Comanche Moon (11 page)

“Yes, I saw a lot of them grazing in the high grass.”

“Then maybe you noticed that they run free except for a rope halter. If we could manage to catch two of them, we’d be able to ride out of here.” Judith was silent for a moment. “How would we do that? We’re both watched too closely. Your handsome admirer never takes his eyes off you, and when he’s away, that girl is your keeper.”

“There will come an opportunity. We just have to be ready when it presents itself.” Deborah glanced up and saw that Sunflower had waded nearer, bending in the stream to soak the green reeds she used to weave baskets.

She edged away from her cousin and tried to appear as if she was engrossed in washing bowls. After a moment, she whispered loudly enough for Judith to hear, “Gather as many things as you can for a long journey. Hide them. Be ready. I will do what I can, also. Perhaps the time will come soon.” Judith flung her long hair back from her eyes and cast Deborah a quick look. “I will. We’d better move apart now.” They did so as unobtrusively as possible.

The women began to straggle back to camp slowly, bearing washed garments in woven baskets. Deborah saw Judith not far ahead of her, her back bent under a heavy load. It was frustrating, not being able to help her cousin. She wished she knew enough Comanche to plead with Hawk to purchase her cousin. Life couldn’t be kind to her, not with the bruises she’d seen on Judith’s fair skin.

A loud cry caught Deborah’s attention, and she glanced up to see her cousin being yanked along by a tall brave she didn’t recognize. Judith was trying to resist, but her blond hair was caught in a brown fist. The man laughed cruelly and made a crude gesture that provoked laughter from others watching. Deborah started forward, but Sunflower grabbed her arm and shook her head.

“I have to help her!” Deborah snapped, and pushed the girl’s hand away.

She’d gone no more than three steps before a stout woman barred her way, dark eyes glittering with a threat Deborah didn’t like. She paused and said calmly, “Get out of my way,” but the woman didn’t budge.

Sunflower began chattering, obviously pleading for her, and by the time Deborah managed to look for Judith again, her cousin had disappeared.

There was no sign of the man who had been tormenting her, and she stood helplessly.

After a moment, the surly Comanche woman walked away, and Sunflower plucked anxiously at Deborah’s sleeve. She made signs to reassure her, but her obvious wish to ease Deborah’s mind helped only slightly. She felt helpless to assist her cousin, helpless to assist herself. What could she do but make things worse for both of them?

She could only pray for Judith, pray that she was not being used roughly.

When they returned to the camp, Sunflower ducked into the tipi and brought out a large bolt of cotton. She knelt down and put it in Deborah’s hands. Her dark, liquid gaze would not meet Deborah’s as she communicated her wishes. Deborah understood that she was to sew a dress.

The material was soft and pliable, and she threaded a long needle and began working it through the material, punching holes with swift, certain movements. The stitches were small, the seams neat. She’d been taught well in her childhood, but she’d never dreamed those lessons would one day be performed in a Comanche camp. Sunflower had admired her earlier handiwork and been quick to produce a paper full of silvery needles.

Most of Deborah’s days the past week had been spent in sewing, though occasionally Sunflower brought out a game played with sticks and a blanket.

The object, Deborah had learned, was to be the first one to move her awl—a sharp, pointed instrument used in piercing thick animal hides—all the way around the blanket. Positions were marked, and sticks were tossed to determine the number of points given. It had taken Deborah nearly three days just to understand the rules, and her dismal showing at the game had elicited much laughter from the other players.

Though the days were not as harsh as they could be, it was the nights that tormented her. Frequently, she caught a glimpse of Hawk nearby. He made no overt effort to avoid her, nor did he seek her out. Yet she knew that he had not forgotten her. He was only waiting.

That night, Deborah sat outside Hawk’s lodge with Sunflower. Insects stung her skin, and she slapped at them idly as she watched the men gather in the middle of the camp. There was something going on. Men laughed and talked, and an air of excitement pervaded the entire village.

Hawk stood to one side, his face impassive in the flickering firelight, his features as cold as if carved from stone. Her heart lurched. He was so handsome, and she wondered if she had truly lost her mind as Judith seemed to think. How could she have come to care for a Comanche? A man so far removed from everything in her normal sphere that it was ludicrous to even think of him in any way but as an enemy? Yet she did.

Impossible, of course. He would never fit into her world, and she did not want to fit into his. Though she was truly fond of Sunflower and felt a bewildering lure to Hawk, she knew she could never be content away from everything familiar.

In the past week, the need to flee had grown so strong as to be almost overpowering. Every glance Hawk gave her, every smoldering stare that scorched her soul and left her aching, made her aware that he would not wait much longer. Soon, he would take her. The brief, heated touch of his eyes on her only marked the passing of time.

Beyond the bright fire-glow and leaping shadows, Deborah could see her cousin’s bright head. She stood with some of the other captives, idly for once, watching the activity of the camp. Deborah wished she understood more of their language than she did. Then, perhaps she would understand the reason behind the increased activity.

Weapons were brandished, and horses snorted and pranced nervously, tossing manes and heads and stirring up clouds of dust. The men seemed eager, and Deborah caught a few words that she could understand.

“Kwuhupu. Nabitukuru. Sikusaru.
The random words were enough to make her shudder.
Captives. War. Steal.
It was evident that the Comanche intended to make another raid on unsuspecting victims. And there was nothing she could do.

Distressed, she rose to her feet, and Sunflower looked up at her with a troubled expression.
“Ni?yusukaitu?”
the girl murmured, and Deborah stared at her blankly. She stood, too, her round, pretty face concerned. As if at a loss, Sunflower put a comforting hand on Deborah’s arm and murmured something she couldn’t hear.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Deborah said. “I don’t understand.” She gave a shrug of her shoulders to explain, then looked past Sunflower to the men again.

Someone had begun to play the drums, and the pounding rhythm set some of the men to dancing.

They whooped and howled, chanting words that Deborah could not understand at all. An old, stooped man wearing the head of a buffalo came out from behind a tipi and began singing in a high-pitched voice, and everyone grew quiet to listen. Deborah shivered. The old man shook a large rattle made of a gourd, and another made of hide and bone. His chest was bare, but he wore leggings covering his bony legs. Sewn to the leggings were animal heads, rattles from snakes, skins, and claws.

The Comanches treated him respectfully, even with reverence, she noticed. When he had completed a circle of the open area in the middle of the camp, he paused and lifted his shaggy head. His voice sounded eerie coming from a hairy buffalo skull, but Deborah could tell that his words were having a profound effect on the listeners. Some of them cried out, or exclaimed, and were quickly hushed by others.

Even Sunflower, standing next to her, whispered a frightened word that Deborah could not understand. What could he be saying that would silence the entire camp? Or make them afraid?

She sought Hawk, and found that he was looking at her strangely. There was a taut set to his mouth that alarmed her, and she looked away from him.

To her shock, several of the Comanche were staring at her. Not with curiosity. No, the stares were definitely unfriendly. Hostile.

She took a step back and found Sunflower had left her side. The girl was several feet away, and beckoned to her to come. Deborah did so, not hurrying, but walking with her head held defiantly high. She didn’t know what she’d done, but it was obvious that the old man in the buffalo head had said something about her.

“Kima,”
Sunflower whispered urgently, and Deborah quickened her steps. When they reached the familiar comfort of the tipi they shared, both were obviously relieved.
“Tsaa,”
Sunflower said with a smile.

“Tsaa.
Good.” Deborah managed a faint smile, but kept looking back toward the middle of the camp. The low fire just outside the tipi shed enough light that she could see the slight lines of worry in Sunflower’s face, and she sat down uneasily. Something was definitely the matter. There had not been such hostility directed at her before, and it had something to do with the old man in the mask. She wished she knew what.

Sunflower ducked into the tipi, then returned with the unfinished dress.

She thrust it into Deborah’s hands.

“I am to keep busy, I see,” she said ruefully. “To take my mind off whatever was being said about me over there. All right. I can take a hint.

Though I wish I knew why everyone suddenly looked at me as if I had done something dreadful.”

She’d thought—until tonight—that the other Comanche women accepted her as a friendly, if rather unlearned, part of their camp. Now, it was brought home to her that she was still considered a stranger in their midst.

What on earth had that masked old man said to elicit such reactions from them?

Hawk stood stiffly in the center
of the camp, aware of the gazes directed at him. Even his father had glanced at him. To gauge his reaction to Mukwooru’s words, no doubt. He felt a flash of irritation. What was he supposed to do? Deny it? No. He couldn’t do that.

Deborah was his captive, his white woman, and he, too, was an outsider.

Part of him didn’t understand that. And part of him did. Somehow, she would not let him forget it, would not let him relax his guard for a moment.

She didn’t even know it, didn’t even realize that she had that effect on him. It was humiliating and dismaying. Would he never be able to belong anywhere?

Would he ever feel as if he was one of the People?

He may have come back, but his heart was not here. He’d returned with the intention of living as one of them, going on raids with them, becoming a part of them. He’d failed. His heart was not in the other world, either.
Watsitu
Pihi,
old Spirit Talker had called him. Lost Heart. The old man was right. But he had no intention of admitting it to anyone.

And now Mukwooru—Spirit Talker—claimed there were bad omens in the keeping of the white woman by him, that she would bring trouble down on their people. He didn’t believe that. But he didn’t disbelieve it, either.

Perhaps Deborah herself would not bring the trouble, but the way he felt about her might.

Hawk turned when he saw his father rise from in front of his lodge, saw White Eagle lift his arm for silence.

“This one is sad to hear your words, old wise man,” he said gravely into the falling silence. “You speak of my son as if he would bring trouble upon us.” The old man stepped forward, his skinny chest rising and falling from his exertions. Hawk saw every eye trained on him, and knew what Spirit Talker would say.

“I speak what the gods have said, what they have warned. Your son does not fight the good fight with the other warriors. He fights himself, but he does not fight the enemy.” Spirit Talker gave a soft shake of his rattle. “A man cannot live in two worlds. It brings death to one, and grief to the other.” Hawk stepped forward now and saw the shift of eyes toward him. The fire hissed and popped, and somewhere a dog barked.

“I fight when I choose,” he said calmly. “I am not a child to be pulled this way and that at the whim of others.”

“But you do not go on raids with our young men,” Spirit Talker said slyly. “Not unless they raid the Indé, or go beyond
Kwana kuhtsu paa.
Is that not so?”

For a moment, Hawk remained silent. It was true. He did not participate in the raids against the whites. And he only went along if the destination was below the Rio Grande.

White Eagle spoke up somberly. “It is not the time to fight the white men. They are too numerous. You have not forgotten what has befallen those who have left the white man’s reservation?”

“They were foolish,” someone said. “They allowed the white soldiers to overtake them.”

Shaking his head, White Eagle looked over the crowd. It was evident that most of the young warriors were eager to fight. “It is no shame to die, but it is a shame to be starved and made to keep the white man’s ways. Do you want to end the same way? A man should live as a man, not be treated as a dog.” His voice rose. “When the white man begins to treat the People as if we are subject to his ways, and we allow it, we are no longer warriors but criminals. I say be patient. Wait. See what time brings.”

“Another broken treaty? Already hunters come who kill the buffalo to just leave them lie on the prairie,” another man said, his voice angry. “They do not respect the Great Spirit that gave us the buffalo for food. They do not keep their promises. I say we should keep ours—kill any who dare to take from us what is ours.”

Hawk stood silently and saw that White Eagle fought a losing battle. The young men were ready to fight. And he would be expected to join them.

“What about our people who were killed?” a tall, scarred warrior demanded. “Only two moons ago, the blue coats rode upon a party of young men out hunting. They did nothing, yet they were killed. And we are to allow that?”

Hawk exchanged a glance with his father. The scarred warrior’s only son had been with that party. He’d been just a boy, not a threat. And he’d been slaughtered like the others. People began to murmur agreement, and a loud buzz ran through the crowd. Some of the glances were directed at Hawk.

A flicker of movement made him shift slightly, and he saw a young man step out from the others and point to him.