“That’s not true!” She kept walking doggedly forward, but she closed her eyes, running the tip of her tongue across her lips, remembering his fervent kiss.
“Even Annie,” he said so softly that she had to strain to hear. “At the last, it was his name she called out. . . .”
She looked over at his grim face and there was no need to ask of whom he spoke as they walked in silence, leading the horses. The bitter hate of his expression told her. If she couldn’t forget her family responsibilities, certainly he had no intentions of forgoing his revenge for her. No, not even if she asked him to. Maverick’s soul had been deeply wounded, maybe too wounded to ever outlive the scars of his terrible past. In her heart, because of Maverick’s pain, she hated the man, too, wished him dead and buried so that her love might be free from this memory that seemed to haunt him.
Cayenne sighed audibly. He was right, of course; there could be no future for the two of them. If he did survive the showdown, he would be so furious by her betrayal, by her trickery, he’d walk out of her life and never look back.
Caught between love and loyalty to her family and the man she loved, she remounted the roan and they loped through the night together.
They followed the Canadian river toward Adobe Walls in the Texas Panhandle because the buffalo hunter had said there were supplies there. The packhorse had been left in the hunter’s camp in their escape, but it didn’t matter because they had no food, only the few supplies in their saddlebags. It had been tricky enough holding those six men at bay without attempting to load a horse with their food. They might have overpowered Maverick.
She was ravenous by morning, but there was nothing to eat and they kept riding southwest toward Adobe Walls. As Maverick had said, they might as well try to make it there, turn straight south, and keep riding. It would make more of a straight shot toward her father’s ranch, but it was right through the heart of the hostile country.
“Are we liable to run into Buck and the hunters again?” she asked, feeling her tummy complain and rumble.
“No, Fort Sill is straight south and Fort Dodge is north; that’s where they talked of going for safety. We’re going due west to the Panhandle and then turning back south. There’s several hundred miles between our trails.”
At dawn a covey of quail flew up unexpectedly from the tall grass ahead of them and Maverick brought down two with his pistol.
Cayenne made a small fire and cooked them crispy brown in the coals. “That was good shooting.”
Maverick shrugged. “Not many men can outshoot me with a handgun.”
Cayenne pulled one of the quail out of the coals and blew on it to cool it before sinking her teeth into the juicy meat. “My papa was always the best there is with a rifle, a shotgun. He said never let a man get close enough to use a pistol.”
“But a pistol’s faster if a man can work his way close in to the target.” Maverick smiled, hesitating only a moment before picking up a quail and tearing meat from it.
She watched him, thinking what a son-in-law he’d make for Joe, thinking how badly her father needed a strong young cowboy like Maverick on the Lazy M. “I’ll bet with that Comanche blood, you could sneak up on a man before he knew you were there.”
Maverick ate. “I’ve done it a dozen times, why?” There was something hesitant, suspicious about his tone.
“No reason.” The stealth of the Comanche was the very reason Joe had always kept that old sawed-off shotgun hanging low over the fireplace. You had to take time to aim a rifle, but even in the dark, you could blow a hole big as a coffee cup with a shotgun without aiming at all.
Maverick looked at her a long moment. “It would be interesting, wouldn’t it? A duel between an expert shot with a rifle, a top gun with a pistol?”
She wiped the grease from her mouth, still thinking about what the Indians had done to Papa. He talked about “turning the other cheek,” but she couldn’t help hating them for it. Yet she had let a half-breed Comanche make passionate love to her. Even now she might be carrying his child. “That’s not the right word,” she corrected. “You don’t mean duel, you mean shooting match. ”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “The range of a rifle against a fast draw. Wonder what the outcome’d be?”
She wondered if he just hungered to win or lusted for the fancy One-in-a-Thousand rifle that hung above the shotgun over the fireplace she’d told him about? It was Joe’s pride and joy but of course he didn’t shoot it anymore. She thought about Joe’s burned, twisted fingers. At least he could still do his carving.
She smiled. “You ever have a willow whistle, Maverick?”
He looked puzzled. “No.”
“Papa carves them for the children in our town.”
“Somehow, I didn’t think he’d be that kind.”
She shrugged. “What kind? Don’t you think a preacher does anything but read his Bible? You should see him with all my little sisters in his lap, telling them a bedtime story.”
Was that regret, sadness on his dark features? “When you were sitting safely in your daddy’s lap in that nice ranch house, listening to him tell stories, play a whistle, I was eating raw liver, learning how to torture a man without killin’ him so the agony would last a long, long time.”
And with that he stood up, kicked sand over the little fire, and went to check the horses’ hooves.
What had made him so angry? Was it her mention of a father, of a tight-knit family when he seemed so alone in the world even though he’d been adopted by the Durangos?
Such a troubled man, she thought as she took a sip from her canteen. Why had she ever thought she might find happiness with him?
“We’ll keep following the river,” Maverick interrupted her thoughts. “But it’s a long way over to Adobe Walls.”
“Is it a fort?”
He put his big hands on her waist and for a moment she thought he would kiss her, but he only lifted her to her saddle. “No, it was a trading post the Bents set up and later abandoned. Back during the Civil War, the Indians thought they’d take advantage of the soldiers being gone. I reckon you’re too young to recall the Outbreak of ’64?”
“I was only nine then.”
He swung up on the big gray. “I’d just been found by the Durangos and ended up right in the middle of it. Kit Carson defeated the Navahos at Adobe Walls.”
She looked over at him uneasily as they rode out. “We’re riding into danger, aren’t we, Maverick?”
“I told you that from the front end. Now it’s easier to ride forward than it is to go back. We know there’s Cheyenne war parties between us and Kansas. We don’t know for sure what’s ahead of us.”
And so they headed west for the old trading post that now supplied buffalo hunters. Maverick amazed her with his ability to provide food off the land. Afraid to use up his ammunition, he set snares for rabbits. He found all sorts of roots and berries to eat, and pointed out the fruit of the prickly pear. He was at home in the hostile, dangerous country and she felt safe, confident of his ability to look after her.
At night he made no advances toward her and they slept in their own blankets, although she longed for the reassurance of his embrace. But surviving this dangerous journey became uppermost in her mind after Maverick pointed out the almost invisible unshod pony tracks, the moccasin prints.
“Nermernuh,” he said as he studied the prints.
“What’s that mean?”
He studied the footprint. “In our language, it means ’the People.’ That’s what Comanches call themselves.”
She looked down at him kneeling on the ground. “What does Comanche mean?”
“Our hated rivals, the Utes, gave us that name. It means enemy in their language.”
“Are you sure those are Comanche footprints?”
He nodded, pointing. “Flat, broad feet. See the trail the moccasin made from dragging fringe? Comanche like a lot of decorative fringe on their moccasins.”
Once they saw smoke signals miles
away to the north in the rough country. Another time, they found a broken bow thrown in the tall grass.
They traveled after dark for fear of being seen, because of the heat. Her nerves grew frayed. She began to wonder if he knew where he was going, if he might be lost.
Several days passed. They had ridden all night and she was exhausted and hungry. “Aren’t we ever going to get there?” She looked off to the east. “It’s almost dawn. I’m tired, Maverick. Can’t we find some shelter and rest?”
He didn’t turn his head, staring off into the distance. “Rest is for the dead,” he answered, but his eyes still stared at the far horizon.
“What do you see?” She’d grown used to the idea that his senses were all keener than hers. She stood up in her stirrups and saw the silhouette of buildings now in the coming dawn, gray against the pink-rose sky.
“Oh, Maverick!” she laughed with delight. “There’s riders and they’ve spotted us! They’re coming out to meet us!” She turned in her saddle to smile at him. “Do you suppose they’ve got soap? I’d love a bath and—”
“How fast can you ride, Cee Cee?” She looked over at him, startled by his grim tone. His features were drawn, pale. And he still stared at the tiny figures on horseback.
“Why?” She looked again toward the riders. She hadn’t realized there’d be dozens—no, hundreds of hunters. And then the awful implication struck her.
“Oh, my God!”
Maverick leaned over and pressed his spare pistol into her nerveless fingers. “Remember, don’t let them take you alive, baby. Surprise is our only chance. They’ll be expecting us to turn and run, not gallop through the middle of them for the Walls.”
She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t tear her terrified gaze from the war-painted braves moving closer. The pistol felt cold and heavy in her numb fingers. “No, Maverick, I’m afraid!”
“Reb, you got to.” Now get the hell outa here!”
And before she realized his intentions, he struck her startled mare with his quirt. Cayenne hung on for dear life as Strawberry bolted, and she dropped the pistol but it was too late for that. She clenched her sweating fingers in the roan’s mane and galloped right into the oncoming riders. Now she either had to outrun them or be taken alive!
Chapter Nine
Cayenne had no time to think now as she bent over the mare’s neck and the roan stretched out into a gallop toward the low-lying adobe and sod buildings. Glancing back for reassurance, she saw Maverick pause for just an instant, outlined against the coming light, his face as grim as the dread Reaper’s. In that split second, one of her father’s sermons came to her mind. And I looked and beheld a pale horse and his name that sat upon him was Death and Hell followed with him. . . .
Then she had no more time to think because garishly painted warriors galloped toward her, shrieking in triumph.
She heard Maverick shout a warning but she jerked the reins too late as a brave swung a war club and her horse shied. Strawberry stumbled and went to her knees. The warrior’s small, foxlike features grinned with triumph as she fell. With a shriek of victory, another big brave vaulted from his running horse and raced toward her.
Now was when she was supposed to kill herself, she thought, scrambling to her feet. Hell, if she hadn’t lost her pistol, she wouldn’t kill herself, she’d shoot the Indian!
“Maverick ! Help! ” Cayenne swung around as the big warrior grabbed her. She struggled with him, hearing the big gray’s hooves drumming across the hard ground like echoing thunder. She fought the painted Indian, too terrified to think, to do anything but claw at him. He smelled of bear grease and raw, rancid meat.
The other warriors raced toward the struggling pair, yelping with delight. The fox-faced one with the long arms led the pack after her. It seemed a toss-up as to whether Maverick would get there before the savages did.
“Run, baby, run!” the half-breed shouted, and the big brave who had been chasing her on foot whirled to face the oncoming horse.
She needed no urging as she bolted toward her heaving roan, standing trembling and lathered nearby.
The brave screamed once but Maverick was merciless. He rode him down, the sharp hooves colliding with soft flesh as the man screamed, trying to dodge away from the stallion’s pounding hooves. His skull crushed like an egg under the giant stallion’s hooves.
Cayenne stumbled as she looked back but kept running. Around her now, other braves closed in, but Maverick’s pistol cracked three times and blood spurted from three chests as the warriors screamed and went down.
“Come to me, baby!” Maverick shouted, and he leaned out of his saddle to reach for her, never slackening his pace. The Indians seemed to surround them but she saw only Maverick’s grim face, his powerful arms reaching to save her. His strong arm lifted her to the saddle before him. She slipped her arms around him, clinging to him as the big stallion galloped. Strawberry fell in beside them and galloped along, too.
She heard the shrieks around them as the Indians closed in, so she closed her eyes and buried her face against his wide chest. His left hand held the reins and pulled her to him; the right held his pistol that cracked again, and another brave screamed and fell from his galloping paint behind them.
She looked around wildly and saw the gleaming faces, so garishly painted, so arrogantly sure they’d ride them down before they made it to the cluster of huts. She looked behind them, looked up ahead as her courage faltered. So near, yet so very far!
Maverick’s Colt echoed in her ears and she smelled the acrid powder, heard a Comanche shriek in agony, saw him fall and go down beneath a pack of thundering hooves. There must have been fifty of the feathered braves gaining on them.
If they didn’t make it, would Maverick put that last bullet in her brain to keep her from being captured alive? In a six-shooter, a man only carried five bullets, keeping the empty chamber as a precaution in case he accidentally pulled the trigger. Oh, God, how she wished he carried six or had time to stop and reload!
She remembered her father’s ordeal, all the stories of torture she’d heard. No wonder the buffalo hunters carried “bites” so they could give themselves a quick, merciful death! Cayenne felt his heart beating, smelled the sweat of the lathered horses as they galloped through the pale dawn toward the safety of the buildings. Off to one side, she saw a butte, a party of war leaders watching the small drama being played out. Behind the low buildings lay gently rolling rises of river sand.
Her mouth tasted as dry as a west Texas dust storm. The rising sun cut a searing path across her skin so that perspiration ran down between her breasts. She clung to Maverick and they crouched low over the gray’s neck.
They weren’t going to make it. She realized that now as she glanced back and saw the war party gaining on them. On the outlying plains, other warriors sat their ponies, watching with amusement. Clearly they, too, knew the pair would never make it to the walls. She saw the grim terror of Maverick’s face as he lashed the horse with the reins.
And about that time, the big buffalo guns behind the walls opened up, knocking braves from their horses at incredible distances, farther than she’d realized they could shoot. “Come on, Maverick, we can make it now!”
A hunter ran to swing the corral gate open and they galloped in with the Indians whooping behind them. The hunters set off a volley of lead and the war party hesitated, retreated.
Cayenne slid from the horse and staggered forward. A handsome man, not as old as Maverick, ran up to her. He was shorter but of a stocky build, with dark hair. “Hey, boy, you’ve had a close call! Get inside!”
Cayenne and Maverick ran into the big soddie.
The young man asked, “Would you like some water? ”
Cayenne could only nod in exhausted appreciation. “Thanks!”
He started, looking at her curiously. “What’d you say, kid?” He held out his hand. “I’m Bat Masterson.”
She took his hand, shook it, and decided there was no point in trying to hide he
r identity anymore. Maverick frowned at her as he slid down the inside wall, sighing heavily.
She reached up and took her hat off. “Thanks for the help, Bat. I’m Cayenne McBride.”
“It’s a girl! Look, it’s a girl!” The shocked whisper went through the crowd of grizzled men and the ones nearest her turned to look.
Bat Masterson let go of her hand grudgingly and smiled. “Well, Miss McBride, this is an unexpected pleasure! If those braves had known what a prize they were chasing, they wouldn’t have given up so easily!”
Maverick took his hat off, wiping the dust and sweat from his dark face. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have let them take her! Why do you think I saved that one last cartridge?”
Looking into the hard set of his face, she realized he had almost put a bullet behind her ear when he thought they weren’t going to make it.
Maverick stood now, stuck out his hand, and the other let go of hers. “Howdy, I’m Maverick Durango.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and she knew suddenly that he’d offered his hand to the handsome hunter so Masterson would be forced to turn loose of hers.
Bat shook hands with Maverick. “Thought you two were goners. You’re just lucky to make it within the range of our ’Big Fifties’ so we could drive them off.”
“Lucky!” Maverick snorted. “They’re out to kill buffalo hunters and we come ridin’ into a whole nest of them! Ranchers like me aren’t the ones who’ve been killing the herds off.”
Around them, the guns cracked as dozens of hunters cut down on the braves who had ridden to catch the pair and had gotten too close to the walls.
Then Maverick took Cayenne’s arm, steering her away with an easy grip of ownership that she knew was meant to convey a message to the handsome young man. He rolled a cigarette one-handed while Cayenne drank gratefully from the water barrel.
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 16