Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  Zeke shoved the glass back toward the man. “I appreciate your trying.”

  “I wish I could tell you more, Zeke. But your children can probably fill you in better than I can. Your brother and the other Cheyenne men couldn’t go after your wife because they simply didn’t know where to look, especially since it was white men that took her.”

  Zeke’s eyes grew to narrow slits. “We live right in the middle of Indian country, and it’s her own kind that brings her harm,” he hissed. “It figures!” He buried the gnawing fear that she had already been sold to outlaws or Mexicans. He had to hope for the best. He started to leave, but Smitty grabbed his wrist. “Zeke!” He leaned closer. “Come in back with me a minute. You look like a man who needs some good whiskey to take with you.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Make time,” Smitty told him, his eyes hinting at some kind of message. Zeke frowned and nodded. He walked around the bar and into a room full of kegs and bottles in back. Smitty closed the door.

  “There’s a man out there,” he spoke up. “Calls himself Hank Lund. He’s been asking about you, wanting to know if you ever show up around here, what you looked like and all. He’s been around ever since the tragedy at your ranch. He’s out there right now, and he was watching us. He had on a blue shirt, and he has a big mole on the left side of his face and a mustache. I think he might know something, but whenever I talk about what happened, he acts as though it’s news to him—acts real interested, says it’s too bad, things like that. But I think he’s been watching for you. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  Zeke put out his hand. “Thanks, Smitty. I appreciate that.”

  Smitty shook his hand. “Out here a man like me grows to like the Indians as much as the whites—men like me and Bent and some of the other traders. There’s good and bad in all kinds, Zeke. Remember that.”

  Zeke nodded. “I’ve known mostly the bad.”

  Smitty sighed. “I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry about your woman. She was something real special to everybody who knew her—even to the Cheyenne. I hope you find her alive, Zeke.”

  Zeke let go of his hand. “If I don’t, whoever has harmed her will be sorry he was ever born!”

  Smitty studied the savage eyes. “I’m sure they will.”

  Zeke turned and walked out, scanning the room. But the man Smitty had described was not there.

  “He’s gone,” Smitty commented. “You’d better find him, Zeke.”

  Zeke hurried out into the open courtyard of the fort. Someone was riding out at a fast gallop. Zeke quickly mounted up and whirled his horse to follow. He rode hard, whipping his already tired horse into a run again. It was a good horse, one of his finest Appaloosas.

  He rode over the dried earth around the fort and continued on into soft prairie grass, charging hard, his horse beginning to gain on the other rider. The fort began to fade into the distance, and there was only the sound of panting, snorting horses, clinking bridle and the soft thud of hoofs. The harder Zeke rode, the more certain he was the man ahead of him knew something. He had left too quickly once Zeke arrived. He had probably not expected Smitty to say anything to Zeke. Now he glanced back occasionally to see the big, dark Indian gaining on him.

  He whipped his horse even harder, but the animal simply could not outrun Zeke’s bigger, stronger mount. Moments later Zeke landed hard into the man, and both went crashing to the ground.

  The other man, much smaller than Zeke, tried to scramble up, but Zeke grabbed him about the waist and slammed him down again, and in the next instant his big blade was at the man’s throat.

  “Who are you?” he growled. “Why were you asking for me at the fort?”

  “I… I don’t know…what you mean!” the man panted.

  “You damned well do!” Zeke hissed. He quickly cut a deep gash from the man’s temple to his chin, along his left cheek. The man screamed in terror. “Do you understand better now?” Zeke growled.

  “Garvey!” the man yelled, beginning to cry, unable to move beneath Zeke’s big body and strong hold. “Winston … Garvey! I’ve been waiting … for you to return. I was … supposed to warn Garvey.… when you got back!”

  Zeke’s eyes widened. “Garvey!” He held the tip of the knife to the man’s eyes. “Does Winston Garvey have my wife?”

  “Y-yes!” the man whimpered. “I …I didn’t have anything to do with that … I swear! My orders were just … to come here and wait till you … showed up … or until the Cheyenne traders mentioned you were back!”

  “Why? Why does Garvey have my wife? What does he want?”

  “I … don’t know! I swear to God, I don’t know!”

  “That’s too goddamned bad, isn’t it!”

  There was no hesitation or regret. The big blade plunged into the man’e eye, and the savage side of Zeke Monroe only smiled at the man’s screams, which he quickly ended with a swift jerk of his blade from the man’s abdomen up to his throat.

  Zeke wiped his blade on the man’s clothing, then shoved it back into its sheath. He dragged the body over to a ravine and shoved it down the short bank, where it landed with a thud in the soft earth of a nearly dried-up stream. He unsaddled the man’s horse and threw the belongings down onto the body, then slapped the horse and sent it running. In this land it was still not unusual to find a dead body here and there. There were outlaws and renegade Indians everywhere. Let the soldiers wonder. Smitty would never tell on him. Smitty was a good man—one of the few. He kept nothing that would serve as any evidence, even leaving a hefty money belt on the man’s body untouched.

  He mounted his horse. He had an advantage now. This man would never make it back to warn Winston Garvey that Zeke Monroe was back. That was good. That was his edge.

  He headed west, toward Black Elk’s village. He would need men. The Cheyenne would help him. And he needed to see his children and let them know their father was all right, before he could go after poor Abbie. But he most certainly would go for his woman, and Winston Garvey would meet his match.

  Twenty-Three

  Even from the distance Zeke could hear his Indian name being shouted.

  “Lone Eagle! He comes! Lone Eagle is back!”

  It seemed the entire Cheyenne village of two hundred that was camped at Sand Creek had turned out to greet him, but there were few smiles, for all knew by the wild eyes and the scratches on Lone Eagle’s face that he already knew about the raid on his home and the capture of his woman.

  The excitement suddenly quieted as he rode silently into the village, his lips hard set. Tall Grass Woman broke into an eerie wail as she watched the tortured look on Zeke’s face. She had wept daily for her good friend Abbie, who she feared she would never see again. Some of the other women joined her in the chilling cries of Indian women in mourning. It was the only sound. Even the many dogs in the camp did not bark.

  Zeke moved his horse through the circle of tipis, where a few of the men just sat, some drunk on white man’s whiskey. Many of the women and children looked hungry, and where an abundance of meat should be hanging for drying and smoking, only a few meat racks boasted game. To Zeke the worsening state of this proud people who once rode free and wild, following the seasons and the buffalo, was fuel to his hatred for men like Winston Garvey. The capture of his Abbie was the final spark that brought the explosion to his soul.

  He spotted his horses in the distance then. His people were caring for them. Then he saw Margaret, and he felt a small wisp of hope that they could be family again. The girl was running toward him from Black Elk’s tipi, where she had been sitting outside helping Black Elk’s wife, Blue Bird Woman, mend some worn moccasins. Finding enough hides for new clothing was becoming difficult.

  More Monroes came running then from other directions throughout the camp. “Father!” Margaret cried out, reaching him first.

  Zeke slid from his horse and embraced his beautiful eldest daughter, not caring about the taboo of showing affection publicly. Just to see his
children alive was a most wonderful, uplifting experience. He hugged the weeping daughter tightly, as the rest of the children—all but Wolf’s Blood, who was not among them—hugged him and climbed all over him.

  Zeke gloried in the touch of small hands, the feel of soft cheeks against his face. None of the children were frightened or hesitant about their father’s wild look. They had seen it before. That look was for his enemies, not for them.

  They all began babbling at once, some of them crying, most of them trying to tell their own version of what had happened in the raid, all of them begging him to go and find their mother immediately.

  “You can find her, Father!” LeeAnn whimpered. “You can do anything!”

  “Those men took Mama!” Lillian wept. “We thought you were dead and were never coming back!”

  “You have to find her, Father!” Margaret told him. “Two of the men were those who attacked us last year in Kansas. One was the one you hit in the face with a rifle!”

  “They killed Smoke!” Jeremy lamented. “They killed our brother’s wolf!”

  “And Dooley! Poor Dooley!” Ellen cried. “He’s dead, Father. Dooley’s dead!”

  Some of the other Cheyenne there began putting in their own comments, and Black Elk hurried then to the scene. Zeke hugged each child, totally silent while the rest of them chattered. Their babbling was welcome noise to his ears, their voices like music.

  Black Elk came close then, and Zeke set little Jason down. Zeke saw the remorse in Black Elk’s eyes. “We needed food,” he told Zeke apologetically. “We were only gone two days. We … did not know. There had been no trouble. I am sorry, Zeke.”

  Zeke reached out and grasped the man’s wrist. “There is nothing to be sorry about. I was not there. I am the one who is sorry. Save your apologies, Black Elk. I may need you and a few more men.”

  Black Elk nodded. “We will help in any way we can.”

  Zeke squeezed his wrist. “Where is my son? I want the whole story from him. Where is Wolf’s Blood?”

  Black Elk frowned and pointed past the village. “Out there. He sits beyond the village at the creek. He speaks to no one. He just sits.”

  Zeke stared at thick cottonwoods for a moment, understanding the pain and guilt Wolf’s Blood was suffering. He turned his gaze back to his children, taking them in one sweep of his eyes, checking their condition. They all looked healthy but tired and mournful.

  “I will find your mother and bring her home to you,” he told them flatly. “That is a promise.” They all smiled and stared at him through tears. “I am going now to talk to your brother. All of you wait for me right here.”

  Margaret nodded. “Yes, sir.” She wanted to tell him about her own terrible experience with the Confederate soldier, but she was too ashamed and embarrassed, and for now her mother was the only important topic. Her father must concentrate all of his powers on that one subject.

  But then Zeke looked at her as though he saw her for the first time as a budding woman and not a little girl. He put a hand to the side of her face. “I have seen my brother Lance,” he told her. “He told me about the soldier.”

  Her eyes quickly teared and her cheeks felt hot with shame. He took her hand and led her away from the others, and she walked with her head hanging, embarrassed that her father knew she had walked alone with a man. Perhaps he would chastise her firmly. Perhaps he was most angry because the man had been a white man. But when they were away from the others he only put an arm around her shoulders.

  “You know, Margaret, that some white men call your mother a squaw woman,” he told her gently. “Some take it for granted she’s loose and worthless just because she is married to a breed. But what do you think of her?”

  She raised her eyes and looked at him curiously. “Mother is the finest person I know. She is good and honorable.”

  He met her eyes. “That’s right. And when men insult her, she doesn’t hang her head and feel like she’s a bad person.” Their eyes held, and he stroked some of the long, dark hair from her face. “You remember your own honor, Margaret. You did nothing wrong, and no matter what kind of names they call you, you are not what they say. You are Margaret Monroe, a very beautiful young woman. But you must understand the way some men are, and you must be careful, because men will want you. It is the white ones you will have to watch. I know you had no bad thoughts when you went with that soldier, but some men think differently. If you have an interest in a young man, tell your mother and me about it. Don’t be embarrassed to tell us.”

  She dropped her eyes again. “I will,” she replied quietly.

  He hugged her again. “And I will tell you a secret, Margaret. Your own mother was not much older than you when we met. And she was just as innocent as you are, yet she did everything she could to get herself alone with me, which could have been just as unwise a decision as yours was. What you did was natural, Margaret, not bad. Your mother wasn’t bad, just in love. The only difference is I had respect for Abbie’s innocence and for women in general. That soldier was the kind of man who has respect for no woman. So don’t go hanging your head. You’re a good girl, Margaret, strong like Abbie. And you have been a big help to her, almost as much a mother to the little ones as Abbie.” He gave her a squeeze. “Now, go back to the village. I need to go find Wolf’s Blood and talk to him alone. I will find your mother, Margaret, and we will all be together again, and all the bad things that have happened since I’ve been gone will be put behind us.”

  She hugged him tightly around the middle. “I love you, Father!” she whispered. Then she turned and ran off, and Zeke watched with an aching heart. Life was not easy for a beautiful girl of mixed blood.

  He turned sad eyes toward the grove of cottonwoods in the distance. He had soothed his daughter’s troubles. Now he must turn his attention to his son. Once his children were settled and comforted, he would find their mother and they would be family again.

  He walked toward the place where Black Elk had pointed, moving quietly, his heart pounding with pity for his eldest son, who surely felt he had failed in protecting his mother.

  He reached the thick grove of young cottonwoods and ducked through them, then spotted the boy sitting in soft sand beside the creek, throwing pebbles into the water. Wolf’s Blood! He was alive and well! He sucked in his breath in a moment of utter joy, his hope mounting faster that he would truly find his Abbie. For the spirits had spared all of his children, and this precious first-born son was alive. Alive! Somehow just being told he was alive had not been enough. Relief surged through him at truly seeing the boy himself.

  He moved around to the boy’s side and called out his name softly. Wolf’s Blood’s head turned quickly at the sound, and he jumped up, pulling out his knife in quick defense, but his eyes widened when he saw that it was his father.

  He slowly put the knife back into its sheath as Zeke came closer, Wolf’s Blood consumed by conflicting desires to embrace the precious father he thought might be dead and to run away in disgrace. He trembled as Zeke came close enough to touch, but he stood rigid and speechless.

  Zeke’s pity was enhanced by the fact that the boy had lost weight, and his eyes held a look that was begging for some kind of forgiveness. “I saw the grave,” Zeke spoke aloud in a strained voice. “The necklace… and I thought … it was you.” His eyes teared. “Thank God you’re alive, Wolf’s Blood!”

  A tear slipped down the boy’s cheek as he struggled for words. “I… failed her!” he finally choked out.

  Zeke shook his head. “Things happen, Wolf’s Blood. They just … happen. I felt the same way … when I was away and the outlaw Arapaho woman attacked your mother years ago. Remember that? You were there then to help her, and you tried, even though you were little. And I know you helped her all you could this time, too. I have failed her more than once, Wolf’s Blood. It’s all right. We’ll find her. Both of us. We’ll find her and bring her home.”

  The boy stared in surprise at the remark. “You … will take me
with you?”

  Zeke grasped the boy’s shoulders. “I want only the best at my side.”

  Wolf’s Blood’s dark eyes lit up with new pride. The two of them embraced then, both weeping quietly for a moment.

  “Father,” the boy whispered. “You are alive! Mother said you would come. She never lost faith.”

  They pulled away from one another and Wolf’s Blood quickly wiped his eyes. He ran his hands over Zeke’s arms and smiled through tears. “Father!” he repeated. They both hugged again for several long seconds. “She demanded that I let her go and do nothing to stop those men,” Wolf’s Blood groaned, pulling away again. “There were … so many. I shot four of them, and mother shot two with her old Spencer.” The boy turned away. “But still there were … many left. I wanted to fight them all—but they said if Mother did not come out, they would burn the cabin and shoot each child as he or she came running out. Mother … did not want to risk harm to the children, and she was afraid for them to see Margaret and LeeAnn. So she … she … went to them.”

  Zeke watched in sorrow as the boy’s shoulders jerked in a silent sob. “When they … touched her, I felt … crazy. I stabbed one of them, but then another one hit me in the head … and everything went black. When I woke up, Mother was gone and there was nothing I could do.” The boy wiped at his eyes again, and Zeke’s heart swelled with added love for his woman, who had literally sacrificed herself for her children. “They killed Dooley, Father … and Smoke.”

  Zeke sighed. “I know. I also know who they were and who has your mother.”

  Wolf’s Blood whirled, his eyes on fire. “Who!”

  “Winston Garvey.”

  The boy’s eyes saddened. “Garvey! He is the bad man who you said is powerful and dangerous.”