Comanche Moon
Page 20
“Aiyeeeeee!”
He sprang to his feet at the sound of her scream, his gun drawn. Ahead of him in the path stood a Comanche, buck-naked except for his breechclout. The man looked from Clay to Amanda, then back again.
As Amanda watched, McAlester put away his revolver and pointed his hand, apparently a friendly gesture. The Indian smiled, and for what seemed an interminable time to her, they talked. She stood there, her arms crossed over her bare breasts, her whole body shaking, her teeth chattering from the cold water. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she said loudly, “If you d-don’t m-mind, I’d like t-to g-get out.”
He swung around, utterly unprepared for the effect she had on him. As his gaze moved from her face to her wet shoulders, he felt his mouth go dry. His thoughts must have been written on his face, because she reddened and crossed her arms more tightly. But it didn’t matter. His mind already ran wild.
The Indian, who’d come for water, walked closer, knelt, and cupped his hands, dipping them, then drank. When he finished, he wiped his hands on the breechclout, said something Clay didn’t even hear, and disappeared. “S-some g-guard you are,” Amanda muttered, shivering.
“I’ll get your clothes,” Clay said hoarsely, turning away. Picking them up, he tossed them closer, then retreated.
She didn’t even have a towel for drying. She glanced at McAlester’s back, then up the path, satisfying herself that no one was looking, before she darted from the water and scooped up the shirt and drawers. Freezing despite the hot air, she quickly dived into the shirt and pulled it over her head. It clung to her wet body as she jerked it downward, nearly covering her thighs.
Thinking she’d had enough time, he turned around as she was buttoning the neck placket. Where the water spotted the cloth, it was semitransparent, showing the dark outline of her cold-hardened nipples. His breath caught in his chest.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, retreating back to the cottonwoods. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”
But the damage was already done. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget seeing her like that. But even as desire rose within him, reason whispered, reminding him that she was Big John Ross’s daughter, an heiress far above his touch. He leaned against a tree and counted slowly, silently to one hundred, giving her time to get into her drawers.
Self-conscious now, Amanda fanned the shirt, trying to dry it, then tugged at the legs of the drawers, loosening them. She was barely covered, and her teeth still chattered, but at least she was clean. Bending forward, she squeezed more water from her hair, then straightened, tossing it back over her shoulder.
“I g-guess I’m r-ready,” she said, trying to comb the tangled mass with her fingers.
He turned around slowly, not trusting himself to speak. She was biting her lip, eyeing him hesitantly. She forced a tentative smile.
“Not m-much of a fashion plate, am I?”
“No.”
He was looking at her oddly, unnerving her. “Yes, well … I uh … expect we ought to get back,” she managed.
“Yes.”
But he didn’t move. She walked the path toward him, acutely aware of his eyes on her.
“Is s-something the m-matter?”
“Yes.”
Her hand crept self-consciously to her wet hair. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter. Come on—I’ll get you a comb.”
With that he turned and started back toward the camp. She stared after him, then hurried to catch up. When she glanced at him, his face was closed, devoid of emotion. But she’d already seen the heat in his eyes, and it had been enough to make her heart pause.
Sitting on a buffalo robe dragged outside, Amanda picked at her supper, feeling extremely ill at ease with her Comanche hosts. She couldn’t eat after having watched Walks With Sunshade toss the slow-moving turtle alive into the fire. The poor creature must have tried a dozen or more times to get out before it finally died. And although another pot of stew had appeared from nowhere, the roasted turtle and a large, bloody hunk of meat provided the bulk of the meal.
Beside her, Clay McAlester sat cross-legged on the grass, eating with apparent relish. He looked over at her nearly full bark bowl.
“What’s the matter?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“I can’t eat this—I just can’t.”
“It could use a little salt, but it’s not bad.”
She shuddered. “The way she cooked the turtle was the most barbaric thing I’ve ever seen.”
“No worse than wringing a chicken’s neck and watching it run around the yard without its head. Or hearing a hog squeal when its throat gets cut.”
“At least the chicken’s dead before it’s cooked. And thankfully I’ve never seen a pig butchered.”
“All right,” he said, sighing. “Try to eat the stew.”
“How do I know she didn’t scrape it off the ground?”
“She didn’t.”
“Do you have any idea what’s in it?”
Turning to the Comanche woman, he murmured, “This is good—what did you use to make it?”
Walks With Sunshade beamed, then ticked off the ingredients on her fingers. Corn, mesquite beans, yeps, honey, buffalo marrow, a lizard, and two rabbits.
Clay translated for Amanda, “It’s rabbit.”
“And it took a hand and a half to say that?” she responded incredulously.
“The rest are spices,” he lied. “Go on—try it. It tastes more or less like chicken. And if you don’t eat, you’ll hurt her feelings. If you don’t want to chew it, just swallow it whole.”
She glanced up, seeing that the woman watched her. “All right,” she muttered. Pulling the small piece of meat off with her teeth, she pushed it back in her mouth with her tongue, and gulped. Whatever it really was, it tasted sweet and greasy.
“I’m not really very hungry,” she decided. “And it does not taste like chicken.”
He speared a chunk of undercooked meat from his tin plate and held it out on the end of his knife. “This is pretty good.”
“What is it—raw dog? Mole? Toad?”
“Comanches don’t eat dog meat.” Seeing that she remained unconvinced, he exhaled audibly. “Okay—it’s horse meat, and it won’t kill you. I’ve eaten a lot of it.”
Two Owls looked across at her still full bowl, then spoke to Clay, who nodded, then answered. “What did he say?” she asked suspiciously.
“He says you will grow skinny like an old buffalo cow. But I told him the heat puts you off your food.”
The Kiowa addressed Walks With Sunshade, and she rose to disappear into the tipi. When she came out, she carried a tallow-coated parfleche and a jagged bone knife. Squatting down beside Amanda, she slit through the grease shell with the blade, took out several flat, thin strips of dried meat, and gave them to the white girl.
“He told her to give you something you’ll eat,” Clay said low. “If you turn up your nose at the jerky, you’re on your own. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re hungry.”
“I’m not trying to be rude,” she whispered back.
“Well, you’re doing a damned good job of it.”
“At least tell her I said thank you.”
Walks With Sunshade handed Amanda’s nearly untouched bowl to Two Owls, who attacked the turtle meat with enthusiasm. As Amanda chewed her jerky, Clay poured something into his tin cup and passed it to her. Thinking it water, she tried to wash her food down with it. It burned her throat and hit her stomach like fire.
“Arghhhh—what is it?” she demanded, choking.
“Mescal. After a while it grows on you.”
“It’d have to.” Looking to where the Comanche woman watched her, Amanda lowered her voice. “What happened to Little Doe?”
“She’s in the other tipi.”
“What other tipi?”
“They have a smaller one in back, and to protect Two Owls’s power, his wives stay there when
they have their bleeding times. Otherwise it is believed they’ll contaminate him. In Little Doe’s case, she’s there now because she shamed him today.”
Seeing that he’d embarrassed her with his frankness, he handed her the cup. “Here—drink up and forget what happened with her. If you don’t get a smile on your face, pretty soon Two Owls is going to wonder why I don’t divorce you.”
“You didn’t have to tell them I was your wife,” she muttered. “You could have said I was your Anglo sister.”
“Once they reach physical maturity, brothers and sisters stay away from each other in Comanche camps. A sister can be killed for failing to observe avoidance.”
“Which proves these people are savages.”
“You don’t stay grateful for long, do you?” he shot back. “You know, you’ve got a damned short memory. A couple of days ago, you were half dead—now, thanks to one of these people, you’re almost back to your old tart-tongued, shrewish self.”
He just didn’t understand that she was still afraid of them. For all she knew, her mother’s scalp could be hanging from a lance or pole in this very camp. And she did not doubt that if he weren’t there, these same Indians would be more than ready to kill her. But he was there. She sighed, then tried to make amends.
“I don’t try to be tart-tongued—sometimes it just happens. But for what it’s worth, I haven’t forgotten I owe you my life. I’ll never forget that.”
“I told you—I don’t want your gratitude,” he retorted. “Save that for Nahdehwah.”
She looked up and saw that Walks With Sunshade still watched her. She managed to smile, then bit off another piece of jerky. “This is good,” she reassured the woman. Beside her, Clay McAlester apparently translated her words, for Walks With Sunshade nodded, then went back to eating.
This time, when Amanda drank, she took a smaller swallow, followed by another, and another. By the time she finished what was left in his cup, she was finding it tolerable. Compared to the Pecos River water or the warm pulke, it was almost good.
Clay tried to appear attentive when Two Owls began recounting his role in the Mexican raid, but his thoughts kept straying to the woman beside him. For all that he was vexed with her, he was also acutely aware of her. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he’d relive the peyote vision—or the sight of her standing in the water, her hands crossed over her wet breasts.
What he needed to do was put miles, not feet, between him and her. And the sooner the better, before he said or did something he might regret. It wasn’t like she was a Comanche girl, and he could offer a few horses for her, then bed her.
No, she was the closest thing Texas had to an aristocrat, and more than likely, she’d end up marrying a rancher as rich as she was and having half a dozen children, who’d grow up to be the senators and governors and ranchers of the next generation. If she remembered him at all, she might tell her grandchildren about a half-wild Texas Ranger fool enough to take her to a Comanche camp.
But right now she was too close, haunting his waking thoughts. He could scarce look at her without wondering how it would feel to have her warm flesh pressed against his, her dark red hair enveloping him in its silk, enticing him with the scent of wild Texas roses. And that flight of fancy made his heart pound and his blood race.
He reached for his tin cup and found it empty. Walks With Sunshade refilled it quickly, and he drank deeply before setting it down. All he had to do was get through the night, he told himself, and then he’d leave at dawn. All he had to do was lie beside Amanda one night without touching her. He picked up the cup and drained it, then held it out for more.
From the other end of the camp there came again the beat of drums. He listened to them, his pulse matching the primitive rhythm. He guessed that some proud parents celebrated a boy’s first successful raid by holding a giveaway dance.
Feeling the mellowing effect of the potent mescal, Amanda closed her eyes and listened to the drums. It was as though she were in another world, one far removed from Patrick Donnelly and Boston. One far removed from Ybarra-Ross. One where Clay McAlester stood between her and a whole Comanche village.
She didn’t even notice when Walks With Sunshade collected the food bowls, then lit Two Owls’s pipe with a live coal from the fire. It wasn’t until the Comanche woman touched her shoulder, gesturing that they should leave the men alone, that Amanda roused. Two Owls spoke up, shaking his head, and the woman returned to her place by the fire.
“He’s going to let you stay,” Clay murmured. “I hope you know that’s an honor.”
“That’s kind of him, but as long I’m here, I’m not going anywhere without you. In fact, I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get to Ybarra-Ross. You hear that, Mr. McAlester?” she asked, her voice slightly slurred. “Everywhere you go, I go. Everywhere.”
“I usually take a nature walk before I turn in.” In the dark, he couldn’t see her face, but he was fairly certain she blushed. “I suppose you could turn your back.”
“You know, somebody ought to teach you how to act around women,” she complained. “There are some things unfit for polite discourse.”
He stared absently into the fire for a moment, then sipped his drink. “I’m not usually around any.”
“Somehow I’d rather guessed that.”
“About all that’s out here are border brothels, and there’s something about those places that take all the softness out of a woman.”
“I expect it’s the men, don’t you?” she murmured.
He looked at her then. She was hugging her knees, resting her chin on them, while the firelight danced in her dark eyes. She had to be the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. And whether she was way above his touch or not, he was now too far gone with mescal to think about that. He felt wild, reckless, and willing to dare.
“Nahakoah?”
Jerked back by the sound of Two Owls’s voice, Clay blinked and tried to remember what the Indian had been saying. Then he saw that he was being offered the pipe. He took a deep drag, then exhaled the smoke, and passed the pipe back. The tobacco sent another surge through his veins. When he looked again, Amanda was sipping from his cup. Again Two Owls intruded, saying, “I had fourteen winters before my mother honored me for counting coup up north against a small party of Cheyenne. My brother and I crept into their camps while they slept, and we took their food sacks, leaving them to eat their horses. It was cold, and the wind blew ice I can still feel in my bones. But those Cheyenne warriors had to choose between walking and starving.”
“That was worthy of honor,” Clay murmured.
“And you, Nahakoah, how did you count your first coup?”
Resigning himself, Clay told of stealing four horses from a corral while a wary farmer sat by his front door, rifle in hand, oblivious to his loss. Buffalo Horn himself had reported Stands Alone’s coup to the band, and Sees the Sun had held the dance for her son, inviting nearly everyone in the village, passing out not only the horses he’d stolen, but probably fifty more.
Abruptly, Two Owls heaved himself to his feet. “They dance for Looks Too Old tonight. That boy has but twelve winters, yet he cut loose a team without waking the owner.” His broad face broke into a wide grin. “You know that man was one sore-footed fellow by the time he got anywhere. And without his oxen, he had to leave his wagon.” He sobered abruptly. “The parents of Looks Too Old would be pleased if Stands Alone and his woman came to dance, and I’d like to go also. His grandmother was Kiowa,” he added.
“I don’t—” Clay looked again at Amanda. If he danced with her, he’d have to touch her. Yet if he touched her, he’d want a whole lot more than dancing. And only God could know where that would lead him. His pulse raced, forcing liquid heat through his veins. His mouth was almost too dry for speech. “All right.” Somehow he managed to struggle to his feet. Leaning over, he reached a hand to her. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going to a dance.”
She blinked. “A dance,
” she repeated blankly.
“You’ll like it.”
Her hands crept to where his shirt was buttoned over her breasts. “But I can’t go like this surely … I mean—”
“You could go in a whole lot less,” he assured her. “It’s like a fort social, only not nearly so fancy. There aren’t any Louise Baxters here.”
“Thank heavens for that at least.” She let him pull her up, but she hung back. “This isn’t some sort of scalp dance, is it?”
“No, and they won’t roast anyone over the fire,” he promised her.
Grinning broadly, Two Owls said something to Clay. Walks With Sunshade giggled. “Are you sure they want me to go?” Amanda asked suspiciously.
“Word of a Texas Ranger.”
“What did they say?”
“They want to see you dance.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—I don’t know the steps.”
“There aren’t any. You just keep time to the drums.” Her fingers where they curved over his nearly burned him, and yet he didn’t want to release them. “When we get there, you’ll see what I mean.”
Led by Two Owls and Walks With Sunshade, they made their way almost the length of the camp to a place where the area was cleared. As they drew closer, the drumbeat grew more intense, its ancient, primitive rhythm quickening the pulse within his body. His hand tightened on Amanda’s, but she didn’t seem to notice. If anything, she held on nervously.
She saw the drummers, their faces made eerie by the orange and red flames of center fire. The shadowy figures of Comanche men and women circled, chanting and stamping, writhing and whirling, while a man with a bone-handled rawhide whip ran around, urging them on. Amanda stared, transfixed by the sight, until the man beckoned to her.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered.
“That’s the pianehepai-i—the big whip. He directs the dancing. If he orders you to join in, you have to do it. Otherwise, he can beat you.”