He was the one responsible. Having been the office in charge of the cavalry unit that had massacred their main village, he had made the mistake of camping too closeby. In the darkness of the night, the Comanche snuck into their camp and captured all of his men.
The natives were in no mood for mercy. They strung the young captain up by his hands and stripped him of his clothes. They made him watched as each of his soldiers were brutally murdered in front of him.
Some were gutted, some were impaled through the gut with spears, some had their throats slit. Blood soaked the sand where each one was butchered. The lucky ones were killed quickly with a blade to the heart or a hatchet swiftly removing their scalp. Others would have to writhe in the pain of their mortal wounds until succumbing to the loss of blood.
The captain could do nothing but watch the terror his men had to endure and only wonder what the natives had in store for him. The last three of his men, a lieutenant and two sergeants, were knelt down in front of him. The chiefs approached with the army-issued pistols that these men had once carried. At point blank, the emptied the rounds into the men's chests. Blood spurt from their bodies as they died unceremoniously. The high chief then turned towards the captain.
He waved and a young indian girl approached his side. It was considered an extreme dishonor to be killed by a woman. She pulled back the string of the bow and in a single heart, pierced the captain straight through the chest.
He stared forward in distress. The shaft of the arrow quivered with each beat of his heart. Blood slowly oozed from his lips and his head drooped down. The battle was over.
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