Love's Serenade

by Madeline Baker

  It felt good to be wearing buckskins again. The leggings, fringed along the outer seam, fit like a second skin; the wolfskin clout fell to his knees. The shirt was fringed along the sleeves and back. The moccasins had hard soles; the upper portion, made of heavy deer hide, reached to mid-calf.

  Standing there, his nostrils filling with the familiar scents of the Rancheria, he felt the thin layer of civilization he had worn for the last four years fall away. He was no longer Devlin Dennehy, rancher, but Toklanni, Apache warrior.

  It was a good feeling.

  Noche was waiting for him outside. Wordlessly, he handed Toklanni a Winchester rifle, a Colt revolver and a knife in a buckskin sheath. And then he offered him the reins of a rangy grey stallion with black points.

  Toklanni couldn’t conceal his surprise, or his pleasure, as he stroked the stallion’s neck. He had raised the horse from a colt. But when Toklanni had demanded Noche return Danny to his mother, Noche had insisted they fight to see who would keep the boy. One of the conditions had been that, if Toklanni won the fight, he could take the boy back to his mother, but he would forfeit the stallion.

  “Hey, boy,” Toklanni murmured as the gray nuzzled his arm. “Remember me?”

  “Do you wish a war party to ride with you?” Noche asked.

  Toklanni shook his head. He could ride faster alone. A lone rider would not leave much of a trail, or cause much suspicion. And he didn’t want to start a fight in which Sarah might be hurt or killed. If he was lucky, he could slip into the Comanche camp, grab Sarah and leave before anyone was the wiser.

  “No, chickasay, but I thank you for the offer. And for this,” Toklanni added, patting the stallion’s shoulder.

  “May Usen direct your path,” Noche said, “and guide your steps back to your people when your journey is through.”

  Toklanni clasped Noche’s forearm, held it for a long moment and then swung onto the stallion’s back.

  “Good hunting, chickasay,” Noche said, lifting his arm in farewell.

  “My thanks. Be well until we meet again,” Toklanni replied, and then, resolutely, he reined the stallion south, toward the land of the Comanche, his mind empty of everything but the driving need to find his woman.

  Chapter Five

  Habits ingrained in him from childhood returned quickly on the trail. Toklanni rode warily, taking advantage of every bit of cover, his gaze constantly moving back and forth across the trackless prairie.

  He rode back to where the Apache had found him and quartered back and forth until he found the Comanches’ trail. Though faint, it was still there, heading south, toward the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains, a vast treeless country where the last of the free Comanche roamed wild and free. With winter coming, they would be heading for one of the canyons to take shelter from the harsh weather. There, in the breaks, could be found small streams, grass and cottonwoods.

  In the summer, plums, pecans, walnuts and persimmons could be found along the larger streams. The rocky hills and the canyon sides were covered with scrub cedar, ash, elm, redbud, oak and willow. In the summer, the Llano was desert-like, but after the spring and summer rains, there was an abundance of grass.

  The eastern part of the Llano was made up rugged hills. To the east rose the Wichita Mountains, to the west lay New Mexico, to the south was a great expanse of wild waste known as the Big Bend country, which was criss-crossed with Indian trails.

  The Comanche were masterful horsemen and cunning, formidable fighters. Numbered among their enemies were the Apache, the Utes, the Pawnees and the Navajos.

  Toklanni had been in their country only a few times, riding with the Apache to steal horses or to avenge a raid.

  His mind filled with bits and pieces of Comanche lore as he rode tirelessly day after day. It was said a Comanche warrior would never ride a mare if he could help it, that mares were for women and children. He had also heard it said that killing a warrior’s favorite horse was akin to murder.

  Like the Apache, the Comanche did not eat fish unless food was very scarce, and it was believed that those who ate turkey would become cowardly and run from their enemies just as the turkey flies from its pursuers. The Comanche didn’t eat dog, either, because the dog was related to the coyote and coyotes were taboo.

  An old mountain man had once told him that the reason the Comanche didn’t eat dog was because once, when the Comanche moved, they left an old woman in camp with a dog and when they returned, they found that the dog had killed the woman and devoured most of her body.

  It was midafternoon about a week later when Toklanni reined the gray to a halt beside a small waterhole. Dismounting, Toklanni took a long drink, then splashed some of the cold water over his face and neck before letting the gray drink.

  Another day’s ride would bring him to the edge of the Llano. And somewhere within its maze of canyons and arroyos were the Indians he sought.

  Swinging into the saddle, he took a firm grip on his rifle, then clucked to the gray. Riding beneath a lowering sky, he prayed that Sarah was well.

  That evening, he huddled in the protection of a rocky overhang, quietly cursing the storm that had forced him to take shelter. Thunder rolled across the black sky, lightning lanced the clouds, while a torrent of rain washed away the Comanches’ trail.

  He stared, unseeing, into the distance, his thoughts turned inward as he remembered how Sarah had taken him into her home and nursed him back to health after he had been attacked by two white men and left for dead. He recalled how readily she had accepted him, trusted him, when she had no reason to trust him. How could he help but love her?

  Sarah. He swallowed hard. She could be dead, even now. The thought was like a knife in his heart.

  Please. He lifted his face toward heaven, the single word repeating itself in his mind over and over again. Please. Please. Please, let her be all right.

  Like the Apache, the Comanche were often cruel to their enemies. Men were killed out of hand, women were taken alive when possible, children too young to run away were adopted into the tribe. Women were not usually abused, but there were cruel men in every society and he groaned low in his throat as he thought of Sarah being mistreated. And the child…

  He shook the morbid thoughts from his mind. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on the worst that could happen. Until he knew otherwise, he would believe she was alive and well. He had to believe that, or go quietly insane.

  Driven by the need to be doing something, he swung into the saddle and headed south, toward the Llano.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah stared at the Indian camp, relief that they had finally reached their destination warring with a deep-seated fear of what awaited her.

  The village was located in a canyon alongside a slow-running creek. Horses grazed on the hillsides, dogs sprawled in the shade.

  As they rode into the midst of the camp, Sarah stared at the people. For the most part, the men were of medium height, with deep chests and broad faces. The women tended to be a little shorter and slighter, with coarse black hair. The men wore breechclouts, leggings and moccasins. She saw several young boys wearing nothing at all.

  The women wore buckskin dresses with long luxurious fringe on the sleeves and hem and beautifully beaded moccasins. They wore their hair cropped short and painted the part with vermilion. Some of the women had painted the insides of their ears red and accented their eyes with red or yellow lines above and below the lids. Others had reddish orange circles or triangles painted on their cheeks. Sarah couldn’t help staring at them, they looked so bizarre.

  Unlike little boys, the little girls didn’t go naked. They wore breechclouts and their hair, uncut, was worn in braids.

  The women stared at Sarah with equal curiosity, apparently fascinated by the color of her hair, her full calico skirt and black leather shoes. They talked excitedly as they gestured at her fair skin and light eyes, then pointed at her distended belly.

  “No apu,” they said, nodding to each other.

&nb
sp; The warrior who had kidnapped Sarah slid from the back of his horse. Lifting Sarah, he placed her beside him, his hand resting possessively on her arm.

  “Nu naibi,” he said, and though Sarah could not understand his words, she knew without doubt that he was telling everyone that she was his woman. The thought made her shudder.

  Gradually, the people went back to what they had been doing before the war party rode in. The warrior holding Sarah’s arm led her into a large tipi located near the center of the camp circle and ushered her inside.

  Sarah glanced around. The tipi was tilted slightly backward. There was a blackened smoke hole at the top, above the entrance, which was made by folding the skins back. The door, which faced east, was an opening covered by a piece of stiff hide. She recalled Devlin telling her that a tipi shed wind and water in winter and was warm in winter. It could be set up in fifteen minutes and taken down in even less time. Devlin. The thought of him brought quick tears to her eyes and she blinked them away.

  She saw what she assumed was a bed in the back of the lodge and quickly turned her attention elsewhere. Several parfleches hung from the lodge poles. One held several articles of men’s clothing. There was flint and steel beside a fire pit, along with a large black kettle and a few spoons and bowls made from what appeared to be the horn of an animal.

  She looked up when she realized the warrior was speaking to her.

  “Esatai,” he said, thumping his chest.

  “Esa…Esatai?” Sarah repeated, frowning.

  The warrior nodded. “Esatai,” he said again, and then pointed at Sarah.

  “Oh. Sarah,” she said. “My name is Sarah.”

  “Sa-rah.” He grunted softly. Indicating she should stay where she was, he left the lodge.

  Alone, she wandered around, poking into some of the parfleches piled in the rear of the tipi. They held food and cooking utensils as well as a variety of ornaments and winter moccasins.

  She stood up, feeling guilty, when a man entered the lodge. It took her several moments to realize it was Esatai. He had washed the war paint from his face and chest and she noted that he was almost handsome. His skin was a dark reddish copper color, his eyes were dark brown, his lips thin but well-shaped.

  She took a step backward as he took a step toward her.

  He stopped walking toward her and held out his hand, palm up. “No be afraid Esatai.”

  “You speak English!” Sarah exclaimed.

  “Tue,” he replied. “Little.”

  “Let me go home.”

  Esatai shook his head. His people had gone raiding to avenge the deaths of three warriors killed by the bluecoats. He had not expected to find such a prize when they attacked the white man’s house, but now that he had this woman with hair the color of the sun, he would not let her go. “You stay.”

  “I want to go home,” Sarah said. “I have a husband. Please, let me go to him.”

  “I be hus-band.”

  “You?” Sarah shook her head. “No.”

  “Haa. Yes.” His gaze lingered on her swollen belly. He had lost his wife and child to sickness two winters ago, but now the Great Spirit had sent him another woman to take her place.

  * * * * *

  Startled by a rumble of thunder that shook the earth, Sarah huddled deeper into the buffalo robe wrapped around her shoulders. Three days had passed since they had arrived in the village. It had been raining ever since.

  Esatai sat on a blanket on the other side of the fire, patiently gluing turkey feathers to the shaft of an arrow. She envied him the task. If only she had something to occupy her hands, something to keep her mind off the rapidly approaching darkness. She glanced uneasily at the single bed in the rear of the lodge. Her captor had not molested her so far, but as she had every night, she wondered if tonight he would crawl in beside her.

  He had said he was going to be her husband.

  She had tried several times to tell him she already had a husband, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had captured her and he meant to keep her.

  Sarah gazed into the flames, her mind filling with thoughts of Devlin and Danny. She knew Devlin would come after her, but how would he ever find her now? It had taken days to reach the Comanche stronghold; whatever tracks the Indian had left would have been washed out by the rain.

  And Danny. Her baby. First his father had been killed by Indians and now his mother had been kidnapped. Thank God for Devlin. At least her son wouldn’t be left alone.

  After awhile, Esatai put the arrow aside. Rising, he left the tipi. He returned a few minutes later with two freshly skinned rabbits, which he handed to Sarah.

  “Food,” he said. “You fix.”

  Sarah stared at the rabbits, wondering what he expected her to do with them.

  Esatai watched her for a moment and then, sensing her confusion, he pulled two long sticks from one of the parfleches, skewered the rabbits and laid them over the hot coals.

  “You watch,” he said.

  Sarah nodded that she understood and Esatai went back to work on his arrow, leaving her to turn the meat so it didn’t burn.

  When the rabbits were cooked, Esatai cut the meat into chunks and dumped it into a large wooden bowl, which he placed between them. Reaching into one of the parfleches, he pulled out something that looked like a stuffed sausage. Slicing off a piece, he handed it to Sarah.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Pemmican.”

  “Oh.” So, she thought, this was pemmican. From Devlin, she knew it was made from wild berries, cherries or plums which had been mixed with pinon nuts, pounded well and dried in the sun. Tallow or marrow fat was then added. Devlin had told her pemmican was a mainstay of many Indian tribes and that Indian children ate it the way white children ate candy. It could be stored for long periods of time.

  “Tuhkaru,” he insisted firmly. “Eat.”

  With some trepidation, she took a bite, surprised to find that it was rather good.

  Esatai sat down beside her, helping himself to the roasted rabbit. Once, their hands touched as they reached into the bowl at the same time.

  Sarah started to apologize, but the look on Esatai’s face stilled her tongue. He gazed at her for a long moment and then he took her hand in his, turning it this way and that.

  Her skin was soft, pale, warm. He let his fingers slide up her arm to her shoulder and then, after a moment, he caressed her cheek. “Nu naibi.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sarah said, although, deep inside, she was afraid she understood all too well.

  “My wo-man.”

  “No.”

  “Haa,” he said with a nod. “Yes.”

  Sarah stared at him helplessly. She wanted to hate him, to scream at him, but his eyes were kind when he looked at her, his hand was gentle as it caressed her cheek.

  He pointed at her, then at himself. “You. Me. Come together…” He paused, searching for the right words, and when he couldn’t find them, he pretended he was holding a baby. “After.”

  Sarah nodded, understanding that he would not touch her intimately until after the baby was born.

  But that didn’t keep him from insisting she share his blankets that night. Silent tears tracked her cheeks as Esatai held her body against his. He spoke to her in Comanche and while the language sounded harsh and guttural to her ears, his voice was soft and unexpectedly soothing.

  With something akin to horror, she realized that he reminded her of Devlin. He had the same quiet strength, the same air of self-assurance. She knew, without doubt, that, like Devlin, Esatai would protect her with his life.

  Later, after he had fallen asleep, she stared up at the narrow strip of sky visible through the smoke hole, fervently praying for a miracle.

  In the days that followed, Sarah learned more than she had ever wanted to know about Indian life. She had always thought the Indians were uncivilized, heartless savages, so she was surprised to learn that children were prized and loved, and that they were never physically punished. M
ost surprising of all was the fact that when discipline was needed, it wasn’t meted out by a child’s parents, but by an older sibling or some other relative.

  Once, she watched an old woman put a sheet over her head to frighten a little boy who had dumped a handful of dirt into a cook pot. Esatai told her that all Comanche children had the fear of piammpits, the Big Cannibal Owl, put into them. Piammpits lived in a cave on the south side of the Wichita Mountains and ate bad children at night. At least, that’s what Sarah thought he said. It was hard to tell, since his English was limited.

  On several occasions, she saw little girls and boys playing what appeared to be the Indian version of “house”. Each boy chose a wife. They swam together, rode together and then the boys went hunting make-believe squirrels, which they brought into camp for the wives to cook.

  Indian women were busy from dawn ’til dark, preparing food and clothing, caring for their children, gathering wood and hauling water. There were no stores in Comancheria. Everything was made by hand. Indian women didn’t buy a length of cloth to make a dress. They had to spend hours working over a green hide, soaking the hair side with a mixture of wood ashes and water, which produced lye. After the hide had soaked long enough, the hair was painstakingly scraped off, along with every particle of blood, fat and flesh.

  Once the hide was dried, it had to be softened. This was done by pounding a disgusting mixture of brains, liver, grease, basswood bark, soapweed and water into the hide. After the mixture was worked into the rawhide, it was left in the sun for awhile, then pulled back and forth across a tree limb, thereby drying and softening the hide. This process went on for several days until the skin was soft and pliable.

  As time passed, Sarah discovered that the Comanche were a social people. Visiting, dancing, storytelling and games were very popular with old and young alike.

  Sarah felt completely out of place when Esatai dragged her into the lodges of his friends. She didn’t understand the language. The customs were strange and she felt as if everyone was staring at her, talking about her.