Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family) (6 page)

Trace, the old Don’s son, had been like an older brother, teaching Maverick to handle a pistol with the best of them. “Sanchez,” he smiled, “this is Miss Cayenne Carol McBride.”

“Buenos noches, Senorita.”
The old
vaquero
touched his battered hat with his disfigured right hand that was missing two fingers. Cowboys, particularly ropers, often carried this mark of the trade, one of the hazards of getting their fingers caught in the lariat as the steer tightened it.

Cayenne smiled.
“Buenos noches
to you,
Senor.”

Maverick watched her, reminding himself that he intended to use her as part of his revenge. He must not think about how pretty she looked when she smiled, how her hair looked like the mane of a wild sorrel filly, how soft and yielding she’d been in his arms. . . .

He frowned at the curiosity in the old man’s gaze. “Just as well we didn’t try to move the herd this afternoon,” Maverick snapped. “We wouldn’t want to be strung out along the trail with a storm moving in.”

“
Si
, boss. Looks like it’ll be a bad ’un.”

Maverick hooked his thumbs in his belt, watching the big herd moving restlessly in the distance.
Two thousand steers. If they ever panicked and started running . . .

“Maybe it won’t be as bad as it looks, Sanchez. But we won’t take any chances. Have half the boys riding nighthawk while the others gets some rest. At dawn we’ll take them on into the holding pens at Wichita.”

The old Mexican pulled at his gray mustache, shaking his head as he looked up at the ominous sky. Behind him, the big herd of longhorns moved restlessly, sniffing the rain-scented air. “Don’t like it, boss. If there’s much lightning and thunder—”

“Let’s not buy trouble,” Maverick said sharply. “And we’d better get a bite to eat. It may be a long night ! ”

The hands were already gathered around the campfire for their evening meal and they stood up, smiling and doffing their hats gallantly as Maverick and the girl joined them.

“Amigos,”
Maverick said, “this is Cayenne. She’s riding into Wichita with us in the morning.”

“Howdy do, miss?”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

Somehow it annoyed Maverick the way the men fell over each other to find the girl a blanket to sit on, almost fighting with each other for the chance to bring her a plate of spicy beef stew from the fire. Cayenne smiled at them one and all and made charming conversation.
She looks like a queen with her court,
he thought with annoyance as he went over and got himself some stew, sourdough biscuits, and a cup of strong “Rio” coffee.

For a moment, as he watched his crew making fools of themselves, vying for her attention, he felt a pang of unaccustomed emotion. He’d once heard a cowboy describe that unpleasant feeling as “jealousy”.

No, it couldn’t be that,
he shook his head, wolfing down the peppery beef and potatoes. He only wanted to use Cayenne to hurt Joe McBride; use her, break her heart, crush her spirit even as Annie had been hurt.

“You
hombres
better hit the blankets early,” he drawled, reaching for his sack of tobacco. “I think it’s going to be one hell of a night! ”

A handsome cowboy protested. “Heck, Maverick, we’ve hardly gotten a chance to visit with the lady!”

Maverick rolled a cigarette with one hand. “Tom, there’ll be plenty of ladies in Wichita tomorrow night to visit with once we get this herd in.”

Besides
, he thought as he lit the match with his thumbnail,
this one’s mine and you’ll never bed her.

Hell, why should he care? He shook out the Lucifer, tossing it aside as he watched the men rise reluctantly and move away from the camp fire. If some hot-blooded young
hombre
managed to get in her blankets tonight, why should Maverick care?

He inhaled and watched her get up, come toward him. The firelight reflected on her hair as she moved, and he remembered the warm scent of its silken strands entangled in his fingers.

He frowned as he stood. “Rebel, you’d better spread your blankets close to mine. . . . ”

“I will not!” she flared, hands on hips. “I wouldn’t dream of sleeping close to you, you damned Yankee sympathizer! ”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, watching her as he smoked. “Just remember, none of these men have had a woman in two months.
” Except me
, he thought with grim satisfaction, looking her over, remembering the slight scent of vanilla, the taste of her pink nipples.

Her face reddened suddenly, as if she read his thoughts, because her hand went protectively to the front of her shirt. “I suppose you’re right,” she answered reluctantly. When she got her blankets, she came over and spread them only a few feet from his.

He watched her a long moment, then with a sigh went out to check with the nighthawks, with old Sanchez. “Everything okay,
compadre?”

“Si.”
The Mexican pulled thoughtfully at his mustache. “I’ll see to things before I take to my blanket for a few hours.”

Maverick grunted, rolled a cigarette, and gave it to his old friend. “None of us will get much sleep, but we’d better try.” He looked off into the lightning patchwork of the sky, sniffing the air as he rolled a “quirley” for himself. “Rain. It’s gonna be a long night for tired cowboys.”

The old man smiled with affection and cupped his hand to protect the flame as Maverick struck the match. They both lit up and smoked a long moment, feeling no need for conversation. Sanchez had been his very good friend since Maverick had almost gotten himself hanged for butchering a steer in Don Durango’s pasture after he had run away from the Comanches forever.

“Hombre,”
he said softly, “how long we known each other?”

Sanchez shrugged. “Maybe ten years.” He smiled as if he remembered that day, too.

Maverick watched the lightning cut across the black sky like broken shards of crystal, then the thunder roared and rumbled. “Are we good friends?”

The Mexican smiled gently as he smoked. “The best. You know that, Maverick. ’Long as I got a biscuit, you got half.”

Maverick grinned at the compliment. Among the people of the great southwest, no one could pay another a higher compliment. Offering to share a last biscuit was an even deeper commitment than offering to give someone the shirt off your back.

He’d thought to confess his plot to the old man, now decided against it. He cared too much for the old Mexican to involve him in anything that might bring him trouble. “We’d better catch a little shuteye,” he grumbled, sniffing the rain-ladened wind. “Unless this blows north of us, we’ll be up soon enough.”

They ground out their cigarettes and went back over to the campfire. Most of the cowboys were already asleep. Maverick looked over at the girl, then lay down with his head on his saddle, pulling his slicker over him. Half the crew was riding nighthawk, the other half sprawled around the fire in their blankets. Lightning flashed across the turbulent sky, and seconds later, thunder rolled and echoed.

He heard a nighthawk singing softly to the nervous cattle that stamped and bellowed, shifted and shoved. The sweet scent of rain came to him, along with the scent of drought-dried grass, steers. He took another breath. Vanilla. He tried not to smile to himself as he looked at her.

Cayenne lay wrapped in her blanket. Her breasts rose and fell gently as she breathed. Maverick studied the small form. What he’d really like to do would be slip over under her cover, hold her close, make love to her again.

By damn, she’s got you thinking as loco as the crew, Maverick!
With an angry gesture, he tipped his hat over his eyes and yawned. If any
hombres
got an idea about crawling in with her tonight . . . No, they’d gotten the message. She might as well have his initials burnt right across that sweet little bottom. He’d marked her with his seed, slipping into her warmth like a hot, hard branding iron. Maybe she’d turn up pregnant.

Maverick smiled to himself as he dozed. Somehow he liked the idea of her flat little belly swelling with his child.
Si,
it would add to his revenge. Just before he tortured Joe McBride, Maverick would tell him his daughter was disgraced, carrying the child of a half-breed Comanche. It would be a grim justice. But as he floated off to sleep, he saw Annie’s big gray eyes in his mind and she smiled at him and shook her head. What was the gentle memory trying to tell him?

The loud crack of lightning brought him out of his blankets with a start. Even as he scrambled to his feet, he heard the thunder rumble and shake the night like the vibrations of a dozen giant thunderbirds swooping past.

“Hit leather, boys!” Maverick shouted. “I don’t think the nighthawks can hold ’em!”

Men came up out of their blankets, grabbing for their hats as the big herd moved restlessly, milling, while little darts of fire played off the longhorns.

Cayenne ran over to him. “I can help! At home, Papa depends on me—

“Hell, no!” He brushed her hand off as he turned toward the hobbled
remuda
of horses. “I got enough trouble without worrying about a girl getting caught in that herd!”

Even as he saddled the big gray, he saw the girl running with a bridle. By damn! When she got hold of an idea, she hung onto it as stubborn as a snapping turtle!

“No,” he shouted at her. “Don’t, Cayenne! The men can handle this! ”

And then the fast-moving storm made a liar out of him. Even as he started to swing up into the saddle, lightning lit the blackness bright as Judgment Day. He smelled acrid sulphur, and thunder rolled and shook the ground as the startled longhorns bawled in terror and milled frantically.

“Get those saddles on, boy!” Maverick shouted, forgetting about the girl in the excitement. “If we can kee them milling—”

It was already too late for that. When the orange lightning fired the sky again, he saw the nighthawks on the outskirts, struggling to keep the steers milling. But in spite of all they could do, the cattle moved and stamped like a great, living wave. And then they began to run.

Maverick swore loudly as he dug spurs into the great gray. But Dust Devil, named for the small tornados that swirled often across the dusty prairie, needed no urging. The giant horse, pale as fog, lunged forward to race along the outer edge of the galloping herd.

“Stampede!” Maverick shouted over the roar of running cattle. “Stampede!”

There were only three words that made a Texan’s heart pound in terror, he thought grimly as he leaned over the big stallion’s neck, urging him into a gallop.
Comanche. Prairie fire. Stampede.

A man who had dealt with any of those three was not ashamed to admit his terror. “Stampede!” Maverick shouted again. He saw the crew strung out along the cattle’s path, galloping into the darkness to overtake the running herd.

The rain came down hard suddenly, driving like needles against his face. He couldn’t see but still he leaned forward, urging the gray on. Someone had to overtake the leaders, get them milling in a circle. And longhorns had a peculiar habit: They always milled to the right, Maverick remembered, the rain cold and wet on his sweating face. Since all cowboys knew that, they might use it to their advantage, pushing the herd toward confused milling. But the driving rain only terrified the galloping cattle more and they charged blindly onward.

The cattle might run for miles and go over those rock ledges along that little creek where he and Cayenne had stopped this afternoon, he thought with sudden alarm. He’d seen that happen before-cattle running blindly off a ledge, the leaders crushed and bellowing under the onrushing stampede. They had to stop the herd, get it milling!

Prairie dogs.
The thought came to him as he galloped through the darkness, but he concentrated on the running herd and didn’t look toward the ground, trying to push the thought from his mind. If there were prairie dog holes anywhere in his dark path, the gray might step in one, stumble, and go down with a broken leg. Maverick shuddered at the thought. He’d seen what was left of a cowboy whose horse had fallen before a maddened cattle herd. Thousands of sharp hooves and tons of running beef had crushed both man and gelding into one shapeless, indistinguishable mass.

He was out in front of the herd now, galloping along, firing his pistol, trying to turn the leaders.

He saw old Sanchez moving in from the other direction, firing his Colt, too. They weren’t going to be able to stop them!

Lightning rent the sky and he saw Tom caught in the herd to one side, his paint horse carried along by the momentum. And Cayenne! Dammit! What was she doing out here? The light reflected off her fiery hair and he realized she was trying to work her way through the herd to reach Tom. Then Tom’s paint stumbled and went down.

Maverick saw the cowboy’s startled, terrified face in the flashing light, then horse and rider went under a brown wave of moving cattle. Without thinking, he said a prayer to his spirit animal, the eagle, although he knew it was too late for Tom. But they had the herd milling now!

It seemed a scene right out of hell, hooves flashing, the roaring thunder of cattle galloping, slowing, stumbling. He smelt the heat and stink of the herd, felt the cold rain driving against his face. The cattle slowed and began milling to the right the way longhorns always did. The night was as black as the devil’s heart and Maverick might as well have been blind.

Cayenne! Where was Cayenne? He reined in sharply, causing the big gray to rear. The lightning cut a jagged path across the sky and he saw her caught now among the milling cattle, her frightened bay horse staggering and stumbling to stay on its feet.

He saw her pale lips form the word “Maverick,” but if she cried out, he couldn’t hear her over the thundering, milling cattle. The rain plastered her long hair against her as it did her shirt, outlining those small, proud breasts.

He would be risking death to fight his way through all those tons of beef.
His enemy’s daughter.
His own shirt plastered wetly to his back as he urged his gallant mount forward. “Hang on, baby, I’m coming!”