Climb the Highest Mountain

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Why are you telling me all these things, Abigail?”

  She stared at the fire again. “I don’t know. I just… need to talk about them. Suddenly my past is dancing through my mind. It’s as though I’m trying to figure out how it all started, how I got here. If someone had told me, when we started out from Tennessee, all the things that would happen to me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Actually, I probably would have been terrified. I’ve been through so many things, Edwin, but I’ve survived them. I’ve survived because I had Zeke.”

  He squeezed her hand again. “You also survived because of your own inner strength, Abigail. You are a remarkable woman, you know. You must realize your own strength and courage, for it is possible that you won’t always have Zeke. He is a man who lives by rules that are changing now, a violent man who grew up in a violent land that is now being tamed.”

  She sighed. “The strange part is that despite all I’ve been through, I don’t really want this land to change. I like to think about those early years: migrating with the Cheyenne, watching the great buffalo hunts, helping dry the hides and make tipis from them, making pemmican. I like to wear tunics—they’re quite practical and comfortable—but I don’t dare wear them in civilized places anymore for fear of laughter and ridicule. And I can see that my children who do not look Indian are going to try to keep their Indian blood hidden. That hurts. It’s so difficult… watching all these changes.”

  “Of course it is.” Tynes rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. How he wanted to hold her! “Can I get you something, Abigail? Coffee? A little wine, perhaps?”

  She sighed deeply. “Tea. I wouldn’t mind some tea.” She met his eyes again. “I’ve seen so many people die, Edwin. My own parents, my sister and brother; Zeke’s Indian parents and two of his Indian brothers; Dooley, a good friend and our ranch hand; Lance, Zeke’s white brother; and so many more. And now my own daughter. Somehow I thought my own family was immune from death, that it only happened to those outside our close circle. Now it has come to my little girl, and I suddenly realize it could come to more of my children … it could come to Zeke.” Her eyes teared again. “And even if it doesn’t, something has been lost between us … and I don’t know what it is … or how it happened.” She choked back a sob and put a hand to her face.

  He reached up and patted her hair. “You must stop dwelling on sad things, Abigail. You won’t know about Zeke until he gets back, and I’ll wager from what I know of the man that he’ll most definitely come back—with your daughter perched on his horse, unharmed. You’ll see.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll go get that tea for you.”

  He left reluctantly, wishing he could do more for her, wishing her love for Zeke Monroe would be given to him instead. But she was a loyal woman, and getting her to look at any other man would be a monumental task … unless Zeke Monroe should, for some strange reason, leave her. He walked to the kitchen and ordered the cook to set up a tray of tea, which she did quickly. Then he returned with it to the drawing room. Abbie took a cup and sipped it quietly while he sat down across from her.

  “Now then, Abigail, I want you to tell me more about your past—tell me about living with the Indians, about their customs, how they use the buffalo, that sort of thing. I should like to take notes for my book. I think it’s good for you to talk. And when we are finished, I have some lovely dresses that belonged to my wife and I would be delighted if you would wear while you are here. I am exceedingly curious to see you in an expensive dress, and they are just hanging in the closet.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I insist. I am your host and you should please me. I ask you sincerely to wear them, and I thought perhaps you might like to prepare supper this evening. You are accustomed to working, and much as I am against it, I think it would be good for you. You have far too much time to think right now, but it isn’t good to sit and dwell on sad things. If it makes you feel better to cook and bake and do some cleaning, I shan’t stop you. I want you to be happy.”

  She looked at him curiously, seeing in his eyes what she did not want to see—love. She looked down at her tea then. “I am deeply grateful for your kind hospitality, Edwin. I would dearly love to cook and bake for the children.” She met his eyes again. “If you have any material, I would like to make new dresses for Margaret and Ellen, and perhaps one for LeeAnn, to surprise her when she comes back. And …”

  Their eyes held, and Sir Tynes smiled. “There. You see? Already you are thinking about her return, thinking positively.”

  She smiled a little and he grinned and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You have no idea how good that smile looks, Abigail. You are such a beautiful woman. I wonder if you realize just how lovely you are.”

  She looked away again. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why? It’s a simple fact, you know. There is nothing wrong with my admiring you. You are a rare woman, and Zeke Monroe is a lucky man. I have no doubt he realizes that. I see it in his eyes when he looks at you. And I’ll tell you something, Abigail. I would gladly give up my wealth to trade places with your husband, if doing so meant I could have you. I don’t mean that I would try to steal a man’s wife. I only mean I wish I could find a woman like you for myself, and if I had to give all this up to do it, I would. That is why Zeke Monroe is a much richer man than I.”

  She looked at him again. His handsome dark eyes were sincere. “I… I guess I should thank you,” she said softly. She smiled then, almost bashfully. “Zeke has told me many times he’s a lucky man, but I feel I’m the lucky one. I didn’t even think I was pretty when I first came out here at fifteen. But when Zeke stepped into the light of my father’s campfire, and looked at me”—she closed her eyes—“I felt like the prettiest girl who was ever born. And even though to others he looked mean and wild, I saw something in Zeke’s dark eyes that spoke of loneliness. He was the finest-looking man I’d ever seen—still is. I knew what I wanted, right then and there. But I had my work cut out for me because I was just a child in his eyes, and I wasn’t sure of how to go about hooking a man like that onto my apron.”

  She smiled fully then, and when she opened her eyes they glittered with love and remembrance. Edwin Tynes knew at that moment that there was no room in her heart for another man, but he still hoped that somehow he could have Abigail Monroe for himself.

  “Tell me more,” he urged. “Keep talking, Abigail. If it makes you smile like that, then tell me more. What happened on your trip?”

  “Oh, my. I’d keep you all day if I covered that and the past twenty years.”

  He leaned back. “I have nothing else to do today. It is snowing outside and I don’t feel like going out. We’ll just sit and talk today.”

  She turned her eyes to the window. Yes, it was snowing. She wondered about Zeke. Was it snowing wherever he was? And what about little LeeAnn? Was she warm enough? Were they feeding her? She thought of poor little Lillian, lying out there in the cold ground!

  Tynes saw sorrow come back into her eyes. “Ah-ah,” he said quickly. “No bad thoughts, Abigail. Talk to me.”

  She met his eyes again. “You’re so very good to me, Edwin. Thank you.” She sipped her tea again. “There were a lot of different people on that wagon train, all with different reasons for going west. My sister, LeeAnn, she was looking for a rich man to save her and take her away because she didn’t want to go to that place called Oregon …”

  Zeke rode boldly into the camp of the Comanche renegades, realizing there were too many of them for him to fight and that they respected courage. His best bet was to bargain with them. He couldn’t be certain these were the ones who had stolen his daughter; he saw no sign of her and no sign of his horses. Soldiers at Fort Wichita had told him they’d had word of Comanche renegades along the Brazos River, but they had been unable to locate them. Zeke had been sure he could. He knew how to track Indians, but he didn’t tell the soldiers that. He was aware of how such men went after Indians, charging in without a plan, attacking
first, bargaining later. Zeke was well aware that the worst thing he could do was bring a force of military to attack the camp. The first one to be killed would be his daughter. Captives were always killed rather than given up. It was the Indian way of winning by not giving in to the whites.

  The camp was sheltered under a huge overhanging rock that was surrounded by Yucca bushes and prickly brush. An inexperienced person would ride along the ridge above and never realize there was a camp there. But Zeke could read tracks, that ability and a sixth sense had led him here. He removed his jacket in the warmth of the afternoon while several Comanche men stood up to stare at him as he rode in, amazed by his audacity. A couple of dogs barked and then nipped at the heels of Zeke’s horse, and a couple of women peeked at him from behind their men. The Comanches looked hungry and haggard, and he saw only three children, all with swollen bellies and hollow eyes. When he reined in his horse and dismounted, one of the sturdier-looking Comanches marched up to face him.

  The Indian looked Zeke over and frowned; then he turned to the others, grinning. “It is he! It is he!” the man yelled out in his own tongue. Zeke understood and his heart pounded with hope. “It is the one who fought us to protect the girl!” The man laughed and the others joined him. They were all amazed that this Indian man had traveled all the way to the middle of Texas and had searched them out. They gathered closer. Zeke rested his hand on the handle of his knife. “So, you come all the way here to take back your own little captive, huh?” the apparent leader said loudly.

  Zeke held the man’s eyes steadily, his own gaze cold and daring. “She is my daughter,” he replied in the Comanche tongue.

  The man laughed and the others joined him. “You are an Indian! She is fair!” the man guffawed. “Why do you insist on calling her your daughter?”

  “Because she is,” Zeke replied, no smile on his lips. “My woman is white. The girl is our daughter.”

  The Comanche man’s smile faded. He looked Zeke over again. “You are a very unusual man,” he commented. “And how did you find us?”

  “I’ve been hunting all through Texas for weeks,” he answered. “And I did you the honor of not telling any soldiers where I thought I might find you. I have kept your whereabouts a secret. You can repay me by giving me back my daughter.”

  The Comanche stepped back a little. This Indian man was not one to deal with lightly. He had already seen how Zeke could fight, and the look in the man’s eyes made him swallow dryly, even though there were plenty of Comanche braves about. He studied Zeke’s painted face and his fringed buckskin clothing. A tiny copper bell tinkled slightly when Zeke’s long black hair blew in the wind. There was an aura of power and determination about the man that impressed the Comanche leader.

  “We do not have to repay you for anything,” he answered, feeling challenged. “We can simply kill you if we choose.”

  “The Comanche don’t just kill a brave man outright. They honor that man’s bravery by letting him fight for his life. And if he wins, they owe him what he asks.”

  The Comanche man eyed him with a sneer. “You are Cheyenne?”

  “Half. My father was white. But I lived among the Cheyenne. They taught me how to fight, taught me the Indian ways.”

  The Comanche grinned. “A half-blood? A white belly?”

  Zeke ripped out his knife and held it up. “Try me!”

  The Comanche man sobered and slapped Zeke’s horse out of the way. The rest of the Comanche men came closer, and their leader signaled two of them to step forward, both of them wielding knives.

  “You have your wish, white belly,” their leader told Zeke. He pulled his own knife and the three of them circled Zeke, while the others watched with great glee, enjoying this piece of entertainment that enlivened an otherwise quiet day. Most of these Comanches had no family left, but they were determined not to live on a reservation. They raided whenever and wherever they could, in a futile effort to stop the flow of whites into Texas. They were constantly hiding, often hungry, always waiting and hoping for the day when more warriors would join them and they would wipe the whites from the face of their land. In the meantime they built up their store of guns and ammunition by trading horses and women to white men. But their life was lonely and lean, and now they looked forward to a good knife fight. Already they planned to take Zeke’s clothing and weapons, his supplies and his horse as soon as he was dead.

  One of the Comanches came at Zeke then from behind. Sensing the movement, he whirled, swinging his leg high in the air and landing a foot across the side of the Indian’s face. The man’s knife glanced off Zeke’s calf as he fell. Zeke felt the stinging cut, but he kept whirling, lashing out with his own knife as he came around, slashing it across the cheek of the second Comanche, who spun sideways, grasping his face. Zeke sucked in his belly and arched back as a third man stabbed at him, while the Comanche leader quickly darted in and jabbed Zeke in the side with his blade, then leaped out of the way as Zeke swung around.

  Zeke stood crouched then, waving his blade and waiting for the two assailants to come at him again. The first man appeared to be knocked out, and blood ran dangerously heavily from the second man’s cut cheek. Zeke’s was on fire, but he sensed that they were toying with him. The leader could have sunk his blade much deeper, but apparently he had decided to prolong the fight.

  The two men came nearer, joined by two fresh men. Zeke’s defensive senses came fully alert, and though they were four against one, he could see some fear in their eyes. He moved fast and they could already see that the blade was probably his best weapon. One man came at him them, slashing wildly, but Zeke kept backing up, letting the man slash at him, even taking one slash cut across his shoulder. Then he grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand and jerked the arm up high, sinking his blade deep into the Comanche’s belly and ripping upward before yanking it out. He let the body drop and faced the other three.

  “Come on!” he sneered. “I am ready for you!” He cursed them then in the Comanche tongue. Two of them charged, but the leader hung back. Zeke ducked and rammed his head into the gut of one, pushing his blade into the man’s groin as he did so. He felt several stabs to one leg when he first bent over to ram the man. They had been dealt by the second Comanche man, who couldn’t quite get at Zeke because he had moved so quickly. Zeke rose up and the attacker he had stabbed fell headlong over his back. Zeke flipped him off. Then he whirled, oblivious to his bleeding, painful leg, aware only that these men intended to goad him and torture him before they would give him his daughter.

  The second Comanche man jabbed at him then—short, hissing jabs that kept missing because Zeke darted this way and that, his sharp fighting skills coming back to aid him. Zeke waited for the right moment, and as the Comanche man made a slash at him, Zeke ducked back and waited for his arm to swing wide, the man’s knife narrowly missing Zeke’s eyes as it whisked past them. As soon as the knife arm was around, Zeke charged forward and sunk his blade deep into the man’s side, high up, where he would surely penetrate a lung. He shoved the man then, yanking the blade out as he did so, not even waiting for the man to fall before turning to face the leader and whoever else might be called forward. But the leader held up his hand and slowly put his knife away. He studied Zeke intently, frowning.

  “What are you called, white belly?”

  Zeke remained ready to kill, his shoulders hunched forward, his knife tightly gripped, his breath coming in heavy pants. “Monroe. Zeke Monroe.”

  “No. What do the Cheyenne call you?”

  “Lone Eagle. Some call me Cheyenne Zeke.”

  The Comanche man nodded. “Just as I thought. I have heard of you, but I did not know if you were still alive. You are known for your skill with the knife.” He studied Zeke’s bleeding side and badly bleeding leg. “You can put your knife away. We honor your bravery and skill, Cheyenne Zeke. We would fight you until you are dead, but it would be useless. Your daughter, if she is that, is not here; and if a man is to die, it should be for a
good reason. Save your strength and skills for the men who have her now.”

  Zeke felt weak and his heart tightened. “What men? Where is she? What have you done with my daughter?” He stepped toward the man menacingly, angered that he had suffered his wounds for nothing.

  “She is sold … for many rifles. She is sold to Comancheros, who take her south to sell to a wealthy Mexican for much gold. They also have the horses. But perhaps most of them have already been sold. We traded them for more rifles and ammunition. We need these things to keep fighting. They gave us some of their horses, which were not as fine. But we would rather have the guns and give up the fine horses for lesser ones.”

  Zeke wanted to scream at the man, to drive his blade deep into the leader’s belly. “Where in God’s name did you sell her? How long ago? Where would the Comancheros be now?”

  “They will go south and east to Mexico, probably along the foothills of the Blue Mountains. We sold the girl and the horses right from this camp, perhaps five days ago. They had trouble getting here so we had her and the horses with us longer than we’d planned.”

  Zeke stepped closer, his teeth gritted, his body afire with hatred and revenge. “And how many of your men had their turn with her?” he hissed.