Tykota's Woman (Historical Romance) (4 page)

And as if that was not enough, a month after
her brother had died, the bank foreclosed on their
small house. She had been in despair when her
sister, Adelaide, had written to invite Makinna to
come live with her and her husband in
California. When Adelaide married a miner and
merchant ten years earlier and moved west,
Makinna had missed her dreadfully. Their only
contact had been through letters. But upon
receiving Makinna's details of their mother's
and brother's deaths, Adelaide had insisted
Makinna come to California.

Makinna had had to sell her mother's jewelry to have money for the trip, but she couldn't part
with the wedding ring that her father had given
her mother. She gazed down at the wide gold
band on her finger. At the last moment, she'd
decided to wear it. If people thought she was a
widow it might make her traveling alone more
acceptable.

Would she find a life for herself in California?
she wondered for the hundredth time. Her
sister's last letter had been filled with plans.
Pretty, with their father's brown hair and gray
eyes, Adelaide was older than she by six years,
and Makinna tried to imagine what her sister
would look like now.

Makinna sighed. Whatever promise California
did or did not hold for her future, she'd had
nothing to keep her in New Orleans, except
sadness and memories. She hadn't had a social
life in years. Even though her mother had
pressed her to attend parties, she had been
reluctant to leave her helpless and alone and had
refused every invitation until the invitations had
stopped coming. Maybe her venture into the
unknown would prove exciting.

She stared out at the swirling dust and
frowned, remembering something. As a young
girl, she had dreamed of adventure and of sharing
it with the perfect man who would love her as
passionately as she loved him. She was older
now, twenty, and so tired that she no longer
dreamed of adventure or the perfect man. Or any man, for that matter. At her age it was highly
unlikely that she would find a suitable mate.

Makinna was jerked out of her musing by the
sound of Mr. Rumford's voice. "If you're
interested in the history of this area, it's really
quite colorful. There are legends of hidden gold
and Indian curses and a tribe no white man has
ever met and lived to tell about."

"Now, there you have me intrigued," Mr.
Carruthers admitted, leaning forward, his eyes
aglow with interest. "I need a few fierce stories
to tell the missus when I get back to St. Louis.
She envisioned dangers lurking all along the
way, with outlaws and Indians waiting in
ambush behind every cactus to hold up the
stage."

"Well, the Indian tribe I was speaking of is
called the Perdenelas, and it is said that they are
fiercer even than the Apache. It isn't that they
come looking to do you harm, like the Apache,
but that if you invade their sacred land or try to
tamper with their hidden treasure, you will
simply disappear, never to be heard of again."

Mr. Carruthers blinked excitedly. "Tell me
more about the Perdenelas and the treasure."

Mr. Rumford knew he'd found an avid
audience as he usually did when he spoke of the
gold of the Perdenelas. "No one knows exactly
where their land is located. A few misguided
souls with gold fever have ventured into the desert, seeking their treasure. Most of them
never returned, and those who did were halfstarved and ranting about evil spirits. Don't
know what they encountered out there, but
evidently something drives them out of their
minds."

Alvin Carruthers laughed nervously. "You're
trying to lead me down a fool's path, aren't
you?"

"Judge for yourself. The word lately is that the
old chief of the Perdenelas has died and that his
chosen son will be taking his place. No one
seems to know much about the son, but they say
he may be far more ruthless than his father."

The man across from Makinna shifted his
position, and his knee bumped hers. She drew
back, tucking her legs away from him.

She didn't want to believe there was a tribe in
these parts that was even more ruthless than the
Apache. But what if Mr. Rumford spoke the
truth? She shivered and glanced out the window
at the vast desert, thinking few could survive in
that wasteland.

What kind of man would it take to live out
there?

Makinna relaxed a bit when Mr. Carruthers
smiled and said, "I believe you're trying to pull
a ruse on me, Mr. Rumford. I've heard about
some of the tales you Westerners spin to ensnare
us city folk."

"I won't deny that I've been guilty of weaving
a little trickery with tenderfoots in the past, but
what I tell you now is not a sham. At least, I
believe there's some validity to the story, since
it's spoken of among the other Indian tribes."

Mr. Carruthers still looked skeptical. "Very
well, then. Why don't you tell me more about
your mysterious Indian tribe and their hidden
gold? Who knows? I may decide to take up a
shovel and go looking myself."

"This is as much as I know," Mr. Rumford continued. "The legend says that the Perdenelas
live in a secret oasis in the desert called Valle de
la Luna, which means Moon Valley. Their
sacred mountain is called the Mountain of the
Moon. Hidden somewhere in that mountain is a
vast treasure, its exact location known only to
the chief. The secret is supposedly passed down
only from father to son."

Excitement flashed in Mr. Carruthers's eyes.
"Where'd the treasure come from?"

Mr. Rumford shrugged. "Perhaps a mine,
maybe lost Spanish gold. No one knows for
sure."

"It's just as I thought. What you're saying is
that no one knows anything for a fact."

"Well, there's no tangible proof, if that's what
you're asking, but there's evidence enough to
make me consider that there might be some truth
in the tale."

"No, no. I will not go along with you on this
unless you can give me something substantial,"
Mr. Carruthers challenged.

Mr. Rumford shook his head. "I, too, am a bit
skeptical, but bear in mind that this is a legend
that will not die." He turned to the window,
suddenly pensive. "I personally witnessed a man
crawling out of the desert, raving like a lunatic,
swearing he'd seen a lush, green valley hidden
by twin peaks in the middle of the desert, and
that he'd entered the face of the mountain."

"Nonsense!" Carruthers said scornfully. "The
man had probably been too long in the sun, and
it had addled his brain."

"Maybe, maybe not," Mr. Rumford replied.
"But that man had a nugget clutched in his
hand that was the purest gold I've ever seen.
Explain that if you can." He shifted his weight.
"I'll tell you something else. I met up with an
Indian who scouted for the army over at Ft.
Bliss. He was a Mescalero Apache, and he swore
the Perdenelas do exist. Told me there was bad
blood between them and the Chiricahua
Apache-something about trouble between the
old chief and his second wife. It seems she was
from the Chiricahua tribe and was jealous of
the chief's son by his first wife. Apparently she
and her son were forced to go back to her tribe
in shame. He said the young chief would
appear when the tribe needed him. If the old
chief is dead, I reckon they'll be needing him
now."

"Unquestionably a yarn made up by someone
with a superstitious mind," Mr. Carruthers stated
emphatically. "But it makes .a good tale."

"I don't know. That Apache was mighty
fidgety and nervous, looking around to see if
anyone was listening as he told me the story.
And I've learned over the years that it takes a lot
to scare an Apache."

"You will never make me believe these yarns
of hidden treasures and mysterious Indian tribes. This is the nineteenth century, not the
Dark Ages," Mr. Carruthers said firmly.

Horace Rumford turned to Makinna and
asked, "Does my tale tap into your sense of
adventure, Mrs. Hillyard? Aren't you just a little
captivated by the thought of a secret Indian tribe
and hidden treasure?"

She shuddered. "I'm afraid I'll have to go
along with Mr. Carruthers on this. I saw my first
Indians at the way station at Manora, Texas, and
they were certainly not mysterious or captivating
but wretched and pitiable. They looked lean and
hungry and desperate for a crust of bread. One of
them looked at me with those dark, piercing
eyes, and I was terrified."

"But you defended the Indians just a while
ago," he reminded her.

"To defend their right to this land is not the
same as being eager to keep company with them
on it. No, I want nothing to do with any Indians,
least of all your dangerous, feuding Perdenelas
and Apaches."

The man sitting across from Makinna chose
that moment to remove his hat and place it on his
lap. And Makinna looked into the darkest, most
contemptuous eyes she'd ever seen. The man's
face was bronzed, his cheekbones high, and his
hair even blacker than his eyes.

In spite of his manner of dress, there was no
mistaking the fact that he was an Indian.

Fear clutched her heart, and Makinna pressed her back against the seat to gain as much
distance as she could in such a limited space.
She quickly glanced at the other two men, who
appeared to be as shocked as she was.

After a heavy silence, Mr. Rumford was the
first to speak. "Sir, we have not been introduced,
since you were asleep when we boarded. Name's
Rumford, and this is Mr. Carruthers." He chose
not to introduce Makinna.

The Indian did not offer his name or
acknowledge the introduction except with the
slightest nod of his head.

This did not deter Mr. Rumford. "You from
these parts?"

The Indian nodded.

Mr. Rumford prodded further. "El Paso?"

"That general vicinty."

Makinna had averted her eyes from the Indian,
but she now looked at him. His voice was deep,
but what mystified her was that he'd spoken with
a decided English accent.

"You been abroad?" Mr. Carruthers asked,
eyeing the Indian's fine clothes. He, too, had
detected the English accent.

"Yes. I have."

Mr. Rumford continued his questioning.
"Sounds like you spent a good deal of time in
England-is that right?"

The Indian drew in a long-suffering breath.
"Yes." It was obvious he did not want to make
conversation with his traveling companions.

Mr. Rumford ventured still further. "I was just
telling Mr. Carruthers about the legends of the
Perdenelas tribe. Do you know if they really
exist or if they're merely mythical?"

"I can tell you nothing."

"You're an Indian, aren't you?" Mr.
Carruthers asked. "Mr. Rumford here said that
other Indians know something about these
Perdenelas stories. Why don't you tell us what
you know?" he added with a somewhat superior,
condescending air.

The Indian's eyes were piercing as he gazed at
the man from St. Louis, and his voice held a hint
of irritation. "I said that I can tell you nothing
about the Perdenelas."

Mr. Rumford was clearly annoyed with the
arrogance of the Indian and decided to put him in
his place. "I'm a Butterfield Stage Line
representative, and it's our usual policy that
Indians ride topside if they are allowed to board
the Butterfield Line at all."

The stranger's gaze and voice hardened.
"Your agent took my gold, and I will ride here."

"Well, uh, you seem civilized, so I'm sure
there's no harm in your riding here as far as the
way station," Mr. Rumford blustered in
irritation.

The Indian turned to look out the window.

Makinna studied his profile. She had seen
handsome men before, but none as handsome as
this one. His cheekbones were high and pro nounced, his jaw square and strong, and
altogether his face was as beautiful as any
chiseled in stone. She was ashamed of her own
comments and of the way Mr. Rumford and Mr.
Carruthers had treated him. She wondered what
he must be thinking about his fellow travelers.
There was a guarded tension in him, and she
sensed something powerful and dangerous about
him. Once again, she was grateful for her veil so
the Indian would not know that she was studying
him so intently.

Then, as if he sensed her gaze on him, the
Indian turned his head to look at her, and she had
the sensation that he could see right through the
veil. Her heart began to beat so fast that she
could hardly breathe. Her hand instinctively
went to the door handle and she gripped it
tightly. For a fleeting moment, she thought she
detected something haunted in his expression,
but it was quickly replaced by a look of sardonic
amusement. Finally he looked away and turned
his gaze out the window.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in
uncomfortable silence, even Mr. Rumford
having ceased trying to make conversation.

Makinna was relieved when the coach
ultimately came to a rocking halt. They had
arrived at Adobe Springs. Mr. Rumford helped
her from the stage, and when she entered the
station house, she was greeted by a thin pinched-looking woman who introduced herself
as Mrs. Browning. The woman instantly began
to chat, but Makinna pleaded weariness and
asked to be shown directly to her room.