Her Comanche grandfather, Bird Fly High, had noticed her interest in birds from the beginning and often talked to her of them. A quiet, soft-spoken man, a bit stooped but still strong, he always helped whenever they moved camp, aiding her and the other women and girls in dismantling the teepees and strapping the heavy cedar lodge poles to the horses and donkeys. Then, he would usually walk rather than ride atop a horse, always saying he liked the exercise for his old bones.
“You watch the tiriejuhtzú with a keen eye,” Bird Fly High had said to her one day.
Molly had simply nodded in reply.
“To understand the juhtzú, one must have a sharp mind, able to discern the smallest of details from a larger landscape. It can be a difficult medicine because you must be careful not to keep your head in the clouds too much. Are you a dreamer, tiriejuhtzú?”
Molly had grasped most of what he’d said. Everyday her comprehension of the Comanche language had expanded as she’d paid attention to the women and children speaking around her. But she’d always hesitated to voice the language herself, fearing a loss of connection to her own people.
So she’d answered, “Jaa,” and left it at that. Bird Fly High had nodded in approval and clasped her shoulder, telling her with his touch that he understood her.
A part of her missed the old man, and she wondered if he still lived. The thought of not ever knowing saddened her. He had taught her many things—about Comanche lore, about the land, and especially about birds. For the first time, a sense of gratitude filled her for knowing him.
Matt and Nathan splashed their horses across the stream then took to a well-worn trail, the route winding its way through several low-lying hills covered with juniper and cottonwood trees. Spring was in bloom and green engulfed the land.
She was glad Matt hadn’t excluded her from this excursion. While his desire to protect her from the ugliness of what had happened to her folks warmed her, it was already too late for that. She needed to be here. In the end, he must’ve realized that.
When this was all over, she would need to think of her future. The thought left her feeling adrift. Where would she go? Claire had decided to stay at the SR instead of accompanying the three of them to the Bautista ranch, but Molly knew at some point her friend would need to return to the New Mexico Territory. Perhaps she should go with her, and then continue on to California to see Emma and her aunt. She had no reason to stay in Texas anymore, but the thought constricted her chest.
She was back in trousers again because it was far more comfortable, but she found she missed the dresses. Not that looking like a woman had anything to do with it. But, if she had to be honest, it rankled her a bit that Matt still treated her as if she were nine years old. Maybe he was right. Maybe she really was searching for a husband and just didn’t realize it.
If that were true, then why did she care less what Nathan thought of her clothing, but Matt’s opinion nagged at her?
Molly glanced at Nathan. He’d been cordial enough when Matt introduced them earlier, but it was quickly apparent, even with Molly’s limited experience with men, he wasn’t a man of ease and openness. A black hat covered dark hair, and a scar on his left cheek made him appear menacing. She could only imagine how he’d acquired it.
He was as tall and lean as Matt, but his eyes carried shadows from which his soul seemed unable to escape. Engaging in small talk with the man gave every indication of being a futile task since there appeared to be nothing lighthearted in either his demeanor or his personality.
Matt and Nathan slowed their mounts so she could ride abreast of them on the far right.
“You and Nathan have something in common,” Matt said to her, his horse drawing close. Their legs touched, and Molly savored the brief contact.
“What would that be?” she questioned hesitantly.
“Nathan was held captive by a band of Comanche also.”
“You were?” Surprised, she leaned forward to look at the man on the opposite side of Matt. “How old were you?”
“Older than you, from what Matt tells me,” Nathan answered. “You’re fortunate to have survived. And even more blessed to have found your way home.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Molly knew fate had been against her through the years, but somehow she’d never lost faith in eventually finding her way home. “Which tribe were you with?”
“The Kotsotekas. I was held for about eighteen months before I was able to escape.”
“How did you manage that?” How had he done what she’d only dreamed of doing night after night?
“One of the women helped me.”
“How could one of the women have helped you? They weren’t allowed at any of the councils. They weren’t even allowed to have medicine.”
“I wasn’t a boy when I was captured. One of the Indian women took a liking to me and convinced me to start acting daft. After a while, the warriors began letting me accompany them on hunting parties, so I started deliberately getting lost trying to return to camp. Each time I delayed my return a little longer, until one day I just never returned. They naturally assumed I was lost, and therefore didn’t come after me, at least not until it was too late.”
“How did you know where to go once you were free?” Molly’s biggest fear if she ran off—and after a while there had been plenty of opportunities—had been that she would become hopelessly lost.
“I knew where I was, and I’d been making mental notes of landmarks as the tribe moved from place to place, so it only took me four days on foot to reach a white settlement.”
“Is that how you got the scar?” An hour ago she never would have guessed how much she and Nathan had in common. She knew male captives, especially older ones, were often not treated well. Some were beaten, overworked, even maimed.
“This one was the least of what they did to me.” A muscle in Nathan’s jaw flexed, and his expression became shuttered again.
“You always could get out of any scrape,” Matt said.
“I got lucky. The woman saved my life. I guess it just disproves most Texan theories that the Comanche are all barbarians.”
“But they are barbarians, aren’t they?” Molly remarked. “Maybe not as bad as the Tonks. The Comanche children would whisper stories about how the Tonkawas would boil the arms and legs of any Comanche they captured, eating them. As far as I know, the Kwahadi didn’t eat their enemies, but I do recall one time when some of the men returned from a war party with a Ute prisoner. The way they tortured the poor man…it turned my stomach. I couldn’t watch.” She still had visions of the moment when some of the older women cut off his eyelids, blood pouring down his obscene-looking, wide-eyed face. Afterwards, she’d run back to Bull Runner’s teepee and had tried to keep herself from heaving.
“I wouldn’t feel sorry for that Ute, Molly.” A trace of anger filled Matt’s voice. “I’ve no doubt he did his fair share of butchering.”
“You’re probably right.” She glanced at him, wondering why of late he seemed edgier than usual. But then again, how would she know what was normal for him?
Nathan regarded her. “How did you get back to Texas? Matt said a miner took you into Mexico.”
“Elijah Hardin saved my life, and for that I owed him. I tried to tell him about my family, but I couldn’t speak much English at first.”
Thinking she heard Matt swear she looked at him, but his face was turned away from her. She caught a fleeting smile on Nathan’s lips. Both men’s behavior was odd. Matt’s good spirits appeared to be fading with each passing moment, while Nathan showed himself to be slightly more human than had at first been evident.
“It’s tough speaking English when no one will speak it back to you,” Nathan remarked.
Molly nodded. “For a while I tried not to speak Comanche. I guess it was my way of rebelling against them, but the English eventually went away. Elijah helped me relearn it while I was with him.”
“What happened to him?” Nathan asked.
“He spent
a great deal of time searching for gold in his mines.” She remembered her solitary existence with the reclusive old man. “It was a strange twist of fate that he died one night in his sleep, considering how many risks he took in abandoned mine shafts and caves. I woke up one morning to find him cold and stiff.”
She took a steadying breath, and continued, “So, I buried him, gathered up our belongings, and made my way out of Mexico. One of the reasons I never left Elijah, or the Comanche, was because I didn’t think I could find my way out of the wilderness. But, surprisingly, I knew more than I realized. Like you, I’d noticed landmarks and had watched the stars for many years.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Hunting rattlesnakes was frequently uneventful.”
“What was that?” Matt asked, his tone almost accusing.
“Can you fathom how boring it was to live with an old man in the mountains, with no one else to talk to,” Molly replied defensively. “The nights were the worst. It was too easy to let the loneliness overwhelm me, and I refused to be afraid of the creatures of the night. So, instead of waiting for them to pounce on me, I would hunt them down after sunset. Not to kill them, of course. Well, I did have to kill a few snakes, but that couldn’t be helped.”
“Why the hell didn’t the old man look out for you?”
Molly winced at the outrage in Matt’s voice. “I wanted to live, and Elijah couldn’t protect a dog if he wanted to. Don’t you remember how good I was with my slingshot? I made myself another one.”
“Yeah, I remember that thing, and I also remember the rattlesnake you tried to kill with it when you were nine years old. If I hadn’t snatched you when I did, it would have grabbed hold and never let go.”
“Maybe.” She probably shouldn’t tell him about her other rattlesnake incident while with the Kwahadi. Smoke might come out of his ears. The image made her smile.
“Just promise me one thing,” Matt said firmly. “No more going near snakes.”
“Even if I’m hungry?” She couldn’t resist teasing him, reminding her of their relationship years ago. He’d been amazingly tolerant with her, considering how much she badgered him with questions, trailing after him to learn all he knew. She wasn’t sure what she felt now, but the air fairly crackled between them, making her feel uncertain but also more alive than she could remember in a long while.
Nathan laughed. Molly grinned at him, thinking he wasn’t so bad after all.
“Do you really think I’d let you eat a snake?” Matt asked. “I can look after you better than that.”
“I never asked you to look after me. No one has looked after me for ten years, and I managed to survive just fine.”
“You may as well give it up, Matt,” Nathan said. “She can probably cook up a better meal than you anyway.”
Matt’s only response was silence. Despite his dark mood he rode with ease, his gloved hands casually holding his horse’s reins.
“What did you eat when Cerillo had you?” she asked.
Nathan gave his attention to Matt, apparently curious as well.
“Not much.” Matt kept his gaze on the terrain ahead. “A snake would have been a feast.”
“Now you understand,” Molly said quietly.
Matt’s blue-green eyes fixated on her. “How did you manage it? How did you keep from going crazy?”
She wrinkled her brows in concentration. “I saw the suffering of other captives, so I learned to keep my mouth shut and do what I was told. They worked me hard, but all of the Comanche women worked hard. They lived a difficult life. My Comanche mothers did show me some kindness, which helped. Every night I would look to the stars though and imagine that somewhere my family watched the very same sky, that you watched the same sky.” She smiled at him. “It made me feel connected somehow.”
“You survived what many young girls and women couldn’t,” Nathan said.
“So did you,” Molly said to him. “And so did Matt,” she added, noting Matt’s gaze had softened. An immense gratitude overcame her. She was glad to have found him again.
“Did you hear that, Ryan?” Nathan joked. “She’s comparing us to young girls and women.”
“Works for you,” Matt drawled.
“Next time I’ll just leave you in that hell-hole Cerillo built especially for you.” But there was no heat in Nathan’s words, just a tinge of consideration.
“I’ll always be grateful you didn’t,” Matt murmured.
Molly wished she could say something to ease the memories in Matt’s mind, but experience had taught her that time was sometimes the only remedy to soften the edges of a painful past.
* * *
By late afternoon they came to the Bautista ranch, nestled in a valley surrounded by flat-topped buttes. Men on horseback moved back and forth, attending to a group of longhorn cattle imprisoned within a corral. Matt knew the men were readying the animals for branding, reminding him that soon the SR would need to begin their spring round-up as well.
After a few inquiries, they learned Whitaker was in the bunkhouse. As they approached the one-story wooden structure, Matt told Molly to wait outside while he and Nathan questioned the man, thinking to spare her from what could become an unpleasant encounter. In Matt’s experience, whenever a man was cornered, he came back fighting. And usually lying, to boot.
But at the last minute, he almost brought her inside with them. Despite the fact she was back to wearing the trousers and baggy shirt he had first discovered her in a few days ago, she was still far too feminine-looking for his peace of mind. He didn’t want the other ranch hands hassling her. With nagging doubts, however, he told her to stay put.
Molly wasn’t happy about it, if the mutinous expression on her face was any indication, but she remained astride Pecos. Grateful she held her tongue, Matt didn’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes. A fire brimming. He decided it was better to deal with her anger than her sweetness. He could handle her wrath more easily than innocent gestures of friendship and gratitude. The kiss on the cheek still had his head spinning, tough and unfeeling Texas Ranger that he was.
He entered the bunkhouse with Nathan behind him. Several men milled about inside, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the stench of unbathed bodies.
“We’re looking for a man named Whitaker,” Matt said to the men staring back at them.
“Why’s that?” one of the younger ranch hands asked.
“We just want to ask him a few questions.” Matt took in the group of men, trying to decide if they would give him and Nathan any trouble.
The young ranch hand jerked his head toward an older, thickset man standing behind the long table at the center of the room. The man scowled. “Thanks a lot, Jenkins, you piece of chickenshit.”
Jenkins and the other men left, clearly not fond of Whitaker, and Matt waited until they were alone. Peripherally he was aware of a few whistles outside. The young cowpunchers obviously spotted Molly. A sense of urgency pressed on him to end this encounter as quickly as possible.
“I understand ten years ago you worked for Davis Walker, at his ranch up near the Red River,” Matt said.
Unshaven and with skin darkened from the sun, shadows cloaked Whitaker’s face from the grimy hat he wore. When he spoke, Matt noticed a few front teeth missing.
“Who’re you?” the man demanded.
“The name’s Matt Ryan. Ten years ago there was an attack on the Hart Ranch, west of here. Two people were killed, and a little girl abducted. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
“For Christ’s sake, I can’t remember what I did yesterday, let alone ten years ago.” Whitaker laughed in disgust.
“Did you attack the Hart ranch for Davis Walker?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, son. I ain’t got nothin’ to tell you. Why the hell would you want to stick your nose in something that happened so long ago? It’ll only bring you trouble.”
Matt stared at Whitaker, every instinct telling him the man was involved, somehow. Perhaps a shot
in the leg would help him talk faster, but that would be messy.
Closing the distance between them, he yanked off the man’s hat in one fluid motion, confirming Rosita’s account that the man had been scalped. The top of Whitaker’s head was scarred and mottled, gray hair growing haphazardly from the sides only.
“You sonofabitch!” Whitaker roared. “You stay the hell away from me or I’ll kill you.”
“Is that a promise?” Matt asked dispassionately. “What happened to your head?”
“Looks like an Indian haircut to me,” Nathan drawled. “And none too recent.”
“It’s no crime to survive a scalpin’.” Whitaker grabbed his hat back from Matt and put it on his head.
In a heartbeat Matt drew his six-shooter and pinned Whitaker to the back wall, his left arm choking the life out of the man while he pointed the gun right between Whitaker’s eyes.
“I’m not a patient man. I wanna know why Davis Walker told you to attack the Harts, and why you took one of their daughters.”
“All right,” Whitaker rasped. “I’ll tell you what I remember. Just get your goddamned hands off me.”
Matt stepped back and the older man stumbled, rubbing his neck and coughing. Matt kept his gun drawn and heard Nathan ready his rifle.
“We was only told Walker wanted us to attack the Harts. He never spoke to us hisself. We was s’pposed to be paid a hefty sum, but we was all cheated in the end.”
“I heard most of the other men were killed,” Matt said. “You’re damn lucky to be alive in the first place.”
The man was silent.
“Who told you to attack the Harts?” Matt asked.
“I dunno. I never actually talked to him. Word was just passed around among the men. We all needed the money, and Hart was stealing Walker’s beeves anyway. He needed to be taught a lesson.”
“By killing him?” Matt asked. “How do you know he was stealing cattle?”
“It was common knowledge.”
Matt would have to ask his pa about that, but he found it unlikely Robert Hart was rustling cattle. What could possibly have been the reason? Had he been in need of money that badly?
The Wren Page 8