One of the men stepped forward, frowning. “Swift Arrow and Wolf’s Blood are much together,” he told Zeke in the Sioux tongue. “Like father and son. Good warriors. Swift Arrow honored Dog Soldier. One called Wolf’s Blood much help in fighting, but cannot be Dog Soldier because of his white blood.” The man looked Zeke over challengingly. “You also have white blood?”
Zeke gripped the knife again and nodded. “I do. Where are my brother and my son?”
The Sioux tossed his head. “They hunt. They come soon.” He grinned a little, stepping back. “What kind of man is this half-blood who comes to our camp?” Another warrior next to him laughed lightly, then tipped a whiskey bottle to his lips. Zeke watched them all carefully, realizing that the drinking helped these restless men forget that their days were surely numbered. It saddened him, for they didn’t even realize that the whiskey would only hasten their demise.
“As good a man as anyone here,” he answered. “I bear the scars of the Sun Dance Ritual. I lived among my people for many years.” He towered over most of the Sioux around him, for he carried the tall, broad physique of his white father.
The first Indian pounded his chest. “I am the best with the arrows,” he bragged.
Zeke drew his knife and held it out. “And I am the best with this. Perhaps you have heard of Lone Eagle. Some call me Cheyenne Zeke. But then maybe you are too young to have heard of me.”
“I know of you,” an older warrior spoke up. The man stood to the side. He looked at the young man who seemed to want to challenge Zeke. “This man’s knife is great medicine. Swift Arrow is his brother. He has told me much about this half-breed. He is not like other white bellies. His blood is Indian. And his knife makes men tremble. You would be foolish to challenge this man, Red Leaf.”
The one called Red Leaf studied Zeke. He was young, full of fire from recent victories, proud of his skills and always glad to show them off. “Then we will play a game,” he said. “I will shoot my arrow at a small target, then remove it. If you can throw this knife of yours and hit the same place where my arrow hits, you are welcome in our camp. If not, you can leave—on foot, white belly. We will keep your fine horse!”
Zeke looked around the village. If Swift Arrow were here, there would be no trouble. But these young warriors were itching for a challenge and he knew he would be wise to cooperate. He had no desire to harm Red Leaf for he reminded Zeke of his own son. He felt an eagerness of his own, suddenly feeling as though he were back in old times, when life like this was common to him. He nodded. “I accept your challenge, Red Leaf!”
Red Leaf and the others grinned broadly, one of them taking the reins to Zeke’s horse while the rest led him to an open area. Others came to watch then, dogs barking, women peeking shyly at the newcomer. One older but exceedingly beautiful woman began walking alongside them but some distance away. She eyed Zeke seductively, annoying him with her beauty, for he was feeling very Indian this day and enjoying it. She deliberately lifted her tunic, showing more of her legs as she ran up to a large pine and stopped, peering around the trunk at Zeke as he and the other men stopped. Zeke glanced over at her again, and she smiled.
“That one is Sweet Grass,” Red Leaf told Zeke with a laugh. “She lose her man when soldiers shoot him down. Since then she sleeps with any Sioux man who needs a woman, as long as he brings her meat. Your own son has been sleeping with that one. He looks happy in the mornings.” They all laughed, and Zeke looked over at the woman again. He grinned to himself. There was no doubt that if Wolf’s Blood had been sleeping with that one, he had learned all he needed to know about women.
Red Leaf ran to a tree roughly twenty yards distant. He whipped out a knife and gouged a small white spot into the trunk, then ran back to where the others stood. Zeke folded his arms and waited while the young man took an arrow from his quiver, which a friend carried for him. “Do you know of anyone who can hit such a small target with his arrow?” Red Leaf asked Zeke.
Zeke shook his head. “There are many who could come close. Even I could come close. But to hit that very spot would be difficult for me with an arrow, but not with my knife. First you must prove you can do it with the arrow.”
Red Leaf grinned and nodded, placing the arrow in his bow and bending the handmade, perfectly balanced bow outward. There was a long, quiet moment while he held the bow steady before releasing the arrow. Then a soft whirring sound was heard as it arched slightly and landed with a thud, its head sitting perfectly in the tiny spot Red Leaf had gouged out as a target.
The man and his friends whooped and cheered and Red Leaf pushed at Zeke. “I like your fine horse!” he laughed. He started to go to the tree to remove his arrow.
“Wait!” Zeke called out. “Leave it where it is.”
Red Leaf turned and frowned, his bronze arms glistening in the morning sun. “But is is your turn, white belly,” he teased.
Zeke nodded. “Step away.”
The Indian moved aside, watching Zeke curiously as he pulled out the huge blade. Taking no time to stop and gauge his aim, he tossed the knife. It zipped through the air faster than the eye could watch. There was a cracking sound and a pinging thud, and Red Leafs arrow shaft was suddenly split, still vibrating. The knife hung against the arrowhead, and the force of the throw had literally pushed the arrowhead down slightly when it met the same target.
There were gasps and excited utterings among the Sioux, as Red Leaf and the others moved closer to inspect the target. Zeke’s knife had split right through the shaft.
It was then that several warriors came riding in, three of them dragging carcasses of deer behind them. Several in the village ran to greet them, followed by Red Leaf and the men with him, and for the next few minutes there was general commotion. From what Zeke could catch of the rapid Sioux tongue, there was first talk of a good hunt, then jabber about the new visitor who had split Red Leaf’s arrow with his knife. Moments later a welcome sight greeted Zeke, as his son was now walking toward him. Their arrival had been one of such commotion that Zeke couldn’t even be sure who was among those who had come in.
“Father!” the boy exclaimed. “They told the truth. It is you!”
Zeke’s heart tightened. His son had actually grown more! He was no shorter and just as broad and muscular as his father. Zeke felt as though he was looking at himself, for there was barely any difference except for the lines of age in the father’s face. Wolf’s Blood! How he loved this son. How he had missed him. Memories flashed in Zeke’s mind of a small boy who used to ride with him every morning, racing against the wind, declaring that some day he would be a great warrior. Now he was one. And though Zeke knew the days of such freedom were numbered, he would not deny his son the chance to be the Indian he wanted to be.
They clasped hands, wanting to embrace but unable to show such emotion in front of the other braves.
“What brings you here, Father, so far from home!” the boy asked, tears in his eyes. “Is everything all right? Is Mother sick?”
Zeke smiled softly. How could he tell the boy it was he who was sick, not Abbie. “Your mother is fine,” he answered. “I just … missed you, Wolf’s Blood. We had to take LeeAnn to Julesberg, so we decided to keep coming north and see Dan and Bonnie; and I decided to come and find my son. Abbie is waiting for me at Fort Laramie.”
The boy frowned. “Why did my sister go to Julesberg?”
They released hands. “She got on a train to go to New York. She’s going to school there.”
“School! LeeAnn has gone east to the place of the white man?”
“You know how she feels, Wolf’s Blood,” he told the young man. “She’s eighteen now, old enough to go find whatever it is she’s looking for. She’s never been really happy out here. Of all the children, I guess you and LeeAnn were the least alike. I have much to tell you, Wolf’s Blood.”
Red Leaf was coming then with Zeke’s knife, which he handed to Zeke stiffly. “I not call you white belly now. You are Lone Eagle.”
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bsp; Wolf’s Blood laughed. “I could have told you, Red Leaf! No one challenges my father and wins! He is no white belly.” He sobered somewhat. “Just as I have shown that I also am no white belly! I have many white men’s scalps to prove it!”
They all let out war whoops, some raising weapons, certain now that since Red Cloud had led them against the whites and they had won their war for the Black Hills, there would be no more problems from the soldiers and miners. Another familiar face approached then. He had waited for the more important reunion between father and son before coming forward. Zeke caught the man’s eyes, and while the others whooped and yelped the two men appproached one another. Zeke put out his hand. “Swift Arrow!”
“It has been many years, my brother,” the man replied, grasping Zeke’s wrist firmly. “I miss the old days,” Swift Arrow said quietly.
“And our mother,” Zeke answered.
“All of it,” Swift Arrow told him. “So much is gone.” The man’s jaw flexed in deep emotion. “Come to my dwelling. You and I and Wolf’s Blood will talk. I am glad you have come. It is good you dressed and behaved as a Cheyenne, or they would have killed you. There are no longer any good feelings among my people for the whites.”
Zeke shoved his knife back into its sheath. “I’m well aware of that. Things are bad in the south, too. Black Kettle was killed at the Washita, and they try to keep the People on a hot and worthless reservation in Oklahoma.”
“I have heard all of this. Some have managed to come to us for refuge. But we also are always running and hiding. For now things are good. We have beaten back the soldiers and miners, burned their forts, signed a new treaty. But if it is like the other treaties, the white man will find a way to break it. For now we will be happy with this victory.” He stepped back and eyed his half brother. “You look as fit as ever, Zeke; but I see pain in your eyes, and I wonder what has brought you here. It is more than just missing your brother and you son. Come. We will go and rest and talk.” He called out to Wolf’s Blood to come to his tipi. Wolf’s Blood in turn called to a gray, menacing-looking wolf. The animal came running, jumping up onto the young man and growling in delight as Wolf’s Blood hugged him and buried his face in the thick fur. The animal was the boy’s pet, found as a wild pup and simply called Wolf. Wolf’s Blood was the only person who could toy freely with the animal without fear of being attacked. Others stayed away from him. The animal then began following Wolf’s Blood toward his uncle’s tipi.
Wolf’s Blood turned before entering, motioning to Sweet Grass. “Come! My father is here, and we are all hungry. Cook some venison for us.”
She smiled seductively. She liked Wolf’s Blood. He was young and hard and eager in bed. Of all the braves she slept with, he was her favorite. She hurried to her own tipi to get some of the smoked venison she had made up from a deer Wolf’s Blood had brought her a few days earlier. She would prepare a worthy meal for her lover, and for his fine-looking father.
Charles Garvey leaned back in the leather chair, putting his feet up on his desk. He liked his fine office in Washington, D.C. He was an accomplished journalist but also studying to be an attorney, and was now a fast-rising apprentice in a prominent law firm. He had moved up more quickly than others, but then money could buy a man a lot of things.
He rubbed at his thigh, cursing again the young Indian who had stabbed him at Sand Creek. Never had he dreamed a man could suffer so much pain, and for a while it was feared his leg would have to be removed. But it had finally healed to the point where he could at least walk with a cane. The pain he suffered would always plague him, and it only fed his determination to do all he could to annihilate the Indians from any lands they still held. But it would have to be done cleverly, legally. His father had taught him that much more could be accomplished through twisting the law and through bribes than could be accomplished any other way. Already he had had a hand in convincing the railroads that they could provide food for their workers for free by hiring buffalo hunters. Three things could be thus accomplished: The workers would be fed, the railroads would get built, and the Indians would die of hunger. It was really quite simple. Now the hides were becoming more valuable back east, and Garvey had invested in a factory that treated the hides and transformed them into all kinds of valuable outer wear, quite fashionable now. He had also invested in the huge, long-range rifles that were used to hunt buffalo from a safe distance, and had hired hunters himself. He wanted only the best. The job must be done right—and swiftly. The next ten years were bound to bring near extinction to the great, ugly beasts of the plains, solving a lot of problems for white progress.
He grinned and lowered his feet, having to take his hands and literally lift the bad leg to the floor. He winced with pain as he did so. “Cussed red filth!” he swore. He turned to his desk then, picking up a quill pen and continuing to write. Every week he contributed a column to several eastern newspapers, telling of his own life in the west and his experiences fighting Indians, explaining what worthless, ignorant savages they were and how important it was that they be given absolutely no sympathy. Of course he neglected to mention that he had never committed a brave act in his life, or that the attack on the Cheyenne at Sand Creek had been brutal and uncalled-for, that women and children had been mutilated, their insides cut out, their heads bashed into nothingness. He did not mention that time and again the Indians had tried to live up to treaty obligations, only to have those treaties broken by the government, by soldiers, by settlers and miners who wanted more and more Indian land. There was no attempt made to help the whites understand the Indian side, the Indian spirit, the Indian culture. Besides, his readers did not want to hear those things. They wanted only to read exciting things, about the great wars between brave white soldiers and savage, wild Indians. So he would give them what they wanted. After all, he was his father’s son. Indians had obviously done in his father, although the man had never been found after that night the Garvey ranch was raided. Not that the boy cared. After all, that made everything belong to him now. But to say that Indians had killed his father only gave him more credibility. And, they had already killed his mother, before his very eyes, when first he came west with her many years ago. He had never forgotten that. But somehow his mind had blanked out the fact that on that fateful day his own mother had offered her little boy to the Indians in exchange for her life. They had not taken her up on the offer, but had killed her instead. That was all that Charles Garvey remembered, and it was enough to instill the hatred for Indians that his father had nutured over the years.
“So, your daughter goes east to live among the white eyes,” Swift Arrow said to Zeke.
Zeke finished chewing a piece of tender venison. “I’ll miss her very much. And I have the terrible feeling that I’ll not see her again, Swift Arrow. She doesn’t want anything to do with her Indian blood. I fear she’ll never come back.”
A fire at the center of the tipi crackled and popped, and Sweet Grass watched from the shadows.
“You know better than any man that blood cannot be denied forever,” Swift Arrow told his brother. “All your life you have wrestled with two bloods. You could not deny either one.” He wiped at his mouth and leaned back, and Zeke rubbed at his eyes.
“Sometimes I can hardly stand the guilt of how my family has suffered, Swift Arrow. Maybe I should have gone back east myself when I married Abbie.”
“If you had not lived here among your People, you would have been only half a man,” Swift Arrow reminded him. “Abbie knew this. She wanted her man whole and happy.”
Zeke stared at the flames. “She sacrificed so much to stay out here with me. And she suffered the most. Swift Arrow.” He met his brother’s eyes and knew what the man was thinking. He, too, loved Abbie, secretly, quietly. Zeke knew that was the reason Swift Arrow had come north so many years ago to live among the Sioux—to be away from the woman who belonged to his half brother, for to be near her brought great pain. He had objected vehemently when Zeke first brought his frighte
ned, young wife to the Cheyenne, saying that a white woman would only bring them bad luck, for Swift Arrow had never had any use for whites. But Abbie soon proved her worth. She was not like other white women. She was strong and brave and willing to work and learn. And when Zeke had been forced to go away for many weeks, Swift Arrow had watched over her, and to his own surprise had found himself falling in love with her.
“She is well?” Swift Arrow asked his brother quietly, thinking himself of the story Wolf’s Blood had told him about Abbie’s abduction and rape.
“Considering all she has been through, she’s fine. She still weeps for Lillian,” Zeke answered. “It’s never easy for a woman to bury that which has come from her womb.”
Swift Arrow nodded, while Wolf’s Blood only sat and listened quietly, petting Wolf and waiting for his turn to talk. Something was bothering his father, and it worried him.
“It took her a long time to get over what Garvey did to her,” Zeke went on, poking at the fire then with a stick.
“And Margaret?” Swift Arrow asked, thinking it best to change the subject not just for Zeke but for himself, as the thought of men hurting Abbie brought a hot rage to his own heart.
“Margaret is as dark and beautiful as ever—all Indian like Wolf’s Blood. I’m sure Wolf’s Blood has told you the fine man she’s married to—Morgan Brown.” He leaned back and rolled and lit a cigarette. “I like Morgan. He’s a mulatto, so he understands the hardships mixed bloods suffer, understands some of the problems Margaret had. He’s a strong, tall, very handsome man. And you know how beautiful Margaret always was. They make a damned handsome couple, and their children will be beautiful. I trust Morgan completely. He helped me get back on my feet after the Comanches stole my horses. We work the ranch together now. And Margaret is pregnant. She’s due in about six months.”
Meet the New Dawn Page 6