Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  She felt the pride of a true Cheyenne squaw now as she rode her handsome Appaloosa. To the Cheyenne, Zeke was a wealthy man because of his horses, so Abigail could ride and not feel obligated to walk like many of the other squaws. But she decided that they had done much for her, and for this reason she walked at intervals and, in turn, let the other women ride her horse, to give them a break from the long journey on foot. She also shared whatever horses there were from Zeke’s herd that had been broken for riding. It was the least she could do, and she knew that these people would appreciate her kindness.

  The big Appaloosa she rode was gentle with her, and it made her think of Zeke. Everything made her think of Zeke. He would be in Independence now. Perhaps he had already left to come back. Her heart pounded at the thought. She had voiced her worries to Gentle Woman that perhaps Zeke would have trouble finding them, but Gentle Woman had only laughed.

  “Zeke always finds us. He knows where we will be going. Do not worry about that one, Abigail.”

  Abbie smiled. It was silly for her to worry about Zeke. He would come back to her as he always did. He had come for her at Fort Bridger, and before that he had come for her and saved her from the outlaws. He would come back this time. He would come back. He had to come back!

  A man on a painted pony broke loose from the group of warriors in the lead and galloped back toward Abbie. She recognized the animal as Swift Arrow’s before the young man had ridden up beside her. He turned his mount again and walked it slowly next to hers.

  “You are still able to ride?” he asked her, his eyes looking ahead. “You are not tired?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes quickly scanning her slim white legs that showed beneath the tunic. He could understand how Zeke could love this white one, and then again in many ways he could not.

  “You are lucky,” he told Abbie. “Your husband is wealthy and you can ride. Do you like the horse I picked for you from the herd?”

  “It’s a good horse, Swift Arrow. Very gentle but sturdy.”

  The man nodded. “The Cheyenne raise the best horses! And Cheyenne men are the best riders!”

  Abbie smiled. Cheyenne men loved to brag, yet they did not do it in a truly conceited manner. Their statements were just plain fact. And although they competed in games and in battle, there was no real jealousy felt among them; theirs were just proud, friendly challenges. There was no great exaggerating when they shared their stories of conquest around council fires, for it was a strict rule that they tell only the truth, and if they were caught lying or stretching the truth, they were promptly ridiculed and chastised and shamed.

  “We go north now,” he told her. “For the months when the leaves are green and the grass is dry. Then we return to Hinta-Nagi, the Ghost Timbers, for the winter months.”

  Abbie did not reply, but only waited as Swift Arrow continued to look ahead. “What will you do with Zeke’s things if he does not return?” he asked her.

  Abbie frowned at this strange question and turned to look at him, but his eyes remained straight ahead. His bronze arms glistened in the sun, a silver band tightly decorating the hard bicep of his upper right arm, and he wore many coup feathers at the base of his braid.

  “I… I don’t think about him not returning,” she answered.

  “It is wise to think of such things. What would you do if he did not come back to us?”

  Abbie’s heart tightened. “I… I suppose I’d … I’d give all but a few of Zeke’s belongings to you, Swift Arrow, as his oldest brother. And then I’d have you take me to Bent’s Fort … or maybe Fort Laramie … and I’d find a way to get back home… to Tennessee.” Her eyes teared at the terrible thought of Zeke not coming back. “I … have an aunt there.”

  Swift Arrow halted his horse and grasped the reins of her own mount, making her stop. The others walked on, and Swift Arrow stayed back with Abbie.

  “I do not say these things to make you sad,” he told her. “I say them to make you think.” He waved his arm across the skyline ahead of them. “Look out there and tell Swift Arrow that you could leave this land, or that you could even leave our people. Tell Swift Arrow that you could go back to that place and forget us, forget this great land, and the buffalo and the eagle. Tell Swift Arrow that you could truly do this, whether with Zeke or without him.”

  Their eyes held in a moment of understanding. “I don’t know, Swift Arrow. I just … don’t know.”

  “I say you do know. I say already your heart belongs here. I say already you know what you will do. You know what your decision will be when Zeke comes for his woman.”

  She suddenly realized he was trying to help her decide.

  “Thank you,” she told him quietly. She thought a trace of a smile passed his lips, but Swift Arrow did not smile easily, and it was hard to tell. He let go of her horse and they started walking the animals again.

  “Do you know that if Zeke does not return, you will belong to me?” he asked, suppressing a grin when she jerked her horse to a halt again. He turned to look at her surprised eyes.

  “I would belong to no one but myself!” she answered defiantly.

  “You are Zeke’s woman. I am Zeke’s brother and you have been given over to my care. I could make you my woman, if I wished.”

  She raised her chin and got her horse into motion. “Not without my consent. Besides, you’d no more want me for a wife than you’d want a prickly porcupine!”

  To her surprise he laughed loudly, a rare sound from the man’s lips. “You are right!” he answered. He charged his horse forward for a short way, then circled and came back to her. He frowned and rode beside her again. “Do you mean Swift Arrow would not be a good husband? That you would not be proud of him?”

  Her heart raced. He was somehow testing her, and she wanted to give him the right answers. “I… I can’t think of a better man other than Zeke,” she answered. “But white women can’t just go to another man for the sake of being practical, Swift Arrow. There has to be … well… there has to be love … feelings.”

  He eyed her slyly. “You have no feelings for Swift Arrow?”

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Of course I do! You’re Zeke’s brother. But I don’t have… “wifely’ feelings.” She began to redden and Swift Arrow began to chuckle, and she realized he truly was teasing her, a game the Cheyenne were very good at playing. She was surprised he had come back to speak to her at all, for Cheyenne men used few words, except when bragging about a hunt or a battle, and Swift Arrow had said no more than ten words to her during the entire trip. Perhaps Swift Arrow was finally learning to like and accept Cheyenne Zeke’s white woman.

  They rode on silently a while longer until Abbie spoke up again. “Why don’t you marry again, Swift Arrow?” she asked him. “You should find another woman to relieve your loneliness.”

  His face hardened. “Who said Swift Arrow is lonely?”

  She swallowed. “I did!” she answered boldly. “I can see right through you.”

  His jaws flexed and he stared ahead. She was afraid she had made him angry, but then he spoke up quietly. “I want no other woman,” he told her. “I want only to be a great dog soldier—the best! The best dog soldiers had no wives.”

  “I see.” She rode quietly, waiting for him to speak again.

  “I will sleep near your tipi again tonight,” he told her.

  “I appreciate that, Swift Arrow. I feel very safe with you around.”

  “You think about what I said,” he told her. “White woman’s heart does not lie just with my brother. It lies with this land, with Esceheman, Grandmother Earth, and with these people. Each day you will see this more.” He trotted ahead of her. “Hai!” he shouted then, letting out a war whoop and galloping ahead to the other men. Abbie watched him, a proud, free man. If Zeke’s forebodings about the future of the Indians came true, it would go very hard on men like Swift Arrow.

  Zeke and Grimey drove the two huge supply wagons out
of Independence. Zeke had checked the contents of the wagons’ high, boxed-in beds and had been satisfied. He saw nothing but piano parts and whiskey, just as Jonathan Mack had said he would. But he still felt uneasy, and would be glad when this strange delivery was made. The eight hundred dollars would feel good in his pocket.

  Jonathan Mack smiled as he watched the wagons roll away, their false bottoms filled with rifles and dynamite. He brushed off the lapels of his expensive suitcoat and hurried after a man to whom he had seen Zeke hand a note before leaving.

  “Mister!” he shouted, rushing up and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. The bearded, beaver-hatted trapper turned, frowning curiously.

  “Yeah?” he asked impatiently.

  “I … uh … I just wondered what Cheyenne Zeke handed you,” Mack asked him. “You see, that shipment he just left with is mine and it’s very valuable. I don’t know the man very well, and … well, I just need to be sure he hasn’t tricked me.”

  The man chuckled. “Just a note to his woman, that’s all. I’m takin’ it to Fort Atkinson to find a runner to take it to his people—so’s they know he’s gonna’ be gettin’ back a little late. Don’t worry about it, mister. Zeke’s a good man.”

  “I see. Well, did you plan on leaving right away?”

  The man shrugged. “In the mornin’, I guess. What’s it to you?”

  Mack smiled. “I’d like to buy you a drink, that’s all. By taking that note for Cheyenne Zeke you’re helping him, which in turn helps me. I appreciate your doing that.”

  The burly mountain man licked his lips at the thought of a free drink. “Why not?” he replied. “You look like a man of means. I don’t mind lettin’ you foot the bill.” He laughed heartily and nearly made Mack choke when he slapped the much smaller man on the back.

  They walked together toward a saloon of Mack’s choosing, and soon Jonathan Mack was pouring free whiskey down the trapper’s throat. But the trapper did not notice the white powder that was slipped into his last drink, and moments later this burly, unsuspecting mountain man slumped to the floor. As men gathered around him, Mack bent over him, feigning concern. He checked the man over and then looked up at the others.

  “Go get the coroner,” he told them. “This man is dead. Must have had a heart attack.”

  Someone ran out, and the saloon keeper and two other men carried the dead man to a back room to wait for the coroner. In that town of migrant, busy people, no one was too concerned over the death. The men in the saloon returned to their drinking and gambling, and no one noticed Jonathan Mack go into the room where the dead man lay and slip a note from the trapper’s pocket. Jonathan Mack wanted no connections discovered; he wanted no one to know what had ever happened to Cheyenne Zeke. He opened the note carefully.

  “Dear Abbie,” it read. “Lost the money I had saved. Run on the banks. Got a job taking supply wagons to Santa Fe. Pays real good, Abbie. I have no choice but to take it. So I won’t be seeing you for two months or longer. I don’t know if I can stand being away from you that long. Please wait for me. I will be back like always. I love you, Abbie. That is the only thing I know. I will have a lot of money to take good care of you, if you still want me when I get back.”

  “Abbie,” Mack mumbled to himself. “That sounds like a white woman’s name.” He arched his eyebrows and shrugged; then he took his thin cigar and held it to the paper until the note caught fire. “I’m afraid you won’t be returning to your precious Abbie, Mr. Cheyenne Zeke,” he said with a smile. He threw the note into an ashtray and watched it burn before he left to catch a stagecoach to Santa Fe.

  They lined up silently along the ridge to stare down with wonder at the seemingly endless line of white-topped “houses on wheels,” below.

  “Katum!” Swift Arrow swore under his breath. There seemed to be too many wagons to count.

  “E-have-se-va!” a frowning old warrior beside him uttered.

  The Indians sat unmoving, and Abbie could see riders below galloping up and down the line of wagons, shouting. They had spotted the huge Cheyenne and Arapaho tribe and were obviously worried, for they drew up their wagons and began forming two circles.

  Abbie almost laughed. What a distorted view the white men had of the Indian! She remembered a time when she, too, was afraid of the “wild savages.”

  A burly man wearing buckskins headed up the hill toward them, carrying a piece of white cloth on a stick. Swift Arrow began grumbling something and quickly whirled his horse, riding over to Abbie, who had sneaked up to the edge to get a better look.

  “Go back with the women!” he said sternly but quietly. “This man see you, he make much trouble for us! Go back and hide your white legs! Hopo! Hopo!”

  Abbie quickly obeyed, edging her horse around and moving in to mingle among the other women. She threw a blanket over her legs. Gentle Woman hurried to her side and handed her another blanket.

  “Put this over your shoulders to hide your arms!” she warned. “And keep your head down!”

  Abbie got herself covered just before the scout reached the tribe, and her heart pounded with excitement.

  “I come in peace,” the scout said to Deer Slayer, Zeke’s Cheyenne stepfather. Deer Slayer nodded.

  “We want the same,” he told the scout. “We want only to pass through. We go north.”

  The scout eyed them warily. “You aren’t here to beg?”

  Swift Arrow jerked as though someone had hit him, and Deer Slayer put a hand on his son’s arm.

  “We are not beggars,” Deer Slayer said calmly. “We go north to hunt in the cool mountains during the season of the dry grass.”

  The scout frowned. “You speak good English for a savage.”

  “I learn from my woman. She learn from white man.”

  The scout grinned and Swift Arrow was having trouble controlling himself, for he knew what the white man was thinking about his mother. The scout noticed Zeke’s Appaloosas at the rear of the migrating tribe, and he looked questioningly at Deer Slayer.

  “Where’d you get them horses?” he asked.

  “They belong to my stepson, a half-blood called Cheyenne Zeke.”

  The scout straightened at the name. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “I am sure you have!” Swift Arrow said haughtily. “He is well known among your kind—good with the blade!”

  “We want to go now,” Deer Slayer interrupted. “You take your wagons and go, and we will cross the Great Medicine Road.”

  The scout shook his head. “You might wait until we’re in a straight line and then attack us.”

  “We have women and children among us!” Deer Slayer replied irritatedly. “We are not a war party!”

  The scout backed his mount. “Just the same, you go first. Soon as you’re out of sight, we’ll head out.”

  “And what is to keep your people from shooting at us?” Swift Arrow asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll see that they don’t,” the scout answered.

  Swift Arrow grunted in sarcastic laughter. “Remember how many of us there are!” he replied warningly. “The Cheyenne have always been friendly to the white man—at least so far!”

  The scout nodded. “I’ll remember. Give me a few minutes. I’ll signal you.”

  Abbie’s horse snorted and tossed its head, drawing the scout’s attention. She kept her face down, but the man noticed her hair was slightly wavy and not jet black like that of the other squaws. Her dark tresses had a reddish glint in the sun.

  Abbie felt weak with dread, and Swift Arrow’s hand tightened on the knife at his waist. It seemed like hours rather than seconds that the scout stared at Abbie, but he finally looked back at Deer Slayer.

  “Looks to me like another one of your squaw’s got mixed up with a white man,” he said with a wicked glint in his eyes. “That another half-breed over there?”

  “Her grandfather was a white trapper,” Deer Slayer lied. “She is no concern of yours, and we grow impatient!”

  When the scout nodded
and turned his horse, Abbie took a deep breath of relief. After several minutes the scout signaled Deer Slayer, and Deer Slayer and other band chiefs motioned to the others to proceed. As they started forward, Abbie rode carefully so her blankets would not fall. She prayed no one on the wagon train would panic and so something foolish. She remembered some of the people who had been on the train she had taken the year before and how easily they had assumed all Indians were out to attack, murder, and steal.

  She glanced at the wagons as she passed by, catching a glimpse here and there of white women and full dresses. She wondered if she would ever dress that way again. The sight of the wagons caused a strange, sad ache in her heart, for they brought back memories of the loss of her family the year before and these combined with the beautiful memory of meeting and falling in love with Cheyenne Zeke.

  No, she would not wear hoops and slat bonnets and full dresses again. The tunic was much more comfortable. They rode on, and the wagon train faded from view. Abbie headed north, for the summer rendezvous.

  Zeke lay listening to the plaintive cry of the coyote, howling its lonesome wail. It seemed to epitomize the loneliness in his own heart. He stared up at the brilliant display of stars, wondering when his own soul would walk that Milky Road to the Great Spirit. And what would Abbie do if he did not come back to her.

  Abbie! He saw her in the stars, felt her in the softness of the buffalo robe he lay on. How he longed to touch her again, to taste of her breasts and caress the sweetness between her legs; to hear her whisper his name and whimper at the ecstasy of taking him into herself. Abbie! Would he share her that way again? Or would he lose her to the life she was born to live? Perhaps just as he could not survive solely in the white man’s world, neither could she survive solely in the Indian world. Abbie! Sweet Abbie! Such a child, yet such a woman. He needed her now. Needed to hold something.