Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “Is something the matter?” Amanda asked him.

  “Huh? No, why would you think that?” he managed to answer.

  “You aren’t saying anything.”

  “Sometimes when I’m on the trail I go for days without saying anything,” he said defensively. “I’m still trying to track the sign.”

  “But you weren’t looking at anything,” she reminded him.

  “How would you know?”

  “I was watching you.”

  “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “I expect that’s because you never sleep.”

  “I sleep enough.”

  “When?”

  “When you sleep.”

  He reined in and leaned across to pull his telescope from the ropes that secured it atop his packs. Adjusting it, he trained it on the buzzards, then the ground. A horse lay there, its ribs quivering. It was still saddled.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Somebody’s mount. It looks like I was right, and they ran out of water. Here—look for yourself.”

  She held the glass up and squinted, adjusting it until she spied when he’d seen. “It’s alive.”

  “Not for long.”

  “They just abandoned the poor creature,” she said indignantly. “How could anyone do that?”

  “What would you have them do—die with it?”

  “Would you just leave it like that?” she countered.

  “No. I’d have to kill it.” He took the telescope back and looked again. “He left a good saddle behind. Come on—I want a look at it,” he added, spurring the paint.

  It turned out to be farther than she’d expected, and it took a good quarter of an hour to reach the dying horse. The animal’s eyes were wide open, bulging, its breathing labored. Clay dismounted and drew a gun.

  “Turn your head,” he told Amanda.

  “You aren’t—?” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it.

  “Yes.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “It’s too late to save it.”

  He walked closer, taking in the elaborate silver conchos that trimmed the hand-tooled saddle, and his heart beat a little faster. It was Mexican. He raised his hand, pointing the Colt’s barrel at the blaze on the horse’s head.

  “Don’t!” she cried out.

  ‘Turn your head, I said!”

  He squeezed the trigger. When he turned around, Amanda was crying. “Look—I’m sorry, but it had to be done.” He holstered the gun. “We ought to catch up to the owner pretty soon,” he observed. “Two of ’em are riding double, and judging by this, they’re short on water.”

  “There’s just two?”

  “No. Four. But there’s only three horses now.” He shaded his eyes and looked toward what still appeared to be flat plain. “I don’t know why they didn’t shoot the animal themselves,” he added.

  “I don’t see any canyon,” she protested.

  “You won’t until you’re about ready to fall into it.” Turning his attention back to the dead horse, he knelt down and unbuckled a saddlebag. “Well, look at this,” he murmured, whistling low.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from Sanchez-Torres to somebody named Emilio.” He scanned the Spanish words quickly, then reread them. “It looks like Emilio’s supposed to tell Quanah there’s nine wagons coming. Hap was right—it’s one hell of a shipment. No wonder they raided all the way to Durango. Sanchez-Torres wants three thousand horses for it.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “A whole lot of rifles and a Gatling gun. Not to mention enough ammunition to blow up a stockade. I’d say if Quanah gets this, he’ll have enough to arm his Quahadis as well as many Kiowas and Cheyenne as want to take to the war trail with him.” He read further before looking up. “Well, Hap said there was a Texan involved, and it looks like he was right.”

  It took a moment for it to sink in. “How on earth could anyone want to unleash an Indian war on his own people? Clay, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Without waiting to explain, he mounted the paint mare. “Come on—there’s not much time.”

  It wasn’t until he’d ridden a couple of miles that he spoke again. “You ever hear of Sam McKittrick?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’m going to put a noose around his neck. McKittrick’s got a spread not too far from the Ybarra. It’s not half as big as yours, but Sam’s got big plans for it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “McKittrick’s behind Sanchez-Torres. He wants the Comanches to come down and clean out his neighbors. He wants them driven off the land and out of business. He knows the army’s going to come in and punish the Indians when it’s all over.”

  “And I suppose that by the time that happens, he’s bought up cheap land and owns half of West Texas—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Kinda looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “But he won’t get Ybarra-Ross. We’ve got walls as high as a fort’s.”

  “An Indian war can sure as hell isolate you.”

  She fell silent as the full import of what he was saying sank in. With hostile Indians raiding at will, ranch hands would be reluctant to ride herd on Ybarra cattle, and there was no way of telling how many animals she’d lose. Big John always said he had two things worth as much as gold in the bank—his land and his cattle.

  “When do you think Quanah Parker means to start this?” she asked finally.

  “He’s got to have guns first.”

  “But he’s not going to get them.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.” He straightened in his saddle. “But the going gets a whole lot rougher from here. From here on, we’re going to have to ride during the day.”

  It didn’t take long to realize he meant the terrain. He’d been right about that also. From a seemingly flat, wide-open space, the ground suddenly dropped as though it had been ripped open by an angry god, and she was staring over the brink into a chasm several hundred feet straight down. The walls looked to be solid rock.

  “My word!” she gasped. “We aren’t going down into that, I hope.”

  “Yeah.” He looked down into the canyon at the small ribbon of water slicing through it. “Hard to imagine that a stream can do that,” he murmured.

  She was dizzy just looking into the abyss. “I—” She caught herself before she told him she couldn’t do it. “I don’t see how,” she finished lamely.

  “There’s a path.”

  “Where?”

  “Right down the side. It starts over there—just past where you see that rock ledge.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed nervously. “Have any horses fallen going down?”

  “Probably. Want to ride Hannibal?”

  “You told me he’s temperamental.”

  “He is, but there’s nothing more sure-footed than a mule.” He could see she was hesitant, but he was in a hurry. “I’ll go first, leading you down. Now—do you want Hannibal or the pony you’re already on?”

  Vaguely remembering being dunked in the Pecos by the mule, she didn’t take long to make up her mind. “The pony.”

  “Good. I wasn’t wanting to shift the packs anyway.” He reached to take the reins from her nearly nerveless fingers, then he nudged Sarah with his knee, turning her toward the ledge.

  As they began the steep descent, Amanda made the mistake of looking at the canyon floor. It was a long way down. She froze, unable to move.

  “I—I can’t … I just can’t,” she whispered.

  “Close your eyes, and I’ll get you down.”

  “I’m afraid of high places.”

  “Pretty soon you’ll be in a low one.”

  “You’re not frightened at all, are you?”

  “No, but I grew up out here.”

  He knew the longer he waited,
the more she’d panic, so he gave Sarah her head, and the mare moved slowly, picking her way along the narrow one-sided path. When he looked back over his shoulder, Amanda’s eyes were closed, her lips moving silently, and he was pretty sure she prayed.

  “We’ll be at the bottom in no time,” he assured her.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she responded tersely. “I’d rather get there whole.”

  “You will.”

  It seemed as though her whole life passed before her eyes, as though it took an age, and all she could feel was the slow, stolid walk of the Indian pony plodding downward. She was leaning at a steep pitch, almost over the deerhorn pommel. She grasped the saddlehorn with both hands and held on so tightly that her knuckles hurt.

  After about the twentieth Hail Mary, she dared to ask, “Are we nearly there?”

  “Almost,” he lied.

  She opened one eye and wished she hadn’t. While the horse hugged the rock wall, there was nothing but air on the other side. She started over, saying the rosary from the beginning, this time whispering it, reassuring herself with her own prayers. Her hands, where they held the saddlehorn, were so wet she was afraid she’d lose her grip.

  “Another hundred feet,” he told her.

  “I don’t want to hear it unless we are there.”

  “All right, I won’t say anything more.”

  She lasted about five minutes. “Where are we now?”

  “Fifty feet—do you want me to count them out for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forty feet … thirty-five … thirty … twenty … fifteen …”

  She exhaled, visibly relieved. “I’m all right now,” she decided, opening her eyes. This time, she looked up. “I can’t believe we started from there.”

  “There are bigger holes than this around.”

  “But we don’t have to go through them?” she asked hopefully.

  “No.” He got out his telescope again and looked down the narrow canyon. “We’re not far behind our Mend Emilio.”

  “Do you see them?”

  “No, but I can smell the smoke of a campfire.”

  That was too much for her. “God must have given you different equipment if you can smell that.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched as he turned around. “I reckon he did.”

  Heat flooded her face. “I was speaking of noses,” she said stiffly.

  He sobered almost immediately. “It’s going to get pretty rough here shortly. I don’t think they’re much farther than that rock bend ahead, and for all I know they may have heard us coming down. Before we stumble into an ambush, I’m going to leave you on this side of the bend. If it’s clear, I’ll come back for you. Otherwise, you’re going to hear gunfire.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you hear shots, and I’m not back right away, you hightail it the other way. There’s another trail going up to the rim about two or three miles behind you, and it’ll be easier going because you don’t have to look down.”

  “And do what?” she demanded incredulously. “I don’t even know where I am.”

  “If you ride straight north, you’re headed toward the leased lands. If you ride south, you’re headed for Stockton. It’s about four or five days from here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Whatever you do, if I don’t come back, don’t come after me—savvy?” He reached for his shotgun and handed it to her. “It’s double-loaded with a charge of number four shot in each barrel. Each trigger fires one load.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m leaving it with you. If you get in trouble, you don’t have to have much aim—it’ll scatter anything within a hundred and fifty feet. All you have to remember is not to fire both loads at once.”

  She could see he was serious. “All right. But you don’t really think anything’s going to go wrong, do you?” she asked anxiously. “I mean, I don’t want to be stranded out here with nothing but Comanches and Comancheros.”

  “You asked to come.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Amanda, I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  He gave her a look of long-suffering. “I don’t know what the hell you think you can do.”

  “Neither do I, but I’m not staying behind. There’s no way on earth I’m going back up there alone.”

  “Damn.”

  “There’s no need to curse, is there?”

  “I could say a whole lot more than that right now,” he muttered. He looked up the trail, then to the rocky curve ahead. “How well can you climb?”

  “I told you I’m not going back alone.”

  “You’ve made that clear—I was looking at that ledge over there,” he said, pointing. “Think you could climb up to it?”

  “Not decently—but yes. At least it looks like I could find something to hang onto. Why?”

  “If you are determined to stay, I guess you might as well cover me.”

  She looked at the shotgun. “With this?”

  “If you have to use it, it’ll do the most damage. Come on—I’ll go up there with you. I’ll take a look at what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Maybe they won’t be there.”

  “You better hope to God they are. I’d rather take them out here than risk letting ’em get to Quanah.” He swung out of his saddle and came to stand beside her. “Are you game to try?” he asked, taking the shotgun back from her, setting it carefully on the ground.

  “Yes.” He reached up for her, and as she leaned out of the Indian saddle, her face was but inches from his. “You know, Amanda Mary Ross,” he said softly, “you’re one hell of a woman, whether you want to be or not.”

  She slid the length of him until her feet were on the ground. Before she had time to close her eyes, she felt the warm caress of his breath against her cheek, the surprising gentleness of his lips against hers. His arms closed around her, holding her close, and for some odd reason, she was so overwhelmed she wanted to cry. Her hands came up to clasp his shoulders as she returned his kiss. For a long moment she savored the strength of his embrace, then it was over.

  He set her back from him. “You make a man afraid to die,” he said, dropping his hands. “You make him want to live.”

  “You aren’t going to die—you cannot.”

  “I don’t plan to, Amanda, but in my business it happens.” He searched her face almost hungrily. “Would it make any difference to you, I wonder?”

  His gaze was so intense she had to look away. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it would.”

  He sucked in his breath, holding it for a moment, then he exhaled heavily. “Come on—there’s no time right now,” he said. Leaning down, he picked up the shotgun and started toward the curve ahead.

  The floor of the canyon narrowed, obstructed by huge boulders piled like stairs to the low-hanging ledge above them. “Go on,” he urged her, “I’m right behind to catch you if you lose your footing.”

  It was easier than she expected. Though her hands and feet slipped and slid into crevices between the rocks, she managed to scramble all the way up without actually falling. When she reached the ledge, she discovered it had enough of an overhang above it to put her in heavy shadows. She turned back to take the shotgun so McAlester could join her.

  “Well, now—would you look at that?” he said under his breath. “I think we’ve found Emilio and his friends.”

  She followed his gaze and saw three men gathered around a small cooking fire beside the stream. While one turned a spit, the other two shared a bottle of something. Two horses were hobbled nearby.

  “There’s only three men down there,” she whispered. “I thought you said there were four.”

  “There were. And one horse is missing.”

  “Where do you think he is—the other man, I mean?”

  He’d hoped to get all of them, but he was too
late. “Unless I miss my guess, I’d say he’s gone visiting. Damn, but I hate to see that.”

  “Why would just one go?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think Quanah would be this far north with a herd to feed and water. I still don’t.”

  She could see that he was angry with himself, and she sought to mollify him. “Maybe the other one’s gone hunting for food—it doesn’t look like they’ve got much to eat.”

  “Maybe—but I don’t think so.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  ‘Take my chances. But I need you to look out for me while I go down.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to wait?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated, then reached to brush her hair back from her forehead. For the first time in his life, he felt a responsibility to live. If he didn’t, if he made a mistake, she’d be at the mercy of Comancheros—or worse.

  “Well, that’s it, I think,” he told her. “Don’t make a move unless you have to—unless you see I’m in trouble.”

  Biting her lip, she nodded. But as he started to leave her, she blurted out, “Wait!”

  He turned back. “What?”

  Feeling utterly self-conscious now, she couldn’t meet his gaze. “I guess I’m just afraid.”

  “For me or for you?”

  “Both.”

  “Hey—” He lifted her chin with his knuckle. “I do this all the time.”

  She nodded.

  “God, Amanda—” He got no further. His arms closed around her, holding her against his chest. “You didn’t ask for this, did you?”

  “No,” came the muffled reply.

  “As soon as this is over—as soon as I get Sanchez-Torrez and McKittrick, I’m taking you to the Ybarra,” he whispered against the crown of her hair. “I’m going to be there to see the look on Sandoval’s face when he finds out you survived.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I am.”

  With that, he released her. “Hold the fort for me, will you?” he said.

  She watched as he went back down the way they’d come up, and then he was out of sight. Reluctantly, she picked up the shotgun and waited.

  It seemed like forever before she saw him again, this time on the other side of the bend. He was on foot, close to the rock wall, then he stepped into the open, his revolver drawn.