Tykota's Woman (Historical Romance) (3 page)

After each member of the council had
complied, the chief told them to depart. They
filed out in an orderly manner until only Tykota,
Mangas, and George Silverhom were left.

When Valatar was satisfied he would not be
overheard, he spoke quietly. "Tykota, my son,
when George Silverhorn leaves here, you will
accompany him. You will dwell in his land and
listen to his voice as if it were mine. There may
be other enemies among us. I will send for you
when I feel it is safe for you to return."

Again Tykota wanted to protest. He did not
want to leave his home. He did not want to live
with the unfamiliar white man, George
Silverhorn. He did not want his brothers to be
sent away in shame. And he did not even want to
stand in his father's place.

He thought of his young sister, Inea, who
depended on him to look after her. "Will Inea go
with me?"

"No," Valatar said. "Where you go, she
cannot follow." Then his voice softened. "I
know you are confused by what happened
tonight, Tykota. One day you will understand
why I must send you from your home, even
though I do not wish it." Valatar laid a hand on
Tykota's shoulder. "When my eyes are closed
in death, and you stand in my place, I charge
you to always put the good of the people ahead
of your own wants."

There was an aura of power around Valatar,
and Tykota was a little frightened of his
commanding presence. He had been taught, as
all the Perdenelas were, that the chief's word
was law. "I do not understand."

"Understand this. You are the son of my
heart, Tykota. You came to me late in life, but I
have always known that you would one day
have the strength and courage to stand in my
place. Listen to my voice, and take heed of my
words."

Tykota blinked and stared up at his father,
astonished. He was not aware that his father had
given any thought to him at all. Sadly, the
realization came to him that his father was
showing his feelings because he did not believe
that they would meet again in this life.

Valatar glanced down at the boy and spoke
softly. "My son, your mother was my first wife,
and the one who still dwells within my heart.
She was childless in her younger years, but you,
Tykota, came to us as a gift from the Great
Spirit. Then your mother also gave me a
daughter but she died the night Inea was born. I
have long felt your mother's graceful spirit
dwelling within you. She was a great princess,
and you must always be proud that you are her
son." Valatar paused, then spoke with feeling.
"You, Tykota, are my choice to stand where I
now stand. You will look after our people when I
am gone."

Tykota's eyes widened. "But, my father-"

Valatar placed a finger over the boy's lips,
silencing his protest. "You must remember that
no sacrifice is too great if it is for your people."
Valatar sighed. "No sacrifice. For the future good of our people, I am sending you away.
You, my one joy." He sighed again.

Tykota glanced at George Silverhorn, who
smiled at him. But Tykota hardly knew the white
man, and he was afraid of him and his world
outside the twin peaks.

"What have you to say, my son?" his father
asked.

Tykota began to object, but at Mangas's
nudge, he said simply, "I will do as you say, my
father. But must I stay away long?" he couldn't
help adding.

"If I think it necessary. George Silverhorn
lives in a place called England far across the big
water to the east. I believe that you will learn
much there, and I expect you to respect my
friend as if he were your father."

The boy fought back his tears. "Can Mangas
go with me?" he blurted, then feared he had
offended his father by showing weakness.

The chief nodded. "Mangas will go with you,
and he will continue teaching you our ways, but
you will also go to the white man's school and
learn about their world. There will be hard times
ahead for you, my son. But I charge you to
always remember what is expected of you-to
always remember who you are and who you
must become."

Tykota's lips trembled as he looked into his
father's eyes. "Must I leave?"

"Yes. You must."

"But who will take care of Inea when I am
gone?"

"Your sister will be well taken care of-I will
see to that."

"I do not understand the events of this night."

"Tykota, you may be in grave danger if you
remain here in our valley. You have enemies.
One was your stepmother, but there may well be
others, and if you remain, they may succeed in
ending your life. That is one sacrifice I am
unwilling to make."

Tykota had much to think about for one so
young. He wished his father had not sent his
brothers away. Coloradous had always been kind
to him, and even though Sinica sometimes
bullied him and this night had made a threat,
Tykota was sad to see them so shamed by their
father.

Valatar held out a hand. "Come with me, my
son. There is a secret I will reveal to you-a
secret none but you must know."

Texas, 1868

Weary, Makinna Hillyard leaned her head back
against the worn leather seat, her eyes closed.
The stagecoach rocked and swayed down the
bumpy road, and her body felt every rut. The
sound of a whip cracking to urge the mules
forward was quickly swept away on the
blistering desert wind and the waves of breathstealing heat.

Opening her eyes, Makinna gazed at her
traveling companions, glad that she could
study them through her black mourning veil
but that they could not see her through it.
There were three men on the stage with
her. Mr. Horace Rumford was a distinguished looking gentleman with white hair, a neatly
clipped white mustache, and, above his gray
eyes, thick white eyebrows. She had learned
from his conversation that he was an agent for
the Butterfield Stage Line. The passenger sitting
beside Makinna was Alvin Carruthers, a short,
balding man with a nervous habit of blinking
constantly. He was evidently a clothier from
St. Louis.

Reluctantly, her gaze fell on the man directly
across from her. Since he'd been asleep when she
boarded the stage at Whispering Wells, she knew
nothing about him. She assumed from the fine cut of
his black suit and the quality of his European-made
leather boots and gloves that he must be a man of
some consequence. His wide-brimmed hat was
pulled low over his face, and he still appeared to be
sleeping. Although she could not tell for sure, she
thought he must be younger than the other men. She
could see the broadness of his shoulders, and he
looked decidedly taller and more muscular than his
fellow passengers.

Horace Rumford glanced out the window, his
gaze traveling the parched land. He frowned as
he turned back to Alvin Carruthers. "If trouble
comes at us, it'll be on this godforsaken stretch
of country from here to El Paso."

"Indian trouble?" his companion asked
anxiously blinking rapidly with concern.

"The worst kind of Indian trouble-Apaches. That's why we have two men riding shotgun
instead of the usual one. But I don't expect any
trouble on this trip."

Alvin Carruthers's eyes darted nervously to
the window, as if he feared an attack at any
moment. "Why this stretch of land? And why
Apaches? I'd always heard that the Comanches
were the fiercest tribe in Texas." His voice
trembled, but he managed a tight smile. "Before
I left St. Louis, I was assured that the army's
presence here would keep the journey safe from
Indian attack."

The agent's smile was not reassuring. "Even
the Comanches stay clear of these parts, lest they
tangle with the Apache. As a rule, the army's
presence in El Paso has made things a good deal
safer, but the Apache never follow the rules.
They certainly don't abide by our laws.

"This was their land before we took it from
them," Makinna said with a conviction that
surprised the two men. Expressing her opinion
so fervently surprised her, as well. "We are the
intruders here, sir."

"Please pardon me, ma'am," Mr. Rumford
said kindly, "but that is a mistaken notion. We
make the land habitable with farms and ranches.
We start settlements, develop towns, build
schools, and bring civilization to an otherwise
inhospitable locale."

Makinna sank back into silence for a moment. She certainly knew next to nothing
about Texas or its inhabitants, and like everyone
else she'd heard terrifying tales about the
Apaches. Still, the arrogance of certain attitudes
annoyed her. "It just seems to me that the Indian
has done very well for hundreds of years without
interference from us."

Mr. Rumford gave her an indulgent smile.
"May I introduce myself, ma'am? I'm Horace
Rumford, and this is Mr. Alvin Carruthers." He
nodded toward the sleeping passenger. "I don't
know that gentlemen. The log says his name is
Silverhorn. He was asleep when I came aboard."
His smile widened. "And he still is."

Makinna smiled, too. "I'm pleased to meet
you both. I'm Makinna Hillyard."

Mr. Carruthers looked at the black clothing
hotly swathing her from head to toe. He spoke
kindly. "May I respectfully inquire, madam, if
you have recently suffered a bereavement?"

Makinna hesitated a moment. "Yes. I lost my
brother and my mother within a month of each
other."

"Please accept my heartfelt sympathy,
ma'am," Alvin Carruthers said earnestly,
blinking. "Such a great pity."

"And accept my condolences," Mr. Rumford
echoed, glancing down at her wedding band.
"It's unusual for a woman to travel alone in
these parts, Mrs. Hillyard." He leaned back and
studied her intently. "Of course, there's nothing wrong with it," he quickly added, "but it takes
more courage than most women have."

"I am not courageous, sir. I had no choice in
the matter. Left so suddenly alone, I am going to
San Francisco to live with my sister. I didn't
know how arduous the journey would be. As an
agent for the stage line, do you think well
experience any more delays?"

"You can trust the Butterfield Line, ma'am,"
Mr. Rumford said with confidence. "We pride
ourselves on meeting our schedules."

"Not always, sir," she said softly. "The stage I
was on before broke an axle, and I had to spend
a week at Whispering Wells waiting for another
stage."

"Regrettably, the unforeseen sometimes
happens," the Butterfield agent stated. "Today
will be a tedious one for you, Mrs. Hillyard," he
said, "for we won't reach the way station at
Adobe Springs before nightfall. However,
tomorrow night we reach El Paso, where you'll
enjoy some measure of comfort before we
continue on to California the following day."

Makinna sighed wearily. She had been
traveling for over three weeks, and it seemed she
would never get out of Texas, much less reach
San Francisco.

"Madam, may I ask where you are from?"
Mr. Carruthers inquired. "I believe I detect a
Southern accent."

"I'm from New Orleans, sir. The stage from New Orleans delivered me to Ft. Belknap, where
I boarded the Butterfield stage. And there they
traded the horses for mules. I thought that rather
strange." She glanced at Mr. Rumford. "Why did
they do that, sir?"

"This leg of the journey is too hard on horses,
Mrs. Hillyard," the agent informed her. "We
have found the mules much more dependable in
this and terrain. This is uncivilized territory
we're traveling through. You wouldn't want to
lose a horse out here and be stranded."

Mr. Carruthers spoke. "Some would call St.
Louis the last civilized town until you reach
California. I myself was born and raised there."
Then he cleared his throat. "Begging your
pardon, madam. There is, of course, New
Orleans, which has many families of
refinement."

Suddenly Makinna had the strangest feeling of
being watched. She glanced at the gentleman
sitting opposite her, but she decided he still slept
because his hat was pulled low over his face. So
she was startled when he crossed his long legs
and settled back against the seat. Because the
stranger was wearing gloves, she couldn't judge
his age by his hands.

He shifted again, and his coat fell open to
reveal a gun belt. She pressed her back against
the seat to get as far away as possible. He must
be an outlaw! She'd heard about gunfighters who dressed like gentlemen but had black
hearts.

She turned her face away and closed her
eyes. Then, immersed in her own troubles, she
forgot about the man across from her as well
as the conversation between Mr. Carruthers
and Mr. Rumford.

Makinna desperately missed her mother and
her brother, William. Her mother had died
slowly after a long, lingering illness, confined
to her bed for nearly three years. Although it
had been difficult to lose her, Makinna had at
least been somewhat prepared for her death. But
her brother had lost his life in a sudden,
senseless accident. How could anyone with
William's knowledge of horses fall and break
his neck?