Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  The sergeant finally seemed to get control of himself. “Thanks for telling me that. I can let Pa know now. We won’t have to wait and wonder what happened to him. Did you bury him?”

  Maverick nodded. He wouldn’t tell him that the hunters had mutilated the bodies in a frenzy of revenge after they drove the Indians off, that the brother’s head was even now impaled, rotting and stinking, on one of the posts of the fence in front of the settlement’s store. “He died bravely and without pain,” he murmured again.

  “Thanks.” He rubbed his face against his sleeve. “If you never had to wait to find out if someone you love is dead or alive, you don’t know what real pain is.”

  Maverick wondered suddenly if Joe McBride had wondered and worried all those years over Annie. Of course not, otherwise he would have figured out a way to ransom her like he did those women and kids at the church outing. But would the kind of man he thought Joe McBride was do something as brave as what Cayenne had described? The whole thing was becoming more and more confusing to him.

  “There’s a worse pain,” he whispered, remembering, “and that’s being the instrument of that loved one’s death.” He saw Annie’s plain little face all twisted in agony, begging him, begging him. . . .

  They smoked in silence. Finally, O’Bannion said, “You love that girl, don’t you?” He nodded toward the wagon where Cayenne lay sleeping peacefully.

  Did he? Maverick struggled with an agony of indecision. When he’d started out to kill her father, she had been part of his revenge. He had imagined throwing her down before her father, all dishonored and shamed, her belly swollen with Maverick’s child. He had intended to gloat over it a few minutes before he tortured Joe to death. Then he would ride out, leaving her weeping and abandoned the way his mother had been abandoned. But now, as he thought about it, he realized he wanted the girl badly, wanted her by his side for all time, wanted to sire her children, raise them. Eagles mate for life, he remembered.

  “I reckon I do,” he answered grudgingly. “I’ve been afraid that damned captain of yours would rape her before we get to the fort.”

  “He might do it yet, the rotten bastard!” O’Bannion drawled. “I’ve been tryin’ to figure what to do. . . .”

  “Help us escape,” Maverick said, tossing the cigarette away.

  The black sergeant looked at him a long moment. “My brother hated the captain. I suppose that’s why he run off and deserted. Tell you what,” O’Bannion wiped his eyes. “I’ll load up a packhorse with supplies and unhobble those two horses you rode in on.”

  Maverick looked toward the wagon. “She’s in no shape to ride. I’ll have to hold her in my arms to get out of here.”

  The buffalo soldier nodded as he got up. “Baker sleeps like the dead. I’ll give you a couple of hours’ start, and along about dawn, I’ll jump up like I’ve been layin’ unconscious all night and shout that you’ve escaped.”

  Maverick gave him an admiring look. “There’ll be the devil to pay.”

  The sergeant sighed. “I reckon I can be as brave as my older brother, and I’m much obliged for your kindness to him.” He held out his big hand hesitantly and Maverick shook it.

  “O’Bannion, you’re as brave as any black lion hunter in your native Africa. I appreciate this. Maybe someday our paths will cross again. . . .”

  O’Bannion waved his thanks aside. “We got things to do . . . friend.”

  “Sure . . . friend.”

  Moving stealthily, they saddled up the horses, got supplies. Two black troopers raised their heads and the sergeant motioned them to silence, so they put their heads down, pretending to sleep. “We’re all loyal to the government,” O’Bannion whispered, “even if it don’t always treat the black troops right. But we wouldn’t do a thing to help old Baker get his promotion even if it would get him outa our outfit!”

  And so Maverick gathered up Cayenne, unconscious and feverish though she was, and placed her on the saddle before him. Leading her roan and the packhorse, he sneaked out of the dark camp and headed back southwest. Her body burned with fever as he held her close against him, but he knew they must escape before this white officer decided to rape her or maybe kill Maverick.

  He walked the horse until he was safely away from the sleeping camp, waving back at the black sergeant. Then he took off at a gallop, Strawberry and the packhorse struggling to keep up with the gray’s powerful long legs. Her small body burned into his as he cradled her in his arms. Once she stirred as they galloped and the green eyes flickered open. “Maverick?”

  “That’s right, baby,” he whispered, holding her feverish body close to his chest. “I’m here; I’ll always be here. Everything’s going to turn out all right.”

  He was lying, of course. How could it turn out all right when she found out too late that Maverick had used her to find Joe? She would hate him and curse him when she saw her father’s dead body. The image of her tearful face upset him. To dispel it, he remembered another tearful face—Annie’s face the night Pine da poi and the warriors had tortured her. . . .

  A stiff wind blew sand like sharp needles as Maverick rode southwest. He tried to protect her small form with his body, only grateful that the shifting sand would cover their tracks so the patrol couldn’t track them.

  By dawn, he had found his way back to a small spring where they had rested yesterday. He dismounted, hid the horses in straggly brush, and carried Cayenne into the lea of the bushes for shelter. Her body still burned with fever. As the wind died to a feeble whisper, he decided that cool water would help. Maverick carried her into the small pool, staying there with her until his muscles were cramped and aching. But finally, her body seemed to cool and her eyes flickered open.

  “Maverick? What happened? Oh, the snake—”

  “I killed it, baby.” He could only sigh with relief that she seemed to be conscious, clearheaded. He carried her, naked and wet, to lay her on a blanket, and got her some canned milk from the pack horse.

  Away off to the north, he saw a faint smoke signal. There were war parties in the area. The blood froze in his veins a little. Did he still speak enough Comanche to pass himself off as one? He’d better dress the part. Quickly, he stripped his clothes off, stuffing them in his saddlebags. In minutes, he was naked except for moccasins and a breechcloth, beads and war paint hastily applied to his face. If nothing else, he’d say he was Quanah’s brother. The Quahadis were such an isolated band staying way out on the Llano Estacado that the chances were small any of the other bands would know what Quanah’s brother looked like. And surely if he crossed the trail of the Comanche’s allies, those tribes wouldn’t have met Quanah’s brother.

  He thought about Pat Hennessy as he lay down next to Cayenne and watched her. It was ironic that the Kiowa would now take the war trail because Hennessy’s wagons of food for them had been destroyed by some of the other rampaging tribes, the Kiowas’ own allies who hadn’t even realized where the food was bound for.

  Cayenne opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “Have I been out long?”

  “Long enough.” He put his hand on her forehead. It was cool to the touch. “Thank goodness the fever’s broken.” She’d recover rapidly now and be able to ride again so they could move on toward their final destination. Suddenly he dreaded reaching that place. “We’ll rest here through the heat of the day and ride out tonight. Remember, I’ll be a Comanche warrior, and if we run across a war party, I’ll pretend you’re a captive and I’ll try to talk our way out of it.”

  She reached out and put her arms around his neck. “I am a captive, Maverick,” she said softly. “I love you.”

  Would she love him when he killed Joe McBride? He knew the answer. “Naw,” he shook his head, trying to disengage himself. “You’re just grateful, that’s all.”

  She wouldn’t let him pull away so he quit trying, enjoying the womanly scent of her, the velvet feel of her body against his. While she’d been sick, he’d missed the scent of vanilla on her skin again. He’d g
rown to love that perfume. “Sugar cookies,” he said aloud without thinking.

  Her small, freckled face was very close to his. “What?”

  He felt himself flush, looking down at her. “When you wear vanilla, I always think of sugar cookies.”

  She laughed weakly, pulled him down, and kissed his lips. “Nibble on me a little, then.”

  “Are you loco? You’ve been sick. . . .”

  “I’m not now.” She reached up, kissing him again, thoroughly, expertly. He suddenly remembered her inept innocence out in front of the Red Garter Saloon. God, had she learned fast! He relaxed, letting her pull his face down to hers, kiss the corners of his mouth.

  When this was all over, when they reached their destination, she was going to hate him, maybe try to kill him. He imagined not having her in his arms ever again, not having her nibble at the corners of his mouth. But he had sworn and he had a duty to a dead woman. He wouldn’t think of that now. He would think of the way her hands caressed his dark nipples, the way her small pink tongue slipped between his lips.

  “Stop it,” he murmured. “We’ve got no business doing this. . . .”

  But she didn’t stop kissing him, and he found his hand traveling down her wet skin, stroking her small breasts into hard peaks of excitement, caressing her body all over.

  “Baby,” he muttered, “we shouldn’t. . . . We shouldn’t. . . .”

  She opened her lips, sucking his tongue deep into her mouth as her hand went down to clasp his throbbing manhood.

  He moaned aloud at the touch of her hand on his erect hardness. “Baby, no.”

  “Baby, yes!” She whispered and pulled him on top of her, wrapping her thighs around his hard hips. His war paint smeared against her creamy skin as his lips went all over her body to kiss and caress. He winced as she dug her nails into his bare back when he sucked her nipples into twin mounds of erect pinkness, running his tongue down to the hollow of her navel. “Take me, dearest, take me!”

  Then he took her very gently, in a slow symphony of lovemaking that rose to a crashing crescendo of desire and fulfillment. And he had never felt such happiness in any other woman’s arms.

  Later, as he lay next to her, propped up on one elbow, looking down at her sleeping face, a disturbing thought came to him. Suppose she had figured out that he was on a mission of revenge. Would she lure him with her body, try to tantalize him into changing his mind? Could this innocent-looking girl have some dire plot and plans of her own? Suppose she didn’t really care about him? Suppose she was only trying to soften him, keep him from hunting down Joe McBride?

  He didn’t like that thought, but he suddenly realized it might possibly be true. Hadn’t he used her to his own ends? Finally, he, too, slept, one arm thrown protectively across her small form. They rested there through the heat of the next day and made love again.

  “Maverick,” she whispered, “never leave me . . . never leave me.”

  He remembered his mother’s words. “I’ll be with you in spirit, always,” he said softly, “even if I can’t be there in body.”

  She blinked up at him. “What does that mean?”

  He swallowed hard. “Nothing, I reckon. I don’t mean nothing.” He kissed her again to hush her and they slept the afternoon away in each other’s arms.

  By dark, she was much stronger and he considered that they must ride on under cover of darkness. What was worrying him was that distant signal smoke he had seen on a far horizon the night before. Did the Comanche know exactly where the pair was?

  Before he could carry his troubling thoughts any farther, he thought he saw a flicker of light on a far horizon and sat up. Was that a signal fire far away on the bluff? Was a war party even now watching the couple? Had they been watching all this time as Maverick had ridden through the darkness?

  He stood up, a chill running down his back in the hot air as the sound of a bird call came to him, a bird he knew was not found in this area. A war party. Had he saved her from the army patrol only to lose her to a bunch of torturing Comanche?

  Chapter Seventeen

  He didn’t tell her his fears as he awakened her. They rode out under a velvet black sky, a bright gold moon that Texans called a “Comanche” moon. Maverick shivered a little as he thought about it. Comanche were one of the tribes who liked to raid at night when the moon was big as a gold piece so they could see their way into the Texas settlements and the lonely ranches.

  He had been on two raids himself against the tahbay-boh, the whites. As a half-grown boy, he’d accompanied his dead father’s younger brothers. But Annie had had her ultimate revenge. Although his skin was dark, the boy called Eagle’s Flight had a heart that was as white as his mother’s pale skin. On both raids, he had seen women hiding under hay in the barns, ignoring them so as to spare them while the warriors fired the houses, torturing the hapless cowboys who had fallen into their hands.

  The couple rode southwest. The hot night breeze caressed his bare skin, for he rode dressed as a warrior would for battle, wearing only moccasins and a breechcloth, he and his horse painted for war.

  He looked over at the proud, brave girl who rode beside him, loving her, wanting her. It was bitter irony to him that she was Joe’s daughter. For that reason, she was lost to him because of his duty, his vow. He looked up along the rim of low buttes, saw the signal fires, and knew they were being watched. Maverick would die to protect his woman but it might not be enough. No one could outride or outrun a Comanche war party if they took up the pursuit. His best weapon was deception, trickery.

  “Cayenne,” he said as they slowed the horses to a walk to rest them, “you’re a very brave girl, but you’re going to have to be braver.”

  He saw the puzzlement on her beautiful face as she looked at him. “Why?”

  He memorized all the features of her face as he studied her so he could commit them to memory for all the lonely years that lay ahead of him without her. “I’ve got to tie you up. Don’t look over at the horizon,” he whispered, “just keep looking ahead.”

  She did as she was told, but he caught the sudden tension in her profile, her voice, as he leaned over, tying her hands behind her back with the rawhide thong from his gun belt. “What is it, Maverick? What in God’s name are you trying to tell me?”

  “There’s a war party watching us from the ridge.”

  He heard her gasp but she recovered, kept staring straight ahead as they rode. “How—how long have they been there? What do we do?”

  “I spotted them nearly an hour ago, but there’s no point in trying to outrun them.”

  “Why haven’t they attacked?”

  He shrugged. “Still trying to figure out who we are, what we’re doing riding through this desolate country that belongs to them.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them clearly silhouetted against the Comanche moon on the ridge. Bile pushed up into his mouth as he remembered some of the things he had seen them do to captives.

  “Maverick, I—I’m scared.” But she kept riding, looking straight ahead.

  “So am I, baby, so am I.” His hands were wet with cold fear and it seemed to him he could smell his own terror along with the scent of wildflowers, sweating horses. The leather of his saddle creaked rhythmically as the gray picked its way across the barren, rough ground.

  “Cayenne,” he said, “they’ll be coming down here to intercept us any minute. With any luck, they won’t be from my old band, won’t know me from the past.” His hand went up to touch the jagged white scar on his dark war-painted face.

  “And if we aren’t lucky?” She looked over at him.

  “We won’t worry about that now.” His hand went to the pistol on his hip. He would never let them take her alive, he vowed silently, trying not to think of the other woman whose torture he had ended. “If they don’t recognize me, maybe I do look enough like Quanah to pass myself off as his brother, Pecos, and that’s why I’m riding his gray horse.”

  “Suppose they’re from Quanah’
s band?”

  He looked over and saw the silhouettes start down a train off the rim of the world, riding silently as spectres in the darkness. “In that case, you better put that religion of yours to work, Cee Cee; start praying for some kind of miracle.”

  She didn’t answer and he watched her. Her head had bowed and her lips moved silently. Funny, he had no religion, although the Durangos were Catholic and of course he no longer believed in the Gods of the Comanches. He glanced up at the big black bowl of a sky overhead; the stars blinking from millions of miles away. Was there really Anybody up there to hear her prayers? If so, would He listen? Then Maverick had no more time to think because the Comanche war party galloped toward them.

  “Cayenne,” he said softly as they rode near, “I’ll pass you off as a captive, a gift for my brother Quanah.”

  The girl looked at him a long moment. He saw the fear in the green eyes, but she didn’t panic. “You could revert to being an Indian again, couldn’t you? Save your own life that way?”

  He nodded, watching the warriors ride closer. So far he didn’t recognize any of them. “I suppose I could. Either way, baby, your life is in my hands now. You got no choice but to trust me.”

  She tried to smile but he saw the tremble of her lips. “I’d trust you with my life, Maverick, I love you. There’s something I’ve got to tell you about why—”

  “No time,” he muttered, “and stop calling me Maverick. You’re a captive, remember?” I love you, too, he thought. Why didn’t I tell you while I still had time?

  The war party made its way down the crooked trail off the rim and galloped toward them. The bright moon cast giant, grotesque shadows of running horses and the men riding them along the rough terrain looked like spirit horses coming up out of hell.

  “Maverick,” she whispered, and he glanced over at her, saw the terror on her face. “I—I can’t just sit here and wait; I’m going to run for it!”