Cheyenne Splendor

Book 12: Panorama of the Old West

by Georgina Gentry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

"Nobody does it like (Georgina Gentry) does!"— Barbra Critiques Before the white man came, the vast plains belonged to the Cheyenne. And Boston debutante Summer Van Schuyler belonged to the magnificent half-breed, Iron Knife. She'd come to him as a captive, defying her heritage to stay by his side. "The multi-talented Ms. Gentry delight(s) readers." — Romantic Times But war clouds were gathering on the horizon. . . and tragedy soon forced Summer to return to her privileged world. With sorrow in her heart, she left her wilderness paradise and Iron Knife's loving arms. . . unaware that treachery would keep them apart. "Strongly crafted characters. . . sizzling sexuality. . . what more can a reader yearn for?" – Rendezvous Iron Knife had two passions: his freedom and Summer. Now he'd risk capture in an alien territory to find her again. The trail was fraught with danger; the journey challenged his heart and soul. But the proud warrior knew that the aristocratic beauty was his destiny. . . and he'd fight to the death for the splendor of her forbidden love.

Release date: May 16, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

Late November, 1864

He wanted to make love to her. In the glow of their cozy tipi fire, the Cheyenne half-breed, Iron Knife, watched Summer curled asleep in the hollow of his big shoulder. He cuddled her closer and gently brushed a yellow lock of hair from her forehead, studying her heart-shaped face. Summer had grown even prettier and more precious to him in the six years that she had been his woman.

What an unlikely pair, he thought as he leaned over to kiss her lips. That long-ago day when the rich Boston debutante had been stolen from a stagecoach, Iron Knife had fought a fellow dog soldier, Angry Wolf, for possession of the beauty. First, Summer had been Iron Knife’s captive, but gradually, he was the one who became a prisoner . . . of desire.

Summer sighed and smiled in her sleep. Encouraged, he glanced around at their three small children snuggled down in their buffalo robes, safe and warm against the Colorado chill. All their little ones were asleep. The cold wind whipped around his lodge, and he pulled the fur robe up around Summer’s shoulders, enjoying the feel of her soft body against his big one. They both liked the touch of fur against their bare flesh and sleeping naked in each other’s arms. He wanted her, but he had not made love to her for months now. They must not have another child soon. Having her in his arms, yet not being able to possess her completely, made him think of nothing else.

He pulled her naked body against him and began to kiss her lips. They parted slightly, and he caressed them with his tongue, holding her against him so that he could feel her full breasts and the heat of her belly and long legs.

Summer stirred in her sleep, and he leaned over and kissed the tip of her. nose. “Ne-mehotatse,” he whispered. Her pale blue eyes flickered open and she smiled up at him. “Shh! I love you, too, but you’ll wake the children.”

“They’re all sound asleep.” He held her even closer, thinking her eyes were the exact color of a summer sky. He caressed her with the tips of his fingers as he tangled his other hand in her long yellow hair and moved so that he was half on top of her. His pulse began to pound strongly, and he felt his manhood swell with urgency. He wanted her, and he felt her pulse quicken, knew from years of making love to her that she desired him, too. “They’re asleep,” he said more urgently, and kissed her, deeply, thoroughly.

She managed to pull her mouth away. “They won’t be for long if we keep whispering.” She threw one arm across him and laid her face against his brawny chest, feeling warm and safe in his powerful arms. He was a muscular, virile warrior who would kill any man who touched her or even looked at her with lust in his eyes. When Angry Wolf had tried to rape her by a secluded stream, Iron Knife had fought him to the death.

He was kissing her again. She knew she should protest and pull away, but it felt so right; so good to have his mouth tasting hers, his hard, calloused hands stroking her naked skin until she felt her pulse pound and her nipples harden. They used to make love a couple of times a night, she thought with regret, but they must not make another baby yet. It was the Cheyenne custom to nurse a child three years, and with Summer producing three children in four years, hers might have starved if Pretty Flower Woman had not helped. So this time, Summer was determined that until her baby girl, Garnet, was past two, they would not make love completely. To do without Iron Knife’s skillful and gentle lovemaking was creating tremendous strain on both of them, and yet, Iron Knife had vowed he would not take a second wife as most of the Cheyenne warriors did.

More than six years had passed since that day she had been kidnapped from a stagecoach, then turning her back on the life of a prominent Boston society girl and becoming the dog soldier’s woman. The fine white leather dress with the one thousand elks’ teeth that she had worn in the ceremony was safely tucked away. She only wished they could be married in the custom of her people, too. She smiled up at him, not wanting to think about the stress their relationship had been placed under by the renewed trouble between the whites and Indians —and their abstaining from lovemaking.

“I am lucky to have you,” he murmured and held her close against him.

She looked up at him in the glow of the tipi fire. Even with a broken nose and battle-scarred face, he was handsome. His raven black hair was pulled into a braid on the left side, and he wore a big brass button from a dead cavalry officer’s uniform as an earring in his right ear. He was naked except for the eagle bone whistle he wore around his neck in the manner of all dog soldiers.

She felt the hardness of his manhood pressing against her body. Iron Knife was a virile man and needed a woman often. He was skillful with his lovemaking and had taught her passion that, as a staid Boston debutante, she had not realized she was capable of. That was part of the problem, she thought regretfully, as she ran her fingertips over the sun dance scars on his naked, sinewy chest and looked up into his handsome, scarred face. Iron Knife could make her forget that they shouldn’t make love. When he took her in his arms and began to kiss her, she lost all resolve and all reason. Summer took a deep breath and managed to pull back. “Pretty Flower says you should take a second wife the way most other Cheyenne do.”

“Would you like that? It would keep me from rubbing all over you like some aroused stallion, wouldn’t it?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” The thought of him touching another woman made her wince. Many Cheyenne warriors had a second wife for that reason. However, she and Iron Knife had too big a passion for each other not to lose control, so besides their oldest, Lance, there was his younger brother, Storm Gathering, and the baby, Garnet.

Each time, Pretty Flower Woman, cousin Two Arrows’ wife, had helped Summer nurse the children when Summer’s milk began to dry up. Garnet was almost two years old now, and the thought of doing without Iron Knife’s lovemaking for another year was almost unbearable. More unbearable was the thought of him making love to another woman while Summer lay in the same lodge, pretending to sleep while he mated with a Cheyenne wife or a captive Indian girl. “Have you—have you been looking at some of those captives? I’ve seen the way they look at you.”

“It won’t happen,” he reassured her. “I love only you, and you know it, Little One.” He combed his fingers through her yellow hair; then his hand came down and cupped her breast.

He breathed heavier, and his palm felt like fire against her nipple. It didn’t seem fair that he had taught her passion and now they must do without. It was the custom among his people to take the first wife’s younger sister as a second, but of course, among the whites, that was a scandalous idea. Summer reached up and traced her finger across the hard planes of his dear, dark face. She knew every inch of his virile, muscular body from his whip-scarred back to the sun dance scars on his broad chest. He was powerful and dangerous, but with her, he was always tender and gentle.

“I want you,” he whispered urgently against her ear.

“You can only kiss me,” she whispered.

“I want more than that.” His voice was husky with its urgency, and his hands shook as he pulled at the drawstrings of her doeskin bodice.

“We’ve been through this before and you know the answer.” Was she almost angry with him because he was so insistent or was it only because she wanted him so much? She ought to turn over and stop this right now, and yet she actually ached for his touch. His big hands squeezed her breasts up to two points, and then his mouth claimed them, teasing her nipples with his tongue as his hand stroked its way down her belly. Her loins felt on fire, and she had never wanted him as badly as she wanted him at this moment. She must not let this go any further, and yet she had seen the way pretty Cheyenne girls and captives from other tribes had looked at him, running their tongues along their lips, thrusting out their bosoms so that he would notice. If she didn’t satisfy him, some other woman might.

She let her thighs fall apart and reached to touch his big manhood. It was rigid and throbbing with unspent seed. He groaned at the touch of her hand.

“You hot little vixen,” he said against her ear, “you make me want to forget everything, fall on you and mate with you like a bitch in heat.”

In her mind, she imagined him taking that passion to another woman, his lean hips driving deep as he mounted some willing girl. The thought of his taking a second wife and sharing his love drove her crazy with jealousy. She dug her nails into his wide shoulders and kissed his mouth, running her pink tongue deep into his throat, teasing him into sucking it still deeper. He kissed his way down between her breasts and concentrated on her belly, kissing and blowing his warm breath on her pale skin, running his tongue around her navel until she shook with the wanting of him. “Please. . . .”

“Please yes or please no?” He was trembling, his manhood hard as stone. She wanted him on her and in her, thrusting hard into her very core. She wanted to claw his back and lock him in her legs, pull him down on top of her for a passionate ride.

“We—we mustn’t.” Was she reminding him or herself?

She reached up to bite his nipples, and he gasped aloud. “Don’t do that, Summer, you’ll make me lose control. . . .”

She was frustrated and angry that she couldn’t have him, that he could only tease her with his kisses and hands. She held her breath and felt his mouth warm and wet on her belly, then on her thighs. Was he going to kiss her there?

Almost in answer, he commanded, “Let your thighs fall apart, I’m going to pleasure you, Little One.”

He was arrogant and confident, all male; yet he adored her now with his lips. It was the supreme compliment, she knew. His seeking mouth was hot, his tongue thrusting and wet. She tangled her fingers in his dark hair. “N—no, don’t do that.”

“You like it and you’re mine.”

Waves of white-hot ecstasy began to sweep over her as he loved her with his mouth. She pulled his dark face against her body, arched her back, breathed heavily through her mouth and convulsed with passion. “No, don’t . . . don’t stop!”

She didn’t care about anything else as long as she could get his pulsating manhood in her. She was struggling to pull him on top of her when she climaxed from his deep kisses.

When she came to, he was looking down into her face intently, breathing hard. “How I want you!” He sounded frustrated and angry.

She lay there looking up into his passionate, dark eyes, feeling guilty because he had pleasured her and there were so many women he could use to satisfy his body in this camp. “I’m sorry, dearest.”

“It isn’t your fault, you little she-cat, that I want you so. You’d keep me drained of seed and your belly swollen continually if I loved you as much as I wanted.”

She reached out and clasped his rigid manhood in her hand, and he gasped. His mouth covered hers again, and she tasted the essence of herself on his lips. “I—I’m only human, Little One, don’t do that.”

She stroked him instead.

He moaned. “I have to fight to keep from taking you every night when I am lying here with you in my arms, feeling your breasts all swollen with milk, your small body burning hot.”

She rubbed her nipples against his chest, teased his big manhood with her fingertips. “Iron Knife; you’re aptly named.”

“Stop that or I’ll lose control,” he protested.

She didn’t stop; she kept teasing him with her hand until he began to rut against her belly.

Iron Knife felt the rising surge as he rammed against her until he couldn’t hold back any longer and wasted his virile seed against her abdomen. Then he lay next to her, shaking, a bit angry, his desire still not completely satisfied. For a split second, he had been tempted to grab her, thrust his manhood deep inside her where it belonged. He had struggled with that overpowering temptation and finally regained control at the last moment. Summer Sky was his woman and he wanted her a dozen times a day, but he must not dry up her milk again with little Garnet needing it.

Out on the war trail, they occasionally captured a pretty enemy Crow, Ute or Pawnee girl who knew she was expected to let the braves pleasure themselves with her ripe body. If she pleased one enough, she might be chosen as a second wife. Only a few suns ago, Iron Knife had watched a hunting party taking turns on a big-breasted Pawnee captive, and she had invited him with her dark eyes to lie between her thighs. Oh, he had been tempted. His manhood ached as he watched the other warriors rutting on the girl, and they urged him to enjoy her, too. He almost succumbed to the overpowering need and lust of mating, but he loved Summer Sky too much. Yet this abstinence kept him as short-tempered as a deprived buffalo bull.

He glanced down at the beautiful blonde in his arms. Summer was already asleep. He held her very close, pulled the buffalo robe over them both and kissed her cheek. She was his mate, and he would protect her and love her until the day he died. His once in a lifetime love. Summer had given up wealth and an aristocratic fiance to share a half-breed’s life of hardships. He wondered now if she regretted the choice she had made. Nothing, not torture, death or injury frightened him. He was a carrier of the Hotamtsit, the ceremonial rope carried by only four of the bravest dog soldiers; the ones expected to sacrifice their lives in a brave gesture if need be.

Only one thing terrified him: that someday he might lose Summer Sky; that someday she might regret the choice she had made and go away forever. No, he wouldn’t lose her, even if it meant he had to hold her captive. She was his woman and he would never let her go.

Long after she was asleep, he lay staring into the darkness. There was growing trouble and tension between whites and Indians because all those gold seekers coming into Colorado were scaring off the game and digging mines on traditional Indian lands. It was as if the natives had no rights at all, and yet, he was himself half-white and not certain he could ever paint himself for war against them. Why, only a couple of weeks or so ago, he had rescued a blinded soldier, Cherokee Evans, and helped him get back to his little mining town in the mountains.

Lately, some of the young warriors had been sneaking off to attack whites, and the old chiefs were almost powerless to stop them. Black Kettle was attempting to make peace with the whites, return the captured white women and children, but the hot-headed young braves had been ranging all over Colorado Territory, Kansas and Nebraska, leaving death and destruction in their wake. It upset Summer Sky, he knew, to have these young braves riding in with a white scalp and boasting of burning a stage station or an isolated ranch. Those actions had caused increased tension between the couple, even though Iron Knife was not guilty of these attacks.

He frowned in the darkness. If things didn’t change, might his beloved Summer Sky possibly take his children and return to her own people? Could he bear to make her unhappy, hold her against her will if she should make that decision?

He listened to the steady breathing of the three children. Their sturdy oldest son, Lance, would soon be five years old. The handsome boy looked white with his mother’s pale blue eyes, but his hair was as black as a raven’s wing. Storm Gathering, who was almost four, looked every inch the small, sturdy Cheyenne warrior. Their baby girl, Garnet, was a toddler, not yet two. She had hair as dark and skin as light as Lance’s, but her eyes were like deep, dark pools.

Iron Knife saw the future and it troubled him. The whites were sweeping like a great tide across his people’s hunting grounds. Iron Knife had been named for the weapon he carried, the broken blade of a cavalry officer’s saber, whom he had killed in one of the earlier Cheyenne battles against the white soldiers. In the long run, the situation would only get worse; he knew that. This Civil War he’d heard about was slowing the white men’s invasion, but that could not last forever. Then the whites would come to the West in ever-increasing numbers. The old way of life would have to change—unless the Cheyenne fought back. Would he lose Summer if he fought her people? He felt torn between two terrible choices, and there was no good answer.

It was almost morning when he finally dropped off to sleep. He was awakened by Summer stirring in his arms and getting up to nurse their baby. He liked to watch her with their children and know that each one had been a product of their love. That made him think of holding her, kissing her again, and he sighed with frustration.

He got up and walked to the creek to bring back water. The Cheyenne would not use water that had sat all night; it had to be dipped fresh from the creek each morning. This was considered woman’s work, but the weight was heavy and the weather cold. Summer was small and delicate, and he could not watch her struggle under such a weight, so he did it for her. No man laughed at the big dog soldier behind his back, although he knew they might wonder why he did it. He loved Summer Sky enough to do anything to keep her with him always—make her happy. He had a good fire going outside by the time she came out and began to prepare food.

“The children are still asleep,” she yawned.

“If you were back in Boston,” he said, feeling guilty, “servants would be running to bring you anything you wanted, and all you would have to do with your day is decide which fine dress to wear.”

She smiled and poked up the fire. “It was really a bother to wear those corsets and hoop skirts.”

“Do you never miss your old life, Little One?”

“Not much; only when I think there’s going to be fighting or the food runs a little short.”

“I am the best hunter in the camp,” he reminded her. “The soldiers and the miners are driving away the game.”

She put her small hand on his arm. “I don’t blame you, only sometimes. . . .” She sighed. “I wish we could live in peace with the whites and I didn’t have to deny you. Sleeping in your arms every night reminds me of why I stayed.”

“I wish I could promise that things will get better, but you know I can’t.”

Summer shrugged. “You are my forever love.”

“Nothing is forever, maybe, but the mountains,” Iron Knife said, looking toward the tall peaks to the West.

“Then you are mine for as long as it lasts or until you get tired of me and add a second woman to your lodge.”

“Don’t talk like that.” He shook his head, watching the camp come to life in the cold dawn. Horses whinnied, dogs barked. Women passed among the tipis as they went about their chores. In the winter, there was not a lot to do except hunt a little, tell stories around the camp fires at night, and make love to one of your women. He felt frustrated again, remembering last night and wondering if their union could survive another year with Summer sleeping in his arms and him unable to mate with her.

He watched little Bear Cub cross the camp, picking up sticks for his mother’s fire. How old was he? Nine winter counts? Maybe ten? Bear Cub was a favorite of everyone because the child was a gifted artist and painted scenes of hunting and warrior deeds.

Summer paused, and glanced over at him. “Why do you frown, dearest?”

“I’m thinking about all the tension that has been building between the tribes and those miners and settlers. The war among your people can’t last forever. What will happen when it is over?”

“Is there no end to our two people killing each other?”

“I thought my people were your people?” He studied her keenly.

“Remember that my people are also your people,” she reminded him with a frown. “Was not your mother, Texanna, stolen from a Texas wagon train by the great chief War Bonnet?”

He conceded that with a nod. “I have been among the Cheyenne so long, sometimes I forget I am half-white. In my mind, I am only Cheyenne.” Five years he had lived among the whites after he and his expectant mother had been captured by the whites and forced to live among them. He thought again of his small sister, Cimarron, left behind in the confusion of fleeing that Texas town when he and his mother had been rescued by War Bonnet and taken back to the Indians. His parents had both been dead for a long time, and it saddened him that he didn’t know the fate of his little sister. Cimarron; it meant “wild one.” Cimarron would be grown now—if his younger sister was still alive.

Summer dished up some cooked meat. “I worry about what is happening to us with this talk of my people and your people. Isn’t there some way to stop this conflict?”

He snorted. “Easier to chase the water from the river. I told you when you decided to stay with me what you were facing.” He thought, She’s regretting her rash action, regretting giving herself to a savage in a primitive land.

“If the whites will only go away and leave us alone—”

“That’s not going to happen,” he snapped.

“Well, neither will the young warriors killing ranchers and their women and children solve anything.”

“The whites kill ours, too,” he reminded her pointedly.

“That’s true. Sometimes I wish. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and he saw the regret in her pale blue eyes. What was it she wished? That she had never met him? That she had married Austin Shaw, the rich cavalry lieutenant she had been engaged to? That she and her children were safely away from here?

Dogs barking signaled someone coming. Children and old people gestured, heads turned. Iron Knife automatically reached for the big knife in his belt, the one that had given him his name. Now he relaxed and smiled as he recognized the rider. “It’s one of the Bent boys.”

Summer shaded her eyes with her hand. “William Bent’s sons from the trading post?”

Iron Knife nodded as he rose. “I’ll go see why he’s here.”

In a few minutes, he was back, face grim. “He says he’s seen Jake Dallinger.”

Her reaction was one of surprise and fear. “Jake Dallinger is out of prison?”

“Yes, and in Denver.” Cold anger washed over him. He had many reasons to hate the scout, not the least of which was the life-and-death fight they had had that spring day of 1859 when Dallinger had tried to abduct and rape Summer. Iron Knife had gelded the brute, and the army had taken Dallinger away to prison.

“What else did the Bent boy say?”

“There’s talk around Denver that some of the whites are angry that we are trying to make peace before they can take revenge. Some of them won’t be satisfied until there’s much Indian blood shed.” He looked up at the sun. “I have some things to do, but I could be there about dark.”

“Be where?”

“I think I’ll ride into Denver—”

“Iron Knife, no!” She caught his arm. “It might be dangerous!”

He patted her hand. “I’ve lived with danger all my life, Little One. Dog soldiers don’t expect to die of old age, especially a carrier of the Hotamtsit. Besides, I told you about the ceremony of the badger that I went through as a young man.”

“You don’t believe that silly ceremony can really tell the future, that you aren’t going to live to grow old?” She looked half-incredulous, half-scared.

“Yes, I do believe; it is a sacred ceremony of our people, not ‘silly’ as you think.”

“I didn’t mean that.” She looked away.

“Sometimes people blurt out their true thoughts,” he said. Maybe the bridge between their two cultures was too wide to be bridged even by love, he thought sadly, watching her. Maybe he should never have taken her as his woman. “Perhaps I can find out something from Cherokee Evans, that soldier I helped, or maybe your old family friend, Austin’s brother.”

“Yes, Todd Shaw would know what’s happening since he works at the Rocky Mountain News. ” Summer shook her head. “But you shouldn’t go to Denver. With all this trouble these past few months, the whites are so nervous, they might shoot you on sight.”

“Or lynch me,” Iron Knife said. “Raiding war parties have cut off Denver’s supply lines for weeks. I hear there aren’t any stages or wagons going in and out. There should be shortages of food soon.”

Summer looked both saddened and a little angry. “So women and children go hungry while men fight!”

“War is always that way,” he reminded her as he set his bowl to one side. “Remember, the whites are killing our women and children, too. I fear when this Civil War of theirs finally ends, they will again concentrate on wiping us out.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes were filled with uncertainty. Instead, she played absently with the little gold locket around her neck, the last souvenir of her civilized life. Did she have regrets? Even now, she could probably return to Boston. There would be white men who would want her wealth; but they probably wouldn’t want her three mixed-blood children.

He stood up. “I will go, see if I can find Cherokee Evans or Todd Shaw, find out whether the whites have made any plans.”

“Be cautious.” She put her small hand on his arm in the old familiar way, and he wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless; but such behavior was beneath the dignity of a dog soldier.

“I will be careful. I may be gone awhile; it is almost fifty or sixty, miles to Denver.” He shivered. It was cold and getting colder. Surely the soldiers would stay safely by their fires until their Christmas holidays were over. The Cheyenne and their allies, the Arapaho, were camped at one of their favorite camps on the Big Sandy Creek where there was water and good grazing for their many horses. In the spring, the tribe would be moving on to follow the buffalo herds which were fewer every year.

Iron Knife went to hug his children before he saddled up his big Appaloosa stallion, Spotted Blanket. He left his two warrior cousins, Two Arrows and Lance Bearer, with orders to look after his family.

His old aunt, Pony Woman, vowed she would see about them. His uncle, Clouds Above, was feeble with rheumatism in this cold, but still he enjoyed a pipe or two of tobacco with Black Kettle and old White Antelope. The three were sitting before Black Kettle’s lodge where the American flag flapped in the cold dawn breeze when Iron Knife rode out, but he yelled that he would try to bring back some tobacco for them.

He paused and looked back at Summer, who watched him from a low rise. Never had she looked so beautiful to him with wisps of yellow hair blowing about her small face, her buffalo robe gathered about her slight form against the cold wind. She held up a hand in a gesture of farewell, but he could not bring himself to leave without riding back to her one more time. “I will return when I can,” he said, looking down at her from his Appaloosa stallion. “If you need anything, ask my cousins.”

She nodded, but her expression left no doubt as to her concern. “Please, be careful.”

“I’ll come back to you; I promise. A warrior’s word is as good as his heart is strong.”

Yet she stood there looking up at him with such intense yearning that he could not resist sliding from his horse to take her in his arms one more time. She laid her face against his wide chest, and he held her tightly, thinking how slight and vulnerable she was and how much she had given up for him. “Ne-mehotatse,” he whispered, “I love you, Summer, never forget that.”

He kissed her, tasting all the sweetness of her lips as she clung to him; remembering all the times they had made love and slept in each other’s arms.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, pressing her face against his, and her skin felt cold from the icy wind just as her lips had been warm. “Come back to me.”

He nodded, his heart too full to speak. It was not seemly that a great warrior be so devoted to a woman that she meant more to him than anything on earth—even his own life. One more time, he hugged her to him; then reluctantly, he tore himself out of her embrace and swung up on Spotted Blanket. He nudged his mount into a walk. When he looked back, she still stood watching after him, her yellow hair blowing. Summer looked small against the vast prairie, and he did not want to leave her. Duty. He must think of his people and put them before his own needs and desires. Resolutely, he turned his back and nudged his stallion into a lope.

As he rode west toward Denver, Iron Knife made sure he stayed along gullies and in the edges of straggly brush so that he wouldn’t be spotted by the white men he knew to be in the area.

It was dusk when Iron Knife rode into Denver. He stayed in the shadows, found his way to the newspaper office. Through the window, he could see Todd Shaw. When Todd looked up and saw him, he motioned Iron Knife inside and got up to pull the shades. “You’re taking a chance coming here.”

Iron Knife shrugged. “So Summer tells me. How goes the white man’s Civil War?”

Todd brushed his brown hair away from his handsome face. “It rages on, but it appears certain now the South will lose, so Colorado is no longer worried about the Rebels invading, trying to capture the West