He’d gone so far as to find out her name and where she hailed from, but he hadn’t done more than that. For he’d always planned to return to Comanchería, and he didn’t fool himself that she would willingly choose to share his world.
But then Tall Bear had stolen her from her father, and that had changed everything. If he could have found her in the first days and weeks of her captivity, he had no doubt she would now be his wife, the mother of his children. But though he’d searched like a man possessed, she’d eluded his grasp.
Now he was almost afraid to find her. What if she already had a Comanche husband? What if she already had half-breed children? The worst of it was, he could imagine things no other way. He knew The People too well to hope she could have escaped that destiny.
Long Quiet unconsciously pulled the pinto to a halt. Could he take her away from her Comanche husband and children to return her to the white world? More to the point, could he tear her from a Comanche family to have her for himself? He sighed. He was ahead of himself, imagining problems when he wasn’t even sure the woman called Shadow was actually Bayleigh Stewart.
The voice of the Comanche behind him interrupted Long Quiet’s musing. “My people are to the north. If you must leave me to go another way, I will understand.”
“I am also heading north,” Long Quiet said. “I seek someone in the land of the Quohadi.”
“I am Quohadi. Whom do you seek among us? Perhaps I know him.”
Long Quiet hesitated before he replied, “An elusive Shadow.”
The Comanche tensed. At that moment the sun cracked the edge of the horizon, sending a stream of sunlight into the shiny black curls that had escaped Long Quiet’s long, thick braids.
Instantly, the wounded man slid off the pinto. He stepped forward far enough to see Long Quiet’s gray eyes in the sunlight. His tone when next he spoke was no longer friendly. “Who are you? Who sent you here?”
Long Quiet hesitated before replying with forced calmness to the sharp demand. “No man guides my footsteps. I go where I will.”
“No tabeboh, no hated white man, moves at will in Comanchería,” he spat.
Long Quiet could see the Indian was furious at the discovery that he’d become blood brother to a man who didn’t look much like a Comanche.
But I am Comanche!
It was a cry Long Quiet left unvoiced. He held back the sneer that formed in response to the Comanche’s short-lived pledge of brotherhood. He should not have been so surprised or hurt . . . yet he was. With the last bit of courtesy he could muster, Long Quiet said, “I am no tabeboh. I am of The People.”
“You will tell me more of the one you seek.”
Long Quiet could hardly contain his wrath at the Comanche’s haughty command. “When you ask in the words of a friend, I will gladly tell you what you wish to know.”
The Comanche took a deep breath that made his massive chest appear even larger. His black eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in anger until they were nothing. Before he could snarl his response, a Tonkawa arrow landed in the dirt beside his moccasined foot.
Long Quiet extended his hand to the Comanche. “Mount quickly!”
For a moment Long Quiet thought the Comanche would refuse to join him on the pinto. But the whoops of the oncoming Tonkawas prodded him the way no simple words ever could have. His disdainful expression as he grasped Long Quiet’s large, powerful hand made it clear he hadn’t forgotten his animosity, only laid it aside.
Long Quiet leaned forward and spoke in the pinto’s ear, and the pony responded by fleeing like the spring winds before a summer storm. But the gallant pony could only gallop so far with its heavy burden. Long Quiet sought a break in the landscape that would indicate a haven where they could stop and face their enemies.
“There!”
Long Quiet looked where the Comanche pointed. It wasn’t much, a dip in the terrain, but Long Quiet headed toward it. To his amazement the ground fell away as they neared the dip, creating a gully. He urged his pony down into the wash, where both he and the Comanche dismounted.
“Here, take my knife. I have my bow and arrows,” Long Quiet said.
In movements as smooth, swift, and silent as a rattler on desert sand, Long Quiet loosed four arrows from his bow, one after the other. Each one hit its target, and the odds were suddenly four to two. The startled Tonkawas retreated in the face of such a show of deadly force, screeching insults as they fled.
“They will return,” the Comanche said, eyeing Long Quiet with new respect.
“I know.”
Neither mentioned that they had only the single knife and a couple of arrows left to defend themselves. They simply looked at one another, acknowledging that each intended to fight to the death.
The Tonkawas taunted their enemies from a safe distance. “Cowardly Comanches! Why do you hide from us? It will serve no purpose. We shall wait here while your tongues dry up of thirst and the heat of the sun boils your blood. We shall wait here for you to crawl out on your bellies to us. There shall be no warriors’ deaths for you skulking coyotes! Come out now and we promise to kill you quickly.”
Long Quiet soothed his nervous pony before turning to the Comanche. “I have only enough water for a day, maybe two.”
“Your horse cannot outrun them with both of us mounted on him. We will make our escape in the dark tonight,” the Comanche responded.
“They will be waiting for us.”
“I am not afraid to die. But before the sun marches farther in the sky, we have matters to settle between us.” The Comanche clutched the knife Long Quiet had given him. His eyes glittered with malice as he turned his full attention to the other man.
“What do you know of Shadow?”
At that moment a Tonkawa brave leaped onto the Comanche’s back, his knife poised to slit the Comanche’s throat. Acting on reflex, Long Quiet put his arm in the way of the upraised knife and took the slicing jab himself.
The Comanche whirled and made short work of the Tonkawa with Long Quiet’s knife. Then he stood for a moment with his head bowed as he thought of what he owed his blood brother. “You have given my life to me yet again.”
Long Quiet turned his back on the frustrated Comanche, seeking some of the remaining linsey-woolsey in his tuna-waws with which to wrap his arm. As he worked the Comanche joined him, taking the material from Long Quiet’s hands and binding the wound for him.
“I do not understand your willingness to risk your life to save mine, haints,” the Comanche said gruffly. “I made you my brother and then did not act as a brother should. Now I find myself unable to think what I can give you that is a fitting reward.”
“I have already said no reward is necessary, but you can tell me what you know of Shadow.”
The Comanche’s guttural voice shook with emotion when he spoke. “I do not know how you have learned of Shadow, but I will take you to her, if it is still your wish, when we have escaped these Tonkawa dogs.”
“Then she exists?”
“Of course.”
“What do you know of her?”
“I am Many Horses. Shadow belongs to me.”
Chapter 3
THREE COMANCHE WOMEN SAT IN A SEMICIRCLE AT THE edge of a colorfully decorated tipi preparing the ingredients for pemmican. Red Wing shelled pecans. Singing Woman beat dried plums into a pulp. She Touches First, sister to the puhakut, the village medicine man, pounded the main ingredient, dried buffalo meat, which she then dropped into a pot on the fire to be softened. As they worked, they talked.
A short distance away, far enough that her shadow would not fall upon any of the others, a fourth woman sat by herself. She combined tallow and marrow fat with the pecans, plums, and buffalo meat prepared by the other women and stuffed the resulting pemmican into large buffalo intestine casings. Later the casings would be sealed with melted tallow to make the container of pemmican airtight, so it could be eaten months, or even years, later. As she worked, she listened.
“Many Horses ha
s been gone for two moons. He should have returned by now,” She Touches First said.
Red Wing frowned. She had good reason to be concerned because her son, and the son of Singing Woman as well, had accompanied Many Horses on his raid. “Yes, two moons is a long time,” Red Wing agreed. “I must admit I will not sleep well until my son, Eagle Feather, gives these old eyes a chance to see his face again. Do you think some ill has befallen them? Perhaps someone broke the tabu and spoke of Shadow’s presence here.”
“Surely not,” Singing Woman chided. “None would dare to risk the tabebekut. No one could survive such a curse. And Many Horses has such powerful medicine since . . . since that one came to live among us.” She paused in her work, and the lines of worry in her face deepened for a moment before she once again lifted her stone to pulp the plums. “They will surely be successful on their raid. I am eager to see what my son, He Follows the Trail, brings home for me.”
She Touches First looked from Red Wing to Singing Woman. “Perhaps Shadow has decided to take away her medicine and leave Many Horses without his puha. If some ill has befallen them, then surely she is to blame.”
Red Wing and Singing Woman shifted their glances toward the woman who sat a short distance away, but they did not look fully upon her. Such a thing was tabu. Had not the medicine man, He Decides It, told of the danger to anyone beyond Many Horses’ family who dared to speak to her or cross her path? If they were also careful not to look upon her, was that not a way to be certain her medicine could not touch them?
“Why would Shadow deny her medicine to Many Horses?” Singing Woman asked. “He provides her shelter and food and keeps her safe from those who would take her away from her home here.”
“Perhaps she does not wish to stay here,” She Touches First suggested. “Perhaps she does not care who is harmed, so long as she is free to leave.”
“I do not wish harm to anyone.”
The sound of Shadow’s voice brought a sly smile to the face of She Touches First and gaping horror to the faces of the two older women.
“It is tabu!” Red Wing gasped.
“Go! Go! Let us leave this place!” Singing Woman cried.
Red Wing and Singing Woman were gone in an instant, leaving the two younger women alone.
“It is you who should leave this place,” She Touches First said, keeping her eyes carefully averted from Shadow. “Many Horses does not need your medicine. He was a great warrior before he ever brought you here and he will be a great warrior when you are gone.”
“Why did you frighten them? Why do you call me a threat to anyone here? Why do you say I will take Many Horses’ puha from him? It was your own brother, the puhakut, who said I had powerful medicine. I tell you, I possess no special powers. How could I harm anyone?”
“I did not say you could,” She Touches First snapped. “But so long as you are in this village, Many Horses remains bound to you by the strong medicine he believes you possess. I want you gone!”
“So Many Horses will turn his eyes and his heart toward you?”
The woman called Shadow had often seen She Touches First watching Many Horses, and she had seen Many Horses watching the beautiful young sister of the puhakut. Yet they never acknowledged their interest in one another and rarely spoke unless necessary. The only explanation Shadow could find for the other woman’s antagonism was jealousy. This was the first time she’d voiced that suspicion aloud. Before she could say anything more, She Touches First rose, and after casting a backward glance full of disdain, left Shadow alone.
The woman called Shadow drew her knees up to her chest and circled them with her arms. She closed her eyes and laid her cheek upon the soft buckskin skirt that draped her knees.
When she’d first been captured by the Comanches, Bayleigh Falkirk Stewart had prepared herself to face the horrors of rape and torture and slavery and endure whatever was necessary to survive. She was, after all, her father’s daughter. Having been taught by her father how to make difficult decisions, she’d conceded, after considerable thought, that it would be better to live, even though battered and scarred, than to die.
The awful days after her capture when she’d been forced to flee with Tall Bear, and later when she’d ridden with Many Horses through the night, had been an agony of suffering. Thirst, hunger, humiliation, pain from an occasional blow; she’d suffered them all. But worst of all had been the overwhelming fear of what was to come. She tried not to think about it.
Rape.
She knew she was safe so long as the Comanches kept moving to escape anyone following them. It was when they finally stopped, when they made a campfire and settled down to relax, that she knew the time had come when she must endure or die. There would be no rescue.
Rape.
They’d untied her cramped legs from beneath her horse’s belly but left the too-tight bindings on her wrists. They’d dragged her over to a cypress tree near a river and dumped her on the grass. She’d been too weak to stand, too weak even to moan, and had lain there in the evening dampness willing it all to be over. They’d left her there while they ate. She could remember their laughter, and remembered wondering what could possibly be so funny.
Rape.
It was dark, so dark, and she was cold. But how could that be? It was warm. July. She shivered. She reached out for something warm. She found it, something soft and warm, and curled her body around it. Then something equally warm curved around her arched back. She was safe. Warm and safe. She would never allow herself to be violated. She would die first. She could hear the excitement in their guttural voices.
Rape!
Oh no! Please God, no! She couldn’t bear the shame, the horror of it all. Their voices were closer now, angry. And frightened? Of what? She forced herself upright, forced herself to open her eyes and confront her fears. The Comanches were pointing at her. She followed an accusing finger and stared with amazement at the wolf lying beside her. She turned and found another wolf stretched out on the other side and smiled at the sight of Ruffian and Rascal, two of Cricket’s pet wolves. They’d been with her when she’d been captured by Tall Bear and must have followed her. She gave each wolf a hug of welcome.
When the Comanches tried to come near her, the wolves bared their fangs and lunged, backing up to stand beside her again as soon as it was clear the Comanches would keep their distance. She saw a Comanche raise his bow and arrow to kill the beasts, but he was stopped by the war chief, Many Horses. They argued among themselves, but Many Horses would not let them harm her or the wolves. At last Ruffian and Rascal, hungry for food, left her side.
She’d been approached warily by the Comanches, but when they’d found they weren’t harmed by her touch, she’d been bound again and set on a pony. They hadn’t stopped again until they’d reached their village. What had happened when she reached the village . . . she couldn’t remember it without trembling. It had been awful.
But afterward she’d been left alone. All alone.
At first, being left alone had been a blessing. She’d feared the strange faces and strange customs, the strange foods and strange language. It had amazed her how quickly she’d adapted to all that strangeness. In fact, in a matter of weeks Bay was ready to make an overture of friendship to the Comanches who’d taken her from her home.
But no one would speak to her. No one would cross her path. And none of her efforts to change that situation made any difference. Many Horses’ mother-in-law, Cries at Night, had spoken to her, but only in Comanche, and only to teach her the tasks a Comanche woman must know to do her share of the work.
In the beginning, she’d thought it was the language that created the huge barrier between her and the people around her. But after she’d learned a little Comanche, it became apparent something else kept the villagers away from her.
That was when she’d learned of the tabu.
Quite simply, because of the incident with the wolves on the trail and what had happened when she’d first been brought to the village,
the puhakut, the village medicine man, had attributed some mystical power to her. He’d told the villagers she possessed medicine that could give strength to Many Horses—or cause him catastrophic harm. No one must interfere with her medicine, lest Many Horses be vulnerable in battle. The puhakut had declared it tabu for anyone in the village except Many Horses and his family to speak to her or even cross her path.
As if that hadn’t been enough, Many Horses had added his fearsome curse, the tabebekut, as the penalty for anyone who brought the threat of harm to her, and that included speaking of her existence to those outside the village.
Bay’s protestations, when she could finally speak the Comanche tongue, that the puhakut must be mistaken, had fallen on deaf ears. Her mystical power had remained unquestioned, and she’d remained alone. Many Horses obviously held her in some special esteem, but that role rarely included conversation that was more than one-sided. He would speak to her, but he didn’t expect, or necessarily desire, a response. There had been no one to talk to, no one with whom to share the ache she felt at being so isolated in the midst of so many.
So Bay had begun to listen. She didn’t eavesdrop by choice, nor had she ever gotten over the feeling it was wrong. And sometimes, like now, when she was faced with jealousy and resentment and fear, she wished she hadn’t listened.
“Are you asleep, Pia, Mother?”
Bay opened her eyes to a pixielike face, with large black eyes, a button nose, and a sweetly curving mouth. A tiny palm cupped her cheek, and the small face angled so the two of them could easily see into one another’s eyes.
“No. I was only resting.” Bay sat up and made a lap for the little girl to crawl into.
Bay held the three-year-old child snugly to her. How she loved this child! Many Horses’ wife, Buffalo Woman, had died in childbirth and Cries at Night had literally given the squalling infant, her grandchild, to Bay. From that moment on, in Bay’s mind and heart the child had been hers. It was caring for Little Deer that had given Bay a reason for living during the lonely days when she’d begun to doubt the importance of simply surviving.
Comanche Woman Page 3
