The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series)

by Shirl Henke

  “...He left me with the Frenchman, expecting I'd return to Boston where I'd be safe. I didn't tell him my father had given my inheritance to Hugh's family and I was penniless. I didn't tell him I was carrying his child either.”

  Jeremiah Remington blinked, pole axed. Then to her utter relief he smiled and the look of anguish burning behind his eyes left for a moment. He stood up and walked around the table to her chair and took her hands in his. “My dear Stephanie, I arranged your betrothal to my grandson four years ago. At last I'll have the chance to marry you and that young rapscallion.”

  “First we'll have to get Chase out of prison,” she said, smiling in spite of the lump in her throat.

  Jeremiah's obvious delight over his great-grandchild dimmed for a moment. “Yes, I'll put my attorneys to investigating how we can free him. With the good Lord's help we'll have him home before his firstborn comes into the world.”

  He paced across the room to stand beside his desk, then turned to her and said, “Of course you will live here while I see to extricating Chase.” It was not a request.

  Stephanie fought a smile and replied gravely, “Of course, Reverend Remington.”

  His imperious expression vanished as he took a seat behind the massive oak desk. He extracted a small white leather volume from one of the drawers. At first Stephanie thought it was a Bible but something in his eyes when they met hers indicated this was not going to be a sermon. Then she saw the faint gold etching on the outside cover. It was a diary. He looked unsure of himself, suddenly old and oddly vulnerable. The pain in those fierce blue eyes held her spellbound. She waited for him to speak. When he began his ringing sonorous voice was hushed with bleakness.

  “I found this only a few days before I received word that Burke was dead,” he said, looking down at the well-worn volume. “I had finally worked up the courage to go through Anthea' s personal belongings and dispose of them, a task I could not in conscience leave to servants. It was well hidden, no doubt to keep it secret from her brother. God forgive me, I might have killed him myself if he'd lived to return home.” He shook his head, then looked up at her, his face haggard and pale, the only color in it those blue eyes, like Burke's, yet not alike. “Chase was the one who killed him, wasn't he?”

  “Yes. Burke plotted with my husband to lay a trap to capture the White Wolf using me as bait. They intended to kill us both. Burke shot Chase twice before Chase got to him.” She shuddered remembering the awful bloody reenactment of the medicine dream, then faced Jeremiah. He had a right to know it all. “Five years ago, the night of the Cabot’s' ball, I overheard Burke paying an assassin to murder Chase. He's always wanted him dead. I assumed it was because he wanted your money for himself or because of the circumstances of Chase's birth.” She met his eyes.

  “My grandson tried to tell me about the monster my son was but I refused to believe him. I closed my mind to the truth.” He ran his fingers through his hair and then cradled his head in his hands. “I look back on it all now, after reading Anthea's...my daughter's pleas.” His voice broke. “She was a child and I was her father and I let this…this abomination happen!”

  Stephanie went to him and placed her arms around his shoulders, something she was certain no one had ever dared to do before in his life. “You didn't know. Burke was cunning and devious...and quite mad.”

  “I was so busy setting other people's houses to right, castigating their sins that I failed to see the awful sin in my own house...or God help me I saw the truth and suppressed it, let my mind play tricks. I've dredged up every memory I have from their childhoods...and I just don't know. When my wife died, Anthea was only three, Burke ten. I grieved inwardly and let servants raise them. Perhaps if I'd paid attention then I could have saved them both. At least I should have saved her from him. I refused to listen to Chase when he appealed for me to help his mother. I think he blamed her as well as us and I have that on my conscience, too. That's when he ran away.”

  “He was only fourteen. By the time he was brought back he understood that she was a victim, only a child who couldn't stop Burke. She never asked for your help, did she?” Stephanie asked, already knowing the answer.

  He shook his head. “She never accused her brother in words, but if I'd been a better father, if I'd been home with them instead of furthering my own career, I could have done something before it was too late. She married a German blacksmith's son when she was only seventeen just to escape.”

  “Perhaps it was destined to be that way. If she hadn't gone west she wouldn't have met Vanishing Grass and Chase might never have been born.”

  He reached up and patted her hand awkwardly. “You are a remarkable young woman. One of the few things I did right in my life was to approve his choice of you.” She blinked at that but said nothing as he continued. “If only I had listened to Chase when he came to me on his mother's behalf...I could have saved you both so much suffering.”

  “He was a distraught boy then, always unhappy here in the East. I can understand why you couldn't accept his accusations. He intended to return to his father's people long before he learned about Anthea and Burke.”

  Jeremiah snorted. “He made it crystal clear that he hated my guts even before he learned to speak English.”

  “You're a great deal alike, you know.”

  The old man looked startled, then pleased, a bit of the anguish in his eyes replaced by something else. Wistful-ness, perhaps? “Do you really think so? I can't wait to see the expression on his face when you tell him that!”

  * * * *

  The months wore on yet all their attempts to free Chase from prison were frustrated. Even the wealth and prestige of the Remington name could not expedite the legal wrangling as Jeremiah's attorneys petitioned through the courts. Feelings against Indians had run high ever since the battle on the Little Bighorn. Custer, always a popular figure with the Eastern press, was now elevated to the status of a martyr, an image his widow, Libby, was highly successful in magnifying. Chase Remington, as the White Wolf, had been one of the participants in the battle—or massacre, depending on whose point of view. Indeed, one cynical newspaperman said that a “battle” was an occasion when the whites won, a “massacre” when the Indians did.

  Stephanie testified before judges and congressional committees. Through their attorneys she sent dozens of sworn depositions explaining how the peaceful Indian camp had been attacked by the army, how the warriors were forced to defend their women and children, even that Chase was nowhere near Custer's last stand but engaged in fighting down in a coulee by the river when the Long Hair was being overwhelmed on a rise to the northeast, over a mile away. No one listened. Or if they did, they were afraid to move against the temper of the times. An appeal to President Grant failed. In spite of his political differences with Custer, as a career military man himself, Grant could never free an Indian who had challenged the army's right to pacify savages and place them on reservations.

  Then in November the furor over the presidential election forced the nation's attention away from the Indian question. After much political maneuvering and chicanery the Hayes-Tilden controversy was settled in the Republican's favor and Rutherford B. Hayes became the nineteenth president. He would be inaugurated in March of 1877. Jeremiah, who had been a substantial contributor to Hayes's campaign, planned to travel to Washington for the ceremony, taking Stephanie and her baby with him. Surely such a personal appeal for a pardon would not be turned aside. In the meanwhile they waited and they prayed.

  Stephanie wanted to go to St. Augustine herself to be certain the food and medicine intended for Chase actually reached him. However, Jeremiah persuaded her not to make the trip because of the danger to her unborn baby if she undertook such a long and arduous journey in the latter stages of her confinement. She wrote to Chase but her letters were unanswered. The only thing she did know for certain was that he was alive.

  The same could not be said for his Cheyenne family. Desperate to find her adopted children, Stephanie
had convinced Jeremiah to send agents to search the reservation outside Fetterman but Stands Tall, Kit Fox and the other survivors of the massacre at the stronghold seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, taking Smooth Stone and Tiny Dancer with them. Chase had told her about Little Wolf's pledge to accept them into his band and prayed they were once more wintering somewhere in the isolated reaches of the Yellowstone country. But it was only a matter of time until all the Cheyenne were forced to join their brothers and their ancient enemies alike in the hot country to the south. She vowed to find the children and bring them to live with her before she let that happen.

  Her life with Jeremiah was a pleasant surprise. The stern old clergyman had become much more of a father to her than her biological father had ever been. As a child, she had stood in terrified awe of Jeremiah Remington. Now she found his stern Puritanical zeal greatly softened by a new compassion born of great suffering. He still carried the guilt over Anthea and Chase. His daughter's forgiveness was beyond hope this side of the grave, but Chase's was not. Stephanie poured out her heart to her love in letters, telling him about the old man's kindness, his compassion and his profound regrets. With every stroke of the pen, her determination grew. Chase must see the changes in Jeremiah. He must forgive his grandfather.

  “Perhaps he can't and that's why he refuses to answer my letters,” she murmured, looking out at the thickening swirls of snow blocking the view through her window. The city had been blanketed by a foot of snow at Christmas and every few days in January brought another blizzard, each seemingly fiercer than the one before it. The one howling around the corners of the formidable Remington mansion now had begun hours earlier and showed no signs of abating.

  Stephanie felt the baby kick and patted her distended abdomen, feeling a warm rush of love. How eagerly she awaited the birth. Suddenly the gentle kick, which she had grown used to over the months, became a long hard pull that seemed to wrap around her belly. She dropped her pen as the tightening intensified into a full-blown pain. The doctor had told her last week that she had several weeks to go yet. What if this meant something was wrong?

  Trying not to panic, she took a deep breath when the contraction eased, then stood up and reached for the bell-pull, summoning her maid. By the time the cheerful little Irishwoman entered the room, another contraction had Stephanie doubled up on her knees beside the desk. Bridget's frantic cries brought more servants on the run. In moments they had Stephanie undressed and changed into a night rail, lying in her large four-poster bed. Outside snow and sleet drove against the window as the wind howled ominously.

  “What do you mean he's not at home?” Jeremiah bellowed at his driver, who had been dispatched to fetch Dr. Jamison.

  “His wife said he went to the hospital this morning, then sent word he'd be staying the night because of an outbreak of cholera,” the snow-covered coachman replied through frozen lips. “I tried to get through to the hospital but the storm is that bad. I couldn't make it with the brougham, yer reverence, sir. Thought I'd give it a try on horseback soon as I can saddle one of the riding mounts.”

  Jeremiah stopped his agitated pacing long enough to look at the man's frozen features. “Go to the kitchen, Jonathon, and have Mildred fix you some hot coffee. I'll send one of the stable boys.”

  Upstairs Stephanie lay smothered in pain, focused on the breathless agony that ebbed and flowed in waves. How many hours had passed? She was uncertain of time. It was dark outside and the storm had not abated. Jeremiah had come to sit with her, then left to check on the doctor while Bridget and the housekeeper, Mrs. Keenan, kept watch over her. The reverend had offered encouragement as best he could, and prayers. She knew he was worried about Dr. Jamison's tardiness, although he put on a brave front for her benefit. She was worried as well, even though she assured him the doctor had told her these things took many hours, especially with first babies.

  But what if this isn't going right? her mind screamed at her. She was three weeks early. Please, God, spare Chase's baby. He's suffered so many losses—Anthea, Vanishing Grass, Red Bead...

  Suddenly Stephanie became aware of a presence other than the two nervous women who fussed with the bed covers and urged her to lie still and wait for the doctor. She struggled up on her elbows, blinking her eyes as she stared at the foot of her bed.

  “Lie back down, my dear,” Mrs. Keenan said, pressing on Stephanie's shoulders.

  Stephanie ignored her. The presence seemed to float, suspended in midair like bay fog, growing stronger now, materializing into sharper focus. Then another contraction seized her and she fell back with a gasp, arching helplessly as the crippling pain seared her.

  Do not fight the pain, move with it. Let your body work for you. You must arise and walk until the little one drops. He will be a fine, strong boy just as his father was.

  “Red Bead?” Stephanie croaked through cracked lips bitten bloody. She could make out the old crone's toothless smile wavering in front of her and recognized her raspy voice.

  I assisted at the birth of Chase the Wind. How could I desert his son?

  “You must save your strength, my dear,” Mrs. Keenan said.

  “Sure now 'n' don't be gettin' yerself all worked up,” Bridget added.

  They are blind, Red Bead said. You must show these foolish ones what to do. They know nothing of birthing.

  When the contraction was at its lowest ebb, Stephanie took a deep breath and said, “I am not worked up, Bridget. I need to walk. It will help speed the birth.” Without waiting for a reply, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “Now, help me move,” she commanded, feeling the pain begin to deepen once more.

  “Ma'am, I really don't think—”

  Stephanie ignored the older woman and seized hold of Bridget's hand saying, “Dr. Jamison told me this was what I should do.” A prevarication but it stopped their protests.

  Have them hold your arms so you can move with the pains.

  Miraculously the contraction seemed to ease once she was in an upright position. A sense of acceptance and peace pervaded her body and soul. Red Bead was with her. All would be well. The Everywhere Spirit had heard her prayers. She ordered the servants to do as Red Bead had instructed her. They walked across the room, then into the long hallway where they encountered Jeremiah on his way back to sit with Stephanie.

  He looked aghast. “What in heaven's name are you doing? Mrs. Keenan—”

  “I told them I needed to walk, Jeremiah. It will help speed the birth,” she assured him, taking his arm. “Come, help me. I think I feel another contraction starting up.”

  He blanched but did as she asked. “I sent Hiram to the hospital for Jamison. If he can't find the man, he's instructed to bring another physician.”

  Stephanie smiled through the pain, no longer stiffening rigidly, letting her body work with it. “Don't worry, Jeremiah. I'm going to be just fine and so is your great-grandson.”

  He looked at her oddly. “So now you think it's a boy, eh?”

  “Now I know it is,” she replied.

  They walked the halls for several more hours. Jeremiah expressed amazement that she could withstand the pain and keep on moving. She assured him all was going according to plan. Twice he left her with the women and went downstairs to check on the doctor's arrival. The storm had made conditions virtually impassable on the streets of the city. No one was venturing out into the thigh-high snow and blinding winds. When the second stable boy failed to return, the old man was ready to ride out himself. Stephanie convinced him that she needed him to stay with her.

  “After all, Dr. Jamison explained to me precisely what I was to do,” she lied.

  “I've never heard of such a way to give birth. What sort of newfangled ideas do those Boston General doctors have anyway?” he groused.

  Stephanie had to smile, thinking of the age-old ways of Cheyenne women, but she said nothing.

  When the contractions began to merge into one solid wall of pain, Red Bead told her what to do n
ext. It is time for the birth soon. You must send Grandfather away. His task is complete. Yours has only begun.

  Stephanie grimaced, thinking of all the hours she had already invested. “Jeremiah, I think it's time for you to leave us now,” she said at the door to her room.

  “I can't leave you alone,” he protested. “Where is that damned doctor!”

  “Mrs. Keenan and Bridget will help me. Everything will be all right. Trust me.”

  “I shall pray for you—and that great-grandson of mine,” he said, squeezing her hand before he released it.

  Stephanie went into her room with the women and closed the door, waiting for Red Bead's instructions. You must squat down on the floor and push.

  It made sense, in an unorthodox way, to let gravity work for her. Stephanie knew the women would be horrified. Just think, giving birth on the floor like a savage red Indian, especially considering who the baby's father was! But she convinced Mrs. Keenan by sheer force of will to spread a clean sheet on the rug while Bridget was sent downstairs for warm water, towels, a sharp knife, and a ball of string.

  Your task has only begun. Supported by Mrs. Keenan, Stephanie braced herself and pushed as sweat began to pour down her body, soaking her hair and the night rail. Again. And again. “I...can...feel...him,” she panted out shallowly between pushes.

  * * * *

  A thousand miles away in the darkness and chill of a rainy Florida night Chase awakened to the sound of a woman's piercing scream. “Stevie!” He bolted upright in the dank little cell and rolled from his cot onto his feet. Slimy sand seeped between his toes but he was used to the persistent misery inside the ancient stone fortress. He paced over to the cell's one tiny window and looked out at the night sky.

  “Stevie,” he repeated, knowing he had not dreamed the cry. It was wrenching, primal. She was in terrible pain and he was a continent away, unable to help her. He clutched the bars and squeezed until his hands ached as the frustration of helplessness washed over him. This was the worst part of the rotting death of prison, not knowing the fate of the woman he loved. Her time was near now. What if...