Authors: Joan Johnston
He’d searched for Bay among the villages of The People as Long Quiet, the fierce Comanche warrior. He’d searched for her among the wagons and shacks of the
Comancheros
as a half-breed, a gray-eyed Comanche in buckskins who wandered easily between the worlds of the Indian and the White-eyes. He’d even searched for her among the far-flung Texas settlements as Walker Coburn, well-respected friend of the Texas Ranger Jarrett Creed. All to no avail. Bayleigh Falkirk Stewart, second daughter of the richest gentleman planter in the Republic of Texas, seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
“I haven’t found her. But I will.” Long Quiet turned away from the hopelessness in Cricket’s eyes and confronted Creed. “I got your message to come. Why did you want to see me?”
“Let’s go up to the house, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Creed said.
Long Quiet hesitated, frowning at the imposing white frame house in the distance that was at the heart of Creed’s cotton plantation, Lion’s Dare. Noticing Long Quiet’s reaction, Creed turned from the direction of the house and headed instead for the shade of several nearby pin oaks. Long Quiet walked beside him, not apologizing for his disdain of the civilized comforts to be found in the house.
Creed helped Cricket sit down, then dropped to sit on the ground beside her, his back supported by a pin oak, one knee upraised, the other leg stretched out in front of him. Long Quiet sat down cross-legged across from the couple.
“I asked you to come because I need your help,” Creed began. “You remember Luke Summers, don’t you?”
“Sure. We worked together once. He’s that young Texas Ranger, the one who made you so jealous with the attention he paid Cricket before you were married,” Long Quiet replied.
Creed turned a sardonic eye on Cricket, who grinned back at him. “That’s the one, all right. He also just happens to be one of my best Rangers. Unfortunately, for the past year Luke’s been in prison with the rest of the Texans captured at the Battle of Mier.”
“That’s too bad,” Long Quiet said. “I heard what the Mexicans did to the Texans who tried to escape. There’s been evidence before of Santa Anna’s heartlessness. What he did to the Texans who fought at Mier just proved it once and for all.”
Jarrett Creed’s bile rose at the thought of the senseless executions that had followed the Texans’ escape attempt. The acid in his throat made his voice rough. “Recently the Mexicans moved the whole lot of them, over 150 men, to a place called Castle San Carlos in Perote, Mexico. From what I’ve heard, this new prison has walls thirty feet high and fourteen feet thick.” Creed paused and added, “Luke’s sent a message that he and the other fifteen men in his cell are planning to dig their way out.”
For a moment Long Quiet didn’t say anything. His voice expressed his disbelief when he asked, “They’re going to dig their way out under fourteen feet of wall?”
“Never underestimate the determination of a Texan,” Creed replied with a grin. “When they finally dig through, they’ll need someone to meet them with horses, food, and guns and help them make their way back through the Mexican desert to the Rio Grande.”
“Why do you need my help? Why not just take a few Rangers down to Perote and break them all out of there?”
“To put it bluntly, because the president of the Republic of Texas doesn’t want to antagonize the president of Mexico. Sam Houston’s hoping to talk General Santa Anna into recognizing Texas as a sovereign nation, so he’s trying to avoid open hostilities between our two countries.
“Not only that, but Houston wants to keep the peace with Mexico while annexation negotiations are going on with the United States. That’s why I need you. I can’t get authorization to send any Rangers into Mexico. If they got caught, it could spell disaster for Houston’s peace overtures and might start a war with Mexico that would put a damper on his hopes for annexation.”
“How soon does Luke expect to be past the wall?” Long Quiet asked.
“He doesn’t really know. He persuaded the Mexicans to put a wooden floor in his cell, complaining that the stone floor was too cold. He and his cellmates lift sections of the wooden floor to dig at night, then replace them in the morning. They’re manacled at night, so the work is slow.
“Luke’s guess was two months to dig their way out, but I’d like to have somebody down there in six weeks. We’re getting our messages through a bribed Mexican guard, and I don’t want to trust him any more than I have to. He’s supposed to deliver another message when they’ve nearly finished digging.”
“And if I don’t go?” Long Quiet asked, wary of getting involved in what was clearly a white man’s problem.
“Then I’ll go myself,” Creed said. “And damn the repercussions.”
Cricket and Creed grasped hands. Long Quiet saw Cricket’s other hand curl under her belly. He wouldn’t wish to be gone at such a time from his own wife, if he’d had one, and he wouldn’t ask such a thing of his friend. “There’s no need for you to go. I’ll do it.”
“Thanks for helping, Walker,” Cricket said, calling Long Quiet by the name his
Comanchero
father had given him. “I’ve been worried sick about Luke. We hear terrible things about how the prisoners are treated, how they’re starved and beaten.”
“Sounds to me like Luke has done a pretty good job of taking care of himself,” Long Quiet said. He turned to Cricket and said, “Now tell me, when is this child that’s made your belly the size of a ripe watermelon going to be born?”
Cricket grinned and lovingly rubbed her rounded belly. “One more month. I can hardly wait.”
“I will pray to the Great Spirit that he brings you a son,” Long Quiet said.
“I’d be just as happy with a daughter,” Creed replied.
Long Quiet knew from his friend’s answer the distance that lay between them. A Comanche needed sons to carry on the war against the White-eyes.
“Will you stay for supper?” Cricket asked.
“I can’t. I’ve been hunting with a small band of Comanches camped nearby, and we leave tomorrow for
Comanchería
.”
When Long Quiet rose to leave, Creed stood also and helped Cricket to her feet. “I’ll meet you in Laredo a month from now with supplies for the prisoners.”
The two friends clasped arms elbow to wrist in farewell. It was the first time they’d touched in a year, yet the joining was enough to express how much they were a part of one another. Unfortunately, the farther the whites invaded into
Comanchería
, the more difficult their friendship became. For although Long Quiet didn’t kill without good reason, he knew the day was soon coming when killing would be necessary to stem the encroachment of the White-eyes upon the Comanche way of life.
“You’ll keep looking for Bay, won’t you?” Cricket asked, bringing Long Quiet from his bleak thoughts.
“Yes, I’ll look. But she may not want to come—”
“I know she may not want to come back home now,” Cricket interrupted.
Long Quiet saw the distress in Cricket’s face. He knew she was imagining her sister’s fate among the Comanches. He knew that fate firsthand, as did Creed. Most white women captives were repeatedly raped by the braves who took them, and they were often subjected to horrible cruelty from the women of the village. Bay might find herself awakened by a burning stick applied to her nose, might be beaten with thorny branches, might be tripped and kicked, bruised and cut.
“We don’t know she was mistreated,” Creed said in an attempt to ease Cricket’s fear. “The brave who bought her from Tall Bear paid for her with a whole herd of stolen horses. That makes her value immense. Surely he wouldn’t let anyone lessen the value of his property.”
“Any man would treasure such a woman,” Long Quiet said.
Creed noticed how Long Quiet’s voice softened with his mention of Bay and wondered what it was about Bay that had captured his friend’s imagination. Long Quiet had been more diligent about searching for Bay Stewart than Creed could credit to mere friendship. But he hadn’t been able to get Long Quiet to admit to more than the desire to help his friend and his friend’s wife.
“Farewell,
haints
,” Long Quiet said.
“Farewell, friend,” Creed replied. And then he asked, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
Long Quiet shook his head. “No.” Then he mounted his pony and rode away.
Since Creed had never accepted his choice of the Comanche way of life as final, each time Long Quiet left, he was forced to confirm his choice again. If he hadn’t valued Creed’s friendship so much, he might have stopped seeing him altogether. For each time Long Quiet denied his white father’s heritage, he did so with a little more regret.
As he rode to meet his Comanche friends, he thought of the choice he’d made so many years ago. Even if he were having second thoughts, it was too late to change his mind. The People needed him now more than ever. He’d learned enough during his days of school in Boston to know that the Comanches couldn’t hope to survive the westward expansion rolling like a wave over Texas. Neither side understood the other, and from that lack of understanding hatred grew. Long Quiet was a part of both worlds and wished there were a way he could ease the enmity between them. No solution had come to him, but he hadn’t stopped searching for one.
That evening, when Long Quiet reached the Comanche camp he received an unwelcome reminder of the discord between the Comanches and the White-eyes. A young buck from a village far to the north in
Comanchería
had joined their campfire. He was celebrating. He had just killed his first white man.
The youthful warrior was dressed in the bright red shirt and flat-brimmed hat of the white man he’d just scalped. He’d drunk too much of the white man’s firewater and began to boast of his courage. He spoke of his strong
puha
, the spiritual power garnered on his first vision quest. He held up the medicine bag tied about his neck and swore it had protected him from the white man’s lead bullets.
“My medicine has proven very strong. I cannot be harmed by any man. Nor can evil spirits hurt me. I am invincible. I will speak of what I wish, even the longtime secret kept by my village.”
Intrigued, Long Quiet asked, “What secret can a whole village keep?”
The drunken young man peered owlishly at Long Quiet and the other Comanches who surrounded the campfire in a circle. He spoke in whispered tones of a white woman captive kept hidden away in the village of a band of
Quohadi
Comanches for the past three years.
“She is called Shadow. Her eyes smolder the deep, dark purple of a stormy night and her hair burns like fire in the sunlight. She is as tall as a man, but shaped very much like a woman. Her skin is the golden brown of honey—”
“If such a woman existed,” Long Quiet interrupted, “I would have found her by now.” His tone was harsh, for it was a well-known, even amusing, fact that he’d searched in vain for a woman with violet eyes and flame-red hair among the dark-eyed, raven-haired Comanches. His patience with the good-natured fun poked at his futile quest had worn thin over the years.
“But how could you know of her? None in the village may speak of her,” the young man protested. “The one who owns her has threatened a curse upon the spirit of the man, woman, or child who tells of her existence.”
“And you, foolish
tuibitsi
, do not fear such a terrible curse?” Long Quiet snapped.
“I am not afraid of Many Horses,” the young man bragged, his hand gripping his medicine bag. “He is but a man and I . . .”
In the otherwise clear sky a cloud crossed the moon, blocking its light. The brave’s face froze in a mask of fear as his glance skipped upward to observe the eerie phenomenon. His face contorted further and he lurched to his feet, clutching his medicine bag. His crazed eyes roamed the circle of Indians to whom he’d told his story.
“Do not heed my words,” he pleaded. “I spoke only of a dream. There is no such woman. How could there be? You would have heard the tale long ago had she been real.”
The young man staggered from the circle, mounted his pony, and thundered away into the night.
They found him the next day, facedown in a ravine. There was no mark upon him, but he was dead.
“He foresaw his death. That is why he ran away from us,” Two Fingers announced, awestruck by their discovery.
“Many Horses must have powerful medicine,” Forked River offered in a whisper.
“Perhaps we ought not to speak of what he told us lest our lives also be in danger from this fearsome curse,” Two Fingers warned.
Long Quiet suggested a more rational reason for the young man’s death. “He was drunk. It is likely he fell from his horse and suffered a killing blow to his head.”
“But there is no mark,” Forked River argued.