100 Years of Brotherly Love

Prologue

Despite the temperature, now in triple-digits, he paced the length of the stable as he waited for her to arrive. His mind was locked in thoughts of his past, his need to handle this in the right way to cause no harm. Enough harm had been done already.

His great-grandmother’s people were very wise long before the white-man settled in New Mexico and taught them what they felt to be important, and then tried to erase them from existence. How little they had understood about the Native American people who had so successfully survived without the white-man’s help for many centuries.

His great-grandfather’s family was a mix of the wealthy white Bostonian family on one side and the rancher she had fallen in love with while visiting her favorite cousin in Colorado. After two years, she had failed to adapt to harsh western life.

He had tried the East and, after many years of fighting his need for the wide-open western landscape, he had spent half the year traveling westward. His trips had lasted longer and longer, until finally he had given in and stayed in Colorado.

Their parting had been amicable. Both had given it their all—they just could not adapt to the other’s needs when it came to lifestyle. They were both unfailingly kind, generous, thoughtful people and held little animosity toward anyone, including each other.

Yes, his tribes, both white and red, had taught him what he had learned to be the truths by which a man could live his life. And following those truths, he could be peaceful with his decisions and proud of his actions.

His white side had taught him to be generous to those who had less; to be thankful for and share his wealth and opportunity. On his Indian side they reinforced that same generosity, taught him about honor, a love for Mother Earth and, learned at great expense, that a man should not be afraid to cry—that it frees the mind of sorrowful thoughts. He had found that hard lesson to be very true and valuable over the years.

He had done his very best to use the lessons from both. He generously shared with his friends and the Pueblo peoples nearby. He wisely preserved what Mother Earth provided him, kept his word and protected his people with honor and honesty, and his tears had flowed freely when needed.

He had never been one to hide his passions. At his deepest despair, the chief of their tribe would take him to the Kiva where he was given healing and peace. When he loved, he loved with his whole heart. If only he had not been tested and found wanting by someone for whom he had cared for so very deeply.

There was another saying amongst his great-grandmother’s people, Force, no matter how concealed, begets resistance. Had he and his family used force on those they loved—concealed it as understanding and an unwavering willingness to help? No, he didn’t believe that. But someone had and it had caused pain and heartache to many of those he loved most in the world.

Trick Raines would continue to honor his heritage —white and red. One can only do one’s best. If it is misconstrued, so be it. His heart was pure, and he wished no ill to any man—no matter what had been done to him.

Despite all his efforts, there were those who had resented his wealth, his status, his generosity and taught him another of his Indian people’s adages, Even a small mouse has anger—dear God, how true that was. And he had learned it the hard way.

Chapter 1

Tiwa Valley – 1995 The Writer

Saundra Porter, age thirty and first-time-published biography author was going to write the best story of the century—if she could get what she needed from the very private man who lived in the beautiful home into which she was being admitted.

When she first heard of her subject, she thought she would find an elderly man so she pictured him as such. She'd never met him nor, for that matter, had she seen a current photograph of him. He and his wife were very private people. Apparently, the subject had suffered through more than his share of bad publicity and gossip-mongering in his life. The project had been arranged by her agent— that in itself was a surprise.

She wondered why the man was suddenly so adamant about doing his biography—and why he had selected a fairly inexperienced biographer to tell that story. Oh, she had written her fair share of magazine articles and short stories, enough to make a modest living at it. Then there had been the biography that had paid her so well and brought her to the attention of even the most popular talk shows. But this was on another level altogether; it was a big and important project.

The subject, the mysterious Robert Patrick Trick Raines, V, had agreed to the interviews, and she was smart enough to know that, even with that agreement, there could be some holding back. Subjects tended to do that, even for a small magazine article. People, by their own nature, always tried to hold something back—some little thing that they used to hold onto at least that small degree of privacy.

Well, she’d just have to win him over and get everything there was to tell. Her professors had defined her character as determined, stubborn and tenacious— depending on the project assigned.

She was set on using those traits to dig out the truth about this man and his past. His life had been rich and colorful, filled with friends, family—some said tragedy and even enemies. It came with the territory, she supposed. You didn’t wield power or accumulate wealth and not make a few die-hard enemies. When it came to wealth, this man was a legend right up there with Chisholm. His ranch was second in size only to that of Texas fame.

He’d been accused—in public opinion although never charged—with perpetrating several criminal acts including arson and attempted insurance fraud. She wondered if he thought it was all worth it—the scandal, the financial loss, the losses more personal.

She wasn’t at all sure she was going to like the man. If he did indeed do what he was accused of doing, he couldn’t be a very nice person. She wondered, as she had for much of her trip to New Mexico, just what she had gotten herself into.

She walked into the study of what had until the mid-fifties been a sprawling ranch house, now two stories of comfort and western luxury. No, that wasn’t as much of an oxymoron as she had believed when her agent told her about the ranch. There was no tackiness here. Instead there was definitely a wonderful mix of the old, the valuable, family mementos, tribal artifacts and the luxurious—she’d noted the five-car garage on her way up the drive—which included the long, sleek sports car in a fabulous shade of red.

Here were all the trappings of the West. There was the old saddle sitting in a glass case. Its descriptive plaque explained that it had belonged to his great-grandfather when he first set eyes on this piece of land and claimed it for himself back in the mid-1800s.

There were, of course—what large western cattle ranch wouldn’t have them—the enormous steer horns reaching out nearly ten-feet wide, mounted on rich, studded leather and hung on the pine paneling that reflected the style of the house. The huge desk sitting below those mounted horns didn’t even make a dent in the expanse of the room.

Then there was the art—Remington bronzes, four of them in this room alone; and beautiful paintings of mountain ranges, mesas, and horses and their riders. With their ropes circling overhead, they chased some unseen treasure the viewer would assume were cattle or horses just out of view. Getting close to one, she spotted the artist’s initials—AWR—but found they didn’t ring any bells, so she moved on to inspect the rest of the room.

As she wandered around the large open space, she wondered what treasures the rest of the house held.

There were the relatively thin, uniquely-patterned Indian rugs in their black, white, brown, and sometimes red dyes on the highly polished wide-planked wooden floor. To add to the appeal of the very large room was a bank of wooden shutters all along one exterior wall. Painted a lovely dark, manly shade of green on the large number of windows, they added to the masculine style of the room, as did the leather of the furniture.

Even the top of the table that sat between two huge leather chairs was covered in tooled leather. It was stained in a dark sienna tone and well-polished. Obviously hand-tooled, the leather was studded to the sides of the heavy oak frame. Its proportions alone were amazing. It must have been eight-feet across and five-feet deep, she realized. The design tooled into the surface was a map of the State of New Mexico with a star marking the location of every Pueblo in the State, along with the Pueblo’s tribal name.

Also present were those touches that let you know a woman lived here—a large black and white Indian-style bowl with patterns in shard designs. Placed in the middle of the leather-topped table, it was filled with dried berries and petals, leaving their sweet and spicy aroma around the room. Colorful pillows flowed across the huge cream-colored leather sofa. There was a silver vase filled with flowers sitting on a small side table bringing life to a corner area, and dozens of hand-hammered silver frames—holding photographs that she presumed were of generations of his family—sat in front of hundreds of books on expansive pine shelves.

She had seen dozens more framed photos on the twelve-foot mantel of the fireplace in the living room she had passed as she was guided to the study. She had also glimpsed a grand piano in that room. Obviously someone in the household played. No one spent that much money on an instrument without knowing it would be enjoyed.

She stood there gently brushing her hand across the frame holding the black and white image of a beautiful young girl of about sixteen, with long black hair, high cheekbones, sad gray eyes and a sweet smile. The photograph was obviously an old one.

Beautiful, wasn’t she? the deep voice asked from behind her.

Oh, I’m sorry, she stammered. She jerked her hand away from the frame, embarrassed to be caught admiring the picture when he came into the room. She turned to find herself face-to-face with the man himself— Robert Patrick Trick Raines—who was not at all what she had expected.

Ruggedly handsome, his muscular frame standing straight and proudly to a height well over six-feet tall— perhaps six-feet three-inches—his brown hair was slightly graying but in a very distinguished way. His broad-shouldered build still that of a strong, capable man—was not of the elder she had expected.

He was smiling at her, and she would remember later that even his eyes were smiling. I hope you don’t mind. Looking back at the photograph, she added, Yes, she was beautiful—beautiful and yet…sad somehow.

He looked from the girl before him to the girl caught in the image, the smile in his eyes fading away, and said, Yes, she was sad at times. But that was a long, long time ago. He sighed and then gathering himself he asked, Won’t you please sit? He motioned toward the seating area near a window with its shutters open.

The view beyond was unbelievably beautiful. The red rocks of the far off mesa east of the ranch were glowing with the reflection of what was, from this view, an unseen low-hung sun setting below the mountains on the Western side of the ranch. She knew that the view from the other side of the house was of the high, green mountains—much nearer to the house than the far off mesas—she had driven over to get here.

They stood and watched as white clouds hanging in what had been the bluest sky she had ever seen changed as the sky’s blue faded. The clouds turned just slightly pink, orange and purple around the edges in their evening reflection of the sun, now hung low and about to drop behind those mountains.

What a beautiful view, she said, caught in the rapture of the beauty before her.

Well, he laughed, if you think that is beautiful, wait until you see this. Moving quickly to one end of the room he pressed a button and she heard a motor rev up as it began opening the bank of shutters, until finally the whole wall of windows was opened to the spectacular view.

Oh, she sighed. It’s wonderful! It’s like a theatre featuring a beautiful western landscape.

Thought you might appreciate it, he said, as they stood together and watched silently, until the sun set and the sky went darker with only the gorgeous silver moonlight now showing the mesas in silhouette. We keep them closed during the heat of the day, he said, as he once again started closing the shutters. Keeps this big, old room cooler in the triple digit temperatures we get here— especially with its western exposure. Speaking of the temperature, would you like something cold to drink?

No, she responded, thank you.

He gestured to her to have a seat.

Thank you again for letting me do these interviews, Mr. Raines, she said, as she sat—no, sank— down on one of those two soft, yielding, buttery-soft leather chairs that sat separated by that marvelous leather-topped table she had been admiring earlier.

I should also thank you for permitting me to stay here at the ranch during the interview phase. You have a stunning home, she said, quite honestly.

She watched as the cowboy lowered himself into the chair across from her, his long, lean legs stretched out in front of him. She would make no mistake—despite the money, the power, the years, this man was still a cowboy and obviously proud of it.

His eyes, what you could see of them, were hidden behind the heavy lids in their squint earned from many years fighting against the hot, unforgiving sun and dust of countless herds of cattle and horses. Yet she suspected many of the lines radiating from them were due to laughter, not weather and sunlight. Yes, unlike her expectations, Raines looked like a very happy man.

Those cowboy eyes were taking their inventory of her features. She was tall, about five-foot eight-inches, her sleek, shining black hair was cut in a short, almost boyish cut. Her eyes were huge and gray as the sky just before the spring rains poured down.

It’s the least I can do, he answered. Would you like to get settled in first or get right down to work?

I have to admit that I’m anxious to get started, she said, smiling at him but not really understanding his response. He sounded as if he owed her this project but, of course, that was ridiculous.

Well then, let’s get to it. Dinner’s at 7:00 PM around here. The hands join us, so it’s a big deal in this house. So we can talk until dinner time.

May I record this?

Of course! I’m sure that would make things much easier on both of us, he smiled at her.

Mr. Raines… she started.

Trick, please…call me Trick, he interrupted her. Since we’ll be spending a great deal of time together, I’m sure we’ll become friends in the process—at least I hope so.

Trick…let’s start with a rather standard question, just to get things rolling. He wasn’t at all what she had expected, she thought. Then she returned his smile as she clicked on the recorder sitting on the table between them.

What three things are most important to you?

He didn’t hesitate in the least before answering, Family, friends, and fidelity to both.

She was slightly taken aback by this answer. It wasn’t what she had expected—the ranch from which he got his money, and the power it had provided him would have been amongst her expectations.

You seemed surprised, he smiled, but she definitely saw that it did not reach his eyes this time.

Perhaps you came here expecting me to fit into a picture formed by years of bad press. I’m disappointed, he said, as the smile disappeared, that you thought I would fit into such a sad, sorry framework.

M…Trick, I’m here to find out the truth and write your story as it happened, not as it was reported in the past. I assure you, I have no wish to make you fit into any preconceived pattern, she replied.

He sank back in his own soft, encompassing leather chair and stared at her for a while, deciding how to proceed. How did he tell her? Finally he said, Good. Then perhaps we should start at the beginning.

Chapter 2

Pony Express Route – May 1861

Memories of the past haunted him—the hunger for his future fed him with energy as he rode today.

He’d been traveling this same route for many months—from Sacramento to Diamond Springs and back— and he was finally sick of just moving, moving, moving. He wouldn’t have believed it if someone had said so a year ago. Oh, he loved riding, loved this country—wild, free, beautiful and dangerous as hell sometimes—but he was lonely so much of the time. And with the constant movement, he didn’t really get to enjoy the countryside like he’d imagined he would.

He’d taken the job as a Pony Express rider as a way to have time to himself to think—decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Even that idea of the job had proven false. If you didn’t pay attention to what was going on around you as you rode the trail at breakneck speed, you put yourself in unnecessary danger. He was not a stupid man, despite his lack of years.

Even with the demands of the job, he’d come to know what he wanted; with the knowing he was ready to get started! He was ready to settle, ready for roots.

He’d also faced the reality that it wouldn’t be long before his job would end anyway. The intercontinental railroad and the stage line were coming and coming fast— between those two and the telegraph, who would need the Pony Express? The railroad and stage line would undoubtedly carry mail as well as passengers. The telegraph would make some mail unnecessary.

No, this would be his last trip for Pony Express. He’d stake himself a claim to some land and use his savings to get a few head of cattle, a couple of brood mares.

The job hadn’t paid much, but then he didn’t need much and had saved most of his earnings. Hell, even the horses were the property of Pony Express. All he really owned were the clothes he carried with him, his saddle and blanket, a canteen and some eating implements packed in his saddlebag. With what his mother had left him when she died back east the year before, he would have more than enough money, as long as he was careful.

His heart twisted when he thought of her. He had loved her, despite all their differences. Mercedes Raines had been a lady; Bobby Raines was a cowboy—that was something they had both learned to deal with.

There would be more money coming to him in time —the trust she had set up for her only son. His heart ached again at the loss of her. She had inherited all that money but it had never been her source of happiness. It was something he had learned from both his parents. Money was a tool to be used to help others, never a source of happiness for one’s self.

If he had to sleep under the stars, he would—as long as it took. Bobby Raines was ready for his life to finally begin on his own terms.

He’d seen some beautiful country southeast of here in New Mexico. True it was Indian country too but, unlike the apaches west of the spot he had in mind, they were a friendlier sort. Not that he blamed any of the tribes for their discontent, but these were Pueblo Indians of the Tewa group. As long as you respected their territory, privacy and traditions, they didn’t bother anybody unless provoked.

He’d always believed that had been true of most of the tribes at one time—long, long ago before there had been so much mistrust, so much loss and betrayal. And he knew it would get worse before it got better, if indeed it did get better.

Years ago, he’d made friends with a Pueblo tribal chief’s son when he’d helped the boy pull his mired-down pony out of the muddy banks of what had been a suddenly-swollen river.

He’d left his dad in Albuquerque where they had been visiting with Bobby’s aunt who was recovering from consumption, and he had taken off by himself for a month to see the territory. At seventeen, he had been old enough to handle himself. Lord knew his dad had trained him well enough in tracking, hunting, and building shelter that he was very capable of taking off on his own safely—as safely as you could in wild country.

As his pony sped along the trail, he remembered the day that fate brought him to a crossroad that had changed his life forever.

He’d heard the thrashing in the river as he rounded the bend and saw the boy rescuing his pony. Racing to him to help, he managed to pull the boy out as well, but the boy had his pride, so that part was never mentioned between them.

Bobby had been taken back to the boy’s village and had met his father and sister. He knew that the boy had confided the whole story to his father and, while nothing was said in front of the other tribe members, Bobby had received a feast and later, in the privacy of the Chief’s home, the heartfelt thanks of a grateful father.

He smiled thinking of the girl, Little Knife’s sister. Lily—that was the name he’d given her when he couldn’t pronounce her name in her Tiwa language. She’d be full grown by now. God, she’d been a beauty, just fourteen the last time he’d seen her. She had the biggest, most beautiful gray eyes he’d ever seen. He’d never seen an Indian with gray eyes before.

He wondered…no, Bobby, he told himself. No use in goin’ there. You’ve got to get yourself a life and roots before you can think of anything like a wife. It had been three years since he’d seen his friends and he was anxious to see them all again. Little Knife would be eighteen himself now—older than Bobby had been when they first met.

Arriving back in Sacramento the next week, he collected his final pay and headed back to Tiwa Valley, New Mexico.

* * *

He approached slowly. He knew with absolute certainty that he was being watched from the top of a nearby mesa. Oh, he couldn’t see them, but after spending time with them he knew they were there. They’d let him come close, probably because he was obviously alone and of no real threat to the Pueblo’s inhabitants.

He pulled up the reins as he approached a small stand of trees struggling in the harsh environment. He dismounted and tied his horse to one of the scrub trees. Turning away from his horse, he walked toward the Pueblo on foot, obviously leaving his rifle still on his horse.

Then he saw Little Knife. He’d grown into a man, just as he himself had, but Bobby would have known him anywhere. Just as he recognized his old friend, he saw the recognition strike Little Knife as well.

Young brother! he shouted in Tiwa as the man approached. Little Knife, how are you? It has been many years. He reached out his hand and it was gladly received in the handshake he’d taught him all those years ago.

Older brother the young man also responded in Tiwa. It is good to see you again! Welcome, Bobby Raines. Welcome. Come pay your respects to my father and then we will get you some food and share stories of these years we have been apart.

Sounds good, he replied. How is your father? And your sister? They are both well? he asked.

Yes, they are both fine, Little Knife said, as they gathered Bobby’s horse and headed toward the adobe building where Chief Eagle Feather and his family lived. He noted the carefully watching eyes of the rest of the village as