Climb the Highest Mountain (21 page)

“Oh, my. I’d keep you all day if I covered that and the past twenty years.”

He leaned back. “I have nothing else to do today. It is snowing outside and I don’t feel like going out. We’ll just sit and talk today.”

She turned her eyes to the window. Yes, it was snowing. She wondered about Zeke. Was it snowing wherever he was? And what about little LeeAnn? Was she warm enough? Were they feeding her? She thought of poor little Lillian, lying out there in the cold ground!

Tynes saw sorrow come back into her eyes. “Ah-ah,” he said quickly. “No bad thoughts, Abigail. Talk to me.”

She met his eyes again. “You’re so very good to me, Edwin. Thank you.” She sipped her tea again. “There were a lot of different people on that wagon train, all with different reasons for going west. My sister, LeeAnn, she was looking for a rich man to save her and take her away because she didn’t want to go to that
place called Oregon …”

Zeke rode boldly into the camp of the Comanche renegades, realizing there were too many of them for him to fight and that they respected courage. His best bet was to bargain with them. He couldn’t be certain these were the ones who had stolen his daughter; he saw no sign of her and no sign of his horses. Soldiers at Fort Wichita had told him they’d had word of Comanche renegades along the Brazos River, but they had been unable to locate them. Zeke had been sure he could. He knew how to track Indians, but he didn’t tell the soldiers that. He was aware of how such men went after Indians, charging in without a plan, attacking first, bargaining later. Zeke was well aware that the worst thing he could do was bring a force of military to attack the camp. The first one to be killed would be his daughter. Captives were always killed rather than given up. It was the Indian way of winning by not giving in to the whites.

The camp was sheltered under a huge overhanging rock that was surrounded by Yucca bushes and prickly brush. An inexperienced person would ride along the ridge above and never realize there was a camp there. But Zeke could read tracks, that ability and a sixth sense had led him here. He removed his jacket in the warmth of the afternoon while several Comanche men stood up to stare at him as he rode in, amazed by his audacity. A couple of dogs barked and then nipped at the heels of Zeke’s horse, and a couple of women peeked at him from behind their men. The Comanches looked hungry and haggard, and he saw only three children, all with swollen bellies and hollow eyes. When he reined in his horse and dismounted, one of the sturdier-looking Comanches marched up to face him.

The Indian looked Zeke over and frowned; then he turned to the others, grinning. “It is he! It is he!” the man yelled out in his own tongue. Zeke understood and his heart pounded with hope. “It is the one who fought us to protect the girl!” The man laughed and the others joined him. They were all amazed that this Indian man had traveled all the way to the middle of Texas and had searched them out. They gathered closer. Zeke rested his hand on the handle of his knife. “So, you come all the way here to take back your own little captive, huh?” the apparent leader said loudly.

Zeke held the man’s eyes steadily, his own gaze cold and daring. “She is my daughter,” he replied in the Comanche tongue.

The man laughed and the others joined him. “You are an Indian! She is fair!” the man guffawed. “Why do you insist on calling her your daughter?”

“Because she is,” Zeke replied, no smile on his lips. “My woman is white. The girl is our daughter.”

The Comanche man’s smile faded. He looked Zeke over again. “You are a very unusual man,” he commented. “And how did you find us?”

“I’ve been hunting all through Texas for weeks,” he answered. “And I did you the honor of not telling any soldiers where I thought I might find you. I have kept your whereabouts a secret. You can repay me by giving me back my daughter.”

The Comanche stepped back a little. This Indian man was not one to deal with lightly. He had already seen how Zeke could fight, and the look in the man’s eyes made him swallow dryly, even though there were plenty of Comanche braves about. He studied Zeke’s painted face and his fringed buckskin clothing. A tiny copper bell tinkled slightly when Zeke’s long black hair blew in the wind. There was an aura of power and determination about the man that impressed the
Comanche leader.

“We do not have to repay you for anything,” he answered, feeling challenged. “We can simply kill you if we choose.”

“The Comanche don’t just kill a brave man outright. They honor that man’s bravery by letting him fight for his life. And if he wins, they owe him what he asks.”

The Comanche man eyed him with a sneer. “You are Cheyenne?”

“Half. My father was white. But I lived among the Cheyenne. They taught me how to fight, taught me the Indian ways.”

The Comanche grinned. “A half-blood? A white belly?”

Zeke ripped out his knife and held it up. “Try me!”

The Comanche man sobered and slapped Zeke’s horse out of the way. The rest of the Comanche men came closer, and their leader signaled two of them to step forward, both of them wielding knives.

“You have your wish, white belly,” their leader told Zeke. He pulled his own knife and the three of them circled Zeke, while the others watched with great glee, enjoying this piece of entertainment that enlivened an otherwise quiet day. Most of these Comanches had no family left, but they were determined not to live on a reservation. They raided whenever and wherever they could, in a futile effort to stop the flow of whites into Texas. They were constantly hiding, often hungry, always waiting and hoping for the day when more warriors would join them and they would wipe the whites from the face of their land. In the meantime they built up their store of guns and ammunition by trading horses and women to white men. But their life was lonely and lean, and now they looked forward to a good knife fight. Already they planned to take Zeke’s clothing and weapons, his supplies and his horse as
soon as he was dead.

One of the Comanches came at Zeke then from behind. Sensing the movement, he whirled, swinging his leg high in the air and landing a foot across the side of the Indian’s face. The man’s knife glanced off Zeke’s calf as he fell. Zeke felt the stinging cut, but he kept whirling, lashing out with his own knife as he came around, slashing it across the cheek of the second Comanche, who spun sideways, grasping his face. Zeke sucked in his belly and arched back as a third man stabbed at him, while the Comanche leader quickly darted in and jabbed Zeke in the side with his blade, then leaped out of the way as Zeke swung around.

Zeke stood crouched then, waving his blade and waiting for the two assailants to come at him again. The first man appeared to be knocked out, and blood ran dangerously heavily from the second man’s cut cheek. Zeke’s was on fire, but he sensed that they were toying with him. The leader could have sunk his blade much deeper, but apparently he had decided to prolong the fight.

The two men came nearer, joined by two fresh men. Zeke’s defensive senses came fully alert, and though they were four against one, he could see some fear in their eyes. He moved fast and they could already see that the blade was probably his best weapon. One man came at him them, slashing wildly, but Zeke kept backing up, letting the man slash at him, even taking one slash cut across his shoulder. Then he grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand and jerked the arm up high, sinking his blade deep into the Comanche’s belly and ripping upward before yanking it out. He let the body drop and faced the other three.

“Come on!” he sneered. “I am ready for you!” He cursed them then in the Comanche tongue. Two of them charged, but the leader hung back. Zeke ducked
and rammed his head into the gut of one, pushing his blade into the man’s groin as he did so. He felt several stabs to one leg when he first bent over to ram the man. They had been dealt by the second Comanche man, who couldn’t quite get at Zeke because he had moved so quickly. Zeke rose up and the attacker he had stabbed fell headlong over his back. Zeke flipped him off. Then he whirled, oblivious to his bleeding, painful leg, aware only that these men intended to goad him and torture him before they would give him his daughter.

The second Comanche man jabbed at him then—short, hissing jabs that kept missing because Zeke darted this way and that, his sharp fighting skills coming back to aid him. Zeke waited for the right moment, and as the Comanche man made a slash at him, Zeke ducked back and waited for his arm to swing wide, the man’s knife narrowly missing Zeke’s eyes as it whisked past them. As soon as the knife arm was around, Zeke charged forward and sunk his blade deep into the man’s side, high up, where he would surely penetrate a lung. He shoved the man then, yanking the blade out as he did so, not even waiting for the man to fall before turning to face the leader and whoever else might be called forward. But the leader held up his hand and slowly put his knife away. He studied Zeke intently, frowning.

“What are you called, white belly?”

Zeke remained ready to kill, his shoulders hunched forward, his knife tightly gripped, his breath coming in heavy pants. “Monroe. Zeke Monroe.”

“No. What do the Cheyenne call you?”

“Lone Eagle. Some call me Cheyenne Zeke.”

The Comanche man nodded. “Just as I thought. I have heard of you, but I did not know if you were still alive. You are known for your skill with the knife.” He
studied Zeke’s bleeding side and badly bleeding leg. “You can put your knife away. We honor your bravery and skill, Cheyenne Zeke. We would fight you until you are dead, but it would be useless. Your daughter, if she is that, is not here; and if a man is to die, it should be for a good reason. Save your strength and skills for the men who have her now.”

Zeke felt weak and his heart tightened. “What men? Where is she? What have you done with my daughter?” He stepped toward the man menacingly, angered that he had suffered his wounds for nothing.

“She is sold … for many rifles. She is sold to Comancheros, who take her south to sell to a wealthy Mexican for much gold. They also have the horses. But perhaps most of them have already been sold. We traded them for more rifles and ammunition. We need these things to keep fighting. They gave us some of their horses, which were not as fine. But we would rather have the guns and give up the fine horses for lesser ones.”

Zeke wanted to scream at the man, to drive his blade deep into the leader’s belly. “Where in God’s name did you sell her? How long ago? Where would the Comancheros be now?”

“They will go south and east to Mexico, probably along the foothills of the Blue Mountains. We sold the girl and the horses right from this camp, perhaps five days ago. They had trouble getting here so we had her and the horses with us longer than we’d planned.”

Zeke stepped closer, his teeth gritted, his body afire with hatred and revenge. “And how many of your men had their turn with her?” he hissed.

The Comanche leader stood firm, his broad shoulders straight, his black hair blowing in the wind. “None,” he answered firmly. “She was saved. The fresh ones bring more rifles. The Comancheros will do the
same. The Mexicans pay much gold for the untouched ones.”

Zeke wondered if he’d ever be able to breathe again; his chest was so heavy. LeeAnn! His precious, innocent LeeAnn in the hands of such men! It was his fault. Somehow he should have been able to save her.

“Why did you bother fighting me at all!” he growled at the Comanche man.

The man grinned. “To see if you were worthy of the information. Now you have it. Leave our camp.”

Zeke straightened, wishing there was some way he could kill them all. But he had to think of LeeAnn. He was escaping with his life and was being given a chance to find his daughter. Now that these men had the rifles they needed, they had given him the information he wanted. He stooped to wipe his knife clean on a dead Comanche’s clothing, then rammed it into his sheath and walked to his horse, mounting painfully. He wondered how badly his leg was hurt as he turned the horse.

“Cheyenne Zeke!” the leader called out. Zeke glanced back at him. “You understand the Indian. You know what is happening to your own. You know about Sand Creek. We did not believe she was your daughter, so we took her. We needed the guns. Do you understand this? Do you understand in your heart why we must keep fighting?”

The man held Zeke’s eyes, and for a moment they were Indian and Indian, sharing one cause. “Yes. I understand,” he answered. “That is one of the reasons why I didn’t bring the soldiers here.”

The man nodded. “And because of that I have given you the information you need. If you ride fast you will catch them. But be careful. There are many of them and only one of you.”

“They have my daughter. One of me becomes many
when I am angry!”

The Comanche smiled and nodded. Then Zeke turned his horse and rode through the rugged underbrush and out of the camp, just as one of the Comanche women began to wail for a child that had just died from hunger.

Margaret walked to Sam’s cabin, carrying the biscuits she had made for him. She wondered again if she should tell her mother what had been happening between herself and Sam Temple, for she didn’t feel right about sharing the man’s bed this long without marriage. Sam continually promised her he would marry her, but he had made no attempt to get a preacher to come to the ranch or to take her to the city to find one. Nor had he said anything to Abbie about wanting to marry Margaret. Margaret had mentioned marrying Sam once to Abbie, and the woman had given the girl a warning look.

“Has he actually asked you?” she’d said to her daughter.

“Yes. But he wants to wait until father returns.”

Abbie had studied the girl closely then, suspecting that Margaret and Sam were closer than she wanted her daughter to be with a man. But Margaret had picked the right time to begin seeing a man, for Abbie was so absorbed in the death of Lillian and the abduction of LeeAnn that she hadn’t the energy to be overly concerned about an older daughter who could take care of herself. Still, Abbie sometimes worried. Hadn’t she been only fifteen when she’d fallen in love with Zeke, and hadn’t he made her his woman out in the middle of nowhere, before they were married, in a land where there were no preachers? She began keeping a closer eye on Margaret, but she didn’t have the
determined motherly instinct or the sternness she would normally have had at her command. She had too many other things on her mind, and after a couple of weeks of keeping a tighter rein and seeing for herself how kind and mannerly Sam Temple was, she gave up worrying about Margaret. She couldn’t bear the extra burden. Still, there was something about Sam that made her uneasy. Yet how could she tell Margaret? The girl would only defend him more.