land of his Navaho loved ones.
He fought off feelings that were wrong and accepted that he must hate this train as much as his Navaho father. Yet their hate seemed as bad as the train itself.
Hating anything meant trouble.
They rode on until they met the train, then began riding alongside it as it approached the end of the private spur that had been laid thus far.
âThere is only one cattle car and there are no cattle, but instead only a few horses,â Runner said, forking an eyebrow. âAnd there are only two passenger cars.
âI can see enough through the windows to see that there are only two passengers,â Runner said, exchanging quick glances with his father when they both saw two people staring intently at them from one of the passenger cars. âHave we been wrong to think that the trains on these tracks will bring scores of white people to our land?â
âDo you think they would spend so many white manâs dollars to lay such tracks for only two people?â Sage scoffed. âSon, they are only the beginning of our peopleâs total ruin and unhappiness. There will be others. Many, many others will follow.â
âI am sure you are right,â Runner said, tightening his hold on the reins and holding his knees tightly to the sides of his steed when the train shrieked again.
Runner and Sage rode away from the train, stopping a few feet from the end of the line. Ignoring the glares from the work gang, they sat quietly and sternly, waiting to see more clearly these two invaders of their land.
Adam leaned closer to the window of the train. âCome and see, Stephanie,â he said, motioning to her with a hand. âOur welcoming party has arrived.â
âWelcoming party? I didnât know we were going to be met by anyone,â Stephanie said, scampering to her feet. She lifted the hem of her skirt and scooted onto the seat opposite Adam. âWhy, itâs Indians, Adam. Two Indians. Are they Navaho?â
Adamâs past was coming back to him in flashes. âYes, they are Navaho,â he said, his heart beating anxiously. âAnd by God, Stephanie, one of them is Sage. You know, the chief that Iâve so often talked about.â
âTruly?â Stephanie said, her eyes widening. âWhich one? The older one, no doubt.â
âYes, the older one,â Adam said, grabbing for the seat back when the train came to a sudden, rumbling halt. âThe one who has his hair clubbed and wrapped with strands of white wool.â
âAnd the younger Indian?â Stephanie said, her gaze taking in the handsome man, realizing that he was not altogether Navaho. It was only in his attire, and how he wore his hair, that she saw him as Navaho. His clothes were colorful. He was dressed in a shirt of handwoven, woolen cloth with a vee-neck, and dyed buckskin trousers that had silver buttons down the sides and tied with woven garters. The bandanna knotted about his head was of red crimson silk, holding back his long, flowing black hair. Otherwise, she saw his white skin, burned dark by the desert sun and wind, not by heritage.
âGood Lord, Stephanie,â Adam said, staring even more intensely at Runner. âYou wanted to know about the White Indian? I believe youâre looking at him.â
âRunner?â Stephanie gasped, still staring at him. His features were sculpted. His eyes flashed with dark intensity. âIs that truly Runner?â
âThereâs only one way to find out,â Adam said, rising from his seat.
Stephanie turned quickly to Adam, who was already at the door. âWhere are you going?â she blurted.
Adam ignored Stephanie. He stepped out into the heat of the day and ran to the cattle car. He slammed open the door and placed a plank from the car to the ground, leading his horse down it.
Stephanie bunched the hem of her skirt into her hands and ran after Adam. âWait for me,â she shouted.