He opened his eyes and stared at Abbie. “It’s a hard life, Abbie girl. Don’t kid yourself that it’s anything else. And I’m telling you right now that I’ve not decided on anything for sure. You’ve put me in a bad fix, little girl. Me—a grown man—all confused and crazy over a woman-child. I’ve given you things to think about, and I want you to think real hard.”
She squeezed his hand. “I know what you’re trying to tell me, Zeke, and I … appreciate it.” She closed her eyes. “I’m tired … Zeke. I don’t want you to worry … about all that now. Just sing to me. … I need to sleep. When we … get to Ford Bridger … we’ll talk again. We’ll make a decision … and abide by it. At least, I had you for a … while.”
He leaned closer again, kissing her cheek. “I love you, Abbie,” he whispered. His lips moved to her mouth, and he kissed her lightly, then sat back and strummed the mandolin, its haunting music drifting through her groggy mind and making her smile. Faintly, she heard the words of the song about Tennessee mountain mornings, and she decided Zeke was a lot like the mandolin music, mystical and out of reach, a man who drifted over the mountains like his music. She fell asleep dreaming about herself and Zeke floating together over the mountains to a secret place that was just their own, one in which they could live together with no one to tell them it was wrong, one with no white men and no Indians—just the two of them.
Eight days later, on the eleventh of August, they rolled into Fort Bridger. Zeke had not returned to her, once he’d realized she would get better. Mrs. Hanes told her Zeke would be taking out her stitches when they got to the fort, but when Abbie asked why he did not come to see her, the woman only shrugged. “He’s been very busy, way up ahead of us most of the time,” the woman replied.
Abbie turned away, hiding tears of disappointment. She knew he was allowing her time to think without him around, and he was doing the same for himself. But her heart pounded with fear that, not being around her, it would be easier for him to decide to take the practical route. And she was more and more certain that at Fort Bridger he would not bring her the answer she wanted.
She healed slowly, but when they reached the fort, she could raise her arm, although not all the way without considerable pain; and she was still much too thin. They limped into the fort with nine men instead of their original fourteen, and seven wagons instead of ten. Kelsoe had lost both David and Bobby, and of course all of Abbie’s family was gone, as were Quentin Robards and Morris Connely. Willis Brown had lost five head of cattle and a couple of horses, which greatly upset him; but Abbie thought to herself that he should be grateful it wasn’t his own life, his wife’s, or his parents’ lives that had been lost. She wished that a few animals were all that she had lost.
Abbie was carried by Olin Wales into a small log cabin at the unfinished fort. “Jim Bridger has been workin’ on this place slow but sure,” he told her on the way. “Figures there will be lots more wagon trains comin’ through here over the years and he’s gonna be here to keep them supplied.”
“Where’s Zeke?” Abbie asked him with a heavy heart.
“Don’t rightly know, Abbie girl. He’s been lost in thought and hardly around ever since you got wounded. I reckon he has a lot on his mind, and you know why. But he’s told me nothin’, Abbie, so I’ve nothin’ to tell you. I reckon he’ll do the tellin’ himself before this train heads out again.”
Inside the cabin they were greeted by a short, stocky man, all in buckskins like most of the men in that part of the country. His face was framed by thick, graying hair that hung long, and he smiled at Abbie through a grizzly beard and mustache. He seemed rather unkempt, but not dirty, like a man who was simply too busy to bother shaving and combing his hair all the time. From head to toe he was “outdoors”; every bit of him looked like a man who’d almost never slept under a roof.
“Well, now, you must be Miss Abigail Trent!” the man said in a kindly voice. “Bring her over here to this cot, Olin. Nice and comfy and warm here.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Olin replied. He layed Abbie on the cot, and the other man put an extra blanket over her, a colorful Indian blanket. Then he knelt down beside her a moment.
“I’m Jim Bridger, ma’am, and this here—Wind River Range, the Green River, the South Pass—it’s all my stompin’ grounds. This is Jim Bridger territory, Miss Trent, and you don’t have a thing to worry about. Between me and Olin Wales, you’ll be safe and snug right here for the winter while you get yourself well. Cheyenne Zeke is a damned good friend of mine, and I have a hunch you’re pretty special to him, so I aim to take good care of you.”
Abbie blushed slightly and glanced at Olin, who just winked. “I’m obliged, Mr. Bridger,” she told the man, looking back at him. “And I’m honored to meet you.”
He patted her hand and stood up, pulling up a chair by the fireplace and gesturing to Olin to sit in another chair across from him.
“One of your men outside tells me there have been some Crow and Blackfoot raidin’ these parts,” Olin told Bridger, removing his hat and hanging it on the back post of the chair. “That worries me some. I expect Zeke told you we already run into some Crow a few days back. That’s when Miss Abbie took that arrow.”
Bridger got up and threw a few more logs on the fire. “Nothin’ to fret about,” he replied. “Me and my men can handle the damned Crow. They don’t bother the fort much, and I’ve got good men here—straight shooters and not a coward among them. And you know I’ve been around Indians most of my life. Been around them so much I might as well be one!”
Both men chuckled, and Bridger sat back down, stretching and putting his hands behind his head.
“What about along the Bear River and up to Fort Hall?” Olin asked. “Any more danger for the wagon train? Them folks has been through a lot.”
“Once they get past the Bear River, I don’t expect they’ll have any more Indian trouble, Olin. Their big problem now will be to get the hell to Oregon before the snow sets in. I feel an early winter comin’ on. The sooner Zeke gets goin’, the better.”
His words pierced Abbie’s heart, making her realize that it would not be long before she knew whether Zeke would come back for her or if he would make arrangements for someone else to get her to Oregon in the spring. In the latter case, she would never see him again.
“A couple of my men are gettin’ itchy to be on a horse again,” Bridger went on, “so I expect Zeke will have some good help with him, now that you’ll stay on here with Miss Trent. Me—I’ve got plenty here to trade to the Indians, keep them calmed down. I just wish the Crow and Blackfoot were as easy-goin’ as the Arapaho and the Cheyenne. Not that the Cheyenne aren’t capable of making plenty of trouble if somebody makes trouble for them!” he added with a chuckle. “No better warriors ever rode the plains.” The man lit a pipe.
“Zeke … uh … he thinks highly of Miss Trent,” Olin told the man. “He won’t be wantin’ anything to happen to her.”
“And nothin’ will,” Bridger replied. “What about her wound? Does it still need attention?”
“It’s healin’ good, but she’ll be mighty sore for a long time and still can’t move her arm much. It’s more a matter of time than anything else now. She’s still got stitches in her. I expect Zeke will be takin’ them out before he leaves. But she’s been through so much more than just the arrow wound, I expect she’s got as much healin’ to do mentally as physically. Zeke says if a doctor happens to pass through, he wants us to be sure to have the man take a look at her. Maybe he’d have along some kind of tonic for her.”
“Maybe so. In the meantime we’ll see she’s fed good, get some meat back on her bones,” Bridger replied, puffing on the pipe.
Abbie felt embarrassed and strange, lying there listening to the two men talk about her as though she wasn’t present. She toyed with the designs on the Indian blanket, thinking of Zeke. So, he would take the stitches out before he left. At least she knew she would see him once more. Her eyes dropped from fatigue again, and she
wondered how she could possibly be so tired from just from being carried from the wagon to the cabin. She was aware of more conversation, but she heard little of it until she opened her eyes to a hand on her forehead. It was Jim Bridger’s.
“We’re gonna go out and let you rest now, ma’am,” the man told her. “We’ll be by later with some supper for you. I’ve got a good fire goin’, so you’ll be warm.” When he patted her head and walked out, Olin came close.
“You need anything just now, Miss Abbie?” he asked.
“No,” she replied in a tired voice. Then from nowhere the tears came. “Where is he, Olin? I want to see Zeke!”
“Now, now. You rest,” he replied, patting her cheek. “He’ll be around when he’s ready to be.”
“I … love him, Olin!” she whimpered. “But he won’t keep me with him, will he?”
“I can’t answer that, honey,” Olin told her. “If it was me, I’d sure as hell keep a woman like you. But Zeke is Zeke, and he’s got that terrible memory that keeps him from bein’ happy. But you gotta try to rest right now, Miss Abbie.”
He stroked her hair back from her face, and that, combined with her weariness and the warmth of the fire and the comfort of a real bed, lulled her back to sleep. She woke up in the middle of the night when Olin and Mrs. Hanes came to check her wound and change the gauze; but then she cried herself to sleep again, for it had not been Zeke who came, nor did he come at all that night. Time was growing short before she would have to say good-bye to him forever.
Twenty
Abbie sat in an old, stuffed chair that some of Jim Bridget’s men had brought out to the campfire for her. It was their second night at Fort Bridger, a night of celebration before moving on to Fort Hall, and Abbie had cried and begged until Mrs. Hanes had acquiesced and allowed her to join the others, but only if she wore her warmest coat and was covered with a quilt against the chilly, night mountain air. Two of the scouts from the fort sat playing fiddles, a third tooted a beat out with a ceramic jug, and yet another sang humorous folk songs, while the listeners sat, clapping their hands and laughing at the ridiculous words. Abbie tried to participate in the joy of the evening, celebrating with the others the fact that their trip was more than half over. She hoped all their troubles were behind them. But a cold, dark mist lay heavy on her heart, for she still had not seen Zeke since their arrival. Apparently he intended to see her only long enough to remove her stitches before he left, which could mean only one thing—he had made his decision. When he left for Oregon, it would be the last she would see of him, and by his absence, he hoped to make it easier for them both.
Everyone, even Yolanda Brown, came to tell Abbie good-bye, to wish her a speedy recovery, and to expressing sympathy for her terrible losses on their trail West. Mrs. Hanes stayed close to Abbie, knowing inside her own heart just how unhappy she must be, and she frequently assured her that when she came the rest of the way to Oregon the next spring, the Hanes family would still have a home ready and welcome for her. Even Mrs. Hanes could see what Zeke was doing, and she understood why; but she was worried about Abbie’s spirits, and her heart ached for this lonely young woman who would be left behind while the rest of them went on to Oregon without her.
Several of the men from the fort came to speak to Abbie, taking off their beaver-skin hats and bowing low to her as they introduced themselves. All of them expressed praise for the fact that she’d shot a Crow before she took the arrow, and their respect and admiration was obviously genuine. Abbie could not help but feel a tinge of personal pride and satisfaction in her feat, noticing that a woman of courage and determination was well thought of in this wild and untamed land. It was obvious that any one of the men would have gladly pursued further conversation with her, but she sensed a certain hesitance, even in their short conversations. She wondered if the rumor had spread among them that she belonged to Cheyenne Zeke. If so, she did not detect any of the disrespect Zeke seemed to think these white men would show her if they knew, nor were there any leering or suggestive looks. It could be different out here; of that she was certain. There would certainly be those who would deplore such a relationship; but surely it could not be as bad for them in this new and freer land as it had been for Zeke and Ellen back in Tennessee, where society was more civilized and more judgmental.
She could understand why Zeke would want her to stay at Fort Bridger, for Jim Bridger was himself an honest and dependable man; and the other men who worked for him at the fort all appeared to be experienced and strong. She knew her stay there would be safe and protected, yet she could never feel as safe and protected as she would if she belonged to Zeke.
She watched the others from the train, as they sang and laughed and danced, realizing how much she would miss them, even Willis and Yolanda Brown. She decided she would start a diary while she recuperated at the fort. She would write down everything she could remember about the trip, these people whom she had come to know so well, and those who had been lost on the way. In spite of the fact that she did not want to think of a future without Cheyenne Zeke, she knew she had no choice in the matter. And perhaps, after all, someday she would have children and grandchildren and her trip West should be preserved in writing so that nothing would be forgotten—least of all, Cheyenne Zeke. Because of him, and because of all her sufferings, the Abigail Trent who sat at campfire that night at Fort Bridger was incredibly different from the bashful, innocent child who had left Tennessee. She was a woman now, in spite of her age, and her whole world had been turned upside down. She felt as though she were another person, and the new Abbie had never even lived in Tennessee, or had a mother and father, a sister and a brother. All were gone now. There was only herself; and already she was drawing on some secret, inner strength that she had just begun to learn dwelled within her small frame.
“Are you warm enough, Abbie?” Mrs. Hanes asked, interrupting the girl’s thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied. She sighed. “Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”
The woman patted her hand. “I wouldn’t know, dear. I’m so sorry it has turned out this way. But surely you knew how Zeke felt. Surely you knew—”
“Hey, Olin!” one of the men from the fort called out loudly, interrupting Mrs. Hanes’s conversation. “Where’s that half-breed friend of ours? I seen him come ridin’ in here just before the train arrived, and I ain’t seen him since,” the man went on jovially.
“You know Zeke,” Olin replied. “He might be standin’ right behind you and you wouldn’t even know it. He’s got things on his mind, Dooley. I expect he’s out there somewhere doin’ some heavy thinkin’.”
“If it’s that heavy, then it must be over a woman!” the man called Dooley replied, slapping his knee and laughing. Some of the others laughed good-heartedly with him, while Abbie blushed and the one called Dooley took a long swallow of whiskey. “I sure wish Zeke would show up,” he continued loudly. “Him and me have shared a lot of whiskey together. Ain’t seen the half-breed for a hell of a long time.”
“I expect he’ll be around eventually,” Olin assured the man, glancing at Abbie with troubled eyes.
“Ain’t nobody on God’s earth better with a blade than the half-breed,” Dooley added, looking around at the others now and standing up. “Like I say, me and Zeke have drunk a lot of whiskey together. Why, I remember the time we walked into a saloon down in Cheyenne country by the Arkansas River. The white settlers around those parts—they don’t have much use for Indians, if you know what I mean, and they especially don’t like Indians comin’ into the white men’s saloons.” Everyone quieted, realizing the man was building up to something. Dooley took another drink of whiskey. “But Zeke, he never let them things bother him much. So he just walked into that saloon and mosied up to the bar and flat-out asked for a whiskey.” The man, who was feeling his own whiskey and loved to tell a good story, began walking around the small group of travelers. “And then,” he went on, “about six—maybe seven or eight men—they came up and to
ld the bartender not to serve Zeke. Hell, I expect they didn’t even know he was a half-breed. That would have made matters even worse. But bein’ a Cheyenne was bad enough, and ol’ Zeke, he looks all Cheyenne.” He took another swallow of whiskey and wiped his lips. “Me—I backed off, figurin’ Zeke would do the same on account of there was so many of them and they had murder in their eyes. But when Zeke just told the bartender again to give him some whiskey, my blood run cold with fear for what would happen next.”
The man chuckled, and everyone listened attentively, even the little Hanes children, and especially Abbie, whose heart felt again her awful loneliness.
“Well, dang it, Dooley, finish the story!” one of the other men spoke up. Dooley smiled, pleased by his listeners’ excitement.
“Well, one of the men, he made a remark to the bartender about not givin’ whiskey to a no-good, stinkin’ Indian,” Dooley went on, his own eyes widening with excitement. “Zeke, he just turned and looked at that man. And I’ll bet most of you who have traveled with him know how he can look at a man when he’s mad. Sometimes just his look can do a man in, you know?”
Sweet Prairie Passion (Savage Destiny) Page 36
