Comanche Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “How? You’ve said yourself that I belong to you. What will stop you from using me as other white women are used by brave Comanche warriors like you?”

  “I would not take you as an animal, without thought of your feelings,” he argued, upset by the sarcasm in her voice.

  “You’re Comanche!” she spat.

  “I’m . . .”

  He would not deny what he was. But that didn’t necessarily make him inhuman or cruel. A Comanche was no more cruel than the circumstances required, even though Long Quiet would have agreed that a lifetime of war demanded a heart hardened against the pain of others.

  “Have I been unkind to you?” he challenged.

  “No. But I’m still afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  When she didn’t answer, he dropped his hands abruptly and turned away. He could not undo the awful things he well knew must have been done to her. He knew he should leave her now, proving his good intentions, but desire clouded his thinking. He turned back to her.

  “Come here,” he entreated, his voice soft, as though he were beckoning to something untamed.

  Bay came to him, but the moment his arms circled her she stiffened.

  He stifled the muttered curse that sprang to his lips and said, as much to convince himself as her, “I can wait to have you until you’ve learned to trust me.” He set her away from him and said, “I must go now and find Many Horses.”

  He walked away and left her standing there. He hadn’t offered to carry the heavy kettle of water back to the tipi of Cries at Night. She snorted. Of course not. He was a Comanche. And that was a Comanche woman’s work.

  A cloud covered the sun, and Bay shivered as a breath of wind hit the perspiration on her body, cooling her. Joining her body to that of Long Quiet appeared to be inevitable. But how soon would it happen? Tonight? Tomorrow?

  Over the past years, as hope of rescue faded, Bay had learned not to consider the future. She ignored what she was powerless to change. She turned and headed for the heavy kettle. She would live today and not worry about tonight . . . or tomorrow.

  Long Quiet found Many Horses standing at the entrance to a brush enclosure that served as a corral. Within it roamed the most magnificent chestnut stallion Long Quiet had ever seen. Long Quiet edged up beside Many Horses and watched for a moment with the other man as the foam-flecked stallion lunged from one end of the brush enclosure to the other, seeking a way of escape.

  “Hihites, Many Horses. Perhaps I should have looked at your herd before I rejected your offer,” he said with a rueful smile. “What a magnificent animal!”

  “Yes, but unfortunately he cannot be tamed.”

  “You cannot ride him?”

  “I have tried everything I know, but he will not let me stay upon his back.”

  “Would you mind if I try?”

  Many Horses arched a skeptical brow. “Of course not. But do you think you can ride a horse I cannot ride?”

  “We will never know until I try, will we?” Long Quiet replied.

  There it was again, the hint of challenge, of antagonism, that seemed always to be there between them. Both men sensed it, both regretted it, but neither was sure what, if anything, could be done to temper it. What Many Horses said next only heightened it.

  “If you can ride him, he is yours.”

  Long Quiet watched the powerful animal fighting the constraints of the trap in which he found himself and couldn’t help smiling. He felt a certain affinity for the stallion. In love with a woman he couldn’t make his own, was he not also caught in a trap from which there seemed no escape?

  “So be it,” Long Quiet said.

  Many Horses turned to look at his blood brother. “Will you try to ride him now?”

  “No. I will deal with the stallion in my own time. There are other matters of which I must speak with you. I looked for you in the tipi of the puhakut, but he said you had left already.”

  “I was no longer welcome there. I offended the puhakut by giving Shadow into your keeping without first having him make medicine to determine whether it should be done.”

  “Is there anything a brother can do to help mend the harm?” Long Quiet asked.

  Many Horses smiled. “I should have known you would offer. No. The puhakut and I have a rivalry of long standing between us. I did not even know it existed until I asked the puhakut’s sister to be my wife.”

  Long Quiet looked quickly at Many Horses. “Shadow told me you have no wife.”

  The bitter smile on Many Horses’ face spoke for itself, but he added, “No woman has agreed to be my wife.”

  Long Quiet’s astonishment kept him silent for a moment. “You are war chief of the Quohadi. What woman would not be proud to call you husband?”

  “The puhakut’s sister,” Many Horses said flatly.

  “You desire her still?”

  Many Horses nodded curtly.

  “Has she taken another warrior as her husband?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what keeps you from making her your wife?”

  “Once She Touches First and I were lovers. We swore that we would spend our lives together. Then the day came when she refused to meet me along the banks of the creek anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Many Horses was absorbed for a moment by the bit of wolf fur hanging from one of his thick braids, the symbol of Shadow’s medicine. “Because I had brought Shadow to this village.”

  “Why should that make a difference to the woman who will be your wife?”

  Many Horses’ voice evidenced his confusion. “I do not understand it myself,” he admitted. “But after I brought Shadow to the village, She Touches First would not speak with me. And when I brought ponies to her tipi, she would not accept them. I would have made her paraibo, but she refused me.”

  “Why have you not made Shadow your wife?”

  “I cannot give Shadow the place my heart holds open for another,” Many Horses replied.

  “Have you thought of stealing She Touches First?”

  “The puhakut’s sister? I am war chief of the Quohadi. I need the puhakut’s medicine to see me safely into battle. I would not dare to offend him.”

  “But now you have offended him by giving Shadow to me.” Long Quiet took a deep breath before he said, “Shall I return her to you?”

  “It would make no difference now. The damage is done. The puhakut has said he will make medicine and tell me what I must do. But I have been thinking. In anger, I told He Decides It that I would keep Shadow even at the cost of my life.

  “Perhaps I am tempting the spirits to make such a boast,” he admitted, his brow furrowing. “Perhaps the time has come that I should return the medicine Shadow brought to me. It can be easily done. I need only thank Shadow for the use of her medicine and then take this bit of wolf fur to the creek and let it be carried away. Then I will be free of both Shadow’s medicine and the tabu.”

  Long Quiet asked what was uppermost in his mind. “If you give up Shadow’s medicine, what will you do with her?”

  Many Horses frowned. “I have not yet decided that. Perhaps I will trade her back to the White-eyes. She will bring a great price.” He turned to Long Quiet. “Or perhaps you would like to keep her.”

  Long Quiet hardly believed what he was hearing. He forced himself to ask, “What about Little Deer?”

  “The child is close to Shadow. But there are others who could care for her.”

  “What of Shadow’s love for the child? She does not want to be separated from Little Deer,” Long Quiet said.

  “That may be so, but after all, she is only a woman. She will do as she is told.”

  Long Quiet wasn’t sure what he was feeling at that moment. Excitement. There was the chance Bay would be his after all. Sorrow. When she became his, she would lose her child. Anticipation. He would fill her life with love and give her other children so she would have no time for despair over the one she’d lost.

  “It is time to search for the
buffalo. When we find them, we can plan the hunt. Will you come with me, haints?”

  Many Horses’ words drew Long Quiet from his reverie. “Yes, I will come,” he said.

  Long Quiet spent the rest of the day with Many Horses, combing the surrounding territory for signs of buffalo. They would need to find the herd before they could commence the fall hunt. His eyes were on the ground, but what he saw were visions of himself entwined with Shadow. He tried to imagine how she would accept the idea of living with him in his Penateka Comanche village. Then he wondered how those in his village would accept her. He tried not to think about how his grandfather, who hated all White-eyes, would react, concentrating instead on a picture of Shadow round with child. Then he pictured her with a papoose on her back and her belly swollen with a second child.

  He fought the smile he felt forming on his face. It would not be wise to test the spirits by accepting this gift of happiness before it had been offered. He must be patient. He must wait for events to unfold in their own natural time. He could not rush headlong into the future. It would come to him when the Great Spirit willed it so. His teeth clenched over a groan. He prayed for Many Horses to make his decision soon. He had only a few weeks before he was to meet Creed in Laredo.

  Long Quiet contemplated sending a message to Creed that he’d found Bay Stewart and couldn’t come. But he thought of Cricket, heavy with child, and knew he could not do it.

  He would have to trust in the Great Spirit to make all things come aright. He fixed his gaze once again on the prairie around him and forced himself to see grass.

  Chapter 7

  IT WAS NEARLY SUNSET BEFORE LONG QUIET SAW BAY again. He found her sitting on a grassy knoll that overlooked the plain where Many Horses’ large herd of ponies grazed. She held Little Deer snuggled deep in her lap and was talking and laughing with the child. A speckled buff and black hound lolled beside Bay, its nose resting on her knee. A breeze that smelled of horses ruffled Little Deer’s cropped hair, and as Long Quiet watched, Bay tenderly brushed an errant raven strand away from the girl’s eyes.

  Bay’s hands were constantly moving on the child, but Long Quiet felt sure she was unaware of how often she touched. A quick grasp of little fingers, the rub along a slender shoulder, a knuckle across a petal-smooth cheek . . . his loins tightened at the thought of having her touch him so freely.

  She hadn’t noticed him, so he stood silently, letting the mellow sound of her voice flow over him, caressing him where her hands did not.

  Slowly, her words began to make sense to him. She was telling the story of how his friend Jarrett Creed had met Bay’s sister, Cricket. He’d heard Creed’s side of the tale. Now he cocked an ear, eager to hear what she said.

  “. . . he was a big man, but that did not scare Cricket. She liked to wrestle and she was sure she would win.”

  Little Deer giggled. “Oh, Pia, a woman cannot wrestle with a man.”

  Bay smiled, a curve of full lips, a flash of white teeth, and Long Quiet felt his body’s avid response.

  “Cricket could,” she answered the little girl. “And she did. But this man was different from any Cricket had ever met, and not so easily beaten. When I came upon them at the pond, Cricket was lying atop Creed, bound to him by his strong arms. His hand covered her mouth to keep her from calling to her wolves, which were feasting nearby on a fallen stag.”

  The little girl’s eyes widened. “Wolves?”

  “Yes, wolves.” Bay kissed the tip of Little Deer’s nose. “They were Cricket’s pets, and very friendly.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I waited and waited, hoping Cricket would win the wrestling contest. But they remained locked in one another’s arms. So I took my bow and arrow—”

  “Oh, Pia!” Little Deer interrupted, giggling. “You had a bow and arrow?”

  “Can you not see me with a bow and arrow?”

  Little Deer crowed with delight at the thought.

  “I suppose it is funny to imagine it now,” Bay said wryly, “but at the time I was not laughing. I approached them with an arrow nocked in my bow and demanded that the stranger take his hands off my sister.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He warned me that if I shot at him, I might hit Cricket.” Bay laughed ruefully. “Of course he could have no way of knowing he was right. I could not often hit the mark with my bow and arrow. But I knew that if I did not help Cricket, she might be hurt. So I stood my ground, and at last he released her. Then we marched him home to Three Oaks, to answer for the stolen horses he had in his possession.”

  “You were very brave, Pia.”

  “No, only very scared,” Bay replied.

  Long Quiet resisted the urge to correct Bay. Why did she make so little of what she’d done? He knew from Creed’s account of the incident that if it hadn’t been for Bay’s interference, Creed would never have been taken prisoner. His friend had described Bay as frightened but determined to force Creed’s surrender. He was distracted from his thoughts by Little Deer’s next question.

  “Can I have a pet wolf?”

  “What would poor old Stewpot think if you replaced him with a sleek gray wolf?”

  At the sound of his name, the hound lifted his head from Bay’s knee and thrust his wet nose into Little Deer’s lap, begging to be petted. Both of them willingly complied, and two hands, one slender, one small, stroked the speckled fur until the hound’s eyes drooped closed and he groaned in ecstasy.

  Long Quiet grinned. He’d be groaning too, he thought, if he were the object of all that loving attention from two doting females.

  “Hihites.”

  Two surprised faces turned to greet Long Quiet.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were there,” Bay said, feeling flustered. She had to fight to keep her gaze from straying from his face to his muscular chest and flat belly. Self-conscious beneath his warm gaze, she wondered whether she’d said anything in the past few moments she shouldn’t have.

  “You’ll have to show me sometime how you handle a bow and arrow,” Long Quiet said, flashing her a devilish grin.

  Bay flushed. “It would be a waste of your time. I’m not—”

  “—very good,” he finished for her. “The important thing is that you were willing to try.”

  “The important thing,” Bay contradicted, “is how good you become at what you try. My father always said good intentions don’t put food on the table. Nor will they protect you from your enemies. My sisters and I understood that and accepted it. If you think about it, no Comanche would argue with it, either. I don’t blame my father for demanding that I be skilled with weapons. I blame myself for not being able to fulfill his expectations.”

  “But you can’t expect to equal a man’s skill.”

  “My sisters did,” she retorted. Bay lifted Little Deer out of her lap. She’d been sitting for a long time, and she unbent stiffly as she rose and took Little Deer’s hand. “I must go prepare our meal now.”

  She headed for the village without looking back at Long Quiet. When Little Deer turned back and gave him a friendly wave good-bye, Bay gave the child a rather ungentle tug to get her started again.

  He debated for a moment whether to call Bay back, but he feared they would only argue more if he did, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d only meant to tease her, but it was obviously a sore subject for her, one that wouldn’t bear pressing. What other unusual demands had her father made upon her, he wondered. And what other scars did she bear as a result?

  He’d known a few men, most of them White-eyes, who used a brutal hand with their mounts, hardening the beasts’ mouths so it took more and more pain to control them—and very little provocation for the beast to revolt. He wondered how thick a skin Bay had grown in order to avoid the pain of Rip Stewart’s heavy handling. In his experience, it was rarely that a badly treated mount could ever learn to trust again. He wanted Bay to trust him. It was the first step toward the feelings he hoped she’d someday have for
him.

  He prayed it wasn’t too late to undo the damage Rip had done.

  When he arrived at the tipi that evening, Long Quiet saw that Bay had moved Little Deer’s things in with them. He could tell she expected him to object to the sleeping arrangements, but he avoided the subject. Bedtime would be soon enough for the argument he feared was inevitable.

  Bay wished she had more courage. She knew Long Quiet had seen the pallet laid out for Little Deer next to her own, yet he’d said nothing. He’d merely complimented her on the delicious meal she’d prepared and told her about his day. They could have been a Texas family sitting down to supper after a hard day working cotton. It felt so normal, and so nice. It made her wish things could always be this pleasant.

  Bay had just gathered up the wooden bowls they’d used so she could take them down to the stream and rinse them out when Long Quiet reached over to wipe a bit of stew off the edge of Little Deer’s mouth.

  “I want to see all of your pretty face,” he said with a smile.

  Little Deer smiled back shyly and reached out to touch Long Quiet’s chin. Bay held her breath, waiting to see what he’d do.

  Long Quiet sat unmoving as Little Deer’s tiny hand roamed the sharp angles of his cheeks and chin. At last her fingers twined around one of the black curls at his temple. She stretched it out straight, but when she let go it curled back up again. She laughed. “Do that to my hair.”

  Long Quiet twined a bit of her chin-length hair around his finger, then let it go and made a face of exaggerated disappointment when it immediately straightened again. “It does not stay curled like mine does.”

  “Do not be sad,” Little Deer said, shaping Long Quiet’s mouth back into a smile with her hands. “I still like you even though your hair is not straight like mine.”

  Bay’s heart skipped a beat when Long Quiet reached up to cover Little Deer’s hands with his own. He looked deeply into the girl’s eyes and replied, “That shows a generous spirit. That is a very good thing for a Comanche woman to possess.”