by Nan Ryan
Colonel Harkins silently nodded his understanding. The Comancheria—the Comanche country—was vast, stretching for hundreds of miles and including great portions of New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma and especially Texas. For centuries the Indians had been free to ride across the open reaches of the rolling prairies that were lush with grass and carved with deep creeks and flowing rivers.
Colonel Harkins finally spoke. “I know that, Chief, and I—”
“This fort sits squarely in the Comancheria, Colonel. It is you and the troopers who are on our land, not we on yours.”
Colonel Harkins looked to Double Jimmy for help. The Indian agent said softly, “We cannot turn back the clock, Shanaco, but the colonel, the major and I will do everything we can to help your People adjust to this new way of life.” He glanced at the colonel and, without asking permission, said, “Some of the horse herd—they can take their pick—will be immediately returned to the young Comanche braves.”
Shanaco nodded and swiftly moved on to another subject. “Beef issues. You will deliver our beef on the hoof and allow the men to do the slaughtering. They have to retain some semblance of independence.”
“Agreed,” said Colonel Harkins. “Now what about…?”
The meeting continued for more than an hour. When it was over, much had been discussed and determined. They all shook hands. Colonel Harkins suggested that Shanaco ride out and have a look at the cabin he was soon to occupy. Shanaco nodded, said he might do that.
Double Jimmy and Shanaco walked outside and stood for a moment on the shaded sally port. Double Jimmy reached into his breast pocket and took out the makings to build a cigarette. Shanaco leaned a muscular shoulder against a porch pilaster and gazed out over the quadrangle. The two men talked quietly for a time.
Finally Double Jimmy, blowing out a plume of smoke, said, “Well, I’m off to the agency storehouse to inventory the supply of flour and cornmeal and dried beans.”
Shanaco’s dark head swung around. “The Comanche do not like cornmeal and beans.”
Double Jimmy exhaled heavily, flicked a long ash from his cigarette. “That’s all we have to feed them with until the next beef ration arrives next week.” Quickly changing the subject, he said, “The colonel’s right. You really should ride out and have a look at the new cabin.”
Shanaco pushed away from the pilaster. The yoked, pale-blue shirt he wore stretched across his shoulders as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his dark twill trousers and rocked back on his heels.
“Maybe I will.”
“It’s a nice little place, you’ll see. You can move in in a couple of days. Shall I show you where it is?”
“Thanks. I can find it.”
Ten
Shanaco was thirsty.
He stayed where he was until Double Jimmy was out of sight, then turned and headed directly for the civilian village on the outskirts of the fort.
In minutes he climbed the steps to a wooden sidewalk that stretched the length of the false-front buildings.
He passed the undertaker’s, the Federal Land Office, the tailor’s shop. A couple of men stood outside the general mercantile store. Civilians. One was a big brawny fellow with a shaggy brown beard and blackened teeth. The other was totally bald and quite short, but muscular and strong-looking. The pair exchanged glances as Shanaco approached.
Unfazed, Shanaco walked up to them and asked, “Where can a man buy a drink of whiskey?”
The big, ugly one snorted. “A man can buy a drink in Jake’s card parlor. But you ain’t no man. You’re a mixed-blood, so you’ll just have to go thirsty.” He smiled broadly, showing his blackened teeth.
Grinning, his short companion repeated, “You ain’t no man, you’re a mixed-blood.” The pair went into spasms of guttural laughter.
Shanaco shrugged, stepped between them and walked on down the sidewalk. He stopped before the bat-wing doors of Jake’s card parlor. He stepped inside the smoky, noisy room and looked around. The place was full. Players at both billiard tables. Every seat at the half-dozen poker tables was taken. There was laughter and loud talk and the striking of billiard balls with long wooden cue sticks. The flicking of cards being dealt and the clinking of coins being tossed to the center of the tables.
One of the players at a poker table near the door, a tobacco-chewing man with bushy eyebrows and ruddy cheeks, looked up and saw Shanaco standing in the doorway. In seconds the noisy room went totally silent. A dropped pin could have been heard. Every eye was on Shanaco and every mouth was agape.
Shanaco walked through the crowded poker parlor to the very back. There he parted, then ducked through the shabby curtains covering a narrow door opening into the back room. Three men were there drinking whiskey. Shanaco went to the opposite end of the makeshift plank bar and waited until the little, nervous-looking barkeep finally came over and asked him what he wanted.
“A glass of your best bourbon,” Shanaco said.
The barkeep swallowed hard but reached for the whiskey bottle and a shot glass. Shanaco took a bill from his pants pocket and paid for the liquor. Then he stood flat-footed, tossed down the rotgut whiskey in one swallow and motioned for a fill-up. The bar-keep poured another. Shanaco drank it down. He made a face, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned to leave.
But he didn’t quite make it.
Standing in the curtained door, blocking his way, was the short, muscular fellow he’d seen outside the mercantile store. His big, beefy companion stood directly behind him, grinning.
Shanaco drew a slow breath.
He knew what was coming next. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn’t. Without a word, the shorter man stepped forward and threw a punch, landing a glancing blow to Shanaco’s left jaw. Shanaco never flinched. But the man squealed in pain and darted behind his larger companion when Shanaco’s lightning right fist connected with his nose, sending blood splashing all over his startled face and down his soiled shirtfront.
The big man shoved his bleeding friend out of harm’s way and stepped in to take over. He took a swing. Shanaco raised a defensive left, deflected the blow and clipped his opponent on the chin. He roared like a lion through his blackened teeth.
The fight spilled out into the card room. Pool sharks and poker players stopped their games to watch and cheer and place wagers. Most bet on the big, bullying man they knew well.
Willie “Big Boy” Carson was a regular around the village and everyone steered clear of him as best they could. He was as mean as a snake and had mopped the floor with more than one hapless opponent.
But there were those who had heard of the half-breed’s reputation. It was said that whether he was riding and raiding with the Comanche or living among the whites who hated him, Shanaco was fearless. He had faced death numerous times and had the battle scars to prove it. If anybody could put Big Boy Carson away, it was the reckless half-breed. So several gents took tempting odds and placed their money on Shanaco.
A wise decision.
When the brutal brawl ended, it was the beaten Willie Carson who lay on the floor, spiting blood, struggling for breath. All the half-breed had suffered was a rapidly swelling right eye. The spectators were amazed. Shanaco was in such great physical condition he wasn’t even breathing hard.
Shanaco walked out of the card parlor amid whistles and hoots and grudging applause. He went directly to the sandstone barracks where he was temporally billeted with the troopers. The quarters were deserted at this hour of the afternoon.
Shanaco stripped off his blue shirt, tossed it on his cot. He found a wash pan and filled it with water from the drinking keg against the wall. He picked up a cloth, dipped it into the water and carefully bathed his face. He leaned close to the cracked shaving mirror mounted on the wall. He frowned. His right eye was already turning purple and was swollen almost shut.
Shanaco pressed the damp cloth to his battered eye for several minutes, then looked into the mirror again. He exhaled heavily. Anyone who saw him would kn
ow he had been in a fight. And, of course, he would be labeled the troublemaker. Everyone knew it was the Indians who caused trouble on a reservation. Never the whites.
Shanaco drew on a clean white shirt, buttoned it midway down his chest and left the barracks. He walked to the stables, went inside the tack room and took his bridle down off the wall. The bridle draped over his left shoulder, he went back out, leaned his arms over the top board of the wooden corral and whistled for his stallion.
The black lifted his head, looked around, whinnied and galloped eagerly toward his master. He stuck his head over the fence and rubbed his jaw against Shanaco’s face and shoulder.
Shanaco laughed and stroked his sleek neck. “Want to take a little ride, boy?”
The black neighed his reply. Shanaco opened the corral gate and the stallion trotted out. Eschewing a saddle, Shanaco haltered the mount and swung up onto his bare back. It was a warm, sunny day and Shanaco felt fine, despite the bruised eye. A short ride was just what he needed.
Leaving the fort behind, Shanaco put the black into a fast gallop. The wind on his face felt good. Having the powerful horse between his legs felt better. He loved to ride. All Comanches loved to ride and were expert horsemen. He had learned to ride almost before he had learned to walk.
By the time he was no more than thirteen, he had ridden on raids with his father, Chief Naco, and the warriors. They had traveled hundreds of miles to execute surprise attacks against their enemies, the whites. Their prowess in battle had made them rich with captured horses. Brave warriors owned as many as two hundred horses apiece. His father, the chief, had had more than a thousand!
Shanaco smiled, recalling how tired he had been at the end of the day when they had ridden seventy or eighty miles before stopping. But he had been careful to conceal his discomfort from the warriors. Especially from his father, who seemed never to tire or to be afraid.
Shanaco drew a deep, invigorating breath of the crisp, clear air, reached up and untied the leather cord holding his hair in place. He stuffed the cord into his breast pocket. His shoulder-length hair streamed out behind him like the black’s long tail. Horse and rider were as one as they raced across the grass-covered Oklahoma prairie.
Shanaco drew rein on a low hill overlooking the newly settled Comanche encampment. He was, as always, amazed at the resilience of the People. They were going about their lives as if they had lived here forever. Their buffalo-hide tepees dotted the rolling plains and there was much activity in the camp.
Shanaco kneed the black. He rode down into the village. Laughing children dashed out to meet him and run alongside. Dogs barked and women waved. Shanaco guided the black toward a gathering of men outside a tepee. On seeing him, most of the assembled warriors nodded and smiled a greeting. A few looked at him coldly, judging him, disliking him. Most of the braves idolized him. A small minority detested him.
It had always been thus.
Shanaco dismounted, dropped the reins to the ground and joined the men. He crouched down on his heels and motioned for them to do the same. When all were crouched in a circle, Shanaco told them, in their native tongue, that he had, this very afternoon, met with the fort’s commandant, Colonel Harkins. The white leader had agreed to let them keep most of their horses. A loud cheer went up from the braves.
Shanaco stayed with the men for the next hour, listening to their complaints, promising to do what he could to make things better, informing them that ration day was but a week away when they would have a big celebration with horse races and games for the children and fresh beef to be slaughtered and roasted over open fires. An event they could all look forward to enjoying. He also reminded them that the Indian agent was a good man who had their interest at heart.
When finally Shanaco rose to his feet to leave, one of the young braves who admired him pointed up at his black eye and teased him about it. The others joined in and he left them all laughing, some with him, some at him.
The sun was beginning to slip toward the western horizon when Shanaco reached the southern edge of the reservation. Near the banks of Cache Creek sat the secluded cabin that was to be his. Shanaco’s eyes narrowed when he saw that the front door stood ajar.
Someone was inside.
Shanaco dismounted and moved closer. He whistled to alert the intruder.
Alone inside, barefoot and humming a song, Maggie Bankhead was gathering a muslin curtain onto a long brass rod. The sudden whistle startled her, causing her to jump. Eyes gone round, she dropped the curtain and went running to the door.
And found herself face-to-face with the feared half-breed, Chief Shanaco. She started to step past him. He shifted and stood in her way. They stared at each other, saying nothing. It was as though time stood still.
Snared by those strange silver eyes, one of which was discolored and swollen half shut, Maggie gazed at Shanaco. He was so large and powerfully built and they were alone way out here away from anyone. Yet she felt no fear of him. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.
His raven hair was loose. It fell to his shoulders, and a stray lock rested on his high bronzed cheekbone. His nose was straight and proud. His wide, full mouth had a cruel set to it, giving his features a satanic look. Yet he was handsome, incredibly handsome. He was dressed as a white man but was the incarnation of wild savage beauty.
Maggie was fascinated.
So was Shanaco.
Shanaco stared unblinking at the slender, pale-skinned beauty whose unbound red hair was ablaze in the dying sunlight. Her vivid blue eyes were fixed on his face. He was surprised to see that there was absolutely no hint of fear shining from their indigo depths. Only healthy curiosity and frank interest. Her nose was small and cute and turned up slightly at the tip. Her mouth was full and soft-looking, the lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. The pulse at the side of her ivory throat was beating rapidly as if she had overly exerted.
Or was overly excited.
Jolts of electricity passed between them. Both felt it. Both fought it. But not that hard.
Shanaco reached for Maggie, pushed her back inside the cottage. For a moment, Maggie struggled at arm’s length to free herself. Wordlessly Shanaco reeled her in, pulled her flush against him, wrapped a long arm around her, bent her backward, lowered his head and kissed her.
Maggie involuntarily responded to the hottest, most invasive kiss she had ever known. Her weak arms hanging at her sides, head falling back, she stood unmoving in Shanaco’s close embrace while that cruel-looking mouth slanted across hers, tasting, molding, persuading.
Her trembling lips opening beneath his, Maggie felt his sleek tongue immediately slide between her teeth to spread incredible fire. When his tongue touched and toyed with hers, the heat of the kiss spread far beyond their joined mouths.
At once Maggie became aware of the strong arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing her close against his tall, lean body. Her soft breasts were flattened against the hard plains of his broad chest, her nipples tightening and tingling from the intimate contact.
She couldn’t help herself, she lifted a hand and tangled her fingers in his silky blue-black hair and sighed. Shanaco drew her closer, deepened the kiss and urged her arm up around his neck.
For a long, thrilling minute they stood there in the dying sunlight kissing as if they were lovers too long parted. Until finally Maggie gathered her wits, realized what they were doing, anxiously pulled away and smacked Shanaco hard across his arrogant face.
“I will do all the deciding when I wish to be kissed!” she told him heatedly.
“Then you had better stay away from my cottage,” Shanaco calmly replied.
Eleven
The wolfhound hadn’t barked.
It had not occurred to her at the time, but now Maggie was puzzled by the dog’s mysterious silence.
Pistol was always responsive. He barked a warning anytime a stranger approached her. So why, Maggie wondered, had the faithful watchdog remained totally quiet this afternoon when Shanaco had come into the
cabin?
Pistol had been just outside, lying near the front door. Yet he hadn’t made a sound and had meekly allowed Shanaco to walk right past him. Had the Comanche chieftain put some kind of Indian sign on the wolfhound? Had he put some kind of hex on her as well? The fine hair rose on the nape of her neck.
Maggie shook her head and laughed. Hardly! She had yet to meet the man that could hypnotize her.
Night had now fallen over the fort. Maggie was safely back in her own cottage. She was ready for bed in a white cotton nightgown, hair brushed a hundred strokes and held back off her face with a ribbon. She sat on the floor before the dying fire, knees raised, arms wrapped around them. She stared into the flickering flames and thought back over the events of the afternoon.
She couldn’t very well be angry with Pistol and not herself.
Pistol hadn’t barked when Shanaco stepped inside and she hadn’t uttered one word of protest when the imposing half-breed took her in his arms and kissed her. And oh, did he kiss her! She had been kissed before, of course, but never the way Shanaco kissed her.
Maggie raised a hand, touched her fingers to her bottom lip and involuntarily trembled. She would never have let Shanaco—or anyone else—know, but when he kissed her she had practically swooned with pleasure! Never in her life had she felt the way she had when she’d stood in Shanaco’s close embrace while he passionately kissed her. The hard strength and awesome heat of his tall, lean body pressed against hers had taken her breath—and apparently her intellect—away.
She’d had to summon every ounce of the self-control she possessed to make him stop. To make herself stop. It had been so tempting to simply surrender and stay right there in his powerful arms with those masterful lips melded to hers for the rest of the afternoon. For the rest of the evening. The rest of the night.
