Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  He lived on his hate. Twice over the winter Enrique Flores came with another group of comancheros, but Rafe had no opportunity to get near Flores. He waited. Life had improved slightly since he had been a slave of the women.

  Now he wore thick buffalo pelts and slept in Iron Hand's main tepee. For some perverse reason, Iron Hand had taken a liking to Broken Arm, now renamed Tall Stealer, because of his height and the fact that he had stolen Sand Owl's club. The men thought it highly amusing, but Rafe avoided Sand Owl and her sisters as much as possible.

  Winter had been a time of quiescence and relative ease. After a plenteous fall hunt, the band had dried much meat. When the snows fell, they stayed in warm, bison-hide tepees in a sheltered river canyon far to the south, avoiding the winter winds. The men ate, slept, and worked on their sacred medicine shields and other war paraphernalia. The women did all the hard camp chores. Iron Hand did not let Sand Owl and her sisters take Rafe with them when they gathered wood, although most of the other captives were so assigned.

  He knows she'll try to kill me, but why does he care? The mystery of the Nerm mind still eluded Rafe. After six months of living among them, he was mastering enough of their language to communicate easily. His stomach had long since quit rebelling at raw bison entrails. Hunger redefines even the most discerning palate. Iron Hand watched him learn and adapt with an interest that Rafe knew would eventually spell his freedom…or his death.

  One skill that he already possessed gave him an edge as a captive—his way with horses. Dozens of generations of Iberian horsemen were his Flamenco forebears. Even among his Creole racing companions, no mean riders any of them, he was an exceptional horseman. The Nermernuh were the horse brokers of the plains, capturing wild mustangs, breaking them and selling them to all the other tribes, as well as to renegade whites like Flores' comancheros. Horses were Comanche money. And the great war chiefs like Iron Hand were rich. He possessed nearly three hundred horses and was always eager to acquire more.

  Rafe watched the warriors breaking and training the tough, wiry little ponies. He admired their skill and was astonished at their patience. Although he tortured his captives and beat his women, no Nerm abused his horses unless in a life and death situation. Tall Stealer often assisted the warriors who broke newly captured mounts, holding and helping quiet the frantic beasts. His way with the animals was remarked on many times and finally an opportunity to elevate his lowly status presented itself.

  Big Wing, another war chief and Iron Hand's friend, was breaking a white horse. That in itself was significant, for white horses were the rarest and most prized of all mustangs. This one was particularly large and strong, as well as truculent. The chief was thrown repeatedly and doggedly rose from the hard earth to try again.

  A crowd of onlookers, including many women and slaves, had gathered to cheer him on. Rafe held the horse's rolling head while the bandy-legged, barrel-chested man remounted. The horse possessed the dangerous cunning of a born man-killer. He looked for rocks and trees to roll against trying to crush the unwelcome burden on his back. Finally, he succeeded. Big Wing was struck by a sharp outcropping of shale, his body smashed between the jagged rock wall of the canyon and the powerful animal's body. He fell to the earth, bloodied and broken. The stallion trampled him before any of the warriors could come to his aid.

  Rafe was the first one to reach the horse. Knowing Big Wing was dead and realizing that the chief’s friends would want to kill the stallion, he caught the flying reins and pulled the horse away from the body. A plan formed in his mind. Heedless of the risk, he grabbed a fistful of the long, flying mane and vaulted onto the pitching white’s back, his feet digging frantically to find the rawhide stirrups while he pulled strongly and steadily on the reins to control the horse's head. He expected to feel a hail of bullets finish him as the Nerm killed the rogue, but he concentrated only on keeping his seat.

  His father and most of his friends had laughed at the way he talked to horses, but Rafe knew he had what one old gypsy had called “the voice.” He could make them respond with his low, silky commands. Now, he combined that ability with sheer physical strength and a natural seat. Anticipating the horse's moves, he kept him away from the rocks and stands of trees. Twist and buck, circle and run, the white could not unseat the desperate Creole whose long legs and arms gave him an advantage as he held on tenaciously.

  He kept up a steady stream of French words, alternately swearing and praying, as he let the horse move into the box canyon away from the noise and distraction of the crowd.

  Gradually, the stallion slowed, exhausted but not beaten. It was a born rogue that should have been gelded. However, Big Wing had been taken with his size and the magic white color and had decided against the more sensible precaution.

  Rafe finally subdued the stallion and began to urge it back to where the onlookers were waiting. No one had pursued him for they knew there was no escape in the blind canyon. Probably they expected the horse to kill me.

  Shortly, Iron Hand and several warriors rode up, watching with the nearest thing to amazement that Rafe had ever seen register on impassive Nerm faces. Good. This might mean a change in his status; but volatile and erratic as they were, the warriors might just as soon kill him as reward him. He held the heaving, snorting white horse under firm control and waited for Iron Hand to speak.

  “You have tamed a killer horse,” he said, observing the way Rafe sat the horse.

  “Only until this one gets another wind. He will never be broken,” Rafe replied simply.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I am tired of slave's work.”

  The chief laughed. “Even so, you are still my slave and I do not choose to free you. You would not stay with the People if you could leave.”

  “No,” Rafe answered truthfully, “I would not.” It would do no good to lie. Iron Hand was not stupid. Rafe was too old to adapt to Comanche life and become one of the People, although many white youths had done so over the years.

  “Still, you have defeated the killer of Big Wing. Your skill with horses is great. Maybe I will give you another chance to break your arm.” Iron Hand chuckled and the warriors with him joined in. “You shall tame my wild ponies.”

  As spring came over south central Texas, Rafe broke fierce, swift mustangs and lived a unique existence among the slaves of the band. He was granted greater privilege and more respect than the other male captives because of his remarkable way with horses, yet he was still Iron Hand's slave…and Sand Owl's enemy.

  As a rule, the uncastrated male slaves were not allowed privileges with Comanche women. But Iron Hand did Rafe the honor of offering him his choice among the female slaves. Most of them were Apache, Shawnee and Tonkawa with a smattering of young Mexican girls. After nearly a year of celibacy, Rafe was almost tempted; but they had all been pitifully abused and he was revolted at the thought of forcing his attentions on a cowering adolescent girl. Several were older and less fearful, but their stoic manner did little to stimulate him.

  In truth, the only woman in the camp who appealed to him was Little Willow, Iron Hand's comely young wife; but he knew better than to dwell on that dangerous thought. During the winter her son had died of a fever. Iron Hand had no children now, and his attentions to Little Willow were jealously guarded.

  When Rafe did not touch any of the slaves, Sand Owl began to spread rumors that he was impotent and had not feared her husband's threatened torture because he had nothing to lose. Rafe ignored her and applied himself to the same tasks he had set for himself since the previous fall—learning all he could of the band's language and location. If he were to escape, he must have some sense of direction.

  Soon, it would be the time of the Comanche Moon, the first full moon of spring when the grass was good for the horses and the light allowed the warriors to travel in speed and stealth. Slaves were never taken on raids. Many of the able-bodied men in the band would go, leaving fewer guards, more chances. He listened and he planned.

&nb
sp; He also prayed that Flores would return one last time before he tried his escape. Now that he had achieved a quasi-free status, he would have more opportunities to kill the comanchero than ever before. But Flores seemed to have vanished with the winter snows.

  When Rafe had first overheard Iron Hand and his warriors discussing a big raid against the Mescalero, he had secreted away a cache of dried meat and a water skin. He still puzzled over how to get one of his rifles. Perhaps, he would simply have to take whatever he found on the body of the guard he killed when he fled.

  “Deep in thought, Horse Tamer?” Little Willow came upon him as he sat by the cook fire in Iron Hand's campsite.

  The chiefs four tepees were close together, linked by the rawhide pull rope, which went out from the main one where the chief slept to each of his wives' tepees. He summoned the favored wife by tugging on the rope to her tepee. Rafe knew Sand Owl's position as chief wife had been undermined since she alone of the three wives had never borne a child. Spotted Deer and Little Willow had, although the children were not their husband's. Of late, Iron Hand favored the slim Mexican girl over the squat Comanche Spotted Deer and bedded Lucia most nights.

  Rafe could see the circles beneath her eyes and pitied her. He smiled. “Does everyone call me ‘Horse Tamer’ now?”

  “Since you rode out the devil in the white horse, yes. It is a much bolder name than Tall Stealer.” She returned his smile. “I gave you warning once before. Heed me now.” Little Willow looked around to be certain they were not overheard. “I know you plan to escape when the war party leaves.”

  Rafe started to deny it, fearing for her to become embroiled in his dangerous attempt; but something in her eyes, a wild desperate pain, made him pause.

  She continued, “You can take food and water, steal horses, and ride fast, but where will you go? What direction?”

  He shrugged ruefully. She had hit on the one flaw in his plan. “I do not know, but I must try.”

  “I will help you. I know the way to a small settlement southeast of here. We have passed it many times in my travels with the Comanche. I can draw you a map.”

  Rafe looked at her closely. She was pale and haggard, taking a desperate chance for a complete stranger, yet not really a stranger, he realized. Since they first met there had been an odd, indefinable bond between them.

  “Come with me, Lucia. You have no reason for staying now. You could begin again.”

  She regarded him with anguish. “Everyone would know I lived with them for eight years. I was a Comanche wife. My family thinks me dead and it is better that way.”

  “If you came with me I could send you east, or to Mexico, anywhere you wished, Lucia. You could escape your past. No one would know.” What he did not offer lay as heavy between them as what he did and they both knew it.

  “I—I will think on it, Rafe.” It was the first time she had ever used his Christian name.

  For two days, Rafe waited, wondering what Lucia would decide. When he found her alone by the fire the second night, he knew he must ask her. “The warriors leave tomorrow night. So do I. There will be a war dance and all those left in camp will sleep exhaustedly. It is dangerous, Lucia, but it is our only chance.”

  She nodded. “I will be ready.”

  * * * *

  The fires had died low and the silence was eerie after the noise of the war chants and the screaming of the women. The hoof beats of fleet ponies had faded; the raiders had departed when the moon was high.

  Once she was certain, Sand Owl and Spotted Deer slept; the Mexicana cut Rafe free. Wordlessly, she slipped off to retrieve their cache of food and water skins while he got their horses.

  In the still darkness, Rafe crept near the corral where Iron Hand's ponies were kept. He had broken and trained two of the new, spotted horses that the chief had left behind. Everyone thought them too wild to ride on a raid, but Rafe knew better. They would take him and Lucia far.

  Sentries were careless this deep in the vastness of Comanchería. All slaves were tied, and who would dare raid the Lords of the Plains? Rafe found one old warrior, Single Antler, sleeping near Iron Hand's horse corral. Like all the remaining Nermernuh, he was exhausted from the war dance and slept soundly. Near at hand lay a jug of mescal, no doubt a “gift” from Flores, Rafe thought with a ripple of hate. Single Antler had a good hunting knife at his belt and one of Rafe's Kentucky long rifles lay beside him. They would need the weapons. He hefted a heavy rock experimentally.

  A hissing moan was the only sound breaking the stillness as he dispatched Single Antler. The horses moved in the corral; but because his scent was so familiar, none whickered. He secured hackamores on the two he singled out and led them silently from the corral to the edge of a thick copse of willows where he was to meet Lucia.

  He tied the horses to a low, hanging branch and looked through the shifting shadows, straining his eyes in the darkness. They were not out of earshot of many of the sleepers, so he did not call but only watched and waited. Something was wrong.

  Rafe could feel his skin crawl as he heard a hissing whisper and then a moan of pain. Lucia was pushed into the small clearing, collapsing at his feet. He stared at the hate-twisted face of Sand Owl as she walked out of the shadows, flanked by two warriors.

  “I knew she betrayed Iron Hand with this slave! Now, I have stopped their escape and my husband will listen to me. Little Willow will be killed and this one,” she said, slithering up to Rafe and running her hand down his chest, “this one will have his manroot ripped off his body with fiery tongs and knives!”

  She could not resist delivering the vicious taunt right in Rafe's face, and that was her undoing. Lucia, still sprawled in front of him, reached up and grabbed Sand Owl's tunic with clawing fingers made strong with desperate hate. The smaller woman pulled her tormenter down and they thrashed and rolled on the ground as Rafe dived past them at the older of the two startled warriors.

  Landing on the man, he had his knife embedded in the Nerm's throat when they hit the ground. The other warrior, a green youth, turned to give a warning, but before he had run twenty yards through the root-gnarled, branch-infested willow copse, Rafe stopped the clear, shrill cries with his knife.

  In seconds, he was back in the clearing where Lucia was standing over Sand Owl. The small woman at last had revenge for the years of beatings and humiliations. She had killed the Comanche woman with her own knife. But not without cost. Her hands and upper body were covered with lacerations and a stab wound in her shoulder bled profusely.

  Rafe scooped her up and placed her on the back of one of the horses. “Can you hang on?” At her affirmative nod, he said, “Ride down the stream bed. I'll catch up with you.”

  He ran toward camp on foot. Because of the liquor consumed and the frenzy of the war dance, the people in camp had not heard the commotion, but Rafe knew if even one gave the alarm, pursuit would be swift and relentless. He must give them something more pressing to do. Racing for the campfire in front of Iron Hand's lodge, he grabbed a dry piece of cloth. After tying it to Sand Owl's heinous club, he doused it in fat from a bowl kept near Lucia's cooking supplies. Then, he stirred up the coals in the campfire and quickly had the makeshift torch blazing.

  On his way to the corrals, he lit several fires. Many of the people had already rolled up their heavy skin lodges and were using brush arbors for sleeping. The spring had been dry so far and the twigs and branches flared easily. He stampeded the horses by setting fire to the dry grasses and waving the blazing torch in front of the terrified animals. Chaos reigned as they stampeded in all directions, trampling sleepy people and smashing shelters. Dogs yipped and barked furiously while warriors stumbled about searching through the leaping flames for sight of raiding Apaches or Rangers. Women and children screamed and fled.

  He had almost made it clear of the pandemonium and back to his waiting horse when a shot whistled by his head. Then a hissing arrow found its mark. He felt the sickening impact in his side but grabbed the mane of the pon
y and swung up on it, sending it flying from the camp.

  He rode west and then circled southeast once he was sure no one pursued him. He found Lucia waiting at a fork in the stream. Wordlessly, she moved down the southeast branch of the creek. If she can hold on, damn, so can I!

  Chapter Twenty One

  Deborah stood on the boardinghouse porch watching her son race across the backyard with fleet, long-legged strides. Considering how tall both she and his father were, it was scarcely surprising that Adam would be big for his age. “It's hard to believe he'll be six years old this fall,” she mused to Obedience.

  “He's a fine youngun all right. Shore could use a pa, though. Yew considerin' Whalen Simpson's offer? He's right taken with th' boy.”

  Deborah's eyes clouded with hurt, and she clenched her fists as she replied, “No, I'm not encouraging Mr. Simpson. I know he's fond of Adam and wants to marry me, but I can't do it, Obedience. I'm still married—at least as far as I know. If Rafael's gotten an annulment, that's his concern. There's no way I'll ever put myself under a man's thumb again.”

  Obedience snorted a solid Anglo-Saxon profanity. “We ain't talkin' ‘bout thumbs 'n yew know it! They's bigger things ta consider.” She watched the red creep across Deborah's face as she continued mercilessly. “Yew been without a man fer six years. Yer young, with all yer juices flowin'. Yew oughta be givin' thet boy some brothers 'n sisters ta play with and yerself some fun in th' doin' o' it.”

  “Well, let's just say Whalen tends to dry up my juices and leave it at that,” Deborah replied testily.

  “Yep, him, Mike Barberton, Malachi Foster, how many others over th' last years? It purely ain't natur'l fer a gal like yew ta live alone. I knew yew ain't one o' them cold-fish bluebloods whut don't enjoy it neither.”

  Deborah turned squarely on her antagonist. “Obedience, why are you dredging this up now? We talked the issue to death five years ago. Might it have something to do with your new admirer, Mr. Oakley?”