Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (25 page)

Cayenne was nine years old once more, listening to her parents fight. The loud words and screaming terrified her so that she hid under the covers of her little bed. Her name was being shouted—her name and the name “Annie.” Cayenne had to stop her parents’ terrible fight. She had to get up and tell them to stop screaming at each other. She struggled and mumbled, “No No!”

“Cayenne, what is it?”

She opened her eyes at the voice and blinked at a rugged dark man leaning over her. The sun shone through the trees and she didn’t know where she was. What was she doing lying on a blanket out under a cottonwood tree? And who was this virile man dressed like an Indian leaning over her? Cayenne tried to speak, couldn’t. Her whole body seemed to throb like an exposed nerve and she whimpered. Immediately, the man bent over her, holding a cup to her lips, and she gulped the water gratefully.

“You’ve been unconscious for days now. Baby, I’ve been worried as hell about you.” He smiled and the corners of the big gray eyes crinkled. He was especially handsome when he smiled.

She still couldn’t sort out her thoughts, any more than she could remember who he was. But she sensed he was part of her memories, her recent past. When she closed her eyes, she remembered the taste and the feel of a man’s arms around her, saw eagles soaring against the sun.

A spoon poked between her lips.
Canned peaches.
The juice was sweet and delicious in her fevered mouth. She swallowed automatically as he fed her, drifting back into unconsciousness. Later, she awakened enough to realize he bathed her perspiring, feverish body with cool water.

“Baby, it’s okay. It’s Maverick, remember? Don’t fight me. I won’t hurt you.” The voice was familiar, soothing. But when she opened her eyes, she saw a painted savage with gray eyes and wondered with horror how she’d been captured by the Comanche, how long she’d been here on this blanket. Why was her leg so swollen? Why did it hurt?

She drifted back into unconscious fever without asking who this “Maverick” was who never seemed to leave her side.

And finally, she half roused to noise, confusion, a blur of horses and blue uniforms.
Soldiers. What were they doing here? What was she doing here?

She only half heard the shouts, the orders, didn’t understand any of it.

“Grab the red bastard, Sergeant! Looks like we’ve caught Quanah Parker red-handed, not only with the colonel’s gray horse, but with a white captive besides!”

Lynnie stood out in front of the Billings General Store, studying the envelope clutched against her faded calico dress. Cayenne had finally answered, although it’d been a long time coming. Mr. Billings said the Indian uprising had delayed the mail.

She looked up and down the dusty street. The tiny settlement of McBride, Texas lay asleep under the July sun. Trask must still be in the hardware store, and from here, she could see Papa sitting in the buggy at the hitching rail.

Pushing her wire-framed spectacles back up her freckled nose, little Lynnie stared at the envelope from Wichita.

She smiled now, looking at Papa sitting patiently in the old buggy then back at the letter in her hands.
Would he be angry that she’d written Cayenne for help?
No, Papa never got angry with anyone. She loved Papa, that big, red-haired handsome tower of strength and courage.
Well, she thought sadly, he had been handsome until the Comanche tortured him with fire
.

She stubbed her toe at a crack in the wooden sidewalk boards. Papa loved Cayenne more than he loved anyone, Lynnie had been smart enough to figure that out. He had seemed to love her even more than Mama.

Mama
. Lynnie considered the subject for a moment as she walked slowly toward the buggy with the letter from Wichita. Hannah Adams had been a dumpy, homely woman; a distant stranger who seemed to be jealous of the affection her husband felt for his children, especially Cayenne. But even the children cared more for the big sister than they did for Mama. Cayenne and the old Mexican housekeeper, Rosita, gave them more love and caring than Mama did.

The big bay thoroughbred that young Hank Billings liked to race nickered from the hitching rail.

Nickering horses
. That sorrel horse Slade rode had nickered, too, alerting her that three men were riding up the road to the front porch. Lynnie had been cleaning windows in the front parlor that day several weeks ago. She remembered now watching the back of Papa’s head as he sat on the porch, whittling and rocking. Anyone else would have been vengeful and bitter against the Indians for what they had done to him, but not Papa. He was truly a religious man, accepting what had happened and going on with his life. Of course, he couldn’t do all the things he used to do, but his burned, twisted fingers could still carve the little willow whistles that he always carried in his pockets to give away to the town’s children.

When the trio of weather-beaten men rode up, the leader’s sorrel gelding nickered and Lynnie had frozen motionless behind the curtains like a frightened quail “gone to ground” when danger threatened. She sensed that they were not ordinary cowboys looking for work. There was something sinister and dangerous about the way they wore their pistols strapped low and tied down.

Where could she get help?
Everyone else on the ranch seemed to be taking an afternoon siesta.

Just who were those men?
They looked rough and weary. Lynnie glanced at Papa’s guns hanging low over the fireplace. By standing on her tiptoes, she might be able to reach the rifle, but she really didn’t think she could hit anything with it. Now the sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun was different. Lynnie knew it laid down such a wide, deadly pattern that she could probably get all three even with her eyes shut. But then, Papa might catch some buckshot, too. Besides, suppose they turned out to be just cowboys, even though they looked like outlaws? She held her breath, watching and listening through the open window.

The leader might have been handsome if he hadn’t had such a cruel mouth. “Well, Joe McBride! How in the hell have you been? Long time no see!”

Papa stopped rocking but it was a long moment before he spoke. “Hello, Slade. Figured you’d find my trail sooner or later, even after almost twenty-five years.”

She wished she could see the expression on her father’s face. But his tone didn’t sound happy.

The second of the trio, the unshaven, heavier man riding the dun, leaned on his saddle horn. “Now is that a Texas way to greet old friends? Here we just happen to come into town and the storekeep tells us about this big hero who got tortured saving everyone from the Injuns.”

Joe went back to whittling. “That’d be Billings. His wife and little girls were among the hostages. I’m no hero, though. Any decent man would have done the same.”

Slade laughed. “Not me. I wouldn’t let them do me like they done you. I’d rather be dead.”

“I said any
decent
man. And I’ve learned to live with my disabilities; praise God anyway.” He stroked his red beard.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” The lean man grinned, but there was no mirth in his hard, handsome face. “ ’Praise God’; now, that ain’t the Joe McBride I used to know. I don’t mind sayin’ I’m impressed!” He addressed the other two. “Trask, Mex, ain’t you impressed?”

His two partners muttered something but they didn’t look impressed. They looked mean as polecats and bored. Slade slid from his gelding and sauntered over to lean against the porch railing, his big Mexican spurs jangling as he walked.

Papa shook his head. “Never learn, do you, Bill? Someday those spurs are gonna get you killed. Anyone lookin’ to plug you could hear you comin’ even in the dark.”

Slade spat on the porch. “I ain’t worried. There ain’t many men who can outshoot me. But as I remember, you used to be one of them.”

The unshaven, heavier one, Trask, dismounted. His lame foot dragged a little as he came up the creaking porch steps, sitting on the top one. “Ain’t it something, though? Here we come into this sleepy burg on business, find out when we get here we got an old friend who’s the town hero and owns a fine ranch besides.” He looked over at the swarthy man on the buckskin horse. “Ain’t that something, Mex?”

“Si,
amigo.
After St. Joe, I never thought to see this one again.” He laughed loudly, tipping his hat back on his gray-streaked black hair.
None of them were younger than forty-five or almost fifty,
Lynnie thought as she watched from behind her curtain.
Where had they known her papa?

“I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Joe said.

Slade lit a cigar. “Joe, you hurt my feelings! We come out to visit an old friend while we wait for our business deal to go through and you say mean things to us! We just want to stay and visit for a few weeks, Joe. Catch up on old times.”

The light reflected off Papa’s red hair as he shook his head. “I’ve closed the door on that part of my life, Bill. My life changed when my wife died, leaving me with five motherless children mor’n three years ago.”

“You’re breakin’ my heart!” Trask sneered, scratching his unshaven face. “With a nice spread like this, you don’t have plenty of money? How’d you get this ranch?”

Joe hesitated a long moment. “I married it,” he said slowly, as if he were ashamed of his confession. “After St. Joe, I decided being poor was the worst thing in the world.”

“Ain’t it, though?” Slade laughed. “I thought you married Molly. She disappeared the same time you left us.”

“Molly?” Joe mused, “Don’t really know what happened to that poor girl.”

“I shoulda killed you over her,” Slade snarled through gritted teeth.

Papa’s head turned toward the man. “Bill, I told you there was nothin’ between us; never was, although I reckon she would have liked there to be. You didn’t care two whoops in hell about that innocent, sad girl. You took advantage of her; let Mex and Trask have her whenever they felt the urge; forced her to use her charms to get information from that bank teller. . . . .”

“I didn’t say I cared nothin’ about her,” Bill Slade snapped. “But she was mine and I could loan her to my friends if I wanted just like I’d loan my horse. But I don’t like anyone riding what’s mine without askin’. . . . .”

“You’re lower than a snake’s belly!” Papa’s voice shook with fury. “No wonder Molly took off on her own!”

Slade snorted and went on smoking. “So you managed to rescue that wife who’d been carried off by the Comanche?”

For a long moment, Papa didn’t answer. She heard the porch steps creak under Trask’s weight, smelled the perfume of the pink roses and the stink of Slade’s cigar when the hot breeze blew through the open window she stood by.

Papa sighed. “No. The wife I’m talkin’ about was the child of a rich neighbor who owned half the land in the county near my poor little spread.”

The Mexican swore in broken English, glaring down at Papa from his buckskin horse. “You just tell us you have no money,
hombre
. You got all your wife’s inheritance? ”

“It’s a good enough spread, I reckon,” Papa agreed in his soft Kentucky drawl. “I know you won’t believe this, but I mortgaged it all, every inch of it, every bit of my bank account to help the town ransom hostages from the Indians a few months back.”

The Mexican chewed the end of his mustache. “One of them hostages kin to you?”

“We are all brothers in the Lord,” Joe said softly.

Trask sneered. “You sound like a preacher.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was.”

The three men hooted with laughter.

“Joe, if you don’t beat all!” Slade wiped his eyes. “And then your red ’brothers’ tortured you when you delivered that ransom?”

Papa nodded. “I think the others would have kept their word. But there was one called Little Fox who seemed crazy. He would have killed me if Quanah Parker hadn’t ridden in at the last minute, forced him to set me free.”

Inside the house, little Lynnie leaned against the wall, remembering that terrible day. Cayenne and Hank had ridden off to deal with the trouble, leaving Lynnie and the younger children in the care of old Rosita. The days of waiting were long for the family.

Papa had been more dead than alive when Quanah Parker returned him later. At first the doctor had not thought he would live but Joe had been determined. Cayenne said he feared to leave a houseful of young, orphaned daughters.

Outside, Trask belched loudly. “I’m tired of all this palaver. Who’s on this ranch besides you, Joe?”

“Four of my five daughters. The oldest has gone to stay with an aunt in Wichita for a while because the old lady was sick and there was nobody to look after her.”

“That all?”

“An old Mexican housekeeper and a few gentle Mexican hands.”

“No foreman? No Texas cowhands?”

Joe shrugged. “Can’t afford any extra help.”

Slade smiled cruelly. “How good’s the sheriff?”

Joe seemed almost hesitant as he answered grudgingly. “I don’t suppose you ever lived in a place so peaceful we don’t even have a lawman.”

“What do you do about crime?”

“We don’t have any. This is a quiet, religious bunch of immigrants in this area, Slade. If you’re looking over our bank, you’ll be disappointed. As banks go, it ain’t much. Everyone in town spent all they had to ransom those hostages, except banker Ogle. He loaned his money at high rates.”

“Naw,” Slade shook his head, tossing away the cigar.

“We got something better than that. We got a friend in the telegraph office. . . . .”

“Here?” Joe said in surprise, “Why, old Mr.—”

“Naw, up in Kansas. He handles all the army telegraph messages. Something big’s in the makin’ with all those soldiers bein’ moved in to deal with Injun troubles. But as far as you and the locals are concerned, let’s just say we dropped in on this little burg to visit an old friend for a while.”

“But you just said you didn’t even know I was here until they mentioned me in town.”

Slade threw his cigar into the pink seven sisters roses by the porch. “Did I say that? Why, when I tole everyone in town you was an old friend, they was all pumping our hands, clappin’ us on the back. You’re well-thought-of in this town, Joe.”

Papa sighed. “That means a lot to me, Bill, being well-thought-of. My reputation’s all I got now.”

Trask belched again. “Wonder if over at St. Joe, they’d like to know where you are. . . ?”

“All right, all right.” Joe stood up with difficulty.
The Comanches had held his feet over a slow fire, too.

Lynnie hid behind the curtain and considered what to do. It was a big responsibility for a nine-year-old. She wished Cayenne were here. Cayenne always knew what to do. There was probably a marshal over at the county seat but that was several days ride and who would listen to a little girl? None of the poor farmers in the area could handle a gun well. She looked at the way the trio wore their pistols low and tied down, figured it would be murder to send any of the Lazy M’s poor vaqueros up against them.

The trio seemed to have some secret they were using against her father. It was unbelievable to her that her father might have done anything that was not noble and brave. What should she do? In the end, she did nothing at all because she was little and afraid.

No, that wasn’t true
. She didn’t tell the old Mexican cook or any of the vaqueros because they were as helpless as she was. But a few days after the trio came, one day when Lynnie was with old Rosita in town for supplies, she wrote a letter to her big sister and mailed it, asking Cayenne to help. Later, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. She’d heard the trio laughing about the girls in the town’s one saloon. Lynnie didn’t tell them that her big sister was much more beautiful than any of them. Such men would probably want to kiss Sister if she came home, and who knew what other things men did to pretty girls? Besides, there was a lot of trouble with Indians right now and it might be dangerous for Cayenne to try to get back to Texas.

And suppose she’d been wrong?
Suppose the trio weren’t outlaws or gunslingers, just rough old trail
hombres
who were more tough talk than action?

Lynnie looked at the answer to that letter that she’d just picked up at Billings General Store.
Was Papa going to be angry because she had written Cayenne?
No, Papa never got angry. She smiled, watching two little boys stop by the buggy and strike up a conversation with Papa. He handed them each a willow whistle and showed them how to play it.