Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  “You know why I’m here, Mack,” Zeke said threateningly, “and you’re not just embarrassed because I saw your stinking little white body. You’re scared because you know I shouldn’t be here. But I am, Mack! You tricked me, and you owe me!”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  Zeke pulled his knife and Mack’s eyes widened. Maria whimpered, and Zeke glanced at her for a moment, taking in her voluptuous dark body and feeling a vague need of his own. But that would have to wait.

  “Tell the woman to get out of here!” he told Mack. “And if she sends anyone up, I’ll kill her.”

  Maria nodded and jumped off the bed, grabbing her clothes and running out the door. Zeke kicked it shut.

  “You know, Mack, I’m not sure I’ll kill you after all. There is honor only in killing brave men … real men. You aren’t brave, and you’re a sick excuse for a man. You might as well be wearing a dress. But since you choose to wear pants, I suggest you put them on and walk with me to your office. I want my money!”

  Mack swallowed and slowly got off the bed, reddening again when he had to drop the blanket in order to dress. Zeke literally grimaced with revulsion as he watched the man, and he wondered how the whore could have let him touch her. Mack buttoned his pants and put on his shirt, breathing deeply to regain his self-control as he dressed. “Do you really think I’ll let you get out of town alive?” he grumbled to Zeke as he turned to face him.

  “Who’s going to kill me? You?” Zeke asked with a sneer, towering over the man and bringing his big blade up against the side of Mack’s face.

  Mack paled even more. “A lot of men in this town work for me, half-breed!” he threatened. “You use that blade, and you’ll be in big trouble!”

  Zeke instantly grasped Mack around the throat with his left hand and shoved him hard against the wall, pinning him there easily. He put the flat of his blade over Mack’s lips and let the edge of it touch the underside of the man’s nose just enough to make it sting.

  “Don’t you threaten me, you bastard!” Zeke growled, keeping his voice low so no one could hear. His hand was so tight on Mack’s throat that the man could not call out and had to struggle just to breathe. “I went through back country worse than hell to deliver those wagons! I risked my life against Apaches for them! And I didn’t mind that, Mr. Jonathan Mack, because I agreed to do a job and I needed the money. I was honest about my end of it, but not you. Because of you a very good friend of mine was murdered in cold blood! Because of you I took a bullet that would have killed me if it hadn’t been one inch off, and I took a beating.” He pricked Mack’s nose just slightly, enough to make the man’s eyes bulge with fright. “But that wasn’t the worst, Mack,” Zeke went on. “Because of you I spent a night in a dark pit filled with snakes! Do you know what that’s like, Mack? It’s just about the worst thing a man can go through, and goddamn you, you’re going to give me my eight hundred dollars and Grimey’s four hundred to boot, or I’ll carve you up like a fresh-killed hog!” He moved back and threw the man to the floor, where Mack lay stunned for a moment. “Like I say, I’d kill you, but you’re not worth it, Mack. There would be nothing honorable in ending your life.” He jerked the man back up. “Besides, I need you. I need my money. I may not kill you, but by God if you don’t pay up I’ll sure as hell make you bleed good!” He gave the man a shove. “Let’s go—and use the back stairway. You make one wrong move and I’ll sink this blade right into your spine! You got that, Mr. Lily-hands? Move wrong, and you’ll be paralyzed for life!”

  Mack swallowed and rubbed at his throat, a cold sweat covering his face. He blinked back tears and took a handkerchief from his pants pocket, holding it to the small cut between his lip and his nose. “You … you cut me!” he said in a shaking voice. His hands trembled as he took the hanky away and looked at the blood.

  Zeke only grinned. “That’s just a taste,” Zeke answered. “You’ll be crawling to the doctor for plenty of stitches if you don’t get over to your office and get me my money. And I want it in gold or in American dollars.”

  Mack sniffed and struggled to keep from bursting into tears of fright and embarrassment. He dabbed at his nose again; then he picked up his suitcoat and put it on, straightening the lapels and smoothing back his hair with his hand. Struggling to regain his composure, he managed to move his shaking legs and walked out the door ahead of Zeke.

  As they went down the back stairs and out into an alley, Zeke watched every corner and every shadow. But no one disturbed them. Jonathan Mack had not counted on this untimely intrusion, so he had no personal body guards to help him. But when they approached his office, Zeke saw an armed man in front of the doorway.

  “Who’s that?” Zeke asked.

  “I keep a night guard,” Mack replied. “Right now there isn’t much law in Santa Fe. A man has to protect his interests.”

  “Well right now your interest is your own life,” Zeke told him. “See that we don’t have any trouble.” He poked Mack’s back lightly with the tip of his blade, and Mack remembered how well Zeke had used a knife in the tavern at Independence. The guard pushed his hat back and nodded when he recognized Mack heading toward him, but he looked suspiciously at Zeke.

  “Everything all right, boss?” he asked.

  “Yes, Swanson. I … uh … I owe this gentleman some money, and he is anxious to leave town … so I told him I’d pay him off right away.”

  The guard stepped aside. “If you say so, sir. You want me to come inside with you?”

  Zeke pricked Mack with the knife again.

  “Uh … no, Swanson. It won’t be necessary. I assure you.”

  Swanson shrugged. In the darkness, and with Mack standing between him and Zeke, the guard did not see the knife in Zeke’s hand. Zeke folded his arms momentarily, hiding the blade under his left arm as Mack unlocked the door and went inside, then he quickly followed and closed the door. To his relief, he noticed the window shades were drawn. That was good. When the lantern was lit, no one would be able to see inside. Mack struck a match he’d retrieved from his suitcoat jacket where he kept them handy for the thin cigars he favored. The light of the match revealed the lantern, and he lit it. Then he led Zeke to a back room where he kept a safe.

  “You can’t kill me now,” he told Zeke as he knelt and began turning the dial of the combination safe. “Swanson has seen you. You can’t even cut me up, half-breed. Either way you’d still be in trouble.”

  “I’ve been in trouble before, and I take great pleasure in using this blade on my enemies.”

  Mack took out a small gunny sack. He stood up, turned, and put it on the table. “Perhaps you do, Zeke,” he answered, feeling more confident and taking on his old, smooth air. “But you wouldn’t want to get in trouble now, would you? I mean, if you get in trouble, you might not get back to your precious Abbie!”

  This time it was Mack who grinned, as he noted the uncertainty that appeared in Zeke’s eyes. “How do you know about Abbie?”

  Mack’s grin widened as he opened the money sack. “I believe you … uh … wrote her a note before you left Independence. I asked the man you gave it to to show it to me … just to make sure you weren’t in some way double-crossing me.”

  Zeke’s heart pounded. “Did she get the note?” he asked.

  Mack shrugged. “How would I know? Maybe so … maybe not.”

  Zeke grabbed the man by the lapels, the tip of his knife touching Mack’s earlobe. “Did she get the note!” he growled.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Mack replied calmly, breaking into a sweat again. “Why don’t you just take your money and get the hell back to her and find out, half-breed!”

  Zeke let go of him reluctantly, giving the man a shove. He watched carefully as Mack took bills out of the sack and began counting them.

  “There. Twelve hundred dollars,” he told Zeke. “Or do you plan to use that knife to threaten me into giving you more?”

  “I’m not a thief, Mack. I only want what belongs t
o me.”

  “Well, now you have it, so you can leave.”

  Zeke shoved his knife into its sheath and then dumped out the rest of the money in the gunny sack, putting his own money into the sack to carry it. “Many thanks, Mack. And now I can tell you that your guns never reached the Mexicans, so you have nothing to brag to them about. You may have trouble convincing them to pay you any more money for smuggled guns.”

  Mack’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? They’ve already been here and paid me.”

  “Sure they have. But the man with the gold left before they knew I’d survived that snake pit. I caught up with them, Mack.” He grinned. “Not one man is alive … and your precious wagons full of guns and whiskey are blown all to hell! I expect you might find parts of them clear over in Texas!” Zeke’s grin widened as he looked at Mack’s enraged face, and he reached across Mack’s desk to pick up one of the thin cigars from the supply of the smokes Mack seemed to keep everywhere. Then he took a match from Mack’s coat pocket, while the man stood there rigid with anger. Zeke struck the match and lit the cigar. Having taken a deep drag, he blew the smoke into Mack’s face. “You’re right, Mack,” he told the man. “These are damned good cigars.” He walked to the back door. “I appreciate the job, Mack. But don’t ask me again. The pay just isn’t good enough.”

  He walked out the door, and Mack stood staring after him, his body trembling with rage. He considered sending his guard after Zeke, but Cheyenne Zeke was good with a knife, and he apparently had an uncanny way of surviving the worst attacks. If he sent men after the half-breed, and Zeke survived, Mack knew that would mean certain death for him.

  He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. Picking Cheyenne Zeke for a driver had been a great blunder. He felt weak and faint from the aftershock of Zeke’s threats, and he put his head down on his arms and wept, for he had truly thought Zeke would kill him.

  * * *

  Zeke kept his sack of money inside his parfleche and carried the parfleche with him as he approached a supply store. He was more anxious than ever to get back to poor Abbie, who probably had not even gotten his note. His mind was full of her, his body ached for her, and his heart feared she might not even be there when he arrived. After all these weeks, it was possible she had given him up for dead, and perhaps she had asked Swift Arrow to see her to Bent’s Fort or to some other place from which she could find escort back to Tennessee. Yet, surely she knew enough to give him some time. She must be aware that he might be in trouble, but that he would come back to her. He always came back to her. He would leave today and ride hard all the way, leaving little time for sleeping or eating. He would just ride and ride until he had her in his arms!

  But first he must purchase a good horse with some of his money … and more important than that, he wanted to take her something. They would have much to talk about when he saw her again, for when he’d left, the question of whether or not she could live among the Cheyenne had been left hanging. That problem was yet to be resolved, but Zeke thought he knew of a way to resolve it. For now, he could not go back to her without a present … something pretty for his woman … a peace offering … a love gift.

  He entered the supply store. He would need a good stock of nonperishable food for the hard ride back, but most of all he needed the gift. His eyes scanned the stock as an American merchant came out from the back of the store, one of the few Americans left who were allowed to conduct business in Santa Fe. The man eyed Zeke suspiciously. Tiring of the Mexican clothing, Zeke had decided to wear his own buckskins. Since he was about to leave the city, he had decided to take the risk of being recognized as an Indian. He wanted only to be wearing his own clothes and to get out of town.

  “Something I can do for you, mister?” the storekeeper asked.

  Zeke looked over at the man. “Maybe. I’m looking for a present … for a woman … something pretty, not practical.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t have a lot to choose from, I’m afraid. What with this impending war and all, not many shipments are getting through. Fact is, if Mexico wins, that will be the end of my business. I’ll have to fold up and go back East.”

  “Too bad,” Zeke replied absently, walking over and fingering some material.

  “Oh, now, material is something all squaws like, sir! Especially the brightly colored pieces. Perhaps you could choose some beads to go with it?”

  Zeke eyed the man darkly, catching the note of derision when he used the word squaw. But he brushed off the insult and searched around the store. His eyes rested on a tiny gold box, its seams implanted with brightly colored stones with a deep red stone in the center of the lid. He walked over to the box and picked it up, then opened it, and to his surprise it began tinkling out a tune, a lovely melody in the rhythm of a waltz. He watched it for a moment in fascination. A music box! It was the perfect gift. Abbie would love a music box! It would be a little something from her white world—something small and easy to carry … something of beauty and grace.

  “I’ll take this,” he told the clerk.

  “But … sir …” The man came closer. “Excuse me, sir, but that isn’t too practical—for a squaw, that is. That’s more of a gift for a white woman. No offense intended.”

  Zeke closed the lid and set the box on the counter. “I said I wanted something frivolous, not practical. And I’m perfectly aware that it’s a white woman’s gift,” he told the man. Then he grinned. “That’s why I’m buying it.”

  The man looked at him curiously for a moment, then arched his eyebrows at the realization of what Zeke was saying. “Oh!” he exclaimed. He looked Zeke up and down, then frowned. “Oh,” he said again, more softly.

  “Wrap it good so’s it doesn’t break,” Zeke told him. “And I’ll be needing some flour and jerky, a few cans of beans, and a little sugar.”

  The man stared at him for a moment, then decided this tall, dark man who carried a huge blade on his weapons belt was perhaps not a man to argue with. His mind raced with curiosity, but he asked no questions as he carefully wrapped the music box. He had already learned that in a lawless city like Santa Fe, you did not ask a drifter too many questions. He collected Zeke’s things and put them all on the counter.

  Zeke paid him and left. He walked to the stables, to the sturdy roan mare he had purchased, and began packing his gear, glad that he had been able to save most of his belongings when he had caught up with the Mexicans.

  He grinned again at the memory of the wagons exploding, and at the picture of Dancing Moon lying tied to the tree with bleeding Z’s on her cheeks and a rattler on her belly. Now they were all dead and he had his money and a pretty gift for Abbie. Now he could go home to his woman! There was only one thing left to do to top off his day, and that was to get his final vengeance for the snake pit!

  Jonathan Mack entered the reporter’s office with his usual air of importance. He had fully regained his composure since Cheyenne Zeke’s attack of the night before. Now Zeke was gone, and good riddance!

  Mack knew Billy Walton well, for he had made a point of knowing everyone of influence in Santa Fe; and who could be more influential than a reporter who was responsible for getting articles back to Washington for the Eastern newspapers. Billy Walton was here to cover the news of Col. Stephen Watts Kearny’s entry into Santa Fe, which everyone knew was now imminent.

  Mack offered Billy one of his expensive cigars and sat down across the desk from the man.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Mack?” Billy asked, lighting the cigar. “Do you have more news for Senator Garvey?”

  “I do,” Mack replied, checking out his well-manicured nails. “And I want you to send a story back East, Billy. I want you to do your usual good job of … uh … presenting the truth, if you know what I mean.”

  Billy smiled through thin lips. He liked the feeling of importance he got out here in the West. “I think I know what you mean,” he replied with a wink. “Put the words in my mouth, Mr. Mack.”

 
; Mack grinned. “Billy, I want you to tell our Eastern readers that two wagons full of whiskey I was having shipped west to start my saloon business were attacked and destroyed by Cheyenne Indians. One of the men who had been along on the trip and who had managed to hide from the Indians just came to me with the message. The other driver was viciously tortured to death.”

  Billy nodded. “I’ll get word to the senator and to my newspaper.”

  Mack pulled out a wad of bills. “Do a good job, Billy. I want everyone to know it was Cheyennes—that they’re raiding and stealing and killing. I want everyone to know that they stole all my whiskey—killed my driver for it! I want to make damned sure the people back East know what’s going on out here … and that something has to be done about the savages! You could even throw in that there are rumors the Cheyenne and other redskins have been attacking ranches and raping white women. Understand? I want to make as much trouble for those bastards as I can! It’s time to start ridding the West of those scavengers!”

  “I get the message, Mr. Mack,” Billy replied, thumbing through the bills. “I’ll do a good job.”

  Mack stood up and put out his hand. “Thanks, Billy. I knew you’d come through.” They shook hands and Mack left. Billy chuckled and thumbed through the bills again. This untamed land provided a lot of material for a struggling reporter. Perhaps it would lead him to fame. And while he was at it, he would make a lot of money from people who were willing to pay well to have a reporter influence the right people in the East to aid their various causes.

  Mack walked across the street to his own office, where people had begun arriving to discuss loans and land deals. He nodded politely to them, walking through the outer room where they waited and into his office, telling them he would be with them shortly.

  Once in his own working office, he remembered the night before, and the horror of Cheyenne Zeke’s knife against his face, the strength of the man’s handhold on him, the awful hatred in the man’s eyes.