Meet the New Dawn (20 page)

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 air. 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?”

“I’m not so sure I can trust you enough anymore to tell you,” Zeke answered the young man. “You’re better off not knowing. What’s the difference? The real question is, why haven’t you come home or bothered to find out how your mother is, your sisters and brothers?”

Jeremy sighed, straightening his expensive suit. He stepped closer, his face dimly lit from the moon and from a lamp in the street. “I … I have no excuse, Father. I guess I thought … thought you wouldn’t care. You never cared that much about me, anyway.”

Zeke frowned. “Never cared! How could you think such a thing, especially of your mother!”

Jeremy breathed deeply. “Look at you and Wolf’s Blood—two of a kind. You and I were never two of a kind, Father. Coming home would have been too hard. Once I got away, I knew what I wanted, and I’m getting it. I’m a manager now and have a fine office in Denver. I’ll be getting married soon to a doctor’s daughter. I just … my life on the ranch … my kinship with the Cheyenne … that’s all behind me. My future wife doesn’t even know I’m part Indian.” He met his father’s eyes squarely. “I’m sorry, Father. I know that hurts you, but that’s the way it is. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think about you—and mother. I think of you all the time.”

“I’ll bet!” Wolf’s Blood scowled. “I have killed white men just like you! What kind of a man are you, turning on your own blood! Your own kin! Our father is dying, and you—”

“Shut up, Wolf’s Blood!” Zeke barked.

“Why! He should know. I hope he dies of pure guilt!”

Jeremy stared at his father. The possibility of the man dying had never entered his mind. His father was not a man that anyone could picture dead. “What is he talking about?” he asked the man.

Zeke sighed, giving Wolf’s Blood a scowl before answering Jeremy. “It makes little difference at this particular time, Jeremy. I have a disease that can cripple a man, but nothing
can be done about it, and I’m fine for now,” he lied. “You apparently have a fine life in Denver now. My problem is no reason for you to change any of that.”

“Why should he anyway?” Wolf’s Blood sneered. “It is too late to change anything! To come back now would mean nothing, and his heart would not be in it! Better he stays away than to come back just as a token—just to ease his own stinking conscience!”

Jeremy removed the Stetson hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Father, that you’re sick. You … look well enough.”