Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (38 page)

      
When Rafe did not touch any of the slaves, Sand Owl began to spread rumors that he was impotent and had not feared her husband's threatened torture because he had nothing to lose. Rafe ignored her and applied himself to the same tasks he had set for himself since the previous fall—learning all he could of the band's language and location. If he were to escape, he must have some sense of direction.

      
Soon, it would be the time of the Comanche Moon, the first full moon of spring when the grass was good for the horses and the light allowed the warriors to travel in speed and stealth. Slaves were never taken on raids. Many of the able-bodied men in the band would go, leaving fewer guards, more chances. He listened and he planned.

      
He also prayed that Flores would return one last time before he tried his escape. Now that he had achieved a quasi-free status, he would have more opportunities to kill the comanchero than ever before. But Flores seemed to have vanished with the winter snows.

      
When Rafe had first overheard Iron Hand and his warriors discussing a big raid against the Mescalero, he had secreted away a cache of dried meat and a water skin. He still puzzled over how to get one of his rifles. Perhaps, he would simply have to take whatever he found on the body of the guard he killed when he fled.

      
“Deep in thought, Horse Tamer?” Little Willow came upon him as he sat by the cook fire in Iron Hand's campsite.

      
The chiefs four tepees were close together, linked by the rawhide pull rope, which went out from the main one where the chief slept to each of his wives' tepees. He summoned the favored wife by tugging on the rope to her tepee. Rafe knew Sand Owl's position as chief wife had been undermined since she alone of the three wives had never borne a child. Spotted Deer and Little Willow had, although the children were not their husband's. Of late, Iron Hand favored the slim Mexican girl over the squat Comanche Spotted Deer and bedded Lucia most nights.

      
Rafe could see the circles beneath her eyes and pitied her. He smiled. “Does everyone call me ‘Horse Tamer’ now?”

      
“Since you rode out the devil in the white horse, yes. It is a much bolder name than Tall Stealer.” She returned his smile. “I gave you warning once before. Heed me now.” Little Willow looked around to be certain they were not overheard. “I know you plan to escape when the war party leaves.”

      
Rafe started to deny it, fearing for her to become embroiled in his dangerous attempt; but something in her eyes, a wild desperate pain, made him pause.

      
She continued, “You can take food and water, steal horses, and ride fast, but where will you go? What direction?”

      
He shrugged ruefully. She had hit on the one flaw in his plan. “I do not know, but I must try.”

      
“I will help you. I know the way to a small settlement southeast of here. We have passed it many times in my travels with the Comanche. I can draw you a map.”

      
Rafe looked at her closely. She was pale and haggard, taking a desperate chance for a complete stranger, yet not really a stranger, he realized. Since they first met there had been an odd, indefinable bond between them.

      
“Come with me, Lucia. You have no reason for staying now. You could begin again.”

      
She regarded him with anguish. “Everyone would know I lived with them for eight years. I was a Comanche wife. My family thinks me dead and it is better that way.”

      
“If you came with me I could send you east, or to Mexico, anywhere you wished, Lucia. You could escape your past. No one would know.” What he did not offer lay as heavy between them as what he did and they both knew it.

      
“I—I will think on it, Rafe.” It was the first time she had ever used his Christian name.

      
For two days, Rafe waited, wondering what Lucia would decide. When he found her alone by the fire the second night, he knew he must ask her. “The warriors leave tomorrow night. So do I. There will be a war dance and all those left in camp will sleep exhaustedly. It is dangerous, Lucia, but it is our only chance.”

      
She nodded. “I will be ready.”

* * * *

      
The fires had died low and the silence was eerie after the noise of the war chants and the screaming of the women. The hoof beats of fleet ponies had faded; the raiders had departed when the moon was high.

      
Once she was certain, Sand Owl and Spotted Deer slept; the Mexicana cut Rafe free. Wordlessly, she slipped off to retrieve their cache of food and water skins while he got their horses.

      
In the still darkness, Rafe crept near the corral where Iron Hand's ponies were kept. He had broken and trained two of the new, spotted horses that the chief had left behind. Everyone thought them too wild to ride on a raid, but Rafe knew better. They would take him and Lucia far.

      
Sentries were careless this deep in the vastness of Comanchería. All slaves were tied, and who would dare raid the Lords of the Plains? Rafe found one old warrior, Single Antler, sleeping near Iron Hand's horse corral. Like all the remaining Nermernuh, he was exhausted from the war dance and slept soundly. Near at hand lay a jug of mescal, no doubt a “gift” from Flores, Rafe thought with a ripple of hate. Single Antler had a good hunting knife at his belt and one of Rafe's Kentucky long rifles lay beside him. They would need the weapons. He hefted a heavy rock experimentally.

      
A hissing moan was the only sound breaking the stillness as he dispatched Single Antler. The horses moved in the corral; but because his scent was so familiar, none whickered. He secured hackamores on the two he singled out and led them silently from the corral to the edge of a thick copse of willows where he was to meet Lucia.

      
He tied the horses to a low, hanging branch and looked through the shifting shadows, straining his eyes in the darkness. They were not out of earshot of many of the sleepers, so he did not call but only watched and waited. Something was wrong.

      
Rafe could feel his skin crawl as he heard a hissing whisper and then a moan of pain. Lucia was pushed into the small clearing, collapsing at his feet. He stared at the hate-twisted face of Sand Owl as she walked out of the shadows, flanked by two warriors.

      
“I knew she betrayed Iron Hand with this slave! Now, I have stopped their escape and my husband will listen to me. Little Willow will be killed and this one,” she said, slithering up to Rafe and running her hand down his chest, “this one will have his manroot ripped off his body with fiery tongs and knives!”

      
She could not resist delivering the vicious taunt right in Rafe's face, and that was her undoing. Lucia, still sprawled in front of him, reached up and grabbed Sand Owl's tunic with clawing fingers made strong with desperate hate. The smaller woman pulled her tormenter down and they thrashed and rolled on the ground as Rafe dived past them at the older of the two startled warriors.

      
Landing on the man, he had his knife embedded in the Nerm's throat when they hit the ground. The other warrior, a green youth, turned to give a warning, but before he had run twenty yards through the root-gnarled, branch-infested willow copse, Rafe stopped the clear, shrill cries with his knife.

      
In seconds, he was back in the clearing where Lucia was standing over Sand Owl. The small woman at last had revenge for the years of beatings and humiliations. She had killed the Comanche woman with her own knife. But not without cost. Her hands and upper body were covered with lacerations and a stab wound in her shoulder bled profusely.

      
Rafe scooped her up and placed her on the back of one of the horses. “Can you hang on?” At her affirmative nod, he said, “Ride down the stream bed. I'll catch up with you.”

      
He ran toward camp on foot. Because of the liquor consumed and the frenzy of the war dance, the people in camp had not heard the commotion, but Rafe knew if even one gave the alarm, pursuit would be swift and relentless. He must give them something more pressing to do. Racing for the campfire in front of Iron Hand's lodge, he grabbed a dry piece of cloth. After tying it to Sand Owl's heinous club, he doused it in fat from a bowl kept near Lucia's cooking supplies. Then, he stirred up the coals in the campfire and quickly had the makeshift torch blazing.

      
On his way to the corrals, he lit several fires. Many of the people had already rolled up their heavy skin lodges and were using brush arbors for sleeping. The spring had been dry so far and the twigs and branches flared easily. He stampeded the horses by setting fire to the dry grasses and waving the blazing torch in front of the terrified animals. Chaos reigned as they stampeded in all directions, trampling sleepy people and smashing shelters. Dogs yipped and barked furiously while warriors stumbled about searching through the leaping flames for sight of raiding Apaches or Rangers. Women and children screamed and fled.

      
He had almost made it clear of the pandemonium and back to his waiting horse when a shot whistled by his head. Then a hissing arrow found its mark. He felt the sickening impact in his side but grabbed the mane of the pony and swung up on it, sending it flying from the camp.

      
He rode west and then circled southeast once he was sure no one pursued him. He found Lucia waiting at a fork in the stream. Wordlessly, she moved down the southeast branch of the creek.
If she can hold on, damn, so can I
!

Chapter Twenty One

      
Deborah stood on the boardinghouse porch watching her son race across the backyard with fleet, long-legged strides. Considering how tall both she and his father were, it was scarcely surprising that Adam would be big for his age. “It's hard to believe he'll be six years old this fall,” she mused to Obedience.

      
“He's a fine youngun all right. Shore could use a pa, though. Yew considerin' Whalen Simpson's offer? He's right taken with th' boy.”

      
Deborah's eyes clouded with hurt, and she clenched her fists as she replied, “No, I'm not encouraging Mr. Simpson. I know he's fond of Adam and wants to marry me, but I can't do it, Obedience. I'm still married—at least as far as I know. If Rafael's gotten an annulment, that's his concern. There's no way I'll ever put myself under a man's thumb again.”

      
Obedience snorted a solid Anglo-Saxon profanity. “We ain't talkin' ‘bout thumbs 'n yew know it! They's bigger things ta consider.” She watched the red creep across Deborah's face as she continued mercilessly. “Yew been without a man fer six years. Yer young, with all yer juices flowin'. Yew oughta be givin' thet boy some brothers 'n sisters ta play with and yerself some fun in th' doin' o' it.”

      
“Well, let's just say Whalen tends to dry up my juices and leave it at that,” Deborah replied testily.

      
“Yep, him, Mike Barberton, Malachi Foster, how many others over th' last years? It purely ain't natur'l fer a gal like yew ta live alone. I knew yew ain't one o' them cold-fish bluebloods whut don't enjoy it neither.”

      
Deborah turned squarely on her antagonist. “Obedience, why are you dredging this up now? We talked the issue to death five years ago. Might it have something to do with your new admirer, Mr. Oakley?”

      
For the first time in all the years she'd known Obedience Jones, Deborah actually watched her friend shuffle and fidget like a schoolgirl. “Wal, Wash 'n me, we been considerin' gittin' hitched.” She stopped and looked at Deborah with stricken guilt in her wide brown eyes.

      
“Why, Obedience, that's wonderful!” Deborah exclaimed, reaching out to embrace her friend. “Why shouldn't you be happy? Wash Oakley is a fine person and I'm sure man enough even for the likes of you!”

      
Still, Obedience was not mollified. She put one arm around Deborah and ushered her down the back steps. The two women walked slowly through the leafy bower of trees. “We need ta palaver 'n they's always someone underfoot in th' house.”

      
Deborah smiled. “I know. With twenty boarders the place is full to the brim.”

      
“Yep, thet's part o' th' problem.”

      
“But there'll be room for Wash, for heaven's sake! Surely you can't be worried about that,” Deborah said incredulously.

      
Obedience shook her head. “Naw, it ain't got ta do with room enough—it's got ta do with a vacancy. Yew see, honey, Wash's a mountain man. Spent him twenty years in th' Rockies afore he drifted down through them mountains in New Mexico and across th'
Comanchería
ta Santone.”

      
“And now he wants to go back up north, leave Texas, and take you with him,” Deborah supplied for her friend.

      
“I put him off fer nigh onta a week now tryin' ta work up courage ta tell yew. Oh, Deborah, I don't want ta leave yew 'n Adam.”

      
Seeing the pain in the big woman's face, Deborah realized what she'd been going through. “Remember when we talked about Adam growing up and you told me about your sons, Gabriel and Joseph? You said you raised them to let them go. Everyone's entitled to his own life and everyone is responsible for making his own happiness. It's not just true for our children. It's true for ourselves, too. You love Washington Oakley and your place is with him.”

      
“Yew are somethin', yew know thet? I reckon yew learned how ta take keer o' yerself real good, but I...aw, I jist wanted ta see yew settled with a good man afore I left,” Obedience finished awkwardly.