The riders finished their morning meal and took their places in the herd. The point men always stayed the same. They were trusted hands who knew the ways of cattle and who could act as if they had a brain in their head if trouble started. The swing men and the flankers rotated position every day. The drag men, unfortunately for them, always rode in the same spot.

Devlin rode back into camp once the drovers eased into place around the herd. She shook her head at Matt, who was up to his elbows in soapsuds. He washed dishes for the cook with the same enthusiasm with which he rode herd over his horses.

"You wear me out every time I watch you work, boy," Devlin said as she pa.s.sed.

Matt looked up, grinning as he wiped foamy soap from his chin. He knew it was a compliment when Devlin teased him like that. Devlin gave out little praise and never falsely. When she did, it meant a great deal to the recipient.

Devlin felt a particular pride at the flattering remarks she received about Matt. The riders gave him a little grief, but that was because of his age. It was a rite of pa.s.sage among riders, but they were the first to answer Matt's questions, teach him how to do something new, or watch his back when trouble arose.

Devlin dug into her war bag, as the riders liked to call their meager bag of possessions. She pulled out her light canvas jacket and an old cotton shirt, then removed the tight-fitting leather vest and shirt she wore. Clad only in her cotton undershirt, she removed her hat and sat to braid her ebony hair into a single braid that hung flat down her back. She then put on the cotton shirt, which was baggier than the shirts she usually wore. Finally, she put on the loose jacket and placed her Stetson on her head.

Matt met Devlin with Alto saddled and ready for the day.

"You gonna ask why I'm dressed this way?" Devlin asked.

Matt shrugged. "Figured if it was important, you'd tell me."

Devlin wondered what Sarah would think of her son now. She realized the boy was becoming more like Devlin every day. His mannerisms and the silent way he worked by himself made Devlin feel as if she were watching her own flesh-and-blood son.

"There've been a couple of Indians trailing us since we crossed over the Canadian. I can't tell what kind, they never get close enough. I expect Comanche or Kiowa."

"What do they want?"

"Probably just some beeves. Look, Matt, I've got a strange feeling they might approach today. It would be a good spot for them to cause trouble if they've a mind to. We're a few days away from the Cimarron River, and there's a lot of trees and thickets over this prairie."

"Will they start trouble? Are they hostile, Dev?" Matt tried not to let the news affect him, but there was worry in his eyes.

"No way to tell if they're friendly or not until they're right up on you. I guess we'll know the answer to that question if they try to steal our cattle instead of ask for some."

"Why don't they bargain like the Chahta do?"

"They got nothin' to barter with. This," Devlin motioned with one hand, indicating the area around them, "was all supposed to be their land once, but now the government says that the Indians have to stay in small areas called reservations. It's hard for them to change their way of life. h.e.l.l, it's not just a way of life, but there's pride involved. They're used to following the buffalo herds and living as free as the spirits intended them to live. Now the buffalo have moved on, but the Indians aren't supposed to leave the reservations. So some of them, mostly the young ones with short tempers, took off and left the reservations." Devlin checked her pistols, seeing to it that the six-guns were loaded.

"It's hard to know what they want anymore, Matt. I used to know a fair amount of them. I think most just want to feed their families. I can't say as I'd do any different. Some of them, though, want to make everyone pay for the government's actions. These people have been lied to, cheated on, stole from, and d.a.m.n near exterminated." Devlin sighed deeply. "It doesn't make killing women and children right, but it gives you a small look at why they're so angry. There are some of them that are way past talking reason. Those are the ones I'm the most worried about."

"Dev?"

"Yep?"

"So why are ya dressed that way?"

Devlin hopped into the saddle and grinned. "I'm gettin' like your ma, all chatty and going on and on. I figure today, at the latest tomorrow, we'll have a party of riders approach us. The Kiowa and Comanches are pretty similar when it comes to the way they look and dress. If they're Kiowa, chances are they'll have hair plates on. You'll be able to see a long rawhide strap, sometimes hanging all the way to the ground, tied to their scalp lock. It'll have silver disks tied to it, kind of like the belts some of the Chahta wear. Sometimes the Comanche go in for the hair plates, but not like the Kiowa do. The one sure way to tell a Comanche is by the way he dresses. A lot of them wear white man's clothes now, but the one thing they always have on is a breechclout."

Devlin looked down from her vantage point atop Alto into Matt's intent face. "You just leave it to me to recognize who's who. Okay?"

"Okay, Dev."

"You only have to remember a couple of easy things and that's it. Think you can?"

"You bet."

"First off, even if they're hostile Indians, they're not going to go up against as many guns as we have. Their tactic is to usually ask for what they want. If you aren't fair with them and they think they can get away with it, they'll come back at night and stampede the herd. While we're out chasin' beeves, they'll cut out the cattle they want and take off. So the first thing is not to cheat them, but that doesn't mean I aim to give 'em the whole store.

"What they'll want more than anything is stuff they can only get from white men...horses, guns, whiskey, and tobacco. What I expect they'll do is come up on the remuda first. If they're Comanches, they'll be the most talented horse thieves and shrewdest traders around. Don't get frightened, even though the looks of some of them are enough to make you want to p.i.s.s your pants. You won't understand what they're saying unless they have someone who speaks English with them. It doesn't matter, though. No matter what they say or how much they point to the horses, you do one thing."

"What's that?"

"You point to me. You're probably wondering why I don't just come and help you-"

"I'd look weak," Matt said without missing a beat.

Devlin smiled at the boy. "Yeah, that's part of it. If they think I'm the one they have to deal with, well, we want them to come to me. It's one of those little things you do when you're dealing with people. It kinda gets the power goin' in your direction." Devlin winked. "Most importantly, we want them to think I'm a man."

Matt's eyes lit up with understanding. "Oh," he drawled, "that's why you're dressed like that."

Devlin winked again. "It makes things easier sometimes, if you know what I mean. No matter what they say, just point to me and call me a man or use the Chahta word. You remember what that is?"

"Nakni. Yep, I get ya, boss."

"You think you can do this on your own? You know, there's no shame in saying you can't. I'd rather have you tell me now-"

"You can count on me, Dev."

Devlin looked at the fierce determination in the boy's eyes and knew where she'd seen that expression before. Even though his face was beginning to lose some of its boyish chubbiness, he had his mother's eyes. The hard, angular chin that he was developing and the way his nose crinkled when he smiled only added to the resemblance. At that moment, he had the same firm set to his jaw that Sarah took on whenever she set her mind to a difficult task. Devlin doubted that she would ever tell the boy that, but there was something comforting about the fact. Something secure in knowing that a piece of Sarah rode with her.

"The second thing is under no circ.u.mstances do you draw that rifle." Devlin pointed to the rifle that lay flat in a cowhide case near Matt's saddle. "Not even if it looks like they're ready to attack. If someone aims an arrow or a gun at you, dive off your horse and use the animal's body to protect you. If a commotion breaks out, then you hightail it over to me. Got that?"

"Sure, Dev, but I'm a good shot." Matt was proud of the skill that his mother had taught him and the prized Winchester she'd given him for the trail.

"You may be good, boy, but they'll be better. I guarantee it. When a man holds a weapon in his hand, it puts a big target on his chest. The longer you can go through life without drawin' a gun, the longer you'll live. Are we clear?"

"Yes, boss," Matt said with a resigned tone. He had promised his mother he would do everything Devlin told him. Matt may have been young, but there were two truths that he had grasped in his life: a man doesn't break a promise to his mother, and he never, ever crosses Devlin Brown.

Devlin wondered what Matt was thinking as he walked back to the chuck wagon to help the cook with leftover ch.o.r.es before rounding up his remuda. "Probably cussin' me good," Devlin mumbled as she rode north.

They had watered the herds at Kingfisher Creek earlier in the day. Devlin thanked the heavens above her for keeping the land dry. When she thought about it, the lack of precipitation was why they were in this fix in the first place, but rain on a trail drive could be disastrous. The creeks heading to the Cimarron and to Nine Mile Creek had banks made of quicksand. In the rainy season, it was almost impossible to water a herd, let alone cross.

When they'd reached Kingfisher Creek, Mexican Bob watered the chuck wagon's mule team first. He filled the water barrel, then made way for Matt and the remuda. Finally, the drovers allowed the cattle in a little at a time. Always last on the list, of course, was the trail crew.

Right after the noon meal, when the herds had been under way for a mile or two, Devlin's antic.i.p.ation became reality. She watched from a high sandstone summit as the scouts who had been trailing the herd joined up with a small band of their friends. They took no notice of Devlin, and she waited patiently until the band split into three groups. When they moved in the direction of the cattle, Devlin ate up the distance back to the first herd.

"I hate bein' right," Devlin said to Hank as she rode up.

"Been watchin' the closest two for quite a spell," Hank said. "I wondered when you were gonna join the party."

"Wouldn't want to miss all the fun," Devlin said in a distracted voice as some of the Indians headed for the remuda. She cursed herself for leaving Matthew alone. Even though he'd said he could handle it, Devlin was beginning to second-guess her earlier decision. She had wondered early on if bringing the boy would affect any of the decisions she would need to make. She was about to find out.

Devlin watched out of the corner of her eye as the small party approached her from the front on horseback. She could see Matt warily shaking his head and pointing her way. He never made a move that could be mistaken as hostile, and the three, whom Devlin now identified as Comanche, made their way to where she had stopped her horse. The herd kept moving, but Hank and the point men, along with one or two of the flankers, pulled away from the cattle to mill about behind Devlin.

Devlin fixed a scowl upon her face and waited in her saddle. She rose up slightly, placing her weight on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet. Two younger men flanked the brave who approached her, who appeared to be around Devlin's age. She recognized the signs of anger and wariness in the Indian's expression. He wore his hair separated and tied into two braids on each side of his head. His shirt was made of heavy buckskin, fringed sleeves coming to a v-shape at the back of his neck. Typical of Comanche dress, the brave's shirt was long, falling nearly to his knees. His leggings were fringed and tightly fitted and a breechclout hung from his waist under the shirt.

Devlin wondered at the party's style of dress. Usually, the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache wore plain shirts when they wore them at all. This band all wore what the Chahta would describe as dress shirts. Painted symbols or intricate quill and beadwork adorned the outfits. The leader's shirt bore yellow jagged lines along the front. Devlin recognized the symbol from Shoshone outfits. For some reason, this Comanche owed some respect to lightning, having paid homage to it on his shirt.

The leader made a sign with his left hand, holding his palm out and moving it forward and back. Devlin, through her a.s.sociation with the Shoshone, knew a small number of hand signals and words that the Comanche would understand. The leader was beckoning her to stop.

"Yatahe," Devlin said. She purposefully lowered her voice into a more powerful ba.s.s pitch.

The leader squinted as if he recognized Devlin. He gazed at her for a full minute before appearing to accept her as the leader of the herd. The Comanche leader didn't speak but once more raised his hand to her. He held his palm outward, moving his hand back and forth.

"Chahta," Devlin said. The hand signal was an easy one, asking who she was, and she was relieved. "Hasimbish humma." Devlin added the name Redhawk in Choctaw.

They stared at each other, and Devlin prayed the drovers behind her remained patient. She could hear the soft sound as their horses tossed their heads and stamped their hooves in the dirt. Obviously, the Comanche leader wasn't one for small talk.

"Seemote," he requested forcefully.

"No." Devlin shook her head at the man's request for ten beeves. She was essentially on their land, but she was also aware that if this small raiding party felt that she was a soft touch, they would be by every day for more cattle. She would have given them a hundred head of cattle if she thought it would feed their women and children, but the time had pa.s.sed for such charity.

"Wahatehwe," Devlin said as she held up two fingers.

The leader looked as if he would have liked to bargain further, but he risked a glance behind Devlin. The heavily armed riders made an impressive sight. Not wishing to risk using the few bullets his small party had left, the Comanche leader nodded once. He motioned with one hand to his fellow braves, who headed toward the front of the herd to cut out their payment.

It was obvious they had done this before. The young men knew that the biggest, strongest steers were at the front. That was the funny thing about cattle on a drive like this. The strongest stayed in front, setting the pace. If they became sick or injured along the way, they moved toward the back. Once they were feeling in shape again and able to pick up some speed, they made their way back to their original place.

Devlin heard the high-pitched bleating of a cow and looked over her shoulder. The braves were trying to cut Anabelle from the herd. They were having a hard time of it but seemed determined to take the largest beeve of the lot.

"Not that one," Devlin shouted over the din. The warriors looked over at her and she realized that they spoke English. "Leave that one be." Devlin pointed at Anabelle, who was dangerously close to goring one of the Comanche horses.

The warrior closest to Anabelle ignored Devlin's shouts and pulled his bow from across his back, swiftly notching an arrow onto it. Devlin instinctively reached for her six-gun. The entire time her hand was moving, she kept reminding herself that going into an offensive mode might spell the end for all of them, but she couldn't get Sarah out of her mind. Devlin could only see the look of disappointment on Sarah's face as she explained how she had let a few Indians butcher her beloved Anabelle.

Devlin could hardly believe it herself as the report of her Colt rang out and the flint head snapped from the arrow's shaft. Immediately, Indians and riders drew their weapons. It was a testament to each side that neither party seemed willing to begin the bloodshed.

Devlin holstered her pistol and jumped off Alto's back, rushing to Anabelle and the Comanche warriors. "No, no, no," she shouted, waving her hands. "No fight...just not this cow."

The leader urged his horse closer to Devlin and glared at her. He seemed unable to discern whether Devlin was trying to cheat him or if she was unbalanced.

Devlin, in the meantime, knew these Comanche spoke English better than they were letting on. "It's not my cow," she said. The leader shrugged. It was hard to tell whether he hadn't understood or was expressing his indifference. Swallowing her pride, Devlin looked up at the Comanche leader. "It belongs to my woman," she mumbled.

There was silence for a few long moments until the leader chuckled lightly. He turned to the men behind him and made a few unintelligible comments, then they too laughed. Devlin could feel the tips of her ears burning as she admitted her weakness to these men, but when her eyes connected with the leader's, she felt more than embarra.s.sment. The man nodded as if he understood her predicament. He wasn't about to let her off that easy, however.

"Two in place of big one," he said.

"You got a deal." Devlin grinned and nodded. "Ura," she said in thanks.

It took only moments for the band of Indians to capture their payment and ride off. When the leader looked back at Devlin, he called to her. "Puha," he said. As close as she could figure, it was the Comanche word for power. The leader pointed to Devlin as he repeated the word, then rode out of sight. The Comanche language was almost identical to Shoshone, but still Devlin couldn't fathom why the man had used that word for her.

"Good save, boss." Hank grinned as he rode past Devlin. Devlin was aware of the grins on the rest of the drovers' faces as some of the men tried to hold back laughter at Devlin's admission.

"Who wants to ride drag?" Devlin cautioned the men. Instantly, worried frowns replaced the riders' smiles. She picked up her hat, which had fallen to the ground during her hasty jump from Alto. At that moment, Anabelle snorted loudly, and Devlin jumped to avoid the longhorn as it attempted to step into her.

"You owe me, cow," she exclaimed, smacking Anabelle's rump with her Stetson. "And if I don't start seein' some admiration pretty d.a.m.n quick, I'm givin' you to the next raiding party we see. Keep it up and you'll be Comanche barbecue."

As usual, Anabelle snorted and acted as if Devlin wasn't there.

Chapter 15.

"I wish there was rain." Devlin gazed into the sky as lightning flickered constantly on the horizon.

They had camped for the night without incident, but just before the evening meal was ready, the weather had turned. The air became still and tasted like a copper penny. Devlin and Hank rode herd so the men could eat their dinner and jump back into their saddles. Devlin had an uneasy feeling that it would be a long night.

"Me too," Hank said. "I'd rather face a five-day downpour than an electrical storm with a herd this size."

"You and me both. Looks like it's moving fairly fast. I say maybe two or three hours."

"Yep, that'd be my bet. Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll move more to the east."

"Maybe," Devlin agreed distractedly. Turning to her friend, she readjusted her hat. "If ya catch any shut-eye, I'd wear your boots to bed."

Both chuckled at the thought, but they knew it was no joke. Cattle stampeded for the strangest and simplest of reasons.

Devlin rode back into camp as the second group of riders headed back to the herd. "Get rid of your long metal. It's gonna be a hot one tonight," she said.

Most riders didn't need the reminder. On nights when electrical storms threatened, drovers knew better than to ride around with rifles tucked behind their saddles. They'd all seen at least one rider laid flat by a bolt of lightning that had gone straight for the long metal barrel of his gun. On this night, all the riders stopped by the chuck wagon and gave Mexican Bob their rifles for safekeeping.

"You ever been in a stampede, boy?" Devlin asked Matthew.

"Nope. You think we'll have one tonight, Dev?"

"You never can tell. I can feel something in the air. I bet your horses were acting kind of skittish this afternoon, weren't they?"

"Yeah, they were." Matt remembered that the animals had become moody as they made camp.

"Well, sleep with a saddled horse by you tonight. If all h.e.l.l breaks loose, jump on his back and ride away from the herd. If your horse bolts before you can get on him, jump up that tree over there." Devlin nodded to the one straggly tree around them.

"Dev?" Matt called out as he was about to lie down to sleep. "Should I keep my clothes on?"

"I sure would. 'Less you want to show up in Abilene in your long johns." Devlin winked as she walked away.

Devlin joined the rest of the men riding watch around the herd. Less than two hours later, intermittent white flashes filled the sky. There was nothing but blackness, the sound of restless cattle, and the calming voices of the riders as they tried to soothe the herd. The flashes of light grew more frequent, bathing the landscape in light.

Devlin patted Alto's neck. The mare shook her head back and forth as if trying to hide from the eerie shadows the lightning caused. Devlin was thankful for small favors. In some electrical storms she'd been in, the thunder cracked like the report of a rifle. Tonight it rumbled, deep and low.

They all rode in circles around the herd, usually in opposite directions from one another. They walked their horses slowly and tried to keep their mounts as calm as possible. The storm might last an hour or three; there was no way to tell. Some of the drovers sang songs. They didn't particularly have good voices-Devlin thought a few were painful to listen to-but it helped the herd. Like babies in a cradle, the beeves were restless but stationary. Only a few of the cattle had settled to the ground for the night. Typically, one of the p.r.o.ne cows was Anabelle. Devlin couldn't help but shake her head as she pa.s.sed the cow. Anabelle never seemed to have a care in the world, nor did she ever appear to be concerned with what went on around her. Devlin could only surmise that a longhorn as large as any buffalo probably didn't have many natural enemies.