Mail-Order Man (18 page)

“That's awfully cruel of Indian grandparents. Those babies need someone to look out for them.”

“Enough about my daughters.” He leaned his mouth close to Kathy Ann's ear. “I have watched you many moons, since you came to the land the white man calls the Nickel Dime Ranch. It has been only since my wife went to the happy hunting ground that I have stared at you as a man stares at a woman.”

“I knew you were watching me.”

“I know you knew.” The hand that held her midriff moved up to her breast. “I need you for my wife. I want sons from you, too. Will you do this?”

Despite her thrill, Kathy Ann knew Skylla would pitch a fit if she got married. Fifteen might seem too young to some people, but Kathy Ann felt older. She hated being trapped in a kid's age. She needed someone to love her. And she needed someone to love, and not a sister or a brother-in-law, no matter how nice the latter had become.

As for the Indian chief's proposal, she'd better get a few matters straight. “I won't have a husband whose idea of a happy hunting ground means looking for a second wife.”

“If you please me, I will not take a second wife.”

“Well, I have a different idea of marriage. I have no intention of becoming some household drudge. I've dreamed of a husband who provides the bonbons and spoils me silly with gifts galore.” That wasn't quite true, but it sounded good to her.

“What is this you speak of, bonbons?”

“Candy.”

He squeezed a thigh. “You eat plenty bonbons already. Meals of buffalo-eye stew will make you sleek as a mountain lion.”

Her stomach turned over. Given that menu, a girl in an Indian village could surely stick to a reduction diet. “Take my word for it, Wolf. If you want a white woman, you'd best give her what she wants. I can't imagine any of my white sisters going for that stew.”

“You would waste useful food?”

“Those eyeballs ought to have the chance to go to their own happy hunting ground. Intact.”

“I do not understand your logic.”

“You sure are stupid for a guy who can speak fair English. Where did you learn it?”

“From my wife. She was of your race.”

That made the cruel grandparents white! Kathy Ann was suddenly embarrassed for white society. Not being a civic light, though, she had more thoughts. “Wolf, you've been teasing me. You've known all along about white ways, haven't you?”

“It is fun to tease.”

“I'm surprised your wife didn't set you to rights about that hauling and toting business.”

“That was not Sweet Spirit's way.”

Sweet Spirit. Gads. It was just Kathy Ann's luck to get captured by a guy who'd been married to some sort of saint. “Wolf . . . what would you do if I was naughty?”

“You will not be naughty. I will make you happy. I have need of you, pretty white eyes.”

He needed her. Good. She wouldn't mind hauling his junk all over Texas. “Tell me something. Those wigwams of yours, they don't have closets, do they?”

“What is a closet?”

She smiled.

By now they had reached his village, peopled by about fifty men, women, and children. While the women offered to beat Kathy Ann for him, Stalking Wolf declined their invitation. He didn't protest when they tied her to a tree, though. Neither did Kathy Ann, since she was out in the open.

She rather liked the idea that he would go to lengths to make certain she didn't leave. He was quite a man, that Stalking Wolf. Everything would be great, if only his cohorts wouldn't make some sort of cat-eye soup out of Electra.

 

 

Skylla and Braxton sat on the ground, facing the ashes of a campfire and opposite the young Comanche chief. With a dozen armed braves flanking Stalking Wolf, Skylla shivered, both fascinated and repulsed. Even though Braxton had sworn these were orderly people who wouldn't make war without provocation—Skylla cast a glance at her trussed sister, who hadn't provoked an abduction—this was a savage place.

Half-dressed natives with feathers stuck in their long black-as-a-pit hair. Spears, arrows, rifles. Dead animals in various stages of evisceration. Women dismantled tepees while doing the gutting, the cooking, and keeping an eye on the children. A young brave, scars where his eyes had been, beat a strange tune on a drum made of leather. As well, Skylla noticed a particular piglet, no doubt the one stolen in July.

Braxton and Stalking Wolf spoke in the Indians' tongue and shared the smoke from a long clay pipe. He seemed right at home, her husband. Wasn't that natural? He'd lived among the heathen and had married one. His mastery of the Indian culture gave Skylla a dash of confidence that all would be well.

Still, despite her confidence in Braxton, it was unsettling to be here. Antebellum Biloxi, this was not. Biloxi. Her skin crawled. If she lived to be a hundred, she'd never forget the night vigilantes—many a “friend” of long standing—hanged her father. What was more savage?

Braxton held the pipe aloft to study the smoke that rose toward the heavens. A devilish smile eased across the angles of his face as he eyed his wife. “You must feel left out, since we haven't passed the pipe. We can't share such a
tasty
smoke. Tribal customs, you see. Ladies don't smoke peace pipes.”

“Women aren't allowed a voice in peace? We're only meant to keep it. How very modern,” she added dryly. “How very civilized.”

“Would you mind if we speak English?” Braxton asked the warrior chieftain. “My wife feels left out.”

“You respect your woman's wisdom and counsel? That is good for a white man. I didn't know such was done in your society.” Stalking Wolf nodded at Skylla. “Comanche men know the Great Spirit makes women wise and clever.”

Braxton took another drag from the pipe. “This I know. I learned your customs when I lived among your brothers in the direction of the rising sun. I am Yellow Hair of Good Medicine of the band of the great chief, Night Fire.”

“Ah.” Stalking Wolf smiled, showing strong straight teeth. “Night Fire's drums told of a white man. A holy man. That was many moons in the past. Night Fire went to the happy hunting ground two winters ago.”

Holy man?

A tiny Indian girl with hazel eyes wandered over to stand by the chief, but a gray-haired woman took the girl's hand to lead her away before Skylla could hold her arms out to the tyke.

“My first daughter, Eyes Like A Leaf,” Stalking Wolf said. “Do you have papooses, lady?”

Skylla shook her head. “No, sir, we don't. We were married just last night.”

He nodded and tapped more tobacco into the pipe. “Last night. You may have a papoose on the way.”

While Skylla blushed, Braxton looked as if he'd swallowed a frog. It hurt her that he had been reminded of his sterility.

He said, “We have a gift for the children.”

“Cake.” Skylla lifted the rectangular tin.

Stalking Wolf smiled. “They will like it.”

“I want some, too!” Kathy Ann shouted.

Skylla expected to hand the treat out, but a wizened woman took over the task. It would have been nice, getting close to the children. And to Kathy Ann. Skylla wished for a private word with her sister. All she could do was smile in Kathy Ann's direction and pray the girl was okay.

The children were now gathered around the older woman, who must have understood Kathy Ann, for she fed the captive a slice of cake. Conversation between the men turned to great buffalo hunts of yesteryears, then they lamented the dwindling herd. Next, they discussed the lack of rain and a goodly many other lackings. Truth be known, Skylla had grown restless with small talk. She wanted to poke Braxton in the ribs and say, Hurry, please. I want my sister out of here.

It seemed forever before Braxton said, “Stalking Wolf, you have my roan.”

“I do.”

“I want him back.”

“That I cannot do.” Stalking Wolf planted a hand on his knee, leaning forward. “The white man called St. Clair stole horses from my people. I saw that the debt was repaid.”

Braxton mumbled something under his breath. He then took another drag from the pipe. The smoke curled skyward. “I wonder . . . did you know the Army has returned to this area? And the law has been installed, as well. Is this why you are breaking camp?”

From the look on the chief's face, Stalking Wolf hadn't known.

“It's my guess then,” Braxton said, sending his wife into a cold chill, “you intend to keep the blonde.”

“That is my plan.”

“This woman you hold is the sister of my wife. We are here to take her home.”

The Indian shrugged a shoulder. “Sun In Her Hair pleases this chief of the Comanche people. I will provide her home.”

Braxton handed the pipe to the chief. “She needs to finish her education.”

“I will teach her what is important.”

Skylla spoke. “Sir, she isn't of marriageable age.”

Stalking Wolf glanced at Kathy Ann, who watched with mute interest. Swiveling his eyes to Skylla, he asked, “How many summers is she?”

“Fifteen.”

“That is old enough.” The Indian took some sort of amulet from around his neck; it looked like a long fang. “She will be my only wife. You may take this in payment for her.”

“A charm for a healthy girl such as the sister of my wife? You place her value too low. And you insult her family.”

Stalking Wolf stood and took three steps away from the dormant campfire, then retraced his path. “I will give you the roan. I will give you a buffalo hide for your marriage pallet. I will promise not to raid the land you call the Nickel Dime.”

“That is a generous offer. But we cannot accept.”

“What do you want for her?”

“We won't barter for her.”

As if he hadn't heard, the chief repeated, “What do you want for her? I am willing to give whatever you ask.”

“Kathy Ann is not for sale or trade.”

The Indian's eyes turned hard.

“On the other hand,” Braxton said evenly, “my wife and I offer you many riches for the white girl's release.”

He reached into his pocket, throwing a handful of golden coins and brilliant blue topaz stones on the ground in front Stalking Wolf. Skylla gawked at the bonanza, then gave a mental, “Oh, no.” They had abandoned the treasure chest in the open light of the dining room! Would they return home to nothing?

Braxton straightened, drawing her attention. “I won't ask for our horse. And I will give you a barrel of firewater.”

“Firewater?” echoed the braves, all understanding this white man's word. They took an eager step toward the offerer.

“No!”

Everyone went still at the chief's shout. He bent to slash the heel of his hand along the ground and send the riches flying. His face hard as granite, he looked up and said through gritted teeth, “I will have Sun in Her Hair.”

His braves moved forward, their weapons pointed and their faces tight with menace and enmity. A frisson of fear went up Skylla's spine. Braxton had been wrong—very wrong! He didn't know the best ways to negotiate with this savage beast. No white person would leave here today. Not alive.

Skylla steeled herself for imminent death.

The braves, their spears pointed, shouted a war cry and lunged for her and Braxton. A certain tranquillity came over her, as if God were cushioning the blow. She had one terrible thought, and it had nothing to do with a fortune possibly lost. She'd never told Braxton she loved him.

He, meanwhile, had hurtled to his feet. Ready to take a spear for his wife, he jumped in front of her. In a voice that rumbled through the Indian village this autumn afternoon, he shouted something in the Comanche tongue.

The warriors froze, then raised their war lances. They backed away, wary, and glanced at one another. Their chief folded his arms over his broad, bronzed chest.

“You cannot do that.” Stalking Wolf glared at Braxton. “You cannot bring the dead back to life.”

“If Yellow Hair of Good Medicine can perform this miracle, shouldn't an honorable chief of the Comanche people be honored to free the miracle maker?” Braxton's arms were set akimbo. “Surely he would allow that miracle maker to take what he requires from this village, including his women. ”

Stalking Wolf met all this with a scowl.

Braxton continued. “Surely that great and noble chief would keep his distance from the miracle maker, his land, and his possessions. And he would not seek repayment for any more debts made by Titus St. Clair.” Receiving nothing in reply, he added, “Naturally, the miracle maker feels obliged to gift the great chief with wampum.”

“Wampum?”

“The miracle maker would leave the blue stones and the gold stones, plus the fine horse. And he would be pleased for the chief to help himself to cattle within the boundaries of the white man's ranch. He could have as many head as needed to feed the women and children of this village for their journey deep into the Comancheria.” Braxton looked his adversary in the eye. “Does this sound fair to Stalking Wolf of the Comanche?”

“What about the firewater?”

“That, too.”

Studying the ground, then the sky above, the Indian pondered the offer. At last, he answered, “If Yellow Hair of Good Medicine cannot bring the dead back to life . . .” He made a slashing motion across Braxton's forehead. “His scalp will decorate the flap pole of my tepee.”

“Fair enough.”

A gush of exasperation rushed from Skylla's throat.
Heaven help us, Braxton. Whatever is wrong with you that you would make such an outrageous claim?

“With one condition,” Brax added. “If Yellow Hair of Good Medicine fails, his women will have the freedom to leave this village and return to their home.”

Her heart skipping, Skylla listened to her husband barter. Her gaze swept to her sister, still trussed to a tree. The girl's mouth had dropped; she didn't move a muscle. Skylla's gaze shifted back to Braxton. He had wagered his very life—to save the St. Clair sisters. He would have taken spears meant for his wife. Skylla loved him all the more for his selflessness.

“I will need a volunteer.” Braxton repeated those words, this time in the language of the Comanche.

All the Indians retreated, except for their chief.

“Your woman will be the volunteer,” said he.

Without missing a beat, Braxton replied, “Unacceptable. If my medicine goes bad, I will not have my woman suffer for it.”

The green-eyed tyke tiptoed forward. She held Electra at her side, at an uncomfortable-appearing angle. The calico, for some odd reason, didn't protest being held thusly.

Braxton smiled. “I will kill the cat, then bring her back to life.”

“You will not!” screamed Kathy Ann.

“Quiet!” Stalking Wolf turned to the blonde. “This is a powwow, not a time for womanly advice.”

Skylla didn't have a taste for cruelty to animals, but when it came down to a choice between a human's life and a feline's, there was no question in her mind. Let Braxton perform his wild stunt on Electra. Poor Electra.

“If my lady would hold on to the cat . . . ?” Braxton lifted a sandy-gold brow.

Somehow Skylla was able to nod in agreement. He took the cat from the little girl, leaned over to whisper something that sent her scurrying into the tepee she'd unlaced to fetch the cat, then handed Electra into Skylla's shaking arms.

He turned and sauntered over to Impossible, began to search through his saddlebags.

Not a woman to kiss cats, Skylla nevertheless held Electra close and pressed a hard kiss to the top of her flat, furred head. The cat lay purring. A lamb in calico coat, she looked up with trust complete and replete.

Traitor to that faith, Skylla started to pray for a good end to this ploy, but stopped. She couldn't ask Him for another favor. During the coin toss, she'd promised Him she wouldn't.

“Sit down, please, lady of mine.” Braxton patted Skylla's shoulder. “Hold Electra on your lap.”

She sat. She held fast. But when she got a look at what he held in his hand, she had to swallow her smile of relief. Braxton, infinitely resourceful, gripped a cotton-stuffed cone with a hole at the top, a short glass tube fitted with a pliant bulb, and a bottle of what she knew to be ether.

“Hold her steady,” he ordered Skylla.

He took the stopper from the ether and drew liquid into the bulb. While holding his breath, he settled the cone over Electra's muzzle, dripped a small amount of the anesthetic into the cone, then rushed to push the cork back in the bottle.

The smell of ether swirled. Skylla, too, held her breath. Electra squealed, yowled and fought, then went limp.

In the blink of an eye, Braxton shoved the large end of the cone into the dirt. “She is dead,” he announced.

Kathy Ann cried out.

Subsequently, all eyes moved to the inert cat in Skylla's arms. Electra's mouth lay slightly open; her beautiful tricolored coat was now clumped and ugly, her limbs slack and her eyes glassy. Still and all, Skylla sensed a slight breath in Electra, an ever so slight sign of life. She glanced up to see if the Indian chief noticed. He hadn't.

Stalking Wolf was walking over to the sobbing Kathy Ann. He touched her cheek and said something that calmed her.

When he returned to the spent campfire, he directed an order to Braxton. “Bring the cat back to life. It troubles Sun In Her Hair to see the carcass.”

“The cat must stay dead for some time.”

“Stalking Wolf says bring the cat back.” He reached for a knife sheathed in the waist of his breechclout. “Now!”

“If the spell is interrupted,” Braxton replied calmly, “bad medicine will hail upon the peaceable Comanches.”

Stalking Wolf bent a skeptical eye on him.

“You must have patience, great chief.”

The minutes turned to an hour. An hour turned to two, then three, then four. The sun settled in the western horizon. Skylla's arm had gone to sleep from holding the cat. The blind drummer began to beat the drum with bone drumsticks and to sing a mournful song. A restlessness pulsed through the village.

A lovely young woman stepped between Skylla and Braxton, offering Skylla a drink from a gourd of water. Nothing had tasted better on her parched tongue. “Thank you,” she said.

“You are welcome.” The Indian woman ducked her chin.

“You speak English?”

“A little.” Sloe eyes looked up at Skylla. “I am called Pearl of the Concho. What are you called?”

Skylla answered, then asked where Pearl of the Concho had learned to speak English. “From the first wife of Stalking Wolf. Sweet Spirit came from a land called Eng-land. We cry for the loss of Sweet Spirit. We pray for a new wife to bring the sunshine back into our chief's eyes.”

Skylla studied the man. There was nothing dull in his eyes, especially when he turned them to Kathy Ann.

Stalking Wolf then gave a terse order that sent Pearl of the Concho rushing away. Skylla was sorry to see her go. She would have liked to ask many questions about these strange people known as the Comanche.

“You want? You want?”

Skylla turned her face to an aged woman holding a pot of some sort of stew.

“You want?” The Indian held the iron pot up. It was not unlike the one stolen from the ranch in March. “You want?”

Shaking her head, Skylla watched the frail woman moved to Braxton and make the same offer. Like the Indians, he tucked into a gourd filled with stew.

By the time the moon was high in the sky, the almost imperceptible movement of Electra's chest under Skylla's fingers began to still. Skylla telegraphed a silent and frantic question to her husband:
Did you give her too much? Have you killed her!

Stalking Wolf ran out of patience. “You lie, Yellow Hair of Good Medicine. You lie!” He shook his finger. Gesturing with his head, he called his braves forward. He spoke quickly, in words that had to mean, “Tie up the charlatan!”

Fear got the better of Skylla. She did something she'd promised not to do. She asked the Lord above to grant one more favor.
Help us!

Braves grabbed Braxton's arms, pinning him to the ground, while another hit him twice on the shoulder with a primitive club. Also restrained, Skylla dropped the cat—and wailed for her husband's life.

Then it happened.

Electra reared her head. She got to unsteady paws, moving drunkenly, before stopping at Stalking Wolf's moccasins to wretch and vomit.

Stalking Wolf barked orders to his braves.

They let go their holds on Braxton and Skylla.

A great shout went through the Indian village. The blind brave beat the drum faster. The women began to dance, sing, and shake rattles decorated with feathers and beads. Before it was over, the villagers prostrated themselves at the mighty Yellow Hair of Good Medicine's feet.

Yellow Hair of Good Medicine had been sent by the Great Spirit was the general consensus. A holy man.

 

 

Home. It had never been sweeter, given their brush with death. And given that Braxton had eased Skylla's mind on the treasure issue by saying he'd hidden it.

Kathy Ann, though, didn't celebrate their return. The moment they arrived, she headed for her upstairs room, sullen at being rescued. The girl just didn't know what was good for her. On the parlor's settee, Skylla took comfort in the warmth of her husband's arms.

“She can't be serious.” Skylla snaked a hand around to his muscular back. “How could she wish to stay with such savages?”

“It's not the worst life in the world. It has an elemental order to it that can bring a certain peace to a troubled individual.”

Skylla sensed that he referred to his own years with the heathen. Curiosity about her husband crowded to the forefront of her thoughts, but she did not wish to wait any longer to tell him of her feelings.

“You were wonderful out there.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I love you, holy man.”

“Say it again.” He waited with bated breath.

“Holy man,” she teased.

“Not that. The other.”

“I love you!”

His eyes now glowing in the reflected lamplight, he smiled. “I love you, too. With all my heart, Skylla Hale.”

Those wonderful words caressed her heart. She wanted him to be as content. She wanted and needed to understand everything about him. “Braxton . . . I know you don't like Texas much, but please know I'll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“I am happy.” He touched his forehead to hers. “What pleases you, pleases me. You love this place, so I'll learn to love it. Which calls to mind priorities. Getting those cows to the Army. I'd best ride out to the canyon. The boys will be wondering what happened to us. Furthermore, I've got to get to Camp Llano on the double, else Major Albright and his Blue Bellies will be charging the Comanches.”

“Braxton, it's midnight. You mustn't do anything until you've rested. You need it, with that shoulder.”

He chuckled. “I'm bruised, wife, not broken. I fought four years in a war. That was worse than a mere clubbing.”

“You win. Take off.” Not before they could spend a few minutes in the bedroom, she hoped. “Husband, where do we start spending our money?”

“On food and horseflesh. Then we've got to deposit the rest in a bank. They have some good ones in San Antonio.”

“In the meantime, why don't I call on the county clerk?”

“We do need to know where we stand on the land issue.”

It was then that Skylla noticed the handkerchief Claudine has discarded after her tears of the morning. “Braxton, there's something else. I know you and Claudine have been at odds. What can we do to make her happy?”

“Set her up in an establishment somewhere else.”

Stunned that he would send Ambrose St. Clair's widow away, Skylla inched away from the warmth of his arms. “This is her home. I owe her a home, and if you think I'll turn her out, you are mistaken.”

“Turning her out and setting her up are two different things altogether.”

“You sound as if you had this planned out for a while.” Skylla swallowed. “Would I be wrong to say you had California planned in advance, too?”

“Not on your life,” he answered smoothly.

Should she believe him? She must! To continue doubting his purposes would play havoc in their marriage, and why start out with conflict between them? Still, while she wished to settle the matter of Claudine, Skylla needed to settle her curiosity. “What made you think of California in the first place?”

“A fellow I served with in the Confederate Army had done some prospecting out there, ended up in San Francisco. It always sounded like a good place to make a fresh start.”