Like huge white sails drifting slowly forward, the wagon train inched across the plains. The spoked wheels dug deeper into the already rutted trail, and the swaying motion of each wagon only added to the sensory effect of sailing ships across a golden sea. The journey had already been long, and the train was no where near its final destination.
Along beside the wagon train, near the back of the caravan, rode Buck Cross.
He much preferred the company of the travelers to the obnoxious wagon train
leaders. He was merely a guide; the leaders of the train only tolerated the
half-breed Kiowa, but the feeling was quite mutual.
The dust of many wagons before him followed Buck and his horse like a fog, but he didn't notice. During the daily trek, Buck's mind often drifted to the past, where memories assailed him and problems, still unresolved, plagued his mind.
When the Pony Express ended, and Buck's "family" had disbanded, the young man had no clue what to do next. His "home" at the mission orphanage was not an option. He briefly considered drifting, but his only real ties to the white world had either passed on from this life or moved on with theirs. Despite Kid and Lou's profuse welcome, Buck hesitated to crowd into the newlywed's household. Because he could align himself with neither side of the conflict between the states, joining the militia wasn't an option either. Instead, Buck found himself searching out the very same Kiowa tribe that had alienated him as a child.
Unfortunately, Buck soon realized that his former tribe was even more unwelcoming to him as an adult. Even his brother, Red Bear, had difficulty accepting him and constantly reminded Buck of his new "white ways." If being half-white had ostracized him within the tribe before, it created unbridled hostility now that he had become a man. Rejoining his tribe had only served to make him realize that he felt stronger ties to the white within him than the Kiowa. Buck was both surprised and despondant; he was a man without a home in either world. With grim determination and a lack of options, he decided to make a home with the Kiowa despite his restlessness.
The Kiowa's deep resentment of white settlers had only blossomed over the years
that Buck had been away. Red Bear led his tribe in this hostility, in both action
and attitude. After first rejoining his tribe, Buck tried to think of their
attacks as noble, that they were merely protecting what was rightfully theirs,
but that became impossible as he watched innocent whites die needlessly in the
name of war.
After months of discontent, Buck was forced to face his distaste for battle
when his tribe attacked a lonely homestead. The warriors pulled a woman with
light red hair outside as they burned the house and barns. Though it was not
the same woman from his Pony Express days, the victimized woman reminded him
enough of Emma to sicken him as he watched her murder. The chilling distaste
filling Buck was only magnified as he watched Red Bear scalp the strawberry
blonde hair
from the woman's head. Buck could no longer stomach the slaughter of innocents;
he could no longer be a part of it.
Buck Cross told the tribe farewell with little emotion. Even Red Bear appeared relieved at his half-brother's departure. He felt drained, numb and once again, lost. Buck's heart cried out for acceptance and a home, but he had no hope of finding either. 'Why can't the Kiowa and the white man get along?' his anguished mind screamed, but there was never an answer. He was both Kiowa and white, yet he was neither.
Buck became a drifter, much to his chagrin. Flashes of bloody settlers and burning homes tortured his mind as he moved from town to town, finding temporary work. Nightmares filled his sleep with distorted images -- the faces of those he'd help murder would become that of his Pony Express family. He'd awaken both sickened and remorseful.
A shout from the head of the train shook him from his reverie. "Cross!!" the wagon master called with urgency.
Buck dug in his heels, urging his mount to a gallop. The train had stopped at the wagon master's signal. He reigned in beside his boss, Joe Franklin. "What do you make of that?" Franklin asked, indicating the approaching group of Indians. "You know them?"
Buck gave the man a look of exasperation. "Do you know all whites?"
Franklin's face turned somber as he ignored the question. "Do we start shooting now or are they peaceful like?"
"We can't know that until they're closer," Buck stated, gazing at the approaching band. He could no more tolerate injustice toward the Indian than he could the white.
As the group approached, Buck could see a young white boy riding between the
braves. His dark head was tucked, but he rode the horse solidly. The young
man's seat on a horse triggered memories of Lou, but Buck quickly shook off
the thought and concentrated on the confrontation at hand.
"I wouldn't start shooting until you find out who the white boy is," Buck supplied.
Franklin nodded grimly, his hand near his holster. "We're here to protect the people on this train," he pointed as a sharp reminder.
"I'm aware of that," Buck agreed tersely.
Buck noted that the group was Pawnee. Though wary and aware of the whites, they kept eyes focused on Buck.
"You are Running Buck?" the Indian leader asked.
Buck's adeptness at the Pawnee language was mediocre at best, but he recognized his name easily. His only response was a nod.
The Pawnee brave pointed to the young boy. "We found him in our sacred land, lost. He say looking for you."
Buck stumbled briefly over the words. "How did you know me? Why did you not kill him?"
A wry, wistful smile crept over the dark Pawnee face. Buck hazarded a glance at the kid, but his chin was still tucked to chest. "Most of us left on the plains know of the half-Kiowa brave who now brings whites onto our land. We don't like you, but we know you. And as far as the boy, we don't kill innocents, no matter what color skin."
Buck nodded solemnly, his mind reeling from the honest exchange. He was so caught up in appropriately phrasing his reply, he missed seeing Franklin reach for his weapon.
Suddenly, the boy whipped out his pistol, aiming it at the wagon master's chest. "No call for that," the low voice spoke quietly.
Again, a faint glimmer of memory tickled the back of Buck's mind. The lad's low voice reminded him of a once disguised feminine voice from his past. Buck's eyes squinted as he studied the boy. The glint of sunlight off the edge of the youth's glasses exploded in Buck's brain as recognition dawned.
Buck immediately drew his own gun, but was shocked at the child's swiftness.
That draw at once reminded him of Jimmy. Buck also felt surprise that he had
failed
to note Franklin's movements; he had been too caught up in assessing the "boy."
The Pawnee stared alternately at the young man and at Buck, who had both moved to defend them.
"We judge character well," the Indian leader again spoke with a nod. "Come," he instructed his men.
Buck watched as the band turned their mounts to ride away. After dealing with
Franklin, he'd be happy to solve the mystery of this youth that reminded him
of
Jimmy, Lou and Kid all at once.