Chapter Twenty
Even if he had the money for a ticket, Iron Knife would have been too cautious to board the train at Wartonville because he knew the law would certainly check the station. What to do? The easiest thing would be to give up, steal a horse from some isolated farm, and return to Colorado.
Iron Knife had never been one to take the easy route. Although he knew he risked disgrace and death if recaptured, he determined to finish his journey to Boston. It was worth risking his life to see his once in a lifetime love again in hopes that she would return with him to his beloved West.
Iron Knife stayed in the shadows until he was clear of the town, but he kept the distant railroad tracks in sight. The silver tracks gleamed in the moonlight as he ran through the darkness, his strong legs covering many miles.
Finally, he came across a water tower and knew that here the Iron Horse must stop in its journey to take on water. Perhaps he could steal a ride on a boxcar when a train heading east stopped for a few minutes. He hid under some bushes, rested, ate the meat and bread Serenity had given him and waited while the night air blew cool against his body.
It brought back memories, and he smiled, remembering the times on cool nights such as this, when he had lifted Summer to the broad back of his stallion before him. They had galloped through the darkness, his big arms holding her protectively while she leaned against him, her small, soft body fitting with his as if she were created for only that purpose. Her yellow hair was like loose, scented silk as he buried his face in it, kissing the nape of her neck. Finally, they had stopped, and he had slipped his hands under her loose deerskin shift, marveling in the satin of her skin, the heat of her breasts and belly. Just the feel of her against him made his maleness throb with wanting.
He had slipped from the stallion and held his hands up to her wordlessly. Come, my little one. Her gaze held his as she slid off into his embrace. Summer Sky was like a small, delicate treasure in his powerful arms as he carried her up to a snug haven in the rocks. There in the moonlight, they made leisurely love throughout the night, their bodies blending together in a rhythm of mutual ecstasy and pleasure over and over and over. . . .
A shrill whistle echoed through the blackness of the night, and he started, torn out of his memories. Somewhere in the distance, a train was approaching from the direction of Wartonville. He could hear it long before he could see its one yellow eye coming down the track. The sound of its whistle and chugging engine were followed by the scent of its burning wood and flying cinders.
Cautiously, Iron Knife waited in the underbrush and watched while the crew refilled from the water tower. In the windows of the coaches, he could see people; most of them asleep, a few looking out at the landscape. He had no way of knowing where this train was going, except that it was headed east. Somewhere east of here was this place called Boston, and that was all he needed to know. He must leave Missouri, where armed posses were even now scouring the landscape for him. Once he was out of this area, then he would worry about how to find the train that would take him to Boston. Iron Knife watched and waited until the train began to pull away from the water tower. He must not be seen by the crew as he got aboard. Carrying his small valise with his precious dog soldier costume, he ran toward the track as the train began to pick up speed, hoping to swing aboard one of the last box cars.
The train picked up speed faster than he had expected. He was running alongside, looking for an open boxcar door. If he didn’t get aboard and was outdistanced, the man in the caboose might spot him and alert the rest of the crew. How long would it take for a mounted posse to ride out to the area, hunt him down?
An open boxcar. He kept pace now and threw his valise in. The wheels thundered on the track as he raced along, knowing that if he slipped and fell beneath the rolling train, he would be cut to pieces, or lose an arm or leg. Iron Knife reached, grasped the rough wood of the door, running hard. With no one to help him, it would take tremendous upper body strength to swing up into the moving freight car. The train whistled again as it hit the straight away, picking up speed. Now or never! He gripped harder and swung himself upward. For a split-second, he hung between heaven and earth, the dirt moving beneath his feet at a dizzying speed. For a heart-stopping moment, he wasn’t sure he was going to make it. He envisioned himself falling beneath those giant wheels, being crushed to pieces, his scream lost in the thunder of the engine.
Then he seemed to see Summer’s beautiful face in his mind. He could not die now, not without seeing her one more time, holding her close again. With a mighty effort, he lifted himself up into the boxcar, then lay there panting. So far, so good! How far was it to Boston? Could he travel there before the posse caught him? He wouldn’t think about any of that right now; it was enough just to be aboard and headed east. Iron Knife stretched out in the soft hay of the boxcar and dropped off to sleep.
The whistling and the slowing of the train brought him out of his sleep abruptly. What was happening? He peered out the boxcar door into the pre-dawn darkness, saw many buildings and other trains silhouetted against the lights of a big town. They were coming into a major train yard. How long was it until dawn? He knew his chances of being seen and recaptured increased in the daylight. Iron Knife decided he would burrow down in the straw and hope that while the train stopped here, no railroad crew came along checking the cars for the tramps that sometimes rode the cars. With any luck, the train would soon be on its way again.
Hidden in the straw, he could only guess at what was happening as the train gradually ground to a halt. After a few minutes, the car bumped as it moved backward slowly. More bumping and screeching of wheels. He lay very still and waited. The dark of night was turning the deep gray of just before dawn, and the air was cold. He hoped the train would pull out soon, because in the daylight, the so-called railroad bulls might be checking the boxcars, throwing tramps off the trains, beating them up or tossing them in jail. He lay very still while the bumping and noise continued a few more minutes. Then the train whistled again. Iron Knife heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe they were about to be on their way again. He heard the train begin to chug out of the yard. His freight car didn’t shudder and creak; it didn’t even seem to be moving. He waited a few minutes, afraid to even think what the problem was.
The train whistled again. He could hear it picking up speed. Strange, it sounded far away. He crawled to the door and looked out. From a distance, the engine wailed again. His heart sank. The car he was in was among those that had been uncoupled, left behind. Now what? Prowling around the rail yard in daylight, attempting to hitch a ride on another train, he might be noticed by a crew member or the railroad bulls. Staying in this car was no good; these boxcars might be on this side coupling for weeks.
Clutching his valise, he crept off the train, across the rail yard. There were lots of trains with yellow headlights beaming down the tracks, silent boxcars on sidings, crews moving about. He had no idea what to do next in this bewildering confusion of people and trains. Even if he’d had the money for a ticket, he would have been nervous about drawing attention to himself by walking up to the counter, asking a lot of questions that most white people would surely know. In his cheap, badly fitting clothes, he was certain to stand out. Possibly the law wasn’t looking this far away in a big city for an escaped half-breed convict, but how was he to know? Iron Knife had already made a vow that he would fight to the death rather than be recaptured and put in chains or a cage again.
The weather was crisp with a touch of frost in the first gray light of the coming dawn. He was hungry, too. Carrying his small bag, he slipped across the train yard, through the maze of warehouses and empty boxcars sitting on side trestles. Trains huffed in and out of the station, and here and there, men worked loading or unloading boxcars. There was a big water tower near the tracks. In the gray light, he read the lettering: Saint Louis.
A big building loomed ahead, and people were thronging up and down the platform in the early morning rush, getting on and off trains. Could he mingle with the crowds and not be noticed? Certainly such a bold move would arouse less suspicion than lurking about the tracks where some crew member might see him and wonder.
He had faced death many times in battle, and he did not fear it; what he feared was disgrace or being caged like an animal again. Could he somehow get a message to Todd Shaw? He wasn’t sure what Todd could do to help him at the moment, and he would be leery of hanging around here very long for an answer, uncertain whether the law or the army might trace him that way. Somehow, he must find out which train might be going to Boston, and figure out how to sneak on board.
There was a bewildering number of trains in this rail yard, all pulling out in different directions. Could he somehow mingle with the crowds, listen to the people or loiter near the ticket window, see if he could hear something or read a train schedule that would help him? Taking a deep breath, he walked out onto the station platform, sauntering easily as if he had every right in the world to be there with his valise, as if he, too, were about to catch a train. The scent of bacon frying wafted on the crisp air from the station cafe. His belly rumbled, but he paid it no heed. He had been much hungrier than this any number of times out in the wilderness. His heart beating hard, he tried to appear casual as he walked into the station, then paused. There were crowds of people coming and going from the building, even though it was early morning. Saint Louis must be a big place. Certainly, just from what he could see of it, it must be bigger than Denver. Crowds of people pressing together like rats in a cage made him think of the prison wagon, and he shuddered at the thought.
He loitered near the line at the ticket counter, every sense alert for the possibility that a posse might even now be searching train stations for several hundred miles in any direction. Iron Knife watched the line move, attempting to read the bewildering schedule on the wall behind the counter. A man in a string tie sold tickets. “Next?”
A little old lady asked, “What’s the fare to New York?”
The clerk told her and she paid.
Iron Knife was too cautious to approach the clerk. He stood instead and listened.
A young woman with a whining child approached the counter. “Is there a train to Texas?”
The little clerk adjusted his string tie. “Yes, ma’am, but it’ll be this afternoon. It makes connections with our train coming in from back east that’s arriving in a few minutes.”
She nodded and left.
A portly man asked, “When’s the train to Boston coming through?”
“Sorry, delayed.” The clerk shook his head. “It’ll be two or three o’clock this afternoon at least, maybe a little later.”
The man frowned and left, grumbling.
Two or three o’clock. That meant he would have to climb on board a boxcar in broad daylight. In this crowded station, that would be difficult. He might do as he had done before, wait at some curve in the track way ahead for a chance to slip on board. How would he know which one of all these it was? In the meantime, with all these hours until the Boston train, what was he to do? Iron Knife wandered out onto the platform, still carrying his small bag.
He watched the comings and goings as orange and brown leaves swirled across the platform with the chilly winds that blew from the north. October, the month the Cheyenne called Seine: moon when water begins to freeze on edge of streams. It had been so many months since he had seen Summer Sky. Much might have changed; but one thing would never change, and that was his love for her.
His belly rumbled again, but he ignored his hunger. He must wait for that afternoon train, try to figure out which one it was and hitch a ride in a boxcar again. What to do in the meantime? Was it safer to find a hiding place in the empty freight cars or stay here, hoping he looked like any bored passenger waiting? Surely the law wouldn’t look for him in the midst of the crowded Saint Louis station; maybe they would think he had headed back west.
Iron Knife sat down on a bench out on the platform, trying to decide what to do next. Trains pulled in and out, puffing and whistling, showering the platform with cinders. People talked and called to each other as they hurried to catch a train or ran to meet people arriving. He imagined himself getting off the train in Boston, Summer running toward him with a glad cry. He shook his head, thinking again about what Serenity Peterson had said about sending the message and getting no reply. At the very least, he had to hear from Summer’s own lips that she no longer wanted to be his woman. If that happened, he wasn’t sure whether he could turn and leave, or would he throw her over his shoulder and carry her off? She was his woman, and he wouldn’t give her up without a fight.
Now the chill October wind blew the leaves around his feet as he watched a train from the east puffing into the station with its dirty smoke and shower of embers. It screeched like demons from hell as its big iron wheels slid along the steel tracks.
He watched with casual interest, wondering if that was the one that would connect with the Texas-bound train? He’d spent a lot of time in Texas; it would be a safer place for him to go, but it was the opposite direction from Boston. The conductor put down the step, and people began alighting from the train: an elderly couple, a drummer in a brightly checked suit, half a dozen soldiers in blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons. He stood up; soldiers made him apprehensive. He thought again about Sand Creek. It had been almost a year; yet he would always grow cautious now at the sight of a uniform or a badge. A long time ago, Texas Rangers had recaptured him and his mother, forced them to return to her white family. That had not been a happy time.
Were the soldiers staring at him? Perhaps he should leave this station. Picking up his suitcase, he began to walk slowly. Because his attention was centered on the blue uniforms, he bumped into a couple who had just alighted from the train. “Excuse me.” He brushed past them, hardly noticing as he walked.
“That’s all right, partner,” the man dismissed him. “Come on, Cimarron, what would you like to do until the train leaves this afternoon?”
Cimarron. Why did that pull at him? He turned and looked at the couple moving away from him as they started down the platform. The man was as tall and dark as he was himself and dressed in an expensive black Spanish short jacket with fine leather boots. Everything about him was a mixture of Spanish aristocracy with perhaps a touch of Indian thrown in.
“I don’t know, Trace,” the girl answered. “I reckon we could go into town and go shopping; at least, I’d like some breakfast.” She was pretty, with dark blond hair, and wearing a green wool traveling dress and a big hat with feathers and veils around the crown. Something about her caught his eye. It was only because she was pretty, he told himself, and possibly part Indian herself.
“Aw, darlin’,” her companion drawled, “the breakfast sounds muy bueno, but please don’t drag me around to ladies’ shops. Leave me in the cafe with a newspaper and coffee and you buy anything you want.”
“Oh, cowboy, you spoil me so!” The girl had her arm linked through the man’s, and she squeezed it while the man smiled.
“Why not spoil my bride? Besides, Cimarron, you know I can afford it.”
Cimarron. Cimarron. Cimarron. Iron Knife walked over and caught the beauty’s arm. “Excuse me, but—”
The girl recoiled in surprise. “Just who do you think—?”
“That’s my wife, mister, get your hands off her!” The man called Trace appeared as jealous and volatile as a volcano, his hand going under his vest as if he carried a hand gun.
“I mean no harm,” Iron Knife said hurriedly. “I—I thought I knew her; she looks like someone—”
“You don’t know her.” Trace made a dismissing gesture. “And, hombre, I’d advise you not to be grabbing respectable married ladies.”
“Now, Trace, I’m sure it’s a case of mistaken identity.” Cimarron straightened her sleeve and looked up at him.
Iron Knife’s heart seemed to stop. Did he know her? She was beautiful with her dark eyes and dark blond hair. Cimarron—it meant “wild one” in Spanish. Maybe it was a more common name than he thought, and yet, there was something about this girl. . . .
“You look like someone I know,” he said again, knowing he might be attracting the attention of the soldiers. Even worse, this big, handsome vaquero looked as protective and hot-tempered as a gun fighter.
Trace scowled. “Mister, I’m warning you; stop annoying my wife. Any man ought to know better than to touch a Texan’s woman.”
She was looking up at Iron Knife with increasing confusion. “Double damnation,” she murmured. “Who—?”
“Come on, darlin’,” Trace drawled, “I’ll get us a carriage.”
Texas. Cimarron. Texas and Cimarron.
She was still looking up at him, too. “Maybe . . . Do we—do we know each other?”
Trace looked from one to the other. “Just what is all this? Cimarron, you’ve never met this hombre; don’t let him annoy you or I might have to kill him!”
The moody rancher took her arm protectively, and they started walking away from him again. Iron Knife watched her walk. There was something about the shape of her face, the way she tossed her head. Texanna—just like Texanna. He hurried after the pair, his emotions and thoughts in confusion. “Ma’am, I must talk to you.”
Trace whirled, his hand reaching under his vest. “I told you—!”
“No, Trace!” She caught his hand, and Iron Knife knew the dark, moody cowboy must be as deadly as he looked. “Mister,” she said, “I must insist you leave us alone or I don’t know if I can control my husband—”
“Does the name Texanna mean anything to you?” He stared into her eyes. “If it doesn’t, I’ll leave you alone and—”
“Texanna?” The girl was looking up at him, and she was turning deadly pale. “W-who are you? That was my mother’s name!”
Texas. Texanna. Cimarron. He shouted out loud in his excitement. “Cimarron! Do you know me? I’m your brother! Do you know me?”
She was staring at him in bewilderment, and now he was so certain of the family resemblance, his words poured out. “I’m your brother. We left you in Texas; the town of Fandango! Our mother’s name was Texanna and our father was War Bonnet!”
For just a moment, he thought she would faint. Her face turned deathly pale, and she swayed so that her husband caught her and held her close. “Darlin’, are you all right? What’s this all about?”
“My brother! Oh, I barely remember!” She was weeping now as she buried her face in her hands, then threw her arms around Iron Knife. “Trace, this is my big brother, remember what I told you?”
He held her close while her husband looked from one to the other, then finally held out his hand awkwardly. “Well, stranger, I reckon I owe you an apology. And your name is?”
They shook hands. “Once I was called Falling Star, but I am now Iron Knife.”
Trace grinned as he tipped back his Western hat. “Well, Iron Knife, why don’t you go have breakfast with us and we’ll talk?”
Iron Knife was abruptly aware of people around them staring at the noisy reunion. “I—I’d like that.”
“Oh”—Cimarron caught his arm—“there’s so much I want to know; so much catching up to do!”
“Darlin’ ”—Trace smiled—“let’s not stand out here on the platform; let’s buy this man some steak and eggs and you all can talk at leisure. Our train doesn’t leave ’til this afternoon.”
The beautiful girl talked excitedly as Trace hailed a carriage. “Take us to the best cafe in town,” he ordered the driver.
Iron Knife had thrown caution to the winds now, so eager was he to talk to his sister. He would worry about his own problems later.
He hardly said anything, nor did the Spaniard until they were seated in a fine restaurant. His sister was the one who talked, her lovely face animated.
He watched Trace watch her. Evidently, the wealthy Texan adored her; it shone in his dark eyes. For the first time, he noticed that Cimarron wore expensive jewelry: blood red rubies, and a large diamond and ruby ring.
“All right, partner”—Trace grinned, as the waiter stood by—“you want a sirloin or a T-bone?”
He wasn’t certain what to order. “Whatever you’re having.”
Trace gave the order with a flourish. Evidently he was a man of wealth, used to having the best of everything. Within minutes, Iron Knife wrapped his hands around the warmth of a strong cup of coffee and savored it gratefully.
“Now”—Cimarron sipped hers and leaned forward—“I want to hear everything from the beginning.”
“There’s so much to tell.” Iron Knife drank the coffee and sighed with pleasure. “I don’t know how much you remember about the past.”
“Not much,” she admitted, “I was raised by an old preacher and his wife. When they died, I went to live with Aunt Carolina and her two fat daughters.”
Iron Knife frowned. “Yes, I remember Aunt Carolina; she didn’t like me.”
Cimarron laughed. “She didn’t like me, either. In fact, I had to leave Fandango when—well . . .” She smiled fondly at Trace. “How I ended up on the Triple D Ranch and became Senora Trace Durango is a long story in itself.”
“Tell me,” Iron Knife said as a steaming platter of steak, eggs and biscuits was placed before him. He and Trace dug into the food with hearty appetite, but Cimarron ate lightly as she told her brother everything that had happened to her over the past years.
The food was excellent, and Iron Knife tried not to wolf it down; but he ate with gusto as Cimarron talked. When all the food was gone, he pushed back his plate with a satisfied sigh and sipped his coffee.
“Double damnation,” Cimarron said, “I’ve talked your ears off; now it’s your turn.”
Iron Knife told her how, as a little boy, he and Texanna had been captured and forced to return to her white family. Texanna had been expecting a baby girl who was born months later. For five miserable years, the three had endured the prejudice of the little Texas town. “It all came to a climax the night Jake Dallinger tried to whip me to death, and about that same time, our father, War Bonnet, rode into town to rescue us.”
“Why did I get left behind?”
He shook his head. “There was a mob between us and the preacher’s house, so there was nothing to do but escape back to the Cheyenne. Then Texanna died and War Bonnet was killed by the Pawnee warrior, Bear’s Eyes.”
Cimarron blinked hard, and Trace handed her a handkerchief with a gentle gesture. “Are you all right, darlin’?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. “I didn’t know our parents were dead, but I reckon I’m not surprised. If they had been alive, I know they would have returned for me.”
Iron Knife patted her shoulder. “They meant to come for you; but they both died within a few months of each other, and I was just a boy. Once I grew up, I didn’t know where to look any longer.”
“You wouldn’t have found me,” she comforted him, “I’ve left Fandango. Trace and I were recently married.” Cimarron looked at her husband fondly. “I’m Cimarron Durango now.”
“This must be the season for reunions,” Trace mused. “Just before we left on this trip, we got a letter from my sister, Dallas. She’s been missing throughout the war, and we just found out she’s married and on a ranch in Arizona, the Wolf’s Den.”
“You know what?” Cimarron’s eyes lit up for excitement. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have a family reunion sometime? We could all meet at our ranch, the Triple D. We’re in the Texas hill country near Austin and San Antonio.”
Iron Knife’s mind had returned to his personal problems. “I would like that,” he said. “You’ve been back east?”
Cimarron nodded. “A honeymoon and business trip.”
“You know about trains? Which ones go to what cities?”
“Sí,” Trace said, and he looked puzzled by the question.
Iron Knife hesitated. How much should he tell them about his problems and where he was headed?
Cimarron was staring at him. “Brother, now that I think about it, what are you doing in a train station in Saint Louis?”
He hesitated again. He didn’t want to cause them any trouble.
Now they both seemed to be studying his cheap, ill-fitting clothing.
Trace said, “Amigo, I don’t like to pry, but if you’re in some kind of trouble, I want to help you.”
Cimarron reached out to put her small hand on his arm. “Trust us; what can we do?”
“I am a dog soldier,” he said proudly. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sí,”—Trace nodded—“but I am half-Cheyenne, also. Does not a brother help a brother?”
He looked into their eyes, knew he could count on them. They would not speak with crooked tongues. With a sigh, he told them everything that had happened.
They listened, concern in their eyes.
“So that’s it,” Iron Knife finished. “I don’t know if the law is looking for me, why this Saint Louis judge, Griswold, would want to jail me. Hershel Warton owns Wartonville, and I’m afraid he might cause trouble for Serenity Peterson.”
“Hmm,” Trace mused, “the Durangos have money and power, too; maybe there’s something I can do.”
“And if the train stops in that town”—Cimarron smiled—“I’ll buy a bunch of hats from this woman who helped you.” Her gaze seemed to look him over.
“Her dead father’s things,” Iron Knife explained. “I could hardly be seen in prison garb.”
“As big as Saint Louis is,” Trace said, “I reckon there’s plenty of men’s stores here.”
Cimarron’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. Trace, let’s dress my brother, buy him a ticket, get him on the right train—”
“I couldn’t let you do that.” Iron Knife shook his head.
“But of course you can,” Trace insisted. “It will be my pleasure; you have made my wife very happy this morning.”
“You men finish your coffee,” Cimarron said. “We’ve got a lot of shopping and visiting to do before we put Iron Knife on a train to Boston.”
He felt his eyes fill up, blinked rapidly. With all he had been through, it seemed almost like an answer to his prayers to cross his sister’s path here at the railroad station. Sometimes, maybe God stepped in. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Trace stood up, and shrugged off his gratitude. “You are my wife’s kin, sí? Blood runs thick among the Durangos. It is only fitting that we help you.”
So it was that over the next several hours, they visited and shopped in the best stores in Saint Louis. At first, Iron Knife was nervous about the soldiers, the occasional lawman, but it dawned on him that his sister and brother-in-law looked so prosperous that no one would dare to question them. Besides the lawmen were looking for a lone Indian, not three people on a shopping spree in Saint Louis.
Finally, it was afternoon, and they returned to the railroad station. Iron Knife now wore fine clothes and the most expensive and softest of boots. He had money in his vest and a ticket to Boston.
Trace lit a slender cigarillo as they stood waiting for the eastbound train. “Hombre, that’s a round-trip ticket,” he said, “so you can get back from there; there’s one for her, too . . . if she’ll come.”
Cimarron’s beautiful face clouded. “Oh, brother, is there a chance she won’t?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m going—to find out.”
He and Trace shook hands solemnly.
Trace said, “Good luck to you, amigo. Remember, you and yours are always welcome at our ranch. Just ask anyone in Texas for directions to the Triple D Ranch. Big as it is, anyone can tell you where our spread is.”
“Thank you,” Iron Knife answered warmly, “I think my sister is very lucky.”
“No, I’m the lucky one.” He slipped his arm around his wife and hugged her. “Where can we reach you if we ever need to?”
“I have a friend named Todd Shaw who works at the newspaper in Denver, and another friend there in Colorado Territory named Cherokee Evans.”
In the background, the train whistled and the conductor called, “All aboard!”
Cimarron made a little cry of dismay. “We can’t part yet; we haven’t had time to really talk!”
Iron Knife picked up his small valise and looked toward his train. “I’ll come visit you sometime.”
Cimarron’s eyes watered. “Are you sure?”
“I promise.”
Trace held out his hand and they shook again. “Iron Knife, remember, our place is yours. You ever want to come see us or need a favor of any kind, just ask.”
“I’ll remember that . . . friend.”
“All aboard!” echoed in the background.
Cimarron threw herself into Iron Knife’s arms, hugged him. “Vaya con Dios,” she whispered, go with God.
He held her close, thinking how much she looked like their mother. All these years, he had vowed he would find her and now she had found him. This had to be more than a coincidence. Iron Knife’s heart was at peace except for his own problems with Summer. “Cimarron, I’ll bring my family down to Texas sometime, and we’ll have a family reunion. I promise.”
“All aboard!” The train gave a warning whistle.
Iron Knife paused. There was still so much to say.
Trace cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’d better go, amigo,” he whispered. “You’ll miss your train.”
Cimarron smiled. “I’m so glad I found you after all these years. We’ll look into this thing about Warton, I promise, and try to help Serenity Peterson, too.”
“Thanks, sister. The great god, Heammawihio, must have made our paths cross each other’s today. And thank you, Trace.”
The train in the background shuddered, then began to move away from the platform.
Cimarron threw her arms around Iron Knife’s neck. “My brother; oh, my brother!”
He hugged her breathless. “We’ll see each other again. I promise! Hahoo naa ne-mehotatse.”
“What does it mean?” She was crying.
He wiped a tear from her lovely face. “It’s Cheyenne: thank you and I love you.” His own vision was blurring as he grabbed his small bag and ran for the moving train. Once aboard, he went to a window and waved to the couple on the platform until they were lost from sight.
Now he found a seat and relaxed. With money and fine clothes, he could travel in style, and no one would question him or connect him to an escaped convict in Missouri.
A face came to him, a beautiful heart-shaped face with pale blue eyes and yellow hair. Summer, his woman, his love. He must see her; must go to her. My once in a lifetime love, my Summer Sky. One thing was certain, the whole drama would come to a climax when he arrived in Boston!