Chapter 8

Clay McAlester crested the hill and surveyed the desert beneath, his weary eyes squinting to focus, searching for some sign of life, of movement. From above, the blistering sun beat down, burning his head through the black felt hat, and below, undulating waves of heat came up from the land.

He’d been in the saddle all night, and he was tired. He’d planned to go on to Davis, but while cutting for sign, he’d come across enough broken brush to know that a large war party had recently passed within a few miles of the fort. And judging by the width of the path, they were returning from a horse raid, probably in Old Mexico.

It was enough to make him follow them north, hopefully to Quanah Parker’s summer camp. If he found Quanah, he’d know where the Comancheros were coming. The trick would be to get between them before a deal could be made, and he had no illusions as to the difficulty of that. Sanchez-Torres was wily, enough so that he’d never actually been caught with anything more than a few empty wagons. He was, he always protested vigorously, merely in the salt business. Never mind that he was miles away from the El Paso flats or that there was never any trace of salt in the wagons.

But now the sun played tricks on his eyes, making halos when he blinked. If he had any sense, he’d just make a cold camp for the day and wait for nightfall. A little water, some buffalo jerky, and pinon nuts, and he’d probably feel a whole lot better. He half turned in the saddle, looking back toward his mule. The animal regarded him balefully from beneath his trail packs.

“All right, Hannibal,” he murmured. “I guess this is about as good a place as any to stop.”

At least it provided a good view all around, making an ambush impossible. He shrugged his aching shoulders, then swung out of his worn saddle and pulled off his bedroll. Using rocks to prop up his rifle and shotgun for posts, he draped the blanket between them, affording him shelter from the high sun. Uncinching his saddle, he dragged it and his saddle bags off, and carried them to his makeshift tent. Then he unloaded the mule. While the two animals drifted a few yards away to nibble on mesquite, he settled in.

Opening a saddle bag, he pulled out a cloth-wrapped package and took a day’s ration of what Hap called “damned Injun food.” Leaning back against his saddle, he began chewing thoughtfully, his mind on the job ahead of him.

As much as he wanted to stop the Comanchero trade, he didn’t really want to set himself against Quanah—or any other Comanche, for that matter. So far, he’d avoided testing his own loyalties, mostly because he and Hap had a private understanding that he wouldn’t be asked to hunt Comanches. He’d move to the border to fight Mexican rustlers, or to Ysleta to track unfriendly Apaches, but he still had a great deal of respect for the Indians who’d raised him.

But as he’d told Amanda Ross, Comancheros were another matter. With their guns and whiskey they were hastening the end of the People. Allies now, Texas and the U.S. Army stood ready to kill every Comanche, if that’s what it would take to stop the raiding. And Mackenzie had proven last August that he could take the fight to the Comanche when he’d struck at them in the canyons that laced the Llano Estacado, deep in the heart of Comancheria.

But it would be hard, if not impossible, to look Quanah Parker in the face and tell the half-breed war chief he couldn’t have the guns. Not when Quanah believed the war trail was the only path left to survival. Not when he believed life on a reservation would mean the death of the People.

It was coming, whether Quanah wanted to accept it or not. But Clay didn’t want to be there when Colonel Mackenzie and his cavalry herded them across the Red River into the Indian Territories. Sometimes he still thought if they had any chance of surviving, of keeping the land, he’d want to stand with them. But as his Aunt Jane had once said, if wishes were pigs, he’d have pork chops every day. And it was too late to go back. He’d never be fourteen again.

He finished his food and reached for his hat. Lying down, he started to put it over his face when something caught his attention. In the distance dark specks circled in the sky. He watched them for a few minutes before he rolled over, reached into his saddlebags, and drew out his glass. Squinting again, he looked through it.

Buzzards. Four of them.

Adjusting the glass, he looked to the dry earth below, expecting to see the rotting carcass of a wild longhorn or a javelina. As he drew the lens back toward his position, he saw something else. Two thin ribbons cut into the dust. Wagon tracks. He felt the prickle of excitement just looking at them.

Alert now, he stood up, debating whether to leave his gear in his camp, or whether to saddle up and follow the trail at high sun. Another look at the wagon tracks decided him. Sometimes, to fool Texas authorities, a line of wagons would keep to the same tracks, making it look as though only one had come through. He dragged his saddle from beneath his makeshift tent and threw it on his paint mare, cinching it beneath her belly. “Come on, Sarah,” he murmured, running his hand along her neck. “We’ve got to get a move on.”

Walking to where the blanket still shaded the small spot of ground, he rolled it up, draped the saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up his Whitney and the Henry rifle, and reset the hat on his head. The guns were almost too hot to hold. Carrying them back, he fastened the bedroll and checked the rifle before sheathing it in the saddle scabbard. As he secured the packs on the mule, the animal threw back its head and bared its teeth in protest.

“Sorry, Hannibal,” he murmured sympathetically. “But it looks like it’s going to be a workday.”

The mule’s ears flattened and its nostrils flared, then as the paint nudged it with her nose, it accepted the inevitable. Clay mounted the mare, settled the shotgun in front of him, and dug his moccasins into the animal’s side.

As Sarah moved down the hill, he almost forgot his earlier fatigue. No, there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of finding a trail early on. He might just get lucky. Maybe the rumors were wrong—maybe Sanchez-Torres was coming from farther south. If he was, it would sure save Clay some unpleasant choices.

Distances were deceiving—it took him nearly three-quarters of an hour to reach the wagon tracks, and then he was disappointed. While a quick study of the ground told him they were fresh, probably not much more than a day old, if that, it also told him that the wagon was too light to be carrying a full load of guns. And instead of heading northward, it had made a turn and gone back.

He squinted up at the sky and saw that the buzzards were still hovering, waiting almost lazily for whatever it was to die. He took out his glass, rubbed the eyepiece on his shirt sleeve, then took a quick visual sweep of the area.

There, lying next to a gnarled mesquite, was a dead animal. No, it was a brown hump. Refocusing the glass, he narrowed his vision. It was an article of clothing—some sort of bustle. And just beyond it lay a crinoline snagged on a clump of prickly pear.

He rode down for a closer look. It was a bustle all right. Dismounting, he went for the other undergarment. Tangled with it was a fancy lace-trimmed chemise. The hem, scalloped to show small embroidered roses and tiny pink bows, tore as he freed it. It was dainty, fragile, as though it had been possessed by a lady of wealth rather than by a homesteader’s wife.

Carrying the clothing, he caught a glimpse of corset some twenty-five feet away, probably dragged there by a nocturnal animal who’d abandoned it upon the discovery that elastic and whalebone made poor eating. He retrieved that also. As he held it up, he could see the fancy frill above the front hooks, reminding him of the lace he’d seen across Amanda Ross’s cleavage. It was far finer than anything he’d seen in bordellos and border cantinas. He stuffed the crinoline and chemise into his bedroll and tied the bustle and corset on by their laces.

The most obvious answer was that part of the Comanche war party had passed this way with a female captive. And unless he missed his guess, when he found the body, it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight. The last one he’d found had been scalped, skewered on a lance, and hung on a tree, still alive when he found her—Jacob Misner’s widow. The only help he’d been able to give the woman was a burial, followed by the few remembered words of a hymn spoken rather than sung. It had seemed woefully inadequate even then.

He considered going on. It wouldn’t make much difference, anyway, and he was short on time. But the buzzards were still there. Reluctantly, he remounted and headed toward them again. Judging from the fact that they were south and the Indians had been going north, the captive could have been killed or left to die anywhere along the trail, and the clothes could have been thrown away as the war party lost interest in them. But that didn’t explain the wagon. Nor did it explain the cleanly swept path that ran along side the faint tracks—a path that looked like cloth had been dragged over it.

He thought of Amanda Ross. She and Sandoval had left Stockton early yesterday, and by now they ought to be almost to the Ybarra. At least they’d been on the Overland Road most of the way to Davis, and they probably wouldn’t have encountered a war party on that route.

Looking down, he saw the imprint of small square heels that went on for several steps, then they disappeared. Now he understood—a woman had been walking across the desert, and her skirts had brushed her footprints from the dust. But what the hell was she doing alone in the middle of the west Texas desert? Had she somehow managed to escape from her captors? While it wasn’t likely, it was possible. While he’d been with the State Police, a naked woman had stumbled into his camp, bloodied, bruised, and in one hell of a shape. She’d crawled out on her hands and knees while the Comanches slept, and by some quirk of fate, she’d found him.

No, he had to look for this one. As hard and disciplined as he considered himself, he couldn’t leave a woman to die out there. He hadn’t been able to do anything to save her, but he’d been there to hold Mrs. Misner when she died. He straightened in his saddle and nudged Sarah with his knees, turning her back onto the faint wagon trail.

It was probably another half hour before he found where she’d stopped. Dropping down to study the dusty earth more carefully, he discovered a threaded cap. And a few feet away, there was the empty canteen, along with a pair of women’s shoes. He picked them up, then stood. Looking upward, he checked the location of the buzzards again.

Damn, but it was hot. Hot enough to boil water on a rock, Hap would say. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat that ran down his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He’d lost so much sweat that he felt dizzy, and he was used to being out like this. But somewhere out there, there was a woman with no water, few clothes, and no shoes.

He climbed into the saddle again and rode slowly now, fixing his gaze on the ground, making sure he did not miss her trail. And with each plodding step, his appreciation of how far she’d managed to come grew. He was following one hell of a woman. She was doing her damnest not to die.

Ahead, one of the buzzards swooped low, testing its target. Clay raised the shotgun and fired, killing it and scattering the others. They rose higher, but did not leave. For good measure, he fired again, taking down another.

And then he saw a bare, bloodied foot extending from behind a stunted stand of scrub oak. But any exhilaration he’d felt at the discovery was soon dispelled by the realization that the body was prone and unmoving. Afraid he was too late, he reined in and swung down. Taking his canteen, he walked toward her.

What he saw stunned him. It was Amanda Ross. She lay there, her head cradled by one of her arms, her other hand holding a purse with a short-barreled revolver half out of it. She wasn’t moving.

Her closed eyes were sunk in the sockets, and a small trickle of blood had dried on her cracked lips. He knelt and turned her over gently, then probed along her neck for a pulse. It was faint and uneven, but it was there. His hand moved lower, slipping under the unbuttoned waist of her dress. Her ribs rose and fell rapidly, shallowly, beneath his touch. And her skin was as hot and dry as if she ran a high fever. But at least she’d used her hat and handkerchief to shade her face, so that the worst of her sunburn was on her cheeks and throat.

“Miss Ross—Amanda—can you hear me?” he asked gently. “It’s me—Clay McAlester.”

She didn’t respond. Lifting one of her lids, he saw the pupil narrow. He pried open her jaw and checked her tongue. It was nearly black from the lack of water. Another hour or so and she’d have been dead when he found her. But right now she was alive, and he was going to do his damnedest to keep her that way.

The trick was going to be getting enough water in her quickly enough to do any good. And if he managed that, then he could turn his attention to the rest of her. Lifting her, he balanced her shoulders with his knee while he unscrewed the cap of his canteen.

“Come on, girl—you’ve made it this far. Don’t give up now,” he coaxed, holding the bottle’s lip to hers. Her hand came up weakly, brushing at his wrist, then fell limply to her side. “Amanda, it’s McAlester,” he told her. “Come on—just a sip for now. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters.”

Dazed eyes fluttered but did not fully open. “Papa,” she croaked.

She was hallucinating, but that was to be expected. He slid an arm beneath her shoulder, taking care to touch the cloth as much as possible. Thankfully, she hadn’t discarded her dress, or she’d have been sun-poisoned from the burn.

“It’s all right, Amanda—all you’ve got to do is drink, and I’ll take care of the rest.” He held the canteen to her lips. “Come on—drink.” He tipped it slightly, allowing a small trickle. As he watched, her throat constricted, telling him she swallowed. “That’s good. Just a little more—not too much.” But even as he said it, the water hit her stomach, and she began to retch. He shifted her against his leg and watched helplessly as the water came up.

“Come on—not so much next time. We can’t afford to waste it.” Trying again, he kept his grip on the canteen, giving her only enough to wet her dark tongue. “That’s better.”

“Papa—”

“Don’t try to talk. Just take it easy.”

“He threw me Papa … I hurt …,” she mumbled incoherently.

“One more sip, then I’ve got to get you out of the sun,” he said, tipping the canteen again. “That’s enough for now.”

It wasn’t nearly enough, and he knew it, but it was a start. Now if he could keep her alive until nightfall, if he could keep her drinking, he thought she could make it. All he had to do was figure out how to cool her off before her body temperature affected her brain. Maybe it already had, but he hoped not.

Easing her to the ground, he stood up and looked around before retrieving his bedroll. Undoing it, he spread it between two mesquite bushes for a shade. Then he laid his saddle beneath it and covered that with his coat. It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it would have to do. It felt like she didn’t weigh much more than her bones when he lifted her, then eased her body down under the makeshift shelter.

“I’m giving you one more drink,” he told her, “then I’m going to try to make you feel better. You’ve got to keep this down, Amanda.” This time he did not raise her to drink. Instead, he pulled out a corner of her cracked lower lip and let a small amount of the warm water trickle in. He watched her swallow. “No more,” he said, taking the bottle away.

Her lip trembled. “He threw me, Papa … I didn’t mean …”

“It’s McAlester,” he said again. “Clay McAlester. And you’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.”

“No … no …” She blinked, clearly uncomprehending. “Don’t kill him, Papa,” she whispered.

She’d had a heatstroke, he was sure of that. But he hoped her mind would come back when he got enough water into her. He stood up again and dusted his hands on his leggings.

“Mama, tell him …” She turned her head as though she could see someone. “Tell him … he didn’t mean …”

Going to his saddlebags, he took out his Bowie knife, then stood there, looking for something useful. He settled on a clump of prickly pear. But he’d need a fire to burn off the needles, and he wasn’t sure he had the time to make one. No, he’d just have to cut them off.

He went to work harvesting the flat, round leaves, sawing off the spines. As dry as it was, he wasn’t going to get much out of them, but it would be better than nothing, he told himself. And whatever he could get would help save his water.

As he straightened up, his eyes caught the dust clouds in the distance, then the riders. A straggling war party, he guessed, and by the time he identified himself, it just might be too late. He grabbed the Henry rifle and cocked the hammer, thinking it was a hell of a place to make a stand. Out in the open with nothing close but buckbrush and mesquite for cover. Edging behind the paint, he dropped the Bowie knife and leaned down for the shotgun. Now he could count six of them.

They spied him, and sped toward him, raising a high-pitched war cry. It was a choice between trying to take all of them or brazening it out. But there was Amanda Ross to consider, and if he took a bullet in the exchange, he had a fair notion of what they’d do to her before she died. In a split second he made up his mind to gamble.

He held both guns up in full view and shouted “Nermernuh!” then threw them down as the war party closed in on him. Walking with a confidence he did not feel, he went to meet them.

A tall, barrel-chested Indian separated from the others, riding hell for leather, whooping for show, making a wide circle around Clay. He waved a war lance, shaking the scalps that hung from it. Coming around again, he made another circle, this one much closer. When McAlester did not flinch, he reined in, his painted face scowling as though he were trying to stare the white man down. The crow feathers in his scalplock indicated he was Kiowa, rather than Comanche. He poised his lance as though he would strike.

Another Kiowa rode up and, leaning from his saddle, pushed the lance down with his hand. “No Tejano,” he said, using Spanish. Looking to Clay, he gestured, asking, “Nermernuh?”

“Nokoni,” Clay answered.

Seemingly satisfied, the apparent leader turned back, addressing the others, saying that the Kiowas and Comanches were brothers who hunted and made war together. As a murmur of agreement passed between them, Clay exhaled his relief. He’d done it. Even to a Kiowa, a Nerm was a Nerm, whether Quahadi, Nokoni, Penateka or any of the other bands.

The barrel-chested one began to sign, asking how his Comanche brother was called. Clay hesitated, then swept the air with his hand before answering. Raising his hand at a right angle from his elbow, he indicated Stands. His eyes on the war leader, he added the sign of Alone.

“Nahakoah,” he said aloud.

The Kiowa repeated the Comanche name. Clay nodded. It was out in the open, lying between them, either a bridge or a chasm. The warrior rode in a slow circle around him, then reined in, a smile splitting his wide face. His hands talked, giving his name, then he said it.

“Wabetai.” Two Owls.

The others followed suit. Fast Wolf. Big Head. Bent Tree. A youth called Little Eagle. And the war leader of the party was Stone Hand. They were on their way back from Mexico, Two Owls said, headed toward the Llano, and they’d been guarding the rear of the larger Comanche war party. Now they were trying to catch up to it so they could make their triumphant entrance into Ketanah’s camp together.

Ketanah. Clay recognized the name of his mother’s cousin, and his heart beat faster as a certain exhilaration coursed through him. Ketanah was alive, and he had a band of his own.

Two Owls saw Amanda and asked, “Who?”

“My woman,” Clay told him. “She’s sick.”

“What ails here?”

“The sun. She needs water.”

“Bad time. No water.”

“Yes.”

The Indian grunted sympathetically. His curiosity aroused, he dismounted to take a closer look. Bending over, he reached a dirty hand to touch Amanda’s hair, then her face. “Ummmh,” he said, straightening up. Looking back to Clay, he noted, “Very bad.”

“Yes.”

The Indian rose and untied a bloated buffalo paunch from behind his saddle. “For your woman,” the big Kiowa’s hands spoke. “No water, woman will die. You take. Ketanah’s camp at spring beyond gap.”

Given the heat and the fact that the closest water was a good ride away, it was a generous gift. Clay nodded, then went to his own packs, where he found the rest of the cigarillos he’d taken from Javier and Little Pedro. He gave them to the Kiowa, who bobbed his head, grinning broadly.

Stone Hand called out, saying they had to leave if they were to catch up to the others. Two Owls nodded, then signed hurriedly for Clay. Ketanah’s band was Noconi, and there was a good medicine woman there. Nahakoah ought to take his woman to Nahdehwah, who could cure everything, even ghost sickness. With that the big Kiowa remounted, and the small party took off. About a hundred yards out, Two Owls held up the fistful of little cigars, then kicked his horse. The party disappeared in a cloud of choking dust.

Clay took his washpan from his packs and went back to work on Amanda. Using water from the buffalo paunch, he began wetting her face and neck to cool her down. Then he splashed her from her neck downward. The wet cloth clung to her breasts, revealing the nipples, but that hardly mattered now. All he knew was that if he didn’t get her fever down, he’d be riding to Davis with her body tied over Hannibal’s packs. And then all hell would break loose in Austin.

“Amanda, can you understand me?” he asked, shaking her.

Her eyes opened and her tongue worked to make words in her dry mouth. “I … saw … Indians,” she whispered. “Thirsty … so thirsty.”

“They’re gone, but they left you some water.”

Her head was pounding, and dizziness again threatened to overwhelm her. “My head …”

“I know.” He held the canteen for her, and she took a couple of swallows before pushing it away.

“So sick … so sick …”

“Yeah. You’re way too hot, and if we don’t get you cooled off, you’re going to be in one hell of a fix.”

“I am.”

“You can’t drink much, but you’ve got to drink often. Otherwise, you’re going to lose it as fast as I get it into you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He felt her forehead, then her cheeks with the back of his hand. Her face was like fire. He knew what he had to do, and he knew she wasn’t going to like it. He took a deep breath, then reached for the front of her gown.

“Amanda, I don’t want you to think I’ve got any wrong notions or that I’m going to take advantage of you, but the only way I know to do this is to get you wet all over. I’ve done it before on overheated horses,” he added conversationally as he began working on her buttons. Her hands caught his, but he brushed them aside. “Don’t. You can make this a whole lot easier on both of us if you don’t fight me.”

She didn’t have enough strength to stop him, and she knew it. As he pushed the bodice down from her shoulders, baring her breasts, she closed her eyes. Leaning her over his arm, he pushed the sleeves down over her hands. As he laid her back again, he grasped the hem of her skirt and yanked it off, leaving only her frilled drawers.

He poured water from the paunch into the pan, then took the dirty handkerchief she’d had on her head and wrung it out in the water. Using it for a rag, he began washing her hot skin from her forehead to her chin, her neck to her breasts, her arms, her legs below the drawers. He repeated the process several times until it seemed as though she was cooler to his touch. Then he picked up his hat and fanned her damp skin vigorously.

“Feel better?”

“No,” she choked out.

As sick as she was, he knew she was mortified. “Hey, don’t you know you don’t have anything I haven’t seen somewhere else?”

She swallowed visibly, but didn’t open her eyes. “No.”

He felt her forehead. “Yeah, Amanda, I think we did some good with that bath. Now if you can just drink enough, pretty soon you’re going to feel a whole lot better.”

“Please …” Her hand reached toward her dress.

He shook his head. “You need to let the water dry on you—that’s what cools you down.” Instead of the dress, he shook out the wet handkerchief and laid it across her breasts. It didn’t cover much, but maybe she wouldn’t know it.

“One more drink,” he decided, lifting her against his knee. She was greedy now, and her hands held his wrist, pulling the canteen closer. Now he was afraid she was getting too much. “Whoa—that’s enough.”

She lay back. “Ramon—”

“I know.”

“I have to tell—he—”

“It’s all right. We’ll take care of him later.”

But she wanted him to know. “He left me … he left … I walked … I walked …” “You don’t have to say anything—I followed your trail for miles.”

“I couldn’t …” She licked her cracked lips. “… walk anymore.”

“I saw that.”

“He tried to kill me,” she whispered. “He shot at me, but he missed. I fell, and—”

“It’s over. In a few days, you’ll be all right.”

“But … he tried to … kill me.”

He had to keep her calm. Reaching over, he smoothed her tangled auburn hair back from her temples. “He won’t get away with it, not now. I reckon you and the state of Texas are going to have one hell of a surprise for him. What you need to do now is get some rest.”

She was still dizzy, and her eyes were so sore it hurt to blink, but she felt a certain satisfaction just knowing she’d survived. That she was going to live to see Ramon Sandoval hanged. That God was going to let her get even.

“Thanks,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.

Clay heaved his tired body up and went to get the prickly pear he’d cut for her. Returning, he sank down and began slitting each piece open. When he was finished, he rubbed the wet insides over her face, her burnt forearms, and her swollen, blistered feet. It wasn’t agave, but it was better than nothing.

Crawling under the makeshift tent, he lay down and set his hat over his face, covering his eyes against the light. The day was more than half over, and he still had a long way to ride after sundown. Only now he wasn’t going to be alone, he reflected grimly, and that was a big complication he didn’t need. Now he’d made himself responsible for the woman lying beside him.

If he tried to take her to Davis or Stockton, he risked missing the gun wagon. And the stakes were too high for that. No, he was going to have to take her with him. His thoughts turned to Ketanah and the medicine woman he could still see in his mind. He wondered if just once he dared go back. If he dared take Amanda there. And somewhere in the depths of his mind, he heard the answer—he had to. Nahdehwah would take care of her.