Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  Mack’s eyebrows went up. “Is that so?” He frowned and shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

  Zeke sneered. “I’m sure you think so.” He turned to leave.

  “Zeke!” the man called out. Zeke turned to eye him impatiently.

  “What the hell do you want, Mr. Mack?” he asked.

  “How much did you lose?”

  Zeke looked him over, repelled by the man’s smoothness. “Three hundred dollars plus interest. What’s it to you?”

  The man pulled out a thin cigar and offered it to Zeke. “I’ll pay you six hundred—to do a job for me,” he replied.

  Zeke frowned and studied him. He knew by instinct this was not a man to be trusted, but he needed the money badly. Six hundred dollars was a lot of money, and if he could do this service for this milky sap of a white man and then be rid of him, it might be worth it. He walked closer to Mack.

  “What kind of a job?” he asked.

  Mack smiled and held his cigar closer. “They’re very good, Zeke. Try one.”

  Zeke took the cigar cautiously and Mack lit it for him.

  “Come and sit down,” Mack told Zeke.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Mack shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Zeke puffed the cigar. Mack was right. It was very good.

  “I saw you in the saloon a bit ago,” Mack told Zeke. “You’re quite good with that knife,” he added with a grin.

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m looking for a good man, one who knows the area well between here and Santa Fe. You know that country?”

  Zeke puffed the cigar again. “I do. But you don’t need a good man for that. Just follow the Santa Fe Trail and the soldiers. They’ll take you right to the place.”

  Mack smiled. “You don’t understand. To begin with, scouts are easy to find, I’ll admit. But they’re all white men, you see. I need an Indian, a man who thinks like an Indian, converses with the Indians, understands Indians. I have two wagons that have to go to Santa Fe, Zeke, and I don’t want the Santa Fe Trail used. I need a man who knows the back country, one who can take the wagons south of the Trail through Oklahoma Territory and northern Texas, a man who knows the Indians in that area, knows the country. I figure a man like you, well, he’d get on better with whatever Indians he might run up against, and he’d know how to handle them better than the white scouts. But more than that, I figure a man like you would know how to avoid the Indians altogether, because you’d understand them, how they think, where they go and all.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re driving at. Why can’t you just use the Trail?”

  “Because we’re at war with Mexico. Right now nothing attracts more attention than the Santa Fe Trail, Zeke. I don’t want attention. My wagons hold valuable merchandise, you see. Now, if I take them on the Santa Fe Trail, they’re much more likely to attract attention from Indians and Mexicans, simply because of all the raiding that’s been going on along that route. Even if I traveled with soldiers, I’d not be safe, at least not with the wagons along. Those soldiers are going to attract attention, Zeke. They’re very likely to be attacked by Mexicans, and if they are, the Mexicans would confiscate my wagons. I don’t want that to happen. That’s why I think they’d be safer if someone took them through the back country and traveled in obscurity. He could take the best route he knew to avoid both Indians and Mexicans. Well, I just had a feeling you might be the man for the job. How about it? As you said, six hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

  Zeke pushed his leather hat back from his forehead. “Just what is in these wagons, Mr. Mack?”

  Mack grinned. “I intend to open a chain of saloons in Santa Fe, Zeke. I know that in the long run the States will win this war, and when they do, Santa Fe will boom again. I’ve invested a lot of money in this enterprise, and I’m on my way there myself. When I open, I intend to open big. The wagons carry the parts to a very expensive piano, Zeke, as well as whiskey—the best whiskey, if you know what I mean. You have an honest look about you. I think I can trust you to know that. I want to be honest with you in return and not deceive you about the contents of the wagons.”

  Zeke frowned. “Good whiskey is like gold to the Indians, Mr. Mack. If I’m carrying whiskey I might as well be carrying precious gems. It’s a hell of a risk. It would take more than six hundred dollars to make me do it.”

  Mack fingered his cigar. “All right then. How about eight hundred?”

  Zeke smelled deceit, but the recent loss of his hard-earned savings pressed on his mind. “You sure that’s all that’s in those wagons?” he asked Mack.

  “As God is my witness,” the man replied with a nod. “Piano parts and whiskey. The piano is worth five thousand dollars, and the whiskey is worth more than that when you figure its value when sold by the glass. This is going to be a very posh saloon, Zeke, and confidentially, part of the reason I am getting my things there the back way is because I know of a rival businessman who is planning the same type of enterprise. I intend to beat him there and get set up before he does. Taking the back way will insure my supplies get there safely. My rival will think I haven’t even started shipment yet.”

  “You going along?” Zeke asked.

  Mack grinned. “Goodness, no! I’m not cut out for that kind of rough going,” he answered. “I’ll take a stage along the Santa Fe Trail. A stage coach is not nearly as attractive to the eyes of raiders as the merchant supply wagons, Zeke. That’s why I’ll take a stage to Santa Fe, and you’ll take the wagons through back country and meet me there.”

  “What if I don’t make it?”

  The man shrugged. “I know the risks. If you don’t make it, I’m out my investment. That will be my problem.”

  “I reckon it will. But what’s to keep me from selling the whiskey to Mexicans for gold and never showing up? You’d never know the difference.”

  Mack grinned. “I know people,” he replied. “Keeping his word is important to an Indian. You’re a man of your word. I see it in those Indian eyes of yours. You won’t betray me.” He looked Zeke up and down. “So, is it a deal?”

  “I’ll have to think on it. I have a woman waiting for me out there on the Plains. I have to get back to her. If I’m gone too long she’ll worry.”

  “So? Send your squaw a message. Surely you can find someone among all these scouts and trappers and riffraff who’ll get a message to her. The trip would take, oh, a month, I suppose. Then of course you would have to allow for return time. Tell her six to eight weeks.”

  Zeke frowned and turned away, puffing the cigar again. “I don’t know if I can leave her for that long.”

  “Good heavens, man, squaw women get along fine on their own. They’re a hardy lot!”

  Zeke quelled his anger at the remark. It would do no good to bother telling this man his woman was not a Cheyenne woman. He turned to face him again. “I don’t trust you, Mack. And you can bet that if there’s some trick to this you’ll pay. You say you know your men, so you’d best know I’m not a man to mess with. Where are your wagons?”

  “I hired some men to watch them. They’re stored behind the livery right now.”

  “All right. I’ll meet you there in the morning. I want to inspect them. Then I’ll give you my answer. And I’d have to be allowed to choose the other driver myself.”

  “As you wish.”

  “If I do that, he’ll have to be paid good, too.”

  “Eight hundred for you and four hundred for him then.”

  Zeke thought about it for a moment. “I’ll give you my decision in the morning,” he told Mack.

  “Good. I hope it will be yes. I think you’re a good man for the job.”

  Zeke eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. “Thanks for the cigar,” he replied. He walked down the steps and out into the street, stepping over horse dung and jumping mud puddles as he headed toward the stockyards where he had sold his horses.

  His mind raced with indecision. Eight hundred dollars was a tre
mendous amount of money. It was a very tempting offer indeed—one that he could hardly turn down. He wished his good friend, Olin Wales, was around. He hadn’t seen his fur trapping friend since they’d gone separate ways after Zeke had gone back to Fort Bridger to fetch Abbie. Wales had accompanied Zeke the year before when he’d scouted for Abbie’s wagon train, and he was a good man to have along—one of the few white men Zeke felt free to call friend. They had risked their lives for one another more than once and saved one another from death. But he had not run into Olin this trip. It was hard to tell where a man like Olin might be at any time. He was the wandering sort, a man who lived off the land as well as any Indian.

  But if Zeke was to take on this business deal with Jonathan Mack, he wanted a trustworthy driver with him. The only other man who came close to Olin Wales in dependability was Luther Grimes. “Grimey,” he was nicknamed, mainly because he had an aversion to baths. But the man’s smell was bearable on a dangerous journey; for he was good with a gun, he’d fought Indians, and he was honest. That was the most important thing to Zeke. Grimey would go to his death for a friend, and Zeke was his friend. They had hunted and trapped together, fought Crow together, and shared intimate stories.

  Grimey knew Zeke’s background, and his only flaw was his love of telling stories about Cheyenne Zeke’s knife—often to Zeke’s embarrassment. For Grimey loved to exaggerate and add color and excitement to his stories. The man would literally strut when he called Zeke his friend. Grimey would be a good partner on this trip, if Zeke could find him. He had left him at the stockyards, where Grimey had brought in a herd of horses for a nearby rancher. The two of them had made plans to meet later at a tavern south of Independence where Indians could be served with no trouble, and there they intended to swap stories.

  To his relief, Grimey was still at the stockyards; and when Zeke called out to him, Grimey broke into a quick smile. As the short, wiry man hastily walked toward him, Zeke ignored his soiled buckskins and yellowed teeth.

  “Hey, my half-breed friend! You said we would meet tonight at the tavern. What brings you back here?” Grimey walked up and shook Zeke’s hand.

  “How would you like to go to Santa Fe, Grimey, through Comanche and Apache back country?”

  Grimey raised his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting!” He removed his hat and ran a hand through thick, curly black hair. “Tell me more.”

  “A man just offered me eight hundred dollars to take two wagons of expensive whiskey and piano parts to Santa Fe. I’d need another driver. He’s offered four hundred dollars for the second man. I can’t think of a better partner than you, Grimey. What do you say?”

  Grimey shrugged. “I don’t know the details, but what the hell? If Cheyenne Zeke thinks we ought to do it, I’m game. I have nothing better to do than risk my neck riding through Apache country. At least I’d be with an Indian, eh?”

  Zeke grinned. “I’ll give you all the details when we meet tonight. I just needed to know if you’d consider it. I’m thinking on it strongly, Grimey. I lost all my savings in the run on the banks. I need the money. I don’t exactly trust the man who hired me, but for one trip and all that money, I’m willing to risk it.”

  “If you are willing, then so am I, my friend. Count me in.”

  Zeke smiled more. “Thanks, Grimey. I have to find somebody to take a message to—” He stopped. He had not told Grimey yet about Abbie. “A message to my people. Let them know I won’t be back as soon as I thought. They always worry when I come to Independence where all the white folks are.”

  Grimey laughed. “Hey, I know a man who says he is heading for Fort Atkinson from here. You write your message and give it to him. There are always Cheyenne around that fort. They can find a runner for you to take the message from there to your people. No doubt this time of year they will head in that direction.”

  Zeke nodded, feeling better all the time about the trip. With eight hundred dollars he could settle down on a piece of land—maybe near Bent’s Fort. He could build Abbie a cabin there. Perhaps they could be together and he could give her the comforts of a white man’s dwelling, yet they would still be among the Cheyenne most of the time. There were few white settlers down on the Arkansas, and she would be safe near Bent’s Fort. It seemed as though his answers were finally coming. How he longed to see Abbie and ask her about it! But that would have to wait. It would be a long time before he saw his Abbie again. The waiting would be difficult and he worried about how she would fare alone with the Cheyenne until he returned.

  Ten

  Abbie sat astride her Appaloosa, riding across the broad plains of Kansas Territory toward Nebraska Territory. The bands of Cheyenne and Arapahos with whom she rode seemed to grow daily in numbers, as more joined them on their journey northward. Travois tracks, prints of unshod hooves, and moccasin tracks left a trail nearly a half-mile wide behind the migrating bands, as hundreds of men, women, and children rode or walked toward the rendezvous point with the Sioux for the Sun Dance celebration.

  For most of the day, every day, some rode and some walked, uncomplaining. For such a large number of people, they were amazingly silent as they traveled, partly because this was not a time for visiting, but rather a time for moving. Energy must be saved. And more importantly, because too much noise might attract uncooperative whites or dreaded soldiers or enemy Ute, Crow, or Pawnee.

  Braves rode in front, sitting straight and silent on painted ponies, carrying a barrage of weapons, war lances, and shields. Abbie smiled with admiration for these Cheyenne warriors. They did not know the meaning of fear, and although most of their women had to walk and perform most of the hard daily labor, the men were willing to fight and die for them if need be. A Cheyenne woman need not fear when she was with her man. And there was a beautiful, almost childish abandon in the men—a need to ride free, to feel action, and to show their women just how courageous and skilled they could be. They played constant war games and relished a good hunt, and at night the talk around council fires was full of excitement over the upcoming Sun Dance, where young warriors would display their courage and boys would become men. Some would change their names because of the visions they would experience while in great pain.

  This much Abbie knew, although she was not yet certain just exactly what would take place and was even more uncertain as to whether she wanted to know the details. But at least she would discover what this strange ritual was that Zeke and so many of the other warriors had put themselves through.

  Zeke! She thought of him with a sad longing that brought a heavy ache to her chest. She had hurt him that morning after her attack, astonished and stunned him by voicing feelings he did not know were there, fears and doubts she herself had not even known were buried in her subconscious, not until Dancing Moon’s horrible attack. Perhaps it was Dancing Moon’s viciousness that had reminded Abbie just how thin the line between gentleness and ruthlessness was in these people. Their passions ran high, their thirst for vengeance was keen, and they considered violence and bloodletting commonplace.

  But now that Abbie was healing, her fears were subsiding, and she saw a beauty and gentleness about the Cheyenne and Arapaho that far outweighed their ruthlessness. It was true that Dancing Moon’s attack had been vicious; however she was only one person, outnumbered by a host of friendly, stalwart, chaste women who doted on their little brown children and tended to their husbands needs with silent and uncomplaining faithfulness—women like Gentle Woman, who had nursed and babied Abigail as though she were her own daughter. There were those who had painted her tipi and patiently taught her the proper way to clean the buffalo hides, to tan them and stitch them together to make a home, clothing, shoes, war shields, parfleches, and the countless other items made by these people who knew not the meaning of waste.

  Even the men had a gentle side. She had known Cheyenne Zeke’s gentleness, and could tell by the reaction of most of the squaws to their men that although the men showed no affection in front of others, there was a generous serving o
f it behind closed tipis. Abbie constantly felt the guarding and watchful eyes of Cheyenne men on her, especially Swift Arrow’s, since he had assumed the responsibility of protecting her, despite the fact that Abigail knew he would much rather she were not with them at all.

  She felt a new closeness to all of them since her attack and the loss of her baby. The Cheyenne had a great affection for children, and they did not take a miscarriage lightly. She had learned that the small bit of life she had expelled, hardly recognizable, had been wrapped and placed, facing the heavens and the sun, high on the scaffold that would guide its soul to the great Hanging Road in the sky so that animals could not get to it. It was then that Abigail took on new feelings for these people, for their dead were always honored, and the elderly and even the few among them who were mentally afflicted, were treated with gentle patience and great affection.

  To the Cheyenne there was a reason for all life, and every living soul was a part of the Great Spirit’s grand scheme. Humans, animals, and plants were all combined into one spirit so that there was really no distinction. Abbie struggled to really comprehend this outlook through all her waking hours. While she was recovering, she had learned much from her long walks with Gentle Woman, and in spite of her great longing to see Zeke, now she was glad she had decided to move alone among his people. It was the only way she could rid herself of whatever fears and doubts she might have, the only way she could face the Cheyenne on her own and thus face whatever trials might arise because of their different life-style.

  It had been fourteen days since Abbie’s attack. Other than the slight soreness around the pink scar on her abdomen and the faint tracings of nail marks on her face, she had apparently recovered. The bleeding from the miscarriage had stopped. But she felt empty and barren. She had so wanted the baby for Zeke! She prayed constantly that no damage had been done that would prohibit her from having another, and she prayed that Zeke would still want her when he returned. For most of the past two weeks Abbie had ridden on a travois, until yesterday and today. She did not like appearing weak, and although the People understood her affliction, she was anxious to get on her feet and fend for herself.