Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “And I thought you hated violence,” he murmured sardonically.

  “This isn’t violence—it’s justice,” she snapped back.

  “Do you want me to kill him for you?”

  He said it softly, so softly she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him right. For a moment she stared into those cold blue eyes, and the fury gradually ebbed from her body. “No. I couldn’t ask such as thing.” She sighed heavily. “And I couldn’t really kill him either. Then I’d be as guilty as he is. No, by the time I get home, Ramon will probably have escaped to Mexico, anyway.”

  “It won’t make any difference if he does—it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve crossed the Rio Grande.”

  “Do you really think the Mexicans will let a Texan bring a Sandoval back to stand trial?” He smiled faintly. “I don’t usually ask ’em.”

  She stared across the tipi, seeing Ramon as he’d driven off, leaving her alone. “I guess I don’t seem very grateful for what you’ve done for me, do I?” she said. “You saved my life, and here I am carping at you.”

  “I thought that was just your usual manner.”

  “Well, I am grateful. And I mean to pay you for your trouble when I get to Ybarra-Ross.”

  “Don’t.” He heaved himself up, towering over her. “I don’t want your money, Amanda.”

  “It doesn’t have to be money. I mean—”

  “I don’t want a job either,” he cut in shortly. “Right now, I’ve got something to attend to, but I’ll be back later.”

  He’d turned his back to leave, but she didn’t want him to go. “Wait—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to stay here.” She wet dry lips, then said low, “Please, I don’t want to stay here.”

  “I know, but it can’t be helped.”

  “She doesn’t like me—Nahdehwah doesn’t like me—and I’m afraid of her.”

  “She hasn’t hurt you yet, has she?”

  Inexplicable, unreasonable tears burned her eyes, and she brushed at them with the back of her hand. As furious with herself as she was with him, she flung angry words after him. “All right—go off and leave me alone with your crazy medicine woman!”

  He spun around at that, and his jaw hardened. “That was unworthy of you. Thanks to Nahdehwah, you are a damned sight better off than when I found you,” he reminded her evenly.

  “But I cannot understand her, and she cannot understand me!” She bit her lip to still its trembling. “Please, I’m telling you I’m afraid of her!”

  “If she were going to harm you, she’d have done it before now.”

  “She doesn’t even like me! Half the time she sits there watching me as though she’d like to cut my nose off! That’s what they do with female captives, isn’t it?”

  “You aren’t a captive. For what it’s worth, I told her you are my wife.” Before she could rip up at him, he added defensively, “It was easier to explain. Besides, I didn’t want to be bothered with anyone wanting to buy you. This way, you’re more or less family.”

  While she digested that, he ducked outside, leaving her alone with the old woman. She sat there, transfixed for a moment, then she struggled to stand on her sore feet, and tottered after him. A momentary dizziness washed over her, and she had to stop.

  “Wait!” she called out. When he didn’t turn back, she caught at a cottonwood branch and held on. “I’m sorry!” she managed to shout. “I can’t-help it if I’m afraid!”

  He was going to make a fool of himself, he knew it. But when he turned around, she was leaning against the tree as though she’d fall if she turned loose. Cursing under his breath, he went back to get her.

  “All right,” he told her, circling her waist with his arm. She clung to him until the world ceased spinning. His other arm came up, embracing her. “You’re a damned fool and a nuisance, you know that, don’t you?” he whispered. He could feel her body tremble, and he was afraid she was going to cry. His hand stroked her dirty, tangled hair. “Don’t.”

  Nahdehwah had followed her out. Without a word, she handed Clay the clothes Amanda had worn into the Indian camp, then she turned and walked back to her tipi. He looked down, seeing that she’d washed them, and he knew she wanted the calico dress returned.

  “Come on,” he said, taking Amanda’s hand.

  Embarrassed by her outburst, she hung back. “Where are we going?” she dared to ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  He walked slowly enough for her to keep up. This time, as they passed along the line of tipis, no one stared at her. Finally, he stopped before two women who were cooking over an outdoor fire. One rose and went in, then a big Indian came out, smiling broadly. He and McAlester spoke briefly, then the Indian nodded and turned to address both women. They regarded Amanda sullenly for a moment, then one went back to stirring the contents of the pot, while the other disappeared. The big Indian gestured for Clay and Amanda to come inside.

  The tipi interior was larger than Nahdehwah’s, and the smokehole flap was opened wider to let in light and air. An evil-looking assortment of bone and steel tools hung from the walls, while several piles of buffalo robes were arranged around the empty firepit. The Indian patted one of them and said something. McAlester looked it over appreciatively and nodded.

  “What did he say?” she hissed under her breath.

  ‘Two Owls is offering us his best bed,” Clay answered. “Smile, or he’ll think you don’t like it.”

  “Oh, but—” Seeing that the fierce-looking Indian was regarding her curiously, she bit back intemperate words and forced what she hoped was a passable smile. He grinned.

  She grasped McAlester’s arm. “You aren’t going to leave me alone with them, are you?” she whispered. When he didn’t answer, she demanded, “You aren’t—tell me you aren’t.”

  “No,” he lied.

  And then the full import of what Two Owls had done came home to her. “I can’t sleep with you,” she choked out, mortified. “I just can’t.”

  “You didn’t want to stay with Nahdehwah, remember?” he gibed.

  “But—”

  “If it stays hot tonight, he probably won’t mind if we sleep outside.”

  “I think I’d rather.”

  “All right, but let’s get two things straight right now—you hold your tongue, and I won’t presume anything improper.”

  But even as he made the promise, the image of her hair falling over his bare skin came to mind so vividly that he could feel the silk of it touching him. And no amount of denial was going to make it go away. By bringing her to Two Owls’s lodge before he was ready to leave, he was jumping from the frying pan into the fire, and he knew it.

  In the course of the day, Amanda learned that Two Owls was Kiowa, not Comanche, and that Walks With Sunshade, his Comanche wife, and Little Doe, his Kiowa one, whose mien was one of perpetual pout, did not get along. There had been a daughter born to Little Doe, Clay discovered and passed on to Amanda, but the child had died from “ghost sickness.” It was why they’d chosen to live in Ketanah’s camp—they had no confidence in the Kiowa medicine man who’d treated the little girl, and they believed if Nahdehwah had been there, their child would have survived.

  To Amanda, Little Doe’s behavior looked more like jealousy than grief, and noting the younger wife’s swollen belly, she could almost sense the other woman’s despair. But both of them were united in one thing—neither wanted to welcome Nahakoah’s woman into Two Owls’s tipi. If McAlester and the big Kiowa hadn’t been there, Amanda had not the least doubt that the two wives would have joined forces to do her bodily harm.

  As it was, Little Doe watched her, her dark eyes malevolent. And whenever she thought no one was looking, she jabbed her unwanted guest with a red-hot stick from the fire. Hearing Amanda cry out in surprise, Walks With Sunshade loudly scolded her rival, and the older woman answered insolently.

  Two Owls came outside to mediate the quarrel between hi
s wives, and once Walks With Sunshade explained what happened, he jerked Little Doe behind the tipi, where he shouted at her, while the Comanche wife sat listening, smugly satisfied. When they came back, the Kiowa woman was obviously subdued. It had been, Amanda reflected, much like the proverbial trip to the woodpile.

  Not that Walks With Sunshade was any better. Several times, she’d come over and lifted Amanda’s tangled auburn hair as though she admired it, but when no one was looking, she pulled it hard enough to bring tears to the white girl’s eyes. The last time she did it, Amanda reached out and pinched her, holding on, staring her down, until the Indian woman let go. Through it all, Clay McAlester and Two Owls seemed oblivious to what was going on.

  The final straw came when both men left her alone with the feuding wives. Little Doe sidled up with a steaming pot and “accidentally” dumped boiling stew on Amanda’s borrowed calico dress, then taunted her. That was the final straw. Forgetting years of convent school and proper Boston upbringing, Amanda caught her tormentor by the knees, bringing her down. The stew spilled, burning Little Doe’s arm, then ran in thick rivulets over the hard-packed earth.

  Little Doe was remarkably agile, and she came up ready to fight. Her gravy-streaked hands grasped Amanda’s hair, pulling it. Unable to get loose, Amanda sank her teeth into the woman’s burned arm and bit hard. Little Doe screamed, bringing Two Owls at a dead run, but when he saw what was happening, he made no move to intervene. As the Kiowa woman fought and struggled, Amanda’s teeth locked in her flesh, and her arms wrapped around Little Doe’s body, imprisoning her in a bearlike embrace. Despite the taste of dirt, sweat, stew and blood, she held on.

  Walks With Sunshade circled them, holding a large metal spoon like a weapon, darting in to strike a blow every now and then, usually hitting her husband’s other wife. And all the while, she kept up a steady, high-pitched shrieking. A group of squaws drawn by the commotion shouted encouragement at Little Doe, as though they watched some sort of contest. A few men and several children joined them.

  Returning from the spring, Clay heard the noise and saw the crowd. Pushing his way through them, he caught Amanda from behind. “Whoa now! What the devil …?” But she wasn’t about to let Little Doe loose. He saw the blood trickle down the screaming Kiowa woman’s arm. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, looking to Two Owls.

  The Indian grunted, then shook his head, indicating he didn’t want Nahakoah to stop them. “Your woman can fight,” he said. “Let her take care of herself.”

  Trying to get away, Little Doe scratched and pummeled the white girl to no avail, until finally she managed to grab the neck of Amanda’s dress, pulling it up over her head, exposing her pale legs. For answer, Amanda’s hands caught Little Doe’s hair, pulling out a good handful of it. The Indian woman turned loose and fell wailing to the ground.

  “Had enough?’ Amanda gasped.

  Looking around at the now subdued crowd, Amanda realized the enormity of what she’d done. Little Doe staggered up, still clutching her head with one hand, her bleeding arm with the other. Two Owls spoke sharply to her, then pushed her roughly into the tipi, where she could be heard railing and ranting. As he turned back to her, Amanda’s stomach knotted, but the big Indian was grinning. He came over and patted her shoulder, apparently congratulating her.

  McAlester looked at the stew and blood on her dress, then went inside. Exhausted, Amanda sank to her knees, panting, fighting an urge to weep. Her face inscrutable, Walks With Sunshade came up and began silently wiping what she could of the mess off the calico cloth. The other women filed past, some pausing to speak a word or two before going. It was probably just as well that Amanda couldn’t understand them, she thought, but at least they were no longer belligerent.

  Feeling ashamed and humiliated, she knelt there, wondering what McAlester was going to do. When he came out, he had the clothes Nahdehwah had washed in his hand. Leaning down, he reached to pull her up, then supported her for a moment with his arm. She closed her eyes to hide from him.

  “Come on. I see you can walk now,” was all he said.

  Releasing her, he began walking away. Glancing nervously toward the Indians, Amanda followed. So tired she was shaking, she couldn’t keep up with him. Finally, just before he reached the spring, she caught at a tree limb and held on, panting. He turned back.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she managed to choke out. “You don’t know what she did to me.”

  He stood there, looking at her, one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile, his blue eyes perceptibly warm. “I’m not mad,” he said softly. “I’m damned proud of you.”

  “Every time you weren’t looking, that Indian witch tried to hurt me.” Then she realized what he’d said. “You mean you don’t mind?” she asked incredulously.

  “No.”

  She stared. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” she decided finally.

  “You did what you had to do.”

  She’d been prepared for his anger, not his admiration. And rather than relief, she felt almost betrayed by his manner. “Much you would know about it,” she snapped, accusing him. “You said you wouldn’t leave me alone with them—you promised you wouldn’t! Where were you, anyway?”

  “I didn’t know you wanted to take a bath with me. Next time, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Oh—now, that’s too much!”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Amanda.”

  He walked back to where she still held onto the tree branch. Reaching for her free hand, he pressed a hard cake into it. She looked down, seeing what appeared to be lye soap. When she raised her eyes, she realized his hair clung wetly to his shoulders, spotting his clean white shirt. The oddly detached thought that he’d shaved crossed her mind.

  “Well, you might have told me, in any event,” she muttered, looking away.

  “I’d say you took care of yourself.”

  “I’m lucky they didn’t decide to kill me. What would you have done then?”

  “Two Owls wouldn’t let it happen. As it is, Little Doe has disgraced herself and him, so you probably won’t see much of her again. While it is acceptable to taunt and threaten a captive, it is forbidden to harm any who comes as a guest.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past them,” she muttered.

  “Look—do you want a bath or not?”

  “Here? In broad daylight?” She glanced down at the soap in her hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “The water’s a little cold, but it’s a whole lot cleaner than the Pecos.” When she said nothing, he held out the shirt and drawers she’d worn into the camp. “Nahdehwah got most of the dirt out.”

  “I can’t take a bath here.”

  “If you hurry, nobody’ll see you. I’ll stand guard,” he promised.

  “You’ll be here.”

  “I’ll turn my back. Go on in, and I’ll sit over there,” he said, pointing toward a clump of cottonwoods. Seeing that she hesitated, he sighed. “As I told you before, you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen anywhere else, but I don’t aim to look. So you might as well wash the stink and grease off before you try to eat. I don’t know about you, but I feel a damned sight better clean.” As a gesture of good faith, he walked toward the trees, then dropped down to sit under them, facing away from her.

  She reached up, feeling her dirty, matted hair; then she rubbed her face. Nahdehwah’s black grease came off on the back of her hand, and she knew she had to be an awful sight. She edged closer to the spring-fed pool, then looked over her shoulder. He was still sitting there, his back to her.

  “How deep is it?” she called out.

  “I wouldn’t wade too far in,” he answered without moving. “And I wouldn’t stay too long.”

  The spring was sheltered by a rock wall that rose above it and tangled cottonwoods on either side, leaving only the path they’d walked between. Casting one last nervous glance backward, she quickly
pulled off Nahdehwah’s dress, eyed the crystal-clear water, and stepped in gingerly.

  The clarity made the depth deceptive, and she plunged in all the way to her breasts before her feet touched bottom. The water was unbelievably cold. “Whooo!” she gasped in shock.

  But she was in, and there was no turning back now. Before she could lose her nerve, she ducked her head underwater, then came up. Grasping the chunk of soap, she rubbed it over her hair, savoring the strong, clean smell, then quickly went over her face, arms, and body before tossing the soap onto the grass, Shivering almost uncontrollably from the cold, she bent her knees and went under again. Her hair swirled out in the clear water, then she came up, smoothing it back from her face, squeezing it out.

  Clay leaned forward, clasping his knees, trying not to think of the naked woman in the water. He had too much to do, and not enough time to do it. In fact, if he meant to intercept Sanchez-Torres, he was going to have to leave, and the sooner he did it, the better. All hell was going to break loose when Amanda found out, but with any luck, he wouldn’t be there to see it. He’d just have to creep out without waking her in the morning.

  He didn’t want to think about that either. Resolutely, he went over everything he knew about Sanchez-Torres, playing a mental game, trying to outguess him. And for once he wished he had Hap with him. Unless he managed an ambush, it was going to be hell taking the Comancheros alone. Maybe he was just spooked, or maybe he was getting old, but he’d never felt mortal before. At twenty-eight, he was already older than any active ranger except Hap. The legendary Rip Ford had said it once—rangering was for young fools too green to be afraid.

  Not that he could say he was afraid. No, he’d spent too many years with the Comanches for that, and he prided himself in having the fatalism expected of a warrior. It wasn’t when—it was how a man died that counted. He’d always sort of expected he wouldn’t see the other side of thirty, and somehow that hadn’t mattered. Aside from Hap, he didn’t have anybody to mourn him.