Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  The question of his leaving was always in her heart, he knew, especially now that they were bound on the reservation. She couldn't help but know that as a white man, Hart could have sought his freedom whenever he chose and escaped the living death of captivity. His knowledge of Apache ways now far surpassed any he'd hoped to learn, when first he'd sought out the People to render their world on canvas. He sat now in council with the other braves, and when he spoke to the white-eyes on their behalf, Destarte nearly forgot he was not one of the tribe... but the illusion was only momentary.

  "You can go back to your world and be safe, my husband," she would say when the melancholy of reservation captivity lay heavy on her heart.

  "Nowhere would be safe for me without you and Charles, Destarte," he would reply, but both knew the Indian way of life was coming to an end, and that sometime in the near future Fate might make the choice for Hart that he so assiduously avoided making for himself.

  He'd long ago decided he would take his wife and child back to the white man's world with him, when the Apache way was no longer viable; but he knew, as Destarte did not, what hardships there would be for a "squaw-man's" woman, and he wished to postpone the sorrows she would face as long as possible... at least until their son was a little older.

  Hart thought a farm might be the answer, far from prying eyes and gossiping mouths—or perhaps even Europe, where they'd be curiosities but not freaks, as they would be in Colorado. He was in no hurry to inflict what was to come on his innocent wife, or on a little boy too small to be deprived of pride in his lineage. So each day Hart taught Destarte more of the white man's language and the white man's customs; just as she had once tutored him about her world so he could survive there, so now he tutored her about his world so she could survive when the time of passage came. He had decided to remain with the People until their fate was decided by the government, for there was always the possibility that his intercession could be of help to the tribe.

  Hart approached both the government agents and the military when the People returned to the San Carlos Reservation. He was certain his services as intermediary could be useful to both sides, but he was treated with suspicion and derision. Any man fool enough to live with savages wasn't worth listening to, he was told point-blank by the men who counted. Crook had left the Arizona Territory and the Indian agents under the auspices of the Bureau of Indian Affairs held sway. So he simply melted back into the tribe and watched the perfidy of the government, and the outright dishonesty of the military, cataloguing every detail so that he might bear witness when the time was right. "Inequity and iniquity," he told Destarte. "One day my pictures will show the truth to any man who cares to see."

  The Apaches had been promised food and money by the government, when they were captured, but Hart saw both stolen by the greedy, while a proud people was left to beg for scraps. The Apaches were promised land by the army, but it was neither the hunting grounds they needed nor the places they held sacred. They were promised dignity by their captors, but were made to feel like animals run to ground.

  For nearly two years, the People and their adopted white brother tried to live as the white-eyes wanted; they raised corn and beans, wheat, pumpkins, potatoes, barley, and melons with great success, and for a time Captain Crawford, a disciple of Crook's, tried to see they were given fair trade for their produce. But by 1885, new mines had been discovered on what was once Apache land, and hundreds of new settlers came pouring in from the East to homestead. With government sanction, the corrupt politicians reneged on every promise Crook or Crawford ever made to the Apaches.

  It wasn't one big conflagration that caused Gokhlaya's and Naiche's decision to bolt the reservation, Hart always thought in retrospect, but rather a thousand drops of water on the stone of their endurance. After a binge on tizwin, the Apache home brew that made them feel bold and manly once again, the beleaguered warriors decided to make one last break for freedom. As was the Indian way, all tribal elders met and voted; the women murmured among themselves that their husbands would rather die in battle than be turned into women, as the white men sought to do to them.

  Certain Apaches elected to stay behind under the leadership of Chatto; Gokhlaya and Naiche chose to make a break for Mexico. Hart knew, as they undertook to leave the confines of the reservation, that the tribe was doomed, but he also understood their need to flee. He very nearly chose to take this moment as a sign and pack his wife and son off to the white man's world, but on the night before he intended to speak of it to Gokhlaya he had a dream that stayed him. "You are the Witness..." a voice reminded over and over, from the dream void.... "You are the Witness."

  Hart woke with the words still ringing in his ears and he rose from bed knowing he could not leave until the trail of tears had been followed to its ending and the red river had been swallowed up by the white, as his vision had foretold.

  "Gokhlaya has told me of the shaman's journey," Hart wrote in his journal. "In order to heal, one must have suffered illness; in order to live fully, one must have battled death and vanquished him.

  "There are plateaus along the seeker's path: Orphan, Wanderer, Warrior, Martyr, Magician; each a necessary step in the road to wisdom. What must this knowledge mean to a man? Does wisdom come like a lightning flash in the darkness? I wonder. Or does it seep into your marrow and express itself one day when you are least expecting it?

  "We sat around the Medicine Circle and saw the sand painting that represents man's earthly journey.

  " 'Depending on where you sit in the circle,'" Gokhlaya said, 'your perspective changes... until you've sat in every position, you cannot say that you have seen the grand design.'

  "I wonder where on the circle I sit at this moment? And where on the wheel are those I've loved?"

  Chapter 94

  The decision to run Chance McAllister for governor was deliberated upon long and hard by the party. There was no question about his appeal, only about his willingness to do things the party's way. He had a damnable habit of unpredictability... like that time when he'd sided with the miners against the owners. Of course, the lucky bastard had come out of that particular disaster smelling like a rose. His bravery in the mine cave-in had made him a goddamn folk hero, and Madigan along with him.

  Elmore Trask was a practical man, deep down where it counted; he needed a candidate with charisma and he needed one who could be led. It always depressed him that both characteristics seldom existed in the same man.

  Trask put his feet up onto the leather ottoman in Madigan's study with all the pleasure of a portly man who has just finished a splendid meal, and three kinds of wine. Jason poured two snifters of cognac and handed one to Elmore before he settled into his own chair, by the fire.

  "You spend a fair amount of time with McAllister," Trask began genially. "Your opinion on his candidacy would carry some weight with the boys in the back room."

  Jason sipped the brandy, then moved forward in the well-worn leather, resting his elbows on his parted knees; it was the gesture of an important man about to give a judicious answer.

  "I'm a bit handicapped in giving you an unbiased appraisal, Elmore, because the man's my friend, as you know. But needless to say, I owe a good deal of loyalty to the party and more to you personally."

  Trask nodded sagely; he'd heard every self-serving disclaimer ever conceived of, and hadn't gotten to where he was by believing horseshit, only by recognizing its aroma.

  "McAllister's a natural vote-getter," Madigan said. "Handsome, charming; says the right thing to everyone from little old ladies to presidents, excellent rhetorician. He's done fine work for the Silver Alliance..."

  "So much for the subjects he gets A in, how about the F's?" Trask said with the smile of the worldly-wise.

  Jason did his best to act as if he felt discomfited by the necessary admissions he must make; he had to bury Chance just right. He cleared his throat and took a sip of cognac—Trask thought that a nice touch.

  "Gambling debts," Jason said even
ly, "and his wife's questionable past are what you're expecting me to say, Elmore... but neither one is an insurmountable obstacle, as I see it. The biggest problem Chance presents in my opinion is his potential uncontrollability. He's a maverick at heart, and mavericks don't take orders. And he's not ruthless, not one whit. In fact, I'd say he's actually a bit of an idealist, despite his apparent pragmatism."

  Praised with faint damns, thought Elmore Trask, but very potent damns. He'd have to give thought to what had been said here.

  "Much as I hate to say it, he'd be a prime candidate to run in an election you don't expect to win," Jason suggested. "Like the one coming up, against the incumbent. He'd make a stronger showing than most because of his popularity, and if he lost, well... let's just say it would leave a clear field for someone more predictable, come the next election. Someone more along Tabor's lines, perhaps." Jason paused a moment. "Of course, you know far more about all this than I do, Elmore, I'm just thinking out loud."

  "Interesting speculation, Jason. Very interesting."

  "God knows it would be easy enough to find a flaw in the man's character to blame the loss on, and he has the kind of hubristic self-confidence that might make him accept the nomination, when a more judicious man would shy away." Jason would place the same thoughts in a number of influential ears in the days to come, for it was time to tighten the net around his quarry.

  It was useful to find out for sure that Madigan wasn't Chance McAllister's friend. The party wouldn't wish to antagonize a contributor as generous and influential as Jason, by screwing a true friend of his, but under these circumstances... Elmore made a mental note to see the committee tomorrow morning, and went on to enjoy Jason's excellent hospitality.

  The Fancy-hunger gnawed at Jason unreasonably after he returned home from Denver. He'd thought about her all the way back—about how exquisite she was and how invigorating to talk to. She challenged him, somewhere deep down, where no woman had a right to reach; in fact, she damn near obsessed him and there seemed no way to diminish the power she wielded. It angered him and seduced him simultaneously. He didn't like not to be in control.

  Perhaps it was the sense of untamability about her that was most seductive. She was elusive, never really in his grasp. She was sharp-witted and sharper-tongued, able to skewer an idea or an opponent, a most unwomanly trait he found utterly exciting. And there was still that damnable waiflike quality that evoked a protectiveness which made him feel... gentle. Or something like it he'd never felt before with anyone.

  Challenge, obsession—strange improper words to use about a mere woman. What the hell was it about her that made him want her so insatiably, he was willing to go to such trouble to get her back?

  He thundered for his secretary and the young man came scurrying.

  "Get hold of Sam Southern for me."

  "I don't believe I know the gentlemen, where will I find him, sir?"

  "Samantha Southern is no gentlemen, Horton—she's no lady either, for that matter. She's a very high-priced whore, with a house on Lexington. See if you can get her over here for lunch... tell her I have a business proposition for her she won't want to turn down."

  Horton left and Jason folded his hands on the desk in front of him. He'd waited far too long to get what he wanted.

  John Henderson managed to look lean and hungry despite corpulence and prosperity; his entire life had been spent in the pursuit of money, the management of money, and the enjoyment of money. He was well situated, as president of the Fiduciary Bank, to enjoy the fruits of his obsession as well as the company of the men who shared his passion for prosperity. He'd enjoyed the trip to New York in Madigan's private railroad car; it reinforced his old conviction that money and happiness were synonymous.

  Madigan signed the papers he'd asked John to bring with him and sat back in his chair to fix the banker with the stare he reserved for recalcitrant lackeys.

  "Now, John, I assume you've done all I've asked you about McAllister's loans?"

  Henderson responded obliquely. "I'm far more at risk in this McAllister situation than you are, Jason, and it's beginning to make me nervous. I'm glad to have the chance to discuss this in person—I want to be certain we see eye to eye. I'm holding one hell of a lot of McAllister's notes in my bank and with my position in the mining community and my reputation in financial circles at stake, I'm running a fair-size risk, playing ball with you on this manipulation of the man's assets."

  "Cut the crap, John," Madigan said with just enough irritation to make sure he was understood. "You stand to collect a goodly piece of change off everything McAllister owns because of me, as you have for quite some time, I might remind you. If you're so all-fired worried about your pristine reputation, I can just as easily steer him somewhere else. God knows, Leadville's got her share of better banks—to say nothing of Denver or New York. As a matter of fact, last time I was in Colorado, Chance said something to me about how much more convenient it would be to bank in Denver, now that they spend nearly all their time there."

  "Now, you cut the horse pucky, Jason. Do you think you're talking to some half-assed stripling? You need my willingness to play along with your schemes, and my corroboration of your assessments of his holdings, and my closed mouth, just like you have since you started doing business in Leadville. He's too smart to accept your word alone—mine and the banks carry a hell of a lot of weight in Leadville.

  "We made a tidy bundle shorting the Fancy Penny stock just before that mighty suspiciously timed cave-in years ago. And we both made money in what we lent him to clean up the mine and get it operational again... and we've made money on him damned near every day since, one way or another. We have what is known as a mutually satisfactory marriage here, just as long as the groom doesn't get greedy."

  "And the bride doesn't get arrogant or stupid," Jason cut him off with a crooked smile. He'd dealt with the Hendersons of the world before. They always meant money, but they were an almighty pain in the arse to deal with just the same, and they bore constant watching for double-dealing.

  "Just be certain you recommend the investments to him that I've outlined for you, John, and our partnership will continue to prosper," Jason said as he folded up the papers on his desk and prepared to dispatch the plump turkey back to Leadville. He had no real worries about Henderson; all the same, it didn't hurt to remind him from time to time who was the brains of this particular financial alliance and who was the kitchen help.

  Jason poured himself a last brandy after Henderson had been seen to the door. Drawing the net tighter around his quarry was making him feel better about life than he had for some time. He'd never met a politician who couldn't be bought, or a banker with scruples... and Sam Southern would provide the finishing nail in Chance's coffin.

  Chapter 95

  Chance's bid for the governorship was a resounding failure and try as he might, he could never really figure out why. The party had been behind him and the voters had seemed receptive to his ideas.... Not only was the defeat the single most deflating experience of his life, but by some odd quirk of fate, everything in his world seemed to change for the worse with that election, as if Lady Luck simply up and deserted him one day, for no apparent reason.

  Some part of him blamed Fancy, as if all her doomsaying had queered his luck—and even though he knew it was irrational to hold her responsible for his own troubles, still she sure as hell hadn't helped any by always telling him that the way he did things was wrong.

  "I think we should consolidate our holdings, Chance—sell some of the real estate and put some cash in the bank." Fancy's comment was occasioned by the newest rumor about the country going on the gold standard.

  Chance didn't want to talk money with his wife, he still smarted over the election loss and he didn't need any reminders of painful reality. "Leave it alone, Fancy. I have other things on my mind."

  Fancy tried to keep her temper for she knew he was hurting, deflated by his loss at the polls, worried about a lot of things he never
revealed. She'd despaired of ever getting him to be honest about the serious parts of his life; when they talked, it was about socializing or about the children, and then he behaved as if Aurora was hers and Blackjack his, so that there was never any real communication.

  She took a deep breath and began again. "If we sold off some of the undeveloped properties, and stopped some of our lavish entertainment, we could put a fair amount of cash away this year, Chance, just in case silver really is as shaky as everybody says. I've tried to put some figures on paper, but I don't have all the information I need."

  "Dammit, Fancy, will you for once try to help me instead of interfering." Chance bristled with anger at her interminable meddling. "Don't you understand what a tightrope I walk every day?

  My kind of magic works only if you keep on believing. You bring me down, with your fears, and I can't work my trade when I'm down."

  "But there's money being wasted, Chance. You have to stop buying until we know what's going to happen to silver. It's become like some kind of addiction for you—another worthless mine last week, another useless piece of real estate. You're scaring me to death with all this spending."

  "Who the hell said what I've bought is useless, Fancy, and why in the hell do you even know about what I'm spending? Other wives don't keep track like a goddamned bookkeeper—they just say thank you when their husbands bring home the bacon, which I think you have to admit I do very well."

  She tried to keep her temper from flaring and to keep the conversation focused. "It isn't just the buying, Chance, it's your way of life these days... you're never home, you're always out gambling..."

  "I win a damned sight more than I lose and you damned well know it."

  "Tightrope walkers sometimes fall off the wire," she said angrily; it really was demeaning to have to beg your husband for a hearing.