Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (4 page)

“It would mean nothing to me. My grandparents are dead. My parents are dead. My sister and brothers are dead. My wife and son are dead. I have lost my people. I am dead, too.”

“Your daughter lives.”

“Yes. And I will continue to provide meat for her until the
Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka
brings me to rejoin my family and my people.”

“White Bird is thriving in her life with us. Perhaps I will introduce her to her great-grandmother.”

Chayton glared at Logan. “You will keep her away from my grandmother.”

“When you asked us to foster her, you asked that we teach her to live in the white world. We have done that. And we have helped her remember her Lakota heritage. Such a balance is important. Her great-grandmother is part of her world, an important part that she should not have to miss out on.”

Chayton turned to leave. There was no point saying the same thing over. “I have spoken on the matter of my grandmother,” he said as he walked away. “You will tell your guest that I will not interfere with her visit to my valley provided she stays to the south of this ridge. I do not want her to near my cave or to go into the Valley of Painted Walls.”

“I will make that known to her.”

Chayton climbed to the ridge above the cave where he lived. From that vantage point, he could see the wide plains that spread far into the southern horizon. He did not want to think about his last days at the Agency. Yet though he closed his mind to the subject, the memories still seeped out of the tears in his heart.

The sun was like fire. He looked at the crops wilting in the long, straight rows and knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that the earth would not feed his people this winter. It was the middle of the summer and there had been no rain for a cycle of the moon. The women and children gave the crops what water they could, but the ground was endlessly thirsty.
 

“There he is!” a couple of the soldiers who worked at the Agency pointed him out to a group of white men.

Chayton squared his shoulders as he faced the men.

“You the one they call ‘Chayton’?”
 

“I am.”

“Your mother was Lucy Burkholder?”

“No.”

“Shit. What was her Indian name?” the man said to one of the others. “Spotted Horse. Spotted Woman.”

“My mother was Spotted Horse Woman.”

“Thought so. He’s the one. Bring him.”

Chayton resisted, pushing back at the first man who tried to take hold of his arm. The fight escalated fast, but with so many of them, his hands were quickly and tightly bound. The man holding the other end of the rope was mounted and quickly took off at a trot, forcing Chayton to jog behind his horse. Twice he fell and was dragged for a short distance before he was able to right himself and get back on his feet.

By the time they reached the officers’ quarters where the Agency office was located, he was drenched with sweat. The salt seared the scrapes on his chest and arms. A crowd of his people had gathered, following them to the office. It was a terrible thing to see one of their own dragged away. He lifted his chin to show them his courage, hoping it would calm them. If white men were allowed to come onto the reservation and drag him away, whom might they take next? Any of his people could be subjected to that treatment. A woman or an elder would not survive being dragged across the reservation.

He put his back to the crowd to shield them from the bloody mess of his skin. The men pulled his rope and led him into the adobe building. The little room was crowded with white men—soldiers and civilians.

“We found our man,” one of the white men announced. “Can you confirm he’s the one known as Chayton whose mother was Lucy Burkholder?”

Chayton looked at Captain Blake. He was known among the
Lakȟóta
as a dishonest man. He took the best of their provisions for himself and his favorite men. Treasured items among Chayton’s people often showed up in his possession. Anyone who complained or registered an offense against him was beaten—or worse—disappeared.

Captain Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden locket that had belonged to Chayton’s mother. It had been sacred to her, part of her medicine pouch. Chayton had seen it many times. He looked around at the men in the room, beginning to wonder if this wasn’t a random act of cruelty but something far more sinister.

The white man took the locket. Opening it, he stared at the tiny images it contained, then at Chayton. He shook his head. “I don’t see it. He looks all Indian to me. However, I’ll take this locket and him and let Mrs. Burkholder sort it out.” The man pulled an envelope out of his pocket and dropped it on the captain’s desk. “Your reward. Mrs. Burkholder thanks you.”

The men yanked on his rope and started for the door. Chayton dug in his heels. “What is happening?” he asked one of the soldiers who spoke some
Lakȟóta
.
 

“In English, Chayton. I know you can speak it.”

Chayton made a face. “I will not speak the language of these pig-eaters. What is happening?”

“Your grandmother has been looking for you,” the translator said in English so that the others in the room could understand his answer—and the question Chayton had asked. “Be glad someone wants you. She’s your ticket out of here.”

“My grandmother died many winters ago,” Chayton said, continuing in
Lakȟóta
.

“Not your white grandmother.”

“My mother was
Lakȟóta
. I am
Lakȟóta
. I am not leaving my people.”

The man translated for those in the room. The captain scoffed. “Your people have been given a death sentence. It’s only a matter of time before they starve to death. If you stay here, you’ll not only watch them die, you’ll die with them. Your grandmother is offering you an alternative to such a dire fate.”

“You say that as if you cared, but we know you steal our provisions and feed us rotten meat.”

The captain looked at the translator. “What did he say?”

“Tell him,” Chayton challenged the man.

“He said he’s not going.”

“I said,” Chayton switched to English, “that you steal our provisions and feed us spoiled meat and grains thick with worms.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Get him out of here.” It took three men to pull him out of the office. Even bound, they could not control him. The fight spilled onto the grounds outside. Chayton was handicapped with his hands still tied, but his legs were free. He put up a vicious fight. His people came to his aid. Violence spread into the crowd. Men and women swarmed the white-eyes who’d come for Chayton.
 

Some men retrieved their horses and attempted to grab Chayton’s rope. The crowd grew tighter, closer around him, spooking the horses. They reared up and stomped down, then bucked to clear room. Hooves slashed into the crowd. A mother screamed then started to wail. Others joined her wailing. The horses stepped back and the crowd cleared a little space around the kneeling woman.

Chayton’s heart stopped. So many had been injured in the melee that the ground drank their blood. He pushed his way through the crowd, moving to kneel next to a woman crouched in the dirt. The little boy she held hung limp and lifeless in her arms. Chayton stared in horror, barely aware of others also wailing, until the whispers that Two Bears, a revered keeper of history, had also died in the crush.

Chayton’s chief came over to him. Setting a hand on his shoulder, Stands With Horse asked what was happening, why had the white men come for Chayton?

“They say my mother’s mother has ransomed me and that I must return to my mother’s people.” Chayton looked around at the weeping people, seeing the shock and horror and fear on their faces. “I am with my mother’s people. I am where I belong.”

“You are
Lakȟóta
. And you will always be
Lakȟóta
. But you are also white. You must go with these men.”

“Never.”

“Look at what has happened here, Hawk That Watches. See what has happened today.” His chief lifted his hand and showed the destruction. “If your mother’s mother is wealthy enough to pay a ransom, she is wealthy enough to send much worse trouble to us. You have to go.”

Chayton stared at his chief, uncaring of the tears drawing streaks on his filthy cheeks. “I cannot live without my people.”

“And your people will not live if you stay.”

Chayton wiped his cheeks. The pain of that memory was as raw today, almost a year since his departure, as it had been the day it happened. He’d left with the white men that day. For four days, he’d traveled with them. On the fifth day, he’d slipped away and returned to the only refuge he knew: the Valley of Painted Walls. He’d hidden there for months, never showing himself to Logan when his friend came looking for him. Logan had seen his pony among the herd and knew he’d come to the valley. It wasn’t until the autumn that Chayton had sought Logan out, bringing meat for his daughter and skins to trade for winter supplies.

Logan had been relieved to see him, then. And though their friendship wasn’t as it had been before Chayton’s world had collapsed, Logan offered Chayton trades for his skins that were heavily skewed in Chayton’s favor. Logan had been a true friend, white or not.
 

Chayton had no choice but to respect his wishes with the white woman now in his valley.

* * *

While waiting restlessly for Mr. Taggert to return, Aggie went out to the small corral to have a look at the horse he’d brought her. He was a handsome sorrel gelding that did not shy away from greeting her. She filled his water trough and gave him some hay, then returned to the house to put it to rights after last night’s invasion. She straightened the splintered wood that had spilled across the floor and piled the broken table and its pieces outside the front door. When everything was back in order—as best she could make it—she made herself some breakfast, then took her sketchpad out front and sat on the bench.

The drawings she’d made of Chayton in no way hinted at the murderous inclination he’d displayed last night. In her sketches, his eyes were bright, illuminating the fevered activity of his mind, full of curiosity, determination, and even anger. It was curious that she’d noted his capacity for violence when she’d first seen him in town, but she had not drawn him that way.
 

It was early afternoon when Aggie heard riders approach. Tamping down an instinctive flash of anxiety, she went outside to see the Taggerts accompanying a wagon with lumber and a couple of men.

Mrs. Taggert dismounted quickly and hurried to her, wrapping her in a tight hug. Absurdly, Aggie felt a flood of relief. Mrs. Taggert took hold of her arms and leaned back to look at her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Hamilton. I don’t know what got into Chayton. I’ve never known him to behave like that. Life has not been easy for him since his wife was killed.” She shook her head. “Were you hurt?”

Mrs. Taggert was slim and seemed so fragile; Aggie didn’t want to cause her any undue stress. “He scared me. Terrified me, actually. But he didn’t hurt me. He broke your table, though.”

“We brought you a replacement table.” Mr. Taggert nodded toward his men. “Sam and Wylie are going to rebuild your door. While they do that, I thought Sarah and I could show you around the area and point out geography you might find interesting for your work.”
 

Aggie gave Mr. Taggert’s men a nod, then stepped aside so they could bring in her table. “Does this mean that you were able to talk to Chayton?”

“I did. He’ll be keeping his distance. I don’t expect any more encounters with him. He has given his word and he’ll keep it.”

Aggie felt strangely let down by that news, but better safe than sorry. Mr. Taggert’s friend was fascinating, but also dangerous, rather like a mountain lion or a bear--a fearsome creature best observed from safe distances.

Mr. Taggert saddled her mount, then led the group on a long ride across the changing terrain. The tour took them north to the cliffs and buttes of the sandstone ridge she could see from her cabin, then east to the rolling hills of short grass and wildflowers, through a meandering creek bed to the south, and finally west toward the beautiful Medicine Bow Mountains in the far distance. Every direction provided awe-inspiring vistas. She was itching to get started with her work.

When they returned to the house, a brand-new plank door protected her little cabin, and the workmen had already left. The afternoon was fast approaching evening. Aggie dismounted. Mrs. Taggert gave her a worried look. Aggie smiled at her. “Thank you for the tour. It was good to learn where Chayton lives so I can stay away from that area.”

“If you have any concerns at all, we showed you the path up to the ranch—come up at any time,” Mrs. Taggert told her.

“Thank you both. It was nice to have your company today. I’m grateful you were able to resolve the situation with your friend, Mr. Taggert.”

“Please, call me Logan.” He nodded toward his wife. “And Sarah. We’re not formal people.”

“I will. And I’m Aggie.” She waved to them as they took their leave.

Aggie rode out to the hill by the bluffs early the next morning. She’d decided during the tour that would be the spot where she would start. She tied her horse off with a long lead at a copse of cottonwoods down by the creek, then climbed the long way up the gravelly hill. Standing on top of it, she made a slow circle, absorbing everything she could from her vantage point.
 

She spread out a blanket, then lifted the art bag over her head and put it aside. She sat on the blanket and closed her eyes, letting herself connect with the land, opening her mind to the stories it might tell. Those whispers of a place’s story would bring a majesty to her work. She laid back, covered her face with her straw Plainsman hat, and listened to the ground. She went still, tuning herself in to the earth beneath her. Its life force, in that spot, was thousands of times slower than her own. In the time the earth took to inhale, she’d taken dozens of breaths. When she’d calmed her breathing, slowed her beating heart, and opened herself to the earth, she could hear what it wanted to tell her. The stories it told of the lives that had been on this hill, under the sun, in the wind, weathering the snow and rain.