Weapons were brandished, and horses snorted and pranced nervously, tossing manes and heads and stirring up clouds of dust. The men seemed eager, and Deborah caught a few words that she could understand.
“Kwuhupu. Nabitukuru. Sikusaru. The random words were enough to make her shudder. Captives. War. Steal. It was evident that the Comanche intended to make another raid on unsuspecting victims. And there was nothing she could do.
Distressed, she rose to her feet, and Sunflower looked up at her with a troubled expression. “Ni?yusukaitu?” the girl murmured, and Deborah stared at her blankly. She stood, too, her round, pretty face concerned. As if at a loss, Sunflower put a comforting hand on Deborah’s arm and murmured something she couldn’t hear.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Deborah said. “I don’t understand.” She gave a shrug of her shoulders to explain, then looked past Sunflower to the men again.
Someone had begun to play the drums, and the pounding rhythm set some of the men to dancing.
They whooped and howled, chanting words that Deborah could not understand at all. An old, stooped man wearing the head of a buffalo came out from behind a tipi and began singing in a high-pitched voice, and everyone grew quiet to listen. Deborah shivered. The old man shook a large rattle made of a gourd, and another made of hide and bone. His chest was bare, but he wore leggings covering his bony legs. Sewn to the leggings were animal heads, rattles from snakes, skins, and claws.
The Comanches treated him respectfully, even with reverence, she noticed. When he had completed a circle of the open area in the middle of the camp, he paused and lifted his shaggy head. His voice sounded eerie coming from a hairy buffalo skull, but Deborah could tell that his words were having a profound effect on the listeners. Some of them cried out, or exclaimed, and were quickly hushed by others.
Even Sunflower, standing next to her, whispered a frightened word that Deborah could not understand. What could he be saying that would silence the entire camp? Or make them afraid?
She sought Hawk, and found that he was looking at her strangely. There was a taut set to his mouth that alarmed her, and she looked away from him.
To her shock, several of the Comanche were staring at her. Not with curiosity. No, the stares were definitely unfriendly. Hostile.
She took a step back and found Sunflower had left her side. The girl was several feet away, and beckoned to her to come. Deborah did so, not hurrying, but walking with her head held defiantly high. She didn’t know what she’d done, but it was obvious that the old man in the buffalo head had said something about her.
“Kima,” Sunflower whispered urgently, and Deborah quickened her steps. When they reached the familiar comfort of the tipi they shared, both were obviously relieved. “Tsaa,” Sunflower said with a smile.
“Tsaa. Good.” Deborah managed a faint smile, but kept looking back toward the middle of the camp. The low fire just outside the tipi shed enough light that she could see the slight lines of worry in Sunflower’s face, and she sat down uneasily. Something was definitely the matter. There had not been such hostility directed at her before, and it had something to do with the old man in the mask. She wished she knew what.
Sunflower ducked into the tipi, then returned with the unfinished dress.
She thrust it into Deborah’s hands.
“I am to keep busy, I see,” she said ruefully. “To take my mind off whatever was being said about me over there. All right. I can take a hint.
Though I wish I knew why everyone suddenly looked at me as if I had done something dreadful.”
She’d thought—until tonight—that the other Comanche women accepted her as a friendly, if rather unlearned, part of their camp. Now, it was brought home to her that she was still considered a stranger in their midst.
What on earth had that masked old man said to elicit such reactions from them?
Hawk stood stiffly in the center of the camp, aware of the gazes directed at him. Even his father had glanced at him. To gauge his reaction to Mukwooru’s words, no doubt. He felt a flash of irritation. What was he supposed to do? Deny it? No. He couldn’t do that.
Deborah was his captive, his white woman, and he, too, was an outsider.
Part of him didn’t understand that. And part of him did. Somehow, she would not let him forget it, would not let him relax his guard for a moment.
She didn’t even know it, didn’t even realize that she had that effect on him. It was humiliating and dismaying. Would he never be able to belong anywhere?
Would he ever feel as if he was one of the People?
He may have come back, but his heart was not here. He’d returned with the intention of living as one of them, going on raids with them, becoming a part of them. He’d failed. His heart was not in the other world, either. Watsitu Pihi, old Spirit Talker had called him. Lost Heart. The old man was right. But he had no intention of admitting it to anyone.
And now Mukwooru—Spirit Talker—claimed there were bad omens in the keeping of the white woman by him, that she would bring trouble down on their people. He didn’t believe that. But he didn’t disbelieve it, either.
Perhaps Deborah herself would not bring the trouble, but the way he felt about her might.
Hawk turned when he saw his father rise from in front of his lodge, saw White Eagle lift his arm for silence.
“This one is sad to hear your words, old wise man,” he said gravely into the falling silence. “You speak of my son as if he would bring trouble upon us.” The old man stepped forward, his skinny chest rising and falling from his exertions. Hawk saw every eye trained on him, and knew what Spirit Talker would say.
“I speak what the gods have said, what they have warned. Your son does not fight the good fight with the other warriors. He fights himself, but he does not fight the enemy.” Spirit Talker gave a soft shake of his rattle. “A man cannot live in two worlds. It brings death to one, and grief to the other.” Hawk stepped forward now and saw the shift of eyes toward him. The fire hissed and popped, and somewhere a dog barked.
“I fight when I choose,” he said calmly. “I am not a child to be pulled this way and that at the whim of others.”
“But you do not go on raids with our young men,” Spirit Talker said slyly. “Not unless they raid the Indé, or go beyond Kwana kuhtsu paa. Is that not so?”
For a moment, Hawk remained silent. It was true. He did not participate in the raids against the whites. And he only went along if the destination was below the Rio Grande.
White Eagle spoke up somberly. “It is not the time to fight the white men. They are too numerous. You have not forgotten what has befallen those who have left the white man’s reservation?”
“They were foolish,” someone said. “They allowed the white soldiers to overtake them.”
Shaking his head, White Eagle looked over the crowd. It was evident that most of the young warriors were eager to fight. “It is no shame to die, but it is a shame to be starved and made to keep the white man’s ways. Do you want to end the same way? A man should live as a man, not be treated as a dog.” His voice rose. “When the white man begins to treat the People as if we are subject to his ways, and we allow it, we are no longer warriors but criminals. I say be patient. Wait. See what time brings.”
“Another broken treaty? Already hunters come who kill the buffalo to just leave them lie on the prairie,” another man said, his voice angry. “They do not respect the Great Spirit that gave us the buffalo for food. They do not keep their promises. I say we should keep ours—kill any who dare to take from us what is ours.”
Hawk stood silently and saw that White Eagle fought a losing battle. The young men were ready to fight. And he would be expected to join them.
“What about our people who were killed?” a tall, scarred warrior demanded. “Only two moons ago, the blue coats rode upon a party of young men out hunting. They did nothing, yet they were killed. And we are to allow that?”
Hawk exchanged a glance with his father. The scarred warri
or’s only son had been with that party. He’d been just a boy, not a threat. And he’d been slaughtered like the others. People began to murmur agreement, and a loud buzz ran through the crowd. Some of the glances were directed at Hawk.
A flicker of movement made him shift slightly, and he saw a young man step out from the others and point to him.
“I challenge you, as the son of the chief, to prove your manhood,” the young man said, and when he turned his face to the light, Hawk recognized him. Esatai, or Little Wolf. He had long been a rival of Hawk and resented the way he came and went in the camp. He had made comments before, and once they had fought. It had been a close fight, with longknives, and Hawk had cut him and won. Now Little Wolf swaggered forward, his stance a challenge.
“We go to steal many horses, and if you are not afraid, you will ride with us,” Little Wolf said boldly.
Hawk didn’t answer for a moment. It wasn’t that he was afraid, or even that he disliked raiding. It could be exciting. But he did dislike being cornered, and his voice was harsh.
“Have I not ridden with you to fight the Cheyenne? The Sioux, and the Apache?” he asked. “I have counted coup, and I have taken enemy scalps. My deeds are recorded on the walls of my lodge. I do not need you to question my courage. I have proven it to any who care to ask.”
“Perhaps, but I have not seen you fight the white men. Is it that you need a special magic to fight them? Or are you afraid?”
“My reasons are my own.” Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “I do not need to share them with you.”
For a moment no one spoke or moved. The air was still, charged with tension. Hawk could feel Little Wolf’s hate and resentment, but did not offer a soothing reply. He felt no need to negotiate for peace when Little Wolf had begun this matter.
“I say you do not dare go,” Little Wolf sneered, and glanced around him as if for agreement. A few muttered in accord.
Only one other man dared speak in his defense, and that was his cousin, Ohawasápe, or Yellow Bear. Though younger than Hawk by four years, he had no lack of courage. And he had always admired his older cousin.
“I hear the yapping of a coyote instead of the howl of a wolf,” Yellow Bear said angrily. “This one thinks that someone here envies my cousin his many ponies and the scalps in his lodge.” Little Wolf glared at him. “I have many ponies of my own! And there are scalps in my lodge . . .”
“Gray scalps, and your ponies are too slow to catch the turtle, much less run with the buffalo,” Yellow Bear retorted. His black eyes were narrowed with fury, and Little Wolf took a step forward.
Hawk lifted a hand. “This is my fight, cousin, though I thank you for your words. It is good to hear them.” He turned to Little Wolf. “Do you offer me a personal challenge? I will fight you as we did before, if you like. This one does not mind at all.”
Little Wolf shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He still bore a long, thin scar from one eyebrow to his chin, and it was obvious he recalled who had given it to him.
“I will fight you,” he said finally, “once you have proven that you are not too afraid for war. I would not like to soil myself with one who trembles at the thought of counting coup on an enemy.” Hawk spat on the ground to show his contempt and saw Little Wolf’s flush. His voice was a growl, and his eyes narrowed when he said, “So be it. I will fight you when we return from our raid.” Spirit Talker rattled his gourd, and red feathers shimmied with the movement. “And you must get rid of the white woman,” he said in a high, thin voice. “She will bring many troubles upon us if she stays in our camp.” Hawk felt the stares on him, but allowed no emotion or reaction to show on his face.
“No. The white woman is mine. She stays until I tire of her.” Someone gasped at his refusal, and an angry mutter ran through the crowd. Hawk did not move, did not show by the flicker of an eyelash that he heard or cared. An uneasy shuffling of feet in the dust was evidence that his answer had disturbed many of them, but no one else offered a word or protest. It didn’t help his mood any to know that he’d already thought everything Spirit Talker had said.
Enough of this. Tomorrow, he would go to Deborah, and he would prove to her that she was meant to be his woman.
A murky gloom lay inside the tipi, though the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn. The entrance to the tipi faced east; growing light splintered through the cracks in the hide. Deborah stared down in dismay at the stains on her blankets. She had no idea what she was supposed to do about it here, or how to explain it to Sunflower.
Fortunately, Sunflower seemed to know much more about it than she did, and apparently treated her courses as a natural fact of life. Which, Deborah supposed, they were. It was only in her own society that women were forced to pretend such natural functions did not exist.
Here, she was taken to another lodge. The girl led her away from the tipi where she always stayed. On the fringe of the village, on the far side of the camp and almost up against a rock ridge, a shelter made of brush was tucked beneath a huge overhang. Sunflower turned and looked at her shyly.
Deborah stared back at her, uncertain what to say or do. The shelter was small and stank. Just outside the open doorway, a circle of stones cradled a bed of black, charred ashes.
“Ikaru,” Sunflower said, motioning for Deborah to enter the dwelling.
She shuddered, not liking the strong, sharp smell that was evident even from outside.
“I don’t understand,” she began, but then Sunflower gave her a frustrated glance and gestured. Slowly, with blunt gestures and a few words 66
Comanche Moon
she didn’t understand, Deborah was finally made to comprehend the girl’s meaning. Her face colored hotly.
“Tsihhabuhkamaru,” Sunflower said frankly.
Though Deborah wasn’t certain of the word’s meaning, she had understood enough. “I suppose the fact that . . . that my courses are here has upset the natural order of things.”
“Nabi?atsikatu,” the girl said softly, and Deborah gave a helpless shake of her head.
She thought the word meant forbidden, or taboo, but she wasn’t certain.
There were so many unfamiliar words that she frequently grew confused.
Embarrassment sharpened her voice.
“So, I suppose I am to remain an outcast until this is over with? Not that I mind. I find that some of your primitive rituals are very childish, but harmless.”
Ignoring Sunflower’s hurt expression, Deborah ducked into the brush shelter. The smell of sage filled the hut with an almost overpowering scent, and cedar and spruce and other plants hung in bundles from the bent poles that formed the ceiling. The roof was thatched, the floor thick with more bundles of tied plants.
When she turned, she saw that Sunflower had knelt and was starting a fire in the stone-ringed pit outside the lodge. She felt a spurt of remorse that she had been so sharp, and sighed.
“I am sorry- to have been rude,” she said, and Sunflower looked up with a smile. Deborah saw her ready willingness to forgive and forget with dismay.
It only added to her guilt for speaking out of turn. She went to the door.
“Haitsíi.”
Dark eyes met hers, and Sunflower said softly, “Haitsíi. Haa.” Dear friends. Deborah wondered what Sunflower would think when she left without saying good-bye. It would have to be that way, of course, if there was a hope for success.
Just the thought of what she contemplated made her nerves quiver with apprehension. It would be dangerous, and there was little hope they would make it, but they had to try. She and Judith agreed on that.
Judith. Oh heavens, what would she think when Deborah did not go to the stream? The worst, probably. And there was no way to tell her any different.
Smoke rose from the fire that Sunflower had begun, and the girl was motioning her forward. Deborah stepped out of the brush shelter and paused. The smoke was thick and fragrant, smelling of spruce and sage.
Sunflower smiled and bec
koned her forward.
Throwing a robe over Deborah’s shoulders, she enveloped her briefly in a tent of smoke, then stepped back, taking the robe with her. Deborah understood. It was some kind of ceremony, probably having to do with her time of month. She nodded gravely, and Sunflower seemed pleased.
“It was foolish,” Hawk growled, and Sunflower stared down at her toes again, chastened. “She is not one of the People. She does not need our ceremonies.”
And, he added silently, he had not wanted to leave without speaking to her again. That was impossible now that Sunflower had taken her to a purification hut. There was nothing he could do. He would have to wait and speak to her when he returned.
“You will be safe, my brother?” Sunflower asked timidly, and his anger faded at the sight of her forlorn face. She’d meant well.
“I’ll bring you something. Would you like that?” Her face brightened. “Haa. Though I like this last gift you have given me very well.”
He frowned. “What gift was that, nu samohpu?”
“Deborah. She is very nice.”
“She is not for you. You know that. And I did not bring her here.”
“But you keep her here. That is what Spirit ‘biker said. He thinks she will bring us bad luck, but I think he is wrong. She tries very hard to please us.”
“To please you, maybe,” Hawk muttered, then shook his dark head.
“You spend too much time with her, my sister. When I return, I will let you go back to our father’s lodge. Old Grandmother has been missing your help.” Sunflower stared up at him, and he saw the hurt in her dark eyes. “You are not pleased with me?” He put a hand on her shoulder, lifting a strand of her silky black hair between his fingers. “I am very pleased with you. I could not have a better sister. You make my heart glad, and I am proud. But the woman will be able to take care of our lodge, and I will once more sleep beneath my own lodge poles.”
Sunflower bent her head, and he smiled faintly. The curve of her cheek was still so childlike and soft, her small hands plump as an infant’s. Soon, there would be an offer of marriage for her, and she would no longer be a child. It was the way of the world, but he felt a pang of regret that she would change.
Comanche Moon Page 9
