Meet the New Dawn (10 page)

“He’s your brother, Wolf’s Blood,” Abbie reminded him.

The boy rose. “He is not my brother! He has deserted us for no reason. LeeAnn had a reason. She had bad memories. But Jeremy is just selfish. He is just making fun of me when he says he would like to see me in New York. He thinks less of me because I choose to be Indian!” He walked to the door. “I do not want to hear any more of this letter from a brother who deserts his father when he—”

Zeke shot him a warning look, and Wolf’s Blood caught himself just in time.

“When he knows he is needed on the ranch,” he quickly finished.

“Morgan, you, and Jason are good help,” she told him, frowning with curiosity, sure the boy had intended to say something else.

“When Jeremy left he did not know if I would even come, and Jason was younger. Father needed him then but he left anyway. Then he takes all this time to tell you how he is doing, and brags about a life he knows father would hate, and brags about the railroad—enemy of the Cheyenne! You think you may never see him again. Well, I hope we never see him again, because if I see him, I will put my hands around his throat and choke some sense into him!”

He stormed out, Abbie standing there in surprise at the outburst. Again she felt the gnawing feeling that there was something happening she didn’t know about, little realizing
that Wolf’s Blood’s anger stemmed from the fact that if Jeremy did not return in time, Zeke would never see his second son again. The strange disease that clawed at his father had given him a bad time that winter, and there were many times Zeke had taken the pain medicine the doctor had given him, which Wolf’s Blood kept hidden in the tipi for his father. It angered Wolf’s Blood that Jeremy was off taking part in things that were destroying the Indian, while his own father needed him.

Zeke lit a cigarette and stretched his long legs, tilting his chair back. “Finish the letter, Abbie,” he said quietly. “Don’t mind Wolf’s Blood. He’s feeling ornery again. I think I’ll take him back with me to Fort Lyon next week when I pick up the supplies they couldn’t provide. There’s a wagon train full of supplies due in from St. Louis in a few days and I want to be one of the first ones there. The trip would be good for Wolf’s Blood—keep him occupied.” He looked at his son-in-law. “Unless you’d rather go, Morgan. I just went, but they didn’t have everything I need,” Zeke told the man. “Maybe you get tired of staying here while I go.”

The man shrugged. “Makes no difference. Wolf’s Blood needs to go and he’s better off with you. And you know what you need. I hate to leave the babies right now.”

Zeke grinned at Little Zeke, a beautiful boy with large brown eyes, creamy brown skin, and a brilliant smile. It felt good to have grandsons—to know something of himself would live far into the future. He wished Wolf’s Blood would marry and have sons. The babies were a real joy, especially to Abbie. Zeke looked at his son-in-law. “Have I ever thanked you for all your help—what you’ve done for Margaret?”

Morgan laughed lightly. “About a million times. But you forget it works both ways. I was looking for a home and family and I found one. There aren’t many men I hold in real high esteem, Zeke, but you’re one of them.

Zeke puffed the cigarette, leaving it in the corner of his mouth. “The feeling is mutual and you know it,” he answered. He looked at Abbie. “Let’s hear the rest the Jeremy’s letter.”

Margaret took hold of her husband’s hand. Nothing was
more important to her than her husband and her father. To have them get along so well warmed her heart, for there was a time when she thought she had no one. But her father had come for her in Denver and would not leave until she came back with him. He had not hated her and cast her out for what she had done during that terrible, confused time in her life when she had turned to prostitution. He had simply patiently loved her, perhaps because he understood so well what it was like to have mixed blood but to look all Indian and so be cruelly branded.

The road back to the real Margaret had been difficult, but then Morgan Brown had come along, a man who loved her simply for who she was, a man who recognized the inner beauty as well as the obvious outer beauty. He was a man of mixed blood himself, his mother black, his father a wealthy plantation owner who had never even known about the boy, having sold the mother before he was ever born. Now she had a good husband, and was near her father, too.

“He says his goal is to end up in management,” Abbie was saying, “with an office in Denver, and that he’s under the supervision of a very prominent railroad man who likes him and is working to help him advance. And he wants to know how all of us are doing—if Margaret has had a baby yet and if we’ve heard from Wolf’s Blood.”

“How nice of him to ask,” Margaret said rather sarcastically.

Abbie’s eyes teared. “He’s still your brother, Margaret—and my son. He’s doing what makes him happy. He can’t help it if it is something no one else in the family cares about. It’s the same for LeeAnn. They are your brother and sister, and we will always love them.”

Margaret sighed. “Is that all of it?”

Abbie folded the letter. “Yes. I’ll answer it right away and Zeke can take the letter to Fort Lyon when he goes. Someone there will get it to Abilene.”

Zeke got up, rather slowly Abbie thought, as though something hurt him. “Come on out to the barn, Morgan,” he told Margaret’s husband. “I have something to show you.”

Morgan rose, and Zeke gave Abbie a quick kiss, assuring
her he would be right back. Both men left and Abbie looked at Margaret. “Do you notice anything different about your father?” she asked her daughter.

Margaret frowned. “Something. But I’m not sure what. Sometimes I think perhaps he’s in pain but doesn’t say anything. I’ve caught him wincing when he chops wood or pitches hay—sometimes even when he rides.”

Their eyes held. “He’s keeping something from me, Margaret. And it frightens me.”

“Father never keeps anything from you. If it’s important enough, he’ll tell you, Mother. It’s probably just old wounds. You know that old bullet wound in his side bothers him sometimes. It always has. But it’s never stopped him.”

Abbie sighed and slipped her son’s letter into her apron pocket. “Perhaps.” She thought about the wound—the one he’d received saving her life. She in turn had saved his by removing the bullet herself, a mere fifteen-year-old girl then, frightened to death that the man she loved would die. He had lived, but the wound had always bothered him. It upset her that she didn’t really know what she was doing when she removed the bullet. Abbie had always worried that she’d done something terrible to him. Now she found herself hoping it was the old wound and nothing more that bothered him.

Outside Zeke led Morgan to the barn, both men almost equal in build. They went inside, and Zeke took out his knife, grabbing up a bag of feed and slashing open the top. Morgan Brown had heard many tales of the things Zeke Monroe had done with the knife, and he swore to never be considered the man’s enemy.

“I have something important to talk to you about, Morgan,” he spoke up, slashing open another bag of feed as though he simply needed something to do with the knife. He shoved the bags aside in a standing position and put the knife back in its sheath. “We’ll use those two in the morning.” He sighed and looked at Morgan. “I’ve done just about everything in my lifetime, Morgan. I’ve hunted, trapped, scouted, lived with the Indians, lived in Tennessee, got mixed up in the Civil War, fought Indians and Comancheros
and outlaws. I’ve lived on this piece of land with Abbie for nearly twenty-five years now—watched it grow from a few horses and a tipi to nearly a thousand acres, outbuildings, two houses, and quite a big herd.” He turned and leaned against a large, square support post. “If I told you all the things Abbie and I have been through, we’d be up all night.”

“I’ve heard a lot of stories from Margaret. I have a pretty good idea.

Zeke grinned sadly. “Well let’s just say we’ve done and seen it all. I’ve tried to be a good husband to Abbie. Lord knows she’s put up with a lot living with a man who’d rather be Indian. But she’s never demanded that I abandon any of my Indian ways. The few that I did abandon I did willingly—for her. Now something has … come up … unexpectedly.” He grabbed a pitchfork and began stabbing at some hay. “I want to be sure to set some money aside, Morgan, a tidy bundle that will see that Abbie lives decently even after I’m gone.”

Morgan’s eyebrows went up. “Gone? Where might you be going?”

Zeke met his eyes. “I have a crippling disease, Morgan. Wolf’s Blood is the only other one who knows, and I want it to stay that way. Do you understand?”

Morgan frowned, his dark eyes showing their concern. “Of course. But when did all of this come about?”

“It’s bothered me for a long time. Two years ago I saw a doctor in Julesberg. He called it arthritis—said it sounded to him like the kind that slowly cripples a man so that eventually he can’t get out of bed. I do not intend to let it get that bad, if you get my meaning. I’ll find a more honorable way to die.”

Morgan’s eyes teared. “Zeke, I’m sorry. Are you sure?”

The man grinned sadly. “Oh, yes, I’m sure. Last winter I was better, but this winter has been worse again, reminding me that this thing is not going to go away like I’d hoped it would. The doctor told me it wouldn’t, but that sometimes it goes away some, then comes back.” He sighed and leaned on the pitchfork. “I’m telling you because I’ll need your help. I need to know you intend to always stay here on the ranch—take
care of it. I won’t always be here to do it, and Wolf’s Blood is as dependable as the wind. It would comfort me to know that someone else loves it as much as I do and will keep it going when I’m gone.”

“You know I will. I love Margaret, and I’m happy here. Meeting Margaret in that brothel was the luckiest day of my life.”

Zeke nodded. “I just need to be sure. Another reason is that I might have to do something more to get some money set aside. That school of LeeAnn’s drained me pretty good, and the ranch isn’t enough to sustain such a big family and have anything left over to set aside. I may have to go off and do something extra, and I need to know you’ll be here to keep the place going. I’ve taught you a lot about horses, diseases to watch for, the best way to break them, the best markets, all of it. I think you could run this place by yourself once in a while if you had to. You’ve already done it for short periods of time.”

Morgan frowned. “What are you thinking of doing?”

Zeke rubbed at his neck. “That’s the hard part. But I think it’s best and the pay is good.” He sighed and kept hold of the pitchfork. “It’s over for the Cheyenne, Morgan. Most of them are on that stinking reservation. Abbie and I have been there, and it kills me to see it. Yet the preservation of what is left of the race is all important, and it’s useless for the young renegades among them to continue to make war and run and hide. To do so can only mean the loss of more precious lives. The best way I can help them now is to make them see that they should go to the reservation. There was a time when I’d have fought just as savagely as some of them are still doing. And if I thought they could win, I’d tell them to keep on fighting. But they can’t win and they’re dying like flies, and the more they make war, the less the government will give them in the end to keep them alive. I know the plains of Colorado and Kansas and Nebraska like the back of my hand. The Army needs good scouts. I’m thinking of obliging them—to help my people, not destroy them. The pay is good. Once I swore I’d never scout for the enemy of my people, but now their enemy is banishment and hunger.
They must get to the reservation and do all they can to survive.”

Morgan ran a hand through his dark hair. “What will Wolf’s Blood think of that?”

“I think he’ll understand when I’m through talking to him. We’re very close. I’d like to get him to help me—for his mother’s sake. Some of his pay can go into the kitty also. The hardest part will be explaining it to Abbie without her suspecting some secret motive.” He threw some hay into a stall and a horse’s tail swished. “Another reason I’m considering it is because scouting would get me out there and keep me active. In a way I’d be living similar to the way I used to live. I’d be riding the plains, tracking, living out of doors. I want to live that way, even though it’s more painful for me. I want to feel free, Morgan, to feel like a Cheyenne again, to be as active as I can be for as long as possible. Somehow I feel that if I can stay active, I’ll put this damned disease off even longer. I refuse to sit down and wait for it to take over. Scouting will take my mind off things and keep me moving. I intend to talk to the commanding officer at Fort Lyon the next time I go. Being able to use Dan’s name as a brother won’t hurt.”

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.”