The Legend of Buck and Hellhound
by Eric Atkisson

Private William "Buck" Brogan was one of the toughest Indian fighters I ever knew.

He'd taken to rangering at a tender age for reasons of which I was ignorant in the early years of our acquaintance, cause Buck weren't much for sharing or talking. He was more of the quiet sort. When other rangers were yapping and drinking around the campfire, Buck would clean and oil his firearms, watch the stars, and mostly grunt when asked questions.

But when it come to fighting, Good Lord, Buck was the very Devil hisself. Even a bit up there in years as he was, with wrinkles around his gray eyes and a little salt in his short, sandy hair, he could knock a screaming brave off a horse at five hundred yards with his rifle or take on a half dozen of 'em with his bare hands if it come to that. And a matter of fact it did on at least one occasion I recall, up near Little Robe Creek in '58.

As I learnt soon enough, though, Buck had a soft spot I'd of never figured for a man of his temperament. It tended to show when we'd ride into some dusty town or another on ranger business and see one of the local curs slinking by with a mangy tail between its legs. When that happened, why Buck would crack a faint smile, get off his horse, and coax it over in a soft voice. The next thing you know he'd be getting his face licked clean and feeding bits of hardtack to his new found friend. I'd never seen a man shower a canine with so much affection, or a canine shower so much affection on a man.

And whooeeee, Lord help the soul who mistreated a dog in Buck's presence. Didn't matter who he was or what his station in life. I once saw a sheriff's deputy kick a dog off his porch, and in the blink of an eye Buck had dragged that poor bugger into the street for the thrashing of a lifetime. We had to bail Buck out of jail for that one, which was irksome as it come out of personal funds we'd set aside for drinking and such.

Come a day when we'd chased some banditos from San Antone clear down to the Rio Grande, and on our way back we come across a dead she-mutt next to the road, with a sickly black pup whining beside her carcass. It weren't long for the world, far as I could tell, and none of us gave it much mind as we rode on by, as we was all kind of hardened to scenes of that sort. 'Cept for ole Buck. He picked that little feller up and cradled it in one of his big arms like it was his own long lost child. One of the men—I forget which—said something foolish about it, and next thing you know Buck had pistol-whipped him with his free hand, and that was the end of that.

And I'll be danged if Buck didn't nurse that pup back to health and into one of the finest grown dogs I'd ever seen, with a sleek black coat, white belly, thick head like a mastiff's, and muscles like a lion's. We sort of adopted him as our unofficial mascot and named him Hellhound, on account of that chilling howl of his, and pretty soon folks took to calling our ranger company The Hellhounds as well. All of which seemed to suit Buck just fine.

It proved to be a smart move, taking in that pup, cause Hellhound were every bit as tough an Indian fighter as Buck and a better tracker besides. He could sniff out a Comanche a mile away and wasn't above taking one on hisself now and then when the mood hit him. Got so's we had to be careful where we was shooting because you never knew in the thick of a fight when Hellhound might leap out of the brush and take a screaming brave down in his jaws.

Didn't take long for word to spread, and pretty soon the Comanches had their own name for Hellhound. I never could pronounce it right, but it translated something like Black-Dog-that-Kills. They'd come to believe that him and Dogheart—which is what they was calling Buck by then—was sort of like two halves of the same critter. One that vexed them something bad, like what the white whale done to that crazy Ahab feller in the stories.

One cold, gray day in the middle of winter, we rode down the camp of a Comanche gang somewhere along the Red River—braves from Chief Laughing Bear's tribe—thinking to surprise 'em. The Comanches was fierce fighters, but often lousy at guarding their own camps. This time proved to be an exception, cause they was lying in wait. We got attacked from all sides, and in the middle of that fracas one of the braves put an arrow in Hellhound's rump and he went down with a yelp.

Buck went crazy when he saw that and charged off in Hellhound's direction, blazing away with his revolvers, but a bunch of braves had thought this out ahead of time and had a big sack ready, which they threw over Hellhound and dragged him away. Buck managed to put a bullet through one of 'em and he fell, but Buck's horse took an arrow in the throat and fell too, pinning Buck beneath it.

By the time the dust had settled, we'd killed about a dozen of their men and they'd killed two of ours and made off with Hellhound to boot.

Poor Buck was beside hisself. Five of us had to hold him down while he roared and struggled, wanting to get on another horse and tear off after them Comanches, but we was in no shape for another fight and not inclined to lose our best Indian fighter to a fit of temporary insanity.

He eventually come to his senses, but the ride back to Austin was a sad affair. Hellhound had become a celebrity to a lot of Texas folk, and as word spread of what had happened to him and those two men, we rode through towns where folks was on the street a' waiting, women dabbing their eyes with hankies and men holding their hats over their hearts like it was a funeral.

By then, everyone figured Hellhound had been roasted on a spit to a lot of whooping and dancing around the Comanche campfires. I ain't ashamed to admit I did.

Turns out we was wrong. A few days later a Comanche brave come riding into Fort Worth under a flag of truce with word that Hellhound was their prisoner. They was willing to give him up if the Governor declared a permanent ceasefire against all Comanches in the State of Texas.

Well, the message got passed to the Governor all right, but he weren't having none of it—not for Hellhound or any other dog, including his own. We had to lock Buck up in a prison cell that night, after he threatened to drag the Governor out of his mansion and beat the tar out of him. I think he knew there weren't much the man could do. He just needed something to vent his spleen on, and a politician's a tempting target for that sort of thing.

The next morning, after Buck swore an oath he'd not harm any lawfully elected officials, we let him out of his cell and gathered around him with a lot of kind words and consolation, like it was a wake for our old buddy Hellhound.

It were then that Buck started talking, and I swear he said more words in those few minutes than I'd heard come out of his mouth in all our previous years of rangering together.

"Boys, you know me," he said. "I ain't one for talkin' much, but I aim to talk a spell now, so listen up. Some of you's asked about my past and why I been a ranger all my life. Well, not that it was ever any of your danged business, but here's the short of it: When I was a boy up near San Saba, our little homestead got attacked one day by a gang of Comanches. My ma and pa tried to fight 'em off and took a few of 'em down, but they got kilt, too. The Comanches ransacked the place and some other homes and made off with a bunch of livestock and a few prisoners what were never seen again.

"You may be wonderin' how I survived. Well, truth is I almost didn't. In the thick of the fight I heard a whoop behind me and got hit upside the head with somethin' I never did see—a club or a tomahawk, I suppose. When I come to, I was being dragged into the thick bushes along the edge of our property. I thought it was one of them Comanches draggin' me away to finish me off or maybe take me as a prisoner.

"Weren't neither. It was our family mutt, Sam. He'd been hit, too, worse'n me, and was bleedin' bad. But with the last ounce of strength he had, he dragged me out of sight where them Injuns couldn't find me.

"I blacked out again, and the next thing I knowed there was some rangers leanin' over me, checkin' to see if I was still alive. Sam was layin' next to me, cold and stiff. They'd found his body on top of mine, like he was tryin' to hide or protect me.

"Now I know there's a lot of you what think I'm crazy, the way I treat dogs, and that a dog's life ain't worth no more'n a pig's or a bird's or what have you. But any man who talks that kind of nonsense ain't knowed a dog like I have. Sam was the best friend I ever had in them years, and he had more courage, decency, and honor than most human beings I've ever met.

"Now Hellhound, he's just like Sam, 'cept bigger and tougher. He's been a loyal friend to me and this company, and I can't abandon him to a cruel fate any more'n Sam could've abandoned me that day when my family was kilt. That dog is all the kin I got left in this world now, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna give him up without one helluva fight."

Well, I'll tell you what. That was one bunch of tough hombres gathered there listening to Buck's story, every one of 'em hardened by their own share of death and misery and all the other things that can beat a man's spirit down to where he don't believe in much of anything no more. But more'n a few of 'em was wiping their eyes and sniffling now like they'd come down with something in just the few minutes Buck was talking.

"Now, I'm takin' my firearms," said Buck, "I'm gonna saddle up the first horse I see, and I'm ridin' north with the winds of Hell at my back. I don't expect none of you to come with me, and I won't think the worse of you if you don't.

"That's all I got to say. Goodbye."

Well, Buck rode north all right, and a company of Hell-bent rangers rode with him. Word must of gone out on the telegraph wires, cause as we passed through towns like Belton, Waco, and Waxahachie, our numbers swelled and multiplied with other men riding horses and toting rifles till there was more'n a couple hundred of us setting up a giant cloud of dust in our wake the likes of which ain't been seen in Texas before or since.

Our scouts up north had a pretty good idea of where Laughing Bear's tribe had set up, out in the Llano Estacado, and a few days later our reconnoitering confirmed it. Thing was, in spite of our enthusiasm to go in guns a blazing, cooler heads prevailed and we agreed to a plan Buck hisself had thought up during the ride.

That night, he wandered into Laughing Bear's camp with his hands up, catching most of the braves by surprise and causing a wild whooping and hollering we could hear from the edge of the canyon where we was watching the whole thing through our spyglasses, thanks to the light of their campfires.

"I come to talk," said Buck, once the braves had shoved him to his knees in front of Laughing Bear, who was sitting on a rock in the center of the camp surrounded by the rest of his tribe—men, women, and children alike. Nearby was poor Hellhound, with one end of a thick rope around his neck and the other tied to a sturdy pole in the ground, giving him room to run in circles while the tribe taunted him, poked him with sticks, and such. This had been going on a few days straight, and Hellhound didn't look too well fed, neither. About the only considerate thing they'd done was pull their arrow out of his rear end.

"You're a brave man to come here, Dogheart," said Laughing Bear. "Do you bring an answer from your governor?"

"Nah," said Buck. "That sad sack couldn't of cared less about your demands, so I come on my own to tell you as much and to offer myself instead. You let Hellhound go and take me, and you can do what you think is right from there."

You might suppose that would've set the chief to laughing, given his name and all, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Laughing Bear looked kind of impressed by the offer and said nothing. But the younger, more foolish braves around him set up a hue and cry in their tongue, shaking their spears and tomahawks and pointing 'em at Buck and Hellhound.

Buck didn't speak no Comanche, but he could figure what they was saying and thinking well enough. Why make a trade when they had Dogheart and Black-Dog-that-Kills and could get rid of both of 'em in one fell swoop?

"I didn't want to get this parlay off on the wrong foot by sayin' it," said Buck then, "but there's a small army of riled-up and well-armed Texans outside this canyon just waitin' for an excuse to come down here and engage in some serious target practice."

Well, that raised the tribe's dander even more, and I reckon you could hear their curses and war whoops from ten miles away just then, some of 'em even sprinting toward their horses, until Laughing Bear raised his hand and everyone went quiet.

"Why offer yourself to us, Dogheart, if you have an army with you? Why not just take Black-Dog-that-Kills by force?"

Buck spat. "Chief, you and I both know if it come to that, there's no tellin' who'll die and who won't. I don't want no more harm to come to Hellhound, and I don't figure any women or children need to die on account of this dispute, neither. If killin' one of us will settle the score for all the braves me and Hellhound sent to the Great Spirit, then I'll pay the price alone, since I'm the one what got him into this mess. I ain't found much satisfaction in the revenge business myself, and I been in it 'bout as long as you have, I reckon."

There was a long silence then, as Laughing Bear thought on his words and the braves looked from one to the other trying to figure whether there'd be a fight or not.

"And what proof do you have of this army, Dogheart?"

Buck turned in our direction then, put two fingers in his mouth, and made that piercing whistle of his that could shatter the windows out of a saloon. We lowered our spyglasses and nodded to the men on our left and right.

One by one torches flared up and down the line, till the canyon was darn near circled in a ring of fire.

This had a sobering effect on the Comanches.

Laughing Bear sighed and waved his hand. "Release them," he said, though truth to tell I don't think he was too sorry about it. And this time, none of his braves put up much of a hue and cry, neither. They cut Hellhound's rope and let him go.

Now, you might think Hellhound would've had a mind to nip a few of them Comanches straight away, for mistreating him and such, but instead he come bounding over to Buck, put his forepaws on Buck's shoulders, and started licking his face with that big fat tongue of his, while Buck scratched him behind the ears and gave him a hearty pat. The two of 'em turned their backs on Laughing Bear, and the Comanches parted to let Buck and Hellhound go. I swear, the way I could see it through my spyglass, they looked like any other man and his dog out on an evening stroll, Hellhound wagging his tail and running circles around Buck, in spite of the limp he had on account of that arrow.

Once the two of 'em had rejoined our ranks, there was more'n a few hotheads who wanted to swoop down on Laughing Bear's camp and finish this business for good, but Buck wouldn't have none of that. It was a matter of honor, he said, and even though our posse didn't all agree on that point, there wasn't a single ranger present who didn't side with Buck. That took the wind out of any fighting talk, and at any rate most everyone was happy we'd gotten Hellhound back and hadn't lost a soul.

So we treated Hellhound's wounds, left that canyon behind, and headed east, but when it come time to turn south to Austin, we was caught by surprise when Buck stopped and said he weren't going with us.

"Sorry, boys, but my rangerin' days are over. That ole' homestead I told you about, the one used to belong to my family—fact is, I still own it. Got some money set aside and I aim to fix the place up right, maybe get into the cattle business like my daddy dreamed of doin'."

Losing one of our best rangers to retirement weren't exactly the outcome we had reckoned on, but it was clear Buck had made up his mind, and too many of us sported old lumps on our heads to want to cross Buck Brogan when he'd set himself on a course of action.

"It's been a honor to serve with you boys. Ain't a company of rangers I ever rode with what I wouldn't trade for this one."

And with that, Buck turned his horse toward San Saba with Hellhound draped over the saddle in front of him, tongue lolling out and a big ole grin on his face as we watched 'em go. I got a gnat or something in my eye right then and had to turn away.

Ain't much more to tell, but I figure you might want to know what become of Buck and Hellhound in their retirement years. Well, sure enough, Buck got his family's old place fixed up nice and prospered in the cattle business. The fact that he was sort of a living legend in Texas didn't hurt none. Folks would come from far and wide to buy his beef, but mainly so's they could scratch Hellhound behind his ears or pat his belly when he was laying on his back with his privates exposed, which he had an odd habit of doing. That dog turned out to be a pretty fair cattle driver, too, from what I seen on the occasions when I come to visit.

Hellhound died in his sleep one night at the ripe old age of fifteen, and Buck gave him a proper burial on a hilltop where they liked to go in the evenings and watch the sun set together. Buck hisself died some years later from a bad snake bite, but by all accounts he died a happy man with few regrets, and me and a few of his old ranger buddies buried him next to Hellhound. A bunch of grateful citizens chipped in and bought the two of 'em a big, red-granite headstone, with "Buck and Hellhound" inscribed at the top and a list of all the skirmishes and campaigns they'd fought in filling up the space beneath.

But that was some months in the future. A funny thing happened before that, on the same day we buried Buck. We'd finished up, said our prayers, and was about to head home when we turned around to find a clutch of Comanches on horseback, 'tween us and the ranch. Darn near gave us old timers heart attacks. How they'd gotten there without riling up half of the Hill Country in a panic I'll never know, but they wasn't dressed like in the old days, in their buckskins and such, nor was they toting any weapons that I could see.

The one who seemed to be in charge looked a bit like a younger version of Laughing Bear, who had died of old age hisself by then. On a smaller pony next to him was a boy who couldn't of been more'n ten years old if he was a day.

"We come to pay our respects to Dogheart and Black-Dog-that-Kills," said the man, and while we tried to figure whether this were all real or just our old noggins playing tricks on us, he reached into a satchel he'd brung and gently pulled out an old arrow, of the kind with which we was all too familiar from our fighting days.

"This is a very special arrow," he said, though he weren't talking to us now but to his boy. "Before he died your grandfather said it was the greatest arrow our tribe ever made. Do you know why?"

The boy studied it a bit. "Because it took down Black-Dog-that-Kills?" he asked.

"In part," said his pa. "But more important, it proved something your grandfather came to believe in his final years — that the most powerful arrow isn't the one that kills a man or the things he loves. It's the one that saves them. And if these men don't object, we'll bury it here with Dogheart and Black-Dog-that-Kills, where it belongs."

Something about his words and my own fond memories of Buck and Hellhound and the life they had made together moved me just then, so I doffed my hat and took it upon myself to speak for all of us old rangers who was present.

"Well, sir," I said, "I think that'd be just fine."