Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  Garvey frowned, and there was a moment of silence while he studied Ben’s eyes. “You sure about that?”

  Ben scratched his head. “Almost. She wore a tunic like any squaw, but—” he thought a moment—“damn, she had to be white, sir. I’m just sure of it. And some of the kids looked white, too.”

  Silence hung in the air again for a moment as Garvey pondered the strange story. White. What would a white woman be doing riding around the plains with a bunch of Indians? Was she a captive? Surely not. She fought on their side.

  “Father,” the younger Garvey spoke up. “The young one I fought with. I have seen him before. I am sure of it. I …1 never told you, but once when you were in Washington, about, I’m not sure, about three years ago. I … I got in a fight with an Indian boy. He was smaller, but he beat me, so I didn’t tell you about it because I thought you would be angry with me. I wanted to wait until I beat a boy in a fight before I told you. But I am sure it was the same boy. I could swear it.”

  Garvey frowned. This was indeed getting more interesting all the time. “You mean the boy was in Denver?”

  “Yes, sir. And so was his father. When we were fighting in Denver, a white man grabbed the Indian boy off of me and hit him, and the boy’s father began beating on the white man. The father was arrested and taken to jail. But somehow he was freed again. I don’t know how it happened. I do remember seeing that prostitute, Anna Gale, help the man’s wife. I don’t know why she would help a woman who sleeps with Indians. But that doesn’t matter. The point is the white woman she helped was the same white woman we saw with the Indians in Kansas. She is the big man’s wife. So all of them were in Denver about three years ago. When I told the boy I had seen him before, he looked at me real funny, and he denied ever having been to Denver.”

  “Did any of you get any names?” Garvey asked.

  “I did,” Charles answered proudly. “One of the other Indians called the big one Zeke. That is the only name I heard.

  Winston Garvey paled, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Zeke!” he exclaimed. “Zeke Monroe?”

  Charles shrugged. “I don’t know. Just Zeke. But he looked familiar. I swear I saw him before Denver, when I was much smaller. But I can’t remember. Do you know this man?”

  Garvey’s mind raced. He must think fast. He must not give anything away, and perhaps he was only jumping to conclusions anyway. At the moment he was totally confused. He needed to sit and think and make notes and try to piece things together. Anna! Anna Gale had seen Zeke Monroe in Denver. Zeke Monroe. The man who had come to his home nine years ago to take the Cheyenne woman, Yellow Moon. And it was just about three years ago that Anna Gale had told him he had a half-breed son. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he remembered that it was after his trip to Washington.

  “They were the damnedest fighters, sir,” Buel spoke up. “I never saw men move so fast and sure. And that wolf, he was on me like lightning.”

  “That Zeke fella, he was one mean bastard,” Marty growled.

  Garvey scanned all of them again. “Marty, John—you’re both fired!” he declared. “You cowards never should have run off like that. My son could have been killed. Get your gear and get out.”

  The two men looked sheepishly at the floor, then Marty rose. “Yes, sir.” He left without another word, and John followed. Garvey looked at the remaining men.

  “You fools almost gave away your cover. You never should have been in Kansas. Those Indians knew it, and probably suspected you weren’t really Colorado volunteers. I don’t want anyone to know I send out my own men on scouting missions. I may be waging my own private war against the Indians, but I don’t need anyone else knowing about it! Those red bastards could talk to soldiers or their agent and make trouble. They played it smart by not killing any of you. You’d better believe that if they thought they could get away with it they’d have slaughtered all of you!”

  “We’re sorry, sir,” Ben replied. “But we thought—”

  “That’s right,” Garvey interrupted. “You thought—but you thought wrong!” He pounded his fist on the desk top, his face cherry red with anger.

  “Father, do you know the one called Zeke?” Charles asked again.

  Garvey turned cautious eyes to the boy. “Did the man speak good English?” he asked.

  “Yes, he did. In fact, he did all the talking.”

  “I think he’s a breed,” Joe spoke up. “He was too tall and too good-lookin’ to be a full-blood. And I never met an Indian who talked that good of English. That might explain the white woman with him.”

  Garvey rubbed his chin. White woman! Zeke Monroe was perhaps married to a white woman. Yes. This would all take some thought. And he would damned well see how Anna Gale reacted to the name Zeke Monroe. He looked at Charles.

  “Yes, son, I think I might know the man. But it was a long time ago. It’s of no importance.”

  “But if you know him, you can go after him for what he did.”

  Garvey waved him off, trying to seem casual. “I have no idea where the man lives now, and I don’t want to stir it up. It might just make the wrong kind of trouble for me. You have to learn when to move and when not to move, Charles.”

  The boy frowned in frustration. He would love to raid wherever Zeke Monroe lived and kill the man.

  Garvey leaned back in his chair again. “All right. Keep this quiet. And the next time you take my son with you any place, take better care of him! I never told you to get into any skirmishes—just to scout around, teach him the lay of the land, that sort of thing.” He sighed deeply. “Go on. Get out of here and go nurse your wounds.” He turned to Charles. “And you, son. You go to your room and rest. We’ll talk more later about your adventures. I’ll have your supper sent up to you in bed.”

  The boy nodded, rising slowly from his chair because of his sore ribs. “Are you proud of me, Father?” he asked.

  Garvey grinned. “Of course I am. Now get going.”

  The boy grinned more. “I’ll be the best Indian fighter Colorado ever had, sir,” he declared. “I’ll count plenty of dead ones some day—dead by my own gun.”

  The other men looked at each other rather disgustedly. Charles Garvey had been soundly whipped by the Indian boy, and none of them had really minded watching. But Winston Garvey paid their wages, and they were good wages. If they told the truth about Charles, the boy would figure out a way to make sure they were fired, so they kept still, even though all of them thought Charles Garvey somewhat demented.

  “I hope you can some day legally wipe every Indian out of Colorado Territory,” Winston Garvey was telling his son. “But remember to tread lightly until the laws governing such things are more solid. For now you are fairly safe in assuming you can shoot at any Indian who strays from the reservation, but it’s wise to be cautious, son.”

  The boy nodded, standing straighter and feeling like a man. He turned and left the room with the rest of the men, and Winston Garvey slumped back into his chair with a heavy sigh. The news he had received was both disturbing and interesting. Zeke Monroe. Denver. Anna Gale. Yellow Moon. Somehow there had to be a connection.

  Fifteen

  Only about three hundred Sioux raided through Minnesota, the Dakotas and northern Nebraska that summer of 1862, and those few were soon on their way to Canada, fleeing pursuing soldiers. But few whites could be convinced that not all Indians were raiding and ready for all-out war. That summer nearly the entire Nebraska frontier fled to the Missouri River on one wild rumor that the Indians had joined the Confederates and had been supplied with rifles and would raid any day. So frightened were the settlers that many left with hardly more than the clothes on their backs, leaving behind homes and furnishings. The governors of western territories and states pleaded with Washington to send more troops west. But there were none to send, for the Civil War was at its bloodiest height. There was no one to defend the West but their own volunteers, men who already had a hatred of Indians and no inclination to listen
to the Indians’ plight or to be fair in any bargaining.

  Such was the mood of the country as Zeke Monroe packed his gear to leave his family and the people that he loved and go to a place and people he did not love. But he was a man accustomed to doing what must be done, even if it was not what he wanted. Practical, he had called it. It was a word he had used often the first year Abbie met him, and practical often meant terrible sacrifice, even of loved ones.

  Abbie rolled fresh biscuits into a cloth and placed them into his parfleche, a parfleche she herself had beaded for him. She fought the terrible agony of his leaving, the need to scream and the desperate wish to make time stand still. They had spent their last night at the creek, in a quickly erected tipi, so that they could be alone. In spite of her embarrassment at the realization that everyone knew why they had gone off alone, Abbie stubbornly did not care. Let the three men with Emily think what they would, and let Emily blush. It did not matter. She would spend her last night alone with her man and that was that.

  Zeke came through the doorway then. All of the children were outside, saying goodbye to their new-found aunt and cousin, both of whom were already inside their carriage. The three escorts were mounted and ready to ride. They would get Emily safely back to St. Louis first, and had no doubt they would do so now that the “big Indian” would be along.

  Abbie looked up at her husband as he came inside. He looked away quickly, his chest hurting so badly he found it difficult to breathe. “Everything is packed but my parfleche,” he told her. She handed the article out to him.

  “I put fresh biscuits in it.”

  He nodded, then turned to face her again, running his eyes over her body. “Keep your gun loaded, and don’t hesitate to use it, Abbie. Wolf’s Blood is practically as good as I am with a rifle and knife. He’ll stay close. And there’s Dooley. Black Elk said he and some others would be around, maybe camp here as much as possible.”

  “Tall Grass Woman will come and stay with me also,” she told him. Her eyes softened more. “Please don’t worry, Zeke. We’ve lived here for years, survived everything that has come our way. Now we’re right in the middle of Indian country, according to the treaty. No whites are going to dare come around here, and they’re the only ones I worry about. There’s no concern with the Cheyenne, and the Comanches stay to the south. I’m not afraid, Zeke, and I’ll not go dragging all my children off to Bent’s Fort for who knows how long. I want to be home. You could be gone for—” the words caught in her throat—“for months.” She suddenly closed her eyes and put a hand to her mouth.

  In the next moment he was there, and she wept against his chest, breathing deeply of the beautiful, manly scent of him, wanting to remember … remember. “Oh God, Zeke, I wanted to be …so strong for you!” she wept.

  He held her tightly, kissing her hair. “Hey, Abbie-girl, remember when I had that dream, about being with you when you were very old and gray? My dreams have never been wrong, Abbie. So you know what that means. It means I’ll be coming back, and that you’ll be here waiting when I do.” He swallowed back a lump in his own throat, and one tear slipped down the scarred cheek. “Don’t you see it, Abbie? There’s nothing to worry about.”

  She sniffed and turned her face to kiss the bare skin of his chest that showed through the lacings of his buckskin shirt. “Be careful, Zeke. It’s dangerous there.” She turned her face up to look at him and he forced a smile for her.

  “More dangerous than being out here?” he asked.

  She had to smile herself at the remark. “Settle your past, Zeke,” she told him, reaching up and touching his cheek. “Settle your past, and then come home to me.”

  They stared at each other’s eyes, and then his lips met hers, savagely, desperately, wishing with all his being that the kiss could last forever. He pulled her so close that her feet left the floor for a moment, as the tall, powerful man swept his small wife into his embrace. He left her lips and kissed her over and over on the cheeks and eyes, then back to her lips before finally releasing her.

  “Ne-mehotatse,” he told her in a strained voice.

  Their eyes held for several seconds before he slowly let go of her completely and reached for his parfleche.

  “Ne-mehotatse,” she whispered.

  He suddenly turned and walked through the door. She forced her own legs to move to the doorway and outside to watch him mount up with the easy grace he always displayed on a horse. He signaled the three men to get started, then turned and nodded to Dooley, moving his eyes to Wolf’s Blood, whose eyes registered deep understanding. They had already talked, and Zeke Monroe knew his son would give his life for his mother if need be. He could only pray that both would be alive and well when he returned. He tore his eyes from Wolf’s Blood and scanned the rest of the children, to whom he had already given individual goodbyes.

  “I love you—all of you,” he told them. “Be good for your mother and do your chores. She’ll need cooperation from all of you.”

  “We’ll help her, Father,” Margaret spoke up. He studied his beautiful eldest daughter. She was another reason to worry.

  “I know you will,” he told the girl. “You’re good children—all of you. I’m proud of you. And I’ll be back, that’s a promise.”

  Margaret wiped at her eyes and Wolf’s Blood stood with his lips pressed tight, wanting to act like a man this day. Zeke turned his mount and rode up close to Abbie, reaching down for her. She took his hand.

  “May the spirits protect you,” he told her. “I will pray for you.”

  “And I shall pray to my God to protect you,” she replied.

  He gently touched the side of her face. “You’ll always be my Abbie-girl,” he told her. “No matter whatever happens.”

  He turned his horse and kicked it into a gallop. If the leaving must be done, then it must be done quickly. She watched him until he was a dot on the distant hill. Then he disappeared over the crest. She stood watching for several minutes, wishing that for some reason he would come riding back down the hill. But she knew he would not. Wolf’s Blood was standing beside her.

  “He will come back, Mother,” he told her. “He always comes back.”

  She turned to look at her son, a young replica of Zeke Monroe. She breathed deeply and straightened. She must not weep and frighten the children.

  “Of course he’ll be back,” she said flatly. She moved past him and re-entered the house. There were more biscuits in the oven. She must finish her baking.

  Somewhere deep in the night a coyote howled, and Abbie stirred. She had slept restlessly, unaccustomed to sleeping alone. When first she woke her stomach hurt at the reawakened pain of knowing Zeke was gone, perhaps for months.

  She sat up and put on her robe, going out into the main room to heat some coffee. Perhaps if she sat and read for a while it would help her sleep. She noticed a lantern lit on the table and the door ajar and she frowned. The house was quiet.

  “Wolf’s Blood?” she called out softly.

  There was a moment of silence. “I am out here,” he spoke up from outside the door. She wrapped her robe tighter and went to the door, stepping out into the moonlit porch, and the boy turned away to stare out over the distant hills. Far off in the distance he could see the black outline of the Rocky Mountains. Abbie sensed he had been crying, but she knew he would die of embarrassment if she mentioned it.

  “You were thinking of your father,” she said softly.

  He sighed deeply and swallowed. “Except for that time when I was very small … we have never been apart. I was thinking, thinking that I will have to go for my morning rides … alone.”

  She watched him lovingly. “Oh no, Wolf’s Blood. You know your father better than that. You’ll not ride alone. He’ll be with you, in his mind. He’ll be in the grass and the wind and the sun. Wherever you go in this life, and even after your father is gone in death, he will be with you.”

  The boy sniffed and nodded. Then he turned to her, and in the darkness it was almost a
s though Zeke himself were standing there. “Tell me something, Mother,” he spoke up.

  She stepped a little closer. “What is it?” she asked, grateful for the conversation.

  “Why? Why did you marry my father?”

  Her eyebrows arched in surprise at the question and she smiled softly. “Why not?” she replied. “I loved him. It’s as simple as that. What else can I say?”

  “But—what made you love him? I can understand how he could love you. You were young and beautiful and alone, and he must have seen you would be a good woman someday, a good wife,” he told her in his forthright manner. It was the Indian in him that made him speak simple truth, with a bluntness akin to most Cheyenne men. “But you are white, and he is Indian in all ways, except that he has a white father. Surely you knew this, and knew he had killed all those men back in Tennessee. Most white women will have nothing to do with an Indian man. They shun them and whisper about them and act as though they are something less than human.”

  Abbie stepped even closer, folding her arms and studying the boy’s intense, dark eyes. What a handsome son he was, so much like his father. She worried over what lay ahead for this son who was so rebellious.