Louisiana 08 - While Passion Sleeps

by Shirlee Busbee

  Bystanders and soldiers alike fought for their lives. Judge John Hemphill, the District Judge, efficiently disemboweled with a bowie knife one of the chiefs as they grappled in a mortal fight. The Council House rang with shots and the screams of the wounded and dying; the powder smoke was heavy in the confined space.

  Rafael had managed to avoid killing anyone, although there were several men who were going to wonder who the hell had tapped them with less than gentle force on the head as he had struggled to Nathan. Reaching Nathan's side at last, he savagely shoved Nathan up against the wall and, positioning his body in front of the smaller man, he snarled over his shoulder, "Stay there! If you so much as move an eyelash, I'll gut you myself!"

  Nathan stayed, hardly daring to move a muscle, staring with bulging eyes at the wide back, more frightened of Rafael than of any Comanche in the room. But the sight of a painted savage figure, suddenly appearing out of the smoke and shifting crowd, that leaped for Rafael caused him to moan with terror and shrink closer to the limestone wall.

  Rafael met the Comanche's charge easily, one steel-fingered hand capturing the upraised arm that held a bloodstained knife. Nathan heard him say something

  harshly in the guttural tongue of the Comanche, and, peering nervously over Rafael's broad shoulder, he saw the Indian's black eyes open wide in startled recognition.

  '^Stalking Spirit!" the Comanche cried almost joyously, and then without warning there was deafening reverberation and the man's face changed as he crumpled to the floor, shot in the back by one of the soldiers. His face blank, Rafael stared across at the young soldier still holding the smoking musket and then at the body on the floor. He didn't say anything; he couldn't. His own inadvertent role in the tragedy had strangled speech. ^

  The chiefs fought a bloody valiant battle, but they were outnumbered. One by one they were struck down mercilessly, the last few finally breaking through the door and spilling out into the streets of San Antonio. As they emerged, their shrieks and screams alerted the Comanches outside to a frenzy.

  The white onlookers outside did not understand what was happening, and for the first few moments stood in a daze, as the squaws and children joined the remaining warriors in fighting for their lives. Seizing any weapon available, their hideous cries of rage splitting the hot sunlit day, the Indians turned on the hapless citizens of San Antonio. An Indian child shot a toy arrow into the heart of a visiting circuit judge, killing him instantly, just a second before the reserve soldiers, who had been kept in the background, opened fire. In the confusion, in the milling and mingling of both Indian and white, both sides suffered losses as the soldiers opened fire.

  Somehow, Beth and Mary were separated. As shots and screams filled the air, Beth was trapped in the midst of the crowd. Desperately she tried to escape, but the surging, shifting mass carried her helplessly along.

  The Comanches were intent only on escaping this place of betrayal. Always fearful of closed spaces, they were terrified, running and killing indiscriminately as they went. Most ran for the river. A few frantically tried to commandeer horses, others tried to hide in nearby houses, but at that point nearly every inhab-

  itant of San Antonio had joined the fray—and, as they usually went armed, the fight became a slaughter, the Comanches heavily outnumbered.

  Rafael, Nathan dragged along with him, was one of the first from the Council House to reach the street, and instinctively he glanced around for Beth, praying fiercely that she was safe at the Maverick house. Intently he scanned the fleeing throng, desperately hoping not to see Beth among them. He had almost started to relax, had almost begun to shift his thoughts to getting Nathan to a place of safety, when he caught sight of Beth's fair head in the shifting mass. The silvery braids were a magnetic beacon to him, and, seeing her abortive, frantic struggles to fight her way free from the melee, hearing the shots in the air, seeing the arrows and lances flying on their paths, for the first time in his life Rafael experienced the dry taste of fear in his mouth. Everything was forgotten—Nathan, the whine of the deadly missiles, the leaping copper bodies with their knives flashing in the sunlight, the men of San Antonio with their smoking guns, everything disappeared for him except the small bright figure being swept along with the scattering mob.

  One second Rafael was next to Nathan in front of the Council House and the next he was flying down the street, the Colt pistol cocked and a hair trigger away from discharging. Oblivious of anything but Beth, he zigzagged down the street, instinctively keeping himself from becoming an easy target for either Comanche or white marksman.

  More frightened than she had ever been in her life, Beth saw an opening in the crowd and nimbly dashed for it, her one thought being to escape from the line of fire. Gasping for breath, her heart pounding like it would burst from her throat, she clung to the adobe wall of the building, barely aware of the brush of the others as they plunged passed her.

  Hands outstretched against the warm adobe, one cheek pressed tightly to the wall, she had her back to the street, the pink gown a vivid splash of color against the sienna walls. The cornet of braids had come unpinned during the scramble, one thick braid resting on

  her breast, the other, half undone, waving down her back. She could not know that the shining fair hair was a dangerous enticement for the Comanche who thought to have its owner as his captive... or the scalp to swing from his lodgepole!

  Beth wasn't even aware of the copper figure that swerved toward her, his scalping knife already whetted with blood. Her first inkling of his deadly presence was the grasp of cruel hands on shoulders as he whipped her around. Eyes wide with terror, she stared at a face that nightmares are made of, the broad stripes of scarlet and yellow paint distorting further the Comanche's savage features. But only for a moment did she stare, and whether the Comanche meant to take her captive or merely lift her scalp was never decided, because Beth, reacting with a courage and speed born of fear, attacked the Indian like a golden wildcat. The knife was her first objective and, instantly catching his forearm in both of her hands, with surprising ferociousness she sank her teeth deeply into his wrist. The taste of blood in her mouth nearly made her gag, but grimly she held on as the infuriated Comanche, twisting and dancing about in the dusty street, attempted to shake her oK His free hand tangled in the fair hair, and Beth's eyes filled with tears of pain as he viciously tried to yank her head from his wrist.

  Like a dog with a bone she refused to release her grip as they fought, knowing that if she did, the bloody knife would be the end of her. In their desperate struggle they crashed into the wall of the adobe, and with dismay and horror Beth felt her hold weakening. Frantically she tried to hang onto his arm, but the Indian was too swift for her and with a grunt of triumph he tore himself loose from her.

  Her back against the wall, the fair hair half braided and half undone, tumbling wildly about her shoulders, she faced him defiantly, her breast heaving. Strangely, she wasn't frightened anymore, just plain angry, and with eyes that shot violet flames, stared furiously back at the Comanche, almost daring him to continue their unfair fight.

  Warily now, the warrior watched her, uncertain 314

  whether the gilt hair was worth the struggle, especially under the circumstances. Certainly he no longer wanted her as a captive, if that had been his original plan. But that extraordinary silvery-blond hair...

  He crouched into an attacking stance and one thought hammered painfully through Beth's head—the knife, the knife, don't let him use the knife!

  Tightening his hold on that particular weapon, the Comanche leaped toward her, and suddenly like a bolt out of the sky Beth found herself flying through the air as a hard hand unceremoniously shoved her out of the way. She plunged full length in the street, the breath knocked out of her, her ears ringing from the terrifying blast of a pistol that had exploded nearby only seconds before she had hit the dirt. Her face toward the street, with wide, disbelieving eyes she stared as the Comanche fell to the ground near her, a bloody gaping woun
d in his chest, his body writhing and twisting in a grotesque dance of death.

  Beth had barely time to assimilate the scene before hands as powerful and cruel as the Comanche's jerked her upright, and she felt herself crushed to a warm, hard chest and heard Rafael's voice breathe shakily in her ear, "Sweet Jesus! I thought I was going to be too late!"

  His arms held her with a fierce protectiveness, their strength filling her with a lovely, warm sense of sanity in a world gone mad. He was breathing heavily, she could feel the rapid, labored rise and fall of his chest and hear the thundering beat of his heart against her cheek, and unconsciously her slender arms tightened around him. Dimly she became aware of the light ardent kisses that were being rained upon her head and temples and the soft Spanish words that were being whispered passionately in her ear. She didn't understand what he was saying, but it satisfied something within her and made her long recklessly for this exquisitely sweet embrace never to end.

  Eventually, though, his arms loosened fractionally and he moved her slightly away from him. The dark face intent, the gray eyes moving swiftly over her face,

  he demanded in a husky tone of voice, "You're not hurt? He didn't manage to strike you anywhere, did he?"

  Some of the horror of the day was beginning to fade and her eyes misty with emotion, she looked up at him and said softly, "You saved my life."

  Rafael gave her a twisted, bitter smile and shook his head. Dryly he replied, "My own, I think."

  She frowned at that, not understanding his meaning but too shattered by the violent event to puzzle it out. Reality was intruding, and almost self-consciously she stepped away from his embrace, and, avoiding his eyes, she began to concentrate with an odd intensity on brushing off the dust and dirt from her skirts. Unwillingly she remembered precisely their positions and stiffly she said, "I thank you very much, Senor Santana, for your more than timely intervention. You saved my life, and for that I can never repay you. Please accept my profound gratitude."

  Rafael's face tightened and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Under his breath, he said harshly, "Don't start that t3T}e of mawkish behavior with me— not nowT

  The violet eyes sparkling with sudden temper and pain, she looked at him and asked sharply, '"What do you mean by that?"

  His expression inscrutable, he regarded her. Almost as if the words were torn from him, he said savagely, "Simply that I think it's time we have the conversation we should have had four years ago!"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Caught totally by surprise, Beth stared up at him. Hesitantly she began, "I don't think I under—" when Nathan's voice interrupted them.

  "Beth! What are you doing out here?" he cried plaintively, thoroughly and completely disenchanted with everything about Texas, Comanches in particular. And not, if the truth be known, exactly enamored of his host any longer.

  There had been so much violent activity, so much vivid action happening right under his very nose that it had taken him several minutes to discover where Rafael had disappeared to. Seeing the man he'd begun to think of as a savage, unpredictable beast standing with his wife didn't please him overmuch either. A peevish expression marring his blond fairness he approached them.

  By this time most of the worst fighting had ceased, although there were still sporadic sounds of gunfire and an occasional shriek or yell heard in the distance. Several people were cautiously beginning to peek out of their various hiding places and a few of the braver souls were stepping warily into the plaza and beginning to walk toward the wounded or dead that lay scattered about. Everyone was on edge, alert for any sign of stray Indians still in the vicinity. Determined to get Beth safely away, Rafael looked down at her and said abruptly, "This is no place for you." And his eyes suddenly kindling with anger that hid his earlier fear and relief, he snapped, "What the hell were you doing out here by yourself in the first place? You could have been killed, you little fool!"

  Nathan, who had reached them by now, not unnat-317

  urally took umbrage at not only the familiar tone of voice but also the high-handed way Rafael was speaking to Beth. Drawing himself up stiffly, he said testily, "I think you forget yourself, Santana! Beth is, after all, my wife, and I do not take kindly to others speaking so to her!"

  Rafael went rigid, his face dark with barely leashed fury, and for one terrifying moment Beth feared that he would strike Nathan. His eyes mere slits of icy silver, he snarled dangerously, "And where the hell were you when she was fighting for her life? Hiding somewhere out of the line of fire?"

  The three of them were standing almost in the middle of the street, Rafael and Beth facing Nathan. At Rafael's words, Nathan's fair skin turned a bright and unbecoming scarlet. His muttonchop whiskers bristling with outrage, and stuttering with choler, he got out, ''H-h-how d-d-dare you s-s-speak to m-me like th-that!"

  Contemptuously Rafael raked him with his gaze, but before he could reply, a slight movement where there should have been no movement on the top of one of the adobe houses just beyond Nathan's shoulder caught his attention. Not waiting to discover what caused it, Rafael was already drawing his pistol and throwing Beth to the ground when a Comanche warrior, his face hideously distorted by rage, a deadly lance in his hand, rose up from the roof of the house. Two things happened simultaneously, the warrior hurled the lance on its lethal journey and Rafael's gun spat lead. Both found a human target. The Comanche, clutching his throat, the death rattle carrying with unpleasant clarity in the warm air, pitched sideways off the roof, and Nathan, his face the picture of incredulity, stared down at the vivid patch of blood on his vest, the iron tip of the lance protruding from his stomach.

  ''Why, I've been wounded," he said in a voice of wonderment before he fell face down in the dusty street, the long Comanche lance swaying gently from where it had lodged in his back.

  Her eyes wide with horror, Beth had stared at her husband's still form and a silent scream echoed through her brain. No! He couldnt be dead! Not this way, not

  slain so uselessly by a creature that should only inhabit nightmares. It was all a horridly bad dream.

  Nothing had truly seemed real to her from the moment Rafael had shoved her into the street a second time, not the exploding sound of his gun, nor the sight of Nathan lying spread-eagle in the dusty street, a Comanche lance sticking grotesquely out of his back. Numbly she continued to look at Nathan. Watching the spreading stain of blood defacing his buff coat, she thought foolishly, O/i, dear^ his jacket will be ruined. He won't like that. Her brain simply blocked out any emotion except the most mundane and prosaic.

  Rafael knelt beside Nathan and after a moment he said in a quiet tone, "English, he's still alive! He's not dead!"

  Beth felt a wave of thankfulness suffuse her body— He's alive! Thank God! But the shock and terror of the day was too much for her, and, beyond comprehending that Nathan was still alive, nothing else made sense. Even when Rafael helped her gently to her feet and Nathan was carried to Rafael's house and the doctor arrived, nothing touched her except in a hazy, dreamlike way.

  It had seemed like hours that the doctor had worked over Nathan, and when he had at last entered the room where Beth sat so white-faced and still, his words were not overly optimistic. "He is badly wounded, Mrs. Ridgeway. I have done all that I can. With rest and care it is possible that he will recover, but..." His voice had trailed off. It had been an ugly wound and the little Grerman doctor had worked desperately to remove the weapon without inflicting further damage. At the moment Nathan was resting comfortably under a heavy dose of opium, but only the following days would tell if he would survive the wound. Grently the doctor said, "There is hope, my dear. His case is not hopeless."

  Beth clung to his words in the days that followed as to a lifeline, and over and over she repeated them— there is hope, there is hope! But the rest of the world receded from her—she ate when she was told, slept when she was told, and wore whatever was laid out for her. The remainder of the time she sat in Nathan's

  room, hold
ing his hand and staring bhndly into space until Nathan would moan in pain, and then she would tenderly smooth his brow and whisper soft, comforting words. Beth didn't know what she said during those days, mostly she just crooned meaningless little endearments that seemed to calm him temporarily.

  As soon as Nathan had been carried to the house and the doctor had arrived, Rafael had spared a few minutes to send a rider posthaste to Cielo with the news of what had transpired. With Beth's husband incapacitated, it was imperative, in order to avoid any talk, that he find some respectable woman to stay in the house. He chafed against the ini^anity of it, but to avoid the inevitable raised eyebrows and wagging tongues he must have another woman in the house to protect Beth's reputation. For his own he didn't give a damn, but for her sake he dredged up some obscure Spanish relative, a widow of about sixty years of age who lived in San Antonio, and within the hour had her installed in the house.

  There had been several other casualties besides Nathan, and during the long night that followed, what Mary Maverick would call in her diary "the day of horrors," the immigrant German doctor, San Antonio's only surgeon, had labored unceasingly through the night to save those that he could.

  The Comanche loss was by far the worst. Of the sixty-five Indians who had come to council, thirty-three chiefs, warriors, women, and children had died in the massacre. The remaining thirty-two, all women and children, many of them wounded, had been captured and thrown into jail. Only seven whites had been killed, including the sheriff of San Antonio.

  It had been a bloodbath in the end, the last stages of the fight becoming a hunt as the whites had scoured the town killing every frightened Comanche who did not immediately surrender. None of the Comanches managed to escape the town and were either killed on the spot or thrown into jail.