The fall passed away quickly and soon the cold winds of winter began to blow. Moriah knew that at some point the year 1840 had come, but that meant very little to her. The child inside her had grown, and Bear Killer had given stern commands to Dove to keep her hands off of Quiet One with the switch.
The first few months of winter had been harsh, and yet Moriah had learned to endure it. Loves The Night had watched during her pregnancy as if it were her own child, and in some strange way, Moriah knew, it was. She had accepted Loves The Night’s kindness and help, and on one bitterly cold night, Moriah knew that it was time. The pain started in the middle of the night, and when she stirred, Loves The Night was instantly at her side.
“Is it time?” Loves The Night asked.
“Yes, it is time,” Moriah said in Comanche. She had made great strides in mastering the language during the past months, and now she was ready to deliver Bear Killer’s child. The fact that the child had been forced upon her, she had tried to put behind her. It would be her child! She rose and accompanied the women to the birthing teepee. She sat down as the women now came to fill the water pit and took heated stones out of the fire to make steam. Loves The Night rubbed crushed herbs on her belly, and the smell of it in the tent was sharp and pungent.
From time to time the women rubbed her back and made her drink some sort of hot soup. Loves The Night then began to press down on her belly with both hands, gently at first and then stronger as Moriah’s pains grew stronger.
Moriah endured in silence, as she was aware that Comanche women would never cry out in pain. The birth was not a hard one, it seemed to Loves The Night, although it was hours of agony to Moriah.
Finally, the child was born, and Moriah lay there exhausted. Loves The Night wrapped the tiny infant in a soft animal skin and placed the bundle in Moriah’s arms. Moriah stared into the tiny face, and Loves The Night said, “You have a son.” Moriah lay there holding the baby and began to thank God that he was healthy and strong.
Later on Bear Killer came and named him Eethon, which meant “Strong Man” in Comanche. Moriah did not comment but in her heart called him Ethan, which had a good, strong English sound to her.
Bear Killer was very proud of his son, and as Eethon grew, he showed more interest in him than most Comanches did with very small infants. When Eethon was six months old, news came that disturbed Bear Killer. A Kiowa warrior had ridden into camp, and Bear Killer had listened as the Kiowa said, “The Tall One and Silverhair, they ride everywhere in search of the white woman. They are not like other white men. They came north of the Red River where my tribe lives.”
“What did they say?”
“They are still looking for the white woman that was stolen. I think they are strong men.”
Bear Killer sat listening as the Kiowa described the two men, and later that day he made a decision. He spoke to Lion, saying, “Choose four of our best warriors. Send them to the Kiowa country near the Red River.
Tell them to bring back the scalps of Silverhair and the Tall One.”
“It would be better to send the woman back. You have your son now.”
Bear Killer shook his head. “No. The two must die, and we will move the tribe to the Llano Estacado. The white men cannot move freely there.
They don’t know water holes, and they can be seen for miles.”
Lion did not agree with Bear Killer’s instructions, but he knew he had no choice but to obey.
“Do not try to bring back many scalps. Only two. The Kiowa will know where these white men are. Go to their camp. Find the Silverhair and the Tall One. Bring their scalps back.”
When Lion chose the warriors to ride with him, they began to shout and raise their weapons in the air at the chance to go on a war party. One of them, Little Antelope, asked, “Can we take other scalps after we have taken these two?”
“Bear Killer wants only these two.”
Little Antelope laughed. “We will bring them. Never fear.”
Moriah was nursing Eethon as she saw the four warriors all painted for war ride out of camp.
“Where are they going?” she asked Bear Killer.
“On a war party.”
Moriah asked no more and watched in silence as they rode off.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
As Brodie came out of a fitful sleep, he felt so cold that he could not move. The frigid wind that cut across the plain had frozen him, it seemed, into a solid figure. Resisting the temptation to curl up into a ball and seek heat beneath the single blanket, he struggled with the fatigue that seemed to drag him down—and then the smell of cooking meat came to him. The odor caused his stomach to tighten, for he had always been a big eater, but the last few days he’d hardly eaten any of the rough food they could find.
Opening his eyes, he saw Quaid squatting before a small fire, cooking meat in a frying pan. Quaid, outlined against the first beginnings of daylight, looked tough and primitive in the pale morning light. He had not shaved for days now, and the bristles of his beard roughened the outlines of his lean face.
Throwing back his blanket, Brodie came to his feet slowly and stamped the earth to get the numbness out of his feet. He stretched his protesting muscles and looked around and saw the hobbled horses grazing on the scant brown grass that still remained from the previous summer. He turned back toward Quaid and said, “Well,” he muttered, “reckon we still got our scalps.”
Quaid looked up and managed a small grin. “So far, but the day’s young.” He had placed two tin plates in front of him, and now he scraped out half of the antelope meat that looked hard and unappetizing, dividing it into the two plates. “Better enjoy this,” he said. “It’s the last we got.”
Brodie took the plate, bit off a chunk of tough meat, and began trying to chew it. “Antelope is about the worst kind of game there is, I reckon.”
“Better than nothing.”
Brodie looked over toward the north. They had camped beside a small stream, and now ice covered it. The morning light reflected against the shards of ice, and the stream made a glittering, twisting pattern against the deadness of the earth as it headed off toward the east. “Looks like a blizzard is fixin’ to blow in.”
“Maybe,” Quaid said as he chews on his meat.
Brodie finished his meat and watched as Quaid pulled his heavy coat closer together, then sat staring into the tiny fire that made a colorful red dot in the bleakness of the surroundings. It was a world with no color.
During the summer it would be beautiful with wild flowers and green with new leaves on the bushes and tress, but now it was a dreary, colorless world of cold and death.
Brodie stared at Quaid Shafter’s face. He had grown accustomed to the man’s silences. At first, he had welcomed them, for he had hated the man. He could not help but blame Quaid Shafter for losing Moriah, and he spoke to Quaid only when necessary as they rode the high plains searching for her.
During the first weeks of their search, Brodie had felt his anger and frustration growing. Perhaps two men thrown together into a lonely world would weld their minds together in a single objective and bring them closer together or drive them so far apart that nothing could heal it. But as the days passed, Brodie found his anger toward Quaid slowly begin to change. It was not that Shafter tried to encourage his friendship. Indeed, he seemed to pay no attention to Brodie. Whether they were riding the plains looking for Indians they might question about white captives or sitting at night in the silence of the desert by a crackling fire, Shafter had kept himself wrapped in a stoical silence.
It was this prolonged silence that had troubled Brodie, for Shafter had not been like this when he had first come to Star Ranch. He had been one of the most happy-go-lucky, cheerful, young men that Brodie had ever seen. He was always telling stories or talking to the young women whenever he’d go to town. Brodie had even admired Shafter for this quality, though Clay had warned him that Quaid was not a stable young man. But Brodie had seen another side of Shafter du
ring these months in his company. For one thing, he had learned that Shafter was a tougher man than he was. Quaid endured the burning heat and the numbing cold without complaining. He didn’t gripe about the lack of food, nor did he seem to mind the solitude of the great plains of Texas. These hardships seemed not to trouble him as they did Brodie.
Never once has he mentioned turning back or giving up, Brodie thought as he watched the man sitting there like a statue in the gray light of the morning. There was a grim and silent finality in Shafter now, and Brodie had been wondering about it for a long time. He cleared his throat, and said, “Why are you doing this?”
Shafter looked up. His eyes were hooded by the hat that was pulled down low on his head. “Doing what?”
“Risking your life in Comanche territory to get a woman back that’s no kin to you.” The question lay between them, and Quaid made no attempt to answer. He was silent for so long that Brodie decided that there would be no response.
Finally, Quaid said, “I’ve been no good all my life.” He reached down, picked up a stick out of the fire, held it in the flickering, yellow flame until it caught on fire, then held it up before his eyes like a candle.
He watched the flame twist and burn in the morning breeze and then tossed it into the fire. “My pa was a good man, but I wasn’t. I never cared that I let everybody down who ever trusted me.” He stood to his feet and shook his head. “But when I let the Comanches take your sister, it did something to me.”
“Well, you don’t even know her.”
“That don’t matter. I’m going to find her and take her home. I know you hate me, Brodie, and I don’t blame you. But if it’s any consolation, you don’t hate me as much as I hate myself for what I did. And I aim to do what I can to make it right to your family.”
Brodie got to his feet slowly and studied the man. “I guess I said some rough things when they first took Moriah, but I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about it, Quaid.” He shook his head, for he had gone over this many times in his mind and had tried to find a way to say it. “They would have taken Moriah even if you had been there. And they would have scalped you.”
“I should have been there.”
Brodie felt the power that lay in the man. Quaid Shafter was standing absolutely still, but Brodie saw in his eyes and in the set of his lips the tremendous energy that Shafter was putting into finding his sister. “What if we can’t find her, Quaid?”
“We’ll find her no matter how long it takes. I won’t never quit until we get her.”
Suddenly, Brodie felt a release. He had kept at a distance from Quaid Shafter, but now the two were united in a common goal. He was not alone out here in the vast Texas plains. Quaid was not his friend exactly, but the two of them were linked together in their search for Moriah. He stretched and tried to grin. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I reckon we’d better go to that bunch that the Kiowas told—”
Brodie did not finish his sentence, for he felt as if someone had struck him a sharp blow with a fist in his side. It turned him around, and as he was falling, he felt a tremendous astonishment that anyone would hit him. Then he heard the sound of the shot and knew that it was a bullet and not a fist that had struck him. His gun belt was beside him, and he felt nothing but numbness from the bullet. Glancing up, he saw Indians rushing out of the brush and yelled, “Quaid, there they are!” He made a grab for his gun, but even as he pulled it free, he heard the rapid fire from Quaid’s revolver.
Quaid had jumped in front of him, and he could not see at first. But then to the left he saw an Indian screaming and running straight for them, a lance in his hand cocked to throw. “Quaid, look out!” he yelled and saw Quaid twist and get off a shot. It caught the Indian in the chest and stopped him dead in his tracks. His lance dropped, and then he collapsed on his face. By this time Brodie had pulled his gun free and gotten off a shot at a shadowy figure he saw. He missed and then he saw Quaid stagger.
“Are you hit, Quaid?”
“Not bad.”
“How many are there?”
He saw Quaid turn, but his eyes were searching the brush. “Not many or we’d be dead.”
At that moment a bullet kicked up dust right between the two of them, and Quaid leaped forward. He limped as he ran, and Brodie struggled to his feet. Looking down, he saw that his side was soaked with blood, although it still felt numb. He called out, “Quaid, where are they?” but got no answer. He moved toward a tree to take cover but then heard two more shots and a scream that was cut short.
He lifted his gun as someone moved, but he saw Quaid and dropped it again. Quaid came back and shook his head. “I put one more down. There were at least two more, but they ran away. They get you bad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me look at it.”
“They got you in the leg?”
“Bullet went right through. Didn’t hit a bone, but you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
Quaid threw more wood on the fire, and then stripping Brodie down, he looked at the wound and said, “It’s not bad, but it’s gonna hurt. We gotta keep it clean.”
Quaid bound up his own wound in his upper thigh and shook his head. “I’m gonna be stiff as a board from this. You, too.”
“Quaid, look at that Indian. He’s still alive!”
Quaid turned quickly and saw that the first Indian he had shot in the chest was moving. He ran over to him, kicked the lance away, and bent over the figure. He spoke in the Comanche language, and Brodie limped over, holding on to his side, which was beginning to come alive with searing pain now. The Indian’s eyes were glazed, and blood was bubbling out of his lips. Suddenly his dark eyes seemed to clear, and he said something that made Quaid glance up at Brodie with astonishment.
“What did he say?” Brodie asked.
“He said for us to forget about the white captive. We’ll never get her.”
He turned back and questioned the Indian, but death was already coming.
He made one more statement and then began his death song, but it was cut short with a gurgle as blood flooded his throat. They watched as he died without saying another word.
“What did he mean by that? What did he say there at the last?”
Quaid shook his head. “They were sent to kill us, Brodie. I reckon word’s gotten out that we’re huntin’ for Moriah. We’re lucky they didn’t send a bigger war party.” He looked down at the dead Indian and shook his head. “He’s a Comanche all right, but I don’t know which band.”
“What are we going to do, Quaid?”
“We’ll have to go back to the ranch. We can’t do anything in this weather. Besides that, we’re gonna be stoved up for a while. But we’ll be back,” he said.
The two packed their few belongings, and Brodie felt tremendous pain as he swung into the saddle. He saw that Quaid was hurting, too. As they rode out, Brodie looked down at the dead Indian and thought, They could have gotten us easy, but they didn’t. I guess the Lord must be with us.
“Jerusalem, come out here!”
Jerusalem heard Clay’s call from the porch and came outside without a coat. The wind was cold. He motioned and said, “There they come.”
Jerusalem saw the two horsemen approaching. They were moving slowly, as if they were in the last stages of exhaustion. She waited until they got closer and saw that as Quaid got off his horse, he moved stiffly as he went over to catch Brodie, who fell off his horse. Clay ran forward to help him.
“You fellas hit trouble, I take it.”
“Pretty much,” Quaid said. “Brodie’s hurt worse than me.”
Running over, Jerusalem held out her hands and touched Brodie.
“Where are you hurt?”
“In the . . . side, Ma.” His lips were held tightly together, and his eyes were barely open. “We didn’t get Moriah,” he whispered.
“Well, you’re back alive, and that’s somethin’,” Clay said briskly.
“Come on in.”
Clay practically carried
Brodie inside the house, and Clinton came in from the back. His eyes widened when he saw that his brother was hurt, and he said, “Did you find her?”
“No,” Quaid said. “We got a lead on her, though.”
“We’ll talk later,” Jerusalem said. “I want to look at these wounds.”
She began heating water, and for the next half hour, she did not allow any talk. She washed the wounds of both men, bound them with fresh bandages, and then sat them down at the table. She made fresh coffee and a huge panful of scrambled eggs, which she put before them along with the morning’s biscuits.
As the two men ate, Brodie became more alert. “Ma, this sure is better than the grub we been eating on the trail.” He spoke slowly at first, and as he told them the story of the Comanche attack, he saw that they were staring at him strangely. “If Quaid hadn’t been there, my scalp would be on some Comanche’s shield.”
Jerusalem was sitting across from Quaid, and she reached across the table and took his hand. “Thank you, Quaid.”
Quaid stared at her, then finally said, “We had good luck. But those Comanches didn’t just happen on us. They came for our scalps. They were sent.”
“What do you mean?” Clay said, his glance sharp. “How do you know that?”
“One of them didn’t die right off. He told me that we’ve got names now. I’m Silverhair, and Brodie here is Tall Man. They know we’re hunting for Moriah.”
Clay stared at them. “I’ve been talking about getting a bunch of men together and going after them. Maybe even getting some of them ranging men that Sam Houston’s organized.”
“I don’t think it’d do any good, Clay.” Quaid shook his head. “If we knew where she was, I’d say yes. But we’ve got to find her first, and I can do that better than a bunch of men out shooting every Indian they see.”
The Yellow Rose Page 22