Journey to Respect Read online

  Living on the frontier was dangerous for so many reasons. Bear, panthers, herds of buffalo, white men and other tribes all vying for the same land. Home—Louisiana with its thick groves of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss or cypress at water’s edge so different from this vast prairie of tall grass. Then New Orleans came to mind. The narrow cobbled streets, the houses with their balconies festooned with wrought-iron railings, the sweet memories of home drew him. Then reality asserted itself. Walking down the streets of New Orleans at night could be dangerous too.

  And today’s attack would not go unavenged. He had yet to be included in a war party. He might be included this time. No doubt Black Horse would want that. If he could catch Rafe in cowardice, he could mark him as a squawman. Avoiding that humiliation could force Rafe to leave, just what Black Horse wanted. And maybe what others wanted as well.

  Eve had twice tried to shake off Mr. Phillips with his soft hands and carefully coifed dark hair but he refused to be shaken off. So Eve made sure that the two of them stayed always within a group of young people that had gathered together within the party. She tried to recall the names of the young women near her, dressed in the new jewel tones and in the latest fashion, with cinched waists and puffed sleeves. But since she didn’t plan on seeing them again, she had difficulty concentrating.

  Somehow Aunt Letitia had managed to snare as guests two senators and a Supreme Court justice and, flushed with social success, was moving through the crowd, chatting and flattering everyone in sight.

  Eve kept glancing toward the door. Her father had promised the dragon that he’d attend today. His profession as a country doctor would not impress any guests, but he was an exceptionally handsome man and “showed well.”

  Mr. Phillips pressed closer and Eve moved another step away from him. She sent him a totally false smile. “Why don’t we visit the buffet table?”

  As she’d planned, the young ladies around her seconded her suggestion and the party of three ladies and four gentlemen moved through the crowd to the laden buffet table inside.

  She’d just accepted a gilt-edged plate from the white-gloved Negro servant when she heard her father say her name. She turned and, surprised by what she saw, drew in a sharp breath.

  The main work of butchering had been accomplished before nightfall. Around the fires, women now roasted fragrant buffalo steaks on heated rocks. The feasting would begin soon. One of the first things he’d discovered when visiting the Osage as a child was that when food was provided here, one ate as much as one could hold against leaner times. Osage dried meat and vegetables for future use but they didn’t can or preserve or breed animals for meat or keep chickens for eggs. With the Osage it was quite literally, feast or famine.

  His empty stomach rumbling in anticipation, Rafe sat with Tristan outside his family’s place. Since this was a hunting camp, it was a hide tent. They would follow the buffalo for weeks, and when they’d gathered enough buffalo meat and hides, they’d return to their permanent village in the Verdigris River valley where the crops of corn and squash had been planted in the early spring.

  His grandfather, Honga, which meant something like Noble Eagle, walked to Rafe and Tristan. They both rose. The woman who’d raised them, Rafe’s stepmother, Sarah McKuen, had instilled deeply into them both manners that could not be denied. Rafe wondered what Honga had come to say. He had that look about him.

  Honga nodded in reply to the courtesy. He motioned them to sit and sat down between the two men. Honga wore his gray hair in the Osage style. His eyebrows and hair on both sides of his head were kept plucked so that his remaining hair formed what resembled a rooster comb and was adorned with “roaches” or ornaments of feathers and polished bone. His silver hair had also been dyed red in places.

  One of the things that marked Rafe as different was that he did not pluck his eyebrows and hair into the Osage style. He’d decided not to try to masquerade as a full-blooded Osage, so he wore his dark hair long and pulled into a tail, the style of many fur traders. But he always kept his face shaved. Osage described bearded white men as furry hedgehogs. Rafe had no desire to be described thus.

  Honga finally spoke. “Tomorrow a war party will pursue the Pawnee to repay them. You two will be included.”

  Though the final sentence had been stated as a straight declaration, Rafe sensed it really posed a question: Would Rafe and Tristan fight the enemy?

  A mourning dove cooed in one of the few poplar trees bordering the nearby creek, a mournful sound. Rafe searched his mind and heart. Was he prepared to kill enemies of the Osage? He’d never shed human blood. He’d been raised a Christian, but Christians carried out wars all the time.

  Aware he must reply, Rafe cleared his throat. “The Pawnee could have hunted their own buffalo.”

  Honga nodded.

  “Instead they chose to steal from us. Food is life. And a man must defend his life and the lives of his family.”

  Honga nodded again. “Black Horse wants you to leave.”

  Rafe didn’t feel the need to respond. Black Horse had not been subtle. Women’s voices rose and fell around them.

  Tristan spoke up. “Black Horse should learn to pick his fights better.”

  Honga chuckled, so softly at first it could barely be heard. Then he let loose and laughed out loud. He rose and walked away, still laughing.

  Rafe grinned also. He didn’t fear the Pawnee, but in the midst of a skirmish he’d have to watch his back. Black Horse might sense that he wouldn’t be able to force Rafe out. But if the “half-breed” fell in battle, wouldn’t the blame attach to the Pawnee? Sadly, treachery lived in the hearts of all men. That came straight from his stepmother’s Holy Bible.

  “Father,” Eve said, shock tingling up her spine. “You’re in military uniform.”

  “I am indeed, daughter.” In a navy blue uniform with brass buttons, he stood in front of her, beaming. “Today I finished the process of enlisting as a doctor in the U.S. Army.”

  Eve’s thoughts jumbled but she managed, “Congratulations, Father.”

  “I applaud you, sir,” Mr. Phillips said from his place beside her. “Where will you be serving?”

  “West. We’re going west.” Her father sent her a glance, one assessing her reaction.

  Hiding her confusion even from the father she so loved, she introduced him to her companions. The young men in her party began peppering him with questions. She looked over her father’s head and glimpsed her aunt’s face. The dragon was not pleased. Had her father really meant that they were going west?

  The last of the guests had departed. The servants, sensing the coming storm, had with surprising speed gathered up the dishes and leftover food and vanished. Eve didn’t blame them. She felt shaken.

  So Eve, along with her father, her uncle, and her aunt, stood facing each other in a circle in the small parlor in the front of the house.

  Her aunt checked that all the windows were closed and then snapped the pocket door shut. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking, Samuel?” Her tone scalded the air in the room.

  Eve moved closer to her father where he stood in front of the cold fireplace, his hands clasped behind his waist, rocking on his heels like a boy about to receive a treat.

  “After seeing Eustace’s success in entering government service, I decided I also needed a new challenge, a new way to serve. Long before we left Pennsylvania to join you for this event, I received a letter from an old medical college classmate. He’s served with the army since the War of 1812—”

  “I don’t care if he’s served since the War of the Roses, what were you thinking?” Aunt Letitia demanded. “Your daughter is nearly twenty-one years of age, almost on the shelf. I was certain I could find her an advantageous marriage here in Washington City. Don’t you care anything for your daughter, your family?”

  Her father’s expression drew down into serious lines. “Whatever I’ve ever done has been for my daughter and for the betterment of all. What you mean is that you could use my daughter’s beauty to forge a marriage that would link you to the powerful here in the seat of our national government. That’s not what interests me, Letitia. We’ve never had the same goals.”

  Her father’s candor shocked Eve. Usually he employed misdirection and charm on the dragon. What had caused this change?

  “So you think it will do your daughter good to take her away from civilization to the West where Indians still threaten us. Why do you think the army needs soldiers on the frontier? To protect us from savages.”

  Eve had never considered leaving their home on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

  “Death finds a person wherever he or she is, Letitia. Eve and I aren’t like you. We don’t want the life you want. You’ll just have to accept that.”

  No doubt aware that she could not undo her brother’s enlistment, Letitia glowered at him and swept from the parlor.

  Leaving Eve, her father, and her uncle in her wake.

  Eve moved closer to her father, seeking his reassurance.

  Uncle Eustace cleared his throat. “Samuel, your decision has taken me by surprise. But are you sure your daughter wants to go west? Won’t that be too dangerous for her?” Her uncle glanced at her, eliciting her comment.

  And she recalled once more why she liked her uncle. He was honestly interested in her opinion, her welfare. But since her mother’s death when Eve was only twelve, it had been just her and her father. He deserved her loyalty most. “I will go with my father,” Eve said, taking her father’s hand. “I’m sorry this has upset my aunt, but when I came here, I never planned to marry.”

  Her uncle nodded. “Just remember, Eve, you are always welcome under my roof.”

  Eve left her father’s side and kissed her uncle’s cheek. “Thank you. You’re
very dear.”

  Now she needed to find out why her father had enlisted and was taking them west. Something didn’t add up.

  Uncle Eustace chuckled and patted her cheek. “Don’t waste your youth and beauty. It’s all this world values in women—sad to say. There’s so much more you have to offer a man but—”

  “Usually they only look at a woman’s face and figure,” her father finished for Eustace.

  “Yes. And Eve,” her uncle continued, his hand lightly on her shoulder, “I know you’ve turned down several offers, but you must consider your future. You need to find a man you want to settle down with, a man worthy of you.”

  Touched, Eve had to blink away moisture in her eyes. “I will, Uncle. I have been looking. I just haven’t found a man I thought would...suit.” Eve didn’t consider herself a romantic but she did want to marry a man she respected and one who would respect her.

  Her father had never treated her like “just a female.” And so far every man who’d courted her had subtly or openly let her know that they viewed her as exactly that. And she was definitely much more than “just a female.”

  Chapter 2

  The next dawn the Osage camp awoke with a different purpose than hunting buffalo. Today they would hunt Pawnee. Under the molten bronze sun, the tense atmosphere around Rafe reflected this. He found himself silently reciting snatches of a psalm his stepmother had taught him: Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. He did not think of God often, but the words comforted and strengthened him as he prepared himself for war. As did the constant sound of war drums beating in the camp keep pace with his heart.

  Outside his family’s tent, working alongside Tristan, Rafe helped his oldest cousin mix chips of minerals and dried plants with water in wooden bowls, making war paint. The red paint on his fingers reminded him of blood. His nerves tightened like drawn bowstrings.

  As were the others, today both Rafe and Tristan were bare-chested, dressed in only their leather breeches and moccasins. Around them other warriors also prepared themselves while the women went on with the everyday tasks, but with worried expressions and lowered voices.

  Tristan and Rafe then took turns applying in wide bands the thick white and red and black paste to each other’s faces and chests and arms. “The Scottish, my father’s people,” Rafe said to his cousin and Tristan, “used a plant called woad to paint their faces blue for battle.”

  “Blue?” His cousin appeared intrigued by this new color for war paint. “Can you get some of that plant?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask my father.”

  The cousin, finished, went to help another cousin.

  Rafe finger-painted the last white stripe on Tristan’s face. His friend had braided his curly black hair close to the scalp so no one could grab him by it. Rafe pointed to Tristan’s braids. “I want you to plait my hair like you plait yours but into one braid from the center of my forehead and down my back so that I will look more Osage. Don’t want to be mistaken for a Pawnee.”

  Tristan lifted one eyebrow. He turned Rafe to face away from him and quickly combed Rafe’s hair upward and braided it tightly against his skull from front then down his back, securing it with the leather tie.

  “Trying to look like an Osage warrior?” Black Horse taunted in his usual manner.

  Rafe looked at the man. “I am a Scottish-Osage warrior. My father’s people, the Scots, were feared by their neighbors just as the Osage are. I am both so I look like both.”

  The other man snorted and walked away.

  “Someday you’re going to have to put that man in his place,” Tristan said in French.

  Rafe nodded. The two of them checked their muskets and heavy pistols, making sure they were clean and ready and then they loaded leather bags that hung from their belts with shot and powder. Rafe also filled his quiver with arrows and slung it and his bow over his back. He’d probably kill Pawnee today. Or perhaps a Pawnee would kill him.

  The thought brought a chill of loneliness to his heart. His mind brought up more words from his stepmother: The Lord is my strength and my shield. All morning he’d heard the muted sounds of the hon-zhin-ga, or “little old men,” chanting for the warriors. Perhaps facing death caused a man to think of God.

  Honga came from the tent where he had been praying and participating in the ritual blessings of the war party. He halted in front of Rafe and Tristan, and both bowed their heads in respect.

  “Your white mother taught you well how to honor your elders,” Honga said with satisfaction. “You will fight bravely.” A statement, not a question.

  “I will, Grandfather,” Rafe replied.

  “Your father is brave, and so was your mother. I do not doubt you will do your part to protect our people. I have prayed you will come home safely. But as I prayed, I felt that something unusual will happen to you on this journey. Be on your guard.”

  Though not superstitious himself, Rafe heard the gravity in his grandfather’s voice. And recalled his suspicion that Black Horse might resort to treachery in the midst of the chaos of battle. “I will be on my guard at all times,” Rafe promised.

  “I will watch his back,” Tristan promised.

  Honga rested a hand on each one’s shoulder. “Go then and fight.”

  Rafe and Tristan went to mount their horses. For this battle, Honga had offered Rafe his brown mustang, one that Rafe had ridden before. the new horse would be left behind. Rafe swung up onto Honga’s horse and was thankful to have Tristan to watch his back.

  Since it was known that Rafe was well taught by Honga and his father’s best friend, trapper Glen Johnny, Rafe was chosen to help track the Pawnee party. So he and the other two chosen moved to the front. At the point where the Pawnee had been driven off, they studied the ground and led the war party. The track of the many horses was difficult to follow as the waist-high and in some places, chest-high grass did not stay flattened for long. The party moved forward at a slow pace over the rolling prairie, the grass undulating with the wind.

  Neither Rafe nor anyone else had any idea where the Pawnee camp lay. So it was no surprise when a day passed without them finding their quarry. Their war party settled in for a night, building fires. Here on the prairie, it was difficult to hide the smoke from their fires but the same was true for the Pawnee. Rafe wondered how long it would take them to find the enemy.

  Late the next morning, the man on the horse next to Rafe gasped and fell, an arrow through his back. Rafe swung his horse to face the source. The copse of trees along a creek they’d just passed. Then from all sides in the tall grass, the concealed Pawnee rose from bending over their horses. They pounded toward the Osage—screaming.

  Rafe yelled the Osage war cry. Drew up his musket and fired.

  The Pawnee in his sites fell.

  His rifle spent, Rafe threw its sling over his pommel. He began firing arrows as fast as he could draw. Dust flew upward from hooves. Men yelled curses. A horse screamed as it went down with its rider, vanishing into the grass. Arrows gone, Rafe drew his short sword and wielded it, dropping another Pawnee.

  Then he heard Tristan yell, “Rafe!”

  He turned his horse. Two Pawnee surrounded Tristan. He charged to his friend, slashing his sword, opening a path. He slapped the rump of the nearest Pawnee horse, turning his rider to face him. He countered the man’s knife, slashing flesh. Driving the Pawnee to give ground.

  Then at a shout, the remnant of the Pawnee band gave ground, retreating, racing away, still whooping. The Osage pursued them, still firing, till the war chief sounded the order to halt. Rafe slowed his horse, panting along with it, winded. As spent as his musket and quiver, he let the blood drip from his short sword to the ground. He quelled the reflex to gag. A tremble shook him. Had he killed anyone? Startled faces flickered in his mind—the rush of battle. His mind shut against more. He and Tristan were alive.

  The morning after the garden party, Eve and her father had left Washington City. Her aunt’s disapproval had chilled their welcome in her uncle’s home and added an invisible thread of tension to the atmosphere. Yet for once Eve sympathized with her aunt. Her father’s decision had taken her by surprise too. The reason her father had given for this abrupt change did not strike her as the true one. What had caused her father to make this unexpected and undiscussed decision?