Embrace the Wild Land (29 page)

He felt sweat beading on his forehead. He told himself he should be glad there was no sign of blood or struggle. Perhaps things were not as bad as he might think. Yet the fact remained his family was not there, his horses were gone, and there were ominous bullet markings on the cabin.

He turned and ran outside, shouting names again, checking the sheds and Dooley’s soddy. The silence, broken only by the distant rush of the river and the soft wind, almost hurt his ears. Abbie! Wolf’s Blood! Where were they? He would not be so worried if not for the bullets that peppered the cabin. Bullets! He
breathed deeply. He had to think. He ran back toward his horse, and it was then he saw them in the distance, at the back of the cabin. They were two fairly fresh mounds of dirt, one with a cross at its head, the other with two notched stakes that held something.

At first he froze in place, afraid to find out who the graves might belong to. Yet he had to know. And there were only two. Whoever they were, there were surely more Monroes left some place who needed him. Whatever had happened, it had to be devastating. Nothing else would have made Abbie leave the ranch. He felt his legs moving, but they suddenly weighed a hundred pounds each as he forced them to walk toward the graves.

“Nothing lives long.… Nothing stays here.… Except the earth and the mountains,” he chanted softly to himself, reminding himself of the Cheyenne death song. He must prepare himself. Gradually the graves came close, and he fell to his knees, staring at the cross. “Dooley—a good man,” it read. His eyes widened. “No!” he whispered to the wind.

He cautiously moved his eyes to the other grave. The two stakes at its head were notched to hold a necklace—one made of wolf’s claws. He stared at the necklace in disbelief. What else could it mean but that the grave held his son? It was the necklace the shaman had given Wolf’s Blood at the Sun Dance.

A horrible, black shudder surged through Zeke and he bent over, so much pain in his chest he thought perhaps his heart was giving up and he was dying. A terrible groan exited his lips and he grasped his stomach. He rocked on his knees that way for nearly an hour, groaning, the horrible black pain ripping through his stomach and chest without mercy. This could not be! Always when he had gone away before, he had come home to his woman and his family. What had happened?
The bullets! The graves! The emptiness! He would weep for his good friend Dooley, but his utter horror at the thought of his first-born son being dead was too overwhelming to have any room left for Dooley.

He sunk his fingernails into his cheeks and threw back his head, raising his arms and screaming out a long, savage wail, blood streaming down his face. He screamed out the names of his Cheyenne gods, begging for help, for an answer, for comfort. And then as he sat there with the hot sun on his face he felt a sudden peace, and a small yellow bird flitted down and perched on one of the stakes, singing and hopping from one stake to the other and then to the top of the grave.

Zeke lowered his arms, his own tears mingling with the blood on his cheeks. He looked down at the bird, and suddenly his senses returned. This bird was a sign. A sign of life. There would be a time for the terrible mourning that must come, a time to face the ugliness of reality. But for now he must be strong, stronger than he had ever had to be. He must remember that the rest of his family was somewhere. Abbie was somewhere. And in his great love for his son, he felt deep inside that the boy’s spirit was not dead. He could not be dead. Not Wolf’s Blood. Not his son! And Abbie. Where was Abbie?

He got to his feet and the pain shot through him again. But he must put on hardness and put off feelings. He must be hard and strong until this terrible nightmare was over. Something horrible had happened, that was certain. But he could not sit in this place and wonder. He must go and find them.

His legs felt weak and cramped as he headed toward the front of the cabin. He walked inside, clinging to the walls and the furnishings as he half stumbled into the bedroom, the terrible pain still in his chest. He went to
the old chest of drawers where Abbie kept some of her belongings. He took out a flannel gown and held it to his face, kissing it, breathing deeply of the light scent that was his woman that still lingered in the material.

“Abbie,” he whispered. “Be alive, Abbie. Be alive!” He walked back into the main room, clinging to the gown. “All of you … be alive!” he groaned, looking up to the loft. “Wolf’s Blood, Margaret, LeeAnn, Jeremy, Ellen, Lillian, Jason! All of you!” Somehow it felt better to say their names, as though he was truly speaking to them and they would answer.

He charged back outside then, putting the padlock back on the door, then going to his mount to place Abbie’s gown into his parfleche, the parfleche she had beaded for him herself. He traced his fingers over the beads, then looked to the heavens again, the blood beginning to dry on his face, making him look like the fierce savage he could sometimes be.

“Give me strength,
Maheo!
” he prayed. He mounted up. He would go to Bent’s Fort and see if anyone knew anything—then to Black Elk’s village. And if someone had harmed anyone in his family, he would bring them more horror and pain than they could possibly imagine. There would be hell to pay!

Settlers and traders alike gawked at the dark, menacing Indian who rode into Bent’s Fort. His long, black hair was dusty and dull, his face crusted with blood from deep gashes on his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips tight, his whole being radiating fierce anger. He looked at no one as he approached the drinking room and dismounted. One young white woman who was passing took one look and gasped in fright, turning and running away. Zeke turned and watched after her, thinking of Abbie. Then he walked into the room that was the general meeting and drinking area for traders
and male settlers.

Patrons glanced up and stared and stopped talking. The man approaching was tall and broad and hard. He wore many weapons and anyone could tell he knew how to use them. Zeke walked directly to the bar, amid the screech of scooting chairs and frightened whispers as men moved out of his way. A white man serving drinks turned and saw Zeke approaching, and he quickly picked up a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “Zeke!” he exclaimed. “Thank God you’re back!”

Zeke glared at him. “Where is my family, Smitty?” he asked, his voice icy.

Smitty frowned. “We were all hoping you’d show up soon, Zeke.” He poured a shot of whiskey. “Drink this. You look like hell, and you’ll need it, my Cheyenne friend.”

Zeke took the small glass and quickly downed the whiskey. “What’s happened?” he asked. “I just came from my place. It’s empty. I’ve been gone ten months, and I come home to nothing but two graves behind my cabin!”

Smitty sighed. “The Cheyenne say your white woman has been taken by some kind of outlaws, Zeke. That’s all I know.”

Zeke felt the horrible sickness and pain again, but he let his savageness win out and forced the hardness to stay. To let go of it would be to go insane. “The rest of my family?”

“They’re with Black Elk, Zeke. They’re all right. But your hired hand, Dooley, he was shot in the back. They didn’t give him a chance.”

Zeke gripped the glass. “Wolf’s Blood?” he managed to choke out.

“He’s all right. He took a good whack on the head when he tried to help his mother, but he’s all right now. That wolf of his was shot, though. It’s all been hardest
on him, I hear. The Cheyenne say he’s broke up real bad about the whole thing.”

Zeke struggled against tears. “But … he’s alive?”

“He is.” Smitty poured more whiskey, aware that Zeke Monroe was struggling not to break down. “What happened, Zeke? Where have you been?” the man asked.

Zeke swallowed the second drink. “It’s a long story. I have to get to Black Elk’s village. Has anyone tried to find my wife?”

Smitty shook his head. “No soldiers, anyway. They refused to try.”

“Why?” Zeke asked, his eyes glittering. “Because she’s married to an Indian?”

Smitty met his eyes. “I’m sorry, Zeke. They said it was because there aren’t enough of them to go chasing after elusive outlaws. All their good men are back East fighting the war. A few men and myself, we looked for a few days. But the bastards rode to the river and must have had boats waiting or something. Their trail just disappeared into nothingness.”

Zeke shoved the glass back toward the man. “I appreciate your trying.”

“I wish I could tell you more, Zeke. But your children can probably fill you in better than I can. Your brother and the other Cheyenne men couldn’t go after your wife because they simply didn’t know where to look, especially since it was white men that took her.”

Zeke’s eyes grew to narrow slits. “We live right in the middle of Indian country, and it’s her own kind that brings her harm,” he hissed. “It figures!” He buried the gnawing fear that she had already been sold to outlaws or Mexicans. He had to hope for the best. He started to leave, but Smitty grabbed his wrist. “Zeke!” He leaned closer. “Come in back with me a minute. You look like a man who needs some good whiskey to
take with you.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Make time,” Smitty told him, his eyes hinting at some kind of message. Zeke frowned and nodded. He walked around the bar and into a room full of kegs and bottles in back. Smitty closed the door.

“There’s a man out there,” he spoke up. “Calls himself Hank Lund. He’s been asking about you, wanting to know if you ever show up around here, what you looked like and all. He’s been around ever since the tragedy at your ranch. He’s out there right now, and he was watching us. He had on a blue shirt, and he has a big mole on the left side of his face and a mustache. I think he might know something, but whenever I talk about what happened, he acts as though it’s news to him—acts real interested, says it’s too bad, things like that. But I think he’s been watching for you. I just thought you’d want to know.”

Zeke put out his hand. “Thanks, Smitty. I appreciate that.”

Smitty shook his hand. “Out here a man like me grows to like the Indians as much as the whites—men like me and Bent and some of the other traders. There’s good and bad in all kinds, Zeke. Remember that.”

Zeke nodded. “I’ve known mostly the bad.”

Smitty sighed. “I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry about your woman. She was something real special to everybody who knew her—even to the Cheyenne. I hope you find her alive, Zeke.”

Zeke let go of his hand. “If I don’t, whoever has harmed her will be sorry he was ever born!”

Smitty studied the savage eyes. “I’m sure they will.”

Zeke turned and walked out, scanning the room. But the man Smitty had described was not there.

“He’s gone,” Smitty commented. “You’d better find him, Zeke.”

Zeke hurried out into the open courtyard of the fort. Someone was riding out at a fast gallop. Zeke quickly mounted up and whirled his horse to follow. He rode hard, whipping his already tired horse into a run again. It was a good horse, one of his finest Appaloosas.

He rode over the dried earth around the fort and continued on into soft prairie grass, charging hard, his horse beginning to gain on the other rider. The fort began to fade into the distance, and there was only the sound of panting, snorting horses, clinking bridle and the soft thud of hoofs. The harder Zeke rode, the more certain he was the man ahead of him knew something. He had left too quickly once Zeke arrived. He had probably not expected Smitty to say anything to Zeke. Now he glanced back occasionally to see the big, dark Indian gaining on him.

He whipped his horse even harder, but the animal simply could not outrun Zeke’s bigger, stronger mount. Moments later Zeke landed hard into the man, and both went crashing to the ground.

The other man, much smaller than Zeke, tried to scramble up, but Zeke grabbed him about the waist and slammed him down again, and in the next instant his big blade was at the man’s throat.

“Who are you?” he growled. “Why were you asking for me at the fort?”

“I… I don’t know…what you mean!” the man panted.

“You damned well do!” Zeke hissed. He quickly cut a deep gash from the man’s temple to his chin, along his left cheek. The man screamed in terror. “Do you understand better now?” Zeke growled.

“Garvey!” the man yelled, beginning to cry, unable to move beneath Zeke’s big body and strong hold. “Winston … Garvey! I’ve been waiting … for you to return. I was … supposed to warn Garvey.…
when you got back!”

Zeke’s eyes widened. “Garvey!” He held the tip of the knife to the man’s eyes. “Does Winston Garvey have my wife?”

“Y-yes!” the man whimpered. “I …I didn’t have anything to do with that … I swear! My orders were just … to come here and wait till you … showed up … or until the Cheyenne traders mentioned you were back!”

“Why? Why does Garvey have my wife? What does he want?”

“I … don’t know! I swear to God, I don’t know!”

“That’s too goddamned bad, isn’t it!”

There was no hesitation or regret. The big blade plunged into the man’e eye, and the savage side of Zeke Monroe only smiled at the man’s screams, which he quickly ended with a swift jerk of his blade from the man’s abdomen up to his throat.

Zeke wiped his blade on the man’s clothing, then shoved it back into its sheath. He dragged the body over to a ravine and shoved it down the short bank, where it landed with a thud in the soft earth of a nearly dried-up stream. He unsaddled the man’s horse and threw the belongings down onto the body, then slapped the horse and sent it running. In this land it was still not unusual to find a dead body here and there. There were outlaws and renegade Indians everywhere. Let the soldiers wonder. Smitty would never tell on him. Smitty was a good man—one of the few. He kept nothing that would serve as any evidence, even leaving a hefty money belt on the man’s body untouched.

He mounted his horse. He had an advantage now. This man would never make it back to warn Winston Garvey that Zeke Monroe was back. That was good. That was his edge.

He headed west, toward Black Elk’s village. He would need men. The Cheyenne would help him. And he needed to see his children and let them know their father was all right, before he could go after poor Abbie. But he most certainly would go for his woman, and Winston Garvey would meet his match.