Quicksilver Passion (126 page)

Then he saw Silver’s dear face in his mind.
I need you, Cherokee, my love
...
come back to me
. . .
come back. I’ve saved a treasure for you ...
In his mind, she kissed his palm and closed his fingers over it.
Put that in your pocket and remember me
...
remember
...

He had to live. He had to go back to Colorado Territory and ask that girl to marry him. Cherokee began to fight his way to the surface. His water-logged clothes pulled at him, trying to drag him under. He wasn’t going to make it, he thought, struggling to rid himself of the heavy uniform jacket. Even as he fought to get to the life-giving air of the surface, he felt the current sweeping him along downstream. Just as he knew he would die, he slipped out of the coat and broke the surface of the river, gasping and gulping in the air.

Somewhere upstream, he heard the
Effie Deans
shuddering to a stop, the shouting and confusion. But he couldn’t see anything. He treaded water and tried to see how far away the stern-wheeler was. She must be up around a curve of the river, because although he heard the noise drifting on the wind, he didn’t see anything.

By damn! The night was as dark as the devil’s heart!

What happened to that full moon and the stars?
But wasn’t he lucky that it was suddenly so foggy and overcast? The darkness of the night would hide him.

Cherokee’s head ached so badly, he couldn’t get his bearings or see any landmarks along the riverbank. The colonel might put out search parties in boats or walking along the shore. If Cherokee was found, no doubt he would be shot. That alone kept him from yelling for help. Better to drown or perish alone on the shore than be recaptured and executed. At least this way he had a chance. The other way he had none at all.

The current pulled at him, washing him farther downstream. Choking on a mouthful of the muddy Missouri, he tried to get his boots off as he tread water, but failed. He felt exhausted and his head ached. If he could only make it to land, he’d worry about all his other problems at daylight.

It took almost superhuman strength on his part, but he began to swim, listening for frogs along the bank to guide him to shore. Far away, he heard the
Effie Deans’s
engines start again and smelled the smoke from her machine room as she got underway. He kept swimming without looking back.

The wind carried the sounds of the boat’s big stern wheel churning water as she once again moved upstream. Good! They were moving on; maybe convinced he was drowned; or at least deciding not to waste their time looking for him. He couldn’t make it much farther. Just when he’d decided he couldn’t take another stroke, his feet touched bottom and he waded ashore and collapsed in the mud.

Cherokee lay there, saying a little prayer of thanksgiving and in too much pain and too tired to move. He had joined the Union army in good faith, although he had no personal vendetta against Plains Indians. Like poor Dowdy, he had only been trying to survive until the war ended. When the sun came up, he’d figure out what to do next. Wounded, without any supplies or even a weapon, he was in dire straits out here miles from civilization, but maybe he could fashion himself a boat from bits of driftwood or hollow reeds and float down the river to civilization. From there, somehow he would get back to Colorado and the woman he loved.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, he needed some rest. He stretched out with a grateful sigh and dropped off to sleep. In his mind, Silver ran toward him and into his waiting arms.

He awakened suddenly and sat up. By damn, his head ached! It was not yet dawn although he felt as if he’d slept for hours. The night was still black as the inside of a cave. Cherokee lay back down, staring up in the darkness. He couldn’t do anything until morning. Then he would decide where he was and make his plans accordingly, maybe catch some fish in the shallows for breakfast. Thank God he had a few matches tucked away in a little metal box in his pants. But his tobacco was all wet. Well, no cigarette, but he couldn’t have everything.

He thought about building a small fire from buffalo chips or driftwood, then shook his head. Because it was so dark, he couldn’t see to gather fuel, and the fire might be spotted by a war party or army patrol if there were any in the area. No, he couldn’t do anything until morning. He’d just have to put up with wet pants although his bare upper body was cold. He dozed off.

When he awakened, it was still dark. It seemed like the longest night Cherokee had ever spent. He felt the back of his skull, decided the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The rail must have caught most of the force of the bullet. His head still ached a little, but funny, he wasn’t cold anymore and his pants were almost dry. How could that be?

Bob white. Bob, bob white.

Strange,
he yawned,
since when did quail move about and call in the darkness?
When he listened, he heard other birds, even the call of a hawk circling overhead. Hawks didn’t fly at night any more than quail.
What the hell kind of strange birds were these?
The moon must be out finally, he could feel its heat on his face.
Since when did the moon put out heat?

Bob white. Bob, bob white.

Was this strange night ever going to end? Cherokee put his hand up before his face, and wiggled his fingers. He didn’t remember ever experiencing a night so dark he literally couldn’t see his hand before his face.

Overhead, he heard the hawk wheel and call again. He turned his face upward, trying to see the bird, and felt the heat on his face.

A thought came to him;—a thought so terrifying, he didn’t even want to consider it. It was tough enough to be wounded and alone out here on this vast prarie without supplies or weapons, but that other possibility was just too horrible even to think about.

Bob white
.
Bob, bob white
.

Again he put his fingers up before his face, feeling his hand shake at the suspicion. His fingers were against his nose and still he couldn’t see them.

Cherokee turned his face upward and felt the relentless heat on his face, knowing suddenly that it was the sun. Now he lost control and screamed out in frustration and anguish. It wasn’t dark. He was blind! Stone blind!

September
. The days and weeks and months hung so heavy on her with the war dragging on and on. Silver helped little Wannie pick up toys from the nursery floor, and thought about the latest headlines in the
Rocky Mountain News
. The Cheyennes were talking peace. It couldn’t come too soon for jittery Denver. With thirty-two recorded Indian attacks since last spring, ninety-six whites killed, including the Hungate family almost on the outskirts of town, twenty-one whites wounded, and eight captured by the hostiles, the people of the Territory were in an ugly mood. Many muttered that the Cheyenne and their allies couldn’t be trusted, no matter what their chiefs said, and no peace should be discussed until the Indians paid in blood.

Waanibe ran to the window and looked out at the street.
Oh, come look, Silvery, Indians!”

Indians?” Silver came to the window and stared at the scene below. Trees were already turning gold and russet in the late September air. Lots of soldiers, mounted Indians, and several horse-drawn wagons carrying forlorn-looking white women and children.
Yes, the
Rocky Mountain News
said Black Kettle and the chiefs were bringing in some white captives and asking for peace.”

She wondered suddenly if this meant the Southerners had given up trying to take Colorado for its gold, or maybe that the Indians were just weary and sensed the war against the encroaching whites was hopeless. She felt sorry for everyone concerned. In her heart, she hoped that the Civil War would soon end, even though, when it did, the Duchess would no doubt be sending little Wannie off to boarding school. Silver didn’t have any idea what she would do then.
Get your dolls, Wannie, we’ll play awhile.”

I’d rather look at the Indians.” The little girl had her face pressed against the glass.
They look sad and tired, Silvery. So do the white people.”