Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (10 page)

Maverick reached back and got a Colt from his saddlebags. “Here’s my extra.” He leaned over to put it in her hands.

She looked down at it, puzzled. “I could pick off more of them with a rifle. . . ”

“Cayenne,” he hesitated. “The pistol’s for you, in case—” His voice trailed off and she suddenly realized with horror what he hinted at.

“You don’t mean—?”

“Baby,” he said, and his voice was as grim as his face, “if I don’t get back, don’t let them take you alive. You hear me? If you’d ever seen the results of Indian torture—”

“I’ve seen,” she closed her eyes, thinking of Papa’s scars, his poor hands and feet.

“Stay alert,” he whispered, “and, baby, if I don’t get back—” He hesitated, and for a split second she thought he would reach across to touch her face with his uplifted hand. Then he frowned, made a gesture of dismissal, and turned to ride into the ranch yard at a walk.

He disappeared into the darkness like the shadow of a ghostly pale horse. He was swallowed up by the black night like a spectre, a phantom.

She waited obediently, the pistol cold and heavy in her hand. Could she use it on herself if there were no escape? She remembered Papa’s ordeal by fire and winced. Yes, she would rather do so than endure that agony. She wasn’t as brave, as religious as Joe McBride.

Each slow second was ticked off by the pounding of her heart as she waited, tense and ready to flee. Clouds drifted across the moon and the flat, shadowy landscape seemed suddenly as black as the path to hell. Perspiration gathered in little beads on her palms and the roof of her mouth went so dry she couldn’t swallow. For a long moment, she thought she smelled blood on the wind blowing from the dark shadows of the buildings.

Taking a deep breath, she wondered if fear and terror had their own smells?
Of course they did,
she thought.
They smelled like cold sweat and warm blood.

How long was she supposed to stay out here before she made a decision about what to do? He hadn’t told her that, not knowing what might be lying in wait for him in the sinister shadows of the ranch. Should she turn and ride back to Wichita? Cayenne imagined him dead or dying somewhere among the outbuildings of the ranch, savages even now sneaking up on her. The pack pony stamped his feet and she jumped at the sound.

What should she do? Maybe he’d just forgotten to signal her or found something so terrible he’d forgotten all about her.

He’d told her to wait but she couldn’t sit out here forever. She had to know what was happening. Cayenne urged the red roan forward, leading the packhorse. She rode at a walk into the ranch house yard. She thought she heard a sound and froze like a frightened baby deer, too afraid to move or even run. Another thought came to her. Suppose the warriors had grabbed him, killed him, or were holding a knife to his throat at this very moment while they watched her ride into the ranch?

What should she do?

The whistle floated on the still air like a ghostly refrain, very soft and low:

. . .
Maxwell’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the drew . . .

She whistled back, almost faint with relief.

.
. . and that’s where Annie Laurie gave me her promise true . . .

Maverick stepped around the corner of the barn, gesturing in the moonlight. Never had she been so glad to see anyone. She forgot about her anger, forgot everything but how big and strong and protective he looked.

Quickly she slid from the roan and ran into his arms. “Oh, I’m glad to see you! They haven’t been here after all?”

He held her very close, brushed the hair out of her eyes. “They’ve been here,” his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Don’t ask, baby,” he said. “Don’t ask.”

A thousand questions came to her mind, but for the moment she was content to obey him, to seek the safety of his powerful embrace.

“Cee Cee,” he said against her hair, “I’ve checked things out. It was that Cheyenne war party, all right. We’d better stay right here, go to ground like quail do when there’s danger. If we ride blindly into the dark, we might stumble right into their camp. See if you can rustle up some grub for us but don’t light a fire or any lamps.” He held her out at arm’s length.

“What are you going to do?” She peered anxiously up at the outline of his rugged face.

“Feed three tired horses if the warriors didn’t take the grain or burn it, put them out of sight in the barn.”

“Are you sure we wouldn’t be better off to keep riding under cover of darkness?”

He shook his head. “We’re both tired and the horses are, too. Besides, at daylight we’ve got to bury—”

She waited for him to go on but he didn’t. Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Maverick, how awful! Are there children?”

“No, just a couple of cowhands. Probably two immigrants hoping to make a new life for themselves in the west, then go back east for wives.” His voice sounded angry. “Poor devils probably never shot a single buffalo, but because of the hunters, these two will never see another sunrise.”

She looked up at him. “I used to think it was so simple, so black and white. I hated the Indians for their raiding and killing. ..”

“The Indians are just fighting to stay alive,” Maverick said grimly. “But that doesn’t keep me from hating the Comanche. . . . ”

“why, Maverick? Why should you hate your own people? I hate them, too, but I’ve got good reason. They tortured my poor papa when he went into their camp as a hostage to free the women and children they’d taken. . . . ”

“Joe McBride did that?” She saw the look of surprise on his face.

“Yes, and I hate them for it!” she said with deep feeling, remembering the terrible things they’d done to him. “But Papa says I shouldn’t, that vengeance belongs to the Lord and He’ll repay.”

Maverick snorted and she saw the disdain on his hard features. “Some of us haven’t the patience to wait for the Lord to get around to it! ” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Let’s not stand out here all night,” he snapped. “Get some ’airtights’ out of the packs; see what else you can find in the house while I put the horses away.”

The inside of the small sod shack smelled like dirt and old smoke from the little fireplace. There was only one window with the moon shining in and she stumbled over a chair. Cayenne found the stub of a candle. Before she lit it, she carefully hung a burlap feed bag over the window.

The inside of the place was a wreck, things strewn about. The war party had taken any food supplies.
The Indians were hungry,
too
, she thought, remembering the hundreds of buffalo skeletons and rotting carcasses she’d ridden past that day. And because of that slaughter, two innocent settlers would be laid to rest in Kansas’s red soil.

She found a pan of cold cornbread that the Indians had overlooked and a small jar of sand plum preserves. Whatever else they ate would have to come from their packhorse.

Maverick came in later and sat down to “airtights,” canned peaches, and tomatoes. They ate in the flickering light of the one candle in silence.

Finally, he rolled a cigarette with a sigh and sat down on the cornshuck bed. “I’m so tired my body thinks I’ve died and forgot to lie down.”

She started tidying up the dishes as he pulled his boots off and lay down on the bed.

“You don’t have to bother,” he said. “After all, who’ll ever know whether you straightened up or not?”

She felt suddenly foolish. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just a habit from being the oldest child, looking after the others. Mama died when the little one, Angel, was born three years ago. I stepped in and took over.”

“How many little sisters you got?”

“Four, all younger. Lynnie, she’s nine. She’s the smart one. Then there’s Steve and Gracious. . . . ”

“I thought you said you only had sisters?”

Cayenne grinned in spite of herself. “I do. But Papa named her Steve anyway. He wanted a boy; never got one.” She watched the big half-breed smoke. “Papa always said he guessed he’d have to settle for a son-in-law to keep the ranch running.”

A troubled look crossed his face. “Then if something happens to your old man, if he got killed, there’d be little kids left orphaned? Who’s running the house now?”

“Old Rosita, the Mexican cook and housekeeper. I had to go off to Wichita to see after Mama’s sister Ella who was dying.”

“Tough,” Maverick murmured. “Tough to be without a mama.”

The sad way he said it told her somehow that Maverick’s mother was dead. Cayenne pictured a gentle Comanche girl with beautiful dark hair and skin. Had his father been a “squaw man,” a gray-eyed
gringo
who’d taken an Indian girl to warm his blankets for a while, then deserted her when her belly swelled with child?

She looked around. There was only the one bed. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” Surely he would do the gentlemanly thing-give her the bed, take a blanket himself, and sleep on the packed dirt floor.

He crossed his legs at the ankles and grinned at her, propping his head up on a stained pillow as he took his pistol out of its holster and stuck it under the pillow. “We aren’t exactly strangers.”

Now she remembered that same grin as he sat in a bathtub, that dark-haired, pretty whore scrubbing his back. Her indignation returned with the memory. “Since you’re not going to treat me like a gentleman should, I’ll just take a blanket and sleep on the floor!”

With an angry gesture, she jerked a worn quilt out from under his feet, waiting for him to jump up in protest.

But he only shrugged and snuffed out his cigarette. “Suit yourself, baby, I’m too tired to argue. There’s room for both of us here, and believe me, you’re safe as a church tonight.”

She wasn’t sure she trusted him. He’d hurt her feelings badly by being in that whore’s room. Her own stubborn anger made her spread the blanket on the hard dirt. She blew out the candle.

Just as she lay down on the quilt, he said, “Don’t be too nervous if a scorpion or centipede crawls across the dirt. If you brush them off gently, they shouldn’t sting you.”

“My stars! You had to say that, didn’t you?” She jumped up in a fury, sitting down on a rickety chair. Then she wrapped herself in the blanket and pulled her knees up under her chin.

No answer. She waited. Any second now he’d relent and offer her the bed. Every muscle ached from sitting hunched up in the chair. “Maverick?”

In the darkness, she heard his gentle breathing and it dawned on her that he was asleep. Now what was she going to do? She resisted the urge to stride to the bed and attack him with both fists for his lack of gentlemanly concern. He’d threatened to whip her bottom several times already.

She thought about the butchered cowboys lying outside, waiting for burial. Maverick was right. She was childish to make such a big thing over who slept where. Gingerly she crept through the darkness, getting in on the far side of the bed. The rope springs creaked and groaned beneath her, and she held her breath but he didn’t awaken. She clung to her edge of the cornshuck mattress, dropping off into a fitful sleep. Sometime in the night, she thought she heard something and it scared her enough to move closer to the protective warmth. of his big body.

When she woke up just before dawn, she found herself in his arms with her face on his chest. Her eyes flickered open as she realized where she was, and she started. That slight movement awakened him and he came up grabbing for his pistol.

“It’s okay,” she pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Do you suppose I dare make coffee?”

He stood up, stretching. “Let me look around outside.” He reached for his boots, put them on, and went outside. In a moment, he returned. “There’s not a breath of wind to carry the scent of smoke. Make some coffee but don’t build a fire any bigger than your hand.”

“You like your coffee the way all Texans like it?”

“Just like I like my women”—he winked at her—“hot and sweet.”

“I meant strong and dark!” she blushed.

“That’s the way Texan women like it, isn’t it? Just like they like their men!”

Why had she ever thought there was anything salvageable in this savage? She got out a hunk of the stale corn bread and fried some bacon. And when she served up his coffee, she dumped four heaping spoons of sugar in it.

He made a wry face when he tasted it. “You have to be the orneriest little Scots-Irish bitch it’s ever been my misfortune to run up against.”

“It’s the Rebel in me,” she said coldly as she ate. “Of course a damned Yankee sympathizer couldn’t appreciate that.”

He drank the coffee, obviously determined not to lose the round. When he finished eating, he said, “I’m going out and bury those two men.”

“I can help.” She stood up.

“No, Cayenne,” he answered sternly. “There’s some things women shouldn’t have to see. I’ll take care of it.”

She winced at the thought and turned away. Poor devils. She’d say prayers over the graves before they moved on.

Finally they were ready to ride out. She’d tucked the foolish blue gingham dress in her saddlebags, putting on the boy’s shirt and pants she’d brought from Wichita.