Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Rodney?” she spoke up softly.

  He continued reading and scribbled something onto a piece of paper before turning around. “What is it?” he asked, almost impatiently. He was a spindly man, rather nervous in his actions, a wiry bit of energy with only one true desire—to spread the word of the Lord as far and wide as possible. In that greater love and passion he had for his work, there was little of those same emotions left for his own wife, and even this night, when he knew they would soon part, he did not seem to see the loneliness in her eyes.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind my going back East with father and Joshua?” she asked him, her blue eyes begging him to just once say something passionate, to ask her to please stay at his side—that he couldn’t live without her beside him in the night.

  “Of course I don’t mind, darling,” he answered, seeming almost irritated that she had interrupted him for such a question. “Your father is a doctor, and a good one. And the two of you have worked together for many years. God knows how badly medical help is needed for that bloody, sinful war. I’m sure the Lord wants you to go. And it’s right that you take Joshua. At his age he should be with his mother. Besides, perhaps you can get him back to that specialist and get a progress report. The boy seems to be doing quite well with his new brace, don’t you think?”

  She swallowed her disappointment that he was not the least inclined to beg her to stay. But that was Rodney, and she did not hate him for it.

  “Yes, he seems to be doing well. I’m proud of him.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, he wondering if he would ever have a son of his own and if this woman he had married was barren, she wanting to scream at him that if he would make love to her more often, perhaps she would have a better chance of conceiving. But for a busy, dedicated man like Rodney Lewis, making love was more of a duty than a pleasure, and between his late hours and being gone for days and sometimes weeks riding the circuit, the physical aspect of their marriage had suffered greatly.

  “Well,” he said, turning back around, “It is settled then. Doctors are needed back East, and your father will go. And with your medical skills and the boy needing to see the specialist again, it’s best you go with him. I would go too, Bonnie, but I’d be of no use to wounded men. The best way for me to serve the Lord is by preaching. So you go East and help those who hunger for medical help, and I shall stay here and serve those who hunger for the word of God.”

  She hesitated at the doorway. “I …I shall miss you, Rodney,” she told him sincerely. “I wish when I get back that … perhaps you will be able to build a church and stay right here.”

  He turned again, frowning. “I’ve told you many times, Bonnie, that I don’t see that happening for many years. The settlers are spread too thin. There is no way they can all come to one place. Until this land is more civilized and this spot where we live becomes a city, I will have to go to the people, rather than their coming to me.” He sighed and shook his head. “Now with the Indians getting restless again, the settlers will need the word of God even more. They’re frightened. And you, my dear, will have to be very careful going through the Platte River area. You should be fine once you reach Illinois.”

  She smiled softly. “All I have to do is mention Swift Arrow,” she told him. “There aren’t many Plains tribes who do not know that name. Swift Arrow knows we keep Yellow Moon’s son.”

  The man shrugged. “Yes. Well the fact remains that you can’t be sure just using his name will keep your hair on your head. Joshua might be part Cheyenne and under the protection of Swift Arrow, but the fact remains that you are white and Joshua looks white, and a raiding Indian isn’t going to stop to ask questions. In fact, you’re probably safer right now back East in the middle of civil war than you are here in Sioux country for the time being.”

  “And what about you—riding all over creation with hostile Indians around you? I’ll worry, Rodney.”

  He smiled faintly. “The Lord is with me, Bonnie. If He chooses to take me, and uses the Indians to do so, then I will just have to go. If He wants me to preach for a good many years yet, then I have nothing to worry about.”

  She sighed resignedly. “I’m going to finish packing.”

  He nodded and returned to his studies, and Bonnie walked to the bedroom. She took a flannel nightgown from the dresser, reminding herself as she packed that she must not get too upset with her husband or be too disappointed in him. He had many attributes, and his lack of warmth and tenderness toward her did not mean that he didn’t love her. It was simply a part of his personality. He was kind to her and had never raised his voice or been demanding of her. Yet even that would sometimes be welcome.

  She fussed with the arrangement of clothes in the old leather suitcase. Why did she always go around and around in her mind about her husband? It was as though two voices were speaking to her, one in his defense, and one telling her it had been wrong to marry him. The defensive voice reminded her he loved her in his own way. He was a dedicated man, a man of faith, and in that respect he was a brave man for going into dangerous country to spread the gospel. Yet the other voice asked if he would be brave enough to defend her person if necessary. And surely if he did, he could never win a fight, for he was slight of build and not a man to be aggressive.

  The defensive voice told her this in itself was an attribute, a man who fights with words and the power of his faith; and she fully agreed. But there was something missing, and that was what caused the constant turmoil in her heart. The strength and courage, love and passion that Rodney Lewis poured into his preaching seemed to be totally spent on just that, with none left over for her. And she knew in her heart that she would always come second in his life. Again she felt the odd loneliness and the guilt she always suffered for not appreciating the good man that she had married. But she would keep these feelings to herself and suffer alone, for she was his wife and had married him willingly. Or had she?

  “Lord, keep these sinful thoughts from my mind,” she whispered in prayer as she returned to the dresser. She shrugged off her aching heart, but the pain returned in full force when she picked up a slip from the dresser drawer and saw it—the Indian necklace given to her by Zeke Monroe.

  It was strange what the necklace did to her. She very seldom dared to look at it because of the awful ache in her chest and the rush of heat through her blood at the thought of the man who had given it to her.

  Zeke. Just the thought of his name brought strange desires that Rodney had never created, desires forbidden to a Christian woman of proper upbringing. And yet they were there, and she knew in all her shame that it was her thoughts for a man she could not have that made her most dissatisfied with her own husband.

  She blinked back tears as she carefully picked up the necklace. How many years ago had he given it to her? Eight or nine? Nine it was, for it had been a year before he had come back to her with the little crippled half-breed boy and asked her and Rodney to take the child.

  It was a bone hairpipe necklace that was special to Zeke because his Cheyenne mother had made it for him. He had given it to her in friendship, a sign that he respected her love for him, a love she had been unable to hide. He respected it, but could not return it, for he loved another, a woman who would own his heart forever. How kind and understanding he had been over her embarrassment the day he had realized she loved him—the day he had saved her from Apaches and she had clung to him not out of fear, but out of a desperate yearning for the man himself. Never had she seen so much man, or a man of such skill and courage. If not for Zeke Monroe, she would surely be dead by now, but not before suffering the horrors of rape and slavery at the hands of outlaws. Zeke Monroe had saved her from all that, and she had been overwhelmed by his raw power and the tender, protective way he had treated her while taking her back to her father in Santa Fe.

  She squeezed the necklace in her hand and closed her eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks. For Zeke, saving her had simply been a matter of duty, a ne
cessary thing to do after seeing her a prisoner of outlaws. But for Bonnie it had been much more than that. It had been an awakening to the violent side of life that she had never witnessed before—and an awakening to a kind of man she had never known before, a man who was as much a part of the earth as the animals, a man whose power came from his inner self, who knew exactly what he wanted at all times and took it, whose law was survival of the fittest and whose God had a different name: Heammawihio. He had patiently taught her so many things about the Indians that she had not understood before. Now she loved them. But she loved one Indian in a special way. Zeke Monroe … Lone Eagle.

  She wiped at her tears and walked over to place the necklace in the suitcase. She would take it with her, for she couldn’t bear to be without it. If she could not have the man, at least she had this special gift of friendship from him—and she had the boy, little Joshua. He was a joy and a treasure, a sweet child who had never questioned all the painful operations he had undergone, and who seldom cried. He wore his new brace with courage and pride, eagerly demonstrating how well he could walk with it. Joshua had never questioned his origins. For the moment he only knew that Bonnie and Rodney Lewis were not his true parents. But he also knew that they loved him as a son, and he in turn loved them as his parents. She prayed that the evil man who was his real father would never discover Joshua’s existence.

  Some day she would have to tell him that his father was a wealthy but disreputable white man and his mother was an Arapaho woman who had been married at one time to a Cheyenne man, Red Eagle. She would tell him the whole story of his mother, Yellow Moon, and how when Joshua was born Yellow Moon lived in the North with Red Eagle’s brother, Swift Arrow, and that she was killed by soldiers. She would try to explain why the grieved Swift Arrow felt it was best that the little crippled half-breed boy be given to someone who could take better care of him. And then she would tell him about Zeke—Swift Arrow’s half brother—whose loving white wife had taken the child out of pity before bringing Joshua to missionaries so he could get medical help.

  It would be a long story, one that would have to wait for years, for the boy would have to be much more mature before he could understand and accept all of it. For now it was easier just to love him and receive his love in return.

  She covered the necklace with clothing. Telling Joshua about his background would have to be buried for now, just as she must bury the necklace. But it was much harder to bury her love for the wild half-breed Indian who had so valiantly saved her nine years ago from a fate worse than death, and she secretly envied Abigail Monroe, a woman who must surely be totally fulfilled.

  The little procession moved quietly over the soft summer grass of the Kansas plains. Between the unrest the Civil War brought into even the western lands, and the fact that Comanches and Sioux were again raiding, Zeke decided it was too dangerous to try to take his family all the way north for the Sun Dance. In the old days they would have joined a progression of thousands of Cheyenne in the summer, migrating north to follow the buffalo and to join with the Sioux in the Dakota hills for the great religious celebration. But war, and a false piece of paper called a treaty, made such migration difficult if not impossible now. The Southern Cheyenne were not even supposed to be wandering this far into Kansas, now officially a brand new state. But most of the Cheyenne still did not recognize the most recent treaty, and for them the Sun Dance was as important to sustaining their lives and well-being as eating and breathing. It was a time for celebrating, and they would celebrate. This was the year that Wolf’s Blood, Zeke’s first-born son, would partake of the ritual and sacrifice his flesh to the spirits.

  Abbie rode beside Tall Grass Woman, who held seven-year-old Ellen in front of her. The plump Indian woman took great joy in helping the white woman who was her good friend care for her children. Tall Grass Woman’s own little girl was long dead from white man’s spotted disease, and her son was now full-grown and married. Tall Grass Woman had only Abbie to turn to for comfort, and Abbie let her dote on her little ones. Many, many winters before, when Tall Grass Woman’s own little girl was still alive, Abbie had saved the child from drowning. The Indian woman had all but worshipped Abigail Monroe ever since.

  Now the two women chattered, sometimes in English, sometimes in the Cheyenne tongue. Abbie rode with little Jason in front of her, and Lillian rode with her big brother, Wolf’s Blood. The other children all rode their own mounts, and all of them were excited and curious about the ritual their brother would suffer to become a Cheyenne man.

  Black Elk’s wife, a slender, pretty Cheyenne girl called Blue Bird Woman, rode on the other side of Abbie, pulling a travois with her five-year-old son, Bucking Horse, happily sitting atop their supplies. On her back she carried a cradleboard with their new baby daughter inside.

  Abbie watched Zeke lovingly. He rode ahead of her, Black Elk on one side of him and Tall Grass Woman’s husband, Falling Rock, on the other. Now again there was nothing white about Zeke Monroe. His long, shining hair blew in the wind over the bronze skin of his bare back. A wide, brass band decorated the hard muscle of his upper left arm, and a beaded leather band decorated the other arm. He wore a beaded leather headband with eagle feathers at the back of it. A wide belt of ammunition was slung crosswise over his back and he wore a handgun and the infamous knife about his waist. His only clothing was his leggings and a pair of light moccasins. One wide stripe of white paint was spread across each cheek beneath his eyes, his prayer color. He had painted himself days before he needed to, but it was his son who would make the sacrifice this time, and Zeke prayed daily to the spirits to give his son courage and above all to erase the boy’s pain at the ritual.

  Abbie knew the ritual itself would be hardest on Zeke, for he had suffered it himself and well knew the agony of it. Watching his son make the sacrifice would be a terrible thing for him, yet his heart would also swell with pride. Already she could see the pride, as he sat straight and tall on the big Appaloosa he rode, riding among his people, almost haughty in the fact that all were going to the Sun Dance celebration to witness Zeke Monroe’s son take a bold step into manhood. They would forget about wars and treaties and white encroachment. They would be Indians and they would celebrate in the old ways. Soon their small party would meet up with a much larger delegation of Cheyenne, and together they would ride to a place along the Smoky Hill River, where even more Cheyenne waited, among them some Cheyenne from the North, who had dared to come into territory the government had forbidden them to enter. All of them took great amusement and excitement in daring to go where they pleased. They knew such days were numbered, but they would cling to them as long as possible. The Cheyenne made no trouble for the whites. They could not understand why the whites wanted to make so much trouble for them.

  They crested a hill and saw in the distance below a small wooden farmhouse, something that had not been in this particular pathway in years before. They drew their mounts to a halt and Zeke studied their surroundings. Between themselves and the farm was a creek, heavily wooded.

  “We’ll go around a ways,” he told Black Elk. “Keep to the creek and the trees. There’s no need to cause trouble for whoever lives there, but if they spot us, they may be the ones to start something.”

  Black Elk said nothing as they headed toward the stream, but his chest hurt at the sight of the farm that had not been there before. More and more it seemed that wherever they went they saw yet another white settlement. There seemed to be no end to the numbers of white people from the mysterious East.

  They guided their mounts into the shallow stream, and Bucking Horse laughed as water splashed on him.

  “Be still, son,” Blue Bird Woman ordered her little boy, her heart aching at the fact that her child could not even laugh as a child should laugh, for fear the whites might hear him.

  They followed the stream for nearly a mile, then moved onto the opposite bank and into the trees. But they were greeted by fence posts and could not continue.

  “
Damn!” Zeke swore. “We’ll have to go back into the stream and go even farther down.”

  “No!” Black Elk snapped, angry at these constant interferences with his free travel. “We will go over the fence!” He headed his mount for the fence before Zeke could say a word, and to Zeke’s horror, he realized the fence was barbed wire. Black Elk kicked his horse into a jump, but the animal did not see the topmost line of wire. A back leg caught on it and the animal came crashing down, pulling the wire and two posts with it. Blue Bird Woman stifled a scream and Zeke quickly dismounted.

  “Everybody stay put and be quiet!” he ordered. “Wolf’s Blood, come and help me. You, too, Falling Rock.”

  The women sat helplessly, watching the men hurry over to to Black Elk, who was quietly cursing in his own tongue as he crawled away from his struggling, badly injured mount. He got to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger at the idea of the fence being there at all, blood streaming from a bad cut on his arm.

  “Katum!” he hissed, wiping at the blood and staring at his horse, its flesh badly torn. “What is this terrible thing?” he asked Zeke, looking at the man with horror in his eyes.

  Zeke’s chest hurt for the man. “It’s called barbed wire, my brother. From now on when you see a fence, take a closer look before you try to leap it.” Their eyes held in a new and torturous understanding, and he saw the pain in Black Elk’s. “We’ll have to kill the animal, Black Elk,” Zeke spoke up. “I’ll do it with my knife. That way we won’t make any noise.”

  Black Elk blinked rapidly. It was not easy for a Cheyenne man to kill a horse. Horses were their most precious possession, and they were loved and cared for like good friends. Abbie could hardly stand the pain in Black Elk’s eyes, and Blue Bird Woman looked away as Zeke pulled his knife from its sheath. Black Elk knelt down and gently stroked the animal’s forehead, saying something softly to it in Cheyenne; in the next moment Zeke’s big blade found the animal’s heart.