A Promise of Thunder

indignantly. “I’m no meek Indian squaw. Too bad you won’t be around for me to prove you wrong.”
    “Perhaps I will, Mrs. Kennedy, perhaps I will,” Grady said tightly. “But don’t expect me to pick you up when you fall flat on your face.”
    “I expect nothing from you. Just leave me alone! If not for you, Buddy would still be alive. Good day, Mr. Stryker.”
    September 16, 1893
    The run was going to be even more unruly than Grady had imagined. Troops of the Third Cavalry were stationed all along the line between Kansas and the Cherokee Strip to try to maintain order, but it would not be easy.
    One of the biggest problems would be the “Sooners”—men who were sneaking into the Cherokee Strip before the starting time. Their claims would not be legal, and there promised to be many a confrontation over land claimed by more than one man.
    At fifteen minutes before noon, the lines at the train station were enormous. The slow movement of tickets had tempers soaring—only 20,000 an hour could be sold. Once the signal was given, trains would leave the station at two- or three-minute intervals. At the otherend of the line, in the newly designated towns of Perry, Enid, and Kildare, quarter-acre town sites would be allotted to the first arrivals.
    Grady guided his sturdy Indian pony, Lightning, along the starting line. The horsemen and bicycle riders were at the front, while the buggies and lighter wagons were in the second row, with heavy teams bringing up the rear. It amused him to see a gaily decorated surrey in the second row loaded with four flamboyantly dressed prostitutes, who flirted outrageously with the men around them.
    Exactly when Grady had decided to join in the rush for free land was unclear in his mind. All he knew was that after the confrontation with Storm Kennedy in the funeral parlor, he had done a considerable amount of thinking. And after much soul-searching he had come to the conclusion that he was tired of violence and bloodshed. Perhaps this was his opportunity to forge a new life for himself and his son.
    Grady grew pensive when he recalled his last words with Storm Kennedy, when he had urged her to abandon her reckless plan to run for land. He had seen her only once after their argument, and then only briefly. Though she had maintained a stubborn silence during their encounter, he hoped he had made an impression on her.
    Wheeling his mount into place, Grady knew exactly which piece of land he wanted. He had ridden through the area many times in the past, before it had been purchased from the Indians.About ten miles from Guthrie, the prime piece of acreage Grady had in mind had everything a homesteader could want. Water, rich grasslands, and abundant trees. He had no interest in claiming one of the town sites, but instead pictured Little Buffalo running free and wild on farmland tilled and cultivated by his own hands. It would be a fit legacy to leave his son, something Grady had accomplished on his own.
    Storm Kennedy steadied the team of horses with a firm hand. Her light wagon was in the second row of racers behind the horsemen and bicycles, but she had every confidence in her ability to beat the competition. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only woman racing for land today. Here and there she could see other females, some on horseback, some driving wagons.
    Glancing ahead to the front of the line, Storm saw that the horsemen were bent low over their mounts in anticipation of the signal. Reacting to the tension, she grasped the reins tighter. Suddenly her face drained of all color as she stared incredulously at a particular rider. He sat his horse with the grace of a man born to the saddle. Tall and supple, dressed in buckskins that molded to his body, his lean, lithe frame seemed an extension of his mount.
    The half-breed, Grady Stryker!
    What was he doing here? Storm wondered, stunned by the notion that a drifter and gunslinger would attempt to claim land that byright should go to decent homesteaders.
    Grady spoke softly in the Lakota language to his mount as the tension grew. He knew only seconds remained before the sergeant of the Third Cavalry would fire the shot that would signal the maddest rush ever made in the country’s history. He glanced behind him, searching the faces of his fellow racers, trying to judge his chances of beating the competition.
    Then he saw her and spat out a curse that made those beside him turn and stare. Had nothing he said gotten through to the