Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

“You’ll do just fine, Abbie.”

  The first hour grew into many hours, and her groans turned to screams as the pains grew worse and came closer together. It seemed as though giant, black claws were reaching into her and pulling out all of her insides, but through it all Zeke’s gentle, calm voice comforted her.

  “Remember when I took out that arrow, Abbie girl?” he reminded her. “That was a lot worse than this, and that pain didn’t lead you anywhere. This is good pain, Abbie. Good pain. It’s going to bring us our baby.”

  More horrible pain … more screams … Her body was drenched with sweat. Dooley paced outside the tipi feeling helpless, but Zeke kept talking to her.

  “We’ve been through hell together, Abbie girl. We’ll get through this together. Push, Abbie. Push with the pain. Let it happen, honey.”

  “You … shouldn’t … be here.” She tried to joke with him between pains. “The Cheyenne say … if a man … looks upon the birth of his child … the man will be deformed.”

  “That’s not a religious belief, Abbie girl. Just superstition. I don’t hold to superstition. I delivered my first son and my looks didn’t do any changing though Lord knows I’d be in a bad state if they got any worse.”

  “You’re … the handsomest man … I know!” she moaned.

  “There you go again, woman, saying those crazy things about your husband.”

  “It’s true,” she whimpered, another pain coming. “That’s why I’m in this … mess now! Because … you’re so … handsome. I can’t … resist you!”

  He had to grin in spite of his worry. He could hardly bear her suffering, and he knew the pains had gone on for too many hours. If she did not begin to deliver soon it could mean something was wrong. Her youth didn’t help matters any. The pain filled her again, raking at her, pulling at her. He watched helplessly as she gripped the post so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her whole body trembled from her effort not to scream, but it was useless, and again he had to listen to her agony, all suffered just to give him a child. At the moment, he was not so sure he could even bed her again after this, although he realized that soon after the baby was born the pain would be forgotten. She would want him again, and he would want her. It was human nature, the process of life that had gone on for thousands of years.

  “It’s coming!” she suddenly shouted. “It’s coming!”

  His heart pounded with relief and he placed his hands gently on her waist. “Push, honey. Are you sure it’s coming?”

  “Yes! Yes!” she panted, beginning to smile. Then she held her breath and grunted, grasping the pole tightly.

  “I see the head!” he told her, kneeling down to check her. “Thank God it’s finally nearly over.”

  Now her body began to push of its own accord. The birthing movements were no longer under her control, and nature took its own course. It seemed only moments later that Zeke was telling her the baby was out. He took out the big blade he had used so wickedly on his enemies, and now he used it to sever the umbilical cord.

  “Stay right there, Abbie. We’ve got to get the afterbirth.”

  “What is it! What is it!” she whimpered.

  He was silent for a moment, and her heart pounded with fear. But then she heard him gently pounding the infant’s back, and there was a choking whimper followed by a slow buildup to a good hard cry. He laid the infant down in front of her beside the pole on a piece of clean deerskin.

  “It’s a boy,” he said in a choked voice. She looked down at her son, its tiny body bloody and covered with membrane except for the mouth and nose where Zeke had cleaned the tissue away so the baby could breathe. But in spite of its bloody appearance, Abbie could see all the parts were there. It was very obviously a little male baby, and a strong, fine-looking son at that. Its wrinkled arms and legs kicked wildly as it began crying out its anger at being tossed into the cruel world outside its mother’s body. Its skin was dark red, and its small head was covered with a mass of straight, black hair. It appeared to be a perfect, unblemished and very Indian child. Abbie smiled and looked at Zeke who stared at the boy with tears in his eyes.

  “You have … a son,” she said softly. “Thank God! I wanted so much to give you a son!”

  He turned his face to look her in the eyes, and a tear glistened on one cheek. “Thank you, Abbie,” he whispered.

  “It took both of us to do it,” she replied with a smile.

  He shook his head. “Not just that, Abbie. It’s … all the other … the things you gave up to be with me. And now … you’ve given me a son. The Gods have smiled upon me this day!” He turned and left the tipi to get some water from Dooley. He had to wash his son, and help Abbie with the afterbirth. Dooley met him outside the tipi with anxious eyes.

  “I have a son, Dooley!” Zeke said brokenly. He could not continue. He walked to the fire to get the water.

  Eighteen

  The summer of 1847 was a restless one, and while Zeke and Abbie worked at building up their livestock and land and enjoyed the wonder of their little son, the Pawnee were again raiding in Cheyenne territory. When Swift Arrow and the others returned to the Arkansas, Swift Arrow rode to the home of his half-blood brother carrying two Pawnee scalps. It was the first time Abbie had seen Swift Arrow in his most warlike manner, and the first time she had seen fresh scalps. For although Zeke had taken scalps himself, he had not let Abbie see them, fearing he would offend her. Abbie was glad there had been no Pawnee attacks during the summer she had spent with the Cheyenne, because she would not have cared to be in the middle of warring tribes without Zeke.

  But talk of the Pawnee was quickly forgotten when Swift Arrow’s attention turned to Cheyenne Zeke’s new son. The pride that shone in Zeke’s eyes when he presented the child to his brother swelled Abbie’s heart with love.

  The boy was all Cheyenne, with skin even darker than his father’s. His bright eyes were deep brown, and his hair was straight and black as coal. Immediately, Swift Arrow began talking about how the boy should be taught the Cheyenne ways and how proud he would be to do the teaching, for Zeke had already promised Swift Arrow he would be the chosen uncle to teach his “little warrior” if Abbie should have a son. Although the future looked bleak for the Cheyenne, Zeke believed the People must live on through their children and the grandchildren. His son would be brought up in the warrior’s ways, for then he would know he was a man.

  “Have you named him?” Swift Arrow asked, touching the baby’s tiny hand and grinning at the strength of the child’s grasp.

  “No,” Zeke replied. “We want to let Gentle Woman name him.”

  Swift Arrow nodded. “It is good you wish to name him according to custom. The old ones should choose his name.” He looked at Zeke. “But one day he will choose his own name, when he is a man. He will have a vision, and he will know.”

  Zeke nodded. “He will know.”

  “You have given my brother a fine son!” Swift Arrow said to Abbie. His eyes quickly scanned her slender body. “And already you do not look like a woman who has just given birth.” Abbie blushed and Swift Arrow looked at Zeke again. “It is custom that the man does not sleep with his woman when the child still nurses. In this way the woman does not have too many babies too quickly. But Swift Arrow had trouble keeping that law. Is it same for you?”

  Zeke chuckled and Abbie blushed even more and took the baby from Zeke’s arms. “I think I should leave now!” she told them chidingly.

  “It is the same, my brother,” Zeke replied, watching Abbie walk to the tipi. “I have already disobeyed that law.”

  Swift Arrow waited until Abbie went inside the tipi before he spoke again. “There is a beauty about a woman when a child suckles at her breast,” he added. “It makes a man want her more.” There was a distant pain in his eyes.

  “You should marry again, Swift Arrow,” Zeke told his brother. “There was a time when I, too, wanted no other woman. The pain of my loss was so great I wanted nothing but to kill everyone in sight and perhaps die myself
. I did not think I would find a woman like Ellen again. But I did. And there are many young Cheyenne maidens who would give anything to be your wife. You’re an honored warrior. I’ve seen how some of them look at you. There isn’t a Cheyenne girl in the whole tribe who’d not remove her chastity belt for you the first night of your marriage.”

  Swift Arrow grinned. Then he shook his head. “I want no woman. I want only to be good dog soldier.” He breathed deeply and put on the face of a man who did not care. “When the Pawnee raided us, we chased them back! I counted more coup than any of the others!” He began strutting. “It was a good fight. The Cheyenne took the Pawnee hunting grounds, and the Pawnee will never get this land back. When they stole our Sacred Arrows many winters ago, they forever destroyed a chance for peace!” He turned and faced Zeke haughtily, but Zeke was sober.

  “Swift Arrow, I’m afraid it isn’t the Pawnee who will give you the most trouble eventually. Don’t you understand what’s happening?”

  The man sobered. “I understand more than you think, my brother. When we return, we see them building new fort on the Arkansas. It is called Fort Mann, and already many white men were there, white men fresh from the East, soldier volunteers like those who tried to take your woman from us last summer. I myself spoke with their leader, who is called Gilpin. He tell me he is here because of all the fighting on Santa Fe Trail. Many Americans have died. I tell him it is not Cheyenne who help the Mexicans; it is Comanche and Kiowa. He look at me like he not believe me. And he tell me it would be good if the Cheyenne did not befriend any Comanche or Kiowa—not even the Arapahos, who have always been our friend. And he tell me he might even come here to Big Timbers to camp for the winter, where he can keep eye on the Santa Fe Trail, and keep eye on Cheyenne. He say it is good we are friendly, but that he make it bad for us if we help the Comanche and Mexicans.”

  “I’m told Fitzpatrick will be down this way soon, Swift Arrow. He wants to hold a council at Bent’s Fort to discuss plans for a treaty, among other things. Fitzpatrick can be trusted, but I don’t know about the big men in washington who will be making the promises. I do think you should go, though. Promise me you’ll talk the People into going.”

  “You will go also?”

  “You know I will.”

  Swift Arrow nodded sadly and looked out at the horses. “This is good place you have chosen for your wooden house. Do your horses do well here?”

  “They do. I hired a trapper friend of mine to help me watch them. Name’s Dooley. He’s at the fort right now getting me some supplies. Abbie shouldn’t be making any trips yet, and this way I can get what I need without leaving her alone.”

  “You can trust this man?” Swift Arrow asked.

  “I know men,” Zeke replied. “Dooley and I go back a long way. I can trust him. Fact is, he helped me run off some renegade Comanches just the other night. They came sneaking around with an eye on my horses.”

  “You have something valuable to them. They could sell those horses to the Mexicans for much money and for women. I send some braves here to camp for winter, help you watch horses. No Comanche will dare come and bother you when there are Cheyenne warriors here!”

  “I’d appreciate that, Swift Arrow. In fact, I’d just as soon it was you and our brothers. Maybe you could talk Deer Slayer and Gentle Woman into camping here also. Do you really think that Gilpin fellow will show up with soldiers?”

  Swift Arrow nodded. “I think so. I do not like him coming here.”

  “A lot of things are happening I don’t like,” Zeke replied. He smiled at his brother. “But it’s good to see you back, Swift Arrow, and to know everyone is all right.”

  “Soon we hold dance of the warrior societies,” Swift Arrow told him. “It would be good time to introduce child to the band … and give him name. I would like honor of piercing the ears.”

  Zeke nodded. He wanted his son’s ears pierced by a brave warrior, as was the custom. The piercing represented being struck by lightning, and was believed to help make the child invulnerable to arrows. Zeke realized this was more of a superstition than a reality, but he wanted his son brought up as a brave and honorable Cheyenne man. The ceremony was a part of that upbringing, and he knew it would make Swift Arrow proud to participate in it. His Cheyenne brothers had been Zeke’s whole world. They had given him love and friendship, and he intended to do the same in return.

  “Swift Arrow, I—” He stopped and studied his brother, who was an honored dog soldier and full of pride. He dreaded what might be coming for his people, and hoped he could do something to prepare them, perhaps help them to understand that they would not forever be allowed to roam so freely. It hurt to see the fierce pride in his brother’s eyes, and he knew already that whatever was to come, the Cheyenne would not go down easily. Zeke’s mind was haunted by the Trail of Tears and what he had seen happen to the once-proud Cherokee of Alabama. Few Eastern Indians were even living now.

  “What is it, my brother?” Swift Arrow asked, watching the agony in Zeke’s eyes.

  “I just … I hope you understand what this treaty could mean. The leaders in Washington will probably tell you what land you can call your own, and they’ll expect you to stay within its borders.”

  Swift Arrow shrugged. “We go where the buffalo go. That is the way.”

  “No. It is not the way!” Zeke said almost pleadingly. “Swift Arrow, the only way I got this piece of property was to file for it in Abbie’s name. Bent advised I put it in her name because … because I’m half Cheyenne. He told me”—Zeke sighed—“he told me the day might come when anything the Indians supposedly own—even men who are only part Indian—will be taken from them. Indians aren’t even considered American citizens, Swift Arrow!”

  The man laughed in indignation. “Our people were here long before these white bastards came. What do you mean, not citizens? They are the ones who are not citizens! We go where the buffalo go. If the white man wants to use our land, he may use it. If he wants to cross over it, then let him cross. We do not stop him. Let him build his cities and his forts. Let him use the land to fight against the Mexicans.” The man waved his arm. “Land is big, big enough for us all. The Great Spirit gave us this land to use, not to own. We do not own it. They do not own it. We all share it! Nohetto!”

  The word signified he was through with the conversation. He walked to his horse and mounted up. “I come back soon … two, three days. Bring Gentle Woman to see her grandchild.” He turned his horse in a circle. “And let the white man come. Perhaps we will even sign this treaty. But I, Swift Arrow, have nothing left to live for, and so I am ready to die for something. I will die for my people, and for this land, if that is what the white man wants! We have been peaceful. We do not fight him. Some of our women even marry the white man. We give white man no trouble. But let him understand that he also should not give us trouble!”

  He turned his horse and rode off.

  Outside Bent’s Fort the drums beat rhythmically, and the warriors of the various soldier societies danced around fires, dressed in their most brilliant regalia, their faces and bodies painted in many colors, fine war bonnets on their heads, and bells jingling on their ankles and wrists. Abbie sat watching, with little Hohanino-o on her lap. She was pleased with the name Gentle Woman had given her son. It meant Little Rock, for the boy was as strong and sturdy as a rock; and sometimes it already seemed he was as heavy as one! Zeke Monroe had sired a boy as strong and sturdy as he was, and Abbie was proud to prove to the People that she could mother such a son.

  She dabbed again at Little Rock’s ears with the special herb the Shaman had given her to clean his lobes to prevent infection. Like a good warrior, the boy had cried for only a moment when Swift Arrow had pierced his ears. Then Zeke had held his son up for them all to see, and the warriors and women had all cheered the half-breed’s new son and praised him for his fine offspring. The white woman had done well.

  The celebrations had gone on all day and lasted into the night, while the
Cheyenne waited for the appearance of Broken Hand Fitzpatrick who was inside the walls of Bent’s Fort with a group of volunteer soldiers. It felt good to Abbie to be among the Cheyenne again. She was proud to be able to show off her little brown son, even more proud when she saw the look on Zeke’s face as he carried the child around to display him to the warriors. On this night Zeke was all Indian again, and in her heart, Abbie was Indian also. The Dance of the Warrior Societies was thrilling to watch, and she became entranced by the near magic of the celebration. It was not long before Zeke himself stripped to his loincloth, donned the covering of only an apron, and painted his body to join in the dancing, waving his most-feared weapon, the big blade, his hair brushed out long and loose, his whole countenance once again savage.

  It was not until the wee hours of the morning that the celebrating ended, and by then Abbie lay inside the tipi nursing Little Rock. When Zeke entered, he would have frightened any unwitting white woman, but the sight of him only excited Abbie, for she had seen Cheyenne Zeke wield the knife. She knew of his courage and skill. He was her man, and when he was painted and wore only the apron, his body displayed the man that he was.

  He came to her and knelt beside her to watch his son feed at her breast, the baby’s tiny brown hand pinching at her milky white skin. Manliness seemed to pour forth from Zeke, for he was worked up by the dancing and celebrating and was feeling his power and strength—remembering his vows as a warrior. And he was full of pride over his strong son.

  He reached out and traced the scar on her breast, where he had cut her two summers before to drain the infection from the Crow arrow. She blushed and looked down at Little Rock, saying nothing.

  “Tell our son to finish quickly, so that his father can feed at your breast also,” he told her, his voice strained with desire.

  She smiled and blushed as he sat down beside her, gently stroked the baby’s soft, black hair, and then reached over and pulled her tunic all the way to her waist so that her other breast was exposed. He liked her breasts this way, full with milk for his son. He moved around to kiss the back of her neck, then her shoulder, but soon his lips glided to the other side of her and down to gently suck her other breast.