But there was nothing here to hold, nothing here but the cold, arid night air of northern Texas. And the only other human being close by was a smelly scout named Grimey, who sat near the fire now playing his harmonica.
Zeke felt as empty as the land he was in. This part of Texas was not plush and mountainous like Utah Territory. And it was not soft and rolling like the Kansas and Nebraska Territories. It was a hard, brutal land, full of rock and dust and thorny bushes that cut the legs of the mules that pulled the wagons. Zeke hated seeing his own horse’s legs so badly scratched. He cared very deeply for his mounts and treated them with great love and tenderness. He had never quite understood the attitude of his fellow red men, the Apaches, toward their horses. They often rode their mounts until the animals fell from exhaustion, and then they sometimes killed and ate them. But that was the Apache way. He was only vaguely familiar with the “ghosts of the Southwest.” That was how most people thought of the elusive and wily Apaches, who could disappear in places where it would seem no man could hide. They were crafty and distant, difficult to find and even more difficult to get to know. But they were Indians, and Zeke felt a kinship with them. He wondered how long it would be before the Cheyenne and Apache would perhaps join together in one cause, to preserve their right to exist in a land fast filling with whites. A kinship among all tribes, even the enemy Crow and Pawnee, might be necessary in the future. But for now, few Cheyenne, perhaps none, had ever even seen an Apache Indian.
Grimey stopped playing his harmonica and looked over at his half-breed friend. “You got that woman of yours on your mind, friend?”
Zeke smiled and sighed. “Mostly. I hope she gets that note, or she’ll think I deserted her.”
Grimey grinned. “She will get it. Clawson is a good man. He will get it to Fort Atkinson.”
Silence hung for a moment in the cold, night air.
“Hey, half-breed,” Grimey spoke up again. “You think she can live with the Cheyenne like that? A woman, at least a white woman, she likes to dress up, you know? Wear them pretty petticoats and fix up her hair and dance. You know?”
Zeke put a piece of chewing tobacco in his mouth. “I know.”
“I think you are wrong—about not bein’ able to live among the whites.”
“You don’t know what I’ve seen, Grimey. Sure, there’s some like you—good ones. Maybe there’s more than I think. But it only takes one or two who are simple-minded and dead set against a mixed marriage, just one or two who brand a white woman who does such a thing, and they can make life miserable for that woman. I know the hurt that can bring, and I don’t want that to happen to Abbie. Problem is, there’s a lot more than just one or two people like that out here.”
“Mmm-hmm. That’s for sure, friend.” Grimey chuckled. “Hey, I know you, Cheyenne Zeke. I remember when you said as how you’d never get mixed up again with no white woman. And you are a very strong man—able to control yourself’ cause of that Indian blood. This girl—she must be something. She must have all but knocked you over the head and dragged you away.”
Zeke stared up at the stars. “She might as well have, Grimey. I tried. I really tried; but, damn it, she lost her whole family and there she was, lost and alone, and in love with a crazy half-breed.”
“Hey, when we get through with this trip, maybe I will go along back with you and meet this girl.”
“You’re welcome to come along. I have to tell you, though, after that attack and losing a baby and all, it might be like you said. Might be she’ll be wanting to wear those pretty dresses and dance and do up her hair. Might be she’ll have decided to go back to Tennessee.”
Grimey scooted down under his bedroll. “I don’t think so, friend. She sounds like a strong woman, a good woman. And once this land gets into your blood, man or woman, it is not so easy to go back to the old life. Besides, she is married to Cheyenne Zeke. My guess is she would not find it easy to walk away from your bed, my hot-blooded Cheyenne warrior.”
He chuckled and Zeke did not reply. He only felt an ache in his heart and a gnawing at his loins to be with Abbie.
* * *
The heavy wagons lumbered through torturous canyons and grotesque rocks, veering around dangerous talus, and sometimes scaring up coatimundi, Apache fox squirrels, but seldom finding fresh water arroyos.
The days were hard and hot, and Zeke’s buckskins grew dark with the stains of perspiration. He thought to himself that he was glad Grimey was downwind of him, for the heat, combined with the man’s already offensive odor, made his smell discernible even from a distance. Both were most certainly earning their money, and Zeke was beginning to wonder if eight hundred dollars was enough for the job.
They had been on the trail for over three weeks, and Zeke had been away from Abbie for well over a month. He kept his spirits up by telling himself that in just ten more days or so this trip would be over, and he could get his money and head back to her. But the road to the end of the journey appeared longer when he heard the yipping and cawing of a small band of raiding Apaches that suddenly appeared from the surrounding rocks! Zeke’s mind raced! The wagons were much too cumbersome and the mules too slow to try outrunning the Apaches’ swift ponies. There was only one thing to do—surprise them by not running at all. He reined in his mules and Grimey rumbled up beside him, bringing his own wagon to a halt.
“Hey, half-breed, what do we do?”
“Get your rifle and get down under the wagons!” Zeke yelled. He grabbed his own firearm and ducked down between the wagons. The Apaches were close now, their enthusiastic war cries enough to curdle any man’s blood with fear, for the Apache had a great love of torturing their captives to find out how brave they were. Zeke held no animosity toward them for it, for this was the Apache way, and an offering of a brave captive to their God was great medicine. But he did not care to be the one making the sacrifice. No doubt, the Apaches would consider him a good catch, for if he was to die at their hands, he most certainly intended to die with honor and without uttering one cry of pain or one plea for release.
The small band of nomadic red men surrounded the two wagons, screeching and shooting arrows aimlessly, trying to defeat their prey psychologically rather than with weapons.
“Aim good, Grimey!” Zeke shouted, raising his own rifle. “They want us alive so they won’t shoot right at us at first!”
“They won’t get me alive!” Grimey yelled. He let off a shot and one warrior cried out and fell from his horse, while his kinsmen rode their horses over his body. “I don’t aim to be no Apache captive, brother!”
Zeke had fired twice by then, one miss and one hitting its red-skinned, black-haired target. He thought to himself that he would go and take the man’s weapons and a piece of his scalp when this was over. They would be great war medicine.
He preferred hand-to-hand combat, but there were simply too many Apaches, and to go out among them would mean certain death. He fired again, hitting yet another. But when he saw his fine Appaloosa lying dead with an Apache arrow in its neck, he lost all reason. He stood up amid swirling Texas dust and fired wildly, killing three more in quick succession, while arrows whizzed past him so closely he could feel the rush of air.
Suddenly his Indian fever for revenge and combat took hold, and while Grimey kept firing, Zeke ducked down and crawled to the wagon seat, reaching beneath it and grasping his bow. He removed an arrow from the quiver on his back and put it against the bow string. Then he stood up and let out a Cheyenne war cry, releasing an arrow which went straight through the neck of an Apache warrior in revenge for his horse’s death.
The circling of the Apaches slowed, and Grimey cut down two more, while Zeke called out war cries and let go two more arrows. To hell with the rifle! A true warrior used arrows and knives! At the moment he didn’t care about the wagons or his pay in Santa Fe. He was not protecting his merchandise. He was avenging the death of a sturdy, valuable, and loyal mount.
One of the Apaches, who had hung back from the atta
ck, cried out in the Apache tongue, and the remaining warriors drew back, returning to the one who had shouted to them. Zeke and Grimey remained down between the wagons. They looked at each other questioningly but did not speak as dust settled on them. The remaining warriors spoke in their clipped tongue, apparently discussing their next move.
“Do you know what they’re sayin’?” Grimey finally spoke up quietly.
Zeke frowned. “I don’t understand Apache too good, Grimey. But I heard them mention Cheyenne, and I think one of them has one of my arrows in his hand.”
“Hey, half-blood, you surprised them with those arrows, huh? They did not expect an Indian!”
“Maybe.” They waited until finally the apparent leader rode forward, holding up his bow. He gestured, using sign language.
“Stay put,” Zeke told Grimey. Zeke rose and stepped away from the wagons, answering in sign language that he was Cheyenne. They spoke with their hands, the Apache man asking Zeke if he was considered a great warrior among his people.
“I am,” Zeke replied. “With this.” He pulled out the huge blade that had won him a reputation, hoping that if he was to prove himself, he would be allowed to do so with a knife, for then he was sure he would win the battle.
The Apache leader eyed the big blade warily. It was held in a way that told the Apache that its owner knew how to use it.
“What is in your wagons?” he asked Zeke in surprisingly good English.
“Just parts to a white man’s music maker,” Zeke replied. “It is nothing of value to an Apache.”
The Apache sneered. “You lie!”
Zeke held his knife defensively. “Come closer and call me a liar!” he motioned. “And after I kill you, my friend and I will take care of the rest of your warriors! But first it will be just you and me! Unless you are afraid!”
The Apache man jerked back in anger, yanking his horse’s head when he did so. He jumped down from his mount and pulled a knife of his own. His men moved closer, but waited as Zeke and their leader circled.
Zeke’s opponent’s black, stringy hair hung long, dancing with its owner as the Apache moved sideways and back and forth, very quickly, feeling out his Cheyenne opponent. But Zeke remained calm. His movements were smooth and planned, and he was ready when the Apache lunged at him. Zeke dodged out of the way as he made a quick pass with his blade, slicing open the Apache’s left forearm.
The Apache’s eyes widened, and he lunged again, just touching Zeke’s ribs enough to slit the skin but doing no real damage, as Zeke arched away just enough to keep the blade from cutting deeper. The Apache came at him again, this time raising his knife hand and coming down from above. Zeke grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and jabbed with his knife, sinking it only about an inch into the Apache’s ribcage before the Apache grasped Zeke’s wrist with his profusely bleeding left arm and held him for a moment.
The two of them struggled in place, muscle against muscle, each trying to keep the other’s blade from entering his own body. Suddenly Zeke hooked his right foot behind the Apache’s right leg and kicked, landing the Apache on his backside while both still held each other’s wrists. Zeke quickly laid a knee into the Apache’s stomach and pushed hard; the Apache’s eyes bulged with fury and pain. Then the Apache kicked up with a knee, ramming it as hard as he could into Zeke’s side, bringing fierce pain to his old bullet wound.
The sudden pain caused Zeke to lose control momentarily, and he fell slightly forward, losing his good grip on the Apache’s knife hand. He rolled away quickly but not quickly enough, and the Apache’s knife caught him across the top of his shoulder, but Zeke knew it was not time to hesitate. As the Apache started to his feet, Zeke lunged fast, burying his blade deep in the Apache’s groin.
The Apache cried out in surprise and agony as Zeke twisted his blade before jerking it out and moving back. He got to his feet quickly and waited as the Apache struggled to get to his own feet, but blood poured from the grave wound and part of his insides began to protrude from the incision. He stared at Zeke for a moment, then crumpled back to his knees and fell face forward.
He lay grimacing as one of his men rode forward. Zeke faced the second man challengingly.
“Let him die like a man!” the second Apache motioned to Zeke. “He was a great warrior. Let him die quickly! It is an honor for him to die by the hand of the great Cheyenne knife fighter!”
Zeke nodded. He walked up to his opponent and turned him with his foot onto his back. The Apache lay panting and gritting his teeth against a groan, and his eyes were pleading for instant death. Zeke raised his knife and plunged it deep into the center of the Apache’s heart. He yanked it out and turned to the others. They all stared for a moment, then turned their horses and rode away, melting quickly into the surrounding rocks.
Grimey crawled from between the wagons and walked up beside the dusty, bleeding Zeke, whose breath still came in the quick pants of battle. “I think you have just saved us with that blade, my half-breed friend. I thank you!”
As Zeke turned to look at him, his dark eyes were still wild with a thirst for battle. “I have some trophies to collect, Grimey. Then let’s get the hell out of here and get to Santa Fe. I want to get home to my woman!”
Eleven
The sweet smell of roast buffalo meat permeated Abbie’s tipi. She sat near the fire stitching together a new deerskin shirt for Zeke, while Swift Arrow gnawed at a piece of the meat.
“Is good,” he told her, licking his fingers.
“Thank you,” she answered quietly.
“You serve me well, woman of Lone Eagle. Make good fire… good food … take good care. You are pretty good woman.”
Abbie suppressed a smile. “I take good care of you because you are Zeke’s brother and you take good care of me,” she told him. But her smile faded quickly. “What do you think has happened to him, Swift Arrow? It’s been over five weeks!”
He grunted and picked up one of Zeke’s pipes that he had been smoking. He handed it over to Abbie, and she knew that he wanted her to fill it. She doubted she could ever become accustomed to waiting on a man with Swift Arrow’s attitude and was glad Zeke had enough white in him not to be so demanding; but she suspected Swift Arrow was enjoying being particularly demanding, for he seemed to bask in testing her patience. She took the pipe without protest, determined that he would not make her complain.
“Lone Eagle is good at taking care of self,” he replied as she stuffed the pipe. “But I worry, too. If he had no woman, I would not worry. He has gone away before for long, long time. But now he has new wife. He would not want to stay away so long.”
Abbie blushed at the remark and handed back the pipe. Swift Arrow lit it with a small piece of burning kindling and puffed it for a moment.
“If Lone Eagle not back soon after Sun Dance, I and my brothers will go to fort … ask about him. He have friends among white trappers. They will search for him. You not worry. Lone Eagle live off land … strong man. He come. He leave many times before. Always he returns. This my own mother saw in a vision. Eagle come to her … tell her that as long as she lives, her half-blood son will always come back to her.”
Abbie looked up from her stitching, her eyes red with tears. “Is that the truth, Swift Arrow?”
“Swift Arrow does not lie.”
Their eyes held. “Have you had a vision, too, Swift Arrow?”
He nodded. “When I suffer the Sun Dance. I do not choose to share it with white woman. But it is when I took the name Swift Arrow. Red Eagle and Black Elk have also had visions. Theirs were from long days of fasting and staying alone in the mountains with no food and no weapons. There they learn to survive with only the spirits to guide them. Now Red Eagle has chosen to suffer the Sun Dance ritual. I pray to spirits that it will cure him of the evils of the white man’s whiskey.”
Abbie stirred the fire. “What will happen to Red Eagle at the Sun Dance, Swift Arrow?”
He puffed the pipe again and shook his head. “I no
t tell you yet. Not good for one such as you to dwell upon. It is something hard for one such as you to understand. You must be Indian to understand.”
“But I need to understand. Don’t you see? I must understand!”
He studied her for a long, silent moment, his eyes scanning her small body. She sat rigid and startled as he suddenly reached over and put his fingers between her leather belt and her body, pulling the belt around so that the gray eagle feathers were at the front of her tunic.
“Look at these feathers given you by the old priest,” he told her. She looked down at them, her heart pounding with uncertainty as to what he had intended to do when he reached for the belt. There were still times when his fiery eyes and hot temper frightened her. “Do you not know what great gift this is our priest has given you? Do you not know what an honor this is?”
“Of course I know it’s an honor!”
He jerked his hand away. “You know nothing!” He moved back and picked up the pipe again. “Your people are far from the spirits. They do not breathe the earth into their nostrils and speak to the bears and fly with the eagles. When you feel as one with the land and the animals, then you will begin to think like Cheyenne—like all Indians.” He nodded toward the feathers at her waist. “Do you know why we prize eagle feathers as most powerful?”
She sighed. “No,” she replied quietly.
“It is because eagle flies closer to the great heavenly Gods. Because eagle touches clouds … has more freedom … more power than man. When an enemy is close, he can soar to the heavens and nothing can harm him. He lives close to the clouds … master of the skies.” He puffed the pipe. “I would love to be eagle if the Gods made me animal.”
“Tell me more, Swift Arrow. I want to be ready to understand the Sun Dance.”
He set the pipe down and came close to her again, digging a fistful of dirt from the hardened floor and holding it up in front of her face. He squeezed the dirt between his fingers, letting it filter through them and trickle into her lap.
Ride the Free Wind Page 20