Comanche Sunset

by Rosanne Bittner

  Wade felt a tightness in his chest. “I know.”

  Both men left the cabin. Wade glanced at Jennifer before he climbed to the top of the coach again. He saw the hint of a grateful smile, and he didn’t mind his sore knuckles. Lou and Hank Griffith were helping Buck walk. Wade climbed up and watched, feeling a deep satisfaction at having had the opportunity to land his fists into the man.

  Buck groaned as he managed to climb into the coach, his head hanging and his clothes torn and dirty. Everyone else climbed in after him. Jennifer could feel no pity for the man as he sat holding his ribs, his face a bruised mess. It was difficult to even look at him without feeling ill. He glanced at her, his eyes ugly and threatening.

  “Keep your eyes off the woman,” Will told him.

  Jennifer looked out the window, glad the man was suffering. She would not forget last night for a long time, her face forced into the dirt, Buck’s weight on top of her. She wondered what kind of hell her uncle might have put her through by now if she had stayed in St. Louis. Her right cheek was red and scraped and still stung this morning, but not nearly as badly as it might have if she had not had Wade Morrow’s wonderful salve to put on it. Adam Hughes had accompanied her and kept watch while she washed and changed at the stream this morning, so that she wouldn’t have to wear the dirty, torn dress from the night before.

  Today she wore a blue and white serpentine-striped cotton dress with a deep lace yoke and short, gathered sleeves. Two rows of ruffles decorated the hemline, and a blue sash at her tiny waist was tied into a bow at the back. Her stomach ached for food, but she was determined to go without until supper time. Her straw bonnet was pinned neatly into her auburn hair, which was rolled and pinned in a circular design around her head.

  She wished there had been a way to press the dress, but realized with a resigned grin that it mattered little in this country whether or not one’s dress was slightly wrinkled. She also had no idea just how neatly she had managed to pin her hair, since all she had was a small personal mirror to use. She only hoped nothing would happen to this dress, since the one that had got muddied was washed and dried now, but terribly wrinkled; and now yesterday’s dress was torn and dirty. She had three more dresses along, but only one of them was nice enough to wear for her first meeting with Sergeant Enders. She wanted to look as good as possible, but her heart was growing more apprehensive and despondent with every passing mile. Her experience the night before with Buck did not help her fear of marrying a stranger.

  Again, without effort, she found her thoughts turning to Wade Morrow, and the way he had looked at her the night before, after the fight. He had seemed almost possessive, had beaten Buck nearly to death because the man had touched her. But it was more than just the fight. Although they hardly knew each other, and to be close was forbidden, she felt a kindred spirit with the man, a special attraction to him that could not be denied; and she was sure he felt the same way about her. Still, it seemed pointless to dwell on it, for the only thing they would ever have in common was this journey. Fort Stockton lay ahead—and a new life for Jennifer Andrews.

  With the snap of a whip and a shout, the stage lurched forward, Buck groaning and whining about “getting” Wade Morrow, the other men rather quiet. Will leaned forward and looked through her window, as though expecting to see something in particular, then leaned back, his hand resting on a pistol he wore at his waist. He glanced at Adam Hughes, both men exchanging a worried look before Hughes looked at Jennifer and put on a reassuring smile.

  “Just a couple more days and you’ll be delivered safely to your soldier at Fort Stockton,” the man told her.

  “Yes. That will be a relief,” she answered.

  “Sure will,” Will muttered. “For more reasons than one.”

  The ride grew hot and monotonous, and Buck slept off and on, occasionally taking a swallow of whiskey offered him by his friend, Lou, supposedly to help relieve his pain. It was not until after they left the next swing station that he seemed slightly more recovered, his eyes resting on Jennifer more often, the whiskey giving him more courage and less pain.

  “This is all your fault,” he finally grumbled threateningly to Jennifer.

  “Shut up,” Hughes told him.

  Buck kept staring at Jennifer. “She asked for it, flauntin’ herself in front of us like she does.”

  “I said to shut up.”

  Jennifer reddened deeply, and Hughes grasped Buck’s arm. “She hasn’t done a thing wrong.”

  “She doesn’t have to. It’s all in the way she looks, those pretty eyes, the way those dresses fit—”

  Hank Griffith reached over then and grabbed Buck’s shirt. “One more word and I’ll add another bruise to them you’ve already got.” His fist was clenched, and Buck was not so drunk that he didn’t realize how much another blow would hurt, or that he was in no condition to fight back. He glowered at Hank for a moment, then leaned back, pulling his hat over his face.

  Hank returned to his seat, and Jennifer wished she could find a hole to crawl into. She was suddenly self-conscious of her whole body, but also angry that just being a woman minding her own business seemed like some kind of crime to men like Buck. What were the others really thinking? She felt more lonely than ever, and she thought about the times when she would sit and embroider and talk with Aunt Esther, or help Mattie in the kitchen. Would life ever be that good again?

  She had no more time to ponder her fate, for just then the coach took a lurch forward and Nick began shouting “Git! Git up there!”

  “What the—” Sid Menden frowned, looking out the window.

  “I know these coaches make good time, but I’ve never known one to go this fast,” Adam Hughes said. “This is downright dangerous!”

  “Must be a reason,” Will put in. He took Jennifer’s arm. “Move over, Miss. Let me sit by the window.”

  “What the hell for,” Buck asked.

  “Shut up,” Will answered. “And you’d better not be too sore to use that gun.” He leaned out the window as far as he could, looking back. He moved back inside then, just as Jennifer heard an odd crack and a pinging sound at the back of the coach.

  “That was a gunshot!” Hank exclaimed.

  “There’s a band of renegades chasin’ us,” Will said calmly. He put a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “You’d better get down on the floor, Miss Andrews. It will be less dangerous, and if they get close, they won’t see there’s a woman in here.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Lou muttered, taking out his gun.

  There came another ping, and then Jennifer could hear fire being returned from above. Wade Morrow was up there, with little protection. There came more shots, and she knew Wade and Ernie were shooting at the renegades. The Indians must be getting closer! Her heart raced almost painfully, her mind already filling with tales of the horrible things Comanche did to white women. Was this to be her fate then, to be raped and murdered and scalped, to come into this land and just disappear like the wind?

  She got on her knees, kneeling in the narrow aisle between several pairs of booted feet. “Sons of bitches,” Buck was saying. “That goddamn Wade Morrow probably knew about this all along.”

  “Like hell! He’s up there risking his life for us, you damn fool,” Adam answered.

  The gunfire grew thicker then, and Jennifer stayed bent over, having no idea which man was shooting which time. She grimaced as someone stepped on her heel in an effort to get a better window position. The coach bounced and lurched dangerously, swaying back and forth, sometimes seeming to be traveling on two wheels instead of four.

  “The horses are gonna wear out pretty quick at this pace,” Will shouted above the thunder of hooves.

  “If the coach doesn’t fall apart first,” Hank answered.

  “They’re already slowing,” Adam put in. “Those bastards are catching up! This team can’t outrun Indians, especially not Comanche. They’re the best riders on the Plains.”

  “Oh, my God,” Larry Buchanan muttered. �
�There’s more up ahead. We’re riding right into them!”

  “Jesus, I don’t want to be taken alive by those bastards,” Buck almost whined. “Maybe they’d leave us alone if we gave them the woman.”

  There was a sudden silence, and Jennifer felt sick to her stomach.

  “You bastard,” Will growled. “If we didn’t need every man right now, I’d blow your brains out!”

  Jennifer could hear war whoops then, and the coach careened dangerously as above Nick tried to take a turn off the road in an effort to go around the Indians ahead. But the team was lathered and frightened now, and Nick could not control them. They headed back toward the road, leading the coach to a rock and smashing the right wheels into the boulder, causing the coach to collapse on the right side and roll. It tore away from the team at the hitch.

  Jennifer felt bodies falling against her. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, as she was nearly crushed against the right door. The stage was surrounded by war whoops and gunfire then, and she wanted to scream with fear and dread, but she told herself to remain calm.

  Outside Wade had jumped from the coach just as it went over. His head hit a rock, and he lay unconscious for several minutes while the renegades shot Nick Elliott full of arrows. Ernie Peters lay crushed under the coach, and one warrior rode up to him and quickly took his scalp. More Indians were swarming over the coach then, some falling away as men inside who could manage to get into position to shoot fired at them through the windows.

  More warriors leaped onto the coach, stabbing through the windows with lances until the firing stopped. They ripped open the door then, pulling men out and running them through with lances one at a time, taking scalps, slitting throats, ripping clothes and boots from the dead bodies.

  Jennifer was so filled with horror that she could not scream as she felt the weight on top of her getting lighter and heard begging screams from the men. She realized what must be happening, and that any moment the warriors would reach her own body.

  “No! No,” she heard Buck scream then. “Take the woman! Take the woman!”

  In spite of his hideous, cowardly actions, Jennifer still could not help feeling sorry for the man as his screams continued. Surely he was being killed slowly. She vaguely remembered reading somewhere once that when the Comanche found a cowardly captive, they took delight in killing him slowly. It seemed the article had said that they respected bravery, and she knew that was her only hope, a very faint one at that. But how was she going to keep from screaming when she felt a savage hand on her arm?

  She did not have long to wonder. Pure shock and terror were all that kept the screams from coming when she was viciously jerked from the carriage. She felt a sharp pain in her ribs and right shoulder, realizing only then that she must have been injured when all the bodies fell on her. For the moment those injuries seemed minor compared to the horror she saw when two painted warriors pulled her from the coach.

  Bodies lay strewn everywhere. Several were Indians; the rest were the nine men she had come to know, except that most were nearly unrecognizable because they were so bloody and cut up. It was mainly the clothing she recognized. Buck was tumbling around several feet away, screaming as he was jabbed repeatedly with lances.

  The two men who had pulled Jennifer from the coach dragged her then toward several others, all of them hooting and hollering at the sight of her. One grasped her hair, yanking hard on it, ripping off her hat and tearing the hair from its pins until it fell long. She forced herself not to scream, having no idea if it would do any good to try to act unafraid. Inside she wanted to die, and she prayed that if she was going to, it would be quickly.

  As gunfire and shouting rang in her ears, and her stomach churned so that she was sure she would vomit any moment, she wondered vaguely what had happened to poor Wade Morrow. The Indians ripped at her dress, tearing it away and holding it up like a prize; they began tossing her back and forth, tearing off her petticoats. She heard a gunshot, and pain ripped through her left thigh, making her crumple to the ground. She knew she had been shot, but now it all seemed to be happening in a kind of strange nightmare, but not really to her.

  Her abductors were laughing now, apparently thinking it was funny that she had been shot. She smelled smoke and realized they must have set fire to the coach. None of it mattered now. She was rolled onto her back and someone grabbed her hair. Was she going to be scalped alive, allowed to lay bleeding while they all raped her?

  In the distance Wade regained consciousness. He lay still for a moment, opening his eyes to see the destruction. He realized he had not been touched yet only because he had lain still. Perhaps they had thought him already dead. Or, because of his dark skin, maybe in the confusion they had mistaken him for one of their own.

  Whatever the reason, he was the only one left, or at least he thought at first that he was. He heard a man’s screams then, and he saw Buck being tortured in the distance. Several Indians were dancing around another body. He watched for a moment, realizing with an aching heart that it was Jennifer. He could see her white bloomers and chemise, but she was making no sound.

  He had clung to his rifle when he leaped from the coach, and now it lay nearby. He realized most of the Indians’ attention was on the two remaining captives. He cautiously reached out for his rifle. He would surely die today, but he vowed at that moment that whatever it took, he would get to Jennifer Andrews first and kill her quickly.

  He grasped the rifle then and rose up, firing the repeater several times and eliminating four of the Indians who were prepared to strip and rape Jennifer. The rest of them turned in surprise, and Wade fired again, saving his last bullet for Jennifer, who lay with blood soaking one leg and running down her face. She stared at him strangely, and Wade knew she was in shock.

  One of the warriors raised a rifle and aimed it at Wade, but another put out a hand to stop him from firing. He said something in the Comanche tongue that sounded to Wade like “Strong Spirit.”

  All of those around Jennifer suddenly quieted, staring at Wade as though he were some kind of ghost. “Wild Horse,” one of them muttered in the Comanche tongue. As Wade came closer, they all stepped back as though afraid. In the distance Buck’s screams had finally ceased. He lay in a bloody heap as the rest of the raiders walked back to the coach to loot what they could. They hesitated when they saw how their friends were watching a tall man with a rifle. They frowned, coming closer. The man looked like one of them, yet he wore the pants and boots of a white man.

  “Stay back! We go,” one of them was saying to Wade then in the Comanche tongue.

  Wade was fairly sure what the man had said, and he was confused by their abrupt change in behavior. They could easily shoot him down and finish having their way with Jennifer, but they were backing off. Several of them scrambled to pick up their dead comrades, for whenever possible the Comanche took their dead with them after a battle. A few others grabbed some of the baggage and a bottle of whiskey that lay unbroken. Those who had tortured Buck came closer, looking shocked when they saw Wade, behaving in the same manner as the others had. They quickly mounted their ponies, one of them staring at Wade and repeating the name “Wild Horse,” another saying “Bad Spirit.”

  “Tell Wild Horse! Tell Wild Horse,” said another, as he turned his horse and rode off so fast that he disappeared in seconds.

  One of the warriors again raised a rifle to Wade, but another knocked it away. “No,” he shouted in the clipped tongue of the Comanche. “If you kill him, you kill Wild Horse! We must tell him what we have seen!”

  They turned and rode off, and seconds later they were all gone. The air hung suddenly silent and heavy, the smell of blood and opened bodies stinging Wade’s nostrils. He looked around at the ugly remains, still in a mild form of shock himself, realizing that he was related to the people who had done this. Why had the warriors stared at him that way? Why had they been afraid of him? Some had said Wild Horse’s name, as though they were looking at the man when they looked at Wade.
Why was he a “strong spirit” or a “bad spirit?” An odd intuition moved through him, one he did not want to name or think about for the moment.

  You might have been a twin, his father had told him. Someone had said Wild Horse was a half-breed with blue eyes. “It couldn’t be,” he muttered. For the moment it didn’t matter. He set down his rifle and walked over to Jennifer, who watched him in wide-eyed terror as he came closer. He realized he must look like all the others to her at the moment. She clawed at him and fought him when he bent down to help her, and he had to force her arms behind her back as he knelt to his knees and pulled her tight against him.

  “It’s all right, Miss Andrews,” he told her firmly. “It’s all right. They’ve gone and we’re both still alive. I’m going to help you.”

  She kept struggling, uttering little grunts of terror, but he hung on tightly, holding her close and repeating her name until finally she quieted. He closed his eyes, secretly thanking God that she had not been raped or fully scalped. He gently released her, laying her against a clump of grass. A deep cut could be seen along the hairline of her forehead, where a warrior had started to scalp her but had stopped, probably when he had seen Wade. Whatever the reason for the spell he had had over the Comanche raiders, he was glad for it. It had saved both his and Jennifer’s lives.

  “You lie still. I’m going to help you,” he told Jennifer, his heart aching for her condition and the terror she must be feeling. He scanned her body quickly, studying the wound on her thigh and deciding it looked more like a bullet wound than lance or knife. He did not relish the thought that the bullet would have to be removed.