Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  Reem patted his horse’s neck. “There are some fine horses down there. We’re after them this time, not women. We can get gold from the Apaches for those horses, probably more gold than those mounts are even worth if we bargain right.”

  “Yeah,” another man said. “Injuns don’t know much about the value of money, do they?”

  Reem adjusted his hat. He was their leader, though leadership among such men tended to change hands often since each thought himself just as good as the next man and jealousy was rampant. But for now none of the other nine men cared to challenge Reem. So far two had tried and lost their lives for it.

  “Be careful, boys,” Reem said. “There are only a few of them, but you know how fiercely some of these settlers will fight for their women and belongings. Stu?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Make sure that dynamite takes care of the bunkhouse. If we eliminate the hired hands we don’t have much else to worry about.”

  “I’ll do it right.”

  “Get the main house, too. There might be men in there.”

  “Okay, Reem.”

  Reem watched the ranch below, which lay basked in bright moonlight. The only lantern light came from one window in the main house. He gave the signal and they quietly moved in.

  Caleb lay with an arm around Marie, exhaustion from a long day of branding making him sleep harder than usual. It seemed like he was dreaming when he heard someone shout. Then there was a gunshot. Caleb jerked away and was almost instantly out of bed, wearing only his loincloth.

  “Caleb?” Marie rubbed her eyes and tried to see him by the dim light from the outer room. He was reaching for his musket in the comer. He grabbed his knife and shoved it into the waist of the loincloth, then grabbed his tomahawk.

  “Trouble,” he said. “Stay here with the boys and keep low.”

  He disappeared outside and Marie got up, pulling a robe on over her heavy frame. She was pregnant again and had gained considerable weight with the pregnancy now that food was more plentiful. She hurried to John and David’s room. Both boys were awake now. They were big boys for eight and six, John more lanky like his father, David more stocky like his mother, both with dark Cherokee eyes.

  “Who’s shooting?” John asked sleepily.

  “We’re not sure. Pull on your pants in case we have to run.”

  Her own heart beat with fear. Every time something like this happened she worried she would lose Caleb. How would she live without the man she worshipped? Life had been so good, and no woman could ask for more pleasure in the night than to lie with Caleb Sax. She had grown heavier, and in her mind plainer, but Caleb never seemed to notice. He needed her in ways that went beyond physical attraction, and in his arms at night she was always beautiful. Being with Caleb had been eleven years of ecstasy, in spite of the hardships. But she had loved him longer than that, loved him since that day he helped free Lee from under the wagon wheel.

  She took the boys out to the main room where her mother got up from her cot by the hearth.

  “What is it, Marie?” Ellen asked.

  “I’m not sure. Caleb went to get Lee and Tom.”

  Just then they heard a great explosion outside. They ran to a window to see the small bunkhouse where the few Cherokee men who lived with them as hired hands slept. Pieces of splintered wood were still falling down on the pile of rubble that was left. The men inside couldn’t have survived. Marie groaned Caleb’s name as she bolted the door and lay down on the floor, ordering the children and her mother to do the same. She began praying desperately for Caleb, Lee and Tom. It couldn’t be Indians. They didn’t have the means to blow things up. She could hear thundering horses and several shots were fired.

  Outside two outlaws already lay dead. Lee and Tom had awakened before Caleb and had headed for the corral where the best horses were kept, sure Apache or Comanche had come to steal them. But in the moonlight they could see these were white men.

  The outlaws were everywhere, one opening a gate, more circling inside the corral. Suddenly a big Indian pounced on the one at the gate, letting out a war whoop that put fear in the hearts of some of the others. A tomahawk landed in the outlaw’s back as they went down.

  It was Caleb. He got off his victim as Lee and Tom ran after more men.

  Caleb glanced at the burning bunkhouse. There would be no help from those men, and there was no time to mourn the loss of friends. There was not even time to help Lee and Tom, who were fighting desperately. Four men rode toward the main cabin. For a brief second Caleb stood torn. His precious son could die fighting at the corral, but men were headed for the house, headed for Marie and David and John.

  He started running. His spent musket was useless except as a club. He crouched as another man headed his way, then rose at the last minute, swinging the weapon hard. It landed with a loud crack against the rider, and Caleb wondered if it was the gun that had shattered or the man’s ribs. The man flew back off his horse, landing with a thud on the ground, and Caleb quickly took out his knife and rammed it into the man’s chest. He yanked the weapon out and ran toward the cabin. Marie would bolt the door and pull the wooden shutters over the windows. The men wouldn’t get in easily, and if he had anything to do with it, not at all. He had to save Marie.

  Caleb’s heart froze when he saw one of the outlaws on the roof, standing near the chimney. He took out his knife again and threw it hard. It hit its mark, landing in the man’s back. The outlaw screamed out and fell, rolling from the rooftop, but just before hitting the ground there was another explosion. Caleb watched in horror as the cabin disintegrated into a ball of flames.

  The rest of that horrible night was just a vague, confused memory to Caleb. He did not even remember running toward the burning rubble, trying desperately to find Marie and his sons, reaching into flames with his bare hands. His mind completely shut out the sight of Marie’s charred body, as well as that of her mother and David. Somehow John had survived. He had been thrown from the cabin by the force of the explosion and landed far enough away that he wasn’t burned, though he had a dislocated shoulder.

  Caleb had no memory of the men riding off into the night, leaving behind seven of their own. Four had died at the hands of Lee and Tom, who suffered only cuts and bruises; three had died at the hands of Caleb Sax. But Caleb’s fierce fighting had not been enough.

  He sat staring at Marie’s grave, which he had dug into the side of a lovely green hill not far from the charred remains of their cabin. She lay beside her son and her mother. Caleb had buried with them what he could find of their most precious belongings, but there was little left. He wrapped their feet in buckskin from one of his own shirts, for they needed shoes for the long walk along Ekutsihimmiyo, the Hanging Road to heaven. He was sure Marie’s Catholic God would not mind.

  Caleb felt desolation wash over him. He had not loved Marie the way he had loved Walking Grass or Sarah. But he had loved her just the same, and he had been with her longest. In their years together she had become his strength, his friend, his comfort, his steadfast wife. He could depend on Marie. He needed her now. How was he to bear the loss of his precious David without Marie? And his unborn child? How was he to withstand the loss of all of them? The agony seemed to move through him in endless waves. Why was he destined to lose those he loved?

  He sat by the graves for three days, speaking to no one, eating nothing, obeying the Cheyenne custom of letting blood for loved ones by cutting a gash in each arm. He was barely aware that his hands were burned or his shoulder and elbow were bruised from falling with the first man he had attacked. He didn’t care that the horses had been saved. It was Marie, their unborn child and his son who should have been saved.

  It was his third night by the graves that it happened. He felt a strange presence surround him. It had been a long time since his Indian spirit had stretched beyond the limits of the real world and moved into the spiritual world. He was sure he could hear shaking rattles and beating drums, soft chanting and tiny bells jinglin
g rhythmically, carried on the wind. He closed his eyes and heard Black Antelope telling him he must be strong and brave no matter what he faced. Then he could see Tom Sax, hear his voice telling him almost the same thing. Next Bo Sanders was explaining that his life would take many directions. The chanting and drumming grew louder and he saw the blue hawk again. It divided and flew in two directions, one red and one white, then joined and was blue again, as a woman’s voice told him to be strong. Be strong. Be strong. Always he had to be strong. Then he was in Walking Grass’ arms, and she was his strength. But then she was gone. Next came Sarah … sweet, beautiful Sarah, his most cherished love. She faded, but did not leave him as Three Feathers appeared. “You have a son,” he said. “He needs you.” His face faded away. Then Marie was holding him, comforting him, before she too left. They all disappeared, but then. Sarah’s face came into view again, as vivid as life.

  “Sarah,” he whispered.

  “I am here,” she answered. “I have always been here, if you would but look for me.”

  “Sarah,” he cried out. “I need you!”

  Someone was shaking him. “Father.”

  Caleb opened his eyes and sat straight up. “Sarah!”

  “Father, it’s me. Tom.”

  Caleb sat grasping the boy’s arm as reality returned. It was dark. Sarah was not there and never would be. Now Marie was gone, too, and his son. He put his head against Tom’s arm. “It is too much this time, Tom.”

  Tom rested his head against his father’s, rubbing a hand across the man’s shoulders. “You will survive, Father. You are strong. My mother would not want you to lose your spirit like this. Nor would the woman Sarah or my step-mother. You are Blue Hawk. You went through the Sun Dance. You survived the Crow wars and the British war. You lived through a wound that left you paralyzed, and you have fought many times for this land Marie helped settle. Now you must continue to fight for it, Father, for her—for those of us who still live.” The boy’s voice broke. “Come back to us, Father,” he whispered. “We need you, John and I. You still have us. And Lee… he has lost much also.”

  They hugged tightly. How long they sat there, neither could be sure. Caleb finally rose to his feet, the voices of those who had spoken to him still sounding in his ears. He stared at the graves, feeling the presence of spirits in the bright moonlight, feeling surrounded by all those he had loved.

  Tom put a hand on his arm. “I love you, Father. I need you, and so does John. He is lost without his mother and David.”

  Caleb sighed, rubbing his eyes. “My God,” he whispered. “Poor John.”

  “Please come back with me, Father. Leave this place for awhile. We should all be together.”

  Caleb’s eyes rested on the graves, the stone markers glowing in the mixture of lingering moonlight and dawn. “Yes. Marie would not want me to leave John alone like that. She would scold me for it.” His eyes teared again at the memory of how she would sometimes gently chide him without really nagging. Marie was so good. If only he could have told her good-bye, that he loved her. If only he could have held her once more.

  He looked at Tom. “Our blood is in this ground now, Tom. Marie, her father and mother, my son David and my unborn child. All died on this land—for this land.”

  Tom sensed the same determination that must have been there when his father rode against the Crow, and when Caleb forced himself to walk again, or even when he was just a small boy and killed two Chippewa warriors.

  “You are looking at the worst kind of enemy a man can have,” Caleb continued, “a man with the instincts of an Indian, and the love of his own land and determination to defend it that comes from the white man in me.”

  “The love of land is Indian, too, Father. They will fight for all of it. You will fight for just a piece of it. You love it for what it is, a part of the great circle of life. It has spirit, just like the animals, and you draw strength from it.”

  Dawn broke then, and the sun struggled to rise, casting a pink glow on the gravestones.

  “Life’s struggles never end, Tom,” Caleb said. “It has taken me thirty-five years to understand that. I am many men on the inside, fighting, struggling. I never had true purpose before. Now this land will be my purpose.”

  He turned and headed down the hill toward the blackened cabin, already deciding the next house would be made of stucco, like most buildings in this land. Stucco was cooler and didn’t burn so readily.

  Chapter

  Thirty

  JANUARY of 1831 was cool on the Mississippi, but bearable and even warm on the section between New Orleans and Saint Louis. The steamboat trade was flourishing and many of them provided gambling and entertainment for the passengers. Lynda had never dreamed life could be so glamorous. She studied her hair in the mirror, the way the sides were drawn up in a beautiful coif and the rest of her long, wavy locks cascaded down the center of her back. Fresh flowers decorated the curls, and she wore just the right touch of color on her eyes and cheeks. The skin of her bare shoulders glowed from expensive creams, and her blue eyes were enhanced by a rich blue silk dress that dipped across her generous bosom just enough to be enticing to any man. But she didn’t care about other men. She cared only about Luke Corey, her first man, her only man, the love of her life.

  Luke pampered her like a doll. He had since that first day they met and had become friends. He had bought her all new clothes, fed her well, gave her the best rooms in hotels, and never asked a thing in return. Lynda had fallen in love, quickly and totally. He had never mentioned marriage, and she understood. Luke was not the marrying type. But it didn’t matter. He was true to her, good to her.

  Within three months after they met she had been sharing his bed willingly. How could she have resisted his generosity, the loneliness in his eyes, the way he touched her and made her feel? He had been so gentle and kind. He had even stayed by her when she lost the baby. She was too young, he had said. He left her alone at night for a long time after that. Now they were sharing passion again, but were still not married. That was all right. Luke loved her. She knew he did, even though he didn’t say it. He didn’t have to say it. He had done so much for her. And he had promised that once he had enough money he would help her find her parents.

  Lynda lived for that promise, loved him because of it, worshipped him for offering to help her. They had done nothing about it yet, but Luke was waiting until he had enough money and enough time. He earned that money by gambling, and sometimes the money came, then went again. That was the way it was for men like Luke, and she understood. Luke was Luke, and a woman either loved him the way he was or didn’t love him at all. There were times when she felt tiny pangs of misgivings, little desires to be a wife, a mother, live in a real house and have all the things she had missed as a child growing up in an orphanage. But Luke was so good to her she didn’t have the heart to nag him about it.

  Luke walked into the cabin and stood behind her to place a diamond necklace around her throat.

  “Luke, it’s beautiful.”

  “Worthy enough for your sixteenth birthday?” he asked.

  “More than enough! Oh, Luke, you shouldn’t have. I—I don’t even know for sure which day is my birthday. The orphanage told me I was found in January. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s enough. You were apparently born in January. Between that and the blue quill necklace, perhaps we’ll find your parents one day.”

  “Luke, you will help me find them, won’t you?”

  He smiled, kissing her shoulder, then the fullness of her breasts revealed by the low-cut gown. “Of course I will, love.”

  She looked at him and their lips met in a gentle kiss. His dark eyes fell to her bosom. “This dress and your ravishing beauty should keep the other players off guard tonight,” he said, kissing her before straightening. “You are a great help, Lynda dear. All you have to do is float around my table like usual, hang on me so that you’re… uh, generously exposed, and the men I play cards with will be so distracted
they won’t know what hand they’ve got. You make a perfect partner, my little Indian beauty.”

  She smiled, taking one last look at herself before rising. She was not vain, but she was pleased with what she saw, grateful to her mysterious parents for at least blessing her with a rare, dark beauty. That and her Luke were all she had, except for the strength she derived from the blue quill necklace. She wore it rarely now, for Luke kept her in magnificent jewelry. But she would never let the necklace go. She treasured it beyond all the lovely things Luke could get her, and she kept it faithfully in her carpetbag, wrapped in a cloth to protect it, sometimes taking it out and just holding it, studying it, trying to picture its owner.

  They walked out of their cabin on the elegant Suzanna, a fine steamboat with live entertainment and a good deal of gambling on board. Luke had taken a liking to the river-boats, where a man could meet many different people and gamble against many different men. He could stay on one boat and wait for passengers to come and go at each city. It was a grand, elegant life they led, constantly moving between New Orleans and Saint Louis.

  They were headed toward Saint Louis on this trip, a city still primitive compared to some farther east, but it was raw and exciting and bulging with people. They would get off the boat there and Luke would take her dining and to the new theater, if it was finished yet.

  They entered the gambling room and made their usual rounds until Luke decided which table he would occupy for the night. A few times he had been accused of cheating, but Lynda never believed it. Luke would never cheat. He was a gambler, but an honest one. She never dreamed that her efforts at distracting other men from the game only gave Luke an easier chance to sneak in an extra card here and there. She only thought it helped the other men lose their concentration. Luke played for big money, and any help she could give him was certainly worth it. After all, he had done so much for her.

  Luke introduced her as his companion, an introduction that always brought stares and subtle smiles. Lynda didn’t mind. It was part of the game. But there was one man at the table that made her uneasy. His dark eyes were too discerning, and he didn’t seem to respond to her charms when she laughed and talked between hands, flirting at just the right times. She sometimes had to argue with her conscience when guilt would nudge her, urging her to consider if what she was doing might be wrong. But she always convinced herself it was not. After all, she was only helping Luke. How else was she to pay him back for all his kindness?