Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Their eyes held and she smiled, both of them remembering a night in Wyoming when a half-breed scout grasped and held a grief-stricken young girl named Abigail Trent. She had lost her family, and there had been only one way to comfort her—to love her in the only way she wanted to be loved and to put his own brand on her. He had to be her first man and show her she was not alone but that someone loved her and wanted to protect her. He’d been doing this ever since.

  Abbie looked at Ellen and Jason. “I don’t want anyone disturbing Wolf’s Blood today,” she told them. “I know there is a lot of work to be done, but let him come and help when he is ready. Tell Margaret and Morgan as soon as you’re through with breakfast.”

  Ellen giggled and picked up her fork, and Jason frowned, not totally sure what was going on. But everyone seemed happy enough, so he guessed it didn’t much matter.

  Chapter Ten

  Settling in on the reservation in Oklahoma was no easy accomplishment for the freedom-loving Cheyenne, but during the years of 1871 and 1872 there was relative peace, with even the wayward Big Jake, Bull Bear, Red Moon, and Medicine Arrows bringing their people south to the reservation. But the Cheyenne made little effort to take up the ways of agriculture or education. Schedules, learning, plowing, and planting were all things totally foreign to the proud Cheyenne. A man must hunt or make war against his enemies. But walk behind a plow? Sit on a hard bench learning useless scribblings? It made no sense. In 1872 only eight Cheyenne children had shown up in the Quaker school on the reservation, and they were the offspring of mixed bloods, none of them full-blooded Cheyennes.

  With the relative peace during the winter of ’71-’72, Zeke’s services were not needed to any great extent, much to Abbie’s relief. It was a hard winter for them, as it was spent cutting wood, trudging around for supplies, and trying to get a barn built.

  In that same winter Wolf disappeared, and Wolf’s Blood knew in his heart that the animal had gone off to die, for his beloved pet, which had been found and adopted as a pup, had been acting listless and sick. Wolf’s Blood spent nearly a week looking for the animal, returning without him. His heart felt great sorrow at the thought of things getting old and dying, like the Indians and like what was happening to his father. He knew Wolf’s death was a sign that his own life must change also. One more wild thing had gone out of it.

  During that long winter Abbie could see her husband silently suffering. Every movement seemed to bring him pain, and his hands and wrists were often swollen. But he worked as much as the others, saying nothing about his own agony. Abbie could see that his affliction was obviously worse in the winter, and by spring the barn was built and her husband was noticeably better.

  In May of 1872 Wolf’s Blood’s spirits were lifted when Sonora gave birth to a son, named Kicking Boy because he was so lively inside his mother’s stomach before he was born, and continued kicking wildly after birth. Some day Wolf’s Blood hoped his son would be able to go to the mountains and fast and pray until he had a vision, in that way knowing what his name should be when he became a man. Wolf’s Blood had once been called Little Rock, but had shed the name when he had his own vision, and had lived with a pack of wolves in the Rockies at the age of twelve. He was the only one of Zeke’s sons who had followed all the customs of the Cheyenne. He wanted his own son to do the same, but feared the boy would never get the chance. He was fiercely proud of Kicking Boy, determined to teach him everything he could about both the Cheyenne and the Apache, hoping the child would carry on the Indian ways and teach them to his own children. Like his father, Wolf’s Blood feared the old ways and language would die out once reservation Indians began to slowly adjust to white man’s ways and schooling.

  Reservation life in Oklahoma remained precarious. With nearly all the Cheyenne nation finally in one place, the powerful force they felt in being together brought back thoughts of again being free. The buffalo hunts had been good. There were many robes dressed and readied for the whiskey and gun traders, who always found ways to illegally enter the reservation, which sprawled across thousands of acres of open land impossible to guard night and day. With whiskey and guns and the ability to gather together in council, rumors of a planned outbreak began spreading. And at the same time Kicking Boy was born, Brinton Darlington, agent on the Cheyenne reservation and respected by the Indians, died. In honor of the elderly Quaker, the Cheyenne made sure there were several days of quiet during his illness and immediately following his death.

  A new agent, John D. Miles, was appointed, and not long thereafter the Kiowas began raiding anew. Many of their raids were blamed on the Cheyenne, for there was again unrest among the young warriors, and it was well known that the Kiowas were constantly after the Cheyenne to join them in the raiding. Those Cheyenne who stayed at Camp Supply according to treaty, drawing rations from the government, still refused to consider settling into white man’s ways. They wanted to wait and watch their kin, the Arapaho, to see how they fared at farming, still considering such things woman’s work.

  A few Kiowa chiefs, such as Lone Wolf and Kicking Bird, worked hard at restraining their young men. But they had little control. The constant goading of the warring Kiowas toward the Cheyenne, calling them cowards and squaws, had its effect, and some of the younger men joined in more raiding. Still, the fighting was sporadic and could not be called an all-out war. The major portion of the Cheyenne remained on the reservation and still favored peace. But they continued to refuse to send their children to the Quaker schools, to farm, or to listen to Christain teachings—for all these things were against the Cheyenne way.

  If the whites in charge of running the reservation and “educating” the Indians could have tried harder to understand Indian ways, perhaps the peace would have lasted forever. But their attitude did little to help keep the peace. In the words of one white agent, the one main obstacle to more rapid advance in Indian morals and religion was the Indians’ reluctance to “acknowledge the superiority of the whites.” Such attitudes could not have been more damaging when used against such a proud people as the Cheyenne and most other tribes. To the Indian the white man was not superior at all—stronger in force and weapons and numbers, perhaps, but not superior as men. It was this constant spiritual and social abuse that kept the fires of hatred and misunderstanding burning and prohibited any real understanding from either side.

  In late summer of 1872 a few Southern Cheyenne and a part of the Northern Cheyenne who had finally come south to the reservation, headed back north from Camp Supply to hunt buffalo. When approaching a group of buffalo hunters, one warrior laid down his gun in a sign of peace, only to be shot in cold blood. Shortly thereafter, Indians raided a settler family and killed all of them. The Cheyenne hunting party was blamed, although they vehemently denied committing the act, saying Kiowas had done it. Such confusion kept the pot constantly boiling, and by the end of 1872, the young men were becoming restless again, and control of those who opted for peace became difficult if not impossible. Slowly but surely, the relative peace that had been enjoyed was crumbling.

  It was late February, 1873, when the small company of soldiers rode onto Monroe property and halted in front of the main house. Abbie stayed at the table while Zeke went to the door. Her heart felt like it was shattering, for she knew why they had come before they even spoke. A sergeant removed his hat.

  “You by any chance Zeke Monroe?” he asked, already sure of the answer just by looking at the Indian in the doorway.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Sergeant Hal Daniels, from Fort Lyon. May I come inside?”

  Zeke stepped back, and Daniels came inside, walking to stand near the stove. It was cold, very cold, but there was not a lot of snow on the ground. Abbie knew Zeke had been suffering again, and she resented the sergeant’s appearance, unable to give him an entirely friendly look when his eyes met hers. At first he stared in surprise, looking from her to Zeke.

  “My wife, Abigail,” Zeke told him.

  Daniels could n
ot hide his shock. She was beautiful—a rare sight in these parts—but more than that, she was white. He glanced up at the loft, and saw a pretty girl of perhaps eighteen and a boy in his early teens looking down at him, both white.

  “Our daughter and son, Ellen and Jason,” Abbie told him, amused by the surprised look on the man’s face. “There are more, but they aren’t here at the moment.”

  Daniels nodded to her. “Hello, ma’am.” He looked back at Zeke, wondering if he could trust the tall, powerful-looking man who was obviously more Indian than white, at least in looks. “Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen sent me, Mr. Monroe. Says he needs your services, if you’ve a mind.”

  Zeke motioned for him to sit down. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “I’d appreciate it. And I’m wondering if my men can hold up in your barn. They’d not harm anything.”

  Zeke nodded, looking up at Jason. “Go show the sergeant’s men where they can bed down, Jason. And get Wolf’s Blood.”

  The boy nodded and climbed down to put on his coat and winter moccasins. Sergeant Daniels frowned. “Wolf’s Blood?”

  Zeke grinned and began rolling a cigarette, while Abbie rose to pour the coffee. “My son. This is a slow time of year and I have a son-in-law to run the place. Wolf’s Blood has expressed a desire to go with me if the Army should ask. Do you know what it’s all about? I’ll not go along to hunt down my own people if they’re going to be slaughtered.”

  Daniels cleared his throat. He was young and good-looking, but seemed out of place with fair skin and curly red hair and a red mustache. His eyes were bright blue. He was just under six feet, of stocky build, with a true friendliness to his eyes. Zeke had a knack for studying and deciphering people quickly, and so far he liked the sergeant.

  “Nothing like that, Mr. Monroe. That’s why the lieutenant thought you might like to have a hand in this one.” His eyes dropped to the knife at Zeke’s waist. “He … uh … he talked to a lot of men, heard a lot about your skills in fighting, especially with your knife.” He cleared his throat again and Zeke took a drag on the cigarette.

  “Go on,” he told Daniels. Abbie set a cup of coffee in front of each man.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the sergeant spoke up.

  “Certainly,” she replied. Her voice and manner surprised him. He simply had not expected to find such a lovely, refined woman living in a log house with a half-breed Indian. He turned back to Zeke, full of personal questions he knew he dared not ask.

  “Well, sir,” he continued, “Petersen would like your help in digging out some whiskey traders. They’re the scum of the frontier, sir, causing all sorts of trouble. The agents and soldiers just can’t keep the peace as long as the illegal whiskey peddlers keep coming into the reservation. Sometimes they trade through other Indians, like the Seminoles and Delawares, claiming that because they’re Indian the soldiers can’t do anything about it. Some traders are more open about it, hauling whole wagonloads of whiskey out of Dodge City into Oklahoma. The reservation being so big and all, and with the Indians helping the traders, the soldiers just can’t keep up with it all. Petersen was hoping maybe there was some way you could filter in—maybe go to Dodge City and offer your services to the traders, find out who the biggest dealers are, what routes they take and all, then report back to Petersen so he’d know when and where to intercept them.”

  Zeke smoked quietly, looking at Abbie, who frowned. “It sounds very dangerous,” she warned. “Men who do such things certainly are not going to care about a human life, especially an Indian’s. If they find out what Zeke is up to, they’ll kill him.”

  Daniels ran a hand through his hair. “You’re probably right, ma’am. But from all the reports my commanding officer has received about your husband, killing him is not an easy thing to do. He’s a clever, skilled man. Petersen seems to think he would be good for this job and it wouldn’t be all that dangerous for him.”

  She half grinned at her husband. “You’re right about the first part. Killing him is not easy. Plenty have tried.” She sighed deeply, her eyes still on her husband. “I just worry about one of them succeeding someday.” She could see the excitement in his eyes and already knew he’d do it. Her biggest worry was not the danger, but rather whether he would decide this was his time to die. If Zeke Monroe did not choose to die, it was unlikely anyone could harm him. But how bad was his pain? Was he ready to give it all up? Would he use this mission as his excuse?

  He gave her a wink then, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Don’t worry, Abbie-girl. I’ll see this one through.”

  Her eyes teared. He had read her thoughts, as he always seemed to do.

  Ellen came down then and sat at the table, blushing slightly under the gaze of Sergeant Daniels. She was attracted to his burly shoulders and the blue uniform. He was soft-spoken and mannerly, and the way he looked at her, with great admiration and appreciation of her beauty, made her skin tingle. She smiled shyly and nodded to him.

  “Refill the sergeant’s cup,” Abbie told her daughter. The girl gladly obeyed. Wolf’s Blood came through the door then, and again Daniels’ eyes widened in surprise. The younger Monroe looked even more menacing than his father, if that was possible. And the two of them held a striking resemblance. Practically the only difference was age lines in Zeke’s face and the thin white scar down Zeke’s left cheek. At first Wolf’s Blood stared rather haughtily at the sergeant. He had never liked soldiers and never would, but he had promised his father he would help in scouting, partly because he knew the pain Zeke suffered and did not want him to be alone.

  “This is my son,” Zeke spoke up. “Wolf’s Blood, this is Sergeant Daniels, from Fort Lyon.”

  Daniels put out his hand, but Wolf’s Blood just stared at him.

  “Shake the man’s hand, Wolf’s Blood. He’s not an enemy at the moment. I trust him.”

  Wolf’s Blood put out his hand, gripping Daniels’s firmly as they shook, telling him by his grip what he would do if tricked. Daniels nodded to him.

  “The sergeant here was sent to bring us back to the fort to see about routing out some illegal whiskey traders. What do you think?”

  Wolf’s Blood frowned and leaned against the wall. “I think since it is white whiskey traders, I would like the job,” he answered. “It is bastards like that who destroy the Indian’s strength and pride, with their rotgut whiskey that makes a man weak and stupid! I would gladly wipe out any whiskey trader I could get my hands on.”

  Zeke grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Just remember,” Daniels spoke up. “We only want to know who and where. Leave the arresting to the soldiers. They will be tried and sentenced in court.”

  Wolf’s Blood hissed out a sarcastic laugh. “And be turned loose again to do the same thing. My father and I can make the job easier by killing them ourselves.”

  “Calm down, Wolf’s Blood,” Zeke warned. “We’re scouts, not hired killers.”

  Daniels watched and listened in amazement, finding it easier now to believe the stories he’d heard about Zeke Monroe. Could it be true the man didn’t even know how many men he’d killed? He swallowed, hoping neither the father nor the son would ever consider him an enemy. He glanced at Ellen again. He would dearly love to see more of that one, but what if he offended her father? This would take some consideration, but in studying the girl’s simple beauty and fetching smile, it might be worth the risk.

  “Where is the fun in just hunting and not killing?” Wolf’s Blood scowled.

  “It’s not for fun, it’s for money, Wolf’s Blood,” Zeke reminded him. “Now keep that in mind and do what you’re told. If killing is necessary in self-defense, that’s another matter.”

  The young man shrugged. “When do we go? And where?”

  Zeke put out his cigarette. “Dodge City, I expect, to begin with,” he answered.

  “You have a few days to prepare,” Daniels told him. “I have some other places to go. I’d like to use your barn for the night. Then I’ll lea
ve out in the morning, come back through here in about four days. Can you be ready by then?”

  Zeke nodded. “I’ll be ready.” He looked at Abbie.

  “Just like that?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I can’t put if off forever, Abbie-girl. Don’t worry. You know we can take care of ourselves. You can put Sonora up here and dote on Kicking Boy all you want while we’re gone.”

  She smiled. “That part I don’t mind.” She looked at Daniels. “How long do you think they will be gone?”

  He frowned. “It’s hard to say, ma’am. However long it takes them to find out what we need to know.”

  “Then I’ll find out fast,” Zeke spoke up. “I don’t like being away from my home and my woman for too long at a time.” He gave her a wink but her eyes were already wet with tears. How she hated to see him go away! There had been other times, but she would never get used to it, and now with him obviously ill, it would be harder. So much harder.

  The marriage was a minor social event in spite of Charles Garvey’s long list of invited guests. Those who came did so out of curiosity and because Garvey might be important someday, few because they actually liked Charles Garvey. Most knew him for what he was, and somewhere deep inside LeeAnn also knew. But she ignored those inner warnings. Charles was kind to her. Charles was rich. Charles held great promise, and he was very much in love with her. By marrying Charles Garvey, she would be taking her stand against Indians, and therein professing the ultimate denial of her own Indian blood. She was determined that he would never know.

  How the foolish young girl thought she could keep it hidden forever, she didn’t know. Sometimes the fear of his discovering her heritage kept her awake at night. Worse than that, what if he found out she’d actually once been a captive of the Comanches? She’d not been raped, but he’d never believe it. She knew he’d think the less of her just for being in their hands, even though there had been nothing she could do about it. The horror of her slavery and beatings and the constant fear of being raped still startled her awake in the night, and remained her most passionate reason for denying her own Indian blood. She wanted nothing more to do with the Indians or anything else from her past. Through her own ingenuity and her job in an attorney’s office, she had even devised papers showing her as LeeAnn Whittaker, once the ward of a Catholic orphanage in New York.