Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15)

by Georgina Gentry

  “You speak not with a straight tongue!” Coyote shouted. “In your heart, you are white.”

  Was he? He didn’t know anymore; yet he had honor, too. “My father thinks always of his people,” Keso said, “and I think I know what he would say if he were here: do not fight the bluecoats—you cannot win.”

  “Better to be dead on the field of battle than caged like animals,” Coyote insisted.

  “Perhaps as the soldier chief said, he is only coming to parlay,” Keso said, trying desperately to reason with them.

  “Let us all go see what the soldiers are up to,” Coyote snarled. “Let us see if the soldier chief halts his men outside our land. If he does not, let these whites be the first to die!”

  A yell of approval went up from the camp. The Utes were confused and afraid, knowing they had been deceived too many times by greedy whites.

  Keso’s strong arm went around Wannie’s shoulders. He would give his life for her, but he might not be able to protect her against so many angry warriors. “We will go with you,” he answered solemnly. “Perhaps I can find out why the soldiers come and persuade them to go back to their fort.”

  “And this time,” Coyote sneered, “Ouray is not here to lick the bluecoats’ boots. If they lie and cross our land, we will fight them!”

  He barked orders to the braves clustered around and men began to catch horses and saddle up.

  Coyote smiled at Keso. “You, your woman, and yes, the white man who whimpers like a frightened puppy will go with us so there will be no tricks. If the soldiers plan trickery, you three will be the first to die.”

  “So be it.” Keso took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He had hoped to leave Wannie in the camp and give her a chance to escape, but Coyote had forestalled that. He began to saddle Spirit as a warrior cut Cleve down and threw him up on old Blue. What to do? He must get word to Ouray. The chief had not spent his whole life keeping peace for his people to have it all thrown away by a few hotheads like Coyote. Keso wished he knew Major Thornburgh’s plans or the message the panicky Nathan Meeker had sent him. If Keso could get word to Ouray, perhaps the chief might arrive in time to stop the confrontation before it escalated into a bloody battle.

  He looked around as he saddled Spirit. With his fast horse, he might mount and escape before the Utes knew what he was up to, but that move would sacrifice Cleve and maybe Wannie to the angry Utes. Besides, these were people of his own blood and he truly wanted to help avert trouble for them if he could.

  Keso spotted an old man whom he knew was loyal to Ouray, a man he had seen riding at the chiefs side. He crept to him and whispered, “Do you know where the great Chief is?”

  The old face looked like bronzed leather as he smiled and nodded.

  “Go to Ouray, tell him what is happening—there may be blood spilled if he does not get here in time.”

  The ancient warrior considered. “It is many hours’ ride and I am of many winter counts. It also may take some days to find him if he hunts in the San Juan Mountains or in the canyon of the river whites call the Gunnison.”

  “You must find him,” Keso urged. “He must bring calm before hotheads like Coyote push our people into war.”

  “I will do my best,” the old man promised, and sneaked away in the confusion.

  Keso returned to his task. He didn’t know how much Wannie and Cleve had been able to understand or if they understood their peril, but Keso would do what he could to avert bloodshed. If Major Thornburgh were coming, surely he wouldn’t be foolish enough to ride onto reservation lands. Perhaps Keso could stall trouble until Ouray arrived. If fighting broke out, Coyote would think the trio was part of the plot and all three of them would die.

  He wished he knew what Wannie was thinking about last night. “Wannie, are you ready?”

  “Don’t I get my own horse?”

  “I’d just as soon you rode behind me.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask too many questions—just do as I tell you.”

  She hesitated, that old stubbornness in her dark eyes telling him she wanted to argue. Perhaps she had not understood just how much danger the trio had been plunged into by the unexpected movement of Major Thornburgh’s troops. If fighting broke out, Spirit was the strongest, swiftest mount in the entire Ute camp. If there was any shooting, Wannie’s best chance for survival lay in being up behind Keso as he made a break for safety.

  “Are we in any danger?” Wannie looked up at him innocently.

  “No, brat—just do what I tell you.” If it cost him his life, he was going to protect Wannie. Last night might be the only night he would ever spend in her arms, but for him, it had been worth it. The memory of her kisses and the way she had held him close was enough to last a lifetime. The new cabin in the valley of the Singing Winds with their children running about the house might never be, but he would love her until the end of his days and with his last breath would call her name.

  He looked over at Cleve, who was still rubbing his wrists and complaining as he mounted up on old Blue. The damned dude didn’t even realize how close to death he might be. Cleve ran his aristocratic hands through his fine hair, still vain about his good looks. Aristocrat. It dawned on Keso suddenly who Cleve resembled with the thick yellow hair, pale blue eyes and cleft chin. Could it be? Why had no one else noticed it?

  “Injun, what are you staring at?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking you look like your father.”

  Cleve blinked. “Of course I do. Blood will tell.”

  Keso grinned at the irony. “Maybe.”

  The warriors were mounting now. Coyote rode up beside Keso. “Are you coming, or are you afraid to fight?”

  The others were watching. Keso squared his shoulders. “I fear nothing—I proved that last night.”

  Around them, warriors laughed softly and Coyote frowned. “I have not forgotten how you shamed me. There will be another time.”

  It was an open threat. Keso knew he must be careful not to turn his back on Coyote. He swung up on his stallion and reached down to Wannie. “Come, woman.”

  He always marveled at how light she was. He swung her up easily behind him and she fitted her small body against him as if she belonged there, her soft breasts molding into his back. Her arms went around his waist and he reached down and patted her hands, feeling his silver ring as a promise he had made her. He might have to pay with his life, but he was going to get Wannie out of this mess alive.

  Wannie held onto Keso tightly and nestled herself against his muscular back. She wanted time to sort out her feelings about last night. There was some kind of trouble—she could feel the tension in the air after that messenger had ridden in and Coyote and Keso had exchanged angry words. Concern was etched deep on Keso’s handsome face. It had something to do with soldiers, but she didn’t understand much more than that. She trusted Keso to take care of her.

  She felt his big hand reach down and cover hers for a long moment, touching the ring. She had never even imagined such ecstasy as he had given her last night on a soft buffalo fur in a primitive lodge. If he stayed among the Utes, would she want to stay also?

  Cleve rode up next to them, frowning. “Wannie, you’re going to regret this.”

  “This isn’t the time to discuss this, Cleve. We’re lucky to be alive.”

  “You bought our lives with your body, is that it?”

  “Brewster,” Keso warned and she felt the muscles of his body tense, “watch what you say or I might have to kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! Why, my father—”

  “Isn’t here to buy you out of this mess,” Keso finished.

  Cleve lowered his voice to a whisper as he sneered at Wannie. “When we get back to civilization, the savage won’t look so good to you. He still doesn’t know what fork to use.”

  “Would you understand that I don’t care?” Wannie answered a little too sweetly and pressed herself even closer to Keso’s broad back.

  “You needn�
�t think I’ll want you now when you change your mind,” Cleve sneered, “not after you’ve let that Injun—”

  Keso’s big hand reached out and caught Cleve by the throat. “Watch your mouth,” he said coldly as if fighting to control his temper, “or I will choke the words from your throat this very moment!”

  “Keso, don’t kill him,” Wannie pleaded.

  “For you, Wannie.” Very slowly, the brave took his hand away as Cleve choked and coughed.

  “You—you almost killed me!”

  “Thank the girl for your life,” Keso said, “and anyway, we’ve got all the trouble we can handle right now.”

  She felt the tension in Keso’s body as Cleve stared at him with fear in his pale eyes. She looked around at the mounted Indians. In almost every waistband, a big butcher knife gleamed. She saw Cleve looking at those, too.

  Coyote rode past and gave Wannie a knowing smile that said he would yet enjoy her body. She trembled at the thought and held onto Keso a little tighter. Her expensive jewelry still lay by the fire in the center of the camp; no one had even bothered to claim it. As she watched, a toddler picked up the priceless ring and chortled with glee. Another little girl and a thin old woman handled the fine gold bracelets with casual curiosity. How could trinkets like that have meant so much to Wannie? Life was what was important, not clothes, jewels, and other possessions. Life and love. She had both; she might lose both.

  Coyote and Keso led out, Spirit snorting as he took off at a gallop. Cleve rode next to them on old Blue, grumbling about everything. If there was any real trouble, Wannie thought, old Blue would be hard-pressed to outrun some of these fine Ute horses.

  Abruptly, she realized why Keso had wanted her up behind him on Spirit. Sooner or later, he expected trouble and when it came, he had the best horse in the bunch. He was probably planning to make a run for it and he wanted to make sure she got out, too.

  Several times, they stopped to water and rest the horses as the group rode north. The trees were turning, Wannie noticed; the aspen would soon be golden on the hillsides, the birds heading south as autumn deepened. It would be a glorious time to be building a home and settling in before a cozy fire to make love and dream of children. She thought of Silver and Cherokee, wishing she could let them know everyone was still all right. Tears came to her eyes. How could she ever have thought of leaving these people and this beautiful mountain country that she loved so much?

  Once when they stopped to eat some dried meat and rest the horses, she asked Keso, “Is there going to be trouble?” For a moment, she was not sure he would answer her. He looked away. “Keso, you were never very good at lying.”

  “Okay,” he acknowledged with a sigh, “we may be heading toward a terrible confrontation with Major Thornburgh.”

  “They can’t come on the reservation land,” she exclaimed. “The Utes haven’t attacked Meeker.”

  Cleve snorted. “Not yet, they haven’t. Savages, that’s all they are, savages who’ll probably cut our throats.”

  “If they do,” Keso said, “everyone will know where they got the knives.”

  “That’s business!” Cleve snapped.

  “It doesn’t make a lot of sense to arm people our soldiers might have to fight, now does it?”

  “It’s business,” Cleve defended himself. “American business doesn’t care whether it’s with friend or enemy, just so they make the sales. That will never change.”

  “Then I’d say there’s something wrong with American businessmen if they’re willing to do that.”

  “Keso,” she said and looked up at him, wanting to touch him, to say something intimate, but not with people watching, “what happens if the soldiers don’t stop at the reservation boundary?”

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Major Thornburgh wouldn’t be that reckless.”

  “And what if he is?” Cleve demanded. “Why don’t you quit lying to her and tell her they may kill all of us?”

  Keso shook his head. “They may get you and me, Brewster, but I’ll save Wannie, no matter what.”

  “You’re so damned noble!” Cleve sneered. “Well, I’m not! I think I’ll try to strike some kind of bargain with Coyote. Maybe I can offer him money.”

  Now even Wannie laughed. “Cleve, don’t you understand? The Utes don’t see any value in gold. Didn’t you see what they did with my fabulous jewelry? Last time I saw it, an old squaw and a couple of children were wearing it.”

  “They understand trade goods,” Cleve said, his face pale under his blond hair. “Maybe I can offer—”

  “Some more knives?” Keso interrupted. “Or maybe some rifles or whiskey? Why should you care how many whites or Utes are killed with Brewster trade goods?”

  “Damn it, I don’t care!” Cleve’s voice rose hysterically. “I’ll do anything to save my neck!”

  “Cleve!” Wannie exclaimed, wondering how she could have misread him so. “You’re a rotten coward!”

  “At least I intend to be a live coward,” he shot back, “while your big protector here is going to be very dead!”

  “Brewster,” Keso said, “if we both come out of this alive, I’ll whip you ’til you can’t stand up just for the pure pleasure of it.”

  “I’ll tell the army how you plotted with these Utes,” Cleve threatened, “and you’ll be lucky if they don’t hang you. And as for this pretty slut—”

  Keso hit him then, knocking him back against old Blue, who snorted and moved over to keep from stepping on the white man who groveled in the dirt. “Get up, Brewster, I’m going to kill you now.”

  “No, Keso,” she said and caught his arm, “this isn’t the time for fighting among ourselves.”

  Keso glared at her and started to speak, but Coyote strode up just then. “If you two want to fight over the girl, do it later,” he said in slow English, smiling at Wannie as if he was still thinking of the pleasures of her body. “A scout has just ridden in to say the soldiers are still marching toward us. It looks as if they don’t intend to stop at the reservation boundary!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Major Thomas Tipton Thornburgh, known to his friends as “Tip,” rode across the barren areas of northern Colorado ahead of his troops. He thought of his pretty wife and small children waiting behind at Fort Steele, Wyoming. It had been difficult to say good-bye to them.

  “Lida,” he had said as he kissed her, “don’t fret, we’ll get this little outbreak calmed and be back before you know it.”

  “Tip, I’m worried.” His tiny blond wife’s face showed the strain. “Gossip says there’s thousands of Utes about to go on the warpath.”

  “Dear, you’re from military stock—you know I’ve got a job to do.” Lida, he thought, had been the pretty, eighteen-year-old sister of one of his fellow officers. They’d met at an officers’ dance. Tip was twenty-six years old, ancient by Lida’s standards, but he knew the moment he saw her he wanted her—and he got her. The marriage took place on Tip’s twenty-seventh birthday, December 26. It was a society wedding with lots of West Point brass in attendance, including four generals. After all, Lida’s father was Major Robert Clarke, a distant cousin to General Sherman.

  “I know, Tip, I’m sorry.” Lida ducked her head, ashamed of her worry.

  He was so much taller than she and now he kissed the top of her blond head. “Besides, you know I’m a good shot.” He smiled as he pulled out the beautiful Colt pistol his adoring men had given him at an earlier assignment in Fort Foote, Maryland. His name was engraved in silver on the butt. He was such an expert marksman that General George Crook himself had put Tip up for membership in the prestigious Omaha Gun Club.

  “Dear, I’m sorry you had to cut your hunting trip short. Did your brother mind?” Lida smiled up at him.

  “Matter of fact, Jake was a little put out. We were having such a good time and he’s got a couple of important bankers with him.” Tip smiled at the memory of boisterous good times; he idolized his older brother, who was influential, having once
been a Congressman. “Jake insisted I leave them my scout, Taylor Pennock, so they could continue their hunt.”

  “Was that wise?”

  Tip shrugged. “I’ll hire another scout in Rawlins. Maybe not as good, but it’ll be fine. Now, dear, you take care of my bird dogs, hear?”

  She laughed and hugged him. “I’ll looked out for the Irish setters—you look out for you. Come, children, kiss Daddy good-bye.”

  He hugged the children, Bobby and Olivia. They had had a Centennial baby born in 1876. Sadly, that little son had not lived. “You children take care of your mother ’til I get back.”

  “And we’ll look out for the dogs, too,” seven-year-old Bobby declared.

  “Daddy,” five-year-old Olivia said as she grabbed him about the legs, “can we have a puppy?”

  Lida laughed. “Aren’t two big hunting dogs enough for one family?”

  “We’ll see, sweetheart.” Tip patted the top of his daughter’s head and kissed Lida again. An aide had brought his two red setters around and Tip stooped to pet them both. Then he swung into the saddle and nodded to Captain Payne and the others to mount the troops.

  Tip rode out on that Sunday morning, September 21, looking back at his little family while the two Irish setters strained and barked at the end of their leashes, wanting to go along. “Sorry, old boys, I’m not on a hunt... or maybe I am,” he said under his breath and then squared his shoulders and rode out.

  He was possibly the youngest major in the army at this moment, Tip thought, and that made him a very lucky man. Washington had cut back the military after the Civil War. Now his mind was on Custer as he took his position at the head of his troops and rode away from dusty old Fort Steele, on the bend of the North Platte River. Custer had been a victim of military cutbacks, too; his rank had been cut to Lieutenant Colonel, his men armed with relics left over from the Civil War.

  However, Custer had gotten too cocky and ridden into more Indians than he could handle that hot June day of 1876. Custer was only thirty-four. Tip had been slightly intrigued to learn that Custer had a December birthday, too. If the boy general had lived, he would have been thirty-five that December of 1876.