Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

The gray-eyed Indian chief and the amber-eyed white man circled each other, staring down their opponent, waiting for the other to make a move, make a mistake, blink. An owl hooted in the distance. A horse whinnied. A wolf howled. Quanah’s warriors began a low hum, then a soft chant, rising in volume until all the forest was alive with a vibrating song of death.

Focus
—
think like Okwara.
Hughes slashed out with his knife. Quanah jumped sideways, then lunged forward, bringing his tomahawk down, landing a misplaced blow to Hughes’s left shoulder. Hughes felt the sting of the glancing blow hitting an old wound, felt the warmth of blood on his arm. Nothing serious.

Chanting voices of the warriors hiding in the shadows blended with the songs of warblers and screech owls, the cooling night air filling with an eerie choir. On their knees, they pounded the ground with rocks, stones, a tree limb, their bare hands, anything, creating a rhythmic beat, strong, repetitive, and loud.

Blood and sweat ran down Hughes’s forehead, stinging his eyes, a deep gash above his left brow full of grit and dirt. He lunged at Quanah, knocking him off his feet. Then flinging himself on the Indian, he pinned him to the ground.
 

In the dirt they rolled, locked in a death duel, panting, grunting, each man fighting for his life, Hughes on top one minute, Quanah the next. Then, on their feet, throwing punches, landing blows, an elbow to the side, a fist to the chin. Pulling, kicking, clawing, they fought like animals.

Quanah brought a knee up, swift and hard, to Hughes’s groin. Hughes stumbled sideways, trying to stay on his feet, to keep breathing through the gut-wrenching pain. Doubled over at the waist, he saw the Indian diving toward him, tomahawk raised.
 

Hughes swung upward with his knife, butt end of the handle first. It struck against Quanah’s temple, knocking the man to his knees. With a quickness, Hughes struck again, this time to the other side of the head, and Quanah fell sideways, unconscious, tomahawk slipping from his fingers, dropping to the rocky ground.

Removing his belt, Hughes cinched Quanah’s wrists, binding his hands tight behind his back. He then rolled Quanah over, face up. “Quanah Parker, chief of the Noconis. You don’t look like much more than a napping baby. Except for the blood covering your face. And the war paint
.”

Hughes walked over to where his saddle lay next to his guns and removed his canteen, taking long gulps of water, still panting, trying to catch his breath. He went back to Quanah and straddled him, knelt down with knees either side of his waist, and poured water onto the Indian’s face. He tossed the canteen aside and waited. “I’ll be the first thing you see when you come to.”

Coughing, sputtering, Quanah opened his eyes, seeing Hughes on his knees straddling him, arms upraised, both fists gripping the knife, ready to land the final blow. “Waya Agatoli,” he said, his voice choked and harsh. “Wolf Eyes. You fight like a warrior.”
 

“I
am
a warrior. You fought an honorable fight, Chief. But you lost.”

“Yes. I lost. You can now release my spirit to the moon, who still smiles on you.” Quanah called out to his warrior who held his horse. “Honor my words. Send Wolf Eyes to ride away into the land of no harm. My horse now belongs to him.” He looked at Hughes and said, “Our spirits will fight again in the secret world of the dead. I will not let you win the next fight.” He smiled. “Go ahead now. I am ready.”

Hughes lifted his arms higher, tightening his grip on the knife. With a force that took all of his breath, he plunged the knife down as hard as he could into the ground, inches from Quanah’s left ear.

Unflinching, unblinking, unsmiling, Quanah’s eyes remained focused on the stars.
 

“Maybe I’d rather fight you again in this world of the living, on a day when I’m in the mood to throw a few punches. An honorable opponent is hard to come by these days.” Hughes removed his knife that was hilt-deep in the stony ground. “Thanks for the use of your horse. You can come steal him back next time you’re in San Antone.”

“If I had won, I would not have let you live. Man Who Sees With Wolf Eyes must be a little
loco
.”

“There’re worse things in life than being a little
loco
, like being a lot dead.” Hughes strapped on his guns, threw his saddle onto the back of Quanah’s horse, and before mounting said, “I think I’ll keep this as a souvenir of our fight.” He picked up Quanah’s tomahawk, lashing it to his saddle. “You can keep my belt that’s around your wrists as yours.”
 

Warm night air rushed against his face as Hughes galloped the white stallion south. The crescent moon slipped through the silky sky high overhead on its westward journey, ignoring the thin clouds that strayed across its path.

*****

The streets of San Antonio were dark and deserted when Hughes rode into town, few lamps burning in any buildings except for the saloon where the windows never went dark. The piano plinked out a tune. Painted women laughed in bawdy peels of delight, cards slapped the tabletops face up, face down, and sweet tobacco smoke hung thick in the air as serious men puffed fat cigars and tried to out-bluff one another.
 

Tying the horse’s reins around the hitching post in between two large slack-jawed, droopy eared, half asleep nags, Hughes dismounted, muscles aching from his earlier fall and fight. Exhausted, he strode into the saloon, his spurs clinking on the plank floor pockmarked from years of rowel-inflicted wounds.
 

He elbowed his way through the lively crowd, back to the bar that had been carved out of a single slab of live oak wood. The barkeeper maintained the shellacked surface to a high polished gloss, as shiny and reflective as the mirror that hung on the wall behind it.
 

“Double whiskey, on the double,
por favor
.” Hughes kept a close watch on the mirror, making sure no one snuck up on him from behind. He picked up a burnt matchstick someone had tossed aside and began scraping at the dirt and blood under his nails.

“By the looks of you, a double won’t scratch the surface. I thought you were headed to Fort Worth to pick up a prisoner,” said Tandy McMurrough, setting a shot glass and the rest of the bottle in front of Hughes with one hand, the other hand buffing out a thin smudge on the bar.

“Was. I hope he likes his accommodations in Fort Worth. He’ll have to stay put another week or two.”

Tandy slowed his polishing hand and eyed Hughes with curiosity. “Week or two? I thought he was wanted in Austin.”

“First, I want to pay a visit home to New Orleans and get one of Mother’s fine thoroughbreds. I miss riding a good horse. A good, fast horse. It’s been way too long since I’ve visited home, and way too long since I’ve had a good, fast horse.”

“You seem edgy,” said Tandy, leaning across the bar to fill the shot glass.

“It’s been an edgy kind of night,” said Hughes, slinging back the whiskey.

“What happened to that brown horse I saw you ride out on this morning?”
 

“He was neither good nor fast. He was just a horse who decided at the wrong time to die.”

“That was inconvenient of him,” said Tandy, shaking his head.
 

“Have you ever ridden a
really
good horse, Tandy?” Hughes sipped his whiskey, his eyes lingering on the mirror.

The bartender pondered this, pushed his glasses up off his thick bulbous nose with one hand, rubbed the rag around on the spotless bar with the other. “Well, let me think about that. I recall one time—”

“If you have to think about it, then the answer is no, Tandy. You have never ridden a
really
good horse. A man who has ever ridden a
really
good horse never forgets
that
horse,
that
experience. Compares all other horses to
that one
. It’s like making love to a beautiful woman, or sipping a fine, expensive wine. The cheap ones never live up to the best of your memories.”

“Or fantasies,” said Tandy. “You have memories. Men like me have fantasies.”

“Well, here’s to memorable fantasies,” Hughes said, lifting his shot glass in a toast.

“I’ll drink to that,” agreed Tandy, pouring himself a whiskey. “Your face and clothes are a bloody mess. What happened?”

“I’ll spare you the boring details, but I had a run-in with an Indian chief. Quanah Parker himself. I got away with my life and his horse. He looks very inconspicuous out there tied amongst the other rangy mounts.”

Tandy stopped wiping, his rag motionless. He looked at Hughes with eyes wide, mouth agape. “You stole Quanah’s horse?” he asked, his voice loud above the noise of the crowd.
 

The piano went silent.

A hush fell over the saloon. Everyone turned curious eyes on Hughes, wanting to hear the story. Several men eased themselves nearer, a few women in fancy dresses with feathers in their hair leaned in, and Tandy absentmindedly began pushing his rag in circles over the spotless bar.

“I didn’t steal Quanah’s horse. You could say I took him up on his generous offer,” said Hughes, pouring himself and Tandy another whiskey.

“Quanah Parker is a murderer. He tortures and scalps and burns and steals. You want us to believe he benevolently handed his horse over to you out of the goodness of his heart?” asked Jerry Allsup, the obese blackjack dealer, still shuffling cards midair from one pudgy hand to the other, stumpy cigar clenched between yellow teeth.

Hughes sipped his whiskey, glancing at the mirror, checking his back. “Well, Mr. Allsup, our murdering chief didn’t hand his horse over. It was a verbal offer. My belt . . .” Hughes pointed to the empty loops encircling his waistband. “. . . had his hands secured behind his back. I took him up on his offer after my horse died. Sure as hell beats walking back to San Antonio in the dark.”

Jerry Allsup pressed in closer, his sour tobacco breath hot in Hughes’s face. In a loud, smoker’s rasp, he said, “Looks like he almost had the best of you. Mark my words, but you’ll regret not killing that son of a bitch while you had the chance.”

Hughes rubbed his throbbing left shoulder, his shirt torn and stiff with dried blood. “I’d be a dead man, minus my scalp, if I’d killed Quanah. His warriors would’ve seen to that.” As far as regretting not killing the chief, Hughes considered regrets something old men sitting on porches in rocking chairs had time to fret over. Right now, it was time to pay Tandy for his fine whiskey and make his way to the Menger Hotel. A hot bath and his bed was waiting.

“I can help you with that nasty gash on your head,” whispered a sweet voice, a small, soft hand stroking the side of his face, brushing the dark hair back away from his amber eyes and off his forehead. The wound over his left eye was caked with dirt and dried blood.

“Lydia, my lovely,” said Hughes, taking her hand, kissing it. “What a nice surprise. I was thinking about you when I was checking my pistol before I got sidetracked by an Indian chief.”

“I often find myself thinking about you and your pistol,” teased Lydia, her large brown eyes sparkling. She wore her thick, blond curls piled high on her head, pinned in place with a gold and diamond barrette in the shape of a star, a gift from Hughes.

“Is that a fact?” He smiled, dimples framing his sensuous mouth.
 

“A fact,” she said, batting her lashes in a coy, shy fashion before spouting rigid instructions. “Tandy, Mr. Lévesque’s drinks are on the house tonight. Send next door for Oma Klein to come over and run a hot Epsom salts bath and bring some bandaging materials. Have Little Billy unsaddle that horse out there and take him down to the livery yard. I don’t want that painted Indian pony standing in front of my saloon scaring away business. Bring Hughes’s saddle in and leave it behind the bar for safekeeping.”

“Yes ma’am, Miss Lydia. Anything else?” asked Tandy as he sent Billy out to take care of the horse.
 

“Yes. Send up a bottle of champagne. Two glasses.” Lydia took Hughes by the elbow, leading him from the bar. “I have some doctoring to do.”

Hughes smiled, allowing Lydia to pull him away. “I love an in-charge woman, especially one who owns a saloon and can nurse a man’s wounds.”

Little Billy, the twelve-year-old orphan whom Lydia had discovered the previous winter shivering under the back porch of the saloon, flea-covered and stinky as an abandoned pup, burst through the swinging doors, carrying Hughes’s saddle. “Mr. L-L-Lévesque! That horse a-a-a-ain’t out th-th-there,” he stuttered in a loud, excited gush of words. “Ain’t no Indian’s h-h-horse out there. J-J-Just your saddle laying on the gr-ground.”

Hughes ran out of the saloon doors, followed by Lydia, Tandy, and the others who crowded around the hitching post, staring at the vacated spot where Hughes had tied the white stallion. The tomahawk he had kept as a souvenir from his fight with Quanah was now embedded in the wooden rail, his belt swinging from the weapon’s handle as if it had just been tossed there moments ago.

The empty street held no sign of the white stallion, or of the chief, or of the other warriors who rode with him. Not even a speck of dust hung in the quiet, still air. The crowd pressed together, looking left and right, searching for a clue. There was none.
 

“It appears that our visitors didn’t care to stick around, but I’m happy he returned this.” Hughes threaded his belt through the loops, tightening the buckle that bore his family’s crest. The heirloom symbol was a small gold
fleur de lis
centered in front of a larger silver Maltese cross embedded on a background of black onyx, its border a thin line of crushed red rubies. “I’m fond of this particular buckle.”

“How rude of our visitors not to stay. Oh. . . . You had another today,” said Lydia, feigning revelation. “She’s staying at the Brazos Guest House. Oma Klein told me that she put her into the master suite next to the rose garden. Oma never lets just anyone stay in the master suite. Your visitor must be important.”

Hughes looked perplexed. “She? My visitor? Did
she
leave a name?”