Morgan sighed and put out his hand, and Zeke took it. “Good luck, Zeke. I won’t say anything to Margaret, and I’ll pray for you. I’m damned sorry. But you won’t have to worry about the ranch. I’ll do a good job for you, and little Jason is turning into quite a man now. He’ll be a big help.”
Zeke grinned, squeezing Morgan’s hand in return. “He’s a fine son. I’m proud of Jason. He’s our little ‘Yellow Hawk.’ All the children have Indian names. But Wolf’s Blood refused a Christain name when Abbie gave them to the rest of the children.” He released Morgan’s hand. “Abbie was always afraid that if they weren’t duly christened with Christian names, someone would come and take them from her because they were part Indian. I doubt that would have happened, but it made her feel better. What I really hate to see is what they’re doing down on that reservation—taking children away from their parents and putting them in strict schools, cutting their hair, making them wear uncomfortable white man’s clothing, robbing them of their freedom and heritage, and torturing the hearts of their mothers and fathers. The white man thinks he can make the Indian live just like he does—overnight. But it won’t happen. It might not even happen in the next hundred years, Morgan. Mark my words. The Indian culture is so entirely different from the white man’s that I doubt the two will ever truly be as one.”
“You’re probably right there.” His eyes saddened. “Good luck, Zeke. You’ll make a hell of a scout.”
Zeke turned away. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. He picked up the pitchfork. “You might as well go back before Abbie and Margaret suspect something. Just tell them I showed you a new brand of feed.”
Morgan put a hand on Zeke’s shoulder, thinking how strong and solid it was. It was difficult to believe there could be anything wrong with the man. “I’ll do that.”
He turned and left, and Zeke took the pitchfork and stabbed at a stack of hay, over and over again, becoming vicious in the stabs, wishing the hay were soldiers and settlers and trains and cities and all the things that had destroyed his people. Most of all he wished it was the hated disease that plagued his joints. If only he could stomp it out this easily. He rammed the pitchfork again, then grasped it tightly, closing his eyes and struggling not to weep. He wondered if he would ever see Jeremy or LeeAnn again. And how would he tell Abbie about scouting for the Army? It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was necessary. He only hoped the scouting expeditions would not take him away for too long at a time. More than anything, he wanted to be with his Abbie-girl as much as possible, while he was still strong and virile. She had always hated it when he went away, and she would certainly argue about the scouting. But other than raising horses, it was what he knew best.
Chapter Six
They rode into Fort Lyon side by side. Here they were not questioned, for Zeke Monroe was known in these parts. Smatterings of Cheyenne were a common sight, although most of them were hundreds of miles away now. Each time Zeke came here he heard more stories of scattered raids by those refusing to succumb to reservation life, as well as more and more talk of untold slaughter of buffalo. The year before, developments in the tanning process made the buffalo hides of any season commercially workable, and the slaughter of massive herds became a year-round business. The introduction of more long-range guns made the job even easier, and up to twenty thousand hunters now roamed the plains and prairies. The slaughter was only enhanced by the need of railroad workers for food, and men were hired by the railroad to do nothing but hunt buffalo to keep the crews supplied with meat. Whether the kill was for food or for the hide, other valuable parts were left behind to rot in the sun, and every buffalo killed was one more tragedy for the Indian, whose very life depended on the animal. Thus, a more subtle way had been found to wipe out the Indian and make those remaining more dependent on the government reservation life to survive. Even there they were cheated by swindling traders, crooked reservation agents, and men in power—men like Charles Garvey, whose wicked pen was doing its dirty work in more and more eastern newspapers.
Wolf’s Blood and Zeke were quiet as they rode in, both lost in thought and angry over passing dead buffalo carcasses on their three-day ride from the ranch. Both could see the chapters closing on an old way of life, and they rode into the fort with heavy hearts. They halted in the middle of the courtyard, where a few passing settlers stared at the “wild Indians,” and there was the general commotion that always accompanied a busy army outpost/supply station. Fort Lyon was on the Santa Fe Trail, a major route from St. Louis to New Mexico.
“I’ll go talk to the commanding officer,” Zeke told his son. “You go on to the supply store with the list.”
The boy met his father’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this, Father?”
Zeke studied the sadness in his eyes. “I don’t think I have any choice. You saw those carcasses, Wolf’s Blood. The Cheyenne can’t survive the old way anymore. The same thing will happen to the Sioux and Cheyenne in the North. And look how many died last year from whooping cough. We have to preserve what’s left. Shall I tell them you will ride with me sometimes?”
The boy grasped the reins of his horse firmly, his jaw flexing in a mixture of anger and resignation. “Only because I want to be with you. What does Mother say?”
Zeke cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I haven’t told her yet. I’m still trying to get up the courage.”
The boy laughed lightly and rode off to the supply store, while Zeke headed for the command post. He dismounted and tied his horse, going inside where he was greeted by a young lieutenant who demanded that he state his business. The lieutenant moved aside then, fascinated by the menacing-looking Indian who claimed he was there to scout for the Army. The man ushered Zeke into an inner office, where a lieutenant-colonel sat writing something. He looked up when he saw Zeke, his greenhorn eyes surprised and wide with curiosity. He appeared to be on the defensive as he rose, putting out his hand carefully. “I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen. They tell me you’ve come volunteering to scout for the Army. Monroe, is it? You don’t look like a man who would have a white name.”
Zeke shook the man’s hand. “Zeke Monroe. My father was white, my mother Cheyenne. I own a ranch west of here, about a three-day ride. I’ve been around these parts all my life, lived with the Cheyenne for years before marrying.” He watched the soldier’s eyes carefully. “My wife is white. We have several children and a large herd of horses, mostly Appaloosa. I’ve sold horses here at the fort many times.”
The soldier’s eyes scanned the dark half-breed before him, curious about the white woman. Had she been a captive? Just how wild and untrustworthy was this man? “Well, I’m new here, Monroe, or I’m sure I’d have known about you. You own a ranch, you say? I didn’t think Indians or half-breeds could own land.”
Zeke bristled. “It’s in my wife’s name, if that’s what you mean.”
The soldier caught the irritation in Zeke’s voice. “And how did you come upon a white wife?” he asked.
Zeke just stared at him a moment. It was none of the man’s business, but he knew what Petersen was thinking. “I met Abbie almost twenty-six years ago. I was a scout for her wagon train going to Oregon. She lost her family. She’s from Tennessee also. Things just happened, that’s all. She’s my willing wife if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Petersen nodded. “I see. And if you have a ranch and all, why are you volunteering as a scout?”
“My reasons are personal, except to say that I need the extra money. I can find a track in places no other man could find it. And I speak Cheyenne, Sioux, and Arapaho, and even a little Comanche and Apache. I know the Indian, know his ways. I have many friends among those at Camp Supply in Oklahoma.”
“So why would you want to help us hunt down the renegades?”
Zeke sighed, taking out paper and tobacco and rolling himself a cigarette. “There was a time, Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen, when I would have joined those renegades. But I’ve seen the signs. It’s a useless fight, and I love my p
eople. Their only hope of survival is to get themselves onto the reservations, much as I personally hate the thought of it. The white man is destroying a beautiful people, a precious culture. They’ll regret it some day, but that’s not my problem now. My problem is to help preserve what is left. But I won’t be any part of unwarranted raids on peaceful villages. If I get mixed up in something like that, I’ll take the Indian side. I know all about Sand Creek and the Washita. That’s no way to make the Indians come to terms. The white man has a way of doing the very thing that will make the Indian retaliate the most. Maybe I can help in that department also.”
He lit and took a drag on the cigarette, while Petersen studied him. “Well, Mr. Monroe, the problems are many. Big Jake, Red Moon, and some of the other chiefs around Camp Supply are having trouble keeping their young warriors from joining the Kiowa and Comanche raids into Texas. And most of the Cheyenne on the reservation are being very stubborn about learning to farm and about sending their children to school. Several of the ones who belong at Camp Supply are in the north with the Sioux, like Bull Bear and Medicine Arrows. And we’re having a devil of a time with whiskey traders and gunrunners. We expect trouble this spring, when it’s rumored Bull Bear and Medicine Arrows will start south to report to Camp Supply. They’ll be coming right through Nebraska and Kansas, and the settlers are going to be very uneasy. Those in the north, of course, are reeling with their victory over the Powder River country, and none of them—especially the Cheyenne—seem inclined to report to the agencies set up through that latest treaty. They roam wild and unrestrained, and rumors of the freedom they enjoy just keep the more restless ones in the south stirred up. Not only is Red Cloud looked to as a leader for freedom, but there are others stirring up trouble in the North—one called Sitting Bull, and another leader very intimate with the Northern Cheyenne, Crazy Horse, an Oglala Sioux. So you see, we certainly are far from a settled peace. If you are going to volunteer as a scout, you’ll get mixed up in some pretty heavy work, and you may get involved in very difficult decisions.”
“I am well aware of everything that is going on. My own son, Wolf’s Blood, rode with the northern Sioux for several years, fought with Red Cloud. He is home with me now, and I ask that he joins me in scouting. We are very close. He will do what I tell him and will cause no trouble.”
Petersen frowned. “How old is he?”
“He is twenty-four.”
The man shook his head. “The young ones are not very dependable.”
“My son is. I told you he will cooperate. It is important to me that he can sometimes come along. It will be good for him. He gets restless on the ranch.”
Petersen leaned forward, reaching for a folder and a pen. “And how old are you?”
“I am fifty-one.”
The soldier’s eyebrows shot up and he studied Zeke again, noticing the scar on his left cheek. “You certainly don’t look your age, Mr. Monroe. And you look like a strong man.”
“I can hold my own. I have been in many dangerous situations and have the scars to prove it. I am sitting here, so that tells you I have lost no battles. I am skilled with the rifle, but my greatest skill is with the knife. You can ask around the fort about me. Some of the other scouts know me as Cheyenne Zeke; the Indians know me as Lone Eagle. All know of my reputation with the knife, and few men challenge me with it.”
The soldier studied him again. He was a huge man, sprawled into the chair as though it did not fit him, his whole countenance that of someone not to be messed with. “Yes, I am sure you tell the truth there,” he said a bit under his breath. “I will have to meet your son, then talk to some of the men around here who know you. Your eyes show truth and trustworthiness. I generally go on my own suspicions, but I’d still like to talk to a few men. When you agree to scout for the Army, Mr. Monroe, you have to follow orders. You don’t look like a man accustomed to following orders.”
Their eyes met. “I can follow orders if they are sensible and fair. But there are times when the soldier must listen to the scout if he wants to save his hide. Many massacres of soldiers could have been avoided if they had listened to those who know the signs.”
Petersen grinned. “I’m aware of that. I am a man who listens. But you wouldn’t necessarily work for me, Monroe. You would simply go where you’re needed and work under that commander. By the way, do you drink whiskey? Does your son?”
“Doesn’t every man—to some extent? I don’t overdo it. I drink very seldom, Mr. Petersen. I am well aware of what whiskey is doing to the Indians. My own brother is dead because of whiskey. My son also drinks very little.”
“Yes, well, the firewater has it effects, and all bad. Drunken brawls within the reservations have started small wars between the Indians themselves. Another problem is ancient hatreds, making it difficult for some tribes to live near each other on the reservations. It’s an impossible mess any way you look at it.”
Zeke smoked quietly for a moment. “There’d be no mess if the white man hadn’t come out here in the first place,” he answered.
“Progress cannot be stopped, Mr. Monroe,” the man replied, while writing something on a piece of paper. “I’ll get in touch with you, Monroe. If you’re so well known around here, someone will know how to find you and tell you when and where to report, right?”
“That’s fine. I’m picking up some supplies today, then heading home.”
“Who will watch over the ranch for you? And what about your wife?” the soldier asked, both men rising.
“I have a son-in-law who can run the place as good as I can. And a son at home, as well as two strong daughters. And my wife knows as much about it as anyone.”
“But what does she think of you being gone for scouting?”
Zeke left the cigarette at the corner of his mouth and walked toward the door. “She’ll understand,” he answered, hoping he was right. “The need for money has taken me away other times.”
Petersen smiled. “She must be quite a woman.”
Zeke met his eyes, standing in the open doorway. “She is. There aren’t many like her. She’s a survivor—has been out here for years and has been through things that would make the white women back east faint dead away.”
Petersen studied the grand physique of the wild-looking man in the doorway. “Yes, I’m sure she has.” He nodded a good-bye. “Thank you for the offer, Monroe. Stop back with your son before you leave, will you?”
Zeke hesitated. “I forgot to mention I have a white brother up at Fort Laramie. He’s a colonel up there—Dan Monroe. You check me out through him if you want.”
Petersen’s face brightened. “I’ll do that. That’s good news, Monroe. That will make a big difference. Any Indian brothers, by the way?”
“Only one left—Swift Arrow. He lives in the North with the Sioux. He is a Dog Soldier.”
Petersen rubbed his chin. “You’re quite a mixture then, aren’t you?”
Zeke felt the ache of living in two worlds again. “Yes, Lieutenant-Colonel. I am quite a mixture.”
He walked out into the sunshine and untied his mount, walking it over to the supply store and going inside to find Wolf’s Blood waiting nervously at a counter with a list for the storekeeper to study. A very young and very shapely Indian girl with hair hanging nearly to her waist was on a ladder putting canned food on a shelf. Zeke grinned when he saw that Wolf’s Blood was closely eyeing the slender legs revealed by the slit in the girl’s tunic. But he also noticed that Wolf’s Blood was slyly watching the storekeeper, who was also eyeing the legs. A can slipped and fell, and in an instant the storekeeper slammed down a sack of flour on the counter and walked over to the ladder, picking up a switch on the way. He suddenly lashed the girl across the calves of her legs, so hard that a faint line of blood quickly appeared. The girl jumped at the pain and nearly lost her hold on the ladder. Wolf’s Blood bolted toward the counter, but Zeke grabbed his arm. The girl looked at Wolf’s Blood, her heart racing at his hard handsomeness and at the way he had
started to her defense. She was not sure if he was Cheyenne, but supposed he must be, for that was nearly the only kind of Indian seen at Fort Lyon.
“Don’t act in haste,” Zeke was saying quietly to his son. “Indians get hung very easily in these parts.”
“He had no right to hurt her!” Wolf’s Blood hissed.
The storekeeper eyed them. “You got a problem, kid?”
Zeke jerked at Wolf’s Blood again as the boy made for the man. “You always go around beating helpless girls?” Zeke asked the man before Wolf’s Blood could say anything.
The storekeeper grinned and eyed her again. The girl was struggling against tears, and stayed on the ladder to finish arranging the cans. “That little Apache piece belongs to me—paid for proper,” the man replied. “She’s my property and a man would be best not to mess with her. I bought her off a whiskey dealer.” He grinned more at the sudden possessive look on young Wolf’s Blood’s face, realizing the young man had eyes for the lovely Apache girl. “I haven’t got inside her yet,” he said, deliberately teasing the boy. “She’s a fresh one, you see. I’m trying to decide if I should do the honors, or sell her for a profit to somebody else.”
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