Climb the Highest Mountain (15 page)

Dan Monroe’s wounds healed, and he found himself thrust into some of the worst Indian fighting since he’d first come west to join the Army. He only hoped he would not run into Wolf’s Blood or into Zeke’s Cheyenne brother, Swift Arrow. He had no desire to harm either of them, but it was his duty to protect the settlers as best he could. Scouts kept eyes and ears open for the wild and elusive Wolf’s Blood, but so far to no avail. Consequently, Dan was unable to send Zeke and Abbie any news about their son.

Skirmishes turned into all-out war, while the Department of War and the Department of Interior fought their own battles in Washington over the best way to handle the Indians and how to handle and propose peace treaties. In Washington, there were arguments for and against peace offers. Some wanted to “punish” the Indians severely for their hostilities, others argued that this would only make matters worse. There was talk of a new reservation, this one in southern Kansas, far from Colorado and far from the North and South Platte. This talk had been going on for a long time, and men in power began secretly buying up more land along the Arkansas, in preparation for the day when the Cheyenne would be completely cleaned out of Colorado and the territory
would be open to settlement.

Zeke and Lance were tired because they had to keep a constant lookout in addition to doing daily chores. In addition, Zeke’s mind and heart were torn. His inner spirit wanted to make war alongside his Cheyenne brothers, but he had a family to support so he was forced to keep selling horses at Fort Lyon to soldiers and settlers. His situation confused him, hurt him. There were many men in similar circumstances. Famous scouts who’d once lived and traded with the Indians were now hired by the government to help hunt the red man to death or reservation life. They, too, felt helpless and confused, wanting the old life and ways to come back but knowing they never would.

Abbie watched Zeke become more and more withdrawn. His heart was torn by the wars and by his feelings for his own warring son about whom they heard little. He would have to count on Swift Arrow to watch out for the boy, and on Dan to send him news of Wolf’s Blood’s well-being. Occasionally Sir Tynes visited them during that long winter and spring, asking many questions and writing down many notes for his “book.” Zeke began to think he could probably like the man if he hadn’t suspected that Tynes had a yen for Abigail; and more and more Zeke considered what life would have been like for his Abbie girl if he had not married her and subjected her to the dangers of this wild land.

Amid headlines about warring Indians, mingled with more headlines about the progress taking place in the West due to the westward movement of the railroad and the construction of additional telegraph lines linking forts and towns and mining camps, there was a headline that stated that the now-crippled Charles Garvey was going east to college. Then came the
headline about the assassination of President Lincoln. The Civil War was over, but a new war was beginning—in the West.

In August of 1865 the Kiowas, Comanches, and Kiowa-Apaches agreed to the Treaty of the Little Arkansas, opting for peace and agreeing to go to Kansas. But the remnants of the southern Cheyenne held out until October 14, 1865, when Black Kettle and six other leaders from his band placed their marks upon that treaty. However, some southern Cheyenne and all the northern Cheyenne refused to recognize the treaty, and that refusal promised future hardships. For those who agreed to the treaty, one hundred sixty acres of land was granted to each survivor of Sand Creek who had lost a husband or parents, such lands to be protected for fifty years. The peacemaking Indians were entreated by the government to convince the warring Indians to agree to the peace, and William Brent promised to live among the Cheyenne who agreed to the treaty for a period of time to see that they remained calm and agreeable.

A few Cheyenne, all half-bloods, were allowed to stay on land they already owned under the Treaty of Fort Wise. Zeke was among them, although he and Abbie had already signed title to the land under Abbie’s name. Thus, all the reservation land under the old Fort Wise Treaty was open for settlement, just as Sir Tynes had said would happen. The Cheyenne were cleaned out of Colorado, but there were still hostiles north of the Platte who had to be persuaded to sign for peace. If they did not, the Treaty of the Little Arkansas would do little to stop the continuing Indian wars.

It was in November of 1865, when the few peaceful Cheyenne began a migration to Kansas along with other peacemaking tribes, that the war came to Zeke
Monroe’s doorstep, in the form of renegade Comanches who needed supplies and horses, and someone to capture and use as ransom in exchange for rifles. The day started like any other, with Zeke going to open the door to the stables, and young LeeAnn running to the corral to open the gate for her father.

Chapter Nine

The ranch had been scouted for two days by a lone Comanche warrior on foot. Yes, morning was a good time to raid. That was when the men came out of the house; then they would be in the open and easy to kill. One of the men looked Indian, but perhaps he was only part Indian for the ranch was a white man’s dwelling. It was a good ranch to raid, for the man’s horses were exceedingly beautiful and sturdy. They would be excellent to trade for guns, as would the young girl with the white hair and fair skin that the scout had seen. Raiding Comanches were not expected in this cold season, and a light snow that had fallen the night before muffled their presence.

They were hungry. They were desperate. They were determined to keep fighting. They needed horses and women to trade for rifles. The twenty renegades had moved quietly through the night to the bank of the river just south of the ranch, where they were hidden by cottonwoods. They watched patiently as dawn broke. Finally both the men came out, the white man and the one who looked Indian. There appeared to be no other
men about, only a woman and several children. The blond-haired girl came out soon after. It was apparently a custom for her to run to the corral gate and open it, then sit there as the two men brought out the beautiful horses.

They thought the white-haired girl belonged to the white man with the dark, curly hair. The Indian man must be a half-breed who helped on the white man’s ranch. It made no difference. Both men must die, and the beautiful horses and the white-haired girl must be taken.

Zeke walked to the stables with Lance while LeeAnn ran to the gate. “We’ve got four pregnant mares now,” Lance was telling his half-blood brother.

“Kehilan has been busy,” Zeke answered with a grin, referring to his stud horse, called Drinker of the Wind.

Lance laughed. The two men set down their rifles and went to each stall, untying the horses one by one and nudging them out, then leading them to the stable entrance and slapping their rumps. Each horse trotted to the corral as Lance hurried out and began whistling and slapping them in the right direction. It didn’t take much urging. They had been raised on this routine, kept in the stables on winter nights and then herded into the corral each morning for exercise. Most of them went willingly. Next came the horses in the bigger barn. The men picked up their rifles and walked to the building. Then Lance saddled a horse while Zeke took more horses from stalls.

“You must be getting tired, boy,” he said to Kehilan. In response, the animal actually tossed his head and snorted, and Zeke and Lance both laughed.

“Not a bad life with all those wives, hey Zeke?” Lance joked. “A different woman every night.”

“Every man’s fantasy,” Zeke replied, slapping the
perfectly formed Appaloosa stud on the rear.

“With a wife like Abigail, I doubt you think about it much,” Lance teased, mounting his horse.

Zeke grinned, love in his eyes as he pulled out a mare. “I reckon you’re right there. Besides, not many women would put up with my wild side, and fewer would want to bother with an aging man who’s got so many battle scars he quit trying to count them.”

“You’re as mean and strong as ever,” Lance reminded him, turning his horse. “Head them out, brother. I’ll herd them to the corral.” He trotted his mount through the door, and Zeke began urging the horses toward the entrance, Kehilan in the lead. All but two of the pregnant mares were through the entrance when Zeke heard the gunshot.

Immediately his body was tense and ready. He grabbed his rifle and ran to the barn entrance, shooing back the last two mares and running outside. Lance lay on the ground next to his horse, a bloody hole in his head and three arrows in his back. Zeke recognized the make of the arrows.

“Comanche!” he whispered. There was no time to allow his terrible grief to spend itself. From behind him he heard war whoops and thundering horses and the jingling of the brass bells Comanche warriors tied to the fringes of their leggings. “Abbie, stay inside and bolt the door!” he screamed, hoping she heard.

He ran toward LeeAnn, who sat frozen on the corral gate staring at the oncoming warriors already swooping around the barn, some with red streaks slashed on their faces, others with their cheeks painted yellow and black circles around their eyes.

“Run to the house, LeeAnn!” Zeke screamed at her, trying to reach her and protect her. But already a Comanche man was thundering up to her and reached
for her. Zeke stopped and took aim, quickly firing and knocking the man from his mount.

LeeAnn began to scream as several other warriors circled the corral, tore down some of the fencing, and began to herd the horses away. LeeAnn was frozen, too frightened to move. Zeke could hear shots coming from the house and he knew Abbie was doing what she could from inside with her own rifle.

Zeke reached LeeAnn, who sat staring at the dead Indian in front of her. He grabbed her from the fence, tucked her under one arm, and began running. Then he felt a hot stinging in his back near his right shoulder. He refused to succumb to the pain, but turned and fired his rifle with just one hand. The bullet smashed into a warrior’s face and the man jerked backward, yanking the reins with him and causing his mount to whirl and fall. Zeke dodged out of the way. Two more warriors were circling him then and with LeeAnn in one arm he couldn’t move fast enough to manipulate his lever-action rifle to get another bullet into the chamber. He threw down the rifle, pulled out the handgun he kept tucked in his waistband and fired, hitting still another warrior before the second man took the club end of his lance and slammed it across Zeke’s wrist, making him drop the handgun.

Zeke knew what the men were after besides the horses, and his desperate determination to protect his daughter helped him to ignore the pain of his wounds. A screaming LeeAnn still held in his left arm he grasped for his knife as two more warriors rode up. A rope was tossed around Zeke’s neck from behind, but he whisked out his knife and quickly cut it. The three warriors circling him began to laugh and to make remarks about what a good fighter this Indian man seemed to be. They were enjoying the game.

There were more gunshots from the cabin, but there was nothing Abbie could to do help her husband. She dared not unbolt the door and expose the rest of the children to the raiders. She knew instinctively they might give up in a few more minutes and be satisfied with the horses. Zeke had taught her that in such situations she must be practical, no matter how horrifying and cold that might seem, and in this case she could not risk the lives of all the children just because the raiders were after one of them.

She fired several shots, hitting three of the raiders, but soon those herding away the horses were routing them toward the river and were out of range. She could not fire at the men attacking Zeke for fear of hitting Zeke or LeeAnn, so she watched from the window in helpless horror while the children huddled in the loft, shaking and crying.

Three warriors were now poking at Zeke with lances. He hacked off the end of one lance with his huge, sturdy blade, then he whirled and drove the blade into one warrior’s thigh. Ignoring the stinging lances, he quickly turned again, ramming the knife into another warrior’s side. That warrior fell with a scream and the other two backed off, one of them with a bleeding thigh, both of them amazed at the Indian man’s skill and lack of fear. This was a great warrior. It was too bad there was no way he could keep them from taking the little girl he so fiercely protected. But since he was such a brave warrior, perhaps they would not kill him after all.

Two more raiders thundered up then, while the remaining warriors rode off with the stolen horses, yipping and making victory cries as they splashed through a shallow part of the river with their loot.

There was no way Zeke could get away from the
circle of warriors, and no way Abbie could fire at them from the house. Zeke’s right shoulder screamed with hot pain, and his whole body protested the numerous jabbing cuts. His right wrist felt broken. LeeAnn’s screams had turned to huddled sobs, as she clung tightly to her father, inhibiting his ability to fight in the manner Zeke Monroe normally could. He clung to her, the big blade in his right hand, ready to kill. He cursed the four warriors in the Comanche tongue, calling them women warriors for trying to steal a helpless girl. At that, their faces grew cold and curious so he gestured to them in sign language, indicating the girl was his own daughter. The warriors looked at each other and then began to laugh. They did not believe that the white-haired, blue-eyed child belonged to the dark Indian man.

“Perhaps now that the white father is dead, he wants her for himself,” one of them joked in the Comanche tongue. “She is a good prize.”

One of the others swung a club from behind, slamming it into the back of Zeke’s skull. Zeke fell forward, keeping LeeAnn with him, stubbornly fighting his wounds and struggling to stay conscious as he placed his large frame over his daughter’s in an attempt to keep the warriors from getting to her. He felt a foot pushing on him then, trying to roll him over, and somehow Zeke found the strength to bolt upright and ram his blade deep into his protagonist’s belly, then rip upward to the warrior’s throat while LeeAnn screamed in horror. She had never seen her father commit such a ruthless act. This was the Indian side of her father. This was the Cheyenne in him. It frightened her, yet now he was her only hope of being saved and she was afraid her father was going to die trying to protect her.

The other three warriors began to club Zeke before
he could rip his knife out of the fourth warrior’s throat. Zeke finally yanked it out and whirled, slashing with the knife but unable to see because of the blows to his head. He felt himself falling, and he grasped for LeeAnn but felt her being torn from his hand. He heard her screams of terror, then laughter and war whoops and the sound of horses riding away.

Zeke still grasped his knife. He struggled to his knees, his bludgeoned mind thinking he could actually get on a horse and go after his daughter. But when he fought to get to his feet, he could not move. He groaned LeeAnn’s name, feeling himself a failure, even though he had been one man against twenty warriors. In addition to the three dead braves Abbie had shot, five others lay dead around Zeke Monroe, a remarkable feat considering the odds and the vicious blow and stabbings Zeke had suffered. But he could not consider his struggle a success. Eight warriors out of twenty lay dead, but his daughter was gone. To Zeke that spelled failure. Zeke Monroe was not used to failure. Rage overwhelmed him at the thought that the Indians had been driven to such desperation that even he had suffered their revenge. Now he would have to go after the Comanche raiders and get his daughter back. Again and again he struggled to rise, breathing deeply, drawing on the inner fighting spirit that had made him a warrior.

He crawled to a fencepost and grasped it, pulling himself up by sheer will. He would not let his wounds stop him! He would pray to the spirits for strength and wisdom and he would get his daughter back from the Comanche.

Suddenly Abbie was there, speaking to him from some distant place for her voice seemed far away. He was barely aware that he draped an arm around her
shoulders for support as she walked him to the cabin, where his children gasped and cried out at the sight of their bloodied, beaten father, his coat and clothes ripped by Comanche lances, his body caked with blood. His face was bruised and battered and his right wrist, already swollen, was an ugly purple color. Still, with amazing stubbornness, he still clung tightly to the blade in his right hand.

He heard Abbie ordering one of the children to boil water, and he was aware that she undressed him before he was lowered to their bed of robes. There was frightened crying somewhere, and someone asked what was going to happen to LeeAnn.

“Nothing will happen to her!” he heard Abbie say sternly. “They will save her to sell. They won’t harm her. And your father will find her before she is sold. He will find her!” Her voice broke on the last words. He tried to speak, wanting to console her, but neither his body nor his mouth would move. Blackness began to envelope him as Abbie ordered Jeremy to go to the barn and see if any horses were left and to tend to them if there were. Then he felt the knife being pried from his hand. He let go reluctantly. LeeAnn! He had to save LeeAnn!

There followed two days of searing pain and semiconsciousness for Zeke, during which he often mumbled LeeAnn’s name. Abbie knew he was struggling to dredge up the inner strength that came from his deep spirituality, that certain savage strength he had acquired from early days of fasting and visions and from his beliefs in the powers of the animal spirits, the strength that kept men like Zeke going when others gave up the fight. By the third day he was sitting up and
meditating when she went into the bedroom that afternoon to check on him. When he looked at her, she felt as though a sword was being driven through her middle. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, his usually handsome mouth set in rigid determination that made him look like the vicious, painted warriors who had stolen away LeeAnn. Their eyes held for just a moment and she swallowed back her terrible sorrow, wondering how many things one person was supposed to bear.

“You’ll go after her, of course,” she said quietly.

His fists were clenched, and he deliberately worked his badly bruised right wrist, wanting to feel the pain, wanting to suffer for failing his daughter and, in his mind, for failing his wife too.

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

Her heart tightened. “You aren’t ready to travel, let alone fight Comanches. There’s a terrible stab wound in your right shoulder and you probably have a concussion and your wrist—”

“Tomorrow!” he growled. “I feel no pain from my wounds! I feel nothing but revenge—and shame!” He raised his right arm and worked it up and down, beads of sweat breaking out on his face. Any delay was too long.

Abbie’s eyes widened. “Shame! There must have been twenty of them! How can you feel shame?”

“I should have sensed their presence in the first place!” he hissed. “I have been too long away from living wild and free like the animals! At one time my keen senses would have warned me that Comanches were nearby! Because I have lost that sharp edge, my brother is dead and my daughter is gone, and so are my horses, my only livelihood. How am I to care for the family now?”