Sweet Prairie Passion (Savage Destiny) (46 page)

Everyone, even Yolanda Brown, came to tell Abbie good-bye, to wish her a speedy recovery, and to expressing sympathy for her terrible losses on their trail West. Mrs. Hanes stayed close to Abbie, knowing inside her own heart just how unhappy she must be, and she frequently assured her that when she came the rest of the way to Oregon the next spring, the Hanes family would still have a home ready and welcome for her. Even Mrs. Hanes could see what Zeke was doing, and she understood why; but she was worried about Abbie’s spirits, and her heart ached for this lonely young woman who would be left behind while the rest of them went on to Oregon without her.

Several of the men from the fort came to speak to Abbie, taking off their beaver-skin hats and bowing low to her as they introduced themselves. All of them expressed praise for the fact that she’d shot a Crow before she took the arrow, and their respect and admiration was obviously genuine. Abbie could not help but feel a tinge of personal pride and satisfaction in her feat, noticing that a woman of courage and determination was well thought of in this wild and untamed land. It was obvious that any one of the men would have gladly pursued further conversation with her, but she sensed a certain hesitance, even in their short conversations. She wondered if the rumor had spread among them that she belonged to Cheyenne Zeke. If so, she did not detect any of the disrespect Zeke seemed to think these white men would show her if they knew, nor were there any leering or suggestive
looks. It could be different out here; of that she was certain. There would certainly be those who would deplore such a relationship; but surely it could not be as bad for them in this new and freer land as it had been for Zeke and Ellen back in Tennessee, where society was more civilized and more judgmental.

She could understand why Zeke would want her to stay at Fort Bridger, for Jim Bridger was himself an honest and dependable man; and the other men who worked for him at the fort all appeared to be experienced and strong. She knew her stay there would be safe and protected, yet she could never feel as safe and protected as she would if she belonged to Zeke.

She watched the others from the train, as they sang and laughed and danced, realizing how much she would miss them, even Willis and Yolanda Brown. She decided she would start a diary while she recuperated at the fort. She would write down everything she could remember about the trip, these people whom she had come to know so well, and those who had been lost on the way. In spite of the fact that she did not want to think of a future without Cheyenne Zeke, she knew she had no choice in the matter. And perhaps, after all, someday she would have children and grandchildren and her trip West should be preserved in writing so that nothing would be forgotten—least of all, Cheyenne Zeke. Because of him, and because of all her sufferings, the Abigail Trent who sat at campfire that night at Fort Bridger was incredibly different from the bashful, innocent child who had left Tennessee. She was a woman now, in spite of her age, and her whole world had been turned upside down. She felt as though she were another person, and the new Abbie
had never even lived in Tennessee, or had a mother and father, a sister and a brother. All were gone now. There was only herself; and already she was drawing on some secret, inner strength that she had just begun to learn dwelled within her small frame.

“Are you warm enough, Abbie?” Mrs. Hanes asked, interrupting the girl’s thoughts.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied. She sighed. “Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”

The woman patted her hand. “I wouldn’t know, dear. I’m so sorry it has turned out this way. But surely you knew how Zeke felt. Surely you knew—”

“Hey, Olin!” one of the men from the fort called out loudly, interrupting Mrs. Hanes’s conversation. “Where’s that half-breed friend of ours? I seen him come ridin’ in here just before the train arrived, and I ain’t seen him since,” the man went on jovially.

“You know Zeke,” Olin replied. “He might be standin’ right behind you and you wouldn’t even know it. He’s got things on his mind, Dooley. I expect he’s out there somewhere doin’ some heavy thinkin’.”

“If it’s that heavy, then it must be over a woman!” the man called Dooley replied, slapping his knee and laughing. Some of the others laughed good-heartedly with him, while Abbie blushed and the one called Dooley took a long swallow of whiskey. “I sure wish Zeke would show up,” he continued loudly. “Him and me have shared a lot of whiskey together. Ain’t seen the half-breed for a hell of a long time.”

“I expect he’ll be around eventually,” Olin assured the man, glancing at Abbie with troubled eyes.

“Ain’t nobody on God’s earth better with a blade than the half-breed,” Dooley added, looking around
at the others now and standing up. “Like I say, me and Zeke have drunk a lot of whiskey together. Why, I remember the time we walked into a saloon down in Cheyenne country by the Arkansas River. The white settlers around those parts—they don’t have much use for Indians, if you know what I mean, and they especially don’t like Indians comin’ into the white men’s saloons.” Everyone quieted, realizing the man was building up to something. Dooley took another drink of whiskey. “But Zeke, he never let them things bother him much. So he just walked into that saloon and mosied up to the bar and flat-out asked for a whiskey.” The man, who was feeling his own whiskey and loved to tell a good story, began walking around the small group of travelers. “And then,” he went on, “about six—maybe seven or eight men—they came up and told the bartender not to serve Zeke. Hell, I expect they didn’t even know he was a half-breed. That would have made matters even worse. But bein’ a Cheyenne was bad enough, and ol’ Zeke, he looks
all
Cheyenne.” He took another swallow of whiskey and wiped his lips. “Me—I backed off, figurin’ Zeke would do the same on account of there was so many of them and they had murder in their eyes. But when Zeke just told the bartender again to give him some whiskey, my blood run cold with fear for what would happen next.”

The man chuckled, and everyone listened attentively, even the little Hanes children, and especially Abbie, whose heart felt again her awful loneliness.

“Well, dang it, Dooley, finish the story!” one of the other men spoke up. Dooley smiled, pleased by his listeners’ excitement.

“Well, one of the men, he made a remark to the bartender about not givin’ whiskey to a no-good, stinkin’ Indian,” Dooley went on, his own eyes widening with excitement. “Zeke, he just turned and looked at that man. And I’ll bet most of you who have traveled with him know how he can look at a man when he’s mad. Sometimes just his look can do a man in, you know?”

“We know,” Mr. Hanes replied with a little grin, and Abbie could feel the tenseness of the listeners as all waited to find out what happened next.

“Well, them two men stared at each other a minute, and then the one who made the remark, he pulled a knife. A
knife!
” Dooley accented the word, his voice low and raspy with intrigue. “Can you
believe
it? Lord God, that man sure didn’t know what he was doin’—pullin’ a
knife
on Cheyenne Zeke!”

Everyone grinned, but Abbie felt her eyes tearing at the thought of what Zeke had gone through just because of prejudice against his race. Dooley lowered his voice even more as he continued, walking around the small group of people and looking at them one by one as he spoke.

“The half-breed, he backed up some, and I stayed out of the way, ’cause I knew Zeke knowed what he was doin’. Then he whipped out that big blade of his. ‘We’re gonna do you in, Indian!’ one of them other men says. And a couple
more
of them pulled knives! Zeke, he just crouched down, wavin’ that blade of his, ready to pounce on them all like a bobcat! And next thing, they were all on him at once!” He stopped to drink more whiskey, and everyone waited.

“Well?” Kelsoe finally asked anxiously. “What happened then?”

“Well, sir, they all went at it,” Dooley finally replied. “Oh, it was a terrible thing to see. Zeke, he was like a roarin’ grizzly; right mad, he was! Tables spilled and drinks crashed to the floor and chairs went flyin’, and Zeke let out some warhoops like you never heard before—slashin’ here, slashin’ there! When it was over, four men lay dead on the floor, and another three took off through the windows, leavin’ a trail of blood like a river! That there tavern was
covered
with blood, from ceilin’ to wall to floor! But you know what?” The man grinned and chuckled, taking one more swallow of whiskey.

“What? What?” the schoolteacher’s son asked, wide-eyed with excitement. Dooley stepped close to the boy and replied slowly.

“Not…one…drop… of that blood …was
Zeke’s
!”

The crowd sat quietly for a moment, as they began to comprehend what the man was telling them.

“Is that the real truth?” Hanes asked.

“As God is my witness!” Dooley answered. “Ask Olin there. He knows what Zeke can do with that knife.”

All eyes turned to Olin, and the man grinned a little. “I seen a man draw a gun on Zeke once,” he told them. “And before he could fire, Zeke had his blade out and give it a throw—landed in the man’s chest before he even pulled the trigger.”

Abbie shivered, not sure if it was from the cold, or from the pictures Dooley and Olin had conjured up in her mind. It was difficult to comprehend the vast difference in the two men Cheyenne Zeke could be; for the one who handled the blade as they said he did
seemed a far cry from the one who had made love to her so gently.

Everyone actually seemed to jump when Zeke himself suddenly stepped into the light of the fire and glared at Dooley with a rather dissatisfied look.

“You telling stories again, Dooley?” he asked sternly. Dooley’s smile faded.

“Just the truth, Zeke,” the man replied, walking up to the man and putting out his hand.

“Spreading those stories about me doesn’t make my life any easier, Dooley,” Zeke told him. Dooley pulled his hand back and rubbed it nervously on his trouser leg.

“Well, Zeke, I … just tell them because I’m … proud to know you, that’s all,” the man answered, looking worried. “Ain’t many men can share their whiskey with another man who’s practically famous for the way he uses a blade.” Dooley held his whiskey bottle out to Zeke as though it were a peace offering, and Zeke’s anger faded slightly, replaced by a faint smile that passed over his lips. He took the bottle from Dooley.

“Do me a favor, Dooley, and don’t be so free with my life’s stories. There’re some things maybe a man don’t want told.” He took a swallow of the whiskey.

“Sure, Zeke,” Dooley replied, obviously a little worried that he had upset the man. The others just stared, as though Zeke were something to be revered, but also feared. Zeke frowned and looked over at the musicians.

“Well, get busy and give these nice people some more music!” he said in a rather perturbed voice. “I heard a lot of playing and singing a few minutes ago,
and these folks have a lot to celebrate for just being alive!”

The fiddlers dived into another song; and the tension was broken, as several of the mountain men gathered around Zeke, offering him more whiskey and slapping him on the back, while some of the men from the train joined them, thanking him for getting them this far and asking him how he thought the rest of the trip would go.

Abbie just watched. He had not even looked at her yet, and her heart pounded with dread at what he would say when he did speak to her—if he spoke to her at all. Yet as she watched him, she was even more sure she could not live without him now. They had been through too much together: laughed together, cried together, suffered together, even fought together. And most wonderful of all, they had made love. He knew her intimately, and he had brought forth from her passion and an almost wicked abandonment of her inhibitions and common sense.

She stared at his broad, strong physique. He wore his white beaded shirt, and his hair was tied near each ear and hung in two plaits over the front of his shoulders. The white headband he wore contrasted provocatively with the dark skin of his stirringly handsome face. His smile flashed bright and beautiful as he spoke and drank with the other men, and she could not imagine anything more wonderful than to be called Cheyenne Zeke’s woman.

She watched hopefully until finally his eyes glanced her way and held her own for a moment as though seeking her answer. And there was only one answer she could give him as she looked back lovingly. She
would suffer anything to be at his side. He looked away again as little Mary Hanes approached him and pleaded with him to sing and play the “pretty mandolin.” Zeke had never been able to say no to the child, so he left for a moment and, returning with the instrument, sat down on a stump. He hoisted little Mary to his lap, reaching around her to play the mandolin, and Abbie found it difficult to believe he was the same man who handled a blade the way Dooley and Olin had said he did. But she knew it was true, for she had seen some of what he could do with her own two eyes.

Zeke strummed on the instrument for a few minutes, while the rest of them quieted, and then he sang a song about a bumblebee for little Mary. The child put her arms around his neck and her head on his shoulder, falling asleep before the song was even finished.

Mrs. Hanes took the child from him then, chuckling and shaking her head at the contrast between the big, dark half-breed and the tiny, blond-haired girl who had learned to love and trust him.

“Sing us another one!” Dooley spoke up, seeming to be anxious to get on Zeke’s good side and to reassure himself that they were still friends. Some of the others insisted also, and Zeke strummed on the mandolin softly, letting its haunting music flow forth into the night air, while he sat with his eyes closed, humming a tune Abbie had never heard before. When he opened his eyes, the crowd quieted, and he looked straight at Abbie as he sang.

“She walked into my life like a shadow;

And I watched her move across the meadow bright.

I ran out there to catch her,