Reader discretion is advised.
The sun hung low in the Texas sky, casting long shadows over the open plains. Dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves swirled in the dry wind as the Texas Rangers rode hard toward Plum Creek driven by a sense of justice. Among them was young Walter O’Conner, an Irishman who had just recently traded the green fields of Ireland for the rugged frontier of Texas. Walter had not yet got his full gear, only a rifle that has been passed down the ranks of the Rangers. This was his first outing. Walter’s eyes were sharp and clear as they scanned the horizon. He spotted feint smoke and alerted his Lieutenant and trusted friend, 47-year-old James Stanton. James always positioned Walter directly next to him, just to keep an eye on him and make sure Walter is taken care of. James readied the other Rangers; they were heading for battle.
The Rangers caught up with the Comanche raiding party at Plum Creek. The air was soon thick with the sound of gunfire, the smell of gunpowder, and the cries of the wounded. Deep in the middle of this battle was Walter – he was next to James. Walter watched James pull out a Colt Paterson revolver, the Rangers’ trusted sidearm, and aim it at a Comanche elder. The elder was a Shaman, dressed in ceremonial garb. The Shaman was attempting a ritual to bring success to the Comanche during this battle… James’s Paterson stopped the Shaman. As soon as the Shaman fell over in a pool of blood, James was shot and killed himself. James’s Colt Paterson still had smoke coming out of the barrel.
Walter’s hands were shaking; his ears were filled with the intense irregular rhythm of his beating heart… he couldn’t believe what he had just seen. He immediately ran over to James but James was beyond saving. James told Walter to take his revolver and that it would serve him well as it did for James. Walter picked up the gun, noticing that it felt heavier than normal, as if it carried a weight beyond its metal and powder. Walter’s gut twisted as he tucked the revolver into the holster on his belt, there was a sense of unease that he just couldn’t shake. Walter hurried back into the battle with a vengeance – every Comanche would pay for his friend’s death. James was the only Ranger death in this battle.
At the battle’s end, Walter went back to James’s body in order to give him a proper burial. On his way, Walter stopped by the Shaman’s body to search for any valuables but all he found was a lifeless body except for the Shaman’s eyes, as if they were piercing into Walter. Walter’s victory over the Comanche immediately felt hollow. All the Comanche blood weighed heavily on his soul. He was enveloped by sadness and regret.
That night, the Rangers set up camp beneath the vast, star-studded sky. Walter was struggling to sleep; the memory of James's death haunted him. Walter was gripping the Colt Paterson, fearful of a Comanche retaliation when he finally started drifting off to sleep. That’s when he heard a faint whisper, like a voice carried in the wind “You have slaughtered my people. You have taken my life. You cannot take my spirit. Death awaits you, Ranger. Soon you will be surrounded by all of those murdered today.”
Walter’s blood ran cold, he gripped the Colt Paterson tighter as a sense of dread creeped in. He tried to dispel the chilling thoughts, he knew it was just the wind but doubt started gnawing at his sanity.
The following morning, the Rangers decided to not break camp. They wanted to make sure no Comanche war parties were on their way. Walter decided to take a walk to calm his mind. A fellow Ranger mentioned a scenic view on a nearby cliff. Walter thought this would help his ease his worried mind. On his way to the overlook, Walter kept seeing bloodied Comanche warriors in his peripheral. He kept hearing their whispers and war cries.
As Walter climbed the cliff, the voice in his head grew louder. It was no longer a whisper but a roar, echoing in his mind. The Comanche warriors he saw were no longer fleeting visions but tangible threats, their faces twisted in rage.
At the cliff's edge, Walter paused, the wind whipping at his hair and clothing. He looked out over the vast expanse of the plains, the sun glinting off the distant horizon. A sense of peace washed over him, a strange calm that seemed almost unnatural. He raised the Colt Paterson to his temple, the cold metal pressing against his skin.
For a moment, he hesitated. He thought of James, of his comrades, and of the life he had left behind. But the voice in his head was unrelenting, a constant reminder of the darkness that had consumed him.
With a heavy sigh, Walter closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the canyon, a final, defiant act against the curse that had haunted him.
Feedback is much appreciated. This was my take on PTSD story. This is fictionalized version and happenings of the Battle of Plum Creek.
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