by Ron Schwab
She decided she must ask the question she thought she knew the answer to. It could be important. "Tell me about your family."
Tabitha frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Tell me. Your life may depend upon it."
"That makes no sense. But all right, my father is a rancher in northeastern New Mexico. My mother was murdered by your brave Comanche warriors, along with my sister in law, whose baby was abducted by the same warriors and possibly killed. My brother, Nate, ranches with Pop. Brother Ham is a Denver banker, and Cal ranches now, too. My brother, Josh, whose wife your people murdered and whose son they stole, is a Santa Fe lawyer. Is that enough of my family history?"
She Who Speaks stared at Tabitha in disbelief. How could this be, that the Kwahadi war party could capture the sister of the lawyer who was to plead their case for favorable terms of surrender? And how would Quanah handle this when only a few like-thinking elders knew of his retention of a lawyer to assist with negotiations? She stood up. "You will remain here for now. I must speak with someone."
37
White Wolf, from the rocky rim of a wide, shallow canyon had watched as the warriors moved their horses at a slow trot down the trail that cut between the steep walls. He had made a wide circle, stopping to rest his horse and sleep for only a few hours. Early that morning he had sighted a dust cloud crawling across the plains, and he had ridden ahead and found his hiding place above what appeared to be a well-used trail, and his judgment had been vindicated.
He had easily spotted Tabitha Rivers astride her smoke-colored gelding, and the bulky buffalo sergeant stood out like a big tooth among the riders. He determined there were three captive soldiers, and he had followed the war party at some distance. As expected, the Comanche who had split off following the successful attack gradually began to return and merge into the main party until once again they formed a substantial force. White Wolf kept his distance, knowing he could help no one if he were discovered. When he saw the tipis rising and spreading over the distant landscape, he reined his stallion away and sought out a place to hide and rest and think. After following a dry creek bed he came upon some seeping springs that offered both rider and horse a water supply after some digging with his hands.
He saw no sign that anything other than a few deer had been visiting the springs, and it afforded some natural cover with a scattering of large stones and brush. The location was a good five miles from the Comanche encampment, so he decided to settle in for a spell.
White Wolf staked out the stallion and dropped the saddle near a cluster of limestone rocks near the springs. He lay down, resting his head on the saddle seat, and promptly fell asleep. A few hours later, he woke up feeling energized and clear-headed and was ready to ponder the dilemma. It would be impossible, he thought, to accomplish a recovery of all the captives. His focus would be on Tabitha. Besides, he was forced to admit, her rescue had been his obsession from the beginning. They had become good friends in the course of their journey with the army, and, for his part, he realized now his attraction went beyond friendship,
First, he had to find her location within the village. He dug into his bedroll and removed a pair of faded denim britches and pulled them on. Then he stuffed the front pockets with cartridges for his Army Colt and Winchester. He also filled his army canteen from the spring and tied a little bag of deer jerky and crumbling, dry biscuits to his belt. Then he re-staked the stallion within reach of the spring, leaving the stake loose so the animal could pull free if he should be threatened by man or beast.
He did not like the prospect of being left horseless in this godforsaken country, but he could not just ride up to the camp like a cousin stopping by for a Sunday visit. He sat down again, and leaning back against a rock, he tugged his battered hat over his forehead and dozed off again. When he awoke this time, the sun was just beginning to creep behind the western horizon. He got up and began his walk in the direction of the village. It was turning dark by the time he got near the Comanche encampment, and a few fires were providing some light, but he had not figured out yet how he was going to find Tabitha, especially if she was confined to one of the tipis. He lowered himself to the earth when he was within a quarter mile and started crab walking. After finally snaking his way on his belly to the outskirts of the village, he watched and waited, first identifying the location of the horses. He would need mounts if they were to have any chance of escape, assuming he found her. He decided that stealing a few horses was the least of their worries, and Tabitha was a superb horsewoman, as good as anyone he'd seen, man or woman. They just had to make it to the remuda.
As the evening wore on, the village started to come alive. More fires erupted and a large blaze lit up an open area near the middle of the camp. A ceremonial fire of some kind, he guessed, and he did not think it portended well for the captives. Then he spotted Tabitha weaving her way through the village, talking animatedly with a Comanche woman.
He lay still, his eyes following the movement of the women until they stopped in front of a tipi, and the Comanche woman gestured for Tabitha to enter. She did without apparent objection, and the other woman followed. A half hour later, she exited, apparently leaving Tabitha alone. This was his opportunity.
38
The meeting with Quanah had not gone well. Tabitha had reason to think her own life had been temporarily spared, but the tribal council would decide the fate of the three buffalo soldiers. At most, she had purchased a few days' time with her plea for their lives. She Who Speaks had interpreted Tabitha's words with conviction, it had seemed. Tabitha was inclined to believe the Comanche woman had been persuaded to the view that something could be gained by foregoing the usual games with the captives. Quanah, however, had been unable to grasp the concept of a newspaper and the stories that were printed there, and his voice had turned sharp and anger had flashed in his eyes as She Who Speaks pressed him on the treatment of the prisoners.
The call for a council had been a small victory that was likely to be temporary. Maybe Mackenzie's cavalry would arrive to abort the torture given enough time. She could only hope. They sat in She Who Speaks's tipi now, the striking Comanche woman quiet and pensive. During their absence, as the sun had disappeared and the sky turned dark, a little, nearly naked, boy had slipped into the tipi and taken up a station as far away from Tabitha as possible. He sat on a buffalo robe glaring at her with suspicion, his hand clutching a sturdy stick that was no more than four feet long but with one end that tapered into a wicked point.
She Who Speaks, as if only now becoming aware of the boy's presence, turned toward him and, in Comanche, spoke softly and at some length. Tabitha gathered she was giving him some kind of assurance, but the boy did not respond and kept staring at her. She supposed this was the Comanche woman's son. Did that mean there was also a husband who would be sharing the sleeping quarters? Oh, God, She Who Speaks said Quanah had agreed to permit her to stay here. Had she unknowingly become some warrior's second wife? She had read and heard of the practice of polygamy among the Indians of the Great Plains and Comanche, in particular. She finally reminded herself that she was alive with some prospects of staying that way. She would endure what she must to see this adventure through. And that was how she saw life . . . a series of adventures, all fodder for good stories and, perhaps, someday a fantastic book, or two, or more.
She Who Speaks turned to Tabitha, "This is my son, Flying Crow. I explained that you are going to be staying with us and that he is to treat you with respect."
"He seems quite excited about the prospect," Tabitha replied sarcastically.
"He will become accustomed to it."
She decided to be bold. "Will his father object?"
"His father, Four Eagles, was killed by your soldier friends and now rides with his ancestors."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"For now, you are here because I claimed you. It is my right as a widow and a counselor, so long as you do not become a problem for The People."<
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"Claimed me? What am I? Your slave?"
"You are whatever I choose you to be."
"I don't understand."
"Tribal custom dictated that I should become the fourth wife of my husband's brother when he was killed, but I chose not to . . . which was my right. Some have thought it strange that I did not choose other warriors who offered to take me and my son into their tipi. Rumors pass through the village that I am of two spirits."
"Two spirits?"
"Yes. That I would share a robe with one of my own sex."
Her words stunned Tabitha speechless.
She Who Speaks smiled for the first time since Tabitha had met her. "It is acceptable among the people, but it does not go unnoticed. Do not be concerned. I am not of two spirits. But if you choose to live, it behooves you not to discourage such thinking."
"You are one strange woman. Why are you helping me?"
"Because I think there was wisdom in your words when you suggested it might be wise to refrain from torturing and killing the captives. I would go a step further and take the buffalo soldiers to some distant place and set them free. Would that not be good public relations, as you say?"
"It would."
"And I do not find you too obnoxious. Perhaps, we can learn from each other."
"I would like to write. I had paper and pencils stuffed in my saddlebags. Do you think I could have them?"
"I see no reason why not . . . the paper and pencils, anyway, if they have not been discarded or burned. I have rarely had the opportunity to write, and I would like to refresh my skills."
"You can write?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know. You just confuse me."
"I shall explain in the days ahead, if I choose. Now I must speak with Quanah one more time, and I will see if I can determine what became of the saddle bags."
She Who Speaks got up and disappeared through the exit way, leaving Tabitha with the boy, who still watched her warily and silently.
39
White Wolf had Tabitha's tipi pinpointed, and she was alone. He decided to do the last thing the Comanche would expect. He stood up and walked into the village just as if he belonged there, carefully weaving through the tipis and dodging in another direction when he saw an approaching man or woman. He consciously walked deliberately--a man on a mission, which, of course, he was.
When he reached the tipi, after a quick survey of the camp to confirm he was unobserved, he ducked into the entrance. "Tabitha," he whispered. "Tabby, it is White Wolf. Come with me. We must hurry." He saw her shadowy figure sitting no more than six feet away and reached out his hand, and then he saw she was shaking her head from side to side.
"No," she replied. "I think I am safe here. You must leave. If they catch you they will kill you in a terrible way. Go."
"I don't understand."
"Go."
Then a terrible pain struck him beneath his shoulder blade. He grunted with agony and heard something snap as he turned to face the source. He was disbelieving when he saw the little Comanche boy facing him defiantly with a broken stick in his hand. He grabbed the stick from the boy's hand and yanked it away, pushing the boy harshly and watching him hurtle backward before he landed on his butt.
"Run. I'm not going with you," Tabitha said, "I am not going with you."
He obeyed and tore through the tipi opening, racing through the camp, noticing out of the corners of his eyes that the few who saw him just looked at him curiously. And then the boy began to scream as White Wolf broke out into the open, running faster than he had ever moved in his life, the shooting pain on the right side of his upper back excruciating but not bringing him down. But every breath felt like he was being stabbed again.
He deviated from the direct route to his stallion, fearing that he would lead pursuers to his horse. His weapons and ammunition slowed him only slightly, and he hoped the calls of a small boy would not be immediately heeded. Also, the Comanche would not know whether there were others with him and would be likely to secure the perimeters of the village before sending a war party to find out what his appearance in the camp was all about.
When he reached the seeping springs, he was glad to see that his stallion, Storm, was still there. The horse whinnied and seemed to be welcoming him. White Wolf could feel his body weakening as he saddled the big stallion and knew his shoulder would be useless in a few hours. His only hope, though, was to put distance between him and the Comanche pursuers. He decided to head northwest in the opposite direction from which he had come, thinking they might expect him to backtrack to the military encampment.
He slowly lifted himself into the saddle and headed Storm at a breakneck pace. As he rode, he finally began to collect his thoughts and appraise his situation. The pain below his shoulder shot through his upper back with every rough spot on the trail. He was fairly certain the tip of the weapon--if that was what you would call it--had broken off with the impact of the thrust and was still imbedded in his flesh, but he could not reach the object in an effort to remove it. He did not think the little lance had driven deeply enough to strike any vital organs, but this would not prevent the wound from turning putrid and ultimately kill him.
But his embarrassment stung him almost as much as the wound. He had been taken down by a Comanche boy, who was no more than five or six years old. And, worse, he had made a foolish rescue attempt of a young woman, who obviously had no particular interest in being rescued and seemed even a bit annoyed at his effort. He wondered if there were opportunities for clowns in Santa Fe. Of course, the reality was that if the Comanche did not track him down, he was going to die somewhere out on this parched prairie, and the sun and the buzzards and other scavengers would make short work of him. He would disappear without a trace he had ever inhabited the earth.
The stallion raced on for some hours before he began to wheeze and blow. White Wolf knew that he had pushed the animal too hard and eased up. The Cherokee faded in and out of semi-consciousness and clung desperately to Storm's mane, and he had only a vague awareness of the stallion slowing to a walk. When he awakened, he found himself lying on his left side and his eyes squinting against the near-blinding rays of a sun that he figured was a few hours short of high noon. He suddenly realized he was stretched out on a blanket, and his head was partially resting on his saddle. The wound below his right shoulder throbbed and ached with some ferocity, but it was not nearly as painful as his last memory of it.
"Don't move." The voice came from behind him. The voice was soft with no edge of hostility.
A lean man with a black, short-cropped, full beard stepped around him and got down on one knee facing him. "You're looking some better," he said, "but you ain't out of the woods by a long shot. You speak some English?"
"Yes, I use that more than Cherokee anymore."
"Cherokee, huh? Knew a lot of them folks when I lived in East Texas . . . most of them on the Arkansas side of the line. Good people. Didn't think you was Comanche. I'm Charlie Goodnight, by the way."
"I am called White Wolf among my people."
"And when you're not among your people?"
"I have not decided yet, but I suppose I will adopt another name for convenience to assure some of the wary I am not a total savage."
"How about Oliver? Oliver Wolf? You keep a part of your people and take on a first name that couldn't be more English. Got to be honest, I'm taking the name from my late partner and the best friend I ever had, Oliver Loving."
"I'd be honored to carry your friend's name." Goodnight, Loving. The names had a ring of familiarity. Of course, he read of their exploits and heard tales of Charles Goodnight, some of which he doubted carried much truth.
"Now, Oliver Wolf, I will tell you what I know about your visit here, and then, since I've invested some time, I hope you let me in on your part of the story so I can find out if I need to get shored up for trouble. Your big stallion wandered into my campsite just before daybreak. He scared the living shit out of me, to be hone
st with you. But he was just looking for water and didn't seem to be shy about taking up with a stranger. I got a good spot for water and shelter here. Nice spring-fed creek, some undergrowth and trees . . . spindly as they are . . . and a rock wall that at least covers my backside. You were hanging onto the animal's mane for dear life but didn't seem to know it. I gave you a little tug and you slid off like a sack of feed, taking me down to the ground with you. You're a mite too big for me to handle."
"I don't remember any of this."
"That don't surprise me none. You couldn't make a sound beyond a mumble. Anyhow, I seen you had that bloody stick in your back, so I rolled you over on your belly and yanked the damn thing out. You bled like a stuck pig for a few minutes, but I figured that was good for cleaning out the wound. The bleeding eased up after a spell, and I poured the last of my whiskey in the hole. No great loss, since I'm not much of a drinking man anyhow."
"I'm obliged to you. I'd be a dead man if we hadn't stumbled into your camp."
"You still might be. You can't tell with wounds like these. You shouldn't move any more than necessary for a few days to keep the wound from breaking open. I could of done some stitches, but a doc told me once it was better not to close up these puncture wounds. Just let them air out and heal from the inside out. You'll have a nasty scar that looks like a puckered hog's butt. I'd guess if it don't start to putrefy in the next few days, you'll likely make it. If the wound turns sour, there ain't much I can do but keep you company till it's over. That was a strange thing you had stuck in your back. How'd that come to be there, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Comanche." He gave a sheepish grin. "A five or six year old one. I think this was his lance." White Wolf told Goodnight the story of the ill-fated rescue.
"Do you think there's Comanche on your trail?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."