Moses Keokuk rode into the compound as the men stood admiring their handiwork. He was astride a prancing black stallion with fiery eyes and a flowing mane. As he reined to a halt, one of the tribesmen came forward to hold his horse. He stepped down from the saddle, grinning at Tilghman.
“Heap lotta work,” he said, waving around the compound. “When you gonna stop?”
Tilghman smiled. “We ought to finish by tomorrow. Just odds and ends left to be done.”
“You white men all the time work. Got no time for play.”
“Well hell, Moses, only chiefs have time to loaf. The rest of us have to bust our humps.”
Over the past several weeks Tilghman and Keokuk had become great friends. They were honorable men, steadfast in manner, with similar views on life. Of equal significance, they shared a fondness for sweeping plains and fast horses. By now, they enjoyed the bantering relationship of men who respected one another.
“Brown the same,” Keokuk said, shaking his head. “Just come from his place. Work my men mighty hard.”
“Good wages, though,” Tilghman remarked. “Gives your boys hard money in their pockets. They like that when they go to town.”
“Old days was lots better. Never needed money.”
Tilghman understood the sentiment. With the land rush, the nomadic life of the Sac and Fox had ended. Tribal members were each awarded one hundred sixty acres, the same as their new white neighbors. But farming was foreign to their nature, and they hadn’t yet taken to the white man’s road. They still counted their wealth in horses.
For all that, Moses Keokuk had urged his followers to take work where it could be found. The reservation was gone, and with it the monthly food allotments. Tilghman had put four men on the payroll, and Neal Brown, who was building a small cabin on his claim, had hired two Sac and Fox. The old days were no more, but cash money gave them an independence of sorts. Their trade was welcome at the stores in Chandler.
“How ’bout tonight?” Keokuk asked. “You gonna go to town?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tilghman said. “Figures to be quite a shindig. What about you?”
“Sure, I go.” Keokuk gave him a sly grin. “Mabbe see white man not all work.”
“Moses, I just suspect you will.”
Three days ago elections had been held for town and county offices. To honor the occasion, the leaders of Lincoln County had organized a celebration. Everyone from miles around would attend, and there were certain to be large crowds. Chandler, as the county seat, was now a hub of activity. And a great curiosity to the Sac and Fox.
Keokuk grunted, looking thoughtful. “So you still not be a law chief. How come you turn ’em down?”
Tilghman had been asked to run for county sheriff. Though the arguments were persuasive, presented by several influential townspeople, he had declined. “Told you before, Moses,” he said now. “Horses are my business, not the law. I’ve got all I can handle here.”
“You’re funny man, Bill Tilghman. Big honor to be chief.”
“I’ll stick to raising horses. Let me get washed up and we’ll ride into town together.”
Tilghman walked toward the house. Moses Keokuk stared after him, considering. In his mind, the position of law chief was on a magnitude of the red man’s war chief. An honor not to be dismissed lightly.
White men, even those he knew well, were still a mystery. Tilghman more so than most.
* * *
The town square was a tableau of thriving commerce. In only three weeks, shops and business establishments had been hammered together with wagonloads of lumber imported from Guthrie. People already referred to it as Courthouse Square, though a courthouse, planned as a stone edifice, was yet to be built. The town leaders meant for Chandler to make its mark on the map.
The boardwalks were crowded with people, and farm wagons lined the street. By nightfall, over a thousand homesteaders and townspeople were gathered for the celebration. One part of the square was devoted to a feast, where quartered beeves roasted over low fires. On the opposite side, where a band blasted out merry tunes, a large section of level ground served as a dance floor. The climax of the evening would be an elaborate display of fireworks.
Tilghman and Keokuk drew stares as they walked through the milling throngs. A white man in company with an Indian aroused curiosity in itself. But a former lawman, known to have declined the post of sheriff, and the chief of the Sac and Fox attracted attention wherever they went. Tilghman, all too aware of the attention, thought Neal Brown had made a wise decision. Never one for large crowds, Brown had elected to forego the celebration. He was content to spend the evening in his cabin on Bell Cow Creek.
Keokuk abruptly grunted a low chuckle. He took Tilghman’s elbow, tugging him along. “See a man you oughta know. Pretty honest, for a white man.”
“Who’s that?”
“Amos Stratton,” Keokuk said. “There, with the girl.”
Up ahead, Tilghman saw a man in his late forties attired in a dark suit and hat. But his attention was drawn to the girl and stayed there. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Keokuk performed the introductions. Stratton and his daughter, Zoe, had made the land run and staked a claim on Quapaw Creek. Like Tilghman, Stratton fancied horses and had bought several head of breeding stock from the Sac and Fox. Tilghman listened, nodding in all the right places, occasionally offering a comment. His attention was fixed on the girl.
Zoe Stratton appeared to be in her early twenties, perhaps younger. She was tall and statuesque, with a rounded figure and a tiny waist. She had extraordinary green eyes, exquisite features, and a cloud of auburn
