Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  The summer that they first arrived in Colorado Territory had been a bloody one. Lakota and Cheyenne warriors descended upon the Platte Bridge Station in July of 1865, killing twenty-nine soldiers. A month later, Brigadier General Patrick Connor led a charge on an Arapaho village on the Tongue River, killing sixty-three Arapaho—only thirty-five of whom were warriors—and burned the village.

  The following summer, Colonel Henry B. Carrington of the 18th Infantry, following orders from Washington, attempted to build three forts along the Bozeman Trail to protect its citizens. Indian attacks began as soon as they arrived. The Lakota, northern Cheyenne, and northern Arapaho—banded together under Red Cloud, an Oglala Lakota chief—attacked both military and civilian wagon trains, as well as wood-and hay-cutting details sent from the forts. Relentless and skillful, Red Cloud’s warriors engaged in raids all along the trail and vowed to continue as long as white people encroached on their land.

  On Christmas Eve 1866, a man arrived at Fort Laramie, exhausted and half frozen from riding four days in the snow and cold. He staggered into a full-dress Christmas ball and announced in the midst of festivities that all eighty-one men under the command of Captain William Fetterman had been killed by Indians. Newspapers called it the worst military disaster ever suffered on the Great Plains. Editorials expressed growing impatience with the savages.

  When Win asked Gray Wolf about it, however, Gray Wolf said Red Cloud simply fought to drive away invaders and preserve what was left of his people and their way of life. What else would you have him do? Gray Wolf had asked. He was only trying to survive.

  Red Cloud’s warriors did not attack Paradise. The little hamlet and the Arapaho village just behind the foothills lived peacefully next to each other. Clint operated a private stagecoach line through Paradise from Denver to Cheyenne, a town along the Union Pacific route. Wagon trains came through and stopped for supplies and to make repairs. Privately funded surveying expeditions occasionally launched or resupplied from Paradise, thanks to Albert Rothenberg. Other than that, no one paid much attention to the little town.

  Gray Wolf kept his people safe in the mountains. A few young men left to fight with Red Cloud; Gray Wolf didn’t stop them. Sharp Eye sent his son, Running Elk, to learn to read and write from Meg. Sharp Eye said when he was Running Elk’s age, counting coup was a mark of a man, but these days, education might prove to be a more effective weapon with which to wage war against the white invaders. Now it seemed Paradise might finally be pulled into the conflict—something everyone had tried hard to prevent.

  Win and Jeb found Meg pacing in the station house. She cried out with relief when she saw them. “Oh, Jeb! Win! I’m so glad you’re here!” She threw her arms around Win first, then Jeb. “I’ve done a horrible thing. And now Gus is risking his life to fix it.” Jeb kept his arms wrapped around her as she buried her face in his chest.

  “I can’t believe you’d do anything horrible, Meg. What happened?” Win asked.

  “Running Elk’s cousins were on their way here from the Tongue River.” She pulled away from Jeb and wiped her eyes. “They saw the settlers and steered clear, but one of the white men had a long rifle and took pot shots at them. He hit Niteesh, the nephew of One Who Waits. He died before they could get him to the village. One Who Waits was waiting for the settlers to leave Paradise to settle the score. He said he had no quarrel with us, only the man with the long rifle—Rivers.

  “I asked One Who Waits to let the authorities at Fort Laramie handle Rivers. I said if he attacked the settlers, soldiers would come looking for him in the mountains and find their village. He agreed not to attack, but said the presence of the settlers in Paradise offended him. I told him I would send them away immediately.

  “I rode back here and told them the only way to save their lives was to leave Paradise and turn Rivers in at Fort Laramie. Gray Wolf and the village began mourning the boy’s death with their drum ceremony. We could hear the drums. The ladies panicked, believing they would be killed as soon as they left town, but I told them I had the Arapahos’ word that they wouldn’t. That’s when Rivers flew out of control, pounded his fists on the table, and ranted about them being dirty red devils.”

  Meg’s voice began to quiver. “So, Gus said he’d go along with them to Fort Laramie. He said it was the only way to ensure their safe passage and to see that they turned Rivers in. I’m afraid Rivers will kill Gus and go after Gray Wolf’s family!” Tears welled up in her eyes again and she wrung her hands. “Sharp Eye and One Who Waits looked so fierce, painted for war. I’m afraid they’ll take revenge, and everything will fall apart.”

  Win was already saddling Hippocrates. “Jeb, stay here with Meg. I’m going after Gus.”

  As Hippocrates galloped out of Paradise toward Fort Laramie, Win wondered if Jeb saw through his seemingly valiant act. In truth, he wasn’t worried about Gus. For a man his age and limitations, Gus managed remarkably well. He could take care of himself. Win’s real motivation was just a chance to bust loose and be part of the action.

  On a stretch of trail across a wide, flat plain, two figures appeared on the horizon. Win recognized Gus immediately. He rode Neighbor, his favorite horse, and they fit together like a hand in a glove, the silhouette unmistakable. He rode unhurriedly and showed no sign of harm or distress. His companion took a little extra time to identify, primarily due to the additional feathers tied into his hair. But Win finally made out the figure to be One Who Waits. When he got close, Win marveled at how strategically placed soot on an Arapaho’s face could be so threatening, as One Who Waits did indeed look fierce.

  “Well, look who came to welcome us home,” Gus said.

  “Meg was worried about you.”

  Gus snorted skeptically. “So, you rode out to rescue me, did you?” He had a way of seeing through people.

  Win ignored the sarcasm and fell in alongside One Who Waits. “What happened?” Win asked. “Was Rivers turned over to authorities at the fort?”

  Gus shook his head. “Never got that far. About halfway to the fort, Mr. Rivers had an unfortunate accident. He lost his footing up in the rocks and fell. Hit his head and died.”

  To have Rivers fall to his death solved a huge dilemma. Win recognized the difficult position One Who Waits had been in. The Arapaho people believed in justice, but if they had retaliated and attacked the settlers, their hidden village might have been discovered. However, if One Who Waits had let Rivers go, he would dishonor his nephew. Rivers’s accident was too convenient. Win studied the faces of both men. Their stoic expressions revealed nothing, so Win had to ask, “Who really killed him?”

  Gus shook his head. “Don’t rightly know. I didn’t see what happened, but that was by design, I reckon.” He smoothed his bristly mustache. “It changed the situation considerably. The rest of the folks said Rivers had acted alone, and without their approval. They had no quarrel with the Indians. Once we buried the sonofabitch, there didn’t seem to be much point in me going all the way to Fort Laramie.”

  “It’s just too—”

  “Not my place to stir up a hornet’s nest by asking a lot of fool questions, if you understand what I’m sayin’.”

  “Hmm . . .” Win fell silent.

  “Rivers was a sorry excuse for a man, any way you slice it. Using human beings as target practice—what a goddamn idiot,” Gus said. “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one of his own didn’t help him over the edge, but we’ll never know.”

  Win turned to One Who Waits. “I’m sorry your nephew was murdered.”

  One Who Waits said nothing at first, but then acknowledged Win’s condolences with a nod. “My nephew’s spirit lives in the world we cannot see, but is among us still.”

  “Meg feels like she betrayed your trust,” Win said to the Arapaho. “She said she had no right to promise that Rivers would be brought to justice.”

  “Tell her she had no part in this.”

  It impressed Win that One Who Waits didn’t let his anger cast a wide net of
blame. While fairly confident they wouldn’t have attacked Paradise, it was not implausible for Gray Wolf’s clan to have avenged Niteesh’s death by killing the settlers. Win wasn’t sure if it was shrewdness or a defeated spirit that restrained them.

  One Who Waits turned to head into the foothills. As he left, he said he hoped for a winter cold enough to keep blue coats close to their own fires.

  “Well, you’re welcome at mine, my friend,” Gus replied, “anytime.”

  Once One Who Waits disappeared into the trees, Win asked, “Do you think the settlers will say anything when they reach the fort?”

  “I told them that reporting what happened might stir up more questions than they had answers for. They said if it was all the same to me, they’d just put the whole matter behind them. I reckon they’re feeling lucky to be alive, and will leave well enough alone.” Gus turned to look him in the eye. “You’d be wise to do the same. I didn’t meet up with One Who Waits until I was riding home. I honestly don’t know if he had a hand in what happened, and I don’t care. Rivers was a dead man from the moment he shot Niteesh. The only uncertainty was whether the rest of the party died with him. I knew that, and so did they. Whoever killed Rivers did us all a favor. That is, if he really was killed, and not just unsteady on his feet.”

  So that was it.

  Win asked no more questions. His thoughts returned to Meg. She had raced Post riders, she conspired to keep Arapaho living in freedom off the reservation, and now had put herself between Running Elk and a bullet. She was a loyal friend, devoted to the Arapaho. Or, was she bold and brave, seeking excitement—just like him?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: JEB

  Paradise way station, August 1867

  The stage horn’s blast, announcing the arrival of a private stage, was so loud Gus jumped and spilled his coffee. He cussed. “I gotta tell Charlie to quit blowing that horn so goddamn close.” Gus wiped his shirt. “He must think I’m deaf. I can goddamn hear his squeaky springs before he blows that thing.”

  “I’ll keep your meal warm,” Meg said, reaching for his plate and taking it to the stove. Gus grumbled a few more cuss words as he left the station to change the team.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Meg said to Win and Jeb, who were having Sunday dinner with them. “Gus looks ten years younger than he did in Council Bluffs. He’s never been happier.”

  “Maybe he’s ornery ’cause he thinks Jeb’ll eat all the peach pie before he gets back,” Win said.

  Jeb figured Win was trying to get a rise out of him, something Win did when he was ornery himself and restless. Or, maybe Win worried he’d miss out on a piece for himself. Meg did bake a delicious peach pie.

  From the window, Jeb saw two men and their wives spill out of the stagecoach, followed by three businessmen. A private coach didn’t have the strict schedule other coach runs had, so the women walked over to Georgia’s store. The men headed for the station.

  “Folks are on their way in, Meg.”

  She scooped up her pie and hid it in the cupboard. She pulled out the cornbread she always had on hand and put the coffee pot on the stove. She treated Gus, Win, and Jeb better than the stagecoach passengers.

  The men walked in and accepted Meg’s offerings. The two men with wives were brothers, and the three businessmen were in land purchasing and development. They asked a number of questions about the area, which Win seemed to enjoy evading.

  “No problems with Indians?” one of the brothers asked.

  “There are no Indians in this part of the country anymore,” Win said. “They were sent to the Wind River reservation.”

  Meg glanced at Win, but set out a plate of cornbread without a word.

  “What about Red Cloud? We hear he’s causing trouble,” a businessman named Ferris asked.

  “He’s up north, defending the land the government gave him when the Sioux were pushed out of Minnesota.” Jeb noticed how Win had trouble keeping a critical tone out of his voice when the topic of Indian land came up.

  “They don’t use the land. They could be taught how to farm, raise cattle, but they don’t do it. They’re all stubborn savages,” Ferris said.

  “Just fighting for their lives,” Win said. Meg softly cleared her throat, her way of giving Win a gentle warning. He softened his tone. “Maybe the Indians know this land better than you think. It’s too dry for farming.”

  The businessman named Brewer kept glancing at Meg while conversing with Win. Jeb wondered if he would try flirting with her. Lots of men did. “Irrigation, Mr. Avery,” Brewer said. “New methods of farming will turn this desolate landscape into fertile cropland.”

  The two women came in and joined the group at the table. One of the women stared openly at Meg. “Pardon me, miss, have we met?”

  Meg barely glanced at her, but busied herself pouring coffee. “No, ma’am. Unless you’ve been through Paradise before, I doubt we’ve met.”

  The woman squinted at her, still quizzical. “Henry, doesn’t she look familiar? Where have we seen her?”

  Her husband hadn’t paid any attention to Meg up to this point, but a big grin now spread across his face. “Why, I’ll be . . . if it isn’t that little horse racer! I won a sizeable bet on account of you! Zeke, remember me telling you about that gal in a race when we were over in Bodine? Martha and me were passing through on our way to Centerville. I met a fellow setting up a contest with the locals, and he showed me your pretty little bay.” He whistled appreciatively and shook his head. “What a race. Walked away with fifty bucks in silver. You still got her?”

  “She’s in the barn.” Meg was so matter-of-fact about it that Jeb couldn’t read what she was thinking, and wondered why she was so reticent.

  Henry’s eyes lit up. He said to his brother, “Zeke, c’mon, let’s take a look before we go.” He turned back to Meg. “Do you still race, Sugar?”

  Meg shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “That’s a pity; you could cut a hole in the wind. Got a kick out of you bein’ a gal, too. I’ve never known any other female with gumption like that.” He walked out of the station, but they could hear him describe the race to his brother as they headed for the stables.

  “Miss, this is cold,” Henry’s wife said, her voice as cool as her coffee. Without a word, Meg yanked the pot from the stove.

  Mr. Brewer spoke up. “I thought you looked familiar. I saw you race in a town along the Box Elder. I lost five greenbacks.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Meg’s apology sounded genuine as she warmed the woman’s coffee.

  The gentleman shrugged affably. “Learned my lesson. Got talked into putting my money on a mustang when I should’ve gone with my first instinct.”

  “Well, I learned my lesson, too.” Meg refilled Mr. Brewer’s coffee. “Did you say you are from the land office? I want to buy some land out here.”

  Mr. Fisher, the third businessman, jumped into the conversation. “You won’t be able to grow a crop. Mr. Brewer here is the most optimistic soul I’ve ever met. Irrigation . . . bah!”

  “Surely one could keep a small herd of horses.” Meg directed her query at Mr. Brewer.

  Mr. Brewer nodded. “Mr. Fisher may not agree, but I think you could.”

  The stage driver appeared at the doorway. “Time to go, folks.”

  The other passengers left the station, but Mr. Brewer lingered. “Land is pretty cheap out here, but you’d need a lot of it. It’s hard to scratch out a living on the parcels the government doles out for homesteaders.”

  “I have more capital than just my racing profits.”

  “Glad to hear it. You’ll need to control a water source. That’s the key. If someone buys land upstream, he can divert the water and you’d be left with desert.” He pulled out his card and gave it to Meg. “My company helps transfer government land to private ownership. It’s a process called ‘land entry.’ Look me up, and I’ll see that you get good acreage.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewer.” Meg shook his hand. “You’re very
kind.”

  “Consider it a mea culpa for betting against you. I won’t make that mistake again.” He tipped his hat and walked out the door.

  “You leave quite an impression, Meggie,” Win said after Brewer left. “Do a lot of folks recognize you from your flimflamming days?”

  “I wasn’t flimflamming!” She began to clear the table. “I don’t know why that woman had to get all huffy. After all, her husband won fifty dollars.” She dumped the dishes into the sink less gently than usual.

  “Apparently a husband’s admiration is worth more.” Win gathered the two extra cups left by Fisher and Brewer and placed them in the sink.

  Meg held up Mr. Brewer’s card. “This,” she said, brightening, “is certainly worth more than a stranger’s admiration. I have a good feeling about Mr. Brewer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: MEG

  Paradise, September 1867

  Jeb shouted to Meg as they drove their shipment into town. He had a letter for her. A breeze encircled her as she hurried over to their wagon parked in front of the Carters’ store. If what Gray Wolf said was true about paying attention to spirit signs, it was a good omen.

  The letter announced that her trust had been released early. She would not have to wait until she turned twenty-one—she and Gus could buy land.

  Gus sat Meg down and suggested several other ways she could spend, save, or invest her money, but Meg insisted on buying land. Nothing would change her mind. In Denver, in Mr. Brewer’s office, Meg and Gus pored over maps of the territory. With Mr. Brewer’s help, they outlined an area just west of Paradise that included a complete watershed, thus securing their water supply. A great deal of acreage, it was more land than Meg ever dreamed she could afford. The area included a high mountain meadow behind the first set of foothills, a higher elevation mountain range, and the valley hidden behind it. Mr. Brewer said it gave him great pleasure to secure so many acres for an industrious young woman, although cautioned that it was really much more than she needed for a small herd of horses, and much of it was too mountainous for crops. She assured him she knew what she was doing.