He hurried over to the door and opened it before the lieutenant could even knock. A biting December wind blew in with the man, who nodded a greeting to Ethan and immediately walked over to the stove. He removed his gloves and began rubbing his hands over its top. “My God, it’s cold out there!” he exclaimed.
Ethan closed the door and took another sip of coffee. “Bitch of a day to have to be out.”
The lieutenant did not answer right away, and Ethan sensed something was very wrong. He had come to know O’Toole well on several scouting expeditions as well as having acted as interpreter for him on several occasions. O’Toole was usually talkative and joking, but when he glanced at Ethan just now, Ethan saw an odd sadness in his eyes. “What’s up?” he asked.
O’Toole sighed deeply. “Things are getting way out of hand, Ethan. You’re right. It’s a bitch of a day to be outside, but Colonel Anderson told me to come and get you. We’re all headed down to the Cheyenne River reservation—might need you to do some interpreting. Big Foot’s following is building, and they’ve fled the reservation and gone into hiding to keep practicing the Ghost Dance. They’re no real threat, of course, mostly women and children, but you know how outsiders look at any Indians who leave the reservation. They figure they’re on the warpath.”
Ethan frowned, taking another swallow. “Why can’t people just let them worship as they please? Nobody stops the whites from practicing whatever religion they want.”
O’Toole shivered and turned his back to warm it near the stove. “You know how it is. The Indians get stirred up like that, the whites think they’re out for war. Agent McLaughlin and General Miles both believe it and are determined to put a stop to it.”
Ethan sneered in disgust. “Miles hasn’t even been out here to see what’s really going on. He hasn’t tried to understand that this is all the hope and joy the Sioux have. As far as McLaughlin, he’s worthless. The man shouldn’t be out here at all, but then I can’t think of any other Indian agents who are worth a damn either.” He walked back to the window to see the snow was falling harder. “My pa was one of the few who did the job right, and they ended up firing him.”
Lieutenant O’Toole took off his hat and ran a hand through his thick blond hair, almost afraid to tell Ethan the worst of the news. He liked the man, had worked with him often over the past few months, had seen him grieve deeply when his grandmother died two months ago. He knew Ethan had once had a white wife somewhere in Oklahoma, but didn’t talk much about her, and O’Toole wasn’t sure of the whole story. For over six months Ethan had talked about maybe going back to Guthrie to see the woman once more but that it probably wouldn’t do much good. It was obvious he was still in love with her, but the marriage was apparently over, and increasing problems on the reservations had kept Ethan here.
“We’re supposed to go find Big Foot and get him back onto the reservation,” O’Toole said aloud, “but that’s not the real reason I’m here, Ethan. I’ve got some real bad news.”
Ethan turned from the window. “Spill it.”
“Sitting Bull. He’s been killed—shot—by his own Indian police, just south of here. We were on patrol on the northern border. A sergeant just rode up here to tell us.”
Ethan felt his whole body tingle with dread and sorrow. “My God,” he muttered. “This means big trouble.”
“It sure does, and I blame General Miles. He figured Sitting Bull was the instigator in all this Ghost Dance mess and ordered him arrested. He figured it would be easier if Indian police did it instead of soldiers, but I guess there was some kind of misunderstanding between the police and those close to Sitting Bull. They’re pretty sure the first bullet that hit him was by accident in a scuffle between the police and those trying to stop them. Then I guess the police thought Sitting Bull was going to order them killed or something, I don’t know. One of them shot him in the head. The Hunkpapas are terrified now. Hundreds have fled, and I don’t doubt your uncle and cousins are among them. A lot of them are headed to Pine Ridge, probably figure Red Cloud can protect them. Others have run to find Big Foot. Those are the ones who have to be brought in, since they fled the reservation completely. It’s one big, damn mess, and with Sitting Bull killed, things are getting hot and soldiers are scared. You know what that can lead to.”
Ethan rubbed at his eyes and turned away. “Yeah. Nervous trigger fingers.” He sighed deeply. “The worst part is, the Sioux really believe if they remain peaceful, a Savior will come and end all of this. But no white man would believe the Indians won’t retaliate for Sitting Bull’s death. They’ll take any little movement as a threat, and somebody will shoot first and ask questions later.”
“How fast can you be ready to ride out with me?”
Ethan felt a great need to mourn, yet the reason for his sorrow was something abstract, something he couldn’t even name. “Where’s your camp?”
“Only a couple of miles to the southwest, down by Fox Creek. The colonel wants to head down to the Cheyenne River reservation right away and start hunting for Big Foot.”
“Give me an hour. I’ll meet you at your camp. I’d like to stop on our way and see if my uncle or cousins are still on the reservation. Like you said, they’re probably already gone, but I have to know.”
“Sure thing.” The lieutenant put his gloves back on. “I’m sorry about Sitting Bull. I really am.”
The man left, and Ethan began packing his gear. Sitting Bull dead. Such a great and famous leader. He’d even traveled with Buffalo Bill Cody and starred in his Wild West shows. Killed by his own Indian police. It was all so ironic and unnecessary, the result of the government coming in and turning Indian against Indian. They knew that was the best way to break them, and they had done their job well.
What a goddamn mess! He slammed things around, angry with everyone—the government, Indian agents, soldiers, Indian police, himself. And Ally. If not for her, he wouldn’t even be up here involved in this tragedy. Annulled. She’d had the marriage annulled. He’d gotten the papers three months ago, along with a letter of apology for how she had hurt him, a thank-you for allowing the annulment.
I really did learn to love you, Ethan, but we both know it was all wrong. Don’t bother trying to find me in Guthrie, if you should ever come back here. I am going to Denver.
Denver. What the hell did she think she was going to do in Denver? He could understand why she would leave Guthrie, but Denver was a lot bigger, and she was still so young. Still, if any woman her age could fend for herself, it was Ally. God only knew what trick she had up her sleeve next. He told himself there was no sense worrying about her anymore. She obviously wanted to end the marriage as much as he did, or at least he’d thought he did until he got the letter saying it was really over. He reminded himself she had never really loved him in the right way, for the right reasons, so why should he continue to think about her and worry about her…and long for her? It was done with. Everything was done with—his marriage, Old Grandmother dead, disaster ahead for his Cheyenne relatives, the rest of the Indians relegated to a pittance of land. Where did that leave him? He didn’t seem to belong anywhere.
He rolled up his blankets and piled everything onto the table. He’d have to saddle Blackfoot before he could pack anything onto him. He pulled on his thickest, knee-high winter moccasins, feeling a need to weep for what was happening to the Sioux and Cheyenne, but there was no time for that. He was glad Old Grandmother had died before she knew about this. It would have broken her heart. He had at least been able to be with her when she died. His mother would have liked that. Now she and her mother were together, in a place much happier than these reservations were going to be for the next several months.
He tried to imagine where the old Minneconjou Sioux leader, Big Foot, would hide his people. They had to be found and brought back. The longer they stayed off the reservation, the more they would be considered renegades and risked being attacked by soldiers and white settlers afraid the fleeing Indians were coming to kill them.
If people would just use their heads, there didn’t need to be any more trouble. Big Foot was a peaceful man, and like the lieutenant had said, most of those with him were harmless women and children. All they wanted was a place where they would be left alone to dance the Ghost Dance and worship as they pleased.
He pulled on a heavy wolfskin coat over his deerskin jacket, then pulled a fur hat down over his ears and headed out to saddle Blackfoot. The cold air stung his nostrils, and he worried about those who had fled with Big Foot. A lot of them probably didn’t have adequate clothing and blankets, and it was beginning to snow harder. The weather was going to make this a miserable hunt, but things were surely even more miserable for the shivering, frightened Indians with Big Foot.
He walked to a shed and began saddling Blackfoot. The horse whinnied in objection. “I know, boy. I don’t want to go out in this either, but we don’t have much choice.” He threw a saddle blanket over the horse’s back, its design reminding him of a rug that was in his room when he stayed at Ally’s Place. He stopped and stared at it a moment, realizing he sometimes thought of her at the strangest moments.
He finished saddling Blackfoot. There was no time now to think about a little red-headed woman who had used him and apparently wanted nothing more to do with her “Indian” husband. He was proud of the Indian in him, and he’d be damned if he’d let some white woman make him ashamed of it, and right now it was his Indian family who needed his help. Ally Mills probably owned half of Denver by now. He led Blackfoot out of the shed into a stinging wind.
Allyson picked up a day-old copy of the Rocky Mountain News from the night table and sat down in a chair to look at it. She had bought the paper yesterday and had not had time to even glance at it. At last she had a few minutes to herself in her small room, and she was relishing the moment.
She was dead tired. Her day had started at four A.M., preparing bread for breakfast, then cooking for the ten residents of Gloria Reed’s rooming house. Because of her past experience, Ally had looked for similar work to what she had done in Guthrie, and her hunt had turned out better than she expected. Mrs. Reed was recently widowed and had three children. She welcomed Allyson’s experience and gave her a free room in exchange for help. Allyson intended to save her earnings faithfully until she had enough set aside to have something like this of her own again, only this time she was sure she would be even more successful. It was amazing the kind of prices people paid for such things in Denver. The only trouble was, it also took a lot more money to get started in this city than it did in a place like Guthrie.
She closed her eyes for a moment, dreaming about becoming one of the wealthiest women in Denver, all on her own, just like she’d done in Guthrie. She was furious at how she’d been robbed of everything back there. Nolan Ives should have had to pay her something for all she had in her business, but it had been handed to him on a silver platter. No one would listen to her plea that she should get some kind of compensation for her own expenses and for improving the lots. Nolan Ives had every person of power in Guthrie on his side. By the time she had paid Henry Bartel his three hundred dollars plus interest, then paid off what she owed the bank on her business, there was barely enough money left to pay her way to Denver and set at least a little aside until she knew what she wanted to do.
She was back to almost nothing, but at least she had found a safe, reputable place. Mrs. Reed was a kind, generous woman: she was so involved in her grief and her children that Allyson had practically taken over running the boarding house. It was hard work, but she hoped that eventually she could perhaps go into a partnership with Mrs. Reed, who she suspected needed the money. She could buy half the place, rake in half the profits, and maybe eventually open a place that was completely her own.
She liked Denver. This was a city where a person could dream big in spite of the cost of living. She paid close attention to talk at the big dinner table where Mrs. Reed served breakfast and supper to her patrons. It was not a restaurant, but rather just a dining room where only people who stayed at the rooming house were allowed to eat. By listening to the conversation of the residents, mostly all men, she had learned a lot about the mining boom at a place in the mountains called Cripple Creek. That was the reason Denver was suddenly growing again and why prices had jumped sky-high. She imagined the best way to get rich was to find gold, but she wasn’t sure how to go about doing that. It was an exciting thought, and not something she had quite given up on yet. Finding gold would bring her riches and independence a lot faster than slaving away for long hours and slowly saving her money.
She flicked through the newspaper, as she did every day, looking for better opportunities, for chances to make herself rich. She was glad she had come here. It was an exciting place to be, and beautiful besides. She felt drawn to the mountains and curious about places like Cripple Creek, wondering if she dared go to that wild mining town alone. No. She had to have a plan, had to know what she was doing; she would learn more about mining and how to protect herself. MINING INVESTMENTS one article read. Meeting tomorrow, Wednesday, four P.M., at Courthouse for all those interested in grubstaking prospectors.
She had been in town long enough to know what that meant. A person bought supplies for someone willing to go into the mountains and look for gold. If he found it, the supplier got a share. It was something she had been thinking about doing for a long time. If she was too young and inexperienced to go looking for gold herself, she could invest in someone who would do it for her. She just had to find someone she was sure would be completely honest. She didn’t have all that much money, so she had to spend it wisely.
She decided maybe she would go to that meeting. It was worth a try. Almost every day she heard or read about yet another find up at Cripple Creek. It was almost a sure bet that anyone who went up there and worked hard enough would find his vein and be a rich man. If she was the one who grubstaked him, she would also be rich. Her heart raced with anticipation. Yes, she would go to that meeting. The paper had said tomorrow, which meant today. She folded the paper to go and find her bank book so she could check her savings balance. That was when the front-page headline caught her eye.
INDIAN BATTLE TAKES PLACE AT WOUNDED KNEE, SOUTH DAKOTA. She frowned, studying the article. Indians opened fire on soldiers at Wounded Knee Creek in South Dakota December 29, 1890. It is estimated that at least 150 Sioux Indians and 25 soldiers were killed in what some are calling a massacre. Others simply say it was the last great battle between Indians and soldiers, as all Indians are now on reservations and no longer a threat to society. She read on, noticing mention that several of the dead Indians were women and children. How could that be considered a battle? She remembered Ethan telling her about a place called Sand Creek and how his mother and others camping there peacefully had been murdered by Colorado volunteers for no good reason.
Had something similar happened at Wounded Knee, and had Ethan been there? After all, he had gone to the Dakotas when he left Guthrie, saying something about making sure his relatives were all right. She felt a sudden pain. Ethan could be dead, and she wouldn’t even know it. He had gone to the Dakotas, concerned about the new Ghost Dance religion. The article talked about the religion, how the dancing and singing and drumming had caused white settlers in the area to fear an Indian uprising. Only a few days ago she had read about the great Sioux Chief, Sitting Bull, being shot and killed by Indian police. It was obvious there was big trouble up there, and if she knew Ethan, he was right in the middle of it.
She told herself she was not supposed to think about him anymore. She had thought coming to Denver would help her forget him, but time and distance and a new adventure had not erased the memory of Ethan Temple’s lips tasting her own, the touch of his big hand caressing her, the near-painful ecstasy of letting him invade her body. He was no longer her husband, and apparently did not intend to contact her or try to find her, so why did she care that something might have happened to him? Why couldn’t she leave the memories behind and get Ethan
Temple out of her heart and her blood?
She still had his original letter telling her she could get the divorce or annulment. He had not said he loved her or written one sentimental word. She supposed it was because she had hurt him so deeply. His wounded pride would not let him beg or come crawling back. She had waited a little longer after getting the letter, then had gotten her annulment and left Guthrie, but that piece of paper could not erase Ethan from her mind and heart. Annulment or not, the fact remained he had been her first and only man, and she could not help feeling she still belonged to him.
She supposed maybe she should send a telegram to the Indian reservation to find out if anybody knew anything about Ethan. Still, maybe she was better off not knowing. How could she get on with her life and forget him if she started searching for him? Maybe he was hurt…or dead. She would rather not know. Everything was over. He surely hated her now; he had never come back, had never written again. And why should he? She had sent him one letter, with a paper showing their marriage had been annulled. He would go on with his life, and she with hers.
She sighed deeply, folding the paper and saying a quick little prayer that Ethan Temple had not been hurt or killed. That was all she could do, wasn’t it? Why did she feel this terrible emptiness at the thought that he might have been killed? It was a kind of finality, an awakening to the realization that he really, really was not coming to find her, no longer loved her, was not going to do one thing to renew the relationship.
A tear dripped onto the newspaper, making the black ink fade into a blur.
Ethan breathed deeply to keep himself from vomiting. Back at the Episcopal mission he had already found two of his cousins, Red Crow, only seventeen, and Standing Eagle, a twenty-five-year-old man with two little sons. Both were badly wounded but would live. Now he had the grim task of helping dig the dead, frozen bodies of other Sioux and Cheyenne from the deep snow so their bodies could be counted and identified. The sight of so many dead, all left behind in a blizzard by the soldiers, was almost more than any man could take. They lay frozen into the positions in which they died. Looking almost ominous, old Big Foot was in a half-sitting position, his arms bent, his hands seeming to beckon others to join him in death, probably a much more peaceful place than that he had known in his last days on earth.
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