Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “No,” he said abruptly. “I’m mean, brutal, and un couth, Amanda. A killer. Untamed, I think you said. And as long as I live, there’s always going to be part of me that doesn’t want to be civilized, that doesn’t want to live like anybody else.”

  He was telling her that he wasn’t for her, and it wasn’t as though she didn’t already know that, yet there was something within her that wanted to deny it. Maybe it was that she’d given him her body, that because she had, she had to make herself believe there’d been a reason.

  Her chin came up. “All right, then—you are a savage with positively no redeeming qualities at all. There—is that what you want to hear?”

  “I want to hear the truth.”

  “I’ve tried to tell you—to the best of my ability, I’ve tried to tell you. Do you want people to recoil when they see you, when they hear your name?”

  “I don’t care what people think—I’m asking you.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? That I—?” She’d nearly said she liked his touch, but she couldn’t quite get it out. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve come to like you?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be.” He pushed the nearly empty plate toward her and heaved himself to his feet. “I’ve got to take a walk, so you go ahead and finish up.”

  As he left her, she had the uneasy feeling that she’d somehow angered him. He hadn’t even poured himself any of his awful coffee. Telling herself she’d been as honest as she dared, she finished the food, then took the pan of boiling coffee off the fire. Using a canteen, she poured water sparingly and wiped the plate clean. Scooping dirt with her hands, she did as he’d taught her, snuffing out the fire, covering it to cut down on the smoke. She dusted her hands on her skirt.

  When she rose, there was no sign of him. She felt a momentary panic, but the horses and mule were still there. Besides, he was no Ramon. Whatever could be said of him, he was a hundred times the man Ramon Sandoval would ever be. Or Patrick Donnelly. Or anyone else she knew, for that matter.

  He walked aimlessly above the draw, trying to collect his thoughts before he made a complete fool of himself. He was twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine years old, and he was caught in the throes of his first grand passion like some kid. He hadn’t meant it to happen—he’d never meant it to happen. He’d tried to keep it in his mind that she wasn’t meant for him, that she was too far above him, that she had too much money, too much breeding to look twice at him. And just because she was alone, at his mercy, he had no right to expect anything of her.

  But she’d given herself to him. Not once, but twice. The first time it had been the drums and the mescal. The second she’d been afraid. And even if it happened again, he had no illusions that he could keep her, that once she got back among her own kind she would still want him around. He wasn’t the sort of man who could fit in, who could be at ease among her kind of people. It had always been them and him. Until now.

  She was a woman who’d make any man proud. She could have a rich man, a powerful man, any man she chose. The likelihood that she’d pick him over any of them was ludicrous, impossible. And if he didn’t want to get burned badly, he was going to have to stay away from the fire. He was going to have to get her back to the Ybarra safe and sound, then go on living his life without her. He’d made it alone more than half of his twenty-eight years, and one woman oughtn’t to be able to change that.

  Well, he felt a little better. Having decided she wasn’t for him, he felt a bittersweet relief. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it, and nothing, not even Amanda Ross, was going to stop him.

  She was sitting cross-legged in front of the arbor, writing on his pad of paper. As he approached from the side, he was taken again by her fine profile, by the soft halo of auburn hair glinting in the sun. She was so pretty that he almost ached at the sight of her. No, he’d been lying to himself all along, and now he knew it. Above all others, she was the one he wanted.

  He backed away, then went up the draw to where he’d tethered the horses and mule. He considered all three for a long moment, then loosened Sarah, the best little Indian pony of his memory, and led her to where Amanda sat. As she looked up curiously, he dropped the rope, then walked off, giving her the space to decide.

  At first, she regarded the paint mare uncertainly, then she looked to where Clay stood, his back to her. And suddenly she thought she understood. There was an awful moment of decision, one where it seemed as though her entire life hung in the balance. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t encouraging her at all. He was just standing there, his body as still as if he’d been turned to stone.

  She struggled to stand on legs that seemed almost numb, then reached to take the rope. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to do with it, but in that moment, she knew what she wanted. Turning the mare around, she led it behind the arbor.

  Her heart pounding in her chest, her palms damp against the skirt of her dress, she called out, “I don’t have any cooking pots or buffalo robes—and I won’t skin anything!”

  He turned around at that and walked slowly, deliberately back to her. It seemed as though he filled the whole draw, obscuring everything but him. It wasn’t until he enveloped her in his arms that she dared to breathe. His blue eyes blurred before hers, and just before his lips touched hers, he murmured softly, “I was beginning to think you were going to turn me down.”

  She clung giddily to him, giving up her mouth to his, caught in the heady renewal of his passion. For now, there was nothing in the world beyond what he would do to her. Yet even as she felt the eager response of her body to his, she couldn’t help wishing a priest had said the proper words.

  Crawling cautiously between rocks, Clay expected to find he’d caught up to the Cheyennes they trailed. Instead he was looking down on the largest Indian encampment he’d ever seen. As he adjusted his spyglass, he figured there must be five hundred tipis belonging to Comanches, Kiowas, Kiowa-Apaches, Cheyennes, and a few Arapahoes. At the far end of the camp sentries guarded a huge herd of horses. He’d hit paydirt in a big way. He’d found Quanah.

  He lay on his belly, taking it all in, trying to figure out whether he ought to ride in brazenly or get the hell out of there. If it hadn’t been for Amanda, he probably would have gone in, shared a pipe in the smoke lodge, and listened for word of Sanchez-Torres. But now he didn’t want to risk it. Instead, he scrambled back down the sheltered side of the hill to where Amanda waited with Hannibal and the two ponies.

  “You were gone a long time,” she said.

  “Yeah. Come on—let’s go,” he decided, mounting the mule.

  “We aren’t going to make camp?”

  “Not here. There’s probably a thousand Indians over there.”

  “What?” Her mouth formed the words “a thousand” silently as they sank in. “Surely not,” she said weakly.

  “Well, I didn’t stick around to count them, but I’d say it’s a decent guess. And by the looks of the place, they’re still coming in, so I think we’d better ride.”

  “Yes, of course.” She nudged the paint mare up beside him. “Do you think they saw you?”

  “I hope not.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” she asked anxiously. “You’re supposed to say they didn’t.”

  “All right—I don’t think they did.”

  “Could you say that with conviction?”

  “I just did.”

  She wasn’t exactly persuaded, but she was willing to hope. “So we’re going to get help, aren’t we?”

  “We’re heading due west—the way I figure it, Sanchez-Torres will be making a beeline straight across to Big Spring. Now all we’ve got to do is stop him before he gets here.”

  She regarded him with troubled eyes. “There’s just two of us, Clay. We might get caught between them with nowhere to go.”

  “I know. For what it’s worth, it scares the hell out of me, too.”

  “A thousand,” she repeated
, still digesting the enormity of the number. “The Comancheros can’t be bringing guns for all of them.”

  “No. The Quahadis have their women and children with them, and so do some of the others. So I expect Sanchez-Torres will bring a whole wagon train across—guns, ammunition, pots, pans, cloth, sugar—you name it. But if Two Owls can be believed, and I think he can, he’s got a war wagon.”

  “A what?”

  “A wagon-mounted Gatling gun,” he explained soberly.

  “Mother of God,” she gasped. “And just what do you think you’re going to do about that?”

  ‘Take it out.”

  Unconvinced, she reasoned, “There’s got to be some way to notify the army. Surely it’s more their business than yours. I mean—Clay, it’s going to take an army to stop them.”

  She was afraid, and he understood. He didn’t want to die now either. But it was a good two days’ ride to an army post, and sending out a cavalry troop wasn’t going to help. They’d be so far outnumbered it’d be a massacre. Finally, he answered her.

  “There isn’t time to put enough cavalry into the field. Besides, I’m not fighting Comanches or any of their allies. All I’m going to do is stop the wagons.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to avoid the Indians,” she countered. “Tell me how you’re going to do that.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I have to.”

  “And then what?” she persisted.

  “It all depends on what I get into.” He knew it wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but it was the truth. “Look—if worst comes to worst, if it looks like we’re going to be caught out, then we’ll just turn back and throw ourselves on Quanah’s hospitality. He won’t turn me away.”

  “Even if he learns what you’ve been doing?”

  “Even if he learns what we’ve been doing,” he responded patiently. “The Nermernuh don’t kill Nermernuh.”

  “I’m not one of them,” she muttered. “I’d just feel better if there were more of us and less of them.”

  They rode in silence for some time before she spoke up again. “We aren’t going to make camp today,” she decided.

  “Not for a while, anyway. Tired?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it looks safe, we’ll find a place about noon. Otherwise, I’d just as soon press on.”

  “You don’t have any human weaknesses,” she observed dryly.

  He regarded her lazily for a moment, then his mouth curved into a full smile. “You ought to know better than that.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired?”

  “All the time. Look, if you have to, we’ll stop for a few minutes, but then we’ve got to keep going.” When she didn’t respond, he relented. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  Untying the leather sack from his pommel, he leaned to hand it to her. ‘There’s some pemmican in here.”

  She loosened the drawstring and looked inside. “What is it?”

  The Indian’s answer to army rations—dried meat pounded with fruit That’s beef and wild cherries and pinon nuts, which is pretty good. Go on—try it,” he urged her. “I made it a couple of weeks ago.”

  She took a piece and nibbled at it, “Not bad,” she decided, surprised. “You’ve been hoarding this, haven’t you?”

  “I keep it for when there’s nothing else.”

  “Well, it’s a great deal better than hackberry balls and yeps, anyway. And it’s —” She stiffened suddenly, and her words died on her lips.

  He’d heard it, too—the report of gunfire. He listened intently for several seconds, trying to place the sound. “I’d say somebody’s in trouble—real trouble. You’d better stay here while I take a look.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t—you’re not leaving me out here alone,” she declared stoutly.

  “Amanda—”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  Rather than argue, he dug his spurs into the mule and took off westward, leaving her to follow him. He just hoped that there wasn’t anybody else out there who’d heard the shots. He sure as hell didn’t want to be caught between Comanches and Comancheros, not on Hannibal. The mule spooked too easily.

  Foam flecks flew back, spotting his buckskin pants, as the animal stretched into a full gallop. As he gained the top of a rock-strewn hill, Clay reined in and reached for his spyglass, sweeping the horizon with it. A sick knot formed in the pit of his stomach as he recognized Hap Walker and a young ranger named Rios.

  Besieged by Mexicans, Hap lay behind a boulder while Rios reloaded, both unaware that they were about to be overrun from a limestone ledge above them. And Clay was too far away to get off a good shot. As Amanda caught up, he handed her the Whitney. “Here—take this and use it if you have to.” Before she could ask any questions, he used his reins like a quirt, and the tired mule fought back, rearing.

  “Damn you, Hannibal!” he shouted, pulling it up short, then turning it in a circle. He dug his spurs in, and this time the animal shot forward at a dead run.

  As he rode hell for leather, he unsheathed the rifle and fired it, hoping to draw the Mexicans’ attention. One of the men on the ledge drew a bead on him and pulled the trigger, warning the two rangers. Rios ducked back beneath the ledge, where he crouched, waiting for his chance. As a sombrero tilted over the edge, he fired and missed. Hap Walker crawled further under the rock overhang.

  Now all eyes were on Clay. The Mexicans below the rangers scrambled down the hill toward their mounts. Rios fired his Henry rifle, getting one, who pitched forward, then rolled to the bottom, where he lay screaming for help. Two of his compadres got behind their horses, using them for cover. Above, a Mexican leaned over to shoot at Hap, and as the bullet ricocheted off the boulder, Rios stood and squeezed off a shot. The impact knocked the fellow backward.

  The men behind the horses targeted Clay, popping up to fire, then ducking back down. As Amanda watched, heart in throat, he went over Hannibal’s side, dropping from sight. Thinking he’d been hit, she kicked the paint mare frantically, and tried to get to him. Then she saw him fire his rifle from beneath Hannibal’s neck. One of the Mexicans’ horses squealed and reared as the bullet hit. The animal took off, then dropped to its knees, mortally wounded. Clay’s next shot got its master.

  Two Mexicans left on the ledge retreated out of Rios’s range, then turned their guns on Clay. He re turned fire from under Hannibal’s belly, missing. Amanda looked up, saw the ledge, then wheeled the paint pony as though she fled. Behind the hill, she dismounted and crept upward, shotgun in hand.

  The remaining Mexican below had had enough. He swung up into his saddle and tried to make a run for it. Clay shot at him, but the bullet went wide. Now he had to pursue—he couldn’t risk letting anyone get to the Comancheros before him.

  Rios stood up then, and Hap Walker barely shouted “Watch out!” before one of the Mexicans on the ledge shot the ranger. Holding his shoulder, Rios stumbled back, calling out, “I’m hit!”

  Thinking they’d got both rangers, the two men on the ledge turned to come back down the hill. Amanda cocked one hammer carefully, waiting for her chance. Bracing the shotgun against her shoulder, she held her breath. One of the Mexicans saw her and raised his pistol as she pulled the trigger. The roar shattered her ears, and the kick sent her staggering. As the first man fell, the other fired. A piece of rock flew up. She cocked the other hammer, closed her eyes, and squeezed. She heard the explosion, then the silence was deafening. When she dared to look, both men lay motionless and blood was everywhere. One was utterly unrecognizable.

  Shaking uncontrollably, she sank to her knees, covered her face, and wept. It was there that Rios found her. Still holding his shoulder, he leaned over and picked up the shotgun.

  “Where did you come from?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know—I’m just with McAlester,” she answered. “Who are you?”

  “Romero Rios.” He smiled, flashing a nice set
of white teeth. “Texas Ranger.”

  “Amanda Ross—Miss Ross.” She saw the blood between his fingers. “You’re hurt.”

  “Not bad.” He looked at the dead men, then back to her. “You did this?”

  Yes. She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand, then stood up. “Where’s McAlester?”

  “He was going after the last one.” He looked her over, then reached to take her elbow. “Come on—I’ve got to get back to Hap. They got him pretty bad—shattered his leg, I think.” As they started down the hill, he turned sideways to help her. “Watch out for loose rocks.”

  “You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” she told him gratefully.

  “The surprise is mine, I guess. It’s hard to imagine a woman being with Clay—real hard. Usually they kind of stay away from him.”

  “Well, it’s a long story—a very long story,” she said wearily. “We were—are—looking for Comancheros.”

  He was looking at her oddly, as though he didn’t quite believe her. She sighed, then tried to explain as briefly as possible. “He didn’t really have much choice, Mr. Rios. It was a matter of leaving me to die in the desert or taking me with him. Please—I’m too tired to even think. We broke camp at sundown last night, and I’ve been riding ever since.”

  “I can believe that,” he murmured wryly. “We rode together a couple of times, and I almost didn’t survive. When we found a trail, he didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep, and we covered more than two hundred miles on one canteen of water. Damned if I know how he did it. I thought I was going to shrivel up and die. But,” he added, “we got what we went after.”

  She heard two shots in the distance, then silence, and she wanted to cry all over again. “I just hope he doesn’t get himself killed,” she said finally.

  “Clay always comes back.”

  “I hope so—I sincerely hope so.”

  “He will. He’s not like the rest of us.”

  When they reached Hap Walker, the ranger captain’s eyes were closed, his teeth gritted in pain. Around the blood-soaked tear in his pants, his leg was already swelling. She bent over him, feeling the leg, trying not to think of McAlester.