Comanche Moon (60 page)

‘‘He came and got me.’’

Loretta uncurled her thumb. ‘‘That’s one piece of evidence. What did he do after he got you away from Santos?’’

‘‘He took care of me,’’ Amy replied in a thin voice, her mouth trembling. ‘‘Oh, Loretta, I
know
all the good things about Hunter! You don’t have to make me count ’em.’’

‘‘That’s a relief, ’cause I’m not sure I have enough fingers to keep track.’’ Loretta smiled faintly and touched Amy’s arm. ‘‘Don’t discount all those wonderful things Hunter has done, Amy, not over one hoofprint. Hunter is your friend. And he’s been a very good friend. You owe him your trust.’’

‘‘How can you explain that hoof mark?’’

Loretta shook her head, feeling suddenly old and drained. ‘‘I don’t need to. I did a lot of thinkin’ last night. About Hunter, about all the things I
know
about him. There’s an old saying that you should believe none of what you hear and only half of what you see. I figure that hoofprint falls into the half I shouldn’t believe. I know Hunter. So do you. He wouldn’t have done that to Mrs. Bartlett. He wouldn’t!’’

‘‘You’re makin’ me feel guilty as sin for doubtin’ him.’’

‘‘Hunter wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. So don’t. Just have faith in him.’’

As she reached to hug Amy, Loretta heard someone shout. She glanced back at the small cluster of wagons and saw a woman waving her arms and beckoning to them. ‘‘Something’s up.’’

Amy squinted into the sunlight. ‘‘Do they want their dung or not? Addlepated woman. If she thinks I’m gonna run all the way back over there, she’s got another think. What’s she sayin’?’’

Loretta cocked an ear but couldn’t make it out. ‘‘We’d best get back. Maybe the wagon’s fixed and they’re ready to—’’

Loretta froze, the rest of the words caught in her throat. From the corner of her eye she saw Comanches, well over a hundred of them. She forced her head around. Mounted on horses, the warriors formed close ranks, knee to knee, three rows deep. At a glance, none of their faces were familiar. ‘‘Oh, my God, Amy, run!’’

Dropping the bag of dung, Loretta grabbed Amy’s arm, her legs scissoring across the short, curly grass toward the wagons. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how far afield they had gone. There was no way they could make it.
No way.
Visions of the Bartletts’ farm spun through her head. Her heels slammed against the earth, the impact jarring up her legs.

Amy’s skirts tangled around her ankles, and she sprawled belly first in the grass.

Loretta hauled her up, sobbing for breath, ‘‘Hurry, Amy! Oh, God,
hurry
!’’

A rifle shot sliced through the air, the sound so loud that Loretta felt the repercussion in her ears. Amy dug in her heels, eyes huge, mouth working.

‘‘Amy! Come on!’’

Another shot rang out, this one from the wagons. The Comanches let loose with high-pitched battle cries. Their rear line fanned out, riding in a huge sweep to flank the formation at each end. Loretta cranked on Amy’s arm, hauling her forward.
The wagons.
They had to reach the wagons. They were defenseless out here.

The ensuing volley of shots lent Loretta speed. She wasn’t sure now from which direction the firing came. She only knew a full-scale Indian attack was about to erupt, and she and Amy were
between
the braves and the wagons.
Please, God. Please, God.

Screams filled the air. The ground under Loretta’s flying feet began to vibrate. She threw a horrified look over her shoulder to see horses bearing down on them. The next instant her toe caught on a clump of grass, and she stumbled, losing her grip on Amy’s arm.

Staggering to keep her balance, Loretta screamed, ‘‘Keep running!’’ And Amy did. In a blind panic. Not toward the wagons, but toward the Comanches. Loretta veered after her. ‘‘Amy! Come back! They don’t know you! Come back!’’

Amy kept running the wrong way, as fleet as a deer. Loretta made a dive for her, trying to grasp her arm. Her fingertips barely grazed her sleeve and fell away empty. Fastening frightened eyes on the advancing Indians, Loretta faltered and missed a step.
Swift Antelope!
Little wonder Amy was running toward the Indians. Swift Antelope rode in the front lines, and Amy must have seen him. In her terror she was heading for someone she knew would protect her.

Staggering to a stop, Loretta clamped both hands over her mouth, watching Amy as she dashed toward the racing Comanche horses. What if Swift Antelope didn’t see her? What if some other Indian rode out and killed her before Swift Antelope could stop him?

Hunter, who rode in the left flank, glimpsed a flash of movement and swung his rifle around, drawing bead on the figure that raced toward them.
Honey-gold hair.
Instantly his mind exploded with fear.
Amy.
The thought no sooner registered than he saw Loretta running behind her. Wheeling his horse, Hunter lunged across the front line. Cut off with no warning, the other charging warriors were forced to rein in. Their mounts reared, striking the air with their front hooves. Comanches coming up from behind were caught in the crush and fought desperately to control their mounts.

In the confusion, Amy lost sight of Swift Antelope. She reversed direction and ran toward the wagons, covering an amazing amount of ground before Hunter could check his horse. Strangling fear surged up his throat. Amy, skirts flying, blond hair a gleaming target, was running in a straight line for the wagons, Loretta right behind her.
Between the opposing forces.
The whites, spying the women, had stopped shooting, but in his peripheral vision Hunter saw a brave aim his rifle.

‘‘
Ka,
no!’’ Hunter zigzagged his mount into the man’s line of fire. ‘‘No!’’

With a vicious kick, Hunter sent his black into a mighty forward lunge, gaining several yards on the advancing warriors, many of whom were from another band. They wouldn’t recognize Amy or Loretta. Unless Hunter could stop the shooting, his woman and her little sister would be killed. When he felt certain everyone in the formation could see him, he wheeled his horse to face them and lifted his rifle high overhead, signaling a cease-fire.

Still trailing Amy, Loretta spotted Hunter the moment his horse drew out in front of the others. Heaving for air, she stumbled to a stop and glanced over her shoulder. Hunter, broad back to the wagons, sat tall on his stallion, waving his rifle above his head.

As if in a dream, she whirled. The sight of Hunter making a target of himself would be painted in full color across the canvas of her mind for the rest of her life.

The sounds around her were eclipsed by her terror. There was only the blood swishing in her ears, the agonized rasp of her breathing, and Hunter’s name, echoing in her thoughts like a litany as she broke into a run toward him. Time slid to a crawl. She felt as if she were slogging through a river of cold molasses, her legs straining, her feet weighted to the ground.
Hunter.
Like an image trapped under glass, he loomed before her, every detail cast into stark clarity by the sunlight, but beyond her reach.
Hunter.
The white men at the wagons would kill him. To them he wasn’t a person, but an animal. Though she was still a good fifty feet away, Loretta reached out, his name a silent scream on her lips.

When the shot rang out, she jerked as if the ball had plowed into her own body. The blast echoed and reechoed, loud and reverberating, punctuating her worst fear with a cutting finality. Running, running. She saw only Hunter, sitting on his horse one second, beautiful and proud, then thrown forward, as if a mighty hand had slammed into his back. He pitched sideways off his horse. Falling, falling, forever falling.

Hunter, shot. Loretta couldn’t think beyond that. The other Comanches were a blur. Hunter was her only reality, and the cold fingers of death were curling around him. The events of the last three months spun through her head like the acts in a play. Her fierce captor, her trusted friend, her gentle lover. She couldn’t lose him like this.

‘‘Hunter! Oh, please, dear God, not Hunter!’’

Loretta reached him and dropped to her knees, trying to gather him into her arms.
Dead weight.
She couldn’t lift him.
Blood, everywhere blood.
A tortured moan worked its way up her throat.
Not Hunter.
With a trembling hand, she cupped the side of his jaw, sobbing his name.
This Comanche cannot change his face.
She touched the scar that slashed his cheek, the lifeless lips that had so frequently whispered comfort to her. If her face was carved on his heart, his was carved on her soul.

‘‘Don’t die! Hunter, please, don’t die! I love you! Hunter—’’ A sob tore the words from her guts in ragged spurts. ‘‘I love—you.
Nah-ich-ka,
you hear? I love you! You can’t die and leave me. Please, don’t leave me!’’

As if her voice had somehow reached him, he stirred ever so slightly and moaned. Hope flooded through her. Focusing on the wound for the first time, she saw it was in his shoulder.
Not fatal if the bleeding was stopped, if he got the proper care.
On the tail of that thought, a different kind of fear assailed her. ‘‘Throwing a frightened glance at the wagons, she threw herself across his body.

‘‘Don’t shoot!’’ Her scream pierced the air. ‘‘Don’t shoot, damn you! Don’t shoot!’’

A hush fell over the flats. The whites had already ceased firing, afraid of killing one of their own. The Comanches, even those who had never seen Hunter’s golden-haired wife, had been told about her and lowered their rifles. Swift Antelope leaped off his horse and ran out. Warrior, at the far right in the front line, rode forward as well.

The two men didn’t waste a second. With gentle hands they pulled Loretta away from her husband. Lifting Hunter’s limp body between them, they slung him across his horse. Loretta pushed to her feet, watching in helpless misery as Swift Antelope led Hunter’s stallion in among the others and Warrior ran back to his pinto.

‘‘Warrior! Don’t leave me here! Please don’t leave me!’’

Before he rode off, Warrior turned to look at her, his dark eyes piercing, his face stricken. Then he disappeared into the ranks. As quickly as they had advanced, the Comanches retreated.

Loretta, buffeted by the wind, stood alone on the flats until they rode from sight. When she could no longer hear the tattoo of their horses’ hooves, she held up her hands and stared at the smears of crimson that stained her skin.
Hunter’s blood.
The ultimate sacrifice. And he had made it without a second’s hesitation, out of love for her. The pain that knowledge caused her ran too deep for tears.

That night after supper, Loretta sat by the fire, using an overturned bucket as a stool, a mug of gritty coffee cupped in her palms, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the shifting flames. The other women around the fire spoke infrequently, some, Loretta guessed, because they were afraid of another Indian attack, others undoubtedly because they resented her presence and wanted to make sure she knew it.
A Comanche’s woman.
After the spectacle she had made of herself that morning, everyone knew.

Loretta was beyond caring. There was an ache inside her chest the size of a boulder. She didn’t know if Hunter was alive or dead. She might never know. He was her husband. She loved him. Why couldn’t these women understand that? Instead they acted as if she were some kind of vermin in the flour sack.

Maybe they were right. She didn’t belong here now. She wasn’t sure if she would ever fit in anywhere again, even with the People.
Warrior’s eyes.
She would never forget how he had looked at her before he rode off. She hadn’t fired the rifle, but she had been the cause of Hunter getting shot. The accusation had been written all over Warrior’s face.

Sighing, Loretta tipped her head back and studied the stars. The settlers, fearing another attack, had pulled their wagons into a tight circle. Practically everyone had been frantic about the delay in getting the Shaney wagon fixed, terrified to spend a night here in the open. They had ignored Loretta’s assurances that the Comanches wouldn’t come back. As if Warrior would let the others attack a group of wagons when he knew Hunter’s woman was there!

A coyote wailed, the sound sending a shiver up Loretta’s spine. She cocked an ear, listening.

‘‘I hope that’s what it sounds like and not an Injun,’’ Mrs. Cortwell whispered.

‘‘It’s likely a coyote,’’ Mrs. Spangler replied. ‘‘Look at that there moon, would ya? Of course, it’s a good moon for killin’, too. A Comanche moon, my man calls it.’’

The fire popped, and Mrs. Shaney leaped. ‘‘Lawzy, my nerves is frayed.’’

The coyote yipped again, his cry trailing skyward, mournful and lonely. Loretta stood up, her heartbeat quickening.

‘‘What is it?’’ Mrs. Spangler cried.

Mrs. Cortwell pressed a hand to her throat. ‘‘Oh, Lord. It
is
Injuns!’’ She jumped to her feet. ‘‘Matthew! Matthew Cortwell, where’d you git off to? There’s Injuns out there!’’

‘‘They won’t hurt you,’’ Loretta said softly. ‘‘Just stay calm, Mrs. Cortwell.’’

‘‘It’s fine for you to say, you Comanche slut!’’

Loretta spun on her heel and left the fire. Alerted by Mrs. Cortwell’s cries, Uncle Henry came out from the buckboard and intercepted her. ‘‘Don’t even think it, Loretta Jane.’’

‘‘That’s Hunter out there, Uncle Henry.’’

‘‘You don’t know that. You wanna part with your hair, girl?’’ He seized her arm. ‘‘Not only that, but you gotta think about us and how it looks.’’

Several other men gathered around. Loretta glanced at their taut faces, feeling trapped. She heard the coyote again.
Hunter.
‘‘I’m going. He’s out there calling me, and I’m going.’’

Mr. Cortwell moved closer, his hat pulled low, the brim casting his face into black shadow. ‘‘You go, woman, and you ain’t comin’ back. Just you understand that.’’

‘‘That’s right!’’ another man agreed. ‘‘We don’t want no damned Injun lover amongst us. Go to him, by God, and there’s no changin’ your fool mind later.’’