Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  He gestured wildly. I had gone off in the woods to—His face colored. Well, you know. I saw it all, Miss Cayenne, saw the Indians ride in, gather them all up. It was awful! They was all cryin’ and a screamin’.

  Oh my God! Her hand went to her mouth, and she looked down at her curious little sisters. We’ve got to tell the men, get help! I—I don’t know what do! What kind of Indians were they, Hank? I didn’t think we were having Indian troubles again.

  The lanky boy wiped his eyes with smudged hands. I—I don’t know, Miss Cayenne; Comanche, I think. The leader had funny, sharp little features like a fox and long arms. They got my ma and both my little sisters! Your pa always knows what to do and mine’s clear across the county at a barn raisin’—

  Cayenne chewed her lip, thinking. What do you suppose they want?

  That leader saw me just as they were riding out. I couldn’t even move; just stared back at him, waiting to be killed. Then he said something to me in English. . . .

  What, Hank ? She grabbed his arm. Tell me what he said!

  His thin face wrinkled in thought. Something like. “White women pay for my sister. Bring ransom by sundown or we kill.” Oh, Miss Cayenne, what do we do?

  But Cayenne was already in the process of unhitching the buggy so she could ride the old mule. I’ll get Papa, he’ll know what to do. You get on into the settlement, alert as many men as possible. How much ransom we got to get and where do we take it?

  He named a sum and a place. Cayenne’s green eyes widened in shock. Hank, that’s a lot of money! None of us has that much except banker Ogle. The Indians must gonna plan on using it to buy guns from the renegade Comancheros over in the Santa de Cristo mountains!

  He turned back to his lathered, wheezing horse. What’ll I tell everyone, Miss Cayenne?

  She considered a long moment. Tell them to gather at the bank. Maybe we can mortgage our ranches and things to get the money. She looked around the Lazy M, thinking it wasn’t worth much for farming. West Texas dirt was so poor it’d take three people to raise a fuss on it.

  Cayenne pulled the harness off the mule, hitched up her dress, and swung up on its bony bare back with nothing but a lead rope looped around its muzzle. Hank, you get everyone gathered up and I’ll ride to get Papa.

  Should we get help from the law, Miss Cayenne? She snorted in disgust. What law? The Yankee carpetbaggers have disbanded the Rangers and we don’t even have a sheriff here. . . .

  Never needed one, the boy said.

  Hank was right. The peaceful little community didn’t even have a name and its residents were religious, non-violent farmers recently arrived from Europe or back east. In strange contrast, the community preacher, her papa, was one of the best rifle shots in Texas. She thought of the fancy One-in-a-Thousand Winchester rifle hanging with the little sawed-off shotgun over the fireplace.

  She looked at her four little sisters who watched wide-eyed. Lynnie, get everyone back in the house, she ordered, while Hank and I ride for help! And Angel, she sighed, quit sucking your thumb!

  “Ride for help,” Cayenne whispered, twisting restlessly on the blanket. “Got to get help.”

  She had to ride for Papa so he could do something about the hostages and the Comanche war party. She tried to struggle to her feet so she could go get Papa, but someone held her down.

  “Got to get help,” she muttered, and when her eyes flickered open, she realized the war party had gotten her, too. She stared into the gray eyes of a rugged Indian who held her in his arms.

  “Easy, baby,” the half-breed said, “take it easy. I don’t know where you think you’re going, but you’re gonna have to stay right here until that swollen leg goes down.”

  Gray eyes. Now why would a Comanche have gray eyes? But she remembered that Quanah Parker, the half-breed chief, had gray eyes. This man didn’t look like Quanah. But he was a warrior. Had she been captured?

  She looked up into his war-painted face, staring a long moment at the jagged white scar down his left cheek, and struggled again. “Got to get Papa,” she whispered. “War party hit the church picnic. . . .”

  “Sure, baby, sure.” He kissed her forehead and she closed her eyes with a sigh, wondering how a member of the war party had captured her.

  Funny, she remembered riding all the way on that old mule without getting caught by Indians, remembered getting the message to Papa. The men had assembled at the bank but no one had very much money. Everyone gave all they could raise, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, Papa had mortgaged the ranch with that tight old banker to raise the ransom.

  She remembered standing in the street, listening to the discussion. Who was going to bell the cat? Now that they had the money, who was going to be brave enough to ride into that Indian camp a few miles away?

  Papa took off his hat and ran his hand through his thinning red hair. Joe McBride a was tall, handsome Scots-Irishman with eyes as bright green as Cayenne’s own. He closed his eyes and seemed to pray a minute in the silence, and when he opened them, he said, “I’ll do it. I’ll be the one to go.

  A sigh of relief swept through the crowd but Cayenne elbowed her way through. Not you, Papa, not you! None of those hostages are related to you!

  Joe’s green eyes regarded her thoughtfully. Cee Cee, all mankind are brothers, and as minister to this little flock, it’s my responsibility as much as anyone’s.

  She caught his arm. No, Papa, she argued desperately. What if you don’t come back? If something happens to you, how can I raise the girls alone?

  He put his big work-hardened hand over her small one on his arm. God takes care of his own, he reminded her. Where’s your faith, daughter?

  And so big Joe McBride had carried the ransom. Even though he was one of the best shots in Texas, he went unarmed out to meet the Comanche so they would know they weren’t being tricked. Cayenne had gone with the men who waited at a safe distance. Joe had thought he’d ride in, hand over the money, gather up the hostages, and leave. It hadn’t worked out that way. The hostages were freed, but the war party kept Joe and tortured him. All afternoon the huddled little group of whites could hear him scream. And scream. And scream.

  She could hear the screaming now. She had to help him! But as she struggled to get up, that gray-eyed Indian held her, put his hand over her mouth. “Hush, baby!” he whispered, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Hear me? For God’s sake! Stop that screaming! If there’s a war party within a mile, they’ll hear you!”

  No, that wasn’t her screaming, that was Joe! Couldn’t he hear it, too? She closed her eyes, too weak to fight the big half-breed who held her down. Her head pounded and echoed. No, that wasn’t the pain in her head, that was the drums. The drums had beat a rhythm while the warriors danced and tortured her father. She remembered the echo of the drums and her father’s screams. Finally, they had released him, sending him back more dead than alive. Quanah Parker himself had delivered her half-conscious, tortured father.

  She remembered now the big gray-eyed half-breed, Quanah, and how he and a band of warriors had brought Joe back thrown unconscious across a pony. This is not my doing, he said. One of the other clans did this! I stopped them from killing him, but I came too late to stop the torture. He is a very brave man, this big man with the fire-colored hair!

  Papa! Papa! Cayenne sobbed and rushed forward, horrified at his injuries. The small group of farmers looked at each other and at her helplessly as the well-armed, large group of Indian warriors wheeled their ponies and rode out.

  They had done terrible things to him, and as she stared in shock, he moaned aloud.

  I hate them, Cayenne wept. I want revenge. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth like the Bible says!

  Joe managed to whisper something and she bent over his burned, tortured body to hear him. No, he gasped. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I shall repay . . . Leave it to the Lord, Cayenne. . . .

  Joe McBride was a hero after that and he deserved it. The settlers named the little settlement in his hono
r—McBride, Texas. The gentle farmers helped with the Lazy M ranch chores while Joe recovered as well as he ever would from his injuries. His faithful vaqueros stayed on for very little money. Life went on as usual . . . until that day three months ago when a letter came from her mother’s cranky old aunt Ella, who was dying in Kansas.

  Cayenne hadn’t wanted to go, but Papa had insisted that even a grouchy old lady needed a little love and caring at the end, and besides, Cayenne could take that part-time teaching job there in Wichita.

  Wichita. Cayenne remembered now standing in the street reading a letter. She had to get back to Texas. The letter said there might be trouble, something about three men showing up at the ranch a few days before. Bill Slade, Trask, and a Mexican.

  Now where would she find a gunfighter who might help the McBride family against that trio if they turned out to be more than just saddle tramps?

  The Red Garter Saloon. That’s where cowboys and gunfighters hung out here in Wichita.

  What was his name? Oh, yes, Maverick Durango; a tough half-breed Comanche with gray eyes. If she’d known he was Comanche, she wouldn’t have asked.

  She had nothing to lure him with to accompany her back to Texas but her innocence. She must make him want her. She had kissed him out there on the sidewalk in front of the Red Garter. He had said, “No, Cee Cee, here’s the way it’s done.”

  Then Maverick had kissed her; her very first kiss. She remembered the way he had lifted her up off her feet, kissed her expertly, thoroughly. She would never forget the heat of his mouth covering hers, the feel of him sweeping her up in his arms.

  “I love you, Maverick,” she whispered. And from somewhere, she heard a voice, felt a hand stroke her hair. “I love you, too, baby. By damn, I love you, too!”

  She imagined the trio of men the letter had described. They had to be dangerous and they knew her papa. Joe McBride never talked about his past. When she was little, she remembered that often he went to the little community cemetery and stood for hours, staring at a grave.

  Once she had asked whose grave it was.

  Joe shrugged. “No one you would know, child.” Tears came to his green eyes. “A part of my past. Let’s just say my heart is buried here.”

  “But nobody can live without a heart, Papa,” she said.

  Joe sighed and swallowed hard. “Oh, yes, you can. You just learn to live with the pain where it was torn out.”

  And then when she was about nine years old, something had happened. Yes, it had been maybe ten years ago. She wasn’t sure what it was. It had something to do with a boy who came to call on Papa. That night, there was a terrible fuss between her parents. They had awakened her with their shouting. After that, Papa visited that grave no more and the atmosphere seemed forever strained between her parents, even though Hannah suddenly began producing more children—four in the next seven years. The last one, little Angel, had cost Hannah Adams McBride her life. What made the girl Cayenne know that her mother feared to lose Joe, that she bound him to her with the host of children?

  Cayenne was nine years old once more, listening to her parents fight. The loud words and screaming terrified her so that she hid under the covers of her little bed. Her name was being shouted—her name and the name “Annie.” Cayenne had to stop her parents’ terrible fight. She had to get up and tell them to stop screaming at each other. She struggled and mumbled, “No No!”

  “Cayenne, what is it?”

  She opened her eyes at the voice and blinked at a rugged dark man leaning over her. The sun shone through the trees and she didn’t know where she was. What was she doing lying on a blanket out under a cottonwood tree? And who was this virile man dressed like an Indian leaning over her? Cayenne tried to speak, couldn’t. Her whole body seemed to throb like an exposed nerve and she whimpered. Immediately, the man bent over her, holding a cup to her lips, and she gulped the water gratefully.

  “You’ve been unconscious for days now. Baby, I’ve been worried as hell about you.” He smiled and the corners of the big gray eyes crinkled. He was especially handsome when he smiled.

  She still couldn’t sort out her thoughts, any more than she could remember who he was. But she sensed he was part of her memories, her recent past. When she closed her eyes, she remembered the taste and the feel of a man’s arms around her, saw eagles soaring against the sun.

  A spoon poked between her lips. Canned peaches. The juice was sweet and delicious in her fevered mouth. She swallowed automatically as he fed her, drifting back into unconsciousness. Later, she awakened enough to realize he bathed her perspiring, feverish body with cool water.

  “Baby, it’s okay. It’s Maverick, remember? Don’t fight me. I won’t hurt you.” The voice was familiar, soothing. But when she opened her eyes, she saw a painted savage with gray eyes and wondered with horror how she’d been captured by the Comanche, how long she’d been here on this blanket. Why was her leg so swollen? Why did it hurt?

  She drifted back into unconscious fever without asking who this “Maverick” was who never seemed to leave her side.

  And finally, she half roused to noise, confusion, a blur of horses and blue uniforms. Soldiers. What were they doing here? What was she doing here?

  She only half heard the shouts, the orders, didn’t understand any of it.

  “Grab the red bastard, Sergeant! Looks like we’ve caught Quanah Parker red-handed, not only with the colonel’s gray horse, but with a white captive besides!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lynnie stood out in front of the Billings General Store, studying the envelope clutched against her faded calico dress. Cayenne had finally answered, although it’d been a long time coming. Mr. Billings said the Indian uprising had delayed the mail.

  She looked up and down the dusty street. The tiny settlement of McBride, Texas lay asleep under the July sun. Trask must still be in the hardware store, and from here, she could see Papa sitting in the buggy at the hitching rail.

  Pushing her wire-framed spectacles back up her freckled nose, little Lynnie stared at the envelope from Wichita.

  She smiled now, looking at Papa sitting patiently in the old buggy then back at the letter in her hands. Would he be angry that she’d written Cayenne for help? No, Papa never got angry with anyone. She loved Papa, that big, red-haired handsome tower of strength and courage. Well, she thought sadly, he had been handsome until the Comanche tortured him with fire.

  She stubbed her toe at a crack in the wooden sidewalk boards. Papa loved Cayenne more than he loved anyone, Lynnie had been smart enough to figure that out. He had seemed to love her even more than Mama.

  Mama. Lynnie considered the subject for a moment as she walked slowly toward the buggy with the letter from Wichita. Hannah Adams had been a dumpy, homely woman; a distant stranger who seemed to be jealous of the affection her husband felt for his children, especially Cayenne. But even the children cared more for the big sister than they did for Mama. Cayenne and the old Mexican housekeeper, Rosita, gave them more love and caring than Mama did.

  The big bay thoroughbred that young Hank Billings liked to race nickered from the hitching rail.

  Nickering horses. That sorrel horse Slade rode had nickered, too, alerting her that three men were riding up the road to the front porch. Lynnie had been cleaning windows in the front parlor that day several weeks ago. She remembered now watching the back of Papa’s head as he sat on the porch, whittling and rocking. Anyone else would have been vengeful and bitter against the Indians for what they had done to him, but not Papa. He was truly a religious man, accepting what had happened and going on with his life. Of course, he couldn’t do all the things he used to do, but his burned, twisted fingers could still carve the little willow whistles that he always carried in his pockets to give away to the town’s children.

  When the trio of weather-beaten men rode up, the leader’s sorrel gelding nickered and Lynnie had frozen motionless behind the curtains like a frightened quail “gone to ground” when danger threatened. S
he sensed that they were not ordinary cowboys looking for work. There was something sinister and dangerous about the way they wore their pistols strapped low and tied down.

  Where could she get help? Everyone else on the ranch seemed to be taking an afternoon siesta.

  Just who were those men? They looked rough and weary. Lynnie glanced at Papa’s guns hanging low over the fireplace. By standing on her tiptoes, she might be able to reach the rifle, but she really didn’t think she could hit anything with it. Now the sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun was different. Lynnie knew it laid down such a wide, deadly pattern that she could probably get all three even with her eyes shut. But then, Papa might catch some buckshot, too. Besides, suppose they turned out to be just cowboys, even though they looked like outlaws? She held her breath, watching and listening through the open window.

  The leader might have been handsome if he hadn’t had such a cruel mouth. “Well, Joe McBride! How in the hell have you been? Long time no see!”

  Papa stopped rocking but it was a long moment before he spoke. “Hello, Slade. Figured you’d find my trail sooner or later, even after almost twenty-five years.”

  She wished she could see the expression on her father’s face. But his tone didn’t sound happy.

  The second of the trio, the unshaven, heavier man riding the dun, leaned on his saddle horn. “Now is that a Texas way to greet old friends? Here we just happen to come into town and the storekeep tells us about this big hero who got tortured saving everyone from the Injuns.”

  Joe went back to whittling. “That’d be Billings. His wife and little girls were among the hostages. I’m no hero, though. Any decent man would have done the same.”

  Slade laughed. “Not me. I wouldn’t let them do me like they done you. I’d rather be dead.”

  “I said any decent man. And I’ve learned to live with my disabilities; praise God anyway.” He stroked his red beard.