Wolf’s Blood smiled wickedly. The road was quiet now. Few people traveled this way at night. It was too dangerous in a land that was still mostly lawless in places like this. He met Charles Garvey’s eyes. “I think perhaps we do know each other,” he told Garvey.
Garvey frowned. “What do you mean?”
Wolf’s Blood placed a finger against the end of the shiny, wicked blade of his knife, twirling it lightly as he held it in his other hand. “I am thinking of another time … Denver,” he said carefully. “I was sitting on a walkway, a small Indian boy. A bigger white boy came along, kicking a can. He was ugly … had a lot of red bumps on his face. He was a little bigger than I—then. He started calling me names. I jumped on him and beat him good, even though I was smaller. He ran away crying.”
He met Garvey’s eyes. The man studied him with incredulous shock. “How could you … know that?” he asked in a near whisper. “That must have been twenty-five years ago—maybe more!”
“I remember my own fights,” he answered.
Garvey began to tremble, and Wolf’s Blood knew what he would do. Before the man could act, Wolf’s Blood reached over and threw his rifle aside, quick as a biting snake. Garvey’s eyes widened. “Who … are you?”
“I remember another time,” he went on. “My family and I were in Kansas, and Colorado Volunteers attacked us. A young man was with them, and I shot at him, then pulled him from his horse. We fought in the water, and I beat him good again.”
Garvey tried to think. Yes, he did look familiar. How could he have run into this man more than once and never known who he was? But he still didn’t know.
“And still another time,” Wolf’s Blood continued, enjoying the shocked, confused look on Garvey’s face. “I was at Sand Creek. A Volunteer under Chivington rode down the young girl I was to marry. He killed her with his saber. He also wounded me, but I managed to sink my lance … deep into his leg … so that he was forever a cripple.”
Garvey felt a terrible pain in his stomach, and his heart pounded furiously. How could this be? How and why were all these people suddenly emerging from his past to haunt and torture him? What had he done to deserve these things?
“You? You were … the one … at Sand Creek?”
“Your memory is poor, Charles Garvey. You have made the mistake of thinking all Indians look alike, so you never singled me out any of those times. But I singled you out. I knew who you were, because my father knew your father. My father was Zeke Monroe.”
It seemed Garvey’s eyes would bulge right out of his head then. He suddenly jumped up and started running, but his game leg prevented speed. A huge Indian was soon at his back, landing hard into him and tackling him to the ground.
“No! Please!” Garvey whimpered. “I’ll … I’ll pay you anyway … and just go away! I’ll never come back! Honest!”
Wolf’s Blood pushed the man’s face into the hard gravel. “It is true you will never come back!” he growled. “For you will not live to come back anyplace! You would hire a man to rape and murder your own wife and son—my sister and nephew! You are a wicked, evil man, Charles Garvey, just like your father was! My father killed your father! And now I shall kill you! It is fitting!”
He jerked the man onto his back and quickly slit his larynx—as he had seen his father do a time or two—so that the victim could not scream as he died … slowly.
Wolf’s Blood finished packing his travois. He would take several horses with him, as gifts to Sonora’s people and as an aid in being accepted by them. It was understood that part of the ranch belonged to him, and he could return anytime.
Abbie hurried over with hot bisquits, her heart filled with agony that he was leaving so soon now. But if it must be done, it must be done. Still, she had expected him to wait until she left for the North. Now things were happening almost too quickly, and there was an urgency about Wolf’s Blood she did not like. She handed the bag of bisquits to a tearful Sonora, who also looked worried. Wolf’s Blood came out of the nearly empty house with more supplies, stopping and staring at his all-knowing mother, who stepped forward to face him.
“What is it you aren’t telling me?” she asked.
He looked away and walked to the supply horse, shoving the things into a parfleche. “Nothing. It is difficult for me to go, Mother, to leave you—this place. So I might as well get it over with, that’s all.”
He came back on the porch and she stood in front of the doorway. “That is not all!” she declared. “I could always tell when your father was hiding something, and I can tell when you are hiding something, too! You’re just like him. You might as well tell me. You’ve been acting strangely ever since you got back from Fort Lyon.”
Wolf’s Blood glanced at Sonora, who hung her head and went inside to finish getting the children ready. Wolf’s Blood sighed, taking his mother’s arm and pulling her aside. “I came across Charles Garvey,” he told her then.
Her eyes widened. “What did you do, Wolf’s Blood!”
His eyes hardened. “I killed him.”
She closed her eyes. “Dear God!” She breathed deeply and turned around. “How? And why? Do you know what they do to Indians who kill white men, especially important white men?”
“I had no choice!” he growled. “At Fort Lyon I heard that a fancy man had been there asking about this place and about LeeAnn—a man who used a cane to walk. I knew it had to be him! So I rode out after him before he could get here, and it is a good thing! He intended to kill LeeAnn, and Matthew!”
“How do you know that for sure? They were his family.”
“Family means nothing to men like that! They know nothing of love and pity and forgiveness! You should know that well enough!”
She reddened and looked away, and he sighed deeply, leaning against the house. “Mother, I know because when I found him camped I made friends with him first, just to see what he was up to. I got him to talk. And he ended up offering me a thousand dollars to rape and murder his wife and murder his son, so that he could blame their deaths on Indians and his own hands would be clean.”
She turned back to meet his eyes, her own wide with shock. “He was going to hire you … to murder his own wife and child?”
“Now do you see? He was going to come here and get them, then ride out, where I would attack them all and beat on him some so it would look real. He even said he wanted to watch her being raped! How could I let such an evil man live? If not me, he would have found someone else to kill them! Everyone is better off that he is dead. But I was careful, Mother, just like Father always was. They cannot prove I did it, but they might suspect because they will eventually link him to LeeAnn and find out she was running from him. So I think it is best I head south now. Being with the Apaches in the New Mexico Mountains is a good place for now, until they give up trying to find out who did it.”
Her eyes teared, and she reached up and touched his face. “It will be so hard being without you, Wolf’s Blood,” she told him, her motherly instincts tearing at her heart. It seemed he’d never been a baby, but always a warrior, even when a child. And she had no doubt he’d find a way to get mixed up in the Apache wars. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Keep your papers proving your mother is white and your father half white. I have heard bad things about San Carlos.”
“We will not go there—not at first. No Apache likes San Carlos, and Victorio still makes war, refusing to go there. And the one called Geronimo lives in Mexico, refusing to go to San Carlos, where the heat and insects kill the Indians. Perhaps we will go all the way to Mexico. I cannot say for now. But Sonora longs to find some of her relatives. I owe her that much. She has been a good wife. We will stay just a while, perhaps a year or two. Then we will come back, and Charles Garvey’s death will be long forgotten. If you are still in the North, we will come there and see you.”
She hugged him close. “Promise me, Wolf’s Blood! Promise me! I don’t want to lose you!”
“You will not lose me. I make the promise, just
as Father always did.”
She pulled away and looked at her handsome son, such a replica of Zeke Monroe. Why was life such an ongoing trail of good-byes? Why did time go so quickly, and babies grow into men and women? She thought of the look on Zeke’s face when she gave birth to their first child, this son who looked so Indian and had been trained in the Indian ways. Had it really been thirty-four years? Again she felt the rushing black desperateness of being unable to stop time, of having no control over her destiny or that of her children.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then stepped back. “Go then. But I will see you again, Wolf’s Blood, and when I do, you’ll never leave again.”
He nodded. “This I promise.”
Sonora came out then with eight-year-old Kicking Boy and seven-year-old Iris, two beautiful, dark children with wide brown eyes and chubby, round faces. Abbie felt as though someone were wrenching her heart from her body, and she went up to them, hugging each one tightly, unable to speak. She wondered if perhaps a woman loved her grandchildren even more than her children, for it sometimes seemed so, if that were possible.
She stood up, holding Iris, as the rest of the family headed toward Wolf’s Blood’s and Sonora’s little cabin to bid them farewell.
“Do not tell LeeAnn,” Wolf’s Blood said quietly to his mother before they came closer. “It is best she does not know it was I who killed her husband.”
Moments later everything was commotion and tears, everyone hugging and crying. Abbie prayed inwardly that somehow, someday, they would all be together again, all in one place, all these descendents of Zeke Monroe. Somehow she would make that happen. This family would be apart for a while, but not forever.
Abbie emerged from the special place by the stream, where she and Zeke had spent so many hours over the years—talking, making love. She clung to a fistful of purple irises. She had spent the night there—her last night on the ranch for who knew how long. She had wept and wept, until there was nothing but emptiness inside. She knew she must do this, if she were to be truly strong, if she were to learn after all these years who Abigail Trent Monroe really was. Was she really a separate person, capable of surviving, making decisions, having her own personality, her own strength—without him—without Zeke? She had left him in that hidden place in the mountains, met his spirit on top of the mountain and knew he was with her—inside. Now she must stop imagining that he was coming to her physically—stop seeing him on every hillside. There was no other way but to go to new places, until the pain subsided, until she was strong within herself. And she had promised to help the Cheyenne.
She walked straight to the house. She dared not look back. She would wash and change, say good-bye to Ellen and Margaret and the grandchildren, and she would go. At least she would have her precious Jason with her, and LeeAnn and little Matthew would also go.
She breathed a sigh of relief that Wolf’s Blood had not been connected with Charles Garvey’s murder, thanks to her fast talking. Soldiers had come to the house as a routine, for a man had been found, brutally stabbed to death, along the road that led to the Monroe ranch. Other ranchers had also been questioned. Abbie feigned surprise, and when the soldiers mentioned the identification on the man showed him to be Charles Garvey, LeeAnn had gasped in shock, blurting out that Charles Garvey was her estranged husband. The soldiers questioned her, for they had been told Garvey’s wife was LeeAnn Whittaker from New York, and that she had recently left her husband.
“That is true,” Abbie answered quickly. “My daughter used a different name while in New York—for personal reasons. She and Charles did not get along, so LeeAnn decided to come home for a while. Charles must have been coming for her.”
LeeAnn burst into tears; not that she was mourning Charles Garvey as a person, but he had been her husband and was the father of her child. She cried more over her wasted years, and for the unhappy person she knew Charles Garvey had always been. But it was good that she cried in front of the soldiers.
“Well, for some crazy reason someone murdered Mr. Garvey—for no apparent motive but to butcher a man.” The soldier looked around the room. “Where is your son Wolf’s Blood, by the way?”
Abbie held his eyes steadily. “He has gone south with his Apache wife,” she answered calmly. “He left about two weeks ago.”
The soldier held her eyes for a moment, then decided by her bold, sure look that she was telling the truth. And he decided she was not a woman to be argued with. He glanced at LeeAnn then.
“Ma’am, I hate to break the news to you this way about your husband,” he told her. “But there’s something else you should know.”
LeeAnn wiped at her eyes, and Joshua stood near her. “What?” LeeAnn whimpered.
“Well, when we made inquiries back east, we were told your husband had filed for divorce and that he had already … uh … already disinherited you. Perhaps he was coming to tell you that, or perhaps to patch things up. At any rate, you have some legal matters to straighten out.”
“They will be taken care of,” Joshua spoke up.
“Who are you?” the soldier asked.
“I am Joshua Lewis, a reporter for The New York Times and a good friend of the family. There are some things the authorities should know—about Charles Garvey. I have information to prove he was a disreputable man, a crook, and a traitor, as well as a man going bankrupt. I’ll go to Fort Lyon if you wish and make a statement there, and I’ll be going back east soon, at which time I’ll clear up a few more things. As far as Charles Garvey’s murder, I can’t imagine how that happened. The man had a lot of enemies and he was very pious. Perhaps he insulted some Indian or trapper at the fort, and they did him in.”
The soldiers finally left, and LeeAnn met her mother’s eyes squarely. “That was why my brother left so quickly, wasn’t it?” she said calmly then. “He killed Charles.”
Abbie sat down and took her hand. “The man was coming to kill you, LeeAnn—you and Matthew.”
“Dear God!” the girl whispered, putting her head down on the table. “Then it’s my fault Wolf’s Blood had to go away! He was afraid he’d get caught.”
“Partly. Your father always believed in an eye for an eye, LeeAnn, and he managed to get away with a lot of vengeful killings. But things are getting more civilized out here all the time, and men can’t live by the old rules anymore. But Wolf’s Blood would have gone south either way, so you are not to blame.”
Abbie smiled now as she approached the house. How good it was to have Joshua there—sweet, caring Joshua, who obviously loved LeeAnn devotedly. He had gone to Fort Lyon and straightened everything out. He was so sure of himself, a very strong man inwardly, and even outwardly, in spite of the brace. She hoped the day would soon come when LeeAnn could love again, could allow herself to be with a man again, for she would be very pleased to see her daughter marry Joshua Lewis. For now he waited like a patient friend, loving her quietly, bringing her strength.
Everyone was ready when she arrived, and Abbie ate a breakfast prepared by a tearful Margaret. But Abbie would not worry about Margaret or Ellen. Parting was always sad, but her two daughters had fine, strong men who loved them and were devoted to them. Morgan Brown was a good rancher, a strong man who loved Margaret deeply, who had been a good friend to Zeke, who now knew everything there was to know about raising horses. He would carry on the tradition, producing the most valuable Appaloosas and Thoroughbreds in Colorado. And Ellen had Hal Daniels, whose own ranch was growing, and who was also a strong, devoted husband. Her daughters would be fine until she returned—and she would return.
She washed and changed, then stopped and stared for a moment at the brass bed, her gift from Zeke, the bed on which they had shared bodies and souls during their last years together. Her eyes teared, and she kissed a brass post. The bed would go to Margaret and Morgan now, who would live in the main house. The little trunk of Abbie’s special treasures was packed on the wagon. The bed of robes was gone, the robes distributed among the children, two o
f them rolled and packed into Abbie’s belongings.
She came out into the main room, walking up and touching the old, ticking mantle clock that had once sat on a stump inside a tipi. She would leave it here, on the mantle built with Zeke’s loving hands. Margaret would take care of it for her—until she returned.
Yes, she must remember she was coming back, for that was the only way she could bear the leaving. And when she returned she would be a stronger woman. She glanced at the mandolin—the old mandolin, its strings now quiet. It sat in the corner where it would stay, another bit of Zeke Monroe that belonged in this house. She had considered taking both the clock and the mandolin, but she knew it would only make it harder for her to face the fact that her husband was really gone and she must go on alone. She would leave behind those things that only made her long for him with such agony.
It was time for good-byes then, always difficult. She looked around the little house she had shared so many years with Zeke Monroe: the table where they had sat and talked, probably thousands of times; the rocker by the hearth where she sat and knitted, sometimes reading to him; the worn floor where little children had run in and out. She could hear their young voices, hear their laughter. But they were grown now. She must face facts.
She walked outside, glancing at the barn Zeke had helped rebuild while in so much pain—the horses, the glorious horses, that ran in the corral. She must stop looking! She must stop! She hugged Little Zeke, Nathan, and Lillian Rose, who was slightly over a year old now. LeeAnn, Joshua, Matthew, and Jason sat in the back of the wagon, and Abbie climbed into the seat beside a newly hired hand who would drive the wagon back to the ranch after leaving them all off at the train station in Pueblo. They would take the Denver & Rio Grande north to Cheyenne, then a stagecoach farther north into Montana, to Dan and Bonnie and the Northern Cheyenne.
It was finally time to go. The driver whipped the horses into motion, and the wagon lurched forward. Abbie closed her eyes. She would not look to the South, where her precious Wolf’s Blood had gone. She would not look to the North, where the special place by the creek remained filled with purple irises. She would not look back—at the horses, the barn, the house. She must not look! She must not even think! She must look forward to new things, new people, new places. How did one stand this terrible ache? Why were people forced to suffer over and over again? Why did something as beautiful as love hurt so badly?
Meet the New Dawn Page 42