Embrace the Wild Land (32 page)

Wolf’s Blood! Zeke! Abbie! How he missed all of them—and the others: the children and his brother,
Black Elk. How he would love to be riding with them against those white men! But the North was his home now—the Sioux and Northern Cheyenne his people. He had made this his home so that he would not have to be near the white woman he loved, for stronger than that love was his respect for the much greater love the woman shared with his half-brother. The impossibility of having her was something he had accepted many years ago, and living at a distance made it easier to bear.

And so he stayed in the North. He would pray very hard for Zeke and Abbie and Wolf’s Blood. He would ask the spirits to guide Zeke this night, for he knew in his very bones that this was the night. It was in the wind. Tonight vengeance would be tasted, and it would be delicious. Zeke was the supreme master of vengeance. He had proved it in that place called Tennessee, against the white men who had wronged his first wife. He would prove it again. And it would be tonight.

“Wagh!”
Swift Arrow muttered. “It is a good night to die. But it will not be my brother or his son who die. It shall be the white men who took my brother’s woman!” He closed his eyes.
“Ho-skuh
, Abigail. Do not be afraid,” he spoke into the darkness. “Your man will come, and the strength of my own spirit will be with him. I shall ride with him this night, and you shall not suffer again.”

He rose and stretched out his arms and blood streamed down toward his elbows. “Take my strength, Lone Eagle!” he shouted, using Zeke’s Cheyenne name. “I shall ride with you this night, and glory in your vengeance!”

The moon hung quietly over the distant peaks, huge and bright. It was a good night for raiding and stealing horses. Cheyenne warriors moved in on foot, the first
silent attackers who would pave the way for those who held back in the foothills on swift mounts, waiting for the signal to ride in.

Like creatures of the night they crept among the shadows, soundless, stealthy, wild things stalking their prey. First they must kill the men riding night watch, those few who rode the perimeter of Winston Garvey’s ranch, keeping guard and watching horses and cattle. They were easy. A man could aim his silent bow well in the bright moonlight. And these men were unsuspecting. Most of the Indian trouble was to the north, not this close to Denver. In the South there was a little trouble with the Southern Cheyenne, and a lot of trouble with the Comanche and Apache. But Winston Garvey’s spread was situated in a peaceful valley protected on one side by the mountains, and on the other by the city of Denver, only five miles away. Indians did not bother him.

Garvey himself sat before a marble fireplace, puffing an expensive cigar and writing a letter to his son, telling the boy about new telegraph lines coming into Denver and what progress the city was seeing.

“With the new supply company I have purchased,” he wrote, “I can triple our income. Nebraska Supply carries food, tools and merchandise from Omaha to the miners in the Rockies. The miners pay incredible prices for the simplest items, Charles. Remember that. Those men are desperate for goods, isolated from the rest of the world, willing to pay anything for good whiskey and potatoes that aren’t rotten. They also pay well for pretty women. Prostitution is another lucrative operation you should consider. If you want to get rich, then serve men who are desperate for food, whiskey and women, and you can’t go wrong. Just charge a certain price and then stick to it. They’ll pay it.

“We are still concentrating on the Indian problem.
Governor Evans is trying to get the Cheyenne to put more signatures on the Treaty of Fort Wise, but I say if they don’t do so soon, the hell with them. We’ll put them in their place by force and starvation. The Indians are really the only fly in the ointment out here. I don’t understand why Washington doesn’t do more about it. Evans needs help and so do the settlers who want the land. It can’t be much longer before the treaty is deemed valid, at which time I am ready to buy up considerable properties myself, Charles. I foresee the day when the Indians will be placed behind fences and told to stay there. I would like to see them all shot myself, but some of the fine Christian people of Colorado can’t seem to go that far. They prefer to try to educate them and reform them—cut their hair and put them in white man’s clothing. I suppose that isn’t all bad. If you take away their basic way of life, you are still destroying them—but just doing it indirectly and legally. The key, Charles, is to break their spirits. Remember that. You can’t just move in and kill them off, although a raid on a camp here and there will go unnoticed. You simply have to be clever and quiet about it.”

He put down his pen and looked toward the window. He felt restless and uneasy, but he shrugged it off, attributing it to the full moon. The night was perfectly quiet, except for the howling of wolves now and then. If anything was wrong, one of the men would come and tell him. He returned to his letter, while outside a tenth arrow silently found its mark and another ranch hand fell from his horse.

It was all taking place quietly, without even disturbing the animals. No dogs barked, no horses whinnied, no cattle grew restless. Shadowy warriors moved ever closer, those in front using silent weapons—knives, tomahawks, arrows and lances—to eliminate their opposition. The ranch had been watched for two
days. The Indians knew their targets and destination well.

A tall, silent warrior who had waited in the shadows gave a soft, trilling call, and on that signal, more warriors moved in, those in the second group leading their mounts quietly by the reins, their well-trained animals as quiet as the men. This second group waited just beyond the corrals and out buildings, while the first group moved in even closer. Eight more men went down without a sound, their throats slit or arrows in their backs, while Winston Garvey continued his long letter to the son that he missed so much. Charles would be home soon on a break, at which time he would join the Colorado volunteers and get some more experience in the field. The Indian problems were coming to a head. Charles should be involved, and the boy was anxious to kill some Indians himself. Besides that, his father had promised him a high position in the volunteers, a rapid move up to at least lieutenant. He would be not only rich and prominent, but a respected officer in the Colorado volunteers, where he would learn the guts of politics and get some leadership training, hone his keen sense of brutality and authority.

But outside there crept a breed of man who could be more brutal than even Winston Garvey could imagine. The sort of brutality Garvey envisioned toward the Indians was now creeping ever closer to him, as he sat in those last hours giving his final directions to his cherished son. And while Cheyenne bucks swarmed onto the Garvey ranch, a half-breed named Lone Eagle made his own way on quiet moccasins toward the big stone house, his own cherished son at his heels.

Another call went out, sounding like the eerie cry of an owl. Garvey glanced at the window again as the sound was cried twice more. Then there was an explosion of yips and hoots and war cries, mingled with the
thunder of hoofs.

“Indians!” the man muttered. “Goddamned sons of bitches! What the hell are Indians doing this close to Denver?”

The man rose and stormed to the front door, where two men came running toward him. “Indians, sir!” one of them shouted. “We just found three men dead. Don’t know how many others they got, but if they’re this close, they must have got a lot of the outer guards! They’re after the horses, Mr. Garvey.”

Garvey’s face was red and puffy with anger. “Well get the hell out there and stop them!” he fumed.

“Sir, it’s dark out there! We can’t see them. I don’t like fighting Indians in the dark.”

“You stinking coward! I’ll give you twice your pay, if that’s what it takes. Round up some men and chase them off!”

Buel rode up then, leading some other men. “Indians are riding down hard, sir. I think they’re after the horses and cattle.”

“I know that, Buel! Send some men after them. Take as many extras as you need. Chase those red sons of bitches until they drop! I want to know if they’re Utes or Cheyenne or Comanches, and by God every last one of them will pay for this, and so will their women and children!”

The men were excited then, and even the first one who had been afraid ran for his horse.

“Buel!” Garvey called out, stopping the man as he turned his mount to leave. “Stay here with me, will you?”

Buel frowned. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ me a few redskins, sir.”

“You’ll have plenty of other chances for that. Some of those bastards might stay behind and break in here for food and supplies. You and Webster and Deacon
stay behind, and leave a few men outside.”

The air was filled with Indian cries and pounding horses. Now the cattle were also sounding off, stirred up by all the commotion. Garvey ducked back inside as warriors came even closer. An arrow thudded into the door, and Buel turned and shot, but missed his elusive target. It was as though the arrow had come from the very air. Buel leaned over and slid from his horse, literally crawling to the door, pounding on it and calling for Garvey to let him in. The door opened and Buel ducked inside, Garvey nearly slamming the door on his foot.

Outside there was nothing but confusion and pandemonium, as cattle began breaking loose and charging through a fence. Garvey men quickly organized, some circling the cattle to keep them within close boundaries; but the horses were already headed south, urged on by victorious Cheyenne, who had so far suffered no injuries or deaths. Lone Eagle’s plan of careful watching and surprise attack was a good one. They had killed many Garvey men, and now more were organizing to chase after them. That was good. The Garvey ranch would be unprotected. Winston Garvey would be unprotected.

Black Elk screamed out a victorious war cry as he chased the fine Garvey steeds toward the southern foothills, glorying in the excitement of being chased by Garvey men. He and his warriors would give the white men a good run for their money. They would lead them many miles away, while Lone Eagle and Wolf’s Blood took care of Winston Garvey. The feel of the wind in his face and the taste of white man’s blood and the smell of the stolen horses made him cry out again. It had been a long time since he had raided and fought and lived the way a Cheyenne man was supposed to live. He yipped and howled and rode on into the darkness, leading Garvey’s men ever farther from the ranch.

Twenty-Five

Garvey paced in his study while Buel watched from where he sat in one of the leather chairs, puffing on one of his boss’s fine cigars. The night had quieted again, as Indians, stolen horses and pursuing men thundered off into the night.

“I feel spooked,” Garvey muttered to Buel. “It gives me the chills the way those bastards can sneak up on you and then hit and run so fast. They’re like a mountain storm: One minute it’s peaceful and then—boom—there they are.”

“Tricky devils,” Buel drawled, studying the fat cigar in his fingers.

Garvey stopped pacing and watched him. “How’s the woman?”

Buel shrugged. “Hangin’ on, like always. She ain’t so high and mighty anymore, though. We broke her good. That man of hers better be comin’ pretty soon. She’s sick—pneumonia is my guess. She won’t last much longer this way. She’s got so thin me and Handy can’t even have any fun with her any more. Handy’s up there with her tonight, bitchin’ and moanin’ about havin’ to throw water on her to wash away her messes. And she’s got that bad cough—feverish, you know? If
you ain’t careful, the white squaw is gonna die on you.”

Garvey frowned and walked to the window, opening it and leaning out to get some fresh air. The house suddenly felt close and hot. “You out there, Joe?” he called.

“Yes, sir, right here,” the one called Joe replied from the veranda. “Can’t hear the horses and Indians no more. Must be givin’ Jess and the others a good run for their money. But they’ll get them horses back, sir.”

“They’d by God better!” Garvey fumed. “I’ll not be outdone by those uneducated savages. What the hell are Indians doing so close to Denver anyway? They must be crazy!” He turned back inside and paced again, removing his suit jacket. “I wonder why we haven’t heard from Lund yet? Isn’t Monroe ever coming back from that damned war? The man should be coming home to his family by now.”

“Lund’s a good man. If he hears that the man is back, he’ll be here to tell you, Mr. Garvey. You can bet on it.”

Garvey sat down in his big leather chair, pulling out a drawer and removing a flask of whiskey and a small glass. He poured himself a shot and drank it down.

“You look nervous, sir,” Buel spoke up. “You got no worry about that Monroe fellow, if that’s what you think. There’s plenty of men left here. Besides, it was just an Indian raid. Big deal. Happens all the time. The men will chase them down and get the horses back. Then we’ll tell the soldiers and they’ll take care of the bastards—hang a couple of them—and that will be the end of it.”

Garvey sighed. “What bothers me is the raid being right here. There’s something strange about it.”

Buel grinned. “You worry too much.”

Outside the one called Joe lit a pipe and puffed it casually,
scanning the darkness with keen eyes, his rifle tilted against the support post right beside him. The night had suddenly grown quiet again, as though the Indians had never been there. It was hard to tell how many men might have been killed, but he doubted it was many. They would have to wait until morning to go out and look for bodies. Fifteen men had ridden after the Indians, and he knew that there were four men in one bunkhouse. The second bunkhouse was empty. But the raid was over and the Indians involved were well on their way with the stolen horses. They would most certainly not be back or even come anywhere close, because by morning the soldiers would know. The cattle had scattered. They would have to be rounded up in the morning. He and the few men left could do that.

In the bunkhouse, four men plunked down on their bunks, cussing about having had to get out of bed to go running out in the darkness after damned Indians. Two of them had run out in their long johns, strapping on guns without even putting on clothes. Now they removed their weapons and tossed them aside, one of the men taking out a bottle of whiskey and swallowing some.

“What a night,” one of them grumbled. “If Garvey didn’t pay so well I’d say the hell with his damned horses. Let the redskins have them. I had a long day today. I’m beat.”

“Well, you’d better get some sleep,” another replied. “We’ll spend all day tomorrow buryin’ bodies and roundin’ up them beef, let alone probably havin’ to go after the rest of the men if they don’t show up tomorrow.” The man stretched, then froze, his arms still outstretched, his eyes wide. A stranger had emerged from a partitioned section of the bunkhouse, the fiercest looking warrior the ranch hand had ever seen—and the
biggest.

There was no time to think first. The ranch hand reached for his gun, but a huge knife instantly landed in the man’s chest with a thud. The other three men whirled, none of them near their guns, all of them standing there in their underwear. Before they knew what was happening the big Indian was landing into them with a growl, literally knocking all three of them to the floor at once. The Indian moved with a swiftness that overwhelmed the three ranch hands, his size and strength amazing, his movements leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. He rolled off the three men and yanked his knife out of the first man’s chest, quickly ramming it into the stomach of one of the other three men, who had lunged at him.

He shoved the man off his knife, and only four or five seconds had passed since first he showed himself in the bunkhouse. The remaining two men, shocked, were just getting to their feet. The Indian kicked out at one, hearing the crack of ribs as his foot landed in the man’s side. The man grunted and crashed over a table, and the fourth man went for the door. But the Indian, his eyes maniacal, his strength comparable only to that of the insane, slammed hard into the man with his shoulder, aiming for the lower back and ramming the man against the door hard. There was a crunching sound as the man’s spine dislocated, and the Indian’s hand was quickly over the man’s mouth as he tried to scream out in his pain. He bent the man farther back before the man could get any kind of fighting stance, folding the man in half and breaking the spine, first at the neck and then at the lower spot where he had first dislocated the back.

The Indian stepped back and let the man fall to the floor, while the man he had kicked in the ribs stared in disbelief, still on the floor.

At the house Joe looked out at the bunk house in the distance, thinking he had heard some kind of scuffle. But it was not unusual for the men to get into fights. It had happened before, usually over gambling debts or women. This time it was probably an argument over who had been dumb enough to let the Indians sneak up on the ranch. Joe just grinned and shook his head. He puffed his pipe more and paid no attention.

Inside the bunkhouse the fourth man lay with his throat cut. Zeke moved to a back door, opening it to let in Wolf’s Blood. “Take a look,” he told the boy. “Any of them the ones who took your mother?”

Wolf’s Blood studied the bloody, broken bodies, on fire with pride at his father’s strength.

“No, sir,” the boy finally replied. He met his father’s fierce eyes, seeing now what the man must have been like when he went after the men who had killed his first wife in Tennessee. “When do I get my turn, Father?”

“Soon as we find the right ones—and Garvey,” Zeke replied. “Stay in the shadows. We already got the two outside. I’m going to check around the house now. When I give the signal, you come. There’s a lamp on down on the first floor. My bet is it’s Garvey’s study. It won’t be long now, son. By tomorrow we will have found your mother.”

They ducked through the back door and made their way toward the main house. Joe stood on the veranda smoking his pipe, still noticing nothing unusual. A horse whinnied in the distance and he stood straighter, then moved to the railing of the veranda and tapped out his pipe, knocking the small embers into the dirt beneath the railing and shoving the pipe back into his pocket. He stared into the darkness, trying to see something. All was quiet now at the bunkhouse. Apparently the minor scuffle had ended. But now everything
seemed too quiet. He told himself he was just spooked from the raid. Indians always rode in bunches. They had got what they came for: the horses. He chided himself for feeling so uneasy. He had lived in this land for a lot of years, knew how the Indians usually conducted a raid. Yet there was something strange about this one, and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered. Indians seldom ventured out at night—something about evil spirits. So why had these Indians chosen the night, and why this place, so far from their normal stomping grounds? He started to reach for his rifle, then heard a board creak behind him. He turned to say something to Buel, who he thought had come outside, but he stared dumbfounded into the face of an Indian, a wild-eyed, powerful-looking man who was painted for war. He opened his mouth to call out to Buel, but his voice was cut off by a huge blade that slashed across his throat. The man no longer had to wonder what was different about this night.

Zeke caught Joe’s body before it could hit the veranda floor and make any noise. He dragged it into the shadows, then crept to the window where he had seen the light. His heart exploded with rage and vengeance when he saw Winston Garvey sitting at his desk, and a badly scarred man sitting across from him. The scarred man! Surely he was one of those who had taken Abbie!

Zeke moved back into the shadows and gave out a soft hoot. A moment later Wolf’s Blood was at his side. The boy knew by his father’s eyes that the man he wanted was inside. The boy gripped his own knife, but Zeke held up a finger, warning him not to move too quickly. Zeke motioned for the boy to follow him around the back side of the house.

“I don’t want to kill them inside the house,” he told his son quietly. “We could end up leaving some kind of evidence. I want them out of the house and in my own
territory—out in the open. Do as I say. You’ll get your turn with the scarred one.”

The boy nodded. Zeke removed his rifle from where it was slung around his shoulder. “I’m going to find a way in the back side,” he whispered. “You go back around to the window. When I get inside the room, come through the window. The maid won’t be here tonight. It’s down to just Garvey and the scarred one. We have to get them out of there quickly now, before some of the men start coming back.” He cocked his rifle. “Remember, Wolf’s Blood, if anything goes wrong, never hesitate. Hesitating can cost you your life. Let the other man hesitate. Always follow your instincts. You have good instincts and you’re fast.”

The boy’s eyes glittered. “I am ready!” he whispered back. “I will not forget how that man touched my mother!” Their eyes held for a moment in the moonlight, both feeling the same fear that Abbie might not even be alive any more. Zeke pushed the horrible thought to the back of his mind and turned away, heading along the back of the house and looking for an open window. Wolf’s Blood moved back around to the front window, where Winston Garvey sat lighting another cigar.

“I suppose we’ll have to start feeding the bitch if we want her to live,” Garvey was telling Buel.

“What if she needs a doctor?” Buel replied. “How do you explain that?”

“I’ll think of something,” Garvey answered. “All men can be paid off one way or another, even doctors.”

“I’ll say one thing—the woman’s a stubborn bitch. I figured she’d have talked a long time ago. I can’t figure it. I think even I would have talked under her circumstances.”

Garvey rose. “I think it’s time we saw about getting hold of one or two of the children. The father just might
have got himself killed in that war. If he did, I’m back to zero without a way to make that woman talk. She’ll have to see one of her children in pain. Trouble is, we’d have to get them out of the hands of the Cheyenne. I could always come down on them with the new law they’re trying to get through mandating that all Indian children must be shipped off to white schools to be educated. That could be my excuse. I’d just send in some soldiers and haul a couple of them away.”

“When we was spyin’ on them, before we attacked, we saw a couple of older daughters that would make your mouth water, Mister Garvey. You grab one of them and tell that woman you’ll make prostitutes out of them, and I’ll bet you she’ll talk. Let me and Handy break in one of the little girls under the woman’s nose. She’d tell you quick enough whatever it is you want to know. If the man is dead, she’s totally helpless, and so are the children. We have free rein with them. And I can tell you I wouldn’t mind my turn at either one of them older daughters.”

Garvey chuckled. “That doesn’t sound bad to me either. Maybe we can—”

His words were cut off when the door to the study suddenly burst open. Buel whirled, going for his gun, but he hesitated when he saw the big Indian standing there with the rifle.

“I wouldn’t make a move!” Zeke growled.

Garvey paled to a white that almost matched his white shirt. He sat speechless, his throat constricting as though someone had just poured sand into it. He stared in disbelief at the huge, painted Indian, who stood before them nearly naked except for moccasins and a loincloth, his bronze body striped in war colors, his nearly waist-length hair hanging loose and wild. Zeke’s fiery eyes moved to Garvey.

“It’s been a long time, Senator,” he hissed. “I
should have killed you nine years ago in Santa Fe, but I didn’t have the advantage then. Now I do, and this will be a very exciting night for all of us.”

Garvey’s face was already drenched with sweat. He put a hand to his throat, opening the top button of his shirt so he could breathe better, and Zeke hoped the fat man wouldn’t die of a heart attack from shock before he got the information he needed.

“Relax, Senator,” he said with a smile. “You have a few more minutes to live. Maybe even an hour.”

The senator whirled his chair, thinking perhaps he would have time to dive out the window. Buel went for his gun then and Zeke swung the rifle, ramming its butt into the man’s chest and knocking him to the floor. He aimed the rifle at the man while Garvey remained in his chair, never getting the chance to try to duck out of the window. He had been greeted by a young Indian buck who held out a huge, menacing blade. The senator had no place to turn. Wolf’s Blood came through the window and glanced at his father.