by Martha Hix
Free to ruminate over her captor, Kathy Ann smiled despite her bonds. Back in the woods, Stalking Wolf had treated her royally. And he’d handled Electra gently, even after the cat scratched him. He’d tickled her chin and said something in a sweet tone, before passing her to Head Too Big for the trip here.
When Stalking Wolf had pulled Kathy Ann up in front of him on the paint pony and had ridden west, she hadn’t sensed a meanness in him. She hadn’t fought the Comanche chief, either—the pony had protested her weight, though. The rough-rock crags of Stalking Wolf’s handsome face intrigued her.
Stalking Wolf’s unbound hair whipped in the breeze, now and again whipping forward into her face. The other men wore braids, but Kathy Ann liked Stalking Wolf’s look better. Then the red man touched her tenderly and spoke gently, in English.
“Sun In Her Hair,” he’d announced. “That is what I will call you.”
The sway and dip of the horse rocked Kathy Ann against him. “Say, Wolf, have you ever heard of Cynthia Ann Parker?”
“She was the white-eyes woman of Peta Nocona.”
“Did she like being Peta Nocona’s wife?”
“It has been said that she loved him. I do not know for myself. Peta Nocona and his tribe live to the land of the dawning sun. The drums say she is mourned.”
Kathy Ann leaned back against the chest of her captor. “I wouldn’t let anyone take me where I didn’t want to go.”
“You do not behave like other white women.”
“I dance to the beat of my own drummer.”
“Yes, Sun In Her Hair, I sense that.” His arm moved against her midriff. “I would like to know . . . have you visited the inside of a man’s tepee?”
“Nope.”
“Have you followed a man to a place by the stream?”
“Are you asking if I’m a virgin?”
“A virtuous girl is a prize to behold.”
“Behold the prize. I’m a virgin.”
She could feel his smile against her hair. “I would be honored to break the trail for you and allow you to carry my possessions on your back.”
While pleased at his interest, Kathy Ann had to think about that offer. Carry his stuff on her back? What kind of deal was that? Moreover, she hoped she heard him right—he was kind of broken-spoken—about that breaking-trail business. She hoped he hadn’t said he’d do her the favor of breaking wind.
“Will you not speak to me, Sun In Her Hair?”
“A gentleman carries things for his lady.”
“Such a shame for white women.” Stalking Wolf kneed the mount, and turned the sleek pony in a westerly direction. “The women of my tribe are honored to carry their men’s bundles and cook their meals, and make the tepees warm. It is a greater honor for the braves to protect and cherish these fine women.”
“I can think of worse things to happen, I suppose. Like, one time I had a tooth pulled. That’s worse than cooking and hauling and making a tepee into a castle.”
“Have you lost many teeth?” he asked, worry in his tone.
“No, why?”
“If an Indian cannot chew pemmican, nothing can be done. That person must be banished to meet the Great Spirit.”
“Ugh.”
“Tell me, Sun In Her Hair, if the men carry the belongings, who saves these women when they are attacked?”
“The men do.”
She felt his nod of head. “That is why we are able to take many white captives,” he said. “The white man must put down his woman’s work before he can pick up a long-knife.”
“Personally, I think your way stinks.”
“There is nothing wrong with the way we smell, unless the buffalo fat turns rancid.” He leaned his mouth close to her cheek. “Do I smell bad to you, Sun In Her Hair?”
“You might try a splash of lavender water behind the ears and under the arms.” She giggled. “No, Wolf, you don’t smell so bad. You smell nice.”
At least a half-dozen minutes passed before he said, “I have need of a woman to carry bundles for me and my daughters.”
“Daughters?” Darn, he was married.
“I have two strong daughters. One is four summers, the other is in her second summer.”
“Just a doggone minute. You ought to be ashamed. What do you think you’re doing, making sweet-talk with me? What would your wife think if she knew you’d asked me to carry your junk?”
“I am entitled to two wives.”
“I know she’d love to hear that. Your poor wife is at home—uh, at your tepee—breaking her back lugging your stuff around, slaving over a hot cookfire, getting ready to welcome you, when you yammer about taking another wife.”
“She has gone to the happy hunting ground.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Very far. She is dead.”
Goody! “I’m sorry, Wolf. You must miss her.”
“Yes, my daughters and I miss her. She had no sisters for me to take to wife. And I cannot marry any woman in my own tribe. I must look outside my village for a wife.”
“Oh.”
“My daughters . . . In truth, Sun In Her Hair, they belong with my wife’s people. It is against our customs for me to hoard them. But I would miss my little daughters if they were no longer around to toss in the air and kiss on the cheek.”
“Seems to me your in-laws would be willing to let you keep the girls, if you asked nicely.”
He laughed sadly. “I am in no danger of losing my papooses. The family of their mother does not want them.”
“That’s awfully cruel of Indian grandparents. Those babies need someone to look out for them.”
“Enough about my daughters.” He leaned his mouth close to Kathy Ann’s ear. “I have watched you many moons, since you came to the land the white man calls the Nickel Dime Ranch. It has been only since my wife went to the happy hunting ground that I have stared at you as a man stares at a woman.”
“I knew you were watching me.”
“I know you knew.” The hand that held her midriff moved up to her breast. “I need you for my wife. I want sons from you, too. Will you do this?”
Despite her thrill, Kathy Ann knew Skylla would pitch a fit if she got married. Fifteen might seem too young to some people, but Kathy Ann felt older. She hated being trapped in a kid’s age. She needed someone to love her. And she needed someone to love, and not a sister or a brother-in-law, no matter how nice the latter had become.
As for the Indian chief’s proposal, she’d better get a few matters straight. “I won’t have a husband whose idea of a happy hunting ground means looking for a second wife.”
“If you please me, I will not take a second wife.”
“Well, I have a different idea of marriage. I have no intention of becoming some household drudge. I’ve dreamed of a husband who provides the bonbons and spoils me silly with gifts galore.” That wasn’t quite true, but it sounded good to her.
“What is this you speak of, bonbons?”
“Candy.”
He squeezed a thigh. “You eat plenty bonbons already. Meals of buffalo-eye stew will make you sleek as a mountain lion.”
Her stomach turned over. Given that menu, a girl in an Indian village could surely stick to a reduction diet. “Take my word for it, Wolf. If you want a white woman, you’d best give her what she wants. I can’t imagine any of my white sisters going for that stew.”
“You would waste useful food?”
“Those eyeballs ought to have the chance to go to their own happy hunting ground. Intact.”
“I do not understand your logic.”
“You sure are stupid for a guy who can speak fair English. Where did you learn it?”
“From my wife. She was of your race.”
That made the cruel grandparents white! Kathy Ann was suddenly embarrassed for white society. Not being a civic light, though, she had more thoughts. “Wolf, you’ve been teasing me. You’ve known all along about white ways, haven’t you?”
“It
is fun to tease.”
“I’m surprised your wife didn’t set you to rights about that hauling and toting business.”
“That was not Sweet Spirit’s way.”
Sweet Spirit. Gads. It was just Kathy Ann’s luck to get captured by a guy who’d been married to some sort of saint. “Wolf . . . what would you do if I was naughty?”
“You will not be naughty. I will make you happy. I have need of you, pretty white eyes.”
He needed her. Good. She wouldn’t mind hauling his junk all over Texas. “Tell me something. Those wigwams of yours, they don’t have closets, do they?”
“What is a closet?”
She smiled.
By now they had reached his village, peopled by about fifty men, women, and children. While the women offered to beat Kathy Ann for him, Stalking Wolf declined their invitation. He didn’t protest when they tied her to a tree, though. Neither did Kathy Ann, since she was out in the open.
She rather liked the idea that he would go to lengths to make certain she didn’t leave. He was quite a man, that Stalking Wolf. Everything would be great, if only his cohorts wouldn’t make some sort of cat-eye soup out of Electra.
Skylla and Braxton sat on the ground, facing the ashes of a campfire and opposite the young Comanche chief. With a dozen armed braves flanking Stalking Wolf, Skylla shivered, both fascinated and repulsed. Even though Braxton had sworn these were orderly people who wouldn’t make war without provocation—Skylla cast a glance at her trussed sister, who hadn’t provoked an abduction—this was a savage place.
Half-dressed natives with feathers stuck in their long black-as-a-pit hair. Spears, arrows, rifles. Dead animals in various stages of evisceration. Women dismantled tepees while doing the gutting, the cooking, and keeping an eye on the children. A young brave, scars where his eyes had been, beat a strange tune on a drum made of leather. As well, Skylla noticed a particular piglet, no doubt the one stolen in July.
Braxton and Stalking Wolf spoke in the Indians’ tongue and shared the smoke from a long clay pipe. He seemed right at home, her husband. Wasn’t that natural? He’d lived among the heathen and had married one. His mastery of the Indian culture gave Skylla a dash of confidence that all would be well.
Still, despite her confidence in Braxton, it was unsettling to be here. Antebellum Biloxi, this was not. Biloxi. Her skin crawled. If she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget the night vigilantes—many a “friend” of long standing—hanged her father. What was more savage?
Braxton held the pipe aloft to study the smoke that rose toward the heavens. A devilish smile eased across the angles of his face as he eyed his wife. “You must feel left out, since we haven’t passed the pipe. We can’t share such a tasty smoke. Tribal customs, you see. Ladies don’t smoke peace pipes.”
“Women aren’t allowed a voice in peace? We’re only meant to keep it. How very modern,” she added dryly. “How very civilized.”
“Would you mind if we speak English?” Braxton asked the warrior chieftain. “My wife feels left out.”
“You respect your woman’s wisdom and counsel? That is good for a white man. I didn’t know such was done in your society.” Stalking Wolf nodded at Skylla. “Comanche men know the Great Spirit makes women wise and clever.”
Braxton took another drag from the pipe. “This I know. I learned your customs when I lived among your brothers in the direction of the rising sun. I am Yellow Hair of Good Medicine of the band of the great chief, Night Fire.”
“Ah.” Stalking Wolf smiled, showing strong straight teeth. “Night Fire’s drums told of a white man. A holy man. That was many moons in the past. Night Fire went to the happy hunting ground two winters ago.”
Holy man?
A tiny Indian girl with hazel eyes wandered over to stand by the chief, but a gray-haired woman took the girl’s hand to lead her away before Skylla could hold her arms out to the tyke.
“My first daughter, Eyes Like A Leaf,” Stalking Wolf said. “Do you have papooses, lady?”
Skylla shook her head. “No, sir, we don’t. We were married just last night.”
He nodded and tapped more tobacco into the pipe. “Last night. You may have a papoose on the way.”
While Skylla blushed, Braxton looked as if he’d swallowed a frog. It hurt her that he had been reminded of his sterility.
He said, “We have a gift for the children.”
“Cake.” Skylla lifted the rectangular tin.
Stalking Wolf smiled. “They will like it.”
“I want some, too!” Kathy Ann shouted.
Skylla expected to hand the treat out, but a wizened woman took over the task. It would have been nice, getting close to the children. And to Kathy Ann. Skylla wished for a private word with her sister. All she could do was smile in Kathy Ann’s direction and pray the girl was okay.
The children were now gathered around the older woman, who must have understood Kathy Ann, for she fed the captive a slice of cake. Conversation between the men turned to great buffalo hunts of yesteryears, then they lamented the dwindling herd. Next, they discussed the lack of rain and a goodly many other lackings. Truth be known, Skylla had grown restless with small talk. She wanted to poke Braxton in the ribs and say, Hurry, please. I want my sister out of here.
It seemed forever before Braxton said, “Stalking Wolf, you have my roan.”
“I do.”
“I want him back.”
“That I cannot do.” Stalking Wolf planted a hand on his knee, leaning forward. “The white man called St. Clair stole horses from my people. I saw that the debt was repaid.”
Braxton mumbled something under his breath. He then took another drag from the pipe. The smoke curled skyward. “I wonder . . . did you know the Army has returned to this area? And the law has been installed, as well. Is this why you are breaking camp?”
From the look on the chief’s face, Stalking Wolf hadn’t known.
“It’s my guess then,” Braxton said, sending his wife into a cold chill, “you intend to keep the blonde.”
“That is my plan.”
“This woman you hold is the sister of my wife. We are here to take her home.”
The Indian shrugged a shoulder. “Sun In Her Hair pleases this chief of the Comanche people. I will provide her home.”
Braxton handed the pipe to the chief. “She needs to finish her education.”
“I will teach her what is important.”
Skylla spoke. “Sir, she isn’t of marriageable age.”
Stalking Wolf glanced at Kathy Ann, who watched with mute interest. Swiveling his eyes to Skylla, he asked, “How many summers is she?”
“Fifteen.”
“That is old enough.” The Indian took some sort of amulet from around his neck; it looked like a long fang. “She will be my only wife. You may take this in payment for her.”
“A charm for a healthy girl such as the sister of my wife? You place her value too low. And you insult her family.”
Stalking Wolf stood and took three steps away from the dormant campfire, then retraced his path. “I will give you the roan. I will give you a buffalo hide for your marriage pallet. I will promise not to raid the land you call the Nickel Dime.”
“That is a generous offer. But we cannot accept.”
“What do you want for her?”
“We won’t barter for her.”
As if he hadn’t heard, the chief repeated, “What do you want for her? I am willing to give whatever you ask.”
“Kathy Ann is not for sale or trade.”
The Indian’s eyes turned hard.
“On the other hand,” Braxton said evenly, “my wife and I offer you many riches for the white girl’s release.”
He reached into his pocket, throwing a handful of golden coins and brilliant blue topaz stones on the ground in front Stalking Wolf. Skylla gawked at the bonanza, then gave a mental, “Oh, no.” They had abandoned the treasure chest in the open light of the dining room! Would they return home
to nothing?
Braxton straightened, drawing her attention. “I won’t ask for our horse. And I will give you a barrel of firewater.”
“Firewater?” echoed the braves, all understanding this white man’s word. They took an eager step toward the offerer.
“No!”
Everyone went still at the chief’s shout. He bent to slash the heel of his hand along the ground and send the riches flying. His face hard as granite, he looked up and said through gritted teeth, “I will have Sun in Her Hair.”
His braves moved forward, their weapons pointed and their faces tight with menace and enmity. A frisson of fear went up Skylla’s spine. Braxton had been wrong—very wrong! He didn’t know the best ways to negotiate with this savage beast. No white person would leave here today. Not alive.
Eighteen
Skylla steeled herself for imminent death.
The braves, their spears pointed, shouted a war cry and lunged for her and Braxton. A certain tranquillity came over her, as if God were cushioning the blow. She had one terrible thought, and it had nothing to do with a fortune possibly lost. She’d never told Braxton she loved him.
He, meanwhile, had hurtled to his feet. Ready to take a spear for his wife, he jumped in front of her. In a voice that rumbled through the Indian village this autumn afternoon, he shouted something in the Comanche tongue.
The warriors froze, then raised their war lances. They backed away, wary, and glanced at one another. Their chief folded his arms over his broad, bronzed chest.
“You cannot do that.” Stalking Wolf glared at Braxton. “You cannot bring the dead back to life.”
“If Yellow Hair of Good Medicine can perform this miracle, shouldn’t an honorable chief of the Comanche people be honored to free the miracle maker?” Braxton’s arms were set akimbo. “Surely he would allow that miracle maker to take what he requires from this village, including his women. ”
Stalking Wolf met all this with a scowl.
Braxton continued. “Surely that great and noble chief would keep his distance from the miracle maker, his land, and his possessions. And he would not seek repayment for any more debts made by Titus St. Clair.” Receiving nothing in reply, he added, “Naturally, the miracle maker feels obliged to gift the great chief with wampum.”