Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (21 page)

One of the other hunters nodded vigorously and scratched at his filthy buckskin shirt. “Billy Dixon’s the best there is with a ’Big Fifty,’ and that’s a fact!”

Maverick tipped his hat to the back of his head. “Then he’s gonna get a chance to prove it! If what I have in mind works, he can take Quanah down and the rest of them will go home. Well, even if it isn’t Quanah, they’ll think it’s big magic if you could get any one of them.”

Bat Masterson sneered. “At that distance? Are you loco?”

Cayenne glared at Bat. “Listen to him,” she said. “If anyone knows about Indians, it’s Maverick!”

The half-breed winked at her. “There’s one vote of confidence.”

The others nodded grudgingly. “We’ll listen, stranger, because nobody else had any ideas.”

Maverick caught young Dixon by the arm. “Get that Sharps of yours, and I’ll help you figure the wind and all. With a little luck, you can hit Quanah and they’ll all scatter. Now, Billy, here’s my plan. . . . ”

Quanah Parker looked around at his chiefs and shook with rage. “We have lost yet more good men! There will be much weeping in many tepees tonight! Even the black renegade buffalo soldier has fallen!”

Isa-tai said again, “It is not my fault! I told them that to kill that skunk would destroy my magic!”

One of the Cheyenne chiefs could not seem to hold his temper longer. He attacked Isa-tai with his quirt, beating him about the head. “Because of this false leader, my own son lays dead before those walls!”

The prophet threw up his arm to protect himself and Quanah grunted to the Cheyenne. “Enough! The boy died bravely! It is all any man can hope for—to die with bravery and honor rather than starve to death on the reservation!”

The Cheyenne subsided, taking deep, shuddering breaths. “The great Comanche chief is right.”

Quanah frowned. “So now I await another medicine sign to know whether to stay here and keep attacking until we overrun them from sheer numbers or move on to another target!”

He heard grumbling and discord around him. Quanah said, “Our scouts tell us the Bluecoats are beginning to move like hawks swooping down on their prey.” He gestured with a lance. “Even now, the white soldiers come from the west, the east, the south, and yes, Fort Dodge to the north. The warring tribes will be trapped between all five of the cavalry columns that their chief, Grant, sends!”

Little Fox frowned. “But as always, we will slip through their fingers, oh, Great Leader. After we level this place, burn and torture and kill these whites, we will scatter and disappear into the night like smoke. All those Bluecoats will hunt us in vain while we reassemble in the great canyon to the south!”

“Sooner or later,” Quanah predicted direly, “the Bluecoats will find that canyon called the Palo Duro. Then, instead of a refuge, the canyon will become a trap for our people!”

“Never!” Little Fox shouted. “It will always be a haven we can retreat to. The soldier leaders are too stupid to find it.”

Quanah looked down at the fine gray horse he rode. “Have you forgotten ’Three Fingers’ so soon from the last time we clashed with the calvary? Mackenzie is not a stupid soldier chief. He doesn’t give up once he has picked up the scent like a lobo wolf relentlessly chasing a deer to ground.”

Little Fox’s lip curled in scorn, unconvinced. “The canyon will always be there for our retreat and the stupid soldiers will never find it! There’s good grass for our ponies, plenty of water even in dry summers, and fat game for our cooking fires!”

Quanah glared at him, not liking the man. Little Fox lacked judgment. “Sooner or later, someone will tell the soldiers of it.”

Little Fox shook his head. “You become like an old woman, letting caution make a coward of you. The only ones who know the canyon besides Indians are the
Comancheros
who trade guns for the booty from our raids! Soon they will send a messenger about bringing us more guns!”

To-ha-koh looked concerned, shook his head, “I like it not that any white man knows our hiding place.”

Little Fox nodded to reassure him. “We have dealt with this one many years. The messenger will be the one with the blind eye and limp, the one called Pedro.”

Quanah felt a little uneasy, as if his spirit animal were attempting to warn him of something. “The
Comanchero
are the weak link in our chain of supply,” he grumbled, looking toward the walls.
Was that a reflection off a gun barrel he saw?
“No Comanche would betray our canyon to the south, but a
Comanchero
might.”

“The
Comanchero
have never betrayed us,” Big Red Meat protested.

Quanah sneered with disdain. “I trust them not. Any of them would betray his own mother for gold.”

Little Fox gestured impatiently. “You delay your decision, Quanah, while we argue uselessly about what has already happened. I cannot recall the message now. The
Comanchero,
Pedro, will meet with us at the Canyon in a few weeks to tell us about a new supply of guns. With them, we can sweep the whites from the plains.”

“Little Fox is right,” Stone Calf, the Cheyenne leader said. “We will discuss the
Comanchero
later. Right now, Great Leader,” he addressed Quanah respectfully, “shall we continue to attack this place or shall we scatter to hit unsuspecting hunters’ camps and isolated ranches?”

Little Fox’s ugly face leered. “Can we not do both? Let us stay until we overrun this place! I think there is a white woman inside and I want to mount one as she begs for mercy as my sister must have done. . . . ”

“Your need for vengeance clouds your judgment,” Quanah interrupted, although it was considered rude for one warrior to interrupt another. Good manners dictated that each await the other to finish speaking. “What would you have us do?”

“I say we take this place no matter how many warriors it costs! We must let the white devils know that we are serious about how we intend to deal with those who slaughter our buffalo for money, leaving our women and children hungry!”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others, but Quanah only half listened. Instead, he watched the low-lying adobe buildings. There it was again, that slight flash as if the sun were reflecting off a gun barrel. Certainly the chiefs were safe at this distance. . . .

Little Fox, obviously encouraged by the murmur of agreement, went on. “After we overrun and torture the hunters to death, we’ll break up into small war parties, spread out over the entire plains, catching ranchers and hunters, taking their scalps! The stage coaches still run, and they must be destroyed because they bring travelers looking for new places to settle.”

The Kiowa, Lone Wolf, spoke now. “The Comanche held their very first sun dance one moon ago. But the Kiowa have yet to hold their annual ceremony. More of our warriors would be willing to take the war trail if the Kiowa had already finished the magic of our sun dance. Some fear to take any action until that happens a few suns from now in our beloved Wichita hills in that place whites call the Indian Territory.”

To-ha-koh nodded. “Hai! I like Little Fox’s new idea! Let us spread out, bring death and destruction to as many whites as possible for the next several weeks, then reassemble at the great canyon to meet with the
Comanchero,
get more weapons, make more plans!”

Quanah sighed. “It is agreed then. Barring some sign of bad medicine, we will keep attacking this haven of the buffalo hunters until we slaughter them all. Then we will scatter and do what damage we can before meeting thirty suns from now at the big canyon to the south. . . .”

He never finished. Quanah saw a flash of light from a rifle at the walls and jerked his horse’s reins abruptly so that it reared and stumbled backward. Even as the echoing sound of the shot came to him, the warrior, To-ha-koh, screamed in shock and pain, clutching at his chest.

Scarlet blood pumped out between the man’s brown fingers. “I’m . . . hit! He gasped, “Magic!” His face seemed frozen in amazement as he tried vainly to hold back the red stream that pumped between his fingers.

Now Quanah smelled the sweet, coppery scent of the warm blood. The wounded man’s horse reared and neighed in confusion at the sudden scent.

“Bad medicine!” he gasped. “The spirits do not smile on us today. . . . We must scatter to the four winds, come together at the canyon. . . . ”

Quanah tried to catch the warrior, but the man slumped and slipped from his horse. As he slid down its side, his wound left a scarlet trail on the pony’s hair. All around Quanah raged confusion and shouting as warriors galloped out of range.
Magic. Bad medicine.
The buffalo hunters had killed one of the chiefs at the impossible range of almost a mile in white man’s terms. Why was he so sure that half-breed had something to do with this? He had a sudden omen of very bad medicine. This war would amount to nothing and, yet, he could not stop it any more than he could stop the rivers when they overflowed and flooded.

“Scatter! ” he commanded. “We meet at the canyon in thirty sun’s time as we had planned!”

With a heavy heart and much foreboding, the great chief turned and rode away from the place called Adobe Walls.

Cayenne stared out in disbelief. “They’re leaving! The Indians are leaving!”

She felt a giddy rush of relief as she stared out the gun port and watched the warriors retreating in confusion. Even as she watched, she saw the big half-breed chief, Quanah Parker, rein his gray horse around and ride out at a gallop. The others scattered into small war parties, shouting and shrieking as they rode away.

Maverick peered out the gun port beside her. “That did it!” He nodded with satisfaction. “I told you if we could kill one of their important chiefs, they’d think it was bad medicine and give up the attack!”

The buffalo hunters in the saloon sent up arousing cheer. “Hurrah for Maverick! Hurrah for Billy Dixon!”

Cayenne watched the warriors galloping away in the early morning heat. “Looks like they’re going in all directions! What do you suppose they’re up to?”

Maverick sighed and tipped his hat back on the blue-black hair. “Up to no good, I’ll tell you that! A lot of poor devils, including women and children, will catch hell the next few weeks! Some settlers are too isolated out on these plains to even know there’s an Indian war in progress until a war party rides into the yard!”

She leaned against the rough adobe, suddenly exhausted and emotionally drained, and studied the half-breed’s profile.
Such a rugged, strong face. . . just like his hands.
Her gaze went to his big, calloused hands, remembering his gentle touch on her silken skin, remembering his mouth on hers. . . .

Bat Masterson laughed, interrupting her thoughts as he peered out the gun port. “If that don’t beat all! Look at those damned birds!”

She went over and peered out, oblivious to the noisy conversation and raucous laughter of the rough men around her. “What is it, Bat?”

He hesitated. “Nothing a lady should see.” He cocked his rifle. “Always wanted to kill me an eagle.”

She looked out, saw a pair of giant eagles soaring in circles on the hot air currents, and watched them mesh and fall as they mated.
Could that be the same pair of eagles she had seen before?
In her memory, she was again on a creek bank, locked in the half-breed’s embrace as he took her with all the heat and fire of some wild, uncivilized thing. And she became as passionate and unfettered as he was, lost in his kiss, his Comanche caress. . . .

Bat aimed at the soaring birds. But Cayenne reached out, knocking the gun aside. “No, Bat, let them go. They belong up there together, free and wild!”

“But I’d like some feathers to trim a hat,” Bat complained, and again he aimed the rifle.

She heard Maverick’s step, quiet and quick as a shadow although he wore cowboy boots. “Mind the lady and don’t do it,” he said softly, and his tone sounded almost like the warning hiss of a rattlesnake. “Eagles are special to us.”

Cayenne glanced at him, seeing by his expression that Maverick remembered, too.

Bat laughed good-naturedly and leaned the rifle against the wall. “I’ve had enough fighting for a while, or you and me’d tangle, Maverick. But I want to please the lady, and if she don’t want me to shoot them birds—”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. “They aren’t bothering anyone.”
If she had been a Comanche, might the eagle have been her spirit animal? Was it his?
She looked at Maverick’s stern face but read nothing in his eyes.

A sudden gunshot echoed and reechoed from one of the other two buildings.

Cayenne started. “My stars! What do you think that was about?”

Maverick shook his head, checked his pistol. “Reckon I’d better find out!”

But just then, a hunter ran from the other building. “Olds accidentally killed hisself, just now!”

Cayenne felt stunned shock. “Oh, my God! That poor woman!” Quickly she ran over to help, to comfort the grief-stricken wife.

The plump woman sobbed uncontrollably as she gestured toward the prone form under a blanket on the floor. “He went up the ladder to watch the Injuns! When they acted like they might be gonna attack again, he yelled a warning and started back down the ladder. I guess the trigger caught on something . . . I saw it all happen! Oh, God, it was so awful!” She began to weep and Cayenne put her arm around her, looking around helplessly at the silent hunters.

One of the dirty, grizzled men scratched his beard. “That’s just the way it was, too, miss! We heard him shout, and when I turned around, he was coming down the ladder. Reckon the trigger fouled on something ’cause his gun went off, caught him in the face! ’Nigh blew his head completely off!”

Cayenne felt the tears well up in her own eyes as she patted the woman’s shaking shoulders. In a few more minutes, the danger would have been past, the Indians driven off thanks to Maverick’s savvy about bad medicine. It was ironic that at that moment, Olds had accidently shot himself.

Maverick came in, followed by Bat Masterson and the other hunters. “What happened?”

Cayenne told him briefly. He shook his head. “Tough luck. I’m real sorry, ma’am.”

The woman turned on him, spitting like a bobcat. “You! You damned Comanche! It ain’t fair that you’re alive and my man is dead!”

Cayenne grabbed the woman when she would have attacked Maverick with her fists. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the half-breed, but he only shook his head, speaking gently. “I really am sorry, Missus Olds.”

Billy protested. “Beggin’ yore pardon, ma’am, if it hadn’t been for this fella’s idea, we might all be dead by now!” He held out his hand to shake. “I want to thank you, mister. You probably saved all our lives!”

But Maverick glared at him coldly and didn’t shake the offered hand. “Now that it’s all over, I can tell you men what bastards all buffalo hunters are! Because of your wholesale slaughter, the tribes will either starve or kill a lot of innocent people!”

Bat grinned. “Injun lover, huh?”

“Injun hater,” Maverick corrected him coldly. “At least, I got plenty of reason to hate the Comanche, kill every one I see! But yet, I can sympathize even with them. Any man will pick up a weapon and do something when his woman and kids are hungry!”

“Injuns ain’t the only ones with hungry kids,” a grizzled hunter said. “You think some of us are just doin’ this for fun? When that money panic hit back east last year, I couldn’t find work and I’ve got six kids myself, mister! Sellin’ them hides and sending the money home feeds my little ones!”

Billy Dixon rested the stock of the heavy Sharps on the floor. “There’s too many hunters,” he complained. “Prices for hides is less than half what it was a couple of years ago. Besides, we’re doin’ the government a favor. They say they’ll never be able to force the tribes onto reservations ’long as there’s plenty of buffalo for them to live off of!”

Cayenne patted Mrs. Old’s arm. “What do we do now? We need to get help in case the war parties return.”

One of the men pushed forward. “Me’n Lem will try to make it into Fort Dodge, let them know what’s happened.”

Maverick spoke with a voice of authority, obviously used to taking charge. “You do that. In the meantime, the rest of us have graves to dig, make plans in case the war parties do return, and . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked out across the prairie, cursing softly under his breath. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell which ones are the savages!”

Curiously, Cayenne followed his gaze. Some of the buffalo hunters had walked out on the prairie to inspect the bodies of the fallen Indians and were stealing small items from them. She winced as she saw the scalps dangling from the grinning white men’s hands, saw them actually taking heads.

One of them held the black bugler’s head aloft triumphantly. “We’ll put these on posts all around the walls! That’ll give ’em a message if they come back!”

Maverick turned away with a low curse. “I hate Comanche, but I wouldn’t stoop to that!”

Cayenne turned, horror-stricken, to Bat. “You know those men; can’t you stop that?”

Bat shrugged. “I’d have to fight them all, and for what?”

“You’re no better than they are!” Cayenne flung at him. She looked over at Maverick’s grim face, remembering that he had a scalp hanging from Dust Devil’s Indian bridle. But that was a trophy of war like a medal to a warrior. The hunters cutting off heads was shameful and disgusting to him.

She could still hear the men outside shouting with glee as they defiled the dead. She went over and put her hand on Maverick’s arm. “What do we do now?”

He looked down at her. “You’re not going with him?” He nodded toward Bat Masterson.

She shook her head. “I’m going with you on south to the Lazy M Ranch.”

“Then let’s bury the dead and clear outa this place,” he muttered. “I don’t like the company we’re keepin’.” He turned and looked at Mrs. Olds, who had regained her composure. “We’ll see you get into Fort Dodge, ma’am.”

The widow nodded her thanks and Maverick organized a burial detail. Once again Cayenne found herself saying scripture over yet more graves.

She couldn’t read Maverick’s expression as they turned away from the mounded dirt. “Your daddy teach you that?” he asked. “Is he really a preacher?”

“The only one in our sleepy little town,” she said. “Everyone depends on him for comfort when they have trouble; don’t know what folks would do without him.”

Maverick looked troubled.

“Why do you ask?”

He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, not meeting her eyes. “No reason.”

Bat rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I’ve had all the buffalo huntin’ I want. Any of those crews get caught out now will wish for death before the Injuns finish with them.”

Cayenne thought about Buck and his skinning crew. Even though those men deserved it, she wouldn’t want to see them tortured to death. Buck and Clint had said they were without “bites.” If trapped by Indians with no hope of escape, “biting the bullet” gave a man a quick death by suicide rather than a slow agony at the hands of a war party.

She wondered if Buck’s crew had gone back to the safety of Fort Dodge or one of the Kansas cow towns. It wasn’t likely. As greedy as they were, that bunch was probably taking their chances, still out on the plains slaughtering buffalo.

Cayenne and Maverick stayed on for several days, helping give the dead a decent burial. Mrs. Olds was glad to have the comfort of another woman. Most of the horses, except for Strawberry and Dust Devil, had either been shot and killed during the fracas or run off by the Indians. Someone rode into Fort Dodge to bring back help and alert the cavalry to the large war parties marauding through the area.

When Cayenne and Maverick finally had time to stop and look things over, it was nothing short of a miracle that only four white men were dead, including Mr. Olds who had accidently killed himself. The “Big Fifty” rifles had held almost a thousand Indians at bay. No one would ever know how many Indians were killed or wounded because the warriors managed to retrieve so many of the bodies of the fallen for death ceremonies later.

Out of curiosity, Maverick stepped off the distance from Billy Dixon’s shooting position out to where the Indian had fallen from his saddle. The distance measured an incredible 1,538 yards—eight tenths of a mile.

Maverick grunted in wonder. “A hundred years from now, men will still be talkin’ about that shot; how it turned this battle.”

Cayenne watched him. “It was you who suggested it, Maverick; you saved the day for all of us, but I suppose history books will give the credit to Billy, since he did the shooting. He does shoot well. As I remember the telling, he came in second to Papa last year when Papa won the fancy Winchester rifle the Cattlemen Association gave as first prize.”

She thought about it a moment. “Come to think about it, that’s where Papa said he met Don Durango.”

Maverick’s face went almost pale, then he seemed to recover and gave a slight shake of the head. “You’ve made a mistake, Reb. I remember the old Don coming back from that cattleman’s meeting. He didn’t mention anything about meeting any Joe McBride.”

“Maybe he forgot or didn’t think it important,” Cayenne shrugged. “But I’m sure Papa said ’the owner of the Triple D.’ I think they had a long talk about something; Papa never said exactly what.”

Maverick took off his hat and ran his hand through his black hair. “Must be a mistake,” he muttered. “The old Don would have mentioned it. . . .” His voice trailed off and he stared into space, looking puzzled.

When things were under control, the pair saddled up their horses so they could ride on.

Bat Masterson tried to convince Maverick and Cayenne to cancel their journey. “Why don’t you wait here with us?” he said as they loaded supplies from the sutler’s store on a spare packhorse. “We’ve sent a couple of men for help from Fort Dodge to the north.”

Maverick shook his head, frowning as he helped Cayenne up on Strawberry. “The stink of you hide men would gag a self-respectin’ coyote. We’ll take our chances riding south.”

Bat sneered. “You’ll take a chance, all right!” He gestured toward Cayenne. “But it ain’t fair to the lady! ”

Cayenne whistled softly under her breath to hold her temper. “I’ve a little bit of a maverick heart myself, Bat, and I need to get home!”

“But suppose you cross the trail of a war party?”

“Don’t worry about her, Bat.” Maverick’s hand went to the butt of his pistol. “I won’t let them take her.”

Could falling into the Indian’s hands be so terrible that he’d put a bullet in her brain rather than let it happen?
She shivered a little in spite of the July heat and thought again of the mysterious Annie Laurie.

Bat took off his hat and looked at her. “Cayenne, I don’t mind telling you I’ve never been so taken by a woman. I got big plans, don’t intend to be a hide man forever. You could go with me to Dodge City. . . . ”

“She’s going with me,” Maverick said softly as if he dared anyone to deny it.

She looked from one to the other and thought about the trouble awaiting her at the ranch. Duty called. No, it wasn’t duty, it was the memory of Maverick Durango’s arms around her, the feel of his hot mouth on her breasts. And yet she hated him because he was both a damned Yankee sympathizer and a Comanche—and more than that, he aroused passion in her that she had never known existed until a few days ago.