Meet the New Dawn (21 page)

“It comes and goes—more here than gone of late.” He studied his son’s eyes, always rather cool, hard to read. “I think I can trust you enough to tell you we’re here on Army business. We do some scouting for the Army, as long as it has nothing to do with hunting down Indians to kill them. I want the extra money—to set aside for your mother after I’m gone. Morgan pretty much runs the ranch for me now. At any rate, we don’t want anyone here in Dodge City to know our white name, or that we’re scouts. We’re here to roust up some illegal whiskey traders.”

Jeremy nodded. “I see.” He forced a nervous smile. “Well, pity the whiskey dealers once you two get hold of them.” Wolf’s Blood just scowled more, and Jeremy searched desperately for something to say. “The last time I wrote you wrote back saying Margaret had a son,” he said hastily. “Has she had any more?”

“Another son—born in ’71. Your brother here is married, too—to an Apache girl. They have a son, Kicking Boy.”

Jeremy met his brother’s eyes. Wolf’s Blood still glared at him as though he’d like to choke him. Jeremy had always been afraid of his warrior brother, but also in awe of him. “I’m … glad for you, Wolf’s Blood—truly.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think you ever knew how much I envied you—how much I wished I could be like you. But it just wasn’t in me, Wolf’s Blood. I wanted it to be—I tried to make it be there. But I had to face the fact that it wasn’t, and I had to go where my own heart took me—just like you did.”

“I do not care what you do with your life, my brother! But
you deserted the family!”

“And you did not?” Jeremy shot back. “You went north to live with Swift Arrow! You do not call that deserting? I stayed and helped work the ranch after you left.”

“Only because you were too young to do otherwise!” Wolf’s Blood shot back. “I intended to come back one day, and I have always been proud to be Indian! You intended to never come back—to never see any of your family again! And you deny your Indian blood! You even brag about shooting Indians! You are a traitor to our father! I could love you as a brother if not for that!”

Jeremy’s eyes teared and he ran a hand nervously through his hair again. He looked at his father. “Don’t worry about telling me you’re here for the Army. It’s none of my business what your actual mission is, and I won’t tell anyone.”

“You won’t tell because you won’t even admit to anyone that you know us!” Wolf’s Blood growled.

Jeremy sighed, keeping his eyes on his father. “I’ll be leaving on a morning train for Denver, so I’ll be out of the way. How is Ellen?”

“She’s fine,” Zeke answered impatiently. “Look, Jeremy, do you know anything about LeeAnn? Her letters are rare now. They come from a post office box in Washington, D.C. It’s obvious she also is turning her back on her past—and her family. But I worry about her nonetheless, just as I have worried about you.”

Jeremy frowned. “You have?”

“Of course I have. I’m your father, whether you like that or not.”

Jeremy rubbed at his eyes. His head ached fiercely. He wanted to weep, but could not. Why was his heart so cold? “I don’t hear from LeeAnn anymore. The last I knew she was still in school in New York.”

“In her last letter to us she was working in a law office in Washington and getting more schooling—thinking about teaching. Abbie misses her very much.”

Jeremy met his eyes again, and a tear finally slipped down his cheek. “How is my mother?”

“She’s well, but she misses you.”

Their eyes held and the boy swallowed. “I … look, if you weren’t on this … this mission of sorts, for the Army, I’d go back in that saloon with you, and I’d tell everybody who you are. I would, Father, honest. But apparently it’s better that no one knows. I have a special car of my own on the train where I’ll be sleeping tonight. So I guess I … I won’t see you after tonight. But I promise to come to the ranch and see everyone—maybe next summer. I’ll bring my wife so mother can meet her.”

Zeke shook his head. “No. You won’t. You don’t want to tell your wife where you came from. Don’t say things just to be saying them, Jeremy. I don’t care that you’re ashamed of your Indian blood. But you’ve hurt your mother, and she’s the finest woman in Colorado. To not see her again—to not want your wife to meet her—that’s what hurts the most.”

Jeremy searched his eyes. “How can I explain it, Father? I do love you—all of you. But I just can’t … can’t go back.” His voice broke and he hung his head. “I’m sorry. So damned sorry.”

“We’re all sorry … for a lot of things, Jeremy,” Zeke told him, his own voice husky with emotion. “Even LeeAnn has a reason for what she’s done. She has the memory of that Comanche raid. But you have nothing but good memories. I was never cruel to you, and your mother was good to you, taught you well—maybe too well. Those books went to your head. Wolf’s Blood and I will go now. We’re camping outside of town. So I guess this is good-bye—again—perhaps for the last time.”

Jeremy met his eyes again. “Then please … let me embrace you. Please, Father.”

He looked like a little boy, suddenly wanting to please his father but not knowing how. Zeke stepped closer. “Pleasing me was really a very simple thing, Jeremy. You let it be difficult. You made it into something that wasn’t there at all. If you thought I expected more of you than what I got, you were wrong. We were just different, and that’s the hell of it.”

He embraced the boy, and Jeremy wept against the man’s chest for several minutes, then pulled away. He looked at Wolf’s Blood, who put out his hand in a cool expression of
brotherhood, though the feeling was not there.

“You are still my brother,” he told Jeremy. “Nothing you do can ever erase that. I will not think of you as I think of you now. I will think of the early days—when we were young and played together and I tried to teach you the warrior ways. You never wanted to learn. You used to make me sit down and you would read to me until I grew too restless and ran off.”

Jeremy smiled through tears. “Things haven’t really changed so much then, have they?” he answered. “Take care, Wolf’s Blood. Don’t go getting yourself in trouble.”

He glanced at his father once more and tried to smile. “Good-bye,” he said in a near whisper. “God be with you.” The boy dashed past his father then, hurrying out into the street, disappearing toward the train station.

Wolf’s Blood touched his father’s arm. The man was trembling. “Are you all right, Father?” he asked.

Zeke breathed deeply. “Go back in that saloon and get us another bottle of whiskey,” he said in a choked voice. “I intend to get very drunk tonight.” Tears ran down his cheeks. “And don’t tell your mother we’ve seen him.”

Chapter Twelve

Zeke poured himself a cup of strong coffee, rising as he heard the big black engine, Number 409, come closer to where they were camped outside of town. The train began to gather speed as it continued on, smoke pouring from a wide stack and trailing nearly the entire length of the wooden cars that carried more people westward. Blank faces peered out the window at the two camped Indians, some pointing.

Wolf’s Blood watched his father closely. Zeke had drunk a great deal of whiskey the night before, and he had wept over Jeremy and LeeAnn. Wolf’s Blood wondered if he even remembered. It was a private thing. He would not mention it. And he wondered if his father had ever been really happy after his tortured boyhood in Tennessee. The only time the man seemed really content was when he was with Abbie. She seemed to bring a joy and peace to his life that no one else could bring him, not even Wolf’s Blood; and although the boy had little use for most white women, he was glad his father had found his white mother all those years ago and made her his wife.

Zeke watched the train until the last car was well out of sight, wondering if Jeremy had looked out and seen them. It was difficult to tell. The nameless faces had whizzed by too quickly to know if one of them could have been his son. He sipped the coffee and turned to Wolf’s Blood with tired, cold eyes.

“I think it’s time to pay Mister Julius Rage a visit,” he told
the boy. “Stir up some breakfast, and we’ll pack up our gear and go back into town.”

The boy nodded. “Are you all right, Father?”

Zeke swallowed the rest of the coffee. “There comes a time in a man’s life, Wolf’s Blood, when there is nothing left that can hurt him anymore. He takes just so much, and then he gets calloused.”

“Can I do anything?”

Zeke smiled sadly. “You’re doing enough just be being here. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s get going.”

They quickly ate an almost silent breakfast. Wolf’s Blood’s heart hurt so badly for his father that he wanted to cry himself. But there was nothing that could be done, and this morning Zeke was brooding and quiet—hardening himself against the hurt of the night before. Perhaps that was good. At least he would be meaner and more alert for whatever lay ahead of them. They were soon packed and headed back to Dodge City. Wolf’s Blood noticed his father grimace slightly when he mounted up, and he wore the extra warmth of a fleece-lined buckskin jacket. It was a crispy cool morning, but Wolf’s Blood wore only his buckskin shirt, which Zeke would normally have done. The man was apparently in pain again, hoping the extra warmth would penetrate his bones and make him feel better. What worried Wolf’s Blood was that his father’s blood had to still be full of whiskey, so the pain should be dulled. If he hurt now, in spite of a night of drinking, how much must he hurt when he was sober? Each winter had been worse, this past one no different. He wondered how many winters he had left with his father.

They approached the bank building and dismounted, tying the horses and going inside, where a teller glanced up at them, his eyes widening. The man dropped a pen and swallowed, looking at them as though he thought they might be there to rob him.

“I’m looking for Julius Rage,” Zeke told the man.

The teller removed a pair of spectacles. “I’ll … get him. Wait right there, please.” He hurried away and walked through a door into another room. They could hear muffled voices, and shortly after the teller returned, leaving the door open. He
looked Zeke and Wolf’s Blood over as though he were seeing a grizzly. “You can go in,” he said nervously, hurrying back to his post behind the barred counter. Zeke’s dark eyes followed the little man with contempt.

Father and son entered Rage’s office, where the man stood behind a desk waiting for them. He put out his hand, but Zeke made no attempt to take it. “You mentioned yesterday you might have a good-paying job for a breed,” he said coldly.

Rage’s eyes glittered with anger that he’d been snubbed by an Indian, but he kept his false smile, putting his hand in a vest pocket. He nodded to Wolf’s Blood. “Close the door, young man.” He met Zeke’s eyes again. “Unless my life is in danger.”

Zeke stared back at him, looking more menacing today because of bloodshot eyes from a drinking, sleepless night. “It isn’t—at the moment,” he answered.

Wolf’s Blood closed the door and Rage offered both of them a chair, sitting down himself. The man reminded Zeke of Winston Garvey. He didn’t like him, but he’d listen. If working for this man meant possibly exposing him and routing out illegal whiskey trading, he’d play along. Rage took out a cigar, then handed the box to Zeke and Wolf’s Blood.

“No thanks,” Zeke told him. “I prefer cigarettes.” He pulled out a tobacco pouch and began rolling one. “I was going to wait a couple of days, but the boy here is anxious to get back down to Texas. He’s got a favorite whore down there that he doesn’t like to be away from for long. You know how Indians like Mexican women.”

Rage grinned. “I’ve shared my bed with a few myself. A man has to be in good shape to handle that kind.”

Zeke smiled and lit his cigarette, and Wolf’s Blood listened cautiously, realizing he must go along with anything his father said. “At any rate, we have a place where we hole up when we need to, where the women are free and the food is good. And when we run out of money, we venture out to see how we can make more. Beats reservation life.”

Rage smirked. “I suppose it does. And might I ask just how you do make your money?”

Zeke grinned a little himself. “A man could get himself hung giving out that kind of information to a complete stranger.
Why don’t you tell me what it is you have in mind?”

“Ah, but you are also a complete stranger.”

“But you’re white. It isn’t too likely a half-breed is going to get a prominent white man in trouble. Wouldn’t do me much good to go spouting off about your questionable activities when you’d just deny it, now would it?”

Rage grinned. “You’re a wise man. The least you can do is tell me your name.”

Zeke took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I am Lone Eagle. I don’t use my white name because I don’t care for my white blood. My son is Wolf’s Blood.”

Rage studied them closely. Two men who could handle themselves, that was certain. And the one called Lone Eagle seemed intelligent enough—maybe too intelligent. “Cheyenne?” he asked.

Zeke nodded. “And don’t tell me you don’t already know who we are and what we are. I’m sure your man Frank Dole has already filled you in.”

Rage brushed at his fine silk suit. He was a medium-built, soft-looking man, with slick black hair and hands that looked as though he had never worked hard. He arched his eyebrows. “You are not only wise, but perceptive.” Rage shifted in his chair, feeling uneasy at the way Wolf’s Blood stared at him, as though he would take great joy in slowly moving a knife through his body and watching the blood trickle out. He swallowed and tried not to look at the boy, but the father’s eyes didn’t make him feel much better. They were piercing and discerning. Rage set his cigar in an ashtray and leaned back. “Tell me, Lone Eagle, you ever run whiskey?”

Zeke grinned. “Is there an easier way to make money?”

Rage laughed lightly. “Probably not—at least not for a man who can work with whites and Indians both.” He rubbed at his chin. “You don’t mind selling sugared whiskey to your kin on the reservations?”

“Whatever makes them happy. If the poor bastards have nothing better to do anymore than get drunk, who am I to stop them? And if they’re foolish enough to trade valuable robes and reservation supplies for a drunken orgy, who cares? The Indians don’t give a damn about what’s valuable and what
isn’t. Money means nothing to them. I’ve seen Indians raid supply trains and throw paper money into the wind. The only thing I care about is that I get paid well and get a case of whiskey for myself—the good stuff, not the watered down, gut-wrenching kind. Like any other Indian, I like my whiskey too, but I’m most particular about my brand and I don’t drink it until I’m through with a job.”

“You look like you had your share last night.”

Zeke’s eyes darkened. “I am also not working for anyone—yet.”

Rage nodded. He moved his eyes over the man called Lone Eagle—a lean handsome man with enough scars to verify he could fight when necessary. Rage’s eyes rested on the wicked-looking knife for a moment. “I take it you have no trouble killing a man when it’s called for?”

Zeke grinned. “Mister, I lost count a long time ago. Man or woman—makes no difference if they’re in my way. It’s the same for the boy here.”

Rage grinned more. He liked these two. “Can you … uh … give me some names—people you’ve worked for before me.”

Zeke puffed the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t give out names—same as I’d not give out yours if somebody asked me. A man doesn’t get to be my age when he runs around giving out names. Let’s just say I’ve done a lot worse things than run whiskey.”

Rage leaned forward. “The trouble with half-breeds is they can turn on a man real easy. I’d hate to say what happens to men who turn on me, Lone Eagle. In fact, that’s why I’m hiring someone new. My last man tried to go running to the authorities. He regretted that, and so will you if you try to do the same.”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed, and he calmly removed the stub of a cigarette, putting it out. He stood up then, and Rage’s chest tightened when the tall Indian leaned over the desk, suddenly whipping out the big knife and stabbing it into a large desk blotter, holding it there, his big fist wrapped around the buffalo jawbone handle.

“It works both ways, mister,” he hissed. “You double-cross
me, or try to have me killed or not pay me, and every inch of your skin will greet the sun—inside out. When I say I’ll do a job, I do it and get out.”

Rage tried to act unruffled, but his face was red and covered with perspiration. He swallowed hard. “All right,” he said in a husky voice. “It’s a deal. We each know where the other stands. The job is yours for as long as you want to risk it. You know the backcountry between here and Oklahoma, I take it?”

Zeke straightened, jerking out the knife. “Of course I know it.”

“The problem is getting the whiskey to the Indians and getting the robes and other supplies from them without being detected by the damned agents or soldiers. They’re really cracking down on the whiskey traders and gunrunners.”

“I can get through in places the Army never heard of.”

“I hope you’re right. I can get a ten to twenty-dollar robe for a few cents worth of whiskey. The whiskey comes from a warehouse in St. Louis. Comes down by the Missouri River to Kansas City—gets put on the A, T & SF and railroaded to this point, where it’s unloaded. From here it goes out in wagons, under sacks of potatoes, taken by men like you. You exchange it for robes, skins, and supplies issued by the government to the reservation Indians. You bring the supplies back here, and they get shipped back to St. Louis, under various fake freighting bills. They go back to the same man who supplies the whiskey. I get the profit from the robes, he gets to resell the same government issue over and over, seldom having to order more. So he makes a tidy profit on government reservation supplies, while I make a tidy profit on the robes, and we split the expenses of shipping and paying men like you.”

Zeke grinned, shoving his knife back into its sheath. “The wonders of the white man’s ingenuity at getting rich never cease to amaze me,” he told Rage.

Rage stood up then. “And the things men like you will do for money never cease to amaze me. Let me guess. You’ve even dealt in the capturing and selling of white women into Mexico. Am I right?”

Zeke grinned more. “A few never made it to their new owners, depending on how pretty they were.”

Rage chuckled. “Just as I thought.” He looked Zeke over again, a powerful man with such a mean appearance that a woman just might end up wanting to see if she could please him. “Not all of them objected, I’ll guess.”

Zeke tossed some of the long, loose hair behind his back. “Not many. Now how much do we get for this?”

“Five hundred dollars for every load delivered and returned.”

“Each?”

“No. Both of you together.”

Zeke shook his head. “Five hundred each or the deal is off.”

Rage sighed. “Can’t do it.”

Zeke shrugged and turned. “Whatever.” He looked at Wolf’s Blood. “Let’s go find a better source of income,” he told the boy, who also rose.

“Wait!” Rage spoke up, his face reddening again with repressed anger. “Eight hundred—four hundred each. I’ll give you four hundred right now, and the other four hundred when you return with the goods to be shipped back to St. Louis. You handle three or four loads right, and I’ll up it to a thousand.”

Zeke turned to face him. “Sounds fair. Who’s the man in St. Louis? How do I know when a shipment is coming in?”

“No names, remember? And there’ll be a shipment in two days from now. I have a spread east of town. The whiskey wagons are kept in a barn there. It’s a big frame house, painted blue. Can’t be missed in country like this. You be there in two days and bring the wagons into Dodge City. The whiskey will arrive by train, packed into crates and cushioned with straw. The crates are completely enclosed and say ‘Potatoes, U.S. Government Issue.’ You load them into the wagons as though they’re supplies for the reservation. Several sacks of potatoes will be thrown on top. If you are stopped, you say they’re extra bags that weren’t crated. There hasn’t been an agent or soldier yet who didn’t believe that there was nothing but potatoes in the entire wagon. Sometimes the crates will be marked as something else—flour, beans, whatever. But we still carry the sacks of potatoes to make it look like just a wagon full of food. Usually a few boxes on the top near the end of the wagon really will have food, so when the soldiers open them to inspect them,
they can see there really are government rations.”

Zeke rolled another cigarette. “Who do I meet once I get to the reservation?”

“Peter Holbrook. He’s a government man—an assistant to the new agent at Camp Supply, John Miles. He’ll tell you where to meet the Indians who want to trade, and it’s usually done after dark.”