Cheyenne Captive (19 page)

“I think if you did, I would kill you for it!” His voice had a hard, uncertain edge. “If you think you could lie in the arms of another man and laugh at the savage you had toyed with—”

She kissed his mouth to stop his words and felt very small and fragile in his arms that could so easily crush her, but she was not afraid. “I will never leave you,” she said again. “And when you finally believe me and trust me, our love will be even better.”

For a few minutes, they lay in each other’s embrace. Then Iron Knife sat up regretful. “We must return to camp.”

He stood and helped her to her feet while she yawned sleepily. He tugged her shift on for her and caressed her with his hard hands as he pulled it down her body. She helped dress him, too, touching and stroking him as she helped him put on his clothes.

Finally, they started down the path to the village. But she tripped in the darkness and would have fallen had he not reached out and caught her. Then he swung her up in his arms and started off in long, easy strides.

“I can walk!” she protested sleepily, resting her face against his chest.

“You didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.” He grinned down at her with white, even teeth. Carelessly, she brushed her mouth against his nipple as he carried her.

His arms tightened on her. “Stop that,” he commanded, “or we will spend all night on this hillside!”

She obeyed and let him carry her through the now quiet camp. Only a horse snorted and stamped its hooves as they settled down in the warm buffalo furs and he drifted off to sleep clasped in her arms. But she lay sleepless a long time, wondering at this conflict within her between the militant feminist and the purring female who surrendered everything to rejoice in being dominated by this uncivilized male animal.

Perhaps what she had been battling against all this time was the unfair treatment of soft, civilized white men who could force her to do their bidding but never make her pleased to yield. Iron Knife adored her; she had no reason to rebel anymore. She was fulfilled and satisfied as she drifted off to sweep. She was not Priscilla, her mother, being afraid and dominated. Summer could stand as an equal with her man and it was a wonderful, free feeling.

It was the next morning that more trouble came to the camp. Summer and Iron Knife sat in front of their tepee. Dogs barked, people shouted. There was a flurry of noise and confusion as a group of short, very fierce-looking Indians rode into the encampment. Summer stared at the group and especially at the white man who rode with them. He was dressed Mexican-style and he looked rough and evil. The man stared back at her, tipping his sombrero in a leering grin. She realized then that part of his right ear was gone. The remainder’s edge looked ragged as if it had been chewed off in a fight.

Iron Knife sat beside her, repairing arrows as the men rode past.

Summer stared at the riders with a tremor of dislike, thinking some of them were the darkest, most savage Indians she had ever seen. “Who are they?”

“Comanche and their allies, the Kiowa.” Iron Knife paused and looked at the group. “Some of their leaders are coming in from Tejas, which the whites call Texas. They have fought the Texans without pause for many years. Now that Texas is part of the United States, they war against the United States, too.”

Fascinated, as if she had just seen a poisonous snake, Summer studied the swarthy man who rode with the Comanche. He dressed like a Spanish vaquero with a wicked knife stuck in his belt. Looking back at her as she stared after him, he tipped his sombrero again and smiled widely.
His teeth were sharp and prominent like a lobo wolf’
s, Summer thought uneasily. She felt a shiver of warning go up her back.

He wants me
, she thought as she reached out and put her hand on Iron Knife’s arm for reassurance.
That man looks at me like he already imagines raping me
. She made a quick decision to stay away from him while he was in camp.

The man twisted in his saddle to keep his eyes on her and ran his tongue over his lips in an obscene manner. His eyes seemed to strip the clothes from her body.

Whoever he was, she thought with a shudder, he had rape on his mind; her rape.

Iron Knife felt her small hand tighten on his bronzed arm. They both looked after the group riding down through the tepees.

She bit her lip. “That man, he looks white. Why does he ride with the Comanche?”

“Comanchero.” Iron Knife’s lip curled in distaste. “That is the one they call
El Lobo,’ the wolf. He leads the Comanchero out of their stronghold in the Sangre de Cristo mountains west of Texas.”

They watched the men riding down the line of tepees toward the Council lodge.

“Comanchero?” she questioned. “Is he Indian? He looks Spanish.”

Iron Knife stared after the group as they dismounted, dislike and disdain in his tone. “Comancheros are sometimes Spanish, outlaw Anglos, mixed bloods of every kind. Scum and bandits, that’s what they are. They have traded with the Texas tribes for many years now, supplying weapons, bullets in exchange for stolen horses, cattle, women.”

Her pale blue eyes widened in surprise. “Women?”

He nodded. “They’ll take children, too. The Comanche take captives on raids and trade them to the Comanchero.”

“What do the Comanchero do with the captives?” She looked like a small, curious child as she watched the men talking to some of the Cheyenne men in front of the Council tepee. In the background, he heard the camp crier riding about, announcing the visitors.

“Some of them are ransomed if the families can raise the money. The Comancheros sell others to the Mexican silver mines to use as slaves. The pretty ones end up in whorehouses or someone like El Lobo keeps an occasional one for himself.”

Summer shuddered. “What a horrible thought.”

He put his big hand over her small one. “I never told you everything that was discussed at Council the night your fate was decided. Some thought we should trade you to the Comanche to be sold off to the Mexicans for use in a whorehouse.”

She looked at him. “Would you have let them do that?”

He studied her tenderly. “Did you not see my hand go to my knife that night? I was ready to fight my way out of that Council and take you with me.” He smiled mischievously. “But maybe you would have been one of the lucky ones. Instead of ending up in a whorehouse, you might have become the mistress of a powerful Comanchero like El Lobo.”

Summer wrinkled her nose. “Him! He looks filthy! I’ll bet he even smells bad.”

Iron Knife laughed as he stood up and stretched. “You will never have to get close enough to find out. They will only be in camp a few hours. There is disagreement among the Comanche and Kiowa whether to try to make a treaty with the whites or keep fighting them. Probably they want to see what their allies, the Cheyenne and Arapaho, think.”

He put away the arrows he had been repairing. “All the warriors will be expected to put on their best and come to the meeting.”

“The women are not invited, as usual?”

He pulled her to her feet, slapped her rump as men do to a woman whose body is familiar to them, liking the feel of her bottom. “You can sit and peek under the edge of the tepee if you wish, if you don’t mind watching a bunch of old men smoke and beat around the bush for hours. It’s not polite to get right to the point at a Council meeting.”

She giggled and rolled her eyes. “No, thanks. It’s going to be a hot day for late September, and I don’t think I want to sit in the heat when I don’t speak enough Indian or border Spanish to follow what’s going on. You tell me about it later. I think I’ll go down to the river and swim.”

“Don’t go by yourself,” he warned. “You never know what will happen out here in the wilderness.”

“Okay,” she agreed as she ambled off toward Pony Woman’s tepee.

Iron Knife called after her wistfully. “What you’re doing sounds like more fun. As soon as the meeting’s over, I’ll join you in the water. There’s a private little nook around the bend where we could spend the rest of the afternoon.”

She turned around and laughed, still walking backward. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

He winked at her. “Do you?”

With a sigh, he went inside to dress for the Council meeting. He was not looking forward to sitting through the Council with their fierce, southern allies. The warlike braves could only be here for one reason.

He was right, of course, he thought wearily as he sat cross-legged with the others in the big tepee watching the old men smoke. As the discussion began in border Spanish and sign language, Iron Knife fought an impulse to yawn. It wasn’t polite to get right to the point and the old ones wanted to remember every battle they had all fought together as allies since they had made peace with each other in 1840.

Frowning slightly, he studied the swarthy Comanchero who sat cross-legged next to the Kiowa leader, Aperian Crow.
He shouldn’t be here
, Iron Knife thought as the pipe was passed toward the Spaniard,
he is not Indian, not even in his heart.

“Wait!” Old Blue Eagle made a dissenting motion and the pipe paused in the hands of old Bull Hump, the Comanche. Disapproval etched itself on the old Cheyenne’s face. “This white.” He nodded toward the Comanchero. “This hombre is not Indian, he should not be allowed to smoke.”

“I deal with your allies a long time,” the man protested. “They share their food and women slaves with me.”

“But you are not Indian,” Clouds Above said, “and we do not trust you.”

The swarthy Spaniard glared at Iron Knife. “I see a half-breed in the Council meeting. Am I not as welcome to smoke the pipe as he?”

Scalp Taker frowned. “We have never thought of the one you mention as white. In his heart, he is as Cheyenne as any man of us.”

Iron Knife gritted his teeth and stood up, anger and indignation in his soul.

The chiefs nodded at him, giving him permission to speak.

“My father was the great chief, War Bonnet,” he retorted with a scornful curl of his lip, “and I am a Dog Soldier, a carrier of the
Hotamtsit
. How dare you question my right to sit in this Council! We have a right to question you because you sell out your own kind for money. I say you are no better than the carrion Pawnee and Crow who work as scouts for the bluecoats, accepting white man’s money in exchange for leading the soldiers to Indian villages!”

He heard murmurs of agreement among the others and many heads nodded as Iron Knife sat down.

Old Blue Eagle spoke. “What the brave Dog Soldier says is true. A man who would sell out his own kind for profit is a man without a soul, a man who is evil.” He looked toward the visiting Comanche and Kiowa chiefs. “Why did you bring this Comanchero among us?”

Old Bull Hump shook his gray braids. “I would not have brought him, for, like you, I trust him little.”

Little Buffalo, the Comanche with the reputation for a ruthless hatred of whites, stood now and touched his chest. “I brought this man with us. We have come to talk with our Cheyenne and Arapaho brothers about uniting to attack the whites although not all Comanche want to take the war trail.” He looked scornfully toward old Bull Hump.

The fierce Kiowa leader, Aperian Crow, spoke. “If you decide to join us in fighting, the Comanchero will be useful in supplying weapons and bullets as he has in the past. He asked to come along, smelling out profit as a buzzard sniffs rotten meat. But the Cheyenne are right.” He gestured. “This is a meeting for Indians.” He looked toward El Lobo. “I say the Comanchero should wait outside, since he will have no part in the decision-making.”

Little Buffalo nodded in agreement. “I have no love for the Comanchero. Any man who would sell weapons to kill his own people is beneath contempt, but useful, nevertheless. Since I brought him, I now say to him, ‘Go wait without and amuse yourself. If we reach an agreement needing your services, we will call you back in.’”

The Comanchero stood up, anger dark on his face and went outside the Council tepee.

Iron Knife sighed as the pipe began its rounds again. The Comanche and Kiowa were wasting their time here, he thought. The Cheyenne who wanted to fight had gone off to join the renegade Dog Soldiers and he knew the rest of the clan felt the same way as old Bull Hump. They wanted no more trouble with the white soldiers who were itching to attack Indians. The Cheyenne only wanted to be left in peace.

His mind had wandered and now came back to the discussions. Aperian Crow had stood and was speaking. “. . . because we have always fought the Texans and Mexicans,” he said, “and probably always will, since they hunger to own all of the land west and even our Sacred Mountains near the river they call the Red. Now, the Texans have made peace with the Great White Father whose tepee is in that place called Washington. I do not understand exactly what has happened, but somehow the Texans are no longer a separate people but part of the tribes of the United States.”

He sat down and the hot-blooded Comanche leader, Little Buffalo, said: “We hear rumbles of news sometimes from the Comancheros and the traders. They say, soon the whites may fight among themselves over whether any of them will be allowed to own the black people. If this should happen, it would be a good time for the Indians to start their own war against all whites. If the soldiers are busy in the east fighting each other, there will be few of them on the plains to keep us from reclaiming our land.”

Old Bull Hump stood as the younger man sat down. For a long moment, there was no sound save the crackle of the Council fire as all waited respectfully for that great old chief to speak. “All here know my reputation. I have fought the whites for many years. When they write their history, my name will be mentioned many times.” He paused and looked around into each face. “Each man here knows my many coups and scalp counts. But I say, even if the whites do fight each other over the black people, we still cannot win. My clan is tired; many have died. I have come along to hear the talks, but I tell you now I will not lead my people on any more war parties.”

He hesitated so long that no one was quite sure if he was finished.

“What are the Great Chief Bull Hump’s intentions?” Clouds Above asked politely.

“My clan has been invited to meet with the soldier chief for a peace parlay here in the Indian Territory at the springs near the stream the whites call Rush Creek. Even now, my band awaits me there while visiting and trading with the Wichita village nearby. I say ‘no’ to war. I will go back to my band and await the coming of the soldier chief.” He spoke with tired finality as he sat down.

Aperian Crow rose to speak again, goading the Cheyenne and Arapaho to join him on the war path, but Iron Knife knew before the discussion was over that the Kiowa was wasting his time and the Comanchero would make no weapons sales here. Those two leaders might continue to fight the whites, but Iron Knife’s people only wanted to keep their peace treaty and be left alone to hunt and live in dignity.

His mind strayed as the discussion neared its ending. It was sweltering in the Council tepee and his mind went again to Summer and he smiled slightly, thinking of her laughing and splashing in the cool river, thinking of joining her in the secluded nook to swim and make love....

As Summer had turned and walked away from Iron Knife, she had not really minded that she could not attend the Council. The day was warm for late September and she would really rather play in the water. Walking down to see if Pony Woman wanted to accompany her to the river, she felt so lighthearted, she actually skipped a few steps. The freedom of the Indian encampment was unbelievable to her.

If Summer had been in Boston on a lazy afternoon like this, she thought, she would have been wearing a whalebone corset cinching her waist so tightly she could hardly breathe. In addition, there would have been long pantaloons, a corset cover, numerous petticoats, and tight shoes. Her afternoon would have been spent doing needlework, playing the harp, or returning a social call on other young ladies as bored and idle as she was herself. The most exciting happening would be class at Miss Priddy’s stuffy school or riding in an open carriage around Boston, carefully escorted, of course. She had done a lot of shopping because it was something for a rich girl to do, although she cared little for clothes and possessions. There were no sports available to a debutante that were acceptable except walking, riding sidesaddle, or the occasional society ball.

Last year, she had tried to go to work in Father’s business and the scene that ensued almost put him in the hospital. Respectable women did not work, he informed her icily, and he would be laughed out of Boston society if Summer came to that male enclave of his office and attempted to work in his business. Unfortunate widows and unmarried ladies generally took the charity of a brother or married sister to survive. If they were educated, they might be lucky enough to land a spot as a governess. Loftily, Summer informed him that all would change when women got the vote. His outraged shouting could be heard all the way out to the front sidewalk, or so the family coachman told her later.

Yes, it was a relief to have the freedom of the Indian encampment,
Summer thought as she went to find Iron Knife’s aunt. She found her but that chubby lady made it plain by gestures that she was curious to sit beside the Council tepee and watch the proceedings. Pretty Flower Woman, Two Arrows’ new wife was scraping a hide to make a new dress and shook her head about going to the river. Not knowing who else to ask, Summer went down to the river alone and watched several women and children playing in the shallows. Her ankle still hurt a little and she favored it when she walked. Summer found the private little nook she thought Iron Knife had mentioned. It was secluded with no one else close by. She took off her buckskin shift, hung it over a limb, and waded naked out into the blue water. Its surface was placid and reflected her image like a mirror.