Comanche Passion

By Ralph Galeano

High adventure and hair-raising exploits intertwine in a sensual, inter-racial love affair on the western frontier.

Soon after the Indian wars, two young cowboys become prisoners of Comanche horsemen. Violence occurs in the village when Ben goes to his friend Stick’s defense, and whips a ferocious warrior. Shamed, the warrior, Black Heart, swears vengeance. A beautiful Indian princess tends to Stick’s injuries, and when Ben’s and the Princess’ eyes meet, they know instantly they have met the person of their dreams.

When the cowboys are freed, Ben promises Elizabeth he will return for her when he’s settled. Black Heart hears of Ben’s vow, and in a jealous rage goes on a murderous rampage.

Meanwhile, Ben and Stick pan for gold in the Wyoming Mountains and find enough to purchase a ranch, but beneath their feet a treasure worth millions eludes them.

Black Heart returns and abducts Elizabeth, and a deadly battle occurs that changes the course of the relationship between Elizabeth and Ben.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torrid Books
• Release date: Sep 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682991954

Ralph Galeano

Ralph Galeano is a columnist and novelist. His monthly column, Picket Line, is featured in national livestock and agricultural publications. He has written three novels and hundreds of articles and columns about horses, cattle and the West. He has been featured in Western Horseman, The American Hereford Journal, Rocky Mountain Game & Fish, Performance Horse and many other publications. He is a member of Montana Author’s Coalition, Wyoming Writers, Inc. and his published works about horses and the West have qualified him for acceptance in the Western Writers of America, a national organization of professional writers devoted to the literature of the American West. Ralph is the recipient of the Milestone Award, presented to him by Wyoming Writers Inc. He has won numerous championships in national cow horse competitions on horses he has bred and trained. His novels, articles and columns about horses come from hands-on experience and the passion of a true horseman that reflects over fifty years of working and training western horses.

Book preview

Published by

TORRID BOOKS

www.torridbooks.com

An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

Copyright © 2016 by Ralph Galeano

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-68299-195-4

Credits

Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

About the Author

Chapter 1

The sight of running horses is grand. Powerful bodies create motion that moves them at great speed. Heads stretch forward and legs become blurred. Long backs flatten and run parallel with the terrain. Rear quarters propel the animals forward. Faster and faster they run until reaching the speed needed for the moment. Now body resonance occurs and the horses flow across the land, all parts in harmony. Strong muscles working together to create swift movement with minimal effort providing stamina to cover great distances. Manes and tails rejoice in exhilaration and fly in the wind as the horses race away. Staccato sounds of hoof beats fade as the animals disappear from sight. Only dust in the dry air remains.

The world seems less when they’re gone, and the memory, only the memory, and dry, gritty dust miraging across their passage remain to fill the void created by their swift departure. Two young men remained silent as they embraced the recollection of running horses. They huddled behind crags of granite and stared toward the ridge where the horses disappeared.

What a beautiful sight. Runnin’ horses, I mean.

You bet. God put ’em here just for us. Me and you, and I thank him for the favor.

They couldn’t come at a better time. I’ve had my fill of this dry country. I’m ready for home.

Stick, we’ve come a long way and we’ve just been handed a payday.

We don’t have em’ yet and even if we get a rope on a few, they ain’t worth much.

Maybe not, but did you see the stallion? The long-legged black?

How could I miss him? He’s sure not full mustang, he’s too fine. Something else in him like Thoroughbred or Arab, I’d guess, Stick said.

He’s a mix of mustang and something else, like you say. If we can catch him, we’d have something to start with.

Let’s get on with it so we can head home. What’s your plan? I know you already have one. I can smell the smoke curlin’ out your ears, Stick said.

First things first. Something spooked them into running and we better sit still till we figure out what it was. If there’s nothin’ to worry about, we’ll run down there and throw a couple ropes on him.

Stick looked at his friend and laughed. Ben always made things sound simple. Run down there and throw a couple ropes on him. Ha, what a laugh. That black stallion showed how he could run. Their saddle horses loaded down with gear and riders would never catch that half-breed in a month of Sundays, Stick thought.

He stopped laughing and shook his head. His partner was a treat. He’d try anything as long as it had the promise of adventure. They’d been friends for years and Stick enjoyed his company. Ben always kept things interesting. Like this hair-brained scheme to ride to the edge of the desert and capture horses. Ben claimed the horses in this south country had bloodlines that combined the best of the world’s breeds. He neglected to tell Stick the horses belonged to the Comanche.

They were crosses of good European breeds and North American mustangs. Comanche raids on settlers provided the Indians with breeding stock to cross with their mustangs. The result was a sturdy mount the Comanche used to establish their reputation as both fierce warriors and the world’s greatest horsemen. Ben wanted the Indian horses to develop his own herd on a ranch he didn’t even own. Stick laughed again and wondered why he let Ben talk him into riding south into this dry, rocky country chasing horses that belonged to people who would like nothing better than murder every white man in the West.

Don’t laugh, Stick. We can do it. I know we can, Ben said.

Stick smiled back and replied, Sure we can, Ben, the same way we were gonna’ make the money we need panning gold out of a crick while we were standing up to our butts in freezing water.

Well, that was different. It was just the wrong time of year. What the hell, we ain’t gold miners. Next time we’ll go up there in July or August when the water ain’t so high or so cold. Besides, the little bit we found give us the money to come down here. Where’d we be without that? Ben asked.

I don’t know about you, but I’d be back in Wyoming with a real job, getting paid working cows and chasing women every chance I got, Stick laughed.

There ain’t no women out here, but what about the horses we just seen— Ben stopped in mid-sentence and grabbed Stick’s arm. It was a warning, an alert to danger and Stick looked in the direction Ben was staring. They crouched lower in the rocks and watched a narrow gully where the faint sound of hoof beats was growing louder.

Don’t sound right, Ben.

I know, heavier or something. Like maybe them horses are carrying riders, Ben answered in a lowered voice.

They waited, both hoping their horses were well out of sight in the woods above the rock outcropping where they hid.

Neither moved as horses emerged from the gully and trotted onto the same ridge where they saw the other horses running. They counted eight horses—eight horses and eight men. Primitive riders with harsh faces, horsemen who rode on blankets, legs dangling free on their mount’s sides with their rifles slung in hide scabbards lashed under their legs along the horse’s body. Leather rigging secured weapons and other possessions. Ben studied them and admired the way they moved across the rough ground. No sound except the clip-clop of unshod hooves. They were Comanche riders moving in time with the horse’s gait. Their bronze bodies’ part of the animals they rode. They were one with their mounts. The Comanche were graceful riders on horses that carried the bare necessities. Their gear was lashed to stay tight and silent no matter how hard they rode.

So these are the Comanche and their horses, Ben thought.

He eased his grip on Stick’s arm and watched as the riders moved out of sight over the same ridge the horses had gone. Ben looked at Stick and knew his friend was nervous. Stick didn’t like confrontations and especially the kind that would happen if the Comanche found them on their land. No less with a rope on one of their horses. Ben grinned and motioned with his head to move toward their horses. Stick didn’t like the situation. But damn if he was gonna’ let Ben think he was scared.

Sit still a while, he whispered, maybe they’ll come back and we’ll whip their butts and steal their horses.

Ben kept grinning and said, They’ve got us outnumbered and besides, you usually lose every fight you start.

Stick forced a grin and said, Let’s head for the horses.

We better before you stain your britches.

Stick ignored him and moved up the slope in a half crouch. Ben covered him until Stick moved out of sight in the timber. He waited a few seconds and then started after him, knowing Stick would be watching him and the far ridge.

Stick had a good view of the land below and saw no sign of the riders. The ridge blocked sight of the valley where the running horses and Comanche had gone. He felt they were safe and began to relax. He watched as Ben made his way toward him. Ben’s lithe body moved around boulders and fallen timber taking advantage of the terrain to hide his movement from anyone below. His brown hair hung long and loose below his hat and his movement was easy and sure as he moved up the slope. He was the same age as Stick, not quite as tall, but above average height. His face was determined and had a handsome cast. Stick wondered if it was Ben’s good looks or the easy way he talked, but he sure attracted women.

I do okay with them, but if Ben is around I might as well go home ’cause they wouldn’t give me a second look trying to make up to Ben. He always knew the right thing to say and the right thing to do at the right time.

Ben moved into the woods and Stick turned and headed for the horses tied farther up the timbered slope, relieved they had not seen the Indians again and hopeful they would ride north out of this country and back to the good grass of Wyoming.

We don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of catching any of those Indian ponies now, Ben said when he arrived at the horses.

You don’t have to be a railroad conductor to figure that out.

Well, we got to do something. We can’t go home empty-handed with no money in our packs. We’ll never be able to buy that land and get started with our own herds. I just don’t want to go back to working for wages, Ben said.

I hear ya’, partner, but you see this hair? Stick lifted his hat and pointed to a full head of bright red hair. Those Indians would love to lift this beautiful crop off my head. They outnumber us and I don’t want to tangle with them."

A minute ago you wanted to whip em’. Now you want to run. What do you think they’d do if they catch us? Invite us home to meet the rest of the family?

Stick laughed and walked over and untied the pack animal. He led him to his saddle horse and dallyed the lead rope around the horn. He untied his horse and climbed in the saddle. Ben was already in the saddle and headed farther into the timber.

Stick jogged his horse until he caught up with Ben. How come I always have to lead this damn donkey?

Cause you and that jackass belong together. You look alike and you smell alike, so it’s fittin’ that you both bring up the rear.

You don’t smell so good yourself, pal. Now where we headed? Towards Wyo, I hope.

Let’s stay in the timber until we get over this hill. We need to put distance between us and those Comanche horse hunters. We could amble back north and maybe take a different trail. Something might turn up before we get out of their territory. There’s got to be more horses runnin’ somewhere, but I would dearly like to have a chance at that black stallion. He’s just what we need, Stick. Can’t you just see the colts he’d throw? Why, they’d be worth some real money in Laramie or Cheyenne.

Maybe so, Ben, but he’s gone now.

Ben rode loose in the saddle as the men made their way up the hill. He let his horse pick the way as they climbed higher. Stick’s horse followed Ben’s. The pack donkey carrying their bedrolls, grub and a few utensils followed Stick’s horse’s tail. A light breeze drifted across the hill as they climbed higher. The air became cooler and the smell of pine needles carried by the pleasant breeze brought relief from the sweltering heat below. Stick began to relax. The tension of the last hour began to ease the more distance and altitude they put between themselves and the Indians.

Ben motioned a halt when they neared the crest of the hill. They had climbed almost a thousand feet from the granite outcropping where they watched the horses run along the ridge. They were near timberline and the trees were scattered and not as tall. Ben dismounted and tied his horse to a low limb. He walked to the top of the hill and looked around. Stick waited in the saddle near Ben’s horse.

Ben looked back and waved to Stick. It was a come on up wave. Stick dismounted and tied his horse away from Ben’s to make sure the donkey, tied to his saddle horn, couldn’t tangle his lead rope with Ben’s horse. He walked to the crest enjoying the cool breeze and thinking they would soon be on their way home, away from this brutal, dry land that was perilous at best.

Stick sat next to Ben and stared across the land below. He followed Ben’s pointed arm and saw dust clouds far off in the valley below the ridge. Two balls of dust there. Those Comanche braves are chasing that black and his band. They must have a trap set up in that valley somewhere. I’ll bet they’re trying to run those horses into it, Ben said.

They were several miles away from the valley and could follow the running horses by the dust that boiled from the dry desert floor. At this distance the Indians posed no danger and the men watched with carefree interest as the Indians pushed the mustangs toward their hidden corrals. They sat in silence as the drama unfolded miles from their lookout on the pleasant hill crest.

The herd of horses moved down the far valley toward a narrow canyon that appeared to bisect a line of low hills at the south end. The dust cloud from the rider’s horses began to spread laterally behind the running herd. They were pushing them toward the canyon at the far end. As the valley narrowed, the rider’s formation behind the horses stretched completely across it, preventing the horses from turning and running around their flank and back the way they came. The valley began to narrow even more and the Indians line became tighter and tighter forming an unbroken rank behind the running horses.

The black stallion saw the canyon at the end of the valley and naturally moved the herd towards the entrance. There was no other passage out. The walls ringing this end of the valley were too steep to climb.

The Comanche began to ride easier. Their long hunt was nearing success. The wild horses were on a course to enter the dead-end canyon and become trapped in their brush and pole corrals. They began to banter back and forth as they rode behind the doomed herd. Laughter and ribald remarks passed between the riders. The end was near and they became complacent as they saw the horses headed for their trap.

Pressure from the horsemen was increasing as the valley narrowed. The stallion worked behind the herd moving them at a high lope as they neared the canyon. He ran effortlessly and conserved his energy even though the riders were closing in behind. The band moved ahead at his pace. Mares, colts and yearlings ran toward the canyon.

Human voices reached the stallion’s ears amid the clatter of hooves. It was familiar. He heard the same noises long ago. Unnatural sounds. Shrills and shrieks behind running horses. He became apprehensive as the canyon loomed ahead. His memory was vague but the noises were bad. He began to recollect more as each stride carried him closer to the trap.

* * * *

The young black colt ran beside a coal-black mare. She was the horse that protected him and fought any horse that came close to him. He was always near her. If he wandered too far when running with other young horses, her call, like no other horse’s voice, commanded him to return to her side. She was comfort and warm milk and he was her shadow.

The black colt stayed close to his mother as they ran. The running horses were fleeing men on other horses. The men were yelling and whooping to keep the wild horses moving into the canyon mouth. There were rock walls and dust and then panic as the herd was forced together into the narrow confines of the box canyon. The horses pushed and shoved each other trying to escape. The men on horseback were relentless and the horses screamed in fear as they were forced into the trap. It was pandemonium and the colt lost his protector in the melee and whinnied, calling for her amidst the chaos of churning horses. He heard her call back but couldn’t reach her. He was carried along in a crush of bodies. They crashed through poles and tangled brush and he ran with the mass as they fled a man on horseback.

The man made the same noises while he chased them. They escaped the trap and outran the man and his horse. He turned back to the canyon to help other men control and subdue the horses captured in the corrals. The black colt ran north with the survivors and left the valley over the same ridge. They slowed as they ran over hills that rose above the valley floor. When they neared the summit of steep cliffs that bordered a treacherous gorge, they dropped to a jog and negotiated a dangerous trail that ran just below the rim of the high cliffs surrounding the boulder strewn canyon.

The lead mare slowed even more when the trail narrowed to nothing more than a ledge jutting out from the face of the cliff. The horses walked nose to tail behind the mare as the ledge they traversed carried them high above the gorge. Their sides rubbed the walls of the cliff and gave a semblance of security against a sheer drop-off from the ledge into the abyss of the deep canyon. Heads snaked out over the edge to see the canyon floor far below. Quick glances established caution and they sure-footed their way along the face of the cliff.

They returned to their home range, their ranks decimated by the loss of half their band. The black colt never again enjoyed the comfort of his mother.

* * * *

The men chasing the black stallion now and the noise they made brought back the recollection of his mother and this canyon. The full memory of screaming horses, pandemonium and absolute fear rushed from his memory and flooded his senses. His instinct screamed at him to turn, to run back from this death trap and escape again to safe places.

In a desperate move, he raced ahead of the herd and wheeled them back the way they came. He pushed them directly back toward the line of Comanche. He forced his way to the front of the band and raced full speed through the formation of Comanche riders. Caught by surprise, the complacent horse hunters scattered as the herd stampeded through their lines. The herd turned on full speed as they raced up the valley in pursuit of their fleeing stallion.

Powerful bodies called upon reserve energy and raced from their enemies. They flee at blinding speed and the bewildered Comanche are powerless to stop their escape. Shocked by the stallion’s defensive maneuver, the Indians are barely able to stay on their horses as their mounts react to the stampeding herd. Their horses jump and run in a wild commotion as the mustangs create chaos to their ranks.

The herd is far ahead when the horsemen gain control of their mounts and race after the black and his band. The distance widens and the Comanche’s tired, burdened horses fall farther and farther behind. The dust of running horses moves north toward the ridge leaving a smaller cloud far to the south.

Ben and Stick watch the chase and know the horses have escaped. They exchange looks and smile when they realize the horses are outrunning the Comanche.

Score one for the horses. I bet them riders are pissed, Ben said.

You know somebody’s getting’ their ass chewed out for letting them horses get turned, Stick answered.

Ben laughed. Yeah, I’d hate to be in his moccasins.

They watch as the herd moves up the valley. As the horses draw near the north end, specks emerge in front of the dust and they begin to make out individual horses.

There’s your black, he’s in front. He’s a hell of a horse, Stick said.

They’ll never catch him now, Ben answered.

The horses disappeared from sight below the crown of the ridge. Fifteen minutes passed and then the black stallion appeared on top of the ridge. He stopped and looked back toward the Comanche. He saw the horsemen had slowed and were far behind but still coming his way. The herd came onto the ridge and milled around while the black looked into the valley. The mustangs used the delay to catch their breath and recharge tired muscles.

The black flared his nostrils and snorted. He moved away at a fast trot and led the band along the top of the ridge toward the hills where Ben and Stick watched.

Look at that, Ben, they’re comin’ back this way.

Stick glanced at Ben wondering why he didn’t answer. He saw Ben staring hard at the stallion moving along the ridge. A tendril of fear shot through Stick. He saw Ben’s concentration was intense.

He must be thinking of something crazy, Stick thought. He can’t be foolish enough to try and rope that horse with the Comanche riders coming this way.

Ben, I hope you ain’t thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin.

* * * *

The Comanche were frustrated. They spent three days easing the wild horses toward the dead-end valley and their horse trap. At first they only made casual appearances to start the horses moving in the right direction. Their appearances were from a distance and meant to only make the mustangs aware they were there. The horses would move away from the men at a walk since the men were far away and posed no immediate threat. The Comanche knew that if they spooked the horses into running in open country they would never catch them. The horses could take any course they desired and run into the mountains or across the plains with no chance of being caught. The Comanche gently pressured them towards the valley where there was no escape. They guided them by increased visibility determined by the direction they wanted the horses to move.