Chieftain (Historical Romance) (5 page)

T
he school bell
was clanging when Maggie, in a freshly pressed navy cotton dress with white collar and cuffs, crossed the quadrangle at ten minutes of eight that crisp Monday morning. Pistol walked slowly at her side.

Students were streaming toward the schoolhouse from every direction, chattering happily in their native tongues. Maggie searched for and quickly spotted her favorite student, the adorable little Bright Feather. The lame six-year-old Kiowa was lagging behind the others, unable to keep up. He tried gamely to overtake the laughing boys who rushed on ahead, but it was impossible.

The child was left too far behind to make it on his own. Struggling. But, as always, uncomplaining.

Bright Feather was smiling sunnily, his well-scrubbed young face glowing with excitement. He loved school. He loved being with the other children. And, amazingly, he never felt sorry for himself. Never whined or cried even when the other children refused to let him play games with them because of his infirmity.

Maggie’s chest tightened as she watched the sweet little boy hobble toward the schoolhouse. Bright Feather had been dealt more than his share of adversity. He had lost both his parents in a battle with white settlers when he was three years old. Such a shame. He was a beautiful child with his gleaming raven hair and huge dark eyes and sweet mouth that was constantly stretched into a pleasing smile.

Each time she saw
him, Maggie wanted to grab him and hug him tightly. Just squeeze him to pieces. She refrained. And she tried to conceal the fact that she was more than a little partial to him.

Maggie swallowed hard and hurried forward to meet the laboring little boy.

“Bright Feather,” she called to him.

He turned, looked up, saw her, and his smile grew broader. Pistol raced forward, skidded to a stop at Bright Feather’s feet, barked eagerly and pressed his big furry body against the child’s thin chest.

But Pistol didn’t leap up on the boy. The dog was invariably gentle with Bright Feather. The little boy laughed, threw his short arms around Pistol’s neck, hugged him tightly and rubbed his cheek against the dog’s great head.

“That’s enough, Pistol,” Maggie warned, and the dog gently pulled free and moved back.

“Good morning,” Maggie said, and smiled down at Bright Feather.

“Miss Bankhead,” he said politely, grinning. Then proudly displayed his growing skill in the new language he was learning by adding, very slowly, “How are you today?”

Maggie
couldn’t stop herself. She laid a hand atop his dark head, cupped it gently, leaned down and brushed a quick kiss to his smooth, coppery cheek. “I’m very well, thanks, and you?”

Bright Feather continued to smile, but he shrugged narrow shoulders, unsure. She prompted, “Very well.”

“Very well,” he repeated, and grinned happily when she laughed her approval.

Just outside the schoolhouse door, Pistol stopped and barked loudly. Maggie snapped her fingers and he immediately stretched, panted and lay down, knowing he was not allowed to enter. Maggie and Bright Feather went in together.

Inside the crowded classroom, noisy children were not yet in their seats. They were milling around, talking, laughing, playfully wrestling with one another, shouting across the room at one another. Being children.

Bright Feather, tired after the long walk from the tepee he shared with a half-dozen other reservation orphans, took his seat in the front row. Maggie nodded her approval. Then she began to look about for her friend, the aged Kiowa chief, Old Coyote. He was not in his usual place in the front row.

Each morning he sat in the same chair, directly in front of her and directly beside Bright Feather. He never missed classes. Maggie was momentarily concerned. Was the old Indian sick and unable to come to class? She continued to scan the sea of young bronzed faces.

Most of the
students were standing, so her view was somewhat obscured. A number of the Indian children were fifteen, sixteen and older, and many of the boys—once young braves—were quite tall.

Maggie stood on tiptoe, glanced about, and finally got a fleeting glimpse of Coyote’s white hair and wrinkled face. He was seated at the very back of the room. Odd.

Relieved that he was well and present, Maggie clapped her hands for attention. “Class! Class, it is time to begin our lessons. Please sit down.”

It took a few minutes for the energetic boys and girls to quiet down and take their places. Maggie waited patiently. At last all were seated and Maggie had a clear view of the entire room.

That’s when she saw him.

Seated at the very back of the room beside Old Coyote was the half-breed Comanche chieftain. Dressed in white man’s clothes this morning, but looking just as dangerous, just as rebellious as when he had ridden into the fort. His presence filled the room with a kind of crackling excitement. He dominated the space so completely it was hard to get a breath.

He was, no question, quite magnificent. So imperial. So imperious. So physically beautiful. Big and tall. Broad-shouldered and leanly muscled. Harshly handsome face with the high, flat cheekbones of an Indian, but so refined as to add to the perfect symmetry of his classic features. Arresting silver eyes fringed with night-black lashes. Proud, high nose. Wide, sensuous, but strangely cruel-looking mouth.

For a brief
moment Maggie was held powerless by some undefinable force he exuded, unnerved by his intimidating presence. But she quickly regained her composure and began the morning’s lessons. All business now, her only interest was that of teaching the eager students to speak and write English. She pointedly ignored the imposing half-breed.

With interest, Shanaco noted her disinterest. He was not accustomed to being ignored. Especially by women. White or Indian. This pale-skinned, flame-haired teacher’s nonchalant disregard was oddly refreshing. It was novel to be in the same room with a beautiful young female and have her take no notice of him. He was both surprised and intrigued.

He wanted to know her better.

Maggie calmly taught the students, calling on first one, then another, to come up to the newly mounted blackboard, take a fresh piece of chalk and write the latest English word that he or she had learned to spell. All the students were eager to be called on. They raised their hands and waved them about, hoping to have her call on them.

One in particular attracted her attention above all the others.

Shanaco.

Shanaco had his
hand raised. Maggie pretended not to see it. Shanaco knew better. She saw him. The fact that she pretended she didn’t and refused to call on him told him more about her than if she had acknowledged him. Maggie Bankhead was, Shanaco felt certain, as aware of him as he was of her.

Maggie continued to conduct the class with the same commanding calm she always demonstrated. But she was relieved when at long last the noon bell rang, signaling the end of the day’s schooling. The restless children leapt out of their chairs and dashed for the door. Bright Feather trailed after them. A scattering of adult students moved toward the door at a slower pace.

Maggie bid them all a good day with the reminder, “Don’t forget the Friday evening picnic. Be sure you memorize a short poem to recite after the meal.”

When the room had emptied, she glanced up to see Old Coyote, making his careful, creaking way toward her. When he reached her, Maggie eagerly grabbed his hand.

Gripping the bony fingers, she said, “Give me a minute to gather up the primers and I’ll walk with you.”

The old chief shook his head and apologized. “Sorry, Miss Maggie. Have big domino game. Am late.” And he left.

One student remained.

Shanaco.

Still lounging in his chair at the back of the room, Shanaco’s long legs were stretched out before him. Maggie could no longer pretend that he didn’t exist. She looked directly at the chief and frowned, unsure how to handle the situation.

She folded
her arms over her chest, took a few steps toward him and spoke to him in Comanche, a difficult language that Double Jimmy had taught her. Shanaco made no reply. Just continued to sit there unmoving, looking at her.

Maggie uncrossed her arms and pointed to the clock above the blackboard. Then she gestured to the door. Shanaco nodded. He rose to his feet and leisurely made his way to the front of the room.

He stopped when he reached Maggie. He slowly turned to face her. Then took another step toward her. He stood so close and was so tall and broad-shouldered that he filled the entire scope of her vision. So close she could see the pulse beating steadily in his bronzed throat.

Maggie got the distinct feeling that Shanaco expected her to be afraid of him and to show it. Too bad. Not about to be cowed or frightened by anyone, Maggie stood right where she was, toe-to-toe with him, tipped back her head and looked squarely at Shanaco.

And found herself staring, transfixed, into a pair of gleaming silver-gray eyes unlike any she’d ever looked into. Shanaco stared back, his gaze intense and unblinking, long dark lashes lowered slightly, a muscle working in his coppery jaw. Maggie felt her stomach flutter with an unfamiliar sensation.

She again
pointed to the open door. Unsmiling, Shanaco nodded, stepped back, turned and walked out. Maggie frowned after him, and a chill of apprehension skipped up her spine. She raised her arms and hugged herself defensively.

Then her lips fell open in surprise when the handsome, long-legged chieftain overtook the limping Bright Feather, scooped him up off the ground and swung the laughing child up atop his broad shoulders.

S
hanaco
carried the laughing Bright Feather across the parade ground.

Maggie couldn’t keep from smiling. The pair disappeared around the corner of a barracks and Maggie turned away.

Humming now, she erased the blackboard, collected the chalk, gathered up the childrens’ books, stacked them neatly in a bookcase and went outside.

Pistol jumped up and barked excitedly. He raced ahead when Maggie set out for the general mercantile store. The weekly stage, due at straight up noon today, carried passengers and delivered the mail.

Maggie looked forward to letters from home. Her mother and father wrote regularly, her sisters occasionally. She treasured every missive. She would, on this particular Monday, collect her own mail and that of Katie Atwood’s.

Katie had suggested that while Maggie was picking up their mail, she would be fixing a nice lunch for the two of them. It sounded like a good bargain to Maggie.

Now as Maggie approached the mercantile store, she saw that the stage had already arrived. She was glad that it was on time for once. She didn’t want to be late for lunch. She was undeniably eager to tell Katie about the misbehaving Lieutenant Wilde and Lois Harkins.

The mercantile
store was crowded. Everyone always turned out, hoping for news from home. Maggie exchanged pleasantries with several officers’ wives, then smiled when she saw Lieutenant Finley making his way toward her.

The lieutenant greeted her warmly and they fell into easy conversation. They commented on the welcome change in the weather, discussed next week’s monthly ration day, and talked about whether the fort’s newest arrivals were adjusting well. Dave said he’d heard that Colonel Harkins and Major Courteen had scheduled a meeting with Double Jimmy and Chief Shanaco this afternoon. High time, if you asked him. Maggie fully agreed.

One of the things she most liked about Dave Finley was his consideration of others, his heartfelt compassion toward his fellow man. On more than one occasion, she had witnessed his kindness to the displaced Indians.

“Shanaco won’t be staying on the reservation,” the lieutenant mentioned casually. “The chief told Double Jimmy he’ll be gone by Thanksgiving. Soon as he sees to it that the tribe has settled in, he’ll disappear.”

Maggie nodded but made no comment. If the tales she’d heard about the hell-raising half-breed were true, his People might be just as well off without him.

Maggie was
disappointed to find that there was no mail for her this week. Nor was there any for Katie. She shrugged slender shoulders, turned and motioned toward the door. Lieutenant Finley nodded and followed her outside.

“May I walk you home?” he asked.

“Thanks, Dave, but I’m not going home. I’m having lunch at Katie Atwood’s.”

“Well, I’m free later this afternoon, perhaps we could…”

“Busy. Katie and I are going out to the little house the army assigned to Shanaco. We’re hanging new curtains in the cottage, getting the place ready for him. He’s due to move in on Wednesday.”

“That’s neighborly of you,” he said with a smile. “Need any help?”

“Thanks, but no. We can manage.”

He knew it was true. The independent Maggie rarely required help from anyone. Bristled if you hinted she might not be able to manage something. But then that’s one of the things he so admired about her. That and her flaming red hair. He smiled as they fell into step on the wooden sidewalk. They commented again on the perfect fall weather, discussed the upcoming annual officer’s ball and made plans to attend together.

Dave asked how things were going at school and Maggie explained that her class had grown considerably since the arrival of the Kwahadi Comanches.

“Why, even
the chief is a pupil,” she said. “Shanaco attended class this morning.”

The lieutenant laughed. “You’re teasing me.”

“No, I’m not. He was in class all morning and he…he…what? What is it?”

The lieutenant rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head. “Maggie, Shanaco is totally fluent in English. Speaks, reads and writes it better than I do.”

Maggie stopped walking, tilted her head to the side and frowned, puzzled. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure. It’s said his white mother, now deceased, insisted he learn English. Taught him from the time he was a baby. Guess she suspected that one day he would want to live in the white world.”

“Speaks perfect English. Then why…?”

“I don’t know,” Dave said. “If not to study the subject, perhaps to study the teacher.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maggie said with a smile, but felt her pulse mysteriously quicken.

“Maggie, you’re going to kill me,” Katie Atwood declared when finally she opened the door to Maggie’s impatient knocking.

Katie was still in her robe and gown. Her hair was uncombed and tangled. Her pretty face was pallid, eyes dull.

Looking her over, Maggie gently teased, “Sure you’re not already dead?”

Katie managed
a weak smile. “I know I look a fright. I’ve an upset stomach, lost my breakfast.” She said, “I haven’t fixed anything for our lunch. Haven’t done anything.”

“You poor dear,” Maggie sympathized, urging Katie back inside. She turned, snapped her fingers at Pistol and he obediently lay down outside. Inside, Maggie said, “Now, you get right back in bed and I’ll fix you a cup of mint tea and get you some soda crackers.”

Katie made a face. “No, don’t bother. I’m not hungry.”

“I know, but you need something to settle your stomach.”

“I suppose,” Katie said, then shed her robe and got back into bed.

In minutes Maggie brought a tray to the bed. She placed it on Katie’s lap and pulled up a chair. “Drink the tea while it’s hot. Have you any peppermint in the house?” Katie shook her head. Maggie said, “I’ll go back to the store and—”

“No, the tea and crackers will do the trick.” Katie picked up the cup, took a drink and said, “Maggie, I feel so bad about this afternoon. I’m letting you down and I—”

“Nonsense,” said Maggie. “I can fix myself a quick lunch right here, and afterward I’ll go on out to the chief’s cottage and hang those curtains.”

“You can’t do that! You can’t go all the way out there alone. You’ll have to go directly through the Comanche camp and…”

Maggie raised
a hand to silence Katie. “No one is going to bother me and the nice long walk will do me good. It’s not like I’ll be carrying the curtains. They’re already at the cottage, ready to be hanged. I can go out there, hang the drapery and be back by sundown.”

Katie made a face. Raising a well-arched eyebrow, she said, “You’re not the least bit afraid of those devilish Comanches? I tell you that Chief Shanaco looks awfully dangerous to me and—”

“I’m not afraid of the chief nor his People. I have roamed freely all over this reservation by myself since I first got here. I’ve gone out and helped tend the sick when called on, sometimes in the middle of the night. No harm has ever come to me.”

“I know, but that handsome Comanche chief…”

“Will be nowhere near the cottage. He isn’t moving in for another couple of days.”

“I guess you’ll be okay,” Katie finally conceded. Then asked hopefully, “Will you stay with me for a little while?”

“I’ll stay right here until you’re feeling better.”

“You’re a good friend, Maggie.”

“As are you.” Maggie smiled then and added, “And if you promise to tell no one, and I do mean no one, I have a juicy secret to share with you.”

“Tell me,” said Katie, her upset stomach temporarily forgotten, her eyes growing round with interest.

Colonel Harkins
came to his feet when Shanaco, dressed as a white man, and Double Jimmy walked into his office at shortly after two o’clock.

“Thank you so much for coming this afternoon, Chief Shanaco,” Harkins said, leaning across the desk and firmly shaking Shanaco’s hand. “I don’t believe you’ve met Major Miles Courteen,” he said, indicating a frail-looking, impeccably groomed man with iron-gray hair and warm brown eyes. Slapping Courteen’s shoulder, Colonel Harkins explained, “The damned Bureau of Indian Affairs keeps Double Jimmy and me away from the fort so much of the time I’ve come to rely heavily on Major Courteen.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Shanaco was polite to the slender, courtly officer.

“Chief Shanaco,” said Major Courteen with a friendly shake of his head.

“Double Jimmy, always good to see you,” said Harkins.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Double Jimmy replied. “Major Courteen,” he said, acknowledging the soft-spoken southerner for whom he had great respect.

“Shall we all sit down?” said Colonel Harkins. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

When Shanaco, Double Jimmy and Courteen were seated, Colonel Harkins dropped back down into his chair and the meeting began.

“Chief, I’m aware that you are a young man of much influence with your People,” said Colonel Harkins. “I’m grateful that you were able to impress upon them the necessity of coming in to Fort Sill.”

Shanaco
quickly corrected him. “I had nothing to do with it, Colonel. My grandfather, Chief Gray Wolf, was entirely responsible.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry to hear of Gray Wolf’s passing,” said Harkins. “You know your grandfather was the last holdout of all the signatory chiefs and—”

“I know that, sir,” Shanaco cut in.

Colonel Harkins smiled. “Look at it this way, Chief Shanaco, you can consider yourself civilization’s advance guard opening the way for generations of—”

“Colonel, I’ve no intention of staying at Fort Sill,” Shanaco again interrupted. “It was only out of respect for my grandfather that I led the People onto the reservation. As I have told Double Jimmy, I do not intend to remain.”

Again Colonel Harkins smiled. “I hope we can change your mind about leaving. We need you here, Shanaco. For the time being, I am eager to hear what your thoughts are on how to make this transition as painless as possible for your People. Major Courteen and I sincerely want to do what’s best for them, I hope you know that.”

Shanaco leaned back in his chair and laced lean fingers over his waist. “The first thing you have to do is allow the People to keep at least a portion of their horse herd. If you know anything about the Comanche, you know that their horses are everything to them. You cannot expect proud young men who are some of the best horsemen on the plains to give up their mounts.”

Colonel Harkins
nodded thoughtfully but said, “I understand that, and I will return the horses to them if in turn you will give me your guarantee that the mounted braves won’t be riding away from the fort, crossing the river into Texas.”

“No,” Shanaco said flatly. “I can give you no such guarantee. I
can
guarantee that if you do not return their horses, they will take them back in the dead of night and flee this reservation.” He fixed the colonel with cold gray eyes and added, “They have lost enough. A short time ago, when I was a boy, all the Comancheria—” he lifted his hands, made a wide circle in the air “—belonged to the People.”

Colonel Harkins silently nodded his understanding. The Comancheria—the Comanche country—was vast, stretching for hundreds of miles and including great portions of New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma and especially Texas. For centuries the Indians had been free to ride across the open reaches of the rolling prairies that were lush with grass and carved with deep creeks and flowing rivers.

Colonel Harkins finally spoke. “I know that, Chief, and I—”

“This fort sits squarely in the Comancheria, Colonel. It is you and the troopers who are on our land, not we on yours.”

Colonel Harkins looked to Double Jimmy for help. The Indian agent said softly, “We cannot turn back the clock, Shanaco, but the colonel, the major and I will do everything we can to help your People adjust to this new way of life.” He glanced at the colonel and, without asking permission, said, “Some of the horse herd—they can take their pick—will be immediately returned to the young Comanche braves.”

Shanaco
nodded and swiftly moved on to another subject. “Beef issues. You will deliver our beef on the hoof and allow the men to do the slaughtering. They have to retain some semblance of independence.”

“Agreed,” said Colonel Harkins. “Now what about…?”

The meeting continued for more than an hour. When it was over, much had been discussed and determined. They all shook hands. Colonel Harkins suggested that Shanaco ride out and have a look at the cabin he was soon to occupy. Shanaco nodded, said he might do that.

Double Jimmy and Shanaco walked outside and stood for a moment on the shaded sally port. Double Jimmy reached into his breast pocket and took out the makings to build a cigarette. Shanaco leaned a muscular shoulder against a porch pilaster and gazed out over the quadrangle. The two men talked quietly for a time.

Finally Double Jimmy, blowing out a plume of smoke, said, “Well, I’m off to the agency storehouse to inventory the supply of flour and cornmeal and dried beans.”

Shanaco’s dark
head swung around. “The Comanche do not like cornmeal and beans.”

Double Jimmy exhaled heavily, flicked a long ash from his cigarette. “That’s all we have to feed them with until the next beef ration arrives next week.” Quickly changing the subject, he said, “The colonel’s right. You really should ride out and have a look at the new cabin.”

Shanaco pushed away from the pilaster. The yoked, pale-blue shirt he wore stretched across his shoulders as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his dark twill trousers and rocked back on his heels.

“Maybe I will.”

“It’s a nice little place, you’ll see. You can move in in a couple of days. Shall I show you where it is?”

“Thanks. I can find it.”