Destiny's Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Jesus nodded. “The black one—he jumped a fence and ran off when they first attacked. Valiente is gone, señor.”

  Tom thought about the beautiful black stallion he had worked so hard to tame. He had done it mostly to impress Juanita. He no longer felt like that victorious man.

  “It is best,” he told them. “He should be free. I wouldn’t want anyone else to get their hands on him.”

  “They couldn’t if they wanted to, señor. He remained as wild as ever, except for you. Maybe someday you will find him again.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters but revenge. You two think about what I told you while I’m gone. You can always change your minds.”

  “No, señor. We will ride with you. And I bet we can find others who will want to do the same. Maybe these Americans have won California, but we will not let them forget who this land really belongs to. It will be a long time before they can settle happily here.”

  Luisa frowned. What were they planning, to wage their own personal war? There was too much hatred in the air this night for her to speak up against such a plan. Perhaps, on the way to San Francisco she could talk some sense into Tom Sax.

  “Thanks for your help,” Tom told both men. “Get the hell out of here now and keep to the hills.”

  Jesus nodded. “We will pray for the girl, señor.”

  Tom’s dark eyes were bloodshot and filled with great sorrow. “She will need your prayers. I fear she will never get well.” His voice broke and he walked out. Luisa followed. Jesus and Rico followed them out, and Rico hurriedly gathered up the money for Juanita, stuffing it into the carpetbags Luisa had packed and tying the carpetbags onto the horses. They helped Luisa mount up. The woman was weary and half sick herself, but she forced herself to keep going for Juanita’s sake. She understood how important it was to get away tonight.

  Tom handed Juanita to Jesus, then mounted up. Jesus handed the girl up to him, and Tom was overwhelmed by how small and young she seemed. He perched her sideways, holding her in one arm, then reached up to gently close her eyelids. To his relief they stayed closed. Her staring eyes filled him with sickening rage and guilt. At least with her eyes closed she looked more at peace.

  He picked up the reins of his horse and turned to Luisa. “Are you ready?”

  “Sí. señor.”

  “I’ll go as easy as I can. It’s dark and dangerous. I know a place where we can rest safely before going on tomorrow.”

  “I will be all right, señor. It is only Juanita that I care about. Do not worry about me.”

  “You are a good woman, Luisa—as good as her own mother would have been.”

  “I am glad her mother is not here to see this. It is a blessing she is gone.”

  Tom gently kissed Juanita’s cheek. “Yes. It is a blessing.” He rode off into the darkness and Luisa followed.

  The Stars and Stripes hung over the town of Sonoma, replacing the Bear flag. The Americans had claimed California. There would be more fighting, but Tom didn’t care about that now, nor did he ever care in the first place who claimed California. All he cared about was right there in his arms, and he had lost her to a world he could not reach.

  • Chapter Twelve •

  “She looks so pretty and innocent lying there,” Tom said brokenly.

  He stood in a small room in a wing of the mission where the nuns resided. Juanita had been bathed and she lay in a small bed now, wearing a clean white robe, her hair shiny and clean. It graced her shoulders and the pillow. To Tom she looked like an angel, and he was glad that at least now she was at peace.

  Father Juarez studied the agony on the face of Tom Sax and had already read in the man’s dark eyes a hungry vengeance.

  “Now you think that killing the men who harmed her is not enough,” he spoke up quietly. “You are thinking you must go on killing.”

  Tom tore his eyes from Juanita and faced the man. “How else am I to live with my own guilt?”

  The priest frowned. “Guilt?”

  “All of this could have been avoided. I failed her, Father Juarez! I should have taken her away with me. I should not have left her! Something deep inside me told me not to go, but I left anyway.”

  “You didn’t know this would happen, my son. These things are the tragedy of war. No one man is expected to predict the future—that is God’s knowledge alone. No one else knows what will happen from one day to the next. This is not your fault. You love her. And in spite of what happened to her, you still love her. You are a good man, and still a young man. She will need you when she is well again. Do not go out and do something that will bring your death. That would be harder for her to bear than what has already happened.”

  Tom fingered his hat in an outward reaction to the horrible guilt and thirst for vengeance that boiled inside. His breathing quickened and his eyes were red and tired.

  “For one thing it is possible she might never get better,” he answered, his voice low but burning with sorrow. “She might even die, Father Juarez. And if and when she does get better, she will never want me. I failed her. But I will not fail in avenging what has happened to her. I can do that much at least.”,

  “And how would you do that? Wage your own war against the Americans?”

  Tom towered over the short, stocky priest. “Why not? I am Indian, Father Juarez. My father is part Cheyenne, and my mother was a full blood. Warring in the name of vengeance is in my blood. My father did it many years ago—against the Crow who killed my mother. Now I will do the same!”

  He turned away and walked to the side of the bed. A nun moved back to allow him room, and he bent over Juanita, touching her cheek gently. “I will be back, Juanita,” he said gently. “I will keep coming back until you are awake and know me—and then you can decide how you feel about me, if we can share the love we once had.” He leaned closer and kissed her forehead. “I love you, Juanita,” he whispered, the tears coming again. One fell unwantedly and dripped onto her cheek. “I will always love you. That is a promise. Even if you wake up one day and hate me, I will still love you.” He touched her hair gently.

  He straightened, quickly wiping at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He turned and faced the priest, breathing deeply to keep from breaking down in front of the man. “Promise me you will pray for her—several times a day.”

  “You do not need to ask me to do that. I have known Juanita since she was born. I baptized her. She is like a daughter to me. My heart is heavy for el señor Galvez and what has happened to his men and his land—but most of all his daughter. He would want many prayers for her. Of course I will pray.” The man stepped closer. “And I will also pray for you, my son. I see hatred and revenge in your eyes. Such things come to no good end. You must free your heart and soul of this hatred.”

  Tom put on his hat and walked to the door, then hesitated, turning back around. “Guard that money well. Use whatever you need to take good care of her. The rest belongs to her.” He glanced at Juanita once more, then back at the priest. “If she does come around, tell her I . . . tell her I love her and will be back. Tell her I will not blame her if she chooses not to see me.”

  He walked out and closed the door softly. He had already said his farewells to Luisa. It was done. He could not change what had happened to Juanita. He could only make amends by riding a path of revenge in her name. She was in God’s hands now, but what Tom Sax had in mind had nothing to do with God. And if he burned in hell forever for it, so be it.

  Cale sat alone, leaning against a cottonwood and listening to the flow of the creek nearby. It was March, 1847, and there was still fighting deep in Mexico as American troops marched ever closer to Mexico City. Kearny had easily taken Santa Fe and had marched on to California. Now the family waited anxiously for word of what was happening there, since Tom was there and they had not heard from him in many months.

  Trade had improved again with Santa Fe, but now that it was American territory, the high prices Mexicans once paid for American goods there had dro
pped, making things more difficult for his grandfather financially. His grandfather’s continued threat to leave Colorado and go to California weighed heavily on Cale, who had made many good friends among the Cheyenne. He wanted to stay in Colorado. If his grandfather moved, his mother and Jess would go with him, and Cale would be left with the very difficult choice of staying with the Cheyenne or going to California. Either way he would lose something very precious to him.

  He had come to this place to think about that decision. He had walked here from the Cheyenne village where he had spent a good share of the winter, sharing Buffalo Boy’s tipi with the young man’s mother and father and young sister, Séhe.

  This had brought still another problem to the growing and changing young man that he was. Although Séhe, whose name meant Snowbird, was only eleven, she had lately and very subtly taken on a beauty that disturbed him strangely. She was just a little girl, wasn’t she? Yet only a few nights ago she had changed her tunic in front of him, thinking he was asleep, and he had noticed with surprise that her chest was no longer totally flat. There were soft little bumps there, surely the beginnings of breasts.

  Never before had he been so acutely aware of women and how they were shaped. He had suddenly realized how beautiful his own mother was, and some of the young Cheyenne wives. Girls his own age were difficult to look at, as it was forbidden to look straight at a young maiden once her “flowing time” had begun and she was eligible for marriage.

  To his own shame and chagrin, he didn’t even totally understand what “flowing time” meant, and he wondered when it would come to Snowbird. He did not look forward to that time. They were good friends, and although he teased her incessantly about how men were far superior to women, deep in his heart he admired the strength and pride he saw in Snowbird, in spite of her age. When her own flowing time came, he would no longer be able to look at her or speak to her, and he would miss her very much. But what bothered him most, and also surprised him, was that he did not like very much the idea of some older warrior taking her for his wife. Somehow it seemed she belonged to him, yet both were far too young for any kind of commitment. Besides, since Cale was not a full-blooded Indian, he realized it was possible Snowbird’s mother and father would never approve of him as a mate for their daughter.

  He angrily broke a twig. “I will show them,” he muttered. “I will be a great warrior someday. Already I am a good hunter.” He sighed deeply, picking up another twig. As was the custom, Buffalo Boy’s uncle, Spotted Horse, had taken on the task of teaching the boy Indian customs, and how to hunt and make war. The man had kindly included Cale in much of his instructing because Cale was the grandson of the respected warrior Blue Hawk. Cale had already proven himself capable and learned just as fast if not faster than Buffalo Boy himself. Buffalo Boy tended to be overweight and a little lazy, whereas Cale was energetic and eager.

  He twirled the twig between his fingers, wondering if he should tell Caleb about Snowbird. Would his grandfather laugh at him? No. Not Blue Hawk. He would understand. And the more Cale thought about it, the more he realized that if his family moved on, he would stay behind with Buffalo Boy and the Cheyenne. After all, leaving would mean leaving Snowbird, and somehow he couldn’t do that. Nor could he consider living totally in the white man’s world now. His heart was leading him elsewhere, his spirit telling him where he really belonged, even to his belief that he must participate in the Sun Dance ritual. He wanted to be Cheyenne—all Cheyenne. He did not want anything less.

  How many times had his grandfather told him he must follow his heart? Cale was perfectly aware of what the future held for the Cheyenne, but surely the real problems were many, many years in the future. Surely they would live as free as they did now for most of his own life. There had been a lot of trouble from the soldiers, but that was because of the Mexican war. That would all change once the war was finished—most of the soldiers in the area would leave, and the Cheyenne would have all their old freedom back. They rode the land from Colorado into the Dakotas; and together with their friends the Sioux and Arapaho, they were very strong.

  He loved his life, loved his Cheyenne friends—and in some ways he was beginning to realize he loved Snowbird. Not as a man loves a woman. They were too young for that. Now he loved her the way a boy might love a sister. And he realized that there had been a time when his own grandfather had loved Sarah the same way. Could this strange feeling he had for Snowbird be the beginning of something much deeper?

  Girlish laughter interrupted his thoughts. There was a rustling and much chatter not far away, and he realized it was the time of day when the women came to the stream to bathe. He knew he should leave, but also realized they could not see him from where he sat. The new curiosity that had been aroused in his deeper thoughts in the night about women held him in place, even though better sense told him to leave. These were full-grown women, as well as a few of the young maidens not yet taken. If ever he wanted a good idea of what it was like to look upon a naked woman, this was his chance. Perhaps there was something secret about them he didn’t know.

  Why did it arouse all his senses lately when he thought of young women? He was only thirteen. But then again he was also almost a man in the eyes of the Indian. Once he killed his first buffalo and suffered the Sun Dance, he would have proven himself well.

  But for the moment he did not have the manly wisdom or strength to resist his racing curiosity. He realized no one knew he was here, and against all better sense and even his own deep respect for these women, he found himself crawling among underbrush and darting from tree to tree to get closer to the creek.

  This was the place of the “big timbers”—Hinta-Nagi to the Cheyenne. Here was where many of them camped in winter, where trees sheltered them from cold winds and provided plenty of wood for fires. Spring had come early this year, and it was already warm. Some of the women had apparently decided to brave the creek and go all the way into the water this time.

  Cale lay on his belly, watching through the bushes, his eyes widening as several of them stripped off their tunics. They wore nothing under them. They chatted and laughed, some going into the water and screaming as they splashed each other. Cale stared in awe at round, bare bottoms and full breasts, and he wondered at the V-shaped dark patch of hair nestled deep between their thighs. Somewhere in that place lay the most secret part of woman, the place where a man connected with her in the way he had seen animals connect.

  What a magical thing woman was! A man planted himself inside of her and released the odd substance he had released more than once, quite by accident deep in the night. Surely that was what carried man’s seed. And somehow that substance found its way deep into a woman’s belly and mated with her egg, growing into a baby that made her belly fat. He remembered his own mother being fat with young John, his half brother. And then somehow the baby got born. Did it come out between her legs, the way man went in to make it in the first place? He had seen calves born, horses, puppies. It couldn’t be much different for human babies.

  He had a tremendous curiosity now as to how it might feel to mate with a woman. The Cheyenne were quite open about such things. Buffalo Boy’s mother and father had mated several times deep in the night while Cale and Buffalo Boy and Snowbird slept nearby. They thought of it as simply a part of on going love, a fulfillment of their love for each other, a natural instinct. Cale thought about the sounds they had made, as though the act was a mixture of pain and ecstasy.

  He spotted Snowbird. Love and respect made him quickly close his eyes, but a power stronger than his own will made him open them again. She was beautiful, though such a child yet. Her skin looked so smooth, and she didn’t have any hair where the older women had hair: Her breasts were just tiny buds, but her thighs and bottom were shaped perfectly, firm and beautiful. Surely she would one day make a very lovely young woman. Somehow he had to prove his own worthiness soon, for when Snowbird came of age, he must make sure some older man did not claim her for himself.

&nb
sp; His mind was made up now. If his family went to California, he would not go with them. He was almost a man now. He didn’t really need his mother anymore, and he must learn to get along on his own. After all, that was what he had already been doing for a long time now.

  His whole body felt warm and almost painfully alive as he watched the women, and he decided he must have a good talk with his grandfather about women. He loved and respected his stepfather Jess very much. But it always seemed so much easier to talk to Caleb. Caleb was Indian like himself. His grandfather understood him better than anyone else in the family.

  Suddenly Cale cried out when someone very strong pulled him to his feet by the hair of the head. Cale’s head and scalp screamed with pain as he was jerked around, and he stared straight into the wrinkled face of old Yellow Neck, one of the ornerier and older warriors, who was a respected dog soldier.

  “You have done a bad thing this day,” the old man snarled through yellow teeth. “You must be brought before the elders!”

  Cale was speechless and devastated. Old Yellow Neck began walking back to the village, still grasping Cale by the hair of the head and yanking him along, half dragging him part of the way as Cale grasped at the man’s hand and stumbled along backward with him. There was no releasing the firm hold Yellow Neck had of his long mane, and he didn’t dare hit the man or put up too much of a struggle.

  Cale knew that what he had been caught doing could bring him great punishment, possibly even death, and Yellow Neck just might decide to make that decision himself here and now. He was a very strong man. Cale did not want to offend the Cheyenne any worse than he already had by fighting against a respected warrior for something he was guilty of doing—sneaking a look at their women while they were naked—worst of all, setting his eyes upon the young maidens not yet taken.