Zeke realized that all of these men were just a drop in the bucket. When the time came to take care of the Indians, the government could send out soldiers from the East who would vastly outnumber red men on the plains, and that seemed to him all the more reason to take Abbie back to Tennessee.
It took several minutes for the soldiers to pass. Then Zeke looked after them for a moment, while dust rolled over buildings and clothing, and people coughed and choked on it. Zeke paid no heed to the dust. His Indian senses felt a strange chill, as though a part of his life had just passed by, and the blond-headed soldier turned to look back once more. But the young man could no longer see Zeke, so he just shrugged and kept riding.
Zeke turned to look down at the painted woman who remained beside him. “Want a beer?” she asked him. “I’ll buy.”
Zeke glanced at the door of the bank where he had been headed and decided his business could wait a few more minutes. It had been a long day, and he was worried about all the soldiers infiltrating the West. A drink sounded good. “Why not?” he told the woman.
She smiled, her body tingling. This half-breed was indeed a handsome man, and a big man. She had never bedded an Indian, for to begin with they were not welcome in the white men’s saloons. But it wouldn’t matter if they were, for Indian men were not commonly known to cavort with prostitutes. Something about pride and honor, she’d heard. But most whites said it was because their own squaws kept them too busy. Still, the half-breed who now followed her into the saloon was not with his squaw, and he just might have enough white blood in him to consider bedding her, while at the same time he was enough Indian for her to say she’d been to bed with one, something she had always been curious about.
She led him to the bar and ordered two beers. The bartender eyed Zeke and hesitated. “He’s an Indian, Kate!” the man objected.
“He’s also half white!” She contradicted him. “Give him a beer, Dennis, or I’ll fire you!”
The man glowered at her, then turned to draw the beer. The woman called Kate turned to look up at Zeke.
“You own this place?” Zeke asked her.
She shrugged. “Half. My partner owns the other half.” She eyed Zeke again as he took a long swallow of beer. “So. What brings you to Independence, half-breed?”
He set the glass down. “Horses. I raise and sell them. Appaloosas.”
She smiled. “I’ve always heard Indians were good with horses—especially the Cheyenne. Could that be what your other half is?”
He nodded and smiled. “You guessed it.”
She laughed lightly. “I’m getting pretty good at guessing those things! When I came out here from Illinois, I didn’t know one red man from the next.” She put a hand to his side and ran it up his ribs and over his chest, fingering the lacing of his deerskin shirt. “So … did you sell all of your horses?”
“I did.”
She met his eyes. “Well, I guess that means you have some money in that parfleche you carry.”
“I guess.” He swallowed the rest of the beer.
More men began entering the saloon as the soldiers disappeared down the street, and the room became a din of voices and shouting as Kate held Zeke’s eyes and continued to toy with the lacing of his shirt.
“Is there … uh … anything you need before you go back? I mean, a man has needs, and … perhaps you’ve never been with a white woman.”
He stood up straighter and pushed her hand away, keeping a firm but gentle hold on her arm. “I’ve been with one or two.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Oh?” She smiled. “Other prostitutes, no doubt.”
His eyes took on a dark look that frightened her, and she lost her smile. “Why would they have to be prostitutes?” he asked coldly. “Because I’m half Indian? Are you saying no decent white woman would sleep with an Indian?”
Her face paled. “Well, I, no. I didn’t mean that. I just—”
He let go of her arm. “I know what you meant.” He reached into a leather pouch that hung from his weapons belt and pulled out a coin, slapping it on the counter. “Thank you for the beer, but I pay my own way,” he told her, his eyes glittering with anger. “I came in here because I wanted a beer, and because I knew if I walked in with you maybe I’d get one, but if I walked in alone I wouldn’t get served, because my skin is burned dark from the sun and I dress like a Cheyenne. That’s the only reason I came, lady. I didn’t come in here because I was panting after a white woman. If I want a white woman I can get one, and I won’t have to pay for her.”
He turned to leave, but several men blocked his way at the door. “What did you mean by that remark, mister?” one of the men spoke up. “You aimin’ to force yourself on some poor white woman?”
“Half-breed savage!” someone else sneered.
Zeke straightened, his body tensing for a fight, for he’d been through these things before. He almost hoped there would be one; he was so full of worry over Abbie and over the white migration and the soldiers that he felt ready to explode. It was people like these who would make life difficult for himself and Abbie if they lived in the white world. It was people like these who had forced him to keep Abbie out on the plains, living the hard life of an Indian woman.
“What I meant is none of your business.” Zeke snarled. “I came to Independence to sell my horses and now I’m leaving. That’s all there is to it. Now get out of my way!”
Another of the men looked at Kate. “Was he hurting you, Kate?”
She thought for a long moment. “No,” she finally replied. “Let him go. I invited him in here, Len. He didn’t ask for this.”
“I think we should teach him a lesson before he leaves,” another man grumbled. “He should never have took hold of your arm.”
“It’s all right, Casey.”
“I say it ain’t!” the one called Len returned. He started for Zeke, but before he set his foot down in the first step, Zeke pulled a knife, the smaller one of the two he always carried. Len hesitated and backed up.
“Indians and knives are a bad duo to go up against, Len,” one of the other men spoke up.
“I’d listen to him, if I were you,” Zeke told the one called Len. Then he saw a movement to his right, and Zeke’s keen sense of warning and long experience at self-defense told him to act first and think later. He threw the small knife, and a man cried out when it landed in his upper arm before he could even draw the gun he had intended to use on Zeke.
“Oh, my God!’ the man wailed, blood streaming down his arm.
By then Zeke had drawn his other knife, the big one, and he waved it menacingly at all of them.
“You fool!” Kate chided the gunman. “The Indian had a right to throw that knife! You had no reason to draw a gun on him!”
The others just stood and stared, awed by the speed and accuracy with which Zeke had thrown the weapon. Most of them had missed Zeke’s movement altogether, and had not even realized he had drawn the knife until they saw it sticking in the gunman’s arm. They all backed up farther, as the gunman slumped into a chair, his face paling and his eyes bulging. In the corner, a well-manicured, neatly dressed man sat watching the event, his dark eyes studying Zeke. The man’s hands were small and lily white, and his hair was slicked back, not one piece of it out of place. The room had grown quiet and tense.
“Who the hell are you, mister?” one of the other men asked Zeke. Kate walked over to yank Zeke’s smaller knife from the gunman’s arm. She wiped the blood on the man’s shirt and smiled, wanting to hate the half-breed but impressed by his skill.
“Name’s Zeke,” he told the others. He still waved the big knife, and did not remove his eyes from them for a moment. “Most call me Cheyenne Zeke.”
“Cheyenne Zeke!” one of the men exclaimed. “I’ve heard about a Cheyenne Zeke. Supposed to be a real terror with”—the man glanced at the big blade—“with a knife.”
“You heard right,” Zeke sneered. He reached over and took the other knife back from Kate, his eyes still
on the men. “Now, are you men going to let me through? Or do I have to show you those stories you heard about me were all true!”
They all swallowed and shuffled their feet; then they began moving aside. Zeke slowly approached the swinging doors of the saloon, looking like a sleek panther prowling around its enemy and ready to do battle. He could not resist stopping at the doorway and deftly cutting the string tie the one called Len wore tightly around his neck. Len’s eyes grew wide with horror at the realization that the huge, ugly blade had been no more than a hair’s distance from his throat.
“Thanks for the beer,” Zeke sneered. He walked out, and Kate rushed to the door to watch him. The fringe of his buckskins swayed rhythmically, and her blood ran hot for him. But he was his own man, and was not easily seduced. The well-dressed man who had been sitting in the corner of the saloon pushed his way past her and followed Zeke.
Zeke banged on the door of the bank, wondering why it wasn’t open on such a busy day. He stepped back to look at the sign again, wanting to be sure he was at the right place; then he banged on the door again. Finally it opened slowly, and Zeke looked into the face of one of the few white men he trusted. “Afternoon, Mr. Blake,” Zeke greeted him.
“Zeke! I … I’m not open anymore, but come in, Zeke. It’s good to see you. Good to see you.” He shook Zeke’s hand and Zeke went inside. The well-dressed man who had followed him from the saloon sat down on a bench outside the door of the bank. He would wait.
“How have you been, Zeke?” Mr. Blake was asking. “Come on in the back and sit down! How about a little whiskey?”
“One shot wouldn’t hurt,” Zeke answered. He followed the man into the back room, wondering why the place was closed and the front office was collecting dust. Blake offered Zeke a chair, smiling kindly at him and hurrying to a desk where he pulled out a drawer and took a flask of whiskey from it. Zeke watched him. Blake was a small, balding man who wore spectacles and Zeke was certain he could probably pick him up and throw him across the room. But he had no desire to harm Rodney Blake, for he was one of the few truly good white men Zeke had known and the one and only man in Independence who would do business with Indians.
“It’s been a long time, Zeke,” Blake was telling him. He handed Zeke a small glass with a half inch of whiskey in the bottom. “I wondered if you’d ever come back.” He smiled and sat down. “Men like you … well… trouble seems to follow them, doesn’t it?”
Zeke laughed lightly. “That it does, Mr. Blake.”
Blake nodded. “Yes. That’s why I thought perhaps … well … I thought you’d bought your ticket to that Hanging Road to the Sky.”
They both laughed. “There have been many times when I thought that time had come,” Zeke replied. “Fact is when I was here last I took on the job of leading a wagon train west to Oregon.” His smile faded, as the pain of the memory of meeting Abigail on that trip shot through his heart unexpectedly. He looked down at his glass of whiskey and swirled it in his hands. “I … uh … I ended up getting married, Mr. Blake.”
“Well! Congratulations!” Blake told him putting out his hand. “And who is the lucky Cheyenne maiden?”
Zeke met the man’s eyes and did not shake his hand right away. “She’s not Cheyenne,” Zeke answered. “She’s white.”
The man’s smile faded for a moment. “White?”
Zeke nodded. “Met her on the wagon train and couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She ended up having the same feelings for me.”
The man smiled again. “Well, where is she now? I’d like to meet this woman who snagged a wild bobcat like you!”
Zeke grinned sadly. “She … uh … she’s with my people right now. She … lost a baby and was too weak to come with me.”
“I see.” The man put out his hand again. “Well, like I said, congratulations, Zeke. I’m sorry about the baby. I sincerely hope she’ll recover and be able to have more children.”
Zeke met his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Blake.” He swallowed the rest of his whiskey. “I suppose you know why I’m here. I need my money. I got a good price for my horses, Mr. Blake, but the buffalo hunt wasn’t very good this year and it looks to get worse. I probably won’t get back here for a long time once I leave. I’ll need everything I can get in order to buy supplies for my wife and my mother at Bent’s Fort. With this war with Mexico and all, I expect prices will go wild.”
Blake’s face saddened and he sighed and sat back. “Zeke, I’ll be straight with you. You may want to use that knife on me, but there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. I’ve got no money to give you, Zeke.”
Zeke’s eyes flashed with quick indignation. “What do you mean? I left three hundred dollars with you last year, and it was supposed to earn me some interest to boot. I need my money, Mr. Blake!”
Blake swallowed. “Zeke, it’s this Mexican war. There was a run on the banks. The smaller ones, like my own, were left without a cent.”
Zeke rose. “But… that can’t be!”
“I’m afraid it can be, Zeke. We operate by investing money in land, stocks, whatever—in order to earn more money. We don’t generally expect every customer to come in here wanting all of his money right away. But that’s what happened. We handed out everything we had. And because of the war, some of our investments turned out to be worthless so that we couldn’t recover much that way. I’m … I’m afraid I’m bankrupt, Zeke. I simply don’t have your money. I swear to God that if I did I’d give it to you. I’m sorry, Zeke. Damned sorry.”
Zeke’s jaw flexed in anger. “What about the other banks? I’ve seen other ones in town that are open. Why aren’t they closed down like you?”
“Big money back East. They got backing. Some of them were bailed out, Zeke. But me … well…” He looked down and swallowed. “Zeke, I did business with Indians. Men who do business with Indians are not included when it comes to getting help from Easterners.”
There was a long moment of silence, and Zeke nodded. “I see,” he said in a strained voice. Blake looked up at him.
“Zeke, there’s a grand plan taking place. This is just the beginning. I… I feel like I should warn you that no one back East is going to want any good to come to the red man. And we’re filling up fast with whites, Zeke.”
Zeke walked to a window, wanting desperately to tear the room apart. “I’ve noticed,” he answered. So, here was just one more reason why he never should have married Abigail. It seemed that everyplace he turned, there was an ominous message about his future and the future of the Cheyenne. How could he involve the woman he loved in these things? And yet how could he live without Abbie! He swallowed. “I … uh … I appreciate your doing business with me, Mr. Blake, treating me as an equal.”
“You are an equal, Zeke. We’re all God’s children.”
Zeke laughed bitterly. “That is not the theory of most whites, Mr. Blake.”
“I’m aware of that, and it shames me. I guess it’s been that way since the beginning of time, Zeke. And I guess that’s why men like me don’t do well in business. A man has to be ruthless in this game, Zeke. I am simply not a ruthless man.”
Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I can be ruthless, if that’s what it takes!” he replied. “The whites will find out just how ruthless the red man can be, Mr. Blake, once the red man is pushed too far!”
He whirled, and Rodney Blake was glad that he personally was not one of those to whom Cheyenne Zeke wanted to show his ruthlessness. Zeke stepped close, towering over him. “Good luck, Mr. Blake.”
“I don’t need the luck, Zeke. You do.” Their eyes held in understanding, and then Zeke walked to the door. “What will you do, Mr. Blake?”
“I’m going back East. What about you? What will you do?”
Zeke sighed. “Raise more horses, I guess. Find some odd jobs. I need the money bad. I’ve got a woman to think about now.”
“God go with you, Zeke.”
Zeke nodded. “May Maheo wa
lk with you, Mr. Blake. Your heart is as true as the red man’s.”
Zeke walked out of the back room and through the main lobby of the darkened bank, his mind racing with disappointment and confusion. His trip to Independence was to have been a happy one. He had intended to bring Abbie with him and treat her royally. He’d planned to sell his horses and get his money from the bank, along with the interest it had earned. But Abbie lay weak and ill somewhere out on the Plains, and his money was gone. At least he had the money from the sale of the horses, but the addition of the three hundred dollars he had left in Mr. Blake’s care would have gone much farther. He walked to the front door and entered the busy street.
He hated it! He hated the noise and confusion of the white world! He hated their attitude toward him and their intrusion into Indian Territory. He started for the stables where his horse was being held when a voice called out to him.
“Cheyenne Zeke!”
Zeke turned to see the neatly dressed, dark-eyed man who had been waiting for him on the bench outside the bank.
“What do you want?” Zeke snapped.
The man grinned and walked closer, putting out his hand. “Name’s Mack. Jonathan Mack.”
Zeke looked down at the hand that was no bigger than a woman’s. He did not put out his own hand. He did not like this Jonathan Mack. He was too smooth and too neat. Mack looked him up and down and nodded, retrieving his hand. “As you wish,” he told Zeke. He glanced at the bank door and back at Zeke. “I … uh … thought perhaps you might be in need of some money.”
Zeke leaned against the post of an overhang. “Is that so? Now how would you know that, Mr. Mack?”
Mack stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his satin vest. “Well, Zeke, it’s well known around here that most small banks are out of business because of the war. I noticed you going inside there and I … well … I thought perhaps you had come to get some money.” He laughed lightly. “That’s why most people go into a bank, now isn’t it?”
Zeke eyed him narrowly. “I don’t suppose you knew that the man who runs this bank dealt with Indians, and that’s why the bankers back East wouldn’t help him out?”
Ride the Free Wind Page 17
