Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (33 page)

She reached out and put her arms around his neck. “I am a captive, Maverick,” she said softly. “I love you.”

Would she love him when he killed Joe McBride?
He knew the answer. “Naw,” he shook his head, trying to disengage himself. “You’re just grateful, that’s all.”

She wouldn’t let him pull away so he quit trying, enjoying the womanly scent of her, the velvet feel of her body against his. While she’d been sick, he’d missed the scent of vanilla on her skin again. He’d grown to love that perfume. “Sugar cookies,” he said aloud without thinking.

Her small, freckled face was very close to his. “What?”

He felt himself flush, looking down at her. “When you wear vanilla, I always think of sugar cookies.”

She laughed weakly, pulled him down, and kissed his lips. “Nibble on me a little, then.”

“Are you loco? You’ve been sick. . . .”

“I’m not now.” She reached up, kissing him again, thoroughly, expertly. He suddenly remembered her inept innocence out in front of the Red Garter Saloon. God, had she learned fast! He relaxed, letting her pull his face down to hers, kiss the corners of his mouth.

When this was all over, when they reached their destination, she was going to hate him, maybe try to kill him. He imagined not having her in his arms ever again, not having her nibble at the corners of his mouth. But he had sworn and he had a duty to a dead woman. He wouldn’t think of that now. He would think of the way her hands caressed his dark nipples, the way her small pink tongue slipped between his lips.

“Stop it,” he murmured. “We’ve got no business doing this. . . .”

But she didn’t stop kissing him, and he found his hand traveling down her wet skin, stroking her small breasts into hard peaks of excitement, caressing her body all over.

“Baby,” he muttered, “we shouldn’t. . . . We shouldn’t. . . .”

She opened her lips, sucking his tongue deep into her mouth as her hand went down to clasp his throbbing manhood.

He moaned aloud at the touch of her hand on his erect hardness. “Baby, no.”

“Baby, yes!” She whispered and pulled him on top of her, wrapping her thighs around his hard hips. His war paint smeared against her creamy skin as his lips went all over her body to kiss and caress. He winced as she dug her nails into his bare back when he sucked her nipples into twin mounds of erect pinkness, running his tongue down to the hollow of her navel. “Take me, dearest, take me!”

Then he took her very gently, in a slow symphony of lovemaking that rose to a crashing crescendo of desire and fulfillment. And he had never felt such happiness in any other woman’s arms.

Later, as he lay next to her, propped up on one elbow, looking down at her sleeping face, a disturbing thought came to him. Suppose she had figured out that he was on a mission of revenge. Would she lure him with her body, try to tantalize him into changing his mind? Could this innocent-looking girl have some dire plot and plans of her own? Suppose she didn’t really care about him? Suppose she was only trying to soften him, keep him from hunting down Joe McBride?

He didn’t like that thought, but he suddenly realized it might possibly be true. Hadn’t he used her to his own ends? Finally, he, too, slept, one arm thrown protectively across her small form. They rested there through the heat of the next day and made love again.

“Maverick,” she whispered, “never leave me . . . never leave me.”

He remembered his mother’s words. “I’ll be with you in spirit, always,” he said softly, “even if I can’t be there in body.”

She blinked up at him. “What does that mean?”

He swallowed hard. “Nothing, I reckon. I don’t mean nothing.” He kissed her again to hush her and they slept the afternoon away in each other’s arms.

By dark, she was much stronger and he considered that they must ride on under cover of darkness. What was worrying him was that distant signal smoke he had seen on a far horizon the night before. Did the Comanche know exactly where the pair was?

Before he could carry his troubling thoughts any farther, he thought he saw a flicker of light on a far horizon and sat up.
Was that a signal fire far away on the bluff? Was a war party even now watching the couple?
Had they been watching all this time as Maverick had ridden through the darkness?

He stood up, a chill running down his back in the hot air as the sound of a bird call came to him, a bird he knew was not found in this area. A war party. Had he saved her from the army patrol only to lose her to a bunch of torturing Comanche?

He didn’t tell her his fears as he awakened her. They rode out under a velvet black sky, a bright gold moon that Texans called a “Comanche” moon. Maverick shivered a little as he thought about it. Comanche were one of the tribes who liked to raid at night when the moon was big as a gold piece so they could see their way into the Texas settlements and the lonely ranches.

He had been on two raids himself against the
tahbay-boh,
the whites. As a half-grown boy, he’d accompanied his dead father’s younger brothers. But Annie had had her ultimate revenge. Although his skin was dark, the boy called Eagle’s Flight had a heart that was as white as his mother’s pale skin. On both raids, he had seen women hiding under hay in the barns, ignoring them so as to spare them while the warriors fired the houses, torturing the hapless cowboys who had fallen into their hands.

The couple rode southwest. The hot night breeze caressed his bare skin, for he rode dressed as a warrior would for battle, wearing only moccasins and a breechcloth, he and his horse painted for war.

He looked over at the proud, brave girl who rode beside him, loving her, wanting her. It was bitter irony to him that she was Joe’s daughter. For that reason, she was lost to him because of his duty, his vow. He looked up along the rim of low buttes, saw the signal fires, and knew they were being watched. Maverick would die to protect his woman but it might not be enough. No one could outride or outrun a Comanche war party if they took up the pursuit. His best weapon was deception, trickery.

“Cayenne,” he said as they slowed the horses to a walk to rest them, “you’re a very brave girl, but you’re going to have to be braver.”

He saw the puzzlement on her beautiful face as she looked at him. “Why?”

He memorized all the features of her face as he studied her so he could commit them to memory for all the lonely years that lay ahead of him without her. “I’ve got to tie you up. Don’t look over at the horizon,” he whispered, “just keep looking ahead.”

She did as she was told, but he caught the sudden tension in her profile, her voice, as he leaned over, tying her hands behind her back with the rawhide thong from his gun belt. “What is it, Maverick? What in God’s name are you trying to tell me?”

“There’s a war party watching us from the ridge.”

He heard her gasp but she recovered, kept staring straight ahead as they rode. “How—how long have they been there? What do we do?”

“I spotted them nearly an hour ago, but there’s no point in trying to outrun them.”

“Why haven’t they attacked?”

He shrugged. “Still trying to figure out who we are, what we’re doing riding through this desolate country that belongs to them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them clearly silhouetted against the Comanche moon on the ridge. Bile pushed up into his mouth as he remembered some of the things he had seen them do to captives.

“Maverick, I—I’m scared.” But she kept riding, looking straight ahead.

“So am I, baby, so am I.” His hands were wet with cold fear and it seemed to him he could smell his own terror along with the scent of wildflowers, sweating horses. The leather of his saddle creaked rhythmically as the gray picked its way across the barren, rough ground.

“Cayenne,” he said, “they’ll be coming down here to intercept us any minute. With any luck, they won’t be from my old band, won’t know me from the past.” His hand went up to touch the jagged white scar on his dark war-painted face.

“And if we aren’t lucky?” She looked over at him.

“We won’t worry about that now.” His hand went to the pistol on his hip. He would never let them take her alive, he vowed silently, trying not to think of the other woman whose torture he had ended. “If they don’t recognize me, maybe I do look enough like Quanah to pass myself off as his brother, Pecos, and that’s why I’m riding his gray horse.”

“Suppose they’re from Quanah’s band?”

He looked over and saw the silhouettes start down a train off the rim of the world, riding silently as spectres in the darkness. “In that case, you better put that religion of yours to work, Cee Cee; start praying for some kind of miracle.”

She didn’t answer and he watched her. Her head had bowed and her lips moved silently. Funny, he had no religion, although the Durangos were Catholic and of course he no longer believed in the Gods of the Comanches. He glanced up at the big black bowl of a sky overhead; the stars blinking from millions of miles away. Was there really Anybody up there to hear her prayers? If so, would He listen? Then Maverick had no more time to think because the Comanche war party galloped toward them.

“Cayenne,” he said softly as they rode near, “I’ll pass you off as a captive, a gift for my brother Quanah.”

The girl looked at him a long moment. He saw the fear in the green eyes, but she didn’t panic. “You could revert to being an Indian again, couldn’t you? Save your own life that way?”

He nodded, watching the warriors ride closer. So far he didn’t recognize any of them. “I suppose I could. Either way, baby, your life is in my hands now. You got no choice but to trust me.”

She tried to smile but he saw the tremble of her lips. “I’d trust you with my life, Maverick, I love you. There’s something I’ve got to tell you about why—”

“No time,” he muttered, “and stop calling me Maverick. You’re a captive, remember?” I love you, too, he thought.
Why didn’t I tell you while I still had time?

The war party made its way down the crooked trail off the rim and galloped toward them. The bright moon cast giant, grotesque shadows of running horses and the men riding them along the rough terrain looked like spirit horses coming up out of hell.

“Maverick,” she whispered, and he glanced over at her, saw the terror on her face. “I—I can’t just sit here and wait; I’m going to run for it!”

“Shut up, captive,” he snapped, reaching over and grabbing the roan’s reins looped over her saddle horn. To try to run now would mean her death.

It was too late for anything as the war party thundered up, surrounding them.

Maverick raised his hand in a traditional gesture of greeting and spoke in Comanche. “I am much relieved to see you.” He leaned on the saddle horn easily, smiling even though his lips seemed too tense to bend into that curve. “I need a place to rest until I continue toward the camp of the
Quahadis.”

The warriors visibly relaxed as they heard the familiar sound of their own language. “What band are you? Where do you go? Who is this white woman?”

Maverick looked them over, almost sighing with relief when he realized he knew none of them. There was even one Kiowa and a Cheyenne riding with the party.

“I am Pecos,” he lied glibly, “brother to the great Quanah. He has loaned me his fine horse for my raid, and we are supposed to meet to the west.”

Now he faced smiles, nodding heads. “Ah, yes, the great Quanah! We heard about the horse!”

The braves laughed and joked with Maverick and each other. All seemed to know the daring tale of the bold young half-breed stealing “Bad Hand” Mackenzie’s favorite pacer.

The ugly leader had a hooked nose and red war stripes painted across his dark face. His pinto mustang was also painted for war. “I am Wind Runner and we welcome you, Pecos! I see you wear a
Tejanos
’ pistol.” He looked Cayenne up and down. “The Texan must have fought hard to keep her silence since she is indeed a prize!”

Maverick shrugged. “I killed him. Do you not see his hair hanging from my bridle? I took her on that raid and got separated from the others. The flame-haired one is a gift for my big brother.”

The Comanche laughed. “Since it is a custom of our people to let brothers share each other’s women, have you enjoyed her?”

For a moment, he did not think he would be able to answer because of the horrible images that the man’s words brought to his mind. He was a small, helpless boy again, covering his ears to her weeping while his dead father’s four brothers enjoyed Annie. “Of course! Would I give my brother a gift I had not checked for quality?”

The men laughed and made rude jokes. Now the leader motioned, “Come with us. Many of our people along with the Cheyenne and some of the Kiowa are gathered in the great canyon a few miles ride to the south.”

Palo Duro canyon, that great chasm on the west Texas plains that white men didn’t seem to know existed.
It should have occurred to Maverick that the warring Indians would gather there. It was also a good place to meet the
Comancheros
who brought the guns.

He nodded assent. They all wheeled their ponies and Maverick fell in beside the war party leader, visiting easily in the tongue he had not spoken in the ten years since he had escaped the Comanche as a boy of fourteen. He didn’t look back at the trussed Cayenne while he held onto the roan’s reins. To show any concern for her welfare might give the lie away.

Maverick looked at Wind Runner, then back at the Kiowa with his traditional hair style—braided but on the right side, cut short and hanging about the right ear. “The Kiowa ride with us now? I thought they were still discussing whether to take the peace trail.”

The other made a noise of contempt. “You know the Kiowas! They talk a subject to death in council before they make a move, not like the Comanche who love to take action!”

Maverick grunted in agreement. “They have finished this season’s sun dance then?” Any Indian would know the Kiowas were too superstitious to start any action until they had completed the strong medicine of the yearly sun dance.

“Yes, a few days ago. Were you there for our people’s own first sun dance?”

Maverick snorted in disdain as they rode forward. He wanted to look back and give Cayenne some gesture of reassurance, knowing how frightened she must be, but he dared not. “Since when do Comanche copy the Kiowa and Cheyenne?”

Wind Runner shook his head. “The
Nerm
have become as frightened children, not knowing which way to turn now that all our medicine seems bad. We thought we would try the magic of that ceremony. The Cheyenne have joined this war and the Kiowa force is growing every day. Soon there will be thousands of us gathering in and we’ll spread out, drive all the white men from our buffalo plains. Then things will be as they were before.”

“Nothing can be as it was before,” Maverick answered. “Somehow we must adjust to the changes or be destroyed.”

The other warrior thought about it a minute as they rode through the cool night in silence. “No doubt you are right, but we do not know how to change so we must fight to keep things as they always were. No man worthy of the name stands by without taking action while his children starve. That is why the Kiowa have finally come.”

“Oh?”

Wind Runner nodded. “They were promised food and supplies, but the wagons never arrived. More white men’s lies!”

Maverick imagined Pat Hennessy tied upside down to his wagon wheel, screaming his life away while he was tortured. Unwittingly, the Cheyenne had taken the action that had finally brought the reluctant Kiowa into the plains war. “The Cheyennes to our north are coming to join us?”

“Yes. Many of their war parties are already raiding up through that area the whites call Kansas.” He snorted in disgust. “They give it a name as if it belonged to them! The buffalo plains belong to us and we shall retake them! Isa-tai has foretold it! Many of the warriors of our band, led by Little Fox, are even now at that place the white hunters gather to buy supplies, and when that is destroyed, we will sweep out across the plains like a prairie fire of death!”

Adobe Walls,
Maverick thought, but he said nothing. He could not reveal his presence at that place by telling that the Indians had lost that fight.

It took them the rest of the night and all the next day to ride to the Palo Duro. During that time, he was forced to treat Cayenne as any warrior might treat a captive, so as not to arouse suspicion. He handled her roughly, slapped her when she tried to object, fed her and watered her last of all at the small muddy sinkholes they came to, even after the horses had drunk. Her wide, accusing eyes studied him with such a betrayed expression that he felt shame and could not look at her. He dare not treat her better, show her any consideration. She would be safer anyway if she thought he had gone back over to his father’s people, if she did not try to talk to him.

It was evening, with the sky all mauve and pink and purple as they rode to the bluff overlooking the giant Palo Duro. The colorful canyon was more than a hundred miles long and eight hundred feet deep in places, Maverick remembered. The Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River had cut through the soft soil to gorge it out and the river still twisted a crooked path through the bottom like a long snake writhing in its death throes.
Probably no white man even knew it existed as a haven for the Indians here in the Texas Panhandle,
Maverick thought.

Below the war party stood hundreds of tepees along the small stream. As Maverick looked down, he saw the orderly circle of the Cheyenne lodges among the sagebrush, the stunted, twisted junipers that had given the canyon its name.
Palo Duro
.
Hard Wood, the Spanish had called it.
The Kiowa tepees stood strung out along the water since that tribe only circled its lodges during the ceremony of the Sun Dance. People moved like ants below him. From the rim, he saw at least a thousand Comanche, Cheyenne, Kiowa, maybe a few Arapahoe and renegade Kiowa-Apache gathered around campfires. Hundreds of horses munched contentedly on the rich grass.

Talk about riding into a hornet’s nest,
Maverick thought with alarm. He grunted, “The canyon is a good place for the tribes to gather during this war. The white men will never find it!”

The hook-nosed one nodded in satisfaction. “The
Comanchero,
old Pedro, whom we have dealt with for years, is due in a few weeks to bring more guns and powder. We have been hitting the settlements for booty to pay for weapons.” He glanced back at the silent, weary Cayenne. “If your brother has no need of this gift,” he said, “no doubt the fire-haired woman would bring much gold if sold for the
Comancheros’
pleasure or some Mexican whorehouse below the border. We have often done that in the past.”