Somewhere upstream, he heard the Effie Deans shuddering to a stop, the shouting and confusion. But he couldn’t see anything. He treaded water and tried to see how far away the stern-wheeler was. She must be up around a curve of the river, because although he heard the noise drifting on the wind, he didn’t see anything.
By damn! The night was as dark as the devil’s heart!
What happened to that full moon and the stars? But wasn’t he lucky that it was suddenly so foggy and overcast? The darkness of the night would hide him.
Cherokee’s head ached so badly, he couldn’t get his bearings or see any landmarks along the riverbank. The colonel might put out search parties in boats or walking along the shore. If Cherokee was found, no doubt he would be shot. That alone kept him from yelling for help. Better to drown or perish alone on the shore than be recaptured and executed. At least this way he had a chance. The other way he had none at all.
The current pulled at him, washing him farther downstream. Choking on a mouthful of the muddy Missouri, he tried to get his boots off as he tread water, but failed. He felt exhausted and his head ached. If he could only make it to land, he’d worry about all his other problems at daylight.
It took almost superhuman strength on his part, but he began to swim, listening for frogs along the bank to guide him to shore. Far away, he heard the Effie Deans’s engines start again and smelled the smoke from her machine room as she got underway. He kept swimming without looking back.
The wind carried the sounds of the boat’s big stern wheel churning water as she once again moved upstream. Good! They were moving on; maybe convinced he was drowned; or at least deciding not to waste their time looking for him. He couldn’t make it much farther. Just when he’d decided he couldn’t take another stroke, his feet touched bottom and he waded ashore and collapsed in the mud.
Cherokee lay there, saying a little prayer of thanksgiving and in too much pain and too tired to move. He had joined the Union army in good faith, although he had no personal vendetta against Plains Indians. Like poor Dowdy, he had only been trying to survive until the war ended. When the sun came up, he’d figure out what to do next. Wounded, without any supplies or even a weapon, he was in dire straits out here miles from civilization, but maybe he could fashion himself a boat from bits of driftwood or hollow reeds and float down the river to civilization. From there, somehow he would get back to Colorado and the woman he loved.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, he needed some rest. He stretched out with a grateful sigh and dropped off to sleep. In his mind, Silver ran toward him and into his waiting arms.
He awakened suddenly and sat up. By damn, his head ached! It was not yet dawn although he felt as if he’d slept for hours. The night was still black as the inside of a cave. Cherokee lay back down, staring up in the darkness. He couldn’t do anything until morning. Then he would decide where he was and make his plans accordingly, maybe catch some fish in the shallows for breakfast. Thank God he had a few matches tucked away in a little metal box in his pants. But his tobacco was all wet. Well, no cigarette, but he couldn’t have everything.
He thought about building a small fire from buffalo chips or driftwood, then shook his head. Because it was so dark, he couldn’t see to gather fuel, and the fire might be spotted by a war party or army patrol if there were any in the area. No, he couldn’t do anything until morning. He’d just have to put up with wet pants although his bare upper body was cold. He dozed off.
When he awakened, it was still dark. It seemed like the longest night Cherokee had ever spent. He felt the back of his skull, decided the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The rail must have caught most of the force of the bullet. His head still ached a little, but funny, he wasn’t cold anymore and his pants were almost dry. How could that be?
Bob white. Bob, bob white.
Strange, he yawned, since when did quail move about and call in the darkness? When he listened, he heard other birds, even the call of a hawk circling overhead. Hawks didn’t fly at night any more than quail. What the hell kind of strange birds were these? The moon must be out finally, he could feel its heat on his face. Since when did the moon put out heat?
Bob white. Bob, bob white.
Was this strange night ever going to end? Cherokee put his hand up before his face, and wiggled his fingers. He didn’t remember ever experiencing a night so dark he literally couldn’t see his hand before his face.
Overhead, he heard the hawk wheel and call again. He turned his face upward, trying to see the bird, and felt the heat on his face.
A thought came to him;—a thought so terrifying, he didn’t even want to consider it. It was tough enough to be wounded and alone out here on this vast prarie without supplies or weapons, but that other possibility was just too horrible even to think about.
Bob white. Bob, bob white.
Again he put his fingers up before his face, feeling his hand shake at the suspicion. His fingers were against his nose and still he couldn’t see them.
Cherokee turned his face upward and felt the relentless heat on his face, knowing suddenly that it was the sun. Now he lost control and screamed out in frustration and anguish. It wasn’t dark. He was blind! Stone blind!
September. The days and weeks and months hung so heavy on her with the war dragging on and on. Silver helped little Wannie pick up toys from the nursery floor, and thought about the latest headlines in the Rocky Mountain News. The Cheyennes were talking peace. It couldn’t come too soon for jittery Denver. With thirty-two recorded Indian attacks since last spring, ninety-six whites killed, including the Hungate family almost on the outskirts of town, twenty-one whites wounded, and eight captured by the hostiles, the people of the Territory were in an ugly mood. Many muttered that the Cheyenne and their allies couldn’t be trusted, no matter what their chiefs said, and no peace should be discussed until the Indians paid in blood.
Waanibe ran to the window and looked out at the street. Oh, come look, Silvery, Indians!”
Indians?” Silver came to the window and stared at the scene below. Trees were already turning gold and russet in the late September air. Lots of soldiers, mounted Indians, and several horse-drawn wagons carrying forlorn-looking white women and children. Yes, the Rocky Mountain News said Black Kettle and the chiefs were bringing in some white captives and asking for peace.”
She wondered suddenly if this meant the Southerners had given up trying to take Colorado for its gold, or maybe that the Indians were just weary and sensed the war against the encroaching whites was hopeless. She felt sorry for everyone concerned. In her heart, she hoped that the Civil War would soon end, even though, when it did, the Duchess would no doubt be sending little Wannie off to boarding school. Silver didn’t have any idea what she would do then. Get your dolls, Wannie, we’ll play awhile.”
I’d rather look at the Indians.” The little girl had her face pressed against the glass. They look sad and tired, Silvery. So do the white people.”
That’s the way war is, Wannie. Now get your dolls.”
The half-breed Cheyenne warrior, Iron Knife, rode his bay Appaloosa stallion at the front of his braves across the prairie. Over the next rise lay the river.
Sometimes he knew the bluecoats used the stream to float their boats as they journeyed upriver to their forts. For that reason, he paused on the rise and searched along the water for any signs of danger.
He was a big man, a warrior who had counted many coups, a honored owner of the hotamstit, the Dog Rope awarded to only the four bravest of the brave among the Dog Soldiers.
The sun felt hot to his whip-scarred, muscular back, for he wore little besides a breechcloth and moccasins. On his sinewy brown chest were scars from the sun dance. His hair, black as a crow’s wing, was pulled in a braid over his left ear, and a single earring, formerly a brass button from a cavalry officer’s uniform, gleamed in his right ear. The others rode up beside him, looking toward the water.
He signaled his cousin. L
ance Bearer, we camp at the water for the night.”
The other Dog Soldier nodded. You think we have found all the war parties then?”
Iron Knife nodded. I am satisfied that we have carried out Chief Black Kettle’s orders. All our people will be gathering in now to await instructions while he and the other chiefs are in the white man’s city, Denver, to return the white hostages and ask for a peace parlay.”
His other cousin, Two Arrows, frowned. Iron Knife, you have lived among the whites. Do you think they are sincere? Will the bluecoats keep their word?”
Iron Knife, son of the great chief, War Bonnet, and the beautiful white captive, Texanna, furrowed his handsome face and considered. Any more than the graycoats who promise us our own country if we help them in their war?” He shrugged. We can only hope so. This fight the tribes have waged since last spring has taken a terrible toll on whites and our own people. When we gather at our camp on the Big Sandy, we will know more.”
Two Arrows laughed. We are both eager to get home to our families. We have been gone too many suns.”
Iron Knife nodded, thinking of his love, the Boston debutante, Summer Van Schuyler, who had run away with him in the spring of ’59. Now she was known as Summer Sky, his woman. He was never happy when she and their three little ones were not close by his side. But as an honored warrior, he was bound to carry out the Cheyenne chiefs’ orders.
The young boy, Bear Cub, rode up beside him. I am glad you brought me along. The bigger boys will envy me when I tell them of our advantures.”
We brought you because your brother is one of my warriors and you begged so hard.” Iron Knife grinned. Besides, Bear Cub, your drawings interest me. And too, you turned out to be handy at gathering fuel and hobbling horses. Speaking of that—I’m hungry. Let us ride on down to the river and camp.”
His sharp eyes missed nothing as they topped the rise and looked around. The treeless prairie stretched like a sea of grass around them and beyond that lay the muddy river the whites called the Missouri. He and his men had been sent out to call the stragglers in, urging the war parties to stop attacking wagon trains and passing army patrols. They could not win against the whites, he knew. The few years he had spent among his mother’s people in that faraway place called Tejas—Texas—had taught him that.
Besides he could not bring himself to spill the blood of beautiful Summer Sky’s people anymore. A truce and peace were the only answers, but it was difficult to convince the Cheyenne warriors, greatest fighters of the plains. There was only one white man that he hated enough to kill—Jake Dallinger,—and that man was safely in the white soldiers’ prison.
But now his keen eyes spotted something by the river and he reined in, raising his hand in warning. Hold on! What is this we see?”
For a minute more they looked. It was a man, a big man, clad only in bluecoat pants and sprawled in the mud, his face partly in the water.
Lance Bearer said, I see only one. Why would one soldier be out here on patrol? Where are the rest? Can it be a trick?”
Iron Knife looked up and down the river. From here, they could see for miles. It is strange,” he admitted. Maybe he is dead and fell from a passing boat.”
The others grunted and nodded. That was the likeliest explanation.
Cautiously, Iron Knife led his men down the rise. Be careful, our experience with whites tells me it may be a trick. He may have a weapon.”
They rode toward the man slowly. He was a big man, Iron Knife noted, big as he himself and dark as a half-breed in the sun. The man lay on the riverbank, his muscles rippling in the sun. As they rode up, the man leaped to his feet, brandishing a stick, and Iron Knife realized he had been trying to kill the tiny frogs that splashed in the water as the horses approached.
Cherokee tensed, his stick at the ready. For several days, he had been able to see nothing at all, and now all he saw was the barest blur of approaching horses. Who’s there? Stay back, I’m armed!”
So we see,” said a deep voice in stilted English as if the owner didn’t use the language often, although your little stick doesn’t strike fear in any of us.”
Another rider translated the words into an unfamiliar language and a bunch of men laughed and hooted.
Indians? Soldiers? Renegade robbers?
A man fights with what he has, even though he may die,” Cherokee said with as much dignity as he could muster, although he knew he hadn’t a chance against armed men. Who are you?”
Well spoken like a brave man,” said the leader again. We are Cheyenne, on our way back to our camp in the Shining Mountains that you call the Rockies.”
Colorado. They were going to Colorado. Cherokee felt his heart leap at the thought of his love, but of course this war party would torture him. At least maybe that was better than slowly starving to death as he had been doing for the last few days since he had jumped from the deck of the Effie Deans
White man, what do you do with the stick?”
He was only the dim outline of a big man on a horse. I—I’m trying to catch a frog.”
The other’s saddle creaked as he dismounted. You are hungry?”
Cherokee hesitated. He had too much pride to admit it. Don’t come any closer or you will find out how strong I can swing this stick!”
You are brave indeed to try to hold us at bay with no weapons.” The other’s voice sounded gentle, sympathetic. You don’t act as if you can see us.”
I can see well enough to knock your head from your shoulders if you come one step closer.” Cherokee retreated a little.
Are you Indian?”
Half-breed. Cherokee. Why do you care if you plan to kill me anyhow?”
The other grunted. Soldier, I am Iron Knife of the Cheyenne. My chiefs will be meeting soon with the whites. We try to call a truce to this fighting.”
Cherokee held on to his stick. Why should I believe you?”
The big form shrugged. Why should you not? If I meant you harm, I would have already killed you. Do you think a silly stick would protect you against warriors who have counted many coups?”
It made sense, and anyway, he couldn’t fight them all. He lowered his stick.
The big form turned to the mounted men and spoke in their language, then turned back around. We will camp here tonight and move on tomorrow. If you wish, you may ride with us.”
Cherokee’s heart began to beat with hope. You ride to the Shining Mountains? That’s where I would like to go.”
Good! That is settled. We will sit and smoke a pipe until there is food ready, Can you walk?”
I—I don’t know. I’ve had no food for several days since I was wounded.” And at that point, he fainted.
When he came to, he lay next to a warm fire and the Indians had cooked some rabbits and gave him one. Ravenous as he was, Cherokee almost burned his fingers on the crusty, delicious meat. He gobbled, trying hard to see the brave who had befriended him. I’m much obliged. I’ll always remember that a Cheyenne called Iron Knife helped me when I needed it.”
The other grunted and ate his meat. I would like to live at peace with all men so that my children can grow up and live as I have lived. But times are changing, and I see that I am powerless to stop it. Only one white man do I hate, and him I should have killed rather than merely gelding him. His name was Jake Dallinger.”
Jake Dallinger.” Cherokee paused in eating and said the name again to himself. If he is Iron Knife’s enemy, he will be mine, too.”
The brave must have lit a pipe. Cherokee could smell the tobacco burning.
The Cheyenne said, Dallinger is an evil man. I hope the spirits smile on you and you never cross his path. Here, share my tobacco.”
Gratefully, Cherokee took it. Already his spirits rose. If you are going to Colorado anyway, would it be asking too much if I ride along with you? I have partners in Buckskin Joe. They will look after me.”
You have no woman to do this?”
Cherokee sighed. There was a woman. But I can’t seek her
out if I can never see again. I don’t want her pity.”
Iron Knife made a disapproving sound. If she were the right kind of woman, she would want you anyway, but I understand your reasons. Our medicine man examined your wound when you were asleep. I think luck smiles on you or you would already be dead. The bullet seems to have struck you a glancing blow, or maybe only a fragment hit you.”
Cherokee savored the tobacco and listened to the men moving about the camp, the neighing of horses. At first, I couldn’t see at all. Now I can at least see daylight and dark and blurred shapes. Maybe my vision will improve.”
Perhaps. Men live by hope, do they not? I still have hope that whites and Indians can finally live peacefully together. We are both half-breeds. I’m sure you have suffered as I have from hatred on both sides.”
Cherokee agreed, his heart warm toward the other man. Together, we will do what we can toward peace.”
They rested for several days, then the Cheyenne gave Cherokee a spare horse and they rode toward the camp at Big Sandy Creek. The days blended into a blur of weeks. From the chill in the air, he knew it must be the middle or late Du-ni-nv-di, October. Cherokee’s eyesight improved a little by the time they reached the main camp.
Iron Knife said, You can rest here a day or so, then I will take you on to this town called Buckskin Joe.”
In a few days, Cherokee thought with mounting excitement, I might be with my beloved Silver. Then he thought about his handicap. If his sight didn’t improve, he wouldn’t seek her out. He couldn’t burden her with a blind man. If he stayed in Mosquito Gulch, she need never know he’d returned.
Quicksilver Passion Page 23
