Zebras. Lions. Weak. Powerful. But what are they really? Spiraling, billowing dark clouds of ominous smoke catch my attention as I ride my horse through a valley beside the serpentine river. To my left, a majestic verdant mound of cliffs on the opposite bank overlooks a horror that blights my eyes as I near what I feared.
I sensed something was wrong when the, Mr. Durant, the man in charge of this railroad, called the Union Pacific, summoned me to his caboose. The train had not gone far before it stopped. Riding in the wagon with Reverend Cole against a stormy backdrop of clouds, we saw one of Durant's men– Bolin, fast approaching our wagon. Bolin, a dark blonde hair man, was not very tall, nor very muscular but very handy with his gun, as I witnessed men routinely gun downed by him on the streets. Reverend Cole and I buried more souls than we converted. It did not demoralize us but influenced us more to keep the faith.
Adjusting his brim pointed bowler hat, he informed Reverend Cole that Mr. Durant requested me to ride the Iron Beast out toward the new camp town. He looked as gruff as the other workers with his scruffy short beard. His blue eyes were dull. I wondered what made Bolin so fearsome. Was he a mischievous child that evolved into a hardened adult? After delivering his verbal message, he rode straight toward the front of the wagon line, rejoining the railroad's security force.
Shortly, I traversed toward the train and got on. With a quick jolt, the Iron Beast chugged slowly on its tracks. The sensation of being on the train was odd for me. I walked with trepidation through the cars to the back of the train, to see what Durant wanted. Before knocking, I heard him talking to someone. He gave some grandiose speech of a lion conquering a zebra. The more he spoke of zebras and lions, the more I realized, he did not refer to animals (that was what I assumed he meant) but people. People dominating people. My people? The free slaves? The poor white men? All of us? What did this Mr. Durant really want?
The last words Mr. Durant uttered were, "but remember this: without me and men like me, your glorious railroad would never be built."
Balling my right hand into a fist, I moved to knock on the door.
"Joseph, you may come in!" Durant uttered gruffly.
Opening the door, the stench of whiskey assaulted my senses. Mr. Durant was profusely drunk, putting on a cogent facade, sitting in his chair with a glass of the white man's evil stalely splashing its translucent confines. He was plumper than I imagined. His attitude was as haughty as his well-tailored clothes that I found ridiculous looking. Authoritative, commanding, and domineering– he was not a humble soul. Still he was a curiosity. Durant's wavy dark red-brown hair was cut neatly and he was clean-shaven … something rarely seen on white men. His grey-green eyes were half open, following my feet until they met my eyes dead even. He was figuring me out as I was figuring him out.
"I haven't heard any news from my surveyor, Robert Bell. He is in Cheyenne Territory, Joseph. You are a Cheyenne, are you not, boy?"
I nodded silently, eyeing him carefully, studying him. This was a man I could never trust. Something about him. Something not quite sinister but not quite right.
A taller pale man with a formidable presence entered the caboose. He had straight dark brown hair, wearing nothing but black from his hat, overcoat, and boots. His dull grey eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. He was clean-shaven like Durant but more austere and grim in manner. The pale man stood rigidly straight, as if his spine were made of the steel from the railroad tracks. Where Durant was a loud mouth, this man was taciturn.
"Calculating, sinister, perfidious, don't trust these men," swirled in my brain. These words admonished me of the peril I could be in. My spine tingled to be in their presence. It dawned on me that this was Mr. Durant's head of security, the Mr. Gundersen, the infamous Swede. I had seen the Swede and his men – Bolin and Dix – ride recklessly through the streets. No one would dare cross paths with them. Reverend Cole often prays to Jesus to forgive these men for their cruelty.
"Is this savage bothering you, Mr. Durant?" The Swede asked in an obsequious tone. His accent was peculiar to me.
If Thomas Durant were the lion, then the Swede was the snake, hiding in the bushes, waiting for the attack.
"Attend to your duties, Mr. Gundersen. This is Joseph Black Moon, a Cheyenne convert of Reverend Cole's. I'm sending him on a scouting mission, out to the surveyors' camp. He is to look for Robert Bell. Mr. Gundersen, I need you to keep security here shipshape. One more thing, Joseph, there is a woman in the camp– Mr. Bell's wife. See that she is safe. Don't know why a surveyor would insist bringing his wife into hostile territory. Madness."
Durant downed the last drops of his whiskey, grimacing at the slight burn it did to his throat. He pointed at me with his glass, "You are dismissed, Joseph. Mr. Gundersen, may I have a word with you?"
I nodded. There was no choice. Those were orders. I was not pleased to be his scout but I would have left on my own volition anyway, helping out my fellow man in need. Something was not right. I even sensed it. There were more rumors circulating of Indian attacks and my mind whispered something I did not have the heart admitting: Pawnee Killer was involved. No, but he couldn't be. I squashed those thoughts. I may be a convert but I was no traitor. As soon as the train stopped, the U.P. made camp. After Reverend Cole went to bed, I left him a note, telling him about my mission and not to worry. God would watch over me.
My horse canters us through a bucolic field of yellow coneflowers. The natural beauty is raw and grand here. Would Mr. Durant's ugly railroad blight the earth of this serene place? Perhaps my duty in life is to save it from catastrophe by acting peacefully between my people and the railroad? This place is beautiful and serene but that picture is mangled as I fast approach the aftermath of an atrocity of epic repercussions.
Blood stains the innocent yellow coneflowers. Human blood. Zebra blood. It is all what Mr. Durant predicted. I see all of this, wishing I could burn these flagrant images from my brain.
Overturn wagons, white tents, and furniture strew the land along with corpses. Burning small flames litter the green blades of grass. Getting down from my horse, I investigate the scene. Surely, this was the work of another tribe? Another group of people? Wrong.
Picking up an arrow, the ferocity of the attacks resonates strongly with me. I twist the arrow in my fingers, piecing together everything. Pursing my lips, I grimace, looking sorrowfully ahead. It's not just sorrow I feel but disappointment … in someone. My brother, Pawnee Killer, is behind this. My heart aches. Anger. An emotion I can't help but feel. But hate, no. I love my brother. Answers. I need answers.
Who is the lion here? The powerful beast? Pawnee Killer? This is his work. Durant? He has influence over the Union Army that could wipe out my people and anyone else in his way. Who is the zebra here? The people slaughtered at the hands of my brother's handy work? The railroad workers being oppressed by Durant? My people slaughtered at the hands of the cavalry? Days like this, it is hard to think that Jesus loves. How can Jesus make what I have witnessed here today, happen? Why, Jesus? Why? Durant was right. The lion prevailed.
How does a zebra reason with a lion? How could I reason with Durant let alone my brother? I camp out the next two nights, looking for signs of Pawnee Killer. He is in the vicinity with other dog soldiers. Roaming through meadows, I come upon dense woods, entering a forest, following the signs that I hope would ultimately lead me to my brother. Broken leaves, snapped twigs, newly beaten down path … I am closing in on someone.
Trees thin out as I thread my way around delicate white bushes. The smell of a campfire tipped me off earlier that this could be it. A rifle that is propped up against a tree is another tip-off. Stepping in to full view, I see dog soldiers around a small fire with a brown and white paint horse behind them. They are Cheyenne dog soldiers, alright. One of the braves is brushing his hair with a lady's brush. The other two murmur amongst themselves. The man with his back to me is my older brother. My heart sinks. It is true.
I blurt out, "Where is she?"
All three dog soldiers stand up, alarmed. Almost amused but intrigued to my presence, Pawnee Killer immediately recognizes me.
"Hello, little brother." He greets me with a half smile. "What are you doing way out here?"
I step between Pawnee Killer and the brave holding the lady's brush. My mind quickly pieces together that another woman may have died at the hands of my brother. She must have been part of the surveying camp. Unamused, I roll my eyes, approaching the man holding the brush.
Grabbing the brush out of the brave's hands and holding it firmly in my palm, I demand, "Where's the woman?"
Discerning my meaning, Pawnee Killer responds, "I don't have her … yet."
Furious, I reply reproachfully, "You kill white men, that's one thing …" Shaking the brush, I raise my voice, "but you take one of their women, you'll have every damn one of them hunting you down."
Not concerned, Pawnee Killer nods knowingly, almost smiling. "Good. I'll count coup and get more scalps."
Feeling a mixture of crestfallen and anger, I shake my head, turning to leave. "I hope it was worth it."
Once I start walking back, Pawnee Killer taunts me, demanding scornfully, "What about all the scalps you took?"
Stopping in my tracks, I look over my left shoulder listening.
He continues, mocking me, "You act so pure now," as he nods his head, "but I remember there was a time when you loved the taste of blood."
I glare at him. That arrogance. Sucking in my pain, I nod, proudly telling Pawnee Killer, "Jesus has forgiven me for that."
"Jesus may have forgiven you," Pawnee Killer said derisively, nodding his head, "but do you think your white friends would?"
Staring off into the distance, knowing there was truth to what Pawnee Killer just asked, I purse my lips, starting to walk off. I don't want to think of what my white friends would do. Reverend Cole would never harm me. Pawnee Killer spoke nonsense. But perilous nonsense. If Mr. Durant knew about my past, that could put me in danger.
My brother taunts me as I step forward to walk off again. "You better find her before I do."
I glare at him one last time before stalking off completely. Why can't my brother listen to me? He is not afraid of anything. Fearless. I fear the repercussions of his evil deeds and I fear Mr. Durant and the Swede. I fear the Union Army. Is the church my only sanctuary?
Folding my hands and bowing my head, I pray earnestly to God, "Let there be peace on earth. Amen."
A day later, I am now searching for a white woman. I don't know what she looks like but I have to find her before Pawnee Killer does. Her life is in danger. Turkey vultures circle the sky above a tall grove of trees near the river. Something is up. Dismounting from my horse, I enter the grove, investigating my surroundings. Hearing fast approaching footsteps, I freeze.
Looking straight ahead, a pulchritudinous blonde creature with captivating blue eyes, hobbles quickly into the grove. She is being chased … by Pawnee Killer. Not wanting to alert my brother's attention, I swiftly grab her, muffling her mouth with my hand. I hold this petrified creature against me while she screams softly into my hand. The blonde woman whimpers, failing at breaking free from my hold. She struggles as the three dog soldiers canter by on their horses, scouring the woods for her. I look menacingly at them, preparing to fight to the death. My anger augments at what my brother did to this poor, helpless woman.
Our faces lean against each other as I silently watch Pawnee Killer and his two friends ride off, losing her trail. Blood soaks the bandages on her hand and dress. The beautiful creature reeks of death and body odor. She must have been out in the elements for over two days. Her smell repulses me but I ignore it, knowing she needs help from a good Samaritan– me.
As soon as the coast is clear, I remove my hand from the lady's mouth. She collapses to the ground and blacks out. It's imperative that I get her back to camp. Bending down, I pick her up, carrying her to where my horse waits. Her breathing is shallow but she is breathing. I lie the hurt woman across the horse then mount myself. Pulling her up by her sides, I hold her up in the saddle against me. She groans. Turning around, I take off to a gallop, heading back to the new railroad camp. Her blonde wet curls fly into my face. It starts to rain.
I ride for only an hour when I realize the wounded woman's identity. Durant's obnoxious utterance of Mr. Robert Bell rings in my head. I wonder if this is Mrs. Bell, his wife. It rains harder.
Overcome by delirium while we ride, she moans, "Robert, Robert, Robert."
This makes up my mind that she is Mrs. Bell. She droops. Travel is getting more difficult for her. Heading out of dense forest, my horse whinnies, entering a meadow. Rain falls steadily. Mrs. Bell softly moans. She could be dying. That worries me. The blonde woman's dainty head droops while I hold the reins against her chest, supporting her.
By now, it's necessary to halt our journey back to town. Her body radiates so much heat, without feeling her head, I know she has a fever.
Slowing down the horse, I ask of her condition, "Mrs. Bell?"
No response. She may be delirious. My concern for augments. She needs immediate attention.
Looking over her shoulder, into her face, I ask again, "Mrs. Bell?"
Again, no response. She's no longer moaning which really concerns me. I look at the other side of her face. Mrs. Bell seems overcome by lassitude, her body drooping forward against the horse.
"Oh, no!" I mutter.
Time to dismount, I say soothingly to my horse, "Whoa, boy." Getting off my horse, I let out a breath, then I painstakingly assist the injured woman, preparing to carry her. Mrs. Bell sits up straight before falling sideways into my right broad shoulder.
If it couldn't get any worse, it thunders. Adjusting her in my arms, I search for a dry spot to examine her. My horse obediently waits not too far from where I'm carrying Mrs. Bell. Up ahead, there is a bed of dry prairie grass in front of a forest. There, I lie her upon it, crouching down onto my knees. The poor woman is still unconscious. Her blood soaked chest near her heart catches my attention. Taking off my hat and setting it on the ground, I proceed to examine the wound. It is sewn up but easy to surmise she was wounded by an arrow. The rain does not let up.
A noise startles me. The noise of a gun cocking. I freeze. Did Pawnee Killer find us? Has he been tracking us? Alarmed, my eyes widen in fear. Turning around, my eyes lie on a white man around six feet tall, wearing worn and stained black and grey wool clothes. His pocket watch shines from the fallen droplets of rain that got on it. The stranger menacingly points a rifle at me. His suspicious eyes are a dull grey blue, peering at my questionable presence beside an injured white woman.
While holding my palms up and over Mrs. Bell's body, the stranger yells, "You speak English?"
"Yes, sir." I answer timidly, not wanting my life to end this soon.
He points the rifle toward the left, barking, "Move!"
Maintaining as much of a calm expression that I could muster, I stand up, stepping away from Mrs. Bell. Thunder rolls while I move further away from the poor injured lamb. Now, I worry that this threatening man will not only harm me but Mrs. Bell. His scraggly salt and pepper beard and medium length messy hair match his untidy clothes. From what I gather, he is not unkempt in appearance but untidy because he is a traveler … maybe a rambler? No. A drifter? A renegade? Not a friend of the railroad, surely not?
The stranger keeps eyeing Mrs. Bell while I step even further away from her. He has as many questions for me as I have for him. "Who are you," demands the stranger.
I nod in deference, "Joseph Black Moon."
"Cheyenne?"
"Christian," I say forthrightly, wanting him to know that I am harmless. That I am good. I hold my hands at a rigid arms length from my thighs, looking into the barrel of a rifle.
"Whoa, whoa!" The stranger does not trust me. I don't trust him.
He continues, pointing his rifle downward, "Hold steady."
I move my arms up from my body. The stranger aims to search me for weapons, eyeing me with contempt.
Biting my lip, I say forthrightly, "I'm unarmed, sir." Didn't he hear that I am a Christian?
His hand swiftly searches inside my coat, around my vest, and on the sides of my torso, sending unwanted shivers up my spine. Feeling apprehensive while standing there, small droplets of sweat glide down my back.
The stranger demands in a clipped tone, "What did you do to her?"
"I-I– "
Raising his voice, he interjects, "Hey!"
"I didn't do– "
"What did you do to her?!" The stranger demands austerely.
Irritated by his level of mistrust, swallowing, I insist vehemently, "I saved her."
The stranger gives me a dubious expression, finally deciding I am harmless. "From the Indians?" His eyes are still laced with doubt.
"Yes, sir!" Shifting my weight on my feet, I elucidate for the stranger, "She took an arrow to the shoulder. I'm trying to take her to the railroad to see the doctor."
The stranger gazes at me, still suspicious, then gazes at Mrs. Bell. By now, he is aware that I am truthfully unarmed. He walks over to Mrs. Bell to examine her. I look off in the distance, still worried about dog soldiers searching for us while the stranger crouches on Mrs. Bell's left side. He sets his rifle on the ground and takes off his hat. Placing his palm on her head, he sees the lady's grave state. Next, he checks out her wound.
Concerned, the stranger asks, "When this happen?"
"Two, maybe three days ago."
He sighs, "Alright," pulling out a flask. Unscrewing the top of it, he instructs me, "My horse. There's a field kit in the saddle bag."
The man downs a swig of whatever libation is in the flask while I hustle over to his horse. The rain lets up some but the wind sets in. The temperature is dropping fast as I feel the bitter cold pierce through my wool clothes.
Finding the field kit, I grab it, hustle over to Mrs. Bell, and hand it to the stranger. "Here."
He takes it, pulling out a folding tool that looks like a tiny pocket knife on a bone white handle.
"Hold her down," The man barks.
I crouch down, putting pressure on her right shoulder. He places the tool on the make-shift stitches while it thunders and birds in the trees squawk. She comes to, opening her angelic blue eyes, dazed. The stranger takes a swig of whiskey while steadying the medical instrument with the other hand. The arrow must be removed immediately before infection sets in. Both the stranger and I know this. Mrs. Bell looks at her chest and the stranger removes the stitches with his crude tool. She screams instinctively, groans, and struggles to get free of this impromptu operation. I hold her down while all the stitches are removed. At last, the arrow is fished out with pliers.
All over, she pants while the stranger and I place our palms on her, trying to soothe her. The stranger makes her drink whiskey from his flask before cleaning and dressing the wound. She lets out raspy breaths while the stranger sews up a new stitch. I pray to Jesus that her life is saved. I thank the Lord for this reluctant good Samaritan. Jesus loves. Jesus watches over his flock like this poor little lamb. The lion may prevail, but today is the zebra's day.
*Note* Thank you all for reading! Please leave a review and stay tuned to learn more about Joseph and Ruth. I have been busy lately, so thank you for your patience. More to come! :-)