“Too hot for all these clothes,” he told his horse. Again he wondered if this, too, was the Indian in him. He liked being free of too many clothes, hated when he had to wear regular trousers and shirts, and especially hated wearing suits and hard shoes. The sun was white and hot, but he liked the feel of it on his dark skin, and it didn’t seem to damage his skin the way it did some white people.
He grinned then, realizing he had thought in terms of “white people,” as though they were suddenly some kind of enemy. Their life was the only kind of life he had ever known, and he loved his white family and their white friends who had accepted him and liked him. He realized being out here alone in the country where he had been born was having an effect on him. On his way out here he had not given it a lot of thought because he had a job to do for his father. But now he was finally going to find out something about his past, if he was lucky, and going back to his roots was doing something to him, somehow bringing out certain instincts he usually tried to ignore.
He mounted up. “Let’s go, boy,” he said softly to his horse. He headed west at a gentle trot, then urged his horse into a faster lope, covering the next twenty miles in less than two hours. He decided he had better make the home station well ahead of the stage so he could water his horse and leave again before the stage arrived. That way he could continue to stay ahead of it and watch for trouble. After the incident in town the day before, he didn’t want Jennifer Andrews to think he was following her.
Suddenly the big gelding that carried him spilled forward without warning, whinnying in one long screech as its right shoulder slammed to the ground, catching Wade’s right ankle beneath it for just a moment before the rest of his body was pitched to the side. The force of the fall gave Wade enough momentum that his foot was torn from under the horse, and he rolled and tumbled for several feet before a large boulder stopped him with a jolt.
Wade lay still for a moment, taking a quick mental inventory of his physical condition and regaining his breath from the hard fall. He was an excellent horseman, another natural ability that came from being related to the best horsemen on the Plains. The fall surprised him, as he had never been thrown before, except by a few broncs he had broken for his father’s horse trading business. The big buckskin was one of the family’s best, most sure-footed mounts, but now the animal still lay on its side, snorting and whinnying as though in pain, its legs flailing, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling back as it strained to catch sight of its master.
Wade got to his knees, shaking off dust and gravel. He moved his arms, discovering his right shoulder was sore. He slowly got to his feet, his right ankle giving him fierce pain. He looked down at it, lifting his buckskin legging to see the skin scraped away from the outer ankle bone and blood seeping through the skin, which was caked with dirt and tiny, embedded stones. He gently flexed his foot, deciding nothing was broken but not doubting the ankle would be bruised and damn sore for a few days.
He limped over to the horse, noticing a small but deep hole in the hard-caked earth, one of those freak accidents of nature waiting to make trouble for horse and man.
“Damn,” Wade muttered. It was something a horse might ride over a hundred times without hitting the hole just right. “I should have kept to the stage trail like I did on the way out here,” he added, in the habit of talking to his horse as though it understood him.
He realized then that Miss Jennifer Andrews had again inadvertently gotten him into trouble. He had figured that it would be easier to spot robbers or Indians if he stayed off the beaten path and kept to the surrounding rocks and gulleys.
He knelt down beside the horse, reaching out to pet its head and neck, calming the animal with a gentle voice. “Let’s have a look, boy,” he told the animal, moving his hand down to its right leg. He grimaced, realizing he didn’t have to feel the leg to know it was broken, much too badly to have any hope of healing. Besides, in this country, the slightest malady was cause to shoot a horse. There was no stall, no facilities or medicines out here to treat an animal, let alone scarcely a handful of grass to feed the animal.
Pain was so evident in the horse’s eyes that it tore at Wade’s heart. He sighed deeply, realizing in an instant what he had to do. It had all happened so fast that it seemed unreal. Wade rose and looked ahead, wondering how far it was yet to the home station. He turned and knelt beside the horse again, pulling his repeating rifle from its boot on the saddle. He had to yank hard, since the gun barrel was caught under the horse. With a heavy heart he cocked the rifle, a lump coming to his throat.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he told the horse. “Pa will hate hearing about this. He’s always figured you one of our best.” He knelt down once more and petted the animal’s neck, realizing it would be much more cruel to let the animal live. It didn’t take a man who knew horses long to realize this one would never get up again. He took a deep breath, rising and aiming the rifle. With great effort he pulled the trigger. A hole opened up in the horse’s skull, and the animal stopped its struggling.
Wade ignored the grief he was feeling, realizing time was important. His only hope of survival now was to reach the home station, and reach it before the stage coach left in the morning. So far the coach was still behind him, but he had a few miles to cover on foot. He only hoped his ankle was not hurt too badly to walk the distance. Carrying his saddle and gear on his back would not help, especially in this heat.
With considerable effort he managed to get everything off the dead horse, then cursed the hole and his luck as he rose and rigged everything together in such a way that he could slip his arms through the rope ties and carry it all on his back. Sweat was already beginning to pour from his face and chest as he started out, limping toward the direction of the home station, refusing to look back at the dead horse that had become like a friend to him on this trip. He only hoped he could find another horse at the home station.
As the hot, dusty journey progressed, Jennifer soon realized that in spite of their dirty appearance, most men in these parts seemed to have a high respect for proper young women, and she soon lost her fear of the seven men with whom she shared the coach. So far they showed her nothing but politeness, in spite of the way some of them smelled; and they had saved their smoking for the swing station, just as they had promised. The only one who made her a little uncomfortable was the one called Buck, who seemed to stare at her more than the others.
Now the coach clattered toward the home station, as the sun began to sink behind western hills. The coach grew quiet for a while, as the monotonous swaying and rhythmic clattering of wheels took their toll on tired passengers. Jennifer was amazed at the tenacity of old Nick Elliott, who could take no rest. All through the journey she could hear his “git up’s”, hear the snapping of his whip. Driving a stage could not be an easy task, and a driver was in for ten- to fourteen-hour stints with reins pulling at his calloused hands, the hot sun pouring down on him. She wondered if a statement one of the men had made earlier was true—that some drivers literally slept while driving, their keen alertness waking them whenever the horses strayed or danger lay ahead.
“These teams know this road backward and forward,” Adam Hughes had said. But to Jennifer that fact didn’t lessen the importance of the driver, who risked his hide daily against the elements, outlaws, and Indians, let alone possible breakdowns or trouble with one of the horses. The man who rode shotgun had an equally responsible job, for he would be the first to put his life on the line in case of trouble, and he had to stay awake and alert. She realized she didn’t even know the name of the second man above, yet her very fate could depend on him.
It was 10 P.M. when the coach finally rattled in to the home station, which with disappointment Jennifer could see was nothing more than a log and sod shanty, with a corral of horses beside it. Smoke drifted from an iron stovepipe, and she could smell something that resembled food. She could only pray it would be edible.
“Let’s go,” came Nick’s voice from outside. He opened the do
or, and Jennifer stepped out first, letting him take her arm as she climbed down. Every joint and muscle felt stiff and sore, and she wondered how she was going to survive four more days of this, let alone the dirty way stations and the questionable food she was forced to put into her stomach at ridiculous prices. “Privy’s in the back,” Nick was saying. “Might as well let the lady use it first.”
“It’s gettin’ dark. I’m just gonna go behind the shed,” Buck answered, heading in the direction of an outbuilding.
“Suit yourself,” Nick answered. “There’s food inside, but only three cots. You men decide among yourselves which two of you gets a cot, since the lady here will get one of them with no argument. The rest of you can sleep in bedrolls outside or on the floor inside, or in the coach, whatever you prefer.”
“I can sleep in the coach,” Jennifer spoke up quickly. “It isn’t fair that I get all the privileges.”
“Fair or not, that’s the way it is for our lady passengers,” Nick told her. “I won’t have it no other way. Go on with you now.”
Jennifer made her way past the crude building where she would spend the night, her heart sinking now with every mile, wondering what life was going to be like at the fort. Was everyone right when they told her it was no place for a woman? It seemed everyone she had told had got a look on his face as though she had announced her doom. The kindness and personality of Sergeant Anthony Enders was beginning to look more and more important to her finding any kind of happiness in this lonely land. Her courage was waning, but her determination made up for it.
Before entering the privy she scanned the horizon, seeing nothing for miles on end, except for low mountains to the distant west—mountains infested with savage renegades, according to the men on the coach. But then Wade Morrow was one of those dark-skinned people, and he wasn’t savage at all. She wondered if stories about the Comanche could have been exaggerated. She went inside and quickly took care of her needs, not caring to spend any longer in the smelly outhouse than necessary. When she exited, she looked around again, trying to get a grasp on reality, for she had never seen such country and had no idea it could be so big. Somewhere out there lay Fort Stockton and a stranger she had promised to marry. Never had she felt so alone.
She moved her eyes in a circle, looking east then. For a moment she thought she saw the figure of a man walking, so far away she couldn’t begin to guess the distance. The figure disappeared into what she figured must be a dip between hills, although from here the land looked perfectly flat. She decided perhaps she hadn’t seen him at all, that her eyes were playing tricks on her.
The sky was getting darker, and after hearing tales of Comanche raids she decided she didn’t like being even this far from other people. She hurried back to the cabin, realizing that in spite of its primitive lodgings, it at least made her feel safer.
Chapter Seven
Jennifer managed to choke down a piece of tough venison and two eggs that were, surprisingly, cooked just right. She caught sight of mold on her hard biscuit and took only one bite, washing the food down with the strongest coffee she had ever drunk. She felt like crying at having to spend over a dollar on such an unsatisfying meal, but she had no choice. She only hoped it would be enough to tide her over until the next evening’s course, since she was not about to dish out more money on breakfast in the morning if the food was going to be as bad as this.
The air inside the small cabin was stuffy, and the food lay in her stomach like a rock. She walked back outside to get a breath of fresh air, and noticed the men were all watching something and talking among themselves. She turned her eyes to the same direction, again seeing a figure walking; and she realized what she had seen earlier had not been a mirage after all. He was a tall man, and it looked as though he was carrying a saddle and all his gear. He walked with a limp, and as he came closer she could see he wore buckskin leggings but no shirt, and his hair was long and dark, pulled back behind his neck. Her heart raced unexpectedly when she realized the man was Wade Morrow.
“It’s a damn Indian,” Larry Buchanan, the horsetrader, remarked.
“What the hell,” Hank Griffith muttered. “Hey, Nick, get out here,” he shouted louder. Will Perry walked to the cabin to get the driver outside, and Jennifer hung back near the door, watching in curiosity. Nick came outside, and as the figure came even closer in the deep dusk light he recognized the man.
“It’s that Wade Morrow—the one that had a run-in with some folks back in San Antonio over—” He didn’t finish, and Jennifer realized the man had quickly decided not to bring her name into the picture.
“Wade Morrow? That’s a white man’s name, but that’s no white man,” Buck spoke up. “That’s a damn Indian—has the look of Comanche about him at that.”
Again Jennifer felt sorrow at the words, realizing Wade was close enough to have heard the remark. The man kept his eyes on Nick Elliott as he came even closer. He nodded. “Mr. Elliott.”
Nick nodded. “Looks like you had a run-in with some bad luck, mister.”
“You might say that.” Wade unloaded his gear, and Jennifer dropped her eyes, feeling awkward at setting eyes on a man’s bare chest. But she could not help glancing at him again in fascination, thinking how muscled and broad-shouldered the man was. “My horse took a bad fall, broke its right leg pretty bad. I had to shoot him. That was about four miles back,” Wade explained.
“He talks like a regular white man,” Buck spoke up in a near sneer.
Wade met his eyes, holding them proudly before looking back at Nick. “I was on my way to Fort Stockton,” he told the man. Jennifer felt her heart pound even harder at the words. “I need a horse, but the ones they keep at these stations aren’t much fit for riding. I figured I’d find something better at the fort, so I walked here hoping I’d catch you before you leave out again. I’d like to ride along, if it’s all right. I can pay.”
“We can’t have an Indian riding our coach,” Buck argued, stepping closer. “Think of the young lady we’ve got along. She doesn’t want a damn redskin in the same coach with her.”
Jennifer thought to speak up, then decided against it. If Nick had kept her name out of it to begin with, he apparently had good reason.
“I’ll ride on top,” Wade was saying, casting angry looks at Buck. He looked back at Nick. “I’m good with a rifle, and I’ve scouted for my father’s supply trains for years in country just like this. I can be a big help in case of trouble.”
Nick scratched at his beard. “Well, that’s a thought.”
“He’s an Indian,” Lou Huston broke in, walking closer himself. “You can’t trust an Indian, Nick. Hell, he might have others waitin’ for us farther ahead—him ready to kill us all right on the spot and take that pretty little woman over there off with him.”
Wade rolled his eyes and turned away for a moment. It was obvious he was fighting to control his temper, and Jennifer stepped farther into the shadow of the doorway, afraid her presence might only embarrass him more.
“Mister, I’m as civilized as you are,” Wade was telling Buck and Lou then. “Probably more. You ever been to college in the East?”
“What?”
“Well I have. I was raised in an atmosphere as white as your own, and my white adoptive father owns the biggest supply business between here and San Diego. I’m on my way back from doing business for him in San Antonio.” He looked at Nick. “You’ve heard of Lester Morrow—Morrow Freighting Services?”
Nick nodded. “I have. I know all about it from last night.”
“What about last night?” Buck had his hands on his hips in an authoritative gesture. “You said somethin’ about him havin’ a run-in with some folks in San Antonio. Anybody knows Indians are trouble, Nick.” He raised his eyes to meet Wade’s blue ones. “Breeds are even worse.”
Jennifer was amazed at Wade’s continued ability to refrain from punching the cowhand.
“This one is all right,” Nick answered the man. “The trouble was made by
somebody else, not by him. And I might add he had every reason and opportunity to kill the man that gave him the trouble, but he didn’t do it. Hell, Buck, you can tell from the way he talks he ain’t like no ordinary Indian, and I know about his pa—one of the most honest, successful men in California.”
“I won’t travel with an Indian,” Buck complained, turning his back on Wade. The others all stood and stared.
“I’m not too crazy about it myself,” his friend Lou put in.
“All right now, look,” Nick said, turning to face them all. “This man is educated and he’s part owner of a wealthy trading line. He’s as civilized as any of you, and by God if he says he’s good with a gun, I reckon he is. If he rode shotgun for his pa and has scouted for him, he’s a damn good man to have along, Indian or not. The rest of you better think about the fact that we’re ridin’ into more dangerous country now, and we’ve got a woman along to boot. The more men we’ve got, the better.”
“And if Indians attack us, is he gonna really draw a bead on them—his own kin,” Buck said sarcastically.
“Of course I would,” Wade answered for himself. “I might be part Comanche, but my eyes are blue, mister, and those Indians don’t know me from Adam. I’d be in just as much danger as the rest of you. Besides, I’m only going as far as Fort Stockton. That’s only three more days, four at the most. If the rest of you are going farther, you’ll be rid of me. And I’ll ride up top where you don’t have to associate with me, if that’s so hard for you to stomach.”
“He seems all right to me,” Adam Hughes spoke up. “Nick is right. We can use an extra man where we’re headed. It’s obvious he’s no ordinary Indian. Let him hitch a ride with us. I don’t mind.”
Comanche Sunset Page 10
