Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  He had to turn away. All he could think of was his own mother. But her love for an Indian had nearly ruined his life and was still interfering with his happiness. It would be the same for the little boy who had just left. He would be torn and battered his whole life.

  “James, what’s wrong?” Willena came around from behind her desk.

  He just shook his head. “Nothing,” he said quietly. He forced a casual attitude. “I suppose you’re saying you could marry an Indian?”

  She faced his almost accusing eyes, but she sensed more, that the question was more probing than it sounded. “Well, I . . . I hardly think so.”

  “There!” He sounded almost victorious. “You can understand it, but you could never do what that woman did. And you know why? Because you’re intelligent enough to see the fruitlessness of such a marriage. The two cultures are too different. Even that woman, who grew up with them, can’t live on the reservation. I can’t imagine living on a reservation.”

  There was a hint of something close to fear in his eyes, as though he thought it could happen to him.

  “Then you understand how bad things are for them.”

  James frowned. “What is this sudden sympathy for the Indians? I thought you hated them.”

  She stepped closer, totally confused by his almost nervous demeanor. “James, I never once said I hated them. Yes, I fear them somewhat. And I agree something must be done. The raiding, the loss of lives on both sides has to stop. But they do have a point. And I can’t bring myself to hate them individually.”

  He forced a sarcastic smile. “Face it, Willena, when it comes down to basics, you feel superior to them as all of us do. Don’t let your sympathy for one little boy turn your head to the truth.”

  “The truth? And what is the truth, James?” She stiffened at his attitude.

  “The truth is that no matter how hard we try, the true Indian spirit cannot be changed, Willena. To get too involved will only hurt you in the end and bring you ridicule and hatred from your friends. The white man will never make the Indian like himself. They have a certain . . . a certain spirit that no white man can touch, and deep inside they have a wild streak, a need to be free. They aren’t going to be changed overnight, or even in our lifetime. There’s a certain something that calls them away from anything you might teach them, calls them to a spirit world you could never understand, makes them need the land, the animals, the freedom—”

  He stopped short, a pain piercing his chest, realizing that for the first time in his life he was talking about himself. It actually surprised him, but it also angered him, for he had allowed that tiny part of himself to surface, and he hated himself for it. In that one moment he vowed to fight harder than ever to deny that part.

  “James!” She spoke the name softly but almost in shock. “You talk as though you truly understand them.” She blinked, studying the handsome blue eyes that she loved. “How do you know that much about them?”

  He stiffened, his jaw flexing against his own emotions. At the moment he could see his father so vividly, watching him, inwardly weeping over the lie his son was living. Why was he so cursed?

  “I just . . . when my parents were killed by the Comanche . . . some people tried to comfort me by trying to explain the Indians’ point of view—that we were intruding on their lands. I don’t know. I . . . I just made it a point to understand them as much as I could so that maybe some of the bitterness over my parents’ death would leave me.”

  Her green eyes turned to total sympathy. “Of course.” She stepped close and touched his shirtfront. “Your parents. I’m so sorry, James. I shouldn’t be standing here defending Indians. It must be hard for you to do that.”

  He sighed, grasping her arms. “Just don’t get too involved, Willena. It will tear you apart, believe me. Things are going to get worse, and I’ve lived in places where anyone who sympathizes with Indians gets treated pretty bad. There’s a lot of hatred going on around here. So don’t go getting involved in Indian problems.”

  She rested her head against his chest. “I won’t. But not because of that.” She looked up at him. “I simply can’t, because of what happened to you. It wouldn’t be fair to the man I love.”

  He felt almost sick with guilt, but here stood the woman he loved and desired beyond all reason. That was all that mattered. To tell her the truth would be to lose her forever, especially in times like these. Her own father was forming a militia to fight Indians.

  “I love you, too, Willena.” His eyes actually teared. “More than you could ever imagine.”

  She saw a sudden vulnerability, a momentary loss of the strength he usually exhibited, as though he were suddenly a lost little boy about to cry. She was sure it was because she had brought up the bad memories of his parents’ deaths. She patted his chest. “No more talk of Indians, I promise.”

  He forced a smile, nodding. He kissed her forehead, moving his lips to her eyes, her mouth. He suddenly wanted her more than ever. It all seemed so urgent now—make her his wife before she found out about him by some horrible twist of fate. He kissed her almost savagely, pressing her close, moving one hand to her hips and pushing her against his hardness as his lips left her mouth and traveled down her neck.

  “James,” she gasped.

  “I love you, Willena,” he repeated, almost weeping the words. “I love you and I want you. Marry me, Willena. I’ve already asked your father.”

  She smiled, relishing the feel of his lips at her throat as she threw back her head. “You know I’ll marry you.”

  He lifted her slightly, and she felt weak and on fire as he kissed her breasts through her dress, repeating over and over that he loved her. She knew she should protest. He had never taken such liberties with her, yet both of them had dreamed of these things in the night.

  “Sunday. Marry me Sunday,” he told her. “I don’t want to wait any longer than that.”

  He lowered her slightly so that her face was close to his. Her green eyes were glassy with awakened desires. How she loved this man!

  “All right. If it’s all right with my parents, I’ll marry you Sunday.”

  He kissed her again, exploring her mouth with his tongue. The hardness she felt against her belly made her both frightened and terribly curious. He was so much man, so strong and handsome and successful. She had no doubt he would be as good at making her a woman as he was at everything else.

  He reluctantly released her, taking the little box from his pocket and handing it to her. “Here. I meant to give this to you before asking you.”

  She smiled with delight, opening the box and gasping at the size and beauty of the ring inside. “James! I’ve never seen anything more beautiful!”

  “Put it on.”

  She removed the ring and slipped it on her finger, holding out her hand for both of them to see. “Oh, James, it’s magnificent.”

  He took her hand, pulling it to his lips and kissing the ring. “Sunday you will be Mrs. James Sax.” He touched her face gently. “I’ll be a good husband, Willena.” He studied her lovingly. “I’ll never give you reason to be ashamed of me.”

  She frowned at the curious remark. “Ashamed? James, what could ever make me ashamed of you?”

  His face reddened slightly. “I don’t know, I . . .” Again he was tempted to tell her. But to risk losing her now was more than he could bear. How he wanted her! There was no reason for her to know. “I just want you to be proud of me. I mean, I’m so proud of you and all. I’ll have the most beautiful, wonderful wife in Colorado.”

  She laughed lightly and hugged him. “And I will have the most wonderful husband.”

  He hugged her tightly, almost desperately.

  • Chapter Twenty-nine •

  The messenger Caleb had secretly sent to St. Louis returned a year later. He had not delivered the letter. “There’s no James Sax at Hayden’s in St. Louis,” he told Caleb. “Just old man Hayden himself. He said he’s full partner with a young man named James Sax, but that the m
an isn’t in St. Louis anymore. He was sent to Denver, Colorado, to open a new Hayden Mercantile there—only it’s called Hayden & Sax Mercantile now. Sax and Hayden are full partners—rich men, I might add. At any rate, old man Hayden said this Sax couldn’t be the one I was looking for because the Sax he knew didn’t have any parents. They was killed by Comanche down in Texas. I done told him his pa was mostly Indian, and Hayden said then he was sure it couldn’t be the James Sax he knew. Said he didn’t look a bit Indian and he didn’t care much for them, seein’ as how they killed his folks. I expect he’s right figurin’ it couldn’t be the same man. I’m sorry I didn’t find him, Mr. Sax. By the way, I come back right quick. There’s all out war back east, Mr. Sax. I didn’t much want to get mixed up in it.”

  The man handed back Caleb’s letter, while Caleb thanked him and struggled to keep his composure. He stood alone in Tom’s office, Where he had met with the man, and a mixture of intense anger and terrible sorrow swept through him. James had apparently totally disowned his parents, did not even acknowledge they were alive. What kind of lies was he living? Was he enjoying his riches, knowing he had betrayed his own blood to get them?

  How could he tell such shattering news to Sarah? Let her believe the best that she wanted to believe. Deep inside she surely knew the truth, but she didn’t know the whole truth, and Caleb was not about to tell her.

  Denver! How ironic. His son had been sent back to the very country he had run from years before. A partnership with Hayden must be extremely lucrative to make James Sax go back to Colorado. Yet he felt relieved that James was at least in an area unlikely to become involved in the war.

  The whole matter became just an extra burden on Caleb’s heart as he watched the woman he loved beyond his own life struggle daily with a failing body. He vowed he would tell no one what he had learned, not even Tom or Lynda. He had sent the letter on his own, unsure what the outcome would be. He hadn’t wanted to get Sarah’s hopes up. Now he knew it was a good thing he had kept it to himself. The pain of it was often close to unbearable. He threw the letter into the fireplace and watched it burn.

  Hayden & Sax Mercantile stores in the East flourished during the war, mostly through furnishing the Union army with supplies. James felt lucky to be away from the bitter arguing Hayden wrote him was taking place in Missouri.

  In Denver things were also going well. James Sax knew his business, and with a wife and two children by 1864, he Worked even harder, determined they would live a grand life forever. His Willena would not suffer just because he had Indian blood, the way his own mother had been forced to live a life less than her worth, a life of struggling and hardship. He would continue to hide his heritage, and he would work as hard as he could to keep building his merchant business.

  He built Willena a two-story brick home that overlooked Denver, a fast-growing city that was becoming a trade center, just as Gilbert Hayden had predicted. In his sanctuary in the foothills James could get away from the very busy life he now led in Denver and enjoy his beautiful Willena and their children, Elizabeth Ellen, born in 1861, and James David Jr., born in 1863.

  To their father’s great relief, neither child showed any Indian blood. Elizabeth was blond like her mother, and even had Willena’s green eyes. “Jimmie” had his father’s sandy hair and blue eyes and was even more fair than James. Success and the passing of time buffered James’s long-buried guilt at keeping his secret. It seemed there would never be a reason now to reveal the truth.

  He was happy. Willena was a wonderful wife, and she loved him dearly. He could never take the risk of losing that love by revealing to her that she was sleeping with a man who had Indian blood. Hatred for the red men of the Plains was running high in the Denver area, which often suffered from supply shortages, because of Indian attacks on supply trains, and the cutting of telegraph wires. Settlers in outlying areas were less safe than ever, for the rapid growth of white settlement in the area had brought bitter reprisals by the Cheyenne. And with war still raging in the East there was little soldier protection.

  Exaggerated stories of Indian atrocities ran rampant in the newspapers, stories most citizens believed. Few realized that some acts of theft and murder were even committed by white men disguised as Indians—white men who hated the Indians and would do anything to keep the hatred against them alive; white men eager to get their hands on more Indian land rich for farming, or land that might contain more gold. The ultimate goal was to rid Colorado of all its Indians, and scare tactics seemed the best method to bring cries of outrage from Colorado citizens. A Colorado militia made up of citizen volunteers was becoming a solid reality.

  Increased tensions began to reawaken old guilts in James’s soul. He was good friends with those who ran the newspapers, and he turned his head when they discussed the best ways to dress up stories of Indian attacks to keep the people angry. He smiled with the rest of the important people of Denver when they made jokes about the Indians—the white man’s view of their sex life, their “uncivilized” mannerisms, their ignorance.

  “Take away the buffalo, that’s what I say,” some said. “The dumb bastards would die within a week.”

  “We’re already working on it,” another would reply. “There’s a growing demand back east now for the hides. I’ll tell you one thing—you want to see a pissed-off Indian, let him find a dead buffalo with its hide stripped and the rest of it left to rot.”

  More laughter. James would join in, an odd heaviness in his chest. Sometimes he felt like an actor, deciding he must be a very good one. No one seemed to notice anything different about him when the conversation turned to Indians.

  “I say they should declare open season on them,” another would say. “We’ve got the superior weapons. Just take cover and pick them off wherever we find them.”

  “The damned government says we nice boys shouldn’t do those things. It will just make them madder. They remind us we aren’t even supposed to be here.”

  “Like hell. It’s those mother-loving redskins who don’t belong here. All the wealth this land represents—and they don’t take advantage of any of it. They don’t have the tiniest idea of how to be successful. They just go on living as they did thousands of years ago. If they’re that stupid, they deserve to die.”

  “Well, they do seem to understand the balance of nature,” James put in once. “They don’t pollute the rivers and creeks, and they don’t dig up the mountains. I mean, there must be something we can learn from them. Maybe if we tried to—”

  “You defending them, Sax?” The question came from a prominent banker.

  “Well, no. I just . . . well, we can’t fight forever. We’ve got to find a way to make peace.”

  “There’s a way, all right. Kill them all off,” the banker answered.

  There was a round of laughter. It was the last time James Sax spoke up in their defense.

  Outrageous behavior by citizens continued. Whiskey was deliberately and illegally pushed on the reservations. A drunk Indian soon turned into a useless Indian, and a drunk Indian was easy to cheat. Some citizens even paid whiskey to Indians to steal other settlers’ horses for them, keeping the horses” while the theft was conveniently blamed on the Indians. Some white men and even soldiers helped steer Indian women into prostitution, convincing them that was the only way they could “earn” their badly needed food and supplies.

  There were, of course, no news stories of abuse of Indians by white men. No one was told of unwarranted attacks on innocent Indians, murders and rapes, or of blatant cheating of Indians by reservation agents and suppliers, some of whom made fortunes on government issue while the Indians starved.

  The governor of Colorado Territory, anxious to please his wealthy friends who were eager for more Indian land, took up the “cause,” declaring he would do everything in his power to stop the “Indian problems.” He fully recognized and legalized the Colorado Volunteers, who were put under the leadership of “Colonel” John Chivington, a former preacher of questionable
authority and experience. But he was the perfect man for Governor Evans and his cohorts. Chivington was an avid Indian hater, his own wife having been killed by Indians. He hated them beyond all Christian reasoning, in spite of calling himself a man of that faith; and soon the Cheyenne called him Zetapetazhetan, meaning “Big Man” or “Squaw Killer.” The title was very fitting,

  James suspected matters were worse than he cared to face. He quietly sat back while his friends and the Volunteers began a campaign of harassment that would, they hoped, force the Indians to leave on their own, or at least force them into all-out war, which would give the Volunteers the right to ride down hard on them and attack the starving, poorly armed tribes without mercy.

  James understood the tactics all too well. It had happened to the Creek, Cherokee, and other southern tribes, now crowded into Indian Territory—and to all the Indians in Texas. It was happening to the Apache, many of whom were already on reservations much smaller than the lands afforded the Cheyenne under the Laramie Treaty. As long as those Cheyenne and Sioux and other Indians involved continued to insist that treaty promises be kept, which was their right, there would be trouble for them, big trouble. James had listened to a speech by Chivington in Denver, and he had no doubt the kind of man he was.

  Now James sat in his study, taking a drink of whiskey. It seemed he was drinking more and more lately, and he cursed his damned conscience. “I suppose I inherited that from you, too, dear Father,” he muttered, drinking down another slug.

  He twirled the glass in his hand, thinking about Chivington’s roared words against Indians. It gave him the shivers. It brought back all the memories of Texas, and the Indian haters there who would have killed his whole family if they had not got out in time. He thought about his pet dog that Indian haters had killed and tears came to his eyes. Sometimes he still felt like that little boy, especially around men like Chivington, who threatened his very existence. Little did the man know that one of the men in the crowd was part Cheyenne himself.