by Sandi Rog
“Are you the man who . . . .” How could she say it? The world spun around her. “Who led the attack at Sand Creek six years ago?”
“That I am.” The man smiled with pride.
“It was a mighty fine victory,” Mr. Evans said. “Mr. Chivington here and his men received a hero’s welcome.”
“Wiped out about five hundred of them red-skins,” Chivington added.
The entire world stopped spinning and focused itself on this one, hateful man in front of her, and her mind exploded. “You call killing women and children a victory? I thought you were a man of God. A minister!” She straightened, gripping her newspapers.
“Nits make lice.” Mr. Chivington scowled.
“And where is that in the Bible?” Anna asked, caught in the grip of emotion and surprised at her own reaction. “Let me guess. Chivington, Chapter One, Verse 666.”
“Miss van Stralen!” Mr. Kane’s voice erupted between them.
Anna faced Mr. Kane. “Good day, Mr. Kane!” She turned to leave.
Mr. Kane grabbed her wrist. The newspapers scattered at her feet.
“How dare you.” He snarled between clenched teeth.
“Let go of me!” Her voice trembled as she fought his painful grasp.
~*~
“Take your hands off my wife.” Jean-Marc’s voice was low. He’d watched the scene unfold from a distance.
The man loosened his grip.
Jean-Marc grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the carriage.
Anna jumped back, staring in dumbfounded disbelief. Seeing she was unharmed, he turned his furious gaze back on the man in front of him.
“Mr. Charvet—I—” Mr. Kane babbled.
“Touch my wife again and lose a hand.” Jean-Marc brandished his dagger, noticing the fear in the man’s eyes. This was nothing new to him. He’d killed countless men, watching the fear on their faces as they died. But he wasn’t that person anymore, so he released him.
The man slumped to the ground. Then quickly scrambled to his feet, and as he attempted to step into the carriage his foot slipped.
“Coloradans don’t take kindly to Indian lovers, ma’am. You better watch yourself.” Chivington’s voice leaped out of the carriage, knocking the wind out of Jean-Marc.
He looked up to see his greatest enemy. Chivington tipped his hat as the other man found his seat.
Jean-Marc threw his dagger. It protruded from the couch next to Chivington.
Chivington stared at the dagger, slowly seeming to realize what’d just happened, then his eyes widened. He stood and drew his gun.
Jean-Marc quick-drew his Colt. With a loud crack, the pistol flew out of Chivington’s hand.
None of the men in the carriage made a move for his weapon.
Jean-Marc stood, his gun drawn and smoking.
Movement on the streets stopped and people watched closely as a chilling silence settled on the air.
Chivington.
The butcher. The murderer of Jean-Marc’s people stood before him. His mother. His grandmother. He cocked the hammer on the revolver and straightened his arm. His one true enemy, finally in his sights.
Liquid fire seared his blood as he drew in one long breath. He aimed the Colt right at the monster’s forehead, his gaze unwavering.
Now.
It was time. Time to avenge his family. Hand steady, his finger tightened on the trigger.
“White Eagle,” Anna’s soft voice carried over his shoulder.
His finger froze, a heartbeat away from killing the monster.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let Ma’heo’o have His vengeance.”
He wanted this for himself. God could have His vengeance any day. This moment, right now, belonged to Jean-Marc. His entire body ached for this moment. Nothing mattered, not even getting hanged in the streets; his family would finally be avenged.
Silence hung on the air like a suffocating cloak.
“Driver.” Jean-Marc’s voice cut through the stillness like a knife. “Leave, before I kill someone.” It felt like he’d shouted the words, but they came out deadly calm.
The carriage pulled away and tore down the street, leaving dust in its wake.
Jean-Marc stood frozen, Colt still poised, his arms and legs still braced. His mind buzzed, barely registering the fact that he’d let the swine go. The sounds of footsteps and the sight of people on the streets came to life as if he were gradually waking from a dream.
His vision came into focus, and he saw himself standing there, his revolver aimed at the dry goods store across the street. The tension in his body slowly began to melt like snow dissolving on the plains.
He let the Colt drop to his side and released the hammer.
He’d let him go.
Anna’s voice echoed in his mind. She’d been talking to those men. She’d been talking to Chivington.
He turned on her.
She stepped back.
Why was she speaking to his worst enemy? To the murderer of his family. He seized her arm and led her into the shadows between the buildings.
“What were you doing with those men?” His voice came out harsher than he intended. He studied her expression, searching.
Her eyes filled with guilt and fear. “I didn’t know who they were.” Her voice quivered.
“You knew exactly who they were!”
“I knew one of them from my trip to Colorado, but I didn’t know who the others were until now.” She practically choked out the words.
He stood over her, unsure how to respond. Finally, he hissed through his clenched teeth and walked away, leaving her alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Still shaking from White Eagle’s fury, Anna stopped outside of Mrs. Peterson’s shop. Today was supposed to be a good day, her first day of work. She took a deep breath, forced a smile, and went in.
Mrs. Peterson stood from her worktable. “Why, Anna, it’s you! I’ve been on pins and needles awaiting your arrival.” She laughed and motioned around her. “Literally!”
“And I’ve been anxious to start.” Anna swallowed back her emotions. “I can begin now, if you’d like.”
“You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” Mrs. Peterson smiled, but then a look of concern washed over her face as she stepped closer. “You’re so pale.” She took her by the hand. “What’s happened, dear? Do you want to talk about it?”
Anna tried to swallow the knot in her throat. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
“Come, I’ll show you to your room.”
Touched by Mrs. Peterson’s concern, she slowly followed her up the stairs, past a parlor on the right, and to the last door on the left. Mrs. Peterson took out a key, unlocked the door, and held it open.
“You get yourself settled, dear. There’s no need for you to start today. Just get some rest. Tomorrow will be a new day.” She smiled and squeezed Anna’s hand. “When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.” She patted her on the shoulder then turned and closed the door.
Anna dropped on the bed. Emptiness was all she felt.
She looked around her new room. Not too big, not too small, with a single bed, bureau, a wardrobe where she could hang her dresses, and just enough room for her to have a tub brought in for a bath.
Only problem was, she’d left all of her things at the hotel, and there was no way she’d show her face there now. She’d come directly from her confrontation with White Eagle.
Tears burned behind her eyes.
Though she was finally free, a certain emptiness and void filled her heart.
Was this the dream she’d hoped to obtain for her father? Was this really the home she’d longed to have for these six years?
Swallowing her unshed tears, she thought of the things she had left behind. Her favorite book, The Last of the Mohicans, the only connection she had to her father, and one of the few physical pieces from her life with him—when everything was good. The book had reopened the dream and sparked her interest again in going
west, in finding adventure and freedom.
Her father’s dream had come true. “I’m here, Papa. I made it.”
Finally, his dream was realized.
“But what are my dreams?” she whispered to herself. That day in the woods with White Eagle came to her mind when he’d asked her that very question.
She glanced down at her empty hands and thought of how often she’d pretended to be Cora and Alice in her book. She would escape into their world, only as a means of escaping her own. They’d been kidnapped by Indians, and how ironic that she had become just like them in many ways.
White Eagle, his village, and the friends and relationships she’d made passed through her mind. An old familiar ache came to her gut, the kind she used to feel shortly after her father died. She’d always thought it meant she was homesick. But that couldn’t be. She was home now. Truly home.
Loneliness permeated the room. Emptiness surrounded her. If only she could talk to her papa. Maybe he could straighten her life out.
Lord? Will You fix this mess I’m in?
Then she remembered her photographs. She bit her lip. That meant she’d have to go back. She also had to get her dresses. Maybe she could send for them? The thought sent a chilling dread down her spine.
There was nothing she could do about it.
Right now, she’d wash her face and get to work. She had to focus, and she wanted to do her best and show Mrs. Peterson that she’d hired a good worker.
~*~
Jean-Marc took a long drag from his pipe as he sat in front of the hearth. Unbelievable. He’d actually let the monster get away. How would Running Cloud, Yellow Leaf, any of his loved ones react? Would they think he failed?
Just like that day on the banks when he couldn’t save the child, when he couldn’t save his own mother. He’d watched helplessly as the soldiers came back to desecrate their bodies, had watched as they left cheering in the distance, waving trophies from their hats and rifles.
That night, Jean-Marc, Running Cloud, and Black Bear had helped carry back the wounded; few were found alive, and he dared not return to his mother or grandmother, fearing what he might find.
Jean-Marc, reeling in shock, staggered with some of the younger men into one of the trenches.
“I will fight!” Black Bear shouted. He crouched next to Running Cloud and slammed his fist in the dirt-covered snow. Moonlight flashed in his eyes. “I and others will go to the Dog Soldiers’ village. Who will join me?”
“I’ll go with you,” Running Cloud said, eyes red and swollen. He too had lost his mother. One of his little sisters had been seriously wounded, while the other two had survived. They’d managed to escape.
“We will also fight,” others called out.
Jean-Marc remained silent, clutching the necklace and the leather band he’d taken from his mother’s hair—all he had left of her. He still waited for his father’s arrival. Would he have heard what happened? Or would his father suffer the same shock he had just suffered?
“I will fight,” Jean-Marc finally said.
“You will fight against your father’s people?” Running Cloud asked.
“I won’t murder the innocent, but I will fight the soldiers.”
“They murdered our innocent!” Black Bear said. “Now they must suffer the same loss. They’re savages.”
“And I won’t become like them,” Jean-Marc said, his gaze set on Black Bear. Had Black Bear no grief, no anguish for what just happened?
“Jean-Marc saved my life.” Running Cloud’s voice hung in the air. Everyone stilled as their gazes rested on him. “He’s a brave warrior. A soldier knocked me from my horse and stood over me with his rifle. Jean-Marc flew through the air like an eagle, and he took the soldier down.” Running Cloud cleared his throat. “For now on, his name is White Eagle.”
Jean-Marc’s heart swelled. He would be fully accepted by the Cheyenne, and would now be called a brave. But in an instant his pride vanished with the finality of what had taken place. He had killed men and watched their blood soak into the ground and snow. He looked at his murderous hands. In one day, he had gone from boyhood to manhood, and he wasn’t sure he liked the man he’d become.
Again, Jean-Marc looked down at his hands. His pipe in front him, a steady stream of smoke drifting into his face as he sat before the hearth in what he’d always consider his father’s hotel.
“I did become like them.” His voice penetrated the air.
The realization made him shudder. Angry, he tossed his pipe into the flames. He groaned and rubbed his temples as he watched the pipe burn—a gift given to him by Black Bear. He tried to retrieve it, but it was too late, the flames were too hot. Black Bear was right. He’d never fully be Cheyenne. Whether he liked it or not, white man’s blood flowed through his veins. But it no longer mattered. None of it mattered. The Lord didn’t look at the color of a man’s skin or his race. He looked at a man’s heart. Jean-Marc had only Him to answer to, and he knew his bloodlust shamed God.
His gaze fell on Anna’s Bible sitting on the shelf not far from him. He’d kept her Bible without her knowing and wondered if she even missed it. She was obviously a believer, but he never heard her pray or saw her reading Ma’heo’o’s words.
Yet, how often had he prayed? It’d been six long years.
Too long.
“Ma’heo’o?” Jean-Marc felt like he’d shouted His name, but the cry came out as a mere whisper and sounded hollow in the large room. It felt strange to call out to Him after so long. Would He even hear his cries? His soul grasped through the dark void that threatened to strangle him, reaching for the One he’d pushed away for so many years.
He’d always associated Christianity with what Chivington did, but now he knew just how wrong he’d been.
“A true Christian would not murder people. I know that now.”
Jean-Marc shook his head at the simple revelation. Just because a person called himself a man of God did not mean he met with God’s approval. And Jean-Marc hadn’t met with God’s approval anymore than Chivington had. That thought made him shudder, putting himself in the same ranks as his worst enemy. But it was true. He was a murderer. And so was Chivington. Both of them would have to answer to God for what they’ve done.
After reading Anna’s Bible, he came to realize one thing. God granted everyone free will. God wanted people to come to Him because they wanted to, not because they had to. It was no different than when he kidnapped Anna. He wanted her to love him of her own will, not because he forced her—which he did, and now he had to make up for that.
And he would.
Jean-Marc was never able to give himself over to the Cheyenne spirits when he knew in his heart Ma’heo’o was a jealous God. It’d be like him or Anna having an affair. He’d never forget the pain when he discovered Anna speaking to his worst enemy. If that pain was anywhere close to what God felt when man worshipped other gods, then Jean-Marc was relieved he never brought himself to do that. Nonetheless, because of his lust for vengeance, he’d turned his back on Ma’heo’o. After he’d been washed by His Son’s blood, he’d turned away. Now he was alone.
Loneliness suffocated him as he stared helplessly into the empty room, into the flames where his pipe lay melting, too late to rescue it from the fire—melting and dissolving, just like the Cheyenne people.
Just like his past.
“Father, I have sinned. I’m sorry . . .” He caught his breath. Would God forgive him? “I’m sorry that I hurt You. You are not Chivington. It’s not about the Cheyenne or the white man. It’s about You and me, and I made a mistake. I chose the wrong path.”
He took a shuddering breath, fighting the knot that swelled in his throat. “I know my lips have not praised You and my tongue has not sung to You.” He ran his hands through his hair, desperate for his Lord, his Savior. “Please, hear my cry. Please let me live.” He shook his head and swallowed back tears. “Forgive me, Father. Please forgive me.”
He lifted his hands, his usele
ss hands, and held them up, palms spread, in front of him, the fire in the hearth blurring in the background through his tears. “I put Chivington and all my enemies into Your hands. Vengeance belongs to You. Only Your hands can help me now. Mine have failed.”
~*~
Anna worked diligently, and Mrs. Peterson said she was a faster and a more precise seamstress than her former employee.
However, Anna began to worry. It had been the longest two days she’d ever experienced, and she hadn’t heard a whisper from White Eagle.
She had let Mr. Dubois know where she was, and he’d sent someone by with her things the same day she’d arrived. But her photographs weren’t amongst them, and she still hadn’t mustered up the courage to go pick them up. She set aside her sewing and stared out the window. It was nearly closing time.
“Would you be a dear and take these curtains to the Grand Palace Hotel for me?” Mrs. Peterson asked as she held out the folded, packaged material.
Anna’s heart lurched, but she didn’t dare say no. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Peterson set the package on the table, turned, and busied herself with another project. “This needs to be done before tomorrow, and I’m nearly finished.” She peered over the rim of her glasses. “I’ll get it done much faster if you could run those curtains over for me.”
Anna pulled on her cloak and gathered the package in her arms. The streets were unusually quiet with a light fall of snow carrying on a soft wind. But fear made her chest tighten, almost making it difficult to breathe as she headed for the hotel, praying the whole way there that she wouldn’t have to see White Eagle.
“Please don’t let him be there,” she whispered under her breath. “Please don’t make me see him.” She could hardly breathe just thinking about the hate he must have for her. The anger in his eyes, the anger and hurt she saw there just a few days ago plagued her thoughts day and night.
Once in the hotel, she was relieved to find only the porter standing in the lobby. She quickly dropped the curtains on the counter and turned to leave.
