Shadow of an Indian Star by Bill Paul & Cindy Paul

Author:Bill Paul & Cindy Paul [Paul, Bill & Paul, Cindy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Synergy Books
Published: 2009-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

1876-1878: Smith Paul’s Valley

Sam’s “love fest” with Fannie resulted in the birth of his only daughter, Mattie in June, 1876. As Fannie’s pregnancy became more obvious, she moved into her own place in the valley and

declared openly that her child’s last name was Paul, not Briley. When Sam waffled at the news of his daughter’s birth, Fannie promptly read him the riot act. “You son of a bitch, you’re not going to abandon me with a child just because the fun’s over.”

Sam, who genuinely liked Fannie, suffered an uncharacteristic fit of responsibility after her remark. He paid a local man a thousand dollars to marry her and be a father to their child. The couple remained partners in the bootlegging trade, although Fannie refused to risk her daughter’s security by taking Sam back as a lover. Once her marriage made her sexually unavailable to him, Sam turned for companionship to the painted ladies who worked the hotels in Cherokee Town and White Bead Hill. Since the days of Lucy, he preferred to avoid Indian women and “breeds,” as mixed-bloods were still derisively called. Fannie Briley had been the one exception. He would tolerate white women, so long as nothing about them reminded him of Sarah. But lately his tastes had begun to run toward the exotic. He had once spent the night with a vigorous Spanish girl, who was on the run from her oppressive blue-blood family. He’d enjoyed the aura of delicious sinfulness that accompanied the act of getting naked with a fallen Catholic. The more exotic and forbidden the act, the better it worked to drown out that quietly gnawing sensation in the seat of his soul that, if he had listened to it, would have directed him home to his family.

Sam was luxuriating in his hotel room with a Negro girl named Adeline Ross one steamy July afternoon when a knock came on his door.

“Visitor here for you, Mister Paul,” came the clerk’s voice. “I told you I’m not to be disturbed!” Sam called back. Sam heard the clerk’s retreating footsteps on the hotel’s back

stair. On an impulse, he sat up and called out, “Who is it?” “It’s your father, sir.”

Sam scrambled into his street clothes and hurried downstairs.

When he entered the hotel parlor, 69-year-old Smith Paul rose from his chair. Although he bore a silver beard and deeply creased features—the badges of seasoned respectability—he’d managed to retain the robust health and vigor of a man two-thirds his age. To be near the magnificent patriarch was like being in the presence of a beloved king, whose tales of past glories were the stuff of legend.

Sam greeted his father with a respectful nod, and grasped Smith Paul’s hand warmly. The look in his father’s eye told him that Smith knew exactly what he’d been up to upstairs. The warm rush of shame that flooded through Sam surprised him. He’d grown accustomed to keeping himself one step ahead of his conscience.

“Sit down, son,” Smith Paul said without preamble. “We need to talk.

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