Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Orlena could not cook, could not build a fire or perform the easiest camp chores.

  Even when starved into working, she was clumsy and ill suited to the tasks. Yet Pascal was forced to admire her spirit. Most men backed away from the Night Wind in mortal terror. This slim woman defied him like the lioness he had named her.

  The shrewd Frenchman had been observing the interplay between them ever since Joaquín had dragged her kicking and struggling from the adobe hut three days earlier. Her open defiance and temper tantrums had been quelled. Thirst, hunger, and exhaustion were natural pacifiers. Now, noting the charged tension in the air since they returned from their bath, he wondered what other natural pacifier her handsome captor might have used on her.

  No, not so, he decided with a grim chuckle, glancing from the half‐caste to Orlena. Each was too tensely aware of the other, each coiled like a tightly wound watch spring, ready to snap. Sacred Blood, how he would love to have watched them batheif he had dared!

  Rubbing his leg where the stump was attached to the wooden peg, he spoke to her. ʺDid the ointment help your burns?ʺ His black eyes glowed as he stared at the lushness of her curves revealed through the thin garments.

  Orlena looked at him with narrowed eyes. ʺYes.ʺ Quickly she turned her back on his lascivious gaze and began to gather up the few crude cooking utensils Pascal used to prepare their meals. She could hear the Frenchmanʹs low chuckle and hated herself for having to endure his knowing smirk. ʺLook to your manners lest Night Wind cut off your other leg and you must hop on two stumps,ʺ she said tartly.

  ʺI did not cut off his right leg, Lionessa bearʹs mauling caused the leg to rot.

  Blaise sawed it off himself,ʺ Night Wind said as he walked silently into the light of the campfire.

  Orlenaʹs eyes widened and she nearly dropped the heavy kettle she had been scouring with sand. She did not want Night Wind to hear her use his name as if he were her protector! Ignoring his smirk, which indicated that he was thinking along precisely the same lines, she said to Pascal, ʺYou could surely not have cut off your own leg?ʺ

  The fat little Frenchman laughed, revealing a blackened row of teeth with several missing. ʺI sawed it off with this.ʺ He unsheathed a wicked‐looking long knife that gleamed in the firelight. ʺWhen I finished the unpleasant task, I sewed off the blood vessels with deer sinew. It was a while before I walked again.ʺ

  Orlena felt her gorge rise as she imagined the grisly operation. Once she would have scoffed in disbelief, but after months in this wilderness, she believed anything was possible! Even the renegade traderʹs absurd name. ʺI believe your story as much as I believe your name. Blaise Pascal, indeed!ʺ

  He and Night Wind both laughed. Then Pascal looked at the half‐caste. ʺShe knows for whom I am named. Beware, Night Wind, for you have a dangerously educated woman here.ʺ

  ʺSo it would appear,ʺ Night Wind replied darkly.

  ʺIt is scarce a sign of great erudition to know of the famous French philosopher and mathematician,ʺ she replied stiffly, ʺbut I still do not think it is your true name.ʺ

  ʺThe family name Pascal is quite common in the north of France. My father, an impoverished tutor to a noble family, had dreams of grandeur for me. He chose the name Blaise. And, after all, is not every manʹs life a gamble?ʺ He shrugged.

  ʺWhat were my chances of surviving this?ʺ He thumped his leg, severed just below the knee. ʺOr, who would have believed Conal Quinnʹs ward would become the Night Windʹs woman?ʺ He looked warily from Orlenaʹs outraged face to the half‐caste, gauging his reaction.

  ʺYou know not to speak of Quinn, Pascal,ʺ he said quietly. The threat hung palpably in the air as he rose in one fluid movement and walked toward the horses.

  ʺYou know my stepfather?ʺ Orlena asked with hope soaring in her breast.

  ʺI have known Don Conal for many years, but as your lover warned me, it is best left unspoken.ʺ His voice had lost all its earlier taunting joviality and was hard now.

  She looked at Night Windʹs departing figure. ʺI am notʺ She bit back the denial, aware that Night Windʹs protection brought her a certain degree of respect. She looked at Pascal with contempt now, saying, ʺYou are afraid of that renegade, like everyone else. Better to fear the wrath of Governor Quinn when he catches all of you!ʹʹ

  Pascal spat in the dust, then stared at her with keenly assessing eyes. ʺOh, I know the treachery of Colorado Quinn, never fear, Doña Orlena, but you would do well to realize that oneʺhe pointed at Night Windʺis far more deadly.ʺ

  ʺHe is the treacherous one, the kidnapper of women and boys! How dare you call Conal bloody, you traitor!ʺ

  Pascal regained some of his good humor at her righteous anger. He was beginning to understand why Joaquín had kept her. ʺI am no loyal son of the Spanish Crown. As I am a Frenchman, I can scarce be called a traitor.ʺ

  ʺYou sell guns to the savages. That is a betrayal of all civilized men,ʺ she said, shoving the kettle and spoons sheʹd just scoured at him.

  He shrugged. ʺI sell guns, medicines, iron pots, whiskeywhatever men can purchase, whoever they are. Their gold is the same to me. A man must live in this harsh land. The philosopher was right. Life, death, moralityit is all a gamble.ʺ

  ʺThere are those like Conal who possess honor,ʺ Orlena said with disgust.

  ʺYou will find honor has a much different meaning in New Spain than in Madrid. It did for Don Conal. So will it once more,ʺ he added cryptically as he packed up the cooking supplies.

  She Who Dreams sat staring at the rising ball of orange fire, her black eyes glowing like the sunrise. White Crane slowly emerged from the wickiup and knew at once that She Who Dreams had had a vision during the night. The sweet fragrance of sotol bread baking on the hot coals of the campfire drew his attention. He walked past his wife and scooped up one of the roasted cakes.

  Eating in silence, he looked about the awakening Lipan encampment. She Who Dreams would speak in her own good time after she had mulled over her message from the spirits. Always it was this way. She was a powerful medicine woman, his wife, and White Crane took great pride in her gifts.

  Suddenly the old woman turned from her trance and looked at him. Her round face was creased with a frown of puzzlement. ʺNight Wind returns to us this day.ʺ

  ʺThat should mean great rejoicing, my wife, yet your heart is troubled. Is he injured by the Spanish?ʺ White Crane asked as dread filled his heart.

  She shook her head quickly. ʺNo, he is unharmed, other than by the hatred that always consumes him,ʺ she said softly. ʺBut he brings a captive with him, a white woman. There is much about her I do not understand, but I do know thisshe is important to Night Windʹs future.ʺ

  White Crane frowned now. ʺFor good or for ill?ʺ

  ʺThis I do not know. When I see her and speak with her, then I will know,ʺ she said with quiet assurance as she rose and began to scoop the hot sotol cakes from the ashes of the fire. ʺCome, eat more. This will be a day of many trials. I am certain of it.ʺ

  Knowing they had reached Night Windʹs Lipan camp in the isolation of the Guadalupe Mountains made Orlena certain she would face many trials. Three days earlier, the Frenchman had left them, heading west onto the Staked Plains to trade with the hated enemy of the Apache, the Comanche. Night Wind and his raiders took Orlena south. As they neared the village, her dread increased. On the surface, nothing changed between the half‐caste and his captive. Yet since that night in the lake when they had bathed each other, a subtle difference had permeated their relationship. Although he drew her into his blankets to sleep each night, he no longer taunted her by exploring her body. They slept together to share body heat, but he turned his back to her and fell instantly to sleep. Or so it seemed to Orlena, who in spite of exhaustion lay awake and trembling with the unpardonable feelings he had evoked in her.

  And now they were at journeyʹs end. She had no idea what he planned to do with her once he reached his home. Bleakly, she realized that after the days of hard riding in the imp
enetrable trailless mountains far south and east of Santa Fe, Conal could never find her. What would these savages do with her? Would the half‐caste simply turn her over to them to abuse and kill? Orlena doubted that. If he had planned rape, he or his raiders could have had their way long before this.

  But she had overheard stories about the Apache women, whose cruelty to captives was said to exceed that of the warriors. As they rode slowly down into the narrow ravine where brush arbors were strewn along the banks of a twisting crystal stream, Orlena darted nervous glances at Night Wind.

  His impassive face told her nothing. She concentrated on guiding the hateful little burro behind his big piebald stallion as they descended the steep, rocky trail under the watchful eyes of fierce‐looking sentries armed with bows and lances.

  The camp was small, not more than a few dozen brush arbors. These varied in size, some of them accommodating only two people, others elongated and large, obviously meant to shelter numerous children.

  There were lots of children, playing naked in the warm autumn sunshine.

  Women clad in simple buckskin tunics worked about the camp, pounding fruits and cactus hearts in stone bowls, drying strips of meat on racks and scraping deer and antelope hides. That much she had observed in the pueblos near Santa Fe, but no tame Indians camped here. Breech‐clouted warriors sharpened lances and fletched arrows. They looked barbarous and menacing, with their bronzed skin glistening in the sun. Their silver and copper earrings, arm bracelets and necklaces reflected brilliant flashes of light. The men wore their long hair loose, held off their faces with leather headbands. Their chores were quickly abandoned, as were those of the women, when they saw Night Windʹs band of raiders riding slowly toward the camp.

  Orlena concentrated on keeping her head held high and her spine stiff. She must betray no fear to these fierce people! Feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on herawe-filled children, squinting old women, even speculative glances from young menOrlena stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the jagged peak of a distant mountain.

  The language spoken was unintelligible to her, but she knew it to be the Lipan dialect Night Wind spoke with his men. The voices were excited and everyone was obviously rejoicing at the return of the raiders. She did not dare consider how they felt about Night Windʹs captive.

  When they reached one of the smaller arbors in the center of the camp near a curve in the streamʹs headlong rush down the canyon, Night Wind stopped and slid effortlessly from his big horse. An older man and woman stood outside the shelter. He embraced the man with great warmth and then nodded with grave formality and respect to the gray‐haired woman. ʺIt is good that you are here,ʺ

  White Crane said simply.

  Night Wind looked at him with a smile, saying, ʺAnd of course, She Who Dreams knew I was returning this day.ʺ It was not a question. His mother‐in‐law always knew such things.

  White Crane nodded. ʺShe also said you brought a captive white woman.ʺ He looked up at the golden‐haired girl on the burro. ʺShe has the glow of the sun in her hair. Her unusual beauty may cause trouble.ʺ

  Night Wind smiled grimly, looking about the gathered crowd for one particular face. ʺQuick Slayer is absent. Trouble will wait until he returns.ʺ

  White Crane grunted, then turned to his wife. ʺSee to the captive. I would know what you can learn from her. I will speak with our son‐in‐law.ʺ

  She Who Dreams nodded and waited until Night Wind turned to the girl, ordering her to dismount from the burro.

  Orlena considered defying him, but only fleetingly. Surrounded by savages who spoke no Spanish, the half‐caste was her only slim connection with civilization.

  She dismounted with as much grace as her aching posterior and the short, thin skirt allowed.

  The old woman walked up to her and inspected her with shrewd but kind eyes.

  She was several inches shorter than Orlena and had a round face and plump body. Her salt‐and‐pepper hair was plaited into a thick braid that hung down her back to her waist. When she reached with one chubby brown hand to touch Orlenaʹs chin, turning her face one way, then the other, the white woman fought the urge to cringe in fear. Is she measuring me for some insidious torture device? She stood ramrod straight, with her fingernails biting into her palms, scarcely daring to breathe. ʺYou have courage to hide your fear,ʺ She Who Dreams said softly in thickly accented Spanish. ʺCome with me. Not harm Night Windʹs captiveunless he say.ʺ

  Smothering a gasp of outrage, Orlena stood stock still, her eyes turning back to where Night Wind and the old man sat beside a campfire. Would he have this woman harm her? Who was she? His mother? Somehow Orlena doubted that, for there was no resemblance between them.

  ʺCome,ʺ She Who Dreams repeated, losing patience as she watched the haughty set of the girlʹs patrician features. This was no paisanoʹs daughter but one born to privilege and power among the hated Spanish.

  Just then a thunder of horses heralded the arrival of more men. A small band of warriors rode in with a long string of captured ponies trailing behind them.

  ʺI see my respite from Quick Slayer is all too brief,ʺ Night Wind said as he stood up wearily. Looking over to where She Who Dreams and Orlena stood at the door of the wickiup, he swore in Spanish. Without even turning toward his old rival, Night Wind knew his eyes had found the golden‐haired woman. His woman.

  Quick Slayerʹs face hardened in anger when he saw White Crane and Night Wind conferring. Then he saw the woman and knew the raiders had brought a great prize to the camp. Well, so had hemany fine ponies stolen from a big ranch outside El Paso. He studied the woman, insolently ignoring Night Wind and his father‐in‐law. Slowly now, he kneed his mount and rode up to where She Who Dreams stood with the golden one.

  He had wanted to take Slim Reed to wife, but this fat old hag who claimed the powers of a medicine man had denied himher and her foolish husband. They had let the maiden wed the half‐blooded white man with green snakeʹs eyes. But now Night Wind had another woman, a slave. Slaves could not choose as could free Lipan women. He slid off his big gray in front of the golden one.

  When he stretched out his hand toward her hair, Night Windʹs voice halted him.

  ʺDo not touch her, Quick Slayer.ʺ

  Just then, Orlena attempted to strike him, but he turned to face the advancing pair of men, laughing at her puny effort.

  ʺI have never seen a golden woman before, Night Wind. I would buy your slave for many ponies. Look you at my prizes and choose three of the finest.ʺ His harsh face was impassive.

  ʺShe is not for sale, Quick Slayer, no matter how many ponies you offer.ʺ Night Windʹs green eyes locked with his enemyʹs black ones in pure, icy hate.

  Observing the exchange, Orlena could not suppress a shiver of revulsion. Even though she did not understand the language, she could guess what they said and felt their mutual hate like a palpable thing.

  ʺIf you will not sell her, you will have her live as a slave in this camp. I say such a one must undergo the test of the knife. What says Night Windʹs honored father-in‐law?ʺ He turned to White Crane. ʺWill you let your medicine woman put her to it? If not, you must plan to kill her.ʺ

  White Crane looked at She Who Dreams and the woman nodded with assurance.

  ʺShe must take the test. I will learn much that way,ʺ she replied.

  Vision Seer and Cloth Fox watched Orlena from across the crowd, amazement written on their faces. When Night Windʹs raiders freed them, they had been escorted by one called Hoarse Bark to the stronghold. They had neither seen nor heard of their rescuerʹs whereabouts since.

  ʺWhy has he captured the governorʹs daughter and brought her here?ʺ Cloth Fox asked in amazement. ʺIt will mean danger for all of us from the Spanish soldiers.ʺ

  Vision Seer scoffed. ʺAlready Quick Slayer makes troublehe is the danger, not the foolish Spanish, who can never find us.ʺ

  ʺBut why does Night Wind bring her among us? To create dissension? Or does his white blood call to him for such
a mate now that his first wife is dead?ʺ Cloth Foxʹs face hardened.

  ʺThat is not for us to know, but the woman helped us when we were at her fatherʹs mercy. Without the food and medicine she brought, we would never have withstood the escape,ʺ Vision Seer replied as he walked toward the confrontation. Reluctantly, Cloth Fox followed.

  ʺI would not have her marked, Mother of my Wife,ʺ Night Wind said quietly to She Who Dreams. Although direct speech between a son‐in‐law and mother‐in-law was permitted, the rules governing it were quite strict.

  She nodded and motioned for two of the other women to lay hands on Orlena.

  Just then, Vision Seer approached White Crane and said, ʺI would speak. This woman is the daughter of the new Spanish governor, Colorado Quinn. She saved our lives while we were imprisoned in their village.ʺ

  White Craneʹs eyes widened in horror and he turned to Night Wind, with an abrupt signal for the proceedings to halt. ʺCome with me,ʺ he said to Night Wind and turned to enter the wickiup.

  ʺShe is not his daughter by blood,ʺ Night Wind said without preamble. ʺHer father is dead. Conal Quinn did but marry her mother. Her capture was a mistake, but now I mean to keep her.ʺ His green eyes glowed in the darkness of the wickiup.

  White Crane considered for a moment. ʺShe Who Dreams said the captiveʹs life was intertwined with yours. There is much more to be learned, but for now, she must face the test if you would keep her safe in this camp.ʺ He turned and stepped outside into the bright light. ʺLet the test begin. Vision Seer, I will consider your words about her after this is completed.ʺ

  Orlena listened to the exchange, recognizing the two Lipan prisoners. Had they interceded on her behalf? Then the women again reached for her and her knees turned to water. Should she fight? She knew instinctively that crying or pleading would be worse than useless. There were far too many of them to resist. Stoically, she let the two younger women lead her. The old woman walked to the center of a large clearing and picked up a long, wickedly curved skinning knife from where it lay beside a large antelope hide. With it in her hand, she waited impassively while Orlenaʹs two guards brought her to a large boulder that lay by the edge of the stream bed. They pushed on her shoulders until she reclined against the rock. Then the old woman walked up to her. Orlena willed herself not to look at the knife.