Captive Trail (2 page)

F
aster. Taabe Waipu had to go faster, or she would never get down from the high plains, down to the hill country and beyond. South, ever south and east.

Clinging to the horse, she let him run. The land looked flat all around, though it was riddled with ravines and folds. She could no longer see any familiar landmarks. The moon and stars had guided her for two nights, and now the rising sun told her which way to go on her second day of flight. She’d snatched only brief periods of rest. At her urging the horse galloped on, down and up the dips and hollows of the land.

Taabe didn’t know where the next water supply lay. The only thing she knew was that she must outrun the Numinu—
Comanche
, their enemies called them. No one traveled these plains without their permission. Those who tried didn’t make
it out again. She glanced over her shoulder in the gray dawn. As far as she could see, no one followed, but she couldn’t stop. They were back there, somewhere. She urged the horse on toward the southeast.

South to the rolling grasslands where the white men had their ranches. Where Peca and the other men often went to raid. Where Taabe was born.

The compact paint stallion ran smoothly beneath her, but as the sun rose and cast her shadow long over the Llano Estacado, his breath became labored, his stride shorter. Where her legs hugged his sleek sides, her leggings dampened with his sweat. He was a good horse, this wiry paint that Peca had left outside her sister’s tepee. Without him she wouldn’t have gotten this far. But no horse could run forever.

Taabe slowed him to a trot but didn’t dare rest. Not yet.

Another look behind.

No one.

Would she recognize the house she’d once lived in? She didn’t think so, but she imagined a big earthen lodge, not a tepee. Or was it a cabin made of logs? That life was a shadow world in her mind now. Fences. The warriors talked about the fences built by the white men, around their gardens and their houses. She thought she recalled climbing a fence made of long poles and sitting on the top. When she saw fences, she would know she was close.

At last she came to a shallow stream, sliding between rocks and fallen trees. It burbled languidly where it split around a boulder. She let the horse wade in and bend down to drink.

Taabe stayed on his back while he drank in long, eager gulps, keeping watch over the way they’d come. She needed to find a sheltered place where the horse could graze and rest. Did she dare stop for a while? She studied the trail behind her then took her near-empty water skin from around her neck.
Leaning over the paint’s side, she dangled it by its thong in the water on the horse’s upstream side. She wouldn’t dismount to fill it properly, but she could stay in the saddle and scoop up a little. She straightened and checked the trail again. The horse took a step and continued to drink.

She stroked his withers, warm and smooth. With a wry smile, she remembered the bride price Peca had left. Six horses staked out before the tepee. A stallion and five mares—pretty mares. Healthy, strong mounts. But only six.

The stallion raised his head at last and waded across the stream without her urging. They settled into a steady trot. Tomorrow or the next day or the next, she would come to a land with many trees and rivers. And many houses of the whites.

Would she have stayed if Peca had left twenty horses?

Fifty?

Not for a thousand horses would she have stayed in the village and married Peca—or any other warrior. Staying would make it impossible for her ever to go back to that other world—the world to the south.

Eagerness filled her, squeezing out her fear. She dug her heels into the stallion’s ribs. Whatever awaited her, she rushed to meet it.

The paint lunged forward and down. His right front hoof sank, and he didn’t stop falling. Taabe tried to brace herself, too late. The horse’s body continued to fly up and around. She hurtled off to the side and tucked her head.

“Today’s the day, Ned.”

“Yup.” Ned Bright coiled his long driver’s whip and grinned at his partner in the stagecoach business, Patrillo Garza. He and “Tree” had scraped up every penny and peso they could to
outfit their ranch as a stage stop, in hopes of impressing the Butterfield Overland Mail Company’s division agent. Their efforts had paid off. Tree was now the station agent at the Bright-Garza Station, and Ned would earn his keep as driver between the ranch and Fort Chadbourne. “Never thought everything would go through and we’d be carrying the mail.”

“Well, it did, and as of today we’re delivering,” Tree said. “Now, remember—the mail is important, but not at the passengers’ expense.”

“Sure.” Ned took his hat from a peg on the wall and fitted it onto his head with the brim at precisely the angle he liked. “But if we lose the mail on our first run, we’re not apt to keep the contract, are we?”

Tree scowled. “We ain’t gonna lose the mail, ya hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Right. We’ve made this run hundreds of times.”

It was true. The two had hauled freight and passengers to the forts for several years. They’d scraped by. But the contract with the Butterfield Overland would mean steady pay and good equipment. Reimbursement if they were robbed.

“Oh, and you’ve got some passengers,” Tree said, offhand.

“Great. That’s where we make a profit, right?”

“Well …” Tree seemed unable to meet his gaze. “There were nuns, see, and—”

“None? I thought you said there were some.”

“Nuns, Ned. Catholic nuns. Sisters.”

Ned’s jaw dropped. “You’re joshing.”

Tree shook his head. “Nope. There’s a pack of ’em at the old Wisher place, out near Fort Chadbourne. Came out from Galveston a month ago to start a mission.”

“A mission? What kind of mission?”

“A Catholic one, what do you think? They’re going to start a school, like the one in Galveston.”

Ned eyed him suspiciously. “You’re making this up.”

“Nope. Somebody gave them the land, and the convent in Galveston sent them out here. I’m surprised you didn’t know.” Tree ran a hand through his glossy dark hair. “That’s right—they came while you were off buying mules. Seriously, they intend to start a school for girls. I’m thinking of sending Quinta to them.”

Ned stared at him. What would the station be like without Quinta? The nine-year-old followed her brothers around and alternately helped and got in the way. She swam like a water moccasin, rode like a Comanche, and yapped like a hungry pup. Since Quinta’s mother died, Tree had pretty much given up trying to feminize her, and he let her run around in overalls and a shirt outgrown by Diego—the next child up the stairsteps.

“And I’m taking them to the fort?”

“Can’t see any harm in dropping them at their place. It’s right beside the road. Two of ’em caught a ride here to pick up some supplies that were donated to their cause, and I told them that if there was enough space, we could haul their stuff out to the mission without them paying extra for it.”

“But freight is—”

Tree raised a hand as he turned away. “Don’t start, Ned.” Esteban, Tree’s third son, charged into the ranch house spouting in Spanish, “Papa, the stage is coming.” In the distance, a bugle sounded.

Tree laughed, his teeth flashing white. “Who needs a horn when you’ve got kids?” He tousled Esteban’s hair. “You got the team ready?”

“Si.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” Tree hurried into the next room.

Ned stared after him. Only one way to find out if his partner was exaggerating. He strode for the door. Outside in the baking heat, Benito and Marcos, the two oldest boys,
had brought the team out of the barn into the dusty yard and stood holding the leaders’ heads.

To the right, waiting under the overhang of the eaves, stood two women in long, black dresses. Robes. Habits. Some sort of head shawl—black again, with white showing over their foreheads—covered their hair. Ned glowered at no one in particular.

To his left, Brownie Fale, Ned’s shotgun rider, leaned against an adobe wall of the station. He nodded at Ned and spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dust. They’d ridden hundreds, maybe thousands of miles together, hauling tons of freight. No need to talk now.

The stage barreled into the yard in a cloud of dust and pulled up short. Ned looked over the high, curved body of the coach and pulled in a deep breath. Mighty fine rig. Driving it would be a pleasure, if it wasn’t too top heavy. Putting some passengers and freight inside would help.

“Howdy, boys,” he called to the two men on the box. He stepped forward and opened the coach door. No one was inside, but three sacks of mail lay on the floor between the front and middle benches.

The driver and shotgun rider jumped down.

“How do, Ned,” said Sam Tunney. He and the shotgun rider headed out back to the privy while Tree’s boys began to change out the teams. Benito held the incoming mules’ heads, Diego and Esteban scrambled to unhitch them from the eveners, and Marcos stood by with the fresh team.

Ned turned and went back inside. Tree sauntered toward him carrying a bulging sack on his shoulder. On the side was stenciled “U.S. Mail.”

“There’s three sacks already in the stage,” Ned said.

“Bueno
. This’ll make four.” Tree pushed past him, out into the unrelenting sun. Ned followed. The nuns hadn’t moved. Tree
plunked the sack of mail into the coach then leaned in and set it over, arranging it just so with the other three. He straightened and nodded. “All right, passengers can load.” He looked at the nuns. “All aboard, Sisters.”

His second-oldest son, Marcos, waved from the rear of the coach’s roof and hopped down.

As the nuns stepped forward, Tree said, “We’ve put your stuff in the boot. When you get to your place, the shotgun messenger will unload it for you.”

“Thank you, Señor Garza,” said the nearer of the two.

The women glided forward and, with a hand from Tree, mounted the step and disappeared inside the coach. Even with the mail sacks, they’d have plenty of room. Brownie sauntered over and climbed onto the driver’s box.

“What do I call them?” Ned whispered as Tree turned back toward the station.

“What you mean? You don’t have to call them anything.”

Ned stepped into the shade of the eaves with him. “If we have an emergency or something.”

“You won’t.”

Ned felt like slugging him. He’d never seen a nun before. Just knowing they would be sitting back there in the coach made him nervous. “I’m just saying, Tree.”

The station agent sighed. “Call them sisters, then.”

Ned shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“They’re not—I mean—I’m not—”

“You’re not Catholic.” Ned nodded.

“So call them ma’am, or ladies. Whatever polite names you’d call any woman in that situation.”

“Right.”

Tree nodded. “You know the place? It’s about five miles this
side of the fort. No one’s lived there since Wisher left last fall. You’ve got no other passengers. If you make good time, you can swing in and set their boxes down for them. Won’t take you five minutes.”

“But we don’t—”

“Ned. They’re women.” Tree shook his head and walked away.

Ned gulped and strode to the front of the stage. He swung up into the driver’s seat and smiled. This was something. Much better than a freight wagon, even if he was driving mules. He’d hoped for horses, but the Butterfield had invested heavily in mules. He’d take it.

He gathered the reins of the four-in-hand team, released the brake, and nodded to Benito. The young man let go of the leaders’ heads and stepped to the side. Ned gave his whip three pops, and the mules surged forward.

The team settled into a steady road trot. Ned glanced over at the shotgun messenger.

Brownie grinned. “Feels different from a wagon, don’t it?”

“Sure does.”

“Not too hot today, neither.” Brownie cradled his shotgun in his arms.

Ned started to disagree, but held his tongue. Up here, they caught a pleasant breeze. With his hat and the wind of their speed, it wasn’t bad. He held the reins and enjoyed the gentle swaying of the stage, the creak of the leathers, and the
clop
of shod hooves on the packed trail. The only thing that could make it better would be horses in the harness—and paying passengers.