Comanche Moon (34 page)

‘‘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 shirts 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.

Hog rode up, reining in his pinto so sharply that the horse pranced in a half-circle. ‘‘So we go to fight, do we?’’

‘‘I go.’’

‘‘Then we go with you.’’ Hog fastened his gaze on the huddled shape under the mesquite bush for a moment. ‘‘You’d do the same.’’

Hunter mounted up. ‘‘You’re certain you want to go? I’ll understand if you stay.’’

‘‘I am with you. Do you plan to leave any of them alive?’’

‘‘This Comanche will show them the same mercy they showed her.’’ Hunter’s lips thinned. ‘‘None at all.’’

Amy was still sleeping when Hunter returned three hours later with Santos’s bloody scalp dangling from his stallion’s bridle. Her honor had been reclaimed . . . with a vengeance.

Chapter 17

FIRELIGHT DANCED INSIDE THE TEPEE, casting golden swaths across the room. Loretta sat in the shadows, quietly plaiting her hair, the satchel open beside her. When she finished her hair, she pressed her back against the leather wall, her gaze fixed on the group of Indians who sat cross-legged near the fire, engaged in some sort of dice game. Their playing board was a piece of soft hide with squares painted on it. Each person had a pebble assigned to him, its surface painted a different color from those of the other players.

Loretta couldn’t concentrate on the game long enough to figure out its rules. She had eyes only for Red Buffalo. He had joined Warrior’s family for the evening and was displaying a jovial, gentle side that Loretta could not believe. Pony Girl, Warrior’s two-year-old orphaned niece, climbed all over Red Buffalo, using his braids for handholds, squeezing his neck from behind until his face turned red, tickling him when he ignored her to concentrate on the game. The warrior put up with her antics, his hands always gentle when he disengaged his hair from her clutches. Loretta could scarcely believe her eyes.

When Maiden of the Tall Grass picked up the dice, Red Buffalo said something to her, and she gave an outraged squeal, elbowing him in the ribs. Red Buffalo laughed and grabbed her braids, looping them into a knot beneath her chin. She rolled her beautiful eyes and shook the dice, tossing them with a flourish. Red Buffalo leaned forward to see what she had thrown, then groaned and thumped his brow with the heel of his hand. Warrior threw back his head and roared with laughter. Turtle, who at the advanced age of five had been allowed to play, began to pout.

The game was over, and Maiden of the Tall Grass had clearly trounced the men. She unlooped her braids and swept them over her shoulders, a smug expression on her face. The gesture reminded Loretta of Amy, but then, these days, everything did. As she watched this family interact, the only differences she could detect between them and white people were their dress and language. Indeed, they seemed happier and more content.

Red Buffalo glanced up. When his gaze collided with Loretta’s, his smile died. He looked down at her satchel, his attention caught by the diamond comb twinkling in the firelight. He stared a moment, then averted his face, but not before she saw the hatred he harbored for her. Loretta closed the satchel, determined to ignore him. Hunter would be back with Amy soon.

Maiden’s distorted shadow danced upon the walls as she rose from the circle and rummaged in her cooking utensils. Returning to the fire, she suspended a large kettle on the spit over the low flames. Turtle followed on her heels, his face alight with anticipation. After tossing in a dollop of grease, the Indian woman poured something from a parfleche into the kettle and clamped on the lid. Within minutes Loretta heard a peculiar popping noise.