Comanche Moon (59 page)

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.’’

Amy threw a meaningful glance at the hoofprint. ‘‘Maybe he was here and things got outa hand. Maybe he couldn’t stop them. Afore he knew it, the womenfolk was dead.’’

Loretta nodded and turned away, her body quivering. From the looks of things, Mrs. Bartlett and her daughters hadn’t died that quickly.

With a feeling of unreality, Loretta moved toward the cottonwood. The graves wouldn’t dig themselves. As she passed the spot where Mrs. Bartlett had lain, she paused, scanning the earth for moccasin prints. Had Hunter stood here? At the question, something within her shriveled and died.

Mercifully, Tom Weaver had seen the smoke, and he showed up with another shovel to help finish digging the graves. When the Bartlett family was buried, Tom rode shotgun behind the Masterses’ buckboard back to their farm. While the men put up the animals, Rachel and Loretta set out fresh bread and preserves on the table, but no one had an appetite when they finally sat down to eat.

Looking weary to the bone, Tom ran a grimy hand over his hair and sighed. ‘‘Pete Shaney and a couple of other neighbors rode over to my place this afternoon when they saw the smoke. Seems most everyone down through here is packin’ up and movin’ in closer to Belknap. Leavin’ in the mornin’. They figger there’s safety in numbers.’’

Henry’s brows shot up. ‘‘They leavin’ their harvests?’’

‘‘I reckon a harvest ain’t much good to dead people.’’ Tom shrugged. ‘‘These last few weeks, the Indians have gone loco. It appears to me they’re launchin’ a full-out campaign to drive white settlers plumb out’ve this territory. I hate to say it, but with all our armed forces off fightin’ the north, the Indians have the upper hand. They’re attackin’ farms farther east all the time. We’re so far from neighbors out here. That makes a family mighty vulnerable. The border patrol does a fine job, but they’re spread thin.’’

‘‘You leavin’?’’ Henry asked.

‘‘I told Shaney I was stickin’ tight. But after seein’ what happened over to the Bartletts’, I’m thinkin’ maybe movin’ out isn’t such a bad idea. At least until this damned war’s over and we got some infantry to ride the ninety-eighth and hold ’em at bay.’’ Tom cast a quick glance at the women. ‘‘Give it some thought, Henry. I know you got them lances out there to protect ya, but, bein’ frank, you’re ridin’ an awful lot on faith. Them Indians could turn on you, just the same as on anyone else.’’

Henry deferred to Rachel. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘‘They travelin’ up together?’’ Henry asked.

‘‘Yep. We could tie up with them at dawn on the trail to Belknap.’’

Henry pondered that a moment. Glancing at Rachel, he said, ‘‘I reckon you’d better start packin’, woman. Pick and choose careful. The buckboard’ll only hold so much.’’

Late that night, after everyone else was asleep, Loretta knelt on her bunk and gazed out the window, memories of Hunter churning in her mind, his laughter, his gentleness, his courage. She had believed the worst of him before and wanted to kick herself later. But not this time. The man she knew would never have taken part in the murder of three women.

Tears welled in her eyes. She lay down beside Amy, staring at the moon. A sob worked its way up her throat. Stifling herself with her palm, she began to weep, for Hunter, for herself, and for their child.

Chapter 27

LYING ON HIS BACK, HEAD PILLOWED ON his folded arms, Hunter stared at the full moon. A
Comanche moon
. Good light to kill by. His thoughts turned to Loretta. One thing loomed in his mind as a certainty: he could no longer ride in battle against the
tosi tivo
. The men he fought beside could no longer trust him. He could no longer trust himself.

Every time Hunter closed his eyes, he saw that woman and her little girls lying dead in the dirt. It was a memory that would haunt him forever. He had argued against launching an attack in this area, but with over a hundred men from two different bands riding together, one man’s protests had gone unheard.
So close to Loretta’s home.
She would have seen the smoke. The slain people might have been her friends.

Taking a deep breath, Hunter forced his eyes closed, punishing himself with the pictures that flashed. Survival or madness? He loved the People, and he prayed they prevailed, but for him the war must end.

As the prophecy had foretold, he was a warrior with no people. There was a place within him now that was not Comanche. How could he lift his blade against Loretta’s kind? She had become a part of him. Today, looking into that white man’s blue eyes, he had tried to deliver the death blow.
Blue eyes, Loretta’s eyes.
If he had killed that man, he would have killed far more than just an enemy; he would have destroyed part of himself.

‘‘Do you sleep?’’ Warrior asked.

Hunter jerked and peered at his brother through the silvery gloom. ‘‘No,
tah-mah,
I do not sleep.’’

Warrior spread his buffalo robe and sat down, bracing his arms on his bent knees. Contemplating the darkness, he said, ‘‘You are no longer one with us.’’

Something hard and cold turned over in Hunter’s stomach. Was his turmoil so apparent? ‘‘I love the People, Warrior.’’

‘‘I know that. But you are no longer one with us.’’ Warrior toyed with the fringe on his moccasin. ‘‘Perhaps that is not a bad thing. The People will soon go the way of the wind.’’ He sighed and grew pensive. ‘‘We’re outnumbered, Hunter. Though we fight with all our strength, we’ll never win. When the war between the
tosi tivo
ends, their soldiers will return and drive us back into the wastelands. Hundreds and hundreds will be killed, until only a few of us remain.’’

Hunter knew what Warrior said was true, but admitting it wasn’t easy. ‘‘For now, Warrior, the People prevail.’’

‘‘For now.’’ Warrior swallowed and lowered his gaze. ‘‘I have great love for you,
tah-mah.
If you leave me, my heart will be laid upon the ground. But it is time that you fulfill the last part of the prophecy.’’

Hunter’s mouth went dry. He fixed his attention on the stars.

‘‘Someone must preserve the ways of the People,’’ Warrior rasped, ‘‘someone who will sing our songs and teach our ways. Unless you do that, all that we are will be lost. You must go get your woman and take her far away into the west lands where this war does not reach.’’ Warrior’s voice shook with emotion. ‘‘To a new place, Hunter. You know the words of the song.’’

‘‘Warrior, you make it sound so simple. You saw what happened near her home today. She will spit upon me when she sees me.’’ Hunter angled an arm over his eyes. ‘‘I left her and rode into battle against her people. How many have we killed since the attack on our village?’’

‘‘She won’t turn from you.’’

‘‘How can you know? You say I should fulfill the last part of the song? How? Where is the high place the Great Ones spoke of? Where is the canyon filled with blood? And how will I ever reach across so great a distance to take Loh-rhett-ah’s hand?’’

‘‘You must have faith. The high place will be there, as will the great canyon.’’ Leaning forward, Warrior clasped his brother’s shoulder. ‘‘Courage,
tah-mah.
Have courage.’’

Hunter clenched his teeth. ‘‘I feel so alone. I can’t see into myself and find my face, Warrior. I lifted my ax to kill that man today, and I couldn’t do it. Our father lies dead. Your woman lies dead. Where is my hatred? When I search for it, it isn’t there. Just emptiness and sorrow that runs so deep it aches in my bones.’’

Warrior’s grip on Hunter’s shoulder tightened until the bite of his fingers was almost painful. ‘‘The hate has gone from you to a faraway place you cannot find, as it was spoken in the prophecy. That’s why it is time for you to walk your own way. You must fight the last great fight for the People, yes? And you must fight it alone. I have to stay here. For our mother, my children. You’re our hope, our only hope.’’

‘‘You call it hope? I call it running away.’’

‘‘No! When we run, we find someplace familiar and safe. Winter will be upon us soon. You will face uncertainty and great danger when you go west.’’ Giving Hunter a small shake, Warrior cried, ‘‘You
are
our hope, Hunter! Why can’t you see that? When the last Comanche puts down his weapon, when the last chief says it is finished, we will know it is
not
finished. We will know that the People live on—far away from this place—that our songs are being sung, that our ways are being honored. I know you feel great fear, but fear has never stopped you. You mustn’t let it stop you now.’’

‘‘I will go wherever the Great Ones lead me,’’ Hunter whispered. ‘‘You know I will. It’s just that I can’t see the path they want me to follow. There is no one to lead me.’’

‘‘The path will be there. When you turn your face westward you will
know,
deep within, where to place your feet.’’ Warrior’s voice rang with certainty. ‘‘I would ask one thing of you,
tah-mah
. Ride beside me one last time into battle. It will be our final memory of each other, yes?’’

Once again Hunter remembered looking into that white man’s blue eyes.
The battles shall stretch before him with no horizon.
When would it ever end? But his brother had made this request of him. ‘‘I will ride with you,’’ Hunter whispered. ‘‘One last time.’’

Straightening his pallet, Warrior stretched out on his back, so close his arm brushed Hunter’s. After a long while he said, ‘‘You will tell your sons and daughters about me, yes?’’

Hunter wished he could weep, but the tears were dammed behind his lids, aching and burning. ‘‘Yes. And you will tell yours of me?’’

‘‘I will tell them.’’ Warrior’s voice cracked. ‘‘Of you and your golden one and the song that led you west. Love her well,
tah-mah
. The days together are brief.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Hunter knew Warrior was thinking of Maiden of the Tall Grass. In a husky voice, he added, ‘‘Far too brief.’’

The next morning the Masters family joined the wagon train of fleeing settlers heading for Fort Belknap. Since the wagons were already brimming with possessions, every fit person had to walk, which gave the women an opportunity to exchange terror stories. Everyone, it seemed, feared for their lives.

Two hours out, the Shaneys’ wagon broke a wheel, and the group had to delay traveling until the men got it fixed. The settlers pulled their wagons into a circle and set up temporary camp. The women immediately began preparations for the midday meal. Loretta’s and Amy’s contribution was to gather fuel for the cooking fires.

‘‘Buffalo chips!’’ Amy grumbled. ‘‘Fine way to spend the mornin’, gatherin’ pooh for fires. Why us?’’

‘‘Because we aren’t so old we get crinks in our backs or so young we’ll get lost.’’ Loretta bent over, picked up a dried pie, and stowed it in her gunnysack. Since their ordeal at the Bartletts’ last night, Amy hadn’t once smiled. Loretta couldn’t help being concerned. ‘‘You never complained in Hunter’s village.’’

‘‘That was different. You
expect
to do things like gathering Buffalo pooh when you live with Indians.’’ She sighed. ‘‘It’s flat as a flapjack out here. Who could get lost? We’ve walked a mile and can still see our buckboard.’’

‘‘There’s one high spot over yonder.’’

‘‘Only one. A body could walk for miles and use it for a landmark.’’

Loretta found another pie. In the hopes of teasing a smile out of Amy, she grinned and waved the chip under the child’s nose. ‘‘Wanna rub a little in our hair?’’

‘‘Lands, no!’’

No smile. Poor Amy didn’t have much to be light-hearted about these days. Keeping up the banter, Loretta said, ‘‘That’s what you told me once, remember? That Comanche women rubbed dung in their hair.’’

‘‘Maybe they do.’’ Clearly determined to stay in a foul mood, Amy frowned and picked up a pie, adding it to her bag. ‘‘Probably in winter. We ain’t never been around ’em then. Dumb Indians, anyway.’’ She bit her bottom lip, looking miserable. ‘‘How can you be cheerful? The Bartletts ain’t cold in their graves. And Comanches did it! You been listenin’ to what everyone’s sayin’? Callin’ them murderin’ animals. And I reckon they’re right!’’

‘‘Because Hunter’s horse was over at the Bartlett place?’’

‘‘Yes!’’ Amy glanced up, her eyes glittering with angry tears. ‘‘He tricked me into thinkin’ he was somethin’ he wasn’t. I
hate
him.’’

Loretta sighed. ‘‘Did he trick you, Amy? Hunter’s fighting a war. Bad things happen in war, things beyond our control. If you’re going to condemn Hunter, then I say he deserves a trial. Let’s list our evidence against him, shall we?’’ Loretta held up a fist. ‘‘What did Hunter do when Santos took you?’’