The biggest profiteers were those who traded the diluted whiskey, especially those who were unlicensed and who undercut the legal traders. And Zeke knew it could only get worse. For as long as the Indians failed to understand the white man’s thinking and the value of the white man’s dollar and as long as there were white men eager to get rich quick, there would be cheating and eventually trouble. But the imminent trouble was the murder of Charles Bent and the eagerness of the Cheyenne to avenge it. Charles Bent had been their friend, a good white man, one of the few who had been fair with them.
The arguing continued, and on the perimeter of those involved in heated conversation, warriors circled on horses, holding up bows and lances and belting out war cries. Zeke managed to make his way into the group of traders and trappers, many of whom he knew from his own days of mountain wandering and from the days of the great northwest rendezvous. There were solemn handshakings and greetings, like those friends used to greet one another at a man’s funeral. Zeke shook William Bent’s hand and managed to get his attention.
“You can’t let the Cheyenne get involved in this, Bent,” he told the man. “They’ll end up getting blamed for the wrong things. You know how stories get twisted.”
“I don’t intend to let them get involved, Zeke,” the man replied. His eyes were red and tired-looking. “This is a white man’s war. They don’t need to get into it.”
“I’m sorry about your brother. We were all fond of him.”
William Bent nodded. “I need your help in calming down your red brothers. I want them to go back home and stay out of this, Zeke. I have plenty of white trappers and traders here willing to go to Taos with me. And I hear a Colonel Price has already been dispatched in that direction. We have all the help we need.”
“Good. I’d come along myself, except I’ve got a woman to look out for now.”
Bent nodded. “I understand. And I don’t blame you a bit. When am I going to meet this little lady you married, Zeke?”
“Soon, Bent,” Zeke replied with a proud smile. “I’ll be bringing her in soon.”
“Good!” Bent replied. “I look forward to it. We’ll give her a royal welcome!”
A shot rang out, interrupting their conversation, and both knew it was time to bring some kind of order to the meeting. Zeke, William Bent, and the trappers spread out among the Cheyenne, signaling for them to dismount and gather together for a powwow.
General commotion continued to prevail, even after the men managed to gather the Cheyenne into a circle with William Bent at the center and his trader friends around him. Bent held up his hand, signaling the Cheyenne to be still and to listen. The angry warriors, always eager for a good fight, managed to calm down enough to listen, but their blood ran hot and they were restless for a fight.
“This is the white man’s war!” Bent shouted to them, using their own tongue. “It would be bad for you if you joined it.”
“We kill the Mexicans!” one of the warriors shouted. “We avenge your brother’s murder!”
“No. That is my job. I am white. My brother was white. My trader friends here are white. It is our duty to avenge the murder, not yours. Your duty is to avenge the deaths of your own people, and to go home and protect your wives and children and provide them with food. You have your own enemies to worry about: the Crow, the Pawnee. Listen to your half-blood brother, Zeke, who has warned you not to get involved in this war. He knows. He understands the trouble it could bring you.”
“How can helping our white friend avenge his brother’s death bring us harm?” another shouted angrily.
“Listen to me, my red friends,” Bent replied. “Most white men do not know a Cheyenne from a Sioux or a Comanche or an Apache. Many Comanches, even some of the Arapahos that you call friend, have been aiding the Mexicans in this war. They do it because the Mexicans give them guns and whiskey. Some do it just because they like war. But I tell you this. The Indians who help the Mexicans will be in big trouble with the American soldiers. They will be considered enemies, just as the Mexicans are. You have enough trouble right now, my red brothers, with your own Indian enemies and with the settlers who continue to invade your land. If you get into this war now, the soldiers and the settlers will becomed confused. To them you are all the same, and they will think you are helping the Mexicans instead of your white friends. I tell you it is better to go home and remain peaceful. Show the Americans you love peace, that you are not warlike. Let the Americans take care of their own war. Go home, I tell you. Stay out of it, and then you will not bring trouble to your women and children. Besides, there are not many of your people on the Arkansas this year. Most of them remained in the north. If half of your warriors ride to Taos with me, there will not be enough left to defend your families. The Crow and the Ute will find this out quickly. Then they will come and carry off your women and children, and you will come home to empty villages, just because you went to avenge one white man’s death. This is not wise, my brothers.”
The wind kicked up and cut at their faces as the warriors mumbled among themselves.
“I am deeply grateful that you have come here, my Cheyenne friends,” Bent spoke up again. “You have called me friend, even though other whites have brought you trouble and sickness. You men are brave, and I know that you are great fighters and would do a good job in helping me against the Mexicans. You would take many scalps, and do a fitting job of avenging Charles’ death. But because you are my friends, I cannot let you go with me. For it would only bring you more trouble. Please. If you are truly my friends, help me by going back home, so that I do not have the additional burden of worrying about my red brothers. It will go better on my mind if I know you are back in your villages where you belong. Fight only the wars that are necessary. Do not fight a war that does not concern you. Save your strength and your energy for wars that pose a threat to your own people. This one does not.”
Again there was a mumbling, and some of them were nodding, their hot, fiery readiness to take scalps somewhat subdued. The tension was easing.
“We will listen to the advice of our white friend,” one of the leaders spoke up. “He speaks true to the Cheyenne, But our thoughts go with you, William Bent. Our hearts wish to avenge your brother’s death. We will pray for you at our council fires.”
“I thank you for this. Go home now, brothers. Take whatever supplies you need and go home to your families.”
After some hesitation, the Cheyenne finally began to disburse, Zeke along with them. But someone called out Zeke’s name, and he turned to see a white trapper who was one of the few white men that Zeke would call a true friend. He had been at Fort Bridger the year before when Zeke had arrived there with Abbie’s wagon train.
“Dooley!” Zeke answered as the man approached with eager, friendly eyes.
“Zeke! Hey, my half-breed friend, it’s been a good many months! I got here late and didn’t have a chance to speak to you.” They approached one another and shook hands.
“How are things, Dooley?”
The man shrugged. “Not so good. The fur trading business is going bad, Zeke—real bad. Back East there’s not so much demand anymore for the beaver furs.”
“I’ve heard that. I’m back to raising horses myself.”
“Hey, my friend, how’s that little white girl you left at Fort Bridger last year? Did you come back for her?”
Zeke grinned. “I came back. She’s my wife now. Having a baby next summer.”
Dooley laughed slyly, shaking Zeke’s hand even more firmly then letting go of it. “So, you devil half-blood, you made a woman of that one, heh? Where do you hide her now?”
“We live with my people right now.”
His eyebrows arched. “With the Cheyenne? The little white girl lives with the Cheyenne?”
Zeke nodded, grinning more. “Tipi and all. She can keep up with the best of the squaws at tanning a hide and stitching a shirt or stretching a war shield.”
Dooley laughed. “I’ll be damned!” He sla
pped Zeke on the shoulder. “She does it for you, you devil! Don’t kid me! She’d probably slit her wrists to be with you, right? You got her so goggle-eyed over you, she’ll do anything to stay with you. I saw it in her eyes when I met her at Fort Bridger last fall.”
Zeke shook his head and laughed, but he felt a strange pain inside because he realized that the man was right. Abbie was living as she was for him, and perhaps it was harder for her than she let on. He must build her that cabin in the spring.
“Dooley, what do you hear of Olin Wales?” he asked the man, wanting to get his mind off Abbie. He had not seen his good white friend in a long time. Olin Wales was a burly, hardy trapper who had traveled with Zeke the year before on the wagon train. Their friendship went back many years, and included saving each other’s lives and fighting Crow and Blackfeet together, as well as fighting outlaw trappers who murdered men to steal their furs. Few men had shared Zeke’s intimate thoughts or understood Zeke’s heart the way Olin did. And he had been a good friend to Abbie on that wagon train west, understanding her love for Zeke and helping both of them through the hard times the trip had brought. Dooley’s face became grim at the mention of Olin’s name, however, and he looked down at the ground as he answered Zeke’s question.
“Hey, my friend, Olin, he bought a ticket to the Promised Land, you know? The Blackfeet did him in, up in northwest territory last fall.”
Zeke watched him for a moment without speaking. “Are you sure?”
Dooley faced him. “I wish I wasn’t, Zeke. But I am. Olin’s dead.”
“You … saw him?”
Dooley nodded. “What was left of him.”
Zeke closed his eyes and turned away. Dooley put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, friend, that was how a man like Olin would have wanted to die.”
Zeke nodded. He knew Dooley shared his grief, for men of the mountains felt a certain kinship that was not shared by other kinds of men, and the few white men Zeke called friend were mountain men with whom he had trapped and traded, lived and fought enemy Indians.
“It was good seeing you again, Dooley,” he said in a strained voice. “I’d … have a drink with you, but I don’t feel like it right now. I’d better get back to Abbie. It’s … been a couple of days. She worries.”
“Sure, Zeke. We’ll meet again. I’m always wandering around these here parts. Maybe I’ll come on by and we’ll talk some more. I’d like to see the little gal that’s putting up with the likes of you.”
Zeke nodded and walked away. Dooley kicked at a rock. It was a cruel land, this Western place. Even the best of them died. He wondered to himself how the little white girl he had met the year before at Fort Bridger was going to survive out here. But then she had Zeke, and if anyone survived this land, it would be Cheyenne Zeke. The man was as much a part of the land as the rocks and the wolves. He turned up his collar against the bitter winds and headed inside the fort.
Thomas Fitzpatrick sat across from Superintendent of Indian Affairs, Thomas Harvey. Outside, the streets of St. Louis rattled with carriages and busy people. Women wore the latest fashions, theaters and restaurants flourished, and businesses made tremendous profits. Traders continued to bring in buffalo robes, as well as copper and valuable stones, and talk of the war with Mexico abounded, as well as talk of the thousands of settlers who would pass through St. Louis on their way west that coming spring. St. Louis was a rapidly growing, civilized city, the center of trade between East and West.
Fitzpatrick managed to hold a pipe in his “broken” hand; it had been crippled by a bullet that had shattered his wrist years earlier in his scouting days. He lit the pipe, then took it in his good hand and puffed it.
“So … you still think a treaty is necessary?” Harvey asked him.
“Absolutely,” Fitzpatrick replied.
Harvey studied the famous scout, whose hair had turned white at an early age. “There’s no other way?”
Fitzpatrick shifted in his chair. He was not accustomed to hard chairs and enclosed rooms. He had grown accustomed to riding free on the Plains, to the wild life and the feel of the wind on his face. But his body was feeling the effects of that hard life, and he had brushed death too often to count. Right now he preferred his new assignment as Agent for the Western tribes, a title given him by Senator Thomas Hart Benton in the fall of 1846, when Fitzpatrick was in Washington.
“Sir, the Indians are getting restless. They’re afraid. White men’s diseases have taken their toll, and that hasn’t won their hearts over to our side, for damned sure. Whites are killing off their buffalo, dividing up the land, and prohibiting their free travel. Free travel and buffalo are vital to the Indian’s survival. If we want to stop trouble before it starts, we’ve got to begin talking to them, reasoning with them and showing them our friendship and good intentions.”
“And what do you think we should offer them?”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “Land, of course. Enough land to keep them happy—land they can call their own and where they can ride free and hunt … land that will be off limits to white settlers. And it will be important to offer them gifts to boot. It’s the Indian’s way when making a pact to offer presents and to receive presents in return as a sign of good friendship. They’re getting hungrier every year, Mr. Harvey. I suggest we bring them a lot of nonperishable food—sugar, for one thing. They love sugar. Flour, dried beans, and such. Utensils, pots and pans. And plenty of beads. They love beads.”
Harvey ran a hand through his hair. “Washington doesn’t want to give them any more than necessary, Fitzpatrick. Our first aim is to please the settlers, our own American citizens, not the Indians.”
Fitzpatrick puffed his pipe. “You’d best worry about pleasing the Indians, or it won’t go well for those settlers you’re so concerned about. And don’t think just taking out a bunch of troops and showing some force will ‘scare’ the Indians into doing what you tell them. Those savages don’t scare, Mr. Harvey. They love a good fight and never run from one, and most of them have more courage in one finger than a white soldier has in his whole being. Death does not frighten them. A show of force and weapons only excites them. The only thing they understand is a man’s word—his honesty—and the sealing of that word with gift offerings. It’s their way. With your permission, I’d like to head out there come spring and start laying plans for a treaty—start feeling them out a little—see how they’d feel about it. I’ll send runners to all the tribes and kind of get their thinking into gear. Do I have your permission?”
Harvey leaned forward and studied the sturdy scout who had earned the name Broken Hand and was better known to some of the Indians as White Hair. “You should know better than anyone,” he told Fitzpatrick. “See what you can get started. Where do you think the best place would be to hold this treaty council, Fitzpatrick?”
“Well, sir, I’d say Fort Laramie would be the best place.”
Harvey nodded. “Laramie sounds good to me. But don’t be promising those Indians any fast action. You know Washington. Could be two or three more years before this really gets into gear. We’re still pretty involved in this Mexican thing.”
“I understand.” Fitzpatrick rose, putting out a hand to Harvey and clasping his firmly. “We’ll talk more,” he told the Superintendent. Harvey nodded, and Fitzpatrick left. Harvey watched him through the window as he crossed the street.
“Walking history,” he muttered to himself, feeling envious of the famous man who had just left his office. Fitzpatrick had been there. He knew that wild and frightening land west of the Missouri River. But few men in Washington knew it, or the red men who were as wild as the land itself. This job of Superintendent was not going to be an easy one, but it was a government job, and he liked the prestige of a government job. As long as he could stay in the comfortable city of St. Louis, he didn’t mind. Let men like Fitzpatrick do the dirty work.
Abbie came to sit beside the fire with Zeke. He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder, while outside th
e wind whipped around the tipi piling snow high outside the entrance.
“I feel like it’s partly my fault,” she told him.
He sighed and picked up a stick to poke at the coals in the fire with his free hand. “Why would you think that?” he asked her, his voice distant and strained.
“If you hadn’t come back to Fort Bridger for me—if you’d gone on with Olin after you left Oregon—maybe you would have been with him. Maybe together you could have helped each other and Olin wouldn’t be dead.”
He squeezed her lightly. “Then again, maybe we’d both be dead. Ever think of it that way?”
She moved her head to kiss his cheek, knowing he was only trying to make her feel better. “Tell me you don’t blame me, Zeke.”
He patted her shoulder. “You know I don’t. Coming for you was my own decision. I love you. Olin was an independent man. And a wanderer. If it hadn’t happened when and where it did, it would have happened someplace else. He died the way a man like him would want to die.”
They both stared at the fire silently for several minutes. “How do you want to die, Zeke?” she asked. “I mean … if you had a choice.”
He grinned a little. “In one royal, goddamned hell of a fight!” he replied. “Just like Olin did.”
She had to smile then, but her heart was worried. “Don’t you miss it … that kind of life … wandering the mountains with Olin and others like him?”
Ride the Free Wind Page 33
