Captive Trail (17 page)

“Sad. You know.” Quinta made fists and scrubbed at her eyes.

Taabe smiled. She streaked her fingers down her cheeks like tears.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” Quinta gazed at her soberly. “Are you sad, Taabe? Do you miss your family?”

Taabe knew the word “family,” but not which family Quinta meant—the Numinu family she had abandoned, or the white family she barely knew existed.

N
ed was glad to be home. The sixty-mile run to Fort Chadbourne seemed to get longer every time—especially those times he didn’t stop to see Taabe.

They rolled into the ranch’s barnyard after dark. The new driver and shotgun rider were waiting to take over for the run to Fort Phantom Hill, and Tree’s sons changed the teams out quickly. Trainer lurched inside the house with the other three passengers and ate a hasty supper. The stage would take them as fast as possible to their destinations, but they would have to sleep in the mail coach.

Ned waited until they were ready to board again. He stopped Trainer as he left the house. “Here’s your ten dollars.”

The buffalo hunter took the money and crammed it in his pocket. “Too bad it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah.” Ned hesitated. “I guess she went back to the Comanche.”

“You couldn’t have stopped this morning and asked if they’d found her?”

“Could have, but I’m not supposed to. The captain will let us know. Look, don’t broadcast it about the girl, will you?”

“What, that she ran away?”

“Anything.”

“I thought you wanted to find out who she is. The only way to do that is to let people know.”

Ned scowled. “Folks would be awfully disappointed if they went to see her and she wasn’t there, wouldn’t they? And we wouldn’t want anyone bothering the nuns. We’ve been telling folks to see Captain Tapley if they’re looking for a missing girl.”

“Time to board,” Tree called from beside the stagecoach.

Trainer nodded at Ned and strode to the coach.

Ned let out a sigh and leaned against the wall of the ranch house. The stagecoach pulled out, and Tree walked over.

“Everything all right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Come on. Marcos made plenty of tortillas, and I think there’s some gingerbread left, though we weren’t expecting so many passengers to feed. How’s my
chica
doing?”

“Quinta’s fine. Full of chili peppers.” Ned chuckled. “I’m supposed to tell you she sewed a new dress. And she’s picking up a few words of Comanche.”

“Well, there,” Tree said. “Pretty soon she’ll be able to translate for you. That girl chatters all day long.”

“You may be right. I hope she has Taabe chattering back pretty soon—in English. Quinta misses her horse, and I expect she misses her brothers too, though she didn’t say as much.”

“She is missed here,” Tree said. “I will go and see her soon. It’s too quiet, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Ned hung up his hat and sat down at the long table.

Diego brought him a heaped plate of tortillas, beans, beef, and applesauce.

“That looks good.
Gracias.”
Ned bowed his head for a moment and silently thanked God as well.

“There’s been some Indian trouble farther up the line,” Tree said.

“Bad?”

“They raided a couple of ranches. Stole some horses and wounded a man.” Tree poured himself a cup of coffee and brought it to the table. “Ned, do you think Quinta’s really safe at the mission?”

Ned swallowed a bite. His throat suddenly seemed tighter. This was his question all along—and now Patrillo was having second thoughts.

“They have a hiding place,” he said. “Don’t mention it to anyone. But yeah, I think she’ll be safe. I hope.”

“You don’t sound sure. Maybe I should bring her home until things quiet down again.”

Ned grimaced. “Let me tell you what happened with Trainer, and you see what you think.”

Quinta always made Taabe laugh. No one could drive away her anxiety the way the dark-eyed girl could. She talked constantly unless the nuns chided her to keep still. Taabe soon realized she was fluent in both English and her native language—Spanish—and was rapidly learning Comanche. The morning Quinta attempted to make a joke in Comanche, Taabe not only laughed until her sides ached, she also realized Quinta could be her link to the outside world—and to the past.

Sister Natalie announced at the noon meal that another girl—perhaps two—would arrive in two weeks to attend school. This news brought a stare of dismay from Quinta.

Taabe patted her shoulder. “Is good. You have new friend.”

“You’re
my new friend,” Quinta said.

“Now, Quinta, finish your luncheon,” Sister Natalie said. “You’ve got arithmetic and sewing yet to do this afternoon.”

“I’ve been thinking about the man who chased Taabe,” Quinta said.

The dining table fell silent. Taabe and the four nuns waited for her to continue.

“We should have a plan, in case he hears where she is and comes looking for her.”

Sister Natalie caught her breath. Sister Adele looked anxiously at Taabe. None of them had spoken directly of this fear since the day they’d shown Taabe the hiding place. While the nuns calmly accepted the situation and went about their daily routines, the nine-year-old girl had obviously been considering what should be done about it.

“Has Taabe spoken to you about this man?” Sister Adele asked, with a glance at Sister Natalie.

“A bit. His name is Peca, and he left six horses outside Taabe’s house. Well, not house, but the tepee or whatever—where she lived.”

“Six horses?” Sister Adele’s eyebrows shot up, and the nuns gazed at one another.

“Why did he do that?”

Quinta frowned. “I think he was hoping she’d take care of them for him.”

Taabe puzzled out what she meant and shook her head. “For family.”

“Oh,” said Sister Marie. “He gave your family six horses?”

Taabe nodded slowly.

“That was kind of him,” said Sister Marie.

“No. Not good.”

“Not?” Sister Marie was clearly baffled.

“He must be a bad man,” Quinta said. “Was he the one that stole you?”

Taabe frowned. “Stole Taabe?”

“You know. When the Indians raided your parents’ ranch and snatched you.”

Taabe looked helplessly to Sister Adele. “When …?”

Sister Adele cleared her throat and glanced at Sister Natalie before speaking. Her superior made no protest and Adele said, “I believe Quinta is referring to the time when you were a child. When the Comanche took you. You were young, like Quinta. You remember when they took you from your home?”

Slowly Taabe nodded. She did remember her terror those first few weeks. Riding, riding, day and night, with only a mouthful of food now and then—food that seemed foul at the time. She thought she would starve. When she fell asleep on the horse and tumbled to the ground, they had tied her on. She’d wept and wept until she felt as dry as an old corn husk. And at last they’d come into a deep canyon with houses built along the cliff wall—fantastical palaces, she’d thought. A wrinkled Comanche woman had taken her and fed her and laid her on a pallet of buffalo robes and let her sleep.

Quinta tugged at her sleeve. “Was Peca the one who kidnapped you?”

Taabe stared at her, troubled at the memories flooding her and the fact she didn’t know the words Quinta used.

She turned to Sister Adele, lifting her hands.

“It means stole,” Sister Adele said. “We call it kidnapping—stealing a person.”

Taabe gazed toward the wall where the crucifix hung. After a long moment, she said, “Peca did not steal me.”

“But he wants to steal you now,” Quinta said.

Taabe’s throat tightened. She looked into Quinta’s open face. So innocent and blunt, this girl was.

“Yes. Peca kidnapping now.”

“We’ve seen no sign of the Comanche,” Sister Natalie said. “Unless …”

No one spoke of the shadow in the woods.

“It’s what I said.” Quinta looked at the sisters. “We need a plan.”

“We have the hiding place,” Sister Marie said.

“Yes, but we need a warning system. So that if one of us sees Peca—or any suspicious men—skulking about, we can warn each other at once.”

Taabe was confused by Quinta’s words, but she waited to see what the sisters said.

“That’s an interesting idea, and it’s not far off from thoughts I’ve been having,” Sister Natalie said. “Tell us what you have in mind, Quinta.”

“Whistles are good.” She turned to Taabe. “Don’t the Comanche use whistles to signal each other?”

Taabe frowned, studying Quinta’s face and trying to force a meaning on the words that tumbled from her mouth.

Quinta pursed her lips and gave a sharp whistle. Taabe flinched.

“Like that. Or how about an owl?” The girl gave the eerie call they had heard outside the mission walls in the evening.

Taabe smiled. “Good. Man come—” She repeated Quinta’s owl call. “Bad man.” She hooted again.

Quinta’s grin revealed her white teeth. “That’s it! We can all tell each other without having to run inside.”

“You had
better
run inside if you see a bad man,” Sister Riva muttered.

“And won’t the Comanche know the owl’s call is out of place?” Sister Marie said. “They don’t usually come out in the daytime.”

“We can use different birds.” Quinta’s brow furrowed. “We
could invent a whole language of signals.”

“I think it would be best to keep it simple,” Sister Natalie said. “That way we’re not apt to become confused.”

Quinta pressed her lips together, and Taabe almost laughed. The girl must feel sorry that all these older women feared they couldn’t remember a dozen or so different whistles and keep them straight.

She placed her hand on Quinta’s wrist. “Good. You tell us. Good man. Bad man. Run.” She shrugged.

“Yes,” said Sister Adele. “Two or three distinct whistles. We shall all have to practice them, and Quinta, you will be the teacher for this lesson. You must make sure we all make the signals correctly.”

Sister Natalie cleared her throat. “Shall we have our whistling lesson right after arithmetic class?”

“Why not before?” Quinta asked.

“Oh, I think not,” Sister Natalie said. “Arithmetic is very important, and there are not likely to be any kidnappers about before sunset, do you think?”

Taabe couldn’t wait to suggest the signal she’d thought of. She touched Quinta, and when the girl turned to her, she said, “Stagecoach.”

“Stagecoach?” Quinta’s eyebrows shot up.

Taabe made a mournful call of several notes, dropping low at the end.

Quinta laughed. “Yes! Perfect.” She turned to the nuns. “That will mean the stagecoach is coming—it’s a roadrunner.”

On Tuesday morning, Quinta gave her roadrunner call. Taabe lifted the hem of the long, black robe she wore and ran out to the entrance. Sister Natalie had refused to let her go to the fort in her regular dress, but had conceded that she would
probably not be recognized if she wore one of the Ursuline habits.

All the nuns gathered in the yard to watch the coach roll in. Ned blew a blast on a gleaming brass horn, and Quinta clapped her hands, bouncing with glee.

Brownie jumped down and held the lead mules’ heads while Ned strode toward them, grinning.

“Good morning, ladies! We’ve no other passengers today. How many of you are going?”

“Just Sister Adele, with Taabe and Quinta, if you think it’s safe.” Sister Natalie nodded toward Taabe.

Ned’s eyes widened. “You have a new nun.” He stared at the fifth “sister.”

Taabe wondered what he was thinking. He almost looked disapproving. He liked the sisters and treated them with respect and kindness, but he didn’t seem to like her wearing their dress.

“A postulant, we would call her,” Sister Natalie said, “and she wouldn’t wear this habit if she truly were here for that purpose, but … well, you and I agreed that this is probably best.”

Ned nodded slowly. “Yes. I just didn’t …” He cleared his throat. “It makes sense. No one will look closely at her in that getup. Not at all what they’d expect of a returned captive.”

“That was my conclusion as well,” Sister Natalie said.

Both of them looked anxious as they surveyed her. Was she doing something wrong by wearing the black dress?