Chieftain (Historical Romance)

by Nan Ryan

  Their incarceration was the main topic of gossip throughout the fort and across the reservation. Unrest spread among the other tribes when they learned what had happened.

  Maggie heard disturbing tales of the imprisoned men being fed as if they were feral dogs. Great chunks of raw meat were tossed over the walls to the hungry men.

  Word was that the proud Shanaco refused to eat, stating emphatically, “I am not an animal that I will eat meat off the ground.”

  Five

  At five minutes past noon on Monday, the weekly stagecoach rolled to a dust-stirring stop before the reservation’s general mercantile store.

  The coach’s door immediately swung open. Out stepped a strapping middle-aged man with kindly brown eyes, a sun-weathered face accented by a full mustache the color of rock salt, and thick white hair poking out from under a battered brown Stetson.

  The big man’s booted foot had hardly touched the ground before an eager Maggie Bankhead stepped forward to intercept him. Her giant wolfhound, Pistol, leapt in front of her, barking a loud greeting. Maggie smiled and Pistol wagged his tail as both rushed eagerly forward.

  “Double Jimmy, thank heavens you’re finally back!” Maggie said without preamble.

  Double Jimmy smiled broadly, swept his Stetson off, reached out and wrapped Maggie in a quick bear hug, giving her narrow waist a gentle squeeze. Releasing her at once, he affectionately patted the head of the dog he had given to Maggie when Pistol was just a pup.

  “Hey, boy,” Double Jimmy said, stroking Pistol’s head, and then laughed when the huge dog jumped up on him and attempted to lick his face.

  “Pistol, get down!” Maggie intervened, snapping her fingers. “Behave yourself now. Get down, and I mean it.”

  Pistol obeyed, but he stayed close. He sat on his haunches at Double Jimmy’s feet, his pale amber eyes fixed on the big white-bearded man he recognized as a friend.

  Pistol was a faithful watchdog to his mistress. If anyone other than Maggie or Double Jimmy came nosing around her little cottage, Pistol bared his sharp canine teeth, growled loudly and prepared to attack. Double Jimmy never worried about Maggie living alone. Pistol would protect her.

  “It’s mighty good to be home, Maggie dear,” he said now, stroking the dog’s head again. “Mighty good indeed. I tell you, dealing with all those bureaucrats in Washington is—”

  “Tell me about the Washington meetings later,” she cut him off, and tugged at his arm. “I need your help and I need it right now.”

  “You have it, you know that. Has something happened while I was gone?” He put his hat back on, turned and reached into the coach to retrieve his valise.

  “Yes, something momentous. The Kwahadi Comanches have surrendered and come onto the reservation. They arrived at the fort Friday morning.”

  “No!” said Double Jimmy in disbelief. “Old Gray Wolf has finally given up and brought his People in?”

  “No, not Gray Wolf. I understand that the old chief is dead. His half-breed grandson, Shanaco, brought the band in.”

  “Will wonders never cease!” exclaimed Double Jimmy, shaking his head. “Shanaco here at the fort? I’d been told that he no longer lived among the Comanches. Leastwise, not full-time. After his father and mother died, they say he drifted away from the tribe. Took up the ways of the whites.”

  Maggie interrupted, “Double Jimmy, the minute the Comanches rode through the gates, Colonel Harkins ordered Shanaco and the rest of the young men thrown into jail. Locked them up as if they were violent criminals.”

  “Jesus God,” Double Jimmy swore, which was rare for him. He was seldom guilty of cursing, especially in front of a female. His sun-tanned face turning red with anger, he muttered, “Why the hell would Harkins pull a stunt like that? He knows better.” Heavy valise in hand, he took Maggie’s arm and firmly propelled her down the wooden sidewalk, Pistol barking and darting ahead.

  “I knew you’d object,” Maggie said, pleased with Double Jimmy’s response. “So you’ll demand that he immediately let them go?”

  “I’ll lobby for their speedy release,” he replied, nodding. “Soon as I see you home and get cleaned up, I’ll—”

  “I can see myself home and you can clean up later. Time’s wasting. Go talk to the colonel now.”

  Double Jimmy smiled and nodded. “I’m on my way.”

  Colonel Harkins rose to his feet and greeted Double Jimmy warmly when his old friend walked into the office. He stretched out a hand for the taller man to shake. “Glad to have you back, Double Jimmy.”

  “Glad to be back, sir.”

  “Sit down, sit down. Tell me what transpired in Washington.”

  Double Jimmy took a chair across from the portly colonel, hung his Stetson on his knee and replied, “Apparently not nearly as much as has transpired here. I understand the last of the Comanches came onto the reservation Thursday morning.”

  “You heard correctly,” said Harkins, shaking his head. “The old chief, Gray Wolf, is dead. The mixed-blood grandson, Shanaco, led the People in. The poor starving souls have finally given up.”

  “Which means they are no longer warring Comanches, does it not?”

  “That’s correct. They’ve laid down their arms.”

  “Then why in Sam Hill were Shanaco and the young men tossed into jail?”

  “Now, Double Jimmy, I gave this some thought and in my judgment it was the best way to avoid trouble,” Harkins quickly defended himself.

  “You avoid trouble by locking up the tribe’s leader who has surrendered his arms and led his People onto the reservation? That’s a surefire way to cause trouble, Colonel.”

  “I disagree, my friend. It was the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing? For God’s sake, you know full well that by locking up Shanaco, you have successfully angered every single Indian living on this reservation. We’ve talked about this many times, have we not? You must treat these people with the honor they deserve. You can’t look on them as wayward children and then expect them to behave like responsible men.”

  “I know that, Double Jimmy, but—”

  “Colonel, you are lucky your well-intentioned decision hasn’t caused half the Indians to flee the reservation. Do you want that to happen?”

  “Of course not. But I must consider the safety of the white females that live at the fort. Including my own innocent young daughter, Lois.”

  Double Jimmy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “In all his raids against the whites, Shanaco was even kind to captive men. And he was always merciful to the women and children. He never allowed any women or children to be killed in his battles. He has killed white men, yes, just as you and I have killed Indians. But never did he hurt women and children. I’m sure that he never forgot the fate of his own white mother.”

  Colonel Harkins grudgingly admitted, “I, too, have heard that the half-breed never harmed women and children.” He drew a slow breath. “Perhaps I should reconsider.”

  “Yes, absolutely. Please right the wrong. Do it now, this very hour.”

  Shanaco moved not a muscle. Only the wind lifted a lock of long raven hair as it lay along his bare bronzed shoulder. He fought hard to hold his temper.

  “Get up, you’re free to go,” said the scowling sergeant of the guard, a stocky man with a scar down his left cheek.

  Finally Shanaco rose to his feet.

  His handsome face showed no emotion as he walked out of the icehouse prison. Apologies were quickly made along with a promise that the fort’s commandant, Colonel Harkins, would personally meet with the chief soon to discuss the settlement of his People.

  Outside the makeshift jail, Double Jimmy waited. When he saw Shanaco, so tall and imposing and with eyes the color of pewter, he recognized the Comanche leader.

  Double Jimmy stepped forward, introduced himself and said, “Walk with me, Chief. We will talk.”

  Shanaco nodded, turned and addressed his men in their native tongue.

  Then, leaving them behind, he fe
ll into step beside the older man. As they walked away from the prison, Double Jimmy said, “I’m the Indian agent.”

  Shanaco nodded in silence.

  Double Jimmy explained, “I was in Washington when you led your People onto the reservation. Had I been at the fort at that time, I would have intervened on your behalf.”

  “If you say so,” Shanaco finally said.

  “I am genuinely sorry for the disrespect shown to you and I assure you nothing like that will happen again. I hope we can put the unpleasantness behind us and go forward.” He looked hopefully at Shanaco.

  Shanaco shrugged bare shoulders.

  Double Jimmy hurried on, “I know you are anxious to get washed up, put on clean clothes, but first there’s something I want to show you. Your horse is stabled with the garrison’s. So is mine. Let’s walk over there, get our mounts and take a short ride.”

  Moments later the two rode away from the fort with Double Jimmy leading the way. Due south. When he finally drew rein, Shanaco halted his stallion.

  Double Jimmy dismounted, dropped the reins to the ground, and said, “As you can see, this is a choice part of the reservation. It has been set aside for your People, Shanaco.”

  Shanaco, still dressed in breechcloth and red bandanna, pushed his long loose hair back, swung down and unhurriedly walked forward. He examined the thick grass, the tall shade trees, the wide ribbon of water gliding by in the near distance. He was pleased with what he saw. The People had been given a prime spot on the reservation’s southwestern edge, bordered by Cache Creek.

  “As the recognized chief, you will be assigned your own private quarters just as soon as the dwelling can be readied for you. Shouldn’t be more than a few days at the outside.” Shanaco glanced around, seeing nothing. Double Jimmy explained, “The cottage is a half mile from here, down around a bend of the creek.”

  Double Jimmy paused and waited for Shanaco to say something. Shanaco remained quiet.

  Double Jimmy cleared his throat needlessly and said, “I understand the old chief passed away.”

  Shanaco shook his head. “Yes, my grandfather is dead.”

  Double Jimmy continued, “I had great respect for Chief Gray Wolf. He was a testimony to dignity and bravery. Perhaps it is a blessing that he is gone.” He clarified then, “He never had to give up his old, beloved life of roaming the plains and hunting the buffalo that are gone forever.”

  “My grandfather preferred death to life on the reservation,” Shanaco finally said. His head swung around and he looked Double Jimmy in the eye. “I feel the same. I do not intend to stay here.”

  “I understand how you feel,” said Double Jimmy. “But perhaps we can change your mind.”

  “Never.”

  Double Jimmy nodded. “Then all I ask is that while you are here, you work with me as I try to help your People adjust. Will you do that?”

  “I will.”

  Double Jimmy extended his hand for Shanaco to shake. “I want to be your friend, Shanaco. Give me a chance to show you that I am on your side and you can trust me.”

  Shanaco gripped the older man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Sir, I thank you for your kindness,” he said politely.

  “Call me Double Jimmy. Everybody does.” He smiled and patted Shanaco’s bare shoulder. “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

  Shanaco had no intention of staying one day longer than was absolutely necessary. He appreciated the Indian agent’s overture of kindness and believed him to be an honest man. But as soon as he saw to it that the People were settled and were being treated fairly, he would leave.

  The prospect of spending the rest of his life on a reservation would be a slow death. He couldn’t wait to go back to his remote ranch in New Mexico where he was free to do as he pleased, when he pleased.

  Shanaco had been at the fort for little more than a week. Bored and edgy, he took a ride alone. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. Far away from the fort’s scattered buildings and the hundreds of tepees dotting the land, he rode up into the gentle foothills of the Wichita Mountains. At the crest of a hill, he stopped, dismounted and allowed his stallion to contentedly crop the patchy grass.

  In minutes the black had roamed away. The stallion went over the top of the hill, down the other side and out of sight. Shanaco wasn’t concerned. He had trained the black himself. When he was ready to leave, all he needed to do was whistle and the stallion would come.

  Shanaco sat down beneath an elm, stretched his long legs out before him, crossed them at the ankles, leaned back against the tree’s rough trunk and lighted one of Double Jimmy’s cigars.

  For a time there was little sound, save the sigh of the wind and the cawing of birds. Then all at once he heard—faintly—the sound of laughter. A woman’s tinkling laughter. He turned his head to listen. The laughter soon grew louder, closer. Squinting, Shanaco looked down and caught sight of the most arresting woman he had ever seen.

  She was running barefoot across a meadow that was part dirt and part grass. Close on her bare heels was a huge silver wolfhound, barking his pleasure. The woman’s unbound hair and full cotton skirts were billowing out in the wind. Her fair face was flushed with exertion. Continuing to laugh merrily, she impulsively grabbed her long, bothersome skirts and yanked them up to her knees.

  The woman didn’t see him seated beneath the elm on the hill above. She was unaware of his presence. She believed that she was alone. So she bunched her skirts higher, exposing a pair of the palest, most shapely thighs Shanaco had ever laid eyes on.

  He stared, disarmed by her carefree spirit and her natural beauty. And by that blazing red hair unlike any he had ever seen. After a brief moment in which he studied her with undiluted pleasure, she disappeared over a rise. One minute she was there. The next she was gone.

  Shanaco blinked.

  Had he actually seen her? Had a beautiful young woman with flaming hair and tinkling laughter and ivory thighs actually run past him? Perhaps she was a vision. Surely someone like that could not be real. Shanaco was enchanted. He wanted to leap to his feet and run after her.

  He didn’t do it.

  He sat perfectly still, hoping that she would come back. He waited, tensed, hardly daring to breathe. But she never returned.

  After several long minutes, Shanaco gave up. He rose to his feet and whistled for the stallion. In seconds the dutiful black came trotting toward his master. Shanaco climbed up astride the nickering stallion and rode back toward the fort.

  How, he wondered, could he find out who the redhaired beauty was? He might never know. He couldn’t ask. He’d get thrown back into jail for being too curious about one of the fort’s few white women.

  His jaw clenched tight, Shanaco cursed the fates that had put this beautiful red-haired woman here on the reservation where he couldn’t talk to her, much less hold her in his arms. Another time, another place, it would have been different. He would have seen to that. Had he been home at his New Mexico ranch when he saw her running across a meadow, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have gone after her. He would have stopped her, made her tell him her name. Made her…

  Shanaco needed a drink.

  He headed for the civilian village bordering the fort. He had learned that there was whiskey to be had in the back rooms of some of the businesses. Not that the white proprietors liked serving him, but he didn’t give a damn.

  His money was as good as the next man’s.

  The village streets were almost deserted.

  Shanaco was dismounting before the general mercantile store when he heard someone say his name.

  “Shanaco,” Double Jimmy called out.

  Shanaco turned and saw the Indian agent hurrying up the wooden sidewalk.

  “Double Jimmy,” Shanaco acknowledged.

  “Been looking for you, Chief,” Double Jimmy said, and smiled.

  “You have found me.”

  “So I have. So I have. I wanted to tell you that I’ve arranged a meeting. You, me,
Colonel Harkins and Major Miles Courteen, the second in command. Tomorrow afternoon. Is that satisfactory?”

  “It is,” Shanaco replied. Then, after only a brief exchange of pleasantries, he said, “I took a ride this afternoon, went down to the south part of the res. A young woman with blazing hair ran barefoot across a meadow with a big wolfhound dog racing after her.” He paused, glanced away, then asked, as casually as possible, “Any idea who she is?”

  Double Jimmy laughed, knowing immediately who Shanaco was talking about. “Red hair? Barefoot? Silver-furred dog? That could only be Maggie. Pretty Maggie Bankhead and her dog, Pistol.”

  Shanaco kept his voice low, level, when he asked, “She one of the officer’s wives?”

  “Maggie? Lord, no. Maggie Bankhead is a miss. And, she says she fully intends to stay one.” He laughed again before adding, “Maggie is a well-bred but fiercely independent Virginia girl who is like a daughter to me. Been good friends with her parents for years. Why, I’m the one responsible for Maggie coming out West. You met her, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t meet her.” Shanaco shrugged. Then he said, “What’s she doing here at the fort if she’s not married to one of the soldiers?”

  “She’s the reservation teacher. Maggie teaches English to Indian children. Well, not just the children. Anyone who cares to learn.”

  Six

  “We won’t be seen,” he whispered hoarsely, and deftly flipped open the buttons going down her tight bodice.

  “But it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon,” she protested mildly. “Someone might ride out this way.” She didn’t lift a hand to stop him.

  “They’ll see nothing but a buggy parked beneath a shade tree,” he said.

  “Suppose they get curious?” she asked. “Come out here and look inside?”

  “Since when are you afraid to take a little chance?” teased Captain Daniel Wilde, lowering his head to Lois Harkins’s open bodice and anxiously pressing his hot face against her soft flesh.

  Lois giggled then. She stroked the back of Daniel Wilde’s blond head while he eagerly pressed wet kisses to the swell of her pale breasts.