Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “Do you think the bone is broken?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes, then forced a smile when he saw her. “If it didn’t hurt like hell, I’d think I’d gone to heaven,” he murmured.

  “Can you move it?”

  “Yeah.”

  But when he tried, she could see where the bullet had smashed through his thigh, taking bits of bone with it. It was going to be awhile before Hap Walker walked again, if ever. She looked up at Rios.

  “Do you have any water?”

  “Water be damned,” Hap muttered. “Get the whiskey.”

  “I’m just going to wash the wound.”

  “Use whiskey.”

  “What?”

  “Burn it out.”

  “With whiskey?”

  “Yeah. But give me a shot of it first.”

  In the end she compromised. After cutting away the bloody cloth with his knife, she gave him a drink from the flask Rios found in his saddlebags, then washed the wound first with water, clearing the debris from it. After some hesitation, she poured a little of the spirits over it.

  “What we need is something to splint it with. And then there’s the problem of getting him down from here,” she told Rios.

  “We’d better wait for Clay.”

  “What about your shoulder?”

  “I am all right.”

  “Nonsense. You’re losing blood, Mr. Rios.”

  He raised his arm, wincing. “Nothing’s broken,” he assured her. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

  “It needs to be cleaned and staunched.”

  “You don’t want to end up like Nate Hill,” Hap reminded him. “They can’t cut off your shoulder.”

  Rios shrugged. Reaching with his good arm, he tried to pull off his coat, but couldn’t. Moving behind him, Amanda peeled his shirt and coat down from his neck, then eased them off the shoulder. Picking up the canteen, she started to pour from it, then changed her mind. There was more whiskey than water.

  “Have you got a handkerchief?”

  “Yes.”

  Rios took a wadded piece of cloth from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She soaked it liberally from Hap Walker’s flask, then pressed it over the flesh wound. Pulling his coat and shirt back up, she buttoned them, holding the flimsy pad in place. When she was done, she stood up and flexed aching shoulders. There was still no sign of McAlester.

  “You’ve got gentle hands, ma’am,” Hap Walker murmured. He tried to twist his head to look downward. “Clay—”

  “He’ll be back,” she answered, trying to sound as confident as Rios.

  “Yeah,” he said, lying back. “He’s got more lives than a cat.” Seemingly reassured, he closed his eyes again.

  It seemed as though they waited an eternity, none of them speaking again. Finally, Rios walked back around the hill for another look at the men she’d killed. She sat there, her arms holding her knees, her eyes on the horizon, until she saw him. He was still riding the mule, but he was leading a horse, and a man’s body dangled over its fancy Mexican saddle. Tears of relief streamed down her face.

  The exhausted mule walked slowly, taking its time, but that was all right now. Clay was back, and he was whole. At the bottom of the hill he dismounted slowly, then turned to cut the ropes holding the body. Amanda slipped and slid down the rocky hillside to greet him.

  “You’re all right,” she said foolishly.

  “Yeah.”

  “I was scared to death, Clay—scared to death.” His arms closed around her, and she stood there, her arms around his waist, her head buried in his chest. He held her, savoring the feel of her body against his. When he looked over her shoulder, Romero Rios was watching them. Reluctantly, he set her back.

  “Hap all right?”

  “He’s got a broken leg. We’re going to have to carry him down somehow.” She hesitated, then blurted out, “Were these your Comancheros?”

  “Uh-huh. Sanchez-Torrez hired ’em to herd the horses back. So before we leave here, we’re going to have to do something with the bodies, cover them up somehow so the buzzards won’t give everything away. I’d like for him to think they made it to Quanah’s camp.”

  “Mr. Rios is hurt, too.”

  “Bad?”

  “Well, I don’t think he can dig any graves.”

  “Damn.” Looking up at the cloudless sky, he shaded his eyes. “In this heat the buzzards will be here before nightfall. All right, then,” he decided, “we’ll just have to press on, but first I’ve got to see Hap.”

  “Well, it’s about time you reared your ugly head,” Walker said when Clay reached him. “I was beginning to think you’d got lost.” He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, but the pain in his leg nearly took his breath away. “Hand me the damned whiskey, will you?”

  “You’re half drunk, Hap.”

  “And I aim to get all the way there.” He took a long pull on the flask, then closed his eyes as the fire rolled down to his gut. “I shouldn’t have let ’em get me,” he muttered. “I got careless.”

  “No.”

  Walker opened his eyes again, this time to look at Amanda. “I know I’m not dreamin’, so there’s got to be an explanation for why she’s here. Last time I knew she was leaving with Sandoval.”

  “He abandoned her half a day’s ride north of the Overland Road, Hap. By the time I found her, she was in a bad way. I knew I couldn’t afford the time to go back to Stockton, so I took her to Ketanah’s camp up by Castle Rock for a few days, that’s all.”

  “You took her to a damned Comanche camp?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I got an earful about Sanchez-Torres, so I came down here to cut him off.” He paused, then added, “There’s probably a thousand Indians waiting for him between here and Big Spring.”

  “Hell, there ain’t that many Comanches,” Hap protested.

  “Every Indian not on the reservation from the Rio Grande to Kansas is coming to join Quanah.”

  “And me with lead in m’ leg,” the older man muttered. “Well, I guess Texas is going to burn like hell, no two ways about it.” He turned his head toward Rios. “What do you think, Romero—can you ride to Fort Griffin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell ’em to get word to General Augur he’s got to put Mackenzie into the field.”

  Clay shook his head. “Mackenzie can’t get here, Hap.”

  “He can damned well try. Besides, I’m not going to have the army say we didn’t tell ’em.”

  “I’m going to take the wagons out—I can do it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  The older man’s eyes met Clay’s for a long moment, then he looked away. “I don’t want to lose you, boy.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t kill easy—remember?”

  “One of these days your luck’s going to run out.”

  Clay shrugged. “One of these days everybody’s luck’s going to run out.” He looked to Rios. “While you’re over in Shackleford County, you’d better get a warrant for the arrest of Ramon Sandoval—and one for Sam McKittrick, while you’re at it.”

  “McKittrick!” Hap choked out. “For what?”

  “He’s in thick with Sanchez-Torres. Looks like he’s bankrolling him.”

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a—” The older man stopped midsentence and held his breath while he fought the searing pain. “All I can say is you’d damned well better be able to prove it, or we’ll both be out of a job.”

  “I’ve got a letter here somewhere that ought to do for a start.” Clay fumbled in his coat pocket, then tossed the folded paper to Rios. “Here—show that to a judge.”

  “What am I supposed to say about Sandoval?” the younger ranger wanted to know. “How do you want him charged?”

  “With the attempted murder of Amanda Ross.” Turning back to Hap Walker, Clay told him, “You lie low until I get back, then we’ll splint that leg and get you down from here.
Here—” He unholstered one of the new Colts and handed it over, then unbuckled one of the cartridge belts. “That ought to hold you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Got enough whiskey?”

  “I don’t know why you’d ask—you never carry any,” the older man responded testily.

  “No, but I’ve got some peyote.”

  “I’d rather bite on a stick,” Hap muttered.

  “You’re a contrary old cuss—you know that, don’t you?”

  Amanda stood there, wishing the captain could somehow dissuade him, knowing he couldn’t. And she couldn’t just sit and wait, terrified he wasn’t coming back. She swallowed, trying to down the lump rising in her throat. “Please …” As he turned to her, she knew nothing she could say would keep him there. “I’d like to go with you,” she said finally.

  “Damn it, boy—you’d be out of your mind!” Walker exploded.

  “You’ll be safer here looking after Hap.”

  “Please—I cannot stand the wait, the not knowing.” She passed her tongue over dry lips. “I think I’ve earned that much at least.”

  “Don’t let her, son.”

  But Clay was looking at her as though he and she were the only two people on earth. She met his gaze steadily until he actually smiled.

  “Yeah,” he said softly, “yeah, I reckon you have.”

  “There they are.”

  She followed his gaze across the mesquite-dotted plain and counted nine canvas-covered wagons lumbering slowly behind teams of obviously tired oxen. Nearly a dozen armed guards with rifles lying across their saddles rode beside the wagons.

  “They look like they’re prepared for trouble,” she murmured.

  “Yeah.” He took out his spyglass for a closer view, training it on the lead wagon. “There’s old Sanchez-Torres himself. This is one trade he’s not trusting to anybody else.” He handed the glass to her. “He’s the one on the right.”

  She put it to her eye and moved it around until she saw the old man. He was squat, dark, and fat, but otherwise unremarkable. As she watched him, he was talking to a companion, sharing a laugh. She lowered the glass.

  “He doesn’t appear very dangerous, does he? He looks like someone’s grandfather.”

  “If you’d ever seen what he’s done, you’d change your mind. When I was with the State Police, I buried what was left of a man he thought had betrayed him.” He considered the lowering sun for a moment, then straightened in his saddle. “We’ve got a while to wait. I don’t figure on going in until they’re settled in for the night.”

  “What if they catch you?”

  “Then I’m not coming out alive. In that case, you hightail it back to Hap. Broken leg or not, he’ll get you to Griffin.”

  “You make it sound so matter-of-fact.”

  “It is. I either win or I lose.” He looked at her, and his mouth twisted. “I don’t plan on losing, Amanda.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Come on—let’s go make a cold camp and eat.”

  “All right.” She wanted to cry out that it might be his last day on earth, that he had no right to act as though it made no difference whether he lived or died, but instead she was letting him get away with it. “All right,” she repeated.

  He didn’t say anything more for a long time, and when he did, it seemed to have nothing to do with what he faced. “Hap’s a good man,” he said finally. “He wants to settle down.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, adding, “He’d make a woman a good husband. He’s sown all his wild oats, and he’s old enough to know what he wants. He’s the kind of man who could sit in church every Sunday, the kind who could teach his kids to be as honest and decent as he is.”

  “Why are you telling me this? I barely know the man.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  It dawned on her what he was doing then. He didn’t have any brother, and in his misguided Comanche logic, he was expecting Hap Walker to take care of her. Her already taut nerves couldn’t bear it.

  “I’m not a squaw you can pass around,” she snapped. “I’ll pick my own husband, thank you.”

  “There’s a kindness in him, and he likes you,” he went on, unperturbed.

  “I don’t want to hear this—do you hear me? I don’t want to hear this!”

  “He’ll go after Sandoval for you.”

  “Of all the thick-headed—”

  “I’m just pointing out a few things to consider.”

  “Well, don’t. You aren’t going to die—remember?”

  He’d bungled the matter, and he knew it. Nothing’s forever, Amanda. Not me. Not you. Not Hap. No one.”

  “Do we have to talk about this?” she asked wearily.

  “No.” Abruptly, his expression lightened. “I don’t want to talk about it either. I want to find a place where we can just sit awhile and you can tell me again all about Boston.”

  “Boston?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never been there.” His mouth curved into a boyish smile that made her heart ache. “I figure we’ll eat and you’ll paint me some word pictures. I want to know what you were like when you were growing up.”

  It didn’t make any sense, but she was willing to humor him. “I see,” she managed. “Well, there isn’t all that much to tell, but—”

  “Not here. When we stop.”

  “All right.”

  He chose a limestone escarpment overlooking the flat expanse of a sun-baked valley cut eons ago by some forgotten stream. After watering and tethering the animals out of sight, he carried a canteen and parfleche to where Amanda waited. Dropping down beside her, he broke the tallow seal with his knife and began slicing the dried meat, dividing it between them. He pushed a container of honey toward her.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like this, or I’ll know you’re lying.”

  “I like it, but I’m not very hungry.”

  He stared across the flat land toward a small rise of hills made purple by the lowering sun. “When I come back, there’s going to be all hell breaking loose behind me. I figure we might not be eating again until midday tomorrow.”

  “It’s not that far back to Captain Walker.”

  “No, but if we’re followed, we’ll have to lose ’em first, and that’ll mean doubling back for Hap. So you’d better eat while you’ve got the chance.”

  “All right.”

  Somehow she managed to get most of her food down. It was he who didn’t eat. Instead, he sat there, his eyes distant, seemingly focused on those hills, his body leaning forward, his arms clasping his knees. She watched the straight, even profile of his face, wondering what occupied his thoughts. Finally, she could stand it no longer.

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “No. I was just thinking how red the sun is going down. Blood red, Ekatonah would have called it.”

  “What was she like?”

  “A mother. She fussed over me a lot, and she worried that she’d lose me when I went down the war trail.” He eased his shoulders, settling them, then added, “She lost her own son in a raid the year before Sansoneah brought me home to her. In her grief she wanted to love me.”

  “Then you were lucky to have her.”

  “And him. He was strong, disciplined—yeah, disciplined is how I’d describe him. Once when there was almost no water, when his tongue was black from thirst, he killed a Crow Warrior who tried to take the last few drops so I could have them. Not him. Not Ekatonah. Me. When we staggered into camp, he had to be carried to the spring, and because he couldn’t swallow, they soaked his body in the water.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she let him ramble on, listening as he spoke of Indians she’d never know, of a life she would never understand. She heard of bowhunting antelope, of stampeding buffalo over gorges, of journeying from northern Texas to far below the Rio Grande.

  Abruptly, he stopped, then shook his head. “I don’t bel
ong here, Amanda—I’m like that wasteland out there, with The People on one side, the whites on the other, and nothing in between.”

  “You don’t have to make a choice, Clay. You can go somewhere else until it’s over,” she said quietly.

  “No. I’m not the civilized fellow you want me to be, Amanda. There’s always going to be part of me that wants to be free. I learned that in Chicago.”

  “You were a boy—you didn’t give yourself a chance. You were living with someone who didn’t understand you.”

  “I never stopped dreaming of this, Amanda.” He turned to her, his expression sober. “What did you dream of when you were in Boston?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, that’s not entirely true, I suppose. When I first got there, I used to go to this church near our house, and I’d light a candle for Papa. But it wasn’t for his soul, as Aunt Kate thought—I was praying for God to send him back. It took me nearly a year to admit to myself that such miracles didn’t happen anymore. I’d read about Jesus raising Lazarus, you see, and I didn’t see why he couldn’t bring back Papa.”

  “So you lost your faith.”

  “No. I came to accept that God may or may not give us what we ask.”

  “A good lesson.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You were going to tell me about Boston,” he recalled.

  “What do you want to know about it?”

  “Anything you want to tell me. What you liked to do there. What you hated. What it was like growing up rich there.”

  “That’s a tall order, Clay.”

  He stretched out across from her and propped his chin with his elbow, watching her. “Start anywhere you want.”

  “Well, I went to St. Agnes school, where we wore black cotton dresses, black cotton stockings, and starched white smocks over them. Every day we wore the same ugly things. Then one day as we were filing into Mass, I heard one of the altar boys whisper, ‘There goes Mama and all the little penguins,’ and I started to laugh, and I couldn’t stop. Afterward, I had to listen to the priest scold me for unseemly levity, then Sister Mary Margaret sent a note home to Aunt Kate.”

  “If that’s the worst thing you ever did, I expect God’s already forgiven you.”