Frontier Lady (Lone Star Legacy Book #1)

by Judith Pella

  Mrs. Travis played the introduction to the hymn, and it was lovely playing, but Deborah knew she would never again hear music as sweet as Killion’s simple a cappella rendition. Several in the audience joined Killion in singing.

  The first movement in the quiet room came from a section of benches occupied by common soldiers. A young man, tears welling up in his eyes, rose to his feet and stumbled forward. He fell on his knees before Killion.

  “I can’t live no more with what I done,” the young private wept, “with the things I done in battle. God, forgive me!”

  “He will, son.” Killion knelt down with the man and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The blood of Jesus covers even the blood of battle.”

  Seemingly heartened by this, another soldier, a corporal this time, lumbered forward. And a moment later, a captain joined him. Killion prayed with each man, and before he finished, two civilians joined the group at the makeshift altar.

  “Folks,” Killion said, “we’re gonna be praying and praising God here for a spell, so if you like, come on down and join us. If you can’t stay, feel free to be on your way. Thanks for coming, and God be with you all!”

  Deborah was ready to leave—not that she hadn’t been touched, but she felt no further reason to remain since she would have felt terribly out of place there at the front. She turned to let Gray Antelope know her intentions when, to her astonishment, she first noticed that her friend’s place on the bench was empty!

  Deborah looked hastily around, first toward the back door, thinking Gray Antelope might have left already. Then a small hand tugged at her dress.

  “Nahkoa, what is nishki, grandmother, doing?” said Carolyn.

  Deborah swung her gaze toward where her daughter’s little finger was pointing. Gray Antelope Woman had made her way to the front and was at that very moment praying with Killion. Deborah could not help gaping, stunned, at the unexpected sight. Whatever had come over this woman, the medicine man’s widow? Though Gray Antelope had been learning English from Deborah, Deborah never would have guessed the woman had learned enough to have followed the sermon, or, even if she could understand the words, had grasped their meaning. Yet, there she was, kneeling at the altar, clearly there by design, not by error.

  At a loss over what to do next, Deborah soon found herself moving into the file of people leaving the hall. Part of her, of course, did not want to leave her friend. Yet she had absolutely no idea what she might do for her if she stayed. But it was more than awkwardness that prevented her from going to the front. Things were happening up there that were both wondrous and fearful. She could easily get caught up in it all, and that scared her. Instinctively, she fought any situation where she might lose control. Her innate desire to be self-sufficient, independent, in control of her life, had not changed, though circumstances over the years had varied. And now that she was alone again, and once more at the mercy of others, she was even more determined to take charge of her life. Yes, everything Killion had said sounded appealing. To be loved, to be clean again, to feel safe … of course, it was desirable. But Killion never spoke of the sacrifice it all involved. She remembered other preachers speaking of the “free gift” of salvation—but it wasn’t free, not really. It involved giving yourself up to God, and she simply was not ready to do that.

  So, Deborah gathered up her children and stepped outside alone. And, oddly, as the spring sunshine blazed over her, she felt more alone just then than she had even in the lowest moments of her life.

  52

  Deborah avoided the subject of the Sunday meeting when she saw Gray Antelope later. She was intensely curious, but not enough to risk her already wavering spirit. And Gray Antelope’s reserved and private nature prevented her from sharing such a personal experience openly. One day, however, toward the middle of the next week, Deborah did inadvertently catch a glimpse of what was transpiring in her friend’s heart.

  Since Sunday, Gray Antelope had been slipping off alone—or at least away from the prisoners’ quarters—every day, for about an hour each time. Deborah questioned her once about her mysterious absences and Gray Antelope vaguely replied, “I have been studying.”

  That particular day, after Gray Antelope returned from her outing, she was playing with the children when Carolyn clamored for a story. Gray Antelope always had a fine Indian legend at hand to tell, often a different one; but many times the children asked her to repeat old favorite ones. This time she had a new one.

  “I will tell you a story I just heard about a young man named Beloved One. He would one day become a great warrior, but when he was a boy, the youngest of seven sons, he only tended the herds while his brothers went off to fight great battles.”

  As she spoke, several other children in the barracks migrated toward her and formed an attentive circle around her. Deborah pretended to be busy sewing moccasins, but her ears were also tuned to the older woman’s compelling voice.

  “This boy’s village,” Gray Antelope continued, “was at war with a mighty tribe, worse even than the Pawnee or Crow. Beloved One tended the horses while the warriors fought, but he longed to join the battle. His father asked him to take food to his brothers, for it was a long battle and the warriors could not leave to hunt buffalo. So, Beloved One did so, and when he approached his brothers he saw that they, and all the warriors of the village, were very dismayed. The enemy tribe had produced a warrior who was nine feet tall! His spear was the size of a lodge pole and its iron tip was as heavy as a large rock. He was fearsome to behold, and Beloved One’s people were trembling at the sight. The giant warrior taunted them and challenged them to choose their best warrior to fight him. He told them that if they defeated him, his people would be their slaves; but if he won, then they must serve his people. No one was brave enough to count coup against this warrior giant.

  “Beloved One saw this and was distressed, not about the warrior’s taunts, but because his people were so afraid. He said, ‘This man does not mock us but the Great Spirit in whom we believe. Who does he think he is?’

  “The boy’s brothers told him to be quiet, that he was only a boy who tended herds, and he had never been proven in battle and never even had counted a single coup. But Beloved One said that the Wise One Above, who had protected him against wild animals that had tried to attack his herds, could protect him against a giant! His brothers and the others laughed at him, but Beloved One ignored them, took his slingshot that he sometimes used to frighten off wild animals, and went out into the valley to face the giant.

  “The giant laughed, too. ‘Do you make sport of me, to send a mere boy against me?’ he shouted to the frightened army.

  “Beloved One did not flinch. ‘You face me with a bow and a spear and a sharp tomahawk, but I come against you in the name of the Lord God Almighty, who you think to defy. Today, I will strike you down and take your scalp, and then all those here will know what a powerful God we worship.’

  “And that is exactly what Beloved One did. When the giant raised his spear to attack the boy, Beloved One took a smooth stone, placed it in his sling, and hurled it at the giant. It struck him in the forehead, and the giant fell down dead. After that, Beloved One became so greatly esteemed by his people that they made him a chief. All because he trusted his God and did not let a thing like size make him afraid.”

  Deborah had certainly never heard such a charming version of “David and Goliath.” Besides her creative interpretation and captivating style, Gray Antelope lent an earnest joy to the story that gave it life beyond the telling. She seemed to be sharing her own newly acquired concept of God, and the meaning He had in her life. She understood well the Goliaths of life, and had at last found the way to defeat them. This was most noticeable in the glow of hope that had lately replaced her defeat. The Cheyenne people were facing their Goliath, but at last Gray Antelope had found the strength to accept the inevitable. If only the same could be said for the others, many of whom were still on the warpath.

  These new discoveries w
ould hold Gray Antelope in good stead in the days that followed when more upheaval came.

  ****

  Word reached Fort Dodge that Little Robe and Yellow Bear, the Cheyenne and Arapahoe chiefs, had surrendered at Fort Sill, in the southwest corner of Indian Territory. But Sheridan steadfastly refused to talk peace until all the bands came in. John Smith, however, warned the Cheyenne that Fort Sill and Fort Cobb were traps—not an entirely unfounded assumption considering the heavy concentration of troops around these forts. Thus, many of the Cheyenne continued to be reluctant to surrender and moved far to the south, to the Llano Estacado, or “Staked Plains,” of Texas.

  In May, the Cheyenne held council. The chiefs sensed a desire for peace among the people. The Dog Soldiers, however, stubbornly held out for war, declaring they would go north and join the Sioux. They would never accept a peace that would rob them of their freedom.

  In the meantime, the status of the Washita prisoners remained doubtful. It was finally decided to move them to the more secure environs of Fort Hays, some seventy miles north of Fort Dodge. This prompted another sad and difficult change in Deborah’s life.

  When news of the move reached the prisoners’ quarters, Gray Antelope drew Deborah aside.

  “It is time for you to rejoin the white men,” she said sadly but resolutely.

  “What?” exclaimed Deborah, completely unprepared for this suggestion. “I don’t belong with them. I am Cheyenne. I belong with you.”

  “You will always be one of us, Wind Rider; forgive me if I have made it sound otherwise. But it is only a matter of time before all the Southern Cheyenne, indeed, all Indians, are put in the white man’s reservations.”

  “I know, and I am ready to go.”

  Gray Antelope shook her head. “The rest of us have no choice, but you do have a choice. It is not right for you to choose a life that will not be a happy one—”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Wind Rider,” said the shaman’s widow sternly. “It is not for yourself that you must choose, but for your children. It would not be right of you to deprive them of their freedom.”

  “You sound as if a reservation is just another prison.”

  “In a way, it will be, especially for the braves who are not used to having their movement regulated, and who have learned that the way to manhood is upon the warpath. Think of what the white man’s ways will take from them. And think of your beloved Blue Sky growing up in these surroundings. He deserves the freedom his white blood entitles him to. Do not rob him of it.”

  The logic of Gray Antelope’s words was irrefutable, but it was no less difficult for Deborah to accept. “If you are strong enough to face such a life, if even Little Robe is able, then we can also.”

  “Who knows now if we are strong enough. Because we have no choice, maybe we will find the strength.”

  “Then I will too!”

  Gray Antelope barely restrained a smile, for at that moment Deborah took on a rare likeness to her daughter during one of the child’s temper tantrums.

  “I can force you to heed my words no more than Little Robe can force the Dog Men to surrender. I hope that if there is wisdom in my words, then you will listen.”

  Deborah looked away, her face taut as she tried to cover her rising emotion. She well knew what reservation life could mean for a people accustomed to the freedom of the open ranges. The drunkenness of the warriors, the privations caused by governmental ineptitude, the disease that often went with adjustment to a new environment. She had already been frightened once by Carolyn’s illness. What if one of her children died because of her stubbornness? What if Broken Wing’s son grew to be a drunken, unhappy, bitter man? She could never bear to be the cause of the demise of the dear legacy of the man she loved.

  But how could she turn her back on these Cheyenne who had become her people? How could she leave Gray Antelope, whom she loved as both mother and sister?

  “Would you come with me?” Deborah said to her friend.

  And much to her disappointment, Gray Antelope slowly shook her head. “As you must choose for the benefit of your children, I must choose for my people. In these last days, Wind Rider, I have learned to have hope. I have learned that I am not alone, that One who is greater than all the spirits, will always travel with me. Like the boy in the story about the giant that I have told the children, I know a way to defeat hopelessness and despair. Perhaps I can show my people this way, and they can find happiness no matter where the white man takes them.”

  “Oh, Gray Antelope! What will I do without you?” Weeping, Deborah threw her arms around her friend and they held each other, both shedding unrestrained tears.

  Gray Antelope said, “Maybe you will find this Jesus, so you will not be alone when we part.”

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe …” Deborah sobbed and could say no more for some time.

  After a while, Gray Antelope took a cloth and lovingly wiped away both hers and Deborah’s tears; then she smoothed several strands of Deborah’s yellow hair from her face and smiled at the woman whom she considered a daughter.

  “I know you will find a good life for yourself and your children, Wind Rider Woman,” she said. “I do not fear for you. Your husband called you a warrior, and I believe it is true. Only I pray that you make sure of your battles. Use love, not bitterness, as your weapon. As for me, don’t worry. I am content that I am where I am meant to be.”

  Three days later Deborah watched as the caravan of Washita prisoners and a retinue of army guards departed the fort. Her heart wrenched with sorrow as she beheld another chapter of her life clamp shut, with only the yawning emptiness of uncertainty looming before her. But she remembered her friend’s words: “Use love, not bitterness, as your weapon.” Yet, how could she follow this wise advice when all she loved was now disappearing through the wooden fortress gates? How could she risk loving again when the sacrifice it involved was so painful?

  Still, Deborah could not forget her parting embrace with her friend, Gray Antelope, nor could she forget the sublime mark of peace in the woman’s eyes. Though Gray Antelope faced many more months’ imprisonment, and after that a future relegated to the confines of a reservation, yet she wore no despair on her countenance. Somehow she had found a way not only to accept her lot but to triumph over it.

  Somehow … ?

  Deborah knew better than that. It was more than some vague happenstance that had helped Gray Antelope. Deborah was certain it had something to do with Sam Killion.

  53

  As studiously as Deborah had avoided the subject of the Sunday church service with Gray Antelope, she had avoided the preacher.

  Now, however, she suddenly knew she must seek him out.

  She had to know what had happened that Sunday. She had to know about her friend’s mysterious absences, which Deborah suspected had something to do with Killion. And, more than anything, she had to find out about this peace and contentment Gray Antelope had begun to exhibit.

  With Blue Sky in her arms and Carolyn toddling behind, Deborah set off for the recreation hall. It was the only place she knew to look for the preacher, having no idea where Killion lived.

  Not finding him there, she began to ask around, learning, much to her dismay, that he might have ridden east to see some settlers.

  “Don’t recall when he left,” said one man. “Maybe he’s back. You can try the Sutler’s.”

  Killion was nowhere to be found in the store. The storekeeper, a man from Tennessee named Hardee Smith, knew Killion well and assured Deborah that the preacher was gone and wouldn’t be back for a couple days.

  Deflated, disappointed, and discouraged, Deborah nearly crumbled right there in the middle of the store. With one dismaying circumstance after another seeming to pile upon her, the loss of Gray Antelope, and then finding the only other friend she had to be gone, Deborah was suddenly overwhelmed. In spite of all her experience in closely guarding her emotions, tears rose to her eyes.

  She was helpless
and alone again. Was this to always be her lot?

  She turned away from the storekeeper, but not in time for him to miss the anguish in her eyes.

  “Ma’am!” he called after her quickly retreating form.

  She stopped but, ashamed of her weakness, did not turn.

  “Ma’am,” Smith went on, seeming to be making conversation for its own sake, “ain’t you that white squaw that wouldn’t leave the Injuns? Sure ‘nough, you gotta be, but why ain’t you left with the others? You sticking ‘round these parts, then? Well, you must be if you’re here. Killion’ll be right glad to hear that.”

  With those words, Deborah turned and faced the storekeeper, and for the first time took careful appraisal of him. Her first impression was that he was the ugliest man she had ever seen. Not just homely but downright ugly. His eyes fairly bulged from his head, giving him a great resemblance to a frog, although his large ears made her think of an entirely different species. His mouth, with lips as thick as ropes, was too big to offset his other features, and any appeal it might have had was quickly negated when he opened it and revealed two rows of the most crooked and rotten teeth she had ever seen. His thinning black hair, tangled, matted, and curled in long strands around his ears, had not a trace of gray in it, lending some mystery as to his age, especially since his stubbly beard was liberally peppered with gray. He talked with a distinctive Tennessee twang, made nearly undecipherable by the thick plug of chewing tobacco lodged between his cheek and yellow teeth.

  “Killion has spoken to you of me?” Deborah asked, unsure whether to be upset or pleased.

  “Once or twice, you know. As a matter of fact, I asked him, and he seemed to know you. Weren’t nothin’ for you to take no offense at, ma’am. He spoke with what I reckon you’d call discretion—and respect, too. Is it true you lived with the Injuns?”