Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  ‘‘Aye-mee,’’ he whispered, trying to soothe her. ‘‘Toquet, it is well.’’

  He started to untie one of her arms, but her screams stopped him, shrill and short, interspersed with shallow panting. She shrank against the wagon wheel, digging her heels into the dirt to put distance between them. He realized then that she thought he meant to rape her or kill her, perhaps both.

  Hunter backed off and held up his hands so she could see he held no weapons. She glanced around wildly, as if she sought help. Tears welled in her eyes. When she looked at him again, her expression was one of complete despair.

  Hunter kept his hands up. ‘‘Loh-rhett-ah sent me. To find you. Loh-rhett-ah, your sister who loves you.’’

  For an instant her disoriented eyes seemed to focus on him. ‘‘Loretta?’’

  Hunter nodded. ‘‘See into me, eh? You remember this Comanche’s face?’’

  She stared at him, and for a moment he hoped she might trust him. Very slowly he reached again to untie her. The instant he moved, she panicked, screaming and throwing her head.

  Hunter knew he must hurry. The sooner he got the girl away from here, the safer she would be. His own men wouldn’t make a move, but the uneasy Comancheros were another matter. If they sensed, even for a moment, that Hunter’s men might seek retribution for this foul deed, they would throw caution aside and start shooting.

  Pulling his knife, which terrified Amy even more, Hunter swiftly cut the ropes that anchored her wrists. She dropped to the ground and curled into a ball, knees hugged to her chest, head tucked. When he touched her she jerked and whimpered.

  Hunter had to pry her knees from her chest to lift her. She offered no resistance, just trembled when he swept her off the ground into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder. When he glanced down at her small face, his heart caught. She was sure enough Loretta’s face upon the water. The same small facial bones and sensitive mouth. The same hair. The same eyes, like large patches of summer sky.

  Hunter walked toward his horse, looking neither right nor left, acutely aware of the Comancheros all around him. As gently as he could, he set Amy on the stallion’s back, then mounted behind her. She moaned and braced her hands on the horse’s shoulders. As carefully as he could, he helped her sit crosswise, supporting her back with the bend of his arm.

  Santos came forward again. ‘‘El Lobo, you have my word, I did not know this woman was close to your heart. I would not have allowed them to touch her.’’

  ‘‘Woman?’’ Hunter hissed.

  Santos shrugged one shoulder, his gaze darting nervously. ‘‘She is not the first young girl to be broken to ride. You have done the same, many times.’’

  ‘‘I make war on men.’’

  Santos scrutinized the entire party of Comanches before he replied. ‘‘That is not true of you all.’’

  ‘‘This Comanche leaves one set of footprints,’’ Hunter said softly. ‘‘Others walk their own way.’’

  Fastening his attention on the girl, Santos slipped into English. ‘‘I meant you no harm, leettle muchacha.’’ To Hunter he added, ‘‘I am your good friend, El Lobo. Thees ees the truth I speak.’’

  With a snort of disgust, Hunter wheeled his horse and rode off. His men closed ranks behind him to defend his back. Amy huddled in Hunter’s lap, arms crisscrossed over her chest, eyes squeezed closed, teeth chattering. Hunter scanned her body. There were a couple of deep scratches on her legs that needed to be cleaned. He hoped that was the worst of it, that her insides were not torn as Willow’s had been.

  He had promised his blue-eyes that he would bring her the child. He didn’t want to deliver a corpse.

  An hour later, after the Comanches had stopped and made camp in a ravine, Hunter was no closer to discovering the extent of Amy’s injuries. Each time he tried to touch her, she became frantic. Now, with him sitting close by, she lay huddled on her side, knees drawn to her chest, arms shielding her head.

  Memories washed over him, memories of Amy coming out alone to face an army of warriors, a rifle bigger than she was held to her shoulder. Amy, biting and kicking, when Swift Antelope tried to hold her on his horse. Comanche heart. Spirit like hers was hard to break. What pain she must have suffered that she had been reduced to this.

  Hunter didn’t want to overpower her again. He should tend her injuries, and quickly, but some wounds ran deeper than the flesh. Gentleness was what she needed. From a woman’s hands.

  There wasn’t a woman within a hundred miles.

  Hunter called to Old Man and asked that he and the others move some distance away, so Amy would suffer less distress. After a few minutes, when all grew quiet around the two of them, Hunter crossed his ankles and sat beside her.

  Very lightly he grasped her shoulder. She shrank from him and began to sob. He kept his hand on her, knowing that sooner or later she must accept his touch so he could find out how badly she was hurt. Her weeping reminded him of Willow, made him remember things best forgotten. The one thing he recalled more vividly than anything else about that distant night was his dying wife’s terror. She had clung to him, afraid of the darkness around them, panicking when anyone else got close to her.

  Amy had no one to cling to. He could almost taste her fear. She needed to be held. And there was no one. No one but Hunter.

  ‘‘Aye-mee,’’ he whispered.

  She shrank into herself, trying to escape his touch. Hunter ran his hand down her back, then up to her shoulder again. It looked as if there were fresh blood on her tattered skirt. He touched it to be sure. When his fingertips came away wet, fear chilled his skin.

  ‘‘Aye-mee? You have hurts. This Comanche must care for you. No harm. It is a promise I make for you.’’

  He grasped her skirt and tried to lift it. She came up screaming and lashing out with her small fists. Hunter rocked back on his heels and raised his hands. She scrambled in the dirt to put some distance between them, then hunched forward over her knees, palms pressed to her lower belly.

  ‘‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’’

  Hunter kept his hands raised, trying not to frighten her any more than he already had. ‘‘You have many hurts,’’ he said softly. ‘‘This Comanche is your good friend. I will help you.’’

  A sob caught in her throat. She lifted her head and fastened swimming blue eyes on him—bruised, aching eyes. He could see she wanted, needed, to believe him. Her small mouth twisted. ‘‘F-friend?’’

  Hunter started to lower his arms. She flinched and shielded her face, clearly afraid he meant to strike her. ‘‘Ah, Aye-mee, do not fear. I take you to Loh-rhett-ah, eh? It is good.’’

  ‘‘You’re lyin’! Loretta’s at home. She couldn’t have sent you. You’re tryin’ to trick me.’’

  ‘‘This Comanche makes no lies. Loh-rhett-ah waits for you—in my village. She came to me. She knew this Comanche could find you.’’ Hunter searched his memory for something that might convince Amy he spoke only truth. ‘‘She came with a black sitchel to carry her White Eyes ruffles.’’

  ‘‘A satchel?’’ Hope sprang to Amy’s eyes. ‘‘H-her black satchel? The one my ma gave her?’’

  Hunter nodded. ‘‘Huh, yes, a black satchel. Her dress, it was blue, with small snakes and pink prairie flowers. Much wannup, eh? Many white skirts and breeches beneath.’’

  ‘‘Her blue calico,’’ Amy whispered.

  ‘‘Ah, yes? Callee-cho. My eyes could not see this if she did not come to me. This is sure enough the way of it.’’

  ‘‘Th-then why did you stop here? Why aren’t you taking me to her?’’

  ‘‘You have many hurts.’’

  Tense and ready to bolt, she watched him as he slowly lowered his hands to his knees.

  ‘‘You will see into me? Do my eyes talk lies?’’

  She searched his gaze. Hunter knew better than to move, even to breathe.

  ‘‘Why would Loretta ask you to find me?’’ She passed a trembling hand over her brow. ‘‘You’
re an Injun.’’

  It was a question Hunter couldn’t readily answer. Very slowly, cautiously, he raised one hand shoulder high. ‘‘She has seen my Blackbird, a small girl. Your Loh-rhett-ah knows this Comanche understands the pain in her heart because her Aye-mee is lost. She trusted this Comanche to find you, to fight the great fight to bring you back to her.’’

  ‘‘You have a little girl? Loretta truly sent you?’’

  She looked so incredulous that Hunter nearly smiled. ‘‘I am here, yes? I have come a very long way. If this Comanche wished to make tricks, I would make tricks near my village.’’

  Her eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared. He could see she was beginning to believe him. The sound of footsteps drew both their attention. Hunter glanced over his shoulder to see Old Man approaching. A cry of anguish tore up Amy’s throat.

  ‘‘M-make him go away!’’ she screeched. ‘‘Make him go away!’’

  Old Man halted midstride. He held up a gourd canteen.

  ‘‘He brings water, eh?’’

  Her face blanched. ‘‘No—no. Make him leave! I— I don’t want him here!’’

  Hunter started to stand, intending to go and get the canteen. The moment Amy saw him move, she cried out and launched herself at him.

  ‘‘No! Don’t leave me with him! Please don’t!’’

  Taken off guard, Hunter nearly lost his balance when her small body collided with his chest. She vised her thin arms around his neck, cutting off his breath, her naked, sweat-filmed flesh sticking to his like a river leech. For a moment he didn’t know how to react. Then he felt the shivers of fear running through her, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her. She felt no wider in the torso than Blackbird. Hunter’s heart twisted at the desperate way she clung to him.

  ‘‘Don’t let him. Please, don’t let him hurt me.’’

  ‘‘No, no, I will not. You are safe, Aye-mee. You are safe.’’ He ran his hand lightly over her back, taking care because of her many bruises.

  She went limp and began to cry. Hunter pulled her across his lap. She didn’t fight him. He thought perhaps she was too terrified. Her eyes clung to his, huge and wild with fright, her face so pale it looked bloodless.

  ‘‘Ah, Aye-mee,’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘Don’t let him hurt me, please, don’t let him hurt me. I’ll be good. I will! I’ll do what you say. Don’t let him hurt me.’’

  ‘‘No one will hurt you. It is a promise I make for you. No one.’’ Carefully, cautiously, Hunter gathered her to his chest. ‘‘Toquet, little one. Do not fear. It is well.’’

  As his arms tightened around her, she shuddered. Aware that Old Man stood nearby watching, Hunter dipped his head close to hers and began to whisper, rocking her as he would Blackbird. At first she lay rigid. But when he persisted, she began to sob again, and he knew the battle was won.

  He shifted her in his arms so her head could rest more comfortably on his shoulder. Not ceasing the rocking motion, he stroked her hair and continued whispering to her. He wasn’t sure what he said, if he spoke tosi tivo or Comanche. The words didn’t matter. The message was in his voice and his hands.

  He wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point she turned and again encircled his neck with her thin arms. She pressed close to him, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder, the violent force of her sobs shuddering through him. Hunter took his cues from her. When she hugged his neck more tightly, he increased the pressure of his arms around her.

  He worried about the blood on her skirt. But there was little hope of investigating its source until he had gained her confidence, so he continued to rock her. Feeling her narrow, almost flat chest plastered against his, he could only wonder how those men could have done this to her. No, woman, this, but a child. Hatred rose like gorge in his throat.

  Hunter motioned for Old Man to leave the canteen on his horse. When Amy heard his footsteps she jerked, then clung to Hunter more frantically.

  ‘‘Don’t let them take me! Don’t! Please, don’t!’’

  ‘‘It is well. They will not take you, eh? I am here.’’ He ran his hand into her hair. ‘‘I am here, Aye-mee. I am big and mean like the buffalo, yes? You are sure enough safe.’’

  Old Man left as quickly as he had come. Hunter could only guess what the other men must be thinking. That he had lost his Comanche heart. That he had forgotten how his wife had died. That he was boisa. For this moment, none of that mattered. He closed his eyes, conscious only of the child in his arms, of the great gift she had bestowed on him—her trust.

  Hunter couldn’t be sure how much time passed. The sun sank lower on the horizon, heralding nightfall. Still he sat and rocked her. Now and again, when he opened his eyes, he saw the contrast of his dark arms against her white flesh, the shimmer of her hair. A White Eyes. It no longer seemed of any importance.

  The rapidly descending sun at last forced Hunter to straighten. He should tend Amy while he still had light.

  ‘‘Aye-mee,’’ he said softly, ‘‘you bleed. I must see to your hurts. Loh-rhett-ah will be heap big angry if I do not care for you.’’

  She stiffened. ‘‘I—I got cut on my leg.’’

  ‘‘I will see this cut, eh?’’

  ‘‘No . . . I don’t want you to.’’

  ‘‘It must be. You will trust this Comanche. A little bit, eh?’’

  She began to tremble again. ‘‘No! I ain’t gonna let nobody look, not ever again.’’

  Hunter remained still for a moment, thinking. ‘‘I will give you my knife. If I make tricks, you can sure enough kill me.’’

  That suggestion brought her head up. She fastened incredulous blue eyes on his. ‘‘You wouldn’t.’’

  Hunter pulled his knife from its sheath and pressed the hilt into her small hand. She stared down at the wickedly curved blade. Then, with visible reluctance, she said in a shaky voice, ‘‘All right, I’ll let you—but only if you do it fast.’’

  Hunter lifted her off his lap and onto the ground in front of him. She propped herself up on an elbow and held the knife before her, ready to swing. Biting back a smile, he met her frightened gaze and touched her left thigh.

  ‘‘Here?’’

  She nodded. He felt her trembling and knew what it cost her to let him lift her skirt. The gash on the side of her thigh was deep and still bled. Hunter could tell by the clean line that the wound had been inflicted with a knife. Rage roiled inside him. Still, he was relieved. The cut would heal. Keeping his hand on her leg, he glanced up at her.

  ‘‘Do you bleed from within?’’

  Her face flamed, and she bit her lip. Hunter would have traded every horse he owned at that moment to have a woman there.

  ‘‘You must say only truth, eh?’’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘‘I’m gonna die, ain’t I?’’

  Hunter felt as though a horse had kicked him in the guts. The years rolled away, and he remembered his wife’s last day of life. ‘‘This bleeding from within—it is bad?’’

  She shook her head, her face twisting. ‘‘It was at first. Just a teeny bit now. Am I gonna die?’’

  Slowly the tension eased from his shoulders. ‘‘Ka, no.’’ He released his hold on her and lowered her dress. ‘‘You will not die.’’ His store of English failed him. ‘‘It is the way of it, no? A little bit blood.’’

  He started to get up.

  ‘‘No! Please, don’t leave me!’’

  ‘‘I only go for water and cloth—to clean and wrap the wound.’’ He inclined his head at his horse. ‘‘You will watch.’’

  She considered the distance, then agreed with a nod.

  Hunter allowed her to keep his knife while he dressed the cut on her thigh. She seemed calmer now that she believed she could defend herself. He wasn’t overly concerned that she would stab him, and even if she tried, he knew he could stop her before she did much damage.

  When he finished cleaning and wrapping her leg, he gave her one of his leather shir
ts to hide her nakedness. She took it gratefully but was too weak to pull it over her head without help. She was also loath to surrender the knife. He bit back another smile and suggested she switch the weapon from hand to hand while he fished her small arms down the sleeves.

  When that was done, he made her a pallet beneath a mesquite bush, then sat beside her. Immediately her eyelids began to droop. She groped for his hand. Hunter enfolded her fingers in his own. Gazing down at her, he thought of Loretta.

  At last Amy drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Afraid that she might cut herself with the razor-sharp knife she still held clutched to her chest, Hunter removed the sheath from his belt and very carefully slipped it down over the curved blade.

  He made certain she was deeply asleep before he left her. As quietly as he could, he fetched his horse and led it some distance away before stopping to check his gear. He opened a parfleche, withdrew his spare knife, and threaded the sheath onto his belt. Next he strung his bow and checked the edge on the blade of his ax to be sure it was sharp.

  Old Man emerged out of the gloom. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

  Hunter continued preparing for battle, making no reply.

  Old Man glanced toward the girl and stroked his chin. ‘‘You are going back? It is dangerous, one man against so many.’’

  Hunter pulled all the extra baggage off his horse. ‘‘Better than one small girl against so many.’’

  ‘‘Your strong arm is hers?’’

  ‘‘It is the way I must walk.’’ Hunter set his jaw, avoiding Old Man’s gaze. They both knew the implications of such a statement. Hunter wished he could explain, but his reasons weren’t clearly defined, even to him. ‘‘Santos has stolen her honor. Someone must go back and reclaim it.’’

  ‘‘I will ride with you.’’

  ‘‘No. If I should fall, you must take her to Warrior and Loh-rhett-ah for me.’’

  Old Man sighed, then nodded. ‘‘Consider it done, my friend.’’

  With that, Old Man trotted off to rejoin the other men. Hunter heard voices, running footsteps. A grim smile touched his mouth when he looked up to see several of his friends mounting up to ride with him. No questions, no bitter accusations. If he wished to fight over a yellow-hair, they would stand beside him.