Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  The Sioux danced and sang with the Cheyenne. They and the northern Cheyenne had accepted Abbie’s presence with surprising ease, for the Cheyenne band with whom she traveled told a good story about the white woman and her heroics. Swift Arrow had taken great care to build Abbie up to insure none of the others turned on her. Since most of them knew and respected Cheyenne Zeke as a great warrior in his own right and Abbie was his woman, she would be accepted.

  The Sioux dressed in brilliant colors and were active participants in the ritual, which was practiced by them long before the Cheyenne began using it. The Cheyenne had learned it from the Sioux, and now they all danced together to frenzied rhythmic drums and chanting, a mixture of men’s singing and wild cries of excited manhood combined with women’s voices trilling and calling back to the men.

  When the participants’ flesh was pierced, Abbie flinched but did not look away or cry out. Her stomach felt weak, and she prayed she would not be sick in front of everyone, for they would laugh at her “white man’s” weakness for such things. She clenched her fists and thought of Zeke, realizing he had suffered this excruciating ritual. Seeing it now she only loved him and understood him even more.

  None of the participants cried out in pain; and Abbie could see pride for Red Eagle in Gentle Woman’s eyes. The men danced and deliberately pulled at the rawhide strips, dragging their weights. It was both horrible and beautiful; and the blowing of whistles, the beating of drums, and the constant chanting seemed to put all the spectators in enough of a trance to help them bear the sight.

  The lodge became a mystic swirl of sweet smoke and singing and blowing of whistles, the participants’ bloody bodies moving more slowly as the hours dragged and the skewers finally began to tear away from their flesh. The singing and drums built to a fever pitch as one by one the participants began to collapse to the floor, some crawling, some not moving at all, for they had not only suffered the agony of the ritual itself, but they had also had nothing to eat or drink for three days.

  The final peace pipe was smoked, and the wounded men were carried to their lodges to be treated, while the priests and sponsors retired to the sweat bath. The ritual was over.

  As Abbie walked out of the lodge in a near stupor, blinking at the sunlight, tears almost came. Her emotion was caused by a combination of things: Zeke’s mysterious absence and the horror of the ritual, combined with an opposite feeling—pure joy at being so accepted by the People. She wore a bleached white tunic, a brand new one, beautifully beaded and painted by Tall Grass Woman, her thanks to Abbie for saving Magpie. Her lovely young face was decorated with the horse and the eagle, and her arms were painted with red flowers. She did not feel like a white woman this day, not after participating in the Sun Dance.

  Someone came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You are all right?” she heard Swift Arrow ask.

  “I… think so.”

  He grinned. “You did well. I expected you to faint.”

  She looked up at him. “I … don’t think you were … far off in your thinking, Swift Arrow.” She put a hand to her head. “I… don’t feel so well.”

  He put a hand to her waist and whisked her to her own tipi, making her sit down inside. “Do not move,” he told her. He left for a moment and returned with a tin cup full of a hot liquid. “Drink this,” he told her, squatting down in front of her. “It is an herb tea. Is good. Many of the People need this sustenance after witnessing the ritual.”

  She took the cup gratefully and sipped the tea, eying the scars on Swift Arrow’s own breasts and upper arms. Some of the participants had the skewers attached in more places than just the chest and back. Swift Arrow had been one of them; he also had scars on his arms and thighs. She closed her eyes and took another sip; then she lowered the cup.

  “Zeke … he didn’t cry out, did he?” she asked.

  Swift Arrow grinned. “Lone Eagle?” He laughed. “He would have plunged his own knife into his own heart if he had cried out! Not that one!”

  “And you?”

  He laughed again. “Would Swift Arrow be a dog soldier if he had cried out? He would have been so ashamed, he would have run off into the hills and never shown his face again!”

  She sighed. “I feel like … like I understand things so much better, Swift Arrow. But I guess it’s my white blood that keeps telling me it’s so … so savage.”

  He sat down beside her, crossing his legs and studying her for a moment. “White man has strange view of what is savage,” he answered. “To sacrifice one’s flesh to the spirits is not savage, woman of Lone Eagle. It is beautiful and right. It is what is in their hearts, and no one is harmed but themselves … and willingly. I will tell you what is savage. Savage is what those white men wanted to do with you when they came to take you away.” She blushed and looked at the ground, nervously fingering the tin cup. “Savage is what Zeke’s white father did to our mother, tearing her small son from her arms,” he went on. “Savage, Abigail, is the Trail of Tears, and what the white men did to the Cherokee and others when they chased them to Indian Territory. Savage is taking those Indians from their homes, robbing them of all their possessions, dividing their families, putting them into prison camps where they were not fed, and where they received just enough water to keep them alive!” She could feel his rising contempt. “Savage is when your little baby throws up from hunger or runs at the bowels from disease, and there is no water to even wash the child because the white man will not give it to you. Savage is when you use your own urine to clean up your child.”

  “Stop it!” she groaned, closing her eyes.

  He put a hand on her arm. “I only try to explain to you, Abigail, why white man’s view of savage is wrong. It is when you torture and murder another man without reason—that is savage! Even in our wars with other tribes, with our hated enemies the Pawnee and the Crow, even then, when we maim and kill and raid and steal, that is not savage. Vengeance, perhaps. Survival, yes. But what the white man does to the Indian is not for vengeance, not even for survival, Abigail. It is only to rid the land they want of something that is in their way, like removing a nest of bees so that one can get to the honey. The bees are there because they belong there. They harm no one. And if the man who wants the honey moves carefully and respects the bees and thanks the bees, he can get the honey without harming them and without getting stung. But white man, he does not want to be careful and respect the bees. He wants the honey now and he does not want to wait, nor does he want the bees to come back. So he tries to drown them or burn them so that he can take all of the honey. But he must remember that the bees will come and sting him, just as the Indian will sting the white men who try to take our hunting grounds! This the white man should know and remember. We are willing to share the land, but we are not willing to give it all over to the white men and never again ride free upon it. Neither will we allow the white man to make us prisoners like the Cherokee and the other tribes of the East. We are not insects to be stepped upon. We are men … and women … children and old people … all walking as one … all here because the Gods put us here. Think about what is savage, Abigail, and you will understand there is nothing savage in our rituals, nor in anything we do. It is simply our religion, and it gives us great power.”

  She took another drink of the tea and looked at him. “You always know what to say to me,” she told him.

  He shrugged. “Then I am wise man.” He grinned again, and she smiled at his matter-of-fact boasting. He rose and went to the tipi entrance. “You rest now,” he told her. “I will not tell the others that you felt ill.”

  She smiled and blushed. “I appreciate that, Swift Arrow.”

  He hesitated at the doorway. “I did not tell you … you are very beautiful in the paintings and the white tunic. Zeke would be proud of you this day. If he was here, he would celebrate the ending of the ritual by spending the rest of the day and night in his tipi with his woman. This is what many of the bucks will be doing.”

  He chuckled
when she blushed even more, fascinated by the way white people turned red.

  He left, and Abbie finished drinking the tea, wishing Zeke were with her to do what Swift Arrow said he would want to do. How she needed his arms around her! His lips caressing her mouth, her breasts, her whole body! How she needed to breathe his sweet scent and open herself to take him inside and know that he was alive!

  The Sun Dance was over. Black Elk was initiated into Swift Arrow’s warrior society, and Red Eagle married Yellow Moon.

  Then the tribe broke up, the Sioux going north and east throughout the Black Hills, and most of the Cheyenne going west to the Powder River north of Fort Laramie for more hunting.

  It was not long before Red Eagle returned to the bottle, and on the third night of his marriage to Yellow Moon, the young girl ran crying from their tipi and fled to her mother’s lodge. Red Eagle had all but raped her because of his whiskey, and he had hit her. Gentle Woman was disgraced, and Red Eagle was whipped by his soldier society for disgracing its honor by disgracing himself and not being able to control his wife. He was given one more chance to mend his ways, and he apologized to Yellow Moon and convinced her to return to their lodge. They were soon happy lovebirds again, and as the band migrated back West, Red Eagle did his best to stay away from the firewater. But always it was a struggle for him.

  Abbie herself headed west with a heavy heart. Zeke still had not returned. Swift Arrow sent out runners to all the tribes and forts. They would try to find out what had happened to Cheyenne Zeke.

  Fourteen

  Danny Monroe rode with head hanging, his horse plodding listlessly. Since they’d left Bent’s Fort and ridden south through the desert toward Santa Fe, several men and one horse had collapsed from the relentless heat and lack of water. The one-hundred-twenty-degree weather and unending sun had sapped their strength and spunk, and even the liveliest and most rugged of the volunteers were suffering. Colonel Kearny pushed them hard, up to thirty-two miles a day, a great distance for such a large group of men loaded down with a dozen six pounders and four twelve-pound howitzers, as well as a host of supply wagons and the job of watching over 459 horses, 3,658 draft mules and nearly 15,000 cattle and oxen. But they continued on, and Danny was one of the lucky ones. He was still feeling well enough to be thinking about their upcoming entry into Santa Fe.

  He wondered if there would be a big battle or if the size of Kearny’s enforcement would spook the Mexicans. In just a few more days, he would find out. Already scouts were bringing in Mexican prisoners: soldiers, shepherds, priests, anyone who might have information about the enemy force in Santa Fe. Dragoons under Capt. Philip St. George Cooke, and James Magoffin, a trader with strong connections in Santa Fe, had been sent ahead of Colonel Kearny with a message for New Mexico’s notorious governor, Manuel Armijo. It urged Armijo to vacate the city and thus avoid fighting and bloodshed. Armijo immediately began appealing for New Mexican volunteers to help defend Santa Fe, and word came back to Kearny that although many New Mexicans preferred American occupation because they liked American trade, Armijo had rounded up enough volunteers to try to keep the soldiers out. Kearny had warned Danny and the others that if there was to be a fight, it would most likely take place at the exit of Apache Canyon, a chasm between high walls of stone. At some points the canyon was only forty feet wide.

  But that lay ahead of them. For now there was the weary job of climbing Raton Pass, another difficult feat. But at least then they would be in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and once they’d gotten through Apache Pass, providing they won the battle there, they would reach Santa Fe and enjoy the fruits of their campaign—some free time in that New Mexican city, time to eat and relax and perhaps even enjoy the company of the local dark-eyed prostitutes before continuing on to claim other territory.

  Jonathan Mack was already in Santa Fe. Without the burden of horses and cattle and supply wagons, the stage line traveled much faster than the oncoming American Army. Already Mack had smooth-talked his way into the confidence of some of the Mexican dignitaries of the city, those who sided with the Americans because they wanted the American trade. Mack had made many promises to send trade their way once the war was over, especially if they helped him establish his own business there.

  He intended to open a bank and lend money to any Mexican merchants who needed backing to build their businesses, for trade was certain to flourish once the city was claimed by the Americans. But immediately he began to buy property from those Mexicans who feared the war and wanted to flee Santa Fe. And already he was guaranteeing loans to businessmen who would, he knew, for one reason or another be unable to repay him. He would later foreclose on their businesses and claim even more property. Some land would simply be hastily vacated by its owners without any legal transfer. This property, Mack would immediately claim, and he would have the proper papers prepared for approval by the United States government once the property became U.S. soil. Kearny would arrive in several more days, and then it would all be settled.

  During his short time in Santa Fe, Mack had already established a strong hand in the city. He had set up shop in a small vacated building in the center of town, advertising it as a land office and a place for information on how Mexicans should handle their property once it was in the hands of the Americans. He kept hired men inside its walls and outside the door as lookouts, for Santa Fe was a torn city, part of its citizens wanting it to become American soil, and the rest staunchly insisting that it should forever remain Mexican. Picking sides in either direction was dangerous, but the smooth-talking Mack had done a good job of convincing both sides that whatever happened, he was there to help them. Generous contributions to businesses and free whiskey, purchased from a wagonful brought in by an American trader, helped Mack glide through business dealings and win friends in both factions.

  Now he only had to sit and wait. Soon a Mexican runner would arrive with the gold from the smuggled guns, and he would send a coded message back east to send out more. He was certain he could find plenty of aimless drifters in Santa Fe to do his bidding, men who would be glad to help get his guns to Mexico for gold and whiskey. And if the war ended quickly and the Mexicans no longer needed rifles, then he would simply sell them to the Indians. Indians would much rather have the long rifles than the gold that was in their mountains. Mack would gladly take the gold and valuable stones in trade.

  Not many white men realized yet how much wealth lay in the hills of the West, and even Mack only suspected. There were tales of Indians using pure gold to buy whiskey and to make jewelry, but not many white men had yet dared to penetrate Indian Territory to dig for the ore. Mack knew, however, that it was only a matter of time. And when gold fever began to rise, the senator would already own, through legal government paperwork, much of the land on which the gold would likely be found. Jonathan Mack would see to that.

  Zeke kept a low profile once he entered Santa Fe. In a city torn by war, a man had to be careful, and Zeke had to be especially careful because Mexicans had little use for Indians. So he entered the city wearing Mexican clothes that had belonged to one of the outlaws he’d murdered. He wore a brightly colored cape and a large sombrero, and with his dark skin, he easily passed for a Mexican since a casual glance was all that most people cared to bestow on this dark and dangerous-looking man who wore so many weapons.

  Zeke was determined to learn quickly whether or not Jonathan Mack was staying in the city, and, if he was, where. For he wanted to get his money and his vengeance. Then he intended to go directly back to Abbie. He had been gone a long time, perhaps too long. He had enough money, taken from the gun runners, to bribe anyone who might have information he needed to know. Once he knew Mack’s location, it would only be a matter of waiting for the right moment. Mack would never suspect anything had gone wrong, for by now the Mexican payoff man would have reached him with the gold. For all Mack knew, the guns had been delivered to the proper party, and the driver called Grimey and the man called Cheyenne Zeke would be dead. But
soon he would find out differently!

  Maria, the prostitute, lay naked and spread-eagled on Jonathan Mack’s bed while he gently rubbed her voluptuous dark skin with sweet oil, lingering on her breasts and then running down to her inner thighs. Maria kept her eyes closed. Mack’s small, white body repulsed her. His face was handsome, but his hands were like a woman’s, and his privates were not like other men’s. When she felt of them, she could tell he had only one lump there instead of two, and he was much smaller than other men, more like a young boy. But he paid her well, and she was permitted to come to his plush, expensive hotel room to serve him, so she put up with him.

  “I love your dark skin,” he told her as he toyed with her until she began to groan. “You make me want to devour you, Maria!”

  He bent down to take his pleasure in her, making growling sounds, his small, naked body curled between her legs. For a moment the pair were both lost in separate sexual fantasies; then the door suddenly burst open.

  Maria gasped and moved away from Mack, and at the same time Mack turned, shocked at the sudden, unexpected intrusion. His eyes widened and his pale face became even whiter when he saw Cheyenne Zeke standing in the doorway!

  Mack’s ashen face quickly began to turn crimson as Zeke stood there staring in revulsion at his girlish body. Maria scooted wide-eyed to the head of the bed while Mack grabbed a blanket and wiped his mouth with it before he covered himself.

  “Surprised to see me, Mack?” Zeke sneered.

  “I—” The man swallowed, then put on a smile. “You … only startled me, Zeke, that’s all. I mean … a man isn’t often interrupted like this when he’s in bed with his whore.” He wiped his mouth again, his face so red Zeke thought the man’s blood vessels might burst.