Walks Alone

  Praise for Walks Alone

  “Compelling and heartfelt, Walks Alone is an extraordinary novel of hope, faith, and forgiveness in the great American west as cultures collide and a way of life fades forever. Author Sandi Rog is to be commended for her deft handling of one of history’s most heart-rending events, weaving a story of love and redemption in the midst of unimaginable tragedy and loss. An absolute treasure of history and heart!”

  Laura Frantz

  author of Courting Morrow Little and The Colonel’s Lady

  ~*~

  “In vivid, colorful tones, Rog brings a fading Cheyenne world to life, creating an Old West that is both familiar and unusual to lovers of historical romance. Walks Alone contrasts the abrasive reality of an ancient nation in its final hour with the tender passion of a warrior for his captive. It’s an irresistible love story that, alongside the knowledge of what brought the noble Cheyenne to their knees, will live long in the reader’s heart.”

  April Gardner

  best-selling author of Wounded Spirits

  ~*~

  “Walks Alone is a story that took me from the New York harbor to the mountains of Colorado, and I enjoyed every step of the way. Ms. Rog pens a tale full of emotion and conflict with characters so relatable I was sorry to see it come to an end. I will definitely be looking for more of her works. This is a story I’m happy to recommend!”

  Lynnette Bonner

  Author of Rocky Mountain Oasis, High Desert Haven, and Fair Valley Refuge

  ~*~

  “Ms. Rog delivers in shining a light on the Cheyenne tribe in this masterpiece. If only the teachers taught history like this in school! The setting, not to mention the characters, both vividly portrayed in this story, will transport the reader back in time. Walks Alone is a beautiful tale of love, hardship, forgiveness, and hope, along with a dose of acceptance. No matter what we’ve done, or how far we’ve run, Ma’heo’o’s (God’s) outstretched arms are always there, ready and willing to forgive us. Beautifully done.”

  Deborah K. Anderson

  monthly columnist for Christian Fiction Online Magazine

  ~*~

  “Walks Alone is a novel you will tell your friends they must read because it will open their eyes and touch them deeply. I highly recommend this book as a book club pick; it will start rich conversations and so much more!”

  Nora St. Laurent

  founder of The Book Club Network

  Sandi Rog

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  WALKS ALONE

  Copyright © 2012, Sandi Rog

  All rights reserved. Reproduction in part or in whole is strictly forbidden without the express written consent of the publisher.

  WhiteFire Publishing

  13607 Bedford Rd NE

  Cumberland, MD 21502

  ISBN: 9780983455646

  To my sisters, Kelli and Charis

  Dear Readers,

  I’m originally from Colorado and recently moved back to the States after living in Holland for thirteen years. But it took moving to the other side of the world to discover the truth about my home state and what happened to the Cheyenne Native American tribe, along with the Arapaho and Lakota tribes and other Nations, on the morning of November 29, 1864. This incident is known today as the Sand Creek Massacre.

  Most of the events in this story related to Colorado’s shameful past are true and accurate according to history—the massacre and its details (e.g. the toddler on the banks of Sand Creek), the popular saying in Denver “nits make lice” (a saying that made it acceptable for soldiers to murder innocent children), and some of Anna’s words and experiences when she’s abducted (taken from other white women who were abducted).

  Cheyenne Chief Laird Cometsevah (a.k.a. Whistling Eagle) has approved Walks Alone’s accuracy and is touched that a part of his tribe’s culture and history is being told. While the Sand Creek Massacre is a disturbing event, I hope to not only give the Cheyenne tribe a voice, but to shine light on the hearts of these people.

  Although my main character, White Eagle (a.k.a. Jean-Marc) is fictional, you’ll notice he comes strikingly close to resembling the real man George Bent (a.k.a. Beaver), half-breed son of William Bent, frontier tradesman. George Bent was educated in white schools, fought in the Civil War, was at Sand Creek during the massacre, and then became a Dog Soldier and fought in the Indian Wars. His father was a Christian and his mother was a Cheyenne native, and he struggled between their two beliefs. It’s because of George Bent that we are able to know not only the historical accounts of the Cheyenne, but also their cultural practices.

  Come with me now as you read a story of forgiveness and love, unleashed in a world of misunderstanding and hate.

  Sincerely,

  Sandi G. Rog

  Prologue

  November 29, 1864

  Sand Creek, Colorado Territory

  A drop of blood warmed his finger, and crimson stained the white snow as Jean-Marc bound three dead rabbits together. “Sorry to kill you, my friends, but Mother and Grandmother need to eat.”

  He tied the knot fast and rubbed his hand along the soft fur. The skins would make a good muff for Grandmother this winter. He’d seen many white women wear them; they looked warm, and his heveškemo deserved the best.

  He picked up the rabbits and added them to the other two he’d already tied together.

  Running Cloud trudged around a thick cottonwood with his latest kill, a prairie dog, hanging at his side. “The chief has trained you well.” He nudged with his chin toward the game Jean-Marc caught. “He’ll smile on your success.”

  “You didn’t do so badly yourself.” Jean-Marc gave an exaggerated wave toward the fowl and two rabbits dangling over his friend’s back. They hadn’t found any deer or antelope, but what they did find was better than nothing. Jean-Marc’s father would soon arrive from Denver City with supplies. Until then, he had to find other means to survive.

  Running Cloud stomped through the snow toward him.“Do you think Gray Feather will be impressed?”

  Jean-Marc chuckled and slapped his shoulder. “Take them to her father’s lodge and see.” Of course, they both knew Running Cloud’s current offering was meager compared to the young buffalo he’d delivered to their lodge just four moons ago.

  “And which woman do you plan to impress?”

  Jean-Marc smiled. “My mother.”

  Black Bear stepped high through a powdery snow bank, carrying game over his shoulder. Twenty winters out of his mother’s womb and a seasoned warrior, he wore the clothes of a brave with his tanned leggings, knee-high moccasins and silver armbands over his fringed buckskin shirt.

  If only Jean-Marc could wear the silver armbands of a warrior. That’d make him a hero, a man. But to reach such a lofty position of honor among his tribesmen was not to happen. Torn between the white man’s world and that of his tribe, he could never bring himself to fight against his own, let alone kill another man. Still, pangs of jealousy twisted in his gut. How would he ever become a man among the tribe if he refused to fight?

  Bow and quiver strapped to his back, Black Bear glanced up through the cottonwoods. “We should get back before the sun stands straight up in the sky.” His eyes flickered toward Running Cloud. “And before our mother starts to worry.” He strode past them.

  “We’ve only been gone one sun.” Running Cloud fell in step behind him. “She knows we’re hunting.”

  Jean-Marc glanced at Running Cloud and suppressed a smile. He knew Black Bear was merely attempting to annoy his younger brother, and by the scowl on Running Cloud’s face, it had worked.

  “We’re only three winters younger than you. Besides, we’re bringing food.”
Running Cloud stomped through the snow. “She’ll be pleased.”

  Jean-Marc jogged ahead and untied the large dog that pulled a small travois piled with game and thick buffalo robes. They dropped their latest kills on the stretcher. He tugged on the dog’s ropes and urged the animal forward.

  Bending down, Jean-Marc grabbed a fistful of snow. As he patted it firmly into a ball, he contemplated his target. Black Bear was quite the brave, but would he be able to avoid a hit from Jean-Marc? He whisked around, took aim, and tossed the snowball at Black Bear.

  Black Bear stopped. He looked at his chest, and then his eyes narrowed at Jean-Marc. He gathered his own snowball and threw it.

  Jean-Marc ducked, and the white mass sailed over his head, missing him. A smirk of satisfaction tugged his lips into a grin, and he laughed.

  All three tossed snowballs at each other. Eventually, they tested their strength to see who could throw the farthest. Snowballs sailed over the travois as the dog plodded ahead of them, until their fingers went numb from the cold. Drying his hands on his leggings, Jean-Marc walked backwards. His moccasins stamped a trail on endless acres of untouched snow.

  Heavy breathing broke the stillness as they trudged through the wooded valley. When they left the cottonwoods behind, a cold wind stung Jean-Marc’s cheeks, carrying an unfamiliar scent on the air.

  He stopped, taking in his surroundings. Patches of snow dotted the stark landscape, and white flakes drifted over the ground like a wave foaming at his feet. He held out his hand to catch the falling snow.

  Not snow. Ashes.

  Dread crawled up Jean-Marc’s spine. He lifted his face to the sky. A dark cloud swelled over the horizon, casting a shadow across the land. The black mass reached into the blue sky like a hand choking out the sun. He stared at the strange horizon. The village wasn’t in sight, but the smoke came from that direction.

  Fire.

  He sprinted toward his home.

  Mother. Grandmother.

  “What caused it?” Running Cloud shouted. “It’s too cold!”

  “It’s soldiers!” Black Bear raced ahead of them.

  The answer made Jean-Marc’s feet move faster. He charged over thick patches of snow and dead bushes. Cold slithered into his lungs, stretching icy fingers across his chest. But he kept running.

  Gunshots sounded in the distance. He tripped. The frozen dirt bit into his fingers and knees.

  Running Cloud yanked him to his feet.

  Again, he sprinted toward home. His chest heaved painfully from the cold, heaved with every intake of breath.

  Heaved.

  Gunshots exploded louder over the plains, forcing his legs to pick up their pace. Several tribesmen ran toward them.

  “Turn back!” someone shouted, and screams carried through the air.

  Others took cover with their children in half-dug trenches.

  Jean-Marc scanned the desperate people, searching for his mother. He looked for the colorful leather that dangled from her dark braids. The silver ring shining against her hand. Her buckskin dress with the blue and green pattern along its fringed hem. He didn’t see her among the people escaping.

  Voices shouted and screamed.

  Jean-Marc jogged ahead. Song Bird stumbled toward him, her clothes torn, her arms sagging in anguish.

  “Where’s my mother?” He grabbed Song Bird by the shoulders and shook her. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know!” Song Bird wailed. “They killed Gray Feather.” She crumpled in his arms. “My girl, my little girl!”

  Running Cloud appeared next to them, his almond eyes round with shock. “Gray Feather? Gray Feather is dead?”

  Jean Marc watched as Running Cloud’s shock turned to rage, a rage that matched his own. How could the soldiers attack? They knew this was a peaceful camp.

  Shots sounded through the air, and sand exploded nearby.

  “Take cover!” Jean-Marc pushed Song Bird toward safety and raced for the village.

  He had to help the innocent. He had to find his mother. This village was filled with women and children and very few braves.

  He stumbled toward the bank. A black cloud cloaked hundreds of distant lodges. Their burning scent invaded his nostrils. He dropped behind a snowdrift and rolled between thick underbrush, trying to find a safe place to hide and catch his breath. Running Cloud joined him. The acrid smoke hung in the air, and shots cracked above their heads.

  The cry of a young child rushed to Jean-Marc’s ears. He crawled on his belly and peered over the snowdrift between the dead brush. A small child stumbled along the other side of the bank, crying for his mother.

  Another shot fired. Sand and snow near the toddler’s feet spattered up from the ground.

  The baby screamed.

  “Let me try,” a white soldier said, coming up on his horse. He dismounted, knelt down and aimed his revolver at the toddler, then shot.

  Shrubbery against the bank split apart behind the baby. His black hair clung to the tears on his cheeks as he continued to wail for his mother.

  Jean-Marc watched the soldier. Nothing was real. He was in a dream, like when he’d try to run after the buffalo but his legs wouldn’t go fast enough. He forced himself to move and pulled an arrow from his quiver. His numb hands set the arrow against his bow.

  He pulled the bowstring so tight it cut into his fingers. The muscles in his arms hurt as he aimed at the soldier’s blue coat.

  He’d never killed a man before.

  He released the string.

  The arrow sliced through the air.

  Chapter One

  New York

  Almost there. Her new home.

  Freedom and grand dreams awaited, and Anna glided to them on a cloud across the ocean. The Vesta cut through waves as salt water sprayed her cheeks. Seagulls called above the sails that billowed into the sky.

  It’d been two long months since she’d heard or seen anything other than the same groaning ship, the same hard working bodies of officers and crew, and the same gray water stretching across the endless horizon.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and held her cap in place. Gulls soared above the towering masts and dove between the taut ropes that shot up and down on all sides of the ship. This was so much better than being tucked away in the cabin that rocked and creaked monotonously below deck.

  “Anna!”

  She turned to her father’s voice but saw only faces of other passengers.

  “Anna van Stralen!” her father called again.

  She spotted him on the other side of the deck. She ducked under a rope, dodged past a couple, and tucked herself under his arm.

  “There is it, my little one. America!” Papa whispered hoarsely through wind that whipped his blond hair above his collar. He hugged her to his side and pointed across the water.

  Anna gripped the ship’s railing and gazed through frigid air where mist rose to reveal a shadow of land in the distance. The scents of grasses, fresh water streams, and rich earth seemed to carry up like a faint vapor above the salty sea. What would it be like to have her feet on dry land again? She tried to imagine the trees and flowers, the cobblestone streets and houses, wondering how much they’d resemble Holland.

  “There was your mother born long ago.”

  “Why are you speaking English, Papa?”

  “I told you, when on America we arrive we must speak English. So, now we begin.”

  Anna giggled.

  He squeezed her close. “It were many years since I’ve used these words. Too many,” he added with a shake of his head. “For this day on we speak English. The language of your mother.”

  “Ya, Papa.” Even though she’d studied English, the thought of not speaking Dutch seemed strange to her.

  “You are smart girl. You receive good schooling here. I make sure of it.”

  Sails whipped in the wind above their heads, and she huddled close to her papa.

  He coughed into his kerchief, his breath evaporating into the c
risp air.

  “Maybe we should go below deck, Papa? De wind blows strong.” Her tongue stumbled in her mouth every time she tried to hiss a “th” sound past her teeth. She’d struggled with it since trying to learn the language, and she hoped now that she was in America and surrounded by English, she’d master it.

  “No, we are staying here. I dream of this moment for long time. We live in Denver City. Near the beautiful Rocky Mountains.” He sighed. “You never saw mountains like in Colorado Territory. We raise cattle. I plan it all.”

  Anna grinned. They’d had countless conversations about their plans. She hugged him tighter at the thought of finally nearing their dreams.

  “The Lord bring us so far.”

  Anna nodded, knowing full well they were spoiled by God. He always looked out for them. And she had no doubt He’d make their dreams come true. Despite never knowing her mother, Anna didn’t feel like anything was missing in her life. She had everything she needed. As her father said many times, God always looked out for them.

  “Mr. van Stralen,” Mariska’s voice called from behind them in Dutch. Anna’s nanny pulled her heavy cloak closed against the breeze. “Would you like me to take Anna below deck?”

  “No, that’s not will be necessary.” He waved her away. “This is special moments with my daughter.”

  Anna nestled under his arm for warmth. Speaking the new language felt like a game. She giggled.

  “It’s a bad time in the East,” another passenger bellowed in Dutch to his friends as they walked by. “The North and South are still at war.”