Meet the New Dawn (13 page)

“I can tell you people that it will not be long before the Indians will be no problem at all,” Garvey went on. “I work diligently on legislation to send all Indians packing onto reservations, or have them risk being shot on sight. My own mother was killed before my eyes when I was a small boy!” The crowd mumbled, and Garvey half grinned, enjoying his power over them. “And my father, the reputable, prominent Winston Garvey, disappeared after Indians raided his ranch west of Denver. And so I tell you, I have more reason than most to wish for the extermination of the savage red man! Some of you may have read my columns in many eastern newspapers. They tell you about the Indians, their filthy habits, their cruelty to white captives …” His eyes moved to LeeAnn again. “What they do to white women.” Their eyes held for a moment, and then he scanned the crowd again. “So do not sympathize with them, ladies and gentlemen, and do not fret at whatever the government or the railroad or anyone else does to ensure that the Indians do not bother new settlers. Rest assured, the problem will not last much longer.”

He went on about real estate, gold, railroads, flourishing towns. LeeAnn listened. Some of it was right. Most of it was exaggerated. Yet she would not stand to argue with him. And in him she saw a way to truly deny her own heritage and roots. What if this man really was interested in her? He was obviously wealthy, and intending to be an attorney! What a wonderful life they could have together. She could be a Washington socialite. Surely this man had plans for more than even being an attorney. His father had been a senator. Surely the son would want to follow and get involved in politics.

The speech finally ended, and Garvey picked up his cane to slowly descend the steps. LeeAnn was grateful that two young men had stopped to converse with them. It gave her an excuse to stay nearby. She kept her eyes averted from Garvey, but felt him approaching her. Then a hand touched her arm, and she turned to see him standing beside her. Her face reddened some
under his dark gaze. Why did he make her feel like clay? He wasn’t even handsome. But he reeked of power and sureness and importance.

“May I have the honor of knowing your name, lovely lady?” he asked her.

She smiled, and he felt on fire. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. What a ravishing wife she would make—perfect for a man of prominence. With his money and a wife like this, he would be the envy of every man in Washington.

“LeeAnn Whittaker,” she answered softly.

He grinned, looking more handsome when he did so, losing some of the mysterious, threatening look he carried. “Well, LeeAnn Whittaker, are you married? Promised?”

She laughed lightly. “No. I am a secretary to a law firm, and I am finishing up my studies to be a teacher.”

“Ah! An educated woman, on top of all that beauty! What man could ask for more!” he exclaimed. “I don’t suppose an educated beauty like yourself would consider dinner and the theater with a poor soul like myself? This evening perhaps?”

She reddened more. “Why, I’d… be honored, Mr. Garvey,” she replied.

He frowned. “Please call me Charles. And where shall I pick you up?”

“I live on Sixteenth Street North—the large apartment building for women only called the Virginia House.”

“Yes, I know where that is.” His eyes roved her body again. “And is there someone from whom I should get permission? Parents? An overseer?”

She swallowed, feeling torn inside. “I … have no parents. They were killed in New York when fire burned my father’s clothing business. I am afraid I was raised in an orphanage, Mr. Garvey … I mean, Charles. Perhaps … perhaps that changes your mind?”

He grinned more. “Why should it? Your parents were respectable business people. Can you help it if they died? And why should a man mind about anything when a woman is as beautiful and educated as you, Miss Whittaker.”

But my father is part Indian!
she wanted to say.
I’m not from New York. I’m from Colorado! I know all about your west. I was
captured once by Comanche Indians!

“Thank you, Charles,” she said aloud. “I will be ready at seven. And I do so want to hear more about your Colorado, and what you are doing now in Washington. And I … I do hope you don’t think me too forward—accepting your invitation so quickly. It’s just that you’re obviously a respected man here. If I doubted that, I would not accept.”

He breathed deeply, drinking in her beauty. “I don’t think you forward at all. And I would have been very frustrated and disappointed if you had not accepted. Seven then.” He bowed, then straightened and donned his hat. He turned and walked off with the fat man, using the cane to support his crippled leg. She forced back renewed memories of what her own brother had told her happened at Sand Creek. Charles Garvey seemed very much the gentleman, a sophisticated, civilized man. He surely would not participate in such horrible mutilations as her father and brother had told her had been visited upon the Cheyenne. And little did she know that it was Wolf’s Blood himself who had wounded Charles Garvey so badly that day that the young man would forever use the cane.

Chapter Seven

Dust billowed from the center of the courtyard of Fort Lyon, where Wolf’s Blood wrestled the Pawnee favorite, while a crowd that included a mixture of soldiers and traders alike cheered their choice. The storekeeper, Matt Crenshaw, held up fistfuls of money, intending to make not only the three hundred dollars he was demanding for Sonora, his Apache slave, but much more. He’d considered enjoying the adventure of being her first man, but could not forget the look in the young Cheyenne man’s eyes the day he’d threatened him with a knife. If the girl told the young man she’d been violated, Crenshaw did not doubt that the savage-looking Wolf’s Blood would find a way to do him in. If not the boy then the father, who was equally threatening. This way he’d make money, and keep his skin.

Zeke watched the crowd carefully. He’d have his own turn, but had agreed only to knife throwing and wrist wrestling. The atmosphere was volatile, Pawnees and soldiers outnumbering a smattering of Cheyenne. The few Cheyenne who were present were those who had taken the easy way to avoid reservation life, and hung around the fort doing errands for soldiers and traders alike in return for whiskey. It sickened him, and he felt helpless to do anything about it. But there was still some of the old pride, even in the lazy fort Indians, and with Wolf’s Blood being so good at the wrestling games, he would be the first one the Pawnee would single out if there was a confrontation. Neither did he want his son’s temper to bring trouble on the lad
from soldiers.

He found himself yelling and rooting along with the others, tensing up whenever it seemed the Pawnee had the upper hand, yelling at the top of his lungs whenever Wolf’s Blood was in command. Finally Wolf’s Blood had the Pawnee warrior pinned flat for several seconds. It irritated Zeke that the soldier who refereed seemed to wait longer than necessary to declare a win. He finally shouted that the match was over and that the Cheyenne had won. Shouts went up—some cheers, some in anger. Wolf’s Blood held the Pawnee a moment longer, and Zeke knew the boy hated the rule that there could be no weapons. His son would like nothing better than to sink his blade into the Pawnee’s heart then and there, but he finally jumped to his feet, putting up his arms.

Matt Crenshaw was the first to pound him on the shoulder, then shouted for others to pay up. Wolf’s Blood walked up to his father, panting rapidly, his body covered with dirt, his teeth looking extra white against his grimy face. “That was the third one—and their best!” he said proudly. “I have beaten all three of them!”

“I’m proud of you, Wolf’s Blood!” Zeke answered. “And you’ve almost paid for Sonora. In fact, you might have brought in enough just now. But I’ll hold up my end and we’ll go home with some money to boot. Anything over the three hundred dollars gets split fifty-fifty between myself and Crenshaw.”

The boy frowned while the noisy crowd behind them made more bets. “Father, maybe you should not do the wrist wrestling. Just do the knife throwing. I don’t want you to do anything to bring you pain.”

Zeke grinned. “Don’t worry about it. You know how I like these games.”

Crenshaw approached them then, shouting thai Zeke Monroe was his man against any Pawnee man who wanted to wrist wrestle or throw a knife. The crowd separated, allowing the Pawnee betters to bring in a new man—one they’d been keeping hidden. Zeke’s eyebrows arched and he grinned. The opponent they introduced was Walks Tall, a huge man for a Pawnee, broad and burly and obviously very strong.

“Father, don’t do it,” Wolf’s Blood spoke up aside to Zeke.

“You’d better be good,” Crenshaw joked with Zeke before Zeke could reply to his son. “I don’t quite have that three hundred dollars yet, Indian.”

Zeke studied the big Pawnee, then glanced at his son. “You still want that girl, don’t you?” Their eyes held and Zeke grasped his shoulder. “She’s yours after this match.” He turned to Crenshaw. “I’ll break his arm,” he said in a loud, cold voice.

The crowd roared at the remark, and bets flew. Wolf’s Blood looked at his father with love and gratitude. Then the boy looked over at the window above the supply store. A face looked out at him—Sonora! His heart tightened and his legs felt weak. And all that was important then was that he get her out of this place and take her home.

“They want to know if you really can break his arm,” Crenshaw was saying to Zeke. “They’ll make bets on that alone.”

Zeke stared at the Pawnee, who stared back at him, grinning. These Pawnee had long ago stolen the Sacred Arrows of the Cheyenne. A bitter hatred and constant warring had followed over many years, and now the Pawnee helped soldiers find renegade Cheyenne, attacking them once found, killing and scalping at random.

“Bet on it,” Zeke told Crenshaw.

Crenshaw laughed and took more bets. Zeke continued to glare at the Pawnee. He thought of old times. He had himself once raided Pawnee villages. He thought of his Cheyenne stepfather, Deer Slayer, and of his mother, Gentle Woman. He would do this for them—for old times.

A crude table was quickly erected, consisting of a narrow piece of board, its ends supported by two huge wine barrels. Zeke and the Pawnee stood on either side of the board, which was just wide enough to permit the proper distance between their elbows. The two men grasped hands, and Zeke breathed deeply, praying to
Maheo
for strength, for he could feel great power in the Pawnee’s arm. The Pawnee kept grinning, but Zeke only glared at him as he gripped the man’s hand firmly, getting a feel of his hold and strength. Wolf’s Blood watched fearfully, worried about his father. But Zeke had many ways in
which to draw forth his uttermost strength. All he had to do was think about his Abbie being abused by Winston Garvey or about Sand Creek or about the rape and murder of his first wife back in Tennessee. There were any number of past horrors that could bring forth his anger and bring out the extra strength that only vengeance can feed. And, of course, there were the Sacred Arrows. Besides, there were no greater fighters in the West than the Cheyenne. Everyone knew that. He would not disappoint that reputation, and he would not let his son lose Sonora.

A gun was fired, and the contest began. The roar of the crowd disappeared for Zeke, as he concentrated on the grinning Pawnee. In moments both of them were basked in perspiration from the strain. The morning was warm, and the sun beat down on them as muscle pitted itself against muscle. Veins stuck out, arms vibrated with strain. There was no movement at first from either side. Then Zeke’s arm started to go down, but a moment later it was Zeke who was pushing down the Pawnee’s arm. It seemed to take hours just to get it halfway down, and then with a sudden surge and a growl the Pawnee’s arm was all the way down except for about an inch. Again it hung there, while the Pawnee turned practically purple with strain until finally the hand touched the table.

Cheers went up from those who had bet on Zeke—and many had, for Zeke Monroe was well known around Fort Lyon. Zeke still had hold of the Pawnee’s hand when he suddenly kicked aside the board and jerked the Pawnee forward, quickly turning the man and jerking his arm up savagely behind his back. The Pawnee grunted, already in pain from the wrist wrestling and the terrible strain of trying not to lose. Zeke bent upward, pushing at the arm with one hand while he grasped the Pawnee around the throat from behind with his other powerful arm. He held the man there for several seconds while the crowd cheered, waiting for all the strength to go out of the Pawnee’s arm. Then he whirled the man again, and before the Pawnee knew what was going to happen, Zeke grasped the limp arm in both hands, bringing up his knee and bringing the arm down on it violently. There was a loud snap, and the Pawnee cried out and slumped to the ground, while the crowd cheered insanely.

Now it was Zeke who grinned, glaring at the Pawnee proudly. He turned to Crenshaw. “Does that make your three hundred?”

“More so! You’ve made a little profit for yourself, my friend!”

Zeke grasped the man’s vest. “Don’t call me friend, bastard. And that girl had better be untouched!”

Crenshaw swallowed. “She is, I assure you.”

Zeke gave him a shove and followed the crowd to the knife throwing. Only those few ignorant of Zeke’s reputation or not believing the stories they had heard about the man’s “great medicine” were willing to bet against Zeke. This was one area in which Wolf’s Blood knew his father would find few takers and no one to beat him. He wished the soldiers would allow an out-and-out knife fight, for his father was the best. But only knife throwing was allowed, and by the time the contests were finished, Zeke Monroe had a tidy sum in his own pocket.

The three of them walked to the supply store then, Crenshaw, Zeke and Wolf’s Blood, while the rest of the crowd moved to the only drinking room at the fort and proceeded to spend their winnings on whiskey, exchanging stories about the contests.

Sonora watched from above as they approached, her heart beating wildly. The young Cheyenne man and his father had won! They were coming for her! She was not sure what they had in mind for her, and could trust only in the look of gentleness in the young man’s eyes. Surely he would not bring her harm or violate her. Yet for some reason the thought did not totally frighten her, for he was exceedingly handsome, and obviously brave and strong.

There were voices below, and then the door to her room was opening. It was cool inside the stucco walls, and Wolf’s Blood noticed the room was clean, almost barren, holding only a crude handmade bed and one small dresser. His heart raced when Sonora stood at the window, staring at him as he entered, her beautiful dark eyes wide and wondering. Her breasts were full beneath the soft tunic, and he could see she was breathing rapidly, as though afraid. He came all the way inside, standing a few feet from her.

“Do you speak English?”

She nodded. Wolf’s Blood smiled, and she wondered if flames were visible on her skin.

“I won’t hurt you,” he assured her, reaching out. “You’re going home with us. My father has a ranch about three days from here. I have brothers and sisters. My mother is white. You’ll like it there. My mother is very kind.”

The girl backed up a little. “I … belong to you,” she said quietly. “You must expect … something. You paid money for me.”

“Only because that’s the only way I could get you away from Crenshaw without killing him. I did not buy you like a man buys a slave. You are not a slave. You can come home with us. And if, after a while, you choose to go back to your own people, I will take you there myself. I am not afraid to go into Apache country.” His eyes roved her voluptuous form again. How he wanted to see what was beneath the tunic, touch her, lie next to her. He met her dark eyes again. What a pretty face. “But I hope … I hope you will want to stay … at the ranch,” he added.

She swallowed and reached for a parfleche that lay on the bed. “All my belongings … are in here,” she told him. “I would like … one day … to go back to my people. But I belong to you now. I will stay … wherever you are happy … for as long as you would want me to stay.”

He grinned and nodded, and she picked up the parfleche and took his hand. It was warm, and she had to smile at his appearance, still covered with dust and scratches, all just to pay for her. Yes, she liked this handsome young Cheyenne very much. She would go home with him, and she would not be afraid.

He pulled at her then, half dragging her down the steps in his eagerness. Zeke waited downstairs, and when his eyes rested on her beauty again, he could not blame Wolf’s Blood for wanting her; nor was he sorry that at this very moment he was suffering from pain in his shoulder caused by the wrist wrestling. It would go away. Better his own pain than what the girl would have suffered at the hands of cruel men. Wolf’s Blood would not be cruel.

“Let’s go, Father!” the boy spoke up excitedly.

“Now?” Zeke asked. “Let’s at least clean up first.”

“We can ride down to the river first and clean up there. I want to get her away from here, Father. I am afraid of trouble when the other men see her. And you broke the Pawnee’s arm. If we stay around here, something might happen. Let’s get our supplies and get home. Besides, Mother will be worried.”

Zeke grinned and shook his head, motioning for them to go out ahead of him. Perhaps having the girl around would help settle down his son and make it easier for him to stay here after all. He followed them out, and Wolf’s Blood was already mounted, the girl perched in front of him.

“You go on ahead,” Zeke told him. “You and Sonora can be alone for a little while—get to know each other better. Wait for me by the grove of cottonwood at the river south of here. You know the place. I’ll gather the rest of our things and finish packing the spare horse with supplies and be along soon.”

Wolf’s Blood nodded. “Thank you, Father.” He turned the horse, and Sonora wondered if she would faint at the feel of the young Cheyenne’s strong arms around her, her back against his broad chest, her bottom nestled between his powerful legs. Men stared as she rode proudly out of the fort in front of him on his grand Appaloosa. She belonged to Wolf’s Blood now. She would go to the ranch he told her about, and see the kind white woman who was his mother. It couldn’t be all bad, the way he described it. Maybe she would stay there forever.

Bonnie called Joshua into her bedroom. The night was quiet, almost too quiet, for everyone was on edge. The Sioux, haughty and high with their victory over the soldiers for the Powder River country, had grown more restless and demanding. More trouble was brewing; one Indian agent had been killed at the Red Cloud agency, and a flagpole chopped down. Dan had his orders. They would be leaving Fort Laramie and going to Fort Robinson, the new name given to the Red Cloud agency. Fort Robinson was much more the center of action now. Fort Laramie was too remote from the heart of Indian country, and for the soldiers to continue to keep control and
hold the treaty, Fort Robinson was the place to be. It would be dangerous, but Bonnie would go along.

She sat down on the bed, motioning for her adopted son to sit down beside her.