‘‘They play, no? There are no trees to hide the to-ho-ba-ka, the enemy. Our hearts are glad.’’
She cast a dubious frown at the men.
Hunter reached for his canteen. ‘‘You will drink?’’
‘‘No,’’ she whispered.
Hunter uncapped the gourd and pressed it upon her. ‘‘You must drink, Blue Eyes.’’
‘‘No.’’
Hunter retied the canteen strap to his surcingle, swallowing down a surge of anger. ‘‘You will not die. This Comanche has spoken it. It will be for nothing, this suffering.’’
She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Hunter tightened his hand on the reins, frustration and fear building within him. Last night she had saved his life. How could he watch while she ended hers?
When the Comanches reached a river, their play came to a halt. They forded the stream to travel along the rocky bank of a northward fork. Somewhat revived by the water she had been forced to consume, Loretta sat astride the mare, suffering the confines of Hunter’s arm around her waist and the familiarity of his hand on her midriff. His broad chest served as a prop for her back; soon she leaned against him, letting her body undulate with his in rhythm with the horse’s gait.
After about forty minutes of silence, he bent his head close to hers. ‘‘Mah-tao-yo. My arm is strong, no?’’ He hugged her close to demonstrate. ‘‘A strong arm to lean upon, a shield against all that might harm you? You will trust this Comanche. Drink and eat. It is a good place where we go.’’
Loretta made a fist in the leather of her shirt and squeezed until her knuckles hurt. She didn’t want to die. It would be so easy, so horribly easy, to believe him.
‘‘You will be warm with me in my lodge? I have many buffalo robes. And plenty food. Meat, yes? And my strong arm will protect you, forever into the horizon. There is nothing to fear.’’ He pressed his hand more firmly against her midriff. ‘‘My tongue does not make lies. It is the truth I speak, not penende taquoip, the honey talk, but a promise. I have spoken the words, and they are carried away on the wind to whisper to me always. You will trust? When I go away from you on raids and hunting trips, my brother’s strong arm will be yours. No harm will come to you.’’
Loretta swallowed. His brother? The man who had helped pour water down her, she guessed. The one he called Warrior.
‘‘You can seek death another time. Te-bit-ze, sure enough. But first, you will see what lies on the horizon. It is wisdom.’’
‘‘I want—’’ Tension and disuse strung her voice so taut, it twanged like a harp cord. ‘‘I want to go home.’’
‘‘That cannot be. You go with me—to a new place. You are my woman, eh? You have said it, I have said it. Suvate, it is finished.’’
‘‘I’m not your woman,’’ she cried. ‘‘You stole me from my family.’’
‘‘I traded many fine horses.’’
‘‘You bought me, then. And that’s just as—’’ Loretta craned her neck and stared up at his carved features. ‘‘I’m a person, not a thing.’’
‘‘The white men have slaves, and this is okay, yes? Your Gray Coats fight the great fight so you can own black men. Is this not so? This Comanche has a slave, too. It is good.’’
‘‘No! It’s not good. It’s monstrous.’’ She passed a hand over her eyes. ‘‘I’ll die before I let you touch me. You hear me?’’
‘‘Ah, but Blue Eyes, I touch you now.’’ He slid his hand up her ribs and gently cupped her breast. ‘‘You see? I touch you, and you do not die. There is nothing to fear.’’
He braced his arm against her and kept his hand firmly in place. For several seconds he held her thus. ‘‘This is what you fear? The touching?’’ Incredulity rang in his voice. ‘‘This is why you will not drink?’’
Loretta shifted, trying to escape his hold, still clutching his wrist.
‘‘You will answer this Comanche.’’ He feathered his thumb across the leather, a coercive tactic she couldn’t ignore, teasing her nipple into a prickly erection that made her breath catch. ‘‘You seek death to escape my hand?’’
A sob caught crosswise in her throat. ‘‘Please . . . please, don’t.’’
He bent his head so his lips feathered against her ear. ‘‘For this you fight the big fight? Blue Eyes . . .’’ His voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t think what to say. Then he withdrew his palm from her breast and returned it to her ribs. ‘‘My touch has brought you no pain. I heap no shame upon you. I cannot see into you and understand. You will make a picture for me, no?’’
A picture? The picture in Loretta’s head was too horrible to draw with words. ‘‘Do you think I don’t know what you monsters do to white women? I know! My mother—I—’’ She swallowed. ‘‘Your strong arm! Mine to lean upon until it turns against me.’’
His lips trailed to her temple, lingered there, his breath a warm mist in her hair. For a long while he was silent, and then he said, ‘‘My arm is yours to lean upon for always. Until snow comes to your hair, eh? For always, until I am dust in the wind.’’
He sounded so sincere. ‘‘I won’t listen to this, I won’t. Do you think I’m so stupid you can trick me with—with honey talk?’’
‘‘I make no tricks.’’ His arm clamped tight. ‘‘I have no need, eh? If my heart talks murder, I do it. If I want to play games with my woman, I play them. I need no tricks. I want, I take. It is a very simple thing.’’
Warrior rode up beside them, filling the air with dust. Loretta shifted her gaze to the scalps on his bridle, to a telltale strip of calico cloth tied to his surcingle. Helpless tears filled her eyes.
Chapter 12
THE REMAINDER OF THE TRIP WAS A BLUR to Loretta—stopping for the night, riding endlessly through the sun, fighting futile battles with Hunter to keep from drinking. With each hour her pride slipped further from her grasp and her hopelessness grew. I am your wind. Bend or break. I want, I take. His image hovered before her constantly, arrogant, powerful, and relentless. Her only consolation was that eventually she would slip away from him into the velvety blackness of slumber, never to awaken.
By the time they reached his village, Loretta had lost all sense of time and was uncertain how many days had passed. In her more lucid moments she was certain they traveled in circles, laying false trails. Late one afternoon they ascended a plateau overlooking a river valley, the rolling meadows that paralleled the stream a vibrant green, an occasional cactus or red yucca dots of color. Along the riverbanks, lofty cottonwoods swayed in the breeze, their silvered trunks and dappled leaves a camouflage for the countless lodges erected among them. Not the Staked Plains? With bitter disappointment, Loretta realized that her captor had not only made far better time than most white men would, but he had gone in a different direction than Tom had expected, foiling any attempt to follow him.
She stared down at the village through heavy-lidded eyes. She had no idea what river this was and didn’t care. The village was here; that was all that mattered. And there were more Comanches in one place than she had ever seen. Hunter vised his arm around her waist, anchoring her to his solid chest. Bending toward her, he whispered, ‘‘Do not fear, mah-tao-yo. I am beside you, eh?’’
The other Indians threw back their heads and gave long, shrill cries, like deranged coyotes baying at the moon. Within seconds hundreds of voices from below returned the call, and antlike figures scurried to and fro between the conical houses. Hunter urged the mare forward, leaning to distribute their weight as the horse plunged down the steep decline. Fear shot up Loretta’s spine. The moment she dreaded had arrived.
The other horses hurried toward the village like cows toward oats. Tom Weaver’s mare, less enthusiastic, ambled along, her ears cocked and flickering at the odd noises rising in the air. Given a moment’s respite, Loretta watched the people swarming forward to greet the returning warriors, her heart racing as she imagined those same bodies swarming toward her. The yipping and laughter and garbled words ricoch
eted off the trees around her.
The men made a pass through camp, riding the paths between the lodges, greeting everyone. A gaggle of dirty, half-naked children trailed behind them, chortling happily. In the excitement two shaggy dogs got into a fight and, during the tussle, nearly knocked over a meat rack. A short, slender woman in a buckskin shift took after them with a stick.
Loretta had never seen so much confusion. People were emerging from the brush arbors in front of their tepees, waving and laughing. Squaws who had been cooking pulled their pots off the fires as they hurried out to greet their sons, brothers, husbands, and lovers.
Everywhere Loretta looked, she was reminded of where she was. Fur pallets were arranged around the low-burning fires. Garishly painted war shields perched on tripods outside most of the lodges. Tin pots dangled from spits. Buffalo stomachs distended with water hung on racks. A white woman’s nightmare, a Comanche village.
Hunter rode straight into the swarm, his arm clamped around Loretta’s waist, his body tensed. As throngs of people pressed in on his horse, she felt his broad shoulders hunch forward, as if to shield her. Sexless faces swam before her, a blur of brown, all hostile and evil. Hands shot out. Cruel fingers grabbed at her bloomers, pinching skin as well as cloth. Panting with horror, she shrank against her captor.
‘‘Ob-be mah-e-vah, get out of the way!’’ Hunter snarled. With a sweep of one arm, he drove back several bodies. ‘‘Kiss! Mah-ocu-ah, kiss! Stop, woman, stop!’’
Pain exploded on Loretta’s scalp. A scream tore from her throat as she was jerked sideways. A woman had seized a handful of her hair and seemed determined to keep it. With a roar, Hunter rocked back and planted a foot on the woman’s chest, sending her sprawling into the crowd. Some of Loretta’s hair went with her.
Then Loretta heard a husky feminine voice booming above the din. The throng of bodies parted to admit a tall, plump woman. She brandished a long, wooden spoon above her, thumping an occasional head as she passed, her brown eyes snapping with anger. When she reached Hunter’s side, she stood with her feet spread, arms akimbo, her attention riveted on Loretta. The chaos around her began to settle like stirred dust.
Loretta sensed that something momentous was about to happen, and that it had to do with her. She stared down at the woman, afraid to move, unable to swallow. The squaw’s classic features struck a chord within her, familiar in some indefinable way. Thick braids rode her broad shoulders, strands of silver threaded through ebony. She was beautiful, yet not, her face too chiseled and arrogant to be entirely feminine. The shapeless buckskin dress she wore clung to the solid planes of her figure, revealing that hers was a generously rounded but well-shaped body. And her eyes . . . Direct, piercing, oddly familiar, they sized Loretta up and seemed to find her wanting. How many times had Hunter studied her just this way?
Realization slowly dawned. The chiseled features, the full, beautifully defined lips, the strong chin and proud bearing. Her captor’s mother.
The woman met her son’s gaze and smiled. Shifting her attention back to Loretta, she said, ‘‘Ein mah-suite mah-ri-ich-ket?’’
‘‘My mother, Woman with Many Robes, asks if you want to eat?’’
Loretta gave an emphatic shake of her head, pressing closer to his chest. In a toss-up, she chose to stay with Hunter. He leaned forward so he could look into her eyes. ‘‘You will not be afraid. My mother will crack heads. Your good friend, eh? You will trust.’’
Loretta scanned the wall of leather-clad bodies and, for the first time, hugged her captor’s arm more closely around her. The dark depths of his eyes shifted, warming on hers. A ghost of a smile flitted across his harsh mouth, and his fingertips tightened their hold on her ribs. Looking up, he said something in Comanche.
The woman nodded and turned to shoo the onlookers out of the way, her spoon tapping a hollow tattoo on slow-moving heads. Hunter chuckled, his chest vibrating against Loretta’s shoulder blades as he steered the mare along the path his mother cleared. The crowd formed walls on each side of them, hanging back only when Hunter drew up before a lodge. When he began to dismount, Loretta clutched his wrist, terrified he might abandon her.
‘‘Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi! Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi!’’ a small girl cried, dancing around the mare’s legs, her button eyes gleaming, her plump brown bottom jiggling so hard that she was about to lose her breechcloth. ‘‘Ein mah-heepicut?’’
Hunter pried Loretta’s frantic fingers from his arm and slid off the horse. Smiling at the child, he leaned over and retied her breechcloth thong. ‘‘Huh, yes.’’ Glancing up at Loretta, he said, ‘‘She is a yellow-hair, and she is mine.’’
The child looked fit to bust and ran to Hunter’s mother. ‘‘Kaku, Grandmother! Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi, a yellow-hair! Hah-ich-ka po-mea, where is she going?’’
Hunter lifted Loretta from the horse and into his arms, stooping to shoulder his way into the lodge. His mother and niece hovered behind him as he took measure of the room and headed toward a raised bed at the rear. Layers of fur, soft as eiderdown, sank beneath Loretta when he laid her down.
The opening to the lodge darkened as people pressed close to peer inside. Weakness and exhaustion clouded Loretta’s thinking and made focusing difficult. She blinked and tried to sit up, afraid Hunter would leave her. If he did, those bodies would rush in and converge on her.
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘‘You will be still.’’ Turning toward the door, he yelled, ‘‘Mea, go!’’ Loretta jumped with every inflection of his voice.
The child bounded onto the bed, landing on all fours, her round face wreathed in a smile. ‘‘Hein nei nan-ne-i-cut?’’
‘‘What is your name?’’ Hunter translated, tousling the imp’s hair as he hunkered beside the bed. ‘‘Loh-rhett-ah, eh? Tohobt Nabituh, Blue Eyes.’’ To Loretta, he said, ‘‘Warrior’s daughter, To-oh Hoos-cho, Blackbird.’’
Blackbird giggled and glanced at her grandmother, who stood watching from across the room. ‘‘Lohrhett-ah!’’
Loretta scooted toward the head of the bed to press her back against the taut leather wall. The little girl followed, reaching out with a small brown hand to lightly touch the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers. Loretta stared at her. At last, a Comanche she didn’t detest on sight. She was tempted to grab hold of her and never let go. Loretta guessed her to be about three years old, possibly four.
While Blackbird satisfied her curiosity about Loretta and examined her from head to toe, Hunter carried on an unintelligible conversation with his mother. From the gestures he made, Loretta guessed he was relating that his captive refused to eat or drink and that her voice had returned. A look of concern flashed across the older woman’s dark face. Hunter rose and thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead, rolling his eyes toward the smoke hole above the firepit.
‘‘Ai-ee!’’ Woman with Many Robes crossed the packed grass-and-dirt floor and leaned forward to peer at Loretta. After babbling shrilly for several seconds, all the while waving her spoon, she crooned, ‘‘Nei mipemah-tao-yo,’’ and placed a gentle hand on Loretta’s hair.
‘‘My mother says the poor little one must have no fear.’’
Woman with Many Robes cast her son a suspicious glance. When it became apparent that he planned to say no more, she brandished her spoon at him.
With great reluctance he cleared his throat, eyed the people crowding the doorway, and said, in a very low voice, ‘‘You will have no fear of me, eh? If I lift my hand against you, I will be a caum-mom-se, a bald head, and she will thump me with her spoon.’’ He hesitated and looked as if he found it difficult not to smile. ‘‘She will make the great na-ba-dah-kah, battle, with me. And in the end, she will win. She is one mean woman.’’
Woman with Many Robes stroked Loretta’s hair and nodded, saying something more. She no sooner finished than Blackbird burst into giggles and rolled away from Loretta, planting a hand on her tummy. Whatever it was the woman had said, the child thought it hilarious.
‘�
�You must eat,’’ Hunter translated. ‘‘And drink. Soon you will feel better, eh? And she will trade with the Comanchero for you a big spoon. If I ever again strike fear into your heart, you can do your own thumping.’’
Loretta concurred with Blackbird. She’d need much more than a spoon to do battle with Hunter. She planted the heel of her hand on the bed to hold herself upright. Her spine felt as if it had turned to water.
As if he realized that Blackbird wasn’t aiding him in his cause, Hunter snatched the child off the bed and tucked her under one arm. He carried her to the door of the lodge and set her gently on her feet, shooing her outside and jerking down the lodge flap so the others couldn’t see inside. Blackbird poked her ebony head back in and cried, ‘‘Kianceta, weasel!’’
Hunter snarled and lunged at her. His unexpected ferocity startled Loretta, but Blackbird swung on the leather flap like a baby opossum, giggling and screeching, completely unintimidated. Her uncle pried her loose and, with a pat on her plump bottom, sent her away. Silence settled inside the lodge. An uncomfortable silence.
Loretta cast a dubious glance around the room, expecting . . . well, she wasn’t sure what, but heathenish things, surely, bloody scalps and war paraphernalia, not furs and stacks of parfleche, cooking pots and spoons, or a clothing rod. Beautifully crafted buckskin shirts hung on its pegs, along with breeches and breech-cloths. All male clothing. This must be Hunter’s lodge, she decided, not his mother’s.
‘‘Ein mah-suite mah-ri-ich-ket, Tohobt Nabituh?’’ Woman with Many Robes asked.
Hunter turned from the lodge entrance. ‘‘You will eat? My mother will bring you very good food, eh?’’
Loretta drew up her knees and hugged them. Beyond the leather walls voices rang out, the language foreign and frightening. Woman with Many Robes seemed kind, but Loretta couldn’t forget the women outside who had attacked her, nor the fact that Hunter considered her his chattel. She shook her head, so weary she wanted to sink into the furs and go to sleep.
Comanche Moon Page 17
