“Good-bye,” she whispered.
A shadow passed over them, and she looked up to see an eagle circling over the wagon. She smiled then. He was still with her after all. Yes, she would come back to this place that had belonged to him—when the time was right. The eagle left them then, flying north.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The trip north made Abbie almost glad Zeke was gone, for she realized just how much this land that he had once roamed with the Cheyenne had changed. Now she rode on a train for the first time, amazed at how fast it could go, but watching out the window and visioning riding instead on pretty Appaloosas, side by side with her husband, in a land that was not dotted with civilization or divided by too many fences. And all along the way she caught glimpses of piles of bleached buffalo bones, remnants of the great thundering herds that had once roamed the plains and were already virtually extinct from all regions south of the Dakotas. She had read in one newspaper that in only two years an estimated three million buffalo had been taken from the plains. It was reported that only a few thousand were left, most of those in the northern regions. Abbie did not doubt that those few would also be taken.
“Ten Thousand Buffalo Hides Shipped Today,” one headline read. It made her heart ache. Nothing could have been more instrumental in defeating the Indian than wiping out the buffalo. By making use of the hides, the white man had found a way to quietly eliminate not only the greatest beast of North America, but also its native Indians.
When they reached Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory, she disembarked to stretch her legs. She waited with Joshua and the others as their luggage was unloaded, for the rest of their journey would be by stagecoach. Several flatbed wagons, heaped high with white bones, sat waiting at the train station. Abbie stared at them, grasping Joshua’s arm. “What is that?” she asked.
Joshua sighed, knowing how she was hurting. “They’re bones, I’m afraid. Buffalo bones. They’re picked up by scavengers called ‘Bonepickers.’ They get paid by the ton for them. The bones are used for fertilizer; the horns and hooves are used in factories back east to make buttons, combs, all sorts of things.”
Abbie stared, her eyes tearing. “I see.” How ironic that the white men were using the buffalo for the very things the Indians had used them: food, clothing, utensils. Thus, not so much of the buffalo was wasted. But there were many whites greedy for the products gleaned from the animal, and there were not enough buffalo to support that greed.
She felt many chapters of her own life closing: the demise of the Indian; the extinction of the buffalo; the gradual changing of the land from open, wild, and untamed to civilization, towns, and farms; her children grown; her husband … gone. No! Not Zeke! Again the rush of depression overwhelmed her. She must not think about it. She must get to Dan and Bonnie—and find Swift Arrow. She fought the sudden desperateness that sometimes grabbed at her when thinking of Wolf’s Blood, wondering if he were all right, wondering when she would see her precious son again.
Their baggage was unloaded, and it would be a while before their stage was ready to leave. Joshua treated all of them to lunch. Abbie knew she should be enjoying the trip—seeing Cheyenne, riding a train, going someplace new. But none of it really mattered. She was haunted by the wagons full of bones. She could see them in her mind, and then see Zeke. The two visions kept flashing into her mind—contrasting, haunting.
Somehow she found herself on a stage then, headed north to Fort Keogh, ever farther from the ranch, ever farther from Wolf’s Blood, considering the irony of life and fate. She rode with Joshua Lewis, the young man for whom she had suffered torture and rape at the hands of Winston Garvey, and with her daughter, who had married Garvey’s son. She wondered how and why people like the Garveys could have gotten involved in their lives when they had lived so remotely from civilization; how a senator from Washington, D.C. could have ended up being cut to pieces by a half-breed Cheyenne called Zeke Monroe; and how his son could have met a similar fate by Zeke Monroe’s own son. And yet her own little grandson was a Garvey. She could not love him less because of it, for he was also a part of herself and Zeke, an offspring of that good seed. With his looks and being raised by a changed LeeAnn and other loving people, Abbie was certain there would be no traces of Winston or Charles Garvey in the boy. She hoped LeeAnn married Joshua soon and that he would adopt Matthew, so that the boy’s name could be changed and the name Garvey would never again be mentioned in her presence.
She watched the passing terrain as the stage bounced and jolted over a dirt road toward its destination. Montana and Wyoming were beautiful. The trip through these territories took several days. She did not mind watching the scenery, except for when the coach first left Cheyenne, and she realized they were not far from where her father’s wagon train had traveled thirty-five years ago—surely not far from the place where one dark night a scout named Zeke Monroe had lain with her in the grass and made her his woman. And several miles to the west was Fort Bridger, where they had been married, and where she had waited faithfully through the winter for her husband to return from Oregon.
Why oh why did the memories have to keep plaguing her this way? Why was she constantly tortured by the thought of the happiness and fulfillment she had once known? Would she ever really get over his death, ever really know who Abigail Monroe was, ever feel comfortable anyplace but on the ranch along the Arkansas? The ranch! All those years spent working it, loving the man who owned it, the place where she had borne all her children, where she had shared a love greater than any she would ever find again or even cared to find again—greater than most women ever find.
He had been dead for twenty months now. But counting the months since he left to go on that fateful trip … why, here it was August! It was two years this month since he left her—since their night in the tipi and the morning they spent bathing at the stream. Two years! How could that be? She looked at her hands. They were wrinkled, but not too badly, for Abbie had faithfully applied the creams Zeke insisted she use. She put her hands to her face. She was fifty. Fifty! But no, she couldn’t be! Wasn’t it just a year or two ago that she came into this land, a mere fifteen-year-old girl? Now her youngest son, her baby, was older than that! Her first grandchild, Little Zeke, was already eleven. This could not be! Why couldn’t she turn back the time to special events in her life when she had been most happy? Why couldn’t she just once again experience that first night Zeke Monroe branded her? Oh, the hurt of it! The awful hurt of it! Across from her sat Joshua, a grown man now. But wasn’t it just a little while ago when she and Zeke had taken him to Bonnie as a small, crippled baby?
She fought new tears and reasoned with herself that there was one consolation: She was getting older, and in not too many years she, too, would be gone from this earth. That was just fine with her, for when she greeted death she would also greet Zeke Monroe. She would be with him again and nothing and no one could ever, ever separate them. She was as sure at this moment that he was in God’s Kingdom as she was sure she was riding in the stage. For in spite of his violent life, Zeke Monroe was an honest man, a good man who would have wanted peace if people would have let him have it. But he had been a man tormented by a sad childhood and by the torture of living in two worlds. The violence he had experienced was not always of his choosing, and the things he had done had been for those he loved. His nature was vengeful and defensive, and he could not control that which came so spontaneously to him. She had never blamed him, but had only understood and loved him. And though some might say the God he worshipped was different from her own, she did not believe it, and she was fully confident that when she met her Maker, Zeke Monroe would be right there.
In the meantime she reminded herself that while she was here on this earth, her husband’s spirit was with her wherever she went. She did not have to be on the ranch, where the memories were too fresh and painful. She could be anyplace and still be with him.
She looked out at the Bighorn Mountains to the south and west. Yes, this was tru
ly beautiful country, and here she would be a little closer to the Rockies. She would like it here, for she would be among the Cheyenne. She wondered what Swift Arrow looked like now. How many years had it been since she saw him last? At least seventeen. The last she had seen him was at the Cheyenne Sun Dance, back in ’62, when Wolf’s Blood had participated in that great test of manhood. Wolf’s Blood was only sixteen then. Now he was thirty-four.
And how old was Swift Arrow now? He was five years younger than Zeke. That would make him fifty-five. But surely not! He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, could he? She didn’t feel any older than that herself. She was still slim and agile, and everyone told her she looked far younger than her age. She guessed that Swift Arrow also did, for like Zeke his handsome face and strong body had always defied his true age. But perhaps now his spirit was broken. That could do a lot to a man like Swift Arrow. A broken spirit aged a man much faster than years ever could.
She concentrated on him then, feeling excited at the prospect of seeing Zeke’s long-lost Cheyenne brother after all these years. And she would be with Dan and Bonnie again. Yes, this would be a pleasant change. It was a necessary thing. They would go to Fort Custer, much as the name felt sour in her mouth. That was where Dan was now. They had found out at the last minute, when Josh sent a wire to Fort Keogh to tell his stepfather they were coming. Fort Custer was much more in the heart of the reservation, and closer to the mountains, which made her happier. Dan had been transferred there, as well as the doctor Jason would work with. And they would be among not just Cheyenne but also Crow Indians, another ironic twist—Crow and Cheyenne together. She was amazed it was working at all. But then circumstances had greatly changed the Indian outlook. It was useless to worry now about old enemies and old hurts. They were one in their situation now—all reservation Indians—all having lost their freedom.
“We’ll be at Fort Custer before night,” Josh was telling them. “Did I tell you Father plans to retire soon?”
Abbie did not hear. She was remembering a young girl and her new husband riding on horses through the Rockies and toward the Arkansas River, where they would meet her husband’s Cheyenne family and live happily ever after.
It did not take long for Abigail Monroe to see she had made the right choice. It was good to be with Dan and Bonnie again; good to see Jason diving into studies and working diligently with the reservation doctor to learn all that he could; good to see the happiness in the eyes of Josh and LeeAnn, and know they would be married as soon as Joshua returned from New York in eight months. But none of that was as important as being among the Cheyenne again, and her services were badly needed.
Her heart ached for them. They were so lost and broken. Alcohol was rampant among the men and even some of the women. Eyes once bright and dancing were dull and lifeless. To help them adjust to their new way of life, try to convince them to send their children to school, and teach them to farm was a momumental task, if not an impossible one. Abbie soon found herself fighting staunchly with the reservation agents and missionaries, the “Friends of the Indians,” whose goals and objectives were well-intended but futile. She soon became deeply involved in reservation life, teaching, guiding, helping with births, becoming totally immersed in her work for the People and in her fight with the whites who worked to totally change the Indian into something he was not.
The work was good for her. Her busy days were followed by exhausted sleep at night, so that the painful memories and terrible loneliness were overshadowed by the present and by her work. Through her efforts she began to find herself, her own identity. She had a purpose here now. She could no longer be Zeke Monroe’s woman, so she would now be Abigail Monroe, friend of the Cheyenne, teacher, nurse, whatever was required. Her loved ones watched patiently, thinking perhaps she was doing too much, yet knowing it was better than sitting around dwelling on the past.
At first some of the Cheyenne were wary of her, unsure who this new white woman was and why she had come there and seemed so interested in helping them. But her warm love, her sincere eyes, her knowledge of their language, and her efforts in fighting to preserve their ancient customs brought a deep respect and kinship. A few of them remembered her or had at least heard of her. Most of them had known Zeke Monroe, Lone Eagle to them. This was his white woman.
“My own children have Indian names,” she told one Cheyenne woman who was afraid to let Abbie help with the birth of her first child. “And I had all my children alone without the help of a doctor, down on the Arkansas River where I lived with my Cheyenne husband.”
The girl watched her, panting with pain, wanting to trust her. “This is true? Your children are by a Cheyenne man? They have … Cheyenne names?”
Abbie took her hand. “They do. My oldest son is thirty-four, almost thirty-five. He is called Wolf’s Blood. My second child, Margaret, was called Moheya, Blue Sky. Our third child, LeeAnn, was given the Indian name Kseé, Young Girl. Our fourth was a son.” She stopped for a moment, feeling a stabbing pain at the memory. Jeremy! Why had he never come, even after she’d left the message of his father’s death? She had nearly died giving birth to him. He had been gone nearly twelve years now. Perhaps she would never see him at all.
“His … white name is Jeremy,” she told the girl. “But he was first called Ohkumhkákit, Little Wolf.” She swallowed back tears. Jeremy. The Prodigal Son. “Then came number five,” she went on. “Ellen—called Iśshiomiists, Rising Sun. Then our sixth, little Lillian—Meane-ese, Summer Moon. She died of pneumonia back in ’65.” She swallowed, her eyes tearing, and the Indian girl squeezed her hand.
“It is so sad to lose a child. I hope this never happens to me.”
Abbie breathed deeply to stay in control, thinking of how rapidly Indian babies died on this reservation. She patted the girl’s hand. “I hope it never happens to you, too,” she answered.
“Was that all of the children then?”
“No.” She smiled, “I had one more—Jason, my baby. He was called Eoveano, Yellow Hawk. He is the one who works here on the reservation with the doctor. They’ll be along soon, Clay Woman. You must let them help you so that you have a nice strong baby with no complications. It is good to keep some of the old ways—the language, many of the customs. But when it comes to doctoring and your health, the new ways are good. The white doctors have many medicines and much experience, and you should trust them to help you.”
The girl kept hold of her hand. “If you gave birth to seven children alone, then surely I can give birth to one, if you will stay with me.”
Abbie sponged out a cool rag and wiped her fevered brow. “I will stay with you, until the doctor lays a fine son or daughter on your belly and we hear him or her squalling.”
The girl smiled, closing her eyes and preparing for another pain.
In what seemed like only a month or two, a year had passed, and Abigail Monroe became as much a part of the reservation as the Indians themselves. Joshua returned home and married LeeAnn. Never had LeeAnn Monroe thought she could be so happy, as much in love, or as willing in a man’s arms. Joshua Lewis brought out all the things in her she had never experienced, taught her what love was supposed to be, and that takings man was a joy, not a horror. Jason learned quickly, and already took care of some medical needs on his own. Abbie felt happy and fulfilled, but two things loomed in that horizon of fate, reawakening her awareness that perfect happiness was something no one ever found. Bonnie Lewis Monroe became gravely ill with a strange disease that seemed to be eating away at her very flesh, so that she became thinner every day and could barely move because of pain. There was nothing the doctor could do for her, and Dan Monroe, now retired from the Army but remaining to help on the reservation, doing a little ranching on the side, was beside himself with grief. Bonnie had brought him intense happiness since his first wife died. She was practically his whole reason for existing. Abbie well understood his grief, and she remained faithfully by his side, helping all she could with Bonnie, who soon grew totally h
elpless.
Josh and LeeAnn helped as much as they could. They had stayed on the reservation after marrying, living in a nearby town where Josh started up his own newspaper and LeeAnn began teaching at a reservation school. There was nothing any of them could do for Bonnie but watch her suffer. It reminded Abbie of the way her own mother had died back in Tennessee, suffering so much that it seemed a blessing to finally bury her. But she felt the old emptiness again at the thought of losing Bonnie—the loneliness that death always brought to the soul. She didn’t doubt that it would be relieved somewhat if she could see and talk to Swift Arrow. But he had remained elusive, refusing to come and see her for unexplained reasons. It confused and depressed her. She had so looked forward to seeing Zeke’s brother again—the Cheyenne warrior who had taught her the Cheyenne ways all those years ago when Zeke left her to Swift Arrow’s watchful care.
She and Swift Arrow had become such close friends, once she won over his trust and admiration. Why would he not come and see her now? Was he ashamed that the Sioux and Cheyenne had been defeated and had to live on a reservation? Or was it that seeing her would remind him of Zeke and bring him too much pain? He lived as a recluse, so she was told, in his own tipi high in the Bitterroots. Soldiers had long given up trying to roust him out. After all, he was just one warrior and bothered no one. He killed his own game and refused any of the handouts at the reservation.
The thought of him living alone tore at her heart, for he had always been such a lonely man, remaining a Dog Soldier and refusing to take a wife, his only family being Wolf’s Blood for the few short years the boy lived with him in the North. He was the only full-blooded descendent left of Zeke’s Cheyenne mother and stepfather. It was important for Abbie to see him. He was the only remnant from the past and those early years that she spent with the People when freedom was there for the taking. Apparently he was clinging to that freedom now, afraid to come into the reservation for fear of being arrested or sent away. That was the only reason she could think of that would keep him from coming to see her. What other explanation could there be?
Meet the New Dawn Page 43