Nate (The Rock Creek Six)

by Handeland, Lori

  Though his clothes soon became drenched with sweat, he shivered with cold. She piled every blanket—both human and horse—on top of him then covered those with their extra clothes. He still shook so hard the coverings slid off, and she spent much of her time readjusting them.

  His breath came hard and fast, and when she touched his neck, his pulse pounded the same. She was terrified his heart would burst.

  He mumbled and cried in delirium, then shouted at the delusions. So far he'd seen Yankees and Comanches aplenty. The first time he'd said, "Indians. I knew it!" she'd grabbed her gun and spun about, putting herself in front of him, prepared to die for him.

  But the only thing in the clearing was a lizard, which resembled Carrie Salvatore's pet, Gizzard. But this one skittered into the brush at the sight of her, whereas the pet, unafraid of humans, would have come right over. Jo had never much cared for that. The presence of a lizard always made her skin feel as if a thousand of them crawled over her.

  After the Yankees and the Comanches left, a parade of cougars, snakes, bears, and assorted other predators arrived. It hardly seemed fair that all of Nate's delusions were fearful, but Jo was beginning to see that he rarely found peace or happiness—not even when he was unconscious.

  She bathed his face, neck, and chest with water from the puddle. The streaks of mud left behind only made the unnatural paleness of his skin shine in the light of the descending moon. The clouds raced off, carrying the darkness. She should feel better now that she could see, but she didn't.

  Jo ran her fingers over his short, short hair. Soft, the bristles tickled her palm. As she continued to stroke his head, he calmed, then stilled. Unable to stop herself, she touched his face. His beard was the same length as his hair; the shade reminded her of a night sprinkled with stars.

  "Angel face," he murmured, and rubbed his cheek against her fingers.

  Jo drew in a shaky breath. He would never love her, never see her as anything but a friend. She would have to accept that and let her dream go. But for tonight, she could caress him. Her touch seemed to help, and if that was because he believed she was Angela, so be it. She would do anything to give him a single moment's respite.

  The bones of his face stood out sharply beneath his skin. Jo ran her thumb over the planes and angles, marveling that the combination made him beautiful beyond understanding, at least to her loving eyes.

  As physical appeal went, Rico cornered the market. But Jo had never cared much for pretty men; their souls were usually ugly enough to make up for it. Not that Rico's was. He had a good heart, like all of them—except maybe Cash. Regardless, she'd never felt more than exasperated fondness for Nate's flirtatious friend, even before Rico had fallen hip deep in love with Lily Fortier.

  Jo thought back to the day the six had ridden into Rock Creek. She'd wondered then if the town would survive the men who had come to save it.

  In the end, the men had not only saved Rock Creek but allowed the town to thrive. Many called Rock Creek home, or at least a place where they could rest.

  What would Nate do now that nearly all of his friends were married with families of their own? The only ones left on their own were Nate and Cash—and no woman in her right mind would marry that man.

  Jo's hand stilled in Nate's hair as a thought occurred to her. Was that why the two disappeared from Rock Creek so often? Did they no longer feel as if they belonged with the only family they had left?

  In all the joyous celebrations of the marriages and births, had anyone noticed that Nate and Cash had only each other? Two men who had been trying to get killed for as long as anyone who knew them could recall?

  Jo narrowed her gaze on Nate's face. Had the happiness of his friends in Rock Creek led to Nate's decision to end his own life? What had prevented him this long? The lingering sense of a mortal sin? He'd deny that with his last dying breath, but after the revelations of last night, Jo would still wonder.

  He began to thrash again, to mutter and curse.

  "Shh," she murmured, stroking his head, his face, his neck. "I'm right here. You aren't alone."

  "No, not alone." His eyes opened, and he stared past her. "They're coming. I can hear them."

  Even though she knew he was raving, still a trickle of unease ran down her back. She looked over her shoulder, but again there was nothing, not even a lizard.

  Nate lurched to a sitting position and grabbed for his gun. Alarmed, Jo threw herself at his chest and pushed him down. That she was able to without much effort scared her more than any other occurrence of the evening thus far.

  Sprawled across his wide chest, Jo and Nate were eye to eye. For a moment he appeared almost lucid. Then his gaze shifted over her right shoulder and he started. "There. I told you they were coming, and now they're here."

  Before she could waste her breath on denials, his eyes fluttered closed, and he slumped into a restless sleep. Jo rolled off of him, drew the blankets to his chin, then picked up the canteen and got to her feet.

  She turned and bumped right into a Comanche.

  * * *

  Angela was screaming. He couldn't make her stop. She'd scream until she died. Only then would her pain end—right when his began.

  Nate groaned and pitched from side to side. His brain on fire, his body like ice, he'd had this dream a thousand nights before. But the screaming had never sounded so real, so close, so terrified.

  Then it stopped.

  He shifted, uneasy. Usually in his dreams when the screaming stopped, he would sleep, exhausted from the emotions the memories engendered. If he wasn't able to, he could at least wake up and drink until he passed out.

  But this time he could only toss and turn, his belly aching, his head pounding, the darkness around him complete. He had a nagging sense of things left undone, a life finished before it even began, a love crushed before it could draw more than a breath.

  Voices ebbed and flowed. Some he knew, most he did not. Languages unfamiliar babbled all around him. Maybe at last he had died and gone to hell.

  It was about time.

  * * *

  Startled, Jo screamed directly in the Comanche's face. He didn't even blink, just grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. Then Jo really made some noise.

  "Ke-!" she shouted. "Tobo? ihupiitu!"

  He stopped.

  "Tuhkatu."

  He put her down.

  This was going well. Jo thanked God she knew the language.

  Comanches appeared as if from thin air, drifting through the gray light of dawn and lining up behind the first man.

  Not so well after all, Jo thought. They were dressed and painted for a raid, or perhaps a war. It was difficult to tell the difference, and these days a raid was as close to a war as the Comanches got anyway.

  She truly hadn't believed there'd be any Comanches on this trail. Renegades were few and far between. But she should have remembered if there was going to be a raid, tonight would be the night.

  The moon, like the earth, was the Mother, a particular guardian of the raid. Comanches considered the evening following a full moon the best time for attack. They never, by choice, raided under a full moon, and the night when the moon was a crescent, horns pointing upward, meant rain, which would make them easily tracked by anyone with the eyes to see hooves in the mud.

  The man who had grabbed her wore a buffalo-scalp bonnet. Magpie feathers stood up just behind the crown; eagle feathers cascaded to his waist. The hat was a mark of leadership, the wearer under obligation never to retreat until his men were safe. If Jo ever convinced them to leave, the buffalo-scalp bonnet owner would be the last one she faced, since he always guarded the rear.

  Jo had seen such hats hanging from the trees at the reservation, some warriors having put them aside, believing a beaten man did not deserve the honor of wearing one. Obviously the leader of this party did not consider himself beaten.

  The others wore eagle feathers in their braids and black paint—the emblem of death—across their bare chests. A
few had even tattooed circles around their battle scars to emphasize them. Their buckskin leggings, free of everyday beads and ornamentation in deference to the need for silence on the raid, reached from ankle to hip, the long fringe a mark of the Comanche.

  Already considered renegades just by leaving the reservation, depending on what they'd done, things couldn't go any worse for them if they kidnapped a white woman and killed a white man.

  Jo swallowed, but her throat remained dry as mid August in Texas. All eight of them stared at her, their faces expressionless, but at least they were looking at her and not dragging her away or worse. Perhaps her knowing some Comanche had helped.

  Before she could ask them what they wanted, Nate started to talk—loud and rambling. Combined with his wild thrashing and moaning, his gibbering made him appear insane even to Jo, who knew better. She sidled in his direction, attempting to put herself between Nate and the Comanche warriors.

  At her first movement every black eye shifted to her. She froze. They returned their gazes to Nate. Fascination crept over their faces and they moved closer, as if drawn against their will, until they stood in a semicircle peering down at him.

  Jo couldn't stand it. She marched around them and sat at Nate's side. Taking his hand, she glared at the Indians.

  The first man's gaze went from their joined hands to Jo's face. "Poo?sa??" he asked.

  Crazy person?

  Jo nearly denied it before she recalled that in the Comanche world crazy people were revered. To them, those who babbled and muttered were closer to the spirits than anyone. A Comanche would never hurt a crazy person. To do so would be to invite the wrath of their god.

  Jo nodded. "Poo?sa?," she stated firmly.

  He stared into her eyes, and she defiantly glared back. She doubted any of the warriors would have the same reverence for the crazy person's nursemaid, but if one of them survived this, that would be one more than she'd figured on when she'd first seen the Indians.

  At last the leader glanced away. He spoke to the others, too quickly for Jo to catch what he said beyond that Nate was crazy. She hoped they would leave. Instead, they all dropped to the ground. Folding their legs beneath them, they continued to stare at Nate in wonder. Jo wasn't sure what to do, so she did nothing but hold Nate's hand and keep a sharp eye on the Indians.

  Nate continued to thrash and mumble; he got worse as dawn spilled from the sky. The Comanches appeared in no hurry to leave.

  "Nahnia?" The leader pointed to her.

  "Jo. Mu?"

  "Isatekwa."

  Jo fought the urge to curse as she translated his name. Lie Talk or Liar. Wonderful.

  "You are his woman?"

  Without thought, Jo nodded. Then she scowled. Now his name made complete sense. "You speak English."

  He shrugged. "Susumu?"

  "Only some?"

  "Enough."

  "What about them?"

  "None."

  "Hmm." Jo didn't trust him or them, but it would make things easier if she didn't have to struggle with the language to talk her way out of this mess.

  "You are his?"

  Jo nodded again. It wasn't a lie. She would always be Nate's, even if he was not hers.

  Nate suddenly went rigid and barked, "Comanches. Shoot 'em, boys. Quick."

  "What does he say about us?"

  Jo hesitated. Did he already know? Was he testing her? Or could she lie? Should she lie? Perhaps more truth bending was in order.

  "He is in another world. He sees The People there."

  "In the world of the spirits there are many of The People. Only an exceptional white warrior would be able to enter and see them."

  The deference in his voice gave Jo an idea. The more respect these Comanche had for Nate, the safer he would be.

  "He saw you before you came here. He knew you would arrive soon."

  Isatekwa nodded. "The spirits told him. He is a pukutsi."

  Jo's eyebrows rose. A Contrary One to the Cheyenne, to the Crow they were known as Crazy Dogs Wishing to Die.pukutsi was a crazy warrior. A

  "Why do you think he is a pukutsi?" Jo asked.

  Isatekwa shrugged and did not answer. Having spent time with the Comanche, Jo knew he never would. Perhaps Isatekwa had spirits of his own whom he consulted.

  Pukutsi were extremely rare and therefore revered. Even in the Comanche world where bravery was everything, and Comanche warriors were the bravest of the brave, a pukutsi was special. No Comanche warrior would molest a pukutsi, because they were bold beyond compare. Fearing nothing, they did everything opposite or backward, recklessly riding into battle singing, never running or fighting but allowing fate to decide if they lived or died.

  Isatekwa's label of Nate was far too close to the truth for Jo's comfort. She didn't want to know how many times he'd followed Cash or one of the others into an impossible situation and allowed fate to decide his future.

  Isatekwa spoke sharply to one of his men, who rose somewhat awkwardly and lumbered off down the trail in the direction from which they had come. Jo was always shocked at how ponderously Comanches moved on the ground when they were grace in motion on the back of a horse.

  Hoofbeats receded, revealing the raiders had left their mounts concealed before they sneaked up on Jo and Nate. She was lucky that the Comanches considered Nate crazy. If not, the two of them might have been killed at any time. That could still happen if Jo wasn't careful.

  "Where is he going?" she asked.

  "He will be back soon."

  The longer Jo spent with Isatekwa, the more he fit his name. In the white world, he would have made an excellent politician. He had the ability to answer questions without saying anything at all.

  If the Comanche on horseback had gone for more Comanches, there was little Jo could do about it. She could only sit by Nate, hold on to him, and wait for the others to kill them or leave them alone. Fate ruled again—or, if you chose to believe, the finger of God.

  Jo glanced at Nate's face. His skin shone ghost white and shiny with sweat beneath the new sunshine. How could he sweat as if he were burning up and shake as if he were icy cold? What if he died from this mistake she had made?

  She always charged ahead with what she believed was best without pausing to think things through. Her heart was in the right place, but more often than not, she made the wrong choice. Just look at the man she'd fallen in love with.

  "I need water to cool him." Jo stood. No one stopped her. No one even glanced her way.

  Taking the tin bowl she usually ate from, Jo crossed the short distance to the puddle. She could run off right now. No one was paying her any mind. No doubt there were seven fleet Comanche ponies within a few hundred yards. She might get a few hundred yards more before they caught her. There was no point in trying to outrace a mounted Comanche, even if she would have left Nate.

  Jo knelt and splashed her face. The sound of hoofbeats made her lift her head. By the time she turned, the missing warrior had bounded off his pony and handed something to Isatekwa.

  Puzzled, Jo stood near the water as he lifted his hands to the sky. Then he dropped to his knees, the movement cumbersome but quick. Another man raised Nate's head and Isatekwa popped whatever he held into Nate's mouth, then upended the canteen between his lips.

  "No!" Jo shouted, even as she began to run. Time slowed. The clearing loomed huge; her eyesight became extraordinary as she watched Nate swallow.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God. No. Please." She stumbled in her haste and went down hard enough to see shiny white lights all around. Struggling to get her legs beneath her, Jo shrieked when someone hauled her upright.

  She stared at the naked chest of Isatekwa. "Be calm. Everything is all right."

  Looking into his eyes, she saw nothing to convince her his words were not lies. Jo struggled to be free, and he let her go. She shoved Comanches out of the way, not caring when they shoved back, and fell to her knees at Nate's side.

  He lay too still—not a shout, not a mumble. She'd wanted him to
stop thrashing and moaning, but not like this.

  "What did you do to him?"

  "I made the demons die. Now only the good spirits may speak."

  Despite the heat of the sun on her back, Jo began to shiver. Nate appeared so peaceful, as if he were sleeping. She laid her head on his chest. Only then did she feel the slight rise and fall, the whisper of air past one cheek and the sound of his heart beating against the other.

  "He's alive," she whispered.

  Isatekwa scowled. "Do you think I would hurt a pukutsi and risk the wrath of the ancient ones?"

  "What did you give him?"

  "Mad dog weed. He will not shake anymore. He will sleep and awaken refreshed and strong."

  Jo hoped so. Since she knew nothing about mad dog weed but what a Comanche named Lie Talk told her, she wasn't reassured. But she knew better than to say so.

  "Thank you," she said instead, and stood.

  "It is my gift, to him and to you."

  One gift required another. Jo searched her mind for anything she had that she could spare. Her gaze lit on the perfect choice. There was something in camp she never wanted to see again.

  Jo retrieved Nate's pistols. She'd already unloaded them in Soledad, and when Nate wasn't watching she'd tossed the bullets into the brush. She handed the set to Isatekwa. "My gift to you."

  The Comanche's face did not change, but admiration flickered in his eyes. He nodded his thanks and strapped the guns around his waist. They looked ever so much better on him than they had on Nate.

  Nate slept beneath the morning sun, and the Comanches continued to watch over him, along with Jo. As Isatekwa had predicted, Nate's shaking stopped; his heartbeat slowed. When Jo bathed his fevered skin, it remained cool. By midday he appeared almost normal.

  One of the warriors spoke too quietly and quickly for Jo to comprehend his words. Isatekwa glanced at the sky where the sun beat from above. "Mia ranu!"

  The others stood and, after lingering glances at Nate, they trotted off down the path, the man who had brought the mad dog weed in the lead on his horse.

  Warily Jo eyed Isatekwa. What did he have in mind for her? She certainly hoped he didn't think she went along with the guns.