Free Texas Rifles by Elmer Kelton Page B

she understood nothing. She held the baby tighter against her breasts and looked at him with defiance flaming in her eyes.
    â€œL-look, ma’am,” Cloud stammered, “d-don’t you understand? You’re a white woman, like I’m a white man. You’re not no Indian.”
    He took a step forward, and she stepped backward, her eyes wide.
    Crazy woman. Cloud thought then. That’s what she must be, a crazy woman. She’s forgotten about her own kind.
    â€œLook, lady,” he tried again, “I just want to help you. Help you. Can’t you understand?”
    She trembled, but she held her ground. A question formed in her eyes. She tried once to speak, but nothing came. Then she said haltingly, “Help? … Help me?”
    A long breath went out of Cloud, and he smiled thinly. “Well, you do know English after all.”
    â€œEnglish.” She studied the word a moment. “Yes, I know English.”
    The words came hard for her, as if she were reaching somewhere far back to find them, somewhere back in distant memory.
    â€œHow long have you been with the Comanches?” Cloud asked.
    â€œHow long? Very long. Very long.”
    Cloud reached out to grasp her arm, to start her toward the village. She pulled away again, frightened. Patiently he said, “Look, ma’am, I told you I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt you. We’re goin’ to take you back—back to your own people.”

    â€œPeople?” Again the question in her eyes. “My people? My people here.”
    â€œNo, I don’t mean the Indians. I mean white folks—your folks.”
    â€œNo white people mine. I am Nocona. Nocona.”
    Nocona, Cloud thought. Sure, that’s one of the Comanche bands. He shook his head, pitying her. He studied her face. She was so brown from the sun that she could pass for an Indian unless a person looked closely. But there were the blue eyes, and her hair was only brown—not Indian black. She did not have the typical round face one usually found in the Comanche. Hers was oval, a white woman’s face. Very likely an attractive face, if it had had the chance. But a silent tale of hardship lay in her eyes, the sun-parched skin, the work-rough hands.
    â€œCome on,” he said gently, “let’s go back to the village.”
    Plain enough that English was hard for her. He had heard it was that way with people who were in an alien land and never used their own language. With time, they lost it.
    Miguel can talk to her in Comanche, he thought. Then maybe we can find out something. Maybe she’ll understand what we’re going to do for her.
    â€œCome on,” he said again. “Don’t be afraid.”
    No one paid much attention as they first came in. Just a stray squaw Cloud had found. Then the word spread like wildfire. White woman!
    Captain Barcroft came on the run. He shouldered roughly through the crowding circle of curious men. “Where is she?”
    Cloud said, “This is her, Captain.” He motioned toward the pitiable little figure who stood fear-stricken in the center of this group of staring men. Afraid of the other Texans, she somehow moved toward Cloud for protection.
    The captain saw the fear in her eyes. He removed his hat, bowed from the waist in the old Texan style and said quietly, “You’ve got nothing to be worried about from now on, ma’am. You’re with your own kind now.” When she made no reply, Barcroft glanced at Cloud. “Who is she?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œWho are you, ma’am?” the captain asked.
    Hesitantly she said something in Comanche. The captain looked puzzled. Miguel Soto spoke up. “She use a Comanche name, Capitán. It mean Little Doe.”
    â€œBut I want her white name, her real name.”
    Cloud spoke up. “Maybe she doesn’t remember it, sir.”
    Incredulous, the captain demanded, “What do you mean