The Yellow Rose (27 page)
The words came clearly as if they were spoken to Moriah, and she knew she had reconciled a hope that seemed hopeless. She had chosen to believe that they would come for her. She did not know who, but she knew that her mother and Zane and Clay and others would not give up until they found her.
Since that time, each morning her first thought had been,
I will believe in my God, and He will deliver me from the Comanche.
That was also her constant thought during the day and the last thing that was in her mind at night.
Suddenly, she saw Bear Killer coming toward his teepee. He stopped beside her and stared at her for a moment. He was a strong man, and as Moriah waited for him to speak, the sun struck him across his flat, high-cheekboned face. He was, as all Comanche warriors, born and bred as a warrior. Since coming down from the mountain into the high plains, the men of his people had lived to fight, and courage in the face of death was the most valued virtue.
“Quiet One,” he said, “we will go to the buffalo hunt. You will help my other wives.”
This was not a request, but a command. Moriah had been given the name Quiet One by Bear Killer himself. It was a good name, as most Comanche names were, for indeed for weeks she had said nothing that she was not forced to say. Now she simply nodded and rose to her feet. Bear Killer put out his hand and took her by the arm. She turned, looked up into his face, and he said, “You must forget your people. You are a Comanche woman now.”
Moriah said, “Would you forget yours, Bear Killer?”
Bear Killer stared at her. This woman who he had thought much weaker than any Comanche woman was turning out differently than he had expected. She had survived the test of months of hard work. The sun now had baked her, and her hands had grown rough from the demanding labor required of all Comanche women. He had command of her body, but he could never get beyond the quiet that she built around herself like a wall. It aggravated him, and he shook his head and repeated. “You are a Comanche woman. Our son will be a great chief someday.”
Despite herself, Moriah found the buffalo hunt to be a fascinating adventure. She had come with the rest of the women to watch the start of the hunt and had been shocked at the size of the massive herd. They scattered all over the plains, grazing slowly and feeding on bunch grass and on anything else in their path. They seemed to be totally unafraid, and Dove, who stood beside her, spoke a phrase, and to Moriah the language was becoming more intelligible. It was almost magic! She had been hearing so many Comanche words, but she had heard these over and over, and now she knew they were real to her. “Many buffalo,” she said.
Loves The Night looked at her in astonishment. “Yes, many buffalo,” she said in Comanche and was pleased.
The women watched as the hunters moved in on the huge animals. They waited for Bear Killer to move first, and Moriah watched as he guided his horse toward a young bull. He kicked his horse into a full gallop and drove the lance into the shaggy beast, driving the point into the belly just behind the ribs. The pony reared off to one side, and the bull went down head over heels, kicked a few times, and did not get up.
Instantly, the women shouted with excitement and clapped their hands. The other hunters began to charge the herd. Some of them carried lances, and others shot arrows into the buffalo that had begun lumbering at a fast trot. Moriah saw that some of the arrows were buried up to the feathers into the flesh of the buffalo. Sometimes it took as many as half a dozen arrows to bring the beast down. The herd began to move, and the sound was like thunder as they ran across the plain. A cloud of dust rose, cutting off the view of the women, but when the wind cleared it away, many buffalo lay dead or wounded on the plain. Others were still standing, blood soaking their sides. It was now time for the work to start.
The men began to skin and quarter the buffalo, and the young boys rode horses to bring the carcasses home. It was a dangerous time, for some of the beasts were still very much alive. Many were still in position to charge. Moriah watched as the men circled on their horse and drove lances into those, until they fell. Others peeled the hides off easily and then hacked at the carcasses with hatchets. She saw them take out the internal organs, and her stomach turned over as she saw one of them scoop out a buffalo stomach, open it, and eat the half-digested grass. The women hurried back to camp, for it was now time for their work to be done. All seemed to be confusion to Moriah, but she learned quickly. She joined the women, using knives to cut up the meat and help hang it on racks that had been set up to dry it. The livers and the tongues were set aside for immediate roasting over the fires the children had built.
Loves The Night showed her how to take sinew from along the spine and the backs of the leg bones. She had already learned it was used for making the cords for the bows of the warriors. From time to time someone would toss a bloody piece of meat to the dogs that always tried to get as close as possible. Loves The Night pulled out one of the stomachs, of which the buffalo had four, and sliced it, removing some of the half-digested grass. She took a bite of it and, grinning, shoved it at Moriah. Moriah took it and, despite the revulsion she felt, tried a small bite. To her surprise, it had a sweet taste, and she ate it all.
Soon the odor of roasting meat began to fill the air, and the whole camp was abuzz with activity! Children were running everywhere, laughing and pulling off bits of roasted meat from the fires. This went on until the sun dipped below the horizon. And even then the celebration continued as chunks of meat cooked and sizzled over the fires. Though the eating went on constantly, the work of preparing food for the winter never stopped. The women scarcely slept at all that night as they continued to dry the meat, and the men gathered and told one another stories of the hunt.
Moriah found herself exhausted. She was slumped down in the teepee when she heard Bear Killer come in. She turned quickly to face him, her face wary. He put his hand out and touched her head. “You did well,” he said. Then his eyes glowed, and he nodded and left the teepee. As always, Moriah had to hold herself still every time Bear Killer touched her. She was helpless against his strength, but something in her spirit rose against him. She touched her belly and thought of the time to come, then lay down, weary in body and spirit.
I will believe in you, O God!
was the prayer that she uttered in her heart, and despite the terrible circumstances, she held on to hope by faith in God.
The fall passed away quickly and soon the cold winds of winter began to blow. Moriah knew that at some point the year 1840 had come, but that meant very little to her. The child inside her had grown, and Bear Killer had given stern commands to Dove to keep her hands off of Quiet One with the switch.
The first few months of winter had been harsh, and yet Moriah had learned to endure it. Loves The Night had watched during her pregnancy as if it were her own child, and in some strange way, Moriah knew, it was. She had accepted Loves The Night’s kindness and help, and on one bitterly cold night, Moriah knew that it was time. The pain started in the middle of the night, and when she stirred, Loves The Night was instantly at her side.
“Is it time?” Loves The Night asked.
“Yes, it is time,” Moriah said in Comanche. She had made great strides in mastering the language during the past months, and now she was ready to deliver Bear Killer’s child. The fact that the child had been forced upon her, she had tried to put behind her. It would be
her
child! She rose and accompanied the women to the birthing teepee. She sat down as the women now came to fill the water pit and took heated stones out of the fire to make steam. Loves The Night rubbed crushed herbs on her belly, and the smell of it in the tent was sharp and pungent.
From time to time the women rubbed her back and made her drink some sort of hot soup. Loves The Night then began to press down on her belly with both hands, gently at first and then stronger as Moriah’s pains grew stronger.
Moriah endured in silence, as she was aware that Comanche women would never cry out in pain. The birth was not a hard one, it seemed to Loves The Night, although it was hours of agony to Moriah.
Finally, the child was born, and Moriah lay there exhausted. Loves The Night wrapped the tiny infant in a soft animal skin and placed the bundle in Moriah’s arms. Moriah stared into the tiny face, and Loves The Night said, “You have a son.” Moriah lay there holding the baby and began to thank God that he was healthy and strong.
Later on Bear Killer came and named him Eethon, which meant “Strong Man” in Comanche. Moriah did not comment but in her heart called him Ethan, which had a good, strong English sound to her.
Bear Killer was very proud of his son, and as Eethon grew, he showed more interest in him than most Comanches did with very small infants. When Eethon was six months old, news came that disturbed Bear Killer. A Kiowa warrior had ridden into camp, and Bear Killer had listened as the Kiowa said, “The Tall One and Silverhair, they ride everywhere in search of the white woman. They are not like other white men. They came north of the Red River where my tribe lives.”
“What did they say?”
“They are still looking for the white woman that was stolen. I think they are strong men.”
Bear Killer sat listening as the Kiowa described the two men, and later that day he made a decision. He spoke to Lion, saying, “Choose four of our best warriors. Send them to the Kiowa country near the Red River.
Tell them to bring back the scalps of Silverhair and the Tall One.”
“It would be better to send the woman back. You have your son now.”
Bear Killer shook his head. “No. The two must die, and we will move the tribe to the Llano Estacado. The white men cannot move freely there.
They don’t know water holes, and they can be seen for miles.”
Lion did not agree with Bear Killer’s instructions, but he knew he had no choice but to obey.
“Do not try to bring back many scalps. Only two. The Kiowa will know where these white men are. Go to their camp. Find the Silverhair and the Tall One. Bring their scalps back.”
When Lion chose the warriors to ride with him, they began to shout and raise their weapons in the air at the chance to go on a war party. One of them, Little Antelope, asked, “Can we take other scalps after we have taken these two?”
“Bear Killer wants only these two.”
Little Antelope laughed. “We will bring them. Never fear.”
Moriah was nursing Eethon as she saw the four warriors all painted for war ride out of camp.
“Where are they going?” she asked Bear Killer.
“On a war party.”
Moriah asked no more and watched in silence as they rode off.
A
s Brodie came out of a fitful sleep, he felt so cold that he could not move. The frigid wind that cut across the plain had frozen him, it seemed, into a solid figure. Resisting the temptation to curl up into a ball and seek heat beneath the single blanket, he struggled with the fatigue that seemed to drag him down—and then the smell of cooking meat came to him. The odor caused his stomach to tighten, for he had always been a big eater, but the last few days he’d hardly eaten any of the rough food they could find.
Opening his eyes, he saw Quaid squatting before a small fire, cooking meat in a frying pan. Quaid, outlined against the first beginnings of daylight, looked tough and primitive in the pale morning light. He had not shaved for days now, and the bristles of his beard roughened the outlines of his lean face.
Throwing back his blanket, Brodie came to his feet slowly and stamped the earth to get the numbness out of his feet. He stretched his protesting muscles and looked around and saw the hobbled horses grazing on the scant brown grass that still remained from the previous summer. He turned back toward Quaid and said, “Well,” he muttered, “reckon we still got our scalps.”
Quaid looked up and managed a small grin. “So far, but the day’s young.” He had placed two tin plates in front of him, and now he scraped out half of the antelope meat that looked hard and unappetizing, dividing it into the two plates. “Better enjoy this,” he said. “It’s the last we got.”
Brodie took the plate, bit off a chunk of tough meat, and began trying to chew it. “Antelope is about the worst kind of game there is, I reckon.”
“Better than nothing.”
Brodie looked over toward the north. They had camped beside a small stream, and now ice covered it. The morning light reflected against the shards of ice, and the stream made a glittering, twisting pattern against the deadness of the earth as it headed off toward the east. “Looks like a blizzard is fixin’ to blow in.”
“Maybe,” Quaid said as he chews on his meat.
Brodie finished his meat and watched as Quaid pulled his heavy coat closer together, then sat staring into the tiny fire that made a colorful red dot in the bleakness of the surroundings. It was a world with no color.
During the summer it would be beautiful with wild flowers and green with new leaves on the bushes and tress, but now it was a dreary, colorless world of cold and death.
Brodie stared at Quaid Shafter’s face. He had grown accustomed to the man’s silences. At first, he had welcomed them, for he had hated the man. He could not help but blame Quaid Shafter for losing Moriah, and he spoke to Quaid only when necessary as they rode the high plains searching for her.
During the first weeks of their search, Brodie had felt his anger and frustration growing. Perhaps two men thrown together into a lonely world would weld their minds together in a single objective and bring them closer together or drive them so far apart that nothing could heal it. But as the days passed, Brodie found his anger toward Quaid slowly begin to change. It was not that Shafter tried to encourage his friendship. Indeed, he seemed to pay no attention to Brodie. Whether they were riding the plains looking for Indians they might question about white captives or sitting at night in the silence of the desert by a crackling fire, Shafter had kept himself wrapped in a stoical silence.
