Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  A few days after their arrival, Orlena was busily pounding dried mulberries and strips of jerked venison together as She Who Dreams had shown her. Sweat ran down her temples and pooled between her breasts in spite of the cool fall day.

  She stopped to wipe her brow, only to see Night Wind and several other young men ride into the camp laden down with young deer and large strings of rabbits.

  As they rode through the camp, the men stopped here and there, distributing fat rabbits and large chunks of the deer carcasses to various people, mostly lone women and old men. Of all the hunters, Night Wind had the most game and gave the most away. Generosity and a sense of community permeated the village in spite of the harshness of their lives.

  Several paisano men and women, ʺtame Indiansʺ of mixed blood, were also slaves, owned by various families. Although they worked hard, none seemed abused. She wondered if they, too, had passed the test of the knife. She refused to consider what happened to captives who failed it. At least a half dozen of the younger children definitely were pure Spanish, or half‐caste, yet had been adopted into the tribe and were raised as Lipan. It had crossed her mind fleetingly that perhaps Night Wind had intended to raise Santiago that way, since it had been her brother and not she he had wanted to abduct. He had said he did not plan to kill or ransom Conalʹs son. But why? She feared to ask Night Wind about Conal. In fact, all the Lipaneven Blaise Pascalhad called him Colorado Quinn, the bloody one. They hated him for his service to the Spanish crown. Even She Who Dreamsʹ face took on a remote, expressionless mien when she heard Conalʹs name.

  When Night Wind rode up to her and slid from Warpaint, she continued grinding the meat and berries until he spoke to her. ʺWhite Crane tells me you please She Who Dreams.ʺ

  ʺWhy do you speak so seldom with her? It seems you avoid her just as the others avoid mentioning their dead relatives,ʺ she said, pausing to rub her aching back.

  He smiled, glad to have her drawn into Lipan life, but finding the custom of mother‐in‐law avoidance difficult to explain to a European. ʺAmong the Lipan, it is considered a form of respect for a son‐in‐law not to have direct dealings with his wifeʹs mother. Brothers and sisters and cousins of opposite sex also do not speak to each other. We have very strong laws against blood incestand there is no dispensation from a church that ever changes the rules.ʺ

  As he spoke, she saw a strange, haunted look flash across his face. It was such an arrestingly handsome face, stormy in anger one moment, then slashed by a blinding white smile the next. ʺI was educated by two menWhite Crane has been my Lipan father and sponsor with this, my people, now that my own band is dead. As to the other, he is a remarkable Franciscan priest, a scholar, but a man with more questions than answersmore compassion than condemnation. I have learned much of both worlds.ʺ He paused and the sad, haunted look again flashed, then vanished.

  ʺYet you would be Apache, not Spaniard, even though you have studied both,ʺ

  she said quietly, knowing that her own people would never accept a half‐caste as more than a menial, while the savages granted even those of wholly foreign blood equal rights. It rankled her sense of superiority and she disliked considering it in this new light.

  ʺYou, of course, think the Spanish way the only way,ʺ he said with a scowl.

  ʺLook around you.ʺ Across the river two women were scraping a large buffalo hide from the recent fall hunt on the plains. A young warrior, probably the husband of one of the women, was helping them lift and pull on the heavy hide.

  ʺHere men and women work together. Everyone, rich and poor, contributes.

  Daughters are as valued as sons in our society. A man does not leave his estates to a male heir, for no one owns the land. The family is everythingand each daughter stays with her family, enriching it by the husband who comes to live with them and the children they together give the family.ʹʹ

  ʺShe Who Dreams told me about your marriage customs,ʺ Orlena said stiffly. She was no wife, only a lowly slave, so lowly he would not even take her as a man takes a woman. The instant the thought surfaced, she gasped in mortification at her own admission and dropped her stone pestle into the bowl. She stood and then bolted for the trees, running swiftly as a deer in her boots and the soft doeskin clothing.

  At first, Night Wind watched her in perplexity, seeing the blur of tears in her amber eyes. He had no idea what had triggered the emotional exploison. Perhaps it was the sudden realization that Conal had never been a true father to her.

  Perhaps neither had her natural father. Feeling a stab of guilt, he rose and ran after her. She could not get far on foot in the rugged mountains.

  Then he heard horses whickering and the pounding of hoofbeats, followed by an outcry. Hoarse Bark came running across the river toward him calling out, ʺShe has taken one of White Craneʹs ponies and ridden off like a demon! I stopped the sentries from shooting her, saying she was your woman.ʺ

  With a snarled oath, Night Wind raced toward the compound, calling to Warpaint. The large black‐and‐white stallion raised his head and trotted obediently toward him. Not waiting even to place a hackamore on the piebald, he swung up and kneed him into a swift gallop in the direction Orlena had gone.

  Hoarse Bark called out, ʺI will follow with weapons and remounts.ʺ

  Dread filled Night Windʹs senses as he realized the direction Orlena had takendue south toward the rocky, uneven ground where her horse could stumble and throw her, breaking her neck. It was also the place where the caves honeycombed the earthhiding places for the spirits of mischief and evil, the Apache said, always avoiding them. Night Wind did not fear the Owl Spirit or the Coyote, but the other . . . His mind froze at the thought. He urged Warpaint on, focusing only on finding Orlena quickly.

  Orlena had been a superb rider ever since she was a small girl, sneaking off with Ignacioʹs horses, riding bareback. Later, Conal had lavishly indulged her with the finest Spanish barbs. When they were at home in Aranjuez, she had ridden astride with him and Santiago. Of course, this half‐wild Apache pony was a far cry from the beautifully trained horses in the Valdéz and Quinn stables. Luckily she had remembered to mount from the right as she had watched the Lipan warriors doand luckily, the first horse she grabbed for had a hackamore on and was a filly of reasonable temperament. Now, the unfamiliar countryside blurred by her as she leaned over the horseʹs neck, clinging like a burr and urging her faster.

  Tears choked her and the thorny cactus and brushy mesquite tore at her arms and legs, catching on the soft doeskin clothing. If she had worn thin cotton, she would have been bloodied by now in her headlong, reckless dash, but such thoughts were farthest from her mind as she sped south, with no destination, simply wishing to escape from Night Wind.

  The terrain grew more uneven, with sharp outcroppings of rock poking up through the brushy, high desert floor. Just then, the filly stumbled as the ground suddenly seemed to give way beneath them. Waisthigh in dense mesquite, she could see nothing but the prickly thorns and greenish browns of the vegetation as she was thrown clear of the floundering horse. The little red‐and‐white pinto cried and thrashed, backing up and regaining her footing, only to race away, leaving Orlena laying dazed and bruised in a large patch of mountain juniper.

  She was hopelessly lost in this trackless wilderness, which was doubtless filled with poisonous snakes and other deadly wildlife. Shaking her head to clear it, she struggled to her feet, pulling prickly pear spines and bits of brush from her doeskins. The filly was nowhere in sight and she was completely disoriented.

  Without thinking, she simply put one foot in front of the other, heading toward the trampled brush where the horse had stumbled.

  Suddenly the earth seemed to swallow her up. She was falling, scrambling for something to grab hold of, finally clawing some grape vines that broke her rolling, bouncing descent into the bowels of the earth. Orlena screamed, not realizing that she called out for the very man she had been fleeing.

  Night Wind heard her scream his name and the
air rushed from his chest in a painful constriction. The little filly had just raced by him, headed back toward camp. Orlena had been thrown!

  ʺIf only she had notʺ His words were cut short by another cry, echoing as if from far below. With horrifying certainty he knew she had fallen into one of the caves honeycombing the area.

  He reined in Warpaint and dismounted, his throat dry, choked with terror as he called out her name. No answer now. Taking a deep breath he called againand again, walking cautiously toward where he knew the earthʹs crust was treacherous. Unspeakable terrors lurked below.

  Orlena awakened slowly to the sound of his voice, somewhere high above her.

  She was in a dark place, covered with rocks and debris from her fall. A few thin shafts of light penetrated the gloom to reveal to her straining eyes the interior of an underground cavern. But one unlike anything she had ever read about or imagined. Slender, spiky stalactites glowed with an eerie, dim light that seemed to radiate from within them. The small tunnel she had fallen into was part of a labyrinth, with numerous openings into yet more tunnels running in every direction.

  She struggled to stand up, coughing and choking in the thick dust as she shook free of the rocks and silt from her fall. She could still hear Night Windʹs voice calling to her from a great distance and she looked upward toward the light.

  Blessed Virgin, how far had she tumbled! The dim shafts of sunlight winked like distant stars. When she took a step forward, her leg buckled beneath her, sending her to the hard rocky earth again with a hoarse cry of pain. Her legGod and all His Saints, had she broken it?

  Again Night Windʹs voice rang out, ragged and breathless, but nearer. Without a thought for why she had fled him she called out, feeling the welling scream rip from her throat.

  ʺOrlena!ʺ He was at the opening in the earth, tearing frantically at the leathery vegetation. The entrance was small. ʺOrlena?ʺ He waited, his heart hammering in his chest.

  ʺNight Wind. I am here. I have hurt my leg. I cannotʺ A gasp of pain echoed up to him.

  Frantically he looked about. No one had found his trail yet. He could not leave her there alone. But could he go down after her? Blood pounded in his head, almost blinding him with its driving fury. Sweat drenched his buckskins in spite of the cool mountain air. And he trembled like an aspen leaf in a spring storm.

  Taking a deep breath he called to her, ʺI am coming, Lioness. Only wait a moment.ʺ

  He looked over to where Warpaint stood, waiting patiently. He must only hope Hoarse Bark would be along soon and find them by sighting the well‐trained piebald. Slowly he grasped a handhold of the dry, twisted vines and wrapped them about his arm, testing their strength. ʺHow far below are you? I can see naught but blackness from here,ʺ he called out, realizing how raspy his voice must sound.

  ʺThe vines and some rock outcroppings broke my fall. It seems to be quite far. II cannot see you, only a few thin shafts of light from above. That and the light from the cave. Oh, Blessed Virgin, Night Wind, it glows in the dark down here!ʺ

  He had heard tales about the glowing rocksgreat jagged lances that grew from the ceilings and floors of these caverns. They were considered sacred, forbidden places where the Owl and Coyote spirits dwelled, perhaps the passageway to the Underground from which the First People journeyed to the earth. Night Wind no longer believed in Apache lore or religious taboos. His fear was far more immediate and palpable, born in that year of darkness and hell in the silver mines of Nueva Vizcaya.

  ʺWatch for falling rocks as I descend. Can you stay clear?ʺ he called down.

  ʺYes. I can move, just not very fast, I fear.ʺ

  She feared! Every breath rattled in and out of his lungs as he climbed into the inky depths. His hands were so wet with sweat, the vines slid through them.

  Then his footing slipped on the rocky walls of the cave and he dropped several lengths before breaking his fall. He grappled for a foothold, then clawed at the rocks with both hands as he heard the vines snap above him. Their ladder out of this hell had just given way! Clinging like a tick to the flank of a horse, he struggled to find breath as Orlena called frantically.

  ʺNight Wind, are you all right?ʺ

  He was frozen with terror, unable to answer her for several moments until he slowly won the war with his rebellious arms and legs. When the trembling subsided sufficiently for him to resume his descent, he called out, ʺI am unharmed.ʺ

  Inch by agonizing inch, he lowered himself further from the light by sheer will, focusing not on his enemyʹs hated face as he had done in the mines, but on the tawny beauty of the golden woman below. ʺOrlena, Lioness, I come for you,ʺ he whispered. When his feet finally reached the floor of the cave, she was there, clinging to him, sobbing as she wrapped her arms about his neck, molding her soft curves against his sweat‐drenched body. Orlena could feel him trembling, feel the violent, shuddering breaths that racked his lungs. It seemed that as she calmed, he became more rigid with terror, as if her fear had somehow been absorbed by his body.

  ʺNight Wind? What is wrong?ʺ Surely he did not care for her enough to be frightened that she might have died! In the weeks she had known him, ever since that first fierce bloody fight in Chihuahua, he had been a man afraid of nothing.

  But now the arrogant, ice‐cold renegade, who she knew had faced death calmly a thousand times, trembled like a schoolboy in her arms.

  Finally, taking several deep breaths, Night Wind put his arm around her and took a step into the shaft of light from above. Seeming to draw strength from the sweet fragrance that was uniquely hers, he looked at the honeycombs spread before them. Dimly glowing spikes grew from the floor and ceiling. It was as the medicine people had said. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if they were right about the evil ones supposedly dwelling there.

  The spirits had frightened him as a nine‐year‐old boy, when he was first lowered into the blackness to dig from sunrise to darkness. The Green‐Eyed Boy had been terrified of being lost in the Underworld filled with malevolent gods. But gradually, when no Owl or Coyote appeared to devour him, he came to realize that the enemy was within himself, eating at his guts, twisting them until every breath, every moment brought a far greater agony than the blows from the guardsʹ whips when they forced him to climb down into the mines. The dark underground became his demon. Still it remained inside him.

  Orlena understood that he was struggling with some hidden torment that she did not comprehend. ʺNight Wind,ʺ she spoke his name softly, feeling his hold about her waist tighten. Her leg throbbed wickedly, but she was otherwise unharmed. Her hands stroked the now‐familiar contours of his lean, hard body, finding him, too, unscathed but for minor cuts and scratches.

  ʺWe must get out of here,ʺ he rasped out at last, looking about for any vines or handholds on the walls ascending toward the light. ʺCan you climb if I help you?ʺ

  She gasped when she moved her injured leg. ʺI will try.ʺ

  Without releasing his hold on her, he grasped the wall beneath the opening with his free hand. Nothing. There were only a few jagged rocks, too loose and far apart to use as footholds for climbing. The vines had all broken far above them.

  With a repressed shudder, he whispered, ʺWe must wait for Hoarse Bark and the others. They will track us and find Warpaint.ʺ With a sickening wrench of dread he knew that could take hours. He might have to spend a night underground.

  But he was not alone. There was the woman.

  Odd. He should have been furious with her for running away so foolishly and blundering into this deadly mess, but her presence was his one slim link to sanity. He pulled her with him to sit on the ground in the small shaft of light from above.

  Night Wind said nothing; Orlena was afraid to speak. They huddled together in silence for what seemed an eternity. Each time the light shifted as the course of the sun arced to the west, he would follow it across the rocky cave floor.

  Emotionally and physically exhausted, Orlena lay her head against his shoulder and dozed. Suddenly, h
er head snapped up as she heard voices calling in the Lipan tongue, then in Spanish. ʺNight Wind, your friends are here!ʺ She pounded on his chest, but he seemed to be in a trance.

  Then, suddenly, a hoarse cry broke from his lips, guttural and low, like a wounded animal in unbearable pain. ʺHoarse Bark! We are here! Bring no ponies past where Warpaint stands. Watch for holes in the earth!ʺ

  Each word, each sentence seemed torn from him as he stood up, trembling at first. Gradually, he grew steadier as he heard the voices from above. He held Orlena in his arms as Hoarse Bark explained that they were braiding vines together into a stouter rope which would support their weight.

  It took hours to locate sufficient materials. All the while the others worked.

  Hoarse Bark continued to talk to Night Wind, seeming to understand that the one‐sided conversation was essential to his friend.

  Finally, the rope was lowered and Night Wind grasped it, tying it about Orlenaʹs waist. She looked at him but quickly let the protest die on her lips. The dim light striking his face reflected his implacable expression. Now his hands were firm and steady, his movements sure as he whispered, ʺHold yourself away from the sharp rocks with your arms as they raise you.ʺ Then he called out to Hoarse Bark, and she found herself being slowly pulled from the abyss.

  When she reached the entrance, the Mescaleroʹs face was black with hate as he glared at her. Saying nothing to her but continuing his words to the man below, he rapidly untied the rope and shoved her toward his two companions. One of them was the squat, ugly Broken Leg, who held her far closer against his body than necessary to prevent her possible escape.

  By the time they had Night Wind out of the cave, it was twilight, yet even in the gathering darkness she could see the glazed look of terror etched across his face.

  Silently, he nodded his thanks to the Mescalero. Some unspoken message seemed to be exchanged between the two men.