Climb the Highest Mountain Page 9

  “Perhaps,” he now said in response to Bonnie’s suggestion that Emily might come west. His eyes scanned her lovely form again. Bonnie Lewis was a fine specimen of womanhood, and if her own marriage had been less than satisfactory, it could only have been Rodney Lewis’ fault. Bonnie Lewis was a warm, strong, giving woman, the kind of woman Dan would have married if he’d not been so struck by Emily’s enticing beauty. Dan didn’t know much about Bonnie’s personal life, but the few times he had met Rodney Lewis he’d sensed a coldness about the man that did not match Bonnie’s warmth. He guessed that Bonnie was not suffering long-term grief over the loss of her husband, that she might miss him for the good and dedicated man he was but not for any loss of friendship or affection.

  “You shouldn’ be out here all alone, Bonnie,” he told her.

  She shrugged. “I’m surrounded by soldiers, and I have the children of the fort families to teach, as well as a few Indians. And Joshua is with me, of course.”

  Dan leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “How is the boy?”

  “He’s doing fine,” she replied, her face lighting up. “He walks almost normally since the last operation, but he’ll always wear the brace of course.”

  “Zeke would be real happy about that. You should take the boy down to see Zeke and Abbie sometime and let them see how he’s doing.”

  She blushed at the mention of Zeke’s name and looked at her lap again. “I… don’t think so. It would be too dangerous a trip, and besides, it might endanger the boy if the wrong people discovered his identity. It’s best we all remain far apart.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dan answered. “Have you heard from Zeke?”

  She swallowed. “No. I doubt he knows either one of us is back yet.”

  “Well then, do me a favor, will you? Write Zeke and Abbie a letter and tell them everything that has happened. They would want to know. And tell them I’m here at Fort Laramie again. I’m so busy I don’t have time for a letter, and I’m not much good at that sort of thing anyway. Ask Abbie to write back, will you? I want to know everything that has happened over the past twenty months or so since I first joined the damned Confederate Army.” He puffed the pipe again. “Pardon my language, Bonnie, but I sometimes wish I hadn’t let my Tennessee pride get in the way of wise thinking. I know now there is no way the South is going to win the war, and a divided country is useless. After Shiloh I lost all my enthusiasm and Southern pride. I just wanted to live and get back out here to the country I’ve learned to love. I can see why Zeke never returned home after coming out here.” He chuckled then. “Of course, being a wanted man in Tennessee had a little to do with his decision at the time.”

  Bonnie laughed lightly herself then and their eyes held. She suddenly realized how handsome Dan Monroe was, and she thought Emily a fool. Fate was often cruel, bringing people together who did not belong together, keeping people apart who would make perfect partners—except for Zeke and Abbie. How many people experienced that kind of love? How she envied Abbie! But she loved the woman, nonetheless, because Zeke loved her. And she loved the boy Joshua because he was kin to Zeke. Seeing Dan Monroe was stirring deeply sleeping emotions in Bonnie’s soul, for there was so much about him that was like Zeke: his stature, his voice, the way he smiled. Both men had inherited these traits from their white father. But their coloring on the outside and their deeper beliefs on the inside were miles apart, for Zeke Monroe was much more Cheyenne than white. He often participated in Cheyenne rituals, he practiced the Cheyenne religion, and he was much more prone to violence. At times only revenge could soothe his rage. Still, Dan was as much a man, more reserved only because of his gentler white upbringing. Back in Tennessee, Dan had never known the cruel rejection and abuse Zeke had suffered for being an Indian in a white man’s world, but he had seen how Zeke had suffered and he’d sympathized with him. The two had been close brothers when Zeke had lived in Tennessee. Indeed when Dan had joined the Western Army at a very young age, he had intended to find his Indian brother who had fled west never to return to his home. Dan’s search had led him into the Mexican War, during which an act of valor had earned him a rapid promotion to lieutenant before he’d left to join the Confederates.

  “So, you’re wearing a blue uniform again—and you’re a lieutenant again,” Bonnie said pleasantly.

  Dan grinned. “Thanks to the Indians. If the Sioux weren’t so belligerent, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. But men with experience are needed out here, and I’ve got that experience—with Indians, that is. So, my ‘sins’ were forgiven and I was given a second chance, so to speak. But it will be rough for a while. Most of the men here are Northerners, and that war is going to leave very hard feelings for a very long time. I’m hoping the men out here can stop thinking North and South and just think West. The problems out here are a whole different matter.”

  “I hope you aren’t expected to go out on patrols right away. You’re still much too weak, Dan.”

  He laid his pipe in a metal ashtray. “Thank you for your concern, Nurse Lewis,” he said with a wink. “No, I won’t be going out of the fort for a while.”

  She smiled and rose. “I’m just glad Zeke found our clinic and we were the ones able to help you, Dan. That was a very bad wound, and I’m surprised to see you looking as good as you do. If you need anything, let me know. Are you in pain?”

  He rose himself and made his way around the desk. “Sometimes. I am tempted to consume a little whiskey to help, but I had a small problem with that stuff a few years back when Emily and I weren’t—” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, looking a little embarrassed. “At any rate, I try to stay away from whiskey,” he finished, “especially if I’m upset over Emily. I need her right now and she’s not here.”

  Bonnie walked closer, putting a hand on his arm. “I can get you medicine for the pain, Dan. And you be sure to tell me if there is anything else I can do, or if you think something isn’t healing properly. Remember that I can be a very good friend.”

  Their eyes held again, saying everything while their mouths said nothing. They were both starved for love and affection, yet each was bound by social etiquette not to display such feelings. She was a widow and a missionary; he was a married man. He turned away then, walking back behind his desk.

  “I’m … glad you’re back here, Bonnie,” he told her, affecting a smile. “Will you write that letter for me?”

  She smiled back, but there were tears in her eyes. “Of course.”

  “And thank you for your offer, Bonnie. If the pain gets too bad I’ll be sure to come and see you.”

  “Good.” She put the shawl back over her hair. “We’re in the little cabin next to the church school. And if and when I get word back from Zeke, I’ll let you know the latest.”

  He nodded. Their eyes held for another moment, then she turned and hurried through the door. Dan sat down wearily. Although he had little time for letters as he had told Bonnie, there was one letter he knew he must write—to Emily, pleading with her to come to Fort Laramie.

  Crowds thronged the streets of Denver, cheering the Third Regiment of Colorado Volunteers who paraded through the streets. Some sported Indian scalps dangling from poles. Others displayed more hideous items, pieces of flesh that the crowd did not even recognize. Had they, they would have realized that some of the “brave” Third Regiment were dangling the reproductive organs of Indian women and that some of those stalwart men secretly carrying other parts of Indian bodies, parts that they had deftly removed from old men and women and children: ears, breasts, noses, genitals. Some of the men also carried valuable jewelry, all of it taken from the dead bodies of peaceful Cheyenne Indians, some of the rings procured only after cutting off fingers to get to them.

  But these were surely brave and skilled men, daring men who deserved the glory the citizens of Denver now gave them. The Rocky Mountain News had already reported the Sand Creek “battle” as a brilliant feat of arms in Indian warfare, yet at the sight of the massacre
the dead bodies lay silent, some already ravaged by wolves.

  One woman stood watching the parade, secretly sympathizing with the Indians and wondering what had really happened at Sand Creek. She dared not voice her doubts, for she feared the frenzied crowd would probably beat her to a pulp. But she didn’t like John Chivington after listening to him make a public speech two days earlier. The man had arrived in Denver well ahead of his troops to report the event, and he’d been basking in boastful glory ever since. But he was such an obvious Indian hater the woman found it amazing that people swallowed the man’s story word for word.

  “I’d love to know what Zeke thinks of this,” she thought, turning to go back inside her boardinghouse. She closed the door against the noise outside and breathed deeply, her heart aching as it always did when she thought about Zeke. If it were not for Zeke, she would never have given up her lucrative saloon and house of prostitution to try to make something decent out of what was left of her life. She was still beautiful, her hair still thick and black, her eyes still a vivid blue, with only a few lines at the corners. But the way she dressed now and the way she wore her hair and left the paint off her face, few would suspect she was once the notorious Anna Gale. Her life had been wicked and selfish, her goal money. Her poor and terrifying childhood as an orphan in the East had made her hard and grasping. It was Winston Garvey who had set her up out West and who had kept her indebted to him and under his thumb for many unhappy years. Anna Gale had been a callous woman who’d cooperated with Winston Garvey’s scheming to the fullest because she’d wanted all the money she could get her hands on.

  Now she was rich, and with Winston Garvey dead, she was free of his command, free to do something different with her life. After all her years of prostitution she had not really intended to change her way of living… not until she’d met Zeke. Somehow his approval was important to her, even though she could never have the man, even though she might never see him again. To hope he might ever reenter her life was futile, for he had his Abbie. How Anna wished she could have been like Abigail Monroe. But Anna’s life had been destined to be hell ever since she’d been raped as an orphaned child. Only her envy of the kind of woman Abigail was and the fact that she was rid of Winston Garvey moved her to finally sell her saloon and quit prostitution. She liked having the boarding-house. It was a respectable business, and it kept her quite busy. Indeed, with Denver growing so fast, it was even a lucrative endeavor.

  But she was lonely. What else could she expect after leading the kind of life she had led? No decent man would have her. It had taken her months to begin to win just a little friendship from some of the more reputable women in town, but the extent of her social life was a few short visits over the fence. It was a far cry from the wild, noisy saloon life, but it felt good—except for the loneliness. Yet even at the height of her barroom life she had been lonely, so it made little difference.

  She picked up the day’s paper and scanned the headlines.

  “CHARLES GARVEY, SON OF WINSTON GARVEY, WOUNDED AT SAND CREEK,” the headline read. Anna smiled. “Well, well. So the little bugger got what he had coming.” She was glad he’d been wounded. “If we’re all lucky, he’ll die and we’ll be rid of the Garveys once and for all,” she added to herself.

  She felt a momentary disturbance at the thought that Zeke Monroe had killed the boy’s father. Anna suspected that Zeke had killed Winston Garvey. The man’s body had never been found. That would be like Zeke. Perhaps the body wasn’t even all in one piece. That would also be like Zeke. Anna had known that it was Garvey who had kidnapped Abigail Monroe, and it was Anna who told Zeke the best time to attack the Garvey ranch so he could get his hands on Winston Garvey without being found out. She would never tell the law what she knew because she loved Zeke Monroe, and because she detested Winston Garvey and was glad he was dead.

  She read the article about Garvey’s son, Charles, an Indian hater and a powerful young man who had his father’s money to back him up. It was certain the boy would do all he could to destroy the Indians.

  She sat down at the dining-room table and read quietly on, while the cheering continued outside. So, Charles Garvey had been severely wounded in the thigh. It had been feared that his leg would have to be removed, but it was now believed that would not be necessary. However, the man would be crippled for the rest of his life.

  “Wonderful!” Anna hissed. “Good for the Cheyenne!”

  That thought reawakened the memory of the first time she had seen Zeke Monroe, years ago, when he had come to her saloon down in Santa Fe in search of his sister-in-law who had been taken by outlaws to be sold into prostitution. Anna had given Zeke the information he’d needed. She’d told him the girl was the slave of Winston Garvey, but she had not given him that information without demanding a high price first… a night with the handsome, powerful Zeke Monroe in her bed. He paid the price coldly, almost viciously, wanting nothing more than to get it over with and find his sister-in-law. He’d paid with his body because he’d had no choice, for Anna Gale had been well guarded and he’d been in a civilized town where he would have been promptly hung had he hurt her. But Anna had known by the look in the man’s eyes that if he’d had her alone he would have cut her to pieces to get the information. Out of pure necessity, he’d kept his part of the bargain, hatred in his dark eyes the whole time. The odd part, and the part that still hurt her and made her hate herself, was learning that later Zeke had cut off part of a little finger, as a Cheyenne sacrifice for doing something against his will and beliefs—for betraying his beloved Abbie.

  Anna sighed as she walked to a window to peek out at the scrubby, worthless-looking bunch of men that called themselves brave soldiers. None of them could hold a candle to Zeke Monroe. She actually chuckled to herself at the thought of any man cutting off a finger for being untrue to her. She had had so many men in her life she had lost count long ago.

  No. Women like Anna Gale did not find men who cared like that. Only women like Abigail enjoyed that kind of love. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, suddenly worried about what had really happened at Sand Creek. Zeke often lived among his people. His oldest son’s nature was all Indian. Had they been involved in the massacre? She decided she would hire a man to go to Fort Lyon and quietly inquire. She could not have any direct contact with the Monroes. They had their own life to live, but she must know if they were all right, especially Zeke.

  A man rode by in buckskins, laughing and holding up the long hair of an Indian woman’s scalp.

  “Bastards!” Anna whispered. But she was in the minority. Not many people in these parts were on the side of the Indians, and those who dared voice such feelings usually suffered for it.

  She walked to her large kitchen to start the evening meal for her boarders.

  Chapter Six

  Zeke returned to the campfire, carrying the religious pipe he used in his private worship. This was a time to thank his God for saving his son’s life, and it was a time to pray for wisdom for Wolf’s Blood, whose heart was aching and confused.

  “We should be home in just a couple more days,” he told the boy who sat near the fire, an elkskin robe pulled around him. Zeke sat down and reached for his pouch of special tobacco and herbs, called kinnikinnick by the Indians. Opening it to extract a chunk of the very special mixture, he placed the tobacco into the red stone bowl of the pipe.

  “Hoimaha will come to stay long this winter, I think,” Wolf’s Blood answered, speaking of the God of cold and snow as he pulled his robe closer and winced at the aching pain in his belly.

  “You’re probably right,” Zeke replied. “But at least this is a sunny morning, and both of us need the peace and strength of the Gods, Wolf’s Blood. You speak of going north to fight with your uncle, Swift Arrow, but right now your heart is full of hurt. I love you and I don’t want you to go, but a man must do what his heart tells him. I want you to pray and think and be sure, Wolf’s Blood. You know how it will hurt my heart to be apart from you.�
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  Their eyes met, and the boy nodded, tears in his eyes. How he worshiped his father! But there was a need in him now that was stronger even than that love—a need for revenge, a need to kill and plunder.

  “And your leaving would be very hard on your mother,” Zeke continued, looking back at the pipe as he pushed the tobacco into the bowl. “You were the one child she could never really get close to, you know, never hold and cuddle and baby, even when you were small.”

  Wolf’s Blood smiled lightly and shook his head. “White women are strange in the way they treat their children, always looking at them as if they are babies. Indian women are just the opposite, always looking at their babies as grown men and women, training them to be so at an early age.”

  Zeke smiled. “Well, your mother is kind of a happy medium, I guess. I think she’s done a pretty damned good job of teaching all her children strength and independence. All they have to do is model themselves after Abbie, and they’ll be okay.”

  The boy’s eyes saddened as he remembered his mother’s beaten, starved condition when he and his father had found her after she’d been held by Winston Garvey’s men. He had enjoyed raiding Garvey’s ranch, enjoyed helping his father drag off Garvey and two of the men who had abused his mother, enjoyed carving them into pieces out of revenge. Those had been Wolf’s Blood’s first killings, and now with Sand Creek to add to his memories of unfair tortures, he needed to kill more. The men who had abused his mother were Indian haters, as were those who had attacked the Cheyenne at Sand Creek. He would not forget what had happened there, nor would he forget sweet Morning Bird. He thought of how his mother had looked when they’d found her at the cave. He had sensed that it had taken many months before his father and mother could be one again in body, but Abigail Monroe’s resilience and stamina always brought her back from disaster. She had a fighting spirit like some Indian women he knew. But he guessed that most of her strength and spirit came from his father, just as his father’s strength was drawn from Abbie. The boy had once dreamed of having that kind of relationship with Morning Bird, but that could not be now, and every time he thought of her there was a pain in his chest. And Wolf! If only he had his precious pet, that would help to ease his hurt. They were one in spirit, man and beast.