Walks Alone

by Sandi Rog

  “What kind of animal is that?” she asked, pointing at one of the trophies.

  The old man’s face lit with pride.

  “You asked the wrong question,” White Eagle said as he set her things on the nearby table. He seemed to relax. She sensed he felt at home in these new surroundings, despite the moment of tension that passed between him and Jack. Strange that a white man would befriend an Indian. But Mountain Jack couldn’t be considered typical. Certainly not compared to anyone she’d ever met.

  “That there is a puma,” the old man said, pointing at the bust. “He’s the one that gave me these here scars.” He touched the side of his face. “Nearly blinded me, the ol’ devil. But I got him!” He slammed his fist into his palm so quick and loud it made Anna jump. “He wanted me for dinner, but I cut him open with this here knife.” He held up a dagger that hung below the animal trophy; it was the longest, sharpest looking knife she had ever seen. In her hands it would have been more like a short sword. “That’s how’s I got my name. Mountain Lion Jack is what they call me, ’cause I killed me a mountain lion practically with my bare hands.”

  “Mountain Jack, this is Anna,” White Eagle stepped forward, “my wife.”

  Jack’s mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be,” Jack said. “It’s a privilege to be making your acquaintances, ma’am.” He then glanced sharply at White Eagle. “How’d you manage that? A fine lady from the East turned Indian. What’d you do, kidnap the pretty thing and force her to marry you?” He chuckled at his joke and scratched his head. “I never thought you’d get married, boy. Must have been that blonde hair. You Indians sure have a thing for blondes. Did I ever tell you what happened to that there gal—”

  “It’s been a long trip.” White Eagle put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I think we ought to let the lady rest.”

  Jack glanced over at Anna. He cleared his throat and gave short, quick nods. He then looked around him as if he were lost.

  “Pardon me, ma’am.” He shuffled past her into a room near the front door. “Come on this way.”

  She followed Mountain Jack.

  An oak nightstand stood next to a small, brass bed in the little room. Rather fancy for a poor old man living in a small cabin. The bed nestled under the window to her left. No pictures hung on the walls, and on the right sat a matching oak dresser.

  “You can sleep here. This is where Jean-Marc usually sleeps.” Mountain Jack rolled his eyes. “When he’s here. It’ll be good for him to sleep on the floor. I won’t be givin’ up my bed though. No-sir-ee. It’s in the room there on the other side of the house. I’m gettin’ too old for floors, let me tell you.” He rested his hands on his lower back and cackled.

  She hadn’t noticed anyone else in the cabin, and was curious to know who Jean-Marc might be. “Oh, I can’t take someone else’s bed.” Really, the small bed looked inviting, and every muscle in her body screamed for rest. How wonderful it’d be to bury her face in the soft pillow. How long had it been since she slept in a real bed? “I can sleep on the floor,” she said, still trying to be thoughtful to the owner of the bed. “I did so last night, I can do it again.”

  “Oh no, ma’am.” Jack shook his head. “I can’t be makin’ a beautiful woman sleep on my dirty old floor. You rest here comfortable-like. If you need anythin’, you just give a holler.” He sauntered through the door. “Jean-Marc, hope you like the floor. It’s mighty hard compared to a bed of pine needles.”

  White Eagle came in to the room, carrying her carpetbag and the bundle of belongings. “I won’t be sleeping on the floor.” He put her things down, set a small lantern on the dresser and faced her. “And neither will you.”

  “Did he call you Jean-Marc?” she whispered. “Why? Are you . . . Jean-Marc? I thought . . . .”

  White Eagle straightened.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a name? I mean, a real name. I mean, a civilized—”

  “You never asked.” He shrugged.

  “There’s no way I could have known to ask something like that. How many people have two names?”

  “You do.” He crossed his arms in that typical male stance of his.

  “But that’s because . . . .” She clenched her fists. “That name was forced on me. How’d you get yours?”

  No answer came but Jack’s humming in the back room and the crickets outside. Her gaze fell on White Eagle’s black hair. Feathers and that colorful leather band tumbled over his broad shoulders. The light from the oil lamp reflected off his tinted skin and the motif on his fringed shirt, leggings and moccasins.

  No doubt, Cheyenne blood ran in his veins.

  She locked onto his blue-green gaze.

  Everything about him was Indian, savage.

  Everything . . . but the eyes.

  She didn’t recall the other Indians having such bright eyes. The differences flooded through her mind. His eyes, his white name, he spoke English better than any of the others. She never realized it could mean he wasn’t full-blooded Indian. How could she have been so naïve?

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Like when you kidnapped me. Didn’t it ever occur to you to say, ‘Hey, I’m half-white, so I’m not going to kill you?’” She glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning? It would have saved me a lot of worry, let alone fear.”

  “How many Indians have pale eyes? How could you not know I was half-white? Anybody in their right mind would have known.”

  “I had never seen an Indian in my life! How could I have known?” She paced. “You should have told me,” she said between clenched teeth.

  His face darkened, and he strode toward her.

  She stepped back.

  “Having white blood in my veins would not have changed things for you. I’m still Cheyenne, and being half-white shouldn’t matter.” He said the word “white” with a sneer, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth from saying it.

  She trembled but held her ground. “It does matter,” she said in a harsh whisper.

  “Why?” His jaw pulsed.

  “Well, for one . . . .” Her voice quivered and answers fled. What could she say? Her brain still processed the fact that he wasn’t what she thought. He was a stranger. She was married to a perfect stranger. “I wouldn’t have been as frightened.”

  “What makes you think you would have been any safer with white men than with my brothers?”

  She recalled Running Cloud’s threats. “Because I’m not one of you!” She jabbed her finger at his hard chest then took a few steps back from his immovable stance. “I’m not a savage.”

  His eyes became like ice, narrowing in on her, and his face hardened.

  She swallowed. The last time she saw such a fierce look, he shot Black Bear.

  “Suppose I was all white.” He stepped toward her. “Or let’s suppose I was a white man looking for a good time. Looking to steal and take.” The whites of his teeth flashed as he closed the short distance between them.

  She stopped against the bed.

  He moved inches from her face. “Suppose all I wanted was you.” The heat of his breath feathered her cheeks.

  She tried to step back, but her legs caught against the bed.

  He bent over her. “To take you by force.”

  “White Eagle—Jean-Marc, you’re scaring me.”

  “Good,” he said. “Suppose I just wanted one thing . . .” His gaze raked down her front. “And took it!”

  She slapped him.

  A red mark formed on his cheek, but he didn’t move. It was as if she didn’t slap him at all, and the only proof was the mark on his face and the echo still hanging in the room. “For a woman with schooling, you sure are naïve.” He hissed between clenched teeth. “A man’s greed is what’s dangerous, Morning Sun. Not his race.” He straightened and turned from her. “Goodnight.” He strode from the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Tears flooded her eyes as she dropped on the bed.

  How dreadful. She buried her face in
the blankets and wept. What had she done? How could White Eagle be so cruel? Come to think of it, even if he and Running Cloud had been white, she would have thought they were Indians just the same. All the raids she’d read about in the papers had frightened her, nothing more.

  Trembling, she glanced down at her ring. The silver reflected the light from the lantern as she touched the turquoise sparrow. She shouldn’t have slapped him. White Eagle wasn’t Uncle Horace. He wouldn’t have harmed her. She should apologize and try to explain herself, but look where her first explanation had gotten her. Somehow they had to work this out. She’d talk to him in the morning, give him time to cool off. And give herself time to calm down.

  During the night, Anna awoke to voices and a light coming from under her door.

  She heard what must have been a fist slamming on a table. “I can’t go now,” White Eagle said in a harsh whisper. “I gave Anna my word.”

  She jumped out of bed, whipped on the robe she’d received from Song Bird, and put her ear to the door. What could possibly be taking place that would keep White Eagle from taking her to Denver now?

  “If you don’t go, we won’t get this chance again.” An unrecognizable voice carried from the other room. “They still don’t trust me. They believe I’m just an acquaintance of yours. But you’ve won their trust. They’ll let you ride with them this time, I’m sure of it. But it won’t happen if you don’t go now. They’re waiting for you in town. I’ve drug ’em all over these mountains looking for you. Where in this green earth have you been? I’ve known you to disappear, but never for this long.”

  The voices became muffled. Anna decided it was rude to eavesdrop, so she opened the door.

  Three men sat at the table before her. Mountain Lion Jack, the other had his back to her and his shoulders slumped, while White Eagle sat opposite Jack and looked at her from beneath his long hair.

  “Forgive me if I’m interrupting.” She pulled the robe closer around her body.

  White Eagle frowned.

  The unknown man barely glanced over his shoulder and tipped his hat.

  “Anna, this is Mr. Joe Morgan,” White Eagle said.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  She turned to White Eagle. “Are we still going to Denver City?”

  “Something’s come up.” He stood. “I have to leave tonight.”

  She felt like stomping her feet. “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I’ll take the stage. Surely one goes to Denver City from here.” Then she could experience the city on her own, have a taste of independence.

  Of freedom.

  “No,” he said, his voice firm.

  Taking a deep breath, she straightened.

  “Wait here until I come for you.”

  “How long will I have to wait?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. Just do as I say. You’ll be in good hands with Mountain Jack. He’ll take care of you. When I get back, I’ll take you to Denver City.”

  She looked at Jack.

  He winked and nodded. “I’ll keep you company, ma’am. I have enough stories to entertain you for a lifetime.”

  ~*~

  Mountain Jack wasn’t lying when he said he had a lot of stories to tell, and they were all about himself, mostly about fights he’d had with people or animals.

  Anna thought she’d heard it all when yet another one would come to his mind.

  Mountain Jack was away at the mine most of the day, and during that time, she seethed in the silence within the log walls. She kept herself busy by giving the place a good scrub. Sometimes she’d imagine that the floor was White Eagle, and she’d scrub its wooden surface that much harder.

  How dare he abandon her and make her a burden to this old man? When the floors had been scrubbed, not to mention pounded, she came up with new ways to redecorate. In the evening when Jack would return from working at the mine, she’d make sure she had a nice warm supper ready. Every time he saw a meal waiting for him, his whole face beamed. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he would say.

  But Anna thought she’d die in the Rocky Mountains, having been forgotten by White Eagle—or Jean—whatever-his-name. Three weeks. And she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man, and Jack wouldn’t tell her where he had gone or when he’d return.

  That kind of information wasn’t appropriate for a decent young lady like herself, he would say, which just made her all the more curious, but he wouldn’t budge. Worst of all, anytime she asked about White Eagle and who he really was, he said that was for Jean-Marc to tell.

  Often, she sat outside the cabin door watching and waiting for White Eagle’s arrival, but he never came. Maybe he’d changed his mind about their marriage? She wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, considering the magnitude of their last quarrel. Maybe he had dumped her off with this old man just so he could escape and not be tied down with a wife? Maybe he married her just to please Running Cloud and now he wanted to get rid of her?

  Oh, what had she done? Why did Running Cloud force this marriage on them? Maybe her uncle was right. Maybe she wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love. Maybe she hadn’t adjusted to Cheyenne life as well as she should have and now she was an embarrassment to White Eagle.

  She stood to go back into the lonely cabin. A wave of dizziness came over her. She gripped the doorjamb. She’d stood too fast. Or perhaps she’d been locked away in this place for too long? She was developing an extreme case of cabin fever. She’d married a man who abandoned her, who didn’t even want her, a man with a mysterious past, a man she didn’t even know. Her stomach gave way to a sick sensation. What was she to do?

  ~*~

  “My partner, Franck Charvet, was more the social type,” Jack said one evening during supper. She had heard the stories from the time Jack had arrived in Colorado to when he and his partner finally found gold. “When we struck it rich, he built himself a nice place in the city, even built himself a hotel. I stayed here to watch the mine. A lot of thieves in these here parts.” He chuckled. “I just ain’t the social type. I’d much rather live on my mountain and enjoy the wilderness. I don’t like havin’ too many people around me much. I don’t mind being around those miners though. They’re good, hardworkin’ men.”

  Speaking of being around people. “May I go to town?” she asked.

  “What would you want to go to town for?”

  Anna tried not to raise her voice. “I’ve been here day in and day out all alone in this cabin for the last four weeks. I haven’t complained once. It would be nice to see some new faces for a change. Not that I don’t enjoy yours. You’re wonderful company with your stories and all.” She noticed her speech sounding like his. She had to get out of this place. “I’d just like to pick up a few magazines and have a look around.” And get back to civilization.

  “Well, I don’t see anything wrong in that,” he said. “Before I leave for the mine tomorrow, I’ll drop you off in town first thing.”

  The next day, wearing Beth’s dress, Anna arrived in Crystal Springs. A lake on the town’s edge reflected sunlight off the cool morning waters. The waves rippled, making it shimmer like diamonds. She understood how the town derived its name. Nestled beneath a towering mountain colored in reds, yellows, and greens, several shops lined the main, dirt street.

  She hurried along the boarded walk and brushed past other early morning shoppers. Her ears tingled when she heard women speaking English, and her feet froze in place when she caught site of the beautiful dresses in the shop windows. But what made her mouth fall open was the large sign hanging next to the post office, announcing that the next stagecoach would leave for Denver City the following week.

  She stared at the sign for a long time. It was just white paint slapped on a board, ready to be painted over and reused. But the words “Denver City” had never looked more beautiful. Inviting. She swallowed, but her throat became dry. White Eagle’s words of warning her not to leave echoed through her mind. She wouldn
’t do it. She was a married woman and ought to wait for her husband to return—if he ever returned. What if he never returned?

  No, she would trust him.

  It was as though her feet had become lead weights; it took enormous effort to turn around. When she gazed absently into a window displaying a nice traveling dress, she could still see the sign reflecting in the glass, as if it were waving to her. She breathed deeply, straightened, and marched into the store.

  After a day of shopping in town, avoiding the sign, and a fairly pleasant conversation with Jack that evening, she lay in bed wide-awake, staring at the log ceiling. She hadn’t fallen into temptation; she hadn’t given in. White Eagle would be pleased.

  She curled on her side. But what if she never got a chance to tell him? What if he really had left her? After all, just like her uncle had done to so many, he could easily walk away, and the last time she saw White Eagle, he seemed angry enough to do just that.

  Later that week as she changed the bedding, she thought about how easy it would be to get a ticket. Denver City was so close. All she had to do was just go down there and buy one. Simple as that! Later she scrubbed the floors, drawing signs of Denver City onto the polished surface. If in reality she couldn’t buy a ticket, it wouldn’t hurt to imagine buying one—imagine standing at the counter and saying, “One ticket to Denver City, please,” just like she’d done when she’d escaped her uncle in New York. Didn’t she feel as trapped now as she had then? Hmm. No. Instead of being abused, she was trapped without the man she loved.