Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Rage leaned forward. “The trouble with half-breeds is they can turn on a man real easy. I’d hate to say what happens to men who turn on me, Lone Eagle. In fact, that’s why I’m hiring someone new. My last man tried to go running to the authorities. He regretted that, and so will you if you try to do the same.”

  Zeke’s eyes narrowed, and he calmly removed the stub of a cigarette, putting it out. He stood up then, and Rage’s chest tightened when the tall Indian leaned over the desk, suddenly whipping out the big knife and stabbing it into a large desk blotter, holding it there, his big fist wrapped around the buffalo jawbone handle.

  “It works both ways, mister,” he hissed. “You double-cross me, or try to have me killed or not pay me, and every inch of your skin will greet the sun—inside out. When I say I’ll do a job, I do it and get out.”

  Rage tried to act unruffled, but his face was red and covered with perspiration. He swallowed hard. “All right,” he said in a husky voice. “It’s a deal. We each know where the other stands. The job is yours for as long as you want to risk it. You know the backcountry between here and Oklahoma, I take it?”

  Zeke straightened, jerking out the knife. “Of course I know it.”

  “The problem is getting the whiskey to the Indians and getting the robes and other supplies from them without being detected by the damned agents or soldiers. They’re really cracking down on the whiskey traders and gunrunners.”

  “I can get through in places the Army never heard of.”

  “I hope you’re right. I can get a ten to twenty-dollar robe for a few cents worth of whiskey. The whiskey comes from a warehouse in St. Louis. Comes down by the Missouri River to Kansas City—gets put on the A, T & SF and railroaded to this point, where it’s unloaded. From here it goes out in wagons, under sacks of potatoes, taken by men like you. You exchange it for robes, skins, and supplies issued by the government to the reservation Indians. You bring the supplies back here, and they get shipped back to St. Louis, under various fake freighting bills. They go back to the same man who supplies the whiskey. I get the profit from the robes, he gets to resell the same government issue over and over, seldom having to order more. So he makes a tidy profit on government reservation supplies, while I make a tidy profit on the robes, and we split the expenses of shipping and paying men like you.”

  Zeke grinned, shoving his knife back into its sheath. “The wonders of the white man’s ingenuity at getting rich never cease to amaze me,” he told Rage.

  Rage stood up then. “And the things men like you will do for money never cease to amaze me. Let me guess. You’ve even dealt in the capturing and selling of white women into Mexico. Am I right?”

  Zeke grinned more. “A few never made it to their new owners, depending on how pretty they were.”

  Rage chuckled. “Just as I thought.” He looked Zeke over again, a powerful man with such a mean appearance that a woman just might end up wanting to see if she could please him. “Not all of them objected, I’ll guess.”

  Zeke tossed some of the long, loose hair behind his back. “Not many. Now how much do we get for this?”

  “Five hundred dollars for every load delivered and returned.”

  “Each?”

  “No. Both of you together.”

  Zeke shook his head. “Five hundred each or the deal is off.”

  Rage sighed. “Can’t do it.”

  Zeke shrugged and turned. “Whatever.” He looked at Wolf’s Blood. “Let’s go find a better source of income,” he told the boy, who also rose.

  “Wait!” Rage spoke up, his face reddening again with repressed anger. “Eight hundred—four hundred each. I’ll give you four hundred right now, and the other four hundred when you return with the goods to be shipped back to St. Louis. You handle three or four loads right, and I’ll up it to a thousand.”

  Zeke turned to face him. “Sounds fair. Who’s the man in St. Louis? How do I know when a shipment is coming in?”

  “No names, remember? And there’ll be a shipment in two days from now. I have a spread east of town. The whiskey wagons are kept in a barn there. It’s a big frame house, painted blue. Can’t be missed in country like this. You be there in two days and bring the wagons into Dodge City. The whiskey will arrive by train, packed into crates and cushioned with straw. The crates are completely enclosed and say ‘Potatoes, U.S. Government Issue.’ You load them into the wagons as though they’re supplies for the reservation. Several sacks of potatoes will be thrown on top. If you are stopped, you say they’re extra bags that weren’t crated. There hasn’t been an agent or soldier yet who didn’t believe that there was nothing but potatoes in the entire wagon. Sometimes the crates will be marked as something else—flour, beans, whatever. But we still carry the sacks of potatoes to make it look like just a wagon full of food. Usually a few boxes on the top near the end of the wagon really will have food, so when the soldiers open them to inspect them, they can see there really are government rations.”

  Zeke rolled another cigarette. “Who do I meet once I get to the reservation?”

  “Peter Holbrook. He’s a government man—an assistant to the new agent at Camp Supply, John Miles. He’ll tell you where to meet the Indians who want to trade, and it’s usually done after dark.”

  Zeke lit the cigarette. “Most illegal things are done after dark, aren’t they? Kind of like when you sneak around enjoying another man’s wife.”

  Rage laughed and put out his hand again, but Zeke still refused to shake it. “Sorry, Mr. Rage. Shaking hands signifies friendship. I don’t make friends with the men I deal with. A man tends to trust his friends too much. We’re strictly business.”

  Rage pulled back his hand. “You’re a cautious man, Lone Eagle.”

  “That’s why I’m still alive,” Zeke answered with a nod. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.” He turned and left without another word.

  For three months Zeke and Wolf’s Blood made the deliveries. Each time it tore at their hearts to watch the Cheyenne and other tribes eagerly trade valuable goods and government issue for the cheap whiskey. There were many of them Zeke knew, but none of them even seemed to blame him for what he was doing, actually thanking their “old friend” for bringing the whiskey. Some wondered why he was doing it, for their friend and kin Lone Eagle once preached against the firewater, warning that it would turn them into weak women. But they supposed he was doing the only thing left for him to do, just as they were doing. Why should they blame him? After all, wasn’t he doing them a favor? A few of them even offered him their wives and daughters for the whiskey, when they had nothing left to trade. He refused, saying only that he was required to return with actual goods and he could not accept physical services for the drink. But inside he was enraged, wanting to strangle the once proud men who would stoop so low as to trade their women for the firewater. It sickened and depressed him, for he realized how unhappy these warriors were. They were so desperate to feel good, even if just for one or two nights a week, that they would do anything to get their hands on the magic water. There was nothing else now for them to do. They had lost their pride and their fighting spirit. Only a few hung on, holding back and not going to meet the whiskey wagons. Still, even those few would not tell the Army or the primary agent how they got the whiskey and what secret routes the traders took to get to the reservation. That would be like telling on their own people.

  Zeke and Wolf’s Blood kept up the job long enough to prove to Julius Rage that they were trustworthy. It was not until May that Zeke made his first contact with Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen. After leaving with a shipment from Dodge City and getting into backcountry, they pulled the wagons into a remote canyon. Zeke held up while Wolf’s Blood rode hard for Fort Lyon, a five-day trip even for a man riding alone. Their own mounts were always taken along as extras in case of trouble, tied to the wagons. In three days Zeke would head out again, tying one team of horses to the back of his own wagon and driving both on south. It would not be an easy feat, but someh
ow they had to make contact with Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen. On the last trip south Zeke had managed to fully win over the trust and friendship of Peter Holbrook, the assistant agent who helped with the whiskey trading. He got Holbrook drunk and even talked him into laughingly revealing who the source of whiskey was in St. Louis. Holbrook had been so drunk that the next day he didn’t even remember what he had said to Zeke, but trusted him so well by then that he didn’t bother worrying about it.

  Now Wolf’s Blood would ride hard to Fort Lyon to get the news to Petersen, while Zeke took his time heading south, not wanting to lose too many days and arouse suspicion. Wolf’s Blood would ride fast to catch up so that the two of them would ride into the reservation together as they always did, each driving a wagon.

  Zeke prayed his son would have no problems. The secret to stopping a great deal of illegal whiskey was to get the man in St. Louis, not the middle men like Julius Rage. He knew it was most likely this was not the only whiskey the man in St. Louis supplied. Surely there were other runs being made, by other men. The answer was to kill the source, and Zeke Monroe knew who that source was—Thomas West, one of the wealthiest men in St. Louis, owner of West Enterprises, a vast supply warehouse for western outlets, the army, and Indian reservations. To stop Thomas West would be a huge step forward in cleaning up reservation cheating and illegal trading. Zeke knew it would not stop it all together. There were too many white men ready to get in on the lucrative business of dealing with the government. But it would help, nonetheless.

  Now if Wolf’s Blood could get to Petersen with the name, the lieutenant-colonel would take care of planting a man in West Enterprises, who would follow the next shipment bound for Camp Supply to Dodge City and watch it being loaded onto Zeke’s wagons, waiting for Zeke to return with supposedly empty crates. As soon as the crates were taken to Julius Rage’s barn, they would be inspected and found to contain buffalo robes and government supplies already issued once to the reservation but traded back for whiskey. Normally the illegally traded goods were packed into different boxes marked “U. S. Government” and shipped by rail back to St. Louis to be stored in a warehouse, designated for “Thomas Supplies,” a nonexistent company. They were then picked up from the warehouse by West Enterprises, returned to West Enterprises, and resold to the government, while the robes were sold at a great profit to tent and clothing suppliers.

  The operation was intricate, and no other drivers for Julius Rage had ever bothered to try to figure it out, or cared. Only one man had put it together, but his plan had been to try to blackmail Rage and West. Zeke was not about to be that foolish. He only wanted to get his information to Petersen and have it over with. He could only hope it wouldn’t take much longer. He missed Abbie desperately, longing only to be in her arms again and be back on the ranch. His pay for this job would be very good—and badly needed. But he was playing a dangerous game, and he missed his family. There had been many nights that he had thought again about Jeremy, with a heavy heart. He would simply have to accept his fourth child and second son for what he was, and realize he would probably never see him again.

  After a lonely three days of waiting in the canyon, he set out for Camp Supply, praying Wolf’s Blood would show up before he reached the Oklahoma reservation.

  Abbie opened the note Sergeant Daniels brought her from Lieutenant-Colonel Petersen.

  “I saw your son, ma’am,” he told her. Her eyes lit up, and Sonora gasped.

  “Wolf’s Blood! Is he all right? Why did he not come with you?” the young woman asked, her eyes tearing.

  Daniels removed his hat. “He couldn’t, Sonora,” he answered. “I can’t say what him and his pa are up to. I can only tell you their job should be finished soon—maybe in another month or so, if all goes well.”

  Abbie frowned. “Are they in danger?”

  Daniels sighed. “Not too much, I don’t think. I don’t know all the details myself, ma’am. Only Petersen knows for sure. Wolf’s Blood had me write that note for him—said he’s not too good at writing. But he wanted to get it to you. I said I could just tell you, but he wanted it on paper—figured it would be something you could keep, I guess.”

  Abbie smiled through tears and opened the note.

  We are fine. Father had bad pains in March, but is much better again. Do not worry, We will be home by the Moon of the Red Cherries. Miss the ranch and the whole family. Especially miss my Sonora and Kicking Boy, and Father is restless in the night missing you, my Mother.

  Abbie blushed, and Daniels glanced at Ellen, who also blushed and looked down. He had called on her three times, whenever he could get away from Fort Lyon. They enjoyed each other’s company, and Daniels was determined that the next time he was allowed to take her alone for a walk, he would be brave and steal a kiss.

  We will make very good money, and this will be good for the ranch, but I think Father will wait a while before doing this again. He misses home too much, and so do I. Our love is with you, and the summer moons will find us all together again.

  Abbie put down the note. “That’s all there is,” she told Sonora. Sonora put a hand to her stomach. She was pregnant again, although not showing yet. She would not say anything in front of Daniels and had asked the others not to tell him. She did not want to risk Wolf’s Blood finding out. The news might make him in too much of a hurry to return. Perhaps he would do something careless. How she longed to see the happy look on his face when she told him!

  “Thank you for letting us know you’ve seen Wolf’s Blood,” Abbie told Daniels. “Zeke wasn’t with him?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, ma’am. Wolf’s Blood couldn’t tell me where he was, and he came and left the same day, saying he had to ride hard to meet his father. That’s all I know.”

  Abbie sighed. “I’m worried, Sergeant. Zeke isn’t a well man.”

  Daniels twisted his hat in his hand. “One sure wouldn’t know it by looking at him, ma’am. And he’s a capable man, that’s for sure. He’ll be all right. He’s got Wolf’s Blood to help him.”

  Abbie folded the letter carefully. “Yes. Thank God for Wolf’s Blood. I wish I would hear from Jeremy or LeeAnn so I could give Zeke some kind of news about them when he returns.” She rose from the table, looking tired. Abigail Monroe wasn’t her usual strong and spirited self when her husband was gone for long periods of time. “If you’ll excuse me,” she told them, “I’m going outside for a while. I’d like to be alone.”

  She left without another word, walking several hundred feet behind the cabin to a little grassy spot beside a stream, a special place, hidden by bushes and undergrowth, a place where she and Zeke often went to talk, sometimes even to make love when the weather was warm. It was here she had sat and wept once, sure her husband was dead. But he had come to her there, by the stream. How many times had he gone away and she had worried he would not come back? But he always had. The only difference now was that she knew it would not be long before he really wouldn’t come back.

  She picked a few purple irises, her favorite flower. It bloomed abundantly in this spot. She sat down beside the stream, the flowers in her hand. “Don’t let this be the time,” she said aloud, watching the rippling water. “Not yet, Zeke. Please not yet.” Her throat hurt with a need to cry, but the tears would not come. She must pray and believe. They were the only two things that had kept her going for twenty-eight years—praying and believing. “I love you, Zeke,” she shouted into the wind. Surely he would feel her words in his heart. Surely the Wind Spirit would take them to him and whisper them into his ear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bonnie opened the letter from Joshua. The nineteen-year-old boy was doing well in college now, living with his adoptive grandfather in Virginia but sometimes going into Washington D.C. for lectures and to visit museums and historical sites. He was also busy writing for an Alexandria newspaper. Bonnie sat down, eager to read the letter. With Dan gone so often now trying to keep a very tentative peace and always searching for whiskey traders
and gunrunners, she was often alone and missed Joshua painfully.

  The letter was full of news about college and about newspaper writing. Then her heart tightened as she read:

  I have seen my brother. Of course I did not tell him who I was, so don’t worry. He was at a library, giving a special lecture to teachers and the like who were considering going west to pursue their careers. His speech was very fine, until he got to telling about Indians. Mother, he exaggerates so, and his hatred for Indians is very intense. It’s sad, because he is doing so much damage, ruining everything Indian sympathizers try to do. I am afraid I found myself unable to refrain from arguing with him on many points, and he became extremely angry. I am afraid, Mother, that I do not like Charles Garvey, even one little bit, even if he is my half brother. I can see in his hateful eyes that you are right. He is very powerful, and he probably would try to quiet me if I told him who I was. But I swear to you that someday I will be prominent and important myself—important enough that he won’t dare try to harm me. When that day comes, I will end Charles Garvey’s lies about the Indians. I will tell the truth, and I will show him up for what he is and tell him about his half-Indian brother. Someday people will know my name through my newspaper writing, and I will stop people like Charles Garvey.

  I saw his new wife. She is very beautiful, with blond hair and eyes as blue as the sky. She wore the latest fashion, of course, and is very gracious and charming, but I also saw a sadness in her eyes and am sure she cannot be happy with a man like Charles Garvey, who although not ugly, mind you, is also not handsome. I think it is because there is a certain evil air about him, a coldness in his dark eyes that unnerves people. If he were a good person with kindness in his eyes, I think he would be more handsome. It is his attitude that detracts from his looks. Why a beautiful, obviously gentle woman like his wife would marry him, I cannot understand.