Chieftain (Historical Romance)

by Nan Ryan

  With a groan he tumbled over, stretched out on his back beside Dana and fell instantly into deep slumber.

  Two

  Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory

  A full harvest moon shone down upon the sprawling Indian reservation located on the west bank of Cache Creek in western Oklahoma. Hundreds of tepees dotted the rolling hills and windswept prairie that bordered the Wichita Mountains.

  At the center of the reservation, stone buildings surrounded the large post quadrangle. The Indians called the post “the soldier house at Medicine Bluffs.” The garrison called it Fort Sill.

  Maggie Bankhead called it home.

  The twenty-two-year-old red-haired, blue-eyed Maggie Bankhead had been born and raised in Tidewater, Virginia, the youngest of four girls and a child of privilege. Hers had been a life of luxury and ease with a loving family and a houseful of dutiful servants.

  Maggie’s father was a prominent banker from an old southern family of prerevolutionary Irish stock. Her mother, the refined Abigail, boasted an equally impeccable lineage. Many of the foremost Confederate heroes, including Robert E. Lee, were part of Abigail’s extended family.

  Doting parents, the Bankheads’ wish for all their beautiful daughters was successful marriages to suitable gentlemen. It was not a wish shared by the spirited Maggie. Rebellious by nature, inquisitive to a fault, determined to think for herself and do as she saw fit, Maggie, unlike her sisters, had gone against her parents’ wishes.

  Maggie had, six months ago, left her childhood home and traveled west to teach English to the reservation Indians. Her parents had been horrified but not surprised. Maggie had consistently turned a deaf ear to her mother’s cajoling to allow suitable young men to call on her. Maggie had blithely ignored her older sisters’ warning that she was going to wind up a lonely old maid. Maggie’s father had long ago given up on expecting his youngest, and secretly favorite, child to fit into a specific mold and behave like his other children. Maggie had—from the cradle—been a handful. Lively. Stubborn. Opinionated. Fearless.

  An enthusiastic Maggie had moved to the Oklahoma Territory and hadn’t looked back, had not regretted her decision for a minute. From the day she had arrived—a beautiful spring day in late April—she had known she was where she belonged.

  While she missed her parents, her sisters and her many friends back in Virginia, she found her simple life at the fort to be, for the most part, fulfilling. She liked being independent, liked living alone in the little one-room cottage assigned her, liked taking care of herself.

  Blessed with a self-deprecating sense of humor, she often laughed at herself as she tackled elemental tasks like making the bed or brewing hot tea or sweeping the rough plank floors. She had never once—in her twenty-two years—lifted a hand to help with such menial chores. She was having to learn to be self-reliant as surely as the reservation Indians were having to learn the English she taught.

  Maggie found it rather rewarding to polish the battered furniture or pick wildflowers for the table or to tuck freshly laundered sheets over the edges of the bed’s feather mattress.

  Only occasionally, at day’s end when she was alone and sitting on the porch gazing at the sun setting over the low Oklahoma hills, did her heart ache dully for something she could not name.

  She didn’t know what she yearned for. She was not overly homesick, nor was she particularly lonely. She was, in fact, happier in Oklahoma than anywhere ever before and she felt that her life had real meaning. She was convinced that if the displaced Indians were to have any chance in the white man’s world, they had to learn to read, write and speak English.

  She was eager to teach them, and to her delight, many were eager to learn. They crowded into her classroom each morning, their dark eyes shining, copper faces well scrubbed. Respectful and ready to be taught.

  The little ones in class had come to love Maggie.

  Maggie, in turn, loved them.

  She had grown fond of all her students but couldn’t keep from having favorites. One was the tiny Bright Feather, an adorable orphaned Kiowa boy who, sadly, had been lame since birth. The other was an aged Kiowa chief, Old Coyote. Both Bright Feather and Old Coyote held a special place in Maggie’s heart.

  Outside the classroom, Maggie had easily made friends with the officers’ wives as well as with many of the soldiers garrisoned at the fort. And, of course, there was James W. James, the fort’s Indian agent and the man responsible for her being at Fort Sill.

  Called Double Jimmy by everyone, the fifty-seven-year-old agent was honest, hardworking and truly cared about the Indians’ welfare. Maggie’s closest ally and fervent protector, Double Jimmy was an old and dear family friend. He had served with Maggie’s father, Major Edgar Bankhead, in the Grand Army of the Potomac. The two men had become like brothers and the widowed Double Jimmy had visited often—staying weeks at a time—in the Bankheads’ stately Virginia home.

  A natural-born storyteller who spoke English, Spanish and Comanche, Double Jimmy had painted such vivid pictures of the frontier that young Maggie’s interest had been piqued. His stories of life in the West and of the bitter conflict between the whites and the Indians had made her decide what she wanted to do with her life.

  From the minute Maggie had arrived at the fort, her flaming red hair and fair good looks had captured the attention of several young officers eager to court her. She was flattered, but her head was not turned. Maggie was used to having handsome young men buzz around her.

  Maggie enjoyed the company of males and was totally comfortable in their presence. She found men were generally much better company than women and she could hold her own in their lively conversations.

  But she was not interested in finding a sweetheart. The only officer she had allowed to escort her to the rare fort picnic or party was the mannerly Lieutenant Dave Finley.

  A quiet trustworthy young man from Jackson, Mississippi, the tall, slender, sandy-haired Lieutenant Finley was boyishly handsome and a dedicated soldier. A proud West Pointer, he had a sterling reputation, was well liked by his fellow officers and considered to be a “good catch” by the officers’ wives.

  Maggie was not looking for a good catch. She did not, she would tell anyone who asked, intend to get married. Ever. She had no desire to be a wife and mother. Furthermore, she had no need of a man to take care of her. She could take care of herself, thank you very much!

  Maggie had, right from the beginning, made it clear to Lieutenant Dave Finley that while she thoroughly enjoyed his company, they would never be anything more than friends. The infatuated lieutenant took what he could get and hoped that one day Maggie might change her mind. Until then he was determined not to upset the applecart and be banished from her sight. She could be, he had quickly learned, quite volatile and unpredictable, traits that tended to make her all the more exciting and appealing.

  Now as the full moon climbed higher in the Oklahoma sky, Maggie and Lieutenant Finley sat on her porch steps and talked as the hour grew late. Her arms locked around her knees, Maggie gazed dreamily at the stars twinkling overhead while the lieutenant gazed dreamily at her.

  “I should go in,” Maggie finally said, not moving.

  “Stay awhile longer,” coaxed Dave Finley. “It’s so nice and peaceful out here.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed. Maggie inhaled deeply, unlocked her arms from her knees, lifted her hands and swept her untamed red hair back off her face. She smiled with pleasure when a cooling breeze stroked her cheeks. “Finally the weather is beginning to change. There’s almost a nip to the night air. Lord, let’s hope the searing heat of the summer is behind us.” Her head swung around. “I arrived at the fort in late April and it was already quite warm. You’ve been here in the winter, Dave. What’s it like?”

  Lieutenant Finley grinned. “Cold. As cold in the winter as it is hot in the summer. The wind comes sweeping across the prairie and goes right through you. I’ve drilled on early mornings when I honestly feared I’d get frostbite
and lose my toes.”

  Maggie made a cluck of sympathy. “Poor Dave,” she said, turning to look squarely at him, the moonlight striking her full in the face.

  Dave Finley stared at Maggie, enchanted. Maggie saw him swallow hard and noted the little shudder that swept through his slim frame.

  “Now, Dave…” she began.

  “Oh, Maggie, girl,” Dave interrupted, his tone soft, his eyes softer.

  He lifted a hand and gently placed it in her bright red hair at the side of her head. Maggie sighed. He wanted to kiss her. She knew he did. She would have let him, but she knew she shouldn’t encourage him. It wouldn’t be fair to let him think that she shared his feelings.

  “Dave,” she said again, placing her hand atop his where it lay against her hair. “You know that your friendship means a great deal to me and—”

  “One kiss, Maggie,” he said. “That’s all. I’d never ask for anything more.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Maggie exclaimed, growing exasperated. “Kiss me and get it over with then!” She closed her eyes, puckered her lips and looked as if she were about to take a bitter dose of medicine.

  Dave Finley shook his head sadly. Then he laughed. “Open your eyes, Maggie, I’m not going to kiss you.”

  Her eyes opened in surprise. “Why not? I said you could.”

  Smiling indulgently, he took her hand and, rising, drew her to her feet with him. “I don’t want to kiss a woman who acts as if she’s about to be horse-whipped.”

  “I was not, I—”

  “Good night, Maggie.” The lieutenant leaned down, brushed his lips against her cheek.

  Maggie smiled at him. “You’re not angry, are you, Dave?”

  “Perhaps a little hurt, but I’ll get over it.”

  Maggie patted his shoulder affectionately. “I wouldn’t want to lose a friend like you.”

  “You won’t.” And then he was gone.

  Maggie watched him walk away. When he disappeared around the corner of a stone building, she stood for a few moments longer in the moonlight, then turned and went inside.

  “It’s me,” she said softly in the darkness.

  Pistol, her beloved silver-furred wolfhound, raised his head, barked a lazy greeting, then went back to dozing before the cold fireplace.

  Maggie didn’t light a lamp. She undressed in the darkness. She drew her nightgown down over her head, yawned and got into bed. She stretched out on her back and folded her hands beneath her head. A gentle night breeze lifted the window curtains directly beside her bed.

  Maggie sighed with pleasure. Fall had finally come. She so looked forward to the brisk autumn days and the cold clear nights. And she wondered what exciting new changes would the new season bring?

  Maggie’s blue eyes flashed with anticipation. Smiling, she turned onto her stomach, yanked her gown high up on her thighs and punched her pillow.

  In minutes she was sound asleep.

  Three

  In the middle of the night Shanaco awakened abruptly from a deep, dreamless slumber.

  His hundred-year-old Comanche grandfather was calling to him as clearly as if the ancient chief were here in the room.

  Shanaco lunged up in bed.

  Heart hammering, he swept his long, loose hair back off his face and swung his legs over the mattress’s edge. He reached for the thin leather cord lying on the night table and hurriedly tied back his hair. The movement awakened the blonde.

  “What is it?” she asked sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go,” Shanaco said, and stood up.

  “Go? Now? It’s the middle of the night, still dark outside,” said Dana, sitting up, clutching the sheet to her breasts. “Get back in this bed, lover.”

  Shanaco did not reply. He crossed the room, pulled open a bureau drawer and removed a pair of soft buckskin trousers and matching shirt. He drew on the pants, laced up the front fly and grabbed the buckskin shirt. He slipped the shirt over his head, shoved his arms through the long sleeves and didn’t bother with the laces going down the center yoke to mid chest.

  He bent from the waist, lifted a pair of well-polished boots from the carpeted floor and went back to the bed. He sat down on the bed’s edge to pull on his stockings and boots.

  “I won’t let you leave,” murmured Dana as she tossed off the covering sheet and came up on her knees behind him. She threw her arms around his neck, leaned against him, placed her lips against his left ear and murmured, “I’m sorry I went to sleep on you last night. I’m wide-awake now and I’ll stay awake for as long as you want.”

  No response.

  She tried again. “Shanaco, please, please…put it in again and leave it in. Give to me, Shanaco. Come on, take off your clothes and make love to me.”

  Bored with her and annoyed by her whining, Shanaco was even more annoyed that his grandfather was summoning him home. He didn’t want to go. He had no choice. He had to.

  “Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m in Santa Fe,” he said. He threw off her clinging arms and again stood up.

  “Where on earth are you going at this hour?” she asked, pouting, sinking back on her heels in the bed.

  “Texas,” Shanaco said, and left.

  He hurried downstairs, woke up the night clerk, collected his poker winnings and went to the livery stable for his horse. He swung up into the saddle and set out for the Palo Duro Canyon, where the once mighty Comanche had their last stronghold.

  Five days later, as the warm October sun was setting, an exhausted Shanaco urged his winded black stallion down a narrow, serpentine trail into the yawning chasm where he had spent most of his life.

  His aged grandfather was patiently waiting.

  Gray Wolf’s eyes lighted when his tall grandson ducked into the tepee. He stirred himself with a series of movements, slowly, his brittle bones creaking as he attempted to straighten his frail back to appear more imperial.

  “I calculated it would take you four-five sleeps to get here,” said the old chief in their native tongue. “I expected you before the setting of today’s sun.”

  “The sun’s been down for only a few moments, Grandfather,” Shanaco replied as he dropped down and seated himself cross-legged before the old man.

  The chief nodded and his eyes twinkled slightly as they examined Shanaco, pleased by the sight of the imposing young man that his own noble blood had helped to create.

  “So it has,” he conceded. The hint of a smile immediately disappeared and without preamble, he stated, “I have done much thinking, Grandson. I have called on the Great Spirit, asked that he speak to my heart. He did and I have come to a hard decision.” He paused and blinked back unshed tears that suddenly sprang to his dark eyes.

  “Tell me, Grandfather,” said Shanaco, leaning forward.

  “The People cannot last another winter,” the chief said sadly. “We cannot graze our livestock and the great buffalo herds have all but disappeared. The People will starve if they stay here in the canyon.” Shanaco nodded his agreement. The chief continued, his tone somber, “They must go away from the Llano Estacado and Palo Duro, away from this land that was once all ours. It makes my heart weep.”

  Shanaco drew a slow deep breath and shook his head in sympathy and understanding.

  “I have met with the white leaders,” Gray Wolf stated. “I have agreed to no longer make war.” He sighed wearily and said, “It is over, Grandson.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” said Shanaco respectfully, knowing it was a sad day for the old Comanche chieftain. Gray Wolf was the last, and most powerful, of all the signatory chiefs to finally concede defeat.

  “At my knee,” said Gray Wolf, “you learned that a warrior’s duties are to protect the women and children and to face danger and death without complaint or fear.” Shanaco started to speak, but the chief raised a hand to silence him. “You were always brave, but you chose the white man’s road, learned the white man’s ways. Now you must help our People learn to travel the white man’s road. You m
ust lead them onto the reservation at Fort Sill in the Indian Nations.”

  Shanaco immediately began protesting. He conceded that the tribe should give up and move onto the reservation, but he strongly objected to being the one to lead them there. His arguments were sound. He had drifted back and forth between the two worlds since his father’s death. He had not lived in the Palo Duro village for several years.

  He had taken a different path.

  He reminded his grandfather that he was resented, even hated, by some of the young Comanche warriors for his white blood. And, he would never live on the reservation himself.

  Concluding, he said, “I cannot do it. I will not—”

  Angrily interrupting, Chief Gray Wolf said sternly, “You will obey me! I am the father of your father and you will do as I say.”

  Shanaco looked at the badly wrinkled face before him, fierce even now after all his power was gone and the long years of a hard life had taken their toll. Those dearest to the chief were all dead: his two wives, his four daughters, five grandchildren. And, his only son—Shanaco’s father—the fearless Chief Naco. Shanaco was the old chief’s only blood relative left alive.

  “I will obey you, Grandfather,” Shanaco said meekly.

  The chief’s eyes lighted again as they had when Shanaco first ducked into the tepee. “My little cub,” he said with affection, and reached for Shanaco’s hand. Shanaco wrapped his strong fingers around his grandfather’s thin, clawlike hand and felt his heart squeeze in his chest.

  “I will not go with you, Grandson,” said the chief. “I have lived long enough. Bury me here in the canyon.” He withdrew his hand, reached for his pipe.

  Shanaco shook his head. Then he laughed. “Grandfather, you cannot decide when you will die.”

  But when dawn broke the next morning, Shanaco went to the tepee of his grandfather and found the old man dead.

  Shanaco now had no choice.