Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  Quanah sat down cross-legged before the fire, gesturing to indicate his guest should sit to his right. The heat felt good to Cholla’s half-frozen body. Gratefully, the scout sank down, too.

  When he looked up, the blue-gray eyes were studying him. “We will smoke and talk,” the Comanche announced grandly.

  “I am honored to be the guest of the great Quanah.”

  “You have heard of me?”

  “I have heard the bluecoats talk of the brave chief who fought at Adobe Walls and the Palo Duro Canyon of Texas.”

  “All so long ago.” The half-breed seemed almost wistful as he reached for some tobacco and papers, handed some to Cholla, rolled himself a cigarette. “As I remember, the Apache do not smoke the ceremonial pipe, and besides”–he smiled wryly–“some of the things civilization has given my people are better than what we had–but not much.”

  Cholla rolled himself a smoke, lit it with a burning stick from the fire. It tasted good. His body was beginning to warm. “The great chief is out hunting?”

  Quanah nodded and puffed on his cigarette, staring into the fire. “Mostly I eat agency beef, but now and then, I take my braves and we go off and camp, shoot a few rabbits and deer, pretend that things are as they were when I was young and we and our allies controlled the Plains. In those days, the buffalo were many; so many that for miles, when the herds moved, the Plains were a brown sea of fur. When the soldiers deliver the cattle now, the young men chase the beef down and shoot them with arrows.” He made a derisive noise. “Some of them have never seen a buffalo. I am glad my father, the great chief Peta Nocona, did not live to see the day Comanche warriors chased tame cows and played at hunting.”

  Cholla shook his head. “It is no better for my people.”

  Quanah stared at him. “I saw your woman. Is she Indian or white?”

  What should he answer? This stoic chief did not look like a man to be lied to. “She is white. I stole her. She was an enemy’s wife.”

  Quanah nodded in understanding. “So it was with my father. My mother was a blue-eyed white girl stolen in a Texas raid. The whites came one day and stole her back.”

  For a moment, he said no more, and there were no sounds but the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind. Cholla watched him, wondering what thoughts crossed Quanah’s mind.

  “My mother and baby sister are buried in Texas,” the Comanche said. “Someday I hope to move their bodies so I may be buried next to them. The whites will take your woman away from you, too, as they took my mother.”

  “I have promised her I will return her to her people at the end of our journey in exchange for her help.”

  Quanah looked at him in surprise. “You would give up a woman like that? She is pretty, would bear you fine sons and warm your blankets on lonely nights. My father would never have given up his white woman. The Texians took her away by force while he was gone.”

  “I ... I have given my word to her.” He did not want to think about losing Sierra.

  “A man does not make promises to women. Such oaths are for warriors. Put a son in her belly and keep her. When its tiny mouth sucks at her breast and she is warm and safe in your lodge, she will forget about wanting to return to the white civilization.”

  That was not a decision Cholla wanted to deal with right then. “I will think on this,” he said somberly, wondering when Quanah would get to the point.

  “There is talk that the White Father in Washington will soon allow white farmers to come in, take the rest of our Indian lands, and plow it up for farms.”

  Cholla nodded. “I have heard these rumors. No doubt the whites will pay you for the land.”

  “Pay!” Quanah snorted in derision. “You think we will have any choice but to accept what they offer? If we say we do not wish to sell, they will take the land anyway. So when they offer, all the tribes will take the money. A hundred years from now the whites will say they didn’t steal Indian Territory, they paid us for it.”

  Cholla smoked and listened to the chiefs grumbling in polite silence. Perhaps the half-breed was lonely and wished to talk to someone who had been lately in battle. It had been a dozen years since the Comanche had fought.

  “You are indeed the Apache called Cholla?” The light eyes seemed to stare into his soul.

  Cholla was disconcerted, but he nodded. “The great Comanche chief surely has not heard of me?”

  “Ah, but we have!” Quanah’s handsome face broke into a grin. “Those who hang around Fort Sill near my house say messages come and go among the soldiers. It seems you have caused them much loss of face to have slipped through their fingers and headed home. All the tribes are glad to see the soldiers look so foolish!”

  So that was it. The news that he had escaped the train and dodged the Army had traveled through the tribes, and they were all enjoying this minor triumph he had brought all Indians. “It is a little thing that I do.” Cholla ducked his head modestly. “No doubt you could have done better.”

  “You are a proper warrior, even though you have scouted for the bluecoats.” Quanah grunted his approval and puffed on his cigarette. “I would not call traveling hundreds of miles and stealing one of their women a small feat. A hundred years from now, I think you will be a legend.”

  “Quanah Parker will be a legend with his great exploits; few will remember the Apache who escaped a train to try to return to his homeland.” Cholla again ducked his head.

  Quanah, chuckled. “I would not be too sure. The Comanche would like to be a part of this great thing you do. I will see that you are fed, supplied, and, after a day or two of rest, sent on your way.”

  Cholla heaved a sigh of relief and threw his cigarette into the fire. “I am planning to try for the freedom across the border. Come with me.”

  The half-breed’s blue-gray eyes gleamed with hope and interest for a moment; then the light died and he shook his head regretfully. “I am chief now, the last chief of the Comanche. As such I have responsibilities to my people. I cannot slip a whole tribe through the bluecoats. So I will hunt for a few days, then return to the reservation near Fort Sill.”

  “You will not even consider it?”

  Quanah shook his head and threw his cigarette into the fire, staring into the flames. “But know that my heart and thoughts go with you, free as the eagle flying. You may be forgotten by the whites, but Indians of every tribe will remember you and tell your tale many times by their campfires and stay, ‘Here was a man who would not bend, who would not accept his fate without a fight. Here was a brave man.”

  He stood up slowly, and Cholla did also, knowing the interview was ended. They went outside. The chill wind howled like a ghost spirit, blowing snow across the ground.

  Quanah looked to the north, his face solemn. “They say at the fort the winter is one of the worst in memory. On the Great Plains to the north, the snow piles in deep drifts and kills the ranchers’ cattle by the thousands.”

  “I am headed across the border into Mexico where it is cold only sometimes in the mountains of the Sierra Madre. A man can live there in peace, I think, and ignore the civilization that smothers him.”

  The Comanche looked at him almost wistfully, the wind blowing his gray-streaked hair. “You could ride straight south now, and be in Mexico.”

  Cholla shook his head. “That is not the part I know; the place that the Apache have roamed for generations is south of the Apache stronghold. Besides, if I can manage it, I have a white friend at the fort I would like to send a final good-bye.”

  “Do you not fear this white will betray you?”

  “No, he is my sikis, my brother.” Cholla shook his head, “I have killed to save his life, he has killed to save mine. That alone, had I no other reason, would make me trust him without question.”

  Quanah gestured toward a tipi. “You will find a warm fire and food in there with your woman. Rest a day or two with the Comanche. I have a half-Cheyenne rancher friend to the south I will send you to. Maybe he can find a way to
get you to your own country.”

  “Gracias.” Cholla watched the chief turn and go to his own lodge. Darkness fell slowly across the deserted camp as he entered the lodge Quanah had indicated.

  Sierra looked up from the fireside, stood. Without even seeming to think about it, she came into the circle of his arms. “When you didn’t come, I was worried.”

  Not for me, Cholla thought, but for fear of what might happen to you if the Comanches killed me. He said, “I think everything will be fine. The chief is amused that I have made fools of the whites. The story of my escape has spread through many tribes over the past few weeks.”

  She pulled him down before the fire, handed him a tin plate of roast meat. “They’ll let us go?”

  The meat was hot and juicy and Cholla ate with relish. “More than that. Quanah promises aid. He has a friend to the south in Texas he thinks will help us.”

  She heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back on her elbows, watching him eat. “Then maybe in a few weeks, I will be safe at Fort Bowie and you’ll be across the border?”

  “There’s still a long way to go,” he cautioned, avoiding the question.

  “We’ve made it this far, though I didn’t think we would; I don’t see why we shouldn’t make it the rest of the way.”

  He merely grunted and finished his food. It was warm and cozy in there by the fire, even though the snow blew outside. He rolled himself a cigarette from the stock Quanah had given him, lit it from the fire. “Come here,” he ordered without thinking.

  She moved over, leaned against his knee, and he stroked her hair as he smoked. “With your hair down, you remind me of an Apache girl,” he said softly, “wild and free and primitive, not civilized like you were with your hair all done up in a little knot on the back of your head.”

  She looked at him, saying nothing, and he wondered about her thoughts, wondered if she could possibly have guessed how her husband had died? Somehow her opinion of him was beginning to matter very much. But no matter, he must not tell her the secret.

  What man gives his word to a woman? Such oaths are only given to other warriors. Put a son in her belly. When the tiny mouth pulls at her breast, she will forget that you told her you would free her. She will warm your blankets on lonely nights.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” She smiled at him.

  It unnerved him and he started. “What?”

  “It’s just something whites say.”

  If she only knew what I am thinking ... She must not find out because then she wouldn’t help him, and he might need her cooperation to make it through the rest of the trip. He threw his cigarette into the fire, reached out to pull her to him.

  She stiffened only a moment and then relaxed. A penny for your thoughts. He dared not ask what she was thinking. He might not want to know Besides, he trusted no white but Tom Mooney. Sooner or later, Sierra would again attempt to betray him. He still wasn’t sure why she had elected to rescue him from the mob in Sundance. Maybe she’d thought being the temporary bedmate of an Apache was better than being put in a whorehouse for use by that white mob.

  He kissed her. She resisted momentarily and then responded, and he slipped his tongue between her lips and squeezed her breast. He imagined them swollen with rich milk for his son. When she had nursed the child and it slept, Cholla would draw her to him and put his own mouth on her nipples.

  Her small hands slipped inside his shirt, and she trailed her nails across his chest. He gasped with pleasure at the sensation and ran a hand up her bare thigh. Then he leaned on one elbow while she put her head in his lap, and he stroked and teased her velvet place with his fingers. She was wet and hot and silky. He ran his lips along her thigh even as he felt her open his pants. Her breath was warm on his throbbing manhood. Would she . . . ?

  He couldn’t hold back a gasp of ecstasy as she made the ultimate gesture.

  “No,” he whispered, but her tongue was moving over the rigid staff of his maleness and he found himself putting his hand on the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in her wild mane of dark hair, pushing deep into the soft heat of lips that pulled at his very being.

  Her skin felt damp with the heat of her passion, her whole body was throbbing, her need intense and demanding. He quit fighting and gave in to the pleasure her lips created even as he began to kiss along her hot inner thigh, caressing his captive with his mouth.

  He teased the ridge of her femininity with his tongue, felt her go tense and quiver from the need of him as she demanded more with her lips. Cholla let her take what she wanted from him even as his tongue stroked her into spasms, and they could not get enough of each other.

  Afterward, they lay entwined, staring into the fire, and as he did not dare ask her thoughts, she did not dare ask his. But he was virile, needing more of a woman than most men and giving more. He took her three more times that night, and each time he penetrated deep into her, determined to leave his seed in her womb.

  Quanah is right, Cholla decided as he moved inside his woman and felt her clasp him tightly. He need not ask himself whether he cared for Sierra or what he had promised her. After all, she was just a female to be used to produce sons, to warm his blankets and cook for him. It would be lonely in Mexico. But Cholla would not be alone now. He would not tell her where they were headed, and if she trusted him, she would not realize where she was until it was too late. Then what could she do but sob and scream futilely? Eventually she would submit to his dominance. He would not ask; he would take. Whether she wanted it or not, Sierra would go to Mexico to stay with him forever!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sierra wondered what the Apache was thinking as she let him take her over and over again the next several days. But she did not ask. What was it that Gillen had hinted at? When she thought of the possibility that Cholla might have killed her husband, her mind had rebelled at his touch. But her body wanted his, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. I should have left him back at Sundance to hang, she thought as she surrendered to his kisses.

  She would not admit even to herself that when he kissed her or stroked her skin, her emotions prevailed over her mind and she didn’t care about anything except feeling his arms around her, the hot steel of him penetrating her to the very core. It occurred to her that if she weren’t more cautious he might get her with child, and then what would happen to her when she was finally free? There weren’t many white men who would take a woman carrying a savage’s child.

  But he was not to be denied, and when he touched her with his hands and mouth, held her against him, she forgot everything but the pleasure of coupling with him. It almost seemed to her that he was trying to breed her. The thought both excited and shocked her.

  Day blended into night in the warmth of the tipi while the cold wind howled outside. She had not known a man could be so virile as Cholla proved to be, that a man could build a fire that consumed her.

  Finally the weather cleared and the snow had a crust that made it passable. Quanah gave them warm furs and supplies, fresh horses, and a pair of braves to guide them south. As they mounted up, the chief came out to see them off.

  “My braves will lead you to the Triple D ranch in the Texian Hill Country,” Quanah said. “My friend, Trace Durango, is half-Cheyenne, and since the Cheyenne have long been allies of the Comanche and Kiowa, he will help you.”

  Cholla frowned. “The Cheyenne and the Apache are not friends. Perhaps he will not want to help.”

  “In this case, I think he will.” Quanah smiled. “It is not often anymore that warriors win against the soldiers.”

  They thanked him profusely. Cholla said. “Are your braves allowed off the reservation? Will there be trouble if they lead us?”

  “What the whites don’t know won’t hurt anyone,” the chief said with a wry smile. “Now go, with my thoughts giving wings to your horses’ hooves.” He looked at Sierra a long moment. “Apache,” Quanah added, “remember what I told you about Mexico.”

  “I remember and agree.
”

  They rode out, headed south, the horses’ hooves crunching the frozen snow.

  Sierra turned the words over in her mind. “What did Quanah mean?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Since you are just a woman, you would not understand men’s thinking.”

  Sierra started to protest, then decided it wasn’t important. What did she care what Cholla did when he got to Mexico as long as she was safe and secure back in white civilization?

  For countless days they rode south, the weather warming a little as they moved deeper into Texas. They used up their supplies and then lived off the land, but they had plenty of ammunition and none of the four went hungry. The braves said almost nothing to them, merely did the task they had been sent to do.

  With whatever privacy they could manage, Sierra and Cholla curled up together and kept each other warm each night. Often he would awaken her, wanting her and doing things to her body that made her want him. As she dug her nails into his back and arched herself under him in heated passion, she almost smiled as she thought of Robert’s barbed comments on her coldness.

  Her white life seemed like a distant bad dream, she so seldom thought of her dead husband anymore. But for some reason she couldn’t understand, she wouldn’t let herself think of the future, though she knew she ought to be looking forward to reaching Fort Bowie.

  Finally the Comanches indicated they had almost reached their destination. It is warmer here, Sierra thought. Water ran clear and cold through limestone. The gentle hills were green with cedar trees. The two warriors rode with them to a rise. Over on another hill, lay a white, sprawling ranchero that looked almost like a big castle.

  One of the braves pointed to the adobe buildings. “Trace Durango,” he grunted. Then he and his partner turned their paint ponies and headed away at a gallop even as Sierra and Cholla attempted to thank them.