Comanche Sunset

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Well, I seen how she looked at you when she followed you out of the sheriff’s office. You tread lightly, Wade.” He puffed his pipe another moment. “’Course, like you said, once you reach the fort you’ll both be goin’ your separate ways. I’m not so sure this idea you’ve got of findin’ out about your real family is a very good one. You seem to be determined to look for trouble since last time I seen you.”

  Wade smoked deeply on the cigarette. “Like I said, trouble follows me whether I want it or not. I might as well walk up to it and call it out. I’m determined to see what I can find out, Sandy. I want to know why I was left behind. I could have a brother.”

  “A twin—which would mean your certain death, my boy.”

  “Maybe.” Wade smoked quietly for a moment. “But I can’t let that stop me.” He kept watching the bright star. “At any rate, you be sure to come see Pa when you’re through with your scouting job. He’ll put you to work. We’ll have a line going all the way to the Gulf by then, thanks to Mr. Strong. We’ll need more help.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Sandy stretched. He felt sorry for Wade Morrow. He was a fine, honest young man who had not chosen his lot in life. He seemed to accept his situation with stoicism and composure, a man of two worlds and belonging to neither. Sandy figured there had to be a lot of hurt deep inside a young man like that. He vaguely remembered someone telling him about some situation with a white girl a few years back, but he couldn’t remember the story and had a feeling he had better not ask. “We’d best get some sleep,” he said aloud. “You’re supposed to be out of here come mornin’.”

  “I will be,” Wade answered. He took a last drag on his cigarette, thinking again about the brave and determined Jennifer Andrews, wondering what the man she was to marry might be like. He smashed out his cigarette, angry with himself for caring, doubly angry for bothering to interfere earlier. He thought he had learned his lesson a long time ago when it came to white women. He decided he had better stick to his plans of finding an Indian wife, perhaps among the Comanche when he visited the peaceful ones. This feeling Jennifer Andrews gave him was simply a natural manly instinct to protect a young lady in need and nothing more.

  He lay back and closed his eyes, remembering another time, remembering Rebecca. A man didn’t forget that kind of hurt; and he had to be careful not to let the same thing come at him again.

  Chapter Six

  Jennifer carefully counted her money—one hundred sixty dollars left. Apprehension was building in her soul since the sheriff’s remarks, as well as Wade Morrow’s, about being careful of marrying a stranger at Fort Stockton. She was well aware of the drawbacks to such a proposal, but she had pictured Sergeant Enders as a fine, brave man.

  She wished she had more money left, and she was beginning to hate Uncle John even more for cheating her out of what should have been rightfully her property and money. If she chose not to marry Sergeant Enders, she would be stuck at Fort Stockton, which apparently was not a pleasant place, until she could earn back enough money to repay Enders. All she could do now was pray the man was all that she had expected him to be.

  She realized it would all be easier if she could concentrate on Enders and keep her thoughts away from Wade Morrow. But it was Morrow’s face that kept coming to mind, his voice, his enchanting eyes and warm smile. It was Wade Morrow who had come to her defense when he knew it was a foolish and risky thing to do. It seemed ridiculous to keep thinking about him, since she would never see him again; but she found herself wishing she could talk to him a little while—wishing he could explain more to her about places like west Texas and men like Sergeant Enders. He seemed like the kind of man who would patiently answer all her questions.

  She put her money away and looked into a mirror, pinning on her straw bonnet. She wore a soft yellow gingham dress, wishing she could press it a little but not wanting to spend the money to pay someone to do it. The room had cost her three whole dollars. She had skipped breakfast, also to save money, and she realized her dress hung a little loose. She put a hand to her thin waist, reasoning she must be losing weight from skipping so many meals. She knew she would have to eat lunch before boarding the stagecoach. The driver had warned her that from here on the trip would not be comfortable and there would be few stops. The journey from Houston to San Antonio had been rocky and dusty enough, and she wondered how much worse it could get, and what kind of people she would be forced to sit next to.

  She picked up her bags and took them to the lobby, where she left them while she went to a restaurant next door and ate a lunch of venison and eggs, with biscuits and a cup of stiff coffee, spending another dollar. She was glad that she at least felt full enough that she could probably refrain from eating again until the next day. Judging from the food and accommodations at the stop between Houston and San Antonio, she decided she was better off not eating anyway, and perhaps better off trying to sleep inside the coach or under the stars than in a vermin-infested cot. If the land west of San Antonio was even more desolate, what must the stage stops be like? The driver called such stops “home stations,” but for Jennifer, there was certainly nothing “homey” about them.

  She walked to a telegraph office, deciding to send a wire to Sergeant Enders and let him know she had got this far and should arrive in another five days. Her heart raced at meeting the man, wondering what he would expect of her, hoping she would not herself be greatly disappointed. Perhaps she was doing something very foolish, but at least it had given her a plausible reason to leave St. Louis and a story that the sheriff had believed.

  In spite of apprehension at what might lie ahead, she felt freer than she had felt in years. Thank God she would not be forced to go back to Uncle John. She had not forgotten the night he came looking for her and crawled into her bed, the terror she felt while sitting in the corner of the closet praying he wouldn’t wake up and discover she was not in the bed at all. His actions that night only verified what she had feared all along, and the thought of the huge, drunken man putting his hands on her was much more mortifying and sickening than marrying a strange soldier.

  She exited the telegraph office, looking up and down the street for a moment, secretly hoping to get another look at Wade Morrow. Surely, though, the man was already gone. The sheriff had told him to be out of town by this morning, and it was already one o’clock. The memory of how he had been treated still riled her, and she could not help feeling a lingering guilt at being responsible for his embarrassment and trouble. She hoped he was able to finish his business with Bill Strong.

  She smiled at the memory of how surprised she had been when she first heard him speak. With his dark skin and long, black hair, she had expected his words to come out in some kind of broken English, not to sound so well-spoken and educated. The man was totally intriguing. She had never met anyone like him, and she knew she would not soon forget the blue-eyed Indian who had come to her defense.

  She returned to the hotel and retrieved her bags, then proceeded to the stage station, where Nick Elliott was throwing baggage to another man perched atop the coach. “So, you’re gonna go on to Fort Stockton, are you,” the man asked. He shook his head. “It’s your life, lady, but I still say you ought to stay here or go back to Houston—or all the way home, for that matter.”

  “I am going on, Mr. Elliott. Please load my bags.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And call me Nick, remember? I’ll be the driver the whole way—all the way to California. We’ll stop at a swing station about twenty miles west of here—that’s a place where we change horses and people can get out to, uh, relieve themselves—but there’s no restin’ or eatin’.”

  Jennifer turned to board the coach. Nick took her arm to help her, and she climbed inside, sitting down in the only spot left to sit, which was next to a window. When she looked around at the other passengers, she was glad to be near a window so that she could look outside and have an excuse for not looking at the others—seven men—all of them staring at her appreciatively, some a
lmost hungrily.

  The smell inside the coach was not pleasant, as cigar and pipe smoke, as well as the odor of more than one unbathed body permeated the leather and wood confine. Jennifer was anxious for the coach to get moving so that at least some air would circulate through it. Two of the men were well dressed, perhaps businessmen headed for the biggest town west of here, which as far as she knew was a place called El Paso, about six or seven days away. She wondered if some or all of them were going all the way to California, but was not about to strike up a conversation with any of them. She nodded politely and immediately turned her attention out the window.

  The men proceeded to carry on a conversation about a possible civil war, but Jennifer could feel their eyes turning to her as they spoke. She realized that from this point on it must be very unusual to see a woman on a stagecoach, heading into wilderness.

  Several minutes later the coach finally got underway, bringing much-needed air inside. Nick snapped the whip and the horses took off as though they were in a race. The coach lurched and swayed on the thoroughbraces, bringing back the light nausea Jennifer had experienced on the first part of her journey, and the air that filtered inside was full of dust. Jennifer already wondered why she had bothered to wash and primp before leaving. The light scent of the lilac water she had splashed on was completely overwhelmed by the odor of cigars and sweat, and her face and clothes would not long stay clean.

  “Did I hear Nick say you was goin’ all the way to Fort Stockton,” one of the men finally asked her. He sat right next to her, and she had been struggling to politely keep her leg from touching his, but to no avail. The coach was simply too crowded. She glanced at him, feeling awkward at the man being so close, embarrassed that he was surely enjoying it. He wore buckskins and a beard, and his face was so crusted and lined from the western sun that it was impossible to tell his age.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m to be married there.” She hoped the news would dispel any lustful thoughts some of them might be having.

  “Well, congratulations,” another told her. “You’re a brave and loyal woman to go out there alone for your man.”

  Jennifer decided not to explain that she didn’t even know Sergeant Enders. They would only look at her with those strange, questioning eyes, their imaginations running wild. “Thank you,” she answered politely.

  “I’m Adam Hughes—on my way to San Diego on business.” The man puffed on a pipe, and Jennifer noticed he at least looked clean and well dressed. She nodded to the man.

  “Jennifer Andrews.” She was glad to at least be able to use her real name. “I’m from St. Louis.”

  “Would you like us to put out our smokes, ma’am,” the man beside her asked.

  Jennifer put a hand to her stomach. “I…I would greatly appreciate it.”

  She could not help a smile then as those with pipes and cigars quickly leaned over and tossed or tamped out their smokes outside the window. “We’ll keep the smoking to a minimum—mostly at swing stations,” the man beside her said. “By the way, I’m Will Perry—headed to an army post in New Mexico to do some scoutin’.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Perry, for thinking about the smoke.”

  “I’m Lou Huston,” a dusty, young man wearing knee-high boots and sitting across from her said then with a drawl. He tipped a wide-brimmed hat. “Me and my friend Buck here are cowhands on a big ranch in Arizona. Headed back there after drivin’ some cattle to San Antonio.” The friend called Buck sat beside Lou, a middle-aged man with a mustache and gritty features that again made it impossible to be really sure of his age. He nodded to Jennifer and she gave him a weak smile.

  “Name’s Larry Buchanan,” came a voice from the other end of the seat on which Jennifer sat. She leaned forward slightly to see a man in denim pants and a calico shirt, also wearing high, dusty boots. She wondered if anything in Texas remained clean for long, or if men and women alike just gave up trying to clean anything. “I’m a horse trader—headed for New Mexico.”

  “And I’m Hank Griffith,” came the voice of the man between Buchanan and Will Perry, who sat beside Jennifer. “Me and my partner there, Sid Menden, are going to El Paso to open a tavern.” Griffith was dressed in a neat but already-dusty suit, as was his partner, who sat directly across from Jennifer beside the cowhand Lou Huston. “We’ll be traveling a lot of miles together. Might as well know each other’s names. And don’t you worry, ma’am. We’ll all keep an eye out for you.” And on you, most of them were thinking, but they politely kept their thoughts to themselves.

  “I appreciate it,” she answered. “But I’m sure I’ll make it just fine to Fort Stockton. Thank you for putting out your smokes.”

  They all nodded and smiled, and Jennifer felt her cheeks reddening. She looked back out the window, and now that the men all knew each other’s destinations and vocations, talk turned to ranching, running taverns, and the like, with occasional turns to talk of renegade Comanche and the uneasiness they felt about the trip. She knew they were thinking about the horrible things Comanche did to white women, and the thought was heavy on her own mind.

  Wade kept scanning the wide horizon as he headed west, passing the first swing station of the stage line at a distance. He knew the stage was well behind him yet and would remain so, since it would stop at the swing station for fresh horses and sit out the night at the next home station. He was not concerned about too much danger until the coach would be a couple more days west. From then on would be the very real possibility of renegade attack, although it seemed the Indians usually saved their raids for settlements or bigger supply trains. One coach didn’t net much in the way of food and needed supplies, and the big, lumbering horses that pulled the coaches were not of great interest to the Comanche, who rode swift ponies. Still, they were horses and could be traded.

  On his way east Wade had seen little sign of Indians. Most were already on reservations farther north. What was left were adept at keeping themselves well hidden in the mountains. In the case of the Apache and Comanche, it was quite possible most of them could be in Mexico for now, continuing their ancient ritual of raiding and looting Mexican settlements.

  When he thought of the inbred lifestyle of the Indians, he wondered if they would ever be able to some day live like the white man. “Civilizing” the Native American seemed an insurmountable task. He knew that now, from his own deep instincts. Even though he had never known the Indian way of life, he had an independent spirit, a need to be free of too many restrictions, a restlessness that had made it difficult to sit through lessons, or to work within the confines of his father’s store. He much preferred scouting for the supply trains and taking on the tasks that required traveling for long distances.

  He hoped that on this trip back he would get some answers for himself. Perhaps his restlessness would be more curbed once he learned more about that mysterious half of his nature that had brought him so much hurt and ridicule as he was growing up. It was only a deep, keen pride that had helped him through the insults, and talks with his loving white parents, who had preached to him from infancy never to be ashamed, to be a proud and honest man who was strong on the inside as well as out. And he knew through their strong religious beliefs that a greater Being loved him and his Indian relatives just as much as any other race.

  A hawk flew overhead, carrying a mouse in its beak. It reminded Wade that in this lonely, desolate land the key word was survival, at any cost. That was all that was left for the renegades, but also for the border settlers, determined, stubborn people who insisted on settling the frontiers. It was an age-old cultural clash that might never be settled.

  He looked back, still seeing no stage coach in the distance. He decided he would stay ahead of it, acting as a kind of silent scout. If he caught any sign of Indians, he would warn the drivers.

  He nudged his horse forward, heading for the home station. He saw no reason not to follow basically the same route, since he and the coach were headed in the same direction. He could not quell t
he strong desire to keep Miss Jennifer Andrews from trouble, if possible. He still could not get over her courage in coming here, nor could he ignore the pity he felt for her having to go to such drastic measures just to get away from what must have been a lecherous uncle.

  Although Jennifer Andrews’ beauty and inner strength stirred forbidden desires in his soul and aroused manly instincts, he reasoned that his only interest was to protect a lovely and innocent young lady from the horrors of being captured by Comanche renegades. To allow any kind of romantic thoughts was forbidden to a man like himself. At eighteen years old he had experienced his first, very painful love for a settler’s daughter in California. He would never forget Rebecca, but he knew there would be no more white women in his life, except for the whores, who seemed to think it was exciting to sleep with an Indian. But it wasn’t that kind of physical satisfaction he wanted, not just a release of animal instincts. He wanted to feel love again, like what he had felt for Rebecca, and to feel that love returned, as she had loved him so sweetly.

  When he thought about the lessons he had learned in that area, he was still surprised at himself for defending Jennifer Andrews the way he had. He had been so determined to stay out of it. But there was something about her that he could not even name that had made him react. She was so small and pretty, and the two men who had been waiting for her seemed like vultures ready to swoop down and get her in their claws. He realized he was a lucky man. A man like himself getting involved in a white woman’s affairs in Texas could have cost him a lot more than a few minutes in a jail cell.

  He dismounted, taking his canteen from his gear and uncorking it to take a swallow. He poured some water into his hand several times, letting his horse drink from it. “We’ll find more water at the home station,” he told the big, buckskin gelding. “Maybe they’ll at least let me water you there.” He removed his leather hat and wiped sweat from his brow, then left the hat off and removed his buckskin shirt.