Climb the Highest Mountain

by Rosanne Bittner

  Her companion looked out at the fight. The man Zeke had bashed with his fist lay unconscious, and the other two were now bloodied and staggering. “I don’t see that he needs any help,” he answered, his strong English accent obvious. “My, this is bloody exciting! What a magnificent specimen of man! Who is he?”

  She blinked and stared at the newcomer. He was immaculate, his clothing tailored perfectly, his hands too clean for anyone who lived in these parts.

  “He’s my husband,” she answered.

  His eyebrows arched, and his eyes roved her body. “I thought perhaps … he was just a friend … perhaps you were a missionary of—”

  “I am his wife,” she interrupted, taking on a proud stance. “I have been his wife for nineteen happy years, and Zeke Monroe is more man than all the men in this town put together!”

  The man smiled at her fiesty response, his eyes moving over her again. “Amazing!” he commented. “You are Mrs. Zeke Monroe!”

  “I am!”

  “Incredible!”

  She turned away, irritated by his presence and concerned only with Zeke. All three men now lay in the street, bloody and covered with the mud that had resulted from the recently melting snow. Zeke had blood on his lower lip, and he rubbed his side as he watched the three men closely. Not one rose, so he brushed off his clothes, angry that his shirt was torn in front and his jacket muddy. He bent to pick up his hat. Fury consumed him. He wanted to rip each man open with his blade, take his scalp. It would serve them right for insulting his Abbie. He turned to leave the melee, but two of the three who had held back faced him. The crowd turned their attention to this new confrontation, worked up now. They wanted more, and the “Injun” was exciting to watch.

  Both challengers held out knives. Leering at Zeke, they waved the blades. “Good with the fists, are you?” one of them sneered. “How about with a blade, red man? Want to show off some more for your white squaw?”

  “How is she, anyway?” the other badgered. “Are the white ones more fun than your dirty Indian women? Maybe the fun comes when you take the white ones by force, or is she just one of them loose white whores that likes to lay with big bucks?”

  Zeke whipped out the big blade, his speed startling. The crowd jumped back as, in an instant, the knife slashed across the second man’s lips, whipping upward, then flashing downward and jabbing directly into the man’s arm, ramming deeply and making him cry out and drop his knife. Zeke jerked his blade out of the man’s arm and stood there menacingly.

  The other man with a knife stood transfixed. Beads of sweat appeared on his face as he stared at Zeke in astonishment, obviously amazed by Zeke’s speed and accuracy. As Zeke’s dark eyes turned to the man, the first attacker fell to his knees, making jerky groaning sounds as blood poured from his lips and his arm.

  “Abigail Monroe is the best woman in the territory!” Zeke hissed at the other man. His eyes quickly scanned the crowd as blood dripped from his knife. “Anybody else want to insult her?” His lean body was arched for a fight, his jawbone flexed in anger. Power emanated from his huge frame.

  “You fools!” someone spoke up. “That’s Cheyenne Zeke!”

  A man stepped forward. It was Hank Buckley, the driver of the fancy coach. He stepped up beside Zeke. “I’ll vouch for what he said. You sons of bitches just insulted the finest woman I’ve ever known! And Monroe is one of the best men I’ve known. Those bastards who fought with him are damned lucky their hides aren’t ripped from stem to stern and their innards laying out in the sun to dry!” He turned his eyes to the last man still holding a knife. “Put that thing away you dumb bastard! Haven’t you ever heard of Cheyenne Zeke? There’s not a man west of the Mississippi who doesn’t know what Zeke can do with a blade. You itching to find out?”

  The man swallowed and backed away, then suddenly threw down the knife and ran off, followed by the sixth man, who had never joined in the fighting. By then a sheriff broke through the crowd, brandishing a rifle and Abbie’s heart pounded with fear. The man Zeke had stabbed was still squatting on the ground. He looked up at the sheriff, literally crying.

  “Look what he did to me!” the man bellowed. “Look at me! Look at my lips! My arm! That stinking redskin ripped me up with his knife, Sheriff! And look at my friends there! He hurt them bad!”

  The sheriff glanced around at the first three men. Two were staggering to their feet, but the one Zeke had hit with his fist still lay unconscious. The sheriff turned his attention back to Zeke, who stood panting, teeth clenched, ready to fight again, fight his way right out of town if necessary. How he hated towns and civilization!

  “That true?” the sheriff asked, holding the rifle pointed at Zeke.

  “They started it! They insulted my woman! They hit her with a rock, and the one I cut up there pulled a knife on me! I didn’t come here looking for trouble, but I won’t walk away from it either!”

  The sheriff looked down at the big blade still in Zeke’s hand, stained with blood. “Maybe you’d better come with me, Indian.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Hank spoke up. “The man is telling the truth, Sheriff. He’s got no fault in this.”

  “That’s exactly right!” The wealthy Englishman moved off the boardwalk where he’d been standing near Abbie and approached them. Zeke glanced at Abbie, trying to tell her with his eyes not to be afraid. But he could see her fear, and it made him angrier at the men who had caused it.

  “Sir Tynes,” Hanks was saying to the well-dressed man who came through the crowd. “This here is Zeke Monroe, the fella I was telling you about earlier.”

  Zeke glanced at the elegant Englishman, confused by this sudden turn. Why had Hank Buckley been telling this stranger about him? The man called Sir Tynes took inventory of Zeke with his eyes. “I can see you were right, Hank, about this man being capable of being quite nasty with a knife when he needs to be.” Tynes turned to the sheriff. “My driver here, Hank Buckley, is right, Sheriff. This Indian man didn’t ask for any of this. He is perfectly innocent, and these other men deserve everything he gave them. May I ask if it is legal for six or eight men to gang up on one man in this great country of America?”

  The sheriff blinked in confusion. “Of course not, but—”

  “Then there’s nothing more to be said. It is the other men who were in the wrong. I daresay this Indian man had every right to kill them, and I am surprised he didn’t. I’d say he did right well, leaving them alive as he did. Doesn’t that show you he’s trying to abide by the law? He could have done much worse, considering his reputation with that”—Sir Tynes glanced down at the ugly, bloody blade and shivered—“that weapon he carries, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”

  Their eyes held. The sheriff could see that the Englishman was a man of great wealth, perhaps a man who could make trouble if he arrested Zeke Monroe. He lowered his rifle and scowled.

  “Get going!” he told Zeke.

  Zeke glared at him and bruskly shoved his knife into its sheath. “Thanks for your kind justice!” he sneered. He turned, barged past Sir Tynes and the others, and headed toward Abbie. She could see the pain in his eyes. How he hated it when she suffered because of him! For nineteen years he had fussed and fumed, thinking that she probably never should have married him, that he’d had no right to make her his wife, not when he knew how hard it would be for her. Yet for nineteen years she had argued back that it didn’t matter, that she could not live without Zeke Monroe … and that was true.

  “Zeke, are you all right?” she asked quickly, running her hands over his arms.

  “I’m fine!” he grumbled, wiping the blood on his lip with his shirtsleeve. He winced and held his side for a moment.

  “Zeke?”

  “Just that damned old bullet wound. It never bothers me unless somebody lands into it just right.”

  She frowned. Apparently some old wounds never really healed. He had been hit by the bullet back on the wagon train years ago, when he had saved her from a band of renegade Crow Indians led by
white outlaws. She had taken the bullet out herself, a fifteen-year-old child who knew nothing of such things, because she knew if she didn’t remove it he would die. She always wondered if she had done something wrong and that was why to this day the wound sometimes bothered him. He forced a light smile for her and pressed her shoulder.

  “I’m all right, Abbie. I’m just sorry—”

  “Don’t be!” she spoke up quickly. “What do they know about us, about what we’ve been through and all? They’re ignorant fools!”

  He sighed deeply. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get cleaned up. I just hope we can get to a place to eat without any more problems.”

  They started to leave when the Englishman called out to them. “Monroe! Zeke Monroe, I wish to talk to you!”

  Zeke turned, having almost forgotten the man. He put out his hand. “I’m sorry, mister. You stuck up for me over there. I should have thanked you.”

  Sir Tynes shook Zeke’s hand and glanced out into the street. Two men were picking up the one man who was still unconscious, while others helped the man Zeke had cut toward the doctor’s office. Bystanders grumbled and mumbled as they headed back into saloons and stores.

  “Ah, well. You have a lot on your mind, Monroe. I must say, that was a dandy fight! You’re marvelous to watch! Marvelous! God, how I love this wild country! And you fit it perfectly!”

  Zeke couldn’t help but grin, and Abbie smiled. Zeke beat some dust from his hat and put it back on. “So who are you, and why do you want to talk to me?” he asked.

  “This here is Sir Edwin Tynes, from England,” Hank replied for the man. Buckley stood beside Tynes and pushed his hat back as he nodded to Abbie. “I work for Sir Tynes now, on a big ranch right next to yours, ma’am.”

  Hank moved his eyes from Abbie to Zeke, whose dark eyes studied Tynes closely, taking in the well-cut clothes and neat appearance. Wealth, education, and power emanated from the man, who, at the moment, was eying Abbie carefully, his look one of utter admiration.

  “Next to mine?” Zeke asked pointedly, wanting to get Sir Tynes’s eyes off of Abbie and to direct his attention elsewhere. Jealousy was stirring deep in his soul. Tynes looked up at him then and flashed a quick, handsome smile.

  “Yes! I was just talking to Hank this morning about you, Mister Monroe. I own five thousand acres now, and I am told your place is right on my border.”

  Zeke frowned and put an arm around Abbie, suddenly feeling as though he must protect her against something. “Five thousand acres? All the land around me is reservation land, Sir Tynes.”

  Tynes paled slightly, unsure of just what might rile this half-savage man. “I am afraid that inside sources tell me it won’t be reservation land for long, Mister Monroe.” He swallowed. “I am sorry to tell you that, but it’s true. The Indians are going to be shipped to Kansas. A treaty is in the making at this very moment. The Cheyenne have simply caused too much chaos in these parts—burned ranches, stolen cattle and horses, stolen women—”

  “Not the southern Cheyenne!” Zeke glowered, his temper rising again. “The Comanche and Kiowa and a few northern Cheyenne have caused all the trouble, not my people! And what are they expected to do anyway, when they’re shot down in cold blood by soldiers while standing helpless and waving a white flag, like what happened to Lean Bear?”

  Tynes smiled a soft, kind smile. “Don’t take it all out on me, Mister Monroe. I’ve had nothing to do with it. I only came out here to buy land and make my fortune in the great American West. If the government is willing to sell me that land, what can I do? I have no say in what has been going on with the Indians.”

  “Just the presence of people like you, taking over their land, killing off their game, has plenty to do with what goes on with the Indians.”

  “And because of Indian raids along the Overland Stage Route, the whole Platte River road was closed half the summer,” Tynes retorted. “I am sure you noticed how high the prices of food climbed during that time, Mister Monroe. Some people in the mountain towns nearly starved to death. Everything had to come by sea to San Francisco and then be shipped overland to Denver. To make matters worse the grasshoppers devoured what crops the people around Denver had grown. It was very bad for them. I know, I lived in Denver this past summer.”

  “I suppose it’s all right, though, for white settlers to starve out the Indians. It’s the same thing, Sir Tynes. Wild game is disappearing, and the lands on which they can hunt are shrinking. They attack the supply trains for survival. They’re forced into it because their women and children are dying; the government rations don’t come half the time, and when they do, they’re usually rotten. On top of that, soldiers badger them everyplace they go. Most of the troops out here don’t know one Indian from another, so the innocent ones suffer for what the raiding ones do.”

  “And the price of flour goes up from nine dollars to twenty-five dollars for a hundred pounds,” Sir Tynes replied.

  Zeke studied the man’s fine clothes. “I highly doubt the price of anything troubles you much,” he answered. “You foreigners come out here to a country you know nothing about and try to run it! You take advantage of people who have lived here for centuries and—”

  “Zeke,” Abbie interrupted quietly, putting a hand on his arm. “This isn’t the time or place. Sir Tynes just helped convince the sheriff not to haul you off to jail.”

  Zeke rubbed at his lip again. “I’m sorry, Sir Tynes. You did help me just now, and I owe you for that. But people like you don’t know anything about the Indians—nothing about their culture and spirit. I have family among the southern Cheyenne. I have a half brother and a nephew with them and another half brother with the northern tribes.”

  Tynes’s eyes roved over Zeke’s amazing physique again. The two men were of equal height, but Zeke’s body was much more muscular, although Sir Tynes was a well-built man who had traveled the world and had tried his hand at many things. “So, you’re only part Indian?”

  “My mother was Cheyenne. My father was from Tennessee. I was born out here but I was raised in Tennessee among whites. When I was old enough I came back out here to find my real mother; then I lived with the Cheyenne.”

  Tynes nodded, moving his eyes to Abbie again. He was captured by her stunning beauty, and was surprised that she had survived so well in this violent land. His gaze returned to Zeke. “Your wife is a lovely woman, Mister Monroe. And I admire her courage, living out here as she does.” He looked back at Abbie again, deep admiration in his eyes. “I don’t doubt that I am looking at the kind of woman a man needs in this godforsaken country. You are to be envied, Mister Monroe.”

  Zeke wasn’t certain how to take the compliment. He didn’t like smooth, wealthy men admiring his wife. “Thank you,” he answered grudgingly. “Abbie is the best. We’ve been together a lot of years,” he added, a ring of possessiveness in his voice.

  Abbie blushed lightly and Sir Tynes smiled and folded his arms. “I’m told you’re very good with horses, Mister Monroe—that you raise them and are good at doctoring them and so forth.”

  “Zeke is the best man around with horses,” Hank declared. “No one else in the territory raises finer animals.”

  Sir Tynes grinned and nodded. “Well, it’s to be expected. I’m told Indians are marvelous with horses.”

  “What are you after, Sir Tynes?” Zeke asked, growing impatient.

  “Well, since our land adjoins, and since I am told you have… uh”—his eyes took in Abbie’s small frame again—“that you have several children …” He turned to Hank. “Seven did you say?”

  Hank nodded and Zeke scowled, a little upset that Hank Buckley had been so free with information about the Monroes. Zeke had known Hank a long time. He was a drifter who hung out at Fort Lyon, doing odd jobs. He was a good man, but shiftless. Now he apparently had hit on a good job, working for Sir Edwin Tynes. The name was beginning to sour in Zeke’s mouth. He looked back at the Englishman, who continued talking.

  “Well, since yo
u have so many children to support, Mister Monroe, and since your ranch is so much smaller than mine, I thought perhaps you’d be interested in additional work. I am having some very fine thoroughbreds shipped out here from the South. I would enjoy your expertise in caring for them. I could pay you well.”

  Zeke bristled. His pride had been injured enough today. He didn’t like Sir Edwin Tynes offering him work, and he didn’t like the way the man looked at Abbie.

  “I don’t need the work,” he answered. “I have enough to do on my own place, and I do just fine with my own herd. I have a white half brother who helps me—Lance. The two of us and my older children and Abbie and I put in a lot of hours. I wouldn’t have time to tend to your horses, Sir Tynes.”

  Tynes’s eyes again took inventory of the mass of power that was Zeke Monroe, feeling a jealousy of his own as he tried to imagine how the small, lovely Abigail lived with such a man. She seemed so happy and contented, and so ready to defend her husband. The man nodded to Zeke.

  “So be it. But the job is there, any time you want it. Just come and see me and we’ll talk about it.”

  Zeke nodded, his dark eyes cautious and wary. “I hope you aren’t considering trying to get my land, Sir Tynes. Your stay here in Colorado might be cut short.”

  Tynes chuckled and shook his head. “No, Mister Monroe. I shan’t bother your place. I have all the land I want now… and in just the right spot. It’s a big country, isn’t it? An ideal place for adventurers like myself who come here to build empires. You realize, of course, that a railroad will be coming through our land one day. That’s part of the reason I bought up what I did. I will make quite a profit selling rights to the railroad, let alone being able to use the railroad to ship my cattle and horses to Denver and Santa Fe. I have no doubt that there will be rails to every major town in the West in the not-too-distant future.”

  Abbie’s eyes widened in alarm. “A railroad! I thought talk of a railroad had died out.”

  Tynes studied her again, wondering how she would look with fancy curls and with ribbons in her lustrous hair, wearing a low-cut ball gown and a light touch of makeup. She would be ravishing! Even in her plain clothes and hairdo, her beauty could not be hidden. Her skin had a golden glow from the Western sun, and her dark eyes were large and framed with thick lashes. They were true eyes, determined eyes, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity about her. How had she ended up in this savage land, married to a half-breed Cheyenne?