“And you are sure it was Garvey’s son you saw at Sand Creek?”
Wolf’s Blood nodded. “I have seen him before. He is ugly, and an Indian hater. He rode with Chivington that day. He injured me, but before I went down I sunk my lance deep into his thigh. It scraped the bone so loudly I could hear the sound above the noise of the fighting, and as I fell myself I could hear his terrible screams. It was a good sound. I hope that he died, but I do not know.”
Swift Arrow reached over and picked up a rawhide shield with a beaded fringe and arrows painted on it. It looked very old and was quite faded. “Your mother made this for me, years ago,” he told the boy. “She made it so well that I can still use it.” He held the shield out to Wolf’s Blood, who took it, wondering how the conversation had changed so quickly from his encounter at Sand Creek to his mother. “Your mother is an honored white woman among the Cheyenne,” Swift Arrow was telling him. “Some of the younger ones do not understand why, and I worry that she might be hurt by some of the very Cheyenne she loves. But perhaps not. She speaks our language, understands us, and she has a goodness that shows in her eyes, a love that shines there for all men. She is without the hatred and scorn most white women show those who do not have white skin. And she is brave, strong. She is not like any white woman I have ever known. The first year your father brought her to us, I taught her many things, and Tall Grass Woman gave her a beautiful white tunic and my mother, Gentle Woman, painted your mother for the Sun Dance ceremony. Her lovely white skin was covered with many colors. Flowers were painted on her arms; a tiny horse was painted on one side of her face, an eagle on the other—your father’s signs. Her hair was braided, and she sat through the Sun Dance and did not faint as other white women would do if they witnessed that ritual. I was proud of her that day. I—”
He stopped suddenly when his dancing eyes met Wolf’s Blood’s. The younger man was staring at him knowingly. Swift Arrow had allowed himself to get carried away, and now his smile faded at the look in Wolf’s Blood’s eyes.
“You love my mother,” the boy said quietly. “That is why you never married, isn’t it?”
Swift Arrow held the boy’s eyes steadily. “It is true. This is why I came north so many years ago. It was better that I was not near her. It only made the hurt in my heart much worse.”
“My father knows?”
Swift Arrow nodded. “He knows. We talked of it many years ago, when he saw the look in my eyes that you have just seen. Your mother is sweet and honorable. There were never any such thoughts in her heart for me. I was simply her husband’s brother, and I would not hurt her by telling her my true feelings. I think she suspects, just a little, but she does not know how deep the feelings are.”
Wolf’s Blood studied the faded war shield. “Now I understand many things—why you did not come and see us more often, why you seemed to abandon the southern Cheyenne. I thought you just loved to make war.” He handed the shield back to his uncle.
“That part is true, Wolf’s Blood. I have fought the white men settling in this land all my life, and I will continue to fight them. I have many wounds, but I will not be stopped unless a white man’s bullet enters my heart or my head. But I pray and fast and feel no fear. I will fight for many years to come.”
Their eyes held. “I… do not know how to feel, Uncle. She is my mother.”
Swift Arrow raised his chin. “And a beautiful and honorable woman. There is no reason for you to feel any different about her, or me. Abigail is the same as she has always been … and so am I. The only difference is now you know that I love her. That changes nothing. It will be our secret, my Nephew. Now we both understand why we are here. We both have a love to forget and a vengeance to take, for we both hate the white man. That is all that is important now, to be good warriors and to die like men—in battle—not like women, not on the hated reservations.” His eyes were watery. “She is … happy now? She is well?”
The boy nodded. This was Swift Arrow, his favorite uncle. He loved him nearly as much as his father. “I think she is. My father is good to her. He was kind and patient after what happened to her, and their love is very strong.”
Swift Arrow smiled sadly. “Ai. This is true. Everyone can see their love, and my brother is a good man, also honored among the Cheyenne, one of the most skilled, one of the bravest. And he is a very lucky man to have found such a woman. But it has been hard for him, for sometimes he wants to ride with his red brothers.”
“Yes. But he does not like to leave my mother, especially now.” Wolf’s Blood picked up his rifle to clean it, and Swift Arrow studied the boy’s lean, hard body. The young man was exceedingly handsome, and the available Sioux and Cheyenne girls often whispered about this newcomer who was supposed to have white blood but who certainly did not look as though he did. Wolf’s Blood had already proven his prowess. He had taken two white men’s scalps, and he could ride, hunt, shoot, and raid as well as any of the Sioux and Cheyenne men. Yes, he could have his pick of any of the young maidens. But his heart still longed for Morning Bird, and Swift Arrow understood that longing.
“We will speak no more of my feelings for your mother,” Swift Arrow told him. “It is over. I have honored you by trusting you with feelings that are sacred and private. Do not disappoint that trust by betraying that honor and speaking of it to someone else or bringing it up to your father.”
Wolf’s Blood held the man’s eyes. This was Swift Arrow, his beloved uncle, a respected Dog Soldier. He put out his hand and grasped the man’s wrist and Swift Arrow grasped his in return.
“I am only here to fight the white man and be Cheyenne!” the boy told him. “I am honored to share such sacred feelings over your fire. If you love my mother, it is only with the greatest respect. She is a woman who would be easy to love. We will speak of it no more.”
Swift Arrow nodded. “Tomorrow we hunt buffalo. Perhaps the next day we will join the braves who surround the soldiers at Fort Connor and share in the game of watching them die.”
Wolf’s Blood grinned and nodded. Then each man lay back to think his own thoughts for a moment, while drums beat outside.
“Do not forget what I told you about the loose women,” Swift Arrow said then. “I can tell you the best ones if you have not learned that part of being a man yet. They will teach you without laughing at you.”
Wolf’s Blood smiled. “I will think about it awhile.”
Young Margaret walked to Tynes’s stables to check on Sun and Dreamer, the only two remaining Monroe Appaloosas. These horses represented the future for her father, for both mares were pregnant, and she knew they must be well cared for. All the children took turns tending them, but Margaret spent more time with them than the others. Being near the mares made her feel closer to her father and to Wolf’s Blood. She missed them both, and was afraid for them.
She entered the stall where Sun stood and picked up a brush, walking to the front of the horse and talking softly to her. “You eat up, Sun, and don’t be kicking out stall doors and running away like you did last year.” She began brushing the animal gently. “You are carrying the beginnings of a new herd in your belly and you must take care of yourself.”
The horse whinnied and nodded as though she understood, and Margaret laughed lightly before she absently began to hum a hymn she had often heard her mother sing softly while at work. She was worried about her mother. Abbie had been so quiet and withdrawn after their father had left. She seemed somehow broken, and Margaret wondered if something had happened between her parents. She was upset because she did not like the way Sir Tynes watched her mother and doted on the woman. The girl sighed heavily as she brushed the horse, and her thoughts went to her little sister Lillian, who was very sick. She began to hum the hymn again, feeling that it would make her feel better. She hummed for several minutes until a startled gasp cut off her singing. A man bobbed up from the next stall. He had apparently been there all the time, on the other side of the wall where she couldn’t see him.
&nb
sp; He was quite handsome, one of the new breed Sir Tynes had spoken of, a cowboy. Sandy hair was scattered every which way beneath the old, leather hat he wore, and his face was tanned, a reddish tan not a dark one. His eyes were a dancing blue, and his teeth were straight and white when he smiled at her.
“You have a pretty voice, matches your pretty face.”
She stared back at him with dark, suspicious eyes, ready to dart away. She had heard so many things about strange white men and what most of them thought of Indian girls that she wasn’t sure what to think of this man staring at her now, even though his blue eyes were friendly. Several months earlier, when she’d been barely fifteen, a white Confederate soldier had been about to rudely show her what squaws were made for, and if it were not for Wolf’s Blood’s intervention, something terrible might have happened. She knew that, although she didn’t fully understand what would have happened to her at the hands of the pawing, cruel soldier.
“Now I know you speak, because I heard you singing,” the man told her, coming from his stall to stand at the gate of her own. “And I know you speak English, because you’re that white woman’s daughter, and because I heard you talking to your horse there.”
She backed up, clinging to the brush, watching him warily. He was tall and lanky, with slim hips and waist but broad shoulders. She guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. His eyes were still kind as he put a piece of straw in his mouth and leaned against a support beam near the stall, careful not to enter it and frighten her.
“Which one are you? You have so many brothers and sisters, I get mixed up. You Ellen?”
She swallowed. “Margaret,” she managed to choke out.
He grinned more, pushing back his wide-brimmed hat. He studied her exquisite form and provocative face, her full, innocent lips and wide brown eyes. She had the enticing beauty that only girls of mixed blood were privileged to have. He was struck by it. He wanted the dark beauty that was looking back at him now.
“Well, Margaret, my name is Sam. Sam Temple. I work around here—herd cattle, tend to horses and such. Sir Tynes pays well.” Margaret still did not offer any words other than her name, and he folded his arms. “Have you looked at Sir Tynes’s horses?” he asked.
She only nodded.
“He’s got some mighty fine quarter horses. They make the best kind for cutting out calves and such. Quick on the hoof, you know? And he’s got some of them fancy thoroughbreds from England. But I gotta say, these two Appaloosas your father brought in are beautiful animals. Beautiful animals. A man doesn’t see many Appaloosas in these parts, mostly quarter horses and roans. Your father must be real good with horses. ’Course most Indians have extra talent that way, with breeding and riding. You a good rider?”
She swallowed. “I’m pretty good.”
He smiled warmly. “I’ll bet you are. Will you go riding with me sometime?”
She shook her head. “I… don’t know you.”
“Sure you do. I just introduced myself. I’m Sam Temple and I’m from down Texas way. I’m twenty-five and I came to Colorado just to see something new. I think I’ll stay on here. Ought to be a longstanding job. Sir Tynes has a good idea. Soon as the railroads reach Denver from the East, we’ll be able to ship beef eastward real fast to provide fresh meat there, instead of herding them to places where they can get loaded onto trains. Without that long walk, the beef will be a lot fatter and they’ll bring in more money.”
She frowned. “Will a railroad come all the way to Denver?”
He laughed lightly. “Sure it will. The Kansas Pacific is almost to Fort Rilely now, and the government has given them permission to head on west. You just wait. In ten years there will be railroads all over the plains and all the way to California.”
She fingered the brush nervously. “My father and mother say the railroads are bad for the Indians. They scare away the buffalo, and they bring more white people.”
“Well, that’s probably true. But it can’t really be stopped you know. I think they probably know that. How did we get on the wrong subject? I still want to know if you’ll go riding with me sometime.”
She put an arm around Sun’s neck and petted the horse. “Not right away. I would have to know you better, and you would have to talk to my mother.”
“All right. That’s fair. How about the next few days I just come to the house. We can sit on the veranda and have coffee on the better days. Sometimes in Colorado it can get right warm this time of year—then whammo! There comes another blizzard. On those days we can sit in the kitchen.”
“You don’t have to tell me about Colorado weather. I’ve lived here all my life. I suppose we could do that.”
He nodded. “I’d be honored. I can’t say when I’ll be able to come. I have a lot of work to do around here. Probably in the evening.” His eyes quickly scanned her voluptuous form. “How old are you, Margaret?”
“Sixteen.”
He nodded. Yes, this one was worth the effort. She was the prettiest thing he’d seen since coming to Colorado—and she was Indian. A man didn’t need to make commitments to pretty little squaws. He kept the friendly smile, aware of his own good looks and his easy way with girls.
“You got an Indian name, Margaret?”
She nodded. “It’s Moheya, Blue Sky.”
He winked. “Well, now, that’s right pretty. You go ahead there and tend to your horse, Blue Sky. I’ve got chores to do.” He started to walk away.
“Mister Temple,” she spoke up. He turned to look back at her. “When will you come?”
He grinned. “How about this evening?”
He was so handsome and seemed so sweet. He made her feel strangely warm and excited inside. “All right. I’ll tell my mother, and I’ll be waiting.”
He tipped his hat, wondering with an ache how long it would take to break down her resistance.
Abbie put a cool cloth to little Lillian’s fevered brow. The girl had gotten steadily worse since the trip to the Tynes estate. Abbie was worried. Lillian was not strong. She had been sick many times, but she’d never been this bad. Her chest was dangerously congested, and her fever would not go down.
Sir Tynes knocked softly and entered at Abbie’s bidding. Lillian slept in Abbie’s bed so that Abbie could be near the girl at all times. He came and stood near Abbie, who sat on the bed beside her daughter.
“Would you like me to send to Denver for a doctor?” he asked Abbie. “I can get you the best available.”
“I… can’t really afford—”
“Nonsense! I’ll pay his fee. It’s the little girl’s health that matters. Please let me send for someone.”
She nodded, her eyes tearing. She wondered how much more she could take. If only Zeke were here to hold her, share this terror. But he was experiencing his own terror, searching through Comanche country to find yet another daughter who had been stolen away. Abbie fought to keep from thinking about poor LeeAnn, for beside her lay Lillian, who might be dying for all she knew. To think of them both at the same time was overwhelming, yet she could not help doing so at times. Being unable to do anything for LeeAnn filled her with an apprehensive black feeling. She remembered watching the poor girl being dragged off by the renegades, remembered her terrified screams.
Abbie suddenly burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. In addition to her worries about Lillian and LeeAnn, she knew that Zeke could be killed. And if he was not, what would happen when he returned? He seemed changed, almost determined that they could never again go back to the ranch and live happily. She felt her whole life slipping away; everything she had struggled to build, everything she loved was being swept away from her.
Tynes put a gentle hand on her head. “Poor Abigail. I wish I could do more for you.” How he loved her! But he had been purely cordial to her, strictly a good host and nothing more. She was suffering so that he could not truly woo her or explain his feelings. He had no right to do so, yet he longed to keep her there, longed to promise her peace and comfort for h
er remaining years. And she looked so much like his own Drucinda, the lovely young wife who had been taken from him after only one year of marriage. For fifteen years after that loss he had wandered the world, seeking one adventure after another, trying to forget.
“You’ve … done too much … already,” Abbie sobbed, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wiping at her eyes. He studied the plain blue cotton dress she wore and pictured her in some of Drucinda’s magnificant gowns. Drucinda would have been about Abbie’s age if she had lived. “We’ll never be able to repay you,” she was saying. “And I’m afraid I’ll be terribly spoiled by the time we leave here.” She sighed deeply and forced a smile. “You must let me do some of the cooking and such.” She blew her nose.
“Nonsense! I have a cook and I have people to clean. You are not here as a servant. You are here as a guest. And God knows you have many things on your mind, enough burdens to shoulder without worrying about such trivialities as cooking. I shall send for a doctor right away.”
She looked up at him, her feelings for the man mixed. She knew he dared to be interested in her, even though she was married. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. Yet he had been so kind and helpful, she didn’t have the heart to be rude or to chide him about it. He hadn’t done anything or said anything that he shouldn’t. Under normal circumstances she would have put him in his place, for she was not a woman to have eyes for any man but her husband. With a husband like Zeke Monroe she had no cause to look elsewhere. But now she felt that the one man she did love, her one source of strength and courage, might be taken from her. She rose and walked to a window, looking out at a gray day. A few snowflakes struck the window.
Climb the Highest Mountain Page 18