Just Creepy: Scary Stories - True Scary Stories That Will Make You Sleep with the Lights On

Episode Date: June 21, 2024

Get Magic Mind today at:⁠ https://magicmind.com/creepy⁠ You have a limited offer you can use now, that gets you up to 48% off your first subscription or 20% off one-time purchases with code CREEPY20 at checkout. Get ready to have chills run down your spine with these true scary stories that will make you think twice about turning off the lights at night. These bone-chilling tales will keep you on the edge of your seat. So grab a blanket, turn on all the lights, and get ready for some terrifying tales that will make you sleep with the lights on. Are you brave enough to listen? Watch now and find out. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:08:06 Story 2 00:17:29 Story 3 00:35:43 Story 4 00:48:41 Story 5 Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #truescarystories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

I took the job because it was supposed to be easy. Who wouldn't want to get paid for wandering around a peaceful national forest at night? Sure, there were the usual duties like checking in on the few campers who dared to stay overnight, ensuring they followed the rules, and occasionally dealing with a bear or a curious raccoon. But overall, it seemed like a gig that would give me plenty of time to clear my head and think. I never expected that my first fundamental shift would actually be my last. Stillwood Forest wasn't large by any means and wasn't very well known. Nestled in a remote part of the state,

it was the kind of place where locals came to escape the bustle of everyday life. The forest was dotted with a few campsites, hiking trails, and a small lake that looked like it was pulled straight from a postcard. I had heard rumors about the place, of course. Every small town has its ghost stories and urban legends. I laughed them off at the time, but now I honestly wish I hadn't been so quick to dismiss them. It was an absolutely beautiful crisp night in mid-September when my ordeal began.

The forest was quieter than usual, with only two occupied campsites. I started my patrol around 1 p.m., armed with only a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, and a thermos of coffee. I always thought it was overkill to carry the radio, but protocol was protocol. The first site I visited was occupied by a family of four, a mom, a dad, and two younger kids. They were roasting marshmallows over a campfire, laughter echoing through the trees. I checked in with them briefly, exchanging pleasantries before moving on. The second site was a bit further away, closer to the lake. A lone camper, an older gentleman named Henry, I believe, had set up his tent.

He was a regular, known for his love of fishing and solitude. When I arrived, he was already asleep, the embers of the campfire dying down. Satisfied that everything was in order, I returned to the main trail. It must have been around midnight when I heard it. A low, guttural sound that seemed to come from the forest depths. At first I thought it was just an animal. Maybe a deer or a bear, but the noise was unlike anything I had honestly ever heard. It sent a chill down my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

I stopped, scanning the darkness with my flashlight, but saw nothing unusual. shaking off the unease, I continued my patrol. The sound came again, louder this time, and closer. It was a mixture of a growl and a groan, primal and menacing. My heart pounded in my chest as I turned toward the direction of the noise, my flashlight beam cutting through the night. Just beyond the edge of light, I saw movement, a shadow slipping between the trees.

It was tall and humanoid but distorted. For a moment I thought my mind was playing. tricks on me. Maybe it was a trick of the light or my imagination running wild, but then I saw the eyes. They were glowing, piercing, and seemed to bore into my soul. They were a sickly yellow, filled with an evil intelligence. The creature stepped into the light, and my breath caught in my throat. It stood over seven feet tall, its skin pale and stretched tightly over a skeletal frame. its limbs were long and spindly, ending in sharp claw-like fingers. Its mouth was twisted into a grin, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

Panic set in, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ran. I bolted down the trail, my heart hammering in my chest and my lungs burning. Behind me I could hear the creature's heavy footsteps gaining on me. I fumbled for my walkie-talkie, desperate to call for help. My hand shook as I pressed the butt. and my voice came out in a strangled whisper. This is Sam.

I need help. There's something in the forest. Something wrong. Static crackled through the radio, followed by my supervisor's voice. Calm down, Sam. Where are you? Near the lake, I gasped.

It's following me. I didn't wait for his response. I kept running, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly with each step. The path seemed to stretch forever, the trees closing in around. me. The creature's growls grew louder and more frantic. I glanced over my shoulder at some point and saw the creature was closer than I ever thought it could be, its eyes glowing with a predatory hunger.

Up ahead, I saw a faint light, the ranger station. A surge of hope propelled me forward. I burst through the door, slamming it shut behind me and locking it. My breath came in a ragged gasp as I leaned against the door, trying to calm my racing heart. I grabbed my radio again, my voice shaking. I'm at the station. It's outside. There was a pause, and Mike's voice came on, sounding laced with concern. Stay inside, and I'll be on my way. I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the door. Outside I could hear the creature moving around, its claws scraping against the wooden walls. It released a low, menacing growl that sent shivers down my spine. I glanced around the room, searching for anything I could use as a weapon.

My eyes fell on a rusty old axe hanging on the wall. It wasn't much, but it was going to have to do. Hell, it was better than absolutely nothing in my bare hands. Gripping the axe tightly, I positioned myself by the door, ready to defend myself. Minutes felt like hours as I waited. The tension in the air. thick enough to cut with a knife. The creature continued to prowl outside, its growls growing more agitated. Finally, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. Mike's voice crackled over the radio.

I'm here. Stay where you are. The creature was illuminated by the headlights of Mike's truck, and for a brief moment, I saw it. It was even more horrifying than I had realized, its skin glistening in the light, its eyes burning with rage. Mike stepped out of of the truck, shotgun in hand. Get away from the door! He shouted. I scrambled back as Mike fired a shot. The creature let out a roar and lunged at him.

Another shot rang out, and the beast staggered but didn't go down. I watched in horror as it swiped at Mike, knocking him to the ground. I knew I had to act. Gripping the axe, I flung the door open and charged at the creature, screaming at the top of my lungs. It turned towards me, eyes blazing with hatred. I swung the axe with all my might, sinking the blade into its side. The beast let out a blood-curdling scream and ran away into the sprawling forest. Pain shot through my body as I fell to the ground.

It did end up getting me a good swipe on my knee. For just a moment, everything fell silent. The creature released one final shuddering scream as it ran off into the forest. We did report the incident to the authorities and higher-ups, but the creature's body, if it had died, was never found, and I never heard anything else about it. All that remained were deep gouges in the ground and a lingering sense of dread. They chalked it up to a bear attack, but we knew the truth. To this day, I don't know what that creature was or where it came from.

I quit my job the next day, and I couldn't bring myself to set foot in that forest ever again. The memory of those glowing eyes and twisted grin haunts my dreams. Rhode Island might be the smallest state in the U.S., but don't let its size fool you. It's a treasure trove of history and mystery. As a kid growing up here, I've always felt like the past whispers to you, especially on the windswept nights of autumn when shadows stretch long and deep. My best friend Jamie and I share an insatiable curiosity for the paranormal. The tales of hauntings and ghost sightings were our favorite subjects,

especially the ones surrounding the notorious Tower Hill Road in Cumberland. It was late October, and the chill in the air was a constant reminder that Halloween was just around the corner. Jamie and I had been planning this for weeks. We were going to drive down Tower Hill Road at dusk. The road had a creepy reputation. Locals whispered about supernatural sightings and unsettling events, talking of a ghost child walking a dog, and even older stories of Native American spirits unsettled by the violence of the French and Indian War.

These stories fueled our anticipation as we prepared for the journey, wondering if we'd encounter these spirits ourselves. Are you sure about this? Jamie asked. Her voice a mix of excitement and nerves as she tossed an extra flashlight into the backseat of my old car. Absolutely, I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The truth was, a part of me doubted we would see anything truly supernatural. But another part, a bigger part,

hoped we would. As we set out, the sun was just dipping below the horizon, casting an orange glow that quickly surrendered to the creeping dusk. The closer we got to tower department, the more palpable our anticipation grew. I could feel the atmosphere change as we turned on to the road. The air grew thick, as if trying to make each breath a labor and a profound silence enveloped us, replacing the usual evening chorus of crickets and rustling leaves. This feels weird, Jamie murmured, rolling down the window slightly. She was right. Even the usual sounds of nature seemed to avoid this place.

An anxious feeling gnawed at my insides, making me hyper aware of every rustle and creek around us. We drove slowly, our headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the winding road ahead. The dense woods on either side of the road seemed to close in around us. The trees were twisted and gnarled. like the gnashing teeth of some giant beast. Their shadows danced in the dim light, creating ominous shapes that move just beyond clear sight. Did you see that? I whispered, more to myself than to Jamie,

as I thought I saw movement at the edge of the light. But when I tried to focus, whatever it was had vanished. Jamie didn't respond, her eyes wide as she scanned the dark woods. I knew she was feeling it too, the eerie sense that we were not alone. that the stories might be more than just stories. Every shadow seemed to flicker with potential movement. Every sound a whisper from the unseen. The deeper we drove into Tower Hill Road,

the more the reality of our adventure began to sink in. We were following in the footsteps of countless others drawn here by tales of the supernatural, searching for a glimpse into the unknown. But as the shadows grew deeper and the night colder, I had to wonder, were we the watchers or the watchers? As the road curved, the woods seemed to press closer, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

What were we hoping to find on Tower Hill Road? And more importantly, what might find us? As we continued our journey down the notorious Tower Hill Road, the atmosphere thickened around us, pressing in with an almost tangible weight. The deeper we drove into the shadows, the more intense the eerie sensation became. Jamie and I had barely spoken since we passed the halfway marker. our attention fixed on the dense, dark woods that enveloped the road like a cloak. Suddenly, Jamie's hand gripped the dashboard tightly.

There it is, she whispered urgently, pointing towards a massive, ancient tree that loomed ahead. Its branches stretched outward like skeletal arms, gnarled and twisting against the backdrop of the night sky. It was the kind of tree that looked like it had stories to tell, stories of the long, dark nights, and the things that whispered it. in the shadows. As our headlights bathed the tree in pale light, Jamie screamed, a sharp piercing sound that shattered the heavy silence. I saw someone, or something, she gasped, her eyes wide with fear. She described a figure, dark and indistinct, standing near the base of the tree, watching us with what she swore were glowing eyes. My heart pounded in my chest as a chill

ran down my spine. Laughing it off was my first instinct, a nervous chuckle escaping me that sounded hollow even to my own ears. It's probably just a trick of the light, Jamie, I said, though my voice lacked conviction. We drove past the tree slowly, the feeling of being watched intensifying. Every instinct in me screamed to turn the car around and leave this haunted road, but curiosity, and perhaps a bit of stubbornness, urged us forward. The shadows seemed to dance around us, playing tricks on our eyes as we peered into the woods. At times it felt as if the night itself was alive, moving and watching. Jamie was silent, her knuckles white as she gripped her seat.

She kept glancing back at the tree, convinced that whatever she had seen was following us. Can you hear that? Jamie's voice broke the silence, her tone tinged with fear. It was then that I heard it too, a low, mournful howl that seemed to resonate through the still air. It was quickly followed by the faint ghostly laughter of a child. The sounds were fleeting, disappearing as quickly as they had come, leaving us in an even deeper silence that seemed to echo with their echoes. The temperature in the car dropped, and I could see my breath fogging up the windshield.

Jamie and I exchanged a look, a mix of fear and fascination. What were these sounds? Were they the spirits the locals had spoken of, or was our imagination getting the better of us? As we neared the end of Tower Hill Road, the oppressive atmosphere suddenly lifted, as if we were passing through an invisible barrier. We emerged from the shadowy road, both of us trembling slightly, overwhelmed by relief, yet still haunted by what we had experienced. We pulled over to the side of the road, needing a moment to collect ourselves and process the journey. Had we really encountered the paranormal, or had the night and the stories played tricks on our minds?

Looking back, Tower Hill Road was more than just a stretch of pavement through the Rhode Island countryside. It was a journey into the unknown, where the past and the supernatural intertwined in the most unsettling of ways. Hey everyone, I just wanted to chime in and let you know about my journey with Magic Mind. I'll be taking you through a 30-day challenge to see just how much this little shot can boost my mental clarity, performance, and overall health. So, let's dive into our very first update, day three. So, what is Magic Mind? It's not just your regular energy booster. It's a mental performance shot packed with newatropics, adaptogens, and a bunch of vitamins

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There comes a time when you have to take action. When you have to choose your own destiny. Watch the new Hulu original series, The Testaments. Streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney Plus for bundle subscribers. Terms apply. Perhaps one of the most significant events in U.S. history took place way back in March of 1840. It ignited 30 years of brutal, unrelenting guerrilla warfare in America's southeast, and the subsequent effect on the national psyche lies somewhere between immeasurable and astronomical.

It is a tale of desperation, hope, greed, and revenge, all steeped in the incomprehensible man-made horrors of the Old West. This is the story of the Great Comanche Raid. In early 1840, times were tough for the tribe of Native Americans known as the Comanche. Several years of war with their rival, the Apache, as well as a catastrophic outbreak of smallpox, had severely weakened the numerous Comanche war bans. Another year of fighting might see their people wiped from the earth, so instead they sued for peace. Three Comanche emissaries rode out to the newly Texan city of San Antonio to meet with city officials, and were told that if the Comanchee returned a dozen Anglo-American captives unharmed,

then peace would be forthcoming. The emissaries agreed to return with captives in just over three weeks, but it was a promise they couldn't keep. Throughout their history, the Comanchee were never a single unified people, despite being united by language. There were at least 12 different subdivisions of the tribe, operating almost entirely independent of one another, as well as up to 35 independent war bands, with shifting loyalties to the larger groups.

On top of that, the Comanchee differed from their fellow Native Americans in that there was no official power structure within their war bands. If a young Comanchee warrior was skilled and charismatic enough, he could defy the wishes of his tribal elders and lead a raid against just about whoever he wanted. The Comanche were prolific raiders. The word Comanche is taken from a Ute word meaning, He who attacks me all the time, and it was through this culture of war and raiding

that they acquired so many prisoners in the first place. Yet their division presented the peace emissaries with a huge problem because the Anglo-American captives were spread out among the different groups and war bands. Convincing each to give them up proved impossible. Relinquishing a captive meant losing a valuable source of slave labor, meaning their captives wanted ample compensation in exchange for their release. In the end, the emissaries were only able to negotiate the release of a single American prisoner

within the allotted time frame. On March 19th, the day of the Texans' deadline, a Comanche delegation of 12 chiefs and 53 warriors returned to San Antonio. They had come dressed for the occasion. Some wore long braids woven with coyote fur and decorated with brightly colored feather, Others. Others wore huge buffalo horn headdresses with their faces painted a garish, sanguine red. It made for a magnificent sight, but it was one the residents of San Antonio found terrifyingly intimidating. When the Comanche met with Texan officials, one of the warriors dismounted,

and then dragged a filthy, frail young girl from the back of his horse. 16-year-old Matilda Lockhart had been captured two years earlier while working at her cousin's farm, and her return was supposed to be a cause for celebration. But when the emaciated, mutilated girl was revealed to a waiting crowd, her appearance had the opposite effect. Mary Maverick, the woman who helped Nurse Matilda back to health, said that she was utterly degraded and could not hold up her head again. Her head, arms, and face were full of bruises and sores,

and we were horrified to discover that her nose had been burned off. All the fleshy end was gone, and a great scab had formed with both nostrils wide open and denuded of flesh. She told a pious tale of how dreadfully the Indians had beaten her, and how they would wake her from her sleep by sticking a chunk of fire to her flesh, especially to her nose. Texan authorities were quick to question Matilda on the health of her fellow captives. She confirmed that at least a dozen of them were still alive, including four of her relatives, and claimed that various war bands would only release them if larger

compensation was offered. This slightly contradicts the explanation of the Comanchee peace delegates, who rightfully blamed the lack of unity among their people. Only one warband had agreed to release a prisoner, and while the others were open to negotiations, no agreement had been reached thus far. It was only then that the Comanchee revealed the price for each captive's release, and it constituted a huge amount of food, medicine, ammunition, and blankets. While some of the Some argued that this was a simple miscommunication, Texan authorities viewed it as a slap in the face. In their eyes, the Comanchee had brazenly defied the terms of their agreement, and they sought to detain the peace delegates until the remaining American captives were released.

The Comanchee were led to a one-story building next to the town's jail, known as the council house. Here, the warriors and their chieftain sat on the floor, as was their custom, while the Texans sat on chairs. A translator was then told to inform the Comanche that they were under arrest, but to the Texans' surprise, he refused. The visibly anxious translator claimed that if he did so, the Comanchee would attempt to fight their way out. The Texans responded by placing several armed militia members in the room before reissuing their order to the translator.

He did as they asked, then promptly fled. Upon learning that they were detained, the Comanche began to reach the translator. for their weapons. The Texan militiamen replied by leveling their shotguns and muskets while warning the warriors against belligerents, but their caution fell on deaf ears. At once, the Comanchee rushed their would-be captors with knives and tomahawks drawn. The militiamen opened fire, wounding and killing several in their opening salvo, but they were quickly overwhelmed in the blood-drenched chaos of close quarters fighting. The Texans didn't stand a chance. Some accidentally shot each other in the confusion, while the battle-hardened Comanchee warriors simply cut them to

ribbons. They moved like lightning, slashing and stabbing and screeching their war cries, and within seconds the Texans were dead. Outside the council house, the remaining Comanchee heard the blood-curdling cries coming from inside and descended into a panic. Many believed that the Texans had set a trap for them and began firing arrows at just about anyone who came into view. At least one unarmed civilian was killed when an arrow cleaved its way into their skull. They died where they lay, with the smell of gun smoke in their nostrils and Comanchee war cries in their ears. Once they had cleared a path of escape, the Comanchee began to flee, but were pursued by a number of militia reinforcements. The militiamen's fire was wild, and a number of Texan civilians were killed in the crossfire.

On the other hand, the Comanche's arrows were as precise as they were deadly. By the time a Comanche warrior was around 12 or 13 years old, they were such skilled archers that they could shoot horseflies out of the air at short ranges. What's more, a highly efficient method of shooting meant a young Comanchee could fire off three arrows in little over one and a half seconds, compared to the 30-second reload time of 19th century muskets, or the limited capacity of relatively cumbersome revolvers, which were considered to be the cutting edge of military technology. Take the example of a Texan officer by the name of Lieutenant Dunnington. At the outbreak of hostilities, Dunnington pulled his pistol and aimed it at the head of a Comanchee female.

She was able to shoot an arrow with such force that it passed through Dunnington's chest and buried itself into the wall behind him, all before Dunnington could even pull the trigger. The stunned officer was able to reply in turn and blew the woman's brains out before collapsing to the ground. His final words, having mistook the woman for a young male warrior, were,

I killed him, but I believe he's killed me too. By the late afternoon, when the Comanchee found themselves completely outnumbered and hopelessly surrounded, the decision was made to surrender to the Texans. 35 of their number had been killed in the fighting, while the remaining 29 were taken to the town jail as prisoners. Yet their capture had come at a heavy cost. Seven Texans had been killed outright. including a judge and the town sheriff, with dozens of others being treated for serious injuries.

These injuries were treated in part by a German surgeon by the name of Dr. Weidman, whose story is so fascinatingly horrifying that it's worthy of note. Dr. Weidman happened to be in San Antonio on the orders of Tsar Nicholas I of Russia, who had assigned him the task of studying the relatively new Republic of Texas. As thanks for his services, the San Antonio authorities offered Weidman ample financial compensation, but he proposed a considerably more gruesome form of acquittal. Instead of money, Weidman requested the bodies of two slain Comanche warriors, with the intention of returning them to Europe for study.

His wish was granted, and two days later, he boiled the bodies in a highly toxic chemical bath to strip away the flesh and organs and secure the preserved skeletons. Then, to dispose of the foul-smelling liquid remains of the two Comanche, Dr. Weidman decided to pour the mess into San Antonio's only supply of drinking water, causing untold suffering to the unsuspecting townsfolk. Dr. Weidman went from Hero to Villain in a little over 48 hours, and once his heinous act of pollution was discovered, he was promptly chased out of town. Meanwhile, back at the town's jail, a single Comanche prisoner was released on the condition

that he relay a message to the rest of his people. If all 15 American prisoners were released unharmed within 12 days, the surviving Comanchee peace delegates would be allowed to live. If not, they would be executed. Exactly one week later, a Texan woman by the name of Mrs. Webster stumbled into San Antonio with her three-year-old child in tow. Some reports state that Mrs. Webster had escaped from 19 months of Comanche captivity, but if she made it to San Antonio alive, it's only because her captors allowed her to.

She was questioned on the fate of her fellow captives, but was unaware of their condition. Days went by with no sign of the Comanchee or their prisoners, and then, finally, on the day of the deadline, another band of Comanche rode into San Antonio with three Texan captives in tow. One of them was a young boy named Booker, son of the previously freed Mrs. Webster. He too was asked what the condition of the remaining captives were. The story that he told was beyond horrifying. When word of the council house shootout reached the Comanche, they were enraged. The wives of the slain warriors demanded vengeance,

and when it was granted to them, the methods of torture they conjured up were the stuff of nightmares. One Texan captive was slowly roasted to death over an open fire. Another was slowly dismembered, with the Comanchee cauterized. the amputations to prevent blood loss and prolong their victims suffering. Booker Webster had also heard of another captive Texan, who was beaten, bound, then laid next to an ant hill. The Comanchee then sliced off the prisoner's eyelids and watched as the ants devoured the soft tissue of their unprotected eyeballs. Other methods of torture employed by the Comanchee involved the use of hot coals. Victims sometimes had white-hot pieces of firewood stuffed into their

mouths, or were tied down before it was heaped on top of their stomachs and genitals. As you can imagine, the news horrified the Texans, who flat out refused to release their own Comanche prisoners. They were later moved from the city jail to a U.S. Army encampment at the head of the San Antonio River, but escaped in dribs and drabs over the years that followed. In the aftermath of the councilhouse shootout and their chief's permanent detention by Texan officials, the Comanchee hungered for revenge. The war chief of the Penateca band, a man named Buffalo Hump, began riding between neighboring Comanche groups to converse with their warriors. At each stop, he made the case for a unified act of vengeance, a single brutal repost that would

avenge their fallen and captured brethren. Over the course of that summer, the young war chief gathered up a raiding party of between four and five hundred Comanchee warriors, and they began raiding the smaller settlements between Austin and San Antonio. With each raid, the war party grew stronger and stronger, until finally, they were ready for much larger game. On August 6th of 1840, citizens of the fledgling settlement of Victoria awoke to a harrowing sight. Almost 600 heavily armed Comanche warriors resplendent in their martial finery whooped their war cries as they galloped towards Victoria. They had been caught completely unprepared, and they paid for their lack of diligence in blood. The Comanchee swept through the town, slaughtering as they went, and when

the opportunity presented itself, they scalped their fallen victims with glee. The quick and the fortunate were able to barricade themselves inside homes and businesses, while those with rifles took pot shots at the Comanchee from windows and balconies. The warriors killed around two dozen civilians looted numerous stores and warehouses, then vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared. Two days later, the Comanchee arrived at the small port of Linville, northeast of modern-day Port Lavaca. Thanks to the advanced warning from Victoria, the vast majority of Linville citizens were able to escape unharmed. They simply boarded the boats docked in the town's harbor and sailed out to a distance the Comanchee were unwilling to pursue them. Yet this meant that they

were forced to watch as their homes were smashed, soiled, and looted by vengeful warriors, who carted off the modern-day equivalent of $9 million worth of goods over the course of the next few hours. The jubilant warriors relished their moment of victory. They dressed themselves in a colorful cavalcade of Texan clothes, drank themselves legless on looted hooch, and took a horrifying amount of pleasure in torturing their captives to death. Only six of Victoria's citizens had been unable to escape in time, one of whom was a man named Hugh Oren Watts, who had delayed his escape to retrieve a family heirloom. Hugh probably heard stories of the Comanche's brutality, yet it's likely he didn't know exactly what that entailed. But thanks to a serious error of judgment,

he received a full and comprehensive education on what it meant to be a Comanchee prisoner. It was standard practice for warriors, as well as other Great Plains tribes, to inflict unspeakable horrors on those they defeated in battle. But this is not a moral judgment, and those who employed such barbarity cannot truly be described as evil. In a society where courage was prized above all, being tortured to death offered a warrior the opportunity to prove himself worthy of the title. To die with fortitude was a thing of great honor, and since he would be shown no mercy, he would show none in return. It's not clear how Hugh Watts died on the day of the Linville raid, but it's safe to say that it would have been agonizingly slow and unimaginably painful.

At the time, Linville was the second largest port in Texas, and capturing such a large town was a momentous occasion for many of the Comanchee warriors. Yet, opting to savor the moment proved to be their downfall. One of the great military strengths of all Native American tribes was their incredible mobility, and the success of a raid rested not just on the speed and surprise of the, attack, but also the urgency of the withdrawal. In sacking and burning Linville, the Comanche had given the pursuing Texas Rangers enough time to coordinate their forces and plan an attack. Volunteer companies from all over East and Central Texas converged on Linville, and they eventually

tracked the fleeing Comanchee to a place called Plum Creek, not far from modern-day Lockhart. Around 60 Comanchee warriors were killed in the first few minutes of the Rangers' ambush, and the remainder were forced to flee with only what they could carry. There's no doubt that thanks to the element of surprise, the pursuing rangers could have run the bloody war band down and slaughtered them, but as they rode through the Comanchee campground, they made a startling discovery. Thousands of dollars in silver bullion were discovered in the packs of several mules. The rangers were faced with a choice, do their job, or succumb to their greed. And they chose the latter. Whether or not this was a deliberate ploy by the ever-cunning Comanchee, it's not for me to say,

but the fact remains, the ranger's greed was the warband's salvation. And thus marked the end of the great Comanche raid of 1840. The cycle of violence would continue for decades afterward, with hideous injustices, betrayals, and atrocities committed by both sides. The morality of westward expansion and the philosophy of manifest destiny will be debated in scrutiny. until there's no one left to talk about them. But when talk stops and the sun sets over the land that's yours and mine, we can take comfort in the relative peace and security that most of us enjoy today, because coexistence is always preferable to killing.

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Intro rate first three months only, then full price plan options available. Taxes and fees extra. See full terms at mintmobile.com. A text says, you're on my mind. A bouquet from 1-800 flowers says, you're my everything. Heartfelt moments belong in the real world, not just your phone. For 50 years, 1-800 flowers has helped millions of people make memories that'll last a lifetime, with gifts they'll cherish forever.

Their expertly curated arrangements and gift baskets shipped nationwide with a 100% satisfaction guarantee. Don't wait for the next big moment. Make it when you visit 1800flowers.com slash Spotify today. That's 1800flowers.com slash Spotify. My name is Ryan. I'm from Southern Oklahoma and I'm half Native American on my mom's side. My grandpa, who was born in the year 1912, was full-blooded Comanche. Much like many of the elders from his time,

he had a lot of stories to tell. These weren't his own stories. They were passed down from his grandfather in turn, from a time before the Wild West was tamed, as they say. He used to tell us some pretty wild tales sometimes, of how our ancestors would talk to spirits using peyote cactus, or how they could shoot nickels out of the air with their bows and arrows. Most of Grandpa's stories were either interesting or insightful like that,

but every so often he would tell us something a little darker. Now, I'm no expert in Native American history or culture, so I'm not going to pretend to be able to speak for other tribes, but I know that a lot of tribes were mostly peaceful hunters and gatherers, who only went to war to defend themselves and their land. The Comanchee were not one of those tribes. Basically, a bunch of other tribes forced the Comanchee out of Wyoming and south into the Great Plains of Texas and Oklahoma. This is because we sucked at everything.

We couldn't fight. We couldn't farm. And when we got to the plains, life sucked even harder because the whole place is basically one big, grassy desert. But then the Comanche got horses from the Spanish, and because we didn't have much else going for us, we decided to get really good at riding horses. This gave us a huge advantage over just about everyone, and because we had a huge chip on our shoulder, we decided to get a little payback on all the other tribes. We beat the Apache, who had been bugging us ever since we arrived on the plains.

all the way down into Mexico and Nevada. I mean, we were kicking it hard and taking names all the way from Kansas to Corpus Christi. But that's about where I stopped being proud of it. I know it's an overdone bit to be like, Wars aren't glamorous, y'all, but in the case of the tribes of the Great Plains, it's a gigantic understatement. Yes, we stuck it to the settler colonizers for like 100 years,

but we did it in some pretty disgusting ways. Nowadays wars have rules, but back then, it was anything goes, and that whole scalping thing really is just the tip of a very gory iceberg. Kids were routinely killed, women were made into slave wives, whole families were tortured until they just straight up died. The settlers did some evil stuff to us too, but it's like the Comanche made war crimes into an art form, but that's just the way things were back then.

Like I said, anything goes. All that nasty stuff's. said was, hey, don't mess with us, or you'll get this too. But still, it makes me glad that I was a 70s kid and not an 1870s kid, you know? Now anyway, like I said earlier, every so often grandpa would break out a horror story for just us boys. It makes me cringe a little to think about it now, but back then, those were my favorite kinds of stories to hear from him. Call it that morbid curiosity that all teenage boys have. But I was really into hearing about our people's badass past, and if I thought that it was an appropriate moment, I'd bug him until he told me one. He told me a few

humdingers over the years, let me tell you. But the one he saved for Halloween when we were all hitting our mid-teens had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. So, picture the scene. It's like the 1850s or whatever, and the war between my ancestors and the white settlers is at its peak. We'd raid some homestead, steal a bunch of horses, and then ride off into the plains to make our escape. Inevitably, we'd end up getting followed by a bunch of soldiers or Texas rangers who planned on getting revenge and taking back the horses. Now, on paper, getting chased like that isn't ideal. But the reality is, us Comanche enjoyed it when the Texans followed us out into the plains. See, we traveled much lighter and had our pick of the best horses,

so we'd always end up escaping. Then, as the raiders wandered around the planes running out of food and water, we'd just hide out somewhere and watch them. After a few days, the rangers would be really low on supplies, and you've got to remember, these dudes would ride for days at a time trying to catch up to us. They weren't just in and out real quick 20-minute adventures, as they say. They rode for hundreds of miles at a time.

But then, on their final night's camp before heading back to civilization, Comanche warriors would sneak up to their horses in the middle of the night, and stampede them off into the plains before the Rangers knew what hit them. A really skilled group of warriors would stampede the horses through the Rangers' camp, wounding and killing a few of them while robbing them of their transport in the process. The result would be a few dozen stranded rangers facing a seven-day walk with no food or water if they ever wanted to see home again, and by the sounds of things not many of them did. Grandpa said that a lot of the time, the Comanche wouldn't even waste bullets or arrows on the stranded rangers.

They just watched them on horseback from a distance, taunting and laughing at them. Some men collapsed from heatstroke and died where they fell. Their comrades were forced to keep going, probably looking back in time to see their friends being scalped and butchered. I can't even imagine how horrifying it must have been to see that, and to wonder how long it would be before it was your turn to die. Dehydration killed the next bunch, and when the group of rangers was in a weak enough state, the Comanches flew in, finished them off, and then went off looking for their horses to add to their collections. But every so often, some ranger or soldier proved much tougher than the others,

and could be seen wandering back home alone, long after their fellow rangers had died or deserted them. These were the guys who actually earned a little respect from the Comanche, but unfortunately, not their mercy. In fact, it became a kind of game to mess with the final survivor. The Comanche would do things like pour water on the ground about 100 meters ahead of them, and then watch as they rushed to suck up the mud it produced. They'd do other stuff like ride up real fast and then lean over to one side and slap the lone survivor around the head before laughing. I asked Grandpa why the ranger didn't shoot him,

but he explained that they'd be too weak to hold their rifles by that point. all they had left were swinging a knife or hatchet, all pathetically, while the Comanchee screwed with them. The point is, it became a game to do stuff like that, and more often than not, the Comanchee ended up killing this lone survivor, stripping their corpses, and then riding off to do it all over again once they were good and ready. Anyway, in this one story, my Comanchee ancestors are trailing this lone surviving Texas Ranger, waiting for him to drop his rifle so they can swoop in to start messing with him. He'd been going on no food or water for a long time,

kind of going along through the grass into the featureless horizon, longer than the warriors had ever seen any lone survivor go before him. And then, finally, he spins around, takes a wildly inaccurate shot at the Comanche's direction. The bullet whizzes harmlessly past them, and the Comanche start laughing and taunting the Ranger, But then the ranger starts laughing back at them. Confused, the warriors ride in closer, then draw down with their lances on him. Most others in his place would have tried to run or fight.

Heck, some even took their own lives to save them from what they knew was coming. But instead of doing any of that, the ranger tears open his shirt, points to his heart, and with a big smile on his face, starts goading them to kill him and get it over with. The Comanche didn't understand what he was saying, but with a gesture like that, it didn't need any translating. The Comanchee looked at each other, impressed by the man's bravery in the face of death, but as they did so, the man shoved aside their lances and carried on his march along the plains. Obviously the Comanchee chief followed the man on their horses, watching an amusement as he continued laughing and joking with himself,

trying to find out if the man was brave or if he'd simply lost his mind. One of the Comanchee leaned in with their lance and stabbed the man in the arm, deep enough to draw a heavy amount of blood. The man didn't cry out in pain. Instead, his laughter intensified. He then tore off his shirt and began cupping his hand under the wound, letting his own blood pool in his palm before he gulped it down in a mad, desperate thirst. Now, to us, this is a clear sign as any,

that the guy had completely lost his mind, but drinking blood wasn't nearly as extreme to the Comanche as it is to us. If they were in a bad spot and couldn't find any drinking water, it wasn't uncommon for the Comanchee to drink a little tortoise or jackrabbit blood to prevent them from keeling over. So to them, having this guy drink his own blood wasn't a deciding factor and if he was crazy or not. I can already hear most of you asking why this guy's mental health has anything to do with how the Comanchee were going to treat him. Well, if a person was really brave, then it was an honor to kill them and take their scalp. But if they were crazy, the Comanchee believed that they had bad magic about them. It was no honor to kill someone

barely capable of defending themselves, and whatever badness was in their victim might jump to them. To put it simply, the Comanchee didn't have any set religion or anything like that. They had their customs and traditions, which spirituality tended to be a person-to-person thing. Some warriors prayed to lucky trinkets for protection. Others worshipped pet crows. But everyone agreed that there was a kind of magic in the world, sometimes working for good, sometimes for bad. Still unsure whether the lone survivor was mad or not, one of the Comanchee rode forward, intent on taking a trophy. He scalped the survivor, standing up, slicing around the base of his skull before pulling away the bloody mess of hair and flesh. Again the man just laughed louder

and harder when another might have just howled in agony. Once the warrior was done, the lone survivor turned around, saw his own bloody scalp flapping in the wind, and began to clap. As you can imagine, it took a lot to freak out a hardened Comanche warrior, but the display the scalped and bloodied survivor was putting on was unlike anything they'd ever seen. It took a minute or two before they figured out what they wanted to do with him, but in the end, they decided that they had to break him. This guy was human, and a weak European one at that, they thought. He might have been acting strong like a Comanche, but they were going to prove that he wasn't all that. They jumped off their horses, knocked the guy to the ground, then tied him up and staked him down.

The Comanchee then got a small fire burning, stripped the dude naked, and laid him near the fire, legs spread, with the fire near his. You know what. was to drag him closer and closer to the fire, legs wide open until his junk was burned to a crisp, and even the most incredibly courageous of warriors broke at the threat of that. But once again, the shirtless, blood-soaked, scalpless survivor just laughed, and this time he starts nodding his head as if to say, do it, do it. And this was the last straw for the Comanche. If this guy didn't care about his junk getting roasted, if he actually wanted it, then there had to be some

something deeply wrong with him, and the Comanche took that as some very bad magic. To kill a person with that kind of magic in them, and the effect could be deadly, not just for the warrior who did the deed, but for their entire extended family too. With that being the case, the warriors just left him there and then rode off before the guy's bad magic could follow them. The last they saw of the guy, he was walking back home, naked as the day he was born, scalpless and covered in blood. And for around a quarter mile, they could still hear him laughing to himself.

Of all the stories my grandpa told me, that's the one that creeps me out the most, because it's not really about evil spirits or demons, or any of the messed up things the Comanche or the Texan Rangers did. It's about how war can make a man lose his mind to the point he's not even really a person anymore. It's like he went out thinking that he was fighting monsters and then became one along the way.

On October 28, 1827, in Crawford County, Illinois, a woman named Lucinda Parker gave birth to a baby girl she named Cynthia Ann. Had she remained in Illinois, Cynthia might have led an unremarkable life. However, around the age of nine or ten, her parents made a monumental decision to follow their extended family into the heart of Mexican-ruled Texas, to a place now known as Limestone County. There, the Parker family constructed a heavily fortified compound consisting of several blockhouses surrounding a central defensive citadel.

It was christened Fort Parker, and within just a few short weeks, the entire Parker clan had been joined by a bevy of other Anglo-American settlers who dreamed of peace, piety, and prosperity. By the spring of 1836, the parkers had tilled half a dozen plots of land and were busying themselves in preparation for farming. The work was endless, the heat oppressive, and the land nearly barren, but for a time the parkers were happy, healthy, and free, until one day a man collecting firewood began to feel as if he was being watched. Over the weeks that followed, more and more of the family began to complain of that same creeping feeling, as if the nearby woods were haunted by unseen apparitions. In response, Fort Parker's security contingent was doubled with at least two men watching the walls at any one time. Then, finally, at the break of dawn on May 19, 1836, one of the watchmen began

to raise the alarm. The terror in the young man's voice was heard by each and every one of Fort Parker's inhabitants. As the armed settlers scrambled to man the fort's crude battlements, they immediately understood his fears. A huge war party of Comanche and Kiowa warriors was galloping across the plains towards the fort. But just before passing into range of the settlers' muskets, the party halted and began waving a huge white flag. The settlers held their fire, hoping that the warriors had simply come to talk or trade. John Parker knew otherwise. The Comanche and their Kiowa allies had quickly worked out that a large piece of white cloth

had some kind of magical effect on the Anglo-American settlers. Upon waving one in their direction, a heavily armed, well-defended group would sometimes completely let down their guard, making them ripe for the slaughter. It only took one or two instances of this feigned surrender tactic before outrage swept across the prairie, and John Parker knew all too well that it was a trap. Cynthia's father, Silas, proposed that the settlers strike first, claiming that five good men would be enough to defend the fort if properly supplied and positioned. His brother Benjamin disagreed. The 48-year-old knew how skilled the Comanchee were at scaling enemy fortifications and argued that the defenders

would last just minutes before being overrun. According to Benjamin, the best that they could hope for was to play dumb, attempt to negotiate, and buy the women and children enough time to mount an escape attempt when the assault finally came. At that, he volunteered himself to be the doomed emissary. As the Parkers watched an unarmed Benjamin walk out of the fort towards the mounted Comanchee, They knew it was the last time they'd ever see him alive. Yet, they honored his last request, gathered up a few essentials, and prepared to flee into the nearby woods. Silas took charge of the defenders, instructing them to open fire as soon as Benjamin had been killed. They fought like lions, and a handful of Comanche were killed by their musket fire,

but they were drops in a torrent of violence that spilled over Fort Parker with terrifying speed. Their final stand bought their families a few minutes, but for some, it wasn't enough. Samuel Frost and his young son were cornered by the Comanchee as they attempted to flee. Frost was forced to watch the scalping and execution of his young son before he too was mutilated and murdered. John Parker's wife was almost out of the fort when she turned around for one final goodbye. Instead, she witnessed a trio of Comanche warriors castrating her husband while he wailed in agony. The sight was too much for her to bear. She collapsed to her knees, broken and sobbing, and was captured by the Comanchee. Cynthia's mother and her two youngest siblings slipped away with the help of

an armed teenage boy. Cynthia herself was not so lucky. She was quickly surrounded by Comanche warriors, picked up, and then thrown on to one of the horses. Then after looting and burning the fort, the warriors departed. While it's indisputably unfortunate that Cynthia was captured, her age meant that she fared far better than most Comanchee prisoners. In the aftermath of a Comanchee raid, grown men were invariably tortured, killed, and then scalped. Older women were violated by groups of warriors, then tortured and executed in similar ways to the menfolk,

while younger women were sometimes taken as slaves. Babies and small children were also killed, but when it came to children between the ages of 9 to 13, the Comanchees made an exception, Kids of that age were ripe to be integrated into the tribe, first as slave labor, but eventually as fully fledged members of the tribe if they proved themselves worthy. Cynthia, being around nine or ten years old at the time of her abduction, had been picked out by the warriors for this exact purpose. Although her life among her family's killers was initially traumatic, Cynthia's resilience marked her out as having massive amounts of potential. As I've mentioned, Cynthia's first few months as a Comanche prisoner were extremely rough.

If her experience was anything like other captives of that period, she was most likely treated with extreme contempt by the other females of the tribe, while being used as a source of menial slave labor. But after learning the Comanche language and standing up for herself on a few occasions, she gained the respect of her peers and began to slowly increase in standing. She was given more and more freedom to do it. more freedom to do as she pleased, so long as she partook in some of the more arduous camp tasks. She was taught to tan the hides of slaughtered buffalo, a gruesome process that involved

painting the raw skin of the buffalo with its own brains. She learned quickly, and her output soon rivaled those of even the most experienced Comanche tanters. Depending on the source, she was given the name Naurua, meaning that which has been found. Within just a few short years, Cynthia Ann was not only given free reign of the camp, but a great deal of responsibility. Comanche bands would typically migrate approximately every two weeks, and the women were responsible for all aspects of the move, Cynthia included. The fact that she was given responsibility over other people's belongings speaks volumes to the trust and respect the Comanchee bestowed upon her,

and she was soon partaking in all parts of Comanche womanhood, all except one. It's believed that around the age of 13 or 14, Cynthia was introduced to a warrior who went by the name of P. Nuna. The pair became fast friends, and after P. was promoted to war chief, he proposed to her. Although it was traditional for a chieftain to have several wives, Pee refrained from taking another wife, and the couple were said to be deeply in love and very happy together. They would go on to have three children together, a boy named Peso, a daughter named Prairie Flower, and a second son whom Cynthia named Kwanah.

To Cynthia's knowledge, they were her only living family, and she was every part the loving Comanche mother to them. But Cynthia was also mistaken. Several members of the Parker family had miraculously survived the massacre at Fort Parker, and once they were back on their feet, they set about searching for their missing relatives. Decades passed, and time after time, they were told that Cynthia was most likely deceased,

but the Parkers were also acutely aware of the Comanche's habit of integrating children into their war bands, and they never gave up on looking. Finally, in December of 1860, more than 26 years after the raid on Fort Parker, a group of Texas Rangers tracked a band of Comanchee warriors back to their camp, a camp that was rumored to hold live Anglo-American captives. As dawn broke on December 18th,

Ranger Captain Sol Ross sent a detachment of 20 men to position themselves behind a chain of sandhills overlooking the camp, the goal being to cut off any potential escape route. The remaining 40 Rangers then crept up the crest of an adjacent hill and attacked the completely unprepared Comanche in unison. It was an incredible achievement. It wasn't often that a people so tactically masterful as the Comanchee were caught unaware, and the result was nothing short of devastating. The entire war band were either killed by the attacking rangers or picked off by the blocking force atop the sandy hills. At one point, a Texas ranger found himself face to face with a terrified Comanche woman.

He aimed his revolver at her and prepared to defend himself, but hesitated when he noticed that the woman held a baby in her arms. Having decided to take the woman prisoner, the ranger began barking rudimentary orders at her. gesturing wildly for her to sit down. But as he did so, he noticed that unlike her fellow Comanche, this woman had pale blue eyes and lighter sandier brown hair. The ranger asked the terrified mother in clear, plain English, who are you? And in reply, she said, me, Cindy, Cindy Ann. By 1860, the story of the massacre at Fort Parker had gained international infamy.

The Texas government had named a county after the family, with Cynthia. Cynthia Ann being a household name in all four corners of the state. The Ranger who found her must have immediately recognized who was sat in front of him and marked it one of the most momentous recoveries in Ranger history. Captain Ross rushed Cynthia back to nearby Fort Belknap, then summoned her Uncle Isaac to deliver the good news. At first he didn't recognize her, but the family resemblance slowly became evident, and Isaac was stunned to realize the girl was his long-lost niece.

To say that Cynthia's entire world had fallen apart would be a huge understatement, and it wasn't the second time she had endured such a calamitous event. She wasn't exactly thrilled to have returned to civilization, but she also acknowledged Isaac as a relative and agreed to return to Isaac's home in Weatherford. Shortly afterward, the state of Texas compensated Cynthia by granting her 5,000 acres of land and an annual pension of $100 for the next five years. appointed her Uncle Isaac as her legal guardian, wishing her a long and happy life, then left her to decompress.

By all accounts, Cynthia tried her best to reintegrate back into Anglo-American society, but adjusting to such a radical culture shift proved a feat too difficult to accomplish a second time. Her uncle Isaac would sometimes catch her performing intricate rituals involving fire and tobacco smoke, and he once asked her the purpose of such things. In broken English, she told him that they were prayers, prayers for the husband and children she'd lost, and prayers that she could finally be happy with her blood relatives. At one point, a man fluent in the Comanche language came to visit Cynthia in the hopes

of learning more about her time living with the tribe. Initially, Cynthia stared daggers at him, having long grown tired of being gawked at by curious white men. But when he spoke to her in Comanche and invited her to talk, she quite literally threw herself at the man's feet. In a voice that trembled with tears held back, she replied, Yes, let us talk. For Cynthia Ann, her time with the linguist was perhaps the happiest in recent memory. She shared a great deal with the man, not because she enjoyed his company, but because she could finally communicate herself properly. When they tried to have dinner, Cynthia playfully

chastised the man, stealing away his cutlery as she told him. We can eat later, but now we talk. Perhaps there was a slim chance for Cynthia, but it died along with her daughter, Prairie Flower, who succumbed to influenza in 1864. The grief of losing her final child drove her over the edge, and she began to engage in a series of grisly Comanchee grief rituals. She would slash at her breast with a razor-sharp knife, dribble the blood onto some tobacco, and then inhale the smoke it produced when put to flame. She did this for hours on end, on a daily basis until she finally made the decision to stop eating. After wasting away for the better part of a month, 43-year-old Cynthia Ann Parker passed away in March of 1871 and was buried in Foster Cemetery

near the small town of Poir, Texas. Cynthia Ann's story, as well as that of the wider Parker family, is perhaps one of the most horrifying, heartbreaking, and under-explored in all-American history. But not all of their lives had had such tragic endings, and as an epilogue, I'd like to touch on the life of Cynthia's younger brother and fellow Comanchee captive, John Richard Parker. Much like his sister, John was raised as a Comanchee, but his upbringing was radically different to that of Cynthia Anne. Comanchee boys between the ages of around 9 to 14 led lives that would inspire envy in their modern-day counterparts. They had absolutely no responsibilities, no chores, no formal education. They just played around with their bows and blunt arrows, rode around on horseback,

and generally did as they pleased. They did this day in and day out for years, and by the time they were young men, they were phenomenal archers and master horsemen. John spent six years with the Comanchee from the ages of six to 12 years old, but was ransomed back to Texan authorities in 1842. In contrast to his sister, 12-year-old John made an attempt to reintegrate himself back into Anglo-American society, and soon ran away to rejoin his Comanche war band. The Comanche were no doubt delighted with his decision, and even the most skeptical of warriors would have been impressed. The boy had deserted his own blood relatives to rejoin the war band, a demonstration of loyalty tantamount to an oath of allegiance. John would have no doubt

spent the next few years preparing to become a fully fledged Comanche raider, and by the time he was 18, he was participating in devastating raids deep in the heart of Mexican territory. This means John would have participated in all the torture, murder, and violation that came with successful raids, and by the time he was a veteran warrior in his mid-20s, it's likely he'd killed hundreds of soldiers, civilians, and rival Apache. Yet it was on one of these raids that John almost met his end, not by the tip of some Apache arrow or Mexican bullet, but by an invisible, killer responsible for more death than any weapon of war. After one particularly profitable raid, John's warband was on their way back to Texas when he began to feel ill. Before long, he was too sick

to ride, and with a rudimentary medical exam, his fellow warriors discovered that he was suffering from smallpox. The Comanchee were well aware of how devastating the disease was, and John understood that he had to be abandoned in order to protect his brethren. It's likely he accepted this fate with a quiet stoicism, as would be expected of him as a warrior. But to alleviate his suffering, his Comanche comrades ordered a captured Mexican slave girl to stay with him until his death. Miraculously, not only did John survive his bout of smallpox, but his impromptu caregiver failed to contract it in turn. As she nursed him back to health, the pair fell deeply in love, and after returning the girl to her family, John proposed and they were married. Incredibly, John would later return to the United States at the outbreak of the

Civil War. His motivations for doing so were unclear, as he most likely felt no loyalties to his former home. But he soon signed up with a group of Texan Confederates and rode north to battle the Union. His tactics, no doubt, would have suited his unique Comanchee skill set, and his commanders used him to devastating effect. Shockingly, John survived the civilized. Civil War and returned to his home in Mexico following the collapse of the Confederacy. The loot he came home with made him a very wealthy man, and he was able to purchase his own ranch on which to raise a family. He lived to the ripe old age of 85, and died peacefully of natural causes sometime in 1915. John's life and death provided a remarkable silver lining to the violence

and grief of the raid on Fort Parker. He is one living proof that the Comanches were not monsters, merely a nomadic primordial civilization shaped by centuries of deprivation, forced migration, and intertribal warfare. His story, like that of his sisters, underscores the complex layers of cultural and personal identity, shaped by the tumultuous events of their times. Both siblings, in their own ways, navigated and survived the harsh realities of frontier life and tribal conflicts, leaving legacies that challenge simple narratives and invite deeper reflection on the history of the American West. Don't forget to check out Magic Mind. You can find the link in the description to get started today.