Meet the New Dawn (43 page)

Everyone was ready when she arrived, and Abbie ate a breakfast prepared by a tearful Margaret. But Abbie would not worry about Margaret or Ellen. Parting was always sad, but her two daughters had fine, strong men who loved them and were devoted to them. Morgan Brown was a good rancher, a strong man who loved Margaret deeply, who had been a good friend to Zeke, who now knew everything there was to know about raising horses. He would carry on the tradition, producing the most valuable Appaloosas and Thoroughbreds in Colorado. And Ellen had Hal Daniels, whose own ranch was growing, and who was also a strong, devoted husband. Her daughters would be fine until she returned—and she would return.

She washed and changed, then stopped and stared for a moment at the brass bed, her gift from Zeke, the bed on which they had shared bodies and souls during their last years together. Her eyes teared, and she kissed a brass post. The bed would go to Margaret and Morgan now, who would live in the main house. The little trunk of Abbie’s special treasures was packed on the wagon. The bed of robes was gone, the robes distributed among the children, two of them rolled and packed into Abbie’s belongings.

She came out into the main room, walking up and touching the old, ticking mantle clock that had once sat on a stump inside a tipi. She would leave it here, on the mantle built with Zeke’s loving hands. Margaret would take care of it for her—until she returned.

Yes, she must remember she was coming back, for that was
the only way she could bear the leaving. And when she returned she would be a stronger woman. She glanced at the mandolin—the old mandolin, its strings now quiet. It sat in the corner where it would stay, another bit of Zeke Monroe that belonged in this house. She had considered taking both the clock and the mandolin, but she knew it would only make it harder for her to face the fact that her husband was really gone and she must go on alone. She would leave behind those things that only made her long for him with such agony.

It was time for good-byes then, always difficult. She looked around the little house she had shared so many years with Zeke Monroe: the table where they had sat and talked, probably thousands of times; the rocker by the hearth where she sat and knitted, sometimes reading to him; the worn floor where little children had run in and out. She could hear their young voices, hear their laughter. But they were grown now. She must face facts.

She walked outside, glancing at the barn Zeke had helped rebuild while in so much pain—the horses, the glorious horses, that ran in the corral. She must stop looking! She must stop! She hugged Little Zeke, Nathan, and Lillian Rose, who was slightly over a year old now. LeeAnn, Joshua, Matthew, and Jason sat in the back of the wagon, and Abbie climbed into the seat beside a newly hired hand who would drive the wagon back to the ranch after leaving them all off at the train station in Pueblo. They would take the Denver & Rio Grande north to Cheyenne, then a stagecoach farther north into Montana, to Dan and Bonnie and the Northern Cheyenne.

It was finally time to go. The driver whipped the horses into motion, and the wagon lurched forward. Abbie closed her eyes. She would not look to the South, where her precious Wolf’s Blood had gone. She would not look to the North, where the special place by the creek remained filled with purple irises. She would not look back—at the horses, the barn, the house. She must not look! She must not even think! She must look forward to new things, new people, new places. How did one stand this terrible ache? Why were people forced to suffer over and over again? Why did something as beautiful as love hurt so badly?

“Good-bye,” she whispered.

A shadow passed over them, and she looked up to see an eagle circling over the wagon. She smiled then. He was still with her after all. Yes, she would come back to this place that had belonged to him—when the time was right. The eagle left them then, flying north.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The trip north made Abbie almost glad Zeke was gone, for she realized just how much this land that he had once roamed with the Cheyenne had changed. Now she rode on a train for the first time, amazed at how fast it could go, but watching out the window and visioning riding instead on pretty Appaloosas, side by side with her husband, in a land that was not dotted with civilization or divided by too many fences. And all along the way she caught glimpses of piles of bleached buffalo bones, remnants of the great thundering herds that had once roamed the plains and were already virtually extinct from all regions south of the Dakotas. She had read in one newspaper that in only two years an estimated three million buffalo had been taken from the plains. It was reported that only a few thousand were left, most of those in the northern regions. Abbie did not doubt that those few would also be taken.

“Ten Thousand Buffalo Hides Shipped Today,” one headline read. It made her heart ache. Nothing could have been more instrumental in defeating the Indian than wiping out the buffalo. By making use of the hides, the white man had found a way to quietly eliminate not only the greatest beast of North America, but also its native Indians.

When they reached Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory, she disembarked to stretch her legs. She waited with Joshua and the others as their luggage was unloaded, for the rest of their journey would be by stagecoach. Several flatbed wagons, heaped high with white bones, sat waiting at the train station.
Abbie stared at them, grasping Joshua’s arm. “What is that?” she asked.

Joshua sighed, knowing how she was hurting. “They’re bones, I’m afraid. Buffalo bones. They’re picked up by scavengers called ‘Bonepickers.’ They get paid by the ton for them. The bones are used for fertilizer; the horns and hooves are used in factories back east to make buttons, combs, all sorts of things.”

Abbie stared, her eyes tearing. “I see.” How ironic that the white men were using the buffalo for the very things the Indians had used them: food, clothing, utensils. Thus, not so much of the buffalo was wasted. But there were many whites greedy for the products gleaned from the animal, and there were not enough buffalo to support that greed.

She felt many chapters of her own life closing: the demise of the Indian; the extinction of the buffalo; the gradual changing of the land from open, wild, and untamed to civilization, towns, and farms; her children grown; her husband … gone. No! Not Zeke! Again the rush of depression overwhelmed her. She must not think about it. She must get to Dan and Bonnie—and find Swift Arrow. She fought the sudden desperateness that sometimes grabbed at her when thinking of Wolf’s Blood, wondering if he were all right, wondering when she would see her precious son again.

Their baggage was unloaded, and it would be a while before their stage was ready to leave. Joshua treated all of them to lunch. Abbie knew she should be enjoying the trip—seeing Cheyenne, riding a train, going someplace new. But none of it really mattered. She was haunted by the wagons full of bones. She could see them in her mind, and then see Zeke. The two visions kept flashing into her mind—contrasting, haunting.

Somehow she found herself on a stage then, headed north to Fort Keogh, ever farther from the ranch, ever farther from Wolf’s Blood, considering the irony of life and fate. She rode with Joshua Lewis, the young man for whom she had suffered torture and rape at the hands of Winston Garvey, and with her daughter, who had married Garvey’s son. She wondered how and why people like the Garveys could have gotten involved in their lives when they had lived so remotely from civilization;
how a senator from Washington, D.C. could have ended up being cut to pieces by a half-breed Cheyenne called Zeke Monroe; and how his son could have met a similar fate by Zeke Monroe’s own son. And yet her own little grandson was a Garvey. She could not love him less because of it, for he was also a part of herself and Zeke, an offspring of that good seed. With his looks and being raised by a changed LeeAnn and other loving people, Abbie was certain there would be no traces of Winston or Charles Garvey in the boy. She hoped LeeAnn married Joshua soon and that he would adopt Matthew, so that the boy’s name could be changed and the name Garvey would never again be mentioned in her presence.

She watched the passing terrain as the stage bounced and jolted over a dirt road toward its destination. Montana and Wyoming were beautiful. The trip through these territories took several days. She did not mind watching the scenery, except for when the coach first left Cheyenne, and she realized they were not far from where her father’s wagon train had traveled thirty-five years ago—surely not far from the place where one dark night a scout named Zeke Monroe had lain with her in the grass and made her his woman. And several miles to the west was Fort Bridger, where they had been married, and where she had waited faithfully through the winter for her husband to return from Oregon.

Why oh why did the memories have to keep plaguing her this way? Why was she constantly tortured by the thought of the happiness and fulfillment she had once known? Would she ever really get over his death, ever really know who Abigail Monroe was, ever feel comfortable anyplace but on the ranch along the Arkansas? The ranch! All those years spent working it, loving the man who owned it, the place where she had borne all her children, where she had shared a love greater than any she would ever find again or even cared to find again—greater than most women ever find.

He had been dead for twenty months now. But counting the months since he left to go on that fateful trip … why, here it was August! It was two years this month since he left her—since their night in the tipi and the morning they spent bathing at the stream. Two years! How could that be? She looked at her
hands. They were wrinkled, but not too badly, for Abbie had faithfully applied the creams Zeke insisted she use. She put her hands to her face. She was fifty. Fifty! But no, she couldn’t be! Wasn’t it just a year or two ago that she came into this land, a mere fifteen-year-old girl? Now her youngest son, her baby, was older than that! Her first grandchild, Little Zeke, was already eleven. This could not be! Why couldn’t she turn back the time to special events in her life when she had been most happy? Why couldn’t she just once again experience that first night Zeke Monroe branded her? Oh, the hurt of it! The awful hurt of it! Across from her sat Joshua, a grown man now. But wasn’t it just a little while ago when she and Zeke had taken him to Bonnie as a small, crippled baby?

She fought new tears and reasoned with herself that there was one consolation: She was getting older, and in not too many years she, too, would be gone from this earth. That was just fine with her, for when she greeted death she would also greet Zeke Monroe. She would be with him again and nothing and no one could ever, ever separate them. She was as sure at this moment that he was in God’s Kingdom as she was sure she was riding in the stage. For in spite of his violent life, Zeke Monroe was an honest man, a good man who would have wanted peace if people would have let him have it. But he had been a man tormented by a sad childhood and by the torture of living in two worlds. The violence he had experienced was not always of his choosing, and the things he had done had been for those he loved. His nature was vengeful and defensive, and he could not control that which came so spontaneously to him. She had never blamed him, but had only understood and loved him. And though some might say the God he worshipped was different from her own, she did not believe it, and she was fully confident that when she met her Maker, Zeke Monroe would be right there.

In the meantime she reminded herself that while she was here on this earth, her husband’s spirit was with her wherever she went. She did not have to be on the ranch, where the memories were too fresh and painful. She could be anyplace and still be with him.

She looked out at the Bighorn Mountains to the south and
west. Yes, this was truly beautiful country, and here she would be a little closer to the Rockies. She would like it here, for she would be among the Cheyenne. She wondered what Swift Arrow looked like now. How many years had it been since she saw him last? At least seventeen. The last she had seen him was at the Cheyenne Sun Dance, back in ’62, when Wolf’s Blood had participated in that great test of manhood. Wolf’s Blood was only sixteen then. Now he was thirty-four.

And how old was Swift Arrow now? He was five years younger than Zeke. That would make him fifty-five. But surely not! He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, could he? She didn’t feel any older than that herself. She was still slim and agile, and everyone told her she looked far younger than her age. She guessed that Swift Arrow also did, for like Zeke his handsome face and strong body had always defied his true age. But perhaps now his spirit was broken. That could do a lot to a man like Swift Arrow. A broken spirit aged a man much faster than years ever could.

She concentrated on him then, feeling excited at the prospect of seeing Zeke’s long-lost Cheyenne brother after all these years. And she would be with Dan and Bonnie again. Yes, this would be a pleasant change. It was a necessary thing. They would go to Fort Custer, much as the name felt sour in her mouth. That was where Dan was now. They had found out at the last minute, when Josh sent a wire to Fort Keogh to tell his stepfather they were coming. Fort Custer was much more in the heart of the reservation, and closer to the mountains, which made her happier. Dan had been transferred there, as well as the doctor Jason would work with. And they would be among not just Cheyenne but also Crow Indians, another ironic twist—Crow and Cheyenne together. She was amazed it was working at all. But then circumstances had greatly changed the Indian outlook. It was useless to worry now about old enemies and old hurts. They were one in their situation now—all reservation Indians—all having lost their freedom.

“We’ll be at Fort Custer before night,” Josh was telling them. “Did I tell you Father plans to retire soon?”

Abbie did not hear. She was remembering a young girl and her new husband riding on horses through the Rockies and
toward the Arkansas River, where they would meet her husband’s Cheyenne family and live happily ever after.

It did not take long for Abigail Monroe to see she had made the right choice. It was good to be with Dan and Bonnie again; good to see Jason diving into studies and working diligently with the reservation doctor to learn all that he could; good to see the happiness in the eyes of Josh and LeeAnn, and know they would be married as soon as Joshua returned from New York in eight months. But none of that was as important as being among the Cheyenne again, and her services were badly needed.

Her heart ached for them. They were so lost and broken. Alcohol was rampant among the men and even some of the women. Eyes once bright and dancing were dull and lifeless. To help them adjust to their new way of life, try to convince them to send their children to school, and teach them to farm was a momumental task, if not an impossible one. Abbie soon found herself fighting staunchly with the reservation agents and missionaries, the “Friends of the Indians,” whose goals and objectives were well-intended but futile. She soon became deeply involved in reservation life, teaching, guiding, helping with births, becoming totally immersed in her work for the People and in her fight with the whites who worked to totally change the Indian into something he was not.

The work was good for her. Her busy days were followed by exhausted sleep at night, so that the painful memories and terrible loneliness were overshadowed by the present and by her work. Through her efforts she began to find herself, her own identity. She had a purpose here now. She could no longer be Zeke Monroe’s woman, so she would now be Abigail Monroe, friend of the Cheyenne, teacher, nurse, whatever was required. Her loved ones watched patiently, thinking perhaps she was doing too much, yet knowing it was better than sitting around dwelling on the past.

At first some of the Cheyenne were wary of her, unsure who this new white woman was and why she had come there and seemed so interested in helping them. But her warm love, her
sincere eyes, her knowledge of their language, and her efforts in fighting to preserve their ancient customs brought a deep respect and kinship. A few of them remembered her or had at least heard of her. Most of them had known Zeke Monroe, Lone Eagle to them. This was his white woman.

“My own children have Indian names,” she told one Cheyenne woman who was afraid to let Abbie help with the birth of her first child. “And I had all my children alone without the help of a doctor, down on the Arkansas River where I lived with my Cheyenne husband.”

The girl watched her, panting with pain, wanting to trust her. “This is true? Your children are by a Cheyenne man? They have … Cheyenne names?”

Abbie took her hand. “They do. My oldest son is thirty-four, almost thirty-five. He is called Wolf’s Blood. My second child, Margaret, was called
Moheya,
Blue Sky. Our third child, LeeAnn, was given the Indian name
Kseé,
Young Girl. Our fourth was a son.” She stopped for a moment, feeling a stabbing pain at the memory. Jeremy! Why had he never come, even after she’d left the message of his father’s death? She had nearly died giving birth to him. He had been gone nearly twelve years now. Perhaps she would never see him at all.

“His … white name is Jeremy,” she told the girl. “But he was first called
Ohkumhkákit,
Little Wolf.” She swallowed back tears. Jeremy. The Prodigal Son. “Then came number five,” she went on. “Ellen—called
Iśshiomiists,
Rising Sun. Then our sixth, little Lillian—
Meane-ese,
Summer Moon. She died of pneumonia back in ’65.” She swallowed, her eyes tearing, and the Indian girl squeezed her hand.

“It is so sad to lose a child. I hope this never happens to me.”

Abbie breathed deeply to stay in control, thinking of how rapidly Indian babies died on this reservation. She patted the girl’s hand. “I hope it never happens to you, too,” she answered.