Short Story: Dansir's Comanche

Decent Essays

The ridiculous sounding sobriquet would have amused Dansir had he not known that to bestow him a Comanche name, even a farfetched one like that, was the epitome of bad medicine. For though they hailed him as a worthy warrior, so did they hate him for his relentless pursuit of them. The Comanche canted his head, observing Dansir’s profile. Fractured sunlight from a broken sky limelighted the fine white line on his throat despite the dense two-day’s stubble he maintained to mask it. “I see you still carry your first battle scar,” said the Indian, “I remember well the day I gave it you, here, beside your dead mother. Her long red hair still hangs on my scalp pole. It cries daily for her only child. Mourns nightly that you shall never spill your

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