Authors: Connie Mason
Deserted by his men, the cattle all but lost, it took Lyle only seconds to realize that retreat was the better part of valor. He had Logan’s money, and Mexico began to look increasingly attractive, coward that he was. Before Vern could catch his breath, those Crowders that weren’t killed by Indians had already scattered to the wind.
“Vern, help me!” Sam screamed, struggling against the bonds that defied her meager strength. “Hurry, damn you, untie me.”
Faced with the terrifying prospect of being killed or captured by Comanches should he linger a moment longer, Vern panicked, showing his true mettle. Nothing or no one was worth dying over, he decided, sliding Sam an apologetic look. Keeping a wary eye on the Indian thundering down on him, he darted away. Sam knew what Vern intended long before he leaped into the saddle and galloped off, an Indian brave hard on his heels.
“Don’t leave me, Vern!” Sam wailed, cursing him for a lily-livered polecat. “Come back, you cowardly varmint!”
Sam’s voice all but lost in the thunder of hooves, Vern hardly gave her a second glance as he rode hell for leather. The brave soon became bored with the chase and turned back to where Sam struggled with the ropes Vern had neglected to cut. In the canyon the raiding party had already scattered the cattle, cutting out and herding together enough to satisfy their needs. The rest were left to roam at will. Comanches raided regularly to replenish their supply of meat and acquire horses, usually stealing only what they needed to survive. Beeves promised by the government rarely arrived in their villages, and buffalo were increasingly scarce with the spread of civilization onto Indian lands.
Sam watched with dread as the tall, powerfully built Indian stared down at her, a curious expression on his proud, handsome features. His dark eyes widened in recognition though Sam knew she had never seen the warrior before. His magnificent torso, slick and shiny with sweat, was thickly roped with corded muscles.
He carried himself with arrogant grace, and Sam felt a morbid curiosity about the noble savage. Naked to the waist, he wore only a breechclout. Buckskin leggings hugged long sturdy legs and thighs, and moccasins encased his feet. He wore his shiny ebony hair long and flowing to his shoulders except for one thin plait adorned with a single eagle feather. His body was decorated with bright yellow, white, and black splotches of paint, and a colorful band held his hair in place. Sam could not help but admire his sternly handsome face and the wild nobility of his features.
One lithe motion brought the Indian off his horse to his feet. Drawing a knife from the sheath strapped around his narrow waist, he approached Sam with the rolling gait of a stalking panther. Hunkering down beside her, he stared pointedly into her wide violet eyes. Sam cringed as one bronzed arm rose high in the air and assumed a downward path. She closed her eyes, conjuring up a picture of Colt, certain she was about to breathe her last and wanting her final thoughts to be of the man she loved.
Expecting to the, Sam was shocked when her bonds fell away. Her lids flew up just as the imposing Indian brave grasped her around the waist and literally tossed her on the back of his pony, leaping behind her with agile grace. Whooping triumphantly, he galloped off.
Hanging on for dear life, Sam’s violet eyes widened when she saw the braves splinter into two groups, each driving half the cattle before them. Vaguely, she wondered which path her captor would choose, and was more than a little confused when he chose neither, riding instead in a straight westerly direction toward a mesa just visible in the distance. Sam had no way of knowing the purloined cows were being driven north into Kiowa Territory, a tribe friendly with the Comanches, while she was being taken to the Comanche village of Chief Black Bear near the Oklahoma border. Sam had the dubious distinction of being captured by Brave Eagle, the chief’s son.
They rode all day and far into the night. The fearless brave appeared tireless, while Sam slumped exhausted against the hard wall of his chest. When they finally stopped beneath the protection of a narrow cliff, he lifted her off his pony and indicated she was to sit on the ground. Then he shoved a stick of pemmican and a handful of parched corn in her hands. Cowering, Sam waited for his attack, and when it did not come, began to gnaw hungrily on the pemmican. After a few bites she curled into a ball on the hard ground and fell asleep, too exhausted to care what the Indian intended. Brave Eagle sought only sleep as he settled down beside Sam and closed his eyes.
Before the sun rose in the cloudless sky, Sam was shaken rudely awake, allowed a few minutes of privacy, men hoisted unceremoniously atop Brave Eagle’s pony. Attempts at conversation proved fruitless, for the stoic brave offered nothing but the shake of his majestic head and what surely must pass as a smile in answer to her questions.
As on the previous day, they journeyed with only one or two short breaks. At mealtimes Sam gnawed at the tough but surprisingly tasty pemmican and chewed the parched corn the Indian provided. When exhaustion claimed her she slept against his bronzed chest. When they stopped for the second night, Sam stiffened when the Indian dropped down beside her, so close she could feel the hard contour of his virile body beneath the breechclout.
Sam steeled herself for his assault, prepared to defend herself as best she could, but the brave merely rolled over and went to sleep. His behavior contradicted everything she’d ever heard about Comanches, whose killings, rapes, and scalpings were legend among Texans. This same pattern continued for one torturous week. When at length they entered the village of Black Bear, Sam had no idea she was so close to Kiowa Territory.
B
rave Ragle’s arm tightened proprietarily about Sam. Though the warrior had all but named his bride, he would have pressed this golden woman to his that long before now if not for Spirit Dancer, the wise shaman well known among the People. It was Spirit Dancer who had foretold the coming to their tribe of a woman with eyes the color of spring violets. According to the shaman, she would walk among them but a short time but she would have great import for the People. Prosperity would soon follow. If finding the large herd of cattle was any indication, Violet Eyes had already wrought a miracle, Brave Eagle thought solemnly. The beeves would keep their people from hunger for a long time to come, without depending on the meager offering from government agencies.
Spirit Dancer had also told of a man with golden eyes and hair who would ride fearlessly into their midst to challenge them for the right to take Violet Eyes away. Brave Eagle didn’t always believe Spirit Dancer’s visions, treating many of the old man’s tales with open skepticism. But in this instance it seemed to have happened just as Spirit Dancer dreamed. Violet Eyes was their link with prosperity, and she wasn’t to be violated like other women captives, Spirit Dancer had warned, promising ominous results if she were harmed.
When Brave Eagle first spied Violet Eyes bound to a tree he could scarcely believe his eyes. It was just as Spirit Dancer had seen in his vision, though the shaman didn’t know when or where her spirit would call to theirs. From all indications, her own people had abused her, leaving it to the Comanche to set her free. Now her spirit belonged to them.
Stretched across the length of a narrow meadow, the Comanche village was a beehive of activity in the late afternoon sun. A frisson of fear raced down Sam’s spine as all work came to a halt and everyone turned to watch Brave Eagle’s slow progress through the village. Even the children stopped their play to stare curiously at the white captive who entered their camp on horseback instead of being dragged at the end of a rope.
Brave Eagle reined in his spotted pony before a tipi brightly painted with designs and mystical signs. He waited politely for the occupant to appear. At length an old man, still proud and erect despite his great age, appeared through the tent flap. Besides breechclout and leggings, he wore a pure white buffalo robe and a curious headdress using horns from the same animal. He was most impressive, and Sam assumed him to be the chief, though she was wrong. His sharp black eyes, quick with knowledge not entirely of this world, slid over Sam with a thoroughness that embarrassed her. They widened perceptively when curious violet orbs met his own dark, probing gaze.
Brave Eagle slipped from his pony’s back, pulling Sam with him. When her feet hit the ground, her knees threatened to buckle, but she stiffened her spine, pride and the knowledge that she hadn’t been hurt thus far lending her courage. Sam understood none of the conversation passing between the two Indians, for they spoke in the dialect of the Comanches. Spirit Dancer’s probing eyes never left Sam’s face all the time he and Brave Eagle conversed.
“Look closely, Spirit Dancer, is this the maiden of your visions?” Brave Eagle asked eagerly. “Gaze deeply into her eyes and see the violets growing there. I found her tied to a tree and much abused by her own kind. I did not touch her and await your decision, Spirit Dancer.”
Spirit Dancer circled Sam slowly, carefully noting her tight-fitting male attire and torn shirt. He studied her bruises, including the rope burns on her slender wrists. He lifted her chin with a long gnarled finger and stared deeply into the violet pools of her eyes. Sam did not flinch despite her pounding heart.
For more moons than he cared to count, Spirit Dancer’s visions had taken him on strange journeys and told many bewildering stories, some that defied explanation. With increasing regularity they involved a maiden. Most confusing was the fact that despite her midnight black hair and golden skin she appeared as a warrior woman in his visions, exhibiting a courage and pride that few White Eyes possessed. Somehow this violet-eyed woman’s spirit was linked with that of the Comanches, and Spirit Dancer had been expecting her for many moons. The Great Spirit had yet to unravel the mystery surrounding the maiden, but he was confident that all would be revealed when the time was right.
Spirit Dancer studied the smooth golden-hued face of the girl in contemplative silence. Taut flesh stretched tighdy across high, prominent cheekbones, and full red lips pursed in a sensual pout beneath a slim, straight nose. The face was hauntingly familiar yet oddly strange. For a brief space of a heartbeat Spirit Dancer felt a flicker of recognition, then just as swiftly it was lost. He knew that all would become clear with the passage of time, but first his judgement must be relayed to his people. Except for Chief Black Bear, who was visiting a neighboring tribe, the entire village had garnered around to hear his sage words.
“My visions indicated a maiden would come to us. One with skin the soft gold of a newborn fawn and eyes the color of spring violets. She would be possessed with the heart and soul worthy of the People. I believe the maiden who stands before us has been sent to us by the Great Spirit for a purpose yet to be revealed.” His wise words brought nods from the People as well as shy, sidelong glances in Sam’s direction.
“Will you speak to the woman, Spirit Dancer?” Brave Eagle asked, “or shall I summon Fawn?”
“The white man’s tongue does not come easily to my lips.”
Brave Eagle nodded, turned to scan the crowd gathered behind him, and motioned a young woman forward. He spoke to her at length.
“What is it? What’s happening?” Unable to stand idly by while her fate was being decided by a bunch of savages, Sam’s fragile control snapped. Her outburst earned her nothing but a stern glance from her handsome captor.
Two could play this waiting game, Sam decided as her chin tilted at a defiant angle. It was almost as if the Comanches had a specific purpose in mind for her. Yet it was comforting that she had not been molested or abused and seemed to be looked upon most kindly. Though the old man was formidable, he appeared to wish her no harm, and she saw nothing to suggest she was viewed as a hated enemy.
Sam’s thoughts skidded to a halt when a pretty girl about her own age approached, her eyes properly downcast as befitting a modest Indian maiden. Though her skin had turned golden from living in the open, it did not have the reddish tint or underlying duskiness of her people. In fact, Sam’s own skin seemed much darker. The girl wore her inky hair in two braids. Upon closer inspection Sam noted that those ebony locks looked as if they had been touched by a paint brush, clashing oddly with the unusual tone of her skin. It wasn’t until the girl looked up through a thick fringe of golden lashes that Sam learned the girl was no more Indian than she herself was. A pair of inquisitive tawny eyes eagerly devoured every detail of Sam’s appearance.
A jolt shot through Sam. No wonder something about the maiden seemed strange to her. Now the golden roots of her hair nearest the scalp became glaringly apparent. Some concoction had been smeared on that shiny head to turn it dark. The girl was white! The words that came from her lips were strangely halting, as if English were unfamiliar to her and she had to search her memory for the right pronunciation and meaning.
“I am called Fawn,” she said in a soft, lilting voice. “Spirit Dancer, our holy man, bids me welcome you to our village, Violet Eyes.”
“You’re white!” Sam cried excitedly. “I knew it!”
“You are mistaken, Violet Eyes, I am Comanche,” Fawn corrected gently. “My father is Chief Black Bear. Brave Eagle, who stands beside you, is my brother. I will soon marry Long Bow and eagerly look forward to giving him many strong sons.”
Astutely Sam decided not to question Fawn’s rather terse explanation of herself, preferring to learn what these savages wanted with her. “My friends call me Sam. Can you tell me what your people intend for me?”