This is the story of female Apache warrior Lozen, with some fiction entertwined into her dynamic life... Three stories are born of hers, and each are followed to completion. The intro and first chapter is listed here, email me for additional reading...
In the beginning...
The violent wind howled ominously through the leather flaps of the wickiup as crisp, white snow blew into the small enclosure. Dos-Teh-Seh cried out against the quickening pain of the small child struggling to enter the cold world. She impulsively clutched the rough hand of Ko-Do who sat near her, attempting to lend some support during the birthing. Although the proud, dark-skinned woman had never shown an ounce of kindness to Dos-Teh-Seh in the past, the act of childbirth seemed to somehow draw the two women together, and Dos-Teh-Seh could sense the involuntary concern that lay deep within the dark eyes of her father’s second wife.
Cochise stayed near the wickiup, though he knew better, since Usen, the giver of life, may grow angry and take the child back. He could not bear to leave, though. The cries of his young wife aroused a deep, primitive fear that bellowed deep in his heart, and he wished that he could somehow endure the intense pain for her.
A flurry of snow blew angrily before him, chastising him, reminding him that he should have moved the clan to lower ground weeks earlier. Yet, there had been many who were unable to travel including his father-in-law, Mangas Colorados, and he did not wish to further burden his heavily pregnant wife and five-year-old son with a long, difficult journey. Now, however, he reproached himself. He should have placed the clans’ safety above the safety of one woman, as would befit a worthy chief.
Klo-Sen approached his friend who sat alone in the cold, blowing snow.
"Cheis." He said loudly, raising his voice over the lamenting wind and lightly touching his friend’s arm. "It is wrong to be so near a birthing woman. Come and we will eat."
Cochise shrugged off his friend’s hand. "It has been a long birthing." He breathed in the black, sharp cold. "The mountain spirits are angry with us."
His friend glanced around the clearing that they used for their small camp and nodded, sniffing the chilled air. "Come, and we will seek out the reason for this storm." He helped the reluctant man to his feet, supporting his weight. Cochise had fasted for three days now in hopes that he could appease the hostile Gods that tormented them. He was weak and exhausted from the cold. His friend saw the pain in his eyes as Cochise wistfully glanced back at his kunh-gan-hay.
Klo-Sen led the man to a small wickiup that sat a short distance from the others. White smoke drifted from an air hole at the top of the structure, promising the warmth of a fire inside. Cochise watched it roll chaotically in the brisk wind before allowing his friend to pull him into shelter.
"Mangas Colorados," Klo-Sen stated formally. "I bring Cochise."
Cochise nodded to his friend as Klo-Sen respectively backed out of the enclosure, leaving him with his father-in-law. He sat down silently, waiting for the old man to speak. Always, he stood in awe of the tall, powerful man whose daughter he had married only four years ago. The marriage was thought by some to be only a way to gain the favoritism of Mangas Colorados, great Warrior Chief. But, it was not so to Cochise. He long ago learned the value of women in a tribe, and his love for his wife was strong and true as the Oak Tree that his mother had long ago named him for. Mangas knew of Cochise’s love for his daughter, and he also recognized the strength of a leader. Properly trained, Cochise could soon become what Mangas already was, a fearless and formidable Chief whose very name struck fear into the heart of the Mexicans. But now, the two men sat quietly as the winter storm raged outside, smoking from a long pipe which they passed between them. It was many minutes before Mangas spoke in their native tongue, the brusque, guttural noises bringing a strange calm over Cochise.
"You come to seek guidance." Mangas stated.
Cochise exhaled loudly, glad that the silence had been broken, and nodded.
The older man passed him a long piece of smoked venison. "First, we eat. It is time to break your fast."
Cochise accepted the jerky, suddenly aware of how irrelevant time seemed to become when he was with his father-in-law. He wondered why that should be while he chewed slowly, methodically working the nearly frozen jerky between his teeth. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. The physical hardship that he had put his body through during the last month and the worry over his wife’s difficult pregnancy was overwhelming. Yet, he was a patient man. He knew that all things, both good and bad, eventually passed.
Mangas Colorados spoke slowly, his words measured. "Many years ago, the winds pushed back the oceans so that our people could come from the Underworld. The wind is a powerful deity, my son." The old man paused and closed his eyes. "Just as the wind set us free in the past, it will set us free in the future. This child will set us free in the future."
Cochise drifted off tiredly, lost in the lazy smoke that filled the air of the wickiup, and the mysterious, yet comforting words of his wife’s father. The wind continued its entourage, pounding the leather hides of the wickiup and reminding Cochise of the evening drums. After a few moments, he was awakened by an eerie stillness that abruptly hung around them. He sat up straight and sniffed the air, trying to identify the difference, not noticing anything out of place. Finally, he realized that the harsh winter storm had abated. The leather flaps no longer blew wildly against each other, the wickiup no longer rocked in the wind.
"She has come." Mangas whispered.
Suddenly, a child’s cry filled the still air. Cochise jumped to his feet, rushing across the camp as Mangas’ chants rang out in the sudden silence. He slipped into his own wickiup, searching the shadows for his wife.
Dos-Teh-Seh smiled as her husband knelt down beside her, gently touching the face of their child. Every muscle in her body ached and exhaustion filled her entire being, but never had she been so overcome with sheer joy. She watched the man whom she had come to love over her lifetime cradle their newborn daughter in his deeply tanned, muscular arms. His long dark hair fell over his chest and at once, the world seemed to radiate peace, an alien feeling considering the harshness of the past year.
Cochise carefully placed the child back into her arms, lying down beside her. His eyes searched hers, unable to find the Spanish words that she had so painstakingly taught him over the last six months.
"Nuestro hija." She said slowly, understanding his voiceless awe.
"Hija." He repeated the difficult word for daughter. His wife thought it important that he learn the language of his enemies. Cochise agreed, but found the language difficult to master. Already, Mangas Colorados understood both English and Spanish, and Cochise longed to become a leader as great as he. Therefore, he would learn the languages, with his wife as teacher. He would make sure that his children were educated as well. There appeared to be great power in education, and he wanted his children to be powerful.
He removed his buckskin shirt and wrapped it around the newborn babe, then gently placed the crying infant at his wife’s pale breast. He watched silently as the infant sought out the warm milk and began to suckle peacefully.
Just as many of the other men had taken several wives, Cochise had taken two others prior to his marriage to Dos-Teh-Seh, yet he remained faithful only to her and she to him. He retained his two other wives simply as a convenience, as their fathers were powerful men, and Dos-Teh-Seh would need help raising the children as he was often away.
She shifted closer to him now, watching their newborn child suckle her breast. And now, there was another member of the family to fight for.
"We will call her Lozen." Cochise stated, stroking the cheek of his newborn daughter. He knew that it was dangerous to name a child so soon after birth. It was usually not done until the child was several months old, to assure that it would live. But, he had a good feeling about this child. "She will grow to be wise and strong, just as her mother is."
"And we will give her the White-Eye name of Jessica." Dos-Teh-Seh stated quietly. Her mother had told her once of a woman she had known when she was a child. Her name had been Jessica and she had been a great friend to her Spanish mother. Since her mother had told her the story, Dos-Teh-Seh had said the name many times, and had always liked the sound of the word. She briefly touched the dark matted hair of her daughter and whispered in Spanish, "I will teach you the ways of both worlds, and you will know love, as I have, little one..."
July, 1854
Atlanta, Georgia
Grant stood outside the large mahogany doors of his father’s office. Straightening his jacket, he took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy doors, the noise resounding throughout the expansive home.
"Come." His father called. Grant nervously ran his fingers through his dark hair before entering the room.
He looked around the large office, impressed once again by the tall wooden bookshelves that encased the walls. His father’s library was the most extensive of any he had seen, besides that of the University. The dark red carpet contrasted magnificently with the rows of leather bound books, and the room smelled sweetly of pipe tobacco, a smell that he would always associate with his father. He sat in one of the large red leather chairs and waited uneasily until his father spoke, breaking the horrible silence.
"I understand that you have made the decision not to practice law." He said, his voice deep and his words measured, as though he were presenting a case.
"I have decided to move out West, father. It has nothing to do with practicing law."
His father tapped a pen on the desk, a practice that Grant had always found particularly annoying.
"If you believe that there is opportunity out West, then you have been seriously misinformed." The expression of his father reflected power and ageless strength, and the knowledge that he was usually right. "The only opportunity is for those who leave with nothing and arrive with nothing. And what they find is tainted, barren land, which is worth nothing. But they can call it there own, because nobody else wants it. The West is not a place for a member of the Morgan family. Do you understand?"
Grant shook his head, feeling his temper rise. "The land out west is beautiful, fertile. People move there because they fall in love with it. And there is opportunity. Plenty of it." They stared at each other across a sudden ringing silence, which lasted only a moment, but felt eternal. "The West is lawless, father. It is full of danger, it is untamed, and men have moved there to tame it. I want to be among those men."
His father tapped his pipe full of tobacco and lit it, puffing angrily and glaring at him with burning, reproachful eyes. Grant could see that he shouldn’t have pushed the issue, yet strangely enough, did not regret doing so.
"Let me make this clear to you, Grant. You are not going out West to practice law. You are not going to live on a ranch. The fact of the matter is that you are not leaving Georgia. I did not pay for your schooling so that you could defend wild Indians and rabid drunks who will pay you in chickens and pigs, when they bother to pay you at all. You will stay here and work with me in law, just as your brothers have done." He waved his hand, as though to signal that the conversation was over. "You are dismissed."
Anger hardened his features as Grant stood abruptly to leave. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, when his father spoke once more. "We have a meeting at 7:00 am with Murphy. His case will be reviewed on Friday by the circuit judge. You will find the files on your desk"
Grant slowly turned and stared at the older man, barely containing the anger that raged within him. "You’ll have to handle it on your own, father. I leave tonight." Quickly, he turned and walked from the room, his father’s angry eyes piercing his back.
His younger brother intercepted him in the hall. "I overheard you talking to Father."
Grant pushed angrily past him, walking up the stairs as Jeffrey followed him into his room. The young boy watched quietly, as Grant took a suitcase from the closet and laid it on the mahogany bed. "But, the Indians…" he began to say, his hesitance causing his voice to fade into silence.
Grant distractedly threw clothes into the suitcase, anxious to leave. "What are you talking about, Jeffrey?" He asked irritably.
"The Indians will kill you! Sometimes they cut out your tongue, and they always take pieces of scalp. Then they wear it on their belt." Jeffrey became more distraught, and his words came faster. "And they torture you, they always torture their victims. Sometimes they tie you up on a wagon wheel and cover you with pitch and burn you alive. Grant, I don’t want you to go!"
Grant stopped packing and sat down on the edge of the bed, lifting his seven-year-old brother onto his lap. The boy’s fair skin magnified his blue, innocent eyes. Simply looking at him brought a gentleness over Grant, and he suddenly found himself calming.
"Jeffrey," he asked gently, "have you ever met an Indian?"
The boy shook his head slowly.
"Then where on earth are you getting these ideas?"
Jeffrey reached into his pocket and produced a small dime novel. "Aunt Margaret reads it to me sometimes when I go to bed."
Grant took the book from his brother and glanced through it. "Jeffrey, do you know what ‘fiction’ is?"
The boy shook his head, his expression still, yet curious.
"Fiction is something that is made up, imaginary. This book is fiction."
"So it isn’t real?" He asked carefully.
Grant smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. "No, it isn’t real. Now, I want you to put this out of your mind." He placed the book into his suitcase. "When I get to the Territories and find a place to live, I will send for you. Then you can see for yourself that it isn’t real."
"Do you promise?" He asked excitedly.
"I promise. If you’ll promise never to listen to these wild stories again."
Jeffrey nodded. "I promise."
Grant picked him up and set him on the bed, kneeling to face him. "Then it’s settled. When I get situated, I will bring you to visit me, and meanwhile, you will stay here and read something worth reading. I’ll talk to Aunt Margaret before I leave. She will start reading other things to you. Perhaps, Moby Dick would suit you."
Margaret was their father’s sister. She had become a surrogate mother to Jeffrey, since their real mother had died while giving birth. She had become the matriarch of the family during the last seven years, opinionated and stubborn, she was just like her brother. Grant respected and appreciated her, but had never really loved her. Perhaps that was due to his love for his mother. Margaret would not miss him when he was gone, of that he was sure. He sensed that she would be relieved.
Abruptly, he pushed the thoughts from his head, then hugged Jeffrey, and turned to finish packing. "Now, I have a train to catch. So, why don’t you go find Aunt Margaret so I can tell her how to take care of you properly?"
Jeffrey smiled and turned to go find her, only to run directly into her large body at the door.
"Aunt Margaret has already been found, and she doubts that you can tell her anything she doesn’t already know about how to care for a child." Her voice was strikingly formal, as it usually was. She looked down at Jeffrey. "Now, you tell your brother goodbye, and then run along to bed. I will be up shortly to hear your prayers."
"Remember our promise." Jeffrey whispered as Grant picked him up.
"I’ll remember." He answered softly, fighting back the threatening tears. "Now, run to bed."
He and his aunt watched as Jeffrey ran out of the room, not looking back.
"He will miss you." Margaret said quietly.
Grant nodded, returning to his packing. "I believe he will be the only one who does."
Margaret slowly walked to the window. "Grant, I know that we have never been close. Perhaps that is my fault. As you know, I have never had children. Your mother died at an inopportune time."
"Is there ever an opportune time?" He replied sarcastically.
She ignored his comment, having long grown accustomed to his ways. "I know that you have never liked me. I am truly sorry for that. However, I do wish you luck. I believe that you were never meant to settle in Georgia. Even when you were a small child, you longed to be elsewhere. I am happy that you are able to take this step now."
Grant turned to look at her. She had never spoken with anything other than hostility towards him, and her words caught him by surprise.
She wrung her hands nervously. "Even while I am happy for you, I worry for you. There are so many dangers to the West. There are Indians and outlaws, and the law that is there is more often than not corrupt." She hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Although you may think that I never liked you, I sometimes think that I liked you best. Perhaps that is why I struggled against it. I did not want you boys to think that I favored any one of you."
Grant listened quietly, not knowing how to respond.
"Please be careful." She said, walking away. She stopped when she reached the door and turned. "If I ever did have a son, Grant, I would be most pleased he were as strong as you.
Grant silently watched her leave, unable to say a word. Her words felt like weights upon him. Why did she have to wait this long to show any type of concern for him? He thought about her words for a long moment as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at room of his childhood. Finally, he forced himself to stand and finish packing, taking only the few things that he would need immediately. He could send for the rest of his things later.
There were a number of preparations that he would need to make once he arrived in Tucson. He would use the generous sum of money that his grandfather had left him as an inheritance to start a new life for himself. A life that he wanted, not the life that his father wanted. The thought of raising cattle appealed to him, but he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about it. Perhaps he could locate a partner who would be willing to teach him, or maybe he could hire a knowledgeable foreman. He had heard of men who had done that and gone on to run a successful ranch. Meanwhile, he could continue to work as a lawyer in order to eat. And then there was always Frosty, local sheriff of a small town in the Arizona Territory. He had met the man a year ago when a murderer was captured here, and later extradited to Arizona. Frosty could give at least put him up for a few weeks, until he found the best course of action.
The thoughts excited him and he was suddenly anxious to leave. He set the suitcases by the door, and leaned over to blow out the lamp that burned softly on the bureau, no longer hesitating. He would not return until he had made a name for himself in the west. It was only there that he somehow knew he would find the peace he had unsuccessfully searched for so long.
First Place Winner in historical fiction in the Purple Dragonfly Awards for excellence in children's literature, and named a U.P. Notable Classic.
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