Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Galvez pulled at a thick mustache. “Emanuel was right in telling you most of my Indian help are merely slaves. But they are not so independent as you seem to be. I like the way you talk. And I like the way you sit the horse you are riding. He is a fine-looking animal.”

  “He is one that my father raised from a colt. As I told you, my father raises only the best. And I only work for pay, like the next man. I will do my share. If I cannot work for pay, I will go someplace else.”

  “No.” Galvez kept pulling at his mustache, leaving the veranda then and walking completely around Tom and his horse, closely studying both. Tom used the moment to glance at a window where a pretty young girl stood peering at him from between lacy curtains. She smiled and a wave of passion rippled through him that annoyed him considerably. What joy it would be teaching such a young thing about men, ever so gently partaking of her young, tender body and giving her pleasure in return. He quickly chastised himself for the thought.

  “I will make you a deal, Señor Sax,” Galvez told him then, coming around to face him. “The man who owns the ranch next to mine—Julio Baca—we have a friendly bet going. So far neither of us has won. If you help me win this bet, you have a job here at full pay.”

  Tom frowned. “How can I help you win?”

  Galvez smiled. “I have a certain wild horse—a black stallion that has a mind of his own, if you know what I mean.”

  Tom nodded. “I have had experience with such animals.”

  Hidalgo shifted in his saddle, forced to hide his anger at the fact that Antonio Galvez seemed to like this new young stranger. He noticed Juanita watching from the window. If she were his wife, she would pay for looking at a man that way. How many nights had he dreamed about being the first one inside Juanita Galvez?

  “My men caught the horse,” Galvez was telling Tom. “But Julio claims it was caught on his property. We have agreed that whichever ranch employs the man who can train this horse will be able to keep the animal. So far none of my men have been able to train him, nor have any of Julio’s men. If you can tame this animal, you have a job here.”

  Tom grinned almost boyishly. “I accept the challenge. I’ll tame him.”

  Galvez laughed lightly. “Don’t you want to see the animal first?”

  “I don’t need to. I’ll accept your challenge without even a look. If I fail, I leave your land and do not get the job.”

  “This land, señor, is called Lecho de Rosas, ‘Bed of Roses.’ Wherever you ride on this land, you will find wild roses blooming. It is beautiful land, is it not?”

  “It’s the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” Tom could not help glancing at Juanita again. She sensed his words were meant for her, and she dashed away from the window. “I would like to work at Lecho de Rosas,” Tom added. “I’ll tame the wild horse for you. Bring all your men to watch, if you want. And bring Julio. Is there a time limit?”

  “Forty-eight hours. So far all the others have done is make the horse even wilder and angrier. He almost killed one of my men. He is a mean one, señor. Perhaps you will want to think about it first.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t have to think about it. I’ll do it. No one knows horses better than my father. I learned from the best. I’ll tame your black stallion and he’ll be your best stud. But if I do, I want the same pay as your more experienced men. I’m worth it.”

  Galvez’s eyebrows arched. “You are not a man who wastes words or sells himself short. That is good, Tom Sax. I have many rules here and expect them to be obeyed, including staying away from my daughter, Juanita. She is very young. If you obey the rules, and do the job you say you can do, you will have the same pay as the others.”

  “But, Señor Galvez, he is Indian,” Hidalgo exclaimed then, hardly able to control his jealous anger.

  Galvez flashed him a warning look. “I make the decisions around here, Emanuel. You are always forgetting that, it seems.” He put his hands on his hips. “Besides, if he does not tame the black one, he has no job at all. Considering the luck the others have had, I do not think we will be seeing any more of this one after he has tried his hand at that black devil.” He smiled at Tom, then looked again at Hidalgo. “Give him a bunk and treat him well. I will make arrangements with Julio Baca.”

  Hidalgo turned his horse. “Follow me,” he said to Tom, disgust in his voice.

  “Gracias, Señor Galvez,” Tom said to the man. “I will not let you down.”

  “We will see,” the man answered with a grin. “We will see.”

  Tom turned and followed Emanuel Hidalgo, reminding himself it might be wise to never turn his back on Hidalgo. The man was definitely not someone who was going to help or befriend him. He was a man to be watched—not just for himself, but also around Juanita Galvez.

  • Chapter Three •

  James drove his father’s wagon into Bent’s Fort, Caleb driving a small herd of horses in its wake. Neither the wagon nor the horses brought much notice amid the grand mixture of traveling merchants and traders, trappers, and Indians who were milling about. James headed the wagon toward a caravan lined up outside the fort, prepared to leave for Santa Fe.

  “Caleb! I was wonderin’ whether you’d be comin’ in,” a whiskered man in buckskins called out.

  “I’d have come a couple of days sooner, Willie, but the wife didn’t feel well and she didn’t get the clothes finished until just yesterday.” Caleb pranced his Appaloosa closer and dismounted.

  James watched with a mixture of admiration and resentment. His father was probably one of the strongest and most skilled men in these parts; but Caleb looked hardly any different from the Cheyenne men who hung around the fort. The men was so Indian; and James hated having Indian blood.

  The boy stood up in the wagon to look across the wide, flat, grassy land that surrounded the fort, where tipis were scattered and smoke rose from campfires. He strained his eyes to try to find Cale. Indian women stood over the fires, while children and dogs ran about. James finally spotted Cale surrounded by young Cheyenne boys, all of them shooting arrows at a straw dummy. They seemed to be betting on whether or not they could hit their target.

  James frowned at the way Cale got along with them so easily, laughing and shoving. James could see no future in hanging around with uneducated young Indian boys whose only goal was to run down a buffalo; who lived off the land and some of whom had probably taken part in attacks on whites, which seemed to be happening more and more lately. These Cheyenne even warred against other Indians, especially the Pawnee and the Crow. They didn’t seem to care at all about settling down and realizing they must change their way of living. If only they would change, perhaps they would one day be better accepted by the white settlers who were fast filling this land.

  But, James reasoned, maybe they would never be accepted. His own father had lived as well or better than most of the settlers in Texas, and what had it got him? They had still been forced to leave, just because they had Indian blood.

  James scowled and sat back down. How could it be possible he was related to these wild people? He felt no fondness for them nor any kind of attachment to them emotionally. He was white in every way; he had learned long ago that to be recognized as having Indian blood meant disaster and heartache.

  “Them pretty dresses she makes sells like hot cakes down to Santa Fe,” the man called Willie was telling Caleb. “Them Mexican women thinks our pretty American women knows all about the latest fashions.”

  “Well, in my wife’s case, they’re right. Sarah hails from St. Louis, you know, and for a lot of years she made her living making clothes.”

  “Well, she’s some fine seamstress. But a woman like your Sarah don’t need no pretty dresses to look good, that’s a fact, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

  Caleb laughed lightly, walking back to the wagon to take off the boxes of clothing. “James, why don’t you go find Cale? I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

  The boy pushed on the wagon brake and jumped down. “He�
��s over there with those Cheyenne boys shooting arrows,” he grumbled. “They wouldn’t want me around.”

  “Well, you won’t know that unless you go over there and see now, will you?”

  “I’d rather stay here and help you, Pa.”

  Their eyes met. Caleb knew the reason but hid his disappointment. “If that’s what you want. Take the boxes off the wagon and carry them over to Willie Taylor’s wagon. I’ll herd the horses into the corral and get a count and a receipt from Willie.” He turned away and walked back to Willie, who was inspecting one of the mares as she grazed peacefully.

  “You sure got an eye for these beauties,” he told Caleb. “She’ll bring a good price in pure silver, that she will.”

  “The more you can get, the better, as always. I’ve brought some good deer skins, too. I’ll be taking them and a few buffalo hides into the fort to sell there. Some things go to Santa Fe, but hides go east.”

  Willie nodded. “Hides is still wanted. But beaver pelts—” He shook his head. “I’m afraid the old seasoned trappers are gonna have to find themselves a new job. I hear tell silk is takin’ the place of beaver for hats. The demand has dropped real fast. It’s affectin’ a lot of people, includin’ ones that run a place like this here fort.”

  Caleb looked around at all the activity. “I don’t see any effects today.”

  “Well, you will, mark my words. And with more people comin’ this way, the Indians is gettin’ mighty restless. The day’s comin’ when we won’t be able to be friendly with them no more, and all this tradin’ will end. ’Course that won’t make much difference to you, will it? To the Cheyenne you’re pretty near a legend. I’ve seen how some of them look at you—the great Blue Hawk. ’Course most of them don’t remember them days, do they?”

  Caleb smiled sadly. “Quit reminding me of my age, Willie. I try not to think about the fact that most of the Cheyenne I knew then are gone. Fact is, I should have died myself more than once. I have no idea why I’m still walking this earth. I’ve got so many scars on this old body you can’t find the good skin.”

  Willie laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Ain’t a person here who’d guess your age. You’re as strong as them young bucks out there who are full of fire and sass.”

  James looked up at his father at the remark. The older he got, the more incredible it seemed to have Caleb Sax as a father. “The boxes are loaded, Pa,” he spoke up. “You want me to help you pick up the supplies for Mother?”

  “No. I can do it. You can wander around and do whatever you want, Son. Make sure the team is tied and watered first.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I go help Mr. Benson at the supply store? Sometimes he pays me to help count pelts.”

  “Go ahead. Just be ready to leave in a couple of hours.”

  “Is Cale going back with us?”

  “He certainly is. And he’s going to get a good kick for riding off without telling any of us.”

  James ran off and Caleb gazed after him.

  “Fine son you got, Caleb. And grandson. But they ain’t much alike, are they?”

  “No,” Caleb answered rather absently. “They’re nothing alike. Let’s get a count on these horses, Willie.”

  They walked together toward Caleb’s horse. “It’s gettin’ more and more dangerous to go to Santa Fe, you know,” Willie said. “What with Mexico cuttin’ off relations with the States and all. You know, I suppose, that we’re claimin’ the Rio Grande is the proper border between Texas and Mexico. It was Mexico’s understandin’ that the Nueces was the dividin’ line. ’Course, Mexico never really has given up its claim on Texas anyway. The way I see it, another war is comin’, and it won’t be just over Texas. We’ll get all of New Mexico and Arizona and maybe even California and most of this here Colorado Territory and maybe more. The States is tryin’ to buy it all up, but Mexico won’t sell.”

  “I’ve had my fill of wars, Willie. You can count me out of that one. Besides, it isn’t right. The Americans got Texas. Now they want to grab up more.” He grasped the reins of his horse and turned to face the man. “They’ve no right taking any of it by force if Mexico doesn’t want to sell, Willie. I had to give up everything I loved and worked for down in Texas because of land-hungry Americans, and I even fought for Texas’s independence. That’s the thanks I got. The Americans will get no sympathy from me on this one.” The two men walked together toward Caleb’s other horses, which were scattered and grazing. “I have no doubt the Americans will move in on the big Mexican landholders, Willie, and take everything away from them. What is it about people with dark skin that makes most white men think it’s all right to walk all over them and take what they want?”

  “Danged if I know, Caleb. But you know I ain’t that way. A man sets his own worth, and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with the color of his skin. You’re as good as any man I know. It’s too bad what happened in Texas, your oldest son spendin’ all that time in prison down in Mexico and all. After what he done, if wasn’t fair, all of you havin’ to leave. By the way, you heard from him?”

  Caleb eased up onto his horse. He used a small stuffed Indian-style saddle, covered with a blanket. “Not so far. He headed for California. That’s all I know. He’s surely there by now. I’ll be worried about him if there is a war. It’s sure to involve California, too. I imagine he’ll write soon and let us know where he’s landed.”

  “He’s a hell of a man, Caleb. He can take care of himself real good. He’ll do all right.”

  Caleb nodded. “Tom has a special place in my heart, Willie.”

  “Well, I expect it was good he went off on his own for a while, Caleb. Mebbe he’ll find himself a pretty little señorita to marry.”

  Caleb grinned. “Maybe. It would be good for him if he did.” He rode around Willie to round up his horses and corral them. Willie would find a man to herd them south.

  Willie Taylor was a good man, an experienced wagon master and trader. He didn’t really own the items he carried on his excursions to Santa Fe, just a few of the wagons. He handled items that belonged to private enterprises like Caleb’s as well as commercial merchants; Willie’s suppliers depended on him to make good deals for them and get the best prices, and they trusted him implicitly to pay them all they had coming to them after he took a percentage for making the trip. Some of the wagons even belonged to the merchants themselves. All his suppliers realized Willie Taylor and his men risked their lives every time they journeyed south with valuables, and the return trip was just as dangerous, as they herded back horses and mules, and often carrying gold and silver along with colorful Mexican blankets, jewelry, and miscellaneous utensils that were in great demand in the States.

  Caleb respected Willie and valued his friendship. Willie, once a trapper, had been one of the first to recognize that the business was fast fading. When the Santa Fe trade suddenly blossomed, he was there to take advantage of it. He had never told Caleb how old he was, but Caleb guessed him to be in his fifties. The man was hardy and humorous, but lonely inside. He had lost an Indian wife several years back, and had no interest in marrying again; but then Willie was not the marrying and settling type, at least not with a white woman. An Indian woman was probably the only kind who would understand and put up with the man.

  Of course there were times when Caleb wondered how Sarah put up with his own wild ways—the times when he would ride off alone to pray to Maheo and let his Indian spirit soar. Yes. It was just as White Horse had said. He belonged with the Indians. But as long as there was Sarah, nothing else mattered.

  “How about a spot of whiskey,” Willie yelled out to him then. “I ain’t leavin’ fer a bit yet.”

  Caleb rode out of the corral and dismounted, leaving his horse then and walking with the man. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I don’t like what I’m seein’ around these parts, Caleb. More and more of the Cheyenne and other Indians is gettin’ hopped up on rotgut whiskey and it’s just gettin’ them in trouble. It’s turnin good men into useless
beggars.” He stopped and grabbed Caleb’s arm. “There. Over there. You see?” He pointed to a buckskin-clad man who was holding out a bottle to several young Indian men inside the fort. “That’s a new man been tradin’ around here—sellin’ sugared-down whiskey that’s worth pennies in return for valuable buffalo robes. The damned Indians don’t know the value of them skins to the white man, and that goddamn whiskey is bad enough to kill a man.”

  Caleb watched, his anger building. He had seen it happen before—white men buying off Indians with bad whiskey. And more and more the Indians were liking the white man’s “firewater,” for it helped ease the hopelessness some of them were beginning to feel. Many of them drank the whiskey because they thought it helped them contact the spirit world, made them feel stronger, until the next morning, when the rotten whiskey took its toll.

  It was all going to get worse, Caleb was sure. As more white men came into Indian territory, bringing their diseases and whiskey and slovenly ways, the more the Indians were going to lose their sense of direction as well as their pride. And the white men damned well knew it.

  “I’m a trader myself, Caleb, but I won’t go gettin’ rich off another man’s ignorance. And I got too much respect for my red brothers to take advantage of them like that—make a fortune off them buffalo robes that I got for almost nothin’.”

  “What’s that man’s name?”

  “Hank Tuttle. And they say he’s ornery as a hungry bear. You didn’t come here for no trouble, Caleb. Let it be. For every Hank Tuttle there’s a hundred others, a thousand others. It’s happenin’ all over.”

  Caleb let go of his horse’s bridle. “Well, it can’t hurt to stop just one. Watch my horse.”

  “Damn it, Caleb, I didn’t point him out for you to go over there. I was just makin’ conversation, explainin’ what’s been happenin’—”