sees that I respect Cherokee women, then.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “She sees that you lived with those two widows and they both called you ‘husband.’ ”
“They never took that serious, and neither did I. Just because three people share the same cabin—”
“The same bed,” Rebecca corrected him drolly.
Justis sat down on a barrel of whiskey and rubbed his forehead wearily. “I reckon you even told her about the Cherokee name they gave me?”
“Yes. I blushed, but I told her.”
Justis crossed his arms and contemplated a crack in the plank floor. He’d never learned to pronounce the name very well, but the English translation said it better anyway. The Stud.
“I hope she was impressed,” he grumbled.
“She said that she wasn’t surprised.”
Justis thought there were hopeful signs in that answer. Before he could wonder about them, a half-dozen soldiers arrived outside the store’s open double doors, stirring up dust and interest.
Over by the courthouse a group of men who were fancily dressed started toward the store. A few miners ambled out of a nearby saloon and gathered on the store’s porch, gawking. Men halted their wagons in the middle of the street so they could stare at the blue-coated cavalry soldiers and their captain.
The soldiers hitched their mounts to a rail and followed their officer inside. Justis stood slowly, suspicion putting him on guard. He’d come to this wild part of Georgia to escape authority, or at least to have more control over how it treated him.
The officer tipped a snappy blue cap. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, ma’am. I’m Captain Taylor, and I bring you greetings from General Winfield Scott.”
When Justis refused to respond other than by putting another cigar between his teeth, Sam came forward and made the introductions. Captain Taylor turned to his men. “Begin passing those handbills out.”
By now a large crowd had swarmed into the store. The excited comments of those who could read provoked the nonreaders to anger, and some of the miners began threatening one another.
“I’ll rip the eyes out of any man who starts a fight inthis store,” Justis announced loudly, and that settled the crowd. Sam climbed on the counter and read General Scott’s announcement aloud.
The army would build a temporary stockade two miles south of Gold Ridge, just as it was constructing stockades in other areas of the Cherokee Nation. The Gold Ridge station would be completed by the middle of May, in about three weeks. Every Cherokee within a fifty-mile radius would be brought to the stockade and held there for escort to the western lands.
There were whoops of joy from the crowd. “It’s about time we had a rattlesnake roundup!” one man shouted.
“Hot durn! I promised my ma I’d kill an Injun before I came home again!” another said.
The captain held up his hands. “No violence,” he called out. “General Scott will prosecute any white settler caught doing harm to an Indian. He wants them treated as kindly as possible.”
Justis scowled at him. “He’s a little damned late for that. Clear out of here. I’ve got no use for you federal loblollies.”
“States’ rights man, are you?” the captain asked.
“Just don’t like the smell of the general’s plan.”
“Don’t pay any attention to Mr. Gallatin, Captain,” a man said. “He’s an Indian sympathizer. He had two Cherokee wives and he’s got a third shacked up over at his hotel.”
Justis began to smile.
“Oh, no,” someone whispered. “Get out of his way.”
Justis started forward, but Sam grabbed his arm. “He’s new in town, partner. Let him have one mistake.” The man’s friends were already hustling him out the door.
“Oh, I don’t know,” a majestic voice boomed. “Let Justis have at him.”
The crowd parted to let a tall, regal figure stride down the aisle. Judge William Parnell, Amarintha’s father, had snow-white hair, a slight paunch that only added to
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “She sees that you lived with those two widows and they both called you ‘husband.’ ”
“They never took that serious, and neither did I. Just because three people share the same cabin—”
“The same bed,” Rebecca corrected him drolly.
Justis sat down on a barrel of whiskey and rubbed his forehead wearily. “I reckon you even told her about the Cherokee name they gave me?”
“Yes. I blushed, but I told her.”
Justis crossed his arms and contemplated a crack in the plank floor. He’d never learned to pronounce the name very well, but the English translation said it better anyway. The Stud.
“I hope she was impressed,” he grumbled.
“She said that she wasn’t surprised.”
Justis thought there were hopeful signs in that answer. Before he could wonder about them, a half-dozen soldiers arrived outside the store’s open double doors, stirring up dust and interest.
Over by the courthouse a group of men who were fancily dressed started toward the store. A few miners ambled out of a nearby saloon and gathered on the store’s porch, gawking. Men halted their wagons in the middle of the street so they could stare at the blue-coated cavalry soldiers and their captain.
The soldiers hitched their mounts to a rail and followed their officer inside. Justis stood slowly, suspicion putting him on guard. He’d come to this wild part of Georgia to escape authority, or at least to have more control over how it treated him.
The officer tipped a snappy blue cap. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, ma’am. I’m Captain Taylor, and I bring you greetings from General Winfield Scott.”
When Justis refused to respond other than by putting another cigar between his teeth, Sam came forward and made the introductions. Captain Taylor turned to his men. “Begin passing those handbills out.”
By now a large crowd had swarmed into the store. The excited comments of those who could read provoked the nonreaders to anger, and some of the miners began threatening one another.
“I’ll rip the eyes out of any man who starts a fight inthis store,” Justis announced loudly, and that settled the crowd. Sam climbed on the counter and read General Scott’s announcement aloud.
The army would build a temporary stockade two miles south of Gold Ridge, just as it was constructing stockades in other areas of the Cherokee Nation. The Gold Ridge station would be completed by the middle of May, in about three weeks. Every Cherokee within a fifty-mile radius would be brought to the stockade and held there for escort to the western lands.
There were whoops of joy from the crowd. “It’s about time we had a rattlesnake roundup!” one man shouted.
“Hot durn! I promised my ma I’d kill an Injun before I came home again!” another said.
The captain held up his hands. “No violence,” he called out. “General Scott will prosecute any white settler caught doing harm to an Indian. He wants them treated as kindly as possible.”
Justis scowled at him. “He’s a little damned late for that. Clear out of here. I’ve got no use for you federal loblollies.”
“States’ rights man, are you?” the captain asked.
“Just don’t like the smell of the general’s plan.”
“Don’t pay any attention to Mr. Gallatin, Captain,” a man said. “He’s an Indian sympathizer. He had two Cherokee wives and he’s got a third shacked up over at his hotel.”
Justis began to smile.
“Oh, no,” someone whispered. “Get out of his way.”
Justis started forward, but Sam grabbed his arm. “He’s new in town, partner. Let him have one mistake.” The man’s friends were already hustling him out the door.
“Oh, I don’t know,” a majestic voice boomed. “Let Justis have at him.”
The crowd parted to let a tall, regal figure stride down the aisle. Judge William Parnell, Amarintha’s father, had snow-white hair, a slight paunch that only added to
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