Sweet Prairie Passion (Savage Destiny) (45 page)

“I can hear them … screaming … sometimes, Abbie,” he said in a broken voice, his face showing pain and inner struggle. “My people. I see women, children, old people shot to pieces, cut down with no mercy. Sometimes I ride alone, and I hear the rocks talking, telling me someday there will be no more Indians roaming free on the land, no more buffalo, no more wildlife, no more quiet places. And I’m so … torn, Abbie!”

His voice choked, and her heart bled for him. It was not an easy thing for a man like Zeke to sit there and spill out his feelings; and she knew he did it only because he knew she loved him, because he’d come so close to losing her that perhaps he knew he could not make it alone anymore. Yet he knew it was important that she understand him.

“I’m torn,” he went on, taking a deep breath, “because … I want to be with you, Abbie. Only I don’t know if I can do both … because I don’t want to take someone I love and put her through what I know is coming. I don’t want to watch … someone I love suffer, because I’ve already been down that road. Living with the whites, my woman would suffer terrible gossip and be shunned, - perhaps even physically abused like my first wife. But living among the Cheyenne could end up badly, too. For there is a rough road ahead for my people.”

She reached over and touched his arm. “Tell me about your Cheyenne mother, Zeke.”

He leaned back, his eyes closed. “She is very beautiful—even now. I loved my father until he took me from her. Then I hated him!” His jaw flexed, and he breathed deeply. “He turned out to be like most whites, thinking Indians weren’t worth any more than animals. Seven years! Seven years he lived with my Indian mother, and then, when I was only four, he up and sold her like a slave—took me back to Tennessee. The day we left my mother ran after us, crying, begging pa not to take her son from her, but he just kept riding, with me on the horse in front of him, going faster and faster until finally she fell and couldn’t keep up anymore. The Crow man he’d sold her to came and got her and started hitting her.” His voice choked again. “And pa, he just kept riding and left her back there with him. That’s when I first knew I hated the Crow and I hated my pa!

“Eventually she was recaptured by the Cheyenne during a fight they had with the Crow, and she married a Cheyenne man. But I had no way of knowing it right then. It wasn’t until years later, when I went searching for her, that I found to my great relief she was back with the Cheyenne and had had three more sons.”

“It must have been wonderful for her,” Abbie said quietly, “to see you again.”

He nodded. “It was quite a reunion. I love my Cheyenne mother very much, Abbie. She’s my true blood.”

“What about… Tennessee? I guess it must have been real bad for you.”

“It’s bad for a half-breed anywhere, Abbie girl. My pa, he loved me just because I was his son. He tried to
help—got in a couple of fist fights himself over me. But people continued to shun me, and I continued to get in fights at school until they kicked me out for good. Then, like I told you earlier, they wouldn’t let me come to the church anymore. But it didn’t matter, because I didn’t think much of their religion anyway. I remembered what my mother had taught me about the Cheyenne religion, and that made a lot more sense. My pa, he’d remarried, and his new wife never liked me—liked me even less once she had three sons of her own. It’s kind of ironic: I have three white half brothers and three red. Their ages aren’t even a whole lot different. At any rate, I hated it there—tried to run away once. That’s when I walked the Trail of Tears with the Cherokee. But somehow the soldiers discovered I wasn’t one of them, and they shipped me back. Then I met Ellen.” He sighed and hesitated. “God, I loved her, Abbie!” he whispered. He cleared his throat. “I thought then that I could stay in Tennessee and make it… because I had Ellen. Then the white man showed his stuff real good … and I lost her … and my little son. Then I knew for sure that I belong with the Cheyenne, and so will my children, if I have any more. I came out here and found my mother … and I stayed.”

He opened his eyes and stared at Abbie. “It’s a hard life, Abbie girl. Don’t kid yourself that it’s anything else. And I’m telling you right now that I’ve not decided on anything for sure. You’ve put me in a bad fix, little girl. Me—a grown man—all confused and crazy over a woman-child. I’ve given you things to think about, and I want you to think real hard.”

She squeezed his hand. “I know what you’re trying
to tell me, Zeke, and I … appreciate it.” She closed her eyes. “I’m tired … Zeke. I don’t want you to worry … about all that now. Just sing to me. … I need to sleep. When we … get to Ford Bridger … we’ll talk again. We’ll make a decision … and abide by it. At least, I had you for a … while.”

He leaned closer again, kissing her cheek. “I love you, Abbie,” he whispered. His lips moved to her mouth, and he kissed her lightly, then sat back and strummed the mandolin, its haunting music drifting through her groggy mind and making her smile. Faintly, she heard the words of the song about Tennessee mountain mornings, and she decided Zeke was a lot like the mandolin music, mystical and out of reach, a man who drifted over the mountains like his music. She fell asleep dreaming about herself and Zeke floating together over the mountains to a secret place that was just their own, one in which they could live together with no one to tell them it was wrong, one with no white men and no Indians—just the two of them.

Eight days later, on the eleventh of August, they rolled into Fort Bridger. Zeke had not returned to her, once he’d realized she would get better. Mrs. Hanes told her Zeke would be taking out her stitches when they got to the fort, but when Abbie asked why he did not come to see her, the woman only shrugged. “He’s been very busy, way up ahead of us most of the time,” the woman replied.

Abbie turned away, hiding tears of disappointment. She knew he was allowing her time to think without him around, and he was doing the same for himself.
But her heart pounded with fear that, not being around her, it would be easier for him to decide to take the practical route. And she was more and more certain that at Fort Bridger he would not bring her the answer she wanted.

She healed slowly, but when they reached the fort, she could raise her arm, although not all the way without considerable pain; and she was still much too thin. They limped into the fort with nine men instead of their original fourteen, and seven wagons instead of ten. Kelsoe had lost both David and Bobby, and of course all of Abbie’s family was gone, as were Quentin Robards and Morris Connely. Willis Brown had lost five head of cattle and a couple of horses, which greatly upset him; but Abbie thought to herself that he should be grateful it wasn’t his own life, his wife’s, or his parents’ lives that had been lost. She wished that a few animals were all that she had lost.

Abbie was carried by Olin Wales into a small log cabin at the unfinished fort. “Jim Bridger has been workin’ on this place slow but sure,” he told her on the way. “Figures there will be lots more wagon trains comin’ through here over the years and he’s gonna be here to keep them supplied.”

“Where’s Zeke?” Abbie asked him with a heavy heart.

“Don’t rightly know, Abbie girl. He’s been lost in thought and hardly around ever since you got wounded. I reckon he has a lot on his mind, and you know why. But he’s told me nothin’, Abbie, so I’ve nothin’ to tell you. I reckon he’ll do the tellin’ himself before this train heads out again.”

Inside the cabin they were greeted by a short, stocky
man, all in buckskins like most of the men in that part of the country. His face was framed by thick, graying hair that hung long, and he smiled at Abbie through a grizzly beard and mustache. He seemed rather unkempt, but not dirty, like a man who was simply too busy to bother shaving and combing his hair all the time. From head to toe he was “outdoors”; every bit of him looked like a man who’d almost never slept under a roof.

“Well, now, you must be Miss Abigail Trent!” the man said in a kindly voice. “Bring her over here to this cot, Olin. Nice and comfy and warm here.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Olin replied. He layed Abbie on the cot, and the other man put an extra blanket over her, a colorful Indian blanket. Then he knelt down beside her a moment.

“I’m Jim Bridger, ma’am, and this here—Wind River Range, the Green River, the South Pass—it’s all my stompin’ grounds. This is Jim Bridger territory, Miss Trent, and you don’t have a thing to worry about. Between me and Olin Wales, you’ll be safe and snug right here for the winter while you get yourself well. Cheyenne Zeke is a damned good friend of mine, and I have a hunch you’re pretty special to him, so I aim to take good care of you.”

Abbie blushed slightly and glanced at Olin, who just winked. “I’m obliged, Mr. Bridger,” she told the man, looking back at him. “And I’m honored to meet you.”

He patted her hand and stood up, pulling up a chair by the fireplace and gesturing to Olin to sit in another chair across from him.

“One of your men outside tells me there have been
some Crow and Blackfoot raidin’ these parts,” Olin told Bridger, removing his hat and hanging it on the back post of the chair. “That worries me some. I expect Zeke told you we already run into some Crow a few days back. That’s when Miss Abbie took that arrow.”

Bridger got up and threw a few more logs on the fire. “Nothin’ to fret about,” he replied. “Me and my men can handle the damned Crow. They don’t bother the fort much, and I’ve got good men here—straight shooters and not a coward among them. And you know I’ve been around Indians most of my life. Been around them so much I might as well
be
one!”

Both men chuckled, and Bridger sat back down, stretching and putting his hands behind his head.

“What about along the Bear River and up to Fort Hall?” Olin asked. “Any more danger for the wagon train? Them folks has been through a lot.”

“Once they get past the Bear River, I don’t expect they’ll have any more Indian trouble, Olin. Their big problem now will be to get the hell to Oregon before the snow sets in. I feel an early winter comin’ on. The sooner Zeke gets goin’, the better.”

His words pierced Abbie’s heart, making her realize that it would not be long before she knew whether Zeke would come back for her or if he would make arrangements for someone else to get her to Oregon in the spring. In the latter case, she would never see him again.

“A couple of my men are gettin’ itchy to be on a horse again,” Bridger went on, “so I expect Zeke will have some good help with him, now that you’ll stay on here with Miss Trent. Me—I’ve got plenty here to
trade to the Indians, keep them calmed down. I just wish the Crow and Blackfoot were as easy-goin’ as the Arapaho and the Cheyenne. Not that the Cheyenne aren’t capable of making plenty of trouble if somebody makes trouble for
them!
” he added with a chuckle. “No better warriors ever rode the plains.” The man lit a pipe.

“Zeke … uh … he thinks highly of Miss Trent,” Olin told the man. “He won’t be wantin’ anything to happen to her.”

“And nothin’ will,” Bridger replied. “What about her wound? Does it still need attention?”

“It’s healin’ good, but she’ll be mighty sore for a long time and still can’t move her arm much. It’s more a matter of time than anything else now. She’s still got stitches in her. I expect Zeke will be takin’ them out before he leaves. But she’s been through so much more than just the arrow wound, I expect she’s got as much healin’ to do mentally as physically. Zeke says if a doctor happens to pass through, he wants us to be sure to have the man take a look at her. Maybe he’d have along some kind of tonic for her.”

“Maybe so. In the meantime we’ll see she’s fed good, get some meat back on her bones,” Bridger replied, puffing on the pipe.

Abbie felt embarrassed and strange, lying there listening to the two men talk about her as though she wasn’t present. She toyed with the designs on the Indian blanket, thinking of Zeke. So, he would take the stitches out before he left. At least she knew she would see him once more. Her eyes dropped from fatigue again, and she wondered how she could possibly be so tired from just from being carried from the wagon to
the cabin. She was aware of more conversation, but she heard little of it until she opened her eyes to a hand on her forehead. It was Jim Bridger’s.

“We’re gonna go out and let you rest now, ma’am,” the man told her. “We’ll be by later with some supper for you. I’ve got a good fire goin’, so you’ll be warm.” When he patted her head and walked out, Olin came close.

“You need anything just now, Miss Abbie?” he asked.

“No,” she replied in a tired voice. Then from nowhere the tears came. “Where is he, Olin? I want to see Zeke!”

“Now, now. You rest,” he replied, patting her cheek. “He’ll be around when he’s ready to be.”

“I … love him, Olin!” she whimpered. “But he won’t keep me with him, will he?”

“I can’t answer that, honey,” Olin told her. “If it was me, I’d sure as hell keep a woman like you. But Zeke is Zeke, and he’s got that terrible memory that keeps him from bein’ happy. But you gotta try to rest right now, Miss Abbie.”

He stroked her hair back from her face, and that, combined with her weariness and the warmth of the fire and the comfort of a real bed, lulled her back to sleep. She woke up in the middle of the night when Olin and Mrs. Hanes came to check her wound and change the gauze; but then she cried herself to sleep again, for it had not been Zeke who came, nor did he come at all that night. Time was growing short before she would have to say good-bye to him forever.

Twenty

Abbie sat in an old, stuffed chair that some of Jim Bridget’s men had brought out to the campfire for her. It was their second night at Fort Bridger, a night of celebration before moving on to Fort Hall, and Abbie had cried and begged until Mrs. Hanes had acquiesced and allowed her to join the others, but only if she wore her warmest coat and was covered with a quilt against the chilly, night mountain air. Two of the scouts from the fort sat playing fiddles, a third tooted a beat out with a ceramic jug, and yet another sang humorous folk songs, while the listeners sat, clapping their hands and laughing at the ridiculous words. Abbie tried to participate in the joy of the evening, celebrating with the others the fact that their trip was more than half over. She hoped all their troubles were behind them. But a cold, dark mist lay heavy on her heart, for she still had not seen Zeke since their arrival. Apparently he intended to see her only long enough to remove her stitches before he left, which could mean only one thing—he had made his decision.
When he left for Oregon, it would be the last she would see of him, and by his absence, he hoped to make it easier for them both.