by Anita Mills
His eyes burning from the smoke, Clay started walking toward the place where he’d left his bedroll. Beside him, one of the younger men cleared his throat, then spoke. “We are honored that Nahakoah has shared his story with us.”
“Ketanah asked it of me.”
“How long do you stay here?”
“I don’t know,” Clay answered evasively.
“It is too bad about your woman,” the Indian murmured. “I am fortunate enough to have three wives, and you are welcome to one of them while you are here. I would be proud to count you as my brother.”
It was a generous offer, one that could not easily be refused without offending a Comanche. “I would gladly accept your wife,” Clay responded carefully, “but my heart is with mine. I do not feel like another woman tonight.”
The other man clucked sympathetically. “Well, if you have the need, I do not mind.” His hand came up to grip Clay’s shoulder. “You are welcome in my tipi, Nahakoah.”
Clay shook his head. “I thank you, but it is warm enough to sleep outside, so there is no need to crowd your family.”
The Indian nodded. “There is peace beneath the stars tonight.” With that, he left, fading into the shadows as he slipped between tipis.
Clay stood there, staring after him, feeling only guilty. He was there for all the wrong reasons, and he knew it. He’d come to see Nahdehwah, hoping she’d help Amanda, then provide a place for her while he left for a few days, maybe even a couple of weeks. Now the whole band had welcomed him, not knowing he’d come to stop their trade with the Comancheros. If he were successful, he would be putting an end to their way of life, pushing them onto a reservation in the Indian Territory, where none of them wanted to go. But it was better than their certain destruction, he told himself. There were just too many Texans who truly believed the only answer to the problem was to kill every Comanche—man, woman, and child.
But right now, Clay’s more immediate problem lay asleep in Nahdehwah’s tipi. Even if he wanted to do it, he couldn’t risk taking her with him. Hell, if he couldn’t work with another ranger, what in God’s name was he going to do with a lady from Boston? With her along, he’d have to change everything—the way he traveled, the risks he usually took—everything. And he’d have a witness who didn’t understand it was a war he was fighting. If he didn’t kill them outright, she’d be wanting him to bring them in for a damned trial. It wouldn’t matter to her that they faced hanging, anyway. Expedience would offend her sense of justice, and she’d be writing letters condemning him to everyone fool enough to listen. Maybe. Maybe not. She owed him something now.
No, she’d slow him down, make him lose his edge. Alone, he had only his own survival to worry about; with her, he might get careless and cost both of them their lives. No two ways about it, he was going to have to impose on someone else to take care of her until he could get back. Maybe he ought to have left when Amanda was still too confused to know he’d gone. Nahdehwah might not have liked it, but she wouldn’t have thrown the white girl out of her tipi. Not as long as she believed Amanda was his wife.
A faint warm breeze carried the scent of burnt cedar on it. He glanced up and noticed he’d walked all the way to Nahdehwah’s tipi again. He stood there, listening to the steady rumble and wheeze of the old woman’s snoring. For a long moment he actually considered taking her offer, then he moved on. If he didn’t quit thinking about Amanda Ross, he was going to make a fool of himself.
Too tired to sleep, he walked on to the spring. The water welled up, wetting the rocks, making them slick. He sat down and gathered his knees while he stared pensively at the reflection of half a moon in the pool. He’d wanted to come back this once, hoping he would find The People as he remembered them, but it was too late. Already their power was on the decline, already too many young men were gone. And soon so would the buffalo that provided everything for them.
He’d grown up believing in a man’s medicine, in the spirits of sun, moon, and earth. He’d exulted in the hunt, in following the war trail, in being one of The People. He could remember playing naked on the Staked Plains, riding with the wind in his face. He could remember thinking himself invincible once he’d received his medicine. Now the only power he believed in was that provided by two Colts, a Whitney shotgun, and a Henry rifle. If his aunt’s God was up there, He’d never felt inclined to let Clay McAlester know it.
Reaching to pick up a small stone, he skipped it across the water, listening to the ripples, feeling dissatisfied. It was, he supposed, that now he looked at The People through the eyes of a white man. Now bloody milk and raw liver held no appeal for a man who’d spent four years in Chicago eating off Jane McAlester’s china plates, listening to her say grace before every meal, learning the proper use of forks and spoons, sitting on a hard pew every Sunday morning.
Oh, she hadn’t really taken the wildness from him, and they both realized that. Now he picked and chose what memories and habits he wanted to keep. He ate jerky and pinon nuts, mesquite and juniper beans, Indian potatoes, prickly pear, and hackberry balls. He hunted best with rifle, shotgun, but could still bring down a twelve-point buck with bow and arrow. And when food was short, he could travel nearly a week on an empty stomach. But when he got to San Antonio or Austin, he knew enough to put on a coat and tie, slick back his hair, and wash down a steak with good whiskey, surprising men like Governor Davis, who wanted to believe he was a half-savage, half-literate heathen.
It was times like this, he reflected soberly, that made him wish he still believed in something. But if he did, he wasn’t aware of it.
“Nahakoah?”
Nahakoah. Stands Alone. Sometimes he wondered if old Toweaha had somehow looked into the future when he’d given Clay that name. He hunched his shoulders as the other man joined him.
It was Two Owls. The barrel-chested Kiowa stood over him, chewing something. He spit part of it into the water, then leaned against a twisted tree, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight.
Clay skipped another stone across the water, then rose. Brushing the dust from his buckskin pants, he nodded, acknowledging the Indian’s presence.
“Warm night,” he observed laconically.
Two Owls breathed deeply, then let the air out slowly as though he savored it. Finally, he spoke again. “My power is great, Stands Alone, but not so great as that of the wolf. I would share your wolf medicine with you.” Before Clay could respond, the big Kiowa added, “I would give you the choice of all my horses for it. You may have the best that I own.”
“Ask of Nadehwah, not me.”
“And what would she know of it? It is the eagle that beats at her tipi. No, the wolf calls to me, Nahakoah,” Two Owls persisted. “I have heard it.”
Clay considered for a moment, then relented. “All I can tell you is what Toweah told me—go alone beneath the full moon and stay until you hear and see a lone wolf. If it looks into your face, it has given its medicine to you. Upon returning, plunge three times into water, then dry yourself.”
“You are a generous man, Nahakoah. To me, you are as a brother. All I have is yours—my horses, my tipi, my wives—you are welcome to what you would take.”
“I am a man of few needs.” Yet as he said it, Clay saw an opportunity in the offer. “But I may have to leave my wife here for a while if she is unable to ride any distance,” he said casually.
Two Owls was ahead of him. Eager to please, the Kiowa assured him, “I would protect her with my life, and I will still give you two horses for what you have told me.”
“She is unused to the way of The People. It will be hard for her to understand.”
“Tell her she will be safe in my tipi, and my wives will treat her well. Tell her I will expect nothing of her.”
“She will be honored,” Clay said solemnly. He started to walk away, but the Kiowa caught up.
“Your wife—how is she called?”
“Amanda.”
“Amanda,” T
wo Owls repeated, turning the word over on his tongue. As they walked, he wondered, “Why did you sign to me when we found you—why did you not speak as you do now?”
“I had been away too long—I had to hear the words again before I could say them easily.” A wry smile twisted Clay’s mouth. “Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to make any mistakes.”
“But you have come back,” the Indian said.
“For a time.”
At Clay’s mule and horse, they parted company. Someone had already fed both animals earlier, and they stood quietly, silhouetted by the moonlight. Unrolling his blanket, Clay spread it against his saddle, making his bed on the ground. He lay down and turned over to reach into his saddlebags, searching for what was left of the peyote Bear Claw had given him. Taking the last two buttons out, he considered them for a long moment before he chewed them. Raising his eyes to the moon, he tried to remember the words the old medicine man had given him.
“Brother moon,” he said under his breath, “give me wisdom, courage, and endurance that I may prevail. Light my path in the cool of the night, and watch over me when I follow the war trail. Give me the strength of ten against my enemies and lead me to victory against those who would dare to challenge my power.” He faltered, unable to go any further.
What he needed was enough luck to intercept Sanchez-Torres, preferably by ambush. And to reason with Quanah Parker before Texas soil was soaked with blood. He had to make him understand that no matter how many guns the Comanches had, it was all but over for them. Ranald S. Mackenzie and his cavalry would retaliate brutally and efficiently, killing every Indian who resisted the reservation.
Holding his hands behind his head, he waited for the peyote to take effect. If ever he needed a vision, something to tell him he was right, it was now. He fixed his eyes on the moon, staring into the shadows on it until they moved, taking the shape of a veiled face. And somewhere he heard an echo of his own voice asking his destiny.
Ghosts stood around him, beckoning, speaking to him. He could see Sansoneah, his long hair flowing past his shoulders, the dozen colored feathers still twined in his scalplock. Beside him, Sees the Sun smiled and Cries Too Much held out small hands, begging to be lifted. Many Feathers in His Hair swung her up to ride on his shoulder, then he looked to Stands Alone, saying, “Follow.” With no further words, they turned and walked away.
Clay looked down, seeing not the shirt of a white man, but the bare arms of a boy warrior, feeling not the weight of ammunition belts and Colt revolvers, only the freedom of a breechclout above his leggings. And suddenly he was running after them, trying to catch up as they walked the worn path toward tipis clustered near the pool of shining water.
His father stopped at the great lodge of Buffalo Horn, Nokoni war chief. Singing Dove, the war chief’s favorite wife, held the tipi flap open. His mother nodded, then reached for his younger sister, carrying her away. As Nahakoah stood beside his father, he heard tuneless battle chants, then saw the painted warriors approaching in single file, their shields marking them as brothers of the Crow society. It wasn’t until they had all entered Buffalo Horn’s lodge that his father gestured for him to follow them.
He went in, going left, moving all the way around the big tipi until he found an empty place to the right of Buffalo Horn himself. He hesitated, looking to his father, then he sat down among the fiercest warriors of his band. Each man stood and recited the story of his greatest coup, then sat down, until all but the war chief and his father had spoken. Buffalo Horn rose, gesturing to the one closest to the tipi door. It was Broken Hand, a man who had counted more coup than any other.
The warrior rose, majestic in his full-feathered bonnet. Approaching Stands Alone, he removed it and held it out without a word. “Take it,” the old war chief ordered. “If you would be of the Crows, it is yours.”
His father stared straight ahead, offering no guidance. Raising his eyes to Broken Hand, he saw sadness in the other man’s face. “I am not worthy,” Stands Alone said finally. “It is yours.”
“The People will need a leader greater than I,” Buffalo Horn said.
“It is not in my blood.”
“Quanah Parker will lead Quahadis down the warpath, and none will remember he is half white.”
His father stood then, turning to Buffalo Horn. “My son has given his answer. I have spoken to my father the Sun, and this is not to be my son’s path.” Looking to Stands Alone, he said, “You have seen what might have been, but will not be. Your destiny is not with us, Stands Alone.”
“Show me my destiny, Father! Tell me where I can find Quanah!”
But even as he cried out, the tipi lifted, carrying all of them with it into the clouds, leaving Stands Alone staring upward from the ground. Weeping, his mother gave him one last look, then disappeared into a soft mist.
Suddenly, he was lying abed between soft, white sheets. A woman was bending over him, her rich auburn hair falling like silk against his chest, her mouth curved in a smile. Her skin was warm against his, her dark eyes inviting him to touch more of her. Resisting her, he called out, “Father, where are you?”
“No,” came an answer from the darkness. “Toweaha was right, my son. You were meant to stand alone, apart from The People.”
The woman was pressed against him, stealing his will with her body. Her skin was pale, soft, and she smelled of wild roses. “I am your destiny,” she whispered against his ear. “I am forever.”
“No!” But even as he denied her, his body would not listen and his pulse raced with desire. His arms closed around her bare body, and the curtain of rose-scented auburn hair enveloped him like a cloud of silk. He could feel his body join with hers, slaking his need deep within her, and his ears heard a crescendo of cries as he came. When he opened his eyes, hers were like dark pools reflecting the half moon. He was looking into the face of Amanda Ross.
“I heard you cry out in thirst,” Nahdehwah said, shaking him awake. Lifting his head, she held a horn dipper to his lips and waited for him to swallow. As the water trickled down his throat, he realized she was not part of his vision, she was real. He’d called out loudly enough to waken her.
“Bathe in the water, and you will sleep well,” she advised him. “And day after tomorrow you will take her from my tipi.”
As he sat up groggily, she walked back to her lodge. He passed a hand over his eyes as though he could pull the cobwebs from his mind. He was sweaty, dizzy from the effects of the peyote. He staggered to stand, then weaved unsteadily to the spring, where he peeled off his clothes. Looking up, he saw a thin cloud crossing the profile of the moon. As the breeze touched his skin, he waded into the cold water, washing the peyote from his pores. He hadn’t really had a vision—the drug had tricked him, that was all.
But as he stood there naked as the day he was born, it came to him with lightning clarity, the place where Quanah Parker and his Quahadis waited for Sanchez-Torres. They’d left their big camp in the Palo Duro, and in his mind he could see them moving southward toward Big Spring. He didn’t know how he knew it now—he just knew it. It made sense, absolute sense. There was almost nothing between the eastern border of New Mexico and Big Spring to stop them. Only him.
As he drove the wagon down the narrow dirt road leading to the sprawling adobe hacienda, Ramon could see his father watching from the front veranda. While he could not make out Alessandro Sandoval’s face, he did not doubt he was scowling. Ramon considered a number of excuses to offer, not that it mattered, he thought resentfully. No matter what he did, it was never good enough.
And he wasn’t a boy to be bullied anymore. Reaching beneath the seat, he found the canteen. Slowing to a near halt, he unscrewed the lid and drank deeply of the tequila he’d bought in the cantina. It would have served the old man just as well if he’d not come home at all, if the Comanches he’d seen had killed him. But luckily their mounts had been too spent, and they’d been herding too many horses to bother with him. He just
wished he still had his black sombrero. Fifty dollars he’d paid for the engraved silver conchos on it, and he’d left it with Amanda.
He’d almost realized his own mortality when he’d seen the Indians, and the experience had shaken him enough that it had taken him nearly a dozen bottles of tequila and a couple of days in the arms of a generous señorita to recover from it. If his money hadn’t run out, he’d still be there, but both the cantina owner and the girl had refused his credit, he recalled bitterly. But one day he would get even. One day when he owned the Ybarra-Ross, he’d hire someone to take care of them. If Alessandro could be found in a generous mood, he might not even have to wait that long. And why shouldn’t his father be generous? Had not his only legitimate son gained the Ybarra for him?
By the time he actually drove up to the house, the tequila had fortified him enough to think he could brazen out his absence—until Alessandro Sandoval actually stepped off the long porch to greet him. Then his stomach knotted, nearly forcing the liquor up. There was no generosity in his father’s face.
“She’s dead, Papa,” he said, not daring to meet Alessandro’s eyes.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” the old man demanded through clenched teeth.
“Boston.”
“But you wired almost a month ago that she decided to come.” Glancing at those who lounged in the yard, he waited until they were inside to say anything more. Then, closing the door to his office after them, he confronted his son angrily. “Look at you!” he said, his voice dripping disgust. “What a fine caballero you are!” Reaching out, he slapped Ramon across the face, leaving a stinging mark. “You were supposed to be bringing her here, you fool! And now you haven’t even the decency to mourn her, you drunken idiot—you sot,” he sneered contemptuously.
“I did what you told me, Papa!”
“You stink of sweat and tequila! You cannot even act the part I give you!”