[@RoadRash][@Monochromatic Rainbow]

He had seen everything, from the first glint of sunshine upon the barrel of a rifle, to the extermination of the white immigrants; his eyes, bright and narrowed against the sun, had watched as the small boy broke from his fathers grasp and disappeared toward the southern reaches of the land. For what seemed like many moments, but had only been few, he had lain his body on a small crest overlooking the meandering river, his pinto, a finely bred animal of white patched with black, grazing quite happily behind him, and watched the man die - scalped as he went about drawing his final breaths - as his womenfolk, two young girls and an older woman, were trussed like captured beasts and thrown across horses necks to be carried away. 

The raid had been so fast, so complete, that the mutilated German, his stripped body rotting in the mild heat of the day, had never stood a chance...

For much more time he had waited, and waited, and known that more would come...they always did. Whether they were dark-skinned Mexicans, whites of all descriptions, Americans called 'Texans' that believed themselves to be the true owners of this land, or others, he knew they would come. Sure enough, having waited many hours for their arrival, he was surprised when only two figures made their way over to the wreckage of the wagon and began to search about the scene of the raid.

Both seemed to be alert, experienced in tracking, and ready and armed for any altercations; one was a white man, grey streaks visible in his hair, having the 'gruff' appearance of many ranchers hereabouts - possibly even a former Ranger before their abolishment? The other, a woman not much shorter or any less imposing than her male counterpart, had something quite familiar to him in the way she moved and held herself, as well as the structure of her face. No, it would do no good to spook them, let alone attack them, for both carried weapons and more-than-likely knew how to use them.

What could he do? It might not be long now before the blue-coats came to see what had happened, or worse, before citizens of the nearest town came riding to the creek and went on their merry way, no doubt killing any native they could lay their hands on!

With no small sigh, finally rolling his body away from the lip of the crest to leave a barely imperceptible imprint in the dirt, he moved in a half-crouched position until his mount was within reach. It truly was a fine animal, with a lineage stretching back all the way from one of the many horses that the Spanish had left when they retreated from these lands, a rugged and hardy beast with a blanket for a saddle and paint marking its face and flanks; as he whispered to the horse, getting gradually closer, he slid with seemingly unnatural ease up onto its back in one fluid motion.

Hoping that the Great Spirit would give his divine protection, the lone figure cautiously moved out from behind the outcrop, walking the horse that it may drink from the flowing river; both rider and mount sat in plain view of the two unknown people as the horse took its fill of sweet water, a rare commodity in most parts of these Southern plains, and they were both watched in silence.

What they would see, should they look up to see it, would be an Indian warrior atop his favoured pinto; this Indian would be of average height, a little below five feet and eight inches, skin the colour of copper and with eyes of a deep, almost bottomless, brown framed by a mane of black hair resting lazily over his shoulders. In his hair sat two eagle feathers, not really of any consequence, but good for decoration. 

On first glance it would be rather hard to tell whether the silent watcher was male or female - with a face and body which could be suited to either sex; lithe and slender waisted, but also broad-shouldered, arched brows and high cheekbones, butclearly hardened by years of being raised in a warrior society - if one paid closer attention to the clothing, and knew what to look for, they would see that they were dressed in the masculine attire of the Comache people.

Paired with the usual buckskin breeches and moccasins of the plain tribes was a shirt more suited to one of lighter skin, and around that was what looked very much like the blue coat of a Union soldier. In one hand was clutched the favoured weapon of these 'Indian Mongols' - so named due to their stunning feats from horseback - the eight foot lance, tipped with iron taken or traded from the whites or others with access to it.

Hanging from the blanket, or more correctly strapped in a quiver to the flank of the horse, was a short-bow and a leather encased group of arrows, the other flank just behind the left leg of the rider showing a round shield made of buffalo hide and adorned with patterns and paints.

For now nothing happened, but would would happen next was up to the half-Apache and her companion, whether it would end in peaceful speech or violence.



[Center]************[/center]

[@Sombrero]

Hugo Watts was a bull of a man, robust and leaning toward fat, and would have been seen as an overweight oaf if not for his excellent military career - one earned in the wrong army - time with the Texas Rangers, and for the quite obvious amount of muscle he had managed to retain into his middling years. He was also prejudiced, a racist, and a vehement adversary of all that the Union stood for...not that he would ever denounce the new lords of America within earshot of anyone but his most trusted companions! 

Yes, he had slain his fair share of Yankees, Indians and freed Negroes during his time with the Confederate army, and he had enjoyed every moment of it; now he was consigned to a life of sitting behind this desk and trying to keep some form of law and order in the township of Laredo - something he did with an iron fist and the use of irregular forces. It had pained his soul when the Rangers, one of the finest fighting forces in America, had been disbanded by the Union, now he was forced to rely on half-trained ranchers, cowboys and retired veterans, and there were few enough of those to go around.

Sitting behind his desk, allowing the mild - but not too searing - heat of the day to close his eyelids for him, he was very nearly drifting off to sleep in the local jailhouse when he was disturbed.

Wiping a hand through his shock of sweat-slicked blonde hair, running it over his rounded cheeks and th stubble there, and making sure that his dirt-stained shirt of white and red kerchief about his neck were presentable, he gave a loud cough and a hack and then a wheeze.

"Who the Hell is it?!" He yelled at the door, "you'd best come on in, I'm a busy man."

No doubt his day was about to get busier, for outside in the streets of the town a posse was forming and preparing to make their way northward. What they would do once they found the culprits of the massacre no-one knew, but it would likely be short, bloody and result in more than a few deaths.