Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  Maverick favored her with an amused grin. “By damn! You are hardheaded!” She caught the admiration in his voice.

  Handsome young Bat Masterson looked over at them. “She’s quite a woman! Cayenne, if we come through all this alive, I’ve had my fill of buffalo hunting. Me and my friend Wyatt Earp have some plans. Would you be interested in accompanying me back to Dodge?”

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Maverick bristled as he aimed his rifle, waiting for the riders to gallop closer.

  “My stars!” Cayenne snapped as she loaded the rifle. “Talk about hardheaded! Has it occurred to you I just might be interested in Bat’s offer?”

  “No, you’re not,” Maverick said. “I figure you’re my responsibility and you’re going with me!”

  “Yankees!” Cayenne sniffed disdainfully.

  Bat seemed to assess Maverick as if trying to decide whether to challenge him. “I think the lady can make up her own mind,” he said coolly as he peered out the gun port.

  Maverick glanced over at the younger man. “You got a lot of grit, Masterson, and maybe you’ll go far. But I ought to warn you you’re grazing in another man’s pasture.”

  Bat cocked his rifle and looked at Cayenne. He had to shout over the sound of the yelping warriors galloping toward them, moving into gun range. “We’ll continue this discussion later. You got a pistol, Cayenne?”

  “Hell, yes!” she exploded at both of them. “Why do both of you keep asking that? If either of you think I’ll blow my own brains out like some weak, snivelling—! That last cartridge is for some Comanche! I don’t intend to waste it on myself!”

  She felt absolute rage sweep over her at the idea she might be weak enough to kill herself when surrounded. Her terror had been replaced by anger, so much so that her hands shook as she aimed the rifle and fired.

  A garishly painted brave screamed and tumbled from his running pony.

  And then there was no time for anything, no terror or thought, just reloading and shooting as the painted savages shouted and circled the buildings. The sun pushed above the horizon and hung like a hard fried egg in the faded sky. Her nostrils stung with the acrid smell of powder. Cayenne was as thirsty as she had ever been in her life, but there was no time to stop for even a mouthful of water as she reloaded and fired. The barrel of her rifle grew so hot she dare not touch it, and her shoulder ached from the recoil as she pulled the trigger. Her ears rang with the echo of gunfire, curses and high-pitched screams of dying men.

  She would pretend she was someplace else, she thought stubbornly as she reloaded, remember some good time from the past. Bits and pieces of memories came to her mind like scraps from a patterned quilt. sitting on Papa’s lap while he read her a story from the few dog-eared books they owned. He’d read them so often over the years, he could still repeat the stories to her little sisters without even looking at the pages. She thought of Sunday dinner at the long oak table with all the family, lots of friends and neighbors. There was always fried chicken and chocolate cake.

  She glanced over at Maverick, imagining him at one end of that long table. His gaze caught hers and he nodded encouragingly. She wasn’t fooled; she could see the concern on his bronzed face. Maverick. In her mind, she saw eagles locked as they mated, plummeting from the sky, and Cayenne remembered the taste and touch and heat of the man.

  Oh, Maverick Durango, I love you, she thought suddenly and realized it was true. No, no, it couldn’t be. He was Comanche and damned Yankee, and he’d taken her innocence. She must remember that, remember that she had reason to hate him. That would stop her nagging conscience that said she ought to warn him about those three men who might at the least be gunfighters. They might even be outlaws! But, no, Papa was known for his character. He wouldn’t be friends with outlaws.

  She didn’t have time to worry about that now as she aimed, taking another brave from his saddle. Neither of them might survive Adobe Walls and then she wouldn’t have to worry about Slade and his partners at all.

  The bugle call echoed and reechoed through the morning and the braves seemed to take courage from it, attacking with new zeal.

  Bat gestured to get the hunters’ attention as the black renegade crept toward the wagon where the slain buffalo hunters lay “Billy, you got a clear shot! That bugle is getting on my nerves!”

  Dixon nodded, aimed carefully, and fired. Even as Cayenne watched, the dark man in the blue cavalry jacket stumbled, falling forward on his face near the wagon.

  “The loss of that bugler will put a dent in their morale,” Maverick shouted. “And remember, Cheyenne will let their dead lay but Comanches are duty-bound to come back for their warriors’ bodies! Make every shot count when they come in!”

  And even as he said it, the braves who had retreated swept toward them in an undulating wave of running, painted war ponies, leaning over to sweep the dead up in a dazzling display of expert horsemanship.

  The besieged whites laid down a withering fire from their rifles, knocking warriors from their ponies. The Indians retreated out of gun range.

  Cayenne suddenly realized how exhausted, how tense she was. She leaned against the crumbling adobe and shook.

  “Reb, you all right?” Maverick looked up.

  For a split second, she almost ran to throw herself into the safety of his big arms but stopped herself. The last thing he needed to deal with right now was a weeping, hysterical female. “I’m fine, really,” she lied, brushing a wisp of red hair out of her eyes.

  Bat Masterson went over to the water barrel, came back with a dipperful, and made a sweeping bow. “Allow me, my dear. I’m sorry it’s not champagne, but it’s all I can offer. Someday, in some elegant place, I’ll make up for it.”

  She accepted the dipper and drank greedily, a little amused by the jealous annoyance on Maverick’s face. “That’s all right,” she hastened to say to the handsome Bat. “I’ve never tasted champagne anyway.”

  Bat smiled. Had she forgotten how blue-gray his eyes were? “Cayenne, you belong in some exciting place, dancing away the night and drinking champagne. . . .”

  “She belongs in front of a ranch house fireplace on a cold winter’s night, snuggled down with a husband and a couple of kids in her lap. . . .” Maverick broke off, looking away as if embarrassed. “At least, that’s how I see her.”

  That was how she saw herself, too, she thought, and she found herself sharing that vision. Yes, children in her lap, and when the little ones were asleep and tucked in, the man would take her in his arms and carry her to the soft feather bed in the big upstairs bedroom of the Lazy M. When she closed her eyes to envision the scene, she didn’t see Bat Masterson, she saw Maverick Durango and his children. Would they be dark with her green eyes? Or would their eyes be gunmetal gray like his?

  Maverick gestured the men in close. “Listen, I’ve got an idea! The Indians have retreated, but there’ll be another attack and another. There’s hundreds of them and less than thirty of us. We need to think like Indians.”

  Bat sneered. “That shouldn’t be hard for you, but the rest of us may have a little trouble!”

  “My Gawd, you two!” Billy Dixon snapped. The long-haired young buffalo hunter’s nerves must be frayed, Cayenne thought. “Can’t you two forget your differences over that girl until we get rid of the Indians? Then you can fight over her!”

  “No need,” Cayenne said, glancing from one to the other. And then she said what in her heart she had already known. “If we get out of this alive, I’m going on south with Maverick.”

  Bat shrugged and smiled ruefully. “You’re making a big mistake, Cayenne. The world hasn’t seen the last of me, but a hundred years from now, who’ll remember a cowboy named Maverick Durango?”

  “Let’s talk about Indians, shall we?” Maverick smiled thinly at him as he reached for cigarette “makin’s,” rolling a smoke with one hand. “We’ve got to do something to make the braves think their medicine is bad so they’ll give up and retreat.”

  “Retreat, hell!�
� young Dixon swore. “We’re surrounded by hundreds of Indians and all they got to do is outwait us! They ain’t gonna retreat!”

  “Listen to the half-breed,” one of the other hunters said as he pushed his hat back. “He makes good sense!”

  There was a murmur of assent from the others.

  Maverick strode over and looked out the gun port. “The war leaders have gathered now back up on that little butte with Quanah, safe out of range. But if we could kill one of them, they’d think it was bad medicine. . . .”

  “Medicine!” Bat scoffed, coming over to peer out himself. “A miracle’s more like it! It must be almost a mile out to where they’re palavering!”

  Cayenne went over and looked out. Bat was right. It must be nearly a mile to where the little group of chiefs sat their ponies, discussing the next maneuver while the hundreds of warriors reformed their lines. No one had to tell her which one was the legendary half-breed chief, Quanah Parker. His height and regal bearing gave him away. Besides, everyone said he had gray eyes and rode a gray horse as did Maverick.

  Two half Comanches, she thought. One had chosen the Indian path, the other his white heritage, and now they had come up against each other in this isolated spot in the Texas Panhandle.

  She watched Quanah evidently discussing tactics, because he gestured toward the buildings. Another brave gleamed with sweat and yellow paint all over his naked body. Even his horse had been painted ochre.

  She recognized a face suddenly, even at this distance, and shivered. The brave speaking to Quanah now had to be that one she remembered seeing on her dash for the walls, the one with the small, sharp foxlike features. Hadn’t Papa described the Comanche who tortured him as looking like a fox?

  Maverick ran his finger down the white jagged scar. “I’ve got an idea that might work. . . .”

  “Might work!” Bat snorted. “You’re loco, Maverick!”

  Cayenne felt exhausted and discouraged, but she was also angry. “The least you men can do is listen to Maverick’s idea! No one else seems to have any!”

  The others looked away, embarrassed at her scolding.

  Maverick grinned as he lit the match with his thumbnail. “They don’t call her Cayenne for nothing. The lady has a little pepper to her!” There was a glow of frank admiration in his eyes.

  “It’s the Rebel in me!” she snapped back with spirit.

  “Naw,” Maverick grinned. “It’s the Texan in you! Texas gals always have more grit to them!”

  “Amen to that!” Billy Dixon leaned on his “Big Fifty.”

  Maverick looked at the young buffalo hunter thoughtfully, then back out toward the little group of chiefs on the far rise. “I’ve watched you shoot, Dixon. By damn, you’re one of the best with a rifle I’ve seen. How far can you shoot?”

  Young Billy colored modestly at the compliment and shrugged. “Don’t know, stranger. I’ve taken buffalo at nigh on half a mile.”

  Maverick whistled low, taking another puff as he looked out. “Could you shoot that far?” He gestured toward the chiefs on the little rise of prairie.

  Dixon peered out the gun hole. “You’re funning me, ain’t you? Mister, it must be nearly a mile from here to that hill!”

  Maverick didn’t seem to hear him as he stared at the chiefs engaged in heated conversation. “It would be very bad medicine if they lost a chief this morning; they’d quit and go home.”

  Bat laughed. “Which is exactly the reason they’re staying out of gun range! You don’t think they haven’t thought of that themselves?”

  Maverick smoked and stared out for a long moment. Cayenne wondered what his thoughts were. Somehow, she had confidence that if anyone could come up with a plan to save the people here, it’d be Maverick.

  He blew smoke out the gun port and seemed to watch the way it drifted on the breeze. “You know,” he said to Dixon, “if you could get Quanah, you might end this whole uprising here and now. After all, he’s the leader.”

  Dixon peered out the gun port. “That’s an impossible shot!”

  “Maybe not,” Maverick said softly and blew smoke out the gun port again, watching it drift on the breeze.

  “My stars, Maverick.” Cayenne was tired, hot, and a little out of patience. “That’s not a plan, that calls for a miracle!”

  He smiled at her. “Preacher’s daughters shouldn’t be surprised at miracles.” Then for a long moment, Maverick just smoked and stared out at the group of chiefs and war leaders ringed around Quanah Parker. “It’s less than a mile,” he said softly to no one in particular, “and with a little help from the wind and allowing for the peculiarities of that gun, it might just work.”

  He turned to face the group of expectant faces ringing him as he tossed away the cigarette. “Dixon, I’d do it myself, but I’m not tops with a rifle; the handgun was always my choice.”

  One of the other hunters nodded vigorously and scratched at his filthy buckskin shirt. “Billy Dixon’s the best there is with a ’Big Fifty,’ and that’s a fact!”

  Maverick tipped his hat to the back of his head. “Then he’s gonna get a chance to prove it! If what I have in mind works, he can take Quanah down and the rest of them will go home. Well, even if it isn’t Quanah, they’ll think it’s big magic if you could get any one of them.”

  Bat Masterson sneered. “At that distance? Are you loco?”

  Cayenne glared at Bat. “Listen to him,” she said. “If anyone knows about Indians, it’s Maverick!”

  The half-breed winked at her. “There’s one vote of confidence.”

  The others nodded grudgingly. “We’ll listen, stranger, because nobody else had any ideas.”

  Maverick caught young Dixon by the arm. “Get that Sharps of yours, and I’ll help you figure the wind and all. With a little luck, you can hit Quanah and they’ll all scatter. Now, Billy, here’s my plan. . . . ”

  Quanah Parker looked around at his chiefs and shook with rage. “We have lost yet more good men! There will be much weeping in many tepees tonight! Even the black renegade buffalo soldier has fallen!”

  Isa-tai said again, “It is not my fault! I told them that to kill that skunk would destroy my magic!”

  One of the Cheyenne chiefs could not seem to hold his temper longer. He attacked Isa-tai with his quirt, beating him about the head. “Because of this false leader, my own son lays dead before those walls!”

  The prophet threw up his arm to protect himself and Quanah grunted to the Cheyenne. “Enough! The boy died bravely! It is all any man can hope for—to die with bravery and honor rather than starve to death on the reservation!”

  The Cheyenne subsided, taking deep, shuddering breaths. “The great Comanche chief is right.”

  Quanah frowned. “So now I await another medicine sign to know whether to stay here and keep attacking until we overrun them from sheer numbers or move on to another target!”

  He heard grumbling and discord around him. Quanah said, “Our scouts tell us the Bluecoats are beginning to move like hawks swooping down on their prey.” He gestured with a lance. “Even now, the white soldiers come from the west, the east, the south, and yes, Fort Dodge to the north. The warring tribes will be trapped between all five of the cavalry columns that their chief, Grant, sends!”

  Little Fox frowned. “But as always, we will slip through their fingers, oh, Great Leader. After we level this place, burn and torture and kill these whites, we will scatter and disappear into the night like smoke. All those Bluecoats will hunt us in vain while we reassemble in the great canyon to the south!”

  “Sooner or later,” Quanah predicted direly, “the Bluecoats will find that canyon called the Palo Duro. Then, instead of a refuge, the canyon will become a trap for our people!”

  “Never!” Little Fox shouted. “It will always be a haven we can retreat to. The soldier leaders are too stupid to find it.”

  Quanah looked down at the fine gray horse he rode. “Have you forgotten ’Three Fingers’ so soon from the last time we clashed wit
h the calvary? Mackenzie is not a stupid soldier chief. He doesn’t give up once he has picked up the scent like a lobo wolf relentlessly chasing a deer to ground.”

  Little Fox’s lip curled in scorn, unconvinced. “The canyon will always be there for our retreat and the stupid soldiers will never find it! There’s good grass for our ponies, plenty of water even in dry summers, and fat game for our cooking fires!”

  Quanah glared at him, not liking the man. Little Fox lacked judgment. “Sooner or later, someone will tell the soldiers of it.”

  Little Fox shook his head. “You become like an old woman, letting caution make a coward of you. The only ones who know the canyon besides Indians are the Comancheros who trade guns for the booty from our raids! Soon they will send a messenger about bringing us more guns!”

  To-ha-koh looked concerned, shook his head, “I like it not that any white man knows our hiding place.”

  Little Fox nodded to reassure him. “We have dealt with this one many years. The messenger will be the one with the blind eye and limp, the one called Pedro.”

  Quanah felt a little uneasy, as if his spirit animal were attempting to warn him of something. “The Comanchero are the weak link in our chain of supply,” he grumbled, looking toward the walls. Was that a reflection off a gun barrel he saw? “No Comanche would betray our canyon to the south, but a Comanchero might.”

  “The Comanchero have never betrayed us,” Big Red Meat protested.

  Quanah sneered with disdain. “I trust them not. Any of them would betray his own mother for gold.”

  Little Fox gestured impatiently. “You delay your decision, Quanah, while we argue uselessly about what has already happened. I cannot recall the message now. The Comanchero, Pedro, will meet with us at the Canyon in a few weeks to tell us about a new supply of guns. With them, we can sweep the whites from the plains.”

  “Little Fox is right,” Stone Calf, the Cheyenne leader said. “We will discuss the Comanchero later. Right now, Great Leader,” he addressed Quanah respectfully, “shall we continue to attack this place or shall we scatter to hit unsuspecting hunters’ camps and isolated ranches?”