Embrace the Wild Land
(Savage Destiny #4)
Rosanne Bittner
Copyright © 2012, Rosanne Bittner
Cover Design by Patricia Phelps Lazarus
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Prologue
The call could be heard far off, a long, lonesome wail that moved out from the silent, granite Rockies, over the vast plains and prairies of Nebraska, New Mexico and Kansas Territories, and through the Dakotas. It was an odd, groaning howl, heard only by the animals and the Indians in the deepest part of the night—a chilling wail of sorrow that the Indians knew was the souls of their brothers, the animals, and their god, the land. For both were being destroyed, in the name of power, in the name of gold, in the name of wealth to the white man’s shouted words of “Manifest Destiny.” Such destruction could only bring on the extinction of the Indian himself. The weight of the oppressors was being felt, and the land and its children were weeping.
It was that weeping of those who are one in spirit that haunted the plains and prairies in the last days of freedom. Already the white man spilled his own blood in the mysterious East, where bluecoats and graycoats clashed in bitter opposition. But it would not be enough blood. For when matters were settled between North and South, there would be an even greater migration westward, and the red men of the plains would be in the way. The Indians felt this, felt the imminent danger, and their hearts were heavy with sorrow. The buffalo and the eagle felt it, too. And the land itself felt it with every gouge into its skin for mineral wealth, every polluted stream, every stripped forest, every game animal killed for sport and left to waste.
It seemed in those times that the land bled on every border and in all places in between … and there was much weeping. And so each night the lonesome wail of the land moved over mountain and plain and prairie. A painful change was developing. And life as it once was would never be again.
But two people would move through the change, two people who would be scarred and torn by the bleeding land but who would endure. For they lived, breathed and walked as one, and their love was so strong that it would rise above the pain, the warfare and their own personal sorrows. His name was Zeke, and she was his Abbie-girl.…
One
It stood out stark and jagged against the intense blue sky, a puffy, white cloud softly drifting over the rusty brown, flat-topped butte that jutted upward from the mesa of pure rock. It was nothing more than a huge rock, perhaps two miles in length and a mile in width, like so many other molded hills of rock that were inexplicably scattered over the desolate, endless wasteland that was New Mexico Territory. There seemed to be no reason for their existence, as though the god of Nature had thrown them carelessly around when He designed the vast and beautiful West.
But the white woman who rode beneath the great shadow of the butte challenged the beauty of the land with her own beauty. Her hair was deep brown, with a hint of red to it in the sunlight. Her skin was browned from exposure, but supple from creams that her half-breed husband insisted she use. Her eyes were a gentle brown, and her stature was straight and proud, as proud as the Cheyenne Indians with whom she now rode, quietly making their way toward Fort Lyon, the feet of their horses padded by the soft, green grass of the valley they traveled.
The woman held a small boy in front of her and a very young daughter sat behind, clinging to her mother’s waist. The woman kept glancing back watchfully, keeping an eye on five more children who rode their own mounts, babbling back and forth, sometimes laughing, all excited over the trip they were taking with their mother and father to see the annual Navaho horse races.
Sometimes the white woman’s gaze wandered farther back—to her husband, a half-breed Cheyenne. He was the biggest man among the Cheyenne men with whom they rode—the tallest and the most handsome. He rode behind the rest, herding along some of the grand Appaloosas he raised on their ranch along the Arkansas River in southeast Colorado—in the middle of Indian country. But the white woman was not afraid to live among the red men of the plains. They were her friends, her family—the only family she had since losing her own white family many years ago when first she came west.
Her husband waved to her and she smiled, waving back, then turned forward again, riding her own sturdy Appaloosa with agility and skill, for she had long lived in this wild land and had learned her riding skills from a man who knew all about horses and riding, a man who loved horses and raised them for a living.
They were the Monroes, Zeke and Abbie and their seven children. They rode together—a loving family, and one about whom others sometimes talked. The Monroes not only loved together, but they had also fought together against the forces of a savage land, both seen and unseen, their love made stronger by their battle scars. Both Zeke and Abbie knew the risk the future carried for those who lived in a dangerous land, but they were not afraid. They had each other, and from each other they received the strength and courage to face whatever life might bring their way.
Now as they rode casually through the valley beneath the majestic butte, a new danger lay waiting, for six men skulked in the shadow behind them, watching the small band of Indians with whom Zeke and Abbie rode.
“We could pick them off right easy,” one called Blade told a companion with an evil grin. He spit out some tobacco, some of which landed on his smelly calico shirt, its colors long faded from being worn for many months without being washed. He brushed at it, then rubbed his grizzly beard where more had dripped from his lip.
“I thought you preferred using that knife,” another answered, also eyeing the Indians, considering the fun he could have with one of the squaws. He’d pick the prettiest and youngest one.
Blade closed his hand around his favorite weapon, nervously moving it in and out of its sheath. It was the knife he used that had earned him his nickname. Few men were better at stripping the hide from a buffalo with a knife than Blade. But he much preferred opening up a man’s hide; he took a hideous pleasure in watching someone else bleed.
“’Course I prefer my knife,” he answered. “But at the moment there’s a few too many for that. We’ll save one or two to cut up later. Maybe I’ll just use it on the women.”
They all chuckled, feeling pleasant urges at the thought of taking the squaws. They were buffalo hunters, the bare beginnings of the hundreds who would come in future years to kill the animal strictly for its hide. It did not matter that wiping out the buffalo would mean wiping out the Indian. In fact, it was being looked upon as a very convenient way of ridding the West of its rightful inhabitants—much cheaper than war. But the idea had not fully caught on yet, and would not until the infamous Sharps rifle, which would be nicknamed “The Big Fifty,” came into the picture, making it much easier for the hunters to casually shoot their prey while seated at a comfortable distance, picking off the great beast of the plains at
the rate of one hundred per day.
Still, these men with their weapons were already doing enough damage to the buffalo herds to create a mild panic in the Indians and to keep the troubles between Indians and whites bubbling and steaming. And these particular men were like so many more to come—careless and cruel, with no regard for life and beauty, no room for love or concern in their hearts. They were there for the excitement and for whatever monetary gain they could wring from the bounty of the West; some of them were also there to avoid the law in the East. In this lawless territory they could enjoy the fruits of their evil without fear of imprisonment. Still, there was little worry about prison when one killed an Indian. It was expected and accepted; sometimes for soldiers it was even an order.
“Where do you expect they’re headed, Carl?” Blade spoke up again.
“Fort Lyon, most likely,” Carl answered. “The Navaho gather there about this time every year to trade and have a powwow with the soldiers. I heard they have a horse race every year, too. The redskins usually win. Mighty fine horsemen, them Indians.”
“And mighty fine horseflesh they ride,” one called Bowlegs added. “I’m thinking that small herd of horses bringing up the rear down there would bring a pretty price from the army at the fort.”
“Look like Appaloosas from here,” Carl replied. “We can pick off the men, then get what we need from the women and take the horses on to the fort.”
“What about their little lice-covered kids? There’s plenty of them down there,” another put in.
Blade shrugged. “Kill them or let them go, whichever suits your fancy. Them we don’t get, the wolves and snakes will take care of. This might turn out to be a damned profitable day, boys—warrior scalps, women and horses.” He spit again. “Damned profitable.”
“Only thing is, they don’t look like Navahos to me,” one called Moose spoke up. “Look more like Cheyenne, and the Cheyenne are good warriors. There must be a good fifteen men down there.”
“So what?” Bowlegs sneered. “We all take aim and eliminate six of them right off. I’ll bet they ain’t even got guns. And with women and children along they’ll try to make a run for it. We can get the rest of them in the back. We’re wasting time, boys.” He dismounted and dropped to one knee, taking aim. The others followed, positioning themselves and aiming carefully. “Left to right,” Bowlegs warned them. “Tilly, you take the one farther back in line and so on, so’s we don’t all aim for the same man. Get that big one herding the horses back there.”
There was a moment of silence while the small band of Indians moved almost silently through the tall buffalo grass. Painted ponies ambled casually, many of them dragging travois with needed supplies. Some children walked, as did some of the women. Then six shots rang out, nearly all at the same time. But only one man fell: the big one who had been herding the horses. It was Zeke.
“Goddamn it! They’re out of range! They’re out of range!” Blade swore.
“I thought they was close enough!” Bowlegs grumbled.
There was general confusion below. Abbie’s horse whirled and reared, her little girl clung in terror to her mother, and her son, who Abbie held onto with one hand, began to cry. Abbie’s horse galloped back toward her fallen husband while the buffalo hunters began to bear down on their prey, in too much of a hurry to even notice the woman with skin much too fair to be Indian.
“Come on! Let’s chase them down!” Carl said excitedly, mounting up. “With them women and children along we can overtake them easy!”
The others followed suit, their brains too overheated by lust and excitement to consider anything other than victory. Leather squeaked and horses whinnied as the six big men who smelled worse than their animals swung themselves into the saddles to chase after the confused Indians.
Zeke was back on his feet, shouting something to Abbie and smacking her horse into motion. She rode forward again, herding several children with her. Other children were whisked up by warriors and still others by their mothers, and they all headed for a cluster of rocks nearly a mile away. None of the six men noticed that Zeke and one other warrior stayed behind, ducking into the buffalo grass for cover amid the confusion of the scattering Appaloosas they had been herding.
The buffalo hunters came thundering down from the mesa, their horses’ hoofs echoing until they were several yards away from the rocky monolith. Now Zeke could feel the ground shaking, both from the fleeing Indians and the approaching hunters. There was a tense moment as the hunters finally came close, then galloped right past the two warriors, their eyes and senses riveted to the Indians and the herd of Appaloosas ahead of them.
Sod and rocks flew as the hunters passed. Zeke and his companion rose from their hiding places. Blood flowed from Zeke’s right arm as he took aim with his rifle; the other Indian raised a bow and arrow. A sharp report followed, accompanied by a silent arrow, and the ones called Tilly and Bowlegs fell, both mortally wounded in the back. The other four men whirled at the sound behind them, shocked, their hearts pounding with fear now that they were the hunted rather than the hunters.
Another shot rang out before they could gather their bearings, and the one they called Moose fell, a hole between his eyes. Carl grunted and sat momentarily transfixed with an arrow in his throat and blood spurting over its shaft.
Blade was already in motion, leaning forward and galloping hard in a sideways direction away from both the two warriors and the Indians farther ahead, leaving behind his friends. The sixth man, called Stu, swore at his mount, which was snorting and rearing in confusion, out of control. Carl finally tumbled from his horse, the arrow shaft shoving even deeper into the already dead man’s throat when he hit the ground. By then a huge knife had landed in Stu’s lower back, just as his horse turned again in frightened prancing. The man cried out and fell, and the horse ran off after Blade, who was already too far out of range for rifle or arrow.
Zeke tossed his rifle onto the grass and walked up angrily to Stu, who lay writhing on the ground, facedown. He yanked out his knife, no remorse or pity in his dark, vengeful eyes. He kicked the white man over onto his back and held him down with his foot.
“Appears you had in mind murdering some innocent people, mister!” he hissed, surprising Stu with his clear English that even carried the hint of a Southern accent. “Trouble is, my woman and my children were among them. You picked the wrong victims this time!”
The last thing Stu thought before his death was how strange the words sounded coming from a man as dark as an Indian, his hair long and black and straight, his dress pure Cheyenne. But that curiosity lived for only a very brief moment before Zeke whisked the big, ugly knife across Stu’s throat and ended his thoughts for good.
Zeke wiped blood from the knife and turned to face his companion, shoving the knife back into its beaded sheath. His companion grinned. “You have not lost your touch, my brother.”
Zeke smiled but looked out at the disappearing sixth man with worried eyes. “But one got away. That could be a problem, Black Elk.”
“We did nothing wrong,” the Cheyenne warrior replied.
Zeke looked back at him. “Since when does that matter? White men can attack and kill Indians, but Indians had better not do it to the white man, remember?” He bent down to pick up his rifle.
Black Elk’s eyes clouded. “Your white brothers have a strange way of saying what is justice,” he answered.
Their eyes held. “Just because half of me is white doesn’t mean I call them my brothers. The Cheyenne are my true brothers, and those with whom I share the blood of our mother—you and Swift Arrow.” He turned and whistled to his mount, a sturdy and faithful Appaloosa that was already heading back to its master. “Let’s get going. I’m worried about Abbie and the kids, and we have some horses to round up before we go on to the fort.”
Black Elk nodded. “We will leave the bodies for the wolves.”
“No,” Zeke answered. “We’ll have to bury them, much as I would prefer not to. But if th
is thing is thrown back at us later, the soldiers will believe us more if we show enough compassion to bury the bodies. I know how the white man thinks, Black Elk. If we leave the bodies they’ll say it’s just proof of how savage the Indian is. We’ll bury them the white man’s way and we’ll ride right into that fort and tell them exactly what happened—show them we have nothing to hide. Abbie’s along. She’s white. They’ll listen to her.”
Black Elk nodded. “Your woman is much help sometimes. You chose well when you chose that one, Zeke.”
Zeke nodded, feeling a pleasant urge inside at the thought of her, his love for her intensified by the way she loved his people, and the way they accepted and honored her as one of their own in spite of her white skin. He mounted his horse in one quick movement, and Black Elk sprang up behind him. The two men headed for the rest of the band, who had already noticed that the fighting was over and were riding back toward them. Abbie was right in front with some of the men, anxious to make sure her husband was all right.
“Zeke!” he heard her shout from a distance. He trotted his horse faster and rode up to meet her, thinking to himself how beautiful she looked astride her spotted horse. She wore a newly painted and beaded tunic, and her lustrous, dark hair was blowing in the west wind, strands of it brushing over her lovely face. They halted side by side and their eyes held while Black Elk dismounted. How she wanted to embrace her husband and weep with joy that he was all right. But when they were with the Cheyenne, she behaved as a Cheyenne woman, refusing to shame him by displaying too much emotion in front of the rest of the men. Zeke knew her thoughts and grinned, loving her for wanting to hold him, and for understanding the Cheyenne way.
“I’m all right,” he told her, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “It’s only a flesh wound.”
“You’re still bleeding,” she said, her voice shaking. “When I saw you fall—” Her voice broke and she swallowed as their eldest son galloped up beside his mother.
“Father! You are all right?”
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