Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  ‘‘So much wannup. Where are you, Blue Eyes?’’ He started to lift her dress. Loretta reached behind her and caught his hand. ‘‘Wha—what’re you doin’?’’

  He lifted his head, eyes alight with teasing mischief. ‘‘I search for my woman. You are in there.’’

  ‘‘I’m not your woman yet. Have you no shame? It’s broad daylight. People might see.’’

  ‘‘They will see you are my woman.’’

  ‘‘They’ll see my drawers, that’s what they’ll see!’’

  He abandoned his hold on her skirt to run his palm up her back. ‘‘No bones. That is good.’’

  Loretta’s face flamed when she realized he was referring to the whale bones of a corset. A decent man didn’t mention such things. ‘‘You haven’t brought me Amy,’’ she reminded him. ‘‘Our bargain doesn’t start until you do.’’

  ‘‘I have spoken it. It is done.’’

  ‘‘Amy first.’’

  Before she realized what he was about to do, he swept her off her feet and put her on the horse, then leaped up behind her. Cinching an arm around her waist, he bent his head and said, ‘‘This Comanche will sure enough find her quick.’’

  Chapter 16

  WOMAN WITH MANY ROBES, ARMS LADEN with weapons, came racing from Hunter’s lodge just as Hunter reined Friend to a halt outside the doorway. Blackbird trailed behind her grandmother, dragging a bulging parfleche. Puzzled, Loretta glanced at the things Woman with Many Robes held. War axes, lances, knives. Her gaze shifted to the parfleche Blackbird hauled behind her. A bit of calico cloth poked out from beneath the flap.

  The woman and child looked flustered. Loretta felt Hunter’s body tense. He said something to his mother and slid off the horse. The woman turned and went back inside his lodge, shooing Blackbird ahead of her. A grim expression crossed Hunter’s face as he lifted Loretta from the saddle.

  Circling Hunter’s war shield, which sat on a tripod outside the lodge entrance, Loretta was filled with mounting dread. She had the feeling Hunter’s mother had been trying to remove certain items from his lodge before she arrived. When she stepped through the doorway, it took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the light.

  Woman with Many Robes and Blackbird stood to one side of the room, their faces lined with guilt. Behind them Loretta saw a tall pole laden with scalps and feathers. Her knees turned to water. She looked over her shoulder at Hunter. He moved past her, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘‘Mea,’’ he barked.

  His mother and niece skittered toward the door, throwing apologetic glances at Loretta. After they exited, Loretta stepped closer to the scalp pole . . . drawn to it with morbid fascination. The scalps were too numerous to count. She didn’t try. One would be damning enough. She studied the weaponry his mother had tried to spirit away. The parfleche probably held souvenirs Hunter had collected off his victims.

  ‘‘My mother wished to spare you sadness,’’ Hunter said huskily. ‘‘You came this day with no warning.’’

  Loretta remembered the night Aunt Rachel had visited her in the loft. Loretta had defended Hunter that night. What a fool she had been. ‘‘Why did you hide these things from me, Hunter?’’

  He stepped past her to grasp the scalp pole and jerked its tip from the ground. She knew he intended to remove the gory booty from the lodge, and she caught his wrist.

  ‘‘Please don’t. To take it away is as much a lie as saying false words.’’

  His dark eyes held hers. ‘‘Blue Eyes . . .’’

  Releasing him and pressing her hands to her waist, she spun away, sickened by the concern in his voice and so weary that she wanted to drop right where she stood. Dear God, what had she done? He was an animal, just like Aunt Rachel said. So many scalps. How many of her people had he mutilated? And she had come running to him for help.

  ‘‘You will go find Amy? That wasn’t a lie, was it?’’

  He drove the pole back into the ground with such force that the leather walls vibrated. Loretta closed her eyes. Amy. She had to control her tongue, stay calm.

  ‘‘I fight the great fight for my people. I have never made a lie of that. My mother hid these things to spare you pain.’’

  Loretta wanted to whirl on him. He had presented himself to her as a gentle man, hiding his vicious side. It had worked. She had broken a seven-year silence for him. And she had trusted him more than she ever would have believed possible.

  ‘‘Does it matter what I think?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ He circled to stand in front of her. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, ‘‘Your thoughts cannot change my face, but—’’

  Loretta cut him off. ‘‘I don’t ask that you change, Hunter. All I ask is Amy’s return.’’

  ‘‘I will bring her to you.’’

  ‘‘Nothing else matters to me.’’

  He studied her at length. ‘‘Your heart holds great love for her.’’

  ‘‘Yes. Those terrible men— She’s just a little girl. They’ve already had her for eight days. I can think of nothing else. Even in my sleep I dream about what could be happening to her, hear her calling for me. I try to find her, and I can’t.’’

  He grasped her chin, his touch deceptively gentle, as it had always been. ‘‘This night, you will sleep without dreams. I have said I will find her. Suvate, it is finished.’’

  With that, he left the lodge.

  A few minutes later he returned. After donning a pair of buckskin pants, which he pulled on while still wearing his breechcloth, he gathered his weapons, making several trips outside to his horse. When he had collected everything he needed, he sat on a fur pallet, propped a small shaving mirror on his knees, and painted his face, outlining his eyes with black graphite and striping his chin thrice with crimson.

  Loretta sat on the edge of the bed watching him. When he finished he glanced over at her. She was seeing Hunter the killer for the first time. On the one hand, he looked so fierce that he terrified her; on the other, she felt strangely reassured. Such a brutal, grimly determined man would be able to find and rescue Amy when another might fail.

  ‘‘What does the paint say?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘That this Comanche rides for war.’’

  ‘‘War?’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Santos will know by the paint that I come in anger.’’

  ‘‘Will there be a fight? Amy might get hurt.’’

  ‘‘Your Aye-mee will suffer no harm.’’ He rose and put away his paints, cleaning his hands on a swatch of cloth. Turning to face her, he said, ‘‘My brother, Warrior, and my good friend Swift Antelope will remain beside you. Their strong arms are yours.’’ He motioned for her to stand. ‘‘I take you to Warrior now. You will sleep in his lodge circle. No harm, eh?’’

  When Loretta stepped out of the lodge, she clasped Hunter’s arm. ‘‘My horse, where is he? I need to tend him, and I—I want my satchel.’’ She was afraid her mother’s comb might get stolen. ‘‘It has things I need in it.’’

  Hunter never broke stride. ‘‘Your good friend is in the meadow. Your bag is with Maiden of the Tall Grass, in her lodge.’’

  At the edge of the village, Loretta saw a group of men milling, their horses ground-tied and outfitted for travel. ‘‘Are those men going with you to find Amy?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I must hurry.’’ Hunter’s pace slowed as they approached Warrior’s lodge. Outside the doorway he drew to a complete stop and grasped Loretta’s shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘‘You will walk in Warrior’s footsteps like a woman behind her husband? Until I am beside you again.’’

  Loretta nodded, casting frightened glances into the shadowy lodge. All around her the village people went about their daily routines. She could smell meat roasting over a fire. A nearby group of women had stopped chatting and looked up from their needlework to stare at Loretta, their dark eyes lingering on her clothing. A group of children ran past, giggling and whispering behind cupped palms. Across the way a very old ma
n sat under a brush arbor, studying her with unblinking intensity.

  ‘‘Does Warrior mind my staying here? What will his wife say?’’

  ‘‘She welcomes you. It is good. Be easy, Blue Eyes. My mother is close. She will come with her spoon.’’ He steered Loretta through the doorway. ‘‘Warrior? She has come.’’

  From out of the shadows Warrior emerged, so dark of skin and hair that for a moment Loretta couldn’t discern his features. He was eating something, and before he spoke he pocketed the food in his cheek. She was relieved to see that he wore breeches and wondered if he had donned them in honor of her arrival.

  ‘‘My heart rides with you, tah-mah.’’

  Hunter moved his hands in a light caress down Loretta’s arms, then released her. ‘‘And mine remains here. Nei meadro, I am going.’’

  Loretta felt him move away from her. At the last second she turned. ‘‘Hunter—’’

  He paused in the doorway to look back at her. ‘‘It is well, Blue Eyes.’’

  She heard leather rustle behind her and knew Warrior had drawn near. So tense her neck ached, she glanced over her shoulder to find he was standing close enough to touch her. He didn’t. Instead he smiled, a gentle, reassuring smile. Outside, Loretta heard Hunter’s horse run past the lodge.

  Warrior stepped around her to the lodge door and roared something in Comanche. Seconds later a slender young woman wearing a soft doeskin skirt and brightly beaded leather overblouse slipped into the room. She bent her dark head and addressed Loretta in a silken voice.

  ‘‘My woman, Maiden of the Tall Grass, invites you to her fire,’’ Warrior translated. ‘‘You will go. I come soon.’’

  Loretta’s feet were anchored to the dirt. She was terrified of leaving Warrior’s lodge without Hunter. The woman murmured something, nervously stroking one of her long braids, her slender fingers coming to rest on the strip of ermine that bound it. After a moment she took Loretta’s hand, tugging her along.

  ‘‘Mea, go,’’ Warrior encouraged. ‘‘It is well.’’

  When Loretta stepped outside, the sunlight blinded her. She shaded her eyes, glancing around them. The Comanches here had never dared approach her when Hunter was at her side, but now he was gone. Gone. When she had decided to come here, she hadn’t thought this far ahead. Being deserted in a village full of savages was more than she had bargained for. The women here didn’t speak English. That left her with only Warrior to talk with. Warrior, with the scalps on his horse’s bridle.

  Maiden of the Tall Grass tightened her grip on Loretta’s fingers, her lovely features softening, her dark eyes filled with compassion. ‘‘Keemah, Yo-oh-hobt Pa-pi.Toquet.’’

  Loretta recognized the words. Keemah, come. Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi, yellow-hair. Toquet, it is well. Searching her mind for their word for ‘‘enemy,’’ Loretta replied, ‘‘I’m frightened. Your people are to-ho-ba-ka to me.’’

  Maiden’s cheek dimpled in a smile. ‘‘Ka to-ho-ba-ka!’’ She patted Loretta’s shoulder. ‘‘Hites.’’

  No enemy! Friend. Loretta smiled back, feeling reassured as she followed the Indian woman to a nearby tepee. Maybe she wasn’t completely alone after all. It was small comfort, but until Hunter returned it was all she had.

  Hunter reined his horse to a halt and gazed at the relentlessly flat, endless expanse of land around him. Short golden grass stretched for as far as he could see. Home. This summer, the hunting was better to the east, but even so, Hunter missed the Staked Plains, especially the safe natural fortress of the Palo Duro Canyon. Here, the Quohadie ruled the land, and all who dared enter, even the fierce Comancheros, feared them. His people were never as carefree when they were forced to camp close to the tosi tivo settlements.

  He shifted on his stallion to look back at the band of warriors who rode with him. Their horses were so weary, their heads hung. The men slouched, exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. Hunter had set a grueling pace these last few days, and it was beginning to tell.

  ‘‘Santos is here somewhere,’’ he told Old Man. ‘‘The horse dung is fresh, and this area of grass is a darker yellow from being trampled. They’ve been grazing their animals here.’’

  ‘‘So why are you stopping?’’

  ‘‘We will rest a while.’’

  Cha-na, Hog, drew his horse up beside Old Man’s. He scanned the ground quickly, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. ‘‘Why rest now? We’re almost upon them.’’

  ‘‘One more night will make little difference,’’ Hunter replied. ‘‘If there’s trouble, we should be refreshed.’’

  Old Man snorted. ‘‘You have pushed like a crazy man to get here, and now you worry about tiring us? I’m not afraid of a few Comancheros. I could take on ten of them by myself. Let’s get the girl. Then we will rest, eh?’’

  Hunter gazed at the horizon for a moment. Loretta’s voice kept whispering to him. Even in my sleep I dream about what could be happening to her, hear her calling for me. I try to find her, and I can’t.

  Hunter wasn’t sure why finding Amy had become so important to him, and he didn’t care to analyze his feelings. Was his aim to cement a bargain with a woman he had already bought? Why must he pay twice to possess her? Was her happiness so important to him that he was willing to risk his life and those of his friends to chase the shadows from her eyes? The questions were unanswerable. And troubling.

  It was bad enough that his friends sensed his urgency. They must think him boisa, becoming so obsessed over a tosi child.

  ‘‘Mea-dro, let’s go,’’ Hog pressed.

  Hunter set his jaw. He had made good choices when he had asked these men to ride with him. Not only were they loyal friends, but they asked no questions. ‘‘All right, we’ll keep going,’’ he agreed. ‘‘But on the way home, we’ll take it slower.’’

  Hog scowled. ‘‘We may have no choice. The yellow-hair will be in poor shape after being with Santos all this time.’’

  Hunter’s guts knotted. He just hoped the child was still alive.

  An hour later the group of Comanches crested a swell that looked down on Santos’s camp, situated near an underground spring. The three supply wagons, parked in a half-circle on the west side, blocked the glare of the setting sun.

  The Comancheros lay about in the scant patches of shade. Their stench, combined with that of a rotting antelope carcass and fresh horse dung, drifted on the breeze. An unnatural stillness fell over them when they spied the Comanches. One man, who had been scratching his crotch, froze with his hand clamped to his groin. Another had the short butt of a cigarette pressed to his lips. When the ember burned down to his fingers, he yelped and waved his arm. The sudden sound set the others into motion. They sprang to their feet, their voices carrying across the grassland as they yelled for their leader.

  The thirty Comanches, shoulders erect, expressions stony, slowed their horses to walks. Hunter riveted his gaze to the third wagon on his right. Something blue and white hung from the rear wheel. As he rode closer he saw it was the girl, her thin arms lashed to the spokes, head hanging to her chest. All that remained of her blue dress was the tattered skirt. The gleam of white was her skin and the remnants of her muslin chemise.

  Santos walked out to meet them, his right hand lifted, palm forward in greeting. Hunter advanced on him, his eyes glittering, his mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘‘Hi, hites,’’ Santos called, linking his forefingers in the sign of friendship. In Comanche he said, ‘‘It is good you come, my friend, El Lobo. I have many rifles and cartridges. And trinkets for your women.’’

  Hunter did not make the sign of friendship in return. He saw Santos’s eyes widen on his painted face. ‘‘We do not come to trade. You have my yellow-hair’s sister.’’

  The color washed from Santos’s swarthy features. ‘‘Your woman’s sister? No, not me. I am El Lobo’s good friend.’’

  Hunter tightened his grip on the reins. As irrational as it was to be so upset over a yellow-hair he didn’t even know, he wanted t
o kill Santos. He had come to get Amy safely away, though, and he must do that first. ‘‘I have come for her.’’

  ‘‘I swear on my mother’s grave, El Lobo, I had no idea. This is a terrible thing.’’

  Santos was doing an admirable job of acting remorseful. If it hadn’t been for his pallor, Hunter might have believed him. Hunter swung off his black. He glanced at Hog and Old Man. They knew he counted on them to guard his back. The Comancheros, their number about twenty, showed the proper respect and moved aside to let Hunter pass as he strode toward the third wagon. His chest tightened as he drew close enough to see the girl clearly.

  Rage. It hit him like a well-placed blow to his diaphragm, cutting off his air. He knotted his hands into fists and missed a step, swallowing the roar of anger that tried to crawl up his throat. This was the spirited child who had confronted him with a rifle? Her thin white arms were peppered with black-and-blue marks where cruel fingers had dug into her flesh. Her chemise had been torn away, baring her chest, and through the curtains of her tangled gold hair, her small breasts protruded, swollen and purple. Her tattered skirt rode high, and he saw that the milky skin of her inner thighs was caked with blood and dried semen.

  Hunter knelt on one knee, the toe of his moccasin nearly touching her bare foot. In the dust he could see that other men had knelt there. Many times, judging by the disturbed earth.

  ‘‘Aye-mee?’’ She didn’t stir. Hunter touched his hand to her hair, so like his woman’s. ‘‘Aye-mee, you will be awake. I have come to take you away.’’

  With a suddenness that startled him, she jerked her head up. Her huge eyes filled with stark terror. Hunter stared into their blue depths, searching for sanity. He found none. She took one look at him and began to whimper, fighting against the rope that held her suspended from the wheel. A two-inch swath of bloody-raw flesh banded each of her wrists. This clearly wasn’t the first time she had awakened to find a man in front of her.