Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  They waited several minutes, then four men moved out from a ridge just below them, heading for the buffalo. Zeke and Abbie watched quietly for several minutes as the men rode up to the carcasses and dismounted, then began to deftly and expertly skin off the hides.

  “What a stinking waste!” Zeke growled under his breath.

  “Oh, Zeke,” Abbie whispered, turning away. If anything would quickly destroy the Indian and force those left onto reservations, it was this. The buffalo was their lifeblood, every part of the animal used in some way. These men would take only the precious hide, perhaps some of the meat to sell to the railroad, then leave everything else to rot.

  Zeke carefully removed his Winchester .44 rifle from its boot on the side of his Appaloosa gelding. He always preferred to ride Kehilan, but at times like this he needed a horse more subdued and easier to control, so he had chosen a sturdy gelding for the trip, putting Abbie on a roan mare. The horses LeeAnn and Jeremy had ridden had been sold at Julesberg. He was glad now that he had not brought them along.

  “A sixth sense tells me there were more than four down there, Abbie-girl,” he said quietly. “Is your pa’s old Spencer loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Slip it out.”

  She looked at him with worried eyes. He knew that she was thinking about the terrible ordeal she had suffered six years ago. “Not this time, Abbie,” he assured her. “You know better than to worry when I’m with you.”

  She tried to smile for him, but he saw the fear there and it tore at his guts. He’d shoot her himself if necessary to keep anything like that from happening to her again. He braced himself against the side of the wash so he could see above them as well as below. He was almost certain they’d been spotted, for they had been in a position from which they could be seen without being able to see the hide hunters. There was a long moment of quiet while the men below went about their dastardly business, and Zeke was sure it was only a diversion. The hunters wanted the man and woman to think there were only the four of them and no more.

  A moment later he got his answer. Three horses came thundering down toward them from above, showering them with dust and small rocks as they stirred the hillside. Zeke stood up and took aim, firing once, slamming open and closed the lever of the rifle and firing again. Two men came rolling down the hillside, one lying dead close to Abbie, another rolling past them, while their horses ran on and kept going. The third man was on them by then. He swung a clublike instrument at Zeke, knocking him sideways. Abbie screamed, clinging desperately to the reins of their own two horses, which had lurched to their feet by then. Zeke’s wicked blade was out and he squirmed to his feet as the hunter raised the club again. Zeke ducked under the man’s horse, rolling between its legs and coming up on the other side to sink his blade into the man’s hip, pulling him from the horse as he screamed with the horrible pain of the huge knife ripping into him.

  Abbie gasped and backed up, still holding onto the horses as Zeke and the hunter tumbled into the wash. An enraged Zeke Monroe was feeling his Indian blood now, and in spite of the dizzy pain the club brought to his head, he managed to roll on top of the hunter and in a quick flash his infamous knife found its mark in the man’s heart. He ripped downward with the blade and Abbie turned away, feeling faint. She had seen him use the knife before in her defense, but was sure she would never get used to the extent of her husband’s brutality in times like these.

  In the next moment he was grabbing her back down. “The other four are coming!” he told her. “You’ve shot three Crow Indians with that old Spencer, Abbie-girl, and plenty of deer. See what you can do with buffalo hunters. I need your help.”

  “The horses!”

  “Let go of them! They’ll come back!”

  She released the reins and the two mounts ran off. Zeke retracted the lever of his rifle again, and Abbie took aim with her father’s old rifle, her hands shaking.

  “You take the one on your left, if you can, Abbie. Let them get a little closer first.”

  The thundering hooves of the oncoming hunters seemed to rumble through her very bones. These men were after more than hides this day, and she’d be damned if they’d get it. The seconds it took them to come closer seemed more like hours, and then she was pulling the trigger. The man on their left was thrown backward off his mount, blood exploding at his right shoulder. Zeke’s rifle fired at almost the same time, once, then again. Two more went down. The last man stared wide-eyed, hardly able to believe that he and six cohorts, all experienced plainsmen, had been felled by one man and a small woman. He turned his horse sharply, its hooves digging into the loose soil, and made an attempt to escape. But in the next instant a big blade landed with a thud in his back. He cried out and slumped forward, falling from his horse several yards farther down the hill.

  “Stay down!” Zeke told Abbie, as he slowly emerged from the wash, his keen eyes and ears alert for any others that might be about. But the open plain was suddenly deadly quiet again, except for a soft wind and the very distant rumbling of the still-running buffalo herd. Zeke ran up the hill to check the other side of it. No one was about. He moved back down, kicking at bodies for survivors. The one Abbie had shot groaned. Zeke looked at her, his dark eyes wild and savage. “Turn around!” he ordered. Their eyes held, then she turned away, covering her ears. A shot was fired.

  A moment later he was behind her, putting a firm arm around her. “I told you it wouldn’t happen this time. And you don’t have to worry now that you killed a man, Abbie-girl. You only wounded him in self-defense. I killed him.” He kissed her hair. “I’ll get my knife and get the horses back. You sit here and breathe easy. Everything will be all right. We’ll ride hard for Fort Laramie and tell Dan about this, and you can get some rest.”

  She turned to look up at him. An ugly black welt was making itself visible on his left cheek where the hunter had hit him. “Zeke, you’re hurt.”

  He wished that was all that was wrong with him. Wounds from battle he could handle. It was the secret pain he could do nothing about. He was only grateful that he could still manage himself in times of peril. His skills and strength had remained intact.

  “You know how hardheaded I am,” he told her with a forced grin. “By the way, woman, that was fine shooting. In the old days a Cheyenne priest would have given you another eagle feather for that belt you keep. I guess you’re right about the old Spencer. I keep wanting to put it away but you keep saying it’s just as good as any new rifle I could get you.”

  The tears came then, and she half collapsed against his chest, crying quietly. She had been with Zeke Monroe. Why had she even considered being afraid.

  Chapter Three

  Abbie held the yarn in her fingers to keep it from getting tangled, while her sister-in-law, Bonnie Monroe, knitted rapidly, talking just about as fast as she worked. There was much visiting to be done, years to catch up on. She would enjoy her stay here at Fort Laramie, and to no surprise of her own, Zeke had already ridden into Indian country to search for their son, even though they had arrived only the day before. She did not blame him. She only prayed he would find the boy healthy and in one piece.

  “And isn’t Joshua handsome!” Bonnie was saying. “I’m so proud of him, Abbie. He walks so well, and he’s so intelligent. He’s going off to college in another year. I’ll always be grateful to you for the day you and Zeke brought him to me.”

  Abbie forced a smile. “And I’ll always be glad we thought to bring him,” she replied. “We couldn’t have chosen a better woman to be a mother to him.”

  Bonnie went on talking about the boy, but Abbie’s mind was not totally on the conversation. Bonnie had no idea what kind of memories seeing young Joshua brought to Abbie’s tortured mind. Joshua was the half-breed son of Zeke’s sister-in-law, Yellow Moon, and the prominent, wealthy Winston Garvey. That much Dan and Bonnie knew. Zeke had rescued his sister-in-law from sexual slavery at the hands of Garvey, over fifteen years ago down in Santa Fe. The woman had later g
iven birth to Joshua, called Crooked Foot by the Indians because he was born with a clubfoot. Yellow Moon was killed when soldiers raided her village, and Abbie and Zeke had taken the crippled baby to Bonnie at Fort Laramie. At that time, Bonnie was married to a preacher, Rodney Lewis, and was herself a missionary and nurse, her father a doctor. She was a good friend, a deep kinship having developed between herself and Zeke after he had saved her from outlaws who had captured her to sell in Mexico. Bonnie, herself barren, agreed to take the baby, and the boy had been sent east several times for special operations. They renamed him Joshua Lewis, and now at fifteen, the boy walked quite well with a brace. He was a handsome boy, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, rather slender in build. He knew only that he’d been “found abandoned” by Zeke and Abbie and that they had brought him to Bonnie. He did not know he was half Indian, nor did he know that his real father was Winston Garvey.

  That knowledge had brought much suffering to Abbie six years ago. Garvey had discovered that he had a half-breed son. He was a notorious Indian hater, for purely selfish reasons, and to discover he had a son walking around with Indian blood made him furious. Through his own investigating, he realized it was the Monroes who knew the boy’s whereabouts and identity. While Zeke was away in the Civil War, Garvey had arranged for Abbie’s abduction. But Abigail was a fighter and a stubborn woman. Torture would not make her reveal where Joshua was. She refused to tell, for she knew Winston Garvey would surely have the boy killed, and she would rather die than be responsible for the death of a child. So Garvey had resorted to breaking her pride—rape. Still she would not tell, even when he sent in two of his men to horrify and shame her. She believed in Zeke—believed he would come for her, find her. And he had. Now only she and Zeke and Wolf’s Blood knew the secret—knew how Winston Garvey and two of his men had mysteriously disappeared. If Zeke Monroe’s knife could talk, it could tell too. But the story it would tell would be a horrible one indeed, for Winston Garvey had learned the terrible things Zeke Monroe could do with that knife in revenge.

  Garvey’s son Charles inherited his father’s wealth. He was an even worse Indian hater than Winston had been. He had ridden with Chivington in the horrible raid on Black Kettle’s Cheyenne village at Sand Creek in 1864. Wolf’s Blood had been there that day. The young girl he loved and intended to marry had been killed. And Wolf’s Blood had sunk a lance into Charles Garvey’s leg, leaving the young man badly crippled for life. Charles had not even known it was Wolf’s Blood; he did not know the secret link between himself and the Monroes, or that he had a half brother who was part Indian. They could only pray that Garvey would never find out, for he, too, would try to have Joshua killed. For now, Charles Garvey knew only that his father had disappeared during an Indian raid and had never been found. He was declared officially dead, and Charles Garvey, a wicked, scheming, power-hungry young man, came into his father’s wealth, shedding few tears over the man’s death.

  And so their lives seemed to be continually moving in and out of the lives of the Garveys, and of Bonnie Lewis. Her preacher husband was killed by Indians, and she had later married Zeke’s white brother, Dan Monroe, a colonel in the western army stationed at Fort Laramie. Dan had lost his own first wife to death. Their twelve-year-old daughter Jennifer, an exceedingly beautiful child, lived with her father and Bonnie at the fort. Dan’s first marriage had never been a truly happy one, nor had Bonnie’s. But now they were both radiant with their newfound love. Both had been lonely, Dan needing a woman and Bonnie needing a man. The marriage had been for somewhat practical purposes, as many marriages in this lawless land were: Joshua needed a father, and Jennifer needed a mother. But the practicality had swiftly turned to true love, and anyone could tell how devoted each was to the other.

  Joshua came in then, carrying some supplies. Every time Abbie looked at him, her heart ached with a mixture of remembered torture and extreme pride that she had been strong and had not told the boy’s identity. He was a fine young man, and some day when the time was right, Bonnie would tell him his true identity. But even then, neither Joshua nor Bonnie nor Dan would ever know what Abbie had suffered to keep that information hidden.

  “Dan is coming!” the boy said excitedly. “He probably found those men Zeke killed. I wish I could have seen it. I’ve heard so many stories about Zeke, I’d sure like to see him in action!”

  Abbie and Bonnie looked at each other and laughed lightly. Both had seen in vivid detail what Zeke was like in action. Joshua put down the supplies and limped to the doorway. Dan rode up to the log house, which was whitewashed and had flowers planted around it. It was a spacious home, with one large kitchen and social room, two bedrooms, and a loft. It was a cheery house, with checkered curtains and braided rugs on the hardwood floor.

  Dan came ambling in then. He and Zeke both shared the tall, broad build of their white father. But the resemblance ended there. Dan’s hair was a thick, curly blond, his eyes a handsome blue. He was more even-tempered than his half-Indian brother, but their smile and the way they walked were very much alike. As a youth, Dan had come west to find Zeke, after Zeke had fled Tennessee many years earlier. Dan landed himself in the Army, and after saving an officer in the Mexican War, he also landed himself a commission, had moved up in rank ever since, and was now a colonel. He looked wonderful in blue uniform, although during the Civil War he had traded that uniform for a gray one and had suffered a terrible wound at Shiloh that had almost ended his life. If not for Zeke’s finding him and getting him help, he would be dead for certain. The two men were close, in spite of their difference in blood and beliefs.

  “Did you find the buffalo hunters?” Joshua asked excitedly. “Were they all dead?”

  Dan looked at Abbie, his eyebrows arched. He well knew the kind of fighting man his older, half-Indian brother was. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abbie? That was quite a mess Zeke left back there. It must have been terrible for you.”

  She sighed deeply and watched the yarn unwind from between her fingers. “It was. But I knew Zeke could handle it. I’ve seen worse, Dan, you know that.” How could she tell him that her worst fear was that the men would get hold of her and she would suffer again as she had at the hands of Winston Garvey? She knew that was what had given Zeke the extra strength and courage he’d had that day. He would not let that happen to her again.

  Dan looked at Joshua. “Yes, they were all dead. We buried them right there.” He was not about to tell the boy how they’d found some of them—ripped open by Zeke Monroe’s knife. He looked at Abbie again. “Well, I don’t suppose we have to worry about that husband of yours riding into Indian country, do we? I’d worry more about the Indians who might try to harm him.”

  They all laughed lightly, and Abbie’s heart felt tight again with the fear that he would not find Wolf’s Blood. He must find the boy. It was so important to him.

  The only sound was the wind, high on that ridge where Zeke sat on his grand Appaloosa. It blew hard that day, rushing through the tall ponderosa pines in a near-constant moan, so loud that the noises from the Sioux village below could not be heard from his high perch. In turn, the Indians below were not aware of his presence.

  He only watched for a while, wanting to impress the sight in his mind: the huge settlement of tipis, their buffalo-skin walls painted with symbols representing the character of the warrior and his family who lived inside. Blue smoke curled lazily through the bunched poles at the top of the conical-shaped dwellings.

  He took in the sight: dogs and children running about, a large herd of fat ponies grazing hearby, hides pegged out on the ground to dry. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was a young boy again, living in the days when the Indian was free and happy. But the peace and prosperity these Sioux were enjoying could only be temporary—of that he was certain. They had won a battle, but they would lose the war.

  He wore his finest Cheyenne regalia, a grand specimen of Indian sitting there in bleached buckskins decorated with beads and tiny bells. His
long black hair hung loose and flowing, with just a tiny braid at one side that was beaded and adorned with an ornament made of buffalo hair and beads, and still another tiny bell. Now he was Lone Eagle, not Zeke Monroe. All his life he had been torn between the two worlds, and he felt battered and beaten on the inside. On the outside his handsome looks were overshadowed by the many scars on his back, arms, and chest, as well as the thin scar on his left cheek, which showed him to be familiar with violence and hard living. That’s the way it was for half-breeds. But the hard life and his forty-nine years had only kept him strong, and he was determined to keep that strength and use it against the disease the doctor had told him he had.

  He breathed deeply of the air, liking the smell of the pines. Zeke had not been this far north in many years, and felt strong today. Thanks to an understanding wife, when he needed to be “Indian” he could be, and that was all he was now—Indian. Perhaps this would be the last time he could get a taste of the old life. Views such as what he watched below were fast disappearing.

  He started down, making his way quietly over fallen pine needles and flowering larkspur. A white-tailed deer skittered off to his left. As he came closer, he grasped the handle of his knife. He could not be sure what kind of a reception he would get from the restless Indians below, who would be feeling high on their recent victory in their battle over the Powder River country. If his son and brother were among them, he could be sure of his safety.

  Someone below called out, and several men gathered then, eyeing the intruder warily, wondering if the approaching stranger was a lead scout for soldiers. Zeke made the slashing sign with his hands, signifying Cheyenne. “I come alone,” he assured them. He dismounted then, leading his horse by the reins as he walked closer to the suspicious Sioux. “I am Lone Eagle,” he told them, in the best he could remember of the Sioux tongue. He repeated it in Cheyenne, for the Sioux and Cheyenne were so mixed by now that most understood both tongues. “I come from the South. I seek my brother, Swift Arrow, and my son, Wolf’s Blood. Are they among you?”