by Sandi Rog
A chambermaid came in with fresh water, a clean basin, and some towels.
“Oh dear, miss. You don’t look so well.” The petite maid set down the fresh pitcher of water. She turned to Anna. “Get down under them covers and let me take care of you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to take care of me.” The room still swam, and Anna would have loved to crawl out of her body.
“You just do as I say and get into bed.” The woman bustled about, pulling down the bedding and fluffing up her pillow.
“Thank you,” Anna said, feeling weak. “I just hate to be any trouble.”
“You’re no trouble at all, miss. I’m happy to help.”
As much as she hated to admit it, she missed White Eagle and wished he were here to comfort her. But at the same time, how could she want him? Her stomach swam again, and cold dizziness swept over her. She had to see a doctor.
Whatever she’d caught at Jack’s simply wouldn’t go away.
Chapter Twenty-One
A shadow crept through Denver City. Only the saloon showed signs of life as Jean-Marc’s shadow stretched down the lonely streets of the slumbering town. The shadow of a man riding his horse in a welcome cloak of darkness.
He came upon the Rocky Mountain News building, the newspaper that had helped stir so much hate against his people. Torching the place entered his mind, but he rode on.
When he neared his father’s house, he stopped before it and leaned against the saddle horn. He pushed back his hat and took in the old place. He’d last seen his father in this boarded-up house six years ago. He could still hear his father’s voice.
“They were not Union troops!” Franck Charvet had slammed his fist down on the table, speaking in French. “They were volunteers and did not represent the Union’s wishes. They’ll be punished for what they’ve done.”
He turned to face Jean-Marc, his eyes clouded with sorrow. “We just buried your mother and your grandmother. I won’t bury you.” His voice was ragged.
“I’ve given my word, Father. I have to fight.” Jean-Marc had remained with his father long enough. And the latest parade in Denver City’s streets, honoring Chivington and his men as they brandished their trophies of private parts from the recent raid on his village, had made him physically ill. “The Cheyenne from the North and the South have already retreated to the Dog Soldiers’ village. I will join them.”
“Non! You will not. I forbid it.”
“Father, please.” Jean-Marc sank onto a chair next to the mahogany desk. He had never deliberately gone against his father’s wishes.
Franck stared out the window. His jaw clenched, a sign he was deeply distressed. The light from the window showed the gray in his dark hair and mustache. His posture slumped, no longer the self-assured stance of the successful businessman he was known to be, but that of a tired, anxious father.
The rattling of a carriage and the shouts of its driver on the street broke the long silence.
“I understand your need to fight. If I were you, I’d want to do the same.” His father expelled a long breath. “All I want is what’s best for you. You’ve done so well. You’ve mastered the English language even better than I. It’s been good that I brought you to town whenever I needed to conduct business.” He pressed his fingers against his temples. “If only I had taken you and your mother with me this last time. Ma chérie would still be alive.” His eyes glistened.
Before his mother’s death, Jean-Marc had never seen his father cry. His nose burned, and he swallowed back tears. “You can’t blame yourself, Father. There was no way you could know this would happen. We were all promised safety.”
Franck sighed heavily and stared at the ceiling, making evident the deep lines etched on his once handsome face. “Thank You, God, for sparing my son.” Again, he rubbed his temples, and then as if an idea struck him, he faced Jean-Marc. “You must realize the asset you can be to the whites and to the Cheyenne. You have your feet in two worlds, and you can help them understand the other’s culture. This, my son, is a great blessing.”
Jean-Marc understood his father’s meaning, but he also knew the anger and hurt that filled the hearts of the Cheyenne. The same anger and hurt filled his own heart, and it was more than he could bear. He had to do something. He had to avenge the deaths of his friends and family. He couldn’t just sit around in Denver City while his Cheyenne brothers fought for their people, for their very existence.
“Why don’t you go stay with Jack? The mountain air will do you good, not to mention getting away from Denver for a while.”
“Why do you want me to leave, Father? You don’t want me to go be with my people, but you don’t want me here either. Are you afraid of what the palefaces will do to me?”
Silence.
“All the more reason why I should fight.” Jean-Marc clenched his fists. “The whites need to learn that the Cheyenne and other tribes are people just like them. They need a taste of what’s been done to us.”
His father’s eyes blazed and his face reddened. He raised a trembling finger. “You will not murder the innocent!”
Jean-Marc sprang to his feet. “They murdered our innocent!” The memory of his grandmother sitting in her own blood, his mother’s dull eyes staring past him, and the small child’s blood painting the snow flashed through his mind. “They are savages, and I will fight. Black Kettle and the other chiefs trusted the words of the palefaces, and they betrayed that trust. I’ve given my word. I must abide by the promise I made to my people.”
His father straightened and eyed Jean-Marc. “You are a Christian, boy. What you’re about to do is wrong.”
It was like he tossed cold water in Jean-Marc’s face, and he sucked in air. His baptism, just a year ago in the Platte River, swept through his thoughts. The happy memories and his father’s proud smile burned like hot coals in his soul. But he forced it from his mind and replaced it with Chivington’s self-righteous preaching in the streets. He saw the man puffing up his barrel chest, wagging his tongue at the crowd.
“Christians slaughtered my people.” Jean-Marc’s hollow voice carried off the walls.
His father stepped back, his face pale. He stared at Jean-Marc as if he didn’t know him anymore and then turned and paced the floor, mumbling and rubbing his temples.
Jean-Marc gazed at his feet. He couldn’t bear to watch his father’s torment. But he knew his father couldn’t argue with his words, since it was Chivington, a former minister, who led the attack on his tribe.
A minister.
Jean-Marc hadn’t even thought of it before. Men who called themselves Christians killed his people.
And yet he called himself a Christian. Believers in the One Great Spirit weren’t supposed to slaughter villages—were they? Why would God let this happen? Where was Ma’heo’o? Where was God?
Finally, his father stopped pacing. He dropped his hands at his sides, as though too weary to continue, and stared at him.
Jean-Marc met his blue-green gaze.
“You are a child of the Most High God.” His voice trembled. “Whether you’re Cheyenne or white, you answer to Him. Don’t you forget that.”
Jean-Marc took a deep shuddering breath and refocused on the boarded-up windows. His father’s words were like a branding iron on his soul. They haunted him everywhere he went, with everything he did.
He had promised to return to Denver City. He just didn’t realize it wouldn’t be in his father’s lifetime.
All because of those Batland Boys.
Normally, the brothers would have robbed the stage while it was still in the mountains and not so close to Denver City. The brothers had been testing Jean-Marc’s dedication to their gang. Had Anna given him away, it would have been over, and the last two years of winning their trust would have been for nothing.
When Jean-Marc had seen Billy’s filthy hands on her, his Morning Sun, it had taken all his strength to keep from killing the swine right there on the spot. After all, that was the way of the Cheyenne, to kill a man who fo
rced himself on his woman. But had he killed Billy, not only would Anna have been left to their mercy because they surely would have killed him, he would have lost his chance at catching their oldest brother, Rick.
Rick, their leader, had waited for them at their hideout. The brothers had stolen the coach’s horses, and that meant the death penalty. And Rick was already wanted, dead or alive, for the murder of Jean-Marc’s father.
Jean-Marc’s hunger for justice was finally satisfied.
It’d been almost two years since his father died, but it still felt like yesterday.
A senseless death.
Jean-Marc hadn’t been back to Denver City since the massacre. Few people knew about Franck Charvet’s son, which made it possible for him to go after the Batland Boys. Between fighting the battles with the Cheyenne against the Union soldiers, reestablishing their village, and chasing down the dogs that killed his father, it had been a complicated two years—an agonizing two years. But finally justice was served.
The marshal was pleased. The stagecoach robbery had been reported to him in Denver, which was the signal to Deputy Joe Morgan that it was time to make their move. It had been Jean-Marc’s job to inform the authorities in the nearest town as to the location of the Batland Boys’ hideout, which he’d already informed Joe was near Leadville. After the robbery was reported, Joe had headed out a team to Leadville, and they finally caught those maggots.
But why did Jean-Marc still feel so empty?
And now, here he was in Denver City. For Anna.
Why hadn’t she listened to him and remained at Mountain Jack’s? Anger shot through his veins. He didn’t know what he’d do once he got his hands on the stubborn woman. The marshal had said she was at the hotel. Hervé and Jack would have taken care of her. Besides Mountain Jack, Hervé was the only one—and now the marshal and his deputy—who knew Jean-Marc by both names.
What a life. He’d have to do a lot of explaining in order to make Anna understand.
He’d been hiding from his responsibilities in Denver City. Perhaps now was the time to return and run his father’s business affairs?
Was he insane?
Yet if he stayed in Denver City, Anna would be happy. If she still wanted him. Would she ever forgive him?
If not now, she would later. Whether she liked it or not, she belonged to him.
He urged the horse to move on. He’d stay at the hotel tonight.
Denver City had changed. More buildings had sprung up on all corners, and old vacant lots had been filled. As he neared Sixteenth Street, he recalled the vendors selling body parts of his people.
After arguing with his father, Jean-Marc had left his house for the Grand Palace Hotel to talk with Hervé, an old friend who came from France with his father many years ago. Hervé had spent many hours with Jean-Marc, teaching him English and helping him with his education.
On that day when Jean-Marc had planned to leave, he took this same path. As he had neared Sixteenth Street on foot, he had seen a vendor across from the hotel, standing behind a long table. Clusters of people had gathered in front of him.
“Get your red-skin souvenirs here!” the man had shouted. He held up a scalp of hair.
Jean-Marc had stood behind the crowd, reliving the nightmare in his mind. Dare he go closer? As always when he came to town with his father, he wore the clothing of the white man, but his skin shone darker than those around him, and his mother’s woven, leather strap bound his hair behind the ear. Still, in his hat, white shirt, vest and heavy boots, he became an anonymous member of the crowd.
But why should that matter? Especially now?
He was Cheyenne.
Yes, he was also white, but he would never be like them.
“And this here, ladies and gents, is a real Indian bone. Notice how small it is. Taken from a child. That little savage won’t grow up to harm your baby, ma’am.” The vendor winked, motioning toward a woman with a pram. “Nits make lice.”
The racial slur stung him, a slur that made it acceptable to murder innocent children. Visions of the small child he had failed to save stormed through his mind. Jean-Marc looked at his hands. Useless hands. Couldn’t even save that baby. He closed his eyes. The child. The blood. Death. All because he’d failed.
He broke through the crowd and marched to the table filled with Indian scalps. Bones of children and adults had been polished until they shone. Some were made into elaborate necklaces, while others lay bare. Moccasins, earrings, pipes, and other ornaments of his people lay on display for the shoppers.
A silver ring with a turquoise sparrow caught his eye. With trembling fingers, he slowly picked up the cold silver and turned it over in his palm. His mother’s ring, given to her by his father.
He clutched the ring in his fist. His blood raged. “May God avenge my people!” he cried out in Cheyenne. With one stroke of his arm, he shoved the wares off the table.
Women screamed.
“A savage. He’s a savage!” a man shouted.
Another cursed. “Your scalp ought to be up there too!”
Jean-Marc whirled toward the crowd, his jaw clenched.
Silence fell. Onlookers stepped back with opened mouths and shocked faces.
“Is he white or is he Injun?” someone murmured.
Jean-Marc’s gaze darted from one person to the other. Women looked on with fear, while men scrutinized him with curiosity.
“He has the eyes of us whites, but his skin is that of a savage,” a man said.
“Savage,” Jean-Marc’s voice came from deep within his throat, “is murdering innocent women and children and putting their bones on display!” It was awkward speaking English, and his accent was thick, but the words were spoken without hesitation. “This ring belonged to my mother. Who you killed!” He shook his fist in the air as tears blurred his vision. “Free Sparrow was her name.” He pointed at the woman with the pram. “How would you like your baby’s dead body sold as a souvenir?”
The woman gasped and flung her arms over the pram as if to protect her baby. “He threatened my child.” Her wild eyes searched the crowd. “That savage threatened my baby!”
Shouts arose all around him.
The crowd turned on Jean-Marc.
“Get him!” someone shouted.
“He’s going to kill her baby!” someone else cried. “Kill him!”
Jean-Marc stepped back. An opening formed between two men off to the side. He lunged through the space, but one grabbed his arm. He twisted free and stumbled into the muddy street. Footsteps closed in, and people shouted behind. A carriage rumbled toward him. He spun out of its way and staggered through the slushy mud but regained his balance and bolted to the hotel.
He burst into the lobby and almost collided with Hervé’s lanky form meeting him eye to eye. “They’re after me!”
“Lock the doors!” Hervé shouted to the porter, who jumped at the command. The man did as he was told just as the crowd thundered toward them.
Out of breath, Jean-Marc pointed to the pursuing crowd. “They think I threatened that woman’s child,” he said in French. “Maybe it came out that way because of my English. They’ll hang me in the street like they did the others.”
Hervé turned to another employee. “Go through the back and get the marshal. He’ll put a stop to this. Franck Charvet is a respectable man, and so is his son. Marshal Dell will do right by them.”
Jean-Marc backed away toward the stairs at the other end of the lobby. He watched as the mob banged on the doors and windows with angry force. No wonder his father wanted him to leave town.
Glass cracked and doors rattled on their hinges. If they broke through, Jean-Marc would fight.
He stood firm and reached for his tomahawk. It was gone! He patted his thighs. Of course it wasn’t there. He wasn’t wearing his normal clothes. He clenched his fists, recalling all the war moves chief Black Kettle had taught him.
The marshal moved between the crowd. He shouted, waving his hands over the men a
nd women, trying to calm them.
The people dropped back. Jean-Marc inched closer to the doors and peered through the broken glass.
“That’s him!” One man pointed. “He threatened this woman’s child!”
The marshal braced his legs wide apart and cleared his coattail from the Navy Colt at his hip. “That’s Franck Charvet’s son. He wouldn’t have threatened her baby. Now, go on home, all of you, and take those souvenirs away from here.” The marshal waved the people away. “Get on home.”
After a lot of arguing, the crowd eventually broke up, and Marshal Dell was admitted into the hotel.
Jean-Marc backed away toward the stairs.
The door closed behind the marshal, and the gold star pinned to his vest shimmered, reminding Jean-Marc of his authority.
From below the rim of his hat, Marshal Dell’s eyes scanned the room until they fell on Jean-Marc. With his Colt still resting in its holster and his spurs jangling across the creaking wooden floor, he strode toward him. The marshal took his hat in his hand and gave one quick nod.
Jean-Marc stood with his feet planted to the floor and awaited his arrest.
Marshal Dell waved his hat toward the door. “They’re just a bunch of ignoramuses.” His thick red mustache dangled over his top lip. With bowed head, he raised his eyes to Jean-Marc. “I’m sorry for what happened to your mother and grandmother, and to the rest of your people.”
Jean-Marc swallowed hard, clutching his mother’s ring in his fist. Was he just trying to make his arrest easier by using consoling words?
“I want you to know, I don’t support what Chivington and his men did to your village. He calls himself a man of God, but after what he encouraged those soldiers to do . . . .” The marshal cleared his throat. “If the same thing happened to me, I’d kill them all where they stood.”
Jean-Marc fixed his gaze on Marshal Dell, an old friend of his father’s. He longed to trust his words, but still, he doubted. Too many hangings had taken place.
“But you’re a decent fella. I know your father, and I know he taught you what’s right. What those people did out there on the streets, it ain’t right.” He shook his head. “No, it’s downright sinful. But I can’t stop them. Governor Evans is above me, and he, along with most of the town, supports what Chivington’s men did out there by Big Sandy. I can only do my best to keep the peace until this madness blows over.”