Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (37 page)

      
“She will say you tried to escape and will have her sisters kill you,” Little Willow replied simply.

      
He let out a deep, whistling breath. His life with the Nerms reminded him uncomfortably of that of a field slave on a Louisiana plantation. He'd heard rumors about the overseers and even some of their wives' appetites. He'd wondered idly if they were true.

      
For the past five weeks all Sand Owl had done was eye him lecherously and take him with her to the stream where she would occasionally disrobe and rinse off her tunic. He had known by the way she preened, thrusting out her tattooed breasts, that she was taunting him sexually.

      
Thinking of how she smelled, he knew he could be celibate indefinitely rather than touch her. But then looking down at his own sweaty, filthy body with shoulder-length matted hair and unkempt beard, he knew he must smell no better.

      
When Sand Owl came to tie him up that night he watched her closely. The looks she gave him in return made his flesh crawl. If only Iron Hand would notice that his arm was healed. He considered how to bring that fact to the chief's attention and thus escape Sand Owl. The next day he asked Little Willow to remove the splint.

      
“No. I cannot. It is for the medicine man to say,” she replied.

      
He knew she was afraid and he could press her no more. That afternoon while carrying a basket of grapes back to camp, he spied an outcrop of sharp rocks. Feigning a slip, he dropped the basket. Sand Owl turned angrily and gave him several stout whacks with her club. His body was covered with lacerations and bruises from her beatings, but he had become inured to the blows. As he gathered the spilled fruit, he managed to slip a sharp piece of shale into the basket. Later, when they stopped to eat, he turned his back carefully and sawed doggedly at the splint's bindings until the leather gave way. Then he dropped it in a thicket of chokecherries.

      
No one noticed until they were back at camp. Sand Owl was furious and began to beat him. Seeing no men around, but wanting to attract their attention now, he made a lightning lunge and caught her club, pulling her off balance. She fell at his feet. He stepped on her tunic, pinning her to the ground and used the club to knock her knife from her hand.

      
By the time the commotion brought several warriors running, it was apparent that Broken Arm, as he had been dubbed, had regained the use of his injured limb. That was how Iron Hand found him, standing over the thrashing, hate-crazed Sand Owl, her long, jagged pole in his hands fending off attackers on all sides.

      
Did the craggy, impassive face seem to smile? Rafe was not sure, but he knew his fate was now out of Sand Owl's hands and in her husband's.

      
“If you kill one of the People, you die,” Iron Hand intoned.

      
“If I let your woman have this, I may die anyway,” Rafe replied. He was certain then that Iron Hand did smile.

      
“Your arm has healed. You can leave woman's work now. Buffalo have been sighted. Or, would you rather gather wood?” It was the most contemptuous question a Nerm male could ever put to another man.

      
Rafe carefully sidestepped Sand Owl, pinning her to the ground with the pole until he stood before Iron Hand. He motioned to the long rope binding him to the woman. Iron Hand ordered one of the warriors to cut it. Following the chief, Rafe never looked back; but he knew he had made a dangerous enemy.

      
The next morning they left in search of buffalo. By midday the hunting party had found the vast herd, a brownish mass undulating against the horizon as far as the eye could see. Rafe was amazed at their numbers. The bison covered the deep grasses. He watched the other slaves dismount and followed suit. Most of the slaves were Caddoes or Shawnee with a smattering of Mexicans. He was the only American. Most of the captives had been castrated and were docile, beaten creatures who quickly leapt to do their masters' bidding.

      
The Comanche were the smallest in stature of all the Horse Indians. But as Rafe watched the hunt, he realized why the Nerm were called Lords of the Plains. A Nerm warrior riding his pony at breakneck speed could put a flat-headed hunting arrow all the way through a large bull buffalo, just behind the short rib. Their saddles were no more than blankets and a few rawhide strips with stirrups attached. The riders hung at precarious angles, letting arrows fly while seemingly glued to the pounding backs of their horses. It looked like a magic act to Rafe as he followed the other slaves to gut and quarter the kills as they fell.

      
Women and children caught up with the men as the day wore on, eager to share in the delicacies of the hunt. After killing a large cow, one warrior slipped from his pony while the slaves butchered the buffalo. He then reached inside and extracted the warm liver, smeared it with the salty juices of the gall bladder, and devoured it hot from the body cavity. When women and children arrived, the favored sons and wives were allowed such treats as warm blood, brains, and sweet bone marrow.

      
Revolted by the smells and gore of the feeding frenzy, Rafe watched the slaves as they cried and pleaded for parts of the hot, vile-smelling entrails. When one warrior took a long strip of intestine and sucked the slimy green contents with his teeth, devouring the bison's predigested dinner, Rafe turned to keep from retching. He went to bed on a very empty stomach that night.

      
Winter came, bitter cold with deep snows, unusual in the sheltered ravines of central Texas. By the time the hunt had ended, Rafe had been blackened by the sun and his muscles had been honed to sinewy hardness. He could run alongside a horse until it dropped, do without food or water for days, and withstand heat or cold with the impervious calm of a Comanche.

      
He lived on his hate. Twice over the winter Enrique Flores came with another group of comancheros, but Rafe had no opportunity to get near Flores. He waited. Life had improved slightly since he had been a slave of the women.

      
Now he wore thick buffalo pelts and slept in Iron Hand's main tepee. For some perverse reason, Iron Hand had taken a liking to Broken Arm, now renamed Tall Stealer, because of his height and the fact that he had stolen Sand Owl's club. The men thought it highly amusing, but Rafe avoided Sand Owl and her sisters as much as possible.

      
Winter had been a time of quiescence and relative ease. After a plenteous fall hunt, the band had dried much meat. When the snows fell, they stayed in warm, bison-hide tepees in a sheltered river canyon far to the south, avoiding the winter winds. The men ate, slept, and worked on their sacred medicine shields and other war paraphernalia. The women did all the hard camp chores. Iron Hand did not let Sand Owl and her sisters take Rafe with them when they gathered wood, although most of the other captives were so assigned.

      
He knows she'll try to kill me, but why does he care?
The mystery of the Nerm mind still eluded Rafe. After six months of living among them, he was mastering enough of their language to communicate easily. His stomach had long since quit rebelling at raw bison entrails. Hunger redefines even the most discerning palate. Iron Hand watched him learn and adapt with an interest that Rafe knew would eventually spell his freedom…or his death.

      
One skill that he already possessed gave him an edge as a captive—his way with horses. Dozens of generations of Iberian horsemen were his Flamenco forebears. Even among his Creole racing companions, no mean riders any of them, he was an exceptional horseman. The Nermernuh were the horse brokers of the plains, capturing wild mustangs, breaking them and selling them to all the other tribes, as well as to renegade whites like Flores' comancheros. Horses were Comanche money. And the great war chiefs like Iron Hand were rich. He possessed nearly three hundred horses and was always eager to acquire more.

      
Rafe watched the warriors breaking and training the tough, wiry little ponies. He admired their skill and was astonished at their patience. Although he tortured his captives and beat his women, no Nerm abused his horses unless in a life and death situation. Tall Stealer often assisted the warriors who broke newly captured mounts, holding and helping quiet the frantic beasts. His way with the animals was remarked on many times and finally an opportunity to elevate his lowly status presented itself.

      
Big Wing, another war chief and Iron Hand's friend, was breaking a white horse. That in itself was significant, for white horses were the rarest and most prized of all mustangs. This one was particularly large and strong, as well as truculent. The chief was thrown repeatedly and doggedly rose from the hard earth to try again.

      
A crowd of onlookers, including many women and slaves, had gathered to cheer him on. Rafe held the horse's rolling head while the bandy-legged, barrel-chested man remounted. The horse possessed the dangerous cunning of a born man-killer. He looked for rocks and trees to roll against trying to crush the unwelcome burden on his back. Finally, he succeeded. Big Wing was struck by a sharp outcropping of shale, his body smashed between the jagged rock wall of the canyon and the powerful animal's body. He fell to the earth, bloodied and broken. The stallion trampled him before any of the warriors could come to his aid.

      
Rafe was the first one to reach the horse. Knowing Big Wing was dead and realizing that the chief’s friends would want to kill the stallion, he caught the flying reins and pulled the horse away from the body. A plan formed in his mind. Heedless of the risk, he grabbed a fistful of the long, flying mane and vaulted onto the pitching white’s back, his feet digging frantically to find the rawhide stirrups while he pulled strongly and steadily on the reins to control the horse's head. He expected to feel a hail of bullets finish him as the Nerm killed the rogue, but he concentrated only on keeping his seat.

      
His father and most of his friends had laughed at the way he talked to horses, but Rafe knew he had what one old gypsy had called “the voice.” He could make them respond with his low, silky commands. Now, he combined that ability with sheer physical strength and a natural seat. Anticipating the horse's moves, he kept him away from the rocks and stands of trees. Twist and buck, circle and run, the white could not unseat the desperate Creole whose long legs and arms gave him an advantage as he held on tenaciously.

      
He kept up a steady stream of French words, alternately swearing and praying, as he let the horse move into the box canyon away from the noise and distraction of the crowd.

      
Gradually, the stallion slowed, exhausted but not beaten. It was a born rogue that should have been gelded. However, Big Wing had been taken with his size and the magic white color and had decided against the more sensible precaution.

      
Rafe finally subdued the stallion and began to urge it back to where the onlookers were waiting. No one had pursued him for they knew there was no escape in the blind canyon.
Probably they expected the horse to kill me.

      
Shortly, Iron Hand and several warriors rode up, watching with the nearest thing to amazement that Rafe had ever seen register on impassive Nerm faces. Good. This might mean a change in his status; but volatile and erratic as they were, the warriors might just as soon kill him as reward him. He held the heaving, snorting white horse under firm control and waited for Iron Hand to speak.

      
“You have tamed a killer horse,” he said, observing the way Rafe sat the horse.

      
“Only until this one gets another wind. He will never be broken,” Rafe replied simply.

      
“Why did you do it?”

      
“I am tired of slave's work.”

      
The chief laughed. “Even so, you are still my slave and I do not choose to free you. You would not stay with the People if you could leave.”

      
“No,” Rafe answered truthfully, “I would not.” It would do no good to lie. Iron Hand was not stupid. Rafe was too old to adapt to Comanche life and become one of the People, although many white youths had done so over the years.

      
“Still, you have defeated the killer of Big Wing. Your skill with horses is great. Maybe I will give you another chance to break your arm.” Iron Hand chuckled and the warriors with him joined in. “You shall tame my wild ponies.”

      
As spring came over south central Texas, Rafe broke fierce, swift mustangs and lived a unique existence among the slaves of the band. He was granted greater privilege and more respect than the other male captives because of his remarkable way with horses, yet he was still Iron Hand's slave…and Sand Owl's enemy.

      
As a rule, the uncastrated male slaves were not allowed privileges with Comanche women. But Iron Hand did Rafe the honor of offering him his choice among the female slaves. Most of them were Apache, Shawnee and Tonkawa with a smattering of young Mexican girls. After nearly a year of celibacy, Rafe was almost tempted; but they had all been pitifully abused and he was revolted at the thought of forcing his attentions on a cowering adolescent girl. Several were older and less fearful, but their stoic manner did little to stimulate him.

      
In truth, the only woman in the camp who appealed to him was Little Willow, Iron Hand's comely young wife; but he knew better than to dwell on that dangerous thought. During the winter her son had died of a fever. Iron Hand had no children now, and his attentions to Little Willow were jealously guarded.