A Leaf in the Wind

by Velda Sherrod

  "I'll remember." Elise gestured toward the mare. "What's her name?"

  "Se llama Goose."

  "Goose?" Elise laughed then turned to see if he were joking. "Does she waddle?"

  "Oh, no, senora, no waddle. Downy soft ride, like feather mattress. Easy gallop. Fast. Senor Burke, he say Goose for the senora."

  T.K. had not been impervious to her position, making sure she had a mount if she needed one. He was a considerate lover and a thoughtful husband. Just not a trusting one.

  She stroked Goose's velvety muzzle, then turned to smile. "Gracias, Juan."

  "Por nada, senora."

  She felt Juan's eyes on her as she reined the mare around in a half circle and cantered out of the corral. The early sun squatted on the horizon like an overweight jack-'o-lantern, and the night's chill hung on, awaiting a morning burn off. Thankful that her doe skin dress and knee-high moccasins protected her against the cold, she rode out to meet the day's challenge.

  Once out of sight, she dug her heels into the mare's flank. Juan was right. Goose gave a smooth ride and responded quickly to a light rein. She was fast, so fast she could scoot from under an unwary rider, leaving him suspended in midair.

  A faint trail led toward the canyon, northeast into the breaks. The going became rougher. Elise pointed her horse down the incline and allowed the mare her head. They had a long way to go and not enough time. The Drum was in peril, possibly awaiting execution along with a thousand other horses in that abominable roundup. She couldn't bear to think what might have happened to Grayhawk.

  For the first few miles, she followed the tracks left by T.K. and Mac; then she branched off by herself toward the military encampment. By riding hard and with the Goose's speed, she could lessen the distance considerably by midday.

  Blue haze hung above the ridges, marking the canyon. From across the prairie, a restless wind whipped at her hair. Evergreens spotted the prairie, and as she traveled on, the trees formed groves, becoming thicker and taller.

  She stopped in a copse and fished jerky out of her saddlebag. She chewed slowly, taking stock of the surroundings and the position of the sun. The military camp where MacKenzie had herded the horses couldn't be far away. She choked down the unpalatable jerky, then washed it down with water from her canteen.

  After resting her horse, she mounted and continued to ride northeast, almost paralleling the canyon. Above her, a hawk rode a wind current, lazily circling the breaks. She shaded her eyes with her hand, then shifted her gaze to a ridge covered with junipers. Obeying a word and a gentle flip of the rein, Goose headed toward it.

  "Sorry to go out of the way, Goose, but we have to get our bearings."

  She cut across the rolling landscape to arrive on the canyon side of the grove. Below her lay a veritable forest of evergreens.

  The long-legged horse pricked up its ears, and the warning was not lost on Elise. She kicked the mare in the flank and raced toward the trees. Fear raised the hair on her neck. Somebody was near. If Indians saw her and recognized her Comanche dress, perhaps they'd think she was one of them and go on their way. A frail chance that was almost laughable.

  At the sound of pounding hooves, Goose whickered. She had run into a band of Indians. Too late, she realized her mistake. Scraggly bearded men in dirty uniforms, yelling at the top of their lungs, turned their horses in her direction. She had run into a sortie of MacKenzie's soldiers, and from their wild ride toward her, it was obvious that they mistook her for a Comanche maiden.

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  T.K. watched the sun pass overhead and ease toward the western horizon. McCucheon rode behind him and a little to one side. Mac had tied his bandanna over his mouth for protection from cold gusting winds.

  Slowing his horse, T.K. waited for Mac to draw up beside him. "I thought we'd run into somebody that might have seen or heard of Jake, that sniveling horse thief. Nobody in Hy-Meadow knew anything. It's like the son of a bitch disappeared and took Blaze with him."

  "Lot of Comanch' sign though." Mac took off his hat and hung it on the saddle horn, then wiped his face with his bandanna. "A party of 'em, I'd say."

  T.K.'s eyes held a calculating gleam. "Probably looking for a way to get their horses back."

  "You'd think the Indians would lie low until maybe MacKenzie would lose interest."

  "MacKenzie's cold-blooded and dedicated to following orders. He won't quit. I doubt that he's got Blaze and Drum in with the Indian ponies. More than likely, Grayhawk's riding west on Drum and Jake's headed south with Blaze."

  "Boswell heard Grayhawk got caught, him and a handful of his braves."

  T.K. stared at him. "Then there's every chance the Drum is waiting for a bullet."

  "Aw, nobody in his right mind would shoot a good horse."

  Dragging a match across his saddle horn, T.K. lit his cigarette. Then, mindful of the dry prairie grass, he extinguished the flame between his fingers. "In with a thousand more, who's to notice?"

  "Not even one of MacKenzie's foot soldiers could make a mistake like" Mac paused, considering. "On second thought, you may be right."

  T.K. gave him a wry grin. ''MacKenzie's men follow his orders the way MacKenzie follows Sherman's. Like they were written on clay tablets."

  The two men rode on, alternately spurring their mounts to greater speed, then slowing to allow them to rest. The land gradually sloped toward the canyon. Below them, a thick grove of evergreen lay between them and the breaks. With Mac flanking him, T.K. rode into the grove.

  Indians came from behind trees, noiseless, mute, quiescent, their faces impassive behind streaks of red, ocher, and black.

  T.K. swore and reached instinctively for his gun. Reason and Mac's negative signal stopped him from drawing.

  Before he could appraise the situation, one Comanche taller than the rest reined into the circle. Streaks of blue lined his cheeks to the jawline. "My friend would not draw on his brother."

  "Grayhawk, what are you doing here? I heard you were on the reservation. I'm glad to see you."

  Grayhawk grunted. "Don't get too comfortable until you hear me out."

  "I'm listening."

  "Your wife's a prisoner of the military."

  "What the hell are you talking about? My wife is at home."

  "Perhaps when you left."

  T.K. realized, not for the first time, that his wife didn't take orders. And it came home to him even stronger that she had a fierce need to protect those she loved: Toddie, Drum, even that old reprobate she called Papa. A cold hand closed around his heart, freezing the blood in his veins. Anything could happen to her in MacKenzie's stockade: rape, death, torture, disease. If not by Indians, then by the soldiers. He heard Grayhawk's words from a distance.

  "We tried, but we couldn't get there in time. The bluecoat must've thought she was a Comanche. They threw her in with the Indians waiting to go to Fort Sill. She could be in trouble, at least uncomfortable until they find out who she is."

  "Nobody but one of MacKenzie's slack jaws 'could confuse my wife with a Comanche squaw." He threw a side glance at Grayhawk. "With all respect, of course."

  Grayhawk nodded his understanding. "She wore her Indian dress. They roped her and dragged her behind the horse. My braves had disappeared into the prairies by that time. I could only watch," he said sadly.

  T.K. erupted with a roar. He thought she had agreed to stay home. He had believed he could trust her. He'd kill the damned blue belly who'd thrown a rope around her. "I told her I'd find her horse."

  "She's a brave woman. She dares much." Grayhawk allowed a brief glimpse of the suffering inherent in his words. "I'm sorry to lose her Drum to the soldiers. First the white man takes our buffalo. Now our horses."

  T.K. could deal with any loss but that of his wife. He asked harshly, "Are you sure it was my wife?"

  "There was no mistake."

  Fear, dark as a winter cloud, settled over him, and T.K. knew he had to hurry. Anything could happen to her, thirst not the least.
"Mac, I've a score to settle with MacKenzie." With a hasty salute and a nod to the braves, T.K. spoke gravely to Grayhawk. "I honor my Comanche brother."

  Turning, he urged his mount into a trot, then a gallop. How much time did they have before MacKenzie ordered the horses shot? Or before they started moving the Indians? Or some tragedy befell his wife? T.K. led Mac down a faint trail toward the canyon. A few miles farther on, they heard gunfire.

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  Elise sagged against the stockade fence. If she read the pale sun correctly, she had been there for hours. Angry, sore, and bruised from being dragged behind the soldier's horse, she shivered in the icy wind. Her hip ached from hitting the hard ground, and her legs were scratched and bleeding. She had feared her arm was broken, but a quick check had ruled out that possibility. Thirst cracked her dry lips.

  Her moccasins had been torn away, and her bare feet were numb from cold. She drew them under her and tried unsuccessfully to pull her dress down to cover them.

  A crude shelter, incapable of protecting all the Indians, had been erected at one end of the enclosure. Men and women formed groups around their children, sparing them as much of the frigid wind as they could. Many sat around a fire located in the center, absorbing its meager heat. Desperate for water, she wondered what they did to satisfy their thirst or to relieve themselves.

  Afraid to attract attention, Elise made no move toward the fire. The soldiers hadn't questioned her Indian dress. They had brought her in, untied her arms, and shoved her into the overcrowded stockade. In the eyes of the soldiers, she was a Comanche squaw or a dirty half-breed.

  Groaning and half conscious, she had tried to convince them of her identity. They had laughed at her wild mumblings and wondered aloud if they had time to take her before they were missed. One cruelly squeezed her breast. In her muddled state, she had lashed out against the blinding pain. The soldier slapped her; then with a final merciless crush of her breast, he had stalked away. His comrade had followed, arguing they still had time for a little fun with the squaw.

  Elise staggered to her feet and looked at the weathered, impassive faces around her. The Indians ignored her. If they recognized her, they gave no sign. Were they filled with rage, desperation, or resigned to a life in the Oklahoma Territory? Or was it a combination of all three? What would they do if they knew she was white? As T.K. often said, who knew the workings of the Comanche mind? She had no recourse but to pretend to be what she was not an Indian woman.

  Startled at the sound of gunfire, she put an eye to the wooden stakes that separated her from the outside. The crack afforded a glimpse of wheeling, frightened horses herded into a corral.

  Most astounding of all was a squad of infantrymen lined up with rifles. As the horses raced around the enclosure, they were roped, pulled before the firing squad, and shot, then dragged away to form a pile of dead horseflesh.

  Tears began a weary trip down her cheeks. "No," she whimpered. "No, no, no." She flinched with each heartless shot, and as each animal fell, the pain in her breast became agony. Drum could be the next one.

  The firing went on and on. Not even her hands over her ears could muffle the sound of the slaughter. She sank to her knees, her entreaty lost to rifle fire. "Please, please. No more."

  Elise hid her eyes to shut out the senseless slaughter. Sobs continued to shake her, and her throat threatened to close from thirst and pain and grief.

  She told herself T.K. would come for her. He'd save her horse. But in her heart, she knew he'd be too late. The Drum was doomed. She sobbed until the cries of the maddened horses blended with hers, and her pain stretched into emptiness.

  When at last she could raise her head, she looked at the tattered remnant of Comanche. They had lost so much more: their horses, their land, their way of life. At that moment, she made a promise. That black day would survive on canvas, in memory of those weary people.

  To say that T.K. was angry would do injustice to the rage he carried in his breast. His wife had become a prisoner. T.K. could see her roped and yanked from her horse, dragged across the rocky prairie, raped, and suffering from the cold. Was she alive?

  Because he ached with his love for her, he had to put that thought from his mind. When he had her safe in his arms again, he would honor her as she deserved. She had endured so much for those she loved deeply, including her damned horse. In these squalid surroundings, herded with the despised Comanche, at the mercy of unfeeling soldiers, she waited for him. He had never loved her more nor been more fearful.

  T.K. stalked toward the stockade. He had not been able to see MacKenzie, but his aide had issued an order. At the gate, the guard ignored him until he read his fate in T.K.'s eyes. Once inside, T.K. stared at the vanquished Comanches, huddled together, masking their agony and hatred. Dear God, where was she?

  "Mr. Burke."

  Mac's low voice reached him at the same time he saw the small, crumpled figure pressed against the fence. With an explosive oath, T.K. hurried forward and knelt beside her. Not wanting to startle her, he spoke softly, then put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Wife?" Her whimper tore at his heart. "It's time to go home, love."

  She crept into his arms. "The Drum is dead."

  Tenderly, T.K. wrapped her in the blanket Mac held out to him. "We don't know yet, honey."

  Intense pain suffused her face, and her eyes brimmed with tears. "The soldiers shot them all. I didn't see Drum, but if Grayhawk was captured and he was riding my horse, the Drum didn't stand a chance."

  "Grayhawk wasn't captured, wife. I just saw him. Talked with him. He told me where to find you."

  She couldn't hold back her tears any longer. "I'm glad he's free. I wish I could be sure he has Drum."

  T.K. didn't have the heart to tell her Grayhawk had been astride a spotted pony. "Enough for now, love. We'll talk when you feel better." He cradled her against his shoulder for a few minutes before nodding at Mac to lead the way. Once more at the gate, both men eyed the guard.

  "A mistake was made. My wife should never have been brought here. Let us through," T.K. said.

  The guard sneered. "I got an order to let you in. I ain't seen nothing that says you can take somebody out. Least of all a squaw."

  Two bluecoats chose that moment to bring in their prize. Cursing, they shoved a tall Comanche warrior ahead of them, ignoring the shackles on his hands and feet. Clothed only in deerskin pants, the Indian suffered his humiliation with stoic indifference, his mouth set in rigid resignation.

  "The son-of-a-bitchin' Injun done escaped wunst," one of the soldiers said angrily, "but his days of killin' and scalpin' is over."

  Each time the soldiers yanked the shackles, the Indian's wrists and ankles bled a little more. He looked over their heads, his gaze on the horizon. Neither his stance, the proud lift of the chin, nor his disdain bore any semblance of submission.

  The infantryman removed the irons from the Indian's feet. "Cut the rope on his hands. This halfbreed's here, and by God, this is where he's gonna stay until he's permanent on the reservation."

  "I'll be glad to be rid of'im." One hard-faced soldier freed the Indian's hands. "He ain't nothing but trouble."

  "Calls hisself Grayhawk. Look at them eyes. Reminds you of a hawk, all right."

  T.K. tried to reconcile the Comanche warrior with the affable Irishman who had attended his wedding. T.K. opened his mouth to speak, then glanced down at his wife's partially covered face. When he looked back, Grayhawk gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  With a slight nod, T.K. indicated his understanding, but he was too late. His wife had seen Grayhawk. "How many bluecoats were necessary to bring this man in, Private? How many will it take to hold him?" T.K. paused. "Took six of you to capture one small woman."

  Elise struggled to be set on her feet. She stumbled toward the gate. "Cowards. All of them," she mumbled.

  Unprepared for what happened next, T.K. saw his wife throw herself against the guard, startling the man and knocking his rifle
upward. At the same time, Grayhawk let out a wild Comanche cry, slammed one of the soldiers in the belly, and fled through the gate.

  Drawing his gun, T.K. made a sweeping motion toward the soldiers. "One move, and I use this." He saw his wife limping and running toward the gate. Cautiously, he angled toward her.

  Mac growled behind him. "Get her the hell out of here. I've got you covered."

  T.K. swooped his wife into his arms and hurried to the mesquite grove. Already, the sun had sunk low on the horizon, throwing giant shadows. He heard his buckskin's knicker before he reached the trees. T.K. placed his precious burden in the saddle and swung up behind her. He wrapped one arm around her, looked briefly behind him, then kneed his horse into a run.

  They had traveled a couple of miles before he heard the pounding of hooves. He slowed to let MacCucheon draw up beside him. "Are you followed?"

  "A lot of yelling and cursing, but nobody followed. I think they were more interested in going after Grayhawk."

  "I'm much obliged, Mac."

  "Glad to help. Wonder what MacKenzie will have to say about all that took place in the compound?"

  "I don't think he'll mention having my wife in the stockade. And I doubt he'll do much bragging about losing Grayhawk."

  Mac cleared his throat. "Before we start home, maybe we ought to see if she's hurt or something."

  "Not until we get farther away from that hellhole."

  Twilight arrived, effectively shutting out the carnage behind them. After several miles, T.K. sought the sanctuary of an evergreen copse. "I'll see to my wife now."

  "It's pretty cold. Shall I make a fire?"

  He could sense the tension in Mac's guarded question. "No need. We won't be here long."

  Mac threw a leg over his saddle horn and slid to the ground. With a flick of his wrist, he untied his blanket. "I won't be using this," he said. "You might as well get some good out of it."

  T.K. nodded and tossed it on the ground. Then he settled his wife in a puddle of moonlight. Tenderly, he smoothed her matted hair back from her forehead. He hoped his apprehension wasn't evident to her. "I'm looking after you now, love. I want to see if you're injured. Just relax. Won't take long."