She passed the miles and days trying to remind herself that she was more than the color of her skin or the wild blood that ran in her veins. She wavered between angst and anger, between the urge to cry and the desire to scream at her captors. Memories of earlier pain and loss made her fearful of what was to come, but they also stiffened her resolve with the knowledge that she had already seen much of the ugliness life contained and was a survivor in spite of that. At those times she straightened her dress, pinned her hair back in place, and tried to sit a little straighter in her sidesaddle. She gave her captors cold, haughty looks, and her eyes dared them to deny that she was anything but a lady.
The party was scattered in a single-file line with the Delawares scouting their front and flanks and the Waco chief guarding their rear. Commissioner Anderson usually rode at the head of the column, but he drifted back down the line to ride beside her. She observed how he knocked some of the dust from his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair beneath his lifted hat before coming her way. She knew he would soon make some attempt at polite conversation or ask about her comfort, as if the charade would convince her that he had her welfare at heart and that her situation was nowhere near as bad as it appeared to be. She wanted nothing more than to slap the smile from his face.
“We should reach the Waco village just before dark. Old Chief Squash back there has assured me he can provide us with warriors to guide and protect our party out on the plains,” Commissioner Anderson said merrily.
“You’re a fool if you think a handful of Wacos can protect you from the Comanche, much less that fat old chief.” Red Wing stared straight ahead, but pointed her hand to the west. “Out there is Comancheria, not Waco land.”
The smile on his face disappeared quickly, and it was plain that he didn’t like to appear a fool to anyone. His free hand once again tugged at the front of his fancy jacket, and his back straightened even more in the saddle, as if braced by a steel rod. Red Wing remembered what her brother Bud had always said about such folks. She watched the commissioner out of the corner of her eye and thought that he did indeed look like he had a cob up his butt. She stifled a giggle with the back of her hand, not quite managing to keep it quiet.
“Do you find enjoyment in mocking me?” He too was now staring straight ahead.
“Commissioner, I’ve had no enjoyment whatsoever since I first laid eyes on you.”
“Call me Will, please.” He turned to look at her with his sharp blue eyes.
He was a handsome man. In fact, he was about the prettiest man she could ever recall seeing. He cut quite a figure sitting on his fine gray horse with his fancy coat and broad hat. But something about the brushed and polished look of him made her even madder, as if the spectacle of such a man in such a country teased and taunted her terrible predicament by his very existence.
“I could call you Will, but the good men of Texas will name you a low-down kidnapper and Comanchero when they learn of what you’re doing.”
“You can hate me if you want to, but it won’t help you. If you’ll keep your cool and cooperate with me, maybe we both can get out of this situation no worse for the wear.” It was clear to her that he was fighting to maintain his calm.
“You want to trade me to the Comanches, and yet you ask me to be happy about it? What a scoundrel you are.”
He took in the high lift of her little chin and the tight line of her full lips. Her hair was so thick and black that he couldn’t help wanting to reach out and run his fingers through it. She reminded him more of some of the Mexican girls he’d danced with at the bailes and fiestas than a Comanche squaw. He wondered if President Houston had any idea of just what kind of girl he wanted traded to the Comanches.
But then again, his own ambitions had landed him in more than one difficult situation. One of his greatest regrets was that he had been born too late to fight against Santa Anna’s forces in the War for Independence. It was a shame, because killing Mexicans was a surefire way to gain political office. Texans liked to vote for heroes, and the sad fact was that he was far too young to compete with the glut of veterans and old colonists that controlled the republic’s destiny.
Family connections had once promised to open certain doors for him, but somebody always seemed to be a little better connected when it really mattered. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, a touch of wisdom and of introspection finally took hold of him in a roadside tavern on the way to San Antonio. The truth hurt, but he saw himself clearly for what he was—a penniless but educated adventurer with few prospects and not the price of a drink in his pockets. Big ideas had never materialized themselves into anything other than just ideas. His family had written him off, and all his business schemes and pandering to those in power had failed him in the end.
Just when it seemed his reckless life choices had ruined all his hopes of ever gaining the position and status he desired, a bone had been thrown his way in his appointment as a commissioner to the Comanche. President Houston had his enemies, but he had offered a promising young hellion a last chance at gaining the political station and status he sought. There were far better Indian fighters than Will Anderson, but anybody who knew the young man would tell you that he was smart as a whip. The republic’s new Indian specialist had listened intently to Houston’s plans for a peace expedition to the Comanche. He was a keen study of frontier gambling dens, and as such, he quickly surmised that while the odds were long against him, the prize was great indeed. The man who could put an end to the Comanches’ raiding and pillaging of the frontier could go far in Texas.
He continued to study Red Wing’s profile while he ran through a long checklist of his earlier failures. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that, thus far, the only thing Will Anderson was known for in Texas was a penchant for the ladies and a rare ability as a duelist. Both of those skills, in a roundabout way, had landed him on what he thought was a foolish trek westward to locate some Comanches who probably had no desire to talk peace with the hated Texans. However, he refused to consider failure. There was no place for that in any of his plans.
“I’ve found that nothing ever turns out quite as bad as we expect,” he said.
“I’ve found that they often turn out worse than we can even imagine.” There wasn’t a hint of remorse or complaint in her voice, and her gaze was steady and unblinking.
It wasn’t the first time he had tried speaking with her to break the monotony of the trail, but he was having no better luck than usual. And that was a shame. She was really quite beautiful, and he would far rather pass the time of day with her than with the men of his expedition. Agent Torrey was a man lost and too overwhelmed with the wilderness to provide decent conversation. Captain Jones was as ambitious as he was and was cagey around his competition. The Delawares might have dressed like white men, but the mercenary gleam in their eyes made him sleep with a pistol in his hand. Chief Squash, the Waco, was talkative for an Indian, but the crafty wrinkles at the corners of his dark eyes and the overly zealous, fawning smile he had ready at a second’s notice made him more of a nuisance than a companion.
Red Wing was well aware of the way the commissioner was staring at her. She reminded herself of her mother’s words, and tried to temper her actions toward the man. “It isn’t too late to turn around and take me back home.”
He smiled, but it was easily apparent that it was just for show. “Well, that’s the most civil thing you’ve said to me today.”
“If you’re worried about defying Houston, you can just turn away and act like you don’t see me riding off.”
The same tolerant smile was still on his face, but he was shaking his head solemnly. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I’d known you first, but it’s too late to back out now. Peace with the Comanche will save a lot of lives, and maybe all of Texas is at stake if the Mexicans are trying to get the Comanche to ride against us while they attack from the south. President Houston trusted me to see this mission through. I ga
ve him my word, and always finish what I start.”
“Maybe breaking your word would be wrong, but so is taking me against my will. Where is the honor in that?” She was sure her words would have no impact on him, but she had to try.
“I wish life were as simple as that. I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand, but I’ll trust to duty to see me through.” As he had for days since laying eyes on Red Wing, he reminded himself that he was only giving a girl back to a life she was born into, and that it was for the good of the republic that she went back to her people. There was little sacrifice in that. For all her talk and trappings, she was still an Indian.
Her anger grew until it almost broke through the cool outer shell she was fighting to keep up. It wasn’t just his spit-and-polish vanity or his righteous excuses that drove her crazy. It was the way he looked at her, as if she were nothing more than a prize to be had and traded away on a whim. She had known that life with the Comanche. There were warriors among the bands who loved their wives and spoiled them, but as a whole, women were just another commodity to be bartered for or stolen. Wealth was measured by the number of wives a man could support, or the size of his horse herd and the bounty of his lodge. There had never been a time among the tribe that she was sure that the horses weren’t rated higher than the squaws.
She cherished her new life as a member of the Wilson family, but that was one thing that hadn’t changed among the whites. Since she had come into womanhood, supposedly civilized men had begun to look at her with hunger. It wasn’t love that she felt in their stares but instead the desire to possess. She had a mind and a soul but wondered if any man would ever want them.
“Sometimes you remind me more of a Mexican senorita than a Comanche,” he said.
“My mother was Mexican.” She said it without thinking and immediately regretted sharing that with him, as if such information might lead him to assume he was her confidant.
“I’ve never been in a Comanche camp, but I’ve heard that there are a lot of Mexican captives.”
“White, Mexican, it doesn’t matter if they get you young enough. A Comanche can be made out of just about any kind of human on this earth.”
“So, you’re half Mexican, half Comanche?”
“I’m Red Wing Wilson, a settler’s daughter you’re taking away from her family.”
“But your real father was a Comanche?”
She hated that she had gotten herself cornered into such a conversation. “Yes, he was a Comanche, and a noted war leader and hunter.”
“I guess he stole your Mexican mama?”
“No, he traded three horses for her from a warrior called Dog.” She tried to stem the tide of memories coming to her. She had sworn that she would never let any of her captors see her cry.
“Was it her that made you want to get away from the Comanches?”
“No, she loved her husband very much.”
“Well, I thought maybe that explained why you don’t want to go back.”
“Do you mean that I’m more Mexican than Comanche?”
“Maybe your mama raised you to think that way.”
“If I’m Mexican, then you have no right to give me to the Comanches.”
The conversation wasn’t going to the commissioner’s liking, and he couldn’t hide his frustration. He liked his women laughing or even slightly drunk, and not at all so smart or argumentative. “Colonel Moore captured you from the Comanches, and that’s who I’m taking you back to.”
“If he had found a white captive in the camp, would you take her back?” she asked. “I’ll ride back home on my own, and you just tell Houston he was mistaken. Tell him that I was a Mexican captive instead of a Comanche.”
He at least paused to consider things, if only to form another excuse. “No, that wouldn’t work.”
“You mean that it wouldn’t matter if I was truly a Mexican? Just another shade of brown in your world, right?”
“President Houston says you’re a Comanche, Colonel Moore says the same, and so does a lot of Texas. I guess that makes you a Comanche.” He felt like cussing, but a gentlemanlike approach had always gotten him farther with the opposite sex.
It was plain to her that he was looking for a way to have his cake and eat it too. “If you think I find the company of a woman stealer and slave trader enjoyable, you are sadly mistaken. I would suggest you ride elsewhere and leave me to my misery. A good man would reconsider his actions and find reason to protect me and see me free. Perhaps such a man will come along and see justice done to a woman in need.”
He clenched his jaw and his brow drew down over angry eyes, but he showed no willingness to leave her side. Before the conversation could go farther she spurred her horse ahead. She pulled up alongside Agent Torrey and smiled at him. The shy man gave her a bewildered look while he shoved his glasses back to a proper position on his nose. Even though he managed only a stuttered greeting, she laughed loudly and laid a light hand briefly on his shoulder. All the while she kept a watch on the commissioner out of the corner of her eye.
From the fierce scowl on his face she was sure he was taking it all in. Agent Torrey was still stuttering, but she laughed again anyway, as if he was the most charming man in the world, instead of the most awkward, bookish human she had ever met, too shy to even look her way after three days of travel.
Commissioner Anderson jabbed his horse too hard with his spurs, and the animal wrung its tail and kicked up behind as they loped back toward the front of the line.
“Agent Torrey, keep an eye on her and see that she doesn’t try and run away again,” he snapped at them in passing.
Before Red Wing could survey the position of the outriders to see if there was a chance to run, Chief Acequosh, or Squash as the white men in the party called him, also came loping by. He grinned at them and pointed up the trail. Red Wing studied the distance until she made out what he was trying to show them.
“Miss Wilson, you look like somebody just stepped on your grave,” Agent Torrey finally managed to say.
He hadn’t yet seen the smoke from the Waco village rising up from the river bottom ahead of them. Only minutes separated Red Wing from being under the watchful eyes of even more guards, and her chances of escaping would grow even slimmer. In a panic, she whirled her horse and cracked him across the hip with the tail of her reins. Agent Torrey’s mount almost unseated him when it tried to follow hers. He righted himself in the saddle and watched her fleeing down the trail with the long braid of her hair bouncing against her back. The Delawares had spotted her, and they were whooping wildly and racing to head her off.
Red Wing urged her horse to all the speed it was worth and judged the narrowing funnel of the Delawares closing in on both sides of her. There was a slim chance of getting through before their converging lines intersected before her, but she had little hope of success. She had tried flight twice in the preceding days, and the Delawares had caught her every time.
Chapter 13
By the time Odell finally reached Sulphur Draw, he had been a day without water, and two days without anything to eat. To make matters worse, it didn’t look like he was going to get any relief. Smoke was rising from the little side canyon where the Mexican bee hunter had told him the big spring was located, and several tepees were visible along the trickling stream at its mouth. Considering how scarce water was in those parts, Odell wasn’t at all surprised that the place had so much company. He just wished the neighbors were a little friendlier.
Although Comanches had beaten him to the spring, he still had hopes of getting a drink. He was far away, but the thin line of a larger creek channel was clearly visible running down the huge draw. He had no idea whether it was good water, or if it had anything in it at all. Still, he couldn’t help but imagine it running bank to bank with cool, clear water.
His first thought was to circle wide until he was far enough downstream to be s
afe, but a long study and a brief scout only served to inform him that the creek was bone dry. Furthermore, it seemed that the spring-fed stream that ran out of the side draw and through the middle of the Comanche camp seemed to soak into the ground before it went much farther. Sulphur Draw was miles wide and treeless, and it was plain that he wasn’t going to get a drink that afternoon unless he was willing to trade his scalp for water. The Mexican had told him it was over a day’s ride on to the San Saba, and neither he nor Crow were going to make it that far without quenching their thirst.
He decided to hole up high on the opposite side of the draw from the Indian camp and wait. Once night came, he and Crow would slip down to water right under the Comanches’ noses. There was even a chance that the camp might move on during the afternoon and leave the oasis to him. But he had little hope of that and settled temporarily for the shade of a large rock. The Mexican had sworn that the big spring was crystal clear and fourteen feet deep, and Odell daydreamed of splashing and swimming in water so cold that it put goose bumps on his skin.
Odell napped throughout the afternoon, and by dark his tongue had begun to swell and his head was too foggy to think straight. The glow of the campfires below told him that the Comanches hadn’t left. He saddled Crow and started down to the floor of the draw. He stopped often to listen and to consider his best approach. He was too thirsty to turn back, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up every time he heard something go bump in the night.
Not many months before, he might not have been so worried about sneaking a drink in the night, but he had grown more cautious where Comanches were concerned. Despite all his plans for vengeance, he had failed to even begin the war against them that he had once hatched in his heart. In fact, he had found that a man alone could get himself killed in a hurry prowling around their country, much less near their camps. A bad attitude and a little foolish courage meant little when you were vastly outnumbered and totally lost half the time.
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