Warrior's Prize

by Georgina Gentry

  Cherokee was touched by the older man’s earnest plea, remembering that Greeley, the publishing mogul, flattered at having a town named for him, had used his influence to help Meeker get this job. “I can understand your viewpoint, Meeker, but you don’t understand Indians. You’ll never turn Utes into peaceful farmers.”

  “We’ll see.” Meeker went to the window and stared out. “My wife and daughter are working with the women and children and soon we’ll dig some irrigation ditches. There’s a fertile place out there in this valley that would be great for crops.”

  Cherokee got up, came to the window, stared out, and saw the mid-July heat shimmering over the land. “That valley? Surely you can’t be serious!”

  “I certainly am.”

  “But that’s where the Utes race their horses. They’ve used it as a racetrack for years. They’ll never let you plow that up.”

  Meeker made a gesture of dismissal. “I don’t need their permission. I’m in charge here, and Washington tells me they’ll back me up as needed.”

  “It’ll be needed,” Cherokee promised as he shook his head with disgust, “believe me. The Utes have lived at peace with whites for generations, but when you try to make them stop racing their beloved horses, you go too far.”

  “Mr. Evans, you exaggerate the possible danger,” Meeker sniffed. “I’m sure the Utes will eventually see that I’m right about this. I’ve got Chief Ouray coming in today to talk this over and calm things down.”

  With a sigh, Cherokee went to the door. “Ouray is a great man,” he said, “he’s of a different clan farther south. I don’t know how much influence he’ll have on these northern Utes.”

  Meeker shrugged. “The Utes must learn to live like white men. The time of the roaming, uncivilized savage is over. This past year the Cheyenne, the Bannock, and the Ponca have had to face that harsh reality, and the Nez Perce the year before that.”

  There was no use talking to this man, Cherokee realized. “What you say may be true, Meeker, but change has to come gradually. Believe me, if you plow up that valley where they race their ponies, you’re going to have trouble.”

  The agent snorted in derision. “I think you exaggerate and overestimate these simple savages. Besides, Washington says I can count on help from Fort Steele.”

  “You’ll need help,” Cherokee promised him, “but by the time you realize it and those troops get here from Wyoming, it may be too late. Fort Steele is almost two hundred miles north of here.”

  “I don’t need you to teach me geography. I know this agency is isolated, but the Utes are docile, except for sneaky things like setting fire to forests.”

  “Be sensible,” Cherokee said as he pushed his hat back. “The Utes are getting the blame for those forest fires, but my guess is they’re being started by drunken timber men or would-be settlers trying to stir up trouble.”

  Meeker pulled out his watch. “I’ve wasted a lot of time this morning, Mr. Evans. I do appreciate your concerns, but I’m capable of dealing with a handful of Indians.”

  He was being dismissed, and the man had not listened to a word he said. Cherokee gritted his teeth to control his anger. “At least my conscience is clear. Who is the officer in charge at Fort Steele?”

  “Major Thornburgh, I believe.”

  “Oh, yes, one of those officers sent to try to corral the Cheyenne in that trouble a year ago. As I remember, that was an embarrassment for him.”

  “So he’ll be trying twice as hard to clear that off his record.” Meeker’s blue eyes gleamed triumphantly. “Thornburgh will deal with the Utes if I need him.”

  “Two hundred miles across rough, desolate country to get him here,” Cherokee reminded him. “At least, Meeker, think of the safety of the others at this agency.”

  “Are you saying my wife and daughter, Mrs. Price and her two little children, and all my workmen might be in danger?”

  “Only if you persist in pushing the Utes beyond endurance.”

  “Good day, Mr. Evans,” the agent dismissed him. “It was kind of you to come.”

  “Damn it, man, I didn’t come out of kindness,” Cherokee roared. “I’m trying to stop an Indian war!”

  He stalked out the door and slammed it behind him. He had wasted his time, Cherokee thought as he walked toward his horse. Maybe the man would think it over and take his advice. There was nothing to do now but go home.

  He mounted up and tipped his hat to the elderly Mrs. Meeker and her pretty grown daughter, Josie, as he rode out. There was an attractive woman hoeing a garden with two young children playing around her feet, as well as perhaps a dozen white men doing chores around the place that Meeker had been unable to force the Utes to do.

  As he rode away from the agency, he met a dignified Ute riding in on a dapple pony. The man was not yet fifty, but he looked older. Everyone had heard the leader was not in good health. Yet, “the Arrow” was an apt description. Cherokee paused and held up his hand. “How, Ouray.”

  The chief reined in his pony. “Ah, long time, my half-breed friend.”

  Cherokee nodded. “Will you sit and smoke pora?” He touched the sack of tobacco in his shirt.

  The bronze face registered regret. “Not this day. The maricat’z agent expects me and white men are slaves to the ticking thing in their pockets.” He laughed.

  Cherokee laughed, too. “The great chief Ouray is right and the agent is upset enough already. I try to talk sense to him.”

  “They are taking our land little by little. They took those mountains to the south they call the San Juans and now they want the rest of it.” The dark face saddened. “For many generations, we have been friends of the maricat’z. This is how they repay us.”

  “I know. I feel shame for my white blood this day.” Cherokee sighed.

  Ouray looked around as if thinking. “Much of this land is too dry for farming. The white man will water it with our blood unless I can calm the nunt’z, my people.”

  “I have a son,” Cherokee said. “I do not want him to die fighting in a useless war.”

  “Once I had a son, but no more.” Ouray’s dark eyes grew sad. “A son makes a man’s life worthwhile and gives him grandsons to honor his old age.”

  “You speak true.” No doubt the chief’s son had died early, Cherokee thought, and his heart swelled with pride at the thought of Keso. He could not love the boy more or take any more pride in him had Keso been his own flesh and blood. “Well, good-bye then, and try to humor the agent. The Shining Mountains must not be soaked in blood.”

  Ouray nodded. “I will do my best. Already, my piwan, Chipeta, lives in a house and she buys rugs and forks and the other trappings of white wives.”

  “Good-bye, friend.” Cherokee nudged his horse and rode away. He had done everything he could to avert trouble. Now it was up to the Ute chief.

  Ouray watched the big half-breed riding away. Cherokee Evans was a friend to the Cheyenne, but still, the Ute had a grudging admiration for him. As tawacz viem, chief, Ouray would try to avert trouble so that all could live in peace. He wished he had a fine son to bring him pride and put meat on his fire now that he was slowly dying. The Cheyenne had carried his little son off in a raid. No doubt the child was long dead. He tried not to think about that anymore. It had been so long ago that he doubted he could recognize his own son should he ever find him again, but there was always that telltale scar on the back of the child’s right arm. An older boy, Yorowit’z, the Coyote, had said Ouray’s son had fallen into the campfire, but Ouray had always doubted that story.

  What difference did that make now? With a sigh, Ouray nudged his horse and rode toward the agency, hoping against hope he could reason with this stubborn maricat’z, Meeker.

  “It’s been a wonderful visit,” Wannie assured Cleve and Alexa as she and Keso boarded the train in the July heat. For just a moment, she wondered if Cleve would kiss her, but then Keso grabbed her arm. “Come on, the train is leaving.”

  Alexa smiled at Keso. “Oh, don’
t worry, there’s lots of time yet.”

  Keso pulled Wannie’s arm more insistently. “I think we’d better find a seat.” To the couple on the platform, he said, “It was nice. We’re much obliged for your hospitality.”

  Alexa batted her long lashes. “With your sister marrying my brother, surely we’ll see more of each other.”

  “Hmm,” Keso murmured with apparent lack of enthusiasm.

  How could he be so rude! Wannie thought and held her hand out to Cleve. “I’ll be expecting you in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, I’ll come out to meet your parents sometime late next month or early September.” He leaned forward as if he were going to kiss Wannie good-bye.

  At that precise moment, Keso pulled her away. “We’d better find our seats-the train is pulling out soon.”

  How could Keso be so thoughtless! He seemed oblivious to everything except propelling her up the steps and into the car. They took seats and waved out the window at the pair on the platform as the engine issued a warning whistle. Wannie blew kisses as the train pulled away.

  Once the train was out of the station, she turned on Keso. “You were terrible! Didn’t you understand that Cleve was wanting to kiss me good-bye?”

  He shrugged and didn’t meet her gaze. “Oh, really? Well, he can kiss you after you’re married.”

  How could he be so oblivious to her feelings? “Matter of fact, during our whole time as house guests at Steel Manor, I hardly ever got to be alone with Cleve. Every time, you showed up.”

  “I was protecting my sister’s reputation.” He didn’t look at her as be settled his big frame into the seat.

  “Hah! Spoken like a prissy old maid aunt!” Wannie fumed. “Honestly, Keso, I don’t need a chaperon.”

  “I’m just looking out for you, brat, that’s all.” He fixed his dark gaze on the buildings and landscape moving past the window.

  “What is it with you, Keso?” She was genuinely puzzled. “My future husband is going to look out for me. Why don’t you look out for Alexa? Anyone with half an eye can see she’s smitten with you.”

  “Alexa’s not my responsibility.”

  “Well, neither am I anymore. Don’t you understand, Keso? I’m not a little girl now.”

  “Wannie,” he said and looked at her as if he was struggling for words, swallowing hard. “Doesn’t it matter that I-I love you?”

  “Of course it does, dear.” She patted his arm absently, her mind on a dozen things. “I love you, too, Keso, and I know it’s hard to stop playing big brother after all these years, but Cleve will look after me now.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, shrugged, and slid down in his seat, staring out the window.

  What was it with Keso? He’d been acting so strangely ever since he’d arrived in Boston. Maybe he just wasn’t willing to accept the fact that she was grown up. Frankly, she had been uneasy about her own feelings for Keso the last few days. In the years she had been away at school, she had remembered him as a lean youth with legs too long and hands too big. What had greeted her stepping off that train from Colorado had been a grown man-a virile, muscled, adult male. Her own reactions had startled and dismayed her.

  “Keso,” she said and put her hand on his arm, “let’s not fuss anymore. We love each other, remember?”

  “I’m not fussing, brat.” He covered her hand with his. “You are.”

  His hand seemed huge, completely covering her small one. She found herself staring up at him, thinking how sensual his mouth looked and how strong he was. She wondered suddenly if Keso had ever made love to a woman on one of his rare trips to Denver. She tried to imagine him taking some faceless woman in his arms, kissing her, unbuttoning her bodice ...

  “What’s the matter, Wannie? You look sick.”

  “Matter? Nothing’s the matter,” She jerked her hand out from under his, annoyed that the image upset her. Wannie had a sweetheart-it was selfish of her not to want her brother to be happy, too.

  “What is it?” He was looking into her eyes intently.

  He could read her like a book, he’d known her so long. She felt like a fool for being upset over the thought of him with a woman in his bed. “I-I’m not thinking of anything,” she lied and fanned herself. “I’m just hot, that’s all. Open that window and let some wind blow through.”

  He opened the window and she leaned closer, relishing the breeze across her damp face even if cinders did blow into the car.

  The silence hung so heavy, she felt she had to break it. “Do you think Cherokee and Silver will like Cleve?”

  “No.”

  “That was blunt.”

  He shrugged. “You asked me.”

  “You never gave him a chance,” she accused. “You decided not to like him the minute you met him.”

  He hesitated as if he might say something, then decided against it. “He’s not the right choice for you.”

  She began a slow burn. “I’m a grown woman-why don’t you let me make up my own mind?”

  Cleve Brewster’s a spoiled snob, Wannie. You must be blind not to see that.”

  She felt a mixture of sadness and anger. “You’re just jealous because he’s sophisticated and well dressed and knows how to act in proper society. He’s welcome in the best of homes.”

  His eyes grew sad and pensive. “And that’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, remembering her cold, distant mother. Money, clothes, and jewels had been important to the Duchess. Wannie had never found her favor, but the Duchess would have approved of the prestigious Brewster clan.

  “Look, Wannie,” he sighed heavily, “let’s stop this wrangling. If you like him, that’s all that matters. You’re the one who has to live with him.”

  She swallowed back a sob. “How can I marry a man that my brother hates?”

  “Look, Wannie, please don’t cry. I’m sorry about what I said.” He reached out and put his hands on her small shoulders and pulled her to him.

  She laid her face against the broadcloth of his coat and sobbed while he stroked her hair. Somehow, it felt very comforting to be in Keso’s arms while he patted her with those big calloused hands. “I-I do so want my family to like my husband.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I don’t know what got into me. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Now, here, blow.”

  She took his handkerchief and blew her nose, remembering how many times over the years he had wiped her face and handed her his handkerchief. Dependable Keso. He was always there. “I guess I’m just tired. I want Cleve’s visit to go well and everyone to like him.”

  “Your opinion is the only one that really counts, Wannie,” he said gently. “You’ll be living in New York, with all the clothes and jewels you want.”

  “Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?” She pictured balls, the opera, and all the other glittering events of her future life. “I don’t suppose we’ll be returning home often.”

  A deep sigh. “I don’t reckon you will, either. I doubt Cleve will like Colorado,” Keso said. “It’s tough, primitive, and uncivilized.”

  Just like Keso, she thought, but she didn’t say anything. She stared at his profile as he looked out the window. She kept remembering that moment just now in his embrace, the strength and power of his arms as he held her against his chest, the gentleness of his brown fingers as he stroked her hair. She had had the same sensations when he had scooped her up and carried her after she had fallen during the fox hunt and that evening when he had sat on her bed and she was so scantily clad.

  Oh, my! Wannie was horrified and shocked at her feelings. Keso would be, too, if he knew. Was she depraved? She would not think about it-she would think about Cleve and the elegant wedding they would have, the clothes and the jewels and the social whirl.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful-she and Keso kept up a strained, polite conversation. To Wannie, it seemed like forever before the train finally pulled into the Denver statio
n.

  “My heavens, the town has grown! It was a village when I left.”

  “Almost 35,000 people, I hear-railroad, mining, and a chance that the Ute land will bring them flooding in here.”

  “Look, Keso, there’s Cherokee and Silver waiting for us on the platform!” She waved, feeling a mounting excitement at the sight of her beloved foster parents. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed them and this wild and wonderfully untamed frontier state.

  The train slowed and shuddered as it pulled into the station. Keso reached for their bags. “Come on, brat.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that!” Wannie snapped as they started up the aisle to the exit. “That’s a childish nickname.”

  “I’m sorry, I keep forgetting. You used to like it.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” It had seemed like an affectionate, possessive special name when he called her that.

  Finally, they were off the train and she was hugging Cherokee and Silver. “Oh, I missed you so much and there’s so much to tell you, I’m getting married!”

  Cherokee’s weathered face registered surprise and then pleasure. “Wonderful! Congratulations to you both! Isn’t it wonderful, sweet darlin’?” He was pumping Keso’s hand.

  “We knew it was only a matter of time,” Silver gushed, before you and Keso-”

  “No,” Wannie shook her head. “Oh no, you didn’t think Keso and I? Why, he’s like my brother.”

  “What?” Silver looked as if she’d been struck. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Cherokee cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “We just always thought-well, never mind.”

  “I know when I was a silly little girl, I said I was going to marry Keso, but I’m grown up now and I’ve met the most wonderful man!”

  Silver said, “Let’s not stand here in the station talking, dear. You can tell us all about it on the way home.”