Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  The two women came to know one another. Abbie forced herself to forgive Anna Gale and befriend the woman, for she had saved Zeke from a hanging. Anna in turn developed a great respect and admiration for the woman Zeke was married to, readily understanding his devotion to his Abbie. How Anna wished she could be like her, but her life of prostitution had been carved out for her when she was an orphaned youngster, before she even came west.

  Anna wiped at her eyes. “You’re lucky to have your son—to have someone close who is such a fine example that Zeke does live.” She blew her nose again. “Oh, Abbie, how? How did it happen?”

  “He was scouting for the Army. He was at Fort Robinson, trying to convince some Northern Cheyenne to come back to the reservation in the South. There was a skirmish. The Cheyenne tried to run away, and killed some soldiers. Zeke decided to help his people rather than the Army. He killed a soldier and was shot.”

  Anna shook her head. “But he’s been in so many scrapes, so many battles, Abbie. How did he suddenly get so careless?”

  Abbie toyed with the strings of her purse. She had dressed in white woman’s fashion for her trip to Denver, wearing a stylish dress of mint green, Zeke’s favorite color on her. Her hair was swept upward and covered with a feathered hat. She sighed deeply, struggling to stay in control of herself.

  “He … wanted to die fighting, Anna. He had a crippling disease—arthritis. It got very bad … so he could barely walk and it was torture for him to ride a horse. He had warned me long before that he would not die a crippled old man. He died the only way a man like Zeke can die, Anna.”

  The woman nodded. “I see. And I agree. It’s hard to believe someone like Zeke could get any kind of disease.”

  Abbie stared at her lap. “It was hard for all of us to believe. But he was riddled with old wounds and scars, Anna. For all any of us know, perhaps that had something to do with it. It’s hard to say. He was the worst in the winter time, and in damp weather. He put up with it for several years before finally deciding he could not bear another winter, afraid that the next one would put him in bed to stay. He … took his last chance at dying with honor.”

  Anna sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “I can’t believe this! It’s like a bad dream.”

  Abbie swallowed. “I know. It is for me, too, but I’m learning to adjust. Wolf’s Blood and I have been to the place in the mountains where he left the body—on an Indian platform.” She would not tell the woman about her experience on the mountaintop. Only Wolf’s Blood knew, and no one else would. It was a personal thing, something no one else would ever believe or understand. And it gave her new strength.

  “When did all this happen?” Anna asked in a choked voice.

  “It was early last January. It’s been nearly seven months now.”

  Anna breathed deeply and rose, walking over to Wolf’s Blood. He studied the woman curiously, aware of the part she had played in his father’s life, for in their many talks Zeke had often mentioned Anna Gale. He could see the beauty the woman once carried, for she was still beautiful, even at her age. She looked at him lovingly, and he caught a brief glimpse of the way she must have once gazed at his father, a fiery twinkle in her eye for just a moment, a daring, hungry look. But it lasted only briefly, and her eyes teared again as she looked at him.

  “You’re a good son, bringing your mother here like this—taking her to the mountains. This must have been very, very hard on you, Wolf’s Blood. I know you and your father were very close. He talked about you all the time.” She reddened slightly then, wondering if she should have said that. She turned and met Abbie’s eyes. “Abbie, about that time a few years ago, when Zeke came here to take Margaret out of that brothel and stayed here at the boarding house—”

  “I don’t want to even bother talking about it,” Abbie interrupted. “We were going through a bad time then. Margaret had run off, LeeAnn had been carried away by Comanches, and our little Lillian died. Zeke was going through a terrible guilt, thinking I would be better off without him. I knew what he would do when he came here—knew he’d do everything he could to prove to himself he could get by without me. But it’s all water over the dam now, Anna. And in some ways you helped him a great deal. That’s all that matters.”

  Their eyes held, and Anna’s teared more again. “I loved him,” she said in a husky voice, holding her chin proudly.

  She saw no animosity in Abbie’s eyes. “I know that,” Abbie replied. She rose from her chair. “Why don’t we go and have some tea, Anna? I’ll tell you what’s happening with the children, and the grandchildren.”

  The woman breathed deeply and smiled gratefully. Yes, Abigail Monroe was a woman of quality and gentle understanding. “Grandchildren?” she asked. “I never even considered … My how time flies! How many do you have?”

  “There are five now—at least that we know of. Our daughter LeeAnn went east several years ago, and I am afraid has decided she wants nothing to do with Colorado or her Indian heritage anymore. We have completely lost touch. If she has any children, we wouldn’t know.”

  “Oh, Abbie, that’s terrible! How sad! Then the girl doesn’t even know her father has died!” She led Abbie toward the kitchen, the two of them still talking. Wolf’s Blood stared out the window again at the fancy office building on a distant hill where they had gone to find his brother Jeremy, only to discover the man was in Europe with his high-society wife. They had learned from those who knew him at the office that Jeremy had no children, and that his wife did not want any. When the man they spoke with asked if he could give Jeremy a message, Abbie had simply stared at him with cold eyes.

  “Tell him his father is dead,” she had said flatly.

  The man frowned. “His father? But … ma’am … he told us his father died a long time ago—some rancher down in Texas.”

  Never had Wolf’s Blood felt more sorry for his mother than at that moment. She had wavered, and he wondered if she would faint. He had taken her arm. “Let’s get out of here, Mother.”

  “But … who shall I say was here?” the man asked. “And I’m afraid I’m very confused here.”

  Abbie managed to stay calm. “Who we are apparently doesn’t matter to him,” she answered. “You tell him a white woman and an Indian man were here—and that they came to tell him his father is dead. He’ll know who it was.” She had turned and walked to the door, then stopped, looking back. “And tell him we hope he had a nice time in Europe.”

  However much the incident had hurt his poor mother, Wolf’s Blood couldn’t tell. Her only statement was that she was glad Zeke had not lived to know just how badly his own son had deserted him, and she declared that she did not want to speak of Jeremy again.

  Wolf’s Blood clenched his fists. How he would love to batter his brother’s face. He had never told her of the time he and Zeke had seen Jeremy in Dodge City. Zeke had said not to mention it, wanting to save Abbie the hurt. But she had been hurt anyway.

  He gazed beyond the buildings to the mountains that loomed all along the horizon. Out there, far to the South, lay the Sangre de Cristo’s, and his father’s burial place. It was done now. They would probably never go back there again. There was no use in hoping none of it was true, no use in hoping to see Zeke Monroe come riding over a ridge on one of his grand Appaloosas. Going to the site with his mother had helped him realize that himself, even though his father had died in his arms. It was over, and Zeke Monroe rested peacefully in a beautiful green cove deep in the mountains, where only animals dwelled and water thundered and splashed nearby to keep him company. It was time to go home—to Sonora, to the ranch. It was time to go on living. He would have to be strong on his own. There was no Zeke to turn to for strength and advice, no Zeke to talk to over campfires, to smoke the prayer pipe with, to race with. That was the hardest part. There would be no more morning rides. But he had memories—precious, precious memories—and when he closed his eyes and tried very hard, he could be with his father, could hear his voice, almost talk with him
again. And he could remember a man about his own age, riding with a small Indian boy beside him, racing toward the sun.

  Charles Garvey rose to greet his visitor, who had refused to give his name to the secretary. His eyes widened when the young man entered, for he looked familiar, and Garvey quickly remembered he was the same person who had argued with him in public over Indians a few years earlier. His eyes hardened, and when Joshua put out his hand Garvey refused to take it.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked coldly.

  Joshua only smiled. He took a chair, then took a cigar from a box on Garvey’s desk and lit it. Garvey reddened with anger, sitting down himself.

  “Quite a successful man now, aren’t you, Charles?” he commented, puffing the cigar.

  Charles closely scrutinized the handsome man before him, perhaps ten years younger than himself, with hazel eyes. The only thing that detracted from his fine looks and build was that he also walked with a limp, only he needed more than a cane to assist him. This young man wore a brace, which showed through at his foot where it wrapped around his shoe.

  “State your business, or I’ll have you thrown out,” Charles spoke up.

  Joshua nodded. “You’re wondering if I am the young man who argued with you once about Indians,” he answered. “The answer is yes. And I never told you my name that day. I will tell you now. It is Joshua Lewis.”

  Garvey’s eyes lit up. “You!” He rose. “Every article you write in the Times destroys everything I write about the Indians!” He looked sneeringly at Joshua, his eyes ugly, his lips almost curled with hatred. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself with your lies about those lice-ridden, stinking, drunken bastards!” he snarled. “And you even admit in your articles that you are part Indian! How can you look people in the eye and say that? You get out of my office, Joshua Lewis! I’ll have no half-breed scum in here!”

  Joshua just grinned. “Even if you’re related to him?” he asked.

  Garvey just stared at him, turning a ghastly white. He trembled noticeably and all but fell back into his chair. He gripped the arms of it until his knuckles were white. “You had better have a good reason for speaking such lies!” he growled.

  Joshua frowned. “Come now, Garvey. You know a reputable reporter like myself would never lie.” He puffed the cigar again. “Yes, sir, when I tell the whole story in the Times, you, my dear brother, will be laughed out of Washington. Imagine! After all your hard work at lambasting the Indians—to find out you yourself have a half-breed brother.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “That will create some gossip that will hang around Washington for a long time.”

  The look in Charles Garvey’s eyes was insane, as their dark, smouldering depths bore into Joshua Lewis, who refused to let the man frighten him. He had planned this sweet moment for too long.

  “Tell me, Charles, do I get half the fortune?” He knocked some ashes from the cigar onto the floor. “Oh, no matter. You can have it. The pleasure of the look on your face right now is payment enough for missing out on what was rightfully mine. Besides, I’m a successful man in my own right, and most of your money has been earned illegally, much of it at the expense of the poor Indian. I wouldn’t really want to touch such filthy money. And I’m told you’re going broke anyway—poor management or something like that.”

  “Shut up!” Garvey roared. “Shut your stinking mouth!”

  Joshua frowned, pursing his lips and putting a finger to them. “Charles, you must keep it down. After all, if you’re good about all this, I’ll not say a word. Don’t make me angry, Charles, and don’t get violent. Don’t you want to know how we came to be brothers?”

  “That’s a filthy lie! A lie! Are you insane, Lewis? Coming in here and claiming such nonsense! Explain yourself!” he snarled. “And then I will have you arrested!”

  Joshua puffed the cigar for a moment. “All right. But perhaps you’d like to pour yourself a drink first. I know I could use one.”

  Garvey breathed deeply, his whole body bathed in perspiration. He struggled to control himself as he rose stiffly from his chair and walked to a buffet where he kept liquor. He poured two glasses of whiskey, turning and handing one out to Joshua Lewis, his lips curled in the ugly snarl again. “Enjoy your last drink, Lewis!” he growled.

  Joshua took it and nodded a thank you. He leaned forward and put out the cigar, while Garvey sat back behind his desk. “Why are you doing this, Lewis? You can’t just walk into a man’s office and say he’s your brother! You must be a crazy man! What are you after?”

  Joshua sipped the drink. “Only one thing, Charles. The truth. I want you to stop cheating Indians, both in your business practices and in your writing.”

  Charles gripped the glass tightly. “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’m going public with the truth about you—and your father.”

  Charles glared at him through hateful slits. “And what is the truth?”

  Joshua leaned back. “Do you remember back many years ago, when you and your father lived in Santa Fe, and your father had a … servant? An Indian woman called Yellow Moon?”

  Charles’s blood began to turn colder. “I remember.”

  “Good!” Joshua said with a grin. “Perhaps you also remember that a man came to your house one day, an Indian man—quite tall and striking—a powerfully built man who carried a big knife. And he took the Indian woman away.”

  Charles frowned. This man must be telling the truth. How would he know of things that happened before he could even have been born? “Yes. I never knew who the man was.”

  Joshua nodded. “Well, I do. He’s my uncle—by marriage, not by blood. You see, Yellow Moon was an Arapaho woman who was married to the man’s brother, Red Eagle. Red Eagle sold his wife for whiskey and later shot himself. Their small son was murdered by the outlaws who bought the woman. She was then sold to a prostitute named Anna Gale, who in turn gave the woman to your father—to use as he wished. And you can guess that she was more than a servant. Your illustrious, prominent father kept her tied in an attic room and used her to satisfy his sexual fantasies, until she was rescued by Red Eagle’s half brother, Zeke Monroe.”

  Charles frowned, too curious now to go into a tantrum. Zeke Monroe. It was a familiar name, but Charles himself had never known the man, except to now be aware that it was Monroe who had come to his house and taken Yellow Moon away. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  Joshua sipped more whiskey. “Well, Zeke took his sister-in-law home with him, and gave her to another Cheyenne brother to care for. His name was Swift Arrow. He took her north with him. But when he took her, she was already with child—Winston Garvey’s child, a half-breed.”

  He watched the changes in Charles Garvey’s eyes—first curiosity and confusion, then a slow but sure understanding until they widened with dread. “You?”

  Joshua nodded. “The same, dear brother.”

  Charles began shaking again. “It … it can’t be true!”

  “But it is. Yellow Moon was killed in an Indian battle at Blue Water Creek, not long after I was born. I was called Crooked Foot because I had a clubfoot. Swift Arrow could not keep me. He was a Dog Soldier and intended to spend his life fighting for freedom. He could not be burdened with a crippled child that wasn’t even his own. So he gave me to Zeke and Abigail Monroe, who in turn took me to a missionary couple they knew—Bonnie and Rodney Lewis. Bonnie’s father was a doctor, and Bonnie and Rodney agreed to take me in—adopted me. They saw to it I had several operations that enabled me to walk eventually, although I still wear a brace.”

  Charles gripped his glass so tightly Joshua wondered if he might break it right in his hand. “If this is all true, why didn’t someone come out with it a long time ago?”

  Joshua snickered. “The timing was never right. My uncle Zeke and my adoptive parents all feared that if your father found out he had a half-breed son, he’d have me killed, and all those who knew about me. I don’t doubt he suspected a time or two, maybe tried i
n some way to find out. But the secret was well kept, for my safety, and for Zeke’s and his family’s. After all, your father was a very powerful man. Besides, my parents couldn’t even tell me until I was much older, of an age that I would understand all of it.” He rose. “But I’ve had my fill of you, Charles Garvey. And I decided there is only one way to stop you. I am powerful in my own right now. And Zeke Monroe was killed over a year ago at Fort Robinson. There is really no one left you can harm, and if you tried, I would make sure the public knows who was bringing harm to Zeke’s family, or to me or mine.”

  Charles rose himself, glaring at Joshua Lewis, beginning to shake violently. “What do you want, Lewis!” he hissed. “Money?”

  Joshua smiled sadly. “No. I want nothing from you but the satisfaction I am getting right now at the look on your face—and to tell you to stop raping the Indians. I want all your articles stopped and all your illegal activities stopped. I know about some of them, too. I am a good investigator, Charles. So put a halt to the whiskey running and reservation cheating, or I will expose you—not just your relationship to me, but the other things you are up to.”

  The young man turned to leave, when Charles called out to him. “Stop!”

  Joshua turned to see the man standing there pointing a handgun at him. “Don’t be a fool, Garvey!” he sneered. “I left an envelope and strict instructions with a friend of mine that it be opened and published if I should be found dead. You’d hang.”

  There were actual tears in Charles Garvey’s eyes, as his body shook with rage. “You mother-loving son of a bitch!” he growled. “I’ll find a way to get you! I’ll find a way!”

  Joshua shrugged. “I hope you try, Charles. I’m itching to expose you for what you really are. You should be locked up.”