“Wait!” Ouray ordered. He stepped close to Keso and ran his hand across the livid scar on the back of Keso’s right arm. “How came you by this, Cheyenne?”
Coyote snapped, “Why does that matter? Let me continue this entertainment.”
But Ouray held up a hand to halt him. “How came you by this mark, Cheyenne?”
“I—I don’t remember,” Keso said with a shake of his head, “only that I was very small and an older boy pushed me into a camp fire.”
“N-Nothing more?” Ouray’s voice shook.
Wondering, Keso shook his head. “Cherokee Evans found me on the streets of Denver and raised me. I thought I was Cheyenne—only lately did he tell me I was not.”
“Untie him,” Ouray ordered, “I want to see his face.”
“Untie him?” Coyote protested. “What is this nonsense?”
However, men rushed to do the great chiefs bidding.
Keso almost collapsed when they untied his arms from above his head. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him lying in the dirt like a bloodied, wounded dog. He staggered, then straightened while Ouray looked at the scar.
“The scar,” Ouray said and his face betrayed anxiety.
“What about it?” Keso shrugged, wondering.
“Yes, what about it?” Coyote snapped. “I intend to give him even more scars to remember the Utes by.”
But Ouray shook his head and bright tears glistened in his eyes. “Yes, you were pushed into a campfire by an older boy—I would know that scar anywhere and it was Yorowit’z who pushed you.”
“What?” Coyote’s eyes widened and he strode over to examine the livid burn mark. “No, it cannot be him—the Cheyenne kidnapped and killed your son.”
Ouray looked into Keso’s eyes. “I see my own likeness in your face. Are you Ute?”
Keso shook his head. “My foster father, Cherokee Evans, says I am but I don’t believe him. I am Cheyenne.”
Ouray’s stoic face had gone pale. “Bring him into the lodge,” he ordered. “I would talk with him. The Great Spirit has seen fit to return what has been stolen many years ago!”
With Keso still denying he was the missing chief’s son, he was dragged inside where he was given food and water while Ouray questioned him. At the end of the hour, even Keso was convinced.
Tears came to the chief’s eyes. “The Cheyenne stole my little son not long after he was burned in that campfire. Coyote always claimed it was an accident, but I never believed him.”
“I do not want to be Ute,” Keso insisted, “my mother was a Cheyenne who was run out of the tribe.”
“Do you not see now why they exiled you? You and the woman who sheltered you as her own?”
It was all so logical. Slowly, Keso nodded. “It must be then as you say, even though I know only one father, the man who raised me.”
Gently, Ouray put his hand on Keso’s shoulder. “Welcome back into the tribe, my son. From this day forward, you will be a Ute warrior.”
“I’m sorry, great chief, but I will never think of myself as Ute.”
“Perhaps someday you will change your thinking,” Ouray’s face was grave, “or perhaps we will never regain all these years that have been lost. I must go now back to my own village to the south. Will you go with me?”
Keso considered a moment. He thought of himself as a white man but he was not. He thought of himself as Cheyenne, but he was not. Since he belonged in neither of those worlds and had lost the only woman he could ever love, why not stay among the Utes? Here he would be accepted as one of them and could live out his life as perhaps he would have lived it had not cruel fate interfered.
“No, my father, not now. I need more time to get used to this idea.” Keso thought of Wannie and Cleve lost in this wilderness. He had no confidence in Cleve’s ability to protect her. If Keso stayed in the area, he would insure that she could make it to safety.
“You will stay with this camp then?”
“There is nothing for me among the whites anymore.” He thought of Wannie. Now he wouldn’t have to attend her wedding. “I have had a deep hurt. Perhaps I could find happiness among the Utes if they will accept me.”
Ouray smiled and nodded. “And someday, when your heart has healed, you might want to take one of our women as wife and raise fine sons of your own.”
Keso studied the chief. In the deep lines of the dark face, he saw illness. Perhaps Ouray was not well, but for now, he smiled. If he were ailing, it would make the chief happy to think his son would stay among the Utes. “Perhaps I might.”
“Good. I will send some girls to tend to your back. If one of them appeals to you, marriage among our people is a simple thing.”
Keso said nothing. A Ute girl. His heart belonged to one who was half Arapaho, but he could not have Wannie. Perhaps he needed to stop torturing himself with her image and find peace among his blood people.
“Until I return then, my son.” Ouray patted his shoulder and rose to leave the tipi “You will now be treated as an equal among the Utes, but you will not get superior privileges as my son.”
“It is only fair,” Keso said.
Ouray nodded and went out. Keso drew a sigh of relief. No warrior had ridden in with news of the death or capture of Wannie and Cleve, so perhaps the pair had managed to escape. Nothing else was important to Keso.
Two pretty, dark girls entered the lodge, both shyly giggling. They made sign language to show he should lie down on the soft buffalo robes. Both of them were looking him over quite boldly and their bodies looked soft and ripe. Keso lay down and let the pair tend to his wounds, gentle hands rubbing healing ointment into the quirt welts. The fire in his back gradually cooled. He sighed and relaxed as the two pretty maidens worked over him, supple fingers kneading and stroking his skin. Why not stay among the Utes, forget the white way of life, and live as a warrior in the wild beauty of Colorado for the rest of his days? He could choose a pretty girl to give him sons, and maybe when he held her in his arms in the darkness, he could pretend she was Wannie.
Cherokee. Tears came to his eyes as he thought of the man who had raised him. Keso could still visit Cherokee and Silver now and then when Wannie was not in town. Keso couldn’t bear to see her coming to visit as Mrs. Cleve Brewster, Jr.
At any rate, the Utes would be watching him closely the next several days, so there was nothing Keso could do but stay in this camp and pray that Cleve Brewster had managed to save Wannie and get her out of this hostile country and back safe to the Evans cabin.
In the following two days, the pretty pair of girls who doctored his back returned time and again to see to his welfare and teach him a few more Ute words. They let him know by gesture that they were sisters and would be pleased to sneak into his lodge at night and pleasure him. Like the Cheyenne, Keso knew that a good hunter was allowed more than one wife. His thoughts were of only one woman, but he hushed the pair by saying in halting Ute that perhaps later he might want to choose a wife.
When he finally ventured out on the afternoon of the third day, the camp was friendly but suspicious and curious about the stranger. Only Coyote was hostile. “I should have held you in that fire,” he snarled. “I hated the attention you got as the chiefs son.”
“Coyote, there is no reason for us to be enemies,” Keso soothed him. “To survive, we may have to hunt together and share food.”
“I see you are already trying to share my women,” Coyote snarled. “The girls who tend you are the ones I have chosen for myself.”
“They don’t seem to have chosen you. Anyway, I have no interest in them,” Keso shrugged.
“Know this, you would-be Ute,” Coyote said, “you may not remember that if there is a difference between men over a woman, I can challenge you to a fight.”
“I wouldn’t fight you for either of them,” Keso said, “my heart belongs to another.” He felt in his pants pocket for the precious silver ring and thought about his beloved Wannie.
Coyote appeared mollifi
ed. “Let us go hunting together. I’ll see how much of a Ute warrior you are.”
“I am a good hunter.”
“You are dressed like a white man, not a Ute warrior,” the other sneered. “I would not be seen with you.”
“I will become a Ute warrior then,” Keso announced. “Until my father returns, I must have something to occupy my time.”
“Good. I will round up some of the other braves and some weapons,” Coyote replied. “When I bring in more meat and show the others I am a better marksmen, they will lose interest in you and I will have more respect.”
After Coyote left, Keso stripped down to a loincloth. Some of the older men provided him with medicine objects, weapons, and jewelry. He threw away his tattered white man’s clothing, but there was one thing he could not part with even though he knew he should. He took the little silver ring and put it on a strip of rawhide, which he hung around his neck. Let it remind him constantly of why he could never return to the life he had led before. Without Wannie, there was no life.
Keso painted red and black symbols on his face and braided his long black hair. When he finished, he stared at his reflection in a burnished copper pot. The image surprised even him. Whatever thin veneer of civilization Keso had acquired in his years with the Evans family had been stripped away along with the clothing. Staring back at him was a savage brave that was not even recognizable as Keso Evans. Perhaps it was better this way.
He strode from the lodge to face the other braves, and saw approval in their dark eyes as they handed him a lance and bow. Even Coyote looked impressed.
“I would never know by looking that only three suns ago, we captured a brown white man and now you are a Ute!”
The others set up a yelping chorus of agreement at Coyote’s words. Keso said a few halting words of approval to the men. An elderly brave led out a fine, spirited palomino stallion, already painted with good medicine symbols.
“Today, you are the son of Ouray,” the old man announced. “Today, you are a Ute warrior!”
A chorus of chants went up as the people gathered around to see Keso accept the fine horse. In the background, he saw the pretty sisters giving him bold, admiring glances. He ignored them. If he were to become a Ute, he must keep the peace with Coyote. For Keso, there could only be one woman, though she was lost to him forever. Surely Wannie was now safely on her way to some prospectors’ bustling camp.
He mounted up, the fine stallion rearing and pulling at the bridle, eager to run. The others mounted up, too.
Keso held up his hand and said a few words of thanks and reined the fine horse around to lead the hunt. As they galloped out of camp, Keso closed the door on his old life forever. From this time hence, he was a Ute warrior!
NINETEEN
Wannie awakened before dawn, stiff and cold in the early autumn morning even though she was snuggled down under two blankets. Two blankets? What was she doing with Keso’s blanket? She sat up and yawned, remembering curling up against him for warmth. Funny, she had dreamed he had kissed her and she had responded, wanting more. The thought shocked her. She was an engaged woman. She looked down at the big diamond on her hand and her gold bracelets for reassurance.
She heard Cleve’s snoring over in the grass and sighed. Did she really want to listen to that the rest of her life? Where was Keso? Maybe he was scouting the area or snaring a rabbit so they’d have enough food. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee and some bacon and biscuits right now. Keso’s rifle lay on the blankets next to her. Why would he leave his rifle? Of course he wouldn’t need it if he were setting a snare for rabbits. “Keso?”
Cleve raised up out of his blankets then, tousled and needing a shave. “What’s the matter?”
“Keso. He’s not here.” Worry began to gnaw at her as she got up.
“You think he’s deserted us?” Cleve yawned as he brushed his yellow hair back.
“Of course not! Cleve, if you don’t beat all. Keso would never leave me on my own.” Or would he? Cleve had been awfully rude and she’d been a real trial to Keso’s patience lately. A horse nickered and she smiled with relief as she spotted Spirit peacefully munching grass nearby. “See? Keso’s in the area, all right.”
She was surprised to realize how very relieved she was. She depended on him a lot more than she wanted to admit.
“I’m hungry,” Cleve complained. “I hope he finds some food.”
“We’d be helpless out here if anything happened to him.”
“I resent that!” Cleve bristled. “I’m certainly capable of looking after you.”
“Umm.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings but she realized that she didn’t have much faith in Cleve’s ability to survive without Keso in this hostile country. Knowing the latest dance steps and popular songs seemed suddenly unimportant. “Let’s go ahead and start packing and saddling. He’s bound to return any minute now.”
They went about those tasks while Cleve complained about how he’d like some hot food, clean clothes, and a bath.
“So would I, Cleve,” she said, her patience wearing thin, “but we can survive until we reach a settlement.”
“This is not civilized country,” Cleve said. “I hope I never have to return to Colorado again.”
“It may not be New York,” Wannie retorted, “but it has its own wild charm.”
“I fail to see it,” Cleve snapped. “Where do you suppose Keso is? We’re ready to go and he still hasn’t turned up.”
A chill of apprehension went down Wannie’s back. “He wouldn’t desert me.”
“You seem awfully sure of that,” Cleve said. “Maybe he got scared of the Utes and decided to clear out.”
“Without his horse? Besides, he’s not afraid of anything.”
“I’m tired of hearing what a hero the Injun is.”
Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell Cleve the truth about her own background or risk attempting to keep that secret forever. “Don’t call my brother an ‘Injun.’ I know Keso. Even if he doesn’t like you, he wouldn’t leave you out here among hostile Indians without food and a guide.”
“I wish I trusted his good intentions like you do.”
“I do trust him,” Wannie said, “I’d trust him with my life.”
“Well, I’m not that sure he’s so noble.” Cleve took out his watch and frowned at it, then glanced up at the sun. “It’s been more than an hour, Wannie. Something’s wrong.”
“Maybe he went for help,” Wannie said desperately.
“Without a horse? I don’t think so.”
She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. Cleve was right. Even if he were out snaring rabbits, Keso should have returned by now. The longer they were camped out here in open country, the greater chance they had of being seen by hostiles.
“Why don’t we ride on, Wannie?”
“And leave him out here without a horse or rifle?” She glared at Cleve. “He wouldn’t do that to you.”
Another hour passed. Cleve paced and studied his watch while Wannie tried not to think of everything that might have happened to Keso.
Finally, he put his watch in his coat. “Wannie, whatever’s gone wrong, we can’t camp out here forever—we don’t have the food.”
“We’ll search for him,” she said in desperation. “He’s out there someplace.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm.
“Millions of acres is a lot to search,” Cleve said and ran his hand through his pale hair. “If he’s within calling distance, he would have yelled to us by now. Maybe he’s met with an accident; maybe he’s dead.”
She whirled on him. “Don’t you dare say that!” Wannie had a terrible mental image of Keso lying helpless with a broken leg, unable to walk back. She thought of everything that could have happened from snakebite to attack by a rabid coyote. “We’ll look for him.”
“And where would you suggest we begin?” Cleve surveyed the giant panorama around them.
“I—I don’t know; I just know we can�
��t go off and leave him.” Wannie couldn’t hold the tears back.
He didn’t attempt to comfort her, he just looked uncomfortable. “Maybe he’s lost and if we get off this trail, we’ll be lost, too.”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “Keso’s an expert woodsman. Cherokee says you could drop Keso down anyplace in the state and he could find his way back blindfolded.”
Cleve frowned. “I’m tired of hearing how competent and masculine he is. You think I’m a spoiled dude, don’t you?”
“Cleve, dear, I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it,” he accused. “I’ve got news for you, my dear, I’m not the only one who’s immature and spoiled.”
She flushed brick red. Cleve was right. Too late, she was realizing that Keso’s ability to live off the land, to survive and take care of everyone around him certainly was worth a lot more than the knowledge of the proper use of a finger bowl. At this moment, the fact that Keso couldn’t speak French or quote Shakespeare didn’t seem important.
Keso’s stallion stamped its feet.
Cleve pulled out his watch again. “Look, my dear, if he’s dead, we can’t help him. If he’s hurt, we can’t find him. If he were here, what would he tell you to do?”
She pictured the big, dark man who was always so caring, so unselfish. “He—he’d tell us to ride on before we run completely out of food or some hostiles find us.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. If he does show up at this camp, doesn’t he track well enough to follow us?”
She nodded and put her head in her hands, wondering what to do. Cleve was being so logical. She didn’t want to leave without finding out what had happened to Keso, but she didn’t have any good ideas. “I depend on him so much.”
“Just once, I wish you’d depend on me,” Cleve snapped, peevish. I’m going to be your husband, Wannie, and you should learn to obey me.”
Obey him? Somehow Cleve Brewster lacked that masculine assertiveness that made her automatically follow Keso’s lead. This was no time to get into a fuss with her fiancé, yet she realized abruptly that she had no respect and no confidence in the suave society heir. “Cleve, you don’t have any more idea than I do what to do next.”
Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15) Page 25
