He smiled. “They’re called Negroes, Kuchana.”
“And these women come from across the great sea, too?”
“Yes.” And then Gib amended his statement. “They were brought here as slaves. Twenty years ago, they were set free and allowed to pursue whatever they wanted, just like white people.”
Kuchana noticed a large black woman in a yellow calico dress and a thinner, younger one in a dark green dress who were openly staring at her. Their stares weren’t like those of the pindah women, however. There was only curiosity in their eyes.
“They are different from the pindahs.”
“They’re good people,” said Gib. “The older one’s husband is a lance-corporal here at the post. I’m sure you’ll be meeting all of them sooner or later.”
“Then, I am to be a scout?”
He nodded, watching her eyes widen with happiness. “That’s what Colonel Polk said. I’m in charge of the scouts, so you’ll be working directly with me, not Carter.” Thank God. Gib saw her flush, and he realized that whatever he felt toward Kuchana, it was mutual.
Kuchana wanted to give a cry of triumph, but resisted the urge. Instead, she sent prayers of thanks to Painted Woman. “I will be a good scout. I will not shame you.”
“I’m not worried,” Gib said. He pointed to a large tent that had been bleached white by the burning sun. Its flaps were open at both ends to catch what little air moved sluggishly across the post. Inside were two big black kettles bubbling with beans, and a table filled with hardtack. “This is the enlisted men’s chow tent. Why don’t you go and sit down under that cottonwood and let me get you something to eat?” Gib pointed to one of the few trees that managed to survive on the post.
Not needing another invitation, Kuchana gladly headed toward the shade of the tree. She noticed the two men in the tent watching her. One, a big man with a black mustache and brown eyes, sent a shiver of warning up her spine.
“Who’s that, Sergeant?” Private Odie Faulkner asked, with a leer at Kuchana.
Scowling, Gib took a tin plate from the stack on the table. “Our newest scout,” he growled. Gib took the ladle and dished up the food from the kettle. Beans, moldy bacon and weevil-infested hardtack was the usual fare for a soldier or scout.
“That there’s a woman, ain’t it?” Odie asked, licking his full lower lip.
“That’s right. One of Geronimo’s warriors.”
“I’ll be go to hell,” Odie murmured. “I heard about them women warriors, but never saw one. She looks starvin’. That why she crawled into our post?”
Adding three hardtack biscuits, McCoy kept his anger at Faulkner in check. “She didn’t come here because she was starving. She came to offer her services as a scout.”
“Right purty,” Odie noted, craning his thick neck out the side of the tent, watching her.
“Mind your own business, Private.”
Faulkner’s bushy black brows drew up in surprise over his heavy German features. “Yes, sir.”
Kuchana watched McCoy saunter in her direction. He was dressed like most of the other soldiers: a pair of yellow suspenders holding up his dark blue trousers, and a dark blue shirt that was damp with sweat, clinging to his upper body. There was much to admire about McCoy. Everything about his demeanor claimed him to be a warrior. There was an economy to his movements, and he carried himself proudly. There was no doubt that he was a leader of men.
Her attention shifted to the food he handed her. Eagerly, Kuchana took the plate, amazed at how much was on it. In seconds, she was using her fingers, eating ravenously.
Gib crouched in front of her. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. Kuchana was wolfing down the food. Dammit, he shouldn’t have filled the plate so full. “Why don’t you eat the biscuits first,” he suggested, trying to get her to slow down. “Your stomach isn’t used to this kind of food….”
His husky warning came too late. Kuchana had eaten half the food when her stomach violently rebelled. With a cry, she leapt to her feet and turned away. Within seconds, everything she had eaten had been thrown up. Sweat covered her features as she knelt on the ground, her arms pressed against her stomach. Kuchana stayed that way, her head bowed with embarrassment and shame.
“Dammit,” Gib whispered, moving quickly to her side, “I should’ve known better.” Instinctively, he reached down, placing his hands on Kuchana’s shoulders. She was trembling badly. “Come on, let’s get you over to the tree.” He pulled Kuchana to her feet. Her face was flushed and she could barely walk. Anger at Polk’s and Carter’s insensitivity to her physical condition raged through him.
Gently, he settled her back against the trunk of the tree. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, his hand remaining on her slumped shoulder.
Feeling dizzy and weak, Kuchana nodded. Just the touch of his hand on her shoulder stabilized her whirling world. She shut her eyes, feeling as if she would die.
Gib came back with a cup of tepid water. He knelt and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Here, take a swallow and then spit it out,” he ordered.
Kuchana opened her eyes, sipping the water from the cup he pressed to her lower lip. Following his instructions, she rinsed her mouth.
“Good,” Gib praised, setting the water aside. He picked up a biscuit from the plate and broke off a small portion of it. “Now, chew on this, and do it slowly.”
Her eyes never left his harsh features. McCoy had a face like the rugged mountains in Sonora, yet he was treating her as a mother would a sick child. Gratefully, she took the proffered piece of biscuit.
Despite her condition, Kuchana was a proud and independent warrior. Gib knew that to coddle her too much would make her look weak in the eyes of others. He removed his arm and sat back on his boot heels.
“Good,” he rasped unsteadily, watching her chew the biscuit thoroughly before swallowing it. He offered her the cup. “Now a little swallow of water.”
Kuchana managed a grimace, then sipped the water and put it aside. McCoy handed her another bit of biscuit.
“How’s your stomach feeling now?” he asked.
Placing her hand on it, she said, “Better.”
“Any rolling feeling?”
She shook her head.
“Just take your time,” Gib soothed. “A bite of biscuit and a sip of water. You’ve been without food a lot longer than four days, haven’t you?”
Kuchana avoided his piercing look. “Warriors must give their food to their families,” she said.
Relaxing, Gib placed his arms on his knees. “Looks like you’ve had more giveaways than most,” he teased gently. Indians believed in giving away all that they owned, especially food, to those who were poor or incapable of hunting for themselves. He saw the corners of her mouth turn up in the barest
