No Faith In Love

  No Faith in Love

  by

  T. L. Walker

  Published by T. L. Walker

  Copyright 2017 T. L. Walker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Special thanks to God for being everything I would ever need, and to Linda, in that order...

  Running Wolf

  Then, 1870s

  The half-breed stayed in the shadows of the rented room, overlooking the main streets as he studied the unsuspecting inhabitants of the town. Running Wolf had been sitting in a chair, bent forward, searching for anything out of the normal since before dawn. He desperately needed a clue that he wasn’t on a wild-goose chase and he’d do the rest. Give me anyone acting nervous. Maybe he’d witness those traveling in higher numbers. Someone carrying a six-shooter—and unafraid to use it. A person like that tended to have a challenging aura to them. They’d be so determined to reveal to the world what a threat they could be, while striving to become the things of legends. As of right now four members of this notorious gang he’d been tasked to find were captured. Running Wolf was working with someone very important as a favor and this man had chosen now to collect. Honor was such an overused term that it almost didn’t apply in this situation—it had to be beneficial for the both of them. This was turning into a last trot around these parts, before Running Wolf stepped away and went on with the rest of his life. He should have enough money after this to be of use to his people, even though shame had made him keep his distance.

  Running Wolf had even tried to deny that he had any Indian blood in him whatsoever, only embracing his white-side. Nothing had worked, a person can’t disown what they are. So I find myself needing to finish what I’ve started… doing what I know—hunting those who make the world unsafe. Many of the so called Reynolds gang lay dead, buzzard feed in the middle of the desert somewhere. Running Wolf suspected more were still missing, hiding out, hoping to avoid capture. It would help if he had better information, so that he wasn’t left wandering around blindly, and made to guess at just how big this group really was.

  As a bounty hunter Running Wolf couldn’t pass up any opportunity to catch these people, no matter the source. He figured his chances weren’t bad at all of nabbing a few more, after learning that the current leader of this bloodthirsty lot was a Negro woman. She’s easily his most valuable outlaw yet. The price on her head had steadily increased and was now closing in on five thousand dollars. These vile characters excelled at robbing banks and attacking trains that had money on them. Even so, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be linked to murders and possible rapes as well. No one could ever be certain, just rumors carried in the wind as people traveled from town to town needing something to do, until the sun went down. She was worth more alive than dead, so Running Wolf planned on taking her that way—provided she didn’t fight him too much.

  Augusta “Texas” Rose’s wanted poster was folded and tucked away safely inside the pocket of his long coat. The woman with the short, ebony curls framing her face. A complexion dusky and impossibly beautiful. She possessed sad, tired eyes, but no remorse within her spirit. Lips which were full that could bring a man pleasure without ever having smiled. And unfortunately for Miss Augusta “Texas” Rose she had an appointment with death. Running Wolf was going to deliver her up to the state where her infamous crime spree got its start. She may very well leave this earth without ever having lived.

  Existing doesn’t count.

  Running Wolf should know he’d been doing that for many years.

  He had to see if his tribe still held their land—a place for them to call home.

  Had they and his mother perished?

  Just more Indian deaths to add to the many slain, with the white man laying claim to land that most of his Indian brothers considered to be rightfully theirs…

  Running Wolf forced himself to stop thinking, after realizing he couldn’t feel his legs any longer. He quickly stood, with the prickly sensations threatening to take over the lower portion of his body, resulting in painful stretching—before he walked in small circles around the room. The one that Running Wolf had already rearranged in preparation for a battle of some sort. The dressing mirror was in the corner. The small bed diagonally pushed against the armoire and trunk, which made everything appear like it had been ransacked. Even the poor excuse for a rug was rolled up and leaning against the wall. The last thing he needed was to make a sudden move, and trip, landing awkwardly, especially if he had to rush from the room down toward the street. Running Wolf continued to go over his plan as he mentally prepared himself for possibly another twelve hours of watching and waiting. And if need be he’d claim the woman come tomorrow, before any other hunters caught wind. Running Wolf had already telegrammed the sheriff to alert him of his arrival, he failed to inform the man that he’d made excellent timing and would arrive after dark. At first Running Wolf thought he’d be resting next to his trusted horse, sleeping on the ground—no hardship there. He’d traveled enough throughout the years to know his kind were rarely tolerated.

  He’d managed to find one of the few innkeepers willing to rent to him. Running Wolf was currently paying the same rates as he imagined a person would for staying a week, instead of a day or so. The man would soon not be able to hide his shock after seeing who he’d been speaking to when Running Wolf had walked in with his dust-covered saddlebag slung over his shoulder. The attendant was behind the counter with his spectacles resting on top of his head. He seemed to be working hard or hardly working—because the spot he continued to wipe was already clean.

  The keys appeared to be in their correct places with the large, engraved wooden numbers visible. The slightly repugnant smell—stale, like small critters had possibly died inside the carpet that curled at the ends by his boots, was a clear sign that it was time to be changed, trashed or at the very least properly scrubbed—otherwise the worker couldn’t be faulted for the job he’d done. He stood at the front desk, surrounded by flower arrangements which were known to thrive in unbearable heat, and sure enough not a single wilted stem from what Running Wolf could tell.

  “I need a room.”

  “For how long?” The older man hadn’t bothered to glance up... yet. He was too busy shuffling through papers now that a person could see their reflection on the polished wood.

  He was probably arranging things to look more presentable, in order to attract the right type of customers. However, when he did see who the male voice belonged to—his expression soured. Running Wolf didn’t smile, it was more like a grimace as he gritted his teeth, expecting to be tossed out or told to leave. He figured there were other places he could try, despite it being so late. The worker was staring, non-blinking, straining his eye muscles until they’d begun to twitch. “I’ll need that room for a day, two at the most. I’ll also need my being here to be kept quiet. I’m willing to pay you quite well to do so.” He couldn’t resist tapping on the shiny counter knowing the man would need to wipe it down again thanks to him.

  “Sir, this is highly unusual. I’m not certain how exactly to handle this situation, but I have the feeling to turn you away would be detrimental to my heath.” He began straightening his clothing continuously, while clearing his throat, before placing on his glasses with hands that were visibly unsteady. “Am I wrong in this assessment?” He’d already grabbed a writing tool and a sign in book, yet he was slow to move it in front of Running Wolf.

  “Turn me away if you want. I can’t stop you. I can make it worth your while. I’ll also need to have food left at my door. I trust that you’ll make it
so that no one knows that I was ever here, until after I’m gone.” Running Wolf took a chance by snatching the fountain pen from his hand and dipped it into the inkwell, swiftly writing down a false name. He was careful so that the nervous innkeeper could avoid having to touch him—once he’d finished.

  “Yes sir, I believe we can make this advantageous for the both of us. My name is Mr. Watson at your service. I want you to know what a risk I’m undertaking having a half… an Indian under my roof. I may have to charge you a lot more than my average guest.” His eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline as he spoke.

  “Do what you feel is best under the circumstances and you had it right at first, I’m a half-breed.” Running Wolf got the key to his room, and was told that a washbasin was already in place, and that extra water would be brought to him along with his meals. Mr. Watson would be delivering them to his door personally. He’d bring it by twice daily already included in the price.

  * * *

  After removing most of the travel grit from his body, Running Wolf enjoyed a surprisingly pleasant meal. It was devoured in no time, once he repositioned himself at the window. He suspected darkness would give the bandits the best advantage to try and spring their leader. The heat didn’t make him budge, even having to relieve himself could wait as the hours went by at a turtle’s pace. His empty dishes were stacked together, beneath the window, and pushed against the wall, as his body remained firmly in place by sheer determination. However, Running Wolf was unable to keep his mind from drifting, revisiting the past—to a time when he was a child looking up to the person thought to be his father. A tall, handsome warrior with a copper complexion. He was known to be a wise, and fearless leader. His mother had often told Running Wolf stories of how they came to be, when she was just a young maiden. It was during a hot August summer when their village was attacked, due to them mistakenly thought to be responsible for the killing of some of the townspeople.

  All anyone seemed to know was that Indians were seen, so they must all be the same. Look alike, act alike. At first according to his mother the men that came had talked calmly to them—eventually it escalated. They were determined to hold some of the warriors accountable. When the white men on horses joined those on the ground they brought their guns with them. They killed some, took some, and were idiotic enough to believe it would end there, with so many warriors still alive and able to fight. These dishonorable individuals left after inflicting serious damage to their village, once it became clear they’d targeted the wrong people. But so what, because it was less of our kind on the earth seemed to be their reasoning. To admit being wrong wasn’t a crime, to act like they were innocent, as bodies bled into the ground—without even having a warrior’s death should be. Surely these Indians were too passive to commit such violence one had said according to his mother. She’d told Running Wolf that the Indian scout who had repeatedly stated this was backhanded, and forced to lap up his own blood no different than an animal. The crime they were accused of wasn’t the way of the Navajo people.

  They’d taken his mother and a few other women for no good reason. Others believed that the entire story was fabricated, so that the men could snatch the Indian maidens all of whom were virgins—to appease their sexual appetites. It was no stretch of the imagination that when men came to trade with them that their eyes would often drift toward a maiden or two in lust.

  Running Wolf believed that one of those very men who had held his mother prisoner was his true father. His mother always denied it. It took the warriors less than a day to find them and that was long enough for a woman to be violated. The man he thought was his father led the rescue party which killed many. He scalped them, and turned into the bloodthirsty heathens they’d been accused of being. His mother was claimed, and eventually married Shadow Bear after that daring rescue.

  Indians don’t naturally have light-colored eyes, Running Wolf couldn’t help but think.

  Morning Star, his mother, always stopped herself from revealing that he was no doubt conceived through rape. A cowardly act by anyone. Whenever Running Wolf recounted his mother’s story he’d often wonder, what if the man that he looked up to hadn’t been killed in battle years later? Would he have fully accepted me as his son? Running Wolf still recalled the day he was sent away, partly due to being encouraged by his mother. She’d noticed a great deal of the hostile treatment he’d had to endure. Resentment toward him at such a young age damaged his mind—the way he viewed being alive and feeling less than human.

  How could he have been expected to lead them while being seen so differently?

  His mother couldn’t deny it.

  A small portion of Running Wolf wanted to stay with his people and fight to hold their land. The rest of him needed to leave and know a life where he was at peace and not in fear of the white man. He did finally go, after kissing his mother, and embracing her the way a person does when they know it might be for the last time. He’d vowed to return and Running Wolf had meant it. However, he was just a boy then—going through the motions. He would never be one hundred percent Indian and most of the white men he’d encountered over the years didn’t accept him as one of their own. Running Wolf was often leered at like he was an abomination, due to their precious blood moving through his veins. To walk on God’s earth and feel like he didn’t belong anywhere was enough to make a person not want to bother at all.

  Ironically, it was his faith in God that kept him from giving up. That was the only good thing the white man had done for him, by having missionaries try to convert them. His village became further divided as some accepted Jesus the same as Running Wolf—becoming saved, while others challenged leaving their traditional ways. Even with his belief system being tested, Running Wolf found himself asking the same old questions, such as, why go through the daily torture? Why continue to endure the abuse, by pretending every snide comment and further ill-treatment of him didn’t hurt?

  Running Wolf knew he’d never know a maiden’s love.

  His experiences with women were limited to whores who saw money, and then his skin.

  He was never seen as just a man—only as that half-breed man.

  The bounty hunter.

  The killer.

  Stay clear of him if you value your life!

  What about the fact that he was a human being? He ate, breathed, and slept—and would die, eventually, like all of God’s creation. And no different than Augusta “Texas” Rose, Running Wolf suspected that he too... would leave this earth without ever having truly lived.

  * * *

  The rest of the day proved to be uneventful and Running Wolf realized that he may have been wrong. He decided to take care of his needs, ate again, and would have gotten his prisoner, but decided to listen to his gut-instinct and wait it out a little longer. The sun continued to dip until nothing was left. The moon and stars took their shift and like Running Wolf would stand guard as dawn approached, except he didn’t. He’d been pushing himself harder than usual, while observing the jail like a hawk, so determined not to miss anything—yet, his body felt drained.

  Concentrate on my prize.

  She was waiting directly across the street, he blinked, stretched, and took what was supposed to be a short break as Running Wolf’s eyelids closed… just to stop the burning. That was all his body needed, as seconds turned into minutes. His ears and mind ignored the faint sounds of horses’ hooves, drifting into his window. That distinct sound which should have alerted him about those he’d been waiting for had finally come to town.

  Cadence

  Now, 2017

  Levite and Black Jews. Bloodlines. Time traveling. It didn’t make sense to her as she typed every possible phrase into her laptop, surely she’d lost her mind listening to Grandma Agnes. She was supposed to believe that with her Jewish ancestry, and being the firstborn, she had God’s ear making it possible to accomplish great things through faith. Cadence Levine didn’t want to spend her Friday night researching. She never imagined her life becomin
g so predictable and boring. She finally dropped her hands in defeat. “I give up!” Today, her weekly visit with the aging matriarch of the family Grandma Agnes—proved to be a doozy, she was in rare form. She spoke of how she met Grandpa Joe by traveling back in time and ended with a lecture on finding love. Last week it was flying saucers and before that alternate dimensions. To be honest, Cadence only heard a portion of it, the rest was drowned out by her laughter. It was only after she’d realized that Grandma Agnes was serious that Cadence had begun to worry. The last thing she was prepared to deal with was some form of mental illness.

  Cadence brushed her teeth and changed into a plain nightgown, stopping only long enough to admire her image in the bedroom mirror. She was an attractive African American woman, but her dark eyes seemed… cold. Her smooth, mocha skin was accentuated by her short Afro and her shape was holding up, despite her habit for eating before bed. Yet, Cadence was far from satisfied or happy these days. “Tomorrow, I’ll be thirty years old,” she mouthed, sadly.

  God, my life feels so empty. What have I really done? I have Jewish ties, but never claimed them. I consider myself to be a Christian, yet it doesn’t go skin-deep.

  It took exactly ten seconds before Cadence had to admit that she’d done absolutely nothing worthwhile. Jobs—but, no career. Dating multiple men until she’d stopped entirely, when the chances of finding that someone special seemed less likely. Apartments rented and an endless supply of bills. She was stuck in this constant cycle. And to think as a child she wanted to become an archaeologist. She finished up and said her prayers. Despite Grandma Agnes’s best advice on dating, Cadence knew men and women were natural born enemies, and God couldn’t show her any differently. Her latest and most satisfying job as a private investigator had convinced her even further. Her mind couldn’t seem to remove the images of people she’d caught cheating, and because of them she was able to make her rent each month. Her faith in human beings having a little act right was hanging on by a thin thread. What was the world coming to when going on a date could result in ending up dead, cut into pieces, inside of a duffle bag?