Embrace the Wild Land Read online

  Zeke nodded, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of his teen-age son, who rode as a Cheyenne and practiced the Cheyenne way, already an accomplished warrior for his age.

  “What your mother still can’t get through her head, son, is that I’m too damned mean to die. I’ve just added another scar to my collection, that’s all.” He looked back at Abbie, who was quickly wiping at unwanted tears.

  “We should … clean and wrap the wound,” she said quietly.

  Zeke nodded. “Agreed. Dig out what you need and I’ll get my shirt off while the men here bury the bodies.” He looked at his son. “Wolf’s Blood, you and Black Elk get going and round up the Appaloosas. If we hurry we can make the fort by sundown.”

  The boy nodded, obvious relief in his eyes, for he worshipped his father with great passion, and Zeke in turn worshipped his son.

  Zeke looked back at his wife. “Fix me up good, woman. I don’t want this to interfere with the knife-throwing contest when we reach the fort. I intend to line my pockets with some bets.”

  She sighed deeply and sniffed. “I doubt any of them who know you will bother even entering in any knife contests with Zeke Monroe,” she answered.

  Zeke shrugged. “We’ll see.” He stared out at the horizon. The one called Blade had disappeared into the distance, headed for Fort Lyon to report the terrible “Indian attack” on him and his men, angry that he had been unable to use his knife that day on the “dirty redskins.” Blade gripped his knife tightly and cursed his luck.

  Two

  Soldiers stared. Some in awe, some in contempt. Yet as they watched her ride past, her lovely chin held high, her back straight and proud, her face showing the strength and courage of a woman who must battle all the adversities of a hard life in an untamed land, most of the contempt turned to respect. Abbie could hear the whispers, could feel the eyes staring at her back. But it didn’t matter. She had come to Fort Lyon with her half-breed husband simply as a wife and a mother who wanted to enjoy the festivities of the yearly gathering of these soldiers with the Navahos and Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians.

  Her youngest son, Eoveano (Yellow Hawk), called by his white name, Jason, was perched in front of her on the gentle Appaloosa; his four-year-old sister Lillian (her Indian name Meane-ese, Summer Moon) still sat behind, holding onto her mother. Abbie clung tightly to little Jason, her “baby,” the last child she would have. She had nearly died at his birth, and an operation in Denver three years earlier had ended her child bearing. But little Jason was special for another reason. He was turning into a replica of her own little brother, who had died when Abbie first came west with her family. All of them had died. There was nothing left of her family, or of the Abigail Trent who had grown up in Tennessee. That was another time, another Abbie.

  The other five children rode, biggest to smallest, behind their mother, a touching and somewhat amusing picture. In the distance, three Cheyenne men kept Zeke’s Appaloosas in check; the rest of the band waited for a signal to come into the fort. Zeke had told them he would ride in first, with his half-brother, Black Elk, and two other braves, wanting to discover if any trouble had been stirred over the incident with the buffalo hunters. White bandages around his upper right arm stood out in stark contrast to his dark skin as he rode shirtless in the late afternoon heat. The summer had dragged into autumn, and this September day of 1861 had grown warmer rather than cooler.

  Soldiers and traders alike watched the small procession enter the fort, some gathering and following as Zeke led his family up to officers’ quarters, where already he had spotted the horse that had been ridden by the fleeing buffalo hunter in the skirmish several miles back. The man had come straight to the fort, just as Zeke had suspected.

  The Indians halted their horses and waited silently, all of them sitting straight and proud, ready to defend their position. Soldiers and traders gawked at the white woman with the Indian men. She wore an Indian tunic, as did her four daughters. Her three sons sported buckskin leggings and shirtless backs. The men did not doubt the fierceness of the big man beside the woman, for in addition to his bandaged arm, his dark skin bore several scars—scars that could only belong to a man accustomed to doing battle, scars of a man who had known violence all his life. His chest and upper arms showed signs of having suffered the torturous Sun Dance ritual to prove his manhood; on his lower left side was a scar from an old bullet wound, a bullet Abbie herself had dug out of him many years ago; another faint scar in his left chest bespoke another bullet wound; and there were faint traces on his back from a whipping many winters ago. Yet the man remained strong and fierce, his tall, broad stature silently defying anyone to challenge him.

  At forty-one, Zeke Monroe remained as hard and strong as any man twenty years his junior. His hair hung long and unbraided, a beaded band around his forehead with four coup feathers tied at the back and pointing downward. A copper band circled the hard muscle of his left bicep, and the wide leather belt at his waist sported a tomahawk, a hand gun and two knives, one of them the huge blade he had used on the buffalo hunter, its menacing, curved blade and buffalo jawbone handle the source of bloody tales among Indians and white man alike for many years.

  “What do you make of that?” one soldier said quietly to another. “That woman is white.”

  The second soldier nodded, both men’s eyes studying the curious family that had just ridden in. “That she is,” the second man replied. He scratched at an ugly scar on his left cheek that stood out pink and bare, surrounded by a grizzly, dark beard. No hairs would grow there where an Indian’s tomahawk had once sliced off part of his skin, barely missing splitting open the soldier’s skull. The man grinned. “Looks like this year might bring us some extra entertainment. Any white woman who rides with an Indian has to be either captive or a woman who’ll sleep with any man.”

  The first man glanced at him sidelong. “From the looks of that buck she rides with, I’d think twice about even looking at his woman, Cole. And look there on her horse. She carries her own rifle, and I’ll bet she knows how to use it!”

  Cole ran his tongue over his lips. “Maybe. But how often does a white woman ride in here—and one that looks like that besides? She’s the best looking thing I’ve seen in many a moon, friend.”

  It was then that an officer came outside, accompanied by a slovenly man in a faded calico shirt, brown moisture at the corners of his mouth from tobacco, a blade nearly as big as Zeke’s strapped to his belt and a rifle in his hand. They studied the small group of Indians silently for a moment, their eyes resting on Abbie for longer than necessary, both men astonished to see a white woman with them. Zeke glared back at them with hard, angry, dark eyes, a soft evening breeze blowing strands of his jet-black hair across the finely chiseled face of the half-breed, a face that the lines of hard living and even a thin scar on his left cheek from a Crow warrior’s knife did little to detract from a handsomeness that seems to come only to those of mixed blood.

  “I’m Zeke Monroe,” he spoke up curtly, his quick defensiveness on behalf of his white woman rising to the surface as the two men stared at Abbie. His voice drew their attention back to him, and their eyes showed surprise at his good English. Zeke turned threatening, vengeful eyes to the man in the calico shirt. “I’ve come here to report an attack on my family and some of my Cheyenne friends by some buffalo hunters.” He shifted his eyes to the officer. “Thought maybe the one that got away would come riding in here to try and make trouble for my brother and his people.”

  “That’s them!” the man in the calico shirt growled. “They attacked us, Lieutenant. Killed all five of my friends! They should all be put in irons!”

  The officer frowned and shifted nervously. “I’ll not jump to any conclusions, Blade,” he answered, looking back up at Zeke. “I’m Lieutenant Perkins. This man here says you and your warriors attacked him and his men for no reason. Now you come riding in here telling me just the opposite. Suppose you tell me the whole story. And how is it you speak such good En
glish?”

  “My father was a white man. I was raised in Tennessee. My mother was Cheyenne.” He turned to the man beside him. “This is Black Elk. We share the same mother. He is my half-brother.” He looked back at the officer. “If we had done something wrong, Lieutenant, do you think we’d ride right in here like this and risk being arrested? Look around you. I have my whole family with me, and so do some of the other braves. Why would we go attacking this man and his friends? We aren’t a war party. We were simply coming here for the annual celebrations with the Navaho, to take part in the horse races and other contests. Back on the hill are some of my horses. I have a ranch on the Arkansas River where I raise Appaloosas. I’ve brought some here to sell to the army and to trade with the Navaho for some blankets. I’m telling you that this man here is lying. It was they who attacked us. And my guess is they were after our women—and my horses.”

  “You stinking half-breed!” Blade hissed, taking a step forward. The lieutenant grasped his arm and held him back.

  “Hold on there, Blade!” he ordered. “I’m inclined to believe this man. This is no war party, you fool! And we’re having enough trouble without men like you stirring things up!” He looked back up at Zeke, glancing across to Abbie, then back to Zeke again. “That your wife, or is she a captive slave?”

  Zeke broke into a handsome grin, glancing over at Abbie, who smiled back at him. He looked back at the officer. “She’s my wife, legal, and we have papers to prove it. We’ve been married for sixteen years.” He wanted to add that it was he who was the captive slave, for little Abigail Trent had captured his heart years ago and had chained it to her own. The lieutenant turned to Abbie again.

  “That true?”

  “It certainly is,” she replied in a soft but determined voice. “I am Mrs. Zeke Monroe, and these are all our children. And what my husband told you about the buffalo hunters is true. They ambushed us, for no reason whatsoever. You can see my husband was wounded. I and the others fled to some rocks, while my husband and Black Elk fell back and waited for the buffalo hunters who pursued us.”

  “You gonna believe a white whore who sleeps with a half-breed?” Blade stormed.

  Quickly, Zeke was off his horse, his big blade drawn in challenge. “Any man who insults my woman had best be ready to defend himself!” he growled, his dark eyes blazing. Blade’s eyes lit up.

  “Gladly!” he answered, drawing his own knife.

  “Hold it!” the lieutenant ordered. He whipped out a side arm and two other soldiers moved in, holding rifles to both Zeke and Blade. “Blade, you apologize to the lady.”

  “I’m not apologizing to anybody! I’d rather have it out with this stinking half-breed!”

  “You’re crazy!” a trader spoke up, moving in on the argument. “I’ve heard about this half-breed. Some call him Cheyenne Zeke. The Indians call him Lone Eagle. All of us in the hunting and trading business have heard of him. He’s got a reputation from the Missouri clean out to California with his knife. Anybody that challenges him with the blade is looking to die!”

  “How do you think I earned my nickname!” Blade sneered, still watching Zeke.

  “I don’t give a damn how you earned it,” the trader replied. “I’m just being fair in warning you about this man. You’ll never win a knife fight with him!”

  Blade straightened a little, sizing up the fine physique of Zeke Monroe, gauging the expert way with which Zeke grasped his big knife. But Blade had a reputation of his own, and he was not about to back down. Perhaps winning a knife fight against this half-breed would bring him fame and envy and make him a more important man.

  “I ain’t impressed,” he told the crowd. “And since we both tell a different story and the lieutenant here has no way of knowing the truth, I say we solve the whole problem with a duel. If I win, these Cheyenne get arrested.” His eyes shifted to Abbie for a moment, as he thought hungrily about the situation she would be in without her man to protect her. He looked back at Zeke. “He wins, it’s over. I’ll be dead and it won’t matter.”

  Black Elk grinned, as did the other two Cheyenne men and Zeke’s eldest son, Wolf’s Blood. All knew Zeke’s skill with the blade. Abbie remained silent. Her husband was Cheyenne, a proud warrior. He would not back down from a challenge, nor would he let an insult to his woman go unanswered. She would not complain and try to stop him.

  “This white man is a fool!” Black Elk told Zeke in the Cheyenne tongue. Zeke’s eyes danced with eagerness as he straightened and shoved his knife back into its sheath, a vicious smile on his lips.

  “You warm my heart with your offer, white scum!” he answered. “I welcome a duel. We’ll make it exciting for the others here and set a time. As long as the soldiers and Indians are here for games and betting, you and I will be one of the games!” He reached back and untied a piece of leather from his horse’s bridle. “We’ll duel the Indian way, unless you’re too yellow!” He held out the leather, and Blade knew what he meant. He had fought that way before. He would do it again against this infamous Cheyenne Zeke.

  “However you want it, half-breed!” he answered. “Your insides will greet the sunshine same as every other man’s that’s gone up against me.”

  Zeke stepped back, keeping his eyes on Blade. “Wolf’s Blood, go stand by the support post by the lieutenant there,” he ordered his eldest son. The fourteen-year-old boy dismounted, a tall, strong, handsome boy, the replica of his father except for the age difference. He walked up to the support post, putting his back against it. “Make a mark right where the top of my son’s head comes,” Zeke told the lieutenant.

  There were mumbles from the onlookers, and Blade scowled. The lieutenant frowned and took Blade’s knife from its sheath, walking up to Wolf’s Blood and cutting out a little piece of wood to mark the post. Wolf’s Blood’s eyes held his father’s steadily. Once called Little Rock, the boy now used the name he had chosen after having his first vision and living alone in the mountains in a cave with wolves at the tender age of twelve. At times it seemed to Abbie that the boy had never been a child at all, for he had always been mature for his age. There was no evidence of the boy’s white blood, except that his skin was more of milky brown than the reddish darkness of his full-blooded relatives. His black hair hung well past his broad shoulders, shiny and straight, and even in his early teens he gave the appearance of a fine warrior in the making. His lips were set hard and unsmiling now, for he, too, was anxious to see his father mete out the proper punishment to the buffalo hunter. He faced his father without fear, knowing what Zeke would do but never doubting his father’s abilities. Cheyenne Zeke would plunge his blade into his own breast before he would harm his favorite son. The scarred soldier called Cole scratched at his cheek again, considering that between the father and the son, it would be difficult getting to the lovely white woman.

  Zeke removed his knife again and backed up a little more. Wolf’s Blood took a deep breath and held it, keeping his eyes on his father as Zeke raised back his hand with the knife in it. With a quick flick he flung the menacing blade. Wolf’s Blood did not blink when it landed square in the spot the lieutenant had marked, one side of its blade resting against the part in Wolf’s Blood’s hair, literally touching the scalp but not harming the boy. Gasps arose from the crowd. Blade swallowed but hid his fear. Zeke walked up to his son and their eyes spoke of their love. Then Zeke yanked out his knife and turned to Blade.

  “Every man meets somebody just a little better one day, Blade. Now it’s your turn.”

  Blade threw his shoulders back and glared back at him. “Maybe it’s yours, half-breed! Knife throwing and knife fighting are two different matters.”

  Zeke grinned again. “Trouble is, I’m better at fighting than I am at throwing,” he sneered. “You’ll find that out tomorrow noon.” He walked to his horse and mounted up again. “I’m bringing in the rest of those with us to make camp among the Arapaho,” he told the lieutenant. “We’ll talk later about my horses. I want to get my family se
ttled first.”

  The lieutenant glanced at Abbie and back to Zeke. “Your wife might want to stay here in a more comfortable facility.”

  Zeke looked at Abbie with humor in his eyes, and Abbie rode up closer to the lieutenant. “I have lived in a tipi before, Lieutenant,” she told the man. “They’re quite comfortable; and I don’t doubt I’ll be much safer camping with the Cheyenne than I would be within the walls of this fort.” Wolf’s Blood laughed lightly at his mother’s remark as he mounted up, and Abbie turned her eyes to glare haughtily at the buffalo hunter.

  “Once your husband is dead, you’d best sleep with your eyes open, bitch!” he sneered.

  Zeke charged his horse forward just enough to make the man stumble backward and fall. “If not for our agreement to meet tomorrow, you would be dead right now, you fat, yellow-bellied snake!” he growled. “I don’t want to see your face until noon tomorrow, or the deal is off and I’ll kill you on the spot!”

  He turned his horse and headed out of the fort, followed by the woman who had belonged to him since first he claimed her virgin body and heart. At fifteen, she was ten years younger than he, but looked much younger even than that, for she had the enviable inherited trait of not aging as rapidly as some women in this rugged Western land. She was a woman very pleasing to look upon: her complexion was clear and smooth, with hardly a line of age on her beautiful face; her large, soft brown eyes were provocative; her dark hair was lustrous and enticing. She had borne seven children from Zeke’s seed, and he had been the only man to ever plant his life in her womb. All of the births had taken place on the harsh plains, with no one to help but Zeke himself. Yet the hard living and heavy workload she carried had kept her body firm and agile, and her breasts were still full and pleasing. There was no fat on Abbie, just firm muscle and sun-browned skin, slim thighs and a body quite pleasing to hold in the night. The intensity and passion of their lovemaking had not lessened over the years; rather, it had become even more exciting and satisfying with their ever-deepening love, a love that had grown out of the sharing of pain and hardship. She knew his heart as well as he knew himself, and he in turn had given her the love and security she had needed after losing her family in a strange land.