Captive Trail (5 page)

Taabe Waipu awoke slowly. The first thing she saw was a white wall. She caught her breath and tried to sit up. Pain ran through her head like stampeding horses, and she clapped a hand to her brow. She was lying on a bed built up off the floor.

Carefully she moved her legs, hoping to swing them from between the coverings and over the side. Immediate pain in her right ankle stopped her. She lay still for a minute, sucking air between clenched teeth.

Finally she felt ready to try again. She lifted the top blanket and slowly slid her foot to the edge. When it hung over the side, she pushed herself up with her arms and sat on the edge
of the bed, shaking. Pain throbbed in her skull and her cheek. She put her fingertips cautiously to her face and gritted her teeth. The right side was painful and puffy.

Her injured ankle was bound with strips of cloth, but she could see it was swollen to twice its normal size. She touched her foot experimentally to the floor. Pain made her wince and lift it. She ran her hands over the white garment she wore. Its softness surprised her. And why would anyone wear white? More mysterious—how did they make it so white?

She looked around. Two of the walls were made of dried clay, the other two of boards. All were whitewashed. One of the adobe walls held a narrow aperture about a foot high and four inches wide. It looked as though the walls were at least eight inches thick. The opening seemed more of a slit to shoot arrows through than a window. No man could fit through it.

On the wall over her bed hung a small carving of a man on a torture rack. She studied it for a long time but couldn’t guess why it was there. Next to the bed was a wooden stand, and on it a white pottery bowl with a gracefully shaped jug sitting in it. The white jug had a handle, and lifelike flowers were painted on the bulging side. Taabe touched the pitcher. The pottery felt cool and smooth, almost slippery. She peered inside. The jug held water.

She lifted it and was about to put the curved edge to her lips when she spied a metal cup. Holding the heavy jug and pouring the water was difficult while sitting on the bed, and she splashed a little on herself. New pain shot up her leg as she tensed. She set the jug back in the bowl with a clunk and raised the cup to her mouth. The cool, sweet water must have been placed there recently. She drained the cup and set it beside the big, white bowl. Exhausted, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. From far away, she heard a faint sound. Music, but not like the songs of the Numinu. Gentle voices
singing words she could not distinguish.

The creaking of the door’s hinges startled her. She jerked her eyes open and turned her head toward the sound. Her feet pushed instinctively on the bed, and she gasped at the fresh pain in her ankle.

A figure stood in the doorway—a form in a long black robe. The face was thin and as white as a skull. Taabe held back a scream. The eyes bored into her—eyes an odd, light brown, lighter than any Indian’s.

The face smiled. Then Taabe realized a woman wore the robe. A woman with a band of snow-white cloth around her face and a black head cloth on top. In her pale hands she held a board with dishes on it. The smell of food hit Taabe, and her stomach lurched. She couldn’t remember ever being so hungry.

The eastbound stage was due at Fort Chadbourne at ten the next morning. Ned was up early and ate a huge breakfast under Mrs. Stein’s beaming approval. He moseyed out to the stable and helped Sonny and Dutch tend to the livestock. Dutch yawned several times, and he looked a little bleary-eyed.

Brownie wandered out from the dining room an hour later and helped them groom the team of four big mules they’d take on their eastbound trip. They’d stop twice to change teams before they reached Tree and Ned’s ranch, sixty miles away. There another driver and shotgun rider would take over for the run past the ruins of Fort Phantom Hill and on toward Fort Belknap. Ned and Brownie would stay at the ranch until the next westbound stage arrived.

“I’m not sure about this twice-a-week schedule,” Ned said to Brownie as they lolled against the wall, watching the tenders hitch up the team.

“We’ll see how it goes this first week,” Brownie said. “We’re westbound Tuesday and Friday, and eastbound Wednesday and Sunday. If we need to, we can ride home from here on a Friday night and come back Sunday morning.”

“We’ll work it out.” Ned frowned, thinking about the convent between Fort Chadbourne and the ranch he and Patrillo owned. “Do we have any passengers this morning? I want to stop and get a report on the woman we left with the sisters.”
Sisters
. It came out easily now, though the concept was still foreign.

“Yeah, there’s two men wanting to ride to Fort Belknap. Herr Stein just sold them tickets. And there may be more on the inbound stage.”

Ned nodded. “Well, the captain asked me specifically to stop and look in at the mission. Maybe we can leave a couple of minutes early, if everyone’s ready to go.”

Brownie straightened. “I’ll go check on the mail.”

They walked toward the home station. From the fort’s grounds, a uniformed trooper strode toward them.

“Mr. Bright!”

Ned stopped walking. “You go on,” he told Brownie. He and the trooper met beside the house.

“The captain said to find you if you hadn’t left yet. There’s a couple over to his office who want to know about the captive woman you found.”

Ned looked back toward the stagecoach. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

“Then let’s go.” The trooper led him at a fast walk across the parade ground between the barracks and officers’ quarters and left him outside Tapley’s office.

Ned rapped on the door and opened it.

“Come right in, Mr. Bright,” Captain Tapley called out.

Ned stepped into the dim room. The captain and his sergeant had given up their chairs for a man and a woman, who
sprang to their feet on Ned’s entrance.

“You’re the one who found a white woman in Comanche dress?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Bright, these are the Cunninghams,” Tapley said. “They have a place a few miles south of here.”

“We came to the fort to do a little trading this morning and heard the news.” The man extended his hand to Ned.

“We lost our daughter,” his wife said, her voice choking. “Please, can you tell us about this young woman?”

“Well, she’s … When was your daughter taken? And how old would she be?”

“Two years ago, when the Indians stole the mail.” Mr. Cunningham glanced at his wife.

Ned nodded. “I remember.” Before the nationwide contract was assigned, the soldiers received sacks of local mail and helped deliver it to settlers in the area. “The raiders came into the fort to trade a few days later, and they had some of the cavalrymen’s things on them.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “The same day they ambushed the soldiers and stole the mail, our girl disappeared out of our yard. We never found a trace, except hoofprints and—and Sally’s—” She sobbed.

Her husband eyed Ned apologetically. “They threw her clothes on the ground.” He put his arm around his wife.

“I’m sorry,” Ned said. “That doesn’t mean they abused her. Seems they like to put their captives in their own type of clothing right away.”
Or some have reported they were made to ride naked for days. But then they gave them buckskins to wear
. Ned didn’t voice his thoughts.

Mrs. Cunningham sobbed louder, and her husband drew her close.

“She was ten,” Captain Tapley said. “From what you’ve
told me, this young woman you found is probably not Sally Cunningham.”

Ned shook his head. “I strongly doubt it. Not if your Sally would be twelve now. This woman is older than that.”

“We need to see her,” Mrs. Cunningham said.

Her husband looked to Ned. “If we see her, we’ll know, one way or the other. If we don’t, we might keep wondering. And if she’s not Sally, well, it’s possible she might know something about her.”

Ned nodded. “All right. The stage is about to leave. Can you come along now?”

“Yes,” they said together.

Ned glanced at the captain. “The thing is, we won’t come back through until Friday. But the mission is only a few miles from here …”

“I’ll send a detachment with a wagon,” Tapley said. “Better to see them safely back here today.”

“All right, then,” Ned said. “You can come on the stage now, and Captain Tapley’s men can follow to bring you back to the fort.”

Mr. Cunningham nodded and reached for his hat. “Thank you. Come along, my dear. You must be strong for Sally’s sake.”

T
he door’s creak wakened Taabe Waipu. She caught her breath. Two of the black-garbed women entered, carrying items in their pale hands.

One held a wooden tray with dishes. The other brought a roll of white cloth and a tool. Taabe had seen such a tool—two knife blades fastened in the middle, with handles that made cutting easy—but she couldn’t remember what it was called.

She raised herself on her elbows and shrank toward the wall. The woman carrying the tray set it on the table beside the bed. The other sat on the edge of the bed. Taabe winced as the shifting of the bedding caused a stab of pain in her ankle.

The sitting woman smiled and spoke softly in a flowing language Taabe couldn’t understand. She raised her own foot and touched her ankle then rubbed it, talking all the while. Taabe guessed she wanted to examine her injury.

The woman stood and lifted the edge of the blanket, raising her eyebrows as if seeking permission. Taabe inched her
bandaged foot toward the edge. The woman bent and peered at the ankle, then touched the skin with fingertips so gentle, Taabe barely felt it at first. A slash of pain seized her, and she gasped. The woman raised her hands as though to say, “I won’t touch it again.” She put a hand beneath Taabe’s calf, raised her leg a bit, and slid it carefully away from the edge of the bed. She settled the blanket back over Taabe and smiled at her, uttering more soft words.

The second woman spoke louder and gestured toward the tray, a clear offer of food. Taabe nodded. That woman, who seemed older than the one who had looked at her ankle, turned away for a moment and returned with a soft bundle covered with cloth as white as summer clouds. Both robed women put their hands under Taabe’s shoulders and lifted her. She gritted her teeth as the pain washed over her. The older one slipped the white bundle behind her head and neck. A pillow—softer than anything Taabe could remember resting her head upon.

She sank back into its deepness and closed her eyes. Her heart drummed, and her breath came in short hitches. The two women spoke in low tones. Finally they grew silent. Taabe opened her eyes a crack. They still stood there.

The older one spoke to the other and picked up a gleaming white pottery bowl. The younger one left the room and returned with a stool. Taabe eyed it with interest. The three-legged stool looked very sturdy and useful, but it would never do for people who moved about. The Comanche never carried furniture.

The older woman sat on it and dipped a metal spoon into the bowl. She leaned close and held the spoon to Taabe’s mouth. Taabe opened her lips and let the woman deposit a spoonful of lukewarm broth in her mouth. It tasted good, but the spoon clacked against her teeth and Taabe winced.