by Janet Dailey
“I understand there was some pressing matter you wished to discuss with me, Mr. Blackwood,” the general stated, then sighed heavily as if his tolerance was being tested.
“Indeed, sir.” Gabe came straight to the point of his visit. “Last evening, three of your soldiers broke into the home of the Tarakanov family, severely assaulted Mr. Tarakanov, and forced themselves on his wife.”
“The incident was reported to me.”
“It was hardly an incident, General,” Gabe retorted. “It was a felonious assault.”
“The soldiers in question are presently in the stockade sleeping off last night’s drunk. When they are sober, appropriate disciplinary action will be taken. Is that all, Mr. Blackwood?” The general made it clear that he didn’t wish to continue this discussion of a military matter with a civilian.
“I shall put the question to you, General Davis. Is that all?” Gabe challenged. “Is the extent of their punishment to be a few days in the stockade? This, sir, is not the first time such an ‘incident’ has occurred. In the past, your men have broken into homes and molested the occupants. Their previous victims have always been of Indian extraction, but this time they have gone too far. They have attacked the home of a decent family and I demand that they be punished for this despicable crime.”
“You demand.” The general rose to his feet and leaned his weight on his fingers pressed on the desk. “I don’t give a damn what you demand. I am in command here. I shall determine what punishment is to be meted out, if any.”
“Then I say that, judging by the lawlessness and disorder of your troops, you are not fit to command!”
The general straightened, squaring his shoulders as he narrowly studied Gabe. “Blackwood. Ah, yes, I remember you now. You married one of those Russian breeds, didn’t you? Tell me, were last night’s so-called victims members of your wife’s family?”
Gabe stiffened at the vile accusation. “They happened to be her parents. But they are Russian, one of the few families who chose to stay.”
“They might be half Russian, maybe more, but there’s Indian in them. Aleut, Tlingit, or Eskimo, it doesn’t really matter.”
“That’s a lie.” A muscle jumped convulsively along Gabe’s tightly clenched jaw.
“Is it? I have a full and complete roster of all the families living here at the time America took over the occupation. I checked this morning, and the Tarakanovs appear on the Creole side of the list,” the general asserted smugly.
Something seemed to explode inside Gabe’s head. Vaguely he could hear the general shouting. The next thing he knew his fingers were buried under that dark beard, digging into the man’s throat, and three soldiers were struggling to pull him off the general. He felt stunned—dazed—as if he was in some kind of shock.
“Throw him out,” the general rasped hoarsely. “Throw him out before I forget he’s a civilian!”
The soldiers bodily escorted him all the way to the bottom of the steps, roughly manhandling him, then released him with a shove. Gabe staggered away, his mind still reeling from the general’s outrageous lies. They couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have married a breed—not him. He hated Indians. Those butchering savages had murdered his parents.
Like a blind man, he headed up the street, not knowing where he was or where he was going. He was confused and outraged, his thoughts spinning so crazily, chaotically that he couldn’t think straight. He needed to clear his head and somehow sort this thing out.
He spied a saloon and tried the closed doors, but they were locked. First he pounded on them, then rattled them loudly. Finally he heard a voice on the other side. “We ain’t open yet.”
“Open this door.” Gabe didn’t give a damn whether they were open for business or not; he wanted a drink.
After the loud click of a lock, the door was opened a crack. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Blackwood. Sorry, but—” The whisker-jowled bartender never had a chance to finish his sentence as Gabe shoved the door the rest of the way open and shouldered his way into the saloon.
All the chairs were turned upside down on top of the tables and the room had the sour, stale smell of bad whiskey and tobacco. Gabe bypassed the tables and walked straight to the bar.
“What’s all the ruckus, Lyle?” Ryan Colby stepped out of the back room wearing a long dressing gown of navy blue velvet lined in a cream silk that was extended to the collars and cuffs of the garment.
“It’s Blackwood. He just barged in. I told him we were closed,” the bartender explained.
“I want a drink.” Gabe leaned on the bar.
“Put on some coffee, Lyle.” Ryan walked behind the counter.
“If I wanted coffee, I would have gone to the restaurant,” Gabe snapped. “This is a saloon and I want whiskey.”
“Whiskey we’ve got.” Ryan smiled as he uncorked a bottle from the shelf and poured a shotful. “But you won’t mind if I drink the coffee. For me, it’s a little early for whiskey.”
“Leave the bottle sit,” Gabe ordered when Ryan started to return it to the shelf.
“Are you sure?” He arched an eyebrow. The Gabe Blackwood he knew rarely imbibed.
“I can pay for it.” Gabe dug in his pocket and slapped the money on the counter.
Ryan left the whiskey bottle where it sat and moved a little way down the counter to light a cigar. He’d seen that wild-eyed look in customers’ eyes before, ready for an excuse to start a fight. He held the match flame to the end of his cigar and sucked on the cigar to light it, studying the attorney through the rising screen of smoke. There was no mistaking that belligerent gleam.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.” Ryan shook out the match.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” Ryan didn’t intend to be the one to provide Blackwood with the excuse he was seeking. He wasn’t one of those men who got a kick out of fighting. Still, curiosity kept him from moving away and leaving Blackwood to nurse his own ill-temper.
Ryan dealt out a game of solitaire, glancing now and then at his lone customer. Blackwood stood hunched over the bar, swigging down his whiskey in gulps, then refilling the glass.
“I should have called him out,” Blackwood muttered and bolted down another swallow. “I should have.”
“Pardon?” Ryan pretended he hadn’t heard.
“I said I should have called the son of a bitch out. That’d stop him from spreading his lies.”
“Which son of a bitch is this?”
“The corrupt little general occupying Baranov’s Castle. That bastard isn’t fit to command, and I told him so.” He folded his hand tightly around the small shot glass in a throttling gesture. “It was a damned lie!”
“What was?”
“None of your business,” Gabe snarled.
Ryan shrugged, stuck the cigar back in his mouth, and went back to his card game. The whiskey was loosening Blackwood’s tongue. The cursing by a man who normally watched his language was always the first sign. Sooner or later he’d confess what was bothering him. Ryan wouldn’t have to pry it out of him.
“I can’t let him get away with it,” Blackwood mumbled to himself, then straightened. “Colby, you got a pistol I can use.”
“What for?”
“So I can shoot the son of a bitch. I can’t let him get away with sayin’ those things about my wife. My beautiful Russian princess. Anybody that’s ever seen her knows that she hasn’t got any Indian blood in her. You can tell that, can’t you, Colby?”
“Whatever you say” Ryan made a show of studying the cards spread on the counter, at last understanding what this was all about.
“No, damn it!” Blackwood slammed his fist on the bar top. “I wanta hear what you say!”
“I say”—Ryan paused—“that it’s nothing to me one way or the other.”
“That’s no answer.” Gabe pushed away from the bar and moved down to where Ryan was playing his solitaire. The slight stagger to his step
after only three drinks betrayed his low tolerance of alcohol.
“It’s the best I can give.” Ryan moved a black nine onto a red ten.
With a sweep of his hand, Blackwood swept the cards off the bar top, scattering them onto the sawdust-covered floor. “I want the truth, damn it. Do you think my wife is an Indian?”
“The truth?” Ryan breathed out a silent, humorless laugh. “I think maybe she is, but I don’t know it’s so. I’m not the one you should be asking. Your wife is the only one who can tell you the truth. Before you borrow a gun and kill somebody, why don’t you ask her?”
Blackwood swayed slightly as he thought over the suggestion. He nodded slowly. “I think I’ll do that.” He turned from the bar and lurched across the saloon to the door.
As it was slammed shut behind Blackwood, Lyle emerged from the rear of the saloon. “Coffee’s ready, boss.”
Ryan took the mug from the bartender and cast one last glance at the door. Blackwood was such a fool. Money was the only dream a man should pin his hopes on. Ryan had never known money to disappoint a man.
Outside the saloon, Gabe turned up the street. Ryan was right; the thing to do was confront Nadia with the general’s accusation. She’d be able to give him the answer to clear this whole mess up. Ryan—and probably everybody else—thought he’d married a breed.
But he would never have made that kind of mistake. His parents’ murder had taught him better than to ever trust an Indian—any kind of Indian, full-blooded or not. His mother’s scalp had hung from the belt of the half-breed whom his parents had loved and adopted as their son.
His hate toward the Indians encompassed more than the death of his parents at their hands. He hated them because his parents had chosen to leave him and live among the Indians, because they had left him—their own flesh and blood—to give their love to some half-white savage. Indians had stolen a great deal from him.
As he charged down the street, driven by anger, he tripped over a loose board and sprawled headlong onto the wooden sidewalk. A grunting oink came from the muddy street as a startled pig scrambled to its feet and trotted away, splashing through the wet mire. Shaken by the sudden fall, Gabe lay there for a minute trying to gather his scattered senses.
As he started to bring his legs under him and push himself upright, a rotten board cracked under his weight, nearly pitching him forward again. Regaining his feet, he roundly cursed the condition of the sidewalk.
Months ago people had stopped paying the taxes levied by the city to maintain such things as the boardwalk. Everyone knew the city didn’t have the legal right to levy taxes. Taxes couldn’t be levied unless the people voted for them, and they didn’t have the legal right to vote in this land. The city government, the town plat, property titles, mortgages—nothing was legal.
Signs of neglect and disrepair were everywhere, especially among the newer, shoddily constructed buildings that had been hastily erected to take advantage of that initial boom. The doors and windows of several were boarded up, crudely lettered with signs that stated closed or out of business. One said california here i come. Everywhere there was garbage, broken crates and staves, rusting barrel rings, and scraps of wet paper. There were more swine wallowing in the street’s muck than there were people moving about.
This filthy broken-down town was supposed to be the capital of Alaska someday. And he wanted to be governor of this pighole. As the realization hit him, Gabe started to laugh. It rolled from him, harder and harder, until he was forced to lean against the building behind him for support. Tears ran down his cheeks. He never knew when he stopped laughing and started crying.
For a long time after the sobbing ended, he stared brokenly at the town. Then he pushed away from the building and moved to the edge of the boardwalk. “Why?” he shouted. “We could have been something!”
Someone tugged at his coat sleeve. Gabe swung his head around to see who it was. A blanket-wrapped squaw from the Ranche hovered beside him, her dark eyes avidly watching him.
“Mister, you buy.” She held up some trinket for his inspection. “Sell cheap.”
“Get away from me.” He jerked his arm away from her.
But the Indian woman persisted, thrusting the trinket closer to his face. “Sell very cheap.”
“I said to get the hell away from me!” Angrily, he shoved her into the muddy street.
She slipped in the muck and fell, breaking the fall with her outstretched hand, but she lost her carved curio in the mud. She frantically searched for it, burying her hands in the chocolate mud and stirring them around in a desperate attempt to locate it. Gabe watched it all with contempt.
When she found it, she clutched it to her breast and looked back at him. Gabe stared at her round face. His wife had cheekbones like that. “Oh, my God,” he groaned and swung away from the sight, trying to deny it in his mind. Then he clamped his jaw tightly shut and gritted his teeth. The rage of betrayal and hate trembled through him.
With her cloak hung on the wall hook, Nadia moved away from the front door and slowly untied her bonnet. She removed it from her head and absently patted her hair back into its proper place.
Gabe had advised her not to go to her parents’ home until he had returned from seeing the general, but Eva had been so anxious about them that she had gone anyway. She had been worried, too, and nagged with guilt, certain that regardless of what Gabe had said, she should have gone to her mother last night.
But Gabe had been right. Her mother hadn’t wanted to see her. She could still remember the look of horror on her mother’s face when she had entered the bedroom. Immediately, her mother had turned her face to the wall and pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. She hadn’t responded to a single thing Nadia had said, simply lain in the bed, cowering in terror and shame.
Wisely she hadn’t taken Eva in to see their mother. She wished she hadn’t taken her little sister at all, but no one had warned her that their father looked so bad. His face was bruised and swollen, his lip cut, his eye blackened. At first she hadn’t even recognized him. Poor Eva had stared, never saying a word.
He had looked so broken and lost; the soldiers had beaten more than his body. Last night their mother had made him promise that he would reveal to no one what had happened to her, he had told her. He had given his word, and made both of them swear the same pledge of secrecy. None of their friends or neighbors were to know. If any of them had heard the commotion, they were only to admit that the soldiers had broken into the house and ransacked it looking for liquor. Nadia had done her best to put the place to rights while she was there.
Her father had been so adamant that no one should know the whole truth that Nadia hadn’t been able to tell him that Gabe had gone to see the American general. She hadn’t wanted to cause him more anguish.
Her poor little sister was so confused by everything. Nadia simply hadn’t been able to explain to her, in terms she could understand, the terrible degradation their mother had suffered at the hands of the soldiers. How could anyone explain such a vile thing to an innocent nine-year-old? It was something she couldn’t even discuss with her husband. She could empathize with her mother’s profound dread that their friends and neighbors might learn of the rape. If it had happened to her instead of her mother, she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear having other people look at her and know what those soldiers had done to her. She’d die of shame.
She was relieved that her grandfather had taken Eva home with him. She simply couldn’t have dealt with all her sister’s awkward questions. The more she thought about the vow of silence she’d taken, the more she thought it would be best for everyone to pretend that nothing had ever happened. Surely when she explained it to Gabe, he would see the sense of it. Why bring unnecessary embarrassment to the family?
She recognized the familiar tread of Gabe’s footsteps as he mounted the steps to their house.
“Gabe, I’m so glad you’re home.” She moved forward to greet him as he walked in, then noticed the odd look o
n his face.
“Are you now?” he taunted and kicked the door shut with his foot.
He appeared to sway a little, but Nadia couldn’t be sure of it. “Let me help you take off your coat so we can sit down and talk.” But he didn’t move. Instead he stared at her as if he had never seen her before now. Nadia became uncomfortable. “Is something wrong?” She touched her cheek, wondering if she had smudged it.
“What could possibly be wrong?” he challenged.
“I don’t know. You’re looking at me so strangely.” She laughed nervously.
“Am I?”
Unable to fathom his peculiar mood, Nadia turned away to move back into the room, twisting her clasped fingers together. “What did the general have to say?”
“The general had a great deal to say, my little princess.” His voice sounded so harsh and sarcastic that Nadia half turned to glance back at him. She felt frightened without knowing why. “In fact, that was the question he raised. Whether you are a Russian princess—or an Indian one?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” She swung away from him and searched wildly for another topic that would lead their conversation away from this subject before he went off on another of his tangents about Indians. “I went to see—”
He grabbed her arm and roughly jerked her around to face him. “Answer my question, Nadia. Are you Russian or Indian?” He pushed his face close to hers.
She drew back, frightened by his angry look, and strained against the painful grip he had on her forearm. “Why on earth would you ask such a thing, Gabe?” she murmured lamely, and immediately gasped in pain as he brutally twisted her forearm.
“Damn it, you answer me.”
“You’re hurting me,” Nadia whimpered as the pressure increased, intensifying the pain shooting up her arm.
