Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “Papa—”

  “Don’t try to talk. Just take it easy.”

  “He threw me Papa … I hurt …,” she mumbled incoherently.

  “One more sip, then I’ve got to get you out of the sun,” he said, tipping the canteen again. “That’s enough for now.”

  It wasn’t nearly enough, and he knew it, but it was a start. Now if he could keep her alive until nightfall, if he could keep her drinking, he thought she could make it. All he had to do was figure out how to cool her off before her body temperature affected her brain. Maybe it already had, but he hoped not.

  Easing her to the ground, he stood up and looked around before retrieving his bedroll. Undoing it, he spread it between two mesquite bushes for a shade. Then he laid his saddle beneath it and covered that with his coat. It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it would have to do. It felt like she didn’t weigh much more than her bones when he lifted her, then eased her body down under the makeshift shelter.

  “I’m giving you one more drink,” he told her, “then I’m going to try to make you feel better. You’ve got to keep this down, Amanda.” This time he did not raise her to drink. Instead, he pulled out a corner of her cracked lower lip and let a small amount of the warm water trickle in. He watched her swallow. “No more,” he said, taking the bottle away.

  Her lip trembled. “He threw me, Papa … I didn’t mean …”

  “It’s McAlester,” he said again. “Clay McAlester. And you’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.”

  “No … no …” She blinked, clearly uncomprehending. “Don’t kill him, Papa,” she whispered.

  She’d had a heatstroke, he was sure of that. But he hoped her mind would come back when he got enough water into her. He stood up again and dusted his hands on his leggings.

  “Mama, tell him …” She turned her head as though she could see someone. “Tell him … he didn’t mean …”

  Going to his saddlebags, he took out his Bowie knife, then stood there, looking for something useful. He settled on a clump of prickly pear. But he’d need a fire to burn off the needles, and he wasn’t sure he had the time to make one. No, he’d just have to cut them off.

  He went to work harvesting the flat, round leaves, sawing off the spines. As dry as it was, he wasn’t going to get much out of them, but it would be better than nothing, he told himself. And whatever he could get would help save his water.

  As he straightened up, his eyes caught the dust clouds in the distance, then the riders. A straggling war party, he guessed, and by the time he identified himself, it just might be too late. He grabbed the Henry rifle and cocked the hammer, thinking it was a hell of a place to make a stand. Out in the open with nothing close but buckbrush and mesquite for cover. Edging behind the paint, he dropped the Bowie knife and leaned down for the shotgun. Now he could count six of them.

  They spied him, and sped toward him, raising a high-pitched war cry. It was a choice between trying to take all of them or brazening it out. But there was Amanda Ross to consider, and if he took a bullet in the exchange, he had a fair notion of what they’d do to her before she died. In a split second he made up his mind to gamble.

  He held both guns up in full view and shouted “Nermernuh!” then threw them down as the war party closed in on him. Walking with a confidence he did not feel, he went to meet them.

  A tall, barrel-chested Indian separated from the others, riding hell for leather, whooping for show, making a wide circle around Clay. He waved a war lance, shaking the scalps that hung from it. Coming around again, he made another circle, this one much closer. When McAlester did not flinch, he reined in, his painted face scowling as though he were trying to stare the white man down. The crow feathers in his scalplock indicated he was Kiowa, rather than Comanche. He poised his lance as though he would strike.

  Another Kiowa rode up and, leaning from his saddle, pushed the lance down with his hand. “No Tejano,” he said, using Spanish. Looking to Clay, he gestured, asking, “Nermernuh?”

  “Nokoni,” Clay answered.

  Seemingly satisfied, the apparent leader turned back, addressing the others, saying that the Kiowas and Comanches were brothers who hunted and made war together. As a murmur of agreement passed between them, Clay exhaled his relief. He’d done it. Even to a Kiowa, a Nerm was a Nerm, whether Quahadi, Nokoni, Penateka or any of the other bands.

  The barrel-chested one began to sign, asking how his Comanche brother was called. Clay hesitated, then swept the air with his hand before answering. Raising his hand at a right angle from his elbow, he indicated Stands. His eyes on the war leader, he added the sign of Alone.

  “Nahakoah,” he said aloud.

  The Kiowa repeated the Comanche name. Clay nodded. It was out in the open, lying between them, either a bridge or a chasm. The warrior rode in a slow circle around him, then reined in, a smile splitting his wide face. His hands talked, giving his name, then he said it.

  “Wabetai.” Two Owls.

  The others followed suit. Fast Wolf. Big Head. Bent Tree. A youth called Little Eagle. And the war leader of the party was Stone Hand. They were on their way back from Mexico, Two Owls said, headed toward the Llano, and they’d been guarding the rear of the larger Comanche war party. Now they were trying to catch up to it so they could make their triumphant entrance into Ketanah’s camp together.

  Ketanah. Clay recognized the name of his mother’s cousin, and his heart beat faster as a certain exhilaration coursed through him. Ketanah was alive, and he had a band of his own.

  Two Owls saw Amanda and asked, “Who?”

  “My woman,” Clay told him. “She’s sick.”

  “What ails here?”

  “The sun. She needs water.”

  “Bad time. No water.”

  “Yes.”

  The Indian grunted sympathetically. His curiosity aroused, he dismounted to take a closer look. Bending over, he reached a dirty hand to touch Amanda’s hair, then her face. “Ummmh,” he said, straightening up. Looking back to Clay, he noted, “Very bad.”

  “Yes.”

  The Indian rose and untied a bloated buffalo paunch from behind his saddle. “For your woman,” the big Kiowa’s hands spoke. “No water, woman will die. You take. Ketanah’s camp at spring beyond gap.”

  Given the heat and the fact that the closest water was a good ride away, it was a generous gift. Clay nodded, then went to his own packs, where he found the rest of the cigarillos he’d taken from Javier and Little Pedro. He gave them to the Kiowa, who bobbed his head, grinning broadly.

  Stone Hand called out, saying they had to leave if they were to catch up to the others. Two Owls nodded, then signed hurriedly for Clay. Ketanah’s band was Noconi, and there was a good medicine woman there. Nahakoah ought to take his woman to Nahdehwah, who could cure everything, even ghost sickness. With that the big Kiowa remounted, and the small party took off. About a hundred yards out, Two Owls held up the fistful of little cigars, then kicked his horse. The party disappeared in a cloud of choking dust.

  Clay took his washpan from his packs and went back to work on Amanda. Using water from the buffalo paunch, he began wetting her face and neck to cool her down. Then he splashed her from her neck downward. The wet cloth clung to her breasts, revealing the nipples, but that hardly mattered now. All he knew was that if he didn’t get her fever down, he’d be riding to Davis with her body tied over Hannibal’s packs. And then all hell would break loose in Austin.

  “Amanda, can you understand me?” he asked, shaking her.

  Her eyes opened and her tongue worked to make words in her dry mouth. “I … saw … Indians,” she whispered. “Thirsty … so thirsty.”

  “They’re gone, but they left you some water.”

  Her head was pounding, and dizziness again threatened to overwhelm her. “My head …”

  “I know.” He held the canteen for her, and she took a couple of swallows before pushing it away.

&nb
sp; “So sick … so sick …”

  “Yeah. You’re way too hot, and if we don’t get you cooled off, you’re going to be in one hell of a fix.”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t drink much, but you’ve got to drink often. Otherwise, you’re going to lose it as fast as I get it into you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He felt her forehead, then her cheeks with the back of his hand. Her face was like fire. He knew what he had to do, and he knew she wasn’t going to like it. He took a deep breath, then reached for the front of her gown.

  “Amanda, I don’t want you to think I’ve got any wrong notions or that I’m going to take advantage of you, but the only way I know to do this is to get you wet all over. I’ve done it before on overheated horses,” he added conversationally as he began working on her buttons. Her hands caught his, but he brushed them aside. “Don’t. You can make this a whole lot easier on both of us if you don’t fight me.”

  She didn’t have enough strength to stop him, and she knew it. As he pushed the bodice down from her shoulders, baring her breasts, she closed her eyes. Leaning her over his arm, he pushed the sleeves down over her hands. As he laid her back again, he grasped the hem of her skirt and yanked it off, leaving only her frilled drawers.

  He poured water from the paunch into the pan, then took the dirty handkerchief she’d had on her head and wrung it out in the water. Using it for a rag, he began washing her hot skin from her forehead to her chin, her neck to her breasts, her arms, her legs below the drawers. He repeated the process several times until it seemed as though she was cooler to his touch. Then he picked up his hat and fanned her damp skin vigorously.

  “Feel better?”

  “No,” she choked out.

  As sick as she was, he knew she was mortified. “Hey, don’t you know you don’t have anything I haven’t seen somewhere else?”

  She swallowed visibly, but didn’t open her eyes. “No.”

  He felt her forehead. “Yeah, Amanda, I think we did some good with that bath. Now if you can just drink enough, pretty soon you’re going to feel a whole lot better.”

  “Please …” Her hand reached toward her dress.

  He shook his head. “You need to let the water dry on you—that’s what cools you down.” Instead of the dress, he shook out the wet handkerchief and laid it across her breasts. It didn’t cover much, but maybe she wouldn’t know it.

  “One more drink,” he decided, lifting her against his knee. She was greedy now, and her hands held his wrist, pulling the canteen closer. Now he was afraid she was getting too much. “Whoa—that’s enough.”

  She lay back. “Ramon—”

  “I know.”

  “I have to tell—he—”

  “It’s all right. We’ll take care of him later.”

  But she wanted him to know. “He left me … he left … I walked … I walked …” “You don’t have to say anything—I followed your trail for miles.”

  “I couldn’t …” She licked her cracked lips. “… walk anymore.”

  “I saw that.”

  “He tried to kill me,” she whispered. “He shot at me, but he missed. I fell, and—”

  “It’s over. In a few days, you’ll be all right.”

  “But … he tried to … kill me.”

  He had to keep her calm. Reaching over, he smoothed her tangled auburn hair back from her temples. “He won’t get away with it, not now. I reckon you and the state of Texas are going to have one hell of a surprise for him. What you need to do now is get some rest.”

  She was still dizzy, and her eyes were so sore it hurt to blink, but she felt a certain satisfaction just knowing she’d survived. That she was going to live to see Ramon Sandoval hanged. That God was going to let her get even.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.

  Clay heaved his tired body up and went to get the prickly pear he’d cut for her. Returning, he sank down and began slitting each piece open. When he was finished, he rubbed the wet insides over her face, her burnt forearms, and her swollen, blistered feet. It wasn’t agave, but it was better than nothing.

  Crawling under the makeshift tent, he lay down and set his hat over his face, covering his eyes against the light. The day was more than half over, and he still had a long way to ride after sundown. Only now he wasn’t going to be alone, he reflected grimly, and that was a big complication he didn’t need. Now he’d made himself responsible for the woman lying beside him.

  If he tried to take her to Davis or Stockton, he risked missing the gun wagon. And the stakes were too high for that. No, he was going to have to take her with him. His thoughts turned to Ketanah and the medicine woman he could still see in his mind. He wondered if just once he dared go back. If he dared take Amanda there. And somewhere in the depths of his mind, he heard the answer—he had to. Nahdehwah would take care of her.

  He turned over, his body touching hers, and he wakened with a start. Amanda lay there, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. He reached out and felt along her jaw. She stirred, but did not rouse. It didn’t matter—her skin was warm, slightly moist even, and beneath his fingertips, her pulse was thin but steady. She was better.

  He rolled from beneath the makeshift shelter and sat up to flex his shoulders. It was still almost unbearably hot, and his clothes were soaked with his sweat. Yawning, he ran his hand over the stubble on his face and looked around.

  In the west, the setting sun was blood red, and the dead mesquite branches stood like stunted black skeletons with arms outstretched, reaching for the orange sky. He sat there, taking in the barren beauty of a desert about to come to life. It was a place where a man was limited only by his own ability to survive. Maybe he felt that way because he was damned good at surviving, but to him, this place was as much his home as any.

  As he stared across to distant hills, he thought of Ten Bears speech to the peace commissioners at Medicine Lodge in what seemed another age. He’d been moved enough when he read them to commit the old chief’s words to memory.

  I was born upon the prairie, where the wind blew free and there was nothing to break the light of the sun. I was born where there were no enclosures and where everything drew a free breath. I want to die there and not remain within walls. I know every stream and every wood between the Rio Grande and the Arkansas. I have hunted and lived over that country. I live like my fathers before me and like them I have lived happily.

  He understood what the old man meant. Even now, whenever he was alone in the vast open spaces of western Texas, he could feel it. And he could still feel the tug of the powerful images those words gave him. It was something that defied explanation, something he couldn’t even share with Hap, who was as close to him as anyone. If Hap knew the land, it was as a means of getting from one place to another. No, Hap preferred the warmth of a woman, the softness of a good featherbed, to this.

  In another year or two at most, the Nermernuh would be gone from the hills, canyons, plains, and desert of Texas, herded like cattle onto reservations. And Stands Alone, son of Many Feathers In His Hair, would exist only in his own memory. Then there could be no returning to The People.

  For him, the dream was already fading. The language didn’t come easily anymore, and he could even foresee the day when he would understand Comanche little better than he’d understood English that day Hap Walker had caught him. It was inevitable, and he knew it.

  But not yet. Tonight he was going to ride north toward the Pecos, where with any luck at all, he would find Ketanah and a Nokoni band. And if he asked around a bit, he could probably discover where Quanah Parker was waiting for his wagons loaded with guns. It’d make his job a whole lot easier if he just knew that. If only he could do it without feeling guilty, without feeling as though he was there for all the wrong reasons.

  He was going to do all he could to persuade Ketanah against following Quanah’s war trail. He’d tell
him that no matter how many Comanches, no matter how many allies Quanah could command, they could not win, and in the end, Ranald Mackenzie and his buffalo soldiers would prevail. The Nokoni chief wouldn’t want to hear it, but he might recognize the truth, sparing his people the suffering and hardship of defeat.

  His thoughts turned to Amanda, wondering what she was going to think when she found herself among Comanches. Once she saw that the Nokonis wouldn’t harm her, he hoped she’d settle down. He’d have to say she belonged to him, but there was no help for that. In a way, the notion was actually appealing. But he’d have to tell her that, after he’d dealt with Sanchez-Torres or whoever was running the guns, he’d take her to the Ybarra. He’d be going there, anyway, to arrest Ramon Sandoval for attempted murder.

  If he didn’t come back, if he got himself killed … He’d always been more or less fatalistic—he knew it was bound to happen someday. Men in his business didn’t grow old, not often anyway. This time, he’d have to be careful. With Amanda waiting for him, he’d have to survive.

  He reached for the buffalo paunch, checking to see how much water was left in it. Untying it, he drank deeply, and the tepid liquid overflowed, dribbling down his chin. But it was wet going down, and that was all that mattered. His thirst somewhat slaked, he looked at the bag, and he knew she wouldn’t want to drink out of it. For a moment, he considered filling his canteens from it, then decided she’d probably know anyway. There was something about the skin that changed the taste of water.

  Paunch in hand, he walked to where Sarah and Hannibal stood chewing on branches of stunted mesquite. Taking out a chunk of lye soap, his razor, and the pan that served for everything from a coffee pot to a wash basin, he poured himself some water, stripped himself naked, and washed the sweat and dust from his body. Using the dirty water, he shaved by feel. Like the Comanches, he couldn’t stand letting hair grow on his face.