Eagle’s Song (31 page)

Hawk glanced back at his father, seeing the proud look in the man’s dark eyes. He thought what a contrast they were, his father sitting in full Indian dress, having lived in the wilds the past several years while his son had attended Harvard Law School and had lived in luxury in Denver. Hawk stood before the judge today in a fine silk suit and black bow tie. Suddenly he wished he were dressed like his father. He wanted to be and feel Indian, to ride like the wind and go into the hills to feel close to the earth and the spirit world, away from this so-called civilization.

He clasped his hands behind his back and faced the judge, trying not to think about what the consequences could be if he had to take Wolf’s Blood to Cheyenne.
“Judge Hanson, my father is a legal citizen of Colorado. He was born here, raised here. I ask for sanctuary for that reason. He has a new wife and two young children who need him. He wishes only to be able to be with them a while longer; he would live peacefully at the ranch where he originally grew up, east of Pueblo. It is a quiet place, far removed from cities and crowds of people. His mother is getting old and would like to have her son with her until she dies. Out of respect for my grandmother, Abigail Monroe, who has done much for the City of Denver, I would ask that her son be returned to the ranch with a promise he will never be extradited to Wyoming, so he may live peacefully with his family until his death, which, I might add, will be in not so many years. My father is suffering from crippling arthritis. He is no threat to society. He is a devoted son, a devoted brother and a devoted husband and father. The wrongs he has done in this life he did out of Indian pride and because of terrible losses of his own. The first woman he loved, a Cheyenne girl, was murdered at Sand Creek.”

A few gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Everyone here now knows the hideous crimes that were committed there by the Colorado Volunteers under John Chivington,
white
men. My father’s first wife, my Apache mother, was murdered by white soldiers. My father’s second wife, a white woman, was, as we already know, also killed by white men. It is understandable that he reacted as he did. A man can only take so much. But he is getting old now, and he is in pain most of the time.” He turned and looked at Wolf’s Blood. “I ask this Court to respect Wolf’s Blood’s Colorado citizenship and to give him sanctuary in this state and to let him go to his boyhood home and live out his life in peace.”

Wolf’s Blood gave his son a proud but rather sad smile, as though to tell him he’d done his best but not to expect much. Hawk turned back to the judge. “I beg the court’s mercy, Your Honor.”

The crowded room was nearly silent while the judge leaned forward, studying Wolf’s Blood again, then looking down and studying some papers, his lips pursed in thought. Hawk sat down beside his father, who reached over and squeezed his arm. “You may not win this, my son, but I can see you speak well for the Indian. You will help them a great deal when the day comes that you stand for their cause.”

People began whispering, then mumbling, then talking in full voice, and after several minutes the judge finally pounded his gavel again. He asked Wolf’s Blood to rise, and was obeyed, Hawk rising as well.

“Tell me, Mr. Wolf’s Blood, why are you wearing war paint in this courtroom?” the judge asked him.

Wolf’s Blood raised his chin proudly, still standing tall in spite of his arthritis. “This is not war paint. These are my prayer colors. My war colors are red and black, red for blood, and black for death.”

The judge rubbed at his lips pensively. “And why did you choose to wear Indian garb instead of dressing in a civilized manner in a court of law?”

Wolf’s Blood did not like this judge. “I
am
dressed in a civilized manner, for an Indian. And that is what I am.”

“You are actually only about one-quarter Indian, if I figure it right.”

Wolf’s Blood felt like laughing. “I suppose that is how a white man would look at it. Indian blood is Indian blood, sir, and I chose to be Indian. With my looks, what white man would have treated me as just another white man? My own father raised me to be proud to be Indian, as I raised my son. My father was Lone Eagle,
called Cheyenne Zeke by some. His white name was Zeke Monroe, and he did much to help settle this land. We all did our part in making Colorado what it is today, in spite of the fact that for many years I chose the Indian side. Sometimes white men were also ruthless. They murdered Indians for no good cause. We are all to blame for both the good and the bad, Judge Hanson. It was a time of change, and all of us learned many lessons.”

The judge slowly nodded, his gaze moving to Hawk. “Now I understand why you are so good at arguing a case, Mr. Monroe. Your father is also very clever with words.”

A few people laughed, but they quickly quieted.

“If you could go back to the moment your wife was killed,” the judge continued, watching Wolf’s Blood carefully, “knowing what you know now, if you could change your actions in order to have your freedom and live out your life on your ranch with your mother and family—if you could go back and do it over, would you still kill and scalp those men?”

Hawk felt as though his heart was rising into his throat, while Jeremy was thinking,
Answer no, Wolf’s Blood! Answer no!
Somehow he knew what his very stubborn Indian brother would say.

“Yes,” Wolf’s Blood replied, his chin held proudly, his black eyes holding the judge’s gaze. “They deserved to die.”

This time the talking in the courtroom was difficult to control. The judge had to pound his gavel several times. Through it all Hawk’s hopes were deserting him, though he knew, just as Jeremy did, why his father had answered as he had. Wolf’s Blood had given Hawk a chance to free him, and he knew damn well Hawk might just have done so. His son was damn good at what he
did, but Wolf’s Blood did not want freedom. He wanted to go to Cheyenne, where he knew he would die.

He looked down at Jeremy seated beside him, while gasps and gossip continued to resonate through the crowd. Jeremy looked up at him, tears in his eyes. “
Why
, Wolf’s Blood!”

Wolf’s Blood had the look of stubborn pride on his face Jeremy had seen many times before. “You know why.”

The judge finally managed to quiet the courtroom. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, facing Wolf’s Blood, who was still standing. “Sir, I have a feeling you know what your answer should have been. It would have made a big difference in my decision, since I feel Attorney Monroe here presented a damn good argument. I am sorry about your arthritis, sorry for what you’ve suffered in life, even a little sorry for what other Indians have suffered at the hands of white men. But the fact remains, many whites have suffered at the hands of Indians; and you apparently still have enough Indian in you to cause you to kill again, right or wrong, out of vengeance, if you or one of your family is threatened or hurt. If you had answered no to my question, I would have felt you perhaps regretted what you did and understood the magnitude of your crime. However, I see no remorse in your eyes, and your answer only verifies that. If I give you sanctuary here in Colorado for a crime committed someplace else, I could start a precedent that would cause problems for other states in the future, for Colorado as well. We might require similar cooperation from Wyoming on some other matter in the future. Because of that, I am ordering you extradited to Cheyenne, Wyoming, to stand trial for three counts of murder. Extradition will take place at eight A.M. tomorrow morning, when you will be put on a train under guard and taken to Cheyenne.”

He pounded his gavel, and the courtroom exploded with noisy talk. Hawk slowly sat down and put his head in his hands. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder then.

“You did good, son. You had it won. That is all I needed to see. You had your will and your say, and I had my say. I have decided my own future. You bear no responsibility, except to come with me.”

Hawk looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “I can’t practice law in Wyoming.”

“It does not matter. You can advise whoever is appointed to represent me. I only want you to be with me—you and Jeremy.”

Hawk quickly wiped at his eyes. “You know I’ll go. So will Jeremy.”

Wolf’s Blood nodded. “From here on, I want you to remember I do what I do out of Indian pride, that I will always believe killing those men was right, that everything that happens from now on is a matter of honor. Always be proud of your father, as I have always been proud of mine.”

A tear slipped down Hawk’s cheek. “You know I’ll always be proud of you.”

Wolf’s Blood only smiled. “As your own children will be proud of you, my warrior son. This place, this courtroom, is
your
battlefield!”

As a Denver policeman came to take Wolf’s Blood away, Hawk stood up to embrace him, unable to speak.

“
Wagh!
” Wolf’s Blood told him, patting him on the back. “It is good.”

The policeman led him away, and people crowded around to get another glimpse of the “murdering savage” called Wolf’s Blood. Hawk looked at Jeremy.

“I learned a long time ago never to argue with your father,” Jeremy told him, his own eyes misty. “He’s
made up his mind to something, so there is no one to blame but him.”

Hawk shook his head. “They’ll hang him, Uncle Jeremy. That’s the worst way for an Indian to die. They believe if they’re hung, the spirit is trapped inside the body and can never get out.” Another tear slipped down his cheek. “He can’t die that way, but I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeremy grasped his hand. “Trust in God, Hawk, and in your father’s wisdom.”

Twenty-eight

Abbie sat in her rocker in front of the fireplace at the old cabin. The rocker was drying out from age, and she wasn’t sure how much longer it would hold her without collapsing, but this was the only place where she found true comfort … and where precious memories became more vivid.

The fireplace was blackened from years of use. She’d cooked many a pot of stew over its hearth, before Zeke had bought her a cookstove. Even when there was not a fire burning, one could smell the coals and soot. She glanced at Zeke’s mandolin, and she could almost see him sitting across from her, singing Tennessee mountain songs. The mantel clock still ticked above the fireplace … ticking away the time … weeks, months, years. So many years.

She could see the children running in and out of the house, hear their voices. Today she was thinking of one child in particular. They’d called their first son
Hohanino-o
, Little Rock, and somehow she’d always known he was one child whose spirit was free as the birds and wild as the wolves. From the moment of his birth, when she saw his big, dark eyes and that shock of straight, black hair, she’d known there would be hardly a hint of his white blood, and it had been the same with his spirit. He’d learned to ride a horse almost before he could walk.

No father and son could be closer than Little Rock and Cheyenne Zeke. As soon as the boy was old enough to choose, he had ignored his schooling and had preferred learning the Cheyenne way. He had insisted on enduring the Sun Dance ceremony, and he had almost died from the infection that followed. But he had survived, and because of a vision he’d had and a later encounter with wolves, he had changed his name to Wolf’s Blood. Cheyenne men often changed their names when they grew older and knew the pathway they would choose in life.

The name had fit him. Most of his life Wolf’s Blood had had wolves for pets. They had seemed to be drawn to him, and he to them, as though sharing the same spirit. She was even more sure of that last night after a rider had come from Pueblo, bringing the message from Jeremy that Hawk’s request for sanctuary in Colorado had been denied and that Wolf’s Blood had been taken to Cheyenne. Hawk had come very near to winning the case for his father, Jeremy’s letter had explained, until Wolf’s Blood was asked if he would kill those men all over again.

He had answered yes.

Abbie closed her eyes and sighed. Of course he had. It would be just like him to do that. They had deserved killing, so he’d done it. He saw nothing wrong with that. And he’d seen nothing wrong with raiding and killing as a warrior, because there was no other way for the Cheyenne and Sioux to try to stop white settlement. Men like Wolf’s Blood did not understand the soft ways of the whites.

What pained her was that she knew good and well Wolf’s Blood was baiting the authorities, that he
wanted
to be sent to Cheyenne. He’d given Hawk his chance, so that his son would always feel he had done all he could to protect his father. He didn’t want Hawk to
have any guilt over what might happen next. She knew in her soul what that would be, and so did Sweet Bird, who was probably still crying in her room at the big house this morning.

By now, Abbie was more worried about Hawk and Jeremy than Wolf’s Blood. This was going to be a very trying time for both of them. In a way it could be even harder on Jeremy than Hawk, for Jeremy was the one who had suffered for abandoning his father for so many years and for denying that he was related to someone like Wolf’s Blood. It was such a shame he and Wolf’s Blood could not have had the last twelve years together after finally uniting again at that first reunion.

Waiting for more news was going to be hard, but she had no choice. Though she wanted to be with her son, he had asked her not to come, and she had respected his wishes. Besides, it seemed everything she did anymore made her tired. She hated feeling this way. It just wasn’t like her. All her life she had had so much energy, except for a couple of times when Zeke had threatened to leave her just because he loved her so much and thought she’d have a better life without him. Whenever she was without her husband, the life simply went of her, and she still wondered sometimes how she had survived after his death.

It all came down to Zeke. In death she would be with him again. Of that she was sure, and she knew Wolf’s Blood felt the same way. He was ready to be welcomed by his father’s open arms. How it would happen, when it would happen, that was to be seen; but it
would
happen. She had prayed all she could, cried all she could. Now she could only tell herself to be prepared for the news, to accept the fact that this was what Wolf’s Blood wanted. Death would be his peace, his release from pain, his chance to be with his father again.

She closed her eyes and rocked, seeing a little boy’s
round, happy face, big, dark eyes and shining smile. “God, be with him,” she whispered. “Don’t let him suffer.”

Jeremy awoke to the sound of shouting in the streets below. He frowned, throwing off the light sheet he’d used, the night air hardly any cooler than the miserably hot breeze of the day. He walked to the hotel window and looked down at the street to see men walking with torches in their hands.

“What the hell?”

He listened. They halted before a man who himself stood on a buckboard’s seat across the street, apparently the leader of the unruly mob. “The sonofabitch don’t deserve to be shot!” the man shouted. “Hangin’ is the only good punishment for an Injun! He
wants
to be shot, think’s it’s a warrior’s way to die. Piss on that! He killed my brothers, and he’s got to die with a rope around his neck!”

Those crowded around him agreed, raising torches, shouting their support. “Hang the Indian!” most of them were shouting.

“Jesus!” Jeremy muttered. “Wolf’s Blood!” He turned away and grabbed his trousers from the foot of the bed, just as he heard a pounding at the door.

“Jeremy! It’s me, Hawk! They’re out to hang Father!”

Jeremy quickly yanked on his trousers, buttoning his pants as he hurried to the door and opened it. “I just woke up myself and heard them!”

Hawk, himself only half dressed, ran to the window. “For Christ’s sake, they’re headed for the jail!”

“Maybe the sheriff can hold them off,” Jeremy told him. He pulled his suspenders up over bare shoulders and quickly drew on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as
he sat down to put shoes on his bare feet, not wanting to take the time to find his socks.

“That goddamn sheriff doesn’t give a shit about Father!” Hawk answered. “You saw how he looked at Wolf’s Blood when he locked him in that cell, heard him tell Father he’s getting what he deserves. One of those men Father killed was his best friend. He testified to that! He’ll hand Father over to those men without any argument!”

Jeremy stood up and faced him. “They’re determined. Their leader is the brother of the other two Wolf’s Blood killed and scalped. He was the most volatile one in the courtroom, the one who demanded Wolf’s Blood be hanged, not shot.”

“Let’s go!”

Jeremy grabbed his nephew’s arm. “What the hell can we do? They won’t listen to us!”

“We’ve got to try! Do you have a gun?”

Jeremy was struck by the contrast between his life and his brother’s—Wolf’s Blood so violent, his so civilized. “The last time I held a gun in my hand, it was to put it to my own head. My wife stopped me from using it that day. I haven’t picked one up since.”

Hawk felt his pain. “Those days of guilt are long over, Uncle Jeremy. Father loves you, and we’ve got to help him somehow. The trouble is, there are so many of them, and I don’t have a gun either. All I know is we have to go to him.”

Their gazes held in the dim lamplight. “We can’t let him hang,” Jeremy told Hawk. He closed his eyes, letting out a strange groan. “My God.” When he opened his eyes, they were wet with tears. “Let me take care of this, Hawk. I need to do this.”

Hawk’s mind raced with confusion as Jeremy walked past him and out the door. Then he quickly followed, somewhere deep in his mind suspecting what his uncle
intended to do, yet unable to believe it. He raced along behind him as Jeremy, his shirt still hanging open, his hair askew from just getting out of bed, headed for the crowd of vigilantes. The poor excuse for a trial his father had had infuriated Hawk. It had lasted only a few minutes, with plenty of witnesses ready and willing to tell everyone what they’d seen that day, a savage stab three men to death, scalps taken right in front of women and children! Sure, the man’s wife had been killed before his eyes, but that had been an accident, and he’d had no right to do what he did.

Two of the men killed were brothers of Stacy Barlow, who owned a big cattle ranch outside of Cheyenne. Barlow was rich, and belonged to the prestigious Cheyenne Club, a cattlemen’s establishment whose members were the wealthiest ranchers. He wanted revenge, and he apparently “owned” the judge and the law in this town. Wolf’s Blood had quickly been found guilty of three counts of murder and mutilation. The only mercy the judge had shown was to sentence Wolf’s Blood to be shot rather than hanged, bowing to Hawk’s plea that death would not be by the rope.

Now this. A mob led by Stacy Barlow was headed for the jail to drag Wolf’s Blood out and hang him. A mob hanging, Hawk had always heard, was worse than a normal hanging, because it was seldom done right. In a proper hanging, a man’s neck was snapped so that he died quickly. A mob usually just put a rope around a man’s neck and slowly raised him up, causing death by slow strangulation. They would enjoy watching Wolf’s Blood kick and gag and struggle for breath. He couldn’t let his father die that way!

“What are you going to do?” he shouted to Jeremy.

“Leave it to me!”

Hawk caught up with him. “Uncle Jeremy, I can’t let them hang him that way! I’ll shoot him myself first!”

Jeremy, his face red with rage and sorrow, grasped his arms, fury in his eyes. “He’s your
father!
A son shouldn’t have to live with that kind of a memory! And you’re a lawyer now, Hawk! Don’t do anything that might get you kicked off the bench! That’s the last thing Wolf’s Blood would want! Let me handle it.”

He gave his nephew a mighty shove, and Hawk stumbled backward but did not fall. Hawk knew that if he wanted, he could easily lick Jeremy. Still, the man seemed determined, and he had already disappeared into the crowd of angry men, shoving some aside to get to the jailhouse steps, where already the door had been beaten in.

Several of the men pushed Jeremy aside, began beating him. Hawk hurried to his rescue, but by then everything was bedlam, and the sheriff was not lifting a hand to stop it.

“Get them!” he heard men shouting. “It’s the Indian’s brother, his son! They’re Indian, too! Don’t let them stop us!”

Everything became a blur for Hawk as more men beat on him, too many to do much in the way of fighting back. He swung his fists, sending two or three of them to the ground, but a rain of blows and kicks descended upon him until he felt gravel in his mouth and his whole body began to scream with pain.

Finally they left him. He struggled to his knees, his feet. Then he stumbled over to Jeremy, who was getting up, his face covered with cuts and blood. They looked at each other, neither saying a word. By then the mob was dragging Wolf’s Blood out of the jail, some of them beating on him. The crowd opened up so that Jeremy and Hawk could watch. Men laughed and began tormenting Wolf’s Blood, whose crippled condition made fighting difficult, although he surprised some of them with a few vicious kicks that put some men down.

“He’s still a wild one!” some yelled.

“Bastard Indian!”

“He’s a savage!”

Hawk felt helpless. His father had wanted to die fighting, so perhaps this was what he had to let him do, but it tore his heart out to see him struggle, knowing the kind of pain he was in, seeing the blood on his face. He was totally unaware that Jeremy had left him, unaware his uncle had run into the jail and grabbed a rifle. The sheriff was locked in a cell.

“I couldn’t stop them!” he protested to Jeremy. “What the hell are you doing with that rifle! You go killin’ men, you’ll hang, too!”

“You
let
them put you in there without a struggle because you’ve agreed to this, you sonofabitch!” Jeremy yelled. “I’ll have your badge for this, just as soon as I do what I have to do!”

He stormed out, hardly feeling the pain of his own injuries. He couldn’t succumb to his bruised ribs, swollen lip and cracked cheekbone. He could not let anything stop him! Wolf’s Blood had had a dream that had involved him, and now he understood what that dream was. He put away all other thoughts as he ran down a side street and cut through an alley to come out ahead of the mob, which now had hold of Hawk and was dragging him along with them so that he could watch his father hang. They were headed for the blacksmith’s, where a signpost that jutted out from that building’s rooftop was just the right height to sling a rope over and hoist a man up.

Jeremy moved out in front of them, shooting the rifle into the air. The loud noise put a halt to their march, and they all stood staring at him, most of them unarmed, as there was now a law against wearing guns in Cheyenne. They had figured they wouldn’t need anything
more than fists and clubs, torches and a rope to do what they had in mind.

The street was lit with gaslights, and Hawk stood staring at his uncle, who had a look on his face he’d never seen there before … wild-eyed, determined … Indian. For once in his life Jeremy Monroe looked like an Indian. It was how he stood there, not his physical looks. He was beaten and bloody, his shirt ripped most of the way off, one suspender hanging loose. His chest and arms were scraped and bloody, yet he held the rifle at the ready, waving it at the crowd.

“My brother is not going to hang!” he growled at them.

Wolf’s Blood, still wearing his Indian garb, although it was now torn, and stained with dirt and blood, yanked his arms loose and stood facing his brother, holding his chin proudly in spite of what he’d suffered. He remained silent, keeping his eyes on Jeremy.

“You gonna stop this whole crowd with that gun?” one man shouted. “You might get one of us, mister, but some of us have guns. You kill one man here, and we’ll shoot you down—you, your nephew and your murderin’ savage brother!”