Frontier Lady (Lone Star Legacy Book #1)

by Judith Pella

  Stands-in-the-River, now riding with the Dog Soldier Chief, Medicine Arrows, would never feel secure enough to go to the whites, but they did allow Custer to enter their village. And their mistrust was only cemented by Custer’s double-dealing.

  Unknown to the Cheyenne, Custer, despite his peaceful overtures, had ordered his troops to surround the village and to await his signal in case of trouble.

  The Cheyenne were suspicious all along. Stands-in-the-River eyed the bluecoat chief and his men warily, feeling more naked than ever without the comforting nearness of his rifle. But this was supposedly a peaceful council where weapons should not be necessary. Medicine Arrows also was wary. At one point he told Custer, “If you are planning to betray us, then you and all your soldiers will be killed.”

  Stands-in-the-River watched with grim satisfaction as they passed the pipe around the circle of Indians and bluecoats. Medicine Arrows further indicated his contempt for the general by spilling the pipe ashes over the toes of Custer’s boots to bring him bad luck.

  The famed “Custer’s luck,” however, was to hold—for that night at least. When Custer learned the village held two captive white women, he ordered his troops, hidden in the woods, to draw their weapons on the village. He seized Medicine Arrows and three other chiefs, holding them hostage in order to effect an exchange for the white women. But when the Indians finally sent the two women to Custer’s camp, the general refused to release the chiefs. Instead, he burned an evacuated village, leaving the Cheyennes even more destitute.

  Stands-in-the-River, who escaped with others of the Dog Soldiers, watched all this with bitter hatred. As Medicine Arrows and the other captured chiefs were herded back to Camp Supply, he swore to have his revenge.

  ****

  News of these and other actions against the Indians were received with dismay by the Washita prisoners. Hope of release dwindled. One woman and a child died of wounds received in the Washita massacre. Others of the younger women were used to service the troopers. Supplies were scanty; cold and hunger constantly hounded the Cheyenne women and children.

  Lt. Godfrey made several attempts to win Deborah away from her Cheyenne comrades. He nearly succeeded during one particularly miserable week when Carolyn took a chill and was ill for several days with a fever and earache. Deborah debated painfully with herself, questioning the nobility of her staunch loyalty to her Indian friends if it endangered the welfare of her children. Godfrey assured her there were at least two families, one of settlers, one of the military, who were willing to take her in. But how could she go live in comfort while her friends and their children suffered?

  When Carolyn’s fever broke and her health gradually returned, Deborah’s inner turmoil temporarily eased. She traveled with the prisoners when they were moved that spring to Fort Dodge and continued to live in the meager quarters provided for the Indians.

  Lt. Godfrey pressed his argument once more. “Mrs. Graham, it won’t be long before the southern Plains tribes surrender and are placed on reservations. Surely you don’t plan to follow them into such a life. You are white! You are a southern lady. If not for yourself, think of your daughter. Will she grow up among savages, marry—” But he stopped suddenly, the rising glint in Deborah’s eyes warning him he was treading upon tender ground.

  “I am a Cheyenne in my heart,” Deborah said with an evenness that belied the ire in her eyes. “Only my skin is white. My daughter does not even speak English. My son is Cheyenne. I am where I belong.”

  Godfrey threw his hands up in frustration and left. But later that evening he returned with reinforcements. When Deborah saw who it was with the lieutenant, she began to wonder if fate, or God, or perhaps even the devil, was conspiring against her.

  By the lieutenant’s side walked none other than Sam Killion, whom the frustrated army officer had sought to convince this wayward white woman of the error of her ways. Godfrey had heard the ex-Texas Ranger preach, and his fire and vigor had changed the lieutenant’s life in many ways. He thought it might help if the man plied Deborah with his rigorous rhetoric.

  Killion wasn’t surprised to find that the “Mrs. Graham” of whom Lt. Godfrey had spoken was the same Mrs. Stoner he had known before. He had heard all about the Washita massacre, even though Killion had been farther north at the time, at Fort Hays. He had been concerned when he learned Black Kettle’s village had been the target of the attack and had made several anxious inquiries. He learned that a white woman with a white child and a half-breed had been found in the village, and that despite conciliatory efforts made by General Custer, she had refused to leave the company of the Indian prisoners. The trader who had given Killion this information said he thought the woman’s name was Graham, but Killion instinctively believed it could only be Deborah Stoner. The distance, however, combined with harsh weather and the imminent danger of Indian attack, prevented him from going immediately to Camp Supply to see for himself. Moreover, a certain unrelated reticence, uncharacteristic to his bold and gregarious nature, also held him in check. Deborah Stoner was a proud and stubborn woman who might well recoil at efforts to help her. After all, she had rejected General George Armstrong Custer; why should she concede to a mere itinerant preacher whom she had already proven to have little use for? He sensed that she had finally accepted him on their last meeting only because her Cheyenne husband had accepted him. Things were vastly different now. Obviously, Broken Wing was no longer with her, being either a fugitive or dead. In either case, she would not be too kindly disposed toward any white man, including Killion.

  Yet he could not refuse Godfrey’s plea on his first night in Fort Dodge. Besides, learning of her close proximity, he could not have stayed away long. There was something about her that intrigued him. Or maybe she simply challenged him. Whatever her particular draw upon him, in the last three years he had never been able to get her completely out of his mind. More often than he cared to admit to himself, his thoughts wandered toward her. What was she doing? Was she safe? Was she free? Was that hard protective shell still enclosing her heart? And Sam Killion prayed for Deborah as often as he thought about her.

  So, when he found out she was at Fort Dodge, where he had traveled when weather permitted, and where he was scheduled to commence an evangelistic crusade, he did not hesitate to go to her, even if it meant incurring her rejection and wrath.

  He stepped into the barracks where the prisoners were being kept and, finding her distracted in the care of the children, had a brief moment to assess the changes in her since their last meeting a year ago. She was more spare and lean than he remembered, most likely due to the poor winter provisions in camp. Her skin was pale, in spite of the bronze it had acquired during her years with the Cheyenne. Her hair, all the dye gone, was cropped to shoulder length, but its color was now more golden than ever and it seemed to form a misty halo around her fine features. Dark circles ringed her vivid blue eyes, and an aura of hardship clung around the edges of her visage. But still her beauty caught Killion’s breath. In that brief instant he realized what it was that so intrigued him about her, that made his heart ache with both joy and sadness. It was not so much her beauty, but rather a peculiar blending in her appearance of fragile delicacy and intrepid steel. She was like the wild flowers that each spring dot the tough prairie grass—so exquisite, but with a sturdy tenacity that makes them able to survive the stiff winds and dry heat and bloom again and again one spring after another.

  Killion did not realize he was staring until Godfrey gave him a nudge.

  “There she is, Reverend Killion,” said the lieutenant, unaware that she was already the object of Killion’s intense interest.

  Killion swallowed, experiencing a rare moment of embarrassment. “Yes, I see,” said the ex-Texas Ranger in a hoarse whisper as he regained his composure.

  At that moment, hearing the male voices, Deborah looked up. She immediately noted Killion’s presence and, to his relief, gave him a not unfriendly nod.

  “Ma’am,” Killion said,
tipping his wide-brimmed hat and stepping forward, his customary boldness returning.

  “Mr. Killion, this is a surprise.” She rose and politely offered her hand.

  Much to Killion’s surprise when he took Deborah’s hand in his, he found it was rough and work-worn—the hand of a Cheyenne squaw, not a delicate southern belle.

  “You two know each other?” said Godfrey, a bit bemused as he began to sense a peculiar energy to the exchange.

  “We have met before,” answered Killion. As her hand lingered briefly in his, he noted the scars on her arms and frowned slightly.

  Those scars had not been there a year ago; neither had her eyes been so taut with pain. When he last saw her, she had seemed content, at ease, and even happy. He had hoped that the strained, haunted woman who had helped him at the outlaws’ hideout had at last found some peace, though he knew she’d never know true peace until she surrendered herself to God. Now, however, he had to wonder what had happened to her in the last months to cause her to slip back to her previous self. Of course, there was the obvious, the massacre of her adopted people, but Killion sensed there was more to it than that. He breathed a silent prayer as he let her hand slide from his.

  “We do meet in the oddest places, Mr. Killion,” said Deborah, her attempt at lightness seriously undermined by the grim set of her face.

  “I reckon there ain’t no normal places out here in the West,” Killion replied. “I’m just glad to see you’re … well. And the young’uns, too. God’s been looking over you, that’s for sure.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Deborah’s tone contained a sharp edge. “What about my friends … my husband? Who was looking over them?”

  Killion removed his hat and scratched his head. “I guess I don’t pretend to understand the ways of God, ma’am. I do know He watches over everyone, even those who don’t care. But why troubles come to some and not others … ? That’s one of those mysteries I suppose no one will ever know the answer to.”

  “Then what good is religion if it offers no answers when you need them most?”

  “Mrs…. uh, Mrs. Graham,” said Killion, “I’d really like to talk more about this with you. Can we go someplace? Maybe walk outside a mite?” He paused and turned to Godfrey. “You don’t mind, Lieutenant, if we leave for a while?”

  “No, Reverend, not at all,” said Godfrey. “But you won’t forget to mention what we talked about?”

  Deborah responded first to the lieutenant’s question. “Is that why you’ve come here, Mr. Killion—to talk me into leaving my people, to get me to ‘come to my senses’?”

  “That’s why Lt. Godfrey fetched me, Mrs. Graham, but it ain’t entirely why I came. You see, when I learned you were here, I thought I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t come see you.”

  “A friend, Mr. Killion?” Deborah’s voice held more hope than suspicion. She did not know what it was about this man, this preacher, but she couldn’t help believing him, and thinking he might indeed be a friend if she would only let him.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He adjusted his gaze until it focused squarely on her. “Would you walk with me, Mrs. Graham?”

  “Yes.”

  She asked Gray Antelope Woman to watch the children; then she and Killion took their leave of Godfrey and headed across the main compound of the fort.

  50

  Set on the north bank of the Arkansas River, Fort Dodge had, since its founding four years earlier, grown into a substantial plains outpost. The original sod huts, or “soddies,” as the soldiers called them, had been abandoned soon after their construction because of frequent flooding, and had been replaced by sturdy buildings of limestone, hewn from a quarry several miles north of the fort. There were barracks housing a hundred soldiers, officers’ quarters, a headquarters, and a hospital where many of the Washita prisoners had received their first substantial medical treatment since the fight. In addition to this, there were other wooden buildings for a blacksmith’s forge, a carpenter’s shop, and a recreation parlor that served as a gaming room with billiard and card tables. There was also a small school and a chapel. But perhaps the most important building of all was the Sutler’s store, where the Indians came to trade, and where the soldiers could buy whiskey to dull the boredom of post life between Indian wars.

  Dominating the center of the fort was a parade ground that stretched over a space of a hundred square yards. Deborah and Killion crossed the open field as several troops of infantry were drilling, kicking up a cloud of dust into the chilly afternoon wind.

  “Ma’am,” Killion began, speaking what was at the moment most on his heart, “I don’t mean to pry, nor to cause you any upset, but I’ve been concerned about what has happened to your husband.”

  “It is not right to speak … of the dead….” A lump rose in Deborah’s throat and tears suddenly welled up in her eyes.

  “Oh, ma’am … !” Killion, too, seemed to suddenly choke up. “I am sorry. He was a fine man. Was it at Washita?”

  She shook her head, almost unable to speak. But, even though Cheyenne custom discouraged speaking of the dead, even for a wife to utter her dead husband’s name, Deborah felt an undeniable need to tell this white man of her husband’s bravery and his honor. So, taking a determined breath, she forged ahead.

  “He was killed last fall … in a skirmish with soldiers,” she said. “He had gone intending to convince his brother to give up fighting the soldiers, but then he discovered Sheridan was ignoring the treaty by sending troops into Indian Territory. My husband believed, as did Black Kettle, that his family would be safe there, for we were not at war with the whites. Not long after your final visit to our village, my husband went in search of his brother. As you had warned, there were battle-ready soldiers in the field south of the river. He needed no further proof of General Sheridan’s intent to strike the villages. Only then was my husband able to believe it.”

  “That’s when he entered the fight?” asked Killion.

  “He did so only to protect his family. He would never have fought otherwise.”

  “I know that.” Killion shook his head mournfully. “It’s a sorry pass when a good man like that has to be sacrificed in such a way. He had so much to offer both the whites and the Indians.”

  “Nothing lives long, Mr. Killion, only the earth and the mountains.” She spoke the Cheyenne death song without a firm conviction of its truth.

  “Ma’am, in my time dealing with Indians, both lately and in my rangering days, I heard much wisdom from them, and I think the Cheyenne ability to accept death as the natural flow of things is commendable. They mourn bitterly over their dead, but not without the hope that the Hanging Road provides. I figure it’s about as close to eternal life as they know about, and I only wish they could hear the whole story. I’ve often wondered what happens to an Indian’s soul when he dies. Does God have some special dispensation for them? I like to think so. I like to think when God comes across a fellow who has never had the chance to hear the gospel, that He looks on that man’s heart and judges him by his response to the truth that has been revealed to him. I don’t know if this sort of thing worries you, Mrs. Graham, but it helps me to know that Broken Wing—forgive me for speaking his name, but I do so only to honor him—is standing absolved before the throne of God, at last fully basking in God’s love. It’s a comfort to me, and I hope it is to you also.”

  “Do you mean to say a savage Indian has gone to heaven?” She could not hide a touch of cynicism in her tone.

  “I believe so, because if given half a chance, I think your husband would have come to embrace his true Savior.”

  “That is quite a statement,” Deborah said, truly amazed. “I grew up with Christianity, and at this moment I feel further from God than the most remote savage.”

  “That’s the way it is sometimes, ma’am. We whites get almost overexposed to Christianity, which would be just fine if most of it wasn’t a cockeyed version of it. Unfortunately, a large part of what we hear is about reli
gion and nothing else.”

  “But it’s not just religion to you, is it, Mr. Killion?”

  “Not at all,” said Killion enthusiastically. “It is about personally knowing Someone who loves me more’n I can ever imagine, more’n my own ma—” His voice caught suddenly and he quickly swiped a sleeve across his eyes. “Pardon me, ma’am, I can’t rightly talk about it without getting a mite emotional.”

  “I think my father had such a faith,” said Deborah quietly.

  “Did he?”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you’d wonder how I could have backslidden so far with such a parent. Well, I’ll tell you frankly, Mr. Killion, I came to a place in my life where his faith simply failed me. It left me with more questions than answers, at a time when I desperately needed answers, not vague words of comfort like, ‘Your brother is in a better place, Deborah.’ And, to tell the truth, I wondered at times if his faith was even able to comfort him when my brother died. What good is a faith if it is powerless when you need it most?”

  Killion did not respond immediately. Deborah might have thought that, quite unintentionally, her question had stumped the preacher. But as she glanced at him she saw not confusion on his face, but rather a thoughtful serenity. It was almost as if he were praying, though his eyes were wide open and he walked at her side quite normally. They had long since exited the gates of the fort and were now walking along the north bank of the river. Killion gazed toward the sparkling water, then back at Deborah.

  “Ma’am, would you like to hear something that may surprise you? In fact, it may even shock you.”

  “I doubt there is anything left in this world that can shock me, Mr. Killion.”

  “This ain’t exactly ‘of this world.’”