Captive Trail (The Texas Trail Series Book 2)

by Susan Page Davis

  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, and 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.”

  “That’s true.” Ned thought about it as he sipped his coffee. “Reece, you know a little of their lingo, don’t you?”

  “Not much. Whatcha got?”

  “Tah-bay-wy-poo,” Ned said carefully.

  “Waipu is woman.” Reece’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Taabe. I’ve heard that before. Sun, maybe?”

  “Sun woman?” That didn’t make a lot of sense to Ned.

  Reece shrugged. “Ask somebody else. It’s been a long time since I had any dealings with the Comanche—and I’m not sorry about that. Hey, I remember a couple of years back, a girl was stolen not far from here.”

  Ned nodded. “Sally Cunningham. Her parents went to take a look at the girl today. She’s not Sally.”

  “Too bad.”

  Patrillo frowned as though trying to pry an elusive nugget from his memory. “There were some kids taken near Fort Belknap years ago …”

  “Boys,” Brownie said.

  “Wasn’t there a girl too?”

  Brownie shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Patrillo picked up his mug. “There’s always Cynthia Ann Parker.”

  “No, she’d be too old.” Since he arrived in Texas, Ned had heard the stories about one of the state’s earliest and certainly the most famous captive. The girl’s family had searched for her for nearly two decades now. “She’d be nearly thirty, wouldn’t she?”

  “I suppose,” Patrillo said. “But you say this woman was bruised up, so maybe she’s that old and you couldn’t tell.”

  “No.” Ned thought of Taabe Waipu’s face and his impression of youth—and fear. “She’s a girl, but in her teens at least.”

  “I put her between fifteen and twenty-five,” Brownie said.

  While Ned was grateful for his support, Brownie had seen her only from his perch on the driver’s box, while she was unconscious. Today he’d waited outside with the stagecoach while Ned went into the mission with the Cunninghams.

  “Probably twenty or
younger,” Ned said.

  “Ah.” Patrillo spread his hands. “Maybe you should send inquiries. Who takes charge of searching for these captives?”

  “The governor, maybe?” Ned said. “I suppose the captain will send some letters.”

  Reece shoved back his chair. “I’d best be getting home before dark. Say, I recall there was a little girl taken ten years or so ago down around Victoria.”

  “We should make a list,” Ned said. “We got any paper?”

  Patrillo stood. “I’ll find something. Maybe if we get some names, you can ask her the next time you go by there. She might recognize one of them.”

  “I’ll go check on the livestock,” Brownie said. “See you at supper.” He and Reece ambled out the front door together.

  Quinta came in from the kitchen, scowling and carrying a stack of thick ironstone plates. “Papa, Benito says I have to do the dishes all by myself tonight.”

  “Why is that?” Patrillo asked.

  “He says I should have come sooner to help him cook. I only waited a minute, Papa.”

  Patrillo tweaked one of her long, dark braids. “I’ll see about it. Do a good job on the table, now.”

  She set out plates for her father, Ned, her four brothers, herself, and Brownie. Flatware and cups followed. She looked at her father for approval, and he nodded.

  When she had gone back into the kitchen, Patrillo asked, “Did the nuns say anything about opening a school?”

  “Not to me. We had other things to think about.”

  “Some days I think Quinta needs a female influence.”

  Ned laughed. “Well, Tree, you could get married again.”

  “Who would marry a man with five so rambunctious children?” Patrillo laughed but then grew sober. “She can read, but not too well. Her mother taught all the boys, but I haven’t done so well.”

  “You haven’t done so badly.”

  “Ha! She follows her brothers about all day, she dresses like a boy, and she risks her neck to prove she’s worthy to be with them.” Patrillo shook his head. “I’ve spoken to the boys about it many times. They assure me they don’t egg her on to do these things, but still she persists. She must ride a half-grown steer, or walk a fence rail, or try to throw a calf as big as she is.”

  Ned rose and patted him on the shoulder as he headed for the door. “Quinta’s a fine little señorita. Some day she’ll start wanting to act like a lady. Don’t fret about that one.”

  “What do you know? You have no children. Maybe the nuns would be a calming influence.”

  “I can’t—”

  Ned broke off as Quinta burst through the kitchen door, screaming in Spanish. She spoke so rapidly, he couldn’t quite follow, but he caught the word “school” and the refrain she repeated after each few phrases in her ranting—“How could you, Papa?”

  Ned ducked out the door and retreated to his small room at the back of the ranch house.

  Taabe sat on the edge of the chair, afraid to move. She watched the four women for cues as to what they expected. Three of them, including Natalie and Adele, sat at the table too. The fourth, whom they called Sister Marie, arranged dishes of hot food.

  They all were called “sister.” Adele had gotten this across to Taabe after her traumatic bath, while she combed out Taabe’s wild nest of hair. “Sister” appeared to be some sort of title. Or perhaps it simply meant “woman,” but they didn’t call her “Sister Taabe.”

  She was glad they had let her have her own clothing back, though the leggings seemed stiff, and she wondered if they had washed them. It would take her many hours to work them soft again. Her foot was too swollen to fit into her tall moccasins, and Adele had brought her some loose, knitted stockings to pull on over the bandages.

  Sister Adele, the youngest, sat beside her and sent her frequent smiles of encouragement. When Sister Marie had sat down, all the sisters clasped their hands, lowered their chins, and closed their eyes. All but Adele. She smiled at Taabe and held up her clasped hands.

  Taabe put her hands together as Adele was doing. The sister smiled and nodded. Then she bowed her head and closed her eyes, then peeked at Taabe as if to see if she was copying her.

  Taabe looked around. Sister Natalie, at the end of the table, was watching through slits of eyes. The other two waited like statues, hands clasped, eyes shut.

  Cautiously, Taabe lowered her head and closed her eyes. Were they waiting for something?

  Sister Natalie began to speak. Taabe’s eyelids flew open, and she gazed at her. The others sat motionless. After Sister Natalie had spoken for a short time, they all said “amen”—at the same moment. How did they know when to speak?

  The four women in black were all looking at her. Marie laughed and said something to the one whose name Taabe didn’t know. They both smiled and reached for the food dishes. Taabe wished she understood. Maybe they were making fun of her.

  She watched as they scooped portions of food onto their plates. Adele held out a dish of cooked beans to her. Taabe pointed to the food and spoke the Comanche word for beans.

  Adele’s eyebrows rose. The other sisters fell silent and stared at them.

  Was it wrong for her to speak?

  No, Adele’s eyes held an eager spark.

  Taabe repeated the word and pointed to the dish.

  “Beans,” Adele said. “These are beans.”

  “Beans,” Taabe said softly.

  Adele smiled at her. “Yes. Would you care for some beans, Taabe Waipu?” She nodded toward the spoon handle protruding from the dish. Taabe took it and carefully spooned a portion of beans onto her plate.

  By the time the meal was over, she had learned the words for water and bread, or at least she believed she had. The word Adele spoke when she indicated the crumbly yellow bread might be corn, or some word for that type of bread. But it was a name, and Taabe could ask for the yellow bread now if she wished.

  Adele and Marie helped her back to her room. She hopped along, holding them both by the shoulders. They wanted to carry her, but Taabe insisted on supplying some of the power. She wanted to regain her strength quickly—ironic, since the effort made her fall exhausted onto the narrow bed.

  Adele tucked her in, then reached down and removed something from beneath the bed. Taabe stared and reached out for it. Her parfleche. She opened it and felt inside. All her things were there, even the split water skin.

  She smiled at Adele and nodded. Adele smiled and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Taabe lay in the dim room with her hand inside the bag, touching the soft doeskin pouch of beads her sister, Pia, had given her. The odd, muffled sound she had heard once before reached her. The sisters were singing. She wrapped her fingers around the little flute in her parfleche. When she was stronger, perhaps she could sit up and play it.

  How long would she be here with these women? They were kind to her. Once her ankle healed, would they help her find her true people?

  She closed her eyes and listened to the cadence of their song.

  A man wanted to see her. That much Taabe understood. Was it the man who had come before, bringing the woman who cried and her husband? She hoped it was him—the tall, handsome man for whom she felt a connection. She had no way to ask the sisters.

  Perhaps it would be another white man looking to see if she belonged to his family. She understood that now—the couple who had come a few days ago hoped she was the daughter they’d lost to the Numinu. More people might come—the Numinu kept numerous Texans and Mexicans among their bands. Some were slaves and treated as such. Others were accepted as family members, as she had been. After some time, when they had proven they would not run away, these were given the same privileges and freedoms as native members of the people.

  Taabe curled her lip at the thought. For many seasons, many years, she had stayed with the Numinu—stayed until she remembered little of her other life. Only fading glimpses came to her now. But always she had kept in her heart the knowledge that she didn�
�t truly belong with the Numinu. The crumpled paper in her parfleche was a thread that bound her to the world of the whites. She’d hidden it for a long time, afraid one of her captors would take it from her. The markings on it had meaning, but she could not remember what. Long ago … as a child, she had been able to look at it and tell what it meant. And it was important. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would rise again. But why it was important—that she had forgotten.

  The other children in the band told her she would hate it if she went back. White children were made to work hard and to stay inside where you could not feel the wind on your face. They were forced to wear constrictive clothing and eat foods not fit for man.