Twelve
Zeke’s wagon clattered over the hard clay earth, with Grimey’s close behind. Zeke squinted up into the torturous sun. The sky seemed to be all sun, and its glare hurt his tired eyes. Yet he felt compelled to stare at it for a moment, for he suddenly was overwhelmed by the sensation that this trip had been a mistake and that the spirits were trying to tell him so. He could almost hear a voice telling him to beware. He tried to shake the idea from his head as his eyes turned to the red rock canyon ahead, but the sensation would not leave him. He kept thinking of Jonathan Mack’s perfumed smell and small hands, and his own uneasiness over the suspicion that Mack was not being completely honest irritated him.
But perhaps only the tedious, hot journey and his longing for Abbie had brought on this depression and this uneasy suspicion. Once he’d reached Santa Fe and was on his way back to Abbie, he would feel he’d been foolish to worry.
At least they had reached Devil’s Pits, the point at which they were to veer north into Santa Fe. But Devil’s Pits was a dangerous place, a rocky crevice between two great cliffs of sheer redrock—a spot avoided by Indians and traders alike because of the numerous deep holes that potted the area, holes that led to caverns below that were known to be abundant with rattle snakes. Its name was fitting, for it was a demon-infested place where only a devil would want to live.
Zeke motioned Grimey to keep moving. They would get themselves out of the canyon and away from the danger of snakes before making camp. There was only one narrow exit, and Zeke knew that the mouth of the canyon would be an excellent place for an enemy to lie in wait for unsuspecting prey; however, in this Godforsaken place probably the only enemy to be feared were the snakes. Indians and Mexicans stayed away from the canyon because of the rattlers. Zeke used it now only for safety, at Mack’s request. Traveling through the canyon was insurance that no one would be near to attack the wagons. In that respect, Zeke had to admit Jonathan Mack had thought well. There remained only one more day’s fast run to Santa Fe. Then, finally, he could get his money and get back to Abbie!
He urged the stubborn mules up the rocky canyon floor. The animals were fidgety, for although snakes could not be seen, the mules sensed their presence. The canyon walls became less steep, and a wide opening gaped ahead. Zeke headed for it, anxious to get out of the canyon. Grimey was quickly bringing up the rear. But just as the wagons peaked the canyon exit, ten horsemen emerged quickly from the surrounding boulders, too quickly for Zeke to react, for he had not expected anyone to be in such a desolate place, let alone ten Mexican outlaws with rifles, all pointed at him.
Zeke’s blood raced, but he told himself to stay calm. Something was amiss, and he knew instinctively that whatever was going on, it was Jonathan Mack’s doing. How else could these men have been at this hellish place, ready to greet him with rifles? Now it all made sense, his strange uneasiness when he had looked at the sun.
The gunmen motioned Zeke to move forward. By then Grimey had also seen the Mexicans, and like Zeke, he knew it would be wise to do as these men said. He scowled at the Mexicans, who all looked eager to use him and Zeke for target practice.
Zeke knew that he and Grimey could get four or five of the Mexicans before going down, all of them if they had the element of surprise. But the Mexicans had surprised them, and Zeke was not willing to die for Jonathan Mack. Not even for the eight hundred dollars for it would do him no good if he was dead. He made a silent vow that if he lived through this encounter, Jonathan Mack would pay up whether Zeke delivered the piano and whiskey or not.
He urged his wagon far enough ahead so that Grimey could get all the way out of the canyon, then he halted the mules. His eyes quickly scanned the ten men, quickly evaluating each one and deciding which could be the most dangerous and should die first if he had a chance at them. But for the moment he had no chance. The leader pranced his horse forward, bringing it closer to Zeke’s wagon. He sported a large sombrero and a colorful cape, and he smoked a fat cigar.
“Welcome to the Devil’s Pits, señor,” he said to Zeke with a wide grin.
“I didn’t know I’d have a welcoming committee,” Zeke replied coldly. “But I believe I know the man I should thank for this.”
The Mexican laughed. “Hey! You talk good English for an Indian, señor! Me—I did not expect an Indian. I expected two white men, like that one behind you.” With that the man pointed at Grimey with his rifle and pulled the trigger.
Zeke whirled in his seat and watched with horror as his friend fell dead from his wagon. Zeke’s head immediately ached with rage, for he had talked Grimey into coming with him. And in an instant, his friend had been shot down without warning or provocation. Now as Zeke stared in disbelief at his dead friend, an eleventh figure moved in the distant rocks, an added presence of which not even Zeke was aware. Slowly he turned back to the Mexican leader who had shot Grimey, and even though the man held a gun, the Mexican felt fear at the look in Zeke’s dark eyes.
“You stinking scum!” Zeke sneered. “If you want the wagons, why not just take them! You didn’t need to shoot him!”
“Ah, but we do, señor. Just like we need to shoot you. Then … we throw you in the snake pits. And since no one ever comes to this place, no one will ever know that this is where you died, you see?” He chuckled. “It is a good idea, no? That way, Mr. Mack, he will not be involved and there will be no one to tell where we got the guns.”
Zeke frowned with surprise. “Guns? What guns?”
The Mexican leaned forward. “The ones you carry in the bottom of the wagons, señor,” he replied with a grin.
The surprise on Zeke’s face made the man laugh openly. “Did you really think Mr. Mack would go to so much trouble just for whiskey?” he asked Zeke. “He has fooled you, Indian. In the bottom of your wagons there are rifles—and dynamite—to help us poor Mexicans in our struggle.”
Zeke felt he might explode at any moment; his body raged with the need for vengeance—for Grimey’s murder and for the trick that had been played on him. He decided that if he was to die, he would not just sit there and take a bullet—die without honor. These men were not going to take Cheyenne Zeke’s life without a fight! So before the leader could reload his out-dated firearm, Zeke’s knife was out and tossed, landing squarely in the man’s heart.
At almost the same instant, his second knife pierced another man’s throat. A third man fired at Zeke just as Zeke dove from the wagon, and the bullet grazed Zeke’s forehead. When its force spun him around, he thought he heard a woman’s voice as he hit the ground, temporarily stunned.
“Wait!” the voice shouted. “I know him!” The words came from the eleventh figure who had now come closer. The outlaw Zeke still had not seen dismounted and came to stand where Zeke lay waiting for a bullet to shatter his brain or open his back. But the only thing he felt was a boot kicking him hard in the ribs, and again pain tore through the old bullet wound. Another foot pushed him over onto his back. For a moment he was blinded by the glare of the hot, unrelenting Mexican sun, but when his eyes focused, he saw the shadows of the outlaws standing over him. He also could make out a woman’s form. The woman slowly dropped the barrel of her rifle to Zeke’s head, and the steel felt hot against his skin. He could not distinguish her face, for the sun behind her made it only a dark shadow. He could see that she wore a short tunic and her legs were long and willowy and that her hair hung straight to her waist.
“So, my Cheyenne half-blood lover,” the woman sneered. “We meet again!”
He recognized the voice. “Dancing Moon!” he uttered.
Abbie was picking wild blackberries with Tall Grass Woman and some of the other women when Black Elk came galloping out to them.
“Veheo! Veheo!” he shouted, using his own tongue to tell them white men were close by. “Hai! Hai!” He motioned for the women to get back to camp, and Abbie ran with the rest of them, trying not to spill too many berries from her bowl. Her heart pounded with excitement. Perhaps it was Zeke returning! Sh
e ran with a glad heart toward camp while Black Elk trotted along beside her, shouting, “Hopo! Hopo!”
Berries bounced out of the bowl, but Abbie didn’t care. Surely it was Zeke coming! But as soon as she reached the edge of the village, Black Elk slid off his horse and grabbed her, pulling the bowl of berries from her hands and handing them to Tall Grass Woman.
“Go tipi!” he ordered. “Hai! Do not let them see you!”
She looked at him with disappointed eyes. “It’s … it’s not Zeke?”
He shook his head. “No like how they look! Bad Veheos, we think maybe. Have guns. Go! Go!” The young man gave her a shove, and she darted for her tipi, but the men who were approaching down the distant slope had already caught sight of all the commotion. Their leader turned to look back to the men.
“Somebody with light skin just ducked inside one of them tipis,” he called out to the others. “Somebody shoved her in. We just might of found ourselves that white squaw prisoner, boys!”
“Hope you’re right, Claude,” one of the men replied with a grin.
“Keep your rifles ready,” Claude Baker replied. “These redskins don’t have much in the way of firearms yet, but you can’t trust ’em. We ain’t never had a lot of trouble with Cheyenne, though. I expect they’d just as soon hand her over as get themselves in trouble with the white folks and the soldiers.”
They proceeded down the gentle, green slope toward the peaceful village that had been partially asleep until the rumor had quickly spread that white men with guns were approaching. Now many Indians stood outside their tipis, and warriors, gripping tomahawks and bows and lances, remained beside their own tipis to protect their women and children.
Baker eyed the village warily as he entered. He rode straight toward the tipi where he’d seen the most commotion, determined he’d frighten off the Cheyenne men simply by showing his power and courage. He rode straight up to the tipi, and his men scattered out slightly, each watching in a different direction. Swift Arrow stood directly in front of the tipi, his arms folded in front of him and a sneer on his face.
“Why do you come to our camp?” he demanded.
Baker grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned! You speak English. That ought to make things easier, Indian.” His eyes scanned some of the other Indians as his rifle rested on his knee, pointed directly at Swift Arrow. Baker took a quick survey of some of the squaws, remembering what a good time he’d had with Dancing Moon; then he looked back at Swift Arrow. “Name’s Baker,” he told the Indian. “Me and my men are part of the new volunteers for the bluecoats that are fightin’ the Mexicans. You know about bluecoats, Indian?”
Swift Arrow stepped closer. “I am called Swift Arrow!” he answered. “And I know about bluecoats. You do not wear the blue coat. You do not look like soldier!”
Baker grinned. “Well, we are, just the same. And you redskins ought to understand that when this war with Mexico is over the bluecoats is gonna make Indians their next campaign, ’specially if you keep up your raidin’ and rapin’ and such. You’re gonna be in big trouble, Swift Arrow.”
“We have done no raiding or raping! Only white men rape!” Swift Arrow spit back in reply. “Tell us why you are here … or leave us!”
Abbie watched from a tiny opening in the seam of the tipi just enough for her to be able to see outside with one eye, and her heart quickened when she saw the man called Baker shove the end of his rifle against Swift Arrow’s neck.
“We got word you Cheyenne bucks is holdin’ a white woman here captive,” he growled. “We hear tell you’ve treated her so bad you’ve got her all brainwashed into thinkin’ she has to stay here now ’cause she’s been molested by lowdown redskins and can’t never face her white kinfolk again!” He shoved the rifle harder, pushing Swift Arrow slightly backward. “That true, red devil? You holdin’ a white woman captive?”
“There is no white woman here!” Swift Arrow replied through gritted teeth.
Baker just grinned and backed his horse. “Go ahead boys!” he shouted to the others. Six of the eighteen soldiers galloped up to preplanned targets; each grasped a child, jerked it up onto his horse and held a handgun to its head. Mothers screamed in terror and warriors watched in confusion, aware of the power of the rifles and unsure what the white men intended to do with the children. To preserve the children was most important. One warrior, thinking only of saving his own small son, charged the soldier who held him. The soldier quickly shot with his handgun, knocking the warrior down with the bullet but only wounding him in the shoulder. More women screamed, and for a moment there was general commotion, with rifles pointed threateningly in every direction, while the wounded Indian struggled to his knees, groaning with pain. Swift Arrow spread his feet in a fighting stance, his hand resting on his tomahawk, and Abbie’s eyes widened with horror at the realization that more of them could get hurt because of her.
“Tell us the truth, red bastard, or we’ll start shootin’ the lice in these little heads one by one!” Baker told Swift Arrow. Swift Arrow looked at the soldiers and the little children, amazed that these white men would be so cowardly as to use infants to get what they wanted.
“You stink like a skunk!” Swift Arrow sneered in reply. “You are lower than the belly of a snake to hide behind babies! Get down from your horse and settle this like a man, white scum!”
Baker kicked out and caught Swift Arrow in the jaw, knocking him backward. Swift Arrow grasped his tomahawk and got to his feet, making ready to attack, but Abbie screamed out his name and ran out of the tipi.
“Don’t do it, Swift Arrow!” she cried out, darting in front of him and grabbing at the tomahawk. “He wants you to do it!” Swift Arrow shoved her away and made her fall; then he raised his hatchet again. “No, Swift Arrow! Listen to me! I know how they think!”
Swift Arrow’s arm stopped in midair, as Baker backed his horse a little and held his rifle straight and sure. The camp fell silent, for the white woman had shown herself.
“Go ahead, redskin!” Baker challenged Swift Arrow. “Move that arm one more inch and I’ll have reason to blow your balls off!”
“Swift Arrow, don’t give him reason to shoot!” Abbie shouted, getting back to her feet. “I don’t want anyone else hurt because of me!”
Swift Arrow backed up unwillingly, his eyes blazing. Somehow he would find a way to kill this man called Claude Baker!
“Why did you not stay inside!” Swift Arrow barked at Abbie, his eyes still on Claude Baker.
“I couldn’t!” she answered. “Not with them holding the children!” Swift Arrow still gripped the tomahawk, and Abbie’s heart pounded with terrible fear.
“Hey, she’s a young one,” one of the soldiers yelled out. “Bet them bucks found her nice and sweet!”
Baker chuckled and pulled back the hammer of his rifle. “Put down the weapon, redskin!” he sneered. “Or I’ll shoot the girl first and then you. We’ll take the white woman’s body with us to show the soldiers and tell them it was Cheyenne who killed her—after raping her!”
Abbie glared at Baker. “You filth! How dare you come riding in here hiding behind little children! These people have done nothing wrong!”
“They’ve got you, ain’t they? You sayin’ holdin’ a white woman captive ain’t wrong?”
“I’m not a captive! Would I have cared about this man and the others if I were their prisoner? I live with them of my own choosing!”
Baker’s eyebrows arched and he chuckled. “Well, well. Yer mighty loose for such a little girl now, ain’t you? Looks like they’ve done a good job on breakin’ you in to their way of livin’.”
“No one has done anything!” Abbie replied angrily. “None of these men has ever touched me! I belong to Cheyenne Zeke, a half-blood who lives among these people. This man here, Swift Arrow, is Zeke’s half brother. My husband … had to go to Independence on business. I have no other family, so I am staying with Zeke’s family until he returns! That’s all there is to it!”
Baker
sighed, running his eyes over her small body. “Ain’t no white woman lives with redskins of her own free will.”
“This one does!” she answered, her anger overcoming her fear. “And if you make trouble, you’ll be having Cheyenne Zeke to worry about, because he’ll find you!”
“Hey, Claude!” one of the others spoke up. “I’ve heard of this Cheyenne Zeke. He ain’t one to mess with. I hear tell he uses a blade as fast as a man can draw a rifle, and he takes pleasure in exposin’ a man’s insides.”
Claude eyed Abbie, then Swift Arrow. “How many times has this one had you while your husband’s been gone?” he sneered. Swift Arrow tensed.
“Swift Arrow, don’t let him make you do something foolish!” Abbie pleaded.
Claude just grinned. “Well, now, we all know how some Cheyenne men have more than one wife. Maybe the women can have more than one husband. I hear tell brothers share their wives and all kinds of rituals is performed with women—regular orgies, I hear.” He looked at Abigail. “That true, honey? Tell us white men what the red bucks do that’s so different, hmm?”
The white men all laughed jeeringly, and Abbie blinked back tears of rage, her face coloring deeply. “You’re a horrible man!” she sneered. “You’re the worst coward I’ve ever seen!”
Claude leaned forward, unaffected by her insults. “Well, missy, just the same, you’re comin’ with us.”
“Over my dead body!” she retorted.
Claude just grinned. “Well, if that’s how you want it. But I’d just as soon have you alive. ’Course I could take you over the dead bodies of these little children here and of some of the women and warriors, if that’s the way you want it, honey. Us white soldiers can’t just ride out of here and leave a poor little white girl prisoner with these here savages now, can we? You’ve just been brainwashed, honey. Soon as you’re back to civilization, you’ll start rememberin’ where you belong fast enough. Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about, missy. The white folks will understand. You can go to church and get cleansed, and maybe some white man will even marry you—long as you don’t ever tell him you’ve slept with red lice!”
Ride the Free Wind Page 23