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“If you were such a good friend to Colonel Snelling, you would know that he is no longer at Fort Snelling. That he recently died at Fort Jefferson Barracks in Missouri,” the soldier said dryly.
White Fire took a quick, unsteady step away from the soldier, stunned by the news.
; “Josiah is dead?” he finally gasped out. “How? When?”
“As I said, if you were such a good friend of the colonel, you would not need to ask,” the soldier said, placing a firm grip on White Fire’s shoulder, giving him a shove. “Get outta here, Indian. Take your lies back to your tribe. You’re going to have to come up with a better story than that to get inside the fort and cause Injun trouble.”
Anger rising inside White Fire in heated flashes, he wrenched himself free of the soldier. He glared at him. “I am Samuel White Fire Dowling, who was not only a good friend to Josiah Snelling, but who was also in charge of building the roads in the area until I was abducted three years ago by the Sioux. I have been held captive until today. My Chippewa friend, Chief Gray Feather, came and saw to my release from the Sioux. I hurried home to my cabin and found my wife and son gone. I have come to question Josiah about my family’s whereabouts.” He swallowed hard. “And then I find that Josiah is dead.” He hung his head in his hands and heaved a deep, troubled sigh.
“And who might this be wanting entry into the fort?”
A voice familiar to White Fire, that of Colonel Russell’s, which he remembered from his past, drew White Fire’s eyes quickly up. He was glad to have someone there who knew him, who would set things right among those who greeted his return to civilization in such an unfriendly fashion. It then suddenly dawned on him, that if Colonel Russell was stationed at Fort Snelling, it had been his daughter who had swept past White Fire with her flame of hair, and flying, silk dress.
Ashamed of thinking about her, since he was not yet sure about his wife, White Fire cast her quickly from his mind.
“Samuel? Samuel White Fire Dowling, is that you?” Colonel Russell said, his pale gray eyes widening in surprise. “My Lord, Samuel, it is you. I thought you were dead.”
“Yes, I would understand why everyone would think that I was,” White Fire said sullenly. “I am certain that Josiah searched extensively for me before giving me up for dead.”
“Yes, that is what I was told,” Colonel Russell said, nodding. He nodded at White Fire. “Come with me. There’s much that needs to be explained.”
“I hope you are talking about my wife and son,” White Fire said, walking away from the sour-faced soldier, who continued to glare at him. “I need answers. Do you have them for me?”
“Let’s go to my office. Then we can talk about them,” Colonel Russell said blandly.
The hesitation in Colonel Russell’s voice filled White Fire’s heart with dread. He went with the colonel to the familiar house. He had helped with the construction of it and was almost familiar with every piece of wood and stone that had been used.
He knew well the interior of the house, especially Colonel Snelling’s grand, private study, where Colonel Russell now took him.
Too consumed with worry to feel comfortable, White Fire sat opposite the grand oak desk that once was Josiah’s. He watched apprehensively as Colonel Russell eased into the thickly cushioned leather chair behind the desk.
“Wine?” Colonel Russell asked, forking an eyebrow.
“No, I never touch the stuff,” White Fire said, his voice tight.
“Cigar?” Colonel Russell offered, holding a cigar out to him.
“Sir, neither do I smoke,” White Fire said, his voice agitated, growing impatient with the colonel who was obviously trying to put off telling him the truth he now sorely feared hearing.
“About Colonel Snelling,” the colonel said dryly, “he was transferred to Jefferson Barracks. Shortly after his arrival, he died. That’s about all I can tell you about Josiah Snelling. The news brought to me of his death was sketchy.”
Colonel Russell absently rolled the cigar between his fingers. “And now about your wife and child,” he said, his voice drawn. He gave White Fire a solemn stare. “Samuel, your wife died of pneumonia shortly after your disappearance. Your son? Since he is more white than Indian in appearance, he was adopted by an affluent white family in Pig’s Eye. The child is in good hands.”
Stunned speechless, White Fire gazed wide-eyed at the colonel.
The colonel cleared his throat nervously. “I suggest you consider leaving your son with this family to be raised as white, rather than allowing him to be known as a ’breed,” he said tightly. His eyes locked with White Fire’s, a sudden coldness in their depths. White Fire realized that he was most definitely in the presence of a man of prejudice. A bigot.
But it was White Fire’s shock over the loss of his wife, Mary, that kept him from thinking more about this man. Courtesy was being paid him only because White Fire’s father was . . . a man with ranking in the white world, a man whose skin was white, and who had been deeply admired and respected by all.
“Mary is dead,” White Fire gulped out, his heart aching, his insides suddenly feeling empty.
Although he had never truly had a passionate relationship with his wife, he had always felt something warm and special for her.
And his son?
In the three years White Fire had been gone, he had expected many changes in his son’s life, but none this severe. His son was being raised by strangers?
