Chapter 2

Johnny McKenzie awoke and slowly sat up. The storage room in the church that Pastor Higgins let him sleep in to get out of the elements was still cold. He shivered and wrapped the thin wool blanket around his shoulders, hoping to rid himself of the shivers.

The pastor let him stay in return for cleaning the church, shoveling the snow from the front steps, and doing whatever else needed doing. At sixteen, he had been an orphan for three years since his parents were killed by an Arapaho raiding party that attacked the wagon train on the Oregon Trail. A family in the wagon train headed to Willamette Valley, and brought him as far as Fort Laramie. He had been here ever since.

In 1859, Fort Laramie was a large town that had sprung up around the Army fort. It was a vital stop along the Oregon Trail. The town consisted mostly of trappers, assimilated Arapaho, Cheyenne and Sioux living in tipis and wigwams who sold horses and Indian trade items like bead-worked buckskin clothes, jewelry, and other trinkets.

Like any other town, it had its dark underbelly with thieves, grifters and criminals. Whenever slavers had Native Indians for sale, they held slave auctions where miners and trappers would buy an Indian wife or, in polite terms, a bed warmer. They always trumped-up charges of theft and sold them as criminals. Fort Laramie was still a part of the Nebraska Territory, and the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act repealed the Missouri Compromise, allowing territorial settlers to decide for themselves whether to permit or prohibit slavery. However, unlike in Kansas, the issue did not lead to widespread violence in Nebraska. So, the U.S. Army did not like or condone selling Indian slaves, but it was not illegal, and they simply turned a blind eye.

Once Johnny felt warm enough to brave the cold, he headed out to make his usual rounds to find something to eat. He had a couple of regular places he would visit: a couple of tents where fur traders would sometimes give him some jerky if they were feeling hospitable. A couple of times he even got a handout from a few Arapaho Indians.

As Johnny made his usual circuit of town, he heard Clint Prescott making noise, gathering a crowd to begin selling the five young girls and women he had to offer. Prescott was a man whose grin never reached his eyes and was a slimy snake of a man with an evil glint. Johnny heard him say he had five, but when he looked, there were only four showing: one on the block and three being held to take their turns on the auction block.

When Johnny took a closer look, the fifth one had her hands tied to the slave wagon. She was trying to work her hands free of the rope without drawing any attention. Johnny gasped when she looked up. He felt hard for her. She was the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on! She was slender, with dark doe eyes like molten obsidian and honey-brown hair down to her waist. She was young—younger than him, he guessed.

Johnny quietly snuck around to the other side of the wagon and crawled underneath. He made a barely audible “Shhhh,” and she looked down. He opened his pocketknife and quickly cut her bonds. He whispered to her, “Come on, crawl under the wagon.”

Prescott had one of the young girls on the block and the bidding was brisk. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the action, and the three other bound women were fidgeting as things heated up. Their handler was fully engrossed with keeping them in line, and the girl slipped under the wagon. Johnny reminded her to be quiet as they sneaked away from the area, Johnny leading her by the hand.

Once on the outskirts of town, they hid behind an old, seldom used barn. Once they had caught their breath, Johnny asked her, “Do you speak English?”

She nodded and replied, “Some. I go to mission school here for two seasons,” pointing to the fort. “I run away. They beat us for speaking Sioux. Much beatings.”

He asked her, “What’s your name? You is Sioux, right?”

She nodded twice, replying, “Yes, I Lakota. Name Winona.”

“Do ya wanna go home?”

She vigorously nodded, saying, “Much want!”

“I promise ya that I’ll find a way, come hell or high water, to git ya home. I swear it.”

She teared up, smiled, and said, “Much thanks.”

“Are ya hungry?”

Nodding wide-eyed, Winona answered, “Yes, no eat three moons.”

Taking her hand, Johnny stood and said, “Come on, I know a trapper who can feed us.”

Winona stood, smiled, and looked him in the eyes. Johnny smiled and shook his head, saying, “Boy, you sure are pretty!”

Winona’s cheeks flushed shyly, her cinnamon-colored complexion darkening slightly. He led her through the woods to Jedidiah Boone’s tiny one-room cabin. He nodded to her with a smile and knocked three times.

They heard through the door in a gravelly, tired voice, “Who the hell in tarnation is that a-bangin’ on my door?”

Winona stepped back, startled. Johnny held her hand tight and smiled as he replied through the door, “Hurry up and open up, ya old fart! It’s me, Johnny.”

The door swung open and a big, burly, scraggly old man with a long gray beard stood looking down on them. Winona paled and shrank back, but Johnny did not let go of her hand. Old Jed looked down at her, smiled and quipped, “Who be this pretty little thing? Your new sweetheart or somethin’?”

“Damn right!” Johnny quipped, pulled her hand up and kissed it.

Winona blushed again and giggled as her shoulders pulled forward in shyness.

Jed stepped aside as the two teens quickly stepped inside. He shook his head with a smile and replied, “She be one of Prescott’s? I hope she be worth it, boy. If’n he catches you, he’ll be puttin’ a bullet right in your head and she’ll be sold to a brothel.”