Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (35 page)

She looked at him a little sadly. “I must teach you even more if you are going to be able to live in the white world, my son.” She hugged him to her. “That’s how white people eat. And on that long table, there’ll be lots of food, chocolate cake like Joe likes and fried chicken.”

Her own stomach rumbled and he thought how hungry they both were. Often in the cold winter, there was not enough food and babies died. White hunters were slowly killing off the game, pushing the Indians farther and farther out on to the desolate Staked Plains, the wilderness of west Texas.

He looked up at her. “And will you be at that table, Mother? Will you stay by my side forever?”

Annie hesitated a long moment. “Forever is a long time, Son, but if I’m not there in body, I’ll be there in spirit. Do you understand?”

He didn’t really, but he nodded because he knew it would please her and he loved her so.

“And Son, even if I’m not here, I’ll live on forever because my blood flows through your veins as it will through your children’s, through your children’s children. As long as you don’t forget me, I’ll live forever in your heart.”

He did not like the way she talked, the sadness in her eyes. “We’ll get away, Mother,” he said eagerly, “we’ll run away and find this Joe McBride.”

Annie shook her head. “They watch us too closely,” she said, “and I don’t have the strength for it anyway.”

He hadn’t noticed until she said that how thin and drawn she looked. After that, he took to saving some of his food for her, lying and saying he was not hungry so she would eat it.

The years passed and he grew tall while she grew more thin and sad every day. “Joe will come for us, you’ll see,” she said, but her voice no longer held any conviction. The boy had grown hard and bitter, hating the white man who did not want him, did not want his mother.

Once he said to her, “Maybe he does not know you’re here, that you are alive.”

She looked at him sadly and turned away. “He knows. A few months after I was captured, another woman was taken. But no warrior decided to take her as his woman and she was to be ransomed.”

She paused a long moment, fingering the ragged old buckskin shift she wore. “She didn’t want to be sent back dressed in buckskin, afraid her family wouldn’t want her.”

“And?” the boy prompted.

“She was about my size,” Annie said, “even had hair the same chestnut color. I gave her the homespun dress I wore, traded with her so she wouldn’t have to go back to the settlement in buckskin. She swore she’d find Joe, tell him I was still alive, tell him now that my warrior was dead, his brothers might sell me cheaply.”

He knew without asking. There had been no answer. As Annie’s body swelled with her half-Comanche child, she had waited for the help the other captive would send. No ransom came.

The years passed and the half-breed boy grew big and muscular. His heart turned hard and bitter against the man called Joe McBride who did not want him for a son, did not want his mother.

Annie made excuses. “He’s trying hard to raise the money,” she said lamely, “although I would have thought old Mr. Adams, our neighbor, or even banker Ogle might have made him a loan.”

The boy said nothing.

“He’ll come,” Annie said as the months turned into years. “Maybe the girl had a hard time finding him, although I gave her good directions on how to get to our spread.”

But the half-grown boy called Eagle’s Flight no longer listened to her fairy tales about how the two of them would sit at the long table of the ranch house. He had long ago realized that the white man his mother loved would never come for either of them. The pair would spend the rest of their lives among the Indians, huddling together, hungry and cold while his mother taught him everything she thought he would need if he ever returned to civilization. She could read and write a little and she taught him as best she could, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

Sometimes when they were both miserable, she would tell him long stories about big white ranch houses with soft beds and great stone fireplaces with roaring logs. “Once upon a time . . .” she would begin, and he would ask, “Do all white stories begin that way, Mother?”

“Only the very best ones,” Annie smiled, stroking his dark hair. “And, of course, they always end ’. . . and they lived happily ever after.’ ”

Happily ever after.
Maverick blinked in the darkness of the tepee now as he lay next to the sleeping Cayenne, remembering. But Annie’s story had not ended that way. The man his mother loved never came to save them. So the son had made a vow on Annie’s dying body.
I’ll get Joe. I promise I’ll get him, torture him slowly, cut his heart out and make him eat it as he dies for what has happened to you!

He had been fourteen winter counts old that night as he stood there looking down at Annie’s frail, work-worn body, the scarlet blood smearing her still form, his hands, his knife. . . .

Maverick sighed, running his fingers thoughtfully along the jagged white scar on his face, thinking of Annie, of Cayenne. How he wished this story could have a happy ending, but of course, it could not. If he survived and made it to the Lazy M, he must kill his beloved Cayenne’s father to fulfill the blood vow he had made ten years ago.

He cuddled the flame-haired girl close to him an listened to the drums echoing through the canyon as the celebrating continued long into the night. In all the world, only old Don Diego de Durango, the man who had adopted Maverick, knew of his past, his vow. He hadn’t meant to tell even him, but one night in the Durango study, too much whiskey had made Maverick vulnerable and he’d told.

Maverick’s forehead wrinkled with thought. And yet, Cayenne said that the old Don had met her father a year ago. Knowing that Maverick was searching for that man, why hadn’t the old Don told him where to find Joe McBride? Why? If Joe McBride was as good a shot as everyone said, he had the advantage and the superior range with a rifle. He might even get Maverick before the half-breed could gun him down.

Cayenne sighed in her sleep, snuggling into his arms. Maverick kissed her hair gently. He could not have both love and vengeance, but he had sworn by duty first. A man cannot live without honor.

At least, Maverick decided now, he would not torture Joe McBride as he had always dreamed of. Out of love for the daughter, Joe would get a quick, merciful death, which was more than Annie Laurie had gotten. It was a long time before Maverick dropped off into a fitful sleep.

For the next several days, the couple rested in the Indian encampment that sprawled along the creek through the canyon. Maverick tried to make plans as he studied the sentries guarding the big horse herd, trying to figure out when the couple could possibly slip through the darkness, grab Dust Devil and Strawberry, and make a run for it. There were several trails out, none of them easy.

Well, he had a
few days to rest up while he leisurely decided what to do
, Maverick thought.

He was wrong. On the third day, shouts greeted riders approaching the camp down the narrow trail. As Maverick stood watching the war party approach, the fat, cruel squaw raised a glad cry and went running to meet them. “My son! My son!”

Maverick peered at them, Cayenne by his side.
Was one of those warriors really wearing yellow satin sleeve
garters? Where had he seen those before?

The long-armed leader wore a Turkey-red white man’s shirt. The sunlight reflected off a beaded necklace, off some kind of hair ornaments in the leader’s soot-black braids as the warriors rode in.

Cayenne laughed. “What’s that in his hair? Looks almost like a woman’s fancy combs!”

Maverick shook his head in puzzlement, staring at the leader, searching his memory as the group rode into the camp.

Wind Runner ran forward, yelling in Comanche, “Little Fox, how went the attack on the buffalo hunters?”

The man’s small, foxlike features grinned as he waved his lance to show the new scalps dangling there, his long arms raised in triumph. “I have white scalps to pay for my sister’s honor, for the slaughter of our buffalo!”

Maverick felt a chill go down his back as recognition slowly dawned on him.
Adobe
Walls.
That warrior had been the one at Adobe Walls. Would the Comanche brave recognize him, too?

Maverick’s blood almost congealed as he recognized the Comanche leader riding in ahead of his war party. What in God’s name was going to happen if Little Fox recognized him from Adobe Walls? He and Cayenne couldn’t possibly make a run for it through a thousand Indians.

He looked over at her and saw the frightened recognition in her face, too.
Many white women would have panicked,
he thought with admiration as he watched the little redhead. She was scared spitless, he could tell by her eyes, but she only stood there. Her gaze came to his, and she nodded ever so slightly, trusting him to deal with the situation, trusting him to look after her.

The hook-nosed Wind Runner pushed forward as the war party dismounted, and he raised a hand in greeting. “Hoa! Little Fox, how goes the war against the hated whites?”

Little Fox’s face twisted in insane delight as he waved the lance. “You need ask?” He chortled in Comanche, “Do you not see the scalps I have brought back so that we might dance?”

Maverick stared at the various colored hair dangling from the staff, at the white man’s shirt Little Fox wore, at the yellow satin sleeve garters on the other warrior.

Wind Runner motioned to Maverick. “Little Fox, I forget to tell you we are honored to have our great chief’s brother, Pecos, ride into our camp. He is on his way to join Quanah on the Staked Plains.”

Maverick took a deep breath and nodded a greeting. Any second, the other would sound the alarm and he and Cayenne would be tonight’s entertainment as the pair were slowly tortured to death. “I’m sorry that I missed the fight,” he said in Comanche to Little Fox. “But I have been raiding the
Tejanos
south of here.” He pointed toward Cayenne. “Most of my warriors have been killed, but I captured a great prize to give as a gift to my brother.”

Some of the warriors guffawed obscenely. Little Fox stared at Maverick a long moment and Maverick held his breath, awaiting the recognition. He hoped the braves could not see the pounding of his heart in his great naked chest.

But Little Fox only grunted and nodded a greeting. “Your own raid seems to be a success,” he said in Comanche. “Your brother will no doubt be pleased to get such a prize.” He glanced up at the setting sun. “And now, let us have feasting and dancing long into the night to celebrate my strong
puha
, my medicine!”

Maverick was so relieved the other did not recognize him that he almost collapsed, but he only said, “Of course! I am eager to sit and hear your tales of this war journey!”

He left Cayenne inside the tepee as night came on, dressed himself in all the stolen finery of the warrior he had killed, and went to sit in the big campfire circle to eat and smoke and listen to Little Fox brag about the raid on Adobe Walls.

“We killed many,” Little Fox boasted. “We taught those hunters a lesson they will not soon forget!”

Maverick, sitting cross-legged in a place of honor, looked around at Little Fox’s men and saw them avert their eyes guiltily. It was not honorable for warriors to lie in such a manner. “Tell us the details of how it happened.”

Little Fox told the story of Adobe Walls as if the Indians had overrun the place, killing every man. His warriors said nothing but their expression showed doubt in their own wisdom of having ridden with such a man.

The drums and the dancing began, the new scalps hanging in a place of honor near the fire. Maverick looked at them, especially the woman’s hair that hung so long and black and magnificent. Why did it seem familiar to him?

Little Fox went on with his bragging. “. . . and then after we left this fortress of the hunters, we chanced on another party of buffalo hunters to the north. We surrounded them and held them there until they used up their ammunition.”

One of the others laughed and nodded. “Some of them managed to kill themselves before we could take them prisoner, but not all.” He stroked the yellow satin sleeve garters he wore.

Little Fox fingered his own Turkey-red shirt. “Not all,” he grinned with satisfaction at the memory. “After we took these things from them, we staked them out naked in the hot sun, cut off their man-hoods, and stuffed them into their mouths so they could not scream!”

Maverick had to control himself to keep from wincing in disgust.

The one with the yellow sleeve garters laughed. “Then we cut off their ears, drove wooden stakes through their bellies, and propped their heads up so the pair could watch themselves die. It takes a long, long time to die that way.”

Little Fox fingered the beaded necklace he wore and Maverick searched his mind, wondering why that also looked familiar to him.

The leader said, “My sister’s death is finally paid for.” When he looked up, directly into Maverick’s eyes, Maverick saw the insanity there. “These hunters were the ones who raped and killed my sister, so I wreaked terrible revenge, but I want even more!”

Buck
. With sudden clarity, Maverick remembered the grizzled buffalo hunter in the Turkey-red shirt and beaded Indian necklace, his partner, Clint.
It was a horrible way to die, even though it was a just, terrible vengeance
, Maverick thought.

Little Fox seemed to be studying him thoughtfully. “And you say you are Pecos, our great leader’s brother?”

What was it
about the way he looked at Maverick?
Could it be Maverick’s imagination that there was hint of a smile in the other’s dark, small features, as if he knew a secret joke?

Maverick nodded. “I go to join Quanah to the west, take him the white woman as a gift from my raid.”

The others nodded and grunted in approval at the gift, but Little Fox smiled ever so slightly. “No need for that,” he said. “The great warrior was with us on our raid and told us to meet him back here at the canyon in thirty sun’s time.” He looked up at the moon. “Quanah is now raiding across the great plains even as we have been doing.”

Maverick gulped and recovered. “Yes, of course, I knew that. We planned to meet back at our camp to the west.”

Little Fox grinned evilly. “By my calculations, the thirty suns are almost gone. You won’t have to wait all those days to meet your brother clear to the west.”

Maverick’s heart pounded a warning but he only looked calmly at the other. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Little Fox leered at him, reaching up absently to finger the pearl combs in his hair. “Quanah should be riding into this canyon probably tomorrow,” he said, “and so you see, you won’t have to ride clear to the west.”

Quanah. Tomorrow
. And when he arrived, Maverick and Cayenne would be unmasked as imposters. But Maverick only grunted in satisfaction, reaching for another piece of roasted meat. “That is very good news,” he lied. “I am happy to hear my beloved brother will soon arrive.”

The Indians danced before the flickering flames, the light throwing shadows across those eating around the great fire. The firelight glistened off the long, magnificent hair dangling from the lance stuck in the ground.

Wind Runner looked toward it. “I see, Little Fox, you have taken one of their women’s lives in payment for your sister’s.”

Little Fox shrugged, reaching up to touch the pearl combs glistening in his black braids. “She was only one of their whores going from that place called Wichita on a stagecoach to one of their other settlements.”

Molly.
Oh, my God.
Molly.
Maverick sucked in a shuddering breath. No wonder the hair and the combs looked so familiar.

Maverick took another breath, fighting to keep from throwing himself at the other Comanche, wanting to throttle him with the rawhide thong he kept looped over his gun belt. His hands actually trembled as he held the roasted meat. For a moment, as he stared at the ebony hair hanging from the lance, he thought he might vomit and had to swallow hard to control the sour bile welling up in his throat.

How many times had he made love to good-natured Molly, tangled his fingers in those magnificent locks that now hung before the fire? He saw her face before him, heard her voice telling him how much she loved him. And he felt suddenly guilty that he had never loved her, had only used her as men were wont to do a saloon whore, enjoying the relief her body could give him.
Molly. I’m
sorry, Molly. So sorry. Forgive me.

Little Fox looked at him. “You tremble, Pecos. What is the matter?”

Cayenne. If he lost his temper and attacked the grinning Comanche as he longed to do, Cayenne would have to pay for it. Maverick shrugged and continued eating. “I am only sorry I could not be there with you on your raids to share the triumph.”

The other’s face saddened and he fingered the necklace. “It does not pay for my sister,” he said bitterly. “There are not enough deaths in the whole world to pay for what they did to her. I thought the revenge would make me feel better, but I feel empty, burned-out inside.”

By damn, when he completed his own revenge, he
wouldn’t
feel
like that!
No,
he’d
feel
good!
But Maverick only yawned and stretched. “It has been a long day and I am weary. Some of you may wish to dance and drink all night, but I think I will go to bed.”

Wind Runner laughed knowingly. “If I had a woman like that fire-haired one waiting in my blankets, I would go to bed, too! After all, if Quanah rides in tomorrow, you will have to give him your gift and tomorrow night you will be sleeping alone!”

The other men laughed and nudged each other knowingly.

Maverick laughed. “What you say is true. But after all, she is nothing but a woman. I will steal another somewhere along the way.” He stood up, looking down at the war leader sitting cross-legged on the ground. He had to fight a terrible urge to attack the man who wore Molly’s fine combs in his hair. “Tomorrow we must make plans for our next attack on the white settlements.”

Little Fox looked at the pistol he wore. “You have taken that from some dead
Tejano?”

Maverick patted the gun arrogantly. “You think a live one would give it up?”

The warriors laughed uproariously.

Maverick turned away from the fire. “I learn to shoot it,” he said, “so that I can fight them on their own terms.”

Wind Runner grunted with satisfaction. “Quanah’s brother is a very brave warrior.”

Little Fox stared at Maverick a long moment. “I’m sure our leader will be happy to know his brother is alive and well.”

There was some hidden meaning there but Maverick decided not to show that he sensed it. “ ’Til tomorrow then,” he said, and stalked away from the fire to his tepee.

Cayenne ran into his arms when he went inside. “My stars! When you were gone so long, I got nervous! Do you think that fox-faced one recognized us?”

“I—I don’t know, Cee Cee.” Maverick kissed the tip of her nose absently, his mind on other things. He would not tell her that the game was up, that tomorrow Quanah would ride into the canyon and then everyone would know that Maverick was not the brother but instead a white impostor. Cayenne would be so frightened if she knew and he must protect her. “Nothing to worry about right now,” he lied. “Let’s get a little sleep.”

They snuggled up together in their blankets and he made very gentle love to her while the rhythmic beat of drums and dancing drowned out her soft whimpers of passion, her sighs of satisfaction as he took her, then held her close.

“Maverick, what are you thinking about? That was a close call today, wasn’t it?”

“Nothing. I’m thinking about nothing,” he lied, pulling her close against his chest so he could stroke her long hair. He thought about Molly, about Little Fox’s dead sister, about Quanah riding in tomorrow, about his pistol.

He had only a few hours to come up with a plan, and if it didn’t work, tomorrow night he’d be writhing and screaming over a slow fire, and a worse fate would await his darling. No, they’d never rape and torture her. If he couldn’t save her, he’d do her the same mercy he’d done Annie Laurie, even though it would haunt his nightmares for the short time he had left until the avenging warriors killed him by inches. He flinched, remembering that long-ago time before he had fled the Comanches ten long years ago. . . .

Ten long years ago, the boy called Eagle’s Flight had made a vow on Annie’s dying body, sealed in her still-warm blood—a vow to kill her white husband. He had thrown the bloody knife from him with an anguished cry just as one of his uncles entered the tepee.

“What is this?” the hatchet-faced brave had confronted him. “We were not yet through enjoying torturing her, hearing her cries. . . . .”

“Why have you done this terrible thing?” the boy screamed.

The other shrugged, yawning. “Because while you were gone hunting today, we captured a
Tejano
boy but this white bitch helped him escape before we could torture him. So she took his place!”

The boy called Eagle’s Flight had lost control then, screaming with pain and rage as he threw himself at the big Comanche and they fought.

It was an unequal fight. The big Comanche laughed with delight, circling the boy warily with his knife. “So at last it comes to this, white whelp of my dead brother! You are no Comanche; you are her blood through and through!”

“I am white!” the boy screamed as he rushed bare-handed at the other. “I am white like my mother! White like her ancestors! I spit on my Comanche blood!” And he had spat in the brave’s face, charging him bare-handed because his own bloody knife lay next to Annie’s body.

The brave swore white man’s curses that he had learned from white slaves as his knife jerked up with lightning speed, attempting to disembowel the boy.

Eagle’s Flight managed to dodge, getting in two hard blows that sent the Comanche stumbling backward across the thin, limp body of Annie Laurie.

The warrior went down with a curse. His head hit the handle of the boy’s knife, and he lay there groaning and semiconscious.

He would kill his uncle, torture him slowly! Outside, he heard Indians laughing drunkenly, calling for the brave to bring the white woman out for more torture. Eagle’s Flight reached for a rawhide strip, catching the half-conscious man around the throat as the man recovered and fought him.