Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

“This is what I
must
do.”
 

“I wish there was a way to talk you out of this, but I know there’s not. I’ll take good care of that baby sister of yours, and your horse. You don’t worry about that, Barleigh.”

“It’s Bar. From this moment forward, I’m Bar Flanders.”

*****

Journal Entry—Tuesday, October 15, 1860

Tomorrow morning, I set off on my journey to Little Rock, then on to Saint Joseph, Missouri. I have this new journal, (a gift from Aunt Winnie), three sharpened pencils, a Colt revolver with plenty of ammunition, and a good and steady horse, even though he’s a slow, milk wagon horse. But, he is accustomed to working all day. I’m counting on Deal being well mended by the time I come home in January to make my tax payment to the bank. Then, Deal and I will return to Saint Joe, continue to ride for the Express, then when summer comes, ride home with lots of money in my pocket to begin the process of building a home to raise my baby sister.

This is my plan.

Destiny dropped the Pony Express way-bill at my feet. What I do with it is beyond destiny—the next part is up to me. I’ll hold fast to my dream of saving my land and rebuilding the ranch, not through an act of folly, but through hard work and determination. I’ll ride fast and hard to reach my destiny’s reward.

But for now, sleep is calling. What lies beyond destiny is a blink and a nod away.

Yours ever faithfully,

Bar Flanders

C
HAPTER
T
WO

S
EPTEMBER
26, 1860

Like a giant, he moved across the land, each long stride claiming ownership of the ground beneath his boots. According to the yardstick that measures a man in feet and inches, he stood six and two, but according to the benchmark that measures a man against his peers, Hughes Lévesque stood alone.
 

The evening’s shadows and the cooling night air made turning back toward San Antonio an easy decision. He had departed the river town earlier that day, midmorning, half sober, and fully committed to his mission of picking up a federal prisoner in Fort Worth to escort him into the waiting arms of justice in Austin, Texas.
 

Hughes, lean and taut with muscles firm from use, slung his saddle over his shoulder and started walking. He figured he would make it back to San Antonio by sun-up. He hadn’t gone very far before the old gelding up and died on him. It would’ve been thoughtful of him to have picked a better time than in the middle of a full gallop, Hughes thought, rubbing his sore backside. He walked with a slight limp from receiving the full impact of his landing on the hardscrabble ground.

Clouds flitted across the silvery sliver of a moon, blotting out the meager offering of light. The trail was dim and wildly inhabited by coyotes and other nocturnal creatures that prowled in the shadows. He knew he was not alone. He was being followed.

Hughes shortened his stride and emptied his mind of distractions. He slowed his breathing, filling his lungs with the pungent warmth of the night, taking notice of the new smell that hung heavy in the thick, humid air. He detected the smell of a group of horses flanking his right—more than one mare was in heat. The riders wore buckskin leggings, just like Okwara used to. Hughes couldn’t mistake the odor of horse sweat on oiled deerskin leather.

Okwara, the skills you taught me still come in handy, old friend
.
 

His eyes darted left and right in a visual sweep of things that moved in the shadows. Lying to the side of the trail, a branch broken off of a mesquite tree emerged in his peripheral vision. A fresh break. He scooped it up without changing his stride, snapping off a long green thorn from the branch to pick at the dirt embedded under his fingernails.
 

The call of an Eastern Screech Owl caused him to shake his head—it should have been the sound of a Great Horned Owl in these parts. A coyote yipped. Another yipped its response. Hughes considered throwing his own “yip” to the wind to see what might happen. He tossed the mesquite thorn aside.
 

Taking stock of his weapons, he felt the heft of the Winchester repeating rifle hanging from his shoulder, designed by longtime family friend Benjamin Henry. It was one of the first models produced, and Hughes’s father had it engraved with the family crest and a miniature scene of their sugarcane plantation as a special gift for his eighteenth birthday. The engraving was a nice touch, but it was etched with guilt. His father would have tried anything to keep Hughes marching in his footsteps.

The carved antler hilt of his large hunting knife pressed against his lower back and was concealed under his vest, while his favorite knife, the much smaller Rezin Bowie, he kept strapped to his leg inside his right boot. It pinched and chaffed when he walked, but knowing it was there comforted Hughes like a double shot of whiskey. Usually in the saddle and not walking like some farmer, he could ignore the momentary distress.
 

Both of the .44-caliber black powder revolving pistols holstered at each hip held full rounds, as did his .36-caliber Navy Colt, which he kept tucked inside his vest in a pocket hidden in the lining. The secret pocket was made of red velvet, crafted and sewn in by his favorite whore, Lydia, whom he thought of each time he pulled on his vest and tucked in his pistol.
 

Hughes dropped to the ground on all fours just as he heard the unmistakable sound of a rope hissing and slicing through the air. He dodged the first lasso, but the second, third, and fourth found their target. Yanked to the ground, he kicked like a wildcat, but his arms were bound tight to his sides. He scrambled to his feet but was snatched back down to the ground, again and again.
 

“A man is no match for four ropes, Texas Ranger.” Except for the words “Texas Ranger,” which were pronounced with perfect English and polished with a soft drawl, the rest was the unmistakable guttural language of the Comanche.

“I count three ropes on me,” said Hughes, speaking fluent Comanche in return. “The first was thrown too high and too quick. I could give you girls some lessons on lassoing. Next time, you’d need one good rope to take down your man instead of three or four.”

A dark figure sitting on a white horse rode into view, coming within a breath of where Hughes lay on the ground. The horse almost stepped on him. Hughes didn’t flinch.
 

The bare-chested rider wore beaded, fringed buckskin leggings. Black and red paint evenly divided his face left from right through the midline of his strong, straight nose. His horse bore red and yellow handprints on each hip, the mane and tail adorned with eagle feathers to match those woven in the rider’s long black hair.
 

“Get up, Texas Ranger.”

Hughes scrambled to his feet, the tight ropes biting into his arms. He looked around, tried to assess how many figures on horseback he could see. Four throwing ropes at him, and the one on the white horse in front made five. No telling how many others were hiding in the shadows
.
 

The mounted Indians on the other end of the ropes that bound his arms stepped their horses closer, giving some slack to the bindings.

“I thought we had you, Texas Ranger, back when your horse grew tired of carrying you and decided to die instead. But you are quick like a cat and smart like a fox. You hid yourself away until the moon smiled. Then you came out of your hiding place to travel in the dark, like a wolf.”

“Maybe I am a wolf,” said Hughes “A wolf in a man’s body.”
 

The Indian dismounted in one fluid movement, sweeping his right leg forward and over the horse’s neck, dropping to the ground. Walking up, he pulled the badge from Hughes’s vest, tossing it to the man behind him who let out a high-pitched laugh as he fastened it to the rawhide catch-rope around his horse’s neck. “Are you the Texas Ranger they call Hughes Lévesque?” he asked, now speaking fluent English.

“At your service.” Hughes gave a slight nod.

Studying him for a moment, the Indian walked around him, taking his time, running a finger down the rifle that hung useless and bound to Hughes’s side. Coming back in front of Hughes, they stood toe to toe, equal in height. He took a hard hold of Hughes’s chin, turning his face left and right, looking deep into his eyes as if divining a secret. “Yes. I’ve heard stories about you. We call you
Asgaya gago agatiha gudodi waya agatoli
. Man Who Sees With Wolf Eyes.”

“You should call me
Waya Agatoli
, for short. Be easier to remember.”

Hughes had heard the stories, too. His light, amber-colored eyes sparked many discussions, giving way to his Lahcotah/Siouan nickname. Who started it or how it began, he didn’t know, but a man who saw with wolf eyes would be respected and revered, if not feared, in most tribes.

“Do you know who I am?” The handsome Comanche with the Parisian nose and gray eyes thumped his bare chest with his hands flat, opening his palms outward, showing he held no weapon.

“I’ve heard about you, too,” said Hughes, looking him in the eye. “I believe you are the infamous
Isa-tai
, also known as Coyote Vagina.”

High-pitched laughter rippled through the mounted warriors, who quickly fell silent except for one. The squat, pudgy Indian hooted, cackled, and pointed. His uncontrolled amusement caused him to list sideways in a precarious slant that threatened to tumble him from his horse.
 

In a flash, the Indian standing in front of Hughes spun around on his heels, drew a knife from his waistband, and then hurled the gleaming blade at the laughing warrior. His life ended, his laughter silenced, in that one fluid move.
 

The large, barrel-chested Indian turned back to look at Hughes with eyes that showed no emotion. Gesturing over his shoulder with his chin, he said with casual indifference, “
He
was Coyote Vagina. Now he’s No More.”

“Much to No More’s misfortune.” Hughes looked over at the dead Indian lying on the ground whose blood had begun to pool dark and wet beneath him. “I had you mixed up. You must be Quanah, Chief of the Noconis.”

“At your service.” Quanah gave a slight nod.
 

“It must get tiresome, a great Indian chief like you, fighting unworthy opponents like that dead man there.”

“That was no fight. I just killed him. I was tired of the way he laughed. I was tired of him stealing my breathing air, which is a gift to me from the Spirit of the Trees.”

Think fast, Hughes, or you’re a dead man
. “Well, it’s the Spirit of the Stars that’s offering you a gift tonight.” Hughes, his voice calm and steady, kept his wolf eyes focused on Quanah.

“What does a white man know about the Spirit of the Stars?”

“The star is a symbol I wear as my badge. But you took my star away. Now, I’m like the man in the moon. And like the stars that outnumber the moon up in the heavens, I’m also outnumbered down here on the ground.”

“And that is my gift?” Quanah snorted. “We are the many stars outnumbering your moon?”

“Look up at the moon, Chief. See how the one moon still outshines the many stars? Your gift tonight is the chance, the rare chance, to outshine the moon.”

“You speak like a crazy man. How does a star outshine the moon?”

“By overpowering it. The star needs a worthy opponent for its true glory to shine. I’m that worthy opponent. Loosen these ropes, then you and I go hand-to-hand,
mano-a-mano
. If I win, I walk away free. If you win, your star will shine bright and you can do whatever you want to with me. But you won’t have to rack your brain deciding which of your favorite torture tricks to play on me. This fight I’ll win.”

“You speak the bold talk of a man who is used to winning. But my ropes beat you. I could cut your heart out now and be done with it,” Quanah said. “Feed it to you before the blood stops pumping.”

“Where’s the sport in that?” Hughes challenged. “A man doesn’t come along very often who’s worthy of you. Show your warriors what a heroic leader they have, one who’s not afraid to defy the moon for its luster.”

“I have nothing more to prove to my men,” said Quanah, walking past Hughes to converse with his three mounted warriors, stepping around the dead man on the ground. They conversed in their native tongue, several times looking over and laughing at Hughes.

Hughes listened intently, picking up a few words that he could make out—
waya agatoli
,
hanhepi wi
,
unze
. Sees with wolf eyes, something about either the moon or his anus. Whatever they were discussing, he just wanted his ass out of this mess and to not lose his scalp in the process
.

Quanah returned to where Hughes stood tied. “I will take you up on your challenge because I am bored. Yours is an interesting proposition, one I’ve never encountered.” He gestured to the Indians behind him to loosen the lassoes from around Hughes. “No guns. One hand weapon. If you win and take my life, my men will spare yours and let you walk free. If I win, I will add your scalp to the ones hanging from my lance.”

Hughes shook the ropes off his arms and tossed his guns aside. “Your warriors will consider it bad
pejuta
for their leader to be outmaneuvered and die in front of their eyes. Seeing
bad medicine
, they’ll high-tail it out of here to the Llano Estacado, where they left their fat kids and ugly squaws.”

Like an animal circling his prey, Quanah began to pace, tossing his tomahawk back and forth from hand to hand. “You won’t have to figure anything after you’re dead. I’ll let my warriors take your body back to their fat kids and ugly squaws for them to eat. They’ll use your intestines to lace their moccasins.”

With his hunting knife gripped in his right hand, Hughes faced the chief of the Comanche, pacing, circling, crouching low. Hughes’s knife was long enough to be drawn as a sword, heavy enough to be used as a club, and sharp enough to penetrate bone.