He leaned over her again, gently putting a hand to her face. “I’m going to move you to the shade of that rock over there,” he told her, indicating a large boulder a few feet away. “Then I’ll try to find my canteen and whatever else I can find to wash and bandage your wounds. Don’t be afraid, Miss Andrews. The cut on your scalp will heal and you’ll look as beautiful as ever. And I’ll take care of that leg. You’re going to be all right. I won’t leave you. I’ll get you to Fort Stockton if I have to carry you all the way.”
He gave her a reassuring smile, but his own head ached fiercely and was bleeding from the blow he had taken when he jumped from the coach. Jennifer just stared at him as he reached for one of her petticoats that lay nearby and ripped it, gently tying a piece of it around her leg. She cried out then as the pain of the wound hit her.
Wade knew that as her shock slowly wore off, the pain would get worse. He hoped there was some whiskey left somewhere that he could use for her to drink and to pour on the wound when he took out the bullet. The coach snapped and popped as flames enveloped it, and he knew there was no hope of salvaging anything that might have been left on top or inside.
“This bandage is just temporary because of the bleeding,” he told Jennifer. “I have to find supplies before I can help you any more.” He pressed another piece of petticoat to her head. “This one is slowing. I’ll wash it good—try to keep the cut nice and clean so it doesn’t leave much of a scar.”
Jennifer still did not speak. She kept her eyes on him like a trusting little girl as he picked her up in his arms and carried her to a grassier spot, laying her in the shadow of the boulder. “Just lie still,” he repeated.
He rose, turning to watch the coach continue to burn. Luckily a good share of the baggage that had been on top of the coach, including his saddle and gear, had spilled far enough away not to be harmed by the fire. He quickly took inventory of the rest of the bodies. He did not have to kneel down and check any of them to see if they were dead. He was only glad they had died quickly. He felt an ache in his heart at the sight of Nick’s arrow-riddled body. Nick Elliott had been a good man.
He felt equal sorrow at the sight of Ernie lying under the burning coach. The man’s eyes were still open, and his shirt and hair were on fire. Flames began to eat into his face then, and Wade turned away, torn with confusion over his own identity. If he had been raised by the Comanche, would he have done things like this?
He thought he saw movement then from Buck’s body in the distance. With a pain in his stomach he hurried over to the man’s naked body, feeling nauseous at the nearly unrecognizable body that was covered with what seemed hundreds of stabs. He stared at Wade, and Wade wasn’t sure the man even knew who he was.
“Kill…me,” he begged. “You…stinking…savage! Kill me…and get it…over with!”
His body began to shake violently, and Wade knew there was no hope for him. Whether Buck knew it was Wade Morrow, or thought he was just another one of the renegades, he would never know. In spite of how he had felt about the man, he could not leave him in such misery. He pulled his pistol from its holster at his side and aimed it, thinking how he had done this to his horse not long ago. It seemed strange how quickly life could be snuffed out of man and animal alike. One moment his horse had been healthy and strong, the next it was down and dying. It had been the same for these men, with whom only hours ago he had shared breakfast.
“God forgive me,” he said softly, as he pulled the trigger and put a bullet in Buck’s head. The man lay still.
Wade turned away, holstering his gun and blinking back tears. He hurried to where baggage lay strewn. There was no time for mourning these men or contemplating life and death. There was only Jennifer Andrews, lying wounded, depending on him alone for help. He had to find whatever supplies he could to aid her. Once he had tended to her, he had to decide how he was going to get her to Fort Stockton. He could only hope that whatever the reason was that the Comanche had left him alive, they would stick to it and not come back.
Back where he had left her, Jennifer lay staring at a blue sky, trying to gather her thoughts. Everything hurt, especially her leg, which felt on fire. Had she been dreaming when she thought the raiders had ridden away; when she had seen Wade Morrow alive and bending over her, telling her he would help her? How could either of them have survived this terrible thing? She had to know if it was real, if the Indians were truly gone and Wade Morrow was still alive.
She looked around as best she could from where she lay. All she saw was the mutilated body of Adam Hughes. Poor Mr. Hughes! He had been kind to her. Never had she known such horror. She finally found her voice, uttering a pitiful cry of despair before calling Wade’s name. She must have only dreamed he had lived. She put a hand to a wetness at her face and removed it to see blood on her fingers. Had she been scalped? She vaguely remembered one of the raiders grasping her hair and putting a knife to her forehead. No!
Again she screamed Wade’s name. Was she left here alone then? Were they coming back to finish her off later? Was this where her life would end? Mattie. What would Mattie think? She would never know what had happened to her.
Suddenly a tall, dark man stood over her, and the horror of her attack revisited her. It was one of them! “No,” she screamed, over and over. He came closer, putting his arms around her and pulling her up slightly, holding her close.
“It’s all right,” he was saying. “It’s me—Wade Morrow, remember? They’ve left, Jennifer. We’ll be all right. I’m going to help you.”
He had spoken her first name as though it was perfectly natural. She felt the choking sobs come then, and she could not stop them. Thank God she was still alive, and so was Wade Morrow. She let him hold her, needing to be held. She couldn’t care less that it was the half-breed man who did the holding. His voice sounded wonderful. His arms felt wonderful, strong, and sure. If anyone could help her and get her to safety, Wade Morrow could.
Chapter Ten
Jennifer came to later that evening. Her memory of the first few hours after the attack was filled only with pain, and Wade Morrow’s consoling touch and voice. She was in too much shock and too sick and weak to be modest. She didn’t care that he slit open one side of her bloomers with his knife so that he could tend to the wound in her thigh. She only wanted the terrible burning pain to stop.
She remembered choking down a liquid that seemed to set her insides on fire, but Wade had told her she must drink it to help the pain. She remembered him saying something about taking out a bullet and that he was sorry to hurt her. She remembered screaming and begging him to stop when something dug at her leg, and she remembered she could not move then. He had tied her hands and her legs to something so that she wouldn’t thrash around, and he sat on the wounded leg so she would keep it still.
There had been moments when in her pain and delirium she thought the Indians were torturing her, and moments when she thought it was Buck holding her down. Then there was nothing—only a blessed sleep, or had she been unconscious? She was not sure as she lay quietly now next to a fire. She had no idea where she was, only that her leg still hurt, but not as badly as before. She also knew instinctively that Wade Morrow was somewhere nearby, that he had made the fire, and that she was safe.
She was so weary she could not muster the strength to call out his name. She just lay staring at the flames for several minutes, trying to gather her thoughts. Dead, all dead! Adam Hughes, Buck, Lou, Sid Menden, Larry Buchanan, Hank, Will. She vaguely remembered seeing Nick’s body shot full of arrows. She couldn’t remember seeing Ernie Peters at all, and she felt nauseous when she remembered seeing the raiders torturing Buck.
She shuddered at the remembered screams, the blood, the horror; at the memory of savages grabbing her, ripping at her clothes, pushing her around, shooting her, and holding her down to scalp her. She wasn’t quite sure what had happened after that. It seemed that suddenly Wade Morrow was standing there, and the Indians let go of her and backed away. She could
not imagine why. How could so many warriors be afraid of one man? Whatever the reason, she was still alive, and so was Wade.
After that there had been only Wade Morrow, his voice, his arms, his touch. She moved one hand to feel herself, to be sure she was really alive. She realized then that she wore only her chemise and remnants of bloomers. Under the blanket that covered her she moved a hand over her left hip, which was mostly bare; down to her thigh, where she felt bandages. Humiliation overwhelmed her then as she realized Wade Morrow had seen her bare leg and most of her hip—had seen her in only her underwear, her bare arms and shoulders exposed. How could she face him! She wondered if he had seen the scars on her back from the riverboat fire.
Her feelings were a mixture of gratefulness and humiliation. He couldn’t help seeing her the way he had. He’d had no choice. He was only trying to help her. Yet he was a man, and a near stranger at that. Had he taken privileges with her she didn’t know about? Had he looked at more than was necessary? She wished she could crawl away somewhere and just reappear in some civilized town, mended and healthy, never having to look into Wade Morrow’s eyes again.
He suddenly appeared at the fire and she quickly closed her eyes, wanting him to think she was still asleep, or passed out, whatever she had been. She couldn’t face him yet. She heard a sizzling sound and knew he was cooking something over a fire. Then she felt him come closer. In the next moment a big hand touched her face, smoothing back her hair.
“Come on, Jenny, wake up,” he said softly. “Don’t you die on me.”
The words sent a rush of emotions through her, in spite of her pain. He had called her Jenny, with such intimacy and tenderness. He seemed to care so much, and she felt cruel not letting him know she was better. She felt him pulling the blanket away from her leg then, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling the hotness at her face as it grew red with embarrassment. He placed his big hands on her leg, one just below and one just above the wound, on the side of her hip.
“At least there doesn’t seem to be any infection yet,” he muttered.
Tears of shame and embarrassment that he was looking at her engulfed her then, compounded by her pain and exhaustion. She choked in a sob and he quickly put back the blanket.
“Jenny?” He touched her face again. “Don’t cry, Jenny. The Comanche are gone. I don’t think they’re coming back. I found a place for us to camp where you wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow and see the bodies. You in a lot of pain?”
“You shouldn’t…see me this way,” she sobbed, putting a hand to her face. She realized then her head was bandaged. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “What did…they do to me. My…hair! They took my hair!”
He grasped her hand and squeezed it. “No they didn’t. They only started to. All you’ve got is a cut along the hairline. It will heal. The biggest danger is your leg, Jenny. Can you move it at all?”
She clung to his hand, suddenly comforted, losing some of her embarrassment. After all, he was only trying to help her. “I…don’t know,” she answered, holding his hand tightly. “I’m afraid…to try.”
“Then don’t. Not tonight. Just lie real still.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “I took a bullet out of your leg, Jenny. I hated hurting you that way, but it had to be done. There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed about anything. You needed help.”
She shook in another sob and his heart ached for her. It was difficult to ignore the feelings he had for this young woman who must be so alone in the world. What must her uncle be like that she had to come out here and expose herself to these horrors? Where had she got the burn scars on her back? And if she was this bashful about letting him help her, how could she possibly submit herself to marrying a total stranger?
Already he had feelings of jealousy for the mysterious Sergeant Enders, who was waiting for this woman to come to him. He admired Jennifer Andrews’s courage. She probably didn’t even remember gritting her teeth and trying not to cry out when he cut into her leg—and what a slender, beautiful leg it was. He felt like a fiend, thinking about what he had seen—her round, firm hip; thinking about how velvety her skin was, how small and vulnerable she was, how pretty were her green eyes, cascading auburn hair, and her full lips.
He moved away from her then, gently letting go of her hand. “I want you to try to eat something,” he told her. How he hated himself for feeling the way he did. It was wrong, and could lead nowhere. Why and when he had felt compelled to call her Jenny, he wasn’t even sure. It just seemed to come naturally. Why was he constantly forced to be a part of this young woman’s life?
This entire event had thrown a whole new kink in his plans to try to find some Indian relatives. After what he had witnessed, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything more about them; yet he had a keen desire to understand the reasons behind such hideous raiding. Still, could he go riding into a renegade camp and expect to live through it?
He knelt down to turn the rabbit meat he was cooking in a pan, glad to have found enough supplies left to survive for a few days. He at least had his gun and ammunition. He had killed the rabbit earlier, while Jennifer slept.
He gazed into the darkness beyond the camp fire. Were some of the renegades out there, watching, studying him? He was greatly disturbed by how they had reacted to him, mentioning the name of their own leader, Wild Horse. Wild Horse was a half-breed, just like himself. Was that all there was to it? Had they spared his life just because he had Comanche blood? Or was it something more? He knew deep inside that somehow he had to meet the one called Wild Horse, no matter what the danger. If he simply went on home now, this incident would haunt him the rest of his life.
He looked back at Jennifer, who lay crying quietly and wiping at tears with her blanket. Meeting her had interrupted his plans and his thoughts. It wasn’t just that he had to help her and get her to Fort Stockton. After all, he was going there himself. The problem was he would be alone with her for the next few days, close to her, feeding her, dressing her. He would get to know her better than he wanted to know her, for to allow himself to get too close to her could mean disaster for him, both physically and emotionally. What would the soldiers at Fort Stockton think when he came walking in with her, knowing she had been alone with him for several days? He knew how men like that thought. It might even make trouble between her and the man she was supposed to marry.
He reasoned that if Sergeant Enders was any kind of a real man, he would understand; but when it came to Indians and white women, few white men had any room for understanding. They always thought the worst. Trouble was, he wouldn’t mind the worst being true. Ever since the night Jennifer had daringly spoken to him back at the first home station, he had not been able to get her off his mind. Now this.
“I…need water,” she spoke up.
Wade quickly retrieved his canteen and came to her side. He knelt down and helped support her head, holding the canteen to her lips. She gulped the water eagerly.
“Not too much at once,” he told her. “It’s always like this with a bullet wound. Makes a person mighty thirsty.”
She swallowed gratefully, then looked up at him. “Have you ever been shot?”
He thought of Rebecca. “More than once,” he answered. He gently laid her back down. “When you drive supply trains through Indian and outlaw country, it’s almost a sure bet you’re going to take a bullet. So far I’ve just been lucky nothing vital was ever hit.”
He walked back to the camp fire, and she watched him, thinking again what a skilled, brave man he was. She realized he could look just as wild and fierce as the warriors who had attacked them earlier, and it seemed so strange that he was as civilized and soft-spoken as any white man.
“Where are we?” she asked.
He sat down across the fire from her. “About two days from Fort Stockton.” He began rolling a cigarette. “It will be that long before the soldiers there realize something must have happened to the coach. They might even give it another two days to arrive before t
hey send out patrols. The forts out here are short on men, and if they know there are raiders on the loose again, they’ll be extra careful about sending out small patrols that could get wiped out.” He lit the cigarette with a small stick from the fire and took a deep drag.
“What does all that…mean? We…have to wait here for…four or five days? What if…the Indians…come back?”
“I don’t think they will.” He met her eyes, taking the cigarette from his mouth. “For some reason they let us live. I just hope they decide to leave it that way.” He looked around. “As far as just waiting here, I’m not sure. If we wait for them to come to us, you’re talking four to six days for a patrol to find us, and another two or three days getting you to the fort. I hate to take that long getting you to a decent bed and out of the elements, let alone worrying about infection. I just wish I had a horse, but the stage team ran off, or else the Indians stole them. I’m not sure which. Either way, I need to get you to the fort.”
“But how? I…can’t walk.”
He smoked another moment. “I don’t know yet. I’ll carry you if I have to.”
Her eyes teared with gratefulness and admiration. “I’m…sorry. Without me…you could probably make it fine…on your own.”
He met her eyes. “It’s not your fault. I’m just glad I came around when I did and prevented them from hurting you more.”
She felt the color coming back to her face, realizing he must know what they intended to do to her. “I don’t understand…why they do…such horrible things. We didn’t…do anything to…them. It must…seem so strange to you…having Comanche blood.”
“It does. Puts me in an awkward position. That’s part of the reason I’m out here. I intend to find out more about my Indian side.” He laughed lightly but sarcastically. “I got a good lesson today, didn’t I?”
She closed her eyes, a dull pain moving through her leg. “I don’t…understand this land…the Indians, the prejudice. It’s all so…wild and different.” “Like you,” she felt like adding. “Nothing…is the way I…had pictured it. I don’t know…what to think now about…Fort Stockton and…Sergeant Enders. I just…hurt everywhere…and I’m scared.”
Comanche Sunset Page 15