Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  He shook off his terror, grateful that the experience was over and he was still alive. Cheyenne Zeke had left, and there was nothing more to worry about. He breathed deeply with relief and smiled. His planned news stories would cause the Cheyenne some trouble when the news broke back East. That was fine!

  He looked curiously at a gunny sack on his desk. Apparently someone had already been there and had delivered some gold, perhaps one of the investors who waited outside. He grinned, went to his desk, and opened the sack, reaching inside.

  Then he heard the awful hiss and felt the sickening pain of fangs sinking deeply into his wrist. He screamed in horror, his knees immediately weakening and his throat constricting. People came running in, but by then Mack’s eyes were bulging and his throat was so tight that he could not utter the words Cheyenne Zeke. He tried desperately to tell them who had done this thing to him, but he could not talk.

  He fell to the floor, and people screamed and ran out when they saw a rattler crawl over him and slither under the back door.

  “What a pity!” someone safe outside said. “I wonder how a snake got into his office!”

  “You know them devils!” another replied. “You can find the damned things anyplace out here!”

  Farther down the street a tall, dark man sat astride a roan mare and watched the crowd gather around Jonathan Mack’s office. He saw the reporter across the street running toward the crowd, and he smiled.

  “I said I wouldn’t kill you, Mack,” Zeke spoke up quietly. “But I never said I wouldn’t let something else end your life. I’d say that was a fitting way for a snake-bellied coward like you to die!”

  He turned his horse and rode north. Now he could go home. To the People. To Abbie! His vengeance had been fulfilled!

  Fifteen

  Abbie sat near a crystal stream watching a bluejay flit among the aspen trees. Already, the leaves were showing a hint of yellow, for it was now September, the month the Cheyenne called the Drying Grass Moon. Her heart was heavy, for some of the Indian runners had returned with no news of Zeke.

  She turned to watch the other women bathe in the shallow waters of the stream that ran through a hollow not far from where the village was camped. The stream was fed by a roaring cataract several yards away. Cascading waters danced over rocks and splashed merrily downstream, bubbling music in a land full of the melody of nature. They were now in the foothills of the Rockies, and it was a beautiful, green place, where waterfalls and streams and rivers in abundance mingled with strange, bubbling mud holes that had an odd smell. In some places there were pools where the water was so warm it was as though it had been heated on a stove.

  The Cheyenne said this was a place where the gods lived. Indeed, it seemed like such a place—a world of beauty and color and mystery, where most of the rock was yellow, and some of the mudholes were a brilliant turquoise or purple. But Abbie could not bring herself to appreciate the beauty today. Her heart did not dance with the waters or sing with the birds. Perhaps it would never sing again. Perhaps Cheyenne Zeke would not come back this time after all.

  She wandered down toward the raging waterfall. Its thunderous movement eased her pain. She removed her tunic and touched her toes in the cool water. It felt good, for this September day was very hot. All around the waterfall and the stream, Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors were on guard while the women bathed themselves and their children. The men frequently called out teasing remarks, saying that they were going to come to the stream and cast their eyes upon the beautiful Cheyenne maidens; and the women laughed and screamed and shouted teasing remarks back to them.

  “Come, then!” They bantered with the men. “We are ready!”

  But Abbie knew the men would not come. They would not even look. For they were men of honor, and each knew another’s wife or lover was bathing, and he had no right to look upon the other man’s woman.

  Abbie stepped farther into the stream, approaching the waterfall and carrying the bar of lye soap she had had with her since arriving at that first Cheyenne camp with Zeke. The soap was worn down now to a flat piece only a fraction of an inch thick. If Zeke did not return soon, she would ask Swift Arrow to take her to a supply fort where she could purchase more soap with the money Zeke had left her, for although she had learned to live with the elements, she still liked to use real soap rather than sand or the cedar leaves used in sweat baths.

  But what would she do when Zeke’s money ran out? What would she do if he did not come back? Soon she would have to make a decision. She loved the Cheyenne … loved this land. Still, she was white. To stay among the Cheyenne without Zeke would only bring them more trouble. She would have to support herself, and she could not do that without a husband—an official provider and protector. She could not forever be a burden to Zeke’s family, nor could she be practical like the Cheyenne women and become some Cheyenne man’s second wife.

  It was not uncommon for a Cheyenne man to take in a widowed squaw, especially if she was his wife’s sister. This was a practical move, not for a buck’s sexual pleasure, as most whites thought. This was an angry, vicious land, and survival was the key word. Death lurked everywhere, and preservation of the People was the all-important goal. If a woman lost her man, and another man was willing to take on the burden of an extra wife and children, for whom he would have to provide food and protection, then the woman went to him—for survival. But never was a woman forced into such an arrangement. It was a free decision, and seldom was the first wife jealous; for then there were two women to do the chores and to help one another with the care of the children.

  At times Abbie had witnessed a Cheyenne man casually touching his wife’s sister, on some of these occasions in the presence of the sister’s husband. But Abbie had learned that this was the Cheyenne way of preparing for the very real possibility that one day the sister might be a part of the household—their way for a man to demonstrate his capacity to love and to show his willingness to take on another family. The teasing and joking shared in the confines of the tipis was a means of preventing jealousy, and a way to create a situation in which a dual marriage, if called for, could work. But seldom did a man take a second wife only for the sake of having two wives, for an additional wife was a tremendous burden.

  Sex among the Cheyenne was viewed with beauty as well as practicality. The unmarried women were chaste. Even after marriage, a young wife had the right to refuse her husband’s desires until she felt she was ready to become a woman. A man almost never violated that right, for to do so was to bring dishonor to himself and his family. Incest was strictly forbidden and was cause for a beating and possible banishment from the family, perhaps even from the band. Relatives never married, no matter how distant; this was forbidden.

  And there was a lot of love. Abbie sensed it strongly. In most of the Cheyenne families she had come to know, there was a strong bond between the man and the woman, and a very intense love for the children. In times of danger, women and children were the first to be protected, and after them, the old people. The warriors were prepared to die willingly in order to provide such protection. It was their honorable duty.

  These were the beautiful People that Abbie would probably have to leave. She did not want to go. She loved them.

  She walked behind the waterfall, enjoying a private retreat in the little cave that left enough space behind the falls for her body to stand without being directly under the cascading water which splashed up from the rocks and wet her down. She lathered up with her soap. Behind the roaring waterfall she could hear no sound, but she knew someone would come for her if there was danger, so she did not worry.

  “Jesus, help me know what to do,” she prayed. She put her head back and let the water soak it. She did not love any other Cheyenne man, and she was certain she could never love any man in the way she had loved Cheyenne Zeke. She and Zeke had something very special. They had suffered together. He had been there when she’d lost her family, they had fought outlaws together, and she had dug a bullet ou
t of his side. He had removed the Crow arrow from her back and had cut and stitched her and burned out the infection.

  They had been through so many hardships and heartaches in the short time they had been together, but most important of all, Cheyenne Zeke had been her first man. How could there ever be another? She could not marry for practical purposes as some Cheyenne women had to do. She had too much white blood in her veins for that. Nor could she be some man’s second wife. No. Never could she share her man. She had too much white blood in her for that, also.

  But soon she must decide. She knew the only sensible decision was to go to one of the forts and find a guide to take her back home to Tennessee. She had an aunt there who would take her in. But that sounded so dull now. How could she ever go back to such a life after what she had been through! It seemed impossible. And how could she leave this savage land she had learned to love? She was white, and yet she was not white. She didn’t know anymore what she was, except that she was Cheyenne Zeke’s woman, and that was all she wanted to be.

  She bent to her knees and wept, while the cascading waters splashed back upon her and rinsed her body. What was left now to live for? She felt like a half-breed herself, belonging to two different worlds yet not truly fitting in either, for her heart and soul had learned a different way, and her body had been claimed by the man who had put her in this predicament. She did not blame him for it. She only loved him; but he was not there, and she was alone with her decision.

  She had no idea how long she was behind the waterfall crying and praying, no idea that outside secret bird calls had been exchanged, sending coded messages to the warriors who had then signaled the women to leave the stream. By the time Abbie emerged from behind the waterfall, everyone was gone. She did not notice right away. She wrung her hair and walked to her blanket, picking it up and putting it around her, thinking about the fact that the waterfall had torn her little piece of soap from her hands.

  For some reason, the lost soap made her even more sad, as though a remnant from the life she’d once known was gone forever and she had lost the old Abbie in the process. She forced back tears as she sat down on the grass. She must decide. Tomorrow the Cheyenne would head due south, hunting buffalo along the way. Most of the northern Cheyenne and all of the Sioux already had left. Zeke’s family and their band, accompanied by some of the other Cheyenne bands, would return to the Arkansas River in southern Colorado Territory—to Hinta Nagi, the Big Timbers. There they would spend the winter. Abbie could not be a burden to them during those harsh months, so the wise thing to do was to go to Bent’s Fort after the People arrived at the Arkansas. There she could find a scout to take her back home.

  The thought of doing this wrung at her heart, but what else was there to do? She wanted to cry again, but she had no more tears to shed. She felt small and alone and drained of all energy and life. Cheyenne Zeke was her life. Without him she felt empty.

  She rose wearily and dropped the blanket, preparing to put on her tunic, but she suddenly realized she heard no screaming and laughter from the others. She looked around and found no one in the stream or on the banks! They had vanished!

  Her heart began pounding with fear, and she grabbed up the blanket again, covering her nakedness. Where had everyone gone? Why did no one warn her or come for her? Had an enemy arrived at camp? Surely it was so, for the women and children had vanished!

  She swallowed her fear, telling herself to think clearly. She would not be afraid. She would simply pick up her things and hurry back to the village. Perhaps they just did not realize she was missing. After all, she had been hidden behind the waterfall. And yet, Swift Arrow would surely be aware of her absence. Perhaps he was dead! Perhaps the village had been attacked and enemy Crow or Pawnee had snuck up on the women and children and had stolen them!

  Her breathing quickened when there was a rustling in the bushes behind her. She whirled and stared in that direction, her eyes wide with fright.

  “It’s all right, Abbie girl,” came the voice. “I sent them all away.”

  Her stomach tightened. It sounded like Zeke’s voice, but did she dare believe it was he? Was someone fooling her?

  “Zeke?” Abbie’s own voice sounded strange to her.

  There was another rustling and suddenly he emerged, leading the roan mare, wearing the handsome smile that she loved. “Have I ever told you how pretty you are when your hair is wet?” he asked her softly.

  She stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, chills sweeping through her at the sight of him. He wore the white buckskin shirt that she loved, and his long, black hair was clean and shining. It hung long and loose, with a colorful ornament braided into one side.

  “Zeke!” she whispered. She ran to him then, opening the blanket and enfolding him in it as he embraced her, his hands gently caressing her naked body as they meshed tightly together. He embraced her so firmly she could barely breathe, and she broke into uncontrolled sobs of joy, blubbering something about thinking he was dead, while his lips gently caressed her neck and his very life pulsed through her veins. “Zeke! Zeke!” she cried, her arms tight around his neck. Was it truly Cheyenne Zeke holding her … whispering her name?

  “Abbie girl!”

  Those were blessedly sweet words. Only her Zeke called her that! His lips moved over her neck, her cheek, her eyes, her mouth. Oh, yes, there it was! That wonderful, sweet kiss that belonged to only one man! Her own lips parted in welcome, and her hands let go of the blanket so that she could grasp his hair, touch it! Feel it!

  “Ne-mehotatse!” He groaned the word passionately.

  The blanket fell from her body, but it didn’t matter! All that mattered was that Zeke was here, alive and holding her! He had come back! He always came back! His lips left her mouth and moved again to her neck, her shoulder, his hardness pressing against her in great yearning for his woman, and both knew without speaking that whatever decision they made, they must be together, for their togetherness was life, and being apart was like death. Hard feelings and misunderstandings were gone, and there was only a man and a woman and their love!

  He set her on her feet, but she clung to him so tightly he could not remove her arms from around his neck.

  “Don’t let go!” she pleaded. “Don’t ever let go!”

  “It’s all right, Abbie girl,” he told her quietly.

  “No! If I let go you’ll be gone! I know it! I’m just dreaming!”

  “You’re not dreaming, Abbie. And there you go again, making me out to be something I’m not, talking about dreams and such.”

  “Oh, Zeke, hold me just a little longer!”

  He gladly kept his arms around her, and she kissed his neck, breathing in the wonderful, manly scent of him, running her hands across his broad, strong shoulders. He moved his lips back to her own in one long, lingering, hungry kiss, his gentle hands moving over her bare hips again. Then he swung her up in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and asked no questions as he bent down and picked up her blanket while she still clung to him. It did not matter at the moment where he had been or why. All that mattered was that he was here now; he needed his woman and his woman needed him. There would be time later for questions and answers.

  He carried her to a spot near the waterfall where Yucca bushes hid them.

  “You’ve got to let go for a minute, Abbie,” he told her with a soft smile. He kissed her hair and set her on her feet, and she finally released him. He threw out the blanket; then he turned to look at her, his eyes running over her beautiful nakedness. He smiled as she began to blush, but before Abbie dropped her eyes she had seen the tears in his own eyes and the tired, drawn look about him. Wherever he’d been, it had been just as hard on him as it had on her, and it was obvious he’d ridden hard to get back to her.

  “I thought … maybe you’d be gone,” he told her, his voice strained.

  She looked back up at him. “And I thought you weren’t coming back!” she answered.

  He grasped her face between his
big hands. “Don’t I always come back, Abbie girl?”

  She studied the dark eyes that she loved so much. “If I shouldn’t doubt that, then you shouldn’t have doubted that I would be here waiting,” she answered.

  He kissed her forehead. “Then let’s neither of us doubt the other again … in any way.”

  She smiled through her tears. “Oh, Zeke, I’m so sorry for what I said before you left!”

  “Hush, Abbie.” He kissed her lips to still them, and this time his kiss was more urgent, a hungry, demanding kiss that made her whimper. When he finally released her lips, he picked her up in his arms and knelt to lay her on the blanket. She watched as he straightened and removed the white buckskin shirt. She studied his broad chest, feeling a new respect for him at the sight of the scars left on his chest and arms from his own participation in the Sun Dance ritual. In the afternoon sun, his bronze skin glistened with the heat of desire, and she felt a wonderful pain in her groin at the sight of his hard muscles and flat stomach, and that which was most manly about him when he removed his buckskin leggings and his loincloth.

  She closed her eyes then and blushed. In the next moment his lips were covering her mouth again, and his body was pressed tightly against her own—the wonderful sensation of skin against skin. His breathing quickened as his lips left her mouth and traveled down her throat.

  “God, Abbie, I have to have you!” he groaned, moving down to taste the taut nipples of her breasts. “I’ve thought about you this way every night for so very long!”

  “And I’ve thought about you,” she whispered, reaching down and touching his hair as his lips moved over her belly and caressed her thighs.

  The talking was finished then. There was only the glorious touching, the eager, hungry, intimate sharing of two lovers who have long been apart. It mattered little what he did to her, for this was Zeke. He was back, and he needed his woman. She would let him have whatever he wanted, realizing her own sweet dreams and intense pleasure in the giving and taking.