Chieftain (Historical Romance) (6 page)

S
hanaco was thirsty.

He stayed where he was
until Double Jimmy was out of sight, then turned and headed directly for the civilian village on the outskirts of the fort.

In minutes he climbed the steps to a wooden sidewalk that stretched the length of the false-front buildings.

He passed the undertaker’s, the Federal Land Office, the tailor’s shop. A couple of men stood outside the general mercantile store. Civilians. One was a big brawny fellow with a shaggy brown beard and blackened teeth. The other was totally bald and quite short, but muscular and strong-looking. The pair exchanged glances as Shanaco approached.

Unfazed, Shanaco walked up to them and asked, “Where can a man buy a drink of whiskey?”

The big, ugly one snorted. “A
man
can buy a drink in Jake’s card parlor. But you ain’t no man. You’re a mixed-blood, so you’ll just have to go thirsty.” He smiled broadly, showing his blackened teeth.

Grinning, his short companion repeated, “You ain’t no man, you’re a mixed-blood.” The pair went into spasms of guttural laughter.

Shanaco
shrugged, stepped between them and walked on down the sidewalk. He stopped before the bat-wing doors of Jake’s card parlor. He stepped inside the smoky, noisy room and looked around. The place was full. Players at both billiard tables. Every seat at the half-dozen poker tables was taken. There was laughter and loud talk and the striking of billiard balls with long wooden cue sticks. The flicking of cards being dealt and the clinking of coins being tossed to the center of the tables.

One of the players at a poker table near the door, a tobacco-chewing man with bushy eyebrows and ruddy cheeks, looked up and saw Shanaco standing in the doorway. In seconds the noisy room went totally silent. A dropped pin could have been heard. Every eye was on Shanaco and every mouth was agape.

Shanaco walked through the crowded poker parlor to the very back. There he parted, then ducked through the shabby curtains covering a narrow door opening into the back room. Three men were there drinking whiskey. Shanaco went to the opposite end of the makeshift plank bar and waited until the little, nervous-looking barkeep finally came over and asked him what he wanted.

“A glass of your best bourbon,” Shanaco said.

The barkeep swallowed hard but reached for the whiskey bottle and a shot glass. Shanaco took a bill from his pants pocket and paid for the liquor. Then he stood flat-footed, tossed down the rotgut whiskey in one swallow and motioned for a fill-up. The bar-keep poured another. Shanaco drank it down. He made a face, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned to leave.

But he
didn’t quite make it.

Standing in the curtained door, blocking his way, was the short, muscular fellow he’d seen outside the mercantile store. His big, beefy companion stood directly behind him, grinning.

Shanaco drew a slow breath.

He knew what was coming next. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn’t. Without a word, the shorter man stepped forward and threw a punch, landing a glancing blow to Shanaco’s left jaw. Shanaco never flinched. But the man squealed in pain and darted behind his larger companion when Shanaco’s lightning right fist connected with his nose, sending blood splashing all over his startled face and down his soiled shirtfront.

The big man shoved his bleeding friend out of harm’s way and stepped in to take over. He took a swing. Shanaco raised a defensive left, deflected the blow and clipped his opponent on the chin. He roared like a lion through his blackened teeth.

The fight spilled out into the card room. Pool sharks and poker players stopped their games to watch and cheer and place wagers. Most bet on the big, bullying man they knew well.

Willie “Big Boy” Carson was a regular around the village and everyone steered clear of him as best they could. He was as mean as a snake and had mopped the floor with more than one hapless opponent.

But there
were those who had heard of the half-breed’s reputation. It was said that whether he was riding and raiding with the Comanche or living among the whites who hated him, Shanaco was fearless. He had faced death numerous times and had the battle scars to prove it. If anybody could put Big Boy Carson away, it was the reckless half-breed. So several gents took tempting odds and placed their money on Shanaco.

A wise decision.

When the brutal brawl ended, it was the beaten Willie Carson who lay on the floor, spiting blood, struggling for breath. All the half-breed had suffered was a rapidly swelling right eye. The spectators were amazed. Shanaco was in such great physical condition he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Shanaco walked out of the card parlor amid whistles and hoots and grudging applause. He went directly to the sandstone barracks where he was temporally billeted with the troopers. The quarters were deserted at this hour of the afternoon.

Shanaco stripped off his blue shirt, tossed it on his cot. He found a wash pan and filled it with water from the drinking keg against the wall. He picked up a cloth, dipped it into the water and carefully bathed his face. He leaned close to the cracked shaving mirror mounted on the wall. He frowned. His right eye was already turning purple and was swollen almost shut.

Shanaco pressed
the damp cloth to his battered eye for several minutes, then looked into the mirror again. He exhaled heavily. Anyone who saw him would know he had been in a fight. And, of course, he would be labeled the troublemaker. Everyone knew it was the Indians who caused trouble on a reservation. Never the whites.

Shanaco drew on a clean white shirt, buttoned it midway down his chest and left the barracks. He walked to the stables, went inside the tack room and took his bridle down off the wall. The bridle draped over his left shoulder, he went back out, leaned his arms over the top board of the wooden corral and whistled for his stallion.

The black lifted his head, looked around, whinnied and galloped eagerly toward his master. He stuck his head over the fence and rubbed his jaw against Shanaco’s face and shoulder.

Shanaco laughed and stroked his sleek neck. “Want to take a little ride, boy?”

The black neighed his reply. Shanaco opened the corral gate and the stallion trotted out. Eschewing a saddle, Shanaco haltered the mount and swung up onto his bare back. It was a warm, sunny day and Shanaco felt fine, despite the bruised eye. A short ride was just what he needed.

Leaving the fort behind, Shanaco put the black into a fast gallop. The wind on his face felt good. Having the powerful horse between his legs felt better. He loved to ride. All Comanches loved to ride and were expert horsemen. He had learned to ride almost before he had learned to walk.

By
the time he was no more than thirteen, he had ridden on raids with his father, Chief Naco, and the warriors. They had traveled hundreds of miles to execute surprise attacks against their enemies, the whites. Their prowess in battle had made them rich with captured horses. Brave warriors owned as many as two hundred horses apiece. His father, the chief, had had more than a thousand!

Shanaco smiled, recalling how tired he had been at the end of the day when they had ridden seventy or eighty miles before stopping. But he had been careful to conceal his discomfort from the warriors. Especially from his father, who seemed never to tire or to be afraid.

Shanaco drew a deep, invigorating breath of the crisp, clear air, reached up and untied the leather cord holding his hair in place. He stuffed the cord into his breast pocket. His shoulder-length hair streamed out behind him like the black’s long tail. Horse and rider were as one as they raced across the grass-covered Oklahoma prairie.

Shanaco drew rein on a low hill overlooking the newly settled Comanche encampment. He was, as always, amazed at the resilience of the People. They were going about their lives as if they had lived here forever. Their buffalo-hide tepees dotted the rolling plains and there was much activity in the camp.

Shanaco
kneed the black. He rode down into the village. Laughing children dashed out to meet him and run alongside. Dogs barked and women waved. Shanaco guided the black toward a gathering of men outside a tepee. On seeing him, most of the assembled warriors nodded and smiled a greeting. A few looked at him coldly, judging him, disliking him. Most of the braves idolized him. A small minority detested him.

It had always been thus.

Shanaco dismounted, dropped the reins to the ground and joined the men. He crouched down on his heels and motioned for them to do the same. When all were crouched in a circle, Shanaco told them, in their native tongue, that he had, this very afternoon, met with the fort’s commandant, Colonel Harkins. The white leader had agreed to let them keep most of their horses. A loud cheer went up from the braves.

Shanaco stayed with the men for the next hour, listening to their complaints, promising to do what he could to make things better, informing them that ration day was but a week away when they would have a big celebration with horse races and games for the children and fresh beef to be slaughtered and roasted over open fires. An event they could all look forward to enjoying. He also reminded them that the Indian agent was a good man who had their interest at heart.

When finally Shanaco rose to his feet to leave, one of the young braves who admired him pointed up at his black eye and teased him about it. The others joined in and he left them all laughing, some with him, some at him.

The sun
was beginning to slip toward the western horizon when Shanaco reached the southern edge of the reservation. Near the banks of Cache Creek sat the secluded cabin that was to be his. Shanaco’s eyes narrowed when he saw that the front door stood ajar.

Someone was inside.

Shanaco dismounted and moved closer. He whistled to alert the intruder.

Alone inside, barefoot and humming a song, Maggie Bankhead was gathering a muslin curtain onto a long brass rod. The sudden whistle startled her, causing her to jump. Eyes gone round, she dropped the curtain and went running to the door.

And found herself face-to-face with the feared half-breed, Chief Shanaco. She started to step past him. He shifted and stood in her way. They stared at each other, saying nothing. It was as though time stood still.

Snared by those strange silver eyes, one of which was discolored and swollen half shut, Maggie gazed at Shanaco. He was so large and powerfully built and they were alone way out here away from anyone. Yet she felt no fear of him. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

His raven hair was loose. It fell to his shoulders, and a stray lock rested on his high bronzed cheekbone. His nose was straight and proud. His wide, full mouth had a cruel set to it, giving his features a satanic look. Yet he was handsome, incredibly handsome. He was dressed as a white man but was the incarnation of wild savage beauty.

Maggie
was fascinated.

So was Shanaco.

Shanaco stared unblinking at the slender, pale-skinned beauty whose unbound red hair was ablaze in the dying sunlight. Her vivid blue eyes were fixed on his face. He was surprised to see that there was absolutely no hint of fear shining from their indigo depths. Only healthy curiosity and frank interest. Her nose was small and cute and turned up slightly at the tip. Her mouth was full and soft-looking, the lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. The pulse at the side of her ivory throat was beating rapidly as if she had overly exerted.

Or was overly excited.

Jolts of electricity passed between them. Both felt it. Both fought it. But not that hard.

Shanaco reached for Maggie, pushed her back inside the cottage. For a moment, Maggie struggled at arm’s length to free herself. Wordlessly Shanaco reeled her in, pulled her flush against him, wrapped a long arm around her, bent her backward, lowered his head and kissed her.

Maggie involuntarily responded to the hottest, most invasive kiss she had ever known. Her weak arms hanging at her sides, head falling back, she stood unmoving in Shanaco’s close embrace while that cruel-looking mouth slanted across hers, tasting, molding, persuading.

Her
trembling lips opening beneath his, Maggie felt his sleek tongue immediately slide between her teeth to spread incredible fire. When his tongue touched and toyed with hers, the heat of the kiss spread far beyond their joined mouths.

At once Maggie became aware of the strong arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing her close against his tall, lean body. Her soft breasts were flattened against the hard plains of his broad chest, her nipples tightening and tingling from the intimate contact.

She couldn’t help herself, she lifted a hand and tangled her fingers in his silky blue-black hair and sighed. Shanaco drew her closer, deepened the kiss and urged her arm up around his neck.

For a long, thrilling minute they stood there in the dying sunlight kissing as if they were lovers too long parted. Until finally Maggie gathered her wits, realized what they were doing, anxiously pulled away and smacked Shanaco hard across his arrogant face.

“I will do all the deciding when I wish to be kissed!” she told him heatedly.

“Then you had better stay away from my cottage,” Shanaco calmly replied.

T
he wolfhound
hadn’t barked.

It had not occurred to her at the time, but now Maggie was puzzled by the dog’s mysterious silence.

Pistol was always responsive. He barked a warning anytime a stranger approached her. So why, Maggie wondered, had the faithful watchdog remained totally quiet this afternoon when Shanaco had come into the cabin?

Pistol had been just outside, lying near the front door. Yet he hadn’t made a sound and had meekly allowed Shanaco to walk right past him. Had the Comanche chieftain put some kind of Indian sign on the wolfhound? Had he put some kind of hex on her as well? The fine hair rose on the nape of her neck.

Maggie shook her head and laughed. Hardly! She had yet to meet the man that could hypnotize her.

Night had now fallen over the fort. Maggie was safely back in her own cottage. She was ready for bed in a white cotton nightgown, hair brushed a hundred strokes and held back off her face with a ribbon. She sat on the floor before the dying fire, knees raised, arms wrapped around them. She stared into the flickering flames and thought back over the events of the afternoon.

She couldn’t very well be angry with Pistol and not herself.

Pistol hadn’t barked when Shanaco stepped inside and she hadn’t uttered one word of protest when the imposing half-breed took her in his arms and kissed her. And oh, did he kiss her! She had been kissed before, of course, but
never
the way Shanaco kissed her.

Maggie raised a hand, touched her fingers to her bottom lip and involuntarily trembled. She would never have let Shanaco—or anyone else—know, but when he kissed her she had practically swooned with pleasure! Never in her life had she felt the way she had when she’d stood in Shanaco’s close embrace while he passionately kissed her. The hard strength and awesome heat of his tall, lean body pressed against hers had taken her breath—and apparently her intellect—away.

She’d had to summon every ounce of the self-control she possessed to make him stop. To make herself stop. It had been so tempting to simply surrender and stay right there in his powerful arms with those masterful lips melded to hers for the rest of the afternoon. For the rest of the evening. The rest of the night.

Maggie sighed. She was being silly. Behaving like a daydreaming schoolgirl. She should never have allowed the Comanche chief to kiss her in the first place. What on earth was she thinking? She wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. When she had come to her senses, she had firmly warned Shanaco that he had better leave her alone.

He said
he would. She believed him, despite the gossip about him. He was, it was whispered, a danger to decent white women. A handsome but heartless savage who took what he wanted, when he wanted. A menacing primitive in white man’s clothing. A charming scoundrel who was an untamed animal at heart.

There were, admittedly, enough bad stories about Shanaco to condemn him. Obviously he had already gotten into mischief here at the fort. His blackened eye was evidence of his misdeeds. And he had, without her consent, brazenly kissed her. Was she the only one? Or had he kissed others?

The fire had died. Only faint embers remained.

Maggie began to scowl, her forehead wrinkling. To her knowledge, she and Lois Harkins were presently the only unmarried females at the fort. Had the vain, flirtatious Lois met Shanaco? Had they ever been alone? If Shanaco kissed Lois the way he kissed her, would Lois make him stop? Doubtful. A troubling vision of Lois in Shanaco’s arms caused Maggie to experience a sharp throb of jealousy.

Her disturbing thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the lone bugler playing the notes of tattoo, calling the troopers to sleep. It was time she was in bed herself. She shot to her feet.

Maggie snapped
her fingers at the dozing Pistol. “You’re in big trouble, my friend.” Pistol gave her a hurt, questioning look. She smiled, patted his head and led him to the door. When he went out, she cautioned, “All right, I’ll forgive you just this once. But if you see a tall handsome man with long black hair lurking around here, you bark your head off, you hear me?”

Pistol yapped his response.

Maggie laughed, closed the door, yawned and headed for the feather bed in the corner of the room. She lifted the globe on the kerosene lamp beside the bed and blew out the flame. She slipped between the covers. The nights were growing chilly and the warm blanket felt good.

Maggie snuggled down, sighed and continued to think about the mysterious man whose burning lips had so dazzled her. He was young, vigorous and brutally masculine. And his kiss had been thrilling beyond belief. But Maggie realized she had best keep the encounter—and the kiss—a secret. Tell no one. Not even Katie. The last thing she wanted to do was cause trouble for Shanaco.

Or for herself.

Maggie sighed and closed her eyes.

She fell asleep to the sound of the bugler blowing the last mournful notes of taps.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully for Maggie. She didn’t see Shanaco again, although each morning when she stepped into the classroom she quickly scanned the faces, half expecting him to show up. She was relieved that he didn’t. She wasn’t sure how she would feel when next she saw him.

Maggie
heard that he had moved into his cottage. She considered that to be a bit of good news. With a place of his own perhaps he wouldn’t spend so much time in the civilian village, drinking in the back room of Jake’s and inviting trouble.

By Friday afternoon Maggie had too many other things on her mind to give much thought to Shanaco.

This particular Friday was to be a very special one. All week the students had eagerly looked forward to this afternoon’s promised outing, which Maggie referred to as the “poetry picnic.” The event had been planned for more than a month and was often the topic of discussion among the students.

Maggie had decided that it would be beneficial for the children to begin learning and appreciating poetry. She had come up with the idea of making the learning easier for them by making it fun. And what could be more fun than a big picnic after which each child would recite a portion of a poem he or she had learned.

When Maggie had broached the subject in the classroom, all the students were instantly enthusiastic. The prospect of a picnic excited them so much they zealously agreed to learn a bit of poetry. Maggie suggested that if each would memorize at least eight lines of a poem, they would be rewarded with the outdoor feast.

All had
immediately turned to her for advice and help. Help which she was delighted to give. She spent hours going through her precious leather-bound books with the children, making suggestions, helping each to choose a poem. Then patiently coaching them as they struggled to memorize a few lines.

Now at last, it was time for the poetry picnic.

It was a perfect autumn day. The lowering sun was warm and the air was clear and crisp. Birds sang musically in the treetops as if they knew that this beautiful sunny day was one of the last before the winter winds began to blow and the leaves began to fall.

With Pistol running on ahead, Maggie and her excited students walked down to the banks of Cache Creek to share a sumptuous spread that had been generously provided by the officers’ wives.

The children helped Maggie spread blankets on the grassy creek banks and unpack wicker hampers filled with delicious foods. There was laughter and joy and much discussion about the poetry they had worked so hard to memorize.

After the food had been devoured and the dishes cleared away, Maggie had the group move about until they were seated in a large circle. Then she announced that it was time to begin the poetry recitations. All were eager to go first. To make it fair Maggie took a piece of paper from her satchel and wrote numbers on it. A number for each child in attendance.

With the help
of two Comanche girls, she tore the paper into tiny bits, each containing a number. She gathered each numbered piece, folded them, dropped them into her straw bonnet and passed the bonnet around the circle.

“I’m number one!” cried a young Kiowa girl, and shot to her feet, eager to show what she had learned.

Maggie listened as the girl laboriously recited from a Wordsworth poem. Maggie nodded her approval, then applauded vigorously when the girl finished without missing a word. Another child—a tall, gangly Paneteka boy—came to his feet and began quoting from Ralph Waldo Emerson. The next student had chosen Keats. Another Walt Whitman. Emily Dickinson. Lord Byron. Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The recitation continued as the sun sank steadily lower. Bright Feather was the last. He had drawn the highest number. When his turn finally came, he struggled to his feet, cleared his throat and stood nervously facing the group with his hands behind his back.

The sun had now slipped completely below the horizon. Only a golden gloaming of light remained, the soft illumination giving everything a strange surreal quality, as if it were all a dream. As if
they
were all a dream.

The tiny copper-skinned Bright Feather stood in the center of that seeming illusion and started to quote from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.

When he began to speak in his sweet, soft voice, Maggie felt her heart swell with pride and affection. Bright Feather spoke slowly, distinctly, pausing as he struggled to recall the poem’s lines, then pressing on.

He frowned suddenly, bit his bottom lip, and repeated,

Again he stopped speaking. He looked pained. Maggie held her breath, hoping the last few lines would come to him. Her eyes on his anguished face, she heard the other children begin to quietly snicker and her heart ached for Bright Feather. She drew a deep breath and was about to scold the children.

The laughter abruptly stopped and an eerie silence fell over the crowd.

And out of that silence a deep baritone voice that Maggie instantly recognized softly began reciting the last lines of the beautiful Poe poem.

Like an apparition, he stood on a hill above, silhouetted against the last spectral glow of twilight. Every eye turned and clung to him, and Maggie was as spellbound as the children when he recited the final lines of the poem.