A trace of a smile passed over his lips in spite of his anger with her. “Does Joe know you are here?”
She smiled seductively. “He thought it was a good idea. He is getting old and is afraid of what will happen to me if he dies. He wants me to have a man to take care of me. You are still strong, and a good hunter.”
Wolf’s Blood looked down at his hands. The extreme cold had brought pain to his joints. “I have a disease that will one day cripple me.”
She removed her coat, and although she wore fur leggings and thick moccasins, she had deliberately left herself naked from the waist up. “You are not crippled yet,” she answered, her heart pounding at her own daring. She hoped he liked the size of her breasts. Apparently he did, for she saw first surprise and then desire in his dark eyes. She did not care about his age. Wolf’s Blood was a tall, strong, handsome man, and she knew from stories he’d told her grandfather that he was once considered a mighty warrior. He still would be, if the Cheyenne could still make war.
Wolf’s Blood was stunned by her boldness. Her firm, full breasts were indeed enticing, and the cold made their nipples come alive. It was more than a man in his situation could resist. He swallowed, struggling against an urge to ravish her. He must remember she was a virgin. He did not want to bring her pain or make her cry after such a sweet offering. He tore his gaze from her breasts to meet her eyes. “If I take you now, it would not be out of love. I am a lonely man who has been long without a woman, and those I have known will remain alive in my heart forever. I still mourn my last wife.”
“I understand. You will learn to love me. Take me to your bed now before I grow too cold to feel your touch.”
Wolf’s Blood suddenly felt like a much younger man. He reached out and cupped one breast in his hand, ran his thumb over a nipple, relishing the feel of it. He leaned down and met her mouth, pulled her into his arms, fiery passion gripping him as the kiss grew hotter, more demanding. She was eager, hot for him in her own youthful anxiousness to please. He left her lips, bent down and yanked off her leggings. She stepped out of them and the moccasins and stood naked before him, her skin covered in goose bumps. He remained on his knees, kissing her legs, her thighs, her secret lovenest. She gasped with the pleasure of it.
He picked her up and carried her to his bed of robes near the fireplace. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as he, too, undressed, and her eyes widened with pleasure at his magnificent build. This man might be old enough to be her father, but he was as virile as any younger man. She knew a hint of fear at the sight of his man part, swollen like a stallion’s, but she told herself she would get over the pain and after a while would take great pleasure in this man, giving him pleasure in return, keeping him warm, loving him as he needed to be loved. She knew he had a family somewhere that he loved very much. She would help relieve his loneliness.
He moved beside her, smothering her with kisses, moving down to suckle at her breasts like a babe. The sensations caused by his intimate touches made her cry out in ecstasy as his fingers explored hitherto untouched territory.
“It will not hurt so much after the first time,” he told her, moving between her legs, which she parted willingly for him.
The next few hours were filled with a kind of pleasure Wolf’s Blood had thought he would never know again. The paper and ink sat untouched while he gloried in the ecstasy of knowing a woman again, having a companion, someone to love him and ease the loneliness. Now when he wrote his letter, he could tell his mother and children he had a new wife and was not so alone.
Abbie looked up from her Bible when Joshua came into the parlor. For the last three days he had been in almost constant contact with authorities in Cheyenne, and the offices there had, in turn, kept in contact with officials at Pine Ridge. “Do you know anything about Swift Arrow?” she asked.
He breathed deeply before coming into the room, followed by LeeAnn, Mary and Jeremy. She knew then the news was even worse than she’d thought. Margaret and Ellen had already headed home, but she thanked God she at least had one son and daughter with her. She turned away to stare at the fire in the hearth near which she sat. “I want every detail.”
Joshua cleared his throat, sitting down on a loveseat across from her. “They caught up with Big Foot, yesterday morning in fact. I didn’t want to tell you until I had more details.”
Abbie nodded. “Go on.”
Joshua looked at LeeAnn and Jeremy, not wanting to continue but knowing he must. He turned sorrowful eyes back to his mother-in-law, this woman who had once almost died to protect him. “Major Whiteside was in charge. Word has it Big Foot was nearly dead from pneumonia by then. At any rate, it’s most likely the Indians were skittish and afraid because Whiteside apparently ringed soldiers all around their encampment. They were told they should gather in the center of the camp and give up all weapons, not that they had many to begin with. Nor did they intend to use them, I’m sure, but they were ordered to give them up. Some say the Sioux were afraid they would not be sent to Pine Ridge as promised. They were afraid of being sent far away from their sacred Black Hills, which only added to the tension. Someone fired a shot. No one knows who, or why.”
Abbie blinked back tears. “And then all hell broke loose.”
“That’s a pretty apt description. Soldiers began firing into the circle of Indians. Big Foot was one of the first to go down. I guess there were several one-on-one skirmishes, more Indians tried to flee. The soldiers opened up their Hotchkiss guns on them.”
Abbie shivered. She remembered the sound of those big guns, the shattering boom, the flying shrapnel that tore apart tipis. She’d been at Blue Water Creek … so many, many years ago … another Sioux camp that had been attacked by soldiers. “How many dead?” she asked.
Joshua sighed. “They figure around three hundred, more than half of them women and children. A blizzard has set in, and they haven’t been able to find the bodies or bury them. A few babies survived, found under the frozen bodies of their mothers who’d fallen on them to protect them from the bullets.”
Abbie covered her face. “My God,” she muttered.
LeeAnn rushed over to kneel in front of her. “Mother, you have us. We’re here for you. Stay here now, will you? Stay right here in Denver.”
She brushed at her tears and looked at Joshua. “Swift Arrow?”
He closed his eyes and quietly nodded. “It took a lot of wires and waiting, but I finally found someone who knew who he was. He’s … dead, Abbie. They figure the only way to bury them once the snow lets up is in a mass grave.”
“Of course,” she said quietly, “like animals.” She looked up at a painting of an eagle that hung above the fireplace. Jeremy had had it specially done by an artist who’d been staying in Denver to paint the mountain scenery. “They’re together again at last, Swift Arrow and Zeke.” She looked at LeeAnn then. “Don’t worry. I won’t act the way I did after Zeke died and try to deny Swift Arrow’s gone. Your uncle and I said our good-byes last summer when we first parted. We knew then what would happen, just like Zeke knew the last time he left me. It was something that had to be.” A tear spilled down her cheek. “All of you, please leave me alone for a little while.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Mother?”
Abbie nodded. “Just go,” she whispered.
LeeAnn turned worried eyes to her husband and brother. “Just for a few minutes,” she answered.
They all left the room. Abbie looked down at her Bible, some of its pages bearing tear stains from other years. Now new ones dripped onto the thin, worn paper.
Fifteen
August, 1893 …
Zeke ran behind a cluster of boulders and ducked down, waiting for another stump to blow. The dynamite rumbled and the ground shook. At the same time the stump jerked sideways, but only half dislodged.
“Damn,” Zeke grumbled. Some came out easy, others seemed determined to stay put. He wiped sweat from his brow and walked several yards to the crate of explosives he’d
left in the shade of a cottonwood tree, where he’d also left food and a blanket, since he intended to stay in this section all day and blow out more stumps.
He took two more sticks of dynamite from the crate and carefully carried them back to the partially dislodged stump. He had paid a man to teach him how to do this, and over the last three years, since quitting his logging job and settling here, he’d managed to clear thirty of his hundred acres, determined to turn most of the land into a working ranch and farm so that, under an agreement with the land agent and the government, he would not have to pay anything for the land. The Homestead Act was a wondrous thing, one of the few good ideas the United States government had come up with, except that it had caused the loss of even more Indian lands. He did not feel guilty claiming property under that act since he was part Indian himself, something the government men didn’t know. This was a small, personal victory for him.
He placed the dynamite sticks strategically. He did not trust the government of the United States or of Colorado. Someone could still come along and tell him he must pay for the land after all, and he intended to be ready. Already he was building a fine horse herd and was earning money training horses for other ranchers, as well as building a business in horseshoeing and the repair of saddles and other gear. He had quite a bit set aside, and he hoped to build himself a better home eventually. Right now he still lived in the little one-room cabin he’d built when first settling here. He had never built anything like that on his own before, so the cabin sagged here and there, but it was all he needed.
He lit the dynamite and ran for cover. When it blew, he peered above the rock to see that the stump had come clear this time. “Gotcha!” he said with a grin. He stood up and took a cold pipe from his shirt pocket, a small cloth bag of tobacco from a pocket in his denim pants. He stuffed the bowl and lit the tobacco with a match, sucking on the pipe and enjoying the sweet smell of the smoke. Striking out on his own was the best decision he’d ever made, in spite of the painful parting with his family and the lingering ache he still felt for Georgeanne. He had deliberately never written her, had no idea what had become of her; it was best that way. Carson Temple had apparently given his parents no more problems, and they had kept their promise that if they heard from Georgeanne they would not disclose his whereabouts. Apparently, though, they had not heard from her since the one visit she’d paid them shortly after he had left.
He scanned the land he owned. A little bit of forest still remained on a distant section, the rest was mostly flat, but eighty acres of it ran right up against a mountain and inclined up it several hundred feet. He called his ranch Cheyenne Hills, and he had a legal deed to all of it. Things were working out pretty damn good, except for his great-uncle, Swift Arrow, dying at Wounded Knee three years ago. His grandmother had been living with Jeremy since then. She had managed to deal with her grief by turning her attentions to Denver’s poor, a class that was growing even more quickly now that Denver was suffering a financial panic. The bottom had dropped out of silver prices, and some owners of silver mines, only a short time ago millionaires, had found themselves bankrupt. There had been a few suicides, and jobless miners were now added to the unemployed immigrants who had been brought in to help build railroads and mines, but who were no longer needed for that.
Zeke smiled fondly as he walked to the stump. Leave it to his grandmother to be concerned about people who needed help. For years she had given her attention to the Cheyenne up in Montana; now she was turning it to immigrant orphans and the street people of Denver. She apparently kept Jeremy busy trying to convince his wealthy friends that something needed to be done, and she kept Joshua busy writing newspaper articles about the plight of Denver’s poor. She had convinced Jeremy to build an orphanage, and Mary had gladly volunteered to help there, since she loved children and had never had her own. Jeremy and Mary had lost a few of their “elite” friends because of their work for the poor, but they didn’t seem to mind.
Hawk was at Harvard now, would graduate in another year or so; and Iris had married Raphael Hidalgo, converting to his Catholic religion. Already they had a son, Miguel, and another baby on the way. Raphael was doing quite well in his carpentry business, and they were living comfortably in one of Denver’s middle-class neighborhoods.
The family had finally heard from Wolf’s Blood, who was living in Canada with a Cree woman he’d married. Iris and Hawk had a little half brother now, named Little Eagle in Cheyenne, Joseph for government rolls. Grandma Abbie was comforted to know her eldest son had found some little bit of love and happiness, but she still worried about him. He did not write often, and the authorities had no idea anyone had heard from him. Their own letters were sent to his wife, Sweet Bird, at a trading post near which Wolf’s Blood lived. Wolf’s Blood’s name was never written on the envelopes.
Zeke walked up and kicked at the stump, sighing over the thought of the hard work ahead of him. Once enough stumps were blown out, then came the task of piling them together, waiting for them to dry out for another year or so before he could try burning them. He’d bought three sturdy plow horses for the task of dragging the stumps to one place for burning. He then used brute force to shove and roll them into the pile, and some days his back and shoulders ached fiercely; but he had built his muscle power over the years, was proud of his physique and strength.
The only thing this place would need eventually was a woman. He’d found one in a tavern in Fort Collins who had made it very clear she’d like to show him a few things, and show him she had. He’d obliged her out of a natural manly need to be with a woman, but in spite of the physical pleasures of his little fling with the barmaid, he’d been left feeling even more needful of a woman he could really love, a woman he wanted to claim for himself, one he could call his wife and who would give him children.
The thought made him kick the stump again. He was twenty-four now, certainly old enough to marry and start a family. But he’d been too busy to find time for courting, and he wasn’t sure what type of woman he should look for. He had decided he would just keep doing what he was about, and if God meant for him to be with someone, he’d meet her one way or another. The trouble was, his own brother Nathan, two years younger, was already married, to the daughter of a ranch hand Morgan had hired. They had built themselves a cabin at the ranch, where Nathan intended to stay and continue helping his father.
“My little brother—married,” he muttered, “and here I am still alone.”
He blamed Carson Temple for that, and still harbored a strong need for revenge. The only way he knew how to get it without going back home and killing the man was to make something of himself and to be sure Temple knew about it. He still carried a faint white scar on one cheek and several scars on his chest, arms and back where the skin had been ripped away so deeply on that day years ago.
He set the pipe carefully aside on a flat rock, then walked back to the crate to take out two more sticks of dynamite. He would blow out one more stump before taking a break for lunch; then he’d go and get the work horses and start a new pile of stumps for burning. This would be a lot easier if he could afford to hire help, but he didn’t want to spend the money if he could help it. He’d rather work extra hours himself and build his savings. He carried the dynamite and a shovel to yet another stump, digging two small holes in places where he felt the dynamite would do the most good and then placing the sticks in them. He lit the fuses and ran for cover, barely making it back to the rocks before the dynamite blew. This time the stump flew several feet upward, then landed a good ten feet away.
Zeke grinned with pleasure. He walked back to his supplies, picking up the pipe and quickly drawing on it to rekindle the smoldering embers in the bowl. It was then he noticed the fancy buggy coming up the road from the east. The road wound past his place, stemming from Fort Collins and meandering on down to a place called Masonville and then on to Loveland. What he saw looked like a buggy full of tourists, three men in suits and a woman. He could tell there was
a woman by the different kind of hat she wore, and the cascade of auburn-colored curls that fell from under it onto her shoulders.
The woman pointed toward him and said something, and the driver of the buggy turned the horses to leave the road and come up the hill toward where Zeke stood. He puffed on the pipe, watching curiously and thinking he was in no condition to be meeting men in fancy suits and a proper lady, whatever their reason for coming here. He’d been working all morning, and it was a hot day. His hands and shirt were dirty from shoving around a stump earlier, and he was perspiring.
The carriage came closer, and suddenly he could not take his eyes off the woman, logic arguing it could not possibly be who this looked like.
“Zeke! It is you!” she called.
Georgeanne? He simply stood and stared as the carriage finally slowed to a halt in front of him. The woman opened a door and stepped out, smiling, her eyes brimming with tears. She walked up to him and grasped his hands.
“It’s me, Zeke! Georgeanne! I never dreamed I’d see you again! When the land agent told us who owned this section—”
“Georgeanne?” He interrupted her, wondering if he’d fallen asleep under the cottonwood tree and was dreaming.
“Yes!” She laughed. “When he said your name, I thought to myself, how many Zeke Browns can there be? And when they said you raised horses and all—”
“They? Who is they?” He looked past her at the three men who had disembarked from the buggy and were looking around. “What is this all about? Why are you here with these men?” It began to sink in that this was really happening. He looked into her eyes, those warm, brown eyes that had once shone with such love for him. And it was still in them. “Georgeanne!” he repeated, this time with great affection. “I … you look wonderful!” She was beautiful. She would be twenty-five now. Maybe she was married. He drew his hands away and ran one of them through his dark hair. “Excuse my appearance. I’ve been working all morning. You’ve caught me by surprise.”
Eagle’s Song Page 19
