody L. Slaughter

Producer: Jody L. Slaughter

Editor: Jody L. Slaughter

Engineer: Jody L. Slaughter

Music by Gentry Ford and the Homeless Lobos

Contact:

• Email: lubbockistATgmail.com

• Twitter: @Lubbockist

Listen on:

• YouTube

• Spotify

• Apple Podcasts

Thanks for listening, and so long...from West Texas.

FULL TRANSCRIPT

Cold Open

Yellowfish is ready. A Comanche teenager, he has been on horseback since before he could walk. He has been practicing his bow and arrow skills since the age of 5. His grandfather, Gray Eagle, taught him how to hunt, recently allowing him to join a hunting party for the first time as a scout. Watching in awe from the periphery as the brave warriors took their prizes. He has listened to the elders tell stories around the fire of their ways, their history…their secrets. He is strong, and fierce. He will soon join his band on the warpath for the first time. To earn glory for himself, riches, and truly become a man. He is ready. 

But he is missing one thing. His medicine. Now medicine is really a mistranslation. This isn’t medicine like we think of medicine – drugs and doctors. He needs to find his puha, which more accurately translates to a different word. Power. That supernatural power that will guide and protect him. The power that descends from the Great Spirit. The builder of the universe. 

He arises early. All the men of his tribe have gone on this quest, walked this same path before him. His father, Iron Jacket, walked this path. The spirits guided him to a clinking hide of iron. A wearable shield of protection. Becoming one of the greatest warriors in the band. His grandfather received the power to speak with the wind and understand the silent language of the plains.

But those men aren’t here. They can’t do it for him. He will have to go alone. He is frightened, but doesn’t show it. First he bathes in the river, purifying his mind and body. He divests himself of all his belongings, his clothing, his worldly possessions. All he wears is a loincloth and moccasins. He takes no food, no water. All he carries is a buffalo hide robe, a pipe, tobacco, and a way to light it. Then, he walks.

Four times as he walks, he stops to smoke…and pray. Finally he sees it, a hill rising from the flat endless plains that surround him. He climbs it, finding a solitary spot on the southern slope. He sits, facing the east. And he waits. Soon, the sun behind him begins to set. He smokes and prays again. 

“Father, have pity on me, 

Father have pity on me, 

I am crying for thirst, 

I am crying for thirst, 

All is gone. I have nothing to eat. 

All is gone. I have nothing to eat.”

When his pipe is extinguished and his prayers concluded, he lays down, covering his head and body with the buffalo robe. He is naked, defenseless, and blind.

As the sun rises in the east, the Comanche brave rises with it. Casting off his garment to capture the first rays of the rising sun. Again he smokes and prays. Nothing, and no one. Comes.

For four days, Yellowfish remains at his station. No food, no water.

By the fourth day, his body is beginning to break down. He no longer sweats. His stomach has long since stopped even growling. He is beginning to give up hope. Has he done something wrong? Offended the spirits in some way?  The only sound is a gurgling stream below, that life-giving water. Every instinct he has screams at him to go down there and quench his desperate thirst. Who would even know if he did? He shakes the thought aside as he smokes again and recommits to his quest. He will give it one more night, and then return to his camp in shame the next morning. He lays down and covers himself for the fourth time. Yellowfish is so weak from thirst and hunger that he’s not even sure what is awake or what is asleep anymore.

Then, he hears it. Somewhere from the void of blackness that surrounds him, a voice that sounds like it’s standing right next to him, yet he has heard no approach. “Yellowfish.” His first instinct is to throw off the garment and face this intruder. But something stops him. 

“Yellowfish.” 

“Who is there?”

“Tomorrow morning, go and take a bath in the creek below. Then walk towards the east until you see a one year old buffalo coming across a ravine. When you find it, its medicine will be yours.”

Throughout the night he listens as his guardian emphasizes strict procedures for him to follow for the rest of his life. If he strays, even a little, the power will not work or, even worse, could turn into a curse. Whenever he kills a bison, he must bury the heart where it falls, this guarantees the propagation of the herd. He must never use the bones of the bison as tools. He must never eat the tongue, liver, or heart of the bison.

The darkness is split by a vision hovering before his eyes. The outline of a buffalo standing with one foot off the ground. 

“Paint your shield with this emblem, and attach the horns of the largest bull in the herd to the top of the shield. Take the stone from its stomach and carry it with you always. This will make you invincible in battle.” 

Yellowfish wants to cry. Even his father does not possess such strong medicine.

Before departing, the spirit leaves him with a song. One he is to sing before entering upon any great undertaking, to invoke the aid of his spirit guide.

He awakes the next morning with the sun, and casts off his shroud for the last time. He struggles down the hill to the creek, his dying body protesting his every movement. He washes himself in the cool flowing waters and, for the first time in 4 days, he drinks. With newfound energy and purpose, he sets off for the east, he walks for several miles, with nothing but the flat Texas plains stretching out before him. No ravine. But on he goes. 

It has to be there. 

Just as the sun has reached high meridian, it opens below him. A deep ravine carved through the parched earth. A small stream trickles through the bottom, but no buffalo. He squints down into the abyss, hoping to spot some movement. But nothing.

Then, he sees it. Not within the ravine, but across it. Alone. A one-year-old buffalo. Casually grazing on grass as it slowly saunters across the prairie. The hot mid-day sun paints a shimmering mirage beneath the beast. It looks like it is walking on air.

Yellowfish sits down on a rock. Lights his pipe for the last time, and prays again. As he turns around and heads back towards his village, he sings the song he had been gifted. He is ready.

Intro

Hey y’all, I’m Jody Slaughter and welcome…to West Texas. Where the sky stretches on forever and the stories are as vast and rugged as the landscape itself. Our opening of season 2 has been kind of a prequel trilogy that sets the stage for everything that came after. First off, we had the pre-history of West Texas, from the dinosaurs to the Apache. Next came the Spanish, with Coronado’s ill-fated expedition in season 2. Today, we’re diving into the Comanche. 

Now, as I mentioned last episode, I kind of feel like reading SC Gwynne’s Empire of the Summer Mood is a prerequisite to this podcast. It’s a phenomenal work, and one of the main reasons I decided to do this. So I didn’t want to retread on what he already did so well – Quanah Parker, Cynthia Ann, Col. Mackenzie, and the Indian Wars.

Instead, what I wanted to understand was how the Comanche lived their day to day lives. What were their spiritual beliefs? How was their society organized? How did they love and lose each other? 

Problem is, the Comanche didn’t keep written records or histories. Theirs was an oral tradition, and much of what has been written about them is from the accounts of white soldiers and settlers.

But we do have interviews conducted with reservation Comanches in the early 1900s that give us a great deal of insight into what their daily lives on the Plains were like. Many of these were related in Ernest Wallace and E. Adamson Hoebel’s 1952 book The Comanches: Lords of the South Plains. 

So what I’ve tried to do here, is take those real life anecdotes and social traditions, related by different people, in different bands, in different time periods, and thread them into a narrative using fictional characters that should be much easier to follow, while still giving you a solid understanding of what daily Comanche life was like. So with all that in mind, I hope you’ll give me a little narrative license on this episode. These are real stories, real traditions, and real rituals, but Yellowfish, and his family, are not. Okay, with that out of the way, it’s time to grab yourself a drink, kick off your boots, and settle in. Because this…is West Texas.

Preface: Moving to Texas

The Comanche word for themselves, in their language, is nim-in-uh, which means “The People. It’s not that they felt other tribes weren’t human. They just weren’t Comanche.

The word Comanche isn’t a Comanche word at all, but a Ute word meaning “enemy” or, more accurately: “anyone who wants to fight me all the time.”

Linguistically and culturally, the Comanche descended from the Shoshone (shuh-SHOW-nee) culture who occupied Wyoming, Idaho, and parts of Nevada and Utah.

Lewis and Clark heard of them secondhand as a great nation who occupied the land between the River Platte and the River Kanzas.

The Comanche tradition holds that they came from eastern Colorado and Western Kansas, north of the Arkansas River.

By the early 1700s, they began incursions into Spanish New Mexico. In 1719, the Spanish sent an expedition into Colorado to retaliate against this aggressive new threat. No Comanche were found, but the Spanish did learn of a French presence near the Platte River to the Northeast. The following year another, Spanish expedition, along with their Pueblo allies, was sent to drive out the French. This expedition met with disaster, as the French, along with their Pawnee and Otoe allies, wiped out nearly the entire Spanish force. This would be the last Spanish attempt at control over the Great Plains, and in the ensuing power vacuum, the Comanche moved South of the Arkansas river, establishing a presence in Southeastern Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, and the Texas Panhandle. But the Spanish were not the only, or even the most dangerous threat in the area. Before the Comanche could take their crown as Lords of the South Plains, they would fight a multi-fronted war against the Utes to the North, the Pueblos to the West, and the Apaches to the South.

By 1800, the Comanche would control a vast area stretching from the Arkansas River in the north all the way down to the Pecos River, and from near Taos/Santa Fe in the West to the Hill Country in the east. The reasons why they were so insistent on pushing south, and then, were content to stay there are somewhat simple. The Comanche were one of the very first Plains tribes to adopt the horse. In the area they claimed as Comancheria, an endless supply of horse was easily accessible. While some scholars believe the Comanche were “pushed” southward due to pressure from other tribes, professor R.N. Richardson describes it very aptly. “I do not believe the Comanches were driven into the country,” he said. “On the contrary, it seems that they visited it, found it was well suited to their mode of existence, and proceeded to fight for it and take it.”

In their new home they had a sea of grass for their horses to eat, endless edible plants, and millions of wild animals to hunt. They were within striking distance of foreign settlements on all sides, and could retreat to the barren Llano Estacado which, unless you were familiar with the few sources of water, was likely to kill any pursuers before they could even find the Comanche, much less exact any retribution. So they raided. Even riding hundreds of miles south of the Rio Grande to strike poorly-defended Mexican settlements and returning with thousands of horses. 

Wallace and Hoebel described it as “a paradise for nomads who lived by hunting.” 

And it was into this paradise — the peak of an empire won at lance point and hoofbeat — that Yellowfish was born.

Chapter 1: Childhood

Before Yellowfish ever went out on the vision quest, he had lived the life of a Comanche boy.

He was born into the Kwahadi band – the Antelope Eaters, one of the many divisions that made up the Comanche nation. They lived atop the Texas Caprock and rained terror down upon all below them. His earliest memories were of the tipi — a world of hide walls painted with the family’s marks, the smell of smoke rising from the fire, and the sound of the prairie wind pushing against the poles.

His mother, Bluebird, and sisters worked constantly: scraping hides, sewing clothing, hauling water, grinding mesquite beans into meal. Everything the family needed came from the buffalo. Hides for their homes, sinew for their bows, bone for their tools, meat for their bellies. Even dung for the fire. Nothing wasted.

For Yellowfish, childhood meant freedom — and horses.

As toddlers, Comanche children were strapped to a gentle mare to get the feel of the ride, and by the age of four or five could handle their own small pony. Yellowfish had been no different. By the time he could walk, he could ride. The Comanche were called the Lords of the Plains because of what they did on horseback, and that started early.

Day after day, the boys practiced. First chasing prairie dogs across the grass, then throwing darts at grasshoppers. As they grew stronger, the challenges grew harder. They learned to lean low in the saddle and snatch objects from the ground at full gallop. At first it was a stick, then a bow, then a buffalo skull. By the time Yellowfish reached his teens, he could do what every warrior was expected to do — scoop up a fallen comrade from the dirt and haul him onto his horse without breaking stride. No Comanche left another to be scalped on the battlefield. To do so was the highest disgrace.

They also trained to make themselves invisible. A boy could dangle from the side of a horse, one hand gripping the mane, one foot hooked over the pony’s back, his body hidden behind its ribs. He could fire arrows like that, only a foot exposed to give the enemy a target. White observers were dumbstruck at the sight. One wrote that the Comanche seemed like a Centaur — “half horse, half man. So closely joined and so dexterously managed that it appears but one animal, fleet and furious.”

Even at play, the boys were sharpening the skills they would need in war.

In the evenings, the camp came alive. The men gambled with dice carved from buffalo bones, sometimes wagering away beadwork, horses, captives, even wives. Women told stories to the children, and songs drifted across the prairie until the night was filled with voices.

But it was never all fun. From the time he was small, Yellowfish was expected to work. He carried water, gathered firewood, and helped drive the ponies to pasture. And when it came to training, it wasn’t his father who guided him most closely — his father was often away on the hunt or on the raid. It was his grandfather, Gray Eagle, who taught him how to string a bow, how to loose an arrow, how to move silent across the grass. A boy’s mistakes might be forgiven once, but never twice.

Out on the plains, life could change in an instant. A storm could wipe out the camp. Enemies could strike without warning. Hunger could creep in if the herds moved too far. Yellowfish grew up knowing that survival wasn’t guaranteed — but that if you were quick, if you were strong, if you were Comanche… you could bend the Plains to your will.

Chapter 2: The Great Hunt

By the time Yellowfish rode out on his first great buffalo hunt, he was no longer a boy. He had completed his early training—strapped to a mare as a toddler by his mother, Bluebird, to learn the rhythm of the horse. But every ride he made began in the shadow of his father—Iron Jacket—and the iron that named him.

As a boy on his own vision quest, Iron Jacket had wandered among the stone breaks of the high plains and found a rawhide-wrapped bundle wedged deep in a caprock crevice. Inside lay a Spanish coat of mail: rusted, heavy, strange. Some in camp said it had been cached by men from Coronado’s time; others swore it came from a later entrada. No one knew.

With Gray Eagle’s help, he lined the mail over thick buffalo hide, patched gaps with rings cut from trade iron, and rubbed the whole thing with tallow. When he first rode out in that clinking hide of iron, arrows glanced off him like rain from stone. He took the armor, and from the armor took his name: Iron Jacket.

The hunt was not a single day’s work, but a season in itself. Weeks before, scouts had ridden out to locate a herd and find a place for camp. When the word came back, the tribe stirred like a great machine. Tipis were packed and loaded. Horses were gathered. Scaffolds were built for the drying of meat.

At night the camp filled with music. Drums pounded, voices lifted in songs that spoke of strength, of courage, of the bond between the People and the buffalo. Fires burned bright against the darkness. Yellowfish remembered how the shadows of dancers leapt across the tipis while women laughed and called encouragement, children running between the fires. Even Iron Jacket, stern and quiet, sat and listened as the younger men stomped and sang.

Bluebird moved among the women, sewing, painting faces, laying out the clothes her son would wear into the hunt. Gray Eagle sat near the fire, eyes half-closed, as if listening for some voice only he could hear. The anticipation hung over the camp like a storm about to break.

When the time came, the whole camp moved — men, women, children, ponies, dogs — a nation in motion.

The herd spread across the plain before them, dark and heaving, thousands of bison tearing at the grass. The earth itself trembled. From the ridge, Yellowfish caught the smell — musky, hot, alive. His pony shifted under him, ears twitching, as if it too could feel the weight of what was about to happen.

The hunters moved into place in a wide arc, bows strung, lances steady. Iron Jacket sat bareback, silent and calm, the chain mail gleaming faintly under the morning sun. Yellowfish looked to him, who gave him the slightest nod.

The signal came.

The Comanche warriors shrieked and whooped, driving their ponies down the slope in a thunder of hooves. The herd startled, then broke into chaos. Dust boiled up, horns slashed, the air roared with sound.

Yellowfish sang the spirit’s song silently to himself as he pressed his knees into his pony’s ribs and plunged into the sea of bison. The ground shook so hard his teeth rattled. A massive bull swung at him, eyes red, horns flashing. He leaned low, nearly scraping the ground, the bull’s horn grazing the tail of his pony as it veered away. Gray Eagle’s training saved him: He didn’t think. He just moved, running on instinct alone.

For a heartbeat he drew on a cow angling past him, an easy shot—then the voice of the hill. His spirit guide rose in his chest. The horns of the greatest bull for your shield. The stone from his stomach for your pouch. Bury the heart where it falls, or the power turns against you. He let the cow go. He turned his pony into the churn, hunting for the massive red-eyed bull that had almost taken him down. That’s the one the spirit had shown him.

There—it was. The lead bull, thick-necked, scarred, shoving other bulls aside. Yellowfish slid along its flank, close enough to feel the heat of it, and loosed. The arrow vanished into the ribs of the bull. It staggered but didn’t fall. His heart pounded — what if he failed? Another bison surged past, and his pony shied. Yellowfish clung to its mane, swung himself back up, and drew again. This time his arrow struck deep in the chest. The bull bellowed, stumbled, and plowed into the dust.

The roar of the hunt snapped back around him. He didn’t linger. He wheeled back into the churn.  A man screamed—his pony had gone down and rolled him under. Yellowfish’s chest seized. No Comanche left another behind. He drove his pony toward the scream, leaned low, and in one motion grabbed the fallen warrior’s wrist and hauled him up before the hooves could find him. They jolted clear together, lungs burning, alive. 

When at last the herd broke and scattered, the prairie lay strewn with dead bison.

Only then did he return to his downed bull. The men were already turning carcasses for cooling and making the first cuts. Yellowfish knelt, set his palm to the hide, and whispered thanks. He bled the bull, then did what his spirit guide had commanded on the hill: he took the heart and buried it right there where the bull had fallen, to keep the herds strong; he opened the paunch and felt for the smooth stomach stone, lifting it slick and warm into his pouch; and he had the horns set aside to be cleaned when the hide came off, to lash later to his shield—just as the vision had shown him.

By the time the work was done Yellowfish’s arms shook with exhaustion, but his spirit soared. He had taken the bull his medicine demanded, saved a comrade, and kept faith with the rules that would guard him.

Back at camp, Bluebird met him with tears in her eyes, hands red from butchering. Iron Jacket clapped him on the back, chain mail clinking softly. Gray Eagle felt the round weight of the stone through the pouch at Yellowfish’s chest and whispered, “Now you are a man of the People.”

The women worked through the night. Bluebird and the other wives sliced meat into strips, spread them across the drying racks, and stretched hides taut against the ground. The men lounged in the firelight, telling stories of their shots, their close calls, their triumphs. Yellowfish sat among them now, silent but proud, the blood of his first kill still drying on his arms.

When the work was done, the camp gathered for the Buffalo Tongue Dance. At dawn, a fire was built and all the tongues were roasted. The men sat in a semicircle; the women stood a few paces back. The medicine man lit the pipe, drew deeply, and blew smoke to the sky, to the earth, and to each of the four directions before passing it on. One by one, the men repeated the act in silence—each breath an oath.

By custom, the roasted tongues were carried by an unmarried girl—but only if no man in the circle had lain with her. If someone had, he was bound to call out “no,” and she could not serve. It wasn’t a judgment on the girl so much as a public test of the men’s truthfulness after the pipe.

The first name was called. A young woman stepped forward, eyes down, platter steady.

“No—no,” a man said from the semicircle. Another cleared his throat in agreement. The girl stopped, turned without a word, and slipped back among the women. No ululation. Only the pop of the fire.

A second maiden was sent forward: Prairie Flower.

She came forward, beads bright in her hair, the platter in her hands. Silence held. No man spoke. The old women let loose their high “li-li-li-li!” and the circle breathed again. Prairie Flower began to serve.

She moved from warrior to warrior. When she reached Yellowfish, he met her eyes for the first time. A flicker—surprise, maybe curiosity—passed between them. He bowed his head, but he did not take the meat. His medicine forbade it—no tongue, no liver, no heart. He set his palm lightly to his chest in apology and passed the platter along. Gray Eagle’s hand tightened, approving, on his shoulder. Prairie Flower’s face gave nothing away, but as she turned, Yellowfish felt the warmth of her glance like first light edging the prairie.

Years later, he would still remember that first great hunt — the roar of hooves, the dust stinging his eyes, the blood on his hands, and the sound of women’s voices ululating into the morning sky. His vision quest had given him medicine, but the buffalo had given him life.

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Chapter 3: The First Raid

The seasons passed, and Yellowfish grew into his strength. He had proved himself in the great communal hunt, and in solitary ones — wrapping himself in a buffalo hide, crawling on all fours into the herds, loosing arrows before they even noticed a predator among them. Those hunts had taught him stealth, patience, and trust in his medicine.

Now came his first raid.

The target lay on the Pecos River, a cluster of Mexican settlers and their herds. Word had traveled fast: dozens of horses penned in crude corrals, lightly guarded, the sort of prize Comanche boys dreamed of.

Horses were life. To the Comanche they were wealth, freedom, the very blood of the People. Walter Prescott Webb once said steam, electricity, and gasoline had not changed our world as much as the horse had changed the Comanche’s. 

Artist George Catlin wrote, “in their movements they are heavy and ungraceful; and on their feet one of the most slovenly and ungraceful race of Indians I have ever seen. But the moment they mount their horses, they seem at once metamorphosed.”

The gift of the horse had transformed the Comanche from a weak, scattered people into the fiercest cavalry on the continent.

A man with horses could trade for weapons, pay a medicine man, or gift them to win a wife. Some loved their best horse more than their wife, and to kill it was murder. A great herd was status, but a single favorite horse was the soul.

Yellowfish rode with Iron Jacket that night. His father sat tall in his saddle, chain mail glinting faintly in the moonlight, a relic of an empire long fallen. The raiding party had traveled nearly three hundred miles, women and children along to tend the temporary war camp. At the rendezvous point, Iron Jacket raised his hand for silence.

“We will take their horses,” he said. “If we must fight, we will fight. But the mark of a warrior is not how he strikes… it is that he returns.” His eyes lingered on Yellowfish, the words landing heavy.

They waited for the moon to rise — the Comanche Moon. When its light spilled silver across the prairie, the raiders slipped from their ponies and moved like smoke through the shadows.

Yellowfish crawled toward the corral. He was tense, but silently sang his spirit song to calm his nerves. He was ready. A man dozed near the gate, lariat tied to his wrist, the other end to the halter of a horse. Yellowfish held his breath, pressed his knife against the rawhide, and cut. The horse jerked, but he soothed it with a low click of his tongue. The man never stirred.

Inside, the corrals shifted with restless animals. Yellowfish darted from knot to knot, slashing ropes, pushing horses through the opening. Two broke free and bolted, but the others followed the raiders’ ponies into the dark. He was about to climb back in the saddle, but one caught his eye — a tall appaloosa mare, her coat mottled white and gray, eyes sharp even in the moonlight. As she fought the rope, something shimmered at her throat. A small silver bell, hung from a leather thong, rang faintly with each toss of her head. She was no ordinary horse. This was a lead mare, prized enough for her owners to mark her with sound as well as sight.

Yellowfish’s heart pounded. The bell chimed as he pulled her free, a bright, mocking note against the sleeping settlement. Every jingle was a risk — but also a promise. He grinned through the dust. The others were prizes, but this one was destiny.

By the time the alarm was raised, it was too late. Dogs barked, men shouted, but the Comanche were already thundering across the plains, the stolen herd kicking up a storm alongside them.

By dawn, the warriors counted their spoils. Yellowfish had taken several horses, but he tied the spotted mare close to his tipi. The silver bell still hung from her neck, catching the morning sun. 

Yellowfish led her forward, and Iron Jacket rode up beside him. For once the old warrior smiled.

“You return,” he said simply.

Back at camp, Bluebird sang the victory songs. Gray Eagle’s eyes shone as he studied the appaloosa, nodding once in approval. From that day on, her name was Silverbell — his war mare, his companion, his pride. 

Yellowfish had returned. And he had returned a raider. He had conquered every task set before him. He was finally, and fully, a Comanche warrior. Like his father and grandfather before him.

Chapter 4: Counting Coup

By his early twenties, Yellowfish was no longer the boy clinging to his grandfather’s saddle. He had raided, hunted, and stolen horses under the Comanche Moon. He had returned each time, richer in scars, horses, and stories. And always at his side was Silverbell, the mottled mare he had taken in his first raid, her name now spoken as easily as his own.

Life in camp could be hard, but it was not joyless. After the work was done, evenings were for feasting, dancing, and storytelling. Children crowded the fires to hear the elders repeat the old tales. Men and women played shinny or kicked the leather ball across the packed dirt. And always, there was gambling.

Yellowfish once sat by laughing as his friend Breaks Something cleaned out an entire camp in a dice game — even winning a man’s tipi and everything in it – including his wife. Breaks Something gave most of it back the next day, but not before reminding everyone that in Comanche life, reputation was everything.

But reputation was won most of all in war. And for the Comanche, war was not only about killing. It was a game, and like any game, it had a score. That score was called coup.

Coups were earned not by distance killing, but by the kind of bravery that put you close enough to touch your enemy. Striking a man with a lance, seizing his horse in the chaos of battle, even laying a hand on him and riding away alive — these were the deeds that made legends. Taking a scalp under fire was coup; cutting one from a corpse was not. A warrior might fire a hundred arrows, but if he did not risk himself at close range, he earned nothing.

It was possible to kill and not win honor. And it was possible to win honor without killing at all.

One summer, Yellowfish rode south to hunt with his closest friend, Red Moon. From a ridge they spotted a glow of firelight — an Apache camp. Voices rose faintly in song and laughter. The Apache were hated enemies of the Comanche. If they were caught, they would be scalped and left to the buzzards. 

Yellowfish grinned. “I’ll go in and see what I can do.”

Yellowfish pulled his blanket from Silverbell and draped it over his head like a hood. While Red Moon watched in astonishment, Yellowfish walked straight into the camp. 

His heart hammered like a drum, every instinct screaming at him to run. He passed tethered horses, a few barking dogs that settled when he whispered sharply, and then ducked into the largest lodge. Just like the solo bison hunt, he would have to become one of them.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted meat. Men sat in a circle, dice clattering, laughter loud. For a moment Yellowfish froze. One glance, one question, and he was finished. But no one looked up.

He forced himself to move. Slowly, carefully, he brushed past the first man, laying a hand on his shoulder. Then another. Then another. He circled the lodge, each touch a spark of triumph. 12. 13. 14. His palms were slick with sweat, his ears roared with the pounding of his own blood. 17. 18. 19. He brushed the twentieth shoulder. A dog lifted its head towards him and gave a thin whine. The dice went still. A man’s sleeve dragged across Yellowfish’s wrist; his heart kicked. Then someone cursed a bad throw, laughter rolled, and the circle bent back to the game. 

Yellowfish had touched every warrior in the lodge. He paused at the door, his breath caught in his throat, then stepped into the night air, the wind took him back from the edge. He breathed again.

His legs nearly gave way as he walked back to the shadows where Red Moon waited with Silverbell.

“You did it?” Red Moon whispered.

Yellowfish nodded, his voice hoarse. “Every one.”

He had counted coup on twenty enemies in a single night. It was a feat that would be retold in camp for years.

But Red Moon was not to be outdone.

The next night, they came upon the homestead of white settlers.

“Tonight, I'll go in and see what I can do,” Red Moon said with a wink. 

After the lights in the house went out, he crept in.

He found the settler and his wife sleeping in bed. 

With the practiced stealth he’d honed slipping into corrals and cutting picket ropes under the Comanche Moon, he slid his arms beneath the sleeping woman and lifted her from the bed. She did not wake up. He managed to stealthily carry her out of the house and all the way back to Yellowfish. She was tied to his horse before she woke up, and they were miles away before her husband even realized she was gone. 

When they returned to camp, the stories spread like wildfire. Both young men were celebrated, each deed retold and sharpened into legend.

Around the fires, oaths were sworn on buffalo chips to mark the truth of their feats, an act as solemn as us swearing on the Bible today. To the Comanche, war was a game, and coup was the score. And Yellowfish, now, was a player everyone watched.

Chapter 5: Prairie Flower

By the time Yellowfish returned from the coup-seeking ride with Red Moon, his name carried weight around the fires. He had Silverbell at his side, a growing herd of horses, and stories that others repeated with pride. It was time to think of more than hunting and raiding.

Some boys took wives young, but most waited until their mid-twenties, when their herds and reputations could support a family. 

Among the Comanche, marriage was not sealed with ceremonies or feasts. It was made with horses. A man needed them — the more he had, the more choices he could make. Horses were the coin of respect, the proof that he could provide, the gifts that could win a bride.

Yellowfish had been watching a girl for some time. Her name was Prairie Flower. Sixteen years old, the daughter of a respected hunter, she was known for her bright beadwork, her laughter, and her quiet strength.

When Yellowfish was ready, he turned to his friend Red Moon to act as intermediary. The custom was simple, but it carried weight. Red Moon drove Yellowfish’s chosen horses — fine mares and strong geldings — to Prairie Flower’s father’s herd. There, in front of the family, he made the request: that Yellowfish’s horses be accepted as the bridal gift.

Then Red Moon left without waiting for an answer. That was the way of it.

If the offer was rejected, Prairie Flower’s family would simply turn the horses loose, to be driven back to Yellowfish’s herd. If accepted, they would be penned with her father’s animals, joined to his herd as surely as she would be joined to Yellowfish’s household.

That evening, Yellowfish saw what he had hoped for: his horses were grazing in Prairie Flower’s father’s camp. The gift had been accepted. The answer was clear.

No wedding followed. No dancing, no feast, no ceremony. Everyone in the band understood. When Prairie Flower walked back with him to his tipi, carrying only her blanket and her pride, they were man and wife.

Prairie Flower was his first wife — and that meant everything. A first wife was not just a partner, she was the chief wife, the leader of the household. Later wives, if they came, would be “chore wives,” expected to obey her commands. But Prairie Flower was young and proud, and Yellowfish, though restless, was satisfied.

In the nights that followed, they ate together, laughed together, and sometimes sat in silence as the drums carried across camp. Around them, life continued: children played, old men told the stories of the People, and young warriors gambled away horses, hides, and more.

But now Yellowfish was no longer only a hunter, no longer only a raider. He was a husband. And soon, he would be a father.

Chapter 6: Iron Jacket’s Triumph

When Iron Jacket called for a war party, the whole camp stirred. He summoned his closest friends and trusted elders into his tipi. The fire burned low, and smoke curled against the rawhide walls painted with his marks. A pipe was lit and passed around the circle.

“White men build their cabins on our rivers,” Iron Jacket said, his voice deep and steady. “They cage their horses like captives, as if they do not know what they are worth. We will take their stock. We will burn their homes. If they fight, they will fall.”

The pipe came to Yellowfish. His hands trembled as he held it. This was the moment: to take part, or to let it pass. He drew deep and nodded. The taste of the tobacco was sharp in his throat. Others smoked after him. Some passed it without drawing, choosing not to ride. But enough had smoked. The raid was alive.

That night Iron Jacket painted his face, pulled on his chain mail and his medicine charms. He beat his drum with the flat of his hand, singing the old war songs, the sound rolling out into the night. Men drifted to his lodge and joined in, stamping their feet, singing, raising their lances in rhythm. By sundown they rode out in a parade through the camp, shouting and circling, women and children trailing with trilling cries. Maidens and widows joined them, knowing that when the warriors returned, they would claim a horse for their voices.

When enough had committed, the War Dance began. The men formed a great circle, open to the east — the direction of the enemy. Drums pounded, feet stamped. From time to time, the rhythm broke as an elder stood to speak. One raised his hands to the sky:“Sun, Father, you saw me do it. Earth, Mother, you saw me do it. Do not permit me to live another season if I speak falsely.”

Around the fire they told their stories of raids and coups, and the young men leaned in, the heat of the flames in their faces, the weight of the words in their chests.

At last Iron Jacket stepped into the circle, his lance raised, his armor flashing with firelight. “We ride east,” was all he said. Then he turned and left his lodge in silence. The others followed suit, each man to his tipi, gathering his weapons and his medicine. The raid was on.

They traveled for days, nearly three hundred miles. Scouts rode ahead, studying the land, noting rivers, hills, watering holes. When they returned, they drew the route in the dirt. Warriors gathered round, committing it to memory — first day’s ride, then the second, and the third. They needed no paper, no compass. Once traced, the course was carved into their minds.

Behind them trailed women to tend the war camp, building fires, cooking meat, caring for wounded. It was a moving community, a people on the march.

The Texans they aimed for were in the Cross Timbers, new settlers pushing north into Comanche ground.

The war party reached them under the Comanche Moon. Fires glowed in crude cabins. Corrals full of horses stood nearby. The warriors dismounted, crouched low in the grass. The night was still. Yellowfish tightened his grip on Silverbell’s reins, his heart hammering.

Iron Jacket rode up beside him. In the silver light, his armor gleamed, his face painted red and black. He leaned close.

“Remember this, my son. A warrior wins not because he strikes…”

Yellowfish smiled faintly, finishing the words as he had since boyhood: “…but because he returns.”

Iron Jacket’s eyes glinted. He touched Yellowfish’s arm once, then straightened in the saddle.

The charge broke like thunder. Comanche riders whooped and shrieked, lances leveled, arrows hissing. Texans stumbled from their doors, firing muskets in panic. Shots rang, smoke rising in the moonlight.

Iron Jacket plunged straight into the fire. Bullets struck his chest and fell uselessly to the ground. He laughed, his voice carrying above the din, and drove his lance through one man, scattering others before him. To the warriors behind him, it was proof of his power.

Yellowfish and Silverbell cut ropes, drove horses out of the corrals. Flames licked the cabins, dogs barked, children screamed. Some Texans fled into the dark; others fell where they stood. A few captives were seized in the chaos — a woman thrown across a saddle, a child lifted and tied at a warrior’s waist. Not many. Just enough to show that the Comanche had come, and taken what they pleased.

Knives flashed in the firelight. Warriors bent low over the fallen, tearing scalps from their heads and lifting them high with shrieks of triumph. 

By dawn, the Texans were broken, their homes smoking ruins, their horses added to the Comanche herd.

The blood still dripped as they tied scalps to their lances and shields, proof for all to see that they had faced the enemy at close quarters and lived. Iron Jacket himself rode back with a fresh scalp dangling from his lance, his chain mail streaked with soot, his laughter booming over the chaos.

That night, back at the main camp, the warriors feasted and sang. Women raised their high cries as the scalps were shaken in the firelight, tied to weapons and waved in rhythm with the dance. Captives sat bound at the edge of camp, watching in silence. Children followed the warriors in mock battle, swinging sticks like lances, shouting to the beat of the drum.

Iron Jacket stopped the music to boast of his invincibility medicine, that he had stopped the white man’s bullets, others chimed in to confirm the tales. The assembled party shrieked and cheered. The music continued.Prairie Flower clasped Yellowfish’s hand, her eyes proud but troubled. “Your father tempts the spirits,” she whispered. “Armor cannot turn away fate.”

But for now, Iron Jacket strode among them, scalps and spoils at his feet, a man untouchable.

At the edge of the firelight, the drums fell to a distant thrum. Two captives sat bound in the dark. Prairie Flower stepped from the circle and knelt. The nearer woman wouldn’t meet her eyes. Prairie Flower loosened a small water skin, wet her fingers, touched the woman’s cracked lips, then lifted the skin. The woman drank, fast at first, then slower. A little spilled down her chin. Prairie Flower wiped it with her thumb.

She tapped her own chest, softly: “Prairie Flower.”A breath. The captive whispered something too low to catch—maybe a name, maybe a prayer. Prairie Flower nodded anyway, retied the rope gently, set a strip of dried meat by the woman’s knee, and rose. She pressed a hand to her belly and turned back toward the singing.

Chapter 7: Life Between Raids

In the weeks that followed, the camp thrummed with energy. War songs filled the nights, and Iron Jacket’s name was spoken with awe. Men laughed that the Texans had fired at him, only to watch the bullets bounce away. Children followed him in mock battle, banging sticks against their chests and calling themselves invincible.

But life did not stop for war.

Prairie Flower’s belly was round now, and she moved with the heavy grace of a woman close to giving birth. Yellowfish often found her at work with the other women, scraping hides, cooking meat, or laughing with her friends. At night, she sewed beadwork by the firelight, her hands quick and sure even as she sang softly to the child within her.

Yellowfish felt pride — but also fear. He had lived his whole life on horseback, raiding and hunting, chasing buffalo and glory. But soon, he would be a father. The responsibility pressed on him like a weight heavier than his bow or lance. Luckily, he would have Iron Jacket to teach his son the ways of the Comanche, just like Gray Eagle had for him. Iron Jacket was strong, but aging. Surely he would give up the fight soon and retire to the smoke lodge to tell stories with the elders.

Around the camp, the captives taken in the last raid adjusted to their new lives. A child too young to run was carried on a Comanche woman’s back, already called by a new name, soon to forget the old one. A woman served in another lodge, her eyes dull but her hands busy at the fire. To the Comanche, this was nothing strange. Some captives became slaves, others were adopted fully, and some — especially the children — became nimʉnʉ, the People, as if they had always been so.

Between the raids, there was laughter, love, and life. But the shadow of the next raid already stretched across the prairie.

Chapter 8: The Trap Raid

It began as so many raids had before. Word came of Texans along the Canadian River — cabins, herds, wagons heavy with goods. Easy prey. Iron Jacket called for another war party. Once more he lit the pipe, once more he sang the war songs in his tipi, once more the men paraded through the camp to gather recruits. His chain mail clinked as he rode, and the young warriors laughed that no bullet could ever pierce him.

Prairie Flower begged Yellowfish not to go. She was heavy with child now, her hands pressed to her belly. “Your father tempts the spirits,” she said. “Do not ride with him this time.”

But Yellowfish could not refuse. To stay behind would be shame. He kissed her forehead and whispered the words he had learned from Iron Jacket himself: “A warrior wins not because he strikes, but because he returns.” She said nothing, only held his hand longer than usual.

The war party rode east, their scouts ahead. They mapped the land in the dirt as always — rivers, ridges, watering holes. 

But this time the enemy had mapped the land too.

At dawn they saw the settlement. Smoke rising, horses penned, men moving about with apparent ease. Iron Jacket laughed. “They are soft. Their bullets are stones. Follow me!”

He raised his lance and charged. Warriors surged after him, Yellowfish tight on Silverbell’s back. The Texans stumbled for cover, but then the air cracked — not a few scattered musket shots, but volleys of rifles, organized and steady. Soldiers and Rangers rose from behind wagons and breastworks.

The first volley struck. Warriors fell from their saddles, horses tumbled screaming into the dust. Still Iron Jacket thundered on, his chain mail flashing, his laughter carrying over the chaos. Bullets slammed into his chest and shoulders and fell away. He seemed unstoppable, a figure of iron and fire.

But then another crack split the air. A much different sound. A long rifle ball struck him square, slipping between the plates. Iron Jacket staggered, eyes wide. Another shot tore through him, and he toppled from his horse, crashing to the earth with a heavy clatter. These weren’t loose musket shots but heavy, long-range rifle rounds—fired cool, by volley.

Yellowfish screamed. He spurred Silverbell into the storm, arrows hissing past, lances flashing around him. He leapt down, dragging his father’s limp body onto the mare’s back. The weight nearly unseated him, but Silverbell lunged forward, carrying them through smoke and gunfire, away from the killing ground.

Behind him the Comanche scattered, fighting and retreating, but the battle was lost. The Texans held the field, and Iron Jacket — the man who could not be killed — lay dead.

That night, instead of victory songs, the camp echoed with the shrieks of mothers, wives, daughters. The low, grief-heavy voices of the elders exchanged hurried conversation around firelight.

Prairie Flower and Bluebird were pacing outside the lodge as Yellowfish rode into camp. His arms were smeared with his father’s blood. Iron Jacket laid across the back of his horse. Bluebird shrieked and collapsed as soon as she saw him. Prairie Flower knelt to tend to her, neither spoke as Yellowfish rode past her towards the assembled elders.

These white invaders were no longer easy targets. Before dawn, everyone understood: the shape of the fight had changed, and it would not change back.

The age of invincibility was gone. 

Chapter 9: The Funeral

They buried Iron Jacket the next day.

In the lodge of mourning, Bluebird knelt over her husband’s body. Her hair was unbraided, her face streaked with tears and dust. She wailed until her voice broke, rocking back and forth as Yellowfish and Gray Eagle prepared the body.

The corpse was washed, the eyes sealed shut with red clay. Iron Jacket was dressed in his finest apparel: painted leggings, beadwork shirt, moccasins bright with quills, and eagle feathers tied in his hair. The chain mail lay beside him — heavy, silent, no longer a shield but a relic. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his head bent forward until it touched his knees, and a rope bound the body in that fetal curl. Then he was wrapped in a blanket, tied fast for the journey ahead.

Friends and kin filed in to look one last time. Some bowed their heads. But the women — his wives — wailed and tore at their clothing. They whipped themselves with rawhide thongs until their backs were raw. They gashed their faces and arms with knives until blood ran down their bodies, staining the earth at his feet. Their cries rose into the air, wild and unrestrained, echoing across the prairie like wolves calling the dead.

Bluebird cut her cheeks with a flint blade until she collapsed in Yellowfish’s arms, her voice gone, her body trembling. Prairie Flower stood nearby, clutching her swollen belly, her eyes wide with grief and fear.

His most important possessions were removed from his tipi, and it was set ablaze. His wives would now depend on the generosity of the tribe for all they needed to survive.

The body was lifted onto a horse and led from camp. The People followed in a great procession, men riding with bowed heads, women howling, children clinging silently to their mothers.

They carried him eastward to the high rocks, where the land overlooked the plains. There, among the stones, a grave was prepared. Iron Jacket was set upright, facing the east.

Around him they laid his possessions: his pipe, his tobacco pouch, his bow and arrows, his finest lance. Skins and tools, blankets and adornments. His medicine bundles were tied beside him. His chain mail and war charms, too sacred to bury, were carried to a river and cast into the water, their power returned to the spirits.

Then came the horses.

His herd was driven to the ridge. Warriors moved among them, striking down the animals one after another, until the ground was littered with their bodies. Dust rose, mingling with the smoke of his burning lodge back in camp. Saddles and bridles were placed with the corpse so that Iron Jacket would ride in the afterlife. The horses’ spirits would carry him westward. Dozens of Iron Jacket’s best horses were slain that day, their cries ringing out like a second battle.

By sunset, the grave was filled. The air reeked of blood and smoke. Throughout the night, warriors rode slow circles around the site, singing low war songs, while the women’s wails carried into the darkness. 

When the People turned back to camp, Bluebird remained. She knelt at his grave and untied a single eagle feather from her hair, her hand shook as she placed it on the ground above him. She rose without a sound, and walked slowly towards the camp. Iron Jacket remained, facing a sunrise he would not see. His horses lay around him, his weapons at his side. The road to the afterlife would find him; there would be campfires beyond the sunset and old voices waiting to join him on the eternal hunt.

That night, Yellowfish sat silent by the fire. Bluebird wept within the dark of her lodge, her hair cut ragged, her voice gone from screaming. Prairie Flower pressed Yellowfish’s hands to her belly, whispering: “The child will know his name.”

Gray Eagle stared into the flames. “The People will speak of my son for generations,” he said softly. “But remember, my grandson: he forgot his own words. A warrior wins not because he strikes, but because he returns.”

And now, Yellowfish understood, it was his burden to carry those words forward.

He was ready.

OUTRO

You’ve been listening to the West Texas Podcast, I’m Jody Slaughter. If you enjoyed this episode, please remember to subscribe so you never miss a new episode. If you feel like giving it a review, that would help us out a lot as well.

October 2025 marks the 100^th anniversary of classes beginning at Texas Tech for the first time, and to commemorate that, we’re going to have a very special episode coming next on how that university came to be. You won’t believe the lies, treachery, and backroom political maneuvering that took place over the Harvard of the High Plains, the Princeton of the Prairie, the Ogallala Aquifer Oxford…Texas Tech University. You definitely won’t want to miss that one.

I’d love to hear your questions, comments, or suggestions at lubbockist@gmail.com or on Twitter @lubbockist. Be sure to check out ghostcoastsurf.com for some really awesome West Texas themed apparel.

This episode has been written, produced, edited, and engineered by me, Jody Slaughter. Music, as always, has been performed by my AI band Gentry Ford and the Homeless Lobos.

Really appreciate you taking the time to listen, and for now…so long…from West Texas.