Comanche Moon

by Catherine Anderson

  Lances, leaning like drunken soldiers standing guard, lined the perimeter of the property, feathers fluttering, their slender shafts black lines in the moonlight. Henry had learned his lesson after the Comancheros’ visit. This time he had let the lances be. Loretta wondered which was Hunter’s. If she knew, she could take it inside and keep it in the loft. A keepsake for her baby. The child might never have anything else.

  Tipping her head back, she studied the moon. Mother Moon, Hunter called it. The wind caressed her cheeks. Loretta closed her eyes, thinking of the four directions. Below her was Mother Earth. Come morning, Father Sun would show his face in the east. A primitive man’s gods? Loretta smiled. Hunter worshiped the creations of God, the visible signs of His greatness. One God with many faces, whom they each addressed in different ways.

  Was Hunter out there somewhere, looking up? She wondered. Was he praying? Please, Mother Moon, let him be all right. Lead him in a great circle back to me. Aloud, she whispered, ‘‘I love you, Hunter. I need you. Your child needs you.’’ She hoped her words would float on the wind and speak to him. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she prayed the golden light would remind him of her, his bright one. Come back to me, Hunter.

  Climbing off the fence, Loretta sank to her knees and made the sign of the cross. Then she began to pray, to her God, to Hunter’s. Peace filled her. He would find his way to her.

  Loretta pulled her thread taut, checked the edges of the seam, and then took another bite of cloth with her needle. The flannel felt soft beneath her fingertips. She imagined a tiny body warming it and smiled. Giving another push with her feet to keep the rocker going, she glanced up at her aunt. ‘‘You know, I should start thinking on names. I have to be over two months gone. A name is important. Especially for this baby.’’

  ‘‘Why especially this one?’’ Rachel asked, looking up from the bread she was kneading. ‘‘Names are important for everybody.’’

  Loretta sighed. ‘‘Well, with Hunter as the father, I have to think of names he’d approve of.’’

  ‘‘You call that child Running Water and I’ll disown you.’’

  Loretta giggled. ‘‘I don’t know. After hemming all those diapers, maybe Running Water wouldn’t be so far off mark.’’

  Rachel rolled her eyes, then shook her head, her eyes sad. ‘‘Unless this baby’s papa comes straggling back to collect his baggage, the child’s gonna be stuck in white society. Being a breed is bad enough. A nice, normal name is a must.’’

  Amy flipped the page in her spelling book. ‘‘What you need is a nice white-folk name with an Indian meaning that’ll make Hunter proud.’’

  Concerned about her child’s future, Loretta forced a smile. ‘‘Why, Amy, that’s a champion idea!’’

  Rachel paused in her kneading and frowned. ‘‘I’m quite a hand on names. Let me think on it.’’

  ‘‘Something impressive for a boy, Ma.’’ Amy pursed her lips. ‘‘You know—like Mighty Fighter. Or Wise King. You gotta remember how Hunter thinks. They give boys grand names.’’

  ‘‘Swift Antelope, for example?’’ Loretta grinned.

  ‘‘Makes him sound like he oughta have a tail to wag, don’t it?’’ Amy dimpled her cheek. ‘‘Of course, he hates the name Amy, so we’re even. He says it sounds like a sheep baaing.’’

  ‘‘The way he says it, it does sound like a sheep baaing.’’

  ‘‘How about naming a boy after his papa and his uncle Warrior?’’ Rachel asked. ‘‘Chase Kelly. Chase means hunter, Kelly means warrior.’’

  Loretta lowered her sewing to her lap, her gaze dreamy. ‘‘Chase Kelly—Chase Kelly. It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Be nicer with a proper surname,’’ Rachel commented.

  ‘‘Wolf!’’ Amy cried. ‘‘That’s as close to a last name for Hunter as you’ll get.’’

  ‘‘Chase Kelly Wolf.’’ Loretta rolled the name off her tongue a few times, warming to it. ‘‘I like it. What do you think, Aunt Rachel? Wolf as a surname isn’t too strange, is it?’’

  ‘‘Sounds like a wonderful name to me. And if Hunter comes back someday, he can’t complain too much. Hunter Warrior is a sight better than Leaky Drawers.’’

  ‘‘Running Water,’’ Loretta corrected.

  ‘‘Whatever.’’ Rachel smiled. ‘‘For a girl, how about Nicole? It means a girl who’s victorious for her people.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I like that,’’ Loretta whispered. ‘‘Hunter would love that.’’

  Rachel smiled. ‘‘Nicole Wolf. If she has her daddy’s eyes, Indigo would go perfect with it. Nicole Indigo Wolf.’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t sound right,’’ Amy argued. ‘‘Indigo Nicole Wolf! That, I like.’’

  ‘‘Indigo Nicole.’’ Tears burned behind Loretta’s eyelids. A girl victorious for her people. ‘‘Yes, that’s beautiful, for both worlds.’’

  ‘‘Your own name isn’t half-bad. Bet you don’t know what Loretta means.’’ Rachel folded the dough over, then glanced up with a teasing grin. ‘‘Your momma and me picked it, mainly for the meaning.’’

  ‘‘It’s a variation of Laura, isn’t it? Laurel wreath or something?’’

  ‘‘That’s the common meaning. But in your ma’s name book, there was another.’’

  ‘‘Well? Give over.’’ Loretta waited, watching her aunt. ‘‘What’s it mean? Flat-chested and scrawny?’’

  Rachel threw back her head and chuckled. ‘‘Flatchested and scrawny? Loretta Jane, I swear, no one can say you have too high an opinion of yourself. It means little wise one.’’

  The color washed from Loretta’s face, and she planted her feet on the floor to stop the chair from rocking. ‘‘It means what?’’

  ‘‘Little wise one.’’ Rachel’s smile faded. ‘‘You feelin’ peaked? What’s wrong?’’

  Loretta set her sewing aside and pushed to her feet. ‘‘Nothing, Aunt Rachel. N-nothing.’’ Glancing dazedly around the room, Loretta pressed the back of her wrist to her temple, a feeling of unreality surrounding her. ‘‘I, um, think I’ll get a breath of air.’’

  After hurrying from the house, Loretta struck off across the yard to lean on the fence, her favorite spot because it afforded her a view of the rise. Little wise one. Still numb with shock, she stared off into the distance, remembering the night Hunter had recited his song to her. The People will call her the Little Wise One. . . .

  She studied the rise, truly believing, for the first time, that she and Hunter were destined to be together. She tried to remember all the words to his song. They came to her in snatches. Between them will be a great canyon that runs high with blood. A silly legend, she had once called it. Now she knew better. Too much of it had already come to pass for her to scoff. A canyon of blood. Loretta curled her hands into fists. Hunter would return to her. She didn’t know when, or how, but suddenly she felt certain the song, once the bane of her existence, had become her greatest hope.

  The smell of burning hay seared Hunter’s nostrils. He moved slowly through the thick brush, cautious, the skin along his back prickling, his senses alert, as they always were when death walked beside him. A tosi tivo had run from the barnyard to hide in here. Hunter had seen him. He might leap out at any moment, knife slashing. Pausing, Hunter controlled his breathing and listened, his ax gripped tightly in one hand.

  A twig snapped. Hunter homed in on the sound and glimpsed a flash of blue denim through a stand of yellow grass. Dropping to his belly, he slithered forward. Suddenly the white man jumped up, throwing his rifle to his shoulder. Instinctively Hunter rolled. The lead plowed harmlessly into the dirt. Bounding to his feet, Hunter launched himself through the air before the white man could reload or draw his knife.

  The man screamed as he fell backward under Hunter’s weight. After a moment’s struggle, Hunter gained the advantage, straddled the white man, and lifted his ax. In the instant before he brought his blade down to split the white man’s skull, Hunter’s vision sharpened on his enemy’s face, pallid w
ith fear, his eyes gigantic spheres of blue.

  Could you lift your blade against a man with blue eyes and not think of me, Hunter?

  Hunter’s body tensed. He stared down into the man’s blue eyes, trying to block out the echo of Loretta’s voice. The white man returned his stare, his throat whistling, his skin shining with sweat.

  ‘‘Hunter, hurry up! We must meet up with the others!’’

  Warrior’s voice jerked Hunter from his trance. Straining, he tried to bring his arm down. But it was as if an invisible hand clamped his wrist. The crashing sound of Warrior’s feet in the brush resounded. Hunter’s breathing became quick and uneven. He couldn’t look into this man’s eyes and kill him. It was like turning his blade on himself.

  When Warrior burst through the tall grass and saw Hunter straddling the white man, he slid to a stop. ‘‘Kill him! Be quick! I see smoke coming from the other farm. They’re finished there. We have to meet them and get out of here!’’

  ‘‘I can’t,’’ Hunter rasped.

  ‘‘What?’’

  Warrior’s question hung in the air, laden with accusation. Hunter stood, his gaze locked with the tosi tivo’s. Disbelief spread across the white man’s face.

  ‘‘Mea-dro, let’s go,’’ Hunter snarled.

  Warrior didn’t budge, his face lined with contempt. Hunter swallowed. There were no words to explain. He wasn’t sure Warrior would understand, even if there were.

  ‘‘You’re leaving him alive?’’

  ‘‘Yes!’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  Hunter shoved his way past his brother and broke into a trot. ‘‘His eyes.’’

  Hunter reached his horse before Warrior did. Mounting up, he wheeled his stallion and looked at the little farmhouse, where he knew a woman and two children hid. Warrior rode up. The two brothers locked gazes, strangers to one another for the first time in their lives.

  ‘‘Maybe it’s because we’re so close to your Loh-rhett-ah’s wooden walls, yes?’’

  ‘‘Maybe,’’ Hunter replied in a hollow voice.

  He and Warrior nudged their horses forward, joining ranks with the other braves who had helped them wage the attack. Red Buffalo fell in beside them. Above the trees they could see black smoke billowing. For several days Hunter’s men had been riding with another band. Today the two groups had separated, Hunter’s band attacking here, the other a farm nearby. From the looks of the smoke, the other warriors had set fire to more than just the outbuildings.

  When Hunter’s band burst from the trees along the river onto the cleared land of the second farm, they reined in their horses. The house had been torched, along with everything else, which meant no one had been spared. Hunter’s attention shifted from the roiling black cloud of smoke to the treetops beyond. Loretta’s wooden walls were only a few miles downstream.

  Heavy of heart, Hunter rode with his men toward the razed buildings to rejoin ranks with the other Indians. As they approached the yard in front of the flaming house, Hunter slowed his stallion to a walk, fixing his gaze on the scattered bodies. He brought his horse to a halt when he spied a flutter of calico. Anger slid up his throat, prickling the back of his tongue. He started to shake. A woman and two little girls. Hunter knew without riding closer that their deaths had not come quickly.

  Still trying to recall all the words of the prophecy, Loretta sat on the top rung of the fence, feet swinging, studying the worn toes of her shoes. They were an old pair, ones she had kept on hand as spares. Her good high-tops were in Hunter’s village. She missed her moccasins and the free feeling her buckskin skirt and blouse had given her, but such clothing raised eyebrows now that she was home. The August sun beat down on her nape, hot and relentless. She probably should go inside. Double-wrapped in muslin, with calico over all, a woman could stifle in this heat if she didn’t stay in the shade. Besides, Aunt Rachel would be putting the bread in to bake any time now and would need help starting supper.

  Sighing, Loretta tipped back her head. For several seconds she was so preoccupied with thoughts of Hunter that she didn’t register what she was seeing. Then her gaze sharpened on the billowing black cloud. Smoke. Something had happened over at the Bartletts’.

  Leaping off the fence, Loretta raced for the barn. ‘‘Uncle Henry! Uncle Henry! Something’s wrong over at the Bartletts’ place. I see smoke!’’

  Henry ran from the squat building and shaded his eyes against the sun. ‘‘Hot damn! Looks like the whole place is afire.’’

  Fear lumped in Loretta’s chest, icy and suffocating. ‘‘Oh, my God!’’ She clamped a hand to her bodice. ‘‘Oh, my God! Not the Bartletts!’’

  Henry ran around the barn to saddle Ida. Loretta followed him to hold the colt while her uncle tightened the saddle cinch and adjusted the stirrups. ‘‘Go get me the Sharps and a pouch of cartridges, Loretta Jane. I’ll meet ya out front.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you think you should go get Tom? If it’s Indians, you might run into trouble.’’

  Henry gestured toward the outer perimeters of the property. ‘‘I’ll take along one of them damned lances. That’ll protect my hide from Injuns better’n Tom can.’’

  Loretta whirled and ran to the house. By the time she finished telling Rachel about the smoke and had gathered Henry some ammunition, her uncle was waiting out front. The three women crowded onto the porch.

  ‘‘You be careful, Henry,’’ Rachel cautioned.

  ‘‘From the amount of smoke, I’d say the fightin’ is over.’’

  Rachel threw a frightened glance at the blackened sky. Grim resignation lined her pale face. ‘‘If it’s bad, come back for us. You’ll need a hand shoveling.’’

  Henry returned two hours later, his face smudged with dirt, his eyes haunted. The women ran out to meet him. He rein-tied Ida to the post and stepped up onto the porch, his shoulders slumped, his feet dragging. It wasn’t necessary for him to speak. Loretta bent her head. The Bartletts. All of them. If there were survivors, Henry would be hurrying Rachel so she could get over there to tend them.

  ‘‘I reckon I’d better go hitch the mules to the buckboard,’’ Loretta said hollowly.

  ‘‘I’ll come help.’’ Amy jumped off the end of the porch, then turned to wait. When Loretta caught up to her, she fell into a walk beside her. ‘‘Comanches again, I bet.’’

  ‘‘Not Hunter, though,’’ Loretta retorted. ‘‘Mrs. Bartlett and her girls. Uncle Henry didn’t say, but they must be dead.’’

  Amy sighed. ‘‘No, not Hunter.’’

  Heat from the dying fires warmed Loretta’s face, drying her eyes until it felt like her lids were stuck open. Smoke burned the back of her throat. A breeze came up and caught Mrs. Bartlett’s calico skirt, fluttering the blue print around her plump white thighs. Raped and murdered. The years fell away, and for a moment Loretta was standing over her mother again. She blinked and swayed. The Bartletts’ yard undulated like a turbulent body of water, rising, falling, rippling. Loretta turned away, so sickened she had to gulp air and walk for a moment to keep from retching.

  After marking the Bartletts’ yard with several lances so they needn’t fear another attack, Uncle Henry chose a spot under a nearby cottonwood for the graves. Amy was spelling him with the shovel. It was up to Rachel and Loretta to prepare the bodies for decent burial. Balling her hands into fists, Loretta turned back to the job at hand.

  Mercifully, her mind went blank while she helped Rachel perform the necessary tasks. The house was a pile of rubble, so they couldn’t dress anyone in Sunday best, as was proper. Loretta taking the feet, Rachel the arms, they half carried and half dragged each member of the family to the tree. It would take hours to get six holes dug. Long, endless hours.

  After one turn with the shovel, Loretta couldn’t hold her gorge down another minute and staggered away, seeking privacy at the far perimeter of the yard. Falling to her knees, she braced her hands in the dirt and retched. Waves of dizziness washed over her. When her nausea eased, she sat back on
her heels and stared ahead of her blankly, one question circling ceaselessly in her mind. How could anyone do that to another human being?

  Still too queasy to return to the digging, Loretta pushed to her feet and walked, taking deep breaths in hopes of settling her stomach. Then she spied a hoof mark in the dirt that turned her legs to water. A notched crescent.

  A loud pounding began in her ears. Only one man could have been riding the stallion that had left that mark. Hunter had been here. Loretta swayed and reached out for support, her groping hand finding empty air.

  ‘‘Ma’s worried about you and the baby. You gonna be okay?’’

  Amy’s question made Loretta leap. She whirled and staggered back a step, fastening horrified eyes on her little cousin’s pale face. ‘‘Amy. Oh, God, Amy, Hunter was here.’’

  ‘‘Oh, go on! Not Hunter! He wouldn’t.’’

  Loretta pointed to the deformed hoofprint. Amy bent low to examine it. She had been pale before; now her skin washed absolutely white. Loretta averted her face and stared at the charred framework of the farmhouse. Not Hunter, she thought disjointedly. Not the man she knew, the father of her child. He couldn’t have done this. Not to Mrs. Bartlett and the girls.

  ‘‘Maybe—’’ Amy broke off and licked her lips.

  ‘‘Somebody might’ve stole his horse. That’s it, Loretta Jane. Somebody stole his horse.’’

  Loretta pressed her hand over her waist. ‘‘No one would steal Hunter’s horse—not a Comanche, anyhow. There must be some other explanation. We both know Hunter too well to believe he’d do this.’’

  ‘‘At least we thought we did.’’

  Loretta lifted a stricken gaze to Amy’s face. ‘‘We can’t judge him like this. He deserves better.’’