Sister Natalie nodded. “You trusted Mr. Trainer as well, I believe.”
Ned huffed out a breath. “No. I didn’t really, but I was desperate. I shouldn’t have brought him here. But it’s different now. Even if we didn’t have a translator, in time I’m sure Taabe would learn enough to tell us the details we need. But time is important too. The captain has inquiries from several families of lost children and new information from the Indian agent. The sooner we find her family, the better.”
“I agree,” Sister Natalie said. “You may rejoin Mr. Thompson. I will ask Taabe to come.”
Ned heard a small creaking. He whipped toward it, searching for the source. The small rag rug under a table moved, pushing upward. The floorboard beneath it rose until a crack a couple of inches wide showed.
“I will come now,” said Taabe’s voice.
Sister Natalie touched his sleeve. “Help me move the table, Mr. Bright.”
A moment later, Taabe stood next to him, holding her orange kitten. “Man good,” she said. “Yes,” Ned replied. “I believe he is.” Taabe nodded. “We talk.”
She set Fluffy down on the floor with the calico kitten and looked at Ned expectantly.
“Come then,” Sister Natalie said. “In the dining room.”
Ned sent up a swift prayer as they walked the few steps. If Cat betrayed Taabe’s whereabouts to the Comanche, things could get ugly.
The scout was peering out the narrow window in the dining room when they entered. It faced the back of the house, toward the garden. Was he looking at anything in particular? Ned shook away the doubts.
Cat turned. His gaze homed in on Taabe. He gave a slight smile and a nod.
Taabe looked at Ned, then back at the stranger. The change in her expression was subtle, but Ned could detect some hesitation as she and Cat looked each other over. Taabe wore the lavender dress again—the one that had belonged to Elana Garza. The soft hue gave her an air of gentle femininity.
Cat looked impressed. What had he expected—a filthy, half-wild creature?
“Taabe Waipu, may I present Mr. Cat Thompson?” Sister Natalie said. “He is here to translate for you and Mr. Bright.”
Taabe made a shallow curtsey, no doubt one of the graces the sisters had taught her.
Sister Natalie pulled out a chair, and Ned hastened to hold it for her. Cat watched then went around the table uncertainly and held a chair for Taabe. She looked at him with astonishment in her eyes.
“It’s all right, Taabe,” Sister Natalie said. “It is one of the courtesy gestures we’ve been speaking about in Quinta’s deportment class. Gentlemen in our culture hold a lady’s chair for her.”
Taabe sat down cautiously, eyeing Cat sidelong as she positioned herself in the chair. Cat went to the end of the table and sat down. Ned was glad Cat had distanced himself enough that Taabe shouldn’t feel too intimidated by his presence. Sister Natalie was their chaperon and would not budge during the interview. In Ned’s opinion, this spoke more about her willingness to leave Taabe in his care for short periods than about her lack of trust in Thompson. Sister Natalie would never imagine leaving a young lady alone with two men, one of whom was an unknown quantity.
“Taabe, thank you for letting me bring Cat Thompson,” Ned said.
She nodded and darted a glance at Cat. Cat spoke to her in Comanche, what seemed a rambling greeting.
Taabe listened, her eyes downcast, then nodded. In a whisper, she spoke the simpler words of greeting Ned had learned.
Cat looked to Ned. “What do you want me to ask her? I believe we’ll have no trouble communicating.”
“Please ask her to tell us what she remembers about her capture.”
Cat spoke to Taabe. She replied, hesitantly at first, but then her words poured out. She began by looking at Cat, but after a moment shifted her gaze to Ned. He felt that she was speaking to him from her heart, as she had longed to do at other times.
After several sentences, she paused and looked at Cat.
He cleared his throat. “She says it was many years ago. She was small, scarcely tall enough to reach your belt when you are standing.”
Ned nodded with a smile.
“She does not remember her white name or where she lived, but she recalls a few things about that day. She was riding a horse. A dark horse, and very beautiful. It was her own mount, though she was young. She stresses that.”
Ned watched Taabe’s face while Cat talked. A girl scarcely eight or ten years old had her own horse. He shouldn’t be too surprised—Quinta had a mustang she claimed as her own at the ranch.
“Go on,” he said.
Cat nodded. “She was riding out across a field to see someone. To meet someone. She doesn’t remember who. She crossed a stream, and the Numinu rose up out of the grass beyond. Three of them. They caught her bridle and pulled her off the horse.”
Ned sat still for a moment. His heart was racing as he imagined the little girl’s terror. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what happened next.
His voice cracked. “And then?”
“One of the Numinu took her horse. It had a saddle on it. He got on, but the saddle was too small. He cut the girth and dropped it.”
Ned nodded, watching Taabe. Tears stood in her eyes.
Cat spoke to her for a moment. Taabe flicked him a glance, then returned her gaze to Ned and began to speak again.
Ned listened to the cadence of her voice. He couldn’t guess what she was saying. She showed no grief, except for the unshed tears. Finally she paused and Cat began translating.
“The warrior rode her horse. Another took her on his mount—a sorry, brown-and-white spotted one. She remembers thinking how thin all their horses were, compared to hers. They met up with more Comanche men, and they rode for many days and nights. They gave her only a little food and a mouthful of water when they ate.”
“Ask her how many there were, and what direction they went. And if there were other captives.”
Cat relayed the questions, and Taabe answered.
“She says there were at least six, maybe eight. She’s not sure now. The others had a boy with them. She tried to speak to the boy once, and the warrior she rode with slapped her. Later she heard the boy speak, but she didn’t understand him. She thinks now he was Spanish.”
“Or German,” Ned said, thinking of the names on his list. “Ask her what became of the boy.”
When Cat spoke to her, Taabe shrugged and gave a brief reply.
“She doesn’t know. They separated after a while, and she never saw the boy again that she remembers.”
“All right, we can see if any boys were taken about the same time as a girl. That may help us identify her. What about direction and distance?”
“She said the sun was in her eyes in the afternoon. She was relieved when it went down and didn’t hurt her eyes. Sometimes it was behind them, though. They rode for many days, hardly stopping. Then they began to stop at night. They traveled more than a week, she thinks. Perhaps two.”
“They were heading west.” Ned frowned. “North and west? Heading for the Llano Estacado?”
“They may have started far south of here, or east of here, nearer the coast,” Cat said.
“True.”
Ned turned to Sister Natalie. “I should have thought of it—would you have something I can write on? I want to be able to tell the captain and the Indian agent these details, and I don’t want to forget anything important.”
Sister Natalie rose and left them for a few minutes and returned with paper and a pencil.
Cat continued to prompt Taabe, and Ned jotted notes.
“She had a family. She believes she had a sister. She remembers a girl with golden hair, older than she was.”
“That’s progress.” Ned wrote it down. “What else?”
“She remembers men—tall, like you. One she thinks was her father. And a mother who made sweet cakes. She missed her mother’s cooking for a long time, until she got used to the Comanche ways.�
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“I can understand that,” Ned said. “What about names? Does she recall any of their names?”
Cat spoke to Taabe, but she shook her head.
Ned looked into her eyes across the table. “Taabe, do you know the name ‘Morgan’?”
Frown lines appeared on her forehead.
“There was a girl named Billie Morgan,” Ned said slowly. “She lived in a place called Victoria, on a ranch. She was about your age, and she had blue eyes and dark blond hair. Billie Morgan.”
Taabe’s face showed pain or extreme concentration, but she shook her head slightly.
“Billie,” she whispered, still frowning.
Ned sighed. “What about the cat? Ask her about Fluffy.”
At his mention of the name, Taabe’s eyes cleared. “Fluffy.”
Cat spoke to her in Comanche. Her face lit up and she spoke with more animation than Ned had seen before.
When Cat turned to him a minute later, he was smiling. “She had a kitten. It was orange. Its name was Fluffy. How did you know?”
“That’s what she named her new kitten here.”
“I see.” Cat spoke to her again and then told Ned, “Her cat was the same color as the one you bought her at the fort. Did I get that part right?”
“Yes, I got it from Lassen.”
“She loved it a great deal, it seems. And she remembers horses, lots of horses. All of them were dark brown or black. No pintos or palominos.”
“That’s odd.”
Cat shrugged. “She admits she’s confused. The Comanche had lots of horses. But she thinks that where she came from, most of the horses were solid colored. And one thing she held against her captors was that she never got her horse back. Later, when she was allowed to ride, she had to use a poorer mustang. One of the chiefs claimed her original mount as his war horse. The day came when he went out raiding and came back without it, riding a different horse. She never forgave him.”
“Wow.” Ned sat back and looked at Sister Natalie. “I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I’m exhausted,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be nice, ma’am,” Cat said. Ned added his thanks.
“I should check on our guests as well,” Sister Natalie said. “As much as I’d like to hear the rest of her story, I’d probably better send in one of the other sisters while I entertain them.”
Taabe rose when Sister Natalie did.
“Where are you going, Taabe?” the sister asked.
“I go. I come back.”
Sister Natalie nodded and smiled at Ned. “I’m sure she’ll return in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The two women left the room. Ned turned to Cat. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s being honest. What else do you want me to ask her?”
“I’d like to know more about her life with the Comanche. Where did they take her? Did they treat her well? That sort of thing. And if she can give you the names of the chiefs she had contact with, it would help the captain pinpoint where she’s been.”
“All right,” Cat said. “I’m not sure what to make of the white people she described. It seems her memory is hazy on that. She may have just fixed her mind on you because you were the first white man she’d seen in years, or at least the first one who was nice to her. That stuff about the tall men with all the horses … it could be a mishmash of things that have happened to her.”
“All right.” Ned found that thought disappointing. “Let’s also go over this list of captives with her. If she recognizes any of the names, it will be a breakthrough for Captain Tapley. He’d love to be able to tell the Indian agent where some of these abducted children are.”
Taabe appeared in the doorway, and the two men stood. She held something that looked like a thin stick.
Ned peered at it.
“What is that, Taabe?”
“Music.” She held up a small, hand-carved flute.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Taabe held the flute out so Ned could see it.
“Can you play it?” he asked.
She nodded. The eager light in his brown eyes made her happy. She looked at the army scout called Cat. “Ask him if he wants me to make music,” she said in Comanche.
“I’m sure he does,” Cat said.
She smiled and walked to the other side of the table. Slowly she turned to face them and held her flute to her mouth. She played an eerie Comanche melody, with notes wandering up and down, reaching for the wind.
When she stopped, Ned clapped his hands together. “That was beautiful! Thank you.”
Taabe needed no translation.
“Where did you get the flute?” Cat asked.
“From He Sits by the Fire—an elder.” Her throat tightened. “He is gone now. He played one day when I had first come there, and I reached for the flute. He was surprised, but he let me take it. I played on it, and he was surprised even more.”
Cat laughed. “I believe that.”
“He made me a flute of my own, smaller than his, and I have had it ever since.”
Cat turned to Ned and translated what she’d said.
She positioned the flute again and launched into a spirited rendering of “Frère Jacques.”
Ned laughed. “I know that song.”
“What is it?” Cat asked.
“It’s a French song. I think it’s called ‘Frère Jacques.’ About a lazy priest.”
Taabe lowered the flute and said, “Sister sing.”
“One of the sisters sings that?” Ned asked.
Taabe nodded, but felt she wasn’t being clear.
“Which one?” Ned asked. “Sister Adele?”
“Yes, but …” She turned to Cat and said swiftly in Comanche, “Tell him my own sister sang it. When I was a child, I heard this song. Then Sister Adele sang it here, and I knew it.”
Cat’s jaw dropped. He turned to Ned and spoke earnestly. “She knew the song before she came here. She says her sister sang it. Her own sister, she said. I think she means in her real family—her white family.”
Ned’s face froze. “Is her family French?”
Cat walked closer to Taabe. “Your family—before the Comanche. Were they French, like the nuns here? Did they speak French?”
Taabe shook her head. “English. No French, no Spanish. English.”
Cat laughed and translated to Ned.
“They make music,” Taabe said in English. “Much music.”
“Your family was musical?” Ned asked.
She frowned. “I think yes.” She looked at Cat for help and launched into Comanche. “I played another instrument—with my hands.” She held her hands out before her and wiggled her fingers.
Ned and Cat stared at each other.
“The piano?” Ned asked. “You don’t suppose she played the piano?”
Cat shrugged. “Anything is possible. The nuns don’t have one, do they?”
“I’m sure they don’t.” Ned smiled at Taabe. “Do you remember any other songs your family sang? Anything at all? It may help us find them.”
Cat relayed his message to be sure she got the full meaning.
Taabe hesitated. One melody had haunted her, tickling the edges of her memory. She said to Cat, “I tried to play this once for Sister Adele, but she didn’t recognize it. And I’m not sure all the notes are right. This flute does not play as well as the old one, and it is long, long since I heard someone sing the song.”
After he translated, she put the flute to her lips and began to play softly, reaching for the elusive notes.
Ned walked slowly around the table, wonder on his face. “I know that song. Taabe, I know it.”
She lowered the flute.
“It’s called ‘Amazing Grace.’ But—” He glanced at Cat. “The nuns might not know that one, because I think it’s a Protestant song. I don’t know if Taabe understands about Catholics and Protestants and … Oh, just tell her I know the song and it’s a good one. We sing it i
n church. It’s about God’s love for us and His grace. Do the Comanche have a word for that?”
Cat smiled. “Just stop talking and let me try to explain to her. She may understand more than you think.”
Taabe listened carefully to Ned’s talk, but many of the words he used weren’t known to her. She waited impatiently for Cat’s turn.
“Ned knows this song,” he said in Comanche.
She nodded. “I thought so. He likes it.”
“Yes. It is one his people sing in church—when they worship God. You know about church?”
“It is … like the chapel room the sisters have, only bigger?”
“Well … I suppose so. But Ned believes differently than the sisters do.”
She frowned. “Not all white people have the same God?”
Cat glanced at Ned and said quickly, “No, not a different God…. It’s hard to explain, but I think the church the sisters follow have some different teaching from this other church that Ned goes to.”
“Like the Numinu and the Kiowa?”
“Uh … maybe. Not really.” He frowned. “They all worship God and His Son, Jesus.”
“Jesus.” Taabe nodded. Sister Adele was teaching her more about Jesus, and she’d been sitting in on Quinta’s class they called “catechism,” where one of the sisters asked questions about God, and Quinta was expected to give the correct answer.
“Well, the two churches have different songs,” Cat said. “I understand.”
“Good.” He seemed relieved. “The first song you played was not a church song. But the second one was. It is about God and how … good He is. How He gives people things they don’t deserve.”
Taabe cocked her head to one side while she thought about that. “What are the words to sing with it?”
Cat turned to Ned. “Can you sing the song for her?”
“I guess so.” Ned cleared his throat, obviously self-conscious, and stepped a little closer. “It goes like this: Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.”
Taabe was charmed by Ned’s true, clear voice, but Cat gritted his teeth. “I’m not sure I can translate that.”
Ned looked upset, and Cat said quickly, “But I’ll try.”
Captive Trail Page 15