“I’m here, Father,” Tom was telling him.
“John—”
“We’ll get him.”
Caleb heard the baby crying, and his eyes opened wide. “The … baby—”
“It is a son, Father,” Tom answered. “A son for you and Sarah.”
A tear slipped out of Caleb’s right eye, tracing its way through the dirt and blood on his face. A son. He had been blessed with another son. But what of John? How could he lose a son and gain one all in the same day? But no. He hadn’t lost a son. He would find him. He would get well and find John Sax!
Tom looked over at Jake. “Maybe Lee and I should leave right away and go after them,” he said. “Who knows how long Father will be like this.”
Jake shook his head. “No. Remember who your father is—the great warrior, Blue Hawk. He will find those Comanche, no matter how much time passes. You cannot go out alone, Tom. You do not know those wilder Indians as your father knows them. You must wait until Caleb is well enough.” He looked down at his employer and friend. “It will not take him long. Caleb is a strong man, and his son has been taken. He will go for him … soon.”
Tom looked down at his wounded father. Jake was probably right. He and Lee couldn’t go after the Comanche alone, but when Caleb was ready, they would both go along. Tom Sax wanted his share of vengeance, and Lee would want the same.
Chapter
Two
* * *
“So, what is the report on the Americans?” Antonio López de Santa Anna asked, his dark gaze moving around the polished mahogany table at which he sat with his advisors. He did not care for the stories he was hearing about American resentment of his new dictatorship.
“Some say the Americanos speak of breaking away and forming their own republic,” one of the men answered.
Santa Anna’s eyes narrowed to slits of anger. “That could be quite unfortunate for them.”
“They are angry, Presidente,” another told him. “They approved of the federal constitution under our old government, and of being allowed to form their own constitution. But now they have been told none of these things are valid and that we will enforce Mexican laws even more strongly. These Americans—they do not like to be told what to do.”
Santa Anna sneered. His black, wavy hair lay neatly around the collar of his white, ruffled shirt, and some of the men at the table could not help wondering how the man was able to always look so well-groomed. He put a foot up on the table, his black boots shining with a freshly polished look, covering his tight gray pants to the knee.
“They will learn that they must do as they are told, or suffer the consequences,” Santa Anna said slowly. “These Americans will soon learn who rules this country and its provinces. They are no longer dealing with those sniveling leaders who bow to every American within these borders. Those days are over. We were nice to the American settlers; we let them have all that land for nothing. It was their choice to deal with the Comanche, to struggle against the heat and the drought and whatever else they have had to put up with. That is not my problem. If it had been up to me, I would not have allowed them to come here in the first place.”
“But, Presidente, if I may speak …” another aide said, sitting up straighter and looking nervous.
“Have your say,” Santa Anna told him.
“The Americans … they do not truly want to break away from Mexico. They do not mean us any harm. They only ask for more say in the government, and for the ability to make their laws so that a man does not have to wait in jail for months until a Mexican court can hear his case. And they wish to have more protection against the Indians and outlaws who are always raiding and murdering, raping their women, taking slaves. If we send more soldiers—”
“Enough!” The word was roared and the man jumped, looking away and swallowing. Santa Anna took his foot from the table and shoved back his chair, standing up and walking to a window. “I will hear no more talk about helping the Americans. They no longer want our help, nor deserve it. They claim that their acts against Bradburn and Colonel Ugartechea at Velasco were not against Mexico but only against Bradburn for his unacceptable laws. I do not believe it! That was only the beginning.”
“But, Presidente, fair treatment is all that they ask. It is so simple.”
Santa Anna turned to the man who had spoken the words, and the man’s blood chilled at the look he received. “Nothing is that simple,” Santa Anna growled.
The man gripped the arm of his chair for courage. “But … they want only peace. They are proving it right now.”
Santa Anna glared at him. “How?”
“A messenger came today to tell us Stephen Austin himself, the one who founded San Felipe and began bringing in all the settlers … he is on his way here … to Mexico City … to see you.”
Santa Anna stiffened, moving quickly back to his chair but not sitting down. “And you have just now told me this?”
“I found out only moments ago myself, just before you called us here. He is bringing with him a petition, asking only for reforms in the judicial system and the right to have more local control over political affairs, better schools, a militia. They wish Texas to remain a province of Mexico, but that it be separated from Coahuila. Since they are so far away from Mexico City, trials can take months, and we do not have enough soldiers to—”
“Say no more!” Santa Anna smiled, sitting down in his chair again. “So the great Stephen Austin is coming here … to beg before Santa Anna.” He laughed. “It will be very interesting. I shall have to think about the best way to tell him none of his wishes will be granted.” He flexed his fingers. “He is a brave man—coming here like a sheep to the wolves. It will be a good chance to show the Americans who they are dealing with—the kind of leader they have in Antonio López de Santa Anna.” He rose again, puffing out his chest. “These Americans talk about freedom and cry like babies when they cannot have their way. I will watch Stephen Austin cry!”
Lee held Lynda close, while outside the crickets cried out their nightly song. Soon he, Caleb, and Tom would ride into Comanche country. The rescue attempt would be very dangerous, but it was a risk they had to take. Caleb Sax was determined to get his son away from the Comanche, and it was something they had to do as a family. It was a matter of pride.
Caleb had drawn on some deep spirit that gave him strength to ignore his pain and injuries and get him on his feet within three days of the awful blows of the Comanche warriors.
But even three days was too long when it came to finding John. The whole family knew Caleb was straining against agony as he walked about getting ready for their journey. The women would stay at the home of Wil Handel, a German immigrant and a good neighbor who lived closer to San Felipe. They would be safe there, and with Sarah not yet well, the companionship of Mrs. Handel would help her during the long wait for Caleb, Lee, and Tom to return.
Lynda moved closer, needing the comfort of her husband’s strong arms. When she first met him she teasingly called him a bear, but his gentleness with his wife did not match the description. Lee was almost childlike in his open love for her. He worshipped his wife. He didn’t care that after running away from an orphanage Lynda had lived with a gambler. She had been so young, alone, and frightened. The man had helped her, and loved her in his own way. But he had been killed after cheating in a card game, leaving her alone again. All her life Lynda had never known a real home, nor real love and security. She had finally found it in Lee.
“You’d better come back soon, Lee Whitestone,” she said softly.
“Hey, for you I would walk over hot coals,” he teased her, kissing her neck. “It will be all right, honey.”
He studied Lynda’s beautiful face and blue eyes in the dim light of the lantern. Those eyes were filled with love, and with tears.
“Lee, I’m pregnant,” she blurted out.
At first his face did not change. Then he broke into a broad smile, showing even, white teeth. His dark eyes danced and he let o
ut a howl, pulling her close and hugging her so tightly she could barely catch her breath.
“Pregnant!” He laughed. “We will have a baby! I will have a son!” He pulled back. “When?”
She smiled in return. “About six months, I think. Right around Christmas. But there’s no guarantee it will be a boy.”
He laughed again and kissed her hard. “What does it matter? Such good news!”
Their eyes held as they both thought about the Comanche. He was going to face them to help find John. “Don’t you worry, Lynda. For our baby, for my Lynda, nobody can stop me from coming back.”
He ran a hand over her slender, perfectly rounded body. He was still amazed that this beautiful creature loved him. Lee never thought of himself as handsome. He was not tall, not compared to Caleb and Tom, and Lynda often teased that his stocky muscles were so tight he was incapable of even bending over. But to her he was so beautiful; a joyful, open, energetic young man who had been loyal to her father and had remained to help with the ranch even after his sister Marie had been killed.
Nor did Lee ever question that he and Lynda would stay forever on this land. Lee knew that Lynda would never leave the mother and father she had found after so many years. Caleb Sax’s home would forever be Lee Whitestone’s home, and that was all right with Lee. He had lived on this ranch many years himself, and as long as he could be with this beautiful woman, it didn’t matter where they lived.
Lynda closed her eyes as his hand moved under her gown and over her bare hips. “We have to say good-bye the right way,” he told her. He looked at her almost as though to ask if it was all right. He always approached her that way, as though he needed her permission. She knew he did so because he loved her so much he never wanted to offend her. She wondered if he would ever understand that her love for him was so great he always had the right to take his pleasure with her. But she loved him all the more for being so respectful of her wishes.
She moved a leg over him and kissed him hungrily, letting him know she needed this as much as he. Who could tell how long he would be gone?
He pushed up her gown with strong, callused hands, moving on top of her, neither of them caring about preliminaries. Their joy in each other was mixed with the sorrow of his imminent departure, bringing on an urgency that enhanced their passion so that in a moment he surged inside of her and she arched up to meet him in return.
The wonder of being one with this exquisite beauty had not lessened for Lee Whitestone. To him it was a dear privilege, and it brought ecstasy to his every limb and nerve, always making it difficult for him to hold on long enough to be sure she enjoyed herself in return. He knew by her gasps and whispered words of love that he was pleasing her. Surely she never failed to please him.
Lynda kissed his powerful chest, taking him deep inside herself, wanting to remember everything about him: every powerful muscle, his round, handsome, joyful face, his straight, dark hair, his rhythmic movement inside of her. Precious Lee. His life spilled inside of her, but it was not needed. His seed was already growing in her womb, and her joy should be boundless. It would be, if he were not leaving her to go after Comanche.
At the main house Caleb lay next to Sarah, staring into the darkness. Neither of them would sleep this night. Even if she were healed from the baby, he could not make love to her. John was out there with the Comanche. Would the boy have sense enough to cooperate with them, to be strong and not cry? If he fought them or showed too much weakness, they would kill him.
Again the horror of it surged through him. The agony of the situation was all the worse for Caleb because he was Indian himself, and understood the plight of the wild ones. Even now he could live among the Cheyenne with no trouble at all. He still remembered his own hatred of white men when he was small—remembered the white man who had cut him at Fort Dearborn, the one he’d killed. But since then, he had learned there was good and bad in all races. A white man had raised him, and Caleb had loved Tom Sax like a real father. He’d been a damned good man, and Caleb had named his own first son after him.
“It all boils down to survival,” he said reflectively. “I’m going after my own kind, Sarah, because I want my son to live. When I lived among the Cheyenne, and the Crow killed Walking Grass, I rode against the Crow, killed a lot of them. I’ve called Indians as well as white men both enemy and friend. I’m mostly Indian, yet the Comanche came against me and took my son. I guess it never ends—the killing, the struggle.”
“You could be living as a wild Indian yourself, if not for the paths fate has shown you,” she answered.
He lay quiet for several long seconds. “In some ways I’ve never stopped being Indian, not inside. That’s the hell of it. But this time being Indian myself is to my advantage. That’s how I’ll beat them. I can think like them. No white man can do that.” He turned to her. “That’s why I can’t take along any extra men, Sarah. Too many men and we would be too easily spotted. They won’t be expecting just three.”
She couldn’t stop the quiet tears then. Their baby son was only three days old, and Caleb himself was not physically ready for this. She could not erase the memory of how he’d suffered, the realization of how quickly life can end. She could have lost him! Lost him, after all those years of separation. What hurt the most was realizing that part of his suffering was because of Byron Clawson, whose desire to possess her and her father’s money had brought Caleb so much agony.
“Oh, Caleb, I’m sorry,” she sniffed.
He frowned, resting a big hand on her still-soft stomach. “Sorry? For what?”
She swallowed, a painful lump in her throat. “For your pain,” she managed. “For Byron.”
She felt him stiffen. He pulled her closer and her head nestled against his shoulder. “None of that was your fault and you know it. All you did was love me. I wouldn’t change any of it if it meant forfeiting those days we spent in that cave where I first made you Caleb Sax’s woman. You were mine first and you’ve always been mine, even in the years we were apart.”
“Oh, Caleb,” she wept, pressing her face against him then. “I’ve had you back for such a little while. I lived without you once. I couldn’t … do it again.”
He stroked her lovely red-gold hair. To him she had not changed at all since he’d known her as a little girl, except to grow more beautiful. He knew she would regain her firm, round figure eventually, but he didn’t care. He liked the soft fullness she had taken on because of the baby. He loved watching his new son feeding at her breast. To see what his seed had produced, to see what their love had created filled him with pride. Sarah had insisted on naming the baby James, after Marie and Lee’s father, who had died during his family’s journey to Texas.
“You won’t have to be alone again,” he assured her. “I just told you. It’s my Indian instincts that will help me. I’ll be back, Sarah. I have too much to live for—a daughter I never knew I had, a home and family, this ranch, now James. And you. Always you.”
He winced with pain as he shifted his position, but he let out no sound. She had enough worries without his making her fully aware of how bad his pain still was. He had to learn to ignore it. There was no more time to be wasted lying about waiting to heal. He’d survived the ordeal of the Sun Dance ritual when only eighteen. He’d lived through the bullet wound Byron Clawson had opened in his back. He’d live through whatever the Comanche had in store for him.
He kissed her hair. Sarah. Surely God had not brought them together only to tear them apart again.
Charles Hafer settled into a leather chair near Byron Clawson’s desk, worried over why the wealthy St. Louis banker might have called him to his office. Hafer had had problems paying off his loan from the bank, but he was at least making regular payments, and the manager with whom he had made the arrangements had assured him they had been approved by Mister Clawson.
Hafer glanced around the empty room while he waited for Clawson. He had been ushered into the plush office by a wiry, pompous young man in a dark suit, w
ho had given him no idea of how long he would have to wait. The office was tidy, the hardwood floor was highly polished as was the great oak desk that loomed before Hafer. The large, black leather chair belonging to Byron Clawson sat menacingly on the other side of the desk, as though to threaten him, and Hafer shifted nervously, adjusting his tie and patting the sides of his hair. He reminded himself that Byron Clawson was just a man and no more important than anyone else.
An American flag hung in the corner of the office, and near it sat a large poster with a penciled drawing of Clawson—his face thin, his nose sharp and straight, his thick but receding hair combed into neat waves.
Hafer thought the drawing most certainly made Clawson look better than he did in person, adding a little hair and leaving out the odd shape of the man’s nose. Clawson had a very crooked nose, as though it had once been not just broken but smashed. Perhaps the distorted look it gave him was part of the reason Clawson was not very popular. Hafer supposed the ugly nose was why Clawson dressed in such expensive, perfectly tailored clothes.
Hafer looked down and brushed at his own simple wool suit, angry at the way Clawson was keeping him waiting. Byron Clawson was pompous and arrogant. He was not well liked and had lost a run for mayor of the city, and Hafer wondered at the rumor that Clawson was considering a run for governor of Missouri in the ’36 election. The man surely did not have a chance in the world, but perhaps the rumor was true. The poster drawing near the flag was a leftover from his bid for mayor. He could be planning to use it again.
The door opened with a loud creak that made Hafer jump. He turned to see Clawson coming inside and he smiled. “Good morning, Mister Clawson.”
Clawson took long strides to his desk, not replying. Hafer gauged the man to be in his mid-forties. He stood close to six feet tall, but he had an almost feminine look to him. Hafer, himself six feet tall and built like a bull, knew he could pound a man like Clawson into the ground, but muscle power mattered little in this civilized world. Money was the real power, and that made Byron Clawson the strong man in this office.
Frontier Fires Page 3