The words were wasted. Caleb was already walking toward the man. Willie sighed and followed, leading Caleb’s horse. Caleb walked directly to the unsuspecting Hank Tuttle, who was himself a big, burly man, wearing a pistol and a big knife on his belt, and who looked several years younger than Caleb. The man laughed through yellowed teeth as he handed a bottle of whiskey to a young warrior and reached for the buffalo robe the young man held out to him.
Suddenly a strong hand was on Tuttle’s wrist. “Pay this Indian the proper price for that robe,” Caleb said firmly.
The man looked up at him, glowering. “Who the hell are you?” he growled.
“The name is Caleb Sax, and half my blood is Cheyenne. I don’t like what you’re doing, mister. These are young boys whose lives won’t be worth a damn once they get started on that rotgut whiskey you’re trying to sell them. Have you told them the kind of profit you’ll make on those robes, or how that whiskey is watered down and full of sugar?”
Tuttle jerked his arm away. “I don’t give a goddamn who you are or how much Indian blood you got, mister. Stay out of my business!”
“Well, I’m making it my business!” Caleb turned to the young Indian men, talking to them firmly in the Cheyenne tongue and grabbing the whiskey bottle from the man who held it. He raised it, saying something more, then smashed the bottle to the ground. Glass flew and whiskey splattered onto their feet.
The Indian men moved dark, untrusting eyes to Hank Tuttle. Tuttle grinned to himself. This Caleb Sax was much older than he, and if he could better the man in front of these young Indians, they wouldn’t put much value into his words of advice anymore.
One of the Indian men spat at Tuttle, “E-have-se-va. Ese-von na-ox-to-va! Maka-eta!”
“Why, you little bastard! I ain’t payin’ you food nor money for them robes! You take the whiskey or nothin!”
The young man who was their apparent leader grabbed back the buffalo robe and waved the trader off. He stormed away, followed by the other Cheyenne men. One lingered, staring at the broken whiskey bottle, then looking up at Caleb with questioning eyes. Then he scowled at Tuttle and followed the others.
Tuttle turned angry eyes to Caleb. “You son of a bitch! Do you know how long it took me to gain their confidence? I can make a fortune off them robes! Who the hell do you think you are!”
“I’m one of them, that’s who I am! And I don’t like to see them getting cheated. Give them something of value for the robes—food, utensils, anything! They already go hungry in winter because game is getting more scarce. Whiskey isn’t going to help them.”
A few men had gathered around by then, mostly trappers and traders who were always game for a good fight.
“Tell them that,” Tuttle argued. “If they’re dumb enough to trade the robes for the whiskey, what do you care! Hell, they’re a dyin’ people anyway. And good riddance! I’m just helpin’ them on their way.”
A big fist landed on the man’s jaw then. Tuttle flew backward, landing hard on his rump. He reached for his pistol, but couldn’t get it loose before Caleb stood straddled over him, wielding a big knife.
“Go ahead, Tuttle! I’d just as soon slice through your throat as look at you!”
Tuttle hesitated. This man was older, but he packed a punch, and Tuttle had no doubt he could use the knife he was holding now. There would be a better time.
Caleb straightened. “Make up your mind, Tuttle. Go for that gun and I’ll slice you up before you can get it out of your holster! Or maybe you’d rather pull out that big knife you wear. Either one is fine with me.”
“You’d better think twice, Tuttle,” Willie spoke up, grinning. “That there is Blue Hawk, and he’s killed his share of men. One more won’t make much difference to him.”
Men shouted, urging a fight. Such things were exciting entertainment after spending weeks and sometimes months out on hunting and trapping expeditions. Bent’s Fort offered rooms, food, a chance to catch up on the latest news from Santa Fe all the way east. A good fight was simply additional entertainment, and men circled Caleb and Tuttle, holding up fists and whistling, some helping Tuttle to his feet.
Tuttle stumbled slightly when they let go of him, his mouth bleeding profusely. He was tempted to satisfy the crowd and land into Caleb Sax, but he knew the timing was bad.
“I ain’t gonna fight you this time, mister,” he grumbled. “But I ain’t gonna forget this, either. You’d best watch the shadows.”
“I’ve lived my whole life watching shadows.” Caleb laid the flat of his knife against Tuttle’s face. “Ride out of here, Tuttle. Bent doesn’t like men selling whiskey to the Indians. And neither do I! And when Indians get drunk and attack innocent whites, it’s men like you who should be hung for it, not the Indians!”
Tuttle turned his face away, spitting blood on the ground. To the disappointment of the crowd, he backed off. “We’ll meet again. I guarantee it,” he told Caleb.
Caleb shoved his knife into its sheath. “I look forward to it.”
Tuttle shoved his way through the crowd and walked to a wagon nearby that was packed with crates of whiskey. The surrounding men mumbled about being cheated out of a good fight and dispersed, while Tuttle climbed up into his wagon and headed out of the fort.
A few Indians who had been among the crowd of onlookers laughed and waved Tuttle off, saying he was afraid of Blue Hawk; and white men heading back into the fort began arguing over whether or not it was right to sell whiskey to Indians. Willie just chuckled to himself, leading Caleb’s horse back to him.
“Speakin’ of whiskey and Indians, you still gonna have that drink with me?”
Caleb gazed after Hank Tuttle, trying to get rid of his anger. “Just one, Willie.” He looked down at the man. “And the good stuff.” He turned with the man to see James standing there, watching him with eyes that were too often unreadable.
“That was a good punch, Pa.” James shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“I thought you were helping Mr. Benson.”
“He didn’t have anything for me to do today. Can I go with you to the tavern?”
“I’d rather you went and found Cale first. Bring him back here. Tell him I want to talk to him.”
James nodded reluctantly. He looked at Caleb as though he wanted to ask him something.
“What’s wrong, James?”
The boy turned to watch the young Indian men standing off, trying to sell their robes. He was full of questions. Did he dare drink whiskey someday? Would it destroy him as it seemed to destroy Indian men? Was he expected to fight for them like his father had just done? And what about the trader his father had just run out of the fort? Would he come back and try to hurt them, as other men had done, just because they were Indian?
James had hoped they had left all that hatred and fear behind in Texas. James always wanted to ask Caleb questions like this, but he was always afraid to open up to this man who surely expected so much of him. He shrugged. “You okay, Pa? Did you hurt your hand?”
Caleb grinned, looking at his fist. A couple of knuckles were bloody and his hand ached. “I’m all right.” He flexed his hand. “I’m just old enough to feel things a lot longer, that’s all. I expect this hand will swell up and feel worse tomorrow.”
James grinned a little. “I guess.” The boy turned to walk out of the fort to look for Cale, but Caleb called out to him. “James.”
The boy turned.
“Is there something you want to talk about? I don’t have to go with Willie.”
The boy shook his head. “No, Pa. Go ahead. I’ll go find Cale for you.”
Cale, James thought. Always it seemed Cale somehow got in the way. And always it was because he was so Indian. It seemed strange to think of him as a nephew. They were only six months apart in age. They were more like brothers, and James was sure his father thought of Cale more like a son than a grandson. James’s sibling jealousy made him equally convinced that Cale was favored over himself.
“He’s gettin’ mighty big,” Willie spoke up. “I think he’ll be big as you, Caleb. But he’s sure got his ma’s color with that red glow his hair takes in the sun. I swear, when I see you and James together, I can’t hardly believe he’s your boy.”
An odd pain moved through Caleb’s heart. “Sometimes I can’t either.” Caleb turned. “Come on. Let’s go get that drink. I might be able to get back home tonight yet. We made good time this morning.”
The men headed for the favorite drinking spot at the fort, while outside James walked toward a cluster of tipis to look for Cale. James was so full of questions about himself and his future, yet for some reason he could not bring himself to talk to anyone in his family about them. He felt more and more alien, and sometimes he was even angry with himself for some of the thoughts he harbored, especially the times when he felt ashamed to be Indian.
He walked among the tipis, scowling at women who looked up at him from cleaning hides and cooking over open fires. He couldn’t understand why these people couldn’t live like whites, and he was determined that as soon as he was old enough, he would leave all of this. He would be successful as a white man and would lead the good life that was always beyond their reach as Indians.
“James,” someone spoke up.
He turned to see three Cheyenne boys grinning at him.
“I am looking for Cale.”
“Cale.” One of them nodded, then said something in Cheyenne. Most of these boys didn’t even know English, only Cale and James’s names. The one who had answered pointed to two boys wrestling in the dirt farther off. He grabbed James’s wrist then, laughing and tugging James along toward the wrestling boys. They were all talking in Cheyenne then, and James fought the odd fear he had of these boys. They were so wild, and Cale was getting just like them. James wondered if he was expected to be like them, too.
Cale pinned the boy with whom he had been wrestling, holding him on his belly with his knee in the boy’s back and one arm behind him. He laughed and jumped up, turning then to see James watching.
“James! When did you get here?”
“I came with Father. He had to drive the horses by himself because you weren’t there to help. Father is angry with you and so is Lynda for going off this morning without telling anyone.”
Cale shrugged. “Grandfather never stays angry long. Besides, he understands I like to be with these boys.” He stood there dirty and sweaty, wearing only buckskin leggings and no shirt. Cale wore his hair long and tied into a tail at his back. He did not wear the blue quill necklace his grandfather had given him when he was born, a necklace Caleb considered sacred, passed down to Caleb by the Cheyenne mother who died at his birth. Cale apparently had taken it and his shirt off to wrestle.
To James, the necklace only proved Cale was favored. He understood none of the reasons why his father had given the necklace to Cale. There were many things about his father James didn’t know and didn’t bother to ask. At his young age he had only a selfish desire to be the favorite son, but it seemed his older brother Tom used to always come first. Since Tom had left, the attention seemed to turn to Cale.
“You should be with Pa. You knew he was going to come to the fort today. Besides, what’s the use hanging around with these stupid Indian boys?”
Cale frowned, looking sidelong at his friends for a moment. They were all smiling, unaware of the insult.
“They are not stupid. Why do you call them that?”
“Because they are. They don’t go to school, and some of them just get drunk now. They don’t even know the value of things. Pa got in a fight a few minutes ago with a whiskey trader. The stupid Indians were going to give him valuable buffalo robes for rotten whiskey. You shouldn’t hang around with them, Cale.”.
Cale’s face darkened. James and he had grown up like brothers. They had always been best friends. But it seemed ever since their family was harassed and forced to leave Texas, James had changed. Cale didn’t much like him anymore.
“I’ll hang around with anybody I want to,” he answered, stepping closer. The boys were both big for their ages, and James met Cale’s eyes squarely.
“What about me? I don’t have anyone to play with anymore. You’re always here with them,” James pouted.
“You could be, too. Why don’t you ever come with me anymore?”
“Because I don’t like it here. I don’t like being around them.” James turned away. “Come on. Pa said I should come and get you.”
Cale grasped his shoulder and forced him to turn back around. “You quit insulting my friends. They have been nice to you. You’re part Indian yourself, or have you forgotten, my uncle?”
The words were sneered. James’s eyes flashed with a pride of his own. “Well, I don’t look like them, so I don’t have to say I’m one of them!”
Cale shoved him. “I don’t much like you anymore, Uncle. You act like you think you’re better than the Indians. Well, you’re one of them, and you’d better remember it!”
James shoved back. “I’ll live my own way, and you can live yours! You just run with them because you think it makes Pa like you better!”
Cale dived into him then, and the two rolled on the ground. Indian boys began whooping and laughing, egging them both on as they circled the two boys, none of them quite sure what the fight was about. The boys were almost equally matched as they flailed away at each other, punching between wrestling holds. Neither seemed to be winning until Cale landed an especially hard blow to James’s chest, knocking the air out of the boy.
James fell on his rear, holding his chest and rolling to his knees, gasping for air. Cale stood over him, waiting for him to rise and go at it again. His own feelings were mixed. He loved James like a brother, but the boy was so changed, and Cale’s pride would not take insults from anyone, not even James.
James got to his feet then, shaking dirt from his hair and brushing more from his clothes. He looked at Cale, tears brimming in his eyes. “I’m going back,” he choked. “You can come or not come! I don’t give a damn!”
The boy stormed away, and Indian boys slapped Cale on the back and hailed his victory. But Cale gazed after James with an aching heart. He was losing his best friend, and he didn’t know what he had done to cause it.
He said his good-byes, going to a stump and picking up his shirt and necklace, putting both on. He walked to his horse and leaped onto its back, then rode to catch up to James, stopping beside him.
“Get up behind me. I’ll ride you in.” He reached out his hand. “Come on, James. I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t insult me and my friends.”
James sniffed, quickly wiping at tears. “I don’t have to hang around with them if I don’t want to.”
“That is right. But you don’t have to insult them, either. They are my friends. And they are your friends, too. Their blood is in your veins. If you choose to pretend it is not, you will never be happy.”
James stopped walking and looked up, meeting Cale’s eyes boldly for several quiet seconds. He reached up, and Cale helped him mount up behind him. They rode into the fort to find Caleb on his own horse heading out to find them. Caleb noticed the boys and called to them, riding closer and frowning at their dusty, disheveled condition. He noticed James’s red eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
James looked down.
“We were wrestling with the Indian boys,” Cale answered for him. “One of them knocked the air out of James, but James got him back good.”
Caleb studied his grandson’s eyes as he spoke. Cale was a poor liar. Caleb’s heart ached at what he suspected was the real truth. “Everybody all right?”
“Sure,” Cale answered with a smile. “James and I are the best, aren’t we, James?” He turned to James.
“Yeah, sure,” James mumbled.
“Well, you are in trouble with your mother,” Caleb told Cale. “Take James to get the wagon. I’m not exactly pleased myself over your riding off this morning. From now on, come and tell us first. You’ll ha
ve some extra chores to do for this one.”
“Yes, sir,” Cale answered dejectedly. He turned his horse to head out. James glanced at his father as they rode off. The man would be angry if he knew the real reason for the fight. But how could he explain it?
Caleb watched them both. Could he love anything more than he loved his sons and grandsons? How did a man explain there was really no such thing as a favorite? Some seemed more special than others, for certain reasons. But they were all loved the same and he’d die for any one of them.
He followed them out. From a distance Hank Tuttle watched, cursing under his breath at Caleb Sax. He decided he’d ask around inside and find out where the half-breed lived.
• Chapter Four •
A host of Mexicans and a sprinkling of Indians and white Americans surrounded the corral, straining the wooden fence on which they were perched. Most were Galvez’s men, though some had come from the ranch of Julio Baca. Tom waited impatiently, upset with the large number of men. He had not expected this many, nor so much commotion. How could he handle a wild horse with this much excitement going on around him?
He fidgeted with his leather hat in his hands. He wore a black shirt and black pants, with a red bandanna tied around his forehead. A turquoise stone necklace adorned the dark skin of his neck, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed powerful forearms.
Juanita Galvez had been allowed to come, and now she studied every inch of Tom Sax while he was not looking, wondering why did this strange Indian man she had never met before tease her mind and dreams as he did? From the moment she had set eyes on him, she had sensed he was a man of honor and strength, and his handsome looks and build stirred new feelings in her, feelings her innocent body had never before experienced.
She glanced at Emanuel Hidalgo, secretly pleased at the jealous look on his face. She didn’t like Emanuel. She didn’t like how he looked at her and she didn’t like his arrogance. He had wanted to be the one to tame the black stallion, but he had been unable to do so. Now she knew he was hoping this new man would also fail, which made Juanita pray all the more that Tom Sax would succeed.
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