“You’re a good man, Zeke Monroe,” she told him sincerely. He only laughed lightly.
“There are many who would disagree with you on that!” he replied. He put an arm around her shoulders and they walked back toward the tipi, where a campfire still burned, above it two roasting ducks.
“Maybe they would,” she replied. “But they don’t know you like I do. I married the best man west of the Mississippi.”
She put an arm around his waist as they walked, and he did not reply. For to him no man was good enough for his Abbie, and he felt lucky that she belonged to him at all.
They sat outside the tipi beside the fire. Abbie had just put another piece of duck on Zeke’s plate when they heard a bird call. Abbie thought nothing of it, but Zeke stopped eating and set his plate aside. When Abbie started to speak, Zeke put up a hand to still her, and they heard the call again.
“By God, I think that’s Dooley!” he told Abbie.
“Dooley? You mean from Fort Bridger? The one you saw last winter at Bent’s Fort?”
He nodded; then he stood up and gave out a call of his own. The man emerged from a thick cluster of cottonwoods several yards down river.
“Come and sit with us, you old drunk!” Zeke yelled out. “Come and have some supper!”
Dooley walked a little faster at the invitation. “You got good whiskey?” the man called back. “I don’t want any of that rotgut the unlicensed traders sell!”
“Only the best!” Zeke called back.
Dooley came closer, and his eyes rested on Abbie. He grinned at the sight of her swollen belly, and she blushed as the man came closer to Zeke and put out his hand. “Well, my friend, you told the truth! You did make her your wife, and you’ve been a good husband, I see!”
Abbie blushed more and the two men laughed and shook hands. Then Dooley put his hand out to Abbie. “Don’t get up, fair lady. I know it’s not easy for a woman in your condition to get up and down.”
She reached up and shook his hand, still blushing, but smiling. “It’s good to see you again, Dooley,” she told him.
“The last time I saw you, you were a skinny little thing, half dead from a bad arrow wound. I see you’re much better. Being Cheyenne Zeke’s wife apparently agrees with you.”
She laughed lightly. “Very much. Won’t you sit down and have a piece of duck meat, Dooley? It’s fresh. Zeke just shot them this morning.”
“Sounds good to me.” The man sat across the fire from them, and Abbie prepared him a plate of food.
“So, where have you been, Dooley? Fill me in on what’s going on out there in the wilderness.”
Dooley seemed to fake his smile. He shrugged. “Ah, you know how it goes. Mexicans killing Americans. Americans killing Mexicans. Indians killing Indians. Indians killing trappers.” His smile faded. “And, uh, whites killing Indians.” He stopped and let the words sink in, and Abbie handed a plate to Dooley as Zeke studied the man’s eyes.
“Something tells me you didn’t come here just to see Abbie again and pay us a visit,” Zeke told the man.
Dooley sighed and set his plate down. “I’ll tell you, Zeke. I intended to come here to see where you are living now with your woman, see the horses you often told me about, and see Miss Abigail again. But it just so happens that on my journey down from Wyoming Territory, I, uh, I went to Fort Atkinson first, and I heard some bad news there.”
Zeke tensed. “My brothers?” he asked quickly. “My mother?”
“No! No! As far as I know, your family’s band is safe out there somewhere hunting buffalo. But another band that was camped near the Santa Fe Trail, Old Tobacco’s band, they had a run-in with some Comanches. You know most Comanches have been raiding along the trail, attacking supply trains and all, getting paid by the Mexicans to do them things.”
“I know. Get on with it, Dooley.”
“Well, Zeke, like I said, Old Tobacco and his people had a little skirmish with the Comanches and then they went to camp farther up the trail. While they was camped there they seen some fancy wagons coming. Turns out they was full of government people from Washington, people sent out here by the government to scout around, see what’s happening with the war and the Indians and such. Old Tobacco, being the peace-loving man that he was, he thought he should warn these people that there was raiding Comanches ahead. Old Tobacco, he always thought the Cheyenne should be friends with the whites, you know, do their best to cooperate and all.”
“You talk like he’s dead, Dooley,” Zeke remarked.
Dooley sighed. “I’m afraid he is, my friend. One of those damned, ignorant, greenhorn government men seen him coming to warn them, and he shot Old Tobacco. Them Eastern sons-of-bitches don’t know one red man from another. All’s they knew was that Indians had been raiding along the trail, and they figured that’s what Old Tobacco was aiming to do, I guess.”
Zeke snapped a twig he had been whirling in his hand and threw it at the fire. “Katum!” he swore. “Heyokas!” He got up and walked away for a moment.
“I agree,” Dooley replied. “They are fools.”
Abbie listened quietly, feeling her own grief. For she had met Old Tobacco. He was a good man, a wise and kind man, loved by the Cheyenne.
“The old man, he begged his family with his dying words to forgive the white men for what they did. Said they just didn’t know what they was doing and shouldn’t be blamed. He knew that if he didn’t make his family promise, they’d avenge his murder and bring trouble to the Cheyenne. Old Tobacco wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“Stupid sons-of-bitches!” Zeke growled. “The worst part is that this is going to happen over and over, Dooley! This is just the beginning. The Cheyenne, even other tribes, will get blamed for things they haven’t even done. And they’ll take the blame just so long and then they’ll start fighting back, which is just what the government would love to see happen, because then they’d have an excuse to wipe them off the face of the earth!” He kicked at a stone.
Dooley sighed and bit off a piece of meat, chewing silently for a moment. Abbie just stared at the fire, wanting to cry and yet unable to do so. She suddenly thought of the mantel clock and its loud tick. Often she had pictured each tick as representing the face of someone she’d loved and lost: her father and mother, sister and brother; the people she’d befriended on the wagon train. Now Old Tobacco must be added to the list.
How she hated death! She had seen so much of it, and she feared it would one day claim her Zeke or one of her children too early in their lives. She shook off the terrifying thought and turned her attention back to the conversation.
“I’m afraid you are more than right, my friend, about the wrong Indians getting blamed for things,” Dooley was telling Zeke. He swallowed another piece of meat before continuing. “Much of the Comanche and Arapaho raiding is being blamed on the Cheyenne. Somehow stories have got back to Washington that the Cheyenne are as much a part of it as the Comanche. There’s something in the works, Zeke. I smell something very foul. This country is about to explode like dynamite; and when the dust settles, you will see whites scattered in every corner and Indians surrounded. And with the whites will come greed, whiskey, disease. You’d best advise your brothers and the others to be very careful where they go, and very careful when they deal with the whites. Washington will be looking for any excuse to make the red man look bad. They’re already doing it.” He took another bite of meat, and Zeke turned to look at Abbie. Their eyes met in the agony of understanding, and she had to look away to avoid the pain in his.
“Thanks for coming to tell me, Dooley,” Zeke said in a strained voice.
“I have a couple more things for you,” Dooley told him, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He was in his early thirties, a slightly built man, but wiry and tough, never clean-shaven and yet never with a full beard. His dark, curly hair stuck out in shaggy disarray from beneath his worn, leather hat, and his buckskins looked clean but were well worn, their knees and elbows polished smooth.
“More bad news?” Zeke asked, coming back to sit down.
Dooley shrugged again. “Mmmm … maybe … maybe not. Runners have been sent out from Bent’s Fort and from other forts to tell all the Plains tribes that Broken Hand Fitzpatrick is coming out to talk treaty. He’ll come to Bent’s Fort sometime in August, and is already up at Fort Laramie.”
“Treaty? What kind of treaty?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. Can’t get any straight answers. The way I gather, there’s no actual treaty being offered yet. All’s they’re doing right now is letting the Indians know that something is in the works—kind of getting their minds used to the idea, you know? Feeling them out, seeing what the Indian would think is fair, that kind of stuff.”
Zeke stared at the fire. “A treaty.” He thought for a moment longer. “I don’t like it. I wouldn’t mind if the government and the whites could be trusted. But they can’t. If any treaty is made, Dooley, the Indians will hold to their end of it. But I’ll lay odds of ten to one that the whites won’t. I’ve seen the government’s idea of what is fair, when I walked the Trail of Tears with the Cherokees.”
Dooley threw aside a bone. “I would not even take that bet, my friend. Because I think you’re right.”
Zeke sighed. “I told Abbie when she married me that the future didn’t look good for my people. I just didn’t think things would begin happening this soon.”
Dooley looked at Abbie. “You know that whatever happens, this husband of yours will be mixed up in it, maybe even fighting against your own people?”
Abbie met his eyes. “I know. And if it comes to that, I’ll be fighting right beside him, against my own people. I’ve come to love the Cheyenne, Dooley. They’re my family now.”
He grinned. “You’re quite a woman, Miss Abigail. I could tell that the first time I met you at Fort Bridger.”
“And I remember that wild story you told us about Zeke in a knife fight in a tavern against an unbelievable number of men,” she answered, trying to change the subject and lighten up the conversation. “I believe you said something about the whole place being covered with blood and that not a drop of it was Zeke’s.”
Dooley chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I like to tell that one. But it’s no exaggeration, Miss Abigail. No, ma’am. That story is true.”
“Including the number of men?” she asked, hoping to shake Zeke out of his deep thoughts.
Dooley grinned. “Well, maybe I add one or two sometimes. The truth is, there were five of them, all against Zeke and all with knives.”
“Five!” She looked at Zeke. “Is that the truth, Zeke?”
Zeke finally smiled a little. “Yeah, it’s true.”
He got up and went to the tipi, returning with a flask of whiskey and his pipe. He took a long drink of the whiskey, then handed it to Dooley. “Sometimes a man just has to have a drink,” he told Dooley. But Abbie knew the words were meant for her, a way of telling her he just might get drunk that night. Dooley took the whiskey and Zeke lit his pipe.
“Zeke, I wanted to ask you something,” Dooley told him.
“Ask away,” Zeke replied, sitting down beside Abbie.
“Well, the fur trading business has gone sour. I’ve been kind of lost lately, not sure what to do with myself. I was thinking, well, with all these fine horses here, you’ve got your job cut out for you keeping out horse thieves, especially the Comanches, let alone white rustlers. I thought maybe you could use some help in guarding the herd, you know?”
Zeke grinned. “I’d be glad for the help, Dooley, but I can’t pay much, if anything.”
Dooley grinned. “Hell, I don’t need no pay, long as I can take my pick of a horse and can eat my meals with you. I can build my own shelter, and once you get more settled, maybe we could build a little outbuilding for me to sleep in. I could run errands for you, go to the fort for supplies in times when the Missus can’t go along and you don’t want to be leaving her here alone. She should never be left alone out here.”
“That’s one thing I’m very much aware of.”
“Well, what do you think? I’d stay out of your way. You and me have been good friends, rode together, trapped together, fought Crow and Blackfeet together.” His smile faded. “I, uh, I know I ain’t no substitute for Olin Wales. He was the best white friend you ever had. But I admire you, Zeke, trust you. I’m glad to call you friend. And I admire this good woman you married. You ought to have some help in protecting her and the herd.”
Zeke chuckled and took back the flask of whiskey. “You don’t need to talk me into it, Dooley.” He took another long swallow. “Fact is, I was thinking the same thing, only I wasn’t sure who I could get that I could trust. Now I know.”
Dooley smiled and nodded. “Thanks. And if there’s times you want to take off with your people for a while, I’ll just stay right here and guard the horses for you. Heck, maybe you can build this place up to a full-fledged ranch!”
Zeke shrugged. “I don’t know right now what I’m going to do. I claimed the land so I could build Abbie a cabin. She’s willing to live with the Cheyenne, and that’s what I’d rather do. But it’s too hard for her, and it’s going to become too dangerous to be with them all the time, although there are times when we’ll go with them on the hunt.”
Abbie started to rise, and immediately both men were on their feet to help her up. She blushed at their attention and brushed off her tunic, which she had to wear loose now without a belt.
“Zeke, I’m going inside the tipi. You two should be alone to talk and it’s getting dark anyway.”
“You all right?” he asked her.
“I’m fine. I just feel like lying down, and you two probably want to talk about things you can’t talk about with me around.”
“Hey, now, there is an understanding woman!” Dooley said with a chuckle.
As Abbie walked to the tipi, the men were already sitting back down to talk. She went inside and lay down on their bed of robes; feeling unusually tired, she fell immediately to sleep. She had no idea how much later it was when Zeke finally came inside, but he was feeling his whiskey, as well as a desperate need to know his woman. He needed proof that she was alive and that they could be happy in spite of all that lay ahead for his people. He stripped off his clothes and crawled in beside her. She was barely awake when she realized he was moving between her legs, gently pushing them apart with his knees while his lips kissed her mouth hungrily.
“Zeke,” she murmured in a sleepy voice, as his lips moved over her cheek and to her throat.
“I’ll be careful, Abbie girl,” he whispered. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, but she knew his heart was heavy and he needed her.
“Just don’t press on my stomach,” she whispered.
He raised up on his knees and grasped her under the hips, supporting her while he pushed himself inside of her, feeling passionate and eager in his desire for her. He could see her by the light of the full moon that shone down through the opening at the top of the tipi.
He looked down at her swollen belly. To him it was beautiful and did not take away his desire for her, for it was his life she carried. Her eyes were closed, and her young face was beautiful in the dim light.
The whiskey in his blood made him take her with less romantic foreplay and with more haste than was normal for him, and when he finished he felt a tinge of guilt and shame. But she had not protested or complained, and he loved her all the more for it. He moved in beside her and pulled her into his arms, wishing he did not have the whiskey on his breath.
“Say you’ll never leave me, Abbie girl,” he told her.
“You know I won’t,” she replied, still sleepy. She was warm and sweet, curling up to him like a child. “I’ll never leave you, Zeke.”
He laid a big hand to the side of her face. “Thank you, Abbie,” he whispered. But she did not hear him. She was asleep again.
The labor started early on a Tuesday morning during the third week of July. Abbie had been wo
ndering how she would be warned that birth was about to begin, and now she knew. She dropped the iron pot she had been carrying and called to Zeke as she bent over with the awful pain. It seemed he was instantly at her side, even though he had been far out in the corral with the herd. He shouted to Dooley to heat some water, then he helped Abbie into the tipi.
“Try to relax, Abbie,” he was telling her. He quickly spread out a blanket and left for a moment, returning with a fat stick, which he pounded into the earth floor of the tipi. He knelt down beside her, and she whimpered with fear.
“Abbie, squat on your knees and grasp the stick,” he told her. “Don’t lay down, honey. Stay on your knees and push when the pains come hard, just like I explained to you before. This is how the Cheyenne women do it. It’s easier than lying down like white women do. Don’t be afraid, Abbie girl. This is our baby, and we’ll make it good.”
“I’m … scared!” she whimpered as another pain came. She gripped the pole tightly. “I … don’t want it to come!” she yelled. “I don’t want it to come! It hurts too much!”
“Hang on, Abbie,” he said calmly, pulling her hair back from her face. “Nothing could hurt as much as burning out that infection. You can do it, girl. I’m going to stay right here beside you every minute.” He pulled her tunic up and tied it above her belly; then he put a hand gently on her back and kissed her hair. “You have to go with it, Abbie girl. Let it happen naturally. Just let it happen. Don’t fight it. White women fight it and that only makes the pain worse. Go with it, Abbie.”
The pain subsided and she blinked back tears. “Oh, Zeke, I want to give you a good baby!” she gasped, starting to cry.
Ride the Free Wind Page 35
