Chieftain (Historical Romance) (8 page)

“M
y
goodness, I’m so full I need a nap,” Katie said an hour later.

“I know what you mean,” Maggie agreed with a yawn.

They had found the ideal spot for their picnic lunch. A long line of live oaks grew at the edge of a broad, grass-covered pasture. They had spread the blanket in the shade of a big oak. There they had an unobstructed view of the pasture where the horse racing would take place.

Full and drowsy from their lunch, Maggie and Katie now watched with lazy interest as the Indians began bringing their prized horses onto the straightaway track. The race would be a quarter of a mile. A lightning-fast sprint. The horses would thunder directly past them.

Maggie sat leaning back on stiffened arms, legs stretched out before her, feet crossed at the ankles. Her head felt heavy. So did her eyelids. She idly wondered why she had been so all-fired keen to come out here and spend the afternoon. Right now she’d much prefer being back at her cottage, where she could climb up onto her soft feather bed and sleep for an hour or two.

She was about
to suggest that they leave when she looked up and almost lost her breath. Shanaco was coming onto the track, leading his shiny black stallion.

“There he is!” exclaimed Katie in a stage whisper.

“Who?” Maggie pretended ignorance.

“You know very well who,” Katie said. “The chief of the Comanches. The Eagle. Shanaco. The rebellious half-breed everyone’s talking about.” She paused then, shaded her eyes with a hand and added, “Lord, he
is
good-looking, isn’t he?”

Maggie shrugged slender shoulders. “I suppose.”

Katie chattered on, but Maggie didn’t hear a word she said. Her full attention was focused on Shanaco.

The tall, handsome chieftain wore fringed, tight-fitting leggings and soft moccasins. But no shirt. His broad, coppery chest was bare, and it must have been lightly greased because it gleamed in the bright sunshine. A scarlet bandanna was knotted at his throat, and a wide copper band was wrapped around his right biceps. His raven hair hung loose around his shoulders; his scalp lock was adorned with red ribbon and tiny silver bells.

He turned abruptly, the movement exposing his beautiful, deeply clefted back as well as the gentle curve of his lean buttocks and long, muscular legs. If ever a man looked good bare chested and in a pair of tight buckskin leggings, it was Shanaco.

He turned back
around and he was smiling broadly. It was, Maggie realized, the first time she had ever seen him smile. Really smile. She was amazed at how it softened his stark, sharply cut features. She wished she was closer so she could see his metallic eyes twinkle with that radiant smile.

Maggie quietly ground her teeth when a cluster of young men crowded around the smiling Shanaco, partially blocking her view. He was taller than the others, so she could still see his dark head, but not his lean, powerful body.

“…and I’d bet my bottom dollar she will,” Katie was saying.

“What? I…I’m sorry.” Maggie reluctantly turned to look at her friend.

“I said, ‘Look down there at the far end of the pasture. Right near the finish line. Lois Harkins, all gussied-up, seated queenly in a parked buggy. She’s staring at Chief Shanaco as if he were some tempting dessert.”’ Katie leaned closer to Maggie and whispered, “Think she’ll try to get The Eagle in her bed?”

“Katie Helen Atwood!” Maggie exclaimed under her breath.

Whispering still, Katie said, “Mark my words. If what you told me about her is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, then what would stop her from going after an exquisite masculine prize like Shanaco?”

Maggie exhaled with irritation. “For one thing, she won’t get the opportunity.”

“Women
like Lois make their own opportunities, you know that. She’ll find a way to meet him. And then…”

Over my dead body.
“What if she does? Who cares? The races are about to start. Let’s watch.”

Along the sidelines, whites and Indians alike were making bets. The Indians had little with which to wager. No money. Only small keepsakes and articles saved from their old way of life, things that were valuable to them and no one else. The troopers bet money they had saved from their meager wages. There was much laughing and shouting as the betting grew fierce.

Maggie glanced again at the track. Riders were now mounted and exercising their horses. Trotting them up and down the straightaway. She glanced again at Shanaco. He was not yet mounted. He stood beside the nickering coal-black stallion, rubbing the creature’s sleek neck and whispering into its pricked ear. Finally he climbed astride the pony’s bare back with the easy grace of an acrobat.

He put the black into a canter, then kneed him into a gallop. The stallion stood out from the crowded field, just as his rider did. Watching, Maggie frowned suddenly. This race was unfair. The other Indian ponies didn’t have much of a chance against Shanaco’s magnificent black. She knew enough about horses to recognize that the stallion was a superior creature. Perfectly configured and bred for speed and stamina.

And while most everyone had turned out specifically to see Shanaco race the mighty stallion, she found it less than noble of him to enter the race knowing he would be the sure winner. He was supposed to be the leader of his People, the one they looked to for guidance, the chief who put aside his own ego so that they might glean the glory.

Selfish, selfish
man!

Maggie was shaken from her reverie by the sound of the bugler blowing a warning to the riders to return to the starting line and take their places. The contestants called to one another, laughed and trotted toward the start line. The last one to move into place was Shanaco and the black.

Fourteen riders and their mounts had filed into position behind a chalked line. The nervous horses snorted and stomped the ground. One reared up, almost unseating his rider. Shouts and whistles came from the sidelines. Everyone, including Maggie and Katie, were now on their feet.

A uniformed trooper stepped up to the line and raised his .45 Colt pistol. The anxious riders hunkered down close to their mounts’ necks, moccasined feet poised to slam into the beasts’ bellies. Maggie stared directly at Shanaco. He wasn’t moving a muscle. Wasn’t leaning forward. Wasn’t hunkered down. His moccasined feet were not raised or poised. He was seated astride the stock-still stallion with his back regally straight and his right hand loose on the reins.

The trooper fired his Colt into the air.

The horses shot away.

The black
easily moved to the front of the pack. The others galloped after him. Maggie bit her bottom lip. She knew the outcome already. Shanaco was going to win. The others didn’t stand a chance.

The race was half over. A young Comanche riding a small, speedy paint was gaining on Shanaco. A couple of lengths back, a little wiry mustang was laboring hard to catch up. Behind the three front-runners raced the thundering herd.

Nearing the finish line of the fast quarter mile, Shanaco and the black were a neck ahead and bragging bettors were already counting their winnings.

But just as the race was about to end, Maggie saw Shanaco loosen his hand ever so slightly on the reins in a silent signal to his mount. The black changed strides, fell back just a hair, and the paint shot ahead, crossing the finish line first.

There were groans all around from puzzled bettors.

Maggie wasn’t puzzled.

She knew a great deal about horses and even more about riders. Shanaco had purposely lost the race to his young tribesman. Maggie felt her heart throb in her chest. Although she’d chosen to forget, this was not the first time she’d witnessed the supposedly cold, uncaring Shanaco make a truly admirable gesture. Apparently there was
some
good to the man.

Maggie was thoughtful as she watched the laughing chieftain congratulating the race’s proud young winner. Shanaco warmly embraced the shorter, younger man and Maggie caught herself smiling her approval.

A fresh batch
of horses were already lining up for the start of another race. A horse and rider could enter only one race. The contestants in the first were finished for the day. Now it was the Paneteka tribe’s turn. After them, the Kiowas. But Maggie found that she was no longer terribly interested in the races.

From beneath lowered lashes she watched as Shanaco led the black off the track.

She involuntarily stiffened when she saw the simpering Lois hastily alight from her carriage and step directly into Shanaco’s path.

He stopped. He towered over Lois.

Lois was tipping her head back, looking up at him, and asking him something. Shanaco nodded, then stepped around her. Maggie saw Lois watch him walk away. And she was smiling as if pleased.

Maggie quietly fumed.

T
hree o’clock
that afternoon.

Maggie and Katie now manned the booth vacated by Margaret Tullison. The foot traffic had thinned out considerably. They knew the reason. The horse races had ended and the rations were being issued over behind the agency buildings. Double Jimmy and three of his helpers had set up folding tables directly in front of the loaded wagons.

The Indian women had patiently lined up to collect their share of badly needed supplies. Coffee and sugar and corn and salt and soap and clothing for their families. The laughing women packed the allotted treasures on the travois horses. They were eager to get over to the large holding pens where the beef would be distributed.

The beef issue was the climax of every ration day. The cattle were given to the Indians on the hoof, making it great sport for everyone. Just as they had for the horse races, the Indians crowded around, cheering and waving as a soldier or agency employee released the cattle, one at a time, into a huge pen.

As the frightened steer bolted across the corral, a mounted brave with quiver and arrow would race after the startled creature, taking aim, releasing an arrow, pretending he was still out on the open plains hunting buffalo.

After the cattle
were slain, the Indians made quick work of skinning their kill. Once that was done, the women finished the butchering and hauled the fresh meat away. While their men stayed behind to watch the rest of the slaughtering, the women headed home to start preparing the big feasts.

Steaks and roasts and ribs would be cooking over blazing fires when the men returned. The joyful feasting would go on until well past midnight, and the People, young and old alike, would go to bed with full bellies for a change.

At their booth on the parade ground, Maggie and Katie could hear the shouts and laughter coming from the pens where the beef was being issued. Maggie wondered if Shanaco was out there, joining in the merriment.

She didn’t have to wonder long.

She got up out of the folding chair in which she had been sitting, leaned her elbows on the booth’s plank counter and glanced at the sparse crowd milling up and down the quadrangle.

Shanaco was approaching.

He was walking slowly because Old Coyote was at his side. The aged chief was saying something to Shanaco, gesturing with his hands, likely telling a tall tale. When Coyote finished speaking, Shanaco threw back his head and laughed. Maggie found herself smiling foolishly.

She caught
herself, stopped, straightened and crossed her arms over her chest. And felt her knees go weak when Coyote pointed directly at her. Shanaco nodded, took the old chief’s arm and propelled him toward the booth.

“Is he coming over here?” Katie Atwood asked, rising to stand beside Maggie.

“He is,” Maggie replied, hoping she sounded casual.

Old Coyote was smiling as he made his slow, sure way toward the booth. “Miss Maggie,” he said when he reached her, “so happy you still here. Need your help.”

“You have it,” she assured him, and reaching out, took his hand and squeezed it. Then said, “Chief Coyote, you know Katie Atwood, I believe.”

The old Kiowa looked puzzled but nodded to Katie, then addressed Maggie. “You know Chief Shanaco?”

“Why, yes, I…yes,” Maggie said, and finally looked up at the tall Comanche. With a slight shake of her head, she said, “Shanaco, this is my good friend, Mrs. Katie Atwood. Katie, Chief Shanaco.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said politely, and the overwhelmed Katie could only nod. His gaze quickly returned to Maggie. “We have this minor problem and the chief tells me you can help us solve it.”

“I’ll certainly try,” said Maggie.

“Have done
it again, Miss Maggie,” Old Coyote said, sheepish. “Cannot remember where I live. You know?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, and smiled kindly at him.

It wasn’t the first time the old chief had forgotten where he lived. Several times Maggie had had to escort him to his tepee because he couldn’t recall exactly where it was. His was the tepee nearest to the fort and agency buildings, so it was no trouble to walk him home when he was lost.

“Could we impose on you to show us?” Shanaco said in a deep, well-modulated voice.

“Well, I could just tell you where—”

“Show us,” said Shanaco. It was more command than request.

“Go on, go with them,” prompted Katie. “I can hold things down here while you’re gone.”

Maggie was trapped. “All right, then.” To Katie, she said, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Take as long as you need,” Katie replied.

Maggie released Coyote’s hand, ducked under the makeshift counter, rose and took his arm. “We’ll see you home, Coyote.”

The trio walked slowly up the parade ground past the many booths and officers’ quarters. Soon they left the buildings behind. At Maggie’s direction, they turned due west just beyond the fort. Within minutes they reached the eastern border of the Kiowa reservation. Coyote’s tepee was right on the line.

“Here we
are,” Maggie said, pointing to the conical, buffalo-hide covered dwelling.

“You sure?” asked Old Coyote. “This where I live?”

“It is. Shall I go inside with you and make sure?”

“Please,” he said. He looked up at Shanaco. “I see you later. Thank you.”

Shanaco nodded and held the tepee’s flap open while Maggie stooped and ducked inside. The old chief followed. Shanaco stayed outside.

“See, this is your home. These are your things,” Maggie said. “Look around. This is home.”

Coyote’s eyes lighted and he nodded when he saw his clay pipe, his fur-covered pallet, his meager personal possessions. “Yes, is my home. I live here.”

“Now that you remember where it is, do you want to stay? Or shall I take you farther out onto the reservation where your People will be having their big feast in a couple of hours?”

“I stay here for now, take nap. Will go to feast later,” he said. “Young men from tribe promise to come get me when feasting starts.”

“Then I’ll leave you to get some rest,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Maggie,” he said, and clumsily patted her back.

“You’re very welcome, Chief.”

Maggie left him, ducked back outside and was half surprised to find herself standing face-to-face with Shanaco.

“Still here?” she said with a shake of her head, as if annoyed. “No need for you to walk me back to the fort. While I appreciate the gesture, I need no escort. I’m perfectly capable of returning alone.”

Shanaco
stared at her, the slightest hint of mischief appearing in his silver eyes. “You, Miss Bankhead, are a touch too presumptuous.”

Maggie frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve no intention of walking you back.”

Without another word he turned and strolled away, leaving Maggie puzzled and put out. The man was truly exasperating. He
never
behaved as expected.