Climb the Highest Mountain Page 5

  “Where’s Wolf’s Blood?” Zeke asked anxiously.

  “The damned kid rode off a couple of days ago, Zeke. You know what he’s like. He stays around for just so long, then he gets that itch to feel the wind in his face and he’s gone again. He kept talking about that little filly that’s got him all glassy-eyed lately. I think he went up to Sand Creek to see her again.”

  The children all started talking at once and Zeke raised his hand to silence them. “Let Lance tell me,” he told them, angry that the Army had ridden through his property as though they owned it. “What’s this thing about Chivington and his men?”

  Lance shook his head. “They came through here not long after Wolf’s Blood left. They’re a bad bunch, Zeke. Must have been seven hundred or so, like I said. They aren’t even regular army—just a bunch of miners and shiftless outlaws. The worst of the lot, all of them. No uniforms, nothing. And it’s a damned good thing I was here because they looked ready to ride off with Margaret just because she looks so Indian—figured her to be my squaw or something. I swear, if there hadn’t been a white man in charge here, there would have been trouble. It’s probably a damned good thing Wolf’s Blood wasn’t here. His Indian looks and his temper would have created a problem. That Chivington fella looked right at me with them crazy eyes of his and told me I’d best not be telling anyone I’d seen him and his men or it would go bad for this ranch. He said he was on a secret mission.”

  Zeke glanced at Abbie, already angry that she had been subjected to the terrible weather just because white men had said they had to file a claim in Pueblo and she had to sign it. Now she had come home to learn that their eldest son could be in danger. He wondered if she was shaking from the cold or from fear for their son—that or the knowledge that he would have to ride to Fort Lyon to see what was going on and perhaps on to Sand Creek to find Wolf’s Blood. She hated it when Zeke was gone. But there was no way around it. Zeke looked back at his brother. “What do you think he’s up to, Lance?”

  Their eyes held.

  “I heard some mumbling when they camped here overnight… some of the men talking about wanting to find some Indians because they were anxious for some target practice and they wanted to take some scalps for souvenirs. They talked about how much better off Colorado would be when it’s rid of its … its lice.”

  Zeke’s eyes grew darker then. “I heard talk about this Chivington in Pueblo,” he told Lance. “Some say he’s crazy. The Indians call him Squaw Killer.”

  “Zeke, Black Kettle’s band is peaceful,” Abbie put in hopefully. “They’re under Major Anthony’s protection. Anthony and everyone around here knows Black Kettle is one of the most peaceful and least trouble-making of the Cheyenne. Surely if Wolf’s Blood goes to Sand Creek he won’t be in any danger.”

  “To men like Chivington and the ones with him, an Indian is an Indian. It makes no difference what tribe, no difference how peaceful he’s been. To them killing Indians is like stamping out a plague or killing off a nest of rattlers. First thing in the morning I’m heading for Fort Lyon.”

  “They knocked down the east fence, Father,” Margaret spoke up. “I heard one of them say a … a half-breed didn’t have any right to claim land. They talked about stealing your horses, but then they just rode out.”

  “Why do they want to go and kill all the Indians, Father?” LeeAnn asked. Zeke glanced at his third child, a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty that certainly did not look as though she belonged to Zeke Monroe. She had a way of referring to the Indians remotely, as though she had no Indian blood of her own. Already Zeke could see that the girl didn’t like having Indian blood. Her blond hair and blue eyes made her feel safer, and she sometimes acted uncomfortable when she went to the fort with her father. It pained his heart that already the girl was half denying her heritage.

  “At least you don’t look Indian,” Margaret muttered to LeeAnn.

  “What did you say?” Abbie asked sharply.

  Fifteen-year-old Margaret looked at her lap. “You know what I mean, Mother. At least LeeAnn doesn’t have to worry about being shot down for nothing. Those men were thinking of shooting me, I know it. If Uncle Lance hadn’t been here to convince them I have white blood in me, they would have. They might have done worse things. I saw how they looked at me and it scared me.”

  “Sons of bitches!” Zeke hissed. Life was hard enough for his children without this. Just the year before Margaret had been attacked by a soldier when a troop of Confederates sent to secure the West had bivouacked at their ranch. Luckily she had not been raped, but the memory of the man’s insults still weighed heavily on her young mind and heart. He wondered if she would ever get over the humiliation.

  “Don’t ever be ashamed of your Indian blood—any of you,” Abbie commanded. “It should make you proud and brave. I’ll not have any children of Zeke Monroe’s blood and my blood be afraid or ashamed!” She scanned all their faces, meanwhile lifting little Jason to her lap and holding him close. “Tell me your Indian names,” she told them all.

  LeeAnn frowned. “Why do we have to do that?”

  “Because I want you always to remember who you are!” Abbie answered. “Because your father is a fine, proud man who loves all of you and who has risked his life for you more than once. Because you were created from his seed and are therefore part Cheyenne. Tell me your names.” She looked at Margaret, who blinked back tears of fear.

  “I am Moheya, Blue Sky,” the girl said quietly.

  LeeAnn spoke up grudgingly. “I am Ksee’, Young Girl,” she said in an almost inaudible voice.

  Abbie’s eyes moved to Jeremy. “I am Ohkumhkakit, Little Wolf,” the eleven-year-old answered. He, too, often spoke of wishing he were not Indian. None of them looked all Indian except Wolf’s Blood and Margaret, but Jeremy and LeeAnn had the least Indian features of them all.

  Abbie looked then at Ellen, a fine mixture, with dark skin and hair but blue eyes. The nine-year-old girl answered proudly, too young to realize the consequences of being part Indian. “I am Ishiomiists, Rising Sun,” she answered in her small voice.

  Abbie smiled and looked at Lillian—shy, quiet, pale and thin Lillian, with such mixed features that she seemed to have no features at all, her hair light brown, her eyes light brown, her skin light brown. The girl coughed before answering. “I am Meane-ese, Summer Moon,” the girl answered quietly.

  Abbie hugged Jason and looked down at him. “And what is your Indian name, Jason?” she asked, giving him a tickle. The boy giggled.

  “I am Eoveano,” he answered in perfect Cheyenne. “Yellow Hawk.”

  Abbie smiled and looked at Zeke, determined he should never feel guilty that any of his children or his wife might suffer because of his Indian blood. He looked at her lovingly, but the guilt was still there, mixed with anger and worry.

  “And your father is Lone Eagle,” she told the children, still looking at Zeke. “A respected warrior among the Cheyenne in spite of his white blood.” She looked at Margaret then. “Help me prepare some supper, Margaret. Your father and I have had a long journey and we’re hungry. Zeke should eat as soon as he can. He’ll want to start for Fort Lyon early.”

  The girl nodded. “Don’t get up, Mother. I can do it all myself. You must be tired.”

  Abbie leaned back and patted Jason’s bottom. “I am. Thank you, Margaret. Jeremy, you go out and get more wood, and, LeeAnn, you help Margaret. The rest of you go into the spare room and play some games or something. I’m just glad to be home and to know you’re all right.”

  Margaret looked at her father. “What about Wolf’s Blood?” she asked. “I’m afraid for my brother. Sometimes he’s wild and foolish like some of the other young Cheyenne boys. It would be just like him to ride right up to those men and taunt them.”

  Zeke sighed. “I know, Margaret. I’ll do my best to find him.”

  “You’re the only one he listens to, Father. Make him come back home.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The girl mov
ed around the table and pulled a gunnysack of potatoes from under the cupboard. Zeke met Abbie’s eyes, and it was all said in that one look. “I’ll go tend to the horses,” he told her.

  Little was said the rest of the evening, and soon all were bedded down for the night. Abbie wanted desperately to reach out to her husband, to hold him and be held by him, but he stayed up long after she had gone to their bedroom and crawled into the bed of robes on which they slept. He sat by the fire smoking a pipe, thinking, planning. She knew Wolf’s Blood was heavy on his mind. The boy was Zeke Monroe’s whole world, their only child totally proud to be Cheyenne, the only one who had been half raised by the Cheyenne, taught the Indian ways by his Uncle and Zeke’s half brother, Swift Arrow, who now rode with the Sioux in the North. Zeke had just two full-blooded Indian brothers left, borne by Zeke’s Cheyenne mother, who had married a Cheyenne man after Zeke’s white father had deserted her and gone back to Tennessee. Swift Arrow was the most warlike. He was a Dog Soldier and had married but once, only to lose his woman to a white man’s disease. That had been many years ago, and the continued settlement of Indian lands by whites had fanned the man’s bitterness over his wife and son’s deaths to all-out hatred. Now he stayed in the north with the war-making Sioux, participating in raids and killings. The second brother, Black Elk, was peace-loving, and dwelt among the southern Cheyenne with Black Kettle’s band, now camped at Sand Creek. A third brother, Red Eagle, had succumbed to the evils of whiskey, had sold his wife, and then killed himself.

  Abbie gave up trying to stay awake until her husband came to bed, but deep in the night she was awakened by a gentle hand rubbing over her hips and soft, warm kisses to her throat. She stirred, moving onto her back, only to have his lips cover her mouth hungrily while one hand pushed up her flannel gown. Then his lips moved to her throat again.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Abbie girl,” he whispered. But she knew he wasn’t, nor was she, for he had never left her without making love to her on their last night together. There was too much danger in this land, the risk of his not returning was too great. How she hated to have him go away when Indian killers were roaming the land!

  “Zeke, I’m afraid for you—afraid for Wolf’s Blood,” she whispered. But her fear only seemed to enhance their lovemaking, for she returned his kisses with possessive passion. He opened her gown and pulled one side down to expose a breast. His long hair was unbraided and fell across her bared skin as her powerful savage moved over her almost desperately, as though this might be the last time they shared their lovemaking. He pushed her gown to her waist and moved on top of her, his hard manliness pressing against her belly almost painfully, needing relief. Always when he sensed imminent danger his love-making was more forceful. There was a light scent of whiskey on his breath, and although he seldom drank, she knew he had done so this night because of his worry over his precious son.

  He pushed inside her then, with a shuddering groan, and she was lost beneath him as he took her almost desperately due to the worry and the agony of having to leave her. Her nails dug into his upper arms as she forced herself to remain quiet, and her breathing came in deep gasps. At times she whispered his name in exhaled breaths. She could not help but cry out lightly at the last almost vicious thrust, and then he went limp, pulling away as she rubbed at her stomach.

  He sighed deeply, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hair. “Damn it, I hurt you,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, Abbie girl. Sometimes I get so damned angry I take it out on you in the night.”

  “It’s all right, Zeke.”

  “No it isn’t!”

  “You’re just worried about Wolf’s Blood.” She snuggled into his shoulder. “You must get some sleep, Zeke. You have a long day ahead of you. I know you. You’ll ride all day and all night and half the next day to get to the fort faster than it usually takes.”

  He kissed her hair again. “You’re right there.” He ran a hand over her belly himself, gently massaging it. “You okay?”

  “I am when you touch me that way,” she answered. She moved to kiss his scarred cheek, grateful that he had left the lantern dimly lit. “Bring our son back, Zeke.”

  He met her eyes. “You know I will.”

  When Zeke reached Fort Lyon he was immediately alarmed at the absence of a good share of the troops. An uneasy silence hung over the fort, and a hawk called out a lonely cry as Zeke rode through the gates of the fort. Only a skeletal garrison was left, Zeke noticed as he rode to the supply post and dismounted. He went inside and greeted the trusted white trader, John Wilkens, who looked up from an inventory sheet as Zeke entered. Wilkens immediately put down his quill pen and extended a hand to Zeke.

  “I was wondering when you might show up, Zeke,” he said.

  Zeke shook his hand. “What’s going on, John? Where are all the troops?”

  Wilkens sighed. “They’ve gone to Sand Creek, Zeke. I think that Chivington fella intends to wipe out every Cheyenne and Arapaho—every Indian there.”

  Zeke’s blood ran cold. “You sure?”

  The man let go of his hand and nodded. “Afraid so. Chivington was here just two days ago. It was a real surprise to Major Anthony. You know the major has been workin’ real hard on a peace settlement with Black Kettle’s band because they’ve made no trouble. Chivington came riding in here like he owned the place, said as how he was on his way to Sand Creek to kill every Cheyenne in sight. There was a big argument between him and Anthony. I mean to tell you, it was one hell of a fight. But Chivington won. That man has been given almost total authority over Colorado, Zeke. And he’s an Indian hater. He must have had seven or eight hundred men with him—all worthless rabble just itching for a slaughter. Chivington ordered Anthony to join him, so they’re about a thousand strong now, all well armed. They even have mountain howitzers with them, and he forced poor young Robert Bent to go along as a guide. It will be bad for the Cheyenne, Zeke. They must have already got there by now.”

  Zeke’s jaws flexed in anger. “Have you seen Wolf’s Blood, John?”

  The man’s eyes saddened. “He out makin’ hay again?”

  Zeke couldn’t help but grin a little. “I’m afraid so.” He sobered again. “The worst part is he’s got a yen for a little Cheyenne girl. I’m afraid he might have gone to Sand Creek.”

  The man frowned. “Then you’d best get up there. Ain’t nothin’ but bad times comin’ for them people. Orders are to kill all Indians, take no prisoners. Them words is right out of Chivington’s mouth.”

  Zeke gripped his knife. “I’d like to get my hands on the bastard!”

  “You’d have to go through about a thousand men to do it.”

  Zeke’s eyes glittered with hopeless rage. “Thanks for the information, John. I’d best head out right away.”

  The man nodded. “Good luck, Zeke. I hope you find your son okay.”

  Zeke hurried out. He didn’t care what the orders were regarding Indians. He’d worn his buckskins and left his hair loose, decorating it with ornaments. He always felt happiest when he rode as an Indian, using no saddle, only a blanket over a rawhide seat stuffed with buffalo hair. He wore a buffalo coat and winter moccasins. His soul was Indian, and he had prayed to the spirits that morning for his son’s safety and his own.

  “Help me, Maheyo,” he prayed now as he eased himself up onto his Appaloosa with a young man’s agility. He headed out of the fort at a fast gallop.

  There was no sound but the howling wind as Zeke’s mount moved silently through the deep snow toward the edge of the bank that looked down on the Cheyenne village below. Zeke was already alarmed because he had seen no smoke. Any village in the dead of winter would put out smoke from the warming fires of every tipi, and there should be at least a hundred lodges at Sand Creek. When he’d climbed the bank, his chest filled with pain at the sight below.

  “Ihaveseva!” he gasped. “Wolf’s Blood! Nahahan!”

  He could only pray that Wolf’s Blood was not among the bodies that lay strewn and muti
lated throughout the now-burned village below. There were too many to count. As he rode forward, shuddering with fear that Wolf’s Blood’s corpse would be among them, his eyes filled with tears at the horrible sight. This had been the most peaceful band of Cheyenne. They had been waiting faithfully beside the creek for instructions from Major Anthony. From the looks of the half-naked bodies, they had been attacked at dawn, before they had a chance to dress.

  He dismounted as he rode closer, knowing he must perform the gut-wrenching chore of inspecting each body to see if Wolf’s Blood or his brother Black Elk and his family might be among them. He looked down into the faces of women and small children, noting the huge gashes on their limbs and chests. He groaned at the sight of women’s bellies riped open, their female organs removed. Some children were dismembered, and some lay naked, sprawled where they had run with little feet to get away from the huge men thundering down on them atop big horses, men wielding sabers and guns. Parts of bodies were still inside the remains of tipis that had been hit by howitzer shells.

  Zeke could scarcely believe his eyes. He spotted a huge, battered flag lying next to one tipi. “Black Kettle’s,” he muttered. The banner lay wrinkled and matted on the frozen ground. The flag had been presented to Black Kettle by President Lincoln himself. The Indian leader had trusted the white man’s promises. Had Black Kettle escaped? Zeke walked among the frozen bodies that lay in grotesque positions, stuck to the ground by their own frozen blood. He walked along the creek, where it was obvious some of the Indians had run for shelter. Everywhere around the camp he saw signs of shod horses. The village had apparently been totally surrounded. Bodies were strewn in the creek. Apparently soldiers had lined up on both sides of it to kill off the fleeing victims as though they were merely rooting out a pack of wolves. Many women and children lay in the creek bed, some women hunched over their children as though to protect them. Never had he seen anything like it, not even in the Civil War.