Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  Little Fox’s gaze fastened on the frightened girl on the blanket as he stood towering over her. “It will need to look like you both planned to escape. If there is only the one saddled horse, someone might realize that a deal had been struck.”

  Silent as a shadow, Maverick’s hand went to his gun belt, feeling for the rawhide thong there. He dared not fire a shot. To do so would alert the whole camp. He didn’t trust Little Fox. Probably up in the rocks was one of the other’s braves, waiting to pick Maverick off when he tried to ride out. That way, Little Fox not only got the girl but the big gray stallion as well, as war honors for having stopped the imposter’s escape when Quanah rode in tomorrow and Maverick’s deception was uncovered.

  Cayenne was going to have to help him on this. He knew Little Fox spoke a little English, so there was no way to warn her except hope she trusted him enough to play along. “Woman,” he said in English, “my ruse is uncovered and Little Fox offers me a chance to escape with my life.”

  The emerald-green eyes widened. “What must we do?”

  Maverick laughed, “I am lucky that he hungers for you, white squaw! He’ll take you in exchange for my escape!”

  Cayenne gasped, looking from one to the other. For a long moment, Maverick was afraid her fiery temper would jeopardize his whole plan. “Why, you yellow Yankee! You’re gonna ride out and leave me?”

  Little Fox slowly uncovered his turgid manhood. “I’ll see that you don’t miss him, white bitch! I’ve thought of nothing else but mounting you since I rode into camp and saw you! And if you please me enough, I won’t add your hair to my war lance!” He moved slowly toward her while she cowered against the blanket.

  Maverick caught her gaze. Trust me, he tried to tell her with his gray eyes. Trust me, Cee Cee, I’ll look out for you.

  She hesitated, staring back at him across the other man’s shoulder. And then she seemed to believe what he was trying to tell her with his eyes. “Well, if the great Little Fox wants me, perhaps I should be flattered. . . .” She opened her shirt so that her fine, white breasts showed, ran her hands down her rose-tipped nipples.

  Maverick watched her smile invitingly at the brave, shaking her flame-colored hair back. He had to fight to stop himself from grabbing the warrior as he dropped to his knees before the girl, reached out, and ran one dark hand across her soft breasts.

  Little Fox laughed as he pawed her creamy skin. “I’ll enjoy you night after night,” he muttered thickly, licking his lips. “And I’ll see if I can hurt you enough to make you scream and beg as my sister must have screamed and begged, as that black-haired white woman cried and begged as I tortured her.”

  Molly. He was talking about Molly. Maverick fought to control himself as he stood quietly behind the warrior, who had eyes only for the beautiful, half-naked girl cringing before him.

  Maverick’s gaze caught Cayenne’s and she seemed to understand. Trust me, baby, he said with his eyes. Trust me.

  Cayenne smiled invitingly at the warrior, though Maverick saw her lips tremble. “Perhaps I would enjoy being your woman,” she said, slowly holding her arms out to him.

  Little Fox’s small features spread into a twisted grin as he grabbed the girl, ran his hands over her flesh. “I’ll make you know you’d been mated by a stallion!” He breathed heavily, pawing at her as he threw her down, his hands running across her creamy skin, his attention on her as she smiled invitingly at him.

  That was all Maverick needed. Soft as a sigh, he stepped behind the warrior, looped the rawhide over his head, and jerked both ends tight. The brave gasped, clawing at his throat, trying vainly to get his fingers under the thong. “Aaa-hey!” Maverick snarled in Comanche. I claim this coup. He reached for his scalping knife.

  Cayenne jumped to her feet, watching the struggle. “Come on, Maverick, let’s go!”

  But Maverick’s anger would not let him leave the scene until the man collapsed. “I want to make sure he’s dead,” Maverick snarled through clenched teeth, “after the way he put his dirty hands on you, after what he did to Molly. . . .”

  Cayenne grabbed his arm, struggling with him. “We can’t pay the price for your revenge, Maverick; we’ve got to get out of here now!”

  Maverick stopped, realizing she was right, although he wasn’t sure the warrior was dead. He dropped the limp body and put the thong back on his gun belt. “You always got to be right, don’t you Rebel? I don’t think he’s dead. . . .”

  Cayenne half dragged him out of the tepee into the darkness. “We don’t have time to find out. What happened, anyway!”

  Maverick looked around. The camp was silent now at this late hour. Even the dogs were asleep, the fires banked into small mounds of glowing glows. “He knows I’m not Quanah’s brother,” he gasped. “He was willing to let me get away if he could have you.”

  She looked at him a long moment. “A lot of men would have taken him up on it. Anything beats being tortured by Comanches.”

  “There’s something worse,” he whispered, looking around at the silhouette of the sleeping camp, “and that’s thinking of you in any man’s arms but mine.”

  “Maverick, I—” her voice quavered, “there’s something I need to tell you about why I’m taking you to Texas. . . .”

  “We don’t have time,” he snapped tersely. “Let’s see if we can get the hell out of here! He said our horses were saddled and waiting.”

  He crept along with her behind him toward the grazing pony herd. He wasn’t going to tell her what he suspected about Little Fox laying a trap for him, probably having someone waiting in the shadows to finish him off. By damn, he should have made sure he’d killed that loco brave before he got out of that tepee!

  In the moonlight, he saw the two horses standing saddled over by a big rock. He gestured toward them and Cayenne nodded to show she understood. He wasn’t going to tell her their chances of getting away were almost nil. That rocky, steep trail up the canyon wall was a long ride and they were sure to be spotted by a sentry before they got safely to the top.

  Was there a warrior waiting in those rocks with a deadly bow or lance?

  “Cayenne,” he whispered, “Little Fox may have laid a trap with those horses. If there’s a warrior there, I need to draw him out, hold his attention. How brave are you?”

  He saw her lip tremble but her head came up defiantly. “Braver than any damned Yankee,” she smiled. “You want me to lure him out?”

  Maverick hesitated. It would be dangerous. If there were a man in the rocks, he might shoot first before he realized he was dealing with a desirable, harmless woman. “No, I—I can’t ask you—”

  “Ask me? My stars!” she scoffed. “Just watch this Southern girl work!”

  Before he could reach out and stop her, she slipped past him, walking with a tantalizing gait out along the path toward the horses.

  Maverick held his breath, the sour taste of fear choking off his air. But he dare not run out to drag her to safety.

  It was a hot night, he thought, or was it only because he was so scared for her that he felt sweat beading and running down his war-painted dark skin? Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled and some of the horses in the herd snorted and moved restlessly. Maverick realized then that his fists were clinched so tightly his nails were cutting into his calloused palms.

  A shadow stood up behind the rock, watching the girl for a moment as Maverick blended into the rock wall.

  The man called out in Kiowa. “Who’s there?”

  Yes, it was the Kiowa from Little Fox’s war party, all right, Maverick thought, watching the man scamper out of the rocks. His metal bracelets that the Kiowa favored reflected the light, and when he turned, Maverick saw the Kiowa hair style—long on one side, cut short on the other.

  Cayenne pirouetted, putting her hands on her hips. In a mixture of sign language, border Spanish, a little English, and a smattering of Comanche she’d heard from Maverick, she let the warrior know that she’d seen him before, had a yen for him.
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br />   Maverick could see the sudden gleam of the man’s teeth even from here as the Kiowa smiled. That’s it, baby, charm him like you do me; make him unable to think of anything else but you!

  Maverick moved now, as soft as dew upon the buffalo grass, putting one moccasined foot before the other as he crept around behind the man in the shadows. The Kiowa had his back to the rocks, looking down at Cayenne. She reached up and touched the bow, smiling at him. The Kiowa made an obscene gesture, indicating what he wanted.

  She smiled at him, nodded, and reached up to stroke his bare arm.

  Maverick crept up behind him and took a deep breath. If the man managed to scream, the whole camp would be alerted and then they’d find Little Fox in the tepee. His hand went to his pistol for reassurance. He’d never let them take her alive. One chance. That’s all Maverick would get—one chance. He gritted his teeth, took the rawhide loop in both hands, and crept forward. He could smell the rank sweat of the big Kiowa’s body now as he crept up on him. Now. Now!

  With a movement as quick as a scorpion stinging, Maverick slipped the loop over the man’s head and jerked hard. The man gasped, tried to cry out, but Maverick jerked both ends, cutting off his scream.

  The Kiowa was a big, powerful man and he struggled, trying to break free. The thong cut into Maverick’s hands until they bled while he hung onto the cord, garroting the man. If he let go now, one cry would bring hundreds of Indians running.

  Over the Kiowa’s shoulder, he saw Cayenne’s frightened face as she watched helplessly. The Kiowa struggled again and Maverick pulled hard on the thong, cutting into the man’s neck. And then he smelled the stink of urine as the man’s muscles relaxed and the Kiowa died.

  Maverick was surprised to find he actually shook. He pulled Cayenne to him and found that she trembled, too.

  “Maverick, I was so scared! So scared!”

  “Naw! A Rebel scared! Naw!” He tried to soothe her, stroking her hair as he looked around, assessing their chances of getting out of here alive. “We’ve got an argument to continue about old Sam and that traitor, Jefferson Davis, remember?”

  It had the desired effect. The redhead forgot about her fear as her eyes flashed. “When we get out of here, Yank—”

  “Later,” he whispered, “later!” He helped her swing up on Strawberry, mounted Dust Devil, and rode out behind her on the narrow, dangerous trail. They might make it to the top in less time because he knew that trail from his childhood, but one false step and a horse could fall kicking and twisting in terror to the bottom of that canyon floor.

  Cayenne looked down as they moved up the trail.

  “No, Cee Cee,” he cautioned. “Stop looking back; look ahead. That’s what’s important, what’s ahead of you not what’s behind you.”

  She turned in her saddle, looking at him. “That’s not a bad plan for life, Maverick.”

  If they had any kind of life ahead of them, he thought, looking down at the sleeping Indian village. Minutes had passed but it seemed like hours. Anytime, he expected a sentry to spot them, call out, alert the whole camp.

  There were almost to the top now, he realized, looking up at the rocky edge. His heart began to pound with hope. They might just make it out of here after all! They might be miles away before the Indians found the dead Kiowa and Little Fox in tomorrow’s daylight.

  And then far below him, he saw Little Fox stagger out of the tepee into the light of a campfire and shout a warning, pointing up the side of the canyon.

  Instantly, the camp began to come awake, dogs barking, people running, horses neighing.

  “By damn!” Maverick swore. “I knew it was too good to be true!”

  He glanced at Cayenne’s pale face, saw her lips moving in silent prayer. “Baby, we’ve got to chance finishing this trail at a full gallop!”

  “But if the horses slip and go over—”

  “You rather die a quick death by falling or have the Comanche get you?” With that, he slashed out with his reins, caught the startled Strawberry across her roan rump, and sent her galloping up the trail ahead of him. Then he dug his heels in the stallion’s sides and bolted on up the trail behind her.

  Dust Devil stumbled once in the rocks, and Maverick hung on, unsure for a moment if the stallion would fall and go over the edge. He heard a rock under the big stallion’s hooves clatter down, strike an outcrop, and fall off into the canyon. He had a sudden vision of himself and the stallion falling end over end, the horse’s mane and tail streaming out in the darkness as it fell eight hundred feet. But then the powerful mount regained its balance and galloped on up the path behind the little mare.

  They were out and on top of the canyon rim. Maverick could hardly believe his good fortune as he reined in, looking back. Below him now, warriors were running, trying to catch up with their neighing, rearing horses.

  Her face hone pale in the moonlight. “Maverick, now what? Can we outrun them?”

  “No, but I’ve got a plan.” He dismounted and reached into his saddlebags. Good! Everything was still there! He reached for the Lucifer matches. The wind came up suddenly, hot and dry as the Devil’s breath on his half-naked body. He struck a match. It flickered and went out. Already below him, he saw mounted warriors starting up the crooked trail.

  Maverick swore under his breath and struck another. The breeze caught it and blew it out as if the Devil were playing a joke. He turned and looked up at Cayenne. “If you believe in prayer, pray, baby! I only got one left!”

  He saw her lips move silently and he was almost awestruck. The wind stopped for a brief moment as if God Himself had reached down to help them. In that split second, Maverick struck the last precious match, dropping it in the dry buffalo grass along the edge of the canyon.

  Even as he remounted, slashing the stallion with the reins, the grass caught fire along the canyon rim and the rushing wind came up again, turning the area around the trail entrance into a sheer wall of flames.

  “Come on, Cee Cee, we got to get to the Lazy M!” he shouted exultantly, and she dug her heels into the mare’s flanks, galloping along with him. They took off south at a run while behind them the warriors, unable to get through the wall of flames, shouted in anger and frustration as Maverick and his woman rode away at a gallop from the Palo Duro canyon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The old Don Diego de Durango sat enjoying the early morning sun near the fountain in the courtyard of the Triple D hacienda.

  In another hour, the heat of this first day of August would turn the patio into a sweltering oven here in the Texas Hill country. But he would be seventy-five years old this September and the morning sun felt good on his arthritic old bones.

  He tipped his flat black hat over his dark eyes and looked around, wishing some vaquero would happen along to talk about old times. All the household help seemed to be occupied, with no time for the old patriarch of the giant spread. He smiled, as cagey as an old gray fox. In that case, he could sneak a cigar without being scolded because the strong smokes he liked were bad for him.

  He bit off the tip and spit it out. Then he lit the strong cigar, exhaling with a loud sigh as he readjusted his girth to the chair, listening to the musical splash of the fountain into the little pool.

  A good cigar! He nodded agreeably to himself. After a while, he might go into the deserted study and have a good drink of whiskey. Pleasures were few and far between for the old, and even then, if his lovely daughter-in-law weren’t upstairs with a new baby, she would gently lecture him about his health. He wished Trace were home. But he’d gone off to visit another ranch and discuss the price of some fine-blooded cattle he and the Don had agreed to buy. Then, too, Trace was so preoccupied with the responsibilities of this ranch, which covered most of two counties and had been in the family for three generations, that he would not often sit and discuss old times, old compadres with the Don.

  Diego frowned, stroking his white mustache as he enjoyed the taste of the fine cigar. Most of his compadres were dead anyhow.r />
  A small brown Chihuahua dog trotted through the open French doors of the house, its nails clicking across the paved courtyard of the sprawling hacienda as it came up to him, wagging its tail.

  “Ah, Tequila, there doesn’t seem to be much to occupy two old gentlemen like us today, is there?”

  At the sound of its name, the old dog cocked its small head, wagging its tail, and hopped up into Diego’s lap, where it settled with a satisfied yawn.

  Diego stroked the tiny dog’s gray muzzle and tasted his cigar. He wished Maverick and Sanchez would get back from the trail drive. They were long overdue, them and the whole crew. Probably they had gotten into a saloon brawl and ended up in jail again. He made a fist and took an imaginary swing, remembering the wilder days of his youth.

  He petted the dog absently, thinking about Comanches and the snatches of news he’d heard about the Uprising. When he was around, everyone lowered their voices and he knew they wished not to worry him about the happenings in Texas.

  By our Lady, he thought with annoyance. This old white-headed lion had fought Comanches, dealing with the loss of his wife, every kind of plague, prairie fire, and pestilence in the many years since he had inherited the Triple D from his father, who had carved it out of wilderness. Si, Papa, too, had fought the Comanche to hold onto the ranch.

  The dog in his lap stiffened suddenly and stood up, looking intently toward the northern horizon.

  Diego craned his neck to see, too, but his eyes were not as good as they once were. “What is it, boy, Indians?”

  He felt guilty that he almost half hoped a shrieking war party might come across the horizon so he could show everyone that Don Diego de Durango was still capable of action, that he was still a fair hand with a gun even though his eyes and hearing were not as good as they once were. No one really needed him anymore to do much of anything.

  But the small dog’s tail started to wag, slowly at first, then faster. Diego tipped his Spanish-style hat back and stared at the approaching riders.

  The tiny pet bounced off his lap, barking excitedly as it took off at an arthritic run toward the riders trotting over the crest of the hill.