Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  Striding back to the fire, Red Buffalo snarled, ‘‘Serve me my meal. I want to get away from here. The stench sickens my gut.’’

  Remembering how Red Buffalo’s hand had clamped on the girl’s breast, Hunter began to shake. The reaction was so inexplicable that he could concentrate on little else as he sheathed his knife and picked up a piece of the rabbit. ‘‘Take your share and go eat someplace else.’’

  ‘‘You choose her over me?’’

  Ignoring the question, Hunter walked over to the pallet to give the girl her portion. The moment he extended his hand to her, she struck out with her arm and sent the steaming chunk of rabbit flying. The plop it made hitting the dirt seemed to resound. Hunter glanced at the meat, then back at the girl, more than a little astounded.

  ‘‘If you don’t punish her for this, I will!’’ Red Buffalo roared.

  Hunter heard his cousin come up behind him. The girl shrank back, her eyes huge as Red Buffalo’s hand closed on her arm. Hunter grabbed Red Buffalo’s wrist. ‘‘She’s my woman. I will handle her.’’

  ‘‘Like you did last night?’’

  With his temper already on the rise, Hunter’s patience had worn as thin as the sinew on his hunting bow. He shoved Red Buffalo off balance and tensed to carry through with his fist. ‘‘I said I will handle her!’’

  Red Buffalo shrugged and retreated a step. ‘‘It is my meat she wasted.’’

  ‘‘And she’s my woman. Therefore it is my place to discipline her. Not yours.’’

  Hunter grabbed the girl’s wrist and hauled her to her feet. Turning toward a nearby log, he jerked her along behind him. She balked and tried to pry his fingers from her arm. Hunter gave her another jerk, in no mood for her obstinacy.

  Just as he started to sit down on the log, she flung herself away from him. He almost lost his hold on her. Small though she was, she was quick and slippery with grease. During the ensuing struggle, she smacked him alongside the head with her elbow and made him see stars.

  Bent on teaching her a lesson, Hunter forgot about her sunburn, about Red Buffalo and his friends, about everything. He dropped onto the log and yanked her across his lap. When his knees slammed into her belly, her air whooshed from her chest.

  ‘‘You will learn not to fight me.’’

  She arched her back, eyeing his left arm. He knew what she was thinking, and that made him even angrier. Grabbing her by the nape, he shoved her head back down before she could sink her teeth into him. Clamping his right leg over both of hers, he vised them between his thighs. She swung wildly with her fists, squirming and trying desperately to kick, but Hunter had her exactly the way he wanted her, in an unbreakable hold, bottom up.

  ‘‘Samos, one!’’ he counted as his palm connected with her rump. ‘‘Wahat, two! Pihet, three!’’

  Red Buffalo and his friends drew closer, hooting with laughter. Punishment like this was unheard of in their village.

  ‘‘Ai-ee!’’ Coyote Dung placed his hands on his hips and leaned forward at the waist. He took up the count with Hunter, and as the fourth blow fell, he yelled, ‘‘Hi-er-oquet!’’

  The girl’s slender body jerked, so violently that Hunter winced. Why didn’t she stop fighting? Never had he laid his hand on softer buttocks. He could imagine how the clap of his palm must sting. Yet still she pummeled his leg and struggled to escape?

  He struck her again. ‘‘Mau-vate! That is five, Blue Eyes. Stop the fight, and I will stop the punishment.’’

  Her answer was to sink her teeth into his thigh. Hunter roared and grabbed her by the hair to break her hold. Did she think he could allow this in front of the others? He slapped her buttocks again. Leaning to one side so he could see her face, he hissed, ‘‘You will not fight me!’’

  For an instant, blue eyes, brilliant with hatred, pain, and stung pride, clashed with his. Then she spat. The spray hit Hunter full in the face. He executed the sixth blow with more force than any preceding it. Leaning to one side again, he looked into her swimming blue eyes and said, ‘‘You want to fight? Eh?’’ Kerwhack! ‘‘Fine. That is good. We will fight. You want to spit?’’ He slapped her rump. ‘‘Still want to spit? Eh?’’

  Judging by the number of voices Hunter heard around him, he knew they were drawing a crowd. He no longer cared. All that mattered was making the woman yield. No one had ever dared strike him in anger and live to repeat the mistake. Except this girl. She wouldn’t tread the same path again. He would see to that.

  Intent on thrashing her until she ceased defying him, Hunter lost count of the slaps he meted out. And still she fought, squirming, kicking, awkwardly striking his leg and side with her fists. Didn’t she realize he couldn’t give her quarter when the other men watched? Through the thin cloth of her breeches, the skin of her buttocks felt red hot. She was not going to yield, he realized.

  Raising his arm for yet another blow, Hunter hesitated. Her slender body jerked and tensed in anticipation. A wave of aversion washed over him. He had fought and killed many men. In that, there was at least a sense of victory, even of honor when the foe was formidable. But in this? The victory, when and if it came, would be dust in his mouth. As if from a distance, he heard the laughter of his friends, their voices cheering him on.

  With a grunt of disgust, Hunter shoved the girl off his lap. She tumbled to the dirt and came up on all fours, her golden hair a wild mass of curls around her sunburned and tear-streaked face, her blue eyes glittering with impotent fury. Though she was out-flanked by an overwhelming number and had little strength with which to do battle, she refused to surrender. The sons she bore him would be fierce warriors. For the first time, Hunter wondered if the Great Ones had not smiled upon him.

  More furious than hurt, Loretta clenched her fists and stared up at her captor. The laughter of the other men became a roar in her ears, and the sound of it made her humiliation complete. Quivering rage swept through her. She staggered to her feet. Away. That was all she could think. Away from Hunter.

  Wheeling, she broke into a run. She didn’t think beyond placing one foot before the other. Not about Hunter chasing her. Not about the other men who surrounded her. When she slammed face-first into a solid chest and felt hands grabbing her arms, she blinked to see, then struck out. The next instant something hard connected with the side of her head, and lights exploded before her. She reeled and hit the dirt in a full-length sprawl, her vision eclipsed by starlit blackness.

  She tried to rise to her knees. Her body felt as heavy and limp as wet rawhide. She could hear angry voices—rising, falling, fading in and out. Again she attempted to get up and couldn’t. Someone seized her by the shoulders and turned her over. A weightless sensation buoyed her. She peered through the swirling folds of darkness, trying desperately to see who touched her. Please, God, not Hunter’s cousin.

  As Hunter scooped his yellow-hair, dazed and at last subdued, from the dirt, his foremost emotion was rage that Coyote Dung had dared to strike her. His second was fear that the other man’s fist might have done serious damage.

  Looking down into the girl’s disoriented eyes, his guts wrenched. She was finally broken. Only moments ago that had been his aim. Now he wished she was spitting and kicking and biting again. These last few days his feelings had become as insubstantial and difficult to grasp as snowflakes. Maybe he was more like his brother, Warrior, than he believed.

  Snarling at the other men to leave, Hunter carried the girl to the pallet and laid her down gently, kneeling beside her. ‘‘Hah-ich-ka ein, where are you, Blue Eyes?’’

  ‘‘Hunter, is she all right?’’

  Hunter glanced up to see his young friend, Swift Antelope, hovering over him. The boy’s expression was filled with alarm.

  ‘‘I think so. Leave us, eh, Swift Antelope? If she comes around and sees another strange face, it will frighten her.’’

  Swift Antelope nodded and began backing up. ‘‘Is there anything I can do? Get you water or something?’’

  ‘‘No, just leave us
.’’

  ‘‘She is very brave, is she not? Like her sister.’’ Hunter nodded and motioned the boy away. The girl’s long lashes swooped low, casting dark shadows on her cheeks, then lifted to unveil eyes far bluer than the prophecy foretold. Blue like the summer sky, yes, but far more brilliant. Her tears caught the sunlight and shimmered, reminding him of distant heat waves. The corners of her mouth quivered as she tried unsuccessfully to rise up on one elbow.

  ‘‘You will be still,’’ he ordered in a low voice.

  She frowned and blinked up at him. Afraid of what his fingertips would discover, Hunter leaned forward and gently probed her jaw and temple. Though she winced, he couldn’t detect any broken bones, no telling redness. Coyote Dung’s fist must have connected with the side of her head. Her senses were rattled, but no serious damage had been done.

  Relieved, Hunter smoothed glistening wisps of golden hair from her damp cheeks, fascinated by the way the tendrils, now freed from her braid, learned the shape of his fingers. The spirals of gold caught the sun and ignited, flashing silver fire. Not the color of parched grass, after all, but sunshine. His gaze shifted to her face, trailing slowly from her delicately etched brows to the upturned slope of her small, sunburned nose. Downy hair shone in the shallow cleft of her upper lip, along the hollows of her cheeks. He didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt like smiling.

  As Loretta’s vision cleared, she stared up at the Comanche’s harsh face, bewildered by the gentleness of his touch. She was confused even more by the concern she read in his eyes. Passing a hand over her row, she blinked again. That Indian must have knocked her plumb senseless. It was the only explanation. She had done everything she could to enrage Hunter, insulting him, defying him, biting him, spitting on him. Yet he had retaliated by only giving her a paddling and then this concerned look? Uncle Henry had whipped her much harder many a time and for far less.

  Hunter ran his hand into her hair, skimming her scalp with warm, callused fingertips. When he touched a tender place, Loretta flinched but was too dazed to pull away.

  ‘‘It is not wise to fight when you cannot win, Blue Eyes. I have said these words to you before, eh? You do not listen so good.’’ As he rocked back on his heels, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘‘When no one watches, you fight your big fight with this Comanche, eh? Only when no one watches. Or I must punish you, yes?’’ His smile faded. ‘‘With me, never with Coyote Dung.’’ He thumped his chest. ‘‘Che kas-kai, a bad heart. You understand? He is mo-cho-rook, a cruel one.’’

  Loretta’s attention was drawn to the other Indians who had gathered in groups some distance away. With a shock, she realized how dire her fate might have been if any other than Hunter had been her captor. Her mind reeled. How many times had she heard Hunter spoken of with dread? Merciless, cunning, a menace to the frontier. Those were only a few of the things she had heard about him. Yet he was cautioning her to fight her battles with him so she wouldn’t get hurt?

  After giving her a few minutes to recover her equilibrium, he stood and strode the few steps back to the fire to get his portion of the rabbit. As he returned to the pallet, he pulled his knife and sliced the meat into halves, extending one piece to her. Loretta knew he must be hungry, and his portion hadn’t been that large to begin with. After the way she had been behaving, she couldn’t believe he would offer her more food. If their roles had been reversed, she would have let him starve and said good riddance. She pushed up on one elbow. He leaned over and shoved the meat closer.

  ‘‘You will eat’’—unmistakable laughter played upon his face—‘‘so you will stay strong. We cannot fight the big fight if you tremble from hunger.’’

  Loretta lowered her gaze. A rush of conflicting emotions assailed her. She detested this man. She shouldn’t care if he didn’t get enough to eat or feel in the least guilty for having wasted his stupid meat. Yet she did. And for the life of her, she couldn’t accept part of his meager portion only to toss it away. She hated herself for that and hated him for eliciting such traitorous feelings within her.

  When she didn’t take the meat, he hunkered next to her. Why wouldn’t he leave her be? She was so tired, so awfully, horribly tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of fighting him. Tired of fighting herself.

  ‘‘Hein ein mah-su-ite, what do you want?’’ he asked in a low voice. ‘‘The little rabbit is good. The tosi tivo, white men, eat rabbit, do they not?’’

  Loretta kept her face averted.

  He sighed. ‘‘Blue Eyes, you will see into me, eh?’’ Because he was still holding the two pieces of meat, he didn’t have a free hand and nudged her shoulder with his forearm. ‘‘Nabone, look.’’

  For the first time, she detected a note of entreaty in his voice, scarcely recognizable under his martial arrogance, but there.

  When she looked up, his eyes caught and held hers. After a long moment he said, ‘‘You are to-ho-ba-ka, the enemy. That is so, eh? Tosi mah-ocu-ah, a white woman? And I am the enemy to your people, a Te-j-as,a Comanche.’’ He held his arm out in front of him, his forearm waist high and horizontal, and made a writhing motion around to his side. ‘‘Snakes Who Come Back, eh?’’ His mouth tipped into a grin that transformed his face. For a moment he not only looked human, but handsome. ‘‘You like that, eh? Comanche and snakes, all the same?’’

  The grin set her off balance, and again she averted her face. He shoved a piece of the meat under her nose.

  ‘‘The rabbit, he is not to-ho-ba-ka, the enemy. He is tao-yo-cha, a child of Mother Earth, eh? You can eat him. It is not surrender when we eat the gifts of Mother Earth.’’

  The smell of the rabbit wafted up Loretta’s nostrils and set her mouth to watering. Against her will, her gaze riveted on the pink, juicy meat. Hunger pains knotted her middle. She felt her resolve slipping. What did she hope to prove, anyway? That she would fight to the dying end? Even if she did, who would know? She would, of course, but pride wouldn’t fill her belly.

  Hunter pressed the offering closer. ‘‘You will take him? He belongs to no one.’’

  The smell was nearly too much to resist. But, wincing as her sore buttocks touched the pallet, she sat up and once again refused the meat. He grunted in disapproval and sat beside her on the fur. In the ensuing silence she could hear his jaw popping as he chewed. Nothing on God’s earth had ever smelled as good as that rabbit.

  ‘‘You will eat nuts and berries?’’

  Loretta shot him a look and then glanced toward his collection of leather bags, recalling the mixture he had poured onto her palm earlier. Pride rose like gorge in her throat.

  ‘‘You will walk backward in your footprints, eh, and go forward again a different way? My ner-be-ahr, mother, gathered the berries and pecans. Warrior, my brother, found the honey tree. Gifts from Mother Earth, eh? Like the rabbit.’’

  The smell of the meat wafted to her nose. She stared straight ahead. She couldn’t afford to give in.

  As if he sensed how fragile her willpower had become, Hunter pushed to his feet and went over to his bags to get the pouch and a gourd canteen. When he returned he loosened the drawstring and set the bag on the fur between them. After scooping out a handful of the fruit-nut mixture for himself, he gestured for her to do the same.

  When she made no move to acquiesce, he said, ‘‘Hm, it is good, eh? You will take a little. It will not sicken your gut.’’

  Tears welled in Loretta’s eyes. Who had said the flesh was weak? Not true. Needs of the flesh dictated. The thirsty drank. The cold sought warmth. And the starving ate.

  She could almost taste the bittersweet pecans filling her mouth. She wished she could devour everything in the bag. He offered her the canteen of water. She hesitated, then declined. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he realized she didn’t intend to eat or drink. Not this morning, not ever. There would be a show-down. She dreaded that. But there were some things even he couldn’t force her to do.

  While he finished his meal, Loretta consoled her
self by hugging her knees, acutely aware that he watched her. A meadowlark warbled nearby, its clear voice ringing sweetly. She focused on the sound and tried to pretend the Comanche didn’t exist. It was an impossible feat. Leaves above them danced in the sunlight, casting flickering splashes of gold upon the ground. She studied the patterns, wishing he would leave. Wishing she were someplace else. Anyplace else.

  When she could bear his silent perusal no longer, Loretta forced herself to turn her head. His indigo eyes met hers, reflecting the shadows and sunlight, shifting, elusive, impossible to read. His features, carved in burnished copper, offered no clues. The wind caught his hair and draped it in dark wisps across his face, catching it in his long lashes, but still he studied her with an unblinking intensity. No trace of laughter showed in his expression, but she had the feeling he was amused by her.

  Her heart leaped when he suddenly stood up. He went to his saddle packs to put away the food pouch. A moment later he returned with a long rope. With deft hands he looped one end of it into a slip knot and lowered the noose over her head.

  As he shoved the knot snugly against her throat, he said, ‘‘We will make a walk.’’

  Loretta cast a horrified look at the leash.

  ‘‘You do not surrender so good, Blue Eyes. The tether is wisdom. No fighting the big fight in the bushes, no honey talk, no lies, no happy crows, and no dead ponies.’’ He gave a light tug. ‘‘Keemah, come.’’

  Loretta wondered if he would strangle her if she sat tight. Peering up at his harsh countenance, she found she didn’t have the courage to find out. She pushed to her feet and walked meekly beside him toward the brush.

  Except for closely guarded walks into the bushes, Loretta spent the remainder of the day sitting in the shade of the oak, under the constant supervision of her captor. She suffered his ministrations to her sunburn with hopeless passivity, the possibility of escape gone from her mind. He was unfailingly kind, which, instead of soothing her, served to increase her trepidation. He had to be toying with her. She didn’t know what to expect of him from one moment to the next.