Ride the Free Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Zeke,” she whispered, her body raging with terrible, sudden desire at this sensation. He left her breast and moved his lips over her throat. “Your milk is sweet,” he whispered, moving up to her mouth.

  They kissed hungrily as he grasped her free breast in his palm and caressed the wet nipple with his thumb. He kissed her eyes, then moved back as she pulled her son away and laid him aside on his own little bed of robes. The child was asleep.

  She turned to face her savage-looking husband; then she raised up on her knees and offered her breasts. He sucked at them lightly as he pulled her tunic to her knees. Then his lips moved down to her now-flat belly.

  “Again I disobey the law,” he said softly. “A Cheyenne man should not do this to his woman for many months after a baby is born.”

  “I don’t like that law,” she replied, as he slipped her tunic the rest of the way from her body.

  “Nor do I,” he agreed. He quickly removed his apron and loincloth, and his dark, lean, muscular body bent over hers. Caressing her with his lips, he moved them over her knees and thighs, his hands moving up either side of her body. He kissed her in secret places that only Zeke Monroe had ever touched, places that belonged only to him. She was again struck by the fact that he seemed far too much man for her, not only physically, but in his experience and in the savage side of him that she knew she would never fully understand. But for her he had only gentleness and patience, tender touches and sweet words that made her ever vulnerable to his advances so that she was completely free with her body when it was in his hands. It was as though she had no will of her own, except to enjoy the pleasures he could give her.

  “Have I told you you’re more beautiful than ever since the baby?” he asked her as he stretched out beside her, pushing one knee between her legs.

  “You told me just today,” she answered with a smile. “You flatter me too much, my husband.”

  “I only speak the truth,” he replied, holding her gaze with his own hypnotic look. His eyes were glittery with love and with the aftereffects of the celebrating. His body was tense and alive and urgent as he moved his other leg between her own; her slim thighs parted for him, her own eyes becoming hungry and provocative.

  “I want to feel your power, Lone Eagle,” she told him daringly, using his Indian name in private conversation for the first time. It filled him with sweeter desire and great personal pride, and he gave her that most manly part of him, pushing hard and filling her with fierce possessiveness so that she cried out from the sweet and welcome pain of it. He knew she belonged only to him. It was a good feeling. White blood or not, he was a good Cheyenne warrior. He had danced the dance of the warrior societies and he bore the scars of the Sun Dance ritual. He was Cheyenne! This was his woman! And now he had a son. The son would also be Cheyenne! Only Cheyenne and nothing else!

  He smiled at her closed eyes. She was sweet and beautiful. This was a good way to end the celebrating—with his woman. It was fitting.

  They gathered the next day for the powwow with Broken Hand Fitzpatrick. The warriors sat in a circle, their women behind them and the children even farther back. Soldiers lined up between the fort and the Indians, some on foot, and more behind them on horses. Fitzpatrick began his speech to the Cheyenne, and the few Arapahos who accompanied them, using an interpreter he had hired in Santa Fe by the name of John Smith.

  Abbie had stayed behind in the tipi, for Zeke was not certain she should be seen sitting among the warriors. He was not sure just what Fitzpatrick would have to say, and with the presence of soldiers, there might be trouble.

  Fitzpatrick warned the Cheyenne that they must at all costs stay out of the Mexican war and not join up with their brothers to the south, the Comanche and Kiowa. Zeke listened with foreboding, as Fitzpatrick warned the Cheyenne that a Lt. Col. William Gilpin would be watching the area along the Arkansas carefully, to see that the Cheyenne did not make trouble, to keep all raiding Indians off the Santa Fe Trail, and to protect American citizens. Gilpin would be wintering at Bent’s Fort, he told them. So, Swift Arrow’s warning about Gilpin had been true.

  It was announced that all raiding Indians would be promptly and severely dealt with. Swift Arrow received the news with an expression of sneering haughtiness; indeed, he almost laughed. But the Cheyenne spokesman, Yellow Wolf, promised the Cheyenne would make no trouble and asked if the Great White Father in Washington intended to give the Cheyenne gifts for obeying the white man’s request to stay out of the war. Fitzpatrick replied that he would see what he could do. The Cheyenne reiterated that if they were to stay out of the war and not move from the Arkansas, then the white man must provide them with food and supplies, for their ability to hunt the buffalo would be severely restricted. Again, the only reply from Fitzpatrick was that he would see what he could do.

  “Do not give us half promises!” Swift Arrow spoke up. “If you tell us we must stay here, then we must have food. Otherwise, we go where the buffalo go! We hear talk of treaty. When will this treaty come to be, so that once and for all the Indian will know where he can ride without offending the white settlers and soldiers?”

  “I’m working on that also,” Fitzpatrick replied. “These things take time.”

  “How much time?” Swift Arrow asked.

  “I can’t say as yet,” Fitzpatrick replied. “Maybe another year. Maybe two. That’s the most I can tell you.”

  Swift Arrow snickered and rose to leave the council. Red Eagle took out a flask of whiskey and began drinking, and there was general unrest among the warriors. Fitzpatrick warned them again to be careful—that Lieutenant Colonel Gilpin would be watching the Cheyenne and intended to protect the Santa Fe Trail from Mexicans and raiding Indians who helped the Mexicans.

  “We do not help them,” Yellow Wolf replied. “We only hunt the buffalo … and sometimes war against the Pawnee, who continually raid our villages and steal our horses. We do not bother the white people or the Mexicans. And we do not ride with the Comanche and raid the supply wagons. You must not mix up the Cheyenne with our red brothers to the south.”

  The powwow ended without much being accomplished, except that the Cheyenne were more restless. Zeke rose to leave with the rest of them when Fitzpatrick called out to him.

  “I thought it was you,” Fitzpatrick said in a friendly fashion when Zeke came closer. “Haven’t seen you since about five years ago, when I was scouting for a wagon train and you were trapping—saw you at Fort Hall up in Oregon, I believe it was.”

  “It was,” Zeke replied. “Good to see you again,” he added, putting out his hand. Fitzpatrick took it and they shook hands firmly. Then Zeke looked toward the Cheyenne. “At least I think it’s good to see you.”

  They released hands and Fitzpatrick followed Zeke’s eyes and watched the warriors, who were grumbling and heading back to their own camp.

  “You live with the Cheyenne now, Zeke?”

  “Some of the time. They’re my only family.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re prejudiced, Zeke. As for myself, I’ve had a lot of experience with Indians, too, and for the most part I find them untrustworthy. Sure, they keep their word and all. But they’re a passionate people, Zeke; don’t understand the white man’s way one whit. That ignorance and stubbornness is going to bring them great trouble. You know that, don’t you?”

  Zeke nodded. “I know that. They’re quick to anger, Fitzpatrick. They get their pride hurt real easy. And they don’t like someone speaking to them with a forked tongue, making vague promises. Something either is or it isn’t, and I don’t think they’re real sure why you’re even here.”

  Fitzpatrick grinned. “Trouble is, I’m not sure myself, Zeke. I’ve been trying to reason with Superintendent Harvey in St. Louis that we need to do the very thing you’re talking about: give some firm answers, make promises we can keep, and outline to your red brothers just where they can ride and hunt. I’m not making much progress, and I know the Indians are getting restless with this war and more and mor
e whites coming out here and all. I’m doing what I can to stabilize things until Washington decides just what the hell they want to do. And I need help from men like you, Zeke. You live with them. You are them.”

  Zeke sighed. “I do what I can.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Fitzpatrick replied. He folded his arms and studied the half-breed. “You know, Zeke, army scouts make good money.”

  Zeke eyed the man warily. “I have no desire to lead soldiers against my own people, Fitzpatrick. That’s a job for men like you and Jim Bridger and Joe Meek. You men pave the way for the whites. I’ll go as far as helping a few settlers cross this land to reach the other side, Fitzpatrick, but I can’t help them settle right here, and I sure as hell can’t help the soldiers.”

  Fitzpatrick frowned. “Just thought I’d plant the idea, Zeke, that’s all. The army could use men like you. You know this land inside and out, and you know the Indian. Some full-bloods scout for us now, you know.”

  Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “Traitors, you mean—renegade Crow and Blackfeet and Shoshoni who’d turn in their own mother for the whiskey and rifles.”

  Fitzpatrick sighed. “They aren’t all that way, Zeke, and you know it. Most of them are just smart. As time goes on and the Indians begin to understand there’s no hope in fighting the white man, more and more of them will come over to our side and help us bring some peace to this land.”

  Zeke’s smile was more of a sneer. “Well, then, I’m one dumb Indian, because I’ll never turn my people over to soldiers. I may not fight right beside them, and I may even try to talk them out of too much resistance, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll work for bluecoats and lead soldiers to my people’s villages.”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You’re more Cheyenne than I thought, Zeke.”

  Zeke nodded. “Mostly all,” he replied with a haughty grin. “And I’d say you and your soldiers and your government men have your work cut out for you. There’s nothing my red brothers like better than a damned good fight!”

  Fitzpatrick nodded and their eyes held. “Zeke, the glory days of the mountain man and the free Indian are just about over. You know that, don’t you?”

  Zeke nodded. “I’m aware of that.”

  Fitzpatrick grinned. “It was a good time, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter out there if a man was red or white or a mixture of both.”

  There was a moment of understanding, and both men knew that although they had once been one of a kind, they must now choose sides and go their separate ways.

  “Good-bye, Fitzpatrick,” Zeke told the man sadly.

  “Good-bye, Zeke.”

  The famous scout turned and walked back to the soldiers, and Zeke walked in the direction of the departing Cheyenne.

  * * *

  Winston Garvey looked up from his desk as Anna Gale pushed her way into his office, her gaudy, red satin dress almost hurting his eyes. His secretary stared at the woman angrily, for Anna would not take no for an answer when she came in and asked to see the senator. She barged inside, carrying her head straight and proud as she pranced toward the senator’s desk, the feathered plumes of her hat blowing with the briskness of her walk. The satin and bustles of her clothing rustled loudly, and the senator rose, his face puffy and red with anger.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he asked her. He motioned for his secretary to close the door. She did so, arching her eyebrows knowingly, but the senator shot her a look that warned her to keep her mouth shut. Meanwhile, Anna stood staunchly in front of the senator’s desk.

  “What is this I hear about closing down my business above the saloon?” Anna sneered through painted red lips. “And where in hell have you been lately, Senator? Have you decided to play the role of doting husband and father since that bitch of a wife of yours had her baby?”

  “Watch your tongue, you slut!” the man replied. “I suspected someone was watching me, that’s all. Now you’ve really fixed things. How dare you come prancing into this office!”

  She smiled a crooked smile. “Not good enough to come here, am I?” She tossed her head. “No matter. I want to know why the police raided my place last night.”

  “We’re stamping out gambling and prostitution,” the senator replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Her eyes flashed. “It is, is it? I say it isn’t! You tell the police to leave me alone, or I’ll tell all of Washington that you were once a primary customer of mine, Senator Winston Garvey. I’ll put a quick end to your prestigious career!”

  “Try it, and I’ll make arrangements for you to be found dead in some alley,” he replied threateningly. “Don’t think I can’t do it!”

  Her dark eyes blazed. “You’re a fat, no-good, double-crossing—”

  “Save it, Anna!” he interrupted, putting up his hand. He walked over to the door and turned the lock. He had to think fast before this woman destroyed his reputation. He walked back to her, studying her phenomenal beauty, the raven black hair and milky white skin, the supple young body and exquisitely beautiful face. She watched him suspiciously but stood still as he began unbuttoning the front of her dress. “Why don’t you do us both a favor, Anna, and just quietly leave Washington,” he told her. “I’ll give you money—all you need.”

  Her breathing quickened as he opened the front of her dress and unlaced her undergarment, pulling it apart and exposing her full breasts. He toyed with them, his face reddening and his lips pursing.

  “And just where would I go, may I ask?” she replied.

  He met her eyes as he gently stroked her breasts with the back of his hand. “West, my dear. West.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “West! Do you recall that our good friend Jonathan Mack died out there of snake bite? And you expect me to go to that godforsaken, barren, horrible place?”

  He bent down and kissed her breasts; then he pulled her close. “Anna, my dear, don’t you realize how rich you could be out there? The West is filled with drifters: mountain men, trappers, traders, men running from the law, lonely preachers, wild Indian bucks, all kinds of men from all walks of life. The variety is endless, and they all need women like you. A lot of them don’t see anything prettier than their horse’s rear end six months out of the year.” He looked down at her breasts, now resting atop his fat belly. “And when they see something lily white and soft like you, get a good look at that nice round white bottom and these pretty fruits I’m looking at now, they’ll pay a fortune to have a roll in bed with you! Why, you could be a millionaire out there. And I’ll give you the money you’ll need to get set up. I’ve sent men out there to replace Jonathan Mack, and already plenty of land out there will be mine when the war with Mexico is over. In four or five years I’ll be out West myself. When I get there, you can repay your debt to me. How about it?”

  She smiled a little. “Do you really think I could get rich?”

  “I know you could! Just think about it—all those men, all needing a woman. Not only would you get rich in bed, but you can charge a fortune for whiskey. I’ll give you enough money to set up a regular business, open a real fancy saloon. There’s no law out there, Anna. You can have all the gambling and prostitution you want, and nobody will stop you. I’m handing you the chance of a lifetime, my little orphan lady. All you have to do is leave Washington quietly.”

  She pulled away from him and began lacing up her undergarment. “When do I get the money?” she asked.

  “Soon as you’re ready to leave.”

  “Then I’ll leave in the morning. Shall I go to Santa Fe?”

  “Fine. I’ll give you some money right now.” He walked to a safe. “And … uh … we’ll call your business, Santa Fe Enterprises. Use that name to withdraw money from the bank I’ve set up in Santa Fe. It’s called the Washington Union. I’ll send word that you are legally allowed to withdraw money under that name, but I’ll keep a close watch on your withdrawals, my dear, so don’t go too far overboard.” He turned around with a wad of money in his hands
as she buttoned her dress.

  “I’ll be careful,” she replied. She scanned his fat body. “How’s your poor, darling little wife?”

  He reddened. “Once a bitch, always a bitch. I can’t touch her. According to the doctor, if she gets pregnant again, she’ll die. If I get to have her once every two months, I’m lucky. And to get that far I have to get her drunk.”

  She pursed her lips. “Oh, poor Senator Garvey! Then why haven’t you been to see me?”

  “I couldn’t. It’s like I told you. They’re clamping down on prostitution, and if I were caught going to see you, I’d be in a fix.” He walked over and handed her the money.

  “I see,” she replied, fanning through the bills. “Well, then, I’ll just tell anyone who asks that I came here because I was angry that you were doing your duty and putting me out of business. I pleaded and begged with you, but you refused to listen and chased me right out of Washington. They’ll all know what a good senator you are.”

  He grinned. “You think fast, sweet Anna.”

  Her eyes turned cold. “That’s the only way for a girl like me to survive, Senator.” She shoved the money into her handbag. “Will your lovely wife come out West with you?”

  He sighed. “She’ll have to. I’m sending her out sooner, probably in a year or two.”

  “I’ll bet she’s thrilled about that.”

  “Not exactly. But when she realizes she’ll be the center of society out there, she’ll like the idea well enough.”

  Anna sauntered toward the door. “I’ve taken in a couple of girls off the streets—young ones. One is only thirteen. Do I have your permission to take them along?”

  “Certainly. You’ll need them to get set up good.”

  She nodded and started to turn.

  “Anna,” he spoke up. She turned back around. “Thirteen?” he asked.