She just stared at him, a look of shock on her face. “You’re crazy!” she said quietly. “You’re flat out crazy. It’s really that important to you?”
“It is.”
She shook her head. “You could have just let it go, and no one would ever have known.”
His eyes turned to slits of hatred. “I would know!” he growled. “I can’t bear the thought of being the father to half-breed scum.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment as Anna rose, moving around to sit on the edge of her desk. “What have you done with Mrs. Monroe?” she asked cautiously.
The man snickered. “Now wouldn’t you just love to know that?” He leaned back again and put his arms behind his head. “Well, my dear, I can’t tell you that, except that she is not at my estate. I will say one thing for her, though. She’s one stubborn woman. My original plan was to get my answer out of her by taking her from her children and making her my prisoner. I thought that beatings and starvation and separation from those little brats of hers would make her talk. Then I would kill her and go find the boy and his family and get rid of them also. Then I would stage another raid on the Monroe ranch and get rid of the rest of them—make it look like an Indian attack. That would be easy for the public to believe, considering all the raiding that is taking place.”
“But she messed up your plans when she wouldn’t talk,” Anna added for him, cautiously trying to find out all that she could.
His face darkened again. “The damned woman is smarter and stronger than I figured.”
“I could have told you that.”
“But there’s no hurry. As long as she won’t tell me anything, I’ll keep her alive and wait for her husband to come for her. And if he wants her back, he’ll have to tell me what I want to know. I merely have to keep the woman alive. If I kill her, Zeke Monroe will never talk.”
“He’ll never talk either way. Why should he? If he talks to get her back, you’ll still have him killed.”
He shook his head. “I will very quietly have the ‘evidence’—the boy and his family—disposed of. They will simply disappear. That isn’t hard to accomplish in this Godforsaken country. Then let Monroe yell all he wants. There will be no evidence. And who will believe him: the word of a stinking half-breed against a prominent businessman like myself? I suppose even with the boy alive, Monroe would have a hell of a time convincing the public he is mine, but there is always the chance. Once he’s dead, the threat is gone. And Zeke Monroe will have nothing to hold over me. No good citizen in his right mind would believe such a story.”
Anna folded her arms. “It all sounds very smooth, Senator,” she told the man. “And when Zeke gets back from the war, just how is he supposed to know where to go to look for his wife?”
“Oh, he’ll know once he thinks about it for a while. He’ll figure it out.”
She shrugged. “And what if he never comes? I hear the war back east is a damned bloody one. It has even affected us here. Maybe he’s been killed.”
Garvey chuckled. “So be it. The longer he is away, the more his wife will wear down until she finally gives up. She will tell me sooner or later. She can’t go on forever in her condition.”
Anna’s heart raced. “What condition? What have you done with her?”
Garvey smiled. “I always got a certain pleasure out of hitting a woman,” he told her. “Pain and starvation can work wonders in changing someone’s mind.” He rose from his chair. “But in her case, that wasn’t enough. She was too proud. You’ve seen the sort. So Buel and Handy and I decided to break her pride.”
The horror of what he was saying made her her feel ill. “You pig! You slimy, fat, stinking pig!” she hissed. “Abigail Monroe is a good woman—a woman of virtue and … and …”
“And everything you are not, I dare say,” the man sneered. She started to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. “It is far too late for you to be thinking about being the kind of woman Abigail Monroe is, my worthless whore! Or should I say the kind of woman she was?”
Anna jerked her wrist away and moved back, feeling nauseous at his closeness and wondering how she had ever allowed herself to put up with him all these years. “You misjudged one thing,” she told him.
“And what, pray tell, is that?” he asked pompously.
Her eyes glittered with hatred. “You figure Zeke Monroe to be like most other men—a person you can bully with your money and your power, a person beneath your false dignity, someone of the lower class to be used and abused and threatened and bought off. Your power has gone to your head, Winston Garvey, so that you think you are invincible, invulnerable, your estate impregnable. But one day you will awake to find Zeke Monroe’s knife at your throat. Your pompous love for yourself has caused you to do something you never should have done. You have dug your grave, Winston Garvey! You can’t threaten or buy off a man like Zeke. You have met your match this time.”
The man merely chuckled and walked to the door. “Think what you wish, my dear. I only came to tell you because I have a feeling the man will pay you a visit before he comes to me. I wanted you to be ready for him. You may tell him whatever you wish. Lead him right to my door. I’ll be waiting with open arms. In fact, why don’t you come along with him? I could take care of everything at once.” He snickered at the hatred on her face. “I just wish he would hurry. With my wife and son gone in the East, this would be the ideal time to tie up all these loose ends.”
“And what makes you think I won’t go to the authorities myself?” she returned.
“Be my guest. Send them out to my place. They won’t find anything. How far can the word of a slut like you go? This is Denver, dear. We’re even considering laws against prostitution. Cooperate, dear Anna, and I just might spare your life. That’s your only hope. Fight me, betray me, and your body will be lying at the foot of the loneliest mountain in the Rockies—or I can easily arrange to have you put in prison for the rest of your life. I’m sure I can think of any number of matters that would put you behind bars. No, Anna dear. You aren’t brave enough or strong enough to go to the authorities. I’d break you in half, and you’d be the common homeless slut I picked up off the streets all those years ago in Washington. You don’t realize it, but even today you are still dependent on the old senator. You’ll never really get away from me, you know. I’ve only played along with you this long because you didn’t know the whereabouts or identity of the half-breed boy. As soon as I get that information, you will be back under my thumb, my pet, to do with as I please.” He stepped closer and suddenly grabbed the bodice of her dress, ripping it open and exposing her breasts. “This is what you are and what you always will be, Anna Gale! It’s a little late to be thinking of doing good deeds!” He looked down at her breasts, then spit on them. “Don’t ever, ever try to threaten me again!” he hissed.
He turned and left. Anna stared at the closed door, her body jerking in silent, unwanted sobs. But she did not cry for herself. She wept for Abbie Monroe. She hoped Zeke would come soon. Zeke was one man Winston Garvey could not threaten or control. She pulled her dress back over her breasts and bent over, wishing she was brave enough to kill Winston Garvey herself.
Zeke crested the hill and looked down at the cabin. He felt as ecstatic as a young lover anticipating making love to the woman of his dreams for the first time, as excited as a little boy planning a wonderful surprise. He breathed deeply of the air that he loved and patted his horse’s warm, moist neck. He had ridden the animal harder than he would ever normally run a horse. But he had to take the risk. He had to get back here. Each mile had brought a little more life to his lonely soul, a little more urgency to the gait of his horse, a little more happiness to his heart.
But it was only a few seconds before that happiness and excitement began to fade, and he felt an odd pain in his stomach. There were no sounds of children laughing and playing, no horses running in the corrals or out in the pasture. The ranch looked lifeless and empty. He frowned, heading his mount down the hi
ll, his dread mounting as the cabin came closer. He stopped and looked around cautiously, pulling his rifle from its casing.
“Abbie!” he called out. There was only the sound of a soft wind. “Dooley! Wolf’s Blood!”
Still no reply. He trotted the horse around to the front of the cabin and dismounted, his rifle ready as he walked up the steps to the front door. The door was padlocked with the lock they always used when they would be gone. He turned to walk back and get his key from his parfleche. It was then that he noticed the strange markings all over the front of the house. He walked closer, running his finger over one of them.
“Bullets!” he muttered. He inspected a few more, finding some bullets embedded in the thick logs. “Jesus!” He ran to his parfleche and rummaged for the key, hurrying back and unlocking the padlock and charging into the house. “Abbie?” he shouted. He stared around the main room. It looked as though no one had occupied it for a while. Dust was settled on the table and on the fireplace mantle. Abbie would never let dust collect. He walked to the fireplace and touched the black embers in the hearth. They were cold. Abbie was perpetually cooking. The coals were always warm.
He forced back the thoughts of horror that wanted to come to his mind. He climbed up quickly to the loft, but there were no children there, and some of their quilts were gone. Then he walked hesitantly into the bedroom where he and Abbie slept. The bed of robes was there, neatly made. Everything was in place. He tried to understand how the outside of the cabin could be so riddled with bullets, yet nothing inside seemed wrongly disturbed. If someone had attacked the cabin, there would have been a struggle once they got inside. There should be blood and broken articles.
He felt sweat beading on his forehead. He told himself he should be glad there was no sign of blood or struggle. Perhaps things were not as bad as he might think. Yet the fact remained his family was not there, his horses were gone, and there were ominous bullet markings on the cabin.
He turned and ran outside, shouting names again, checking the sheds and Dooley’s soddy. The silence, broken only by the distant rush of the river and the soft wind, almost hurt his ears. Abbie! Wolf’s Blood! Where were they? He would not be so worried if not for the bullets that peppered the cabin. Bullets! He breathed deeply. He had to think. He ran back toward his horse, and it was then he saw them in the distance, at the back of the cabin. They were two fairly fresh mounds of dirt, one with a cross at its head, the other with two notched stakes that held something.
At first he froze in place, afraid to find out who the graves might belong to. Yet he had to know. And there were only two. Whoever they were, there were surely more Monroes left some place who needed him. Whatever had happened, it had to be devastating. Nothing else would have made Abbie leave the ranch. He felt his legs moving, but they suddenly weighed a hundred pounds each as he forced them to walk toward the graves.
“Nothing lives long.… Nothing stays here.… Except the earth and the mountains,” he chanted softly to himself, reminding himself of the Cheyenne death song. He must prepare himself. Gradually the graves came close, and he fell to his knees, staring at the cross. “Dooley—a good man,” it read. His eyes widened. “No!” he whispered to the wind.
He cautiously moved his eyes to the other grave. The two stakes at its head were notched to hold a necklace—one made of wolf’s claws. He stared at the necklace in disbelief. What else could it mean but that the grave held his son? It was the necklace the shaman had given Wolf’s Blood at the Sun Dance.
A horrible, black shudder surged through Zeke and he bent over, so much pain in his chest he thought perhaps his heart was giving up and he was dying. A terrible groan exited his lips and he grasped his stomach. He rocked on his knees that way for nearly an hour, groaning, the horrible black pain ripping through his stomach and chest without mercy. This could not be! Always when he had gone away before, he had come home to his woman and his family. What had happened? The bullets! The graves! The emptiness! He would weep for his good friend Dooley, but his utter horror at the thought of his first-born son being dead was too overwhelming to have any room left for Dooley.
He sunk his fingernails into his cheeks and threw back his head, raising his arms and screaming out a long, savage wail, blood streaming down his face. He screamed out the names of his Cheyenne gods, begging for help, for an answer, for comfort. And then as he sat there with the hot sun on his face he felt a sudden peace, and a small yellow bird flitted down and perched on one of the stakes, singing and hopping from one stake to the other and then to the top of the grave.
Zeke lowered his arms, his own tears mingling with the blood on his cheeks. He looked down at the bird, and suddenly his senses returned. This bird was a sign. A sign of life. There would be a time for the terrible mourning that must come, a time to face the ugliness of reality. But for now he must be strong, stronger than he had ever had to be. He must remember that the rest of his family was somewhere. Abbie was somewhere. And in his great love for his son, he felt deep inside that the boy’s spirit was not dead. He could not be dead. Not Wolf’s Blood. Not his son! And Abbie. Where was Abbie?
He got to his feet and the pain shot through him again. But he must put on hardness and put off feelings. He must be hard and strong until this terrible nightmare was over. Something horrible had happened, that was certain. But he could not sit in this place and wonder. He must go and find them.
His legs felt weak and cramped as he headed toward the front of the cabin. He walked inside, clinging to the walls and the furnishings as he half stumbled into the bedroom, the terrible pain still in his chest. He went to the old chest of drawers where Abbie kept some of her belongings. He took out a flannel gown and held it to his face, kissing it, breathing deeply of the light scent that was his woman that still lingered in the material.
“Abbie,” he whispered. “Be alive, Abbie. Be alive!” He walked back into the main room, clinging to the gown. “All of you … be alive!” he groaned, looking up to the loft. “Wolf’s Blood, Margaret, LeeAnn, Jeremy, Ellen, Lillian, Jason! All of you!” Somehow it felt better to say their names, as though he was truly speaking to them and they would answer.
He charged back outside then, putting the padlock back on the door, then going to his mount to place Abbie’s gown into his parfleche, the parfleche she had beaded for him herself. He traced his fingers over the beads, then looked to the heavens again, the blood beginning to dry on his face, making him look like the fierce savage he could sometimes be.
“Give me strength, Maheo!” he prayed. He mounted up. He would go to Bent’s Fort and see if anyone knew anything—then to Black Elk’s village. And if someone had harmed anyone in his family, he would bring them more horror and pain than they could possibly imagine. There would be hell to pay!
Settlers and traders alike gawked at the dark, menacing Indian who rode into Bent’s Fort. His long, black hair was dusty and dull, his face crusted with blood from deep gashes on his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips tight, his whole being radiating fierce anger. He looked at no one as he approached the drinking room and dismounted. One young white woman who was passing took one look and gasped in fright, turning and running away. Zeke turned and watched after her, thinking of Abbie. Then he walked into the room that was the general meeting and drinking area for traders and male settlers.
Patrons glanced up and stared and stopped talking. The man approaching was tall and broad and hard. He wore many weapons and anyone could tell he knew how to use them. Zeke walked directly to the bar, amid the screech of scooting chairs and frightened whispers as men moved out of his way. A white man serving drinks turned and saw Zeke approaching, and he quickly picked up a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “Zeke!” he exclaimed. “Thank God you’re back!”
Zeke glared at him. “Where is my family, Smitty?” he asked, his voice icy.
Smitty frowned. “We were all hoping you’d show up soon, Zeke.” He poured a shot of whiskey. “Drink this. You look like hell, and you’ll need
it, my Cheyenne friend.”
Zeke took the small glass and quickly downed the whiskey. “What’s happened?” he asked. “I just came from my place. It’s empty. I’ve been gone ten months, and I come home to nothing but two graves behind my cabin!”
Smitty sighed. “The Cheyenne say your white woman has been taken by some kind of outlaws, Zeke. That’s all I know.”
Zeke felt the horrible sickness and pain again, but he let his savageness win out and forced the hardness to stay. To let go of it would be to go insane. “The rest of my family?”
“They’re with Black Elk, Zeke. They’re all right. But your hired hand, Dooley, he was shot in the back. They didn’t give him a chance.”
Zeke gripped the glass. “Wolf’s Blood?” he managed to choke out.
“He’s all right. He took a good whack on the head when he tried to help his mother, but he’s all right now. That wolf of his was shot, though. It’s all been hardest on him, I hear. The Cheyenne say he’s broke up real bad about the whole thing.”
Zeke struggled against tears. “But … he’s alive?”
“He is.” Smitty poured more whiskey, aware that Zeke Monroe was struggling not to break down. “What happened, Zeke? Where have you been?” the man asked.
Zeke swallowed the second drink. “It’s a long story. I have to get to Black Elk’s village. Has anyone tried to find my wife?”
Smitty shook his head. “No soldiers, anyway. They refused to try.”
“Why?” Zeke asked, his eyes glittering. “Because she’s married to an Indian?”
Smitty met his eyes. “I’m sorry, Zeke. They said it was because there aren’t enough of them to go chasing after elusive outlaws. All their good men are back East fighting the war. A few men and myself, we looked for a few days. But the bastards rode to the river and must have had boats waiting or something. Their trail just disappeared into nothingness.”
Embrace the Wild Land Page 32