The Beloved Woman (14 page)

He was dressed in his usual work trousers and a loose white shirt, and the gold nugget over his heart reflected the lamplight like a beacon. Transfixed, Katherine realized that she’d dropped her hand to her own chest.

“How are you?” he asked, and pulled his hat off belatedly.

“Startled.” She shook the odd mood away and managed a strained laugh. “You walk more quietly than any white man I’ve ever known.”

“You looked like you were in a trance.”

“No. Just … thinking.”

“I brought you something.” He stepped up to her and held out a letter. “I’d like you to carry this whenever you go out of the hotel. It’s just something I wrote. It says that you’re in my care. In case anyone wants to know why you’re not penned up with the other Cherokees.”

He paused, then added gently, “The army finished buildin’ the stockade today. Tomorrow the patrols and state militia start roundin’ up your people. They’ll go into the hills and find all the families who hid out. I reckon they’ll bring in four, maybe five hundred folks over the next few days.”

“Will you take me to see them at the stockade?”

He inhaled harshly. “Katie, it’d only make you feel bad. The place—I went to look at it today. It’s just a big pen in the middle of a field. No shade, and the closest water is a good quarter mile off. I wouldn’t shut an animal in it, much less humankind.”

She looked up at him desperately. “How long will the army keep them there?”

“I don’t know. At least the government’s brought in plenty of supplies. Blankets, flour—”

“People won’t take those things! They’ll have too much pride! And the flour—Cherokee women cook with cornmeal. They don’t know how to use anything else!”

He grasped her arms and stroked them soothingly. “I’ll talk to Sam. We’ll send food from the store.”

“That’s how I want my share of gold used. I’ll buy supplies from you.”

“All right, gal, all right.”

“And I want to visit the stockade.”

“Dammit, Katie, no.”

“You forbid it? Are you forgetting that I’m your
guest
, not your servant?”

He let go of her and stepped back. “No, I hadn’t forgot. But I don’t want you near that damned stockade.”

“If you won’t take me, I’ll find someone else.”

“I’ll thrash the skin off any man who takes you there without my permission.”

She cried out in frustration. “Nothing has changed between us. I am
a-tsi-na-Ha-i
. A slave! You make me dread the sight of you.”

His chin rose slowly. “If you crave to see misery,” he said between gritted teeth, “I’ll be glad to take you to the stockade. I’ll come for you at the store tomorrow afternoon.”

He turned without another word and disappeared into the night.

T
HE SUN WAS
too hot for late May, and Katherine’s head was damp under her black bonnet. Red dust swirled under the feet of the buggy horse, and even the saw grass looked thirsty in the fields on either side of the road.

Coming up on the left was the stockade, a large square structure built of logs. It had a guardhouse at the top of each corner, and catwalks along the walls. She was close enough to hear the sentries swearing about the heat.

Beside her, Justis pushed his hat back, drew a handkerchief across his forehead, then slapped the buggy reins lightly. “We’re goin’ there.” He pointed as he swung the horse into a pine thicket off the road. “You’ll have a good view, but the trees will hide you. Keep that bonnet on.”

Those were the first words he’d spoken to her since he’d come for her at the store. There were stern grooves on either side of his mustache, and his eyes glinted with
alertness. Lying on the floor of the buggy was a loaded rifle.

“You have to promise me something, sir.” With that formal prelude she laid a hand on his arm. Through the light cotton of his shirt she felt corded muscles flex at her touch.

“I’m not much good at promises today,” he said grimly.

“If any of the soldiers notice me—if any of them come over here and see that I’m a Cherokee, and tell me to go to the stockade—you must promise me that you won’t try to stop them.”

He pulled the horse to a halt, then dropped the buggy reins and climbed down, his face turned so that she couldn’t read his expression. The determined set of his big shoulders worried her. “Do you want me to let them put you in that hell trap?” he demanded, gesturing toward the stockade.

“No, but I don’t want you killed or thrown in jail because you fought them.”

He swung about. His gaze searched her face until she looked away. The anger slipped from his tone. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he said gravely.

“Such vague reassurance.” She gave him a solemn look.

“After the governor sends your exemption, I won’t worry so much.”

She nodded, but she knew as well as he that there was no guarantee she’d win the governor’s support. “If the worst happens,” she said as calmly as she could, “I’ll survive. You certainly know how ornery I am. I’ll be all right in the stockade.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes cold. “I’ll never let them keep you there. Or send you west. I promised your pa I’d take care of you.”

Duty, she thought sadly. “Papa wouldn’t expect you to do more than you already have.”

“He wouldn’t want you left in that pen with strangers.”

“They won’t be strangers. I’d be safe with them.”

“No Cherokee man ever raped a Cherokee woman?” he asked bluntly. “No Cherokee ever stole food or water from another?”

“Not very often.”

He shook his head. “Your people have new vices now. Drinkin’ is one of ’em. Rape and thievin’ go hand in hand with the liquor. Don’t count on bein safe among your own kind.”

They fell silent, watching the activity around the stockade. The troops had set up rows of canvas tents outside the structure. Those who hadn’t gone on patrol were bustling about, exercising their horses, unloading wagons full of supplies, and staring fitfully down the road as if expecting Cherokees at any moment.

Townspeople began to arrive, some walking, some in wagons or on horseback, and soon it looked as if half of Gold Ridge had come to see the first group of Cherokees enter the stockade. The atmosphere was almost festive. Katherine winced at the shouts and laughter, at the frequent passing of jugs and bottles, and especially at the firearms the men waved with glee.

“I see dust down the road!” someone yelled. “They’re a-coming!”

Justis leapt into the buggy and helped Katherine to her feet. Where the road curved out of sight into the wooded hills, she could see the first mounted soldiers appear, shrouded in dust. The spectators whooped with glee, but their elation soon dimmed, and a few muttered angrily.

Katherine heard one man call to his friend, “Don’t look like they’re escortin’ dangerous Injuns to me! Lots of women and children! Ain’t quite right, seems like!”

The crowd had now formed two lines leading to the gate of the stockade. Katherine twisted toward Justis and
gave him a hopeful look. “If I could only get closer … Couldn’t we stand just behind the line on this side of the gate?”

“Wait a few minutes. Let’s see how the crowd acts.”

She nodded and strained her eyes toward the approaching column. Soon it reached the outskirts of the field, and even through the dust she saw the marchers clearly.

“Where are their belongings?” she asked in bewilderment. “So many of them are empty-handed. They wouldn’t leave their homes without packing everything they could carry.”

Justis gripped her elbow tightly. “Unless they weren’t given a choice.”

She covered her mouth in horror and watched as about one hundred Cherokees, flanked by cavalry, walked wearily toward the stockade. Most of the men wore thigh-length hunting shirts cinched with colorful woven belts. On their heads were turbans of bright cloth, some bearing a feather or two. Their legs were covered in fringed leggings or cloth trousers tucked into knee-high moccasins.

The women were less exotic, dressed in loose print skirts and blouses, with scarves tied over their hair. Even so, there was an almost biblical look about the group—they might have been some Old Testament tribe being herded into captivity.

A cursed tribe. Children screamed. Old women buried their heads in their arms and wept as they shuffled along. Several of the men were obviously drunk, and they hurled curses at the spectators in broken English.

Those who had packs on their backs staggered under the load. An ancient man, little more than a copper-hued scarecrow, wavered under a tall bundle tied to his shoulders by coarse rope. When he fell to his knees a pair of white men stepped from the audience and helped him up.

That galvanized many of the other spectators, and a hush fell over the scene as they silently offered assistance. A burly blond man lifted two Cherokee children to his shoulders and carried them toward the stockade. Several women went to the aid of a young mother who limped along leading one child and carrying another.

Katherine realized that she was crying and that Justis had put his arm around her. “Please, can we go closer?” she asked. “The crowd’s not mean.”

“I reckon you’re right.”

When they reached the spectators Katherine ducked her head so that the bonnet would shield her face from all but the closest inspections. Everyone was looking at the marchers, anyway. Justis put a hand between her shoulder blades and guided her through the mob. They reached the front and she watched anxiously, looking for familiar faces.

Her gaze kept returning to the scarecrow. His turban was askew, half covering one eye, and his face was caked with dust. But she saw pride in the set of his mouth, and the pleated skin of his face couldn’t completely blur its past strength.

Recognition came to her abruptly, and his name left her lips like a plea. “
Tsa-yo-ga
!”

A white man near them whooped drunkenly and fired his pistol. The gun blast spooked one of the soldier’s horses and it careened into the prisoners, bucking wildly. One of its iron-shod hooves lashed into the chest of the frail old man, Tsa-yo-ga.

Katherine darted into the melee and caught him as he slumped to the ground, blood already bubbling from his mouth and nose. His pack slid off and he fell sideways against her, his blood spattering her gray dress.

She cradled his head in her lap and bent over him to block the sun from his eyes. “Tsa-yo-ga,” she whispered tearfully. His turban had fallen off, and coarse gray hair tumbled about his face and shoulders. She stroked bloody
strands of it back from his mouth. “I’ll save you as you saved me once.”

His eyes flickered, and the proud mouth drew up a bit at the corners. “Me-li!”

“Me-li’s daughter,” she said hoarsely.

“Ah. So many … years.” The words gurgled from his throat. “Today. This is very bad.”

“I’ll take care of you.”

His lips moved weakly. “Is this one the daughter Me-li named She Sees Dreams?”

“It is she, yes.” She brushed her tears from his wizened face. “And this one will always be grateful that her
e-du-tsi
saved her from the rattlesnake.”

His eyelids fluttered. He whispered, “Ah! Glory! I remember!”

The old eyes focused directly on hers, and life faded from them. Katherine cupped the ancient face between her hands and began a soft chant in Cherokee.

Rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders. “Fool woman! The old coot’s dead!”

She gasped. Justis’s hands. His voice. Vicious. He put a boot on Tsa-yo-ga’s body and shoved it from her lap. Then he twisted her around to face him, yanked her up angrily, and grabbed the back of her bonnet.

“I’m damned if your crazy ways will shame me!”

He pulled her head to his shoulder and held it there brutally, nearly suffocating her as he swept his other arm behind her legs. She clawed at his shoulders and face as he jerked her close to his body and picked her up. She screamed with rage, but the sound was muffled against his shoulder.

Angry mutters came from the spectators. “Don’t blame her for showing Christian charity,” Katherine heard one say.

Justis gave a terse answer and carried her through the line of people, walking very fast. His hold on her was
painfully tight. She tried to gulp air into her lungs and made a sound of sheer loathing.

Finally he reached the pine thicket and climbed into the buggy. He sat down, breathing in shallow bursts as he held her in his lap, his hand still mashing her face against his shoulder. She fought wildly and he squeezed her until she gasped in weak surrender.

“Why?” she wailed.

He anchored a hand in her bonnet and the hair bundled underneath, then drew her head back. Between ragged breaths he said, “The soldiers coming. Had to do something, quick. Hide your face from them. Sorry. Sorry I hurt you.”

Stunned, she saw the red welts her fingernails had left in his jaw. His left earlobe was bleeding. She crumpled with misery and put her arms around his neck. “Justis, oh, Justis.”

They held each other tightly. Katherine listened to the continued sounds of the Cherokee procession. Shame choked her. She should be with her people, not here crying silently in a white man’s embrace, her head resting against his bloody jaw. When she heard the soldiers close the stockade’s heavy wooden gates, she knew her future was sealed inside them.

A
MARINTHA PARNELL WAS
a mystery Justis had never been able to figure out. When he’d met her, six years before, she had been just barely past the gawky stage that follows childhood, but even then she’d had the look of a grown woman in her eyes.

Those eyes—they were an odd shade of blue, dark and wounded, the color of a bruise. He didn’t understand why they repelled him, because it was no secret that other men in town found Amarintha and her odd eyes fascinating.

In a way, he did too. She was soft and fashionably
plump, and her affinity for wearing pink gave her the appeal of a strawberry pudding. She had a beautiful, fine-boned little face, and its maze of freckles only drew attention to its charms. One of her admirers had confided to Justis during an inebriated moment playing cards at the saloon that Amarintha looked like a white cat with a calico mask.