by Anita Mills
When he approached Amanda, she sat up, still obviously dazed by the peyote, but there was no sign she’d vomited up the foul water. “Can you stand?” he asked her.
“No.” Her voice was drowsy, thick like a drunk’s. “Sleepy,” she mumbled, falling back to the blanket.
He leaned down, braced her body with his, then shouldered her. Her arms hung loosely against his back. Steadying her with a hand on her rump, he carried her to where the two Indians waited. She was so drugged she didn’t even protest when they lifted her onto Hannibal’s back, laid her forward over the mule’s shoulders, and secured her wrists around its neck with a braided hide rope. For good measure, they tied her ankles loosely beneath the animal’s belly.
While Clay checked the knots, Waits for Deer gave what little water was left to the animals in the hope that they wouldn’t stampede when they smelled the river. Finally ready, Clay swung into his saddle and took Hannibal’s lead rope. Without a word, both Comanches moved ahead, leading the way.
Two hours proved to be an ambitious estimate. By the time the sun was straight overhead, the heat was too intense to expect anything more than a walk from the animals. The pace grew slower and slower until they had to dismount and lead the overheated horses. But they had to go on now. They couldn’t afford to stop, not since they’d finished off their water and what little they’d drunk was coming back out of their skin.
Sweat ran from Clay’s hatband down his forehead and neck, soaking his hair, and his wet shirt clung to his shoulders and back. In contrast, his mouth was so dry that his tongue felt thick. Yet he could still taste the gypsum, even more so than when he’d tried to slake his thirst with it. And he was so dizzy from the heat and loss of water that it was affecting his ability to think.
They ought to be nearly to the river by now. He looked to where Bear Claw walked stoically beside him, the paint on his face streaked with his sweat. His Comanche father had been like that, strong, disciplined, inured to pain. There’d been a time when water was so scarce that he’d threatened to kill any man who would drink before the children. Then he’d given the last few drops in his own buffalo paunch to Clay. Finally, when every bag was empty, he’d slaughtered his horse, and they’d drunk its blood. Clay could still remember the taste of it.
Two big black birds circled overhead—buzzards waiting for them to die. Clay drew his gun, took aim, and fired. One of them plummeted, leaving a few feathers to float after. The other one climbed higher. His second shot hit it. Without a word, Waits for Deer gathered both birds and tied the carcasses to his saddle, where they dripped, spotting the hard, dusty ground with blood. That was another thing to admire—unlike the rapacious white hunter, who left carcasses to rot, the Comanche never wasted anything.
Hannibal’s head came up, jerking on his lead rope, and his nostrils flared. The animal smelled water. Shading his eyes against the blinding sun, Clay looked to the northwest, and sure enough, in the distance he could see the mesa split and the rimrock of the Castle Mountains dip low where the ancient Comanche war trail passed through them. Holding the lead rope taut, he swung back into the saddle. Both Indians mounted up, and Waits for Deer slipped a rawhide noose over the mule’s neck from the other side to keep it from bolting. Herding Hannibal between them, they headed for the river.
Hap Walker likened the Pecos to a rattlesnake, saying it was mean, twisted, and downright deadly. Often, by the time anything stumbled upon the first water to be had in days, it was like one of Rube Grey’s cows, so thirsty it plunged in, drank too much, and died. And it was easy to plunge in—unlike most rivers, the Pecos lacked a navigable bank. It was just there, a serpent lying in wait below a straight drop to water’s edge, ready to swallow cattle, horses, men, and wagons. Dozens of bleached horse skulls, put there to mark the crossing, testified to its treachery, giving the place its name.
The horses caught the scent of water and went from a lethargic walk to a full trot. Between Clay and Waits for Deer, Hannibal tried to break loose. As the Comanche tightened the noose, the animal sidestepped, then lunged, stumbling into the Indian’s pony. The rawhide slackened momentarily, and the mule bolted, tearing the lead rope from Clay’s hand. Bear Claw took off in pursuit as Amanda bounced like a rag doll.
Cursing, Clay kicked his borrowed horse and raced for the river, hoping to head the mule off before it went into the water. The Indian dropped low beneath his mount’s belly, trying to catch the trailing rope, but the mule eluded his grasp by inches. Flailing his rawhide thong against his pony’s rump, Waits for Deer came from the other side, trying to sandwich the runaway mule between them.
Jolted half awake, Amanda locked her hands beneath Hannibal’s neck and desperately hung on. As the animal went off the nearly ten-foot bank, she lost her grip and slipped to the side, falling almost beneath the mule’s belly, hanging by the rawhide ropes that held her wrists and ankles. She screamed as she went under, and the swift, murky water closed around her. She fought frantically to free herself, while the mule thrashed and floundered in the ten-foot-deep water, struggling against the swift current.
Unless he got to her, she was going to drown before Clay’s eyes. He kicked his horse harder, and as it plunged from the bank into the water, Clay dropped low, leaning to rip at the twisted rawhide with his Bowie knife, freeing her. But as he lunged to catch her arm, she slipped from his grasp, disappearing. He leaned lower, sweeping through the water with his hands, finding nothing. Cursing, he urged his horse downriver.
Amanda broke the surface ahead of him, then went under again. He slid into the water and swam toward where he’d seen her, letting the river’s current carry him. Finally, in desperation, he dived several times, feeling along the bottom until his hand caught cloth. His eyes burning from mud, gypsum, and brine, he groped for Amanda’s arms, then, with nearly bursting lungs, he managed to pull her up. Gasping, he started for the nearest bank.
Bear Claw threw him a rope, and as he held on, the Indian pulled him out and up the steep river bank. Exhausted, Clay crawled on his belly, dragging Amanda after him. Taking a deep breath, he dared to look at her. She wasn’t moving. An impotent fury washed over him—after all he’d tried to do, it hadn’t been enough. He rolled over and slapped her across the back. His wet, muddy shirt resounded like a sail hit by a stiff wind.
She retched, then choked. Heaving his body over hers, he leaned on her back, pressing the water from her lungs. Her breath caught, then she sighed. When Clay looked up, Bear Claw was grinning. Amanda was breathing. Clay sat back on his haunches, just looking at her, and despite the sunburn, despite the mud, despite the wet, bedraggled hair, in that moment, she was just about the best sight he’d ever seen.
Her brown eyes opened as he lifted her, holding her close, smoothing her tangled, dirty hair. She clung to him, shaking uncontrollably. His body was hard, strong, his embrace secure and comforting. She fought the urge to cry against his shoulder.
“Well, that’s one way to get water, I guess,” he said finally. “God, Amanda, but you gave me a fright,” he added, his voice low, almost soft.
“I couldn’t get loose … I couldn’t get loose,” she choked out.
“Shhhh. Don’t think about it.” His hand brushed her wet hair back from her temples. “There’s a lot of life left in you yet. A few days with Nahdehwah and you’ll be as good as new.”
“I feel so sick,” she managed, swallowing back the gorge that rose in her throat.
“It’s the salt and the gypsum in the water. You’ve got to keep it down, Amanda—you’ve got to. There’s nothing else between here and Castle Gap.” When she didn’t speak, he added, “I can get you some more peyote, if you’ll eat it for me.”
Clenching her teeth against the nausea, she shook her head.
Releasing her, Clay struggled to stand as his wet clothes bagged against him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Waits for Deer raise his rifle and take aim. Almost twenty yards downstream, Hannibal twisted and brayed as he sank
deeper into the quicksand where he’d stopped to drink. Before the Comanche could pull the trigger, Clay shouted, stopping him. As Waits for Deer lowered the gun, the other Indian grasped a braided rawhide reata and edged along the high bank to where the mule struggled. Jerking a pack rope from Sarah, Clay followed.
They got two lassos on him, but Hannibal was too frightened now to help himself. But, slipping and sliding themselves, they somehow managed to pull the animal at an angle to the bank, until he gained a footing. From there, they led him to where the ground was just over five feet above the water. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the animal pawed and lunged straight up, stumbling onto the bank.
While the two Indians filled bags with the nasty water, Clay walked back to Amanda. She was muddy or bruised, maybe both, but she was alive, and she hadn’t vomited. Her eyes opened again as he dropped down on his haunches beside her. He touched her cheek, with his raw knuckles.
“You’re a hard woman to kill—you’ve got more lives than a cat, Amanda—you know that, don’t you?”
“No.” She swallowed. “I owe you my life again,” she said, her voice so low he could scarce hear it.
“I don’t want gratitude,” he answered harshly. She didn’t deserve anger now, not after what she’d been through, and he knew it, yet he couldn’t help himself. “Look—all I want is for both of us to survive,” he said finally. “You’re going to get better, and as soon as I can, I’ll take you home. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
She’d closed her eyes again. “How far is it?” she whispered. “The Ybarra-Ross, I mean.”
“A long way—one helluva long way.”
He heard it then—the faint but steady beat of distant drums. Comanche drums. Exhilaration coursed through him, like fire in his veins, nearly overwhelming him. After fourteen long years, he was going home. He might not be able to stay there, and probably the only person who’d even actually remember him from before would be Nahdehwah, but it didn’t matter—for a few days he could be Nahakoah again.
The beat of drums grew steadily louder as they picked their way through the narrow, rocky gap that formed part of the Comanche war trail. And while it seemed to call to his soul, Clay was aware that the sound meant something far different to Amanda. He shortened the lead rope, bringing the mule closer, then leaned to reassure her.
“I guess you could call it a matter of honor,” he said, “but if a Comanche’s worst enemy came to him, he’d be expected to share what he had and send that enemy on his way with gifts rather than arrows. To harm a guest is forbidden.” When she didn’t respond, he went on, explaining, “And once they adopt someone, they honor that bond forever. To their way of thinking, I’ll always be a Nerm, no matter where I go, no matter what I do. And right now I’m coming home, bringing you with me, so you have nothing to fear from any of them.”
Too weary to wonder what a Nerm was, she didn’t respond to that either. She understood she was going to have to put her trust in him, but that trust didn’t extend to Indians. She still flinched whenever one of the two Comanche warriors came close to her, even when she knew they were only offering her more of the awful-tasting river water.
He fell silent, and his thoughts turned to what lay ahead. He’d see Nahdehwah again, but would she recognize her niece’s son in the grown man who’d come back? It had been fourteen years, time enough for her to grow old, time enough for her to become a medicine woman. When he’d last seen her, she was still young enough that such powers were forbidden her. He closed his eyes momentarily and tried to recall what she looked like, but all he saw was a wide, flat face, and two long, greased braids that could have belonged to any Indian woman. The irony wasn’t lost on him—she and Ketanah were the last of his mother’s family, and he could scarce remember her.
Ketanah he’d seen only once. He’d been a young war chief then—short, squat, with the bowlegged build of a Comanche—but there’d been a fire in his voice and in his eyes that burned with a bitter hatred for every living Texan. He never once bothered to take captives himself, preferring instead to kill them. “A dead boy does not come back to harm The People,” he had said. Now, after years of particularly vicious raiding, Ketanah was a peace chief, left behind when younger men followed the war trail. It didn’t seem possible.
Fourteen years was a long time in an Indian’s life. Even if he could remember them, even if they’d managed to survive that awful November morning still vivid in his mind, most of the men of his father’s generation would be gone by now. To be an old man meant a decline of power, a life of reliving one’s youth in stories told in the smoke lodge. Glory was today and tomorrow, not yesterday. It was in making war, counting coups, not in living long.
He could smell the smoke of cooking fires now. Drawn from his thoughts by it, he looked ahead, seeing the village, and his pulse quickened at the sight. Reaching out, he tried to rouse Amanda.
“We’ve arrived,” he said, shaking her shoulder.
The loud, steady beat of the drums reverberated in her aching head. With an effort she managed to lift her head, and her heart and breath paused. She saw tipis, dozens of Indian tipis lined up along a dusty trail. And as the mule wended its way between the hide tents, the drums stopped, creating a sudden, ominous stillness. There must have been a hundred or more Comanches, all watching her, their expressions inscrutable, their black eyes sober.
McAlester leaned toward her, murmuring, “Smile. They admire courage.”
“Right now I don’t feel very brave,” she said, her voice scarce above a whisper.
Even as she spoke, a naked boy ran up, reaching out to touch her tangled, matted hair, then held up his hand as she recoiled. A group of equally naked children broke the silence with laughter.
“It’s all right,” Clay told her. “He was just proving he could touch you—counting coup, I guess you could say.”
Dizzy and weary almost beyond bearing, she lay her head against the mule’s neck again. “I thought coup meant scalp,” she muttered.
“No, not always.”
McAlester reined in before a group of men and dismounted. As he spoke quick, alien words to them, Amanda closed her eyes, hiding her fright from those who pressed around her. If McAlester hadn’t been there, she could easily have thought she’d gone to hell. As it was, she had only his protection, and no matter what he said, that was an uneasy thought.
These were the savages who’d already brutally murdered her mother and stepfather, and given half a chance, they’d probably try to do the same to her. To bolster her courage, she tried to pray, but her tired mind kept straying, losing track of the words. All she could think of was Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, which she found herself repeating over and over.
Clay came back to tell her, “Everything’s settled, and Nahdehwah is expecting you.” He patted her rump encouragingly, as though she were a dog or a horse. “As aunt to my mother, she’ll welcome you,” he added. “But I’m going to ask you not to insult her, no matter what she does. There’s a lot of superstition and ceremony in Comanche medicine, and it takes years to learn it.” When she didn’t say anything, he tried to reassure her. “Look—all you’ve got to do is keep your temper and go along with her.”
“She speaks English?”
“Not much—maybe a little she’s learned from captives. But she’s got sharp eyes.”
“I’ll try to keep mine closed,” she responded dryly.
“Show a little spirit—she’ll like that.”
“Won’t that insult her?”
“You must be getting better,” he muttered. “Just don’t act afraid, or you’ll lose her respect. No matter what happens, don’t show fear.”
Taking the reins, he began walking, leading her through what seemed to be the entire length of the camp. Once Amanda dared to open her eyes enough to see that the same naked boy who’d touched her now trotted beside her, as did three others. One reached out to p
oke at her with a stick, trying to frighten her, but McAlester did nothing. To Amanda it was as though she were awake in a nightmare.
More Indians began following them until he finally stopped at the last tipi. A fat, elderly woman waited outside, knife in hand. Without hesitation, the white ranger enveloped her in his arms, hugging her. Feeling his face and arms with her gnarled hands, the old woman wept and grinned at the same time. When he released her, he gestured to Amanda, obviously explaining what had happened. An animated conversation followed, then Nahdehwah came over to look at her.
Saying nothing, she bent her head to cut the white girl loose, her greased gray braids falling forward, brushing against Amanda’s leg. When she finished, she straightened, looking directly into Amanda’s eyes. Her expression was closed, unrevealing, until she turned to address McAlester again. As she spoke to him, her flat, wrinkled face softened visibly.
So this was the medicine woman. Her manner toward McAlester should have eased Amanda’s nerves, but it didn’t. Too many stories of how Comanche women tortured and maimed white captives, cutting off or slicing open their noses, slashing ankle tendons so they could not flee, came to mind. With those small, deep-set hawk eyes, the old woman looked like she’d probably done all those things and worse.
As Amanda held her breath, Nahdehwah touched her face, pinching the skin of her cheeks. Her callused, leathery hands cupped Amanda’s chin, then pried open her mouth. The black eyes peered inside for a moment, then she nodded gravely. Her gaze met Amanda’s for a moment. Touching her sagging breast, she said, “Me—pukahut.”
It was as though she’d given everyone permission to speak at once. Young men with painted faces pressed around McAlester, embracing him. Somewhere within the camp, the drummers began anew, and the crowd engulfed him, pulling him away, leaving Amanda alone with three Comanche women and an old man. She wanted to cry out to him but she dared not.