River of Love
River of Love
Book Three of the Savage Destiny Series
Rosanne Bittner
Copyright © 1984 by Rosanne Bittner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc.; the agency can be reached at dca@doncongdon.com.
Cover design by Kim Killion of The Killion Group.
If you love someone, you will always be loyal to him no matter what the cost. You will always believe in him, always expect the best of him, and always stand your ground in defending him.…
There are three things that remain—faith, hope, love—and the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13: 7 and 13
Throughout this novel the reader will find reference to Utah Territory, Nebraska Territory, New Mexico Territory, and Kansas Territory. For clarification, portions of these territories comprised what is now Colorado, Nebraska, Wyoming and South Dakota. So that the reader understands specific locations, the major part of this novel is centered in present-day Colorado. The Arkansas River, the major territory of the Southern Cheyenne, is located in southeastern Colorado, as is Bent’s Fort. Fort Laramie is located in southeastern Wyoming.
The meeting place of the Cheyenne/Sioux for the Sun Dance Ritual is in the southwest corner of South Dakota.
Contents
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Introduction
It was called the Treaty of 1851. Some called it the Big Treaty, the Fort Laramie Treaty, the Horse Creek Treaty, and sometimes the Fitzpatrick Treaty, after the famous scout-turned-agent Thomas “Broken Hand” Fitzpatrick, who had been instrumental in bringing the tribes together that year for the “big talk.”
Never before and never again would so many thousands of Indians of so many different tribes gather together in one place. And there, for the first time, a boundary was drawn by the Great White Father for a Plains Indian tribe—the Cheyenne/Arapahos. It was a vast piece of land, situated in the heart of what was then Cheyenne country—a large section of what would one day be Colorado.
By 1853 the original treaty was being butchered with amendments, so that the final wording would bear little resemblance to the original pact to which the Cheyenne had agreed two years earlier. Promised supplies and money had not been awarded, and disease and thinning buffalo herds brought on by more and more white settlement were making the Indians impatient and angry. The “savages” were becoming restless, their pride wounded, their honor betrayed. Such things were enough to make young warriors thirst for a good fight, and it became increasingly difficult for soldiers and agents to keep them calm.
Thus, by 1853 the problems of a land about to burst with growth were many, for it was also a lawless land, filling with riff-raff from the East who were themselves fleeing the law, mingling with others sniffing for gold, prostitutes and outlaws, land magnates and investors backed by Eastern money. Already the scheming was in motion to get the Indians out of the way, with false or exaggerated stories being fed to Eastern newspapers about the “savage, brutal Indians”—with white raiders posing as Indians and stealing cattle and horses and burning homes, raping and pillaging and blaming it all on the Indians; with illegal whiskey traders who introduced the red man to the sugared firewater, trading a penny’s worth of whiskey for a five dollar robe.
As a forewarning of what was to come, perhaps nothing is more accurate than the words of Broken Hand Fitzpatrick himself, when he wrote in his report for that year that “mineral wealth likewise abounds in the sands of the water courses, and in the gorges and canyons from which they issue; and should public attention ever be strongly directed to this section of our territory, and free access be obtained, the inducements which it holds will soon people it with thousands of citizens, and cause it to rise speedily into a flourishing mountain State.”
He was talking about principal Cheyenne Territory. He was talking about what would one day be—Colorado.
One
The log cabin sat quietly on the north bank of the Arkansas River, the great, granite Rockies to the west of it, and broad, endless plains to the east. Blue smoke curled up lazily from the embers of the dying fire in the great stone fireplace, and the morning broke with its usual combination of chores and beauty for Abigail Monroe. The beauty was life itself, and the love she shared with her man and her children. She didn’t mind the chores. It was just one form of love.
She turned to see the other half of the bed empty, which was to be expected. It could not really be called a bed, for her half-breed husband preferred sleeping on an elkskin-covered mattress stuffed with leaves and straw, with skins and buffalo robes for blankets. A mattress of feathers or one with springs was much too soft.
Abbie smiled and rose, straightening the robes and slipping on her Indian tunic, preferring its exquisite doeskin softness to the stiff stays of undergarments and the coarse binding of cotton dresses with high necks and long sleeves and too many slips. Indian women were practical and knew how to dress for comfort, and, other than her white skin, Abigail Monroe was an Indian—in spirit and in heart.
She walked into the main room of the cabin, stirring the coals of the fire and adding wood to it before climbing the ladder to the upper loft, where the children slept. Little Kseé, Young Girl, slept quietly in her cradle. Abbie lightly touched the child’s blond curls, almost laughing aloud at what little resemblance the child bore to her half-Indian father and dark-haired mother. But she was theirs, nonetheless, for no man but Cheyenne Zeke had ever touched Abigail Monroe, and the thought of being his woman continued to bring the pleasant warmth to her blood, even after eight years of marriage. But little Young Girl had the blond hair and blue eyes of Abbie’s mother and older sister, now long dead, and it was amazing to think that she was the product of Zeke and Abbie’s sharing of bodies and life.
She turned to check on her other daughter, Blue Sky, called Moheya in the Cheyenne tongue. All three children had Cheyenne names, for the Cheyenne were an important part of their lives, and Zeke’s Indian relatives were all the family Abbie had, her own family having all died on a wagon train going west. Little Blue Sky was an exact opposite of Young Girl. There was no mistaking Blue Sky’s Indian blood, and without a closer look one would never dream the girl had any white blood at all. But a second glance would reveal that she was actually the best of both, a child with the rare beauty given only to those of mixed blood. Blue Sky-would some day be an extraordinarily beautiful woman.
Abbie glanced at her son’s bed and sighed. There was no use checking on that one, for his bed would most assuredly be empty, just as Zeke’s side of their own bed was every morning. Father and son were as two peas in a pod, their Indian blood forcing them up before the sun and dragging them out for their habitual early morning ride. It was important to drink the wind, to straddle a painted pony bareback and breathe deeply of the life source and welcome the Great Sun Spirit who brought them a new day.
Cheyenne Zeke had a special love in his heart for his son, his firstborn, who was called
Little Rock, Hohanino-o. The boy was only six years old, but he could ride as well as any Cheyenne warrior, seemingly a part of the animal he straddled with his little brown legs. Raised in part by his Cheyenne uncles, Swift Arrow and Black Elk, the child was proud and sure, learning the Cheyenne tongue, learning about weapons and hunting, learning to be a man. For six years old, the child’s shoulders were unusually muscular, and his skin was deep brown. His glossy black hair was straight and hung nearly to his waist. He was a fine son, a source of great pride to his father.
Abbie straightened when she heard the warcry in the distance. They were coming! She climbed back down the ladder and set the coffee pot on the grate over the fire, then went to the door. Her heart swelled with pride and love. Zeke needed his family. He was happy now. For many years he had lived with the hell of having seen his first wife’s raped and tortured body, a white girl he had married back in Tennessee, who had been murdered by white friends for running off with a half-breed. The saddest part was that they had also killed Zeke’s little baby boy. Abbie was glad to be the woman who had come into Zeke’s life to bring him happiness again. He loved his daughters fiercely and would die for them in a moment, but Abbie knew without his saying that their firstborn son would forever hold a special place in Cheyenne Zeke’s heart.
Father and son rode hard in the distance, side by side, racing and laughing, both with long black hair flying out behind them. The horses’ manes also flew up from the wind, man and boy as wild and free as the animals they rode.
Then she smiled to herself. “No, the animals are tamer,” she muttered. She waved to Dooley, a good friend and hired hand who was exiting his own shack. “We’ll have breakfast in about a half hour!” she called out to him.
The man nodded and headed for the corral where Zeke’s Appaloosas were kept, while Zeke and Little Rock rounded the corral gate and galloped past the cabin to a cottonwood tree, the “finish line.” The horses were nose to nose, and Little Rock laughed his tiny laugh, insisting he had beat his father.
“I think perhaps you did this time, but you tricked me, Hohanino-o!” Zeke told the boy. “You picked the fast mare I told you about yesterday. I was not ready for that one!” He grabbed the boy from the horse and threw him over his lap, and Little Rock screamed. Zeke grasped the child’s ankles and held him upside down for a moment, while Little Rock laughed delightedly, screaming “I tricked you!” to his father. Zeke touched his horse’s flanks with his heels and urged it forward, carrying his upside-down son over to Abbie, who reached out and turned him up to set him on his feet.
“I beat him!” the boy told his mother.
“That is questionable,” Zeke put in, grinning handsomely at Abbie, his eyes roving her body, taking in the soft roundness of her breasts beneath the tunic. She put her hands on her hips and tried to give him a chastising look.
“The bed was empty again this morning,” she told him. “I think perhaps I married the wind. One moment I feel you and the next moment you are gone, and I never know when there will be a breeze.”
He laughed and slid agilely off the horse. “It is more fun being married to the wind, and never knowing when the breeze will touch your body, Abbie girl,” he told her, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “Little Rock and I will take the horses to be brushed and fed while you start breakfast.” He touched her cheek lightly with the back of his hand, then left. She stood watching him, shaking her head over the wild streak in him that she would never tame. But then she didn’t really want to tame him completely, for she loved him just as he was. She walked back inside and sat down to the table to wait, picking up a potato from several she had left out the night before so that they would be ready to peel in the morning. She began deftly carving off the skin with a small knife, and Little Rock came barging through the door.
“I am hungry, Mother!” came the expected first words from her son.
“Quiet your voice,” Abbie replied. “Your sisters are sleeping. Get yourself a piece of bread and go back outside.” This time they spoke in English. Zeke and Abbie used both languages with their children, knowing that to survive they would have to speak the white man’s tongue, but also wanting them to never lose the Cheyenne language.
Little Rock ran to the cupboard for a piece of bread and hurried out, just as Zeke was coming inside. Zeke walked to a basin in the corner to splash water on his face. Then he ambled over to sit down at the corner of the table next to Abbie. His big frame seemed to fill the small room, and he sprawled into the chair like a restless panther, ready to spring back out of it at the first hint of trouble. He stretched out a long leg and touched her knee with his own. She stopped peeling the potatoes and met his dark eyes, feeling a pleasant warmth at the way he looked at her.
“What’s for breakfast, woman?” he asked, grinning the handsome grin that always stirred her blood. His face was finely chiseled, a beautiful mixture of Cheyenne and white, the cheekbones high, the nose straight and sharp, the eyes large and dark, showing much emotion at times—and sometimes showing anger that would frighten away the worst of men.
“Potatoes and pork,” she replied, “thanks to being able to pick up that pork at the fort. It will be good to taste bacon. It’s been a long time.” Zeke leaned forward and grasped the back of her neck, gently pulling her forward and kissing her hungrily.
“And what about dessert?” he asked.
Her cheeks turned pink, for he had a way of rousing her with his eyes and with a gentle flick of his tongue against her lips that always made her blush. She looked down at the potato she was peeling and returned to her work.
“Since when do we have a dessert after breakfast—or after any meal, for that matter?” she replied curtly. “There is little time and not enough of the right ingredients for making desserts. But the wild berries should be coming out soon. I’ll make you some pies.”
He grinned. “It isn’t pie I’m talking about, woman, and you know it,” he replied.
She gave him a feigned disgusted look. “In the morning?” she replied. “I just got out of that bed, and you weren’t there. Now you want me to just turn around and get right back into it?” She turned her eyes back to the potato she was peeling. “Of course, since the damage is already done and I’m pregnant again, I suppose you can have your dessert whenever you want it.” Then she grinned. “A woman would be a fool to deny you your dessert.”
He laughed lightly. Then he whipped out his infamous knife, fifteen inches long from the end of its buffalo jawbone handle to the curved tip of its blade. He picked up a potato and had the skin peeled off almost instantly, for he was good with that knife, and the blade was razor sharp.
“Our son rides just like a warrior, Abbie girl! He sits on that mount like he was born a part of it.”
“I saw,” she replied in a worried tone.
He put down the potato and grasped her wrist to stop her work. She met his eyes again, and hers were full of fear for her son.
“He’ll be okay, Abbie girl.”
“He’s all Cheyenne. What kind of future will that bring him?”
“At least he’ll be proud and brave. He’ll be a man.”
She closed her eyes and put her hand over his. “Zeke, you know I want that just as much as you do. You know how I love the People. No matter what happens, I want always to be with them, to help them. I have no other family now. But when I think of what the future might hold for them, and then consider my own son being a part of that—”
“A man does what he has to do, what is right, no matter what the cost, Abbie girl. We’ll teach Little Rock right from wrong, teach him courage and skill and honesty, and the rest will be up to him. That’s all we can do. He’ll have every right to live in the white man’s world, because he’s only one-quarter Cheyenne. But already I can see where his heart lies. Next year I’d like to take him on a buffalo hunt with Black Elk, just to let him watch. And I’m going to start carving out a bow for him.”
She studied the dark eyes. “And the knife
? Will you teach him to use a blade the way you do?”
Their eyes held for several seconds. Then he nodded. “Out here it’s a good thing to know how to use. Perhaps he’ll be as good as his father—perhaps not. Some things come more naturally to some than others. But I’ll teach him what I know, Abbie. That knife has saved my skin many a time—and saved yours, too.”
She smiled softly. Yes, he had used the knife to defend her—and probably would again. His left cheek still bore the long, thin, white scar, put there by a Crow warrior years before in Zeke’s fur trapping days in the Rockies, before he had met and married Abigail Trent.
“The frightening thing, Zeke, is that you’re so right in teaching Little Rock how to ride and use weapons and to be proud. But he also has to learn tolerance, Zeke. He has to understand what is happening out here in this land, that he has to get along with the white man as well as the Indians. He can’t be all Indian, Zeke. It isn’t good for him to want only to be Indian, even though that would make my heart most proud.”
His eyes clouded, and he pulled away from her, getting up from the chair. He shoved the knife roughly into its sheath. “He’ll be what his heart tells him to be!” he said flatly.
She put down the potato and wiped her hands on her apron, rising from her chair. His back was to her. She walked over to face him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her head against his broad chest, breathing in the sweet scent of man and open air, rubbing her cheek against the soft buckskin shirt.
“Don’t be angry,” she told him softly. “You know how I love the Cheyenne—that I don’t feel white myself anymore. But these are my babies, Zeke. I get so afraid.”
He hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head. “I get afraid, too, Abbie girl. But I refuse to let it stop me from making my son proud to be Cheyenne. The white man might come here and destroy our freedom, but I’ll be damned if they’ll destroy our very heritage, our pride and courage, our very manhood! We might all go down, but we’ll go down fighting, and we’ll go down Cheyenne and proud of it!”