The Quantro Story (13 page)

He felt the need for a woman too, as though up to now his life had been incomplete. It did not matter what he had, or achieved if there was nobody to share it with. Also, he had watched the Indian children running and laughing round the camp and found himself touched by them. It had been a surprise. He had thought that part of him burned out by his experiences. As he pondered on the thought he looked up, over the water to where White-Wing was wandering among the bushes, her supple fingers plucking the berries speedily and dropping them into the bag.

She was beautiful in a way few of the women he had met had been beautiful. She seemed to possess an inner tranquility, but, he reflected, that could well be a trait inherited from her people. She had a shapely body too, her doeskin dress filled out adequately in all the correct places. He reflected there was plenty there to keep a man happy. Her character was pleasant, she was eager to please, and she was a fair hand with the cooking chores.

The only thing he disliked about her was she was sometimes overeager to please, always at his heels. Each time he paused she would be there, gazing rapturously up at him. He knew if he wanted to take her it would be all too easy. He did want to, but each time he contemplated the thought, all the complications involved stopped him.

To achieve what he wished, namely the ranch, he would have to leave the Apache settlement and return north. Traveling with an Indian woman, he knew, could cause all sorts of trouble. Soldier and Civilian both. If he took her with him and then he found a job that entailed traveling he would have nowhere to leave her where he could be sure she would not be bothered by spiteful visitors. Especially if she had a child.

So, to be with her would mean remaining here, and even then would Wild-Horse, her brother-in-law, allow her to marry a white man? If he took her now, as he wished, then later departed, she would find it difficult to find herself a husband among the Apache, for word of her liaison with him would travel from mouth to mouth and she would be an outcast. Probably they would endure her presence in the settlement, for she was, after all an Apache, but the chances were the rest of her people would always look down on her.

It grieved him it should be so, for all his instincts cried out for him to take her, and he would be a liar if he denied the inclination had not occurred to him on many occasions when they had been alone together. The feeling was with him now as he surreptitiously watched her from under the brim of his Stetson. The thought was almost overwhelmingly consuming, to hold the slenderness of her to him and caress her toffee skin and roll with her on the rich green grass, the heady aroma of the pines rich in the warm air around them, and above them the appealing chatter of the birds.

It had been a long time.

Since that last time he had taken a woman, he had nearly been to the land of the dead. When had been the last time? Janey Morgan, she had been a woman, a real humdinger of one. The memory of her brought a warm feeling deep down inside, a glow that brought a wry smile to his lips.

The memory faded, and he refocused his eyes to see White-Wing watching him from the other side of the stream. She was standing stock-still, her eyes locked to his. Even from where he sat, he could clearly make out their almond shape, dark as the night sky. It was almost as if she read his mind. She lay the berry bag on the ground and walked towards him. The woman in her belied the innocent face of the girl that she had.

She stepped into the streaming, silvery water that licked ignored at her calves, lazily teasing the doeskin of her dress. As the current plucked, one moment the outline of her thigh would be revealed, and the next the line of her calves, then the full length of both her legs as the water pulled the doeskin taut between them.

Quantro's eyes strayed restlessly from her face to her legs, and then to the fullness of her bead-covered bosom.

The look in her eyes told him all he needed to know. He was not going to be allowed to make the choice of staying or leaving.

She was making it for him.

Gracefully, she stepped up from the creek bed and stood before him. Her head dipped and her face was hidden by the curtain of her hair, thick and lustrous, then she looked up, her lips forming a half smile as her fingers reached deftly to the thongs on her shoulders.

The smile, Quantro thought, bore a likeness to the smile of the hunter when he has the kill in his sights, or he knows the quarry has almost got its neck in the trap.

The thongs parted, and the doeskin shift fell away to crumple on the ground around her ankles.

His imagination had dreamed no lies. She was perfect. Every single inch, and as naked as the day she was born. She stood proud, strange he thought, in a girl so young, but then he supposed the young bucks had done enough staring for her to realize she was an
estune
, a full-grown woman. She was high-breasted, on the small side, but ample to hold any man's attention. Even as he watched, her nipples hardened, coming erect, teased by the breeze. Her torso narrowed to a tiny waist that flared out into generous hips, the dark triangle of her womanhood evident at the junction of her creamy, copper thighs.

Quantro realized he had stopped breathing. She had literally stolen his breath away. His lungs resumed their function and he rose to his feet.

Standing there in front of him, now he towered over her, she looked tiny. A tiny, perfectly formed woman. He stepped forward, hands torn between reaching for her shoulders to pull her to him or unfastening his gun belt. His hands paused undecided, then he reached out to her.

During the long second when his left leg began the movement that would bring him to her, a faint shadow crossed her eyes and he froze, his boot heel raised from the ground.

Suddenly, from nowhere, the vision of a huge black buzzard, wingtips spread wide, and cruel hooked talons reaching as it swooped in for the kill flashed into his mind and he frowned. Already turning, his right hand dipped to the butt of his Colt.

The shadow on White-Wing's face turned to a silent, open mouthed scream of horror. She stepped sideways automatically, a hand instinctively covering the rosebuds of her naked breasts.

As Quantro's body eased itself into the familiar crouch he caught first sight of his assailant.

Crawling-Snake.

The Apache had launched himself into the air, arms spread wide in front of him, a scalping knife clenched in his fist. It was not the weapon or the movement that fixed itself in Quantro's conscious, but Crawling-Snake's face.

His eyes were wild with bloodlust, features grotesque in his demoniac grimace of hatred. Warpaint was daubed on the brown cheeks, but the most riveting of his features was the mouth. There were flecks of foam at the corners, bubbles encrusted on the bared teeth.

Quantro's swift turn had thrown Crawling-Snake's timing. Instead of landing on the white man's back, he found himself flying over his target, now crouched below him. Quantro had the Colt clear of leather and was bringing it up to bear, but the Apache was directly above him now. Before he could thumb the hammer, the pistol was kicked from his hand by a flying foot.

Crawling-Snake was in no better a position. He tumbled to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs, landing on top of White-Wing's discarded dress, the spot where she had stood a second ago. But he had no eyes now for the charms she had displayed as he crouched in the trees.

He rolled almost a full somersault with the momentum of his flight and came back up on his knees, knife in hand. The Colt was too far away to be reached quickly. Quantro grabbed for his own hunting knife, tucked into the top of his knee-high moccasins. As he pulled the blade free he noted that the Apache was indeed garbed for war. He had stripped to breechclout and leggings, and his hair was braided to keep his vision clear.

Quantro leapt after him.

Crawling-Snake blocked the lunge then caught Quantro's knife hand. His own scalping knife swung like a scythe at Quantro's belly. The white man brought up his knee fast. The blade cut into the leather of the moccasins, slicing through to the flesh and drawing blood. The adrenaline in Quantro's bloodstream ignored the stabbing pain of the wound and he drove his left arm snaking to grasp the Apache's throat.

Realizing his newly-healed arm alone was too weak to choke the Indian, he threw his weight forward and followed through. The two men tipped off the bank and plunged into the creek. As the water closed over his head, Crawling-Snake released Quantro's knife hand, his fingers clawing to free his throat from the choking pressure.

Quantro was his knees, showers of water kicked up around him by the thrashing feet of the Apache. Crawling-Snake broke the hold and his face, streaked with warpaint, came up out of the water. He was gagging, spewing out a stream of water, but his eyes were wild with the promise of death.

Quantro held his knife in-over and smashed his fist into the Apache's jaw, sending him sprawling back into the water. His knuckles caught on the jawbone, jarring his hand numb. His fingers opened of their own accord and the hunting knife fell into the creek bed.

He threw himself forward to grasp the Indian's neck, blocking a wild swing of the scalping knife. His hands closed around Crawling-Snake's windpipe, and he pushed him back under the surface, straddling the muscled bronze chest. He wondered how long he could keep pressure on the grip. His left arm was rapidly weakening. The pain he could stand, but enduring pain would not guarantee his hand would do the work he bade it.

When they had fallen, they had entangled themselves in the fishing line. It was this that Quantro grabbed to use as a weapon against the Apache. The line had caught no fish, and as he stretched it, the hook caught in the corner of Crawling-Snake's right eye as he broke the surface. The rising movement strained the line and the razor-sharp hook dragged downwards, gouging a ragged, zigzag trough down the Indian's cheek. Crawling-Snake screamed a blood-curdling wail that echoed back and forth among the tall pines of the quiet glade. Blood poured from his face, mingling with the streaked scarlet of his warpaint, giving the impression his whole face was a mask of stomach sickening gore.

In his frenzied struggle, the Apache drew himself up into a standing position. On the bank, White-Wing clutched her dress to her as she saw Crawling-Snake's ruined face. She screamed.

At the sound of her voice Quantro feared an attack from a new direction and whirled round to face her. Crawling-Snake seized his advantage and as White-Wing screamed a warning he flung himself on to Quantro's back.

The white man was driven forward onto his knees, the fishing line still wrapped around his hands, dripping Apache flesh impaled upon the bone hook. His head went under, eyes flooded and blind, his nostrils and throat choked as the water was sucked towards his lungs.

White-Wing caught sight of Quantro's Winchester propped against a thick tree trunk. Forgetting her self-consciousness at her nudity, she dropped her dress and grabbed for the rifle. She lifted it to her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Just a click. She panicked then remembered the lever. She worked the unfamiliar mechanism and pulled the trigger again.

The sound of the Winchester crashed out among the trees and Crawling-Snake was flung bodily from Quantro's back. He crashed down into the water and lay still, face up.

Quantro's head came up, his long blonde hair dripping and his chest heaving for air. He was greeted by the sight of White-Wing, straddle-legged, glistening with the sweat of fear from head to foot, clutching the Winchester to her naked breasts, the hot barrel sending up a haze of gun smoke.

He looked over his shoulder at the spread-eagled body of Crawling-Snake, then back at her. He coughed, massaging his aching shoulder. When he spoke, it was with a half smile.

“Now what'd you go and do that for? I was just getting started.”

She looked at him in disbelief, then when he laughed she smiled shyly and lowered the Winchester's smoking barrel. He stepped up out of the stream and handed her the doeskin dress in exchange for the rifle. When she lifted her eyes she gasped aloud and he swung around, following her gaze.

Crawling-Snake had gone.

***

As Quantro saddled the buckskin he explained to the crying girl why he had to go. He sighed. No matter how he said it, there never seemed enough reasons to leave her behind. As he packed meat into his saddlebags Pete came over and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

He sniffed. “Leaving?” he asked needlessly.

Quantro nodded. “I guess I just wore out my welcome.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “I'll be moving on soon too.”

Quantro looked over his shoulder, his eyes performing a slow appraisal of the man who had became his friend.

“Well, I'm riding north to Arizona, then on to Colorado. Trail should be easy to follow.”

“I'd know the prints of that buckskin anywhere,” Pete replied with the hint of a grin.

“I suppose so,” Quantro said, turning back to his saddlebags.

Pete placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of the sobbing girl. It was the same reassuring touch he would have used with a nervous horse. Quantro fastened the last buckle. He was ready to ride. He looked down at White-Wing's tear-streaked face with a soft smile, and cupped her chin tenderly.

“Shame,” he said. “I thought for a moment back…”

She sobbed. Quantro's voice tapered off as he looked at Pete, motioning with his head to the girl. It was one of those looks that said you'll-look-after-her-won't-you? The older man nodded almost imperceptibly, then watched as Quantro hoisted himself into the expensive saddle that he had so admired the first time he saw it out in the desert.

The sun behind him, the weakening rays making a halo around his blonde hair, Quantro looked down at the man who had saved his life on the Devil's Plateau, and the Indian girl who had almost become a part of that life.

It was a steady, concentrated stare. A stare to retain the picture for the long time ahead.