Mouth of Hell (The Law Wranglers Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  "I don't think they're looking very hard, or they would have caught up with you by now. You were smart to come this way. Their main worry would be that you were headed back to get the army. If they decided you didn't go that way, they might have lost interest a little quicker . . . but you never know with those devils. We'll keep an eye out. You know where we're at?"

  "Somewhere on the Staked Plains, but that's the best I can do."

  "We're on the southern tip of Palo Duro Canyon. It stretches for miles northwest from here and gets wider as you follow the creek. Grass and water. I'm fixing to stake out a big cow ranch here. The Comanche wars are about over, and I'm scouting out the canyon. This is the Comanche's favorite stomping grounds, but they've been hit by the army in the canyons several times recently, so I don't think they'd be moving the main body this way right now. If they do we'll beat the hell out of here."

  "You're the Charles Goodnight who served with the Texas Rangers, I assume."

  "One and the same. Spent a lot of years tracking and fighting Comanche. Sorry to say it was our troop that recovered Quanah's mother, Cynthia Parker, and took her back to her family. Thought we was doing good. Woman died of a broken heart, they say . . . never accepted the birthing family. She'd turned wild, and her real family, except for the daughter that came with her, was out here on the plains living in tipis."

  White Wolf suddenly felt very sleepy, and his eyelids fluttered as they struggled to stay open.

  Goodnight evidently noticed. "Get some rest, Oliver. We need to get you eating, and I'll have some venison steaks and biscuits and coffee ready in a few hours."

  40

  Tabitha and She Who Speaks had gone to the creek to bathe. Modesty was apparently not a part of the Comanche culture because this early morning many females of all ages and a few old men and small boys stood naked in the cool, clear water. She Who Speaks had already shrugged off her buckskin dress and, unencumbered by undergarments, stepped into the water. Tabitha hesitated for only a few moments before she began to disrobe, peeling off her boots and stockings, and then her trousers and shirt and, finally, her underthings, before she picked her way a bit timidly toward the water.

  As she walked, she noticed all eyes were upon her, and she supposed she was something of a curiosity, although her natural, lightly-bronzed skin was only a shade lighter than that of some of the Comanche women. It occurred to her that a fair number of those, including the famous war chief, Quanah, were not pure bloods, and that the Comanche people's skins came in many hues of brownness. Several, presumably women who were originally brought to the band as captive children, had near ivory skin inside the tan lines left by their garments. She could not help but notice that She Who Speaks was not nearly as dark-skinned as her tanned face and arms might suggest. That, of course, would explain her proficiency in the English language. She would not have been an infant captive in that event.

  After four days in the Comanche village, she knew little about She Who Speaks, and the woman was a formidable challenge to a reporter's inquisitive mind. Most of Tabitha's questions were met with stony silence. After the first day, her hostess's conversation had been limited to terse instructions. She was not cruel but was decidedly distant. Tabitha finally concluded she was to speak only when spoken to, so she switched to her powers of observation, making brief notes that would have been understood by no other person on the paper that had surprisingly been salvaged for her. She was baffled by why she had been accorded that privilege, but she was not going to 'look a gift horse in the mouth,' as her father always said.

  Within limits she had been allowed to move about the village, and yesterday she had caught a glimpse of the three buffalo soldiers huddled together on the ground in a corner of the camp. It did not appear that further harm had come to them, and she was grateful for that.

  Tabitha stepped upon the rocky creek bank, her feet tender to the sharp shards of stone. The bath had energized her and she found the thought of pulling on her filthy clothes, which she had worn for better than a week now, revolted her. She decided to abandon the under garments until she was given the opportunity to wash them. She wondered what kind of a wardrobe Comanche women maintained and if She Who Speaks would be amenable to sharing. She decided at that moment she would focus on acquiring the skills required for day-to-day Comanche life, even if she had to kill a buffalo and eat the liver raw, as Cal had once told her Comanche hunters did.

  The prairie air had dried her flesh by the time she returned to her pile of clothing, where she encountered a naked Kwahadi woman holding up her cut-off cotton knickers and examining them with curiosity. She was quite young and pretty, although rather thick-set, and she looked at Tabitha and smiled. Tabitha smiled back and plucked her chemise from the pile and displayed it to her first friend. She slipped it over her head and pulled it down to her hips and twirled. Her friend laughed, and Tabitha pulled the garment off and handed it to the young woman. She pointed to the knickers and the chemise, touched her chest, and extended her hand, hoping she would understand Tabitha was making a gift. She obviously got the message because she beamed with obvious joy before scampering away. Tabitha turned and her eyes met those of She Who Speaks, who had evidently been watching the exchange. She nodded approvingly with faint traces of a smile on her lips.

  After they returned to the tipi, Tabitha asked if she might gather some wood for the cooking fire. She Who Speaks studied her with apparent suspicion for several moments before nodding assent. While combing the banks of the creek for dead branches she saw Flying Crow and a half dozen small Comanche boys chasing a rabbit with their makeshift spears and lances. It appeared the rabbit would win this chase, but it brought to mind White Wolf's aborted rescue. She knew the army scout had been injured by the boy's attack, and she hoped it had not been seriously. She was confident that he had not been captured, as she would likely know about this. His death was another matter. It saddened her that his act of courage had been wasted, and it pained her that she had not been able to explain her reasons for remaining, but most certainly her chances of meeting death during the escape were greater than her remaining put. But it would make no sense to White Wolf.

  She still marveled at Flying Crow's instinctive and vicious attack on the intruder in their tipi. Were all Comanche boys such young warriors? She would like to learn about this and these people. In her brief stay, to her surprise, she had found that The People were not the animals some whites claimed them to be. They loved and hated. They could be cruel and kind. They worked constantly at carrying out the tasks of daily life and survival. But they were human, just people set in a different culture. The thought had been nagging at her that she would like to tell their story, especially the tale of their last days as the rulers of the plains.

  Watching the boys, as she moved upstream, she caught a glimpse of Flying Crow again, racing her way at the front of the pack, the rusty tint of his hair gleaming like copper in the sun. That's when it struck her. Something about the boy, besides his hostility, had been nagging at her. How could she have been so blind? His green-flecked brown eyes. The hair bleached lighter by the summer sun, but distinctively rusty at its roots. At that moment she was certain she was watching her nephew, Michael Levi Rivers, at play. The realization took her breath away, and she stopped and let herself down on a slab of protruding limestone to sit and collect her wits for a moment. Her new knowledge had to be dealt with carefully. She had a hunch her life could depend upon it.

  She returned to their tipi with an armload of scrub wood and put it down next to the little fire pit outside. She ducked into the tipi and found She Who Speaks sitting off to one side, seemingly absorbed in serious thought, not even acknowledging Tabitha's appearance. Tabitha decided it was best to leave and give the woman her privacy and started to quietly back out of the tipi opening.

  "Wait," She Who Speaks said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It is time for us to talk."

  "I would like that," Tabitha replied, reversing her course and moving in
to the tipi and clearing a spot for herself on a buffalo robe. As she sat down, she noticed a small, folded pile of deerskin garments with a pair of moccasins on top within arm's reach.

  "Those are for you. The moccasins are a gift from Doe Watcher. The other items were mine. They are yours now. They are well-worn but will serve their purpose, and I would guess they should fit adequately. You will seem much less a freak to the band if you abandon your own clothes for the time being."

  "Thank you. But, Doe Watcher, who is she? Why would she give me the moccasins?" She took the moccasins from the stack and ran the tips of her fingers over them. "They are beautiful and so soft."

  "Doe Watcher is the proud recipient of you dirty under garments. She brought the moccasins to the tipi in appreciation. She is known for her fine work with skins of all kinds, but moccasins are her specialty, I guess you would call it. She makes moccasins for many in the band in exchange for meat and hides and other necessities. Her husband is lazy and has not even taken a second wife because she supports him so well."

  "I will have to find her and thank her."

  "She will be easy enough to find. She passes through the village wearing nothing but your gifts, stretched to their limits, I fear."

  Tabitha smiled at the image that formed in her mind. "I'm glad they please her."

  "They do, but now to more serious business. Some decisions must be made about your future."

  "I don't think I'm in a position to make a decision. The Comanche are making my decisions for me."

  "That is true to a point. You are not free to leave. You may choose to die if you insist upon leaving, or you may choose to live as you are now if I tell Quanah you are remaining as my woman, so to speak."

  "And, of course, there are conditions."

  "Yes. You will not try to escape. And you will not agree to ransom. You will stay with the Comanche until the wars are over and the Kwahadi agree to go to the reservation."

  "That might be years."

  "Possibly, but not likely. Some of the chiefs have illusions they are fighting for a way of life. Quanah and a few others believe they are fighting for more favorable peace terms. He has told only a few, but he sees the end coming within a year."

  "How do you know I will keep my word?"

  "If someone negotiates your ransom, you will not leave the village alive. I have explained to Quanah this work you do as a reporter. I have also advised him it is not in the interest of the Kwahadi to have you writing stories about anything you have learned during your time here, including what I just told you."

  "What if I told you I want to stay?"

  "I would find this a very strange statement."

  "I am a writer. I am curious. I want to learn about your people . . . and about you. And then I want to write about what I have learned and experienced. There will be stories for my newspaper and, possibly, a book. I will report what I see honestly and fairly. You could help me with this work and bring a unique perspective. You are not a blood Comanche, I'm sure of it . . . and neither is your son." She knew she was taking a risk in adding the last, but if she was going to travel a road with this woman she must start with truth.

  There was a prolonged silence. She Who Speaks's eyes locked on Tabitha's as if trying to make up her mind about something. "We must have truth between us."

  "Yes. And if we do we can help each other . . . and your people."

  "I know your brother."

  That was the last thing Tabitha expected to hear. My God, what next? "I have four brothers. Which one?" Somehow, she knew the answer that was coming.

  "Joshua. He was briefly a captive at Palo Duro, along with a very beautiful and equally feisty woman."

  "That would be Jessica Chandler."

  "Yes, Jessica, that was what he called her."

  "I knew they had been captured during Erin's ransoming, but he never said anything about meeting you."

  "There would have been no reason. Our business was entirely legal. I act as Quanah's interpreter and sometime intermediary. Your brother is, in a sense, Quanah's lawyer. He was retained to ease the way to favorable peace terms. I last saw him several months ago after he was shot by some men who were following him, apparently with the objective of killing him for some reason."

  "He never explained why he was out on the Staked Plains by himself or who shot him. I just can't believe this. That is, I know you are telling me the truth. It is all more than I can comprehend at this moment. Another question then?"

  "Of course."

  "Josh doesn't know that your son is also his son, does he?"

  This time, Tabitha saw that she had set off the dynamite. She Who Speaks averted her gaze and was visibly shaken. The hand that brushed back her hair was trembling noticeably.

  "You're not making sense."

  "I'm making perfect sense. Josh's infant son was taken captive by Comanche. Michael would have been about Flying Crow's age. I take that back. He is exactly Flying Crow's age to the second of birth. Because Michael and Flying Crow are one and the same person. And obviously Josh doesn't have a clue."

  She Who Speaks seemed to regain her composure. "There is to be truth between us. First, Josh does not know. He has never seen my son. I suspected when I first saw Josh after his capture and learned he was seeking a captive boy about Flying Crow's age. I made certain Josh would not come across him in the village. I was still not certain at that time. But at our meeting after Josh was wounded, I spent more time with him and studied his features . . . especially the eyes, only slightly less so, the rust-colored hair. But the eyes are very unusual."

  "Michael had a nasty scar on his left arm. I hadn't given it a thought before I realized the truth, but Flying Crow has a scar at the same spot. This is too much for coincidence. I'm sharing a tipi with my lost nephew, and he doesn't even like me."

  "It's not that. You are one of the white eyes he has been raised to hate. As you become one of us in dress and habit, he will be less hostile. Also, to this point, he has received no signals from me as to how he should react. That will change. And he will change."

  "Does he speak any English? I have only heard him speak Comanche, but sometimes I have the feeling he understands what we are saying."

  She Who Speaks smiled. "His English is excellent, but I have not been able to teach him to read and write. Perhaps, you can help with that, and he can teach you some Comanche."

  "Sooner or later, we are going to meet up with Josh again. What happens then?"

  "He will not take my son. Ever. That much you must accept if we are to be friends."

  41

  Danna Sinclair and Marty Locke sat in the Rivers and Sinclair conference room. The room's designation at some past time had been tongue in cheek because it was about the size of a large closet with a table four feet in length and a bit over two feet in width. Four captain's chairs pressed against the walls barely allowed room for the occupants to squeeze in. One of the narrow walls, however, consisted mostly of a window that afforded ample light and some occasional air.

  "Why is this called a conference room?" Marty asked.

  Danna shrugged. "I asked Josh that one time, and he just said every law office has to have a conference room. This is ours."

  "Well, being on the west side of the building, it is cooler in the morning, and we've got a nice breeze coming in the window right now."

  Danna was impatient with small talk. "Have you learned any more about George Hatter and Judge Robinson?"

  "No. Except George is still making his visits to the judge's office. Have you noticed that George is on the nervous side lately, sort of like a hen at a mass meeting of coyotes?"

  "Are we the coyotes?"

  "Could be."

  "I'd sure like to confront him before I boot him out on his fat ass. We know he leaked our involvement with Quanah, and he's tipped somebody off about Josh's travels. But we can't prove a damn thing."

  "Keep your enemies close. Now that we know the man's not to be trusted, we just have to bypass h
im with anything important. He can still write a decent land contract and earn his pay. We'll figure this out soon."

  There was a soft tapping on the door before Linda opened it. She gently nudged a little Mexican boy in front of her. "This young gentleman has a message for Mr. Locke. He said Mr. Locke will pay him only if he delivers it personally."

  Marty fished a coin from his pocket and handed it to the boy, and the little courier produced an envelope and gave it to the lawyer. "Gracias, señor," he said, and turned and scurried down the hallway. Linda de la Cruz closed the door and followed.

  Danna lifted her brow questioningly as Marty worked the envelope open and removed the note, which seemed to be written on a little piece of scratch paper. He read it aloud. "You want to take me to lunch this noon. The Exchange. T." He shrugged. "It's from Tara."

  "And?"

  "She can be surprisingly blunt but generally not without purpose."

  "Then I gather you had better be prepared to buy her lunch. I suspect you would not find that an undue burden."

  He grinned sheepishly. "Not too undue."

  42

  Tara Cahill was already seated at a small table next to a wall in The Exchange dining room when Marty walked through the wide entryway. She signaled with a quick discrete wave, and he joined her at the table. As he sat down, Tara said, "I've ordered ham and sourdough bread sandwiches for both of us . . . with coffee and cherry pie. Ham isn't always available here, and it seemed like a nice change. I hope that's alright. You can afford this, can't you?"

  He found her mischievous smile charming, but he had enjoyed her company on several evenings since the first time, and it occurred to him he was starting to find everything about this young woman charming. He found himself making excuses to walk his own documents to the court for filing these days, and after every encounter he looked for excuses for another. He wasn't certain how she felt, though. She was very coy and kept him guessing. "I can afford lunch," he said, "and although I truly enjoy your company, I have some hope that you had an interesting reason for inviting yourself to dine with me."