Meet the New Dawn (33 page)

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 Bridger 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.

“Nohetto,”
he said, scanning the rest of them, then looking once more at Abbie. He jerked his horse around to face Wolf’s Blood.
“Hai!”
he barked, whipping his horse with the reins and kicking its sides so that his mount went into an immediate gallop. Wolf’s Blood turned his horse in a circle, his eyes resting on Sonora, then on his mother.

“This time I make the promise,” he told Abbie. “I will return, my mother.”

She tried to smile but could not. The man took off after his father, and Abbie watched through tears as they both
disappeared over a rise. She swallowed and breathed deeply then, turning to her grandchildren.

“Doesn’t your grandfather look grand on a horse?” she said, holding her chin proudly. “You’ll not find a better rider in all of Colorado.” She looked at Margaret then, walking up and hugging her daughter. “Come, Margaret. We have chores to do.”

The Cheyenne flight north became a running battle. The soldiers with whom Zeke and Wolf’s Blood rode and for whom they helped track the Cheyenne, were only a fraction of the number of soldiers who were after the fleeing Indians. Soldiers moved out from all directions: from Forts Wallace, Hays, Dodge, Kearney, and others. Soldiers rode the railroads, watching and waiting, ready to charge off the train and follow if the Indians were spotted. Up to thirteen thousand soldiers and volunteers stalked the Indians without letup, so that Little Wolf and Dull Knife and their people had no time to rest.

The Indians were desperate. They must get to their beloved Black Hills. They kept to the roughest country they could find, so that the soldiers could not get to them with their wagons that carried the big guns. Several times the soldiers caught up with them, often picking off the straggling old people and children. But the majority of the fleeing Indians always managed to evade their pursuers, craftily sneaking right through the ignorant bluecoats. Several times Zeke warned the troops he led not to fire—that they should let him talk to the Cheyenne leaders and see if he couldn’t get them to surrender. But the soldiers would have none of it, and as they followed the Cheyenne through Kansas and Nebraska, Zeke grew less and less desirous of helping the soldiers. Thousands were tracking a pitiful handful of desperate Cheyenne, who wanted to harm no one, who wanted only to go home. The callousness and lack of understanding on the part of their pursuers was heartbreaking. Zeke knew the job was even more difficult for Wolf’s Blood. He had to constantly remind the boy that he must return to his mother, that he must not let her down. If Wolf’s Blood turned on the soldiers, he would be killed, and that
would be too much for Abbie to bear.

“The time will come when it is a good day for you to die,” Zeke told his son one night over a quiet campfire. “You are young. Winter is coming, and already I feel the pain creeping into my bones and joints. This is my time, Wolf’s Blood. Let me have my time. You must live and go home to your mother.”

They searched through September and October, and the nights grew very cold. Each day Wolf’s Blood could see the agony building in his father’s body, as he strained just to rise in the mornings, ignoring fierce pain in his hips when he rode.

Zeke knew that the Indians were in a bad way by now. They had not had time to rest, nor even to hunt for food. Surely their clothing was getting ragged, and some were starving. His worries were correct, for among the Indians there was much despair. The old ones were weak, the children suffering from lack of rest and food. By head count, thirty-four were missing, either killed as stragglers, or having run off in confused battles and making their own way north. The two greatest chiefs among them, Dull Knife and Little Wolf, differed in opinion about what they should do. Little Wolf wanted to go all the way into the Montana Territory to the Tongue and Powder Rivers—true Northern Cheyenne country—where they could live like real Indians again. Dull Knife did not think they could make it that far, and suggested they go to Red Cloud’s Agency in the Black Hills to see if Red Cloud would help them, give them shelter and food, and convince the government to let them stay there. After all, the Northern Cheyenne had helped the Sioux many times in their fighting. Red Cloud should help them now.

The final decision was to split up. Those who wished to follow Little Wolf all the way north—about fifty men, forty women, and roughly thirty-eight children—would break off from Dull Knife and the one hundred-fifty who would go with him to the Red Cloud Agency. It was a sad parting for the two chiefs and their people. Wild Hog and Left Hand went with Dull Knife.

It was late October when Dull Knife and his followers were caught in a heavy snowstorm that left wet snow clinging to their horses and their own bodies, blinding their eyes and
slowing their progress. Then out of the swirling white storm appeared soldiers—all around them. Zeke was among them, having helped track them to this spot in spite of the blizzard, and in spite of a grueling pain that ripped through him now with all its cruel fierceness. The weather had brought forth the worst of the arthritis, and when he dismounted at night he could barely walk. He would cling to the horse’s neck until he was able to move his legs, not wanting the other men to see his son helping him, not wanting to look weak in front of any of them. He had fought the pain and kept tracking the Indians, and now they had finally caught up to Dull Knife.

There was nothing for Dull Knife to do but surrender. He begged to be taken to Fort Robinson, where he could be with Red Cloud and the Sioux. The soldiers informed him that Red Cloud was no longer there, that the Sioux had been moved farther north. The leader, Captain John B. Johnson, told Dull Knife he would take him to Fort Robinson, where the Cheyenne could get food and shelter. Dull Knife objected, not trusting the soldiers. Zeke did not fully trust them either, but by nightfall Dull Knife gave in, for his people were freezing and starving. They would go to Fort Robinson, but they made it clear they wanted to keep going north to Red Cloud once they got their strength back. The soldiers promised they could do so.

They headed toward the fort. Zeke lifted three little ones onto his own horse, covering them with blankets and walking himself, in spite of the relentless pain. When they made camp that night, Zeke sensed the uneasiness among the Cheyenne. They did not trust the soldiers, and neither did Zeke or Wolf’s Blood. Zeke sat and smoked beside a campfire, unable to sleep. He heard the soft whistle that was his son’s signal, and he frowned with concern. The young man wanted to speak alone with him, away from the campfire around which sat a few soldiers. Zeke said nothing, getting to his feet with difficulty and walking toward the sound of the whistle. Wolf’s Blood loomed out of the darkness, taking his father’s arm and leading him away from the others.

“I think you will get your wish, my father,” he told the man.

“What do you mean?”

“I went inside one tipi, to check on some of the children. The woman in there looked up in surprise, for she was pushing a gun barrel under her dress to hide it. I told her not to be afraid, that I was really on their side, and she showed me her necklace, decorated not only with beads, but with gun springs, locks, and pins. She had cartridges tied onto her moccasins like decorations.”

Zeke frowned and threw down his cigarette, stepping it out. “They’re taking apart guns?”

“Yes. They are hiding them in pieces, wearing them as ornaments to fool the soldiers. They think the soldier leader will tell them to give up all weapons. When they do, they will turn in only a few bows and arrows and a few broken guns. Then later, if they are imprisoned, they will have guns that they can put back together and use against the soldiers.”

Zeke grinned a little. “By God I think it could work. If anyone can make it work, the Cheyenne can.”

“Of course they can!” The boy sobered. “Father, what do you think will happen? Will they help the Cheyenne, or imprison them?”

Zeke sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve seen to much abuse to think they’ll really help them, Wolf’s Blood. They’re pissed about the fact that Dull Knife even made it this far, evading so many soldiers all the way. And Little Wolf has apparently still managed to avoid being caught. They might help them at first, but I have my doubts any promises will be kept.”