Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  Their whispered words of eternal love were heard by only the nearby crickets and the soft night breeze that slipped through tiny cracks in the weathered tipi. They kept a lantern lit inside, not wanting to lie in darkness, wanting to see, to look upon one another all night.

  He moved over her, in the way only he could do, and she was lost in him, this man of men who was her life. It seemed all the years were rushing by her now—memories, memories with every touch and every kiss and every thrust inside of her. She could see mountains and hear rushing waters. She remembered a time when he came to her, after he had left her with Swift Arrow and his people and had to go away. He’d been gone so long she thought he was not going to return. What a beautiful time that was when he came back to her, where she was camped in the land of boiling waters, the place the government now called Yellowstone. She had been bathing beneath a waterfall, and when she emerged he was there, and they made love in the soft grass beside that lovely stream, while the wind moaned through the pines and over mountain peaks. What a wonderful time it was when the Cheyenne could roam such places, hunt at will, live where the air was sweet and the waters fresh and the game plentiful. Why did it have to change? Why? Why did this have to happen to what some called the “Beautiful People”?

  Change! Why did there have to be change? Why did life have to be so cruel? Why couldn’t anything stay the same. Children stay little? Husbands never grow old? The white man never come to this land?

  A distant train whistle reminded her such things must be. For so many years they had fought the idea of a railroad coming through Indian country and through their own land. Now the railroad penetrated every place that was once the Indian’s, and the Kansas-Pacific rumbled past their own north pasture. Its whistle brought a terrible ache to her heart—so lonesome. Just as she would be if this man sharing her body now did not return to her.

  Surely he would not die! Surely not! He was Zeke, the strongest, bravest man she had ever met. He seemed so indestructible. He was her rock, her strength, her breath. For thirty-three years she had not considered herself as an individual. She was Zeke Monroe’s woman. Every movement, every chore, every breath had been for her man.

  They did not speak of it. Not that night. They only spoke of love, sometimes talking about the past, mostly making love. When she took him inside of her body she heard drums and chanting, the tinkling of tiny bells and the call of wild things. Did a wolf really howl somewhere on the plains, or was it her imagination? Again came the rushing waters, the moaning wind. The tipi swirled around her, the decorative paintings on its walls coming alive and dancing in a circle, around and around, painted horses and people. All alive. She was with them again, at his village, talking to his beautiful mother, Gentle Woman, and sharing stories with his stepfather, Deer Slayer. His brothers were there: Red Eagle and his sweet wife Yellow Moon and their son Laughing Boy; Black Elk and his wife Blue Bird Woman and their son Bucking Horse. The food was plentiful and the tipis warm, and they shared stories and friendship.

  But no. Gentle Woman had died of white man’s disease, and Deer Slayer had died of a broken heart. Red Eagle had turned to whiskey, craving it so badly he had sold poor Yellow Moon to outlaws, who killed little Laughing Boy and sold Yellow Moon again and again until she had ended up in the hands of Winston Garvey. Now the only thing left of her was her half-breed son, Joshua. Black Elk and his wife and son had been killed at Sand Creek. And so had Abbie’s dear, devoted friend, Tall Grass Woman. She remembered the first time she saw the woman, when she first came to the People as Zeke’s wife. Tall Grass Woman had befriended her, and when Abbie had saved the woman’s little girl once from drowning, she had become honored and respected by the whole tribe for her bravery in going into the deep waters where monsters lurked. But the little girl had later died of white man’s disease. Abbie couldn’t even remember anymore if it had been measles or cholera or whooping cough.

  How many times had white men’s diseases ravaged Indian camps, at times obliterating entire villages? Yes, the future only spelled doom for the few who were left. And now a pitiful handful were trying to make their way north to the land they loved. She was glad Zeke would help track them—glad that he would help them if he could. Perhaps he would die trying. If he did, it was a good and proper way for such a man to die. She could not think of a better way, and yet …

  She kissed him savagely, and their lovemaking started all over again. Was there a way to keep the night from ending? Why couldn’t a person have just one chance at stopping time—just for a little while? But no one except God had that privilege, and He did not choose to do so this night. The moon made its arc over the night sky, still hanging in the heavens when the sun peeped red and large on the eastern horizon the next morning, finding Zeke and Abbie in an exhausted sleep by then, a sleep that could not be avoided after hours of heated passion, followed by quiet tears.

  Wolf’s Blood was up and had everything packed, horses saddled. He had Margaret start some breakfast, and they waited. He refused to go to the tipi or let anyone else disturb his mother and father. They would come out when they were ready. If he and his father left late, then they would just leave late.

  Breakfast cooled, and Wolf’s Blood and the others went ahead and ate. Margaret cleared the table. The house was quiet, all of them sensing an impending loss. Even the grandchildren were subdued: Little Zeke, now nine and looking and acting all Indian, much like his uncle, Wolf’s Blood. The boy worshipped his grandfather. He felt like crying now, but wasn’t sure why. Nathan was seven, a dark, handsome boy, greatly resembling his father, Morgan. Wolf’s Blood’s own son Kicking Boy was six, and held a proud Indian look about him, often mimicking his father. He was already a good rider, just as Wolf’s Blood had been by that age. Little Iris was five, and it was already obvious she would be an exquisite beauty, a grand mixture of her handsome Cheyenne father and her beautiful Apache mother.

  They all heard a horse then, and Wolf’s Blood went to the door. He turned back to Margaret. “It is Father and Mother. They’re riding toward that place they like by the stream, probably to bathe. They will come soon.” His eyes were red, and he walked outside to gaze at the very distant purple mountains, praying silently to Maheo, feeling death all around him. Somehow his God would have to give him the strength to go on without his father. This would take much more courage and strength than he’d had to conjure up to participate in the grueling Sun Dance ritual. He would go through the Sun Dance ten times over if it would mean he would never lose his father to death. He argued inwardly that nothing would happen, that perhaps he was worrying for no reason. But his deep spiritual senses told him otherwise.

  Zeke and Abbie rode to their special place by the stream, into the hideaway where they had shared so much passion. The irises still bloomed all around, mixed with other wildflowers. They had brought a change of clothes and blankets. They would bathe here and put on clean clothes before going back. He removed her tunic, and she removed his leggings and loincloth. Again they touched, wanting to remember, remember. She reached up and he embraced her, pulling her up and letting her wrap her legs around his waist. They kissed again, and again. He knelt down, still holding his tiny wife, and picked up some soap, then walked into the stream with her. They shivered at the touch of the cool water on their heated bodies, then fell into the stream in an embrace. He pushed her and dunked her completely, and she came up shivering and laughing. Yes, he must make her laugh once more. He must remember the laughter and not the tears! And so must she. He ran the soap over her body and she jumped at the tickling sensation, bringing forth his own laughter. He lathered her up, gently washing her, not leaving out any curve or hidden place. He washed her hair then, and held her as he laid her back into the water to rinse her hair.

  Then the job turned to her. She washed him, taking her time, running gentle fingers over every hard muscle, over that part of him that had made them one in body, over the strong legs, the broad chest, washing his hair last. She loved his hair and wa
s glad he had never cut it. There had been times he considered it, for her sake, thinking that it would be easier on her when they were in civilized places if his hair did not hang long. But Zeke would not have been Zeke without the long hair that made him more Indian. And she knew that deep inside he had never wanted to cut it. Yes, she had let him be Indian, and she was glad. He’d have been only half a man any other way. Never once in all their years together had she been ashamed of him. She was thoroughly proud of her half-breed husband, proud of his strength and faith, proud of his provocative looks, proud of his skills and bravery.

  Too soon they were finished, and he lifted her out of the water and carried her to a blanket, wrapping her in it and gently toweling her hair. He dried himself off while she sat there and watched. Then he dressed and sat down in front of her, letting her comb out his hair. She wondered how she made her arms move and where her breath came from, for she knew he must leave soon now.

  He turned to her, gently taking the brush from her hand. He began gently brushing her own hair back from her face, studying her beauty, proud of how few age lines she had on her face, how slim and curved she still was, how smooth was her skin.

  “We must go back now,” he said softly, setting the brush aside.

  Their eyes held and he saw the terror in her own. “One more day?” she asked.

  He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “No, my sweet one. It must be done. I cannot say in certainty that I will not come back, Abbie. But this time … I make no promises. I have always before made promises and kept them.” His eyes teared. “This time I will not promise, Abbie.”

  She swallowed. “I can’t … be without you, Zeke. I … can’t function without—”

  He touched her lips. “Yes you can. You are a strong and brave woman. And I told you before that even in death I will always be with you. Remember to listen to your dreams, Abbie. Watch for the signs, for I will come to you.”

  She jerked as a sob made its way from the depths of her soul to her throat, and tears overflowed her eyes. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his chest.

  “All we are losing is our physical closeness,” he told her gently. “But two people do not have to be together to be one. Many times when I was away from you, I could close my eyes and I was with you, wrapped in your arms, being one with you. You were not really there, and yet you were. That is the way it will be for you if I should not return, Abbie. You will simply close your eyes and remember these moments we have shared, and I will be there, holding you, kissing you, loving you. And I swear to you, Abigail, that I will still protect you. No harm will come to my Abbie, for I will be watching over her, and she will live to be an old woman, enjoying her children and her grandchildren. And I have dreamed, Abbie, that in old age you were with the People again, helping them, loving them. So you see, you must go on, for I have dreamed it and it must be so. And out of your love for me you will help my People until you are very old and you finally walk Ekutsihimmiyo and we are reunited.” He kissed her hair. “And when we are, you will be fifteen again, and I will be a young man, and we will ride together on a grand Appaloosa into the clouds, into a land where all is green, and all our loved ones return to us, and the buffalo are plenty, and the children fat and happy, and the People sing again. I see this, Abbie, and it will be so.”

  She could do nothing but weep. How long they sat there neither was certain. His own tears were silent, mixing into her wet hair. They were beyond making love now, beyond hoping for things that could not be. It was time to accept reality, time to be strong for each other, and each was determined that he and she would leave smiling and not in tears. She finally pulled away from him, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. No more tears. Why make it more difficult for him? She was empty of tears now. How many had she shed over these years of hardships and worry? But she had chosen this life and this man, knowing full well he would not die an old cripple, but would very likely go down fighting while still in his prime. She did not want to lose him, and yet Abbie knew inwardly that even she would have it no other way for him.

  He helped her dress, making her promise to keep taking the doctor’s tonic, for she was still too thin. He gathered up their things and lifted her onto the horse, then moved up onto the animal’s back with ease behind her. They rode to the house.

  He lifted her down, keeping an arm around her and helping her inside, sensing that her legs did not want to carry her of their own accord. The whole family waited inside: Margaret and Morgan with Little Zeke and Nathan; Wolf’s Blood and Sonora with Kicking Boy and Iris; Jason, now nineteen. Ellen and Hal were at their own ranch, unaware of what was taking place. Zeke would stop and see them on his way to Fort Lyon. He scanned his children and grandchildren.

  “All of you are a part of Abbie and me,” he told them. “If something … happens to me, I entrust all of you with her care. I love you, and I am very proud of those of you who stayed on here to help with the ranch and to help your mother. I know that this ranch will keep going. I have taught you well. You know horses; you can all do anything I can do. I’m damned proud of all of you, and I am asking that if LeeAnn or Jeremy ever come back, you will honor my memory by being kind to them and forgiving them, if they ask it.”

  Abbie turned away, feeling his hurt at the thought of not seeing LeeAnn and Jeremy again. Zeke sighed deeply and put on a smile for them all. “Now, Margaret, if you will heat up something for your mother and me, I want to spend a few minutes with my grandchildren.” He turned to Wolf’s Blood, sobering at the stricken look on the young man’s face. “Is everything ready?” The boy nodded and Zeke held his eyes. “Ho-shuh,” he said softly to his son. Wolf’s Blood blinked back tears and walked out.

  Zeke spent the next several minutes talking to the grandchildren and hugging them. Several minutes later he walked into the bedroom and tried to get Abbie to come out and eat something. She sat on the bed of robes, rather than the brass bed, and in her hand she held the blue crying stones. She looked up at him, her lips trembling.

  “I don’t think … they’ll work for me this time,” she whimpered.

  He walked closer and knelt in front of her, closing her fist into his big hand and pressing her fingers against the stones. “They will work, Abbie-girl. They’re magic, remember?”

  Could it really have been thirty-three years since she first watched him explain the stones to the little girl who had been bitten by a snake? Surely not! Why, it was only a couple of weeks ago, a couple of months at the most! Not thirty-three years! Time was not supposed to go by that quickly. It wasn’t fair.

  He leaned forward and kissed her gently. “Come and eat something, Abbie. Do it for me.” He helped her up, putting an arm around her shoulders and taking the fist that held the stones, gently pressing it against her heart. “These were my gift to you, Abbie. Way back when I gave them to you I warned you I saw many tears in your life, and I saw you standing alone. You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

  She nodded quietly. “I suppose I always did,” she said in a near whisper. “I just … never would let myself think about it.”

  He led her into the kitchen and they ate quietly. All too soon he rose from the table, putting on his weapons belt, and the infamous knife. She felt like an old, old woman when she tried to rise, grasping the table, wondering what had happened to her legs. He took her arm and led her outside, saying good-bye again to all the grandchildren, to Margaret, Sonora, and Morgan, and embracing his youngest son. Jason was not all Indian as was Wolf’s Blood, but he’d been as loving and loyal, and Zeke was proud of his third son. He looked for a moment toward the western horizon, where on a knoll their little Lillian lay buried. And somewhere out there was Jeremy. He looked toward the east, where his fair daughter lived, his precious LeeAnn, for whom he had risked his life to save her from the Comanches.

  Then his eyes rested on Abbie—his Abbie-girl—the woman with whom it all began. What would his life have been like if he had just left her at Fort Bridge
r that winter of 1845 and not come back for her in the spring? What direction would their lives have taken? And how much control did man have over his own destiny? Perhaps theirs was meant to be savage, a life of hardships, as it had been. People called him a savage, but to Abigail Trent he was not. Yet their lovemaking was sometimes savage, for it was filled with a passion not many people were privileged to enjoy. For some unknown reason their destiny had been carved out for them before they even met on the wagon train. Abigail Trent had come west, and Zeke Monroe had volunteered as a scout for her wagon train. And one night they met, over the light of a campfire. She handed him some coffee, and when he took it their fingers touched. Destiny would have its way.

  He walked up and embraced her. “Ne-mehotatse,” he told her gently.

  “Ne-mehotatse,” she whispered. “We will walk together always—always, my beloved. And I will hold you in my arms every night.”

  He hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe, wishing he would never have to let go of her. He kissed her hair. “Abbie, my Abbie,” he whispered. “Forgive me. I don’t want to leave you, and yet I must.”

  Wolf’s Blood sat on his horse, facing away from them. Margaret had to turn away herself, resting her head against her husband’s chest. The grandchildren stared, Little Zeke crying quietly for a reason he didn’t even understand.

  “It’s all right,” Abbie was telling him in a choked voice. “I would have it … no other way for you … my husband.”

  He kissed her—a long, almost brutal kiss—then pushed her away. “Remember that whatever you do with your years, even if another man should love you, you belong only to me, Abigail Trent. It is my love that will be with you—forever.”

  He walked away then. How much longer should he wait? How many ways were there to say good-bye? It must be simply done. He leaped up onto his Appaloosa, then turned, looking down at her proudly, almost haughtily, wanting her to remember him sitting straight, looking like the warrior that he was.