Frontier Lady (Lone Star Legacy Book #1)

by Judith Pella

  “You think Pollard would turn her in? Is he still a lawman?”

  “Naw, he ain’t, but he sure looked like he could use a few dollars and wouldn’t be above bounty hunting to get it. If he hangs around these parts at all, it’s only a matter of time before he runs into Deborah. He ain’t likely to have forgotten about a woman he nearly hanged.”

  “You gonna tell Deborah?”

  “I reckon someone’s gotta.”

  “What d’ya think she’ll do?”

  “Who knows? She’s never been too predictable.” Griff paused and a hard, cold expression crossed his countenance. “There’s one other thing we can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get rid of Pollard.”

  Longjim’s eyebrows shot up. He knew Griff well, and though the ex-outlaw wasn’t a killer, he knew Griff could kill. And he knew Griff’s statement wasn’t an idle one.

  “Let’s wait and see afore we do anything hasty,” said Longjim. “Let’s just keep it under our hats; maybe it’ll blow over.”

  “I won’t let ’em destroy her!” vowed Griff.

  “I’m with you, Griff. But—”

  Longjim cut off suddenly and both men tensed as a sharp sound echoed not far from where they stood. Griff jerked his head toward the direction of the sound, where now all was quiet once more, and he signaled Longjim to circle to the left of the spot while he edged to the right. They both drew their six-guns.

  If anyone had heard their conversation, he’d have to be dealt with. Griff always knew he’d kill to protect Deborah, and he was ready to do so now if he had to.

  Quietly he approached the stall where the noise had originated. It was the one where the new colt was kept, but it had not been the animal that had made the sound. When Griff was close enough, he aimed his gun and called in an ominous voice. “Okay, whoever you are, come on out before I shoot this stall full of holes!”

  “Please, don’t shoot me, Uncle Griff!” came a terrified small voice.

  “Lynnie! What in blazes are you doing here?” Griff knew it was a stupid question, but he was too shaken to think clearly.

  Carolyn slowly stood up, pushed open the stall door and crept out. Her face was white with fear, but in her eyes there was confusion.

  “I—I fell asleep with Dusty,” she said.

  “How long you been awake?”

  “A bit.”

  Griff and Longjim exchanged wary looks.

  “What’d you hear?”

  Carolyn cast down her eyes. She well knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, and her fear sprang as much from her own guilt as from fear of Griff’s drawn gun. But she was too tenacious and headstrong to remain docile and submissive for long.

  “Is someone gonna hurt Ma?” she asked.

  “Now, Lynnie, don’t you give what you heard another thought,” answered Griff. “Longjim an’ I was just telling tales, you know, ‘tall’ ones like Slim likes to tell you.”

  “That ain’t so! I’m old enough to know different. I’m almost eight!”

  Usually Carolyn’s precociousness amused him, but this was too serious to draw even a smile from Griff. “Listen here, Carolyn, there is some trouble, but nothing Longjim an’ I can’t handle. Ain’t no need to bother your ma about it. Can you keep a secret?”

  Carolyn thought about it a moment. “From my ma?”

  “Yeah, but it’d be for her own good.”

  “Okay. My ma’s got a secret from me, and now I got one from her.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “She’s got a secret about my pa, and now I got a secret about—What’s it all about, Griff?”

  Griff shook his head and rolled his eyes. The girl could be downright exasperating at times!

  “Something that happened a long time ago and is best forgotten. You hear? Forgotten!”

  Carolyn nodded her head contritely. It was enough that she had her own secret now.

  72

  Late in the summer of 1876, Deborah was working with some new mustangs in the corral. Griff was helping, and Sky, now a strapping, handsome lad of eight, was sitting on the fence rail observing. His attention had momentarily wandered while Griff and his mother were having one of their many discussions on the best horse-breaking techniques, each with strongly opposing views. The boy’s gaze, always apt to focus on the distant horizons, peered across the fields, scanning the place where the sky met the grass. All at once he sat bolt upright.

  “Mama, Griff! Look! Indians!” he cried with pure excitement and no fear.

  The adults immediately looked to where Sky pointed and, sure enough, two riders were approaching, though only Sky’s sharp vision could have discerned their Indian garb from that distance. Deborah gave Griff a puzzled, concerned glance.

  Two years before this, the Indian problem in Texas had been met head on with disastrous results for the Indians. After the battle of Palo Duro Canyon in 1874 when, as at Washita, the Comanche lost all their homes, food and horses, the bands were forced to finally surrender. Deborah had watched with great sorrow as scores of Comanche and other renegade Indians had trudged through her lands on their doleful way north to Indian Territory. She had recalled Broken Wing’s dream and knew this must surely have been what he had seen. And for once she had been almost glad that he had not lived to witness this awful time.

  Were these Indians more latecomers on their way to the reservation? Or were they renegades? Rumor said there were still some out there, striking blows for justice.

  Griff merely shrugged at Deborah’s unspoken concern. “Ain’t never had to worry before. Don’t see why we should start now.”

  In another five minutes they were close enough to make out further details. They were warriors, and though neither held a weapon in his hand, each had a bow and rifle fastened to his saddle. One man was definitely a Comanche and, from his rather ornate attire, was very likely a chief of substantial standing. The second rider, however, most arrested Deborah’s attention.

  She suddenly gasped and gripped Griff’s arm. “Griff! The rider on the right is Cheyenne!”

  “I do believe you’re right.”

  They waited in silence. Sky climbed down from his perch on the fence and sidled up to his mother, standing close without appearing to cower behind her skirts. He watched the proceedings with total concentration.

  When the Indians rode into the yard, Deborah was further surprised to see that the Cheyenne rider was no stranger. He, too, indicated his recognition of her by a barely discernible faltering in his impassive visage. Deborah, all her previous apprehension gone, stepped boldly forward and greeted the visitors in Cheyenne.

  “Hello, Stands-in-the-River,” she said. “It is good to see my old friend and brother.”

  “Wind Rider.” He bowed his head toward her, his bearing full of respect. “When they said a white woman had honored the Comanche dead, I did not know if it could be you, but I had to meet such a white woman, regardless. I am glad it is you, my sister.”

  “Will you dismount and come into my lodge?”

  Stands-in-the-River glanced at his companion, who gave a slight shake of his head.

  “We think it unwise to tarry in the white man’s settlements too long,” replied Stands-in-the-River.

  “You will always find sanctuary here,” Deborah said. “In all these years the Comanche have withheld their hand from my ranch, and I will return such consideration with friendship and peace.”

  “You have honored our dead,” said the Comanche. “We have a name for you in our camp: ‘She-Who-Buries-Warriors.’ We speak it with respect.”

  “It is I who am honored,” said Deborah. “And by what name can I call you?”

  “I am Dark Eagle. I am a Comanche chief.” As he spoke he seemed to draw himself up even taller in his saddle. He was a proud man, but melancholy infused his eyes.

  “We go to surrender ourselves at Fort Sill in the Indian Territory,” said Stands-in-the-River. “My woman and children wait for me.”

  “
You have fought a long, hard battle.” It was all Deborah could say.

  “We knew few victories,” said Stands-in-the-River. “We thought the Little Big Horn was a victory. But it was not, for it only brought the anger of the bluecoats down on us harder than ever.”

  Deborah recalled when a few weeks ago word had come to the ranch of the massacre of the Seventh Cavalry and its flamboyant commander, George Armstrong Custer. She clearly remembered when she had wished that very fate upon Custer, but the passage of years and the work of God had changed her heart dramatically. Now she only grieved the hapless general.

  “We now must admit defeat and accept the fate the white man has for us.”

  “You are a good man, a worthy warrior, Stands-in-the-River,” said Deborah with conviction. Though he had been headstrong and sometimes even foolhardy, she admired his courage. “The Cheyenne will need men such as you to help them learn new ways.”

  “I know only the hunting of the buffalo. How can I teach others new ways when I know none myself?”

  “Because you are a fighter, my friend. You do not give up easily.” She smiled with confidence as she added, “You will learn the new ways and you will teach others.”

  “My brother made a good choice of a woman when he married you, Wind Rider.”

  The mention of Broken Wing brought a small twinge of remembered pain to Deborah, but she immediately realized it was a different feeling from the aching emptiness she had suffered in the months and years immediately following his death. His memory now brought a pleasant joy to her heart also. And she suddenly remembered the small figure standing nearby.

  Reaching out her hand, she beckoned Sky to her. His eyes were wide with awe as he came to her without hesitation. Deborah took his hand in hers, aware again of how much he resembled his father. She hardly needed to speak her next words but she did, anyway.

  “This is his son, Blue Sky—your nephew, Stands-in-the-River.”

  Broken Wing’s brother looked the boy over carefully, then smiled with approval. “He will be a fine Cheyenne warrior one day.” Then Stands-in-the-River lifted an ornately beaded collar from around his neck. “Come,” he said to the boy, and Sky immediately stepped forward. Bending low over his horse, Stands-in-the-River slipped the necklace over Sky’s head. “You are naha, son to me,” he said solemnly. “I shall be your nehuo.”

  Sky gazed intently up into his uncle’s eyes. He not only fully understood the man’s Cheyenne, for Deborah had been careful that he did not lose his father’s language, but Sky also fully comprehended the deep significance of the moment. This man was of his father’s people, and he was now accepting Sky as one of them. It would be a moment that would stand out in his life as a brightly shining star, never to dim or fade from his memory.

  “Thank you, Nehuo,” Sky replied in Cheyenne.

  Stands-in-the-River nodded. “Be proud always of who you are and of who your people are.”

  Then the Cheyenne brave straightened in his saddle and looked once more at Deborah. He said, “Perhaps our trails will cross again; if not, I have been made greater in knowing you.”

  “And I also,” said Deborah. “Greet Stone Teeth Woman for me and tell her I continue to hold her in deep affection. And, if you see Gray Antelope Woman, tell her”—a lump formed in Deborah’s throat as she realized she had far too much to share with her dear old friend than could be conveyed in a single message—“tell her the same.”

  “It will be done,” said Stands-in-the-River. “Goodbye, Wind Rider Woman.”

  “Goodbye, my brother,” said Deborah, then, turning to Dark Eagle, “And to you also, Dark Eagle. May God travel with you!”

  They reined their ponies around and trotted away, leaving only a cloud of Texas dust in their wake. More than dust, however, remained in the hearts and memories of both mother and son as they stood watching the departure of the warriors.

  For Deborah, the appearance of the two Indians was a fitting affirmation of the importance in her life of those special years with the Cheyenne. After so many years away, the polish on her memories had begun to dull somewhat, but this encounter made clearer than ever the fact that she would always have two noble heritages to treasure.

  For Sky, the visit was burned into his young mind. This was the first tangible link, within his memory, to his heritage, and its impact went further than all of Deborah’s stories in impressing upon him that he was not only different, but that his was a noble, laudable difference. Later, when faced with inevitable bigotry because of his Indian blood—such as he had already experienced at the hands of the likes of Billy Yates—he would be able to look back upon that moment in the yard of the ranch. Recalling his uncle, mighty and fearsome even in defeat, Sky would hold his head up with pride.

  73

  Christmas of 1878 began as little different from the many previous holidays at the Wind Rider Ranch. That week had been marked with typically icy wind and frost and a severe hailstorm. Christmas morning, however, dawned with a pale blue sky and a paler sun struggling to warm the crisp air. The children had opened their presents in a flurry of highly energized excitement, followed by the traditional gathering of the ranch hands for a festive breakfast of ham, flapjacks, eggs, and Yolanda’s delicious sopaipillas with raspberry sauce and honey. Carolyn and Sky then distributed the family’s gifts to each of the hands and to Yolanda.

  Later in the day a family dinner was planned that would include Yolanda, Griff, Longjim, and, hopefully, Slim. Slim and two of Deborah’s hands had accompanied Reverend Slaughter on the fall cattle drive and were expected back any day.

  Deborah often smiled to herself when she considered the irony of the three ex-outlaws becoming “family” to her and practically father figures to her children. They were coarse, roughhewn men, truly Western men who carried their six-guns wherever they went and who were far more at home on the backs of their horses than in Deborah’s simple drawing room. They were hardly spiritual men, but they were God-fearing in their own way, and Deborah would be the last to judge them for their more uncivilized habits. She prayed for each of them daily that they would allow God to take complete control of their lives. Until that prayer was answered, she believed that each nevertheless had a good deal in the way of practical wisdom to impart to her children.

  While she fed Carolyn and Sky their spiritual food, these men taught them how to live in the West, and for the most part, a balance was achieved. Both children could ride, handle a gun, break horses, rope and brand, and drive cattle. In fact, though Deborah hated to admit it, they were far more proficient in ranching than in Christianity. And Deborah knew she was to blame for this weakness because she could only teach them what she knew, and her own knowledge was limited to what she could glean for herself from the Scriptures. There was no church within a two-day ride from the ranch, and a circuit rider came through once, maybe twice a year. Besides their religious training, Deborah was responsible for their regular schooling as well, since no school was near enough for the children to attend. All this had to fit into the rigorous labors of running a large ranch.

  Thus, Deborah had lately been giving this matter over to much prayer.

  Yet, as oddly mixed as it was, the three ex-outlaws and Deborah and Carolyn and Sky and their dear old Mexican housekeeper, Yolanda, were indeed a family with strong bonds of love and loyalty forged between them. So it was not surprising that on that Christmas Day, the children asked several times if Slim would get home in time for Christmas dinner. Sky was worried because Slim’s present, a leather vest that Sky himself had picked out was still unopened. Griff was worried too, and several times Deborah saw him glance up from his work and gaze off into the distance. They should have been back two weeks ago. There might not be much of an Indian problem anymore, though there could still be a renegade or two loose; but the plains were rife with other hazards—rustlers and outlaws, not to mention natural dangers like storms and swollen rivers and rattlesnakes.

  After working in the corral for a while, Debo
rah returned to the kitchen to help with the finishing touches for dinner. The roasting wild turkey Longjim had shot two days ago was filling the house with a lovely aroma, along with the scent of apple and pecan pies. Carolyn had taken great pains to set the table with the best dishes and silverware and Deborah’s best tablecloth.

  “It all looks beautiful, Carolyn!” Deborah said.

  “I wish we had holly to make a centerpiece for the table,” Carolyn replied.

  “I almost forgot!” Deborah went to the oak sideboard in the kitchen, opened a drawer and removed a package wrapped in newspaper. Spreading apart the paper, she spoke again. “I bought these in Jacksboro the last time I was there and put them away for the holidays. I wonder what else I have stashed away and have forgotten all about!” With a triumphant flourish she lifted two red tapers and two white china candlesticks from the wrapping.

  “They are nice, Mother,” said Carolyn. “At least they are better than nothing.”

  Deborah tried not to reflect on Carolyn’s subtly twisted compliment. She was happy to get any compliment at all from her moody thirteen-year-old daughter.

  Just as they were turning from admiring the table, Sky burst into the room followed by a gust of cold wind that nearly destroyed all Carolyn’s handiwork.

  “Mama! Riders are coming from the east!” he yelled between breathless pants. “Three of ’em, Mama, just like the Wise Men in the song.”

  Laughing at the apt analogy, Deborah followed her son out to the porch. Carolyn trailed after them.

  “Do you think it’s Slim, Mother?” she asked.

  “I hope so.”

  The riders were galloping toward the ranch now, waving their hats in exuberant greeting. But when the middle rider took off his hat, Deborah gasped as the dull rays of the sun distinctly reflected off the rider’s red hair.

  “It can’t be!” she breathed.

  “That’s Slim, all right!” Sky said with a whoop. “And Reverend Slaughter. But who’s the other one? It ain’t one of our hands.”