Maverick pulled one of her pigtails. “Sis, let’s just say I’d rather stay here with Cee Cee.”
Serious Lynnie pushed her wire-framed spectacles back up her freckled nose. “We’ll bring you a candy stick,” she announced solemnly.
“You do that, Sis. Is Papa Joe ready?”
From the back of the house, he heard old Rosita scolding Joe for dawdling. Maverick got up and went to lean against the front door as Rosita led Joe carefully into the front hall.
Joe turned his scarred face toward the sound. “Son, can we bring you anything from town?”
Maverick straightened the man’s collar. “No, Dad. Rosita, you all have a good time shopping and at the church social and don’t hurry back.”
Maverick went out onto the porch to watch them all pile in the buggy with Juan driving them into town. “See you all later this afternoon,” he waved as the wagon pulled out. “And, Angel, take your thumb out of your mouth!”
With happy giggles and shouts, the little girls waved to him as the buggy pulled away. Maverick waved after them with a feeling of great contentment. His family.
He watched them until they drove under the big sign hanging over the gate. Lazy M Ranch, it read, Maverick & McBride. He had suggested the McBride name go first but Papa Joe wouldn’t hear of it.
Only yesterday, the Durangos had departed after coming to visit a few days and see the newest member of the family. Maverick grinned. The old Don and Joe were wearing out the road between the two ranches visiting each other. Now Maverick had two families. He was a very lucky hombre.
He stood there until the buggy faded into a small dot in the distance. Then he surveyed the surrounding pastures critically, looking at the fine-blooded cattle and horses he’d bought this past year. Dust Devil whinnied a welcome to him, then went back to grazing near the mare, Strawberry. The roan’s new foal gamboled about the pasture, its little red tail straight out behind it like a flag as it ran.
Maverick leaned against the porch rail and grinned, watching the speckled baby play near its dam. Red mane and tail, he thought. Even the horses on this spread have red hair. He’d let the little sisters name the foal.
He thought about it, laughing out loud. “Freckles.” Of course a bunch of freckled little redheaded girls would pick that name for Strawberry’s foal.
He looked around the landscape. The next item on the agenda was a big new barn. He’d already remodeled the house, bought new furnishings. But he hadn’t replaced the long table. It was part of his dream. His family. His ranch. Just like he and his mother always imagined it would be. He could think of her now without hurting, remembering only the good memories. His wife’s love had erased the terrible scars of his mind.
Pink Seven Sisters roses by the porch scented the late June day and he broke off one, sniffed it. His favorite scent would always be vanilla. Then he smiled, thinking they had the whole day, the whole house to themselves. A small wail drifted from the open upstairs window and he grinned again, picked some of the roses, and went back inside. The most important people in his world were waiting for him in the big room at the head of the stairs. He climbed those stairs, two at a time.
The high sweet voice drifted through the closed door along with the rhythmic sound of a rocking chair. “. . . gave me her promise true that ne’er forgot will be, and for darling Annie Laurie . . .”
He opened the door, “Cee Cee?”
She smiled at him from her rocker, motioning him in.
He thought she had never been so beautiful as she was at that moment in a delicate pink dressing gown, her hair like soft swirls of flame on her small shoulders. And in her arms, she held the baby who nursed contentedly. His woman. His child. His heart seemed to fill to bursting and he stood there, drinking in the sight of the two of them a long time before he put the roses in a vase on a table and went over to her.
“You look like the angel on a Christmas tree,” he whispered. With a hesitant finger, he touched the baby’s delicate hair. “Red like Mama’s,” he smiled.
Cayenne looked up at him and her eyes told him how very much she loved him. The baby’s eyes flickered open at his touch.
Cayenne smiled. “Gray like Daddy’s.”
The baby looked at him and seemed to smile, and the smile was familiar, too. If your grandmother could only know about you. Well, maybe she does. . . .
For a moment as he stood looking down at them, he could not trust himself to speak. When he finally could, he said, “You don’t know how much it meant to me for you to choose that name.
Cayenne reached out and caught his hand. “I knew there could be no other name for this baby.”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, little Annie Laurie Durango opened her eyes sleepily, milk running down her chin, then dropped back off to sleep.
Cayenne stood up, handing the tiny, precious bundle to him, and he marveled again at how perfect the child was. Maybe Papa Joe was right. Who could hold a child and not believe in miracles? Very gently, he kissed her tiny fist, carrying baby Annie to tuck her in her crib.
Cayenne studied him. “Are they all gone for the day?”
Maverick sighed with relief. “Yes, I didn’t think they would ever get things together and out the door! There’s times when my family is a real handful!”
“Families are like that.” She came over and slipped her arms around his neck. “Do you know what today is?”
He kissed the tip of her freckled nose. “Saturday.”
She looked annoyed, then coquettish. “No, I mean besides Saturday.”
He pretended he didn’t. “It’s the week before we finish branding all that new stock?”
“No, silly! It’s our anniversary.” She nuzzled his neck and he took a deep breath of vanilla, of the clean scent of her fiery hair.
“Can’t be.” He kissed the top of her head, enjoying the warm feel of her against him. “We got married in September.”
“You’ve forgotten!” She looked stricken and he only smiled. There was a dainty necklace in his pocket for her but he wouldn’t give it to her just yet; a delicate gold necklace with a graceful winged eagle charm.
“You’ve forgotten,” she said again as if she couldn’t quite believe he would do such a thing. “It was just a year ago today that I walked into the Red Garter Saloon. . . .”
“Oh, yes”—he pretended to search his memory—“and I rescued you from a drunk. . . .”
“Then we ended up out on the sidewalk and I threw myself at you. . . .”
“Somehow, I don’t recall. . . .”
“You’ve forgotten how I grabbed you and kissed you?” And she kissed him.
“Oh, I seem to remember now,” he teased.
“Then I think I picked you up off the ground and said, ”No, Cayenne, here’s the way it’s done.” And he kissed her now as he had kissed her that long-ago day, thoroughly, expertly.
When he stopped, she clung to him breathlessly. “Am I any better than I was?”
He pretended to consider. “I think you need about fifty years more practice to get it right!”
“Oh, you!” She ran her hand through his black hair, tousling it.
He swung her up in his arms, carried her over to the big bed, and lay down next to her. It was enough for now to be able to hold her close, feel her heart beat against him. Where she was, there he would always be.
“Do you love me, Maverick?” She snuggled against him, her flame-colored hair falling across his big chest.
He had to swallow hard before he could answer. “I’m just a cowboy, baby, I don’t have much of a way with words.” He kissed her eyes, her lips.
“Oh, Maverick, I wish everyone in the world could find such happiness, such love! There are so many, many lonely people out there!”
“Like I was,” he murmured, kissing her again. “But if they keep hoping, when they least expect it, love will happen along and the wait will have been worth it.”
He stroked her hair and she lay her face against
his chest. “Maverick, dearest, I’ve been thinking about the names for the next baby and I’ve come up with three.”
Maverick looked askance. “Don’t get any ideas; all you get today are kisses!”
“You think I’m just desperate for your body?”
“Aren’t you?” he teased.
She laughed. “My stars! You’re trying to get me off the subject! I’ve given it a lot of thought, and since we’re going to give Annie a bunch of brothers—”
“We are? Reb, you do intend to give me enough time out of bed to run this ranch, don’t you?”
“Just barely,” she murmured, snuggling against him. “I’m serious, Maverick, I’ve come up with three boys’ names we can agree on.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “And those names are?”
“Any Texan would be proud to name his sons for the fallen heros of the Alamo,” she said. “What about Travis, Crockett, and Bowie?”
“Amen! Those are true Texas names!” You little Rebel, he thought as he kissed her again, thinking he had a long, long time to persuade her. We’ll name that fourth one Sam Houston Durango.
She smiled smugly, curling up in his arms. You ornery Yankee sympathizer, she thought as she kissed the corners of his mouth and held him close. I know exactly what you’re thinking. A woman who loves a man as much as I love you can see through him like clear spring water. Besides, she had a long, long time ahead of her to sway him about the fourth son’s name. With enough kisses, she knew the big man was as soft and pliable as homemade taffy in her hands.
“What’re you smiling about?” he demanded. “You look like a kitten that’s dipped its paws in a saucer of cream.”
“Nothing except how much I love you, dearest.” She put her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Where he was, there she would always be.
And with them, she thought, would be their children: Annie, Travis, Crockett, Bowie—and little Jefferson Davis Durango.
He kissed her deeply and she shuddered at the feelings that swept over her, impatient that she had to wait for his lovemaking.
His warm tongue slipped between her lips to tease and torment, and his hand stroked her thighs. “Just wanted to remind you what we’ve both been missing,” he whispered.
His teeth nipped her lips ever so gently. She realized suddenly she was as soft and pliable as taffy when he made love to her.
“Joe,” he murmured, “we’ll call that fourth one Joe. But the fifth one. . .”
“We’ll argue that one when we get there.” She laid her face against his wide chest. “We’ve got time. That’s a lot of lovin’ from now.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he murmured, blowing in her ear until she shivered. “And by the way, I’ve a little something for this anniversary.”
When she saw what it was—the tiny charm dangling on the delicate gold chain—her vision blurred with tears. “Oh, Maverick! You didn’t forget! You didn’t!”
“Never, baby. Come here to me.”
He placed the chain around her neck and turned her small face up to him with his big hands. “Cayenne Carol McBride Durango, I think it would take years just to tell you how much I love you!”
“I’ve got time,” she whispered, snuggling contentedly against his chest. “Now tell me how much,” she teased.
“Well,” he began as he kissed the tip of her nose, held her very close. “Once upon a time, there was this tough old trail boss who saw a sassy redhead in a green dress and he loved her from the very first moment he saw her. . . .”
To My Readers
Everyone’s heard of Custer’s Last Stand, but only historians show interest in the Red River Indian Uprising of 1874 despite the fact that it was the greatest army expedition against the Plains Indians ever undertaken and involved famous people such as Quanah Parker, Bat Masterson, and the most competent Indian fighter of them all, Colonel Ranald Mackenzie.
It is a fact that the wagons carrying food to the Kiowa were ambushed and the drivers tortured to death sometime between July 2 and July 4. It was hard to tell from the condition of the bodies. Pat Hennessy himself had been tied upside down to one of his big wagon wheels and slowly roasted alive. There’s some who say it wasn’t Indians at all, but white men masquerading as Indians so they could rob him. The massacre site is about fifty-eight miles northwest of my home here in the Cross Timbers section of central Oklahoma. There’s a small town on the massacre site now named for Pat. The town’s name has been misspelled as Hennessey.
Many of Oklahoma’s rivers are notorious for quicksand. The Cimarron is one of the worst. I know it well since it’s only twenty-six miles from my front door. Just a short distance from where I had Cayenne and Maverick trapped by the quicksand was once the scene of Oklahoma’s worst railroad disaster. Early on a rainy morning, September 18, 1906, a trestle gave way near the town of Dover, dropping a Rock Island train into the rushing flood waters of the Cimarron. No one knows for sure how many died that night, probably less than a dozen. But you might be interested to know the giant locomotive from that wreck, old #628, is still there, sunk deep in the quicksand of the Cimarron.
Some of you may laugh at the use of vanilla as perfume. But I can tell you it was common on the frontier. One of my earliest memories is that of my Texas grandmother, born the year of the Red River Uprising, dabbing vanilla behind her ears. She told me many times that “strong scent” was for “hussies.”
The vanilla plant, a member of the orchid family, seems to have been discovered by the conquistadors deep in Mexico. By the way, Mexico doesn’t produce enough vanilla for its own use and its labeling laws are not as strict as ours. Look with skepticism at those giant bottles of “pure vanilla” being sold cheap to tourists. Not only is it possible that you aren’t getting pure, undiluted vanilla, but it may contain coumarin. Coumarin has a medical component, Dicumarol, which is closely related to the anticoagulant, warfarin, used in rat poison. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration banned the use of coumarin in our food back in 1955.
An interesting legend that has never been unraveled completely is that of the black man who played cavalry charges on a bugle, fighting on the Indians’ side at Adobe Walls. The black cavalry served heroically in the old west. Although the legend says that the dead black was a soldier who had gone over to the warriors, there’s also the possibility that he was a dark mixed-blood who had been adopted and raised by the Indians.
Speaking of the soldiers who participated in the Red River Uprising, between them, these men were awarded some thirty or so Congressional Medals of Honor during this campaign. This medal is our country’s highest award for bravery and gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. That so many were awarded tells you something about the soldiers who served. There were, of course, no medals for the brave Indian warriors except for scalps, many of them taken from innocent settlers who paid for the greed of the buffalo hunters with their lives.
A few buffalo hunters did get their just deserts. The horrible torture inflicted on Buck and his pal in Chapter Eighteen came straight from my research books.
Some of you will be curious as to what happened to the major players of the Red River Uprising. The four little German sisters were indeed adopted by Colonel Miles. The four grew up, married, and reared families. The last of the four, Julia, died in California in 1959, at the age of ninety-two.
Billy Dixon, the buffalo hunter who actually fired the famous shot at the battle of Adobe Walls, became an army scout. During September, he was one of the heroes of the battle of Buffalo Wallow and won one of those Congressional Medals of Honor. Finally, he became a rancher and lived to be an old man, dying in his bed of pneumonia in 1913. His final resting place is the Adobe Walls battle ground.
I have walked that Panhandle site while researching this book. Adobe Walls is a little more than a hundred miles northeast of Amarillo and is hard to find unless you’re very determined. There’s not much to see except for granite markers commemorating the battle and the buri
al sites of some of those killed there.
Bat Masterson and his friend, Wyatt Earp, went on to their destinies as colorful legends of the west. Eventually, Bat became a writer on the New York Morning Telegraph. He died at his desk there on October 25, 1921.
Quanah Parker became something of a celebrity after the Uprising. He was not punished because he had never signed any peace treaties with the whites, so he was not guilty of breaking away. He spent the rest of his life leading his people down the peace road and entertaining famous celebrities such as Teddy Roosevelt, for whom he arranged a wolf hunt in 1905. After seeing the stars on cavalry officers’ insignia, he decided he deserved stars, too, and painted giant ones on the roof of his home near Cache, Oklahoma. The town of Quanah, the county seat of Hardeman County, Texas, is named in his honor. His war bonnet and lance are on display at the excellent Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum in the town of Canyon., Texas.
Finally, Quanah was buried in full chief’s finery next to his famous mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, and little sister, Topsanah (Prairie Flower). You may visit the graves situated on Chief’s Knoll in Fort Sill’s old cemetery. His monument reads:
Resting here until day breaks and shadows fall and darkness disappears is Quanah Parker, last chief of the Comanche. Born-1852. Died-February 23, 1911.
The other leaders of the Uprising were not so lucky. Seventy-two of them were gathered up and shipped to prison at Fort Marion, St. Augustine, Florida, where many died from the unaccustomed humid environment. The prisoners became tourist attractions for curious whites, but finally the survivors were allowed to return to their families.
Colonel Ranald Mackenzie never did get his prized gray pacer back that the daring Quanah had stolen. After the great chief surrendered in 1875, he offered to return the horse but Mackenzie, perhaps in deference to the chief’s courage and pride, declined to accept it.
Mackenzie had perhaps the most tragic ending of them all. He came from an illustrious family, won many honors in the Civil War, and would be wounded seven times in his long military career. His father, naval Commander Alexander Slidell Mackenzie, is remembered because of a controversial incident aboard his ship, the U.S. Somers, during which Slidell hanged three young sailors accused of mutiny. One of the three was Philip Spencer, son of our nation’s Secretary of War. No one would ever accuse a Mackenzie of wavering in the face of command! Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick, wrote a book about the Spencer mutiny called Billy Budd.
Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) Page 44
