Climb the Highest Mountain

by Rosanne Bittner

  She set down the brush and walked to the back of the stables to scoop up a generous armful of hay, bringing it back to Pepper and dropping it into the feed trough. “Eat up,” she told the horse, petting it again before going out and closing the stall door. She met Lance coming inside the stable then, carrying a pitchfork.

  “I brushed down Pepper and fed her,” she told her brother-in-law. “I’ll send Jeremy out to help you tend to the rest of the horses. Do you need Margaret and LeeAnn, too? They can take care of the horses in the other barn.”

  “Yeah, there’re more out back too. I put them up in that corral behind the barn out of the wind. I got a little behind today when I stopped to split that wood.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “I’m glad you came out, Lance. Zeke certainly needed the help, and when he has to be gone you’re a godsend.”

  The man shrugged and grinned, studying her lovely face. He was a little younger than Abbie and had been a very small boy when Zeke had fled Tennessee. By the time Zeke had seen him again, he’d been a full grown man. He had the dark hair and eyes of their white father, unlike Dan whose blond hair and blue eyes were derived from their mother, the stepmother Zeke remembered with little affection. She had been dead for many years, and when she’d died, Zeke had already been living with the Cheyenne, away from Tennessee and the bad memories of his boyhood there. But all the Monroe boys had the same even, handsome smile, very masculine but with an appealing gentle side, although Zeke’s gentler side didn’t show through as readily as his white brother’s.

  Their eyes held, and he put a hand over one of hers. “You okay, Abbie?”

  She forced a smile. “Sometimes. But not most of the time. I’m going crazy trying to decide what to do next, Lance.”

  He squeezed her hand, then turned and put a strong arm around her shoulders. “Want me to ride out and do some looking?”

  She shook her head. “We need you here. I don’t want to add you to the list of those who ride out of here and never come back.” She swallowed back tears. “I’ll just… maybe you could just go to Fort Lyon again, find someone there who would be willing to do some searching. I could pay …”

  Her voice faded in midsentence when she saw Wolf perk up. The animal rose on all fours, looking in the direction of the hill east of the cabin. He was not growling, and he suddenly bolted away almost happily.

  “Lance, someone is coming!” she exclaimed, pulling away and running outside. Lance followed, and both looked in the direction where Wolf had run. Two mounted figures appeared over the hill.

  “It’s them!” Abbie said excitedly. “It must be them, or Wolf wouldn’t be running to greet them that way!” She started to pull away, but Lance grabbed her arm.

  “Be careful, Abbie. It might not be them.”

  They both stood there another moment. Then she heard an Indian war whoop and recognized her son’s voice. He was yelling because he saw Wolf coming.

  “That’s Wolf’s Blood!” she told Lance. She looked up at him. “Keep the children here for a few minutes, will you, Lance?”

  He studied the two figures a moment longer. “I think you’re right, Abbie. Go on. I’ll keep the others behind so you can have a minute alone before the rest of your brood attacks.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Lance.” She ran off, half stumbling through the snow, and Lance watched her, breathing a sigh of relief. Then he headed for the cabin.

  Abbie ran as fast as she could, her lungs tight from the cold air. But she didn’t notice that they ached, didn’t notice the cold against her ears. She could only see her son—her husband and her son!

  “Zeke!” she called out. He rode forward then at a faster gait. They were still several hundred yards in the distance. Wolf had already reached them, and she noticed that Wolf’s Blood dismounted slowly to greet Wolf. In the next instant Wolf had literally knocked the boy down and was licking his face. Then Wolf’s Blood’s laughter penetrated the clear, crisp air. How beautiful it sounded! The boy very seldom laughed. He’d been a serious, determined child even when very small.

  By then Zeke had reached her, his horse pushing up snow in front of its hooves when Zeke yanked it to a sudden stop. She reached up, and in the next moment a familiar strong arm was pulling her up onto the horse and her arms were around his neck, his own firmly around her body.

  Nothing was said. There was only being together. She breathed deeply of the scent of man and leather as they clung together tightly for several seconds.

  “Take me to my son,” she finally whimpered.

  He still had not spoken. He turned the horse, and she kept her head on his shoulder as he headed the animal back up to Wolf’s Blood who lay in the snow hugging Wolf and burying his face in the deep, thick fur at the animal’s neck. The boy sat up when he saw them come closer; then he got to his feet. Abbie could see the pain on his face, and he was so much thinner! Zeke immediately released her and she slid down and ran to her son, hugging him tightly and crying. He hugged her back more out of respect than emotion. He loved his mother deeply, but he was not one to display affection openly and his heart was still full of the loss of Morning Bird.

  “Mother, do not hold me so tightly,” he finally said quietly. “I still hurt.”

  She quickly pulled away, looking him over, putting a hand to the side of his face. “Where? What’s happened to you, Wolf’s Blood? Were you at Sand Creek?”

  Their eyes held, and she noticed that he was suddenly struggling to keep back tears. However, his look of terrible sorrow was quickly replaced by one of hatred and vengeance.

  “Yes, I was there!” he said almost angrily. “Morning Bird is dead! And so is my uncle, Black Elk, and Blue Bird Woman and”—his voice started to break—“and little Bucking Horse!”

  He turned away and wiped at his eyes, and Abbie felt a terrible rush of shock and sorrow. She turned to look up at Zeke just then, seeing it all in his dark eyes. Sand Creek had been much worse than she had heard. She wished there was something she could do about the pain she found in her husband’s eyes, but she knew there was not.

  “I came upon the scene later,” Zeke told her quietly. “If you had seen what I saw, you’d realize how lucky we are that Wolf’s Blood is alive.” He looked out over the horizon. “I’m not sure I should even tell you the details. Maybe you’re not strong enough for it.”

  “Strong enough!” she exclaimed. “I should let you bear this alone? I most certainly will not! What happens to the Cheyenne is as important to me as it is to you. I am certainly strong enough to share your sorrows, Zeke Monroe.” She turned back to Wolf’s Blood. “How badly were you wounded?”

  He rubbed at his stomach. “Very bad. With a soldier’s bayonet. Father fixed me, though. That is why it took us so long. I was not strong enough to ride.”

  She reached out and embraced him again, this time with less fervor, afraid of hurting him. “Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered. She let go and grasped his shoulders. “I’m so sorry … about Morning Bird.”

  His eyes hardened. “There are others who will be more sorry when I am through!” he hissed.

  Her heart tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Mother. As soon as I am strong enough I am going north to fight with my uncle, Swift Arrow! I will not stay here among the timid southern Cheyenne who choose to fight no more!”

  She shook her head, her chest painful with fear for him. “It’s a losing battle, Wolf’s Blood.”

  He shook his head. “No, it is not a losing battle! And what good does it do to speak for peace? Black Kettle spoke for it! He waited faithfully at Sand Creek for instructions from the white leaders, waited for the government rations, even flew the American flag over his tipi! The day the soldiers came he even raised a white flag beside it! He stood there watching them come, telling us not to fire on them, telling us if we stood together and did not fight back the soldiers would stop shooting at us. But the soldiers did not stop firing! They kept coming! By the time we realiz
ed what they meant to do, it was too late to get away! The soldiers rode down on us, shooting and butchering women, old people, little babies! Some of them were scalped! The soldiers cut off their fingers to get their jewelry! They cut out the bellies of women, cut off men’s organs! I will never forget Sand Creek! Never! And I will ride in revenge until the day I die. I choose to die killing white men rather than die a shriveled old man on a reservation!”

  “Wolf’s Blood, that’s enough!” Zeke ordered.

  Abbie stepped back, blinking and speechless. She looked up at Zeke. He sighed and dismounted, coming around his horse and taking her into his arms. She broke into tears. He looked at his son.

  “I understand exactly how you feel, Wolf’s Blood, but you’ll not raise your voice to your mother because of it. I intended to find a gentler way of telling her. And I told you to think awhile before going north.”

  The boy’s eyes softened slightly. “I’m sorry,” he answered. “But I will not change my mind about going north.” He stepped closer to them and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Forgive me, Mother.”

  She reached behind and put a hand over his, keeping her other arm around Zeke. “At least… you’re alive,” she sobbed. “Let’s just… enjoy each other today … this moment. I don’t want to talk about you … going away.”

  Wolf’s Blood looked up at his father. “I am sorry,” he repeated, realizing how protective the man was of Abbie since her abduction the year before. He pulled his hand away and touched his mother’s hair. “Mother, how did Wolf get here? I thought he was dead.”

  She turned from Zeke and wiped at her eyes. “He just showed up on his own—about five days ago. He was wounded.” She sniffed. “Apparently the two of you got separated and Wolf came back here thinking he’d find you. He must have gone off to nurse his wounds first.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes again. “I took hope when I saw him. I thought if you were … were dead, he’d stay beside you.” She half collapsed against Zeke and he held her close.

  “Let’s get down to the house, son,” he said, his voice tired. “For now, let’s just be grateful that you’re alive and Wolf is alive too. Don’t be filling the children’s heads with horror stories, and don’t tell them right away that you might leave. Margaret will be upset.”

  “She will be upset, but she will understand,” the boy replied. “She is the only sister I can talk to, the only one who understands. Perhaps it is because Margaret and I are the only ones who look and think all Indian.”

  He took his horse’s reins and started toward the cabin. Abbie noticed the scalp then, hanging from the horse’s mane. Her eyes widened and she grasped the horse’s bridle and stopped walking. “Where did you get that scalp?” she asked, looking from the boy to Zeke and back to Wolf’s Blood.

  Wolf’s Blood only grinned. “My father lost his temper with some buffalo hunters,” he answered. “It was a good day.”

  Abbie’s heart tightened. She had seen enemy scalps before on Cheyenne men’s belts and gear and in their tipis. But they were always the scalps of enemy tribes, like the Pawnee and Ute. She had never seen a white scalp before, and it frightened her. What did the future hold for her warrior son if it meant going after the white soldiers and settlers? And what of her husband? She had seen him in action many times, knew how vicious he could be. But Sand Creek had apparently had a more terrible effect on him than she realized. He himself had taken enemy scalps, but never a white man’s, at least none she had known about, and it had been years since he had done such a thing. She looked up at him in wonder.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time, Abbie girl,” he told her casually. He lifted her onto his horse as though she were a feather, and she noticed the tear in his robe where the hunter’s bullet had ripped through it. She touched it lightly.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile, though a sad one. “Not physically. I guess it was something they said that set me off, and I won’t repeat it. Let’s just forget it.” He took the horse’s reins and walked with it, alongside Wolf’s Blood, toward the cabin, where six other Monroe children waited eagerly to greet their big brother and their mysterious father.

  Chapter Seven

  The Monroes all sat solemnly around the table, trying to grasp the total meaning of what had happened at Sand Creek. Abbie knew by the look in Zeke’s eyes that it was much worse than what he and Wolf’s Blood had told the children, and Wolf’s Blood’s earlier tirade had presented a picture she could hardly bear to envision. There was quiet crying, a mixture of sorrow and fear. The older ones who had been closest to their uncle, Black Elk, and to their little cousin, Bucking Horse, wept more openly. Abbie wanted to weep too, and she knew that when the full force of their deaths hit her she would indeed weep bitterly; but she could only handle so much at a time. Right now her heart was heavy for Wolf’s Blood, and for Zeke, who had been there, had seen it all, had buried his brother and his family. Wolf’s Blood had never been a boy who laughed much. Now she could see that there would be even less laughter in his life. She knew it was difficult for him not to burst out in a fit of yelling and cursing and swearing to get his revenge. He was holding back out of respect for her wish not to further upset the others. But he was tense and sober, his eyes darting around the cabin like those of a caged animal.

  The boy did not mention sinking his lance into Charles Garvey’s leg. Zeke had already ordered Wolf’s Blood not to speak of that in front of Abbie. He did not want the Garvey name brought up in her presence.

  “How could they do that?” Margaret finally sobbed. “If Black Kettle flew the American flag over his dwelling, and a flag of truce, how could they attack? Black Kettle’s band was peaceful! It isn’t fair!”

  Zeke thought about his first wife’s murder back in Tennessee, about the Trail of Tears, and the many other instances of unfair killings and battles prompted by hatred of the Indians.

  “There are a lot of things in this life that aren’t fair,” he said quietly. He picked up a pipe from the table, one he had already stuffed. He put it to his lips and lit it, puffing it quietly while he waited for some of the sniffling to stop. Abbie watched him carefully. So tired! He looked so tired! She knew he was feeling the strain of not being able to go out and exact his own revenge, at least not by riding with warriors and raiding settlements and supply trains. She thought about the encounter with the buffalo hunters. It worried her deeply. Zeke Monroe had a wild streak that had caused him to kill many men in self-defense and in vengeance, but the land was becoming more and more civilized, was coming under the white man’s laws, although many of those could not be called civilized at all. It seemed white men could slaughter Indians and be within the law, but if an Indian laid a hand on a white man, that was an act that was punished by hanging. Zeke Monroe had a large family to consider now … and his woman. He would have to be more and more careful. Perhaps he could no longer react to some wrongs in his murderous fashion. To a man like Zeke there was right and wrong, black and white, and wrongdoing meant an eye for an eye. Now it only mattered who did the wrongdoing, and black and white was turning to gray.

  His children watched him as he slowly gazed at each one of them while he puffed the pipe. Their father was a big man, a man to be respected, a man whose reputation with his big knife was known far and wide. Many times they had listened with keen interest to the story of how he and their mother had met, and they had heard the adventures of their parents’ early years. Only Wolf’s Blood, Margaret, and LeeAnn had actually lived among the Cheyenne for a time; and LeeAnn’s memories of it were vague, for she had been very young.

  “These are bad times for Indians,” Zeke was telling them. “But times have been bad for the Indian since white settlers first set foot on the Eastern shores. I’ve told all of you about the Trail of Tears. Sand Creek was just another form of that kind of senseless brutality. The white settlers want what rightfully belongs to someone else, and they have the strength of numbers and superior weapons. Bu
t the Indians won’t give up easily so there are many years of hardships ahead.” He glanced at Abbie, then at the children, while Lance looked on from where he stood across the room, feeling sorry for his brother.

  “Most of you needn’t worry,” Zeke continued. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re afraid because of your Indian blood. But white men have a tendency to look only at the color of someone’s skin. I find that ridiculous. It is a person’s worth that should matter.” He puffed the pipe again. “Be that as it may, most of you don’t look Indian. Much as it hurts me to think that some of you might deny your Indian blood, it’s bound to happen, and I’ll not blame you. You’re my children and I love all of you, but you’re all getting old enough to make your own decisions.” His eyes rested on Margaret. “Those of you who do look_Indian, I don’t want you to be afraid, and I don’t want you to be ashamed. I took a lot of abuse when I was growing up in Tennessee, but I, by God, was never ashamed of being an Indian. It made me angry, but not ashamed.” His eyes scanned all of them again. “I just want you to be proud of yourselves and to remember that if you’re strong inside, no man, no law, no army can bring you to your knees. You remember that. Don’t let people like John Chivington destroy you. Someday the truth about the Sand Creek will be known, and it will be remembered in history as a disgrace to white men.”

  His underlying, seething anger could be felt throughout the room, and to all the children he looked even bigger than they had remembered him being. They had seen him at times with his Indian brothers, painted and dancing as they were participating in war games and fancy horsemanship. He bore many scars, from battles and from participating in the grueling Sun Dance ritual. He was a man of two worlds, belonging to neither, wanting one life but living another.