Meet the New Dawn (32 page)

“Zeke, don’t …” she whimpered, looking down then and grasping at her aching chest.

“I have to, Abbie. Someone you love never really dies. You just remember that I will come to you. I will prove to you that I am still with you, even after death. You listen, Abbie. Listen to the voices. Listen to your dreams. I will be there. I will tell you what to do, where to find me. Do you believe that?”

She nodded.

“Don’t shame me, Abbie, by being weak and simpering. That’s not my Abbie. You be strong, like the little girl I met all those years ago. You take that doctor’s tonic for your health. And you let the children and grandchildren be your reason for going on. And you remember that I love you and will always, always be with you. Be strong for me, Abbie. You can do it. And if you love me, you will understand why I will do what I must do. Let me be the man that I am, Abbie. You always have over these years. So do it now.”

She met his eyes, her shoulders shaking. “Will you … be here in January when Ellen’s baby is born?”

He sighed deeply. “I don’t think so.” He strummed the mandolin again. “If Jeremy or LeeAnn ever come home again, Abbie, you tell them I love them, will you? Tell them I never once stopped loving them and I hold no hard feelings.”

She nodded again, tears streaming down her face. He turned his eyes to the fire, strumming a moment before he began the song she loved.

“See the mist a-risin’,

Out there upon the hill.

The mornin’ sun’s a-comin’ up,

And dawn is bright and still.

“I’ve lived on this here mountain

Since I was freshly born.

And there ain’t nothin’ nicer

Than a misty mountain morn.

“Lord, I know heaven’s pretty,

And death I do not fear.

But I hope that heaven’s mornin’s

Are like the one down here.

“I’ve lived on this here mountain

Since I was freshly born.

And there ain’t nothin’ nicer

Than a misty mountain morn.”

It had been a long time since he seemed all Tennessee man to her. It was not as important a part of his soul as being Indian was, but for her he would be Tennessee tonight. She knew he would soon enough be Indian again, and he would die Indian. And although this night he sang Tennessee songs about the Smokies and the green hills of that place, she knew she would never go back there, even if he died. She had been in this land too long. To leave it would be to leave Zeke Monroe—Lone Eagle. No! She would stay here in the great West that he loved, and she would die here too. It was only fitting.

With the time it took for travel, Zeke and Abbie were gone over three weeks. It was August when they returned, and Wolf’s Blood rode out to greet them, his face solemn. He had been going through his own torture, fully aware of his father’s feelings of late. He, too, knew why Zeke had taken his mother to Pueblo. Now his own heart raced, for if ever there was a time to die honorably it was now. But he wondered how he would survive without the father that he worshipped.

He met them on a rise before they even rode down to the ranch. “Soldiers were here,” he told Zeke.

Abbie’s heart pounded with dread.

“What’s wrong?” Zeke asked.

“They need us. The Northern Cheyenne have broken loose and are running north to Red Cloud. They are led by Wild Hog, Tangle Hair, and Little Wolf and Dull Knife. We are to help track them and bring them back. It will be bad for them, Father, if they choose to fight.”

Their eyes held. “Yes, it will,” Zeke told the boy. “How soon must we go?”

“As soon as we can.”

“No, not yet!” Abbie protested. “We just got back!”

“Time is important, Mother. Even as it is, this could take all winter.”

Silence hung in the air and Abbie grasped her stomach, hanging her head.

“Do me a favor and spruce things up inside your tipi, Wolf’s Blood,” Zeke ordered. “It hasn’t been used for a long time. I wish to use it tonight.”

The boy blinked back tears, understanding. “Yes, Father.”

“And bring out
Kehilan.
I want to see him.”

The boy nodded. “I want to go with you.”

Zeke smiled for him. “And I want you with me. It will be as you predicted, Wolf’s Blood. We will be together. But you must be strong.”

The boy swallowed. “I am your son. The best man has taught me strength.” He turned his horse and galloped down the hill, and in the distance a wolf howled a long, lonely wail. Zeke’s long hair blew in the soft breeze. He took hold of the reins to Abbie’s horse, realizing she was too stunned to even pick them up herself and ride down the hill.

“We’ll sleep in the tipi tonight, Abbie,” he told her, his back to her, “like in the old days.”

She made no protests. It was fitting. Soon he would leave, perhaps tomorrow. The soldiers would go after the runaways, and Zeke would go with them. The runaways would stand and fight, Abbie was sure. And when they did, Zeke would fight with them. She knew it in her heart. He had his chance and he would take it.

The wolf howled again, followed by a distant train whistle; one a sign of the past, the other a sign of the future. Zeke Monroe had been caught between the two, as well as caught between the two worlds of Indian and white. His mind and soul had been tortured by his two bloods. Perhaps it was good that he would go out of this world and find some peace.

Chapter Nineteen

The night was sleepless. How could either of them sleep with the terrible premonition that this was their last night together, after all the years, all the loving, all the hardships, all the sharing and sacrificing? How could he make love to her enough? How did a man say good-bye to such a woman? He had never been able to in all these years. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to now. But the memory of the past winter, the vision of being too crippled to ride or even get out of bed haunted him. He was Zeke Monroe, and he was Lone Eagle, the warrior.

She touched every part of him, and he left no part of her untouched or unexplored. He must remember every curve, every feature, everything about this woman who had been his since she was fifteen. And she in turn wanted to forget nothing. She could not touch him enough or study deeply enough his lustrous black hair, the high cheekbones and straight nose, the perfect lips, the thin scar on his left cheek, the handsome, dark eyes, and the bronze skin. She ran her hands over a still-firm chest and muscular arms, the hard, flat stomach and muscular thighs. Yes, he was scarred, so many scars from so many battles, many of them for her own defense and protection. How did a man survive so many wounds and then be sentenced to die from a hideous disease he could not control? It was not fair. But life had never been fair to Zeke Monroe since he was four years old, and his white father dragged him from his Indian mother’s arms, taking him to Tennessee, where he suffered ridicule and rejection. No, life was never fair to a half-breed.

Their whispered words of eternal love were heard by only the nearby crickets and the soft night breeze that slipped through tiny cracks in the weathered tipi. They kept a lantern lit inside, not wanting to lie in darkness, wanting to see, to look upon one another all night.

He moved over her, in the way only he could do, and she was lost in him, this man of men who was her life. It seemed all the years were rushing by her now—memories, memories with every touch and every kiss and every thrust inside of her. She could see mountains and hear rushing waters. She remembered a time when he came to her, after he had left her with Swift Arrow and his people and had to go away. He’d been gone so long she thought he was not going to return. What a beautiful time that was when he came back to her, where she was camped in the land of boiling waters, the place the government now called Yellowstone. She had been bathing beneath a waterfall, and when she emerged he was there, and they made love in the soft grass beside that lovely stream, while the wind moaned through the pines and over mountain peaks. What a wonderful time it was when the Cheyenne could roam such places, hunt at will, live where the air was sweet and the waters fresh and the game plentiful. Why did it have to change? Why? Why did this have to happen to what some called the “Beautiful People”?

Change! Why did there have to be change? Why did life have to be so cruel? Why couldn’t anything stay the same. Children stay little? Husbands never grow old? The white man never come to this land?

A distant train whistle reminded her such things must be. For so many years they had fought the idea of a railroad coming through Indian country and through their own land. Now the railroad penetrated every place that was once the Indian’s, and the Kansas-Pacific rumbled past their own north pasture. Its whistle brought a terrible ache to her heart—so lonesome. Just as she would be if this man sharing her body now did not return to her.

Surely he would not die! Surely not! He was Zeke, the strongest, bravest man she had ever met. He seemed so indestructible. He was her rock, her strength, her breath. For
thirty-three years she had not considered herself as an individual. She was Zeke Monroe’s woman. Every movement, every chore, every breath had been for her man.

They did not speak of it. Not that night. They only spoke of love, sometimes talking about the past, mostly making love. When she took him inside of her body she heard drums and chanting, the tinkling of tiny bells and the call of wild things. Did a wolf really howl somewhere on the plains, or was it her imagination? Again came the rushing waters, the moaning wind. The tipi swirled around her, the decorative paintings on its walls coming alive and dancing in a circle, around and around, painted horses and people. All alive. She was with them again, at his village, talking to his beautiful mother, Gentle Woman, and sharing stories with his stepfather, Deer Slayer. His brothers were there: Red Eagle and his sweet wife Yellow Moon and their son Laughing Boy; Black Elk and his wife Blue Bird Woman and their son Bucking Horse. The food was plentiful and the tipis warm, and they shared stories and friendship.

But no. Gentle Woman had died of white man’s disease, and Deer Slayer had died of a broken heart. Red Eagle had turned to whiskey, craving it so badly he had sold poor Yellow Moon to outlaws, who killed little Laughing Boy and sold Yellow Moon again and again until she had ended up in the hands of Winston Garvey. Now the only thing left of her was her half-breed son, Joshua. Black Elk and his wife and son had been killed at Sand Creek. And so had Abbie’s dear, devoted friend, Tall Grass Woman. She remembered the first time she saw the woman, when she first came to the People as Zeke’s wife. Tall Grass Woman had befriended her, and when Abbie had saved the woman’s little girl once from drowning, she had become honored and respected by the whole tribe for her bravery in going into the deep waters where monsters lurked. But the little girl had later died of white man’s disease. Abbie couldn’t even remember anymore if it had been measles or cholera or whooping cough.

How many times had white men’s diseases ravaged Indian camps, at times obliterating entire villages? Yes, the future only spelled doom for the few who were left. And now a pitiful
handful were trying to make their way north to the land they loved. She was glad Zeke would help track them—glad that he would help them if he could. Perhaps he would die trying. If he did, it was a good and proper way for such a man to die. She could not think of a better way, and yet …

She kissed him savagely, and their lovemaking started all over again. Was there a way to keep the night from ending? Why couldn’t a person have just one chance at stopping time—just for a little while? But no one except God had that privilege, and He did not choose to do so this night. The moon made its arc over the night sky, still hanging in the heavens when the sun peeped red and large on the eastern horizon the next morning, finding Zeke and Abbie in an exhausted sleep by then, a sleep that could not be avoided after hours of heated passion, followed by quiet tears.

Wolf’s Blood was up and had everything packed, horses saddled. He had Margaret start some breakfast, and they waited. He refused to go to the tipi or let anyone else disturb his mother and father. They would come out when they were ready. If he and his father left late, then they would just leave late.

Breakfast cooled, and Wolf’s Blood and the others went ahead and ate. Margaret cleared the table. The house was quiet, all of them sensing an impending loss. Even the grandchildren were subdued: Little Zeke, now nine and looking and acting all Indian, much like his uncle, Wolf’s Blood. The boy worshipped his grandfather. He felt like crying now, but wasn’t sure why. Nathan was seven, a dark, handsome boy, greatly resembling his father, Morgan. Wolf’s Blood’s own son Kicking Boy was six, and held a proud Indian look about him, often mimicking his father. He was already a good rider, just as Wolf’s Blood had been by that age. Little Iris was five, and it was already obvious she would be an exquisite beauty, a grand mixture of her handsome Cheyenne father and her beautiful Apache mother.

They all heard a horse then, and Wolf’s Blood went to the door. He turned back to Margaret. “It is Father and Mother. They’re riding toward that place they like by the stream, probably to bathe. They will come soon.” His eyes were red,
and he walked outside to gaze at the very distant purple mountains, praying silently to
Maheo,
feeling death all around him. Somehow his God would have to give him the strength to go on without his father. This would take much more courage and strength than he’d had to conjure up to participate in the grueling Sun Dance ritual. He would go through the Sun Dance ten times over if it would mean he would never lose his father to death. He argued inwardly that nothing would happen, that perhaps he was worrying for no reason. But his deep spiritual senses told him otherwise.

Zeke and Abbie rode to their special place by the stream, into the hideaway where they had shared so much passion. The irises still bloomed all around, mixed with other wildflowers. They had brought a change of clothes and blankets. They would bathe here and put on clean clothes before going back. He removed her tunic, and she removed his leggings and loincloth. Again they touched, wanting to remember, remember. She reached up and he embraced her, pulling her up and letting her wrap her legs around his waist. They kissed again, and again. He knelt down, still holding his tiny wife, and picked up some soap, then walked into the stream with her. They shivered at the touch of the cool water on their heated bodies, then fell into the stream in an embrace. He pushed her and dunked her completely, and she came up shivering and laughing. Yes, he must make her laugh once more. He must remember the laughter and not the tears! And so must she. He ran the soap over her body and she jumped at the tickling sensation, bringing forth his own laughter. He lathered her up, gently washing her, not leaving out any curve or hidden place. He washed her hair then, and held her as he laid her back into the water to rinse her hair.

Then the job turned to her. She washed him, taking her time, running gentle fingers over every hard muscle, over that part of him that had made them one in body, over the strong legs, the broad chest, washing his hair last. She loved his hair and was glad he had never cut it. There had been times he considered it, for her sake, thinking that it would be easier on her when they were in civilized places if his hair did not hang long. But Zeke would not have been Zeke without the long hair
that made him more Indian. And she knew that deep inside he had never wanted to cut it. Yes, she had let him be Indian, and she was glad. He’d have been only half a man any other way. Never once in all their years together had she been ashamed of him. She was thoroughly proud of her half-breed husband, proud of his strength and faith, proud of his provocative looks, proud of his skills and bravery.

Too soon they were finished, and he lifted her out of the water and carried her to a blanket, wrapping her in it and gently toweling her hair. He dried himself off while she sat there and watched. Then he dressed and sat down in front of her, letting her comb out his hair. She wondered how she made her arms move and where her breath came from, for she knew he must leave soon now.

He turned to her, gently taking the brush from her hand. He began gently brushing her own hair back from her face, studying her beauty, proud of how few age lines she had on her face, how slim and curved she still was, how smooth was her skin.

“We must go back now,” he said softly, setting the brush aside.

Their eyes held and he saw the terror in her own. “One more day?” she asked.

He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “No, my sweet one. It must be done. I cannot say in certainty that I will not come back, Abbie. But this time … I make no promises. I have always before made promises and kept them.” His eyes teared. “This time I will not promise, Abbie.”

She swallowed. “I can’t … be without you, Zeke. I … can’t function without—”

He touched her lips. “Yes you can. You are a strong and brave woman. And I told you before that even in death I will always be with you. Remember to listen to your dreams, Abbie. Watch for the signs, for I will come to you.”

She jerked as a sob made its way from the depths of her soul to her throat, and tears overflowed her eyes. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his chest.

“All we are losing is our physical closeness,” he told her gently. “But two people do not have to be together to be one.
Many times when I was away from you, I could close my eyes and I was with you, wrapped in your arms, being one with you. You were not really there, and yet you were. That is the way it will be for you if I should not return, Abbie. You will simply close your eyes and remember these moments we have shared, and I will be there, holding you, kissing you, loving you. And I swear to you, Abigail, that I will still protect you. No harm will come to my Abbie, for I will be watching over her, and she will live to be an old woman, enjoying her children and her grandchildren. And I have dreamed, Abbie, that in old age you were with the People again, helping them, loving them. So you see, you must go on, for I have dreamed it and it must be so. And out of your love for me you will help my People until you are very old and you finally walk
Ekutsihimmiyo
and we are reunited.” He kissed her hair. “And when we are, you will be fifteen again, and I will be a young man, and we will ride together on a grand Appaloosa into the clouds, into a land where all is green, and all our loved ones return to us, and the buffalo are plenty, and the children fat and happy, and the People sing again. I see this, Abbie, and it will be so.”

She could do nothing but weep. How long they sat there neither was certain. His own tears were silent, mixing into her wet hair. They were beyond making love now, beyond hoping for things that could not be. It was time to accept reality, time to be strong for each other, and each was determined that he and she would leave smiling and not in tears. She finally pulled away from him, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. No more tears. Why make it more difficult for him? She was empty of tears now. How many had she shed over these years of hardships and worry? But she had chosen this life and this man, knowing full well he would not die an old cripple, but would very likely go down fighting while still in his prime. She did not want to lose him, and yet Abbie knew inwardly that even she would have it no other way for him.