Comanche Moon (15 page)

She gave another emphatic shake of her head. A determined glint stole into his eyes. She sighed and took the cup from him. With a flick of her wrist, she emptied it on the ground.

She could tell by the ticking muscle in his jaw that he was furious. She set down the cup and pointed toward the brush again.

With what sounded like a weary sigh, he rose and offered her a hand up. Preferring not to touch him, she shifted her weight onto her knees and grasped the trunk of the oak. Her legs were stiff from sitting for so long, her muscles sore from the long horseback ride the day before. For a moment she thought her knees might buckle when she stood up.

He grasped her arm and, with no regard for her bare feet, led her a short way through the brush to a small clearing. Releasing her, he folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head at the ground, indicating that she should do her business there. She signaled him to turn his back.

Heaving another weary sigh, he looked around them. ‘‘You will make a promise of it? You will not run?’’

Loretta nodded. She would have promised him just about anything in return for some privacy.

He studied her for what seemed an eternity, then turned his back. ‘‘Do not make a lie of it, Blue Eyes. If you do, the crows will be very happy birds, eh?’’

Loretta stepped to the edge of the clearing and hid behind a bush. As quickly as she could, she did what she had to, wishing with all her heart that she was at home in the necessary house.

As she tugged up her bloomers, she saw something moving in the brush. Hunter’s stallion had been left free to graze most of the afternoon, and his nose had led him into the thickets.

Loretta gaped. The horse was no more than twenty feet from her. Because of thick mesquite, Hunter hadn’t been able to see him from the clearing. The stallion wasn’t wearing the padded surcingle, but he wore a rope halter. She could ride bareback.

Her neck stiff with tension, Loretta glanced over her shoulder. Hunter still stood with his back to her. He had accepted her word and was therefore bound to trust her.

For an instant she stood there, rooted in indecision. She hadn’t forgotten what he threatened to do if she broke a promise. Her tongue tingled, but that wasn’t enough to stop her. Much more than her tongue was at stake if she didn’t get out of here. Besides, the horse’s appearance there had to be Providence. She would be a fool to pass up what was her only chance of escape.

Treading lightly, Loretta inched toward the horse. Two feet, three. Twigs and nettles cut into her feet; she scarcely felt them. Five feet, ten. She cast a look over her shoulder. The Comanche hadn’t turned around. Two more feet, that was all. . . .

Then the horse nickered. The sound seemed as loud as a cannon boom. Wings of fright fluttered inside her chest. She made a lunge for the stallion’s halter. As her fingers grasped the rope, the black sidestepped and snorted, eyes wild. For a moment she feared he might strike at her with his front hooves, but he sniffed the shirt she wore and quieted immediately.

‘‘Kiss! Mah-cou-ah, kiss!’’
Hunter yelled.

Loretta knew the Indian was bearing down on her. Retreating two steps so she could get a run at the stallion, she swung onto his back, ignoring the pain of her sunburn. The horse quivered as her legs tightened around him. Hunter was less than four feet away. His murderous expression was all the impetus she needed. She slapped the stallion’s rump with all her strength and sent him charging through the brush.

She didn’t dare go home; Hunter would follow her there. Her only hope was Fort Belknap. The most direct route was along the river, but the Comanche would anticipate that. She headed away from the stream. Shouts rose behind her, and she knew the men were running for their mounts. Covering as much ground as she could before they gave chase was her only chance.

The black was magnificent. Never had Loretta felt such power under her. Wind caught her hair, undoing her loosened braid to stream it like a golden banner behind her. Exhilarated and half-dizzy with terror, she lay along the stallion’s neck, urging him forward with her body and her heart.
Please, God. Please, God.
The words rang in her mind, over and over. If Hunter caught her . . . He wouldn’t catch her, he wouldn’t! God hadn’t given her this chance to escape just to see her fail.

Hunter had told her yesterday that he rode like the wind, but it seemed to Loretta that she and his horse
were
the wind. The black gloried in speed and took his head, cutting his own trail, jumping obstacles as if they weren’t there, cutting sharp turns, so fleet of foot that Loretta couldn’t imagine anything catching him. Tree limbs passed above her in a blur. Freedom! She was going to get away. She was really going to do it.

The thought no sooner took root than Loretta heard another horse behind her. She craned her neck to look back and saw Hunter pursuing her on a roan, the other Comanches trailing him. Her chest constricted, and panic rushed her. She pressed her body closer to the stallion. Digging her heels sharply into his flanks, she urged him to run even faster, praying he still had speed to spare and that the increasingly uneven ground wouldn’t slow him down.

Sweet, beautiful, wonderful horse.
Loretta nearly wept when she felt his powerful muscles coil and spring forward in another mighty surge. He had more heart than any animal she had ever seen.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Hunter reining in his mount. Dust rose around him as the roan’s hooves dug into the dirt. ‘‘No!’’ he yelled. ‘‘
Suvate!
It is finished!’’

Loretta nearly whooped with joy. He was quitting! He was giving up the chase! He was going to let her—

Suddenly the stallion pitched forward and emitted a horrible scream. An instant later she was flying through the air. Time seemed suspended, seconds stretched into eternity, as she sailed up in an arc. Then she hit the ground, and the world went black.

When Loretta regained her senses, she was surrounded by a cacophony of thundering hooves, shouts, and screams. Horrible screams. She knew what made the sounds . . . an animal in agony. She blinked and peered upward, trying to bring the world into focus. Hunter leaned over her, skimming his hands down her body. Then he was gone.

When the earth stopped pitching, Loretta pushed up on her elbows, her still dazed senses directed toward the screaming and a blur of movement. Slowly, the blur came into focus. The stallion. The poor beast was thrashing, trying frantically to stand. Even from where she lay, Loretta could see the odd angle of his right foreleg, broken clean in two. Her stomach felt as though it dropped a foot. Had he stepped into a varmint hole?

Oh, God, not the horse!
Guilt slammed into her like a giant fist.

Slowly she sat up. About four feet from the stallion, Hunter stood rooted, his face twisted, his fists clenched. His cousin approached and offered him a rifle, but Hunter knocked the weapon aside. The surrounding woods went eerily silent, the only sounds those of the horse, high-pitched and heartrending.

After a moment, the tension flowed from Hunter’s body. Speaking softly in Comanche, he walked toward the crazed stallion. Loretta heard several of the other men murmur in disapproval, but they made no move to stop him. Was Hunter mad? The horse was blind with pain, dangerous. Loretta couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the moment. The other Comanches didn’t move, either. Indeed, no one seemed to breathe.

‘‘Pamo,’’
Hunter whispered.
‘‘Nei Pamo.’’

The horse’s screams changed pitch, took on a pleading note. He threw his head, seemed to focus on his master, and whinnied. Hunter dropped to his knees in front of him.

‘‘Ah, my good friend.’’

The stallion quieted, grunting and nudging his master’s belly. A wind came up, catching the man’s long hair and the stallion’s silken mane. Cast against the backdrop of trees and mesquite, the two formed a picture Loretta knew would be burned in her memory. Wild creatures, both, burnished skin and ebony.

Bending his head, the Comanche touched his lips to the stallion’s muzzle, breathing in, then out. The horse inhaled, tasted, and the fear seemed to leave him. With a great shudder, he stopped struggling to gain his feet and eased onto his side.

Loretta didn’t need to understand Comanche. The body language of love was universal. Man and beast were one in a way she had never experienced, never dreamed could be. The Comanche moved closer, whispering, sometimes smiling, as if he spoke of long-ago moments he and his friend had shared. He stroked the horse’s neck, shoulder, even his injured leg, weaving a hypnotic spell. The animal trusted the Comanche so completely that he at last lowered his head to his master’s knees and heaved a sigh.

Hunter hunched his shoulders and knelt there for a long while, still speaking softly. Then, with no inflection in his voice to warn anyone of what he was about to do, he said, ‘‘
Erth-pa, pa-mo.
Sleep.’’ The words no sooner passed his lips than he drew his knife and, with a mighty thrust, buried it to the hilt behind the unsuspecting stallion’s shoulder. The large animal jerked, gave a death kick, then exhaled his last breath.

Silence cloaked the woods. Hunter didn’t move, didn’t speak. Loretta had never seen such pain etched upon a man’s face. She felt as if she might be sick, wished that she could die. If she had known this would happen, she wouldn’t have chosen that moment to flee. And never on this man’s horse.

At last Hunter looked up. In the dusk she couldn’t be sure, but she thought a tear shimmered on his cheek. He strained to lift his stallion’s head from his lap and lowered it gently to the ground. A muscle along his jaw spasmed when he grasped his knife and pulled it from the animal’s heart.

Rising to his feet, he turned his eyes, which appeared almost black in the twilight, toward Loretta. He held the bloody weapon aloft in his left hand so she could see it.

Never taking his eyes from hers, the Comanche used the bloody knife to slash his right forearm from just below his elbow to the back of his wrist. Loretta flinched, for the blade ran deep. She stared at the blood, watched it stream down Hunter’s arm, drip onto the dirt. The thought crossed her mind that if he had done that to himself, no telling what he might do to her.

The Comanche’s cousin approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Hunter shrugged away, his gaze still fixed on Loretta. Heart in throat, she looked at Hunter’s cousin. The man’s twisted features were solemn. There was no doubt the horse’s death distressed him, but in his eyes she saw something else— something that had nothing to do with sadness or regret. Satisfaction.

When Loretta drew her gaze back to Hunter, she knew why his cousin appeared so gratified. She had finally succeeded in making Hunter so angry that he would kill her. And, judging from his deadly calm, her death would not be swift.

Chapter 9

AS HUNTER STRODE TOWARD HIS YELLOW-HAIR, countless emotions welled within him, grief, rage, regret, but what burned most brightly was thirst for revenge. He had trusted her promise, and she had made a lie of it. All
tosi tivo
were the same, spewing honey talk, none of the words written upon their hearts. His beautiful Smoke had paid the price for Hunter’s poor judgment.

Over the years the
tosi tivo
had taken many of Hunter’s loved ones, his brother Buffalo Runner, for whom Hunter bore a mourning scar on his right palm, his sister, Rain, for whom he bore another scar on his left palm, and his beloved wife, for whom he had marked his face. There had been others in his village, friends, relatives, children. Now, even his war pony, Smoke.

The girl slithered backward on her rump when he reached to grab her arm. Disgust roiled within him. Everything about her was an affront, the flower smell, her golden hair, her wide blue eyes, her berry-red and peeling skin, her ridiculous breeches. Even the feel of her wrist in his hand set his teeth on edge.
Hoos-cho Soh-nips,
Bird Bones, that was what he would call her.

He jerked her to her feet and yanked her against his chest with so much force, her wind slammed out of her. He was aware that the other men watched, that they waited to see what punishment he would mete out. If Hunter was too soft with her, they would lose respect for him. So be it. At least for now. If he punished her when his heart was this heavy, he’d kill her.

The ride back to camp seemed interminable to Loretta. Hunter rode in grim silence, one bruising arm clamped around her waist, his other hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist in the roan’s mane. She tried to imagine what fate awaited her.

Terror sluiced like ice water down her spine. She began to quiver, then to tremble. When she had contemplated death as a means of escape, she had hoped for something quick. Too late, she realized Hunter did nothing rashly.

When they reached camp, he rode the roan to the oak where she had been sitting all day. After dismounting, he hauled her off the horse and pulled her behind him to his pile of bags, where he made quick business of gathering stakes and lengths of rawhide. Gripping her arm, he made a circle of the camp until he found a rock. Their next destination was the pallet. With a snarl, he kicked what she had come to regard as her buffalo robe out of his way. Then he shoved her down on the other fur.

Loretta landed on all fours. Afraid to move, to breathe, she watched him drive the first stake. He glanced up at her, his eyes glittering. As he moved to drive another stake, she almost made a run for it.

Then she looked up. Indians stood all around her. To a man they stared at her, their faces dark with anger. Hunter’s cousin was less than fifteen feet away. He alone was smiling. She knew that he and the others were waiting to watch her die. If she bolted, she wouldn’t make it five yards.

When Hunter had driven the last stake, he straightened and said, ‘‘You will lie on your back. I warn you, woman, do not fight me. If you do, I will sure enough kill you. It is a promise I make, not your
tosi tivo
honey talk.’’