Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (24 page)

The seven-year-old sister, the one who carried a boy’s name, came in from the kitchen.
Cee Cee, I can’t get my hair braided and tie the ribbons,
too, she complained.

Come here,
I’ll tie the ribbons.
Steve’s hair was more fiery even than Cayenne’s own. Cayenne finished braiding the long pigtails and tied the ends with bright ribbons.

Five-year-old Gracious stuck her freckled pug nose around the corner.
Sister, I can’t get my sash tied.

Cayenne sighed heavily, praying for patience.
Aren’t you ever gonna learn to tie your own sash, Gracie? Come here, I’ll do it! We’re already late, girls. The picnic was supposed to start at noon.
She tied the bright ribbons of Gracious’s sash around the little girl’s plump waist.
Ribbons. Brightly colored ribbons . . .

In her mind, she looked through the lace curtains of the parlor window and saw the old mule standing patiently hitched to the buggy by the front porch.

“We’re going to be late for the picnic,” she whispered, and a hand reached through the maze of multicolored fragments of dreams and stroked her cheek.

“Sure, baby,” a voice whispered, and soft lips brushed her face. “Sure, baby. Take it easy.”

She must hurry her little sisters if they were to arrive at the picnic before the sack races and the games were over.
In her memory, Cayenne went to the foot of the stairs.
Lynnie! Angel! My stars! What’s keeping you?

The two children sauntered down the stairs, baby Angel sucking her thumb as usual.

Cayenne frowned.
Angel, don’t suck your thumb. You’ll have crooked teeth! Do you want teeth so crooked you could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence?

Angel smiled and it was hard to scold her. The dimpled red-haired toddler had cost Cayenne’s mother her life.

Cayenne brushed flour off the front of her own simple blue calico dress.
Now, if everyone’s ready, let’s go to the picnic!

They never got to the picnic. As the five got into the old buggy, the young Billings boy galloped into the yard on his father’s fine-blooded thoroughbred. The bay was foaming and lathered, the half-grown boy shouting and weeping.
Oh, Miss Cayenne! Something terrible happened! Where’s your pa? My Lord, where’s your Pa?

A chill of apprehension went through her as the young man dismounted hastily.
He’s not here! What’s the matter, Hank?

Injuns, he choked out. A war party surprised the picnic . . . carried off the women and kids. . . .

What? What did you say, Hank?

He gestured wildly.
I had gone off in the woods to—
His face colored.
Well, you know. I saw it all, Miss Cayenne, saw the Indians ride in, gather them all up. It was awful! They was all cryin’ and a screamin’.

Oh my God!
Her hand went to her mouth, and she looked down at her curious little sisters.
We’ve got to tell the men, get help! I—I don’t know what do! What kind of Indians were they, Hank? I didn’t think we were having Indian troubles again.

The lanky boy wiped his eyes with smudged hands.
I—I don’t know, Miss Cayenne; Comanche, I think. The leader had funny, sharp little features like a fox and long arms. They got my ma and both my little sisters! Your pa always knows what to do and mine’s clear across the county at a barn raisin’—

Cayenne chewed her lip, thinking.
What do you suppose they want?

That leader saw me just as they were riding out. I couldn’t even move; just stared back at him, waiting to be killed. Then he said something to me in English. . . .

What, Hank ?
She grabbed his arm.
Tell me what he said!

His thin face wrinkled in thought. Something like. “White women pay for my sister. Bring ransom by sundown or we kill.” Oh, Miss Cayenne, what do we do?

But Cayenne was already in the process of unhitching the buggy so she could ride the old mule.
I’ll get Papa, he’ll know what to do. You get on into the settlement, alert as many men as possible. How much ransom we got to get and where do we take it?

He named a sum and a place. Cayenne’s green eyes widened in shock.
Hank, that’s a lot of money! None of us has that much except banker Ogle. The Indians must gonna plan on using it to buy guns from the renegade Comancheros over in the Santa de Cristo mountains!

He turned back to his lathered, wheezing horse.
What’ll I tell everyone, Miss Cayenne?

She considered a long moment.
Tell them to gather at the bank. Maybe we can mortgage our ranches and things to get the money.
She looked around the Lazy M, thinking it wasn’t worth much for farming. West Texas dirt was so poor it’d take three people to raise a fuss on it.

Cayenne pulled the harness off the mule, hitched up her dress, and swung up on its bony bare back with nothing but a lead rope looped around its muzzle.
Hank, you get everyone gathered up and I’ll ride to get Papa.

Should we get help from the law, Miss Cayenne?
She snorted in disgust.
What law? The Yankee carpetbaggers have disbanded the Rangers and we don’t even have a sheriff here. . . .

Never needed one,
the boy said.

Hank was right. The peaceful little community didn’t even have a name and its residents were religious, non-violent farmers recently arrived from Europe or back east. In strange contrast, the community preacher, her papa, was one of the best rifle shots in Texas. She thought of the fancy One-in-a-Thousand Winchester rifle hanging with the little sawed-off shotgun over the fireplace.

She looked at her four little sisters who watched wide-eyed.
Lynnie, get everyone back in the house,
she ordered,
while Hank and I ride for help! And Angel, she sighed, quit sucking your thumb!

“Ride for help,” Cayenne whispered, twisting restlessly on the blanket. “Got to get help.”

She had to ride for Papa so he could do something about the hostages and the Comanche war party.
She tried to struggle to her feet so she could go get Papa, but someone held her down.

“Got to get help,” she muttered, and when her eyes flickered open, she realized the war party had gotten her, too. She stared into the gray eyes of a rugged Indian who held her in his arms.

“Easy, baby,” the half-breed said, “take it easy. I don’t know where you think you’re going, but you’re gonna have to stay right here until that swollen leg goes down.”

Gray eyes. Now why would a Comanche have gray eyes? But she remembered that Quanah Parker, the half-breed chief, had gray eyes. This man didn’t look like Quanah. But he was a warrior. Had she been
captured?

She looked up into his war-painted face, staring a long moment at the jagged white scar down his left cheek, and struggled again. “Got to get Papa,” she whispered. “War party hit the church picnic. . . .”

“Sure, baby, sure.” He kissed her forehead and she closed her eyes with a sigh, wondering how a member of the war party had captured her.

Funny, she remembered riding all the way on that old mule without getting caught by Indians, remembered getting the message to Papa.
The men had assembled at the bank but no one had very much money. Everyone gave all they could raise, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, Papa had mortgaged the ranch with that tight old banker to raise the ransom.

She remembered standing in the street, listening to the discussion.
Who was going to bell the cat?
Now that they had the money, who was going to be brave enough to ride into that Indian camp a few miles away?

Papa took off his hat and ran his hand through his thinning red hair. Joe McBride a was tall, handsome Scots-Irishman with eyes as bright green as Cayenne’s own. He closed his eyes and seemed to pray a minute in the silence, and when he opened them, he said,
“I’ll do it. I’ll be the one to go.

A sigh of relief swept through the crowd but Cayenne elbowed her way through.
Not you, Papa, not you! None of those hostages are related to you!

Joe’s green eyes regarded her thoughtfully.
Cee Cee, all mankind are brothers, and as minister to this little flock, it’s my responsibility as much as anyone’s.

She caught his arm.
No, Papa, she argued desperately. What if you don’t come back? If something happens to you, how can I raise the girls alone?

He put his big work-hardened hand over her small one on his arm.
God takes care of his own,
he reminded her.
Where’s your faith, daughter?

And so big Joe McBride had carried the ransom. Even though he was one of the best shots in Texas, he went unarmed out to meet the Comanche so they would know they weren’t being tricked. Cayenne had gone with the men who waited at a safe distance. Joe had thought he’d ride in, hand over the money, gather up the hostages, and leave. It hadn’t worked out that way. The hostages were freed, but the war party kept Joe and tortured him. All afternoon the huddled little group of whites could hear him scream. And scream. And scream.

She could hear the screaming now. She had to help him! But as she struggled to get up, that gray-eyed Indian held her, put his hand over her mouth. “Hush, baby!” he whispered, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Hear me? For God’s sake! Stop that screaming! If there’s a war party within a mile, they’ll hear you!”

No, that wasn’t her screaming, that was Joe! Couldn’t he hear it, too?
She closed her eyes, too weak to fight the big half-breed who held her down. Her head pounded and echoed.
No, that wasn’t the pain in her head, that was the drums.
The drums had beat a rhythm while the warriors danced and tortured her father. She remembered the echo of the drums and her father’s screams. Finally, they had released him, sending him back more dead than alive. Quanah Parker himself had delivered her half-conscious, tortured father.

She remembered now the big gray-eyed half-breed, Quanah, and how he and a band of warriors had brought Joe back thrown unconscious across a pony.
This is not my doing,
he said.
One of the other clans did this! I stopped them from killing him, but I came too late to stop the torture. He is a very brave man, this big man with the fire-colored hair!

Papa! Papa!
Cayenne sobbed and rushed forward, horrified at his injuries. The small group of farmers looked at each other and at her helplessly as the well-armed, large group of Indian warriors wheeled their ponies and rode out.

They had done terrible things to him, and as she stared in shock, he moaned aloud.

I hate them
, Cayenne wept. I want revenge.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth like the Bible says!

Joe managed to whisper something and she bent over his burned, tortured body to hear him.
No
, he gasped.
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I shall repay . . . Leave it to the Lord, Cayenne. . . .

Joe McBride was a hero after that and he deserved it. The settlers named the little settlement in his honor—McBride, Texas. The gentle farmers helped with the Lazy M ranch chores while Joe recovered as well as he ever would from his injuries. His faithful vaqueros stayed on for very little money. Life went on as usual . . . until that day three months ago when a letter came from her mother’s cranky old aunt Ella, who was dying in Kansas.

Cayenne hadn’t wanted to go, but Papa had insisted that even a grouchy old lady needed a little love and caring at the end, and besides, Cayenne could take that part-time teaching job there in Wichita.

Wichita.
Cayenne remembered now standing in the street reading a letter.
She had to get back to Texas. The letter said there might be trouble, something about three men showing up at the ranch a few days before. Bill Slade, Trask, and a Mexican.

Now where would she find a gunfighter who might help the McBride family against that trio if they turned out to be more than just saddle tramps?

The Red Garter Saloon. That’s where cowboys and gunfighters hung out here in Wichita.

What was his name? Oh, yes, Maverick Durango; a tough half-breed Comanche with gray eyes. If she’d known he was Comanche, she wouldn’t have asked.

She had nothing to lure him with to accompany her back to Texas but her innocence
. She must make him want her. She had kissed him out there on the sidewalk in front of the Red Garter.
He had said,
“No, Cee Cee, here’s the way it’s done.”

Then Maverick had kissed her; her very first kiss. She remembered the way he had lifted her up off her feet, kissed her expertly, thoroughly. She would never forget the heat of his mouth covering hers, the feel of him sweeping her up in his arms.

“I love you, Maverick,” she whispered. And from somewhere, she heard a voice, felt a hand stroke her hair. “I love you, too, baby. By damn, I love you, too!”

She imagined the trio of men the letter had described. They had to be dangerous and they knew her papa. Joe McBride never talked about his past. When she was little, she remembered that often he went to the little community cemetery and stood for hours, staring at a grave.

Once she had asked whose grave it was.

Joe shrugged. “No one you would know, child.” Tears came to his green eyes. “A part of my past. Let’s just say my heart is buried here.”

“But nobody can live without a heart, Papa,” she said.

Joe sighed and swallowed hard. “Oh, yes, you can. You just learn to live with the pain where it was torn out.”

And then when she was about nine years old, something had happened. Yes, it had been maybe ten years ago. She wasn’t sure what it was. It had something to do with a boy who came to call on Papa. That night, there was a terrible fuss between her parents. They had awakened her with their shouting. After that, Papa visited that grave no more and the atmosphere seemed forever strained between her parents, even though Hannah suddenly began producing more children—four in the next seven years. The last one, little Angel, had cost Hannah Adams McBride her life. What made the girl Cayenne know that her mother feared to lose Joe, that she bound him to her with the host of children?