Comanche Moon

by Anita Mills

  “Emilio!” he called out.

  The three men scattered, and one came up shooting. Two shots nicked rock, and the sound reverberated down the canyon. Amanda froze as Clay McAlester returned fire. There was a cry, and the Mexican doubled over. The other two reached the horses. He caught one in the back, and the fellow fell. Desperate, the last Comanchero tried to make a stand, using his horse for a shield. Clay crouched low, waiting until the man raised up to shoot, then he got off the first round. The fellow’s head jerked back as the bullet struck, then his body slipped noiselessly to the ground.

  The sudden silence had a finality to it. While Amanda looked on, too horrified to move, McAlester turned the first Mexican over and went through his pockets. Finding nothing, he walked over to the other body. As he knelt, he froze, and the hairs on his neck stiffened.

  She saw what he heard—coming down the canyon were half a dozen painted Indians and the missing Comanchero. One of the Indians stood in his stirrups and raised a rifle.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  The warrior looked up as she pulled both triggers. The blast was deafening, and the world went black. She fell back, oblivious to everything but the pain in her shoulder. Below, four wounded Indians fled, leaving two dead behind. The last Comanchero writhed on the ground, clutching his stomach, dying.

  Not knowing for sure if there was a larger band nearby, Clay didn’t waste any time. As the smoke cleared, he ran up the rocks to Amanda. She was lying on her back, her expression dazed, the shotgun beside her.

  He dropped to his knees and pulled her up, cradling her against his chest. She blinked blankly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “My … my shoulder,” she mumbled.

  He felt over it carefully. “It’s not broken,” he assured her. “That was one hell of a shot you got off.”

  “Was it?”

  His arms tightened around her. “You bet it was.”

  “I’m glad,” she murmured, turning her head into his shoulder. “It hurt … I didn’t expect that.” Then she sobered with the realization of what she’d done. “I killed some of them, didn’t I?”

  “You damned near got all of ’em—two dead, four wounded.”

  She closed her eyes momentarily. “May God forgive me,” she whispered, swallowing. “I never thought I could do such a thing, and now I’ve done it twice.” She looked up, searching his face. “I don’t know how you can do this all the time.”

  “Yeah—well,” He took a deep breath, then exhaled it. “For what it’s worth, it isn’t something a man gets used to, Amanda, but I’ve had to face the fact that some people just don’t deserve to live. When I keep that in mind, it makes what I do a little easier.” He reached down with one hand and picked up the shotgun. Still holding her against him, he looked at it. “Well, no wonder—good God, woman, you fired both barrels! You’re damned lucky it didn’t blow up on you.”

  “I thought the Comanches were going to kill you,” she said simply. “I don’t remember pulling both triggers.”

  “They weren’t Comanche, so apparently we haven’t stumbled onto Quanah Parker yet. But it tells me that something’s about to happen. If I’m right, these were Cheyenne on their way to join him.”

  “How do you know they weren’t Kiowa or Apache?”

  “The Apache are bitter, enemies of the Comanche, and they wouldn’t come into the Comancheria, even in summer. These weren’t dressed like Kiowa, so that means they’re Cheyenne.”

  “Clay …” She hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t believe in this—not in the beginning, anyway—but I want you to know I do now. I’d like to think maybe I could help.”

  “You already have.”

  But she wasn’t finished. “Ybarra-Ross can stand, I know that, but a lot of the others cannot. I don’t want to have the only ranch in West Texas. I don’t want to have nightmares about what happens to my neighbors.”

  She seemed so right in his arms, so very right, almost as though she’d been made for him. He looked down, nearly overwhelmed by the tenderness he felt for her. He bent his head and rubbed his cheek against the softness of her hair. “You scared the hell out of me, Amanda,” he whispered.

  But there was no time. By now, more Cheyennes could be mounting up to come after them. He shifted her off his knee and stood up. “Can you ride, do you think?”

  She nodded. “It’s just my shoulder.”

  “It’s pretty bruised up.” He reached for her other arm and helped her to stand. “Come on—we’ve got to get out of here. There’s no telling who’ll be coming back. We might be heading for Big Spring with five hundred Indians on our tails.”

  “Let’s hope not, because it’s going to be slow going back up that trail.”

  “We’re riding up-canyon first, just in case we have to make a stand.”

  Carrying the shotgun, he went down first, ready to catch her if she lost her balance, but she didn’t. As he boosted her up into the Indian saddle, he realized how much she’d surprised him. Every day since he’d found her half dead in the desert, she’d surprised him. In spite of everything, she was still doing her best to survive.

  He still had his hand on her knee. “Is something the matter?” she asked him.

  “No. I was just thinking we must be about even-up now.”

  “In what?”

  “Everything.” He dropped his hand and took a deep breath. Moving to his paint mare, he stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. Grasping the reins and Hannibal’s lead rope, he turned his horse toward the steep trail up. “Let’s get going—we can talk later.”

  As she fell in behind him, nothing, not even the awful ache in her shoulder, could dampen the exhilaration she felt. She’d not only saved his life, but she’d proven to him that she could pull her own weight, that she wasn’t merely useless and in his way.

  They’d gone north a few miles toward the Leased Lands, then doubled back, hoping to elude the Cheyenne, and still he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being followed. When they finally dared to stop, it was to make a quick, cold camp and wash down a few slices of jerky with water. And instead of sleeping in the heat of the day, Clay stood watch while Amanda napped little more than an hour, and then they were on the road again.

  “You still think they’re looking for us?” she asked as he took out his telescope.

  “Yeah.” Just below the crest of a small hill, he reined in and dismounted. “Wait here a minute. I’m going to take a quick look around.”

  As she watched he walked almost to the top, then dropped to crawl on his stomach as he disappeared from sight. She looked about nervously, thinking the whole place seemed too empty, too quiet. He came back, his face sober.

  “I want you to see something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see,” he answered, reaching for her. She slid the length of him, then stood uncertainly until he took her hand. “Stay low to the ground, and don’t do anything to draw attention,” he advised her.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. She was on her knees before he was. Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, she crept to the crest of the hill, then looked downward, seeing nothing.

  “Over there,” he whispered, handing her the telescope.

  She didn’t need it. As she followed his direction, a hollow pit formed in her stomach, and she couldn’t speak. Silhouetted against the horizon, a long, single column of mounted warriors moved slowly, deliberately toward the southeast. There were too many of them to count. She lifted the glass to her eye and focused it, seeking out the leader.

  He sat tall, erect, and proud in his saddle. But it was his face that drew her attention—his hawk-nosed visage was set, cruel, his eyes black and unfathomable. Despite the heat, he wore a feathered war bonnet, its tails trailing almost to his stirrups.

  Beside her, Clay drew in his breath, then let it out. “There’s a real majesty to t
hem,” he murmured. “You can’t look at them and not see it.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “There’s no question about it now—they’re Southern Cheyenne,” he declared flatly.

  “How many do you think there are?” she whispered.

  “Close to two hundred.”

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “Follow them for a few miles.” He edged closer to her and took back his glass. Looking through it again, he studied the Cheyenne soberly for a moment. “I’d a whole lot rather follow them than have it the other way around.”

  “It’s a war party, isn’t it?”

  “Not yet—I don’t see any paint, but it’s a war chief leading them. I’d say they want to discuss things with Quanah, and if the Comanches come up with enough guns and ammunition, they’re ready to join in with the Comanches and Kiowas. Otherwise, they’ll probably go back to Kansas.” He laid the telescope aside. “At least they aren’t tracking us.”

  “Yes, that is something, isn’t it?”

  “Must’ve lost ’em when we went north. I guess when it came to a choice between us and a meeting with Quanah, Quanah won.”

  “What a shame,” she murmured wryly. “So, what do we do now?”

  He was lying on his side, his head propped up by one elbow, regarding her lazily. A slow smile warmed his blue eyes. “Oh, a man’s always got plenty of ideas.”

  The thought that he might kiss her again sent a shiver of anticipation through her. “I expect you do,” she agreed softly.

  He was tempted, but he wasn’t fool enough to believe she really mean to encourage him. Or that she wouldn’t be sorry later, and he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened at the spring pool. With an effort, he forced his gaze from her face.

  “No, I shouldn’t have said that.” Reluctantly, he rolled to sit up, then stood. “Come on—we’d better go”

  “We’ll just catch up to them.” she protested.

  “Now that I know where they’re headed, we’ll follow for a while. Later, we’ll go west and try to intercept Sanchez-Torres.”

  Disappointed, she struggled to rise, then smoothed her full skirt with her hands. He was already halfway to the horses before she caught up to him. When she fell in beside him, he was silent and seemingly preoccupied.

  “You were going to kiss me, weren’t you?” she dared to ask him. Even as she said it, she could feel the blood rise, burning her cheeks.

  He kept his eyes focused on the ground. “No,” he lied. “Why’d you think that?”

  “I don’t know—the way you were looking at me, I guess.”

  As he stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle, he looked into her hot, flushed face. “You aren’t saying you wanted me to, are you?” he asked soberly.

  She shook her head, lying also, “No, of course not.”

  He wasn’t entirely fooled, but he wasn’t sure either. “Look—you can’t blow hot and cold, Amanda. It’s got to be one way or the other—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not civilized enough to want to play parlor games with words, either.”

  “No, you’re not,” she agreed readily. “You’re what Papa would have called downright untamed.”

  “Untamed,” he repeated, digesting it. “Yeah, I guess that pretty well says it.”

  “Yes.”

  “When I grew up with the Comanches, it was the girls who started everything, which kind of makes sense, when you think about it. I mean, it’s up to the woman to keep the barn closed, if that’s what she wants.” He cast a quick side-glance her way. “The rest of the women I’ve known have all been cantina harlots, so I’ve always known where I stood with them—two dollars got me a roll in the clover.”

  “Clay—”

  “I believe in speaking plain, Amanda.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think—”

  “So,” he cut in, “what would you have done if I had kissed you?”

  “I don’t know … no, that’s not true,” she admitted. “I guess I would have kissed you back.”

  He had to close his eyes to quell the desire that raced through his body. No, before she came to him again, he wanted her to think about it. He didn’t believe he could stand it if she cried afterward.

  She felt utterly, completely humiliated by his silence. As hot tears stung her eyes, she demanded, “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Something … anything. That you think me a fool … that I’m no better than those women in the cantinas … I don’t know.”

  “You’re not like those women.”

  “But I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

  “No.” He exhaled audibly. “No, if anybody’s a fool around here, it’s me. If I didn’t think you’d be sorry tomorrow, I’d be rolling in that grass with you right now.” He caught Hannibal’s lead rope and looped it over his saddlehorn. His mouth twisted as he looked at her again. “Don’t offer a man a bite of bread when he’s starving for the whole loaf.”

  “All right—what do you want me to say T she demanded.

  “Amanda, I’m not going to put any words in your mouth so you can blame me later.”

  She pushed back her hair from her hot face and neck. Turning her back to him, she walked to her horse. “All I wanted was for you to hold me and tell me we aren’t going to be killed by Indians,” she said over her shoulder.

  He ought to leave it at that, but no matter what he’d just said, he was still foolhardy enough to push her further. He waited until she’d pulled herself into the wood-and-horn saddle.

  “Don’t give me any brass-faced lies,” he told her, guiding Sarah toward the summit of the hill. Behind him Hannibal jerked on the lead rope, then reluctantly followed.

  “I just wish—”

  He cut her off abruptly. “Be careful what you wish for—you might get it, you know, and then where would you be? Hell, I’m less than half-civilized—untamed—you said that yourself.”

  “It wasn’t like I was wanting to marry you!” She fairly flung the words at him. “I just said I would have kissed you back, that’s all.”

  She fell in behind the mule, keeping her distance from Clay. He pulled up and half turned in his saddle. “If you want a fellow to peck on your cheek, go back to Boston to that fellow who’s got money and political ambitions.”

  “I don’t want a peck on my cheek! And I don’t want Patrick Donnelly either!”

  “Don’t shout—the sound carries,” he warned her. But as he said it, he almost smiled. “All right, I’ll bite the bait. Just what do you want?”

  “I don’t know—to be held—to be told we’re going to get out of this alive—”

  “That’s it?” he asked bluntly.

  “Look—do I have to have a reason for everything?” she answered wearily.

  “No, but if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand you without a few of them. Come on—let’s get a safe distance from those Cheyenne, then we can talk all you want.” With that, he dug his moccasin heels into the little mare, and she moved forward again. “I’d like to get far enough away to make a campfire.”

  By the time they reached the crest of the hill, the long line of Indians on the horizon had disappeared. But what she felt wasn’t relief—it was chagrin. It wasn’t fair of McAlester to push her like that, not when she really didn’t understand what she felt. She kicked her pony’s flank with her bare heel and caught up to him.

  “You know you started this, don’t you? Just what sort of ideas were you having back there?”

  “The usual ones.”

  “The usual ones? What kind of answer is that supposed to be?”

  “Prudent.”

  She sucked in her breath, then let it out, blowing wet strands of hair off her forehead. “And you don’t understand me.”

  “No.”

  He was silent for so long
she thought that was the end of it. But as they cut west rather than go over a rock-strewn hill, he exhaled heavily.

  “I guess maybe that’s what appealed to me when I lived among the Comanche. All brutality toward whites aside, they have pretty straightforward ways of doing things. A man doesn’t have to guess where he stands. No—” He lifted his hand as she opened her mouth. “No, hear me out. If you were a Comanche girl, and if you wanted me, all you’d have to do is crawl under my tipi hides, and nobody would think anything about it. And if I wanted to make something permanent out of it, I’d just take a few stolen horses, and I’d leave them in front of your tipi. If you or someone in your family didn’t come out and get them, I’d know exactly where I stood, and I’d leave you alone.”

  “And if I took them?”

  “Your family would gather up your clothes, your cooking pots, a few knives, and some buffalo robes and send you out with them. We’d load Hannibal up and be on our way.”

  “That’s it? No words—nothing?” she asked incredulously.

  “No. But to my way of thinking, it’s a lot more civilized than the way whites go about it. You don’t have two people sitting in a parlor with the door open, trying to make polite conversation that covers nothing for six months, followed by lengthy betrothal, where nothing more than a chaste brush on the cheek is proper. Then, just because a priest or parson has said a few words, it’s suddenly all right for them to do damned near anything with the strangers they’ve married. Tell me that’s civilized, will you?”

  “It’s a rite that goes back thousands of years.”

  “I expect if someone wanted to study the subject, he’d find out that the Comanche way goes back a whole lot further. And whether you admit it or not, it’s a damned sight more civilized way to do it.”

  “They have more than one wife, Clay—surely you don’t think that’s civilized, do you?”

  “No, but it’s practical. Look at the life. There’s a hell of a lot of work for one woman to do. And most wives are related to each other, usually as sisters. It actually works out pretty well.”