Authors: Janet Dailey
Gabe hesitated a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he murmured at last, faintly shaking his head. “I’m afraid they violated her.”
“Oh, no.” Nadia pulled back from him, covering her mouth with her hand.
“I swear to you they’ll pay for committing such an unspeakable act.” His voice vibrated with anger.
“I must go to her.” Nadia started to turn away.
“No.” Gabe checked her movement. “She doesn’t want you there.”
“But I must,” Nadia protested. “She needs me.”
“When I mentioned I would bring you back to stay with her, your mother almost became hysterical. She doesn’t want to see you—not now, at any rate,” he explained reluctantly. “At the moment, your father is the only one she wants with her.”
“Poor Mama,” she murmured, and Eva heard the little sob in her voice. “I hope you locked those vile men in irons and threw the key in the harbor.” As her remark was met with silence, she stared at her husband, searching his shadowed face. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Nadia, you know the mayor has no authority over the military. He had no choice except to turn them over to the sergeant of the guards. But I am personally going to see General Davis in the morning and demand that these men be court-martialed and imprisoned for their crimes. I promise you they will be brought to justice.”
“I hate that man. I hate those soldiers.” She pressed her knuckles to her temples. “I just know I should be with Mama.”
“Believe me, it’s best that you stay here. Your little sister is going to need you. I think it would be better if you explained to her what happened. Where is she? Did you put her to bed?”
“No. She’s—” Nadia turned and saw her standing there silhouetted by the long pool of light from the kitchen. “Eva, I told you to wait.”
“But I wanted to hear.” She took a quick breath, gathering her courage. “What does violated mean? Is it something very bad? Is my mama going to die?”
“No! … No, she isn’t going to die.” Nadia added more calmly, “It only means she was hurt, but she’ll be all right.”
“What did they do to her?” Eva frowned.
“They … hurt her.”
“You mean they hit her like they did Papa?”
“Something like that, yes.” Her sister nodded.
That was the only explanation Eva was given. Within minutes, her sister bundled her off to the spare bedroom, insisting that she go to sleep.
CHAPTER XXXVI
The morning sunlight filtered through the thinning layers of fog, giving an iridescent shimmer to the mist that drifted outside the windows of the military commander’s office in Baranov’s Castle. Gabe brushed past the orderly who held the door open for him and walked briskly to the massive desk. It, like most of the other furnishings in the house, was a holdover from the Russian administration and, like everything else, showed signs of neglect.
The chair behind it creaked as the general dragged his booted feet off the desktop and sat up straight, but he didn’t bother to stand when Gabe stopped in front of his desk. Nor did he make any attempt to button his uniform. Despite the sweeping brush of his mustache, there was something Lincolnesque about his narrow, gaunt-cheeked face with its full brown beard. But from the way the general had winked at the drunkenness, brawls, and thievery of his men in the past, Gabe knew the resemblance to the dead President was purely physical.
“I understand there was some pressing matter you wished to discuss with me, Mr. Blackwood,” the general stated, then sighed heavily as if his tolerance was being tested.
“Indeed, sir.” Gabe came straight to the point of his visit. “Last evening, three of your soldiers broke into the home of the Tarakanov family, severely assaulted Mr. Tarakanov, and forced themselves on his wife.”
“The incident was reported to me.”
“It was hardly an incident, General,” Gabe retorted. “It was a felonious assault.”
“The soldiers in question are presently in the stockade sleeping off last night’s drunk. When they are sober, appropriate disciplinary action will be taken. Is that all, Mr. Blackwood?” The general made it clear that he didn’t wish to continue this discussion of a military matter with a civilian.
“I shall put the question to
you
, General Davis. Is that all?” Gabe challenged. “Is the extent of their punishment to be a few days in the stockade? This, sir, is not the first time such an ‘incident’ has occurred. In the past, your men have broken into homes and molested the occupants. Their previous victims have always been of Indian extraction, but this time they have gone too far. They have attacked the home of a decent family and I demand that they be punished for this despicable crime.”
“
You
demand.” The general rose to his feet and leaned his weight on his fingers pressed on the desk. “I don’t give a damn what you demand. I am in command here. I shall determine what punishment is to be meted out, if any.”
“Then I say that, judging by the lawlessness and disorder of your troops, you are not fit to command!”
The general straightened, squaring his shoulders as he narrowly studied Gabe. “Blackwood. Ah, yes, I remember you now. You married one of those Russian breeds, didn’t you? Tell me, were last night’s so-called victims members of your wife’s family?”
Gabe stiffened at the vile accusation. “They happened to be her parents. But they are Russian, one of the few families who chose to stay.”
“They might be half Russian, maybe more, but there’s Indian in them. Aleut, Tlingit, or Eskimo, it doesn’t really matter.”
“That’s a lie.” A muscle jumped convulsively along Gabe’s tightly clenched jaw.
“Is it? I have a full and complete roster of all the families living here at the time America took over the occupation. I checked this morning, and the Tarakanovs appear on the
Creole
side of the list,” the general asserted smugly.
Something seemed to explode inside Gabe’s head. Vaguely he could hear the general shouting. The next thing he knew his fingers were buried under that dark beard, digging into the man’s throat, and three soldiers were struggling to pull him off the general. He felt stunned—dazed—as if he was in some kind of shock.
“Throw him out,” the general rasped hoarsely. “Throw him out before I forget he’s a civilian!”
The soldiers bodily escorted him all the way to the bottom of the steps, roughly manhandling him, then released him with a shove. Gabe staggered away, his mind still reeling from the general’s outrageous lies. They couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have married a breed—not him. He hated Indians. Those butchering savages had murdered his parents.
Like a blind man, he headed up the street, not knowing where he was or where he was going. He was confused and outraged, his thoughts spinning so crazily, chaotically that he couldn’t think straight. He needed to clear his head and somehow sort this thing out.
He spied a saloon and tried the closed doors, but they were locked. First he pounded on them, then rattled them loudly. Finally he heard a voice on the other side. “We ain’t open yet.”
“Open this door.” Gabe didn’t give a damn whether they were open for business or not; he wanted a drink.
After the loud click of a lock, the door was opened a crack. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Blackwood. Sorry, but—” The whisker-jowled bartender never had a chance to finish his sentence as Gabe shoved the door the rest of the way open and shouldered his way into the saloon.
All the chairs were turned upside down on top of the tables and the room had the sour, stale smell of bad whiskey and tobacco. Gabe bypassed the tables and walked straight to the bar.
“What’s all the ruckus, Lyle?” Ryan Colby stepped out of the back room wearing a long dressing gown of navy blue velvet lined in a cream silk that was extended to the collars and cuffs of the garment.
“It’s Blackwood. He just barged in. I told him we were closed,” the bartender explained.
“I want a drink.” Gabe leaned on the bar.
“Put on some coffee, Lyle.” Ryan walked behind the counter.
“If I wanted coffee, I would have gone to the restaurant,” Gabe snapped. “This is a saloon and I want whiskey.”
“Whiskey we’ve got.” Ryan smiled as he uncorked a bottle from the shelf and poured a shotful. “But you won’t mind if I drink the coffee. For me, it’s a little early for whiskey.”
“Leave the bottle sit,” Gabe ordered when Ryan started to return it to the shelf.
“Are you sure?” He arched an eyebrow. The Gabe Blackwood he knew rarely imbibed.
“I can pay for it.” Gabe dug in his pocket and slapped the money on the counter.
Ryan left the whiskey bottle where it sat and moved a little way down the counter to light a cigar. He’d seen that wild-eyed look in customers’ eyes before, ready for an excuse to start a fight. He held the match flame to the end of his cigar and sucked on the cigar to light it, studying the attorney through the rising screen of smoke. There was no mistaking that belligerent gleam.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.” Ryan shook out the match.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” Ryan didn’t intend to be the one to provide Blackwood with the excuse he was seeking. He wasn’t one of those men who got a kick out of fighting. Still, curiosity kept him from moving away and leaving Blackwood to nurse his own ill-temper.
Ryan dealt out a game of solitaire, glancing now and then at his lone customer. Blackwood stood hunched over the bar, swigging down his whiskey in gulps, then refilling the glass.
“I should have called him out,” Blackwood muttered and bolted down another swallow. “I should have.”
“Pardon?” Ryan pretended he hadn’t heard.
“I said I should have called the son of a bitch out. That’d stop him from spreading his lies.”
“Which son of a bitch is this?”
“The corrupt little general occupying Baranov’s Castle. That bastard isn’t fit to command, and I told him so.” He folded his hand tightly around the small shot glass in a throttling gesture. “It was a damned lie!”
“What was?”
“None of your business,” Gabe snarled.
Ryan shrugged, stuck the cigar back in his mouth, and went back to his card game. The whiskey was loosening Blackwood’s tongue. The cursing by a man who normally watched his language was always the first sign. Sooner or later he’d confess what was bothering him. Ryan wouldn’t have to pry it out of him.
“I can’t let him get away with it,” Blackwood mumbled to himself, then straightened. “Colby, you got a pistol I can use.”
“What for?”
“So I can shoot the son of a bitch. I can’t let him get away with sayin’ those things about my wife. My beautiful Russian princess. Anybody that’s ever seen her knows that she hasn’t got any Indian blood in her. You can tell that, can’t you, Colby?”
“Whatever you say” Ryan made a show of studying the cards spread on the counter, at last understanding what this was all about.
“No, damn it!” Blackwood slammed his fist on the bar top. “I wanta hear what you say!”
“I say”—Ryan paused—“that it’s nothing to me one way or the other.”
“That’s no answer.” Gabe pushed away from the bar and moved down to where Ryan was playing his solitaire. The slight stagger to his step after only three drinks betrayed his low tolerance of alcohol.
“It’s the best I can give.” Ryan moved a black nine onto a red ten.
With a sweep of his hand, Blackwood swept the cards off the bar top, scattering them onto the sawdust-covered floor. “I want the truth, damn it. Do you think my wife is an Indian?”
“The truth?” Ryan breathed out a silent, humorless laugh. “I think maybe she is, but I don’t know it’s so. I’m not the one you should be asking. Your wife is the only one who can tell you the truth. Before you borrow a gun and kill somebody, why don’t you ask her?”
Blackwood swayed slightly as he thought over the suggestion. He nodded slowly. “I think I’ll do that.” He turned from the bar and lurched across the saloon to the door.
As it was slammed shut behind Blackwood, Lyle emerged from the rear of the saloon. “Coffee’s ready, boss.”
Ryan took the mug from the bartender and cast one last glance at the door. Blackwood was such a fool. Money was the only dream a man should pin his hopes on. Ryan had never known money to disappoint a man.
Outside the saloon, Gabe turned up the street. Ryan was right; the thing to do was confront Nadia with the general’s accusation. She’d be able to give him the answer to clear this whole mess up. Ryan—and probably everybody else—thought he’d married a breed.
But he would never have made that kind of mistake. His parents’ murder had taught him better than to ever trust an Indian—any kind of Indian, full-blooded or not. His mother’s scalp had hung from the belt of the half-breed whom his parents had loved and adopted as their son.
His hate toward the Indians encompassed more than the death of his parents at their hands. He hated them because his parents had chosen to leave him and live among the Indians, because they had left him—their own flesh and blood—to give their love to some half-white savage. Indians had stolen a great deal from him.