Climb the Highest Mountain (2 page)

“Ne-mehotatse,”
he whispered, using the Cheyenne word for “I love you” in his passion. He moved on top of her, parting her slender, white legs and pressing against her flat belly, its flesh soft from bearing many children but not protruding.

He thrust himself deep and she cried out. He felt her tense, and he knew she was thinking of the cave. “Look at me, Abbie,” he whispered.

She clung to the hard muscles of his arms as he invaded private places, his eyes glazed with passion.

“It’s me, Abbie girl. It’s only me,” he told her, his voice gruff from heated desire. “Nobody else will ever touch you.”

Their eyes held then, hers taking on a look of provocative passion that fed his urgent lust for his woman. He lowered his head and met her lips, parting them hungrily as she arched up to him. In these wonderful moments all sorrow and pain were left behind. The precarious future was not to be thought of
now. The fate of the Cheyenne must not get in the way of their moments of ecstasy. The unpredictable future of their children must be set aside temporarily. First they must have this, for being one gave them strength, relieved the awful tension, told them that at least they were still alive and still together. Here, in each other’s arms, lay their power, their determination to survive against all odds. This great love could endure.

He felt her climactic contractions and she shuddered with sweet abandon and cried out his name. He held himself in check as long as possible, wanting her to enjoy the union, always trying to erase her ugly memories and make her think only of these times—the good and beautiful times that were right and wonderful and pleasurable. Her eyes were closed now, and he studied her beautiful face, the thick hair now escaping from the neat bun and falling onto the pillow and her shoulders, the soft white skin of her shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, and the pink fruits at the tips of them. One breast still bore the scar from the arrow wound she had suffered on the wagon train years ago. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d thought she might die, how he’d felt when he’d removed the arrow and burned out any infection, how brave she had been, and how terrified he had been that she would die. It was then he’d given his love to the woman-child, Abigail Trent, and when he’d asked her to marry him, there had been no doubt what her answer would be. In her childish innocence she had made it very clear to the scout “Cheyenne Zeke” that she was in love with him.

He smiled as he watched her take him inside herself, her face nearly as innocent looking as that first time when he had stolen her virginity. It seemed amazing that after all the years he could derive just as much pleasure from her as he did then—even more for their love had been made richer by years of shared
tribulations, terrible tests of their marriage, the agony of having to be apart.

His life poured into her. That life could no longer be nurtured into a child inside her body, but it didn’t matter. Her life was more important to him. Indeed, the operation had brought him welcome relief by removing the worry over another pregnancy and what that could do to her. Besides, she had already given him seven beautiful children, all waiting for them now at their ranch on the Arkansas. The first-born was Wolf’s Blood, seventeen, all Indian, the only child who had refused to take a white name after being told he must do so and be baptized to prevent his being taken from the parents and put onto a reservation. Not that Zeke Monroe would let anyone take away his children, nor would Abbie. But fear and worry about the future had made them want to ensure their safety.

Margaret Elaine, Blue Sky, was fifteen; LeeAnn Bonita, Young Girl, twelve. Jeremy Trent, Little Wolf, was eleven; and Ellen Lynn, Rising Sun, nine. Lillian Rose, Summer Moon, was seven. Little Jason Ezekiel, Yellow Hawk, was five. All were different. Wolf’s Blood seemed to have no white blood at all, nor did Margaret, a dark beauty, always a shy child. LeeAnn on the other hand seemed to have no Indian blood. She was a blond-headed, blue-eyed beauty who looked very much like Abbie’s dead sister, who also had been fair. Jeremy looked like any other white boy, and had nothing in common with his older brother. He was always a problem to Zeke, for he didn’t seem interested in any of the things Zeke thought important to survival, nor was he interested in the ranch or horses. The boy seemed to be afraid of animals and of guns. Ellen was a bright, happy girl, dark but blue eyed. Lillian was the weak one, always sickly and a worry to her mother, but a shy, sweet, gentle child, with pale
brown eyes, light brown hair, and no outstanding features. Zeke felt Abbie overprotected the girl because of her fragility, but he never said so. Indeed, he often found himself doing things for the child to keep her from overexerting herself. Last came Jason, a happy, zealous child, daring and energetic, already riding horses and asking endless questions about animals. All were educated by their mother. All could read and write and work figures, except Wolf’s Blood. He had never had the patience to sit still long enough to learn anything. Wolf’s Blood preferred riding free, the wind in his face and the sun on his back, and it had not taken long to lose him almost completely to his Cheyenne relatives, with whom he lived a good deal of the time.

Zeke stretched out beside his woman, caressing her breasts as she quickly pulled a blanket to her waist.

“Do you realize it’s the middle of the afternoon!” she said, suddenly blushing and reaching up to pull the combs and pins from her hair.

Zeke just grinned. “Is there some kind of law against a man taking his woman in the afternoon?”

She met his eyes slyly, then laughed lightly and snuggled against him. “I suppose not.” She sighed. “I hope the children are all right.”

“Lance can take care of them,” he answered, referring to one of his white brothers. Lance had come from Tennessee to help Zeke run the ranch after he’d served with the Confederates in the Civil War. “And with Wolf’s Blood around, who’s going to bother them? Our eldest is meaner than that damned wolf he keeps as a pet.”

Abbie smiled and looked up at him. “No meaner than his father can be when necessary, but just as gentle and sweet when it’s called for.”

He kissed her lightly. “I’m sure all’s well at home, my
love, and we’ll be back there ourselves by day after tomorrow. We’ll get those papers signed in a couple of hours and head out in the morning. I’ll be glad to return to the peace and quiet of the ranch and get back into my buckskins. I just hope the snows hold off until we get there. I feel the bite of winter in the air. No doubt there’s plenty of snow in the mountains already. We’re lucky that snow we had last week has melted.”

She kissed his chest and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. “I think Wolf’s Blood stays warm just thinking about Morning Bird,” she answered. “She seems to be all he talks about anymore.”

Zeke grinned and ran a hand through her now-undone hair. “He’s almost a man—he already is a man in most ways—and Morning Bird is the prettiest girl on the reservation.”

“Zeke, he’s only seventeen.”

“More like twenty-five if you go by white man’s standards. The boy has always seemed older than his years, Abbie girl. You know that.”

She moved back and met his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if he was ever a child. He’s the only one that I have difficulty remembering as a child. It seems since he could walk he was riding horses, naked in the sun; trying to throw a lance, his long black hair blowing in the wind. I never got to hold him often. It was like trying to wrap my arms around the wind.” Her eyes teared. “Sometimes it hurts to think about him, Zeke.”

He kissed her eyes. “I know. But that’s life, Abbie girl. Everybody gets older. The children come up to take the place of the parents.”

She ran her fingers lightly over his handsome mouth. “I don’t want to think about that… about us getting older … my children getting older.”

“Well, before you know it, some of them will be
married and having children of their own. Then you’ll have grandchildren and you’ll have babies to fuss over again.”

She smiled through her burgeoning tears. “Oh, I look forward to that!”

He grinned and ran a hand over her smooth skin beneath the blanket. “I know you do. But when I touch you, look at you, it’s hard to believe you could ever have grandchildren. All I see is my pretty little Abbie, and you’re still like a young girl in bed.”

She blushed again and buried her head against his chest. “Zeke Monroe, I’m hardly a young girl anymore.”

“You are to me. And you’re, by God, beautiful enough that I have to keep a close eye on you in these wild towns.”

They snuggled down to rest before dressing to go see the lawyer. Outside the streets of Pueblo remained busy. A fine, polished coach clattered down the main street, its rich elegance posing a stark contrast to the common farmers’ wagons, its fine horses making those on the street look broken down. A man stepped from the coach, wearing a well-fitted tweed topcoat, an expensive silk hat, and rich leather gloves. His boots were polished and well cut. He was tall and handsome, dark and well manicured, a man of obvious wealth, education, and elegance.

“We’re at the bank, Sir Tynes,” the driver of the coach told the man.

Tynes shut the door of the coach and nodded. “Well then, I shall go inside and take care of the purchase of the rest of that land,” the man replied. He looked up at the driver. “Hank, what did you say was the name of that fellow whose land adjoins mine now?”

“Monroe. Zeke Monroe.”

“H’m.” The wealthy Englishman pursed his lips in thought. “I don’t suppose he’d sell, too?”

The man called Hank laughed. “In all due respect, sir, I wouldn’t even bother asking. That ranch is pretty important to Zeke, and if you have any thought of using force to get it, I’d think twice. Nobody messes with Zeke Monroe. He’s a half-breed Cheyenne, and what he can do with a knife would make you pass out if I told you the details.”

Sir Tynes shrugged. “So be it. I shan’t worry about it at the moment. But I’m not too excited about having a blood-thirsty half-breed living along my borders.”

“Depends on how you treat him, sir. He can be right friendly if you’re honest and up front with him. But he can be right nasty if you try to do him wrong.”

Sir Tynes grinned. “Well, then, I shall have to meet this Zeke Monroe. I look forward to it.” He strutted into the bank and disappeared through the door. The driver laughed and shook his head.

“What a mixture,” he mumbled to himself. “Zeke Monroe living right next to Sir Edwin Tynes.” He laughed again and jumped down from the coach. “Wonder what Tynes will think of Zeke’s white wife? I hope I’m around when they meet.”

He shook his head at how fast Colorado was growing. Now every type of person was pursuing every manner of occupation, all hoping to build personal empires by using whatever talents they possessed. The stage lines were busy, and hot on their heels was talk of railroads coming west. This was a good place for the adventurous sort, and Sir Edwin S. Tynes was certainly that. He financed his whims with “old” family money and a bold spirit, from what Hank could see. But like many such men, Tynes appeared to have little concern for the natural balance of the land, nor did he
respect its people. He appeared to run roughshod over those who sought to stand in the way of his spirited enterprises, and beneath his fine clothes was a man accustomed to having whatever he wanted. He was a boy in a forty-five-year-old man’s frame, a “man” who had no conception of how it might feel to be denied his will.

Chapter Two

Zeke and Abbie exited the lawyer’s office, Abbie clinging to the precious piece of paper that declared for once and all that the land they lived on belonged to them. Now the government could not take it away, nor could new settlers claim it. It was not a large spread, not by comparison to what some people were claiming now. It was eight hundred acres of good green grazing land along the Arkansas River, some of it rocky and hilly but most of it flat. The river provided a good water supply and they had a view to the west, of the magnificent Rockies. They had been able to add another three hundred acres to the original five hundred they had claimed years ago, thanks to a letter from William Bent verifying that the additional three hundred acres Zeke would like to add were unclaimed.

William Bent was one of the founders of old Bent’s Fort, and he had always been a helpful friend to the Cheyenne. Now, with all the Indian troubles, the rebuilt fort had been purchased by the government and turned into an army post called Fort Lyon. But William still lived nearby with his Cheyenne wife, Yellow Woman, and their half-breed children—Mary, Robert, Julia, George, and Charles. William was now
an Indian agent, known and respected in the area, and his letter had helped swing the lawyer in Zeke’s favor. Thus the three hundred acres of badly needed grazing land had been acquired. But Zeke and Abbie both knew that the lawyer had acceded grudgingly, only because William Bent was well known and because Abbie was white. The man’s distaste for Indians was as obvious as most people’s in these parts, except for old traders like William Bent and former mountain men who remembered the “old days” and who had dealt with Indians for years. But Colorado was becoming populated by newcomers, people who had had no experience with Indians. These folks had heard numerous stories back East and had formed opinions based on them. In their eyes, Indians were dirty, worthless, lazy, drunken, and savage, and little could be done to change their attitude.

It hurt Abbie deeply to know how these people felt, for she had lived among the Indians when she and Zeke were first married, and she had been shown only love and kindness. That was before the white man’s rotgut whiskey had come. Then the Indians were strong and proud, hunters and warriors of unmatched skill. Many still were, but others had fallen into the whiskey trap. Zeke’s own half brother, Red Eagle, had sold his own wife for whiskey and then had shot himself because of it. His wife had ended up in the hands of Winston Garvey, the wealthy rancher and businessman, the Indian hater. Garvey had made a sexual slave of her until Zeke had found her and brought her back home, after which she had borne Winston Garvey’s crippled half-breed son. Then she had died. Only Zeke and Abbie knew the boy lived in the north with a dear friend, Bonnie Lewis, a missionary and nurse who had adopted him. That was the information Abigail Monroe had refused to reveal to Winston Garvey, the
information for which she had suffered torture and rape. But Garvey was dead now. The public only knew that he had mysteriously disappeared after an Indian raid. He was presumed dead, but Zeke and Wolf’s Blood knew he was.

“How about some supper?” Zeke now asked as he took Abbie’s arm.

“Yes. I’m hungry,” she replied, folding the paper and shoving it into her handbag. She met his dark eyes, seeing the hurt there that she had been the one required to sign. It tore at his Indian pride and his manly nature. “At least we got the extra land, Zeke. With even more horses now, we’ll need it badly. Be grateful for that much.”

His eyes glittered angrily. “Sure,” was all he said. He wanted to go back inside and strangle the attorney for the insinuations the man had made about their relationship, the remarks he had made about Indians. “Let’s go eat,” he added, almost pulling her down the boardwalk as he walked in long, angry strides. Just past the saloon several men sat on a bench, leaning forward and watching them approach as though they had been waiting there for them. Zeke’s keen senses alerted him before they even reached the men, and he stopped.

“Get off the boardwalk and we’ll go the rest of the way on the other side,” he told Abbie.

She looked up at him with a frown. “Why?”

“Just do like I say,” he urged, turning with her. But the men, six of them, were suddenly up and coming toward them.

“Where you goin’, Injun’?” one of them shouted out at Zeke, who by then was in the middle of the street.

Zeke stopped, not being one to turn tail on any man. But this was Pueblo, civilization. It wasn’t good for an Indian, and it was even worse for a half-breed, to get
into trouble. There was no justice among these people, and he had Abbie to think about. He looked down at her eyes, which pleaded with him to remain calm. He began walking again.

“Hey, I asked you a question, red man!” the man repeated, as he and the others started across the street. “By God, you better answer when white men talk to you!” The man picked up a rock and threw it. It glanced off Abbie’s shoulder, and she barely stifled a small, startled scream.

Zeke whirled, giving her a shove toward the other side of the street as he did so. Since her ordeal with Winston Garvey, he could not bear to have her hurt in any way, and the hurled rock had brought on an instant, killing fury.

“Zeke, please don’t!” he heard her beg in a small voice.

“Get on across the street!” he ordered, glaring at the men as he spoke. Three of them came closer, grinning, some chuckling. The other three hung back, wary of Zeke’s size and the wild look in his eyes.

“We don’t ordinarily hurt women,” the apparent leader sneered. “But then any white woman who runs with an Injun’ ain’t got much worth. How’d you get her, red man? Capture her on some raid awhile back? Rape her, maybe?”

Zeke’s foot instantly struck the man’s privates, and he kicked again as the man bent over, smashing a booted foot into the man’s face and sending him sprawling backward unconscious.

Abbie put a hand to her throat and clung to a porch post, trembling with fear as the other two men pounced on Zeke. She knew that he could handle himself, for Zeke Monroe was not one to tangle with, especially when his woman had been insulted; but she feared the law and what it sometimes did to Indians. White men
had the right to insult, beat, rob, and even kill Indians. Yet Indians had no rights whatsoever. It was always assumed they were the instigators of conflict. Now Zeke had struck the first blow, and the other three men looked ready to join the fight.

The first two men knocked Zeke to the ground, but in the next moment they were shoved off and Zeke managed to get to his feet, growling like a bear. He wore white man’s clothes, but he was not carrying a gun or rifle. However, he did wear his knife, a huge blade with a buffalo jawbone handle that he had carried for years, a knife that had sunk into the flesh of many men. Abbie prayed he wouldn’t use it now, and she cringed as Zeke whirled when the two men pounced on him again and tried to hang on to him, kicking at him cruelly.

Zeke bashed his head against the head of one of his attackers, and the man grunted and slumped away. Then Zeke rammed a big, angry fist into the face of the last man. People were gathering around by then. Most of them were shouting and rooting for the white men, but some were laughing at their inability to take down the “wild Indian.”

The first two men were up again and coming at Zeke. Abbie gasped, clinging helplessly to the post, her heart aching for Zeke. She started toward him, determined to dive into the fray herself, but a gentle hand grasped her arm.

“I wouldn’t,” came a voice. “If you get mixed up in it, you will look as bad as those men want you to look. Don’t grovel in the dirt with them, ma’am. You’re too lovely.”

She looked up into a handsome, dark face, then pulled away, her eyes tearing. “I have to help him,” she whimpered.

Her companion looked out at the fight. The man
Zeke had bashed with his fist lay unconscious, and the other two were now bloodied and staggering. “I don’t see that he needs any help,” he answered, his strong English accent obvious. “My, this is bloody exciting! What a magnificent specimen of man! Who is he?”

She blinked and stared at the newcomer. He was immaculate, his clothing tailored perfectly, his hands too clean for anyone who lived in these parts.

“He’s my husband,” she answered.

His eyebrows arched, and his eyes roved her body. “I thought perhaps … he was just a friend … perhaps you were a missionary of—”

“I am his wife,” she interrupted, taking on a proud stance. “I have been his wife for nineteen happy years, and Zeke Monroe is more man than all the men in this town put together!”

The man smiled at her fiesty response, his eyes moving over her again. “Amazing!” he commented. “You are Mrs. Zeke Monroe!”

“I am!”

“Incredible!”

She turned away, irritated by his presence and concerned only with Zeke. All three men now lay in the street, bloody and covered with the mud that had resulted from the recently melting snow. Zeke had blood on his lower lip, and he rubbed his side as he watched the three men closely. Not one rose, so he brushed off his clothes, angry that his shirt was torn in front and his jacket muddy. He bent to pick up his hat. Fury consumed him. He wanted to rip each man open with his blade, take his scalp. It would serve them right for insulting his Abbie. He turned to leave the melee, but two of the three who had held back faced him. The crowd turned their attention to this new confrontation, worked up now. They wanted more, and the “Injun” was exciting to watch.

Both challengers held out knives. Leering at Zeke, they waved the blades. “Good with the fists, are you?” one of them sneered. “How about with a blade, red man? Want to show off some more for your white squaw?”

“How is she, anyway?” the other badgered. “Are the white ones more fun than your dirty Indian women? Maybe the fun comes when you take the white ones by force, or is she just one of them loose white whores that likes to lay with big bucks?”

Zeke whipped out the big blade, his speed startling. The crowd jumped back as, in an instant, the knife slashed across the second man’s lips, whipping upward, then flashing downward and jabbing directly into the man’s arm, ramming deeply and making him cry out and drop his knife. Zeke jerked his blade out of the man’s arm and stood there menacingly.

The other man with a knife stood transfixed. Beads of sweat appeared on his face as he stared at Zeke in astonishment, obviously amazed by Zeke’s speed and accuracy. As Zeke’s dark eyes turned to the man, the first attacker fell to his knees, making jerky groaning sounds as blood poured from his lips and his arm.

“Abigail Monroe is the best woman in the territory!” Zeke hissed at the other man. His eyes quickly scanned the crowd as blood dripped from his knife. “Anybody else want to insult her?” His lean body was arched for a fight, his jawbone flexed in anger. Power emanated from his huge frame.

“You fools!” someone spoke up. “That’s Cheyenne Zeke!”

A man stepped forward. It was Hank Buckley, the driver of the fancy coach. He stepped up beside Zeke. “I’ll vouch for what he said. You sons of bitches just insulted the finest woman I’ve ever known! And Monroe is one of the best men I’ve known. Those
bastards who fought with him are damned lucky their hides aren’t ripped from stem to stern and their innards laying out in the sun to dry!” He turned his eyes to the last man still holding a knife. “Put that thing away you dumb bastard! Haven’t you ever heard of Cheyenne Zeke? There’s not a man west of the Mississippi who doesn’t know what Zeke can do with a blade. You itching to find out?”

The man swallowed and backed away, then suddenly threw down the knife and ran off, followed by the sixth man, who had never joined in the fighting. By then a sheriff broke through the crowd, brandishing a rifle and Abbie’s heart pounded with fear. The man Zeke had stabbed was still squatting on the ground. He looked up at the sheriff, literally crying.

“Look what he did to me!” the man bellowed. “Look at me! Look at my lips! My arm! That stinking redskin ripped me up with his knife, Sheriff! And look at my friends there! He hurt them bad!”

The sheriff glanced around at the first three men. Two were staggering to their feet, but the one Zeke had hit with his fist still lay unconscious. The sheriff turned his attention back to Zeke, who stood panting, teeth clenched, ready to fight again, fight his way right out of town if necessary. How he hated towns and civilization!

“That true?” the sheriff asked, holding the rifle pointed at Zeke.

“They started it! They insulted my woman! They hit her with a rock, and the one I cut up there pulled a knife on me! I didn’t come here looking for trouble, but I won’t walk away from it either!”

The sheriff looked down at the big blade still in Zeke’s hand, stained with blood. “Maybe you’d better come with me, Indian.”

“Now wait a minute!” Hank spoke up. “The man is
telling the truth, Sheriff. He’s got no fault in this.”

“That’s exactly right!” The wealthy Englishman moved off the boardwalk where he’d been standing near Abbie and approached them. Zeke glanced at Abbie, trying to tell her with his eyes not to be afraid. But he could see her fear, and it made him angrier at the men who had caused it.

“Sir Tynes,” Hanks was saying to the well-dressed man who came through the crowd. “This here is Zeke Monroe, the fella I was telling you about earlier.”

Zeke glanced at the elegant Englishman, confused by this sudden turn. Why had Hank Buckley been telling this stranger about him? The man called Sir Tynes took inventory of Zeke with his eyes. “I can see you were right, Hank, about this man being capable of being quite nasty with a knife when he needs to be.” Tynes turned to the sheriff. “My driver here, Hank Buckley, is right, Sheriff. This Indian man didn’t ask for any of this. He is perfectly innocent, and these other men deserve everything he gave them. May I ask if it is legal for six or eight men to gang up on one man in this great country of America?”

The sheriff blinked in confusion. “Of course not, but—”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said. It is the other men who were in the wrong. I daresay this Indian man had every right to kill them, and I am surprised he didn’t. I’d say he did right well, leaving them alive as he did. Doesn’t that show you he’s trying to abide by the law? He could have done much worse, considering his reputation with that”—Sir Tynes glanced down at the ugly, bloody blade and shivered—“that weapon he carries, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”