Commanche Vengeance Page 4

  “In fact I tried to avoid your help on three different occasions.”

  “Yessum.”

  “I don’t want no man—and the first time you make a move toward me that isn’t proper and that I judge fitting, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Duke’s eyes flinched and steadied. "Yes, ma’am,” he said softly.

  “I got me something I have to do—catch and kill that Injun.”

  “Going to tell me what he done?”

  Sarah was quiet a long time. “He killed my husband, who was a fine man. I reckon anybody that would come out to this crazy country has a right to expect that from the Injuns, in a way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But that ain’t all. He killed my children. A little boy—he scalped the boy—and he—violated my little girl.” Sarah’s faced hardened. “The girl was just a little thing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Duke said.

  “We had given him beef to eat when he was hungry and we treated him right, because my husband was a fair-minded man, and then he came back and killed him.” Sarah’s voice was strong, but she could not look at Duke. “I say that killing my husband was one thing that coulda been understood. This is a hard country, and there ain’t no getting around it, regardless of how you look at it, the Injuns were here first.”

  Duke’s eyes sharpened. “That’s true, Miss Sarah.”

  “But it’s the children that I’m thinking of.” She stopped. “No, not just the children, it’s all of it together.”

  “Where you figure on looking, Miss Sarah?”

  Sarah didn’t answer for some time. “Everywhere, Mister Duke. Everywhere there’s an Injun tipi, I’m going to look for One Nest.”

  “That could take a long time, ma’am. This is a big country and there's lots of Indians.”

  “I know it, but I told you I didn’t ask for your help. I’d just as soon you left right now.”

  “I’ll go with you, Miss Sarah.”

  “And you understand about how things are between us?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I ain’t promising no rewards, or pay, or nothing for your help.” Sarah looked at him squarely. “You get nothing, Mr. Duke.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You understand?”

  “I understand,” Duke said. He stood up. “Where you want to start looking first, Miss Sarah?”

  “Since it’s spring,” Sarah said, standing up beside him, “I figure they might be following the buffalo north. We’ll track after the Texas herd up through the Panhandle and into Kansas and Colorado.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Duke replied.

  “Let’s go, then.” Sarah said.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  They kicked out the fire and pulled into saddle. They pointed their ponies to the north, with the rising eastern sum burning their faces though the dew was still fresh on the grass and brush. They were in no hurry. The horses walked and their eyes searched the horizons for signs of dust and movement. At noon, they removed their winter slickers and coats and Duke saw for the first time the slim, hard outlines of Sarah’s shoulders and waist. His eyes traveled to the high, mature breasts beneath the man’s shirt and turned away. He spurred his pony and the black leaped ahead a few paces and he stared right into the sun, as if to burn out the picture of what he had seen.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They moved up the buffalo line, always pointing north, never too busy to scout a fire or smoke trail or take the time to surround and carefully survey a stand of tipi, regardless of what kind of Indian village it might be. When it rained and the ponies were knuckle-deep in mud, they made a smouldering fire and hunched beneath their slickers and blankets. When the sun was burning hot and the first of the summer dusters bore down out of the northern plains, Duke would ride several hundred yards ahead of Sarah while she stripped down and cooled off.

  Duke did most of the meat making, riding off sometimes half the day and out of gunshot sound of Sarah, to return with a brace of jack rabbits, or a deer, or some sort of fowl. When they hit water, they stopped and rested their horses and washed their clothes and rested.

  Sarah did not talk much. She accepted cooking and fire-making and water-gathering and the collecting of wood as part of her chores. Duke in turn hunted for them, stood night sentry, catnapping during the day as they rode, or when he could; he cared for the horses, and once when they caught a small deer and trailed it after them when they began to hit the desolate regions between the North Wichita River and the Red River, it was Sarah who finally had to put a forty-five slug in the animal’s head. Duke stoutly refused, saying that he had already become fond of the animal; even after Sarah did shoot it, he wouldn’t eat any of it Sarah said nothing and let him eat sourdough for three days and only smiled when he finally shamefacedly tore into a roasting cut of the venison.

  Conversation between the two was simple and direct, mostly calling one or the other’s attention to some chore to be done, or to lend a hand, or to take a look at the dust trail ahead of them and speculate on its origins. They moved almost lazily through the early days of summer, always pointing north and following the buffalo and searching constantly for signs of Indians, particularly Comanches.

  They had ridden for nearly five weeks without seeing another white person when they topped a rise in the northern stretches above the Big Red close on to the Canadian River and saw the slow developing spine of a cattle drive out of New Mexico.

  Duke squinted at the riders at the point. One of the men rode a pinto. He nodded in its direction. “If I’m right, that hardtail on the calico pony is a friend from the other side.”

  Sarah’s eyes studied the figure. “Other side of what?”

  Duke hesitated. “The law, Miss Sarah.”

  “Have you ever been on the other side, Mr. Duke?” she asked carefully.

  “I reckon some people might care to call it that. It was only a case of gettin’ or being got by a no-account.”

  “Did that rider on the pinto figure in it?”

  “If it’s the one I think it is, ma’am.”

  Sarah hesitated a moment. “They could tell us a thing or two,” she said finally. “If they’ve seen anything along the trail of our Indian.”

  “Yes ma,’am” Duke’s face was hard.

  “You got a special reason for not wanting to see your friend?”

  “If you want to go ask ’em, Miss Sarah, we’ll go ask.”

  “But you don’t want to, is that it?”

  “I ain’t even sure it’s the same fellow.”

  Sarah’s eyes searched her companion’s face. “Ain’t afraid, are you?”

  Duke’s face reddened. He turned slowly and looked Sarah in the eye. “Ma’am, I ain’t afraid of anything that walks or crawls on God’s green earth. If you want to go down asking questions, I’ll lead the way.” He whipped his pony around hard and dropped down the slow rise, kicking up dust as Sarah followed.

  The outriders and the men on point stopped their pony and turned to meet the two riders coming in on them from the south.

  Duke had gained a few hundred yards on Sarah and pulled up short and stood still before the half-dozen cowmen. Sarah drew up alongside and jerked back on the leather, a little excited and breathless over the prospect of getting information about One Nest.

  The rider on the pinto held a carbine pointed at them. He nudged his pony forward and walked the few remaining yards that separated them. He was a tall, rangy man, burned brown from the sun and covered from hat to boot with red dust. “Whoa up, pony!” he said softly. “Well, bad penny, hey Duke? How you been?” The other riders drew up behind him and studied the newcomers.

  Duke nodded. “Hello, Barb. I been fine, I reckon.”

  Barb’s eyes flicked over to Sarah. “Howdy, ma’am. Excuse me for not being overpolite, but your husband and me ain’t seen eye to eye over a couple of things in the past.”

  “He’s not my husband,” Sarah said.

  Barb
’s head nodded gently. “Yes, ma’am.” He continued to look at Duke. “Son, how come you ride in on me like this? You could have spotted my pony and figured it was a New Mexico herd and that it might be me.” He shook his head again. “Careless, Duke.

  Gibson Duke had not moved a muscle. “Miss Sarah has a few questions to ask you.”

  “That’s how come, huh?”

  Duke was silent.

  “Ask your questions, ma’am,” Barb said. “I might not be able to answer ’em after a while. Ain’t that right, Duke?”

  “I’m looking for a Comanch’ chief. One Nest is what he calls himself. He’s got big hands, a thick nose and he’s tall.”

  “Sounds like most any Comanche, ma’am.” Barb said.

  “Have you seen him?” Duke asked harshly.

  “Hey, you talk tough for a man that’s about to lose his lights and liver to the buzzards.” The men behind Barb laughed.

  “Would you shoot me—right here—without facing me?”

  “Why, sure,” Barb said. “But to answer the lady’s question, Duke, we ain’t seen nothing but a few lonesome-looking Apaches looking hungrily after some of our critters.”

  “Have you heard any talk about him?” Sarah asked.

  “No, we ain’t, ma’am.” He turned his head slightly. “Have any of you boys heard about a Comanche named One Nest, with a fat nose and big hands?”

  There was a chorus of no’s from the men. Duke nodded toward the herd. “I see you finally rustled enough critters for a drive, Barb. Wouldn’t it be easier to rob a bank and steal cash, instead of driving cattle through Indian country?”

  Barb’s eyes sharpened. “Duke, damn it, you just insist on talking out, don’t you?”

  “I say what I please. I told Jasper that too. And he didn’t like it”

  “Like me. I don’t like it”

  “Jasper tried to draw.”

  “And I ain’t trying. I got you, Duke, and I’m going to kill you.”

  Duke spoke to Sarah. “Miss Sarah, you might as well know. I wouldn’t trust this rustler as far as I could spit. He might kill me and tell you a whacked-up story about me that ain’t true.”

  “All right, Duke, you tell her.”

  “I killed his brother. I accused him of stealing cattle before witnesses and he drew on me and I killed him.”

  “Only the lawman back in Santa Fe thinks you didn’t give him a chance to draw,” Barb said.

  “After you threatened him,” Duke said quietly, “he changed his mind.”

  Barb shrugged. “I’m sorry to leave you stranded like this, ma’am, killing off your man, but you’re welcome to tag along with us if you want to.” Barb raised the carbine.

  There was the explosive roar of a Colt and Barb dropped the carbine and grabbed his arm. Sarah held the Colt level and steady. "Better move out, Mr. Duke. I’ll be along after you.”

  Barb grimaced with pain, but he managed to grin. “Damn it, ma’am, you most shattered the bone in my arm. Pretty good shooting.”

  “I can just as easily put one through your head, or any of you others that tries to prevent us from leaving.”

  "We ain’t going to try nothing, ma’am.” said one of the nearest of the men. “But it don’t seem right riding off without them two coming to a settlement.”

  Sarah’s eyes flashed. “Would you have stopped him from killing Mr. Duke in cold blood?”

  None of them replied.

  “Let’s go, Mr. Duke,” Sarah said.

  Duke grinned at Sarah. “Thank you, Miss Sarah, but I can’t ride out of here without settling something one way or the other with him.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Sarah said, her face growing hot with impatience and outrage. “He tried to kill you in cold blood.”

  “That’s his way, ma’am. He don’t know no better.”

  Sarah tossed her head angrily. “You’re coming along with me.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Duke said.

  Barb and the others began to grin. Sarah looked at them and moved her pony alongside of Duke. She made a motion with her hands as if she were going to plead with him and then quickly brought the barrel of the gun down on Duke’s head. The man slumped forward in his saddle and nearly sagged out. Sarah grabbed his shirt and held him up, pulled at the reins and whirled the two ponies around, twisting her body as she did to keep the others covered with the Colt. “This is the way it’s going to be,” she said, steely-voiced. She fired quickly and took Barb’s hat off at the hair line, wheeled and fired again, taking the hat off another. “I’ll shoot to kill the first man that follows us.”

  She nudged her pony and led the unconscious Duke away from the startled group of men. Five hundred yards away, Sarah heard them begin to laugh. She topped a rise and dropped into a brush on the other side, moved more quickly in the dense thickets, and rode that way for an hour before she broke free of the brush and pulled to a stop in a little clearing. She slipped off her pony, hurried to Duke’s side and eased him gently to the ground. She hesitated, and then, making her decision, tied the Westerner hand and foot, removed his Colt and belt and led his pony away to grass.

  Satisfied Duke would remain still, she left the brush and circled back to check the cattle drive. She watched the men from several different positions the rest of the afternoon before she was satisfied they were not going to trail after Duke and herself, turned her roan back toward the brush and what she knew would be a furious, outraged man.

  As Sarah walked the roan back toward the brush, she smiled to herself. Things change rapidly in this wild country, she thought. For a moment she allowed her thoughts to drift back to the rolling green hills of Georgia and her home and the way of life before the war. There was a moment when the sun was fading fast, dropping beyond the red flats of New Mexico, that Sarah Phelps stopped the roan and stared at the redness and remembered evenings when her father would come in from the fields and overseeing of the slaves in the huge plantation. At this time of day she would sit on his lap while he drank his coffee black and strong and tell him about the things she had done while he was away. Then when the sun would begin to fade to the west, they would grow silent and watch the fields grow purplish as the sun turned blood-red, and they’d listen to the lovely little night sounds.

  She listened for the night sounds now as she moved back toward the brush and the bound Gibson Duke. She heard the ferrets coming out of their holes and she could hear the call of some animal mother to its young—and in the distance she could hear the lowing of the cattle in the drive as they settled for the night. And suddenly there was a screech and hoot of an owl—

  Sarah Phelps stiffened in the saddle. She moved her head slowly and studied the brush that was on her right side and somewhat ahead of her. She spoke casually to the roan. “Tired, I’ll bet, aren’t you, pony. Well, soon now you’ll have your grass and a cool drink —and I’ll see if I can’t get Mr. Duke to give you a little brushing down. You’re beginning to look a sight.”

  But even as she spoke, her ears were tuned to the screeching hoot of mat owl again. There was something about it that was not quite right somehow.

  She moved on steadily, slipping forward a little in the saddle to pretend a close examination of the reins, actually cutting her eyes sideways into the brush looking for movement or shadows or for the screech of the owl again, hoping to locate its position.

  She straightened up and suddenly she saw the flash of a naked arm in the brush.

  Sarah didn’t wait She heeled the roan around hard, jerked the Colt out of her holster and charged at a full gallop toward the spot where she had seen the flash of naked skin. Ten feet from the wall of brush, she pulled hard on the leather and the roan skidded to a stop, the dust still flying as Sarah charged into the thicket moving low and fast her eyes searching, Colt high and ready.

  She fired deep to her right and dropped to the ground. She remained still. There was another movement in the same direction. She fired again, snapping it off quickly.

  “
Eeee-yaaaa!"

  Sarah got up and charged into the brush. The Indian lay on the ground holding his chest thick streams of blood spurting through his fingers. He stared up at Sarah, then closed his eyes and sank to the ground.

  Sarah glanced around, and, seeing nothing move, eased toward the dead Indian. It was a Comanche, all right, but there was no way of telling where he had come from. Probably out making meat she thought. If that were true, then there must be a pony around somewhere. Without another glance at the dead man, she slipped deeper into the brush, all the time searching for movement alert for the slightest sound.

  Sarah stopped near a stunted oak tree and listened. She moved on a little further, eyes continually searching and ears tuned to the noise of the underbrush. Then she spotted a clearing a few yards to her right She moved toward it cautiously.

  The clearing was empty—except for two bareback Indian ponies.

  They raised their heads and looked at her and then continued to nuzzle the grass. Sarah stopped and searched around her. She would have to move fast. It was growing dark and she had to get back to Duke.

  She backtracked to the edge of the brush, skirting the dead Indian’s position, but careful to come close enough to it to see if there was any movement around it. She broke clear of the brush and looked for her roan.

  The sun was full down now; not even the red hues of a few minutes before were left. The sky was dead white and darkening perceptibly toward the east. She moved into the open, glancing over her shoulder to cover her retreat from the protective brush, and searched for the roan. She found the animal grazing contentedly over the first rise and slipped into the saddle, whirled around and drove the pony hard toward the clearing and Gibson Duke. If there were two braves, and the other had heard the shot that Sarah had killed the first with, Duke might be in trouble.

  Even as she rode, Sarah Phelps was acutely aware that she had grown fond of Gibson Duke. Fleetingly she wondered about how fickle emotions were that could force the memory of her husband and her children back out of her mind, even for a moment.