by Janet Dailey
"Is that you, Master Lije?"
Recognizing Ike's voice, Lije relaxed a little and walked his horse into the light. "It's me." He halted his horse by the hitch rail and swung out of the saddle, conscious of the fatigue that tugged at him. "What are you doing here so late?"
"One of the colts got tangled in some briars. Some of the gashes were deep. They festered up pretty bad. I thought I better check on him."
"How is he?" Lije unbuckled the cinch and pulled the saddle off.
"He's pretty sweaty, but he drank some water. I think he'll pull out of it." Ike hooked the lantern on the iron bar outside the stall door.
When Lije lifted the saddle onto the hitch rail, he spotted a suspicious-looking bundle on the ground. He shot a look at Ike, his jaw hardening in anger. "What's that, Ike?"
"What, sir?"
"That bundle on the ground outside the stall."
Ike glanced at it, then back at Lije, a glimmer of resentment showing in his eyes. "What do you think it is, Master Lije?"
"It looks like it could be your belongings, Ike. You weren't thinking of going somewhere, were you?"
"Where would I be going, Master Lije?"
"Nowhere," Lije snapped, then fought to rein in his temper. "What's this all about, Ike? No one here has ever whipped you or put you in chains. You have always been treated well."
"Yes, sir," Ike nodded. "I been treated as good as any of your horses. I got me a clean straw bed, food, and water. Now and then I even get me a friendly pat."
"Dammit, Ike—" He took an angry step toward him.
"If you were to take a closer look at that bundle on the ground, Master Lije, you'd see it was rags I used to tie a poultice on the colt's leg." He waited while Lije threw another glance at the pile of cloth.
"You could have told me that when I first asked you," Lije said in irritation. "Why didn't you?"
Ike shrugged, not answering. "Guess you'll be wanting me to take care of your horse now."
"Yes." Lije gathered up the trailing reins, but he didn't immediately pass them to Ike when he reached out to take them. "Don't get any foolish ideas in your head, Ike."
"Like what?"
"Like running away." Lije watched for a reaction and saw none. "If you did, Ike, I would be the one who came after you. And I know how you think, Ike. I would track you down. Dammit, it's my job, Ike. I would have to do it, whether I liked it or not."
"I reckon that's so." Ike nodded.
Lije studied him a moment longer, then handed over the reins and moved away, heading for the house. Heat lightning again streaked across the night sky, briefly illuminating the path through the trees. The grass beneath his feet was parched and yellow from the summer-long drought. It crackled like brittle paper with each step.
The air was sultry, the faint breeze providing little relief. Although he had traveled no more than twenty yards, Lije could already feel the perspiration gathering between his shoulders. He thought longingly of a bath, but that would mean rousting the servants to carry the water—and possibly waking other members of the household. Possibly waking Diane.
He didn't want to see her tonight, not with the uncertain news he carried and its potential ramifications. Tonight he would content himself with merely washing off the day's accumulation of dust and sweat. He would leave the bath for tomorrow. Maybe by then there would be more information.
Sighing, Lije lifted his gaze to the house and the sweep of the columned veranda that encircled it. A pale, wraithlike figure floated across the lawn toward him. He slowed his steps, cursing softly in Cherokee when he recognized Diane, clad in a loose-fitting nightdress of white longcloth, her hair unbound, flowing past her shoulders.
She ran straight to him and wrapped her hands around his neck to pull his head down. "I thought you would never come home, Lije."
The soft fervor of her voice assaulted him an instant before he tasted the honeyed warmth of her lips against his mouth. A shudder coursed through him, an oath ripped out, then he was responding, demanding, exciting. Nothing was clear to him as his lips raced crazily over her face. Reason dimmed in desire. There was only Diane and his growing hunger for her.
Home. She said it as if she would always be here waiting for him. But would she?
Made irritable by the unanswerable question and the rawness of the needs she aroused in him, Lije roughened the kiss. But she wasn't frightened by its demanding pressure. Instead, she strained closer. But it wasn't enough, and they both knew it.
Breathing hard and fighting to control it, Lije lifted his head to look at her. Boldly, she returned his look, then let her lashes sweep down before tracing the outline of his lips with her fingers.
"My, but you are a hungry one tonight," she murmured a bit breathlessly.
"Very." His voice was husky.
Her lashes came up, letting him see the impish light that danced in her eyes. "Then it's a good thing I sent Phoebe to the kitchen to fix you something to eat."
But he didn't smile as she had expected him to do. Her reference to Phoebe came too close on the heels of his exchange with Phoebe's son Ike.
Diane misread the sudden sobering of his expression. "Don't tell me you have already eaten?"
"No."
"Then what is it?" It was a careless question that expected no serious answer. And Lije tried to oblige her.
"Nothing," he said, but he wasn't convincing.
Her eyes narrowed sharply. "Something is wrong. What happened today?"
He hesitated, then admitted, "There's been word of a battle in Missouri."
"Missouri. My father—" Stopping, Diane lowered her head and dragged in a long breath, then looked up, showing the steely composure befitting the daughter of an officer and a soldier. "Where was it?"
"At a place called Wilson's Creek, southwest of Springfield."
"What happened?"
"A Union force of roughly five thousand men attacked a combined Confederate army of twice that number. After some fierce fighting, the Union army was forced to retreat to Springfield. There are reports of heavy casualties on both sides."
"My father's regiment," she began with the same forced calm. "Was it involved?"
His expression softened with regret. "I honestly don't know. I waited, hoping to get more definite information. The initial reports made mention only of a Union general named Sigel who commanded some artillery."
"Then we don't know whether his regiment took part in the battle." She stared at the front of his shirt. "Maybe they haven't ordered him back into the field yet. Maybe he was still at headquarters making his report. Maybe—" Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes. She offered no resistance when Lije gently pressed her head to his chest. "What if he's wounded, Lije?" she whispered. "What if—"
"Sssh. We don't know that."
"No. No, we don't," Diane repeated in an attempt to cling to the hope it offered. "I don't know what I would do if anything happened to him," she declared with an expressive little shudder of dread.
"I know," he murmured in comfort. "We'll find out more details tomorrow."
"Yes." She pushed back from him, her head down as if ashamed of her actions. "I know I shouldn't worry, but . . ."
"He's your father. I would think less of you if you weren't concerned about him."
Diane touched his cheek in gratitude, then reached down to take his hand. "Let's go to the house. Phoebe will have your supper ready."
Hand in hand, they walked to the house, neither speaking.
Late the following day they learned that Captain Parmelee's regiment was not part of the Union forces engaged in the battle at Wilson's Creek.
But the fighting had moved west.
And the Southern newspapers heaped praise on Stand Watie and his rebel guerrillas involved in the fight for their capture of the Union artillery. In the eyes of the press, Watie was a hero.
The Confederate victory and Watie's new status put pressure on the principal chief John Ross to abandon his stated position of ne
utrality. More and more, it appeared that the South was going to emerge victorious from the war. If the Cherokee Nation did not become its ally, then it would be regarded as a foe.
The wind was blowing strongly from the South.
Part II
We are in the situation of a man standing alone upon a low naked spot of ground, with the water rising rapidly all around him. He sees the danger but does not know what to do. If he remains where he is, his only alternative is to be swept away and perish. The tide carries by him, in its mad course, a drifting log. It perchance comes within reach of him. By refusing it, he is a doomed man. By seizing hold of it, he has a chance for his life. He can but perish in the effort, and may be able to keep his head above water until rescued or drift to where he can help himself.
—John Ross
principal chief of the Cherokee Nation
9
Tahlequah
Cherokee Nation, Indian Territory
August 21, 1861
The black filly tossed her head and pranced sideways with excitement, eyeing all the saddle horses, single buggies, and wagons banked along the street racks around the town square. "Full of fire and ready to run, are you?" Alex grinned and held the filly to her dancing walk. "Too bad it isn't race day."
He rode past the two-story brick hotel, filled to capacity like the rest of the town. Children raced in and out of the alleys between buildings while women strolled from store to store to see what the merchants had to offer. But there were few men to be seen along the walks. They were crowded around the east side of the square where the government buildings were located.
Alex pointed his horse in the same direction. He had traveled no more than a few yards when a familiar voice called his name. Glancing around, he saw Sorrel crossing the street, accompanied by her grandmother, mother, and their Negro serving maid Phoebe. Alex started to nod a greeting and ride on. Then he noticed Diane Parmelee in the group. He smiled when he recognized the woman who was the daughter of a Yankee captain and his cousin's future bride.
He rode over to them. "Good afternoon, ladies." His glance flicked to the packages and bundles of goods in their arms. "It appears you have already bought out the stores. Where are you bound to now?"
"The dressmaker's shop," Eliza replied while Diane Parmelee watched him with cool eyes. Alex smiled, certain she was remembering the time when he had held a gun on her precious fiancé.
"I'm having a new dress made to wear in the wedding," Sorrel informed him. "Mrs. Adair has to measure me first, though. Would you like to come with us?"
"It sounds very entertaining, but I think I'll go find out if we have finally joined the Confederacy," Alex replied and caught the small smile that touched Diane's lips. "You surprise me, Miss Parmelee. I never thought you would find the prospect so amusing."
"Considering how unlikely it is that such a thing would come to pass, I—"
"But it will come to pass," Alex interrupted smoothly. "Didn't my dear cousin tell you that this meeting today is for the purpose of making an alliance with the Confederacy?"
She tipped her chin a fraction higher. "He informed me that the rebel government had made another proposal. But they have done so countless times in the past. From what I was told, there is nothing new in it that would cause Chief Ross to abandon his position of neutrality."
"But the circumstances are different this time. The South is winning the war—and making a hero of Stand Watie in the process. Chief Ross can't continue to sit on his hands if he wants to remain chief. That's why he has thrown his support to the South." Alex smiled at the mixture of doubt and dismay in her expression. "Good day, ladies." He touched a hand to his hat in a mock salute and rode off, chuckling to himself.
Diane looked from Temple to Eliza. "What he said—is it true?"
Eliza pressed her lips together in deep disapproval. "As much as I regret it, yes. Chief Ross intends to support making an alliance with the South."
"But why?"
"We are faced with a Hobson's choice, Diane," Eliza replied. "Either we make an alliance or face military occupation."
"Is that the threat the South made?" she demanded, indignant and showing it.
"My dear, they didn't have to put it into words," Eliza told her. "Such things are always couched in diplomatic terms that make their true meaning implicit. The Cherokee have lived under a soldier's bayonet before. It's not an experience we care to repeat. Therefore, we will bide our time and wait for the Union army to put down this rebellion of the Southern states."
"This is difficult for you, I know," Temple inserted, reaching out to press a hand on Diane's arm in a gesture of comfort and compassion. "Sometimes it's very hard to avoid taking sides in an issue, especially when everyone else around you is."
"I know." But Diane wasn't listening. Too many other thoughts and questions were tumbling through her mind. Why had Lije not made the gravity of the situation clear to her? From the way everyone talked, she had assumed a position of neutrality was the only possible option, considering how divisive opinion was among the Cherokee. Had she been so wrapped up in their wedding plans that she hadn't listened properly? The longer Diane thought about that, the more uneasy she became. And with the uneasiness, the first seeds of anger were sown. Anger and a sense of betrayal.
When Alex reached the east side of the square, he spotted his father in the crowd of men outside the Council Building. Dismounting, he tied the filly to a hitching rack and worked his way through the throng to his father's side.
The instant Alex touched his shoulder, his father spun around, his hand instinctively reaching inside his coat for the .31 caliber pocket revolver he always carried. Alex drew back, a smile widening the line of his mouth at how jumpy his father had become. Admittedly, the frequent and violent clashes between Watie's supporters and the members of his father's society of Pins Indians had given him cause. Alex knew of at least three killings that had occurred.
"You should never come up behind a man like that," his father growled in irritation.
"Sorry."
"You should be. Where have you been? Ross is about to address the convention. I thought you wanted to hear him."
"I do." Alex followed his father to the meeting area.
It was jammed with people. Most were dressed in the frock coat and white shirt of a planter while some wore the hunting shirt and turban of the mountain Cherokee. Kipp immediately scanned the gathering, not stopping until he located The Blade. His Negro servant was at his side, and Lije stood nearby.
Distracted by The Blade's presence, Kipp didn't hear the beginning of Ross's address. With gritted teeth, Kipp watched The Blade, noting how smug he looked standing there, listening to Ross speak the words that would ally them with the Confederacy, words that accomplished the very thing The Blade had wanted. Hatred rose up like a bitter bile in his throat. Kipp swore to himself that The Blade would live to regret this day. He would see to it. Somehow. Some way.
When a resolution for making an alliance with the Confederate States of America was put before the convention, it was greeted with cheers of approval and passed by acclamation. As they filed out of the meeting house, Kipp suddenly found himself face to face with The Blade. His son Lije stood at his side.
The Blade smiled and pulled a cigar from his pocket, lighting it and calmly exhaling the smoke. "It seems we have aligned ourselves with the South."
"No. We have prevented you and your cohort Watie from making your own treaty with the Confederates and usurping Ross's authority, just as you did years ago," Kipp retorted contemptuously.
"Perhaps this time it is a fear of losing his power that prompts Ross," The Blade murmured, then lowered his glance to the bulge in Kipp's coat. "But now you will have an opportunity to use that pistol you always carry, won't you?"
Surprise and the dawning of an idea robbed Kipp of the chance to make a suitably cutting reply before The Blade moved off. He stared after that wide set of shoulders, as always partially blocked by the Negro se
rvant who had become his shadow over the years. In the heat of battle, no one would know who fired the shot that killed a man. No one. The idea grew in Kipp's mind, taking root in the fertile soil of his hatred for The Blade.
Lije glanced sideways at his father. "It wasn't wise to bait Kipp like that."
"Kipp doesn't need baiting," The Blade replied in dismissal.
Outside the meeting house, The Blade paused to relight his cigar. Lije halted beside him and idly swept his glance over the slowly dispersing throng. Among the many shades of dark clothing, he caught a glimpse of deep rose and focused on it. Diane stood alone in the square directly across from him, her pink parasol raised to break the glare of the sun as she scanned the faces of the departing men. Lije knew she was looking for him, and he also knew why.
"Diane is waiting for you," his father observed.
Lije nodded grimly. "I know. I won't be long." He moved away.
When she saw him crossing the dirt street, she took a step toward him, then stopped and waited for him to reach her, a fine tension in every line of her body. He read the anxiety and confusion written in her expressive eyes.
"Is it true?" she asked, already braced for his answer. "You have joined the Confederacy?"
"It isn't official. A treaty has yet to be signed, but Ross has the authority to do so now."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Diane demanded. "Why didn't you make it clear the outcome of this meeting would be different? Why did I have to hear it from your cousin Alex?"
Alex. Lije had no difficulty at all imagining the enjoyment Alex had derived from being the one to enlighten Diane. He battled back the surge of anger.
"What would it have changed if you had known?"
"Nothing, I suppose," Diane admitted in frustration. "But it wasn't fair to keep it from me. I am not a child to be protected from unpleasantness."
"No," Lije agreed and sought to end this discussion. "Where are Mother and Eliza?"
"At the dressmaker's shop. I had an appointment to be measured for my gown. Sorrel—"