“I’ll send a detachment with a wagon,” Tapley said. “Better to see them safely back here today.”
“All right, then,” Ned said. “You can come on the stage now, and Captain Tapley’s men can follow to bring you back to the fort.”
Mr. Cunningham nodded and reached for his hat. “Thank you. Come along, my dear. You must be strong for Sally’s sake.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The door’s creak wakened Taabe Waipu. She caught her breath. Two of the black-garbed women entered, carrying items in their pale hands.
One held a wooden tray with dishes. The other brought a roll of white cloth and a tool. Taabe had seen such a tool—two knife blades fastened in the middle, with handles that made cutting easy—but she couldn’t remember what it was called.
She raised herself on her elbows and shrank toward the wall. The woman carrying the tray set it on the table beside the bed. The other sat on the edge of the bed. Taabe winced as the shifting of the bedding caused a stab of pain in her ankle.
The sitting woman smiled and spoke softly in a flowing language Taabe couldn’t understand. She raised her own foot and touched her ankle then rubbed it, talking all the while. Taabe guessed she wanted to examine her injury.
The woman stood and lifted the edge of the blanket, raising her eyebrows as if seeking permission. Taabe inched her bandaged foot toward the edge. The woman bent and peered at the ankle, then touched the skin with fingertips so gentle, Taabe barely felt it at first. A slash of pain seized her, and she gasped. The woman raised her hands as though to say, “I won’t touch it again.” She put a hand beneath Taabe’s calf, raised her leg a bit, and slid it carefully away from the edge of the bed. She settled the blanket back over Taabe and smiled at her, uttering more soft words.
The second woman spoke louder and gestured toward the tray, a clear offer of food. Taabe nodded. That woman, who seemed older than the one who had looked at her ankle, turned away for a moment and returned with a soft bundle covered with cloth as white as summer clouds. Both robed women put their hands under Taabe’s shoulders and lifted her. She gritted her teeth as the pain washed over her. The older one slipped the white bundle behind her head and neck. A pillow—softer than anything Taabe could remember resting her head upon.
She sank back into its deepness and closed her eyes. Her heart drummed, and her breath came in short hitches. The two women spoke in low tones. Finally they grew silent. Taabe opened her eyes a crack. They still stood there.
The older one spoke to the other and picked up a gleaming white pottery bowl. The younger one left the room and returned with a stool. Taabe eyed it with interest. The three-legged stool looked very sturdy and useful, but it would never do for people who moved about. The Comanche never carried furniture.
The older woman sat on it and dipped a metal spoon into the bowl. She leaned close and held the spoon to Taabe’s mouth. Taabe opened her lips and let the woman deposit a spoonful of lukewarm broth in her mouth. It tasted good, but the spoon clacked against her teeth and Taabe winced.
The woman waited until she opened her mouth again. Why couldn’t they make spoons of wood or horn? The younger woman left the room, but the older one stayed to feed her. Several spoonfuls of broth were followed by small pieces of a bread that tasted of corn and salt and something else. Taabe wished she could feed herself, but sitting upright would cause excruciating pain, so she allowed the indignity of being fed like an infant.
When she had finished eating, the woman in black touched her chest. “Natalie,” she said. “Natalie.”
“Nah-ta-lee,” Taabe said slowly.
The woman’s face lit with a smile. “Yes. Natalie.” She pointed to Taabe. “You?”
Taabe touched the front of her soft white gown. “Taabe Waipu.”
Natalie frowned. She touched herself again. “Natalie. You?” Taabe repeated her name.
“Tah-bay-wy-poo.”
Taabe nodded.
Natalie’s face beamed at this small progress. She spoke again, smoothing the blanket and saying Taabe’s name at the end of her words. She rose and moved the stool aside, picked up the tray, and left the room silently, closing the door behind her. Taabe lay back in the dim, cool room and felt her stomach relax as it welcomed the food.
She exhaled and stared at the ceiling that seemed too close. She longed to get outside this box of a room. She thought of her Indian family. Did her sister miss her? Her adoptive parents were dead, as were others she had loved, but for the past two years she had lived with and loved her Comanche sister’s family. She’d rejoiced in the birth of her sister’s baby girl and taken great pleasure in helping care for the little one.
Where was Peca, she wondered. If she had stayed, she would be his wife now. Had he given up the chase? And who were these kind women who had taken her in? She’d seen white women’s clothing before—things the warriors had brought back from raids. But she had never seen anything like the long, flowing black dresses these women wore. Perhaps they belonged to a strange tribe. And where were their men? She’d seen a man with them when they found her. The men must be out hunting or raiding, she decided as her eyes drifted shut.
She woke to the door’s creaking. Closed in as she was, she couldn’t tell the time of day, but light still streamed through the narrow slit in the wall.
The younger woman who had examined her ankle entered, carrying a lamp. She peered at Taabe and smiled. The words she spoke meant nothing to Taabe.
The woman tried to get something across to her, using hand motions, but the signs weren’t intelligible. Taabe stared at her blankly. The woman placed the lamp on the table, held up a finger, and backed toward the doorway. She went out, leaving the door open. Taabe wanted to rise, but knew she couldn’t.
She waited, her heart pounding. Something had happened. What was the woman trying to tell her? Would she have smiled like that if Peca had appeared at the door?
A moment later, she heard footsteps and low voices. One was that of a man. Taabe grasped the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to her chin, over her soft white gown, and peered over the flimsy shield.
The woman appeared in the doorway, with a tall white man behind her. She stepped inside, extending her hands and speaking rapidly. Taabe blinked, uncomprehending, and looked into the man’s face. Maybe he was the head of the family. She thought she might have seen him before, but she didn’t know where. Was he the one who had found her?
Ned looked helplessly at the injured woman. The right side of her face was a mass of bruises, ranging from deep purple to yellow. Her matted hair hung about her shoulders, and her blue eyes radiated terror.
“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?” He turned to the nun. “Has she said anything, ma’am?”
“I am Sister Adele. Mostly she has slept, but Sister Natalie coaxed her this morning, and we believe we have her name. Tah-bay-wy-poo.”
The injured woman frowned at the words, her gaze darting between them.
“We’ve fed her and bandaged her ankle,” the nun said. “I was going to look at it again this morning, but it pained her so much, I left it alone. We don’t know if she has other injuries. We thought it best not to disturb her too much, so long as she seemed peaceful.”
“I don’t know what to tell those people out there.” Ned sighed and turned his hat around and around in his hands. “We can’t ask her questions.”
The nun nodded. “It is too soon. Perhaps if they came back later …”
Ned shook his head. “They want to get a look at her today. They think they’ll know if she’s their daughter, and maybe they will. I wish we could tell her what it’s about, though, so she wouldn’t be frightened.”
He took a step toward the bed, and the young woman cringed away from him, toward the wall. She grimaced and closed her eyes.
“She’s in pain,” Ned said. “This isn’t the time to bring strangers in to ogle her.”
“No,” the sister said. “But if she is their child, they have
a right to know.”
“You don’t speak any Comanche, I suppose?”
“None at all. Do you?”
He shook his head. “All right, I’ll go get Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham.”
He went out into the mission entrance. The couple waited in the sitting room just inside the door.
“She’s awake. If you folks want to come with me, I’ll take you to her. Just don’t expect too much. She doesn’t understand English, and she’s in a lot of pain.”
Mrs. Cunningham rose. “How badly is she injured?”
“The nuns aren’t sure. Her face is bruised. That and her ankle seem to be the worst of it. She’ll have to stay off that foot for several weeks.”
The couple followed him silently along a narrow hallway, from which several curtained doorways opened. The final opening on the right had a wooden door. Ned paused before it. “They’ve cleaned her up some, but not completely. They wanted to let her rest.”
“All right,” Mr. Cunningham said.
Ned stood aside, and they entered the small chamber. Sister Adele was leaning over the bed, holding a cup of water to the injured woman’s lips.
“Oh my.” Mrs. Cunningham put a hand to her mouth.
Sister Adele turned and said softly, “We have washed her once, but we haven’t washed her hair. She needs to rest and heal. Tomorrow, if possible, we will bathe her.”
While she spoke, the Cunninghams stared at the woman on the bed, and she cowered against the wall, clutching the quilt to her breast.
Mr. Cunningham turned away. “She’s not our Sally.”
“Are you sure?” Ned asked.
“She’s much too old.” Mrs. Cunningham’s voice caught. “The poor creature.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sobbed.
The patient’s gaze roved from Mrs. Cunningham’s face to her faded calico dress, then to Ned. In her blue eyes, panic warred with fascination. Ned wanted only to protect her—in that moment and the future. The young woman clenched her teeth and crumpled the edge of the quilt in her hands. Her breathing became shallow as her glance bounced from one of them to another and settled, pleading, on the nun.
“We don’t need to stand here gawking at her,” Ned said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You are welcome,” Sister Adele said.
Ned walked out to the entry with the Cunninghams. Sister Natalie waited near the door, her hands clasped before her.
“Thank you, Sister,” Ned said. “These folks say she’s not their girl.”
Sister Natalie nodded. “I suppose there will be others coming to try to identify her.”
“Will that inconvenience you?” Ned wondered who would care for the injured girl—she looked hardly more than a girl now that she’d regained consciousness and had her face washed—if she was transported to the fort. Mrs. Stein, perhaps.
“The Lord placed us here to serve.” Sister Natalie gazed at the floor.
“That’s … kind of you,” Ned said. “I’ve asked the captain not to spread it around where she’s staying. We don’t know who might be looking for her. Of course, we all want to see her reunited with her family, but if the Indians are looking for her …” It was only fair to warn the nuns. “They say Comanche don’t like to give up their captives. If they come here, you would probably do better to give her up than to resist.”
Sister Natalie met his gaze. “The Lord will show us what to do.”
Ned nodded, but her attitude left him uneasy. He looked at the Cunninghams. “I’ll make the same request of you folks. If you hear of anyone else wanting to see that poor girl, tell them she’s being cared for, and to contact the captain. Don’t let on that she’s here at the mission.”
“All right,” Mr. Cunningham said.
His wife moved toward the door. “We’ll wait outside for the soldiers.”
“We would be happy to bring you some coffee or tea,” Sister Natalie said.
Mr. Cunningham looked hopeful, but his wife shook her head. “No, thank you. We do appreciate your hospitality for that woman.”
Ned walked outside with them. Brownie waited for him near the stagecoach. He looked their way, and Ned shook his head.
“Good-bye, folks.” Ned held out his hand to Mr. Cunningham. “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out well for you.”
“Thank you for bringing us.” Cunningham glanced at his wife, who dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “If you get someone in here who speaks her lingo, can they ask her about other captives? Maybe she’s seen our Sally.”
“I’m sure the captain will question her along those lines when she’s had a few days to recover.”
Taabe slept fitfully, but each time she awoke, the window slit was dark. Once one of the women came in with a candle and a cup filled with a warm drink. Taabe sipped it and recognized the taste of steeped willow bark, a common remedy for pain. She drank the entire cupful and lay back on the soft pillow, thankful for the women’s care.
When she woke again, one of the women—the young one with fewest creases on her face—entered carrying an armful of clothing. She spoke to Taabe and smiled. She held up one of the long, black robes they all wore, spoke some more, and laid it on the foot of the bed.
Then she held up Taabe’s Comanche dress and leggings. They looked fresh, as though she had cleaned the soft buckskins. The woman nodded to them, then pointed to the robe and raised her eyebrows as though asking which Taabe preferred.
The choice was obvious. Taabe pointed to her own clothing. Though she wanted to leave the Comanche life, the flowing black dresses frightened her. She wished they offered a dress like the woman who’d visited yesterday had worn. That looked right to Taabe—more normal for a woman from the world of the whites. Though the cloth was a drab brown, the skirt had nipped in at the woman’s waist. The top fastened in the front, with a row of small, round buttons. The costume wouldn’t give her the freedom of her leggings and loose buckskin dress, but something inside her longed to wear a similar outfit. Was that what she had worn when she was little?
The robed woman pointed to Taabe and spoke her name, then pointed to herself. “Adele. Sister Adele.”
Taabe frowned. “Ah-dell.”
Her visitor smiled and nodded. She beckoned with her hand then helped Taabe rise. The pain made her hold her breath. Adele pulled her close, indicating that Taabe should lean on her. They hobbled across a dim hallway, to another room where a tub of hot water waited. Taabe’s heart raced. Were they going to cook her? She drew back, almost falling when the pain in her ankle stabbed her.
Adele caught her and spoke softly, with words like a gently rippling stream. She pointed to the tub and made a scrubbing motion on her face.
So it was for washing. Taabe nodded cautiously. Why so much water? It must have taken a great deal of effort to carry and heat so much.
Adele pretended to scrub her own arms. Taabe nodded again. Her companion leaned over and mimed scrubbing her legs. She drew Taabe a step toward the tub and reached down, skimming her hand through the water. She smiled at Taabe and jerked her head toward the tub.
Slowly, Taabe stooped and touched the water with her fingertips. It was warm, but not so hot that it burned. Adele tugged at the skirt of Taabe’s gown, then mimed removing the robe. She pointed to the tub. Taabe paused then nodded. Perhaps they wanted her to wash her garment after she’d washed herself.
Adele pointed to some folded cloths and a lump of something white—it looked like tallow—on a small wooden table near the tub and spoke again.
Taabe frowned. As nearly as she could tell, she was to scrub herself all over and wash her white dress. She balanced herself on her uninjured leg, pulled the dress over her head, and dropped it in the tub.
Adele’s mouth opened wide. She stared at the dress floating in the water, then at Taabe.
Taabe’s stomach roiled. What had she done wrong?
Adele clapped a hand to her mouth.
The older woman, Natalie, pushed aside the curtain in the doorway, peered in, an
d spoke. Adele answered and pointed to the tub. Natalie came closer and peered into the water. She and Adele looked at each other and began to laugh.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ned was glad to be back home. He and Brownie sat in the dining room at the ranch, having coffee with Patrillo and neighboring
rancher Reece Jones. Ned had told the others about the woman they’d found and the events that followed. “Papa.” Benito stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the large dining and living room of their ranch. “What is it?” Patrillo asked his oldest son. “Quinta is supposed to help cook tonight, and she’s at the corral watching Marcos ride that colt of his.”
Patrillo stood and went to the front door. He shouted in Spanish, “Quinta! It’s your turn to help prepare supper. Get around to the kitchen and help your brother. Now!” After a moment he turned and sauntered back to the table where the men were enjoying their coffee.
Reece, who had been shooting the breeze with Patrillo and his boys when the stage arrived, had moved to Texas from Arkansas twenty years ago—and managed to keep his scalp and run a motley herd of cattle. He also helped out occasionally when Patrillo had a large freighting contract and needed an extra driver.
“So, the first mail run turned out to be an adventure,” Reece said as Tree resumed his seat. “That’s right,” Brownie said.
Ned took a swallow from his coffee and set the mug down. “I sure wish we knew where she came from.”
“Doesn’t matter where she came from,” Patrillo said. “What you need to know is who she is.”
“Yup,” Brownie said. “If we knew that, maybe we’d know where she was heading.”
“She sure was stove up,” Ned said.
“Makes me wonder if she’d been beaten.” Brownie drained his mug and reached for the coffeepot.
Ned shook his head. “Someone might have blacked her eye, but I doubt they broke her ankle.”
“Could be her horse threw her.” Reece scratched his chin through his flowing beard. “Hard to imagine a Comanche woman going far without a horse.”
Captive Trail Page 4
