Well, she wouldn’t let him die, she told herself as she tried backing the stallion again. And it wasn’t because he meant anything to her personally. No, of course not. It was the humane thing; it was what Papa would have done.
Desperately, she pulled back on the reins, arching the stallion’s neck as she urged him to retreat, to put even more tension on the lariat. If it broke, there’d be nothing she could do but watch helplessly as Maverick and the luckless gelding sank forever in the deadly sand.
“Oh, Maverick, I—I’m so afraid it’ll break!
“Don’t go soft on me now, Rebel,” he scolded, waving her backward. “That’s the chance I’ve got to take!”
It was the chance she had to take, too, she realized, admitting to herself how very much this man meant to her.
She tightened the lariat even more and the giant stallion put all his strength into pulling. “Back up, boy,” she urged, every muscle tense as she watched the drama before her. “Oh, Dust Devil! You’ve got to do it!”
Then the big gray seemed to realize that the life of the man he loved, whom he’d served faithfully since his young colt days, was about to be forfeited. The horse snorted, and shook his head, and leaned almost down on his haunches as he pulled.
Even as she watched, the gelding’s trapped hooves seemed to flail and kick free. “Watch out! ” Cayenne screamed, but her warning came too late. She saw a trickle of blood on Maverick’s forehead as one of the flailing hooves caught his head.
Was he even still conscious? She couldn’t let up the tension on the rope to find out. “Hang on, Maverick,” she shouted. “Hang onto its tail! Do you hear me? Hang on! Oh, Maverick!” She couldn’t hold back the sobs now as the gelding kicked wildly, freeing its hooves, and the mighty gray dragged it toward the safety of firm ground. She wasn’t sure that Maverick heard her because he seemed unconscious. But one of his hands tangled in the gelding’s mane, locked there. He hung limp as death while Dust Devil dragged the pair toward firm sand.
Once there, Cayenne eased the tension and jumped down to run to them. The gelding scrambled to its feet and stood with head hanging weakly. “Maverick! Maverick, dearest! Are you hurt bad?”
She knelt, gathering him into her arms. His eyes flickered open and his skin looked pale under the smear of blood. “Cayenne? What—what happened?”
She hugged him to her, kissing his face. “I was so scared for you! How do you feel?”
He tried to get up. “Like I been dragged through a knot hole backward ! ”
She caught him as he stumbled, as he collapsed against her. “Oh, my God!” she wept. “What do I do now?” She cradled him against her breasts, kissing his face.
“Baby,” he whispered, “I—I don’t know if I’m bad hurt or if I’m just dizzy. If I don’t get better after a while, leave me. You hear me? Don’t stay here and die with me! If you ride back east, you could cross Hennessy’s trail, ride safely into Darlington. . . . ”
“My stars, no!” she exploded. “I’m not about leave you!”
He tried to grin but flinched in pain. “You little firecracker! Don’t you ever do what you’re told?”
She winked, trying to keep her voice light so he wouldn’t know how worried she was about him. “They don’t call me Cayenne for nothin’!”
Just what was she going to do? They had no food and it might be hours before she could decide how badly he was injured. Somewhere in the distance, the big Sharps rifles boomed again over and over.
She looked down at him questioningly.
He frowned, lying with his face against her breasts. “Twilight,” he mumbled. “They’re picking off the buffalo as they come down for a drink at the river.”
She jumped up, laying him down gently. Very carefully, she picked her way across the sand to the river. Cayenne tore a scrap of her shirttail off and dipped it in the water. When she returned, she washed his bruised face.
He winced and smiled. “That feels good, baby. I’m feeling a mite better. Maybe I’m not hurt bad after all.”
Anxiously she turned her head toward the sound of the echoing guns further down the river. “Maverick, they’ll have food, supplies.”
“Hell, no! ” He struggled to sit up. “You know what a bunch of hunters would do to you? They probably haven’t seen a woman for weeks!”
She was going to get food and help for Maverick if she had to sleep with every one of the hunters to get it for him. She gagged at the thought, remembering that filthy beast, Buck, who had grabbed her, mauled her in the Red Garter Saloon. But she wasn’t going to let Maverick die out here if she could buy help for him with her body.
He seemed to read her thoughts because he sat up, looking at her a long moment. “No, baby, you’re not gonna do it. By damn, you’re not whoring to help me!”
She swallowed hard, afraid to trust her voice.
Then his rugged face softened. “I didn’t realize you cared that much about me.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to reach a decision. “Baby, there’s something I ought to tell you. . . . ”
“Of course I’m not doing it for you; I’m doing it for myself.” She kept her voice cold, flippant, knowing he’d never allow her to sacrifice her body to help him. No gallant Texas cowboy would.
“What?” He sounded crushed.
She turned her face away, not wanting him to see the tears running down her cheeks in the growing dusk. “Of course I’m not doing it for you,” she snapped again. “I’m hungry and those hunters’ll have food. Maybe they’ll be willing to help me make it back to civilization.”
“Oh, I see.” Was that disappointment, anger on his dark, bruised face? “I guess I should have expected that.” He sounded bitter. “After all, there’s no reason you should care anything about me.”
“None at all.” She stood up, trying to keep her voice brittle. “Any more’n you care about me.”
He felt his forehead gingerly and sighed. “I guess I’m loco to think you might have cared. . . . ” He stood up very slowly. “Okay, Reb, I’m feeling better now. Let’s ride into their camp, see if we can talk them out of food and supplies. All we got right now are my pistols, a couple of saddle guns, a few cartridges.”
“We’ve got a change of clothes in our saddlebags,” she reminded him. He’d been about to tell her something a while ago, something deep and revealing. “Maverick,” she said as she helped him to his horse, “what’d you start to say about something you ought to tell me?”
He smiled wryly. “Was I about to say something? I don’t remember; kinda out of my head. Probably wasn’t important anyway. Let’s put on dry clothes. Don’t want them to realize we’re desperate, although they probably will anyhow when they see no supplies on the packhorse.”
They changed clothes, mounted up, and Maverick managed to sit the stallion even though he swayed a little. In the growing darkness, his face looked pale. “Cayenne, some of these hunters aren’t bad fellows, just hungry and needin’ to make a livin’ with this depression still on. Put your hair back up under your hat and let me do the talking.”
“Why?”
Maverick shrugged, urging the stallion forward toward the sound of the guns. “In the darkness, in boy’s clothes, maybe they’ll never know you’re a woman.”
She realized the logic in this and nodded as she followed him out along the trail. Maybe Maverick was right. Some of these hunters were bound to be decent men, just desperate and hungry. With any luck, they might get a few supplies and supper, and ride out without any trouble at all.
It took them the better part of an hour, riding at a walk to find the hunter’s camp. Maverick seemed to be doing a little better but still swayed in his saddle. The guns had ceased as the hunters gathered in their camp at the end of the day
Maverick took a deep breath. “I smell coffee, bacon up ahead.”
She sniffed the air, hungry and eager. “I don’t smell anything.”
Maverick chuckled, swaying in his saddle. “You aren’t a Comanche
.”
She didn’t comment, watching his outline sway a little as he rode ahead of her. If she had to, she’d trade her body to those men to get food and medicine for Maverick. She told herself she was just grateful, that she owed him for what he’d done just now. But maybe this bunch would turn out to be decent human beings.
Maverick reined up just a few hundred feet from where she saw half a dozen men hunkered down around a campfire. “Hello, the camp!” he called.
The hunters grabbed for their guns, but Maverick yelled quickly. “It’s okay, we’re friends! Can you spare some food?”
“Mister, you scared the pee-diddly out of us! ” a giant bearded man in a Turkey-red shirt scolded as he waved them on in.
Cayenne searched her memory. Why did that voice sound so familiar?
The pair rode into the circle and dismounted. Cayenne turned with a smile as the man approached her. Then the smile froze on her face in terror as she got a good look, remembered. Maybe she was mistaken. She blinked again, staring at him as the big frame loomed closer. There was no mistake. It was Buck.
Chapter Eight
Cayenne took a deep breath as she recognized the filthy buffalo hunter who had pawed and handled her only a few days ago in the Red Garter. He still wore the dirty Turkey-red shirt and the little beaded Indian necklace.
She glanced over at Maverick, who stiffened and gave her the slightest shake of his head while the other man greeted them. “What in the name a’ hell you two doin’ out here?” Buck smiled affably, motioning them on in by the fire.
Maverick hesitated, his hands hovering near his gun belt.
Buck waved him in. “Come on. We got plenty of buffalo meat.” He stared at Maverick’s swollen forehead. “What happened to you?”
Did Buck not recognize them? She stood in confusion, watching the scene.
Maverick’s hand went to his forehead and he stammered, “Fell off my horse.”
Buck guffawed. “Some cowhand! Come on and set a spell. Clint, give these two fellers a plate full!”
Clint wore yellow satin sleeve garters, which reflected the firelight as he dished up boiled meat. “Buck had a bump that bad a few days ago when he got through celebratin’ in Wichita.”
“Tell the truth, I don’t remember much about it,” Buck nodded ruefully “I was drunker’n a polecat. Suppose it was over a woman. Wish I could remember whether she was worth it!”
The others roared with laughter and one of them told a ribald joke.
Cayenne heaved a sigh of relief. Buck had been too drunk to remember, to recognize them now.
Buck studied Maverick’s horse. “Stranger, do my eyes deceive me or did I see you dismount off that gray’s right side?”
Maverick stiffened. “I . . . stole him from the Indians,” he said, “and never had time to rebreak him.”
Buck looked at the scalp dangling from the lead rope. “Looks like you took somebody’s hair doin’ it!”
Maverick stuck his thumbs in his gun belt and laughed. “Hell! He didn’t need it anymore! Damned redskins! ”
They all laughed and nodded in agreement.
Cayenne looked at Maverick and saw him visibly relax. “If you boys don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll just ground tie these two good ponies, unsaddle them later.” Maverick led Strawberry and Dust Devil a few yards out and dropped the reins. Like any well-trained cow ponies, the pair grazed peacefully, dragging their reins in a small circle. In the southwest, where there was seldom anything to tie a horse to or when a man had to dismount in a hurry to deal with a steer, his life might depend on a good horse that would stand in one spot without hightailing it off.
Cayenne approached the men cautiously, trying to keep her face in the shadows as she took the tin plate and nodded her thanks. The buffalo meat was lean and sweeter than beef. But she was hungry enough to eat a rattlesnake.
Maverick came over to the fire and accepted a plate from Clint. “Much obliged. I’m Ma—rvin, this is Ca—Kyle.”
Buck looked over at Cayenne then back at Maverick, who sat down next to her on a blanket. “Your little pard don’t say much, do he?”
Maverick gobbled the food and reached for a tin cup of coffee. “Nope, he don’t. But then it’s better than listenin’ to someone run off at the mouth all the time who has nothin’ to say.”
The filthy hunters whooped with laughter, nodding in agreement. “You’re right about that, hombre.”
Buck’s face looked puzzled and he combed his tangled beard with his fingers, wiping his filthy hand on the faded Turkey-red shirt. “Have we met before, amigo?” he asked Maverick.
Maverick shook his head.
“Gil,” Buck asked the one with no teeth, “do you recall meeting this man?”
Gil shook his head, wiping up gravy with his bread and poking it into his toothless mouth.
“Clint,” Buck said to the one wearing the sleeve garters, “have we met this fella before? I do declare, stranger, your voice sure sounds familiar.”
Clint shook his head, pulling at the satin sleeve garters. “Aw, hell, Buck, he just drawls like a Texan. All Texas cowboys sound alike.”
One of the others scratched himself and Cayenne wondered suddenly if he had lice or the common buffalo mange. They all looked dirty enough to invite vermin. When the wind shifted a little, she could smell the rank scent of the bunch. Their clothes were stiff with dried blood and none of them looked like they’d washed since last Christmas—if then.
She watched Maverick as she gobbled her food, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee made the way Texans like it—strong enough to float a horseshoe. The men laughed and told dirty jokes while she and Maverick ate. The half-breed appeared to be getting stronger by the minute as he filled his belly with warm food. Her hopes rose. Maybe he wasn’t hurt bad after all. She looked over the six hunters as she ate, trying not to shudder in distaste. The memory of Buck’s hot, wet mouth on hers came back to her. Could she let any of these men touch her even to get the supplies they needed so badly?
Maverick must have read her mind because he gave her the slightest shake of his head, glancing over to make sure the horses still grazed close by.
She knew what he was thinking. If Buck should suddenly remember that day in the Red Garter, remember where he’d heard that voice before, Maverick wanted to be able to clear out fast. She looked at the cut on his forehead, wondering if he were physically able to deal with an emergency.
Maverick filled his plate two more times, finally cleaned it one last time, and put it on a rock. “Amigos, that was good. I was so hungry, my belly thought my throat had been cut! ”
The men laughed, and Cayenne finished her food, too, keeping her face down so her hat shadowed it.
Gil reached into his stained vest, pulled out a twist of tobacco, tore off a chew with his gums, and offered the twist to Maverick. Maverick shook his head, reaching into his own vest for “makin’s.” Gil offered the twist to Cayenne and she started to speak, remembering in time and shaking her head.
Maverick rolled himself a cigarette. “My little pard never picked up the habit.”
Buck laughed. “No real man turns down women, whiskey, or tobacco.”
Maverick froze, then continued rolling the “quirley.”
“Kyle’s just a kid yet. How’s the huntin’, boys?”
The one-eyed one nodded. “Good. Damned good! ’Course we don’t think we’ll equal Billy Dixon’s record. 01’ Billy killed seventy-five thousand around Dodge City last winter. They say there’s been four million hides shipped back east the last couple of years.”
Maverick frowned as he reached into the fire, picked up a burning buffalo chip, and lit his smoke. “That makes for a lot of hungry Indians.”
Clint laughed. “That’s what it’s gonna take to finally corral them Injuns, put them on reservations eatin’ government rations. As long as they can live off the land, they’ll always roam free and proud.”
Maverick opened his mouth to say something, evidently
decided against it. His face looked hard and grim as he sat looking into the fire, smoking.
Buck spat tobacco juice into the fire and the flames hissed. “We seen a lot of Injun sign, stranger. Have you?”
“Some,” Maverick answered, exhaling smoke slowly. “The army know you boys are below the ’dead line’ in Indian Territory? This is theirs by treaty.”
“Sure,” Buck nodded, wiping the spittle off his beard and onto his sleeve. “There’re a few officers’d raise old Billy Ned if they catch us where we ain’t suppose to be, but most of the army is encouragin’ us. Just like every other white man, they all figure the sooner the damned buffalo are all killed off, the sooner they can cage them Injuns so decent people can start farmin’ these plains.”
“Now, Buck, we did run acrost one loco white man last year sometime. You ’member that one who run us off his land down in west Texas? Told us we oughta be ashamed and the Injuns deserved to eat, too?”
Buck’s expression turned ugly. “I remember. Who could forget that McBride fella? If I hadn’t heard he was the best rifle in Texas, I’d argued with him more. Imagine a white man wantin’ fair play for the Injuns! He was actually worried about us wiping out all the buffalo! ”
Cayenne choked on her coffee but the others seemed too engrossed in the discussion to notice.
The one-eyed one scoffed. “Hell, Buck, we could shoot forever and not kill ’em off. There’s millions of them.”
Maverick looked at him. “Then why are the tribes starving, going on the war trail?”
Gil looked at him intently. “Is it gettin’ worse? We don’t get much news out here.”
Clint’s eyes widened. “Hell, sorry to hear that. Me’n Buck forgot our ’bites’ and nobody’s willin’ to share with us.”
Maverick whistled long and low. “It’s bad for a hunter to get caught out by Indians without a ’bite.’ I’d be scared if I were you.”
The others nodded in agreement. Cayenne thought about it. She’d heard all the buffalo hunters carried a fifty-caliber shell, emptied of powder and filled with poison. If hopelessly surrounded by hostile Indians, a man could “bite the bullet”—commit suicide quickly rather than be captured alive and tortured.
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 14
