American Dreams (41 page)

Kipp stood among them, his lips dry, his stomach muscles knotted with tension. Blood thudded through his veins. His breath came shallow and fast. A black kerchief was tied around his neck, ready to be raised to conceal the lower half of his face. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, but he didn't wipe at them. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. Gripped by an icy-cold excitement that both chilled and stimulated, Kipp shook inside. He was afraid, yet eager, a potent combination that seemed to heighten all his senses and fill him with a wild kind of exhilaration and apprehension. He was certain the warriors of old must have felt this way on the eve of a raid on the enemy.

A man stepped into the center of the secret gathering, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over the planes of his face. He held a paper in his hand and began to read from it, a deadly flatness in his voice.

" 'Whereas a law has been in existence for many years, but not committed to writing, that if any citizen or citizens of this nation should treat and dispose of any lands belonging to this nation without special permission from the national authorities, he or they shall suffer death.' " It was the Blood Law of the Cherokees.

After it was read in full, the accused were named: Major Ridge, who had once been among the executioners of the chieftain Double-head, who had violated the Blood Law thirty years ago; his son John Ridge, the author of the written law that had just been read; his cousin Elias Boudinot and Boudinot's brother Stand Watie; John A. Bell; George Adair; James Starr; Shawano Stuart; The Blade Stuart; and the others who had signed the false treaty.

There, in the black hour of midnight at the secret meeting grounds, court was convened, and judges heard the evidence against each of the accused. Their verdict was the same in every instance: guilty. The sentence was death.

Numbers corresponding to the number of men present were placed in a hat. Beside twelve of the numbers, there was an
X
mark. It was the duty of the twelve who drew the marked numbers to carry out the court's death sentence. Everyone came forward and drew a number from the hat—everyone except Allen Ross, the son of their chief. He was asked to return home and stay with his father and try to prevent him from learning of their plans.

Kipp stepped forward, dry-mouthed, and pulled a number from the hat. The
X
leapt out at him. The blood pounded in his ears like a thousand war drums. Once the initial shock passed, a calmness settled over him. He thought of the blood that had drenched Xandra's skirt, remembered the smell of it and the sticky wetness, and recalled the dark stain it had left on his own clothes. His mother, and the blood she coughed up. And his little brother. He would have his chance to avenge their deaths and he was glad of it. Glad.

 

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, one of the black cooks accidentally knocked over a kettle, spilling boiling water onto a young helper. The carriage had just pulled up in front of the house to transport Temple and Lije to her father's when Temple heard the earsplitting shriek. She ran to the kitchen and found the twelve-year-old colored girl screaming in agony. Both legs were burned from the upper part of her thighs down to her bare feet. Her skin already showed signs of blistering.

The next hour was a chaos of sobbing, frantic orders, and endless advice. Temple sent someone to fetch her basket of medicine. She slathered a creamy salve on the girl's legs, then had a litter carry the writhing girl to her cabin in the black quarters. There Temple administered a heavy dose of laudanum to ease the girl's pain.

When she left the cabin, there was Lije, playing in a water puddle with two half-naked Negro children close to his own age. His clothes, his face, his hair were coated with mud. Temple marched him back to the log house, where she bathed him, washed his hair, and dressed him in clean clothes.

"Miss Temple." Phoebe paused in the doorway, one hand pressing at the small of her back. "Dulcie just told me that in all the confusion with the accident in the kitchen, she forgot to put the roast on to cook. She wants to know what she should fix Master Stuart for dinner now."

"How could she forget?" Impatiently, Temple raked the comb through Lije's wet hair, ignoring the face he made as the teeth dug into his scalp. "I don't know why it should surprise me," she muttered irritably. "Nothing else has gone right this morning. What time is it?"

"I heard the clock strike half past ten a few minutes ago."

"Is it that late?" Temple pushed to her feet. "Finish combing Lije's hair while I go to the kitchen and see about dinner."

"But aren't you—"

"There is no point in going to see Father and Eliza now. I would have to turn around and leave almost as soon as I got there. We'll go tomorrow. Kipp will have to understand that this morning has been one calamity after another!"

A little more than an hour later, substituting smoked ham for the beef roast, Temple had the noon meal ready to serve and the table set. She stepped outside to check on Lije. He was there, pretending to feed blades of grass to his rocking horse.

"He likes it, Mama. I get some more." He ran to the grassy area in front of the cabin. Stopping, he pointed excitedly toward the road. "Look, Mama! Here comes Papa Stuart. Please, can we go meet him? I want to ride in his buggy."

Unable to resist the eager appeal of those brilliant blue eyes, Temple smiled and nodded permission. "But you have to walk with me. I don't want you running in front of the horse."

"Hurry, Mama." He ran back and grabbed her hand.

Responding to the tug of his hand, she quickened her pace to a running walk. When they reached the dirt road in front of the cabin, Temple saw the oncoming buggy and lifted a hand to wave to Shawano Stuart.

A dozen masked men sprang from behind the trees on either side of the road. Three of them grabbed the horse's bridle and forced it to a halt. "No." Temple caught Lije by the shoulders and pulled him back to her side. There was a flash of Shawano's silver-handled cane as he tried to beat off his attackers. "Phoebe!" she cried, then pushed Lije toward the cabin. "Go find Phoebe and stay with her. Quickly."

Instinctively, Temple ran toward the buggy. "No! What are you doing?" she cried, fear and anger mixing together. "Stop it!"

The men paid no attention to her as they pulled Shawano from the buggy. He struggled valiantly and Temple had a glimpse of the fierce fighter he had once been. Then the first knife was plunged into his back.

"No!" she screamed.

A man turned to block her path. When she saw the pair of dark accusing eyes above the black kerchief, Temple stopped. She didn't have to see the rest of his face. She recognized those eyes.

"Kipp, no," she moaned softly.

Before he turned away, she saw the lust for revenge that burned so vividly in his eyes. When he joined the others, Temple suddenly understood what was happening. Shawano Stuart was now paying the price for his crime against the Nation. And the price was death. Ice cold, she watched knife after bloody knife tear at the old man's body. Unable to stand any more, she looked away, shutting her eyes in horror and revulsion.

"Papa Stuart! Papa Stuart!" Lije's sobbing voice sounded behind her.

She turned as he came running toward her. Phoebe lumbered after him as fast as her child-heavy body would allow. Temple scooped him into her arms and turned him away from the sight, forcing his head against her shoulder so he wouldn't witness the execution of his grandfather. She wished she could cover his ears so he wouldn't hear the sounds of the knives plunging into the body or the gasping moans.

She hugged Lije tightly, oblivious to his frightened struggles and the tears streaming down her cheeks. It was here, the day she had long dreaded. The Blade—had they killed him already? Or was his death yet to come? She sank to the ground, clutching their son in her arms.

The Blade. With each stab of the knife, she silently screamed his name. She couldn't pray for his life to be spared. She had known, as The Blade had known, that when he signed that treaty, he had signed the warrant for his death. He had sacrificed his life with that one act.

The dull thudding sound ceased. Unwillingly, her eyes were drawn to the death scene as the twelve executioners marched single file over the body, ritualistically stamping on the lifeless form, then continuing into the trees. She could hear the noisy rustling of horses in the woods, their snorts followed by the rapid pounding of hooves.

She was vaguely conscious of others venturing toward her, but Phoebe was the only one she took any notice of. "Take Lije away." Temple gave her frightened and weeping son into Phoebe's arms, shielding his eyes from the sight of his slain grandfather. "Don't let him see," she whispered, her own gaze riveted to the body.

Phoebe scurried away carrying Lije. Temple tried to go to Shawano, but her legs were slow to cooperate. Finally, she knelt beside him and stared at the spreading scarlet stains from the multiple wounds to his chest. She lifted her glance to his face and the sightless eyes that stared directly into the sun. Slowly, tentatively, Temple reached out and gently closed their lids with the tips of her fingers.

He was dead.

"Shawano." She spoke his name softly and slid an arm under his head and shoulders, then pulled the heavy weight of him onto her, cradling his head on her lap. "He didn't see, Shawano." She smoothed his mane of snow white hair. "Your grandson didn't see."

Someone led the horse and buggy away while the rest drifted closer. Temple was too numbed by the violent tragedy to be more than remotely aware of the small crowd that gathered around her. There were no more tears to blur her eyes, no more sobs to choke her throat, just the horrible emptiness of grief, shock, and fear.

She heard the thunder of hoofbeats and felt the ground vibrating beneath her. A horse slid to a halt near her, its stiffened front legs entering the outside range of her vision. She didn't look up. Help had arrived too late for Shawano.

"Father," a voice groaned.

The Blade's voice. When he sank to the ground beside the body, Temple lifted her head. She had almost convinced herself she would never see him alive again. But there he was. She drank in the sight of him.

"You are alive. You are still alive," she whispered brokenly. "I thought they had killed you too."

Rage like none she had ever seen twisted his face. "Who?" he demanded thickly. "Who did this?"

"They were waiting for him ... in the woods ... when he came home for dinner." She had to force the words out. With each one it became more difficult to keep from crying. She didn't want to tell The Blade what had happened, she didn't want to describe it to him. She didn't want to hurt him with all the painful details. "He is dead. What does it matter who, or how?"

"Damn them." His shoulders slumped as he hung his head, pressing a white-knuckled fist to his face. "Damn them to hell."

She felt his pain and his anger. It tortured her, especially when she remembered she wasn't supposed to have been there this morning to witness it. "Kipp warned me, but I—"

"You knew!" The Blade seized her arm in an iron grip. "You knew and you stood by and let them murder him!"

"No, I—" Roughly, he released her and rolled swiftly to his feet. When she reached up, Temple saw the blood on her hand— Shawano's blood. "I didn't know."

It was true. She hadn't realized why Kipp had been so anxious for her to visit her father's ... she hadn't guessed this was his reason.

But if she had, what would she have done? Shawano had broken the law. His death was inevitable. Knowing that, would she have kept silent? Dear God, she truly didn't know. She didn't think she would have, but how could she be sure?

The Blade swung away from her and snatched up the horse's trailing reins. Temple watched in disbelief as he stepped a foot into the stirrup. "Where are you going?"

His eyes were like chips of blue ice. "I will not make it so easy for the assassins to find me. They will have to search."

He couldn't believe she would betray him, thought Temple. But he did. It was there in the accusing glare of his eyes. He swung into the saddle and rode off into the woods.

 

 

 

34

 

 

I wish she would stop crying," Will muttered under his
breath as a tearful Phoebe shuffled out of the parlor. She hadn't stopped weeping and blowing her nose since they had arrived at the Stuarts' the previous afternoon.

"She is worried about Deu." Eliza spoke softly to keep her voice from carrying to Temple. "He went with The Blade."

"I know." Will sighed. He didn't object to the pregnant woman's concern for her man, but her tears were a constant reminder to Temple of yesterday's violence.

A violence that hadn't been limited to the killing of his old friend Shawano Stuart. At dawn yesterday, John Ridge had been dragged from his bed and taken outside. There he had been held and stabbed repeatedly while his family looked on. Elias Boudinot had been lured from the site of the new house he was building by men requesting medicine for ailing members of their family. Halfway to the mission, he had been stabbed in the back and his skull cleaved by a tomahawk. The body of Major Ridge had been found with five bullet holes in it along Line Road a mile inside Arkansas.

The Blade, Stand Watie, and others of the treaty party had managed to escape traps that had been set for them. All had taken to the hills. Some threatened to avenge the deaths of their comrades and kin by taking the life of John Ross. John Ross himself had been appalled when he learned of the killings and disavowed any knowledge of the perpetrators.

News of the deaths had spread like a grass fire whipped by angry winds. Feelings were running high throughout the entire Nation. Will knew it wasn't over and he was certain his daughter knew it as well.

She stood at the parlor window, staring at the freshly turned sod of Shawano Stuart's grave. There was a ghostly pallor to her face, which was wiped clean of any expression, as if she were waiting.. . waiting to receive word of The Blade's death. Even while he understood her lack of emotion, it frightened him. Temple, his strong, fiery daughter, was but a pale shadow of her former self—her graceful body rigid with tension, and her dark, luminous eyes painfully dry.