He wanted very much to get his hands on Dancing Moon, but she had vanished, although he feared the woman had not given up on her hatred for Abigail. Zeke vowed to himself that somehow Dancing Moon would pay for bringing such mental anguish to Abbie, who had already had her share of suffering and who had barely begun to adjust to the new life-style of living among his people.
Abbie’s spirits brightened when the tipi began to take shape, and the women of the village coaxed her to smile, joking with her and keeping her busy, all aware that her heart was broken over the puppy. They had no strong feelings for any of the dogs, but they understood that Abbie did, and they respected her feelings. So they kept her busy, and while a few of them helped sew skins for a tipi, another demonstrated to Abbie how to make a war shield by stretching rawhide over a willow hoop and hanging brass bells and beaded leather strips around the edge of the shield. Another woman painted the shield with an eagle, Zeke’s sign, and the finished product was presented to Zeke the same day that the tipi was erected.
This became another occasion for celebration. But Zeke’s brother, Red Eagle, drank so much whiskey while celebrating that he passed out while he was sitting with Yellow Moon, his bride-to-be. He had to be carried to Swift Arrow’s tipi, and although it was humorous at the time, Zeke knew it was a grave foreboding of the future. Red Eagle’s drunkenness was only one small sign, and when he and Abbie retired to their new dwelling for the night, his heart was heavy with concern, for whatever happened to the Cheyenne would affect both their lives.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Abbie was saying excitedly, whirling around inside. “It’s much larger than any of the others! And it’s our own, Zeke, our very own!” This was the most happiness she had felt since the puppy had been killed. She turned to face Zeke and his eyes were full of love and sadness. “What’s wrong?” she asked him. “You’ve been very quiet tonight.”
His eyes scanned the small woman-child before him. “Most white women look forward to a fancy new house with wood floors and a hard roof and glass windows, with a fireplace and a clock on the mantel,” he told her. He turned away. “I’m sorry, Abbie. It shouldn’t be this way … for you. You shouldn’t have married me. There’s trouble ahead for the Cheyenne—and probably for us.”
“Zeke Monroe!” she chided, putting her hands on her hips. “And I suppose I should have settled for some mealy white boy who doesn’t know his head from his feet and is scared of his own shadow—or perhaps some older man I can’t stand to have beside me in the night—just so I can have a roof over my head and a fireplace and cook on a wood stove!”
“Stop it, Abbie!” he snapped. “You know there are plenty of brave, industrious, good men out there among the whites.”
“But I married you, Zeke! I married the man that you are, not the color of your skin! You could just as well have been white, but it just so happens that you’re half Indian. What’s the difference? A woman’s place is with her man, and as long as my man’s happiness lies here with the Cheyenne, then this is where my happiness lies!”
He turned back to face her, and their eyes held challengingly. Then Abbie’s softened and she smiled. “We’ve already made our commitment, Zeke.” She stepped closer to him and took his hands. “And I’ve never doubted my decision.”
He searched her eyes, his own tearing, to her surprise. “Are you sure, Abbie girl?” he asked in a near whisper.
She smiled more broadly. “Zeke, I’m here. And I’m carrying your child. Isn’t it a little late to ask me if I’m sure?” She sighed and squeezed his hands. “I know I was upset over the puppy, but Dancing Moon is gone now, and I feel better, Zeke, having our own dwelling. Everything will be fine. And do you know what I wish right now? I wish you’d get your mandolin and sing for me, like you used to do last summer on the wagon train. Sing me a Tennessee mountain song. It’s been so long since you sang and played for me, and I’m so happy tonight, so proud of our new lodge and the war shield I made for you.”
He sighed in resignation and bent down to kiss her forehead. “I’ll get the mandolin,” he said quietly, a sadness still in his eyes. He put a big hand to her cheek for a moment, then went to get the instrument he’d left in Swift Arrow’s tipi. Abbie sat down to wait. She dearly loved to hear him sing, and remembered that night the year before, when he had sung especially for her as she lay close to dying from the arrow wound. His singing had comforted her and soothed her lonely heart. Zeke played the mandolin’s magical strings with a mystic beauty, and his voice was clear and mellow. When he sang his Tennessee music for her, she was back home again, and that was all the home she needed. Tennessee would be only a memory now.
She looked around the tipi. Utah and Kansas Territories had become home to her, and this dwelling was as homey and warm as any fancy house, for a home was only a home when there was love in it, whether it was made of buffalo skins or bricks. And there was already much love inside this dwelling.
Susan Garvey sat on satin sheets, moaning about her “poor” condition. She was seven months pregnant and certain she would die when she gave birth, if she did not die before that from the strain of carrying around a fat stomach. It seemed to take all her strength just to walk from the bed to the toilet, and she kept her maids running at all hours, bringing her books, food, water, whatever she asked for. They helped her bathe and brushed her hair and, in general, made certain Mrs. Garvey did not have to lift one weak little finger.
Her heart quickened with dread at the realization that the senator would be home soon. In the two short years they had been married, she had grown to hate him, especially when he grasped at her in the night with his fat fingers. She was glad for the pregnancy, for it gave her an excuse to put a stop to their sex life, which mattered little to her since meeting the handsome young physician who attended her. She didn’t care that the maids might gossip about the doctor’s house calls and about the prolonged time she spent with him behind closed doors, because never had she known sex could be so deliriously exciting as it was at the hands of her physician. Perhaps it was because their secret affair was so scandalous and forbidden that she gloried in the doctor’s touch. For all she knew, the baby she carried was her doctor’s and not the senator’s; but she was Mrs. Winston Garvey, a senator’s wife, and for the sake of appearances, all must believe this was the senator’s son or daughter.
Susan Garvey had been born and raised wealthy, and she intended to stay that way. Marrying the senator had assured her of that. And as his wife she also enjoyed a place of prominence. But now that she had an exciting lover on the side, life was even more wonderful. After the baby was born, her doctor lover would “fix” things so that she never got pregnant again. She wanted no more babies and was having this one only for the sake of appearances, to show her “love and devotion” for the senator. But pregnancy spoiled a woman’s figure, and she did not intend to go through it again.
She smiled at the thought of how clever she and the doctor had been. The senator would be told that it would be dangerous for Susan to ever have another child, and that sex must be prohibited for the sake of Susan’s health. It was a wonderful idea, for then she would never again have to sweat beneath the senator’s fat body; yet she could continue her affair with the doctor without worrying about getting pregnant. The operation to keep her from having any more children would be a secret between herself and her physician.
It was a perfect plan. Let the senator smother some prostitute with his fat body and grope at some other woman with his clumsy fingers. She couldn’t care less, except that it would be fun pretending she was jealous and angry whenever she suspected he’d been with someone else. After all, she was a devoted wife, who should be upset by her husband’s infidelity.
She chuckled to herself. Of course, the doctor would have to continue his house calls and “examinations,” for her health was “delicate,” or so it would seem. It was a game that brought her great delight and entertainment. To live any other way would be boring.
She heard
the door below open and close, and then her husband bellowed a greeting to the servants. She closed her eyes and made a face. She knew the routine. He would hand his papers to a servant to take to his office; then he would light a smelly cigar and heave his body up the stairs of their plush townhouse to greet his pregnant wife, who was too ill to get out of bed. Pregnant young women had to be treated delicately, and he had to be patient with her condition.
She heard the dreaded footsteps on the stairs and scooted down under the covers, hoping her face was not still flushed from the doctor’s recent visit and “examination.” She put on the face of a weak and ill young woman so that he would not dream of crawling into bed with her. The door opened, and he barged into the room, puffing his obnoxious cigar.
“Good evening, pet,” he said to her, plopping himself on the bed beside her. “And how is the little mother?”
“I feel terrible!” she mumbled. “I’m so sick all the time, Winston. I’ll be so glad when this is over and I have my figure back.”
He grinned and ran a hand over her swollen belly and across her privates. “So will I, my love. So will I.”
She drew up her knees and pulled the covers up to her neck. “You don’t fool me, Winston! You get what you need from those filthy wenches who advertise themselves on the back steps of Washington! I’m not that stupid!”
He only smiled and rose, walking to the dresser to a tray full of various alcoholic beverages. He opened a bottle of bourbon and poured a small amount into a glass.
“What’s wrong, my pet?” he asked, talking down to her as he always did. “You were reluctant in bed long before you got pregnant.” He took a swallow and turned to her. “Are you tired of your fat old man already?”
She puckered her lips. “Sex is such a chore!” she grumbled. “Only the man gets any fun out of it. All the woman gets is pregnant and sick!”
He chuckled and nodded. “Well, my dear, it’s wives like you who keep women like those on the back steps of Washington busy. But you are still my wife, and you’ll forget all this once you have the baby.” His eyes roved her body. “And whether you’re willing or not, I intend to exercise my husbandly rights when I feel like it. If I want to have at you, I’ll have at you.”
She turned up her nose. “Don’t be such an animal!” she sneered.
“You liked it when we first married.”
“I never liked it! I just pretended.” She sat up straighter and fluffed her pillows. “Mother told me it would be like this, and she was right. She and my father haven’t slept together for years.”
He raised his glass to her. “The world would certainly be a lot better off if mothers quit telling their daughters what a burden sex is.” He took another swallow, thinking how lovely it would feel to plant his hands around her throat and squeeze. She had been so enchanting and deliciously innocent when he first married her. “You really are quite a spoiled bitch, you know,” he said flatly, walking over to pour another drink. “And if you don’t quit lying around in that bed, you’ll be fat.”
She laughed lightly. “I already am fat, thanks to you. And you should talk. Do you think I enjoy having a fat husband?”
He started on his second drink. “You enjoy having a husband with a fat wallet well enough. You enjoy the fat life you lead and the clothes and fine things my fat money brings you. A few rounds in bed with me isn’t much to ask in return.” He studied the drink in his hand. “Come to think of it, you aren’t any different from the whores I sleep with. The only difference is that you have a piece of paper saying you’re my wife. But I pay for your services, just the same.”
She rubbed at her belly and made a face. “And you think I’m not paying? I’m the one who’s losing out on all the parties because of this horrible stomach, lying here sick all the time; and now I have to look forward to the awful pain of childbirth.” She burst into tears, but he just grinned and shook his head.
“What you need is to know what it’s like to really work, my dear, to know some of the discomforts of life, like the pioneer women. Perhaps you’ll learn soon enough at that.”
“What are you talking about?” she sniffled, taking a hanky from under her pillow and dabbing at her eyes.
“I’ve sent Jonathan Mack west to do some investing for me. If I work things right, I’ll own half of Santa Fe when the States take it over after this war with Mexico.”
“So what?” she grumbled. She blew her nose. “Who cares about Santa Fe?”
He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “You should, my dear. You’ll be living there, and you’ll be the wealthiest, prettiest, most talked about woman there. Wouldn’t that please you?”
Her eyes widened. “I’ll not live in that … that … snake-infested dusty hole! I’ll not leave Washington!”
He swallowed the rest of his drink. “You’ll live where I tell you to live. It would be good for that sallow skin of yours to get some Western sunshine, and roughing it a little would be good for your spoiled, rotten soul!”
“I’ll not live there! Do you understand? How can you think of such a thing. I’d have to leave mother and … and the high society parties, and the grand coaches … and … and civilization itself! Why, I could even be attacked and raped by Indians! Tortured and murdered! And what of our baby? How can you begin to consider such a horrible idea!”
He lit another cigar. “Think of it this way, my dear. I’m going to have a grand mansion built for you, and when you go out there, you’ll stand out like a lily among thorns. You’ll be the center of society and you’ll own half the town. How can that be so bad?”
She folded her arms in front of her. “And where will you be while I’m out there sweltering and choking on dust.”
“I’ll be joining you. I have five years left in the senate. I’ve won this seat often enough and I’m getting bored with Washington. Believe me, my pet, Jonathan Mack will make good use of my money. We’ll be quite rich, or should I say, richer than we already are. You can move out there and get settled—get used to the place—in, oh, three or four years, after things have settled with Mexico and all my land holdings are safe; and soon after, I’ll retire from political life and join you. Could be I’ll get right back into politics out there, you know. In the West a man can own a whole town, my pet.”
She turned her eyes to the pink satin bedspread and thought about his suggestion. To be the center of attention would not be so bad. In fact, she could be the pillar of society in a place like Santa Fe. And it could be a whole year after she arrived before her fat husband joined her. She could have quite a good time in that year. But still… Santa Fe … the West … Indians! It was all very frightening.
“Could we … could we pay Dr. Whitney to go?” she whined. “He’s such a good doctor, and surely there are no doctors out there, Thomas. He says my health is not good, and I may always have need of a physician.”
He waved his arm. “So, let him go, if it makes you happy. Hell, the man could get rich out there. There must be a tremendous need for good doctors.”
Susan smiled inwardly. A whole year alone with Dr. Whitney!
“And don’t worry about the Indians,” he went on, puffing his cigar. “There are ways of handling those ignorant savages. They’ll learn to either stay where we tell them to stay, or die. It’s that simple. The world would be better off without them anyway, kind of like getting rid of flies and mosquitoes and rodents, wouldn’t you say?”
She sniffled. “I suppose so.” She dabbed her eyes and looked up at him. “Can I have a grand house? The grandest house ever built out West? With all the comforts I have here?” Her mind was racing at the possibility of a whole year with the doctor and the idea of being the belle of the West.
“You can have whatever you wish, my pet,” he replied. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, and she suddenly realized she didn’t want to spoil her chances of being with the good doctor, or of losing her position as the wife of Senator Winston Garvey, who might some day be the wealthiest landowner in t
he West. As old and fat as he was, she could be left a young and very rich widow. She puckered her lips again.
“I’m terribly bitchy, am I not?” she told him, feigning regret. “I guess it’s my pregnancy, Winston.”
“You’re young, my sweet. You’ll mature.”
“Try not to be too angry with me, Winston.” She batted her eyes at him and he reached over and pulled her soft, silk gown down over her shoulder, exposing one breast. He toyed with it a moment, grinning like a hungry wolf.
“How can I stay angry with a beautiful young thing like you?” he replied. She closed her eyes and let him touch her, hoping he would not die before he became wealthier, but that he also would not live to enjoy his wealth. The senator leaned down to plant his mouth over her breast and she felt ill.
“Please, Winston, I’m just not in the mood when I’m fat and sick,” she protested. He sat up, his eyes alive with desire for her.
“Whatever, my pet.” He rose and walked out of the room, and she snuggled down to dream about a whole year alone with her doctor.
The great band of Cheyenne and Arapaho moved northeast toward the junction of the Smoky Hill and Republican Rivers, where they hoped to find more game. More Indians joined them, some northern Cheyenne coming down from Nebraska and unorganized territories, telling tales of more and more white-topped wagons traversing the Great Medicine Road to the West.
These stories spread quickly among the southern Cheyenne and the Arapahos, and they were discussed at the councils and tipi gatherings. More were coming! Hundreds more! More than the Indian could count! And soldiers were also coming. Fort Laramie was full of them now, and the Sioux were beginning to feel threatened by the presence of so many soldiers and whites. Already, they had lost thousands of their people to the white man’s diseases. Mothers had lost children, and children had lost parents. Men had lost wives and sons, and warriors who were bold and skilled in battle had succumbed to the dreaded spotted disease of the white man.
Ride the Free Wind Page 13