FORBIDDEN BOYS: ACADEMY OF SIN
7 HUNTSMEN - BOOK 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Chantal Cross
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States
Cover design by Sekhmetrics
Chantal’s Website: https://chantalcross.com
CONTENTS
1. Ebony
2. Seth
3. Ebony
4. Lucien
5. Ebony
6. Gabriel
7. Ebony
8. Ebony
9. Ebony
10. Ebony
11. Ebony
12. Gabriel
13. Ebony
14. Ebony
15. Ebony
16. Ebony
17. Ebony
18. Ebony
19. Ebony
20. Lucien
21. Ebony
22. Kashton
23. Ebony
24. Ebony
25. Ebony
26. Ebony
27. Ebony
30.
7
28. Ebony
29. Seth
Ebony
31. Dorian
Chantal Cross
Huntsmen Series
EBONY
THE SUMMER SOLSTICE is my least and most favorite time of the year.
I love it when everyone comes together to celebrate one of the most sacred times in our solar calendar. I love that the sunset seems to last longer on this day. I love all of the food we prepare, the dancing, and the music.
I don’t love that my foster mother, Miss Cordelia Black, is the one who hosts the party every year. I can’t say anything too horrible about her. She gave the other foster kids and me a home when she didn’t have to. I am beholden to her for the clothes on my back, the food on my plate, and a roof over my head.
However, Cordelia’s the most exacting woman I’ve ever known. Everything needs to be just so. Planning the solstice party takes months because Cordelia will change her vision at least three times and decide that every local vendor simply won’t do.
Cordelia magically grew all of the flowers that decorate our home inside and out. She used advanced spells to weave special scents into the flowers. When someone walks by a rose, they won’t just smell a rose. They’ll smell a memory hidden deep inside them that’s somehow linked to roses. When I walk by the magical flowers, I try not to inhale. I don’t need a reminder that I haven’t been anywhere or done anything. All of the flowers either give me memories of this very home, or no memories at all.
Maybe that’s for the best. Last year, Widow Holland walked by a cluster of calla lilies and spent the rest of the celebration weeping. I didn't dare to ask the widow what made her so sad. I notice she’s not in attendance this year.
I stand on the back patio beside Cordelia. Most of the festivities are taking place in our fairy-lit backyard. Cordelia’s also spelled paper lanterns to float in the air without assistance. A table is set up by the old oak tree in our yard. Its nearly bending under the weight of all the food we’re serving tonight.
Everyone says they come for the food, but the truth is that they come for the magic. Cordelia’s a powerful witch. She makes no attempts at hiding it. Even though it’s in poor taste, everyone secretly hopes Cordelia will offer them a spell or charm for free. She usually charges exuberant prices for her work.
“Why aren’t you smiling?” Cordelia’s voice is light and silky, but I have a trained ear. I hear the displeasure beneath her words.
“Wasn’t I?” I blink in surprise. “Sorry. I was admiring how lovely the backyard looks. My thoughts must’ve taken over my face.”
“Learn to keep a soft smile permanently affixed to your mouth,” she advises.
“Even if I don’t want to smile?”
Cordelia leans over with a conspiratorial half-smile. “Especially if you don’t want to smile.” She winks.
It’s one of those rare moments when I see the Cordelia beneath the public façade. I’ve lived with her for as long as I can remember, but I can’t say I truly know her.
“Do you mind if I rest for a little while?” I ask. It’s an innocent enough question. During the summer solstice celebrations, it’s a tradition to stay up from sunset to sunrise. The sun has yet to set so I won’t be breaking tradition.
“I suppose so,” Cordelia looks at me with a critical eye. “Just be careful not to wrinkle your dress. The fabric is delicate.”
“I will.”
I turn away from the backyard and head back into the house. Cordelia made me wear a white cocktail dress that felt like it was made of spun sugar. It was pure white, which certainly wasn’t my
first choice. Now I’d have to spend the evening trying not to spill food or festival wine on myself. I didn’t think white suited me either.
Cordelia often insisted that I wear white to social events. She says it promotes purity, whatever that means. The fact that she doesn’t let me socialize without strict supervision promotes her idea of purity even more. I was a bit daring when I dressed for the party earlier. Cordelia picked out my dress, but she didn’t pick out anything else.
I wore my favorite red pumps. Cordelia only let me wear heels less than two inches tall, but I didn’t mind. Around my neck, I wore a paste ruby gem on a thin gold chain. The little accents of red really set off my long, black hair and dark honey skin. Apparently, I looked just fine because Cordelia didn’t say anything. She didn’t even lift a brow when I came downstairs with red lipstick on.
My favorite room in the house was once the attic. Now, the wood is so rotted and unstable that it’s just an empty room. The best part? It’s a turret.
I brush away the cobwebs that appear every day, no matter how many times I clean and carefully make my way up the stairs. I know which steps creak, which ones buckle under my weight, and which ones are a straw away from snapping in two. I’m careful not to put all of my weight into my step.
I wasn’t the only one who had the idea to come up here. My foster brothers, Seth and Gabriel, sit cross-legged across from each other on the dusty floor.
“Took you long enough,” Gabriel smirks.
“I couldn’t find a good moment to get away sooner.” The junk pile of furniture here isn't worthy for the rest of the house, but Cordelia doesn't see fit to toss it. A burlap sack covers a dresser a long time ago. I shake it out, sending flurries of dust motes into the already dusty air.
“I don’t think that made much of a difference,” Seth points out.
“Any little bit helps. Cordelia will notice if anything gets on this dress.”
I sit on the burlap sack with my back against a relatively dustfree wall. Seth and Gabriel immediately move so that they’re sitting
on either side of me.
We’ve grown up together, yet we barely get to see each other. Cordelia teaches them separately from me, but I don’t know why. We eat our meals at different times if she can help it. They keep to the east wing of the house, while I share the west wing with Cordelia. The whole set up is strange. Every so often, one of us gets the courage to ask why things are like this. In addition to never getting a straight answer, we usually get a lecture and some form of punishment. Last time I asked, I had to clean under both the front and back porches.
Gabriel’s arm gently presses against mine. I jump a little at the physical contact. I’m not used to being touched by anyone. Cordelia never lets me get close to people. Slowly, I relax against his contact. Seth’s arm presses against mine as well. The more we chat, the more at ease we become.
When Cordelia materializes into the room without warning, Seth’s head is on my shoulder, and one of my legs is on top of Gabriel’s.
“What’s going on here?” She demands. The floorboards creak beneath her.
“We’re just taking a break before we have to stay up all night,” Gabriel explains calmly.
“You know the rules.” Cordelia doesn’t shout, but there’s something in her voice that’s scarier than shouting. She’s staring daggers at me. “Come with me, this instant.”
Cordelia yanks me out of the room and drags me down the stairs. One of the steps breaks under our weight. Cordelia uses magic to keep us from falling.
“You should know better,” she snaps. “I expected more from you. You’re supposed to be my pure one. My chaste one. How dare you tempt them?”
“What are you talking about?”
Cordelia drags me out to the backyard. More solstice celebrators have arrived. Gabriel and Seth follow us down and are standing silent on the porch. They know interfering just makes things worse for me. I feel better knowing they’re there. Cordelia’s never been violent with us, but I’ve never seen her this mad before.
The guests notice the tense scene unfolding before them.
“Apologize to your guests,” Cordelia demands.
“My guests?” This isn’t my party. I hardly know these people.
“You and your brothers-”
Cordelia doesn’t finish her sentence. I look to her, but she’s not looking at me or the guests. She’s looking up, awestricken. Some of the guests are gazing upward as well. That’s when a cold drop lands on my arm. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.
But that's not rain coming down.
“Snow?” I whisper. How is that possible?
At the sound of my voice, Cordelia snaps back to attention.
“You and your brothers will go into the house. You will not have dinner. You will go to bed immediately. Tomorrow, I will have a new list of chores for each of you that will be your new normal until I decide otherwise.” I’ve never seen Cordelia look so pale. Her toogreen eyes make me feel uncomfortable.
I scurry inside. Gabriel, Seth and I don’t attempt to speak to one another now that Cordelia’s watching. I make a show of stomping across the hardwood and slamming every door I come across. I’ll probably get extra punishments for my outburst, but I don’t care.
I’m tired of Cordelia’s controlling grip on my life. I could handle it better if I at least knew why.
I slam the door to my bedroom. I’m wiggling out of my ridiculous dress when I spy something on the table. It’s a brooch. At first, I don’t recognize its design.
I step closer and pick it up. I can tell that the sizable stone isn’t paste like the one around my neck. It’s a real ruby shaped into the form of an apple. I’m willing to bet the emeralds that make up the leaf are real too. Who would give me something like this? Certainly not Cordelia.
There’s a note on the table. Swirling silver calligraphy on expensive card stock reads Happy Solstice. It could be a gift from a guest, but none of them know me well. It doesn’t make sense.
I undo the clasp of the brooch. The little golden pin digs into the pad of my thumb. Bright blood slips down my finger.
I’m pricked.
SETH
SCALING the building has never been an issue. I slip in and out without being seen, a shadow that doesn’t even draw Cordelia’s astute scrutiny. After how she scolded Ebony, we’ve all been on edge. I’ve found it especially hard not voicing my thoughts on the matter. Then again, since our world changed, speed hasn’t been of the essence for me…
Once I slip through the open window, I find Ebony sits on her bed, waiting for me. Her doe-eyed gaze pulls at my heart, my chest swelling as I look at her. She’s stunning. How Cordelia allows herself to chastise her in such hurtful ways amazes me; when you look at Ebony, all you see is purity. Even if she fell to temptation, gave herself to sin, she’d still be as pure as snow.
My footfalls are soundless, my movements swift so as not to alert attention. Cordelia will be asleep now, but that doesn’t mean she isn't listening. She’s always listening. Crossing the room as fluidly as my sluggish bones will allow, I sit beside Ebony and watch as she naturally snuggles into me. We fit together so well, two pieces of the same puzzle. Everyone else thinks their love for her as strong as mine, however, they don’t know how I feel for her when I see her face when I feel her gentle touch. I don’t deny their affection for her, but it’s more fickle than mine.
Tears trickle down her smooth cheeks, their translucent lines glowing in the pale moonlight. I sweep a finger across her skin to catch them, my eyes fixed on her. “You can let it out around me, you
know that,” I whisper. She turns to look at mine through moist lashes. Why is she more beautiful when she cries? It’s a cruel twist of fate to make someone so beguiling to be around. She disarms without words.
“I, I don’t mean to be wicked, Seth…” Ebony sobs. “All I want is to be affectionate, I don’t mean to cause trouble. I’m not a bad person… am I?” The doubt in her voice is broken glass against my skin. It rips through me, leaving me stunned.
Taking her back in my arms, her head resting on my chest, I cling to her as she does to me. We need one another in ways we can't explain. Again, it’s my cruel burden that Ebony has no memory while I remember everything.
“You’re nowhere near wicked. Cordelia gets angry, it’s what stepmoms are supposed to do; she’s a little harsh, but I think she means well.” Even as I say it, I doubt my own words. Cordelia has a simple enough task, but Ebony is difficult to control. One minute Ebony’s predictable, the next she’s fluid, like water. I don’t blame Cordelia’s frustration, but I don’t like witnessing it either. Cordelia should know better.
My words soothe Ebony, the two of us sinking back onto the bed, our bodies intertwining as we go. Being this close to her is second nature to me. However, I can’t deny that it’s becoming harder with each passing day. To quiet my mind, I talk to Ebony about her dreams, her hopes, and ambitions. Immediately she’s overcome with enthusiasm.
“Oh, Seth, there’s so much I want to see — to do! I want to explore, go all over the world. To learn about secrets and magic, to know how others live and see them living it. I want to explore it all, free from this place —” She turns me to. “You’ll join me, won’t you?” I nod my head, smiling. Then I nudge her nose with mine. It’s dangerous being so close to her lips, yet I can’t stop myself initiating such familiar touches. I’m becoming blind to the promise I made all those years ago.
It’s why it’s so painful to hear her speak so optimistically as if she has control over her destiny. Ebony commands her life how mortal beings command the skies: we don’t. We can’t. Some things in life
aren’t easy to harness, and Ebony is one of them. She can take herself off to faraway places in her dreams, but ultimately, she’ll never have adventures she longs for. She’s unknowingly caged.
I agree with her plans because I can’t resist her — who am I to dash her fantasies? Lord knows she needs them! She’s cooped up all the time, scolded for being herself. All of us are on edge in case one tiny slip should happen. I wish we could give her more freedom and wish she could be who she thinks she is. But wishes are for fairytales, and ours died long ago.
Resting my forehead against hers, we remain silent as I think back to the promise I made her… and how she’s not prepared for when Rhiannon rises again.
“Seth,” Ebony murmurs in my ear, drawing my attention back to her. “What should I do about Gabriel? He keeps touching me in ways I don’t like, teasing me all the time. I try and tell him I’m that I'm uncomfortable, that we shouldn’t do it, but he’s always so forceful.”
“I’ll talk to him, Ebony, don’t worry.” Talk to him again, I bitterly want to add but don’t. I don’t want to upset Ebony more than she’s already been. Nevertheless, I’m angry at Gabriel for testing the boundaries again and again. Not wanting to discuss it further, I leave Ebony to softly sleep on my shoulder while I think about all the possible futures that will never come. For a few moments, I allow myself to become one with this idyllic world she’s created; we’re able to do whatever we like when we like. There’s no repercussions. No risks.
But we’re being watched. Eyes, untrue in their intent, are trained on us.
As gently as I can, I pry myself away from Ebony and make my way back out the window. Lurking just below is Gabriel, his eyes flashing with mischief as he arches his eyebrows at me.
“Someone can’t say no, can he?” he teases.
“Someone is a glutton for punishment.” I quip back, making sure to emphasize his own flaws as much as he tries to mine. As always, Gabriel is unmoved. In fact, he relishes me being wound up. “You know you need to control yourself around Ebony,” I add, still vexed by how he treats her.
“Oh, please, Seth. You and I both know that you’re the one with the problem,” I go to protest this, but he’s already charging ahead. “You know your behavior isn’t exactly pure — one kiss, that’s all it takes, yet you’re nuzzling into her and gushing at her every move. If you ask me, you’re more in danger of awakening her true form than I am.”
I should be pissed at him. I am pissed. But the more I let his words sink in, the more I realize their truth. My intent has always been — and still is — to keep Ebony out of harm’s way. I’d sooner hurt myself than hurt her. Yet I can’t escape my feelings for her. They swell every time I’m near her; there’s a yearning I can’t control. I try my best, but there’s times when I know I’m crossing a line… and all it took was Gabriel smugly pointing it out to me. Right on cue, Gabriel sniggers.
“Seth, Seth, Seth, don’t you know the saying slow and steady wins the race? And you, my friend, are gonna win in ways that impact us all.”
As he saunters off, I’m left with a gut feeling that makes me sick. Will I be Ebony’s undoing? If I’m impure, I’m unworthy of her. But that won’t stop a single kiss that’ll ignite a fire. It’ll rage like nothing seen within the last 1,000 years, and all because of my wanton thoughts.
My hand pulls at my face, rubbing and pinching, my mind lost to all sorts of whirling thoughts. This night just got more complicated. And it’s of my own making. Ebony can’t help herself, and I’m meant to protect her because of that. Some protector if all I do is think with my mind in the gutter.
In truth, all of us do it when we’re around her. We can’t help it. She brings it out of us. Those dark, luscious features, her perfect ruby lips, the sway of her hips — it’s more than any man can hope to bear. I clench my jaw tightly. I’m doing what I shouldn’t be right now, I’m thinking about her in a way that makes her mine. I’m subverting our relationship, and it comes as easy to me as breathing.
Nervously tapping my foot on the ground, I give a last lingering look at Ebony’s bedroom window. She’s the girl who knows so little
of a world that knows too much of her. And I, one of her sworn protectors, am too lazy to stop myself from tempting her past the point of no return.
EBONY
I HATE how silent everybody’s being.
It feels too ominous, almost as if we’ve misbehaved. But I’ve been good… since yesterday, at least. I sneak a side glance at Cordelia while she drives, her eyes too fixated on the road to notice me. Then I turn to look at Seth and Gabriel — the two of them are so tense with one another, it’s weird. I know I mentioned Gabriel’s attitude towards me, but I never meant for it to change how they are with one another. I’d never want to do that. Mentally I promise to try and make things right between them, as much for my sake as for theirs.
Momentarily, I stretch out my hand to take Seth’s. Then I stop and place it back on my lap. I’ll get in trouble again if I do that, and I’m so tired of being the focus of all of Cordelia’s annoyance. Being shouted at is becoming all too familiar to me now.
After the snow fell yesterday and we got sent to our rooms, Mother came and announced that Seth, Gabriel, and I would be going to boarding school. That she had consulted with others and believed that we needed discipline. That I needed structure or else I’d become a whore.
Busying myself in other ways, I look out the car window at the large building looming on the horizon; it’s massive in size, grand too. It’s wonderfully gothic with a touch of whimsy to it, not to mention it is centuries-old, perhaps even older than that. It’s mesmerizing.
When Cordelia had told us about going to a boarding school, I’d been frightened by the idea, the thought of change alien to me. I much prefer being in control and knowing what’s coming. Nonetheless, with little say in the matter, I was bundled into the car with the others, and off we sped. Throughout the journey I’ve been frantic with worry, although I’ve been as quiet as possible about it — Cordelia would get so angry if I dared say anything. Now, however, I wonder whether my concerns are overreactions because this place looks pleasant enough. It’s big and a little foreboding. But it’s not the monster I’d allowed it to morph into inside my head.
Cordelia pulls the car into the long, narrow driveway and swiftly kills the engine. Unbuckling her belt, she turns to me with a sourfaced expression. “Ebony, you’re not to leave this car, understand? I’ll only be gone a moment, I just need to take the boys to their dorms.” She goes to move, then pauses to add. “Do not move from this car.”
I nod my head vigorously, trying to show her that I’ll be a good girl, that she can count on me. However, Cordelia's face remains as stony as ever. For the life of me, I don’t understand why one woman can be so against everything I do. It’s as if she sees something in me that I’m unaware of; it’s unnerving, terrifying, and maddening. I’m just me, just Ebony, I’m not anyone else.
The sound of slamming doors echo in my head as the three of them leave me to my own devices. I start off intending to stay put, but when a butterfly dances against my window, I’m enchanted by the vivid colors of its wings. It has a simple grace that I ache to have as my own, and so, before I know it, I'm unbuckling my belt and out of the car. I don’t notice my actions, then the realization sets in. I know I should go back. I should have stayed in the first place, however, there’s so much out here to explore. Why would I want to turn my back on discovery?
Not following anything in particular as I meander down pathways, I wander around the side of the grounds. As I watch as birds fly overhead, chirping their songs, I discover a chaotic dotting of trees further along the rolling landscape of the school. Under one of them sits a boy, his dark head bowed as if he’s sleeping.
I worry at my bottom lip, my gaze anchored on him. I want to learn more.
Eager to get a closer look, I take gentle, soft-footed steps towards him. As I go, I run my hands through the invisible breeze, enjoying how it feels to go with the flow of nature; the feeling that this is where I belong. My soul feels so light, unchained, and free to do whatever I want. And what I want is to see this boy’s face, to watch his character unfold before me.
Just as I come to stand by his feet, I muse at how he sits under an apple tree of all places, my mind immediately thinking about the apple-shaped brooch left in my bedroom. This world is a funny place — did fate know we’d meet, is that why he sits here of all places? I’m desperate to know. It’s an uncanny coincidence, one which causes me to grin as I dip my head to peer at his face.
Oh wow, he’s…
Breathtakingly gorgeous. Unlike anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’ve met boys who are good looking, both classically and in their own unique ways. But this boy isn’t like any of those. He’s the epitome of raw sex appeal, the way his dark lashes tickle at his face as alluring as his pale pink lips. Seeing those lips there, ready and waiting for me, I find myself coming closer to his with my own. We’re inches away, the gap closing further as I draw near… I can taste his breath on me as I close my eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?!” A voice bellows out, the anger it possesses is greater than Cordelia’s. Instantly, I jump back, the noise vibrating every vertebra of my spine. To my amazement, the boy is still soundly asleep, without a care in the world.
“I asked you a question!” The new voice spits, reminding me of its presence.
Pawing at the back of my neck, I look at its owner: a tall, broad young man who has a sternness to him that seeps out of every pore. As I read his expression, which is fraught and aimed at me, I ask myself whether he’s ever anything but angry. Right now, it doesn’t seem possible for him to know other emotions. What makes our sudden meeting worse, is how attractive he is; it only adds to my gnawing confusion as I feel hot under his fierce glare.
“I’m, I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean—” I begin, my speech sounds like a mouse squeak compared to his booming tone.
He scoffs. “You didn’t mean to what? No, come on, if you’re going to say something, at least have the backbone to stand behind it.” It’s been some time since anyone has spoken to me in this way; Cordelia can be heated, but she knows me. This guy however, doesn’t know the first thing about me. Not that I think he’d care even if he did, such is the potency of his annoyance. I know I was about to kiss a stranger, but I feel his reaction is too extreme. I wasn’t acting out of malice or ill intent, I just wanted to feel the softness of those kissable lips. It’s not a crime to be curious.
My eyes dart about as I look from one boy to the other. I hope that someone will come to my aid, maybe Seth, or even Gabriel at this point. However, I know deep down that it’s unlikely — Cordelia won’t allow them out of her sight. Her iron will isn’t to be tested, especially today of all days. Heart pounding in my chest, its beat exploding throughout my body and ringing in my ears, I try to explain myself again.
“It was innocent, all I was doing was saying hello.”
“You say hello with a kiss, do you? What kind of girl are you — because to me, that looks like something a slut would do.” That word punches me in the stomach. I fight back tears, their swift arrival due to my being upset and angry in equal measure.
“I’m, I’m not a slut, I just—” But he’s on me again before I can finish.
“Just … curious as to how slutty you can be? You’ve never met this guy, and you’re going straight into it… that sounds to me like something a slut would do.”
The bite to his voice is nothing when I watch him take long strides my way. I scramble to be rid of him, frightened at how easily he’d overpower me. I’d like to think a boy wouldn’t hurt me that way, but Cordelia has always told me I bring out the worst in men. ‘Ebony, your wickedness makes men wicked.’ For years I’ve fought against her explanation, believing it wrong, yet now I’m starting to question whether I’ve been the one in the wrong this whole time. Maybe Seth only entertains my desires because he’s become wicked
just like me… maybe I am this unclean girl everyone keeps telling me I am.
“Please, p-please don’t hurt me…” Pleading for him to leave me alone, I look around for some way to protect myself. How did I get myself into this mess, why do I always get myself into situations like this?
“Don’t tell me you don’t like a little pain. My, you do surprise me.” He’s laughing at me now, his sniggers venomous and without feeling. Never have I known someone to take an instant dislike to me, and while I want to know why, I also want him to leave.
Gone are my thoughts of liking it here, of belonging. Now all I can think about is how awkwardly I fit into the puzzle piece shape of this school — I’ll never be welcomed here. My acting on instinct, going with my feelings rather than logic, isn’t for a world of rigid stone and hard men. The problem is, I don’t know where I belong anymore.
Or whether I’ve ever belonged anywhere in my life.
LUCIEN
WELL, this is entertaining. I had resigned myself to it being another boring day, but then her blood had called to me like a rallying cry to battle. It was undeniable.
The only way I knew to contain my urges was to feign sleep, a decision which nearly earned me a kiss and her a scolding. Oh, Dorian. He’ll never learn to control his jealousy. He means well. However it never comes across that way. And besides, the way he’s acting right now, he seems anything but the brute he paints himself to be. Just as he wants her to believe.
Leaving her to fend for herself, for now, I sneak glances whenever I can. I can’t take my eyes off of her — she’s bewitching. She always was, but now there’s a softness to her. Her hard edges have been smoothed down, curved to help her fit into a world that doesn’t deserve her. Even after all this time, she calms me with nothing but that bright-eyed look of hers.
It’s hard to believe she had the nerve to abandon me the way she did.
We’d danced under many a night’s sky, the two of us cooing and purring at the other, the desire immeasurable to how our combined pleasure would feel. She’d surrender, and I’d lose myself to the moment; it would be exquisite. All those years, all that time, it's memory was destroyed in one selfless act when Ebony saved us from Rhiannon. If I look back on it rationally, I understand why she acted in that way. She desired to save as many as she could, if you
cut out the beating heart, the creature can’t exist. Couple that with our need to keep her chaste and the reasoning behind her decision makes sense. We each knew that giving in to temptation with her was an act that would only lead to destruction. For her, for us and the whole goddamn world.
None of that matters to me as I look at her now.
Every minute, hour, day, year, I waited for her comes flooding back to me in real-time clarify. My life, 1,000 years of it, flash before me as I think on all the lovers I’ve taken and how none of them were her. In spite of never knowing that intimate side of her, I’m certain she would be the most incredible woman to spend the night with. Even more so if our close brushes with that very promise serve my memory correctly…
Her eyes illuminated under the serene light of the stars, we’d come so dangerously close to tasting her forbidden fruit. I’d wanted her to bite into it, to take its juices down and taste what waited for her.
Nonetheless, my reverence for her was too great for me to give into my darkest fantasies. Unrequited love was all it could ever be, for all of us. No one man was allowed to look beyond himself and to a future that involved the two of them. It was suicide for them and death to others to do so. Despite knowing this, I’d been tempted. I’m still tempted.
When she’d asked me why I recoiled from her touch, why she couldn’t give herself to me, I’d told it was because of my devotion. I respected her too much to tarnish her. How pathetic it had sounded. A weary excuse. It was, however, the truth. My respect for her is still there, even now. Even when her lips had come so close that my tongue could have snaked out and licked her crimson lips. Despite our close proximity, my desire was still in check. Barely.
Sensing that Dorian is getting too caught up in the moment, I decided to step in. Besides, the warrior princess has long lost the valor she once possessed. Softness has taken root in the wounds she’d gained from battle, leaving her unable to fend off the spoiled hearts of men.
I crack my neck from left to right before stretching out my body. I’m a cat unfurling from a long slumber. Only my sleep has been restless, my mind forever unable to surrender itself.
“Dorian, give it a rest,” I suggest. When she hears this, her eyes roam over me while I quickly scan her. “Can’t you see the girl’s upset? Take your brutish behavior somewhere else.”
“Lucien—” He tries to argue.
“I’m more than capable of handling myself around a girl.” I snidely remark, my expression loaded with meaning meant for him. He’s unsatisfied but remains silent as he skulks away. Although not before giving her a deathly parting stare. The poor thing trembles down to her toes as she watches him leave; she really has changed quite a bit.
Rolling my shoulders back, I step towards her and offer my hand. Instantly, she takes it, no sign of hesitation. Our connection is the same as ever it was. When we touch, electricity fizzles through us. Her eyes widen as mine playfully glimmer, our personalities colliding like fire with water.
“You should be more careful.” I jest, my eyes never wavering as I drink her in.
“Do you think?” She coyly replies, her lashes veiling her brilliant eyes. “I had you to rescue me.” Ah, and so we fall back into our old routine, only she has no clue just how familiar this all is.
“Did you now? I’m not so sure. If I hadn’t woken up, you’d still be dealing with Dorian—”
“And I wouldn’t have gotten to talk with you?” She asks, her eyes dazzling. My grin is sinful, she averts her head to avoid seeing it.
“The biggest crime of all, by far.” I tease.
The banter between us has a natural tempo to it: when one rises the other falls. We know the lyrics to this song. It was written centuries ago, the words have never changed. I’d love to turn them into something more… something of such breathtaking beauty. But I fear Dorian would have my ass quicker than I can blink. I suppose each of us has our own little way of dealing with the monstrous task we’ve been saddled with, that we agreed to. There’s nothing worse than knowing that the world around you, the one that shapes you
every day, is the one you helped create. Most men only ever play at having such a direct impact. For us, we live with the knowledge that we altered everything to keep evil at bay.
“So tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure? It’s not often I get to see a girl as stunning as you.” Charm has never been an issue for me, as she’s undoubtedly learning. A smart girl would run for the hills, lest I get close and take what’s mine. However, this one is too naive to know I am not trustworthy. Not anymore; I love that she’s powerless against my wiles.
“You think I’m pretty?”
“I said stunning, not pretty — pretty is too plain a word for you.” I hasten to add. “How you’re not swarmed by boys is beyond me.”
“My stepmother wouldn’t—” She stops mid-sentence, her eyes open wide and she holds her breath. The atmosphere we’d created through our kittenish ways dries up like a draught, leaving us both hot and underwhelmed. Whatever she’s thinking about makes her nervous. And while I can hazard a guess as to why I crave to have her exuberance back once more.
The mood in jeopardy, she takes a step back. This is when I spring into action.
“Did you want to kiss me?” I fire at her, catching her completely off guard.
Her eyes return their glimmer, brighter than before. She bites her bottom lip, the plumpness of it, the way it bends under the weight of her teeth, drives me to distraction. What I wouldn’t give for her mouth to be pressed against mine. The things we could do, what we’d get up to… then she’d become flustered all over. When she doesn’t respond, I probe her further.
“If you wanted to, you should have. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of lust.”
I run my fingers down her arm and to her hand, her palm pressing against mine as we meet. It’s an innocent touch, but the caress behind it says so much more. Her digits weave between my own, both of us playing with the intimacy of our touch. Her skin is on fire as much as mine is aflame.
Ravenous for more, I take my hand from hers and stroke back up her arm and to her collarbone. I keep my caress light, making sure to leave tingling marks across her flesh. I listen as her breath catches in her throat.
“I could show you just how fun it can be…” I whisper, my voice husky and thick; it’s laced with hunger only for her.
“Ebony!” a shrill voice screams.
The stepmother. Or foster mother. Whatever they call it in this time.
“Come here this instant!” Cordelia shrieks at Ebony.
The beautiful girl looks at me.
“I-I, I can’t!” Ebony exclaims, stealing herself away from me and running back to safety. I watch as she shrinks in the distance. The curves of her outline remain hypnotic even in spite of her abrupt exit.
The stepmother grabs her arms and marches her towards the Tower. Her leaving is disappointing, but I’m not surprised. After all, she always did like to keep me waiting. Duty-bound as I am, I’ll keep on waiting until Ebony gives in. The time it takes is immaterial.
EBONY
STEPMOTHER’S GRIP on my elbow tightens as she drags me up the spiraling steps.
“I specifically told you to stay in the car, and here you are, slutting around with the worst boy on campus.”
I dig in my heels and try to resist, but she drags me higher and higher, livid. Her teeth are bared, her grip too tight, nails sharp and leaving crescents in my flawless skin. I pry at her fingers, desperate to get away, and she snaps around to punish me, pushes me closer to the edge of the steps, almost four stories off the ground.
“You managed to find the worst possible influence, the devil of this establishment, and prostrate yourself before him—”
I feel the rickety stairs sway as she backs me against the railing. She tightens her grip until I know it will bruise and shakes me. “Mother, please, nothing happened—”
“Don’t you dare speak.” Cordelia shakes me again, raises her hand as if to slap me. “How dare you speak to me, you sick, corrupted girl—”
Cordelia drags me to the window, blessedly away from the edge of the stairs, and I see the apple tree he was sitting under. Heat rises in me again.
“Where did you learn to act like that? I taught you better than this.”
I fight her grip, try to get away and back down the stairs. “Let go of me—”
“If you can’t control yourself, then I will.”
She turns, drags me up the steps again.
“Where are you taking me? Mother, please—”
“I’ve told the school about your disgusting habits, and they’re isolating you while I look for an apartment nearby and find a job at the school to keep an eye on you!”
She drags me up the last of the steps, to a door with iron fastening and fittings for a bar.
“No, please, not again—”
She throws the door open. “You went straight for the wickedest boy on this campus, as though you could sense him.”
She drags forward, and I fight, twist, scream. “Mother, please don’t lock me up—”
“I was barely out of sight when you started whoring yourself out —”
She heaves me toward the room, but I catch myself on the doorframe, desperate not to trapped away from everyone again. This school was supposed to be my escape, not my prison.
“I didn’t do anything wrong—”
“—demon of a child—”
Cordelia twists my wrist, pushes at me, tries to force me in. I was supposed to be free, here.
“—you insolent, soulless, ungrateful slut—”
She twists my arm behind my back, hard enough to hurt. Something pops in my wrist, and I scream, in pain, in anger.
“—you’ll be the ruin of all of us, you and that boy—”
I’m terrified, but the heat of him, the golden, breathless sensation as our lips came close to touching, rises. Something in me, some bond that my stepmother had me in, breaks. I feel it snap and I scream again, now enraged.
Cordelia raises her hand to slap me, loosens her grip on my other wrist.
I yank it out of her grasp, shove her back.
“I have always been in control of myself, I came here to be better than you’ve tried to make me, to continue this endless,
unforgiving fight, and you dare to question my fitness? I did nothing wrong!”
I curl my hurt wrist into my body, terrified by my own courage, scared as soon as those words leave my mouth. I would never dream of speaking like this to my mother. I feel like I hadn’t even meant to like someone else had taken over.
“I’ve done my duty, held the line against an evil ten times bigger than myself, I have sacrificed everything for this fight, and you have the audacity question me like this—”
Her hand whips my head to the side, stings like fire when it hits my cheek.
I have no idea where any of this strength and fire came from. It’s as though those words came through me, but who was speaking? What have I done? God, what have I done?
Some part of me, freed by that snap inside of me, rises up regal.
It answers, Onlywhathasalwaysbeennecessary.
The back of Mother’s hand hits my other cheek, whips my head around and splits my lip. I taste blood. My pain and confusion wash away that regal, self-assured voice until all I have is fear.
“I’m sorry, Mother, please—”
She grabs my hurt wrist, drags me to the door and shuts me in. I scream as I hear the bar slam shut outside, pound on the door. “Let me out, please, I’m sorry. I’ll be better—”
Muffled through the wood of the door, I hear her say, “You’ll never be good enough.”
Her footsteps retreat back down the steps of the tower.
Tears rise, and my knees go weak, my breath coming too hard. The last time she locked me up, I had been alone for three days, and I’d felt crazy when I came out again. It had felt endless, seconds had stretched to hours.
I turn to look at my surroundings—a bed with a thin blanket, a desk, an armchair, a fireplace to one side, and my trunk. No one here but me and the spiders.
I check through the door at the opposite side of the room, hoping for an escape. All I see is myself in the bathroom mirror, crying.
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appearances. Any quantity of liquor would have been cached outside, and [308]as all present were sober, it was not likely that any had been brought in. My sole idea was to bluff them for a little, and then get away. I sincerely wanted to get away without fuss. Undoubtedly they had congregated for a drinking bout, and I had one of them, and the second bootlegger was probably watching from some hillside brush at that moment. Later in the night they would welcome him and his assortment of bottled trouble. They moved away from their belongings, and I failed to find any contraband in the various bales and kegs scattered under the shelter.
“You tell these men that I am going on to Leupp. If there is any boozing here, you may expect that Nahtahni will hear of it.”
They received this in silence, but it was a silence that seemed to bode me no great blessing. The men at the gate swung the cars around to head away from there, and then I strolled out of the corral, carrying a belief that I had narrowly missed something. And if you do not grasp my emotion, if you think I was unnecessarily alarmed, I cannot hope to convince you or explain how one feels hostility and resentment among these desert people. I was not welcome in that camp, and very likely it was a good thing for me that I did not find Bitani Bega.
The road away from the camp was now better known to us, and we did not waste time. At the first camp we dropped the boy, and he scuttled away in the shadows, followed by a lecture in Navajo.
“How’s the Cottonwood crossing?” someone asked the trader.
“It’s all right, if you know where to hit it,” he replied. “Go on down there and wait for me. I’ll get my coat at the store, and a couple of shovels, and then pilot you [309]across. Don’t attempt it without me. You’ll get bogged, sure.”
He left us at the next turning, and we went on to the crossing. There was no bridge in those days, and the Cottonwood was a nasty place. At times one could go straight across, and at other times he would do well to go several miles up the wash to cross and return. We drove on carefully and worked our way to the edge of a hummocky place, and there was nothing to do but wait for the trader’s return. The night had grown clearer now; the air was crisp and the stars bright.
“I’ll see if the engine needs any water,” said one of the men.
The three prisoners drowsed in the rear seat. We both got out and leaned our rifles against a front fender. The driver of the other car did the same. Having watered the iron horses, we stepped off a few yards and stood talking, when suddenly, one of the men threw up his hand and called: “Listen!”
One can hear noises a long way in the open spaces, and we had left the hills and were now in a great flat. On the quiet air came the sound of many hoofs, drumming, racing down on us. A quick scramble back to the cars and the rifles. There was no crossing that wash without a guide. We swung the cars broadside of the road, and turned off the lights.
Of course, we thought the boy had returned, and they were now about to rescue their captured neighbor. Naturally they would seek us at the crossing. I threw the rifle lever and a shell into the breech, and leaned across the engine. We would have the car between us.
The hoofs pounded nearer, a dozen or more ponies.
“Uptohulloa!” roared the big stockman, a word he [310]could fire like a broadside. They reined in, a group of shadowy horsemen.
“Where you going?” was pieced out from our smattering of Navajo. Then one of them rode forward, and we recognized a man from a camp below the wash.
“Going home,” he said, simply.
We had no fault to find with this, and said so. Their ponies slowly and gingerly began crossing the bog, following a devious trail. Another thrill shattered. It is a land where nothing ever happens until, through misfortune or misunderstanding, the wholly unexpected occurs.
When our guide came up, we too crossed, and three hours later we reached the Holbrook jail. The deputy sheriff in charge said that all hotels were filled, and we were too tired to seek lodging elsewhere. What would do for the prisoners would be gratefully accepted by the posse. So we all slept that night behind the bars.
Very early I found a physician to examine and dress the wounds of our battered witness, and I telegraphed the Leupp Indian Agent for instructions as to the one prisoner from his Bidahoche province. He replied that he would come for the man. We went on to court with the liquor cases.1 There One-eyed Dan and his partner pleaded guilty, and were sentenced to a rest of several months in [311]jail; whence, having recuperated and made new plans, they returned to the backcountry game with renewed spirits.
My colleague of the Leupp Agency managed things differently. The complainant and prisoner were taken to his headquarters, where he heard the case as Nahtahni, and sentenced the guilty to break rock for a considerable period. However, this was not nearly so impressive to the Indian as action in a foreign court, removed from the Indian country; but it is a pity that the circumstance of capture
and the possibility of crime weigh so little when the Indian culprit is arraigned before those not conversant with his daily life. [312]
Sections 2140 and 2141 of the United States Revised Statutes, together with later laws and amendments, empower Indian Agents and their properly commissioned deputies to search for, confiscate, and destroy intoxicating beverages within Indian country, to seize the means of transportation, to destroy stills, and to prosecute in the Federal Courts those persons who violate these statutes Indian Agents and their “special deputies” are clothed by law with the authorities of United States Marshals and their deputies in the prosecution of this work The possession of intoxicating liquors in the Indian country is prima facie evidence of unlawful introduction.
While the provisions of the National Prohibition Act limited these authorities for a period, the United States Supreme Court has held that the earlier laws enacted for the control of Indian country are not inconsistent with and were not repealed by the National Prohibition Act. To-day, an Indian Agent has practically all the original power with which to curb the liquor traffic within his jurisdiction. ↑
[Contents]
HELD FOR RANSOM
It is always a temptation to a rich and lazy nation, To puff and look important and to say:
“Though we know we should defeat you, We have not the time to meet you. We will therefore pay you cash to go away.”
And that is called paying the Dane-geld; But we’ve proved it again and again, That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld You never get rid of the Dane
Songs from English History
For seven long years I lived in a two-penny house at the Agency, the rooms of which were nine by twelve, and the floors not level. I decided to increase the size of it, so that three or four visitors might arrange themselves in one room without compelling their host to step outside. This necessitated removing several walls, and for months I slept in a draughty place, surrounded by broken plaster, piles of lumber, mortar-boards and paint-pots. If one wished to call, he scrambled up a long plank having cleats nailed to it, fell over the débris, and projected himself into my bedroom. It was literally all doorway, and it opened on the Desert.
One morning, about three . ., I was aroused by a resounding crash. Some one called earnestly for Moungwi. I turned on a flashlight, and rescued an Indian policeman from a trap of metallathe and scaffolding. It was one of the Tewa who had ridden in. [313]
“What’s the trouble?” I asked him.
“There’s a man shot in the Wepo Wash—Navajo; and they’re holding a Hopi for it. Billa Chezzi says must kill him pronto. Come right away and stop it. Here’s a letter.”
The note he handed me had been hurriedly written by an Indian girl of the mesa, and she had been so filled with the necessity for my coming “to stop it” that she had failed to give all the facts. It appeared however that an unfortunate Hopi, held a prisoner by the Navajo of the North, was to be butchered by sundown; and the sun had gone down and was about to come up again.
I aroused the physician and the big stockman from their slumbers.
“We’ll start at daylight, so get ready.”
The stockman routed out the Navajo interpreter, and they began adjusting a Ford car, in the hope that it would hold together through a nervous experience.
Just at daybreak a range Navajo rode in with another note. This was from the redoubtable Ed, trading now in the Bakidbahotzne country of the central North, and who kept me advised from that distant station.
Billa Chezzi and his gang have a Hopi boy up here, and all last night they argued to kill him. I advised them to send for you. They are not in the best of humors. Seems that this Hopi boy shot a Navajo boy. Bring the doctor. The Navajo is not dead yet.
Now this looked a trifle better, but there was an ominous possibility in his last sentence. “The Navajo is not dead—yet.”
There were four of us in the car: the physician, the stockman, the Indian interpreter, and myself. Several [314]policemen clattered their way over the shorter trails, but I did not feel that they would help
matters much. On reaching the First Mesa we learned that a Hopi lad named Lidge Palaquoto, the son of Pah-lah, a widow, and who was aged about fourteen years, had been out with sheep in the upper Wepo Wash. He had carried a .22 rabbit-gun. When he did not return at nightfall, search developed that he was in the hands of the Black Mountain Navajo. He had somehow and for some unknown reason shot a Navajo boy, about two years older than himself.
We would have to round the First Mesa and go through the Wepo Valley sand, but at that Henry’s contrivance would make better time than the traditional bronk. In a novel, requiring at this stage a thrilling rescue, we should have rushed to the corrals, subdued several chilly and resisting horses, and consumed four hours pounding through sand and greasewood, to arrive with a clatter and amid dust and revolver smoke. We should have dashed down on them, spattered a volley, swept the lad from the ground in passing, plunged on, and disappeared in a blaze of glory. Yes, I have written that sort of nerve tonic. But we didn’t do anything of the kind. We used a Ford. And despite all one’s imagination and nervous energy, there is no glory in a Ford.
But in the more prosaic manner we could make the trip in two hours, without saddle-sores, carrying all the believed-necessary tools for any possible emergency. The doctor had his kit for his method of lifesaving. There were two Winchester carbines, the stockman packed his cavalry-type .45, and I carried in a spring-sling under my left arm one of Mr. Colt’s automatic specials. It did not invite attention there, hampered no one, and could be withdrawn in less than an hour’s time. The Government [315]officials at Washington consider these adjuncts altogether unnecessary, and often write words to that effect; and they are unnecessary in Washington, where the writing officials who frown on them are usually to be found at desks, nursing plans for future campaigns. This affair was not billed for Washington. It did
not concern auto traffic. It was to be staged in the upper Wepo Wash, and Ed’s note had stated that Billa Chezzi stood peevishly at the head of his gang. One should keep in mind that the Navajo go armed. There would be plenty of forty-fives and a few heavy rifles in that crowd. I had prevented their procuring ammunition from the licensed traders of the reservation, but no one prevented their procuring it off the reservation, from unregulated traders and in the railroad towns. Both Federal and Arizona State law decree against the furnishing of either arms or ammunition to Indians, and despite numerous murders in the Navajo country, these laws have been the deadest of defunct letters.
Perhaps, trending along the lines of recent admonitions, we should have carried an outfit for the making of tea, together with several hymnbooks. However, I had other ideas on this subject. I recalled how this favored son of the Desert, to wit, Billa Chezzi, had held up Hubbell the trader, threatening him with a rifle, until disarmed, overpowered, and chained to a post. How he had started a war against a former superintendent. How another Arizona pioneer had been forced to beat Billa nearly to death in defense of his own life. This last affair had occurred at Fort Defiance. And, of course, to be fair to the chief, he had been drunk on all occasions; but could I be sure of his sobriety on this one?
When the car swung around the point of the First Mesa, I counseled the doctor thus:— [316]
“Ed seems to think this Navajo boy will not live. Let us hope he is alive when we get there. You examine him and, at first opportunity, without inviting excitement, tell me about how long he will last. I shall have just that much time in which to settle things. I may need it.”
“Suppose he dies?” said the doctor.
“I am hoping he will not die until I have made arrangements. If he kicks in before that, I don’t know just what will happen.”
And this did not appear to ease the physician’s mind.
THE
BILLA CHEZZI: CHIEF OF
NORTHERN NAVAJO
NELSON OYAPING: TEWA CHIEF OF POLICE
Half an hour later we saw them, a large party of Indians in the central flat. Some of them were mounted, but for the most part they had turned their ponies loose to graze and were grouped in a throng on foot. It would be there among them, probably haranguing, that I should find old Billa Chezzi, alias Crooked Fingers, with a black silk handkerchief swathed about his head, the perfect picture of a desert bandit. Old, wrinkled, and yellow-toothed, with bleary eyes that narrowed when he became sullen, Billa Chezzi was not the pleasantest of the Navajo chiefs.
“When we get there,” I said to the stockman, “look around for that Hopi boy. If you see a Hopi boy, and you have an opportunity, put him in the car; and then you stay with him.”
“What then?” he asked.
“Well, if they want him that badly, compel them to climb into the car and take him out of it.”
“Do you want me to bean one of those fellows, if they try that?”
“No—that wouldn’t help any. Simply compel them to take him away from you by force. I’m afraid you will not have the chance. Keep your gun on the seat, but don’t use it.” [317]
“You mean—just let them see that it’s present?”
“Exactly. But don’t make the mistake of pointing it at any one of them, even if he does clamber in.”
With the Navajo on his native heath, idle gun-play is a very dangerous experiment, and may prove a grievous mistake. If one draws a gun, the Navajo expects that it will be used. He too has one in his belt, the Government being too pacific to object. There are no delicate preliminaries, such as the usual invitation to elevate the hands and behave. The Navajo reasons simply that a gun will explode in his face anyway, and he hopes to beat one to it. It is not an exhibition of his courage or judgment; nothing more or less than ignorant fatalism. While few Indians suicide, often a moody Navajo will announce that he is about to die, and perhaps, if the genii work upon him strongly enough, he may step toward the event. It is all right, though, and creates no comment or offense to have a somnolent gun in plain sight. The Navajo is used to weapons and the gesture is not one of potential threat.
About sixty yards from the group of Indians we found a shelter at the roadside. It had been hastily constructed—cottonwood poles, with a blanket across them to afford a little shade. The doctor stooped and crawled in to view his patient. Several elders of the family were there, besides the mother and father of the boy, and I shook hands with them. In a few moments the stockman was missed, but when next I looked toward the car he had returned there. Beside him perched a little Hopi boy.
“I’ve got him,” he called to me.
That part of it was finished nicely, but the question of keeping him was yet to be decided. Just then the physician crawled out from the shelter with no joy on his face.
“Bad,” he said. “Shot straight down through the top [318]of the skull. Looks as if he was fired on from above. He may live an hour—not longer than that.”
Now from the direction of the mesas the Hopi were gathering. We had passed a few of them on the road, trudging along determinedly. For the first time in my experience with them, they were going doggedly into the debatable country for a council with the old enemy, and with a view to resisting him if necessary. It looked as if there would be a fight, unless somebody weakened.
“They are not going to kill Lidge,” announced one sturdy fellow as we passed him.
“Keep quiet about that,” I cautioned him. “Let me talk with those fellows.”
So, when I walked toward the group of Navajo, I realized that Hopi were coming up and making an equally sullen group behind me. The Navajo crowd parted and old Billa Chezzi stepped out of it. He had a light rifle in his hand, and a woeful expression on his aged face. He put his arm around me and besought me as his younger brother. And then tears, large, globular tears, coursed down the ragged furrows of his cheeks, as he told me of the senseless crime that had been committed against them. A small boy wickedly shot down, an innocent slaughtered, a wanton killing. And so they must have blood for this thing: an eye for an eye,—though he had no knowledge of the sacred Books. That was the old law in the Desert. And he did not let go of the rifle. As he wept copiously on my shoulder, I reached down and took hold of the gun, too. Then we talked along sympathetic lines, each holding tenaciously to the weapon. I understood that it was the evidence in the case.
When he went further into his recital, through the interpreter, he came to mentioning the gun’s part, and [319]it was necessary for me to examine it closely. He did not want to give it up at first. But he finally yielded it. I opened the breech, and was glad to find it empty. Then I took it by the barrel, grounded the stock in the sand, and he never got hold of it after that. Somehow, I felt a little easier in having it to myself. In a measure, he had surrendered a bit of his problem into my hands.
And we talked. Finally we sat down on the ground and a number of his band with us, the rest crowded up, standing. Now I had expected that Ed would come up. He was the best interpreter in the Navajo country, and not afraid of them. It was plain that the sympathies of my Indian interpreter were not with the Hopi in this argument. Aside from the impending death of the boy, here was another real danger, and one that most Agents are forced to suffer. Indians cannot be rushed to a decision. They must have their talk out, and through talking always weaken their grievances. But untrustworthy interpretation has caused more than one man’s death. “I will fix it up for you,” silently decides the ignorant mouthpiece, thus fastening his poor intentions on the one who will have to accept responsibility in the end. And sometimes he fixes it entirely too well. Seldom it is that he interprets the full value of the discourse. He avoids completely translating unpleasant orders, for that might involve him among his people; and when the break comes he will surely prove a traitor, and may be found largely responsible for the break. His sympathies wellup when least expected, and the emotions of my interpreter in this affair had begun to display partizanship.
Finally there came a welcome call, and Mr. Thomas E. Thacker, otherwise known as “Ed,” a square trader and a straight talker, rode up. [320]
“They were at it all last night at the store,” he said. “They had the boy there and, whether or no, they were for killing him. I told them they would have to reckon with you first, and next with Washington, and not to start anything they maybe couldn’t finish. How’s the other boy?”
“The doctor gave him an hour to live, and half of that is gone.”
“Make a deal then, before they savvy it,” advised Ed. “The squaw will let out a yowl when he dies.”
That was what I had feared. With my back to that little shelter, I had lived in dread of the Navajo mother’s wild wail.
“But, Citcili,” said Billa Chezzi, for the thirteenth time, “what will this poor woman do without her son? She will have no boy at home. The sheep will go untended, and—”
And for the fourteenth time I told him that matters of this kind must be settled at Washington, that far-away indefinite place where so few things are ever settled. Washington, to the Indian, has the force of a legend. It is one of the four Corner-Posts, the city of the Dalai Lama. The soldiers came from there when the Navajo were herded to the Bosque Redondo in ’63, and Billa Chezzi could remember that, if his cohort of sons and neighbors could not.
“Well then, she must keep the Hopi boy,” he decided. “He cannot go back to his people any more. She must have a son.”
When I glanced at the car I noted that four or five husky Indians would be leaning against it, talking with the stockman. He had taken the Hopi boy between his knees. I was afraid something foolish might occur, and went back. [321]
“They have been over here four times now,” he said; “But they haven’t quite got up the nerve to start anything.”
At least fifty Hopi Indians had gathered; they stood apart, watching and waiting.
“Have you men any money with you, cash?” I asked them.
The Hopi can always be counted on to have something for a rainy day, and it was very likely to storm.
“I’ve got five dollars,” said one.
“Get what you can from the others. One hundred will not be too much.” And then to others who were stockmen: “Have you fellows any cattle in this wash?”
“Our cattle are off there,” pointing.
“It’s this way,” I explained. “We can’t fight that gang. The boy will die soon. I’ll have to buy them off. How many steers can I have from your several bunches?”
This was quite in line with the Hopi method of dealing with the aggressive Navajo, who had oppressed them so long. They held a rapid discussion and came to quick decision.
“What you need for it,” said the spokesman.
“Understand: I don’t think Washington will approve of our being held up, and I will have you repaid, if that is possible.”
He nodded.
“Take some of the boys and round up those cattle. I may likely require seven or eight two-year-olds.”
By this time too they had collected a wad of bills. I went back to the Navajo and began talking again.
“Let us understand this,” I told Billa Chezzi. “This shooting was not like a fight between two men, enemies. These were boys—children. They may have been playing [322]together. It was an accident. Of course, that is a careless boy, and Washington doesn’t want him loose in this country. Sooner or later, he would likely hurt someone else. And I will send him to a place where he cannot hurt any more people. We have such places for bad boys.”
“But what will this poor woman do for a son?” he whined.
“You will have to find her a son from among the Navajo. She wouldn’t want a Hopi boy. Every time she looked at him she would think of this happening and be sad. That wouldn’t do. This is what I will do for the father and mother: I will get money from these Hopi, and what is lacking I will pay in cattle.”
A NAVAJO BOY WHO HAS NEVER BEEN TO ANY SCHOOL
There was a consultation among them. Some grumbled, but I knew that most of them would regard cattle as better property than a Hopi lad who would have to be watched. They saw too that the Hopi stockmen were busy rounding up the herd. Then they talked a bit with the trader, who was a man of good advices. Ed spoke to me:—
“They want to know if you will stay with the wounded boy until he dies—you and the doctor; and then will you have him buried?”
“Yes, we will attend to that.”
“And they want to know if you will pay them now, to-day?”
