“Eat up and get some rest,” he told Wolf’s Blood. “And remember what I told you about Dodge City.”
They rode down the muddy street of Dodge City, amid stares of curiosity and distrust. Dodge City was not a big town yet, not as big as it would get in the next few years. More and more cattlemen ended their trail drives there, and the town was fast becoming one of the only landing points allowed by the state of Kansas since the discovery that most Texas cattle carried a deadly tick that killed local stock. A quarantine line, north and south, had been designated, ordering the cattlemen to keep their herds in the western part of Kansas, where there were fewer farmers. The once-booming cattle towns of Abilene, Ellsworth, and Wichita had suffered from the loss of cattle business. Still, there were enough farmers in the cattle drive areas remaining to suffer severely from crops ruined by herds of cattle and livestock lost because of the Texas tick. Now Dodge City was the stopping-off point for the great herds, and would enjoy its own boom.
Zeke and Wolf’s Blood stopped in front of Wright’s General Store. There were signs on the building and windows proclaiming that they sold everything from tobacco and groceries to portable houses, clothes, wagons, saddles, and the like. “You ask for it—we have it,” one sign read. Zeke tied his horse and pushed his hat back, studying the signs. He looked over at Wolf’s Blood, who stood beside him then.
“Well, I need some tobacco. Let’s go in and see if theirs is as fine as they brag.”
They started inside when a man in a suit came out, stopping to stare at the two big Indians. He looked from them back into the store, then at Zeke again. “Where do you think you’re going, Indian?”
Wolf’s Blood bristled, and Zeke stood near the man in the suit, looking down at him. “Inside.”
“Indians aren’t allowed. Get going.”
Zeke just grinned, towering over the man. “You going to stop me?”
The man studied them. Zeke was not only mean looking, but wore several weapons. The man looked from him to Wolf’s Blood, who had an equally threatening glare. He looked back up at Zeke. “I suppose not. I’d be a fool to try.”
Zeke nodded. “You would.”
The man frowned. “You don’t talk like an Indian.”
“Not many Indians grow up in Tennessee.”
The man smiled and took a thin cigar from his pocket. “You a breed?”
“What’s it to you?”
The man shrugged. “Just wondering. What are you doing in Dodge City?”
“That’s my business.”
The man nodded. “I suppose it is. My name’s Rage. Julius Rage. I own the bank and half the town. If you’re here looking for a job, I might be able to use you.” He grinned slyly. “A breed has a great advantage in these parts, as I am sure you know.”
Zeke’s dark eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
The man just chuckled and lit the cigar. “You tell me. You understand the white man—and the Indian. You figure it out. And if you want to make some money, come see me.” He walked away from the doorway and a few feet down the boardwalk, turning and looking back at them. “Who’s the young one?”
“My son,” Zeke replied.
Rage studied them both. “Remember what I said.”
A wagon rattled past, its driver turning to stare at Zeke and Wolf’s Blood. Wolf’s Blood looked at his father with a frown. “What was that all about?”
“I’m not sure,” Zeke answered, watching Rage walk away. “But it might be worth looking into.”
“But why did he say he could give you a job when he doesn’t even know you?”
Zeke turned to look at his son. “Because he knows I’m a half blood, and most half bloods are choice game for jobs that take dirty work because they’ll do anything for money—or so Mr. Rage seems to think. We might have struck gold, my son. Mr. Rage is in bad need of some hired help, it seems.”
He motioned the boy to go inside, where Wolf’s Blood stared in wonder. This was nothing like any supply store at Fort Lyon, nor like living in the Black Hills among Indians. The inside of the store was fascinating, its hardwood floors decked with glass showcases, behind which lay jewelry and perfume. Paintings of pretty women hung on the colorfully papered walls.
Wolf’s Blood followed his father up and down aisles of provisions. An assortment of ranch supplies, groceries, blankets, boots, shoes, furniture, potbellied stoves, coffee grinders, and barrels filled with square-cut crackers were on display. Bottles and bottles of “female remedies” lined the shelves, alongside health tonics for all other ailments, stomach bitters, things for pain, cod liver oil, spices, soaps, weighing scales, even amputation kits displaying numerous knives and a saw. There were handsome Stetson hats and men’s suits, and a wall full of rifles and handguns. Wolf’s Blood stared at a set of lady’s long johns and tried to picture a woman’s body inside them. More shelves displayed kerosene lamps and tilting water basins, canning jars and flatirons. The young man picked up a piece of cast iron that was shaped like a naked woman, the legs slightly spread. He stared at it and held it out to his father, who grinned.
“That’s a bootjack,” he told Wolf’s Blood.
“A what?”
“They’re used to help draw off high leather boots. Since you never wear boots, I guess you wouldn’t know what it is.”
“But it’s shaped like a woman! It even has—”
“I know what it has,” Zeke answered, taking it from his hand and putting it back. “They’re usually just a piece of iron, but they can make them into any shape they want.”
Wolf’s Blood looked around the store. “I have never seen anything like this. Are there many such places in the East?”
Zeke walked to a glassed-in counter behind which several brands of tobacco sat. “Everyplace. This is nothing compared to some.”
Wolf’s Blood stared while Zeke studied the tobacco. A man came over to the counter, watching them warily as though he thought they might try to steal something.
“I don’t know how you got in here, Indian, but as long as you’re here, what are you after? I’ll sell it to you, if your money’s good.”
“My money’s as good as the next man’s,” Zeke replied coolly. “Give me a couple of pouches of that Durham smoking tobacco.”
The man scowled and took out the tobacco. “Anything else?”
Zeke looked around. “How about coffee? You got any of that kind that’s already ground? I want some for my wife—a good brand.”
The man looked him over, then took in Wolf’s Blood, who was still staring. He walked to a shelf behind him and removed a bright red can decorated around the lid with pretty designs. “This is a two-pound can of Mocha & Java Coffee,” he told Zeke. “Packaged by Woolson Spice Company out of Ohio—a good brand. The coffee is good, and any squaw would like a pretty can like this to put other things into when the coffee is gone.”
Zeke glared at the man. “Give me two of them,” he answered, holding the man’s eyes in a threatening stare. “My wife is always looking for something to keep hair combs and buttons in. You know how white women are about such things.”
The man reddened, and he swallowed. “Yes,” he replied, looking Zeke up and down again. This wild-looking Indian was married to a white woman? “I suppose so.” He walked over and got a second can. “Now is that all?”
“It will do for now.”
Zeke slapped an eagle on the counter. The storekeeper stared at the ten-dollar gold piece in surprise. “Don’t worry. I didn’t steal it,” Zeke told him sarcastically. “And I want my change in gold coins, not those damned worthless paper certificates the banks issue. I prefer the real thing.”
After the storekeeper handed him his change, Zeke picked up the coffee and tobacco and walked out, with his son following. Near the doorway was a lifelike wooden Indian, standing nearly six feet tall and painted in many colors, his arms folded and his face sober, a headdress of wooden feathers falling to the floor. Wolf’s Blood stared at it, reaching out to touch the wooden face. He turned
to his father.
“Is this all there will be of us one day?” he asked somberly.
Zeke met his eyes and held them for a moment, then turned and walked out without replying. Wolf’s Blood quickly followed. He suddenly didn’t like the store and what it represented.
Zeke shoved the supplies into his parfleche and they rode farther down the street to a saloon. It was already dusk. “We’ll camp outside of town by ourselves. I doubt a hotel in these parts would take us in,” Zeke told Wolf’s Blood. He dismounted and tied his Appaloosa, turning to Wolf’s Blood, who also had dismounted and stood near him at the hitching post.
“The best place to find out what is going on is a saloon,” Zeke told his son. “It’s also a good place to get into trouble, so watch yourself.
They walked through the swinging doors. Several people stared, but none made a move to stop the menacing-looking Indians. Zeke strode up to the bar and ordered whiskey, and the barkeeper eyed him warily as he handed out a bottle and two glasses. “I don’t want any drunk Indians in my place,” the man warned. Zeke slapped more coins down to pay for the whiskey.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he answered. He took the bottle and glasses and walked to a table where three men sat playing cards. “Got room for one more?” he asked. “Like all Indians, I like to gamble.”
The men looked from one to the other, eyeing the huge blade on Zeke’s belt and an equally big one at the younger man’s side. “Indians ain’t much trusted around here, mister,” one of the men spoke up. “A lot of the railroad people died from Indian raids, and a lot of the settlers in these here parts. Mostly Kiowa and Cheyenne that done the killing. What might you be?”
Zeke plunked down the bottle. “Cheyenne,” he answered curtly, taking a chair. “At least half of me.”
One man jumped when the bottle hit the table, and no one tried to stop him from sitting. Half-breeds were more dangerous than full-blooded Indians—or so they’d always heard. Zeke pulled out several coins and set them in front of him.
“Money’s the same, whether it comes from an Indian, a white man, or a skunk,” he told them. “Deal the cards.” He motioned to Wolf’s Blood. “The boy here will watch.”
Wolf’s Blood pulled up a chair beside his father, turning it backward and straddling it, putting his arms across the back and resting his chin on them to watch and listen. One of the men dealt the cards and Zeke poured shots of whiskey for himself and for his son. For the next hour they played, Zeke winning several hands but mostly staying even. He watched the men carefully, his dark eyes determining which ones might know something about running whiskey to Indians. The men in turn stole glances at the buckskin-clad Indians, their long black hair combed out loose except for a thick braid Wolf’s Blood wore down his back, Zeke wearing one at the side. Both looked hard and mean but spoke good English. Wolf’s Blood sported a streak of red paint under each eye.
“How come you ain’t down in Oklahoma with your red-skinned brothers?” one of them asked.
Zeke leaned back, lighting a cigarette he had just rolled and giving the man a hard look. “I don’t think you’ve even told me your name yet,” he answered.
“Dole. Frank Dole.”
“I am called Lone Eagle, and this is my son, Wolf’s Blood. And neither of us has a taste for the stinking reservation life, sitting around like women while white men hand us our food. If a white man hands me anything, it will be money—for whatever it is he wants me to do. As Julius Rage puts it, a half-breed enjoys great advantages in these parts.”
Dole looked slyly at the others, and Zeke suspected he knew something the others did not. The man’s eyes were not honest; they were blue but too pale. He sported a couple day’s growth of beard and an unclean shirt, seemingly caring little for his appearance, which in Zeke’s eyes meant a man who also cared little for anything else, including how he earned his money and who he associated with. Dole met Zeke’s dark eyes.
“You know Rage?”
“I’ve met him,” Zeke replied, wanting the man to think he knew the banker better than he really did.
“You … do business with him, do you?”
Zeke puffed his cigarette. “Just considering it at the moment.”
“You do business with Julius Rage, it will be something illegal,” one of the others spoke up with contempt. “Everybody in town knows half that money in his bank is got by illicit means. Trouble is, most can’t pinpoint how—and most don’t have the means to stop him even if they wanted to.”
Dole did not reply, and the cards were dealt again. Zeke smoked quietly and Wolf’s Blood shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the smoky room and the smell of white men.
A train huffed to a stop close by, and they could hear steam hissing and a bell clanging. Zeke drank a little more whiskey, being careful not to go overboard. He did not allow Wolf’s Blood to have anymore, afraid that too much whiskey would make the young man’s temper flare. No one mentioned Julius Rage again. Several minutes later a group of men came inside, three of them in suits, the other three wearing plain cotton clothing but carrying rifles and wearing revolvers on gunbelts at their waists.
“We just came in on Number 409 of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe!” one of them announced. “And we’re here to celebrate the killing of ten bastard Indian bucks who tried to attack the train!”
The place had nearly filled up by then. Cheers went up and glasses were raised, and Zeke cast a warning look to Wolf’s Blood, whose face darkened angrily. One very well-dressed railroad man looked familiar. He wore a gray pin-striped suit and tall black leather boots. A fine Stetson hat decorated his head, and he held up a rifle, his hazel eyes dancing.
“I got one myself, right in the brisket!” he told them with a laugh. “Haven’t shot an Indian in a long …” He stopped short, staring at Zeke and Wolf’s Blood, his face draining of all color. Zeke stared back at Jeremy Monroe. “… time,” Jeremy finished. His throat tightened. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Could it truly be his father—in Dodge City? And if it was, the younger man beside him had to be his own brother, Wolf’s Blood! His father glared at him. Jeremy lowered his rifle, devastated that he had stood there bragging about killing Indians, embarrassed that his own father was in the room. He wanted to go and greet the man, but he could not admit to his friends that he was part Indian. How could he turn around now and tell them his own father was sitting in the room—an Indian!
His breath suddenly would not come and he put a hand to his chest, tearing his eyes from his father.
“You sick, Monroe?” someone asked.
“Yeah. He just realized he killed an Indian. He’s been around civilization too long!” one of the other men joked. “The sight of blood finally got to him. You’d better go back to your fancy office in Denver, Monroe.”
Jeremy half stumbled blindly out of the saloon, as the others watched curiously. Wolf’s Blood was hot with anger, realizing himself who the man was. He started to rise, but Zeke grabbed his arm. “You can’t go after a man just because he killed a couple of Indians,” he told the boy, trying to tell him with his eyes not to let on that the railroad man was his brother. The first thing they had to do was keep their identity hidden. He had told Wolf’s Blood so over and over, warning him it would be important to stay calm. He could feel the boy trembling, and Zeke himself was overwhelmed. This was the first time he’d seen Jeremy since the boy left Julesberg four years before. But his heart was shattered at the fact that Jeremy had stood and bragged about killing an Indian.
“I’m folding for the night,” he told the others at the table, anxious to get Wolf’s Blood out of the saloon and see if they could find Jeremy. He threw in his cards and picked up his money. “You men are welcome to the rest of my whiskey.”
“Thanks, breed,” Dole answered. He watched the Indian who called himself Lone Eagle. He would have to talk to Julius Rage about the man.
Wolf’s Blood gladly followed Zeke through the doors and into the refreshing night a
ir. They both breathed deeply and started to untie their horses. “We’ve got to find him,” Zeke was saying.
“Father!” the voice came then, so softly Zeke could hardly detect it. He turned to see Jeremy standing at the corner of the building, looking nervous, as though afraid someone would see him talking to an Indian. Zeke wanted to walk over and plant a fist in the young man’s face, but this was his son, and this just might be the last time he ever saw him. Wolf’s Blood stormed past him however, his fists clenched.
“Traitor!” the boy growled, ready to pound his brother into the ground. Jeremy ducked around the corner into an alley, and Zeke charged after Wolf’s Blood, grabbing him just before he reached his brother. Jeremy backed up as Zeke struggled with Wolf’s Blood, no easy feat since the boy was as big as his father and twenty-six years younger.
“He’s your brother!” Zeke growled, trying to keep his voice down and not attract attention. “And we can’t afford to get into trouble, Wolf’s Blood!”
The boy strained to get away. “He’s no brother of mine! Not anymore!” he hissed.
“Goddamn it, Wolf’s Blood, calm down!” Zeke ordered. “Don’t you understand how important it is for me to talk to him? Think about it! I might not see him again—ever!”
Wolf’s Blood’s breathing was heavy, but he relaxed some. It was doubtful that he could get away from his father, but even if he could, he didn’t care to hurt the man trying. Zeke cautiously released the boy.
“And think of your mother,” he added. “How would she feel if she knew her sons fought and one hurt or killed the other! She could never live with that!”
“I … I’m sorry, Father!” Jeremy spoke up from the shadows. “My God, I’m sorry! I never dreamed I’d find you here!”
“And what if you had!” Wolf’s Blood growled. “Would you pretend you do not deny you are part Indian? And would you still have looked away, embarrassed that you are related to us?”
“I …” Jeremy swallowed, shaking violently. “Honest to God, I’m happy to see you—both of you. I’m just … so surprised! What the hell are you doing in Dodge City?”
Meet the New Dawn Page 20
