Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  “I understand.” She kissed his chest. “But I’m not afraid of it.”

  “You didn’t see what they did to Ellen.”

  “Don’t think about it. You have me now. And we’re out here in unorganized territory, away from Eastern civilization. People don’t think the same way out here, Zeke. Just look at how Jim Bridger and his men treated me. They were so good to me.”

  “They’re a different lot, free thinkers, men who aren’t concerned about what’s socially acceptable. They’re close to the earth and the wild things, not so different from the Indian, who know the only thing that’s right is being true to your own self. But the others, the Easterners who come out here and bring all their social customs and pious religion with them, their tailored suits and stiff corsets and their belief that whites are the superior race, they’re the ones to stay away from, Abbie girl.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I love you and you love me, and we’re going to be with the Cheyenne. We’ll be all right, Zeke. God wants us to be together. What people think will never bother me, as long as I have you. That’s all that matters.”

  “You’ll have to be awful strong and brave, Abbie.”

  She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “You’re my strength and my courage. Look what I’ve already been through, Zeke, losing my whole family, taking that arrow wound. I’ve known pain and tragedy and death same as you. And I was raised to work hard. I was never pampered back there on that farm in Tennessee. I said we’d be all right, and I meant it. I don’t want you worrying about it.”

  He smiled softly. “All right, my little veheo. I’ll try not to worry.” He kissed her lightly, and they curled up again under the buffalo robe as the rain continued to fall. “Ne-mehotatse,” he whispered. It was one Cheyenne word she had quickly learned, for it meant I love you.

  Abbie relaxed again and closed her eyes, little realizing the kind of journey through life she had begun when she agreed to be Cheyenne Zeke’s woman. That journey would take Zeke and Abbie and the entire Cheyenne Nation down a road over which they would never be able to return.

  They had traveled from Fort Bridger through the Wind River Range of Utah Territory following the Sweetwater through the South Pass, then south, moving along the ridge of the Rockies but never getting too deeply into the mountains unless Zeke thought it was necessary for shelter or to hide themselves. Now it was May, the Moon of the Greening Grass, as the Cheyenne would call it. Never had Abigail seen such magnificent beauty as she beheld in this land that the Cheyenne loved. It was her first time in this part of the country. The Oregon Trail she had traveled the summer before on the wagon train did not touch this part of the Rockies, but followed Nebraska and Washington Territory. It was easy to understand why the Cheyenne loved this place, for if any land was designed by the Great Spirit to be the most beautiful, it was this country of purple mountains and rushing waters.

  The vastness of the great West was sometimes overwhelming to Abbie; it seemed at times that she and Zeke were the only living human souls within a thousand mile radius. But she could tell by Zeke’s ever-watchful attitude that he knew otherwise, even though there was no life to be seen but a few antelope, some elk, and the small birds that sang and fluttered about. Occasionally an eagle would circle down, calling to a mate nestled somewhere in a high, hidden crevice, and Zeke would look up and watch, seeming to speak to the elusive master of the skies with his dark eyes. For his spirit power was from the eagle, and his Cheyenne name was Lone Eagle, derived from the vision he had experienced during the tortures of the Sun Dance ritual.

  Abbie knew Zeke was mostly on the lookout for Ute Indians; a constant enemy of the Cheyenne, they often sneaked into Cheyenne country to raid and steal horses and women. The Cheyenne also had trouble with the Crow and Pawnee, but their ancient rivalry with the Crow was lessening somewhat, and a tentative peace pact had been made between the two tribes. Nonetheless Zeke doubted there would ever be peace between the Cheyenne and the hated Ute, and most certainly not between the Cheyenne and the Pawnee, who years earlier had stolen the Cheyenne’s most sacred religious fetish, the Sacred Arrows.

  Still, the Crow, the Ute, and the Pawnee were old, accustomed enemies. The white men worried Zeke more, for now they were filtering across the continent by the thousands, most of them only “passing through” Indian Territory for the present. But Zeke knew that one day more of them would stop just short of the Rockies to make their homes on Indian lands. He had enough white blood in him to understand what this would mean for the Indian.

  Few Plains Indians had any knowledge of just how many whites lived in that mysterious land where the sun rises or of how powerful the white man’s advanced civilization was. Worst of all, they did not comprehend the white man’s forked tongue; and this innocence, Zeke was certain, would be a real problem for his people when the white man came to take their lands. Zeke had seen land stolen from Indians before, and he knew the horror of what those white thieves could do to the red men who were moved off the land. Zeke had walked the Trail of Tears with the Cherokees when they were banished from Alabama. He had been hardly more than a boy then himself, hiding among the Cherokee refugees to run away from his white family in Tennessee. He had been discovered and returned to Tennessee, but he had never forgotten the hunger and deprivation, the filth and disease that had beset the once-proud Cherokee.

  For her part, Abbie could not understand why there should be a problem. There couldn’t possibly be bigger country than that which lay between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains. Surely there was enough land here for everyone! But whenever she expressed those thoughts to Zeke, he would smile sadly, telling her she sounded very much like his own Cheyenne friends and family who scoffed at his worries and did not concern themselves with the white-topped wagons that were invading their land.

  Abbie was to cherish the peace and beauty of those first weeks of marriage to Cheyenne Zeke, for there was no one, either white or Indian, to bother them as they traveled alone through God’s country, their horses plodding quietly. They would sometimes travel for hours without speaking at all, two small specks moving quietly beneath towering peaks of granite that looked down on them in absolute silence. Sometimes the wind that howled and groaned through the canyons seemed spooky and threatening. But Abbie would only have to look at her husband to know she should not be afraid.

  Spring mountain wild flowers of buttercups and larkspur and daisies greeted them everywhere. Their bursting life gladdened Abbie’s heart, for just as the flowers bloomed again with each spring, so did life go on. She had lost all of her loved ones the year before, and was then an orphaned, inexperienced woman-child struggling in a strange land like a crippled fawn. But Zeke had stayed beside her and nursed her tortured heart. She prayed that some day soon his own life would sprout in her womb and she could give him the children he needed to take the place of his little dead son. He had helped heal her heart. Now she hoped to heal his own inner wounds with her love and with the children she would give him.

  They traveled through sweet pine forest, staying mostly under the trees for shelter and less visibility. After dark, Abbie would listen to the wolves, howling and yelping, and she would snuggle closer to Zeke, telling herself she must get used to the sounds of the night and the wilderness. She would have to learn to listen with the Indian’s ear so she would know when a rider approached or a herd of buffalo was nearby; to see with the Indian’s eye in order to spot the enemy when that enemy was a mere shadow or a tiny movement miles away. She would have to become able to smell approaching horses, or nearby water and food. And she would have to learn to keep house the Indian way, to live in a house of skins, sleep under buffalo robes, build a proper tipi fire, and dry and tan her own hides for clothing and shelter.

  There would be no down-filled quilts. She would hear coyotes at night, rather than the ticking of a clock on a fireplace mantel. Her floors would be dirt instead of wood, and she would cook over an open fire. She would wear doeskin tunics rathe
r than pretty dresses, and bathe in streams instead of hot water. But to do these things meant being with Zeke, and so she would bear it. What good were pretty things and the comforts of a fancy house, if a woman had to go to bed at night with a man she did not love? What good was there in polishing crystal, if she could not bear to have her man touch her in the night? And where could she ever find a man as fearless yet gentle; skilled and vicious in battle, yet kind in the night; wild in his Indian ways, yet civilized as a Tennessee-bred man? Where else but in Cheyenne Zeke would she find a man made up of so many men, all man, all courage, all loving.

  “Just a few more days, Abbie girl,” Zeke spoke up, almost startling her. She had been thinking deeply of what it would be like to meet Zeke’s Cheyenne family, and Zeke seemed to be reading her thoughts. “Swift Arrow is the only one who might give us a problem at first,” he continued. “But you just let me handle him. Most of my people still have a blind, innocent trust of the whites, but Swift Arrow doesn’t have much use for them, especially after finding out what happened to me back in Tennessee. And he knows about the Trail of Tears.” His voice trailed off, but Abbie caught the brittle ring to it. The horror of the experience still haunted him.

  “Swift Arrow is the superstitious sort,” he finally continued, “which means he’ll probably think having you with us will bring us trouble. But he’ll get used to you.” He looked over at her and grinned, his eyes running over her body and down to the bare leg that showed beneath the slit tunic given her by a Shoshoni woman back at Fort Bridger. Her long, dark hair was braided and her skin was beginning to darken from long days of riding under the open sky. “By God, I have to say, you do look more Indian than white already, Abbie girl,” he told her. “It won’t be long before nobody will be able to tell the difference.”

  She laughed lightly. “Well, then, maybe we won’t get so many remarks when we do go out among the whites.”

  His grin faded. “Just the same, we have to be careful. For one thing, if soldiers or government agents ever see you and know you’re all white, they might come to try to take you away, figuring you’re a captive of some sort.”

  “I am a captive,” she retorted. “You captured my heart and I can’t get away from you.” She held her chin up proudly. “And just let them come and try to take me away. I’d fight them good as any Cheyenne woman would do!”

  Zeke grinned and shook his head. “I reckon you would.”

  She puckered her lips thoughtfully. “Why is it, Zeke, that an Indian woman living with a white man is taken for granted, but a white woman with an Indian is different, supposedly wrong or sinful?”

  He just shook his head. “Because the white man thinks he’s better. Because it’s ingrained in him to think that way. Because they don’t understand the Indian at all, the beauty and spirit of the People and how in many ways the Indian is a whole lot better and a whole lot wiser, and a whole lot closer to heaven than most white men will ever be.”

  She looked over at him, studying the dark skin and long, black hair. “Why me, Zeke? Why not some Cheyenne girl?”

  He stopped his horse and held her eyes with his own tender gaze. “We go where the spirit leads us, Abbie girl. Maheo led me to you. You could ask yourself the same question, you know. Why me and not some white man?”

  She smiled seductively. “I have to say because God meant us to be together—like you believe. But also because the first time your hand touched mine, Mister Zeke Monroe, I thought little flames would shoot right out from my body. No white man I’ve ever met could hold a candle to you. When I saw you, I wanted you to be my man, and nobody else’s.”

  Their eyes held and he suddenly wanted to find a place to bed down for the night. She would often blurt out such statements, words that sometimes embarrassed his humble nature but also made him want her. He grinned almost shyly and reached over to slap her horse’s rump.

  “Get moving, you little she-devil!” he teased. She laughed as her horse lurched forward, and he followed, watching her slim hips move rhythmically with her horse’s gait.

  They headed toward the Arkansas River, to meet destiny face to face.

  Two

  Senator Winston Garvey eased himself into a massive, leather chair, his heart pounding with excitement and his mind racing with the possibilities that lay ahead. He pulled a gold watch from his vest, peering down at it over a double chin. He wished Jonathan would get there soon, because the senator was hungry and was looking forward to a heavy lunch as soon as their meeting was over, with perhaps a little wine to celebrate the news.

  War! President Polk had declared war on Mexico! The possibilities of riches that could be reaped from such a war were endless. He was anxious to get started.

  Someone tapped at the door and the senator looked up. “Come in, Jonathan!” he spoke up in his booming voice.

  A polished, well-dressed man entered, smoothly handsome but small in stature, and so neat that he appeared wooden. He nodded toward the senator as he came through the door.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” came his quiet greeting, as he approached and shook the senator’s hand. “I’ve just heard the news. I know you’ve been waiting for this opportunity.”

  “We both have, and you know it,” the senator replied, shaking the man’s small hand vigorously. “Do you realize the wealth that lies in some of those Spanish rancheros? And God only knows how much gold might be out there in New Mexico Territory and in California. It’s untapped land, Jonathan, and when we’re through with Mexico, a lot more of it will belong to us. Do you have men ready?”

  Jonathan Mack’s dark eyes lit up with greed. “You know I’m the best business consultant you could have hired,” he replied. “Of course they’re ready. The first thing that’s going to happen is there will be a run on the banks, especially in the border towns and in Santa Fe. The big traders out there—like the Bent brothers—have a good sum of money in those banks. They’ll be afraid the Mexicans will take over and rob them.” He stopped to light an expensive, thin cigar with his small, lily-white hands.

  “So? Go on.”

  Mack puffed on the cigar. “With your financial backing, my men are already prepared to go to the bankers, promise as many of them as possible that we’ll loan them whatever cash supplies they need to pay off their investors, at a very high rate of interest, of course.”

  The senator grinned. “Of course. And I want you to secretly buy up all the land you can. This is the chance of a lifetime! Anyone with any brains ought to be able to see that. When all that land comes into U.S. possession, people will flock out there like bees to honey, and I’ll be the landlord.”

  Jonathan Mack puffed the little cigar again. If the senator got richer from his investments, he himself would also become richer, for the senator paid him well. “You sure people will go out there?” he asked the senator.

  The rotund senator’s eyes narrowed to reflect his scheming mind. “Dead sure,” he replied flatly. “There’s a westward movement going on that can’t be stopped, Jonathan. Look how many are already heading west—thousands. It’s just the beginning. They’ll all head west looking for more land, more freedom, thinking the answers to their dreams lie out there. They’ll go, all right, for a hundred reasons.”

  Mack fingered his cigar, watching the smoke curl upward. “There’s one big stumbling block, you know, even if we defeat Mexico.”

  Garvey leaned back in the plush, leather chair, and it squeaked under his weight. “What’s that?”

  Mack looked directly at him, his eyes suddenly menacing. Garvey wondered sometimes just how much evil the man was capable of committing. But it didn’t matter. He was good at his job, which was to cheat and deceive people, and that was just the kind of man Garvey needed.

  “Indians,” Mack replied.

  Senator Garvey burst into robust laughter, his big belly shaking from it. He waved Mack off with his hand. “Bull shit!” he scoffed.

  Mack puffed the thin cigar again, not smiling. “Laugh if you want, Sen
ator. But you’re paying me to do this right, and I’m telling you the Indians will be a big problem. They’re already causing trouble. They’re angry over all the game the emigrants are killing, and all the trees they’re chopping down along the trails west. They’re mad about streams getting dirtied up, and most of all they’re angry about the white men’s diseases that have hit them hard. The Cheyenne alone lost almost half their people last year because of measles and whooping cough.”

  Garvey sobered and leaned forward. “To hell with the Indians. If they want to cause trouble, let them. They’ll just be another thing to get rid of, like the damned coyotes and grizzlies. They’ll find out soon enough just how powerful the ‘Great White Father’ in Washington can be, as well as the soldiers’ guns.”

  Mack sighed. “Perhaps,” he replied. “In time. But I’ve been doing some homework, Senator. I’ve not been out there, but I’ve been as far as Independence, and I’ve talked to men who know. They’re fighters, Senator. A Plains Indian on horseback can outmaneuver and outfight the best soldier you could pick. Take my word for it. Those red devils will be a real problem.”

  “Then we’ll just send out all the soldiers it takes to wipe them out.”

  Mack pursed his lips thoughtfully, rolling the thin cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “The best way to wipe them out is to kill off all the women,” he suggested. “They have babies like rabbits. And kill the young ones, too. Little boys grow into big warriors, if you know what I mean.”

  The senator leaned back again. “I know what you mean. And if the soldiers wipe out a village of women and children here and there who the hell back here in the East will know the difference? It will simply be a military victory, our valiant men fighting the heathen savages of the Plains who raid and rape and scalp and commit atrocities against our innocent white settlers out there. The papers will help us in that department, Jonathan. They eat up stories like that, and so does the public.”