Download “From the Ashes” Chapters 1-3

Stone Heart’s Woman

By Velda Brotherton

CHAPTER ONE

Silence hammered in his ears like the rumble of gunfire that lingered in the haze of his memory. An arm, heavy with death, lay across the back of his neck, pinning his cheek against the frozen, blood-soaked earth. Stone Heart had no muscle or bone but sprawled limp, molded into the snow bank. Either he had perished under the white soldier’s vicious attack or was frozen stiff. Perhaps this was only a vision of himself alive, his spirit determined to take one final look at what horrors had been visited on the Beautiful People before journeying to the afterlife. The only way he knew he lived was the fire that burned in his side and leg.

A stench of black powder hung in the frigid air that earlier had echoed with hideous shouts of blue coats. To the west a huge silver moon poised on the horizon and slipped away, even as a wintry sun rose, nipping at ghastly thick shadows that lay across the battlefield. Everything glistened with a coat of new fallen snow. Still afraid to move, he gazed into the grotesque face of his friend White Elk, who lay still in death, arms and legs splayed awkwardly. Eyes wide and unseeing, mouth open in a silent scream; blood matted the ebony braids, a rime of ice frosted his flesh.

In fear that a white soldier remained to guard the battle ground, Stone Heart slanted his eyes to stare through the mist of his breath into the pearlescent sky. He would wait before learning if his spirit and body remained with the living. Had the soldiers butchered all his people? The women and children, the elderly, along with the exhausted, half-starved warriors who had rebelled one final time, with no hope for anything but death. They must have thought him dead too, or they would not have left him here. He felt a coward, submitting to his wounds while the massacre raged around him. Surely some must have gotten away. They couldn’t all be dead, could they?

Lulled by the dangerous, creeping cold, he lay thus for what seemed like a full night embraced by nightmarish visions. Many who could not escape Fort Robinson had killed their wives and children to save them from the white soldiers, then taken their own lives. Boys armed with broken knives went up against the fiery blast of rifles. Yet still some survived and fled alongside him. When he stirred from the reverie and opened his eyes, the sky gleamed like the burnished blade of his knife. Only a few moments had passed, though it might have been an eternity. An eternity in which he punished himself for failing to save even one of them. The great elk-hide coat had protected him from the cold, yet its weight added to his dilemma. He must rise, for he would be dead if he lay here any longer. It was clear the soldiers had moved on.

He stirred. The slightest movement inflamed the agony of his wounds. Leather fringes of his leggings clung fast to the frozen, bloodied ground. Filled with sadness and a growing rage, he welcomed the lances of pain that alerted his senses. Pushing to both feet, jerking free of the chains of ice and shaking away the snow, he squatted there a moment to breathe raggedly of the carnage-tainted air. And cursed his father’s white blood with each beat of his heart. If slashing his wrists would rid him of every drop, he would yank his knife from its scabbard and do so. Let the hateful legacy of the hated Yellow Hair soak into the ground, mix with the blood of his mother’s Beautiful People.

Fury drove him beyond the pain as he moved about among the dead, lifting a head here and there and recognizing one after the other of his dead brothers. His younger blood brother, Yellow Swallow, was not among them. Only nine summers in age, he too had been sired by the cruel Custer. A man who hated the Sioux and Cheyenne, but loved to lie with their women. Neither son would ever call him father.

Little Wolf carried the precious Chief’s bundle, and Stone Heart was filled with a need to find him and Dull Knife, the great elder leader. With frantic precision he passed from body to body, soon knew neither were among the dead, nor was Hog, the man who most recently had risen to lead the fight for the tribe’s freedom.

From where he searched along the bluffs he could see the dead strewn in the snow all the way down to the bridge over the White River. Let them not all be dead. Let some have escaped onto the prairie. Others may have been taken back to the fort by the white soldiers. Hope diminished the sorrow that cut deep into his heart, but he refused to allow either of the emotions to blur a rage that swelled within his chest until his heart thundered like the drums of battle. His Cheyenne soul and spirit roared in defiance, the bellow cutting the cold air and hammering at the lightening sky. He would kill them all, every white man that walked this land.

If the soldiers had his people, they would be at Fort Robinson, but not for long. Soon they would be sent back down south to Indian Territory, a punishment worse than death. For six moons they had fled that place, only to be recaptured. They must be allowed to go north to their home where they could live and die in peace, yet he had so little strength left in his body. The wounds he’d sustained bled heavily, but no more. Still he felt weak, depleted. How could he make this happen when he could scarcely move? He must rest, recover, and then rescue all who had survived.

With the distasteful purpose in mind, he set about robbing the dead, for only in that way could he live. He would need weapons, medicines, clothing to ward off the bitter cold, and food, though he doubted he would find much to eat on these half-starved, escaped captives.

Hardening his heart and spirit, he searched the bodies of his friends, brave warriors he had lived and worked and played with. He amassed an assortment of items: an old musket engraved with a dragon denoting itself as a trade rifle, good enough only for Indians; a possible bag containing black powder, patches and lead balls; a bundle of herbs and healing potions which he packed into a parfleche that already contained steel and a striking stone, candles and writing tools. From the bodies of the dead he gathered up extra leggings, several blankets and spare moccasins; from the lone soldier’s remains he took jerky, hardtack and a full canteen. The man’s weapon was nowhere, probably retrieved by the victorious army. Constructing a backpack with a large four-point trade blanket, he shrugged into it and retreated from the haunted place of death. To leave his friends like this shattered his stone heart, but he could do nothing for them except save the living.

By full daylight he had traveled a painfully short way from the massacre, driven forward by something buried so deep within him he could not give it a name. Moving beyond the pain and exhaustion into another plane where spirits guided the soul. Only temporarily, he left the White River and Fort Robinson behind. He would return, but for now he stumbled along the bluffs and over the endless prairie, looking for a place in which he could heal. Over and over he pitched face first into drifts swirled into mountains by the wind. Rose to move on only to fall again, until he could only crawl, leaving in the white powder a trail of blood. At last his strength gave out and he slept, in the bright winter sun on the open plains wrapped securely in brother elk’s hide and the blankets he had taken, trusting his friends the animals to keep watch over him. Once recovered he would return to Fort Robinson where he would live or die with what was left of the Cheyenne, whom even the whites referred to as the Beautiful People.

****

 With a sigh, Aiden rose and went to the mirror to pin long blue feathers in her upswept hair.

“Stephan, if I could get my hands on your throat, I’d cheerfully squeeze the life out of you.” She pinched her cheeks to redden them and adjusted the bodice of the filmy blue dress. The color made her green eyes shine like turquoise.

Though she wanted nothing more than to lie down and cover her head, she raised her chin and stepped through the door onto the boardwalk. A bitter wind tore at the filmy skirts, exposed her stockinged legs and threatened to rip loose her hairdo. She fought to keep everything under control. Perhaps that’s why she failed to see the preacher’s wife until the lovely woman slammed her across the back of her shoulders with a broom.

“You’re not welcome in this town, you Godless creature,” Amelia Durbridge screamed and connected with another swing.

Racing from the street a mob of screeching followers descended upon Aiden, who threw her arms over her head in defense. Each attacker came armed with her favorite household weapon, beating her about the head and shoulders. The blows knocked her to her hands and knees, sent flashes of pain through her body. She tried crawling through the sea of swirling skirts, but the women quickly closed rank and trapped her. Some weren’t so kind as Amelia Durbridge, calling her whore and fallen woman as they pounded on her. Embarrassment almost outweighed the pain. If her own dear sainted mother could see her now, she’d die of shame.

One of the women abandoned her weapon to rip Aiden’s cloak from her shoulders, another tore the dress away to reveal her corset. A small bag filled of coins stuffed between her breasts popped out and dangled from the ribbon that secured it around her neck. Scrambling to all fours, she stuffed it back in place. Frantic to escape, she bumped into the solid legs of a man who dragged her upright into the shelter of his enormous bulk. She recognized aone of her admirers, Wiley Lawson, and leaned gratefully into the whisky smell of him.

Lawson’s voice all but drowned out by the uproar, he shouted. “Ladies, now ladies.”

He managed to wrap her in a heavy fur coat that smelled of human and animal sweat, grain and tobacco smoke.

But the women had worked themselves into a frenzy and no mere man was about to slow them down.

“Out of the way,” one shouted, and hit him across the shins with the handle of her weapon.

“Dang it, Miz Lucy,” he yelled, hopping around on one foot, and losing his hold on Aiden. “What’s wrong with you? Does your husband know where you are?”

The rest of them turned on him in one huge roil of womanhood, and Aiden fled, dragging the heavy coat. She stumbled along the street, slipping and sliding through the churned, frozen ruts, past the theater where she would not be performing this night. The menfolk of town would have to find other recreation. Behind her the ranting mob finished with Lawson and turned once more on its original prey. She had to escape or they’d beat her half to death. Already her back and buttocks throbbed from the blows they’d sustained.

She rounded the corner into a bitter prairie wind that sucked her breath away. Gasping, stumbling, sobbing, turning her ankles in the absurd high-heeled boots, she jabbed her arms at the sleeves of the heavy coat. Gave up and hugged it around her half-bared chest. She dare not stop to put it on. Fury and outrage had turned the women from meek and obedient creatures to murderous predators. No doubt they’d had enough of their men worshiping at the feet of “that red haired Irish hussy.” If they caught her, they’d not only beat her senseless, they’d no doubt tar and feather her and run her out of town, as suggested by someone in the crowd.

At her back and closing on her quick came the rattle of wagon wheels over the frozen ruts. Lungs on fire, she knew she was lost, for she’d never outrun a team of horses. They must have taken Lawson’s wagon to run her down and finish the job they’d started.

Horror squeezed at her heart, boiled in her stomach, crawled up her back as she imagined them gaining on her. The wagon was right on top of her. If she was going down, she’d look her enemies in the eye. Out of breath and out of options, she turned to face the charging women, chin thrust high, the oversized coat wrapped tightly around her quaking body.

It wasn’t the charge of the virtuous women she faced, but rather a lone driver standing, whip snapping in the brittle air.

He slowed the horses, hauled back on the brake and gestured frantically. “Climb on, quick. I’ll get you out of town. Hurry, ma’am. Hurry.”

She leaped onto the back of the skittering rig, diving over the tailgate to land with a painful thud on hands and knees, the buffalo coat clutched under one arm.

Lawson whipped the team into a full run, sending her tumbling around between bags of feed and wooden casks; an assortment of tools of some kind prodded at her skin. Finally she managed to grab the back of the seat and hang on. Kneeling on a fat gunny sack, every muscle throbbing, she twisted a quick look over her shoulder. The pursuing mob faded into the distance. Howling like a pack of wolves, they brandished their brooms at the glowering winter sky. A wedge of fear in her throat loosened. Sucking at the frigid air until her lungs nearly caught fire, she sank to her butt and held on tight while Lawson urged the team onward. Galloping hooves thudded across the wooden bridge that spanned the river at the edge of town. The cold afternoon air crackled with the noisy clatter of wagon wheels over ice. Hunkered behind her savior, out of the brutal wind, she wrapped up in the warm coat and tried to calm her racing heart. Patted the bulge between her breasts. If she lost the money she would be doomed. Or maybe she was anyway.

When they reached the rise above town, he braced against the reins, handled the brake once more and coaxed his team to a halt on the slithery surface. He glanced down at the small town of Benson, Nebraska, clustered in the snow-drifted valley below. She followed his gaze. The crowd of women had dispersed, leaving the street deceptively peaceful.

“Sorry, ma’am. I couldn’t stop them. When a passel of females get the urge, a man just about has to stand back and let ‘em have at it. You okay?” He fingered his swollen lower lip.

Nodding, she swallowed hard and shuddered. “What got their dander up, do you suppose?”

“Why don’t you put that coat on?” He grinned wickedly. “Might of been that little bump and grind at the end of your finale last night, ma’am. Course I’m purely guessing.”

Dazed, she put her arms through the sleeves and felt instantly warmer. “I see nothing funny about this, Wiley.” Her voice trailed off, lips trembling so she couldn’t speak further. If she wasn’t careful she’d start bawling and the tears would freeze on her cheeks.

“A course not. I apologize.” He angled heavy dark brows at her. “You got a place to go?”

“Home. Saint Louis,” she murmured, “But I don’t know how to get there.”

“This weather, there won’t be no stage to carry you to the  depot for days, maybe weeks. I hear some of the trains ain’t even running. You’d think in this day and age, they’d have a way to clear the tracks.”

The team danced nervously, and he hauled back on the reins, making gentling noises, then went on.

“Hell, the war’s been over almost fifteen years, still we live like we do out here. Did you ever see it so cold? And ever dang time it warms up a tad, here comes another blizzard. Haven’t seen the like in twenty year or more. Snow’s piled higher’n an ox’s ass.” A sly grin twisted his gnarly features, a slitted gaze fastened on her bosoms.

With both fists she wadded the coat tight under her chin and moved backward. One heel came down on a short handled cutting tool of some sort.

She ought to be more cautious than grateful. This could go from a bad situation to a worse one. Wiley could have his own reasons for rescuing her, nothing to do with sympathy for her plight.

Never once did he take his eagle eye off her as he wound the reins around the brake handle and made to step over the back of the seat into the bed with her. She’d been right to be wary. She knelt and grabbed the adz, held it at her side hidden in folds of the coat.

In the time it took her to do that, he towered over her, no longer a rescuer but a menacing threat.

“Ain’t nobody gonna come along here for a spell. Maybe we could get acquainted. I’ve seen the way you goggle down at us from off that stage. Looking to pick the one you want. Heard stories too, about how you like to have a little fun. I reckon you might owe me something for getting you out of your . . . little difugalty.” He gestured crudely with stained fingers.

“I am not a whore, nor do I goggle, Sir.” She hoped not to be forced to hit him with the cruel weapon.

One look at the expression in his lustful eyes told her it would do no good to protest what he’d said. He believed it as surely as those women. But it appeared she could do nothing about their perceptions that a woman who sang and danced was also a whore.

His gloved hand shot out, and she jerked away, retreated till the tailgate pressed against her legs. Big and strong as he was, if he got hold of her, all would be lost.

“Leave me be. Go home to your wife.”

“She ain’t as purty as you. Besides I got me four kids sleeping in the same room.”

“Shame on you, you filthy man, for what you’re thinking. And with a family to care for.”

“Yeah, I know.” Drooling, he advanced on her, eyes glazing in anticipation.

There was no place to go but over the side, and he’d catch up to her sure as the world. With a mighty heave she swung the adz upward, just like her brother Cormac had taught her. If Wiley hadn’t managed to deflect the blow the thick blade would have buried itself deep in his throat. As it was one side of the heavy iron head caught him across the jaw with a solid thunk. He made no sound as he fell backward into the seat.

“Oh, God, oh, Mother of God,” she whispered, and dropped the evil thing.

She hadn’t meant to kill him. What could she do now?

He moaned and stirred, driving both relief and panic through her. Thank God he was alive. She couldn’t go back to Benson, but she could send him there. She didn’t want him to freeze to death out here, just go away and leave her be.

Carefully, she crawled out of the wagon bed, her feet crunching in the churned ruts. The reins were stiff and difficult to unwind from the brake handle, but she finally loosened them, released the brake and went to the team’s head. Leading them in a circle she turned the wagon back toward town, slipping and sliding in the button-up shoes. With a hard smack to the flank of the lead animal, she sent the rig off down the road, carrying its unconscious passenger. Without looking back, she started in the other direction, with no idea where she was going.

Many times during that day she wished she’d tossed the unconscious man out in the snow and taken the wagon. Inventing dreadful fates for him kept her staggering along the road while the cold whipped at her face. That subject exhausted, she kept going by damning Stephan for bringing her to this terrible place and leaving her like an unwanted piece of furniture. How could he have done such a thing when only weeks earlier he’d sworn his undying love? Vowed to marry and protect her, too. Back in Saint Louis, sitting in the swing on the front porch, arm around her, smiling so innocently when Mama brought them lemonade. What a terrible joke. And what was even worse, she’d believed him. At her age, she should have known better. But that was precisely why she’d grabbed at the offer. Her thirtieth birthday bore down on her like a circling buzzard after carrion, dooming her to spinsterhood. No man to love her, no children to comfort her.

Occasionally she glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing back there. Even the town of Benson had disappeared. Would someone come after her when the wagon arrived in town with its cargo? What if Lawson died? Would she be arrested and hanged? She probably ought to get off the road, but the idea of lighting out through piled drifts of snow held no appeal.

Overhead, the sky darkened, and spits of snow stung her exposed hands and face. Along the western horizon remnants of the dying sun purpled a gunmetal sky. Silhouetted against it perched a small house, nearly covered by a blanket of snow. Heart kicking at her ribs, she studied the soddie’s black hulk. It wasn’t quite dark enough for lamps to be lit, but it was quick getting that way. No tracks in the snow to show someone had come or gone. And the wind blew so hard there was no way of telling if smoke came from the chimney.

No matter, this was shelter. For a while longer, she stared at the house, afraid it would disappear. But it was real, and good enough reason for leaving the road. Taking a deep breath and drawing the coat close, she started across the desolate, snow-covered plain. The longer she walked the farther away the house appeared against the darkening sky.

A bank of angry clouds swallowed the last of the light, and she staggered, almost fell. Drifts of deep snow were frozen and slippery, and she fought her way over or around each in turn. Ahead the cabin held out its promise of shelter, but she was no longer sure she would make it. Legs numbed by the bitter cold, she dragged one foot after the other. Icy jags tore at her bare flesh like the fangs of wolves.

Damn the good women of Benson for tossing her out into the bitter January cold to freeze to death. She thought of dropping to the ground, letting the buffalo coat cover her and waiting for the end to come. She’d be there come spring, all stiff and blue as the very sky above. And wouldn’t that please those old biddies?

Before she’d halved the distance to the cabin, the howling wind thickened with icy pellets and fat flakes. If she didn’t reach shelter soon she would certainly die out here. The shack remained just out of reach as if teasing her with salvation. The high-button shoes with their cumbersome heels were nothing but trouble, worse in the snow, for they broke through the frozen crust with every step. She didn’t dare take them off, but struggled on, falling, then rising only to fall again.

Climbing once more to her feet, she gazed around frantically. Only darkness. Where was the cabin? Gone. She turned, turned again. Dear God in heaven, she must have passed it by. Terror took her in its deathly grip. She was going to die. Head bent low, she forced one numb foot ahead of the other, unwilling to give up until she could no longer even crawl.

Off to her right a moon the color of ice rose above the desolate horizon. Pointed across the treeless plain lighting the cabin with its silvery fingers as if pointing out her refuge. Otherwise she would have continued to walk on into oblivion, for she had gone past the place and was headed away. Frozen on the plains of Nebraska, her body might never have been recovered. Her family would never have known what had become of her. Newfound energy sent her stumbling the last few feet, the brutal, incessant wind buffeting her up onto the porch and through the open doorway. She used the last of her strength to shove the door closed, leaned against it gasping at air that fired her lungs. The wind howled mournfully, battered and beat at the walls, as if furious to have lost her.

It was cold inside, but not like out there in that blasted gale. Dropping to her knees, she huddled in the total darkness and thanked God for bringing her this far. With each breath pain sliced through her lungs, but she was safe. At least for the moment. It was easy to see no one lived here, for the place was abandoned.

Exhausted, she curled up within the coat and slept, cozy in the shaggy fur that had once warmed the animal from which it came.

****

Stone Heart awoke shivering, cold to the marrow of his bones. Winter sunlight probed with tentative fingers at the elk-skin under which he huddled. He must move on. Though he struggled until a cold sweat covered his brow, he could not gain his feet. Scanning the unbroken prairie, he spotted an unnatural shape in the distance. It appeared to be a soddie or cabin, of the kind white settlers used. No smoke came from the chimney. For a long while he kept watch, saw neither man nor beast. He would seek shelter and if he found someone there, he would kill them.

Grinding his teeth, he wobbled to hands and knees and began the journey. Soon, he did not have the strength to crawl and drag the heavy bundle, but couldn’t think of leaving it behind. His wounds ached, his palms wore raw, his thighs and upper arms trembled violently and would no longer hold him off the ground. He collapsed, lay in the snow, breathing heavily, smelling blood, his own and that of those he had robbed. He stared blearily at the cabin as if doing so  could make it move closer. But it remained, taunted him as the sun slipped lower in the sky to darken its roof and reveal a door to one side. A door through which he must somehow manage to pass if he were to survive another night.

If he could not crawl then he would creep along on his belly like a snake. One knee dragged forward to shove, then the other, arms and hands numb and unfeeling, pulling him along, inch by inch. Fighting to keep the heavy parfleche and supplies because to leave them meant sure death. The torturous trip would take a long time. Perhaps too long.

Memories of the battleground where the soldiers from Fort Robinson had slaughtered the pitiful small band of Cheyenne kept him moving forward. He would never forget this day nor what it had cost the Cheyenne. All his people wanted was to take their pitiful remnants home, home to the northern plains where the wind whispered of their heritage and the skies smiled with pleasure upon the land. This battle on a remote creek in Nebraska was not the first waged with the white man who would keep them on the reservation or murder them all. It must be the last.

After what seemed forever, he battered his way through the door, squatted in front of a mud and straw fireplace. Someone had piled dried buffalo chips in a corner and he rested only moments before setting about building a fire. Fingers trembled weakly so he could hardly strike steel against stone, or blow the smoking embers to life. Miraculously, he finally dozed in the blessed warmth of crackling flames.

A shuffling of feet, movement of some kind, startled him fully awake. He had no idea how long he had slept, but someone was coming. He tilted his head and listened. Not an animal, nor a big man. Someone small, weary. Even with his wounds, he would have no trouble overpowering this one and slitting its throat. The musket lay in the dark corner, for he had not yet loaded it. He hoped this was a white man approaching, for he desperately desired to count coup, repay the slaughter of the day before. Ignoring the lancing of pain, he crept toward the door, waited out of sight until his prey entered. The only light filtered into the gloom through that opening, and he could be upon the enemy without ever being seen.

The fur-shrouded figure that stepped into sight radiated fire about its head, rays of sun brilliant in long strands of tangled red hair. Already in motion, his arm clamped about its throat, cut off a high scream.

A woman. A white woman.

The robe slipped from her shoulders when she clawed the air and kicked furiously with both feet, her full weight swinging on his forearm. One pointed boot toe struck his shin, another cracked his knee painfully. Gritting his teeth against passing out, he leaned against the wall and hung on, pressed the blade of his knife hard against her mid-section.

Hissed in her ear, “Stop fighting or I’ll gut you.”

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The Wanted Man

By Matthew Pizzolato

  A sharp gust blew a small whirlwind across the trail in front of the rider, who jerked his horse to a halt. A faint, indeterminate sound reached his ears.

After a moment, he flicked the reins and laughed. “Buck, we’ve been on the trail too long. Hearing things.”

Pulling the cork out of his canteen, he swallowed a mouthful of water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand while his eyes surveyed the landscape.

A red-tailed hawk banked on the wind currents, and the breeze rustled in the leaves of the brush beside the trail. Nothing else reached his ears.

The evening sun hung just above the horizon and cast its dull, orange glare across the land. He removed his black, flat-brimmed Stetson and beat some trail dust out of it against his leg.

The animal pranced a few steps farther along the trail, its hooves clicking on stone until it stopped and turned its head to the side with its ears twitching.

“What is it, boy?” He pulled a Winchester ’73 from the saddle scabbard.

A bone chilling, high-pitched scream echoed, causing the small hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Something struck him on the head, and he collapsed from the saddle as the echoes of the gunshot reverberated across the land.

The horse turned and sniffed at the man. Upon recognizing the scent of blood, it tossed its head and trotted off several paces. The animal stopped, glanced back and returned, prodding the fallen man with its muzzle. After a long moment, the horse turned and galloped away.

The sun beamed upon him as it dropped behind the horizon. Faint breaths from his nostrils made small puffs in the dust of the trail. Trickles of blood from the wound pooled beneath his head. Darkness began descending but even the chill of the night didn’t awaken him.

When the full moon began its journey across the sky, a small shape approached out of the darkness and bent over the fallen rider. A hand checked for his pulse and found a faint heartbeat. The figure turned the body over and struck a match.

The sudden burst of light caused his eyes to flare open. He blinked and the face of the woman before him came into focus.

Bruises that were mottled purples and yellows covered it. Smudges of dirt streaked her chin. Her right eye was swollen shut and blackened. Then the match went out and darkness returned.

A sharp wave of pain stabbed through his head, and he groaned in agony.

“You have to get up. I don’t have much time,” the woman said.

Moaning and blinking, with his thoughts still a jumbled mess that banged around his mind like seeds in a gourd, he turned over, got his arms underneath his body and pushed himself to his knees.

The woman caught him with an arm around his waist and bore the brunt of his weight as he struggled to his feet.

“Where’s my horse?”

“I caught him earlier; he’s just off the trail. Let’s get you to him.”

With halting steps, they made it to the animal and stopped while he sucked in air.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“I know a place you can lay up for a while. It’s a small cave no one knows about but me. You’ll be safe there.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t like to see anyone die, not like this.”

“Thank you.” After several attempts, he got his foot into the stirrup and with her help, managed to crawl into the saddle.

“I’ll ride behind you to keep you from falling. I couldn’t risk getting my horse out of the corral earlier.”

“All right.” Extending a hand, he helped her climb up behind him. The feeling of her arms wrapping around him as she reached for the reins comforted him, and he allowed himself to relax. Gradually, his head lowered and he felt himself falling. The woman’s grip around him tightened, and his eyes flared open.

“Hold on to the saddle. We have a few miles left to go.”

Grabbing the saddle horn with both hands, he clutched it with a death grip. The moon illuminated the darkened landscape, and the stars shimmered overhead.

Balancing on the knife edge of consciousness, he managed to stay awake until the woman stopped the horse.

“Here we are. I’ll get down first.” She jumped off the back of the horse and hurried to catch him as he fell.

He got his first good look at her in the moonlight and was impressed. Her firm jaw line and small nose would be quite pretty minus all the bruises. A smattering of freckles dusted her cheekbones, and lovely blue eyes glinted at him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Her eyes brightened and she smiled. “Just someone who wants to help.”

“But what is your name?”

Her brilliant smile faded. “Call me Sera.”

He nodded and the action sent a lightning bolt of pain through his skull. With an effort, he forced himself to focus. “My name is…” He blinked and his brow furrowed.

“Don’t worry about it. A bullet just glanced off your head.”

“But I can’t remember my name.”

“It will come back to you. You need some rest, and then we can worry about it tomorrow.”

With a scowl, he took a halting step toward the looming darkness of the cave. Sera threw an arm around his waist, steadying him. A fire burned in the far recesses of the cave, and oddly shaped shadows danced along the walls.

“Someone’s here?” he asked.

Sera shook her head. “I came here first and built the fire before it got dark.”

“Oh.”

With her help, he eased himself to the ground and found a bed already fashioned out of pine boughs.

Sera sat next him with some bandages in her hand and reached for the canteen. “Here, let me clean up that wound. Lie down.”

Easing his head down on the blankets, he closed his eyes and felt the cool water being poured onto his head. After a moment, the whole world faded away.

* * *

When his eyes opened the next morning, he stared at the rock ceiling, completely at a loss. His mind clicked suddenly and he remembered the night before, being shot and the woman helping him. With a groan, he sat up, felt gingerly of his head and discovered the fresh bandages that bound it.

“Sera?”

His voice echoed in the cave, but there was no answer. Where could she have gone? Then he recalled the bruises on her face and the black eye. She must live somewhere nearby and had to return. Did her husband abuse her?

Cursing bitterly, he shook his head, the effort making him dizzy. What kind of low down dirty skunk would hit a woman? As soon as he was on his feet, he’d have to see about getting her out of that situation. No woman deserved to be treated that way.

The gray light of dawn began trickling into the cave, indicating the oncoming day. Would Sera return?

He racked his brain, striving desperately to remember his name. Just when it seemed he was on the verge of recalling something, the thought would flutter away, only to return again and hang there agonizingly close.

Unfortunately, his whole existence began when Sera lit that match in his face; he couldn’t remember anything at all before that moment.

On sudden inspiration, he struggled to his feet and had to catch himself against the wall to keep from falling. His hands darted into his pockets, and he searched for some familiar object that would strike a chord. A spent cartridge casing with several matches inside, a small folding knife and a few coins did nothing to jar his memory. Cold despite the beads of sweat on his forehead, he shivered and wished she would return.

Checking inside his vest pocket, his hand struck something round and metallic. Withdrawing the object, he stared at it in awe, turning it over several times in his hand.

A silver star with a circle around it and the words “Texas Ranger” engraved on the bottom. He blinked, completely perplexed and returned the badge to his pocket. He was a Texas Ranger?

A sudden sharp pounding inside his skull convinced him to sit down next to the fire. Groaning in agony, he covered his face with both hands and massaged his forehead. Would the pain never end? Maybe eating something would help his body heal itself.

With a small limb, he poked and prodded the ashes until he discovered an ember. After coxing it to life, he soon had a small fire going and extended his hands over it.

Locating his saddlebags against the wall, he found a tin of beans that he opened and placed as close to the fire as possible. His stomach rumbled and his mouth began watering.

While the food heated, he lay back on his blankets, folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

Another chill struck him.

He pulled a blanket over his chest until he grew hot and flung it away. It seemed like hours passed while he lay there, but when he checked his pocket watch, only fifteen minutes had elapsed.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes. A wave of nausea struck him, and he curled into the fetal position with both hands over his stomach and groaned. Unable to find a comfortable position, he drifted into a restless slumber filled with nightmares.

How long he lay there, he couldn’t say. It could have been days, or it could have been weeks. He remembered feeling a cool hand on his brow from time to time and being fed some kind of broth.

Then one day, the aroma of something cooking assailed his nostrils and aroused him. He sat up and looked around, blinking several times.

“Well, I didn’t think you would ever wake up.”

Turning around slowly so as not to jar his throbbing head, he spotted Sera standing at the entrance of the cave with both hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side.

“What’s that cooking?” he asked.

Sera approached the fire and removed the lid from a pot that hung over it. “Beef stew. I intended to come earlier but I just couldn’t get away. I’m sorry, you must be starving.”

“My stomach is gnawing at my backbone.” Had the bruises on her face faded? Or was the firelight playing tricks with his vision?

The sound of her laughter filled the cave, and her blue eyes sparkled when she looked at him. “It’s been a long time since I laughed. Thank you.”

“Yes ma’am. Least I could do.”

“Such a charmer.” Sera fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“What happened to your face?”

The smile vanished, and she stared into the pot. Several moments passed until he thought that she wasn’t going to answer.

“I fell.”

“Liar.”

Sera blinked and gazed up at him, but she didn’t raise a protest. Instead, she focused her attention on stirring the pot of stew. “Have you thought any more about who you are?”

“Yes ma’am, but I can’t remember anything. I found this though.” Reaching into his pocket, he flicked the badge to her, and she caught it deftly with one hand.

“You’re a Ranger?”

“I guess so.”

“Maybe you came out here for a reason. Were you trailing someone?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced toward the darkness in the back of the cave, trying to corral his thoughts.

“I really need to be getting back. I’ve been gone too long.”

Gulping quickly, he swallowed the bite in his mouth as a surge of anger filled him. Where did she have to go? Back to her no good husband? Instead of an angry retort, he nodded. “I understand. Thank you for all your help.”

“You’re welcome. I wish…”

“You wish what?”

“Never mind. I really should go now. I’ll come back when I can.”

“Sure.”

He looked down at the bowl and scooped another bite into his mouth. When he raised his head, he was alone. “Sera?”

His voice echoed in the cave, but there was no answer.

Lurching to his feet caused a sharp stab of pain to erupt inside his skull, eliciting a groan. The entire world began to spin and he dropped the stew. The bowl clattered on the rocky floor.

Heading for the cave entrance, he stumbled and extended an arm to catch himself on the wall but misjudged the distance, slipped and fell. His head slammed against a rock and bounced. Blackness descended upon him and for a long time, he lied unmoving.

* * *

Something cold and wet jarred him from unconsciousness. When his eyes opened, it took a moment for them to focus. With a start, he realized that he was gazing straight up the business end of a horses’ nostril.

“What is it, Buck?” Flicking his arm, he pushed the animal away. A sharp throbbing in his head caused him to feel of it with a gentle hand. Discovering the fresh bandages triggered a jolt of panic in his veins. Had he been shot?

Shoving himself to a sitting position, he found himself in the entrance of a cave. Vague memories flashed through his mind, like some half-forgotten dream. A pretty woman with long black hair who pervaded a sense of unbearable loneliness, and then a name flashed before him.

Sera.

Struggling to his feet, he reached inside his vest pocket for his badge but couldn’t find it. He mouthed a curse and stepped inside the cave. The sight of the fire with the pot hanging over it stopped him in his tracks, and he knew before he took the lid off that it would be beef stew.

After gathering his meager belongings, he saddled his horse and headed east. Judging by the landmarks, he wasn’t far from Tom Wilburn’s hideout. He’d approach carefully so as to get the drop on the man, disarm him and take him back to Texas. If Tom chose the hard way, well, that didn’t really matter.

As he rode, thoughts of the woman sifted through his mind and for whatever reason, he just couldn’t get rid of them.

A tendril of smoke that drifted lazily skyward caught his attention, so he slowed his horse and climbed from the saddle, tying the animal to a small shrub so that it could work itself free if he didn’t return.

Taking his time, he circled around toward where he had seen the column of smoke. Before long, a small dugout cabin situated against a small hill came into view. Slowly and carefully, he worked himself around the dugout until he commanded a view of the door. Then he eased into a comfortable position behind a pine tree and settled down to watch.

Half an hour later, the door opened and Tom Wilburn emerged carrying a basin of water.

A smile played with the corners of his mouth as he jacked a round into the chamber and fired a shot at Tom’s feet.

Tom dropped the basin and spun for the cabin, but stopped when another bullet struck the door.

“Hold it right there, Tom.”

The outlaw turned around with both hands in the air.

The Ranger stepped from behind the tree with his rifle at the ready.

“Who are you?” Tom asked.

“Jud Nelson, Texas Ranger. You’re under arrest for murder and horse theft.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “You’ll never get me all the way back to Texas.”

“I can always bury you out here, I’m not particular.”

“Is that so, Ranger?”

Jud smiled, aware that the man was stalling. Could he have a partner on the way back? “Unbuckle that gun belt, real careful like. I’m feeling a might on edge.”

Tom’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. His long, deft fingers unfastened the buckle. As the gun belt fell from his hips, his right hand swept back, clutching the butt of his gun.

Jud cursed and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck Tom high in the chest on his right side and half spun him around. Instead of falling, Tom jerked upright, extended his arms and backed away from something. “No! Go away. You can’t be real!”

Jud’s mouth fell open. Had the man gone insane?

“NO!” Tom’s head jerked to the side suddenly, and four bloody streaks appeared across his cheek. A gargling sound issued from his throat as he slumped to the ground.

Jud glanced around, unsure of what he’d just witnessed. He shook his head and approached the fallen outlaw.

Sightless eyes greeted him when he turned the body over.

Jud stepped back perplexed. The bullet wound shouldn’t have been fatal, yet the outlaw was dead; his enlarged tongue protruded from his mouth.

Jud swallowed hard and turned away, unable to look. He found a corral behind the dugout with two horses, turned one loose, and led the other around the cabin.

After loading the dead outlaw across it, he whistled a few times and was rewarded with the sound of pounding hooves. Buck rounded the cabin and trotted toward him.

“That’s a good boy.” Jud patted the animal on the shoulder and climbed into the saddle. As he swung the horse around, something metallic winked in the sunlight. Curious, he cantered toward the tree he’d taken shelter behind.

Slightly downhill from where he had hidden, a crude cross fashioned from two limbs protruded from the ground at the head of a mound of fresh earth.

Jud swallowed hard, stepped down from the saddle, and picked up his Ranger badge from the top of the mound. He stepped back and his mouth fell open when he read the word carved into the cross.

“Sera.” The woman who had helped him, nursed him back to health? Sera?

Thoughts and memories that he’d considered dreams fell into place and he remembered. He remembered everything. A cold chill washed over him, and goose pimples raised his flesh.

A feeling he had never experienced before tore through his body; his heart crumbled in his chest and his stomach turned over.

That scream he’d heard that night on the trail. Had that been…

Jud stood there for a long moment with his head hanging. A single tear crept from his eye and etched its way down his face. He clutched the badge in his fist and fell to his knees. “Sera. I’m so very sorry.”

Deep sobs of anguish racked his body, and tears rolled down his face. He placed his badge on top of the grave and pushed it several inches into the earth with his finger, smoothing over the disturbed area.

After a long time, Texas Ranger Jud Nelson climbed to his feet and turned away from the grave. With a heavy heart, he climbed into the saddle.

“Come on, Buck. Let’s get out of here.”

On a sudden whim, he stopped the animal and looked back. “Sera!”

Only the sound of his voice echoed back at him across the lonesome landscape.

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Dream Walker

by Velda Brotherton

Chapter One

Early evening shadows sent long, dark fingers across the alley at the back of Stirman’s Mercantile. Rachel crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, breath catching in her throat.

If Doaks found her he would drag her back to that filthy shack to cook and clean and God knows what else. She covered her mouth, held her breath against a threatened cry. Tears of anger, sorrow, and raw fear flooded her cheeks.

He was coming, him and those drunken friends, making no effort to silence their approach.

“Come out of there, ye dirty heathen savage. Come out and maybe I’ll not beat ye half to death.”

The worst he’d ever done to her was fling her across the shack when she displeased him, but that whip he carried coiled at his hip frightened her into thinking he might do worse. She cringed and tried to make herself smaller.

Doaks kicked aside the crates, crashed through them with a splintering of wood, and grabbed her up by the back of her shirt like a kitten. She kicked and clawed, but he only laughed and held her out of harm’s way.

“Mangy little wildcat. Spit and claw all ye want. And then settle yourself down. Paid good money for you, ain’t letting you loose, so you might as well stop fighting me.”

The hot stench of his sour whiskey breath washed over her and she gagged and went limp. He was a huge man and could do a lot more to her if he took a notion. There’d be other chances to get away.

She let him drag her from the alley like a gunny sack filled with feed. Even though she had quietened, he kept her at arm’s length and stayed out of her reach. Recollecting her earlier escape probably made him more wary, for he carried the bloody marks of her nails along one cheek.

From out on the street, someone hollered, “Sic her, you old drunk.” Another voice answered, “Ain’t gonna let that skinny Injun get away, are ye?”

The crack of a distant shot cut through the crisp spring evening.

Roaring in victory, Doaks hauled his prize into the street, bellowing curses.

Grim and silent she hunkered on hands and knees and glared at him. The men who had gathered to watch only laughed and continued their sport, stomping the packed earth and egging on the trapper in his game.

If he came too close she’d bite his dirty ear off. The chance didn’t come, for he was too quick and kept her out of reach of his vital parts. And so she waited, bided her time, and glanced up and down the street drenched in early twilight.

Surrounded by the rowdy men, Rachel and her captor squared off, he almost too drunk to stand up­right, but still much the stronger. He laid a hand on the whip, flicked the long leather tail out across the hard packed earth of the street. His bleary eyes gleamed. She hunched her shoulders, covered her head with both arms, and waited for the first sizzling lash of the burning whip. She would grab it and choke him to death.

“Don’t you kill her now, you old fool,” someone shouted with glee. “Even red Injuns is good for something, ‘specially female ‘uns.”

“Hear that, Injun,” Doaks snarled. “They don’t want me to kill ye. What do you think?”

She wanted to cry out that she was as white as she was red. White like her father. It would mean nothing to these men. To them it only took a drop of her mother’s blood to make her a filthy Injun. Instead she steeled herself to take her punishment from Doaks. This time she had gone too far and he would probably beat her. But not much, because he enjoyed her waiting on him hand and foot. She would get back at him sooner or later. The chance would come, he would have to sleep. When he did she would cut off his privates and feed them to him for breakfast. Fried.

Doaks grumbled and flicked the whip so that the end popped above her. “That brother of yours is counting his money, I would ‘spect, while I’m dealing with a crazy savage. Ought to have knowed myself better than to dicker with ‘em. Red bastard sold me a lazy, good for nothin’ runaway. Ain’t even purty.” He leaned down, jerked up her chin.

Choked by the sour whiskey on his breath, she gulped down bile and kept her eyes closed tightly. She loved her brother with all her heart. He had kept her alive, carried her at times till his feet were bloody during the removal. What had happened to him brought her great sorrow. One day perhaps she would understand why he had sold her to this terrible man. But she knew for sure, Eagle must have had no choice.

Doaks squeezed at her jaw until her ears rang. “You know that, gal? You ain’t even purty. And what do I have to show for my trouble? Paid good honest money and what do I have? Nothin’ but trouble, that’s what. I git through with you, you’ll damn well know how to pleasure a man.”

He staggered backward on the slope of the street, feet tangling. His grip loosened. She doubled both knees into her chest, kicked out, and caught him hard in the stomach.

He let out a tremendous whoosh and doubled over.

She bounded away, drinking in fresh air. Free.

Behind her he retched, the others whooped and hollered. She chose a route that would take her up the hill onto the square and raced through the dusky dark. Rounding a sharp curve in the road, she caught a second wind and took off, only to slam broadside into the haunches of a plodding horse. With a gasp she bounced off and landed flat on her backside. Momentarily breathless, she managed to roll over and scramble to her hands and knees. In another instant she had vaulted once more to her feet.

The rider, a big man dressed in buckskins, dismounted agilely and headed for her. “Here now, what’s your hurry?”

A quick glance over her shoulder told her that the drunken crowd was fast approaching.

The man’s silver eyes glittered, he breathed the stench of whiskey over her. Was there nowhere to go, no escape from such men?

He had a hold on her and she jerked to get away. “Let me go, you pale-eyed snake.” Switching to Cherokee she spat quick, insulting words at him, but he wouldn’t turn loose.

Daniel held onto the ragged Indian girl while he eyed the passel of men charging up the hill. Didn’t seem like too fair a fight, all those men against one scrawny girl, even if she did act wild as some cornered mountain cat.

The worst of the lot shouted, “She belongs to me, mister. Grab her ‘fore she runs off.” Wrapped in a badly cured fur skin and stinking like a skunk, the man lurched forward, knocked Daniel aside, and grabbed the girl.

Dispirited by the entire episode and not too steady on his own feet, Daniel raked his glance down past her flashing eyes to her unsightly garb, men’s pants hitched up with a piece of rope and a ragged linsey shirt. He let her go, turned his back on the foray, and walked off. This sort of nonsense was exactly why he stayed away from towns, from gatherings of humans. None of his damned business what happened.

He’d drunk too much, should have stayed in the wagon, gone to sleep. Let this go on without him seeing it. Wouldn’t know the difference then. He ground his teeth, shut his eyes. Girls died. Innocents died every damned day, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

The whip cracked behind him, the girl screamed, and he hunched his shoulders against the vivid images that engulfed him. A dead girl’s head lolling over his arm, her long black hair matted in blood hanging down into the mud. The stench of gunpowder and fear, and screams, dear God, the screams. Tearing at his gut, rendering him nearly helpless. The burning Mexican village, children running and crying, soldiers scooping up the women and riding off with them. Screaming, screaming, killing, killing.

With a roar he suppressed the memories and swung around. He yanked a long-bladed Bowie from his belt and leaped on the fur-clad man before he could swing the whip again. He sank the weapon deep into the enormous dirty thigh.

The man bellowed like a raging bull, but the knife buried to the hilt in his flesh didn’t slow him down much, it just turned his attention toward Daniel. Smelling blood, the other men closed ranks. Daniel sent a quick glance toward the girl, who knelt in the dirt, a bloody slit across the back of her shirt. He damn well ought to have stayed out of this, but with the trapper lunging at him, it was way too late.

“Run, girl, run,” Daniel shouted, and took the brunt of the man’s attack. The two of them went down in the dirt, the trapper’s thumbs locked into Daniel’s throat, his bulky, stinking weight smothering him.

Daniel gasped, grunted, freed his hands, and popped the man smartly on the ears with the heels of both palms. The thumbs buried in his gullet loosened momentarily, and Daniel grappled for the handle of the knife sticking out of the man’s leg just below his hip.

Darkness closed in as he ran out of air to breathe past the choking fingers. He grabbed the Bowie and yanked with all his might, twisting the blade as he did so. It was too much for the wounded trapper. He turned loose of Daniel’s throat to paw at the leg and shriek.

With a final jerk Daniel freed the knife. Blood spurted from the wound, the man rolled away, eyes glazed. Daniel came to his feet, gesturing with the bloody blade.

The deadly calm of his voice caught the bleeding man’s attention. “Leave her be, sir. Leave her be.”

Daniel shot another quick look over his shoulder, hoping to see the Indian girl gone. She remained there in the street, both hands over her mouth, shoulders heaving.

He waved an arm at her. “Git to hell and gone, I said.” But she didn’t move, just blinked and stared.

One of the men in the crowd spoke up. “He ain’t gonna do no more harm, mister. Not tonight, he’s done for fer the time being. But was I you, I’d look to my back when he heals. Ain’t no one wants to make an enemy out of Jasper Doaks, not unless he’s looking to meet his maker.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Daniel said, and bending over, wiped the gory knife blade on Doaks’s disgusting fur wrap, reversed it, and cleaned the other side.

Doaks muttered “Bastid,” and spit, but that took the remainder of his energy and his eyes rolled up in his head as he sprawled backward.

The girl remained in one spot, entranced. She had the eyes of a frightened doe who knows it should bolt but can’t move.

Daniel gestured at her. “Git. Git on out. He won’t come after you now. Go on, git home.” He started toward his piebald mare. Up the street a ways the animal waited patiently, reins twined on the ground.

Full darkness crept lazily along the winding byways of the mountain town. Broad bands of light from the saloon pooled on the dirt street. Rachel dragged in a deep breath, studied the beaten trapper for a moment, then turned to follow after the man on the horse. She had no place to go, no bed or board. Maybe she wasn’t any better off now that she was free of Doaks. At least with him she’d had a roof of sorts over her head, and game he killed and partially cooked over an open fire. What would she do now?

The man she trailed after looked like a trapper or hunter, dressed in buckskins, moccasins, and a wide-brimmed felt hat that he had resettled firmly on his shoulder-length sandy hair after the battle. But he didn’t talk like a man used to living alone in the mountains. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he spoke, like her friend Alice Sturdivant who attended Miss Sawyer’s Seminary right here in Fayetteville. They used entire words, not just bits and pieces like most of the natives.

Up ahead the mare broke into a canter and Rachel picked up her own pace. She’d always been a good runner, and she wasn’t hurt badly. The wound across her back stung like fire, but it wasn’t deep and she could manage it. While living in the Nation, running had been a way to free herself of the sorry circumstances of her life. Sometimes she thought she could run all day and into the night without ever stopping. But no matter if she did, she still couldn’t escape the existence forced on her people by the greed of the white man.

Darkness lay heavy as wool over the wagon yard, but she had no trouble keeping up with the man as he rode to one of the covered wagons and slid down off his horse. When he did so, he kept right on going down on his butt. He was full of whiskey, just like Doaks had been. She waited awhile to see if he stirred, but he lay where he had fallen and pulled his knees up to his chin.

The mare nosed around at him awhile, then shifted a hind leg and relaxed. The poor animal must be used to his kind of treatment, but Rachel didn’t like the idea that it would have to stand there all night tightly cinched by the saddle, the bit clamping her teeth. Once she was sure the man was truly out, she crept to the horse, making soft soothing noises so as not to startle her. She loosened the cinch, slipped the saddle and blanket off and dropped them to the ground. A rope hung on the wagon, and she eased the bit from the mare’s mouth, looped the rope into a loose halter, and led the animal to a corral where other horses drowsed.

After she had taken care of the man’s mount, Rachel drank long and deeply from his canteen and climbed into the back of his wagon to bed down. The single slash across her back stung, but it could have been worse. The drunken fool had barely grazed her. She was grateful for the white man’s interference, but had no desire to take up with yet another white man. She would just sleep there the night and steal away.

Gingerly she pulled the shirt away from the wound. Bright shards of light spiraled through her vision and off into the darkness. She sucked in air through gritted teeth and waited for the pain to ease.

Instead of falling asleep she got to thinking about going to California. From the trappers who ran with Doaks she’d heard about the Fayetteville Gold Mining Company and the new trail they planned to cut. A group of Cherokee businessmen had actually organized the trip, many of them would be going along.

That’s what all these wagons were camped here for. People were gathering to join the wagon train going to California to strike gold. Was this man one of them? He had saved her from Doaks’s viciousness, maybe he would take her along. She could work for him, cook, carry wood, wash and mend his clothes. It would be no better or worse than being with Doaks and she could get away from the poverty of the Indian Nation once and for all.

The western Cherokee had lived in Arkansas before the removal, and liked it here still, even though their land had been stolen by the white man just as it had been in the Great Smokies.

Imagine riding all the way to California in one of these wagons. What sights they would see. She remembered hearing the name of the man who had been chosen to head up the train. Captain Lewis Evans. The notion of gaining passage herself sent quivers of excitement through her. Maybe in California nobody would care that she was part Cherokee and part white. Her hair wasn’t the raven black of the Cherokee, but rather sheened with the red of fire. She looked out at the world through brittle blue eyes just like her father’s, but her skin was too bronzed to ever be mistaken for white. She had the broad forehead and high cheekbones of generations of proud Cherokee women, but her mouth and nose were finely chiseled like the Irish ancestors of her father. What she looked like probably didn’t matter. She had a hunch even money wouldn’t secure her a place on the train.

Maybe the man wouldn’t notice her here in the back of his wagon all burrowed down under a pile of buffalo skins, and she could just stay there until they were too far away from Fayetteville for him to throw her out. She finally fell asleep dreaming of all the wonderful possibilities of traveling west to California, even if she did have to go with a white man.

Something crawled up over Daniel’s nose, rousing him from his whiskey slumber. He brushed at the intruder, snorted, and shifted on the hard ground. One eye sneaked open and stared at a chunk of sandstone. A rock poked into his butt, leaving a sore spot.

Where in the hell was he? He shivered and wrapped both arms around himself. Damnation, it was cold. Frost had formed in his hair and along the curve of his buckskins. He snorted again and got up, setting off a volley of gunfire in his skull.

With a dry-throated moan he staggered along the side of the wagon, hanging on to keep from pitching onto his face. He struggled and grunted and finally climbed over the rear tailgate and dropped inside. Iron gray light touched the sky to the east, horses snuffled, a rooster crowed. He’d slept on the damned bare ground all night. That was enough to make a man stiff for a month.

He tried to remember the previous evening, but drew a blank. The mare Rhymer stood in the corral, hipshot and obviously sleeping. At least he’d put the poor old horse up before passing out. With an enormous effort he dragged himself into the nest of robes inside the wagon and pawed around for cover. His hand landed on a warm, soft body, and when it did, a banshee came up clawing and screaming, batting at him, kicking, scrabbling, making the most godawful noise he’d ever heard.

“Holy Hannah,” he shouted and protected his head and ears with both arms. The blows continued, thunder pounding in his brain. He saw stars and his stomach lurched. Summoning the very last of his strength, he caught hold of the flailing limbs, wrapped both legs around the creature, and wrestled it into submission. Somebody had turned loose a blamed wildcat in his bed. Who would think that funny?

The animal spat and yelled at him and tried to get loose, but he had it, every inch of it, wrapped up tight. One hand clutched a firm, naked breast. Good God almighty, it was a female. But who, and what was she doing in his bed? Surely he hadn’t … no, that was one thing he wouldn’t do.

After he caught his breath and swallowed his indignation, he spoke. “Who in thunderation are you, and what are you doing in my wagon?” The effort drove daggers through his skull.

Immediately the wild woman he had trapped went totally limp. Well, she couldn’t fool him, he wasn’t about to turn her loose and let her have at him again.

“I will leave if you let me go,” she said into his ear. “I am sorry, it was cold and I have no place else to go.”

He tried to concentrate on the meaning of the words. The last of his whiskey thoughts boiled around in his head, then cleared, and he remembered the slight Indian girl he had rescued the night before. But what he couldn’t remember was bringing her home with him.

In the time it took him to consider all the possibilities, he kept his hold tight. If this wildcat got loose she’d make mincemeat out of him.

Evidently reconsidering her earlier offer to slink away, she hissed, “Let me go or I will make a woman out of you.” That sweet little voice had gone as hard-edged as the steel in his Bowie.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “You mean, after I let you go.”

She thought about that awhile. “Maybe a long time after you let me go, but I will.”

“Then why should I let you go?” The skin of her cheek was silky soft against the stubble of his face.

Another long silence before she replied. “Because it would not be wise for both of us to lie here like this until one or the other died of starvation.”

Daniel chuckled and unlocked his legs. Just in case, he kept one arm wrapped around her torso in case he had to get the hell away if she exploded again. This one certainly didn’t talk like the ragged Indian girl he remembered from last night, but she blamed well acted like her. Perhaps this was someone else, which would indicate he’d been very busy in his nightly prowling.

“Who are you?” He released her with a great deal of care, shoving her up against the side of the wagon and scooting out of reach.

She grimaced, and edged away from the sideboards. “I am Rachel Keye. You saved me from a whipping last night, do you remember?”

He nodded, dumbstruck. “I thought you were an Injun.”

“I am half Cherokee, half white. My father was a trapper, his name was Josiah Keye.” She glared at him, crouched like a cat about to pounce.

He held up a hand. “That doesn’t explain what the hell you’re doing in my bed.”

“Sleeping.” She clammed up after the sullen reply.

“Look, if you want to stay here, do. But leave me alone. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping with you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Hell, if that’s all it takes, I’m Daniel Wolfe. You’re Rachel? Hello, Rachel. Now shut up and let me get some sleep.”

He burrowed into the furs and let out a long sigh.

She remained on her knees, watching him while dawn sent slivers of pale gray into the darkness around them. He was not much, this rescuer. But he had a wagon and he was going to California to hunt for gold. It was decided. She would go with him, one way or another.

Lying in a tight little ball as far away from his still form as possible, she dozed off once again.

Daniel shouted himself up out of a hideous dream splashed with the gore and blood of war. Breathless he threw off the buffalo robes and scrambled outside into another day. The night terrors bled away, and he settled some, rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers, brushed back his hair, and shook himself like a great bear.

Last night’s whiskey coated his tongue with a disgusting fur. He found his canteen and drank the last of the water. The barrel on the side of the wagon needed filling as well.

If he didn’t get himself in hand he wouldn’t make it into the Indian Nation, let alone all the way to Oregon. Damn the whiskey . . . damn the memories.

A more recent one pricked at him. The girl in his wagon. He stood on the frame and peered in cautiously. He hadn’t forgotten her temper and didn’t want to get hit with a keg of crackers.

She lay on her stomach, tangled hair spread around her head, a streak of dried blood across the back of her torn shirt.

“That son of a bitch,” he muttered, then went to fetch some water. When he returned she was awake.

“Brought you some water and a rag. Thought we could clean that up.” He gestured toward her back.

“I am all right. Go away.”

“Can’t.”

She shot him a dark look.

He shrugged. “My place. The way it works is, I stay here, you go.”

“Inadu,” she spat out.

He knelt there looking at her, silver eyes almost opaque. She thought she saw something sorrowful deep in there, but he quickly disguised it with anger.

“If that means son of a bitch, you’re quite correct.” He slammed the pan of water down and started to back away.

“I can’t reach it,” she said in a voice softer than she had used to him so far. “Snake. It means snake.”

“Yea, well that too. You want me to wash . . . ?”

“Never mind, I will just leave. It will be all right, I am sure.”

“Oh, hell.” He moved toward her. “Turn around, take off the shirt.”

Silently, slowly, she fumbled open the buttons and bared her back.

He gasped at the slash across the smooth, golden flesh. Damn that bastard to hell and back.

Pieces of shirt clung to clots of dried blood and he soaked the material with cold water. She dragged in a harsh breath but didn’t say anything. Under his callused fingers her skin felt soft and downy. He pushed tangles of dirty hair out of the way. Lips pinched, he cleaned the long wound that ran from her right shoulder blade diagonally across her spine to the curve of her left hip.

It wasn’t a deep cut, but it must have hurt like hell. She uttered no sound, just remained on her knees, head and shoulders drawn down.

Deep inside, the muscles of Rachel’s stomach quivered with each touch of the cold, wet rag. How gentle he was for such a man, yet the fierce pain was like a flame searing  her skin.

“I have salve,” he said finally, “but I’ll have to find it in the grub box.”

She nodded and waited, arms hugging herself to stop the shuddering.

When he turned from the wooden box in which he’d stored all the necessities of daily life on a wagon trip, he caught a glimpse of the sensual curve of her breast and halted. He’d thought he had himself a child here, for she appeared small in the ragged, loose clothing, but this was a full-grown woman. Those curves were what he had felt earlier when, half drunk, he’d wrestled her down. He had thought himself dreaming that part, for the desire to have a woman in his bed always died a quick death. He imagined the reaction when he awoke screaming and battling the demons that haunted his nightmares. Any woman would be off and running if she didn’t shoot him dead first.

Closing off his yearnings, he lathered the salve over her bowed back, gave her one of his shirts to put on, and sent her on her way because he could do nothing else.

She paused at the tailgate, outlined in bright sunlight. “I do not suppose you would take me to California, would you?” The request came in a small voice.

“Wouldn’t even if I were going there. I’m going to Oregon.”

She lifted her other leg over the gate and slid down out of sight. “Well, then. Good-bye, Daniel Wolfe.”

A pang of regret hit him and he crept to the opening to watch her small figure dart away among the gathered wagons. He almost called her back, but what would he do with a scrawny Injun woman anyway? Even if she did have a set of exquisite breasts and a curvy body.

As morning broke and the camp came to life, Rachel moved stealthily from one wagon to another. Three Cherokee men, one just entering manhood and much younger than her eighteen summers, readied a large, well-equipped covered wagon for the trip. She glanced quickly into the back. Supplies nearly filled every available space. Barrels and bags, crates and crocks lined both sides and were piled four and five deep up front. Surely there was a nook or cranny in which she could hide out before the train got underway. She marked the position of the large wagon in relation to the others, then drifted away from the yard.

In town she managed to salvage some food from the back of the hotel where the cafe workers threw out their leftovers for the dogs. The April morning had dawned brisk, but as the day wore on the temperature warmed. By early afternoon, she picked her way down to the branch that ran off the rim of the hill to the north of town. Stripping, she sat in the cold water and washed as best she could, keeping the wound dry. After a while her flesh grew chilled and she crawled out to lie naked in the sun, soaking in the pleasant golden warmth. The filthy pants she had rinsed and spread out to dry beside her. They were still damp when she slipped into them. The shirt smelled like Daniel Wolfe. How odd that he would have the name of the clan of her brother and other father’s people. Perhaps there was some hidden meaning there. She threw away the possibility, for she no longer believed in such nonsense. It was simply stupid Cherokee superstition.

She had no idea how long she must wait before the train pulled out. It would be best to remain close by and await an opportunity to hide away. Most of all, she had to be very careful that someone didn’t spot her and tell Doaks. He did, after all, still own her, if he could catch her and keep her. With luck he would be laid up with the knife wound until the wagons pulled out.

Daniel brooded about the girl Rachel. Looking into her face brought to mind crisp mornings and winter-shorn hills. Her eyes were the color of bright, dazzling blue chicory flowers, and they were made even brighter by the bronze shade of her lovely skin. Her hair reminded him of the copper leaves of the oak just before winter struck, leaves that always managed to cling stubbornly to their branches despite the wildest north winds. She had that kind of tenacity, both fragile and durable at the same time.

He tried to forget the warmth and softness of her lush breasts, the smell of her skin, her breath mingling with his in the heat of their struggle in his bed. She would get to California without any help from him. Damn! He had to stop thinking about her. Life had been very lonely since he’d come home from the war in Mexico the previous year, but that was the way he wanted it.

That night as he lay in his own cozy bed, he found himself wondering where the girl was sleeping, what she had eaten. Aloud, he cursed himself for being foolish.

And he dreamed again of the child he couldn’t save. She and her kind had been the enemy, trampled under the booted feet of the marching armies. He may not have killed her, but he felt as though he had had some part in it.

Odd how growing up he’d always admired the warrior, the mighty and the strong, and had wondered what it felt like to stand for a cause, be brave. Man was meant to do battle. But not with women and children. They should be spared, kept somewhere safe, away from the ravages of man’s fierce folly.

As always the girl lay across his arms, head hanging so that her ebony hair spread in the bloody mud where he knelt. Through tear-drenched eyes he gazed into her face, clutched her to his chest and rocked. A soldier’s weapon had found its mark, had killed this innocent one, and he could scarcely bear it. Abruptly her features shifted, changed into those of the Indian girl. Eyes opening to accuse him in their crystal sharpness.

And then the child’s hand flashed upward, fading light caught at the steel of a blade and she plunged it into his throat.

He awoke choking, gagging, his eyes watering. Sweat poured down his body. He loosened the shirt, skinned out of it, and sat there a moment, chest heaving. Cool night air dried the sweat, chilling him. Moonlight splashed through gaps in the wagon tarp. He traced a trembling finger through a golden puddle.

Daniel had killed bear, buffalo, and on one occasion a mountain lion with his bare hands, but he had never been as frightened as he was of the memories that came to him at night. And he was ashamed because that fear made him feel less of a man. He wanted no one to ever witness that weakness, most especially a beautiful Indian girl who had enough spunk to stand up to a man with a whip.

Unable to sleep, Rachel trailed listlessly among the silent wagons, her way lit by moonlight. A terrible guttural noise caught at her senses. An animal of some sort? Or someone in pain? She stopped to listen, then moved toward the low keening sound until she found herself outside Daniel’s wagon. It shook and creaked.

With an eye to a gap between the tarp and the high sideboards she peered into the darkness. Inside the tossing form wrapped in buffalo robes sat bolt upright, cried out. She jammed a fist in her mouth to keep from responding in kind.

He yanked the buckskin shirt off over his head, tousling his long hair. It tumbled like a curtain over his face and around his naked shoulders. Fingers of moonlight caressed the bare skin. Darkness cloaked his features, his breath rasped harshly.

She wanted to run, but remained frozen as he scampered like a panicked animal up and over the tailgate, landing so that he couldn’t help but see her.

Like a flash his hand clamped her arm, swung her around with a strength she couldn’t overpower. Fright dried her throat and left her speechless.

“What in damnation are you doing, girl?”

He held both her wrists and pulled her in close. The smell of whiskey poured over her. She shook her head and tried to break free, a weak cry escaping her mouth. As he shifted, moonlight gleamed in tear-washed eyes. How could that be? He was a big man, a strong hunter, why would he be crying?

Would he kill her now? Or would he take her into his wagon first? She hardly knew which she feared the most. Abruptly he let her go, rubbed the back of one hand along her tingling flesh where he’d gripped her so tightly, and gazed down into her eyes as sadly as one who has lost all he holds dear.

“Get on out of here, now,” he said. His voice rasped hoarsely. “And don’t come hanging around me anymore. Girl, what’s wrong with you?”

She wondered the same thing. There was no reason for her to be here. This man was dangerous and didn’t want her around. Why had she come back?

Still, despite his outburst they remained facing one another. The broad muscles across his chest and shoulders rippled as he once again raised his hand toward her. She didn’t flinch, but waited, holding his gaze with her own.

He cupped the side of her face tenderly, slipped his hand slowly down the length of her loose hair, and took a strand in his fingertips. His tongue ran over his lips, and unconsciously she licked her own.

Then he pulled away and turned from her. But this time when he spoke, it was with gentleness. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Go back to your people where you’ll be safe. Go on now.”

A smoldering coal deep in the pit of her stomach came alive and licked upward. Its fiery trail hardened her nipples until she wanted to cup them in her hands to ease their need to be touched.

“Good-bye, Daniel Wolfe,” she whispered and stepped from the embrace of his terrifying, spiritual fire, then turned and ran.

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“Chicago 1871, a city burned unrestrained. In a sea of people, a boy stood alone. Witness through his mind’s eye; the transformation from youth to one of the fiercest gunman of the Wild West.”
- DMK

Unable to remember the last time it was possible to sleep through the night. Peace and tranquility evasive, unobtainable, teasing and just out of reach at every turn. The silence screams, worn to shreds, unable to break out. Submit and bow, to the unrestrained tormentor of my soul, or continue the battle? Chase the spirits in the wind, or ignore, the resistance of those souls sentenced to eternal damnation?

Deemed a calling by some, a duty to others, and dubbed a nightmare, to even more. Save the innocent, witness the deaths of blameless people; kill and torture the flesh of pure evil men. Every drop of blood spills, absorbed by the earth, temporarily ceasing the course. The next violent session only rests, waiting my arrival.

Every story starts somewhere.

A writer of western lore has ambition to write a book that will define his career. He meets a remarkable gunfighter and procures permission to write the gunman’s life story.

A warrior of all things done wrong, could it be real? Why, is the course of one’s life called for such service? What is reality, rivers of blood? How much can flow before the journey ceases. Can it stop? Love of a dear sweet girl turned into a vicious death. Someone wants retribution; vengeance controls the course of fools. Death dealt, early to some stupid fool, who thought he was indestructible. Lust of an unfaithful woman brought fourth bitter rage in another, forcing my hand to dispense bloodshed in order redeem ones honor.

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After the betrayal of his mother’s people, Stone Heart has sworn never again to speak the language of his white father. He  vows to see that the surviving Northern Cheyenne are allowed to return to their home. But the red haired Irish woman has captured his heart and he can’t abandon her, for surely she will die.

They must find a way to rescue The Beautiful People imprisoned at Ft. Robinson and build a life together

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We are the long-stilled voices of your ancestors speaking from the past. We are echoes of those who were already here in the New World and those who came after and settled these now United States. We are the Native Americans who roamed the West, first on foot, and later on horseback. We are the explorers, the fur trappers and traders, the soldiers, the men and women who rode in wagons across the Great Plains and left our bones on silent prairies and in frozen mountain keeps.

We are the people with long memories who sat by lonesome campfires and listened to the stories told under the stars. We are the ones who first saw the greatness of the land and the mingling of peoples, who found the gold and the timber and the oil, who saw life and death and greed and avarice and theft and slaughter. We are those who remind you of who you are, where you came from and where you are going.

We are your conscience and your guilt. We are those who surveyed the unnamed places and put names and measurements to towns and cities and rivers and streams and mountains and valleys. We are those who followed the buffalo and the eagle, who first spoke to the Redman in sign language and died on trackless plains with dreams in our hearts and prayers on our lips.

We are the chroniclers of those times when our nation was raw and young and untamed and restless and without boundaries. We are the voices of all who came westward and we speak to those now living and to those who will come after and wonder what the land was like, and who the people were and what happened over the centuries of blood and violence and progress.

We are those who paint pictures with words, who relate the forgotten stories, who look into the dark caves and light a torch so that all may see what lies inside and beyond.

We are those who live part of our lives in the past and ride a horse called History and who bring life to everything and everyone who died on the westward trek.

We are who you really are if you will but look in your hearts and wonder. We come from everywhere and come in all sizes and shapes. We are people born of another time and place who inscribe our stories in your hearts. We are those who write down the names on tombstones and mark the olden trails so that you who read us might trace the steps of your fathers and mothers, your grandfathers and grandmothers, your great grandfathers and great grandmothers and see what they saw and wrote down in their diaries and told their children who told their children who then told us.

We are the observers of both fate and destiny; the alchemists who transform the lead of the past into the gold of the future. We are the bearers of tidings, both ill and good. We are the keepers of the flame who refuse to let the old campfires die out.

We are those who write down what we see and hear and feel, taste and touch so that all may know what the West really was and what it means to all future generations. We are those who never die, who live as long as words are spoken and ears will hear. We are those who see through the mists of time and walk through the valleys of shadows and wander the long prairies of memory so that you will know that we passed by all those places that are now paved over and gouged out and dammed up and slashed down and scarred and vacant of all former life, where the old footprints have been obliterated.

We are those now called Western writers and we are proud to carry the label. We still ride the West on a horse called History, singing our old songs and telling the grand stories of yesteryear.

“And high on the hill where the wild wind blows, she sits her strawberry roan. And cries to the wolf in the moon’s white glow, her heart turned hard as stone.”

Changing sides is easier than he thought, but winning Charlie proves formidable. Until one night out on the prairie in the quiet of the night his desire for herexplodes. He tucks a finger under her chin and raises her face. “It’s you I care about.” Her heart knocks around like it has broken loose and has no place to go.

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