Embrace the Wild Land Read online

  “Damned bitch!” Garvey muttered to himself over Anna Gale. If he ever found out who and where the boy was, he’d have him murdered. He looked up at Charles, his hope for the future. “I’ll talk to her,” he told the boy. “Anna and I go back a long way.” He rose. “I hope you understand why I visit that place, son. You’ll do the same even after you’re married. Your stepmother isn’t very—well, some women don’t understand a man’s needs, Charles. So I go to Anna’s place on the side. Lots of men do that. Most times their wives know about it, and they don’t care because it keeps their husbands out of their own beds, where they aren’t wanted. That’s what prostitutes are for—to show a man the good time he can’t get at home.”

  Charles grinned. “I understand better than you think, Father. A wife for appearances, and a whore for sex.”

  Winston guffawed, his huge stomach shaking and his fat face reddening. “Son, you’re a gem! A chip off the old block! You’ll do fine, my boy—just fine.” He returned to his desk chair, still chuckling. “Sit down, son. We have some studying to do about Indian legislation.”

  “Can I have some whiskey first?”

  Winston shrugged. “Why not? If you’re man enough to go to Anna’s place, you’re man enough to drink.”

  Charles hurried over to the buffet where drinks were always kept on hand. Winston watched him pour a shot for himself. He was pleased with his son, and he had a feeling Charles Garvey would be more ruthless in obtaining what he wanted than even Winston himself had been. Watching Charles Garvey grow in power was going to be a very interesting pastime. He lit a fat cigar, then offered one to Charles.

  “Light up, my boy. Today you’ve talked and acted like a man. I’m proud of you.”

  Charles grinned and took the cigar, thinking about Anna Gale. He was accustomed to his father getting him anything he wanted. Perhaps now that he had complained about Anna, his father would make sure she was made available to him. No one refused Charles Garvey and got away with it!

  Indian and soldier alike circled around Blade and Cheyenne Zeke, emotions high, as were the bets. Many of the Indians, especially the Cheyenne, had bet everything they owned on Zeke, for they knew well the stories about the great knife warrior. But Blade had earned his own reputation, and he would soon learn whether he had met his match.

  The tension mounted as a soldier walked up and handed the leather strap to the two fighters. Indians let out war whoops and shrill cries of excitement as Zeke grabbed the strap and put one end in his teeth, his dark eyes on fire with the excitement of the challenge, his huge frame now a hard, powerful fighting machine. He had prayed all morning, drawing strength and courage from the depths of the spirit world with which he was close, from Maheo, who had saved him many times before. He looked as fierce as any warrior could look, with streaks of yellow paint across his forehead, one red streak down his nose and three black streaks on his chin. He was painted for war, even though this battle would be against only one man. His hair hung long and loose, parts of it twisted around eagle feathers, which were believed to bring courage and power to their owner. He wore only a loincloth, with two Crow scalps hanging at his waist, along with the big, menacing blade that had earned him a reputation throughout the West.

  Wolf’s Blood watched with a pounding heart as Blade put the other end of the strap into his own teeth, while two soldiers strapped each man’s left hand behind his back and the two opponents glared at each other eagerly. Blade was nearly as big as Zeke, but his belly was paunchy, not hard and flat like Zeke’s. Yet Zeke had told his son many times never to judge a man by his appearance. Blade looked soft, but Wolf’s Blood knew Zeke would not take it for granted that the man was not as fast or as strong. The reputation he bore should not be taken lightly. But Wolf’s Blood knew that if Blade should prove to be as skilled as his father, Zeke Monroe had one advantage. The man called Blade had attacked the Cheyenne and Zeke’s family for no reason. Zeke Monroe’s wife or one of his children could have been killed. That was all the provocation Zeke needed to give him an edge over his opponent, for vengeance was as important to Zeke as breathing.

  The lieutenant gave a signal to start, and the circle of onlookers widened but grew noisier as the two opponents pulled on the strap in their teeth and circled, both simply eyeing one another the first few seconds. Wolf’s Blood wondered what was going through his mother’s mind as she waited back at camp with the rest of the children. Surely she could hear the crowd. Surely she was terrified. Yet she had said nothing to Zeke. She had not argued against the fight, even though to a white woman it must seem barbaric, as some whites described the Indian ways.

  But those people simply did not understand the Indian code of ethics, the Indian man’s need to prove his strength and skill, or the Indian’s compelling need for revenge. Somehow his mother understood all of that and accepted it. She understood that what Cheyenne Zeke was doing at this moment was only one part of the man, an extension of his Indian religion and his Indian instincts. And Abigail Monroe had seen her husband use his knife before.

  “Rip him open!” a soldier shouted to Blade as the man took the first swipe. Zeke sucked in his belly and arched backward, barely escaping the tip of Blade’s knife. The strap they held in their mouths was about three feet in length, giving both men enough room to dart back, yet close enough that the heat of the challenge was intense. Both men knew the rule. If he let loose of the strap he would automatically lose, and the opponent had the right to end his life. The left arm could not be used in defense.

  Zeke bent forward slightly then, his dark eyes boring into Blade and planting a cold fear in Blade’s soul. As the two men again circled, Zeke’s long hair and its eagle feathers danced with the movement of his lean, supple body, his broad, dark shoulders tensed into balls of muscle. Everything about him was savage then. There was no Tennessee man there, no gentleness there, no part of the man Abbie knew in private, no sign of the lonely, abused little boy that still lurked deep in his soul.

  He took three quick slashes, and Blade could not keep away from the third one, which drew a red line across his chest that quickly grew darker as blood met sunlight. The crowd grew wild at the sight of it, and beads of sweat broke out on Blade’s forehead. Blade came back quickly with a kick to Zeke’s ribs. Zeke grunted, and Blade came at him again, slashing wildly.

  “Keep back, Father!” Wolf’s Blood yelled amid the roar of the onlookers, his fists clenching as his own tension became almost unbearable. Zeke avoided the blade after the first swipe, which slashed across his lower abdomen. Wolf’s Blood’s eyes widened in horror at first, but it looked as though the cut was not deep. Still, opening Zeke’s skin had given Blade more faith. He came at Zeke again. Zeke pulled back while he slashed at Blade’s arm, putting a deep cut into the muscle of the man’s upper arm and ending Blade’s momentary flurry of swipes.

  The crowd was delirious with the excitement of the fight, the Indians screaming out war cries and jumping up and down, slapping one another on the back and laughing, the soldiers yelling at the top of their lungs for Blade to “Kill the damned breed,” their fists shaking in the air. Zeke and Blade circled again, both regaining their breath and planning their strategy. Wolf’s Blood was glad Abbie was not there to see Zeke bleeding. She would want to stop the fight and fix his wound, but this fight could not be stopped. Only the death of one of the combatants would end it.

  Blade kicked at Zeke’s stomach where it had been cut, then grinned wickedly at the look of pain on Zeke’s face. But Zeke instantly and surprisingly kicked back, several well-aimed, acrobatic movements from a man who was born loving to wrestle and fight. Wolf’s Blood found himself screaming at the top of his lungs along with the others as both men darted in and out, waving knives, gauging one another more than actually trying to do physical harm. The secret was to wear down the opponent, cut him enough to cause the loss of blood, work him enough and bruise him enough to make him weak, then take advantage.

  Back at her tipi Abbie occupied hers
elf by sponging down little Jason. The naked baby boy stood in a little tub of water, giggling as water trickled down over his ribs. Little Lillian sat to the side practicing beadwork. She was afraid of all the shouting in the distance, and she preferred to be near her mother. The other four children played in the village, obediently following orders that they were not to go near the fort or the place where their father was challenging the man called Blade. The children were somber but joined in the games with their Indian friends, somehow sure that their big, fearless father would escape unharmed from the fight he was in. After all, it was just one of the games. At least that was how Abbie had described it to them.

  “Your father will be fine,” she told them. “It’s just like wrestling and the shooting of arrows. But there are nothing but loud, excited men over there, so only Wolf’s Blood is allowed to go and watch.”

  The children had accepted the explanation. Now Abbie’s heart raced and her throat hurt from choking back tears as the yells and war whoops rang in her ears. Her mind screamed a silent demand to know if Zeke was all right. Half the village was empty; even some of the Indian women had gone to see if they could get a peek. Tall Grass Woman, Abbie’s close Cheyenne friend, watched the children guardedly in a nearby grassy meadow where she kept them occupied with games.

  Abbie trickled water over Jason again, needing to hear his laughter, wishing it would drown out the men in the distance. She smiled, pretending to be casual for her son’s sake. But her smile vanished when a large, dark figure loomed at the entranceway to the tipi and quickly darted inside. She sat staring dumbfounded at first at a burly, bearded soldier with a hideous scar on the side of his face. In the middle of a Cheyenne camp in broad daylight, with all the men supposedly involved in the fight and the betting, Abbie had not thought about having to protect herself.

  She rose, wrapping a towel around little Jason and lifting him from the tub. “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing!” she demanded. Lillian stopped her beadwork and stared at the soldier with wide, frightened eyes as the man removed his hat, grinning hungrily and looking Abbie over as though she were standing there naked.

  “Name’s Cole, ma’am,” he answered. “Randolph Cole. I, uh, I come here to see if you was OK … find out if you was maybe a captive or somethin’. That breed steal you from your folks years back, maybe?”

  She held Jason closer. “I married Zeke Monroe willingly, Mr. Cole!” she snapped. “We were legally married almost sixteen years ago at Fort Bridger, and I have papers to prove it. Now I will thank you to get out of my dwelling! You have no right to be here, and to enter without announcing youself was crude and callous! You had better leave before that fight is over and my husband comes back and finds you here!”

  The man only stepped closer, and she held Jason protectively. “There ain’t a man left in this camp,” he told her. “And that knife fight has a few minutes to go. They’ll feel each other out first.” His eyes roved over her again. “And even when it’s over, there will be lots of bets to be paid off and some celebratin’ to do. Your man won’t be back for a bit.” He grinned. “Then again, Blade might win, and your man won’t be back at all, and you’ll be left a widow.” He reached out and touched a breast with the back of his hand. “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be wasted like that. You got a lot of good years left in you.”

  Abbie’s eyes blazed and she jerked back from his touch. “You get out of here!” she hissed. “You’ve no idea what my man is capable of doing to someone who threatens his family!”

  The men’s shouts grew to a roar again, and Abbie felt crazy with wonder over her husband and fear of this man who stood near her now with rape in his eyes. “You’re near a fort, lady,” the man reminded her. “Your man attacks me and you’ll see a lot of dead Indians layin’ around, includin’ him. You know what happens to Indians when one of them dares to kill a settler or a soldier. Now why don’t you just put that kid down and take off that tunic. We can do this real quick and quiet, and nobody will know the difference. Besides, any white squaw who will spread for a breed will spread for any man. Maybe you, uh, maybe you’re curious about what a white man is like, especially one that hasn’t had a woman for a while. You ever been with a white man?”

  She turned her thoughts from Zeke now. She had to think straight. This man was right in what could happen if she screamed and got the Indians or Zeke involved. She knew the kind of trouble soldiers could make for her people. Things had been bad since the Treaty of Fort Wise and were getting worse. She did not want to cause trouble, yet neither would she allow any man but her own to touch her. She must somehow take care of this situation herself. She feigned desire and gave Cole a faint smile.

  “Just don’t harm my children,” she told him.

  He nodded, his face reddening with passion. She turned and handed Jason to Lillian, who looked at her mother with tear-filled eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she told her daughter. “Keep Jason with you.” She turned back to face Cole, allowing him to come closer and unlace her tunic. She remained still as the tunic fell and exposed one breast. Cole jerked her close, grasping at the breast while he kissed her roughly. She felt ill at the taste of tobacco juice and the horror and humiliation of his hand on her breast, but she wanted to lead him on for the moment. She reached up around his neck, and just as as he was lost in the ugly kiss, she quickly dug her nails deeply into his skin, from his forehead, down over his left eye to the upper part of his cheek where no beard grew.

  Cole cried out and pulled away, putting a hand over the already bleeding scratches, and Abbie used the moment to bring her foot up hard into his groin. He grunted and bent over, and she used her foot again to push against his shoulder and send him sprawling backward, his rear end landing square into the tub of water.

  Jason laughed at what he thought was a funny trick and Lillian began to whimper as Abbie quickly rushed to the side of the tipi and grabbed up her Spencer carbine. The rifle was old and had once belonged to her father, but it still worked, and she aimed it now at the groaning Cole, who struggled to get himself out of the tub of water.

  “I’ve killed three Crow bucks with this gun, Mister Cole!” she told the man with cold determination. “I’ve never used it on a white man, but I’ll use it on you if you don’t get out of here right now!”

  The man pulled himself out of the small tub in which he was close to being stuck. He sat hunched on his knees for a moment, catching his breath and fighting the pain of her kick. Blood ran from the deep scratches on his face as he managed to get to his feet and turn to glare at Abbie, his legs wobbly.

  “You white squaw bitch!” he growled. “You’d shoot one of your own kind?”

  “I don’t call the likes of you my own kind, mister!” she replied, keeping her voice firm to hide her own terror. She held the gun steadily. “Now get out of here!”

  “If you shoot me, you’ll make big trouble for yourself and the rest of these red buggers you call friend.”

  “Perhaps I would!” she spat back. “But either way, you’d still be dead, wouldn’t you, Mr. Cole?”

  Their eyes met in challenge, and he decided that if she had truly killed three Crow men she was not a woman to argue with when she had a gun in her hands. He bent down and picked up his hat, pain still ripping through his groin, his breathing labored, his pants dripping wet. He sought her eyes once more.

  “You better hope your husband wins that knife fight today, white squaw woman! Because if he don’t, you won’t have nobody around to protect you!”

  “I’ll have my son—and the entire Southern Cheyenne nation to protect me, Mr. Cole. Your threats mean nothing to me! Now get out of here!”

  The man glared at her another moment, on fire with desire at the sight of her bared breast. He turned and stormed out.

  Abbie closed her eyes and breathed deeply for composure, setting the gun aside with shaking hands. She quickly retied her tunic and rushed to Lillian. She grabbed Jason into her arms, meeting Li
llian’s terror-filled eyes.

  “You must not tell your father, Lillian, or your brothers and sisters! Do you understand? It’s very important they don’t know about that man who was just here. He could cause big trouble for your father! Promise me, Lillian!”

  The little girl nodded and sniffled. Abbie hugged Jason close and could not prevent a sob from escaping her own soul. The crowd in the distance had grown louder, but she was more afraid of Zeke finding out about the soldier’s visit than of the knife fight, which must now be close to over. The way the men were shouting, perhaps it had already ended.

  “Sweet Jesus, bring him back to me!” she whispered. “And don’t let him find out about this!” She opened her eyes and looked at Lillian again, giving her a reassuring smile, although tears spilled down her cheeks. “Help Mama clean up, Lillian. That man spilled water everywhere.”

  Five

  At the fort everything was pandemonium. Wolf’s Blood fought tears as he watched blood pour from three wounds on his father: the one on his stomach, one on his right forearm and one on his right thigh. But he seemed neither weak nor tired. Blade suffered from four slashes: the ones on his chest and upper right arm, a third across his chest again and one deep gash through his cheek and lips. Both men were panting and sweating and covered with dust, circling, waving their huge blades menacingly. Now was the time. Now was when instinct must dictate the right moment to move in! It was only a matter of which man would be first to grasp the advantage.