by Barbara Goss
Stolen Heritage
Barbara Goss
Scripture quotations in this volume are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without express written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2015 Barbara Goss
All Rights Reserved
Kindle Edition
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
June 19, 1854
Brushing the damp hair from her face, the woman sighed. Texas heat certainly beat anything she'd ever felt back East. Stooping, she picked another piece of laundry from her bucket and shook it before hanging it over the rope strung between the house and the large cottonwood tree.
An auburn-haired baby fussed from atop the blanket spread beneath the shade tree. The mother clucked in the baby's direction and continued tending to the clothes. “Just let me finish with this laundry, and I'll pick you up,” she promised, hanging the last shirt. "And when your father comes home, we'll have a nice supper!"
“There.” She stooped to pick up her daughter. Kissing the infant's cheek, she walked toward the house. As a cluster of birds flew off noisily from a tree in front of the house she stopped short, wondering, now what stirred them?
With a shrug, she turned back toward the house, only to halt again with a gasp. A wildly painted Indian blocked her path. Quickly she turned to flee, but several other savages surrounded her. The various colors that striped their faces made them grotesque and frightening. The woman struggled and screamed as the bronzed, bare-chested men grabbed her.
Instinctively, she clutched her eight-month-old baby more tightly. The sneering faces nearly touched hers, and their mouths shouted words she did not understand.
Without warning, one Indian yanked the child from her arms.
The last thing the woman heard was her daughter's screaming; then she felt a red-hot, searing pain in her forehead, before darkness enveloped her entire being.
Chapter 1
April, 1872
The lovely young woman rested her fair-complexioned cheek against the window and sighed. Her auburn braid fell over one thin, but muscular shoulder and turned a glittering red by the strong sun's ray. Running Brook yawned and flipped the heavy braid back over her shoulder and stretched lazily. She wondered if she'd ever be able to sleep without being abruptly awakened by horrid nightmares. Would visions of marauding Indian warriors carrying bloody scalps always haunt her dreams? She prayed daily that the nightmares of snakes, gory deaths, and taunting Indian children would disappear. She had a new life now. Why did the horrid memories linger in her subconscious?
Standing, she straightened her white buckskin dress and stretched her toes, pushing them roughly into white ankle- high moccasins. Cocking her head to one side, she listened intently. Then throwing her waist-length, auburn braid over her shoulder, she tiptoed noiselessly to the bedroom door. A strange voice rang through the small cottage.
Opening the door slightly, she pressed her ear against the slit. Her door's position at the top of the stairs enabled her to hear clearly, yet Running Brook didn't bother to peek out, for it was impossible to see anyone below. She listened carefully, stiffened at the mention of her name, and opened the door a bit wider.
“You'd better start at the beginning, Mr. Tatum.” The deep voice drifted up the stairs. “You've lost me. What have I to do with a girl you found with the Comanche? Why did you request me?”
“Sorry, Captain Grant, but I'd thought everyone around here knew about Running Brook and her dilemma.” This was Mr. Tatum’s voice, the Indian agent who had so kindly taken Running Brook in two years ago.
The strange voice offered, “I did hear something about you taking in an Indian or something.”
“Not an Indian,” Mr. Tatum corrected emphatically. “A white woman who'd been kidnapped from her cradle over sixteen years before.”
“A white woman? Sixteen years?” he asked.
“Well,” Mr. Lawrie Tatum said, “it was the talk of the area once. Thank the Lord the gossip has settled down, for too many false stories circulated about this affair. I'll give you the truth. Will you have coffee?”
Running Brook heard dishes clattering and knew Mrs. Tatum had served coffee and biscuits. After the initial noise of the serving had passed, Mr. Tatum told the army captain, “Two years ago another Comanche tribe surrendered to the reservation, due to starvation. Red Warrior, the chief, confessed his tribe had a white captive. The way he told it, he'd given a war trophy of a baby girl to his son, Big Bear, and his barren first wife.
“This child, known only as Running Brook, was around sixteen years old when she came to us. Not knowing what else to do with her, my wife and I took her in. She was quite primitive then, but we've educated her in the social graces, hoping she might one day fit into society. She never fit in with the other Indian children, because she was different. Some of the adults were cruel as well.”
The large, bald-headed man added in a reminiscent tone, “Seems like yesterday, but that was the winter of 1870, and here we are in the spring of seventy-two. In all that time we've only just finished sifting through the information we received from the government. When we asked, they sent us a list of families from that specific area who'd lost infant daughters around the time Red Warrior said they'd captured her. We've acted discreetly, not wanting to harm this lovely girl's reputation and future—people are very critical toward women who've been with Indians. By quietly checking government records and comparing them with the meager information Red Warrior supplied, we have come up with two families.”
Agent Tatum stopped and cleared his throat. “I don't have the time to investigate them further,” he explained. “That's why I called you.”
“Me, an army captain, investigating a missing person? What do you expect me to do?” the soldier asked.
Running Brook could picture Mr. Tatum leaning back in his chair, with his arms across his chest, as he usually did when he talked seriously.
“Captain Grant, I called you because I'm a good Quaker, a man of God, and I've heard you are a good servant of God also. Though you aren't a Friend, I've heard excellent reports of your ministry among the soldiers. Mrs. Tatum and I feel we can trust you. We've become fond of Running Brook and feel she is entitled to the life from which the Indians snatched her. She is very bright and has learned quickly the White man’s way. My wife was able teach her to read, and she picked it up quickly.” Mr. Tatum sighed, will you help us?”
The stranger's voice, while calm, held the slightest edge of irritation. “Mr. Tatum, I'm a soldier, not a detective. What would you have me do? Isn't there someone more suited you could call?”
“Colonel Grierson thought you'd be anxious to help,” Mr. Tatum murmured.
“The colonel!” Captain Grant gasped. “You spoke to the colonel about this?”
“Of course. Actually, it was he who first mentioned you. Since the army is directly responsible for the return of Indian captives, this is his concern. He recommended you highly and even promised you an indefinite leave of absence until the matter was completely settled.”
Running Brook opened the door a crack wider, for she heard no response. She hoped she hadn't missed it.
“Then,” the captain began, “this isn't exactly a voluntary job, is it?”
“We all thought you best for the mission,” was all Tatum said.
“Where do I begin?” the captain asked with a sigh.
“The government supplied me with names, many of which I've been able to eliminate because of the location or incorrect age of the child. As I said, I've narrowed it down to two families. It shouldn't be too difficult or time consuming to determine which family the girl belongs to. However, I cannot stress enough the importance of using discretion.”
“You want me to simply call on these families and interrogate them?” The captain asked.
“Yes, but with the girl. She will leave with you.”
“With me?” he protested. “How can a young woman travel with me alone? If you think living with the Indians gave her a bad name, wait until— ”
“No, Grant, we've thought of that. The colonel said you had a mother living in Fort Worth. We'll wait until you bring her back with you. The families you'll be visiting are both in Fort Worth area. Another reason we chose you.”
“Mr. Tatum, my mother is sixty years old. I'll not subject her to a trip all the way from Fort Worth and back. Have you no one who can go with us?”
“No one,” Tatum answered firmly.
“My mother is not traveling,” the captain stated without hesitation.
“I understand,” Tatum said kindly. “I'll think of something. How soon can you be ready to leave?”
“The sooner the better. I'm anxious to get this over with.”
“Excellent. Running Brook will be ready the day after tomorrow.”
Running Brook silently closed the door when she heard the captain and Mr. Tatum saying farewells. Sitting upon her overstuffed sofa, she contemplated the conversation. Mr. Tatum had located two families, one of them hers, but what had the Indian agent meant when he'd said, “People are very critical toward women who've been with Indians?”
A soft knock on her door brought Running Brook abruptly from her thoughts. At her invitation Mr. and Mrs. Lawrie Tatum entered her room and sat down upon her bed facing her sofa.
“Hello, my dear,” greeted the balding and bearded Indian agent. “How is the headache?”
“Gone. I took a nap,” she replied with a smile. These people had been good to her. They'd taught her white ways and shown her God's love. She liked them. “I'm sorry I didn't finish helping you make lunch,” she directed toward Mrs. Tatum.
Mrs. Tatum smiled with her eyes as well as her lips. “Pay it no mind, dear. I’m glad you are feeling better,” she said moving to the sofa next to Running Brook.
“Well,” Mr. Tatum said abruptly. “To get to the point of our visit, we have good news.”
Mrs. Tatum patted Running Brook's arm. “Good news for you, but not us, I'm afraid.”
“Let me tell it, dear,” Mr. Tatum said with a touch of impatience. “Running Brook, you are finally going home.”
Running Brook hesitated long enough so they wouldn't suspect she'd heard the whole conversation, then asked, “Home? What do you mean?”
She watched the portly Quaker lean back in his chair and cross his arms over his chest. “We've been investigating throughout the last year or so and have come up with two families that could be yours. Captain Jeremy Grant and his scout from Fort Sill will accompany you to his home in Fort Worth, where you will be his guest until he can determine which family you belong to. I've heard his mother is a charming woman and superb hostess.”
“I see,” she said. “Do I travel alone with these men?”
“Ah-h, that's one of our problems,” Tatum said, sitting straight. “But Mrs. Tatum has an idea.” He nodded at his wife, his consent for her to speak.
“I will dress you up as a lad. That way no one will know you travel in the company of two men. No one has a bad word to say of either man, and I trust both completely, but you know how gossip is. We must protect your reputation. When you get to Fort Worth, Mrs. Grant will supply you with clothes, and you can make your debut as…,” she faltered.
“Who?” Running Brook asked, “Who am I?”
“I can give you two possibilities,” offered Mr. Tatum. “You are either the daughter of Angus McCallister or Elmer Garrison. Both are prominent men from Fort Worth. Good families.”
“McCallister? Garrison?” she asked, sounding the names carefully.
“Both lost daughters to Indian raids around eighteen years ago.” Mr. Tatum stood, and Mrs. Tatum followed his lead. They walked toward the door.
“You're a very fortunate young woman. Both families are respected, well-to-do families. You can't go wrong with either. Be sure to thank the good Lord. Oh, and you leave day after tomorrow.”
Before Running Brook could ask one of the many questions that darted into her mind, they had disappeared from her room. She plopped herself upon her bed. Was she fortunate? Would her family welcome her with open arms? Did she have a mother other than Yellow Moon? A father who would beat her, the way Big Bear had? Or would he be kind, like Singing Bird's father?
Running Brook sighed. She would miss Yellow Moon, who still visited her often. Though she was not her real mother, Running Brook loved the woman dutifully. After all, Yellow Moon was the only mother she'd known—yet the memories of things she had done still frightened Running Brook and cooled warmer feelings for the barren Indian woman. She may have beaten Running Brook, and never really showed affection, but she fed her and gave her the necessities. Everyone treated her different because she was not one of them, and never would be. She grew up pretty much a loner.
Who was the other man she would travel with? Could she trust Captain Grant? She didn't like him, because he hadn't wanted to help her. He made her feel like an unpleasant obstacle that he would deal with only to get her out of the way quickly.
Her doubts surged back to thoughts about her new family's reaction toward her. How could they possibly love her after eighteen years? Mrs. Tatum said they guessed she had been close to a year old when she'd been taken captive. Would strangers accept someone reared by the feared and hated Comanche? She felt safe and secure with the Tatums. Why couldn't she stay? Yet even as she asked herself these questions she knew she would go. Her curiosity was as strong as her desire for a family.
Three travelers on horseback pulled fresh mounts behind them. From Fort Sill to Tent City—a town named by the Wichita Indians—they passed not one house or other sign of civilization.
Running Brook remained silent for the first few days, studying the two young men who accompanied her. Captain Grant, a tall, thin, clean-shaven young man, reinforced Running Brook's initial opinion of him: cold and heartless, he seemed anxious to do his duty and be rid of her. While a handsome man, his demeanor was cold and brusque.
The Indian scout, an educated Kiowa, wore a uniform similar to the captain's. His name was Trail Dust, which Captain Grant had shortened to Dusty. Short, stocky, and always ready with a smile, the scout didn't frighten Running Brook, as many Indian men did. She reasoned it was probably because he reminded her of Little Fox, her Indian cousin. Little Fox and Singing Bird had been her only playmates while growing up. Despite the many horrid memories of her life with the Comanche, whenever she thought of her two dear friends, she almost yearned to return. They were the only ones who accepted her for who she was. Many of the adult Indians would kick dirt in her face, or snarl at her, just because she had red hair and white skin.
Before they left, Mr. Tatum had supplied Running Brook with br
own breeches, cinched with a rope belt, and a yellow flannel shirt. Her hair was stuffed beneath a large, floppy felt hat. She didn't resent being dressed as a lad: The clothes were comfortable and perfect for traveling.
At night they placed their bedrolls beside the fire, and one man slept while one watched. Halfway through the night, they switched guards. Spared that chore, Running Brook slept the night through.
Early on the third night, Running Brook and Dusty slumbered while Captain Grant kept watch. She felt especially tired, having slept lightly the first two nights. As she floated into dark timelessness, her recurrent dreams invaded her rest. Dead babies flashed before her; braves held bloody scalps; and she relived the brutal beatings from her Indian parents, especially her father who often burned her as a punishment.
A shrill scream woke her. Finding herself in a sitting position, Running Brook realized the cry had been her own. Still shaken from the nightmare, she began to weep softly, only to scream again when a hand grasped her shoulder from behind.
Chapter 2
“Don't touch me!” She gasped, and then closed her eyes in relief. It was only Captain Grant.
Quickly removing his hand, he showed the first sign of compassion she'd seen. “What happened? Did something frighten you?”
Running Brook fearfully stared up into his concerned brown eyes and breathed in quick gasps. She gulped. “Why did you touch me?”
“I'm sorry. I don't know, except I was worried.” His cold, heartless expression returned. “I'm not used to women screaming out in Indian Territory in the middle of the night, I guess.”
Her face whitened at his words. “Indian territory?”
“But that shouldn't bother you. You lived with them. Maybe I should be the one…, hey, you're shaking. You really are afraid!" He reached out to touch her trembling arm, and then drew back quickly. "You okay?"
