Climb the Highest Mountain (20 page)

Chapter Twelve

Abbie sat near the hearth of the great stone fireplace, her Bible in her lap, her eyes staring at the flames. Jeremy sat nearby, studying a painted wooden train he’d taken down from the mantel on which a number of scale-model trains were perched, some of wood, some of pewter, some of brass—all intricately designed and suitable for Sir Tynes’s fascinating collection, a “frivolous but fun” hobby, as he put it.

“That one was hand-carved in New York,” Tynes was telling Jeremy.

“Really?” The boy took note of the colorful designs painted on the sides of the woodbox. “I’ve never seen a train. Are they big?”

Sir Tynes smiled. “Oh, quite big and quite noisy. See that gadget on the front of the engine?”

Jeremy touched the slanted grate. “What is it?”

“That is called a cowcatcher.”

The boy frowned. “What’s a cowcatcher?”

“Well, my boy, a cowcatcher is exactly what it says it is. It catches and deflects any cattle or other animals that get on the track, knocks them off so they cannot be caught under the wheels and cause a derailment.”

Jeremy giggled. “I bet it can’t knock off buffalo!”

Tynes laughed with him. “No, I don’t think it can, Jeremy. The buffalo would give any engine a good run, wouldn’t it? They’re such fine, great beasts. I admire the buffalo. It is as magnificent as the elephant.”

Jeremy looked up at him, wonder in his eyes. “Have you seen an elephant?”

“Oh, of course—in India and Africa.”

Jeremy watched the man light a fancy pipe. “You’ve been to those places?”

Sir Tynes nodded. “And Australia. Have you ever seen a picture of a kangaroo, Jeremy?”

The boy shook his head.

“They’re delightful animals, boy. They’re like giant rabbits, and they hop around, straight up, on powerful hind legs. The mothers have great pouches on their bellies. They carry their babies in them, sometimes for several years. Marvelous animals! Marvelous! I shall have to find a picture of one for you in my library.”

“I’d like to see it.” The boy looked at the train again. “You have a lot of trains, don’t you?”

“They fascinate me, son. That one you’re holding is called a 4-4-0, meaning it has four wheels under the lead car—the four small wheels at the front of the engine there—and four drivers, the very large wheels that are driven by steam—those actually push and pull to make the train move—and no wheels under the cab. Thus it’s a 4-4-0. That engine up there on the mantel is called a 4-4-2, and a later model is called the 0-8-0. It has eight large driving wheels with no small wheels on the front and no wheels under the cab.”

“Where do they come from? What makes them go?”

“Well, the engines are built in great factories in the East. Someday when you are grown up you should go east and see the wondrous things that are there, tall buildings and brick roads and miles and miles of railroads. There are steamships and theaters and all
sorts of wondrous things.” He glanced at Abbie, worried about her depressed state. He wished he could see her smile again. How he would love to take her around the world and show her the things she had never seen! “As far as what makes the engine go,” the man continued, looking back at Jeremy, “it is powered by steam. A fireman takes wood from the woodbox, that pretty painted car just behind the engine there, and he throws it into a huge furnace deep in the engine, keeping a hot fire going which heats the water inside the engine. The water boils and turns to steam, and the steam is trapped and driven through special pipes and instruments that make a drive shaft move back and forth. See that there?” He pointed to the shaft and wiggled it back and forth. “When the shaft moves, it causes this bar that is attached to the wheels to move, and that makes the wheels go around. The hotter the fire inside, the more steam and the more powerful the engine—the faster it goes. Its speed is controlled by the amount of steam, and if the engineer wants to stop the train, he simply releases the steam through a special valve so that it can’t go to the wheels. Quite marvelous, don’t you think?”

Jeremy signed, working the wheels again. “I sure would like to see one.”

“Well, I think you will in a few years, Jeremy. The locomotive is on its way west. Some day East and West will be linked by trains. There’ll be no more stage coaches.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Oh, I know so. It’s inevitable.” He glanced at Abbie again, noted the tear on her cheek. “Jeremy, why don’t you take that train to another room and play with it. Be a good chap now and let me talk to your mother.”

The boy rose. “Thanks!” He ran off with the train in his hands.

Sir Tynes tamped out his pipe and walked over to kneel beside Abbie. “You must stop suffering, Abigail,” he told her. “Lillian has been dead for six weeks, and you have six other children, four of them right here with you. All of whom need their mother. Soon your husband will be back with the fifth, and I will wager that the sixth, your son in the north, will come home eventually. You must be strong. You must be ready to help those who are gone and those who are here.”

She moved her eyes to meet his. “It isn’t just Lillian. It’s your talk about railroads and such.” She looked back at the fire. “I came out here with my father in a covered wagon, Edwin. There was no Denver. There was no talk of gold. The buffalo ran in great, thunderous herds so thick one could almost walk across the prairie on them, and the Indian was happy and peaceful. Men like Zeke could live free and wild, could make their own laws and deal their own justice. I see all of that disappearing.” She looked at him again. “Did you know I killed a woman once, a vicious Indian woman who loved Zeke. She was trying to kill me.”

He frowned. “You shot her?”

She shook her head. “I stabbed her with scissors. She had attacked me, hurt me very badly. Then she’d turned on Wolf’s Blood. He was just a small boy then. He’d come into the room with his lance, thinking he could save me, but he wasn’t strong enough to really hurt her. She took the lance from him and was going to kill him, so I grabbed my scissors, the only weapon nearby, and I stabbed her. I’d never thought I was capable of such a thing.” She held out her hand. “I still have a scar. She cut me badly.” He studied it and took her hand gently. “I don’t know why I suddenly thought to tell you that. There have been many times when Zeke and I have both had to do what was practical, despite what refined whites would think was right. One of the
first things Zeke taught me about this land was the necessity to be practical, like the day I had to sit and watch those Comanches take my little girl away. If I had run outside to help, they would have killed me, or taken me too. I might have drawn their interest to the house and the rest of the children. I had to protect them.” She studied his eyes. “Do you understand that?”

He squeezed her hand. “Of course I do.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you fully understand. You haven’t truly suffered. You’ve been to many places in the world, but you’ve always had what you needed for survival.” She looked down at his hand. “On that wagon train, my little brother fell under a wagon wheel and was crushed. He suffered terribly from wounds that would never heal. He was dying slowly, horribly. Maggots were crawling in his wounds. I”—she swallowed and her eyes teared—“I asked Zeke to quietly end my brother’s life with his knife. I knew that if anyone could do it quickly, and with little pain, Zeke could. He agreed, even though it’s totally against his grain to hurt a child. But we both knew he would really be helping Jeremy, putting him out of his misery. That was probably the hardest thing Zeke has ever done. But he did it, and it was our secret. That was when I knew how much Zeke Monroe loved me.”

“Why are you telling me all these things, Abigail?”

She stared at the fire again. “I don’t know. I just… need to talk about them. Suddenly my past is dancing through my mind. It’s as though I’m trying to figure out how it all started, how I got here. If someone had told me, when we started out from Tennessee, all the things that would happen to me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Actually, I probably would have been terrified. I’ve been through so many things, Edwin, but I’ve survived them. I’ve survived because I had Zeke.”

He squeezed her hand again. “You also survived
because of your own inner strength, Abigail. You are a remarkable woman, you know. You must realize your own strength and courage, for it is possible that you won’t always have Zeke. He is a man who lives by rules that are changing now, a violent man who grew up in a violent land that is now being tamed.”

She sighed. “The strange part is that despite all I’ve been through, I don’t really want this land to change. I like to think about those early years: migrating with the Cheyenne, watching the great buffalo hunts, helping dry the hides and make tipis from them, making pemmican. I like to wear tunics—they’re quite practical and comfortable—but I don’t dare wear them in civilized places anymore for fear of laughter and ridicule. And I can see that my children who do not look Indian are going to try to keep their Indian blood hidden. That hurts. It’s so difficult… watching all these changes.”

“Of course it is.” Tynes rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. How he wanted to hold her! “Can I get you something, Abigail? Coffee? A little wine, perhaps?”

She sighed deeply. “Tea. I wouldn’t mind some tea.” She met his eyes again. “I’ve seen so many people die, Edwin. My own parents, my sister and brother; Zeke’s Indian parents and two of his Indian brothers; Dooley, a good friend and our ranch hand; Lance, Zeke’s white brother; and so many more. And now my own daughter. Somehow I thought my own family was immune from death, that it only happened to those outside our close circle. Now it has come to my little girl, and I suddenly realize it could come to more of my children … it could come to Zeke.” Her eyes teared again. “And even if it doesn’t, something has been lost between us … and I don’t know what it is … or how it happened.” She choked back a sob and put a hand to
her face.

He reached up and patted her hair. “You must stop dwelling on sad things, Abigail. You won’t know about Zeke until he gets back, and I’ll wager from what I know of the man that he’ll most definitely come back—with your daughter perched on his horse, unharmed. You’ll see.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll go get that tea for you.”

He left reluctantly, wishing he could do more for her, wishing her love for Zeke Monroe would be given to him instead. But she was a loyal woman, and getting her to look at any other man would be a monumental task … unless Zeke Monroe should, for some strange reason, leave her. He walked to the kitchen and ordered the cook to set up a tray of tea, which she did quickly. Then he returned with it to the drawing room. Abbie took a cup and sipped it quietly while he sat down across from her.

“Now then, Abigail, I want you to tell me more about your past—tell me about living with the Indians, about their customs, how they use the buffalo, that sort of thing. I should like to take notes for my book. I think it’s good for you to talk. And when we are finished, I have some lovely dresses that belonged to my wife and I would be delighted if you would wear while you are here. I am exceedingly curious to see you in an expensive dress, and they are just hanging in the closet.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I insist. I am your host and you should please me. I ask you sincerely to wear them, and I thought perhaps you might like to prepare supper this evening. You are accustomed to working, and much as I am against it, I think it would be good for you. You have far too much time to think right now, but it isn’t good to sit and dwell on sad things. If it makes you feel better to cook and bake and do some cleaning, I shan’t stop you. I want
you to be happy.”

She looked at him curiously, seeing in his eyes what she did not want to see—love. She looked down at her tea then. “I am deeply grateful for your kind hospitality, Edwin. I would dearly love to cook and bake for the children.” She met his eyes again. “If you have any material, I would like to make new dresses for Margaret and Ellen, and perhaps one for LeeAnn, to surprise her when she comes back. And …”

Their eyes held, and Sir Tynes smiled. “There. You see? Already you are thinking about her return, thinking positively.”

She smiled a little and he grinned and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You have no idea how good that smile looks, Abigail. You are such a beautiful woman. I wonder if you realize just how lovely you are.”

She looked away again. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s a simple fact, you know. There is nothing wrong with my admiring you. You are a rare woman, and Zeke Monroe is a lucky man. I have no doubt he realizes that. I see it in his eyes when he looks at you. And I’ll tell you something, Abigail. I would gladly give up my wealth to trade places with your husband, if doing so meant I could have you. I don’t mean that I would try to steal a man’s wife. I only mean I wish I could find a woman like you for myself, and if I had to give all this up to do it, I would. That is why Zeke Monroe is a much richer man than I.”

She looked at him again. His handsome dark eyes were sincere. “I… I guess I should thank you,” she said softly. She smiled then, almost bashfully. “Zeke has told me many times he’s a lucky man, but I feel I’m the lucky one. I didn’t even think I was pretty when I first came out here at fifteen. But when Zeke stepped into the light of my father’s campfire, and looked at
me”—she closed her eyes—“I felt like the prettiest girl who was ever born. And even though to others he looked mean and wild, I saw something in Zeke’s dark eyes that spoke of loneliness. He was the finest-looking man I’d ever seen—still is. I knew what I wanted, right then and there. But I had my work cut out for me because I was just a child in his eyes, and I wasn’t sure of how to go about hooking a man like that onto my apron.”

She smiled fully then, and when she opened her eyes they glittered with love and remembrance. Edwin Tynes knew at that moment that there was no room in her heart for another man, but he still hoped that somehow he could have Abigail Monroe for himself.

“Tell me more,” he urged. “Keep talking, Abigail. If it makes you smile like that, then tell me more. What happened on your trip?”