Climb the Highest Mountain (5 page)

The girl nodded. “Don’t get up, Mother. I can do it all myself. You must be tired.”

Abbie leaned back and patted Jason’s bottom. “I am. Thank you, Margaret. Jeremy, you go out and get more wood, and, LeeAnn, you help Margaret. The rest of you go into the spare room and play some games or something. I’m just glad to be home and to know you’re all right.”

Margaret looked at her father. “What about Wolf’s Blood?” she asked. “I’m afraid for my brother. Sometimes he’s wild and foolish like some of the other
young Cheyenne boys. It would be just like him to ride right up to those men and taunt them.”

Zeke sighed. “I know, Margaret. I’ll do my best to find him.”

“You’re the only one he listens to, Father. Make him come back home.”

“I’ll try.”

The girl moved around the table and pulled a gunnysack of potatoes from under the cupboard. Zeke met Abbie’s eyes, and it was all said in that one look. “I’ll go tend to the horses,” he told her.

Little was said the rest of the evening, and soon all were bedded down for the night. Abbie wanted desperately to reach out to her husband, to hold him and be held by him, but he stayed up long after she had gone to their bedroom and crawled into the bed of robes on which they slept. He sat by the fire smoking a pipe, thinking, planning. She knew Wolf’s Blood was heavy on his mind. The boy was Zeke Monroe’s whole world, their only child totally proud to be Cheyenne, the only one who had been half raised by the Cheyenne, taught the Indian ways by his Uncle and Zeke’s half brother, Swift Arrow, who now rode with the Sioux in the North. Zeke had just two full-blooded Indian brothers left, borne by Zeke’s Cheyenne mother, who had married a Cheyenne man after Zeke’s white father had deserted her and gone back to Tennessee. Swift Arrow was the most warlike. He was a Dog Soldier and had married but once, only to lose his woman to a white man’s disease. That had been many years ago, and the continued settlement of Indian lands by whites had fanned the man’s bitterness over his wife and son’s deaths to all-out hatred. Now he stayed in the north with the war-making Sioux, participating in raids and killings. The second brother, Black Elk, was peace-loving,
and dwelt among the southern Cheyenne with Black Kettle’s band, now camped at Sand Creek. A third brother, Red Eagle, had succumbed to the evils of whiskey, had sold his wife, and then killed himself.

Abbie gave up trying to stay awake until her husband came to bed, but deep in the night she was awakened by a gentle hand rubbing over her hips and soft, warm kisses to her throat. She stirred, moving onto her back, only to have his lips cover her mouth hungrily while one hand pushed up her flannel gown. Then his lips moved to her throat again.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Abbie girl,” he whispered. But she knew he wasn’t, nor was she, for he had never left her without making love to her on their last night together. There was too much danger in this land, the risk of his not returning was too great. How she hated to have him go away when Indian killers were roaming the land!

“Zeke, I’m afraid for you—afraid for Wolf’s Blood,” she whispered. But her fear only seemed to enhance their lovemaking, for she returned his kisses with possessive passion. He opened her gown and pulled one side down to expose a breast. His long hair was unbraided and fell across her bared skin as her powerful savage moved over her almost desperately, as though this might be the last time they shared their lovemaking. He pushed her gown to her waist and moved on top of her, his hard manliness pressing against her belly almost painfully, needing relief. Always when he sensed imminent danger his love-making was more forceful. There was a light scent of whiskey on his breath, and although he seldom drank, she knew he had done so this night because of his worry over his precious son.

He pushed inside her then, with a shuddering groan,
and she was lost beneath him as he took her almost desperately due to the worry and the agony of having to leave her. Her nails dug into his upper arms as she forced herself to remain quiet, and her breathing came in deep gasps. At times she whispered his name in exhaled breaths. She could not help but cry out lightly at the last almost vicious thrust, and then he went limp, pulling away as she rubbed at her stomach.

He sighed deeply, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hair. “Damn it, I hurt you,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, Abbie girl. Sometimes I get so damned angry I take it out on you in the night.”

“It’s all right, Zeke.”

“No it isn’t!”

“You’re just worried about Wolf’s Blood.” She snuggled into his shoulder. “You must get some sleep, Zeke. You have a long day ahead of you. I know you. You’ll ride all day and all night and half the next day to get to the fort faster than it usually takes.”

He kissed her hair again. “You’re right there.” He ran a hand over her belly himself, gently massaging it. “You okay?”

“I am when you touch me that way,” she answered. She moved to kiss his scarred cheek, grateful that he had left the lantern dimly lit. “Bring our son back, Zeke.”

He met her eyes. “You know I will.”

When Zeke reached Fort Lyon he was immediately alarmed at the absence of a good share of the troops. An uneasy silence hung over the fort, and a hawk called out a lonely cry as Zeke rode through the gates of the fort. Only a skeletal garrison was left, Zeke noticed as he rode to the supply post and dismounted. He went
inside and greeted the trusted white trader, John Wilkens, who looked up from an inventory sheet as Zeke entered. Wilkens immediately put down his quill pen and extended a hand to Zeke.

“I was wondering when you might show up, Zeke,” he said.

Zeke shook his hand. “What’s going on, John? Where are all the troops?”

Wilkens sighed. “They’ve gone to Sand Creek, Zeke. I think that Chivington fella intends to wipe out every Cheyenne and Arapaho—every Indian there.”

Zeke’s blood ran cold. “You sure?”

The man let go of his hand and nodded. “Afraid so. Chivington was here just two days ago. It was a real surprise to Major Anthony. You know the major has been workin’ real hard on a peace settlement with Black Kettle’s band because they’ve made no trouble. Chivington came riding in here like he owned the place, said as how he was on his way to Sand Creek to kill every Cheyenne in sight. There was a big argument between him and Anthony. I mean to tell you, it was one hell of a fight. But Chivington won. That man has been given almost total authority over Colorado, Zeke. And he’s an Indian hater. He must have had seven or eight hundred men with him—all worthless rabble just itching for a slaughter. Chivington ordered Anthony to join him, so they’re about a thousand strong now, all well armed. They even have mountain howitzers with them, and he forced poor young Robert Bent to go along as a guide. It will be bad for the Cheyenne, Zeke. They must have already got there by now.”

Zeke’s jaws flexed in anger. “Have you seen Wolf’s Blood, John?”

The man’s eyes saddened. “He out makin’ hay again?”

Zeke couldn’t help but grin a little. “I’m afraid so.” He sobered again. “The worst part is he’s got a yen for a little Cheyenne girl. I’m afraid he might have gone to Sand Creek.”

The man frowned. “Then you’d best get up there. Ain’t nothin’ but bad times comin’ for them people. Orders are to kill all Indians, take no prisoners. Them words is right out of Chivington’s mouth.”

Zeke gripped his knife. “I’d like to get my hands on the bastard!”

“You’d have to go through about a thousand men to do it.”

Zeke’s eyes glittered with hopeless rage. “Thanks for the information, John. I’d best head out right away.”

The man nodded. “Good luck, Zeke. I hope you find your son okay.”

Zeke hurried out. He didn’t care what the orders were regarding Indians. He’d worn his buckskins and left his hair loose, decorating it with ornaments. He always felt happiest when he rode as an Indian, using no saddle, only a blanket over a rawhide seat stuffed with buffalo hair. He wore a buffalo coat and winter moccasins. His soul was Indian, and he had prayed to the spirits that morning for his son’s safety and his own.

“Help me, Maheyo,” he prayed now as he eased himself up onto his Appaloosa with a young man’s agility. He headed out of the fort at a fast gallop.

There was no sound but the howling wind as Zeke’s mount moved silently through the deep snow toward the edge of the bank that looked down on the Cheyenne village below. Zeke was already alarmed because he had seen no smoke. Any village in the dead of winter would put out smoke from the warming fires of every
tipi, and there should be at least a hundred lodges at Sand Creek. When he’d climbed the bank, his chest filled with pain at the sight below.

“Ihaveseva!”
he gasped. “Wolf’s Blood! Nahahan!”

He could only pray that Wolf’s Blood was not among the bodies that lay strewn and mutilated throughout the now-burned village below. There were too many to count. As he rode forward, shuddering with fear that Wolf’s Blood’s corpse would be among them, his eyes filled with tears at the horrible sight. This had been the most peaceful band of Cheyenne. They had been waiting faithfully beside the creek for instructions from Major Anthony. From the looks of the half-naked bodies, they had been attacked at dawn, before they had a chance to dress.

He dismounted as he rode closer, knowing he must perform the gut-wrenching chore of inspecting each body to see if Wolf’s Blood or his brother Black Elk and his family might be among them. He looked down into the faces of women and small children, noting the huge gashes on their limbs and chests. He groaned at the sight of women’s bellies riped open, their female organs removed. Some children were dismembered, and some lay naked, sprawled where they had run with little feet to get away from the huge men thundering down on them atop big horses, men wielding sabers and guns. Parts of bodies were still inside the remains of tipis that had been hit by howitzer shells.

Zeke could scarcely believe his eyes. He spotted a huge, battered flag lying next to one tipi. “Black Kettle’s,” he muttered. The banner lay wrinkled and matted on the frozen ground. The flag had been presented to Black Kettle by President Lincoln himself. The Indian leader had trusted the white man’s promises. Had Black Kettle escaped? Zeke walked
among the frozen bodies that lay in grotesque positions, stuck to the ground by their own frozen blood. He walked along the creek, where it was obvious some of the Indians had run for shelter. Everywhere around the camp he saw signs of shod horses. The village had apparently been totally surrounded. Bodies were strewn in the creek. Apparently soldiers had lined up on both sides of it to kill off the fleeing victims as though they were merely rooting out a pack of wolves. Many women and children lay in the creek bed, some women hunched over their children as though to protect them. Never had he seen anything like it, not even in the Civil War.

Then he noticed a familiar red headband. With pounding heart, he approached the body, then threw his head back and emitted a long cry of sorrow. It was his brother, Black Elk. Nearby lay his wife, Blue Bird Woman and their son, Bucking Horse. How they had prized their seven-year-old son, for he was the only child Blue Bird Woman had been able to have. Now they were dead! All dead!

Zeke fell to his knees and grabbed up the stiff, frozen body of his brother, holding the man and rocking him. Then he gently laid him back down, again crying out, angrily this time, and pounding his fists into the cold snow and cursing John Chivington, the white settlers, progress. Was this then the price of settling the West? He pushed up his coat sleeve and angrily removed his knife from its sheath. Quickly, he cut a long gash into his arm in his sorrow, letting the blood flow onto his brother’s body. He knew he would have to bury them, even if it took all day to break open the frozen earth enough to do so. Then he would have to keep looking for Wolf’s Blood. He screamed out to Maheo, begging his God that he would not find his son among these bodies; then he hunched over and wept as he had never
wept before. It was not just for his brother that he cried, but for the entire Cheyenne nation.

“Wolf’s Blood,” he groaned. “Where are you, my son!”

His only reply was the moaning wind. Already the blood that had dripped onto Black Elk was frozen, and snow had drifted across the dead man’s face.

Chapter Four

It took hours to dig a hole deep enough to hold Black Elk, his wife, and child. Zeke wished he could bury them all, wished he could erect proper platforms for a proper Cheyenne burial, but there was not enough material and not enough time. He had to find Wolf’s Blood. At first he suppressed the fear that the boy would be among the bodies scattered about. He didn’t want to think he could be there. He wanted to delay finding his son as long as possible if Wolf’s Blood was among them.

The wind howled at his back as he covered the bodies of his brother and sister-in-law and nephew. But his own numbness was from grief rather than the cold. He threw down the small spade he had salvaged from what was left of the village; then he began the grim process of looking at all the bodies. He wanted to throw up and wondered why he didn’t. The bodies were those of the very old, of women and of small children—the weakest ones who could not escape fast enough and who could not defend themselves.

The horror of what was happening to his people engulfed him. Nearly all the bodies had been mutilated, before or after death he would never know. Many
were scalped. He recognized some of them: Cheyenne friends he had known for years, some old ones who had known his own mother. How grateful he was now for her own early death. She could not see what was happening now, could not know that one of her sons had shot himself after selling his wife for whiskey, that another lay dead and mutilated along with his wife and son, and that still another rode in the north, making war with white settlers. His mother’s name, Gentle Woman, had truly fit her. How heartbroken she would be to see this!

He was startled to see that one of the bodies was that of old White Antelope, an aged and peaceful chief who had been to Washington just the year before to meet President Lincoln. One old woman he found was totally scalped, her face covered with blood. That could only mean she had been scalped while still alive, otherwise the blood would not have run over her face. His head pounded with the reality of it. Surely then, others had been mutilated while still alive. His eyes teared so that he could barely see as he stumbled about amid the bodies, afraid, so afraid one of them would be Wolf’s Blood.

To his relief he did not find the boy or the young girl Morning Bird of whom Wolf’s Blood was so fond. Zeke found his way back to his mount, glad Abbie was not with him. This would have been too much for her, and too much for any of the children to see. If this indicated how much Indians were hated, what lay ahead for his own children? He climbed wearily onto his Appaloosa and looked around the camp again. The bodies were strewn about for over two miles, and he had walked the entire area looking for Wolf’s Blood. He had noticed faint tracks that continued into the distance from the creek bed. Apparently a few had survived and had gotten away.
There was only one direction in which they could go, to the headwaters of the Smoky Hill River, where many more Cheyenne were camped. That was a good fifty miles away, and most of them were probably on foot. If the soldiers overtook them, there would be no hope for them. And even if they didn’t, how could these Cheyenne survive when most of them were half naked in the winter cold.

He took one last look around the village before leaving. “Fools!” he growled. “They think this will end the Indian fighting. But after this it will be worse than ever! There will be no hope for peace now!”

It seemed he could hear cries of death and pain in the wind. The People lay dead on the ground, and soon their bones would be one with the earth, as they had been even in life. Perhaps the bodies were dead, but their spirits were not dead, nor would they ever be. They would go on forever, blooming with the prairie flowers, falling in the spring rains to greet the buried bones. These Indians would speak forever, perhaps not in voices, but in other ways.

He headed at a near gallop toward the Smoky Hill, hoping he would not run into John Chivington and his Third Colorado Cavalry, the “Denver Roughs” as they were sometimes called, one hundred-day volunteers who joined up just for the fun.

Abbie raised the old Spencer that was once her father’s and took aim. The big buck stood as though in a trance, looking straight at her. In these days of scarce game, one did not pass up such precious meat, and although she had only been walking and had not planned on hunting, the good fortune of coming on the mule deer could not be passed up. The gun she had brought along for protection would now be used to
keep food on the table.

She squeezed the trigger and fired. The deer slumped down, then tried to rise. It struggled to its feet and, while Abbie quickly reloaded, ran for several yards before it fell again. Abbie hurried to where it lay. The animal did not stir. Blood covered the white hairs of its chest. Abbie sighed and stooped down, petting the deer’s neck.

“There was a time, long ago, when. I was too softhearted to shoot something like you,” she said aloud to the animal. “But out here we have to be practical, as Zeke would say. According to his beliefs animals were put here by his God to feed his children, yet we are all one in spirit. So I’ll do what Zeke would do and say thank you, deer spirit.”

She rose and looked back toward the cabin. It was much too far away for her to drag the animal, but she could see Lance already running toward her and she could make out a rifle in his hand. He had heard the shot and probably had thought she was in trouble. He had argued with her about going out alone, but she had needed to get away, to pray for Zeke and Wolf’s Blood, to remember the good times and to try to keep her sanity until Zeke returned.

“Halloo!” someone called to her from the ridge behind her. She turned, rifle ready, only to see a man riding down toward her on a grand black stallion. He was sporting the best of riding clothes and a warm, tweed coat.

“Sir Tynes,” she muttered to herself. She was suddenly aware of her appearance. She looked all Indian. Her hair was braided down her back, and she wore winter moccasins, a long tunic, and a heavy elkskin robe. The man came closer and smiled.

“By God, it is you! I wasn’t sure. I don’t believe it! You shot that deer yourself, Mrs. Monroe! What
a woman!”

She blushed slightly and pushed back a piece of hair that hung loose on her forehead. “It was nothing, Sir Tynes. Just a few more meals on the table.”

“Nothing!” He laughed and dismounted, stooping down to look at the dead animal. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” He glanced at her rifle. “And with such a relic! What is that, an old Spencer?”

She cradled the gun in the crook of her arm. “It was my father’s. I kept it after he died coming west. As far as how I learned to shoot, I’ve been using this gun for twenty years, Sir Tynes. Out here a woman has to know how to use a gun. I killed two Crow Indians with this gun when I was only fifteen.”

Lance came closer, panting from running. He looked warily at the fancy man with the fancy horse. “Abbie, you okay?”

Abbie smiled at him. “Yes. The gunshot was mine. I killed us a few meals, Lance.”

Lance trudged his stocky, muscular body over to the deer. Bending down and looking at it closely, he laughed lightly. “By God, you sure did! You’re something, Abbie. Wait till Zeke hears about this one. He’ll tease the hell out of you for the way you carry on, feeling sorry for every dead animal he brings home.”

She smiled softly. “I know. But as he says, we must be practical.” Lance met her eyes, and their thoughts were the same.

“He’ll be okay, Abbie.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together to keep from crying.

“Why, where is your husband, Mrs. Monroe?” Sir Tynes asked. “I’ve come to see him, look at his horses.”

Lance stood up, several black curls of his thick hair sticking out from beneath his beaver hat. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lance, this is Sir Edwin Tynes, from England, the man we told you about meeting in Pueblo.”

Lance looked the man over, almost wanting to laugh at the man’s perfect horse and gear and clothing. He nodded then. “I’m Lance Monroe.”

“Ah, yes! Zeke’s white brother.” The man put out his hand and Lance shook it, surprised at the strong handshake. “I am glad to meet you, Mister Monroe.” He turned to Abbie. “And you, madam, would do well on one of my African hunting expeditions. How exciting it would be to have a woman like you along when hunting big game like lions and tigers!”

She laughed lightly. “I only know about lions and tigers from reading books to my children, Sir Tynes. And I have no interest in the place called Africa. Colorado is wild and dangerous enough for me, thank you.” She turned to Lance. “Can you go get a horse and come back and get the deer, Lance? I’ll help you clean it if you’ll get him strung up for me.”

“Sure, Abbie.” He turned and headed back toward the cabin, and Abbie looked up at Sir Tynes.

“Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir Tynes?” she asked. “Our cabin is quite small and humble, but it’s warm.”

“I’d be delighted!” he replied, tipping his hat. He took his horse by the reins and walked beside her through the deep snow. How utterly different and delightful she was! A survivor in the greatest sense! He liked women like Abigail Monroe, wondered what it took to master such a woman. But he had only to picture the man Zeke to know that, a man sure and strong and rugged. But then wasn’t he also all of those things, with the additional attribute of being rich? He smiled at the contrasts fate could provide. There she was, walking beside him in common Indian clothing, her hair plain and braided; yet he could visualize her
walking gracefully in a full ball gown, her breasts billowing above its low bodice, her dark hair cascading in curls, her large dark eyes and lashes accented with just a hint of color, her full, sensuous mouth enhanced with lip rouge. Abigail Monroe knew not her own beauty, and apparently she did not care about it. That made her even more attractive.

“Your husband has a fine-looking ranch here, Mrs. Monroe,” he declared.

“We built it up ourselves,” she answered. “We started with just a few horses and set up house in a tipi on the bank of the river. It took a while to get the cabin built; we had so many other problems. Then the children kept coming, one after another, and after the cabin was built it soon became apparent we needed even more room, so we added an extra room, and it still seems crowded.”

He thought it no wonder that the children had come one after another. Zeke Monroe seemed to be the type of man who would be as active in bed as he was out of it, and who wouldn’t be, with such a woman in his arms at night?

They reached the cabin, and when they went inside, to his surprise six children sat around a large table in the main room, all with books in front of them, all obviously well disciplined, for they had apparently been sitting there while their mother was gone. An older girl, very dark and beautiful, very “Indian,” looked up at her mother.

“Uncle Lance said you shot a deer, Mother!” the girl exclaimed. The other five children all looked at Abbie and Sir Tynes then, and the littlest one clapped his hands.

“Mamma got a deer!” he exclaimed. “Can I go with Uncle Lance to get it, Mamma?”

Abbie smiled and set her gun in the corner. “I
suppose, but first I want you to meet someone.”

They all stared at Sir Tynes as Abbie removed her outer garments. “This is Sir Edwin Tynes, from England,” she told them. “He owns a very big ranch next to ours.” She looked up at Tynes. “This is their reading time. All of my children can read and write very well, Sir Tynes. I have educated them myself. The only one who can’t read well is Wolf’s Blood.” Her face fell at the mention of her eldest son’s name. “He’s always been the untamable one. Zeke is out looking for him now. The boy rode to the Cheyenne camp at Sand Creek and we heard soldiers might be preparing to attack it. We’re worried about him.”

Tynes frowned. “I’m sorry.” Then he brightened. “But please introduce me to each child. They’re lovely, so well mannered. You’re a wonder, Mrs. Monroe.”

Margaret frowned. She didn’t like the way this fancy, apparently rich man looked at her mother. Abbie smiled proudly and named each child seated around the table: Margaret, LeeAnn, Jeremy, Ellen, Lillian, and Jason. Jason jumped up then, and pulling on a pair of winter moccasins and a little deerskin jacket his mother had made for him, he ran out the door to chase down his Uncle Lance. Abbie offered Sir Tynes a chair, and the man sat down, feeling suddenly awkward as the rest of the children stared at him curiously.

“Margaret, please get the tin of tea,” Abbie told her daughter. She herself took down a porcelain cup and draped gauze over it. She held it as Margaret opened the tin of tea and spooned some onto the gauze. Then the girl went to the hearth, where a kettle of water was always warming. The girl picked up the kettle after wrapping a rag around the handle to keep from burning her hand. She brought the water to her mother, slowly pouring it through the tea and gauze.

“This is the best I can do, Sir Tynes,” Abbie was explaining. “It will keep the tea grounds from swimming in your cup. Do you take cream? We have a little cow’s milk.”

“Yes, I would like that, but you mustn’t fuss, Mrs. Monroe.” He studied the firm roundess of her hips beneath the common tunic, the luster to her thick, braided hair. Lovemaking must be very rich and rewarding with such a woman, he thought.

“It’s no bother,” she replied, her back to him. “But we don’t drink much tea around here. I hope this is fresh enough for you. We drink mostly coffee or plain hot water.”

Sir Tynes looked away quickly when Margaret gave him a dark look for staring at her mother. The man looked at the rest of the children and smiled. They all smiled back.

“Where is England?” Ellen asked.

“Oh, it’s very far from here, clear across the Atlantic Ocean,” he replied.

“Don’t you miss it?” Jeremy asked.

“Oh, quite often.”

“Why did you come here?” Margaret asked almost accusingly.

Abbie set the cup of tea in front of him and handed him a spoon to stir it with.

“Well, now, young lady, I happen to be the adventurous sort, you see. I’ve been everywhere, done just about everything. So I thought I’d try this wonderful American West I have heard so much about. I have five thousand acres north and west of you, and I’m building a mansion there. I thought it might be amusing to have an English mansion sitting in the middle of the Colorado Plains, and it will make me feel more at home. When it is finished, I shall have all of you come to a grand dinner and show you around.”